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She’s drinking from a short glass, something amber and sharp, ice clicking softly every time she moves her wrist. That’s where your eyes keep going, not to the drink, not even to her mouth at first, but to her hand curled around the glass.

Her fingers are thick, scarred, steady, the kind of hands that look like they know exactly how to hold someone down without even trying. Every time she flexes them, your stomach tightens like she’s touching you from across the room.

You try to focus on anything else, the flicker of the lamp, the mess of blankets on the couch, the shirt slipping down one shoulder, but it’s useless. Your thighs press together before you realise you’re doing it, seeking pressure, seeking relief, because the sight of her hand alone has made your pussy ache.

It’s humiliating how fast it happens, that warm, wet pull low in your belly, your body reacting like Sevika has already dragged those fingers over you.

She doesn’t notice at first, or at least she lets you believe she doesn’t. Sevika takes another slow sip, eyes half-lidded, watching the glass instead of you like she isn’t the reason you can barely stand still.

The fan pushes a strand of your hair against your cheek, and you brush it away too quickly, too restless, shifting your weight from one bare foot to the other. Her gaze flicks up then, brief and dark, catching the movement before dropping back to her hand.

She rolls the glass between her fingers, slow and deliberate, and your breath catches so quietly you hope she doesn’t hear it. Of course she hears it, because Sevika hears everything when it matters. The corner of her mouth twitches, barely there, and that tiny almost-smirk makes your pussy throb harder than before.

You pretend to busy yourself with the counter, turning away like there’s anything left to clean in the kitchen. There isn’t, and you both know it, but you need somewhere to put your hands before they give you away.

The shirt rides up when you reach for a cup you don’t even want, cool air brushing the backs of your thighs and reminding you exactly how little you’re wearing. Behind you, Sevika’s silence changes shape, growing heavier, more aware, the kind of quiet that settles over your shoulders like a hand.

You hear the glass touch the coffee table, soft but final. Then comes the slow creak of the couch as she leans forward, and your heart kicks hard against your ribs. You don’t turn around, because turning around means admitting you know she caught you.

“Come here,” Sevika says, and it isn’t loud, but it lands like an order. Your body listens before your pride does, your feet carrying you toward her while your face burns and your thighs feel unsteady.

She stays seated, looking up at you with that lazy, dangerous patience, her elbows resting on her knees and her hands hanging loose between them.

You try not to look again, but your eyes betray you immediately, dropping to her fingers like you’re starving. Sevika catches it, of course she does, and this time her smirk shows properly.

“That what’s got you acting stupid?” she asks, lifting one hand just enough for you to see the slow curl of her fingers. The question makes heat rush through you so sharply that your pussy clenches around nothing, slick and needy beneath the stolen shirt.

You open your mouth, but nothing useful comes out, only a breath that sounds too close to a whine. Sevika reaches for you then, her hand closing around your wrist with firm, easy control, and the contact sends a shiver straight through you.

She pulls you down onto her lap like you weigh nothing, settling you over one of her thighs, her bare skin hot against yours. The shirt bunches high around your hips, and you feel the rough drag of her boxers beneath you, feel how exposed you are even before she looks.

Her hand slides to your waist, holding you still, while the other cups your chin and tilts your face toward hers. “Couldn’t stop staring,” she says, voice low enough to make your whole body go soft. “If you want my fingers that badly, sweetheart, you’re gonna earn them first.”

Sevika doesn’t move right away, and somehow that’s worse than if she’d touched you immediately. She just holds you there, settled on her lap with your thighs spread around one of hers, watching the way your breathing turns shallow.

Her hand stays on your waist, heavy and possessive, thumb dragging lazy circles through the thin fabric of her shirt. You can feel yourself getting wetter from the pressure alone, your pussy pressed against the firm muscle of her thigh with only the rough cotton of her boxers between you.

Every tiny shift makes your hips twitch, makes your body betray you, and Sevika notices every single time. Her eyes drop to where you’re trembling over her, dark and smug, like she’s already won. “Needy little thing,” she says, soft enough to sound almost fond, mean enough to make you ache.

You try to hide your face against her shoulder, but Sevika catches your jaw before you can. Her fingers press into your cheeks, not hard enough to hurt, just firm enough to remind you who’s in charge. “No,” she tells you, voice rough and low. “You wanted to stare, so now you’re gonna look at me.”

Your lashes flutter, and your hands find her shoulders, fingers curling against warm skin while you force yourself to hold her gaze. Her bare chest brushes yours every time you breathe, her boobs soft against the front of the oversized shirt, and the intimacy of it makes you feel even more exposed. Sevika’s smirk widens when your hips give another helpless little grind against her thigh.

“That’s it,” she murmurs, her hand sliding from your waist to your hip. She doesn’t guide you yet, doesn’t give you enough to really chase, just lets her palm rest there while you suffer with wanting. You swallow hard, your body hot all over, your pussy slick and throbbing from the barely-there friction.

The shirt has ridden up so high that she can see everything now, and the way her eyes sharpen makes your stomach flip. “Look at you,” she says, gaze dragging down between your thighs. “All that from watching my hands?” You whimper before you can stop yourself, and Sevika’s fingers flex against your hip like the sound pleases her.

She finally grips you properly then, both hands settling on your hips with that steady strength you couldn’t stop staring at. The first pull is slow, dragging you forward over her thigh until your breath breaks in your throat.

Pleasure sparks low and sharp, your clit catching against the fabric, your wetness smearing warm between you and her. Sevika watches your face the entire time, jaw set, eyes heavy, like she wants to memorize exactly how ruined you look from so little.

Then she pulls you back just as slowly, making you feel every inch of pressure. Your nails dig into her shoulders, and she huffs a quiet laugh. “Earn it,” she says again, rougher this time. “Use my thigh first.”

You try to move on your own, but your rhythm falls apart almost immediately. You’re too worked up, too embarrassed, too sensitive from being watched so closely, and Sevika doesn’t let you hide from any of it.

Her hands tighten, taking over without warning, forcing your hips into a slow, cruel grind that makes your mouth fall open. The pressure is perfect, too much and not enough all at once, making your pussy clench and drip while your thighs shake around hers.

“There she is,” Sevika says, voice thick with satisfaction. “Knew you could be good when you wanted something.” The praise hits you almost as hard as her grip does, making heat bloom under your skin until you’re clinging to her like you might fall apart.

You can feel the flex of her fingers every time she drags you down harder, and the thought that this is what started all of it makes you dizzy.

“Sevika,” you gasp, her name breaking into something desperate halfway out of your mouth. She leans in, not kissing you yet, just letting her mouth hover near yours while you struggle to keep your eyes open.

“What?” she asks, like she doesn’t already know. You whine, hips chasing the grind even when her hands pause just to make you suffer. Sevika clicks her tongue, amused and cruel, then brushes her thumb over your lower lip.

“Use your words.” Your whole body burns, your pussy aching so badly you can barely think past the empty need curling inside you. “Please,” you breathe, and Sevika’s smile turns sharp.

“Please what?” Her thumb slips into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, and you suck around it without being told. Sevika’s eyes go darker at that, her throat working as she watches you turn obedient so quickly.

Her other hand slides lower, fingertips tracing along your inner thigh, close enough to make you tremble but still not where you need her. You try to spread wider for her, but she stops you with a single look.

“Greedy,” she says, though her voice has gone rough in a way that tells you she likes it. Her thumb pulls from your mouth, wet and shining, and she drags it down your chin before gripping you again. “Say you earned it.”

You don’t answer fast enough, not with words, because the second her thumb leaves your lip, your body leans after it like you can’t help yourself. Sevika notices immediately, of course she does, her eyes narrowing with that slow, entertained cruelty that makes your stomach fold in on itself.

You catch her wrist with both hands before you even think better of it, fingers wrapping around her much stronger forearm as you try to pull her thumb back toward your mouth. The movement is needy, shameless, so obvious that heat rushes up your neck the moment you realize what you’ve done.

Sevika lets you get close, lets your lips brush the pad of her thumb, then stops just short of giving it to you. “Look at that,” she says, voice low and rough, her thigh flexing under you just enough to make your hips stutter. “Didn’t even ask.”

Your lips part anyway, breath hot against her skin, tongue peeking out to taste the damp trail you left there before. Sevika’s gaze drops to your mouth, and for one second her expression slips, something hungry cutting through all that patience.

Then her fingers tighten around your jaw, holding you still, making you feel the full weight of being caught wanting. “You that desperate for something in your mouth?” she asks, and the way she says it makes your pussy clench hard against her thigh.

You try to nod, but her grip keeps you in place, forcing a small, broken sound out of you instead. The noise seems to please her, because her thumb finally presses against your lower lip again, slow and firm. “Open.”

You do, immediately, too quickly to pretend you have any pride left. Sevika’s thumb slides onto your tongue, and you close your lips around it with a soft, grateful little whine that makes her breathe out through her nose.

Her thumb is thick and warm in your mouth, still faintly tasting of you, and the thought alone makes your hips roll down harder. She watches the way your cheeks hollow slightly when you suck, watches your lashes flutter, watches your hands cling to her wrist like she might take it away again.

“There you go,” she murmurs, almost approving, though her other hand grips your hip hard enough to keep you grinding exactly how she wants. The praise melts through you, syrupy and hot, until your whole body feels too soft to hold itself up. You keep your mouth around her thumb like it’s the only thing keeping you from begging.

Sevika starts moving you again, guiding your hips in a slow, punishing rhythm over her thigh. The friction catches your clit through the damp mess you’ve made on her boxers, each drag sending pleasure up your spine until your breathing turns ragged around her thumb.

Your spit gathers at the corner of your mouth, messy and humiliating, but Sevika only looks more satisfied. She presses her thumb down against your tongue, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you feel owned by the shape of her hand.

“Good girl,” she says, and the words make you shake so badly she has to hold you tighter. Your pussy is wet enough that every grind sounds obscene in the quiet apartment, slick heat dragging against fabric and skin while you tremble in her lap. Sevika hears it too, her eyes flicking down with a low, pleased hum.

You try to chase more, rocking faster, but Sevika’s hand clamps down on your hip and stops you instantly. The sudden stillness tears a whine out of you, muffled around her thumb, your brows pinching in desperate frustration.

“No,” she says, calm as anything, like your thighs aren’t shaking around hers. “You don’t get greedy unless I tell you to.” You whimper again, softer this time, and she tilts her head like she’s considering whether you’ve earned any mercy at all. Her thumb slips from your mouth with a wet little sound, dragging over your lip before she cups your face. “Tell me what you want.”

Your answer comes out shaky and ruined, barely more than a breath. “Your fingers.” Sevika’s expression sharpens, her grip on your face turning almost tender for one dangerous second.

“Yeah?” she asks, thumb brushing over your spit-slick lip while her other hand slides under the shirt and finds your bare hip.

You nod fast, too fast, your hands moving to her shoulders as your body aches around the empty need between your thighs. “Please, Sevika,” you say, voice breaking on her name. “I earned them.”

For a moment, she just looks at you, all dark eyes and bare skin and that smug, devastating mouth. Then her hand leaves your face and trails slowly down your throat, over the front of the shirt, lower and lower until your breath catches.

She pushes the hem up with almost insulting patience, exposing you fully in her lap while her gaze drops between your thighs. “Fuck,” she mutters, quieter than before, the first crack in her control all night.

Her fingers skim through the slick heat of your pussy, barely touching, but it’s enough to make your whole body jerk. Sevika smiles when you gasp. “All this because of my hands?” she asks, dragging two fingers through your wetness again, slow and deliberate. “Sweetheart, you’re worse than I thought.”

Sevika’s eyes stay locked between your thighs for one long second, watching the mess you’ve made of yourself like it’s something she earned by patience alone. Her fingers are still slick with you, shining under the low light of the apartment, and when she lifts them, your stomach twists at the sight.

She doesn’t put them in your mouth this time, doesn’t let you chase them, just holds them up between you like a reminder of how badly you’ve already given yourself away. “Shirt off,” she orders, voice rougher now, stripped of some of that lazy control.

“Want to see all of you when I make you beg.” Your hands shake as you grab the hem, pulling it up over your head, and Sevika’s gaze drags over every inch of newly exposed skin like she’s deciding where to ruin you first.

The second the shirt hits the floor, her breath changes. It’s small, almost hidden, but you’re close enough to hear it, that low inhale caught somewhere behind her teeth when she sees your bare chest.

Her hand settles on your waist again, fingers digging in just enough to make you arch without meaning to. “Look at you,” she mutters, eyes dark and heavy as they lift to your face.

“Walking around my apartment with nothing under my shirt, staring at my hands like you weren’t asking for this.” Her slick fingers trail up your stomach, leaving a warm, wet path over your skin. “Dirty thing,” she says, almost fondly. “You wanted me to notice.”

You don’t get the chance to answer before those wet fingers find your nipple. Sevika pinches it between her thumb and forefinger, slow at first, watching your mouth fall open as the slick touch turns the sensation sharper, filthier. She rolls it between her fingers, firm and deliberate, and the pleasure shoots straight down to your pussy, making your hips jolt against her thigh.

“There it is,” she says, her voice dropping when she feels you grind down without permission. “Can’t even handle me touching your tits without soaking yourself more.”

Her other hand cups your boob, rough palm warm against the soft weight of it, squeezing until you gasp. “You’re gonna sit there and take it, yeah? Gonna be good for me now?”

You nod so fast it’s embarrassing, but Sevika only clicks her tongue. “Words,” she says, pinching harder just to make you whimper. “I want to hear that pretty mouth when you’re not begging for my thumb.” Your breath shudders out of you, your hands clutching at her shoulders as your nipples tighten under her touch.

“I’ll be good,” you manage, voice thin and shaky. Sevika hums, pleased but not satisfied, rolling your nipple again with those wet fingers until your back arches into her hand. “Yeah, you will,” she murmurs. “Because you know I’ll make you wait all night if you start acting spoiled.”

Then her mouth is on you, hot and sudden, and every thought in your head blanks out. Sevika drags her tongue over your nipple first, slow and dirty, tasting the slick she smeared there before closing her lips around it.

The suck is hard enough to make you cry out, your hips bucking helplessly, and she laughs against your skin like the sound is exactly what she wanted. Her teeth graze next, sharp and careful, then bite down just enough to make pleasure spark bright and mean through your chest.

“Fuck, you sound pretty like that,” she says, mouth still brushing your boob as she talks. “Should’ve had you on my lap sooner.” She sucks again, rougher this time, and your fingers slide into her hair because you need something to hold on to.

Sevika groans when you tug, the sound low and hungry, vibrating against your chest. That’s when you feel it, the way her thigh tenses under you, the way her hips shift beneath your weight like she’s not as unaffected as she’s pretending to be.

Her eyes are darker when she looks up at you, lips wet, breath warm against your spit-slick nipple. “Don’t think I’m not worked up too,” she says, voice gravelly now.

“Been sitting here watching you squirm in my shirt, pretending you weren’t dripping all over yourself because of my hand.” Her palm slides down your spine, dragging you closer until your bare chest presses against her mouth again. “You make it real fucking hard to be patient.”

She switches to your other boob without warning, squeezing one while her mouth latches onto the other. Her slick fingers return to your nipple, pinching and rolling while her tongue circles the opposite one, making your body split between sensations until you’re shaking over her. Every suck, every bite, every dirty little hum from her mouth makes your pussy pulse against her thigh.

“That’s it,” Sevika says, pulling back just enough to talk while her thumb flicks over your nipple. “Grind on me while I play with these pretty tits.” Her gaze drops to the way your hips move, slow and desperate, smearing wetness over her boxers. “Fuck, sweetheart, you’re making a mess of me.”

You try to apologize, but it comes out broken, barely a word at all. Sevika laughs, not kind, not cruel, just dark and pleased, then bites the soft curve of your boob hard enough to leave a mark. “Don’t apologize,” she says, licking over the bite after.

“I like seeing what I do to you.” Her fingers slide down your stomach for one teasing second, dipping low enough to make your whole body go tense, then stopping before she gives you what you want.

“You want my fingers inside you?” she asks, mouth finding your nipple again between words. “Then keep moving on my thigh, keep getting these pretty tits wet for me, and maybe I’ll decide you’ve earned them.”

You do exactly what Sevika tells you because by now your body has stopped pretending it belongs to anyone else. Your hips drag over her thigh in slow, desperate rolls, each one wetter than the last, your slick soaking through the fabric of her boxers until the glide turns messy and obscene.

Sevika’s mouth stays on your chest, switching between rough sucks and sharp little bites, her tongue soothing over every mark like she’s rewarding you and punishing you at the same time. Her hands stay planted on your hips, guiding every motion, refusing to let you speed up unless she wants it.

“That’s it,” she says against your skin, voice thick and ruined around the edges. “Make a mess on me. Show me how bad you wanted my hands.”

You whine and grind down harder, chasing the pressure with no shame left in you. The pleasure builds fast, too fast, your clit catching perfectly against her thigh until your stomach starts to tighten and your thighs shake around her.

Sevika feels it before you say anything, feels the way your rhythm goes frantic, feels your nails dig into her shoulders, feels your breath turn uneven against her hair.

She pulls back from your boob with her mouth wet, lips swollen, eyes dark enough to make you clench around nothing. “Already?” she asks, smirking like she’s not the one who dragged you there. “All I did was let you ride my thigh, sweetheart. You’re that easy for me?”

“Sevika,” you gasp, voice breaking as your hips stutter. You’re right there, right on the edge, your whole body wound tight and trembling, your pussy pulsing helplessly against her. She lets you have two more slow grinds, just enough to make your eyes go glossy, just enough to make hope spark hot in your chest.

Then, right as your orgasm starts to crest, Sevika stands. She lifts you with her like you weigh nothing, one arm locked beneath your thighs, the other bracing your back, and the loss of pressure rips a broken sound out of you. “Baby,” you whimper, high and needy, clinging to her shoulders like she’s done something cruel enough to break your heart.

Sevika smirks at your reaction, smug and gorgeous and completely unbothered by the way you’re falling apart in her arms. “Listen to you,” she says, carrying you away from the couch while your thighs tremble around her waist.

“Poor thing was about to cum, huh?” You nod against her neck, too desperate to be embarrassed, your breath hot and shaky over her skin. Her metal arm shifts beneath you, the hard surface pressing against the back of your thigh and the curve of your ass, cool at first against your overheated skin.

The contrast makes you jolt, makes your pussy clench again, makes another wet, miserable little sound leave your mouth. Sevika laughs low in your ear, her grip tightening when you squirm. “Careful,” she murmurs. “Keep moving like that and I’ll think you like being denied.”

The metal of her arm feels unforgiving against you, firm and smooth and colder than the rest of her, while her bare chest is hot against yours. Every step she takes makes your nipples brush against her, swollen and aching from her mouth, and every shift of her grip makes slick smear between your thighs.

You can feel how worked up she is too, in the roughness of her breathing, in the way her jaw keeps flexing, in the way her fingers dig into you like she’s holding herself back by force. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me,” she mutters, almost like she’s angry about it.

“Sitting on me half naked, dripping on my thigh, making those pretty sounds.” Her mouth finds your jaw, teeth scraping there before she bites lightly. “You make me want to ruin my own rules.”

She doesn’t take you to the bedroom. She stops with your back against the wall, pinning you there with her body, her metal arm braced beneath you to keep you lifted. The cool pressure of it spreads under your thighs while her other hand slides between your bodies, fingers still wet from you and rough with impatience now.

You barely have time to suck in a breath before she pushes two fingers inside you in one sudden, deep thrust. The stretch punches a cry out of you, your head falling back against the wall as your pussy clenches hard around her. Sevika groans like she feels it in her own body, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Fuck,” she breathes. “That’s it. Take them.”

Your legs tighten around her waist, your hands flying to her back, nails dragging over warm skin. She gives you a second, just one, watching your face carefully enough that the cruelty of it feels safe, practiced, wanted.

When you don’t tell her to stop, when you only whimper and rock down onto her fingers, her control snaps into something darker. She starts moving, slow but deep, curling her fingers inside you with every thrust until your body jerks against the wall.

The sound of how wet you are fills the space between you, obscene and impossible to hide. Sevika’s mouth brushes your ear, her voice low and filthy. “You hear that? Hear how bad this pussy wanted me?”

“Please,” you sob, though you don’t even know what you’re begging for anymore. More, mercy, her mouth, her fingers, the orgasm she stole from you, all of it tangles together until all you can do is cling to her.

Sevika’s metal arm holds you steady while her fingers fuck into you harder, her thumb finding your clit with mean, perfect pressure. Your whole body jolts, pleasure slamming through you so sharply that your vision blurs.

“There she is,” Sevika says, sounding breathless now, sounding hungry. “Knew you’d get sweet once I filled you up.” She kisses you hard before you can answer, swallowing the broken moan that spills out of you.

You grind into her hand because you can’t help it, because the orgasm she stole is still sitting hot and furious under your skin. Sevika lets you chase it this time, her fingers working you open, her thumb rubbing tight circles that make your thighs shake around her. Her metal arm presses colder into your skin the hotter you get, grounding you and ruining you all at once.

“Come on,” she growls against your mouth. “You wanted my fingers so bad, so cum on them.” Your pussy clamps down around her, slick and desperate, and Sevika curses under her breath like the feeling nearly takes her with you. “That’s my girl,” she says, voice rough with want. “Make a mess for me, baby.”

You’re right there again, right on the edge Sevika stole from you once already, your whole body tightening around the promise of release. Your thighs lock around her waist, your nails bite into her back, and your mouth falls open against her shoulder as the first wave starts to rise.

Sevika feels it instantly, feels the way your pussy clamps down around her fingers, wet and desperate, trying to drag her deeper. Her thumb keeps circling your clit for one cruel, perfect second, just long enough to make your eyes roll back. Then she slows.

The change is so sudden and so devastating that your eyes snap wide open. Her fingers stay buried inside you, but the hard rhythm turns lazy, shallow, almost gentle, and it ruins everything in one brutal second.

The orgasm that had been building so hot and bright inside you breaks apart before it can crest, leaving you shaking against the wall, empty of relief and full of need. Your breath catches on a wounded little sound, your hips jerking down helplessly, trying to force her to keep going.

Sevika watches your face as it happens, watches confusion melt into frustration, then into that pretty, pathetic desperation she clearly loves too much. “Oh,” she says, dragging the word out with a dark little laugh. “You really thought I was gonna let you cum that easy?”

“Sevika,” you whine, her name cracking in your throat like a plea. You sound wrecked already, breathless and spoiled and close to tears, and her smile only sharpens.

“Baby, please,” you beg, voice trembling as your hips try to grind against her hand. “Please, please, don’t stop, I was so close.” Sevika laughs again, low and rough against your neck, and the sound makes your pussy flutter around her fingers despite everything.

“I know you were,” she murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw like she’s comforting you. “That’s why I stopped.”

A broken sob slips out of you, humiliatingly soft and needy. Sevika hums like it’s the sweetest sound she’s heard all night, her metal arm holding you steady while your body trembles uselessly in her grip.

Her fingers move inside you at that same slow, maddening pace, sliding deep enough to keep you aching but not fast enough to give you what you need.

“Look at you,” she says, her voice thick with amusement. “Begging like I didn’t warn you that you had to earn it.” Her thumb brushes your clit once, barely there, and your whole body jolts. “So fucking greedy for me.”

“I earned it,” you babble, barely coherent now, your forehead dropping against hers. “I did, I did, please, I was good, I was so good for you.” Sevika’s eyes darken at that, her jaw flexing like your desperation is getting to her more than she wants to admit.

Her breathing has gone rough again, her chest pressing hard to yours, her mouth wet and parted as she looks down at you. “Yeah?” she asks, her fingers curling slowly inside you. “You think you’ve been good enough to take more?” You nod frantically, lips parted, eyes glossy and wide. “Please.”

Sevika holds your stare as she pulls her fingers back just enough to make you whimper. Then she presses a third finger against your soaked entrance, slow and deliberate, giving you time to feel exactly what she’s about to do.

Your breath catches, your body going tense around the stretch before she even pushes in. “Relax,” she orders, voice low but softer at the edges. “You can take it. Pretty pussy’s been begging for more all night.”

She eases the third finger in slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch steals every thought from your head. Your mouth falls open on a deep, shaking moan, pleasure and pressure twisting together until your whole body goes weak in her arms.

It’s full, so full it makes your eyes flutter, your pussy clenching tight around the added thickness like it doesn’t know whether to run from it or pull her deeper.

Sevika groans when she feels you take her, her forehead dropping to yours for one hot, breathless second. “Fuck,” she mutters, voice rough with want. “There you go. Knew you could take my fingers like a good girl.”

You’re babbling before you realize it, words spilling out broken and messy. “Feels good, feels so good, Sevika, fuck, please, please don’t stop.” Your hips twitch against her hand, your body trying to adjust to the stretch while also chasing the pleasure she keeps dangling just out of reach.

Sevika’s smile turns wicked, but her hand stays careful for a moment, letting you feel the fullness before she starts moving again. “Listen to yourself,” she says, brushing her mouth over yours without kissing you properly.

“Can’t even talk right now.” Her fingers curl inside you, slow and deep, and your moan breaks into a helpless little cry. “That’s what I wanted,” she whispers. “Wanted you so full of me you forgot how to be anything but needy.”

Sevika lets you suffer with the fullness for a little longer, fingers buried deep, thumb barely brushing your clit each time your breath starts to catch. She watches every little crack in you, the way your eyes go glassy, the way your mouth can’t decide between begging and moaning, the way your hips keep trying to chase her hand even when you’re too weak to move properly.

“You want it that bad?” she asks, voice rough and low against your mouth. You nod so fast it’s pathetic, your hands fisting against her shoulders, your whole body trembling around the stretch of her fingers.

“Then ask right,” she says, curling them inside you until your back arches off the wall. You barely get the words out, just a broken little “please, baby, please let me cum,” before Sevika finally gives you what you’ve been begging for.

Her hand moves harder then, deeper, her thumb pressing tight, perfect circles against your clit while her metal arm keeps you pinned and helpless against her body. The orgasm hits so hard it steals the sound from you at first, your mouth open, eyes wide, body locking around her fingers as pleasure tears through you.

Then the noise comes, high and wrecked, your face buried against her neck while your pussy pulses around her in wet, desperate clenches. Sevika groans like she feels every one of them, like the way you fall apart around her is dragging something out of her too.

“There you go,” she rasps, not stopping until your thighs are shaking uncontrollably around her waist. “That’s my girl. Make a mess on my hand.”

By the time she pulls her fingers out of you, you’re loose and trembling, barely able to hold your head up. Sevika carries you back to the couch like it’s nothing, like she didn’t just ruin you against the wall and leave your body buzzing with aftershocks.

She sits down with you in her lap again, letting you slump against her chest for only a second before her wet fingers press against your lips. Your eyes flutter open, dazed and needy, and Sevika’s mouth curves into that mean little smirk. “Open,” she says. You do it without thinking, lips parting around her fingers as she slides them onto your tongue. “Clean up the mess you made.”

You suck them obediently, tasting yourself thick on her skin, your cheeks hollowing around her fingers while she watches you with dark, hungry eyes. Sevika pushes them deeper, not enough to hurt, but enough to make your throat tighten and your lashes flutter.

You gag softly around them, hands grabbing at her wrist, and she groans under her breath like the sound hits her straight between the thighs. “Fuck,” she mutters, eyes dropping to your mouth. “Look at you. So sweet after I finally let you cum.” She gives you one more slow press of her fingers against your tongue, making you gag again before pulling them free with a wet sound that makes your face burn.

You whine when she suddenly pushes you off her lap, your body still needy despite how badly you’re shaking. The sound barely leaves your mouth before Sevika looks at you, one brow lifting, warning clear in her expression. You shut up immediately, lips still wet, breath uneven, thighs pressed together on the floor in front of her.

Her smirk returns slowly, like she likes seeing how fast you remember your place. “Good,” she says, voice low and approving. “Stay right there.” Then her hands move to the waistband of her boxers, and your breath catches all over again.

Sevika lifts her hips just enough to drag the boxers down, slow and deliberate, like she wants you to watch every second of it. The fabric slides over her thighs and drops somewhere beside the couch, forgotten, because all you can look at is her.

She spreads her legs wide, shameless and commanding, giving you a clear view of how wet she is. Her pussy is slick and swollen, shining in the low apartment light, arousal gathered between her folds because of you.

Your mouth goes dry, then wet again, your whole body reacting before your mind can catch up. Sevika leans back against the couch, one hand resting on her thigh, the other dragging lazily over her stomach. “See what you did?” she says, voice rough with want. “You think I got this wet from nothing?”

You stare like you’ve forgotten how to breathe, your knees pressing into the floor, your ruined body waking up again at the sight of her spread open for you. Sevika’s fingers dip lower, parting herself just enough to make you whimper. She laughs, quiet and cruel, but there’s need in it now, real need, her chest rising faster than before.

“Don’t just sit there looking pretty,” she says, eyes locked on yours. “You wanted my hands all night.” Her thighs spread wider, and the invitation feels like an order. “Now come here and show me what that mouth can do.”

You move before she has to ask twice, crawling closer on unsteady knees, your body still trembling from what she did to you. Sevika watches you the whole time, thighs spread wide, one hand resting lazily against the inside of her leg while the other curls around the back of the couch.

She looks ruined and powerful at the same time, bare chest rising with heavier breaths, jaw tight like she’s been holding herself back for too long. Your eyes drop between her legs again, and the sight makes your mouth part without sound.

She’s so wet it glistens against her, slick gathered where she’s open and aching, and your stomach flips because you did that. You made Sevika lose patience. You made her sit there soaked and hungry while she made you earn every second.

“Look at you,” Sevika says, voice rough and amused. “Barely got your legs working and you’re still crawling over like you need it.” You swallow hard, hands settling on her knees, and the heat of her skin under your palms makes you dizzy.

She lets you touch her, lets you drag your hands slowly up her thighs, but her warning stare keeps you from moving too fast. “Don’t get greedy,” she murmurs.

“You know what happens when you get greedy.” Your eyes flick up to hers, still wide and soft from your orgasm, and Sevika’s mouth curls. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

You lower yourself between her thighs, pressing a kiss to the inside of one before she can tell you where to start. Sevika’s breath catches, almost too quiet to notice, but you notice because you’re watching for every crack in her.

You kiss higher, slow and open-mouthed, tasting warm skin, salt, and the faint clean bite of her soap. Her fingers slide into your hair, not pulling yet, just settling there like a promise.

“Don’t tease me too much,” she warns, but her voice has gone lower, rougher, touched with need. That makes you brave enough to kiss the crease of her thigh, close enough that your breath ghosts over her pussy. Sevika’s grip tightens at the back of your head.

Your tongue touches her slowly at first, dragging through the wet heat of her, and Sevika’s whole body goes still. The sound she makes is low, almost swallowed, but it sends heat straight back through your already ruined body.

You look up while you do it, watching the way her brows pull together, the way her lips part, the way her hand flexes in your hair. “Fuck,” she mutters, head tipping back for half a second before she forces herself to look down at you again.

“That’s it. Open your mouth and make yourself useful.” The praise hidden inside the command makes you moan against her. Sevika feels it and curses again, thighs shifting wider around your shoulders.

You lick her like you’ve been starving for it, messy and eager, chasing every wet sound you pull out of her. Sevika tries to stay composed, tries to lean back like she’s still the one with all the control, but her breathing gives her away.

Every time your tongue circles her clit, her hips twitch toward your mouth before she catches herself. “Don’t stop,” she says, and it’s the first thing all night that sounds less like an order and more like need.

You whimper into her, hands sliding under her thighs to hold her open while you press closer. Her metal hand moves to your jaw, cool fingers guiding your face exactly where she wants you. “Right there,” she says, voice almost breaking. “Good girl, right fucking there.”

You obey immediately, sucking her clit between your lips until her thighs tense around your head. Sevika groans, rough and deep, the sound filling the apartment and making your own pussy throb again even though you’re still oversensitive.

She rocks against your mouth in small, controlled movements, but the control is thinner now, fraying at the edges every time you moan into her. “You like this, don’t you?” she says, breathless but still smug.

“Like being on your knees with your mouth full of me.” You nod as much as you can, and she laughs shakily, fingers tightening in your hair. “Greedy even after I made you cum. Pretty little thing can’t help herself.”

Her taste is all over your tongue, slick and warm and intoxicating, and you press closer until your nose brushes against her. Sevika’s hips jerk harder this time, a sharp little loss of control that makes her curse under her breath.

You feel her thighs tremble, feel the strength in her body turning restless beneath your hands, and it makes you want to ruin her composure the way she ruined yours. You flatten your tongue and drag it slow, then flick faster over her clit just to hear the way her breath punches out.

“Careful,” she growls, but there’s no real threat in it anymore. Her hand cups the back of your head, keeping you there. “Keep doing that and I’m gonna make you stay down there until I’m done shaking.”

You don’t stop. You give her exactly what she asked for, mouth wet and eager, tongue working her with the same desperation she dragged out of you earlier. Sevika’s dirty talk starts to fracture into curses, low groans, and your name said like she’s annoyed that she wants you this badly.

“Fuck, baby,” she breathes, and the pet name comes out rougher than before. “That mouth is dangerous.” You moan at that, gripping her thighs tighter as her hips lift into you again.

Sevika looks down at you, eyes heavy, chest flushed, one hand in your hair and the other squeezing her own thigh like she needs somewhere to put the force of wanting. “You’re gonna make me cum like this,” she says, voice dark and shaking. “And then I’m not done with you.”

That should scare you, probably, the promise in her voice, the threat of being kept there long after she breaks. Instead, it only makes you moan against her harder, your tongue pressing flatter, your mouth working her with a need that feels almost dizzying.

Sevika’s thighs tense around your head, strong and trembling, her fingers tightening in your hair like she’s trying not to pull too hard. “Fuck,” she spits, hips jerking up before she can stop them. “That’s it, baby. Don’t you dare get shy now.”

Her voice is rough, wrecked at the edges, and the sound of it makes you ache all over again. You want her ruined too, want her breathless and cursing, want proof that she’s just as weak for you as you are for her.

You suck her clit back into your mouth, softer at first, then firmer when her grip tightens. Sevika’s head falls back against the couch, her throat working around a broken groan, bare chest rising fast now. Her boobs shift with every shaky breath, nipples hard, skin flushed, and you can’t help dragging one hand up from her thigh to palm at her.

She looks down immediately, eyes dark and warning, but she doesn’t stop you. “Greedy little mouth and greedy little hands,” she says, voice low and breathless. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” Her hips roll into your mouth again, sharper this time, and her laugh breaks into a moan before she can finish pretending she’s above it.

You answer by licking her slower, dragging your tongue through all that slick heat until her stomach tightens beneath your hand. She tastes stronger now, wetter, her arousal coating your mouth and chin while she watches you with a look that makes your whole body feel owned.

“Look at me,” Sevika orders, and you force your eyes up even as your mouth stays busy. The sight of you between her thighs seems to hit her hard, because her lips part and her metal hand flexes against the couch hard enough to make the frame creak.

“Shit,” she mutters, almost to herself. “You look too fucking good down there.” Then her flesh hand tightens in your hair and guides you closer. “Keep your eyes on me when I cum.”

The command makes you shudder. You press in harder, tongue flicking over her clit before closing your lips around it again, sucking until Sevika’s thighs start to shake for real. She tries to keep still, tries to stay smug and composed, but the effort is falling apart in pieces.

Her hips lift, her hand pulls, her breath turns uneven and harsh. “Right there,” she growls, then says it again, rougher, less controlled. “Right there, baby, fuck, don’t stop.” You don’t. You give her everything, mouth messy and devoted, hands gripping her open like you were made to stay there.

Sevika’s orgasm builds loud, not in volume at first, but in the way her whole body changes. Her stomach tightens, her thighs clamp harder, her chest heaves, and her fingers twist in your hair like she needs an anchor.

“That’s it,” she pants, voice cracking around the words. “Make me cum. Make me cum on that pretty mouth.” The filth of it sends a pulse straight between your legs, your own body aching even though she hasn’t touched you again.

You moan into her, and that’s what does it. Sevika curses, sharp and broken, her hips grinding up against your tongue as she finally falls apart.

You keep your mouth on her through it, because she told you not to stop and because you couldn’t even if you wanted to. She comes hard, thighs shaking around your head, fingers holding you in place while you lick her through every wet, pulsing wave.

Her voice drops into a rough, helpless groan that you feel more than hear, vibrating low in her chest, filling the room with the sound of her losing control. “Fuck, baby,” she breathes, trembling under your hands. “Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

The praise makes you dizzy, makes you press your thighs together on instinct, but Sevika notices even in the middle of coming down. Of course she does.

Her grip loosens slowly, but she doesn’t let you pull away. Instead, she keeps you there with a hand at the back of your head, gentler now but still firm, making you clean her through the aftershocks.

“Don’t waste a drop,” she murmurs, voice hoarse. “You wanted to see how wet you made me, so clean it up.” You whimper against her, overwhelmed and turned on all over again, your tongue moving softer now, slower, tasting her until she shudders.

Sevika’s thighs twitch when you brush her clit, too sensitive, and she hisses through her teeth. “Careful,” she warns, but there’s a laugh under it. “Unless you want me to return the favour meaner.”

You finally lift your head when she lets you, lips swollen, chin wet, eyes dazed. Sevika looks down at you like she wants to devour you, one hand still in your hair, the other dragging lazily over her own stomach as she catches her breath.

For once, she’s visibly ruined, chest flushed, mouth parted, sweat shining lightly at her throat. The sight makes something warm and proud bloom in you, even as you’re still shaking on your knees.

Sevika sees that too, sees the little spark of satisfaction in your face, and her brows lift. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” she says, though her voice is too wrecked to be properly threatening. “I said I wasn’t done with you.”

You barely have time to answer before she reaches down and hooks her hands beneath your arms. She hauls you up from between her thighs, kisses you hard enough to steal the taste of herself from your mouth, then stands with you clinging to her.

“Bedroom,” she says against your lips, voice rough and absolute. You stumble when she sets you on your feet, but her metal arm wraps around your waist, cold against your overheated skin, keeping you steady.

She walks you backward down the hall, kissing you between steps, biting at your lower lip whenever you whine too much. The apartment feels smaller like this, every shadow hot, every breath loud, every touch dragging you closer to whatever she’s decided you’re going to take next.

The bedroom is dim when she pushes you inside, sheets messy from earlier that morning, the air warmer and darker than the living room. Sevika sits on the edge of the bed like a throne, legs spread, still naked and wet and watching you with that dangerous patience.

She nods toward the drawer beside the bed, and your stomach flips before she even says it. “Get it,” she orders. Your hands shake as you open the drawer, pulling out the harness and strap she likes using when she wants you completely gone beneath her.

When you turn back, she’s watching your face more than the toy, amused by the way your breathing has already changed. “Come here,” she says. “You’re putting it on me.”

The order makes your knees feel weak all over again. You step between her spread thighs, strap and harness in your hands, trying not to stare at how slick she still is. Sevika lets you kneel, lets you slide the harness up her strong thighs, lets your fingers fumble with the buckles while her hand rests in your hair like a warning.

“Nervous?” she asks, smirking down at you. You nod before you can stop yourself, and she laughs, low and mean and fond. “Good. You should be.” Her fingers tighten slightly. “Take your time, baby. I want it nice and tight before I make you ride it.”

Your face burns, but you obey, tugging the straps into place, fastening each buckle with trembling fingers. Sevika watches every movement, her breathing roughening when your knuckles brush her inner thighs, when your hands linger too close to where she’s still swollen and wet.

“That’s it,” she murmurs. “Pretty thing on your knees, getting me ready to fuck you.” Your pussy clenches at the words, empty and aching, and Sevika notices the tiny sound you try to swallow. “Already wet again?” she asks. “I haven’t even put you on it yet.”

When the harness is secure, Sevika grips your chin and makes you look up at her. Her eyes are dark, heavy with want, and the strap sits between you like a promise you can’t escape.

“Stand up,” she says, and you do, legs unsteady beneath you. She shifts back onto the bed, leaning against the headboard, thighs spread wide, the strap jutting from her hips. “Come here.”

Your body moves before your brain catches up, climbing onto the bed and settling over her lap, knees on either side of her hips. Sevika’s hands land on your waist, warm and firm, her metal fingers cool against one side of you.

“You’re gonna ride me now,” she says, dragging you closer until the tip presses slick against your pussy. “And you’re gonna look at me while you take it.”

Your hands clutch her shoulders as she lines you up with cruel patience. She doesn’t push you down right away, just lets the head of the strap tease against your entrance, slicking it with the mess she pulled out of you earlier.

You whimper, hips twitching, and Sevika’s mouth curls. “Don’t start,” she warns. “You begged for this.” You nod, breath shaky, and her grip tightens. “Words.” Your voice comes out thin and needy. “I want it.”

Sevika’s eyes flash with satisfaction. “Then sit.” She pulls you down slowly, inch by inch, letting the strap stretch you open while you tremble above her. The pressure makes your mouth fall open, pleasure and fullness winding tight through your belly as your pussy takes more of it.

Sevika watches your face the entire time, jaw clenched, breathing unsteady, like seeing you split open on her is testing every bit of control she has left. “Fuck,” she mutters when you sink lower. “That’s it. Take me like a good girl.” Your hips finally meet hers, the strap buried deep, and your moan breaks into something helpless.

For a second, neither of you moves. You’re too full, too sensitive, too aware of Sevika beneath you, her hands on your waist, her wet pussy pressed beneath the harness, her eyes burning into yours. She gives you that second, maybe two, then rolls her hips up just enough to make you gasp.

“Ride,” she says. Your thighs shake as you lift yourself and sink back down, slow and uneven at first, trying to adjust to the stretch. Sevika’s hands guide you, setting the rhythm, forcing you to take it deep every time. “That’s it, sweetheart,” she says, voice dark and shaking. “Work for it.”

You ride her the way she tells you to, messy and desperate, each drop of your hips dragging another broken sound out of your throat. Sevika watches the strap disappear inside you, watches your slick coat it, watches your body try to take everything she gives.

“Look at you,” she says, one hand sliding up to squeeze your boob while the other grips your hip. “All that whining and now you’re taking it so pretty.”

Her thumb rolls over your nipple, and your rhythm stutters. Sevika snaps her hips up once, sharp enough to make you cry out. “No. Keep going.”

You do, because the warning in her voice makes you melt and the fullness makes you stupid. Your hands slide into her hair, your chest pressing against hers as you grind down harder, chasing the angle that makes pleasure spark bright behind your eyes.

Sevika’s breath catches when you move against the harness just right, her own arousal smearing against the base with every grind. “Fuck,” she breathes, grip tightening on you.

“You feel that? Making me wet all over again while you ride me.” Her mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping there as she pushes your hips down. “That’s my girl. Take it like you’ve been aching for it all night.”

Your hands leave her hair and slide down over her shoulders, restless, greedy, needing more of her under your palms. Sevika’s skin is hot and damp beneath your touch, her chest rising hard as you keep riding her, every slow drop of your hips pulling another broken sound from your throat.

You grope at her boobs without thinking, fingers sinking into the soft weight of them, thumbs brushing over her nipples until her jaw tightens. Her eyes flash up to yours, dark and warning, but the sound she makes betrays her before she can say anything mean.

It’s low, rough, dragged from somewhere deep in her chest, and it makes your pussy clench hard around the strap. “Fuck,” she mutters, grip tightening on your waist. “You really are greedy tonight.”

You squeeze again, bolder this time, rolling her nipples between your fingers the way she did to yours earlier. Sevika’s hips jerk up beneath you, and the strap drives deeper, making your whole body jolt.

Your head falls forward, your forehead almost touching hers, while your hands keep working her chest with needy, clumsy desperation.

“That’s it,” she says, voice rough enough to scrape. “Use your hands while you ride me.” Her mouth brushes yours, not quite kissing, just letting you breathe against each other while you fall apart piece by piece. “You wanted to touch so bad, baby? Then touch.”

You do. You palm at her like you can’t get enough, thumbs teasing her hard nipples, fingers kneading the soft swell of her boobs while your hips move faster. The room fills with the wet, obscene sound of you taking the strap, slick coating every inch as you ride her harder and messier.

Sevika’s hands guide you through it, one warm against your hip, the metal one cooler at your lower back, forcing you down deep every time your thighs start to shake.

The base of the strap grinds against her clit with each roll of your hips, and you feel the exact moment it starts getting to her. Her breath punches out, sharp and uneven, and her head falls back against the headboard. “Shit,” she breathes, hips lifting into you. “Keep doing that.”

The command makes you whine, high and desperate, because you’re already close again. The stretch, the pressure, the sight of Sevika losing control beneath you, it all knots together in your belly until you can barely move right.

Your hands tighten on her boobs, and she curses, the base rubbing perfectly against her as your hips grind down. “That’s it,” she growls, dragging you harder into the rhythm.

“Make yourself cum on it.” Her eyes drop to where the strap disappears inside you, then back up to your face. “Want to see you fall apart while you’re holding onto me.”

Your mouth opens around a broken moan, but Sevika catches it with her hand. Her fingers wrap around your throat, firm and careful, just enough pressure to make you still, to make your eyes go wide and your whole body tighten around the strap.

She doesn’t cut off your breath, doesn’t lose control, just holds you there with that steady dominance that makes your brain go soft and blank. “Look at me,” she says, voice low and dangerous.

Your lashes flutter, but you obey, staring at her while your hips keep grinding down. Sevika’s thumb strokes once along the side of your throat, almost tender. “There you go. Pretty thing.”

That’s what pushes you over. The hand around your throat, the strap buried deep, the rough drag of her voice, the way her own hips are starting to stutter beneath you.

Your orgasm hits in a hard, shaking wave, your whole body locking as pleasure tears through you. You cum with a sob of her name, hands still clutching her boobs, pussy clenching helplessly around the strap as your hips twitch through it.

Sevika watches every second, eyes dark and fixed on your face, her grip on your throat steady while you unravel. “Fuck, baby,” she rasps, sounding wrecked now. “That’s it. Cum for me. Make a mess on my cock.”

The words make you shake harder, and the way you grind through your orgasm pushes the base against her clit again and again. Sevika’s control snaps right after yours, her mouth falling open as her hips jerk up beneath you.

Her hand slips from your throat to the back of your neck, pulling you close as she starts to cum too, rough and trembling, her body tightening under yours. “Don’t stop,” she groans, voice breaking around the order.

“Keep moving. Fuck, keep moving.” You can barely manage it, but you do, dragging your hips down in sloppy little rolls while she rides out her own orgasm against the harness. Her thighs shake beneath you, her chest pressed hard to yours, her breath hot and uneven against your mouth.

Sevika curses into your kiss, dirty and broken, her body tense beneath you as the base keeps rubbing her through every aftershock. Your hands soften on her chest, no longer groping so much as holding, thumbs brushing over her nipples while she trembles.

She kisses you harder, messier, swallowing your whimpers while your hips finally slow. The strap is still deep inside you, your body pulsing weakly around it, and every tiny movement makes you shiver.

Sevika’s hands slide down to your waist again, keeping you in place when your legs threaten to give out. “Good girl,” she murmurs against your mouth, voice hoarse and satisfied. “Took it so fucking pretty.”

You sag against her, boneless, your cheek pressed to her shoulder while both of you breathe like you’ve been fighting for it. Sevika doesn’t move you off right away. She holds you there, one arm wrapped around your back, metal hand cool against your overheated skin, her other hand stroking slowly along your spine.

The room feels quieter now, softer around the edges, though your body is still trembling from the force of it. Her lips brush your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “Still with me?” she asks, low enough that it feels private. You nod weakly against her, and Sevika huffs a tired little laugh. “Yeah. Thought so.”

For a while, neither of you moves. Sevika keeps you tucked against her chest, one arm around your back and the other resting heavy over your hip, her breathing slowly evening out beneath your cheek. The strap is gone eventually, set aside with a quiet kind of care that feels almost too tender after how rough her voice had been minutes ago.

You’re still warm all over, boneless and oversensitive, your skin sticking lightly to hers wherever your bodies touch. The bedroom smells like sweat, sex, and the faint smoky scent that always clings to Sevika no matter how often she showers.

Her fingers drag lazily up and down your spine, slow enough to make your eyes flutter. “Still here?” she asks, voice low and tired, but there’s something serious underneath it.

You nod against her shoulder, then hum when that doesn’t feel like enough of an answer. “Yeah,” you whisper. “M’ here.” Sevika’s hand stills for half a second before continuing, palm broad and warm as it smooths over your back.

“Throat okay?” she asks, quieter now, her thumb brushing gently near the side of your neck without pressing. You lift your head just enough to look at her, your eyes sleepy and soft. “It’s okay,” you tell her. “You were careful.”

Her jaw shifts like she’s trying not to show how much the answer matters to her. “Good,” she mutters. “You tell me if it’s not. Don’t get stubborn on me.”

That makes you smile faintly, even as your body feels too heavy to move. “You’re the stubborn one.” Sevika raises a brow at you, unimpressed, though the corner of her mouth twitches. “I’m not the one who tried to keep riding after her legs stopped working.”

Your face warms immediately, and you drop your head back against her chest with a small groan. “Don’t say it like that.” “Like what?” she asks, and now she sounds smug again, which is rude considering how sleepy she looks. “Like it’s true?”

You pinch her side weakly, barely enough to count as retaliation, and Sevika catches your wrist with an offended little huff. “Careful.”

“What are you gonna do?” you mumble. “We’re both half-dead.” Sevika looks down at you with the slowest, most dangerous smile she can manage while exhausted. “Don’t test me.”

It should sound threatening, but her voice is too rough with sleep, her hand already sliding back to stroke your waist instead of doing anything about it. You laugh softly into her skin, and she grumbles under her breath like she hates how much she likes the sound.

The bed is ruined enough that even your sleepy brain can’t ignore it forever. Sevika notices you shifting before you say anything, her eyes cutting toward the sheets with a resigned sigh. “Yeah,” she says, like she’s annoyed at the universe personally. “We gotta change those.”

You make a miserable sound and press closer to her. “Can’t we just sleep on the clean side?” “There is no clean side.” You peek over your shoulder at the tangled sheets, then immediately regret checking. “That’s your fault,” you say. Sevika snorts. “That’s very much your fault, sweetheart.”

Getting up feels like a group project neither of you signed up for. Sevika moves first, slow and stiff, stretching her shoulders before standing beside the bed and offering you her hand. You take it, wobbling when your feet touch the floor, and she steadies you instantly with a hand at your waist.

“See?” she says. “Legs don’t work.” “You’re so annoying,” you mutter, leaning into her anyway. “And yet,” she says, guiding you toward the linen cupboard, “you’re still holding onto me.”

You glance up at her, lips parted around a comeback that never really forms, because she looks too soft in the low bedroom light.

The two of you strip the bed with the clumsy patience of people who want to be asleep more than they want to be functional. Sevika yanks the fitted sheet off one corner too hard and nearly snaps it back into her own face, which makes you laugh so suddenly you have to sit on the edge of the mattress.

She freezes, sheet in hand, eyes narrowing. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it loud.” You cover your mouth, shoulders shaking, and Sevika points at you with the sheet like she’s about to scold you properly. “Keep laughing and you’re sleeping on the floor.” “You’d last ten minutes before dragging me back.” She pauses, then mutters, “Five.”

Fresh sheets come out smelling like detergent and the little lavender sachet you insisted on putting in the cupboard months ago. Sevika had complained about it then, saying it made the sheets smell like an old lady’s drawer, but now she presses the fabric briefly to her face when she thinks you aren’t looking.

You catch her anyway. “You like the lavender.” She lowers the sheet slowly, expression flat. “I tolerate it.” “You sniffed it.” “I was checking if it was clean.” “With your whole face?” Sevika throws a pillowcase at you, and it lands against your chest with a soft thump.

Making the bed takes longer than it should because you’re both sleepy, distracted, and moving around each other in that domestic little rhythm that feels almost more intimate than anything else. Sevika lifts the mattress corners for you when the fitted sheet won’t behave, and you smooth the fabric down with slow, careful hands.

When you bend too far, she places a palm at your lower back, steadying you before you can overbalance. “I’m fine,” you say automatically. “Mm,” she replies. “That’s why you’re swaying like a drunk.” You roll your eyes, but you let her keep her hand there. She lets you pretend you aren’t leaning into it.

By the time the clean duvet is spread out, both of you are quieter. Sevika stands at the foot of the bed, looking at the fresh sheets with a tired sort of satisfaction, hair messy, shoulders relaxed, the harshness gone from her face.

You come up beside her and slip your fingers into hers. She looks down at your joined hands, then at you. “Shower,” she says. “Quick one.” You groan. “Bed first.” “No.” “Sevika.” “Don’t whine at me. You’ll thank me when you’re not sticky and miserable in ten minutes.”

The shower is quick in theory, but everything takes longer when you keep leaning into her. Sevika turns the water warm, not too hot, testing it with her hand before nudging you under the spray. You sigh the second it hits your skin, eyes closing as the warmth rolls over your shoulders and down your back.

She stands behind you, close but not crowding, her hands careful as they smooth water over your arms. “Too hot?” she asks. “No,” you murmur. “Feels good.” Her mouth brushes the top of your shoulder, barely a kiss. “Good.”

She washes you with a gentleness that would embarrass her if you pointed it out. Her hands move slowly, soap sliding over your shoulders, your waist, your back, careful around any sore spots, careful around the places she held you hard.

When she reaches your neck, she pauses again, thumb grazing the skin with the lightest touch. “Still okay?” You open your eyes and look back at her through the steam.

“Still okay.” Her expression softens, just for a second, before she hides it by reaching for the shampoo. “Good,” she says again, because sometimes that’s the only word she trusts herself with.

You return the favour even though she insists she can do it herself. “I know you can,” you tell her, taking the soap from her hand. “Let me.” Sevika grumbles, but she turns around anyway, bracing one hand against the tile while you wash her back.

Her skin is warm beneath your palms, strong muscle softening under your touch as the water runs over both of you. There are old scars under your fingers, familiar ones, ones you don’t ask about tonight because the moment is too quiet for ghosts.

Instead, you press a kiss between her shoulder blades. Sevika goes still. “You getting sentimental on me?” she asks. “Maybe.” “Dangerous habit.”

You smile against her back. “You like it.” “I tolerate it,” she says again, but her voice is softer this time. You laugh quietly and rinse the soap from her shoulders, letting your hands trail down her arms before stepping back.

Sevika turns around and catches your face between her hands, metal cool on one cheek, flesh warm on the other. For a second, she just looks at you, water dripping from her hair, eyes dark but gentle now. “You did good,” she says. It isn’t teasing this time. It’s quiet, firm, and it lands right in the tenderest part of your chest.

Your throat tightens a little, so you lean up and kiss her instead of answering. Sevika kisses you back slowly, no teeth, no command, no urgency, just warmth and water and her thumbs brushing your cheeks. When you pull away, you whisper,

“You did too.” She huffs like praise makes her itchy. “Yeah, yeah.” But she kisses your forehead before turning off the shower, so you count that as a win.

The bathroom goes colder immediately without the water, and you make a pathetic noise that has her reaching for a towel fast. “Dramatic,” she mutters, wrapping it around your shoulders. “Cold,” you correct.

She dries you first, because of course she does, even while pretending it’s only because you’re too sleepy to manage properly. The towel drags soft over your arms and chest, then around your back, her hands brisk but careful. You stand there blinking at her, warm and dazed, while she rubs your hair just enough to make it messy.

“You look like a drowned kitten,” she says. “You look like a wet dog,” you shoot back. Sevika’s eyes narrow. “Watch it.” “Or what?” Her mouth twitches. “Or I’ll make you change the sheets next time by yourself.” You gasp softly. “Cruel.”

By the time you both make it back to the bedroom, the clean bed looks like heaven. Sevika pulls on a loose pair of boxers from the dresser, then tosses one of her shirts at you without asking. You catch it against your chest and look down at it, smiling despite yourself.

“This one?”

“You like stealing it anyway.”

“It smells like you.”

“That’s why you steal it.” You slip it on, and her gaze follows the movement with something warm and satisfied, like seeing you in her clothes settles something in her. “Come here,” she says, already pulling the duvet back.

You crawl into bed first, sighing the second your body hits the fresh sheets. They’re cool, soft, and clean beneath your skin, and you stretch out like you’ve been waiting your whole life for this exact mattress. Sevika gets in after you, pulling the duvet over both of you before reaching for the lamp.

The room falls into darkness, softened only by the thin wash of city light slipping through the curtains. For a few seconds, there’s just the sound of both of you breathing, the apartment quiet around you.

Then you feel her arm slide around your waist, pulling you back against her chest. Her metal hand rests carefully over your stomach, cool through the shirt.

You settle into her with a sleepy hum. “You’re cold.” “You’ll live.” “Mean.” Sevika presses her face into the back of your neck, lips brushing the skin there.

“You like me mean.” You smile into the dark, your fingers covering hers where they rest over your stomach. “Sometimes.” She gives your waist a light squeeze. “Liar.”

Silence settles again, heavier and softer this time. Your eyelids are already sinking, your body warm under the clean duvet, your hair still slightly damp against the pillow. Sevika’s breathing is slow behind you, but you can tell she’s not asleep yet.

She’s waiting, maybe making sure you drop first, maybe just enjoying the quiet without admitting it. “Sev?” you whisper.

“Mm?”

“Thank you.” Her arm tightens around you, and for a moment she doesn’t answer. Then she presses one slow kiss behind your ear. “Sleep, baby,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You shuffle through your apartment with all the grace of someone who has been awake for less than thirty seconds, passing the kitchen where a mug still sits in the drying rack and the living room where a blanket remains abandoned from the movie you'd fallen asleep watching the night before.

The closer you get to the door, the more your confusion grows because nobody had mentioned visiting and none of your friends were reckless enough to show up unannounced.

At least, that's what you think until you finally unlock the door and pull it open. The sight waiting on the other side instantly wakes you up more effectively than any coffee ever could.

Yolanda Garcia stands in the hallway looking as though she's stepped straight out of a magazine, perfectly put together despite the fact that it's barely nine in the morning. Her dark coat is neatly buttoned, her hair sits exactly where it's supposed to, and a pair of sunglasses rest on top of her head even though the cloudy Pittsburgh sky outside offers absolutely no reason for them.

She takes one look at your sleep-swollen eyes, your tangled hair, and your complete lack of dignity before the corner of her mouth twitches upward in amusement.

For a moment she doesn't say anything, simply looking you over as though confirming that you're still alive and functioning. Then she gives a small nod, entirely satisfied with whatever assessment she's just made. "Good," she says. "You're alive."

Before you can even begin asking why she's standing outside your apartment on her day off, Yolanda casually steps around you and walks straight inside as though your home belongs to her.

She kicks the door shut behind her with the heel of her boot, sets a takeaway coffee on the kitchen counter, and slowly surveys the apartment while you stand frozen near the entrance trying to process what's happening.

Her gaze moves across the books piled neatly beside the couch, the throw blanket draped over the cushions, the collection of plants occupying nearly every available windowsill, and the stack of unopened mail sitting beside your fruit bowl.

"You need to clean this place," she announces after several seconds, despite the fact that everything is actually fairly tidy. "Excuse me?" you ask, offended immediately because the woman currently criticizing your apartment invited herself inside less than ten seconds ago. Yolanda simply shrugs and reaches for a decorative candle on one of your shelves. "I'm just being honest."

"Yolanda," you say slowly, dragging a hand through your hair while trying to understand why any of this is happening, "what are you doing here?" She glances over her shoulder, completely unbothered by your confusion, before placing the candle back exactly where she found it.

"I need company," she replies, as though that explains everything. You stare at her for several seconds before blinking. "For what?" you finally ask. Yolanda looks genuinely surprised that you're still struggling to keep up. "Grocery shopping," she says, and the absolute seriousness in her voice somehow makes the answer even more ridiculous.

The silence that follows stretches long enough for both of you to fully appreciate how absurd the situation is. You stare at Yolanda while she calmly reaches for the coffee she'd brought with her, and Yolanda stares right back as though she's the reasonable one in this conversation.

"You came all the way here because you didn't want to buy groceries alone?" you ask eventually.

"Yes."

"You couldn't have texted me?"

Yolanda's smile grows slightly wider. "No."

"Why?"

She folds her arms across her chest and looks entirely pleased with herself. "Because if I'd texted you, you would've said no." The worst part is that she's completely right.

The grin on her face widens the moment she notices you realizing that fact, and suddenly she looks far too pleased for someone who has just admitted to ambushing you in your own apartment.

"Get dressed," she says.

"Yolanda."

"Put shoes on too."

"I haven't even had breakfast."

Without missing a beat, she grabs the coffee from the counter and presses it into your hands, her fingers briefly brushing yours before she steps back again. "We'll get breakfast while we're out," she says simply, and despite your best efforts to remain annoyed, something warm settles in your chest.

You stare down at the coffee warming your hands while Yolanda makes herself comfortable against your kitchen counter, looking entirely too satisfied with the outcome of her little surprise visit.

The thing is, this isn't unusual for the two of you. Not the showing up unannounced part, because even for Yolanda that's pushing it, but the way she always somehow finds herself woven into your days without asking permission first. Somewhere over the years the friendship had become something neither of you could properly define.

It was easy enough to call each other friends when people asked, but friends usually didn't get irritated when someone else flirted with you at hospital fundraisers, and friends definitely didn't spend entire evenings sulking after seeing the other leave with a date. Neither of you ever acknowledged it out loud. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to.

"Okay," you finally sigh, taking a sip of the coffee she'd brought. "I'll come."

Yolanda's smile appears immediately, bright and victorious. "Good."

You narrow your eyes at her. "Don't look so pleased with yourself."

"I'm not."

"You're literally smiling."

"Maybe I'm happy you said yes." The response is innocent enough, but something about the way she says it makes your stomach perform an annoying little flip.

You point toward the hallway. "I need to shower first." Yolanda groans dramatically, throwing her head back toward the ceiling. "You're already clean."

"I absolutely am not."

"You look fine."

"I look like I got dragged out of a grave."

"A slightly cute grave." The words leave her mouth before she can stop them. For one brief second both of you freeze.

The silence that follows is immediate and awkward in the way only the two of you can manage. Yolanda clears her throat and suddenly becomes very interested in straightening a stack of mail sitting on your counter.

You pretend not to notice the faint colour creeping into her cheeks because acknowledging it would only make things worse. Moments like this happen more often than either of you care to admit. A compliment that lasts slightly too long.

A look held a second too late. A flash of jealousy quickly disguised as concern. Every time it happens, both of you quietly step around it and continue pretending the line between friendship and something else isn't becoming increasingly impossible to ignore.

"Twenty minutes," you announce, already backing toward the hallway.

Yolanda immediately shakes her head. "Ten."

"Twenty."

"Fifteen."

"You're negotiating my shower?"

"I'm negotiating how long I have to sit here waiting for you." You laugh despite yourself. Yolanda watches the smile spread across your face, and something in her expression softens instantly. "Fifteen," you agree.

"Good," she says. This time her voice is quieter. Gentler. The kind of tone she reserves only for you. As you disappear down the hallway toward the bathroom, you glance back over your shoulder and find Yolanda already settling onto your couch like she belongs there, reaching for the book you'd left on the coffee table without even asking.

The sight makes something warm bloom in your chest. Because for all the confusion between you, for all the moments neither of you knew what to call this thing that existed between friendship and something more, one thing had always remained painfully simple. No matter where you were, no matter how bad your week had been, life always seemed a little better whenever Yolanda Garcia was in your apartment.

The shower helps more than you'd expected. By the time you step beneath the steady stream of hot water, the lingering exhaustion from the week has begun to loosen its grip on your shoulders, slowly disappearing alongside the steam that fills the small bathroom.

You spend longer in there than necessary, letting the heat soak into tired muscles while your mind drifts toward the woman currently occupying your living room without permission. The thought makes a smile tug at your lips. It happens before you can stop it.

Even now, after years of friendship and countless mornings spent together over coffee, Yolanda still has an irritating ability to improve your mood simply by existing nearby.

By the time you finally turn off the water, wrap a towel around yourself, and wipe the fog from the mirror, you already feel lighter than you had when the day started.

The apartment feels different when Yolanda is inside it. Even from the bedroom, you can hear the faint rustle of pages turning from the book she'd stolen off your coffee table, followed by the occasional quiet clink of ceramic against wood whenever she sets down her coffee mug.

Those tiny sounds settle comfortably into the silence. They make the place feel lived in. Your apartment has always reflected you perfectly, cozy rather than polished, clean without being pristine, filled with books stacked in uneven piles, blankets thrown over furniture, and small decorative touches collected over years of impulsive purchases. Nothing matches particularly well.

Somehow it all works anyway. And right now, with Yolanda occupying your couch and acting like she pays rent, it feels more like home than ever.

You finish getting dressed and move toward your closet, reaching automatically for a jacket before your attention catches on something hanging over the back of a chair tucked into the corner of the room.

Yolanda's jacket has been there for nearly three weeks. It had been abandoned after a movie night that stretched well past midnight, when she'd left your apartment half-asleep and somehow forgotten one of her favourite jackets despite checking three separate times that she had everything.

Since then, neither of you had made much effort to return it. Every time one of you remembered, the conversation somehow got side-tracked into something else. Looking at it now, you find yourself smiling as you lift it from the chair. The familiar weight settles across your shoulders the moment you slip your arms through the sleeves.

The jacket smells faintly like her. The scent is subtle now after weeks spent hanging in your apartment, but it's still there beneath the detergent, warm and familiar enough that you recognize it instantly.

The sleeves extend slightly beyond your wrists, while the shoulders sit just loose enough to make it feel comfortably oversized without drowning you completely. You catch yourself smoothing your hands down the front of it.

The gesture feels strangely affectionate. Standing in front of the mirror, you tilt your head slightly as you study your reflection, noticing how naturally the jacket seems to belong there. You already know Yolanda is going to say something the second she sees it.

When you finally leave the bedroom, Yolanda looks up immediately. The book resting in her lap is forgotten within seconds. Her eyes move over you slowly, taking in the fresh shower, the clean clothes, the damp hair still slightly messy from drying it in a hurry, before eventually landing on the jacket.

The change in her expression is immediate. Something soft and warm replaces the amused impatience she'd been wearing all morning. For several seconds she simply looks at you without speaking. The smile that gradually appears is one you've always secretly liked most.

"There it is," she says.

Her voice is quieter than before. Softer than before.

You glance down at yourself before looking back at her. "What?" you ask, even though you already know exactly what she's talking about. Yolanda gestures vaguely toward your chest. Her smile widens slightly. "My jacket."

You roll your eyes immediately. "You left it here."

"I know."

"You could've taken it home at any point."

"I know."

The exchange only seems to amuse her further. Setting the book aside, Yolanda pushes herself off the couch and takes a few slow steps closer until she's standing directly in front of you.

The distance between you shrinks noticeably. It always seems to. Her eyes drop briefly to the jacket again before returning to your face. The smile never leaves. If anything, it becomes more genuine.

"You know," she says after a moment, folding her arms loosely across her chest, "I think you actually look better in it than I do."

You stare at her.

For a second you're genuinely convinced she's joking. The compliment catches you completely off guard. Yolanda rarely hands them out so openly, which somehow makes them hit harder whenever she does. "You're lying," you tell her immediately. She laughs softly. The sound fills the room.

"I'm not."

"Yolanda."

"I'm serious."

Her gaze flicks over you one more time before settling back on your face. There's something almost fond in her expression now, something that makes your chest tighten unexpectedly.

The morning sunlight pouring through your apartment windows catches against the warm brown of her eyes, and suddenly it becomes very difficult to look away. Yolanda shakes her head with another quiet laugh.

"I hate how good you look in that jacket," she admits. The words are casual. The way she looks at you isn't. And for one brief moment, standing in the middle of your apartment wearing something that belongs to her while she smiles at you like that, the line between friendship and something else feels thinner than it's ever been.

The drive to the farmers market passes far too quickly. One moment you're teasing Yolanda about the fact that she practically kidnapped you for groceries, and the next you're stepping out into a crowded parking lot filled with cars, food trucks, and far more people than you had expected to encounter before noon on a Saturday.

The moment your feet hit the pavement, you're greeted by a mixture of conversation, laughter, live music, and the scent of fresh bread drifting through the cool Pittsburgh air.

Colourful tents stretch across the market in long rows, packed with flowers, vegetables, handmade crafts, baked goods, candles, and local artists displaying their work beneath fluttering banners. The entire place feels alive. It buzzes with the kind of energy that makes even ordinary errands feel like something worth remembering.

"See?" Yolanda says as she falls into step beside you. "Worth leaving the apartment."

You glance around at the crowds moving between stalls. Families weave through the aisles carrying baskets overflowing with produce, couples stand shoulder-to-shoulder examining bouquets of flowers, and children dart between adults while clutching pastries nearly as large as their heads.

Somewhere nearby, a musician plays an acoustic guitar while a small crowd gathers around to listen, the music drifting through the market like background noise in a movie scene. The market is beautiful. It is also unbelievably busy.

"You didn't mention there'd be this many people."

Yolanda looks entirely unapologetic. "I didn't think you'd come if I did."

"You're impossible."

"Yet here you are."

The smile she gives you is infuriatingly smug. It makes you roll your eyes. It also makes you smile back.

For a while the two of you wander through the market without much direction, stopping whenever something catches your attention. Yolanda examines produce with the seriousness of someone negotiating an international treaty, carefully inspecting tomatoes, peaches, herbs, and fresh bread while vendors immediately seem drawn to her easy confidence and warm personality.

You spend most of the time watching her rather than the stalls. The way she listens when people speak. The way she laughs. The way she always thanks every vendor before walking away. None of it should be particularly distracting. Somehow it always is.

As the morning progresses, the crowd seems to grow even thicker. The narrow walkways between stalls become increasingly congested until you're constantly brushing shoulders with strangers trying to move in every direction at once, squeezed between families, shoppers, and people carrying bags filled with purchases.

At one point a group carrying oversized bouquets cuts directly between you and Yolanda, temporarily separating you before you manage to work your way back beside her again. Another wave of people follows immediately afterward. The crowd shifts around you like a river. Without realizing it, you find yourself moving closer.

Then, entirely without thinking, you reach for her hand.

The gesture happens automatically. Naturally. Like something you've done a hundred times before.

Your fingers slide between hers just as another cluster of people squeezes through the walkway, and for several seconds your attention remains focused entirely on navigating the crowd. It isn't until moments later that you actually register what you've done. Warmth immediately floods your face. Your stomach flips. You start to pull away.

"Don't." The word leaves Yolanda's mouth before you can let go. You look at her immediately. Her hand tightens around yours. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to stop you from slipping away.

"Yolanda..."

"It's crowded."

The excuse is weak. Both of you know it.

Before you can respond, she gently tugs on your joined hands and pulls you slightly closer to her side, closing the space between you until your shoulders occasionally brush whenever you walk. Neither of you says anything afterward.

Neither of you acknowledges what just happened. Yet the silence that settles between you feels comfortable rather than awkward, filled with unspoken things that neither of you seem brave enough to address. The proximity feels natural. Maybe a little too natural.

Eventually you stop in front of a small handmade goods stall tucked between a flower vendor and a bakery. Wooden shelves display hand-painted pottery, knitted items, carved decorations, and dozens of unique pieces clearly made with care.

While Yolanda examines something on the opposite side of the display, your attention lands on a small handcrafted piece sitting near the register. The moment you see it, you think of her. Not because it looks particularly expensive or impressive. Simply because it feels like something she'd love.

You pick it up immediately. Yolanda notices almost at once. "No."

You glance at her. "What do you mean, no?"

"Put it back." Her answer arrives far too quickly.

You laugh. "I'm buying it."

"No, you're not."

"Yolanda."

She folds her arms. "You don't need to buy me anything."

The vendor watches the exchange with obvious amusement while the two of you continue arguing quietly in front of the display. Eventually you ignore every protest Yolanda offers and purchase it anyway. She shakes her head throughout the entire transaction. The smile threatening the corners of her mouth completely ruins her argument.

The second you're handed the small paper bag, Yolanda takes it from you.

"You don't listen."

"I learned from you."

That finally earns a laugh. A real one. Warm and bright and completely worth the purchase.

For a moment she simply looks at you, holding the bag against her chest while the crowd continues moving around you. Something soft settles across her expression. Something fond. Then, before you can fully process what's happening, Yolanda leans forward and presses a quick kiss against your cheek.

The gesture lasts barely a second. It still completely freezes your brain.

When she pulls back, her smile has returned. "Thank you," she says quietly. The warmth lingering on your cheek feels impossible to ignore. So does the way she's still holding your hand.

Neither of you mentions either thing as you continue through the market together, shoulders brushing, fingers intertwined, both pretending everything is perfectly normal while secretly enjoying every second of it.

The painting class is entirely your fault, and Yolanda makes sure you know it from the second you spot the sign. It sits near the edge of the market beneath a striped canopy, surrounded by colourful canvases painted by previous participants and handwritten chalkboards advertising beginner-friendly lessons for anyone willing to embarrass themselves publicly.

The moment your eyes land on it, your entire face brightens with excitement, and unfortunately for Yolanda, she's standing close enough to recognize exactly what that expression means. Her hand immediately tightens around yours before she even follows your gaze toward the sign.

"Absolutely not," she says, already shaking her head despite the fact that you haven't spoken a single word yet. The immediate refusal only makes you grin wider.

Within minutes you're practically dragging her toward the registration table while she complains the entire way, although the smile threatening the corners of her mouth makes it very clear she never intended to say no for long.

The class takes place beneath a large open tent positioned near the center of the market, where sunlight filters through the white fabric overhead and paints everything in a warm golden glow. Long wooden tables are covered with paint palettes, brushes, jars of water, and blank canvases waiting for participants to create something that vaguely resembles art.

The atmosphere is relaxed and cheerful, filled with laughter from strangers who seem just as inexperienced as you are, while a local musician performs somewhere nearby and the scent of fresh pastries drifts through the air.

Yolanda settles into the chair across from you with the same serious expression she usually reserves for hospital meetings, which immediately makes you laugh. She looks entirely too focused for a woman attending a beginner painting class at a farmers market.

When the instructor cheerfully announces that today's exercise involves painting portraits of the person sitting opposite you, Yolanda closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. You think you've never loved an activity more in your life.

Several minutes later the two of you are sitting across from one another with blank canvases resting on easels between jars of paint and scattered brushes. You try to focus on painting, but it quickly becomes obvious that Yolanda herself is a far greater distraction than anything happening on your canvas.

Every time you look up for reference, you find yourself noticing something new about her, from the way sunlight catches in her dark hair to the small crease that appears between her brows whenever she's concentrating.

She notices you staring almost immediately. "What?" she asks, lifting one eyebrow while holding her paintbrush midair. "Nothing," you answer far too quickly.

Yolanda narrows her eyes at you before smiling slowly, the kind of smile that always makes your stomach perform an irritating little flip. "You've been looking at me for thirty seconds," she says, and judging by the amusement in her voice, she's enjoying your suffering far more than she should.

"I need a reference," you argue, trying to sound innocent while dipping your brush into paint that definitely isn't the right colour. Yolanda's smile only widens. "You know what I look like." The response should be simple. Somehow it isn't.

"Not well enough," you reply before your brain can stop your mouth from speaking. The words hang between you immediately, and for the first time neither of you rushes to pretend they mean something else. Yolanda's brush pauses against her canvas while something softer settles into her expression.

"You flirt way more than people realize," she says quietly, and instead of denying it like you usually would, you simply lean back in your chair and smile. "Maybe you're just easier to flirt with," you answer, causing a warmth to appear in her eyes that neither of you bothers hiding.

The rest of the class becomes significantly more difficult after that conversation. Every glance across the table seems to linger slightly longer than it should, and every smile feels more intentional than the ones you've exchanged countless times before.

At one point you become so distracted watching her laugh that you accidentally drag a streak of blue paint directly across the middle of your canvas. Yolanda immediately notices. "That's unfortunate," she says, struggling and failing to hide her amusement.

You groan while looking at the accidental disaster you've just created. "Don't." Her laughter fills the tent, warm and bright and completely impossible not to love, while nearby participants glance over with curious smiles as though they're watching a romantic comedy unfold in real time.

When the instructor eventually announces that everyone should reveal their finished portraits, your stomach immediately drops. You turn your canvas around first and discover that, despite your best efforts, you've produced something that looks only vaguely human.

The proportions are questionable, the colours make no sense, and yet somehow the painting still looks unmistakably like Yolanda. She studies it carefully. Then she looks up at you. Then back down at the painting. "You made my eyes bigger," she says softly, noticing the detail immediately.

You shrug while trying very hard not to feel embarrassed. "They're my favourite part," you admit, and this time neither of you laughs afterward. When Yolanda finally turns her own canvas around, however, every coherent thought immediately abandons you.

Her painting is still beginner-level and imperfect in all the ways you'd expect from someone attending their first class, but the details she chose to include make your chest tighten unexpectedly.

She painted your smile exactly the way it appears when you're genuinely happy, the slight tilt of your head whenever you're teasing her, and most noticeably, the oversized jacket she'd left behind in your apartment weeks ago.

Even in paint, the jacket is unmistakably hers. "You painted the jacket," you say quietly, unable to stop staring at the canvas. Yolanda looks from the painting back to you. Her expression is soft now. Almost unbearably so. "Of course I did," she says.

"Why?" The smile she gives you in response is warm enough to make the entire busy market disappear. "Because I liked how happy you looked wearing it," she admits, and for the first time all day, neither of you pretends that what exists between you is only friendship.

By the time the two of you finally leave the farmers market, the afternoon sun has begun its slow descent across the Pittsburgh skyline, bathing the streets in warm golden light that reflects off shop windows and passing cars.

The backseat of Yolanda's car is crowded with grocery bags, fresh flowers, homemade goods, and several purchases that neither of you had technically planned on making when the day started. Your painting rests carefully between two bags to prevent it from getting damaged during the drive home.

Neither of you has mentioned the portraits since leaving the class. The memory of Yolanda's words still lingers too heavily between you. Every now and then you catch her glancing toward the backseat in the mirror, and every single time you know she's thinking about that painting too.

For the first few minutes, the drive is quiet in the comfortable way it always is with Yolanda. Traffic moves steadily around you while bridges stretch across the rivers in the distance, and familiar city streets carry you both back toward your apartment. The windows are cracked slightly, allowing cool air to drift through the vehicle and carry away the lingering warmth of the afternoon.

Yolanda drives with one hand resting casually on the steering wheel while the other taps absentmindedly against her thigh in time with whatever song happens to be playing. You watch the city pass by outside your window. Then you watch Yolanda instead. Somehow, despite spending nearly an entire day together, you still aren't tired of looking at her.

The song currently playing ends just as the car stops at a red light, and a moment later the unmistakable opening chords of Livin' on a Prayer begin pouring through the speakers. Your head immediately snaps toward the radio.

Yolanda's does too. For one brief second, both of you simply stare at each other. Then the grin spreading across her face mirrors your own perfectly. Neither of you says a word. Neither of you needs to.

The volume knob turns upward almost immediately. The music floods the car, filling every available space with guitar riffs and familiar lyrics that both of you somehow know by heart. By the time the first verse begins, you're already singing along from the passenger seat.

Yolanda joins in seconds later, pointing dramatically toward the windshield as though she's performing for a sold-out stadium rather than driving through downtown Pittsburgh. The sight is ridiculous. It is also one of your favourite things you've seen all day. Her laughter keeps interrupting the lyrics whenever she forgets the next line.

By the time the chorus arrives, neither of you is making any real attempt to sing properly anymore. The volume rises even higher while the two of you practically shout the words together, completely abandoning any concern for dignity.

Several people in nearby cars glance over while stopped at another red light. You don't care. Yolanda definitely doesn't care. She drums her fingers against the steering wheel while singing at the top of her lungs,

and the sound of her voice mixing with yours fills the car with the kind of happiness that feels almost impossible to manufacture. For those few minutes, nothing exists outside the music.

When the famous chorus hits again, both of you immediately point at each other. "WHOA-OH!" you yell. "WE'RE HALFWAY THERE!" Yolanda shouts back. Her laugh breaks through the lyrics halfway through the line. Yours does too.

The two of you completely lose whatever rhythm you had and dissolve into laughter before managing to recover enough to finish the song together. Neither performance is particularly impressive. Both of you are having far too much fun to care.

As the song finally begins to fade, the car settles back into a quieter atmosphere, though the lingering energy remains between you like static.

Yolanda is still smiling as she turns onto your street, and judging by the ache in your cheeks, you are too. The groceries shift softly in the backseat as the vehicle slows toward your building. For a moment neither of you speaks.

Then Yolanda glances sideways at you. "You know," she says, her voice warm with amusement, "that was probably the best grocery trip I've ever had." The smile that spreads across your face is immediate, because somehow, despite everything that had happened today, you feel exactly the same way.

The drive ends far sooner than either of you would have liked, and before long Yolanda is pulling into the parking lot outside your apartment building while the last traces of daylight settle across the city. Together, you carry grocery bags upstairs, laughing quietly whenever one of you nearly drops something because you'd both insisted on making the trip in a single journey.

By the time you reach your door, your arms ache slightly from the weight of the bags, and the hallway is filled with the soft rustle of paper and plastic shifting with every movement.

Once everything has been set down inside your apartment, you turn toward Yolanda with a smile already forming on your face. "You know you didn't have to walk me all the way up," you tell her gently. For a moment, she simply stands there looking at you.

The apartment feels strangely quiet after the noise of the market and the music from the drive home, the familiar space illuminated by the warm glow of the lamps you'd forgotten to turn off that morning. Yolanda's gaze moves across your face as though she's trying to decide something, her expression softer than you've seen it all day.

You wait for her usual sarcastic response or some teasing remark about your inability to carry groceries without supervision. Instead, she takes a slow step forward. Then another. The distance between you disappears almost completely before you fully realize what's happening. Still, she says nothing.

"Yolanda?" you ask quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes flick briefly toward the oversized jacket hanging from your shoulders before returning to your face again. Something warm flickers across her expression.

Then her hand lifts and closes gently around the front of the jacket, fingers curling into the fabric near your collar. The gesture sends a rush of nervous anticipation through your chest. "You look too good in my jacket," she murmurs, and before you can come up with a response, she leans in. The kiss lands softly against your lips.

For a second the entire world seems to stop moving. Every thought disappears. Every sound fades into the background. The only thing that remains is Yolanda standing impossibly close, her hand still holding onto the front of her jacket while she kisses you with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

You respond almost immediately, stepping forward until there's no space left between the two of you. Your hands find her shoulders first. Then they slide upward.

Your arms settle comfortably around her neck as you kiss her back, instinctively pulling her closer. Yolanda lets out the smallest breath against your lips, and her free hand moves to rest at your waist as though she's been wanting to do it for far longer than either of you has been willing to admit.

The kiss remains gentle, lingering and unhurried, filled with all the things neither of you had managed to say during years of carefully dancing around whatever this was.

The farmers market. The hand-holding. The painting class. The jacket. Every moment from the day seems to fold together into this one.

♱⠀⠀𝐍𝐎 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓⠀⠀౨ৎ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀baran finally snaps — months of control unravel into something rough, needy, and completely consuming, leaving you ruined beneath her hands and mouth. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀13k

it’s quick the first time, just a flicker, barely anything, the kind of glance she could probably deny if she really wanted to. then it happens again, slower, her eyes lingering near your chest before lifting back to your face like nothing happened.

by the third time, she isn’t as subtle as she thinks she is, and there’s something almost delicious about watching someone so composed get ruined by the shape of your boobs beneath fabric.

your shirt doesn’t hide enough, not really. it stretches softly across your chest, the fabric resting over the swell of your boobs and shifting whenever you breathe. you’re not sure whether it’s the cold kitchen air or emily’s attention that makes your nipples tighten, but either way, the reaction is obvious enough that her eyes catch on it instantly.

she sees the little peaks pressing against your shirt. she sees the way your chest rises a little harder when you notice her looking. she sees the way your body gives you away before you can decide whether you want to tease her for it.

and the longer she stares, the more aware you become of every inch of yourself, your boobs feeling warm and sensitive beneath the thin fabric, your pussy already starting to feel wet between your thighs.

you stop mid-sentence, letting the silence settle between you with purpose, and emily only realizes something is wrong when your voice cuts off completely. her eyes snap back up too fast, sharp and guilty despite the calm expression she tries to arrange over her face.

“what?” she asks, and it would almost be convincing if her voice didn’t come out lower than before, rougher at the edges, like she had been thinking about something entirely different from what you were saying.

you raise an eyebrow, staring at her while she holds your gaze with the stubbornness of a woman who refuses to confess without being cornered. the pause stretches.

her thumb strokes once along the stem of her wine glass, a tiny little tell that makes heat curl low in your stomach. then you ask, “were you even listening to me?”

emily’s mouth curves into that smooth, dangerous smile, the one she uses when she knows she’s been caught but hasn’t decided whether she wants to admit it yet.

“of course i was,” she says, far too easily. you stare at her. she stares back. then, like her body betrays her before her pride can stop it, her gaze drops again, dragging right back to your chest for one brief, shameless second.

when she looks up this time, there’s no saving it, and the faintest flush rises across her cheekbones. you laugh, quiet and disbelieving, and emily exhales through her nose like she’s irritated with herself more than with you.

“don’t start,” she says, but there’s no bite in it, no real warning, just that low velvet tone that makes your thighs press together.

“you’re staring,” you say, and the words come out softer than you meant them to. emily sets her wine glass down with a quiet click, slow and deliberate, like she’s making a choice. “i know,” she says. not defensive. not embarrassed. just honest enough to make your breath catch.

the simple admission changes the air between you completely, taking the conversation from playful to charged so fast it leaves you warm all over. she doesn’t move toward you yet, which somehow makes it worse. she just stands there, eyes darker now, letting herself look at you openly, and the weight of her attention feels almost physical, like her hands are already on your skin.

you step closer because you can’t help yourself, because there’s something addictive about watching emily’s composure fray in real time. her gaze dips again, slower now that the pretense is gone, and her lips part just slightly when your chest rises with your breath.

she notices everything. the way your boobs shift beneath your shirt, soft and full enough to pull her attention down again. the way your nipples are hard now, straining against the fabric like your body is begging for her mouth before you even say a word.

the way your thighs press together because your pussy feels slick already, warm and wet and aching from nothing more than being watched by her.

“you wore that on purpose,” she says quietly, and it sounds less like an accusation than a confession of weakness. you tell her you didn’t, but your voice is already thinner than it should be, already giving too much away. emily’s smile turns knowing, almost cruel in how soft it is.

“maybe not consciously,” she says, and her eyes drop again, taking in the way the shirt clings to the rounded weight of your boobs. her attention makes your skin prickle.

it makes your nipples tighten further, your stomach flutter, your pussy throb with that slow, needy pulse of arousal. the dampness between your thighs is impossible to ignore now, your underwear clinging wetly against you every time you shift.

her hand lifts slowly, giving you every chance to pull away even though both of you know you won’t. she touches your waist first, fingertips light through your shirt, dragging up your side in a patient line that makes your stomach tighten.

she’s watching your face now, because emily likes proof. she likes seeing the way your lips part, the way your breath catches, the way your eyes flutter when her thumb brushes just beneath the curve of your boob.

the contact is barely anything, just the edge of a touch, but it makes your whole body feel too warm. your boobs feel heavy and sensitive under her attention, your nipples aching for more pressure, and your pussy gives another wet little pulse like it knows exactly where this is going.

“emily,” you warn, but it comes out more like a plea. she hums, innocent and unbearable, letting her thumb skim a little higher until she’s brushing over you through the thin fabric.

the pressure makes your breath hitch, especially when her thumb grazes the hardened peak of your nipple. your body reacts instantly, your back arching just enough to press more of your chest into her hand.

emily sees it. of course she sees it. her eyes darken like the sight of you getting needy from one touch is almost enough to ruin her by itself.

“what?” she asks, like she didn’t just spend an entire conversation staring at you. you open your mouth to answer, but she kisses you before you can say a damn thing.

at first, it’s controlled, warm, almost teasing, her lips moving against yours with the kind of patience that makes you ache. then your fingers curl into the front of her blouse, pulling her closer, and something in her restraint gives.

the kiss turns deeper fast, her body pressing yours back against the counter until the edge digs into your lower back. her hands slide to your waist, then up, slow and deliberate, as if she’s giving herself permission inch by inch. when she finally cups your chest over your shirt, her palm warm and firm around your boob, you gasp against her mouth.

the sound does something to her. you feel it in the way she groans softly, in the way her fingers tighten, in the way her kiss gets rougher for one messy second before she reins herself in again. her hand fits over you like she’s been thinking about it for ages, squeezing gently at first, then with more confidence when your body melts into the touch.

your boob feels soft and full in her palm, your nipple hard against the fabric, every slow press of her fingers sending sparks down your stomach. your pussy feels wetter by the second, slick gathering between your folds, warm enough that you can feel it soaking into your underwear.

“i was trying to be respectful,” she says against your lips. you laugh breathlessly, tilting your head back as her mouth drags to your jaw. “you failed.”

“miserably,” she says, and then she kisses down your neck like she wants to prove it. her mouth is hot and slow, lips dragging over your pulse, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips push forward without thinking.

one hand stays on your chest, kneading through the fabric, while the other settles at your lower back and pulls you closer until there’s barely any space left between you.

she’s still composed in pieces, still careful, still attentive, but there’s hunger underneath it now, dark and obvious and impossible to ignore. every touch feels deliberate, like she’s been thinking about your boobs under her hands for longer than she wants to admit.

when her thumb rubs over your nipple through your shirt, your knees nearly weaken, and emily’s mouth curves against your skin.

“that sensitive?” she asks, voice low enough to make you shiver. you try to answer, but she does it again, firmer this time, rolling your nipple beneath her thumb until a soft, broken sound slips out of you.

the pleasure goes straight between your thighs, making your pussy clench around nothing. you can feel how wet you are now, how slick and swollen everything feels, how badly your body wants more pressure.

emily pulls back just enough to look at you, and the expression on her face is devastating. smug, affectionate, starving. like she wants to tease you for falling apart so quickly and kiss you for it at the same time.

“you have no idea how distracting you are,” she says, her eyes dropping again, shameless now. “standing there, talking to me like i’m supposed to focus, wearing this little thing like i’m not only human.” heat rushes through you so fast it leaves you dizzy.

you tell her she should have said something, but the words barely survive the way she’s touching you. emily’s fingers hook under the hem of your shirt, slow enough to make anticipation crawl over your skin.

“i was trying to behave,” she says, and there’s a smile in her voice now. “clearly, that was a mistake.” then she lifts your shirt, waiting just long enough for your nod before pulling it up and off you completely.

the fabric drops somewhere near your feet, forgotten immediately, because emily is staring again. only this time there’s nothing between her eyes and your bare skin, nothing to soften the way her composure cracks wide open.

your boobs are exposed to her completely now, warm and soft, rising with your uneven breaths. your nipples are hard from the cool air and from the way she’s looking at you, tight little peaks that make her eyes go darker the longer she stares.

the silence that follows feels filthy in itself. emily looks at your chest like she’s been handed something sacred and obscene, her eyes moving over the fullness of you slowly, taking in the curve, the softness, the way your body is already reacting for her.

her hands settle on you carefully at first, palms sliding over your ribs before she cups both of your boobs with a reverence that makes your throat tighten. then her thumbs brush over your nipples, and the soft moan that leaves you makes her inhale sharply.

your boobs feel almost too sensitive beneath her hands, heavy and warm and aching as she squeezes them with slow, possessive pressure. she watches the way they fit in her palms, the way your nipples stiffen under her thumbs, the way your whole body arches when she touches you just right.

“pretty,” she says, almost under her breath. then, rougher, like the word isn’t enough, “fuck, you’re so pretty.” and before you can even process the way her voice has changed, she lowers her mouth to you.

the first touch of her lips against your boob is slow enough to be cruel. she kisses around your nipple first, soft open-mouthed presses that leave damp warmth behind, while her hand kneads the other boob with steady, possessive pressure.

you can feel how badly she wants to rush, how much effort it takes for her to take her time, and somehow that makes it worse. when her tongue finally flicks over your nipple, your back arches off the counter, and emily makes a quiet sound like she’s pleased with herself.

she does it again, dragging her tongue over the sensitive peak before closing her lips around it. the suction is gentle at first, teasing, but when your fingers slide into her hair and pull, she groans against you and sucks harder.

your whole body reacts to her mouth. heat pools between your legs, slick and insistent, every slow pull of her lips sending another pulse of want through you.

your pussy feels soaked now, wet enough that your underwear clings uncomfortably to you, every shift making the damp fabric rub against your swollen clit. emily knows exactly what she’s doing, and worse, she’s paying attention to every single reaction. when you gasp,

she repeats the motion. when your hips twitch, her hand tightens at your waist. when your fingers tug at her hair, she looks up at you with your nipple still in her mouth, eyes dark and smug and completely ruinous.

the eye contact makes you throb. it makes you feel exposed in the best way, like she can tell exactly how wet you’re getting without needing to touch you there yet. your boobs rise and fall beneath her mouth, one wet from her tongue, the other held firmly in her hand while she rolls your nipple between her fingers.

you feel warm everywhere, flushed and sensitive, your pussy pulsing with every drag of her mouth. there’s a slick ache between your thighs now, needy and impossible to ignore, and the worst part is that emily can tell.

she can tell from your breathing. from the way your thighs keep squeezing together. from the way your hips keep shifting like your body is trying to find friction all on its own.

“this is why i wasn’t listening,” she says against your skin, lips brushing damply over your boob as she speaks. “you were talking, and all i could think about was this.” her hand slides down your stomach as she says it, fingers spreading over the soft, warm skin there before dipping lower.

she doesn’t rush, because emily is a menace when she knows you want something. she kisses across your chest, giving the other boob the same slow attention, tongue circling before she sucks your nipple into her mouth.

your thighs press together, desperate for friction, and she notices immediately. of course she notices. emily prentiss notices everything.

her hand slips between your thighs over your clothes, pressing just enough to make your breath break. “there it is,” she whispers, like she’s found the answer to a question she already knew. your hips roll into her touch, needy and automatic, and she smiles against your chest before kissing lower, then back up again.

she keeps one hand on your boob while the other rubs slow, firm pressure between your legs, not enough to give you what you need, just enough to make you ache for more. it’s maddening. it’s perfect.

you’re hot everywhere, trembling against the counter while emily takes you apart with her mouth, her hands, and that steady, devastating focus she usually saves for interrogations.

“you’re soaked, aren’t you?” she asks softly, and the way she says it makes your stomach flip. not mocking exactly, but pleased. deeply pleased. your pussy throbs at the words, wet and swollen beneath your underwear, and you hate that she can feel how hard you react through the layers between her hand and your body.

you try to glare at her, but it falls apart the second she presses her palm against you again, firmer this time. “all because i got caught staring?” she continues, her voice warm with amusement. “or because you wanted me to?” you say her name, half warning and half surrender, and emily’s smile turns downright wicked.

she kisses your nipple once more, slow and open-mouthed, then lifts her head to look at you properly. “tell me to stop,” she says, and the softness of it hits just as hard as the hunger.

because beneath all the teasing, beneath the dark eyes and the greedy hands, she’s still emily. still careful with you. still waiting for you to choose her back.

you shake your head, already breathless, already ruined enough that pride feels pointless. “don’t stop.” emily’s expression changes at that, something hot and tender flickering across her face before she kisses you again.

this time, there’s no pretending either of you are going back to the conversation. she kisses you like she’s done being patient, mouth deep and hungry while her hands move over you with more confidence. she palms your chest, thumbs circling your nipples until you’re making soft, helpless noises into her mouth.

every sound seems to pull her further under, making her touch rougher, her breathing heavier, her body press harder against yours. she slips one thigh between yours and lets you grind against her, just once, just enough to make you shudder.

the pressure against your soaked pussy makes you gasp into her mouth, your wet underwear dragging over your clit in a way that sends a sharp pulse of pleasure through you.

“good girl,” she whispers against your mouth, and the praise goes straight through you. she feels the way you react, feels the tiny jerk of your hips, and her smile is slow and knowing. “oh,” she says softly. “you liked that.”

you don’t answer, because answering would mean admitting how badly those two words affected you, and emily already knows anyway. she kisses down your throat again, her mouth returning to your chest like she can’t stay away from it now that she’s allowed to touch. her tongue traces over your nipple before she sucks it back into her mouth, her hand sliding lower to keep pressure between your legs.

the combination makes you dizzy. your boobs feel swollen and sensitive under her mouth and hands, your nipples slick from her tongue, your skin hot everywhere she touches.

your pussy feels even wetter now, slick spreading messily into your underwear, your clit aching from the pressure of her thigh and the teasing rub of her palm. every time you grind down, the damp fabric drags against you, and every time you make a sound, emily’s mouth gets greedier.

your fingers tighten in her hair, your head tipping back, your body trapped between the counter and the warm, relentless weight of her attention. emily looks completely gone now, composed mask finally cracked, replaced by something hungry and intimate and almost reverent.

and the worst part is, she still manages to sound controlled when she leans in close, lips brushing your ear. “next time you want my attention,” she whispers, her hand squeezing your boob again while her thigh presses between yours, “just wear this.”

your laugh breaks into a moan when she moves against you, slow and deliberate. “or don’t,” she adds, voice dipping darker. “i seem to get distracted either way.”

Your other hand slides to her thigh, firm as you guide her legs open, spreading her slowly until she’s fully exposed beneath you. She lets you, tense but compliant, her cock standing up against her stomach, already twitching in anticipation.

You position the cage carefully, guiding her cock down into it inch by inch, feeling the way she pulses as it’s forced into place, confined tightly. The metal presses close around her, and when you close it and click the lock shut, the sound is sharp, final, making her let out a low, frustrated breath as her cock strains uselessly inside.

You don’t stop there, your hands sliding back up her thighs, pushing them wider as you shift your body lower. You kneel properly between her legs, taking your time,

letting your hands rest on her thighs as you look at her for a moment before moving. Then you lean down, lowering yourself further until you’re on your stomach, your face level with her ass.

Cassie exhales sharply the second your breath hits her, her body tensing as she realizes exactly what you’re about to do. Her ass is soft but firm under your hands, the curve of it warm beneath your palms as you spread her slightly, exposing her more.

You press your mouth against her slowly, the first drag of your tongue deliberate, and she jolts immediately, a broken sound leaving her throat. Her hips twitch upward instinctively, cock pulsing hard inside the cage above while she tries to process the sudden, overwhelming sensation.

You take your time with her, licking slowly, deliberately, your tongue pressing in deeper while she reacts beneath you, her thighs tightening around your shoulders. “Fuck,” she breathes, voice uneven now, hands gripping at the sheets as her composure slips further.

Every movement of your mouth makes her body respond, hips jerking slightly, her breathing turning ragged as she tries to stay still for you. Her cock keeps twitching uselessly, leaking more against the cage, completely ignored while you focus on something else entirely.

You pull back just enough to reach for the lube, letting her feel the absence of your mouth before she can even recover. She watches you, chest rising and falling, lips parted as you slick your fingers, her body already anticipating what’s next. When you press the plug against her, she tenses immediately, a sharp inhale catching in her throat as you begin to push it inside her.

You ease it in slowly, inch by inch, feeling the way her body resists at first before gradually opening up for you, her hips jerking as the stretch settles deeper. Her head tips back, a strained groan slipping out as she adjusts, her entire body reacting to the fullness.

Once it’s fully inside, she goes quiet for a second, her breathing uneven as she tries to steady herself. Then you turn it on, low at first, just a soft hum that makes her entire body tense again instantly. Her thighs tighten, her cock twitching hard inside the cage, leaking more as the vibration settles deep inside her.

She tries to hold onto control, but it slips quickly, her hips starting to move on their own, chasing something she can’t properly reach. When you drag your fingers between her thighs, feeling how wet she’s gotten, she sucks in a sharp breath, her voice breaking slightly when she tries to tell you to stop.

But you don’t, and when you turn the vibration up, her entire body jolts beneath you, a raw, helpless sound tearing from her throat. Her cock pulses hard inside the cage, completely trapped, denied any real friction while her body is overwhelmed in every other way.

She grips the sheets tighter, hips jerking as the sensation builds too fast, too much, her breathing falling apart completely. “Please,” she manages, quieter now, desperate in a way she can’t hide anymore.

She presses back against you instinctively, chasing the feeling even though it’s not what she actually needs, her hips moving in slow, desperate motions. The vibration is still humming deep inside her, and it makes every movement feel sharper, more intense, but still wrong in the way that matters most.

Her cock twitches uselessly in the cage, leaking and aching, completely ignored while her body tries to find some kind of release. “Fuck—” she breathes, voice breaking as she shifts again, grinding back harder this time.

You can feel the way she’s starting to lose it completely, her control slipping with every uneven breath she takes. And instead of helping her, you stay right where you are, letting her chase something she can’t have.

She turns her head slightly, eyes unfocused but locked onto you, frustration and need mixing together in a way that makes her look almost wrecked already. Her hands reach for you, gripping at your hips, trying to pull you closer as she keeps grinding back against your body.

The cage presses awkwardly between you, her cock straining inside it with every movement, but it does nothing to give her the friction she’s desperate for. She lets out a low, strained sound, somewhere between a groan and a whine, when she realizes it’s not helping.

“Please,” she mutters again, softer this time, her grip tightening as her hips stutter. The plug buzzes steadily, pushing her further, making everything build too fast without any real release. She’s completely at your mercy now, and she knows it.

You shift then, finally moving, and for a second she thinks you’re going to give in, going to take the cage off and let her have what she needs. But instead, you push her back more firmly, guiding her down until she’s flat against the bed again.

You swing your leg over her hips and settle onto her lap, straddling her slowly, deliberately, watching the way her expression changes. Her cock is trapped between you, pressed up against your body through the cage, and the contact alone makes her inhale sharply.

She looks up at you, confused for half a second, before her hips instinctively try to move again. You don’t stop her, but you don’t help her either.

Instead, you start grinding down against her, slow at first, letting your weight press against the cage, letting her feel the pressure without giving her anything real. Her head tips back immediately, a broken sound leaving her throat as her hands grab at your thighs.

“Don’t—” she starts, but it falls apart halfway through, her hips jerking up into you anyway. The cage digs between you, her cock throbbing uselessly inside it, every movement just reminding her of what she can’t have.

You bounce slightly, slow, controlled, the friction working for you, not her, and she realizes it almost instantly. “That’s not—fuck—” she chokes out, her voice rough, frustrated, desperate.

You keep moving like that, grinding and bouncing on her lap, using her while she can’t do anything but take it. Her hands tighten on you, fingers digging into your skin as she tries to guide your movement, tries to get something out of it, but it’s pointless.

Her cock keeps twitching inside the cage, leaking more with every movement, but there’s no relief, no real friction where she needs it. The vibration inside her only makes it worse, her body reacting,

clenching, building again even though she hasn’t properly come down. “Please—take it off,” she manages, her voice shaking now, her composure completely gone.

But you don’t stop, and she breaks under it, her hips stuttering helplessly beneath you while you keep using her. Her breathing falls apart completely, chest rising and falling too fast, her head falling back against the bed.

She’s shaking again, caught between overstimulation and frustration, her cock still trapped, still aching, still wanting something she can’t reach.