full of sevika brainrot

You first heard of vampires and hunters in whispered echoes—a midnight conversation between your mother and father. You had pushed your bedroom door open just a tiiiny bit to check what had woken you.  

“They found Cobb drained two blocks from here. It finally got him.” 

Your father mutters a soft curse, tears welling in his eyes as he leans his head on her shoulder. She lays her head on his and they both lean in closer. 

“I heard it from Macie. It was avenging the bastard that left poor Nabie dry. The one Cobb said he stabbed down last month,” she informs him. 

 You listened long enough to piece together a visual of the monster; a creature that looks like a person but has knives for teeth, and only drinks blood. When you become too scared to keep listening you tiptoe back to bed and right into a nightmare.  

Vampire attacks and sightings follow inconsistent patterns as years progress. More and more hunters fight and die in the conflict. But you never see a vampire. No sightings of your own or bodies found in all your years. And that only made you hate them more. Made you want to see one for yourself just to kill it. 

You fantasized and prepared and planned all the different ways you are going to take down a vampire. You practice and pick up any skill you think could be useful; even convincing your friends to help you train. You listen to the rumors on the streets and document the subtle differences between the vampire sightings. Until everything was documented. You had a near accurate reading of all vampire sightings of the last decade. 

With your research complete, a voice in your head tells you that you're on the right path, that your life is about to begin. You trusted that instinct. 

So you fix your newly-purchased twin daggers into their respective sheaths on your forearms, pulling the sleeves of your flannel over them. You wave around your arm a few times, making sure the daggers are well hidden.  

 You check your sightings graph, finding a vampire with a decent amount of sightings but no reported attacks. The graph leads you to a nightclub, a queer hidden gem of the Undercity. Euphoric, drunk bodies stumble up and down the streets and you can tell it's the perfect hunting grounds. This vampire’s probably stalked this club for years, a constant supply. 

You step indoors, overstimulated by the hum of conversations, couples engaged in intimate acts in the corners, and soft moans of pleasure echoing off the walls with the music. 

You check each face as you weave through the crowd. You should know your vampire when you see it. Every face looks warm blooded so you stop at the bar to appear natural. You order a virgin cocktail and circle the club a total of two times before a new patron walks in. 

You know instantly that it's your vampire. Her skin looks chill from where you're standing. The crimson cape that covers her broad shoulders draws more attention to how cold she looks. She has greying hair, deep eye bags, moonlight grey eyes and a silvery-blue unnatural scar fractals across her left cheek. Despite the hatred burning on the sides of your face, you admit that she is stunning. You watch as she decides to approach the bar first, ordering a drink she has no intention of consuming.

 Your vampire surveys the crowd, noting the various scents and heartbeats. Her gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than the rest, her eyes narrowing slightly. You make eye contact and take that as your sign to close in. She smirked slightly, mistaking your suspicious side eyeing as timid interest. She can't determine any gender by looking at you and that's completely to her preference. 

“New here?” She asks casually as you slide onto the stool next to her. She has an enchanting aroma of petrichor and smoke. Her eyes flit to your neck, no doubt already planning how she'd feed tonight. You're surprised she’s chosen you as her prey. Just as you chose her as yours. 

“That obvious?” you chuckle, you turn to face her and the carabineer on your belt loop catches the light as you move,  

"Very," your vampire replied with a practiced laugh, her eyes gleaming with amusement and something worse, desire.  

“How long have you been coming here?” you ask. You know you're not going to get an honest answer but you'd love to hear her lie. 

"Long enough," she replied sarcastically. She fakes a sip of her drink, relishing the way your eyes followed the motion. She remembers to pretend to swallow the liquor. She's refined her routine and if you didn't know she was a vampire you would've fallen completely for it.

"You're celebrating something, I assume?" She asked, her tone casual, but her mind racing with thoughts of your warm, pulsing neck. You catch her quick glances and you know leading her away to a secure location will be easy. 

“No. I was hoping to meet somebody ” Hook. 

“A specific person or will anybody do?” 

“Well…” you pretend to think it over and eye her from head to toe, “Tall, dark and handsome will do.” Line. 

She smirks, full of confidence, “I think I can find someone that fits the description.” 

“Let me know when you find her,” Sinker. She kicks the inside of her lips and chuckles. 

“Are you butch?” she asks you, simple and not in any way rude.

“I don't know… I try to be,” you say. It's a label you half-accept. You began culling feminine clothes from your wardrobe recently and found a new way to style your hair. But you didn't know if you wanted to accept the label, didn't know if it really applied. Is it still butch to wear something feminine every once in a while? Is it still butch to want another butch? The only butch that's shown interest in you is a vampire after your blood. 

“You try? How so?” She leans in, and there's no warmth radiating from her. The conversation has gotten way too personal way too quickly but if you'll be killing her tonight, everything you share stays securely secret. 

You sigh and take a sip of your drink, “It's more like… I might wear masculine clothing but I don't really think I'm like other butches. They're…” you trail off, trying to find a word for that perfect incredible feeling you get when you see a butch. 

She smirks, admiring her sweet baby butch prey, “I know. It's hard to describe—the rules of it aren't obvious or precise. But maybe that's the point.” She gives you a wink and again if you didn't know she was a vampire you would've fallen completely for it.

You slide off your stool and stretch your arms above your head and your shirt rides up. She stares at the strip of skin between your shirt and the waistband of your pants. You can see her turmoil and mentally note that vampires were driven sexually as much as they were by blood. The way she looks at you is not simple hunger.

“Well, I think I'm ready to go. You coming with?” You offer, taking out a clip of cash to pay. She covers your hands with one of hers to keep you from paying. Her skin is eerily cold, not freezing but certainly inhuman. You pretend you're too obvious to notice her room temperature skin. 

“I got it, sweetheart,” she insists, paying for your drinks as she joins you in standing. You let her lead the way back out of the club. When you're out and the semi-fresh hair hits your lungs, she turns to you. 

“So, what do you have in mind?” 

“I wanted to ask you if you know anywhere more private we can go to? I don't do well with crowds.” 

“I know a few. Any other criteria?”

You give her a playful, hopefully mischievous smile as you answer, “Just somewhere nobody’ll come running to investigate if they hear any screaming.” 

“Perfect,” she snickers. She keeps conversation with you, making small talk and flirtatious remarks

As you follow, you fall a couple steps behind, loosening the daggers in your sleeves. You'd rather have the fight in an alley than wherever she's taking you. She takes you through a sketchier part of the city, creepy rather than dangerous. It's probably where lots of vampires take their meal. When she directs you down a dark alley you finally let the daggers drop into your palms. You praise your stealth. 

“Hey, vampire,” you call out to her and she turns around to see your blades reflect the moonlight. Her eyes widened, but she didn't flinch or try to inch away. 

“I should've known,” she scoffs. “I'm a bit disappointed. Thought the combat boots meant hot masc not vampire hunter.” 

“I can't let you hurt anyone,” you declare, all noble and foolish. 

“Another hunter,” she smirks, checking over her shoulder for somewhere to lean. She slumps against the wall, picking loose threads off her cloak. "How many have I killed now? Ten? Fifteen?”

“I'm certainly not keeping count,” you snarl, not falling for her intimidation tactics. Your blood boils with virtuous fury, being able to ride the streets of one more monster. 

"Either you're incredibly confident. Or incredibly stupid. Or, most likely, both.”

“I assume you'll find out soon enough,” you say as you raise your blade to strike her down. She doesn't take a defensive stance, simply continuing to lean nonchalantly against the wall of the building. You're frustratingly and obviously young, cocky and unbothered. It becomes evident to her that you're entirely new to this and have no clue what you're doing, idiotically running after the first vampire you encountered. 

"I always do." Her smile widens, revealing a set of gleaming, sharp fangs. She shoves off the wall, flinging her cloak off and into the alley, revealing a terrifying mechanical arm. It whirrs, a red liquid you can only imagine to be blood powering the artificial limb. 

She lunges at you suddenly, moving with supernatural speed. You barely have time to react before she's upon you. She shoves your shoulders hard. You stumble backwards, stance broken. You grip your daggers tight, not letting them fall from your hands. You lunge for her again but she doesn't give you a moment to recover. Her mechanical fist strikes your shoulder and slams it into the ground. The pain is sharp and immediate and deep. A short helpless  whimper escapes you.

She grips your shirt and lifts you off the ground just to throw you back down, shoving the breath from your lungs. She crouches down and mounts your hips, pinning them down with her own. Her hands encircle your wrists, smacking them against the pavement and forcing the daggers from your grip. 

"You know,” she begins, eerily unbreathing and without a drop of sweat, “Most hunters don't last long in the Lanes." 

You struggle, shuffling your feet to gain some grounding. She continues on some unimportant rant about the brutal endings most hunters face but you don't listen. The moment your heels are securely planted, you thrust your hips. You jerk your wrists from her hold as the force from your hips bumps her forward.

The maneuver gives you enough space to turn her over, grabbing one of your fallen daggers in the process. You keep the upper hand for all of two seconds. Too quick to comprehend, she flips you over onto your back, binds your wrists together with her mechanical hand, and presses the cold blade of your other dagger against your throat. Her knee presses into your spine. 

“Such pretty toys,” she mocks your daggers. 

“Don't you dare,” you growl. 

“Who said I would? Tell me,” she pauses, grabs the other dagger from your hand and tosses both dagger  down the alley to join her cloak, “Have you considered that there was at least one person in that club that wouldn't hesitate to let me sink my fangs into their flesh? Take it from me, fang fuckers have existed for decades. Centuries actually.” 

“That's crude,” you groan, twisting your shoulders and hips.  Nothing works, she has you securely pinned. 

“It's true,” she says, matter of factly, “There's a kink for everything.” 

“Ha,” you laugh humorlessly, “and yours is coercing drunk people into letting you feed off them.”

“Wrong, my kink is the look of confusion followed by disgust.” 

The words are nonsense and you try to fix together what it means but by that point it's too late and your face twisted out the exact emotions. 

“Oh, that's it baby,” she mocks you. She shifts her knee over your lungs and applies pressure. You begin to asphyxiate, pulling shorting and shorter breaths on each inhale. 

“Is human blood so sacred that you cannot fathom someone giving it willingly?” she asks, relieving some of her weight so you can breathe. 

“I’m not answering that… It's, huh, obviously a trap,” you wheeze. 

“God, you're self centered,” she mumbles, “You think vampirism is about dominance. I think it's about consent. You humans are intelligent enough to comprehend your own consumption. So why wouldn't I find someone who wanted my mouth on their throat anyway?” 

“It doesn't matter. You're hurting people. You probably weren't even going to ask me before feeding,” you spew out words you don't even have evidence to believe.  

“You're the one who doesn't see a difference. And for the record, I would've asked.” 

You squirm, stubbornly refusing to accept your fate. You had told yourself your life begins tonight but your ending feels nearer; her claws drag down your back but slow enough to not tear your flannel. The position she has you in is vulnerable and intimate and humiliating and she revels in it.  

You tremble on the ground as realization sets in and she is awestruck. You might be naive, unqualified and unfamiliar with the brutal and horrifying nature of vampire-hunting. But you almost don't deserve a hunter's fate. She could kill you now and end your hunting career before it has any genuine chance. She could even feed from you, slowly draining blood from your body. 

Or she could leave you for the next vampire. Save herself the time and hassle and cleanup.   

“Bit of advice, commit to your day job. Don't be a hunter,” she advises. You moan in relief when she releases the pressure off you, stepping away to where she tossed her cloak. 

She collects her cloak off the ground, slinging it over her shoulder then kicks your daggers down a drain. And she walks away, without giving you another glance. 

“Get back here!” Flecks of spit hit the pavement as you scream after her, “You're a vampire. I am bound to kill you. You can't walk away from this!” But only the moon and stars stay with you. 

You lay in your defeat until the sounds of the waking Undercity motivate you. You attempt to retrieve your daggers but they're long gone. 

As you hugged walls back into your apartment, the events of the night played in your mind. You're sure you did everything right— at least all the way up until the point of fighting her. You battle with your emotions and find yourself torn between a sense of accomplishment and defeat. You know now that the chances of your success were minute and your mere survival counts as a feat but losing feels too unbecoming. Because of your incompetence there will be a vampire hunting innocent people for another night. 

When you make it home you unlace your boots and kick them to the corner. You retrieve your emergency dosage of shimmer, borrowed permanently from someone you don't know, and down the tart elixir. Your pain multiplies tenfold and chews through your bones before sizzling out into a dull, unfeeling hum. It should hold you for the night but it won't perform any miracles without the right supplements. 

You make it to your bed, shaping your pillows together to support your shoulder and neck. You lay there and commit the whirlwind of details to memory; the vampire's face, her scent, the glacial glint in her eyes. It all played on repeat in your head. You vow to destroy her, to right your wrongdoing. To become a real hunter. You whisper your vow into your pillow over and over until you pass out from exhaustion.

You wake in the evening, sun deep into its descent. You clean off the reminders of the night; take off your clothes, strip your sheets and start a shower. As steam fills the bathroom you feel over your shoulder, checking how tense the muscle is. The shimmer  kept the swelling down but some of the pain has already returned and you'll only have a few hours before it’ll be agonizing. You rotate your arm and paralyzing pain races through your nerves. You ignore the voice in your head telling you to go to the doctor and step into the shower. 

The scalding water doesn't bring much relief, just dilutes the tension in your muscles by a fraction. Time would be the ideal fix but you can't afford it. You wash out as much pain as you can. When you're clean, you wrap your injured shoulder as best you can. 

You dress quickly, choosing dark, flexible garments and layer it with a worn jacket. You find a backup weapon deep in your storage, a tactical knife, and secure it to your hip with a holster. You don't rethink your strategy, blinded by redemption. So much is waiting to go wrong but you don't care. 

“That vampire is going to die. Tonight,” you look into the mirror and declare it like an affirmation. You head towards the club you found her the night before. After surveying the area, you perch atop a building across the way and watch the streets for her. The moon rises to the center of the sky and the pain in your shoulder is nearing unbearable. You shift to get a different vantage point, thinking she's moved territory and at least felt threatened by you.  

Until you hear her voice, soft and threatening, from behind, "You trying to spy on me, hunter? I'm flattered." 

You turn and pitch your knife into the darkness but she brings her shoulder up in time for it to ping off her mechanical arm, bouncing off to the side. 

“I'm going to kill you,” you promise her. 

"Oh, really now?" She laughs. "You're adorable. But completely out of your league." 

She breaks into a full sprint right from where she stands, shoulder checking you as she runs by. Pain explodes across your injured shoulder and a scream rips through your throat. You don't retrieve your knife but take off after her, just in time to follow her leaping off the roof and into the street. 

You chase her without thought, and worse, without care. Your throat and lungs burn as you chase her deep into the Lanes. The blood rush makes your head feel tight. You leap from rooftop to rooftop and sprint down narrow alleyways. Your vision blurs near the edges but you can make out the shape of her silhouette at each turn. It continues all the way to the end, no clue where you are, with her leaning casually against a wall. 

She kicks a small bucket toward you and you're confused as to what it's for. You stand hunched over, panting with sweat dripping into your eyes, bucket directly below you. Then the adrenaline wears off and the exhaustion gut punches you. You double over and spew right into the bucket. Your body trembles as it tries to cool down and your shoulder pain returns to a full throb. 

Your vampire laughs cruelly at you, “Don't feel embarrassed. Hunters tend to forget how adrenaline works.” 

“Shut up!” you cough out, choking on your ragged breaths. 

“Make me,” she challenges. 

The minute you can breathe without wheezing you charge at her. She catches you mid-lunge, her mechanical claws slicing through your jacket and scraping against your skin. She hurls you back, reopening the space. 

"Come at me,” she urges, noting the careful movement of your shoulder when you take a loose stance. You swing and she easily dodges, grabbing your wrist mid-strike and twisting it back. It bends unnaturally and borders on excruciating when she releases you

"Ridiculous," she growls. "You expect to kill me with a tap?” 

“I'm injured, if you haven't fucking noticed,” you spit. 

“Get over it,” she says as you circle each other, watching for the next move.

“I'm going to kill you and if the motherfucker isn't dead already, I'm going to kill the one that got Cobb too. Then all the fucking rest,” you declare. 

You take initiative and deliver a roundhouse kick to her jaw but she leans back in time. The momentum spins you around. She kicks you square on your tailbone. You yelp in pain and stumble over. You whip around, eyes wild with anger.

“So you're after revenge. I'm sure that's a good enough reason to get yourself killed. Sure he'll appreciate it,” the insult stings but you brush it off. 

“I hate you,” you snarl as you turn around to face her. 

“I gathered,” she retorts. "And before you hit me you should know you’re thinking too much about your next move instead of reading mine. Every move you make tells me what you're about to do. And vice versa," she advises but you want nothing to do with her guidance. 

With a wild scream you lunge at her. She grabs your waist and spins around, throwing you back in the direction you came. You tumble into the wall, collapsing into sobs the moment the concrete crashes into your shoulder. 

“Get your shoulder checked. Then you can try killing me.” 

And for the second night in a row, she leaves you.

With some help from shimmer and proper medications, you’re back on the streets within two weeks. You chose to take the minimal dosage to avoid the long-term effects. The forced bedrest gave you some time to calm down and actually brainstorm a strategy.

You stayed in bed for a full week and thought of nothing but her. You wrote into your research journal  what you remembered of her habits. Her patterns. You note how she liked to taunt you; she would say something to get under your skin knowing it would only rile you up. You wrote in your journal about the way she insulted your sense of vengeance. Your only other motivation is your hatred and both feel completely justified to you.  

You even considered her motivations for sparing you. As much as you hate to admit it, she was right about one thing. You're way out of your league. The skill gap between hunters and vampires is wide; hunters die too quickly to gain any mastery. You assume that maybe she's bored. So you stop overthinking it and just consider her ‘mercy’ a blessing in disguise. 

This hunt, you decide to walk the streets. Watching for signs of her. Following your instinct. You catch her scent, faint and hypnotizing, on street corners. You pass through the shadows, disappearing between buildings and winding around the Lanes. 

You stop where her scent is most concentrated, in an abandoned warehouse by the shore. The warehouse is silent except for the distant sounds of the city outside. Within a second, an arm wrapped around your neck from behind, pulling you back against a cold chest. "Miss me?”

You drop your hips and lean forward, throwing her over your shoulders. She's sent tumbling but quickly rolls on her feet, recovering with a mixture of surprise and delight. She grins, eyes sparkling with a sadistic gleam. 

“You missed me,” she teases. She's more beautiful than you remembered, not that you remembered her specifically as beautiful. She has a choker around her neck and muscle tee showing off her arms. Her muscles are toned and thick, bicep the size of her shoulder. You can see the tape binding her breast in the drop of her tank's armhole. That perfect incredible feeling you get when you see a butch washes over you and you have to tuck it away.

“I’m not letting you get away this time,” you say, calm and confident. You know what to expect this time and you're fully ready for her. 

She shakes her head and laughs, leaning back slightly and making a come hither gesture with her artificial hand, “Show me how you plan on doing that, gorgeous.” 

The flirtatious remark makes you feel giddy until you remember who she is and how often she probably calls her prey gorgeous. You take your stance, fists below your eyes and watch her sternum. You remind yourself what you're fighting for, who out there might need protecting. She takes a defensive stance, guard tight. 

You close the distance, trying to break her stance. She evades your right hook, pushing your arm away and breaking your guard. She rushes you with quick jabs, shutting you in towards the wall. 

You evade some of her strikes but catch enough to bruise the next day. Her blood-powered limb hisses with power as she clasps your shirt and drags you where she wants you. She rushes at you, aligning to drive her shoulder into your torso. You leap away in time and her unbroken laughter echoes through the alley as she collides with the wall behind you, not even winded by the impact.  

Attaboy,” she praises and the way she says it shouldn't make you feel so euphoric. You shake away her honeyed words, and pull your knife from its holster. 

You dash at her and she pivots, turning to land behind you. She grabs you from behind, hooking her arms in the bend of your elbows and leans back. You're lifted off the ground and she's primed to throw you face first into the ground. You toss away your knife, not wanting to add self-impalement to your list of recent injuries. 

You hook your ankles behind her thighs, jerking forward. The momentum tosses the two of you forward, rolling her over you. Her back hits the ground first and the back of her head hits second. She is uninjured but still feels a harsh sting where her head snapped against the floor. You immediately jump up, driving your feet down into her gut. The last working remnants of her nervous system shriek in pain. Her guttural howl echoes through the warehouse. 

You act while she's vulnerable, knife diving toward her chest in a terrifying arc. She rolls out the way in time. When she's on her feet, she puts some distance between the two of you and forces you to retake the space. 

The fighting happens quickly, you dodge blows from one another. You duck as her arm swings overhead. She jerks her head back to avoid your kick. The entire time her moonbeam eyes glint with amusement rather than hatred. When she pulls back, you close in. 

Her foot catches your face as you try to pursue her. The force cracks against your nose. An instant waterfall of tears leaks from your eyes. The tight sting at the bridge of your nose releases pressure over your entire face and blood pours from the break. It's hot and drips down your mouth and chin and coats the front of your body. Blood leaks into your mouth, metallic taste sticking to your teeth like red wine.  

You choke and cough and have to lean forward to keep your blood from pouring down your throat. You spit the blood from your mouth and wipe your face gingerly with the inside of your wrist. 

“Shit, newbie! That your first break?” Her lips curl into an amused smirk. 

You snarl and the vision of your blood stained teeth makes her fangs ache with envy. Suddenly she runs at you, and at the last second throws her cloak over your face. When you pull it back over your eyes it's to an empty warehouse. 

You unfurl the cloak and vial of shimmer clinks as it hits the floor. You don't know if you count it as mockery or chivalry. You pocket the vial anyway and wrap her cloak around yourself to keep warm as you hobble back home 

Every other day the next week, you chase her through the city. Following her like a religion. Each week that month you follow the same routine. And the pattern continued. 

On nights you're not hunting her, you stalk her patterns. You watch from the rooftop across the way. She goes into the same club, stays for a few hours, then leaves with someone on her arm. You're filled with an awful, gut twisting sensation each time as her prey holds her hand as they travel down the street. 

Her prey would laugh and tangle their fingers into her hair as she flirted with them. You watched time after time as they offered their necks to her so eagerly. She always walked them home. The disgusting feeling it leaves in your chest only makes you hate her more. 

The fighting goes on month after month. Your wounds become scars.Temperatures shift and her cloak keeps you warm during winter; she never asked for it back and she has plenty anyway. You learn each other's names. New weapons have entered your skillset and collection. You go through various haircuts, with Sevika telling you which ones she does and does not like. 

Your life follows an odd pattern, but you cannot think of any other way you want to spend your days. 

You're on your way to the club where you met (well, the roof) when two bodies fall into the street, tangled in each other. They grunt and thrash and after a moment you recognize it Sevika’s caught in a vicious fight with another vampire.  

The few people out in the street scatter in terror but you hold your ground and whip out your knife. You look for some sort of opening, one where you don't risk Sevika. The desire to preserve her life is new and overwhelming and you miss your opportunity. 

The other vampire grabs Sevika’s head and drives his knee into her face. The smack echoes off the walls and the shock is felt in your own chest. It shatters your heart into a million pieces. She stops fighting back, slumping down to the ground. Sevika groans and for the first time you see her incapacitated. The other vampire turns his focus on you; his threat is unspoken, uncomplicated and understood. 

You grip your knife and wait, not risking your protective stance by attacking. He flashes his fangs before rushes toward you. He reaches to grab your throat but you're ready for him. You jab your knife into his forearm. The vampire roars in pain, his shrieks from a genuine nightmare. He looks at you wide eyed— a mix of shock, fury and murderous intent. 

“Sevika!” You call to her. You know she took a bad hit but you've drop-kicked her off a building (ten feet high because you're not ruthless) so you know she'll be up soon. She moves slowly, using her mechanical arm to support her body, but it won't be quick enough. She finds up a good piece of rubble laying on the ground next to her and nods at you. 

You tighten your grip on your knife, still latched in the vampire's arm, and drag it. You pull him into a workable position and Sevika hurls the rock. It cracks against his skull and it opens an opportunity. At the same, you jerk the knife free from his flesh. 

The moment is right and your moves are precise and dangerous, knife plunging into his unbeating heart. As the knife pierces his chest, the vampire's body begins to disintegrate. His form fades like the engravings on a tombstone. Within seconds, no trace of his existence is left behind. 

You can't help but feel it should've taken longer. That you should have more injuries. But it's over. Is it always this quick? Could you have killed Sevika this easily? You don't know how long you stand there in shock but eventually Sevika joins you by your side. 

“You've been holding back on me,” She cracks, trying to lighten the mood because she is genuinely terrified of you.  

But you don't laugh. Your body trembles and tears form in your eyes. Your chest fills with cramping pain that sinks into your bones. The guilt. The terror. The rush of it all. It finally sinks in for Sevika that this was your first kill. All of a sudden, you're that little hunter who was unfamiliar with the brutality of vampire hunting. So fragile and scared. 

Sevika reaches out— her cold, mechanical fingers capture your chin, forcing you to look at her as tears spill down your cheeks. With her other hand, she pulled the knife from your fingers and laced them with her own. She might hate you but she's someone who could hold you right now. She wraps her arms around you and you tuck your head into your shoulder. 

"It's okay," she soothes. Something about how understanding her voice makes your chest pull tight with sorrow. 

“I didn't know it would be so… horrible.” you break into a sob, grasping at her. Your tears fall into the worn fabric of her cloak.  

“It's death. It's always horrible.” she soothes, but it's not much comfort. 

“I know but— I don't know why I feel so awful! I meant to kill him! I wanted him to die!” you cry, breaths heaving with hiccuping sobs. 

“Just breathe, baby,” she urges. You inhale, counting to ten then let it out. You ground yourself, closing your eyes and focusing on your other senses. You rub your cheek against the fabric of her cloak, identical to the one she threw at you years ago. As the footnotes of smoke and rain fill your nose and you're envious. Her scent washed out your cloak two years ago and now you want to ask her to trade with you. 

“I don't think I want to keep going after this. It's been, oh god, how long have we been doing this?”

“Five years,” she answers, like she's been counting every moment with you. 

“And I've killed one vampire,” you heave, rolling your eyes at your own perceived ridiculousness. 

“Well, there aren't many of us and most vampires respect you as my adversary. We got into it because he couldn't stand that you've had a five year long career. But you're my hunter. He can't have you,” and when she says hunter, her thumb rubs a circle over your shoulder. For a moment, everything feels perfect and safe. But you remember who she is and how she won't ever hold you like this again. 

“I gotta get home. I cant— I can't do this right now. Sorry,” you hiccup, pushing her away and wiping the tears from your eyes. You wanted an uninterrupted night with her but all you got is more truth than you can handle. 

“Yeah— come find me whenever. Okay?” she tries to tell you but you've already mentally shut off. 

You leave her there in the alley and try to hold in your cries the entire way home. Once you're past the threshold of your door, you collapse to the ground. It all hits you at once. All of it. How much you hate death. It was ugly and unforgiving and final. Even worse than  vampires. It's too horrible— even if it was unavoidable in this case. You could never kill Sevika. You'd be a much worse mess than you are right now if you ever did. 

The feeling that's been eating your insides for years tried to kill you now. It disgusts you, how much you wanted her around. And it has the entire time. 

It is why you hated watching her flirt with her prey. Why you felt your heart twist in your chest every time you watched her walk into that club knowing she was walking out with someone else.

But you don't want to ruin what you have. You love it too much. You’d be lost without your fights with her. You need the chaos and would go insane without it, without her around to cause it. You need to see that fire in her eyes when she challenges you for the rest of your life. 

You find yourself wondering if she is thinking of you the same way and the thought makes you wail because you know she won't be. There's no way. She doesn't smile at you the way she smiles at her prey. 

Your confusion and agony at the entire situation only keep you up further into the day. You crawl around into different positions on the floor, holding your chest and trying not to think of her as noon peaks. 

You manage to drag yourself to the kitchen to eat, choosing something easy and quick. You allow yourself to take the meal into your room. You wrap yourself in her cloak, the one that smells like you when it should her, and write it all out in your own journal. She is your vampire. And you're her hunter. And you want to keep it that way. Until death do you part.

When your tears are dry and you're finished with your journal, you slip into bed and instead of counting the hours of sleep, you count the hours until you get to see her again. 

You find her in the nightclub you first met, sitting at a table in the corner. She’s engaged in a card game with three other people. She’s sitting back cockily and you cannot help but smile. You had no clue she has a hobby. You watch and wait for her game to finish. When the three others leave the table you close in, taking an empty seat. 

“Hey,” she greets and you smile awkwardly. 

“Hey…Uh, I wanted to talk about what happened last night with um—” you pause, not wanting to say too much out in public. 

“I got it. Come with me?” she offers, along with her hand. You simply nod, taking her hand as she walks with you out of the club. She takes the same path you took five years ago and you finally discover the destination. It's a garage, basically a decorated storage unit with some furniture inside. She shuts the door, sealing you in and away from prying eyes. You sit together on her sofa but on separate ends. 

“Okay. What's going on, sweetheart?” she's asks you and it's in that soft voice that could break you. 

“That vampire from last night, as horrible and terrifying as it was, I don't regret killing him. I really wish I didn't have to but I did. He attacked us both and I defended myself accordingly and I know that,” you pause, already feeling the lump wanting to come up. You swallow it down and continue. 

“The moment I realized he was really gone and there wasn't even going to be a body— I was terrified at the thought of doing that to you. I never want to see death again. I can't do it. I won't kill you. And I can't go back to fighting with you thinking I would kill you.” You let out, replenishing with deep breaths when you're done. 

She moves in a bit closer on the sofa, holding tender eye contact, “It wasn't about winning against you.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well yeah, at first I kinda pitied you. I didn't think you deserved that fate. I wanted you to live and find a purpose or something instead of die trying to be something you're not. But obviously, that didn't happen. After that point though, I think I liked the fighting too much.” 

“And… what were you thinking would happen when I finally became strong enough to kill you,” you probe, trying to finally get the full answer as to why she keeps you around when she could have anybody else. 

“I suppose you'd kill me. What would happen for you after killing me?” she asks, trying to gauge where your change in heart is coming from. 

“I'd be a much worse mess than I was last night. I'd be so miserable without you.” 

“So, you would miss me?” Her flirtatious smile hits you in your heart and you wish you knew if it was genuine or not. 

“Yeah, I'd miss you.”

“I'm flattered.” 

You can't help but giggle, “You know this feels pretty late. I could've used a truce before— ha let me think— the broken nose, the sprained shoulder, broken toe, bruised ribs, the concussion.” you ramble on, reminiscing. 

“Don't forget your bruised ego.” 

“Shut up,” you say, preparing yourself to hear her two favorite words.”

“Make me.”

Your eyes flick down to her lips before returning her gaze. Her eyes stay fixed on your lips. You interpret the unspoken words and you hope and pray that you're not wrong. You crawl over the safe to close the distance between you. She meets you halfway, pulling you onto her lap. You grab her head, holding her in place as you pressed your lips against hers. It's a kiss that fits right in with your rivalry, liars turned lovers at last. 

When she wraps her arms about you, your heart sighs. The warm, sticky feeling leaks out and pours through your body. Desperation seizes and squeezes your being, tense from years of wanting her.

“Will we still fight after this?” She whines against your lips, unsure where this leaves your rivalry. Her forehead rests against yours. 

“I don't think I could ever stop fighting you. I can't live without it.” 

“Me neither.” 

“I'm going to kick your ass tomorrow,” you tell her, looking into her eyes to see them sparkle. 

“Good luck,” she says, returning her lips to yours. 

The kiss deepens, and she lets out a small whimper when you gnaw her bottom lip. There's a soft fluttering in her chest as you pull her closer. She doesn't want to stop. She wants your lips everywhere. She is thirsty and urgent as she opens herself to you, letting you explore her mouth with your tongue. It only feels right in fair that you get to properly taste her first. 

Suddenly, you break the kiss with a sharp intake of breath. You take in short breaths, to get back to her quicker. You press kisses to her entire face, like you've been starving your entire life for her and want to consume everything.

“I want you. So so so much” you gasp into her skin. 

“Do something about it,” she taunts and it's too perfect. The way she could always challenge you. Its the fun and chaos you need. She is so damn frustrating and is all the more desired for it. 

You push her down onto the sofa, so she's laying on her back. You straddle her hips and lean down to kiss her jaw. She shivers beneath you, hands falling to your thighs. You begin grinding your hips in slow circles. The muscle of her thighs presses against your core and it steals the breath from your lungs. 

“Everytime I see you I just lose my mind. You're so beautiful and so handsome. Especially when you wear tape,” you moan into her mouth. 

Sevika whimpers, feeling adored for the first time in so long, grinning into the kiss. She rests her palms on the small of your back, fingertips playing with the band of your boxers. She grinds up against you, the kiss becomes even more intense. 

"You're beautiful. You're so beautiful,” she returns the compliment. Sevika crushes her lips against yours, her tongue pushes past your lips and explores your mouth aggressively. She doesn't fight you for dominance just leans into the kiss and matches your starving energy. 

You break away for a moment, catching your breath and grabbing the hem of your shirt. You're beaming at Sevika as you pull it up and over your head, tossing it onto her table. You're wearing nothing underneath and Sevika stares in awe. 

“Before moving on— do you know the stoplight system?” You ask, winded as well as beginning to sweat. 

“Green— keep going. Yellow— slow down or pause. Red— stop immediately,” she answers quickly, like you'll put your tits away if she answered wrong or too slow. 

“Fucking perfect,” you recapture her lips in a kiss, overheated and needy. You shudder as your fervor burns even hotter. You grind onto her with full confidence, finding your rhythm quickly. Her hands return to the small of your back, before sliding up and exploring your bare skin for the first time. Her fingers cool you down and you've never been more grateful that she's a vampire. 

You take her hands in yours and trail them over your skin and up to your breast. You whimper into each other's mouths as she feels the warmth and soft flesh of your breasts. Her thumbs brush over your nipples, making them harden. She kneaded your breasts, pinching and twisting your nipples between her fingers. 

You need more of her, need to have her in more ways than one. Every little thing you were jealous over flashes though your mind like inspiration. You pull back from the kiss you a moment, to whisper against her lips, “Do you ever think about feeding from me.” 

The most broken, desperate whine comes from her mouth and hits your lips. Your question sends an exhilarating buzz through her body because, yes, she's thought about feeding from you. Every fleeting day she thinks of you. . 

“All the time,” she gasps, unable to keep her lips off yours for long. She bites your lip, pleading for more and you answer. You tangle your fingers into her hair to guide her lips and she follows your guidance eagerly, kissing and sucking along your jawline down to your neck. Her hands never leave your breast. Sevika leads her kisses back up your jaw away from where you want her. You try to guide her mouth elsewhere but she stays in place. You growl in frustration trying to get her teeth somewhere soft to stab. 

“But I'm not done,” she says, voice dripping with false innocence. She wants her mouth in the same place you want it but you said so yourself. You can't live without the fighting. You muster enough mental strength to grasp her hair and pull her harshly back.

“Bite me,” you order, pulling her mouth to your shoulder. 

Sevika obeys immediately, lips and tongue worshipping the skin of your shoulder. Her fangs graze your skin as she sucks bruises into your skin and you shudder. The pain feels right, at this point you preferred yourself with her bruises. 

She gives your nipples a tug as she marks up your skin with love bites. Her fangs tease your flesh, each nerve perceiving the sharp points of her fangs as pure pleasure. 

Slowly and perfectly, her fangs pierce your skin,  blood sticking to them immediately. 

“Sevika,” you mutter her name as you feel the stab, clear and cold. Until an unnatural warmth blankets the wound. She suctions her mouth onto your flesh and retracts her fangs. Your bone-grown elixir fills her mouth, warm and metallic. She drinks slowly. 

You can feel the steady draw of your blood, starting to moan as the pain mixes into unexpected pleasure. She sucks harder. Drinks deeper. Almost reverent in the way she swallows down your blood. 

You can feel your body responding to the intimate attachment. Your heartbeat keeps increasing and you don't know if it's from arousal or blood loss. Most likely both. 

She pulls back, her lips and teeth soaked crimson, trying to pace herself because you taste so damn good. Your blood pours from the open wound, streaming down your collarbone. 

She licks her teeth clean as your blood streams over your breast. Her eyes flicker with a brief moment of satisfaction. 

“Shit! Don't let me fucking bleed out,” you scold as you press your fingers to the wound. It releases a delicious pain, fresh and familiar. It all feels too good to stop just for a little blood. You're still completely coherent. 

“Help me clean this up?” You offer as you shift to press your blood soaked tit toward her mouth. Some blood collects and drips off your nipple. 

“Help you?” She asks, innocently. Like the mess was supposed to be there the entire time. 

“Yes, obviously. I don't want to be covered in blood, at least without a nearby shower. Just get it all off of me,” you instruct her. 

She looks up at you, her eyes glittering with that challenging look. Lust burns right through you, chewing you up completely then spitting you back out. 

She holds eye contact as she fully cups your tits and rubs her hands all over them, smearing your blood across them. As you're about to scold her again she leans in and starts licking the blood off your breasts. Your loud sighs echo off the walls, as she pinches one nipple and takes the other into her mouth. Red fills most of your vision, the most fresh blood you've seen in your life. All spread out across your tits. And you don't feel bothered at all by it, loving how the blood looks against your skin. 

“That's not— mmm— what I meant,” you stutter and whimper through each word. Each touch of her tongue sends electric shocks through your body.

“How was I supposed to know that?” She says,

alternating between breasts. She licks over the curves, collecting blood into her mouth and spitting it back onto your flesh. Because the existing mess just wasn't enough. 

“Oh, I'm going to get you for that,” you threaten, the first one you'll keep. 

She moans excitedly, like that's been the goal the entire time. To keep the fight going. To never let it stop. She gets messier, mouthing over your breasts.  

You blood smears on her cheeks and nose and you're sure she's doing it on purpose. You encourage her with sharp whimpers of approval. 

She mouths over every inch; over your nipples and gets the underneath and sides of your breast. She ends each swipe of her tongue with a kiss.

Finally, she pulls back and your tits are glistening with saliva. She gives each nipple two gentle kisses then places a healing kiss over the punctures on your shoulder. The wound has already begun to close due to some supernatural element. 

“Are you proud of yourself?” you ask her and she looks completely satisfied. Her face and hands are coated in your blood but at least you're clean. You try to think of some way to punish her but nothing but death could hurt her. 

“What's your color?” you check. 

“Green.” 

“Get up,” you say as you lift off the couch. Without hesitation, Sevika follows your orders. It's surprising how quickly she can submit to you. When you're both standing, you hook your fingers in the waistband of her pants and drag her to you. You entirely press against her, lips meeting in a bruising kiss. Her hands fly up to grip your face as you devour her mouth, your tongues dance together hungrily and you catch the taste of your own blood.

You withdraw to growl into her mouth, “You're infuriating.” Your frustration at her is exactly what she wants. She presses her entire body against yours so you pull her closer by the waist to keep control. Her hands explore your body; running up and down your back, squeezing your ass, and grabbing your hips. 

Your kisses become messier and blood smears from her face to yours. You start pulling at her clothes, hands shaking with desire. You push her shirt over her head, revealing her breasts are taped down to her chest. The sight makes your core burn and drip. Her abs are fully out, each valley begs for your tongue. 

But Sevika is quick to reconnect your lips, unable to stand a moment apart. You get your hands on her. Exploring her curves. Feeling over defined muscle. 

You feel her up until your fingertips graze the waistband of her pants, your real goal. Your hands slide down into her pants, cupping her butt. You give her ass a few squeezes and she bites your lip. A small warning. That she's still going to fight back. 

You shove her pants over her hips and thighs, feeling over her smooth skin. She steps out of them, leaving her in her boxers then moves to do the same for you. Her hands immediately go to your belt. She unbuckles it and helps you out your pants, revealing your own boxers. 

You grab her hips and press your clothed cunts together. Moans echo off the wall as you rubbed together, two thin layers of fabric separating you. 

You admire her boxers and tape like they're lingerie, something she chose specifically to turn you on. It almost makes you forget that you promised to punish her. 

“Mmm, I think you're ready for your punishment,” you purr, rubbing over her hip. 

“You can try,” she dares, trying to provoke you. But you hold your ground. 

“If you know what's fucking good for you, you're going to get on the fucking couch. Because I'm going to sit on your face while you get me off. And when I feel you're really sorry I'll let you cum. That sound good?” you assert. 

“Sweetheart, everything is on the fucking table,” she assures you. You hook your fingers into her boxers and help her out of them. Right after, you hook your fingers into your own boxers and slowly pull them down. She lets you lay her down onto the couch and position her to your own liking. 

She watches as you throw your leg over her head to get into position on the couch, straddling her head while facing her legs. She admires your pussy from below. 

“You don't need to breathe, right?” You check. 

“Right.” 

The confirmation is all you need to continue. You lower your count onto her mouth, smothering her without caution. She immediately opens her mouth and makes out with your cunt. Her nose is pressed against your hole  and her tongue laps eagerly at your clit. 

You're sensitive and beautifully unashamed of it, whines echoing off the walls as she swipes over your clit with her tongue. You feel a momentary loss of her tongue. 

“So fucking hot,” she murmurs, pulling away for no good reason. You grind back hard over her mouth and chin and nose, shutting her up. 

“You should have your mouth so fucking full that you can't talk,” you lift you hand up and bring it down right on her cunt. The spank connects with her clit, making her moan into your wetness. Her hips buck with the sting then her thighs spread further apart. She continues eating you out with enthusiasm, waiting for the next hit. 

Her mouth is completely stuffed with you as you grind yourself over her face. Her tongue laps at your folds and your taste hits harder than blood. You can feel every touch of her tongue run through you like electricity and reward her with a few strokes to her clit. 

The lingering sting from the spanking and the gentle ministrations of your fingers sends her into a state of overwhelmed pleasure. Sevika quickens her pace, her tongue flicking your clit. She works with a steady rhythm and it pulls you so close so quickly.  

“Ready for a few more?” You ask, raising your arm again. She moans a plea to your cunt and you answer it. Another loud smack echoes through the room. You soothe the ache by stimulating her clit, hand tracing over her bud.

Her cunt drips arousal and you collect some onto your finger and spread it back over her sensitive bud. Sevika responds by pushing her tongue inside you, filling you as much as she can. She doesn't need to breathe and you're grateful for it, any slight deviation would ruin your impending orgasm. 

“Eat it just like that,” you encourage. 

She properly fucks your cunt with her tongue, not relenting for a moment. Your thighs tremble over her ears and your back arches. You're close and she definitely knows it. You try to stroke circles over her clit in a steady rhythm but it becomes too hard to focus on. 

Sevika's tongue hits just the right spot and your body tenses. Your orgasm washes over you like a wave, cresting completely over your head and crashing into your entire body. You chant her name between moans and she groans into your cunt in response. The gratification pulls at your insides and makes you ache in the happiest way. You leak onto her face, releasing years of desire and agonizing need. 

You can't even recover because Sevika moans grips your thighs tightly as she tries to pull you even closer. She's completely lost in the scene, focused on making you cum.

Her tongue picks up speed and you let out soft moans, your hips bucking against her mouth. Your nerves tingle with ecstasy as another orgasm crashes over you even harder than the first. You pant and try to grip her thighs to hold yourself up. 

Your cunt weeps and you have to fight to keep up with her. You're now two orgasms in and closing in on a third and she hasn't gotten hers. You stroke her clit between two of your fingers, watching her thighs tremble for you. 

Her mouth makes a mess of your cunt, every quick swipe of her tongue against your swollen clit and sensitive folds makes you keen. 

Her legs shift and gently kick as you continue your ministrations. She grips your ass tight in her hands. 

Your head rushes, recent blood loss making you dizzy. The lightheadedness passes over you and when your arousal pushes blood through your veins your muscles feel like their singing.

“I got one more in me, Vika,” you rasp, trying to hold on to get her off as well. Your inner thighs quiver with each push of pleasure that courses through you. You gather more of her arousal and spread it over her clit, readying to send her over the edge with you. 

Your cunt contracts around nothing as her tongue pushes you over the edge again. This orgasm is slow and gradual and fulfilling. She digs her mechanical claws into your ass as your thighs clamp around her head. Your fluids gush out, coating the bottom half of her face.

Your strokes over her folds aren't enough so you rain down rapid, hard smacks on her sensitive clit. The sting is perfect, intensifying the pleasure through her entire body, hips buck reflexively at each sting.

 Her claws break skin as another gush of cum leaks into her mouth.

As you continue to smack her cunt, moisture sprays onto your fingers and she whimpers loudly into your cunt. Squirt gushes from her cunt and sprays her sofa as you abuse her clit. She licks up and down your slit, cleaning up your cum. It quenches her thirst in a way that nothing else could. 

She releases her hold on you after a while and four red beads grow on your ass. She shifts and positions her head to lick the beads off your skin, the taste mixes with your cum and Sevika finally finds her higher calling. 

Sevika's done her job well, evident by how you gingerly dismount and lay on top of her. She's enjoyed this chase as much as you have, if not more. She wraps an arm over you and presses a kiss to your forehead. The kiss alone feels like a full embrace. 

You crawl over her body and chase her lips. You kiss her softly, an apology for all the years you spent doing anything other than this. You apologize for being too stupid to realize you don't hate her. She kisses you with her own apologies, for hurting you in ways she wished she could take back. 

“You’re so fucking perfect,” you whisper against her lips and the sincerity almost kills Sevika. You cup her face and deepen the kiss, your breath warms her face to the point that she almost feels human. 

You draw back, leaning your forehead onto hers. Her fingers stroke the hair on your thighs. 

“You know… that night we met, before I left home I had told myself that it was going to be the night my life changed for the better. I'm so glad I was right,” your voice cracks and a small lump forms in your throat. Your thumb rubs against her cheek, little remaining flakes of your blood sit inside on the wrinkles of her face. And maybe that mess was meant to be there the entire time. 

“Me too.” 

“Good,” you sigh and you lean into her, closing your eyes and feeling her closeness. 

“You should replenish soon. I don't keep any food here. I can take you to get some,” she offers you, knowing it's the very least she could do for you. 

“Not yet. I'm not ready to move yet.” 

“Me neither. We don't have to move yet. We can both stay this time.” 

.

She still reaches for you, still holds your waist when you pass by and pulls you in for slow kisses on the couch, but there’s a tension behind it now, like she’s waiting for something. Bracing for it.

And then there’s the issue of your sex life. Or more accurately, the slow but undeniable decline of it.

In the beginning, Sevika couldn’t keep her hands off you. You’d barely make it through dinner without her getting that look in her eye, and next thing you knew, you were being hauled into the bedroom or pinned to the kitchen counter with barely enough time to gasp her name.

The sex had been ravenous, like she needed you to survive, like fucking you was the only way she knew how to breathe. And for a while, you thought that was just her baseline. That maybe she’d finally found someone who made her let go of whatever leash she kept on herself.

But now? You’re lucky to get a bit of half-hearted groping during your nightly wind-down, maybe something more if the stars align and she’s not distracted or tired or haunted by whatever's been eating at her. You try not to take it personally. Really, you do.

The easiest, most humiliating conclusion would be that she's just not that into you anymore. That maybe the shine wore off and she’s already got one foot out the door, even if she hasn’t said it out loud. But that theory doesn’t hold water when she still looks at you the way she always did—like you hung the damn moon.

She still cooks for you. Still listens when you ramble. Still runs her hand down your back when you’re falling asleep and tucks the blanket under your chin when she thinks you’re not awake to notice. She's still your Sevika. And so, you chalk it up to the relationship settling. No one stays in that honeymoon heat forever. You try to convince yourself that it’s not a problem. That not having sex every day isn’t a failing. That it doesn’t mean something’s broken.

And when you do have sex, it’s still good—god, it’s incredible—but there’s something in her that holds back now, something you haven’t been able to name, and you’ve been too scared to press for it.

So, you let it lie. You tell yourself that whatever it is, she’ll work it out. That if it’s important, she’ll come to you.

But it's Sevika, and you were always going to have to find out the hard way.

It’s a normal day when it happens. You’d made plans to grab lunch with a few friends and maybe catch a movie afterward if the timing worked out. Nothing special. Sevika had kissed your forehead as you got ready, told you to use her card to treat yourself—something she always insists on when you go out—and murmured for you to have a good time.

Lunch was a joy. There was something soothing about the low hum of conversation and the clatter of silverware, about the laughter echoing off the restaurant walls as you caught up with people you hadn’t seen in weeks. It wasn’t until you stepped outside that the three of you realized it was raining, and the plans begin to dissolve. The movie was quickly nixed in favor of warm homes and dry clothes, and you found yourself making the familiar drive back in the kind of light drizzle that turns roads slick and hypnotic.

Sevika texted while you were still en route. Just a simple raining. be safe. You didn’t respond right away—being a safe driver and all that jazz—but the quiet comfort of knowing she was thinking about you settled warm in your chest.

When you push through the door, Sevika isn't waiting for you like she normally is. She's not in her usual spot on the couch nor the kitchen; for a second you entertain the idea that maybe she's just gone out. Then, you hear muffled noise from your bedroom.

The closer you get, the more clarity you get. Ragged little gasps and choked-off whines, the wet slap of skin against skin in rhythm. You freeze for a moment because you're certain it must be Sevika, but you've never heard her sound like that in your life.

A part of you panics, for one blinding second. That sharp, sour bite of suspicion creeps in without warning. The kind that stems from some buried, ugly place inside you. The whisper that maybe she’s not alone in there.

But the thought fizzles as fast as it forms, burning out in the face of what you know about her, about the woman waiting on the other side of the door. And then, when you reach out and ease it open just a crack, just enough to look inside—you see her.

Alone. On the bed.

She’s splayed out across the sheets on her back. Her shirt is rucked up high on her ribs, revealing the slope of her stomach and the way her chest rises and falls in ragged, uneven gasps. Her sweatpants are halfway off, bunched awkwardly around one knee, and her legs are spread wide in a graceless sprawl. One arm is curled up, pressing something to her face, and when you squint, you recognize it. A flash of familiar color. A torn bit of lace. Your underwear—yesterday’s—held tightly to her nose in a truly shameless display.

You barely breathe. Can’t.

Her other hand is between her legs, fingers moving in a slick, relentless rhythm. She’s not playing. She’s fucking herself. Three fingers deep, fucking into herself with the kind of hunger you’ve never seen her give to herself. The kind of force she usually reserves for you. The kind that has her back arching and her thighs shaking and her heels digging into the mattress for leverage as her hips jerk to meet every thrust. She's wrecked. Her face is twisted with something halfway between ecstasy and frustration, brows furrowed so deeply it almost looks like she’s in pain. Her jaw trembles with every breath.

You should look away. You know that. But you're stuck there, shameless in the doorway, drinking her in with greedy, disbelieving eyes. Every part of her is trembling with effort, her breath coming in short, stuttering gasps.

Her hand is slick—dripping—and every time her fingers slide out, you can see the mess she’s making of herself. It’s obscene. And this is the same Sevika, who once told you she didn’t want the favor returned, that getting you off was enough. Sevika, who always made you come first, who always had that wolfish grin and strong hands and took what she wanted like she knew she deserved it.

But this isn’t that Sevika.

This is something else. This is need laid bare. Desperation, raw and unhidden, as if she’s cracked herself open on purpose and is holding the pieces out for someone to see. For you to see. And god, you see her. You see her so clearly you can hardly think around it.

And then, she speaks.

“Please,” she whimpers, barely more than a breath. “I’ll be good.”

The words slice right through you, clean and brutal. Your body reacts before your mind catches up, a jolt of heat racing straight down your spine. I’ll be good. Her hand slows for a second, stuttering mid-thrust like the sound of her own voice has startled her, and then she drives her fingers deeper, rougher, chasing the edge again like she can’t stand being without it. Like she's punishing herself for daring to ask.

“Let me come, please,” she moans, her voice breaking around the edges. “Tell me I’m good.”

There’s no one else in the room. No one for her to be putting this performance on for. Just her, trembling on her back, begging to be seen, to be allowed. Her face is flushed, her mouth slack, eyes squeezed shut like she can’t bear to look at herself this way. Like the shame is part of the pleasure. And all the while she keeps moving, fingers plunging in and out of herself with rhythmic urgency, the wet sound of it a low, relentless underscore to her pleas.

Tell me I’m good.

She says it like she’s starving for it. Like the words themselves might unravel her in just the right way. She wants you to say it. She needs you to say it because she doesn’t believe it unless it comes from you.

And then she says your name.

Once. Then again. And again. She chants it like a lifeline, like prayer turned desperate. She’s crying it now, wrecked and hoarse and slipping toward the edge with every syllable, like saying your name might summon you, might give her permission to let go.

Through the arousal clouding your thoughts and the flush of voyeuristic heat across your skin, it dawns on you with startling clarity: this is what’s been eating at her. This is the thing Sevika has been hiding, the thing she’s never given you, maybe never given anyone. And you know it’s not just the act. It’s what it means to her. What it costs her to want this, to need it.

And God, you want to give it to her.

You want to cross that threshold and press your body to hers, kiss her until she softens and give her exactly what she's begging for. You want to tell her there's nothing—nothing—she ever needs to hide from you. That she could give you every raw, tender, humiliated part of herself and you'd hold it with both hands.

But you know Sevika. You know how easily she spooks when she feels exposed, how quickly she’ll lock herself up tighter than a vault the second she thinks someone’s seen too much. If you walk in there now with eyes full of knowing and hands full of comfort, she’ll shut down. You’ll lose her. She’ll bolt behind her usual defenses, pretend it never happened, maybe even avoid you for days out of some twisted sense of shame.

She doesn’t do confrontation. She bulldozes through it, clumsy and bristling.

So you don’t call out to her. You don’t step inside and ask her why she didn’t tell you. You don’t throw open the door and offer her safety. You choose a tactful retreat for now.

You back away from the bedroom like a thief with a priceless secret, gently easing the door shut behind you as though you were never there at all. Then, on silent feet, you tiptoe to the front entrance, crack it open just enough to set the stage.

You wait a beat—long enough to let her think the noise is genuine—before slamming it shut, hard enough to echo through the apartment. The keys jingle as you toss them into the ceramic bowl by the door. You clear your throat. You even throw in a practiced sigh for good measure.

“Sev! I’m home,” you call, keeping your voice smooth, casual, just slightly above normal.

A few heartbeats pass before you hear her bare feet padding softly across the hardwood, the rustle of clothing, a door easing shut somewhere behind her. And then she’s there, walking down the hallway like nothing's amiss. Her hair’s a little mussed, but her smile is easy, practiced. “Welcome back, baby. How was your movie?”

You wonder how often she’s done this. How many times she’s waited until she was sure you were gone, then slipped into your shared bed with shaking fingers and bitten-back moans and your scent pressed to her face.

It makes your chest ache, but you keep it hidden behind a smile. You give her the line you’ve already rehearsed. “We decided to reschedule because of the rain. Lunch was good, though. We should go together sometime.”

“Sounds good,” she murmurs, and leans down to kiss you. Soft and warm and familiar; you return the kiss and it takes everything in power not to tackle her to the couch and have your filthy way with her. You manage, barely.

That night, you don’t push. You don’t say a word about what you saw, won't until you're sure of what exactly it is you plan to say.

You settle into the rhythm she knows best. The two of you curl up in bed (you note that she changed the sheets while you showered), limbs tangled and breath syncing in that quiet way you’ve always loved. She falls asleep with her arm around your waist, her head pressed into your shoulder. And you lie awake for a while, watching the rise and fall of her chest, letting everything settle.

Over the next few days, you start testing the waters.

You start taking a little more initiative in bed. Nothing extreme. Just a firmer grip on her hips when you pull her in, a hand to her throat—not squeezing, just holding. You tell her she’s beautiful when she gets a little vocal. You guide her mouth between your thighs and gently hold her there until you’re done, showering her in as much praise as you can choke out.

It all comes to a head a few nights later.

Sevika’s cooked for you. Something rich and hearty with roasted vegetables and crusty bread, the apartment filled with the warm smell of garlic and thyme. She’s wearing a black tank top and dark jeans, and her hair's freshly washed. There's a part of you that wants to forgo the entire meal in favor of just having her, but you know she's worked hard.

The two of you sit across from each other at the table, each with your own glass of wine. She’s leaning back in her chair, legs spread, eyes lazy as she watches you chew. You can see how proud she is of the meal, even if she won’t say it outright. She always likes feeding you.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” you murmur, setting your fork down and reaching for your wine. “Seriously, this is amazing.”

She grunts, but her mouth quirks up. “Glad you like it.”

You swirl your glass, watching the wine catch the candlelight. Then you glance up. “Can I ask you something?”

She tenses. It’s so slight most people wouldn’t catch it. But you know her. You’ve learned how to read the micro-expressions, the shifts in her breathing.

“Sure,” she says, guarded.

You speak plainly, knowing that any hint of pity or hesitation would only serve to agitate her. “The other day. When I got home early, I was actually back a little earlier than I lead you to believe.”

Her expression freezes.

You keep your voice soft. “You were, uh, busy…in the bedroom.”

Her jaw ticks. She sets her glass down with a quiet clink. “You saw that?”

You nod.

Her eyes flick away. She shifts back, a muscle in her cheek twitching. “You gonna give me shit for it?”

And that breaks your heart a little. The idea that someone made her feel like that's anything to be ashamed, the fact that she expects it even from you.

“No,” you say, and the word is so fierce, so immediate, that her eyes flick back to you. You take a breath, steady your voice. “I wouldn't bring it up to make fun of you, Sev.”

She’s still watching you like she’s waiting for the trap to spring.

You lean forward slightly. “You know you don't have to be embarrassed, right?”

There’s a long pause.

And then she says, quietly, “I'm not embarrassed, baby.” Her mouth twists, like she’s trying to get the words right. “People take one look at me and they've got a whole lotta expectations. Stuff they think I am, stuff they want me to be. They find out I'm not really the domineering type and they're usually not happy about it. And you seem to like it when I'm in charge.”

She shrugs, but the movement is stiff. “Didn't wanna disappoint you, is all.”

You feel something hot burn behind your ribs. A kind of quiet fury. That anyone had the chance to be on the receiving end of Sevika’s surrender—to watch a woman that powerful offer herself up—and treated it like anything short of a god-given gift.

You shake your head, stunned. “Jesus, Sev. That’s…” You search for the words. “You didn't disappoint me. I gotta be honest, babe, that was, like, the hottest thing I've ever seen.”

She snorts, amusement breaking through the tense air. “That why you brought it up? Just to let me know it's okay?”

You meet her eyes, your own lips pulling into a little grin. “Would you want that with me? To submit like that?”

“Yes.”

You nod slowly, heart pounding.

You finish the last sip of your wine. Set the glass aside. Then you rise to your feet, smooth your hands down your thighs, and hold her gaze.

“Good,” you say, voice low and certain. “C'mon.”

Sevika doesn’t ask where. She doesn’t hesitate.

She stands without a word, places her empty glass on the table, and follows you with her hands tucked in her pockets.

Inside the bedroom, you stop near the foot of the bed and turn to her.

“Sit,” you say gently.

She obeys without question, sinking onto the edge of the mattress, legs parting just slightly as she settles. You step between them, resting your hands on her shoulders, watching how she instinctively reaches out. Her big palms slide immediately to your waist like they belong there. And when she looks up at you, something in your chest clenches. She looks so open like this. Unguarded. A quiet, private kind of softness that few people probably ever get to see.

She’s beautiful like this. Cute, even. Which should feel wrong, coming from someone so broad and blunt and vulgar, but somehow it doesn’t. It just makes you want to cup her jaw and hold her face in your hands and make her feel adored.

Your fingers move before your mind catches up, threading through the strands of her hair—slow and gentle, dragging along her scalp in a way that makes her eyelids flutter.

“Gonna tell me how you want this, Sev?” you ask, voice low but not demanding. An invitation.

She smiles, something shy tucked behind it, and it’s the freest you’ve seen her in days. Like letting the truth out at dinner shook something loose inside her. She takes her time, chewing on the inside of her cheek, clearly turning over her thoughts before she speaks.

“I like it when you tell me what to do,” she says slowly. “When you tell me I’m good.”

A pause.

“You can be mean, too,” she adds, voice a little rougher, like it costs her something to say. “I need it to behave, sometimes. I like being kept in line by a pretty thing like yourself.”

The words hit you like a pulse beneath your skin. Not just the meaning of them, but the vulnerability it takes to say them aloud. To admit that she wants control taken from her. That she craves not just praise, but discipline.

Your fingers are still buried in her hair, stroking. Calmer than you feel. “I can do that for you,” you murmur, leaning down to press your lips to hers. It’s not a heated kiss. Not yet. Just a promise, warm and sure.

You pull back just enough to meet her gaze. “Anything off the table?”

She tilts her head, amused, and that familiar smirk curls at the edge of her mouth. “Oh? Got something really fucked up you wanna do to me?”

You roll your eyes and swat her shoulder lightly. “No. I just don’t want you uncomfortable.”

She leans in again, slower this time, and brushes her lips along yours like she’s savoring it. “I trust you, baby,” she says softly. Her voice is close, and her eyes are steady. “I’ll tell you if I need to stop. Swear.”

You nod once, fingers tightening gently in her hair. “Good girl,” you murmur.

And the way she exhales, shaky and wrecked and already half-gone, tells you she’s yours.

“Take your clothes off,” you say, calm and clear.

Sevika blinks, then nods once, and rises to her feet. There’s no sarcasm in her smile now, no teasing in her movements. Just a quiet obedience as she sheds each piece, folding them roughly and dropping them onto the chair in the corner without ceremony. You drink in every inch of skin she reveals—broad shoulders, that scarred chest, the solid strength she carries in every line of her body—and it hits you again, how rare this must be for her. To bare herself like this. To offer herself.

When she’s fully nude, you nod toward the bed. “Up.”

She crawls backward onto the mattress, then scoots up until she’s resting against the pillows, legs slightly parted, gaze fixed on you.

You don’t undress. Not yet. Instead, you crawl up after her, settle into her lap with a shift of your hips. Her hands twitch on the comforter—like she wants to touch, to grab, to drag you in by the hips—but she doesn’t. She holds still. Her eyes dip to your mouth, and when she swallows, it’s audible.

“Who knew you could be so well behaved?” You murmur, palms smoothing up her shoulders as you lean in.

You kiss her before she can respond. It’s slow at first, but the second she starts to lean into it, you pull back, just enough to shift your focus lower. Your lips trail from the corner of her mouth to her below her ear, then lower still to her jaw. Then, to her throat. You bite, gentle at first, then harder, drawing a sound out of her that goes straight to your core.

Your mouth continues downward, to the side of her neck, where you suck a little harder. She shifts beneath you, hips twitching, and your hand finds her side, thumb dragging across her ribs in slow strokes.

You leave another mark. Then another. A messy little constellation along the side of her throat, scattered proof that she’s yours.

And she lets you. Chest rising faster now. Breath heavier.

Your hands slip down her torso, brushing the soft skin beneath her breasts before rising again, more purposeful this time. You cup them, thumbs brushing her nipples, and her back arches just slightly into your touch. An unconscious response, so telling.

“Fuck,” she mutters under her breath, head tipping back against the pillows.

You smile, wicked and fond, and lean down to replace one of your hands with your mouth. You drag your tongue slowly over the stiff peak, then close your lips around it, sucking just enough to make her gasp. Your free hand tweaks the other, enjoying the way her whole body reacts: shoulders tightening, thighs shifting beneath you.

The little sound she makes—soft and needy, half-bitten off—is almost too much. You grind down without thinking, chasing a little friction, trying to soothe the ache building between your legs.

Her eyes snap to yours.

But she still doesn’t move. Her hands stay clenched in the sheets. And you know she wants to touch you. You can see it in the way her fingers curl, the way her knuckles go white. But she doesn’t. Because you haven’t told her she can.

You press your mouth to her chest again, more greedy this time, your hips rolling just a little against her lap as you murmur against her skin, “I like these new noises you're making. You don't have to hold back.”

"'Kay," she says, voice stretched thin.

You kiss a slow, teasing line down her stomach, savoring the way she trembles with every inch you travel lower. Her thighs part for you like second nature, wide and inviting, and you settle between them with reverence. Your hands settle on her hips, breath ghosting over her cunt.

You glance up.

Sevika’s watching you. Her chest is rising and falling like she’s already halfway gone, and you commit the sight to your memory. You duck your head and lick one slow, deliberate stripe through her folds, and the sound she makes—fuck. It’s guttural, pulled from somewhere deep. Her hips jerk despite herself.

You take your time. Parting those puffy lips with your tongue and drinking in the taste of her. And when your tongue finds her clit, you pause.

She’s so sensitive. You feel it in the way she twitches, how her thighs flex on either side of your head. And she’s big here, swollen and flushed, easy to wrap your lips around. So you do. Gently. Eagerly.

The reaction is immediate. She lets out a sound you’ve never heard from her before—high, needy, almost whimpering. Her hips roll without rhythm, trying to chase more friction, and you press your palms harder to her thighs to hold her still.

“Shit. Baby,” she gasps, voice already fraying at the edges. “I—fuck, you can’t just—”

But you can, and you do. You suck slow, then fast, then slow again. Teasing, tasting, keeping her just off balance enough that she doesn’t know whether to cry or come. She starts to babble, to beg. She’s never begged you like this before. Every word stumbles out half-formed, punctuated by desperate moans and broken gasps.

“Please. Please don’t stop, just—fuck, right there.”

You hum against her clit, letting the vibration do the rest. Her whole body tenses. You feel it building in her thighs, in her stomach, the way she tries to close her legs but can’t. Not with you holding her open like this, tongue relentless, lips locked around the part of her that seems to reduce her to a mess beneath your expertise.

And just as she tips over the edge—shuddering, breath hitching—her hand suddenly comes down, fingers curling tight against the back of your head.

You freeze.

Then, slowly, you lift your face from between her legs, mouth slick, lips kiss-swollen.

“I didn’t give you permission to touch me,” you say softly.

It takes a second for it to land. Her eyes are glazed, chest heaving, lips parted around a word she’s forgotten how to finish. But you see the flicker of realization in her expression—the way she blinks, processing. The way her hand drops from your hair like it’s been burned.

You don’t scold her. You don’t say another word.

You just rise to your feet, eyes never leaving hers, and step off the bed in search of something. Sevika lays there stunned, bliss-drunk, and suddenly very alert to what might come next.

You return with a familiar object in hand, something you forgot you even owned until just now—cheap, pink, and fuzzy, dangling from one finger like a taunt. You watch as Sevika’s eyes narrow.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, half-laughing, half-wary. “I'm under arrest now?”

You smile, all mock sympathy and wicked delight. “You broke the rules, baby. I’m just helping you behave.”

Sevika opens her mouth to argue: It was an accident. I barely touched you. But you just raise a brow, silencing her with the glint in your eye. She hesitates, then leans back against the pillows with a groan, stretching her arms above her head. A reluctant offering.

You cuff her wrists to the headboard.

They’re not tight. Not serious especially considering she can easily break them if she wants to. But the effect is instant: her whole body shudders at the shift in power. She’s at your mercy now, and she likes it.

Your clothes are quickly discarded atop Sevika's with considerably less order. You crawl up the bed and straddle her chest, not quite sitting yet. “Maybe if you’re good,” you murmur, trailing your fingers along the edge of her jaw, “I’ll let you fuck me later.”

That gets her attention. Her eyes darken, her tongue flicks across her lips, and she nods like she’s already planning her redemption arc.

But that’s not what this moment’s for.

You shift higher, settling over her face, bracing one hand against the headboard as the other guides her mouth exactly where you want it. “Open up,” you purr, and she obeys immediately—eager, hungry, already moaning before her tongue even touches you.

She wastes no time closing her mouth around you, tongue flicking out in the way she knows you go crazy for. Sevika always eats your pussy like she'll die without it. Her eyes flutter shut as she sets a steady pace, dragging her tongue through your slick and pushing her face as close as she can get it.

You grind down harder, throwing your head back with a drawn out moan.

She groans shamelessly with a mouthful of you, and then she’s doubling down. Her movements turn sloppy and focused and fucking needy, licking like she’s trying to earn your forgiveness. You keep your eyes on her, watching her strain against the cuffs, watching her fall apart under you.

“That’s it,” you breathe, rolling your hips slow over her tongue. “Just like that. Look at you. So desperate to make up for being bad.”

A noise escapes her, muffled and obscene. You feel it reverberate through your whole body.

You keep going, hips grinding, words getting filthier by the second. “You love this, don’t you? Getting used. Having me sit on your face like you’re just a toy to cum on. You want to be my good girl so bad.”

She’s moaning beneath you now, tongue working faster, almost frantic. You glance down, and that’s when you notice it: the way her body is tensing. The way her hips jerk against nothing. The tiny, helpless whimper she lets out.

She’s coming.

“Oh, Sev,” you say, laughing breathlessly as you reach a hand back, fingers slipping between her thighs. Her clit is soaked and swollen. You rub slow, lazy circles as you keep riding her face, and she just takes it—tied up, overstimulated, and practically vibrating with need.

“You came just from this? From eating me out?” You give her a few more strokes and she whines deep in her throat. “God, you’re such a mess. That tongue still working?”

It is. Barely. She sticks it out like she’s offering it to you, like she’ll keep going until she physically can’t anymore. And that’s exactly what she does. She lets you ride her face until you’re falling apart above her with a cry and grinding down harder to ride it out.

You don’t linger long.

You uncuff her wrists gently, and she immediately brings her hands down, arms shaky, fingertips brushing your thighs with a quiet sort of intimacy. You shift off her chest and lean down to kiss her.

“You okay?” you murmur between kisses, brushing your thumb along her cheek.

Sevika smiles like she just won the lottery. “You kidding?” she breathes. “I’m amazing.”

"Good. Me too." you say and you're both just smiling at each other like idiots for a while. "Anyways, about that fucking I was talking about."

It doesn't take much longer after that until you've got her strap-on securely on her hips. She helps as best she can, but she's too shaky for all the buckling and adjusting.

Still, there's something sweet in the effort she makes to keep her hands steady. You take over for her and, as soon as it’s secure, you crawl into her lap and line yourself up before sinking down with a sharp gasp.

“You can touch me now,” you whisper, bracing yourself against her shoulders. “Touch as much as you like. I think you've earned it.”

Her hands go immediately to your hips, grip firm, and she groans deep in her throat when you bottom out.

“Fuck,” she mutters, letting her head fall back for a second. “M'still so fucking sensitive…”

You lean in, pressing your forehead to hers, voice low and teasing. “You wanna be good for me?”

“Of course,” she says, instantly. And she's breathless, still wrecked, still eager.

“Then I don’t care if you’re sensitive,” you tell her, rocking your hips slowly to start, letting her feel every inch. “I want to come. So you’re gonna let me use you, aren’t you?”

The noise she makes is strangled, pulled from somewhere low and vulnerable. She nods helplessly, hips jerking up despite herself. You smirk down at her, not bothering to hide your satisfaction. “That’s what I thought.”

She mutters something under her breath—creating a fucking monster, or something close enough—and it only makes you grin wider.

You ride her with purpose, grinding down hard with every bounce, angling your hips so that the base of the harness rubs just right against her clit with each thrust. It’s slow torture, and you know it. You feel it in the way her grip tightens, in the way her eyes flutter, in the little frustrated groans she lets out every time her body bucks up to meet you, desperate to take some semblance of control but holding back.

“Look at you,” you pant, fingers sliding through the hair at the back of her neck. “Trying so hard to be good.”

And she is. She is—trembling, sweating, falling apart beneath you. She tries to keep still, to let you have it the way you want, but the pressure is too much. Her hips start jerking up with every downward stroke, chasing something she can’t stop herself from needing. You don’t stop her.

When she comes again, it’s with a gasp and a full-body shudder, mouth slack, body tensing and then breaking into ripples beneath you. The desperate, quiet moan she lets out as she finishes nearly drags you under with her.

You follow not long after, riding her through it, coming with a cry as your body finally caves to everything she’s giving you. Everything she's letting you take.

You collapse against her chest, both of you panting, slick with sweat and shaking.

Eventually, Sevika’s arms wrap around you, warm and loose, and you stay there for a long moment—just breathing each other in.

“Was that everything you hoped?” you murmur into her neck.

“Better,” she says, lips brushing your temple. “Thank you.”