#sashasin

You felt naked in it, perfectly aware of the way the material betrayed every movement, every shift of your weight. 

It wasn't just a favorite dress; it was Sevika’s favorite dress, precisely because it offered maximum visual access with minimum physical coverage.

Sevika stood across the yard, her tall, muscular, frame leaning against the fence as she chatted with Megan, your friend hosting the party. 

The dark denim of her jeans was unforgiving, molding to the corded strength of her thighs. Every few seconds, without fail, her head would tilt, and her piercing grey eyes—eyes that always seemed capable of stripping you bare—would lock onto you.

The intensity of her gaze was a physical weight. It was proprietary, hungry, and deeply possessive. She knew exactly why you’d chosen that maxi dress, and the promise of punishment and pleasure coiled tight in the smirk playing on her lips when your eyes finally met.

You shifted slightly, feeling the phantom pressure of the silicone strap-on you knew was nestled securely beneath her zipper, a silent weapon always ready for her dominant urges.

Needing a distraction, you slipped inside the house to grab more napkins from the kitchen. The cool air inside was a relief from the heat, and you rummaged through a drawer, your back to the door. 

Footsteps approached—heavy—and then Sevika's body pressed flush against yours from behind. Her heat seeped through your dress, and you felt the strap-on in her jeans, nudging insistently into the cleft of your ass.

You shut your eyes, letting a shaky breath escape. "Really, Sev? We’re at a party," you managed, the protest sounding weak and breathless even to your own ears. 

You attempted a dramatic eye-roll, but the effort was undermined by the involuntary shudder of pleasure that shot through you.

She chuckled low, her breath hot against your ear, one hand sliding possessively around your waist. "You knew what you were doing wearing that dress, baby. Should've known you'd end up bent over somewhere."

"Anyone could walk in," you whispered, glancing toward the open doorway leading back to the party.

Sevika backed you up against the kitchen counter, her metal arm bracing beside you. Her lips descended to your neck, the initial contact starting slow—a wet, deliberate press against the sensitive skin just below your jaw—before accelerating into a devastating assault of hungry kisses that stole the air from your lungs.

Then she captured your mouth in a demanding kiss, her tongue plunging deep, claiming you. Her hand clenched mercilessly around the soft, yielding flesh of your ass, fingers digging deep into your curves through the thin fabric of the dress, pulling you tightly against her.

Heat flooded your core, an immediate response to her possessiveness. You tore your mouth away, panting, the need overriding the caution. You didn't look at the door this time; you just looked up at her, challenge and desperate longing warring in your eyes.

"You have five minutes," you murmured, the constraint of time adding a sharp, dangerous edge to the invitation.

That was all the permission she needed. Sevika spun you around to face the counter, her movements rough and commanding. She gathered the hem of your maxi dress and hiked it up over your hips, exposing your thighs and the lacy panties beneath. 

With a swift yank, she tugged them down your legs, the fabric pooling at your ankles before she snatched them up and stuffed them into the pocket of her jeans.

The zipper of her pants rasped open, and the strap-on sprang free, gleaming slightly in the kitchen light. Sevika's fingers dipped between your thighs without warning, sliding into your pussy. 

You were already dripping, eager arousal coating her digits as she pumped them once, twice, testing your readiness with a demanding rhythm that stole the last remnants of control.

She pulled her fingers out and rubbed your wetness along the length of the strap-on, making it slick. 

"Fuck, you're so wet already baby," she growled, her voice dripping with tease. "Gets you wet thinking about getting caught, doesn't it? The possibility of getting caught."

Your cheeks burned, but you couldn't deny the rush. "Be quiet," you whispered urgently, though the words came out breathy.

Sevika leaned in, her lips brushing your ear as she whispered, "I think I’m the one that should be telling you to be quiet." 

She notched the thick head of the strap at your soaked entrance, rubbing it back and forth to tease your folds apart. Then thrusted in hard from behind, burying it deep in one brutal stroke. 

Your pussy clenched around the thick silicone, stretching to take her, and you bit your lip to stifle the moan that bubbled up.

She set a punishing rhythm immediately, her hips slamming forward, the strap-on pounding into you with relentless force. Each powerful drive shoved you harder against the counter's edge, the cool surface biting into your hips while your fingers clawed at the rim for support. 

You clamped down on your bottom lip, teeth sinking in deeper, desperate to swallow the cries building in your chest, but a muffled keen slipped free anyway.

Sevika's hand clamped over your mouth for a second before she reached into her pocket, pulling out your damp panties. She balled them up and stuffed them into your mouth, the fabric muffling your sounds. 

"Shh, baby," she murmured, her tone dark and soothing. "Unless you want them hearing you get fucked like this."

Her metal hand wrapped around one of your arms, yanking it behind your back and pinning it there. The cold metal bit into your skin, the tight grip leaving a red welt in its wake—a mark that would remind you of her control later. 

Sevika's other hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back sharply so you could twist to see her eyes. They burned with possession, locked on yours as she smirked. 

"Fuck, you’re so hot," she growled, voice rough with lust.

She angled her hips sharper on the next thrust, the strap grinding against that hidden bundle of nerves deep inside, sparks igniting behind your eyes. The combination—the fullness, the pull on your hair, the risk of being caught—pushed you over the edge. 

You came hard, your pussy spasming around the toy, waves of ecstasy crashing through you. Your eyes squeezed shut, brows furrowing in overwhelmed bliss, body trembling as you rode it out.

Sevika eased her pace to deep, languid rolls, drawing out your shudders, the strap still buried to the hilt. You spat the panties from your mouth, gasping for air, and turned to glare at her over your shoulder—half annoyed at the recklessness, half sated and glowing.

But then your eyes caught movement in the doorway. A figure stood there, silhouetted against the backyard light. Megan, arms crossed, a wide grin splitting her face.

"That was quite a show," she said, her voice laced with amusement, eyes twinkling as she took in the scene.

Vi’s jaw flexed, her hands dropping from her arms to brush against your waist, fingertips grazing enough to make you shiver. She leaned in closer, and before you could react, she pressed her lips to yours, quick and claiming, teasing without hesitation.

The kiss pulled a low, amused chuckle from your chest before it left, heat pooling there, mind spinning. You didn’t step back, didn’t even think to—this was too good to interrupt.

A scrape of boots on metal made both of you lift your heads just slightly. Sevika was in the doorway, cigar long spent, one eyebrow raised, watching the scene with quiet interest.

“Well,” she said, voice smooth, “looks like the ghost of the heist wasn’t the only thing that got stolen tonight.”

Vi’s hands didn’t leave you. Your chin tipped up to meet her gaze, eyes dark and unrepentant. You smirked, leaning into her a fraction, enough that Sevika could see your cheek brush against Vi’s chest.

Sevika’s laugh was low, almost approving, as she stepped fully into the room, closing the space around the three of you. 

You rested a hand lightly against the table, pulse racing, watching the way Vi’s fingers lingered along your sides. She wasn’t letting go. 

Sevika walked over to the worn chair in the corner, dropping into it with a creak of metal and leather. Her cigar glowed between her fingers as she took a long drag, exhaling a lazy plume that curled toward the ceiling. 

Her eyes, sharp and predatory, locked onto you and Vi, the corner of her mouth twitching in that infuriating smirk.

"Don't stop on my account," Sevika drawled, voice rough from the smoke, gesturing with the cigar like it was a conductor's baton. "Continue. I'm invested now."

You opened your mouth to protest—what the hell did she mean by that?—but Vi was already moving, her lips crashing back onto yours before the word could escape. 

The kiss was deeper this time, hungrier, her tongue slipping past your teeth to tangle with yours, stealing your breath and any coherent thought. Your hands fisted in her shirt, pulling her closer even as confusion flickered in your mind.

Vi's arms hooked under your thighs without warning, lifting you effortlessly onto the edge of the table. The wood was cool against your ass through your pants, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her body as she stepped between your legs. 

You hesitated for a split second, glancing toward Sevika, but Vi's mouth was on yours again, demanding, and you couldn't help but kiss her back—fierce, needy, your fingers threading into her hair to hold her there.

She broke away just enough to trail her lips down your jaw, nipping at the skin before latching onto your neck. Her teeth grazed your pulse point, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, and a soft moan slipped from your throat. 

Your eyes darted to Sevika despite yourself. 

She was lounging back in the chair, legs spread wide, one hand resting on her thigh while the other brought the cigar to her lips. She watched with lazy intensity, her gaze raking over you like she was appraising a prize.

Sevika caught your stare and arched a brow, mouthing a mocking 'What?' with exaggerated innocence, her free hand gesturing vaguely as if to say, Go on, then.

You rolled your eyes, a sigh escaping as Vi's mouth worked lower, her hands sliding up your stomach. 

The exasperation melted into something hotter under Sevika's scrutiny, her presence adding an edge to the air that made your skin prickle.

Vi didn't give you time to dwell. Her palms pressed against your shoulders, guiding you back until you were fully reclined on the table, the ruby rolling forgotten to the side. 

She loomed over you, eyes blazing with that mix of challenge and desire, her fingers hooking into the hem of your shirt. 

"Relax," she murmured against your collarbone, voice gravelly. "I've got you."

She tugged your shirt up and over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. Her mouth followed the path of exposed skin, kissing along your ribs, her breath hot and teasing. 

Your bra came next—Vi's fingers deft as she unclasped it, peeling the fabric away to bare your breasts to the cool air. She paused, admiring for a beat, then leaned down to take one nipple between her lips, sucking firmly while her hand kneaded the other.

A gasp tore from you, hips arching up instinctively. Sevika's low chuckle cut through the haze, drawing your eyes back to her. She'd set the cigar in the ashtray, grinding it out slowly, the ember hissing as it died. 

Her hand drifted lower now, slipping beneath the waistband of her pants, fingers disappearing as she started to touch herself. 

The sight—Sevika's hand moving beneath her pants, her eyes never leaving the two of you—sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between your legs.

"Look at you, Vi," Sevika taunted, voice husky from her own building arousal. "Bet you can't make her scream louder than I can."

Vi lifted her head, lips glistening, and shot Sevika a glare that held more heat than real anger. 

"Shut it and enjoy the show, Sev. Or are you jealous already?" She didn't wait for a retort, her hands moving to your pants, yanking them down along with your panties in a swift pull. Cool air hit your bare pussy, and you shivered, legs parting on their own as Vi settled between them.

She hooked your knees over her shoulders, pulling you closer to the table's edge. Her eyes met yours before she dipped her head. The first swipe of her tongue was slow, deliberate—flat and broad against your folds, tasting you from entrance to clit. 

You whimpered, fingers scrabbling at the table's surface for purchase.

Vi's mouth was relentless after that. She licked into you, tongue thrusting shallowly before 

circling your clit with firm, teasing pressure. 

Her hands gripped your thighs, holding you open as she sucked your clit between her lips, flicking it with the tip of her tongue. The wet sounds of her eating you out filled the bunker, mingling with your ragged breaths and the subtle shift of fabric from Sevika's corner.

You stole glances at Sevika, her pants pushed down just enough, fingers plunging in and out of her own pussy, thumb rubbing circles over her clit. 

The way she watched—unblinking, biting her lip—pushed you higher, the thrill of her gaze making every sensation sharper. 

Vi hummed against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core, and you bucked against her face.

"Fuck, Vi—" The words dissolved into a moan as she slipped two fingers inside you, curling them against that spot that lit something wild behind your eyes.

She pumped them steadily, matching the rhythm of her tongue lashing your clit.

Sevika's breaths grew heavier, her free hand tweaking her own nipple through her shirt. "That's it, Vi. Make her drip for you. Though I'd have her begging by now."

Vi growled low in her throat, the sound buzzing against your skin, and redoubled her efforts—fingers thrusting deeper, tongue swirling faster. 

The pressure built unbearably, coiling tight in your belly. Sevika's eyes on you, Vi's mouth devouring you—it was too much, the dual assault of their attention shattering your control.

You came with a cry, thighs clamping around Vi's head as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Your pussy clenched around her fingers, pulsing as you gushed against her lips, coating her chin. 

Vi didn't stop, lapping you through it, drawing out every shudder until you were limp and gasping on the table.

She finally pulled back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a smug grin splitting her face as she looked up at you. Then, to Sevika: "Your turn. Or you just gonna sit there fingering yourself all night?"

Sevika's laugh was breathy, her hand still moving lazily between her legs. "Keep talking, Vi. See what happens." Her gaze flicked to you. "But damn if that wasn't a hell of a start."

Before you could catch your breath, Sevika was on her feet, crossing the room in two strides. 

Her hand clamped around your wrist, firm and unyielding, yanking you upright. She shoved Vi aside with her shoulder, causing Vi to stumble back a step with a surprised grunt.

"You’re right, it is my turn," Sevika growled, not looking back as she dragged you toward the adjoining bedroom door, her grip leaving faint red marks on your skin.

Vi straightened, rubbing her arm. "Hey—"

But Sevika ignored her, flinging open the door and hauling you inside. The bedroom was dimly lit, the bed unmade and inviting, a sturdy dresser against the far wall. She released your wrist only to grab your waist, spinning you and tossing you onto the mattress. 

You bounced once, sheets tangling around your legs, heart pounding as you propped yourself on your elbows to watch her.

Sevika moved to the dresser, pulling open a drawer with a scrape. She fished out a black harness, the strap-on attached gleaming under the low light. 

She stepped into it efficiently, buckling the straps tight around her hips. The sight made your core clench, still sensitive from Vi's mouth.

The door creaked open behind her. Vi stood there, arms crossed.

She scoffed, leaning against the frame. "You don't share well, do you, Sevika?"

Sevika glanced over her shoulder, smirking as she tightened the last strap. "Got impatient. You took your sweet time out there."

Vi's eyes narrowed into a glare, jaw tight. She shot you a quick look—possessive, frustrated—before turning on her heel and stalking out, the door slamming shut behind her.

Sevika's attention snapped back to you, her expression darkening. She moved to the bed, the toy bobbing with each step, and leaned over you, one knee dipping the mattress. 

Her weight pinned you lightly as her lips crashed onto yours—rough, demanding, her tongue invading your mouth like she owned it. You tasted the faint smoke on her breath, her free hand cupping your jaw to angle you deeper.

She broke the kiss with a nip to your lower lip, her hand trailing down your body. Fingers slid between your thighs, parting your slick folds to find your clit, swollen and aching. 

She rubbed it in slow, firm circles, just enough pressure to make you gasp and arch into her touch, your hips rolling instinctively.

The door swung open again. Vi strode back in, she had her strap-on attached now too. Her eyes locked onto yours across the room, and she grinned—slow, tilting her head with that cocky edge, like she knew exactly what you needed.

You held her gaze, heat flooding your cheeks and core. Sevika's fingers paused as you pushed against her chest, breaking the contact. 

"If either of you want to fuck me," you said, voice breathy but firm, "you need to kiss."

Sevika pulled back, brows furrowing in annoyance. "What?"

Vi halted mid-step, irritation flashing across her face. "Oh come on, cupcake."

Sevika straightened with a sigh, her competitive streak igniting. She stood from the bed, the strap-on jutting out aggressively, and closed the distance to Vi in a blur. 

Grabbing Vi's arm in a vice grip, she yanked her forward and tossed her onto the bed beside you. 

Vi landed with a thud, cursing loudly. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Sevika didn't answer with words. She climbed on top,in between Vi’s thighs, the strap-on pressing against Vi’s stomach. 

Her hands braced on either side of Vi's head as she leaned down, capturing her mouth in a fierce kiss. 

Vi's body stiffened for a moment, her hands coming up to push Sevika away, but then she relented, kissing back with equal fire. Their lips clashed in a messy, heated battle, tongues tangling and teeth nipping as they poured all their pent-up tension into the kiss.

You watched from mere inches away, your pulse racing as their bodies pressed together. Sevika's hands roamed over Vi's chest, yanking her shirt up and over her head before discarding it carelessly. Next, she peeled off Vi's sports bra, exposing her firm breasts, nipples already hardening in the cool air.

Vi retaliated, tugging Sevika's shirt free and revealing the taut muscles of her torso. Her fingers hooked into Sevika's sports bra, but Sevika swatted her hands away with a sharp smack, pinning them briefly before releasing.

Instead, Sevika dipped her head, her mouth latching onto one of Vi's nipples. She sucked hard, her tongue flicking the sensitive peak before grazing it with her teeth. 

Vi arched her back, a muffled groan escaping as she bit her lower lip, fighting to stay quiet. Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes squeezed shut as pleasure washed through her.

The sight ignited you, arousal pooling hot and insistent. Your hand drifted down, fingers slipping between your legs to rub your clit in time with Sevika's mouth on Vi. 

You circled it slowly, dipping lower to spread your wetness, as you watched them grind together, hips rolling in unspoken rhythm.

Vi's restraint cracked with a soft gasp, her hands fisting the sheets. You couldn't resist anymore, crawling closer on your knees and leaning in to press your lips to Vi's, kissing her deeply. 

She moaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating between you, her tongue seeking yours.

Sevika sat up abruptly, her mouth lifting from Vi's chest. She watched you and Vi locked in that kiss, her dark eyes narrowing with a mix of hunger and impatience. 

A low, possessive groan rumbled from her throat as she reached over and delivered a sharp spank to your ass. The sting bloomed across your skin, making you gasp into Vi's mouth, your body jolting forward.

You broke the kiss just enough to glance at Sevika, but she was already shifting her gaze downward, fixating on the harness still buckled around Vi's hips. 

The strap-on bobbed every time Vi shifted, and Sevika's lips curved into a wicked smirk as she hooked her fingers into the straps, unbuckling them.

Vi pulled away from your lips fully, her blue eyes snapping to Sevika with a fierce glare. "Now what are you doing?" she snarled, her voice laced with defiance, her chest heaving.

Sevika just grinned wider, unfazed, her fingers working the harness free. 

She tugged it off Vi's hips and tossed it aside with a clatter, then gripped the waistband of Vi's boxers. In one fluid motion, she yanked them down Vi's thighs, exposing her completely.

Vi's hand shot out, grabbing at Sevika's wrist. "Fuck, wait—"

But it was too late. The boxers fell to the ground, and Sevika's eyes dropped to the sight between her legs—Vi's pussy, already glistening with arousal, folds swollen and slick. Sevika grinned, her gaze lingering as she drank in the view.

You couldn't help but look too, your eyes flicking down to take in Vi's exposed sex, the wetness shining in the dim light. Heat surged through you, and you bit your lower lip hard, pulse throbbing. 

Then you dragged your gaze back up to Vi's face. She met your eyes with a crooked smirk, a spark of challenge and vulnerability mixing there, her cheeks flushed.

Leaning in, you captured her lips again in a softer kiss, reassuring, your hand cupping her jaw as your tongue slipped past her teeth. Vi sighed into it, her tension easing slightly under your touch.

Sevika's fingers trailed down, dragging through Vi's slick folds with a slow, teasing stroke. She parted Vi’s lips gently, circling her entrance before sliding up to brush Vi's clit. 

Vi paused mid-kiss, her body going rigid as a deep groan tore from her throat, vibrating against your lips.

"Look at you, all soaked and needy," Sevika murmured, her voice a low taunt, fingers dipping just inside Vi's pussy before withdrawing. "Pretending you're in charge while your cunt practically begs for me."

Vi's eyes flashed with a glare over your shoulder, her jaw clenching, but she didn't pull away—instead, her hips twitched involuntarily toward Sevika's hand.

Sevika chuckled darkly, then swatted Vi's inner thighs with a firm smack, forcing her legs wider apart. 

Vi's muscles tensed, but she spread for her, knees falling open. Sevika slid down the bed, positioning herself between Vi's thighs, her broad shoulders nudging them further.

You pulled back from the kiss, turning to watch, arousal twisting hot in your core at the erotic display. 

Sevika's eyes locked onto yours, intense and commanding, holding your gaze as she leaned in. 

Her tongue flicked out, flat and broad, licking a long stripe up Vi's pussy.

Vi groaned loudly, her head falling back against the pillow. 

"Shit, Sevika—fuck you," she cursed through gritted teeth, hands fisting the sheets once again, but her hips bucked up greedily.

Sevika's mouth sealed over Vi's clit, sucking firmly while her tongue swirled, eyes never leaving yours. The wet sounds filled the room, obscene and rhythmic.

Vi's arm snaked around your waist suddenly, pulling you on top of her. 

Your body draped over hers, breasts pressing to her chest, your back to Sevika as Vi's hands roamed your body. 

She tried to focus on you, her fingers digging into your hips, but her face twisted with pleasure—brows furrowing, lips parting on ragged breaths—as Sevika's tongue delved deeper, lapping at her folds and thrusting inside her pussy.

Vi's abs clenched under you, her thighs quivering around Sevika's head. She captured your mouth again in a desperate kiss, but it was fractured, interrupted by gasps and moans as Sevika ate her out relentlessly, tongue fucking into her with wet, slurping strokes.

The vibrations of Vi's moans hummed against your lips, her body arching beneath you, slick skin sliding together. You ground your hips down instinctively, your own arousal dripping onto her lower stomach, clit throbbing with need.

Vi broke the kiss with a ragged breath, her hand sliding between your bodies. Two fingers pushed inside your pussy without warning. 

“Ride me,” Vi growled low, voice strained from Sevika's mouth devouring her clit, sucking hard enough to make her thighs quake.

You gasped, nodding as you started to move, rocking your hips back onto her fingers. They stretched you perfectly, thrusting deep with each roll of your body, her palm grinding against your clit. 

The angle was awkward but intoxicating—your breasts dragged over her chest, nipples pebbling against her skin as you fucked yourself on her hand. 

Sevika didn't let up, her tongue lashing Vi's entrance, lips sealed around the swollen nub, humming vibrations that had Vi's fingers faltering inside you before plunging harder.

“Fuck, yes,” you whimpered, pace quickening, pussy clenching around Vi's fingers as heat coiled tight in your belly. 

Vi's free hand gripped your ass, guiding your rhythm, her own breaths turning to desperate pants. Sevika's eyes burned into your back, watching the way your body undulated, but she focused on Vi—tongue flicking faster, fingers joining to spread her wider, pumping in and out.

Vi came first, her pussy spasming against Sevika's face as she cried out, hips bucking wildly. 

Her fingers hooked inside you, rubbing that ridge until your orgasm crashed over you too—walls fluttering, juices soaking her hand as you shuddered atop her, moaning into her collarbone. Waves of pleasure ripped through you both, bodies trembling in sync, the room thick with the scent of sex.

Sevika pulled back with a slick pop, her chin glistening with Vi's cum, a satisfied smirk curling her lips. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. 

You started to sit up, muscles lax from release, but Sevika's palm pressed firm between your shoulder blades, shoving you back down onto Vi's chest. Your breasts squished against her, faces inches apart, her blue eyes meeting yours with a mix of lingering haze and fresh hunger.

Before Vi could say anything, Sevika positioned herself behind you, the bed dipping as she nudged Vi's thighs wider with her knees. The tip pressed against Vi's entrance, slick and sensitive from her climax. Sevika thrust forward in one smooth motion, burying the strap deep into Vi's pussy.

Vi's eyes went wide, a sharp inhale escaping her as her body tensed beneath you, inner walls stretching around the intrusion. You felt every twitch, her abs clenching against your stomach. Leaning down, you brushed a light kiss to her cheek, then trailed softer ones along her jaw. 

“Take it,” you murmured against her skin, voice soothing as you nipped her neck, sucking a mark there to ground her. 

Sevika chuckled low, her hips flush against the back of Vi's thighs as she bottomed out. “That's right, tough girl. Your pussy's gripping me like it never wants me to stop. So fucking tight after I ate you out—bet you love being filled like this.” 

Vi's glare shot over your shoulder, but it melted into a groan as Sevika started fucking into her—slow, deep strokes that made the bed creak. Each push forward jolted Vi's body up into yours, her arms wrapping tight around your back, hugging you down hard like an anchor. 

Her nails bit into your skin, breaths hot against your cheek as she buried her face into the crook of your neck, groaning with every thrust. “Shit—oh fuck, Sevika…”

The rhythm built, Sevika's pace turning punishing, hips snapping forward to bury the toy to the hilt in Vi's dripping heat. Wet slaps echoed, Vi's pussy squelching around the silicone as she took it, body rocking beneath you. 

Then Sevika pulled out abruptly, the strap glistening with Vi's juices. She shifted up, aligning the tip with your entrance from behind. 

You were still draped over Vi, ass raised just enough, and Sevika didn't hesitate—thrusting in deep, filling your pussy in one go. You gasped sharply, the stretch burning sweet as you moaned into Vi's neck, face pressed to her pulse point. “Ah—fuck, yes…”

Vi's hands slid up your back, holding you close as Sevika fucked into you, each drive pushing you forward into Vi's embrace. The angle had the strap hitting deep, rubbing your walls until sparks ripped through your vision. You whimpered, hips pushing back to meet her, pussy clenching greedily.

Vi tilted her head, lips brushing your ear with a sly whisper. “ Just know I could fuck you better.”

Sevika's hand shot out, fingers pinching Vi's nipples hard, making Vi hiss and arch.

 “Keep talking shit, and I'll make you beg for it next time,” Sevika growled, but her thrusts didn't falter, slamming into you harder in retaliation.

She alternated then, pulling out of you with a wet slide and plunging back into Vi, who groaned and clutched you tighter. Back and forth—fucking Vi's pussy until she was writhing, then switching to yours, the strap coated in both your need. 

The constant motion had you both moaning in tandem, bodies slick with sweat, Vi's arms locked around you as pleasure built again. 

Sevika’s breaths turned ragged, the sight below her undoing her completely, the chaos she’d made of you both enough to tip her over the edge.

Vi shattered first this time, her pussy convulsing around the strap as she came with a guttural cry, hugging you down so tight your ribs ached, her release soaking the sheets. 

The sight of it pushed you over, your orgasm ripping through you as Sevika pulled out of Vi and buried deep one last time, your walls milking the toy while you sobbed into Vi's neck. 

✮⋆˙ about me:

✮⋆˙ I grew up in a house where writing was basically a second language; one parent with a PhD in English, the other with a PhD in Anthropology , so putting words together with intention wasn’t optional ✮⋆˙ I took it in my own direction. I earned a degree in psychology with a minor in linguistics, and I participated in research on language acquisition and literature—how stories get into the brain and why certain ones stay there. ✮⋆˙ currently I’m a psychology grad student, which means most of my writing life is is data, methods, and results. this is the place where I get to be creative again — a reminder that language isn’t just for findings and citations, it’s also for fun

✮⋆˙what you’ll find here:

✮⋆˙ writing craft breakdowns — from pacing to character psychology ✮⋆˙ fic dissections + trope analysis ✮⋆˙ worldbuilding advice ✮⋆˙ smut-writing tips ✮⋆˙ language & style notes ✮⋆˙ title + chapter advice ✮⋆˙ character building ✮⋆˙ drafting strategy ✮⋆˙ snippets from my own work

✮⋆˙ askbox is open if you want me to pick apart a line, a scene, a trope, or a “disaster” first draft. feel free to send any questions you have my way, or if you just want to have a friendly chat !

✎ᝰ.

The office is already buzzing when you walk in—phones trilling, keyboards clacking, printers groaning like they resent being awake. It’s all familiar, comfortably predictable, but your body isn’t matching the routine.

Your pulse is too quick, too present, still tangled in how Sevika touched you, the way she looked at you when she told you goodnight.

And beneath all of that, threaded through your thoughts no matter how you try to ignore it, is dinner. Your family. The way Sevika fit into that space like she’d been there a dozen times before.

You hadn’t expected it to be easy. You’d spent the whole drive over worrying she might feel out of place, that your family might be too much, too loud, too curious. But the moment she stepped into your parents’ dining room, something settled.

She didn’t force anything—she listened, she answered when spoken to, she let your aunt tease her without stiffening, and somehow your cousins liked her immediately. 

Even your dad relaxed. And you kept catching these small moments between them—your dad laughing at something Sevika deadpanned, your mom leaning in to ask her a question, Sevika giving one of her quiet nods that somehow counted as a full conversation.

Every time you looked at her across the table, she was already looking at you. Not staring—just… aware. Like she was there for you, with you, in a way that felt different.

You didn’t want to read into it, you’re still trying not to. But it settles now, in your chest, warm and unsettling, a reminder that she didn’t just fit into your family—she blended into your world so seamlessly it scared you a little.

But the more you try to redirect your thoughts, the more they drift back to her—with a kind of inevitability that nudges warmth into a place that no longer feels steady. You keep wondering if you should say something, if you should tell her what shifted inside you last night, if it would change anything between you two. 

Part of you imagines her hearing it and softening in that subtle, almost secret shift she sometimes has.Another part imagines the opposite—walls slamming back into place, the easy familiarity between you suddenly fragile. You can’t decide which possibility scares you more.

You try to shake the thought off as you sit at your desk, but it clings stubbornly, tangling with everything else racing through your head. Your hand trembles around your pen. Your emails won’t hold still. And the more you try to catalog tasks for the day, the more your thoughts slip back to her.

You look up, drawn by instinct, and your gaze drifts across the glass partition. Sevika is already on a call, one hand braced on her desk, the other rubbing slow circles at her temple. She looks like she’s running on fumes and discipline alone, all focus and unshakable quiet. Then she lets out a yawn—broad and unrestrained—and something warm in you lurches awake.

You forgot her coffee.

And for the first time this morning, your mind gives you something simple, something that doesn’t involve questioning every new feeling inside you. You push back your chair, straighten your shirt, and stand.

Coffee, a small ritual. A familiar one, something you can do without overthinking it.

You exhale and head toward the break room, grateful for the brief, steadying distraction from the chaos in your chest.

✎ᝰ.

The break room is quiet when you step inside, a steady hum from the refrigerator filling the space. You move on autopilot—grab a cup, press the dispenser, watch the dark stream of coffee rise. The familiarity of it helps settle you for a moment. Routine. Something you can control.

You reach for the green sugar packet, tearing it open with your thumb while your mind drifts right back to the thoughts you were trying so hard to escape.

You’re halfway through stirring when a voice breaks the silence.

“Hi, honey.”

Amanda’s tone is bright, but gentle—like she already senses something off. You respond without looking up, still stirring.

“Hey.”

It’s such a small word, but it comes out thin, stretched. Amanda notices immediately. She pauses for half a beat before walking closer, footsteps soft against the linoleum.

“What’s on your mind?” she asks, leaning a hip against the counter, her eyes studying you.

Your hand stills on the coffee. You don’t answer—not out loud, anyway.

Inside, you spin through the decision. Tell her? Don’t tell her? Maybe—maybe if you say it out loud, the pressure in your chest will loosen, even by a fraction.

You let out a quiet, shaky sigh.

“I… realized I’m in love with Sevika,” you say softly, the words leaving you before you can decide whether to be nervous about them.

Amanda’s brows lift slightly, not surprised—more like she’s been waiting for you to catch up. She gives you a small, warm smile.

“Okay? So, why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”

You huff a breath that’s almost a laugh, almost a groan. “I don’t know what to do,” you admit, finally turning to face her. “I don’t know if I should tell her. I don’t know if it’ll ruin things or make things weird, or if she… doesn’t feel the same. I just—” You stop, because the rest is a knot you can’t untangle out loud.

Amanda nods slowly, understanding settling into her expression. She pushes off the counter, shifts so she’s leaning against it with her back now, arms folded loosely.

“Well,” she says, letting out her own sigh, “I think you should tell her.”

Your breath stutters. “You do?”

“Oh, absolutely.” She tilts her head, giving you a look that’s gently amused and deeply sure. “And if you’re worried the feelings aren’t mutual, you can stop. Ms. Sevika never lets anyone get close to her. She never hands out her black card. She doesn’t keep in touch with people after she has sex with them. And she definitely doesn’t give them promotions.”

You blink, absorbing each piece like a puzzle sliding into place. A slow warmth spreads through your chest—not certainty, not yet, but something lighter. Hopeful.

Amanda watches you with a knowing smile. “She’s different with you. Anyone with eyes can see that. And don’t pretend it means nothing that you’re calling her Sevika these days instead of Ms. Sevika.”

The observation catches you off guard, a flutter sparking in your chest. You look down at the steaming cup in your hands, your shoulders easing in a way you don’t expect. Maybe Amanda’s right. Maybe the fear twisting in your stomach isn’t the whole truth. Maybe Sevika feels more than she says. 

You hope so, the thought sending a small, bright flicker through your veins.

✎ᝰ.

You leave the break room with the coffee balanced carefully in your hand, Amanda’s words replaying softly in your mind. She’s different with you. It makes your shoulders feel lighter, your chest a little less tight. You cling to that small steadiness all the way down the hall.

But the moment you reach Sevika’s office, everything inside you drops.

Your footsteps halt so suddenly you almost spill the cup. Your stomach plummets—hard—like the floor’s been ripped out from under you.

Because Selene is standing in Sevika’s office.

Arms crossed. Leaning back on one hip. Wearing a smug little smirk like she owns the air she breathes.

And Sevika—Sevika is furious.

She’s standing behind her desk, jaw locked, metal fingers tapping sharply against the wood. Her glare is murderous, but there’s something brittle underneath it too—a flicker of the wound she told you about. You can see the tension in her body, the coiled energy that's waiting to strike.

Your pulse thunders, every instinct screams to turn around.

But instead you step forward into her office, voice quiet. “Sevika…? Is everything okay?”

Selene turns at the sound of you.

Her grin spreads slow and wickedly. “Hi, pretty girl. Don’t you look nice.”

Normally, the spark of jealousy Sevika gets when someone hits on you secretly thrills you. But not now. Not with Selene. Not after what Sevika told you. The happiness doesn’t come. Instead, your stomach twists with disgust.

You force your expression neutral, biting the inside of your cheek so you don’t say something you shouldn’t. This is their past, not your place—

“Selene,” Sevika snaps, low and lethal. “Leave.” The word is a command, a dismissal, and for a moment, you think Selene will obey. But she just laughs, a cold, mirthless sound, and turns back to Sevika.

She steps close, too close, and drags a hand slowly up Sevika's arm. "Don't you miss me, baby?" she says, her voice dripping with sweetness. The gesture is intimate, possessive, and you can feel your blood go molten. 

You grip the coffee tighter, so you don't throw it, your face heating with rage. Your heartbeat slams in your ears, and for a moment, you're paralyzed with fury.

Sevika flinches backward, metal fingers curling. “Don’t touch me.”

Selene scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, come on. You’re still mad about the money? You make millions, Sev. Why is that—”

“Because you stole from me,” Sevika snarls. “You lied. You used me. You took advantage of every bit of trust I gave you.”

That shocks Selene—just for a second. She wasn’t expecting Sevika to say it out loud.

But then she turns, and her attention lands on you again.

“Well,” she murmurs with a cruel little tilt of her head. She steps closer.  "And you - what makes you so perfect for her? Sure, you're pretty." Her smile turns venomous. "But that's all you offer. Just good looks."

You feel your stomach twist, but you hold still.

Then she leans in, breath brushing your ear. “Tell me, sweetheart—are you in it for the money?”

Something in you snaps, a white-hot surge that detonates in your chest. Before you register the movement, your hand connects with Selene's face, hard. 

The sound is sharp, a crack that echoes through the room, and Selene staggers back, eyes wide.

“Fuck you,” you spit, chest heaving.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Selene bites out, clutching her cheek. 

She lunges, her hand cutting through the air toward your face—you freeze, certain it’s about to land.

But Sevika moves fast, her hand clamps around Selene’s arm mid-swing, arresting the blow in a single, brutal stop before yanking her back so hard she stumbles toward the door.

“Get the fuck out.”

Selene scoffs, recovering her balance. “Sevika, how could you pick her—”

“How could I not?” Sevika cuts sharply, stepping forward, voice a low growl. “She’s smart. She’s loyal. She’s honest. She shows up. She listens. She gives more than she ever takes. She’s…” Her jaw works as she grasps for the words. “She’s ten times the woman you’ll never be.”

The room holds its breath, tension thick in the air as your breath catches in your throat. Your heart tightens, pulse racing with the sheer intensity of the moment. Selene stares at Sevika, stunned, her face pale with shock and anger, before a soft, almost mocking smile spreads across her lips.

“Don’t tell me you’re in love with that girl,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm and disdain. 

The words hang there, heavy with implication, as Sevika’s jaw tightens, her glare sharpening. She doesn’t deny it, doesn’t say a word, and the silence becomes a living thing between you all, pressing in from every corner of the room.

Your heart stops, then kicks hard enough to hurt as the realization crashes over you. 

Does Sevika love you? 

The thought flashes through you like electricity, leaving you breathless and trembling, teetering on the edge of something enormous, something that could change everything.

Sevika turns away abruptly, striding to her desk like she can’t stand another second of Selene’s voice. She sits, and picks up the phone, her movements crisp and controlled.

“You have five minutes to get out of my building,” she says, cold and precise. “If you’re still here after that, I’ll have you arrested.”

Without sparing Selene a look, she leans into the phone, gaze fixed somewhere past her shoulder. “Security,” she says, voice tightening with command. “See Ms. Rourke off the premises. Use whatever force is necessary.”

Selene's face twists in offense, her eyes flashing with anger, but she doesn't argue. Instead, she storms out of the office, pausing in the doorway to toss a parting shot over her shoulder. "Your loss," she says, the words dripping in injured ego, before disappearing from view.

For a long moment, the office is silent, the air heavy with tension, charged with the weight of unspoken emotions. The silence is oppressive, trembling around the edges, like the quiet tautness of a bowstring pulled to its limit. 

Sevika sighs hard, as she drags a hand over her face, her eyes closing for a moment as if seeking solace.

You step forward quietly and set the coffee on her desk.

“Thanks,” Sevika mutters, her voice tired, her eyes opening to regard you briefly before she begins rubbing her forehead, her fingers massaging her temples.

You stand there, clutching the edge of your own sleeve, debating, your heart pounding in your chest like a drum. Your mouth is dry, your fear and hope crashing together in a violent, tumultuous sea, leaving you feeling dizzy, adrift. 

The words you want to say are trapped in your throat, refusing to budge, as if fearful of the consequences of being spoken aloud.

Sevika glances up at you, just for a heartbeat, a faint grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. Then she turns back to her desk, fingers hovering over the coffee cup. 

Finally, her voice cuts through the quiet. “You have something to say.”

You swallow hard, realizing it’s not a question. It’s a command, a gentle pull that gives permission and demands honesty all at once. You exhale, long and shuddering, before whispering:

“I’m in love with you.”

The confession hangs in the air, a fragile filament of sound that catches the fluorescent light and bends it into something luminous.

Sevika freezes.

Then—without looking at you—she smirks. A soft, low chuckle leaves her as she pushes up from her chair. She walks toward you, the distance between you shrinking until she is only a breath away. The heat radiating from her body washes over you, a comforting wave that makes the chill in your limbs recede.

“I know,” she says. It’s not a statement of surprise; it is a quiet acknowledgment that vibrates through you, reverberating in the hollow left by your confession.

Your breath stutters.

She lifts your chin gently with her hand and kisses you.  Her mouth moves against yours with an assurance that mirrors the confidence of her earlier words. You feel the subtle pressure of her hand, the slight click of the prosthetic’s joints as she adjusts, pulling you closer with an intimacy that feels both urgent and inevitable.

When she pulls back, her eyes soften. “And I’m in love with you.”

Warmth rushes through you, flooding every corner of your chest, melting the ice that had formed around your ribs. The weight that had pinned you to the floor lifts, and your knees, which had threatened to buckle, find steadier ground. 

Without hesitation, you close the distance once more, your lips finding hers again, this time with an urgency that speaks of all the unsaid feelings you have kept hidden. The kiss deepens, the world around you fading into a blur of muted colors, the only thing that matters being the constant, shared rhythm of two hearts that have finally found each other.

Sevika slides her metal fingers up your spine in a way that short-circuits every nerve you have.

Which is, of course, exactly when someone clears their throat.

A pointed, exaggerated little ahem—loud enough to cut through the moment, quiet enough to be smug about it.

You jolt back from Sevika, breath ragged, mind scrambling.  You turn toward the doorway and see Tom standing there, hovering like he absolutely knows he shouldn’t be witnessing whatever he just witnessed…but is definitely taking mental notes anyway.

Your pulse leaps into your throat. Heat flares up your neck. Sevika doesn’t move. She doesn’t look away. She just turns her head toward him with the slow inevitability of an approaching storm.

Tom lifts a folder weakly. “I brought paperwork? Should I… go? Leave? Pretend I’m blind?”

Sevika’s voice drops to stone. “Set it down.”

Tom does exactly that, crossing the room with careful, exaggerated caution. He places the folder on her desk like he’s setting a bomb that might detonate if jostled. 

Then he immediately takes two quick steps backward, retreating toward the doorway like he wants as much distance between himself and Sevika as humanly possible.

You try to shrink out of her hold, but her hand stays at your waist a beat longer than necessary. It makes your breath stumble.

Tom watches that. His grin sharpens. “So… this is happening.”

“What else,” Sevika says, “do you want.”

“Oh, you know,” he says, “corporate suffering, mild panic, payroll headaches. Riveting stuff.”

She stares him down. He stares back, visibly deciding he likes being alive and should stop talking.

“Actually,” Sevika says abruptly, “stay. I need to speak with you.”

Tom blinks. “Now…? Right now?”

“Yes.”

You swallow hard, suddenly aware you’re still too close to her and still wearing the afterglow of a kiss your body hasn’t recovered from.

You clear your throat. “Uh—I should probably go. I just… have a lot of things to catch up on, so—”

You gesture vaguely toward the door, the motion as awkward as your voice. You avoid her gaze because if you meet it for even a second you’ll fall apart all over again.

Tom’s grin ticks upward. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

You don’t. You slip past him, heart skittering, pausing only long enough to give Sevika a small, unsure glance. She meets your eyes for half a second—just long enough for something warm and dangerous to cinch in your chest—before she looks away and grabs the folder.

You step out into the hall and pull the door closed behind you.

As you walk across to your office, Tom’s voice carries through the glass:

“So… you wanna talk about it?”

“Nope,” Sevika replies.

“You sure? Because your face is—”

“Tom.”

You step inside your office, shut the door, and lean back against it for a moment, exhaling hard.

Messages. Right. Work. Reality.

You ease away from the solid surface at your back, cross the room, and sink into your chair. The fake-leather sighs beneath you. Your hands hover over the keyboard, but your brain refuses to cooperate. Your whole body feels rewired. Light. Like you’ve been gently shaken and are still waiting for all your atoms to settle back into place.

You try to focus—open your inbox, click through the first unread email—but the words slide off your vision like water. Your hands tremble just enough to make typing useless.

You breathe in through your nose. Out. Again.

It doesn’t help.

Your eyes flick up on instinct—pulled like a magnet toward the office across the hall.

Through the glass partitions, Sevika stands with her back half-turned to the door. Tom is in front of her, gesturing wildly, animated in a way only someone who has known her for years could get away with. Whatever he’s saying is clearly delighting him.

And Sevika—

She isn’t smiling outright. Of course she isn’t. But the edge of her mouth is doing that thing— the barely-there upward curl, the ghost of a smile that means she’s trying not to let it out.

Her arms are crossed, posture stiff in a way that tells you she’s annoyed on principle, not in truth.

Tom nudges her shoulder with the back of his hand. Her brows lift in that slow, warning arch— don’t push it—but there’s no heat behind it.

He keeps teasing. She keeps pretending she’s not affected.

You watch the scene unfold through the thin pane of glass, safe and invisible behind it. And something deep in your chest loosens, warm and restful.

Relief sweeps through you in a long, quiet wave.

She’s okay. She’s talking. She isn’t shutting down or withdrawing the way you were scared she might.

Your hand presses against your sternum as if you can calm your heart with your palm alone.

You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding your breath until now.

Another small buzz of laughter escapes Tom—visible even through glass—and Sevika rolls her eyes in that slow, resigned circle that means fine, I’ll tolerate you for the next sixty seconds.

Your face breaks into a grin before you can stop it. A real one. Big and bright and helpless. Your cheeks pull so hard they ache. You don’t bother fighting it. You couldn’t if you tried.

It’s ridiculous—you’re sitting alone in your office, smiling at a scene that isn’t yours to witness—but you feel it everywhere: that blooming warmth, that heady mixture of relief and affection, the dizzy aftershock of everything that just happened.

Your gaze drifts down from her to your desk. 

You shake your head, breath catching on a tiny, disbelieving laugh. You’re in love with her. And she loves you back.

Your heart flutters painfully, beautifully.

You steal another look through the glass just as Tom makes some exaggerated gesture that sends Sevika’s head tipping back in a barely-there laugh. It’s quick, restrained, gone almost before it appears.

But you saw it.

You turn back to your screen—finally able to type again—but the smile lingers, soft and stubborn, even as the day starts to move forward around you.

✎ᝰ.

The office drifts into its late-afternoon lull, that strange half-quiet where phones stop ringing but keyboards still clatter like anxious heartbeats. You finish the last of your messages, stretch your fingers, and try not to keep glancing across the hall at the glass that has become an accidental doorway into a version of Sevika you’re still learning to understand.

She’s still working. Focused. A pen between her fingers tapping rhythmically against the desk. Every so often, she glances up. Just once. Just enough.

You feel each glance like a pulse against your skin.

You’re sliding your laptop into your bag when a light knock taps the glass of your open door.

Amanda peeks inside.

Her hair is slightly tousled from the long day, her expression bright with that casual, we-survived-another-shift solidarity she always carries. “Hey,” she says, stepping in. “You free tonight? I was gonna see if you wanted to grab food or something.”

It’s an easy question. Light. Familiar. The kind friends ask without thinking.

You open your mouth—

A shadow moves in the hallway.

Amanda glances back just as Sevika steps into the doorway, presence shifting the air.

Sevika’s voice is steady. Matter-of-fact. “She’s busy,” she says.“We have a date tonight.”

Your pulse leaps, warm and chaotic.

Amanda looks between you two, and her expression flickers straight into amused delight. “Well damn,” she says, grinning. “About time.”

Your face goes hot. “Amanda—”

She lifts both hands. “What? I’m happy for you.” Her eyes sparkle with the softest tease.

The laugh that escapes you is small and embarrassed. “Sorry… rain check?”

“Absolutely,” she says, already backing toward the hall. 

Then she disappears down the hall, leaving you and Sevika alone in the hush that follows her.

You gather your things, buzzing with anticipation and disbelief. Sevika waits just outside your doorway, hands in her pockets, posture deceptively relaxed but her gaze anchored to you.

Sevika tilts her head toward the elevator. “Ready?”

You nod, because if you speak, you’re not sure your voice will cooperate.

✎ᝰ.

The city air is crisp as you step outside, tinted with exhaust and the faint scent of someone grilling on a balcony five floors up. Evening presses against your skin in that soft, silvery way it tends to when something important is about to happen.

Sevika walks half a step behind you at first, protective without trying to seem protective. Her gaze sweeps the street, the sidewalk, the strangers passing by.

And then, after a moment, she falls into stride beside you again.

You steal a glance.

Her eyes are forward, but her jaw is relaxed, breathing steady. She’s not wearing the tight-lipped expression she usually has after a long day. Instead, there’s something quieter on her face—like the residue of that earlier vulnerability, softened but still present.

Your fingers brush unintentionally, a tiny, feather-light contact.

Sevika’s hand twitches, just barely, as if her body reacts faster than she can decide whether she should reach for you or not.

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but the words tangle before you can shape them.

She speaks first. “You look nervous,” she says.

Your breath catches. “I’m not nervous.”

One of her eyebrows lifts, slow and knowing.

Of course she can tell. She always can. Why did you even think you could hide it? 

You scold yourself silently, cheeks heating, for trying to pretend you’re anything but exposed under her gaze.

“Okay,” you concede, heat creeping up your neck. “Maybe a little.”

Sevika’s lips press into what almost counts as a smile. “You don’t have to be.”

That single sentence lands with more impact than it has any right to. And when you look up at her, she’s already looking at you—eyes focused, expression open.

Your heart trips over itself.

She breaks the stare first, nodding toward the lot ahead. “Car’s this way.”

You move after her, crossing the lot together.

Her car unlocks with a soft click, the headlights blinking awake. You slide into the passenger seat, the air inside faintly scented with leather and the familiar, sexy, comforting scent of Sevika’s cologne—bold, woody, and spicy, impossible to ignore.

The door closes with a quiet thud, cocooning you in a private silence that feels different from the hallway silence. Closer. Almost expectant.

Sevika settles into the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the vents without looking at you. You can’t tell if she’s avoiding your gaze or just taking her time.

The engine hums to life.

The city outside moves in streaks of gold and shadow. 

Sevika taps her thumb on the wheel—once, twice. A small, restless rhythm. You’ve seen her do it when she’s working through something internally. A thought she hasn’t decided how to voice yet.

Sevika flicks on the turn signal, the sound filling the space between you like a slow heartbeat. You wait, letting the silence stretch, thinking maybe she’ll say something. But as the seconds tick by, it becomes clear she’s decided against it—for now.

“Where are we going?” you finally ask, breaking the quiet.

Her eyes stay on the road, calm and unreadable. “Somewhere nice,” she says.

You tilt your head, smirk tugging at your lips. “’Nice,’ huh? You mean… like that time you called a fancy ass suite ‘decent’?”

Sevika glances at you, one corner of her mouth quirking upward. “You’ll see.”

The smirk on your face only grows, a mix of amusement and anticipation, as the car hums along toward wherever her definition of ‘nice’ happens to be.

✎ᝰ.

The restaurant is warm in a way that feels intentional—low lights, soft amber glow, a quiet hum of silverware and low conversation. You follow the hostess through the space, Sevika walking beside you calmly.

You’re led to a corner booth, half-hidden behind a tall plant with glossy leaves. Privacy, but not isolation. A soft pocket of the world.

Sevika waits for you to sit first. 

She takes the seat across from you, her movements calm, almost careful.

You lift the menu, hoping it hides how restless your fingers have become.

“You okay?” she asks. Her voice is low, edged with velvety concern.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… a lot today.”

“That’s one way to put it,” she murmurs, leaning back, her metal arm resting on the table. “Didn’t expect everything to happen this fast.”

You look up at her. “Is that bad?”

Her gaze flicks to yours. Sharp, searching. “No,” she says. “Not bad.”

The menus become something to hide behind for a moment. You read the same three lines twice without absorbing a single word. A small sigh slips out before you can catch it.

Sevika sets hers down first.

“Order what you want,” she says. “Doesn’t matter.”

You smile faintly. 

She tilts her head. “You were thinking too hard,” she murmurs.

Your heart flips, embarrassed and warm all at once. A question forms before you can stop it, tugging at you.

You start to ask, “How long have you—” but the server appears, clipboard in hand, breaking the moment.

You order. Sevika orders. The server leaves, and the air between you shifts, heavier now, more intimate.

Sevika watches you for a long moment, thumb brushing the edge of her glass—a tiny, restless gesture, almost nervous. You never thought you’d see nervous on her.

“You were asking how long I’ve been…” Her voice trails off. She looks away briefly, jaw tightening—then releases a controlled breath. “Interested.”

Your pulse thuds at your throat. You nod.

She leans forward slightly, forearms on the table, gaze steadying as she meets your eyes again.

“I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.”

For a moment, you just blink. Somehow, you never realized—didn’t even think to notice. Maybe it had been obvious, in hindsight, but you weren’t exactly fluent in… signals. Flirting, hints, subtle looks—you’d missed them all.

Your heart does a slow, dizzy flip, a mix of disbelief and warmth.

Sevika continues, voice low, almost careful. “You walked into my building looking like you weren’t sure if you deserved to be there. And I… noticed you immediately.” Her jaw flexes. “I shouldn’t have. But I did.”

You inhale sharply. She watches that, too.

“Everything after that just made it worse.” Her lips twitch, dry and self-deprecating. “Or better. Depending on how you look at it.”

“And you didn’t… say anything?” Your voice barely holds shape.

Sevika huffs, a sound like a laugh sanded down to its bones. 

“I wanted you to notice on your own,” she says, voice soft but firm. “Or at least understand… I was only supposed to be giving you… lessons. You were new to all of this—I didn’t want to throw too much at you, not until you were ready.”

Her eyes drop to your hands on the table, then lift again, unwavering and honest. “But every day—it got harder to pretend I wasn’t falling for you.”

The words hit you like heat spreading beneath your ribs. Her vulnerability is raw enough to make your throat tighten.

Your voice comes out soft. “I think I’ve felt this way about you for a while. I just didn’t realize it.”

Something shifts in her expression. Not a smile—something softer, deeper, almost reverent.

“I knew,” she murmurs. “It was all over your face.”

You groan quietly, head tipping back, mortified. “Oh my… great.”

“Relax,” she says, and the corner of her mouth lifts. “You’re terrible at hiding your feelings. But it’s fine. They’re safe with me.”

Your lips part on a faint, unsteady breath you didn’t mean to release.

Safe. The word lands with the weight of a promise, soft enough to steal your breath yet certain enough to settle something deep in your ribs. And suddenly you’re struck by the realization that this wasn’t some slow bloom for her the way it was for you. She felt it first. She carried it quietly, fiercely, from the moment you walked into her orbit. 

Is this what people mean when they talk about love at first sight, that strange gravity that feels impossible yet pulls one person in before the other even knows to name it? Her eyes don’t waver, and it hits you how ridiculous it was to pretend either of you weren’t already falling—just on different timelines, both of you landing here anyway.

Dinner becomes a blur after that—not because it’s unimportant, but because everything feels suspended in this new gravity between you. The food arrives and disappears without either of you noticing much of anything except each other.

And when the check comes, Sevika takes it without argument.

When she stands, she offers you her hand. You take it. It feels natural.

Outside, the street is washed in streetlamps and neon, reflections shimmering in puddles along the curb. After a few steps she lets your hand drift free, only to rest her palm at the small of your back—light, cautious, but certain—as she guides you down the sidewalk.

You’re still warm from the quiet closeness inside when Sevika slows, turning toward you.

“Wait here a minute,” she says, voice low but steady. “I’ll bring the car around.”

You nod, and she gives you one last look—something protective flickering under the streetlight—before she walks off toward the parking lot. You watch her go, her silhouette cutting clean lines through the glow.

You tuck your hands into your pockets, breathing in the humid night, your mind still trailing after Sevika.

The rhythmic tap of heels breaks through the haze, slowing as a woman steps into your space. She smells like expensive perfume and a purpose you don’t care to meet.

“Well look at you,” she murmurs, stepping into your orbit like she’s been waiting for an opening. Her gaze drags down your blouse, then your skirt. “You’re the kind of pretty that makes people forget what they’re saying.”

Your brows lift, a quiet laugh catching in your chest. Getting hit on over your strict business-professional work outfit is almost funny — the least flirtatious thing about your entire day.

“Oh—thanks,” you say, polite but clearly not offering anything more.

Her smile deepens. “Are you free? There’s a bar around the corner. I’d love to buy you a drink.” She leans in a fraction, gaze glinting. “Someone like you shouldn’t be standing out here alone.”

You part your lips to politely decline.

A pair of headlights sweeps across the pavement.

Sevika’s car glides to the curb and slips into park. She opens the door and steps out without a pause, posture already shifting, already reading the situation.

The woman reaches toward your cheek, fingertips almost brushing your skin as she murmurs, “Come on, sweetheart. Just one drink.”

“Don’t touch her.”

Sevika’s voice slices through the air—calm, but iron-heavy.

She’s beside you in three strides, positioning herself between you and the woman. Not aggressive, just… immovable. Her presence darkens the space like a storm rolling over the horizon.

The woman arches a brow. “Excuse me? Was I talking to you?”

Sevika’s jaw flexes, eyes going flat in that way that gives warning before heat. “She’s taken.”

The word fires straight down your spine.

The woman scoffs, muttering under her breath as she steps back, then stalks off toward the bar’s neon glow.

Only when she’s gone does Sevika exhale—a short, sharp release, shoulders still tight.

You look up at her. “You okay?”

She doesn’t answer at first. Her gaze is pinned to where the woman disappeared, expression carved from steel.

Then, quietly, she says, “I don’t like people touching what’s mine.”

The words come from a place deep inside her, a place you can only guess at — a mixture of protectiveness, possessiveness, maybe even fear.

Your breath catches in your throat, a sudden, involuntary hitch that makes the world tilt just a fraction. The air thickens, each inhalation a deliberate, careful act.

“You mean… me?” you ask, the question hanging between you like a fragile glass shard.

Finally, she looks at you. And everything in her expression softens, just a little.

“Only if you want to be,” she replies.

Heat surges through your chest, an unexpected flood that seems to set every sense in your body alight. Your pulse races, your heart thudding against your ribs as if trying to break free. Your hands tremble ever so slightly, a reflexive response to the sheer intensity of the moment.

You nod. “I want to be.”

You see it — a subtle loosening of her shoulders, a shift so slight it’s nearly lost to anyone else. Yet in that small change, something inside you straightens, a tension unwinding. It feels like a locked gate creaks open just enough for you both to step through.

Sevika nods toward the car. “Come on.”

You follow her, heartbeat soft and uneven, something enormous and fragile stirring quietly in your core.

Sevika opens the passenger door for you without a word. You slide inside, pulse still jittering. She closes your door gently, circles around, and gets in on her side.

The interior of the car fills with silence that feels intimate rather than empty. Her hands settle on the steering wheel. Her eyes stay forward.

You can feel her thinking.

Working through something. Finally, she speaks. “You’re coming home with me.”

You give a small smile. “Okay.”

Sevika puts the car in drive and eases off the curb, lights washing over her jaw in soft white as the city stretches ahead.

You glance at her profile, at the controlled tension in her grip, at the softness hiding beneath the steel. Her jaw is tight—not with anger now, but with something closer to anticipation. Vulnerability. Want.

You swallow. “Sevika?”

Her eyes flick to you briefly. “Yes?”

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For what?”

“For… everything today.”

The muscle in her cheek jumps. She swallows once.

Then she murmurs, barely audible over the hum of the engine: “Don’t thank me yet.”

The phrase strikes your pulse like a match to dry tinder. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a rapid drum that seems to fill the entire vehicle. You turn to look at her more fully, searching for clues, for any hint of what lies ahead.

“Should I be worried?” you whisper, the question slipping out on a breath that’s part curiosity, part fear.

She lets out a slow, devastatingly confident smile, one that seems to pull the very air tighter around you both. 

“Worried? No. Prepared… maybe,” she replies, her tone threaded with a dry humor that softens the edge of uncertainty.

Your breath hitches, then steadies, as the city scrolls past the windows in a cascade of gold and shadow, the skyscrapers’ silhouettes forming a jagged horizon that seems to pulse in time with the rhythm of your heart.

✎ᝰ.

The driveway curves upward, the mansion rising out of the dark like something carved out of shadow and quiet wealth. Her home always looks imposing from the outside—sharp lines, long windows—but tonight it feels different. Less fortress. More possibility.

The engine cuts off with a soft click. 

You step out into the night air, cool against your overheated skin. Sevika comes around the car and falls into step beside you, her hand brushing yours as you walk.

Walking inside feels like stepping into a held breath. The lights are low, warm accents spilling across the black marble floors. The air is quiet enough that you can hear the small, steady click of her shoes behind you as she shuts the door.

You turn to face her, heart in your throat.

Her eyes lift to yours.

She steps closer, closes the distance without hesitation, and her lips brush against yours—soft, deliberate, a kiss that makes your chest tighten and everything else fade away.

When she pulls back, it’s only a fraction, and whispers against your mouth, her breath warm and thrilling. “Let’s go upstairs.”

You swallow, nod, and turn toward the staircase, each step feeling heavier with anticipation. Your pulse thrums through your veins as you ascend, the soft carpet muffling your footsteps. At the top, you follow the familiar hallway until you reach her bedroom.

At the top, you slip into her bedroom first, letting your arms stretch above your head, unwinding the knots caught in your shoulders. 

You glance back at the door, Sevika is walking in, her gaze catching yours. She grins — a slow smile that makes your chest flutter. 

“I’m going to shower,” she says, reaching for her metal arm. With a soft click, she pops it off, then walks over to set it carefully on the nightstand.

She passes by you, the air shifting as she moves, and steps into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly open. 

The faint hiss of the shower reaches you, and you imagine her there, letting the heat wash over her, steam curling around her in a private glow, droplets tracing the line of her shoulders, the tension of the day slipping from her body. Minutes pass, punctuated only by the sound of the water.

Finally, the bathroom door opens and she steps out, and you watch her move, relaxed and unhurried, before turning back to give you a small, teasing glance.

You clear your throat, feeling a little flustered. “I—I’m going to go take a shower,” you stammer, voice barely above a whisper.

She tilts her head, smirking, but says nothing. 

You step inside, letting the warm water cascade over you, washing away the residual tightness and anticipation. Time passes in the quiet intimacy of the shower, each drop a private comfort.

When you emerge, wrapped in a towel and hair damp, Sevika’s waiting by the side of the bed. She’s changed into a fitted tank and soft boxers, casual yet effortlessly magnetic,  her metal arm reattached and gleaming faintly in the low light.

You take a hesitant step forward, drawn to her, and she watches you with that slow, teasing grin that makes your pulse kick hard. 

You meet her eyes, the space between you thick with unspoken desire. Every second stretches, electric and taut, until finally, she moves and her lips crash into yours, hungry and demanding, tongue sliding in to claim your mouth with slow, deliberate strokes. 

You melt into her, hands fisting in her shirt as she kisses you deeper, nipping at your lower lip until you gasp. 

She breaks away just long enough to tug at the towel, her strong fingers making quick work of peeling it off and tossing it aside. You stand bare before her, skin prickling under her heated stare. Sevika's eyes rake over you, possessive and appreciative, before she guides you down onto the bed. 

She stretches out beneath you, her broad frame taking up most of the mattress, and pats her chest with a teasing grin. "Sit on my face." 

Your mind goes a little blank, heart hammering, and for a moment you freeze. Then, with a small exhale, you shrug internally and think: Fuck it. 

Your pulse races as you climb over her, knees bracketing her head, your thighs trembling slightly as you lower yourself. Sevika's hands grip your hips, steadying you, her breath warm against your core as she positions you perfectly above her mouth. 

The first swipe of her tongue is electric—flat and broad, dragging up through your folds to circle your clit with firm pressure. You moan, hands bracing on the headboard for support, as she dives in fully, lips sealing around your pussy to suck and lick with relentless focus. 

Fuck, the view is intoxicating.

From this angle, Sevika's face looks even more fierce and beautiful, her sharp features buried between your legs, eyes locked on yours with that intense, unblinking stare. 

Her nose brushes your clit as her tongue thrusts inside you, fucking deep and curling just right, while her hands knead your ass, pulling you down harder onto her mouth. Your clit throbs under the pressure, pussy walls fluttering around her invading tongue.

"Shitt—fuck, yes," you moan out, your voice wavering, hips grinding down involuntarily as heat floods your core.

The pleasure builds fast, your breaths turning to whimpers, but an idea sparks in your haze of need. 

You reach back, fingers slipping under the waistband of her boxers, finding her slick heat immediately. Sevika is soaked, her clit swollen and begging under your touch as you start rubbing firm circles over it. 

Her mouth stills against your pussy, a sharp breath hissing through her nose as her body tenses. 

She pulls back just enough to rasp, "Fuck, keep doing that," her voice rough and urgent, before diving back in. 

Her tongue lashes faster now, matching the rhythm of your fingers, sucking your clit between her lips while you rub her harder, feeling her hips buck up into your hand. It doesn't take long for the coil in your belly to tighten intensely. 

Your thighs quiver around her head, breaths coming in ragged pants as the orgasm crashes over you. You come hard, pussy clenching around nothing as waves of ecstasy pulse through you, soaking her chin and mouth. 

Instinctively, you try to pull back, overwhelmed, but Sevika isn't having it. With a growl, she sits up abruptly, her lips never leaving your core. Your knees hook over her broad shoulders as she holds you suspended, back arched off the bed. 

Her hands clamp onto your ass, fingers digging in deep to keep you locked in place right over her face. She shakes her head side to side, tongue sliding violently over your oversensitive clit, the friction brutal and exquisite.

“Fuck—Sevika,” your voice cuts off as the new angle sends fresh sparks shooting through you, your whole body tensing, toes curling as she devours you without mercy. 

You scream her name, voice breaking as the second climax rips through you even harder, every muscle seizing with blinding pleasure.

Your body shudders violently in the aftermath, every nerve ending firing off in overload as the second orgasm leaves you limp and gasping. 

Desperate for a reprieve, you push weakly at Sevika's head, fingers tangling in her hair to lift her away from your throbbing core. 

Sevika finally relents with a wicked grin, her lips shiny with your juices as she releases your swollen clit with a soft, teasing pop. She eases you down gently, guiding your back and ass to settle against the rumpled sheets. 

The cool fabric against your heated skin makes you shiver, nipples peaked and sensitive, brushing against the air with each heaving breath.

You lie there, chest rising and falling rapidly, trying to catch your breath as stars dance behind your closed eyelids. Your pussy clenches sporadically, aftershocks rippling through you, slickness cooling between your thighs.

Sevika shifts, leaning over you with a satisfied hum, her weight pressing the mattress down. She brushes her lips softly against your flushed cheek, then trails feather-light kisses along your neck, nuzzling into the crook where your pulse still races. The tenderness contrasts sharply with her earlier ferocity, making your heart stutter.

You scoff breathlessly, voice hoarse from screaming. "You're so mean."

She pulls back just enough to smirk down at you, eyes gleaming with dark promise. "You haven't seen mean yet."

With that, she straightens up and slides off the bed, her boxers riding low on her hips. She strides to the nightstand, yanking open the drawer with purpose. 

Your eyes widen as she pulls out the strap-on, along with the harness. She steps into it efficiently, buckling the straps around her hips.

Excitement floods through you despite the exhaustion, a fresh wave of heat pooling in your belly, your clit giving a traitorous twitch at the sight. Your breath hitches, thighs pressing together instinctively.

Sevika turns back to you, adjusting the harness with a casual flex of her muscles. "Let's have a safe word," she says, voice rough. "How about red?"

You swallow hard, the implication sinking in. The intensity in her gaze sends a thrill of apprehension and desire twisting through your core. 

Nodding, you manage a shaky, "Okay."

Sevika's eyes lock onto yours, dark and unyielding, as she steps closer, the harness now snug against her hips. 

"Get on all fours," she orders, her voice a gravelly command that brooks no argument.

Your heart stutters in your chest. A flush creeps up your neck, warming your cheeks as hesitation flickers through you—part nerves, part the raw vulnerability of it all. But the heat in your core urges you on. 

Slowly, you turn away from her, knees sinking into the mattress, palms pressing flat against the sheets. 

You arch your back just enough to lift your ass, exposing your slick pussy to her gaze, the cool air teasing your heated skin.

Sevika doesn't waste a moment. Her metal hand grips your hip, fingers digging in with firm possession, pulling you back toward her until your knees brush against the edge of the bed. 

Then, her other hand slides up your spine, settling between your shoulder blades. She presses down, not harshly, but with enough force to flatten your chest against the mattress, your breasts squishing into the soft fabric, nipples slightly tender from the friction.

 Your ass lifts higher now, pussy lips parting slightly, fully on display, aching for her touch.

The first spank lands with a sharp crack from her metal hand, the cool metal connecting with your cheek, sending a stinging jolt through your flesh. 

You moan out, the sound muffled against the sheets, the burn blooming hot and irresistible. 

It hurts just right, that edge of pain twisting into pleasure, making your clit throb and your inner walls clench around nothing.

Sevika chuckles low in her throat, the sound vibrating through the air. "You like that, huh?"

Your voice comes out croaked, breathy and desperate. "Yes..."

Satisfied, she shifts closer, her metal fingers prying your cheeks apart, exposing you completely. 

The tip of the strap-on nudges against your entrance, slick with your arousal, and then she thrusts forward, sliding the full length inside in one smooth push. 

Your breath rushes out of you in a whoosh, lungs emptying as the stretch borders on overwhelming, your eyes rolling back into your head, vision blurring with the intensity.

"I'm not going easy on you tonight," Sevika growls, her hands clamping onto your hips for leverage.

She pulls back only to slam in deep and fast, setting a brutal rhythm that rocks your body forward with each plunge. The strap-on fills you completely, dragging against your walls, hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. 

Your mouth falls open, a string of curses spilling out—"Fuck... oh shit, Sevika..."—your voice breaking on the words as waves of sensation crash over you.

Sevika grunts with effort, her thrusts pounding relentlessly, the harness slapping against your skin with wet, obscene sounds. 

Sweat beads on your back, and that fire ignites low in your belly, a scorching heat that spreads outward, tingling down to your curling toes and flushing your ears with warmth.

Another spank from her metal hand cracks across your other cheek, the sting sharper this time, layering pain atop the building ecstasy. You moan loudly, back arching even more, pushing yourself onto her, chasing the dual rush of pain and bliss as she drives you closer to the edge.

Sevika's rhythm falters suddenly, her thrusts slowing to a halt as she pulls out with a slick pop, leaving you empty and aching, your pussy clenching around the sudden void. 

You glance back over your shoulder, breath ragged, to find her shifting on the bed. She's easing onto her back now, the strap-on glistening with your juices under the dim light.

She reaches for you, fingers curling around your wrist with a firm grip. She tugs you toward her, guiding your body until you're straddling her hips, your thighs bracketing her waist, the thick length of the toy pressing up against your slick folds. 

Your chest heaves with each pant, breasts brushing against her clothed torso as you hover above her.

Sevika's gaze burns into yours, grey eyes hooded. "Ride me," she commands, voice rough like gravel, her metal hand resting possessively on your thigh.

A shy pause grips you, heat flooding your face as the vulnerability of taking control—even if just for a moment—makes your pulse race. But the need pulsing between your legs wins out. 

You sit up and wrap your fingers around the base of the strap-on, feeling its firmness, and position the tip at your entrance. Slowly, you sink down, the stretch reigniting that delicious burn as inch after inch fills you again. 

A soft whimper escapes your lips, and once fully seated, you start to move—lifting your hips and dropping back down, bouncing steadily. Your tits jiggle with each rise and fall.

Sevika groans deep in her chest, the sound primal, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she watches you, eyes devouring the way your body undulates on top of her. The sight of you like this, taking her so eagerly, has her muscles tensing beneath you.

But it's not enough—you crave that brutal force from before, the way she pounds into you. Your pace quickens, but your eyes meet hers, wide and pleading, silently begging for her to take over, to rail you senseless.

Her mouth curves into a wicked grin, reading you like an open book. 

"Use your words," she taunts, and as the words leave her lips, she rolls her hips upward sharply, the strap-on driving deeper and grinding against your walls. 

Your breath hitches, a gasp tearing from your throat at the unexpected jolt of pleasure.

"Well?" she presses, her voice laced with amusement and hunger, holding still now, making you squirm.

The blush creeps hotter across your cheeks, but you can't hold back. "Please... fuck me," you whisper, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush.

Sevika's smirk widens, a visible shudder rippling through her frame at your plea. 

In a blur of motion, her hands shoot out, metal and flesh fingers clamping around your upper arms like vices, holding you in place above her. Then she slams her hips up, the strap-on burying itself to the hilt inside you with punishing force.

A loud, pornographic moan rips from your lips, raw and unrestrained, echoing off the bedroom walls as ecstasy sparks through every nerve. 

She doesn't let up—thrust after thrust, she fucks up into you hard and relentless, using your arms as leverage to pull you down onto each plunge, the angle hitting deeper, dragging over that sensitive spot until your vision whites out.

Sevika groans like she feels it, her brows furrowing as if your pussy's tight grip on the toy is squeezing her own core. 

"Fuck, you’re tight," she mutters through gritted teeth, hips snapping with raw power.

The coil in your belly tightens fiercely, heat twisting like a spring ready to snap. It crashes over you in a tidal wave—your head falls back, a scream tearing from your raw throat as your orgasm rips through you. 

You cum hard around the strap-on, juices soaking the harness, your body shuddering in her hold, thighs quaking uncontrollably.

"That's right, baby," Sevika hisses, voice strained with satisfaction, not stopping as she drives through your climax, prolonging the shudders wracking your frame. 

Only when the aftershocks fade does she ease her rhythm, thrusts slowing to gentle rocks until she finally stills, releasing your arms.

Your body goes limp, collapsing beside her on the bed in a boneless heap, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat. Exhaustion pulls at you like a heavy tide, limbs too heavy to move. 

The last thing you register is the warmth of Sevika's lips pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, her arm draping over you protectively, before sleep claims you completely.

✎ᝰ.

Sunlight finds you before you’re ready.

It slips through the wide windows in soft gold ribbons, warming your bare skin, brushing along the sheets, creeping slowly into the space where your body still lies half-entwined with hers.

You blink awake to the steady rise and fall of Sevika’s breathing.

She’s on her back, one arm thrown over her head, the other wrapped loosely around your waist. Her hair is a dark, unguarded mess, her mouth is relaxed. Her whole body looks… peaceful.

You don’t move. You just watch her breathe.

After a few seconds, Sevika shifts. Her brow furrows, just slightly, before her eyes blink open—heavy, half-lidded, sleepy.

Her gaze lands on you.

“Morning,” you whisper.

Her voice is soft, rasped from sleep. “Morning.”

She tightens her arm around you without thinking, pulling you in closer, your cheek brushing her collarbone. Her skin is warm, her heartbeat slow.

“You fell asleep fast,” she murmurs, a faint smirk in her tone.

You smile against her. Naked, relaxed, unbothered. “You make it easy.”

She lets out a quiet breath that might be a laugh, then presses her lips to the top of your head. It’s barely a kiss—more of a touch, a grounding gesture—but it sends heat crawling down your spine anyway.

You lay there a moment longer, wrapped in her and the morning and the soft hum of something new between you.

Eventually, you both move, though reluctantly. Sevika sits up first, hair falling over one eye, the sheets sliding down the lines of her back. She stretches, muscles shifting beneath her skin.

You reach for one of her shirts lying nearby and pull it over your head, letting it hang loose over your frame. The fabric is soft, comforting, and just long enough to cover you. You tug it down slightly, smoothing the wrinkles, before glancing at her.

She gives you a small, lazy smile, then rises, slipping into her own clothes. Together, you make your way downstairs.

The hum of a vacuum stops abruptly as you enter the living room. Mr. Halden stands there, smiling, hands on his hips. “Morning,” he says, switching off the machine. “There’s food waiting in the kitchen.”

The smell draws you in immediately—eggs, toast, fruit, coffee. It’s simple, unpretentious, but perfect. Sevika falls into step beside you, her hand brushing yours as you move toward the kitchen. The two of you share a quiet glance, the warmth between you lingering even in the soft morning light.

You both sit down at the table, the first quiet meal of the day stretching comfortably before you. 

“Are you sore?” she asks.

Your face heats. “A little.”

She grins into her coffee. “Good.”

You roll your eyes.

Between bites, she asks small things—what time you start work, if you need to stop home for clothes, what you want for dinner tomorrow. Simple questions, but the way she asks them feels… significant. Like she’s marking space for you in her schedule without even thinking about it.

✎ᝰ.

At the office, the day drifts by quietly, papers shuffled and phones buzzing in the background. You’re halfway through straightening the stack on your desk when you hear it—the heavy, familiar cadence of Sevika’s steps coming down the hall.

You look up just as she appears in your doorway.

She doesn’t speak at first. She just stands there, her eyes roam your face, your shoulders, the slight clutter of your desk. 

“You free?” she asks.

You smile. “For you? Always.”

A flicker moves across her eyes, quick and unreadable. She nods toward the hallway. “Come with me.”

There’s something in her tone—something almost… nervous—that makes your pulse skip.

You grab your things and follow her out of the suite, down the elevator, and into the evening chill just outside the building. The sky is washed in lavender and pale gold. Cars pass. People chatter.

But there’s a strange bubble of quiet around the two of you.

Sevika opens the passenger door, taking her time, every motion measured. You slide inside, and she closes the door softly, the sound barely louder than a whisper. She moves around to the driver’s seat.

She doesn’t start the engine immediately.

She just sits there. Hands still. Breath controlled.

You angle toward her. “You okay?”

A long moment passes.

Then she turns to you, her expression shifting—somewhere between steady and hesitant, composed and cracking open.

“I have something for you,” she says.

Your heart thuds. “Okay…”

She reaches into her coat pocket. Something small. She places a velvet box on your knee.

Your breath catches hard.

“Open it,” she murmurs.

Your chest pulls tight. You lift the lid.

The ring is exactly as you remember it—the one you paused on at the stand in Kareshi, the one you told yourself you shouldn’t want, the one Sevika had seemed not to notice.

Except she did.

It’s thin, elegant—two slim bands intertwined like a continuous loop, forged in warm-toned metal. Where the bands cross, a small gemstone sits nested in the curve: a pale, iridescent opal that seems to catch the fading daylight and hold it, flickering faintly like captured moonfire.

It’s beautiful. It’s overwhelming. 

Your voice comes out quiet, breathless. “Sevika… it’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Your fingers reach for it instinctively, the pull of instinct and belonging too strong to hide.

But Sevika closes the box halfway.

You blink, confused. 

She shakes her head, a small, crooked grin unfolding across her mouth— that rare, real one she only gives you when she’s feeling brave and foolish at the same time.

“You don’t put it on,” she says softly. Her hand reaches for yours—steady, warm, gentle in a way her size shouldn’t allow. “I do.”

Your breath leaves your lungs all at once.

She takes the ring from the box, slips it free with careful fingers, and lifts your hand palm-down.

Her thumb strokes the side of your finger, slow and reverent, before she slides the ring onto you. The band settles perfectly, like it was made for you— chosen with an eye that has memorized every detail of who you are.

When it’s fully seated, she lifts your hand to her lips and kisses it.

Your throat tightens. You blink too fast, tears gathering at the edges of your vision.

“Sevika…”

She doesn’t let go. “This…means you’re mine and I’m yours. Officially." she says quietly. 

You swallow hard, nodding because words won’t come.

“And,” she adds, clearing her throat like she’s trying to brace herself for your reaction, “that’s not the only thing.”

You laugh wetly. “There’s more?”

She reaches into the back seat and pulls forward a tiny collar—soft, black leather with a silver tag that catches the fading light.

Your heart stops.

“Is that—”

A soft yip interrupts you.

You look down just as the puppy wriggles its way forward across the back seat—a fluffy, warm, impossibly small creature with ears too big for its head and eyes that go wide the moment it reaches you.

Your mouth falls open. “Oh my god.”

You scoop the puppy up, and it immediately burrows into your chest, tail going wild, soft fur tickling your chin. You laugh—a helpless, breaking sound.

Sevika’s gaze softens so much it nearly unravels you.

“You said you wanted a dog,” she says. “So I got you one.”

Your eyes lift to hers. “You did this… for me?”

She nods.

Something inside you folds inward and blooms all at once. Emotion rushes up too fast—bright, dizzying, overwhelming.

“I love her,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I love her so much.”

“Good,” Sevika murmurs, leaning closer. “She’s yours.”

You look at the puppy. You look at the ring. You look at Sevika. And something inside you settles into place with a certainty you can feel in your bones.

You reach across the console, cup her face, and press your forehead to hers.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Her breath shudders. “I love you too.”

The puppy squeaks between you, squirming, and the two of you pull back laughing—soft, unguarded, so stupidly in love it almost hurts.

Sevika starts the car. “Let’s take our girl home,” she says.

You hold the puppy close, your ring glinting against her fur, and the world outside the window blurs into a warm, golden smear.

For the first time, home isn’t a place. It’s a direction she’s driving you toward. A promise. A beginning.

And you go, smiling.

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You’ve always claimed you’re not the type to chase trouble.

But lately, trouble seems to find you in oddly specific shapes—shapes with sharp cheekbones, precise posture, and a gaze that feels like it could pin you to the nearest wall.

You tell yourself it’s coincidence. You just happen to be in the wrong corridor, the wrong laboratory, the wrong bureaucratic line whenever Caitlyn Kiramman is inspecting something. You just happen to fumble a form or “misplace” a permit when she’s the one tasked with reviewing the oversight.

But the truth curls warm and humiliating beneath your ribs, you want her to notice.

And she does.

Every time her gloved fingers skim over your information, every time her eyes flick up from her clipboard to meet yours, there’s a taut, electric beat—just a pause, just long enough for your heartbeat to climb into your throat. Long enough to feel seen. 

It’s grown into a pattern. A dance. One you pretend you’re not learning the steps to.

Tonight, though, the dance ends differently.

When you return to your apartment, the hall is quiet—lamplight dim, air carrying the faint smell of metal and evening rain drifting through the cracked window at the end of the corridor. You almost miss the envelope lying neatly across your doorstep, the Kiramman seal gleaming in blue wax.

Your stomach drops.

You kneel to pick it up, the paper thick and expensive beneath your fingers. It’s official. Formal. Nothing about it offers comfort.

But when you break the seal and unfold the letter, a shiver moves through you—not just fear.

Anticipation sharpens the edges of every word.

You are hereby summoned to the Kiramman estate. Report to the private study at once. —C. Kiramman

You should be panicking. Should be pacing, cursing yourself, rehearsing excuses.

Instead, you’re standing in your doorway with the letter trembling just slightly in your hands, pulse tapping against your throat, heat rising to your face like you’ve been caught doing something far more indecent than paperwork errors.

Private study.

At the estate.

That’s… not standard procedure. Not for minor infractions. Not even close.

Your mind races ahead of logic—Caitlyn alone, in a room meant for quiet conversations and private reprimands. Her stare sharpened by lamplight. No uniform to shield her authority behind.

You swallow hard. Maybe you should be terrified, but the truth is more embarrassing. 

You can’t get your coat fast enough.

                ·༻𐫱༺·.

The Kiramman estate is quieter at night than you expected.

Your steps echo faintly across polished marble floors, guided by a servant who says nothing beyond a curt nod before disappearing down another corridor. The silence that follows is heavy enough to press at your sternum.

You’ve visited the estate before—open houses, public charity events. Rooms meant to impress, filled with diplomats and shimmering decorations. But this is different.

This wing feels older. More private. The air has the faint scent of old paper and expensive ink, the kind you only smell in personal libraries and rooms meant for serious conversations.

The double doors to the study are tall, carved beautifully, and closed.

Your hand hesitates at the handle.

Then—

“Enter.”

Caitlyn’s voice, calm and clipped, comes through the wooden paneling. You obey before the sound has fully faded.

The room is dim, lit by a single warm-toned lamp near the desk. Shadows cling to the edges of the walls lined with books, artifacts, and framed maps. The atmosphere settles over your skin like velvet and static electricity.

And Caitlyn is standing in the middle of it.

Not in her full uniform. Not armored in polished metal and strict authority. Instead, she wears fitted trousers and a crisp white shirt with the top button left undone, sleeves rolled to her forearms. It’s not casual, exactly—nothing about her ever is—but it’s intimate in a way that makes your breath snag.

Her posture is perfect, hands clasped behind her back, chin lifted slightly. She watches you close the door, her eyes following every movement with the focus of someone taking inventory.

“Thank you for arriving so promptly,” she says.

“Of course,” you reply evenly.

She gestures toward the center of the room—no chair, no desk to hide behind. Just open space. An interrogation spotlight without the light.

You step into it.

Caitlyn circles her desk and picks up a slim file. The paper makes a soft whisper as she opens it, and your stomach tightens when she doesn’t invite you to sit. You remain standing, hands clasped instinctively behind your back, mirroring her posture without meaning to.

Her gaze drops to the parchment. “Let’s discuss your recent activities.”

The words should sound bureaucratic. Bored. Inconvenienced. They don’t. They sound intentional.

With each listed misstep—every permit forgotten, every unauthorized entry, every conveniently timed oversight—her tone remains maddeningly even. No disappointment. No anger. Just precision.

The way her eyes lift from the page and rest on your face for half a heartbeat longer than necessary. The way her gaze drifts—not rudely, not obviously, but searching. Reading. 

“Three times in the past month,” she continues. “And all while I happened to be present on duty.”

You swallow.

Her brow arches just slightly. “Remarkable coincidence.”

She closes the file with a soft snap that feels louder than a slammed door. Your nerves jump.

“Anything to say for yourself?”

You try. The words never form properly. You end up stammering some half-constructed apology you immediately hate. Caitlyn’s eyes sharpen, tracking every fidget, every tremor of your voice.

When she speaks again, her tone softens—but it doesn’t become kinder. “Look at me.”

You lift your gaze, and her blue eyes hit you like a physical force—cool and analytical, but with something simmering deep beneath the surface. Something she’s done an excellent job hiding, until now.

Her head tilts slightly, studying you.

There’s no uniform between you. No crowd. No excuse for why your pulse is racing.

Only her, you catch the faint scent of gun oil, tea leaves, and whatever perfume she wears that always makes your thoughts slide out of order.

“Interesting,” she murmurs.

Caitlyn holds your stare for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. Then she straightens, the soft click of her heels punctuating the shift in atmosphere as she returns her attention to the desk already beside her.

She sets the file down with quiet care, fingers lingering for a beat as though considering her next move. Then, she reaches back and pulls her chair out. 

She sits—smooth, elegant, composed. She adjusts the fall of her shirt at the shoulders, posture settling like a blade sliding back into its sheath. But her eyes lift to you immediately, and there’s nothing detached about the way she looks at you now.

A slow breath. A tap of her finger on the desk. “Come here.”

You obey, your feet moving before your brain catches up, the nervous knot in your gut tightening with every step.

As you reach the desk, Caitlyn leans back in her chair, fingers steepled under her chin, and you come to a stop beside her, standing just within her line of sight.

"You've been quite the distraction lately, darling" she says, her tone teasing. "Stepping out of line just enough to annoy me, but not enough for me to drag you to the cells. Is that what you wished for? My attention?"

Heat floods your cheeks, but you can't deny the thrill that shoots straight to your core. She sees it, of course—the way your breath hitches, the subtle shift in your stance. 

A slow smile curves her lips. "Strip for me. Slowly. Let me see what all this mischief has been hiding."

Your hands tremble as you reach for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head. The cool air of the study kisses your bare skin, making your nipples harden instantly. You hesitate for a split second on your pants, but her expectant stare pushes you forward. 

They slide down your legs, pooling at your feet, leaving you in nothing but your undergarments. With a deep breath, you unhook your bra, letting it fall, then shimmy out of your panties. Naked now, vulnerable under her scrutiny, your body buzzes with arousal despite the nerves churning inside you.

Caitlyn tilts her head, her eyes raking over you from head to toe—your flushed skin, the curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, down to the slickness already gathering between your thighs. She bites her lower lip, a low hum escaping her throat. 

"Beautiful," she purrs, almost to herself. Then she's standing, her chair scraping back as she rounds the desk.

Before you can react, her hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up to meet hers. Her lips crash against yours in a rough kiss. Her tongue sweeps into your mouth, claiming every inch as her free hand roams your body—teasing over your collarbone, down to squeeze your breast, thumb flicking your nipple until you whimper into the kiss. 

She breaks away just enough to trail her palm lower, over your hip, then cups your ass firmly, kneading the flesh with a growl.

"Such a needy little thing," she whispers against your lips, her breath hot. 

Without warning, she spins you and pushes you forward onto the desk. Your breasts press against the cool, polished wood, sending a shiver through you as your ass lifts into the air, exposed and waiting. You brace your hands on the surface, pulse racing, moaning softly.

Caitlyn steps up behind you, her boots thudding softly. Her hands grip your cheeks, spreading them wide. The air hits your soaked pussy, and she hums approvingly, her thumbs brushing the sensitive skin. 

"Look at you," she teases. "So wet already. All that trouble just to end up bent over my desk. You could’ve just asked."

She leans over your back, her clothed body pressing against your naked one, the fabric of her shirt rough against your skin. Her lips find your shoulder blade, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your spine, each one sending sparks down your nerves. Her fingers drag up your sides, tracing the curve of your ribs, making you arch into her touch.

Then she straightens, and the sharp crack of her palm against your ass makes you yelp. The sting blooms hot and delicious, your pussy clenching in response. Another spank follows, harder, leaving your skin tingling.

You hear the zipper of her pants next—the slow, deliberate rasp that has your breath catching.

She had this planned.

Then the thick length of her strap-on slaps against your ass, heavy, the silicone warm from her body heat. It drags between your cheeks, teasing your entrance without penetrating.

"Do you want it?" Caitlyn asks, her voice low and challenging, the tip nudging your slick folds.

You turn your head, meeting her gaze over your shoulder, nodding frantically. "Please, Caitlyn," you beg, the words tumbling out in a needy whine.

Her smirk is wicked, full of promise. She spanks you again, the slap echoing off the walls, making your ass jiggle. Then her hands return to your cheeks, spreading you open. 

She lines up the strap and slides it deep into your pussy in one smooth thrust, stretching you wide. The fullness makes you moan loudly, your walls fluttering around the intrusion.

Caitlyn lets out a soft moan of her own, her hips snapping forward as she bottoms out. 

"Fuck," she moans, watching her strap disappear inside you. 

She starts fucking into you with steady, powerful strokes, each one driving the strap deeper, hitting that spot that makes you toes curl and vision blur.

One hand snakes up your arm, pulling it behind your back and bending it there, pinning it in place. The position arches your back further, forcing you to take every inch as she pounds into you. 

"That's my good girl," she praises, her voice husky. "Taking me so well."

Her words wash over you, heightening the pleasure coiling tight in your belly. She keeps up the rhythm, her hips slapping against your ass, the desk creaking under the force. 

“Oh fuckk.” You squirm as the edge of your orgasm builds, your thighs trembling, but she pauses mid-thrust, buried deep.

"Mm mm," she chides, her free hand stroking your hip soothingly before pulling away. 

You hear the drawer slide open, then the soft rustle of fabric. She releases your arm just long enough to gather both your hands, crossing your wrists at the small of your back. The blue ribbon—silky and cool—winds around them, tying a firm knot that holds you secure.

"Be a good girl for me now," she commands, tugging the binding to test it. "No squirming. Let me fuck you properly."

With your hands bound, you're completely at her mercy. 

Caitlyn grabs your hips with both hands, nails digging in, and slams back into you. Fast and hard, the strap pistons in and out, the wet sounds of your pussy filling the room. Each thrust jolts you forward against the desk, your nipples scraping the wood, the pressure building unbearably.

"Cait—I'm going to cum," you cry out, voice breaking as the wave crests.

She reaches forward, fisting your hair and yanking your head up and back. The arch in your spine borders on painful, exposing your throat as she leans over you, her chest pressing against your back. Her lips brush your neck, then your ear, hot kisses trailing fire along your skin. 

"Cum for me, pretty girl" she whispers, breath ragged. "Show me how much you craved this."

The command shatters you. 

Your orgasm crashes through, her name ripping from your throat in a loud moan. Your thighs shake violently as your pussy clenches and squirts, gushing over the strap-on and dripping down your legs. 

Waves of pleasure rip through you, leaving you gasping, body limp against the desk as Caitlyn rides out your release with a few more deep thrusts, her own breaths coming in sharp pants.

۶ৎ line divider creds : @/ saradika-graphics

✎ᝰ.

When you open your eyes, Sevika’s already up.

Standing at the window, arms crossed loosely over her chest. The early morning light turns her silhouette into something almost unreal—broad shoulders, relaxed posture, the bare outline of her prosthetic catching a glint of gold.

She glances back when she hears the shift of sheets. “You slept hard.”

You stretch, muscles pleasantly heavy. “You wore me out.”

Her mouth quirks, unmistakably pleased. “Get ready. We’re going to a beach cafe”

“Beach cafe?”

“Mm.” She nods. “Good soup there.”

✎ᝰ.

The air outside smells like salt and morning. Not the heavy noon heat—this is the gentler kind, cool along your ankles where the tide laps, warm on your face. 

The ocean is glassy and pale, only small waves rolling in, as you and Sevika walk along the packed sand.

Her hand brushes yours now and then—not intentional, but not avoided either. A few gulls wheel overhead, crying sharply against the hush of the sea.

The cafe comes into view ahead, a little wooden structure raised on stilts, red lanterns swaying in the breeze, soft shoji-style panels open to the ocean. A few tables are set on the deck overlooking the water, low cushions instead of chairs. The air smells of steamed rice and sesame.

Sevika heads straight up the steps, and the host greets her like he recognizes her. 

She picks a table near the railing—shaded, private, overlooking the waves.

“You can take a seat,” she says. “I’ll order.”

You ease down onto the cushion, still taking in the space around you.

The soft rush of the waves, the warm light, the quiet intimacy of the setup—it feels like the kind of moment you should share. You snap a quick picture of the view, thumb hovering over Amanda’s name … then pause.

Something nudges you past it.

Maybe it’s the fact that you miss your parents, even if you’ve been keeping them at arm’s length. Maybe it’s the memory of your mom standing in your apartment, eyes wide when she spotted Sevika. Whatever the reason, your thumb drifts.

You tap Mom & Dad. A small, simple message.

You: Thinking of you guys. Talk soon.

You hit send before you can second-guess it, setting your phone face down on the table as you exhale.

Sevika returns a minute later, sliding down across from you on the cushion, stretching one long leg out under the table.

“What did you get?”

“Miso soup. Yudofu. Rice. Pickled ginger.” She pauses. “And fruit. I assumed you’d want fruit.”

You smile. “I do.”

She shrugs like it’s nothing, but her eyes stay on your face for a moment longer than necessary—taking in the smile, maybe committing it to memory.

A server brings water and two cups of gently steaming coffee, earning a quiet thank you from both of you.

For a while, the only sound is the ocean, the soft clink of ceramic, and the hum of morning.

“Selene will be at the conference,” Sevika says, voice casual in a way that is very much not casual.

Your pulse jumps. “And?”

“And nothing.” She takes a slow sip. “Just letting you know.”

The breeze brushes against your face, but you don’t look away from her.

You’re not sure if she’s warning you. Or herself.

✎ᝰ.

The breakfast arrives with the kind of ceremony that feels both simple and intentional.

A lacquered tray sets down in front of you, steam rising in soft curls from the miso soup. The tofu is silken-white, gently simmered in broth, sprinkled with green onion. 

A small dish of pickled ginger sits beside a neat bowl of warm rice, the grains glossy in the morning light. Fresh fruit—persimmon, melon, a few blueberries—adds a wash of color.

“This looks amazing,” you murmur.

Sevika grunts in agreement. “The food's good. Fresh.”

“You’ve been here before?” you ask. “I mean… this cafe specifically?”

Sevika nods, a quick, matter-of-fact sound. “Yeah. A few times.” She adjusts her chopsticks, eyes flicking briefly toward the ocean. “Every time I’m in Kareshi for work, I make a point of stopping here in the mornings.”

You nod, and take a sip of the miso. 

It’s comforting—familiar in a way you can’t quite explain, even though it isn’t something you ate much growing up. 

Maybe it’s the warmth. Maybe it’s the quiet morning that feels like a soft reset.

The yudofu is warm and soothing, tofu practically melting on your tongue.

You’re halfway through your next bite when a soft vibration buzzes against the wooden table.

Amanda: Morningggg. What’s it like waking up in Kareshi while I’m stuck at home answering emails from hell?

You snort softly, and lift your phone, capturing the steam rising from the soup, the pearly rice, the neatly arranged fruit. You take a quick picture and send it to her.

Another buzz comes almost instantly.

Amanda: HELLO??? Why does your breakfast look like it got a sponsorship from heaven???

You laugh, covering your mouth.

A third buzz:

Amanda: I hate you. Lovingly. Bring me back something cute or I’ll perish.

“Amanda wants a souvenir,” you tell Sevika.

She rolls her eyes, amused despite herself. “Naturally.” A beat. “Just make sure it’s not fragile.”

Your phone lights up again, one more message popping through.

Amanda: Also tell Ms. Sevika I said hi… and that I expect a plane ticket next time. I travel well.

You look up at Sevika. “She says hi.” 

Sevika grunts.

You finish the last of your fruit just as the breeze shifts, carrying a faint saltiness that makes the lanterns sway above you. Sevika sets down her empty coffee cup, nodding once—her silent signal that it’s time to move.

The walk back along the beach feels shorter than before. The sun is climbing, the sand warming beneath your feet. Seashells glint where the tide pulled back; a child further down the beach is chasing gulls. Life happening in soft snapshots.

Beside you, Sevika walks with her hands in her pockets, calm but attentive.

When you reach the hotel, the sliding doors open silently, flooding you with cool, filtered air that smells faintly of cedar and jasmine.

Upstairs, the suite looks different in daylight—brighter, more golden, but still impossibly luxurious.

Sevika pulls off her jacket, tossing it lightly over a chair. 

“You get changed,” she says, her tone casual but commanding. “I need to make a few calls first.”

You nod and start walking into the bedroom. Just as you reach into your suitcase, your phone buzzes in your pocket. 

Frowning, you take it out and see a message from your mom.

Mom: Wow… where are you? That view is incredible.

You: On a business trip in Kareshi.

A second buzz almost immediately.

Mom: With your girlfriend/boss?

A chuckle escapes you, remembering the night you’d panicked and called Sevika your girlfriend.

You: Yes.

Before you can settle back into your outfit hunt, your dad chimes in.

Dad: That’s… unprofessional. What does your employee handbook say about dating superiors?

You roll your eyes, scoffing, and set the phone down. 

You finish choosing your outfit—a soft, satiny blouse in a muted, elegant color and high-waisted, slightly form-fitting trousers that fall clean over your legs. 

Slipping back into the living area, you settle onto the couch, pressing the heel-pain-prevention patches carefully onto the balls of your feet, anticipating the long day ahead.

Sevika’s voice comes from the kitchenette, low and distracted, her attention on the phone in her hand. A few moments later, she sets it down, and glides toward the bedroom to change.

A quiet few minutes pass, the soft rustle of fabric accompanying your own movements as you finish preparing. 

When she reappears in the living area, the subtle warmth in her gaze meets you immediately. 

“You look good,” she notes, her eyes tracing your silhouette with restrained appreciation. “Professional.”

You smooth a hand over the blouse, murmuring a soft thanks.

Her attention drifts for a moment, then back to you. “Oh,” she says, voice softening. “I got you something.”

You blink, sitting up straighter as she retrieves a black box. The kind of box that costs three quarters of your monthly rent. She brings it over and sets it beside you.

“What—?”

“Open it.”

Your pulse ticks up as you lift the lid carefully.

Inside is the most beautiful pair of heels you’ve ever seen. Elegant, sculpted, with a heel that’s high but balanced—meant for long hours without agony. Not flashy, not loud. Just… crafted. Professional. Powerful.

A slow, creeping realization solidifies in your gut. These aren’t just beautiful, they’re designer. 

And expensive. So fucking expensive.

“Sevika…” you whisper. “These— I can’t take these.” The words thick with a mixture of shock, guilt, and a profound sense of not being worthy of such a lavish gesture.

“You can.” Her tone leaves no space for argument.

“They’re— they must’ve cost—”

She kneels down in front of you before you can finish the sentence.

Her hands gently lift your ankle, sliding your current heel off with a careful precision that makes your breath stutter. Heat creeps up your neck as she takes one of the new heels from the box and guides your foot into it. 

The shoe slips on as if it were made for you, molding perfectly to your arch and toes. Her thumbs move deftly, securing the strap around your ankle with a soft, definitive click.

Then she looks up at you.

“They fit,” she says quietly. “Good.”

“Sevika…” Your voice breaks a little. “I don’t want you spending this much money on me.”

She rests her hand on the back of your calf, thumb brushing lightly once.

“I didn’t buy them to impress you. I bought them because they’re good for your feet. And because…” Her gaze flicks up your body. “I knew they’d look right on you.”

You swallow hard, overwhelmed in the softest way.

“Thank you,” you finally breathe. “Really. They’re beautiful.”

She slips the second shoe onto your other foot, fastening it with the same focused care before rising to her full height.

You stand, testing them.

There’s no pinching, no awkward pressure point, no wobble. The arch support is perfect, the cushioning responsive.

They feel like air. Like walking on something designed by someone who actually understands human anatomy and the brutal demands of a long day on your feet. 

A slow, genuine smile, unbidden and bright, claims your lips. “They’re perfect,” you admit.

Sevika’s mouth barely lifts at the corner. “Told you.”

You smooth your trousers again, trying not to smile too much—but you can’t help it. 

“Ready?” she asks, grabbing her jacket, her eyes never leaving you.

You nod. 

Her gaze sweeps over you once more—slow, like she’s taking in the final result.

Her lips curve just a little. 

✎ᝰ.

The car glides through the business district of Kareshi, all glass spires and mirrored facades catching the sun. Everything here is sharp lines and quiet money; even the pedestrians move with purpose, suits crisp, expressions carved from focus.

Your building rises ahead of you—sleek, metallic, the logo embossed like a blade’s edge. The driver rolls to the curb and Sevika steps out first. You follow, walking around the vehicle to fall in step beside her.

Inside the lobby, the air is cool and fragrant with bergamot and cedar. A massive koi mural stretches across the far wall; the floor beneath you gleams like still water.

Ahead, the conference area hums with subdued chatter. Soft lighting glints off glass panels and brushed steel fixtures, casting reflections across the polished surfaces. 

Executives, partners, and delegates move efficiently through the space, collecting badges and programs, taking their seats in the neatly arranged rows that fill quickly with a quiet, purposeful energy.

You and Sevika slide into seats near the front, the rhythm of the room washing over you. Gradually, the lights dim, the murmurs fade, and the first speakers step onto the stage, cycling through market projections and upcoming initiatives with practiced precision.

Midway through a presentation , a faint prickle runs down your spine. The instinctive sense of being watched. You shift subtly, eyes flicking past Sevika, scanning the seats.

There—leaning back with an insolent ease that seems almost deliberately casual amidst the formality—is Selene. Her gaze doesn’t merely land on you; it pins, stretching the distance between you like a taut wire. Her lips curl into a slow, confident grin.

Your breath hitches just slightly.The memory of yesterday’s encounter at dinner surfaces.

Sevika, still square to the stage, feels the subtle shift in your energy instantly. Her eyes follow yours, and she stiffens, ever so slightly—a microtremor along her jaw, the faintest tightening of her shoulders. 

A second later, her posture locks back into its usual razor-sharp precision, professional armor reasserted. 

Curiosity gnaws at you, but the words to ask her about Selene continue to stay lodged in your throat. You don’t know if she would even answer, or if the question itself would be a misstep.

Your mind turns over the questions, circling them like a knife-edge. 

Even as the screen above outlines logistics for a cross-sector merger and the stage lights catch the sharp angles of Sevika’s attentive profile, Selene’s presence hangs in the periphery—a quiet, persistent tension threading through the room, unresolved.

Eventually, Sevika’s name flashes on the massive display.

“Next, please welcome the Founder and Chief Executive Officer of SevTek International, Ms. Sevika.”

She stands, the smooth, measured movement of someone born for a stage but irritated she has to be on it. She hands you her jacket without looking—as if it’s simply understood you’ll hold it—and strides toward the podium.

You watch her go.

God, she looks good under the spotlight. The tailored suit. The sharp shoulders. The confident line of her stride. Her prosthetic catches the light like a polished blade, seamless and powerful.

She begins speaking—her voice a composed, authoritative low timbre that ripples through the room.

But halfway through her opening points, her gaze shifts to you.

A brief, knowing sweep over your frame, over the blouse tucked neatly into your high-waisted trousers, over the legs crossed elegantly in those very expensive heels she bought you. 

Your breath stutters. You look away too fast—pretending to adjust your conference badge, shifting in your seat like you’re fine. From the stage, you feel her smirk rather than see it.

The presentation continues, tension simmering quietly between you both—subtle, quiet, unmistakable.

✎ᝰ.

The moment the first session disperses, people swarm the refreshments and hallways. You slip away toward the bathroom, weaving through clusters of chatter.

Inside, the lighting is soft; the sink counter polished stone. You wash your hands, take a breath, check your reflection—still put together.

You push the door open—and nearly collide with Selene.

She leans a shoulder against the frame, blocking part of your way with an air of casual inconvenience.

“Oh, perfect timing,” she says brightly. “I wanted to ask you something.”

You blink. “What?”

She steps closer. Not touching—just close enough to make her intent obvious.

“So,” she says lightly, “you and Sevika seem… cozy.”

You stare at her. No expression.

Selene tilts her head, smiling like she’s about to pry something open with a spoon. “I mean, she usually doesn’t bring anyone on these trips. Especially not someone she buys—” her eyes flick down to your shoes, sharp “—gifts for.”

You feel it—the unspoken: she knows. She can tell what’s designer from a mile away, and of course, she knows you could never have afforded these.

You deadpan. “Are you always this nosy?”

“I’m just curious.”

“No,” you say, voice flat. “You’re incredibly annoying, and your behavior is bordering on unprofessional.”

Selene’s smile freezes for half a second—just enough to tell you that hit.

You move to walk past her—

—but the door swings inward.

You walk straight into Sevika’s chest.

Her hands come up instinctively, steadying you. Her brows knit as she glances between you and Selene.

Selene’s expression flicks to sugary sweetness. “Oh! Sevika. How are you today?”

“Move,” Sevika says coolly. 

Selene slips past, letting her hand graze Sevika’s shoulder deliberately. She glances over at you, a slow, smirk playing on her lips. “You picked a pretty one,” Selene murmurs, voice light but pointed.

Sevika’s eyes follow her every step, sharp and unblinking, a storm contained behind a flawless mask. The faintest tightening at her jaw is the only betrayal of the tension simmering beneath her calm.

Then her eyes flick back to you. “You okay?” she asks, voice low.

“I’m fine,” you say automatically, a lie, clearly. 

She doesn’t push. Instead, she rests a hand lightly at your hip—barely touching—as she guides you out into the hallway.

“Come,” she says.

You follow her to the balcony doors, the glass reflecting the warm afternoon light. She slides them open, and a rush of wind greets you as the city stretches below, a lattice of glass and steel. 

Sevika stands beside you, arms folded, gaze cutting through the skyline.

“What happened?” she asks.

You fiddle with the edge of your blouse. “…Selene is just pushy. Asking questions that make me uncomfortable.”

Her head tilts slightly. “What kind of questions.”

You hesitate. “Ones about you. And me. And…” You exhale sharply. “I just—hate how she keeps trying to get under your skin. It’s annoying.”

A slow grin curves her mouth. “So,” she says softly, “you’re more bothered that she’s poking at me… than by her going at you like a shark?”

Your breath catches as she shifts closer. 

Her voice dipping lower, just for you. “Why’s that, hmm?”

Heat flickers low in your stomach, confusing and abrupt.

“I—” You blink, brow knitting. “I don’t know.”

It comes out honest. Confused. A little frustrated with yourself.

Because you don’t know. You don’t know why Selene digging at Sevika irritates you more than Selene cornering you.

Sevika studies you for a long moment, her gaze moves slowly, tracing every shift in your expression, every small tell you aren’t aware you have. It feels like she can see the exact place where your thoughts twist, the exact second you start to question your own reaction.

Then, her grin shifts. 

It doesn’t soften into something warm or approachable, instead it simply becomes smaller, a more restrained curve of her lips, as if she’s holding back a greater amusement.

Like she’s already figured out the answer you’re circling around but can’t quite articulate.

“Hm,” she murmurs. “Interesting.”

You frown. “It’s not— I’m not— it’s not like that.”

Is it?

“You’re the one filling in the blanks, and you don’t even realize it,” Sevika drawls, her tone teasing, brushing against the edges of a smile you can almost hear. You frown slightly, confused, but before you can ask, she adds, “We should head back inside.”

Her hand brushes along your lower back, guiding you forward, your steps matching hers as you move back inside.

✎ᝰ.

Later, the final speaker concludes with a precisely timed bow amid a ripple of polite, enthusiastic applause. 

Almost immediately, as if on cue, the conference hall shifts, and network paneling begins. 

Executives in tailored suits, investors with calculating eyes, and eager research partners drift through the room, their conversations a strategic murmur.

Sevika moves through it all with effortless authority, her presence a gravitational pull. Clusters of people gravitate toward her—a venture capitalist with a predatory smile, a revered academic hanging on her every word, a nervous startup founder clutching a business card as if it were gold. 

Hands are shaken, congratulations exchanged, and every voice seeks a fragment of her attention. Each interaction is a subtle dance of power, ambition, and restraint.

You remain an anchor in her orbit—close enough to signal your place at her side, distant enough to avoid any hint of dependence. 

Your posture mirrors her calm professionalism, observant, composed, expression carefully neutral, projecting readiness without eagerness. You are, essentially, a silent shadow, constant amid the swirling currents of ego and opportunity.

Occasionally, a conversation partner oversteps, their hand lingering too long, their voice rising just a decibel too high. In those moments, Sevika’s fingers brush the small of your back. It’s grounding, a silent reminder to stay close, unnoticed by anyone else. A private language beneath the public display.

However, some ambitious attendees notice your consistent proximity. 

“You traveled with her? Impressive,” one remarks, silver-haired and appraising. A sharp-featured woman leans in conspiratorially. 

“So you’re part of her personal team?” 

You answer politely, vaguely—enough to intrigue without committing. 

“I assist Sevika with her schedule,” you offer, or, “I ensure her initiatives run smoothly.” The subtle balance between visibility and mystery only heightens the sense of importance you carry.

After an hour, the networking slowly winds down. The crowd thins, the chatter softens, and your stomach betrays you with a quiet, discreet grumble—a minor slip of decorum you hope goes unnoticed.

Sevika, however, notices. Her gaze flickers to you, a faint curve of her lips acknowledging the shared secret.

“We’re going to eat,” she says simply, cutting through the remaining hum of conversation with quiet authority. 

Her hand, light but firm, rests on your elbow, guiding you past the lingering stragglers, past the fading glow of the art installations, and toward the promise of an exit—and a meal that feels like a reward in itself.

✎ᝰ.

She brings you to a quiet, tucked-away restaurant just a short walk from the conference building. The interior is warm wood, soft lantern light, and little bowls of seasonal flowers at each table.

A server seats you in a side booth with a view of the small koi pond outside.

The menu is traditional—but balanced with modern touches.

You scan it, unsure for a moment—until you see:

Vegetable tempura (light, crisp)

Kinpira gobo (burdock root stir-fry)

Miso-glazed eggplant

Tamago donburi

Yaki onigiri (grilled rice balls with miso glaze)

You choose a mix of them, and the food arrives beautifully arranged, fragrant and comforting.

Sevika watches you take the first bite. When your shoulders relax and an involuntary hum of satisfaction slips out, the corner of her mouth twitches.

She finishes her own meal with slow, thoughtful bites, occasionally glancing at the subtle bustle of the street outside.

When the bill comes, she doesn’t let you look at it, let alone touch it, she never does.

It’s around six by the time you step back outside. The sun hangs low, turning the city gold. Street vendors are setting up their stands—lanterns flickering on, the scent of grilled sweet potatoes and incense drifting through the warm air.

Sevika loosens her jacket, draping it over one arm, sleeves rolled back slightly, giving her the effortless ease she always carries even in business attire. 

You adjust your blouse and roll up the sleeves just enough to feel freer, slipping your heels into a more comfortable rhythm on the smooth pavement. It’s enough to move without feeling constrained, a small concession to the evening ahead.

“Gala’s at eight,” Sevika states. “We have time. You want to walk around?”

You nod. “Definitely. Let’s go.”

The market stretches ahead, a lively labyrinth of stalls brimming with handcrafted jewelry, woven charms, lacquered boxes, dyed scarves, and artisanal snacks. Lanterns sway gently above, casting soft pools of light across the vibrant colors.

You pause at a stand displaying delicate, hand-beaded bracelets. Some shimmer with tiny glass beads, others are threaded with pastel stones, and a few are woven with fine silk that catches the light. Your eyes drift past them until one small piece makes your chest lift slightly.

A red lacquered koi hairpin.

Pretty. Simple. Elegant.

You can already picture Amanda’s face. Smiling, you lift it carefully between your fingers. “I think Amanda would like this,” you murmur, letting your thumb brush lightly over the smooth surface.

Sevika steps in beside you, her presence a calm weight at your shoulder as you turn the koi hairpin over in your hand. She doesn’t say anything at first—just watches you with that steady, unreadable attention she gives to things that matter.

“It suits her,” she says eventually, voice low. “Good choice.”

You offer a small smile and bring the hairpin to the vendor. The woman behind the stall wraps it in soft tissue and slides it into a tiny paper envelope. You pay—crisp bills exchanged with a murmured thank-you—before tucking the little package safely into your purse, a small pulse of satisfaction blooming in your chest.

As you turn back toward the rest of the display, something else catches your eye.

A ring.

It’s thin, elegant—two slim bands intertwined like a continuous loop, forged in warm-toned metal. Where the bands cross, a small gemstone sits nested in the curve: a pale, iridescent opal that seems to catch the lantern light and hold it, flickering faintly like captured moonfire. It feels… personal. Not flashy. Not loud. Just quietly beautiful.

Your pulse trips in that small, embarrassing way something lovely can tug at you. You slip it onto your finger—just for a moment. The fit is perfect.

Then you glance down at the price.

Your breath stalls. Not outrageous, but not something you can justify

You slide the ring off quickly and place it back exactly where it was. A small, practiced motion. The kind you’ve learned over a lifetime of liking things that weren’t meant for you.

Before the vendor can notice the hesitation in your eyes, you turn away, drifting toward the next stall. The market hums around you, warm lantern light catching on polished wood and silver charms. You focus on the easy rhythm of moving forward, letting the moment slip off your shoulders.

A few steps later, curiosity tugs at you—you glance back.

Sevika is still at the jewelry stall. She nods once to the vendor, a barely-there gesture of agreement. Money exchanges hands discreetly. Something small disappears into her coat pocket before you can see what it is.

She joins you a moment later.

“What did you get?” you ask, tilting your head.

She lifts a brow. “Something for later.” Then she nudges you forward. “There’s more to see.” 

✎ᝰ.

Back at the suite, you and Sevika head inside to get ready for the gala.

Sevika disappears into the bathroom with her tux in hand, leaving you in the gentle stillness of the space.

Your gown waits where you left it. You cross the room, fingers brushing over the fabric before lifting it from its hanger. It feels cool, fluid, almost alive beneath your touch. You lift it carefully from the hanger, the weight and drape settling into your hands like a secret.

You step out of your clothes, then ease into the gown—sliding one leg through, then the other. The silk glides up your body, hugging your hips, smoothing over your waist. 

The slit along the left side parts just enough to reveal the line of your thigh as you move, elegant without being too much. The dress settles perfectly into place once you draw up the zipper and adjust the neckline.

When you face the mirror, you pause. You barely recognize the woman staring back, the transformation so complete it felt like stepping into an entirely new skin, a more confident, powerful version of the person you knew. 

You grab the heels Sevika bought you—those impossibly beautiful, gleaming creations that elongate your legs, making them look like they’d stepped right out of the pages of a high-fashion magazine. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, you slide your feet into them, the delicate straps fastening around your ankles.

You’re securing the last clasp when you hear the bathroom door open.

Sevika steps into the bedroom, a vision of sharp, tailored perfection. Her tuxedo is impeccably cut, the midnight fabric a rich counterpoint to the crisp white of her shirt. 

Every line is devastatingly clean and powerful — exceptional tailoring sculpted to her broad shoulders and muscular frame. The subtle scent of her cologne, a blend of cedar and something smokey, precedes her.

Her eyes sweep over you, slowly, thoroughly. Her breath audibly catches.

“You look…” She pauses. "Stunning.”

A flush warms your cheeks. “You look amazing,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can temper them. And they’re true—she looks so fucking amazing.

Sevika shifts, steps over to the dresser, and pulls open one of the drawers. She reaches inside, then turns back to you with a slow, self-satisfied grin. A small bag dangles from her fingers.

She taps it lightly against the dresser, like she’s enjoying the anticipation more than the reveal.

“I have something else for you.” Her voice is low, even—almost offhand—but her eyes give her away. Focused. Intent.

When she holds it open, the contents are simple but unmistakable: minimal black lace, sleek and elegant. And nestled against the fabric, small and discreet, is a device you recognize instantly.

Heat flushes up your neck.

You blink once. “…Are those—?”

“Vibrating panties? Yes.”

It’s embarrassing how quickly your body responds, how the thought alone sends warmth rushing between your legs.

She lifts the lace with two fingers. “Do you want to try them?”

Fuck yes.

Your stomach tightens. “Right now?”

Sevika smirks, nodding. “Yes, now.”

She extends the lace, her fingers brushing your thigh—a fleeting touch that still feels like a brand of heat. You hesitate only a fraction of a second, the weight of her gaze far heavier than the delicate fabric.

You slip out of your existing panties, not bothering with modesty now, and take the pair from Sevika’s hand. The silk is cool, almost icy, against your fingertips as you slide them up your legs.

The material settles against your skin, a smooth, dark whisper of silk and lace. The small, powerful device presses firmly against your core, settling into position.

Fuck.

It isn’t even turned on, yet the sheer promise of it, has you already throbbing.

Sevika watches your reaction, her lips curling into a slow smirk.  She crouches slightly in front of you, her hand rising, fingers brushing the bare skin of your thigh where the slit reveals you.  

Her touch glides a little higher, a slow drag against the curve of your leg, moving your dress up just enough to expose the new panties. Her thumb grazes the very edge where the silk fabric meets vulnerable flesh, a meticulous contact that sends a shiver through your body.

“You should wear these during the gala.” She says, then, her fingers dip lower, utterly brazen, her thumb tracing the seam that runs directly over the device. She applies the slightest pressure, just enough for the vibrator to shift.

You choke on a sharp gasp as it shifts just enough to brush against your clit, a subtle promise of overwhelming pleasure. 

She pulls back, leaving a stinging ache, the tension coiling tight and hot in your stomach and chest, making your breath shallow.

“Think you can handle it?” she murmurs, holding up something small and metallic—the remote.

You swallow hard, the knot of desire in your throat making speech difficult. Your body is screaming yes, please, but your brain is scrambling to keep pace with the shifting reality of the moment. 

“I… can, yes,” you manage, the word thin but firm. “What lesson is this supposed to be?” you ask softly, you want to see what she will say.

You know this isn’t a lesson—but you ask anyway, wondering if she’ll admit it.

Sevika pauses, then her eyes lift to yours. “Lesson…” she says, quiet, like she’s searching for the right frame to put it in. “If I had to name one, I’d say I’m teaching you that I like being in control.”

Her tone isn’t mocking. There’s no smug edge. Just honesty, delivered with that calm, unshakeable certainty she carries like a second skin.

“But you already knew that,” she adds, softer this time.

Your chest tightens.

Her fingers linger a second longer than they need to, grounding rather than provoking. 

“Remember, you can tell me if you need to slow down. Or stop,” she says, standing up, towering over you. 

You nod before you even realize you’re doing it. You should be overwhelmed. But instead—you’re turned on. Humming with anticipation so sharp it hurts.

She slides the remote into the inside pocket of her suit jacket, the movement so swift and practiced it was almost subliminal. 

“Let's go,” she says quietly.

You rise and follow her, your heels clicking softly against the marble as the two of you move through the suite toward the door. Sevika pulls it open, her metal hand resting against the frame as she lets you step out first.

The hallway is quiet, carpeted, the lighting warm and low. Her footsteps fall in steady contrast to your lighter ones as she walks beside you, guiding you toward the elevator at the end of the hall.

When the doors slide open, she gestures you in. The elevator hums as it descends—walls of polished mirror reflecting the two of you back at yourselves, her reflection standing close enough to touch.

The elevator doors slide open into the lobby — now dressed for arrivals. Warm golden lights wash across tall floral arrangements, and sleek black-and-gold banners frame the check-in area. Guests mingle in curated pockets of conversation, their designer silhouettes glinting beneath sculpted fixtures.

Sevika walks beside you with unhurried confidence, her hand resting at the small of your back. 

The vibrator shifts with each step, a silent reminder of her earlier words. Your breath hitches, but you keep pace.

Staff in immaculate uniforms offer polite bows as you pass, guiding attendees toward the main event. Ahead, double doors stand open, spilling warm light and the swell of music into the lobby like a heartbeat.

Just as you and Sevika fall into step with the stream of arriving guests, a shift in the crowd draws your attention.

A woman in a shimmering gold gown approaches the two of you with a warm, polished smile—someone clearly used to gliding through galas and getting what she wants.

Her eyes land on you first.

“Oh—wow,” she says softly, genuine appreciation in her tone. “You look absolutely gorgeous.”

You offer a polite smile. “Thank you.”

She steps closer, closing the space between you—not intrusive, but bold. Her gaze drifts slowly over the elegant drape of your dress, its fabric and cut, down to your heels, making you feel fully seen, fully appraised. Her interest is unapologetic.

“I mean it,” she adds, tone dropping. “That dress was made for you. If you want company later, you should come find me.”

As she speaks, her fingers brush against yours lightly. Only then does she glance past you, a brief, almost dismissive acknowledgment of Sevika, as if Sevika is merely an inconvenient fixture in the background.

Sevika doesn’t so much as twitch. She remains still as stone. But something in the air tightens. Her voice stays even, professional, deceptively mild:

“She has a full schedule this evening.”

The woman’s brows lift in amusement, her smile sharpening with playful challenge. “Is that a work thing?” she purrs, voice slow, eyes flicking between you and Sevika. “Or a you thing, Ms. Sevika?”

You blink. Of course she knows who Sevika is—everyone here probably does. Which only makes her boldness more jarring.

You feel the uncomfortable heat rise from your chest, spreading across your collarbones and up your neck, a silent testament to the direct hit of her question. Sevika’s expression, to anyone else, remains impassive. Her familiar mask of professional indifference is firmly in place.

But you see it. 

The subtle, faint-but-telling clench of her jaw, the faint flare of her nostrils, and then the barely-there brush of her fingers against your lower back, a whisper of a touch through the fabric of your dress, unmistakably possessive.

“It’s none of your fucking business,” Sevika says, her voice cutting through the polite murmur of the gala like a razor—raw and unpolished, devoid of social restraint.

The woman blinks, momentarily startled by the sudden vulgarity; no one speaks like that at a gala where CEOs pretend their tempers don’t exist. Then a slow smile curves her lips, her eyes gleaming with delighted challenge. She’s entertained.

“Mmm. Touchy,” she murmurs. “Noted.”

The woman gives you one last slow, appreciative look before offering a playful wink.

“Well,” she says softly, “if you get… free time, you know where to find me.”

She walks away, gown brushing the marble.

You feel Sevika exhale, controlled but sharp.

You can’t stop the impish smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.  It was somehow a familiar feeling, this jolt of unexpected possessiveness from Sevika, but rarely so overtly displayed.

“…What?” Sevika murmurs, her eyes fixed straight ahead, an exaggerated display of indifference.

You shake your head, still smiling. “Nothing.”

Her gaze flicks to you—quick, assessing, heated in a way that makes your stomach flip.

She scoffs, then continues walking towards the ballroom.

You tilt your head. “Are you going to admit that was jealousy?”

Sevika stops and turns her head just enough to look at you. A glare. Sharp, unamused, definitely flustered.

She sighs—the kind of frustrated, resigned sound that tells you she knows she’s caught.

“Yes,” she mutters, the word a reluctant admission dragged from her. “That made me jealous.” She pauses for a beat, her eyes still locked with yours, before adding, a growl rumbling beneath the words, “Now let’s move on.”

Your smile widens, impossible to hide.

She gives you one last look—a warning to wipe that smirk off your face—before the two of you continue forward into the ballroom, the lights and music swelling around you as if the moment had never happened.

The space opens in a sweep of crystal chandeliers and polished floors, a world of silk gowns, tailored suits, and quiet, powerful conversations. The air hums with money, influence, and expectation.

You haven’t taken three steps in before a server glides past with a silver tray of champagne flutes. Sevika takes one without breaking stride, then pauses — a fractional stop that gives you time to take one too.

Your fingers brush the chilled glass, and the vibrator shifts insistently against you. For a moment, you almost forgot it was there—your mind had been caught up in the heat of the earlier encounter—but the reminder brings your attention sharply back. 

Sevika lifts her flute to her lips, taking a measured sip. Her eyes sweep the room — assessing, calculating— the way she always does before she engages.

Then, softly, without meeting your gaze, she murmurs, “Relax your shoulders.”

The reminder is subtle, almost inaudible, and you exhale, letting the tension slip from your muscles as you follow her words.

As you turn with her toward the center of the ballroom, a presence in the crowd draws your attention. A man in an immaculately tailored charcoal suit, steel-gray hair, his posture radiating the confidence and authority of years at the top. He moves toward Sevika with measured precision, expression respectful but alert, like he’s approaching someone whose time is too valuable to waste.

Sevika notices him the same instant, her edge sharpening in a way that’s almost indiscernible unless you know her.

“Mr. Ishida,” she greets as he reaches you, voice smooth but reserved — the tone she uses with people who hold power but not over her.

He bows his head slightly in greeting, then glances politely toward you, waiting.

Sevika shifts just enough so her arm brushes yours — reminding you that you are meant to stand with her in this space.

“This is my assistant," she says, introducing you with a measured calm that suggests you’re someone worth paying attention to, even if she doesn’t elaborate.

You offer your hand and a smile. Mr. Ishida takes it, professional and warm.

“A pleasure,” he says. “It’s been some time since our last collaboration,” he continues smoothly.

Sevika inclines her head, voice even. “Yes. The joint venture was… productive.”

A brief pause hangs in the air, a shared acknowledgment of past dealings before the moment tightens into its professional rhythm.  The greeting dissolves seamlessly into business. Mr. Ishida brings up recent market volatility, Sevika counters with measured projections, and another executive drifts in to join the group, recognizing her instantly.

Names, numbers, strategies — they fold into the dialogue around you like a tide pulling you deeper into its current.

The device between your legs hums faintly with every subtle shift of your weight, but you manage to keep your expression steady. 

And then, just as you were discussing Q3 projections with a board member of the opposing firm—

A soft buzz. Barely there. A delicate, insistent vibration that seems to travel directly up your spine.

You inhale sharply, a silent, internal gasp. Your fingers clench around your champagne flute, the stem suddenly slick with sweat.

Sevika doesn’t even glance at you. She maintains eye contact with Mr. Ishida, nodding coolly, all business and financial strategy. But the corner of her mouth lifts—a tiny, private victory sign.

She knows. And you know she knows. The subtle change in the rhythm of your breathing is all the confirmation she needs.

For the next half hour, the teasing was intermittent and precise. A quick, low thrum when a competitor paid you a compliment. A flicker of increased intensity when you laugh too brightly at an investor’s anecdote.

During a lull in conversation, Sevika leans in just slightly — enough that her breath warms the shell of your ear, enough that no one else could possibly hear her.

“Holding up okay?” Her voice is low. A check-in disguised as something casual.

You nod, keeping your eyes on the cluster of executives still discussing projections.

“I’m focused,” you whisper back, though the device pulses again — subtle but devastating — and your breath catches before you can stop it.

She grins. “Mhm.” 

She eases back a fraction so a server can pass between you, then her hand returns to your back — not forceful, just steadying. It feels less like she’s holding you in place and more like she’s reminding you she’s there.

“Good,” she murmurs, her tone smooth. “If it gets to be too much, you tell me.”

Her thumb sweeps once across your back— a small, slow drag that sends heat rushing through you.

“And if you want more…” she adds softly, eyes still on the conversation ahead of you, “you know how to ask for that too.”

✎ᝰ.

As the evening unfolds, the vibrations come and go — never constant, never predictable. Just enough to keep your nerves taut, your body attuned to the possibility of the next pulse.

But the night isn’t only that. You and Sevika move through the gala with purpose.

She speaks with a research director about a new materials lab opening in Shion.

Then with a soft-spoken venture capitalist who keeps bowing too deeply, too often.

Then with a government liaison who tries — and fails — not to stare at Sevika’s prosthetic.

You follow her rhythm, stepping in when she needs you, staying quiet when she doesn’t. A team.

The ballroom hums with the polished energy of conversations already in full swing. The string quartet shifts to a waltz, the music weaving through the groups of silk gowns and tailored suits, sharpening the elegance in the air.

“Come on,” Sevika murmurs at your side, nodding toward the dance floor.

You don’t know whether she intends to dance with you or simply get a clearer vantage point, but she leads you toward the edge of the polished marble regardless.

The music swells — strings, lilting and old-fashioned — guests begin to pair up, dresses sweeping in graceful arcs.

Sevika doesn’t take your hand. She just stands beside you, posture easy, presence steady. Watching.

Then, her focus shifts across the room.

A man in a midnight-blue suit meets her gaze. Broad smile, eyes too sharp behind gold-rimmed glasses. He lifts his glass in a polite greeting that feels like a veiled jab.

Sevika tilts her head, returning the gesture with a smile you know isn’t friendly.

You glance at her, curiosity pricking. “Who’s that?”

“The CEO of SevTek’s main rival,” she replies coolly, deliberately vague. 

He straightens, glass in hand, and begins to weave through the groups of guests. Each step is measured, the subtle confidence of someone used to commanding attention. 

As he nears, he tilts his glass ever so slightly, brow lifted. “Still dominating the east sector, I see,” he says smoothly, voice polished, measured, carrying just the right edge of challenge.

Sevika cants her head just a fraction, lips curving faintly. “Naturally,” she replies. “Though I hear your latest acquisitions aren’t exactly seamless.”

He chuckles softly, eyes narrowing slightly behind gold rims. “Challenges are part of the process. You’d understand that better than most.”

“I do,” she says, the faintest edge in her voice. “Which is why I’m curious how you plan to resolve yours.”

The exchange is effortless, a dance of intellect and power rather than outright hostility, each sentence layered with subtle strategy. 

Their conversation threads a line of tension through the ballroom, drawing attention without spectacle, leaving you acutely aware of the invisible currents swirling around them.

As their discussion veers into market shares, that familiar, insistent hum presses against your clit once more. 

Your knees buckle slightly, forcing you to shift your weight and cross your legs to steady yourself. A flush of heat surges through your core, climbing up your neck in a burning wave that makes your skin prickle. 

The vibrator pulses relentlessly, sending sharp jolts of pleasure radiating outward, your nipples tightening into hard peaks against the fabric of your dress.

Your eyes widen, the faces around you blurring into indistinct shapes as your breath hitches. Sevika catches your gaze, her eyes darkening with intent, a wicked grin curling her lips.  She thumbs the remote to the highest setting.

The surge crashes into you like an electric storm. You clamp down on the inside of your cheek, teeth sinking in to stifle the gasp clawing up your throat, your entire body shuddering from the force of it. 

Your eyes flutter shut for a split second, lashes trembling, while your legs start to shake uncontrollably beneath your dress.

The murmur of conversations dissolves into a distant hum, the crystal lights overhead fracturing into dazzling sparks that dance in your vision. 

All you can focus on is the unyielding throb building inside you, the vibrator grinding against your swollen clit with merciless intensity, pushing you toward the edge of release. 

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes, hot and insistent, as your thighs squeeze together desperately, trying to trap the overwhelming sensations.

You lean toward Sevika with a whisper meant only for her:

“Sevika… please—”

“Hold it.” Her voice is low. Flat.

A quiet command delivered like a kiss to your ear.

Your pussy contracts sharply around nothing, the spasm so fierce it nearly sends the glass slipping from your fingers, your grip tightening just in time as another tremor ripples through you.

Before you can stop it, a small, broken sound escapes—too soft for others to hear, but not for her.

“Excuse me,” you breathe, the word a frantic croak, turning to Sevika. “I need a moment to freshen up.”

She offers a small, cool nod, allowing you the reprieve. 

“Don’t be long,” she says with a grin.

You practically flee, gliding toward the restrooms at the edge of the ballroom.

You slam the door, forgetting to lock it in your haze, and brace your hands on the sink, staring at your flushed reflection. The high setting is merciless now; your clit is swollen and throbbing, and your core tightens endlessly. 

A soft, desperate moan escapes your lips as your hips rock instinctively—a tiny, involuntary movement against the sink’s edge.

You feel the shift in the air before you see her.

The door opens and falls shut behind you with a soft thud. Sevika turns the lock with a slow, echoing click.

Your eyes lock onto hers in the mirror—dark, hungry. The sight of you, desperate, seems to fill her with a potent satisfaction.

She merely watches, teeth sinking into her lower lip, a low, guttural growl rumbling in her throat as she drinks in the sight of you completely losing it, utterly and privately at her mercy.

The orgasm rips through you hard, your pussy clenching around nothing but the soaked vibrations, juices trickling down your thighs.

Sevika's dress shoes echo softly on the marble as she closes the distance between you in two strides, her body pressing flush against your back. 

Her hand clamps over your mouth just as the moan tears from your throat, raw and unrestrained, the sound dying against her palm in a muffled whimper. 

She leans in, her breath hot against your ear, and presses a reassuring kiss to the nape of your neck, her lips lingering there. 

“That’s right,” she murmurs, her voice a low rumble that vibrates through your spine.

Her free hand slides down your side, metal fingers bunching the fabric of your dress. She hikes it up slowly, the cool air hitting your heated skin, exposing the curve of your ass. You gasp into her hand, the aftershocks still trembling your legs.

“Wait—Sevika,” you manage to whisper when she eases her grip just enough, your voice shaky and breathless. “I didn't check the stalls. Someone could be in here.”

She pauses. “Hmm… think they already got a good show?” She chuckles darkly, stepping back slowly leaving you feeling exposed and aching. 

Her grey eyes flick to yours in the mirror, promising more. 

She crouches low, peering under the row of stall doors checking for shoes, the metal of her prosthetic arm glinting under the soft restroom lights. “ All clear,” she says, rising smoothly. 

She returns behind you in an instant, her presence overwhelming, dominant. This time, she yanks the dress up over your hips fully, the fabric pooling at your waist. Her fingers hook into the waistband of the panties, pulling them down your thighs in one swift motion. 

The toy buzzes faintly on the floor where it lands, forgotten. Your pussy is slick and swollen, exposed to the mirror's reflection, your arousal glistening on your inner thighs.

You lean forward slightly, giving her better access, the movement instinctive. Sevika's metal fingers dig into your hip, gripping just enough to leave faint indents.

Her other hand parts your folds, two fingers plunging deep into your soaking pussy without warning. 

You moan loudly, the sound echoing off the walls, your eyes locking onto hers in the mirror.  If you weren’t so lost in the moment, so turned on, you’d be blushing profusely at the eye contact. But it turns you on so much. 

Those sexy grey eyes watch you intently, a smirk curling her lips as she starts to finger-fuck you from behind, her thrusts deep.

Her hips rock forward with each push, driving her fingers harder into your clenching walls, the wet sounds of your pussy filling the room. Her grip on your hip tightens, holding you steady as your body jolts. 

You watch it all in the mirror—the way her arm flexes, her body dominating yours, her smirk widening at your flushed, desperate face.

It's so fucking hot, the sight of her claiming you like this, her control absolute. Your nipples harden painfully against the fabric of your dress, aching peaks that beg for touch, your whole body alight with need.

A grunt escapes Sevika, low and primal, as your pussy squeezes around her invading fingers. The pressure builds fast, your second orgasm coiling tight in your core, sensations overwhelming. 

The stretch of her fingers, the cool press of metal on your skin, the slick slide in and out. 

“Fuckkkk,” you curse, the word ragged, your vision blurring. 

You twist in her grasp, turning just enough to crash your lips against hers. The kiss swallows your screams as the climax hits, your body shaking, pussy spasming around her fingers in hot, pulsing waves. 

You push her back with trembling hands, oversensitive nerves firing too intensely.

Sevika stops immediately, withdrawing her fingers with a wet pop. She cups your face gently, pressing soft kisses to your cheek, then capturing your lips in a tender, lingering one that tastes of desire. 

You pull back, smirking even as you glare at her, your chest heaving. “That was so hot,” you say, voice husky, a mix of awe and playful accusation.

She chuckles, deep and satisfied, her eyes gleaming as she straightens your dress with casual efficiency. “Knew you'd like it. ” 

You pivot to face Sevika, the cool sink resting lightly against your lower back, steadying you as your body hums with aftershocks.

Sevika's presence looms close, her warmth radiating against you, but something catches your eye—a faint flush creeping up the side of her neck. Her nostrils flare subtly, like she's forcing her breaths to even out, chest rising and falling just a touch too deliberately.

She catches you staring, her eyes narrowing, a slow grin spreads across her lips. She leans in, her breath hot against your ear as she whispers, low and rough, "What are you looking at?"

Before you can answer, her hands grip your hips, shoving you back further until the sink digs firmly into your spine. The sudden pressure pins you there, her body crowding yours. Then her teeth graze your earlobe, a sharp bite that sends a shiver through you, making your knees weaken.

Sevika's fingers wrap around your wrist, guiding your hand downward slowly, giving you time to pull away.

When she senses no hesitation, no flicker of discomfort, she slips it past the waistband of her boxers, pressing your hand against her slick folds. A deep groan rumbles from her throat the instant your skin meets hers, raw and unrestrained.

You're struck by how soaked she is, her arousal coating your fingers immediately, hot and abundant. It hits you then— just how fiercely she's been holding back all night.

She withdraws her guiding hand from her pants, planting both palms on the sink behind you, caging you completely.

As her arms shift, a faint mechanical whir hums from her metal hand, grounding you in the weight and precision of her hold. 

Her muscles flex under her shirt as she leans closer, a low growl vibrating against you.

“Watching you squirm under my control tonight… has turned me on so fucking much,” she rasps, voice thick.

Your breath catches sharply, the words igniting a fresh surge of heat low in your belly, your core clenching with renewed ache.

Emboldened, you slide your fingers upward, finding her clit. You start rubbing it in firm circles.

"Shit," she mutters, followed by a hissed "Fuck" as her hips twitch forward.

Her mouth descends on your neck, lips parting to suck hard at the skin just below your jaw. Her teeth follow, nipping and biting in a rhythm that leaves blooming dark marks, each one stinging with a mix of pain and pleasure.

You arch into it, the roughness contrasting the way her tongue soothes the bites afterward.

You press two fingers inside her, her walls gripping you tight and already fluttering wildly. She's so close, you can feel it—the rhythmic spasms pulling at your digits, her inner muscles quivering on the edge.

Sevika's groans grow louder, her weight shifting as she presses harder against you, thighs parting slightly to give you better access. Her body jolts with each thrust of your fingers, breaths coming in ragged bursts against your skin.

You zero in on her clit again, circling it with tight, rapid motions that make her thighs tremble slightly. 

"Fuck," she strains out.

Then she shatters—her pussy clenching down hard around your fingers, a gush of wetness soaking your hand as she cums with a force that rocks her frame.

She shudders, a long groan escaping her that fades into a deep, throaty moan, vulnerable and unguarded in a way you've never heard before. 

It catches you off guard, your own pulse racing at the raw intimacy of it.

Sevika stills, her face burying into the crook of your neck, hot breaths fanning your collarbone.

You feel her teeth sink into her lower lip, a muffled effort to stifle any more sounds that might slip free, her body still twitching faintly.

But you want more—you crave hearing her like that again, unfiltered. 

Gently, you flick your thumb over her oversensitive clit one more time. Her entire body jerks sharply, a deep, quiet moan vibrating against your skin before she clamps down on it.

She hisses through her teeth, pulling back with a sharp inhale, trying to mask the sound. Her legs wobble just enough to make her stagger a step away, your hand slipping free from her boxers and pants, slick with her release.

Sevika's eyes widen slightly, a flicker of surprise mixing with amusement in her gaze.

She stares at you, mouth parting as if to speak—"I—you," she starts, then pauses, scoffing softly at herself.

Her expression softens into something almost sheepish for a split second, cheeks still slightly flushed, before that familiar smirk curls her lips.

"I'll remember that," she says, voice laced with teasing warning, her eyes promising retaliation.

A rush of satisfaction blooms in your chest, warm and triumphant. Knowing you drew that out of her—that rare, unguarded reaction—makes your skin tingle with quiet power, even as her dominance hovers in the air between you.

The tension still hums through you, pulling your attention downward. The panties pooled around your ankles make you pause—there’s no way you want to put them back on now that they’ve been on the floor of a public restroom.

Sevika catches your pause, smirk curling.

She exhales slowly, letting the warmth of her breath mingle with the fading tremors of her own pleasure, then slips her hand into her pocket, producing a fresh pair of your panties with a teasing lift of her fingers.

You giggle, eyes wide—and before she can react, you snatch them from her hand. “Why do you have these?” you ask, playful and incredulous.

Sevika shrugs, calm and teasing. “You need them right now, don’t you?”

With a small laugh, you step into the fresh pair, sliding them up smoothly, then toss the ones on the ground into the trash, the soft swish of fabric a final punctuation. 

Her eyes follow you, the corner of her mouth quirking in quiet approval, before she moves to adjust the hem of your gown once more, fingers brushing over the silk.

Together, you step out from the bathroom, and back into the ballroom. 

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a/n: those of you waiting on Sevika lore and drama... I promise it's coming <33

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You stood behind her, silent, feeling suddenly aware of your own warmth in contrast to the frozen world beyond the glass. A resource. Something to be accounted for.

“Tonight,” she said without turning, “you will be useful.”

The words landed with weight, not cruel, not kind. Simply factual. Useful was not a compliment in her mouth. It was a designation.

No further explanation followed. There never was one. Orders came like that with her, dropped heavy and final, daring you to ask questions you already knew better than to voice.

She dismissed you soon after, instructing you to prepare, to eat, to rest. To conserve warmth. The phrasing lingered with you long after you left, echoing in ways that felt deliberate.

You did as told. 

You ate carefully, choosing foods meant to sit heavy. You bathed, scrubbing away the day, the steam fogging the mirror until your reflection blurred into something indistinct. You rested without truly sleeping, thoughts circling back again and again to the certainty of being summoned when she was ready, not when you were.

The hours stretched. Anticipation settled under your skin, equal parts dread and hunger. It was a familiar feeling, one that made your pulse feel louder in your ears, made every small sensation sharpen.

As evening approached, servants moved through the halls with evergreen boughs and red candles, thin strands of tinsel looped sparingly among the greenery, more ceremonial than festive. 

The scent of pine followed them, clean and sharp, cutting through the stone-cold air. Fires were stoked. Doors were shut tight against the cold. Somewhere far below, bells rang, faint and distant, marking the turning of the year. A reminder that time moved forward whether you were ready or not.

When you were finally summoned again, night had fallen fully. The citadel was quieter now. Heavier. Sound seemed to sink into the walls instead of traveling, swallowed by tapestries and thick rugs, by the occasional glint of tinsel catching candlelight and then vanishing again into shadow.

The corridors glowed with low light and shadow, candle flames bending with each step you took, each step toward her chambers tightening something in your chest. You were acutely aware of your breathing, of the way your body held heat beneath your clothes.

You paused outside her door, breath steadying, already aware that whatever waited on the other side would demand stillness, obedience, and more than you had yet been asked to give.

Now…

The dim glow of candles flickers across Ambessa's lavish chambers, casting long shadows over the massive bed where you kneel, thighs spread wide. The thick strap-on harnessed to her hips is buried deep inside your pussy, stretching you full and keeping it warm just as she demands. 

Tinsel glimmers faintly in the firelight, bright and useless, all shine and no warmth, and you wonder if that is what Ambessa intended it to be. A tease. Nothing more.

Ambessa lounges back against the pillows, her muscular frame relaxed but commanding, eyes locked on you with predatory amusement. Her large hands rest on her thighs, the harness straps digging into her skin, but she makes no move to thrust or ease your ache.

"Stay still, my little warmer," she growls, voice low and rough like gravel. "That's all you're good for right now. Keep my strap nice and hot inside that greedy cunt of yours." 

You bite your lip, the fullness teasing every nerve, your clit throbbing with need. It has been hours like this—her using you as a living sheath, denying you any friction. 

Your hips twitch involuntarily, a desperate grind against the base of the silicone shaft pressing into your walls. Heat floods your cheeks as you realize your mistake, but the spark of pleasure is too tempting to resist fully. 

Ambessa's eyes narrow, a smirk curling her lips. "Oh? Can't follow a simple order? Trying to fuck yourself on my strap?" 

She sits up abruptly, her powerful grip seizing your hair and yanking your head back. The sudden motion makes the strap shift inside you, sending a jolt through your core, but she holds you firm. 

"You know what happens to those who are disobedient." She pulls out with a wet schlick, the strap glistening with your arousal as it slips free from your clenching pussy. 

You whimper at the emptiness, but her hold keeps you from chasing it. 

"First things first," Ambessa commands, shoving you down toward her lap.  "Clean it up. Suck it. Taste how wet you got breaking my rules." 

Your mouth waters despite the humiliation, and you lean in, lips parting to take the thick head between them. 

The silicone is warm from your body heat, slick with your own juices, tangy on your tongue as you swirl around the tip. 

Ambessa's hand tightens in your hair, guiding you deeper, forcing inch after inch down your throat. You gag softly, saliva dripping down the shaft as you bob your head, sucking hard to lap up every trace of your essence. 

"That's it," she rumbles, hips bucking slightly to fuck your face. 

"Lick it clean, you filthy girl." Your cheeks hollow with each pull, tongue pressing flat against the underside, tracing the veins molded into the strap. 

Drool mixes with your pussy's wetness, strings connecting your lips to the toy as you work it sloppily, throat relaxing to take more. 

Ambessa watches with hooded eyes, her free hand stroking your cheek almost tenderly before gripping your jaw to angle you better. 

By the time she deems it clean—shiny with spit but free of your slick—she yanks you off with a pop, your lips swollen and gasping. 

"Good enough," she says, standing to tower over you. From a nearby table, she grabs a thick red candle, already lit, wax pooling at the base. "Now, punishment. On your back, legs spread. Hands above your head—no touching yourself." 

You obey, heart pounding as you lie exposed on the sheets, pussy still aching from the denial. Ambessa straddles your thighs, the harness dangling the freshly sucked strap against your thigh, a reminder of what you've lost. 

She holds the candle high, tilting it just enough for the first drop of hot wax to fall onto your collarbone. The sting blooms sharp and immediate, a burn that makes you arch, but you bite back a cry, fists clenching above your head. 

"Stay still," she warns, voice laced with dark pleasure. 

Another drop hits your sternum, then lower, trailing toward your breasts. The heat seeps into your skin, cooling into a tight seal that pulls at your nerves. 

Your nipples harden under the assault, and when a splatter lands on one peak, you gasp, the pain twisting into something electric, shooting straight to your core. 

Ambessa leans closer, her breath hot on your neck as she drips more wax across your chest, watching your body quiver. "Look at you, squirming already. This is what happens when you can't control that needy pussy." 

The wax hits your stomach next, each drop heavier, the burn lingering longer, making your thighs clench.

Your clit pulses untouched, the sensation building an unbearable pressure low in your belly. She moves lower, candle hovering over your hips. 

A fat drop falls onto your inner thigh, inches from your folds, and you moan, hips jerking despite yourself. The wax cools there, a stark white against your skin, heightening every brush of air. 

Ambessa chuckles, tilting the candle to let a stream land right on your mound, just above your clit. The scald makes you cry out, back bowing as fire races through you—but beneath it, pleasure coils tight, your pussy clenching around nothing. 

"Fuck, Ambessa—please," you beg, voice breaking, but she only drips more, targeting your sensitive skin. 

Wax splatters in the sensitive crease between your thigh and crotch, the heat searing your skin, making you throb with a mix of agony and ecstasy. Each drop pushes you higher, the pain transmuting into raw sensation, your body betraying you as arousal drips from your hole. 

One precise drop hits just above your clit, and you shatter. The burn explodes into orgasm, waves crashing through you as your pussy spasms, juices squirting onto the sheets. 

You scream her name, body shaking under the onslaught, wax hardening on your skin while pleasure rips you apart. Ambessa watches, eyes gleaming, until you slump, spent and marked. 

"There," she murmurs, setting the candle aside and finally sliding the strap back into your dripping cunt. "Now warm it properly. And do not move this time."

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✎ᝰ.

The next evening drifts in slow and quiet, settling over the apartment in soft, dusky layers.

You’d been anchored to the couch for hours, a half-empty bowl of popcorn resting on your stomach, a few stray kernels clinging to your worn sweats. 

The TV hummed a low, hypnotic lullaby, its shifting glow painting the walls in transient washes of blue and gold, reflecting nothing in particular from the muted rom-com.

The memory of Sevika last night—the closeness, the way her tongue had felt remains stubbornly at the edges of your mind, occasionally causing an ache to form low in your belly.

You shift, pulling the knitted blanket tighter around your shoulders. 

The popcorn edges are chewy, a faint buttery film clinging to your fingers. Still, you keep eating, mind drifting back to her. A soft groan, thick with longing and exasperation at your own inability to let go, rumbles in your throat.

Then your phone buzzes.

Amanda: Drinks tonight, please please please.

You blink at the screen, popcorn paused mid-air. You know her patterns by now: relentless, gleefully persistent, determined to drag you out of your cozy cocoon. 

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

You: We have work tomorrow morning Mandy

You groan as you hit send.

Almost immediately:

Amanda: See you at 9.

You stare at the words, eyebrows raised, lips twitching in disbelief. On a Sunday night? Your brain protests loudly, citing exhaustion, early alarms. 

But a slow, reluctant grin creeps across your face, tinged with a spark of anticipation you hadn’t realized you were craving.

You huff, scoffing at your own willingness. Fine. Whatever. She’s relentless; maybe it’s better to give in.

Rising from the couch, you stretch, brushing popcorn crumbs off your sweats before shuffling toward your bedroom. 

You flick on the light and head straight for the closet, digging through the mess—pushing hangers aside, shuffling through clothes—until a short dress catches your eye: simple, sleek, black, a little daring.

Lounge clothes hit the floor in a soft heap, and the dress slips over your skin with a cool, decisive weight.

You pause to take a long look in the mirror, and smooth the fabric of the dress over your hips, trace the lines with your fingers, and inhale sharply, bracing for the night ahead.

Sliding your phone into your bag, you step out into the evening, heels clicking against the pavement. The city is alive, lights sparkling like tiny promises. 

By the time you reach the bar, it’s buzzing with low conversations and clinking glasses, warm light spilling over polished wood. 

Amanda’s already there, perched on a stool, waving enthusiastically as you approach. Her smile is infectious, the kind that makes you relax almost immediately.

“Finally!” she exclaims, grabbing your wrist and pulling you in for a quick hug. “I thought you’d bail on me.”

“I was definitely going to,” you admit, smirking as you settle onto the stool next to her. “Work tomorrow morning, remember?”

Amanda waves a hand dismissively. “Details, details. Who cares?”

The bartender approaches, tattoos and tired eyes, and you order something mild—something you won’t regret in the morning, something that looks adult but tastes harmless. A small mercy for the version of you that has to wake up early.

As he walks away, Amanda immediately leans her head onto your shoulder with a dramatic groan.

“I needed this,” she sighs. “You have no idea how boring my week was.”

You scoff, nudging her off. “Says the woman who texted me an actual PowerPoint about her damn manicure last week.”

“I stand by that presentation,” she says, lifting her chin proudly. “It was educational. Informative. Inspirational.”

“And unhinged.”

“Correct.” She pokes your arm. “But you were off playing corporate spy or whatever in Kareshi, so you missed the whole saga.”

You raise a brow. “Saga?”

She launches into it instantly, eyes brightening. “Okay, so—I went in for a simple manicure. Simple. I wanted ballet pink. Soft. Gentle. Professional. Do you know what I got instead?”

You hide a smile behind your glass. “Considering it’s you? No.”

“A glitter bomb. A glitter apocalypse.” Amanda shudders theatrically. “The nail tech’s lamp broke mid-cure, and the replacement one had…issues. Like…hotspot issues. My middle finger literally smoked.”

You choke back laughter. “Smoked?”

“SMOKED. And then—because that wasn’t traumatizing enough—she got double-booked, and some woman with a chihuahua in a Gucci sweater started screaming about wait times. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there with one hand finished, one hand raw, wondering if I’ll ever regain use of my fingertips.”

You laugh, the sound melts into the low hum of conversation and the soft push of music vibrating through the bar.

Your shoulders drop. Your spine unwinds. 

And then a voice cuts through the din of the bar.

“Hey.”

You flinch slightly, your head whipping around, and there she is. Zara.

Your hand hovers over your glass for a beat longer than necessary. Even though you’ve done nothing wrong, you feel caught—as if the sudden stillness of the world just pressed down on you.

Zara crosses her arms, eyes flicking over Amanda before landing back on you.

“This is…” you start, your voice faltering. “Amanda’s my friend.”

Amanda’s grin is playful, maybe a little guilty, and you feel a twitch in your jaw at the obviousness of her amusement.

Zara’s gaze sharpens. “I didn’t know you were back from your work trip.”

You glance down at your drink. “I… got back last night.” you mumble, the words feeling thin and inadequate.

Her eyes drift lower, tracing the line of your collar bone, then land abruptly on your neck. You freeze. 

Fading hickeys, evidence you hadn’t bothered to cover up.

Zara lets out a low, derisive laugh. “Hm. Work trips usually don’t come with… those.”

Amanda glances at you, a familiar, mischievous smirk beginning to curl at the corners of her lips. 

Your fingers jump to your neck almost on instinct, rubbing at the skin with a sudden, desperate urge to erase them, praying your flush isn't as obvious as it felt.

“So… who did that?” Zara asks quietly. 

Your stomach twists into a tight, uncomfortable knot.

None of your business, you snap inwardly. You’re not with her; you don’t owe her a single explanation. 

Yet the defiant retorts forming in your mind catch, snag, choke in your throat before you can articulate them.

“It… it doesn’t matter,” you manage instead, the words coming out sharper, more defensive than you intend, betraying the turmoil inside.

Zara doesn’t miss a beat. 

She moves slowly, positioning herself directly in front of both you and Amanda, claiming the space, asserting her stance. Her arms still crossed, a formidable barrier, eyes sharp and assessing as they bore into yours.

“Are you… with someone?” she asks, a calculated strike, her gaze piercing through any remaining pretense of casualness. 

Your mouth opens, then closes, gasping like a fish, and you stammer: “N-no.” 

She scoffs, low and unimpressed, tilting her head in a knowing, almost pitying gesture. 

“How about that woman you were at the lounge with the night we met? The one you… sucked face with after making out with me?”

The words hang heavy in the air. Amanda’s eyes, already wide with a mix of shock and pure entertainment, practically bulge, a full-blown smirk curling irrevocably at the corners of her lips. 

Heat crawls up your neck, and your hand rises instinctively to brush across your jaw, embarrassment tightening low in your gut, leaving your chest hollow yet flaring, desperate to hide the evidence of your alleged indiscretion.

Your mind stutters. She saw that? You hadn’t even realized Zara had noticed, let alone witnessed your kiss with Sevika. 

Amanda, fully entertained, leans forward slightly, as if savoring every excruciating second, her eyes sparkling with unholy glee. 

An explanation tries to claw its way out of you, but when your mouth finally parts, all that emerges is a mangled, bewildered sound.

“Wait—what?”

Your voice, a ragged whisper, stumbles out, attempting to defend yourself, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re defending against. 

The full implication of Zara’s disappointment, sharp and personal, washes over you. This isn’t casual jealousy or a wounded ego; it’s something far deeper, far more significant than you’ve allowed yourself to consider. 

A flash of memory hits: that first hour you met her—her confident advances, the bold touch, the way she tried to take things further, every move screaming “hook-up.” 

You hadn’t even considered that she might want more.

Your chest tightens, a cloying, awkward weight settling there, as the uncomfortable truth clicks into place: she didn’t just want a casual encounter that night. She wanted you.

Zara lets out one last, dismissive snort, a sound laced with a finality that allows no pushback, no reconciliation. Then, she spins sharply on her heel, her movements abrupt and decisive. 

“Whatever,” she mutters, the word a cutting snub, already walking away, disappearing into the pulsating crowd without a backward glance. 

The space she leaves behind feels oddly empty, strangely hollow, yet still thick with tension.

Amanda turns toward you fully now, expression a perfect mix of curiosity, mischief, and sheer amusement. You roll your eyes at her, knowing exactly what she’s thinking.

But you’ve told her, firmly, to stop asking about Sevika, and for once, she respects the boundary, letting the heavy, pregnant silence hang between you, her sheer presence a question in itself. 

You exhale slowly, a long, drawn-out sigh, running a hand over your face, feeling the warmth of your cheeks. 

“Yes,” you admit, your voice low but firm, the words a surrender, a confession, and a liberation all at once. “I’m sleeping with Ms. Sevika. Yes, I took your damn advice. Yes, you are annoyingly, infuriatingly right. Now, please, for the love of everything, fuck off.”

Amanda squeals, cackling, throwing her head back in pure delight. 

You can’t help it—you smile despite yourself, warm and relieved, letting her energy sweep through you as you take a slow sip of your drink.

Time, after that, becomes a liquid blur. 

One drink folds into another, conversations tumble from animated debates into chaotic, joyful nonsense. The bar lights, once distinct, soften and blur around the edges of your vision, forming halos of honeyed color. 

You lean back, comfortably tipsy, letting the warmth of the alcohol mingle with the residual glow of the evening and Amanda’s boundless, unwavering excitement. 

At some point, inevitably, the night winds down—far too quickly, as always. You stumble out into the cooler, quieter street, your heels clicking a surprisingly steady rhythm against the pavement. 

You make your way home with a lazy grin plastered across your face.

✎ᝰ.

Monday arrives, unforgiving in its timing, landing heavy across your shoulders the instant your alarm drags you awake. You groan, twisting under the sheets for one last, useless moment of warmth before surrendering to the day.

By the time the sun begins to rise, you’re already moving, pulled into the rhythm of the hours despite yourself. Your footsteps echo softly in the apartment, the familiar routine of coffee, keys, and bag offering a hollow comfort.

The office is dim when you step inside, the sky outside still that pale, uncertain blue that belongs only to early morning — a color that makes everything feel suspended, halfway formed. 

You like coming in early sometimes; the quiet helps you settle. But today, the quiet feels wrong.

You aren’t even late — you’re early.

But Sevika is earlier still.

Her office lights burn behind the glass, sharp and purposeful, and her silhouette is a rigid cut-out against it: tall, unmoving, one hand braced flat on the desk, the other gripping her phone, knuckles standing stark against her skin—a silent tension you can feel through the glass.

You stop mid-step without meaning to.

This isn’t her usual morning focus. This is pressure. Tight. Heavy. The kind that doesn’t sit in her shoulders but in the walls around her — the kind that makes your own pulse pick up even though she hasn’t said a word to you yet.

And then something small, but sharp, catches your attention: she glances up from the spreadsheet for half a second, catches your movement in the corner of her eye, and immediately looks back down. 

No acknowledgment. No nod. Nothing. You flush slightly, even though you know better — she’s always been private, composed. But that split-second dismissal stings more than it should.

You force your feet to move again, quiet on the polished floor, slipping into your office as if stepping too loudly might set something off. 

You power on your computer, pretending you don’t hear her voice seeping faintly through the glass.

“—no, I said everything. I want the full forensic breakdown, not the preliminary summary.”

Her tone isn’t angry. It’s sharpened. Honed like a blade pressed too long and too hard against stone.

Your stomach pulls tight.

Kira.

It’s been weeks since the investigation started — weeks of rumors, meetings, sterile updates that reveal nothing and imply everything — but these cases take months. And yet the edge in Sevika’s voice… it’s different today. It’s not just professional tension.

A flicker of worry crawls up your spine — not just about the audit, but about the way she looks alone in that room. The way your chest tightens at the idea of her being that stressed and unreachable. An irrational part of you whispers, Is she shutting everyone out? Is she shutting me out?

You try to smother that thought before it fully forms.

Amanda slips in about forty minutes later, coffee in hand, eyebrows rising the moment she catches the sharp edge in Sevika’s voice.

“Oh boy,” she murmurs under her breath. “Tom said Ms. Sevika’s been here since six.”

You blink. “…Why?”

Amanda steps closer, dropping her voice even lower.

“Legal found more discrepancies. It’s not just the eight hundred grand anymore. Kira may have been diverting funds for longer.”

Your stomach sinks. “How much longer?”

Amanda shakes her head, eyes tight. “No one knows yet. They’re still digging. And… the board may have to get involved if this keeps widening.”

The words hit like a fist to the gut. 

The board. That’s not just bad news. That’s everything breaking. You feel your chest tighten, a sudden metallic taste in your mouth. The office seems to shrink around you, the quiet clicking of keyboards suddenly deafening.

Oh fuck.

You force yourself to swallow, rubbing your palms up and down your thighs to steady the trembling of your fingers. Your eyes flick toward Sevika’s office. The rigid silhouette hasn’t moved. She hasn’t stepped out. The blinds of her composure are fully drawn.

Which somehow feels worse than anger. Worse than raised voices or slammed doors. Silence from Sevika is a different kind of storm — the kind that builds inward instead of out. 

It makes something uneasy flicker in your heart: a small, stupid sting at being completely shut out of whatever’s happening behind that door.

You reach into your bag for your notebook, but your fingers brush a small wrapped box. 

Right — Amanda’s gift. Something you’d picked out at the stand in Kareshi. You almost forgot it existed. 

“Mandy,” you murmur, pulling it out. “Got you something.”

Her eyes widen. “For me?”

“For keeping me sane. And because you asked.”

And because offering warmth feels like the only thing you can control in a morning like this.

She opens it, the lacquered koi hairpin catching the overhead lights — and her whole face brightens.

“Oh my God— it’s gorgeous.”

“It’s supposed to bring luck,” you say, smiling faintly.

“Fuck, we need that today.”

You exhale a soft laugh you didn’t expect to find in your lungs.

And for a moment — just one fragile, welcome moment — relief threads between the two of you, cutting cleanly through the tension like a sudden breeze through a stuffy room.

✎ᝰ.

Emails stack. The entire office feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something to break — and you can’t tell if that something is the investigation or Sevika herself.

Your inbox dings. The alert is small, almost innocuous, but it makes your stomach hitch. One new message: 

From Sevika.

Bring me the updated reports. 11:30. —Sevika

Your throat tightens, dry and scratchy.

By 11:30, the silence has etched itself into your bones. You gather the updated reports she requested, smoothing the pages once, twice, like neatness can shield you from the inscrutable air in her office.

You knock gently.

“Come in.”

Her voice is clipped, low — the kind that vibrates with barely contained tension.

You step inside.

She doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even glance. Her eyes stay glued to the screen, one hand extended toward you in a silent command.

You move closer, trying to keep your own breathing steady.

“These are the updated—”

"I know what it is," she snaps, the words sharp, slicing through the air with a precision that steals your breath. "I'm the one who fucking requested it."

The unexpected ferocity of her retort hits you like a jolt. A wave of heat washes over your face, followed by stunned disbelief. 

Anger, hot and bitter, blooms instantly in your chest—a visceral, immediate reaction to the sheer disrespect.

Her head snaps up at the sudden, harsh bark of her own voice, as if the echo in the room finally pricks her awareness. 

For a fleeting moment, her eyes, when they meet yours, hold a flicker of something like alarm—a dawning realization of her own outburst.

You glare, furious, the sting of being treated like this surging up through every nerve ending. 

Without a second thought, without a word, you thrust the reports onto her desk, the papers scattering slightly, a visual manifestation of your own disarray.

“Wait—” she starts.

But you don’t stay to hear it. You pivot, shoulders rigid, jaw tight, and walk out of the office, every step fueled by the heat of your indignation. 

She’s under immense pressure, yes; standing at the bottom of a pile of corporate chaos with nothing but her bare hands is a lot. But that? That was fucking unnecessary.

You slam the door softly behind you, letting yourself fume for a second before walking across to your own office. 

You drop into your chair, trying to anchor yourself in other tasks, to shove the sting of her words into the corner of your mind. 

Your fingers tap against the keyboard, your jaw still clenched, chest tight, as your mind replays her words over and over.

Half an hour later, anger still simmers beneath the surface, hot and burning, but now it’s mixed with something else—a hollow ache behind your ribs that wasn’t there a moment ago.

It’s not just what she said. It’s the way her head jerked up afterward, the fraction of a second where you glimpsed the fracture in her control. The exhaustion etched into her face, the raw, fleeting vulnerability that followed.

Your anger begins to lose its edge, replaced by a sinking, unsettled worry. Your chest tightens further at the thought, a mixture of fear and helplessness you don’t know what to do with.

You force yourself back into your work, though the motions feel distant, mechanical, your mind already drifting elsewhere. 

Every muted click of the mouse, every low hum of the office seems amplified, almost waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you glimpse movement through the glass.

Sevika rubs her temple — not the usual tired gesture, but deeper, almost desperate, like she’s trying to push the pain back into her skull by force.

For a heartbeat, her hand trembles. A tiny shake. Barely there. But unmistakable. 

You stop breathing.

She never does that.

Not after fourteen-hour days. Not after board meetings that would make other seasoned executives cry. Not even when she’s furious. 

She is control incarnate—the kind of person who bends the chaos of the world to her will with quiet precision. And yet now… now this slight quiver betrays her.

Your stomach twists, a sick, knotting mix of fear and awe. Seeing her, normally so composed and immovable, show even a flicker of vulnerability feels like watching a skyscraper tremble at its foundation.

Something is wrong. And she’s carrying it alone.

The thought presses against your gut, heavy and urgent, even as your rational mind whispers to step back, respect her space. But your heart refuses. The urge to reach across that distance, to do something, anything, wells up in a tide that doesn’t listen to logic.

By lunchtime, you’re torn in two directions: knock on her door and risk adding to the weight already dragging her under, or leave her alone and pretend the low, uneasy squeeze beneath your sternum doesn’t spark every time you glance at her through the glass panels.

You hover in your chair, cursor blinking on your screen like it’s mocking you. Lunch might help her. Something warm. Something grounding. Something that’s not another spreadsheet or legal update or crisis wrapped in a manila folder.

Your fingers itch to move toward her office, but your mind drifts back to the sharpness of her words earlier, the sting of anger that hadn’t belonged to you but had cut through anyway. 

The echo of her clipped “I know” still lingers in your mind, a reminder that even the strongest people can wound unintentionally. Should you even be attempting this now?

You exhale slowly, feeling the knot in your stomach pull tight before easing as the decision solidifies within you.

Giving her space right now is probably the safest choice—for her, for you. For no other reason than the memory of her tone alone, you can’t bring yourself to add another layer to the morning’s tension.

So you settle on a compromise: wait for her to reach out. Let her set the pace. If nothing else, it protects the small thread of calm you’ve managed to gather in the past few hours. 

You rise from your chair, smoothing your shirt, fingers tracing the fabric almost obsessively to keep your hands busy. Your nerves buzz under your skin—too awake, too aware of every heartbeat. 

You walk out of your office and head down to lunch alone.

✎ᝰ.

The cafe buzzes with warmth and noise, a sharp contrast to the suffocating silence upstairs. Steam clouds the air, plates clatter, someone laughs too loudly near the espresso machine—everything here feels alive in a way your floor absolutely does not.

You stand with your tray, waiting for your salad. You’re so deep in your thoughts you don’t hear Amanda approach until her voice hits your ear.

“Hey—how’s it going?” she asks, tilting her head as she slides her tray next to yours.

You startle slightly. “Oh, I’m fine,” you murmur, not entirely convincing yourself.

She quirks an eyebrow, a small, understanding smile crossing her face. “Sure you are.”

You both collect your food, and then slide into the corner table together, the soft lighting doing nothing to hide the way your shoulders sag.

Amanda settles, then props her chin on her hand, studying you for a moment. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate, fork brushing absently over your salad. “… Ms. Sevika hasn’t said much to me today. And when we did talk… it wasn’t pleasant. At all.”  The memory of Sevika’s dismissive tone still pricks at you.

She frowns slightly, considering. “Wait—aren’t you two just… sleeping together? What’s the big deal?”

You pause mid-bite. 

A wave of heat washes over you, and your gaze snaps up to meet hers, a sharp, wounded glare cutting across the table. 

The words, though perhaps not intended cruelly, strike with an unexpected force—blunt in a way that hurts.

Amanda notices, her expression thinning at the lips, realization dawning. “Ah—sorry. That came out wrong.”

You swallow, the lump in your throat making it difficult. The sting of her words, however unintentional, remains. 

You offer a small, dismissive shrug, your gaze dropping back to your salad. You poke at a stray piece of lettuce, the urge to dissect the situation, to explain the unspoken complexities of your relationship with Sevika, suddenly vanishing. “Just… let’s change the subject.”

Amanda exhales, nodding, then unloads everything immediately: gossip, confessions, weekend drama, exaggerated rants about people you barely interact with. Chaos, but the harmless kind. The kind that doesn’t collapse anyone’s career or involve legal teams or frozen bank accounts.

It’s a relief. A lifeline.

You laugh at her dramatic reenactments, tease her for her choices, toss a crouton at her when she gets too smug. And somewhere in all of it, your body remembers what it feels like to breathe without a weight on your sternum.

For a little while, you almost forget the heavy glass wall upstairs, the dimmed privacy setting, the silhouette that wouldn’t look at you long enough to speak.

Almost.

Because even while Amanda talks, even while you smile, a part of your mind keeps drifting back toward the executive floor—toward the way Sevika’s shoulders looked when she rubbed her temple, toward the tiny tremor in her hand, toward the way she spoke to you.

It sits in your ribs, quiet but insistent. A little ache you can’t exhale out.

The cafe’s warmth sticks to your skin as you step into the elevator. You press the button for the upper floors, and the doors slide shut with a soft whoosh. 

The confined space tilts slightly, the mirrored walls reflecting your own tension back at you. Each floor that ticks by is a slow, measured climb, a countdown to the quiet intensity that’s waiting.

When you return to your office, Sevika’s office is dimmed to privacy mode — full frost, the glass gone opaque white, erasing even the faintest outline of her.

No silhouette. No movement. A full shut-out.

It’s ridiculous, you tell yourself. You’re her assistant… and someone she’s fucking… but you’re not not her confidant, not her anchor, not someone entitled to her private storms. Your job is logistics, schedules, crisis-routing. 

A flicker of motion draws your eye: Tom, badge in hand, slipping into her office. Her door closes behind him, smooth and silent.

Something pins you with a hollow ache, that prickling twinge of exclusion, the same ache you’d felt earlier in the morning. 

You tell yourself it’s rational: she’s running a meeting, probably briefing him on the Kira situation. It’s work. 

Still. Watching the door close, knowing she’s letting someone else in while you hover on the outside—it scratches at the raw edge in your chest. 

A quiet, poisonous thought slips in: Maybe she doesn’t need you right now.

But why does it bother you this much?

You shake your head a little too hard, trying to dislodge it. Focus on your inbox, on the unread emails, the overdue vendor signatures, the three meeting requests waiting for her approval. But the tasks blur together, your cursor blinking accusingly at you.

Time drags. Five minutes. Ten. An hour. Her door never opens. Her light never flickers. Privacy mode never lifts.

By six, your eyes ache and your brain feels wrung out. The office is nearly empty, the overhead lights glowing softly as you gather your bag.

You glance at her office one last time. Still sealed. Still silent. 

You leave the building with a heaviness that clings to your shoulders all the way home.

✎ᝰ.

Your apartment doesn't just feel quiet tonight; it's a vacuum, sucking the energy out of the air. It’s a profound, aching stillness, not the peaceful kind that invites relaxation, but the kind that acts as an echo chamber for the maelstrom within your own mind. 

Every thought, every unresolved worry, every unaddressed task from the day seems to amplify in this oppressive silence, creating a pressure that presses in from all sides.

You move through the motions automatically — dropping your bag, kicking off your shoes, stepping into the shower. The spray hits your skin, a welcome assault of heat, steam clouding the small enclosure. 

For a fleeting moment, there’s a sense of reprieve, a gentle melting of the day's hard edges. The warmth permeates, promising comfort. But the water, no matter how scalding or soothing, can't scrub away the tenacious grip in your skull.

A steel band seems to tighten around your temples, a constant, low thrum beneath the surface of the warmth, refusing to loosen its hold. Not really.

Afterward, eating feels like another task you’re not sure you have the energy for. You grab something simple from the fridge, anything that doesn’t require thought, and pop it into the microwave without really paying attention.

You take a bite. The texture registers, the warmth too, but the taste just… doesn’t. Everything is muted under the metallic edge of your own anxiety.

Your tongue feels numb, your body moving on autopilot. Each mouthful sinks heavy, and your stomach tightens around it, knotted and uneasy, protesting every swallow like it wants nothing to do with the food you’re trying to get down.

By the time you curl up on the couch with a blanket, the apartment feels like a space you’re only half inhabiting. You stare at the TV menu, thumb hovering over the remote, but nothing holds your focus.

Your phone sits beside you on the cushion.

You aren’t checking it. Except that you are. Every few minutes, your eyes flick toward the screen. Waiting for… something.

A message. A ping. A missed call. Some sign that today’s distance wasn’t personal. Wasn’t about you.

But the nausea curls up anyway, tight and persistent. 

A lump starts to form in your throat, unexpected and embarrassing, and you swallow it down hard. It’s a reminder that even when you try to analyze and compartmentalize your feelings, your body can still betray you.

You know it’s not about you—she’s stressed, the Kira situation, the board—but knowing doesn’t stop the hollow ache, the lump rising in your throat yet again. 

And worse, you feel selfish for feeling this way. For letting one day of distance, one single day, derail your calm, make you overthink every glance, every word. You hate it. Hate that your mind latches onto the absence like a claw, hating yourself for caring this much when you know rationally you shouldn’t. You swallow hard, wishing both the nausea and the guilt would just vanish.

You drag in a slow breath. And then you feel it—hot, unwelcome pricks at the corners of your eyes. You blink, forcefully, trying to hold back the tears that aren’t supposed to be here. 

In a moment of desperation, you reach for your phone, thumb hesitating over the contact for your mom.

Maybe she can offer some words of wisdom, some grounding perspective to remind you that the world isn't always this heavy and overwhelming. 

Your thumb hovers over the call button, trembling slightly, when—sharp, precise—there’s a knock at your door.

Your heart stutters so hard it feels like it misses a beat.

You stand too fast, blanket falling to the floor, and cross the living room with your pulse in your throat. You hesitate for a moment, before opening the door.

Sevika waits there. 

You freeze for a fraction of a second. 

What do you even say? Ask if she’s okay? Ask why she was distant today? Ask why she spoke to you like that? None of it feels safe—or even appropriate. So you say nothing. You just look at her.

Then you release your hold on the door and step back, a small, hesitant shift that’s enough to tell her she can come in. Your arms fold across your chest as you move out of the way.

Sevika steps inside, slowly, and closes the door behind her.

Her gaze meets yours, and for a moment, she mirrors your own uncertainty. A flicker of something guarded crosses her face, as if she, too, is searching for the right words. Then, the tension in her shoulders seems to ease, replaced by a quiet resolve.

“I was an asshole today.”

Yes, she was. And it stung. You’ve been swallowing that all day.

But the moment you see the strain in her expression, the words you should say slip right out of reach.

What comes out instead is softer, instinctive—

“Sevika—it’s fi—”

“No,” she cuts in, low but firm. “It’s not. I snapped at you. I shut you out. I hurt your feelings.”

The words hit you like a physical touch. You weren’t prepared for that kind of honesty.

You feel tears sting the back of your eyes so fast you have to look away, jaw tightening as you try to tamp down the sudden swell of feeling rising in your throat. 

Embarrassment, relief, ache — all tangled and suffocating.

When you finally look back up, Sevika is moving toward you.

“Please, don’t do that,” she says, voice barely above a breath.

Her thumb brushes under your cheek. You didn’t even realize a tear had escaped.

Her touch is gentle. Careful. More intimate than anything you shared in the office, in the suite, on the boat, or in her bed.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, thumb sweeping once more, slower this time. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”

Your vision blurs, a quiet, helpless inundation. Before you can even attempt to rein it in, driven by an instinct that bypasses thought, you lean forward and wrap your arms around her.

She stiffens. Just for a second.

Then she exhales and her arms fold around you, pulling you in with a quiet urgency that steals the air from your lungs. Her chest rises and falls against cheek, tension bleeding out of her in slow, reluctant waves.

Relief hits you so hard it nearly knocks you off your feet.

She tilts her head slightly, just enough to see your face. Then she leans in and presses a soft, quick kiss to your lips.

Not hungry. Just… reassurance. A promise she doesn’t have the words for.

Sevika turns away before you can read too much in her expression, runs a hand over her face, and moves toward the couch. 

She sinks into it heavily. 

You hesitate for a moment, taking in the slump of her shoulders, the way her head tilts slightly forward as if the weight of the world is pressing down. You just want to reach out, offer some quiet comfort in the middle of everything she’s carrying.

Slowly, you move over and settle beside her on the couch, careful not to crowd, just close enough that your presence is tangible. 

The fabric of the cushions sighs under your weight, and the faint scent of her — sharp, woody — drifts into your senses. Your hand hovers for a heartbeat, then brushes against hers, letting it rest there lightly.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” you ask softly, voice tentative.

Her jaw tightens immediately, before she releases a shallow exhale. 

“The shit with Kira… it’s not just about the money,” she admits, voice raw around the edges. “It’s reminding me of something I don’t… want to revisit.”

A pause.

She exhales, long and slow, her gaze fixed on a spot on the floor rather than on you.

“Selene,” she murmurs. The name lands heavy, like it’s still bruised somewhere inside her.

You wait, unsure whether to speak. She doesn’t look at you.

“She took from me.” A pause. “Personally. And from the company.”

Your breath catches, just slightly. “You mean… money?”

A humorless laugh slips out of her—quick, bitter. “Yeah. Money. And other things I shouldn’t have let her anywhere near.”

She doesn’t specify what. She doesn’t have to. There’s something in the way her shoulders tense, something in the way her voice thins around the edges, that tells you the truth: Selene mattered. Selene got close.

Carefully, you ask, “Were you… involved?” 

Sevika doesn’t answer. Not directly. But the quiet between you stretches long and charged, and she doesn’t deny it. She just exhales, like the memory itself is a knot she can’t untie.

“I covered it up,” she says instead. “Protected her. And she walked away without looking back.” The words scrape out of her like they still hurt.

You sit with it, letting the pieces fit themselves together. “And Kira…” you start.

“That girl meant nothing to me,” Sevika snaps—not cruel, just sharp, defensive, like the thought itself irritates her. She drags a hand over her jaw, staring past you. “She’s just an employee. But her bullshit—it hits the same damn nerve.”

You understand now. Kira wasn’t close. Not like Selene. But her actions still dug into the one place Sevika had walled off, the place nobody has touched since. Because she doesn’t let people get close. 

“She just—” Sevika sighs, defeated in a way you’ve never seen on her. “She took advantage of the fact that I trusted her to do her job. And it reminded me why I stopped trusting anyone in the first place with anything.”

Silence folds over the room. 

“That’s all,” she finishes quietly, shutting down the conversation. “I’m done talking about it tonight.”

You nod, understanding.

The old wound. The one she buried under steel and silence. The one that left her feeling foolish, exposed, ashamed. The one where she trusted someone — cared for them — and they used that trust to gut her.

And now Kira’s mess is dragging those memories to the surface. The theft, the breach of trust, the board breathing down her neck — it all echoes the same betrayal.

This isn’t about spreadsheets or audits. This is her heart remembering what it felt like to be cracked open and left to bleed.

She is fighting a ghost, and the threat of Kira is merely the shape that trauma has chosen to wear tonight.

The realization settles between you like a dim lantern glow, unsteady but honest, guiding your next small move rather than pushing you to fill the silence.

You shift closer slightly, letting your shoulder just brush hers. The tension in her body is still present, but the lines in her posture soften fractionally. 

Your hand drifts up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear before settling lightly on her thigh. You don’t even know why you do it—your body moves before your thoughts catch up. 

Maybe it’s the lingering echo of relief from her apology, the way her thumb traced under your cheek, the way her quiet “please don’t do that” felt like it mattered in a way you didn’t expect. Maybe it’s the small, magnetic pull of her vulnerability, rare and fleeting, and now entirely present.

Her breath stutters at the contact. Not dramatically, not a gasp that would betray her composure to anyone else—but a tiny hitch, barely noticeable unless you’re watching for it. And you are. 

Every microsecond of her reaction is magnified, reverberating through you.

She looks, her eyes are darker, softened at the edges, and there’s a flicker of something fragile behind them, like a candle trembling in a draft. Vulnerable. The kind of moment you know will be gone if you blink.

You exhale, barely audible, and whisper, “Relax.” Your voice is more than a suggestion—it’s a plea, even to yourself, to slow down, to let this small bubble of safety exist.

You let your hand slip away from her thigh before either of you can think too hard about it. The moment holds, suspended, warm and delicate… and then you shift, sliding off the couch.

Sevika’s brow furrows. “What are you—”

You’re already lowering yourself to your knees in front of her.

Her voice cuts off instantly. Not sharp. Not warning. Just still—like you’ve triggered a switch she doesn’t know she has. Her gaze follows you down, curious in spite of herself.

Slowly, you reach for her shoes.

She doesn’t move, but her posture tells the truth: her shoulders ease back, her breath levels out, the smallest shift of someone acknowledging the change without fighting it. She isn’t commanding you. She is letting you. Letting herself.

Your fingers work carefully at the heel of the first shoe, slipping it off with steady motions. You place it aside with a soft thud. Then the other. Her socked feet settle against the carpet, and she exhales through her nose, something between relief and disbelief.

You glance up at her. “There.”

Her gaze is heavy on you—not expectant. Just… watching. The kind of look that says she’s trying to understand why you’d do something so gentle for her.

You push yourself back to your feet. “Are you hungry?”

Her tiny shrug isn’t indifference—it’s exhaustion wearing a thin disguise.

You smile, small but certain. “I’m taking that as a yes.”

Before she can argue, you head into the kitchen. 

The fridge light spills out onto your hands as you grab what you need—something simple, warm, comforting. The quiet of the apartment fills in around you. 

Behind you, she doesn’t move; you can feel her presence fixed on the doorway, listening to the small sounds of you taking care of her. Soft clinks, quiet motion, domestic warmth she never lets herself expect.

When you return with the plate, Sevika has sunk deeper into the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, her posture loose and unwound. You offer her the food.

She takes it without speaking, fingers brushing yours—brief, warm, involuntary.

You sit beside her—not pressed close, but near enough that your shoulder is within reach if she wanted it, far enough that she has space to breathe. 

She gives you a sideways look, something weary-soft, something grateful she won’t say out loud.

You grab the remote and turn on the TV. “Anything particular?” 

Another shrug, though this one is slower, lazier—almost content.

You pick a show. Something easy. Background noise more than anything.

Sevika eats quietly, the faint clink of the fork the only sound between you until the TV hums to life. Her knee shifts slightly, brushing yours—not a mistake, not an invitation, just… presence.

Sevika finishes the last bite, setting her fork down with a soft clink against the ceramic. She starts to rise, stretching lightly, but you reach out before she can move.

“I got it,” you say, gently. 

She hesitates for a fraction of a second, then allows it, leaning back slightly as you lift the plate from her hands.

The slight warmth of the dish still rests in your palms as you carry it to the kitchen. The tiles are cool under your bare feet as you set the plate in the sink. 

A small clatter echoes, fading quickly into the quiet thrum of the apartment. You run a hand along the edge of the counter, fiddling with a stray utensil, twisting it absently between your fingers for a moment.

You glance back toward the couch. Sevika’s posture is relaxed now, her arm still draped over the backrest, but the subtle tension in her shoulders is back, the kind of tension you know won’t fully vanish easily.

You finish rinsing the plate and set it aside, then make your way back into the living room, approaching her slowly.

“Do you… want to shower?”

She tilts her head slightly, a small nod, and a quiet, clipped, but sincere. “Thanks.”

You gesture toward the bathroom. “Come on.”

She moves smoothly, almost mechanically, but you notice the slight hesitation in her step, a shadow of vulnerability that makes your throat catch. 

You pause at the doorway, noticing the way she tugs absently at the sleeve of her shirt before moving toward the shower. 

“Wait,” you say softly, and she glances back at you.

You slip into your bedroom, quickly rifling through your drawers until you find what you’re looking for. An oversized t-shirt, soft, neutral, something that you hope will hang comfortably on her frame. You hold it out to her.

Sevika takes it, a small smile flickers across her face. 

“Oh—towels are in the cabinet under the sink,” you add quietly.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

You give a quiet nod and retreat, leaving her to the bathroom. 

You retreat to the living room, letting yourself fall into the couch. The TV flickers quietly, washing the space in dim blues and greens while you exhale and wait.

When she emerges, the t-shirt clings more than you expected, stretching over her shoulders, chest, and defined biceps.  Her slacks are still on, unbuttoned, and the faint line of her happy trail catches your breath. 

You look away quickly, heart thumping.

Sevika pauses, sensing it, and turns toward you, a quiet question in her eyes. Then she moves to the couch, sliding in beside you.

Her lips find yours. Gentle at first, testing, soft. And then hunger builds, a slow, deep pull that makes your heart thrum and your hands fumble to hold onto her.

She tastes of warmth and quiet, the edges of her restraint fading as she leans into you, letting the moments you’ve shared—small acts, quiet gestures, soft presence—fold into this one.

Sevika pulls back slightly, just enough to break the contact, a small, grin tugging at her lips. She sinks against the couch again and lets out a low, ragged sigh—somewhere between amusement and exhausted relief.

Your gaze, unable to resist, drops instantly back to the focal point of your earlier distraction. 

The t-shirt has ridden up slightly with the friction of the kiss, revealing the sharp, defined line of her V-cut abs, carved muscle contrasting with the soft, shadowed skin of her lower abdomen where that faint, tempting trace of her happy trail disappears beneath the unbuttoned slacks.

You swallow, and mutter under your breath, “I’m such a fucking Pervert.”

Sevika’s eyes follow the movement, a flicker of heat in their depths, as if silently daring you, almost coaxing. The corner of her mouth quirks slightly, a subtle, almost faint invitation that requires no words.

Then, without overthinking it, you slide off the couch and find yourself kneeling in front of her again.

Her hand comes down almost instantly, brushing along your jaw—rough, warm, hesitant. She doesn’t push you away, but she doesn’t pull you closer either. It’s not possessive; it’s protective, almost fearful, like holding onto you might anchor her somewhere she isn’t ready to fully be.

She keeps you in place with that gentle touch, as though lifting her hand even an inch would let you slip away, or worse, let the world back in.

Guilt glimmers in her eyes, and it catches something deep in your chest. You’re hit by the sudden, quiet weight of understanding: she’s never this exposed, never this untethered, not to anyone, and now you’re the one she allows it with, even in fragments.

“You don’t have to fix my day,” she murmurs, voice rough and ragged around the edges. “I shouldn’t even be here. Not when I’m like this.”

Your pulse quickens, and the urge to be closer, to make her forget everything for just a moment, threatens to overtake reason.

“I know,” you whisper, leaning into her touch, letting your forehead rest lightly near her fingers. “But you are.”

Her jaw tightens again, a subtle, almost undetectable flex, and then slowly, painstakingly, loosens. Iron tension melting into soft surrender. 

Fifty minutes ago, she was a tempest—sharp, controlled, nearly impossible to reach. Now, she is the quiet aftermath: still heavy, still unmoored, but softened, just enough that your chest aches with the gravity of it.

And then she lets you stay. Lets her hand steady you. Lets herself need you, just a little.

You feel the heat of relief and the faint sting of confusion collide inside you, a jolt of emotions you’re only just starting to understand. The small, rare trust she’s offering—it’s intoxicating, frightening, and somehow heartbreaking all at once.

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