nomoredying

[nomoredying]

Mhhhhh how about sevika x loverboy! masc reader goin at it until sev notices that they look far off and just calls it all off and insist they need therapy and couples counseling because of what happened just then and other stuff and maybe what a few sessions of that looks like

Maybe make them kiss a lot

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grounded

modern au! sevika x reader

tags: masc!reader, couples therapy, soft sevika, fluff a/n: i really really hope this is of your liking!!!! english is not my first language — please feel free to correct me, thank you

it’s been weeks. 

weeks of late nights, tight schedules and  “i’m just tired” said too many times by both of them. weeks of not touching unless it’s brushing past each other in the hallway. weeks of not talking unless it’s logistics like the fridge and laundry or small talks about raining a lot these days than usual. you still buy her favourite donuts and leave the window open at night because she feels stuffy at night. she still picks you up from work and always texts when she won’t be able to and pulls a blanket over you when she wakes up in the middle of the night.

you know it’s fixable. you love sevika and she loves you. which is why this friday you’re determined to give her the warmth she deserves. 

clothes pull off so fast you don’t even register it. sevika’s on top, moving with intention — rough, focused, the way she knows you like it, initially, you were planning to be the giver tonight, but you don’t protest. you’ve got all night ahead of you. her one hand braced beside your head, the other on your thigh, spreading you open. after bruising your lips with her kisses, she goes just a bit lower. her breath is hot against your neck, kissing the skin she bit a moment before. for a moment, it almost feels like it used to.

almost. because then she looks down. and sees your face. blank.

your beautiful eyes open, but the look in them is 

she freezes. stills completely. you don’t even flinch, you just blink up at the ceiling like you’re waiting for it to be over. 

“hey.” her voice is low. sharp. “what the fuck.”

a slow breath. you don’t answer, confused in what she meant. is something wrong?

sevika pulls back and sits, looking at you like she’s searching for something, “you’re not here,” she says flatly. “you’ve been checked out for weeks, and now this?”

you feel guilty, but you don’t yet understand for what exactly. you even open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. you just don’t have anything to say. 

she shakes her head. scoffs, bitter, “yeah. nah. i’m not doing this. i’m not fucking a doll,” she grabs her shirt off the floor and throws it on, jaw tight, “whatever this is— it’s not fine, no matter how hard we pretend it is.”

she glances at you again. you still haven’t moved. still no words escaped your throat.

“you said something, didn’t you?” sevika mutters, rubbing a hand over her face. “couples therapy. or some shit like that. we’re doing that. starting this week.”

you’re surprised. you don’t even remember when you brought it up because you brushed it off when sevika said it was stupid and you agreed. you two didn’t need couples counselling, you thought, everything always works out between you. until now, apparently.

“okay,” you hope you at least don’t sound like, what she said, a doll? although you’re not sure how dolls sound. not human, that is certain.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

the room is cool and clean. a big window, half-open, lets in the breeze. it smells like lavender and something herbal. you like it, lavender was always in the top of your favourite smells list. herbal one — not so much, but nothing’s perfect. 

you blink, snapping out of it. you tend to focus on small things when you’re nervous. 

now that you’re not sniffing but looking, you think it’s quite nice. there is a kettle on a side table, mugs, a jar of tea bags. a soft blue couch, armchair facing it, and a quiet woman named dana sitting on it. she’s wearing a soft cardigan and too many bracelets. 

you and sevika sit side by side. you’re curled into yourself — hands in the pockets of your jeans, eyes darting from place to place. she’s leaned back, jaw clenched. both seemingly uncomfortable. 

dana gives it a few long seconds before speaking.

“i’m glad you both made it today,” she smiles, “i want you to remember that there is no pressure to explain everything at once. this space is just for noticing what’s hard,” her voice is soothing and you wonder if there are therapists whose voices are not.

she then turns to sevika, “you made the appointment. right, sevika?” 

sevika nods, “yeah.”

“would you like to say why?”

you bite your lower lip, wondering if this will really work out for you. talking to each other is one thing, and to some stranger with degree in psychology is completely another.

“we’re… stuck,” sevika says and you can see that she’s about to add something, and so can dana, so she doesn’t interrupt, “felt like maybe we needed someone else in the room to, i don’t know, hear it.

dana nods and glances toward you, “how have you been feeling?”

suddenly, answer comes easy.

“like i’m floating.”

you can’t control where you’re headed. you don’t even care. you don’t see the ground, you don’t see anything.

“floating?” dana repeats, and you nod. she only hums, as if that makes total sense. you’re fine with that.

sevika cuts her eyes sideways at you.

“can i ask when the last time you felt grounded was?” dana asks.

this would be a great moment to share a story, smile while telling it — but the truth is, you don’t remember. 

“i don’t know,” you shrug, honest. then you nod, when she asks if it’s felt like this for a while.

“and for you?” dana looks at sevika.

she sighs, “she stopped laughing,” your head turns slightly, surprised. 

you’re not surprised because sevika noticed, but because you didn’t. that’s not true, is it? you frown, about to deny it. but she’s right. 

“i don’t know when it happened. just one day i realized… she hadn’t laughed in a while.”

“and what did you do when you realized it?” 

sevika doesn’t give an answer right away. it happens when she doesn’t like it, “i waited.”

“waited?” dana repeats once more. in another circumstances maybe you would have laughed.

“i didn't want to push her. i thought she’d talk to me when she was ready,” she pressed her lips.

you speak up, “thought you didn't want to hear it."

"bullshit," sevika says, “i wanted to hear anything. silence is worse than anything you could've said."

and she is right. of course she is. you didn’t think she didn’t want to hear it. you thought she was pulling away when she was waiting and you couldn’t find it in you to talk to her.

 ⚢ ⚢ ⚢

at third session, dana asks if sevika would like to talk about her father. she does it gently, like she always does, but sevika tenses anyway.

“no,” her arms are crossed and her face is unreadable.

you know she had a complicated relationship with her old man. even to you she haven’t told the whole story.

“alright,” dana doesn’t push.

at fifth session, you have a fight about toast.

it starts by you describing your mornings.

“she leaves dishes in the sink like the fairy is gonna get them,” you roll your eyes.

sevika scoffs, “i cook. you clean. that’s the deal.”

“yeah, well, you burn the toast every time—“

“don’t eat it, then.”

“maybe i won’t.”

“fine.”

“fine.”

silence fills the room for approximately two minutes before you both realise you’re arguing about toast. how ridiculous. you snort. sevika tries not to, but her mouth twitches.

and then it’s two of you, laughing. full-on, loud and stupid. you swear you can actually feel the warmth spreading inside you.

on sixth session toward the end dana asks what you two miss.

you shift uncomfortably, “i miss how it feels like to want something.”

sevika looks at you, quiet for a moment, “i miss her singing in the kitchen.”

you blink, “i didn’t know you liked it.”

she turns away, “i didn’t say i liked it. i said i miss it.”

you can’t help but laugh.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

home feels much familiar now. something about that easiness that crept back into your lives.

on a thursday night, you two sit across each other in the kitchen. doing your homework. a yellow sticky note stuck to the fridge says: each write 3 things you appreciated this week.

you stare at your paper. sevika is chewing a pen.

“do we really have to do this?” she raises an eyebrow, sceptical.

“she said we should,” you reply, although your voice lacks conviction.

“should isn’t ’must’.” 

you raise your eyebrows, teasing, as if your paper isn’t blank too, “what, you can’t write three little things?” 

“fuck off.”

then you trade it on the session. you read hers:

you made soup. it tasted like something 

you didn’t shut down when i asked how you were

you waited for me to come home because you wanted to go to bed together

you almost tear up. she reads yours:

you kissed me good night like before

you didn’t forget to add second sugar cube to my coffee

you bought that cute plushie 

sevika takes your hand.

you really missed those good night kisses.

the room is dim. one lamp on, the sheets soft and a little warm from how long you’ve been lying there.

you’re facing her. knees curled to her thigh, your hand tucked under your cheek, half-lost in the pillow.

her fingers draw lazy shapes along your collarbone. slow. thoughtless. her thumb brushes your jaw, and you lean into it.

she leans in too.

you kiss slowly. her tongue brushes against yours. you pull back just to kiss her once more. 

you fall asleep like that, not with your back to each other. limbs tangled. heartbeats soft and stupidly synced.

in the morning, you stand in front of the mirror, teeth clenched, fingers fumbling with that stupid fucking tie that won’t sit straight.

you glance at your phone’s screen to check the time. you’re already late, “fuck this,” not like you love wearing ties that much anyway.

sevika walks by behind you, brushing her teeth with one hand, her hair messy, tank top on. then she steps in front of you, nudges your hands down.

you watch her.

she straightens the collar. tightens the knot. smooth, practiced. then tugs the tie just a bit, teasing.

you roll your eyes.

“really?”

she grins around the toothbrush. shrugs.

then sevika leans in. kisses you — toothpaste-minty, a little (a lot) smug — and pulls back just before you kiss her again. 

you sigh. smile despite yourself and the toothpaste in your mouth.

she tosses you your blazer on her way out.

you follow. tie perfect. heart lighter.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

you don’t know it yet, but it’s your last session.

even the couch feels softer today. or maybe you’re just finally yourself again. 

the room’s still cool. lavender in the diffuser. window open. breeze gentle against your ankle.

dana is saying something — a question, kind, thoughtful.

“what have you noticed about each other lately that feels… different?” 

you look at sevika just to see that she’s already looking at you.

you say, quietly, “you hum when you’re making coffee now.” 

she blinks. the corners of her lips curl up slightly, “you dance a little. when you think no one’s watching.”

“no, i don’t,” you shake your head, just a bit embarrassed.

“yes, you do. guess we can open our own show now.”

you act before you think. your lips find themselves on her way to her mouth, capturing them in a kiss.

it’s soft at first. barely there. then slower. you kiss again and again until you forget where you are.

you shift closer, one hand sliding to her jaw, her fingers curling at your waist. you can’t stop. it’s like you’re a hormonal teen again. 

it lasts too long. definitely too long.

when you finally pull apart, blinking, dazed — dana is still there. sitting quietly in her chair. holding her mug with both hands.

she doesn’t look annoyed. just… politely invisible. 

“well,” she says, voice soft and slightly amused, “seems like you don’t really need a counsellor anymore.”

later, when you cover your face in your hands, remembering about it, sevika only smirks, saying that dana’s probably seen worse.

god, you love her. 

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

taglist: @riotstemple29 @1i1z

[nomoredying]

☆ ☆ ☆ hello !!

⚢ info

i’m ru and i have nothing to say except that this blog (mostly) contains short sevika x reader fics written by me. there isn’t specific day or time that i post them, but i try to do it oftentimes. i do not hold responsibility for content you consume on internet

⚢ requests

are open! if you have anything on your mind you’d like me to write, please request it. there is a very small amount of interesting ideas in my head

⚢ dni

if you’re a man, misogynist, homophobic, racist

[nomoredying]

watch your six

bodyguard!sevika x popstar!reader

tags: age gap (9 years), unresolved feelings, cunnilingus, ex-military sevika, conversations, angst a/n: english is not my first language — please feel free to correct me, thank you

you’re late. one of many nice things about being a star is that no one says why are you late or where have you been to you except your agent. not to your face, at least. you’re moving fast, balancing a black coffee in one hand and phone with dozens of scratches on its screen in the other, muttering half-sentences to yourself as you cross the hallway of the studio building. 

and of course the moment you look down at your phone just for a second you slam straight into something. someone.

a coffee splash. a grunt. a low, deep “watch it.”

you think of yourself as a quite tall person. still, you have to look up. a woman. broad, scar down her cheek, shoulders squared like a soldier. you blinks once. nod politely, apologise and forget her face the next second.

the interview goes well. mostly. they ask about the tour. the new album. the rumors. you dodge all the personal questions like you always do — with wit, with charm, with a sharp little smirk that fans love. press eats it up. pr training did not go to waste. 

“i’ll see you around, ally,” you wink at the host, as she gives you her thanks.

put your sunglasses back on and start walking, as your assistant says something about invitation to dinner. and there’s this woman again. just behind you. like it’s nothing. like you’re walking together. you’re body tenses as you slows down.

“can i help you?” a polite question, but your hostile tone makes it clear that it’s more of a fuck off.

“no,” the woman says, tone flat.

and you thought you didn’t need anger management classes.

you stare, “you’re following me.”

“technically,” the woman shrugs, “you’re walking. i’m just doing my job.”

“your—“ you see your driver arriving, “i don’t care,” sometimes that’s all you gotta say to weirdos around you, open the car door and get in.

…unless the weirdo climbs in after you to the front seat. 

you look at the woman, collecting all insulting words you know before your phone buzzes and you pick it up. it’s your agent, “don’t drive yet,” you say to gillian, the calmest woman in her fifties you’ve ever met, who also happens to be your driver.

“did you meet her?“ she asks, curious, “apparently, she was in the military. one of the best.” 

you’re genuinely confused, “what? who are you talking about?”

you hear her intentionally loud exhale. you can almost see her rubbing the bridge of her nose, “i told you this several times. security. bodyguard. personal. 24/7. label’s orders. everything for your safety.”

you look at the woman sitting on the front seat, “right. yes. good. bye.” 

“you know that vesper is thinking about buying an island and leaving everything behind,” gillian murmurs. 

sometimes you suspect that she and vesper — your agent — are in a secret marriage. by secret you mean they’re hiding it from you specifically. it’s not hard to picture them sitting in kitchen drinking tea on some sunday evening as they talk about giving you up.

“drive.” you roll your eyes. 

surprisingly, your schedule is clear as a day so you’re being drove right home.

you penthouse is on the 28th floor, big windows, soft light, old movie posters framed and hung on the walls — metropolis, amadeus, les diaboliques. there are records tucked between stacks of vinyl, a guitar signed by someone long dead, a candle that’s been burning for five hours. your home is your safe space. artsy and clean.

and now you have a shadow. a very intimidating one, if you’re honest. the woman — sevika, apparently — stands near the door.

you watch her, “you can stop that. no one’s gonna leap out of the wall.”

“standard procedure,” sevika says. then nods to the hallway. “where am i sleeping?”

you scoff, “you’re sleeping here?”

“contract says on-site.”

“oh god,” you drags your hand down your face, then point, “spare bedroom’s at the end of the hall. don’t touch my shit.”

sevika just lifts an eyebrow, says nothing, and walks down the hall.

you slumps onto the couch and stare at the ceiling. well, you knew what you were signing up to ten years ago, didn’t you? it all comes with a package. constant attention, money, anxiety. 

out-of-their-mind stalkers and personal bodyguards.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

you’re walking home back from a little stroll you take to gather your thoughts. headphones on, instrumental playing. 

too loud, because you don’t hear a man calling you. he has to tap your shoulder so you finally look at him and take the heads off.

you recognise the face immediately. slightly rounded face, large eyes, full cheeks. fluffy blue hair. it’s peter. man in his twenties who says he’s been your fan ‘since forever’. you know him because past few years you’ve seen him almost on every public event you went. always in the front, with his big smile and a notebook he wants you to sign. you’re pretty sure he’s already got a collection of your autographs and selfies.

“hi! i’m sorry, i didn’t want to bother you. it’s crazy i’m meeting you here!” peter chuckles.

you raise your eyebrows, surprised, “it is crazy. do you live here?”

“no, but it doesn’t matter,” he brushes it off, “tell me, how are you? you look astonishing, really. really!”

“thank you. i’ve been okay. how about you?” 

peter starts rumbling, going on and on about him loving your new posts in instagram, going to gym every other day just like you, recommending you a movie he watched recently that he’s sure you’ll like, how he can’t wait for your new album, asking when will it be and if some crazy theory about it is true, and how he’s been wanting to approach you but got the courage to do so only now. 

wait, what?

you frown, “what do you mean? i don’t think we’ve personally met anywhere else.”

“well, no, you don’t see me, but i do. you know. on streets, shops, theatres.”

“no, i don’t know,” your heartbeat goes faster, “have you been following me, peter? what are you doing here?” you press. “you know where i live? what, you’ve got a stakeout somewhere near in case i get out of the house?” 

he looks at you, his puppy eyes widened in surprise, “no. i mean yes, i know where you live. but i would never rob you or anything like that, if that’s what you’re worried about! really, I’m more of an opposite,” peter’s voice absolutely innocent, as if you’re the crazy one.

it makes you frustrated. like the one thing missing in your life was a stalker.

“are you fucking crazy?” you rise your voice. people start looking, “get away from me.”

he doesn’t. no, he steps forward, raising his palm upward in a gesture people use to approach wild animals, “hey, hey. it’s okay.”

“didn’t you hear me? i said get from me!”

peter stops. he frowns, resentful, “don’t talk to me like that. why are you so unfriendly?”

god, sometimes you forget how people can be so…

“because you’re insane and i don’t want to see you anywhere near me.”

and that’s when he gets mad. and not in a i’m-not-your-fan-anymore way mad. no. he reaches in his bag and takes out a fucking gun. yes, you should’ve moved to finland.

“shut up! shut up! you don’t mean that!” he point the gun at you.

you can’t move, your body paralysed. you’ve imagined so many accidents that end up with your death but it’s the first time you might actually be close to that.

“why do you carry a gun?” the only thing you can squeeze out of yourself, your voice lacking any emotions.

“for you! don’t you understand? i want you to be safe.”

you can’t breathe.

“no. no. you’re insane. you need help. i’ll call the police.”

he laughs like a parent would laugh at something silly their toddler said.

“i always loved your humour,” peter takes another step forward. despite his smile, he doesn’t hesitate to hold the gun at your head.

“it’s not— i’m not joking.”

“really?” his smile turns upside down, “that’s too bad.”

and then the bullet goes right through you.

but you don’t feel it.

you wake up choking. 

skin clammy, shirt sticking to your back, heart trying to punch its way out of your ribs. it takes you a second to breathe, another to focus. the room is dark. you’ve had this very dream since the day it happened. which isn’t a long time ago, but you would’ve thought you’d get used to it. 

in reality, he didn’t shot you. a stranger knocked him down when he pointed the gun at you. and now peter with cobalt-dyed hair has a restraining order and you have a bodyguard.

you hear footsteps. precise, not stumbling. you’re quick to stand up and grab the first thing within reach — a solid, aluminum bat on your bedside table. a gift from someone who thought it was funny. now you have a use for it. your grip tightens on the bat. you inch out of the bedroom, bare feet cold on the hardwood. go downstairs.

the kitchen light’s on. then you turn the corner, bat raised—

“you planning on bashing my head in?”

sevika’s voice is calm and a little dry. she’s standing at the sink, drinking from a tall glass of water, completely unfazed.

you lower the bat. breathe out. her pulse is a drum in her ears.

“…sorry.”

the older woman shrugs. leans back against the counter. “you looked ready to swing.”

“yeah, well. it’s been a week,” you set the bat on the counter gently and rub your eyes.

“couldn’t sleep?” sevika asks, not looking at you.

you shrug, “nightmare.”

sevika nods. she doesn’t need any further explanations. you watch the way her throat moves when she swallows another sip of water.

“you smoke?”

she glances over, like the question surprised her, “yes,”

“not in my house.”

you’re not sure why you’re saying this like there won’t be no time for setting the rules other than the middle of a night.

“noted.”

you press your lips together, “everybody’s scared of something, right?”

sevika raises her eyebrows at your words, but she doesn’t hesitate when she says, “yes.”

“well, how do you deal with being scared?” 

a beat, “you don’t. you just become better at hiding it,” she’s honest and you appreciate that.

“goodnight,” you murmur finally, already turning back toward the hall, “turn off the kitchen light when you’re done being mysterious.”

“yes, ma’am,” sevika replies, deadpan.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

your alarm goes off at 7:00 sharp.

you jolt awake, already halfway out of bed before your brain catches up. eyes unfocused, limbs moving like wet cement. slow. heavy. zombie mode. 

the mirror doesn’t lie. hair sticking out in every direction, bags under your eyes. you make a face at yourself and head to the shower. hot water helps. not enough, but a little.

a clean towel, robe, moisturiser you hate the smell of but love the results from. then clothes. you in something simple. all black. not really a fashion statement.

you're sipping lukewarm coffee straight from the pot when you hear it — dull, repetitive, thump.  you walk into the living room, still barefoot, to find sevika doing push-ups. muscles on her arms flexing with each rise and fall. they probably could snap you in half.

"is this your version of good morning?" you mumble, voice hoarse.

“want a turn?" she says without looking up. 

“pass.”

no time for breakfast. your assistant texts you twice before you even reach the elevator. something about a rescheduled interview, snacks on the way, new edits on the press release. you type k with your thumb and call the elevator.

sevika walks behind you. just a four calculated steps behind. 

the day begins at 8:15.

first — a studio lot, morning show. the one with the overly enthusiastic host and bright colors that make your brain hurt.

you sit in the chair. smile on. makeup hiding the fatigue. they ask you what inspired the album. you say something about duality and fame. they ask about the tour. you say you’re excited. they ask about the rumors. you say “which one?” and they laugh. it’s all performance. always has been.

in the corner, sevika stands near the exit. arms crossed. eyes sweeping.

you get a coffee afterwards. someone from the show hands it to you like they’re offering a gold medal. you drink half of it. hand the rest to your assistant.

“you could eat something,” sevika says, typing mid-step.

“and ruin my diet of caffeine and paranoia? she doesn’t laugh. not her style, you think. or maybe it’s like with teachers. if they all use same lines their teachers told them, bodyguards look at the nearest statue to train their poker face.

next stop: recording studio. final tweaks, final mixes.

your producer, lena, has been with you since day one. she’s brilliant, chain-smokes like a noir detective, and only speaks in half-sentences when she’s focused. 

“vocals on track four still feel..” she waves her hand vaguely.

“thin?” you offer.

“plastic,” she decides, “you’re not angry enough. go again.”

you do.

sevika waits outside the booth. eyes on the soundboard, unreadable. someone offers her a water bottle. she doesn’t take it.

you take a break at 1:00. something vaguely healthy in a plastic box. you eat three bites while reading over the promo schedule. your assistant hovers, “vesper says wear the green dress tonight. it photographs well.”

“i don’t own a green dress.”

“it’s already tailored for you.”

“fantastic.”

at some point during the day, you start to forget she’s there. sevika. not gone. just part of the pattern now. background. it’s surprising, really, considering that you’ve only known her for two days and already got used to her presence. there is something calming about it. 

but when you’re leaving the building and someone calls your name — someone too close, someone you don’t see right away — she’s already between you and them. you smell gunmetal and smoke.

it’s just a fan. overexcited. loud. sevika lets go the moment she sees that.

you end the day in a dressing room with too-bright lighting and a stylist who talks like he’s auditioning for a soap opera. you wear the green dress. it does photograph well. 

and when it’s all over, when the cameras are off and the lights go dim and the city starts folding into night, you get in the car and let your head rest back.

“home?” gillian asks from the front.

“please,” you say, half-asleep.

and as always, you fall asleep in the car.

it’s not graceful. your neck at a bad angle, jaw slack, mouth probably open. whatever. you’ve slept in worse places. gillian keeps the ride quiet.

your head knocks softly against the window as the car turns. outside, the city glows in its neon hush. inside, your breathing slows. limbs heavy. mind a blur. the green dress itches a little under your coat, but you’re too far gone to care.

gillian parks.

“we’re home,” she says softly, like she always does. you don’t move, “hey,” she tries again, just a bit louder. “you’re home, kid.”

nothing.

she waits, sighs. then leans back over the seat and gives your shoulder the gentlest tap-tap-tap. “kitten. wake up.”

gillian always tries waking you up softly. she knows how much you work and she knows you don’t sleep well enough, no matter what she tells you. her principle won’t let her go full tornado just yet. though you’re pretty sure that’s because she loves you, not because of her ‘principles’. 

“sleepytime’s over.”

still nothing. she shakes her head, clicks her tongue like an exasperated aunt. 

and then—

“wake up,” two words. said low, steady. a command.

your eyes snap open. first thing you see is sevika, standing by the car door, door already open, looking down at you with that same unreadable expression she always wears.

you blink. once. then twice.

“what—“

“she talked,” gillian says from the front seat, cutting in, “she just talked, and you woke up. what the hell.”

you rub your eyes, sit up slowly. brain still fogged, “what time is it?”

“late,” gillian says. but she’s staring at sevika, eyes narrowed with admiration and dramatic betrayal, “you have no idea how long i’ve been trying to figure out how to wake her like that. i sang. i tapped. i played mariah. i once played screamo. nothing.”

sevika shrugs. “military.”

“girl,” gillian puts a hand to her chest. “respectfully, that was sexy.”

you snort. you’re not really awake yet, not really functioning, but watching gillian glare at sevika like she’s just seen a magic trick is funny.

you get out of the car, coat draped over your shoulders like a cape. sevika steps back, gives you space. gillian still watching her like she might steal her techniques while she’s not looking, “next time she nods off,” she tells sevika as they close the door, “you wake her. i’m retired from that nonsense.”

“wasn’t that your job?” you mumble.

gillian doesn’t even look back, “you pay me for the driving, baby. the rest is emotional labor.”

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

on saturday you wake up at 9.

no alarms. no screaming phones. no makeup callsheets or flashing lights. just sunlight and the luxury of silence. a miracle, really.

you stretch like a cat. everything aches in that delicious way because you actually slept.

your assistant texted the night before, informing you that tomorrow’s schedule is clear and asking if you have any plans she has to write down. your reply was short. hell no.

by 10:30 you’re in a black swimsuit, swim cap and goggles. the pool’s on the last floor of a building vesper once called “disgustingly bourgeois,” which is why you love it. the water is clear, cold and no one else is here.

except, of course, her.

sevika. she sits on the chair near the pool, dressed in black track pants and a plain tee. sunglasses. arms crossed. looking exactly like a soldier guarding a president on vacation.

you dive in.

the first stroke is cold. then rhythmic. you let your brain go quiet. water always helps. shuts out the static. just stroke, breath, stroke.

twenty laps later, you finally stop. hands gripping the edge, chest rising and falling. you glance up. sevika hasn’t moved. still watching. her eyebrows are weirdly judgmental.

you pull off your goggles and push the cap back slightly, “hey,” you call.

nothing. she looks down at you like she’s waiting for you to say something worth walking over for. so you motion her closer. serious expression. urgent.

she stands. approaches slowly. eyebrow raised. the shadow of her body stretches across the tile. stops at the edge.

“what?” flat voice. arms still crossed.

you blink. tilt your head, “come closer.”

“why?”

you don’t answer. you just lean one hand on the edge, the other slipping slightly beneath the surface. when she’s close enough — when she’s right there, looking at you with a mild suspicion — 

you grab her ankle and pull.

her foot slips on the wet tile. and for a second, she almost catches herself. almost. but the floor’s slick and her weight’s shifting and then: splash. like a cartoon. she goes under with all the grace of a brick.

you swim back half a meter, gasping. not from effort, but from laughter. the kind that starts in your throat and ends in your belly. uncontrollable.

her face when she fell— oh god.

you try to keep swimming away, but it’s hard to move when you’re laughing so hard you’re practically crying.

“you should’ve seen your—”

you choke, “your face—“

and then a hand grabs your feet. you shriek, but it’s too late. her grip is so tight. you kick weakly but she’s stronger, faster, annoyed.

“oh shit,” you yelp.

“you think that was funny?”

“yes— yes!” you wheeze, trying to wriggle free, “so funny..”

she pulls you under. not quite rough, just a quick dunk. the water swallows you in one gulp and you surface again sputtering, hair in your face, laugh absolutely unkillable.

“you’re insane,” you cough, wiping your face.

“you started it.”

“i will do it again.”

she gives you a look. unreadable. dangerous. you tread water beside her. chest heaving from laughter.

“you know,” you say between breaths, “for someone paid to keep me alive, you really look like you’re about to drown me,”

sevika shakes water from her face, already swimming toward the edge again, “you’re lucky i didn’t.”

“kinky,” you call after her.

she doesn’t respond. just climbs out of the pool in one fluid motion, water dripping from her shirt, pants sticking to her legs.

you float on your back, grinning up at the sky. for once, the world feels distant. quiet. safe.

maybe this whole bodyguard thing won’t be so bad. that, if she doesn’t quit, of course. you doubt anyone else would be this funny.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

paris smells like money and perfume.

not a metaphor — literally. everything from the airport lounge to the water in your overpriced hotel suite smells expensive.

the fashion show you’ve been invited to is held in an old theatre turned palace turned runway. vaulted ceilings. chandeliers. strange, wonderful things walking past you. you watch from front row. dressed in something sheer, structured, and definitely impossible to wear twice.

afterwards, you end up in polite conversation with camille bellamy. oscar winner. cinema icon. and now she’s complimenting your voice. and touching your arm. and saying she’d “love to work together one day.” you don’t know on what exactly since she acts and you sing, but you happily agree anyway.  nod and say thank you and stay cool, but your insides are confetti

you’re buzzing all the way back to the hotel.

you and sevika walk side by side. her in a black coat, eyes always moving. you in heels that you hate but you still refuse to limp. you’re just about to come in the elevator when a girl approaches.

young. maybe nineteen, maybe twenty-two.

hood up. pale eyes. too focused.

“hi,” she says.

you smile automatically. “hey.”

“i just..” she pauses, “i used to really like your music.”

used to? that doesn’t sound very good. your smile falters. you hear sevika’s steps slow behind you.

“thanks,” you say, cautious. “glad you—”

“but then you changed,” she interrupts. voice higher now. thinner, “you started pretending you were something you’re not. sold out. made everything about image.”

you blink, “i’m not sure what this is, but,”

“you don’t care,” she cuts in again, louder, “none of you ever do. i looked up to you.”

a second passes. then she steps closer. just a step, but fast. that’s all it takes.

sevika’s between you in a blink, “back off,” her hand’s on the girl’s wrist before she even lifts it.

the girl flinches. stumbles back. mutters something like ‘whatever, bitch, you’re not worth it’ and disappears into the night like smoke.

you don’t move for a second, “thanks.”

“that’s the job.” you get in the elevator.

your rooms are next to each other. of course. you throw your shoes off the second you’re inside. grab the champagne from the minibar. stare at the bubbles. then open the door again and knock twice on hers.

she opens it. doesn’t look surprised.

you lift the bottle like a trophy. “come drink.”

“no.”

“come on.”

“i’m good.”

“pretty please,” you drag the word out like a child, “i almost got yelled for being unauthentic. come mourn with me.”

she squints.

you press your hands together in exaggerated begging, “one drink. i’ll be so annoying if you say no.”

“fine.”

you smile. 

inside the room, you sit on the couch in your suite. she takes the armchair. you pour two glasses.

“so,” you say, “how old are you, really?” she gives you a flat look. you smile, “that’s not a weird question.”

still nothing.

“okay, miss mystery,” you roll your eyes. “come on,”

“forty-two.”

you gasp dramatically, “no way. i had you at thirty-nine.”

“thanks,” she says, bone dry.

you drink.

“you were in the army?” you ask, head tilted.

she nods.

“how long?”

“nineteen years.”

“damn, “you sip again, “kids?”

“no.”

“married?”

“no.”

“not even a passionate affair with a war photographer named margot?”

“definitely not.”

you lean your head back. “you’re boring.”

“i’m safe.”

you laugh at that.

“safe,” you repeat, swirling the glass. “yeah. i guess you are.”

you fill the silence with more talking. more drinking. something about modern fashion. something about the way parisians look like they were born smoking and judging. you wouldn’t call yourself particularly talkative, but it feels easy with her.

she listens. she’s good at that. at sitting still and letting you spill. somewhere between your second glass and third overly dramatic retelling of camille bellamy saying ‘darling,’ the idea happens.

cards.

you just mentioned something about playing gin rummy with your vocal coach once, and sevika tilted her head and said, “you play?”

you scoffed. “obviously.”

five minutes later, there’s a battered deck from your travel bag spread across the coffee table, sleeves rolled up, heels abandoned. sevika sitting across from you, sleeves also pushed back, legs apart, focused.

the first game lasts three minutes. she wins. you blink at the score, “wait,”

“next?”

you agree. and lose. again.

the third game’s closer. you’re convinced you’ve got it — nearly slam your hand down in triumph — but she cuts you off mid-motion with a play that wipes your whole setup clean.

“how are you doing this?” you gape.

“math,” she replies.

“no,” you shake your head, pouring another splash of champagne. “you’re cheating. that’s cheating.”

“that’s winning.”

fourth round. fifth. you even try distracting her. waving your arms, humming a random melody, even complimenting her forearms mid-deal.

she doesn’t break. you lose. again.

“this is criminal behavior,” you mutter, stretching out dramatically across the couch, arm flopped over your face like a dead heroine. “this is psychological warfare. you’re humiliating me.”

“you offered,” she says.

“you challenged me!” 

you groan and sit back up. you’re not even mad anymore. you’re— okay. maybe a little mad.

as she’s dealing the next round, your eyes flick up — and there it is. the corner of her mouth. a smirk.an actual smirk. not a twitch. not a shadow. a genuine curve of amusement.

you freeze mid-reach, “wait a second,” her eyes stay on the cards. you narrow yours. lean forward, “you’re enjoying this too much.”

“it’s satisfying.”

“you’re smiling.”

“i’m not.”

“you are! oh my god,” you put a hand to your chest, “is that a dimple?”

her gaze flicks up, sharp, “no.”

“oh my god,” you gasp again, full drama, grabbing a throw pillow like it’s a witness, “you smiled. i didn’t even know your face could do that.”

she looks back at her cards, “play your hand.”

“if i lose again, i’m calling the embassy.”

“you’ll lose.”

you do. 

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

117 unread messages

30 missed calls

a lot more mentions and tags 

your album is finally out in the open.

you don’t even open them yet. just watch the notifications roll in. promise yourself that you’ll answer them all later and lock the screen.

when you walk barefoot into the kitchen, sevika’s already there, wearing her hoodie. hair tied. eating something straight from the container with massive noise-canceling headphones on. doesn’t see you. doesn’t hear you.

but you see the screen on her phone. the song playing.

your song.

track four. the sad one with the violins and the breathy chorus. she’s listening to you. well, would you look at that. 

for some reason, you really care about what she thinks about it.

“if you’re not gonna buy the album, at least stream the deluxe version,” you tease and she looks up, slowly. you raise a brow, tilt your head, “so?”

she blinks once. removes one earcup. opens her mouth and your phone rings.

vesper. of course, “hello?”

“it’s out. you’re out. you’re a star! no, you’re supernova. do you hear me? you’re a fucking supernova!”

“hi, vesper.”

“shut up. you’re #5 globally in under three hours. you knocked out two men with guitars. spotify is having a meltdown. i’m having a meltdown!” 

you grin, covering your mouth, “really?”

“you’re going to cannes and i’m buying a horse.”

call ends. you look up again. sevika’s still sitting there, one brow slightly lifted. you try to act chill, “anyway. thoughts on the vocals?”

“they’re good,” she says.

“good?”

“you don’t need me to tell you you’re incredible.”

you roll your eyes and shove your phone into your pocket, “ugh. boring answer. get ready. we have to go.”

when you’re in the car, you hear your music playing.

“this one’s my favorite,” gillian says, tapping the wheel in rhythm. “you sound expensive.”

“i am expensive.”

“oh, i know,”

when you arrive on set of the music video for one of the tracks, it’s all black marble, velvet, shadows, opulence. you’re dressed in deep colours, silks, delicate chains draped across your collarbones. the song is the filthiest one you ever wrote.

gorgeous women with smoky eyes lying across divans and fur rugs. you strut between them. get fed a grape. press a kiss to a girl’s temple. let fingers run over your waist. cameras follow like they’re hungry.

the last scene’s the real killer.

you walk across the room. music loud. lights low. your eyes locked on her. the actress. sitting on the couch. legs spread slightly. smoldering. you’re supposed to straddle her, whisper the lyrics against her mouth, hold her face like she’s the only thing that exists. everything’s perfect.

almost everything.

“i need a second,” the actress mutters. and then she turns green. makeup artists rush. she clutches her stomach, apologizing, eyes glassy, “shit, sorry. something I ate,”

everyone freezes.

the director — a sharp-eyed woman in an oversized blazer and boots — looks around. assesses. calculates. then her gaze lands on the bodyguard.

“you,” she says, pointing at sevika, who’s minding her business near the monitors.

“no,” sevika says it instinctively, immediately.

but it’s too late.

“hair’s perfect. outfit matches. height’s right. you’ll sit. she’ll straddle. no lines. just hands on her thighs. we keep rolling. done.”

“i’m not—” sevika starts, already backing up.

“oh, you’re perfect,” the director says. “don’t move.”

makeup artists start working on her face. she looks very unhappy. you just sit on the edge of a couch, watching this unfold with a little chuckle.

“you good?” you ask when she’s finally dragged into place.

“not the word i’d use.”

you grin, “just hands on my thighs, soldier. you’ll live.”

the camera rolls. the track plays. you walk over, slow and deliberate. she’s sitting on the couch, jaw tight.

you step between her knees. tilt her chin up with two fingers. her eyes meet yours, unreadable. you lower yourself onto her lap, smooth. your knees on either side of her. your hands on her shoulders. her hands, resting on your thighs.

you lean in, lipsinking to the lyrics.

honey, i’d lie if i said i didn’t like it slow

her grip tightens just a little. the camera zooms in. your lips hover over her cheek. her hands are huge and warm and just barely trembling.

you don’t talk after the scene.

the set applauds. someone yells ‘that’s a wrap!’ the director gives you a proud little nod, and sevika disappears somewhere behind the camera with a face that says never speak of this again.

you smile politely. change into your robe. get your makeup retouched. you laugh with the stylist. hug the assistant director. get back to your dressing room. dim lights. lips freshly reapplied.

the door opens and sevika walks in. your bodyguard. your shadow. you look at her through the mirror. she shuts the door behind her like she always does — calm, mechanical. professional.

“are you going to say something?” 

because it looks like she does.

“i didn’t think i needed to,” sevika says. voice low. a little rougher than usual. god, that rasp.

you stand. walk to her slowly and stop right in front of her. your hand lifts, gentle. touches her collarbone. your fingers shake, but not from fear.

you grab her face, crushing your mouth to hers. smearing red across both your lips. oh, she doesn’t hesitate.

her hands land on your waist like they’ve always belonged there. like the scene was nothing compared to this. like she’s been dying to do this. you hope so.

her voice when she pulls back is hoarse, low, wrecked, “that what you wanted?”

you nod. breathe heavy. eyes locked on her mouth.

“yeah.”

you kiss again. slower now. deeper. her fingers flex against your back. she breathes through her nose, jaw tight.

“sit.”

you don’t question it. lean back against the vanity, legs parted just enough for her to step between.

sevika kneels, like it’s instinct. like that’s where she was always meant to be. on the floor, between your thighs, broad shoulders nudging them apart, eyes dark and focused.

“you sure?”

you nod. breathless. aching, really. you need this. need her, “yes.”

she drags your robe open slowly. reverently. eyes on you, never flickering. sevika gazed at the glistening pink folds before her, inhaling the heady scent of your arousal. 

then her mouth is on you. she starts slow and teasing, dragging her tongue along your slit, savouring the taste. her tongue is certainly skilfull. she knows how to treat your pussy just right. eat it all up.

sevika pulls a moan out of you that doesn’t sound like anything you’ve made on stage. pure filth. she smirked against your sex. 

“fuck—” you whisper, head falling back. “don’t stop,” your hands grip the edge of the counter even tighter.

sevika flicked and circled the sensitive nub with the tip of her tongue before sucking even harder on your clit. she gripped your ass, kneading the firm globes.

you come fast and hard — shaking, crying out, one hand pressed to your mouth, the other gripping her shoulder. 

but she doesn’t stop. not until you’re sinking back, boneless, eyes wet, mouth open. but she pulls back eventually, after sucking and slurping as your juices flooded her mouth.

“still want a review of the album?”

you laugh. a soft, broken thing. reach for her.

“get up here.”

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

once it starts, it doesn't stop.

the tour begins three days later.

city to city. lights. cameras. chaos. and in the middle of all that? her.

she's behind you backstage, arms crossed. she's beside you in hotel elevators, expression unreadable. she's outside your green room, earpiece in. professional. composed.

but behind closed doors? she’s everything but. 

you learn her habits. the way she always locks the door. the way her jaw clenches when you press up against her in a hallway. the way she growls when you whisper something filthy in her ear during a meet & greet. 

the first time she fucks you backstage, it's between outfit changes in a dark corridor.

you're still wearing glitter and nothing underneath.

"we don't have time," she mutters.

you pull her hand between your legs, “then you better hurry."

you come against the wall. thighs shaking. lipstick smudged. and she wipes your mouth with her thumb after, then kisses you like it's the last thing she'll ever do.

on a bathroom on the plane, your head hits the mirror. she’s got you pressed up tight, breathing in your ear.

“quiet,” she warns.

you fail.

you both exit fifteen minutes later. the steward looks away with so much awareness.

in paris, she fucks you against the window.

your handprints are on the glass, legs shaking, lips red and bitten. her voice in your ear, all low and commanding, “louder, baby. let the city hear you.”

in rome, she pushes your dress up the second the door shuts. no greeting. no pretense. just you, up on the desk, her mouth on your chest, your heel digging into her back.

“you can’t wait five minutes?”

“i’ve been waiting all day.”

in berlin, you ride her in a five-star hotel bed with floor-to-ceiling windows.

in prague, she bends you over a marble counter with one hand in your hair and the other over your mouth.

in florence, you beg. she loves it.

in vienna, it’s top floor. balcony. 2:13 a.m.

you’re in her lap. you’re in your robe. she’s in nothing but sweats, one hand gripping your thigh, the other lost in your hair.

she groans into your mouth. you bite her lip. her hand slides down.

neither of you noticed the camera flash.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

you find out in the morning.

barefoot, oversized t-shirt (hers), coffee in hand. you scroll through your phone.

until—

“Pop Star Seen Kissing Mystery Woman on Vienna Balcony – Internet Melts Down.”

you freeze. the article is short. the photos.. not so much.

zoomed-in shots from across the street.

your legs on either side of her lap. her hands holding your hips. your mouth on hers. and the headline is everywhere.

gillian walks in — you take her everywhere — sees your face. takes one look at your screen.

“oh fuck,” you don’t respond. just… blink, “does vesper know yet?”

your phone rings. you don’t need to check the ID.

“yes.”

vesper is screaming. very loud.

“you said no windows.”

“i didn’t think anyone would be aiming a telescope at 2 a.m. in fucking vienna!”

“they’re always aiming a telescope at you!” she breathes like she’s pacing, “okay. okay. we have two choices,” she says, “we ignore. ride it out. let the press come up with conspiracies. or we own it. post a statement.“

you rub your eyes.

“this thing… is it serious?” vesper asks. softly, “do i need to prepare for a whole narrative shift?”

you’re quiet. you want to say yes. god, you want to mean it. but you don’t know what she feels. you’ve never asked. you’ve just… touched. kissed. taken. been taken.

“i don’t know,” you admit.

vesper sighs, “okay. well. figure it out. i’m already writing four drafts.”

she hangs up.

so you find sevika outside.

on the hotel balcony. same one. irony’s cute like that. she’s smoking, hair damp. you lean on the doorframe. arms crossed.

“you saw it?” she nods. exhales smoke. doesn’t look at you, “vesper’s spinning.”

“figured.”

you walk closer, “you mad at me?”

“no,” she says, “my boss called. said we crossed a line.”

you sit on the edge of the lounge chair.

voice low, “i didn’t mean for it to get public.”

“i know.”

birds in the distance. wind through the railing.

“i didn’t want you to get in trouble,” you say. “i— i wouldn’t have kissed you like that if i thought—”

“don’t,” she cuts in. gently, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

you stare at your hands, “vesper asked if this is serious,” you say softly, “and i guess… i wanted to ask you the same thing.”

her eyes flick toward you, then away. then she says it. flat. simple.

“it’s a mistake.”

you blink, “excuse me?”

she exhales through her nose. cold. detached. like she’s already made her decision and is just waiting for you to get it.

“you’re a global pop star,” she says. “i’m someone who got assigned to protect you. this—” she gestures vaguely between you “—was a slip. it shouldn’t have happened.”

your chest stings. you try to laugh. it comes out broken.

“you didn’t seem to mind it happening when you were between my fucking legs,” her mouth twitches, but she doesn’t rise to it, “that’s the reason? because i’m me and you’re you?” you snap, mocking. “what the hell does that even mean?”

she looks at you then. expression unreadable. like she’s been expecting this tantrum.

“it means you’re young. famous. emotional. and i’m a former soldier who was hired to keep you breathing,” she says, voice patient in a way that makes your blood boil, “i’m not someone who belongs in your life.”

“don’t talk to me like i’m a child,” you snap.

she raises an eyebrow, “i’m not. but if you don’t understand the problem here, then maybe you are too young.”

your voice rises — sharp now, hurt twisted into rage.

“stop acting like you know me. like you know what i need.”

“i know what this would look like,” she says. “it would look like me using you. sleeping with a client. taking advantage of a girl who can’t see the difference between obsession and affection.”

you stare. you actually laugh. but there’s no humor in it, “you think that’s what this is? obsession?”

she shrugs. stoic. bitter.

“i think it’s not going to last. you’re gonna meet someone your age, someone who doesn’t carry a gun and a file of your emergency escape routes.”

“i’m not sixteen. we’re nine years apart, not nine decades,” you bite.

“nine years is enough.”

“for what? for you to feel like the fucking martyr here? like you’re saving me from some grand tragedy?”

her voice stays calm. 

“i’m protecting both of us.”

“no. you’re running.”

that finally gets her. a muscle jumps in her jaw. she looks away.

you feel your throat burn. you nod. slow. then step back.

“okay.”

you turn on your heel. through the room and out the door.

you don’t look back. you don’t know if you want to cry, scream, or throw something off the damn roof and you don’t know where you’re going — down the stairs, through the hallway, out of the hotel into the cool air of vienna at sunrise. and she follows.

you can hear her boots behind you. always the four steps. you spin around so fast it startles a couple passing by, “are you seriously following me?”

her hands are in her jacket pockets. face unreadable. voice flat.

“making sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

“what am I gonna do? throw myself into the danube over a bad fucking breakup that never even counted?”

she doesn’t answer.

“jesus christ,” you say. “this is humiliating.”

you turn again. walk faster. cross a street. she still follows. you duck into a small park with an old stone fountain in the middle. a few benches. some pigeons. early morning silence.

you sit down hard. she stands a few feet away. watching. silent, “you can go now,” you say, not looking at her.

“no.”

you sigh. this is pathetic. you’re pathetic.

you sit there on that bench in the middle of some quiet vienna park while the sky slowly shifts from dark blue to pale gold. and she finally comes closer. sits next to you.

you can’t look at her. you just can’t. instead, you stare straight ahead. and when you speak, your voice is tight. cracked. real.

“you know what’s funny?” you laugh once, bitter, “you’re the first person in years i’ve wanted to actually talk to,” she doesn’t move, “not just fuck or flirt and forget about it. like.. talk. for hours. about everything. anything. nothing,” you swallow, “the first person i imagined waking up next to, not after something wild in hotel. real mornings. that domestic shit.”

she turns her head toward you. you keep going. eyes still forward. throat aching, like you’re about to cry.

“i’ve had more people tell me they love me than i can count. most of them don’t even know me. and i never cared,” you pause, “but if you ever said it, i think it would ruin me.”

that’s when you finally glance at her. she’s staring at you, her eyes wide. you don’t see it written on her face, but she’s shaking. you reach up. touch her arm.

“maybe you do think it’s a mistake. well, no matter how i’d like it, you don’t have to want me back, of course. i just needed to say it.”

then her mouth opens, like she’s about to speak. but nothing comes out.

you whisper, “sev,”

and suddenly sevika moves. she pulls you into her arms instead of trying to say whatever she wanted to say. you end up curled against her chest, her hand behind your head, holding you there.

you can hear her heartbeat. it’s fast. her hand strokes through your hair. over and over. you feel her arms tighten just a little more.

like maybe that was her answer.

tags: @riotstemple29

[nomoredying]

the voice pt.2

listener!sevika x radio host!reader

tags: concussion recovery, mutual pining, they’re soft a/n: i was not planning on writing part 2 but here we are 🫡 this is much shorter pt 1

the hospital doesn’t smell like antiseptic. it smells like overripe flowers and plastic and air conditioning. not comforting. not awful either. j

sevika asks for your room, flashes her id without really needing to, waits in an elevator that makes a low whining noise the whole way up. she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing here. but she’s here.

room 417. she knocks, once, then pushes the door open slow.

you’re sitting up in bed, one leg under the blanket, one dangling lazily off the side. there’s a small plastic cup of vanilla ice cream in your hand. your hair is a mess. the tv is muted. your eyes, when you see her, your eyes go wide — then confused — then you blink and say, still holding your spoon halfway to your mouth:

“not the way i wanted you to see me again,”

your voice is hoarse, like you’ve been asleep all day. it’s the same voice she’s been hearing for weeks now. not that you know that.

sevika closes the door behind her. steps in.

you tilt your head. “you’re the woman from the restaurant, right? i— did we talk?”

“not really,” sevika says. “you gave me a sketch. with your number,”

that makes you snort — short, amused. “yeah, that sounds like something i’d do,” you put the spoon down. “sorry, i’m a little… scrambled. head’s fuzzy. doctor says mild concussion. mood swings, weird memory gaps, all part of the package,”

“figured,” sevika says, and steps closer. pulls something from her coat pocket. a paper bag. she sets it down on the little table by your bed. then she sits on the chair by the window.

“what’s this?”

“some pastries. nothing special,”

you stare at the bag like it might explode. “you brought me pastries?”

“i didn’t want to show up empty-handed,”

you smile. slow, crooked, a little suspicious. “you didn’t have to show up at all,”

“yeah, well,”

you reach for the bag. pull it open carefully, like it’s a ritual. she watches you. you glance up at her with that same expression — unreadable, but soft.

“i should be weirded out,” you say. “we don’t even know each other,”

“you drew me,” sevika says.

“i draw lots of people.”

“you gave me your number.” she raises an eyebrow.

“i give it to fewer,” you pause,” “so what’s your name?” you ask.

she tells you.

you nod slowly, “sevika,” repeat it just to see how it tastes,” you’re not like i imagined,”

“how’d you imagine me?”

you shrug, wincing slightly. head tilt. “less… visiting-in-hospital-and-bringing-pastries, more… broody and hot serial killer?”

sevika huffs a laugh. “you’re not the first,” 

you look like you want to say something, but frown and rub at your temple.

“ugh. i hate this. sometimes it’s like my thoughts are sticky. like they start, but they don’t finish,” 

she doesn’t say anything.

you look up. suddenly, sharply. “i’m not crazy, okay?”

“i didn’t say that,”

“but you thought it. not everyday you get hit by a car,” you continue, muttering.

“i didn’t,” sevika says, calm. “you’ve been through shit. brain’s still catching up.”

you breathe. slow, “i wasn’t— i’m not supposed to be here. you know? he was moving so fast," you clenched your jaw, “and i saw him. i could have moved away. but i didn’t. i wasn’t in shock, i just—“ your voice cracks on that last part. like it surprises even you.

sevika’s hand twitches, like she wants to reach to hold you, but instead she says, “you’re here now,”

you snort again. watery. “not sure that’s a good thing,”

“i am,”

you glance at her. eyes glossy, brows tight. and something else. shame, because you’re pouring your heart out to someone who was a total stranger an hour ago? but you do that on radio too. to a crowd of strangers. anger, because this woman acts as if she knows you? hope, because you feel like she really does?

but you don’t question it.

you just pick your spoon back up and eat another bite of melted strawberry ice cream like nothing just happened.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

wednesday, 14:00. 

the office looks the same. fake lemon scent, fabric walls, quiet click of a clock that sevika swears is a form of passive torture. she sits on the edge of the couch like usual. arms crossed. face flat.

the therapist — dark cardigan, ankle-length skirt, expression halfway between concern and curiosity — crosses one leg over the other and folds her hands in her lap.

“you’ve been sleeping even better,” she says after a pause.

sevika doesn’t answer.

the therapist continues. “i can see it in your posture,”

“maybe i bought a better mattress,” sevika mutters.

“you didn’t,” a smile, annoyingly gentle. “did someone help?” 

a flicker in sevika’s jaw. “what difference does it make?”

“you’re letting someone in. just a little. it matters,”

“don’t push it,” sevika says flatly.

therapist hums, makes a note. doesn’t press, “who is she?”

“i didn’t say it’s a ‘she’.”

“isn’t it?” silence.

the rest of the session goes as expected — vague non-answers, long pauses, a few accidental admissions. the clock ticks until 14:50.

“you came in here angry at the world. now you’re just irritated with me. it’s an improvement,” therapist says as sevika gets up.

sevika scowls. grabs her jacket and leaves without another word.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

you’re in bed again the next day. not as pale, not as tired. your hair is tied back this time. you’re sketching on the back of some envelope, chewing on a straw.

“you came back,” you say. sevika sits without answering. “should i be flattered?”

you talk for an hour. or maybe more. you tell her about the car. the guy who hit you. how he was drunk and swerving and your brother is handling the legal part, as usual.

that must be the man who picked up the phone the night sevika called you.

you sigh. “he’s good at cleaning up my messes.”

you don’t mean to tell her about the show — but it slips out eventually.

“and there’s this radio thing,” you say, tracing lines on your sketch, “midnight voice. i run it. i mean, ran. taking a break now.”

“really?” she lifts a brow, surprised. pretending to be surprised, to be exactly. 

“what?”

“you don’t strike me as the… dreamy, late-night monologue type,” 

“i like quiet things,” you smile down your paper, hiding your face. you don’t see that she’s smiling too.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

the day of your discharge the room smells like mint and hospital linen. your brother stands by the window, checking emails on his phone.

you’re dressed simple, but much nicer than that ugly hospital gown — jeans, soft sweater, sneakers that still look a little too stiff after weeks in bed. bag already packed.

sevika steps into the room.

your eyes find hers instantly.

your brother lifts his head, sees her, and raises a brow. he turns to you, and you nod, “i’ll give you two a minute,” he says, shutting his laptop with a snap. he walks out, closing the door behind him without comment.

you look at sevika.

“so,” you say. “i’m officially released back into the wild,”

“guess i should warn the city,” she mutters.

you smile. step closer. then closer still.

and kiss her. slowly. no rush. no hesitation.

her hands are on your hips before the second breath. she kisses like someone trying to memorize a language she hasn’t spoken in years.

you pull back eventually. breathless. flushed.

“now that i’m recovered,” you murmur against her mouth, “i’m taking you out,”

she exhales a quiet laugh. eyes half-lidded.

“you’re impossible,” 

you wink at her, take your bag and turn to leave.

then, quietly, almost as an afterthought: “and i know you wrote me that letter.”

sevika doesn’t blink.

tags: @riotstemple29 @possessedmagpie

[nomoredying]

the voice pt.1

listener!sevika x radio host!reader

tags: modern au, veteran!sevika, sevika has ptsd, insomnia, sevika’s perspective, one-sided pining (maybe), open ending  a/n: english is not my first language — please feel free to correct me, thank you. not a lot of interaction between reader and sevika in this one don’t come for me. pt 2

sevika drops her keys into the bowl by the door. they hit too loud. a sharp, clinking sound in the silence. she winces, just barely.

another shitty shift. another overpaid asshole who thinks a private bodyguard is an accessory they can use however they like. 

she shrugs off the jacket, boots next. cracks her neck, rolls her wrist. the place is dim, lived-in, but clean. everything in its place. chores are done like muscle memory. she feeds the sourdough starter. checks if the security camera picked up anything weird. throws a dark load into the wash.

it’s 01:07 when she finally sits down. just sits.

she doesn’t want to look at her phone. doesn’t want a drink. doesn’t want anything.

sleep won’t come. it never does. she doesn’t even try anymore.

“have you ever thought that maybe you don’t want to sleep on a subconscious level?” her therapist said last week, like she knows shit, “the brain resists closing loops it doesn’t trust,”

sevika wanted to laugh in her face. like hell she wants to lie awake until dawn staring at the ceiling.

she only keeps going to that therapy thing because it’s in her contract. graveline security solutions mandates it for field agents with over 6 years on record. mental hygiene or whatever. bullshit.

she shifts on the couch. the silence stretches. the lights from the street bleed in weak and watery through the blinds. and then — her elbow knocks the old radio. just a little nudge, but apparently it’s all that takes to turn it on. static, then music.

low and husky, something dreamy. guitar like honey, drums like heartbeat.

she wants to turn it off, but for some unknown reason, she doesn’t. not just yet.

a female voice comes in. your voice.

soft, just a little sharp around the edges. it feels oddly familiar instead of performative. as if the hostess of this programme sevika is hearing for the first time is not a hostess of any programme but just an old friend one’d have a deep talk in the middle of the night during your camp. 

this is something i wrote only recently when i was thinking about silence. don’t you think it’s often waiting, rather than empty? 

the voice says. then music again.

sevika blinks and leans back slowly, letting the song fill up the space around her. 

she doesn’t mean to listen to the whole thing, but she does. she doesn’t know when it started, but it ended at 02:00.

you read letters, tell small stories, pause often like you’re checking if whoever is listening to you is still there.

if you’re still awake, i hope you sleep well when it comes. and if it doesn’t — you’re not alone. this was midnight voice. goodnight. 

then silence. 

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

it starts again the next night. around midnight.

she doesn’t think about it too much — just comes home, throws her bag somewhere, peels off the layers of another long day. the same old ghost chewing on her spine.

and then she turns on the radio.

walks around the apartment, lights a cigar, window cracked just barely open.

tonight’s air feels heavier, doesn’t it? not in a bad way, just.. full. that’s good. we don’t always have to be light.

your voice. same gentle, slightly hoarse tone, like you’ve been whispering all evening. like you’re not talking to a crowd — just to someone.

sevika exhales smoke slowly. watches it curl toward the ceiling.

she doesn’t mean to stay again. but by the time the hostess says “sleep well, wherever you are”, sevika’s leaning back in her chair, legs stretched, half-lidded eyes, cigar long dead in the tray.

another night sevika is eating too late — steak she didn’t finish from lunch, cold, directly from the pan. radio’s already on when she sits down.

i got a letter from a trucker today. said he only catches this show when he’s stuck on the road overnight. he called this program a lighthouse. i liked that.

sevika’s chewing slows. she looks at the radio like it might look back.

a lighthouse, huh? a bit dramatic, maybe. but hell — she’s slept three nights in a row now. a full night sleep without any nightmares. that hasn’t happened in years. 

she might be reading when the radio’s on at that time. or trying to. the words blur sometimes. doesn’t matter. the voice helps. she doesn’t even notice when the book slips out of her hand. just wakes up at 6:12am, blanket pulled over her somehow.

by the end of the week, sevika is counting down to midnight. not out loud. not even consciously. but she’s waiting.

23:50 — she paces.

23:57 — she brushes her teeth, takes off all extra clothes.

00:00 — she turns on the radio.

hi. if you’re still awake.. i’m glad we’re here again.

yeah.

me too. 

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

the therapist’s office smells like artificial citrus and beige carpet. sevika stares at the wall clock. the constant tick-tacks annoy her.

“how is your sleep lately?” her therapist, a woman probably around her age, who looks like she owns a library and three cats, says.

sevika shrugs. “fine,”

“fine, as in?” 

“i’m sleeping. through the night,”

that gets her a look. 

“interesting,” therapist’s face is thoughtful, “did you find a hobby? something relaxing before bed?” she asks, curious if sevika indeed listened to her words and didn’t brush them all off.

sevika exhales through her nose.

“there’s this radio show,” she finally says reluctantly, as if the late-night program was a secret only her and the voice shared.

“radio?”

“midnight to two. some woman talks. plays music,” 

therapist nods, starts scribbling.

“and it helps?”

“i guess. i don’t dream,”

“that sounds like progress,”

sevika rolls her eyes, but doesn’t argue.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

at work, someone notices. unfortunately, it’s jinx, the owner’s wild-ass daughter who was somehow given a desk and a badge. everyone knew she was a troublemaker and she also annoyed the fuck out of sevika.

she follows sevika into the breakroom, grinning like a raccoon on acid. sevika wouldn’t be surprised if that were to be true.

“you’re too quiet,” jinx says, narrowing her eyes. she studies sevika’s face, searching for some signs that it’s an alien who murdered sevika and took her face.

sevika looks up.

the girl continues, “in a less scary ogre way, you know? did you kill someone or get laid?”

“get out of my face,” sevika glares.

jinx throws her hands up, “so it was getting laid. i knew it!” but before the woman starts threatening her, she adds, “alright, jeez. but tell your mystery woman she’s doing the world a service,” she skips out.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

by the way, let me remind you that we have an inbox, in case you ever feel like talking. well, writing. it’s open. no pressure.

that night, sevika doesn’t think about it much.

she’s never written a letter. not really. doesn’t see the point. let people write their little poems or confessions, whatever keeps them breathing.

she’s not that kind of person.

yet the next morning, she opens her laptop.

hands hover above the keys.

she types.

you said silence isn’t always empty. sometimes mine is just fucking loud

stares. backspace.

you talk like you know people. you don’t. not really

delete. pause. try again.

i don’t sleep. i do now. it’s your fa—

ugh. what is she, seventeen?

with an irritated grunt, she slams the laptop shut and goes to shower. forgets about the whole thing.

later that evening, sevika gets pulled into a fancy dinner. some celebration. new contract, big client, who knows. silco insisted she at least shows her face.

she walks in dressed better than usual — slacks, black blazer, dark button-up. doesn’t like crowds, but knows how to move through them.

a hostess greets her near the entrance. and a woman next to her says something that doesn’t matter, because sevika hears the voice, not the words. 

she blinks. 

that voice. could it be? is it really you? 

no. it’s not. similar, sure, but it’s a crowded place, lots of chatter. maybe her brain’s playing tricks. she follows the hostess through the restaurant, barely registers the rest. her mind still wraps itself around that tone.

at the table, everyone’s already talking — loud, laughing, drinks clinking. she doesn’t join them. 

her eyes scan the place looking for something far more interesting.

and there she is. that woman, moving quickly from place to place. behind the bar, then helping a waiter balance plates, then checking on another table with a glowing grin.

she is graceful in her chaos. not just pretty — bright. the kind of energy that turns heads without trying.

no.

not you.

the voice is soft, late-night kind of soft. tired warmth. this woman is laughing, waving across the room. she’s the type to sleep in someone’s arms having sweet dreams, not hosting a late radio show.

but then she says something, quick and familiar, to a customer. a specific, odd little thing.

one sevika  remembers hearing last week, around 01:45 a.m., wrapped in some rambling story about voice’s favorite café.

my grandma once told me i’d be a great bookworm. not people in glasses and sweaters, but the actual worm in a book.

she looks up.

you said it. right now. same tone.

it is you.

you — the late-night voice that coaxes her to sleep like a lullaby. you — the one she imagined curled up with a notebook and tea.

quiet. maybe shy. maybe a little lonely.

not this. not radiant, multitasking, command-the-room you. and yet, it clicks. somewhere in her chest. a strange kind of awe.

and… something else.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

it’s not even noon.

sevika doesn’t go to restaurants to just have a breakfast. especially that her breakfast is only coffee most of the time. but here she is, short hair still damp from the shower.

the restaurant looks completely different during the day. quiet. gentle music playing. the sunlight spills over the tables like something out of a damn commercial. books, plants all around the place. cozy.  she picks a spot near the window. asks for coffee and whatever’s good. doesn’t look around too much. tries not to, anyway.

the waiter brings her food, and sevika asks.

“yep, that’s our manager. she’s in today,”

she nods. the voice in her head doesn’t match the image in front of her. but it does. like two puzzle pieces she didn’t think would fit, now clicking into place with disturbing clarity.

you’re at the other end of the room, laughing about something with a barista. but you glance her way. of course you do. he told you. stupid bastard.

your eyes catch hers very briefly.

she looks down. sips her coffee like it might save her life. checks her phone, scrolls. pretends to be busy and unbothered and indifferent and not the person that asked about the manager.

maybe twenty minutes pass when you disappeared into the back for a bit. she finishes half her plate, then just… picks at it, like waiting for something.

and this something happens because then she sees you walking toward her.

a small piece of paper in hand. you’re smiling. god, you’re glowing, it’s ridiculous. she hates it. no, she doesn’t.

“hi,” you stop next to her table.

she looks up.

you slide the paper across to her. a clean, fast sketch — her, sitting right where she is, chin resting on one hand, eyes distant. and underneath: i love your eyes. you look like someone who has a beautiful smile. and your number, scrawled at the bottom. 

and then you just walk away.

sevika stares at the sketch for a while. then folds it carefully, like something fragile. puts it in her jacket pocket.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

to: midnightvoice87@radiofm.com

subject: (none)

i want to know if saying it out loud — or writing, whatever — makes it less real.  i was in a war. not the kind that gets monuments or medals. the kind you crawl out of and no one cares that you did. the dreams are fucked. they have a fancy name for it. sometimes they’re not even dreams. just scenes, stuck on repeat. buildings, blood, the smell of heat and sweat. i haven’t slept right in years because of them. therapist call it hypervigilance. i call it what it is: not trusting the world or myself enough to close my eyes at night. but your voice cuts through that. you speak like the night is not hollow. i sleep now. not all nights, but i do. that’s fucked up and amazing. it matters. i saw you, by the way. at the restaurant. you were brighter than i expected. 

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

you didn’t read her letter that night. you didn’t say her name. and fuck, she’s glad you didn’t share it. it wasn’t for everyone. it was for your and your eyes only. the way you said:

this next track is for anyone who’s been up at 3AM wondering if it’ll ever feel okay again. i don’t have answers. but I’ll stay up with you.

was enough.

sevika doesn’t text or call. but the number you gave her still lives in her pocket, folded up like a secret.

maybe someday. maybe next week.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

it’s thursday. 23:59. radio already on. like always. but then —

a click. different intro music. a man’s voice?

good evening, this is ‘night drift’ with miles. thanks for joining me.

sevika frowns and waits. ten minutes in, she’s still waiting. at 00:17, she grabs her phone, calls the number on that drawing.

three rings. someone picks up. not you.

“hello?” male. quiet. sounds like he’s not sure whether to pick up or let it go, “hi? are you a friend?” he sighs, tired but soft.

“something like that,” sevika’s voice comes out lower than usual.

he paused, “she’s in the hospital. got hit by a car. not awake yet,”

everything in sevika goes still. she doesn’t hear anything he says before he asks about telling you about the call when you wake up, and, “don’t,” slips out too fast out of her mouth.

“alright,” he says eventually, “are you sure?”

“yeah,”

“okay. good night,”

call ends.

she lowers the phone. the apartment is too quiet. annoyingly quiet. 

she sits there, phone resting in her palm.

for the first time in years — her chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with war, or blood, or fear.

just you.

tags: @riotstemple29

[nomoredying]

saturdays

sevika x reader

tags: modern au, explicit sexual content (fingering, use of strap-on, oral sex, pegging), dirty talking, bratty reader, hurt/comfort, a little angsty maybe, is it still a slow burn if they have sex on the first day, reader has Issues™, sevika is such a softie, emotional vulnerability  a/n: english is not my first language — please feel free to correct me, thank you

it started simple.

it’s saturday. you just moved in to place of your dreams — see, mom, working in a film industry is not a total bullshit — and found a bar not that far away. just what you needed after another day around annoying agents and celebrities who think you owe them.

you sit at the bar counter and order your usual whiskey with ice, when you hear laughter coming from one of the tables. you turn just out of curiosity and see a woman, possibly in her early forties, smoking a cigar playing cards with her friends, buddies or whatever they call each other. and winning, seems like it.

“rotten luck, boys,” you hear her deep voice saying, as she leans against her seat. your eyes meet.

you turn away. not surprisingly so, a moment later she appears sitting beside you and ordering whatever you’re drinking.

“please, don’t start with i haven’t seen you here before," you say, eyes up at her now that you can finally get a closer look.

her grey eyes are surprisingly expressive. you like them. in fact, you like everything about her — at least about how she looks — and you don’t hide it. neither does she.

“but i haven’t, have i?” she raises an eyebrow. you introduce yourself, “sevika,” sevika says back.

“sevika. is that hindi?”

she nods, her lips curling up in a slight grin.

“how much did you win today, sevika?” 

“enough for me to pay for you and for them,” the older woman gives you a simple reply, 

that makes you chuckle. “you’re so generous,” you say in a mocking, seductive voice, after taking another sip.

“and you’re a brat,” sevika says, narrowing her eyes, tapping the cigar against an ashtray.

you don’t disagree. “do you know of any hotels nearby, sevika?” 

she smirks. 

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

as soon as the door closes behind you, you find yourself pressed against it.

sevika doesn’t kiss you gently — she kisses as if she’s been starving in a desert and you’re both her first sip of water and first meal. her tongue against yours, rough and wet.

you don’t pull away until you need to grasp for breath. “the bed is not that far,” you tease.

you knew her hands were strong by the way she held your hips but when she lifts you to throw you on the bed, that’s when you know it for sure. 

she has to physically restrain herself from licking her lips like an actual hungry animal when she looks at you spread on the bed underneath her. 

you don’t even have time to say something before she pulls down your trousers and then unbuttons your shirt, tossing them both somewhere aside. at the moment it’s the last thing you care about. 

“enjoying the view?” you ask, when sevika stares at you in your pretty underwear set which you only wore today because you felt like wearing it, but you guess that god works in mysterious ways.

“aren’t i lucky to notice you first,” she muttered, her voice hoarse, and she leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss once more. 

while she does, your fingers deftly help her get rid of her tank top (the jacket was lost somewhere on the way to the bed). she’s not wearing any bra. your hand eagerly reaches to caress one of her bare breasts. she bites your lower lip. 

as soon as her mouth shifts from your lips to the rest of your face and then your neck, you instinctively bite your lips, but sevika doesn’t approve.

“if you stop yourself from making noises, i’ll stop too,” she warns you, and you let out a hoarse chuckle.

“bossy,” 

the older woman’s hand slides down your stomach, “spread your legs,” she says, and when you do, she grins, smug and mocking. “you’re already soaked and all i’ve done is kiss you. is this why you came to that bar? to let someone take care of your greedy cunt?” 

when you don’t answer, her hand applies slight pressure. a warning.

“answer me,”  her raspy voice sends shivers down your spine.

a breathy sigh comes out of your mouth when you admit, “yes,”

you came to relax. you haven’t done it in a while. with the help of a drink, sex or both, doesn’t really matter.

you find your back arching, grinding against her hand. just to feel more. needy. oh, you’re so needy and she knows it.

“sevika,” you say.

“yes?” 

“be a big girl and fuck me already,” you practically demand it now. she can’t help but laugh.

how can she resist such a straightforward, sweet demand? 

her hand finally pulls down your panties and her fingers circulate around your clit, rubbing it hard enough to get a gasp from you. her second hand comes up to play with your nipples.

then, with no hesitation, her two fingers entered you and you almost yelp, your hands griping the sheets. 

at first, sevika doesn’t rush, “feels good?” you mumble something unintelligible and the older woman takes that as a yes. 

her pace quickens, and she adds another finger, stretching you out even more.

“fuck. fuck,” you moan, and she smirks.

“that’s what you asked, isn’t it? no, eyes up,” sevika says when your eyes look somewhere in the void.

her fingers move in a pulsing motion, turning you into nothing but a flustered mess with only one thing in her mind.

when you reach the climax, they’re still deep inside you. she fucks you through your orgasm and then falls beside you on bed. 

you let yourself lie there for five minutes or so before you sit up and move so now she’s the one pressed against the bed. your cunt is not that greedy. 

“what are you doing?”

“returning you the favor, of course,”

she lifts her hips, helping you to take off her trousers. you start by leaving a trail of wet kisses. on her neck, collarbone, chest, — especially chest, biting and kissing it, playing with nipples (you have your favourites) — and stomach. your hands go up to clutch both of her hips. you nip and kiss her inner thighs, teasing her. 

“don’t play with me,” sevika grumbled, clearly unamused.

“if you ask nicely—“ you start, but her hand grips your hair, guiding your head now where she wants it most.

you roll your eyes. your tongue finally meets the throbbing heat of the older woman’s cunt when you rid her of her last article of clothing. sevika presses your face against it even harder.

you eat her whole in the earnest. sucking. nipping. your tongue runs across her pussy. you look up at her through your half-lidded eyes only to see how she looks like when you pleasure her. 

sevika’s trembling. you can feel that she’s close. 

she lets your hair go as she explodes. groaning low, chest rising.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢ 

an exact week later at approximately same time you’re sitting at the bar counter in that very bar and she is gambling on the same place with same guys. or not, their faces are a blur to you. don’t have to be a genius to guess how the night ended?

and the next week after that too. 

on the fourth night that you two spend together, you bothered to ask where she works. 

“zaun corporations,” sevika replies. she exhaled, putting her cigar out.

the company is big enough for you to know about it, so you raise your eyebrows in appraisal.

“well, aren’t you a careerist?” you watch her, still lying on your back, “what do you do?”

“stuff that gives you a headache. coo,” she shrugged carelessly, turning to you, “what about you?”

you smile lazily, “i work in a film industry,” 

most of the time people start chuckling, — that’s nice, sweetie! — in that condescending voice, asking what type of movies do you do or where they could have seen you. 

“what, an actress?” 

you look at her with feigned offense, “what, aren’t i pretty enough?” 

“you’re pretty alright. you know that. what i meant was that you don’t seem the type—,” sevika paused, choosing her words.

“to ham it up in front of the camera?” she nods, “well, that’s because i’m not. i’m a creative producer,” although you would like to add that actors don’t just ham it up in front of the camera, as you just said, you don’t. it would turn into you yapping about creativity, ideas. and you don’t need to bore your sex partner into death.

sex partner? is that what you are? you’re not so sure. you decide that there is no need for any labels because it doesn’t matter.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢ 

at some point you get tired of going into the bar every time when they don’t have anything you actually want in their menu. you exchange your contacts so that you can meet in the hotel room itself. 

[sevika] are you coming? she texts you in the evening of a saturday.

i’m already at the hotel. they have a great driving range. come. [you] you reply. she rolls her eyes, but you don’t know that.

sevika asks a worker about the golf course. walks. sees you, standing on the line with a golf club in her hands. approaches.

“do you find this entertaining?” 

you squint your eyes, watching the ball fly. 

“i like hitting things. i play tennis too,” you turn and hand her the golf club, “your turn,”

sevika takes it reluctantly and hits the ball. hard.

“you’ve got a great hands,” you take the turn, and your fingers brush against hers as she passes you the club. deliberate, lingering.

“you would know,” she says, her tone casual. but sevika’s already pulling the club back, and you stumble forward a half-step, laughter catching in your throat. the distance between them collapses.  

your lips meet not quite by accident. the taste of tobacco from her smoking, something sweet beneath. the club drops into the grass, forgotten.

sevika’s hands finally settle, fingers curling into the fabric of your polo shirt, pulling you even closer.

you finally part. sevika’s thumb swipes at the smudge of light lipstick now staining the corner of the your mouth. you’re a mess.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢ 

you close your eyes. hot steam of water falls down your bare body. you can’t stand warm or cold showers — you need it to be boiling hot. which is unhealthy and you know it, but it’s so addicting you can’t stop. or maybe you can’t stop because you intentionally cause yourself harm, but you wouldn’t go that far with digging into it.

it’s saturday and you’re in hotel room again.

this particular day of the week became your favourite soon enough. before it was tuesday you waited for due to the fact that it was the day the new episodes of your favourite show came out, but now that it’s over you had to find something new to feel good about, right?

sevika makes breathing — which is something humans do automatically — easier. being alive easier. you find something about her presence, raspy voice and smug grin calming. probably the sex part.

of course, it’s the sex. she’s good in bed. if that were her allegations and you would have to be the lawyer defending her, you wouldn’t even bother yourself. 

finally, you came out of the shower in a velvety bathrobe (one of many reasons you stayed loyal to this hotel).

she’s standing with her back to you.

“sevika, did you know that—“ you’re sure you wanted to tell her something, but now that you’ve seen itit doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

it is a strap-on that she wore on her thighs, adjustable by harnesses. you knew the older woman liked wearing belts, but this is your first time seeing this one. it’s not that you never saw dildos before, you have. this one is just.. slightly bigger. 

“wanna try it?” she looked like a little preteen, showing you their new toy. well, it is a toy. fair enough.

yes.

instead of answering, you let your robe fall on the floor. sevika grinned, amused.

“lay down,” she said, gesturing at the bed. you did, but she shook her head. meaning — on your stomach, not your back. you narrow your eyes, but obey. 

soon enough sevika looms behind you.the lube is already in her hands, and she lavishes it all over your hole with her thick fingers. 

“you’re already dripping just at the thought of me pegging you, aren’t you?”

“do you want me to say yes, mommy?” you mock her, and her free hand pulls your hair back. you lips part.

“such a brat,” sevika sighs, as if she’s not enjoying this, “say it. what do you want, hm-m?” 

“sevika,” you start, but she doesn’t let you finish, stopping you with another tug. 

“do you want me to fuck you in the ass?” sevika helps you with your answer.

you murmur something unintelligible. that’s not what she’s looking for. you know it.

“say it,” she insists. strap-on becomes more tangible.

“i want you to fuck me in the ass,” you finally say it. no reason to be ashamed, the only thing stopping you was her arrogant smirk her lips curled in. 

you can’t see it, but you can feel it in her voice as she speaks, “good girl,” 

letting go of your hair, her calloused hands slide possessively over the curve of your bare ass, fingertips tracing the flushed skin before pressing just enough to make you shiver. the cold, slick silicone of the strap nudged against your hole, glistening with the lube, teasing before she pushed in with one brutal, delicious slide — stretching you open, forcing a ragged gasp from your lips as your spine arched off the mattress. 

"fuck—,” sevika growled, her voice rough with want, her hips snapping forward to bury the dildo to the hilt in one smooth stroke. your fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles white, as she didn’t give you a second to adjust, already pulling back only to slam in again, the thick ridge of the toy dragging against your walls in a way that made your thighs tremble.

you groaned, your ass jiggling with each thrust, the obscene slap of skin on skin filling the room. sevika’s free hand fisted in your hair once again, wrenching your head back so you could feel her breath hot against your ear. "you’re so good. taking everything i’m giving you," she punctuated the words with a sharp grind. you whined, your hips canting back desperately.

her chuckle was hoarse, filled with lust as her fingers dug into your thighs, controlling your movements as she fucked into you harder, faster — the pace relentless, the bedframe rattling with every brutal snap of her pelvis.

then she pulled out, flipping you onto your back, your legs hooked over her shoulders before you could say anything. the head of the dildo pressed against your soaked cunt this time, her smirk wild as she watched your face. 

“i want to know how loud you can really scream when I fill this tight little pussy instead."

you didn’t bother yourself with trying to give an answer. she slammed into you, your slick walls clamping around the intrusion as a broken cry tore from your throat. her hips rolled in slow, deliberate circles, grinding the strap deep inside you, the stretch burning in the sweetest way.

"fuck, look at you," she snarled, her metal hand tracing the outline of the dildo pushing up against your stomach, her other hand pinching your nipple hard enough to make you jerk. "all stuffed full, twitching around me like a desperate slut."

“sevika,” your orgasm crashing hard, your walls fluttering around the strap as you came with a shuddering whimper.

she leaned down, her lips brushing against yours in a maddening kiss.

“let’s see if we can make you come again before I’m done with you,”

⚢ ⚢ ⚢ 

it’s raining.

you sit on the floor of your bathroom, in some tank top and shorts, damp hair sticking to your cheeks, your back against cold tiles. you don’t remember how you ended up here — you were brushing your teeth, maybe? maybe not. who cares.

something happened. nothing serious, not to the outside world at least. a passive-aggressive email, someone raising their voice during your sixth meeting this morning, an overdue call from your mother with one of those phrases that always leave a scar no matter how many times you’ve heard them.

it happens, it always happened and it will happen. never bothered you before. you thought you were fine. then you weren’t.

you tried breathing. drinking water. pacing around the apartment, opening windows, shutting them. screaming into a pillow. didn’t help.

you need to talk. you need someone to talk to. not someone who’ll coo into the phone and tell you you’re strong. not someone who’ll pity you or try to fix it. you just need to not be alone in your head for one fucking second.

you open your phone, scroll through contacts. you hesitate at a few names. delete one. almost call another.

then, without thinking, you click call.

“…hello?”

her voice is husky from sleep, low and raspy. you glance at the time. 2:41 AM. of course it is. you’re surprised she answered.

you don’t say anything at first. your throat is tight, aching from trying not to cry, but sevika hears your breath. 

“why are you calling me?”

not what’s wrong, not are you okay — just why are you calling me? blunt and steady. exactly what you need.

“i didn’t know who else to call,” you whisper, your voice cracking like cheap glass.

you hear the rustle of bedsheets on her end. “you don’t have to explain,” she says. she’s more awake now. “you want me to come? just send the address,” 

you squeeze your eyes shut, tears slipping out anyway. “no. no, just— just stay on the line, okay?”

“i’m here.”

you don’t say anything for a moment. your breathing is shallow, hiccupy.

“i’m losing it,” you admit. “i’m losing it and i don’t even know why. nothing happened. or maybe everything happened. i just— i don’t know how to be anymore. i’m tired all the time and when i’m not tired i’m angry and when i’m not angry i’m empty and i feel like i’m screaming underwater and no one can hear me and—”

“breathe.”

you do. slowly. shakily.

“again.”

you obey.

“good.”

you let your head fall back against the tile. “sorry.”

“don’t be,” sevika replies immediately. “you don’t have to make sense right now.”

it’s quiet for a beat. just the sound of rain hitting your window and her steady breath in your ear.

“you know, when i was twenty-six,” she starts, and her tone is calm like smoke curling in a cold room, “i broke a guy’s nose just because he called me a disappointment. i mean, he was my father, but still.”

you let out a breath — half-sob, half-laugh.

“i didn’t even feel better after that,” she continues. “just sat on the curb after and smoked. my hand was shaking so bad i dropped the lighter three times.”

“you’re telling me this to make me feel better?”

“no. i’m telling you this so you know you’re not the only one who falls apart sometimes. we all do. some of us just pretend better.”

you pull your knees to your chest. your voice is small when you say, “i don’t think i’m pretending well anymore.”

“then don’t,” Sevika says. “take the night off,”

the silence that follows feels different now. not so crushing. not so alone.

you sniff. “are you always this good at late-night phone therapy?”

“i’m usually better with my hands,” she mutters, dry. you hear the faint clink of a lighter. “but i manage.”

“thank you.”

“don’t mention it.”

“no, i mean— really. i didn’t want someone to coddle me. i just needed someone who… wouldn’t freak out. and you didn’t.”

“i’m not the freaking out type,” sevika says, taking a drag. 

“i know,” you lean your forehead to your knees. exhale. the tile isn’t so cold now. maybe your body’s just going numb. “can we just… stay like this? for a while?”

“i’m not going anywhere.”

you don’t talk for a long time. sometimes you hear her smoke. sometimes she hears you breathe. once, she says something about needing to clean her balcony. you tell her you bought overpriced grapes that don’t even taste good. you argue over whether they’re red or purple.

your chest still hurts. but less.

you talk until the sky starts turning blue.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢ 

you didn’t mean for it to turn into this.

it was supposed to be simple. one night — well, maybe two, three, four — just sex. good sex. sure, really good sex. and then you started talking. really talking. not the lazy banter between orgasms, but the type of talking that leaves your chest all too soft. raw.

she could’ve ignored the call. just blocked your number after. she didn’t. instead, she chose to be on the other end of the line when you were a mess on your bathroom floor. why? you don’t know.

but you know that something’s changed.

you feel it in the silence between her sentences. in the way your fingers hover too long over the screen before typing something stupid like what kind of coffee do you drink anyway. in the way you catch yourself replaying her laugh — the real one, not the sarcastic snort — in your head, like a favorite scene from a film you don’t want to end.

you text her.

are you busy tonight? [you]

[sevika] tonight’s not saturday.

you roll your eyes so hard you nearly see your brain. shame she can’t witness it.

thanks, calendar app. i’m cooking. come by if you want [you]

a beat. then another.

or don’t. i’ll just eat my culinary masterpiece alone [you]

the typing bubble appears. vanishes. appears again.

[sevika] text me the address

you do.

and just like that, you’re setting the table in your penthouse. the one you dreamed of when you were a broke, wide-eyed assistant fetching oat milk lattes for directors who didn’t know your name. now your place looks like a walking moodboard. framed movie posters lining the walls, warm lighting, tall windows. a kitchen you barely use but pretend to know your way around.

you did cook. sort of. technically. with help. fine, you ordered from a semi-obscure place and transferred the food to your own plates and pans. your hands did something.

when the doorbell rings, your stomach flips. you curse yourself for that quietly before answering.

sevika’s there, wearing what they call an effortless outfit — leather jacket, plain tee, that smug little expression she always brings like a plus-one.

“so,” she says, stepping inside, surveying the apartment, “you really leaned into the whole ‘i work in film’ thing, huh? what’s next, an oscar in the bathroom?”

“shut up,” you grin, “those are tasteful posters.”

she smirks and shrugs her jacket off, hanging it on the back of a chair. “sure, sure. very tasteful. and the table setting? what’s this, a date?”

you don’t answer that. instead, you motion for her to sit.

“i cooked,” you lie, serving with flair.

sevika raises an eyebrow. “really?” she picks up a fork, inspects the dish. “this smells suspiciously professional. no offense.”

“i’ll take none, because you’re right. i ordered it. but i plated it myself.”

“you shouldn’t have,” she deadpans. “i love lies with my dinner.”

you both laugh, and suddenly it’s easier.

you eat. you talk.

not just what do you do or what’s your star sign or how do you like your eggs in the morning. it’s more real. more layered. like the parts of her that don’t come out during sex. the parts she keeps close to her chest. although you do like your eggs in a oddly specific way, but you decide you’re not that close for that level of deep talk.

you learn she has a niece. doesn’t see her often. “family stuff,” she says, and you don’t push.

you learn she listens to old records when she’s stressed. mostly rock. sometimes jazz.

you learn she used to fight a lot when she was younger. “i still do,” sevika admits, “just more metaphorically now,”

and you’re asking these things because… you want to know. not because you’re trying to get close — whatever that means — but because you already feel like you are.

you’re not friends. not lovers. not a one-night thing. not a thing at all. and yet, here she is, sipping your wine, making fun of your poster of the incredible shrinking man, telling you about the scar on her wrist from a kitchen accident no one ever asks about.

and you listen. all of it.

something warm blooms in your chest, unsettling in the best way.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢ 

“and then he just— died. mid-scene. the actor didn’t know what to do, he just kept monologuing like a lunatic. it was kind of beautiful, though. tragic, but beautiful,”

you’re perched on the kitchen island, legs swinging, a glass of wine in one hand, fork in the other. sevika’s standing near the open window, smoke curling from her lips.

“so what’s the title?” she asks.

you pause. “the ashtray fell first. working title. you don’t like it?”

“bit pretentious,” she smirks.

“bit accurate,”

sevika steps closer. “you really think death mid-monologue’s a metaphor no one’s used yet?”

“says the woman who quotes bukowski unironically,”

that earns you a curl of her lip. then a long inhale. she walks up, and as she exhales, she deliberately blows the smoke into your face. you hate that. she knows it.

you recoil. “you’re a dick,”

“yeah,” she says, already leaning in, lips brushing against yours, “so what?”

you kiss her back. it’s hot and lazy and perfect, her hands spreading over your hips, sliding under your shirt. you drown in this heat until a vibration on the counter buzzes right through your spine.

your phone. you don’t even get a chance to check it. sevika’s hand reaches out and flips the screen down, silencing it.

“rude,” you murmur between kisses.

“not really,” she replies, kissing down your neck, “just considerate,”

what follows is the usual. sharp breaths, gasps, tangled limbs. she fucks you with her hand again, and your thighs are still trembling when she finally falls beside you on the bed.

your phone buzzes. again. you groan. sevika turns her head lazily to glance at the screen. her face unreadable.

“that same number tried calling before,” she mutters, voice low.

you freeze for a moment. sigh. reach for the phone. “it’s— whatever,” you wave it off.

sevika raises an eyebrow.

you answer, when it doesn’t stop buzzing, “hey,” your voice drops into a slightly strained politeness.

you roll onto your side, back to sevika, as the voice on the other end starts talking. she can’t hear all the words, just enough to get the tone: familiarity. a kind of old, strange closeness.

“no. yeah, i got your message, i just didn’t have time— no, i’m not ignoring you, i’ve been working. some of us do that full-time.” you force a laugh. fake. “what do you want?”

sevika watches. silent. her metal fingers curled slightly, the light from your bedside lamp catching the dull sheen of steel.

you finally hang up and sigh, tossing the phone aside. “ex,” you say, sitting up a little. “she’s directing some indie mess and wants me to help with post. she’s out of budget and out of her mind,” 

sevika’s voice is flat. “and you’re thinking about it.”

you shrug. “i could. it’s not the worst offer.”

she scoffs, reaches for her cigar pack “sure. sounds great. help out the woman who once said your ideas were ‘too commercial to matter.’”

you look at her. “you remember that?” the older woman doesn’t answer. you pull your shirt back over your head, irritation growing like static in your jaw. “it’s just business,”

“is it?”

you snap. “yes, sevika, it is. not everything’s about feelings, or grudges, or— whatever it is you’re doing right now.”

she leans forward, lighting the cigar. doesn’t meet your eyes. “i’m not doing anything,”

“oh really? so this isn’t about the fact that my ex just called me and asked for a professional favor, and i didn’t immediately throw my phone out the window like it’s a plague?”

sevika finally looks at you, sharp. “you think i’m jealous?”

“aren’t you?”

her silence says everything.

“well,” you huff, crossing your arms. “you don’t get to be,”

her jaw clenches. “and why the fuck not?”

“because i told you. i don’t want any labels and everything that comes with them,”

it’s quiet. then sevika stands. pulls her jacket off the chair.

your chest tightens. “seriously?”

she doesn’t answer. just slips her arms into the sleeves.

you stand too. “you’re leaving?”

“you said it yourself. this isn’t about feelings. so what’s the point of staying?”

“don’t twist my words,”

“i’m not,” she says, walking to the door. “you made yourself clear,”

“i didn’t mean it like that,”

sevika pauses with her hand on the doorknob.

“then figure out what you do mean. because right now it sounds like you want to keep me at arm’s length until it’s convenient to let me in.”

she doesn’t slam the door. doesn’t yell. just leaves.

and you’re left in your too-big penthouse, with the flickering silence and the leftover scent of smoke and sex and something else, something you can’t name — something that had the chance to become real, and slipped right out your door.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢ 

it’s been three weeks. twenty days, technically, if you count like a lunatic. which, at this point, you do.

you haven’t seen her. haven’t texted. haven’t gone to the bar. but you’ve thought. obsessively. rewrote the last night in your head, again and again. your words and your pride. 

and still, you didn’t move. until tonight.

you don’t know what snapped. maybe it was the silence, maybe the half-drunk glass of wine, maybe the storm outside your window. but suddenly you’re putting on shoes with shaking hands and grabbing a jacket and searching for the address you swore you deleted but didn’t. of course you didn’t.

the drive is messy. you get lost once. the rain smears across your windshield like a cliché. your hair sticks to your forehead. you ring the bell. once. twice.

the door opens.

sevika’s standing there in sweatpants and a faded shirt, no bra, cigar still lit between two fingers. her hair’s tied back, damp at the ends. eyes dark.

she stares at you. you stare back. soaked. “i—” you start.

“get in,” she says quietly. not kindly. not unkindly either. just… inevitably.

you step inside. warm air hits your face. the place smells like ash and tea. she disappears into another room, returns with a towel and hands it to you without a word.

you wipe your face. your shoulders. she sets a mug on the coffee table. sits across from you. the tea smells like chamomile. you take a sip, warming your hands as you hold the cup.

“i’ve been thinking,”

sevika raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t interrupt.

“about us. if that’s even a word i get to use.” you take a breath. your heart’s pounding. “look. i’m a rational person. i overthink everything. i dissect my own feelings before i even feel them. and i told myself that what we had was sex. and then it became something else. and i didn’t know what to do with that,”

the older woman says nothing. just smokes. watching you.

“i thought you didn’t want anything serious. you don’t act like someone who wants it. you keep people away,”

“and you don’t?” sevika mutters, low.

you smile, bitter. “i do it differently. i make sure everyone thinks i’m too busy, too cool, too whatever to need anyone. i play the part,”

you swallow.

“i had this girlfriend. years ago. the director. you remember,” a dry laugh slips out. “she told me i was too much. said i made her feel like she couldn’t breathe. like i was always waiting for something she couldn’t give,”

her eyes narrow, ever so slightly.

“after that, i stopped trying. i just— worked. stayed impressive. impressive people don’t get left behind, right?” you meet her gaze. “and then you walked in. blowing smoke in my face. laughing like you didn’t care about anything. and i thought, finally. someone who doesn’t want anything from me. someone safe,”

the irony twists in your throat.

“but you’re not safe,” you whisper. “you’re so not safe. you make me feel like—” your voice catches. “—like a shaken bottle. like someone just lit a match in my chest and left it there. sevika, you are addictive. and i have a very bad self-control,”

she doesn’t move. but something in her eyes shifts. flickers. you sit up straighter.

“i want you,” you say, and this time your voice is steady. “not casually. not on weekends. i want all of it. the mess. the silence. the ‘don’t text me during work hours’ bullshit. the cigars, even,” and there it is. the pause.

sevika stubs out the cigar. slowly. deliberately. then crosses the space between you in three quiet steps. her hand brushes your cheek, thumb catching a drop of water still clinging to your jaw. your eyes flutter shut.

“you’re still wet,” she mutters, voice rougher now. “you’re gonna catch a cold.”

“i’ve had worse.”

she sighs. low. tired. fond. and then pulls you into her arms. you fold into her like you’ve been trying to do since the first fucking night. 

she smells like shampoo. her breath warms your temple. her metal hand presses against your back.

you’re shaking. not from the cold. from relief.

“you’re a pain in the ass,” sevika murmurs.

“i know,”

“but you’re mine now,”

“i know,” you repeat, nose brushing her collarbone.

tags: @riotstemple29

[nomoredying]

you will never know

hunger games au! tribute!sevika x tribute!reader

tags: reader is from district 10, sevika is from district 12, canon-typical violence, angst a/n: i blame suzanne collins. english is not my first language — please correct me if you find any mistakes, ty. writing this was a torture never doing anything like that again :/

you don’t know what a person actually feels when they’re burning alive. not until the flame reaches you and you jump back in escape but it’s too late. you got hurt and now you’re going to burn too. just like them who you watched from afar.

that’s how you would describe being chosen for the hunger games, held by almighty capitol. or how you like to call it in your district — the topside. 

seventeen years you watched the mandatory-to-watch broadcast of the games, where innocent children were killing each other or getting killed. and then how the victor was celebrated by the whole country. by the topsiders especially. 

but no child can comprehend the possibility of being chosen to get murdered on the screens of thousands of people just for entertainment’s sake. and a reminder, of course. you can’t overcome the capitol.

despite the nudging voice that tells you this isn’t real and if it is you should flee, you act brave. say all your goodbyes to your parents, your older brother who you know hated himself for inability to volunteer because of his age and to all of your friends. you hope they will actually miss you. 

you listen to your mentor leelan who’s a middle aged woman with clever, but beaten look in her eyes and almost dozen ideas for you to win although she knows that you’ll probably die like all the others. you respect her determination. you even laugh at whatever nonsense your escort and the prep team says. 

“is there anything you’d like to say to your family, watching this right now?” the host, a man wearing ridiculously bright glasses and blazers asks.

“put the kettle on, i’ll be home in a blink of an eye,” you blink at the camera. “and don’t eat all the cookies, achilles. you think you’re watching me, but i have eyes everywhere,” you narrow your eyes now and hear the immediate laugh from the audience.

“oh, siblings,” the host chuckles, shaking his head.

you’re almost a perfect tribute, it seems to be. appearing to the people as charming, but dangerous and sharp, you win over many hearts soon enough. didn’t even have to be a career. no one except your team knows that you clench your fists until your nails sink into your palms enough to draw blood. no one except an avox, a girl who crossed capitol so they cut her tongue, who came into your room in the middle of a night because you started hitting a wall during your panic attack.

if it wasn’t for that, leelan could almost let herself believe in your win. 

you’re excellent with blades and axes, probably won’t have much trouble with finding food and even can make a trap. all the things you’ve learned thanks to your district which specialises in livestock you even score a 10 — 10 for district 10, as someone from your team said.

but if you act like you’re on the brink of a mental breakdown as soon as you’re out of cameras’ reach, how will you act in arena full of poisonous and deadly forces you have to fight against? the boy from your district is in even worse state. he’s a lost cause. 

you don’t interact with others much at the tribute center, trying to learn as many skills as possible, even though it’d be nice to have some allies. temporary allies, you remind yourself.

however one girl does catch your attention. she’s tall, dark skinned, her already short dark hair put up and you can see the well-developed muscles in her bare arms. you’re pretty sure it doesn’t end with just the arms. which surprises you because even if you’re the ones growing the cattle and preparing meat in your district, you don’t really get to have much. one would have thought district 12 can’t have it better. 

her name is sevika and she’s 18. how devastated must have been her family  — getting reaped her last year. you’re not so juvenile yourself too, only a year younger than her. 

she’ll definitely be fine on her own, you think, watching her tying knots. you approach her, starting to do the same and thinking of all the ways you could start talking to her. but before you finally open your mouth to say something, she leaves to another section. not today, then.

and not all the other following days too.

sure, you did talk to some other tributes. a girl named mary from 5, kind and quiet. twins from 11, who made you laugh so hard you had to physically stop yourself because you remembered that you’re being watch and a hysterical laugh isn’t really complimenting. but still not to her and now it’s the day the games start.

all this time it’s like you’ve been asleep. now you wake up from the cold before the horn even sounds.the ground is damp and metallic under your back, and for a second you don’t know where you are. it could be a slaughterhouse. maybe it is. it smells like one.

the sky above you is orange, like rust bleeding into sunset. you’re standing in the center of what used to be a processing plant. abandoned, decayed. smoke still rises from some of the towers. steam hisses through broken vents. the ground is cracked cement, sliced with rails, stains and patches that could be oil or blood. doesn’t really matter which.

this is the arena.

you try not to throw up.

they placed you all around a giant broken platform, like a rusted gear in the middle of some long-dead machine.

in its center is the stock — weapons, food, water, gear, traps, maybe even medicine. you can see the outline of a crossbow, a few blades. there’s a black bag. some kind of armor. a bottle glinting under the lights. a lot of seems like a trap, cursed by the gamemakers.

around you, at the edges of the gear — other tributes stand on their plates. all waiting.

and there’s sevika, four tributes away. she’s not looking at anyone. not even the stock. her eyes are low. arms loose by her sides. like she’s waiting for the whole thing to be over.

she doesn’t look scared. just done.

you wish you felt the same.

you breathe in. you don’t have much time. you know what leelan told you: “don’t go to the middle. don’t be a fool.” but leelan’s not here and you don’t think you’ll find an axe lying around somewhere in the arena.

you run before you even realize that you’re running. fast and low. like cutting through a herd without startling them. tributes are screaming already. one falls on the platform. another lunges for a bottle, only to get their throat sliced open. blood sprays across a shattered crate.

you don’t look. you grab the small axe, half-buried under a sheet of plastic. it’s heavy but familiar. your fingers close around the handle like it’s home. 

you run again — toward the shadows — and hope for the best. toward the smoke and dust and wreckage beyond the gear. you hide in a collapsed control tower on the outskirts of the plant. its roof is gone, but walls still stand, crooked and blistered by heat. the floor is full of ash. you lie down in it.

your hands are shaking. the axe is next to you, warm from your grip. you think of how are you even supposed to find food or water in a huge dead industrial complex. 

you get out of your cover and find that around your collapsed towers are another ash towers. you try to find the highest point and when you do, you finally look around. you think you can see a slaughterblock not that far from you. that’s where you should head next.

you only let yourself to sit, just to wait out whatever’s happening in the gear. you hear the canon and count seven deaths already. seventeen of you left. 

that’s when you see your mentor before you. “leelan?” your eyebrows furrow in disbelief “what are you– how are you here?” your hand tries to reach the woman, but suddenly it weighs more than any axe you held in your life so you can’t even lift your arms.

the mentor says something to you and you nod, but something feels wrong..

“are you okay?” your brother asks. 

“are you here too? i don’t get it,” you mumble and that’s when you notice the blue gas you’re breathing all around you. 

you’re hallucinating. you close your eyes, still hearing their voices. not the worse way to spend you first night, is it? your stomach disagrees.

your eyes open wide just a moment before they start showing the dead tributes in the sky. both from 6, 8, 9 and a boy from 12.

at the early morning the gas disappears, and that’s when you leave the tower and head to your new destination.

the slaughterblock smells worse than anything you’ve ever smelled before. it clings to the walls, seeps from the floor. old blood, rot, bile — all of it baked into the steel and concrete. the heat makes it worse, like someone turned the whole place into a slow cooker for ghosts.

you try to breathe through your mouth, but that just makes you taste it.

the room stretches into darkness, full of rusted hooks hanging from chains, swinging slightly in the stale air. gutting tables still sit in rows, some flipped over, others stained black. broken knives, meat saws, bones — so many bones.

your boots click once on the slick floor, and you freeze. you didn’t mean to make a sound. but it’s not just you. you hear it — screaming. no, not quite human. a pig. and it’s not dying quickly.

you follow the sound, stepping slow. between metal slabs and dripping pipes. the ceiling above you groans. you peek through the gap between two cabinets.

they’re there — two tributes from district 7.

you recognize them. the girl with the long scar down her chin. the boy with unrealistically crooked teeth. they’re butchering a pig they must’ve found somewhere deeper in the block. it’s alive. was alive. they’re laughing.

you grip your axe tighter, but you don’t have a plan yet. until your foot knocks into an empty metal bucket. it clatters like a gunshot. they freeze. 

the girl turns first. “who’s there?”

you don’t answer, why would you? but she sees you anyway and lunges.

your axe meets her before your brain even catches up. the impact jolts up your arm — you feel bone snap, skin tear, the wet thud of meat. she hits the floor, twitching once. doesn’t get back up. you hear the canon.

you don’t stop. you can’t.

the boy’s next. faster than she was, not even stopping to look at his dead ally. he’s yelling something, but it doesn’t matter. you swing — he dodges. he slashes with a blade and slices your arm. again — your thigh. you gasp and stumble. he grabs your collar, grinning. 

you grab his face. the two of you struggle — crash backward — into an old meat grinder.

it groans under the weight.

your fingers find a button. you kick him and press it as quickly as possible and then..

you watch.

the room is quiet again. except for your breath. and the flies. you stare at what’s left. then at your shaking hands.

“disgusting,” you whisper at yourself and hope that this might be to the sponsors’ liking. a terrible thought, but so isn’t everything?

you tear a piece of fabric from the dead girl’s shirt. wrap your bleeding arm. then your thigh. it’s not pretty, but it’ll do.

you take their bag which they must have taken from the stock. inside: bandages, antiseptic. painkillers, some kind of sunglasses. 

the pig they were butchering is half-dead.

but you know what to do with that. you know where to cut. what to keep. what not to touch. it takes you twenty minutes to break it down. maybe less. your axe is sticky. your hands — slick.

you cook a few pieces over a pipe that still leaks fire. it’s dry, but warm. then you pack the rest in cloth, shove it in the new bag. and you leave. 

you walk deeper into the structure, the walls closer now, darker. you’re so thirsty it makes your head pulse. no water at all. but it has to be somewhere, right? instead, you find a room in the back. some kind of office, long since emptied. the desk is broken. the windows cracked. but there’s a corner. dry and covered in dust. you sit there. you unwrap your arm. it’s bleeding again. you clean and bandage it, as best as someone who who has very basic knowledge of healing can do. 

thirteen of you left.

you stay there for few nights, eating your pig, until the thirst becomes unbearable and water fills all your thoughts. not you, unfortunately.

you’re going to die of thirst before anyone gets the pleasure of killing you. that’s the thought that’s been gnawing at your spine for the past two hours you’ve been walking. the meat from the slaughterblock is still warm in your bag, your wounds are holding. but your lips are cracked. your head swims. everything is too loud.

that’s when you see it. the pit.

it’s not really a lake. not even a pond. it’s an open crater so wide you can’t see the other side through the smoke. the ground falls away in uneven steps of clay and metal and bone, and at the very bottom, there’s water — sort of.

it gleams in the toxic light, thick with rainbow shimmer, like someone spilled oil across a graveyard. you know that smell. sharp. chemical. like bleach, rot, ammonia.

and the bones. some old, some not.

you swallow hard. you need water, so you find a path — half-collapsed service scaffolding, mostly rust and wire. it takes almost twenty minutes to get down safely. you slip twice. once nearly fall. but your grip holds.

the deeper you go, the hotter it gets. the air sticks to your lungs.

you step through the bottom of the pit like moving through glue. you hold your breath when the fumes spike. the water’s close. but you’re careful. you know better.

and then you see her. 

sevika.

standing by the edge of the chemical pool like it’s a mirror. her back to you. muscles tense. blade slung low, but not drawn. she crouches and pulls a bottle from her belt. dips it low toward the surface—

“it’s poisoned,” you call out, louder than you meant to.

she straightens. turns. her eyes find you — sharp, wary. in less than a five seconds she’s ready to attack.

but the air shifts and that’s when you know something’s coming. you feel it first — the way your teeth hum. then the tremor beneath your feet. then the shriek.

a shape erupts from the other side of the pool, tearing through bones and rock like they’re paper. a mutt. at least eight feet tall. boar-like, but deformed, furless, parts of its flesh replaced with glowing panels. its eyes flicker red. its tusks drip acid. it charges.

you draw your axe.

“allies?” you shout.

sevika nods once. “just don’t get in my way.”

the beast hits like a train. you dive left — sevika goes right. you slash its leg and sparks fly, it screeches and backhands you into the dirt. sevika climbs its back, driving her blade between its shoulder plates. it throws her off.

you roll. blood in your mouth. the mutt lunges at sevika — she dodges — you bring your axe down on its exposed jaw. it turns on you. 

you think: this is it.

then sevika rams her knife straight into its eye socket. you don’t waste the opening and drive your axe into its throat, both hands, full weight. it collapses.

you both stand there for a second, chests heaving.

“that thing better not come back,” you mutter and slump onto a rock, your whole body’s shaking. sevika wipes blood from her face and walks back toward the water.

“you were serious about the poison thing?” she asks, finally.

“yeah. the fumes alone almost knocked me out.” 

“so what now?”

you look at her. “we filter it.”

she raises an eyebrow, sceptical. “you know how to do that?”

you nod. “i think so. we used to filter rotwater at home. for the pigs. same principle, right?”

“you filtered water for pigs.” sevika snorts.

“and for us, sometimes.” you stand. “you need: cloth, rocks, sand. charcoal. some kind of container.”

“charcoal?” she raised an eyebrow. 

“burnt cloth’ll do.”

“you’re full of surprises, 10,”

“shop kid,” you grin. “axes, knives, smoke filters. we sold them all.”

you spend the next hour gathering parts.

you build the filter from a broken pipe, with layers of sand, gravel, burnt scraps, and a ventilation mesh sevika pulled from an old cooling unit.

you watch the first drops trickle through into a cracked bowl. you both stare at it in silence.

“first sip’s yours,” sevika mutters.

you smile. “scared?”

“you built it,”

well, can’t argue with that. when you drink, it tastes like ash. definitely not that fancy water that comes in all flavours (you didn’t even know water could be flavoured before), but not deadly too. you don’t have any signs of being poisoned, so sevika takes a sip too. and then another. and other.

“so what does your family do?” you ask out of curiosity and because you don’t like silences.

something in her expression flickers.

“my mother was a medic. my dad’s got a hardware stall,” sevika replies shortly, and you decide not to push. why would you want to know all about her family if later? to face that very family after you kill her or someone else does?

“i was hoping we’d at least get a beautiful arena,” you sigh playfully, after getting a look around 

she grins. “yeah? so you could at least die somewhere beautiful?”

“something like that,” you roll your eyes. 

after filling your bowls and bottles with water you get out of the pit, thinking where you should head next. 

“wait,” you say and perform a shushing gesture to silence her. something’s wrong. as if the ground is shaking. “do you feel it? it’s like an earthquake—“ and the surface under your feet collapses right at that moment, sevika’s strong hand preventing you from falling, but the ground she’s standing on also starts shaking.

so you run with ground sunk down behind you.

“hey-hey!” you hear two familiar voices, male and female, from both of your sides. twins from 11. “we were thinking of going into the pit when we saw you two running. what’s happening?”

“game makers are expanding the territory of the pit,” you reply, smiling at them and glance at sevika. oh, she doesn’t trust them.

“can we join you?” they ask.

their bags catch your attention. must’ve gotten them from the stock. they’re quick, clever, funny and you like them. so before sevika says no, you say yes and she glared at you.

“great! follow us, we found something like control rooms,”

“control rooms?” you repeat, curious.

and you still feel her piercing gaze.

“they’re smart!” you whisper at her and she rolls her eyes.

the control core is deeper than you expected.

you follow the twins through a narrow hallway half-collapsed with rusted panels and ash. above your heads, wires dangle like vines. it smells like electricity, dust, and something else — old blood maybe. the deeper you go, the colder it gets.

the twins are chatty. you like that about them. it makes you feel, for a moment, like this isn’t real.

when you finally reach the room, it’s massive. high ceiling, metal walls, rows of broken monitors and blinking consoles. the control core must’ve once powered something big. the lights flicker on and off. it hums, almost alive.

you all sit in a circle. the twins pull food from their bags — sealed packets, dried fruit, bread. you offer them water in exchange. the deal is silent, natural. survival. 

they talk about the games, previous ones, things they saw from the sidelines. the girl twin says she thinks the mutts are more unpredictable this year. the boy twin jokes he’s waiting for the flying leeches. you all laugh. even sevika smirks.

then you go deeper.

you slip on the glasses you found in district 7 boy’s bag, that are apparently made for the night vision. so do the twins. sevika takes the flashlight, checks its battery with a tap of her palm. works.

you move in a line. twin-boy in front, then his sister, then you, sevika watching the rear.

the corridors tighten. the temperature drops again. dust floats in the air like snow. pipes run along the ceiling. you check every side door. most are sealed. some open to reveal broken desks, shattered bulbs, spilled tools. in one room you find an old firebox and a control panel half-lit. in another — something you think is a ventilation map. sevika studies it while chewing dried fruit like it’s jerky.

then you see the first snake. it slithers from behind a console. only about the length of your arm. quick. sharp scales. sevika steps forward and crushes its head with the heel of her boot.

you look at the twins. they look at each other.

“weird,” you say. what would a snake be doing in here?

more steps. more snakes. you find another. and another. before you say you should head back, it happens.

the metal grates beneath your feet rattle. you freeze. a low sound starts building, like whispering steam.

and then — a wave. a swarm of snakes floods the corridor from every direction. tiny ones, red-eyed, fast. not natural.

they’re coming.

“run,” someone screams.

you scatter. the hallways twist and split and you take turns blindly, dodging through narrow gaps and hopping over pipes. the air is full of hissing. you swing yat anything too close.

the boy twin stumbles. a snake latches onto his leg. he goes down. his sister screams. no — she runs back, tries to pull him up.

more snakes pile on him.

you stop running. your body wants to go back. but sevika grabs your wrist. 

“not now,” she growls.

you turn and the last thing you see is the girl dropping to her knees and swinging wildly with a blade as they swarm them both.

you don’t look again and you keep running. when you finally stop, your lungs burn. your skin is marked with shallow cuts and dried blood. the snakes aren’t following anymore. you collapse against a wall. sevika crouches near you, breath sharp.

“they’re gone,” you whisper.

she nods.

“we should’ve taken their bags,” sevika says.

you look at her and she sighs.

“don’t give me that look. it’s awful. but it’s the games. you survive or you die. nothing in between,”

you say nothing because you know she’s right.  and that’s worse.

you find a hidden crawlspace near the end of the control core. small enough to feel safe. you both squeeze in. you rest in shifts, but neither of you actually sleeps. you sit back-to-back, watching the same crack in the wall. 

at some point, sevika says, “they reminded me of someone. the twins,”

you don’t answer.

she continues anyway. “when i was little, there was this pair in our street. always stealing apples. always climbing shit. i think about them sometimes,”

you shift, “i have a brother,” you say, “older. wanted to volunteer for me. couldn’t. he watched the reaping with his fists clenched”

“did he say goodbye?”

you nod, “told me to break their rules. and their teeth,”

sevika chuckles. a quiet, worn-out sound. “maybe you will,”

“maybe we both will, you say,”

and for the first time since the games started, you think maybe you’re not entirely alone.

then you both watch the faces of dead appear in the sky. it’s only 9 of you left. you and sevika, both tributes from 1, 2 and 3. and the boy from your district. the one you nicknamed the lost cause.

“i don’t know how he’s doing it,” you say, furrowing. “he’s so unstable,” 

sevika shrugs, assuming that maybe it plays in his advantage. 

“do you think it’s been suspiciously easy or we’re just lucky?” you ask her and she raises an eyebrow to see if you’re serious. you are. she’s confused, so you are to elaborate, “well, i feel like thirst was the one thing that could actually kill me. there was some gas on my first day, but it wasn’t poisonous. were you injured physically?”

“no. were you?”

“yes, when i was fighting with tributes from 5, but it’s not much,” you reply carelessly, because you almost forgot about those.

you agree when sevika says it’s time for new bandages, and when you unwrap the old one on your hand, you see that your wound has festered and wrinkle your nose. ugly. sevika doesn’t look away but sighs. right, her mom was a healer. 

“did you even clean it?” she asks but doesn’t bother with waiting for an answer and takes the antiseptic and bandages out of your bag. 

you bite your lips, watching her hands work deftly. “do you have any other wounds?” you nod and tell her about the one on your thigh. “take it off,” sevika demands, talking about the bottom of your suit. 

“aren’t you gonna buy me a drink first?” you say resentfully but before she says something insulting you slide your bottoms down enough for her to get access to your thigh. it’s cold — that’s all.

you both fall asleep. not intentionally and definitely not responsibly.

maybe it’s something about the warmth of someone nearby who doesn’t want to slit your throat — at least not now. 

but you two jump wide awake when you hear screaming. loud and coming at you.

your axe is already in your hands, just like sevika’s blade in hers. 

the careers. two from district 1, two from 2 and the last one from 3 — the so-called golden pack. tall, sculpted, polished like statues. 

they weren’t running at you, but from someone. or something. that’s when you see them. two mutated tigers, striped in glitching patterns, like static crawling on their skin. their jaws stretch too far, and their claws spark on contact with stone. they’re playing and their favourite game involves tearing someone apart.

you and Sevika exchange one glance. then it’s chaos.

the careers don’t hesitate to turn on you — the girl from 1 nearly slices your cheek open, the boy from 2 screams something incomprehensible while flailing his blade.

you swing your axe. she ducks. sevika’s elbow meets her nose. it’s a war on two fronts.

the tigers circle.

they pounce and crush the boy from 3 in a snap of spine and spray of red. another screams. the tigers chase him. sevika watches. calculating.

they’re not attacking randomly. they’re actually toying.

you slash at the girl from 1 again, landing a deep cut to her ribs. she backs off, wheezing. sevika moves behind her. and then grabs and throws her straight into a tiger’s open jaws. bones snap like twigs.

you almost freeze, but she doesn’t. she grabs the next, taking them by surprise — the smaller tribute from 2 — and repeats it. the last tribute — girl from 2 — sees what sevika’s doing.

she lunges with a roar and stabs her deep, right under her ribs. 

sevika screams. you turn just in time to bury your axe in the girl’s neck. she goes down.

while tigers play with very dead tributes, you two run as fast as possible before mutts turn their attention to you. when it seems like they’re not following, you finally let sevika sit and fall next to her.

your hands are already covered in blood. she’s breathing, shallow and sharp.

“that bitch,” she mutters.

“you’re okay. you’re okay,” you lie.

nothing in your packs can help her and you know that next day you have to go and find the careers’ pack, maybe they’ll have something. you press her wound, trembling. her blood soaks into your palms.

“sleep,” you whisper.

the next day when sevika assures you she’s fine — another lie — you quickly approach the area where your nap was interrupted yesterday. take all the food you see, which careers’ve got enough, but nothing of the medicine. you sigh.

sevika doesn’t even need you to tell her about that when you come back, your desperate eyes tell her everything. when she doesn’t resist eating, you can’t help but think that this might be her last meal.

then you start rambling.

about the first cow you ever helped deliver. about the time you and your brother painted axes with bright pink paint and your father got mad.

you keep talking until something heavy lands on your head. you look up, taking it into your hands.

a silver parachute. medicine.

your heart jumps, but you don’t hesitate.

you pour the contents over her wound, hands shaking.

sevika flinches. then gasps. you try your best and she tries to talk you through it. you wrap her tight. close the gash. press your forehead against hers. 

you did it. you saved her.

a sigh of relief and joy and happiness escapes your lips when comes the realisation. it’s only three of you left now. the boy from your district, you. and sevika. 

that’s when you hear the gamemaker’s voice that sounds almost amused. three tributes remain, they say. one final event. a gift for each of you, waiting in the heart of the arena. come claim it.

you and sevika don’t speak. you just nod once, gear up, and walk.

it’s inevitable anyway. if you don’t go to this feast now, they will still make you face each other, fight and die. 

you walk through smoke and ruin, past twisted metal and the remains of places you used to hide. it’s almost poetic that the center is the gear — the giant rusted cog that once turned something important but now just rests in the earth like a jaw waiting to close.

you arrive first. he’s already there. the boy from your district.

he doesn’t look like he used to. he’s thinner. twitchier. eyes wild, too wide. his shirt is stained with blood that’s not his. he holds the knife like it’s part of him.

you open your mouth to say something, but he doesn’t wait.

sevika moves first — throws you behind a pile of rubble and blocks his blade with hers. they crash against each other, metal biting metal, and he’s stronger than you remember.

not skilled. just unhinged.

you scramble up, your axe in your hands, heart pounding. you circle. he throws a punch at sevika and she stabs at his leg — he dodges, growling.

then he sees you.

he drops from aevika’s line of sight and charges at you. too fast. your axe swings wide. his knife is already in motion.

it sinks into your chest. not fully in the heart, which would be faster, but close. you stumble back and he gasps.

his eyes meet yours, and suddenly he drops his weapon. stumbles away from you like he’s waking from something.

“no,” he says. “no, no, no — i didn’t mean— i thought— i—“ he falls to his knees, his hands are shaking and he starts crying.

sevika catches you before you hit the ground.

her arms wrap around you roughly, one hand pressed hard over the wound.

“what the fuck did you do,” she hisses — not to him. to you “you idiot. you stupid, reckless idiot,”  she repeats, over and over, “you were supposed to win,”

you were supposed to win.

you can’t breathe properly. your fingers tremble, “shut up, sev,” the only words you can squeeze out before you you lift your hand and cup her face, making her lean in. her face is all angles and fury and grief.

your lips barely touch. a breath. a tremor.

then stillness. you’re gone in her arms.

sevika doesn’t cry. she lays you down gently, like something she carved with her own hands. then she stands. her gaze finds the boy still kneeling. he raises his eyes to her. and for a second, it looks like he’ll say something.

he never gets the chance.

viewers are not sure if what happens next is vengeance or instinct. but when it’s over, there’s only one name left to announce.

sevika.

you will never know that sevika won the games. you died, thinking it, but you’ll never know for sure. 

you will never know that every month your family receives sevika’s winnings.

you will never know that the only family sevika has left — her father — gets killed by the capitol three weeks after her win because she refused to play by capitol’s games. 

and you will never know that when twenty years later a pink haired girl sparks a revolution, she helps adding the fuel to the fire with you in her mind. 

tags: @riotstemple29

[nomoredying]

knockout

personal boxing trainer!sevika x actress!reader

tags: modern au, gym flirting, locker room incident™, eventual fingering. a/n: english is not my first language — please correct me if you find any mistakes, ty. sevika might refer to the reader as “stark”, that’s the last name i gave her cuz i don’t like «y/l/n»

you knew you were in trouble the moment you saw her.

when you first accepted the role of a girl who’ve mastered at box you didn’t fully process how hard it would be to achieve something that would let you fake it. reality hit you hard when you met sevika.

to be honest, you just expected a random muscular man who will motivate you with some bullshit and recommend certain protein bars. instead here she was, standing before you — a woman (which is already a win) who looked like she could lift you and your emotional baggage. the last one is much, much heavier.

sevika.

no introduction beyond. she wore a grey tank top, her dark hair pulled back carelessly, skin glowing under the lights. there was a scar running down her cheekbone — thin, old. her arms looked like they could split a tree in half. you tried not to stare.

you failed.

“is it an actress thing — wearing sunglasses indoors?”

you pushed them up into your hair, “something like that,” grinning.

there is only one word that could perfectly sum up your first day — pain.

you’ve done pilates, sure. you jogged occasionally. once played tennis for two months in a fit of motivation. but boxing was something else entirely. the gloves felt like bricks. your stance was off. your breath — gone in the first ten minutes. sevika did not coo or encourage, but she didn’t bark either. she simply watched, gave short corrections and moved your elbows without asking.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

by the end of the third week, you had bruises on your ribs and a new favourite part of your day.

sevika wasn’t talkative. when you tried a little small talk, she shot you a glare. so you decided that you’ll do the talking for both of you. lucky for her you were a true yapper. 

she noticed things.

“you didn’t sleep,”

“you’re holding tension in your shoulders again,” 

“eat before you come next time. you get dizzy,”

yes, maybe she said those things in a way that made you think she did not care about you absolutely, but it meant she was looking. although, isn’t that part of her job? you’re also an overthinker.

but you still tried not to read too much into the way it felt like scoring a goal in a dream when you made sevika laugh – really laugh – because it was so rare.

one afternoon, after another long session, she sat beside you on a bench and handed you a cold bottle of water. you looked at her, flushed and half-dead.

“why are you doing this?” sevika asked with an unreadable face.

you raised an eyebrow. “for the film, which you already know. are you losing memories? did i drive you mad?” 

she rolled her eyes. “you didn’t need to go full method and you’re not exactly a fan.”

you stared at your hands. your knuckles were red. bruised. you smiled faintly.

“i didn’t want to fake it. i’ve faked a lot of things lately.” and then you just had to add a little joke. “and box fans would take me down if my left leg stood in the wrong way.”

sevika studied you for a long beat. then said, quietly:

“you’re better than you think.” 

shit.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

you genuinely think you two have gotten along.

sure, when you showed up five minutes late with two coffees in your hand — apparently, sevika likes it sweeter — she would roll her eyes, arms crossed, already holding the gloves.

“stark,” she’d spit like it was a warning.

“i’m here, aren’t i?” you’d grin back.

the warmups were practically muscle memory. punch. block. step. reset. sevika’s hands on her shoulders, her hips, nudging her into form. she didn’t explain much — just said, “feel it. don’t think.”which, for you, was like saying “just stop breathing.”

but you were improving. the hits had weight now. you didn’t flinch every time sevika stepped close. unfortunately, you also had a habit of collapsing flat onto the mat the second they finished sparring.

and sevika hated that.

“you gonna nap every time you hit the floor?”

“yes,” you replied, lying spread-eagle, dramatically dead.

sevika tossed a towel at your face. “get up.”

“no. respect the process.”

“you’ve been lying there for ten minutes.” she was slightly annoyed. though sometimes you think that’s her factory settings.

“feels like three.”

“you’re using the mat as a mattress.”

“and you use sarcasm as a defence mechanism, so what?”

sevika blinked. then smirked, just a little. “smart mouth for someone who throws punches like barista.” 

you gasped. “take that back.”

“i won’t.”

“i’m deeply hurt.”

“good,” sevika said, turning away — but her shoulders shook with quiet laughter.

the teasing came too easy.

you said something dumb, sevika made a face. you stumbled on footwork, sevika groaned theatrically and muttered, “tragic,” 

“do you ever compliment me?” you asked one day, panting, gloves drooping.

“i said you didn’t suck last Friday.”

“that’s not a compliment.”

“think of it as one, then,”

surprisingly, you also managed to have simple, nice conversations. the silences between you two weren’t uncomfortable, but you liked talking to sevika. seems like she tolerated you. at least she answered your questions. well, most of them. for example, now you know that she was punched in the face outside the ring more than once and deserved. 

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

it was raining. you hadn’t expected it to pour — you rarely checked the forecast — and then stepped out of the gym just to sigh, because your car was in the shop so you either need to order a cab or run to the nearest subway.

“you taking a swim?” came sevika’s voice, already unlocking her car.

you squinted. “you drive?” a stupid question.

which is why sevika snorted. “no, i teleport. get in,”

her car was dark and mostly clean, except the mess of a boxing tape, takeout napkins and a lighter jammed in the cupholder. sevika drove with one hand, window down, her other arm draped casually out as she lit a cigarette.

“can you put it out?” you muttered, because you’ve been trying to quit for a while now and the smell didn’t help.

sevika turned her head slowly — and exhaled a lazy stream of smoke directly at you.

“i hate you,” you said flatly, glaring at her.

“no, you don’t,” she successfully ignored you, eyes on the road.

you insisted. “i do,”

“you don’t,” she insisted too.

you turned away, looking out the window, trying to hide your stupid smile. it didn’t take long enough until you looked at her again. at her nose, sharp jawline, focused eyes with dark eyeshadow around them. her hair. is it soft? 

you absolutely need to sketch her profile. and you also need to stop staring at people.

sevika chuckled low in her throat, flicked ash again, and then said, too casually: “you keep lookin’ at me like that, stark, I’m gonna have to pull over and ruin your whole day.”

the car was silent.

you blinked. “excuse me?”

“you heard me.”

you stared straight ahead. your ears were on fire. your hands, suddenly very aware of themselves, clenched around the seatbelt strap. sevika didn’t look at you. she just drove.

“god,” you muttered under her breath, “you are so full of yourself.”

sevika just smiled — cigarette between her lips, like sin incarnate.

when she finally got home after dropping you off at your place and lay down on her soft, beloved bed, sevika closed her eyes, sighing. why did she say that shit? 

she’s not sure. maybe she wanted you to finally quit with the staring. or maybe she just needs to get laid. though your little muttering did amuse her. you’re so easy to tease, how can she help it?

the one other thing she sometimes can’t help too is her curiosity. she didn’t care who you were outside the gym. rich people were always dramatic, and she’d trained worse. but—

she still searched up your name. 

thousands of results. red carpets. interviews. some viral tweets asking you to ruin them, fan edits. threads. apparently, you were a natural ginger and she have been thinking your hair was fake all this time. sevika wasn’t into cinema and yet she found herself scrolling films with you starring in them. 

ended up watching an indie dark psychological thriller about a woman spiralling without realising it. she watched it all in one sitting, beer forgotten beside her. everything around forgotten but you on the screen, acting your heart out. slowly unraveling. stunning, raw.

fucking hell.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

meanwhile, you had nothing. no profile to stalk — you checked that on the first day. no feed to scroll. sevika might as well just have a flip phone. 

they had, however, exchanged numbers. briefly. just in case time of the session will change or anything like that. expectedly, she ignores you most of the time. expectedly, you text her even more.

did you ghost me or do you just text like a 50 y.o retired plumber [you, 18:40]

[sevika, 18:46] You text like a teenager, who spends all their time at home locked in their room

that’s rich coming from someone who sends one word responses like «k» and expects that to count as conversation [you, 18:48]

[sevika, 18:48] K

sometimes, you just need to give up. 

despite her low communication skills, sevika’s been actually quite helpful with some scenes in the script. you enjoy the way the sound of her voice changes when she explains a move your character made or why did she make it.

but one afternoon you regret your enthusiasm.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

it was your last day of training, the film production would start just in a few days. you were nervous and you came early to ask about a scene in the film as if you two hadn’t discussed it dozens of times already. someone at the front waved her toward the back, “sevika’s probably in the coaches’ wing.”

big mistake.

you wandered into a room — plain, clean, quiet. then a door opened. steam rolled out. and there stood sevika.

completely naked. towel around her neck. skin wet. dripping. hair pushed back. entire body on display like some cruel, hyperreal statue.

you did not move.

sevika stared at you like really? “looking for something?”

you made a sound. like a squeak. like a wounded animal. then you spun and fled.

when she finally showed up at the ring with that smug little face of hers, you pointed your index finger at her, preventing anything she was about to say:

“no. no. you’re not allowed to say anything,”

sevika grinned, raising her hands in a surrender. 

that surrender did not last long. you were alone, the gym dark except for the lights above the ring. you were flustered, drinking water like it was your last meal. and still pissed about earlier. still flushed from remembering it. sevika leaned against the ropes, arms crossed, watching you.

“you done acting like you didn’t enjoy the show?” she said, slow and low.

you rolled your eyes. “you’re so funny,” stood up, eyes on the older woman. 

sevika looked at you like she was considering something — and a moment later, like she made a decision. she grabbed you by the jaw, pulling close. your mouths crashed. messy, hot, starved. 

“tell me,” sevika muttered between kisses, voice hoarse, “does that pretty mouth ever shut up, or do I have to stuff it with something?”

“fuck, you’re–“ whatever you wanted to say, it was forgotten the moment she started leaving wet kisses on your neck. 

you didn’t even notice how you found yourself pressed against the nearest wall by sevika. the only thing you could focus were her hands, taking your t-shirt off.

“we have to even the score, don’t you think?” sevika murmured, her fingers making your bra fall on the floor with a little click behind your back. 

you looked intoxicating. or at least that’s what her widened pupils told you.

sevika’s hand squeezed one of your bare breasts, soft gasp escaping your lips and immediately being swallowed by another hungry kiss. she couldn’t get enough. neither could you.

in fact, you wanted more.

“sevika,” you murmured, asking.

she grinned. “if you want me to touch you properly, you gotta ask properly too,” her hand teasingly tugged your sweats’ waistband.

“oh, don’t tease,” a hiss comes out, instead of pleading. “sevika!”

“tch,” sevika slid your sweatpants down. your panties had the same fate. “so demanding and so wet..” you closed your eyes, but she tilted your chin up. “eyes on me. i’ll ask you again — what do you want?”

“you. i want to feel you. i—“ seems like she was as eager as you were, because she immediately found your clit, rubbing it gently.

and then, maybe not so gently, her two fingers slipped into you. slowly, letting you get used to it.

all while her grey eyes stubbornly remained on yours, watching you as she fucks you. 

“beautiful,” sevika kissed you again, her thrusts getting harder and deeper.

“fuck. i can’t, i can’t,” you mumbled and your grip around her neck tightened. 

“do you want me to stop?” she teased, slowing down.

“no. don’t you dare,” your reply came immediately.

“then take it all like a good little girl you are,”

and you did. sevika made sure you did.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

you didn’t see each other for months after that. the film was shot in another country so you buried yourself in production — long days, long nights, crying on set, laughing on set. 

“wow, you’re really convincing. have you really never done box before this?” someone would ask, surprised by your thorough preparation for the film which only took three months.

“no, i haven’t,” you’d chuckle back, thinking about dirty hands wrapping your wrists, a low voice saying hit harder.

then came the promo-tour and instead of spending most of your day on set throwing punches, you were busy doing interviews and press.

sevika trained other clients. fucked around a little. even fought in one underground match. but nobody stuck in her head like the ginger actress with the ridiculous smirk and adorable smile. how could you not when your face was everywhere? it wouldn’t be if she didn’t purposely search your name in browser which was her only source of media, but oh well.

you invited her to the premiere. the first thing you did when you got the chance.

[you, 14:16] i got you tickets. if you don’t show up i’ll know it’s because you’re scared of seeing me breathtakingly beautiful on the red carpet

I’ve seen you naked, Stark [sevika, 14:32]

[you, 14:40] not like this you haven’t

[you, 14:42] come

and so she did. 

you found her at the afterparty, smoking. of course.

“you came,” you said, biting back your smile, your eyes greedily taking her in. all of her.

her answer was simple. “well, you asked,” 

“you cut your hair. i like it,” you finally let your lips curl into a wide smile. 

“you were right,” sevika said, surprisingly gentle.

“about what?”

“breathtakingly beautiful,” low and rough.

[nomoredying]

Often, men will say something like : "Who built this world? Men! Who created everything, all the technology, the great art, the culture, our societies? Who built the roads you drive on? Men!" and feminists will respond "That's because you didn't let us work or make art!" and... that's just wrong? Why are you validating the idea that women didn't contribute anything to the world? That we didn't work? That we didn't innovate? And why are you approving the nonsense that says being a mother is not work?

Don't let men rewrite history.

Women have always worked the double shift; outside of home and inside of home.