I Think I Just Want Her All To Myself Tbh Nd Thats Why I Completely Agree With This!!

That's it. That's the post. I just want to be held like this by a big monster. 🫠

i cannot be the only who believes that Sevika’s face is just so cuppable? like it was made to be held by gentle hands you cannot convince me otherwise

it was made to be held PERIOD.

sweat and sweet temptation!

synopsis: a city girl’s summer on a quiet farm leads to unexpected encounters, where boundaries blur and desires awaken. what begins as an escape soon becomes something she never imagined.

a/n: i have no words....just pure filth for you all :3 enjoy ladies

18+, mdni, farmer sevika, city girl reader, farm life, sevika weighs a lot, reader also sort of likes that, sevika has a big tummy that reader strokes :3, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, strap on, strap on sex, fat kink????, sweat, like a lot of it, mentions of food???????, body hair, size difference, basically, sevika is like 300 pounds n ur like....idk 90 lol

chapter I: heatstroke and honey

the sun hated you. that was the only logical conclusion.

it beat down like it had a vendetta, turning your thighs slick where they stuck to the cracked leather seat of your grandpa’s rustbucket pickup. the air reeked of gasoline and cut grass, your glittery pink nails tapping out an annoyed rhythm on your phone case as you refreshed instagram for the eighth time in five minutes.

nothing. no service. again.

you blew a bubble, slow and loud, letting it pop obnoxiously before snapping your gum back between your teeth. grandpa didn’t even flinch—he was too busy humming off-key to some ancient country song as the truck rattled down the dirt road.

you adjusted your crop top for the hundredth time, tugging it down over your stomach, which was not made for this heat. your tiny jean skirt bunched up every time the truck hit a bump, which was every five seconds.

“this place is literally the middle of nowhere,” you muttered, wiping a line of sweat from your temple. “like, how is this even legal? it’s giving human trafficking vibes.”

grandpa just chuckled. “you’ll get used to it, sweetheart. fresh air’ll do you good.”

you rolled your eyes so hard it gave you a headache. “fresh air smells like cow ass.”

“then you’re finally smellin’ somethin’ real,” he said, eyes twinkling in the rearview mirror. “we’ll hit the market before we head back to the house. your grandma wants that apple jam she likes.”

“you guys don’t have amazon or something?”

another chuckle. “not everything’s deliverable, sugar. some things you gotta earn.”

you sank back in the seat, crossing your arms and stewing in your own sweat and bitterness. a whole damn summer stuck here while your friends partied without you. no clubbing. no rooftop bars. no air conditioning.

just you, bugs the size of birds, and the backwoods hellscape your parents called a “character-building opportunity.”

────

the farmers market looked exactly how you imagined it—quaint, dusty, full of people who probably didn’t know what gluten was. tables lined the parking lot of a tiny church, shaded by canopies and umbrellas that did absolutely nothing to block the sun. people milled around carrying tote bags full of peaches and squash like that was a fun thing to do on a saturday.

you trudged after your grandpa, already annoyed, already over it. your platform sandals kicked up little clouds of dirt with every step, and you made sure your gum popped extra loud just for the looks you were getting.

he chatted with some old guy selling pickles while you scanned the rows of tables, bored out of your mind—until you saw her.

or maybe felt her first.

the heat got heavier in her direction. like it thickened around her.

she was leaned back in a folding chair behind a rough wooden table, arms crossed under her chest, flannel sleeves rolled up to her elbows. her thighs spread wide, dark jeans stretched tight around them, boots caked in dry mud. one boot rested on the edge of a wooden crate like she owned the ground under it. a worn ballcap shaded her face, but not enough to hide the way her jaw flexed when she chewed on a stalk of straw.

she had a dozen jars of homemade jam stacked in front of her—simple labels, no frills—but it wasn’t the jam people were staring at.

she smelled like sun and sweat and woodsmoke. like whatever hard work did to a person over years and years. her skin was brown and streaked with a fresh sheen of sweat, a few strands of dark, messy hair stuck to her neck under her hat. the muscles in her arms didn’t look like gym muscles. they looked earned. ropey, real, heavy.

your stomach did something stupid.

you blinked and realized you’d just been standing there, staring like a moron.

she raised her eyes to you, and the corner of her mouth curled.

“well,” she drawled. voice low and scratchy, like gravel on velvet. “ain’t you a sight.”

you snapped your gum and tilted your head, defaulting to brat mode. “a sight for sore eyes, i know.”

her smirk deepened, slow and dangerous. her gaze flicked down your body—your glittery eyeliner, your crop top, the stretch of thigh your skirt barely covered—and then back up again, lazy and hot as july.

“somethin’ like that.”

you flushed, hating how your skin betrayed you. you weren’t even sure if it was from the heat or the way she looked at you like she could snap you in half—and might enjoy doing it.

“grandpa,” you hissed as you turned away, tugging on his sleeve. “that’s the jam lady?”

he followed your gaze and chuckled again. “that’s sevika, yep. been bringin’ her jam home for years. best damn apples in the county.”

sevika stood, and it was like a barn wall moved. she was easily over six feet, wide as a fridge, and every inch of her looked like it could crush you without trying. she moved slow, unbothered, wiping her hands on a rag pulled from her back pocket.

“got that honey apple batch your wife likes,” she said to your grandpa. then, to you: “you helpin’ him carry stuff today, sweetheart, or just here to bless us with your sass?”

you scowled. “i’m here against my will, actually.”

“lucky us,” she muttered, sliding two jars into a bag.

you hated that your thighs clenched just a little when her fingers brushed the jar lids. rough hands. big hands. calloused, worn, strong.

she handed the bag over, her fingers brushing yours for a heartbeat too long. “careful now. that jam’s sweet enough to rot your teeth.”

you snapped your gum again. “good thing i have a perfect smile.”

her smile said she didn’t believe in perfection, but she might make an exception just to ruin you.

────

you didn’t speak the entire ride home.

not that you could, with the way your heart was still thumping dumb in your chest and your thighs were glued together under your skirt like your body was trying to keep a secret. you hated how easily that woman—sevika—had crawled under your skin. hated the way her eyes followed you like she’d already decided what kind of sounds she’d pull from your mouth if you gave her the chance.

the truck bounced over a pothole, jolting you hard enough that your bare thigh smacked the hot leather seat.

“ow! jesus,” you snapped, adjusting yourself again. “does this truck have any suspension?”

grandpa just chuckled like everything was hilarious. “gotta say, you handled yourself well back there.”

“what, at the barnyard bake sale?” you rolled your eyes, blowing another bubble. “i deserve an oscar.”

“i meant with sevika.”

you froze. “i didn’t do anything.”

“oh, she noticed you, alright. always does when she sees something pretty walk by.” he threw you a look. “don’t play dumb.”

“i’m not playing anything,” you mumbled, shifting again, crossing and uncrossing your legs. “she was just... gross. sweaty. big.”

he snorted. “didn’t stop you from gawkin’ like a deer in headlights.”

you glared out the window, watching fields roll by. she was gross. and huge. and smelled like hard work and heat and sweat. you could still feel the weight of her stare on your bare skin, could still hear that slow southern drawl winding around her words like honey. it was disgusting how your stomach flipped just remembering it.

“gross,” you muttered again. but your thighs squeezed together all the same.

────

the farmhouse your grandparents lived in was old, two stories with peeling white paint and a porch that creaked under every step. you’d barely had time to set down your suitcase before grandma started talking about chores and “helping out around here.” you weren’t even safe in the kitchen—every drawer had knives that looked like they’d killed someone.

and to top it off? the jam sat right there on the counter like a goddamn temptation. you glared at it for a solid five minutes while scrolling your phone and pretending you weren’t still thinking about rough hands and drawled-out pet names.

you popped another piece of gum and took a spoonful of the apple jam straight from the jar just to prove a point. it was good. disgustingly good. sweet and tart with just enough spice to burn the back of your tongue.

stupid hot farmer bitch knew what she was doing.

that night, lying on the twin bed in your upstairs room with a ceiling fan that did nothing but push the heat around, you did something you swore you wouldn’t.

you searched her name.

just “sevika southern jam farmer” into every social media app you had.

nothing. of course. no digital footprint, no selfies, not even a facebook page. she was the kind of woman who probably didn’t believe in passwords or smartphones.

you chewed your gum louder, annoyed and slightly turned on by that fact.

your fingers hovered over your phone keyboard again. search: local farmstands. search: homemade jam vendor. you even tried sevika sweaty arms hot milf.

nothing but tumblr results from 2012 and a pinterest board called “southern butch vibes.”

you threw the phone across the bed with a groan and flopped back into the pillow, pressing your thighs together again. you hated the way your body wouldn’t listen. hated how that damn smirk haunted your brain every time you closed your eyes.

the way she said sweetheart like she was tasting the word. like she wanted to see what else she could call you once she had you bent over her lap.

you turned over with a frustrated grunt.

and then, like a curse, you heard grandpa call from downstairs.

“up early tomorrow! sevika’s needin’ help harvestin’ for the market. you’re goin’ with me!”

you sat up straight, heart in your throat.

“no the hell i’m not!” you yelled back.

“yes the hell you are,” came the reply.

you stared at the ceiling fan as it spun lazily overhead.

you’d be on her farm. in her space. with her sweaty, powerful, infuriating body walking around like she owned the damn world.

you swallowed hard.

this summer was going to kill you.

and not softly.

────

chapter II: rotten apples, dirty hands

you woke up in a tangle of sheets, sweating through your tank top and cursing whoever decided this house didn’t need air conditioning. the sun was barely up, light filtering through gauzy curtains in gold and pink streaks, and you were already miserable.

and then you remembered.

the farm.

sevika.

your stomach did a dumb little flip, and you cursed again, dragging yourself out of bed and throwing open your suitcase. if she thought she’d see you in some dusty-ass overalls like a damn peasant, she had another thing coming.

you picked a skirt that barely covered your ass, bubblegum pink with white trim, and a matching crop top that clung to your tits like a prayer. your bra was optional, your makeup was glittery, and your bubblegum popped loud enough to echo through the hallway.

by the time you made it downstairs, grandpa just shook his head.

“she’s gonna throw you into the pig pen.”

you winked. “only if she wants a show.”

────

the drive to sevika’s farm was all bumpy dirt roads, the kind that made your thighs jiggle and your teeth rattle. when you pulled up, the barn loomed in the distance, big and red and sun-bleached. apple trees stretched behind it in neat little rows, heavy with fruit, their leaves whispering in the wind.

and there she was.

sevika stood near a rusted-out pickup, one arm hoisting a wooden crate up like it weighed nothing. her flannel was rolled to the elbows, thick forearms covered in dirt and sweat, a piece of straw tucked into the corner of her mouth. her skin gleamed under the sun, tanned and slick with heat, and her thighs strained against worn jeans as she set the box down with a grunt.

you nearly choked on your gum.

“morning,” grandpa called out, grabbing another crate from the back.

sevika looked up, and when her eyes landed on you?

a long pause.

a smirk.

“well, i’ll be,” she drawled. “you really brought the barbie doll.”

you snapped your gum loud, hands on your hips. “this barbie don’t do manual labor.”

sevika cocked her head. “you’re wearin’ about six inches of skirt and not a single inch of sense. you’ll do whatever i tell you to, sweetheart.”

your stomach dropped.

grandpa just laughed and waved her off. “she’s all yours.”

sevika wiped sweat from her brow and gave you a once-over so slow it made your skin prickle. “guess i’ll have to put her to work.”

“touch me and i sue.”

“touch you and you melt,” she shot back without missing a beat.

she handed you a basket. wooden, big, heavy. you glared at it like it had personally insulted you.

“you’re pickin’ apples today,” she said. “trees won’t bite. you might break a nail, though. tragic.”

you blew a bubble and stomped after her into the orchard, her boots crunching dry dirt, yours slipping in your platform sandals. you could already feel sweat dripping down the back of your neck.

“this is hell,” you muttered.

“nah,” sevika called over her shoulder, “hell would be me makin’ you shovel pig shit.”

you nearly turned around.

she laughed—a low, throaty rumble that made your thighs clench. she knew what she was doing. every slow stride, every roll of her thick shoulders, every casual spit of that straw between her lips was calculated.

the apples were big and ripe and high up in the trees, and your tiny little arms didn’t stand a chance. you stood on your tiptoes, straining, skirt riding higher and higher until—

“sweetheart.”

you jumped. sevika was behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat coming off her skin like a furnace. she reached past you, arm brushing your side, and plucked the apple down with ease.

“you’re gonna break that pretty back,” she murmured.

your breath hitched.

she smelled like woodsmoke, sweat, and something warm and deep—like summer and sin wrapped in one big brutal package.

“i don’t need your help,” you snapped.

“didn’t say you did. just enjoyin’ the view.”

you spun around, flustered, the apple forgotten in your hands. “pervert.”

sevika leaned in, one arm braced on the tree behind you, caging you in without touching. “you keep wearin’ skirts like that, and callin’ me names with your mouth all shiny from gloss? you’ll find out i ain’t a gentleman.”

you didn’t breathe. couldn’t.

she smiled slow. “get pickin’.”

────

by the time you were done, your legs were covered in dirt and your top stuck to your skin. the basket was half-full—because apples were heavy, thank you very much—and you were pretty sure you had sunburn forming along your shoulders.

sevika didn’t say a word when you came back wheezing, dragging the basket behind you.

just raised an eyebrow. “you call that work?”

you flipped her off and collapsed under a tree.

she walked over, leaned against the trunk beside you, and popped the cap on a beer. she didn’t offer you one. just drank, throat bobbing with every swallow, sweat still glistening down the side of her neck.

“you’re gonna die out here,” she said casually.

“not before i sue you for harassment.”

she turned her head. “tell the judge what? that i looked at you too long while you were bent over shakin’ your ass like it owed you money?”

you gasped.

she grinned.

you wanted to slap her. or kiss her. or both. at the same time.

“i hate you,” you hissed.

sevika drained the rest of her beer and tossed the bottle into a bin. then she crouched down beside you, her thighs spreading wide, elbows on her knees, gaze dropping to your mouth.

“no, darlin’,” she said, low and rough. “you want me. and you hate that you do.”

you swallowed hard. and for the first time since you got here, you couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

────

chapter III: dirty hands, dirtier thoughts

you were still trying to catch your breath under that tree when sevika stood, stretched her massive arms over her head, and said, “time to clean up.”

you blinked. “don’t you have, like, a hose?”

she snorted. “a hose? what is this, summer camp?”

and then she walked off—toward the barn—sweat sticking her flannel to her back and those thick thighs moving like sin under denim. you scrambled up, brushing off dirt from places you didn’t know could get dirty.

inside the barn, it was worse. hotter. the air thick with hay dust, the scent of apples and animals, wood and sweat. sunlight streamed through the cracks in the slats, catching particles in golden rays. you hesitated at the door, suddenly aware of your sticky thighs and the way your glittered lip gloss felt too much.

sevika stood at the workbench near the far wall, back turned, tugging off her flannel.

and you… froze.

her broad, scarred shoulders gleamed under the light. her white ribbed tank top was soaked through, clinging to the thick slope of her back, the curve of her waist, the roll of soft stomach that peeked out every time she reached up. her bra strap peeked out from under one shoulder, twisted like she hadn’t noticed or didn’t care.

you swallowed hard.

then harder when she turned and caught you staring.

“you lost?” she asked, reaching for a rag and wiping the back of her neck.

you cleared your throat. “no. i just—wanted to see what kinda cleaning we were doing.”

she raised an eyebrow. “didn’t know watchin’ me get half-naked counted as chores.”

“maybe if i’m lucky,” you shot back.

and something shifted.

her mouth twitched into something feral. “you flirtin’ with me, sweetheart?”

you looked her dead in the eye. “what if i am?”

she dropped the rag. took one step forward. then another.

the barn suddenly felt very small.

her boots thudded across the floor, each step echoing until she stopped in front of you—towering, glistening, breathing slow and deep like she was measuring you up.

your back hit the barn door.

“don’t tease me, little girl,” she said low, voice rough as gravel. “i bite.”

you looked up at her, heart jackhammering in your chest. “i bruise easy.”

“good.”

her hand lifted—just two fingers—and she brushed a bit of hay from your shoulder, trailing down your bare arm slow enough to make goosebumps rise. her callouses scraped the soft skin of your inner elbow.

your breath hitched.

and then—

“SEVIKA!”

you jumped.

she sighed.

some old guy’s voice floated through the barn from outside. “we got a busted water line by the back fence!”

sevika didn’t look away from you. she just muttered, “cockblockin’ son of a bitch,” under her breath, then tilted her head.

“you stay here. don’t touch shit. you hear me?”

you nodded, too fast, still trying to breathe normal.

she leaned in, mouth near your ear. “i will finish what i started.”

then she was gone. just boots thudding away and a slammed barn door.

you stood there, flushed and buzzing, thighs pressed together and heart hammering. and god help you, you wanted more.

────

she drove you home that afternoon—your grandparents’ truck being “too old for these damn hills,” as grandpa said.

you climbed into the passenger seat of sevika’s dusty pickup, the leather seats hot against the backs of your thighs. she adjusted the mirrors, cracked the window, and peeled off down the dirt road with one hand on the wheel.

the other? resting right on your knee.

you froze.

her fingers were wide and rough, resting just heavy enough to make a point. she didn’t squeeze. didn’t tease. just let the weight of her hand stay there while the sun dipped low behind you both and the road hummed beneath the tires.

“you’re awful quiet,” she said after a few miles, eyes still on the road.

you wet your lips. “i'm getting felt up by a senior citizen.”

that earned a low, genuine laugh—deep in her chest, like she didn’t laugh often but you got it out of her anyway.

“careful, sweetheart,” she said, voice like whiskey. “keep talkin’ like that and you’re gonna end up sittin’ on more than my passenger seat.”

you squeezed your thighs shut. hard.

by the time she dropped you off, the sun had dipped behind the hills. fireflies were blinking in the tall grass, and your grandparents’ porch light flickered on.

she didn’t get out of the truck.

just leaned back in her seat, wrist draped over the wheel, eyes on you.

“you show up tomorrow,” she said, voice low.

you raised an eyebrow. “or what?”

sevika smiled slow. “or i come lookin’ for you.”

then she peeled off into the dark, tail lights glowing red like a warning.

────

chapter IV: no panties, no problem

you showed up to the farm the next morning just after sunrise, same as sevika told you. no ride this time—just your glittery pink sandals crunching down the gravel road, your phone tucked in your bra, and your skirt barely covering anything at all.

it was thinner than usual. shorter, too.

and underneath?

nothing.

not a stitch.

you’d looked yourself in the mirror that morning, chewed your gum slow, tilted your head, and said out loud: let her work for it.

by the time you reached the barn, the air already smelled like grass and sweat, and sevika was tossing hay bales like they weighed nothing. just her tank top today. stuck to her back. her thighs wide in those old jeans, boots caked in dirt. a smear of something dark ran down her arm, and her brow glistened.

she didn’t look up when you walked in.

“’bout time,” she muttered. “grab that ladder. you’re helpin’ me in the orchard.”

you blinked. “you trust me on a ladder?”

sevika looked at you then—real slow. her eyes flicked down your legs, to the hem of your skirt, then back up.

something dark sparked behind her smile.

“no,” she said. “but i’m willin’ to watch you fall.”

────

the orchard smelled like sunshine and ripening apples. birds chirped. bees buzzed.

and you?

you climbed a ladder while sevika held it steady at the bottom.

“reach up,” she called, voice lazy, “grab that one on the left.”

you stretched—knowing exactly what you were doing.

the skirt rose.

the breeze hit your bare skin.

and from down below?

sevika’s silence was louder than anything.

you plucked the apple. slowly. made sure to wiggle just enough on your way back down.

when your feet hit the grass, sevika handed you a basket without a word—but her jaw was tight. her fingers grazed yours. her gaze lingered a little too long.

“you do that on purpose?” she finally asked, wiping sweat off her neck.

you blinked up at her, all wide-eyed innocence. “do what?”

she didn’t answer.

just picked up her own basket, turned, and muttered, “keep climbin’, sweetheart.”

and so you did.

all morning.

bending, reaching, climbing—your skirt dancing high on your hips, the summer air licking every inch of exposed skin.

every time you came back down, sevika looked ten seconds closer to snapping.

and god, it made you feel powerful.

────

by the time the baskets were full, the sun was high, and your thighs were sticky from sweat and mischief.

sevika led you to the shed out back. it was small, wooden, and cooler than the orchard, shaded by big trees and full of old tools, empty crates, and the sharp smell of sawdust.

she cracked open a bottle of water and took a swig, then passed it to you. her fingers brushed your mouth when you drank.

you licked the rim when you handed it back.

her gaze dropped to your thighs.

“you got a death wish, city girl?” she murmured.

you took a step closer.

“maybe i just like dangerous things.”

and there it was—that flash in her eyes, like she was this close to grabbing your waist, pressing you against the wall, and seeing just how many times she could make you whimper her name.

but sevika didn’t move.

she just smirked, took another sip of water, and said, “ain’t no panties under that skirt, huh?”

your breath caught.

you said nothing.

didn’t have to.

sevika laughed, low and wicked.

“mm. thought so. you keep playin’ games, darlin’, one of these days i won’t stop myself.”

she turned and walked out—boots thudding, sweat glistening on her shoulders, leaving you alone in the shed with your own heartbeat pounding between your legs.

and not even a scrap of fabric to hide it.

────

chapter V: thunder rolls, a storm’s a-comin

the storm hit like a wall, just as sevika said it would earlier today.

"a storm's a-comin doll, you ever see rain before?"

the barn door slammed shut behind you, sealing in the humid, electric air. the world outside was darkening, but the inside of the barn was filled with that thick, musky scent of hay and dust. the kind of smell that wrapped around your skin like a secret.

you pulled your shirt away from your body, letting out a little huff of frustration. the rain was coming down in sheets now, the kind that soaked you in seconds. your skirt clung to your hips, and the damp fabric did nothing to cool the fire building in your chest.

“gonna be stuck here a while,” sevika’s voice rolled over you, low and steady.

you glanced up at her, your heart skipping a beat at the sight of her framed in the doorway, rain streaking down her face. her flannel shirt was already soaked through, sticking to her muscles, every curve and dip of her frame outlined perfectly. there was something about the way she moved, slow and controlled, as if she knew exactly what you were thinking.

and maybe she did.

you reached up to grab the ladder, feeling her eyes on you as you climbed. each step took you higher, showing off your bare legs and the way the skirt slipped up your thighs, inch by inch. you didn’t wear panties again—just the soft, damp fabric of your skirt brushing against your skin, knowing full well what it would do to her.

when you reached the top, you felt the weight of sevika’s presence below you. it was more than just her towering figure, more than her steady gaze—it was the way she filled the space around you, thick and undeniable.

“i told you,” she said softly, stepping up behind you, “you keep temptin’ me, and one of these days, i won’t be able to stop myself.”

her voice was rough, gravelly—like it always was when she was worked up. you could feel the heat coming off her as she climbed up the ladder behind you, each movement deliberate, controlled. her boots hit the rungs with a heavy thud, and you felt the vibration all the way up your spine.

you didn’t turn around. you didn’t need to. you already knew she was there, just a few inches behind you, close enough to feel her breath on your neck.

the top of the ladder creaked under her weight, and then she was there, standing beside you in the loft, the rain hammering against the roof above.

you pulled in a shaky breath, trying to keep your cool as sevika’s hands reached for the hay bales.

but she didn’t move right away. she lingered.

her fingers brushed against your arm, just enough to make your skin flare with heat. her touch was a promise, soft but firm. you shivered as her calloused fingertips traced along your wrist, and you dared to look at her. her eyes were darker now—heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. a storm all its own.

“you’re always gettin’ under my skin,” she growled, her voice a low rumble, “even when you ain’t tryin’.”

you swallowed, heart hammering in your chest. “i’m not trying. but you keep looking at me like that.”

sevika chuckled, low and slow. “like what?”

“like you wanna tear me apart,” you breathed out, feeling the heat radiating off her. the air around you felt thick, close, like every inch of space was charged with electricity.

she stepped closer.

one of her hands found your hip, big and firm, holding you in place. she leaned in, close enough to taste the rain on her skin. you could feel the way her chest pressed against yours—warm, strong, like a wall of muscle.

and then—finally—her lips found yours.

it was rough, desperate, the way a storm should feel. her kiss was hungry, deep, and you couldn’t fight back the way your body melted into hers, the soft groan that slipped from your throat.

sevika’s hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you even closer, her body heat searing you through your clothes. you could feel her everywhere—her strength, her roughness, her raw desire.

the rain outside pounded harder, but it didn’t matter. not when sevika was there, holding you in her arms, her lips tracing the line of your jaw, then down to your neck.

“you keep playin’ with fire, sweetheart,” she murmured, lips grazing your skin. “one of these days, you’re gonna get burned.”

you pulled her closer, your hands digging into the wet fabric of her shirt, feeling the muscles under her skin, the heat of her body pressing against yours.

“i’m counting on it,” you whispered back.

────

her lips were on your neck now—hot, dragging, greedy. she kissed like she was starving, like you were something she’d been aching for, something she shouldn’t touch but couldn’t help herself.

and gods, it worked.

you tilted your head back, giving her more. her teeth scraped your skin, just enough to leave a mark, just enough to make you gasp. and sevika growled at the sound of it. like it lit her up from the inside.

“that skirt,” she rasped, one hand tightening on your waist, “you wore it on purpose, didn’t you?”

you nodded, dizzy with heat. “yeah.”

her hand slipped lower, brushing down the back of your thigh—slow, deliberate. when she reached under your skirt and found nothing underneath, her breath hitched.

“well, fuck me,” she muttered. “you’re a goddamn menace.”

she gripped the back of your bare thigh, fingers sinking into your skin like she meant to leave bruises, and you whimpered, soft and spoiled, pressing yourself into her like you needed her to keep touching you.

“i thought about this,” you confessed, voice thin and shaky. “climbing up here with nothin’ on. knew you'd be watchin’.”

“oh, i was watchin’,” she murmured, dragging her mouth up to your ear. “and i knew you were beggin’ for it. you wanted me to see what a filthy little brat you are.”

you let out a soft moan at that, your thighs clenching around nothing.

sevika didn’t waste time. she shoved the crates aside with one hand, like they were nothing, clearing a space in the hay. then she lifted you—just picked you up like you weighed nothing—and laid you down on your back, hay scratching at your bare thighs, skirt bunched around your waist.

her eyes dragged down your body, and for a moment, she just looked.

rain pounded the roof like war drums, but all you could hear was your heartbeat in your throat and sevika’s slow exhale.

“you don’t even know what you’re askin’ for,” she said, climbing over you. “but i’ll show you.”

and when she got between your legs, when her calloused hand slid up your thigh and she found how wet you were—she cursed, low and filthy.

you grabbed at her shirt, trying to pull her closer, but she caught your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand.

“nuh-uh,” she said, voice dark and thick with heat. “you wanted a storm, baby? you got it. now lie back and take it.”

her fingers dragged through you—slow, slick, knowing. and when she dipped one inside you, thick and curling, you arched off the hay and let out a sound that echoed through the barn like sin.

sevika smirked, sweat and rain dripping from her jaw onto your chest.

“you’re gonna make such a mess, sugar. hope you’re ready to clean it up with that smart little mouth of yours.”

and then she added a second finger.

you’re already trembling by the time her fingers sink in deeper, your thighs spread wide in the hay, hips twitching with every slow thrust of her hand. her grip on your wrists doesn’t let up—not for a second. she keeps you pinned, helpless, her body looming over yours like thunder, heat pouring off her in waves.

the storm outside rages louder, but inside the barn, it’s just the two of you—sweat, slick, hay, and heat.

“look at you,” she mutters, voice thick like molasses, slow and sticky. “drippin’ all over my hand. all from a little touch.”

she curls her fingers inside you, and you gasp—back arching, toes curling in your muddy boots. her hand is so big, palm rough against the softness between your legs. her thumb presses down, slow, circling, and you bite your lip so hard it hurts.

“don’t do that,” she murmurs. “i wanna hear you. wanna hear that bratty little mouth beg.”

you do. you whimper. you whine. “please.”

“please what?”

“please don’t stop.”

that gets her. sevika groans low in her throat, hips grinding into the hay like it’s killing her not to fuck you raw right then and there.

“you’re dangerous,” she says, breathless, still working her fingers in and out of you with a rhythm that’s cruelly patient. “you don’t even know what the hell you’re doing to me, do you?”

you reach for her again, this time with a little desperation. and this time, she lets go of your wrists.

you grab fistfuls of her flannel, trying to pull her down to kiss you, but she leans just close enough to ghost her lips over yours without giving it up.

“oh, now you want my mouth?” she teases, voice rough. “what happened to all that sass, city girl? you were real mouthy this mornin’.”

“i’m—fuck—sorry,” you breathe.

she smirks. “that’s more like it.”

then she lowers her mouth to your chest, tongue hot and messy, licking a path down the valley between your breasts. she shoves your soaked shirt up, mouth closing around one nipple, her free hand still fucking into you slow and deep.

you cry out—your hands flying up to grip her shoulders. she moans into your skin, like the sound of you breaking apart turns her on more than anything.

“i could ruin you right here,” she growls. “make you come so hard your legs won’t work for a week. leave you fucked out and pantin’ in the hay.”

“then do it,” you whisper. “please, sev. i want it.”

that’s all it takes.

her thumb moves faster, circles tightening, her fingers pumping deeper—so much pressure, so much need building in your gut.

“come for me,” she growls. “be a good girl and soak my fuckin’ hand.”

you shatter. loud. breathless. soaking her fingers with a messy, shameful cry. she works you through it, slow and sweet, not stopping until your thighs twitch and your breath stutters.

she pulls her fingers out finally, slow, dripping, then brings them to her lips and sucks them clean—never breaking eye contact.

“taste like peaches,” she mutters. “knew you’d be sweet.”

you’re sprawled out, ruined, skirt hiked up and makeup smudged, hair stuck to your cheeks with sweat and rain.

and she leans over you, kisses the corner of your mouth real slow and dirty.

“tomorrow,” she says, breath hot. “we ain’t waitin’ for rain.”

────

chapter VI: orchard heat, the favor returned (pt.1)

it’s a scorcher the next day. humid, sticky, the kind of heat that clings to your skin and drips down your back before noon. the orchard’s alive with cicadas and the heavy scent of overripe apples hanging thick in the air. you’d barely gotten through your chores before your brain started melting. and all damn day, sevika’s been eyeing you like she knows exactly what you’ve been thinking about since the barn.

and she does.

by sundown, when the sky is streaked orange and pink, she pulls you into the shade of the biggest tree in the orchard. her hands are dirty, fingers stained from sap and soil, and she’s drenched in sweat—flannel wide open, tank underneath soaked through, clinging to the swell of her broad chest and the thick muscle along her arms.

her belly peeks out where the shirt rides up—soft, big, warm. you can't stop staring.

“you been thinkin’ about last night?” she asks, voice rough as gravel, leaning her weight against the tree, towering above you like temptation itself.

you nod, cheeks flushed, heart thudding in your chest.

“good,” she grins, cocking her head. “then get on your knees, city girl. show me that mouth ain’t just for talkin’.”

and you drop for her—knees hitting the dry grass, breath shallow as you look up at her.

she’s massive like this. towering. one foot planted between yours, the other braced against the tree root. thick thighs covered in dirt-caked jeans, belt buckle half undone, belly rising and falling as she pants in the heat. her body’s a lot—tall, broad, heavy with muscle and the kind of fat that comes from years of eating good and working hard. her stomach soft, her hips wide, her chest heaving.

and then you get a whiff of her—sweat and earth and something feral.

“don’t shave,” she mutters, watching your eyes trail down. “ain’t got the time or the patience.”

she ain’t lying. hair trails thick and dark from her navel downward, coarse curls already peeking out above her jeans. her pits are soaked, dark patches spreading beneath her arms, and when she lifts one to rest against the tree, it hits you full in the face—her. raw, real, musky.

and god, you want it.

you tug open her belt with trembling fingers, fumbling to get her jeans down. she doesn’t help—just watches you, chest rising, lips parted, a line of sweat trickling down her neck into her cleavage.

“fuck, look at you,” she mutters. “all glitter and gloss, on your knees like a good girl.”

her pants fall to mid-thigh, and you get your first full look at her.

she’s soaked. hair curling wild across her thick, meaty thighs, sweat glistening on her skin, the scent of her slick and heat making your head spin. her clit’s swollen, peeking from the hood, twitching with every pant.

you lean forward, tongue out, tentative.

she growls. “no teasing.”

so you dive in.

you lick her like you mean it—messy, wet, obscene. her taste is strong, earthy and musky, a little tangy from the sweat, and so fucking good. you moan against her, lips slick with her, your hands gripping her thighs just to hold yourself steady.

her body jerks when you suck, and she bites down a curse, hand flying to your head.

“you filthy little thing,” she pants, hips rocking forward. “lick it up. just like that.”

you bury your face deeper, licking from her dripping entrance all the way up to her clit, then wrap your lips around it and suck, tongue flicking rapid and tight. she groans, deep and hoarse, hips grinding hard against your face now.

she’s heavy—so heavy—you can feel her weight in every inch of your body. her thigh presses to your cheek, solid muscle and soft fat, pinning you there. her belly’s brushing your forehead, slick with sweat, her scent in your nose, mouth, everywhere.

your fingers dig into her ass, pulling her closer, and she hisses, grabbing a handful of your hair.

“shit—gonna come—don’t stop—”

you don’t. you can’t. you want her to come undone. you want to drown in her.

and then she breaks.

her thighs quake. her stomach tightens. she lets out a deep, shuddering moan that shakes through her whole body—and you keep sucking, keep licking until she jerks and swears and finally grabs your head with both hands, pulling you off her pussy with a wet pop.

“goddamn,” she mutters, breathless, sweat pouring down her face. “you tryin’ to kill me, sugar?”

you look up at her, your mouth glistening with her, eyes blown wide and dazed.

“just repaying the favor,” you whisper.

────

chapter VI: orchard heat, you earned it, now she's gonna take (pt.2)

your lips are still glistening, chin sticky with her, and sevika looks down at you with something dark in her eyes—like she’s barely hanging on, like she wants to ruin you and hold you at the same time.

she tucks herself back into those worn, low-slung jeans, knuckles dragging across her soaked belly, and you just sit there panting, thighs clenched, still on your knees in the grass.

you’re shaking, honestly. from the heat, from the taste of her, from the way her voice dips low when she finally speaks.

“you’re a fuckin’ mess,” she says. “c’mere.”

you barely get your legs under you before she grabs you—thick arms wrapping around your waist like you weigh nothin’, like she was built for it. and she was. that body? meant for holding, for breaking girls like you open. you squeak as she hauls you up off the ground, then throws you down in the grass under the apple tree like a sack of flour—wind knocked out of you, skirt flying up, thighs parted.

“gonna show you what a real woman feels like,” she mutters, crawling over you, and god, she’s big.

all heat and weight and hair, flannel falling off her shoulder, tank pulled low and stretched tight over her huge tits. her belly presses to yours, soft and heavy, and her thighs bracket you, muscles flexing as she shifts to pin you flat.

you writhe, hands reaching up to grab her shoulders, but she catches your wrists easily in one big, calloused hand and pins them above your head.

“mm-mm. you made me come,” she growls, mouth brushing your ear. “now i get to take my time.”

and take her time she does.

she licks a line down your throat, sweaty and slow. bites your collarbone. sinks her teeth into the soft flesh of your breast through your little pink tank top until you gasp and arch beneath her.

her other hand—big, blunt-fingered and rough from farm work—skims down your body and shoves your skirt up.

no panties. you came prepared.

sevika growls.

“little tease,” she hisses, dragging a filthy finger down your bare slit. “wanted me to see this pussy first chance i got?”

you nod, breath hitching.

“use it, baby,” you whisper. “i want it.”

and she does.

she’s got two fingers in you before you can even moan, thick and unrelenting, fucking you open like she owns it. she presses her full body weight down—soft belly pushing into your ribs, thighs caging you in, her arm flexing beside your head—and it’s too much, the heat, the sweat, the feel of her hair dragging along your bare skin.

her scent is everywhere—feral, musky, unshowered and wild—and it drives you crazy.

“gonna stretch you out,” she pants, her lips right at your neck. “make this spoiled little body feel it.”

you moan so loud it echoes off the trees.

she adds a third finger, and your hips buck up hard, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

“f-fuck, sev—”

“you’re gonna take it,” she growls, grinding the heel of her palm against your clit as her fingers curl deep. “gonna take all of me.”

and you do.

you take it until your legs are trembling, until your voice is gone, until you’re sobbing against her chest, your hands fisted in her soaked flannel, begging for more, for everything.

she makes you come three times under that tree before she finally lets you go.

and when she pulls back—big body rising from you like a storm breaking—she leans down, wipes your face with the hem of your own tank top, and kisses you with the kind of messy, possessive hunger that says, you’re mine now.

────

chapter VII: ride it, cowgirl, you brought this on yourself.

you’re already up in the loft when she walks in.

the sunlight filters through the cracks in the wood, casting golden stripes across the hay bales, across you. legs swinging where you’re perched, dress hitched up scandalously, phone dangling from your fingers, gum snapping between your teeth. you don’t even look up when you hear her boots on the stairs.

but you feel her.

all six-foot-four and three hundred pounds of her. the loft creaks beneath her weight as she climbs, slow and deliberate. like she knows you’re waiting. like she’s in no damn rush.

you finally glance over, and there she is.

sweaty as hell already, just from loading crates below. flannel tied around her waist, white tank soaked through across her tits and stomach. her arms look even bigger in this light—roped with muscle, tan skin gleaming, thick veins bulging from effort. she’s breathing heavy. hair a mess. and she’s staring right at you.

you suck your gum back between your teeth and tilt your head.

“need help with somethin’, farmer?”

her nostrils flare.

“you’re not wearin’ a damn thing under that dress, are you?” she asks, voice low and wrecked.

you smile. swing your leg again. “you tell me.”

she’s on you in seconds.

slams your phone down onto the hay. grabs you by the hips and drags you forward so your legs fall open, that thin dress riding up. her breath stutters.

“jesus fuckin’ christ,” she growls. “look at you. drippin’ already, huh?”

you nod, biting your lip. “all for you.”

she doesn’t even bother teasing this time.

sevika shoves you back onto the hay, kneels between your legs—her big thighs spread wide, heavy body blocking out the sun—and runs her tongue from your knee to your thigh, tasting the sweat and sweetness clinging to your skin.

you writhe.

“you knew what you were doin’,” she murmurs, voice like thunder. “climbin’ up here with that pussy bare and ready.”

“i wanted you to come find me,” you whisper, fingers already fisting in the hay.

and god, she does more than that.

she climbs up onto you, settles her full weight over your smaller body, presses her hot, hairy thighs around your hips and grabs your wrists to pin them above your head again.

“you’re gonna ride me today,” she growls. “earn it.”

and baby, you do.

she lies back in the hay, chest heaving, that tank top riding up to show her belly, soft and full and sweat-damp. she pulls her jeans down just enough to free her strap, and it’s huge, thick and curved and strapped to those broad, scarred hips.

you crawl over her like a girl possessed.

straddle that big farmer’s lap, hands on her belly, her tits, her face—kissing her filthy, mouthing at her jaw while you grind down. her hands grip your hips like vise clamps, guiding you, slow at first.

then rough.

you bounce on her, crying out, drenched and desperate. her strap hits deep, her stomach slaps against yours, the hay sticks to your back and thighs. her big hands never stop moving—grabbing your tits, spanking your ass, pulling your dress down so she can suck marks into your chest while you ride her like she owns the whole damn county.

and she does. and now? she owns you.

“fuck, baby,” sevika groans, sweat dripping off her chin. “you ride me so good.”

you’re panting. “t-tell me i’m your girl—tell me this pussy’s yours—”

she slaps your ass, hard enough to echo in the barn.

“you’re mine,” she growls. “this pussy’s mine. you hear me?”

you scream when you come, full-body shaking, collapsing against her slick chest while she holds you, heavy arm across your back.

and when you finally roll off her and catch your breath, she tucks a piece of straw behind your ear, grinning like a goddamn devil.

“you wanna sleep out here tonight, sugar?” she asks, smirking. “or should i carry you back to the house?”

you bite your lip, cheeks flushed.

“…hay’s fine.”

────

chapter VIII: breakfast of champions, you like waking up here now.

no more rolling your eyes. no more groaning about roosters or dusty boots or early mornings. not when they mean her.

you’re out of bed faster than ever. a quick splash of water on your face, dress yanked over your head, a slap of clear gloss. no panties again—habit now. you like how it makes you feel all day. loose. bare. ready.

she notices, every time.

the walk to her place is still long—dirt crunching under your sandals, sun already warming your skin—but you like it. like the ache in your thighs from yesterday’s riding, the faint sting of hay scratches on your back. little reminders.

she’s already up, of course. has been for hours. the tractor’s silent now, barn doors open, the smell of breakfast hitting you before you even see her.

inside?

a massive wooden table and an even bigger plate of pancakes.

towering. twelve, at least—stacked high, drowning in syrup, melting butter dripping down the sides like something sinful. there’s bacon too. eggs. a glass of milk. and right across from it: a little pink plate with two pancakes, already cut into neat quarters, a few raspberries on the side.

she doesn’t say a word when you walk in—just eyes you up and down real slow, her big hand sliding her chair back as she leans back in it.

“come sit,” sevika grunts, nodding to the chair next to hers. “figured you’d be hungry after yesterday.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you trying to fatten me up or something?”

she smirks. god, that smirk.

“nah. just feedin’ my girl right.”

my girl.

it makes your knees feel weak.

you sit beside her. her knee brushes yours under the table, thick and warm and firm like everything else about her. and then she tears into her food.

jesus.

fork in one hand, a slab of butter in the other. she eats like she’s starving—cleans up five pancakes before you’ve barely touched your second. syrup clings to her fingers. her jaw flexes with every bite. she’s loud, too. chews. groans. washes it all down with a swig of milk that dribbles down her chin and into the thatch of hair on her chest where her tank top gapes open.

she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“somethin’ wrong with yours?” she asks, glancing at your still-full plate.

you blink, cheeks hot. “n-no. i just—how the hell are you still eating?”

she laughs—booming, belly-shaking.

“big girl’s gotta keep her strength up,” she says, leaning in, eyes dragging down your body. “especially when you’re keepin’ her busy all night.”

you look down at your plate to hide the flush crawling up your throat.

you never thought you’d like being around animals, sweating in the heat, or walking through dirt barefoot. but now? you like the work. you like sevika. like her attention, her food, the way she always has something for you—cold lemonade, extra sunscreen, a clean flannel when you get dirty.

you love when her giant shadow falls over you while you’re watering tomatoes. when she lifts bales of hay like they weigh nothing. when she leans over your shoulder to show you how to hold the rake properly and you can feel every inch of her warm, wide chest brush against your back.

she treats you like you matter.

and even though you're still spoiled, still pouty sometimes—you’re starting to understand the language of sweat and sunburns and syrup-covered mornings.

you reach across the table and steal a strip of bacon off her plate.

she raises a brow. “you bold now, huh?”

you smirk back. “feedin’ your girl right, remember?”

she grins. leans in close. her flannel still smells like hay and hard work.

“damn right i am.”

────

by noon, the sun’s brutal. your thighs are sticking to the porch swing, your gloss long gone, and your hair’s tied up in a messy knot with a rubber band you found in one of her junk drawers, your hair tie- thin and pink had snapped somewhere between lifting hay and picking apples. sevika ruffles every time she walks past.

“c’mon, apple pie,” she calls from the kitchen. “lunch is ready.”

odd nickname. perhaps it was because you were so sweet. you hoped so.

you step inside and stop short.

the whole table’s covered.

you blink. “are we feeding the entire county?”

she shrugs, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “nah. just you and me.”

just you and me.

you swallow hard.

there’s fried chicken—crispy, golden, still steaming. mashed potatoes drowning in gravy. sweet corn cut fresh off the cob. fluffy biscuits, a bowl of honey butter. collard greens. mac n’ cheese so thick and creamy you can see the strings of cheese clinging to the spoon. iced tea in big mason jars. and, of course, a slice of pecan pie sitting off to the side like dessert’s already decided.

sevika moves around the kitchen like it’s nothing—big, broad back to you as she grabs a fork. the floor creaks under her. every time she turns, her stomach brushes the counter, and it makes something flutter deep in your belly.

you sit down, still staring. “you really cook all this?”

“mhm.” she flops into the chair beside you, makes it groan under her weight. “told you i like feedin’ my girl.”

then she goes to town. watching her eat is… something else.

she doesn’t hold back. doesn’t care if the gravy drips down her chin or if her fingers are shiny with grease.

her bites are huge.

you watch her demolish two legs of chicken before you even finish scooping potatoes. she eats like she works—big, bold, messy.

you shouldn’t like it. you shouldn’t. but your thighs are pressed tight together under the table, lips slightly parted as you watch her chew and swallow. watch the way her throat moves. the sound of her low grunt when she reaches for more.

it's filthy. you're not even eating anymore. just sitting there, heat pooling under your skirt, watching her devour food like she hasn’t eaten in a week.

“i like feedin’ you,” sevika says around a bite, mouth still full, voice thick with pleasure. “like seein’ you lick your fingers. makes me think about what else you’d lick.”

you nearly knock over your tea.

she grins, eyes gleaming.

you clear your throat, try to grab a biscuit, your hands shaky. you dunk it in your mashed potatoes just like she taught you and bite.

“somethin’ on your lip,” she says suddenly.

you glance up. she’s watching you close, still chewing, but she reaches out—big hand cupping your jaw with fingers rough and warm.

she smears her thumb across the corner of your mouth. and then, slow as molasses, she presses that same thumb against your bottom lip.

“go on,” she murmurs. “clean it off.”

you don’t even hesitate.you wrap your lips around her thumb, sucking gently.

your tongue slides over the pad of it, tasting salt and gravy and something darker underneath. her breath hitches.

you feel her twitch next to you.

“jesus,” she mutters.

you pull off with a pop and lick your lips.

“don’t want your sauce to go to waste,” you say sweetly.

she stares at you like she might break the damn table. there’s gravy still on her chest, her neck glistening with sweat. you imagine licking it clean. imagine her pressing you down into the mashed potatoes, holding you there with a greasy, syrup-slick hand around your throat.you shift in your seat, thighs rubbing together.

“you full yet?” she asks, voice low.

you nod. “yeah.”

but your eyes stay on her plate—still piled high—and your voice goes a little breathless as you add, “but i wanna watch you finish.”

she leans back, sets her fork down.

“well,” sevika says, slow and dark, “i got a lot more in me, sweetheart.” you bite your lip. and you believe her.

────

you don't even realize you're doing it. just sitting there like a dumb little doll in your tiny skirt and tank top, watching her finish off a second helping of biscuits and gravy with a low groan in her throat, her belly pushing up against the edge of the table like it’s part of the feast.

she leans back with a deep sigh, rubbing at her stomach under the hem of her stretched-out shirt.

"you really put it away, huh,” you tease, even though your breath’s shallow. you’re still clenching your thighs like it’ll help the ache growing worse by the second.

she just smirks. “gotta keep all this up somehow.” her hand drops to her soft middle with a lazy pat, thick fingers spreading over her curve like she knows exactly what it does to you. “you starin’, sugar?”

you bite your lip. “maybe,”

you whisper.

sevika pushes her chair back with a low creak. then she spreads her legs wide and taps her thick thigh.

“well, c’mere and sit in my lap if you wanna stare that bad.

your mouth goes dry. you hesitate for a split second—but then you're moving. slowly. purposefully. sliding into her lap, your thighs pressing down against the heat of hers, her bulk under you so solid and wide that you feel tiny and delicate by comparison.

she wraps one heavy arm around your waist. the other? it slides right up the back of your skirt. no panties. her breath hitches. you feel her freeze for a second. then: a low, broken chuckle. “well, well,” she murmurs. “came ready to get your ass felt up, huh?”

you nod, lips parted, your chest rising fast against hers. “i figured i’d be climbin’ ladders later,” you breathe. “didn’t wanna deal with anything... in the way.”

she groans, head tipping back.“you’re gonna kill me.” she grabs two handfuls of your ass, palms big enough to nearly cover it all, and starts kneading, rough and slow. her fingers dig in, calloused and demanding.

you rock into her touch without meaning to, little gasps slipping from your mouth as she explores everything you gave her.

“y’really got no shame, huh,” she mutters into your neck, lips dragging over your skin. “teasin’ me all morning in that little skirt, swayin’ those hips like you don’t know what they do to me.”

“i know,” you whisper. “i like what it does to you.”

she groans again—louder this time. her stomach grumbles under you. “fuck, you wanna help me digest, sweetheart? i got all this food sittin’ heavy in me and nowhere to put this energy.”

“use me,” you say, breathless.

“use me how you want.”

her arms tighten around you.then she stands up. with you in her arms like you weigh nothing. like her aching, overstuffed belly isn’t a thing at all as she lifts you and sets you down right on the edge of the kitchen counter, pushing your legs open with her knee.

“i’m gonna ruin you,” she growls, voice low, rough, full of hunger. “ruin you right here with gravy still on my chin and syrup on my shirt.”

you gasp. wrap your arms around her neck. “please.”

you wouldn't be walking tonight.

────

chapter IX: under the steam, you liked her shower

the farmhouse creaked in the heat of the evening, cicadas humming outside like a lullaby made of sweat and dust. the sky was bruised purple and gold, and the air clung to your skin like syrup. after a full day mending fences, hauling hay, and baking under the southern sun, you were sun-tired and aching in the bones. but you weren’t alone—sevika was right beside you, sweat dripping from the tip of her nose, her broad shoulders rolling with each step.

dinner had been heavy. comforting. a mountain of spaghetti slathered in thick, garlicky sauce, with an entire loaf of buttery bread to match. you sat across from her, your plate half-eaten, while she went back for thirds. her fork twirled with effortless hunger, sauce smearing her lip as she groaned low, chewing with lazy satisfaction. her belly, full and warm, stretched the hem of her tank top. you couldn’t stop watching the way her body moved—like she was built for excess, for indulgence, and proud of it.

after the last bite, sevika leaned back in her chair with a loud, satisfied sigh and gave you a lazy look.

"you smell like a cow’s ass," she drawled, lifting her chin. "c’mon. shower time."

you didn't resist when she tugged you by the wrist, guiding you to the tiny bathroom just off the kitchen. the shower wasn’t meant for two—but that didn’t stop her. steam billowed the moment the water hit the tile, and sevika began stripping right there in front of you, with no ceremony. her flannel, soaked with sweat, hit the floor with a wet thud, followed by her tank and jeans.

she was huge. bigger than life. hair curled around her thighs and belly, glistening in the soft amber of the flickering light bulb overhead. her body bore every sign of a life earned by muscle and survival: stretch marks, a gut heavy with comfort, calloused feet, broad hips, thick thighs, arms like tree trunks.

you swallowed hard, unsure if it was the heat or the sight of her that made your knees weak.

"get in," she said simply.

you obeyed, stepping into the cramped stall, water cascading down your back. before you could even shiver, she joined you. her belly pressed into your chest, pushing you against the cool tile wall with a gentle but unyielding force. you squeaked, hands bracing behind you, but sevika only grinned.

"don’t act like you don’t like it," she whispered, hot against your ear.

your hands, trembling, reached for the soap. you lathered your palms and, slowly, hesitantly, began to glide them across her stomach.

it was soft. warm. massive. you couldn’t even span it with both hands, just ran your fingers along the swell, over the curves of her waist, under the underside where her gut met her thighs. she exhaled sharply, pleased.

"mmm. that’s it. wash me proper."

her belly pinned you in place, slick with suds, your cheeks flushed crimson. she ground into you, slow and teasing, letting you feel all of her—every heavy inch. you bit your lip to keep from moaning.

"you like cleanin’ me, sugar?" she teased, eyes glinting. "you gettin’ off on it?"

you were. you couldn’t lie. the heat, the weight, her voice—it was all too much. your hands roamed lower, tracing the crease where belly met thigh, lathering the soft, hairy skin with reverence.

sevika’s hand found the back of your neck and pulled you forward, pressing your face against the curve of her side.

"bet you never had a woman like me before, huh? bet you thought you’d spend your summer sippin’ lattes, not buried under three hundred pounds of real farm girl."

your whimper was all the answer she needed.

steam swirled around you both as the water pounded down, a soundtrack to the quiet moans and heavy breathing. you stayed there, rubbing her down slowly, like you were memorizing her through every drop of soap and every inch of skin. she let you, head tilted back, enjoying the worship.

and when she kissed you—deep and lazy, tasting of garlic and sweat and something sweeter—you clung to her, letting the rest of the world fall away.

because here, under the steam, with your hands on her belly and her weight keeping you warm, you felt like you finally belonged.

────

you wake up tangled in sevika’s sheets, her body heavy and warm behind you, one thick arm draped over your waist like it belongs there. the scent of her—earthy, musky, a little sweet like hay and sweat—clings to your skin. your thighs ache in a way that makes you blush just thinking about it.

downstairs, the smell of food wafts up—bacon, eggs, and something buttery. you throw on one of her shirts, oversized and smelling like her, and pad barefoot to the kitchen.

she's already at the stove, shirtless under her flannel, her broad back glistening with a sheen of sweat, her messy hair tied back. she’s humming, and when she turns, there’s that crooked grin.

“mornin’, sugar.”

you mumble back a greeting, cheeks flushed as you sit at the table. she sets down a plate in front of you—three eggs, half a slab of bacon, toast glistening with butter. then she drops hers down. her plate? double yours. stacked high like a feast. she eats like a damn bear, but somehow it just makes her hotter.

"didn't think you'd be up after last night," she says with a knowing smirk, taking a huge bite of toast. "you looked like you were about to melt in that shower."

you avert your eyes, flustered. “you didn’t help.”

she laughs low and rumbly. “didn’t hear you complainin’ while your hands were all over me.”

she reaches across the table and brushes your thigh under the table with her calloused fingers. you squirm. she’s already working on her second plate, and watching her eat, the way she devours everything with zero shame, makes your stomach twist with something that isn’t just hunger.

“you keep starin’ like that, and i’m gonna think you want me to have you for dessert too.

you take a shaky breath as you watch her continue to eat—watch the way she licks butter from her fingers, the way her thick throat bobs with every swallow. your thighs press together under the table, heart thudding. you feel ridiculous, sitting there with a fork in your hand and dirty thoughts in your head before 9 a.m.

but you want to give something back. you want to do something for her.

when she gets up to rinse her plate, you follow quietly, watching her broad back flex with every movement. she's humming, content and casual. she doesn't notice your steps until your hands are sliding under her flannel, fingertips grazing the slope of her belly, soft and solid and warm.

she stiffens, just a bit. “what’re you up to, darlin’?”

“i wanna make you feel good,” you murmur, voice smaller than you intend it to be. you press a kiss between her shoulder blades. “let me take care of you for once.”

she huffs a low breath, but doesn’t stop you. “you sure?”

you nod, pressing tighter to her back, her belly pushing you back a little just from how big she is. she smells like soap, sweat, and woodsmoke, and you sink into it.

you guide her to the chair and she lets you—sprawled out, thick thighs spread, flannel half open. her belly is round and soft in the early light, rising and falling with each breath. her chest heaves under the wife-pleaser still clinging to her, soaked through in places.

you kneel.

your fingers are trembling as you run them over her thick thighs, over stretch marks and coarse hair, across the curve of her belly. she groans softly as you press your lips to it, kiss the softness like it’s sacred.

“you don’t gotta—”

“i want to,” you interrupt, nuzzling into her warmth.

she’s still for a long moment. then she tips her head back and lets you have your way, your hands and lips worshipping her like it’s all you’ve ever wanted to do.

you trail your fingers over her soft skin, your heart racing as you kneel before her. the sheer size of her overwhelms you in the best way—the way she towers over you, the way she fills the space. your lips follow the curve of her belly, pressing gentle kisses, feeling the heat of her skin, the slight rise and fall of her breath.

sevika watches you, eyes heavy with something darker, something approving. her hands settle on the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as you take your time, savoring every inch of her. there’s a soft, contented rumble in her chest, a sound that makes your pulse race.

when you nudge her thick thighs apart, your gaze flicks up to meet hers. her eyes are hooded, lips parted just enough to show the edge of a smile.

“don’t stop, sugar,” she murmurs, voice low and rough.

you lean in, planting your lips on the softest, most tender part of her—just below her navel. you kiss her, slow, gentle, then work your way down with your lips trailing over the curve of her belly. your fingers follow, brushing against the coarse hair on her skin, feeling the heat that radiates from her body.

her fingers tighten in your hair, urging you closer, deeper. she guides you, but you don’t need any help—this is what you’ve wanted. to be this close to her, to touch her like she’s everything you need.

her breath catches when you move lower, your hands and lips exploring the space between her thighs. you kiss the inner curve of her leg, feeling her pulse, the heat from her skin making you dizzy. her body tenses slightly, but it’s a good tension, the kind she can’t hide.

“you’re so damn beautiful,” you whisper, just above her skin, the words leaving a mark in the air.

sevika’s hand moves from your hair to your shoulder, pushing you back slightly, her lips forming a teasing grin.

“you’ve got a way with words, sweetheart,” she says, voice thick with desire. she pulls you up, her grip firm and possessive, and she holds you close, breath against your ear. “you wanna do more for me, huh?”

you nod before you can stop yourself, eager to show her how much you’re willing to give, how much you need to give.

her lips crash into yours, hungry, but it’s not just about the kiss. it’s everything—the way she holds you, the weight of her body pressing you into the wall, the scent of her filling your lungs, the roughness of her hands as they slide over your skin.

“then take it,” she growls against your lips.

her hands move like she’s been waiting for you to ask—lifting your shirt over your head, her fingers sliding over your curves with ease. her body presses against you, chest to chest, and you feel her weight, her warmth, her strength. you can’t stop the shiver that runs through you, the way your pulse quickens, the way your whole body reacts to her.

you reach up, tracing her jawline, feeling the rough stubble there, the heat of her skin, the undeniable pull between you.

“sevika,” you murmur, your voice thick with emotion, “you’re everything i never knew i needed.”

her hand lands softly on the back of your neck, holding you in place as she pulls you back into a kiss, harder this time. it’s not gentle, but it’s not cruel—it’s need. you feel her press her full weight against you, and it’s overwhelming in the best way.

she pulls away just enough to look down at you, eyes smoldering, a wicked grin pulling at her lips. “you think you’re the only one who can give? wait ‘til i’m done with you.”

────

chapter X: don’t wanna leave, picking apples has become a daily routine for you

it happens during dinner. just a regular tuesday night. your grandparents' dining room table creaks under the weight of roasted chicken, string beans, thick cornbread dripping with butter—half of it made from sevika’s produce, her apples, her jams. you’ve been the one cooking more lately. helping out. staying in. laughing with them.

you almost forgot what day it was.

until your grandpa clears his throat, eyes soft but firm, and says—

“so,” he starts, slow, “just wanted to ask if you’ve started packin’ yet.”

you pause mid-bite.

“packing?”

“well, it’s almost september, sweetheart.” your grandma’s voice is warm, gentle. “figured you’d be headin’ back soon.”

back.

back to the city.

back to your apartment and rooftop parties and mall food courts and too-short attention spans.

your fork clinks against your plate. you blink, staring at the table, suddenly unable to swallow.

“oh,” you say.

“we’ve got a buyer lined up,” your grandpa adds. “for the farm. upstate couple. quiet folks. we’ve been thinking it’s time. you know, slow things down.”

you nod.

it’s the polite thing to do.

but your ears are ringing.

you can barely taste the chicken anymore. you can’t hear the rest of the conversation over the blood rushing in your head. and all you can think is—i'm not ready. i don’t want to leave.

because she’s still here.

because sevika’s muddy boots are probably kicked off at her door right now, her flannel peeled off and tossed somewhere near the sink, and you don’t want to be anywhere else. not when she looks at you like you’re worth slowing down for. not when her touch makes you feel real for the first time in your life.

that night, you don’t sleep.

you sneak out around midnight. walk down the dirt path barefoot, skirt too thin, arms folded tight. the moonlight slices through the trees and your breath catches when you see the soft yellow glow in sevika’s window, the way it always is when she’s still up late reading or fixing something in the barn.

you don’t knock.

you just open the screen door and step inside. her eyes meet yours from across the room.

“hey,” she says softly, brow furrowed. “what’s wrong?”

you stand there trembling, throat tight, eyes stinging.

“i don’t wanna go,” you whisper.

sevika rises slowly, big frame stretching in the lamplight, shirt riding up her belly. she crosses to you in three strides and pulls you into her arms, warm and solid and smelling like hay, tobacco, and something that feels like home.

“you don’t have to,” she murmurs into your hair.

“but i do,” you say, voice breaking. “they’re selling. my grandparents. it’s—it’s done.”

she stiffens.

and then she holds you tighter. like she’s scared too. like she doesn’t know how to ask the question forming behind her teeth.

you pull back just enough to look up at her.

“i wanna stay,” you say, “with you.”

"then stay" she says.

you don’t give sevika a straight answer that night.

just curl against her chest and let her hold you until the morning breaks, until the light cuts through the curtains and reality settles like dust on your skin. she never asks again—not out loud. she doesn’t need to.

the next few days, you scramble.

you beg your grandparents, half-hearted at first, then desperate.

“can’t we stay a little longer?”

“i think i finally found a rhythm here…”

“wouldn’t it be better to wait until next spring?”

“i could help out more—run the market table, maybe even work the orchard…”

they exchange looks. that kind of knowing glance that says more than words ever could.

“sweetheart,” your grandma says gently one morning over breakfast, “you hated this place when you got here.”

you swallow hard. “i was wrong.”

“about what?”

you hesitate. “everything.”

but the papers have been signed. the new owners are sending movers. boxes are stacking up near the front door. your grandma starts handing out mason jars of sevika’s jam like going-away gifts. you don’t pack your things. you just… shut your door and lie there in bed, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, dozens of unread messages from city friends pinging at the top.

“where the fuck are you”

“you better be back for halloween or i’m slapping you”

“babe i just got us tickets to the rooftop dj set next month get ur glitter ass BACK”

they don’t know you anymore.

not really.

you don’t even know yourself anymore, except when you’re barefoot in the fields or in sevika’s pickup truck with your thighs sticking to the seat and her calloused hand brushing your knee. you know yourself when you're sitting on her lap while she tells you the difference between a john deere and a massey ferguson, or when you're pressed against her chest in the barn with straw in your hair and your panties balled up in your fist.

you know yourself best when you’re with her.

and that self isn’t ready to leave.

but your time’s up.

the night before your departure, you walk the edge of sevika’s orchard, the moon hanging low and gold over the fields. you can hear the wind pushing through the tall corn, the crickets loud in the dark.

you find her at the barn, shirtless, her heavy body slick with sweat from loading up the last bales for the season. she doesn’t say anything when she sees you.

you just stand there, arms crossed tight against the chill, eyes burning.

“i’m leaving tomorrow.”

a nod. slow. she sets the last bale down with a grunt.

“i know.”

“i asked them to stay.”

“i figured.”

“they said no.”

silence.

you take a step forward, then another.

“i didn’t think i’d care this much,” you admit.

sevika’s breath catches in her throat. her eyes flick down to your lips, your hands, the hem of your hoodie—hers, you stole it last week and never gave it back.

you close the distance, chest tight, voice a whisper now.

“i don’t want to go back to that life. i wanna stay out here. with the dirt, the sweat, the heavy things. with you.”

still, she doesn’t move.

but her jaw tenses. her hands ball into fists. she’s scared too—you can see it in the way her mouth softens, her eyes refuse to meet yours.

“then stay,” she rasps.

“i can’t.”

you both fall quiet.

somewhere in the dark, an owl hoots.

and all at once, you realize—this isn’t a love story with an easy ending.

it’s real.

it’s hard. and messy. and full of aching gaps.

but god, you want her.

you want this.

you take her hand. it’s big and rough and warm. you press your mouth to her knuckles, eyes stinging.

“i’ll come back,” you promise. “i don’t care how long it takes.”

she just pulls you in. lets your head fall against her chest again. and for the rest of the night, she holds you like she’s afraid if she lets go, you’ll disappear forever.

────

epilogue: the cold city, her warm skin

the city felt like a cage, even as you tried to convince yourself otherwise.

college was a whirlwind of classes and late nights, lectures and new faces, but your mind was always half a world away — back in that small southern town, beneath the endless stretches of apple trees, where sweat and earth mixed in the air like an intoxicating perfume.

you kept the letters you sent to sevika tucked away in your drawer, ink smudged from hurried notes and trembling hands.

each one was a whisper, a confession, a thread reaching across the miles, carrying pieces of your heart home.

"dear sevika," you wrote one night, after a particularly hard day of exams,

"the city is loud and empty without you. the buildings are tall but cold, and i miss the warmth of your skin, the way your laughter fills the room like sunlight through the barn windows. when i close my eyes, i can still taste the syrup on your pancakes, feel the weight of your body pressed against mine, steady and safe. i’m counting the days until i can come back to you, to the farm, to the sweat, to the apples, and to us."

she wrote back too, her words like the steady rhythm of a heartbeat you could feel through the paper.

she told you about the crops, the changing seasons, the stubborn weeds she battled and the slow, steady growth of her orchard.

she described how the sun baked the fields golden and how the smell of fresh-turned earth stayed on her skin after a long day’s work.

her letters smelled faintly of hay and sweat, and that was the sweetest scent of all.

time moved in strange ways — slow and fast, filled with longing and hope — until finally, the day came when you stood on that cracked farm road again, suitcase in hand, heart pounding louder than you thought possible.

the farmhouse stood there, the porch light flickering as twilight settled, and then you saw her.

sevika. still massive and powerful, every inch of her telling stories of earth and strength.

her flannel hung loose around her broad shoulders, stained with dirt and sweat, her belly soft and full beneath the fabric, her calloused hands tucked into the pockets of her worn jeans.

her hair was streaked with silver now, but those dark eyes — fierce, tender, unyielding — held all the fire you remembered.

“you’re back,” she said, voice low and rough, a smile tugging at her lips.

you dropped your bags, your breath catching.

“you’re home.”

you fell into each other like the earth embraces rain — thirsty, desperate, full of life.

she pulled you close, her hands warm and steady on your back, and you traced the curve of her belly with your fingers, marveling at how much she had grown, how much she had held onto, how much she held you now.

you kissed under the fading sky, the world shrinking to just you two, to the soft rhythm of your hearts beating in time.

days melted into nights and back again.

you worked the farm side by side, learning the language of the land, her teaching you how to listen to the trees and the soil.

mornings began with giant stacks of pancakes dripping with syrup, her laughter booming through the kitchen, her hands steady as she poured coffee and wiped syrup from your lips.

afternoons were spent tangled in the grass, sun-warmed and sweaty, her body a fortress around you, her breath hot against your neck.

the nights were yours alone.

she was heavy and strong, the weight of her body grounding you, her hair wild around your face, her scent raw and alive.

you worshipped each other — every curve, every scar, every calloused palm and soft whisper.

her hair grew wild, her skin kissed by the sun and sweat and time, and you loved every inch of her, every secret the earth had carved into her.

your parents called less and less, their voices tinged with disappointment when they heard you weren’t coming back to the city.

they disowned you, made it clear the farm and sevika weren’t the life they wanted for you.

but you didn’t care.

here, beneath the apple trees and the wide open sky, you were free.

here, you were loved.

one afternoon, as the sun dipped low and the orchard smelled of ripe fruit and rain to come, sevika pulled you close.

“you stay,” she said, her voice soft but sure.

“this is where you belong.”

and you smiled, because you knew it was true.

you were home.

────

epilogue, (pt.2): the honeysuckle heat of home.

your days began to blur together in the most beautiful way.

you woke each morning wrapped in the weight of her — limbs slung over you like anchors, her breath warm against your neck, her belly brushing your spine as she shifted, groaning softly in her sleep.

you’d roll over and kiss her chest, nestling there, listening to the slow, steady thrum of her heartbeat like it was your favorite song.

you made coffee while barefoot in the kitchen, her behind you, hips swaying lazily against yours as she reached around to grab the sugar.

sometimes she’d lift you onto the counter without a word, her palms spreading across the backs of your thighs, and just stand there, forehead against yours, soaking you in like sunlight.

you didn’t always speak — you didn’t have to.

some mornings you’d head into the orchard right away, baskets in hand, her massive frame silhouetted against the sun.

you’d watch the muscles shift beneath her skin as she worked, sweat clinging to her in ways that made your throat tighten.

sometimes you’d sneak up behind her just to wrap your arms around her soft belly, rest your cheek against the curve of her back and breathe her in.

she always leaned into you with a low grunt of satisfaction, her hands still working even as you clung to her like a second skin.

you sold jam on saturdays.

set up your little table at the farmer’s market, her towering presence a magnet for attention — rough hands, sharp jaw, worn boots, belly rounding beneath her apron like a harvest moon.

she’d let you talk to the customers while she leaned on the table, chewing sunflower seeds, watching you with eyes half-lidded in adoration.

and when you got too hot or tired, she’d shove a lemonade into your hand and drag you behind the tent, her palm splayed across the small of your back, muttering, “you work too damn hard, city girl.”

you’d lean into her, your temple against the sweat-slick swell of her stomach, and nod.

because you did. but for her, you’d do

────

epilogue, (pt.3): greying hairs and peace.

years passed like petals in the wind.

sevika got grayer.

you got lines around your eyes.

the farm never stopped needing you — weeds to pull, fences to mend, jars to fill, apples to pluck.

but the world got quieter.

softer.

you started dancing in the kitchen more.

you kissed without reason.

you laughed like you had all the time in the world.

your parents never called again.

they sent back the letters unopened.

but it didn’t matter — not really.

because for the first time in your life, you weren’t reaching toward someone who’d never reach back.

you were building something.

with her.

you planted more trees.

painted the bedroom walls a soft peach.

put up wind chimes in the porch archway that clinked and clattered like a lullaby in storm winds.

sometimes you’d lie in bed and whisper about the life you’d carved out —

the one no one ever expected,

the one you almost didn’t choose,

the one that saved you both.

“you know,” she’d murmur, her lips pressed to your shoulder, “i think you were the best damn thing that ever happened to me.”

you’d smile.

“funny. i was just thinking the same thing.”

and that was it.

no grand epiphany, no cinematic swell.

just mornings of sunlight in mason jars.

just sweat and apple blossoms and the way she held you like you were the only soft thing she'd ever been allowed to love.

you never needed more than that.

not when forever looked like her.

not when forever smelled like earth and jam and sun-warmed cotton.

not when forever was a woman with a strong back, a big belly, and hands that never let go.

and so you stayed.

and stayed.

and stayed.

until staying became the only story you’d ever need to tell.

until her name was stitched into the seams of every quiet hour.

until the apple trees bent low with fruit, and your heart —

well.

it was full.

THE MOTHER FUCKING END BITCHES!!

#i love pussy

#wheres my fat butch

#just wanna be a girl w her farmer butch

#i want that tangy fat puss

MY SHAYLAAAAAA

LOVE, VIOLET

pairing: vi x fem!reader word count: 12.9k summary: history might say that you and vi were only best friends, but the real story is much more complicated. (or: you and vi celebrating valentine's day warning: friends to lovers arc, lots of sapphic yearning, brief mention of homophobia and bullying....but mostly cheesy domestic fluff and sappy lesbian monologues and lots of smut [oral (r! receiving), fingering (r! receiving), thigh riding, strap usage(r! receiving), needy+possessive! vi and slightly (?) dom! reader] (18+) ! a/n: happy (belated oops) valentine's day girls and gays <33 been working on this for a while and hoped to get it out like....actually in time for love day but such is life. ANYWAYS this is set in the same universe as this x-mas themed fic (and kinda a modern au of this one?? reader has the same nickname and there's a friends to lovers arc so....). hope y'all enjoy!!!!

♪: "glue song" by beabadoobee ft. clairo (sun); "home by now" by MUNA (moon); "love is a kaleidoscope" by chappell roan (rising)

also - header image was cropped from a gifset from @arcanegifs , pls check out their beautiful work !!!

track 1: “feeling you” by cat burns

(now)

"fuck, vi," you moan as her tongue splits your folds. "we don't have time for this...."

you have to get to studio and vi has to get to work, but the combination of the hot water hitting your skin and vi’s mouth on your cunt was something you did not want to give up just yet — even if you didn't want to admit it.

"baby," vi pouts, looking up at you innocently, as if she wasn't the one who decided to push you against the tile wall and get on her knees in front of you. "it was your idea to shower together this morning.”

"well, sorry for wanting to save water," you breathe, your grip tightening on her hair when she wraps her lips around your clit. "the planet is dying."

vi pulls away from you once more, lips shining with your slick. "well, excuse me for thinking you wanted to start today with a bit of romance. if all you care about is the environment...." she gets up and reaches behind you to turn off the water. "we better get going, pretty girl."

you whine at the sudden loss of warmth and clench your thighs together at the nickname, something that does not go unnoticed by vi. she licks her lips before leaning forward to kiss you, your back pushed against the cool tile once more and the taste of yourself faint on her tongue.

hearing your alarm go off reminds you that there are other responsibilities you each have to attend to. reluctantly, the two of you dry off and make your way to your shared bedroom. you put on a fuschia boyshort / bralette combo (your favorite set because, yes, it matches your girlfriend’s hair) before slipping on some dark jeans and a heart-printed turtleneck, and moving on to your makeup. in the meantime, vi had been in the kitchen making coffee, and reemerges now with two mismatched mugs. she sets one on the desk next to you, kisses the top of your head before getting herself ready for the day. 

you swipe some eyeliner on your waterline, watching in the mirror as vi searches in the closet for something to wear, still only dressed in black briefs and a sports bra. you smile as you see the stars tattooed on her upper thigh, sparkling with every movement she makes. once she picks out an outfit, her eyes catch yours.

"what?" she asks with a lazy grin, slipping on a tight black henley.

you smile, adding some pink glitter to your eyelids. 

it’s only been two weeks since you’ve moved into this new place. there are still plenty of unpacked boxes, and you still get a bit lost navigating around the neighbourhood, but otherwise, it’s been a dream. 

you love seeing your clothes woven together in the same closet; you love waking up with her arm around your waist, doing laundry together, and coming home to vi having tried a new recipe for dinner. you love how you sometimes wear each other’s rings because you keep them all in a pile on the nightstand, how she falls asleep with her head in your lap during movie night, how her skin smells like the rose body wash you picked out together at lush. 

you love this — this home you’re starting to build. you’ve known vi for so long, but your lives are intertwined now more than ever.

"nothing," you respond, finishing with a layer of vanilla lip gloss. "want me to do your eyeliner?”

it’s a familiar position: vi sits on the edge of the bed while you straddle her hips. she leans forward and presses a kiss to your sternum before you hold her chin between your thumb and pointer finger.

“so….tomorrow’s valentines day,” vi suddenly points out, though, really, you didn’t need the reminder.

you’d spent these past few years apart and this is your first valentine’s day since the break-up. 

you both agreed — no pressure — but…..there’s definitely a bit of pressure. you’d been working on your gift for her for weeks, and you’re really hoping that she likes what you’ve planned.

“i thought it would be nice to get dinner tonight at bacchus. i called earlier this morning and got us a reservation for 7:30.”

you hum in appreciation.

vi might be taking a break from the band, but she’s still the violet lanes, the pink-haired rockstar of every lesbian’s dreams who’s written award-winning songs and sold out entire football stadiums. there are new perks of being her girlfriend this time around, like a nice apartment in new york and getting a day-of-reservation at the most expensive italian restaurant in the city. 

“valentine’s day is tomorrow,” you repeat, a playful lilt to your words. you swipe your thumb near the corner of vi’s eye where you’d smudged an otherwise sharp wing of eyeliner. “someone’s eager to get a head start.” 

with that, you snap the tube closed, press a kiss to the tattoo on vi’s cheek, and get up to gather your things for studio. you’re tucking your sketchbook into your messenger bag when you feel vi’s strong arms wrap around your middle.

“you always said i was impatient,” she teases. you can feel her smirk against the star-shaped birthmark behind your ear before pressing a gentle kiss to your skin and whispering: “can you blame me, stargirl? for wanting to get dressed all fancy and go somewhere nice and romantic with the prettiest girl in the world?” 

“of course not.” you crane your neck back until your lips practically brush against hers as you speak. “except, you’re the prettiest in the world, baby.”

a beautiful blush spreads across vi’s freckled cheeks, the way it always has whenever you comment on vi’s beauty.  

she clears her throat, still a bit flustered. “agree to disagree?”

you pretend to think about it for a second, nudging your nose against hers. “agree to disagree,” you reply, teasing her by continuing to hover above her lips, just a sliver of air between you. 

yeah, vi’s impatient — but, sometimes, you love it. like, right now, when she turns you around to face her so she can close the gap, deepening the kiss by sliding her tongue into your mouth without any preamble.

vi groans as another alarm goes off from your phone. "i will never get used to how many alarms you set."

you giggle, and pull away slightly to swipe the cancel button. vi takes the opportunity to move your shirt slightly and leave bites on your exposed collarbone. you check the time on your phone.

you can spare a little more time. it is valentine’s day, after all. 

(age 13)

“vi, your precious stargirl is on the phone for you!”

at the mention of your nickname, vi flinches, inadvertently failing to dodge a lethal attack. green goblin crashed his glider into her spiderman avatar, and the words GAME OVER fill the screen in an angry red font. 

vi groans, throwing her playstation controller on the couch before heading to the kitchen.

powder is sitting on the counter, twirling the telephone cord around her finger and yapping away before vi takes her place.

“hey.” vi clears her throat, tries to sound casual. “what’s up?”

“so, my mom promised to make something for ekko’s valentine’s class party, but she just got called in for a shift….which means i’m stuck baking 30 rainbow confetti cupcakes, and hoping i don’t give any eight year olds food poisoning. you doing anything right now?”

“oh - i’m actually, uh, busy! i have homework, and….”

and she’s busy avoiding you, ever since she heard something about you — from drea, of all people — and wondered why you wouldn’t confide in her, your supposed best friend. 

“please, vi,” you coax. vi’s heart beats a bit quicker as she pictures your bottom lip jutting out into a pout. “can you come over and help me bake? it feels like forever since we’ve actually hung out. i miss you.”

vi is certainly not god’s strongest soldier when it comes to you, so of course, she caves. rainbow confetti cake is her favorite, so that’s a bonus. she and powder throw on their coats and head next door to yours; powder and ekko keep each other company in the living room while vi joins you in the kitchen.

“hey,” she greets. 

“there you are!” your face lights up with the sweetest smile, causing the butterflies in her stomach to flap up a storm. 

gods — do you realize the effect you have on her? 

there’s already flour dusting your cheek; vi has to resist the urge to brush it away with her thumb, wanting to feel how soft your skin must be. 

she snaps out of it though, as you instruct her on what needs to be done, and the two of you work in a comfortable silence, the sounds of your siblings watching cartoons in the other room filling the space between you. at one point, probably realizing that vi isn’t in the mood for talking, you switch on the radio. vi catches you smiling at her as she hums along to freddie mercury, but you’re quick to blink away and get back to work.

you’re sifting confectioner’s sugar into room temperature butter for the icing while vi slides the first batch of cupcakes in the oven, starts prepping the second, her mind starting to wander.

you and vi are playing the leads for your final english project, where you have to reenact scenes from romeo and juliet. powder caught the two of you rehearsing last week, and spent the whole night singing that stupid playground chant. now vi can’t get it out of her head: you and her, sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G — 

“the rumor’s not true, by the way,” 

vi looks at you as she pours batter into another cupcake liner, which accidentally overflows onto the counter. 

“shit,” she groans, but you slide over to the other side of the kitchen counter to bring her a towel. 

you don’t elaborate on what you’ve just brought up as you wipe up the thick batter. vi figures you’re waiting for her to say something.

“what rumor?”

it was never vi’s instinct to play pretend with you, but frankly she had no idea what else to do without letting her emotions burst into flames and inevitably burn you.  

“vi,” you sigh. “i know you’ve heard it. the whole school has. it’s not true, though. i wasn’t kissing james.”

oh. the spark of envy in her gut simmers down. 

“did he ask you to the sweetheart dance?”

you shake your head, and the spark extinguishes completely. “even if he did….i wouldn’t want to go with him.”

“why’s that? not your type?”

you finish wiping the counter, and vi takes the now-sticky towel from you to rinse it out in the sink. as she does this, you get back to frosting duty, stirring in some pink food colouring. 

“drea saw me kissing someone with dark brown hair,” you explain. “so isabel started told her that it was james, and that’s what she’s been telling everyone. but really….it was her.”

vi blinks at you. “her?”

“yeah, her,” you smile hesitantly. 

“you were kissing isabel?”

isabel was the prettiest girl in eighth grade — though, according to vi, you’d have that ranking, and it would go way beyond the scope of your middle school. you’re the prettiest girl in the world; not that vi would ever have the courage to tell you that.  

you nod. “you’re not, like, weirded out that i like kissing girls, are you?”

“what? no, of course not! especially since….i, uh, i like kissing girls too.”

in theory. vi likes to imagine kissing girls, especially when they look like korra from the legend of korra, or shego from kim possible, or hayley kiyoko in lemonade mouth.

or….you.

vi watches intently as you — a very pretty, very real girl — swipe your finger through the fluffy pink frosting and taste it, flashing her a sugary smile. 

“good to know.”

(age 16)

when josie asked her out, vi had completely neglected the fact that dinner on friday would mean dinner on february 14th. 

which is how vi finds herself getting ready for a date with someone she met during your short-lived attempt at starting an all female fight boxing club. josie is sweet and vi felt bad cancelling on her, so like the gentleman she is, vi promised to pick her up at 7:30pm. on friday, february 14th. 

it’s 6:44pm, and vi is in your room. you helped her pick out an outfit — something nice but not too formal — and you’ve moved on to makeup, carefully applying her eyeliner. 

vi tries not to stare at your lips — which are slightly red from the cinnamon hearts you’ve been eating — so she keeps squirming, and you keep gently guiding her chin towards you. her eyes wander to your decorated walls, filled with posters and photos and other things you’ve collected throughout the years. she’s featured in quite a few, and she catches a glimpse of an old valentine card she’d given you in elementary school.

“it’s weird that we won’t be spending valentine’s day together,” you comment as though reading her mind. 

you’d never spend the holiday as anything other than friends, but it does still feel strange, not spending it with someone she knows for sure she loves. 

(again — like a friend loves a friend.)

“yeah, definitely,” vi agrees. “do you have anything planned for tonight?”

“huge plans, actually.” you pop another cinnamon heart in your mouth. “i’ve got a super romantic date with the prettiest girl in the world.”

vi tilts her head in confusion — did you mention this to her? — which causes you to shake your head with a lighthearted laugh and guide her towards you once more.

“really? with who?”

you roll your eyes. “i’m kidding!” 

“oh.”

“it’s cute how gullible you are,” you whistle. by now, you’re done with her eyes and move on to dusting her cheeks with some sort of shimmery powder. “i’m probably just gonna put on a rom-com and finish — well, start — writing my english essay on romantic literature. lowercase ‘r,’ because ms. chavez was feeling festive. i’m leaning more modernist, but that’s only because i want to write about virginia woolf.”

it’s inching towards when vi should leave, but vi doesn’t care what time it is — she’d listen to you talk forever if she could.

“what’s it about?”

you pull away to examine vi’s makeup one last time.

“the movie, or my essay?” you nod once in approval and give the compact you’re holding to vi so she can take a look. “you look beautiful, by the way.”

vi watches her reflection blush, almost enhanced by the makeup you put on her. 

“thanks, stargirl.” vi clears her throat and decides to get back to your original conversation. “the movie and your essay, i guess.”

you offer vi a cinnamon heart, which she accepts, the candy burning sweet on her tongue. you then reach into your backpack, for the ring pop that vi had left in your locker this morning, just before you handed her a box of rainbow confetti cupcakes. you slip the candied jewellery onto your right ring finger before answering.

“i want to analyse the letters between virginia woolf and this other writer — vita sackville-west. they’re essentially love letters, but, you know.” you give an exaggerated shrug. “history says they were only best friends. at least, according to ms. chavez’s interpretations, along with most of the class.”

vi chuckles. “thankfully, you’re here to prove them all wrong.”

“exactly.” you nudge your shoulder against vi’s, the feeling of your body familiar next to hers. “and, for the movie, i’m thinking when harry met sally, which i remember watching with you for the first time.” 

vi definitely remembers watching that with you, too. the whole question of whether or not men and women can be friends without romance getting in the way brought up another, much more relevant question in vi’s mind: can two sapphic women be friends without any complicated feelings?

it’s definitely possible.

“so….you excited for this date?”

vi shrugs. “yeah.”

“wow. i totally believe that,” you say, words dripping with sarcasm. 

“it’s just….it’s valentine’s day,” vi whispers. she starts fiddling with one of her rings — you’d gotten it for her last valentine’s day, a silver thumb ring with a star in the middle. “what if she wants to kiss me tonight?”

“well, you kiss her back, if that’s what you want.” 

“that’s what i want,” she responds, way too quickly to be true. “it’s just — i’m not sure i’ll be any good.”

“you’ll be fine,” you assure. 

“but — i mean, i’ve never…..”

“oh.” your eyes widen and your lips part in shock, the blue-raspberry of the ring pop turning them from red to purple that’s intoxicatingly close to violet. “oh.”

“what! it’s not, like the end of the world.”

“of course not! it’s just — you’ve gone out with a bunch of girls, so i just figured….”

vi shakes her head, her cheeks heating up. “guess i never found the right one. i know it’s cliche, but i kinda wanted my first kiss to be —” 

“special?” you guess, and vi nods.

“and now, there’s all this pressure, i’m worried that i won’t be good.”

you clear your throat. “right. well, if it helps relieve the pressure….i could show you….how.”

“show me?”

“well — i mean, like teach you, i guess. plus, then i can let you know whether you’re, like, a good kisser or not.”

that’s how you find yourself practically in vi’s lap, slotting your lips between hers. it started off with a quick peck, but clearly, you’ve both decided that this lesson requires a bit more. 

every single one of vi’s senses is heightened: the stickiness of your glossed lips, the sugar on your tongue, the giggles rumbling through you and bouncing down vi’s throat. time seems to slow down — no, freeze entirely — which is a stark contrast to the burning in her lungs.

needing air, vi pulls away. 

“h-how was that?” she breathes, her words warming your mouth. 

“good.” you smile, almost shy. you’re so close together that vi can feel your heart pounding against your ribcage. “maybe….a bit gentler this time.”

“gentler?”

“slower,” you suggest. 

so, you kiss again. gentler, this time.

“your lips are a bit chapped,” is your next note. you reach for the tube of lip gloss in your pocket. “can i?”

“go ahead, stargirl,” vi whispers. “you’re the expert.”

you paint a layer of sticky vanilla glitter onto vi’s lips.

“there,” you sit back after swiping your thumb underneath vi’s bottom lip. 

vi blinks at you. her lips feel like they’re coated in honey. “how do i look?”

“really pretty,” you reply, with a small smile. you sigh, glancing at the scooby-doo alarm clock on your nightstand, the one you’ve had since you were six years old. “you better go. have a good time with josie, okay?”

“okay.” vi gets up and grabs her jacket, tugs on her shoes. “and, thanks again for, well, you know.”

you shrug. “that’s what best friends are for. happy valentine’s, vi.”

vi hesitates just as she’s about to climb out your window. “look, stargirl, i don’t have to – i mean, i’m perfectly happy canceling my, uh, date, and just hanging out with you.”

“you’re sweet, vi, but i’ll be fine. go — have fun.” you walk closer to her so you can slip your tube of lipgloss into vi’s button down shirt pocket. you pat her chest affectionately. “and remember to be gentle, yeah?” 

later, when she’s making out with josie in the backseat of her dad’s car, vi tries not to think about your soft voice guiding her through the movements, or the dizzying taste of your lips — cinnamon hearts and sour candy and sweet, sweet vanilla.

history might say that you and vi are only best friends, but the real story is much more complicated.

___

[image: a cartoon scooby-doo, holding a bouquet of hearts. the message reads: BE MY VALENTINE!]

to: stargirl <3

from: vi

___

track 2: “you’re my best friend” by queen 

(age 7)

“mom?”

“yeah, kiddo?”

“can you be in love with your best friend?”

her mom, felicia, smiles knowingly, the question hanging in the air until the end of song. it’s part of an old mixtape that felicia plays sometimes, mostly glam rock like queen and david bowie. she put it on this afternoon while her and vi get ready for the valentine’s class party tomorrow. vi scribbles names on cards while her mom fills clear heart-printed bags with candy. powder’s fallen asleep on her lap. 

“definitely,” felicia finally answers, reaching over to tap vi’s nose playfully. “love, violet, can be a million different things. that’s the fun part.” 

felicia pinches vi’s cheek affectionately. vi frowns, thinking about this whole love thing. 

love is definitely not the next classmate whose name she’s writing — drea, who always cheats during sports and teases vi for being a tomboy. she’s tempted to just leave her out, but the policy of ms. julie’s second grade class is that everyone needs to get a valentine. so, that’s not love, either. 

instead, vi thinks of her family — her mom, vander, powder, and even ekko; movie nights and lively dinners and warm hugs. she thinks of her friends — mylo and claggor; laughter and skinned knees and running so fast it feels like flying. 

when she thinks of you, though, her heart beats differently.

vi thinks about how you always carry around a spiderman bandaid because she always scrapes herself during recess, and the nurse only carries plain, boring bandages. she thinks about how you ‘accidentally’ spill paint on drea’s art project after she calls vi mean names.

she thinks about how you doodle on her arms during math or braid her hair as you watch cartoons and eat sugary cereal on saturday mornings. 

she thinks about the star-shaped birthmark behind your ear, the perpetual marker stains on your hands, the dimple on your cheek.

you’re her best friend, and your smile alone wakes up a million butterflies in her stomach.

vi’s mom suggested spiderman valentine’s cards, but vi wanted to pick out something that you’d like; vi knows that scooby-doo is your favorite show, so that’s what she went with. she adds a ring pop to your bag of candy, because she knows they’re your favorite candy. she adds a little heart by your nickname, too.  

the next day, everyone is decorating their shoeboxes, transforming them into mailboxes before exchanging valentines. vi’s hands are sticky with glitter glue when you walk over — ms. julie said that you and vi distracted each other, so she assigned you to desks on opposite sides of the room. 

“happy valentine’s day, vi,” you say, sliding a card into her mailbox and smiling ear to ear before moving on to the next person. vi eagerly reaches in for the valentine. 

it’s spiderman-themed, and there’s a heart next to her name. 

(now) 

when you walk through the door, you’re engulfed in the scent of warm garlic bread and sweet, ripe tomatoes. the restaurant is bustling with waiters delivering colourful dishes, everyone wearing crisp suits and silk dresses. someone’s playing piano, soft music dancing throughout the room, and the overhead lights are dimmed, with each table illuminated by a candle in the centre.

the maître d' greets you with a welcoming smile and settles you into a table. once they’re gone, vi reaches across the table for your hand. 

“you look beautiful, stargirl.”

vi’s skin is always warm, but the cool metal of her thumb ring sends a shiver through you as she brushes over your knuckles. the flame between you flickers, darkening vi’s powder blue eyes as she gazes at you lovingly.

“you let me borrow your clothes,” you point out. “i’m wearing one of your suits.”

“what can i say….” vi winks, releasing your hand so she can open the menu in front of her. “i have good taste. looks better on you, anyways.”

“were you always this much of a flirt?” you tease.

vi smirks. “like a fine wine, i just get better with age.”

“you are so corny,” you say with a slight laugh.

“well, some people do think my love songs are cheesy.”

“even the ones written about me?”

vi looks up from her menu, one eyebrow raised. “baby, they’re all about you.”

your cheeks heat up at vi’s confession, and you take a sip from your glass, ice water trickling down your throat, in hopes of steadying your heartbeat.

a waiter comes by; you each order pasta dishes and vi orders a bottle of wine for the table. the wine arrives quickly, but given how busy the restaurant is, you anticipate the food will take longer. 

you fill the time easily, catching each other up on the details of your lives since this morning. you start by telling her how hectic your art studio has been as you prepare for your big spring exhibition, but how excited everyone is. you’re especially excited since you get to explore different mediums along the way; these past few weeks, you’ve been learning how to use a pottery wheel. you went through the final step of the process today — glazing — and you’re happy at the end product. 

“i don’t think i’m gonna include it in my exhibit, though,” you conclude. 

“well, it’d be nice to have some of your art on display all the time.” vi smiles. “you should bring whatever you made home.” 

“that’s the idea,” you muse, a twinkle in your eyes as you take a sip of wine. “how was your day?”

vi started teaching guitar at the local community centre. some adults take lessons, but it’s mostly little kids with too much energy and too little patience. still, no matter how chaotic it can be, it’s clear that vi has been loving her job.

“i swear, this one girl, marceline, is a budding rockstar. i taught her a jimi hendrix song and she picked it up —” vi snaps her fingers, smiling proudly. “like that. such a talented kid.”

“you would know, pretty girl,” you praise.

your waiter arrives to bring plates full of pasta. you and vi thank them, your stomach grumbling at the delicious smell, a reminder that you had barely eaten all day. you’re so ready to dig into some quality fettuccine alfredo.

you and vi eat in a comfortable silence, until you hear an unfortunately familiar voice grate at your ears:

“oh my god, it is you! i saw you from the other side of the restaurant and just had to come over and say hi!”

you don’t need to glance to know who it is, but you do anyways, and so does vi. your stomach drops as you watch her bite back a scoff before turning back to her food.

“hi, drea,” vi clips before taking a big gulp of wine. she continues eating, barely sparing the woman another glance.

drea continues to hover. she’s wearing dark lipstick, her black hair cut into a classic bisexual bob, and her amber eyes silently pleading at you to break the ice. 

“hey, drea,” you greet with a stiff smile, and drea relaxes her shoulders at your veil of friendliness.

“nice earrings,” she winks, reaching over to tap the dangling purple gem. “thought you might have gotten rid of them after we broke up.”

vi chokes on a sip of wine. “broke up?” vi coughs, reaches for her water glass. “since when did you two date?”

you open your mouth to respond, but drea beats you to it, clearly too focused on being the centre of attention.

“maybe like a year or so ago.” drea turns to you. “right, starlight?”

vi’s jaw clenches, and she drops her fork, metal clattering against the plate.

“starlight?”

“yeah, because of the star-shaped birthmark behind her —”

“i know,” vi snaps. her eyes are locked on you, and slightly glazed over. “you never told me you dated drea.”

“i-it was only 3 months,” you stutter.

“that hurts,” drea groans, clutching her heart. she always did have a flair for the dramatic. “it was 4 months, babe.”

“you dated for 4 months, and i’m just hearing about it now?” vi seethes, trying to keep her voice low. the tables around you have already taken note that something is happening, though, their conversations hushing down to an idle whisper. “did you somehow forget how much of an asshole she was in high school?”

“um, i’m right here?” drea chides, still not taking the hint that neither of you are interested in a happy reunion.

“we need a minute,” you and vi say simultaneously. drea rolls her eyes and mutters something you don’t care to hear; you’re too concerned with explaining yourself to vi, whose cheeks are burning with a deep shade of red. whether it’s jealousy, anger, or embarrassment, you’re not quite sure.

“vi, just let me —” 

you reach out for her hand, but as soon as you make contact, vi pulls away abruptly.

“i…i need….to not be here right now,” vi mutters. the last thing she wants is to make headlines tomorrow morning — violet lanes, caught having argument with girlfriend at upscale restaurant during on valentine’s eve. flip to page 6 for the full story! — so, she gets up and slips on her jacket. 

“please, baby, let’s talk about this —”

“order dessert, if you want. don’t rush home.”

her voice cracks at that last word before she storms out the door, leaving you with two unfinished meals and stomach heavy with regret. 

___

[image: notebook opened to a page filled with chaotic, scribbled writing]

FOR STARGIRL (FINAL DRAFT!!! COME UP WITH TITLE LATER!??!!)

i’m stuck on you, baby

you taught me what love is

sugary sweet kisses,

frosting on your lips;

first tattoos,

promises on our skin

i’m stuck on you, baby

have been since we were kids

you’re not just the sun or the moon

you’re all my stars

know that i’ll love you

wherever we are

___

track 3: “true romantic” by indigo girls

(age 18)

the auditorium is decorated with red and pink streamers, heart garlands and bouquets of roses. a red spotlight shines on the stage, painting each performer with a pink hue. there are small tables and chairs arranged to make the space feel more like a parisian cafe, instead of where drama club rehearses for the spring musical.

you’re sitting at one of the tables, inhaling all the free coffee and pastries you possibly can and chatting with viktor and jayce, like you’ve done for the past three years at your highschool’s annual valentine’s day coffeehouse. 

the first time vi performed, during your freshman year, she was all nerves, her fingers fumbling at chords and voice trembling through the lyrics of a joan jett song she had played for you perfectly that morning. when her eyes landed on yours in the crowd, you gave her a thumbs-up — you’d been just friends at the time, after all — and vi seemed to warm up, finishing to enthusiastic applause. 

now, vi walks on with confidence right away, electric guitar the same pink as her hair, with a constellation of stars scribbled on its body with black sharpie. she’s grown out her hair, still keeping it shorter on one side to display her growing collection of piercings. the newest addition is a silver loop in her nostril, which glints underneath the spotlight as she leans closer to the mic. she’s wearing lowrise jeans and showcasing a sliver of her hips; you can’t help but think about what’s hidden just a bit lower, the stars sparkling along her upper thigh, etched into her skin at the same time you got violets blooming between your ribs. 

“hey everyone. most of you know me as the captain of our hockey team —”

beside you, jayce whistles and there’s a scattering of applause for the team, who just made it to nationals. vi landed an athletic scholarship, too, to play at university of piltover. even though you have a hard time picturing your girlfriend as an enforcer, you’re so proud of her. plus, it’s only a twenty minute drive from zaun university, where you’ve decided to go so you could be close to your family.

“but, i’ve been writing songs, too,” vi continues. “i realized that i’ve gotten up here every year to sing someone else’s love song to a girl i’ve had a crush on since before i even knew what a crush was. but this is a song i’ve been writing, for and about her, for years. and now that we’re actually dating….well, i wanted to do something special for our first valentine’s day. ” vi looks at you with a toothy grin, and you blow her a kiss. “wait, actually, can we get a spotlight on my girlfriend? right there?”

vi gestures in your general direction, and suddenly you feel the heat of the spotlight and 50 pairs of eyes on you. your cheeks flush at the attention, but you play along and wave nonetheless.

“there she is,” vi gushes. “my beautiful stargirl. i wrote this song —”

“oh my god, we came here for music, not your sappy lesbian monologue!” drea, current goalie of  zaun high’s hockey team and perpetual pain in vi’s ass, groans. “hurry up and play the song already!”

one of the teachers hushes the bubbling laughter, and it dies down just as quickly as it emerged.

vi rolls her eyes. “as i was saying, i wrote this song-slash-sappy-lesbian-monologue for you, stargirl. i hope you like it. happy valentine’s day.”

you don’t know what makes your heart soar more — the sweet lyrics falling from the lips of the girl you love, or the girl herself. 

later, vi is falling asleep in the middle of chemistry class when she hears a light clink against the window. she glances outside and sees you waving at her, smile as bright as a shooting star. you have paint stains on your jeans that weren’t there earlier and you’re gesturing at her to follow you. vi just shrugs and nods her chin towards the front of the class. 

your bottom lip juts out into a pout, and you curve your hands into a heart before disconnecting them. vi snorts at your antics. 

“ms. lanes, are my slides on organic compounds amusing to you?” 

“uh, no mr. michaels. of course not.” vi clears her throat, whips her head back towards the smartboard. “may i, uh, go to the bathroom?”

vi checks her phone as soon as she closes the door behind her. 

stargirl

hurry UP!!!

dyke spiderman <3

easy romeo

i’m omw

where should i meet u???

stargirl

our spot

“wait!” you call as soon as vi reaches the bottom of the staircase and starts to turn the corner. “close your eyes!”

“how’d you know it was me?” vi laughs, but does as she’s told nonetheless.

“the axe body spray is a pretty dead giveaway,” you deadpan. 

“hey, i stopped using that in middle school. can i look now?”

you ask her to wait one more time. vi feels you shift behind her, wrap your arms around her waist. on instinct, vi reaches a hand down and laces her fingers through yours, your skin slick and cold. 

“okay,” you whisper, your breath hot against her ear. “open your eyes.”

and when she does, vi is glad that you’re holding her, because she’s suddenly weak in the knees at what’s gracing the wall before her: a small mural reminiscent of klimt’s famous painting, ‘the kiss’. except — it’s the two of you, surrounded by stars and violets.

“happy valentine’s day, vi.” 

you untangle yourself from her, but vi doesn’t let go of your hand, even when she realizes it’s wet with fresh paint. 

“you….you did this?”

“yeah.”

“wow….it’s amazing. beautiful.”

vi squeezes your hand, still in awe at how you beautifully swirled together each color, the loving expressions you managed to portray with each delicate stroke of your paintbrush. 

“i’m glad you like it.”

“like it? i love….” she turns to you. “i love it. you didn’t have to do all this though, it must have taken you forever.”

“you’re worth it,” you muse. “like you said — it’s our first valentine’s day. as a couple at least. i wanted to do something special. i made us a playlist, too.”  

so, even though it means she’s skipping chem and you’re skipping history, the two of you curl underneath the staircase, a pair of earbuds split between you. 

“i’m gonna miss seeing you every day after we graduate.”

vi hums in agreement. she gently lifts your head from her shoulder, holding your chin between her thumb and pointer finger. “you know i’ll love you wherever we are, right?”

“i know, i heard you early on stage,” you swoon, settling back against her shoulder. “seemed a bit dramatic for only being, like, 20 minutes away from each other. though, i guess that is the farthest apart we’ve ever been.”

vi takes a deep breath, as your fingers dance along the doodles decorating her skin, the ones you had drawn on in sharpie during calculus. “except…. it might be further than that, depending on how things go.”

your pointer finger pauses halfway through an outline of a heart. “what do you mean?”

“i’m, uh….i don’t want to go to university of piltover. actually, i don’t want to go to college at all. i turned down the scholarship; made the official decision two weeks ago after the big game.”

“you did what?”

“i wanna move to l.a. or london, pursue this whole music thing. i think it could really take me places.” 

“right,” you clip.“and why are you just bringing this up now? have you told vander? have you talked to anyone before making a huge, life-changing decision?”

you continue shaking your head in disbelief as you gather your backpack and turn the corner, emerging from underneath the staircase; vi follows you. 

“no, but it’s my life — and i know what i want.”

“and it’s always about what you want, right?” you scoff.

“what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“it’s just — did you ever think about your family in all this? how powder might feel having her sister so far away just as she’s starting high school?”

“i’ve spent the past 13 years of my life worrying about powder, taking care of her especially after our mom died,” vi reasons, trying to keep her voice steady. “i need a break. my dreams are bigger than this town.”

“do you…” you trail off, hesitant to even speak the words aloud, but the coil in your gut tells you it’s unavoidable. “do you need a break from us?” 

“stargirl.” vi whispers your nickname like a promise itching to be broken. “i thought you’d love having a rockstar girlfriend,” she teases, trying to lighten the mood.

“don’t,” you grumble, brows furrowed. “if you wanted to make things work between us, you would have at least talked to me about this.”

“i am talking to you,” vi counters. she grabs her hands in yours. you pull away.

“but, you spent these past two weeks listening to me imagine our future together, while you had already made other plans. what does that say about our actual future?”

before vi can respond, someone clears their throat from the top of the staircase. your principal, looking down on you with an expression that can only be described as disinterested, addressing you by your last names. 

“pro tip,” she continues. “if you want to skip class and have a lover’s quarrel, make sure it’s not somewhere that carries sound directly to the office.”

you and vi get assigned detention that afternoon. you’re told to sit on opposite sides of the room, but that doesn’t stop vi from throwing a crumpled ball of paper your way. 

glancing over at your girlfriend, you have to admit that you find yourself melting at those puppy dog eyes of hers, pleading and so full of love as she waits for you to respond to her message.

even though the future feels uncertain, you scribble something back, then toss the paper towards her desk discreetly. it lands on the floor. vi unfolds it and smiles as she reads the note, cheeks tinted a light rose.

___

[image: a crumpled ball of paper. unfold it, and it reads….]

(in hot pink gel pen)

I WANT TO MAKE THINGS WORK BETWEEN US

I LOVE YOU

(in black sharpie)

I LOVE YOU TOO

OF COURSE WE’LL MAKE IT WORK

I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE A ROCK STAR GF, BTW

BUT ONLY IF SHE’S AS HOT AS YOU

___

track 4: “home by now” by MUNA 

(age 21)

“wait, hold on — what does that sign say?”

violet lanes, will you be my valentine?

“i’m flattered,” vi chuckles. “but, sorry ladies — i’m a happily taken woman. i’ve got a pretty girl waiting for me in the crowd.” 

“and, lemme just say, it’s a good thing we’ve all got separate hotel rooms this time,” caitlyn groans. 

vi rolls her eyes. “anyways. this is a very special night because it’s the first time my girlfriend is watching us perform live! she’s over there, looking as beautiful as ever. everyone, say hi!”

the spotlight shines on you, and you giggle shyly. the necklace she’d given you this morning practically glows between your collarbones, illuminates your skin with a violet hue. 

“isn’t she the cutest?” vi gushes. “the first time i performed this next song was to celebrate our first valentine’s day as a couple. and — fun little easter egg — when we released this as a single, the cover was a painting she had made for me on that same day. she’s just so talented, kicking ass at this fancy art program….she’s basically the frida kahlo to my joan jett…..and i’m just rambling, now, sorry guys. i could probably talk about my girl all day.” 

“oh, and she does,” maddie grumbles. 

“the fans love sappy-lesbian-monologues, don’t they?” the crowd roars, and vi flashes maddie a winning smirk. “so, yeah, i love my girlfriend every day, of course, but today it’s with roses and ring pops and those cheesy cards kids hand out to each other in elementary school. happy valentine’s day, stargirl. this one’s called — stuck on you.” 

when the show’s over, and the band’s played not one, but two encores, you’re flinging your arms around vi’s neck before she even has the chance to put down her guitar. she’s all sweaty, white tank top sticking to her torso. her ears are still ringing and her throat a bit sore, but all vi cares about is the feelings of your soft lips kissing across her cheeks. 

“you’re so fucking amazing,” you gush, pecking her lips delicately. “i mean, i’ve seen you play before, but never like this! vi, you’re….wow. electric, fucking radiant. you must be exhausted, though, ahh —”

vi kisses you, sweaty and breathless, until she’s practically sucked all the air from your lungs.

“not at all,” she replies with a cocky grin. “we’ve got all night and i’m not planning on getting any sleep.”

“ugh, gross. get a room,” caitlyn scoffs, playful but with a bit of an edge. 

“oh, we will,” you reply coolly. maybe you’re a bit jealous with how seamlessly caitlyn fits into vi’s new life, how much she’s able to see your girlfriend much more than you’re able to. she hasn’t been particularly friendly since you’ve gotten here, and she’s been a bit too touchy with vi in the tabloids lately. “i’m guessing you don’t have any valentine’s plans?”

caitlyn narrows her eyes at you.

vi laughs, probably about to make a lighthearted comment to diffuse the tension between you and caitlyn, but she’s called aside by their manager for a quick chat before she gets the chance. 

“i’ll be right back. cait, stargirl — play nice,” she advises, like you’re children fighting on the playground. 

once she’s gone, caitlyn’s frown turns into a smirk. 

“stargirl, huh? guess that explains her thigh tattoo. i didn’t think vi was that sentimental, though, so it must have been at your request.” 

you straighten your back, trying to mirror caitlyn’s combative confidence. “i think i know her better than you.”

“maybe before, when you were kids growing up in that nothing town. things change, darling. people change — who they are and what they want. if i were you, i’d accept that sooner rather than later,” caitlyn snarks as she finally walks away, bumping your shoulder just as vi returns to the pair of you.  

you don’t quite have the time to register the interaction, not with vi intertwining her fingers with yours and tugging you towards her body. 

“let’s get out of here, yeah?” she brushes some hair behind your ear. “we’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.”

and, there was so much time to make up for — the days that have turned into weeks, turned into months, turned into years since you’d last seen each other in person, sometimes only speaking to each other once every month, for only two minutes at a time. 

you’d gotten so used to being apart that being together feels like a dream.

vi’s warm body presses against yours, barely making it to the bed. you just couldn’t resist pushing her against the door of the hotel room as soon as you were inside, lodging your thigh between her legs. 

“i, uh, i have a surprise for you,” vi breathes, groaning as you hum and start to suck bruises down her neck. 

“yeah? what is it, pretty girl?”

blushing and slightly flustered at the nickname, vi removes her shirt and sits back on the bed, gesturing at you to follow her. you hover on top of her and take in her naked form. 

“you…got your nipples pierced.”

vi grins. 

“can i touch them?” 

she nods enthusiastically. you brush your thumb over one and she shivers, causing you to pull away.

“no, it’s okay,” she assures, guiding your hand back towards her. “feels good.”

you start kissing her again. “you’re so fucking beautiful.” until you reach her chest. “can i?”

vi blinks up at you, eyes glazed over with honeyed want. “please. f-fuck,” vi moans when you latch your mouth to her nipple, rolling the cold, silver piercing along your tongue.

“you’re so sensitive,” you coo. you release her nipple with a pop, a string of saliva still connecting it to your wet lips. your fingers slip underneath vi’s underwear, gliding through her soft curls and down into her sticky heat. “so wet. you really missed me, yeah?”

“course i did, stargirl,” vi lets out a shaky laugh. “i want to show you just how much.”

you pout, and vi has the urge to capture that beautiful bottom lip of yours between her teeth. “but i wanted to show you how much i missed you.”

“well, like i said — we have all night.”

three orgasms later, and you’re nearing the point of exhaustion, but you’re determined to keep going, if anything because of how full you feel with vi’s fingers fucking into you at a truly impressive pace. the pads of her fingers are rougher than before, calluses from playing guitar so often, but she still knows exactly how to curl and curve them in every way that makes you unravel. her lips are shining with your cum, and you still taste her sweetness on your tongue. 

she grinds her bare cunt against the soft skin of your thigh as she brings you closer and closer to your peak while desperately chasing hers. 

“you close, pretty girl? gonna cum for me again?”

vi whines, nods eagerly. “i’m so fucking close. fuck — i don’t know what i’d do without you.” 

you groan when vi starts sucking at your pulsepoint, running her tongue over the chain of your new necklace. you reach a hand up to tug at her hair, gently coaxing her to look at you.

“don’t worry about that,” you promise. vi takes a deep breath as though inhaling your words and buries her face in the crook of your neck, butterfly lashes fluttering closed and tickling the skin behind your ear. “you’re being so good for me, so messy.”

“s-sorry,” vi sniffles, blood rushing to her cheeks. her body stills while she moves to meet your gaze, her puppy dog eyes shining with desire and desperation. 

you shake your head and dig your fingers into the plush of her hips, urging her to keep going.

“i love it,” you clarify, prompting vi’s face to brighten, her smile pure sunlight and sugar. 

you run your thumb over the scar on her lip that stretches with such familiarity, before crashing your lips against hers. vi welcomes your slick tongue into her mouth, swirling around every crevice until your tastes combine into one. the knot in your abdomen tightens and you, somewhat reluctantly, pull away to admire your girlfriend.

“i love how gorgeous you look on top of me, fucking me while using my body to get yourself off,” you continue, words flowing from your mouth like thick, sickly-sweet nectar. “i want you to cum with me one more time, yeah?”

vi whimpers into the crook of your neck, the vibrations intensifying the waves of pleasure crashing throughout your body. it doesn’t take long for vi to feel you clench around her fingers, and for you to feel her gush against your skin, staining the bedspread beneath your entangled bodies.

vi pulls away her fingers — you whimper this time at the sudden emptiness — but she places the softest kiss on your lips as an apology before adjusting to lay down on her side. she nestles into the curve between your neck and shoulder. her teeth graze your pulsepoint as you run your hand through her damp hair.

you should probably take a shower — the two of you drenched in each other’s sweat and saliva and cum — but all you want to do is to melt against her. maybe if you stay in bed, then time will slow down. 

“i wish you could stay longer.” 

“me too,” you whisper, idly tracing your fingers down her body. 

“you know, the art scene in this city is amazing,” she mumbles. “lot of galleries where you could show your work. nice, big apartments where you could have your own private studio space. you could move here after graduation.”

you laugh. “maybe in another life, where i could afford a place in new york. plus, at this point, i think it’d be best for me to move home after i graduate. but, hypothetically speaking — yeah, that would be cool.”

“well, hypothetically speaking, you would share rent with the pink-haired butch of your dreams.”

“you mean the one whose cum is drying on my thigh right now?”

“the very same,” vi nods with a cheeky grin. she throw her arm around your waist, pulling you in closer. 

you nudge your nose against hers. “paint me a picture — what does this dream life with my dream girl look like?”

“well, we get a place in an artsy neighbourhood, obviously, surrounded by a strong, welcoming community of queer artists, who are all quirky and colorful in their own way.”

“we’d actually be friends with our neighbours — host dinner parties and have movie nights and dance all night at gay bars. our apartment would have an open-floor plan, and we’d have big windows that give us a ton of light and a great view.”

“a beautiful kitchen, too. one that’s a little outdated, but we prefer the term charming,” vi adds. “and there are always fresh flowers on the counter, in a gorgeous vase.”

“we thrifted most of our stuff, so the furniture is all mismatched furniture and in every color of the rainbow —”

“but it works.”

“it works,” you echo, heart glowing. “we adopt a dog, too.” 

“and, the dog’s name?”

you think for a second. “scooby.”

“of course,” vi agrees, her smile suddenly sad. “sounds like a nice life we’d have together.”

“yeah. it does.”

you swallow down those dreams with a bitter dose of reality. you’ll be on a plane tomorrow, heading back to your childhood home, while vi continues travelling the world, performing to sold-out stadiums. 

i don’t know what i’d do without you.

the sad truth is that vi does know what to do without you, and you know what to do without her. that’s what this relationship has become: together, in theory, but growing into your adult selves and towards lives that don’t necessarily include the other. 

the vi beside you, hair a mess and eyeliner smudged, looks the same, give or take a few new tattoos and piercing. but, you wonder about all the little ways she’s changed that you might not ever have the chance to appreciate, about all the details of her day that you’ll never get to hear about. 

you wonder if, possibly, caitlyn is right. you know that people change — who they are, what they want. you want to believe that you and vi are the exception, that no matter how much you changed, you’d always be together. always. 

you then remember something else that caitlyn had said, and abruptly stop tracing designs onto vi’s skin, your eyes lingering on the stars on her upper thigh. vi must notice how you stiffen, because she cups your cheek, prompting you to meet her gaze.

“hey — are you okay?”

“i just — don’t take this the wrong way —  but….has anything ever happened between you and cait?”

vi freezes. “why….why would you ask that?”

“o-oh, it’s just….she mentioned something about your star tattoo and, i, uh, i don’t know. seems like the type of thing she’d only know if the two of you had —”

vi shuffles away from you beneath the sheets and sits up. “you think i’d cheat on you?”

“you aren’t answering the question,” you notice, watching carefully as a nervous blush blooms across her freckled cheeks. “did anything happen between you and caitlyn?”

“why does it matter? why are you asking?”

“i’m starting to think i have a good reason to.” you get out of bed in a huff and slip on her oversized graphic tee, starting to pace back and forth.

“i — look, i was going to tell you, at some point — we, uh….well, nothing actually happened.”

“well? what didn’t actually happen?”

“baby, just let me explain —” vi catches your arm to stop you. “we were both drunk and high and sharing a cigarette by the pool and….she….we….almost kissed.”

you scoff. “so that’s what this weekend was all about — you felt guilty, so you put on this heart-eyed romantic act to make yourself feel better. everything — this last minute trip, the shoutout at your concert, the fucking necklace you got me — was all because you felt guilty.”

“maybe that’s part of it,” vi admits. “but, mostly, i wanted to see you. i miss you.”

you don’t confess to missing her, too. instead, you say:

“maybe we don’t know each other as well as we used to. maybe….things are changing a bit too much.”

“what does that even — where is this going?” vi drops your arm like its a hot coal, red-hot and blistering. “do you wanna break up?”

the tension hangs in the air, a cloud of smoke and darkness between you and the girl you’ve always loved.

“do you?”

you get on a plane the next morning, bone-tired and heart-heavy with deja vu. 

you kiss each other goodbye, promise that you’ll make things work.

you don’t. can’t. 

a few months later, you’ll break up. 

___

[image: postcard reading GREETINGS FROM PARIS! messy handwriting and misspelled words on the other side]

stargirl,

i promised powder id send her a postcard from paris but im really really drunk rn and urs is the only address i can rememer 

they say this is the city of love and it’s the most romantic day of the yer but it means nothing without u. i miss u.

that mesage was 4 u not powder. just tell her i say hi.

xxx

vi

p.s. i know were not together anymore, but i still love u.

___

track 5: “i’ve loved you for so long” by the aces

(now)

“vi?” 

all the lights in the apartment are off, the only sign that vi is home being her discarded doc martens strewn by the door. there’s a chill in the air, too — the window to the fire escape is open, so you head outside.

the string lights twisted around the railing flicker like fallen stars, and the city sparkles in the late winter night. vi perches over the edge, her silk shirt unbuttoned at the top, her dark lipstick faded, and a cigarette smouldering between her ringed fingers. 

“i stopped at magnolia’s on my way home – got us a slice of confetti cake for dessert,” you try, keeping your voice light in hopes of avoiding a fight. you hoped that the sweet treat would be a welcomed peace offering; that maybe you could sit down in your shared kitchen and actually talk through the conflict like the well-adjusted adults you’re trying to be. 

instead, time collapses into itself; you’re both teenagers again, keeping secrets from each other in hopes to ease future pain, and you have a feeling you’re about to bicker like an old married couple, fall back into familiar patterns.

“sure you wouldn’t want to share it with drea, instead starlight?”

you don’t take the bait; you know vi wants to push your buttons, and you know that she knows exactly how. 

“didn’t realize you still smoked,” you say, moving to lean against the railing next to her. 

“whenever i get stressed.” she takes a drag to prove her point, exhaling smoke into the ink-black sky. “guess we don’t know each other as well as we used to.” 

“vi, please,” you sigh. “can we actually talk about this without you lashing out like a wounded dog?”

and, it’s true — vi’s instinct when she’s upset has always been rushing to sink her teeth into something to protect herself from more harm, or gnawing on old wounds until fresh blood emerges.

“what’s there to talk about?” she snarls, tapping her cigarette, ash falling down into the abyss below you. “how you lied about dating drea?”

“i didn’t lie,” you huff. the winter night shivers down to your bones, but you cross your arms over your chest to keep yourself steady. “i just didn’t tell you that i’d gone out with her, specifically. we each admitted to seeing other people after our break-up. you never gave me a list of every fangirl you took to bed.”

“i told you about caitlyn —”

“the tabloids told me about caitlyn,” you counter. 

“you knew how much i hated drea!” vi barks, finally whipping her head to look at you. “do you not remember how much of a homophobic asshole she was? how she told the entire hockey team that i cornered her in the showers one day and tried to kiss her?”

you bite down on the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste copper.

“vi, if you just let me explain — she meant nothing to me.”

vi laughs, cold and bitter as the winter air. “i mean, jesus christ, you still have and wear the earrings she got you. meanwhile, you never wear that necklace i’d gotten you. as soon as we broke up, you were perfectly happy getting rid of me.”

“please, vi —” 

vi’s eyes shine under the starlight, and she clenches her jaw so tight that you’re worried the bone might shatter. “did you not care about me at all, even after all that time, everything we’d been through?”

you uncross your arms and reach out to her, but she flinches away. 

“violet —”

“no — you stopped caring about me to the point that you dated someone who made my life a living hell.” vi takes a shaky breath, and she chokes out your name. “we were best friends first, and i thought….god, i thought that meant we’d always love each other.”

the words hang heavy in the air, your heart pierced by her icicle-sharp words. in a haste, you wipe away the cold tears burning on your skin, turn around on your heels, and storm back inside. 

vi finds you a few minutes later in the living room. you’re using the swiss army knife you usually keep clipped to your belt to tear through unpacked boxes. though she’s not sure what you’re looking for, vi turns on the lamp to help your search. 

“what are you —”

you finally pull something out and offer it to her without a single word. 

vi’s fingers are still slightly frozen as she holds it, her eyes following the precise swirls and crisp lines, designs similar to the tattoos on her back. you must have drawn them on the worn cardboard.

“what is this?”

“open it,” is all you say before sitting cross-legged on the velvety purple couch, which the two of you had lugged up three flights of stairs from the street corner just the other day. you pick at one of the tears in the fabric as you wait.

vi stays standing while she carefully cracks open the lid, well aware that it could disintegrate in her hands like sand through an hourglass. 

what looks like a forgotten, ready-to-be-recycled shoebox turns out to contain much more than old sneakers: 

valentine’s cards she’d given you in elementary school; notes you passed to each other during class or detention; her first songwriting notebook she must have left at your place; a jolly rancher lollipop wrapper from the halloween party where you first…you know. little trinkets vi had given you throughout the years. receipts, movie tickets, photobooth strips of your younger selves. so carefree and full of love.

her anger, her hurt, melts away into sappy affection; knees turning to jello, she slides onto the couch next to you. 

you watch through the corner of your eye as vi rustles through contents of the shoebox-turned-time capsule, teeth worrying at your bottom lip. 

“you….you kept all of this?” 

“i put this box together on the first valentine’s day after our break-up. i was going to set it on fire,” you timidly admit, rubbing the back of your neck. 

vi snorts. “seriously?”

“some sort of stupid ritual i read about in autostraddle, to get rid of your ex. but when it got to that point…all of this — all these memories — i couldn’t bring myself to get rid of them. i didn’t want to get rid of you.”

you reach into the box and pull out a faded, drunkenly-written postcard, chipped-polish nail fiddling with the french stamp in the corner. 

“what about the necklace?” vi can’t help but ask. she runs her fingers through the delicate, dried violets from your corsage, which your mom had helped vi pick out a week before prom. 

“ekko wanted new sneakers for his birthday, so i did the nobel big sister thing, and sold my most expensive piece of jewellery to pay for them,” you explain. you and vi had instinctively shuffled in closer together, the shoebox balanced on one leg from each of you, your knees touching. “plus — yeah, i was mad at you. god, i hated you — which probably was the reason i started going out with drea in the first place, and i’m really, really sorry that i did. but, i need you to know — i never stopped caring about you. i never stopped loving you, violet, and i don’t think i ever will. ”

silence stretches between you. vi stares at you in the warm living room light — how your eyes are darker, your lips parted, shoulders curling in to protect your bleeding heart. vi gently takes the postcard from you and places the shoebox on the floor. 

“i never stopped loving you, either,” she promises, placing her now thawed hands on your cheeks. “and i don’t think i ever will.” 

you smile softly as vi leans in closer, her eyes flickering between yours and your lips. you nod; vi presses her lips to yours, a tender vow that grows into something hungrier, something with teeth. 

“gentler,” you tell her as you pull away slightly. you want to take your time, inhale the dizzying nicotine in her lungs, savor the acidic red wine on her tongue. 

“gentler?” vi’s already eager, though, her hand inching up your thigh.

“slower, violet.”

vi shudders as you trail your fingers over the tattoo on her neck. “have i ever told you how much i love it when you say my name?” 

“drea definitely wasn’t a fan of that habit,” you confess with a guilty grin. “one of the reasons we broke up is because, well...i kept accidentally saying your name during sex.”

“really?” vi chuckles darkly, a lightning bolt of possessiveness striking through her. “fucked you so good that i ruin you for other girls, hm?”

you roll your eyes, then suck in a breath when vi dips her fingers beneath your underwear, finding you wet and waiting.

“oh, sweetheart, you’re soaking. all this, just for me?”

“hm, i don’t know. drea did look pretty good in that dress,” you tease — because you know how to push vi’s buttons, too. “i have to admit, she was a pretty decent fuck.”

“don’t,” she warns, but her eyes are burning with desire.

you smirk, slipping your hand underneath her shirt. her skin is always warm, but, right now, it’s electric. her abs are sculpted by the gods, pave way to a thick haven of curls between her legs.

“maybe you need to remind me why your name always fell from my lips whenever she’d make me cum.”

vi’s cheeks are red-hot, her heart pounding against your chest as she pushes you onto the couch, and presses her body into yours. 

“it would be my genuine pleasure.”

everything else to ash, and you’re left with this: your lace underwear dangling off your ankle as vi pushes your legs over her shoulders. her slick, skilled tongue sliding through your folds and her rough fingers squelching into your hole at an expert pace.

“f-fuck, vi,” you moan, running your fingers through her messy hair. you don’t miss how eagerly she grinds down onto the butter-soft velvet once you start tugging at the strands more firmly. 

“feels good, yeah?” she moans like you’re the one fucking her. “i’m the one making you feel good?”

“yes.” you exhale sharply when she sucks on your clit. “i’m close, vi.”

“i know, baby,” she drawls, smirking against your skin.

“don’t stop.” you plead as she sucks a bruise into your thigh, fingers curling into you. “don’t stop, don’t stop —”

and, she fucking stops. 

“vi,” you whine. 

“uh-uh, you don’t get to cum quite yet, pretty girl.”

she sucks her honey-soaked fingers into her mouth as she gets up from the couch.

you pout, licking your lips even though you wish you could lick hers. “why not?”

“i’m still mad at you,” vi states. “you really did hurt my feelings. how do you plan on making it up to me?”

vi tries to resist, play the part of the jealous, possessive girlfriend — but, god, it’s hard, with how fucked out, how beautiful you look right now: your lips the color of ripe plums, swollen and stained with vi’s lipstick; the curls between your legs twinkling with droplets of your desire; and your eyes glazed over with lust as you gaze up at her from the couch.

“that new strap we got,” you suggest, still breathless. your breasts strain against the now-wrinkled silk of the shirt you’re wearing. vi’s thankful that it’s hers, because she wants nothing more than to rip the fabric off your body. “you — you can fuck me with it.”

“is that what you want?” vi hums, fire burning in her abdomen as she watches you nod eagerly. usually, you’re the one who takes control, and that’s perfectly fine with vi, but tonight….

tonight, she has something to prove.

you’re both naked by the time you reach the bedroom, clothes thrown across the apartment floor as you take turns leaving bites and bruises on exposed areas of the other’s skin. you get down on your knees, the shag carpet shocking your skin as vi looms over you, gnawing at her scarred, kiss-swollen lips. you help her adjust the harness and attach everything accordingly, leaving a kiss on each star glittering across her thigh once you’re done. she makes you wait patiently as she coats the dildo with a healthy amount of lube.

vi offers you her hand, sticky with lube and your essence from earlier, and lifts you to your feet. she kisses you sweetly before pushing you onto the bed. 

"turn around," vi instructs. "on your knees."

you comply, already feeling yourself dripping onto the comforter in anticipation. vi kneels behind you on the bed, grasping the plush of your hips between her strong hands. you gasp when she spits onto your hole and starts to fuck into you, inch by inch. 

"you okay, baby?" vi asks once she’s halfway inside you.

"yes," you breathe. "keep going.”

so, vi continues gliding further into your silken heat, and once she’s nestled inside you completely, her thighs meeting your ass — that’s when she turns on the vibrations. vi moans, so loud that you’re sure the entire building can hear. she starts grinding into you, but otherwise doesn’t move.

“violet.” you snap your neck back as far as you can, appreciating how perfectly dishevelled vi looks behind you, eyes rolled up to heaven, drool trickling from the corner of her plump lips. “are you gonna keep fucking me any time soon?”

“it’s just so much,” she whines, and continues rutting against you.

it is so much — the waves of pleasure quivering from her body to yours, the subtle burn of her happy trail rubbing against your skin, the melodic timbre of her voice — but it’s not enough. 

“i know, baby. but i need more. if you don’t do something now….maybe there’s someone else i can call…”

your words effectively reignite that spark of jealousy, and she growls. vi slips out slightly, only to thrust back in, over and over, until you’re a moaning mess beneath her. your body starts to shake, but before you almost collapse onto your elbows, so vi reaches one hand to your neck and lifts you up so that her pierced nipples brushed against your back.

she kisses the back of your neck, trailing her hand down to pinch one of your nipples and you hiss, dizzy with pain and pleasure. she moves her other hand below the harness, rubbing her swollen clit in tight circles and gathering as much slick as she can. she brings those same fingers, glistening in the moonlight, to your lips, and you let her shove them into your mouth so you can finally taste her.

"this enough for you, greedy girl?" she taunts. 

you are greedy, when it comes to her, suckling on her digits like a lollipop while she stretches you open so deliciously, the obscene squelching of your pussy accompanying a symphony of moans and curses. 

"yes, violet. f-fuck, yes!" 

you feel vi groan against the crook of your neck, where her teeth had been nibbling at the sweat-soaked skin. 

“fuck — i need to watch you fall apart, knowing that i'm the one who makes you feel this good."

with that, vi flips you over, so she can watch you unravel. she hisses when your nails find purchase on her shoulders, digging down her tattooed back.

“you’re so fucking hot. so gorgeous. i’m so lucky that you’re mine.” vi’s voice is still rough and coarse with lust, but she’s looking at you all wonder-filled and soft-eyed, like you’re a work of art displayed at the louvre. “you….you are mine, right?”

the question is shockingly vulnerable from the woman who’s fucking you at a truly brutal speed, deep enough that you’re sure you’ll feel the lucious ache of her for days now. 

you bring your hands to gently cradle her face as you wrap your legs around her hips. vi snakes one of her hands down to rub at your throbbing clit, while the other rests lovingly on your tattooed ribs, where delicate violets bloom. 

“i’m yours,” you assure, and your heart glows when she beams above you. “you’re mine too, right?”

vi nods, damp strands of her hair tickling your forehead. 

“i’m yours.”

there’s a mess pooling underneath your entangled bodies by the time you’re both finished. 

for a few seconds, you both lay on your backs, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, until vi breaks the silence:

“did you say that you brought home a slice of cake?”

the two of you throw on some clothes, throw the sheets in the wash, and vi pulls you into her lap as you share the slice of cake at the kitchen table, chattering about everything and nothing for however long, until vi glances at the oven clock.

“shit — it’s midnight already. guess time flies when you’re having fun.” vi wraps her arms around your middle, and kisses your shoulder. “happy valentine’s day, stargirl.”

“happy valentine’s day, vi,” you smile, weaving your fingers through hers. you crane your neck back so you can feed her a bite of cake. “you’re the sweetest.”

“this cake’s pretty sweet, too,” vi jokes. she peppers kisses across your face until you’re giggling, skin sticky with frosting. 

“i’m glad you like it,” you laugh. “they do wedding cakes, too, but i think we should explore our options before settling on one for ours.”

vi’s lips pause just as she starts to kiss underneath your jaw. 

“do you mean for our wedding?” she smirks. “is there something you wanna ask me, stargirl?” 

“damn it —” you cough, almost choking on a mouthful of cake. “i - i had this whole thing planned - wait, let me —”

you disappear into the bedroom and reemerge with an intricately painted vase. you hand it to vi and sit in the chair next to her.

“this is what i made in my pottery seminar,” you explain. “it’s supposed to be like —”

“that mural you made of us senior year,” vi finishes, looking between the vase and you with stars in her eyes. 

“exactly. except we won’t have to spend saturday detention painting over it.” you chuckle at the memory as vi shakes her head with a small smile dancing across her lips knowingly. “i was gonna promise to bring my beautiful wife fresh flowers for this vase every week and then i was gonna ask you to look inside….” you gesture at vi to do so, and she reaches in to pull out a velvet box. “and then i was gonna get down on one knee —”

“it’s okay — you’ve already done plenty of that tonight,” vi laughs, and you bump her shoulder playfully. 

“and i was gonna tell you that i love you, that i have for basically my whole life, and that i want to spend the rest of it with you,” you finish, heart fluttering in your chest. 

“i can’t believe you were going to propose to me.” vi places the vase on the kitchen counter behind her, smiling at you softly. 

“is that a yes or….?”

instead of answering, vi walks over to the couch, reaches behind and pulls up a heart-printed gift bag, and hands it to you. she watches intently as you pull out a turquoise-blue collar. 

“damn, i did not know you were this kinky.” you raise an eyebrow at vi. “so, is this a yes to my proposal or….just something you just wanna try in the bedroom?”

“w-what? no!” vi stutters, her cheeks blooming pink. “i mean, yes! well – okay, i also had this plan for valentine’s day.” it’s very endearing, how vi’s scrambling to find the right words. your punk rock girlfriend, flustered and lovesick for you. “okay — there’s a dog at the shelter i thought we could adopt. i brought home the paperwork for us to fill out, if that’s what you want — it’s all in there. there’s a picture of him, too.” 

you reach in the bag again and find a printed photo of an adorable brown lab with the warmest eyes. 

“he’s adorable,” you squeal. “does he have a name?”

“scooby, of course.” vi grins. “so, do you wanna adopt a dog together?”

“i do.”

“i love the sound of that,” vi hums. “there’s one more thing in there for you….”

it’s a ring pop — and you’re not sure if it’s the sugar rush, or the woman getting down on one knee and asking you, so tenderly, so sweetly, to marry her, but your heart is absolutely soaring. 

“we might have to tell our kids a more pg version of the night we got engaged,” vi whispers later, when you’re back cuddling in bed under fresh sheets.

“kids?” you twist around in vi’s arms to find her grinning at you. “is there something you want to ask me?”

“is scooby not our first child?” vi guffaws and you poke her ribs at her cheekiness.

“true.”

“besides, you know what they say, stargirl,” she practically sings. “first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes —”

you cut her off with a sugary, confetti-flavored kiss, your smiles melting into one.

THIS edit is my Roman Empire 🙈🙈

spot the difference,GO!

forced to go to the beach with my family sober born to sunbathe topless with my butch a blunt and endless margaritas

SIGHHHHHH

masterlist !

NEVER BE LIKE YOU, chris sturniolo

synopsis… ( based on this ask ) or in which you used to treat chris terribly in highschool, now you’ve graduated and matured but you weren’t the only one who’s changed

warnings… mentions of bullying, rough sex, semi-public sex, degrading, edging, overstimulation, mean!chris, former bully!reader, creampie, perv!chris if you squint

you used to tell yourself that you would never go for matt and nick’s little brother. yes, you know that they are triplets but chris always seem’d so childish and annoying in your eyes. he used to trail after you like a pet and make stupid flirty comments or compliments.

you thought that chris sturniolo was thee most aggravating person to walk the planet. yet here you were staring at him from across the room. you nudged your friend, “hey when did chris get so cute?” you whispered. your friend shot you a deadpanned expression then rolled her eyes. “after graduation, guess he decided to do the whole glow up thing” she responds.

chris used to be the scrawny kid with messy short hair. now his curls framed his face in a godly way and whenever he moved a certain way, his muscles and veins flexed. you also noticed that when you walked into the house, he didn’t even acknowledge you like he used to.

“why do you care?”

“hm?”

“i said why do you care anyways, didn’t you used to hate him or some shit?”

you shrugged your shoulders. no secret that you used to practically torture the poor boy as if he was some servant or lapdog. chris used to do literally anything if it ment you would reward him even if the gift was as small as allowing him to hold your hand for five seconds. it was laughable at the time the way he acting like a wounded puppy whenever you got mad at him for the slightest thing.

your heart started racing when he looked up and stared dead into your eyes. those blue eyes that you used to not care for now made your body feel heated and achy. you broke contact as you felt your thighs squeeze for some type of relief. “m’gonna go to the bathroom” you mumbled to your friend as you got up.

you looked over yourself in the mirror. you always took pride into your appearance, a habit that stuck since high school. you turned around and opened the door but was shocked when met with chris looking down on his phone.

“uhm, hey” you quietly say causing him to look up at you. a small smirk appeared on his face as he turned his phone off and leans onto the door frame. “hi” he replied. you tried going past him but was pushed back into the bathroom. chris closes the door behind him with the lock without breaking eye contact.

“what are you doing” you say cautiously ask as you look between him and the door. chris shrugs, “just thought i’d talk to you for a sec” he says. as chris walks closer to you, you walk backwards till your back brushes the sink. chris traps you with his hands on either side of you as he looks down with a mischievous smile.

“never thought i’d see that day where little miss royalty would get so nervous around me” he laughs. your breath started to pick up as he leans down closer and closer till your lips brush. you squealed in surprise when chris roughly turns you around so you were leaning on the sink with your back facing him.

you felt him breathing down your neck as his hands lightly trailed down your sides. you let out a sigh and let your head drop back onto his shoulder while your eyes closed. chris starts chuckling then removes his hands. “remember when you used to make me do your homework just so i could sit next to you?” he asks.

you opened you eyes and look at him with a sad expression. “m’sorry for treating you like that back then” you say in a small voice. chris roughly grabs your waist and pushes you off him. you gasped as you felt him bring your hips to meet his growing bulge. “i saw you staring at me earlier” he says, “didn’t know you let yourself go enough to want to fuck a loser” he sneered. you frowned to yourself at the memory.

“be serious for a second chris. i’d never fuck a loser like you” you laughed.

you couldn’t lie, you were a regina george back then. chris was such a sweet guy to you too, he always treated you like a princess even though you already had the royal status at school. you were his number one priority and you took advantage of that. you used him back then. now it was his turn to use you.

you bit your lip to hide the moan as chris grinded your lower half’s together. “chris everyone’s out there” you reminded him. chris laughs, “don’t be loud then. unless you want them to hear you act like a whore” he taunts. your dress was pushed up and your laced underwear was yanked down.

“who knew your clothes could get even more slutty after high school” chris grumbled. you always wore clothes that would be at the brink of the dress code. now that those bullshit rules can’t effect you, you wore even more revealing stuff whenever you didn’t have any important place to go to.

your breath hitched as you felt his thumb swipe the arousal from your folds. you looked up to the mirror infront of you as you saw chris suck his thumb off with a groan erupting from his throat. “waiting so long to taste you” he whispered. he brought his hand back down and inserted two fingers into your dripping cunt as he bit his lip.

you moaned as you locked eyes with him in the mirror then brought your hand up to cover your mouth. chris smiled as he worked his fingers in a rapid pace, not caring for how hard it was for you to keep your voice as low as possible. you rolled your eyes to the back of your head as you felt a knot forming in your stomach.

but chris saw your pleasured expression. he yanked his fingers out of you and slapped your ass. you whined at the lost feeling then whimpered as you felt chris get a tight hold on your hair, yanking your head back. “you don’t deserve to fucking cum” he grunted in your ear.

chris pulled his pants and boxers down, just enough to release his aching cock. a sigh of relief fell from his lips as he stroked himself slightly. he lined himself up to your wet hole then pushed in with slight aggression. a muffled moan left your mouth as you tightened the hand that covered it .

you heard chris breathing heavily and felt his fingers dig into your skin. he moved his hips slightly as if he was testing the waters meanwhile you were using his delay as time to try adjusting to his size. chris was definitely bigger than any other guy you fucked and you were starting to regret not taking his offer for a date two years ago.

as soon as chris decided that he was ready, he rocked his hips slowly then picked up the pace. his thrust were aggressive. harsh. needy. as if he wanted to fuck his anger into you. but also can’t get enough of you. you had one hand trying to balance yourself on the sink counter while the other still covered the moans and whimpers that fell from your lips.

“waiting so fucking long to stretch this pussy” he groans. somehow the aggression grew more rough and since chris was already a bit too big, it felt like he was abusing your cunt. you took your hand off your mouth then reached back to try to push him away. chris laughs as he roughly pins your hand onto the counter.

“are you trying to run from me? thought this is what you wanted” he snarled, “i always give you want you want, don’t i? fucking spoiled brat” his voice was laced with venom. you felt your eyes water but couldn’t tell if it was from pain, pleasure, or regret.

“mhm chris!” you squealed as you felt him brush your cervix. you caught a glimpse of his face, a smile as he bit his lip while watching you through the mirror. “‘member when you called me a whiny bitch? look at you now, crying on my dick” he laughs. you close your eyes as the vivid memory flashed into your brain.

“but you promised” he mumbled. you rolled your eyes, “don’t tell me you’re gonna cry you whiny bitch” you mocked.

“m’sorry! m’so sorry!” you cried. your knuckles grew white as your grip on the counter tightened. the familiar knot in your stomach reappeared, this time even tighter than before. “ch-chris! gonna cum!” you warned. his cock didn’t stop ramming into your now puffy cunt. “yeah? gonna make a mess on me?” he muttered.

you nodded repeatedly as you felt your self at the brink of an orgasm. your vision went blurry with white splotches as you felt yourself release on chris’s cock. “t-to much..” you tried saying in shaken voice. you couldn’t even breathe properly, it felt like he was rearranging your guts. the overstimulation was overwhelming but fuck it felt so good.

it finally dawned on you that this wasn’t for your pleasure but his. chris was actively using you as a sleeve to wet his dick and to get back at you for all those years. you felt him pull you closer as if he was hugging you from the back. you felt his sweaty forehead touching the back of your neck.

“finally get to fill you up- fuck” he moaned as you found yourself coming to your second orgasm. with the rest of your strength, you slammed your hand onto the counter as you felt yourself somewhat peeing on him. you heard chris whimpering as he tightened his hold on you and tried pulling you closer.

a series of curses left his mouth as his load pumped into you with sloppy thrust. you couldn’t help letting out a loud moan as chris gives you one final harsh thrust before pulling out. you felt your knees buckle after chris removes himself from you. you watched through your wet lashes as he fixes his clothes and pockets your underwear.

as chris exits the bathroom, you tried lifting yourself up with the help of the counter. you felt the thick sticky mixture of your fluids and his load dripping out of you. through the crack of the door you heard matt telling chris that everyone else left to get food then asked why you both took so long to which chris replied by saying ‘you needed help in the bathroom’.

xoxo, kairo

𝐀 𝐌𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐕𝐮𝐥𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲

fluff| Tom Riddle | ༉‧₊˚🕯️🖤❀༉‧₊˚.| | Tom Riddle Masterlist | Masterlist

Summary: Y/N asks Tom Riddle for something he's never given—comfort. Though hesitant, Tom awkwardly mimics a gesture of affection, pulling her into an embrace. As warmth spreads between them, Tom battles with unfamiliar feelings of connection, but when Y/N pulls away, he struggles to hide his desire for the closeness to return.

Word Count: 718

Tom Riddle was always observant, his sharp mind attuned to even the smallest changes in the people around him. And today, something about Y/N was… off. She wasn’t her usual self, quieter than normal, and there was a subtle tension in her movements that hadn’t escaped his notice. They sat together in the dim common room, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. He studied her closely, brows furrowed.

"Tom," Y/N's voice broke the silence, soft and hesitant. She glanced at him, eyes pleading in a way she rarely allowed herself to show. "Can I have a hug?"

For a moment, he stiffened. A hug? Tom had never been one for displays of affection. It wasn’t something that came naturally to him. His mind raced, trying to recall if he had ever seen anyone in his life offer comfort in such a simple gesture. But none of that mattered now, not with her looking at him like that. Still, he hesitated, unsure, his body rigid with discomfort.

When Y/N reached out, her hand brushing his shoulder, he instinctively tensed. Yet, before he could pull away or say something cold to mask his uncertainty, she leaned in, pulling him gently toward her. Something in the way she clung to him—like he was her anchor in a storm—made him react.

Tom moved awkwardly at first, imitating what he'd seen others do, slipping one arm around her back and, after a beat of hesitation, placing the other behind her head. He'd seen people embrace like this, hadn’t he? It seemed… right, though foreign. Y/N nestled against him, her warmth seeping through his robes, and despite himself, Tom found the rigid lines of his posture beginning to soften.

At first, every fiber of his being resisted the closeness, but as the seconds ticked by, something strange began to happen. His body slowly relaxed, the tension in his shoulders easing as the unfamiliar warmth spread through him. He didn’t understand it, didn’t quite know how to process the sensation of having her so close, but it wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, there was a certain peace in it, a calm that settled over him, one he hadn't anticipated.

Tom Riddle was not used to comfort—neither receiving it nor giving it—but as he held her, the scent of her hair and the gentle rise and fall of her breathing made something inside him shift. He didn’t want to admit it, not even to himself, but he was… enjoying this. The closeness, the contact, her trust in him.

And then, just as he was getting used to the feeling, Y/N pulled away. Tom's arms, which had grown accustomed to holding her, instantly felt cold in her absence. He couldn’t stop the slight furrow of his brow as she moved out of his grasp, nor the faint flicker of displeasure that crossed his features.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N murmured, as if she thought she had overstayed her welcome in his arms. She gave him a small, tentative smile, unaware of the internal battle waging within him.

Tom sat still for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I hated that," he said, his voice flat and emotionless, as if he was making a simple statement of fact.

Y/N blinked, a look of mild surprise flickering across her face. “Oh… okay.”

She started to turn away, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something he didn’t let slip often. Desperation, maybe? He quickly masked it, but not before it left an imprint on his thoughts. He hadn’t hated it. No, the truth was far more uncomfortable to admit: he wanted her to do it again. Desperately.

But Tom Riddle was not one to give in to such vulnerabilities. Instead, he scowled and crossed his arms, his tone curt, almost irritated. "I mean, it's pointless. There's no need for such… gestures."

But the way his eyes lingered on her, how his body seemed to slightly tilt in her direction even as he tried to maintain his cold composure, told a different story. Deep inside, buried beneath layers of control and calculated indifference, Tom knew he craved that closeness again. He wouldn’t admit it, not now, but the memory of her warmth remained, and he silently hoped she’d reach for him again.