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Vi is one of your closest friends, which comes with a lot of baggage. Most notably: you’ve spent a truly obscene amount of time listening to her brag about her hookups. Endless commentary about how good she is in bed, how she ruins girls, how they can’t stop texting her after.
She makes it sound effortless. Casual, even. Like breaking someone down into a breathless mess is just something that happens when you look like her. And fine. Maybe it is.
Vi's hot. Like, objectively. She’s built like a dream and tattooed and pierced. More than that, you've seen her work her charm and you've watched every single one of her prey fall for it hook, line and sinker.
That's not even speaking on the way she chooses to leave the house. Always in some well-worn tank top that clings like a second skin, the hem just high enough to flash that toned stretch of stomach, that hypnotizing trail of hair that disappears under her waistband, always paired with those slouchy pants that hang off her hips.
You’ve spent far too long staring at the combination of belly button piercing, happy trail, the flash of her tattoo which she has lovingly dubbed her "cramp stamp". It’s a deeply concerning habit.
And the worst part of all of this is that she knows it. She talks about sex like she’s doing you a favor just by recounting it. She’s so fucking smug about it, too. All lazy smirks and suggestive little asides, like she’s daring you to get jealous, like she’s testing how much you can take before you cave and ask her to prove it.
And look, it’s not like you’ve ever doubted her. You haven’t heard a single complaint from any of the girls she’s brought around, and Vi’s never exactly had a shortage of admirers crawling back for more.
Whatever she’s doing, it’s working.
She’s probably got some kind of secret technique, something tried and true, and fine, maybe she is as good as she says. You’ve told yourself that a million times, tried to brush it off, tried to act like you're above it all.
But it still pisses you off. How dare she be hot and great at sex? That’s just greedy.
So yeah, you’d built up a little image in your head. Vi: cocky, charming, effortlessly dominant. And maybe it’d be easier to ignore if she didn’t make a point of acting like she could have you, too, if she felt like it.
You’ve spent so long being annoyed about it—resenting how badly you want to find out what she’s like when it’s your hands on her—that it catches you completely off guard when you finally get the chance…and realize you’ve been dead fucking wrong about everything.
It starts the way these things usually do: with Vi in your space, being a problem. Technically, you're trying to get some work done, but Vi showed up unannounced like she always does, already halfway through your best snacks and making herself at home in the most disrespectful way possible.
She touches everything she's not supposed to, sprawls across your freshly made bed like she owns the place, and she's flipping through channels on your tv with an air of boredom.
And still, you let her. Because trying to teach Vi to behave is a lost cause and because, deep down, you kind of like it when she acts like she belongs here.
She asks about your day. Asks why you're all tense, voice soft and low like she actually gives a shit. And she does. If Vi has at least one redeeming quality, it's that she's an amazing listener.
So, you tell her. About the shitty people you had to deal with, the little annoyances of the day, the way it all stacked up and left you irritable and wound tight. Vi hums along as you talk, nods, makes the occasional sarcastic remark in your defense.
She’s a surprisingly good sounding board. Unfortunately, she also has a habit of saying completely unhelpful things like:
“Maybe you just need to get fucked.”
You spin in your chair and stare at her, eyebrows raised. She’s made herself comfortable, sitting cross-legged on your bed with a stupid, self-satisfied look on her face. “Oh yeah?” you ask, deciding to rise to the bait of the back and forth. “You know somebody?”
Vi doesn’t even flinch. Just leans back onto your pillow like she owns it, hands behind her head, an open invitation if you've ever seen one. “I was referring to me, obviously.”
You’re on your feet before you know it, crossing the room with the full intention of yanking the pillow out from under her head and smacking her with it. Because she’s the single most aggravating person you know, and because if you don’t do something, you’re going to have to sit with the heat that just sparked low in your stomach.
You'd have to deal with the way your pulse kicked up at the casual way she said it, like it wasn’t a big deal, like fucking you would be so easy.
You stop at the edge of the bed, looking down at her. She meets your gaze like it’s a challenge. Like she’s waiting to see if you’ll call her bluff. Her eyes drag down your body and back up, slow and intentional, and you roll your eyes to keep yourself from reacting.
“Please,” you say. “You couldn’t handle me, Vi. I’m a ride you wouldn’t survive.”
“Wow,” she grins, “and you’re not even gonna let me defend myself?”
You cross your arms. “And what would that entail, exactly?”
Vi’s voice drops as her hand reaches out, fingers slipping through the loops of your jeans like it’s nothing. “You letting me eat you out,” she says, and the way she says it makes all of your resolve go running. “You’d have to lose these, though.”
She tugs you forward until you’re flush with the bed, and there’s not even a hint of a smirk anymore.
You don’t say anything at first. Just reach down and pop the button of your jeans, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on Vi like you’re daring her now.
Her mouth actually falls open a little when you drag the zipper down, and when you shove the denim over your hips, her gaze drops like a magnet. You see the exact moment hunger overtakes her—watch the way her pupils blow wide, how her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip like she’s starving and you’ve just crawled onto a plate.
It only eggs you on.
You shimmy out of the pants completely, let them fall to the floor without ceremony. Vi looks like she’s trying very hard to maintain her composure. She doesn’t say a word, but the air between you changes. Gets sharper around the edges.
She moves fast once she recovers, shuffling back so you can crawl onto your bed, and the second your head hits the pillow she’s there. Straddling your thigh, kissing you like she’s trying to prove something.
And it’s messy right away. Eager. She moans into your mouth like she can’t help it, and you wonder if she gets this worked up with every girl she hooks up with. Her hands are everywhere—your waist, your ribs, the side of your throat, back down again—and she’s already pressing in like she’s trying to climb inside your skin.
When she finally pulls back, she’s breathless and flushed and trembling a little. “You sure?” she asks, voice hoarse, barely there.
You smile, a goading thing. “You’d better not disappoint.”
Something about that makes her whimper. Actually whimper. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing because that is so not the reaction you were expecting.
Vi pushes your shirt up with shaky hands, rucks it up high enough to expose the soft slope of your stomach, the swell of your breasts.
She leans in and kisses right between them, then works her way down. Warm mouth, gentle teeth, a flick of tongue as she travels lower and lower. When she gets to the hem of your underwear, she pauses, nosing against you like she’s trying to commit the scent to memory.
And then she looks up.
Her expression’s wrecked. A little dazed, eyes glassy and wide like she still can’t believe you’re real. Her hands shake as she curls her fingers under the sides of your underwear, tugging gently. When she finally peels them aside, it’s with the kind of hesitation you wouldn’t expect from someone who talks so much game.
She looks nervous. Overwhelmed. Nothing like what you were so sure you were about to get from her. It gives you a surprising sort of thrill.
The second Vi gets her mouth on you, it’s like a switch flips. There's none of her careful confidence, no teasing or side remarks. Just a raw, greedy sort of need. She licks a long, firm stripe up your center and moans like it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted.
From there, it’s a mess. She's a mess. Her mouth is everywhere, her tongue frantic and sloppy, dragging through your slick again and again, not bothering to be careful or precise. It’s all nose and chin and mouth, her whole lower face glazed with you, and she doesn’t stop to catch her breath once. She’s moaning into it, whimpering like she’s overwhelmed despite just starting.
"Fuck, Vi," you moan, meeting her desperate strokes with a more controlled grind of your hips. "Nobody's gonna take it from you."
She doesn't seem moved by your assurance. If anything, you make her double down; she's sucking your clit between her lips and circling it with her tongue. It's so obvious how desperately she wants to make you feel good.
You glance down at her between your thighs, flushed and soaked and completely gone. And that’s when you notice it: the shameless grind of her hips against your sheets. The way she’s rutting down into the mattress, chasing friction like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
"Are you seriously humping my bed, right now?" You ask, vaguely amused and a little breathless. She doesn't answer, but her grinding slows as if she's embarrassed to be caught.
You could let it go, but you kind of want to hear her try and answer. Want to see if she can still form a complete sentence. You reach down, bury your fingers in her hair and give it a harsh tug. It's less gentle than you intend for it to be because one of Vi's canines drags along you clit at that exact moment.
Your fist clenches tight at the crown of her head. Vi cries out like she’s been struck. Her whole body jolts and then she shakes. Her mouth goes slack against you as tries to catch her breath.
You laugh. You have to. It bursts out of you, breathless and incredulous. “No fucking way,” you say, staring down at her. “Did you just come?”
Vi manages to lift her head, and the second her mouth leaves you she gasps like she’s been underwater. She’s panting hard, face slick and splotched with color, lips shiny, chin wet. Her eyes are wide, too wide, and it looks like she’s trying not to cry. She shakes her head, once, frantic. “N-No. No, I didn’t. I’m fine. I can keep going.”
You raise a brow, and she immediately leans forward, like she can’t bear the distance. “Please,” she breathes, voice cracking on it. “I can make you come. I can. I just—just give me one more chance, I swear. I’ll be good, I promise, just—just let me try again.”
And now she’s begging. Whimpering and flushed and trembling, practically drooling between your legs. Her hands are braced on your thighs like she might physically collapse if you told her to stop.
You stare down at her, heart pounding, breath caught in your throat. And you're understanding now that those girls weren't coming back because Vi's good at fucking. They're coming back because she's so fucking pitiful, and it's so, so hot.
You’re still laughing when you push her from between your legs.
“On your back,” you say, voice cool and easy like you’re not two seconds from riding her into dust. Vi obeys instantly, breath still shallow, movements a little uncoordinated as she flops onto her back and stares up at you like you just hung the stars.
You straddle her waist first, slow and deliberate, dragging your hands down her front. You pull her tank top down with the motion, hands brushing over the silver bars through her nipples. She gasps and pushes her chest into your hands; you can already feel her trying to grind up into you.
You make a note of their sensitivity.
She’s flushed from chest to cheeks, already trembling again beneath you, and you smirk as you glance down between your legs. “Gotta make sure you don’t have anything to grind against this time,” you murmur, hooking your fingers into the waistband of her sweats. “God knows you can’t be trusted.”
Vi helps. If frantically kicking her pants off like they’re on fire counts as helping. You shake your head, thoroughly unimpressed.
“You came so fast,” you tease, shifting your weight and crawling up higher, up her chest and then further still. “You sure you’re up for another try? You gonna focus this time?”
“Y-Yeah,” she breathes, hands already settling on your thighs. “Please. I swear.”
You make a show of it. Turning around, facing away from her, giving her the full view of your ass as you slowly lower yourself down. Her breath hitches in an almost comical sense. You hover for a second just to be cruel, dragging your fingers lightly along your own inner thigh while she watches like it’s killing her.
“Focus,” you say again, mock-stern. “Be good, yeah?”
Vi’s already babbling, nodding, running her hands up and down your hips like she’s trying to commit them to memory. “I will. I’ll be good. I promise. Let me…just let me—”
You sink down onto her face.
She groans like a dying woman, mouth latching onto you with more purpose this time. She suckles at your clit, tongue pressing and dragging and curling. Her grip on your ass is borderline bruising, pulling you down until there’s nowhere left to go, no space left between you. She’s breathing you in like air, moaning against your cunt like she could live off of it.
For a second, you let her have it. Let her find that rhythm. Let her settle into something that might actually get you off. Her mouth is focused now, a little more precise, her desperation filtered into determination. And that’s when you decide to fuck with her again.
Your hand trails down her stomach, fingers skating over the soft dip of her happy trail. You toy with the silky hairs there, light at first, just a feather’s touch. Her hips twitch beneath you. Your fingers dip further between her spread, slick thighs. You ease your finger between her puffy lips and you stroke once, gently, over her clit. Her rhythm immediately stutters.
“Really?” you laugh, dragging two fingers through her folds now, slow and taunting. “That easy, huh? Barely touched you.”
She’s moaning again, muffled into you, her hips rocking up against your hand in these little, shameful jerks. You spread her open with two fingers and watch the way her clit throbs, swollen and needy, wet enough that she’s absolutely ruined the sheets beneath her. “Jesus, Vi,” you say, not even bothering to hide your amusement. “You’re soaked. You really wanna come again that bad?”
She tries to nod. Or maybe she’s just twitching. It’s hard to tell with how wrecked she is—mouthing at you desperately, drooling into your cunt, barely even trying anymore. Just chasing friction.
You lean forward, your hands braced under her knees, and without ceremony, you wrap your mouth around her clit.
Vi screams. Actually screams. One sharp, shocked cry, and then she’s babbling, sobbing, bucking up into your mouth while her hands clutch helplessly at the sheets. She’s not even pretending to maintain her composure.
Her mouth is still working up between your legs but she’s barely there—too far gone, too close to the edge. You take her right up to it, suckle her through the trembling build, feel her clench under your tongue. And then you stop.
Vi sobs. Loud and wrecked.
You do it again. And again. And again.
Until she’s shaking like she’s freezing, tears clinging to her lashes, breath hiccuping with every pant. You lift your hips just enough to hear her whimpering beneath you, dazed and glassy-eyed and pleading. “Please,” she whispers, voice shredded. “Please, let me come. I need it, I—I’ll be so good, I’ll do anything. I need it.”
You sigh like she’s the most exhausting burden in the world. “This was supposed to be you proving yourself,” you complain. “Why should I be doing all the work?”
Vi opens her mouth to argue and that’s when you drop your hips back down over her face, cutting her off completely.
She moans in response, and it sounds like relief.
You sit up. Your fingers find her slick and swollen and begging for it, and this time you don’t hold back. You work her clit just right, push her through the edge until she’s squirting, entire spine kicking up violently, nearly bucking you off with the force of it. Her thighs are trembling, her breath is gone, her whole body spasming under you—but you don’t stop.
You ride it out. Ride her out. Grind yourself down on her mouth and chase your own high, her hands still clinging to your hips even as she falls apart underneath you.
When you finally come, it’s with a sharp cry and a shudder, the wet sounds of her whimpering into you pushing you over the edge. You collapse forward, chest heaving, sweat-slicked and shaking.
“Good girl,” you murmur.
She whimpers like she might come again just from that.
You move so that you are face-to-face once more, and catch her chin, tipping it up so you can kiss her—slow, indulgent, soft to where she’s trembling. Vi melts into it, sighing into your mouth like you’re oxygen, even as you kiss the tears from the corners of her eyes.
She's a mess: face blotchy and wet, chest heaving, lashes clumped together. And you take a little joy in it. Perhaps, a bit of pride.
“Big fucking baby,” you murmur against her lips.
Vi groans. “Shut up,” she mumbles, but there’s no heat behind it. Just embarrassment and the lingering tremble of someone who’s barely holding it together.
Then, with the audacity of someone who didn’t just sob through an orgasm, she asks, “Was it good for you too?”
You pull back and stare at her. And then you laugh.
Full, loud, mean laughter, right in her face. She pouts immediately, which is deeply unfair—because it actually looks good on her. Her bottom lip sticks out just a little, her brows knitting up like you’ve broken her heart, and it makes something warm twist in your chest.
“I came,” you say, “but not because of you.”
Vi blinks. “Wait—what?”
“I made myself come,” you clarify, smiling down at her. “Your mouth was just kind of…there. Guess you made pretty sounds, though.”
She looks crushed. Like you’ve kicked her puppy…like she is the puppy.
“No, no, no,” she breathes, already shaking her head. “That’s not—just give me one more chance. I swear, I can make it good. Really good. You just gotta keep your fuckin' hands to yourself, and I can do it!”
You roll your eyes dramatically, but you’re already shifting back onto the bed, settling into the pillows with a sigh. “Fine. But I’m not holding my breath.”
Vi scrambles off the mattress like a baby deer on slick tile, legs shaky, still red in the face and wet all over. She makes a beeline for her bag at the edge of the room, rifling through it like her life depends on it.
“You brought your strap?” you ask, eyebrows raised. “Slut.”
Vi grins at you over her shoulder, finally looking smug again. “It pays to be prepared.”
She steps into the harness, adjusts it fast and sloppy, and climbs back onto the bed with a completely and entirely unearned confidence. “You ready to have your world rocked?” she asks.
You barely smother a laugh behind your hand. “By all means.”
You shift over to avoid the wet spot she left the first time, which earns you a flushed little apology and a sheepish smile. Vi settles between your legs, hands reverent as she touches your thighs.
She starts with her fingers. She's slicking them over your clit, slow and warm, before pushing two inside you in one smooth thrust. You clench around her and she moans, like she's the one being filled, her mouth open, panting already. Her eyes flutter like she's trying to stay in control and failing miserably.
It's incredibly embarassing and arousing. This, of course, only serves to fuel her delusion that your reactions are entirely because of her skill.
She works you open like it’s her life’s calling, pumping her fingers with that same mix of purpose and desperation that’s becoming very, very familiar. And when she finally lines the strap up and pushes in—slow, trembling, her eyes never once leaving your face—it’s like she’s afraid she'll miss something.
“Does it feel good?” she asks, almost instantly. “Am I—fuck—am I fucking you good?”
You don’t answer right away. Then, you make a non-committal noise. "Maybe actually start first?"
She starts to move, picking up a rhythm that’s more frantic than practiced. The filth starts falling from her lips in a rush. Broken, needy declarations like, “You feel so good,” and “Wanna make you come on my cock,” and “Please let me, I need to—fuck, I need it.” You can feel her grinding down with every thrust, clearly chasing the pressure against her own clit. It’s pathetic. It’s hot.
You grab the hem of her tank top, tugging her closer, and lean up just enough to wrap your mouth around her pierced nipple through the fabric. Vi cries out, hips stuttering. Her hands scramble for purchase on the sheets as you suck hard, teeth grazing her through the cotton. Your other hand finds her other nipple and gives it a firm pinch.
Vi whines. And it's loud, high-pitched, and absolutely filthy. She’s fucking into you now with wild abandon, rutting like an animal, like she’s trying to grind her clit to dust against the harness. "Told you not to fuckin' touch me," she whines, pushing her chest into your mouth with insistence. "M'gonna come."
And you can feel it. The way she’s spiraling, the way her rhythm is starting to fall apart again.
You pull back from her chest, panting. “Don’t you fucking stop,” you warn her. “I haven’t come. You better not fucking stop until I do.”
Vi sobs, but nods. “I won’t,” she promises. “I won’t. I’m gonna make you come, I swear, just..fuuuck.”
She doesn’t slow down. Her whole body’s shaking, tears welling in her eyes again, spilling from the corners as she fucks you with single-minded desperation. You start giving her encouragement: filthy, cruel things like “That’s it, baby, fuck me like you mean it,” and “You gonna cry again before I come or after?” and “Look at you, making a mess of yourself for me.”
Vi falls apart above you. The noise she makes is broken, punched out of her lungs like she’s just been struck. Her body spasms as she comes again, twitching and whimpering and soaking the harness, hips still rocking through it even as she loses control.
You come with her, finally, the pressure boiling over as your body clenches around the strap. You cry out, fingers digging into her sides, riding it out together as Vi continues to thrust like her life depends on it.
Vi is barely holding herself upright, panting and heavy like she's going to die at any moment. You blink up at her, not bothering to hide the amusement in your expression. Her hair is stuck to her forehead, her eyes are glassy, and her cheeks are wet. Her lip is trembling.
And she’s still buried inside you, trembling.
You reach up, pat her cheek gently. “There you go,” you coo. “Maybe you're not so hopeless, after all.”
Vi makes a wrecked, helpless sound.