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I can't stop imagining this ☝️ as Sevika x reader, just the thought of a lovely dovey Sevika worshiping reader each time they come out with a different outfit choice for their date 🥲 would absolutely love if you write something about this
her favorite color
a/n: here you are! tysm for the request, this was a fun write :)
wc: 661
cw: just fluff, pet names (love, my love, baby, dear), gender neutral
——————
Sludging through day-old snow, Sevika makes her way through the viscous quiet shrouding your street. Her evening path to your shared home was well trodden, and after three years with you, well danced.
“Ah… shit,” she huffs as she fumbles with the key, chain jingling with the near dozen charms you attached. Sevika finally nudges her way into sweet warmth, faintly illuminated, her tense features relaxing into the gentle smile your essence arouses.
Wet boots and chilled coat removed, she pads toward the sound of your shuffling through the closet, languid eyes searching for her favorite face. A slow smirk graces her dark lips at the sight of you, draped in the deepest of reds, hair piled practically atop your head. She wanders over, hungry for the familiar warmth filling out your simple satin dress. Her hands caress your face and waist, greeting and asking.
“Are we playing dress up again, love? Hmm?” Sevika hums gratefully into her homecoming kiss.
“Mmm… you could call it that.” You turn away after a beat, grinning to yourself, lips buzzing.
She steps back, appraising from the plush edge of your bed. You adjust your dress a few times in the mirror, but her gaze, unyielding and adoring, draws yours away from your reflection. You quirk a brow at her.
“Come here,” she beckons you over from her rest, hardly a stride away. “I need a better look.”
With your every step and sway, Sevika is lulled right out of her fatigue. The weight of her long day dissipates as her large hands brace your hips. She looks up at you, eyes wide and twinkling with a mischief and vivacity you haven’t seen in weeks.
“Vika…” you warn.
With a grunt, she unfolds to tower over you again. Her eyes roam. Unduly curious.
Calloused hands then soft lips trail over your bare shoulder. “Is this strap supposed to be down?”
“Mhm.” Your heart skips a beat as her gaze consumes you. She plants kisses on every available inch of your skin.
“I don’t think you’re ready for the next two…”
“There’s more?” This time her smile impresses the crinkle of her eyes.
She makes a dramatic show of biting her lip at the next form-fitting cloth. Scarlett. Velvet. You’re almost certain you hear a growl. So you play along, striking a dramatic pose, teasing stilettos planted firmly beside your fluffy rug.
“Oh baby…” she whines, appreciative hands tracing, gliding down your softened figure. Such a trajectory forces her to kneel before you, and the gravity of her love sinks her, easily.
Face to your thigh, she pulls you closer, careful not to disrupt your balance. Her broad shoulders support your hands, but your lovestruck nerves demand your fingers to journey through her locks, soothing the both of you.
“What’s gotten into you today, dear?” you chuckle.
“N’ just so pretty, baby…” she mumbles.
“Come on, Vika, I’ve got one more,” you gently help her back up, coaxing her back onto the bed.
The final dress drapes perfectly, light, organic, fluid. And she melts along with it. Unable or unwilling to slice through the weighty moment, she simply hums. A jazzy melody that unsticks your feet and loosens your bones.
In an instant her solid figure guides yours in a time-suspending dance. Hip held, hand in hand, a natural step emerges. Muscles knowing before you do. Slow, gentle, tender, tending to the ache of her overwhelm.
The trance passes and Sevika punctuates it by giving you a slow twirl. Somehow you’re both breathless. She collapses on the bed and you sit beside her.
“Tuckered yourself out with all those dramatics, hmm?” You smile softly at her.
“I would never tire of admiring you, my love,”
“Good. Get dressed,”
She thinks for a second, reanimating, before turning toward you with a smirk. “You saying I get to show you off tonight?”
“I…” You pass two tickets to The Nutcracker over to her, “…am taking you out tonight.”
--
a/n pt 2: i declare she's a performing arts appreciator
Seven days whisked by since your blissful exchange with Sevika. The memory of her honeyed tone had gradually replaced the whispers of your seasonal slump. You had hardly even let her speak, yet you guiltily craved her rasp. A reinfused zest led you to finally grant your dark coils reprieve. After a not-so-ideally timed Thursday wash day, your resulting afro babbled life into your visage.
Now, incoming swaths of sun devoured your drowsiness and any residual tenderness sold to you in your dreams. Dreams of this captivating librarian undressing your armor, undressing your pain, undressing you. As your eyes fluttered open, you cleared your rugged throat, forcing in the dry air of reality. But, upon the tail of your second inhale arrived the taste of hope.
Bare skin hit chilling air then scorching water then jasmine steam, numb with excitement. Jasmine lotion to match trailed closely behind. As the air settled in your bathroom, you watched your reflection become sharper. Your skin glowed with renewal and the promise of life. And good God your hair missed being loud and free, unwound into a meandering cacophony of curls. You turn toward the soft knitted sweater and nude slacks you’ve had set aside since last Sunday evening and release a giddy chuckle.
Sevika, on the other hand, was beginning to wear down her favorite running shoes. 6 miles became 7 became 10.2. Finally stopping a block from her apartment, she panted profusely as her muscles trembled and sweat trailed. Combing wet strands from her well-kept eyebrows, she shuffled hazily forward. Her mind had been a mess since your encounter. Uncertain of your return and concerningly anxious for your approval, she ultimately quit scouring the library for the perfect book to give you. She sought clarity in abandonment, but intrusive regret whispered in the wind.
9:01 am
Breathless again, Sevika arrives late to work. For the first time. In 8 months. Slinging her messenger bag aside, she reclines in her office chair at the front desk, directing a pensive and distant stare toward the entrance. Reluctantly, she draws her gaze toward her computer, settling her wire-framed glasses on the bridge of her nose. She throws herself into the flow of work for some semblance of solace from the heat you drew to her cheeks. Some kind of frustration.
Too often, she’d found herself in a position such as this, ready to take. To play a role for her carnal satisfaction. But your perturbing essence gave her pause. And she wasn’t sure why. Sevika eyes her bag wearily as it lay neglected on the stuffy carpet. She pivots back to the monitor array before her heartbeat could accelerate any further.
Eventually, the mechanical whir of the automatic doors announce your entrance. You waltz in, underwhelming horror book in hand, ready to bother the alluring librarian. Sevika’s gleaming silver eyes meet the consuming depth of your own and her mind falters. She shoots another nervous glance at her bag and adjusts the sleeves of her maroon turtleneck. She clears her throat, as if to—
“Sevika,” your voice was proudly clear. You held a confidence only found in the pursuit of frivolous affairs. At least, that was what you willed yourself to believe. “How are ya?” you ask with the dearest smile.
“Better, now that you’re here,” she grins, trying to hide her involuntary wince. But she relaxes at your chuckle.
“Oh? Do I really have such an effect on you already?” you bat your eyelashes.
She scoffs. “Well, it might only be downhill from here…”
“Mmm… no book rec, then?” you frown, heart rate accelerating. You watched as Sevika’s breath became stilted and she seemed to brace herself. Disappointment crashes over you in a senseless wave, leaving your ears ringing. In a split second your mind descends into a smoldering mess of nauseating shame for letting your imagination wander so far. For letting it inflate your ego and vitalize your strut and illuminate your week. You had hoped too early.
Between your festering doubt and Sevika’s foreign anxiety, a thick silence coats the room. After a self-soothing shoulder roll and a deep breath, Sevika hinges at the hip to grasp for her bag. Upon its retrieval, she rummages through a mess of paper, pens, and earbud wires to fish out a beat up paperback. She returns to your gaze, wide-eyed and trepidatious, and offers you the book.
Peter Pan.
You thumb through yellowed and tattered pages, flying past sporadic annotations in various colors. The book was obviously well loved and you wondered how much of her you could find in the margins.
“I’m sure you’ve read it before… but I figured I couldn’t miss with a classic,” she explained.
“Mmm, well, you’re right about both,” you chuckle, eyes rediscovering hers. “Although, it's been years.”
“Perfect,” Sevika exhales after a beat, voice gravelly. She examines your demeanor, recording every quirk of your brow and tug of your lips.
And for now, her heart remains steady, anxiety kept at bay by your casually lunar glow. Soft. Not warm, but kind. Sedating.
7:07 pm
After a day lengthened by the demand of errands, you return home. Arms full of groceries and mail, you heave the burden onto your counter. Even in your haste, the grains, dairy, meats, and produce find their way to appropriate storage spaces. The avocados, a little too firm for your liking, hide in the dark recesses of a kitchen drawer.
In a tense, temporal competition, you bound through your evening routine, only slowing for steam. Your scalding shower drowns out your pounding heart, but only your mother’s tea blend soothes it.
Your mattress squeals at your return, yielding to your weight. As you peruse through the thin novel, thickened by pages with memory of use and a little abuse, you notice evolution. The ghost of Sevika’s youth spoke through a stilted pink scrawl. A perfectionist’s know-it-all navy nearly salutes in its neat lines. Beyond the shaky greens and whispered graphite, there was a confident red in which her phone number lounged beneath the acknowledgements.
You gently pressed forward, ignoring the page, because for some reason, you were ready to peel back her disembodied layers, but it was too early for a little chat.
8:22 pm
Sevika meanders home after closing, playing and replaying your reaction, as if she could conjure a view of you leafing through her pages now.
By the time she made it to her door, a sidling discomfort arrived beneath her skin. She grimaced through the goosebumps, guiding heavy steps toward her bedroom. Sevika collapses on the bed, only working her shoes off after an absent, lingering gaze at the offensive air. Something was suffocating her.
Her pulse instantaneously accelerates at the thought of your fingers running over her words, her scrawled musings and confessions. Slight as it may be, she had offered you a tender sliver of her. One marked with the rings of time, colored by nearly every iteration of her.
For longer than she’d ever admit, her consciousness floundered for memory of the extent to which she might lay bare on your nightstand. But she also began to wonder, how gingerly you would pick her apart.
6:34 am, the next morning
Blinking the haze from your eyes, you notice Sevika’s splayed novel rests precariously near the foot of your bed. Her scarlet message remains conveniently veiled, but hardly forgotten.
Your stomach gurgles for your usual effortful breakfast. Checking for the give of your toady fruit, you’re only slightly disappointed by their stubborn rigidity. So you engulf them again in the coaxing dark. Pancakes it is.
---
a/n: i realize this is giving sevika X READER lmao but stay with me
thinking about sevika as the father (jack pearson) from this is us. a selfless, dutiful husband and father harboring considerable trauma, but channeling all of that heat and angst into a furious and audacious love. he was just so endearing… i tear up everytime i think of him. she would absolutely be that kind of wife and mother (hopefully minus the tragic death…)
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Crickets taunt you with their joyous chorus, thick summer air suffocating your senses. With a few more disappointingly laborious breaths and heavy steps, you burst through your front door, escaping the weighty twilight. You kick your shoes off before all else, heels aching from a long day at work.
Ambling toward your bedroom, you toss every unnecessary layer of clothing and accessory onto one surface or another and flop backwards onto the bed. Staring at the ceiling, you finally remember to let out that breath you’d been holding. Work had wrung you dry and hollow, too numb to truly feel the fatigue.
Like an alarm, your hoarse sigh triggers a heavy and hurried shuffle from another room. Sevika emerges from her study wearing a pensive scowl, balancing a sewing pin between her dark lips. Her demeanor softens as she strolls toward the bed, kneeling near your legs. After placing the pin on the nightstand, she grasps both your hands as they lie on either side of you.
“Babe,” the word just barely peters from her lips. A whisper with the force of a gale. Your greetings required fewer and fewer words over the last few years. Her crinkling silver eyes, earnest stare, and slow grin spoke of your fossilized love. Sevika’s tender gaze and halting appraisal of her wife was nothing if not arousing. Your eyes flutter open and a possessing smile betrays your ever-smitten heart.
You offer a soft, acknowledging groan. Sevika scoffs and coaxes you off the bed, pulling you to your feet. Traces of jasmine and cigarette smoke embrace you as you collapse into her chest, (mostly) feigning weakness. Bearing most of your weight, she shuffles you into the hallway, pausing to get a good look at your tired eyes.
“Missed you,” her voice croaks, as if left unused for too long. Her eyes were searching.
“I missed you,” you sing. She responds with a reverberating hum and sated grin. Her hands find their fixtures at the curve of your hips and she pulls you into a lulling sway. The two of you dance to the tune of a song unsung, the cadence nonetheless familiar. You exchange breath and for a moment your love lives between you. It leaves a pressure on your chest and steals Sevika’s breath, as you swing in aching tandem.
She pivots to dip you, catching you off guard. A hiccuping giggle finally escapes your stubborn lips.
“Ah, that’s what I’ve been waiting to hear,” Sevika purrs. “Long day?”
You nod. She takes your hand and leads you to her study. Her study. The one she made you swear to never enter. The very one you ended up lounging in every evening.
She leads you to your usual plush seat and returns to her work desk. Papers were strewn everywhere to make room for the sizable sewing machine and swaths of fabric lying around. You watch as she slides on her wire frames and flicks on a lamp, hastily reimmersing herself in the mess.
After a half hour of whispered curses and less than gentle crafting, Sevika turns to you with her toothiest grin.
“Finished,” she declares. She smuggly presents a creatively altered top from your most recent trip to the thrift store.
“You didn’t,” you coo, pouting in restrained disbelief.
“I did.”
“Aw… you’re amazing,” the wonder catches in your throat. You cautiously rise from your seat to caress the fabric for only a moment before plunging back into Sevika’s warmth.
“Can you try it on?” she grunts.
“Tomorrow?” you ask in a muffled whine. She counters with a long-winded sigh.
…
You look up at her with those eyes she can never deny. “First thing tomorrow.”
“I just want you to take me to bed.” And she did.
-
ps. im sorry i didn't really try w the clothing description... :D
There is a reason why I side-eye the 'arcane critical'-critical crowd who insist we cannot equate real world politics with fictional universes, or project our 'leftist' agenda on a world of pretend.
There seems this undercurrent of condescension in the attitude, as if it stems from people who have perhaps not considered why they enjoy the shows that they do, or how a certain character or plot makes them feel; either positively, by representation, or negatively, by erasure.
And yet... we are drawn to stories that resonate with our own experiences.
These stories, in turn, are written by writers who live in our world and who often pull their ideas directly from it. We gravitate toward characters who are reflections of ourselves, and avoid the stories which cause us discomfort for whatever reason. Even 'guilty pleasures' stem from an inner desire to explore themes or issues which we know exist (and may be problematic in social spaces) but which, through fantasy, become more bearable because we can safely distance ourselves from what is real.
Ultimately, most writers put something of themselves into their work. A little sliver of self always peeks through the cracks; a touch of idealism here, an emotion felt there, a comment on a political issue sprinkled somewhere in between.
It does not mean that fictional universes are a perfect mirror image of our reality; but it behooves us not to forget how influential 'RL' has been, and always will be, when writing fantasy or science fiction.
Tolkien was undoubtedly inspired by his experiences of war, all of which would later bleed into the pages of his Middle-Earth tales. Even in a tiny microcosm, I notice how life events and current political attitudes affect the way I write my stories, whether they are fan-based or original pieces.
We live in chaotic times. Fiction, at its crux, mirrors that chaos, because it comes about as a result of real life. As much as we wish to escape from harsh truths or present-day issues... they still seep through the veil between imagination and reality.
Escapism should not blind us to the truth that stories are products of our environment, and therefore, inevitably political.
With that in mind, there's something innately disingenuous about insisting that Arcane is somehow separate from real world issues - when, on so many levels, it borrows from real world problems and confronts its viewers with topics which are inherently political: poverty, inequality, state violence ... even the underbelly of the Piltover elite and their dealings with the undercity echoes how we see corruption occurring in governments worldwide.
That the show, by S2, reduces these issues to aesthetics - for instance, the writers admitting they wrote up Vi's backstory with her parents being killed by Enforcers to introduce an element of conflict into hers and Cait's future romance - or, worse, resolves these conflicts without any further nuance - like Sevika becoming a Zaunite representative on a Council that plainly disdains her, and the narrative coming away thinking this is acceptable in lieu of actual independence - is, in essence, disappointing for the themes that were promised.
It feels like the writers realized halfway through writing these plots, that they either did not have the time, budget, know-how or interest in delving too deep into these gritty, tough-to-solve sociopolitical pickles, and instead opted to pander to a (admittedly broad, myself included) subset of viewers who just wanted a sapphic couple with soft angst and sweet reconciliations to contrast all of the ugly machinations happening around them, while the rest of the cast was going through literal hell.
This is not enough to say we shouldn't enjoy Arcane for what it is. I've made plain, on several occasions, that I found the finale visually spectacular, thematically satisfying, and a masterpiece in terms of animation.
And yet, what elevated Arcane S1 to such high levels of acclaim was also its willingness to probe the uncomfortable issues surrounding power, control, exploitation, abuse, morality and free will; as well as, at least initially, its decision to offer a critical lens into how we approach each of these themes, as refracted to a cast of different characters.
We can acknowledge these strengths while simultaneously recognizing their flaws.
Arcane is far more than 'just a video game show.' It's a beautifully designed piece of fiction that deals with so many real-life issues, in spite of its fantasy setting. Yet the criticism that 'we cannot project real world politics onto it' feels inherently unfair - because no story ever exists in a vacuum, least of all one which confronts us with stark contrasts between poverty and wealth, oppression and liberation, authority and agency.
There is nothing wrong with simply wanting to sit back and enjoy the ride. But please spare me the holier-than-thou attitudes whenever people try and open up discourse on why certain shows should take responsibility when it comes to the messages they broadcast.
Because, believe it or not, there exists a slew of media that, in fact, sticks to the landing re: difficult questions about humanity, society and politics. Media that does not ignore, diminish or erase people who are struggling, precisely because those very same issues resonate in real life - and thus, have real consequences for real people.
It isn't asking much that audiences look past the veneer of aestheticism to find the beating heart within stories. Nor should we be belittled for wanting to hold writers to account if the world they create becomes nothing more than a pretty backdrop.
This can be done without hate-mongering, derision or critique; in fact, I'd go so far as saying that critique is a necessary aspect of engaging healthily with art, media and fiction.
At the end of the day, writers are responsible for the world-building of fictional universes and their plot choices; and both things do have an impact on those who watch those worlds come to life. That doesn't mean writers need to pander to every opinion out there; hell, playing to the gallery (and the shippers) rarely ends well, and more often than not detracts from the message of the tale.
But it does mean we can hold storytellers accountable for the impressions they leave behind, for better or worse - especially when said impressions further compound real world experiences of inequality, erasure or prejudice.
As consumers of media, let's be willing to dig beneath the surface to uncover the meanings of story. Let's not settle for anything less than writers who do everything possible to deliver compelling narratives that ask questions which reflect our humanity in meaningful, resonant ways. Let's enjoy our sweet sapphic ships and our goofy doomed sciencebros, while still looking closely at all of the other issues bubbling beneath the surface.
Let's keep up the healthy dialogues and stop dismissing criticism as merely spiteful.
Escapism is only truly fulfilling when, upon returning to the 'real world,' you feel that something has changed inside you; where you have been enriched, uplifted, inspired even... and sometimes, yes, educated.
Stories carry the weight of imagination; and we must allow ourselves to be transformed by wonder. But never forget to question the reality that is portrayed. Stories are born out of humanity, after all, and thus carry within them fragments of us. When we embrace fantasy, we also learn a lot about the way we see ourselves, and the kind of world we choose to live in.
And if all else fails, I guess we'll have fanfic to fall back on.
Awareness repossesses you as the somber glow of gray skies and lazy wind slosh through your dainty curtains. Not even the birds greet you this late fall morning, but the ghostly alarm of an anxious Sunday sure does pry you awake. Your limbs move before your mind, teetering out of bed and scrambling for your phone to absentmindedly check the time.
Last week’s outfits litter the floor, what’s with all the red recently? you shrug to yourself. As you shuffle through your morning routine, your usual pep returns. You dare yourself to really look into the mirror, squinting, toothbrush caught in puffy lips, lavender bonnet askew. Too early. You finish up in the bathroom and finally undress your head, huffing an ironic laugh. Your braids were a tad bit older than you’d like to admit. Ah… compensating.
Across the city, amidst the rare pinnacle of stillness, a dark form whisks by, upsetting heaps of autumn leaves. Sevika. Tall, imposing, and powerful, her swift strides command the wind. She rounds the corner of her block, only disturbing the silence with an exaggerated exhale as she halts her “light” 6 mile run. She glances at her watch, the sleeves of her navy sweatshirt bunched tight near the nexus of her trained forearm and bicep. Only an hour remains before she heads to work.
9:36 am
Your morning was slowed by the lingering eyes of your reflection. You rarely had time for this kind of criticism so your mind couldn’t resist. The same fervor that usually compelled you to sing into your morning tea and gleefully saunter to the nearby train station struck back with spite, as if you had wound it too far.
After a quiet breakfast and a brisk walk, you made it to the train. Eventually arriving mere minutes from your haven, you adjusted your giant red frames before letting them precede you into the crisp, fresh air. Your brief walk is concluded by the overwhelm of warmth and whispers of vanilla amidst old paper. You pause, eyes closed, breathing it all in for the first time in months. The library. My library. You could almost hear it claim you too. It was going to be a—
“Good morning,” Her voice was kurt but rang with amber soul. You took in her statuesque form, obvious even under her loose linen blouse. Golden skin overlied effortful sinew, but the lazy wave of her nearly shoulder length black hair betrayed a peace that— too early. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Good morning! No, sorry, I’m just here to… browse…” You could barely focus on finishing the sentence. Sevika, her name tag read. Sevika, you repeated back to yourself.
“Alright, well if you do need anything, feel free to let me know,” she offered what you prayed wasn’t just a customer service smile and returned her focus to the three-monitor spread before her.
Smiling to yourself, you glide past the front desk, your simple, pale yellow dress billowing behind you. Your melodic sway set her eyes alight and she simply tacked you on to her mental list of things to do later. She wasn’t one to get distracted, but who dares ignore a shooting star?
11:23 am
The old window creaked beside your reading nook as you tried to refocus on the print within the pages of your mystery novel. Maybe you chose the wrong genre… the exposition was taking far too long and you were just here looking for something to reinvigorate you. Somehow the book finds its way into the reshelving cart and you return to browsing.
“Still looking, hon?” Hon…her velvet voice rumbled in a way that soothed your muscles. Sevika. Your shoulders forgot their tension as if to coax your head in her direction. Closer now, you caught her steel gray eyes and your grin was automatic. She awaited your response with a raised eyebrow and smirk stunted by professional restraint.
“I can’t find anything enthralling enough,” you pout. “I’m just…just trying to claw myself out of this slump and a good book usually helps.”
“Well maybe a book isn’t what you should be looking for,” she grins a little too wide, proud of the subtle insinuation. Her dark lined lips peel away to reveal a slight tooth gap. Your smile refuses to leave, but you roll your eyes…too early. Maybe you do like a lengthy exposition; your eyes wander over to the reshelving cart.
“Really?” your brows pinch in feigned confusion. “Are you suggesting I leave the library?”
She crosses her arms and slowly steals the distance between you. You’re swallowed by the impossible scent of a distant beach… salt, musk, and citrus? You swallow it back. She’s close enough for your involuntary sigh to gently stir her midnight locks.
Heat rises to your ears as you take in the harmonious arches of her nose and cheekbones. Her sweeping eyelashes frame her searching gaze, but you can’t give her what she’s looking for. Not now.
You take a step back, resisting her gravity. Her smile falters and her hands move to adjust the beaded glasses chain suspended on her neck.
“I– ” you start.
“No, God, I’m sorry… I shouldn’t h—” you cut her off with a raised hand and eyes lidded with cautious restraint. You shook your head.
“Sevika…” Sevika… it was delicious and the sound of her breath catching just washed it down. Your belly ran warm with something. And you were hungry for more. Of this tension. Of this saccharine hedonia. “... just time.” You inhale, absorbing composure.
“Time,” she echoed, grasping for understanding.
“Find me a good book for next Sunday, hon,” this time you attempted to contain your smile for her sake.
And with that, her star flits across the sky and out of her vision.
You stride out with nothing more than a seed in your heart and a skip in your step.
She paces the aisles in a contemplative silence that she hadn’t been beholden to in years. Flashes of pale yellow, beautiful brown, and a dot of red miscolor her vision. Your presence had briefly suffocated her burly ego. So as it reels, gasping for breath and reclaiming its hold, Sevika fumed through the remainder of the day.
a/n: first time writing fanfiction, very open to criticism! super excited for the rest :)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
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