chronic

the weeks seem to pass by in hours. blurry, monotonous, dragging. you’re surviving by a thread Vi has single handedly kept woven tight.

you’ve been through plenty in your lifetime in the lanes— who hasn’t? we were never set up to succeed.

but grief? never.

evident in your eyes clinging onto light, sorrow deep in your soul bleeding out.

Vi’s done this before— grieved family, felt the loss within herself, their decayed flesh and blood taking a piece of her with them.

it kills her to see it on you; the same lost, wandering, dull sparks inside you, just as she felt at 15— repeating when jinx slipped through her fingers once again.

you remember how she went quiet and kept going. how she seems untouched and crushed by the loss— because she’s done it before.

you haven’t.

not that you wish it happened earlier, but you never learned to grieve, cope, keep going through death.

you tell yourself not to feel sorry for yourself, Vi has it so much worse and she’s stands tough, strong, bright.

and all you can seem to muster is a shower when she drags you from bed and a meal she brings to you— half-eaten and nauseating.

Vi stays in bed longer in the morning and earlier in the nights. she lets you talk, stay silent, cry, repeat the same few sentences— failing to really process anything.

she lets herself cry about you too— she knows you’d rather see how real your feelings are in her own heart, rather than ‘staying tough’ for you.

your grief takes her too.

her fingers mindlessly coil your hair around them, letting you focus on anything other than an ache that seems richer every few days.

she faces you, your eyes fall on her chest, feeling the warmth of her palm in yours.

“i wish i could tell you it gets better, but it doesn’t. it gets easier to live in, but it all aches the same if you let it out.” Vi doesn’t mean to worry you, but she needs to be honest. you can’t expect to be the same, because you can’t. grief is life changing.

“you seem so good at it.”

“time. and experience.” Vi’s voice breaks a moment, but it doesn’t get her.

“they weren’t even..great to me. they weren’t around when they were alive. “

“but there was always a chance, y’know? jinx could’ve gotten help, powder could’ve come back, even just for a moment— but now they can’t change. that’s why.”

Vi is quiet while she finds the right words.

“people can change, get the help, do the right things, come back around. but death is permanent. and i don’t…no one is ever really ready to accept that someone they love can’t change.”

pressure builds behind your eyes, but your too dehydrated to really cry. though your eyes stay red, puffy, and tired all the same.

Vi’s thumb swipes the creases beside them, same as she would if you had tears left.

“do you still think about your parents everyday? jinx?”

“pretty much. sometimes it’s like they’re trying to get my attention— big reminders of them right in my face. but more often it’s the little things. they stack up, feels like they’re torturing you at times. you can find them in everything.”

she cradles the back of your head and pulls herself in to kiss your head, temple, corner of your lips. “you’ll make it. it’ll be easier. i love you, sweetheart”

you wrap your arms around her waist, bringing yourself into her, face to chest.

silk snags behind your dress as metal drags over your back, soft clinks when she pulls the ribbon tying over your shoulders.

the slip falls to your hips, clinging to the curves. sevikas attention is divided, admiration spilling over every little thing; nipples hardened from being pressed against her ribbed pleaser, spots and speckles from sun placed sparatic on near every inch of you, the red stripes blooming over your hip, then thigh as she claws away your slip.

you pull sevika lower to steal her lips, teeth grazing that failed to drown out sevikas soft grunts.

your palms drag up her arms, squeezing the flesh, tracing the metal. you fumble to hook the thick straps of her pleaser; her shoulders shift, breaking from your flushed lips to pull the tank off over her head.

“should i grab the—“ she interrupts you before you even look back at the dresser.

“no. i need to feel you.”

denim roughs the plush skin between your thighs, pressing tauntingly against the mound of your panties.

you huff, quick frustration at the near pressure she promises, hips chasing friction when she pulls.

your body stings faintly from the claws marks surrounding you as her hands curl behind your thighs.

“Up.”

she demands, you hop like it’s programmed in you.

she holds your legs on her hips and your arms hang around her neck as she walks you to the bed.

it’s only a few seconds, but it drags a dozen when you look down at her grey eyes, framed with creases of age, the arch of her lips, the glint of her teeth blinking when the bedside lamp hits them right.

she lays your upper down, keeping your hips elevated for a moment, plenty enough to peel the slick-saturated cotton off you. her long legs bring her upright to toss her boxers somewhere, then pushing herself back between yours.

her flesh shoulder hooks under your left thigh, hers over your right.

metal drags up, then down your side, dragging faintly through your pussy then spreading, slotting her own arousal perfectly against yours.

both hands pull to keep you tight against her, steel sinking into your side stomach, thumb dragging against your bush with each rut of her hips.

your eyes squeeze shut for a moment to feel everything, then her voice.

“you okay?”

you hear the curl of her lips; she knows you’re more than okay..

“mhmm” lashes flutter open, brows furl, sheets tugged between your fingers. you focus on harmonizing your hips with hers, cunts kissing perfectly, in time with each of sevikas groans and pants, brows curled in what anyone would think was anger if you didn’t know her.

“so good…you’re doing good, mama.” she mumbles but her voice is always sharp to your ears.

“a little more? please”

she slows down…you huff in frustration.

she laughs, short, dry, pulling away a few strokes to watch your shared slick stretch between your bushes.

though, she’s almost as impatient as you, so it’s hardly a minute before she gives you more, hard, medium paced strokes.

a near growl escapes her throat, hips stuttering- but only once.

her claw clenches, gears hissing and humming as the pressure pearls blood over your stretch marks, flooding over the gilded tips.

you feel the air of sex cool the barely hotter spots of red, stomach coiling tauntingly.

before she even thinks of denying your bliss, your hips already lock up, chasing or running away from hers- they can’t decide.

the sounds become wetter, lewd, followed by warm drips down your ass cheeks and into the comforter.

she comes apart in the midst of yours, rhythm disappearing while you share orgasms, moans echoing between our skin.

“fuck,” her prosthetic thrums, like it ached from how tight she held me.

she relaxed her hinges, fixing your legs to fix herself over you, tasting your flushed lips.

“hm,” she hums like it’s a conversation, you hum back like you agree.

older!sevika who texts like a dad who’s always a little annoyed

‘When will you be coming home?’

‘What do you need from the grocery store?’

‘No. I did not touch your lotions again.’

does it annoy you? sure. more than you’d admit, but it’s endearing, in a way.

she’s often sore from her work, shoulder aching from holding up pound of her metal appendage, but she refuses to relieve it, insisting ‘It’s just apart of it; shows I worked hard.’

so. naturally, you rub her shoulders whenever she lets you, offer her ibuprofen, even bought a electro therapy things for pain in hopes she wouldn’t want to waste the item. she only uses it if you put it on

in continuation, she’s alwaysssss complaining about being in pain! mumbling but never doing a thing about it

“my damn shoulder.” “hmph. my back.” wincing and grunting when she stands.

not a fan of crude pda. she loved to keep your close, a hand on your shoulder, hip, thigh, sweet, modest pecks.

she’s pretty uncomfortable with hungry kisses and touching under clothes in public.

she doesn’t want others to see you like that; hers.

she can be a bit traditional in the best way. ladies first, opening doors, paying for most of everything.

she was a bit insecure at first with the constant ‘who’s the man of the relationship?’ questions, feeling like she needed to prove she was, but learned through a very hard-headed conversation on her end, that there’s no ‘man of the house/relationship’ because we’re women, you’re not here to receive the same treatment you would a man

steals your skincare because she ‘needs it more than you.’ since you’re younger, she thinks you need zero extra skin products.

‘These serums are excessive, no? Your face is perfect.’

dad-habits. very proud of her house work, naps close to you whenever you’re resting, dry jokes she doesn’t even laugh at; just cracks a proud smile.

likes to be close when you’re intimate, cradling your body wherever her hands could.

she needs to hold you up, feel your sweat bead on your soft skin and stick to hers

calls you ‘kid’ to really get on your nerves. you’re not that young! it kills you, just feels gross. she loves your sneering.

human furnace; runs about 20° hotter than u (i’m a human furnace and projecting)

she was definitely adventurous when you met, but was, and always will be a gentle lover

she handles others flirting with you well since she never sees them as competition, not when she’s loves you the way she does

but when it’s someone your age? she flusters, the subconscious thought she’s ’weighing down your freedom and youth’ creeping back up.

so she follows you like a dog

doesn’t cook often but is very good at cooking very specific things. she knows her strengths. she makes the best soup when it’s cold in the lanes

she can’t really do hair — one of the reasons she cut it — her prosthetic makes it damn near impossible

but she managed a single braid a few times. it’s always a little loose, but it’s enough to keep your hair back

“sorry. ‘s a mess” she hides the embarrassment with peppered kisses down your neck, avoiding bottles on the way to her mattress.

hums, pathetic moans, breaths hot and damp against one anothers face; it drowns out the fighting outside her place, mutes the perpetual hum of smog-heavy machinery all through the undercity.

her bandaged hand fiery, exposed fingers electric against your skin; and they’re all over. wherever she can reach, she has.

you almost don’t notice that the mattress is bare, stained, lazily covered with a blanket for some semblance of comfort. hardly.

it’s awkward, getting onto a mattress on the floor from a standing position, unwilling to let go. but you manage, stumbling on each other, sure she hit her head on the wall, drunken giggles exchange between glistening lips.

your teeth clash when she leans back in, your hands fumble with the ripped skinny jeans.

she pulls back, brows twitched inward.

“what’re y’ doin’?”

you mirror her expression.

“taking off your clothes..? that’s how sex typically works.”

a barely annoyed scoff with a eye roll, resembling a moody puppy.

“yeah- but like…i guess it doesn’t matter.” she huffs between words “i’m usually the one doin’ all the- whatever”

she sounds stupid, she thinks, shutting herself up with a kiss.

you work the jeans over her hips, thighs, not without struggle; the kiss grows sloppier as your focus shifts.

oh, commando.

your jeans fall off much easier in her hands, loose against your skin. you kick off the rest, knocking over a bottle somewhere.

“sorry.” you giggle, she does the same.

your hands run up her arms, and you kiss her neck.

weird. it catches her off guard, waging an unspoken war for dominance- whatever she sees as dominance.

you didn’t want dominance, power. you just preferred giving.

just as she reached between your legs, you moved. you must not have even noticed.

you took her hips, attempting to put her on her back; you’re met with a brick wall.

you look up, confused.

she looks down, even more confused.

“you make it really hard to eat your pussy, vi”

a breathy laugh, close enough it makes her muscles tense.

“oh. that’s what you’re doing…?”

“what did you think?”

“i dunno- i just assume you were a bottom. usually are.”

makes sense.

“are you like, exclusively a top or something…?”

you can’t get a read on her, if she really doesn’t like this, or is just out of her comfort zone.

she doesn’t answer, and when she does, it’s vague, but enough. anything was enough.

“sounds relaxing” she tilts her head, and before you can question, she ups and sit back against the wall, legs closed, guarded

“you’ll have ta—“

“right, yeah, cool”

she opened up, but hardly enough. you lower your head between her legs, your knees off the mattress, against the humid, wood floor.

you look up as you get comfortable, she’s flushed. nervous? embarrassed? excited?

“you good?”

“you’re half on the floor, no way you’re comfortable..”

you consider shifting but the mattress is a twin and the wall is against the long side. there are little options.

“you could sit on my face”

she chuckles, a bark really. she thinks you’re joking

you pout sitting up, hardly propping yourself up

“have another idea?”

you don’t wait for clarity to hit her. you lay back, waiting expectedly. you’re sure you look comical.

“fuckin’ weird” but she moves, just hovers.

sweat and musk breathes into you, along with alcohol but that might be the room.

she doesn’t settle- fine. you’ll ease her into it. her thighs can hold her, though.

you hold them beside your face, neck craning a few inches to taste her

“mm” you hum, almost a coherent praise

you move one hand to spread her, tonguing her cunt like it’s fragile

you work slow, learning the flesh of her pussy, committing it to your tongues memory. she’s not loud, but her sounds are so pretty. hums and breaths, good restraint.

“my neck is killing me.”

you pull back to rest it, saliva keeping you connected.

“um, do we need to do somethin different?”

“you need to actually sit, vi” you run an idle thumb over her slick

she hisses softly, the firm of your thumb pulling something deeper from the sticky flesh

“it doesn’t feel right. you’re gettin nothin” he runs her fingers through your hair, bandages catching a few strands.

“later. you can tell me what to do. i’m not trying to be in charge.” maybe clarifying would ease her mind

“what’s that make me- a power bottom?”

“yeah, i think. but i mean, i am under you”

you’re amused; she rolls her eyes.

“so?”

“so what?”

“sit.”

she doesn’t want to, she’s not used to this and she thinks she’ll crush your face. but you’re adamant and she’s sure her clit twitched when you squeezed her thigh.

so she settles, keeping a hand in your hair, unsure where to put the other.

“you taste good. salty-ish” you murmur into her cunt, lapping up to her clit, circling firmly

“go slow. make it last a bit longer, hm?”

you hum, slowing your tongue, flicking directly over her clit

“fffuck” she cursed, tugging your hair, closer into her, if possible. your nails dig into her thigh, the other finds her free, unoccupied one, tangling your fingers with hers.

you’re greedy, insatiable, tonguing her cunt, sucking her clit, back and forth, lapping every new drop of slick like a starved woman

she grinds against you when you fill her; oh, you’re so pussydrunk. eyes heavy, hungry moans and mumbled vibrating her flesh.

her head falls back, eyes shut, head empty.

you know she’s close when she clenches, even when you’re not inside, when you feel the pulse in her clit each time your lips wrap around it. you chase her orgasm, putting both hands on her hips to keep her down.

a little overstimulation wouldn’t hurt.

“fuck, fuck, fuck, faster- there, there- mmgh, like that” she’s breathless, shameless moans, finally, thighs an inches away from popping your head like a watermelon; would be worth it.

you drink her up, gentle around her puffy clit.

“i think, like, everyone joint in my body relaxed.” she breathes, blissful under- or…over your touch, licks, kisses.

you titter against her, kitten licks pick up the last of her orgasm.

“you’ll give me an ego”

she twitches softly, moving off you when she feels it’s enough

she pulls your lips in for a sloppy kiss, tasting herself with a groan.

her fingers wander down your torso, warmth settling in your chest; she feels your dampness through your underwear

“in the morning” you mumble between tongue-tangling kisses

“so you’re staying the night?”

“too tired.”

“hm,” she agrees, thumb under the waistband of lace, forefingers rounding your hip, holding herself up on her free arm

your fingers tangle in her smudgy, black hair, reminding you her lipstick is likely all over you