kei

She tenses at your boldness before looking over, the blanket draped lazily over your baby belly as your hand tries to go unnoticed into her boxers, „What… did I tell you about-”

„I shouldn’t disrupt you during your thirty minutes of mandatory report reviewing, I know… but it‘s so hard when you are laying next to me like… that…“, you coo and kiss the pulse on her neck as you trace the hairy stripe leading underneath her underwear, noticing a slight tick in her jaw from pressing her teeth together. 

„Like what…“, she asks, still not daring to move the slightest bit even when you slip your hand past the hem of her boxers, the warmth of her crotch making you hum in satisfaction as you gently engulf her soft dick in your hand, letting your index finger swipe over her cockhead as your thumb rubs agonizing circles over her sensitive shaft. You hear her breath shaking in kind before her hips buck into your hand all on their own. 

„Don’t know… it’s the hormones, my love…“, you whisper against her skin before sitting up to reach her jawline with your lips, „Been torturing me for the entire day…“, you mumble against her skin, so eager to make her forget about the diplomatic matters she needs to attend to.

Her dick started reacting almost immediately to your hot touch, growing in size as her fingers twitched slightly at the suppressed reflex to just pin you down like a prey being caught, yet on days like these she‘s rather feeling like the one getting preyed on whenever hormones seemed to get the better of you.

„Oh… you… gulps poor thing…“, tormented by your hand stroking her under the covers she takes off those awfully good-looking glasses from her nose, placing them on her nightstand before finally turning to her side to face you, her own hand immediately fidgeting the fabric over your swollen belly as you smile to yourself at your silent victory over her. At the end of the day she is still so incredibly enamored by you.

„How do you want me, dearest…?“, she mumbles against your forehead, her other hand playing with the strands of your hair as you feel her warm hand roaming over your tummy, her paperwork already a long forgotten afterthought.

„On top… just on top…“, you sigh and let her carefully reposition you into a slouching posture on your own pillow as you feel the weight next to you shifting between your legs. Her bulge suddenly now significantly bigger as she sat before you on her spread knees with the tips of her happy trail slightly sticking out from beneath the shirt. That sight alone was enough to get a deep, longing exhale from you as you fight the urge to ask her for a shirtless view on her trained body. 

„Is this to your comfort, ma cherié…?“, Arlecchino bends slowly over your figure, her open hair falling down in a white cascade onto your pillow as you nod, completely smitten by the beautiful view in front of you and suddenly that wedding ring felt a lot heavier on your finger than usual. At your confirmation she leans down, letting her lips softly brush over your temple as she starts to press kiss after kiss to your flushed face from your cheeks to your nose up to your forehead and down to your lips which she captures in a kiss that could be described in a way the moon‘s reflection hits the water surface of a lake in the silent hours of the night. Breathtaking, gentle and sadly not everlasting when she started to coo and praise you between kisses.

„My wonderful Wife…“

„So enamoring…“

She just couldn’t stop herself with this view on you, lips parted, cheeks flushed in a traitorous red with your sleep gown shoved over your baby belly that she felt a tight squeeze behind her sternum whenever she looked at you a little too long. 

Her Wife is pregnant. From her. With her child. Pregnant as in you will give birth in a little over two months to a living being. 

„P-Peruere…?“, you mumbled as your hand came down on her cheek to which she immediately placed her own over yours, pressing a soft kiss to your palm. „Hm…?“

„Nothing… You were staring just now…“ 

„Am I not allowed to admire the beauty of my Wife anymore…?“, she almost sounded a little insulted when her fingers shoved aside the soaked cloth of your panties, making you gasp when the cold hair hit your wet folds, the slick sticking to your brush like an invitation for Arlecchino to delve between your legs head first.

„S-Staring again- I can’t really shave with a baby in the way, I‘m sorry-”

„I‘m as scared of a bit of hair as a forest ranger in Sumeru is scared of their jungle, darling.“

The sight was killing her.

The Knave had a lot of delightful experiences in her life, most of them included you. From your first meeting to your wedding up until the first child.

But seeing her dick neatly placed between your breasts- squished together by your hands with the already leaking tip dripping with her arousal that already ran down to your neck….

Celestia won’t let her get past the pearly gates. Ever.

It wasn’t the first time you used those pretty things to get your Husband off, but it wasn’t a regular occurrence either. Especially with your current situation. Parenthood exhausted the both of you and neither of you had properly found the time to truly get back to… bed sports…. but Archons know that some Release was desperately needed. Just something to deal with the challenges you face every day with an eight month old baby.

And you wanted to start slowly. Like you always used to.

It first started purely innocent. A few soft kisses to the lips when she joined you in bed after a dreadful day filled with meetings and annoying paperwork. A few whispers about how much she has missed you and the baby throughout the day. It‘s all that’s been occupying her mind for the past months. You. Your baby belly she is missing dearly. Your child. And how she wants more children. Seeing you nurse the bundle of joy in your arms, waking up in the middle of the night to a cranky baby that grows quiet and suspiciously happy to see their Father pick them up from the cruel prison called „crib“ is giving the Harbinger more problems than she would like to admit. Especially to you.

It is usually advised to have at least a one year difference between birth and the next pregnancy and Arlecchino would rather spend a day with Dottore than put you through the process of pregnancy and labour again before you are fully healed. Even if that means exhausting her hand instead of you.

But just something seemed to be in the air when you pushed your tongue past her lips, sneaked your hand underneath her sleepwear to cup the tent thats raging inside her boxers and then soon found your hand underneath it. Grabbing her, squeezing her, jerking her right off as she thrusted her hips into you. She didn’t ask. Didn’t complain. Just savored what you were willing to offer her.

Of course, you noticed it. The way she eyed down at night, when you wore nothing but one of your silken gowns, when you came out of the shower or even when you looked like your worst after a restless night. You always noticed those bloody eyes eating you up. That cursed hand silently adjusting the position of her pants. A sudden shift in her position to cover her crotch.

As her wife, hiding was useless.

So was cleaning up the mess she left inside her underwear. Cock still twitching in your hand as you milked her out for all she was worth, bathing in the breathy moans of your Husband as she towered over you, kneeling on the mattress as her hands grabbed onto the headboard of your bed with all her might until the wood started to splinter beneath her grip.

But despite your hand being coated in the pearly, thick evidence of her climax…. Arlecchino still felt incredibly unsatisfied with her hardness still pushing against the fabric of her pants. She almost felt ashamed about it, having her poor wife take care of her carnal desires like this.

Poor??? You were anything but poor. You knew exactly what you wanted. And that was to fulfill your Husband’s needs just like she did it for you plenty of times throughout your relationship. And you wanted her lean back every once in a while too and maybe you’re not in the perfect state for all types of positions and durations yet… there was still a fair share of stuff you could do for her.

Which is why she found her cock between your tits now.

„You… really do not have to do this for my sake.“, she whispered, eyes fixed on the stretch marks running up the sides of your chest. She was sane. So sane. Totally not going feral in her mind.

„I want to. How often have you done the same for me….? Just see it as… a gift from your wife…. For your hard work…“, your voice was laced with a sweetness and warmth only reserved for her. The one that ring on your finger belongs to.

But all Arlecchino could think off at the thought of of a „gift“ from you was yet another child. Another nine months of taking care of her pregnant wife. Running warm baths for you in the evening. Massaging your bump before bed. Watching your peaceful face as you take yet another pregnancy nap.

She quickly shook those off.

„I… I will let you this on-” she was interrupted by the sudden movement of your makeshift hole. Working your tits around her back and forth and causing her to visibly shiver at the feeling around her. Not as nearly good as your pussy swallowing her whole but it was better than nothing. As long as it comes from you, Peruere will take everything you are willing to give her. And she will not complain.

She couldn’t help this image of you burning itself into her mind again. Pregnant with child. Her child. Goodness, Arlecchino might just pass out at thought of it. Just thinking about beautiful you looked back then (Always did. Still do.). The thought of sharing and creating her own future with you- someone who was never granted true freedom.

So unwell. She is so incredibly unwell. Chest tight with excitement- but no. That has no place here.

Wait. She will have to wait.

But for now she will enjoy this little fantasy of hers.

──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

Sevika slides into the booth tucked in the bar’s back corner.

In a practiced manner, her eyes scan the room. Over her shoulder to the stairs leading up to her apartment. To the wrought iron door at the front of the room. Left to the bar, right to the bathrooms. 

She smirks in approval of The Last Drop’s Friday night debauchery, settling in like the foundations of a home well-loved. She reaches for the leather-bound cigar case you’d gifted her a few months back. She keeps the note that had accompanied it in her wallet; a folded piece of pink stationery scribbled in handwriting she’d learned so well after over a year of watching you furiously jot down recipes and grocery lists. “consider this a token of my gratitude and an apology for making you stay up until midnight to taste cupcakes… it most definitely will happen again. :) <3” 

Her cigar teeters in her mouth as a wicked grin spreads across her lips. “You boys are so screwed,” she mumbles, lighting the cigar as she glances down at the game of blackjack in progress. “Whatever,” one of her future opponents jeers, “we’re just warming up. Waiting for your ass.” She chuckles through her nose, relishes in the smooth burn of smoke escaping with it. 

“Yeah? Well, yours is about to get handed to you. Give ‘em here.”

Oxidised copper glints in neon green light as she reaches for the deck of cards to deal a new round, accompanied by the grumbles of her competition claiming she’s “just going to rig the game again.” 

She chortles again, blows a ring of smoke out of her mouth, inhales, and, The smell of honeysuckle. 

She turns back to face the stairs again, a nearly untraceable smile gracing her lips as she awaits your descent. A voice like honey to match as you round the corner, beaming when you finally catch sight of her. “She’s out like a light,” you declare, recalling the sight of the girl you'd just put to bed, all snuggled up and holding her favorite blanket as tight as she had been when Sevika found her. “She’s had a big day,” Sevika shrugs. 

It had been a big day for the now six-year-old, what with all of the birthday celebrations that had ensued. 

Just a few months ago, it dawned on Sevika that Isha had been around for over a year now, but that they’d never celebrated her birthday. It’s unbeknownst to most that tucked away beneath all of her brooding and brawn lies Sevika's firmly held belief that every birthday should be celebrated. She still tries to feign indifference to the occasion, but after a long night of experimenting with different buttercream frosting recipes and a few-too-many glasses of red wine, you’d learned that since her parents’ passing, Sevika always tries to do a little something to honor each of her years. She’d finish off a bottle of her father’s favorite whiskey in her darker days, or recreate her meal from her mother’s recipe book when things felt lighter. 

More than anything, her birthdays were a chance to pay homage to her parents. An acknowledgment that not everyone gets the privilege of another year; a promise that she isn’t wasting the time she’s been gifted. That she's using each and every year she gets to make them proud. 

This past year- and for the first time since she was 15- Sevika wasn’t alone for her birthday.

Instead, she pulls at the chain of the neon “Open” sign in your bakery’s window, switching it off as you lay eyes on your planner one last time. 

You tsk, shaking your head and grabbing a pen to jot something down on the color-coded calendar. “I have to get powdered sugar tomorrow,” you muse, “don’t let me forget.”

“10-4,” she replies, sauntering over to you with an amused grin as she watches you chew your bottom lip; something you always do when you’re focused. She leans down to mirror your position, placing her elbows on the counter and her chin in her palm. 

“Oh- and it’s Doris’s birthday on Sunday! I’ll swing by and drop something off for her… she really likes cinnamon rolls…”

You’re talking to yourself. Sevika still hangs onto every word. A smile stretches across her lips, slow and lazy. Her eyes follow your mindless ministrations; the way you twirl your pen with your dominant hand, the way the other taps rhythmically on the cool granite beneath it, the way you click the pen twice every few moments-

“When is your birthday?”

The question pulls her out of the trance she'd unwittingly fallen into. “Oh… uh…” She knows she’s about to get in trouble for not having told you. She also knows that following the trouble she’s about to get into, you’ll immediately make a fuss about making sure the day is properly celebrated, that she feels properly appreciated. The thought makes her heart ache. You already make her feel that way every day. She can’t stand to ask you for more. Alas, she knows better than to rob you of the opportunity to dote. She grabs your wrist- gentle and gingerly as always- and peers down at the watch face adorning it.

“Well, I was born at 7:02 p.m., so technically, it’s in… 42 minutes?” A bashful smile breaks out on her face, her hands coming up to cover it. 

“Sevika!”

Her name on your lips. She’ll take it any way she can get it, even if it means you’re scolding her because now, you don’t have time to make her favorite dessert. So, she lets you fuss, lets you sing her happy birthday and demand that she make a wish before she blows her candle out, and ends up crying over a slice of carrot cake because it’s been over 20 years since someone cared about this day as much as she does. It wasn’t long after that night that Sevika had her realization about Isha’s own birthday. She spent the next few weeks searching high and low for a certificate of Isha’s birth, or even just information on where she came from; who her parents were, where they lived, and if they might have had relatives who might know about Isha and when she was born. You never had the heart to tell her that she was setting out on a mission made nearly impossible by Zaun’s lack of record-keeping; partially because you figured Sevika could use any and all slivers of hope when and wherever she could get them, and partially because you figured that deep down, she already knew it was a lost cause. 

The two of you are folding laundry on a Sunday afternoon when she finally concedes that she may be out of luck. Her shoulders are slouched in defeat, and her lips are pursed in thought as she thumbs over the silk tag on Isha’s favorite blanket. I get why she does this, she thinks. It does feel nice. 

Her gaze falls down to the silk tag between her thumb and pointer finger, and suddenly, she sits up straight. 

Your anticipatory gaze is already on her when she speaks.

“She turns six next week.” 

Your brows knit together in confusion. 

“Are the prophetic visions new? Or…” Sevika doesn’t answer; just thrusts the blanket toward you, and lo and behold, there it is. Written in black ink on the butter-yellow baby blanket’s tag:

Isha

5-15-2019

The revelation unearths a side of Sevika you’ve never seen. By the time May 15th rolls around, her apartment is covered in confetti, balloons, and stuffed animals wearing party hats; all Sevika’s doing. But, naturally, a birthday party for Isha is nothing without a batch of her favorite blueberry muffins, and you’re more than happy to deliver. 

The recent memory of wiping sugared blueberries from the corners of the girl’s mouth pops into your head, and a warm smile appears on your face. 

“She sure did,” you agree with Sevika, placing a hand on her shoulder as you take your seat beside her. “I’m gonna get a drink in a second; do you-” Sevika’s eyes are still trained on her cards as she slides a vodka-cranberry over to you. “You take such good care of me,” you purr, and she glances over at you with a smirk and a cocked brow that says, ‘Careful.’

You know exactly what you’re doing. You know she gets off on taking care of you.

You innocently shrug your shoulders as you wrap your lips around the two tiny straws in your drink. She chuckles, as always, because, “you know those are for stirring, not for sipping, right?”

Tonight, she makes no comment, letting you sip through your too-small straws in peace in exchange for focusing on the cards in her mech hand and the grip the other has on your thigh.

The grip that tightens a few rounds later when the table’s sore loser is replaced by a newcomer. 

He’s a patron she’s yet to come across. An alpha she's yet to come across. It's unusual. Unexpected. Sevika isn’t fond of the unexpected.

She’s less fond of the way his eyes seem to be drinking you in, and the way you seem to stiffen underneath his ogling.

“Mind if I join?” he queries. 

She might have already slapped this man's cocky grin off of his face if you weren’t to her right, already noticing the clench of her jaw that he doesn’t yet know is a threat. 

You wrap your arm around hers, thumb rubbing circles into the taut muscle of her forearm. ‘It’s okay,’ your touch says. ‘Calm down. I’m okay.’

You read her so well that, sometimes, she thinks you might be telepathic. She relaxes under your wordless comforts so quickly that you think the same of her. 

All she offers the man is a grunt and a single nod toward the empty seat in front of him. Her eyes don’t leave him for a second as he sits. She’s determined to solve this man like her morning crossword, and you nearly mistake the soft whir of her prosthetic for the sound of wheels turning in her head. 

She shuffles the cards, deals two to each player at the table, lights a new cigar. She doesn’t take her eyes off of him once. She’ll kick herself when she finally does, because as soon as her icy gaze relents, he’s got questions, and they aren’t about the rules of the game. 

“She yours for the night?” He asks. He cocks his head toward you, but the inquiry is for Sevika; an inquiry that earns him a deep scowl. 

“She’s not a whore. Walk down the street and hang a left for that.” 

“You would know, huh?”

Strike one.

The look she gives him this time around is scarier. It isn’t one of annoyance, of being mildly agitated. It’s chiding. Stony. The look she gives Jinx and Isha when the answer is no, and you’d better not ask again. 

The man raises his hands in surrender, leans back in his chair with a lazy grin, and says he’s sorry, but you both know he’s happy to be making trouble.

“Just play the damn game, man,” another player bemoans. The rest of the table’s occupants are just here for whiskey and a card game, not to see Sevika beat the shit out of some random prick; and they all know the latter is exactly where this interaction is headed. 

Unfortunately, it seems that said prick wants to get the shit beat out of him more than everyone else wants their whiskey and a card game.

“She’s real pretty,” he drawls, looking down at his cards. 

“She’s not interested.”

Sevika notes a second strike, huffing out a laugh as dry as your words. 

“Mouthy, too, huh? Back in my day, they didn’t let whores talk this much.” Three strikes, and you’re out. Sevika leans back with an eerie calmness. The rest of the table has already begun rising from their seats. 

“Honey?” she purrs, pinching her cigar between two fingers and placing it on the ashtray at the center of the table, “You wanna go get us another round?” Sure, you’ll make yourself busy doing that, but that isn’t what she’s really asking you. 

What she really asks is: “Can I beat his ass yet?”

Your sweet hum of confirmation says, “Yes….” 

The kiss you place on her cheek before you head to the bar adds, “...And don’t go easy on him.”

You’re not even two feet away before you hear the sound of his chair scraping against the floor, his cries of protest as she grabs him by the collar of his leather jacket and drags him out to the dumpsters behind the building. 

“New guys,” the bartender sighs, shaking their head as they get to work on a vodka-cran and whiskey served neat. “They never know when to stop.” 

You’re already halfway through your drink when she returns, walking over to you. To the naked eye, she’s completely unassuming; you’d think she just went to take a piss. The splatter of blood on the collar of her shirt says otherwise, but it’s not like she’d let anyone but you get close enough to notice it. 

The blood stain isn’t what grabs your attention, though. Instead, it’s the look in her eye, the furrow of her brow, the small frown pulling down at her dark lips. 

Uncertainty. 

Sevika is never uncertain after a fight. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” You ask, your voice low and urgent. 

She clenches her jaw, shakes her head, exhales sharply through her nose. 

“Nothing. Just tired.”

Your eyes narrow. 

“I think I’m gonna call it a night. I should probably stay at my place with the girls tonight. You know, make sure they get to Doris’s alright in the morning.”

You nod, letting her get away with thinking you take her words at face value, but the entire point of having Doris watch the kids was to spend time with each other; to be together, not apart. For all intents and purposes, Doris was like a mother to you, and for all intents and purposes, you’d become something like a mother to Jinx and Isha yourself, so Doris had offered to start keeping the girls every other weekend.“Let me watch the grandbabies,” she’d warmly insisted, “You two deserve the break every once in a while.”

That was the point. That the girls would go off to Doris’s for a few days, and you and Sevika would indulge in some much-needed alone time. But now, for the first time in over a year, Sevika’s asking to sleep alone. 

You let her. You know better than to push too hard when she’s closing up. 

But never, in her guardedness or uncertainty, does Sevika neglect to take care of you, and when she still insists on walking you home, a weak smile breaks out on your face. 

──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

You let Sevika sulk for two days before you show up at her doorstep with a slice of carrot cake and a stern request for an explanation. 

You’re not ignorant of the drawbridge Sevika tends to raise when she feels powerless, but this is the longest you’ve ever waited for it to come back down, and you can’t help but worry that, maybe, you’ve done something wrong. 

Her face falls when you admit this, and she knows it’s time to let you back in. You sit across from each other at her small kitchen table, her eyes downcast, but her hand still stretching across the unstained wood to grasp your own. You rub slow, firm circles into the back of her hand, the motion steady and reassuring. Exactly what you are to her.

“You remember that asshole at the bar the other night?” “Unfortunately,” you deadpan. “You fucked his shit up, right?” She snorts, her lip curling up into a smirk. She doesn’t need to tell you that of course she did.

Her smirk falters. There it is again; uncertainty. 

“He just, uh… he said something that kind of got under my skin.”

He was already pinned up against the wall and his nose was already broken when he got these final words in:

“You fight like she belongs to you,” he'd jeered, “but I didn’t see a bite.”

To say this got under her skin was a massive understatement. It rocked her. So much so that she felt the ground underneath her feet quake, and the world she’d built around you fracture. 

She realized in that moment that she holds you the way she does, so gentle and gingerly, because she’s afraid she’ll drop you and you’ll shatter. That everything you have will crumble, that she’ll realize none of this is real;

Because he was right. You don’t have her bite. You aren’t really hers. 

“How so?” you ask, your voice so soft amidst the one she’d been chastising herself with for the past two days. 

She rubs her temples, mulling over your question with a deep sigh.  

“I don’t know… I mean, don’t you feel like we’re just playing house sometimes? I mean, don’t get me wrong, It’s not that I-” She interrupts herself with a huff, and you squeeze her calloused hand, encouraging her to continue.

“It’s not that I haven’t wanted to be with you; to be around you, and for you to be around the girls… but I just… I don’t know.” She does know. She’s just terrified to say it.

You give her a knowing smile. 

But you don’t fill in the gaps; you don’t finish the sentence for her. 

You’re going to make her say it. 

And finally, she does. 

“I want more.”

Your hand freezes, but your grip remains firm. Your eyes are glued to her own.

You’re still here. You’re still steady, still constant, but you need her to be sure. 

“You want more?”

Her shoulders slouch as she sharply exhales, her brows knit together, and you swear you hear her whine. 

“I don’t want to play pretend anymore. I want you to be mine.” 

You nod, slow and knowing. A pregnant pause settles over the kitchen table until,

“Bite me, then.”

Her expression doesn’t change, but her pupils blow wide and her jaw ticks. 

“If you want me to be yours, make me yours.”

Her voice is damn near an octive lower when she speaks again. 

“And you know what you’re asking for?” “If I haven’t made it clear that I want a life with you, then I’m sorry for not being forward enough,” you chortle. “I want to be yours, Sevika. I want you. Now.”

She stands with a relieved chuckle. “Now?”

“Right now,” you repeat with a giggle, rising to meet her.  

“Right now? Right here? And ruin my handmade kitchen table?” 

She’s bending you over it anyway.

“You seem to have made up your mind already,” you challenge, pushing back against broad hips. She grabs at the flesh of your own, leaning down to place a kiss on your jaw before she mutters, 

“I’ve had my mind made up since the day we met, sugar.” Her hands smooth over the swell of your ass, kneading at the juction of your thighs just below it before sliding the soft fabric of the white sundress she’d bought you up to pool around your waist.

And then, she’s kneeling before you; like you’re her altar, and she’s come to leave an offering. 

She tugs your underwear down and tastes you like it’s worship. 

Her hands find purchase wrapped around your legs, and her tongue works through dewy petals in slow, purposeful strokes, lapping up the nectar pooling at your core. She swirls her tongue around your clit like the cubes of ice she’d put in her vodka-cran earlier. She hates vodka-crans, but she missed you more, and when she tries hard enough, she can convince herself she’s tasting the too-sweet cocktail on your mouth instead. 

But nothing makes her tispy quite like tasting you does, and she doesn’t stop until she’s drunk off of you. 

You cry out, high-pitched and broken, and she pulls her mouth off of you with a pop.

She stands up, turns you around, looks down at you with lidded eyes and glossy lips tugging up into a smirk. “Why’d you stop?” You pant, brows pulling together. 

“Missed your face,” and she’s so dizzy off of your pussy, she’s damn near slurring her words.

You scoff in amusement, pulling her in for a taste of your own arousal. “You’re such a lover boy,” you muse against her lips. 

“I’m whatever you want me to be,” she replies. 

“Is that right?” 

She quirks a curious brow at the sound of your wicked purring.

“And if I want you to be inside of me?”

Darkened eyes peer down at you with a new hunger. 

“What you say, goes, baby.”

She reaches down to tap the back of your thigh in a wordless command, and you wrap your legs around her waist. She buries her head in the crook of your neck, shamelessly inhaling the scent of honeysuckle and musk as she carries you to her bedroom and lays you out onto soft sheets and silk pillow cases. 

“They’re so much better for your hair,” you’d excitedly explained as you shoved them into the cart. 

“What you say, goes.”

She’d said it and meant it then, too. 

Your hands are tugging at her belt now. You pull her in, muttering something about how much you missed her, how badly you want her.

She yanks it off in one quick, fluid motion. You make even quicker work of unbuttoning her pants, sliding them off of broad hips and long legs, and throwing them toward the pile of clothes already discarded on the floor. 

When she sits back on her heels to take her shirt off, you do the same, reaching for the hem of your pretty white dress. 

“Uh-uh,” she suddenly chimes, “leave that on.”

You chuckle, leaning back on your elbows as you watch her strip her last layers of clothes off. 

She’s a bronze statue, sculpted by the Gods themselves, glimmering in the golden hour light spilling through her windows. Your jaw is slack, eyes heavy as you drink her in. They dart from feature to feature; the stray tendrils of thick, black hair falling around her strong jaw, the glittering scar spreading across her skin like lightning, the swell of her breasts and the cut of her waist, the dark trail of hair leading straight down to her length, hot and heavy, already weeping for you.

Your eyes snap up to meet her own, and when they do, she pounces.

Just as ready to ruin you as you are to be ruined.

You gasp into a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue. She only pulls away to breathe, dazed eyes drinking in your features. 

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty…”

She plants a kiss on your nose. “You know that?” Another on your cheek. “Such a pretty girl.” Chaste kisses trail across your jaw, teeth find the lobe of your ear, an open-mouthed kiss is pressed against your neck. “Can’t wait to watch you fall apart. So fuckin’ pretty when you fall apart.”

A broken whimper escapes you. You feel her smirk against your throat. 

“Yeah?” She croons, tongue darting out to slide over your windpipe. “You want me to take you apart, baby?”

You whisper a “please,” subtle as the twitch of your hips.

It’s all the begging she’ll let you do for the rest of the night. Being loved by Sevika means wanting for nothing, and she’ll be damned if you ever have to beg for the pleasure she was put on this earth to give you. 

She reaches over for the bottle of lubricant on the nightstand, and you’re already spreading your legs for her. 

“Somebody’s eager,” She teases, stroking her erection and spreading the clear gel over its length. 

“Just missed you,” you pant, all but drooling as you watch her prepare herself for you.

A pang of guilt shoots through her. She knows you don’t mean anything by it, knows you aren’t trying to make her feel bad for closing off, running away. 

Still, she feels bad anyhow. Knows you didn’t deserve that. Props herself up with her free hand, lines up with the entrance of your heat, and vows to make it up to you. 

She drives her hips forward, bottoming out inside of you. You both gasp, and she stills inside of you, gritting her teeth and trying her best to stay calm despite the rhythmic pulse of your walls around her cock begging her to ravage you.

She sure as hell could- and she sure as hell wants to- but just as always, she puts you first. 

Your breath quickens as the sensation of being so full proves overwhelming, and her hand snakes up from your hip to splay across your chest. 

“Breathe for me, sugar,” she lowly coos. “You’re okay.” 

She gives you a soft smile and gentle praise when you obey, her palm warm against your skin as it trails up to cup your jaw. She leans down, body caging your own.

“You ready?” She asks, her mech hand reaching down to hook your leg up and around her waist.

The pulse of your heat around her speaks for you.

“Janna above,” she chortles, letting her head fall down to nestle into your shoulder, “I’m really trying to keep it together, here.”

You lace your fingers through the soft strands of hair at the nape of her neck and turn to place your lips on the shell of her ear. Then, you whisper, low and dangerous.

“I don’t want you to keep it together. Fuck me like you mean it.”

A growl against your neck, sharp canines scraping the skin, and the delicious pressure of the head of her dick against your cervix, all at once. 

If this is how it starts, you can’t wait to see how it ends. 

Your grip on her tresses tightens as she sets a punishing pace, snarling in your ear.

“You gonna tell me if it’s too much?”

“Uh-huh,” you manage through airy moans.

“Good. You gonna remember you asked for this when you can’t walk straight tomorrow?”

You giggle, dazed and blissed-out.

“Answer me, baby,” she warns, gripping your jaw like a vice, the metal cool against your flushed cheeks.

You bite your lip, bat your lashes, and nod with wide eyes, feigning innocence. 

You’re being testy tonight. It isn’t the first time it’s happened.

Out in public, you’re the picture of patience. You never lash out, you never raise your voice, you’re never petty or passive-aggressive. Unyieldingly, frustratingly patient.

She quickly discovers why. Learns that it isn’t for your lack of a backbone, but because you’re patient enough to wait for moments like these, when all she wants is your surrender, your submission. 

That’s when you bite back.

It’s not like she can blame you. She knows you're upset that she all but left you for almost three days, and knows this is your way of telling her.

And if you want your apology in the form of being fucked dumb, it’s not like she’s going to say no. 

She chuckles back, grabs the back of both of your thighs, presses them to your chest, and pounds into you until you scream.

It isn’t long before you’re a mess underneath her. Legs trembling, eyes rolling back, blabbering. She watches you slip into euphoria, and quick strokes turn languid. 

“Look at me, love,” she rasps, setting your calves on her shoulders; and when your eyes flutter open, you find her staring back with pure adoration.

“You okay?” She nods.

“I’m okay,” you nod back. “Love you s’much…”

And her heart nearly breaks. 

She leans down, shushing you softly when you mewl at the feeling of her sinking even deeper into you. 

She’s pressed right up against your womb. You can feel her twitching inside of you. 

That’s when it happens. That’s when you picture her filling you up, being swollen with her seed, and then with her babies; and suddenly, you’re reaching down to rub at your own clit, fingers working frantically, hips bucking desperately.

And you’re pushing her head down into your shoulder.

“Use your words, honey,” she pants, rutting into you. “Not until you use your words.”

She doesn’t let you beg. Only makes you say it once. 

“Bite me, Sevika.”

And what you say, goes. 

Sharp canines sink into soft skin. Suddenly, you’re standing behind the counter, wiping flour-covered hands onto a blush-colored apron, letting her know that Isha’s safe. Then, you’re sitting on a barstool in your kitchen, sipping wine and writing down an updated recipe for your famous carrot cake, because she swore it was better with more cinnamon. Next, you’re giving her a slice of that same cake for her birthday, and then you’re doing laundry together, knocking over piles of folded clothes to make out like a couple of teenagers. 

Finally, you’re curled in up in ball on your bed, surrounded by every pillow and blanket you could find, and the hand that rubs soothing circles in between your shoulders ends up pressing you down into the sheets as your velvet walls spasm around her length. 

The flash of memories is so vivid, she nearly forgets that she’s seven inches and two canines deep inside of you, but the cry of her name from your lips sobers her like a splash of cold water in the face, and when she finds you just as inundated in an earth-shattering orgasm, her own is quick to follow. 

She cums with her teeth still planted in your neck. Doesn’t pull away until both of you are boneless and breathless. 

When she does, her eyes are glued to the mark she left. Droplets of dark red bead up on your skin in the shape of her bite. You don’t miss the way her eyes widen, the way her breath hitches, and when she brings her fingers up to her lips to feel for blood, you realize she’s afraid she’s hurt you.

“Hey, hey,” you quickly plead, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, “I’m okay, Sev. I’m not hurt. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You sure?” She exhales, eyes still locked onto the fresh wound as she lets you pull her in to lie on your chest.

“Look at me, angel,” you coo. 

She tears her eyes away from the bite and cranes her head to look up at you with glassy eyes.

You’re not surprised that Sevika seems so overwhelmed; that she trembles in your arms, that her breath comes out shaky as it evens out. You’d always heard that giving a bite can be just as intense as getting one, so you went into this more than ready- more than willing- to walk Sevika through whatever that looked like for her. 

You stroke her hair, trace the strong lines of her face, press your thumb into the tight muscle of her scarred shoulder. 

“I’m sure,” you finally respond. “I promise.”

She finally relaxes in your hold. Settles in like the foundations of a home well-loved.

You fall asleep first. She’s careful as she stands to make her way to the bathroom, where she dampens a rag and grabs a first-aid kit. Her heart feels so big she’s afraid it’ll burst as she gently wipes away at the mess between your thighs and disinfects the bite on your neck. 

She lies back down next to you, drapes an arm around your waist, and for the first time since she started taking them, she wearily eyes the bottle of suppressants on her nightstand. 

──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

The discovery of Isha’s 6th birthday meant the realization that it was time to send her to school. Sevika knows it’s a necessity, an important milestone, an inevitable part of life when you choose to raise a child. 

That doesn’t make it any less difficult; doesn't change that tears prick her eyes as she walks out of Piltover Elementary, having just dropped the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed girl off for her first day of first grade. 

“Don’t cry, mama,” you smile, squeezing her hand as she turns once more to look up at the opulent school building. It hadn’t been easy, deciding to enroll Isha in a school Topside, and Sevika would be lying if she said her ego hadn’t been a bit wounded for it. Still, she’d be damned if Isha didn’t have access to the best education there was in the safest place there was, and right now, that was Piltover Elementary. 

You promised her it’d be just fine, that she’d be right across the street all day at the Council’s headquarters, and she promised herself to use all of that time fighting for better education in Zaun. 

She knows it’s the right choice. Knows Isha will do great. But no one prepared her for how hard it’d be to have a piece of your heart walking around outside of your body. 

She didn’t think she’d ever have that; didn’t even think she wanted it, but now, she’s watching a line of Pre-K students with bookbags too big for their tiny bodies trail up to the front doors of the school, and a smile is tugging at her lips. 

You read her mind. Nudge her arm. When she looks over at you, you wear a knowing smile of your own. 

“What?” She mutters, looking away bashfully. 

“You want more babies, don’t you?”

She’s getting ready to scoff and brush off such a ridiculous assumption, but then, one of the kids figures out how to blow a raspberry, and a chorus of high-pitched giggles rings out.

She sighs in defeat.

“I want more babies.”

──˚₊ 𝐄𝐍𝐃 ‧₊˚──

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