velvetsserenity

[velvetsserenity]

Hi! I was wondering if you could write a fic with Sevika where the size difference with the reader is emphasized? Not in an odd way but sevika being 6’1 and so muscular and nobody talks about it, it’s unfair 🥲

Thank you for your ask! Sorry it took me awhile to write & publish it! Hope you like it. ❤︎

overshadowed

sevika x f!reader

✎ word count: 2.3k

꩜ content warnings: explicit sexual content, size difference, strap-on use, oral sex through underwear (reader receiving) , vibrator use, mild overstimulation, aftercare

The door slammed shut behind you with a thud that rattled the hinges, but neither of you noticed. You were too tangled up in Sevika’s hands, her mouth, the low laugh that hummed against your lips when you fumbled with the lock and missed, twice.

“Cute,” she murmured, her breath hot against your cheek, before she caught your jaw with a single, calloused hand and tilted your face back up to hers.

She was so much taller than you. Always had been, always would be. It wasn’t something either of you brought up,  but it was felt. In the way you had to tilt your head back to meet her gaze. In the way her shadow fell over you when she stepped close, broad shoulders blotting out the world behind her. In the way your hands could never quite wrap all the way around her bicep, no matter how tight you tried to cling.

She kissed you again— hard, hungry, like she needed to stake her claim from the front door all the way to the bedroom. You barely had a second to breathe before your back hit the hallway wall with a soft thud, her thigh pressing between your legs like she belonged there. Like you belonged to her.

"Can't even make it down the damn hall," she said against your mouth, not that it stopped her. Her lips were slick with yours. Her voice rough, rumbling, a storm building in her throat. “Look at you. So desperate.”

You whimpered, hands sliding up beneath her jacket, only to clutch the solid wall of her back. Muscles met your fingers wherever they searched.h. And still, you wanted more.

Sevika chuckled again as she pulled away just enough to see you, and fuck, she took up the whole damn hallway. The lights from the ceiling couldn't touch you anymore, not with the way she towered above you, built like a weapon, eyes half-lidded and locked on your mouth like she was ready to break it open again.

"Bedroom," you whispered, breathless. Begging.

She didn’t answer. Just scooped an arm around your waist and practically lifted you forward, guiding you in a stumbling walk down the hall as you both kept kissing, bumping into doorframes, laughing when your shoulder hit the edge of the wall and Sevika growled like she might tear it down for getting in the way.

By the time your knees hit the edge of the bed, Sevika wasn’t letting go.

You landed on your back with a bounce, hair spilling across the sheets. Your shirt was halfway up your ribs, chest heaving, lips kiss-swollen and open for her again. Always open.

Sevika stood above you, and the sight alone made you ache. Her frame filled the doorway of your shared bedroom, broad arms planted against either side of the frame like she needed to brace herself, like she was too big to even fit. Shadows clung to her chest, her arms, the hard lines of muscle that shifted and stretched beneath her skin.

And then she moved forward.

Climbing onto the bed felt like watching a storm roll in— slow, inevitable. Her body blocked the light from the bedside lamp. You sucked in a breath as her knees caged your hips and her arms bracketed your shoulders. The room dimmed beneath her. All you could see was her.

All muscle, all heat, all Sevika.

Her mouth caught yours again in a kiss that melted every part of you. She tasted like whiskey and iron and the last time she said “I love you” without words. You hooked your fingers into the crooks of her arms, your nails biting into the slope of her bicep, desperate to hold on, to stay tethered to the overwhelming, grounding weight of her body above yours.

She groaned into your mouth when you did that, like it tugged something low from her chest and shifted even closer until there wasn’t a sliver of space between you.

"Fuck," she whispered, her voice gone gravel-soft as she leaned down to press a line of kisses along your jaw, your throat, the edge of your collarbone. "You're so small like this."

You gasped. She kissed lower.

"Mine."

Sevika’s mouth dragged lower, teeth grazing the skin just above your chest before her lips soothed the bite. Then she was kissing down your stomach, deliberate and slow like she had nowhere to be but between your thighs, like the path to get there deserved worship too.

Your fingers threaded through her thick hair, pulling gently, desperate for more. You felt tiny beneath her but never more than when she pinned your hips with one massive hand, her palm splayed wide across your stomach like it belonged there.

“You shaking already?” she muttered, voice half-mocking, half-affectionate. “Haven’t even touched you yet.”

She kissed just above the waistband of your pants and you whimpered— a soft, desperate sound that had her smirking against your skin. With one tug, she had them undone, and then it was all her, her hands, her strength, lifting your hips like they were weightless and dragging your pants down your legs, leaving you in nothing but your soaked underwear.

You barely had time to breathe before she tossed your legs over her shoulders like nothing, like you were a pillow in her lap. The stretch of it made your thighs tense, but Sevika kept her hands steady on your hips, holding you open, holding you still.

And then her mouth was on you.

Through the fabric.

The first drag of her tongue against your panties was slow and intentional, pressing hard against the soaked fabric and making you jerk. She groaned low, deep in her throat, the vibration of it sending shivers all the way up your spine.

“Already wet?” she teased, kissing over the drenched center again, lips warm and slick against cotton. “Fuckin’ mess.”

You whined, trying to shift, but she wasn’t letting you go anywhere. Her hands held your thighs firm against her broad shoulders, arms thick and flexed as she pushed your legs wider apart. You couldn’t close them even if you tried. She was everywhere. All you could feel was muscle, grip, tongue.

The next lick was slower, from the bottom of your panties all the way to the top. Her tongue pressing right where you needed it, soaking the fabric even more. She didn’t move it aside. Not yet. No, Sevika liked the way it clung to you. Liked how ruined it was getting. Liked how you were panting and squirming with nothing but a few inches of cloth between her and your bare pussy.

“You gonna come like this?” she murmured, mouthing at your clothed cunt, letting her teeth graze just barely over the swell of your folds beneath the fabric. “Fuckin’ soaked through already. Keep grinding on my face, baby.”

You couldn’t even form words. Your hips were twitching, lifting just enough to chase her mouth, and she let you, let you fuck yourself against her tongue like it was the only thing keeping you alive. Her hands never loosened. She held you down, muscles shifting against your skin as she worked you open through the mess she was making of your underwear.

Your breath hitched when her tongue pressed right against your clit still through the soaked cotton, enough to make your back arch, your fingers clench the sheets, your moan break in your throat.

She looked up at you then, still mouthing you slowly, wetly, messily. Her eyes were dark and glazed, jaw working against the heat of you like she was starved.

“Gonna rip these,” she growled, voice barely coherent, breath hot through the wet fabric. “Gonna fucking ruin you.”

The heat of her breath lingered even as she pulled back, her face damp with your arousal. She looked down at you flushed, panting, barely able to keep your legs from shaking off her shoulders and grinned. That slow, lopsided smirk that always meant trouble.

“Stay like that.”

You barely had time to process before she reached over to the night table with one arm, the other still holding you steady. The drawer slid open with a loud clack, and she pulled out the strap— thick, dark, already fitted with the harness she liked best. Your breath caught.

She didn’t need to rush. She knew she had you, splayed out, panties soaked to the point of being see-through, thighs still draped over her shoulders. You watched, dazed and desperate, as she stood and rolled the harness up her legs, tightening the straps like she’d done it a thousand times.

And then her hand moved lower between her own legs pressing a small, slick vibe against her clit beneath the harness.

“Fuck,” Sevika hissed under her breath, voice cracking low in her throat. She tilted her hips slightly, rolling against the toy for a second with her eyes fluttered shut. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Then she was back between your legs.

She didn’t bother removing your panties. Just hooked her fingers into the side and dragged the soaked fabric to the side, exposing your dripping pussy while the ruined material stayed bunched, biting into your thigh. Her eyes dropped. She groaned deep.

“Look at this fuckin’ mess,” she rasped, lining herself up. “All mine.”

The stretch hit firs, slow, thick, relentless  as she pushed inside in one smooth, deep stroke, the strap filling you until your eyes rolled back and your fingers scrabbled to find purchase. She didn’t give you time to adjust. Just reached up, took your legs, and folded you back.

The mating press hit deep.

Your knees were nearly pressed to your chest, ankles caught in the crooks of her elbows as she leaned in, her massive body pinning you down completely, her chest brushing yours, all muscle and heat and control. She blocked out everything. The world could’ve burned down around you and all you’d know was the pressure of her cock inside you and the weight of her body grinding over yours.

Each thrust was devastating.

Deep, slow, dragging along every nerve inside you. The sound of wet skin meeting skin filled the room, sticky and obscene. yYour soaked panties clinging to one side, the rest of you trembling beneath her. You couldn’t stop moaning. Couldn’t stop arching. Couldn’t stop clenching around her strap like you were trying to keep her inside forever.

One hand braced beside your head. The other still rubbing that little vibrator against her clit through the harness, her jaw tight, breath ragged.

She looked completely undone, strands of hair clinging to her forehead, body heaving with effort, arms flexing as she kept you exactly where she wanted. Her hips bucked harder, grinding deep on every stroke. You could feel how worked up she was, not just from the toy, but from the way you gasped and clung to her arms like they were your lifeline.

“You feel that?” she growled, voice broken against your ear as she fucked into you deeper, faster, pace snapping now with brutal rhythm. “Taking every inch of me. So tight. So fuckin’ good for me.”

You were already gone. Slurring her name, breath catching on every thrust, your thighs trembling against her sides. You tried to speak, tried to beg but all that came out were ragged, breathless sounds and the high, broken edge of a moan as her cock anlged just right, hitting the spot that made you cry out.

She felt it.

Sevika groaned through gritted teeth, biting down on her lip, legs trembling now too as the vibe worked her closer. Her hips stuttered for a second then she shoved in harder, deeper, grinding into you until the bed creaked beneath both your bodies.

“Come for me,” she growled, hand shaking where it clutched your thigh, her voice like gravel as the toy buzzed harder. “Come all over my cock, baby. Let me feel it.”

And you did, clenching hard around her, body shaking, choking on a sob of pleasure as your orgasm crashed through you. She never let up. Not for a second. She rode you through it, panting now, her own body twitching as she pushed the vibe harder against her clot, grinding once, twice until her mouth dropped open in a silent groan and she froze above you, shaking with release.

For a moment, the room was nothing but panting, sweat, and the creak of the bed under two tangled bodies.

Sevika pulled out slowly, her breath still ragged, the strap slick between your thighs. You twitched beneath her, legs trembling, and she pressed a kiss to your cheek, murmuring, “Easy, baby. I got you.”

She tossed the harness to the side, wiped you clean with a towel she found by the bed gentle, wordless. Then she climbed in beside you and opened her arms.

You didn’t hesitate.

Her body was huge and warm, all muscle and heat as she wrapped you up in her chest, her thigh slotted between yours, one hand splayed across your back like she could keep you there forever. You fit under her chin like a secret.

“Don’t move,” you whispered sleepily.

“Wasn’t gonna,” she mumbled back, voice thick with exhaustion. “Stay right here.”

And you did, breathing slow, held tight in her arms, until sleep folded over you both like a second blanket.

plagarism not authorized

[velvetsserenity]

arcane woman + kinks vi, caitlyn kiramman, ambessa medarda, mel medarda, jinx, sevika, grayon

content warnings: degradation, spitting, hair pulling, rough fingering, name-calling, power play, face sitting, biting, bruising, strap-on sex, forced orgasm, obedience training, remote-controlled toy, public setting, orgasm denial, protocol kink, guided oral, praise kink, edging, power exchange, overstimulation, bondage, vibrator play, breath play, spanking, control kink, forced restraint

vi | praise + marking

it starts with your back against the wall, vi’s jacket falling somewhere near the door, her hands already under your shirt, and her mouth dragging heat and spit along the side of your neck. you tilt your head back to give her more, and she takes all of it. her lips part, and her teeth sink in—hard. enough to make your hips jerk. “that’s it,” she mutters, voice hoarse against your skin. “you’re fuckin’ perfect.” her hands grip your thighs, lift you up like you weigh nothing, and press you higher into the wall as she grinds her hips between your legs. her strap’s already on like she planned this, and the heat of it rubs against your soaked underwear with every slow roll of her hips. but her mouth never stops moving.

she bites your collarbone next, then your shoulder, then the top of your chest, leaving red, blooming bruises in a trail she traces with her tongue. “you take everything i give you like a fuckin’ dream,” she pants, fingers pulling your panties aside. “all mine, huh?” you nod, breathless. she grins, leans in, and bites again “my good girl.” and when she finally thrusts inside, your back slams the wall, your voice breaks open, and her hand comes up to grab your jaw. “look at you,” she growls, eyes locked on yours. “marked up. moanin’. so fuckin’ good for me.”

every time she fucks into you, she leans in to leave another bruise, another hot, wet bite. and by the time she’s finished, your entire body’s a map of where she’s been. of who you belong to. and vi? she just smiles down at you, all flushed cheeks and swollen lips. “you look so pretty when you’re covered in me.”

caitlyn kiramman | power play + degradation

you’re already on her bed when she enters the room, exactly where she told you to be. back straight, legs folded beneath you, hands resting in your lap. you practiced the position until it became second nature. she shuts the door without looking at you, hangs her coat, unclips the holster at her thigh. her silence makes your skin buzz. you know better than to speak.

“you’re early,” she says, voice perfectly calm. “that’s a start.” you nod once, trying not to fidget. she walks toward you slow, deliberate. her gloves are still on. she leans in, tilts your chin up with two fingers, and studies your face like she’s checking for smudges on glass. “but your posture’s slipping.” you stiffen. her thumb brushes the corner of your mouth. “messy,” she murmurs. “what a shame. you try so hard and still can’t get it right.”

you clench your thighs. she notices. “don’t squirm.”

caitlyn moves behind you, unbuttons the top of your shirt with clinical care. her hand settles at the base of your throat, and her mouth brushes your ear. “how many times did i tell you to wait until i said?” you breathe in sharp. “and yet you touched yourself this morning.”

your stomach flips. “yes, i know,” she says, almost bored. “you’re not as discreet as you think.”

her gloved hand slides down, between your legs, and cups your cunt through thin cotton. you’re already damp. her sigh is so soft it could be disappointment, or approval. “pathetic.” she says it quietly. calmly. like a fact. “can’t even make it one day.”

you’re trembling now. her fingers move with excruciating control. not enough to make you come. just enough to make you ache. “if i let you finish,” she says, dragging your panties down slowly, “it’s because i allowed it. not because you’re desperate. not because you earned it. because i’m feeling generous.”

and when she finally slips her fingers inside, when your mouth opens in a gasp and your head falls back against her shoulder, her voice is still steady, still cruel in that quiet, educated way. “go on, then. let go.”

and you do. shattering beautifully under her calm gaze, just the way she likes you.

ambessa medarda | public control + obedience training

the dining room is warm with candlelight and power. plates clink, crystal sings, and every guest seated at the long table knows your name. they nod to you with respect, even deference. you’re important here. but not to her. to her, you’re a thing to be handled. controlled. ambessa sits at the head of the table, elegant in gold trim and military black. you’re on her left, perfect posture, napkin across your lap, eyes forward. but your body betrays you with every pulse of the plug buried deep inside you. she hasn’t touched the remote in ten minutes. you’ve been clenching around nothing, the toy holding you open while you smile through conversation, while you drink wine you can barely taste.

and then—click. your back straightens. your hand grips the tablecloth. the soft buzz between your legs starts slow, steady. not enough to embarrass you. just enough to keep you wet. no one notices. she leans in slightly, as if to pass you something. her voice is low, delicate. “relax your shoulders, dear.” the diplomat across from you asks a question. you answer it. clearly. gracefully. and all the while, the toy buzzes harder. deeper. crueler. you feel your cunt pulse around it. a fresh wave of slick coats the plug, and your breath catches but you don’t move. you can’t.

ambessa refills her glass. her fingers graze your thigh beneath the table, just for a second. “you’re holding very well,” she murmurs, her lips barely parting. “but if you come…” she sets the bottle down with precision. “…you’ll wear it back to the car. dripping. untouched. and i won’t speak to you for the rest of the night.” your stomach drops. your jaw clenches. your cunt clenches harder. because you want to come. it would take nothing. a shift of your hips. a breath the wrong way. one more pulse of vibration. but you don’t. you endure. because this isn’t pleasure, it’s performance. it’s obedience. her obedience.

the conversation around you flows like wine, unaware that beneath your designer dress, your body is begging, twitching, soaked. unaware that your restraint is a gift ambessa trained into you over weeks of discipline. you glance at her. only once. her mouth curves. not quite a smile. and when she leans over to brush your hair back from your cheek, the toy pulses twice so hard and deep your vision goes white for half a second. your nails dig into your own thigh. you breathe through your nose. you hold.

“very good,” she says aloud, to no one in particular. but you know it’s for you. and it makes you ache worse than anything else she’s done tonight.

mel medarda | sensory play + slow mutual control

it starts with her hand in your hair entle, guiding, not yet controlling. she kisses you like she’s thinking about something else, but her fingers tighten when your tongue brushes hers. when you press her back against the sheets, she exhales like a secret slipping from her throat. “slower,” she murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “make it count.” so you do. you peel her silk robe from her shoulders like you’re unwrapping something dangerous. every inch of her is bare, golden, tense. your fingers ghost along her ribs and her breath stutters soft, involuntary. but when your nails scrape just beneath her breast, she tilts her head and pulls your bottom lip between her teeth. gentle. biting. both.

she lets you undress her completely. lets you drag your mouth over her hip, your hand down the inside of her thigh. she doesn’t stop you when you spread her legs, doesn’t guide your head when you sink lower, but she watches you like you’re on trial. her hand settles on your neck. no pressure. just a reminder. you moan into her when you taste how wet she is already. when you press your tongue flat and slow against her clit, she arches but just a little. just enough to keep your mouth exactly where it is. “right there,” she whispers. your hands grip her thighs tighter. she threads her fingers through your hair. the slow rhythm builds your mouth working, her body softening beneath you, and still she’s holding something back.

so you stop. pull away. breathe against her cunt, warm and wet and deliberate. she gasps, not from pleasure, but from the denial. her fingers dig into your scalp. “don’t you dare.” you smile. kiss the inside of her thigh. “then take it back.” and she does. her hand pushes you down again, thighs tightening around your face, rocking slow and controlled against your mouth like it’s hers now. you moan, and she shudders. you flatten your tongue, and she gasps. and when she comes , slow, breathless, elegant and falling apart. she pulls you up by the collar and kisses you like she owns you.

“lie back,” she says, voice soft but sharp. and when she climbs on top of you, dragging her slick cunt along your stomach with intentional slowness, your hands tremble but you still reach up and take her hips. you guide. and she lets you. for now.

jinx | overstimulation + bondage

you’re strapped down to the bed, legs spread wide, wrists bound tight to the headboard with something that might’ve been a ribbon once but now feels like wire. soft at first. not anymore. jinx is already between your legs, humming something off-key with the vibrator pressed flush to your clit, watching the way your thighs jerk with every jolt of overstimulated nerves. “look at you squirm,” she grins, head tilting as she pushes it harder. “we’re just getting started.”

you sob, breath catching, voice cracking as your fourth orgasm slams through you—no pause, no mercy, just slick and heat and aching pressure that won’t let up. she doesn’t move it away. doesn’t give you time to breathe. “aww,” she coos, “you’re twitchin’ again. that means it’s working!”

your hips try to pull back. the bonds don’t let you. your throat’s raw from moaning. your skin’s damp from sweat.

and then she stops. you gasp. your chest heaves.

she climbs onto your stomach, straddling you, messy and wild and glowing with sweat and chaos. she pulls something out of her pocket. a little brush. some neon paint. “don’t worry,” she grins, dipping the brush in and dragging it across your collarbone, “i’m an artist.”

you can’t even laugh. your whole body pulses from the aftershocks. she draws a little star above your nipple. a jagged smiley face on your thigh.

and then back between your legs. “alright, art break’s over.”

the vibrator’s on before it even touches you again, buzzing high, mean, and constant. you scream. she giggles. “one more. maybe.”

her free hand presses flat over your stomach, pinning you down as you buck and writhe beneath her. “c’mon, bunny,” she whispers, eyes wide and sparkling. “paint the sheets for me.”

and you do. again. again. again. until your legs shake violently, until the toy finally slips from her hand and she lets it fall, lets you collapse into the soaked, ruined bed.

sevika | brat taming + spit

you were mouthing off again. legs spread, lip curled, voice full of heat but no respect. she let you. for a minute. let you talk, let you sneer, let you challenge her like you hadn’t been on your knees for her yesterday, begging to be ruined.

and now?

now you’re facedown on the mattress, one arm twisted behind your back, cheek pressed into the sheets as sevika straddles your thighs from behind. you’re naked. breathless. slick between your legs from nothing but the sound of her voice when she snapped. “you done now?” she mutters, voice low and gravel-dark. her breath hits your ear. her metal hand spreads across your ass like a warning.

you mutter something sarcastic. she grabs your hair, yanks your head back, and before you can even gasp she spits straight into your open mouth. it lands hot on your tongue, and your thighs twitch like they know what’s coming. “swallow it.”

you do. she smiles. then she shifts lower, grinding her soaked cunt against your bare ass, letting you feel how ready she is to put you in your place. “thought you were a tough girl,” she says, grabbing your wrists and shoving them forward. “but you cry like a slut when i get going.”

her fingers are rough when they slam inside you—two at first, then three, scissoring deep while her palm slaps your ass with every thrust. you bite the sheets but it’s no use. you’re soaked. loud. trembling. “you gonna talk back now?” she grunts, pounding into you harder. you moan instead. “didn’t think so.”

and when you finally break—hips jerking, body slick with sweat, mouth open and begging for something you can’t even name—she spits again, this time right into your messy, fucked-out smile. “brat,” she huffs, rubbing her thumb over your spit-slick lips. “you’re lucky i like taming you.”

grayson | discipline + spanking

you’re already bent over her desk when she walks in, cheeks flushed, hands braced, skirt lifted to your hips just like she told you. she shuts the door quietly. locks it and says nothing.

the silence stretches long enough to make your heart start pounding. you shift slightly, breath catching, but her voice slices through the tension before you can speak. “don’t fidget.”

you freeze. her footsteps are deliberate as she circles behind you. she takes her time. she always does. the anticipation is part of the punishment.

you feel the touch of her fingers on the small of your back, steadying you. then, the first smack lands—sharp, clean, echoing. you inhale hard. your hips twitch.

another. then another. slow and even, each one burning into your skin, building like thunder. “you broke two rules today,” she says, voice calm. “do you remember which?” you nod quickly. “yes, ma’am.” “say them.” “i was late. and i spoke out of turn.”

another smack. sharper this time. “you were disrespectful,” she corrects softly, “and reckless. you don’t speak before thinking. not in this uniform. not under my watch.”

her palm soothes the sting, rubbing in slow, firm circles. “you know better.” “i do,” you whisper. “good.”

she leans forward slightly, one hand still at your lower back to keep you in place, and her fingers dip between your thighs, finding you soaked. “of course you’re wet,” she sighs, almost fond. “this always gets through to you.” you whimper when she circles your clit once—slow, teasing. “how many spankings was that?” “f-five.” “then we’re not finished.”

you bite down a moan, bracing again, as her hand lifts— and comes down harder.

the burn makes your knees buckle. the praise that follows makes your chest ache. “you’re taking it so well,” she murmurs. “you always do when you're corrected.”

she doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling and your cunt is dripping onto the floor. and even then, her fingers don’t let you come. not until she says you’ve earned it. not until you’ve thanked her for every single strike.

and when you do—breathless and obedient? she kisses the top of your spine and says you’ve done well. and it means more than any orgasm ever could.

a/n: i'm working on the rrequest/asks, they'll be up shortly! plagarism not authorized

[velvetsserenity]

Helloo! I hope you're having a wonderful day, feel free to ignore this because I have no idea if you even take requests or not.. hehe. But may we have a fic about a poly relationship with Ambessa, Sevika and reader? (Where Ambessa is the ultimate top🤭) And! I would like some spice in my Amvika sandwich, thank you!

hii, and thank you for the ask! and yes i’m open for requests! this was so hard to write, even though i love ambessa sevika poly fics! i tried my hardest, hope to not dissapoint you! <3

these women make me weak

warm up

dom!ambessa x switch!sevika x sub!reader

✎ word count: 3.5k

꩜ content warnings: explicit sexual content, dom/sub power dynamics, rough sex, face riding, overstimulation, orgasm control, orgasm denial, strap-on use (ambessa → sevika), degrading language (toward sevika), light choking, restraint, reader exhaustion

The wooden spear was slipping again.

You gritted your teeth, adjusting your grip, sweat stinging your eyes. Muscles in your shoulders screamed in protest as you raised the shaft one more time, barely managing to keep your footing. Ambessa didn’t flinch. She stood across from you like a statue carved from obsidian, breathing steady, arms loose by her sides as if the last hour hadn’t even happened.

You lunged. Sloppy. You knew it the second you did it.

Ambessa didn’t bother to block. She merely stepped to the side, letting your momentum carry you forward. You stumbled. Caught yourself on shaking knees. The training stick hit the floor with a soft clatter.

Ambessa’s voice was even, not cruel. “You’re tired.”

You collapsed to your knees, chest heaving, the air hot in your throat. “No shit,” you muttered, one palm pressing against the mat. “You’re a damn war general.”

“And you’re someone who asked to be trained by one,” she reminded you. Not unkindly. But not softly, either.

You heard the soft creak of the lounge chair a few feet away as she finally moved, crossing the floor like she hadn’t just been sparring for hours. She sat with ease, rolling one shoulder back before reaching for the wine that had been waiting on the low side table.

That was when the door swung open.

Sevika’s boots were the first thing you noticed. Heavy, scuffed. Familiar. Her eyes swept the room in one motion, landing right on you, sweat-slicked, breathless, still on your knees with the training stick beside you like a discarded toy. You saw the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth, almost a smirk, but something warmer behind it.

“Training day again?” she drawled, stepping in fully now, the door swinging shut behind her.

Ambessa didn’t even look up as she poured her glass. “She lasted longer this time.”

“Barely,” you muttered, trying to push yourself up.

But Sevika was already moving, crossing the room in a slow, confident gait. You felt her presence before you saw her crouch in front of you, hand bracing lightly on your thigh as she examined your flushed face.

“Ambessa really working you over today?”

You nodded wordlessly, too tired to shoot something clever back.

Ambessa, now reclined with her wine, finally looked over the rim of her glass. “She’s getting better. But she still swings with her arms. Not her hips.”

“Pff,” Sevika scoffed. “You giving her a staff doesn’t help. She’s not you, Ambessa.”

You glared up at Sevika, panting. “I’m right here, you know.”

“Yeah, and you look like you just crawled out of a battlefield,” she said with a grin.

“She has been crawling,” Ambessa mused, swirling her wine. “Not unlike a certain someone her first week in Noxus.”

That earned a sharp laugh from Sevika. “Don’t compare me to her.”

Ambessa just lifted her glass in salute. “You begged to stop after day one.”

“Because you broke my rib,” Sevika snapped, though her smirk betrayed her fondness. “[First Name]  here just looks... wrecked.”

You shoved at Sevika’s shoulder weakly, which she didn’t even pretend to budge from. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t be wheezing too,” you muttered.

“Oh, I’d be wheezing,” Sevika replied, her tone dipping. “But not from training.”

You felt the heat crawl up your neck, and she grinned like she knew it. Ambessa’s deep chuckle came from the corner as she took another long sip.

“I told you,” Ambessa said smoothly, “discipline first. Then reward.”

Sevika raised a brow. “Is that why you’re sitting back with your wine while she’s over here leaking all her sweat onto the mat?”

“I’m building her stamina,” Ambessa said, calm and collected. “For all the right reasons.”

That made Sevika’s gaze flick back to you, slow and assessing. “Mm. Gotta say, I like her like this. All tired and pliant.”

“I’m not pliant,” you protested, trying and failing to stand. Sevika caught you before you faceplanted, gripping your bicep easily to hold you up.

“You are when you’re on your knees,” she said, low against your ear.

You flinched, heart pounding again, but this time not from exhaustion.

Ambessa watched with one leg crossed over the other, wine glass resting on her thigh like she had all the time in the world. “Let her rest,” she said, though there was something in her tone that promised that rest would only last as long as she allowed.

Sevika didn’t release you. If anything, she held you closer, pulling you gently into her side. Her grip lingered just a bit too low on your waist, thumb brushing against the edge of your ribs.

“Let her rest,” Ambessa said again, eyes still on the glass in her hand.

Sevika let out a low snort. “Didn’t realize you were so merciful.”

That earned her a slow blink from Ambessa. She set the wine glass down with quiet precision, no clatter, just a soft click that somehow cut through the air sharper than any barked order. Her legs uncrossed. She stood.

“Mercy?” she said, voice low and even. “That what you think this is?”

Sevika straightened as Ambessa stepped toward her, and the tension shifted immediately. Her hand stayed on you, but her eyes were locked on Ambessa now, body coiled like a spring.

“I think you’re getting soft,” Sevika said with a smirk. “All this talk. All this wine. And here I thought Noxians liked to prove things.”

Ambessa didn’t smile.

She crossed the room in three steps flat and pushed you aside, not cruelly, but decisively. You hit the mat with a grunt as her arm locked with Sevika’s, their bodies twisting in a sharp clash of limbs. No warmup. No warning. Just pressure, contact, force.

You scrambled to the side, heart hammering. They were moving fast—too fast for how big they were. Ambessa ducked low, Sevika countered, their boots scraping the mat and hands catching arms, shoulders, hips.

A blur of strength and stubbornness.

“Hey—hey!” you wheezed, trying to crawl out of the way. “Can you two not kill each other over me?”

Neither answered.

You dragged yourself toward the edge of the mat, just a few feet from the bench when something latched around your ankle. Metal fingers. Sevika.

“Oh no,” you muttered, trying to kick free.

She tugged you back like it was nothing, dragging you across the mat even as Ambessa moved in again with a shoulder check that Sevika barely dodged. You yelped and tried to scurry again, only to feel Ambessa’s hand plant on your hip as she stepped over you, using you to pivot and shove Sevika back.

You rolled the other way. “I am not a sparring prop!”

Ambessa’s voice was breathless but amused. “Then stay out of the middle.”

“I was!”

You barely got the words out before Ambessa surged forward again.

This time, she didn’t just counter Sevika, she crushed her momentum. Sevika tried to twist out of it, going low, but Ambessa anticipated it, catching her mid-shift. The thud of bodies colliding shook the mat. In a flash, Sevika was on her back, Ambessa over her, one knee braced against the floor, the other pressing Sevika’s thigh down.

Sevika growled, one hand pushing at Ambessa’s hip, the other trying to wedge between them, but Ambessa caught her wrist and shoved it aside, her other hand gripping Sevika’s throat—not hard, but firm enough that Sevika froze.

They locked eyes.

Breathless.

Silent.

You sat frozen where you’d landed a moment ago, half upright, watching the way Sevika’s mouth parted but didn’t speak. The way her mechanical arm stayed lifted but never struck. The tension snapped—shifting from aggression into something else entirely.

Ambessa’s thumb dragged slow across the side of Sevika’s neck. “You done?”

Sevika’s teeth clenched. But her body said it for her.

Ambessa didn’t move for a long beat. Just studied her like she was still debating whether to end the fight or start another one.

Then she looked at you.

Still half-splayed on the mat. Still catching your breath. Sweaty, shaken, worn out and watching.

“You want to act like a brat,” Ambessa said to Sevika, voice low now, steady, “you get treated like one.”

Her hand left Sevika’s throat, but only to push herself upright. She rose in one fluid motion, towering over both of you now.

You felt the weight of her stare before she even moved toward you.

A hand slipped beneath your jaw, guiding your face up. “She’s already tired,” Ambessa murmured, thumb brushing your cheek. “Worked hard. Didn’t complain.”

Behind her, Sevika had pushed herself to her elbows, watching closely now, her breath ragged but her eyes sharp with something too familiar to name.

Ambessa’s voice dropped further. “Maybe she’ll show you how to behave.”

Your stomach twisted with heat. You didn’t even know what part of you agreed with her, but the part that moved when she touched you sure as hell did.

Ambessa let go of your jaw and took a step back, just enough to reposition you in front of her before pushing you down to the ground, on your knees facing sevika. Her palm flattened over your lower back, guiding you forward until you felt the edge of Sevika’s legs where she sat, still catching her breath from the floor.

Ambessa leaned in behind you, voice low against your ear. “She’s got a mouth. Let’s see if she can still use it properly.”

Your breath faltered. Doubt curled in your stomach,the raw edge of being caught off guard, caught between them. Your thighs still trembled from training, your pulse already too high. Sevika’s stare didn’t help. Her eyes tracked your every twitch like a wolf that had just been handed fresh meat.

You opened your mouth, maybe to ask a question, maybe to say wait, but Ambessa didn’t wait.

Her hand slid down your back, caught the fabric at your waist, and ripped. The stretch and tear of your clothes filled the room louder than it should’ve, and before you could so much as flinch, you were bare, breath hitched, skin prickling under the sudden rush of cool air.

Then came pressure.

Ambessa’s palm pressed flat between your shoulder blades, guiding—no, planting you down until your thighs were straddling Sevika’s face.

“Ambessa—” you gasped, unsure of what you even meant to say.

“Shh.” Her voice was silk over iron. “Let her have it.”

Below you, Sevika didn’t hesitate. She never would. Her metal arm locked around your thigh and yanked you flush against her mouth like she’d been waiting all damn day for it.

You cried out, hips jerking, breath torn straight from your lungs. Her ongue met you with no patience. She licked like she meant it. Like it had been denied to her. Deep, slow drags, then sharp flicks, then lips sealed around your clit like she was daring you to push her away.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Your hands landed hard on Sevika’s shoulders, nails dragging over her collar as she moaned beneath you, hungry and already messy. Every time your hips tried to shy away, Sevika dragged you back down, face grinding against you like she needed it to breathe.

And all the while, Ambessa watched.

She stood a few steps back, arms folded, watching the twitch of your thighs, the way your body shuddered when Sevika groaned into you. Her gaze was dark, sharp, and unbearably focused.

You whimpered, hips stuttering again. “I—fuck, she—”

Ambessa’s eyes narrowed slightly. And then she moved.

Silent steps across the mat. She passed behind you, toward the tall black cabinet on the side wall of the sparring room. The one no one ever touched during actual training. She opened it with one swift motion, pulled something heavy from inside

When she turned, the strap was already in her hand.

You couldn’t look away, not even when Sevika’s tongue drove another jolt through your core. Not even when Ambessa knelt again at Sevika’s side, calm and brutal, one hand sliding down Sevika’s waistband, the other bracing your thigh to hold you steady.

Sevika lifted her mouth just enough to breathe. Her lips were wet. Her eyes, blown wide.

“Greedy,” Ambessa muttered as she tugged Sevika’s pants down, rough and fast. “Should’ve learned your lesson.”

Sevika smirked. “Still waiting on the punishment.”

Ambessa didn’t answer. Simply adjusting the strap. Spat on her palm, slicked the strap, and lined it up.

Then she drove it in.

Sevika broke. Her head dropped back against the mat, hips arching hard as Ambessa bottomed out without hesitation. Her moan lit something in you and you felt your thighs shake again, overwhelmed by the sound, the heat, the grip of Sevika’s hands on your hips as she dove back in like nothing else mattered.

Ambessa started fucking her hard, deliberate strokes that dragged Sevika open each time, forcing her mouth to stay busy even when she gasped or cursed beneath you. Her grip was merciless. She held Sevika there while Sevika held you, the rhythm brutal and unforgiving.

Each thrust jolted Sevika’s body beneath you, her mouth losing rhythm as her breath caught. Her tongue stuttered, flattened, dragged slower over your folds.

“Fuck,” Sevika gasped, voice muffled against you.

Ambessa didn’t stop. Her hips slammed forward again, harder, snapping Sevika back into place with a deep grunt.

“Keep that mouth busy,” she growled. “You wanted this.”

Sevika whimpered something into your cunt inaudible, messy, soaked. Her hands clung tighter to your thighs like she needed something to ground herself, but her pace had turned ragged, desperate. She was shaking.

Ambessa looked down at her like she was pathetic.

“Gods, look at you,” she muttered, voice cold and sharp. “Fucking dripping and still can’t do one thing right.”

You shuddered at the sound. Not from fear. From how right it felt, being pressed between them. Sevika, beneath you, moaning into your cunt like she couldn’t breathe without it, and Ambessa, above and behind, fucking her like she wasn’t worth kindness.

You barely noticed your own thighs starting to tremble again, until Sevika dragged her tongue too deep, too fast, and your whole body buckled forward with a sob.

But Ambessa saw it.

And didn’t let it happen.

Before you could fully tip over, her hand clamped around your waist and dragged you back. Sevika let out a muffled growl of protest as your cunt slipped from her mouth, slick and trembling and denied.

You gasped. “Wait—!”

Ambessa ignored you.

“Is that what you wanted, Sevika? Wanted to feel her come on your face while you’re being fucked like a mutt?”

She hauled you upright, back flush to her chest, one thick arm locking around your neck. Her other hand slid down fast, rough fingers finding your cunt without hesitation.

She fucked into Sevika with the same relentless rhythm, the sound of her hips slapping against Sevika’s ass echoing off the training room walls. But her hand never stopped moving between your legs, fingers pumping in and curling hard, fast, without mercy.

“Don’t whine,” Ambessa growled against your ear. “You’ll come when I tell you to.”

You couldn’t even reply. Your mouth was open, breath caught on every thrust of her hand. The pressure was overwhelming, brutal. Her arm across your chest kept you pinned to her while her fingers curled deeper, harder.

Sevika moaned beneath both of you. her back arched as Ambessa fucked her deeper with each thrust of the strap. Her stomach flexed under the mess between your thighs, her skin slick with sweat and your arousal.

“You see that?” Ambessa’s voice was a snarl, sharp in your ear. “You’re making a mess all over her. You think she’s earned it?”

You couldn’t speak. Your eyes were rolling back. 

Ambessa bit your shoulder.

“Now.”

Your body broke.

You came with a cry, grinding down without control as her fingers drove through you. It hit like a wave, hot, messy, clenching down around her hand as your thighs squeezed and trembled. The aftershocks splattered against Sevika’s stomach, sticky and wet across her skin as she gasped, helpless beneath the weight of it.

“Good girl,” Ambessa murmured against your neck. “She doesn’t get that. Not yet.”

Sevika whimpered again, and Ambessa didn’t slow down.

She just fucked her harder.

Your orgasm ripped through you, all-consuming, your body clenching around Ambessa’s fingers, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. And then your legs gave out.

There was no catching yourself.

Your knees buckled, and you dropped, spine sliding from Ambessa’s chest, thighs trembling, cunt still pulsing. You landed right on Sevika’s stomac, limp and breathless, legs spread wide across her abs.

But Ambessa didn’t stop.

She was still driving into Sevika, deep and punishing, every thrust making Sevika’s core flex under you tight muscle rolling beneath your overstimulated cunt.

“Shit—” you gasped, trying to lift yourself, but Sevika’s body moved again, jerked from the force of another deep thrust and your hips rocked forward without meaning to, dragging slick and swollen across her abs.

You cried out.

It was too much. Your nerves were already raw, your clit still aching from the high Ambessa had wrung out of you and now Sevika’s stomach was grinding against you, again and again, every ripple of movement turning into friction you couldn’t control.

Your fingers scrabbled against Sevika’s chest, trying to lift yourself off her, but your arms were weak, trembling.

And still Ambessa kept going.

Each thrust shoved Sevika’s hips upward, rocked her into the mat, and you with her. Her abs tensed and jumped beneath you, slick with your release, hot and unrelenting turning your still-throbbing cunt into something helpless, overstimulated, dragged across her again and again.

You whined, body twitching. “I—I can’t—”

“You can,” Ambessa said behind you, her voice low, controlled. “You just don’t want to.”

She gripped your hip with one hand now, holding you steady, keeping you there as Sevika’s body moved under you.

Sevika gasped beneath both of you, hands digging into the mat, back arched as Ambessa’s pace grew harder, sharper. Her stomach clenched again under your heat, her breath ragged.

“Oh fuck—fuck—Ambessa—!”

“Not yet,” Ambessa snapped.

You moaned as another jolt rocked through your hips, your body grinding down against Sevika’s abs without permission, every movement another spark across your clit. Your thighs were slick, open, twitching uncontrollably.

“I can’t—” Sevika groaned, “She’s—she’s dripping all over me—”

“She earned it,” Ambessa said. Her next thrust slammed deep, punching the air from Sevika’s lungs. “You haven’t.”

Sevika's hands were fisting the mat now. Arms locked, head tilted back against the floor. Her mouth hung open, panting, face flushed and wild with tension. The strap drove into her again, and again, and again, deep enough to lift her back off the floor, to knock the sound out of her lungs.

"Ambessa—" she gasped, voice cracking.

"No," Ambessa snapped, breath rough now. "You wait."

Another brutal thrust.

Sevika’s legs trembled violently beneath you. Her abs clenched again, so hard it made your hips jolt and your throat let out a broken whimper. You tried to lift yourself, but Ambessa’s hand was still on your hip, holding you there, grinding you down against Sevika’s body, keeping you soaked and open and forced to feel all of it.

“F-fuck,” Sevika choked, trying to resist it, trying to hold on. Her thighs were trembling, her back arched so hard it lifted you with her for a second before Ambessa slammed her back down again.

And then Ambessa broke.

She hissed between her teeth, eyes blazing, body tightening behind you.

“Now,” she growled, hips snapping forward. “Come. Both of you.”

Sevika shattered.

Her moan tore out of her throat like something feral, her whole body locking up. You felt it beneath you, every flex, every twitch, the way her stomach tightened under your cunt, the way her thighs jerked and her arms buckled. She came hard, hips grinding back against the strap, body writhing between you and Ambessa.

And Ambessa—

Ambessa held steady until the very end. Her grip bruised, her pace ruthless, even as her jaw clenched and her breath hitched through her nose. When she came, she didn't announce it, she just dug in, hips burying deep one last time, strap shoved as far into Sevika as it would go.

A slow, deep exhale left her chest. Satisfied. Dominant.

Ambessa’s hand slid from your hip to your throat holding you against Sevika’s heaving body while both of them trembled and twitched beneath you.

‘’Now you’re allowed to rest.’’

plagarism not authorized

[velvetsserenity]

Helloo! I hope you're having a wonderful day, feel free to ignore this because I have no idea if you even take requests or not.. hehe. But may we have a fic about a poly relationship with Ambessa, Sevika and reader? (Where Ambessa is the ultimate top🤭) And! I would like some spice in my Amvika sandwich, thank you!

hii, and thank you for the ask! and yes i’m open for requests! this was so hard to write, even though i love ambessa sevika poly fics! i tried my hardest, hope to not dissapoint you! <3

these women make me weak

warm up

dom!ambessa x switch!sevika x sub!reader

✎ word count: 3.5k

꩜ content warnings: explicit sexual content, dom/sub power dynamics, rough sex, face riding, overstimulation, orgasm control, orgasm denial, strap-on use (ambessa → sevika), degrading language (toward sevika), light choking, restraint, reader exhaustion

The wooden spear was slipping again.

You gritted your teeth, adjusting your grip, sweat stinging your eyes. Muscles in your shoulders screamed in protest as you raised the shaft one more time, barely managing to keep your footing. Ambessa didn’t flinch. She stood across from you like a statue carved from obsidian, breathing steady, arms loose by her sides as if the last hour hadn’t even happened.

You lunged. Sloppy. You knew it the second you did it.

Ambessa didn’t bother to block. She merely stepped to the side, letting your momentum carry you forward. You stumbled. Caught yourself on shaking knees. The training stick hit the floor with a soft clatter.

Ambessa’s voice was even, not cruel. “You’re tired.”

You collapsed to your knees, chest heaving, the air hot in your throat. “No shit,” you muttered, one palm pressing against the mat. “You’re a damn war general.”

“And you’re someone who asked to be trained by one,” she reminded you. Not unkindly. But not softly, either.

You heard the soft creak of the lounge chair a few feet away as she finally moved, crossing the floor like she hadn’t just been sparring for hours. She sat with ease, rolling one shoulder back before reaching for the wine that had been waiting on the low side table.

That was when the door swung open.

Sevika’s boots were the first thing you noticed. Heavy, scuffed. Familiar. Her eyes swept the room in one motion, landing right on you, sweat-slicked, breathless, still on your knees with the training stick beside you like a discarded toy. You saw the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth, almost a smirk, but something warmer behind it.

“Training day again?” she drawled, stepping in fully now, the door swinging shut behind her.

Ambessa didn’t even look up as she poured her glass. “She lasted longer this time.”

“Barely,” you muttered, trying to push yourself up.

But Sevika was already moving, crossing the room in a slow, confident gait. You felt her presence before you saw her crouch in front of you, hand bracing lightly on your thigh as she examined your flushed face.

“Ambessa really working you over today?”

You nodded wordlessly, too tired to shoot something clever back.

Ambessa, now reclined with her wine, finally looked over the rim of her glass. “She’s getting better. But she still swings with her arms. Not her hips.”

“Pff,” Sevika scoffed. “You giving her a staff doesn’t help. She’s not you, Ambessa.”

You glared up at Sevika, panting. “I’m right here, you know.”

“Yeah, and you look like you just crawled out of a battlefield,” she said with a grin.

“She has been crawling,” Ambessa mused, swirling her wine. “Not unlike a certain someone her first week in Noxus.”

That earned a sharp laugh from Sevika. “Don’t compare me to her.”

Ambessa just lifted her glass in salute. “You begged to stop after day one.”

“Because you broke my rib,” Sevika snapped, though her smirk betrayed her fondness. “[First Name]  here just looks... wrecked.”

You shoved at Sevika’s shoulder weakly, which she didn’t even pretend to budge from. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t be wheezing too,” you muttered.

“Oh, I’d be wheezing,” Sevika replied, her tone dipping. “But not from training.”

You felt the heat crawl up your neck, and she grinned like she knew it. Ambessa’s deep chuckle came from the corner as she took another long sip.

“I told you,” Ambessa said smoothly, “discipline first. Then reward.”

Sevika raised a brow. “Is that why you’re sitting back with your wine while she’s over here leaking all her sweat onto the mat?”

“I’m building her stamina,” Ambessa said, calm and collected. “For all the right reasons.”

That made Sevika’s gaze flick back to you, slow and assessing. “Mm. Gotta say, I like her like this. All tired and pliant.”

“I’m not pliant,” you protested, trying and failing to stand. Sevika caught you before you faceplanted, gripping your bicep easily to hold you up.

“You are when you’re on your knees,” she said, low against your ear.

You flinched, heart pounding again, but this time not from exhaustion.

Ambessa watched with one leg crossed over the other, wine glass resting on her thigh like she had all the time in the world. “Let her rest,” she said, though there was something in her tone that promised that rest would only last as long as she allowed.

Sevika didn’t release you. If anything, she held you closer, pulling you gently into her side. Her grip lingered just a bit too low on your waist, thumb brushing against the edge of your ribs.

“Let her rest,” Ambessa said again, eyes still on the glass in her hand.

Sevika let out a low snort. “Didn’t realize you were so merciful.”

That earned her a slow blink from Ambessa. She set the wine glass down with quiet precision, no clatter, just a soft click that somehow cut through the air sharper than any barked order. Her legs uncrossed. She stood.

“Mercy?” she said, voice low and even. “That what you think this is?”

Sevika straightened as Ambessa stepped toward her, and the tension shifted immediately. Her hand stayed on you, but her eyes were locked on Ambessa now, body coiled like a spring.

“I think you’re getting soft,” Sevika said with a smirk. “All this talk. All this wine. And here I thought Noxians liked to prove things.”

Ambessa didn’t smile.

She crossed the room in three steps flat and pushed you aside, not cruelly, but decisively. You hit the mat with a grunt as her arm locked with Sevika’s, their bodies twisting in a sharp clash of limbs. No warmup. No warning. Just pressure, contact, force.

You scrambled to the side, heart hammering. They were moving fast—too fast for how big they were. Ambessa ducked low, Sevika countered, their boots scraping the mat and hands catching arms, shoulders, hips.

A blur of strength and stubbornness.

“Hey—hey!” you wheezed, trying to crawl out of the way. “Can you two not kill each other over me?”

Neither answered.

You dragged yourself toward the edge of the mat, just a few feet from the bench when something latched around your ankle. Metal fingers. Sevika.

“Oh no,” you muttered, trying to kick free.

She tugged you back like it was nothing, dragging you across the mat even as Ambessa moved in again with a shoulder check that Sevika barely dodged. You yelped and tried to scurry again, only to feel Ambessa’s hand plant on your hip as she stepped over you, using you to pivot and shove Sevika back.

You rolled the other way. “I am not a sparring prop!”

Ambessa’s voice was breathless but amused. “Then stay out of the middle.”

“I was!”

You barely got the words out before Ambessa surged forward again.

This time, she didn’t just counter Sevika, she crushed her momentum. Sevika tried to twist out of it, going low, but Ambessa anticipated it, catching her mid-shift. The thud of bodies colliding shook the mat. In a flash, Sevika was on her back, Ambessa over her, one knee braced against the floor, the other pressing Sevika’s thigh down.

Sevika growled, one hand pushing at Ambessa’s hip, the other trying to wedge between them, but Ambessa caught her wrist and shoved it aside, her other hand gripping Sevika’s throat—not hard, but firm enough that Sevika froze.

They locked eyes.

Breathless.

Silent.

You sat frozen where you’d landed a moment ago, half upright, watching the way Sevika’s mouth parted but didn’t speak. The way her mechanical arm stayed lifted but never struck. The tension snapped—shifting from aggression into something else entirely.

Ambessa’s thumb dragged slow across the side of Sevika’s neck. “You done?”

Sevika’s teeth clenched. But her body said it for her.

Ambessa didn’t move for a long beat. Just studied her like she was still debating whether to end the fight or start another one.

Then she looked at you.

Still half-splayed on the mat. Still catching your breath. Sweaty, shaken, worn out and watching.

“You want to act like a brat,” Ambessa said to Sevika, voice low now, steady, “you get treated like one.”

Her hand left Sevika’s throat, but only to push herself upright. She rose in one fluid motion, towering over both of you now.

You felt the weight of her stare before she even moved toward you.

A hand slipped beneath your jaw, guiding your face up. “She’s already tired,” Ambessa murmured, thumb brushing your cheek. “Worked hard. Didn’t complain.”

Behind her, Sevika had pushed herself to her elbows, watching closely now, her breath ragged but her eyes sharp with something too familiar to name.

Ambessa’s voice dropped further. “Maybe she’ll show you how to behave.”

Your stomach twisted with heat. You didn’t even know what part of you agreed with her, but the part that moved when she touched you sure as hell did.

Ambessa let go of your jaw and took a step back, just enough to reposition you in front of her before pushing you down to the ground, on your knees facing sevika. Her palm flattened over your lower back, guiding you forward until you felt the edge of Sevika’s legs where she sat, still catching her breath from the floor.

Ambessa leaned in behind you, voice low against your ear. “She’s got a mouth. Let’s see if she can still use it properly.”

Your breath faltered. Doubt curled in your stomach,the raw edge of being caught off guard, caught between them. Your thighs still trembled from training, your pulse already too high. Sevika’s stare didn’t help. Her eyes tracked your every twitch like a wolf that had just been handed fresh meat.

You opened your mouth, maybe to ask a question, maybe to say wait, but Ambessa didn’t wait.

Her hand slid down your back, caught the fabric at your waist, and ripped. The stretch and tear of your clothes filled the room louder than it should’ve, and before you could so much as flinch, you were bare, breath hitched, skin prickling under the sudden rush of cool air.

Then came pressure.

Ambessa’s palm pressed flat between your shoulder blades, guiding—no, planting you down until your thighs were straddling Sevika’s face.

“Ambessa—” you gasped, unsure of what you even meant to say.

“Shh.” Her voice was silk over iron. “Let her have it.”

Below you, Sevika didn’t hesitate. She never would. Her metal arm locked around your thigh and yanked you flush against her mouth like she’d been waiting all damn day for it.

You cried out, hips jerking, breath torn straight from your lungs. Her ongue met you with no patience. She licked like she meant it. Like it had been denied to her. Deep, slow drags, then sharp flicks, then lips sealed around your clit like she was daring you to push her away.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Your hands landed hard on Sevika’s shoulders, nails dragging over her collar as she moaned beneath you, hungry and already messy. Every time your hips tried to shy away, Sevika dragged you back down, face grinding against you like she needed it to breathe.

And all the while, Ambessa watched.

She stood a few steps back, arms folded, watching the twitch of your thighs, the way your body shuddered when Sevika groaned into you. Her gaze was dark, sharp, and unbearably focused.

You whimpered, hips stuttering again. “I—fuck, she—”

Ambessa’s eyes narrowed slightly. And then she moved.

Silent steps across the mat. She passed behind you, toward the tall black cabinet on the side wall of the sparring room. The one no one ever touched during actual training. She opened it with one swift motion, pulled something heavy from inside

When she turned, the strap was already in her hand.

You couldn’t look away, not even when Sevika’s tongue drove another jolt through your core. Not even when Ambessa knelt again at Sevika’s side, calm and brutal, one hand sliding down Sevika’s waistband, the other bracing your thigh to hold you steady.

Sevika lifted her mouth just enough to breathe. Her lips were wet. Her eyes, blown wide.

“Greedy,” Ambessa muttered as she tugged Sevika’s pants down, rough and fast. “Should’ve learned your lesson.”

Sevika smirked. “Still waiting on the punishment.”

Ambessa didn’t answer. Simply adjusting the strap. Spat on her palm, slicked the strap, and lined it up.

Then she drove it in.

Sevika broke. Her head dropped back against the mat, hips arching hard as Ambessa bottomed out without hesitation. Her moan lit something in you and you felt your thighs shake again, overwhelmed by the sound, the heat, the grip of Sevika’s hands on your hips as she dove back in like nothing else mattered.

Ambessa started fucking her hard, deliberate strokes that dragged Sevika open each time, forcing her mouth to stay busy even when she gasped or cursed beneath you. Her grip was merciless. She held Sevika there while Sevika held you, the rhythm brutal and unforgiving.

Each thrust jolted Sevika’s body beneath you, her mouth losing rhythm as her breath caught. Her tongue stuttered, flattened, dragged slower over your folds.

“Fuck,” Sevika gasped, voice muffled against you.

Ambessa didn’t stop. Her hips slammed forward again, harder, snapping Sevika back into place with a deep grunt.

“Keep that mouth busy,” she growled. “You wanted this.”

Sevika whimpered something into your cunt inaudible, messy, soaked. Her hands clung tighter to your thighs like she needed something to ground herself, but her pace had turned ragged, desperate. She was shaking.

Ambessa looked down at her like she was pathetic.

“Gods, look at you,” she muttered, voice cold and sharp. “Fucking dripping and still can’t do one thing right.”

You shuddered at the sound. Not from fear. From how right it felt, being pressed between them. Sevika, beneath you, moaning into your cunt like she couldn’t breathe without it, and Ambessa, above and behind, fucking her like she wasn’t worth kindness.

You barely noticed your own thighs starting to tremble again, until Sevika dragged her tongue too deep, too fast, and your whole body buckled forward with a sob.

But Ambessa saw it.

And didn’t let it happen.

Before you could fully tip over, her hand clamped around your waist and dragged you back. Sevika let out a muffled growl of protest as your cunt slipped from her mouth, slick and trembling and denied.

You gasped. “Wait—!”

Ambessa ignored you.

“Is that what you wanted, Sevika? Wanted to feel her come on your face while you’re being fucked like a mutt?”

She hauled you upright, back flush to her chest, one thick arm locking around your neck. Her other hand slid down fast, rough fingers finding your cunt without hesitation.

She fucked into Sevika with the same relentless rhythm, the sound of her hips slapping against Sevika’s ass echoing off the training room walls. But her hand never stopped moving between your legs, fingers pumping in and curling hard, fast, without mercy.

“Don’t whine,” Ambessa growled against your ear. “You’ll come when I tell you to.”

You couldn’t even reply. Your mouth was open, breath caught on every thrust of her hand. The pressure was overwhelming, brutal. Her arm across your chest kept you pinned to her while her fingers curled deeper, harder.

Sevika moaned beneath both of you. her back arched as Ambessa fucked her deeper with each thrust of the strap. Her stomach flexed under the mess between your thighs, her skin slick with sweat and your arousal.

“You see that?” Ambessa’s voice was a snarl, sharp in your ear. “You’re making a mess all over her. You think she’s earned it?”

You couldn’t speak. Your eyes were rolling back. 

Ambessa bit your shoulder.

“Now.”

Your body broke.

You came with a cry, grinding down without control as her fingers drove through you. It hit like a wave, hot, messy, clenching down around her hand as your thighs squeezed and trembled. The aftershocks splattered against Sevika’s stomach, sticky and wet across her skin as she gasped, helpless beneath the weight of it.

“Good girl,” Ambessa murmured against your neck. “She doesn’t get that. Not yet.”

Sevika whimpered again, and Ambessa didn’t slow down.

She just fucked her harder.

Your orgasm ripped through you, all-consuming, your body clenching around Ambessa’s fingers, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. And then your legs gave out.

There was no catching yourself.

Your knees buckled, and you dropped, spine sliding from Ambessa’s chest, thighs trembling, cunt still pulsing. You landed right on Sevika’s stomac, limp and breathless, legs spread wide across her abs.

But Ambessa didn’t stop.

She was still driving into Sevika, deep and punishing, every thrust making Sevika’s core flex under you tight muscle rolling beneath your overstimulated cunt.

“Shit—” you gasped, trying to lift yourself, but Sevika’s body moved again, jerked from the force of another deep thrust and your hips rocked forward without meaning to, dragging slick and swollen across her abs.

You cried out.

It was too much. Your nerves were already raw, your clit still aching from the high Ambessa had wrung out of you and now Sevika’s stomach was grinding against you, again and again, every ripple of movement turning into friction you couldn’t control.

Your fingers scrabbled against Sevika’s chest, trying to lift yourself off her, but your arms were weak, trembling.

And still Ambessa kept going.

Each thrust shoved Sevika’s hips upward, rocked her into the mat, and you with her. Her abs tensed and jumped beneath you, slick with your release, hot and unrelenting turning your still-throbbing cunt into something helpless, overstimulated, dragged across her again and again.

You whined, body twitching. “I—I can’t—”

“You can,” Ambessa said behind you, her voice low, controlled. “You just don’t want to.”

She gripped your hip with one hand now, holding you steady, keeping you there as Sevika’s body moved under you.

Sevika gasped beneath both of you, hands digging into the mat, back arched as Ambessa’s pace grew harder, sharper. Her stomach clenched again under your heat, her breath ragged.

“Oh fuck—fuck—Ambessa—!”

“Not yet,” Ambessa snapped.

You moaned as another jolt rocked through your hips, your body grinding down against Sevika’s abs without permission, every movement another spark across your clit. Your thighs were slick, open, twitching uncontrollably.

“I can’t—” Sevika groaned, “She’s—she’s dripping all over me—”

“She earned it,” Ambessa said. Her next thrust slammed deep, punching the air from Sevika’s lungs. “You haven’t.”

Sevika's hands were fisting the mat now. Arms locked, head tilted back against the floor. Her mouth hung open, panting, face flushed and wild with tension. The strap drove into her again, and again, and again, deep enough to lift her back off the floor, to knock the sound out of her lungs.

"Ambessa—" she gasped, voice cracking.

"No," Ambessa snapped, breath rough now. "You wait."

Another brutal thrust.

Sevika’s legs trembled violently beneath you. Her abs clenched again, so hard it made your hips jolt and your throat let out a broken whimper. You tried to lift yourself, but Ambessa’s hand was still on your hip, holding you there, grinding you down against Sevika’s body, keeping you soaked and open and forced to feel all of it.

“F-fuck,” Sevika choked, trying to resist it, trying to hold on. Her thighs were trembling, her back arched so hard it lifted you with her for a second before Ambessa slammed her back down again.

And then Ambessa broke.

She hissed between her teeth, eyes blazing, body tightening behind you.

“Now,” she growled, hips snapping forward. “Come. Both of you.”

Sevika shattered.

Her moan tore out of her throat like something feral, her whole body locking up. You felt it beneath you, every flex, every twitch, the way her stomach tightened under your cunt, the way her thighs jerked and her arms buckled. She came hard, hips grinding back against the strap, body writhing between you and Ambessa.

And Ambessa—

Ambessa held steady until the very end. Her grip bruised, her pace ruthless, even as her jaw clenched and her breath hitched through her nose. When she came, she didn't announce it, she just dug in, hips burying deep one last time, strap shoved as far into Sevika as it would go.

A slow, deep exhale left her chest. Satisfied. Dominant.

Ambessa’s hand slid from your hip to your throat holding you against Sevika’s heaving body while both of them trembled and twitched beneath you.

‘’Now you’re allowed to rest.’’

plagarism not authorized

[velvetsserenity]

they call me firecracker

client!sevika x brothelworker!reader

✎ word count: 2k

꩜ content warnings: nsfw, rough strap-on sex, overstimulation, choking, hair pulling, degradation, humiliation, possessive behavior, objectification, power imbalance, client x sex worker dynamic, biting, bruising, smoking, dubious consent themes, lack of aftercare

The hallway hushes the moment her boots hit the floor.

Not fast—just slow, deliberate steps on the creaking wood. Heavy enough to feel through the soles of your shoes. You don't need to look. You know it's her. Everyone does. Her shadow hits the velvet wall just seconds before she rounds the corner, and every other girl either looks away or pretends not to notice.

She doesn’t stop for anyone. She never does.

The madam gives a barely visible nod, already stepping aside, and then Sevika’s eyes find yours through the half-curtained doorframe.

She doesn’t knock. She never has. Just presses a gloved hand to the doorframe, pushes it open like she owns the place, and steps in with a drag of smoke trailing behind her.

You’re on your knees, arranging your just washed lingerie, your back arched just enough to make a point—and her gaze catches. Lingers.

“Didn’t expect you tonight,” you say, without turning.

“You should’ve,” she replies. Her voice is rough. Cigarette low in her mouth, hand already unfastening the top clasp of her coat.

“I was scheduled with someone else.”

She takes a long drag, then flicks the ash onto your floor. “Not anymore.”

You glance over your shoulder. “Did you pay for that?”

Her coat hits the armchair. She doesn’t answer. She never does.

She steps behind you, boots slow, measured, as you stay on your knees. You should get up. You should say something sharp. But the energy shifts the moment she’s behind you, thick and warm and sharp around the edges. Her gloved hand grabs the back of your neck, as she leans over your frame, and tilts your head to the side.

“That tone,” she mutters, fingers flexing, “you only use it with me.”

You hum, lips parted. “Maybe I only need it with you.” you sigh loudly.

You shouldn’t tease her. Not when she’s like this—coiled and quiet and dark around the edges. But you like the consequences. You like the way she handles you when she’s had a bad day. You like knowing the others can hear your breath hitch when she bites your ear just hard enough to leave a mark.

She presses her feetbetween your thighs from behind, boot pushing you open on the soft carpet. "Still pretending you're not waiting for me every night?"

“Still pretending I’m just a hole for hire?”

You feel her smile before you hear it. A low, dangerous sound against your jaw. Both knowing you literally are.

“Take your clothes off.”

You go slow on purpose. Pull your robe open one inch at a time. She watches. You feel her eyes drag across every inch of exposed skin like a burn. By the time you’re fully bare, she’s behind you again, bare hand now at your throat, lifting you up, pulling your back to her chest, her mechanical fingers cold on your waist.

“You think about me?” she asks, voice low, teeth grazing your neck.

You don’t answer.

Wrong move.

Her fingers close just enough around your throat to make your breath pause.

“I asked you a question.”

You tilt your head back, daring her. “Not feeding your ego, Sevika.”

She doesn’t kiss you. Sevika doesn’t do soft. She bites. Her mouth is on your collarbone before the words are cold in the air, and you gasp, digging your nails into her arm just to stay upright. She growls, pushes you forward onto the mattress, chest down, ass up.

“Need you to remember something,” she says, positioning herself behind you, voice almost too calm. “You’re not paid to want me.”

She shrugs out of her harness vest with a practiced roll of her shoulders, letting it fall with a dull thunk to the floor. You hear the unbuckle of her belt next—real this time, heavy, metal sliding through loops. But instead of dropping it, she opens her coat wider and pulls the strap-on from inside, worn leather and dark silicone already slick with lube.

You go still, throat dry.

She straps it on without a word, slow and precise. Tightens the buckles across her hips. Adjusts the fit like she’s done it a hundred times in the dark. She probably has.

Her gaze flicks up to find you watching.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she mutters, gloved hand gripping the base. “You knew what you were begging for.”

You bury your face in the sheets, groaning. She always brings it. You just forget how big it looks when she straps it on. How heavy her presence becomes the second she has it between her legs.

“Look at you,” she mutters, voice dark with something between amusement and hunger. “Back arched like a fucking pet. You wait like this for everyone?”

You groan, breath shaky. “If they pay right.”

“Tch.”

She steps in close, metal hand gripping your hip, thumb digging into the curve of your ass. Her other hand slips down between your thighs, bare fingers grazing your folds like it’s nothing—just a test. You jerk at the contact, slick already clinging to her skin.

She hums low. “Dripping.”

You whimper, shifting, but her grip tightens.

“Stay still.”

You breathe through your teeth. Her fingers slide up, unhurried, and rub circles into your clit, slow and mean. You whimper. The sensation burns—it’s teasing and humiliating and hot. Her other hand grabs a fistful of your ass, holding you wide open for her.

“You know what happens when you act like a brat?” she asks, slipping one thick finger inside without warning.

You moan into the mattress.

She adds a second, rough and deep. Your hips jerk forward. She pulls you back.

“Answer me.”

“Y-you make me beg,” you choke out.

She curls her fingers slow, angling just right.

“And you’re gonna,” she breathes.

Her hand fucks you lazily, fingers thick, knuckles grinding against your slick heat. She doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t let you chase it. Just holds you there, trembling and stuffed full, using your body like it belongs to her.

Your knees shake.

“You close already?” she murmurs, sounding almost bored. “Fucking pathetic.”

She slips her fingers out with a wet sound and wipes them on the inside of your thigh.

Then she reaches for the strap-on—worn leather and slick black silicone, her hand fitting around it, navigating it.

“You ready to take it?”

“Yes,” you whisper, wrecked.

She palms your ass, leans in close.

“Too bad.”

The cock presses between your folds, not entering yet—just dragging through your wetness, thick and heavy and deliberate. She lets it rest there, makes you feel it. Makes you ache for it.

She continues the movement for a bit, teasing both of you. Watching the strap-on disappear and reappear betwen your clenched thighs.

And then—

She thrusts in. Deep. Unforgiving. You cry out, the sound muffled by the mattress, legs trembling under the weight of her hips slamming into you.

“Too quiet,” Sevika growls, grabbing your hair and yanking your head up just enough to hear you better. “I said let them hear.”

You moan louder, and she rewards you with another thrust, harder this time. Deep enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

“Good girl.”

The words shouldn’t make you clench the way they do. But they do.

She sets a pace that’s brutal from the start, hips slamming into your ass, the sound of flesh on flesh sharp and wet and endless. Her cock drags against that sensitive spot inside you over and over, your thighs shaking, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as you cling to the sheets for something, anything, to hold you together.

Your body aches, slick dripping down your thighs, heart pounding like it’s trying to run from her—like you could. You can’t. You don’t even want to.

She leans down, her weight pressing against your back, one hand on your throat again not choking, just holding. Just reminding you.

“I could fuck you like this all night,” she growls. “Don’t need breaks. Don’t need softness. Just need to hear you cry.”

You go limp, arms sliding out from under you.

That’s when she grabs your hips and lifts them back into place.

“Don’t drop,” she growls. “We’re not done.”

You whine. It’s all you can manage. But you let her reposition you. You let her keep going.

She’s panting now. Not from exhaustion—she never fucks like she’s tired—but from focus. Like she’s working something out of herself. Like the only way to feel right is to break you.

And fuck—you're breaking.

She digs her fingers into your hips, thrusting deep, rhythm precise. Not frantic. Not desperate. Just relentless. Her control is terrifying. There’s no slip in her pace, no mercy in her grip.

“You feel that?” she rasps, cock buried to the hilt inside you. “No one else makes you feel this full. No one else fucks you this deep.”

You nod against the mattress, half-conscious, mouth open.

She slaps your ass again, harder than before. “Use your words.”

“Only you,” you cry out, body trembling. “Fuck—only you.”

She exhales sharp through her nose like that does something to her. Her hand slides under you now, rough fingers working your clit in fast, cruel circles while she keeps pounding into you from behind.

Her voice is dark now, strained, like she’s fighting something in her own chest. Like this is no longer just about making you fall apart but about proving something. To you. To herself.

She rubs harder, faster, until your legs buckle completely and your scream rips through the room.

You don’t even feel your body collapse. You just hear her breathing—heavy, steady, satisfied.

She finally slows. Pulls out slow, the strap slick and soaked with you, shining in the low light. You’re twitching under her, legs still spread, cunt pulsing with aftershocks.

And for a second—you think she might stay.

You think she might press a hand to your back and whisper something. Something that means something.

But no.

She steps back. Unbuckles the strap. Wipes it off with a cloth from her coat. Buckles her belt again with that same practiced efficiency.

You don’t turn to look. You couldn’t if you tried. Your body’s still face-down, barely functioning, and she doesn’t help you up.

She lights a cigarette like nothing happened. Walks to the corner chair. Sits.

Watches you.

“Same time next week?” she asks flatly.

You want to spit. You want to say no. You want to say something that matters.

But your body says yes before your mouth does. Because you know it. And she knows it.

You’ll be on your knees again the moment her boots hit the hallway.

a/n: 'hole for hire'' haha, get it? ok..

★ plagarism not authorized ★

[velvetsserenity]

some of sevika’s kinks

overstim

she absolutely loves to overstimulate you. forcing so many orgasms out of your tired body that your brain starts oozing out of your ears, the room filled with your whimpers and sobs

loves to see the drool running down your chin, tears staining your cheeks, and sweat coating your forehead. she adores making a mess of you

and it fills her with pride when she see you trying to calm yourself down, wanting to take more. she’s so proud of her girl, always wanting to obey. no matter how draining it is

“aww sweetheart, is your poor little clit all sensitive?”

orgasm control

on the contrary, she also loves to make you beg to cum

“c’mon baby, cumming is a privilege not a right. you know that.”

if you’ve been bad, there’s nothing she would rather do. laying you down and bringing you right to that edge before she takes her hand away, watching your reaction as the sensation fizzles away

and finally after a couple hours of the torture; she lets you cum, just not properly. taking her hand away just as she feels your orgasm washing over you, and watches you twist and turn to try and get some type of friction

but she holds your legs open so you can’t even rub your thighs together

“where’s my thank you? i let you cum didn’t i? say thank you”

impact play

love love loves giving you little taps across the face. never fully slapping you because she’s too scared to hurt you, just bringing your attention back to her if she sees your mind wandering

but your ass? omg it’s covered in faded bruises and belt shaped welts from past punishments that are going down. and whenever she brings her hand down, you know that the rings on her fingers will be leaving marks

[velvetsserenity]

munch sevika pt.2

dom!sevika, bratty!reader, oral, punishment, dirty talk, pussy spanking, overstim

you shouldn’t have said it.

you knew better. you had been testing her all afternoon, and she was still being soft.

but you were already panting, flushed, mouth slick from where sevika had kissed you stupid, and when she started kissing down your stomach, spreading your thighs like she had all night to ruin you—

you grinned. cocky.

“you gonna tease all night or actually do something down there, old lady?”

her head snapped up.

brows arched.

mouth still right above your cunt.

“oh?” she murmured, voice low, dangerous. her breath kissed your skin, made you shiver. “you really wanna talk shit with your pussy this wet?”

you swallowed.

and then she grabbed your hips, yanked you down the bed like you weighed nothing, and buried her face between your thighs.

“fuck—sevika!” you gasped, hands flying to her hair.

she didn’t answer.

just licked one long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—then sucked hard, like she was punishing you with her mouth. her tongue moved like she knew every nerve ending, every twitch, every spot that made your legs jerk.

you writhed, moaned, tried to close your legs—

her metal hand slammed down on your inner thigh.

“keep ‘em open.”

“sevika—” you whimpered, hips stuttering. “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean—”

“nah,” she growled, voice muffled, “you meant that bratty shit. now take it.”

you did.

you had to.

her tongue flicked fast, relentless, and then she spit on your pussy—again, just to be nasty—and kept going.

you were moaning so loud now, you barely realized the tears until they dripped into your hairline.

“fuckfuckfuck—sev—‘m gonna—i can’t—”

she pulled back just enough to talk, lips wet and glistening, chin messy with you.

“you talk a lot of shit for someone about to cum all over my fuckin’ face,” she said, then slapped your pussy—once, sharp.

you screamed, hips bucking.

“that’s right,” she growled. “go dumb on it.”

and you did.

hard.

thighs shaking, breath gone, brain white-noise empty.

she didn’t stop.

not after one.

not after two.

she licked you through every single one, only pausing to smirk when you sobbed, “too much, please, sev, i’m sorry—”

“nah, doll,” she rasped, voice wrecked and low.

“you asked for it.”

“and now you’re fuckin’ takin’ it.”

[velvetsserenity]

tongue twister

caitlyn x reader x vi

✎ word count: 3.5k ꩜ content warnings: explicit sexual content, orgasm control, rough handling, light choking, public setting, humiliation, dominance dynamics, voyeurism, jealousy, threesome dynamics, oral (receiving)

You didn’t come to the Last Drop to cause trouble.

Well. Not exactly.

You came to dance. To drink. To press your body against strangers who don’t ask questions and know how to bite without drawing blood. You came to forget the week, the city, the bullshit.

You did not come to see them.

So when the bar door creaks open and the flickering neon catches pink hair and a high collar, you nearly choke on your drink.

You sit back on your stool, licking vodka from your bottom lip, and tilt your head slowly.

“...You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Vi walks in first, smug, relaxed, like the chaos of the Lanes lives in her blood. She’s in a loose tank, old gloves tucked into her belt, face lit by the dim blue wash of the bar lights.

And right beside her...

Caitlyn Kiramman. Hair pristine. Blouse starched. A few buttons undone to look casual, but still standing like she’s holding a badge under her skin.

They’re talking. Laughing.

Laughing.

Together.

You narrow your eyes.

They don’t see you.

Even when they cut through the crowd like they own the place, brushing shoulders with bodies that look at them and then away. Vi’s making a beeline for the bar. Caitlyn follows, hesitant but intrigued.

You swirl your drink and lean forward just a little, resting your chin on your palm.

This’ll be good.

You don’t approach.

Of course not.

You sit five seats down at the curve of the bar and watch. Sip. Wait.

Vi orders two drinks. You recognize her voice when she growls something flirty to the bartender. Caitlyn leans in closer than she needs to, smiling like she’s trying not to.

You hate that you know what both of them sound like in bed.

You hate that you remember Vi’s laugh when she came the first time, biting your shoulder, mumbling your name like a dare.

You hate that you remember Caitlyn’s breath catching when you forced her to beg. The way she kissed you like it was beneath her. Like she liked that.

They don’t know you’re here.

They don’t know they’ve both had you.

You shouldn’t do it.

But.

You’ve never been good at walking away from a fire.

You grab your drink, slide off your stool, and saunter up like you were invited.

Vi’s elbow is on the bar, back half-turned to you, boots crossed, mid-sentence about something stupid and flirty, probably trying to impress.

Caitlyn is pretending not to look impressed.

You stop just behind them.

Close enough to be felt.

Vi turns first.

She freezes.

Her mouth opens, closes. Then she leans back slowly, her eyes narrowing, recognition blooming like a bruise.

Caitlyn follows her gaze.

And stops breathing.

You take a sip and drag your eyes over both of them like they’re meat in a butcher’s window.

“Well,” you hum. “Didn’t expect to see this pairing.”

Caitlyn blinks. “You—”

Vi interrupts, stunned. “You know each other?”

You let the pause hang just long enough to hurt.

“Yeah,” you say casually. “You could say that.”

Caitlyn straightens, voice tight. “She and I... knew each other. Briefly.”

Vi scoffs. “No shit. When?”

“Before you,” Caitlyn mutters. Her voice is clipped. Controlled.

Vi turns to you. “Seriously?”

You tilt your head. “Don’t act surprised. We weren’t exclusive, Vi.”

“That’s not the point.”

You sip again. “Oh? What is the point?”

Vi just stares. Like she's running math she doesn’t want to solve.

Caitlyn watches you. Cold. Still. That elegant, calculating gaze you remember from the last time she had your wrist pinned to a wall.

You smile, just a little. “Relax. I’m not here to make a scene.”

Vi snorts. “You are the scene.”

Caitlyn’s voice is soft but sharp: “What are you doing here?”

“I’m a local,” you say. “You’re the tourists.”

Caitlyn’s mouth tightens. Vi looks away like she’s trying to hide the twitch in her jaw.

You step forward between them. They both shift just barely. A half-step back. You love that.

“You two look cozy,” you murmur. “Something going on?”

“No,” Caitlyn says quickly.

Vi shrugs. “Nothing serious.”

“Mm.” You drag your finger along the rim of your glass. “Neither was I. With either of you.”

That lands like a slap.

Good.

Vi breathes out hard through her nose. “So this is, what—some kind of fucking joke?”

“No,” you say, tilting your chin up. “But it’s getting funny.”

Caitlyn’s tone cuts in, cool as ice: “Are you jealous?”

You laugh. “Of what? Getting passed between Piltover’s problem children like a shared cigarette?”

Caitlyn’s face hardens.

Vi mutters, “Fuck’s sake...”

You finish your drink in one long swallow and slam the glass down.

“Anyway. I’ve got better things to do than stand between two half-fucks playing pretend.”

You pivot on your heel.

Vi’s jaw clenches the second your back turns.

You disappear into the crowd like you were never even there—just a flash of skin and shadow swallowed by flashing lights and smoke-thick air.

“Fucking hell,” she mutters, pushing off the bar.

“Vi—” Caitlyn’s voice calls behind her, cautious.

But Vi’s already moving.

The beat hits harder out here. The crowd is denser, stickier, full of the kind of people who never say sorry when they shoulder past. The kind of people you blend into.

She shoves through dancers, eyes scanning for a glimpse of your hair, the curve of your shoulder, the swing of your hips. But you’re gone.

Caitlyn follows, a step behind, trying not to touch anyone, trying to stay clean in a place that feeds on dirt.

“You don’t even know where she went,” Caitlyn says, clipped.

Vi glances back, eyes wild. “She’s not just gonna vanish.”

“She does that,” Caitlyn mutters. “Trust me.”

Vi grits her teeth and pushes deeper into the mess of bodies, the flashing lights slicing over her face in sharp colors—blue, red, green, then black again. She sees a girl dancing on a speaker who almost looks like you. She grabs her shoulder and yanks her around—

Not you.

Not even close.

The girl shoves Vi off and keeps dancing like nothing happened.

Caitlyn finally catches up beside her, breath shallow. “You’re wasting your time. She knows this place.”

Vi scans the perimeter, jaw tight. “She’s not from the Lanes. Not really.”

Caitlyn laughs, mean and bitter. “No. She’s under them. Slips through the cracks. That’s what she does.”

Vi doesn’t stop moving.

She checks the far corner, pushes through a knot of half-naked dancers, scans every booth, every back wall. The bathroom line. The Shimmer dealers. Even the goddamn DJ booth.

Nothing.

Caitlyn hangs back now, arms crossed, heels clicking sharply as she trails Vi with increasingly disgusted looks. Her hair’s slightly frizzed. Her blouse—too expensive for this hellhole—is sticking to her back. She’s done pretending.

Caitlyn follow her outside as she rummages trough the back alley of the club.

“This is pointless,” she says flatly. “You’ve checked every wall in that club twice.”

Vi doesn’t even look at her. “She’s fast, not invisible.”

“She wants you to chase her.”

Vi snaps, “And what? You’re just gonna roll over and let her win?”

“I’m going home.”

Vi turns now, jaw tight. “You’re seriously just walking away?”

“Yes. Because unlike you, I don’t have anything to prove.”

Vi scoffs, stepping in close. “Is that right?”

“I’m not wasting my night dragging through alleyways because some girl from your past decided to be cute.”

Vi bristles. “She’s not—”

“Not yours, Vi,” Caitlyn snaps, eyes flashing. “Not mine either. She made that perfectly clear.”

Vi glares. “This isn’t about ownership.”

“Oh, of course not,” Caitlyn says, voice icy. “You’re just out here playing detective in the dark because what tour ego couldn’t handle being walked away from?”

Vi’s teeth clench. “You don’t get it.”

“No. I don’t. Because I left it where it belonged—back inside.” Caitlyn breathes out, close now, close enough to smell the smoke still clinging to Vi’s collar, the sweat at her neck. “You’re beneath her. You’d crawl if she told you to.”

Vi moves fast.

She grabs Caitlyn’s collar, yanks her in, mouth hard on hers, teeth and lips and spit and fury. Caitlyn gasps, but she doesn’t push back. She pulls closer, fists curling in Vi’s tank top, dragging her backward into the alley wall with a thud.

The kiss is vicious. Angry. Hot with everything they never said and everything they swore they wouldn’t feel.

Vi bites her lip.

Caitlyn growls.

Hands fumble fast Vi pushing up the edge of Caitlyn’s blouse, fingers skating over her ribs like she’s searching for a place to ruin. Caitlyn shoves Vi’s jacket off her shoulders, fingers digging into her arms, dragging lines that’ll bruise tomorrow.

They break the kiss for one breath—both panting, flushed, glaring.

“This is a mistake,” Caitlyn pants.

Vi licks her bottom lip. “That your way of asking me to stop?”

Caitlyn doesn’t answer.

She just kisses her again, rougher.

Vi grabs her hips and flips them, slamming Caitlyn back into the wall this time. Her thigh wedges between Cait’s legs, grinding hard, unapologetic. Caitlyn moans before she can stop it.. and that sound? That sound goes straight to Vi’s head.

“You still think you’re above this?” Vi hisses against her throat.

“Shut up,” Caitlyn breathes.

Vi sinks her teeth into Caitlyn’s neck. Caitlyn arches.

They’re a tangle of limbs now, hands under clothes, against skin, fighting for control even while giving it up in pieces. No softness. No names. Just sweat, breath, the wet sound of kisses torn open too fast.

Vi’s hand slips lower, under Caitlyn’s waistband, fingers sliding dow. Then—

“Look at the lovebirds.”

The voice cuts through the dark like a blade.

Both women freeze.

Caitlyn jerks her head toward the sound, panting, eyes wide. Vi doesn’t move right away, fingers still resting just below Cait’s navel, breath hot against her neck.

You’re leaning against the alley wall five feet away, one leg crossed over the other, cigarette between your fingers, glowing tip a slow pulse in the dark. The smoke coils around you like it belongs there.

You smile lazy, cocky, dripping venom.

“Well, don’t stop on my account.”

Vi steps back instantly, eyes blazing, face flushed in a way that has nothing to do with arousal anymore.

Caitlyn scrambles to pull her shirt down, cheeks burning, hair mussed, mouth still parted like she hasn’t figured out what to say yet.

You tilt your head, take a long drag, and exhale slowly. “Didn’t think I had to leave you two alone for five minutes before the hate-fucking started.”

Vi glares. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I live here,” you answer, voice sweet and sarcastic. “Remember? Local, remember? You’re the ones in my alley.”

Caitlyn’s lip curls. “You followed us.”

You raise an eyebrow. “If I had, I’d have gotten here earlier.”

Vi steps forward, chest still heaving, jaw clenched. “You’ve been watching us?”

You smile wider. “Why? Feeling shy now?”

Caitlyn mutters, “You’re disgusting.”

You flick ash off your cigarette without flinching. “And you’re still half-undressed. So maybe don’t throw stones, Kiramman.”

Caitlyn opens her mouth—then shuts it, nostrils flaring.

Vi looks like she wants to hit something. Or fuck something. Or both.

You glance between them, pleased. Flushed, frustrated, furious,just the way you left them.

You push off the wall slowly, walking toward them, your boots echoing in the wet alley.

“Cute show, by the way,” you murmur. “All that pent-up tension. Should’ve let me join—might’ve lasted longer.”

Vi’s eyes narrow. “You think this is a game?”

You stop right in front of her, blow smoke past her cheek. “I know it is.”

Then you look at Caitlyn.

“Was she good?” you ask, soft, mocking. “Better than me?”

Caitlyn stiffens.

You grin.

“Didn’t think so.”

And with that, you toss the cigarette to the ground, crush it with your boot, and turn your back on both of them.

Two steps.

That’s all you get.

Then a rough hand grabs your arm and yanks.

Your spine hits the wall hard, concrete cold against your back, your breath knocked straight out of your chest. Vi’s there, right there pressed in close, thigh between yours, hand braced beside your head. The wall behind you groans like it’s not ready for this kind of violence.

She’s breathing like she ran a mile uphill.

Eyes wild.

Teeth clenched.

You blink once, slow. “Touched a nerve?”

Vi doesn’t answer.

Her other hand grabs your jaw, tight. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make a point.

“You like this, huh?” she growls. “Running that mouth. Getting in our heads. Making everything about you.”

“It is about me,” you murmur, lips curling.Challenging her with just some simple words and a glare.

Vi’s eyes flash. She leans in like she’s going to kiss you, but stops just short so close her breath hits your lips.

“You think I won’t fuck the smug off your face right here?”

You exhale, slow, deliberate. “No. I think you will.”

Silence.

Tension so thick it’s choking.

Vi shoves her thigh up between your legs harder, her fingers sliding around your throat not squeezing, just holding.

Just threatening.

You tilt your head back against the wall, smirking. “What’s the matter, Vi? Caitlyn not enough for you?”

She snaps.

Her mouth crashes against yours hot, hard, brutal. Not a kiss. A punishment. You open to it anyway, let her take what she wants, let her teeth catch your lip until it stings and tastes like blood and smoke.

You hear Caitlyn breathe soft and sharp and shaky.

Good.

Let her watch.

Let her see.

Vi presses harder, her thigh wedged between yours, rough denim dragging over the thinnest part of your resolve. Her hand curls in your hair, pulling your head back, mouth dragging down your jaw to your neck, biting hard enough to make you gasp.

You don’t stop her.

You bare your throat like you want her to ruin it.

“You should’ve kept your mouth shut,” she growls, voice raw.

“You’re welcome,” you rasp, “for giving you a reason to use it.”

She snarls and grinds her leg upward, watching your eyes flutter for just a second. Just enough to make her grin.

Then her gaze flicks over your shoulder, toward Caitlyn.

Still watching.

Vi pulls back just enough to speak, her voice meant for both of you. “You like watching?”

Caitlyn swallows, but doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t deny it. ou turn your head toward her, lips swollen, neck raw.

“I think she does,” you whisper, just loud enough.

Vi smirks. Her hand slips under your shirt, palm splayed across your stomach. Her other hand stays in your hair, keeping your head tilted so Caitlyn has the perfect view of every reaction. Every flinch. Every filthy sound.

You let your mouth fall open. A quiet whimper leaks out, and you don’t bother hiding it.

Caitlyn’s knuckles are white now, fists clenched by her sides, like she’s trying to keep herself from reaching for something she shouldn’t.

“You can touch,” you murmur, eyes locked on her. “Or you can just stand there and ache.” You murmur as you shake your head in the most sassiest way.

Vi bites your shoulder—hard, you jolt.

Caitlyn steps forward. Not reaching for you. Not grabbing Vi. Just closing the distance.

Her voice is cold. Too calm. “You’re pathetic.”

You smile through the sting. “And you’re still watching.”

Caitlyn steps in even closer, now barely an inch from your lips, your back still held against the wall.

“But if I touch her now,” Caitlyn murmurs, voice like silk dipped in venom, “she’ll think she won.”

“I already did,” you whisper.

Vi watches, breath uneven, body flush against your back.

Caitlyn leans in, but doesn’t kiss you. Her lips brush yours, faint enough to burn.

“You can talk later,” she says softly, pulling away. “When I let you.”

Caitlyn’s hand slides up, fingers threading into your hair as she finally presses her mouth to yours. You moan into it before you can stop yourself.

She tastes like anger and pride and something clean beneath it like control wearing perfume.

Her tongue pushes in, sharp and deliberate, and she swallows the sound you make like it’s a win.

Behind you, Vi shifts.

Drops lower.

You feel her hands at your thighs, parting them like she owns them, her breath ghosting under your clothes a split second before her mouth makes contact.

Your head slams softly back against the wall.

Caitlyn breaks the kiss only to move down, her lips trailing over your cheek, your jaw, then to your neck. She sinks her teeth in where Vi left the mark earlier, sucking over it like she’s trying to stamp her name on top of the bruise.

“You’re so fucking loud,” she mutters against your throat.

And it’s true.

Vi had pushed your little dress up, bunching it around your waist. Starring at your panties before moving it to the side, admiring. Then Vi’s mouth is hot between your legs, tongue dragging slow, wet, and cruel as she sinks in deeper.

Your hands grip the wall behind you, nails scraping brick, hips jerking once—twice, as Vi locks you in place.

Caitlyn’s hand closes around your throat, thumb resting lightly on your pulse.

“Keep your eyes open,” she says.

You try.

You really try.

But then Vi moans against you hungry and it sends a shock straight through your spine. Your knees buckle, and Caitlyn catches you by the throat and jaw, holding you upright while Vi keeps working, mouth dragging you under like quicksand.

Caitlyn kisses you again. This time slower. Drowningly slow. Her lips smeared with control.

Vi doesn’t stop.

Not even when your hips start to tremble.

Not even when Caitlyn murmurs, “Already? What a mess you are.”

You can’t answer.

Your mouth is busy trying not to scream.

Caitlyn pulls back just enough to whisper into your ear.

“Don’t come yet.”

Vi growls in protest from below, the vibration almost enough to undo you right there.

But you listen.

Barely.

Caitlyn’s hand is still at your throat, fingers soft but commanding, her thumb tapping lightly against your pulse like a countdown.

“Still holding on?” she whispers, biting the shell of your ear.

You nod. Barely. Wrong move.

Vi takes it as permission.

She groans into you, tongue pressing harder, wetter, meaner.

Your hips jerk. Caitlyn’s hand tightens just enough to remind you: no.

You whimper, and it’s pathetic, but it slips out too fast to swallow.

Caitlyn’s mouth curls against your skin. “She’s trying to break you.”

Another roll of Vi’s tongue. Another flash of heat that nearly buckles your legs.

“She won’t,” you choke out.

Caitlyn hums. “You sure?”

Vi drags her nails down the backs of your thighs.

You cry out.

Your eyes flutter closed, only for Caitlyn to slap your cheek. Light. Sharp. Measured.

“Keep them open.”

You do.

You fucking do.

Tears threaten at the corners from the intensity, the burn, the pressure but you hold. You stay on that knife’s edge, breath shaking, lips bitten raw from trying to hold back the sound clawing up your throat.

Vi groans again, and Caitlyn chuckles darkly, voice rich with satisfaction.

“She wants to hear you fall apart,” she says, lips brushing your jaw. “But you won’t give her that, will you?”

You shake your head, dizzy.

Vi’s hands spread wider, forcing your legs open more. Her mouth gets sloppy now, messier, as she grinds her face into you like she’s past patience.

You’re soaking. Shaking.

So close you could snap.

And Caitlyn leans in, one hand sliding up under your shirt, fingers cool against your ribs as she whispers—

“Now.”

Your body obeys before your mind can catch up.

You break.

Hard.

Loud.

Your hips jerk. Your voice finally tears loose, raw and ragged and fucking ruined.

Vi moans into you like she just won a prize, her mouth still working you through it.

Caitlyn holds your jaw the entire time, her eyes locked on yours, watching every twitch, every gasp, every tear slide down your cheek like she owns them.

When your knees finally buckle, Vi pulls back slowly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, smug and wrecked herself.

Caitlyn doesn’t let go.

Not yet.

She tilts your head up and says, soft and clean—

“Next time, you’ll ask.”

And you nod, breathless.

Because you will.

[velvetsserenity]

a servant’s privilege

ambessa medarda x servant!reader

✎ word count: 1k

꩜ content warnings: mutually consensual free use, slow dominance, rough use, light degradation, strap, deep control, power imbalance, explicit sexual content, light choking, objectification, strap-on sex, mouth use, possessive dynamics

The first time she used you, you didn’t even realize it was happening.

Not until hours later, when you stood in the scullery scrubbing blood from her uniform and realized you could still feel her fingers inside you. Gloved. Precise. Unbothered.

She hadn’t looked at you once while doing it.

Just kept her eyes on the map of Noxian territory, murmuring to a general in the corner, until you came so hard you almost collapsed against the carved table leg.

Now, it’s normal.

Expected.

She doesn’t need to say a word anymore.

If you're not carrying something, cleaning something, or otherwise indisposed, your body is hers. To use. To ignore. To dress or undress. To fuck or not fuck. It doesn't matter.

You agreed, once. Quietly. Kneeling between her thighs in the low candlelight of her quarters.

She had asked if you understood what it meant to be hers.

You said yes.

And now you live with that answer.

Tonight, she returns from the war room late.

Boots heavy, gloves still on, eyes sharp from whatever small battle she just won without lifting a weapon.

You’re already waiting in her quarters. Kneeling beside the hearth, half-dressed in your servant uniform. Thin slip. Bare thighs. Collarbones visible. She likes when you look available, even when she doesn’t touch you.

She passes you by.

Doesn’t glance down. Doesn’t say hello.

Just removes her coat with one arm and tosses it toward the rack, missing it entirely. It lands in a heap near your knees.

You crawl—quietly—and pick it up. You fold it across your arms, pressing your nose to the inner lining before rising to hang it properly.

Behind you, the sound of leather gloves being pulled off.

Then the thud of her sitting.

You don’t turn around unless summoned.

But you feel her eyes on you now.

Still, she says nothing.

The quiet stretches until it aches.

Then: “Come here.”

You do.

Kneel between her legs, palms flat on your thighs. She’s seated in the high-backed chair near the window, legs spread, half a cigar burning between two fingers. Her gaze drops to your lips.

But she doesn’t offer it to you.

Doesn’t give you the satisfaction.

Instead, she leans forward. Slides the cigar between your lips herself. You hold it steady as she watches the smoke curl from your mouth.

“Don’t swallow.”

You don’t.

She leans back again. Takes the cigar back. Watches you exhale slowly through your nose, eyes watering slightly.

"Good girl."

No reward. No touch. Just that.

She shifts in the chair and opens a leather-bound report folder on the side table. Pages turn. She reads while you kneel in silence, pulse thrumming at the thought of being so near, so visible, and still untouched.

You ache. But you don’t move.

Not until she raises a hand and crooks her finger.

That’s all it takes.

You rise.

Walk silently behind her.

She’s still reading when you undo the buttons of her vest. Her blouse beneath it. Peel both off slowly, exposing the line of muscle along her arms, the curve of her shoulder. You run your fingers over each inch as if it's part of your job.

Maybe it is.

You’ve never been told otherwise.

When she leans back again, you know to step around.

She pulls your wrist without looking and guides your hand between her legs.

Her trousers are still on.

You unbutton them. Slide them down just enough. She’s not wearing anything underneath.

Of course she’s not.

She spreads her legs wider, not to offer herself—no, she doesn’t offer.

She expects.

You sink to your knees.

Your mouth replaces your hand.

She continues reading.

For ten minutes, maybe twenty. You lick and suck and stay quiet, drinking down every twitch of her hips, every breath she allows you to feel.

Her thigh presses to your cheek.

You moan against her slit when her hand tightens in your hair.

“Finish it,” she mutters.

You do.

You lick her through it, suck her through the trembling, sharp waves of her climax, your face soaked and your fingers curled into the rug as she holds you there.

When she finally lets go, you sit back, face flushed, lips swollen.

She closes the folder.

“Desk.”

One word, spoken with no heat.

You move.

You don’t hesitate. You know which way to bend, how far to part your thighs, how to arch until your ass is just high enough to be tempting without looking desperate.

The drawer opens behind you.

Her strap is black leather. Thick. Smooth. She doesn’t use it every night.

Only when she’s in a mood.

And tonight, apparently, she is.

You hear her spit in her hand. Rub it along the length of it. No lube otherwise. Just that, and you.

She lines up.

Pushes in slow. All the way.

You bite your lip hard enough to taste blood.

“Still so tight,” she growls. One hand wraps around your throat from behind as her hips slam forward again, dragging a noise out of your chest that doesn’t sound real.

Her hips find rhythm. Brutal. Unchanging.

She fucks you like it’s punishment.

Like she wants to make you forget your own name.

The desk creaks.

You hold on, cheek pressed to the wood, one hand reaching back to spread yourself wider for her.

She likes that.

“Whose cunt is this?” she asks, tone casual, bored.

“Y-Yours,” you gasp.

“Say it again.”

“Yours, General—yours—”

She grabs a fistful of your hair and tugs hard, forcing your back to arch.

“I could take you in front of anyone,” she hisses in your ear. “They wouldn’t dare look.”

You whine.

She’s right.

She’s always right.

This is what you agreed to complete access. Complete surrender. The privilege of being used.

Your thighs tremble as her thrusts get deeper.

You’re close.

So close.

But you don’t come until she tells you to.

When she finally says now, you fall apart so hard your knees buckle. You sob through it, her name tangled in your mouth.

She doesn’t stop until she’s done.

And when she’s done, she leaves you there.

Used. Gasping. Slick dripping down your legs onto the floor.

Eventually, you clean the desk.

Fold her trousers. Polish her boots.

And when she lies back in bed, arms behind her head, she lifts one finger.

You crawl into her sheets and settle between her thighs.

Because tomorrow, she might not touch you at all.

But tonight, you’re hers.

Over and over again.

★ plagarism not authorized ★

[velvetsserenity]

Bite Down

alpha!sevika x omega!reader

word count: 2.8K

content warnings: nsfw, explicit sexual content, alpha omega dynamics, power imbalance, heat-driven behavior, aggressive dominance, biting/marking, non-consensual undertones, mild pain, reader restrained and overpowered, knotting, breeding implications

She’s going feral.

Sweat glistens along her throat, veins bulging, arms straining hard enough against the reinforced restraints that the cuffs grind against the metal chair legs with a low screech. Every breath she takes is a guttural growl, like it hurts to inhale without you in her mouth. Her eyes are bloodshot, unfocused, locked on you like she’s going to eat you alive.

You lean against the wall.

Remote in hand. Thumb poised above the trigger.

“You’re not thinking straight,” you say, trying to keep your voice even despite the way your knees want to buckle. “It’s the heat. It’s making you insane.”

She snarls, teeth bared, jaw flexing like it’s fighting the muzzle that’s not even there. “I’m not fucking insane.”

Her thighs spread wider. Her hips roll against nothing. Her voice drops to a snarl. “I can smell you. I know you want it.”

You don’t deny it. Can’t. The air is thick with her scent, dark, musky, blistering with pheromones that make your brain want to shut off and your body want to give in. But you won’t.

“Sevika. Listen to me.” You push off the wall, take a step closer. Her breath hitches, nostrils flaring. “You almost mauled me this morning. You don’t even remember it, do you?”

She doesn’t answer.

Her eyes drop, stare at your thighs.

Then her body jerks forward, houlders straining, cords of muscle flexing as she lunges.

“Sevika, don’t—”

Too late.

You hit the button.

The collar lights up electric blue. It hits her like lightning, sparks cracking across her neck, the scent gland flaring red as her body seizes. She screams, an animal sound, low and pained, and slams back into the chair, the restraints yanking tight with a violent snap.

When it ends, her head droops forward. Shoulders shaking. Breath rasping hard through clenched teeth.

You step back to the wall. Let the silence settle.

“I told you,” you say softly. “You’re not in control.”

She doesn’t lift her head. Just spits blood onto the floor.

Then—quietly—she chuckles.

“You think that’s gonna stop me?” she rasps. “Keep playing with that button, sweetheart. I’m not done yet.”

The static hasn’t even cleared from the first shock before she twitches again,like her body doesn’t care it’s just been punished.

She growls, voice cracking. “You smell like you’re ready. You want this just as bad as I do, don’t lie….don’t fucking lie to me!”

Her muscles coil. Her wrists twist in the cuffs so hard they creak. The chair groans beneath her weight.

Then she lunges again.

You don’t flinch.

You press the button.

BZZZZT.

The collar lights up again, violent and cruel, a hungry electric hum snapping through the air as Sevika seizes up mid-lunge. Her back arches like she’s about to snap her own spine, and she lets out a strangled roar as her body locks down and slams hard into the chair again. Sweat flies off her jaw as she shakes, teeth gritted so tight they might crack.

When it stops, she collapses forward in the chair, arms trembling, hair clinging to her slick forehead.

And then—she laughs.

A low, broken, deranged sound.

“You think you can train me?” she huffs, voice ragged. “That little toy’s the only thing keeping me from fucking your guts full of my knot until you scream my name like it’s a goddamn prayer.”

You say nothing.

You just let her talk.

“I’ll bite you,” she says, more desperate now. “I’ll mark you so deep they’ll smell me on you for weeks. You want that? You want to be mine?”

She tries to shift her hips. The restraints don’t let her. The chair holds.

But the way her eyes glint when she hears her own cuffs creak, it’s almost euphoric.

“I’ll tear your fucking clothes off,” she moans, rolling her head against the backrest. “I’ll split you open and knot you so good you’ll forget your own damn name.”

You lift the remote.

Her eyes widen.

“No—no—fuck—please—”

BZZZZT.

She screams through her teeth, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes, not from the pain, but from being denied again. She bites her lip until blood stains her mouth. Her whole body spasms in the chair, knees twitching, thighs drenched.

When the buzzing fades this time, she doesn’t speak.

She sobs.

Low, hoarse, furious.

She hangs limp in the chair, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven gasps. The collar’s still sparking faintly—tiny pulses of leftover current twitching across her flushed throat. Her mouth is wet with spit and blood. Her pants are soaked.

You think maybe she’s done.

You think maybe she’s finally broken.

And then—

SNAP.

One of the chair legs screeches sideways with a bang.

You freeze.

She moves again.

Another jolt of violent strength, and this time the cuff on her right wrist shreds clean through the leather with a sharp crack. Metal groans. The entire chair shifts with her weight.

You step back.

“Sevika,” you warn, voice razor-thin.

She lifts her head.

Hair stuck to her face. A snarl behind her teeth.

Her left arm breaks free next.

She doesn’t hesitate.

She lunges to her feet, dragging the chair’s frame still shackled to her ankles. She stumbles, roars and charges.

You press the button.

BZZZZT.

It lights her up, but she doesn’t go down. She keeps coming, mouth open in a savage moan, eyes rolling back even as her muscles spasm and her knees buckle. She crashes against the wall just inches from you, her body jerking violently from the voltage, but she slams her hand out, knocks the remote from your grip, sending it clattering across the floor.

The collar finally shorts.

Smoke rises from the edge of the device, and the light dies with a pitiful fizzle.

She looks down at you. Panting. Grinning.

“Oops,” she growls.

You try to bolt.

But her arms cage you in, one braced above your head, the other grabbing your wrist hard enough to bruise. She pins you against the wall with her hips,hot, throbbing, soaked through the fabric grinding into you like a promise.

You fight.

Push at her chest, twist in her grip, but it only makes her growl, low and mean, like your struggling’s just foreplay.

“You shocked me,” she pants against your skin, teeth grazing your jaw. “Over and over. And now you’re gonna fucking pay.”

Her hand slips between your thighs and cups you over your soaked panties, pressing into the heat of your omega core like it belongs to her. You cry out, hips jolting but her thigh is already wedged between yours, keeping you open, caging you in.

She grins when she feels the wetness. “Knew it. You’re just as ruined as I am.”

“Sevika—” You try to speak, but she doesn’t care.

She bites down on the side of your neck, hard. You yelp, writhing as she suckles the skin between her teeth, leaving a brutal, red mark. Not a mating bite. Not yet. Just a warning. A stamp.

Her hands tear your clothes apart like paper. Shirt ripped open, bra yanked down, panties dragged roughly to your knees. You’re gasping, shivering under her weight, skin flushed and raw, scent slick and begging and she devours it.

“Gonna fuck you so full of me,” she snarls, pressing her nose to your chest, your belly, your thighs. “You’re gonna forget every command you ever gave.”

Her fingers dive between your folds and find you soaked,pulsing, dripping, ready. She groans, thrusts two in without warning, and your back arches hard off the wall. The stretch is sudden, brutal, perfect.

“That’s it,” she breathes, pumping them deeper, watching your mouth fall open. “That’s my girl.”

You try to speak, tell her to slow down, to wait but you can’t. Your body betrays you, hips grinding against her palm, core clenching so tight it makes her hiss through her teeth.

“You’ve been teasing me for hours. Days.” Her fingers speed up, thumb circling your clit like she’s hunting a reaction and she gets one. Your legs twitch. Your moans get louder. “How many times you press that button? Huh? You liked seeing me beg, didn’t you?”

You shake your head, but she only laughs rough, breathless, and hungry.

“No? Then why are you this wet?”

She pulls her fingers out. You whimper.

She licks them clean.

And growls.

“You taste like heat. Like mine.”

Her boxers are off in seconds, exposing her strap she’s been wearing all day. From this morning when she planned to take you, but got interrupted by your own plans. It brushes your slick folds and you sob, biting down on your own lip as your omega instincts scream yes—yes—yes.

Sevika grins like she feels it in your scent. “There she is.”

Then she thrusts in.

All at once.

You cry out, half pain, half desperate, shattering relief, as she fills you completely, barely giving your body time to adjust. The stretch is brutal, the pressure dizzying. She grabs your thighs, lifts you higher, lets your back press against the wall as she holds you open and starts to move.

Hard. Fast. Punishing.

“You wanted this,” she grunts, slamming into you over and over. “You fucking wanted this.”

Your body gives up. Folds under her. Fists tangled in her hair, breath coming in ragged moans as she drives into you like a hammer, her knot already swelling, threatening to lock.

Her teeth are at your neck again.

Not teasing this time.

“I’m gonna mark you,” she growls. “Gonna take you.”

You gasp—“No—don’t—wait—”

But she’s past the point of listening.

She sinks her teeth into the crook of your neck, a deep, savage bite, and your body explodes.

You come so hard it rips through you like lightning. Your vision whites out. Your walls clamp around her strap, milking her, and she growls against your skin as she gives in, thrusts deep, deeper, and imagines locking inside you, her knot swelling and snapping into place.

She pulses.

She wishes she could actually fill you.

Hot, endless streams of her release would coat your insides, her hips jerking against yours, the mark on your neck still bleeding when she finally pulls back and pants against your ear.

“Mine.”

You’re still trembling.

Still trying to breathe.

Still completely, helplessly tied to her.

And Sevika?

She’s smiling now.

A wicked, blood-stained grin.

“Next time you collar me,” she murmurs, nuzzling your jaw, “you better hope I don’t break it sooner.”

plagiarism not authorized

[velvetsserenity]

hate or lesbian yearning?

caitlyn x fem!reader

♥︎ warnings: dom!cait x sub!receiving!reader, college au, academic/family rivals, use of cait/caitlyn/kiramman, mean/loser(?)/nerdy cait, brat/smart ass reader, strap usage, backshots, hate sex, size kink u squint ♥︎

♥︎ word count: 2k ♥︎

Caitlyn Kiramman truly hated you.

Hate was a strong word, she was well aware of that, and used it wisely when speaking not so fondly of you and your family.

“That wretched girl ruined my project!” Cait slammed her fisted hands down on her vanity, perfume bottles and jewelry pieces knocking over in the process. In the corner of the room sat her poster board, graded at a 95, sheets of research sprawled out across the room. “I hate her. I hate her parents for giving birth to her. I hate her presence, her attitude, her whole entire being!”

“Caitlyn, please!” Her mother tutted, hands resting on her daughter’s shoulders as she squeezed tightly. “You must be better than them. You cannot let yourself succumb to her actions, she does it because she’s jealous of you.”

Caitlyn looked up, staring at the angered expression looking back at her in the mirror. Her eyebrows were furrowed, glasses sliding down her nose, huffing as her blood boiled underneath her skin. She wouldn’t do such a thing, surrender to you and your spoiled little games, but would make you succumb to her.

You hadn’t noticed it at first, not really. Sure, you’d sneak a peak at Caitlyn whenever you got the chance to, out of pure curiously, nothing else (at least, that’s what you told yourself). But as she stood there, middle of your living room, next to Cassandra Kiramman who was bitching at your mom for your actions, you couldn’t help but stare a little longer.

As usual, she had her nerdy—covered up most of her face—glasses on. She wore tight black pants that hugged her hips just right, paired with a lighter colored long sleeve blouse that was loosely buttoned up. The curve of her breasts peaked out, causing you to damn near choke on your spit. And God, she had those stupid black boots on that always made your eyes roll. As your eyes traced her body back up is when you noticed it. Something… different.

There was a barely noticeable bulge staring right back at you.

You let out a soft gasp, eyes widening at the sight. And of course, her highness had noticed, smirking at your expression.

Cait turned to her mother, smiling annoyingly bright. “You know, Mother, I think we can work this out ourselves.” Her gaze turned to you, stupidly fake smile still plastered on her face as she pushed her glasses up. “Since I’m obviously the bigger person here, I’d like to sit with you and chat, alone.”

Yeah, there was obviously something big about her.

You weren’t sure how, or when you ended up underneath her, but somehow Caitlyn fucking Kiramman ended up in your room, holding you down on your bed, strap bulge rubbing against the fat of your ass.

“I always knew you had a thing for me, Kiramman. You came prepared and everything this time, huh?” You taunted, arching your back, ass pressed against her hips, hands gripping tightly at your waist. “What a fucking pervert.”

She tugged at your skirt, pulling it up harshly, exposing your perfectly shaved cunt decorated with a lacey black thong. Cait let out a dry laugh, fingers toying with the string. “I’m the pervert? Look at you,” A digit ran between your already soaked folds, sending a shiver running down your spine. “Whorish arch, sopping shaved pussy, a thong? Please… Don’t make me laugh.”

Cait slipped your panties to the side, a sticky string of arousal following the cloth, letting out a broken gasp at the cold air hitting your sensitive clit. “I-I didn’t do it for you.”

“Is that so?” She responded, unzipping her pants, a 9 inch royal blue strap slapping your pussy as it flopped out. “Who would stoop low enough to fuck your bratty, prissy, annoying self?”

Your silence dragged out, cheeks reddening up. Fuck, you hated that she was right. Despised her so much you couldn’t help but want her deep inside you, fucking your brains out so hard at the mere thought of her hatred towards you. You slid a hand underneath yourself, trembling fingers slipping between your folds, spreading out your glistening hole for her. “No one but you, apparently.”

Though she’d never admit it, Cait gawked at your opened slit, eyes widening and heart skipping a beat at your obscenity. Her eyebrow twitched as she pressed the toy up against you, spreading your ass cheeks, tip slowly sliding in.

You groaned at her slowness, rolling your eyes, turning to look at her the best you could. “No, please, go ahead. Take your time. Not like we could get caught or any—”

She growled at your sarcasm, throwing her glasses off her face. Her hips suddenly rammed into you, whole nine incher disappearing deep inside you as you sucked her in, completely stretching out your tight hole. You let out a choked, broken groan, eyes shutting tightly as her tip kissed your cervix.

“For once in your bloody life, shut the fuck up.”

This usually didn’t happen often, but you came to realize that the more you fucked with Caitlyn, the more she fucked you. Calling her out on one tiny detail that was wrong about her project in front of everyone was a low blow, but fuck, was it worth it.

Cait grunted as she thrusted in, her strokes harsh but calculated—like she’d memorized exactly which parts of you made you break. Like she knew the inside of your cunt better than you ever would.

Your face was pressed against the mattress, tongue lolled out, drool staining your sheets as she held your hands against your arched back. Your knees wobbled with every shallow stroke, fwopping sounds of your wet cunt bouncing off the walls, her goal being to see herself bulge out of your lower tummy.

“God, fuck—Cait! It was—just f-five points off! You’re gonna—kill—me!” You whisper yelled, trying your damn hardest to speak between guttural moans and the sounds of her pelvis slapping against the plush of your ass while she drilled into you.

You suddenly felt a hot, sharp pain on your ass cheek, causing your whole body to jolt forward. She’d—just smacked your ass? You scoffed, eyebrows furrowed at the stinging sensation. “Nghh! What the hell, C-Cait—?!”

“Who said you could call me ‘Cait’?” Her palm landed on the puffy, blushed raised skin again, the sound echoing in your room. You let out a small eek!, body instinctively pulling itself away from her.

“It’s Kiramman to you, brat. Know your place.” Caitlyn gripped onto your wrists, nails digging into your skin as she yanked you back onto the toy, ramming her length back inside you. You groaned out at the addictive feeling of her roughness, upper body slightly hovering above the mattress now. A pornographic, loud, curdling moan ripped out from your throat, the intense sensation taking over your body, eyes rolling back.

“If it wasn’t for your pettiness, I would’ve gotten a perfect score—mmh! Now do us both a favor and keep quiet. Wouldn’t want mommy dearest to come find you stuffed to the brim with nothing but me, would you?”

She was right, again. You totally deserved this, to be treated like nothing but a plaything for her. As much as you shouldn’t, you completely ate it up—hell, probably would’ve moaned if she’d spanked you again. Your ruined pussy dripped onto the sheets, a creamy ring of arousal coating the toy, hoping one day she’d hate you just enough to make you hers out of spite. Maybe that thought was just part of your fucked out brain—you really weren’t sure. You muffed yourself out by sinking your teeth into your blankets, greedily taking every little bit of Caitlyn that you could.

“C-Can feel you—guh!—in my fuckin’—throat!” You blubbered out, her punishing thrusts making your head light, feeling a tightness spreading throughout your body. Your legs were convulsing, knees weak and wobbly, skin sweaty and cunt aching, growing closer to your climax with each brutal rock of her hips.

Cait relished in your messiness—the whiny mewls, leaky and split open hole, drops of sweat, trembling body—she had you right where she wanted you. Unlike her, of course. She was strategic, kept her composure, even when her strap nestled deep inside her arch nemesis.

She wasn’t completely perfect herself, though. Her thighs were slick with wetness, dampening up the strap leather. Her hands were rather shaky and clammy as she held onto you harshly, using your arms as reigns. Even then, she grit her teeth, only letting out grunts and soft groans with each buck of her hips. You two were the perfect opposites in that moment—maybe a little too perfect.

“You’re gripping around me, darling,” She cooed tauntingly, her pace never faltering. “Are you going to cum for me?”

“F-Fuck you—!” You muttered out between heavy and quick pants, her pet name for you sending a pulse of heat straight down to your core. And God, did you hate that she had that effect on you. “A thousand times fuck you, Kiramman, f-fuck… me! Nnggh!—please! Like that, C-Cait, j-just like that!”

You’d finally unraveled, right at the palm of her hand. She almost didn’t notice you calling her a nickname again. Though for some reason, didn’t quite mind it as much when you were pulsating around her, drunk off Caitlyn and her cock, orgasm creeping up on you.

If it wasn’t for the sounds of arguing mothers, Caitlyn was sure the whole house would’ve heard your whorish pleads. She secretly wished they would’ve, so they could walk in on their gold star child getting fucked stupid by none other than her.

“My God, you sound like a bitch in heat.” She mocked, gulping down her own moans as the harness rubbed against her now swollen clit. “Hurry up and cum already, I’m getting bored.”

And as ashamed as you were for it, like an obedient little slut, you did. Your moans choked up in your throat, toes curling, fingers twitching, creaming all around her member as your orgasm hit you all at once. Your ears rang, white-hot heat spreading out in your body, pussy gushing all over Caitlyn, letting out high pitched mewls at the overwhelming sensation of mixed pain and pleasure.

Once Caitlyn finally let go of your wrists, you plopped down on the bed, toy sliding out of you quickly. She rolled her eyes at you and your childlike flop, letting out a huff at her now cum stained pants, straightening herself up the best she could. “Get cleaned up, one more minute alone and our mothers will tear each other’s hair out.”

You looked over at her, just barely picking yourself up from the mattress, panting and shivering, not even slightly recovered from your earth shattering orgasm. “Jeez, can I catch my breath first?”

“No,” She snapped coldly, bending over to meet your gaze. Your eyes widened at her closeness, somehow finding this more nerve wracking than the sex itself. She still looked as collected as ever, hair perfectly straight, not a sweat tear in sight. Her eyes, though hardened, had a softness to them—piercing blue irises staring into your soul. You almost never got to look into them due to her lenses, but they were beautiful. She smelled of lavender and vanilla mixed with the smell of rough sex—a scent that was a little too addictive.

“I want to see your knees wobble in front of them,” She gripped onto your face, squishing your cheeks together. “Want to see you struggle to stand up. I hope you know you deserve worse, I’m being entirely too kind.”

You gulped, keeping your mouth shut for once. Your eyes sparkled at her words, though full of spite, nodding as your head tilted in awe while butterflies fluttered in your stomach.

“Yeah,” You blinked quickly, shaking away the puppy dog eyes as you sat up. You reached over for her glasses, holding them up and out to her as your eyes traced the slender, 6 foot tall woman towering over you, lips curled up in a smirk. “Living out your sadistic fantasies with me, huh, Kiramman?”

You always did have a thing for the secretly mean girls.

[velvetsserenity]

Still Got a Mouth On You?

Dom!Sevika x Brat!Reader

word count: 3.2k

content warnings: explicit sexual content, rough sex, strap-on penetration, bondage (belt restraints), impact play (spanking), dominant Sevika, bratty/defiant reader, hair pulling, choking (light), degrading language, power play, emotional tension, post-argument dynamic, reader enjoying rough treatment

You hadn’t even finished your sentence before she shoved you back against the wall.

The brick was cold through your shirt, and Sevika’s forearm pressed across your chest, not choking, not holding you down. Just there, like a warning. Her body heat rolled off her in waves. She smelled like smoke and metal and sweat. That same smell that always came after a fight, one she half-won, half-lost, and couldn’t let go of yet.

Your lip curled.

“Did I hit a nerve?”

She didn’t answer. Her jaw clenched, her eyes burning holes through you.

“You’re such a sore fucking loser,” you went on, breath catching. “Gonna pin me to the wall ‘cause you can’t win an argument?”

Her hand slid up. Not slow. Not gentle. Her fingers closed around your jaw, thumb pressed rough against your cheek as she tilted your head back to look at her.

“Maybe I just like seeing you like this,” she muttered. “All mouth, no sense.”

You smirked. “And yet here you are, still listening to me talk.”

Her grip tightened. Just enough to make your pulse jump.

“You’re gonna make me do something about it, aren’t you?”

“Maybe that’s what I want.”

That did it.

She shoved your shoulder hard, spinning you off the wall and into the couch. You landed half-sitting, legs still spread from the stumble, and Sevika was already on you, straddling your chest with practiced weight, fists braced on either side of your shoulders.

She looked down at you, panting from the fight, still dressed in her gear, heavy pants, tight vest, belt just starting to loosen under her hand.

“You love pissing me off,” she growled.

You grinned up at her, hands on her thighs. “Only when it gets me underneath you.”

She barked a laugh, short, humorless and reached down to undo her belt. Her pants dropped just low enough to bare her cunt, soaked and flushed and swollen.

“You’re fucking lucky I’m wet enough to want this,” she snapped.

“I make you that way,” you said, dragging your nails up her thigh. “Don’t pretend I don’t.”

Sevika grabbed your hair in one hand and your jaw in the other, tilting your head back and grinding her cunt against your mouth with zero hesitation. She pulled your face into her, slick and hot and already dripping and you moaned like you were starving.

You let your tongue drag slow, savoring the taste of her, lips parting wide as you licked up through her folds. She rocked forward, pressure heavy and immediate. No teasing. No waiting. Just raw need.

“Keep your fucking mouth open,” she growled. “You want to talk? Talk with your tongue.”

Your moan vibrated against her. You flattened your tongue and pressed it hard against her clit, curling your arms around her thighs to hold her in place, dragging your nails into her skin.

Sevika gasped—then growled.

Her hand gripped your hair tighter, pulling you against her like she needed you there, like she didn’t know how to come down without this, without the burn, the bite, the fight. Her hips rocked with short, filthy grinds, riding your mouth with no patience left in her.

“Fucking perfect,” she muttered. “That’s what you’re good for. All that noise, and this is the only time you’re useful.”

You smiled against her, mouth soaked, tongue flicking faster now. She tasted like sweat and adrenaline, like rage and need blurred into one. You moaned again and dragged her down harder against your face.

She twitched, hips jolting and cursed loud.

“Shit—fuck—don’t stop. You’re gonna make me—”

Her legs were shaking. She was panting hard now, sweat dripping from her temple as she looked down at you, your mouth red and slick, your eyes locked to hers, like you were daring her to come undone.

And she did.

Hard.

With a snarl torn straight from her throat, she came grinding down on your face, thighs clenching around your head, cunt pulsing wet and hot against your tongue. She held you there, gasping, twitching, trying to breathe through it, one hand still fisted in your hair.

You stayed put. Licking her through it. Drawing every last wave out of her, even as she hissed and twitched and pushed weakly at your forehead.

When she finally leaned back, catching her breath, you pulled away slow. Your lips were shiny, your chin wet, and your expression smug as hell.

“Still mad at me?”

Sevika looked down at you, hair a mess, chest still heaving, and then smirked.

“Not yet done with you.”

She reached for her belt again.

“You gonna collapse, or keep pretending I’m the one that’s weak?”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

She climbed off your chest, boots heavy on the floor, and bent to snatch up her belt from where it had fallen. Her breath was still ragged, chest rising under her half-unzipped vest, cunt glistening between her thighs. But her eyes, fuck, they were sharp now. Focused.

“You don’t know when to quit, do you?” she muttered, walking back over.

You stretched your arms over your head, mocking like you were about to lounge. “Only when you make me.”

Sevika dropped to one knee beside you and grabbed your wrist so fast you didn’t have time to fight it.

She twisted your arm behind your back, firm and rough, and in seconds, her belt was wrapping around your forearmsleather tight, buckle biting against your skin.

You gasped, head snapping back to glare at her.

“The fuck—”

“I said shut up,” she growled. “You want to run that mouth, you do it with something in you.”

She finished cinching the belt and shoved you forward over the couch arm. Your face hit the cushion, cheek dragging across the fabric, your arms now pinned behind you. Exposed. Trapped. Thighs parted wide.

And she was already picking up the strap thick, dark, strapped tight between her hips in one sharp movement. The tension in the room cracked like static.

You tried to arch your back, challenge her again, but Sevika stepped in behind you and slapped your ass hard.

“Stay the fuck down.”

You laughed through a groan. “Make me.”

She didn’t hesitate.

Her hand gripped your hip. The other yanked your head back by your hair, just enough to hiss, “You better moan my name when I’m inside you, or I swear to God—”

Then she shoved in.

No warning. No slow build

Just the strap pushing deep into your already soaked cunt filling you fast and harsh, making your legs shake. You choked on a gasp, head rolling back, arms useless behind you as your body clenched around the stretch.

“God fuck—”

“That shut you up?” she panted, fucking into you hard enough to rock your body forward.

You moaned loud, still defiant.

“Keep—trying—”

Sevika slammed back in, faster now, hips crashing into you with a bruising rhythm. Your hands jerked uselessly in the belt binding you, face buried in the couch, breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

“You love this,” she spat. “Tied up, full of cock, moaning like a bitch in heat.”

You moaned louder. Cunt clenching around the strap, slick soaking down your thighs, eyes rolling back.

“Say it,” she growled.

You bit your lip, then hissed, “Fuck you.”

She reached under you, grabbed a fistful of your hair again, and yanked your head up as she kept pounding into you.

“You already are.”

The belt bit into your wrists as you bucked against her, spine arching from the force of each thrust. She was fucking you deep, rough, the tip of the strap hitting just right every time. Her palm landed flat against your ass, the sting spreading over your skin in waves.

“I should leave you like this,” she muttered. “Bent over, dripping, begging. But you don’t beg, do you?”

You turned your head, breath catching.

“Make me.”

Sevika groaned low, filthy, wrecked and shoved the strap deep, holding it there, grinding her hips into your ass, pressing her body into yours so you felt how far gone she was.

“I’ll make you scream first.”

Her fingers found your clit—slick, swollen, aching. She rubbed rough circles, no rhythm, just friction, just need. Your thighs shook, moans breaking loose, body twisting under her grip as the pressure built and built and..

“Sev—fuck—fuck I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” she growled. “Come on. Come all over my cock, brat.”

You shattered.

Coming with a strangled cry, legs giving out, cunt pulsing tight around the strap as her fingers kept working you through it, too much, too hard, perfect.

Sevika didn’t stop until you collapsed into the cushions, panting, spent, wrists still bound, face a mess of tears and slick and drool.

She leaned over you, lips brushing your ear.

“Still got something to say?”

You groaned, breath hitching.

“…Yeah. You hit harder when you’re losing.”

Another slap to your ass

Another round already loading.

plagiarism not authorized

[velvetsserenity]

!! REQUESTS ARE OPEN !!

✦ arcane Sevika ⤷ the steam hasn't settled – sevika x reader ⤷ still got a mouth on you? – dom!sevika x brat!reader ⤷ bite down –alpha!sevika x omega!reader ⤷ firecracker –client!sevika x brotherlworker!reader ⤷ warm up – sevika x reader x ambessa ⤷ overshadowed – sevika x reader ⤷ arcane woman + kinks – sevika x reader

Ambessa ⤷ a servant's privilege - ambessa x servant!reader ⤷ warm up – ambessa x reader x sevika ⤷ arcane woman + kinks – ambessa x reader

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☁︎ stay unhinged, stay curious, and feel free to scream in my inbox anytime.

[velvetsserenity]

The Steam Hasn’t Settled

Sevika x Enforcer!Reader

wordcount: 2.1K

content warnings: explicit sexual content, strap-on penetration, rough sex, breath play, overstimulation, possessive behavior, light choking, marking/bruising, emotional tension, power imbalance, praise and degradation

The first thing you noticed was the sound, the low glug-glug of liquor meeting glass, echoing in the warmth of the apartment. The door had creaked behind you, but she didn’t turn. Steam still clung to the ceiling, ghosting from the bathroom down the hallway, curling around your legs like smoke from a dying fire. She was fresh out of the shower. You were sure of it.

And there she stood, back to you, a towel riding low on her hips, nothing else. Water still clung to her skin, glistening along the powerful slope of her shoulders and spine. Her mechanical arm flexed slightly as she reached for the bottle on the counter, the prosthetic gleaming a dull purple in the low light.

She looked… dangerous. Comfortable. Like this was hers, her space, her night, her silence, and you were just lucky to be allowed inside it.

You lingered in the doorway of the kitchen, not yet ready to cross the threshold. Not because of nerves, but because there was something sacred about seeing her like this. Raw and quiet. Like watching a storm sleep.

“That for me?” you asked finally, voice soft.

She didn’t look at you, but she poured another glass beside the first. The glug of it felt like a signal. An answer.

“You’re late.”

That made something twist in your chest, not guilt exactly, but close. Her voice carried more heat than accusation, and you couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or simply reminding you that she’d noticed. Of course she had. She always did.

“You always wait this long?” you asked, stepping closer, slow.

“You always test me this much?” she shot back, calm.

Her voice was like rough velvet, dragging across your skin, and as you crossed into the kitchen, the air shifted. Denser now. Charged. Her presence did that, coiled around you like smoke from a barrel still warm.

You reached past her for the second glass, fingers brushing the counter. She didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Let you get close.

The smell of her was stronger now,clean, like sharp soap and steel. Her hair hung damp and dark right above her shoulder, and as she finally turned her head slightly to look at you, a few strands clung to her cheek. Her eyes dragged across your body slowly, assessing, deciding.

“You smell like oil and concrete,” she said.

You said nothing. She didn’t ask what took so long, and you didn’t tell her what you’d been doing. That unspoken line was one you never crossed.

Not out loud.

ou could still feel the ache in your shoulder from earlier. The tension in your jaw from the shift. Every now and then, Sevika’s crew got too close. Every now and then, your side was told to push harder.

But here, in her apartment, none of that mattered.

Here, you were just hers.

“I missed you,” you said.

Her lips quirked. “You always miss me when it’s convenient.”

“Maybe. Still true.”

She turned to face you fully now, her body still damp, towel slipping just a little lower with the motion. You didn’t know if she noticed or if she did it on purpose. Her skin steamed in places where water clung to the heat of her.

“You going to act like you didn’t spend the last week chasing ghosts in my district?” she murmured, stepping closer.

You went still.

The words held weight, but her tone stayed casual. Daring you to flinch. You didn’t.

“I’m here now.”

Sevika’s smile was slow and cruel and beautiful. “You always are. Eventually.”

Her hand came up, her real one, and gripped your chin between thumb and finger. Not rough, not yet. She turned your head slightly, making you look at her fully.

“You gonna make it up to me?”

Your stomach fluttered. You hated how easily she pulled that out of you. Hated it, but needed it.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I will.”

She kissed you then, fast and deep, like something hungry. Her mouth tasted like liquor and smoke and something bitter you could never name. Her lips dragged across yours with purpose, her tongue parting you without pause. The glass in your hand nearly slipped.

She took it from you, set it down behind you, and pushed you back against the counter. Her towel brushed your thighs. Her body pinned yours—warm, damp, muscle and heat pressed tight to your front. You gasped into her mouth and she swallowed it like a challenge.

“You’re tense,” she growled against your lips.

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, “some of us work for a living.”

She laughed, low and dangerous, and the sound vibrated in your chest.

“Watch it.”

“I could say the same.”

She pressed her thigh between yours, dragging it up slowly, parting you with it. You sucked in a breath, grip tightening on her arm.

“Fuck,” you whispered.

“That’s the idea,” she said, voice smug, already dragging her mouth along your jaw, nipping just below your ear. “Don’t play coy now. You came here needing it.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Her hands found your hips, grinding you down on her thigh. The friction sparked heat immediately. You clung to her, hands gripping the edges of the towel at her back, nails digging into damp skin.

She moved with purpose, slow and deliberate, like she knew every button to press and exactly how long to drag it out. The muscles in her thigh flexed under you, grinding up just right, too good.

She kissed your throat, licking the pulse point. “So wet already, and I haven’t even touched you properly.”

You whimpered, head falling back.

“You want it here?” she asked. “Against the counter like a fucking delinquent?”

Yes,” you hissed, rocking against her. “Please—”

She growled, something primal in it. Her hand slid between you, pushing your clothes out of the way, fingers hot and impatient. She didn’t tease. She never teased when you begged.

Two fingers slid into you with ease, and you moaned, high and broken. She watched your face, eyes dark and burning, then ducked her head and latched onto your throat again. Her mouth sucked a bruise into your skin, marking you, while her fingers curled just right.

“You’re not supposed to like this,” she muttered against your neck. “You’re supposed to be better than this. Right?”

“Shut up,” you whispered, trembling. “Don’t stop.”

“Didn’t plan to.”

She fucked you with her fingers like she meant to ruin you, and maybe she did. Her thigh still pressed hard between your legs, her other hand gripping your waist like she owned it. You writhed against her, moaning, one hand gripping her wrist while the other clutched her shoulder.

You came with a shudder, hips jerking, nails digging into her skin as the pleasure tore through you. Sevika didn’t stop right away. She let you ride it out, eyes locked on your face, drinking in every twitch, every gasp.

When she finally pulled her fingers from you, she licked them clean. Slow. Intentionally obscene.

“Good start,” she said, voice like gravel and smoke.

You leaned against the counter, breathless, dazed.

“Fuck.”

She smirked. “That’s one round. You’re gonna need more than that to make up for this week.”

And the way she looked at you, towel hanging low, steam still clinging to her skin, cocky and hungry and unbothered, you knew she meant it.

The sheets stuck to your back, damp with sweat and breathless struggle. Sevika’s weight above you was a blessing and a threat, her hand fisted in the bedding by your head, the other gripping your thigh, pushing it higher, holding you open while she rocked into you with a rhythm that had no mercy left in it.

You’d meant to say something, maybe ask for a pause, a breath, but her body made it impossible to form anything beyond broken syllables and gasps.

“F-fuck—”

“You can take it,” she growled into your neck. Her voice wasn’t soft, wasn’t sweet, it was low and heavy, like the promise of thunder. “You wanted it rough, remember?”

You did. You always did. But tonight, it felt different. She was holding onto you like something had snapped loose during the week you’d been gone. Like fucking you was the only way to remind herself you hadn’t vanished completely.

Her mouth was at your collarbone, teeth scraping raw. She didn’t kiss pretty, she kissed like she was trying to mark you, bite pieces of you deep enough to feel tomorrow. Her skin was still hot from the shower, damp from sweat now instead of steam, the last of the towel long forgotten on the floor.

You locked your legs around her waist, hips grinding up to meet every thrust, wanting more, needing all of her. Her mechanical hand creaked slightly as it braced against the headboard, the weight of her hips driving into you deep enough to steal the air from your lun.

She groaned into your mouth when you kissed her, clumsy, open, messy. Like she was trying to taste the truth in your teeth. Your hands tangled in her damp hair, dragging her closer, but she resisted just long enough to make you ache for it. Her lips parted against yours again, her tongue sliding deep, slow, like she wanted to devour every lie you’d ever told just to feel them melt on her tongue.

“Don’t think about it,” she muttered, forehead pressed to yours. “Don’t you fucking think about work right now.”

“I’m not,” you panted. “I’m not—”

“Liar.”

Her hips snapped harder, punishing. You cried out, fingernails scraping down her back, digging into muscle. She liked it, groaned again, deeper this time. Her breath hitched as you clenched around her, the slick sound of your bodies meeting filling the space between harsh panting.

You looked up at her, her face darkened with sweat, jaw clenched, eyes barely open. And fuck, she was beautiful. Like this. Raw, undone. Still wearing that look like you’d challenged her, and she was winning.

You always look at me like that when I fuck you,” she said, voice low. “Like you forgot which side you’re on.”

“Maybe I did,” you whispered. “Maybe I like this side better.”

Sevika froze for a second. Just a second. But it was enough.

Her hand left the headboard and wrapped around your throat, squeezing—not hard, just enough to feel the pressure, the weight of her control.

“Don’t say shit like that,” she muttered. “You don’t mean it.”

You stared up at her, eyes wide, lips parted. You didn’t nod. You didn’t argue.

“Say something,” she demanded.

“I mean it,” you whispered.

She stared at you like you were a loaded gun aimed at her chest. Then she crushed her mouth against yours again, rough, needy. Her hand slid back down, fingers trailing between your breasts, down your stomach, until they found your clit, already swollen, throbbing.

She circled it slowly, drawing a cry from your throat that turned into a broken moan as her thrusts picked up again. Your whole body trembled under her, pinned by her weight, drowning in her voice in your ear.

“Let me hear you,” she rasped. “Come on. Don’t hold back.”

You didn’t. Couldn’t.

Your orgasm ripped through you like fire, arching your back, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sevika fucked you through it, watching you fall apart beneath her with something dark and tender in her eyes.

When it passed, your body dropped limp beneath her, chest heaving, sweat-slick and ruined.

But she wasn’t done.

She pulled out only long enough to flip you onto your stomach. You barely had time to gasp before her hands were dragging your hips up, her thigh pushing between yours again. She mounted you from behind, grip possessive on your waist, her breath ragged and hot against your spine.

“Thought we were even,” you groaned into the sheets.

“We’re never even,” she said. “Not with you.”

Her thrusts were slower now, deeper. Drawing it out. You buried your face in the mattress, hands fisting the sheets, body trembling with overstimulation.

You gonna cry for me, sweetheart?”

“No—”

“Liar.”

She reached under you, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing soft, mean circles. Your whole body jolted.

“Don’t���Sevika—”

“That’s right. Say my name.”

“Fuck—Sevika—Sev—”

Your voice broke on a sob, and you hated how much you needed her to hear it. Hated how much you loved when she whispered filth into your ear, kissed your spine, licked the sweat from your neck like it meant something.

something.

“You’re mine when you’re like this,” she said. “Doesn’t matter what you do out there. Here, you’re mine.”

And you were. God help you, you were.

authors note: i cumbust

plagiarism not authorized

[velvetsserenity]

the real plot of jujutsu kaisen is that kenjaku is everyone’s parent and it was just one big incest fest.

[velvetsserenity]

love seeing people get absolutely wild when a literal war criminal isn’t the cutie patootie they’ve imagined in their head.

[velvetsserenity]

Death by Stereo [Yandere Chrollo x Reader] [Vampire AU]

Title: Death by Stereo [Yandere Vampire Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: You’re just a nobody living in a small town when a mysterious stranger with a leather jacket, good looks and a penchant for kissing your hand rolls in, just in time for the ever-popular summer carnival. Things are going great, until dead bodies start piling up. 

Word count: 17,510

Notes: yandere, vampire AU, descriptions of dead bodies, some violence, gore, abuse

Thursday

Is there anything more wearisome than a small town? Small towns grind you down so slowly that you don’t realize your feet have been eroded into useless nubs before it’s too late, and you have nowhere to run, even if you had the inkling to get away. 

A small town has its charms, as they say--but it has its burdens, too. You know all the faces, but all the faces know you; some of them have even known you since you were just an ultrasound picture carried dutifully in your mother’s purse, pulled out at coffee shops and book clubs. 

They know when you got your first period (age 13, in the middle of gym class--you were wearing white shorts); when your first boyfriend dumped you (at the school dance, right before he made out with the third most popular girl in school); what colleges you applied to, and later--why you dropped out (your dad got sick) and how he was doing (not so great but getting better) and where you worked, how you liked your coffee, and all these impersonal and personal details that made up the monotony of your life. 

It was a trap, this small town life. A faux bubble of intimacy that your parents embraced, but you’d never fully believed. Because despite knowing so much about you, no one here really knew you. They could tell you that you looked just like your mom at her age; they could sling down a mug with your coffee order without you opening your mouth (black, 1 sugar, 1 cream, no milk)--but they didn’t want to hear about how much you wanted to travel; how much you wanted to see.

Did it matter? You weren’t getting out anytime soon, anyway.

Like all small towns, yours had a claim to fame. While others might boast being the hometown of some B-list celebrity or the site of an all-you-get-eat seafood festival, your particular small town had one edge over the others: a summer carnival right on the beach, designed to appeal to nearby tourists who came to much larger, resort-friendly beaches for the summer season. 

The tourists loved to flock here on that singular summer weekend, pretending they were enjoying a quaint local carnival where they got drunk on cheap beer and sampled funnel cake until they puked. And if the locals hustled them as much as possible, overcharging for drinks and parking and sightseeing maps, was that so bad? Small towns needed to leech off new blood once in a while, after all.

The carnival was four days long--Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Sunday was, of course, the grand finale. There was a massive fireworks show on the beach, a huge concert with local and sometimes vaguely familiar bands. A lot more booze traded hands on Saturdays, and the beach was lit up with more than just fireworks; the local volunteers always spent the next week picking up cigarette butts and discarded joints in the sand.

The carnival can be fun. Although like anything that happens every single year in a small town you’ve lived in your entire life (save the one year of college you managed before your dad’s test results came back) it gets wearisome.

Still--you go. What else is there to do? Besides, you’d be stupid to deny that it’s more fun to spend your summer weekend wandering the carnival, riding a few rides, speaking to people, than to sit at home or pick up an extra shift at the diner. 

That’s why you’ve wandered into the carnival today--Thursday. Thursday is your favorite day of the carnival, because it’s the most quiet, relatively speaking. There are tourists here, sure, but they’re not rowdy yet. Not as overcrowded. There aren’t gaggles of kids running around with lobster-red faces and arms because they’re parents didn’t understand the necessity of sunscreen; there aren’t groups of women traveling in packs with matching sunglasses and hats, enjoying a summer break away from their rich and distant husbands.

It’s mostly locals on Thursday. People like you, bored coffee shop workers with nothing better to do on a Thursday evening.

Or people like Jake Jenson over there, currently aiming a colorful dart at a row of balloons in one of many carnival games that would hustle drunk tourists out of their money this weekend.

Jake was the town drunk--a title he gave himself, and others were only too happy to oblige him. He stuck to himself most of the time. During the carnival, he won as many carnival prizes as possible, and traded them to tourists with shitty aim for beers or cigarettes. 

And over there--the early birds. They’ve come three years in a row, you think from somewhere in New  York. They’re attached at the hip, constantly rubbing their noses together like some twee movie couple, and you’ve heard them complain that the boardwalks in their part of the country are a lot more “authentic.’ 

Sure, there’s the familiar faces, but unfamiliar ones, too. An older gentleman and his wife, who walks next to him more slowly, with a cane. He’s balancing a plastic plate with a fresh funnel cake in his hand. They’ll find a bench to sit down and enjoy it, maybe people watch, like you.

It’s time for one of your favorite games: making up stories for the various tourists you probably won’t ever see again. This couple--this is the last trip they’ll take together, because the wife got an awful diagnosis, and they’re spending what would have been the rest of their retirement savings on the dream vacation she always wanted to take. They met during the war, decades ago… he was a soldier and she was a nurse, and he hurt his leg, maybe, and wound up in a field hospital.

It would have been terribly romantic. 

Your eyes shift away from the couple and onto a few other new faces. 

Maybe that’s why you liked the carnival. It was nice to look at new people and imagine where they came from, what they did. The kind of life they had, which was surely more interesting and worldly than yours.

With people watching in mind,  you abandon your bench in front of the games and head deeper into the carnival, weaving yourself in between snack and ticket booths, stepping over large black cables that kept the rides running. 

Dusk had already settled in, and the warm glow of the summer had been replaced with a deepening sense of evening. The carnival lights had already begun to play against the darkening sky, creating that magical atmosphere that couldn’t be replicated during the day.

You don’t notice the stranger at first. It’s dark, the lights are a bit dizzying, and there are plenty of people simply wandering around and taking in the sights. What’s one more stranger, when over the course of the next few hours and days, the summer will be increasingly filled with them?

But this particular stranger shows up in the corner of your vision and immediately strikes you as… odd. He’s just standing there.

Watching you. Staring--right at you. What the fuck?

He’s wearing all black, and there’s some sort of scarf or cowl over his face. His eyes look impassive but there’s something awful in them, even in the brief glances you get from catching him from the corner of your gaze.

What a creep. 

It sours the mood, and you decide to leave, or at least take a break and shake off whatever out-of-towner decided to pull off his best edgy horror movie impression to creep you out. It wouldn’t be the first time a tourist behaved like a jerk, or a weirdo, especially if they’d be drinking. 

Something about nighttime at the carnival made people go wild. 

So you head away from it all, from the couples trying to win stuffed animals, from the giggling shrieks of people on rides that spun them upside down until they wanted to puke. And maybe you should just head right home, but it’s not fair to waste a night of good weather.

Cool, but not too cool. Pleasant. The moon is out and the stars twinkle overhead.

Heading out on the dock might be nice. Tourists don’t bother with it, at least not on Thursday, when the beach isn’t lit-up and there’s no particular reason to head out this way. 

But you’d been to this beach in the evening before; you weren’t scared of the dark. By contrast, you liked the way the beach sounded at night. The water moving in and out, slow and sure. The occasional sound of wildlife splashing in the water. And the din of the carnival behind you, all rainbow lights and indiscernible human happiness.

Your joy is cut off by the sound of footsteps. Your heart leaps in your chest and your hands slam into your pocket instinctively, fumbling for your keys. Fuck, how were you supposed to use these in self-defense again? Put them between your fingers?

Your heart hammers and you slowly turn around, squinting as you make out a figure approaching you in the dark.

“I’m sorry,” a voice calls out, penitent. “Did I scare you? I’m trying to get reception.” The man wiggles a small silver object in the air, raising it above his head. A small LED screen lights up and your heart rate begins to calm, slowly but surely.

After a few beats, he sighs, and shoves the phone in his pocket. 

He turns, apparently to leave, but then looks back at you. “Are you all right? I really didn’t mean to startle you.”

You swallow, lick your lips. Feel stupid for the keys in your fingers. He seems nice enough. A typical tourist. “Um, yeah.” You laugh, an empty sound. “I guess I’m just a little jumpy tonight.”

The moonlight doesn’t give you a clear view of the man’s features, but you can see him tilt his head a little. “Jumpy?”

The keys in your pocket rattle when you let them go, and pull your hands out to point back towards the carnival. The man follows your finger with an almost studious interest.

“Someone was following me, maybe? Or he just seemed a bit creepy.” You laugh again, a habit ingrained after years of dealing with men in odd situations--defuse, tread lightly, always. “He was staring at me, but I couldn’t see his face. He had a scarf over it, I think.”

The man in front of you hums in acknowledgement after a moment. He almost seems a little amused, which is both irritating and relieving in its own way. You were just being silly, jumpy, overreacting, weren’t you? Maybe the guy wasn’t even looking at you in the first place.

“Can I walk you back to the carnival? It doesn’t feel right to leave you here alone.” 

Ah, no, you think. Sure, the man in front of you might just be a tourist in search of reception, but that doesn’t mean you’re stupid. This is how people get murdered. Or attacked. Or like, hoisted into white vans and never seen again.

“No, that’s okay. I was going to stay out here longer and look at the stars. I’m going home soon, anyway.” Not a complete lie, since you did really want to go home. Something like this is usually enough for most people to take the hint, right? 

The man doesn’t turn around. Instead, you see the shape of his smile, lit only by the moon in the sky above.

“You want me to walk you back to the carnival,” he says simply, and offers his arm out, like some kind of old-fashioned gentleman. 

Oh. Of course you do. What were you thinking, staying out here on the dock at night? Mosquitoes would eat you up, anyway. 

You smile in return and take his offered arm, stepping lightly as you make your way back to the carnival with a complete stranger.

Only by the time you make it back to the threshold of the carnival, which seems to be eaten up by the darkness surrounding all of the twinkling lights, he’s not really a stranger, is he? 

And as you get closer to the carnival, the natural darkness of the beach gives way to an abundance of artificial lights that allow you to see him better. He’s cute--no doubting that, with dark hair that frames his face, and a bandage around his forehead. Maybe an accident, or an unfortunate birthmark. 

Even if you weren’t familiar with most of the town’s residents in one way or another,  you’d know he was an outsider from the way he’s dressed. A slim motorcycle jacket and dark jeans… not the type of guy that hangs around here for long.

As you stop at the border of the carnival, he asks where you live, and you tell him--”around.” He admits that he’s only in town for the carnival week. 

“I figured,” you say lightly enough.

He raises his eyebrows. “Is it that easy to tell?”

You put your hands into your pockets and look around you. 

“I mean, it’s a small town, right? Everyone knows everyone, after a while. A new face stands out pretty easily.”

His smile is charming. Practiced, but charming. Or maybe being practiced is how it’s so charming in the first place.  “That makes sense.” He considers you for a moment. “You like to watch the tourists, then?”

You shrug and gesture with your chin towards a mom with a toddler clinging to her hand, pulling her along towards one of the games with enormous stuffed animals.

“I like people watching, I guess. Sometimes,” and as you’re saying it, you don’t know why you’re telling him this so openly. “Sometimes I like to make up stories about people I see. Like, where they’re from or what they do or a backstory like they’re from a movie or whatever.” 

Your cheeks feel suddenly, stupidly hot. Christ, you meet a handsome stranger on the beach and your first major conversation involves you admitting you make up stories about people? You’ve got to get out of this town more.

But he doesn’t seem like he’s judging you. If anything, he looks interested. 

“And what would you imagine for me?”

The question is unexpected. 

“I think…” You try to force your mind to wander like it does when you people watch organically. What would you imagine, if you came across him walking around the carnival in the evening? He’d be on his own, surely, maybe his hands in his pockets. Quiet. A soft smile on his face, maybe? 

“I think you’re some sort of… librarian. Or a curator. A collector?” You shake your head, unsure of exactly where you want to go with this one. “The point is, you’re traveling around the country, looking for things to add to a museum or library or something like that. And you came across an ad for a summer carnival and thought you’d take in some local culture.” You gesture towards the carnival--the lights, the crowd of people, the humanity on display. “But walking around here makes you feel lonely. So you walk down to the beach in the hopes of distracting yourself. Only,” you add, with a cheeky grin. “To come across the most amazing small town waitress in 100 miles standing on the dock like a weirdo.” 

He doesn’t smile at your story. Not exactly. Instead--and you look away when you notice, feeling too rude for staring--his eyes widen just a smidge and he purses his lips in a thoughtful way. 

“My name is Chrollo,” he says. “May I have yours?”

Chrollo is kind of old-fashioned, you decide. Perhaps you were more spot-on than you realized with your story. 

Maybe you shouldn’t give your name. But there’s a giddy feeling inside your chest. Something akin to what you used to feel when you were a teen and you snuck out in the middle of the night for bonfire drinking parties.

I mean… a handsome stranger in a motorcycle jacket who escorted you back from the beach wants your name? You’d be stupid to say no. 

So you give it. 

At that, he finally smiles again.

“Well, then,” he says softly, saying your name in such a way that makes you hope he’ll say it again in the future, “I hope I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

--

“Help! Someone help me! For God’s sake!”

Jake Jensen cried out these words as loudly as he could--as clearly as he could, with booze slurring his words and making his mouth all mumbly. But he wasn’t loud enough. No one heard him. Not over the music and delighted screams of the carnival.

He had been chased away from the beach, past the dock, into a little storage shed used for kayaks rented to tourists during the summer. His worn out body protested with every movement, his lungs hacking from years of cigarettes. 

His attackers, who blocked the door frame, said nothing. They only looked at one another, silent words passed between them, and the taller of the two grinned in the darkness. 

Jake Jensen died screaming.

--

Friday

You tell yourself that you’re only sitting here on this bench, munching on fresh hot popcorn, because you had a hankering for carnival food. Definitely didn’t come here in the hopes of seeing a certain someone. You tell yourself this even as your eyes dart here and there, looking for any sign of the not-quite-a-stranger from last night. 

The sun has just set, and it’s a bit hard making out faces in the glow of the early evening. There are a lot more people here tonight, a new wave of tourists drowning out the familiar faces. Not that the locals shy away from the carnival--you spot your former best friend from high school, your old math teacher, one of the regulars at the diner… Jake Jensen isn’t in his usual spot at the games, but maybe he’s sleeping off a hangover. He never misses a summer carnival.

“Hello again.”

Oh--you choke on your current handful of popcorn just as Chrollo appears suddenly in your line of sight, hands in the pockets of his motorcycle jacket, a casual smile on his face.

“Hey,” you say, coolly, like you didn’t just nearly spit chewed popcorn kernels in his face when he approached. The silence between you doesn’t last long, but you fill it anyway. “You um, want some popcorn?”

But when you hold out the now half-filled container, Chrollo only looks at it curiously. Like he’s never seen popcorn before or something? But then he takes a small handful and pops it in his mouth. Chews--but he might as well be chewing broccoli, for all he seems to enjoy it. Oddly, he watches you while he chews, seemingly studying your face. Did you have popcorn in your teeth?

Better to fill the silence again.

“Well, what do you think?” You ask, grinning, popping another handful in your mouth. “It’s my favorite because it’s fresh, and that booth actually uses real butter. Not the fake oil stuff.”

Chrollo hums in agreement. “I see. I thought that tasted like real butter. Thank you for sharing.” 

You decide on the spot that you’re going to make the most of this evening, popcorn-in-teeth or no. So you shrug and give your best smile. “No biggie. Buuut… you will owe me.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh? And what will I owe you?”

It’s your turn to hum as you look out towards the carnival, scanning past the numerous faces, the booths, children running with balloons and sticks of cotton candy. “A ride on the Ferris wheel once it’s properly dark would be nice.”

A snort, though his nose. “I think I can manage that.”

He offers his arm again, and you take it, not minding how old fashioned it was. Somehow, despite his jacket, his sleek hair, the hint of motorcycle oil mixed with cologne, old-fashioned seemed to suit him.

Lots of things seemed to suit him, actually. You learn this as the evening wears on. He’s great at carnival games, choosing only a select few that he claims to be an expert in. He wins you a few stuffed animals that you pass on to little kids, save a smaller teddy bear that you can shoved inside your purse. 

You learn other things, too. Like, he’s a great listener. He lets you talk--about yourself, about the town--and doesn’t interrupt or tell you that you talk too much or make it clear he’s not listening to a thing you say. He even asks you questions, which shows he’s actually listening, and not just thinking about other things and waiting to ask you to go somewhere “private” like some other guys.

It’s nice, surprisingly nice, to find someone from out of town who’s so thoughtful.

The line for the Ferris wheel is always long once the sun goes down, and you’re one of the last rides of the night. 

When the carnival worker locks the bar down over your waists, you kick your legs and wait for the strange rush of adrenaline and pleasure that comes with the Ferris wheel. It’s a beautiful sight--all colored lights contrasted against the night sky, whisking you high into the air and giving you a view of the entire carnival and the ocean beyond.

But your body always reacts to the imagined danger of being carried so far away from the safety of the ground, and when the Ferris wheel reaches the top and begins to circle over for the first time, your stomach lurches and you gasp.

“Are you scared?” Chrollo’s voice is low--you could swear he’s teasing, but there’s something else in there, too. 

“Yeah,” you say, breath catching as you're brought back closer to the ground, only to be whisked away again. “Of course. What if something goes wrong, and I fall off and break my neck?”

Chrollo tilts his head. “You’d be dead.” 

You can’t help but grin. He’s so to-the-point sometimes. It’s charming in its own way, although you can’t exactly describe what “its own way” means with Chrollo. It’s like he stepped out of some old fashioned film but also came out of a cooler city. A biker who carries around an embroidered handkerchief, or something like that.

“And I don’t want to die, hence--the stomach flipping.” 

Chrollo looks ahead, then, taking in the view as the Ferris wheel carries you over again. “No? How long do you want to live, then?”

The snort is involuntary. A philosophical question on the Ferris wheel--not exactly what you expected from tonight. But maybe it’s not so bad. He’s good company. And Chrollo looks earnest in his question, too, which makes you feel guilty for snorting in the first place. 

Maybe it’s the lights of the Ferris wheel that dazzle you; maybe it’s the way being on the Ferris wheel at night makes you feel like you’re in some wonderful haze of a dream. 

Whatever it is, you fling your hand into the air, towards the carnival, towards the stars.

“Long enough to achieve my dreams,” you breathe out, earnest, almost sing-song. “Whatever they might be. I haven’t figured them out yet.”

Chrollo turns his head to look at you. His eyes almost seem magnetic against the night sky, with the lights of the carnival playing in them. 

Then, as the Ferris wheel brings the two of you down towards the ground, you see him. The man from yesterday, with the cowl over his face. He’s looking right at you, and it’s no mistake or figment of your imagination.

Your head swivels to the side and you grip the bar of the Ferris wheel until your knuckles hurt. You jerk one hand out and point to the stranger on the ground with a trembling finger. 

“There--look! Look!” 

Chrollo takes a moment to respond, and follows the sight line of your finger.

But now--there’s no one there.

“What do you see?” He asks, clearly unknowing that the object of your terror has vanished into thin air.

“The man… the man from yesterday. He was right there. I swear.” Your chest hurts; fear hurts. 

Unbidden, Chrollo pulls you close to him, and you let him hold you tight.

“You’re all right. I’m here.” 

He holds your chin in his fingers. “You’re safe, do you understand?”

The fear in your chest seems fuzzy now, like it had almost never been there in the first place. How silly of you to be scared, when Chrollo was right here. It doesn’t even seem strange that he’s touching you so intimately, does it? So you nod--yes, yes, you understand. 

Chrollo smiles. 

“Let me kiss you,” he says simply.

And you will. Of course you will. What else would you want to do? 

But as you lean forward, eyes already closing, he pulls himself away.

“Wait.” You blink, head clearing, and he continues, words slow, careful. “Would you like to kiss me?”

Now, you think about it. Maybe it was too hasty. But the lights of the carnival are beautiful and Chrollo is beautiful, and he’s been so thoughtful all day, and now he’s here, holding you, promising to keep you safe from carnival creeps.

A summer carnival is the time for a flirty romance, after all. 

“Yes,” you answer, simply. “I would.”

Chrollo’s finger strokes your chin as you lean in and share your first kiss on the Ferris wheel, glittering lights and carnival music dancing in your mind. 

--

The wife died first. Too quickly, but perhaps it was all the alcohol in her system; $1 margaritas at a local watering hole on a Friday night did nothing to make her more agile when being chased by predators while running in black city heels that had no place in a small town carnival.

Well, to the dying woman’s credit: it was the heels and alcohol and the sliced tendons in her ankle. Taut wires cut through her flesh like butter and she was down for the count, crawling, sobbing, begging for her husband, for God, for anyone to help her.

No one did.

Those pitiful cries, too, were cut down by a wire pressed into her throat; silencing her vocal chords, yes, but spilling blood over her neck that was as pretty as a sight as anything to those watching her choke and scrabble her hands against the ground, eyes wide, gaping, wondering--how is this happening to me? 

The margaritas may have hindered her before her unfortunate ankle accident. But they did make her blood taste sweet and tangy. Metallic, rich, with a twist of lime. All that was missing was a miniature umbrella.

This joke was said aloud, once everyone had a taste of her. A few laughed, blood on their teeth. 

Her husband didn’t seem to find it funny, but perhaps he was more preoccupied with his own current slow death. An arc of his blood spurted into the air--”Don’t fucking waste it, Uvo”--before a greedy mouth latched onto the wound, beginning to suck him dry.

The husband, like the wife, would be shared.

Soon, though, there would be no need for sharing.

There would be enough for everyone to have their fill--and beyond that.

There would be enough to gorge.

--

Saturday:

Three people are dead. 

You didn’t know them know them, but the shock is still there, making your hands tremble a little as you pour morning coffees and deliver plates of steaming eggs and overcooked bacon to tables of locals and tourists in almost equal measure.

Jake Jensen is one of those people. The identities of the other two are unknown--”Due to the state of the bodies, no identification could be provided at this time,” said the sheriff, above a rolling news ticker that had been on the diner’s singular TV all morning--but they might be a couple. A man and a woman.

People die all the time. Sure. But…  dead bodies are not often found in your small town, where gossip typically revolves around couples breaking up or a local store not putting up enough holiday decorations to appease the older crowd. 

Yet now, in one morning, there are three. 

Jake Jensen, who was found near the beach.

And an unknown man and woman (John and Jane Doe) who were found in a wooded area near the carnival.

“Mighta been a bear,” says one of your regulars, gnawing on a piece of his burnt bacon. He liked it that way.

“I heard they were drained of blood!” Your head--and others’ too, you suspect--turns to the voice. It’s not a local. Someone who’s far too dressy for the diner, sipping on a coffee they brought from home while they sample your diner’s less than stellar fruit salad option. He’s oblivious to the stares, to the eye rolls, to the immediate dismissal that his outsiderness earns him. “Two puncture wounds on the neck. Heard it from a cop while I was walking in this morning.”

Someone murmurs a joke about vampires and the locals chuckle, then go back to their coffee, their eggs, their eyes now and then glancing up at the old TV screen.

Your eyes roll, too, but then you wonder.

If they were murdered--and it’s an if, of course, because it could have been animals and Jake Jensen could have gotten so plastered that he fell off the dock or something, murders just don’t happen in your town--then… could it have been that creepy guy from before? The one who’s been following you around the carnival?

Shit, maybe he was waiting for the chance to get you alone, so he could drag you off to the dock or the woods and slit your throat. The thought gives you goosebumps, and acrid coffee tries to climb its way up your throat, before you swallow it down.

It was a good thing you had Chrollo around for the past two days.

And you’d be seeing him again tonight.

They weren’t canceling the carnival--it brings in too much money. And while a part of you is all sore and soft for poor Jake Jensen (who was never mean, just drunk) you try to brush it away. It’s sad. But life is sad. 

You don’t want to be sad tonight. You want to look nice--for Chrollo? He wasn’t the first out-of-towner that had flirted with you, that you’d flirted with back. He was the first one that you’d ever genuinely looked forward to seeing again, though.

So.

You want to be wearing your best smile when you meet Chrollo again tonight. 

And you can’t do that if you’re thinking about Jake Jensen’s body washing up on the beach or if there’s a small, tickling question dancing through your mind--

What sort of animal leaves two pretty little puncture wounds on the neck?

--

You sit on the same bench as before; the bench, in your mind, where you and Chrollo have taken to meeting up these past few days. 

There’s no room in your stomach for popcorn tonight, though. Or rather, there’s room--your stomach growls--but you can’t imagine chewing anything rich, hot and buttery right now. Your thoughts flit between horror (poor Jake Jensen, one time, when you were younger, he helped you fix a flat bike tire) and romance (Chrollo’s lips on yours, warm, the breeze tickling your neck, the lights of the Ferris wheel twinkling around you).

You feel bad for wanting to enjoy tonight. But that’s not fair, is it? Another small town tragedy: caring too much about someone you didn’t really know as anything more than a passing familiar face that you can’t even focus on a hot date. 

Fuck. 

“Daydreaming again?” 

The evening sky above you is a wash of deepening colors, devoid of actual sunlight but clinging to the last vestiges of it like a child refusing to let go of his mother’s hand on the first day of school. 

He’s holding up a stick of bright pink cotton candy in one hand, while the other arm is offered for you to take--the contrast between his leather jacket, the ball of fluffy sugar he’s holding, and the way he sometimes acts like an old timey gentleman out of the movies is enough to make you smile.

Perhaps there’s bitterness in it, because as soon as you’re standing, Chrollo regards you with a measured look.

“Are you all right?” 

Well. You don’t want to ruin your evening, but it would be stupid to pretend everything was all sweetness and sunshine, wouldn’t it? It’s better to get it out of the way. 

“Sorry, it’s… I don’t know if you saw the news?” He says nothing, and you continue. “Those people that they found dead this morning.” Your lips press together. “I mean, the guy--I knew him, sort of? Everyone did. He was drunk all the time, yeah, but he wasn’t a jerk about it.”

Chrollo hums.

“I can imagine that would be shocking for you to hear.” 

Your smile is shaky, and you nab a piece of cotton candy from the stick and shove it in your mouth. The sweetness contrasts awfully with the words that pass through your lips. “For you too though, right? I mean, it’s not every day three people turn up dead at some small town carnival.”

Chrollo raises an eyebrow in a way that seems to say that he is not particularly shocked by the news. 

“Shit, really? What are you in your non-touristy life, a mortician or something?” A sudden realization washes over you, that Chrollo has an entire life outside of you and these carnival evenings; he has a past, and family, and friends, and a job. Hopes, dreams, the whole nine yards.

“Something like that,” he says. When you move to apologize, he shakes his head. “It’s alright. I’m not terribly shocked by these things, I suppose, because of what I see in my day to day.” He looks at you a little curiously. “But I can see how it would rattle you.”

You open your mouth, but you don’t know what to say. Sugar sticks to your teeth.

“Come on.” Chrollo drops the cotton candy into a nearby trash can, and leads you towards a row of carnival games. “I know what might take your mind off things.”

For once, you’re glad to see the carnival games; the fast-paced spitting words of the barkers trying to hustle money from kids and couples, the sound of darts popping balloons, the triumphant music that plays before the obnoxiously difficult water shooting game. 

You’re even glad to see the tourists in all of their Saturday glory, which isn’t so much “glory” as it is a sort of restlessness. Saturdays were always a strange day at the carnival; the last middle day before the grand finale. An unusual mixture of sleepiness, anticipation, and a buzz that held everyone together until tomorrow.

Strange day, strange faces. Some stranger than others. Staring up at the bell at the top of the Test Your Strength game is an exceptionally tall man with wild dirty blonde hair. By the size of his muscles, he might just break the game, which hadn’t been replaced in the many years you’d been coming here in the summer.

You tug on Chrollo’s arm and point the man out. “What do you want to bet the carnie will try to get him not to play? He might just break the thing…”

“I don’t doubt it.” Beside you, Chrollo snorts, but doesn’t linger on the man as he leads you further into the carnival. 

The two of you walk, and talk. About nothing and everything. He asks you to come up with stories for a few tourists, and you do. Light ones. It really does take your mind off things. At some point, Chrollo buys you fries, which taste slightly sweet; probably cooked in the same oil as the funnel cakes. 

You dig in your heels in front of the fun house, but Chrollo shakes his head, and won’t go in.

“Are you scared?” You tease. At night, the fun house was all lit up, and the clowns painted on the front had a ridiculously sinister air to them.

But Chrollo doesn’t smile or laugh. “They make me dizzy,” he says, quietly. There’s something behind his words, but you don’t know what. A medical problem? A bad experience? You apologize and then he does smile, shaking his head, at himself, or you, you’re not sure. “Think nothing of it, dear.”

Dear.

You want to hold onto that bit of affection like the sky holds onto the sunset on summer evenings. At least as long as you can, which tonight, seems to be until Chrollo takes you on the Ferris wheel again. 

This time, he holds your hand as soon as the attendant locks the bar down. Your fingers interlock and squeeze and it sends butterflies rushing through your chest. What was there to worry about, to think about, when you were sitting next to him? 

It takes a few turns around the Ferris wheel to remember what you were supposed to worry about, because on the trip down, your stomach fluttering from romance and gravity alike, you see him: the strange man. The stalker. The maybe-serial-killer-on-the-loose. 

He’s standing still in the crowd walking here-and-there around the Ferris wheel, couples intent on getting in line, children running from tired parents as they beg for another carnival game.

And he’s staring straight up at you.

You don’t think this time. You grab Chrollo and point straight down and practically screech out the words: “There! He’s there! Look, look--look!” 

And the stars must be aligned, because Chrollo actually sees him. His grip on your other hand tightens and he pulls you closer to him as you make your way back around the Ferris wheel and the man goes out of sight. By the time the two of you are at the top again, the stranger is gone.

Your goosebumps remain.

“We should talk to the police,” you murmur, a quiet, scratchy whisper.

Chrollo turns towards you. You recognize the look. The “Do you really think the police will do anything about this?” sort of look. 

“I’ve been thinking…” You squeeze Chrollo’s hand and he squeezes back and that’s all you need to keep going. “That maybe he might have something to do with those people? The ones they found this morning?”

Chrollo’s eyes widen just a little. It’s both comforting and worrying to see him look taken aback, even if it’s only a bit. 

“I heard…” You feel stupid saying this. But you shouldn’t feel stupid, not with Chrollo. He hasn’t given you a reason to feel like you can’t tell him things. “Someone at the diner today said they were found with puncture wounds on them. I was thinking, maybe… like an ice pick? Or a screwdriver or--I don’t know. But maybe they were killed.”

“Perhaps he’s a vampire,” Chrollo offers, voice low, lips curled into a smile, and your face must reflect the flash of offended shame that rushes into your chest, because he immediately apologizes. His sigh flutters against your cheek. “Well. He wouldn’t be the first killer to prey on crowds or small towns, would he?”

At least he didn’t say you were crazy to connect the two things, vampire joke aside.

He keeps you close once the ride is over, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“I’ll inform the police,” he insists, when the two of you finally stumble on a pair of deputies patrolling the carnival. He leaves you standing next to the Test Your Strength game, where the carnival barker has agreed to keep an eye on you. It made you feel like a child, but for once, maybe that wasn’t a bad thing--to be watched and protected.

You watch, biting your nails now and then, as Chrollo and the deputies talk. In the end, they shake his hand, and you feel cool relief in your stomach. The police will know what to do with the information. If this guy’s a killer, they’ll catch him. If he’s not, well. The carnival was almost over, and you wouldn’t have to worry about him much longer.

Things will be normal soon.

When Chrollo returns, you take his arm without hesitation, but this time he begins to lead you away from the carnival.

“I was thinking,” he says, “that we might go for a walk. Get away for a bit. If you don’t mind, that is.”

You don’t mind at all. 

“Do you like trails?” You ask, steering him towards a trail that leads from the beach to a popular hiking spot for locals. “It’d be a bit more private. As long as you’re not scared of the dark.”

Chrollo chuckles. It’s a warm, dark, rich sound, and it sends a delightful thrill right through you. 

“I’m not if you aren’t,” is all he says, and that’s enough for you to point out the way.

Thoughts of dead bodies and stalkers fade away with the carnival, whose sights and sounds fade bit by bit as you and Chrollo leave the beach and begin making your way into a wooded area with a paved hiking path lit on the other side by electric trail lights. 

“I’m surprised to see these,” Chrollo says, quietly. He pulled his phone out at the start of the trail to give the two of you more light, though the trail lights were decent enough, especially since you’d been up here more times than you could count.

“Mm,” you murmur. “Locals come up here all the time at night. Especially teens. Usually to make out and stuff.” Chrollo gives you a look and your cheeks hit up, but you don’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to know about your high school escapades. “They added them to avoid the inevitable lost-teen-in-the-woods-at-night rescue scenario, I think.”

“Clever,” he says. 

--

The waterfall is loud when you’re this close; so loud you can’t hear anything in the moment but your own thoughts, which have grown louder and louder somewhere between the hiking trail and this popular waterfall spot. So popular that it’s lit with a flood light near the top--supposedly a teenager slipped in one night and drowned in the shallow pool, though you’ve never been certain if it was a true story or not.

Regardless, you’re not sure you want to stay. No--you know you don’t want to stay. 

This is a bit much, is what your thoughts are starting to scream. Chrollo is nice, but you don’t really know him, do you? And you just walked somewhere alone with him in the dark after being surprised by a maybe-stalker, the day that three people were found dead around here.

Yeah. A bit much might be an understatement. You should really get back to where there’s more lights and people and civilization in general. If Chrollo is a nice person (and he is, you insist, you’re just being smart!) he won’t mind. 

“I think we should go back,” you say, but Chrollo can’t hear you. So you cup your hands around your mouth and lean closer to his ears. “I think we should go back!”

You expect him to nod and take your arm and lead you carefully down the lantern-lit trail, perhaps still using his phone to guide the way. Instead, he takes your chin in his hands--you move to jerk it out, you’d rather wait until you’re back at the carnival to kiss again--but his grip is impossibly strong.

“It’s all right,” he says, and it’s the strangest thing, you can hear him so clearly despite the roaring waterfall just a few feet in front of you. “You know that you’re safe with me. You don’t want to go back yet.”

How strange. How silly. Why did you want to leave, when you just got here? You didn’t even show him the best part yet.

“Come on!” It’s your turn to pull him along as you carefully walk the path leading to the front of the waterfall, which has already begun to soak water through your clothes. 

“Is there a cave?” Chrollo asks--and again, you’re struck by how easy it is to hear him, despite the water rushing down in front of you. 

“You sure know your way around local watering holes,” you jest. 

He merely smiles. “I travel a lot.”

With that, you grip his arm tighter and run through the waterfall, shrieking in delight. Both of you emerge on the other side soaked; you, grinning, and Chrollo, looking around with interest.

The inside of the cave was lined with endless rows of fairy lights, courtesy of a local high school group. They had also brought in the two couches--used leather, frayed and flecking, but good enough for a hang out. When you were younger, there were only folding chairs; which were great for sitting, not so much for much less. 

“Do you like it?” You ask, then feel stupid. Why do you care so much what he thinks of some local hang out spot, especially one you hadn’t been in for ages? The same reason why you’d spent all day telling him about your daydreams, about small town memories, bits and pieces of local lore that he didn’t brush aside but seemed to enjoy hearing.

Chrollo was so different from the others you’ve met at the summer carnival. 

Maybe that’s why your heart begins to beat fast the moment you catch his eye again. His skin looks almost dewy in the glow of the lights, thanks to the water; his eyes shine, reflecting a soft, warm twinkling glow.

It’s just the two of you. No tourists, no locals, no would-be stalkers. Even the carnival itself seems far away; the lights blocked from view by the rushing water and canopy of the forest, even the wafting smell of popcorn and stale beer was long gone out here.

It was just you and Chrollo in a cave at the end of the evening. 

But… it didn’t have to be the end of the evening, did it? 

You ask him, this time. 

“Do you want to kiss me?” 

“I do,” he says. “Very much so.”

This time, your kiss is tinged with the tang of river water.

--

Five bodies lay scattered in the grass. Young men, young women. Teens that had been giggling and stumbling through the forest, flasks of pilfered whiskey in their bags. 

Now some dead and going cold, their limbs twisted, their mouths open in silent screams.

Two were still alive, whimpering, weak hands beating against monsters’ chests as open mouths hungrily lapped up their life blood. They had screamed, all of them, but no one could hear them in the woods--over the water. 

“This is a lovely spot,” said a woman, brushing back her blonde hair. A bit of red gore had stuck to the strands and she tsked at the sight of it.  “The waterfall adds a nice touch.” 

The man hummed, and stuck his hands in his pockets. The slightest touch of red showed on his lips; like a woman pressing her lipstick-covered mouth onto a bit of tissue to get rid of the excess. 

The carnage made him indifferent; the whimpers of the dying, even more so. But as he looked around at the carefully placed lights on the trail, the way they flickered against the waterfall and its hidden cavern like delicate stars, he smiled. 

“It came highly recommended.” 

--

Sunday: The Final Day

Chrollo was in your bed last night, and you thought he’d be there in the morning. But when the sound of birds pulls you delightfully out of a restful sleep and you blink your eyes open to dappled sunlight through your blinds, you realize that the bed is half-empty.

Just you and the sheets and the leftover smell of Chrollo--cologne and, more faintly, sweat and sex. 

You freeze, listening for the sound of someone meandering about an unfamiliar kitchen. He could be up and about already--making coffee or breakfast. The image of him serving up a plate of bacon and eggs almost makes you laugh.

But the apartment is silent, save for your breathing, the sound of a clock ticking in the living room. 

Your heart lurches and shame pricks at the back of your eyelids. He fucked you and ran, didn’t he? Just like the others, just like--

But just when you’re about to give into the temptation to scrub yourself all over with hot water and erase every trace of Chrollo that ever existed in your presence, you see it: a piece of paper, torn from a notebook you keep on your dresser. Carefully folded over and placed on the side table next to the bed.

Your name is on it, written in a surprisingly beautiful, scrawling hand. 

Curiosity and leftover shame-tinged dread curl together in  your stomach as you sit up and slowly pick up the note. 

Dear--

Your heart lurches again, for a different reason this time.

I apologize that I did not give you a proper farewell. I had an urgent matter to attend to. Forgive me, won’t you? We will see each other tonight, I hope, for a memorable and unforgettable evening.

Of course he didn’t fuck and run. He wouldn’t do that. And tonight would be--well, memorable and unforgettable, just as he said.

The pitter-pattering inside your chest takes on a new delightful cadence as you get yourself ready for the day. No work--you had Sundays off, thank God, maybe literally, for that. It was a shame Chrollo didn’t tell you where he was staying; presumably, the only hotel in town. But maybe he was at one of the B&Bs or was shacking up at a room for rent.

It would be nice to see him in the daytime, too.

But he didn’t, so you’re left with nothing to do but flick on the TV and make yourself a cereal bowl. Well, that’s wrong.  That’s not the only thing you could do. You could go to your parent’s house and help out your mom; she could use a break with caring for your dad.

But… was it wrong to be selfish, just a little, for just one day? You didn’t want to see Chrollo tonight with something unpleasant sticking inside you, on the potential chance that your dad was having a not-so-great day.

It was better to approach your last evening together with a sunnier attitude.

Although you don’t really have a choice, because the first thing you see when the news returns from a commercial break is a giant banner scrolling across the screen: TWO MISSING TEENS FOUND DEAD AT LOCAL WATERFALL. POPULAR TRAIL CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

In the background, the sheriff recites familiar lines about respecting the privacy of the dead, about putting the full energy of the police force into finding the investigation, about how there is no need to panic. He says that it may not have even been foul play.

Somehow, you don’t believe that.  You just know. 

Sugary cereal seems to lodge itself inside your throat. You were just there. You were just there, kissing Chrollo, holding his hand, and now two teenagers are dead and lifeless and, and--

And if it was that same man… the one who was staring at you, stalking you… how close did you and Chrollo come to dying last night?

Tears prick at your eyes and you grab your purse. Maybe you would spend the day with your parents, after all. 

--

You should be more excited to see Chrollo. And you are, truly. But between the news this morning and the dull realization that this would be your last evening together ever, it’s hard to feel too enthused. 

Chrollo would be going home after tonight. Tourist trap over, no need to stick around. Something childish in you thinks: maybe I can convince him to stay a little longer. And if he stays a little longer, he’ll see how nice it is here (it’s not) and maybe he’ll want to settle down (he won’t). 

Oh, how stupid. It’s like when you’d meet the endless stream of New Best Friends every summer weekend as a kid, and you’d beg their parents together to extend their vacation.

It wasn’t going to happen. You’ll never see him again after tonight, and you’ll go your separate ways, and that’s that. 

Reality sucks sometimes.

You’re still stuck in the dreary shit cloud that is reality when Chrollo’s now somewhat familiar footsteps approach you on the bench. The bench, your spot--your spot? As if you and Chrollo had anything that could be called an actual relationship that warranted the use of “your” plural. 

You shake your head, hoping it shakes those silly childish delusions, and force yourself to smile.

Chrollo, to your surprise, doesn’t smile back.

Instead, he leans down, and takes your hand. His eyes roam over your fingers like they’re something special and it makes your stomach flutter stupidly.

“You seem a bit sad,” he says, bringing your knuckles to his lips for a kiss. The way that makes you feel is something you love and hate in almost equal measure. It’s not fair, is it, that he makes you feel this way--when he has to leave, and you’ll never see him again.

Perhaps it’s the knowledge that you will part ways after tonight that makes you speak freely.

“I’m just sad that you’ll be leaving.” He blinks at you, and turns his head a little. “That we won’t see each other after tonight,” you clarify. 

You expect him to nod and agree, and perhaps say something trite but comforting, like, “We’ll just make the most of it.” 

Instead, he gives your hand a squeeze.

“We don’t have to part, you know.”

It’s your turn to blink. A silly, little-kid-in-you hope does a twirl. He could stay--and this could maybe, possibly, in some far off millimeter of a chance, turn into something more serious than a summer fling. “You could extend your vacation? Your job would do that?”

Chrollo finally smiles at you. 

“My life is flexible. But,” and now he pulls you up so that you’re standing. It’s a fluid, easy gesture for him, almost too easy--he’s stronger than he looks. “I was thinking that instead of staying here, you would come with me.”

The world around you is not silent. The carnival is always producing an eternal cacophony of sounds--screaming patrons hung upside down on the more thrilling of rides, cheery carousel music, laughter, popcorn endlessly beating like a fast paced drum, everything and anything all mixed together into a swirl of sound.

But it might as well be silent, because you feel like all you can hear is your heartbeat in your eyes for a few stretched moments. 

“What? You’re not serious.” You smile, too, but it feels fake. Like it’s plastered on and cracking underneath. There’s a brief thought--maybe he means, like, for a weekend?--but you instantly know that’s not what he’s talking about.

This is too much, too fast. Too out of the blue. 

Chrollo looks at you in a way that almost makes you uncomfortable. Like he wants to see something inside you that you’re keeping for yourself. Then that gaze is gone and he’s smiling softly, charming, a little bittersweet.

Bittersweet is familiar territory, and the ringing in your ears fades in favor of a carnival barker offering 2-for-1 prizes on the Test-Your-Strength game. 

Chrollo’s voice cuts through it all, jovial, unassuming. 

“We can talk about it later, if you’d like. Let’s go enjoy the carnival a bit more before the concert.” 

That would be nice.

“I’d like that.” 

And you mean it--you do. You shake your head and let Chrollo intertwine his fingers in yours, and it doesn’t take long for his question to fade away from your mind as you weave in and out of the crowds.

If you weren’t so distracted, so disarmed, you might have noticed an uncomfortably familiar figure clad in black watching the pair of you intently.

--

The Ferris Wheel worker should have kicked you off several spins ago, but Chrollo had slipped him a twenty as he buckled the safety bar down. It’s nice, this extra time with him--it’ll be the last time you ride the Ferris wheel together, after all. 

What did it say about the state of your love life--or your life in general, actually--that slipping a carnie 20 bucks made your heart soar (and twist, and ache) even a little bit?

The night is prettier from the Ferris wheel. The world, too. Up here, you can’t see the grit and grime. The fermenting candy apples littering the ground, dropped two days ago by careless kids; the too-drunk couples arguing about whether they should stay for the concert or not; the exhausted carnival workers smiling hard no matter how much they get yelled at for their rigged games.

All you can take in from up here is the broad vantage point. Crowds and happy sounds--squeals and music interplaying above crowds of people, including a growing crowd on the beach in front of the black stage, waiting for the concert to start.

Chrollo’s grip on your hand tightens and draws your attention back to him. Even he looks more beautiful from up here, with the rainbow lights of the Ferris wheel playing on his face. 

“I’ve enjoyed our time together,” he says softly.

Ah, you realize. The extra spins were for the inevitable “we’ll never see each other again but it was a blast” speech. You knew it was coming. Doesn’t make it any less bitter in your mouth. But what good is holding bitterness against your tongue?

“Me too,” you say, and it’s not a lie, even if you hate the way the conversation must end. You try to focus less on the sourness and more on the sweet that came before. After all, Chrollo was… well. Handsome, yes, magnetic, yes. But more than that. He seemed thoughtful. He listened to you prattle on about yourself and your small town, and he didn’t even make fun of you for knowing so many local stories.

He was good in bed, too, wasn’t he? You blink and realize you don’t actually remember all that much about last night, except that he wasn’t there in the morning. Vague snatches rush through your memory. You remember his mouth on your lips, his hand trailing against your skin, removing your clothes. You remember his mouth against your neck, then this teeth, nipping, and--

It’s all fuzzy. But you weren’t drunk. So why--

“Have you thought about what I said?” He asks, and once again you’re pulled away from your thoughts, although this time you’d like to focus on them. Why couldn’t you fully remember last night?

When you don’t answer, he raises his eyebrows.

“About coming with me,” he says, a bit louder, as if you can’t hear him over the carnival din.

You let out a soft puff of a breath, then, and force yourself to focus on the current conversation. For now.

“You’re serious?” You don’t mean to sound so flippant, but you do. Chrollo frowns, just a little, and you feel like a bitch for it. “Sorry. I just--I didn’t know if you really meant it.”

“I am,” is all he says.

You didn’t like the idea of the conversation headed towards Chrollo leaving, but you like the idea of him genuinely asking you to come with him even less. Partly because you know you never could, and partly because there’s some small, stupid, fantasy-of-your-hair-blowing-in-the-wind-wearing-a-leather-jacket-on-a-motorcycle part of you that wants to say yes.

“Chrollo, I can’t do that. I have a job here. A life.”

Chrollo doesn’t let go of your hand, but you can sense the way his muscles tense. 

“A job at a local diner slinging hash browns,” he says, voice dry and almost hurtful. You must look offended--are you? You can’t tell--because he turns a little in the seat, trapping you with his gaze. His voice is earnest now, drawing you in.

“Don’t you want more out of life? The ability to pursue your dreams--to figure out your dreams?” One hand goes to your cheek, and his knuckle brushes against your skin. “You could travel. See so much more than your little town. Imagine it.” 

An image starts to build in your mind. Unbidden by you, but there, somehow, nonetheless. Of you riding behind him on a motorcycle, holding onto his waist as he takes you wherever you want to go--wherever he wants to go, together. Life would be wild and unpredictable, but easy and fun and--

“My family,” you murmur, and Chrollo seems surprised that you’ve spoken. 

His lips press thinner. “You could write to them, call them. No matter at all.”

Whatever fantasy has built in your head gets swept away and the Ferris wheel finally comes to a stop. The seat rocks back and forth and the bored (but $20 richer) carnie lets you off. Chrollo helps you as he’s done every time.

You wait until he’s escorted you away from the Ferris wheel to turn and address him. 

“Chrollo, I can’t--” You try to find the right words, but there are no right words. “I don’t know you. Not… really. Not enough to give up my life here.”

Chrollo is quiet. He considers you, turning his head a little. You feel awful--maybe you should just end the night here, on this shitty, sour note, because you’ve probably ruined the rest of the evening anyway.  You wish he hadn’t asked again before the night was over, but there’s no way to fix it now.

You’re ready to leave, to bite your cheek so tears don’t come. You’re prepared for Chrollo to say something low and insulting, to dismiss you, because why should he waste another minute on someone who would rather stay here in this shitpot of a town than--

“Come along,” is what he says, finally, holding out his hand--to your utter confusion. He still wants to go to the concert? With you? Now?

But you take his hand anyway. 

“It would be wasteful to end our evening early and miss the concert.” 

His grip is harder than it has been, but maybe you’re imagining it as he pulls you along, weaving in and out as the crowds grow larger and a little more drunk the closer the pair of you get to the beach.

This doesn’t feel right, suddenly. He’s upset, that’s why he’s holding you so tightly. Or maybe you’re upset and imagining it. Either way, it doesn’t feel good. Your primal gut instincts are telling you that it’s better to cut your losses and leave now, then to spend the night with a flipping stomach. 

“Maybe I should just go home,” you yell over the crowd. 

Chrollo stops, and you stumble forward a little, but he catches you in both arms before you make an ungraceful acquaintance with the ground. The hand not gripping your own gently grasps your chin and he leans in, not quite kissing you. His breath smells off, like rust. 

“And miss the grand finale?”

You should insist on going home. Everything’s gone shitty. It’s too crowded and the music will be too loud, and Chrollo is clearly irritated with you--

“Come to the concert,” he whispers, and none of that seems to matter anymore. Of course, you’ll go to the concert. What else would you do? 

He keeps his grip on your hand as you walk onto the warm, crowded sands of the beach, even though you have no intention of leaving. 

--

Booze, sweat, and popcorn. That’s all you can really smell now, surrounded as you are by crowds of people jumping and swaying to some rock band you’ve never heard of before; but no one really cares what the music sounds like on a night like this, when alcohol has been flowing and summer is at its peak.

Even Chrollo seems to be enjoying himself, although he’s not dancing. Just holding you, his arm around your waist, pressing his lips now and then to your forehead.

You feel bad. That must be why there’s a pit in your stomach. You were being rude to him. Of course he’d ask you to come with him--if he’s the type to live so freely, he wouldn’t think twice about making the offer. He just doesn’t understand what it means to be rooted down, willingly or not, the way you are.

You can’t hold something like that against him, so you don’t. 

Instead, you sway to the music, hips bumping against Chrollo now and then. Maybe after this, he could come back to your apartment again, for one last…

All thoughts in your head are stomped into the stand when you spot the strange man with the cowl in the crowd. He’s standing stock still while everyone around him jumps and dances and flaps their drunken arms. 

And he’s looking right at you.

“Chrollo--” There’s no time to waste, and you grab his arm and jerk him towards the direction of the stranger.

But he’s gone. He’s just fucking gone. Cold terror seizes your chest.

“What is it, love?” 

The nickname doesn’t even register.

“That--the man--the guy from before--he was there.” Your voice begins to tremble, frightened tears welling in your eyes. “Can we leave? Please?” 

Chrollo pulls you closer to him and you feel dim comfort as he wraps his arms around you and presses his lips against your head. But he doesn’t tell you that of course, we’ll leave, of course, I’ll get you somewhere safe, of course, let’s talk to the police. 

“Hush.” One hand begins to pet your hair. “Not much longer now. It’ll be over soon.” 

“What do you…”

Behind Chrollo, you see another familiar face. Vaguely familiar. The tall man with wild blonde hair, the one who looked like he could snap the Test Your Strength Game in half if he really wanted to--he’s standing still, like the man from before, while everyone jostles happily around him. He’s not looking at you, but that doesn’t make it any less unnerving. 

Your eyes dart over the crowd.

There are others, standing still. Others who seem out of place immediately, either because of their appearance or something awful you can’t describe. A woman with pink hair looking impassively as she scans the crowded beach, keeping her body perfectly still. A man with long black hair and something shiny and thin strapped to his shoulder. A woman with blonde hair in a smart black tailored suit that no one in their right mind would wear to a summer night carnival concert. Others, too, all out of place and making you want to be anywhere but here.

And then in a few blinks, they’re all gone. Like they were never there.

Dizziness overtakes you, along with a strange sort of fuzzy fear. Is this what a heart attack feels like, maybe? No, it’s just panic. Understandable but undeniably awful panic. 

“Chrollo,” you manage, voice shaky. “Something’s wrong. There’s people, they seem--it’s---I don’t know how to explain, we should--I think we ought to--”

Chrollo doesn’t say anything. Instead, he turns you around, keeping you in his arms as he makes you face the stage.

“You’ll miss the concert,” he whispers in your ear.

Helpless irritation courses through you. Who cares about the concert right now? You have half a mind to ask him why he’s not listening to you, but that impulse is gone the moment you see the tall man with blonde hair and impossibly large muscles leap onto the stage.

The guitars and drums come to a confusing, stuttered halt. The lead singer, clad in an oversized black t-shirt with a skull on it, looks like he wants to throw his guitar at the intruder.

“Dude, what the fuck, we’re playing up here, you can’t just--”

Even from your vantage point, you can see the large grin the blonde man sports on his face as he raises his fist and knocks the lead singer’s head off with a single punch. 

The body remains standing for a moment before collapsing without grace onto the stage. Blood spurts from the wound, spritzing high enough that it sprinkles the faces of those closest to the stage. 

There’s a noise from the crowd that almost, for a moment, sounds like a burst of startled laughter.

And then the blonde man leaps onto the corpse, opens his mouth until it’s gaping far too wide to be human, and begins to suck on the headless neck like a crawfish.

It’s that moment when people finally begin to scream.

Your head jerks towards one of the screams, and she’s there--the woman with the pink hair. Latched onto someone’s neck while blood dribbles from her mouth and the person, eyes bugged out, cries out in wordless pain. His body is cross-crossed with strange cuts, like someone pressed him through a sieve. 

You spin around, looking away from horror, only to see it again: the man with the long hair swings something out--a sword?--and strikes someone’s arm clean off his body, then pins that person down and begins to suck at the spurting blood. 

That’s not all he hit.  The person in front of them, a woman holding two drinks, staggers to the ground. Half her face slides off, revealing bone and brain. Lukewarm beer and gore meet the ground together.

You’re not entirely sure if you said Chrollo’s name, or when he let you go, or what you should do. All you know is that when you finally pull yourself together enough to look at him, he’s simply watching the events around you like a boring television show.

Like people aren’t screaming and running and bumping into you. Like blood isn’t flying. Like you aren’t seeing things that you’ve only seen in shitty horror movies. 

He’s in shock. Fuck. So are you, maybe? But it will be up to you to get the pair of you to safety, so you grab his arm and shake him hard.

“Chrollo! We have to go! Now!” 

He doesn’t move. You shake him again, and he finally looks at you. 

He smiles, and holds out his hand, ignoring your jostling.

“You’ve had time to think about it, haven’t you? Will you stay with me?” 

Oh, he’s definitely in shock. That doesn’t stop the impulsive words that flee your mouth as quickly as the people around you are trying--some not successfully--to flee the beach. 

“You’ve lost your fucking mind. Let’s go!” 

You don’t register what’s happened until you’ve hit the ground. Someone finally ran smack into you, and something--their elbow, maybe--strikes your head, hard. Pain blossoms in your knees and the side of your head when you hit the ground, then explodes when someone steps right on your hand.

There’s a feeling of lost gravity when someone yanks you up--Chrollo--but when you’re on your own two feet, he’s not there anymore.

You call his name. Once. Twice. Three times, four. He might not be able to even hear you over the din, if he’s nearby. Maybe he got swept away by the panicked people. Maybe his shock wore off and he ran to get help. Or ran--and left you.

There are a few moments where you almost run deeper into the crowd to look for him. A stupid thought. But then the wild, shock of fear inside you turns to complete ice and you’re not sure of anything in the world because he’s there. 

Standing in front of you.

Close enough to touch. 

Your stalker. The man with the cowl. Only the cowl is down, now, and his mouth is covered in a smear of blood. He smiles at you, and it’s not a nice smile at all. His smile grows wider, and you have to blink several times to realize what you’re seeing.

He’s got fangs.

Two of them, red tinged. Sharp enough to puncture your neck. 

They’re vampires. Actual vampires. Actual, damn bloodsucking vampires. 

There’s a brief, panicked thought--where’s Chrollo?--before your flight kicks in, and you’re scrambling through the crowd like everyone else. You stumble, of course you do. Over bodies, some dead, and you almost fall flat on your face when you make it off the beach and your ankle rolls on the uneven grass-covered ground.

If you were thinking logically, you might have run to the car park, and hopped into your car. You might have run in the direction of the crowds thinking the same, and gotten lost in them.

But there was no logic. Only pure primal panic, the realization that you people were being murdered all around you like animals, and you were one of those animals because one of the monsters was chasing you.

You didn’t dare to look back to see how far away he was; you just knew, deep down, that he was following you now. Running wouldn’t work: you couldn’t run forever, not with the pain in your ankle, and he’d catch up with you even if you weren’t panicked and in pain.

You had to hide.  But where? The carnival was all lit up at night, and the beautiful lights that had been fun to see just a day before now made you want to scream. He could see you, just about clear as day, no matter where you ran.

Unless you can find somewhere to hide inside.

It’s this thought that pushes you to dash inside the fun house, sneakers pounding on the silver ramp leading into the entrance painted over like a mouth devouring any children who enter.

The stillness inside startles you more than anything else. The lights are on. The music is playing, quiet, delightful. It’s hard to hear it over the dulled screams coming from outside, and from the awful, pounding rush inside your ears.

You follow the short hallway until it leads to something which you’d forgotten about; but it wasn’t your fault. Panic made you stupid, and you hadn’t actually been inside a fun house in years. 

The glass maze. All-see through panels that you’d smash into on an ordinary day, much less this one, where your mind is fried from panic and adrenaline keeps your body from coordinating properly. You smash against the panels a few times before you see it… something, behind you. 

No. Not something. Someone behind you. Or near you. Or far away. 

You can’t tell exactly where this person is, because of the fucking glass maze, but the fact remains:

He’s there--he’s here--he’s going to get you and kill you and it will hurt so bad.

You scream, at some point, and it’s dumb because the sound simply bounces off your current glass predicament and hurts your ears.

Maybe panic pushes you through, or maybe you’re just good at completing mazes when you’re in fear for your life; whatever the reason,  you make it out. You stumble through a hallway made of rollers that nearly send you sprawling, until you’re at the end of the hallway. 

A small red spiral staircase, barely usable for adults, is your only hope. 

You don’t try to be quiet now and the metal stairs clang under your feet as you run up them, feeling dizzy, feeling like this might be the last thing you ever do in your short, stupid life.

The second floor isn’t entirely enclosed. It opens out onto the carnival in the front, and there’s a slide to take you down near the end. The wall behind you is covered in a series of mirrors--the kind that make you tall or short or wide or impossibly thin.

It’s not the mirrors that catch your eye, though. It’s what’s down below. 

They’re all down there. The monsters from the beach. All covered in various amounts of blood and gore. Splatters. Smears. Like they’ve all gotten into different scrapes--killed people different ways. 

All of them have blood around their mouths. 

Fear rings in your ears. You want to wake up, more than anything. This is a nightmare and you want to wake up. 

You don’t wake up.

Instead, you hear a metal clang.

Then another.

And another.

Someone is coming up the stairs.

Thoughts dart here and there, but there’s nowhere for them to go. If you go down the slide, well. There’s a gang of monsters waiting to kill you down below. If you stay up here, well. There’s still a monster waiting to kill you.

The metal clangs again, and again, and again.

He’s coming up the stairs and he’s going to kill you. You’re going to die. Today. Now. 

Warm urine runs down your leg and thoughts come, too quick to really process: Mom-dad-school-work-never-did-anything-my-childhood-dog-that-one-time-we-went-to-Canada-to-visit-my-aunt-I-kissed-a-boy-under-the-bleachers-I-forgot-to-tell-dad-I-loved-him-yesterday-I-I-I--

It’s not the monster with the cowl who comes walking up the landing of the stairs. 

It’s Chrollo.

It’s like you blink and you’re in his arms, clinging to his shirt and sobbing like a child. He presses a kiss to your hair and you realize, gratefully, that he doesn’t look hurt. No blood on him, no scrapes, no bruises. 

“Thank God you’re here. Thank God you’re okay,” you say, reflexively. “Thank God, thank God, thank God.”

Chrollo pulls you tighter against his chest, and murmurs, “God? An interesting choice, my dear, considering…”

You aren’t even really listening. You’re just happy. Delirious, even. Chrollo’s here. He’ll help you. You can make it out together. Somehow. 

There’s an almost giddy sort of hope in your chest--until you hear the metal stairs clang again. And again. And again.

You whimper stupidly and pull on Chrollo’s arm. 

“We have to get out of here. Somehow. I don’t--maybe we can distract them?” Your eyes glance down at the monsters below you, who only seem to be watching more intently. The man with the blonde hair, which is now caked in blood, has an awful grin on his face. You imagine you can see his fangs, even if he’s too far away for you to properly make them out.

Chrollo doesn’t move. Shock again? Or he sees them, too, and knows the two of you won’t make it a step off the slide before being attacked.

The footsteps on the stairs stop. You look behind you, and your bowels clench at the sight of the monster with the cowl, pulled down, that same small, mean smile on his face.

Your hand tightens on Chrollo’s arm. A sentimental, if selfish, thought: At least I won’t die alone.

Chrollo turns, too, and looks at the man who’s been haunting you for days. Looks at the monster who has already killed people and feasted on their blood; at the creature who will now undoubtedly kill the both of you. Lovers for only a few days, but forever in death.

Chrollo sighs, and inclines his head towards the man. 

“Wait a moment, will you, Feitan?”

There were many things you might have said in this moment.  Eloquent things. Meaningful things. Things borne from inner betrayal and horror and anger. But all that comes out of your mouth, which gapes ridiculously, is: 

“Huh?”

And then something clicks, and realization dawns like a morning you don’t think you’ll live to see. The idea comes naturally, somehow. Borne of a childhood reading books and watching movies about vampires. Bloodsuckers. 

Your head turns, and you look over towards the wall of mirrors. You’re stretched thin like taffy about to break, your features a jumble in the dirty, cheap material. 

In the mirror in front of Chrollo, which should make him ridiculously short, there is nothing at all. 

When you look back at him, your eyes wide and pupils blown, he’s no longer the person you met a few days ago; the person you took to your bed, the person you were lamenting leaving. The person who kissed you and made you feel good, inside and out, if only for a while. 

He’s a vampire. 

“I advise you not to run,” he says quietly, if not, perhaps, a bit sympathetically. 

You do, because you aren’t a fucking moron. Though you don’t make it far, as it doesn’t do you any good to run towards the staircase. You run right towards the other monster--Feitan--who grabs you with ease.

He’s faster and stronger than he looks. Maybe they all are. Your body and brain don’t care about that, though, so you struggle with all of your might.

In response, your arm is deftly twisted behind your back and you expect this monster to stop, you expect your arm to meet its natural resistance while you struggle.

He doesn’t. It doesn’t. Your arm snaps and the pain is so sharp, so sudden, that your vision goes blind for a few seconds. In those few seconds, you scream.

When you’re aware of the world again, there’s still the pain. Sharp and awful and renewed every time you jostle your body in any direction.

Chrollo, walking up to you, hums in sympathy. 

“I know it hurts, dear. But this is what happens when you don’t listen to my orders. Do you understand?” 

The strangest thing (and in a world where the man you fucked last night is currently standing in front of you with fangs, that is saying something) is that Chrollo’s expression is not wild or monstrous at all. If you thought about it, and you’re having a hard time thinking with the pain of your arm and fear of impending death, you might say he looks hopeful. That you will understand. That you have learned something.

And you have. You’ve learned that he’s a liar, that everything he ever said and did was just to keep you around long enough to literally eat you, that he has no morals, no empathy, that he’s not even a person.

“I understand,” you manage, voice tinged and weak with pain, “that you’re a fucking monster.” You spit at him. Or try to. Your mouth is too dry to manage more than a stringy dribble that sticks to your chin. 

At this, Chrollo sighs. He shoves his hands in his pockets and frowns.

“You didn’t speak so crudely to me earlier this week.” A little smile. “Last night notwithstanding.” 

Bitter tears well up in your eyes. It was all just a game to him. Cat and mouse. Every smile, every thoughtful word. Every kiss. Your bodies pressed together, his mouth on yours--

“I didn’t know you were a… a… fucking vampire earlier this week.” 

Chuckles, from down below. Feitan, behind you, snorts. 

Chrollo doesn’t look angry, but you can feel a flash of it ripple through the air. It quiets the chuckles. Feitan tightens his grip on you, and the flash of pain makes you groan and slump forward.

“Regardless,” Chrollo says, “respect must be maintained. I expect you to refrain from these little outbursts. Do you understand?” There’s still a tinge of cooing sympathy in his voice--it makes anger bubble up in your chest. 

“Fuck you.” This time, the spit flies, and hits his cheek.

The gestures are slow. Unassuming. He wipes the spit off with the back of his hand. He wipes the back of his hand on his pants. And then he nods at Feitan.

Feitan’s hand reaches around your throat and when you glance down, you see that his nails grow. And sharpen. Sharp enough to cut, sharp enough to--

He drags his hand down your collarbone, and you feel the awful, deep sting of it before you see the blood spill out from your flesh. It coats the bare skin between your collar and the top of your shirt like some sort of morbid camisole. 

You cry out, you shriek, but he doesn’t let you go until Chrollo gives him another nod. You’re shoved towards Chrollo, who doesn’t grip you, but merely lets you stand, swaying, in front of you.

When you finally get the courage to look up at him, his pupils are blown up like a shark’s. 

“I’d like you to stay put this time,” he tells you, voice deeper, richer, at the sight of your blood. “And not run away from me. I’d like you to listen, and refrain from being… impulsive.” 

He leans in, and the scent of rust hits you, but this time you know what it means. “I could make you do it, you know. I don’t have to ask.”

Realization hits you again, and it hurts even more this time. That night, on the dock. And on the Ferris wheel. And how many other times he’d told you to do something, feel something. What was really you, and what was him? 

And now, despite all this, despite the scent of blood in the air and the wails of horror coming from the beach, he wanted you to listen to him? The audacity of vampires--it might have been funny, if you were in the mood to laugh.

“Like hell,” you mutter.

Chrollo breathes out through his nose. Impatient.

“I don’t believe I heard you, dear.”

You look up at him, gaze sharper. Heart sharper. 

“Like. Hell.” 

The slap you give him is weak. You’re surprised your good arm even managed it, all things considered. 

But the shock of the act that ripples from Chrollo to Feitan and even down below is what gives you a few microseconds to escape, to run, ears ringing from the pain of your jostled broken arm, and throw yourself down the slide.

You don’t have a plan. How could you? As soon as you get to the bottom, you’ll just run. Run and maybe die but maybe you’ll get away, someway, somehow.

You don’t get more than a few steps before you fall. Not fall, exactly. Trip. You trip over something that shouldn’t be there, something taught and thin. A wire? 

You see, from the corner of your vision, the woman with pink hair yank her hand backwards and the wire that shouldn’t be there slices deeply into both your ankles. Blood seeps through your socks before you even hit the ground. 

Your ankles burn and bleed, and new sparks explode behind your eyes when your broken arm smacks the ground at the worst possible ankle. You think you scream, but it’s hard to tell, over the pain.

Chrollo and Feitan jump down from the second story of the fun house. It should break their ankles--it does not. 

Someone turns you over on your back with their boot and you’re left staring up at the sky, ink black and throbbing with stars. It was such a pretty night, before all this. 

Above you, Chrollo and Feitan look down with decidedly different expressions. Chrollo regards you coolly, with no real expression on his face; it’s like a porcelain mask, indifferent, never-changing. Feitan, on the other hand, is smiling--he’s looking not at you, exactly, but at your blood.

It’s Chrollo who speaks.

“I would like an apology for your behavior.”

If your eyes were not safely attached to their retinas, they might bug out of your face entirely. You are laying on your back with bleeding, mangled ankles; your arm is broken, flopping, useless; a collar of blood adorns your neck. Vampires are standing above you, fangs at the ready, having already spread carnage through an entire beach of concert-goers.

And he wants an apology?

You want him to go away. To not be real.

You want your mom, and your dad, and your childhood bed with covers big enough to hide you.

So you shake your head, helpless, like an infant lying on their back.

Above you, Chrollo says your name. Sternly. Just once. 

When you muster up the words, you taste copper. You must have bitten your tongue after tripping. 

“F…fuck you.” 

Stupid words, you know. But you’d rather your last words be this than pointless begging. Now that would be stupid, begging for your life in front of grotesque creatures who want nothing more than to devour your blood. 

Somewhere above you, a gruff voice says, with a hint of glee in his voice:

“Want me to do it, boss?”

Your eyes dart around, but you can’t see anyone else. Even Feitan seems to have stepped back, leaving you with no one but Chrollo in your line of sight.

Chrollo tilts his head a little, considering.

“No,” he says, finally. “Feitan will handle it. I appreciate your methods, but you might break something a little beyond repair.”

Whoever spoke chuckles, but doesn’t disagree.

The words reach you, but you don’t take them in for a slow moment. 

Break… break… what else can they break, what else can they possibly do--

There’s a weight above you. A dark one that smells of blood and metal. It’s Feitan. He blocks out everything else, just for a moment, staring into your eyes with their big pupils and blurring tears.

When he pulls back, you see him move, but don’t know what it means until you feel an explosion of red hot pain in your hand--the hand you slapped Chrollo with. Your fingers crunch and break and you try to pull your hand away, but Feitan’s boot keeps it pinned down, grinding his heel until you shriek so loud that you think the inside of your throat will blister.

Time itself is hot and painful. You’re not sure how long it goes. You’re only sure that when you try to move your mangled fingers, they don’t move. Hot, thick pain shoots down them and it makes you stop trying to get up. 

It’s not like you could run, anyway.

At some point, you hear a new sound. Sirens in the distance. Police? Ambulances? There’s no hope in your chest, no thought that they’ll save you. Even if they got here in time, the monsters would kill them. 

Somewhere above you, Chrollo talks, though his words sound like they’re being spoken through water. 

“Take care of them, will you? We’ll meet up near the waterfall before we head out.” A question from someone. A pause. “Yes, I’ll handle her.” 

The voices fade away. Either because they’ve walked away, or you’re finally going to die from the shock. That might be a mercy compared to whatever grisly end Chrollo has in store for you. Is this how he planned for you to die, after all? Or was it meant to be swifter? You might have screwed it all up with your running and spitting.

Before Feitan broke your hand, you might have been proud of the spitting. Now you just wish you’d let them kill you quick. 

Finally, Chrollo returns to your line of vision. He’s a bit blurry from your tears, from your pain. Probably a bit from your blood loss, too.

He kneels down next to you, and you tense. Even tensing hurts, and you whimper. 

“Are you going to kill me now?”

Beside you, Chrollo coos. A soft, sticky sound. He takes your broken hand and your voice wants to shriek, but all you can manage is a strangled cry. He kisses your broken fingers like a gentleman.

“Kill you? Of course not.” He presses a last kiss to your mangled hand. “I do want to see that sweet girl from before.. the one who daydreams about strangers and holds onto my hand so tightly on the Ferris wheel.” An indulgent look crosses his face and he gives your broken fingers a painful squeeze that has you groaning.

“She’s still in there, no doubt.” His thumb brushes against your cheek, pushing away the dried salt of your tears. “Buried under fear and pain and newfound knowledge, no doubt.” He smiles nostalgically. “But those can be remedied with time.”

He’s crazy. I mean, you know he’s a vampire, sure. But he’s also fucking crazy.

“I want to go home,” you croak. Even though you can’t reason with crazy.  “Please. Please.”

His eyes blink down at you. How old is he, anyway? Centuries? Longer? To him, you must be nothing. Insignificant. Ridiculous. 

He doesn’t mock you, though. He only continues stroking your cheek with his thumb. “I’ll be your home now, wherever we go. And we will go so many places.” There’s some sort of dulled excitement in his expression that turns your stomach. “And from now on, you’ll do what I say, won’t you?”

Tears spill over your eyes, trickling down over his thumb. You don’t have the energy or the lack of survival instinct to say no. But you won’t say yes, either. You can’t. 

“Well. I can make you obedient, if you’d rather be stubborn.”

You’re about to ask--”What?”--when he kisses you, shutting you up entirely. 

You’re afraid to move. Your lips tremble against his, thinking only of death--of his fangs. His lips move and brush against your neck, and a mocking forgotten memory of last night flashes through you. He kissed your neck last night, too, a wet, sucking kiss that had your toes curling. Your toes curl now, too, out of fear. The blood from your ankle makes your toes slick inside your shoes. 

And then his fangs sink into your neck and hot, searing pain shoots through your entire body, masking everything else. Your ankles. Your broken hand.  Your brutalized arm. The cut on your collar. None of them matter compared to this pain, which is not localized at the sight of the bite but spreads throughout your bloodstream, making it impossible to think of anything but how much it hurts.

You’re dimly aware of your screaming. A helpless sound you heard from countless others tonight. Your legs kick, and you realize, vaguely, that you can’t really feel them anymore. They hurt, yes, but there’s a numbness behind it. Are you really moving them at all?

There are more screams now--from the beach. You don’t know how you know, but you do. It’s like you can see it in your mind although you’re flat on your back in front of the fun house with a monster draining you of blood. 

The world spins as you imagine how the first responders must be dying right now, while you’re dying. Are they wishing they never responded to the emergency calls? Are they thinking about their families, their friends, and their little dogs, too? 

Chrollo’s mouth is against yours again, and you taste yourself on him. Bitter metal, still warm. He’s blurry as he pulls back and bites against his wrist. What should be vivid red blood is dark and ugly--dead. He hovers his wrist above your mouth and the substance drips onto your lips. It’s cold, vile.

A final insult before you die, making you drink this nasty stuff. Vampires have a sick sense of humor.

But what did you know about vampires, anyway? 

You black out as Chrollo murmurs something above you.

At least, you think, this is finally over. 

--

You do not wake up in heaven or in darkness, either.

You wake up in a man made clearing, sitting against a tree, with a blanket draped over you. In front of you there is a fire, not roaring but alive enough in the night; a pot with spilled chili lay on the ground. Behind the fire is a camper van with its door wide open. 

The corpse of a man is propped against the door of the van, keeping it open. His mouth is slack and ah, he’s not dead yet, is he? There are two glaring puncture wounds on his neck, but he’s still around. His fingers twitch  and seem to register you with tired eyes, that drift from your face over to the far end of the camp.

You follow the look, and oh. There are two dead teens piled next to the fire. Already drained, already dead. His children, you think. 

The world seems to come into more focus then.

You are, as far as you can tell, alive. You’re propped up against a tree. It’s night time. The people--the monsters, the vampires--are here, in this campsite. Some of them glance at you once they realize you’re awake, but no one says anything.

Strangely enough, you’re not in much pain. Soreness, yes. But you should be in agony. Your hand feels okay--sore fingers, but no longer blinding pain, and you can bend them almost normally. Your arm, too, feels sore but mended. Your hands reach up to your collar, your neck, but there’s no trace of the wounds except a thin scar on your collar and two small bumps on your neck.

How did it heal so fast? Did they bring you here to hurt you again? Keep you like some sort of blood bag?

Your eyes travel down to the blanket draped around you. It’s heavy, comfortable, and stained with blood. 

You jerk like you’ve been electrocuted and throw the soiled blanket from your body.

Someone nearby laughs. “Picky princess, huh?” You vaguely recognize the voice--the tall man with wild hair. The one who knocked a man’s head off at the beach.

Just as renewed panic begins to awaken inside you, Chrollo appears from seemingly nowhere.

“You’re finally awake, I see.”

You shrink against the tree, and look around. Could you run into the woods? Were you still in the trail by the beach? How far could you run? 

Chrollo smiles, and sits down next to you like this isn’t horrifying or unusual at all. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. There’s nowhere to go.”

Your throat is dry and your words stick to your mouth several times before you can speak.

“Where… are we?”

If you’re close enough to home, you might still get out of this. Somehow. Find a gas station or a rest stop and beg for help. 

“Far away from that little town, I assure you.” Chrollo jerks his head back and you finally see the row of motorcycles parked near the campsite. “We won’t stay here for long. We rarely do. Just long enough for you to get healed up, this time.”

Which means he plans to take you with him--with them. For how long? And where? And why? Why take you? Why not kill you, why not drain you dry in front of the fun house and leave your corpse for survivors to find? 

You could ask all of these things, but you’re not sure you want the answer. Instead, you give the only answer your mind can manage, which is to curl up against yourself and cry. 

“I want to go home.” You whisper, out of practicality more than anything. Your mouth is so damn dry. 

“None of that,” he says, a little sternly. His expression softens when you flinch, and he brushes the hair from your face. “Don’t waste your breath on such a silly sentiment. You’re not going anywhere I don’t want you to go.”

“You said you didn’t know me well enough to leave with me,” he continues, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, then a warmer one to your unwilling lips. “You said you hadn’t had time to figure out your dreams. Now, you can take all the time you need for both of those things. We’ll have eternity, after all.” 

Dull, cold horror pools in your gut.

Eternity.

“Did you… am I… did you make me--” 

Your hands shoot to your mouth, to your teeth, feeling for fangs. But there’s nothing new inside your mouth, unless you count the awful cotton dryness that blankets your tongue and teeth like film. 

He smiles indulgently, and you hear someone nearby snort. 

“No.” A pause. “Not yet, not quite.” He smiles at your ignorance and takes your hand away from your teeth, giving it a kiss that feels like mockery even if you get the sense that he isn’t trying to make fun. “That may come later, if you behave. For now, I’ve made you…” Another kiss, this time with a smile on his lips, as he seems to debate on what to say. “… let’s say, mine.”

You shiver. From fear, and from cold.

Chrollo presses another kiss to your lips, until he can shove his tongue in between your teeth and run it against your own. You taste yourself on him, still, that rusty taste. It makes you gag, and he pulls away.

“You must be cold. I don’t want you catching a chill so soon. Why don’t you go sit in front of the fire and warm up?” 

You shake your head, wanting to spit out the taste in your mouth, but not having the courage to do so.

He watches you for a moment. Calculating, cold. He makes you think of an animal, in this moment. An animal thinking on what to do when his prey does something odd in the wilderness. 

“Go sit in front of the fire,” he tells you. 

And without wanting to, without meaning to, you do. Your body jerks up and you walk over to the fire, with its spilled chili and corpses left in its wake, and sit down. 

It’s like before, at the carnival, but different now. There’s no warm suggestion, no soothing manipulation. Only an order that you obey, and that’s that. When you try to push yourself up,  you find that you simply can’t make your body do it.  You can flex your fingers, your toes. You can move your arms up and down. But you cannot, in any way, stop sitting in front of that fire.

“I’d prefer you to do things willingly,” Chrollo says from his spot near the tree. “But I don’t mind giving orders either, love.”

Love.

You’re not sure he knows the meaning of the word.

But neither do you.

Despite the fact that there are two dead kids and their dying father just feet away from you, you find the fire comforting. It’s warm. It’s bright. It’s everything that the monsters around you aren’t; and you aren’t one of them, not exactly (not yet, your brain screams, he said not yet) and maybe you can cling to that. Cling to your humanity, to get you through this. 

The fire crackles in front of you. At some point, Chrollo sits down, and offers you a bowl of chili that they must have set aside for you before knocking the pot down. 

It’s lukewarm, and a bit bland. The dying man wasn’t a great cook. But you eat it, slowly, carefully, while Chrollo watches with an almost serene expression on his face. Like watching you eat was the most endearing thing in the world. 

Above you, the night sky watches the scene with indifference.