Sevika's favorite slut

“Come on, baby, let me hear your pretty sounds,” Sevika whispered, “I know you’re holdin’ back.”

Your cheeks heated up. How did she know?

You didn’t want to sound fake or cringe. You were a little insecure about how you’d sound during the deed, even if you’d never really verbally made any sound that could suggest pleasure.

Sevika’s arms were wrapped around your waist as she held you down and ate you out like her life depended on it. You could feel her bare tits rubbing against your legs every now and then as her tongue plunged into you.

“Come on, pretty.”

You let out a small whimper. Sevika’s head stilled. You felt her smirk against you.

“You’re such a fucking demon.”

Sevika chuckled and curled her tongue inside you making you gasp and grab her hair with one hand. You couldn’t help thrusting your hips towards her face, needing more friction at your special area.

“Please, don’t stop. Don’t stop— oh, God!”

“Told ya’ I’d make ya’ moan,” Sevika said with a satisfied hum before kissing your clit.

Her mouth moved as if she’d known you forever before she finally flicked your clit one last time and you came all over her face.

“That’s a good girl,” Sevika pulled away.

You looked at her, cheeks bright red but your brain was already determined to seek revenge.

“Let me return the favour.”

REST IN ME

It had been a long day. A long few, really, in which you had sat in the Medarda estate—moving to one room or another only by the gracious aid of your servants—restless, frustrated, and most importantly, utterly useless.

Only a short time ago had Ambessa received the letter, a call of higher powers, who beckoned her on a pressing and imperious mission—the concept of which was one you were not unfamiliar, as you were her righthand-woman, and had been for decades even prior to your marriage.

This calling had initially arrived in the form of a pristine, wax-sealed letter, and at that point in time, there was no doubt you would go. Ambessa hadn't even bothered to ask, she discussed it with you over dinner and your lack of argument proved an abundance of consent. You wouldn't have had it any other way.

It was especially inconvenient, however, when two days before the ships were set to sail that you unexpectedly fractured your leg during training, impairing it so tragically that even the care of a mage would not be enough to seal the wound time. It was of no help at all that Ambessa was unable to look you in the eye for the day following your initial injury, as she had been the unintentional and unwilling cause of it.

You were incessant that you should go, no matter your state—the two of you had trudged through wars in much worse conditions, relying only on eachother and the dwindling remainder of the Wolf’s Reapers to survive—yet it had all fallen short of success.

Tonight, the matter was especially urgent—that being because it was the last night before Ambessa was scheduled to depart from Bel’zhun with a select few of her warband, leaving you behind. It was your last night to raise your case, to prove that, despite your injuries, you were still the fighting woman you had been before; you were more than capable of sailing alongside her, just as you had always been.

“To go out with an injury such as yours would serve as a great risk to both you and the purpose of this campaign,” Ambessa stood before the burning hearth, her hands placed on her broad hips. She stared, not at you, but into the pit of flames, watching them spur wildly against the withering wood. “A broken hand, a lost finger—all things I could make do with, yet this impairs your ability to travel entirely. You can't expect me to—”

“I’m not expecting you to do anything, Ambessa.” you intercepted, bristling in your spot on the couch. You had been at it for what felt like hours already, and all you'd been generously rewarded with was an unending series of ‘no’s.’

If there was anything you hated in the world, it was inferiority. While most of the world already viewed you as Ambessa’s counterpart, you could always rely on her to treat you otherwise—you were capable, she said, you were her equal.

Yet now, you felt diminished. Unserviceable. Your chest still thrummed with the unpredictable music of war, just as you were sure hers did, but despite the scars, despite the ring, despite the living spark in your eyes and bark in your voice, it all amounted to nothing. She was an unmovable, unquestionable force, but you bit anyway, because being the only person to ever stand up to the General and survive was what made you so much of a Medarda anyway. “There is nothing in this world that we have not done together. As General and Commander, as political partners, as wives; one thing goes astray and suddenly you abandon that?”

“I’m not abandoning anything!” she snapped around then, her eyes flared wide, her voice thin and exasperated. There was an edge to her voice that you regarded with great caution, the invisible and ever-dangerous line you towed becoming more and more evident. “I am making a decision—a necessary decision—to ensure our success, and yet you question me. You question me as if I have not led us into victory time and time again, as if I'm not the reason you sit here now, only marked by kindred, rather than your soul in her clutches entirely!”

She approached you where you sat, towering over you in all of her predatory glory, a clear disdain in the way she pursued her saturnine-colored lips. Unwilling to feel small, you pushed yourself as upright as you could go, digging your nails into the plush of the couch.

Where you reared your head like an intimidated animal poised to fight, she extended her hand to cradle the strong outline of your jaw, her palm warm and calloused. The fight in your eyes flickered, but it did not disappear.

“You always fight,” her voice had lowered, the steadiness returning to it. The disdain in her eyes morphed into something ineffable, buried beneath layers of honed stoicism. “When do you ever rest, child?” She thumbed your bottom lip.

”That’s not…” Despite the way you longed to cave into the affection, you turned away, unable to give up your pride—but she pulled you right back in.

Ambessa leaned in, enough so that you could feel the gentle waft of warm air from her mouth, taunting your own lips. You glanced down, unable to resist instinct, and you realized then how badly you wanted to kiss her, how much you wanted to feel her against you after so many nights of absence and arguing.

“Entertain me, would you?” She beckoned you, pressing her lips to the corner of your mouth, making you shudder. She took your balled hands, pulling you closer, closer, pushing past your walls with ease and watching them crumble with a subtle spark of knowingness in her eyes. “You’re my wife, after all. If I cannot appease you, then why not do the one thing we can both agree on, mm?”

You were resistant—not to her, never to her—but to give in so easily. You clenched your jaw, torn between clashing your lips together with the passionate fervor and choosing to never, ever forget the taste of it, or keeping your head cocked to prove your strength.

She forced your eyes on her, lifting her chin to assess you squarely, the way her eyes picked you apart with such aimless effort serving to spark a simmering flame, flickering low between your thighs. “So resilient,” Ambessa lifted your head to begin kissing your jaw, one of her knees settling onto the couch cushion beside you, causing it to sag under this newfound weight.

“You know what you're doing,” you uttered through gritted teeth.

“Then stop me.”

She eased onto the couch entirely, on you, settling atop your body—the very one designed to hold her, worship her, make her feel good. Your hands settled on her hips out of instinct, and the soft pressure of her on top of you was familiar, grounding, and all the more enticing to your growing wetness. She moved slowly, tauntingly—each kiss and suckle of her lips placed purposefully, drifting over soft spots and scars, overwhelming you in her warmth.

Most, if not all people, did not deign the fearsome General Medarda to be a gentle lover. A woman with as much brute strength as her must, surely, be a force to be reckoned with in the bedroom—and to that, these oblivious guessers would be both right and wrong.

Ambessa could be ferocious. She could be indefatigable, restless, hungry; thirsty for every last drop of you that she could squeeze out before you were wrenched dry and near soulless. She could fuck the everliving sense out of you and keep you bedridden from your duties, all with a low, sweet tone, and quiet whispers of ‘sweet thing’ and ‘filthy girl.’

Yet, she could be gentle—rare as it was, she knew when it was needed, even when you could never speak it aloud. She could smooth her large, deft hands over the muscular expanse of your back, digging into your tenseness, making you come without having ever touched your dripping pussy. She could move by candlelight and fuck you slowly, murmuring in your ear, listening to you softly sob with overstimulation all the while pleading for more until you dropped.

Be it one or the other, something she never failed to do right was guess which one you needed, and just how much of it you quietly desired. It was like a minor glance into your eyes was a complete enrapture of your soul, its contents, and everything you buried inside. She was always happy to give, so as long as you asked and took.

You were gasping quietly against her now, her hands undoing the clasps of your shirt and massaging the sore flesh of your bound chest beneath. You squirmed when she slipped her fingers beneath the compressive material, eager to assist her.

She pulled the tight thing off of your body and pushed back the unbuttoned contents of your shirt, drinking in the sight she had seen so many times before. You moaned softly when she cupped your supple breasts, rolling her thumbs over your sensitive nipples, making you grab the bulk of her arm and squeeze.

“Do you want this?” her breath was hot against your ear, face already flushed, eyes half-lidded with your teeth sunken into the plushness of your bottom lip. Both of you already knew the answer.

“I…” you panted, brushing the excess of your short hair from your perspiring face. “I just.. I want you to—”

Her hand traveled upwards to the base of your neck, encompassing it in the expanse of her palm. You couldn't help but utter a groan at the gentle pressure, a weakness of yours she knew very well, and one she never failed to use to her advantage. You lifted your chin, struggling for words and drowning in your own conflicted desire.

“You want me to what?” She parroted, squeezing your throat to force your attention directly on her again. ”Say it, child. Say you want me to fuck you senseless, to help you remember your place.”

You rasped, “Ambessa—”

“You just want to be full of me—is that it? Such a filthy little thing…” her eyes narrowed, scrutinizing you, making you feel shamefully hotter and hotter until it was unbearable.

She squeezed again, and you lurched for her wrists—not with any desire to remove them, but to have something to hold while you squirmed beneath her. “Please,” you mustered, your resolve wavering if not washing away entirely. “Please fuck me.”

Her brow raised, the pressure on your throat easing, giving you enough leeway to regain some of your bearings and take in the sadistically content look on her face.

Ambessa moved forwards to kiss the side of your mouth, reeling away just when you turned to capture her lips, her hands descending to the underside of your thighs to effortlessly raise you off the couch.

The rest came and went in a haze of colors and heat. You were so desperate to have her hands on you, in you, that you seemed to drift from your consciousness entirely until your back hit the mattress of your bed, the two of you enclosed in the grand, master bedroom of the house. You blinked yourself awake, acutely aware of her abrupt absence on top of you, and glanced around to find her hoisting up a silicone strap-on to her hips—the sight of which made you clench your thighs, the space between them longing to be filled.

You made haste of your nakedness, stripping yourself bare and straining against the urge to relieve yourself as she kept you waiting. Impatient as you were when she got you riled up, you remained untouched when she appeared at the edge of the bed, a familiar, smug expression plastered upon her face.

She seized you by the ankle to tug you from your spot on the bed, pulling your supine body to the edge of it so that her hips rested in-between your sculpted legs. She ran her hands over your thighs, savoring the markings, scars, and curves of them. “I’ll never get tired of seeing you like this,” she smiled, grasping your hips.

Then, she flipped you over. She planted a hand on your lower back, just above the curve of your ass, and shoved two fingers inside your wetness. You groaned, pressing your face into the already-crumpled sheets, subconsciously clenching around her. Although the two of you weren't no different in stature, Ambessa remained taller, bigger than you; her hands encompassed yours by no challenge and her just two of her thick, deft fingers was enough to fill you, if not bring you to orgasm.

You bucked your hips against her hand, revoking a single, stinging slap on your ass, forcing you to muffle a particularly crude noise of both pain and pleasure.

“Patience,” she warned you. “You’ll get what you want if you behave.”

You whined against the sheets, sputtering. She had to admit—the sight of you deigned to gasps and lewd noises under her hands alone. ”That’s it,” she crooned, feeling your pliability under her, stretching you slowly. “Good girl.”

Her fingers left you, but there was hardly a chance for you to noise your protest before she was sliding her thick, silicone shaft inside of you, your back arching, head thrown back. Her hand lifted from your back to your neck, pushing you back down by the throat, fucking you against the bed.

”Aaah…” you might've been drooling, face-down in your large, king-sized bed, which shook with the immense force she used to thrust rhythmically into you. Your hands were useless for all but grasping fistfuls of the crumpled bedsheets, feeling your limbs devolve into lax underneath your wife’s powerful frame. The truth was, there was nowhere else you'd rather be.

“Filthy thing, just can't get enough,” she squeezed your neck, nearly enough to bruise. The conflicting mix of pain and pleasure drove you mad with need.

She bent over, her chest to your back, swallowing you in her frame. Her arms enveloped your waist and, suddenly, she was fucking you at such a depth you were unsure you'd ever be able to walk again, your body uselessly wriggling underneath her. ”Do you feel good, mm?”

”Fuck—” you muster, voice but a hoarse whisper in the air. ”’mbessa- ‘mbesa please, oh, god—fuck, I'm gonna cum—”

She mocked you sweetly, “Oh, are you now? You're gonna cum on this cock?”

”Yes, yes—fuck, yes…” you buried your face in the mattress again, spawning a pool of spit where you gnawed on the sheets. The knot forming in your lower stomach was so unbearably sweltering, having evolved from a carnal need between your legs to something that engulfed your entire person, making you crave more of her, all of her.

“Don’t stop,” you pleaded, your eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck me, fuck me… shit—”

Your orgasm swallowed you up in an overwhelmingly icy wave. Your thighs dripped with your exposed arousal, trembling, numb; you gasped and panted beneath her, completely spent, your hair a ruffled and damp mess of sweat and tangled. Her thrusting continues for a while after your climax, until you were whimpering feebly beneath her, subdued and exhausted.

You were too fatigued to speak, or even move as she pulled her slicked strap out of you, peering at its completely coated surface in amusement. You treaded on the cusp of consciousness all the while she pulled the attachment from her hips and discarded the very last of her clothes, before sweeping you up into her arms and settling with you in a less-soiled spot on the bed.

While you mumbled inaudibly against her, she spread your legs (wary of your injury) to carefully clean the mess between them with a handkerchief. She combed her fingers through your tousled curls, pressing her lips against your temple.

“You always take me so well,” she praised you quietly, smoothing her other hand over your hip, memorizing the already-familiar curves of your body. You leaned against her.

“Your injuries do not render you useless, girl. What you can do with your body is far from half of what makes you a Medarda.” she looked into your eyes, stroking you. “And it is certainly not why I married you.”

You inhaled deeply, then exhaled. An invisible weight seemed to lift from your shoulders at her words, easing the tender bruise they had caused. “I just.. didn't want you to think I wasn't capable anymore,” you said weakly.

She peered at you for a moment, then smiled proudly. “You are more than capable,” she kissed you again, this time on the lips. “You have just proven yourself so.”

~The first time you wrinkle your nose at the smell of iron on her jacket and quietly say, “I’ll wash it for you,” she just stares at you.You don’t ask what happened. you don’t want details. You just hum softly while scrubbing the stains out. She doesn’t know what to do with that.

~Your apartment is warm. Clean. Smells like bread and herbs instead of smoke and alcohol. When she comes over, she automatically scans the windows and exits out of habit.

~You’re in the kitchen, flour on your cheek, smiling at her like she’s not terrifying. “I made stew,” you say softly. No one’s ever welcomed her home before.

~You cannot watch her fight. You’ve tried once. You had to turn away halfway through. “I don’t like seeing you hurt people,” you admit quietly one night. She expects judgment. Instead you add, “But I know it’s how you survive.” That stops her. You don’t romanticize it. You don’t glorify it. You just… accept it.

~If she comes home bruised and bleeding, you go pale immediately. “Sit down,” you whisper, already grabbing bandages. Your hands are gentle. Careful. Almost trembling. “You don’t have to look,” she mutters once when you wince at the blood. “I’m not looking at the blood,” you reply softly. “I’m looking at you.”

~You show love through small acts, cooking her favorite meals. folding her clothes neatly, straightening her gloves and metal arm wraps, wiping soot from her cheek with your thumb. She pretends not to care. She absolutely cares.

~The first time she sees you scrubbing her boots clean, she stops you. “You don’t have to do that.” “I know,” you say gently. “I want to.”It does something to her chest she doesn’t know how to name.

~You are soft. Not weak, just soft. If someone raises their voice at you, Sevika appears immediately. She doesn’t even have to threaten. The glare is enough.

~If you ever get overwhelmed by violence around you, she’ll guide you out quietly. One large hand on your lower back. Shielding you from the worst of it. “Stay behind me,” she murmurs. She doesn’t expect you to toughen up. She adjusts around you instead.

~You don’t try to change her. But over time… she starts washing her hands before touching you. She leaves her bloodstained coat outside your door instead of tracking it in.

~She fights harder to end things quickly when she knows she’s coming home to you. Your softness doesn’t make her weaker. It gives her something to protect that isn’t power.

~One night you admit, “Sometimes I feel silly. Like I’m too gentle for this place.” She steps closer. Tilts your chin up. “Don’t.”Her thumb brushes your cheek. “Zaun doesn’t get to decide what survives here. You do.”