—welcome To My Delusions

GOJO SATORU || home wrecker

request: hi! Can i ask for a young megumi and teen gojo. Where teen gojo introduces his s/o to a young megumi and as they get closer megumi ends up having a child crush on s/o but gojo has a crush on her first, might as well end up with gojo confessing to her in the end? (i thought this would be funny cause i’d feel megumi would say no to gojo when he kindly ask to stop cuddling to s/o just to irk gojo)

note: i love this so much??? can you imagine just pouty and ‘cold’ child megumi fighting with poor gojo about having a crush on the older man’s s/o? and gojo being like, confused if he should be annoyed or happy about the entire thing? just kid!megumi and gojo annoyance lmaooo

pronouns: them/they

gojo satoru masterlist | jujutsu kaisen masterlist  

“So…I have something important I want to share with you two.”

It was a weekend in the “Gojo household”; Tsumiki had finished making a simple meal for the three of them, with Megumi helping wherever he can. Gojo, who has been banned from the kitchen, had gone out earlier to do ‘something’. It has been happening for the last few weeks now; it had started with Gojo telling the two kids one evening that he was going to ‘see someone’. It wasn’t like Gojo going on ‘dates’ were a new thing in the household - they were used to him coming home early the next day, clearly dishevelled and smelling like someone else’s perfume. Megumi can’t even count how many times he’s found makeup or lipstick marks on Gojo’s shirts whenever he goes to collect the older man’s laundry in his room.

But it was different this time. 

Instead of dressing like he was going to some pub to catch a new fling - for starters, he was wearing a button up shirt. Megumi and Tsumiki can’t remember any time they’ve seen him in a button up shirt. Even when he needed to dress for a formal event in the jujutsu world, everyone would expect for him to arrive to the event in his Jujutsu High uniform. Or not, he wouldn’t even be there to begin with. So the fact that Gojo was ‘going somewhere’ wearing a button up had caused the kids to share a curious look. But before they can ask, Gojo was darting out of their home; clearly looking like he was rushing to wherever he needed to be. He was probably late again.

Ever since then, it was clear to the kids that he was seeing someone. From him going on more and more dates (where he actually puts an effort into how he looks), to them catching him sneak in shopping bags from jewellery stores and random articles of clothing that definitely do not fit Gojo. Tsumiki had even saw a stuffed bear that Gojo had ‘hid’ away into his wardrobe; and it was one of those cheesy bears holding a heart in between its hands that you give people during Valentines Day.

The two of them had concluded that someone had managed to capture the older man’s heart; and were curious to see who this person was. So when Gojo had suddenly said that he wanted to share something with them, the both of them shared an excited look between each other before they turned to face the man once more. Said man caught the look they shared with one another, to which he just raised an eyebrow before he shrugged it off; he has more important things to announce. 

“Clear your Saturday this week. I want you two to meet someone.”

Keep reading

─── ❝ 𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ❞ ───

masterlist 1 || masterlist 2 || navigation

: sagau guide for newbies :

looking for your favorites // thoma, xiao, zhongli // kazuha, diluc

call me by my name // zhongli - he understands the loneliness of a god

secret valentines // diluc - he hides you in imposter au

my alatus // xiao - you indulge him

everything feels new // multiple - you obtain a physical body for the first time

elemental reactions // multiple - extension for everything feels new

last resort // multiple - in a desperate act to save yourself, you reveal their secrets

competition // childe, ayato - the new hydro boy arrives

arrival // zhongli - you're just a tea house owner... right?

ramble 0, the aftermath 1 // xiao, zhongli - they deal with the aftermath of imposter AU

on screen 1 // multiple - conversations from beyond

a simp in sagau // zhongli, kaeya, ft.diluc - crack work from a simp

shorts

drunk creator // diluc

friendship level // brainrot // multiple

housewife // diluc

executions // multiple

lap naps // thoma

characters in sagau situation // dainsleif, zhongli, venti, ei

Aloy

Ningguang

Everything Feels New in Mortal Form (SAGAU)

cw: ...sfw masochism? crack....... dumb ditzy reader. im sleep deprived okay (._. )

Creator!Reader descending to Teyvat in human form, excited to experience everything there is about mortal life because what better way to be a divine ruler than to know what your own people go through?

Creator!Reader who never had a physical form before because in their heavenly realm, they existed more as a spiritual, magical whisp or something. So everything is new and exciting.

Creator!Reader who wobbles their first few steps when they landed in Windrise, unsure of how to use your legs and muscles. Venti had to catch you as you tripped and you laughed — you quickly learn how much you love the sound of laughter.

You shiver with every gust of wind, your body having never built a resistance to the cold. When Diluc notices and humbly offers you his coat, his gloved hands brushing your shoulders as he places it on, you notice how warm the pyro user is.

You clasp his hands in yours, looking up at him saying "So this is what warmth feels like! It's so comforting!" as you place his hand on your cheek. Poor Diluc, his face turns the same color as his hair. He quietly thanks whatever gifted him a pyro vision.

Clinging onto Diluc and Amber as you relish in the newfound experience of warmth. Klee also becomes your cuddle buddy, just hugging Klee as she sits on your lap, talking about dodoco! What convenient walking furnaces!

Alternatively, you also learn to enjoy the cold in hot summer days by glomping Kaeya. He chuckles and holds back on a teasing comment. You hope they'll start to treat you more as a friend eventually — after all, that was your purpose of descending.

Creator reader who genuinely loves the feeling of feeling! You want to experience everything and oh, when you discovered pain—

It was an accident, really. Zhongli was just so tall so when he stood next to your sitting form, arranging tea for you, his elbow knocked on your forehead.

He's panicking and profusely apologizing as you clutch your comically bruising head. He's offering to get you some ice, or perhaps ointment when you look up at him with sparkling eyes.

"Do that again!"

Archons, poor Zhongli, he thought of it as some heavenly punishment. Was this a test? Retribution for his unforgivable sin? Must he be forced to hurt you, his most revered being, as the price for his-

"How unique! Is this what pain feels like? It hurts very much!"

Zhongli's stuttering as he realizes how you genuinely want to experience pain. He's holding onto you before you try and lunge yourself off a staircase.

"Your holiness, please don't do this to my old heart-"

Creator Reader — now a masochist!creator!reader — discovers how pain can be caused by a number of things and now everyone's overly cautious of what you do.

Kokomi and Barbara panicking because you cut your fingers while cooking and they're trying to heal you but you're messing with the cut, talking about how much it hurts.

"Y-your holiness! If it hurts, please let us heal you already!!"

Following Xiao when he goes off to Dragonspine. You notice how he scoops a pile of freshly settled snow, chomping into it.

Your eyes glimmer with an idea, taking your hand to scoop a big pile of snow and biting into it—

"Ah! It's so cold in my stomach-"

Zhongli promptly scolds you and Xiao, he's frantic as he explains stomach aches and unhealthy diets. Xiao nods attentively while you try your best to understand, but all you can think of is how ice would taste even better mixed with syrup!

"Your holiness, are you listening?"

"Yes grandpa!"

Dear archons, please help the geo archon.

note: if any of you have a brainrot with this concept, please don't hesitate to share because I love this dumb ditzy creator version but im too tired to think right now hahah

masterlist

ུᩧ JJK TWITTER LINKS P2 !

৻ꪆ instructions. before clicking, you must be logged into your acc and have twitter open in order for these links to function .

TOJI FUSHIGURO. ꒱‎

passenger princess. ⋆ putting you to bed with no complaints. ⋆ he’s got that good fucking dick. ⋆ putting you in a mating press. ⋆ giving toji a sloppy bj. ⋆ using you as his fuck toy.

CHOSO KAMO. ꒱‎

he’s such a dumb puppy. ⋆ his favorite gamer girl. ⋆ bottoming out n cumming. ⋆ choso spooning you. ⋆ straddling his lap. ⋆ fucking you on his gaming table. ⋆ how he wakes you up.

NANAMI KENTO. ꒱‎

prettily sucking dick. ⋆ pathetically grinding on his boot. ⋆ nanami with a hidden oral fixation. ⋆ smacking your backside. ⋆ cowgirl ver of ‘you’re just a girl.’ ⋆ riding him in cute lingerie.

GOJO SATORU. ꒱‎

kinky shit with gojo. ⋆ going down on him. ⋆ fucking your holes. ⋆ reversed cowgirl. ⋆ doggy with the bear he got you. ⋆ bouncing on his dick. ⋆ delicious backshots. ⋆ fucking you in a maid costume.

GETO SUGURU. ꒱‎

satisfying ghostface with your tongue. ⋆ messy deepthroat. ⋆ fucking in his car. ⋆ gun kink. ⋆ he’s got you chained up. ⋆ such a squishy ass. ⋆ hitting it on them janky ass seats. ⋆ riding him.

just a smol cat communicating with another smol cat ♡

—and they were roommates

part 2

masterlist

hockey!ellie x hockey!vi x hockey!abby x figureskater! reader

college au! fluff & angst (?)

synopsis: you were just trying to find a new roommate. how bad could it be if you lived with the university’s most popular hockey trio notorious for breaking score boards and breaking beds (n backs) too?

warning: they’re all fucking bimbos and simps. reader ur so pretty u make them so dumb🗣️. caitlyn slander but i promise i love her so fucking much im sorry to my best girl. !!!!!!mentions of reader and harassment!!!! dumbassery. thats all. this is half edited

a/n: this lowk was rushed im sorryyyy my babies but enjoy nonetheless <3

———

Abby didn’t know what she was expecting when she opened the door. After Vi’s declaration of your arrival (and the pathetic scream that followed of how pretty you are), she rushed downstairs while pulling her shirt over her bare upper body and pulling her hair back in a quick bun.

[a/n: hey author popping up in her rlly fast to say that idgaf. they like to be shirtless. (#selfindulgent)]

Vi thought being a woman was enough to be pretty in her book, so Abby just brushed it off and carried on. She thought you were gonna be some other female hockey player with a big ego and the usual nonchalant attitude. (how misogynistic)

Click. She unlocked the door.

You can’t be anything special, right?

Swing. She opened the door.

“Hey, you must be— whoa.” The blonde was immediately slapped with your scent. It was intoxicating in the way where you made her mind blank for a second. She couldn’t think of anything else besides the fact that you smelled so sweet, like a cupcake. She didn’t even have time to register how stupid she looked, because holy fuck, Vi wasn’t lying. Abby’s mouth hung slightly open as she took you in, her breath caught at her throat. She saw how your soft hair fell perfectly down your upper body, how your pools of liquid warmth-eyes met her gaze, how your toned body covered with your leggings and tight jacket hugged your body so nicely she could have ogled at you for so much longer if you didn’t speak up—

“Uh, Hi, Abby right? I emailed you yesterday about the roommate inquiry?”

Abby’s throat was dry. Your voice was—Jesus.

“Oh. Yeah— yeah! I’m uh— I’m sorry for making you wait. come in, come in.” She moved to the side and gestured you to enter. She can’t lie, she did have a slight peek at your ass while you walked in. Lethal face card, mesmerizing voice, add amazing fucking ass to the list. (She mentally thanked her eyes for flickering down there but also mentally punched herself in the face for being no better than a man.) Abby took a sharp breath in. Lord, this was not gonna be easy…

As you walked into the gorgeous house, Vi descended from the stairs. She was toothbrush-less this time, and somehow had less clothes on. She was in a sports bra and (Abby’s) low rise grey sweats. Her muscular biceps and ripped abs were hard not to look at, not to mention that delicious v-line that was barely covered from the band of her Calvin Klien boxers—

“Hey. Sorry for leavin’ ya out there sweets.” She smirked and leaned against the wall, looking at you up and down. “Had to spit out the toothpaste.” she added with a wink. This earned Vi a scowl and a mouthed “Quit it asshole” from Abby.

“Have a seat.” Abby politely said from behind you and smiled, and pointed to the couch. As you turn to walk to the living room, Abby smacked Vi right at the back of her neck and whispered a firm and fast “Behave you fuckin’ dog.” Vi, like a dog, sulked with her puppy eyes on full display. The duo made their way to the other couch, sitting stiffly.

Abby clears her throat to break the silence. “Our other roommate has a class right now, so she’ll be coming a little later.” She smiles, and tried not to let her eyes travel down to how perfect your tits sat under your jacket.

Vi, on the other hand, grew more confident since the toothbrush incident. God, she could not rip her eyes off of you even if she tried. You sat so politely on their couch, your pretty legs crossed over one another and posture so straight she would’ve mistaken you as royalty. Normally, when she sees a pretty girl, she’s fast to flirt. Her on and off toxic ex, Caitlyn Kiramman [a/n: i fucking love caitlyn im sorry ok] which happens to be one of the most sought after girls in school, was pretty to Vi. She was easy to flirt with, easy to tease, easy to fuck. You, on the other hand, made her feel different. You were making her dizzy. The moment she say your pretty fucking face standing out their door, she knew it was over for her from the way you smiled so nicely. You weren’t just pretty to Vi, you were more.

If the feeling of butterflies was a person, it’d look like you.

———

Okay…so they’re both hot…so what?

You thought as you collected your thoughts to speak up. Cmon, if you could make your professors gawk at your public speaking skills and befriend angry cashier Dan, you could talk to these hockey players. These…greek god sculpted…chiseled to perfection…hymn worthy…hockey…players…

You cleared your throat.

“Oh no worries, I understand how demanding class could be. Your place, it’s so nice n cozy.” You laughed off the information Abby gave you about their late roommate and your eyes looked around their humble abode. It was indeed cozy, and much cleaner than you anticipated. It was a two story house with modern kitchen interior and a gorgeous ginormous marble island that you would kill to bake and cook on. Overlooking the kitchen island was their living room with a cloud-like couch that sunk when you sat your ass down on the cushions. The large 77’ inch TV was sleek against the wall with a hockey game on. Then your remembered…

Shit. Hockey. Something you don’t fucking play.

“So, you’re a hockey player?” asked the one with pink hair.

Did this pink protein pack sex god just read my mind?

“Uh— well—“ you struggled. “No. And— before you reject me already— I can explain.”

The two chuckled softly at your words, finding it charming the way you stuttered.

“Go on sweets, we’re listening.” The pink haired one said again, relaxing a little on the couch and tilting her head. You don’t know if you hated that nickname or loved it, but it definitely had you shifting in your seat. “Oh, and I’m Vi by the way.” she smiles.

“Yes, (name) go on, we won’t stop you from elaborating.” Abby, the one you emailed, smiled politely and listened attentively. She reminded you of a bear, a big cuddly bear with huge biceps and incredible hands. She leaned back on the couch whilst smiling at you ever so slightly, almost like she was admiring a flower in full bloom.

“Yeah, alright thank you.” you nodded and took a breath.

“I’m a figure skater for the school, and we use the same locker room and rink. I saw flyer and I thought I’d give it a try— but I totally understand if you want to venture other opti—“

Of course, you were cut off when the door was slammed open. Jesus, they maybe hot but they could use some damn etiquette classes.

“YO, WHOSE SEXY ASS CAR IS OUTSIDE— oh—holy fuck.”

You were interrupted mid-sentence when a cute (and equally hot— you were praying to get the ick at this point because you couldn’t fathom how they all were so attractive) brunette girl entered. You turned around to see her walking in with bags of Taco Bell and three (extremely large) Baja Blasts in a carrier. She met your gaze, and she practically turned into a tomato.

An awkward 5 second pause made the air in the room thick before a voice broke through it.

“Uh— Ellie! This is (name), we were just starting to talk about the details of her potential move-in here” Abby said, forcing a smile and shifting in her seat. She looked at Ellie with a smile, but her eyes screamed “sit the fuck down you’re embarrassing yourself”

Ellie? Oh- Ellie! you thought.

“Ellie huh? You must know Dina then?” You perked up, your eyes shining at the mention of your best friend.

Ellie gulped. She was a deer stuck in headlights,

but more so a deer that was stuck looking the fucking illuminating angel that was sat on their couch.

———

Between her and her best friends, Ellie had always been the least upfront and straightforward of the three.

Don’t underestimate her though, she pulls extremely hard. Girls are always thirsting in her instagram dms after she posts a picture of her flexing her tattooed arm after a pump at the gym, but always did it without having to try. She was, what Vi and Abby call her, a loser lesbian. In this case, she was living up to the name as well.

“Yeah— I know Dina.” It took her a second to respond to your question, she was busy looking (fawning over) your pretty fucking face. Perfect eyes, cute nose, pretty hair, and lips of an angel. You were so, so fucking pretty.

“That’s great! She said you were really cool, it’s good to put a face to the name.” you smile at Ellie and she felt the lub-dub of her chest fasten.

“Yeah…it’s good to put a face to you too. A very pretty one for that matter.” she smiled softly while heading to the couch. She put the Taco Bell and drinks on the coffee table.

“Oh— (name), help yourself.” Ellie added.

You looked at the Taco Bell, and politely declined. “S’ okay, thank you though.”

“Alright, so sorry for the informality of this all” Abby cut in between, sitting slightly forward as she was squished between Ellie and Vi. You had the one couch fully to yourself, while dumb, dumber, and dumbest were compacted like sardines into the other.

“I— don’t apologize I understand— hey do one of yall want to sit on this couch by the way, you guys are packed on one, and it is yall’s couch. I promise I don’t bite.” You laugh softly, pointing at the big empty spaces next to you.

The three idiots looked at each other with the most brainless looks on their faces, and all stood up to move.

“Oh I thought—“

“Wait were you—“

“Who’s gonna—“

They all spoke at the same time, looking at you, then at the other the couch, and then at each other.

“I can sit next—“

“No you should stay—“

“Guys just sit—“

You cleared your throat to hide the laugh that was bubbling in your throat. Your hand flies to your mouth to hide the smile that was creeping up on your face. They looked like lost puppies, cute. They all looked at you when you cleared your throat, their faces glowing pink with embarrassment. Finally, Abby sat on the same couch as you— on the complete opposite end. She spoke up:

“Okay, let’s get started”

———

You don’t know how you got here…

A measly three hours later of Abby, Ellie, and Vi barely asking you questions and instead cracking jokes, you were munching on the Taco Bell nacho cheese fries that Ellie brought back.

“I’m convinced Professor Viktor and Coach Talis are fucking!” Vi said, throwing her arms up while earning a laugh from Ellie and Abby.

You, on the other hand, had your brows raised in amusement and ears perked up due to the new information. “Coach Talis? As in hockey team Coach Talis?” You laughed while covering your mouth that’s still half full of fries.

“Yes! Yes Coach Talis!” Ellie laughed back, nodding her head.

“No shut the fuck up, I swear he always flirts with Coach Medarda during the rink-switch between the figure skaters and hockey players!” You said, trying hard not to laugh as you dropped the bomb on them. “I swear one time I overheard him say a cheesy fucking pickup line like ‘are you the ice?, because you’ve got me slipping into your heart’ and Medarda looked so over it she said she was a desert.”

“Oh? So he swings both ways?” Abby said, wiggling her eyebrows and biting her finger “how cheeky”

You barked out a laugh, one where you genuinely felt like your stomach was gonna concave in itself if you didn’t stop. “Oh my god— I haven’t laughed like that in so long- whew.” you said wiping your eyes from the tears forming. You felt warm. You felt welcomed. To your surprise, the trio was so much more than you expected. The measly three hours started with you four being stiff and awkward toward each other, but once Ellie cracked a joke about some stupid fucking niche thing, the four of you started to snowball into different topics. From these measly three hours, you laughed until were hungry, laughed until you ate their Taco Bell, laughed until you were clutching your stomach and wiping tears in your eyes, laughed until the three hockey placers felt a warm feeling in their chest despite the thick snow outside.

“Holy crap— I’ve been here for so long” you pointed out as you looked at the clock and the window outside. It was dark already even if it was only 5, the wintertimes in Jackson always promised a dark atmosphere early on in the day.

“Oh— oh right. Yes right so roommate inquiry— We’ll reach out in a few days? Up until we decide?” Abby said, sipping on the half empty Baja Blast.

“Yes! Yes of course— uh— do you guys want my number or is the email just fine—“

“NUMEBR! I mean…number yeah…so it’s easier to contact you” Vi said, a little too fast. Ellie whispered a sarcastic ‘good one’ to her while laughing softly.

You smiled at them, and pulled out your phone so each of them could put their numbers in.

“Cute wallpaper, by the way.” Ellie said, handing the phone as she was the last one to have the phone. You mentally slapped yourself. The wallpaper was of you, Dina and your pet, Dog, looking slightly stupid in matching costumes from this Halloween. Dog was a celery. You were a carrot stick. Dina was a ranch. Why? Why not.

“You have a cat?” Ellie asked, and you nodded.

“Yes— his name is Dog— well okay technically he was supposed to be a dog, but you know buying a pet from CraigsList is never a good idea. He was supposed to be a Pomeranian, but I got handed a mini kitten instead. I decided that I loved him too much to get rid of him, so I named him…Dog…instead…” you shuffled, cringing at yourself because you must sound so, so stupid right now. Ellie bit back the stupidest fucking smile. You are so fucking cute. She could eat you out up on the spot. Right now.

“You named your cat…Dog?” Vi asked, amused and smirking. “That’s real charming, sweets.” She laughed put her hands in the pockets of her (Abby’s) sweats.

“Charming? S’ a little stupid honestly—“

“Oh no it isn’t. I had a turtle when I younger and named her Fish. If that’s any consolation.” Abby adds and she laughs.

“Phew, okay so I’m not alone in this boat. Oh, I hope it’s okay that I have a pet, I forgot to mention it since we all got…” You look at the coffee table with Taco Bell sauce packets and wrappers messily sprawled on it “…off topic.” you laugh, and so do they.

“I’ll help clean by the way—“

“No! No, we couldn’t ask you to do that sweets. S’ okay, you should get home before it gets too dark.” Vi waved you off with a smile.

“We’ll walk ya out.” Ellie added, gesturing to the front door.

You left their place feeling so different than you expected. They bid their farewell as you pull out of their driveway, the trio waving goodbye and screaming ‘DRIVE SAFE!’ as you get farther. A part of you couldn’t believe how well it went.

The other part of you wanted them to text you so bad; saying that they would love to have you as their new roommate.

———

“We are not having her as our other fucking roommate—“

“Ellie— what the fuck? Why?”

“Vi, use your damn head—“

“Okay guys let’s relax and think this through.”

After you left and the door to their house shut, hell broke loose. The trio had two opposing parties and an undecided one. The decision was gonna be so much harder than they anticipated. They argued while cleaning the mess in the coffee table, they argued while putting away the dishes, and they are still arguing. It’s been an hour.

“Vi, we are ALL clearly into her, how do you think having her as a roommate would be?” Ellie argued

“Ellie, come-fucking-on! It’s too early to make that decision! And so what if we’re all into her? (Name’s) a fucking adult and so are we! We can control ourselves!” Vi barked back, getting slightly irritated at her best friend’s immediate dismissal.

“All I’m saying is that— If she does move in, how the fuck’ll that affect how we act towards each other? How people act towards her? Listen, we’re not so known for being the most…modest…people. We’re fuckin’ notorious for sleeping around okay, and what’ll happen to (name’s) image if people find out she’s living with us! For all we know, people could hate her because of us! It’s happened before— you know it has. Your ex was subjected to the worst after people found out that you guys were a thing. The only difference there is that Caitlyn’s a fuckin’ bitch and moved on so fast! She could take the criticism!”

She paused, and took a deep breath. Her voice was now, much softer. “I’m not saying (name) cant, but come on, she was a fucking carrot stick for halloween. She has a kitten named Dog. She’s too—“ Ellie huffed out, and there was a pause. The air was thick.

“—Sweet?” Abby finished for her, smiling a sad smile when reminded of your presence. Sweet. Like a cupcake.

Ellie let out a breathless “yeah.” and shook her head.

Vi sighed, shaking her head. “Fuck. You have a point.” she said, massaging her temples.

They stay quiet for a second, letting the reality sink in. Ellie broke the silence.

“Abby, what do you think? You’re the most logical one with this typa shit, plus you pay the most— what do you want?” Ellie said while sighing. They moved to the kitchen now, Vi sitting on the island while Abby was preparing her meal prep on the stove. Ellie was sitting on the island stool, conflicted.

“You have a point. I mean, fuck, people are brutal. I don’t want her to face all that.” Abby said, turning off the stove and sighing.

“So…?”

“So I think we know our answer…” Abby hesitated to say.

“Damn. Fuck.” Vi cursed. “M’ not textin’ her. I don’t wanna break the news that we’re rejecting her.” She shook her head.

“I don’t want to either.” Ellie said, her fingers playing with her bracelet.

Abby scoffed and glared at the two. “You guys fuckin’ suck.” She let out a long sigh, and raked her fingers through her hair. She grabbed her phone from her back pocket, getting ready to text you, but was met with surprise instead.

You texted first..?

She was perplexed, and saw that you had just sent it a little over three minutes ago. She opened her messages:

2 new messages from (name)

(name): hey abby, sorry for the inconvenience i know i just left. they’re evacuating our dorm because this creepy guy found a way in and started harassing me n the girls here— it’s been a reoccurring problem for months. the police have him in custody rn tho. im in the er rn— nothing serious but the police js wanted to do an overall check for all the girls he encountered bc he was literally insane n on heavy drugs.

(name): im texting to ask if i can crash tonight? my brother and Dina are out of town for a weekend get- away n all my friends lived in the same dorm building n are all spread out now. sorry again, i can always book a hotel if u cant!! no worries :)

Oh, Abby was fuckin’ livid. You were harassed? You sweet, sweet girl? You?

If fumes could be seen seeping out of Abby’s ears, it’s beyond be palpable that Abby was beyond furious.

“What? Abby what happened?” Ellie was fast to ask, noticing her best friend’s shift in demeanor.

Abby didn’t respond to Ellie, but her fingers typed faster than she could think.

3 new messages from abby

abby: what the fuck? (name) are you okay? send me the address of the ER now, m’ coming to getcha.

abby: forget about booking a fuckin’ hotel ur staying here. we’d be happy to have u as a roommate, ur moving in as soon as possible, n never going back to that shitty dorm.

abby: hang tight sweet girl, im omw.

Abby didn’t register the nickname she called you, she didn’t give a fuck. It was true, you are such a sweet girl, so sweet that your scent was imprinted on her when you gave each of them a parting hug. No, she wasn’t gonna go on with the night knowing some fuckass creep put his hands on you.

“Abby, what the fuck is going on?” Vi lost her patience, standing from the kitchen counter. Ellie followed too, seeing as Abby was grabbing her keys and heading out.

Abby was ready to sh00t someone at this point. She let out an irritated sigh, and was throwing the pillows of the couch to find her hat, tucked under a pillow.

She found it, put it on, and quickly explained the situation.

“Fucking— (name’s) in the ER. A fucking creep somehow entered her dorm building and started harassing her and the girls there.” Abby said, rushing toward the garage door. Ellie and Vi stood there, frozen with anger.

“Well are yall fuckin’ coming?” Abby yelled.

Ellie and Vi scrabbled to their stuff, both gradually getting angrier and angrier as reality set in

Oh, they were coming alright. They were ready to declare war on whoever the fuck did this.

———

taglist (i couldn’t find some of yall im so sorry :( )

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I guess you fell in to the wrong hands

Bonten trio x Detective! Reader

༄ Sanzu x reader, Ran x reader, Rindo x reader

One wrong move lands you in the back of Bonten's limousine, at the mercy of the very gangsters you were chasing.

ㅤ— Warnings. AFAB reader, NON.CON to DUB.CON to NON.CON again, noncon creampie, oral (m. & f. Receiving), rough s3x, forced breeding, blindfold, bondage, gun play, throat fvcking, degradation, edging, dacryphilia, overstimulation, cervix kissing, choking, tummy bulge, foursome lmao, praise, facial, mindbreak, mean Sanzu and Rindo :(

ㅤ— WC. 3.8k (I think I got carried away)

ㅤ— minors don't interact. This work contains dark content, please heed all the warnings before proceeding.

ㅤ— Note. This is my first time writing DC lmao. And they've a limousine because I said so.

#tags. @festive @s-zu @manjiken @bbytamaki

Reblogs and interactions are appreciated!

To say that the mission had gone wrong would be an understatement because this is the worst possible outcome.

"Cat got your tongue?" A large hand fists your hair and you've to crane your head back to minimise the sting,"C'mon, Detective." The tape around your lips is snatched free, a hiss leaving your now free mouth. As soon as you part your lips, the nozzle of a gun is pressed up cold under your chin

"Scream n' I blow your brains out." The man- Rindo, warns. Your jaw clenched tightly, fists balled up behind your back with Rindo's tie binding your wrists. Your knees ached from kneeling on the floor of what looked to be the back of their limousine.

Rindo harshly claims your lips, pushing away whatever thoughts you were having. His hand cups the back of your head, making you unable to break the kiss. So, you bite down on his lip. Hard. The action has him reeling back with a grunt, red tainting his lips and purple locks swaying.

A gun pokes at your temple,"Ran," The gun eases up but is still present,"It's alright." Wiping away the blood with his thumb, Rindo stares down at you,"I like 'em a bit feisty."

"You're lucky he's in the mood to play." Blue eyes blink up at you, a smirk pulling at the twin scars on his lips,"Or you'd already have a bullet in your head."

The clank of a belt pulls your attention in front. Rindo fists his cock, rubbing the tip on your lips,"No biting." Ran presses his finger on the trigger for assertion. Lips pressed tightly, you refused to give in. His fingers pinched your nose, having your jaw fall in reflex to gather oxygen.

His brother shoved his cock in your mouth with a chuckle. Rindo gasped as he felt how warm your mouth is around him, eyes closing with a content sigh,"Oh Detective, yer' s'good at this." He's bucking his hips into your face and manoeuvering your head to meet his movements simultaneously.

Your eye twitched in indignation, teeth threatening to scrape at his veiny length but the gun his brother held made you drop that plan.

Rindo, meanwhile, is ecstatic. Seeing the funky little detective on her knees in front of him and sucking on his dick just made him throb. You'd been such a difficult one, throwing a good fight, he's got a nasty bruise on his abdomen, just under his ribs to prove that. But fucking your mouth like this is worth it,"Fuck-"

Fingers tighten around your hair when he hits the back of your throat. A choked moan breaks through your occupied mouth, muffled but managing to make Sanzu and Ran's pants tight nonetheless.

"Ngh, not gonna last long." Purple hair sticks to his forehead as he grits out in between groans. His thrusts become erratic, fucking your face roughly till spurts of hot cum fills your mouth. Rindo holds your head down on his dick,"Swallow." And he doesn't let go till he feels you gulp around his cock. Shamefully, you feel your panties dampen from having your throat fucked so roughly.

A moan slipping past his lips as he pulls out. You're leaning forward, lungs pumping in much needed air before a hand grabs your jaw and pulls your face up. A pair of lips crash on yours. Tongue intruding your mouth to savour what's left of Rindo's taste.

Eyes screwed shut, you try to stay still as the wet muscle roams your cavern, jaw aching in his grip. A few long seconds later, when he pulls away you lock eyes with erratic blue ones. Sanzu smirks down at you,"You taste like him."

Rindo scoffs and you can detect a playful tone in the sound. You're suddenly pushed forward by a hand pressing on your shoulder. Face tumbling between the pink haired man's thighs, you feel someone grop your ass,"Just unwrap her already."

Ran laughs, a breathy sound which you hate to admit made your pussy clench. Panic kicks in when your pants are yanked down all the way before deft fingers danced at the hem of your panties,"Hm? You're wet?" The pad of his finger slides over the wet patch of your underwear, pressing teasingly.

Shaking your head, you pant heavily, resting your cheek on Sanzu's thigh. The said man chuckled,"Then how 'bout this?" Cupping your cheeks he tilts your face up to meet his gaze,"We play a game and if you win, we let ya' go."

Head dizzy from the harsh treatment from the younger Haitani, you don't think twice before agreeing. Without listening to the wager. Cursing yourself a few moments later as you lay on one of the seats of the long car, hands tied up with Rindo's belt now, readjusted above your head.

Rindo's tie serving as a makeshift blindfold around your eyes while the cold nozzle of a gun trailed down your skin, clothes laying on the floor.

A whimper escapes you when the gun digs into your cheek. Ran's condescending coo echoing near your ear. The nozzle is soon nudging your lips before gliding past with aid of the drool glistening on them, courtesy of Rindo.

The gun fucked your mouth, soaking the metal in your spit before pulling away,"Who was that, Detective?" Rindo's voice is a distant purr, probably because he's draped on the opposite seat. Biting your lip, you ponder a bit,"Ran."

"Wrong." You can hear the smugness in Rindo's voice but your angry train of thoughts are cut short when the gun is back on your skin. The wet nozzle is cold on your torso, trailing down your stomach before teasingly pressing against your panties. Your knees are torn open to allow the gun to continue on its path.

A finger pushed your soaked panties to the side, dragging the nozzle on your slit. You gasp, breathless at the contact. A yelp tears through your mouth when the gun pushes past your entrance, your warm walls clamping around the cold metal,"Oh, look how you're ruining the gun."

Sanzu rasps, entranced by the way the gun is coated in your juices as it's pulled out before slamming in roughly. Your pathetic moans embarrass you while they only aided in arousing the lurching men in the car.

The filthy scene of having a gangster's gun bullying into your pussy and oh- the went sounds that keep flooding in, you can't help but moan. Biting your lip, you try to subdue the sounds but it's so difficult when the hard weapon is thrusting inside you so harshly.

Your toes curl and hips twitch as you near an unexpected, unwanted orgasm. But just as your walls clench, the gun's gone. Taunting chuckles erupt around the space before Rindo asks,"Who just fucked your slutty cunt with the gun?"

The ruined orgasm spiked irritation in your veins. Through the haze, you tried to think. When Ran spoke, it was Sanzu. So this time it must be,"Ran."

"You seem to want my brother an awful lot, Detective." Rindo clicks his tongue,"Sanzu, why don't ya' show her who just fucked her with the gun?"

A drop of perspiration trickling down your neck, the wager was, the winner gets whatever they want. Naoto had warned you that a single slip up can prove to be life threatening. That these were very dangerous people.

But now that you're here, under their prying eyes, your body's second guessing if you wanna leave. Or maybe it's just your arousal talking.

Your closing legs are spread open by a gentle palm,"Before you ruin her, I'mma have a taste." Ran husks, lips pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh.

Your blindfold is yanked down, the tie loosely pooling around your neck as Sanzu filled your vision. His mouth falling on your tits, sucking and teasing the hard buds,"You'll watch." Sanzu mumbles into your skin,"You'll watch everything we do." A hand squeezes your plump flesh harshly to accentuate his words.

The short purple haired man in turn settles between your legs. Tongue pressed flat on your clit, he hums,"S'sweet." A wet suckling had blood pooling at your cheeks,"You're getting off on this, eh?" Rindo leans forward and smirks at your half lidded eyes.

A far way from the prestigious officer of law who had kicked him not even an hour ago. Your tummy flutters, the metaphorical coil tightening at his jeers. Your tied wrists are held in position by Sanzu's huge hand, discouraging any movement.

Light pink strands dragged along the valley of your breasts with Sanzu coating your nipples with his spit and biting. Your shoulders roll in the testament of pain but the jolts of pleasure from your pussy makes your back arch. You could feel Sanzu smirk against your skin but you're too busy whimpering for them to form a retort.

Ran moans as he swipes his tongue across your slit, dipping the tip in between your warm folds. His purple hair brushes soft between your thighs when he buries his face into your cunt. Nails digging into your palms, you try to bite back on your moans but Sanzu and Ran's mouths on your skin made it difficult.

Your eyes squeeze shut as Ran's nose nudges against the hood of your clit. Lilac eyes watch you gush on the older Haitani's tongue, who devours you with loud slurping noises.

"'Nough now." Legs shaking as you pant breathless, coming down from the high while Sanzu pushed Ran away from you,"Gunna' show this bitch that yer' too soft to fuck her with a gun," A hasty rustle is heard with Ran's chuckle just before Sanzu smears the tip of his cock against your glistening pussy lips,"Like I did."

He's bottoming out in a hard flick, uncaring about the scream that you let out as he stretched your walls without any real prep,"Oh- oh fuck," Digging tiny crescents on your thighs, he grips them unceremoniously. It burned, hurt but your body welcomed the pain, your mind reeling from the overwhelming sensation.

Your hands rose in protest, to push away at his chest but Ran's long fingers caught them, shoving them back on top of your head. With a smirk, he watched you struggle against their hold. His large hand draped over your mouth to subdue your screams,"Shhh," Soft lips press to your temple, a seemingly soft gesture but you should know better.

"Look a'her. She's still got some fight left in her." Rindo muses, resting his elbows on his knees. Sanzu pulls out all the way just to slam his cock back in,"Guess I'll just have to fuck the fight outta her then." Deep grunts rattle his chest as he feels your pussy wrap tightly around his length,"Ah you're s'fucking tight," The criminal moans above you, fucking you like a wild animal,"This is the best pussy I've ever had mhn," He's gulping when you thrash under him.

The sadistic glint in his blue eyes has you whimpering and his cock bullying into your overestimated cunt wasn't helping,"Please," You beg,"'tis too much- ah!" Sanzu's hands press your knees up to your chest, folding you in half to go deeper. The new angle pulled shrill cries from your throat because his tip was knocking at your cervix,"Sanzu!"

Tears streaming down your eyes, you plea for mercy but the man above you has this twisted grin, fucking you harder,"Haru." Ran coos, trailing his index finger down your cheek, a deep satiated sparkle in his beautiful purple orbs,"Call him Haru."

Lower lip trembling, you do as advised, his name rolling sweetly on your tongue. His jaw clenches taut,"Fuck," His name sounds so tempting laced in your voice,"Haru, Haru, Haru-" You choke up, stumbling his name in a prayer as your cunt spasms around his dick. Yet he still drills into your ever tightening hole with vigour, fucking you through your unwanted orgasm.

Thrusts grew erratic as he neared his release, muttering curses under his breath,"Not inside her." Hesitantly, he pulled out his cock at Rindo's order, fist wrapping around the head to jerk ferociously,"Not yet at least." The hint at the unsaid words made him smirk through his high, releasing ropes of white semen on your cunt and thighs,

"Oh, look at this," Sanzu laughs, exchanging places with Ran to grip a handful of your hair,"Made such a mess on my cock," Manoeuvering your face to the side, he's pressing his cock against your lips,"Clean it up, whore."

Ran grabs your boobs, squeezing the soft plush before humping his cock head on your entrance,"You ready for me, doll?" He's nicer than the other two in slowly pumping his cock inside your hole, giving you time to adjust while Sanzu's cock lay heavy on your tongue,"Use that tongue," He yanks at your hair harshly,

"Fucking do it, slut." Swirling your tongue around his glistening cock, you wince at the mixture of your and his taste,"Oh, just like that, ah." His groans made you clench around Ran's dick and he laughed,"For someone who's an officer of law, you sure seem to enjoy being fucked by criminals."

He rocks against your abused cunt a little, testing if the aftershocks of your previous high has subdued. You moan softly around Sanzu's cock and he's pulling out to not overestimate himself,"Maybe we should take her to Mikey."

"D'ya think of anything other than Mikey?" Ran grunts, teasing the man with scars but there's a hint of frustration in his tone.

A hand slithers around your neck, fingers pressing against the air columns dangerously,"Eyes on me now, dollface." The sickly sweet smile on his lips, a sharp contrast to his malicious gaze. One deep thrust and your head is thrown back, toes curling in from how deep he is inside you,"Still so tight,"

He's longer than Sanzu, filling you so nicely that you don't even remember why you were fighting against them,"Even after Haru fucked you, hm?" Ran moans and the sound made your pussy clench,"Looks like I'll just have to fuck you better, yeah?" You're heaving shallow puffs of hot breath, too lost to answer. But the question wasn't meant for you because Ran's eyes flicked to meet the other man's blue ones who scoffed at the words.

"Wow." Rindo's voice snaps the men from their stare. He moves, leering over your body beside Sanzu in an instant while you squirm under his brother. Following his brother's gaze, Ran's eyes land on your form, whistling once he noticed the outline of his cock under the skin of your belly,"Holy shit,"

Sanu smirks at the sight as Rindo presses his warm palm down on the bulge. Ran stills inside you, gripping your hips tightly to avoid cumming right there like a damn teenager. You though, are wailing from the slight pain,"Please, Ran,"

The men smirk, you finally fell for Ran's trick,"As you wish, my pretty doll." Pulling you up by the grip he had on your throat, his mouth clashes against yours. His tongue picks up hits of your sweet taste on your tongue mixed with Sanzu's. Pulling you on his lap as he sits back on the seat, Ran moves your body on his dick with ease, your smaller frame just acting the purpose of a rag doll for his pleasure.

Your bound wrists rested behind his shoulders, arms around his neck as you kissed him back,"She sure likes you, Ran." Sanzu snickers, palm striking at your ass hard. You cry into the kiss from the impact,"Shh," A buck of his hips up to yours had you falling back into moans for him,"I got you."

A thumb prods at the tight puckered hole,"No!" Ran is quick to shush you,"It's alright," His hand gently cages your breasts. Sanzu snickers behind you,"We don't have lube anyway." One last slap on your stinging ass and you're pressing harder against Ran's body. Trailing his fingers down your curves, he drapes his palm on the small of your back.

Purple orbs urge you to ride him at your pace,"Such a good doll for me," He smirks when you pump yourself full of his cock with each thrust,"Doing s'good for me, hm?" The hand on your breast is busy teasing the nipple, his mouth paying attention to the other,"Ran," You sultry moan would've shocked you if you were in the right state of mind,"Gonna cum,"

"Then go ahead n' cream on my cock, doll." His sweet tone is triumphed by his brother's biting one. Rindo's hand wraps around your neck as it slides around your shoulder,"Moaning like a whore for my brother."

Ran's chuckle fans breezy on your breast, his lips still wrapped around your nipple as he feels you clench around his cock at his brother's harsh words,"Fucking cum on his cock, slut." Rindo snaked his other hand around your waist, fingers finding your puffy clit, pinching roughly.

Your nails dug on his brother's shoulders, a wail dragging on your tongue as your orgasm ripped through every fiber of your body,"Oh- oh fuck," Ran held your hips, moving them to ride you through your high before he's pulling you off his throbbing cock. Rindo pushes you down on your knees, in between Ran's legs, hand holding your jaw up to face his older brother

"Tongue out." Dizzy and tired, your mouth falls open, tongue drooling on your lower lip. Your eyes focus on Ran's face, brows furrowed in pleasure and mouth forming a small 'O'. His hand fisted his cock, jerking faster till he's cumming with a moan, thick spurts of cum shooting on face, falling on your tongue and on your cheeks.

"What a messy slut you are, Detective L/N." Rindo turns your face to his. Smirking sadistically when he notices the lost look in your eyes. His thumb pushes the bit of cum at the corner of your lips inside your mouth,"Maybe I should fuck you like you deserve." You're pushed down on the floor of the car, face flush against the carpet, ass raised.

Rindo smacks your ass before thrusting his dick inside your used pussy,"Still tight, ah-" He chokes up on his groan as he buries balls deep in your cunt,"We should keep her." You recognize Sanzu's voice barely above your own moans,"She's already ours,"Aren't ya', doll?" You're too dumb to do anything but moan with Rindo fucking you into the floor. A hand gripping tight on your hair yanked you up to face Ran's devilishly handsome face,"Answer him, whore."

Tears slip down your cheeks, mingling with Ran's sticky cum at the jolts of pain at your scalp. The Haitani knelt in front of you, taking your burning face in his huge palms,"You belong to us now." Thumb pressing on your lower lip, he pulled your mouth open. His brother's hips slammed into yours with such force that your body shuddered, eyelids dropping heavy. A hot globe of wetness hit your tongue with a 'putah'.

Fingers pressed into your cheeks, near the corners of your mouth to push your mouth close,"Got it?" You saw the darkness in his eyes as you swallow his spit. Managing out a mushed "yes" Between moans, you try to hold yourself up on shaky arms. Your knees scraped on the carpet with each ruthless thrust from Rindo. You're nearing another orgasm even after the ones you just had.

Rindo's fingers tangle in your strands, pulling hard to make you cry out,"That's it, whore." Ran's hand is around your throat now, tight and unyielding,"I can feel you clamping down on me. You're about to cum, aren't you?"

"Again?" Sanzu sneers, grabbing your cheek to hurl you towards him. Tilting his head to kiss your mouth, he groans upon catching a taste of Ran,"What a pathetic slut."

Rindo is grunting, purple and black strands falling in front of his eyes as he nears his own precipice,"Maybe I should cum inside you, a gift from Bonten." Eyes shooting wide open, you struggle under the three men's hold but to no avail,"Please, no-" Ran is pressing his lips to the shell of your ear,"Shh, it's alright," He's hushing you down but you don't fall for it this time,"No, anything but that, please Rindo- oh!" A hand sneaked around to play with your clit,"Won't you be a good girl for me, doll?"

Sanzu scoffs in mockery,"She's not your good girl, Ran." Digging his fingers in your cheeks, he spits in your mouth,"She's our dirty whore," Icy blue eyes observe as you gulp down his gift in a panicked frenzy,"Right, Rin?"

"Yeah," Said man growls, pressing the pads of his fingers on your clit, rubbing tight circles to pull sweet sounds from your unwilling lips,"Fuck, you're clenching me s'tightly, fuck." You try to beg him but his cock hitting that spot inside you again and again had your vision spotting and mind going blank,"Fucking stop complaining and take what I'm giving ya'."

Your head falls forward in Sanzu's hands as Rindo's thrusts tip you over the edge. You recognize his distant grunts through the ringing in your ears,"Cumming-" Panic blooms in your chest again once you hear his words,"No, please, not inside!" Sanzu claims your noisy mouth, muffling all complains,"Fucking take it, detective." Rindo's voice breaks as he starts cumming, painting your walls white,"Take it all," He's pumping inside you with sloppy thrusts. You sob against Sanzu's mouth, his tongue assaulting your mouth.

"I think she did pretty well." Ran chirps,"Took all three of us like a good doll." You collapse on his lap, his thigh pillowing your head. His fingers move the locks of hair sticking to your sweaty forehead and something that seemed to be akin to adoration in his eyes.

Two fingers are plugged in your soiled cunt after Rindo pulled out his softening cock,"Couldn't have you wasting your parting gift, now, can we?" He's gathering the drops of his cum trickling down your thighs and pushing them in your fluttering pussy,"What a greedy fucking whore." Sanzu whistles when you moan at the feel of Rindo's fingers thrusting slowly inside your hole,"What would your partner say if he saw you like this, being our cumdump, huh?" Your glassy eyes and trembling lips only made the younger Haitani chuckle.

"Who am I kidding, you're already ours."

2021 © all content belongs to @novaresque . Do not repost my work anywhere.

@ 𝙭𝙓𝘿𝙞𝙜𝙞𝙂𝙤𝙙69𝙓𝙭 𝙞𝙣𝙫𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙮...

AND GOD KNOWS I'M TRYIN', BUT THERE'S JUST NO USE IN DENYING... ❤︎︎︎︎ THE OTAKU IS MINE ❤︎︎

⏯︎︎ OTAKU!GOJO X BIMBO!READER SERIES

bunny, how on earth did you end up dating this huge otaku nerd? urgh, you actually like him and match his freak too? and he buys you what?! omg! what will your friends think?!

⏯︎︎ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘

𖦏 genre: college au

𖦏 ratings: 18+MDNI. unprotected, ecchi gojo, dubcon, cnc, bdsm, puppy play, public sex, creampies, spanking, sugar daddy/baby dynamics, edging, squirting, threesums, femdom, the ridiculous ass pervy pet names gojo gives you & reader is called 'bunny' in lieu of 'y/n'. each story will have warnings on its story page.

𖦏 pre register: comment to be tagged. i may not respond to everyone but rest assured if you comment you will be tagged!

𖦏 gamer's guide: all fics are listed in chronological order, but likely won't be written in chronological order. summaries subject to change slightly. they also will be written over time so please don't rush me for the next installment but feel free to ask me questions i love talking about this lil freak❤︎︎

⏯︎︎ 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘:

𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝟏: ❝ DIGIMON—BUT MAKING U CUM IS MY REAL HOBBY! ❞

𖦏 your best friend gojo is a hopeless otaku virgin with zero rizz that's still obsessed with digimon—despite being a grown ass man. you're a slut who despite her best whoring efforts—can't cum. you'll take his v-card and he'll fix your broken pussy, deal? ⏯︎︎ plays: 13.3k

𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝟐: ❝ STICKS N' STONES MAY BREAK MY BONES BUT CHAINS N' WHIPS EXCITE ME! ❞

𖦏 so now that you have a filthy rich boyfie who is completely obsessed with you and has moved you into his house, you're winning, right? or you will be at least— if can survive a trip to the sex dungeon. don't worry it's professionally sanitized after each use! ...what? that's not what you're worried about? oh... ⏯︎︎ plays: lvl in-progress

𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝟑: ❝ AND ALL OF THAT WAS OKAY, CAUSE IT WAS IN A 3-WAY!❞

𖦏 the three of you: you, gojo and geto are like peas in a pod, especially since its summer! and if two of you start f*cking in that pod well its only natural that the third want to join in, right? besides, you both already want to f*ck him. just make sure your current boyfie doesn't get too jealous from how hard you are moaning on your other besties' joystick. your only his ecchi angel, remember? ⏯︎︎ plays: lvl in-progress

𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝟒: ❝ IN THE BEDROOM I BE SCREAMIN', BUT OUTSIDE I KEEP IT QUIET—OR TRY TO AT LEAST!❞

𖦏 you can only keep your relationship underwraps from the rest of your friend group for so long. but you need to ease them into the idea first! although, when there's a yacht party for nanami's bday how is your uber clingy otaku boyfie supposed to keep his hands off of you when you're looking like the most perfect pervy princess in that itty bitty swimsuit? ⏯︎︎ plays: lvl in-progress

𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝟓: ❝ YEAH, HE MY MAN, HE WAS NEVER YO TYPE! ❞

𖦏 school is back! thankfully you somehow manage to instill some kind of decency into your otaku boyfie over the summer so he can come across as normal enough to make his own friends. but did you do too good of a job? wait, he actually has a lil rizz now? you mean you aren't the only girl attracted to him anymore... hol'up! ⏯︎︎ plays: lvl in-progress

𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝟔: ❝ MOVE IT UP, DOWN, LEFT, RIGHT, OH—SWITCH IT UP LIKE NINTENDO! ❞

𖦏 hey, when did you become freaker than your otaku boyfie? so he caught you touching yourself to his femdom p0rn when he came back early from a business trip? yikes! now he wants to try it out with you? don't worry you will do a great job training your new play puppy boyfie! ⏯︎︎ plays: lvl in-progress

⏯︎︎ 𝐃𝐋𝐂:

𝐛𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝐧𝐧𝐧: ❝PU$$Y GOT MORE M⛧RDERS THAN SHIBUYA.ᐟ❞

𖦏 your loser otaku boyfie wants to take you to an anime convention and enter a couple's cosplay contest. you agree on one condition, he has to participate in No Nut November. Fair trade right? What could go wrong? ⏯︎︎ plays: 5079

⏯︎︎ 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐒:

𖦏 soundtrack: [ x ] 𖦏 moodboards: [ lvl 1 ] 𖦏 amazing art by amazing readers: [ x ] 𖦏 faq/thirsts: [ x ]

©𝐛𝐥𝐤𝐤𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐚𝐭 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐠𝐟𝐱, 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞.︎︎

wanna be yours — vi (league of legends) !

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

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

⟢ word count. 15.2k+

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

You’ve grown used to the sight of blood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vi, they call her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s how it usually went with them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn’t budge.

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

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

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

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

“Name?” you ask, clicking your pen.

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

“Vi what?”

“Just Vi.”

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

“I said, just Vi.”

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

“Old enough to fight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Could’ve fooled me,” she mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing,” she says, leaning back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wish Ryker had broken her nose.

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

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

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

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

What the fuck is her problem?

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

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

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

You have to bite back a smile at the sight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s stupid.”

“It was my idea.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t really care what you think.”

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

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

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

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

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

The knowledge of it nearly makes you laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your brows knit together. Quiet?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You give her a deadpan look. “I did.”

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

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

You blink, momentarily thrown. “Food?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She shrugs mid-bite, unbothered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then Vi steps into the ring.

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

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

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

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

Something stirs deep inside you, hot and wanting.

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

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

But something changes.

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

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

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

It’s almost unbearable.

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

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

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

It’s a lie, and you both know it.

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

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

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

“Take your time,” she says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” she says.

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

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

You try to shake it off.

To ignore it until you can't.

And then you visit her one day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not really friends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Antis didn’t make you do it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks.”

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

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

That’s what you tell yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No?”

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

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

You move closer cautiously, studying her.

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

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

“What?”

“You weren’t here.”

Her words surprise you.

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

“Four days.”

“I know.”

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

“More of them?”

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

“You want me there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not enough.

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

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

Inside, the place is alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Happy you’re here.”

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

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

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

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

Your stomach sinks further. “Here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look away.

And then you spot her.

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

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

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

The smile is lazy but unmistakably pleased.

She changes course, heading straight for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You think you’re a little obsessed with her.

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

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

“I like taking care of you, Vi.”

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

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

And then she kisses you.

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

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

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

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

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

You tug her closer.

You kiss her back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I could say the same,” you admit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Vi,” you whisper again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze, suddenly sober.

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But today, the chair stays empty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then the door creaks open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s not enough.

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

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

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

But deep down, you know the answer.

She’ll never be yours.

But you’ll always be hers.

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

“Thanks,” she says.

“Of course. It’s what I’m here for.”

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

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

And then, she’s gone.

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

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

𝑮𝒆𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑮𝒆𝒕𝒐'𝒔 𝑯𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑳𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑫𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒓𝒆 ✯

𝑾𝒆𝒍𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝑻𝒐 𝑮𝒆𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑮𝒐𝒋𝒐'𝒔 𝑯𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑳𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑫𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒓𝒆, 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔. 𝑨𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒍𝒆 𝒖𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚 ~ 𝑮𝒆𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑮𝒐𝒋𝒐.

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒘.

𝑳𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝑫𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒔.

✯𝐶𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝐿𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑇ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑤 - 𝐺𝑒𝑡𝑜 𝑆𝑢𝑔𝑢𝑟𝑢 𝑥 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑥 𝐺𝑜𝑗𝑜 𝑆𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑢 - 𝑷𝑶𝑷𝑼𝑳𝑨𝑹

✯𝑃𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑 - 𝐺𝑒𝑡𝑜 𝑆𝑢𝑔𝑢𝑟𝑢 𝑥 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑥 𝐺𝑜𝑗𝑜 𝑆𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑢

✯𝐾𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑦 𝑇𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑠 - 𝐺𝑒𝑡𝑜 𝑆𝑢𝑔𝑢𝑟𝑢 𝑥 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑥 𝐺𝑜𝑗𝑜 𝑆𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑢

✯𝑆𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑇𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐴 𝐵𝑖𝑔 𝑆𝑢𝑟𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒 - 𝐺𝑒𝑡𝑜 𝑆𝑢𝑔𝑢𝑟𝑢 𝑥 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑥 𝐺𝑜𝑗𝑜 𝑆𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑢.

✯𝑇𝑜𝑜 𝐻𝑖𝑔ℎ 𝑂𝑛 𝑊𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑆𝑒𝑥 - 𝐺𝑒𝑡𝑜 𝑆𝑢𝑔𝑢𝑟𝑢 𝑥 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑥 𝐺𝑜𝑗𝑜 𝑆𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑢.

𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝑺𝒊𝒏 𝑨𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏. 𝑺𝒆𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 *𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒓𝒌𝒔*

@getosbigballsack 2022