sevikalvr

[sevikalvr]

the way my computer crashed and all my drafts are missing I think I’m going to start crying

[sevikalvr]

hah someone yell at me to write please. pls.

[sevikalvr]

WHATTTT can we get p2 of that one night fic PLEASR PLEASE PLEASE on my hands and knees we cannot be ghosting jinx

so basically I’m kissing you through the screen anon. I’m glad you liked the fic lovely 💗 and I shall oblige to your request ✍🏽✍🏽✍🏽 ALTHOUGH we won’t be the one doing the ghosting….

[sevikalvr]

—Girls interrupted (sevika x reader)

synopsis: It’s summer. You just graduated in high school with Sevika, you’re both free from any academic obligation for two whole months and you agreed to join your friend group at Mel mom’s cabin in the mountains for a week all together. To drink, swim, hike, play… and make-out with your girlfriend, or at least you try.

words: 3.7k (masterlist)

cw: horny teenagers, really horny teenagers, you’re trying to deal with Sevika’s shit, she’s trying to be good even if she sucks at it, fresh outta highschool, summer heat, girls making out, sexual tension, modern au, you’re both 19, we love a bit of angst, mostly fluff, mention of alcohol, a bit explicit so MINORS DNI !

The highway hums beneath the tires, a long blur of trees and half-empty gas stations sliding past the windows. You’ve been riding shotgun for hours now, legs curled up in the seat, scrolling aimlessly on your phone, listening to music and singing alone sometimes. Sevika’s at the wheel, now shoulders tense, jaw set, eyes locked on the road like it wronged her personally.

You glance over. Her prosthetic shoulder’s been twitching slightly for the last thirty minutes. You notice it every time she shifts her grip on the wheel, every time she adjusts her posture like it’ll help.

“Hey,” you say, voice casual, but laced with knowing. “Want me to take over for a bit?”

Sevika doesn’t even look at you, eyes straight on the road. Not because she’s focused. “I’m good.”

“You’ve been driving for over three hours.”

“I said I’m fine.”

You sigh. “Sev, come on. I know your shoulder’s hurting.”

That gets a reaction. Her grip on the wheel tightens, and her eyes flick toward you with that sharp, wounded look she gets when you poke at something she didn’t give you permission to notice.

“I’m not a damn invalid,” she mutters.

“I didn’t say you were.” You shift in your seat, irritated now, but not aggressive. “Why does everything have to be a fight? I’m literally just offering to help.”

“I don’t need help.”

You stare at her, jaw tight. “You’re not a machine, Sev.”

That one lands, even if she doesn’t answer. The silence after is heavy. The car eats it up, miles of tension stretching thin between you like worn-out elastic.

Then—without a word—her hand slips off the gearstick and finds your thigh. Warm, calloused fingers brush over your skin gently, thumb pressing into the soft dip above your knee.

It’s not an apology. She won’t give you one.

But she touches you like she’s sorry. Like she knows she’s being an asshole and doesn’t know how else to say it.

You glance down at her hand, then back at the road. Another sigh escapes you—this one softer, less frustrated. You rest your hand lightly over hers.

“I’m not trying to fix you, okay?” you murmur. “Just trying to love you without getting snapped at every goddamn time.”

Sevika doesn’t answer, but she squeezes your thigh once. Quiet. Grateful. Maybe a little ashamed.

The road keeps stretching on. But her hand stays on your leg.

You let her keep her pride for about sixty more seconds.

Her hand stays on your thigh, but the tension in her shoulders doesn’t stop. The ache must be eating at her by now. You can see it in the way she moves—tight, clipped, like every little motion is carefully managed to hurt less.

You unlock your phone, tap the screen a few times, then bring it to your ear.

Sevika cuts her eyes toward you. “What are you doing?”

“Calling Mel.”

Her brow twitches. “Why?”

“Because we’re gonna be a bit late,” you say, voice calm but loaded with intention. “We’re taking a break. Pull over.”

“What? No, we’re—”

“Shh.” you cut in, soft but stern.

She actually growls. An honest-to-god frustrated noise deep in her chest, like she wants to argue but knows better. Her hand slides off your leg as she clenches the wheel tighter and you can hear her mutter an almost subtle ‘for fuck sake’ you’re totally ignoring right now.

You give Mel the world’s sunniest greeting when she picks up. “Hey, just letting you know we’re stopping for a bit. Sev’s being a stubborn ass behind the wheel and I don’t feel like dying before I get to your overpriced chalet. We’ll be a little late.”

A pause.

You laugh at whatever Mel says, nodding even though she can’t see it. “Yup. Love you. See you soon.”

You hang up and shoot Sevika a pointed look. “Pull over.”

Her jaw works. For a second, it looks like she’s going to tell you to go to hell. Then, with a sharp breath through her nose, she flicks on the blinker and steers the car onto a quiet shoulder overlooking a tree-lined drop. It’s pretty. You make a note to pretend not to be impressed so she won’t get smug.

The engine idles. She sits there for a beat, silent and bristling with unspoken protests.

Then—with a muttered curse again—she reaches under the steering column and starts unfastening the prosthetic at her shoulder. It comes off with practiced ease, but there’s still tension in her jaw as she rests it in the backseat, then leans back with a grunt, finally exhaling like she’s been holding it in since the last gas station.

You don’t say anything. Just sit beside her, legs still pulled up, watching the wind brush through the pines outside.

“I didn’t ask for a break,” she mutters eventually.

You hum, softer. “Didn’t ask if you wanted one.”

She shoots you a side-eye, but there’s no real heat in it. Her body’s already relaxing, even if she refuses to admit it. You know she won’t anyway.

The windows are down now. A slow breeze rolls through the car, lifting strands of your hair and brushing cool air across damp skin. Somewhere in the trees, cicadas hum like a lazy summer engine.

Sevika sits stubborn in the driver’s seat, her prosthetic resting on the backseat like a discarded weapon. She hasn’t said anything since pulling over, though you can see the lines in her brow beginning to loosen.

“Can I lower your seat?” you ask, quiet.

She hesitates for half a second—just long enough for you to notice.

Then, with a grunt, she tilts the lever herself and lets the seat lean back. Not enough to lay but not enough to fully sit either.

You lower your seat too, then unclip your own seatbelt and shift closer, your legs nudging hers. From the center console, you dig out the small bottle of hydrating cream you brought—half for yourself, half because you knew she wouldn’t think of it. The skin around the prosthetic’s connection point always gets irritated in the heat, and it’s already flushed.

You say nothing as you open the cap. She doesn’t stop you, just keeps staring out the window like there’s something very important happening in the trees.

Your fingers are slow, practiced. You rub the cream gently into her shoulder—cool, then warm with friction, gliding over scarred, overworked muscle. She breathes through her nose, jaw twitching as you smooth it in with care she pretends she doesn’t need.

You lean in, brushing your lips against her jaw, and whisper, “You did good.”

Her throat moves. Barely.

Still, she doesn’t say anything. But she doesn’t stop you, either. Doesn’t pull away. Her eyes stay on the trees, like they’re safer than you. Like if she looks at you right now she might crack in places she’s worked too hard to keep sealed.

You press another kiss to her jaw, just because you can, because she let you.

You rest your chin lightly on the back of the seat, fingers still trailing over her shoulder like you’re drawing heat into the skin. Sevika’s head is tilted just slightly toward the window, but her eyes flick to you—narrowed, skeptical, waiting for whatever’s about to come out of your mouth.

You give her a slow grin.

“You know,” you murmur, voice a little too casual, “you’re kind of hot when you drive.”

That earns you an immediate eye roll, but it’s not the serious kind. You lean in more, shameless.

“All focused and serious,” you continue, tipping your voice a notch lower. “Hands on the wheel, arms flexing, jaw clenched like you’re mad at the road? Kinda does it for me to be honest.”

Sevika exhales through her nose, and it comes out half a laugh, half a sigh—like you’ve officially exhausted her, but she’s trying not to be charmed by it. She turns her head toward you, lips curling into that crooked, tired smirk that says she sees right through you and still really likes what she sees.

“Shut up,” she mutters.

You raise your eyebrows, innocent, your voice sounding like honey deliberately. “Just saying.”

Her hand slides up, slow and deliberate, confident fingers curling around the back of your neck until her thumb grazes your jaw. She pulls you in gently, guiding you down toward her, and you go easy, melting into the kiss before her mouth even meets yours.

It’s warm. Lazy. Her lips are soft but sure, moving against yours with quiet control, her fingers keeping you close like she’s trying to keep her guard up and let you in at the same time.

You smile into it, just a little, and when you finally pull back, she doesn’t let go—her hand stays on your jaw, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek.

You don’t say anything else. You don’t have to.

When you lean in again, it’s more heated. No tongue, but her thumb is caressing your jaw and then her hand slides just slightly lower to have her fingers on your throat. Not squeezing, just there.

She knows you like it when she does that. She likes it too, maybe a bit too much for it to be cute. To have her hand on your throat.

Her smirk deepens when you break the kiss with a soft sigh and smiles back, wiping a small drop of saliva on your lower lip with your tongue. Her eyes watch you do it.

You don’t make it any further than kissing. Not for lack of trying—you’ve both spent twenty minutes half-tangled in the front seats, mouths moving slow and warm, the windows fogged slightly from breath and heat. Every time her hand slides too low or yours grazes under her shirt, you laugh against her lips, breathless, and Sevika just growls like she’s trying to remember why she’s supposed to wait.

Eventually, she mutters something about “still being the one driving,” and you roll your eyes, but you let her have it. She looks better now—shoulders looser, jaw less clenched, eyes softer when she finally slips her arm back on and starts the car again.

Her shoulder still aches. You can tell. But it’s dulled now, tempered by rest and your hands and whatever those kisses did to her tension.

By the time you pull into Mel’s absurdly gorgeous chalet driveway, the sun’s dipped lower in the sky and the others are already there—Silco’s car parked like he owns the place, and Ran’s bag somehow left on the porch like they’d been in too much of a rush to get inside properly.

Inside, it smells like wood and citrus. Big windows, leather couches, a kitchen that looks expensive but probably isn’t used. You dump your bags just inside the living room before Sevika slips past you without a word, beelining for the couch where Vander and Silco are already nursing beers and arguing about what counts as “light” luggage.

She’s halfway through cracking open a cold one when you drop down beside her, throwing your legs across her thighs without asking. She doesn’t complain—just rests her hand over your shin like it belongs there.

Ran’s already half-stretched across the floor rug, sipping something pink and obnoxiously sugary. Mel leans on the stair railing with her arms crossed, looking down at the chaos with a practiced kind of patience and amused affection.

“We should probably figure out who’s sleeping where,” Vander says between sips. “We all agree Mel’s got the big room upstairs, right?”

Mel nods once, elegant and clearly above whatever’s coming next.

Ran lifts a hand. “Okay, okay, okay. But we’ve all seen the room layout, right? There’s only one more bedroom with a double bed.”

“Yeah?” Silco’s eye narrows. “And?”

Ran grins wide. “And it starts with ‘les’ and ends with ‘bian.’” They shoot a finger gun at you and Sevika on the couch, wiggling their eyebrows shamelessly. “Congrats on the honeymoon suite, girls.”

You snort and immediately bury your face in Sevika’s shoulder, trying not to laugh too hard. “I have no idea what you mean,” you mumble, voice muffled but amused.

Sevika huffs beside you, low and amused in her chest. Her arm tightens a little around your legs and she mutters, “shut up,” like it’s affection in disguise.

Ran raises their glass. “To the lesbians. May their door stay locked and the walls stay soundproof. I don’t wanna see or hear you do adult things.”

Mel sighs dramatically. “You’re all insufferable. But they’re right, keep it secret, thanks.”

But her smirk betrays her. And when you peek up at Sevika, she’s already watching you, one brow raised like she’s wondering if you’re gonna deny the room or go with it. You just smile, innocent as sin, and squeeze her thigh with your foot.

A beat.

Before Mel adds, “No eye fucking either, thank you.”

The bedroom is cozy, if a little too polished—soft lighting, a small dresser, clean white sheets that practically beg to be messed up. The wooden walls are warming your heart a little.

You’re both on the floor, half-unpacking and half-lounging, surrounded by a pile of clothes, tangled charging cables, and one very optimistic tube of sunscreen. Sevika’s sitting cross-legged with a hoodie pulled halfway over her head, messing with a phone charger that refuses to untangle in stubborn silence. She brought her unfinished beer with her and it’s waiting on the wooden floor beside her.

“This is kinda wild,” you say after a beat, holding up a hoodie and sniffing it before tossing it aside. “We’re about to live together. Like, for real.”

Sevika shrugs, not looking up. “You already stay at my place five nights a week.”

“Yeah, but now we’ll have an apartment. Our place.” you giggle, already excited. You’re soft and cheezy every time you talk about it, your future ‘adult life’ with your girlfriend, whatever adult life means.

“We’ll need a better mattress first. That shitty twin one you liked dips in the middle.”

“That’s called memory foam, Sev.”

“That’s called back problems.”

You huff a laugh, toss your shirt into the pile, then nudge her knee with your foot. “Okay, but serious question.”

“Mm?”

“Can we get a cat?”

Sevika doesn’t even blink. “No.”

“Why?”

“They scratch shit. And they stare.”

You stare at her. “Sevika, you stare.”

“Yeah, and it freaks people out. Why would you want two of me?”

“I mean they’re independent, they clean themselves— they’re basically you but with fur.”

She narrows her eyes at you, “No cats,” she says firmly, but there’s a smirk in her voice now. “Get a plant.”

“I will name it after you out of spite.”

You unzip the last section of your suitcase, already preparing your final argument about kittens not being that destructive, when—

You freeze.

There, neatly tucked in among her clothes, is a familiar shape. Black. Thick. Harnessed. Bold of her to pack it with zero subtlety.

You turn slowly, lifting your head off the floor with the slow, ominous drama of a horror movie protagonist realizing the most traumatizing plot twist.

Your eyes meet hers.

“Did you,” you begin, voice deadpan, “seriously, bring your strap on a one-week friend trip?”

Sevika doesn’t even look up from the charger. “Backup plan.”

You blink. “Backup plan? It’s one week, Sev.”

“Exactly.”

“I just—,” you say slowly, like you’re trying to make her understand the absurdity of her behavior. “You know we’re going to be around each other literally all the time, right? That’s why it’s a friend trip.”

Sevika leans back on her hands, looking unbothered. “Not all the time.”

“Pretty much. And if we’re alone, we’ll mostly be interrupted.”

“We will not. Early mornings. Late nights.” She gestures lazily at the door. “Just like right now, we’re alone.”

You blink at her. She’s dead serious. Confident. Smug, even, like she’s mapped this out like a war general. You look around the room—empty, peaceful, candle-lit by sunset—and then back at her.

“You’re desperate,” you say, completely flat.

She shrugs. “I’m a survivalist.”

You stare.

She grins.

“Janna,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. “You packed a strap for… what, emergency lesbian survival?”

“It’s a harsh world out there,” she says, reaching for her beer without breaking eye contact. “It’s the mountains, I come prepared.”

You fall onto your back again, eyes to the ceiling, voice full of fake awe. “And I’m dating a lunatic.”

Sevika takes a sip of her drink, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and smirks down at you. “Yeah, and you packed three different skincare serums like you were going into battle with the sun.”

“Okay so that’s not the subject, first of all.”

“I don’t care.”

You sit up just to throw one of your shirt at her.

She catches it—of course she does—and shoots you that smug half-smile that says she knows she’s ridiculous, but also knows she’s won this round. Again.

You shake your head. “You’re not getting away with using it while there’s people in the house.”

She shrugs again, cool as ever. “I’m very quiet.”

You stare, scandalized. “Not that much.”

She leans in, that low voice of hers curling around your spine. “You are.”

You fumble for a pillow to throw at her.

She laughs, finally full and warm, catching the pillow like it’s nothing and tossing it aside just to lean closer again.

“We’re gonna be interrupted a lot, you’ll see.” you say, confident. Because you know it won’t be easy.

The teasing’s still in the air between you, crackling like static—her smirk, her laugh, yours, your half-blush, the low tension of what might happen if the others weren’t here.

You don’t even notice how close she’s gotten until her fingers slide along your jaw again, thumb brushing the edge of your mouth with that same possessive softness from earlier.

“Come here,” she murmurs, and you barely get the chance to breathe before she’s kissing you.

It starts slow—like she’s proving a point—but it gets deeper fast, her hand moving to your waist, the other braced on the floor as she leans in. Her body’s solid above you, the kiss warm and consuming, her lips insistent in that I’ve-been-waiting-all-day kind of way.

You gasp into her mouth as she shifts, gently pressing you back onto the wooden floor, her weight settling against you just enough to make your head spin.

She exhales against your lips, low and hot. “I swear to god if someone—”

knock knock knock.

You both freeze like you’re in the middle of a crime.

From the other side of the door: “You guys better not be doing what I think you’re doing! You just arrived!”

Sevika breaks the kiss, eyes closed, head dropping to your shoulder as she groans like someone just cancelled sex forever.

You, breathless, trying not to laugh: “We’re literally just kissing!”

Sevika grits her teeth. “Can I not kiss my girlfriend without a damn SWAT team forming outside the door? Jesus—are we in a church?”

Outside the door, Ran’s unmistakable cackle echoes down the hallway. “We’re just keeping you honest, big guy!”

You both go still again, waiting, listening. Footsteps. Mel’s voice—“Leave them alone, for gods’ sake.” A door shuts down the hall. Quiet resumes.

You blink up at the ceiling, dazed. Sevika’s still hovering over you, looking like she might break something out of pure irritation.

You grin, voice sweet like honey. “Told you.”

She growls again. “I hate everyone here.”

You reach up and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, smirking. “So… I was right.”

Sevika drops her forehead to your chest. You try to fight it back, but you can’t help it. You laugh and she groans, annoyed.

Sevika doesn’t usually think of herself as the needy type.

She’s got discipline. Restraint. A sense of timing. When she wants something, she can wait for it. When you’re her girlfriend? She’s willing to be patient. Generous, even.

But this week? This goddamn trip?

It’s a nightmare.

It starts on day two, when you crawl into her lap during breakfast on the porch just to “warm up.” You’re in tiny shorts, legs bare and smooth, hoodie slipping off your shoulder. She thinks you’ll get up after a minute. You don’t. You feed her a piece of toast and tells her something about how good she looks when she scowls. She nearly chokes.

By day three, it’s worse. You’re glowing from sun, sleep, laughter, and Sevika is suffering. You kiss her neck while she’s trying to untangle her headphones. You stretch with a showy yawn in front of her like you’re not doing it on purpose. You sit on her thigh during card games and pretend you don’t notice what it does to her brain.

And the worst part?

You’re so damn smug about it. You know exactly what you’re doing. Every time she narrows her eyes at you, every time she shifts in her seat or clenches her jaw, you smile like the devil. Like you’re having the time of your life driving her up the wall.

Sevika’s trying to hold it together. She’s surrounded by friends. She’s trying to be good. But one week? A whole week of this?

It’s insane.

Her thoughts aren’t pure anymore. Not even close. She’ll be sitting around the campfire listening to Vander talk about taxes and suddenly imagine dragging you back to your room with one hand on your waist and the other already in your panties. She’ll be sipping her beer while you laugh across the room and have to look away because she knows exactly what that mouth feels like.

She gets quiet. Not moody—dangerously quiet. Like she’s on the edge of something.

Nobody notices. They all think she’s just her usual, broody self. Only you know better. Only you can see the twitch in her brow, the way her hand tightens on her thigh when you lean too close. And you love it.

You torture her for sport. She takes it because she’s stubborn, and also because, deep down, she kind of likes suffering if it’s you causing it.

But still—by the last night, she’s gone feral. Post-campfire, cheeks pink with beer, you’re sitting across from her in someone’s hoodie and her boxers, giggling while brushing your teeth like nothing’s wrong. Sevika’s on the bed behind you, one hand braced on her thigh, just watching you through the mirror.

If only she could take you from behind in front of that mirror.

Oh, that’s a good idea.

But she can’t.

And she knows—when you get home?

It’s over.

She’s going to make up for seven long days of teasing. Going to remind you that she’s patient—sure—but she’s also stronger than you. And right now, she’s holding back like her life depends on it.

You glance at her in the mirror with that innocent little, loving smile.

She doesn’t smile back.

She just mutters under her breath, “I’m gonna fucking die.”

“I love you too.”

this was probably one of the funniest fic I’ve written so far 💔 oh I LOVE writing sexual tension without actually making it to smut I love teasing so much. Also love to put angst and tiny arguments cause I feel like it’s more natural ? Like I just feel the need to imply it’s not always perfect and sevika must still have a bad temper sometimes and so does reader. FIREFIGHTER SEV LAST CHAP TOMORROW! 🫶🏻

dividers: @/cursed-carmine

taglist: @lonerslug @archangeldyke-all @riotstemple29 @blessupblessup @sevikasswifee @ahintofchaos

[sevikalvr]

THE CLEAN UP FIC WHAT???!!! Finally aomeone has a really good start before the sec I fucking loved it!

can I oretty plewase ask for a fic? Like girl I NEED it!

Think with me!

After jinx leave and go to wtv city and she meet someone so let's aay Idk she works ar a bar or maybe a diner? i like how you write your fics!

like hiney please!

MWAH i love you so much anon. hope both sides of your pillow are cold tonight as you read it, boom!

[sevikalvr]

[REQUEST] summary! — rockstar!jinx x loser!reader > first night of her rookie tour, jinx slips into a bar and meets you. things get messy— in all the right ways.

wc: 8.2k — cw: fingering (jinx!receiving), (power)bottom!jinx, top!(ish)reader, riding, strap use, heavy makeouts, hair pulling, slight overstimulation, biting, slight blood play, and cursing.

notes: anon requested this and I hope you guys enjoy it! hopefully it satisfied the vision that you were describing anon! happy reading 🌸 minors dni

The bar was nearly empty when she walked in.

It wasn’t the kind of place you wandered into by accident. Not unless you were lost. Or desperate. Or the type of person who liked the buzz of a shitty neon sign over real company. Most nights, you didn’t mind that. You liked working behind the bar because it meant you didn’t have to sit at it. Neither dealing with a shitload of people.

At least when you were wiping down countertops, you had something to do with your hands. You were half-finished stacking glasses when the door creaked open, letting in a stripe of cool night air. The clock on the wall read 1:47 a.m. The bar was supposed to close at two, but you already knew you wouldn’t kick her out. 

Boots on tile. Light steps, but confident. You looked up just enough to clock the figure walking toward you.

The blue haired girl.

Her blue streaks tangled in messy hair. Smudged eyeliner. Hoodie thrown over a glittering crop top, like she’d come straight from somewhere loud without bothering to change. She looked like the night itself had spat her out and left her standing there in your shitty bar, a half-drunk energy drink in one pocket, stage sweat still drying on her neck.

She slid onto one of the stools at the bar, close enough that you could smell faint cigarette smoke clinging to her hoodie, arms draped over the counter like she’d done it a hundred times before.

Her eyes landed on you.

And you froze.

Not because she was famous—not exactly. You weren’t the type to keep up with local bands blowing up online. But you’d seen the flyers. You knew there’d been a sold-out show tonight, first stop on some small tour. Faultline. Vi and Jinx. Their first single had hit viral numbers a few weeks ago. Your coworkers had been talking about it during shift change. Like really, she wouldn’t shut up about it.

You hadn’t gone. Crowds weren’t your thing. Neither were people really. Not your kind of cliche. But now she was here. In your bar. Looking at you like she was already a little bored and a little amused.

“Hey,” she said, eyes cutting sharp even in the shitty fluorescent light. “You alive back there, or is that just your mannequin?”

Your throat worked, but no words came out at first. Then you cleared it, setting down the glass you’d been wiping so long it practically squeaked.

“Uh yeah— sorry. What can I get you?”

Her lips tugged into a smirk, like she was letting you off the hook. For now.

“Whiskey,” she said, flicking one of her rings against the bar top. “Cheap. No ice.”

You reached for the bottle automatically, pouring her a shot without asking for ID. She didn’t need to show one. You knew who she was now. Still, you tried to play it cool. Tried to keep your hands steady as you slid the glass across the counter. She picked it up, swirling it once, and took a sip. Her eyes stayed locked on yours the whole time. The silence stretched, but not in a comfortable way. It was taut. Like she was waiting to see what you’d do next.

Most people probably fawned over her. Asked for autographs, selfies, gushed about the single that became a hit within a week. You just wiped the counter again, keeping your eyes low. That must’ve intrigued her, because she spoke first.

“You come to the show?”

You shook your head, eyes flicking toward the half-lit TV in the corner like you might find safety there.

“Didn’t have anyone to go with.”

It came out before you could stop yourself. Her lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close.

“Shame. We were good.”

“I heard.”

She leaned forward, elbows on the bar, chin resting in her hand. Her rings clinked softly against the glass as she tilted it back and forth.

“You a fan?”

You swallowed, wiping your palms on your jeans.

“Didn’t really listen to you guys until a couple days ago. A friend told me to listen.”

Her eyebrow arched, but not in a mean way.

“And?”

Your throat went dry.

“You’re loud,” you said finally, because it was the first thing that came to mind. 

Jinx laughed, an actual, from-the-chest laugh that lit up her whole face.

“Fuck yeah, we are. We’re supposed to be loud!”

You cracked a smile before you could stop it. She noticed. There was a shift after that—small, but there. Like the tension in the room twisted into something else. Something easier. Or maybe just stranger.

Jinx took another sip of her drink, eyes still locked on you.

“You work here every night?”

You nodded, “Pretty much.”

“No one else?”

“Couple people. They already left.”

She hummed, tapping her nails on the glass. Then her eyes narrowed like she was doing the math in her head.

“So what, you’re the pathetic little bartender closing up alone?”

Your face burned hot, but you didn’t argue. It wasn’t mean, the way she said it. Just blunt. Like she didn’t have time for polite lies. 

You shrugged.

“Yeah,” you muttered. “Guess so.”

Her gaze softened just a little, like that answer settled something for her.

“I get it,” she said, licking a bit of whiskey off her lip. “Sometimes it’s better to be the last one left.”

You looked at her, surprised.

“I thought you were the party type.”

“Yeah, well.” She shrugged, rolling her shoulders like she was still shaking off stage lights. “Sometimes you don’t wanna be around people who only know you for five seconds.”

You nodded, fingers skimming the rim of a clean glass, tracing circles.

“I’m not really great at people, either.”

Her eyes flicked up, sharp again. But not cold.

“Good,” she said. “Then you’re not gonna ask me for a selfie, right?”

You snorted, then instantly regretted it. But thankfully she laughed too.

“Nah,” you said, shaking your head. “Didn’t seem like you wanted the whole… fan thing.”

“Smart,” she grinned, swirling the last of her whiskey. “You’re awkward. I kinda like it.”

The compliment made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t ready for. 

��..Thanks, I guess,” you mutter, mainly to yourself as you put a glass away.

Regardless, minutes stretched. The clock ticked past two. You didn’t tell her to leave. She didn’t get up.

Instead, she drummed her fingers on the counter, watching you clean up, eyes following your every move like she was cataloguing you for later. Matter of fact she wouldn't even stop talking about how her show was. Talking about some ‘fever dream’ and ‘it being one hell of a first time’ or somewhere along the lines of that. As if she was talking for you at this point.

But you? Well you tried not to fidget under the attention, but it was hard. You weren’t used to being noticed. Most nights you were background noise—just another burnout stuck in a town where nothing changed except the price of beer. Maybe trays of eggs too from time to time but that’s about it. 

While Jinx on the other hand, she looked at you like you were a puzzle piece she’d found on the floor and wasn’t sure whether to pocket or step on. She set her empty glass down and stretched her arms above her head, hoodie riding up to expose a sliver of stomach. You looked away, ears burning.

“Hey,” she said suddenly, voice slicing through the quiet. “When’re you off?”

Your heart stuttered.

“Uhm. In like—ten minutes, I guess. Gotta finish closing out.”

Her mouth curved into something dangerous. Something sharp but soft around the edges.

“Cool,” she said, hopping off the stool like it was already decided. “I’ll wait then.”

Finally, you finished wiping down the bar with shaking hands. Every second stretched out longer than it needed to. You counted the register twice, just to stall, but your brain wasn’t in it anymore. You could feel her behind you, pacing a little, fingers tapping on the countertop like she was tapping out a beat only she could hear.

By the time you hung up your apron, your chest was tight with nerves. You weren’t smooth. You weren’t the kind of person girls like her noticed. Hell, you’d spent most of your life trying not to be noticed at all.

But Jinx was leaning against the door now, hoodie unzipped halfway, a cigarette dangling from her lips unlit. You pushed out into the alley toward your car, keys cold in your hand, trying to get your breathing under control. Didn’t work though.

The second your foot hit the pavement, she was there. Her hand caught your wrist, pulling you back toward her, spinning you halfway around before you could process it.

And then she kissed you. 

She was kissing you.

Her lips were soft but insistent, mouth crashing into yours like she didn’t have time to waste. Her fingers tangled in your hoodie, yanking you closer until your back hit the brick wall of the alley. You gasped into her mouth, breath hitching, but she didn’t slow down. She kissed you like she was still riding the high from the show—fast, hungry, no filter. So fast you couldn’t even fucking process it at first.

Your hands hovered uselessly for a second before you finally, finally, grabbed her waist. Fingers clumsy, palms sweating, and body heating up quick.

She laughed against your lips, biting down just enough to make you shiver.

“God, you’re nervous,” she whispered, breath hot against your mouth. “That’s cute.”

You tried to say something, anything, but all that came out was a soft, embarrassing sound that only made her grin wider. Her teeth scraped your bottom lip as she pulled back, eyes glittering in the dim alley light.

“Relax,” she murmured. “I’m not gonna bite.”

Then her mouth twisted, smirking.

“Unless you want me to, hot stuff.”

Your chest tightened. Your brain short-circuited. And still—you didn’t pull away. How could you? Someone as beautiful as her, shit you’d thank her if she even kicked you. Before you knew it, her mouth was back on yours making your mind go blank in an instant

It was messy. Too fast. Like she didn’t care about angles or technique, just wanted the connection, the heat. Her lips pressed hard, teeth knocking against yours once, but she didn’t apologize. She laughed into the kiss, breath warm, lips soft but aggressive like she was trying to start trouble with her mouth alone.

Your back hit the wall again, cold brick scraping your hoodie, and you let out a sound you wished you could take back— a quiet, panicked breath, half-whimper, half-shock.

She noticed.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, lips brushing your jaw, grinning wide. “Is this… seriously your first time getting kissed in an alley?”

You tried to say something—tried to laugh it off—but your throat locked up. Your hands were probably having a death grip on her waist at this point. It was obvious.

Her fingers curled into your hoodie, pulling you closer anyway.

“You’re adorable,” she breathed, her tongue flicking the corner of your mouth, hot and teasing. “God, look at you. You’re freaking out.”

“I—uh—”

“Shh.” She bit your lower lip, not hard, but enough to make your knees weak. “Don’t talk. Just let me.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

Her hands slid up, fingers tangling in the back of your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head the way she wanted. Her lips dragged across yours again, this time slower but just as messy, her teeth grazing soft skin, her breath coming faster.

You tried to kiss her back, as if you were trying to match her rhythm, but you weren’t smooth. Your lips pressed awkwardly into hers, almost too hard, like you were worried about doing it wrong.

She loved it.

Her nails scraped gently at the back of your neck, her body pressing against yours, hips pinning you to the wall. She kissed you like she wanted to wear you down, break you open, keep you twitchy and nervous because it was more fun that way.

Your hands had landed on her hips again— stiff, unsure, fingers twitching like you couldn’t decide where to put them.

She laughed again, nose brushing yours.

“You’re really bad at this,” she whispered, but there was no cruelty in it. Just warmth. Chaos. A spark of something that felt like mercy.

Her lips trailed down, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the space right under your ear that made you gasp.

“That’s okay,” she added, voice low, lips ghosting against your skin. “I like that.”

Your stomach twisted so hard you thought you might pass out. Your heart beats in your throat. Your hands fumbled against her waist, squeezing a little tighter now, trying to keep up, but still too careful. She pressed her thigh between your legs, grinning when your breath hitched again.

“God, you’re jumpy,” she teased, her lips curving into another smile against your neck. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you how.”

Her mouth found yours again—this time slower, deeper, her tongue sliding against yours, coaxing instead of crashing. You melted into it, sloppy, needy, chest tight like you’d never be able to breathe right again. And maybe you wouldn’t.

Not after this. Definitely not.

You kissed her back, but it wasn’t smooth— not even close. At this point you’re balling this shit.

Your mouth pressed into hers too hard, nose bumping hers, breath shallow and shaky. It wasn’t confident; it wasn’t controlled. It was the kind of kiss you gave someone when you’d never really kissed anyone like this before—when you were terrified of doing it wrong, but more terrified of stopping.

Your lips parted against hers, breath catching, trying to copy the way she kissed you. But your teeth knocked into hers on accident, and you made a tiny, panicked noise in the back of your throat. She pulled back just half an inch, laughing softly, eyes half-lidded, lips slick.

“Shit,” you muttered, heart hammering. “Sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry.” Her grin widened. “It’s cute.”

Your face went hot. Embarrassment prickled under your skin, but she didn’t let go. Her fingers stayed tangled in your hoodie, knuckles brushing your ribs like she was keeping you in place.

“I— my car’s over there,” you blurted out, barely able to get the words out between shallow breaths. “It’s like right there. Just in the alley. If you.. if you wanted to—”

You swallowed hard, words tripping over each other, too fast, too eager.

She tilted her head, smirking against your lips.

“Oh, yeah?” Her breath ghosted over your mouth. “Your car, huh?”

Your stomach flipped.

“I mean— yeah. We could go there. Or not. It’s fine if not.”

Her hand slipped up under your hoodie, fingers cold against the bare skin at your waist. You shivered.

“I think you’re gonna pass out if I keep kissing you here,” she whispered, teasing, lips brushing yours again.

You let out a nervous, breathy laugh, eyes darting everywhere but her face.

“I just..” You licked your lips, voice cracking a little. “I don’t usually do this.”

“No shit,” she grinned.

Your ears burned. Your hands twitched awkwardly at her sides, like you couldn’t figure out where to put them.

“I mean—” you tried to backpedal, words spilling faster, “not that I don’t want to, I just— I don’t usually—”

Jinx shut you up with another kiss. Harder this time. Sloppier. To really shut you up..

Her tongue slid against yours, her lips slick and insistent, and you whimpered into it, actually whimpered, and your knees buckled just slightly, body caving forward into her. My god you were actually so pathetic it's kind of sad. But to Jinx, it was amusing.

She caught you, both hands on your hips now, steadying you like she’d expected it.

“Okay, loser,” she breathed against your mouth, still grinning. “Let’s go to your car.”

You couldn’t even speak. You just nodded, heart about to punch through your chest, fingers trembling as you fumbled for your keys. Her hand stayed at the small of your back, guiding you toward it like you might get lost otherwise.

Your hands shook as you unlocked the car.

Keys jittering, almost dropping them, because of course you did.

Jinx didn’t say a word—she just watched you with that same amused grin, like this was her favorite part. Like she’d picked you out of the crowd on purpose because you were terrible at this. But you managed to start the car somehow.

Fucking barely.

Your hands shook on the steering wheel, fingers slick against the leather. You kept your eyes straight ahead, pretending like you weren’t short-circuiting. Like you hadn’t just made out with Jinx in an alley, like she wasn’t sitting in your passenger seat right now, legs up on the dash like she owned the place.

You tried to breathe normally. Didn’t work.

The car was too small, the air too thick, your body still buzzing from the feel of her mouth on yours. Your heart hadn’t slowed down once—not since she pinned you against that wall and kissed you like she’d decided you were hers for the night.

And now?

Now she was next to you, legs stretched out, boot tapping lazily on the glove compartment, hoodie half-zipped, glitter still clinging to her collarbones. She drummed her fingers on her thigh, watching you with a sideways smirk like she was already planning her next move.

You kept your eyes glued to the road.

White-knuckling the steering wheel like if you focused hard enough, you could pretend this was normal.

“Wow,” she said finally, voice light, teasing. “You always drive like you’re about to get pulled over?”

Your throat tightened.

“No,” you mumbled, barely audible.

Your eyes stayed locked on the yellow lines in front of you. The urge to check the rearview mirror was useless—you weren’t worried about traffic. You were worried about her. About the way she was looking at you, all sharp corners and soft lips, like she’d peeled you open back in that alley and wasn’t planning to stop.

Jinx shifted in her seat, twisting so she could face you fully. One of her boots dropped from the dash, hitting the floorboard with a dull thud.

“God, you’re tense,” she whispered, grinning like she was letting you in on some inside joke. “Relax, I’m not gonna kill you.”

You swallowed. Or tried to. Her hand landed on your thigh. Casual. Like it meant nothing.

Your whole body went stiff. Your fingers gripped the wheel harder, eyes widening as heat shot straight through you. She laughed under her breath, fingertips tapping once against your jeans.

“Christ,” she murmured, leaning closer, voice brushing your ear. “You’re freaking out, aren’t you?”

You stayed silent. You couldn’t trust your voice—not like this.

Her fingers curled, nails pressing gently into your leg. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make you jolt a little in your seat.

“You’re so easy to mess with,” she whispered, grinning wide. “I don’t even have to try.”

Your ears burned. Your face went hot.

You kept driving, slow, probably too slow, but your brain wasn’t even processing the road anymore.

All you could think about was her hand. Her fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh. The way she shifted in her seat to get closer, her breath warm against your neck, her lips right there like she was daring you to do something. But you didn’t. You literally couldn’t. Internally you were probably doing more than just screaming, hell. You just gripped the wheel tighter, teeth pressing into your bottom lip to keep from making any pathetic sound.

“Hey,” she whispered again, softer this time. Her fingers dragged a lazy circle on your leg. “You’re real quiet over there.”

You nodded once, eyes glued to the road, heart thudding so loud it drowned out everything else.

“It’s nice,” she added, her lips brushing the shell of your ear now. “Kinda hot, actually. Watching you try so hard not to crash.”

You swallowed so hard it hurt. The turn for your street came up faster than you wanted. You almost missed it. Her hand was still on your thigh when you pulled into your driveway— messy, crooked, one tire hitting the curb because you weren’t paying attention.

She laughed, breathless. Almost shocked at what she’s witnessing currently.

“Holy shit,” she grinned. “You really are a disaster.”

You put the car in park with shaking hands. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t know how to. Jesus you’re such a pathetic person. Lord help you.

Her fingers squeezed your leg one more time before she let go.

“C’mon, loser,” she whispered, lips grazing your ear. “Show me your place.”

You sat there for half a second, trying to catch your breath, your palms slick against the gear shift. But you still didn’t say anything. You just nodded again, eyes slightly wide, pulse racing. And then you got out of the car, legs shaking, face burning, while she followed behind, still grinning like this was the most fun she’d had all night.

                                    ──────────

The second you unlocked the door to your apartment, you panicked. You forgot it would look like this.

Clothes scattered. Dishes in the sink. An empty ramen cup on the coffee table along with a half glass of water beside it. A dead plant in the corner you’d meant to throw away but never did. The couch still had a blanket tossed over it from when you crashed there last night because you were too tired to make it to your bed.

“Shit, sorry,” you blurted out, rushing in first like you could somehow hide the mess by standing in front of it. “Sorry— it’s usually not this messy..”

You looked around. Yeah. Who were you lying too? It was always this bad. You rubbed the back of your neck, eyes darting everywhere but her.

“I didn’t know anyone was coming over.. obviously,” your voice cracked on the last word, muttering the last part mainly to yourself..

Jinx stepped inside after you, letting the door swing shut behind her. She didn’t even blink at the mess.

Her eyes were on you, not the disaster zone you lived in.

“Wow,” she said, spinning in a lazy half-circle, boots scuffing the floor. “Real fancy place you got here.”

You felt your face go hot.

“I was gonna clean—”

“Sure you were, buster.”

You pushed some crap off the couch, a hoodie, crumpled fast food bag, an old receipt— and tried to make a space for her to sit.

“I mean.. it’s not always this bad,” you stammered. “Just— I work late, you know? And sometimes I forget, and then it just kinda..”

You trailed off because she wasn’t looking at the couch. She was looking at you. Still smirking. But not mean.

Her eyes dragged over you, head tilted just slightly, like she was reading something only she could see.

“You always do this?” she asked, stepping closer.

“Do what?”

“Apologize for existing.”

Your stomach twisted. You opened your mouth, probably to apologize for apologizing, but she reached out, grabbing the front of your hoodie and tugging you toward her.

“You’re hot when you’re nervous,” she whispered, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Did I tell you that already?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out. You didn’t believe her. You didn’t know how to. Cause this certainly didn’t seem very.. uhm, attractive. But her hands were already sliding under the hem of your hoodie, fingers cold against your skin again, tracing lazy shapes on your stomach.

“God, you’re tense,” she murmured, grinning against your neck now. “Relax. I like it messy.”

You weren’t sure if she meant the apartment or you. Maybe both. Your breath hitched when her lips found the curve of your jaw, teeth scraping just a little, her hands pulling you closer.

“I should clean up first,” you tried to say, but your voice barely worked.

“Nope,” she whispered, mouth trailing along your throat. “Too late.”

Your knees almost buckled. Your hands hovered at her sides again, twitching like you wanted to grab her, but you didn’t know where to start.

She noticed. She always noticed.

“C’mere,” she whispered, tugging your hoodie off over your head before you could overthink it. Her fingers skimmed your ribs, nails scratching soft lines into your skin.

You shivered.

“Still freaking out?” she asked, smiling against your neck.

You nodded.

She laughed, breath warm.

“Good.”

You kissed her again, clumsy and desperate. Like you didn’t know how to pace yourself, like you’d combust if you didn’t touch her right now. Lips crashing into hers, too eager, teeth knocking once—but she didn’t pull away. She made a soft sound in the back of her throat, biting your bottom lip, her hands sliding up your back, nails dragging just enough to make you gasp.

“Messy,” she whispered, grinning into your mouth. “Told you I like it.”

You barely made it to the couch before she pushed you down onto it, crawling into your lap, knees on either side of your thighs. Staring at the sight in front of you, almost as if you were in disbelief that you had a girl this divine sitting on your lap. 

WIllingly.

Your hands fumbled at her hoodie, too shaky, fingers slipping underneath the hem. She let you try for a second before she took over— grinning, pulling it off herself, like it was nothing. And underneath, the same sparkly top from the show, straps sliding off her shoulders, glitter catching the shitty apartment light. 

You swallowed thickly.

It was barely covering anything.

“You’re staring,” she teased, breath hot against your cheek.

“I don’t—”

“Shh..” she whispered, lips brushing yours. “Just keep looking at me like that baby.”

Her hips rocked against yours, and your brain short-circuited. Your hands flew on her thighs, gripping tight this time, not thinking, just reacting. Because there was no room left in your head for anything else. Holy shit you felt drunk, off of adrenaline. 

Your breath came in short, sharp gasps. Your face burned. Your heart felt like it was about to punch out of your chest. And still, you didn’t stop. You didn’t apologize again. Because for some reason, she liked this. Liked you like this.. nervous, messy, way in over your head. Her mouth crashed into yours, all tongue and teeth and soft sounds that made your stomach twist.

You were a disaster. But somehow? It was exactly what she wanted. 

Her lips dragged across your throat, warm and wet, biting softly one second and harder the next. Your back hit the couch cushions, hoodie long gone, your chest rising and falling like you’d just run a mile. She was in your lap again— grinding down against you, fingers curled in your hair, tugging just enough to keep you squirming.

Your hands gripped her thighs, unsure at first, twitchy. You wanted to touch her everywhere but didn’t know where to start. Your heart hammered too loud, your breath came too fast, and your body shook with the kind of nerves that made you feel stupid.

But she didn’t seem to mind.

Jinx leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“How are you feeling now?” she whispered, voice low, playful.

Your breath hitches just barely, “Great.” 

Her mouth curved into a grin.

“Cute.”

Her hands slid up your chest, cold fingers trailing up the sides of your sports bra. Your skin shivered under her touch, stomach tightening in response.

“I could eat you alive like this,” she whispered, teeth grazing your jaw, hips slowly grinding down again. “All scared. All shaky.”

You let out a sound— somewhere between a gasp and a soft curse, and clutched her hips harder. Her breath hitched too, just a little, but she didn’t stop teasing. She nipped your throat, sucking a mark into the soft skin under your jaw, then pulled back just enough to look at you.

Eyes sharp. Glitter still stuck to her collarbone. Pupils blown wide.

“Hey,” she murmured, tilting her head, strands of messy blue hair falling into her face. “You gonna sit there all night, or you gonna do something?”

Your stomach twisted hard. For a second, you froze. Then your hands moved.

Fast.

Clumsy, at first— fingers sliding up her sides, untying the corset and dragging her sparkly top with them, fumbling with the hem. She raised her arms for you, grinning wide as you peeled it off, tossing it somewhere behind the couch.

And then?

That’s when you saw them. Clearly.

Her fucking piercings.

Twin barbells through her nipples— silver, shiny, catching the low light of your shitty apartment, yet again.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands hovered.

“Oh,” she purred, following your eyes. “These?”

She rolled her hips again, slow and deliberate, making you stifle a gasp.

“They’re fun to play with.”

Your mouth opened just barley, but no words came out. Your fingers twitched at your sides, unsure for half a second longer.

But then?

Something flipped.

The nerves burned off all at once, like a fuse snapping. Your hand came up, quick, bold now, gripping her by her loose braids. She gasped, eyes flashing wide for just a second, mouth parting in surprise.

And you kissed her.

Hard. And messy. Your teeth clashing against hers as your other hand came up to grab the nape of her neck to pull her even closer. Forcing your tongue in her mouth to finally get a taste of her, only being met with subtle hints of whiskey from earlier.  Her hands slapped against your chest, but she wasn’t pushing you away. She was grabbing, clawing, nails dragging over your skin as your fingers tangled in the back of her hair, tugging her closer. Hell, even itched to get your own bra off. 

“You’re learning,” she whispered against your lips, breath ragged.

You didn’t answer.

You leaned in, mouth trailing down her neck, biting hard enough to make her gasp again—this time sharper, chest hitching against yours. And then you went lower.

Your lips found her chest, tongue flicking against one of the piercings before your teeth closed around it, tugging. As if you were testing her reaction to see if she really meant her words. 

She swore under her breath, fingers tightening in your hair.

“Fuck,” she whispered, voice cracking just a little, “Jeez don’t break me..”

You only bit harder. A tiny bead of blood welled up around the barbell, bright against her skin. Her hips jerked. Her nails dragged down your back, scraping sharp, but she didn’t tell you to stop.

She liked it.

Her breath came in fast, shallow bursts as you moved to the other one, tugging there too, watching her squirm.

“Jesus,” she gasped, back arching into you. “Look at you now.”

Your teeth grazed her skin again, tongue lapping at the sharp sting of metal and blood. Even enclosing your mouth around her nipple to suck softly, the taste of metallic being met on your tongue. Your fingers gripped her thighs, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks, bruises even.

She loved it. Clearly.

Her eyes were glassy, pupils huge, breath coming fast.

“You’re—shit—you’re mean now, huh?” she whispered, but her voice was shaky in a way that wasn’t all teasing anymore.

You bit her collarbone, sucking another mark there, lips dragging over sweat-slick skin, and her body writhed in your lap. Your nerves are gone now. Burned out even. All that was left was this—heat rolling through you, control taking over like you’d done this a thousand times before. Like it was just another night, even though it wasn’t.

Your hands slid down to her ass, gripping hard, shifting her against you. Pulling her close to where you looked up at her, catching her faze being in a fucking daze.

Her breath caught.

“Couch,” you muttered, voice low, wrecked, but steady now. “Lay down.”

She blinked, still dazed, but she did what you said—flopping onto her back, braids splayed across the cushions, glitter smearing everywhere.

Her chest rose and fell fast, nipples still red from your mouth, tiny smudge of blood where you’d bit too hard.

She licked her lips, eyes locked on you, pupils huge.

“You’re full of surprises,” she whispered, voice ragged, eyes shining.

Your hands pressed her thighs apart. Her breath hitched again. You weren’t nervous anymore.

And she knew it. 

The couch creaked under both of you—her on her back, you straddling her thighs, hands braced at her sides. Her lips were still wet from the kiss. Her chest rose and fell fast, eyes locked on you, cheeks flushed. You pulled at the button of her jeans, steady now. No more fumbling, just doing.

Her breath hitched.

“You’re really gonna—”

You popped the button open without letting her finish.

Her smirk twitched into something breathless. Her hips lifted when you tugged the denim down, peeling it off slow, but not teasing—controlling. Purposeful. Like you’d figured it out all at once and weren’t giving her time to catch up.

Her underwear came with it.

Blue lace, damp in the center. Talk about dripping, her pussy was fucking glistening with her arousal. Her thighs trembled under your hands when you gripped them, pushing her knees apart wider.

You stared at her for a second, chest tight, but not nervous anymore. Just hungry.

She was slick, glistening in the low light, and her hips rolled up toward you, greedy.

“Fuck,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Look at you now.”

You didn’t say anything. You leaned down, lips finding her throat, biting hard enough to leave another mark, then trailing lower.

Her hands clawed at the couch cushions as your mouth moved down her body— teeth dragging over the little smudge of blood still fresh on her chest, tongue flicking her nipple again, tugging at the piercing just to feel her jolt beneath you.

Her whole body writhed.

“Fuck— do that again,” she gasped.

So you did. But then you kept going.

Your hands slid down her stomach, fingers tracing sharp hip bones, thumbs pressing into her skin like you wanted to leave fingerprints.

And when you sat back to pull your own jeans off, she caught sight of something new.

Her eyes dropped to your stomach— and there it was.

The tattoo.

Low on your left side, right near your hip as it stretched down your upper thigh. Script lettering, black ink, sharp design, barely visible above the waistband before— but now?

Now she saw all of it.

Her breath hitched, eyes locked there.

“Well, well,” she whispered, lips curling. “Didn’t think you had that in you, hot stuff.”

Her fingers reached out, tracing it— soft at first, then harder, nails scratching just a little. You shivered under her touch.

“What’s it mean?” she asked, voice low.

You didn’t answer. You grabbed her wrist, pinning it back against the couch cushion.

Her eyes went wide. But not scared. Surprised. Excited even.

“Guess it doesn’t matter,” she whispered, breathless now. Smiling like a maniac.

Your mouth crashed into hers again, wet, messy, open-mouthed. While she was distracted, your hand slid between her legs. Two fingers pressed against her, dragging slowly through her slick folds as if she was already prepared for you. Teasing once as your fingers were coated in her arousal before suddenly pushing inside.

Her back arched.

“Oh—” she gasped, nails digging into the couch. “God, you’re—”

You curled your fingers, dragging them just right, and her breath caught again, cut off sharp. Her eyes fluttered, hips jerking.

And you didn’t stop. You set the rhythm. Slow at first, letting her squirm, letting her need it.

Then faster.

Her thighs trembled around your wrist, breath coming in soft whimpers.

“Shit—fuck—you’re..”

Her head tipped back, blue hair spilling everywhere, lips parted, eyes glassy. You leaned down, mouth at her neck, biting again—this time harder, hard enough that she gasped your name. Her slick coated your fingers, dripping down your palm, and you kept going, curling inside her until her thighs locked up, shaking. The obscene noises filling up in the living room, only increasing as you quicken your pace.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, voice breaking. Almost as if she was pleading.

You didn’t. You pressed your thumb against her clit, rolling it just right, fingers still working inside her, lips dragging up her throat, biting her jaw. Rough and messy. Just how she likes it.

She fell apart in your hands, legs shaking, hips jerking against your wrist as her orgasm shot straight through her. Her breath came in broken gasps, body twitching, whimpering your name out as your fingers slowly stilled within her.

And you held her down, kept her there, watching the way her face flushed, watching her eyes blur.

“Holy…fuck,” she whispered, voice wrecked.

You pulled your fingers out slowly, dragging them along her skin before wiping them on her thigh, smearing slick there just because only you could.

She stared at you, chest heaving, lips swollen from your kisses.

“Jesus lady,” she whispered, breathless. “Who the hell are you?”

You didn’t answer. You just grinned.

And then you kissed her again— messy, dominant, no apologies left in you at all.

Eventually, you scooped her up without thinking. Arms under her thighs, her back against your chest—just lifted her clean off the couch like it was nothing.

Her eyes went wide.

“Whoa—”

You didn’t give her time to finish.

You carried her down the hall, barefoot, heartbeat steady now but adrenaline still buzzing through your veins. Your hands gripped the backs of her thighs, her body light in your arms, her breath warm against your neck.

“Okay,” she whispered, half laughing, half breathless. “Didn’t think you had that in you.”

Her hand curled against your shoulder, nails dragging lightly.

“Strong for a loser,” she teased, but her voice cracked a little when you shifted her higher in your grip.

You kicked your bedroom door open with your foot. She blinked in surprise. The room was… different from the rest of the apartment. Sheets clean. Bed made. Warm lamp turned on in the corner. A soft throw blanket folded on the edge of the mattress. Still lived-in, still yours—but not a disaster like the rest of your place.

Her eyes flicked around as you set her down on the bed, her hair spilling across the pillow, lips parted. Her braids weren’t even intact anymore at this point. 

“Damn,” she murmured, eyes locking on yours. “Didn’t expect this.”

You just shrugged, hands braced on the bed beside her.

“I clean the places I sleep… not counting the couch,” your voice was low now, steady, no nerves left. Her mouth twitched into a grin.

“I can tell.”

Your hand slid under the bed for the box you kept there— quiet, practiced. As if it was only saved for special occasions such as times like these. The strap came out smooth, black silicone, the harness already buckled because you weren’t the type to waste time fumbling for it when you needed it. With only a soft click being audible in the room.

What? A girl has her needs.

Jinx’s eyes flicked down to it—pupils wide, lips curving. But then? She reached for it.

“Nope,” she whispered, fingers wrapping around the base, eyes sharp. “My turn.”

You blinked, breath stuttering for a second. But not from nerves this time. Just from the look she gave you. Hungry. Sharp. Glitter still smudged under her eyes, streaks following down her cheeks from the tears that slipped out earlier from pleasure.

She pushed you on the bed, straddling your lap again, thighs tight against your sides. Pushing you back onto the mattress like she had something to prove to you. 

“You got your turn,” she murmured, mouth brushing yours, breath hot. “Now It’s mine.”

Her hand slipped between you, guiding the strap where she wanted it—pressing it against herself, slick already against her soaked cunt, eyes fluttering shut for half a second as she rolled her hips just to tease. Your hands gripped her thighs again, nails digging in, but you didn’t stop her. Didn’t want to. The sight in front of you was fucking delirious. Shit, it almost made you drool. 

Her eyes flashed open, locking onto yours.

“Look at me,” she whispered.

And you obliged. You watched as she sank down slow, breath hitching, her nails digging into your shoulders, red lines streaking against your skin as her fingers dragged down. Her thighs trembled as she bottomed out, hips pressing flush against yours as her teeth grinded each other to ease the pain.

“God,” she gasped, eyes fluttering.

Your breath came sharp, hands moving up to grip her waist, steadying her. But she set the pace now. Her hips rolled forward, then back— grinding, slow at first, lips parting, a soft moan spilling out of her mouth.

“Shit you’re—” she started to say, but cut herself off with another gasp, her nails scraping down your chest.

You gritted your teeth, watching her move—watching the way her body flexed, the muscles in her stomach tightening with each grind. Her blue hair fell into her face, sweat beading on her collarbones, chest heaving. Her hands braced on your shoulders, using you for leverage, moving harder now, hips moving faster.

“Look so fucking good like this..” you manage to mutter as your breath shortens, her movements catching you off guard. Her eyes widening slightly hearing you curse which shoots straight to her core.

The strap slicked between her thighs, her breath coming ragged, hips snapping forward as she fucked herself on you. As if she was using you. And you let her. But your hands stayed tight on her hips— guiding her, gripping her hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck! You’re gonna make me—” she gasped, biting her bottom lip, eyes squeezing shut.

Her body rocked against yours, thighs trembling, clit grinding against the base of the harness with every thrust. Your hand only reached down, your thumb pressing against her swollen nub, pressure hard enough to enhance the pleasure for her as she elicited a series of moans from your touch.

And then she broke. Another orgasm shooting through her in waves of pleasure. Her whole body shook, chest heaving, a sharp cry of your name tearing from her throat as she came hard— hips jerking, back arching, nails digging into your shoulders like she needed something to hold onto.

You held her steady.

Watched her ride it out. Watched her fall apart in your lap.

Your lap.

Her breath came fast, sweat slick between her breasts, eyes fluttering open as she slumped forward—forehead against your collarbone, lips brushing your neck.

“Fuck,” she whispered, voice wrecked. “Okay—okay—that was..”

She didn’t finish the sentence. 

You held her close, hands soft now, one of them sliding into her hair, fingers threading through the messy strands. Her body stayed pressed to yours—trembling but steady, lips brushing lazy kisses against your skin, breath slowing.

Neither of you spoke for a minute. Because you weren’t done. Not even close. Your hands stayed tight on her waist, fingers twitching once, then gripping harder.

Before she could even catch her breath, your hips bucked— fast, sharp.

She gasped, body jolting in your lap, eyes flying open, “Hey!—”

You grabbed her hair, fisting it at the nape of her neck, and pulled. She arched for you, chest pressed against yours, throat bared, still breathless from riding you but now wide-eyed again, caught off guard by the shift.

You flipped her over in one motion, quick and smooth, back hitting the mattress, her legs falling open under you. Her lips parted— some half-moan, half-laugh spilling out like oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be?

But she didn’t stop you. She didn’t want to.

Your hand pressed between her shoulder blades, pinning her there. The other stayed at your strap, lining it back up, sliding inside again—easy, slick from the way she’d just came all over it. Her pussy clenching around the base as if she was in fucking heat. Her body jolted uncontrollably under you.

“Fuck you’re weird,” she whispered out harshly as her arms sprawled across the bed.

“Yeah? You love it,” your voice being hoarse and low, lips near her ear.

And yeah, she really fucking loved it.

Her hands gripped the sheets, eyes squeezing shut as you snapped your hips forward— deeper this time, harder, not giving her room to catch up. This was for you now. Your pace sets the tone. Fast, rough, sweat slick between both of you. The slap of skin-on-skin filled the room, the creak of the bedframe, her breath coming in broken gasps.

Her nails clawed at the sheets, body twitching every time your hips met hers.

You stayed over her— pressing her down, fucking into her with steady, brutal rhythm.  Her head twisted against the pillow, mouth open, eyes glassy. Your dripping cunt rubbing against the strap just right.

You hovered over her, forehead resting against hers.

“So fucking pretty,” you mumbled, voice low, steady.

Her whole body shuddered at your words.

You reached up, grabbed her hair again, and pulled her head back just enough so she could feel your breath on her neck— mouth dragging across her skin, biting once, leaving another mark. Her hips jerked, but you held her steady.

Snapping into her harder now, chasing your own climax, no nerves, no second-guessing, just raw muscle memory and adrenaline, like your body had been waiting for this the whole damn night.

She came again— didn’t even mean to. But her body betrayed her, legs shaking, another sharp cry ripping from her throat. You didn’t stop. You worked through it, dragging every last twitch from her until your own breath broke, your thighs tensed, and the last of the heat rolled through your gut, low and hot. Rolling through you as your own body twitched and bucked against her. Fuck.

Been awhile since you’ve felt that good.

Your hips slowed.. finally. Both of you collapsed into the sheets, sweat-slick, breathless.

You held her close after that. Hands soft now— fingers threading through her messy hair, nails trailing gentle patterns along her scalp. Fingers slowly glide down her hair as if you were untangling it.

Her body stayed pressed to yours, trembling but steady, lips brushing lazy kisses against your skin, breath slowing. Neither of you spoke for a minute. The both of you caught your breaths as she just turned her head to look at you. Your eyes glance down at her. Her nose nudged against yours for a moment, as if she was hesitant to do something that wasn't messy.

Your lips part ever so slightly, she inches closer. And you closed the gap— but this time the kiss went slow. Soft. 

Something unlike either of you. Your lips moved at a steady rhythm against hers as she matched the pace. Her hand comes up to rest against her cheek, pulling you into more of a passionate kiss. As if it’s her way of showing her gratitude without saying it.

The room smelled like sweat and skin and the sharp metallic tang of blood still faint on her chest where you’d bitten too hard. Neither of you two cared though.

Your heart slowed as she broke the kiss. Both of you panting softly. Her hand now curled against your stomach—soft, almost absent-minded. Fingertips ghosting over the edge of your tattoo again.

You let her.

                               ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

As the sun started to rise early in the morning. As if it's any other day like it would be. Like a routine. But instead this time, Jinx finally slipped out of bed— barefoot, hair a wreck, pulling your hoodie that was sitting on your chair over her naked body. You caught her grinning to herself like she’d gotten away with something.

You stayed half-asleep, head sunk into the pillow, eyes half-lidded as she scribbled something on the notepad from your nightstand.

You didn’t question. Made no move to stop her. You just let her go.

But the minute you felt a pair of soft lips touch your forehead. For a moment you felt at peace in what felt like months. Your eyes flutter shut at the contact, almost as if you were expecting for more. Jinx mumbled under her breath, but she was too quiet for you to make out what she said.

Although, when you finally woke up, sunlight was bleeding through the curtains, the house was quiet. She was gone. But there it was.

A note underneath it, scrawled in her shitty handwriting;

Didn’t think you had that in you. Call me anyway, loser.

Her number was scribbled underneath it. A little doodle next to it— a jagged smiley face, one eye crossed out. Like she couldn’t help herself. And that was the morning you looked her up, seriously this time. And yeah— that’s when you found out who she was. Or well you knew, but just.. double checking. It doesn't hurt to see more about her.

A rockstar.

A firestarter.

Jinx.

You read the note twice. Then a third time. But you kept that night to yourself. Her number burned into your head, but you didn’t call. Not yet.

Some nights, you still wonder what would happen if you did. And whether she meant it or not.

[sevikalvr]

FREAK

“baby if you wanna leave, come to california and be a freak like me too.”

|| cw. stripper!reader , marking, thigh humping, fingering , loser!ellie !! , prolly short!!

There she was—in that same spot that she always sat perched up in.

It was as if she was a bunny in a wolves den.

It was cute—at least to you.

She had that shaggy auburn hair, matching with her hazel green eyes along with the freckles that kissed along her flushed cheeks. Quite a pretty girl she was, but dressed like a total geek.

A random band graphic tee with some baggy jorts, paired with some converse’s that has definitely seen some better days. She always order the same drink and nursed it for a while until you would come along.

You were the only reason why she came here in the first place.

You see, when she first came here, out of pure curiosity, you were the first girl she bumped into and she nearly melted. The sweet perfume you wore completely drowned in her, almost intoxicating. You were gentle with her as you sat her down, asking her if she wanted a show—which she stuttered messily as she agreed.

Ever since that day, she’s been hooked.

And today was no different…

Her eyes immediately flickered to your as you slowly made your way down the flashing halls, music booming through the building as the lights flashed against your oiled body. Ellie almost lost it right there. A crooked grin crept along her lips as she sat up more straight—almost painfully.

“H-hey…you look good…really good.”

You couldn’t even help the small laugh that slipped from your plump lips, finding how nervous she was—even after everything. Your eyes gleamed with mischief and excitement, slowly bracing yourself over her lap as you brushed a thumb over her warm cheek.

“Thank you, sugar. Missed me much, I see?”

She nodded her head eagerly, nearly giving herself whiplash. Her clammy hands crawled slowly up your thighs, squeezing them gently as she gazed at you with that look—that look that just screamed desperation and need. “I have…”

“Mm, c’mon with me…stop being so scared. You know I ain’t no harm—everything but that, actually…” Your words were smooth like butter, slowly pulling her into you more before luring her lips into yours. She nearly whimpered in the kiss as your tongue builled it’s way in her mouth—gradually exploring her.

Her hand tensed around your thighs before moving up to your waist, pressing your body closer to hers as you were settled on her thigh—giving her the perfect chance to control for once. Slowly slipping down to your hips, her hands guided your movements so slowly against her, groaning at the growing wetness she felt on her thigh.

You both shared a groan in the deep kiss, feeling the tension slowly build up between you. Your arms would wrap around her neck to pull her closer in the kiss, nearly suffocating her with how deeply you were kissing her. Ellie didn’t complain though, especially not with how she was dripping in her boxers. Your lips pulled away from here, noticing how she looked so pathetic trying to get more of your lips.

It made you giggle slightly before you dipped your head down into her neck, sucking and kissing at her pale, freckle-kissed neck—leaving the blooming marks across her flesh. Her eyes fluttered at the sensation as her hands gripped your hips, nearly leaving marks. She guided you messily against her thigh, causing you to moan against her neck as you felt your clit throb.

“Please…” Her voice cracked slightly with desperation, staring at you with that pathetic look as if she’d die without you giving more to her. You happily fell for it every time, especially when she’d stare at you like you were water as she was dying of dehydration. “Shh…”, you whispered softly,

“I always take care of my baby..”

۶ৎ

“ohhh—fuck..”

Her voice shuddered softly as her eyes fluttered up at the ceiling, melting into the velvet couch as your fingers were shoved in her pants—stuffing her cunt with your two fingers while rubbing your thumb softly over her aching clit. Your eyes softened at the way her brows furrowed and cheeks flushed with such pleasure. You loved with how easily you can make her melt, only with a simple makeout and neck kisses.

Your lips curled into a smile before you leaned down to her ear, kissing her lobe gently before whispering softly, “Feels good, yeah? Missed seein’ you, Ellie. Missed me too, baby, hm?” A keen noise slipped from her mouth as your words seeped into her brain, nearly making her cum right then and there. Your voice always got to her, she could never get enough of it.

It was like a drug, just like your touch—she couldn’t get enough of it.

“Fuck—baby, please…” Her voice was soft and cracked with a whine whenever your finger would curled into that spot, making you smile each time. You leaned over to her, gazing into her eyes as you watched how she could barely keep her own open. “Oh, I know, baby…I know. Practically soakin’ me, baby—missed me that much, hm?”

Her trembling hand suddenly grasped your wrist, letting you feel how her hand trembled around your wrist as you pumped your fingers faster. Ellie’s legs spread wider as they jerked and twitched, a tell sign that you picked up to let you know that she was on that sweet edge of cumming. Her teeth gnawed at her bottom lip, trying to silence her noises, but it was useless. Even so, the music was pretty loud for anyone else to hear her, besides you. “O-Oh—fuck, (ᥫ᭡.)! Gonna c-cum…please..”

Oh you fuckin loved the way she begged for you to let her cum, like she needed your permission when she could just simply let go. It was like routine at this point.

“C’mon…cum for me, baby. It’s all yours..” And that was all she needed to hear before a mix of a groan and whine escaped her swollen lips, feeling the way she clenched around your fingers and leaked messily. It made you clench against nothing in your skimpy panties. She looked so blissful—her eyes fluttering in ecstasy, mouth falling open in shallow pants, and face flushed with a roses hue and a thin sheet of sweat.

“Holy fuck…”

You hummed with approval as a smug grin tugged at your lips, peppering soft kisses along the side of her jaw and neck. Your fingers gently slipped out of her entrance, relishing the way a shaky gasp escaped her mouth and hips bucked up slightly to chase that feeling once more. “Did so good, Els…” you muttered softly as you pushed her down on the couch, straddling her chest while gazing in those blown hazel eyes of hers.

“Show me how much you really missed me, yeah?”

۶ৎ

(tryin to get my spark back <3!!)

tags��️ : @abbysreal-wife

@honeymoondollie

@aphrvdisiac

@tqlepatia

@justhereforsubsevika

@lambcultist

@littlelovelunette

@dear-mimii @supalcina

@bumbling-a-bee

@cmentary

@vleflain

@vesperassh

@madsxh1022

[sevikalvr]

so does.. anyone wanna hear me rant about jinx fic ideas :3

[sevikalvr]

more jinx pls maybe a continuation for cleanup 🙏

of course anon! I’ll continue the cleanup fic and if you have any other requests for jinx I’ll be happy to write them!! I’m glad you enjoyed cleanup 💗

[sevikalvr]

— 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 —

summary! — bodygaurd!sevika x pr!reader > soft reset in chaos. flight back home, feelings being accepted, and the kind of trouble you don’t want to escape.

wc: 7.8k — cw: slightly suggestive makeouts, slight hair tugging, and most of all, fluff.

notes: finally typed up this chapter and it’s long awaited fluff! wanted some peace to enter in their lives before it gets a little messy again… happy reading! 🌸

part one! part two!

The hotel room is a little too quiet when you wake up.

For a second, you forget where you are—brain foggy, body heavy, skin still buzzing from every place she touched you. You blink up at the ceiling. Dim hotel light. Cold air against sweat-damp skin. Sunlight peeking through the curtains from the window. Sheets kicked halfway down your legs. Her arm slung lazily over your stomach.

At this point you were just setting yourself up. But are you going to complain? ...No, not really.

Sevika’s breathing is steady, low. She’s awake. Of course she is. Probably has been. Why the hell is she always awake before you? You don’t know how long she’s been staring at the ceiling too, but you’d bet money on it. Your heart kicks up when you realize that she chose to even stay the night. No quick exit. No slipping out before sunrise. As if this was more than some mistake you two kept making.

Her thumb brushes idle circles against your hip. Barely there, but enough to make you ache all over again.

You shift, letting out a breath. “We’re idiots.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sevika says, voice low and rough from sleep. Or from you. You’re not sure which. Her tone’s unreadable. Teasing, but there’s something under it. Something heavier.

You glance at the clock. 8:12 AM. Your phone is mercifully quiet— for now. No new media storms. No sponsor threats. The statement you dropped last night seems to be doing its job. You know the label is thankful for it. Like it’s said before, the backbone of this band. 

The sisters are laying low. The headlines are smoothing over. The fans are back to obsessing over cryptic lyrics and reunion theories instead of implosions. Everything should be fine. Except you’re still here. In her arms. And honestly? You could go for another round. You tilt your head slightly to look at her. Sevika’s got that same calm expression she always does—cool, collected, dangerous if you poke too hard. Her hair’s messy, falling over one eye. Her lips are still slightly parted from where they kissed down your neck hours ago.

And she’s watching you. Like she’s wondering if you’re going to run.

You clear your throat. “So, what— this is just gonna be a thing now? We hook up between press disasters?”

Sevika’s mouth twitches, almost a smirk. “That what you think this is?”

You narrow your eyes. “You tell me.”

Her gaze drops to your lips, just for a second. “I think you’re still tense.”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.

She laughs, quiet but real. Warm, low, like gravel under velvet. You hate that it makes your stomach flip.

Her fingers trace absentminded patterns against your skin, like she’s not even thinking about it. Like you’re just another weapon she’s keeping sharp. And you should stop this. You should pull away. You should get dressed, check your phone, start prepping for the next leg of the tour. Instead, you stay exactly where you are. Breathing in her cologne and heat and the chaos you let happen.

Three weeks until the next show. Three weeks of headlines staying calm, fans obsessing, the sisters trying to salvage what’s left of their relationship.

And you?

You’re stuck here, thinking about how you’ve already lost the plot. Because Sevika is still tracing circles on your hip. And you haven’t asked her to stop.

“Still in denial?” she murmured quietly, her arm tugging at your waist to be closer to her. Her lips are barely brushing against your temple.

“...Still haven’t told me what this is” you replied, almost scared as if she’ll say it is something casual. Because you really, really, don’t want it to be.

Sevika’s hand stills for just a second against your hip, like she’s weighing whether to answer at all.

Then, quietly, without looking away,  she says, “It’s whatever you want it to be.”

Her voice is steady. No smirk, no sarcasm. Just blunt honesty wrapped in that calm tone that always knocks the wind out of you. Before you can respond, her thumb moves again— slow, lazy strokes against your skin, but there’s nothing casual about the way she’s watching you now.

“But if you’re asking if I’m done?” she adds, her mouth brushing close to your ear. “I’m not.”

You swallow hard, throat tight.

Sevika’s still got that unreadable look in her eyes, but there’s no game in her voice when she mutters, “I don’t stick around for ‘casual.’”

Then she goes right back to tracing circles on your skin, like she didn’t just drop a live wire in your chest and leave it there buzzing. Your throat tightens. For a second, you don’t say anything. You just stare at her. Really stare at her. And it hits you harder than it should.

Because you believe her. And that scares the shit out of you.

Because no one’s said something like that to you in… how long? Long enough that you forgot what it feels like to not be the one doing all the holding together. Long enough that you stopped expecting anyone to stay. And yet—she did.

She’s still here. Thumb still tracing your hip. Breathing steady, gaze heavy, like she’s ready to let you bolt but isn’t about to push you away. Something snaps quietly inside your chest. Your hand moves before your brain can stop it, fingers sliding into the mess of her hair, tugging gently to tilt her face toward yours.

Her eyes darken, sharp, locked onto yours, but she doesn’t flinch. You lean in, lips barely brushing hers at first. Testing it. Breathing her in. Feeling your pulse stutter.

Then you kiss her. Slow. Deep. No hiding this time.

Her hand slides from your hip to your back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. Her mouth parts against yours, and it’s not rushed— not like last night. It’s steady. Intentional. Like she knows exactly what this means.

When you finally pull back for air, your forehead rests against hers.

You whisper it before you can stop yourself, “I hate that you make me feel something again.”

Sevika exhales a quiet breath, her lips still close enough to brush yours when she says, “Yeah?” 

Her tone’s soft, but there’s a smile under it, “Good.”

Your lips find hers again, this time slower—no hunger, no desperation like the night before. Just heat and weight and the kind of kiss that says stay. Sevika’s mouth moves against yours like she has all the time in the world. Lazy. Confident. The kind of kiss that lingers just to feel you breathe. Her palm slides up under your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek, steadying you like she’s keeping you right there.

You let her.

Your fingers trace along her neck, slow circles over warm skin. Her hair’s fallen messily across your face, strands of it tickling your lips between kisses. You could move it— you don’t. You like the way it feels. Like something soft between the sharp edges.

Her lips part just enough to catch your bottom lip, pulling a soft sound out of you before letting go. Her breath is warm against your mouth when she murmurs, “Still tense?” but she’s not teasing this time. Her voice is low, almost fond.

You shake your head. Barely.

Her fingers trail down, skimming your ribs, careful but firm, grounding you to the mattress. Her other hand rests at the small of your back, keeping you close—like she’s making sure you won’t drift off, won’t overthink, won’t spiral back into the chaos waiting outside the hotel walls. Your lips meet hers again, slower this time, sinking into the kind of rhythm that feels like forgetting.

There’s no rush. No trying to win. Just breathing each other in, lips pressed together in quiet, steady pulls until the rest of the world doesn’t matter. 

Eventually, you pull back—barely. Your lips hover over hers, breath mingling. Her eyes are still half-lidded, watching you like she already knows you’re about to ruin the moment.

“I’m gonna—” you start, voice rough from all of it. You clear your throat. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

Sevika hums, low in her chest. Her hand stays right where it is, palm heavy at your hip, thumb tracing the same circle it has been all morning. You try to sit up, but she doesn’t move.

“You always run after kissing me?” she asks, voice dry but soft at the edges. There’s no real accusation there, just observation.

“I’m not running,” you mutter, even though you kind of are. You swing one leg off the bed, toes hitting cold hotel carpet. “I’m just— going to take a shower.”

“Right.” Her lips twitch, the ghost of a smirk. “Important hygiene routine, of course.”

You side-eye her, but you’re already reaching for your phone on the nightstand, checking it for… something. Distraction. Control. The screen is still mercifully empty of chaos. For now. Sevika shifts behind you, the mattress dipping as she leans back onto her elbows, watching you with that same unreadable calm. Like she’s not worried. Like she knows you’ll be back.

You stand, stretching just enough to shake off the weight of the moment—but not really. Your body’s still humming. Your lips are still swollen. Her cologne is still on your skin. You start toward the bathroom, but halfway there, you glance over your shoulder.

Sevika’s still sprawled on the bed, one arm behind her head, the other lazily resting where you used to be. Hair messy, lips parted just a little, watching you like she’s got all the time in the world. You try to sound casual. You fail.

“You’re not gonna join me?”

Her eyes narrow just slightly. There’s a glint of something sharp behind the calm. “Oh?” she says, voice low, smooth. “I thought you were running.”

Your stomach flips. Your skin’s already too hot.

“I said shower,” you shoot back, sassier than you mean to. “Didn’t say alone.”

Sevika’s eyes drag slow over your body, stopping just long enough to make you shiver. Then she sits up, legs swinging over the side of the bed, her smirk barely there but dangerous anyway.

“Guess I can help you wash off,” she says, voice gravel and heat. “Not like I didn’t put it there.”

You let out a sharp laugh, shaking your head as you disappear into the bathroom. “You’re such an asshole,” you call over your shoulder, still grinning, still flushed.

The water’s already running when you catch your reflection in the mirror, lips red, neck marked, eyes bright in a way you don’t recognize anymore. Not stressed, not panicked. Just… lit up. And you hate it. And you love it. You reach for the faucet to adjust the heat when—

The door closes behind you.

You barely have time to register it before Sevika’s behind you, hands on your waist, breath warm against the back of your neck.

“Sevika—”

She doesn’t let you finish.

In one smooth motion, she spins you, crowding you against the bathroom counter. The marble presses cool against your back as her mouth finds yours again—this time deeper, rougher, like she’s got something to prove. You squeal into the kiss, a half-laugh breaking in your throat before it melts into something hungrier. Your hands fly up, arms wrapping around her neck, pulling her closer like you didn’t invite this but you’re not stopping it either.

“Could’ve just asked me to hurry,” she mutters against your lips, smirking even as she kisses you harder.

Your breath’s already shaky, your back arching off the counter, “Shut up,” you whisper, but you’re smiling. You’re still smiling.

                                    ──────────

The café is small, tucked away from the main strip— exactly the kind of place you’d pick when you’re trying not to be noticed. You’re sitting by the window, sipping a coffee you barely tasted, pretending to scroll your phone like you’re not hyper-aware of Sevika’s thigh brushing yours under the table.

Her cup’s almost empty already. Black coffee, no cream, no sugar—of course. Not surprising.

You glance at her over the rim of your cup. She’s scrolling her phone too, probably reading something bleak and impersonal. Probably pretending not to notice the way you keep stealing glances.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur.

Sevika’s eyes flick to yours, lazy but sharp. “So are you.”

“I’m letting you have your ‘brooding in public’ moment.”

That earns the smallest smirk. But then she leans back in her chair, gaze steady. “I don’t brood.”

“Oh, my bad,” you deadpan. “You glower. Very different.”

She huffs a low laugh, but doesn’t argue.

Your phone buzzes on the table—some band-related notification you ignore for now. You glance out the window. The world feels normal out there. Coffee, people walking dogs, someone reading on a bench. Normal. But your chest is tight anyway.

You clear your throat, eyes still on the street. “How long are you staying?”

Her head tilts, just enough to let you know she caught the shift in tone. “What, at the coffee shop?”

You give her a look. “You know what I mean.”

She sets her phone down, fingers drumming once on the side of her cup. Her posture’s still relaxed, but there’s something unreadable behind her eyes now.

“Contract’s for the tour,” she says finally. “Rest of the dates. End of the year.”

You blink, trying not to react. “So… you’re around.”

“Looks like it.”

Your throat feels dry. You take another sip of coffee just to stall. “And after that?”

Sevika shrugs, eyes narrowing slightly—like she’s measuring how much to give you. “Depends.”

“Right,” you say softly. “Classic.”

She studies you for a beat too long. Then, as casually as if you’d asked her to pass the sugar, she adds, “Why? You trying to get rid of me already?”

Her voice is cool, but there’s bite under it. Not mocking, but testing.

You meet her eyes. “No,” you admit, before you can think better of it. “That’s the problem.”

Her mouth twitches, like she’s fighting a smirk but doesn’t quite win.Her gaze lingers on you for a second too long— heavy, knowing. The smirk fades into something subtler. Quieter.

“Well,” she says, tapping the side of her cup, “then I guess we’ve got a problem.”

Your chest tightens, but your mouth moves anyway. “Glad you’re finally catching up.”

She leans in a fraction—not enough for anyone else in the café to notice, but enough for you to feel the warmth of her breath near your jaw. “Thought you liked problems.”

“I like fixing them,” you shoot back, voice low. “You’re just… inconvenient.”

Sevika smiles, sharp and soft all at once. “That supposed to hurt my feelings?”

“No,” you admit. “But it’s supposed to make me feel better about letting you stay.”

Her hand brushes your knee under the table, casual but deliberate. “How’s that working out for you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The way your pulse jumps is answer enough.

Her phone buzzes on the table this time. She ignores it. Her eyes stay locked on yours. You clear your throat, try to reroute the conversation before you spiral into another hotel situation. 

“So what, you and your team stick around for all the shows? Just bodyguard stuff?”

She nods once. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Sometimes I cover PR disasters too,” she deadpans.

You glare. “That’s my job.”

“Looks like you needed backup.”

“Sevika.”

Her eyes don’t waver. “Yeah?”

You try to summon the same sass as before, but your throat’s dry again. “What happens if this gets messy?”

Her lips curl just slightly. “If?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” She leans back, finishing the last sip of her coffee, then sets the cup down like it’s a period to the whole conversation. “It’s gonna get messy. You already knew that.”

You look away, out the window again. “Yeah,” you whisper, barely audible. “I know.”

Her fingers tap the table once, knuckles brushing yours. “Hey.”

You glance back at her.

“I’m still here.”

Three simple words. Blunt, no softness in the tone. But they settle in your chest anyway, heavier than they should.

Before you can say anything back, the café door jingles. A figure approaches your table— a girl in her twenties, hoodie pulled up, wide eyes flicking between the two of you.

“No pictures,” Sevika says, before the girl can open her mouth.

“I—uh, no. I wasn’t gonna—” the fan lifts her hands, backing off slightly. “I just wanted to say…” She looks at you, a nervous smile twitching onto her face. “Thanks for not quitting.”

You blink, caught off guard. Sure most fans know you’re the band's PR manager. Mainly Jinx’s fault because she posts so many photos of you, especially when you’re mad.  The girl pulls at the hem of her sweatshirt— a Faultine tour hoodie, except someone’s scribbled extra Sharpie writing on it in messy handwriting.

You squint.

It says; “Don’t worry. I’ll keep your secret.”

Your stomach flips. Sevika’s lips twitch at the corner, but she says nothing. Just watches you handle it.

You swallow. “Thanks,” you say to the girl, voice softer now. “Seriously.”

The fan smiles like she just won the lottery and practically skips back to the door.

When she’s gone, Sevika mutters, “Real subtle.”

“Shut up.”

She leans back, eyes glinting. “You worried?”

“A little,” you admit, staring at the Sharpie words burned into your brain.

Sevika’s voice drops, just for you. “Hey.”

You meet her eyes again.

“If pictures ever get leaked,” you say, half joking, half dead serious, “just don’t leave me.”

There’s a pause. One heartbeat. Two.

Sevika looks at you, unblinking. “Didn’t plan on it.”

Then she gets up from the table—cool, casual, like she didn’t just say something that makes your throat tight.

“Come on,” she murmurs, tossing a tip on the table. “Let’s get out of here.”

Eventually, the two of you are just walking. No agenda, no bodyguard formations, no frantic phone calls. Just the low hum of the city waking up around the block near the hotel. It feels dangerous, letting it be this easy. Letting your shoulders actually relax. Sevika walks next to you, hands in her jacket pockets, head tilted toward the sidewalk like she’s only half paying attention to where you’re going. Her strides are slower than usual— like she’s pacing herself for you.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You pull it out, expecting disaster. Instead, it’s your assistant.

[9:52] “Booked your ticket back to NYC. You leave tonight.” “You need the break.”

Your throat tightens. The idea of “home” feels weird now. What does that even mean? Going back to your apartment and pretending you’re not thinking about her?

Sevika glances sideways at you, like she knows the text changed something in your face. “Let me guess,” she says. “More chaos?”

You shake your head. “No. Just… my assistant being smarter than me, apparently.”

Her eyebrow lifts slightly. “Is that new?”

You elbow her gently, but your chest stays tight. You shove your phone back in your pocket and look ahead at the sidewalk.

“I fly out tonight.”

“Hmm.” That’s all Sevika says. Nonchalant. Like you just told her the weather. But her jaw ticks once. Just barely.

You keep walking, both of you too stubborn to ask the real question; What the hell happens now?

Then suddenly, words slip out before you can stop them.

“Come with me.”

Sevika slows her steps. One boot scuffs the pavement, just barely, but she catches herself. Her eyes cut toward you, sharp but unreadable.

You feel the heat crawl up your neck. “I—I didn’t mean that,” you start, but you kinda did. Actually, you really did.

Her mouth curves into the smallest smirk. “Yeah you did.”

Your stomach knots. “It was just—”

“Impulse?” she finishes for you, still walking, like the conversation weighs nothing.

You don’t answer. You just keep moving, matching her stride again. But your heart is racing.

After a beat, Sevika exhales slow, like she’s rolling something over in her head. “Honestly,” she mutters, eyes on the street ahead, “it’s tempting.”

That makes you blink. “Tempting?”

“Mm.” Her hands stay deep in her pockets. “But you’d regret it.”

You scoff, half defensive, half desperate. “What, you think you’re doing me a favor now?”

“No.” She finally looks at you again. Her stare is steady. A little too steady. “I think if I come with you, this stops being something you can compartmentalize.”

Your throat goes dry. Because she’s right. That’s exactly what you’re trying to do.

Sevika smirks again, but there’s no meanness in it. Just that same blunt honesty that always cuts through your bullshit.

“Finish the tour,” she says quietly. “Then ask me again.”

“Finish the tour?” you repeat, eyebrows lifting. “What— you really think I’m waiting that long?”

She huffs out a quiet laugh through her nose, like you’re amusing her again. Like she already knows where this is headed. You shove your hands in your pockets, eyes narrowing. 

“Besides, it’s just a few weeks back at my apartment. Not like we’ve got a red carpet to attend.”

Sevika’s gaze flicks toward you, steady as ever. “Few weeks?” she repeats, voice low, teasing but with an edge. “You’re sure that’s all it is?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything. You’re the one inviting me home.”

Your stomach flips. God, why does she always do this? Always so calm, while you’re the one spiraling under the surface.

“Look,” you mutter, trying to keep your cool, “I’m just saying— you’re already stuck babysitting me between shows, right? Might as well do it somewhere with decent coffee.”

Sevika hums, considering. Her eyes narrow just a little, like she’s sizing you up. But then she shrugs. “Hm. You make a decent argument.”

You stop at the crosswalk, heart racing for no good reason. “So that’s a yes?”

Her lips twitch— half-smirk, half-dare. “I’ll think about it.”

You scoff. “Sevika.”

“Relax.” She nudges your arm with her elbow, subtle. “I’m not gonna leave you unsupervised in New York. You’d probably start spiraling being left alone like that.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

She smiles, but barely. Just enough for it to sting and soothe at the same time. The crosswalk light turns green. You both keep walking, side by side, like the whole conversation didn’t just shift something between you. Because it did. You both know it did. As you both round the corner back toward the hotel, you pull out your phone—thumb hovering for half a second before you type back to your assistant;

[10:02] “book one more ticket pls. seat next to mine”

You don’t add a name. You don’t need to. Your assistant’s smart enough to connect the dots. When you slip your phone back into your pocket, Sevika glances sideways at you but doesn’t ask. Just lets you have the silence.

                                      ──────────

The terminal’s loud, crowded, and fluorescent as hell. Your phone is already at 54%, your assistant already texted a thumbs-up about the extra ticket, and you haven’t thought too hard about what happens after this flight. You’re pretending it’s just logistics.

Sevika’s sitting across from you, arms crossed, one boot kicked out like she owns the damn terminal. Her carry-on is small—black, worn, no bullshit. What really isn’t mysterious about her. She didn’t ask questions when you sent her the ticket either. Just raised an eyebrow like, Really? but stayed silent anyway.

You pretend not to watch her.

She catches you, of course. “You good?” Her tone is flat but knowing. Like she’s halfway daring you to admit you’re spiraling.

You smirk, trying to cover the fact you are spiraling. “Yeah, just thinking about how I’ve officially lost my mind.”

“Little late for that.”

She stretches, hoodie riding up slightly— just enough to be distracting. Damn she looks good in a hoodie too. “What’s the plan, princess?”

Her voice is low, cool. Like this is all just part of the job. Like flying across the country together is normal. And you’re acting like you didn't just get butterflies from her calling you that.

You lean forward, elbows on your knees. “Plan is, we get back to my apartment, I order something unhealthy, you sit there acting like you’re not staying the night, and we both keep pretending this is a bad idea.”

Sevika gives a slow blink. “Sounds about right.”

The boarding call comes over the speakers. You stand up first, wiping your palms against your jeans.

“C’mon, Sev,” you mutter as you grab your bag. She’s right behind you, close enough that you feel it but not enough for anyone else to notice. As you hand over your boarding pass, you hear her say it under her breath, quiet, just for you,

“Too late to back out now.”

And yeah— you know she’s not talking about the flight. But you knew the risks. And honestly? You’re willing to take them. 

Sevika doesn’t say shit when you both settle into business class. She just slides into the window seat like it’s routine, arms crossed briefly before she settles in. Her eyes flick toward you, like she’s clocking the upgrade but choosing not to say anything.

The flight attendant offers champagne. You wave it off. So does she. You sit back, trying to relax—but you know how this goes. Every flight, same ritual. Your heart knots up, not from fear, but from… something else. Memory, maybe. That old habit you can’t shake.

When you were younger, your mom used to hold your hand for takeoffs. Not because you were scared—because she knew the air felt less heavy when someone was there. Since she’s been gone, you’ve just… held your own. Quietly. Subtly. Thumb rubbing over your knuckles like a reflex you don’t talk about.

The engines start to roar louder. Wheels rumble underfoot. You feel your shoulders tense. And without thinking—really, without giving yourself the time to think—you reach across the armrest and grab Sevika’s hand.

And you grab it tight.

Her palm is rough, fingers calloused. But she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even look surprised. She just lets you hold on. You keep your eyes straight ahead, staring at the seat in front of you. Embarrassed for half a second. Then the plane lifts off, and you feel her thumb press once against your wrist.

Not a rub. Not a squeeze. Just… acknowledgment. Solid and present. Neither of you says a word. And you don’t let go. 

Time passes by and the seatbelt sign dings off somewhere over Pennsylvania. You realize you’re still holding her hand. Fingers tangled together, your grip loosened now but not fully gone.

You glance over. Sevika’s eyes are half-lidded, like she’s almost asleep— or pretending to be. But there’s the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Barely there. Like she knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“Are you gonna clown me for that?” you mutter under your breath, voice low so no one else hears.

Her eyes open just enough to meet yours.

“No,” she says, simple. Then: “But I will if you start crying.”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Please. I’m not that soft.”

Her gaze drops to your joined hands. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You try to pull back, just out of instinct. But she holds on. Loosely, but still there. Her thumb brushes against your knuckles like she’s drawing idle circles. No teasing this time. Just steady.

“I’m not scared of flying,” you say, defensive, even though she never asked.

“Didn’t say you were.”

“…Then why’re you looking at me like that?”

She shifts, lets out a breath through her nose— almost a laugh but not quite. “Because you’re acting like this is the first time someone stayed.”

Your stomach flips at that. Heat crawls up your neck. You don’t know if it’s irritation or the fact that she’s right. Man why the hell is she always right. She’s got to be observing your every move.

You glance away, looking out the window at nothing. “Whatever.”

Sevika lets you have that. No pushback. Just leans her head against the seat, closes her eyes again—but her hand stays on yours comfortably. Like this isn’t a big deal. Even though it kind of is.. to you anyways. Having someone staying in.. god knows how long. It makes you feel content with yourself. Almost in a way that's too good to be true. 

Somewhere mid-flight, the world outside the window fades to black. Clouds gone, lights dimmed, engines humming like white noise. The cabin lights dim halfway through the flight. Business class is quiet, full of hushed conversations and the occasional clink of glassware. But in your little pocket of space, it’s just the two of you.

You’re reclined halfway, blanket over your lap, hand still tangled in Sevika’s.

You’re not sure who’s holding who at this point. Her thumb strokes lazy circles over your wrist—barely there, like muscle memory.

Neither of you speaks. Your head tips back against the seat, eyes heavy but not fully closed. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Sevika turning. Her gaze drops to your hand in hers.

Then you feel it. Soft and intentional. The faintest press of her lips against your knuckles.

She doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t look at you after. Just rests your joined hands back down on the armrest between you like it never happened.

But it did.

Your throat tightens, heat crawling up the back of your neck. You shift slightly in your seat, fingers tightening around hers, not enough to call attention to it, just enough to say; 

Yeah. I felt that.

The engine hums beneath your feet. The world 35,000 feet below spins on. But up here, you’re suspended in this—whatever this is. Minutes later, you let yourself drift off. Hand still in hers.

Somewhere before sleep fully embraced you, you felt Sevika shift in her seat slightly. Your eyes barely cracked open to see what she’s doing. She's watching the TV screen. Whatever, you were comfortable. It wasn’t long till you were fully succumbed to sleep. And soon Sevika was asleep as well.

When you do wake up, you wake up to the low hum of the cabin and the soft shifting of someone next to you. Eyes still half-lidded, you glance sideways. Sevika’s awake. Her arm’s still resting close—hand casually draped on the armrest like you didn’t fall asleep practically glued together hours ago. But there’s a flicker of something in her eyes when she catches you looking.

“Sleep good?” she murmurs, voice low, still rough from the nap.

You stretch, fingers flexing in your lap. “Would’ve been better if I didn’t drool.”

Sevika smirks, slow and lazy. “Yeah. Noticed.”

Your eyes narrow. “And you let me?”

Her mouth twitches. “What, you wanted me to wipe your chin mid-flight?”

“Maybe.” You side-eye her. “Would’ve been the decent thing to do.”

Sevika leans back, eyes half-lidded. “I’m not decent.”

You scoff, kicking her foot lightly under the seat. “You’re the worst.”

“Hmm,” she hums, eyes flicking to the seat-back screen. “Wanna make it worse?”

You follow her gaze. There’s a poker game pulled up—digital cards waiting. Of course. Classic.

“Oh, you wanna lose to me twice in one weekend?”

Her lips curl into something dangerous. “I never lose.”

You tap the screen anyway, pulling the game up. “Fine. Let’s bet.”

Her brow lifts. “On what?”

You think for a second, heart already speeding up. “Winner gets to call the shots tonight.”

Sevika’s gaze sharpens, amused but interested. “And the loser?”

You grin, sharp and knowing. “Has to keep their hands to themselves. No touching.”

Her jaw shifts slightly, tongue pressing to the inside of her cheek like she’s considering it.

“…You’re not gonna win that,” she says, deadpan.

“Oh? So you’re admitting you’re gonna fold first?”

“I’m saying I don’t play games I can’t rig.”

You laugh, leaning into her space just enough to make it dangerous. “Then deal the cards, Sev.”

The screen flickers as the game begins—both of you pretending this is about poker. When it’s really not.The game gets quiet. Serious even. Cards shuffle digitally on the little seat-back screen. You and Sevika are both locked in, no smirks now. Just narrowed eyes, tense lips, and competitive silence.

At some point, you even reached over and slid the privacy divider up between you, not because you wanted space, but because you didn’t trust her not to glance at your hand.

Sevika side-eyes you as the plastic clicks into place. “Really?”

“Absolutely.” You don’t even look at her. “You’re shady.”

Her lips twitch, but she says nothing. She just taps Call on her screen. Your pulse kicks up.

It’s ridiculous, honestly. Two adults in business class, locked in an in-flight poker death match over a bet you both know neither of you can actually handle. The stakes are stupidly high for something that should be casual. But that’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?

Sevika plays her next move, eyes sharp. “You nervous?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you slide one leg across the armrest divider, just enough to brush her knee under the tray table. Not cheating technically— just a reminder of what’s on the line.

“No,” you murmur, tapping Raise.

Her eyes darken. “Hm.”

You catch her jaw flex as she clicks Call again, matching your bet. Her boot nudges back under your calf. Maybe on purpose. Maybe not.

Five minutes in, it stops feeling like poker and starts feeling like foreplay.

You look at her through the corner of your eye. “So? You gonna fold or what?”

Sevika shifts in her seat, cracking her knuckles once—slow and deliberate. “Thought you wanted me to keep my hands to myself.”

“Yeah, if you lose.”

Her mouth quirks slightly. “Guess I’ll have to win then.”

You slide another chip in-game and whisper, “Please. You’ve been bluffing since the second hand.”

“Oh yeah?”

The divider makes it so you can’t fully see her face now—but you feel her smirk.

“You sure about that?” she murmurs, voice a little lower.

Your throat goes dry. You know you should focus on the game. On the cards. On winning. But right now, all you can think about is what happens if you don’t. And the way Sevika’s foot is still resting against yours under the seat isn’t helping. 

Yet, the final hand flips on the screen. You both stare.

You win.

Sevika blinks once. Her jaw shifts, subtle but noticeable— like she’s recalculating reality. You on the other hand, slowly slide the divider back, stifling a chuckle.

“No fucking way,” she mutters, eyes narrowing at the display like the poker game personally betrayed her.

You grin slow, dragging it out. “Oh, I’m sorry, was that my royal flush?”

Her gaze snaps to you. You catch the flicker of disbelief before she schools her face back into neutral. Then, without a word, she reaches over and slides the little divider panel between your seats all the way back— again. Like that somehow rewrites the outcome.

“Oh, okay. Wow.” You laugh, leaning back smug. “We’re just closing the divider now? Is that the ‘I lost’ protocol?”

Sevika exhales through her nose, cool as ever. “No,” she deadpans. “Your screen’s glitchy. Couldn’t have been legit.”

“Oh, you’re full of shit.” You nudge her knee under the tray table, as your hand drags back the divider open  again. “Admit it. I won.”

She looks at you sideways, lips twitching like she’s fighting a grin but refusing to lose face.

“Fine,” she says, voice low. “But you’re not a graceful winner.”

You rest your head against the seat, still smirking. “Nope. Never claimed to be.”

She exhales, shaking her head once, then mutters just loud enough for you to hear,

“Fucking PR people.”

But she’s smiling this time too. That smile.

God, that fucking smile.

It’s rare. Almost dangerous. Like watching something wild and sharp let its guard down for just a second. Most people don’t even get to see it, not really. They see the smirk, the cocky tilt of her mouth when she’s winning, the cold half-grin when she’s baiting someone into doing something stupid. But this?

This real, soft thing? It’s different.

 Without thinking, you blurt it out—soft, under your breath but loud enough.

“I love your smile.”

The second the words are out, your eyes snap forward, locking on the seat in front of you like it just became the most interesting object in the universe. 

Sevika stills.

You can feel her looking at you, but you don’t dare meet her eyes. Your face heats, heart pounding like you just accidentally leaked a press release early. Oh damn you hate that feeling.

“Didn’t say anything,” you mumble quickly, pretending to adjust your seatbelt. “Flight noise. Must’ve misheard.”

Sevika lets the silence stretch, lets you stew. Then, quiet, almost smug, you hear her shift beside you, voice low enough to curl around your pulse.

“Yeah?” she says. “Well. Say it again when you mean it.”

You bite your lip hard, but your stomach flips anyway. You steal a glance out of the corner of your eye. She’s still looking at you. Still smiling. Not wide, not showy—just this subtle, private thing like you’re in on some secret no one else gets.

And for a second you think, Oh. That’s why people risk it. That’s why they get too close. Because Sevika’s smile feels like being trusted with something fragile. Like she’s giving you the sharp end of the knife and daring you not to cut yourself. And for some reason, seeing that soft smile on her face just makes your chest warm.

Wow. Is this how it feels when someone's having a crush? Please make it stop. (Please don’t).

                                     ──────────

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing the two of you into the quiet of your apartment. It’s familiar, but tonight it feels…different. The usual hum of New York floats through the windows: distant horns, sirens three blocks over, someone yelling about nothing. Home. And maybe because Sevika’s standing in the middle of your living room, boots still on, jacket half off, eyes scanning the space like she’s casing the joint.

She’s stood there, eyeing your place like she’s scanning for sniper points. You roll your eyes. "Relax, Sev. No one's gonna jump us in my one-bedroom."

Her lips twitch like she might smirk, but she doesn’t. Just steps inside fully, boots heavy on your floor.

“Make yourself at home,” you say, tossing your keys onto the counter. “But, you know— hands to yourself.”

Her eyes cut to yours, sharp, playful. “That was your bet, remember?”

“Yeah, and I won.”

Sevika snorts. “Barely.”

“Oh, I barely kicked your ass at poker?” You flash a grin, toeing off your shoes. “That what you’re going with?”

She shrugs off her jacket, folds it over the back of the chair like she’s got all the time in the world. “I let you win.”

“Uh huh.” You cross your arms, raising a brow. “Right, because you’re so good at losing.”

Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she steps deeper into your apartment, eyes flicking to the couch, the walls, the takeout menus magnetized to your fridge.

“You hungry?” you ask, trying to sound normal. Trying not to think about how close she is. How warm her hands were on the plane. How your bed is right there.

“Starving,” she says, voice low, like the word has more than one meaning.

You swallow. Ignore it. Pick up your phone.

“Okay,” you say, pretending to scroll, “what’s the move? Thai? Sushi? Something that doesn’t involve us cooking because, I don’t know about you, but my stove is basically a storage unit.”

Sevika’s eyes narrow like she’s deciding something, but all she says is, “Thai.”

You nod, tapping the screen. “Good. We can’t violate the bet if we’re stuffing our faces.”

Her lips twitch again. “You keep telling yourself that.”

And you do. Even as your stomach flips, and you scroll through the menu like your hands aren’t itching to break your own rule. Biting a smile back knowing neither of you will last.

Yeah so, the food’s long gone. Takeout boxes sit empty on the table, two sets of chopsticks resting at odd angles like fallen swords. You’re both stretched out on the couch now— half-lounging, half-sinking, Netflix asking for the third time if you’re still watching. Neither of you bother to answer.

The bet was supposed to keep things light. Keep things distant. You should’ve known better.

Sevika’s thigh presses against yours, solid and warm, her arm casually slung over the back of the couch like she’s not three seconds away from breaking your no-contact rule. Or maybe you are. It’s hard to tell whose self-control is worse at this point.

You tilt your head toward her, eyes half-lidded. “You realize we’re basically asking for it right now.”

Her gaze slides over to you, lazy. “Asking for what?”

You scoff, elbow nudging her side. “Oh yeah, play dumb now.”

Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t move away. Her fingers stay exactly where they are, draped behind your shoulder like it’s no big deal. Like she’s not running her thumb in small, idle circles along the couch cushion just close enough.

The silence stretches long. Heavy. But comfortable, somehow.

Your eyes flick to her mouth. You’re full, tired, wrecked from the last few days—but you still want her. In that slow, sticky, addictive way that sinks deeper when everything else gets quiet.

“Fuck the bet,” you murmur, almost to yourself. Because honestly? Who could ever last with a bet like this. You just set yourself up.

Sevika hums like she didn’t hear you—but then her hand slides from the couch cushion to your jaw. Calloused fingers brushing your skin. Your pulse kicks up immediately.

You shift closer, barely breathing. She leans in, close enough that her breath hits your lips.

“You sure?” she murmurs, voice low. “Didn’t know you were such a sore winner.”

“Shut up,” you whisper—but your mouth is already parting for hers.

The kiss starts slow. Barely there. Just lips brushing, testing, teasing. But it doesn’t stay soft for long.

Her hand tilts your chin just right, deepening the kiss until you melt against her. Her other hand grips your thigh, anchoring you in place. You sigh into her mouth, letting the tension bleed out of your shoulders as your body slumps against hers, finally giving in.

No press disaster. No band drama. No headlines waiting. Just this. Just her. And the stupid, reckless fact that you don’t even care anymore.

Although, the kiss heats up faster than you expected.

Her hand slides from your jaw down to your waist, gripping tighter, pulling you onto her lap like it’s second nature. Your thighs straddle hers, hips pressing down. It’s too much but also not enough— your body’s moving before your brain can catch up. As if your body had other plans, craving her touch.

Sevika’s mouth is hot against yours, rougher now, her teeth just grazing your bottom lip before she captures it again. Her hands settle on your hips before it slides down your grope your ass, her fingers flexing like she’s reminding herself not to squeeze harder. Or maybe she’s not reminding herself at all. 

You gasp softly into her mouth, threading your fingers into her hair, tugging just enough to feel her groan against your lips. 

Her voice is low, wrecked, right against your ear. “Thought you wanted to keep it light.”

“Changed my mind,” you breathe, hips shifting slightly over hers, chasing more friction without even thinking.

Her lips find your neck, messy, slow kisses along your pulse, teeth scraping just to make you shiver. You can feel how much she wants this. You can feel how much you do. Fuck you loved when she kissed your neck. But then your stomach knots—not from nerves. From sheer exhaustion. The kind that creeps up in the middle of good things, reminding you that you’re human, and you haven’t slept right in days.

Sevika pulls back slightly, breath shallow. Her forehead rests against yours, both of you just… breathing.

“You’re tired,” she mutters, voice still low but softer now.

“So are you.”

Her lips curl into a half smirk. “Didn’t stop us last night.”

“Yeah, and now my body hates me for it.”

You both laugh. Quiet but real. The kind that shakes your shoulders, forehead still pressed to hers. You shift off her lap reluctantly, collapsing back onto the couch, both of you sprawled now, chests rising and falling in sync.

“Let’s not be stupid tonight,” you mutter, wiping a hand over your face, still grinning.

Sevika leans her head back against the couch cushion, eyes closed, breath steady. “We’ll just have to save that for tomorrow.”

You let out another small laugh, scooting closer, her arm naturally coming to rest around you again—no tension now, just warmth. The room is quiet except for your shared breathing. Just as you’re about to close your eyes, your phone buzzes softly on the coffee table. You reach over, groggy but curious, and pick it up.

A notification from the sisters’ group chat. You open it, expecting more drama or demands— because that’s been the rhythm lately.

But instead, there’s a photo.

Jinx and Vi, side by side, sitting at a bustling seafood pop-up stall. Their smiles are wide, unguarded, the kind of happiness you haven’t seen on them in weeks. Seriously. 

The sunlight filters through the canopy above, highlighting the spice-covered shrimp and buttery corn on their plates. Vi’s arm is draped casually over Jinx’s shoulder, and Jinx’s eyes are sparkling like she’s just told a joke. No chaos or tension. Just peace. For once. 

You stare at the image, your chest tightening a little—hope flaring quietly somewhere deep inside. As you hearted the photo, Sevika’s arm tightens around your waist. You don’t need to say anything. She leans her head against yours, her warmth steady and sure. Domestic even.

For a moment, everything feels like it might be okay. And then you finally let your eyes close. Letting sleep win, again. While Sevika on the other hand just.. admires you for a moment. Even though she screwed up last time with the Medarda’s. Fucked up even. Got feelings in the way of her job. 

For some reason she can't seem to pull herself from you. 

Even though her job is full of risks, and every second demands sharp focus and cold precision, here, right now, she’s letting the chaos fade. Because maybe, just maybe, this mess of feelings isn’t a weakness, but something worth holding onto. Something real. Something— no. Someone worth fighting for.

And in that quiet, she knows, no matter how hard she tries, she’s not walking away. Not tonight. Not ever. Not from you.

[sevikalvr]

I’m glad you all liked the jinx fic 🤭 and I will be doing those requests soon just as soon as I finish prt 3 of security breach. trust my friends..

[sevikalvr]

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 6

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

masterlist

The library is almost empty.

Outside the glass study room, someone coughs. A printer whirs. But inside, it’s quiet — except for the soft clack of keys, the hum of the AC, and Ellie reading beside you.

“You pushed her on the wall,” she murmurs, brows drawing together. “Firm but not harsh, crashing your lips to her aching ones.”

You watched her mouth move as she read it — her lips tugging slightly as she focused, lashes low, the slope of her nose catching light — and something in your chest twisted. Not just from nerves. You hated the way her voice sounded reading your words. Hated that it made your pulse trip up. Hated that it made you want her to keep going.

“She pulled you into her lap as she sat on a large sealed paint bucket… her breath was—”

Ellie paused, frowning at the screen.

Then she turned to you with that look — the you’re insufferable and I regret partnering with you look.

“What is this?” she asked flatly, like the words on the doc personally offended her.

You leaned back in your chair, raising your eyebrows. “That’s the scene for chapter eight.”

“No, it’s not.” She shook her head and closed your laptop halfway like she was trying to censor it. “We’re not doing this. Again.”

You blinked at her, mock-offended. “Why the fuck not?” Your voice came out low — quieter than you meant, like you were actually trying to convince her.

Ellie sighed through her nose, dragging her laptop toward her and reopening your shared doc. Her fingers started typing with a little too much force. “Because we have an outline. You know — the thing we agreed on? The story structure? Remember that? We agreed to that.”

“Ellie.” You said her name before you could stop yourself. It landed softer than you intended — breathy, almost pleading.

“We don’t always have to follow the outline,” you continued, recovering fast. “This is just a little detour. A fun one.”

“They’ve been dancing around each other for pages. It’s driving me insane. This scene gives them something to feel while they keep holding back. That tension? It makes everything after hit harder.”

Ellie stopped typing. Her jaw moved slightly.

“It’s not time for them to hook up yet.”

She said it like a command. Like you were out of line for even thinking about it.

“They’re not hooking up. They’re making mistakes. That’s the point. It’s human.”

Ellie turned her head, meeting your eyes. Something in her expression sharpened — not anger exactly, but frustration. Or maybe panic, if you knew her better.

“No,” she said again, quieter this time. “We have a clear structure. Adding this here would change everything.”

You exhaled slowly, trying not to snap.

“Can’t we bend the structure, just a little? I know sometimes I add and suggest ridiculous shit, but I meant this one. I actually took my time writing that part. It’s ten pages, Ellie. Ten. And that’s not even the only scene — there’s more after.”

Ellie’s fingers froze on the keyboard. She turned slightly, not looking at you.

“Exactly,” she muttered. “More scenes. More changes. We didn’t agree to that.”

Ellie just shook her head like she was already done with the conversation before it even finished.

You opened your mouth to argue again, but her voice came in before you could.

“We’re not writing that scene.”

You stared at her, irritated. And something else you didn’t want to name.

She was so closed off, so composed, so good at not looking at you — like she could will herself into not caring.

“I’m serious about this, you know,” you said, voice quieter this time. “For real.”

Ellie finally up. “Yeah,” she said, expression unreadable. “So am I.”

She leaned back slightly, hands folding over her laptop like she was about to launch into a TED Talk.

“And if you actually looked at Ms. Alvarez’s notes, you’d see that the next three chapters are supposed to lay the groundwork for the second act. If we drop in a random paint-bucket hookup scene now, it kills the emotional pacing. It shifts the arc. It makes the tension collapse too early.”

You rolled your eyes like you were done and you’d already tuned her out. You crossed your arms and sank deeper into your chair, leaning back with the kind of defiance that wasn’t loud, but said we’re done here.

“I’m not working with you right now.”

“You’re being childish,” she muttered, eyes still locked on her screen.

“And you’re being a killjoy,” you shot back. “Not everything has to be some perfect, structured literary masterpiece, Ellie. Sometimes stories need chaos.”

You huffed, sitting up straighter now. “And for Ms. Alvarez’s notes? You know we could work something around that. It’s not impossible.” Your voice dropped, flat and clipped. “Just say you think my idea’s dumb and be done with it.”

She shook her head once, actually confirming it now. Yeah. Your idea was dumb. Dumb enough to mess with her masterpiece.

“You just want them to make out in a janitor’s closet.”

“Maybe I do.” You weren’t even sure if you were talking about your characters anymore. “Maybe it’s the only thing keeping me from screaming right now.”

Ellie finally looked up. Her eyes narrowed, scanning your face — trying to figure out how serious you were. That maybe.. maybe something had slipped out that shouldn’t have.

But then her lips twitched. Not quite a smile. More like a smirk that died halfway — crooked and careless.

“Jesus. Did you get your period or something?”

She said it offhand, careless. The kind of thing she wouldn’t even register as a real insult — but you did.

You stared at her. Your chest tightened, something sharp pulling inside.

“Wow,” you muttered. “Misogyny in 2025. Groundbreaking.”

Ellie bit her cheek, clearly holding back a laugh.

“I’m just saying—”

“Don’t.” Your voice dropped, dead flat.

She tried not to smile. You saw it anyway — the twitch of her mouth, like your anger was somehow amusing.

You wanted to slap it off her face.

“You’re overreacting,” she said under her breath.

“Overreacting my ass,” you snapped. “I took my whole weekend writing that scene, Ellie.”

She shrugged, turning back to her laptop. She was casual and dismissive. It kinda hurt you a little bit, almost.

“You could’ve told me first before you wrote it.”

“You’d have disagreed.”

“Exactly. But at least I could’ve stopped you from wasting your time.”

That one landed. You flinched. It showed in your hands — the way they clenched as you stood and yanked your bag up from the floor.

“You know what?” You laughed, bitter and breathless. “Fine. I don’t fucking care.”

You shoved your laptop into your bag, fast, messy.

“And yeah — I actually just wasted my time. Sorry for not reaching the standards, boss.”

You zipped the bag halfway, then gave up on aligning it at all.

“I don’t wanna work with you right now. I wanna go home — so I will.”

Ellie sighed quietly and shook her head, still typing.

You moved around the table and paused beside her, waiting for something. A glance. A smart-ass comment. Maybe even a shitty little “sorry.” Nothing.

She didn’t even look at you.

God.

You exhaled hard. “Okay. Great talk,” you muttered. “Text me if you decide to not be a dick. Or don’t. Whatever. I don’t care.”

You turned your back — done, or at least pretending to be — but something inside you snapped before you could walk away. You spun back around, heat burning in your chest.

“And you know what? I take back everything I said about you being easy to work with. You’re not. You don’t actually consider my ideas. You just read them long enough to decide they’re ridiculous. You don’t take anything I say seriously.”

You could feel it now — the frustration rising, twisted up with something closer to hurt.

“And for you to act like I’m being childish just because I care about my dumb ideas? Just because I want them to actually mean something in this project? That sucks.”

Your voice cracked, just a little.

“You always do this. I don’t even know if you hate me or what, but I didn’t let it bother me before because at least I tried. I figured, hey, you’re smarter than me, so maybe it’s fine to let you have your way every time.”

“But you know what?” Your tone dropped. “You’re the insufferable one. Not me.”

You scoffed, low and bitter. “And honestly? You’re boring, Ellie. I hope you know that.”

You didn’t wait for a reaction. You turned and walked out — before the weight in your chest turned into something you couldn’t swallow down.

You lay on your bed, staring up at the ceiling like it might give you answers. Your room was dim, quiet — too quiet. And your body felt weirdly tense, like your nerves still hadn’t caught up with the fact that you’d actually walked out.

You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t that deep anymore. That it was just a disagreement. A scene. A stupid writing scene.

But it was a big deal.

Because she didn’t even finish reading it. She didn’t even try.

“Didn’t even get past the second paragraph,” you muttered to yourself.

Your chest tightened again. God, she was so infuriating. So smug and so obsessed with structure and outlines and being right. She cared more about hitting all the correct beats than actually making something good. Than letting anything feel real.

It wasn’t just the scene. It was the way she looked at you. Making you look like you were being dramatic, overemotional and less than. And that stupid flat tone she used, like you were wasting her time.

What pissed you off the most was that you knew she wasn’t going to apologize. That she’d rather die than admit she was wrong.

She’d already proven that. Her last message was the same cold, stiff crap that looked like she’d emailed it from a fucking office cubicle.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Your last words came back like a slap. “You’re boring, Ellie. I hope you know that.”

It was true. She was boring. And for actually thinking — feeling — you liked her one bit? No. You don’t.

You just kept mistaking her for someone else.

That was the real issue, wasn’t it?

She reminded you of E.

They had pieces of each other — enough to confuse your brain into hoping.

But E.. made you feel something. E wanted you. E actually read your writing and saw you.

You sat up abruptly, pulled your laptop out of your bag, flipped it open, and stared at the screen. Chapter Eight. Ten pages. Every line you’d poured into that moment — erased by a shrug.

Without giving yourself a second to think, you highlighted the entire document, dragged it to the trash, and hit delete.

You slammed the lid closed. If she didn’t care, then neither did you.

Right?

Your phone buzzed beside you. You ignored it at first — or tried to.

But your fingers reached for it anyway, almost unconsciously.

E:

hey

just got home

The message sat on your lock screen, simple and soft. You stared at it, and somehow, just seeing her name — her tone — made the tension in your chest pop like a soap bubble.

Your shoulders loosened. Just a little.

Of course she texted.

You let out a slow breath, eyes still on the screen. Then your gaze shifted upward, just a fraction — to the tiny digital date above the message preview.

You blinked.

“Great,” you muttered.

That explained the mood.

Well. Part of it.

You sat up a little, unlocked your phone and opened the thread.

you:

how was your day?

It didn’t take long.

E:

mm

had to deal w a little drama but it was fine

nothing major

Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

A little drama.

You stared at that line longer than you meant to.

You’d just lived through your own little drama — and it had everything to do with Ellie.

you:

ugh same

i hate my partner for this pair project rn

she’s mean

E:

mean??

to you???

you:

yeah :(

E:

who the fuck does she think she is

what did she do

you:

she won’t let me add this scene i wrote 😒

and i kinda walked out on her awhile ago

There was a pause, just a beat too long.

E:

ok so she’s insane

and blind

and ungrateful

she must’ve really gotten under your skin today huh

You sighed.

you:

yeah

hate her for it

but it’s mostly acting tbh

i’m gonna get my period real soon

so yeah

but still

i was valid right?

i mean it’s OUR project

You waited, thumbs hovering. There was a weird mix of comfort and tension in your chest — the comfort of talking to E again, even if the day had been a mess.

Your phone buzzed.

E:

of course you were

you’re always valid

she’s the one who fucked it up, not you

if it were me

i’d literally write anything you wanted

You stared at the message, eyes narrowing slightly.

E:

she’s probably sorry now

even if she’ll never say it

like

who wouldn’t be sorry if they crossed you?

You scoffed. Quiet, under your breath.

Classic. Always knowing what to say to make you feel seen — even when the feeling in your chest didn’t fully match the smile on your face.

Still. The phrasing stuck with you.

She’s sorry.

Like it wasn’t just a guess.

Like it was coming from somewhere closer than it should’ve.

You rolled onto your side, staring at the screen a second longer than you needed to. You started typing again — something light. Something that wouldn’t give too much away.

you:

u sound like u know her

You sent it as a joke, the corners of your mouth twitching. But part of you still watched the screen like you were waiting for something to break.

E:

nahh

You sighed, dropping your phone onto the bed for a second. Ellie’s face popped into your mind anyway.

Uninvited.

Unavoidable.

The thought that she could be E hadn’t really left your mind since that day — the day you worked with her at her house. You didn’t want to dwell on it, not after what happened today. But it lingered anyway — quiet and annoying, like a song stuck on a loop in the back of your head.

Ellie was too blunt. Too practical. Too stiff in her tone, too composed in the way she held herself. She’d never lower herself to something as reckless or vulnerable as anonymous flirting.

She would never.

She could never be the same girl you like.

The one who texted you at night with just a “hey.” The one who read every scene you wrote and said you were brilliant. The one who told you she missed you — who listened when you ranted, remembered the things you said at 2 a.m., and wanted to ruin you slowly, sweetly, like she actually meant it.

Pushing the thought aside, you smirked to yourself and picked your phone back up.

you:

u know what u sound?

jealous

E:

good

i am

i would be jealous of anyone who gets to be with you

who gets to see you

talk to you

hear your laugh

sit next to you

touch you

breathe the same air as you

fuck

You blinked, a quiet little laugh slipping out. Really huh.

Smirking, you texted back.

you:

u are talking to me

and u can see me

You opened your camera, adjusted slightly where you lay — hair a little messy against your pillow, eyes half-lidded, nose scrunched just enough to look like you weren’t trying.

One click.

Sent.

A beat later:

E:

jesus christ

look at you

you:

u like it?

E:

i love it

i hate how much i love it

i have a whole album of you on my phone

no shame

You blinked and snorted.

you:

ohh

even the ones (yk) are included? 👀

E:

guess

you:

i think u do ;)

what do you even do with them?

E:

stare

obsess

sigh like a loser

bite my fist

replay every second

you’re unreal

i wanna bite you

You chewed your lip, smirking to yourself.

you:

ohh

E:

why?

You stared at the blinking cursor a second, then typed, amused.

you:

i was expecting you to say you get off at it

You chuckled under your breath, half expecting her to dodge it, half expecting something worse.

But then, casually, you added. Typing slower this time.

you:

u don’t have to be jealous of anyone who’s close to me

they aren’t you anyway

tf i care about them

There was a longer pause before you added again.

you:

and actually..

we can like

call or something

if u want

You watched the three dots blinking on the screen, heart beating a little faster than usual. It caught you off guard. You’d never really asked her for anything before, not like this. And now here you were, holding your breath over three blinking dots.

E:

nah

you wouldn’t be able to handle me yet

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

you:

oh

really

doubt that

E:

don’t

trust me

not when i want you like this

you:

be serious

You shook your head a little, grinning quietly. Couldn’t handle her? Please.

You kept your phone in your hand, waiting for her to say something else. One more line. Something. But the screen stayed still, and after a while, nothing else came through.

You sighed and lay back against your pillow, eyes drifting to the ceiling. The room had gone quiet again, the kind of quiet where you could hear your own thoughts too clearly.

She really was impossible. And now you couldn’t stop thinking about her all over again.

You checked your phone again. Still no message from E. The screen stayed quiet and you felt like your nerves started crawling out of your skin again.

With a frustrated sigh, you exited the thread and opened your other messages.

A few dry group chats, a half-hearted “wyd” from someone you didn’t care about, and buried in between — Ellie.

You rolled your eyes as you reread your past conversations — God, she texts like a fucking customer service rep. So proper. So stiff. Like she’s allergic to being real. Such a nerd and a loser. Acting like she knows everything. Like she’s above the drama when she is the drama. All that brainpower and she still couldn’t even consider your ideas.

For a second, you typed something.

you:

aren’t you even gonna say sorry—

You stared at it. Then deleted the entire thing and tossed your phone onto your bed. You weren’t doing this. Not tonight.

You tried watching something. You tried opening TikTok. But nothing stuck. You kept checking your phone like maybe E would say something. Anything.

And at 12:07 AM, she finally did.

E:

can’t sleep

u up?

Your fingers didn’t hesitate.

you:

unfortunately

thanks for asking 2 hours late

E:

wow

okay

i deserved that

but i’m here now

so... miss me?

you:

maybe

still kinda annoyed though

E:

…at me?

You hesitated but smirked anyway.

you:

no

just the world

and my uterus

everything is annoying

okay but like

you wanna know something real?

E:

literally always

say it

ruin me

you:

i get…

really fucking needy

right before my period hits

There was a pause. Your legs shifted. You tried to play it off. But your skin was buzzing.

Your heart did that thing again.

That tight, fluttery, fuck-it kind of beat.

E:

how needy

You bit your lip.

you:

like

literally can’t focus

everything feels ten times worse

and better

and i just want someone to touch me

Three dots.

Then nothing.

Then three dots again.

E:

jesus

i’m losing my mind already

what do you want me to do about it

you:

idk

say dirty things

ruin my night

make me forget i hate everyone rn

E:

fuck

you know i’d do anything for you, right

literally anything

You grinned, flushed and smug all at once.

E:

just tell me what you need

please

say it

Your fingers hovered.

God.

You were still mad at Ellie.

Still confused. Still annoyed that she didn’t even try today.

But this?

This was all softness and heat. This was control. This was what you wanted.

Ellie made you furious. Maybe Ellie won't say sorry about it. Maybe she wouldn't even care.

But E did.

And that was enough for tonight.

E always knew how to fix it.

You stared at the screen a second longer, thumb hovering before you started typing again—slower this time, your breathing a little uneven.

you:

i don’t really know what i want

but thinking of you watching me rn

while i touch myself

makes me so wet

can u do that?

The dots showed up instantly.

E:

fuckfuckfuck

yes

please

i need to see you

right now

i’m losing it

You tried not to sigh as you stared at the two math test papers laid out in front of you. You failed them both.

The red ink looked brighter in the library light. One circled with a question mark beside your boxed final answer, maybe your teacher was genuinely concerned for your cognitive development.

Across from you, Ellie was typing in silence. Her brows furrowed slightly, screen glowing against her face.

You were back in the library again.

You didn’t even want to come today. Not after what you said. Not after what she didn’t say.

But Ms. Alvarez made it clear. You needed to reach at least Chapter 15 before the week ended. So here you were. Sitting across from her. Pretending it was just another day.

You hadn’t talked since last period. You just sat beside her in English, silently taking notes and never looked at her once.

Ellie didn’t say anything either.

But now, here, she glanced up at you — once, — then back at her laptop. Her eyes flicked again, more deliberate this time. She wanted to say something. Or maybe just nudge you into working again.

“What are you looking at?” she asked finally, nodding toward the papers in front of you.

You straightened. “Nothing,” you said, your voice low, trying not to sound mean.

She stared a beat longer, then returned to typing. “We need to finish Chapter 15 this week.”

“I know, okay?” you snapped, sharper than you meant.

Ellie leaned forward and — without warning — snatched the test papers from your side of the table.

You frowned. “What are you—?”

She raised her eyebrows as she scanned the scores, not saying anything.

You raised yours back, daring her to say something about it.

You snatched them back and shoved them into your bag without folding them. “I’m dumb at math, okay?” you muttered. “Don’t look so shocked.”

You huffed. “Not like it matters anyway. I’ll probably not go to college.”

You rolled your eyes and continued. “Maybe my mom’s gonna marry me off to some wealthy Christian man. We’ll live in a beige house and I’ll act like the perfect wife. But he’ll eventually cheat with his assistant because we don’t actually love each other. We’ll divorce, and I’ll be left with two bitch kids who hate me because I’m a shitty mom.”

You paused and glanced at her — realizing she’d been listening the whole time. “So yeah. It’s fine. I’ve accepted it.”

Ellie didn’t respond right away. She blinke at you, leaning back a little in her chair.

“…You do know not going to college doesn’t automatically land you in a beige house with a cheating husband, right?”

You gave her a look.

Ellie shrugged. “I’m just saying. You’d probably burn the house down before he even made it to the affair.”

You snorted under your breath, unwilling but amused.

She nudged her laptop slightly toward you, eyes flicking to the side. “Also it’s fine... to be dumb at math,” she said, almost like it was meant to be reassuring.

You turned to her fully now, one brow raised. “Are we now okay for you to say shit like that?”

Ellie just shrugged again. “I mean… you said it first.”

You blinked at her, deadpan. “Well, thanks for making me feel even dumber,” you said, voice flat with sarcasm.

You were glaring at her. Ellie rubbed the back of her neck, eyes darting to your bag, then back to you.

“I could… tutor you or something.”

You rolled your eyes, head tilting with offense. “If this is your way of saying sorry, sorry — but I won’t accept it.”

“My way of—?” Ellie blinked. “I’m not saying sorry.”

You turned toward her fully, frowning. “Why the hell not?”

She hesitated, jaw tightening. “Because I already—” She stopped herself, eyes flicking away like looking at you might give something away. “Because you also insulted me yesterday,” she added, sighing.

“Insulted?” you echoed. “It was true.”

Ellie’s mouth twitched — a flash of something angry in her eyes — before her face settled into something tighter. Irritated.

“Yeah? Well, you’re a bitch.”

You blinked at her, stunned into silence for half a second.

Before you could shoot something back, Ellie added dryly, “And at least I didn’t storm out yesterday because my most-wanted sex scene wasn’t included in our book. Are you that deprived, or just that dramatic?”

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know I have a very active sex life, Ellie.”

She leaned back, lips curving — smug. “Yeah? Care to share then?”

Your mouth opened.

Your brain went blank for a beat too long — and unfortunately, in that beat, E came to your mind. The memory of last night flickered through you like heat lightning.

Your blush hit like a slap — sharp, hot, and way too obvious.

You tried to play it off, waving a hand. “No way. Sorry, Ellie, but I don’t want you to feel bad just because you don’t have any of that in your life.”

Ellie tilted her head, her eyes narrowing with the same smirk on her lips. “You don’t know that.”

You frowned, raising your eyebrows after. “Okay then. When was the last time it happened?”

Ellie didn’t answer right away. She just stared at you for a moment — too long, almost — before her fingers returned to the keyboard, typing again. She shrugged, eyes fixed on the screen.

“Last night.”

tag list:

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[sevikalvr]

no way you put a six seven joke in the jinx fic😭😭😭

HEY NOW. I thought it was fitting in the moment.. 😞

[sevikalvr]

JINX NEXT

— 𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐏 —

summary! - rockstar!jinx x bodyguard!reader > you happen to be apart of a last minute security personnel for the band Faultline. you get assigned to the crazy one. crazy things happen, obviously.

wc: 7.9k — cw: dom top!reader, bottom!jinx, blunt!reader, hair pulling, slight orgasm denial, praising, mirror sex, fingering (jinx!receiving), slight degradation, scratching, grinding, slight choking, and punishment kink!jinx. MINORS DNI!!

notes: this has been requested and I shall deliver!! hope you are satisfied with this as it was my first time writing jinx. happy reading! 🌸

You, along with the rest of your security team, got chosen last minute for.. Something about ‘reinforcing safety protocols and de-escalate threats’ for a fucking band. 

What was is it.. Oh right. Faultline.

Got briefed with a messy fight occurring on stage that will most likely end up in the headlines, latest by tomorrow morning. When you arrived, which was later than usual due to where you were last set up, Sevika only gave you a warning. Said you were assigned to the ‘crazy’ one, Jinx. You just brushed her off, thinking it was nothing.

You’ve probably dealt with worse anyways.

..Right? 

The hallway outside Jinx’s suite smelled like smoke, tequila, and a lawsuit waiting to happen.

You adjusted your collar, thumb resting near your holster—not because you needed it, but because with Jinx, you never knew what counted as a weapon with the way she handled the mic earlier on stage from tonight's show. The file said she’d “calmed down” recently. The broken lamp in the VIP lounge room said otherwise. You had received a text from Sevika only just to warn you about the PR manager. Claimed she was a raging mess. Couldn’t blame her though. 

You knocked once.

No answer.

You knocked again.

From behind the door, “If you’re room service, I already stole a sandwich and I’m not sorry.”

You sighed. “Not room service. New security.”

A beat of silence. Then the door swung open like it had been kicked—not pulled. Jinx stood barefoot in a band tee and cutoff shorts, eyeliner smudged like she hadn't slept in 48 hours. She gave you a slow once-over and leaned on the doorframe like she was posing for a mugshot. Almost as if she was assessing you.

“Well well well,” she said, dragging it out. “They sent me a chaperone with a jawline. I feel spoiled.”

You didn’t take the bait. “I’m not here to spoil you. I’m here to keep you from making tomorrow’s headlines.”

“Oh baby,” she grinned, stepping in close, “I am the headline.”

You held her gaze. Close enough to smell smoke on her breath, but you didn’t move. “Not tonight, you’re not.”

She stared. And then laughed—a low, unpredictable thing that made your stomach clench, even as you kept your face still.

“Oh, I like you,” she said. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

She turned on her heel and sauntered back inside without inviting you in, like she knew you’d follow anyway.

The suite was a damn warzone. Someone had drawn on the mirror in red lipstick (you hoped it was lipstick), the TV was playing static, and there was a half-eaten cupcake mashed into the carpet. The scent of something chemical lingered in the air.

You closed the door behind you. “You planning on sleeping tonight?”

Jinx flopped onto the couch backwards, legs hanging over the top, head dangling off the edge so she could keep looking at you upside-down. “I dunno. Depends. Are you staying the whole time or just till I blink?”

You crossed your arms. “I stay until you fix your shit.”

“Oooo. She’s serious.” She mimicked your pose, but from her awkward position, it looked more like a sarcastic crab. “You got a name, ‘Security’? Or should I call you Sergeant Buzzkill?”

God that was corny as hell, you think to yourself.

You gave it to her. Flat, simple. No reason to play coy. She repeated it under her breath, testing the weight of it like she was seeing how it’d sound in a whisper, or maybe a scream. Then she grinned and sat up too fast, like she’d forgotten how gravity worked.

“Huh… So what happens if I don’t start fixing my ‘shit’?”

Your jaw ticked. “Then I stop you.”

She got too close. Again.

Tilted her head. “And if you can’t?”

You didn’t blink. “Then I drag your ass back here by your pretty little meltdown.”

She paused. Then she laughed. Loud. Wild. Real.

"God, you're fun," she said, eyes flicking to your mouth just long enough to register. “You’re either gonna break, or get fired trying.”

You smirked, just a little. “Not the first time I’ve been underestimated.”

"Not the first time I've done the underestimating," she replied, and stepped back—not because she was done, but because she wanted you to follow.

And then, she grabbed her boots off the floor, didn’t bother with socks, and started lacing them up.

You straightened. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She looked up with a smile that made your gut twist.

“Nowhere bad,” she said. “Unless you count the rooftop.”

Pause.

“…You coming or are you gonna tattle?”

The rooftop door squealed open like it hadn't been touched in weeks. City lights blinked below, hazy through the heat rising off the pavement. Jinx led the way, boots thudding softly on concrete, then stopped right at the edge of the building like she belonged there. You stayed near the door, eyes scanning the perimeter. No cameras, no backup. Just you and the problem child of Piltover’s label.

She hopped onto the ledge like it was a park bench, crouched low, arms on her knees. A flick of her wrist, and a lighter sparked. The flame caught on a cigarette you didn’t know she had.

"You gonna write me up for this?" she asked, not looking at you.

You stayed silent. Watching. Measuring.

She exhaled a long, lazy breath and turned slightly so the wind carried the smoke behind her. That was probably the most considerate thing she’d done all night.

"You know what they used to call me?" she said, voice a little quieter. “Back before the PR cleanup, before the 'don't post without a handler' rules. Before the rehab tour.”

You didn’t answer.

She smirked anyway. "Damage Incarnate. Cute, right?"

"Fitting," you say.

"Ouch. You do have a personality under that tactical vest." She twisted to face you fully, still crouched on the edge, boots inches from a four-story drop. "Tell me something— chaperone, are you here to protect me, or everyone else from me?"

"Depends on which version of you I’m meeting."

Jinx grinned like that was the right answer.

Then she stood. Fully. On the edge. Arms out. Wind catching her shirt, hair whipping across her face like something out of a music video designed to give you a heart attack. You took a step forward. Instinct.

She didn’t move, just watched you watching her. “Careful,” she said. “Look too concerned and I’ll think you like me.”

“I like not scraping you off the pavement.”

“You think I’d jump?”

“I think you like seeing how far you can go before someone flinches.”

She laughed, something short and sharp. “And what if you don’t flinch, huh? What if you just stand there like some tall, emotionally constipated wall and watch?”

“I grab you before you fall.”

“Even if I deserve it?”

“I don’t do ‘deserve’,” you said. “I do protocol. You fall, I catch. Every time.”

That shut her up for half a second. Not because she didn’t have a comeback—but because she wasn’t expecting that one. Then, still standing on the edge, she leaned down enough to flick her cigarette off the side. She watched it drop, eyes tracking it all the way down until it disappeared into nothing.

When she straightened up, she didn’t step off the ledge.

She just said, “What if I fall on purpose?”

You stepped right up to her. Close now. Too close. One shove and you'd both be off the side.

“Then I’d be real fucking annoyed.”

And that made her smile. Like you’d said something intimate. She stepped down finally. Off the ledge. Into your space.

“You’re gonna be a problem,” she said.

“I’m not the one standing on rooftops at 2 a.m. daring gravity to notice me.”

“No,” she murmured. “But you are the one I’ll be thinking about when it does.”

And then she walked past you, shoulder brushing yours, electric and deliberate. She didn’t wait to see if you followed. She already knew you would.

The elevator ride down was quiet—except for the faint hum of the building and the way Jinx kept humming some unplaceable tune under her breath. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You could feel her watching you out of the corner of her eye like she was studying the edge of a knife.

Back in the suite, she didn’t bother turning the lights on. Just walked straight to the window, cracked it, and leaned her forehead against the glass. You shut the door behind you and stood by it for a second. Watching. Waiting. The air still smelled faintly of smoke and trouble.

“You always this fun on night shift?” she asked, not turning around.

“Only when babysitting.”

She snorted. “Jeez.. Right in the ego. You’re lucky I have thick skin.”

You moved farther into the room, slow. “You didn’t jump.”

She shrugged. “Didn’t feel like falling tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”

“You’re real casual about that.”

“Yeah, well. When your life’s a loaded gun with a sticky trigger, you stop getting nervous about where it’s pointed.”

You didn’t have a comeback for that. She finally turned, leaning back against the window now, arms folded. The glow from the streetlamps outside painted her in harsh gold and shadow, and for a second, she looked tired. But then her eyes locked on yours again, and the chaos reloaded behind them within seconds.

“Sit,” she said, nodding toward the only clean spot left on the couch.

You didn’t move.

“Oh come on,” she groaned. “What, scared I’ll corrupt your tactical morals? I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

You arched a brow. “That’d be a first.”

“Okay, no promises.” She grinned and flopped down instead, legs up again, taking all the space. “So what’s the deal, huh? You one of those no-nonsense, code-of-conduct types? Or are you just pretending not to want to find out what kind of mess I am?”

You didn’t answer.

She tilted her head. “Stoneface it is, then.”

You crossed your arms, standing over her. “I’m not here to want anything from you.”

She clicked her tongue. “Liar.”

Silence again. Tension tightening the room like a tripwire.

Jinx sat up suddenly, too fast again, until she was on her knees on the couch, eye-level with you. No warning, no distance.

“You’re not scared of me,” she said softly. “But you should be.”

“I’ve dealt with worse.”

She smirked. “Yeah? Name one thing more dangerous than me, sarge.”

You held her gaze. “Wanting to find out if you’re bluffing.”

That one landed hard.

Her mouth twitched, halfway between a grin and something else entirely. She blinked once, slow, like your words knocked her off balance just a little.

Then she leaned back and whispered, “Well… shit.”

You still didn’t move.

She smiled at you like a secret. “You might actually make it through the week.”

“Long as you don’t set anything on fire.”

“No promises,” she said again, eyes still locked on yours but this time her lips curled up which almost resembled a smile. Almost. 

Silence fell upon you two as she went back to laying down on the couch. Taking up all the space as per usual. You managed to settle yourself on the armchair beside the couch, with only one thing settling in your mind;

Your ass is not going to get paid enough for this. 

                               ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Mid-morning the next day. You’re back on shift. Jinx is ignoring every call and message from her PR manager, who’s clearly spiraling trying to keep things together. Vi is MIA. And you? Well you’re in the backseat of a tinted car with Jinx sprawled out beside you like she owns it, boots on the seat, phone buzzing with unanswered calls.

She holds it up dramatically. “Three missed calls, one panic text, and a threat to ‘get my shit together.’ Think she’s gonna cry?”

You glance at the screen. PR manager’s name again. You should tell her to respond. Matter fact, now you’re wondering how Sevika’s doing. Better hope she doesn’t end up like Medarda's case again..

Jinx’s phone buzzed again. She looked at the screen, thumb hovering and she managed to break you out of your train of thoughts as she tossed it onto the other side of the booth like it burned.

You raised an eyebrow. “That her again?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the window with her foot occasionally bumping against the car seat that she’s sprawled across on.

“I’m not ignoring her because I don’t care,” she muttered finally. “I’m ignoring her because I don’t want to say the wrong thing. Or… not enough. Or too much.”

Beat.

“She thinks it’s just me acting out again. But it’s not. It’s Vi. And I know she’s trying to fix it, but I’m not in the mood to be one more thing she has to glue together.. Especially if it's not even about me!”

You stayed silent, watching her unravel in that casual, careless way she always performed—except this wasn’t for show.

Jinx gave a bitter little laugh. “She’s probably sitting somewhere with her laptop open, trying to spin this into a funny story so the fans don’t freak out. Or probably pacing around and screaming at god knows who. Meanwhile, Vi’s off playing silent treatment and I’m over here chewing through reality like a freaking taffy.”

She looked up at you then.

“Don’t give me that look.”

“What look?” you asked, raising you eyebrow.

“The ‘how do you feel about that’ look.”

You leaned back. “That’s not my look.”

“Yeah it is. You’re doing the quiet sympathy thing. Like you’re about to say something wise and slightly condescending. Like you’ve got a degree in emotionally constipated— lunatics!”

You gave her a dry look. “I don’t have a degree. I have a vest, a codeword, and a black belt in dragging people out of shitty decisions.”

She tilted her head. “So what, I vent and you call it in?”

“No,” you said. “You vent and I tell you to shut it down before you do something that gets you tased.”

She snorted. “Wow. Warmth and tact. How do I resist?”

“I’m not here to be soft,” you said flatly. “I’m not your therapist. I’m security. You wanna talk about Vi, that’s fine—but if you’re gonna implode, you’re gonna do it somewhere I can contain it.”

That quieted her for a second.

Then she muttered, “I’m not gonna implode.”

You gave her a look.

“I’m not,” she repeated, more to herself. “I just.. don’t want to be the reason she has another crisis meeting. Especially when it’s not even about me.”

“She called you three times,” you said. “Pretty sure it is about you.”

Jinx leaned her head against the window. “Yeah. And I’m not ready to hear what she’s gonna say.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Not really.

So you just said the only thing that fit, “Then don’t answer yet. But don’t pretend she doesn’t care because she clearly does.”

Eventually Jinx ended up sulking against the window, her eyes gazing on the crossing objects and people as the driver continued to their destination. Which seems to be.. a diner. In the middle of nowhere. 

Perfect. Just great, really.

Worst part was your orders were to keep her safe, not emotionally stable—but the longer you’re around her, the more those lines blur. And now? Now you're skipping check-ins, covering her location, and not reporting half of what she's doing.

You’re not just off-script. You’re complicit.

And that’s a major problem since you’ve known her for less than twenty four hours. Guess you had pity on the poor girl.

As the car came to a halt, you exited the vehicle first. Always. That’s protocol, to ensure your client’s safety. Although you’re really wondering why the hell you were assigned to the crazy one. At this point it was babysitting.

..even if she was growing on you, you’d never admit that. 

You opened the door to the diner for her as she tucked her braids in and pulled her hoodie up to avoid being noticed. Although the whole personal driver with tinted windows and bodyguard chic almost screamed ‘celebrity coming through!’ 

“Oh so now we’re being nice?” She asks flashing you a small smirk before walking inside the diner letting out a short laugh. 

You just huffed under your breath as you shook your head, “Brat..”

As you two sat down in a booth, sitting opposite sides from each other, she took her time glancing at the menu. Now you’d been sitting in the booth for fifteen minutes. No order placed. Menu now upside down in Jinx’s hands.

“How hard is it to pick food?” you asked, watching the waitress glance over for the third time.

Jinx kicked her foot against the table leg. “I’m thinking.”

“You’ve been ‘thinking’ since we sat down.”

“This is an important decision,” she said, flipping a page like it had a secret message on it. “Life or death, really.”

“Get eggs and coffee. It’s not hostage negotiations.”

She peered over the menu. “Gross! Eggs? Besides, you don’t know what it’s like to commit to one thing.”

“I’m literally committed to following you around twenty four seven.”

“Yeah, well— that’s your bad decision.”

You huff. Because it really wasn't. Regardless, the waitress came over again, pad in hand. 

Jinx closed the menu dramatically and said, “One strawberry milkshake. Extra whipped cream.”

You blinked at her.

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“That’s what the fifteen minute crisis was for?”

She stuck her straw in the glass as soon as it landed. “Hey, don’t rush the creative process.”

“Creative? It’s sugar in a cup.”

She slurped obnoxiously. “Art comes in many forms, sarge.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched— almost a smile.

Almost.

The milkshake was halfway gone. Jinx had started using her spoon to carve little dents into the paper napkin. You hadn’t said much in ten minutes. Just kept your eyes on the door, on her, on your phone. That's when your phone buzzed.

You flipped it over, the contact name reading Sevika. 

The preview read;

[10:11] Just walked into post-sponsor fallout. She snapped. Told off the whole room. Like, actually yelled. Worse than the show night. [10:12] Don’t think I’ve ever seen her that pissed Or that…

She stopped typing. You waited.

Another message came in.

[10:13]: Just keep jinx out of her orbit for now. She’s shaken.

You blinked at the screen.

Shaken?

It wasn’t the word choice. It was the fact that Sevika used it like it mattered. Not “she’s losing it.” Not “deal with it.” But shaken.. like Sevika had seen something real behind the yelling. Something that actually got to her. And the way she kept typing like she wasn’t just worried about cleanup.

But about her. You typed back.

[10:15] you good?

Fine. She’s not. Don’t say anything.

Jinx watched you with sharp eyes. She could always tell when something shifted.

“Tell them I’m being good,” she said, voice deliberately innocent. “Maybe they’ll give me a sticker.”

You didn’t reply.

Your phone buzzed again. One more message.

[10:16] I think she actually cares what Jinx thinks and it’s fucking her up.

You sighed as you locked your screen and slid it across the table, face-down. Jinx narrowed her eyes.

“What?” she asked, voice slower now. “Something happen?”

You leaned back in the booth. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

Jinx let it sit for a moment. Then said, quieter than before, “She yell at Vi?”

“No,” you said. “Doubt she even got contact with Violet. She yelled at everyone else.”

“And you’re not gonna tell me why?”

You shook your head.

“I hate being benched,” Jinx muttered, mostly to herself.

You exhaled. “You're not benched. You're being… covered. For now.”

Jinx huffed. “Same thing.”

And the silence that settled between you wasn’t bitter. It was tired. Exhausted even. Like neither of you really knew how to help her, and both of you wanted to. Damn. Didn’t think this job would leave you feeling more sympathetic than usual.

Especially with Sevika. You’re starting to catch on that Sevika might actually give a shit about this PR manager, more than she lets on. You just hope that if she makes the same mistake this time, it better be fucking worth it.

Regardless, seeing Jinx sulking in front of you as she stabbed her straw into the whipped cream, dragging it in lazy circles like she was trying to hypnotize herself out of caring. Occasionally gazing out the window as if some miracle would pop by made your chest pang with sorrow. Jeez, is her behavior usually this effective?

“Think if I sit here long enough and sip my sugar, the whole world will fix itself?” she asked, eyes on the puddle of melted strawberry at the bottom of the glass.

You nudged her foot under the table. Not hard. Just enough to break the spiral.

She looked up, surprised. “Oh? We’re playing footsie now?”

You gave her a flat look. “Don’t get excited.”

“Too late.” She smirked, but her eyes didn’t match the tone. Not really.

You leaned back in the booth, arms crossed. Tried to land on something light—but it came out stiff. “Look. Maybe the world won’t fix itself. But statistically, milkshakes improve shitty mornings.”

She blinked at you.

“That was almost a joke,” she said, voice dry but soft.

“Yeah, well.” You cleared your throat. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Jinx let the spoon clatter into the glass. “I dunno. Think I’m gonna keep that one in my back pocket. ‘Security Detail tries humor. World trembles.’”

You almost smiled. Key word, almost.

But then her gaze dropped again, back to her phone.

“She’s still calling, huh?” you asked, quieter now.

Jinx twirled the phone between her fingers but didn’t unlock it.

“I’m not answering,” she muttered. “Not until I stop wanting to throw something.”

“She’s not the one you’re mad at.”

“I know that.” Her voice sharpened. “But if I answer, it becomes about me again. Like always.  I don’t like the sound of her disappointed voice. Makes me feel like I’m twelve all over again.”

You tapped your knuckle against the table. Tried to find the line between security protocol and whatever the hell this was turning into.

“Look,” you said, tone even, “I don’t do therapy. I do keeping-you-out-of-shit. That’s my whole job.”

She gave you a look like she was about to bite back—but you held her gaze steady.

“But.” You exhaled. “You’re not gonna be the reason the world burns down today. Not in my sight.”

She tilted her head, lips twitching. “That supposed to cheer me up?”

“It’s the best I’ve got.”

“God,” she said, eyes narrowing in amusement. “You’re terrible at this.”

“Yep.”

Jinx smiled. Just a little.

But she slid her phone a little farther away from herself, like maybe, not right now, but soon she’d call the manager back. Jinx spun her empty milkshake glass, eyes flicking toward the bathroom sign.

“I gotta piss,” she announced, sliding out of the booth.

You didn’t move. “I’ll wait.”

She rolled her eyes. “Wow, thanks for the permission slip, Kevlar.”

You let yet another nickname slide. Once again.

Jinx sauntered off, braid swinging behind her, but the second she hit the corner by the bathroom, her pace changed, shoulders tense, head down, slipping into that flight mode you’d started to recognize. You stayed in the booth for a minute. Protocol said trust-but-verify, and you gave her that minute.

Two minutes passed. Then three. You stood.

By the time you pushed the bathroom door open, hand hovering near your phone on your back pocket, Jinx was just stepping out. Like absolutely nothing happened.

“You good?” you asked, scanning her face. No signs of a window break, no scrapes, no sprint lines in her mascara.

She flashed you a too-wide grin. “What, you think I bailed?”

You arched a brow. “Did you?”

“Thought about it,” she shrugged, brushing past you back into the diner. “But then I remembered you’d chase me.”

You followed, close behind. “Would’ve caught you, too.”

“I know,” she groaned, mocking dramatically, tossing her hands in the air. “That’s the damn problem!”

She plopped back into the booth, like she hadn’t just tried to ghost you in the middle of a milkshake hangover. What she didn’t say, but you clocked anyway, was that she’d actually stopped herself this time.

Not because she was scared of you catching her. Because she remembered what you said. No burn-it-all-down today. Not in your sight. God, especially not in the morning.

Silence fell upon you two again, Jinx managed to stay silent as she kept glancing at her pinging phone. Conflicted about what to do. You were about to tell her it was time to head back when your phone buzzed again. This time it was Sevika texting you to bring Jinx in.

[10:34] Don’t make this harder than it is. Just get her back here.

You let the phone rest in your lap, eyes still on Jinx. She looked fine on the outside, but you could see it—the restlessness, the edge she was teetering on. She wasn’t ready to face the cameras, the meetings, the fake smiles. And definitely not Vi.

“Problem?” she asked, voice lazy but sharp.

You didn’t answer.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “God who keeps texting you?”

You didn’t have to say it. She could tell.

Jinx leaned back, arms stretched across the top of the booth like she owned it. “Lemme guess—they want me back so I can say sorry to some brand I don’t give a shit about, act like I’m fine, and make the headlines go away.”

You stayed quiet.

Her mouth twitched. “Well?”

“Sevika says it’s time.”

Jinx exhaled hard through her nose, like you’d punched her in the gut without moving.

“Sevika huh? Well I don’t wanna go,” she said. Soft. But firm.

“That’s not really up to you.”

Her eyes flicked up to yours, sharp. “Isn’t it?”

Your phone buzzed again. You didn’t look at it this time.

Jinx’s voice dropped lower. “Do you have to call it in?”

You hesitated. That one second of silence was all she needed to see.

Her smile turned razor-edged. “Ohhh. Look at you. Already breaking the rules for me baby.”

“I’m not breaking anything. And don’t call me that.”

“Sure you’re not.” Her foot nudged yours under the table again—this time not playful, but pointed. “But you could, baby.”

Her gaze locked on yours. You gaze hardened just by a notch.

“I can’t,” she said. “Just— not today.”

You checked the time. Your job was to keep her safe. Not happy. Not sane. But here you were—stalling.

You exhaled slowly and unlocked your phone. Jinx watched you with a sideways smirk, like she was testing how far you’d bend before you snapped. You typed out a location ping. Not here. Somewhere safe enough to buy time—an upscale café five blocks away, where Jinx could plausibly be sipping overpriced tea, playing cooperative.

You hit send.

[10:46] got her at Lucienne’s on 5th. keeping her calm will move when ready

The dots popped up immediately.

[10:47] Lucienne's? Since when does Jinx do tea and quiet?

You stared at the screen. Your thumb hovered over typing, but nothing you wrote would sound good. Three dots. Then nothing. Another three dots.

Then this;

[10:48] Fine. Not my circus today. We’re heading out. Crisis meeting in Bridgepoint.

That was Sevika-speak for, I know you’re full of shit but I don’t have time to deal with it.

Jinx tapped her nails on the table. “So?”

“They’re leaving you alone,” you said.

Her eyes narrowed. “For now.”

“For now.”

She relaxes slightly while she’s slouched deeper into the booth, braid sliding over her shoulder, but her jaw unclenched slightly. Like the rope around her neck loosened just enough for her to breathe.

Sevika knew you were lying. You knew she knew. But you’d both made a choice— For now.

My god this was going to be a long day wasn’t it?

                                     ──────────

Jinx dragged you through boutique shops she had no business being in. She tried on sunglasses shaped like flames, stared at herself in the mirror, and whispered, “Look at me—corporate fucking America.”

You said nothing, honestly just stifling a snort. Kept watch while she slipped three silver rings into your jacket pocket when no one was looking.

“Relax, Kevlar,” she grinned, nudging your side. “Consider it a service charge.”

You rolled your eyes, placing them back as she continued to browse through the store. And of course she kept picking out the most outrageous things ever to be seen in all of mankind.

“What? Why are you making a face? This would make such a sexy top” she says, having a smug smile. 

“Jinx that’s a fucking belt.” you say with a dry expression. Slightly grimacing if you look hard enough.

“And? It would make my tits look nice..” she mumbles as she examines the belt yet again.

“For god’s sake..” you mutter under your breath as you hear her snort obnoxiously.

Keep it together. Your mind shouldn’t wander to Jinx wearing a damn belt as a shirt. You shook your head slightly as she continued to browse. Pulling out various pairs of shirts just to get your attention. Asking whether or not they would look good on her. You just went along with it. Might as well get her mind off the real problem she’s trying to avoid.

It was clear Jinx was finding absolutely anything to do just to keep herself busy. And you let her, to a point. She wandered around downtown, trying her best to go about her day without being detected. Although with you standing next to her in all black..

Whatever, as long as you just follow protocol (which you really aren’t) everything will be fine.

Christ, who are you lying to? You already lied about her location, refused to bring her in, if you keep this up you’ll end up making a choice that will have consequences. But you can’t help it. 

So long story short, you’re screwed.

You bring a hand down her face as you were behind Jinx, as she walked into some alleyway. You should’ve told her no. But Jinx was already halfway up the fire escape, braid whipping behind her like a fuse burning out.

“C’mon, Kevlar,” she called over her shoulder, foot hitting the next rung. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

You followed. Because that’s the job. Or at least that’s what you kept telling yourself.

The rooftop was hot and empty, the kind of place city pigeons claimed first. Jinx sprawled out flat on the concrete, arms stretched wide like she was making a snow angel in summer. Her eyes stayed closed against the sun, but her lips twitched at the edges.

“Jesus, how many times will we go on a rooftop?

“Like about— six seven times” she says, gesturing her hands.

You rolled your eyes.

“You don’t have to stand all stiff, y’know,” she muttered. “We’re off duty.”

“We’re never off duty.”

“You aren’t,” she corrected, smirking. “I quit hours ago.”

Her hands flexed open and closed on the rooftop like she was testing gravity.

“Could jump right now,” she whispered, sing-song soft. “Wouldn’t even feel it.”

Your spine locked tight. You crouched by the ledge instead of looking at her, eyes on the sidewalk below.

“I’d catch you before you hit the ground.”

Her smirk slipped for a second. Not gone—just cracked at the corners.

“My hero,” she says sarcastically.

After a beat, she tilted her head, eyes squinting at the sky, voice too casual.

“Why do you keep chasing me?”

“Because you make me.”

“Yeah,” she muttered, licking her lips, “but you’re not bad at it.”

Her fingers tapped rhythm against the concrete, nails clicking. Her gaze shifted sideways, eyes skimming over you like she was trying to X-ray through skin.

“You know,” she whispered, “most people stop trying to hold onto me after a while.”

“Most people aren’t me.”

“Mm.” Her eyes half-lidded. “No. They’re not.”

For a long minute, neither of you said anything. The wind hit just enough to make her braid lift off the roof, strands curling like smoke. Her hand inched closer to yours—not touching, just near. A test. 

“You get sick of me yet?” she asked, voice soft. Almost real.

You didn’t look at her.

“Unfortunately,” you muttered, “I can’t.”

Her lips parted, a sharp little smile curling back at the edges. But her eyes weren’t smiling.

“Aw, Kevlar,” she whispered, voice syrup-thick. “That almost sounded like a problem.”

“It is.”

You shifted your weight, elbows resting on your knees, gaze locked on the street below. People moved like ants. Fast, tiny, insignificant.

“I’m not allowed to get sick of you,” you added, voice flat. “That’s not part of the job.”

Jinx stretched her arms over her head, tank top riding up, ribs sharp under skin.

“Sure it is. You just won’t let yourself.”

Her braid slid across the concrete, curling toward you like a living thing.

“Y’know what’s funny?” she murmured. “Most people run out of patience around hour three. We’re at— what? Hour six? Seven?”

You didn’t correct her. She smiled wider.

“You’re good at this,” she whispered, eyes glittering. “Keeping me tethered.”

“I’m not keeping you tethered, Jinx.”

She rolled onto her side, propped her chin on her hand, eyes locking onto yours.

“Aren’t you?” she asked, sweet and lethal. “Then why’re you still here?”

You clenched your jaw. The words stuck in your throat because there wasn’t a good answer. Not one you could say out loud. One that was professional anyways. The sky stretched gray-blue above the city, sharp and endless. Jinx’s fingers ghosted over your boot, tapping twice.

“Lucky you,” she whispered. “You’re stuck.”

You gave her a sideways glance, deadpan.

“Lucky me.”

Her grin split wide.

“Hey,” she said, pushing up onto her knees, suddenly all chaotic energy again. “Let’s go find something to break.”

And just like that— conversation over.

She bounced toward the fire escape, humming under her breath, like she hadn’t just tested the edge of something razor-thin. You followed. Because that’s what you do. Unfortunately, you can’t stop. No really, you can’t. But you wish you did cause this girl has chaotic energy like a fucking toddler. 

God help you.

By the time you two got in the back of the car, you told the driver specifically to bring you back to the hotel. Jinx being.. Jinx. She stole your sunglasses and kicked her feet up on your lap. You sighed. But you didn’t move her feet. Her smirk slipped for half a second.

“You don’t have to babysit me, y’know,” she whispered, voice lower now. “Not really.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“No,” she corrected, soft but pointed. “You want to.”

She leaned her head back against the seat, eyes on the ceiling. “Vi’s not answering. PR’s losing her mind. You’re stuck in a car with me.”

“You do realize that this is my job right?” you say, giving her a deadpan expression.

“Hah! Keep making excuses Kevlar,” she says, getting comfortable on her side of the seat.

“Oh my fucking god.” 

                                       ──────────

The door clicked shut behind you, and Jinx spun like you’d locked her in a cage.

“Room service?” she snapped, throwing her arms out wide. “Seriously?”

“They cleaned the room,” you said, stripping off your jacket, voice flat. “You trashed it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I like it trashed.”

“That’s not my problem.”

She kicked a pillow off the couch like a brat, then went for the minibar. Tore open a bag of trail mix, poured the contents straight onto the carpet. Your eye twitched.

She noticed. Of course she noticed.

“Ohhhh,” she sing-songed. “Somebody’s getting mad.”

“Jinx.”

“What?” She grinned, stepping closer, toe to toe now. “You gonna cuff me? Tackle me? Maybe slap my hand and tell me to be good?”

You stared down at her, jaw clenched so hard your teeth ached. She wanted this. Wanted to poke until you snapped because chaos felt safer than care. Attention on her terms.

“Take a shower,” you ordered.

Her eyes narrowed. “What, to cool off?”

“No. Because you smell like diner grease and smoke.”

That earned a sharp little laugh. But she turned anyway, pulling her shirt off over her head as she went—bare back flashing, tattoos shifting, leaving the tank top on the floor like a dropped flag. Leaving you resting on the couch, rubbing at your temples with your legs spreading as you propped your foot up on the small table in front of you.

Jesus, it’s been a long day.

You checked your phone, no new notifications. You set it aside for now, your hands going to loosen your tie and unbutton the first few on your shirt before leaning your head back to gaze at the ceiling.

Pretty sure you dozed off, because when you heard the door the minute your eyes opened. You picked your head up and—

Fuck.

She came back out in nothing good.

Thin tank top, no bra. Panties you could barely call clothes. And the piercings—oh, the fucking piercings. Silver through her nipples, a flash of metal at her hipbone and stomach. Lower, too, where the line of lace barely covered it. Your brain short-circuited for half a second.

Jinx smirked when she saw you look.

“Better?” she asked, like it was your test now.

You didn’t answer.

You just sat there, arm on the armrest, breathing tight through your nose. She padded toward you on bare feet, the ends of her braids dripping water down to the floor, eyes locked onto yours like a predator. Having the fucking audacity to straddle your waist, as her arms wrap around your neck loosely.

“C’mon, Kevlar,” she whispered, right against your throat. “Still gonna play security? Or you gonna admit you’re about five seconds from fucking me against that wall?”

Your jaw flexed.

“I’m not in the mood for any of your games, Jinx,” you mutter, pinching at your nose bridge.

“Yes, you are,” she murmured, grinding just enough to prove it. “You love when I’m bad. Gives you an excuse to do shit you’re already thinking about.”

Her hand slid down your stomach, nails teasing skin through your shirt.

“I’m not gonna stop bothering you,” she whispered, tugging at your tie to make your face her. “So do something about it.”

Your patience snapped in half.

You grabbed her wrist—harder this time—and pushed her back against the nearest wall next to the window, pinning her arm above her head. Her lips parted in a breathless sound that wasn’t fear.

It was relief.

“Is this what you wanted?” you growled, hand wrapping around her throat—not choking, just holding. Claiming even.

Her hips jerked up against you, eyes rolling slightly.

“Mhmm,” she hummed, lashes fluttering. “Make me behave. Bet you can’t.”

You pressed your thigh between her legs, forcing her back, her body hot and slick from the shower.

“Ohhh,” she whispered, voice breaking into a laugh, “you’re mad, huh?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, mouth at her ear. “And you’re gonna say thank you.”

Her pupils blew wide. Her smile cracked.

Good.

Your hand stayed on her throat, thumb just under her jaw. Enough to remind her she was breakable. Enough to make her breathe for you.

“Say it,” you ordered, voice low against her ear.

Her lips twitched. Still playing, still reckless. “Say what, Kevlar?”

Your thigh pressed harder between her legs, forcing her back into the wall. Her breath hitched.

“Say thank you,” you growled. “For stopping you before you did something worse.”

Her eyes fluttered half-shut, the smile cracking more at the edges. This wasn’t a game anymore, not really— but she didn’t know how to do soft, so she licked her lips and made it worse.

“Thank you,” she whispered, hips rolling against you, “for ruining me before I ruin myself.”

Jesus. Your pulse hit your throat. She wanted punishment because it was easier than guilt. Wanted your control because it was safer than spiraling.

Fine.

You grabbed her wrists, pinned them high against the wall with one hand, and let your other drift lower—palming the heat between her legs through lace. Barely a barrier. Barely anything. Feeling her already soaked through her poor excuse of underwear. Your fingers brush against her clothed clit, her breath stuttered, nails scraping against your arm.

“See?” she whispered, grin sharp but eyes glassy. “Told you you’d break.”

“Still security,” you muttered, fingers sliding her panties aside. “Still doing my job.”

“Oh yeah?” Her voice cracked, but she masked it with a laugh. “Pretty sure this is illegal, baby.”

Your fingers pressed inside her soaked cunt in one sharp motion, no warning, no slow build. Her back arched, mouth open, chest heaving against your hold. Metal bit your palm— the piercings, cold against flushed skin.

“Maybe,” you murmured against her throat. “But you’re not gonna tell.”

Her laugh broke into a gasp, stuttering out. “Nope.”

You worked her open with firm, punishing strokes. Your fingers pumping at a rapid pace, occasionally curling it against her sweet spot. No softness. No sweetness. Just control. Her hips rocked into your hand, desperate and grinding, chasing the edge like she was trying to hurt herself with it.

You weren’t going to let her. You pulled back just before she came, hand tightening around her throat to keep her pinned, keeping her on the brink.

Her eyes flew open, wide and glassy. “What the fuck—”

“Not yet,” you growled. “You don’t get off easy.”

Her thighs trembled. Her whole body did.

“Please,” she whispered, voice cracking for real this time.

Wow, begging already? That’s a first. You kissed the corner of her mouth, lips barely there. “Louder.”

Her eyes squeezed shut, teeth grit.

“Please!”

“Good girl,” you whispered as your lips curled into a smirk, filthy and soft at the same time.

Your fingers pressed back in her pussy, harder now. Rough enough to make her breath hitch and stay hitched. Her head tipped back, throat exposed, eyes wet. She wasn’t laughing anymore. Infact, she kept pleading for more. 

“Fuck fuck! If you don’t let me come I’ll—”

Your hand pulled back once more, this time you latched onto her braids, yanking her head back to make sure she looked you in the eyes.

“You’ll what?”

She just let out a pathetic whine in response.

“You should see yourself right now” you chuckled darkly, your grip tightened in her braids, tilting her head just enough to make her look at you properly.

That’s when the idea hit.

Your eyes flicked toward the mirror across the room—big, pricey hotel glass reflecting both of you in it. Her face— flushed and wrecked. You, now getting behind her, hand still buried between her legs, the other twisted in her hair like reins.

“Look at that,” you murmured, lips brushing her ear. “Look.”

She tried to close her eyes.

You yanked her braid harder, not cruel, just final. 

“Eyes open, Jinx.”

Her lashes fluttered. Her gaze shot to the mirror. The second she saw herself, her breath caught.

“See that?” you whispered, your smirk curling dark against her neck. “That’s you. That’s what you look like when you’re begging.”

Her lips parted in a quiet whimper— eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide like a girl caught in headlights. Like she’d crossed every line and liked it.

“Fuck,” she whispered, squirming in your grip, but not away from you. Toward. Always toward.

"Fucking pathetic" you spat, maintaining your eye contact with her.

You pressed your fingers back into her, rougher now, not giving her time to catch her breath. This time you had no mercy, your fingers rubbing against her g-spot with the other messes with her clit— more so tugging on her piercing. Her reflection stuttered, hips grinding, lips wet, eyes blinking hard like she couldn’t even believe what she was seeing.

“You wanted this,” you muttered, your voice low, steady, right against her jaw. “All day you’ve been asking for it.”

Her nails clawed at your wrist, hips rocking into your hand like she couldn’t stop herself. Your hand traveled from her hair to her throat barely putting pressure. Enough to let her know who's in charge.

“Look at you,” you whispered again, dark amusement curling under your breath. “Falling apart in my arms.”

Her thighs shook.

“Please,” she gasped, eyes locking on the mirror now, voice wrecked. “Please, please—fuck—”

You didn’t stop this time.

You kept her eyes on the glass, hand tight against her throat, making her watch the moment she broke in your arms. You kept whispering filthy things in her ear, your fingers not stopping from the merciless speed you kept pumping at. And at the brink of her climax, you pulled at her braids once again, making her eyes shoot open to the mirror in front of her.

Making her watch.

And when she did come, it was all teeth and tension—hips jerking, chest shaking, trying not to cry but almost doing it anyway. She definitely screamed your name out, properly this time. 

You held her through it, hand still at her throat, steady.

Not soft. But steady.

Her breath was still ragged, body trembling in your grip, eyes locked on the mirror like she wasn’t sure who she was anymore. Her reflection looked ruined. Hair pulled back tight in your hand. Face flushed. Eyes glassy. Lips wet. You stared at her reflection with her.

And then— fuck it.

You leaned in, lips brushing the corner of her mouth at first. Testing the heat there. Testing yourself. She shivered, this sharp little intake of breath like she wasn’t expecting it. Like she’d been waiting for it all day but still didn’t believe it was happening.

“Stay still,” you muttered, lips grazing her jaw.

She did. For once.

When you finally kissed her, it wasn’t soft. It was slow but owned. Possessive. Mouth opening over hers like you were claiming the last piece of territory you hadn’t touched yet. Like you were stamping your name onto chaos. Her lips parted for you—no hesitation now. She kissed back with the same desperation she’d fought you with all day.

Teeth. Tongue. Heat.

Her nails bit into your wrist, but she didn’t pull away. She pulled you closer. 

And you let her.

Her tongue darted out against your bottom lip, almost as if she was asking for more. And you complied. Your lips parted as her tongue immediately slid in your mouth, as if she’s trying to make sure she gets a good taste of your filthy mouth. The kiss was desperate, and sure as hell needed. When you finally broke the kiss, she laughed— soft but wrecked.

“Took you long enough,” she whispered, voice a little raw at the edges.

Her forehead bumped against yours, breath hot against your lips. Your hand now resting against her hip. Neither of you are moving. You kept your grip in her braid, thumb brushing her jaw. Her pulse was racing under your hand. You didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

But your chest was tight in a way that had nothing to do with sex, and she knew it.

So she whispered hoarsely, eyes still half-lidded but voice small this time,

“...What happens now, Kevlar?”

You rested your forehead harder against hers, your eyes shutting. Breathing the same breath.

And for one dizzy second— you didn’t know the answer either. Only one statement crosses your mind;

I’m so fucking screwed.

[sevikalvr]

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

[sevikalvr]

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 5

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

masterlist

“Bitch, you better be joking,” you muttered under your breath, still gripping the steering wheel as you stared wide-eyed at the massive colonial house in front of you.

Ellie raised an eyebrow, already halfway out of the car. “What?”

“You live here?” you blinked at her, completely dumbfounded. “I pass by this house every day. I thought some retired judge or old money CEO lived here. You’re telling me you live here?”

Ellie shut the car door behind her, slinging her backpack over one shoulder. “My grandparents own it,” she said, casual as ever, like the pillars on the porch and the ivy-draped brick weren’t screaming generational wealth.

You followed her up the path, still half in disbelief. “So like… you’re rich-rich?”

Ellie threw a look over her shoulder, half-smirking. “You said that like you’re not.”

“That’s not the point,” you shot back, stepping into the house like you were stepping into a dream. The air smelled like pinewood floors and something faintly floral—clean, expensive, and lived-in. “I loved this house. I’ve loved this house since I was, like, ten. I used to imagine living here.”

Ellie laughed, locking the door behind you. “Yeah? Guess you manifested this group project then.”

You spun slowly where you stood in the foyer, taking everything in. “Shut up. This is insane. I genuinely thought this place belonged to, like, a state senator.”

She shrugged. “Close enough. My grandma’s mean enough to be one.”

Ellie led the way upstairs, the steps solid beneath your feet, the bannister polished to a shine. You trailed behind her, eyes scanning every framed painting and antique light fixture like you were walking through a museum.

She pushed open a door near the end of the hallway and stepped aside. “Uh… make yourself at home, I guess,” she muttered, scratching the back of her neck.

You stepped inside and looked around, slow and curious. It was like walking into Ellie’s brain—quiet, thoughtful, full of little obsessions. The walls were painted a soft sage green that warmed in the late afternoon sun spilling through two wide windows, their white curtains swaying gently in the breeze from a cracked-open pane.

The room was spacious and organized but clearly lived in. A plush, cream-colored sofa sat beneath one of the windows, half-draped with a knitted throw. Nearby was a sleek study desk—minimal but well-used—covered with neat stacks of notebooks, a digital tablet, and a mechanical keyboard that softly glowed. A small but powerful PC setup occupied the far end of the desk, dual monitors angled just right, wallpaper rotating slowly through constellations and galaxies.

You turned slowly, letting your gaze settle on a tall glass cabinet against the far wall. Inside, dozens of small figurines stood in tidy rows—dinosaurs in different colors and sizes, some realistic, some clearly stylized. A few of them had tiny chips on their edges, signs of years of care and collecting rather than neglect. One had a bent tail that made you smile.

“I didn’t know you were this much of a dinosaur girl,” you said.

Ellie was at her closet, kicking off her sneakers. “I was obsessed for a while,” she mumbled.

You moved closer to a nearby shelf, lined with hardcovers—space encyclopedias, sci-fi novels, and what looked like Ellie’s old astronomy notebooks stacked in a row. A small solar system model sat at the end, its planets perfectly aligned. You gently tapped the base and watched them rotate, slow and precise.

“You’re, like… a full-blown space nerd.”

Ellie shrugged, half-smiling. “I like stars. And planets. And stuff.”

In the corner rested a black acoustic guitar on a mahogany stand, a patterned strap loosely draped over it. Next to it, under the windowsill, sat a low wooden crate filled with vinyl records, their covers carefully arranged. A small speaker setup stood nearby, connected to a vintage-looking turntable.

You smiled as you traced your finger along the edge of a record sleeve. “I didn’t expect this.”

Ellie raised a brow. “What’d you expect?”

You looked around again. “I don’t know.”

That made her smile, just a little. “You saying you’re impressed?”

You shrugged. “Maybe.”

You let your eyes roam one more time—across the sunlight on the hardwood floors, the cabinet of dinosaurs, the calm glow of her screen-saver, the way everything felt exactly like her—and then turned to her.

Still smiling, but with a slight shift in your tone. “Will you marry me someday, Ellie?”

Ellie blinked. A beat passed. Her brows pulled together in that way she had when she was trying to tell if you were serious.

“No.” She frowned softly.

You scoffed, placing a hand over your chest. “Ouch.”

Ellie cracked a smile, dropped her bag beside the bed, and flopped down onto the mattress like she was trying not to look at you. “You just want the house.”

“Obviously.” You sat at the edge of her bed, fingers brushing lightly over one of the velvet pillows. “I’d treat her so well.”

“She’s not a person.”

“She’ll be everything to me.”

Ellie glanced at you, shaking her head with a barely-there grin.

Working with Ellie for the past week had actually been… easy. Surprisingly easy, if you were being honest.

She’d disagree with your ideas sometimes—always with that slight squint of her eyes, arms crossed like she was mentally sorting through what she was about to say. But she always heard you out first. Every time. Even when she clearly thought your suggestion was insane. Especially when it was insane.

Except that one time you suggested writing the entire novel in second person, with multiple timelines and unreliable narrators. She didn’t even entertain that one. Just stared at you for a full three seconds before muttering, “God help me,” and going back to outlining the plot like she hadn’t heard you at all.

Aside from that, though, she was surprisingly agreeable. Focused. Quiet, unless she was explaining something or making a snarky comment. And incredibly easy to pick on.

You’d learned that by day two.

There was something about the way she always lined up her pens or re-highlighted things that were already highlighted—little habits that made it way too tempting to mess with her. Like when you started moving her bookmarks just an inch to the left every time she wasn’t looking.

She noticed. She always noticed.

“The hell is wrong with you?” she whispered once in the middle of class, narrowing her eyes as she fixed it for the third time that day.

You had just smiled sweetly. “Just keeping you on your toes.”

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, and didn’t speak to you for the entire English class that followed, even though you sat directly beside her.

It kind of became your thing after that—poking just enough to get a reaction, then spending the rest of the day slowly earning her tolerance back.

Not that she ever seemed really mad. She’d roll her eyes, tell you to shut up, shove her sleeve over her mouth like she was hiding a smile. And by the time your next meeting rolled around, she’d be exactly the same again—pen in hand, posture stiff, pretending not to look at you first.

Ellie had barely set her laptop down before saying she was going to grab snacks.

“Be right back,” she mumbled, tugging her hoodie sleeves over her hands as she left the room.

You nodded, watching her disappear down the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind her, and the silence felt sudden. The occasional creak from the hallway. Afternoon light painting golden lines across the floorboards.

You pulled your phone from your pocket and tapped it awake.

Still nothing.

You opened your last conversation with E, thumb hovering over the screen.

you:

i kinda don’t want to have lunch today.. but i also haven’t had breakfast whatever

That was hours ago. And E hadn’t even left you on read—just nothing at all.

Your eyes scanned the rest of the thread—long, tired little chains of conversation that started somehow and never really ended. Late-night check-ins. Stupid memes in the morning. A “good luck” before class. Each photo you sent—whether it was your face half-buried in a hoodie, a thigh pic under your desk in class, or a cropped mirror shot angled just right to show your waist, the subtle curve of skin beneath your shirt—always got something back.

Sometimes even the ones where your top had slipped lower, nipples visible, the tiny glint of silver from your piercings catching in the light.

But it was the fics that really did it.

The smutty ones. The dog-eared AO3 screenshots, annotated with unhinged commentary, sent half-laughing, half-serious. “ok but imagine this is us?”

And she would bite. Every time.

“You’re sick for this.”

“You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I’m gonna dream about this tonight.”

She made it easy to keep wanting her. Easy to overshare. Easy to feel like you were wanted right back.

Talking to E had really become your favorite part of the day. A kind of warmth that reached into quiet parts of you no one else did. And it wasn’t even about what she said, always—it was just her. The feeling of being known by someone who didn’t ask for the clean version of you.

But sometimes, you notice the pattern.

The way she disappeared. Went quiet. Left just enough space between replies to make you feel like maybe you were doing too much.

Or not enough.

Something in her tone that made you reread it three times and still not be sure if she was pulling away or just tired.

You didn’t want to be the kind of person who obsessed over gray bubbles and silence. But here you were.

Thumb hovering again.

Typing. Deleting.

You locked the screen.

Ellie’s door opened a second later, followed by the rustle of a grocery bag and her voice—low, casual.

“Okay. I didn’t know what you wanted so I grabbed, like… every snack we had. And also a root beer I will probably not share.”

You turned in your seat, slipping your phone face-down onto the desk.

“That’s fair,” you said, smiling like nothing was stuck behind your teeth.

Ellie kicked the door shut behind her and dropped the snacks on the bed. “Also, if you eat all the cheddar popcorn, we’re done. That’s, like, the one boundary I have.”

You snorted. “Good to know you’re finally opening up.”

She raised a brow. “One time. One time I tell you I liked dinosaurs and you’re never letting it go.”

You grinned. “Never.”

You set your laptop on your lap, fingers hovering over the keys as you waited for it to wake. She’d claimed the sofa across from you, legs folded under her, root beer cracked open with a soft sound.

You glanced up for a second—just long enough to watch her sip it, the can tipped lazily to her lips, her focus already buried in the screen.

Your eyes flicked back to your phone, opening your conversation with E last night.

E:

i feel like you wear perfume just to ruin lives

you:

maybe i do. maybe i want your life ruined a little

E:

ok relax dark temptress

you:

say that again. slower

E:

shut up

you:

ur blushing

E:

i literally am

you:

i win

E:

i’m blocking you

you:

you always say that u never do it though ur obsessed

E:

it’s disgusting how right you are

A grin tugged at your lips before you could stop it.

Ellie glanced up briefly from her screen, root beer still in hand. “What.”

You shook your head quickly, too quick. “Nothing.”

She gave you a suspicious look. “You’re smiling like a creep.”

You tucked your phone under your thigh and lifted your laptop slightly. “No I’m not.”

“You are,” she said, dry. “If you start giggling and kicking your feet I’m unplugging the router.”

You snorted. “Let a girl have her delusions.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. She turned back to her laptop and tapped a few keys, half-muttering, “Insufferable.”

You didn’t respond.

Instead, you unlocked your phone again and snapped a quick pic of you, laptop on your legs, lips curved in the softest almost-smile. The light was warm and flattering. Your hair is a little messy.

you:

im at my classmate’s house rn 😗 working on a thing

You hit send and waited, thumb hovering over the screen just a little longer than necessary. Nothing yet.

Across from you, Ellie’s brows flicked up—so quick you almost missed it. She's looking at her laptop like she’d just gotten a notification. But she didn’t say anything. Didn’t look up. Just shifted slightly in her seat, set her root beer down, and kept typing.

So you went back to work too.

Or tried to.

You clicked into the doc, reread the last paragraph you wrote twice, pretended to focus. But your eyes kept drifting—screen, phone, screen again. The silence started to feel heavier.

You opened the chat again.

you:

i miss u :( wife

You didn’t mean to stare at it that long. But you did. You just… sat there, screen dimming, thumb tracing over the side of the phone.

You didn’t really notice you were zoning out until you sighed—long, quiet, maybe just loud enough for Ellie to hear. She didn’t say anything. But a few seconds later, she stood.

“I’m gonna go get something,” she said.

You looked up. “Okay,” you said, voice soft and low.

She grabbed her phone from the table before walking out.

You sat there for a moment, blinking. Feeling the quiet settle again, too deep this time. Hating the way the room suddenly felt too big.

Then—

A buzz.

You scrambled for your phone.

E:

i miss u too :( sorry just a bit busy with school stuff

The smile hit you before you could stop it.

you:

oh no don’t be sorry i totally understand hehe but don’t overwork yourself too much, okay? save some energy for me 🫶

You didn’t even look up when Ellie walked back in.

But if you had, you would’ve caught her pausing at the door—glancing over at you, then down at her screen, before moving again.

Like she wasn’t sure which part of her day she was more interested in.

You tried to focus on working again. Really, you did. Fingers moved over the keyboard, screen glowing softly, but your eyes kept drifting—just slightly—to your phone resting on the table. Still nothing new. Still sitting there, like it wasn’t driving you quietly insane.

Across from you, Ellie had settled further into the sofa, her posture loose now. Laptop resting on her legs, hoodie sleeves bunched around her wrists. Her fingers clicked quietly against the keyboard, jaw soft with focus, root beer can now abandoned beside her.

You glanced at her once—just once—before biting your bottom lip and reaching for your phone again.

you:

do u wanna see me again?

You stared at the message for a second longer than you should’ve. Felt the weight of it in your chest—hopeful and maybe a little reckless.

And then, without waiting for a reply, something tugged at your lips. An idea. The kind you didn’t bother talking yourself out of.

You stood, placing your laptop gently on the table.

“I’m gonna go use the bathroom,” you said, casual.

Ellie looked up, blinking like she hadn’t realized you’d moved. “Uh, sure—it’s just in the corner.” Her chin tilted toward the far end of the room, gesturing toward a white-painted door.

“Thanks.” You smiled, trying to keep it innocent, even as something smug curled under your words. You turned, walking off toward the door, heartbeat a little quicker now.

And behind you, you didn’t notice the way Ellie’s eyes followed you, lips caught gently between her teeth, wondering what exactly you were about to do.

You stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind you, the soft click of the latch sounding louder in the stillness. The mirror greeted you with your own reflection—flushed cheeks, slightly messy hair, eyes too full of something unspoken.

You set your phone on the sink and stared at yourself for a moment, lips twitching at the corners. Then you started posing—hands on your waist, a little tilt of your head, a soft pout. You ran your fingers through your hair, gave the mirror a wink, then laughed under your breath.

Off came the blouse—baby pink, loose and soft—leaving you in a delicate lace bra that matched your skirt a little too well. You leaned on the sink, bit your lip, snapped a few mirror shots. Nothing too posed. Just enough.

A short clip followed—hair tousled, your hand brushing it back while you grinned at your own reflection. Just a second of warmth and soft vanity.

You selected your favorites and sent them.

you:

here’s for ur hard work today ;) hope u like it

Before heading out of the bathroom, you typed out one last message:

you:

i’m gonna go focus now on our work my partner’s gonna kill me for being on my phone too much talk to u later 💋💋

You slipped your phone into your pocket, still grinning. When you opened the door, the smile softened—for a moment you just frowned, noticing the room was empty.

Ellie wasn’t there. Her laptop sat open on the coffee table, casting a faint glow over the sofa cushions.

You crossed the room, then straightened, deciding to find her.

“Ellie?” you called, voice low. The hallway answered with silence. Sock-footed, you drifted past closed doors, the house somehow too quiet.

Downstairs, you hesitated at the landing, then turned toward the kitchen.

Ellie stood at the sink, hoodie tossed onto the nearby table. She was in a black tank top now, shoulders taut, biceps flexed slightly as she braced both hands on the edge of the basin. A glass of water rested beside her. She bowed her head, then lifted it toward the wide window, as though trying to breathe.

“Ellie?” you tried again, softer.

She startled, fingers closing around the glass—only for it to slip from her grip and crash to the tile, water splashing everywhere.

“Shit,” she hissed, crouching.

“Don’t—” You hurried forward. “Let me. You’ll cut yourself.”

She froze, still crouched, hands hovering above the shards before pulling back. She didn’t look at you—more like she couldn’t.

You grabbed a cloth, knelt, and gathered the larger pieces. Ellie straightened, leaning into the counter, gaze fixed on a spot far ahead.

Glass disposed of, puddle mopped up, you rose and turned toward her. Her cheeks were tinged pink, jaw tight.

“Sorry you had to do that,” she murmured, finally glancing your way.

“It’s fine,” you said, giving a small nod.

You lingered there a second longer, eyes drifting. Ellie still wasn’t looking at you—not really—but you couldn’t help but look at her. The way she was leaning into the counter, arms behind her, her black tank top clinging to the curve of her shoulders. Her arms were more toned than you expected. Defined in a way that caught the light when she shifted, muscles flexing under skin.

You didn’t raise your brows, didn’t let your face say anything, but the thought crept in anyway.

She’s kind of… hot.

You cleared your throat softly.

“You okay?” you asked gently. “If you’re not feeling well, we can stop for today.”

She exhaled shakily, finally looking at you again—really looking this time.

Her gaze lingered. And then her lips parted, like she was going to say something else. Instead, she bit down gently on her bottom lip, shook her head, and pushed off the counter to walk past you.

“I’m going crazy,” she muttered under her breath as she brushed by.

You frowned as you followed her.

“You’re so weird, dude,” you muttered.

Ellie didn’t respond. Still in her black tank top and grey sweatpants, she headed upstairs, shoulders tense. She plopped down on the sofa and pulled her laptop back onto her lap.

You followed her in and sat across from her again, settling your own laptop on your legs. But your eyes didn’t move to the screen just yet. They were on her.

She felt it.

After a few seconds, she finally asked—without looking up, voice too casual.

“What?”

You squinted slightly. “Nothing.”

Why was she suddenly being so weird?

You sighed and slid your laptop toward her, tilting the screen. “Read this.”

Ellie didn’t look at you. She just took it and started reading, her brows knitting together in concentration.

Her eyes scanned the text. Her lashes flicked. Her messy hair fell into her face again—she didn’t bother pushing it back. The scar above her eyebrow tugged faintly when she focused, and the line of freckles across her nose caught the light from the window beside her.

You stared a second too long.

And then looked away—too fast—like something in your chest stirred and you weren’t ready to name it.

You nodded toward the window, trying to ignore the flutter in your stomach.

“You ever use that to sneak out?”

“No,” Ellie said, still reading.

“Really? So you don’t sneak out at all?”

“Why would I sneak out?” she replied flatly.

You rolled your eyes. “Right.”

That got her to finally glance up. Brows raised.

You pulled your laptop back and placed it on your lap again. She shifted, eyes dropping back to her own screen.

“What?” she asked. “You’re suddenly interested in my social life now?”

You shrugged. “Just curious.”

You tried to go back to work. Tried. But your cursor blinked beneath a sentence that ended in the word kiss, and your mind trailed off again.

You glanced sideways at her.

“How about dating life?”

Ellie sighed, long and reluctant.

“Oh, come on,” you groaned. “I’m just making conversation. It’s awkward as hell in here.”

Still not looking at you, Ellie leaned back against the sofa, laptop balanced on her knees. “If you’re asking if I’m dating anyone, I’m not.”

You raised your brows. “Really?”

Then, after a beat—leaning in just slightly, eyes glinting—

“What’s your type, then?” you asked, tone casual, but your eyes didn’t leave her.

Ellie scoffed, still focused on her screen. “I hate it when you ask questions like that. It’s creepy.”

You rolled your eyes. “I asked what your type is, not if you believe in ghosts.”

She sighed like you were exhausting her, dragging her fingers across the trackpad. “I don’t know... but it’s definitely someone who isn’t as annoying as you.”

Your mouth fell open. “Fuck you. I’m not annoying. People literally beg to be around me.”

That earned a quiet scoff—like she remembered something, lips twitching faintly, her gaze still fixed on the screen. “Yeah, no. You’re a bitch.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Wow,” you muttered, like you were offended—but only a little. You stared at her for a second, then gave a small nod. “Fair.” You looked back down at your screen, typing a few lines just to give your hands something to do.

Then you turned back to her. Your voice was calm but edged with something else.

“If I’m that annoying, would you rather have someone else as your project partner?”

Ellie looked up, finally meeting your eyes, a flicker of amusement breaking through her guarded expression.

“Yes.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Rude.”

You shrugged, settling back in your seat.

“It’s fine. I just know no one else has both an imaginative mind and looks like me. So, your loss, really.”

Ellie hummed, nodding slowly, like she was pretending to be thoughtful.

“Imaginative mind, yeah,” she muttered, eyes still on her screen—but her jaw shifted a little like she was biting back something else. Her mind clearly somewhere else.

You narrowed your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” she said, a little too quickly.

She didn’t look at you. She didn’t have to.

But she could still hear you in her head—your voice in those texts, the unhinged little messages from your secret account, the pictures burned somewhere behind her eyelids. And now you were just… here. Saying things like that. Still teasing. Still smiling. Still somehow not knowing.

She cleared her throat.

You smirked. “Weird.”

Ellie shot you a look. “You’re the weird one.”

You raised a brow, clearly not believing that. But you dropped it for now and just rolled your eyes.

The silence stretched again. Just the quiet sound of keys tapping, the occasional shift of weight on the cushions.

Then Ellie spoke—low, almost too casual.

“How about you?”

You blinked, glancing up. “What?”

Ellie didn’t look away from her screen.

“Your type,” she said. “What is it?”

Your brain stuttered. For a moment, you felt your whole internal system freeze and reboot.

“Oh,” you said, voice a little too light. “I mean…”

You leaned back slightly, trying to play it cool, your fingers toying with the corner of your laptop.

“I guess I like someone smart. Like… nerdy, maybe.” You swallowed. “Not, like, pocket protector-nerdy, just… brainy. Sarcastic. Kinda mean.”

It was stupidly obvious who you were thinking about. E. You were literally just describing her.

Ellie’s eyes flicked up at that. Just for a second. Then back to her screen.

You didn’t miss it.

You looked down quickly, suddenly shy, not even sure why. Saying it out loud had felt bolder than you meant for it to. Too revealing. Too… real.

Wait.

Your fingers stilled on your trackpad.

Did I just describe—?

You glanced sideways.

Ellie was quiet, still working, her jaw resting lightly on the back of her hand as she scrolled through the doc. Focused, casual, totally unreadable.

But—

She was definitely a nerd. That much was obvious.

And sarcastic? Always.

Kind of mean? Especially when you teased her. Or suggested something vaguely unhinged to add to the project.

Your eyes drifted to her hands. Sometimes you saw silver rings on her fingers, glinting when she reached for something or tapped her screen. But today, they were bare. Still, you recognized the way her knuckles tensed when she got too focused.

You glanced around the room again—the constellations on her wallpaper, the dinosaur display, the well-loved sci-fi books. Her hoodie still tossed on the table downstairs, abandoned after she came to the kitchen like something had knocked the breath out of her.

Could it be?

You felt your chest tighten at the thought.

No. You shut it down immediately.

It’s impossible.

You bit the inside of your cheek, turning back to your screen like it had all the answers.

Ellie wasn’t like that.

She wasn’t that type.

She wouldn’t be the kind to—

You shook your head, jaw tight.

Stop.

You weren’t going there.

You slumped deeper into the sofa, already getting your phone on the table

Maybe you were just bored. Or spiraling. Or looking for something you weren’t ready to find.

You opened E’s thread again. Still nothing since earlier. No “💋,” no typing bubble. No read receipt.

You chewed your bottom lip and typed anyway, nervous.

You:

wyd rn

Sent.

Your eyes lifted. Straight to Ellie.

Still perched on the couch, posture relaxed, laptop on her thighs. No shift in her expression. No glance your way. Just her fingers moving across the keyboard like she hadn’t even noticed your presence, let alone a text.

You swallowed. Something in your chest tugged—tightly. Not hope. Not exactly. Just dread.

Then your phone buzzed.

E:

ran out for a sec need to walk off this headache lol

You blinked. Looked up again.

Ellie didn’t move. Still typing. Still locked into whatever she was working on.

Then another buzz.

E:

[Image attachment]

It loaded slowly.

A blurry sidewalk. A lamppost. Empty curb. Gray light stretched thin across cracked pavement.

Your stomach twisted.

You glanced back at Ellie. No change. No tells. Still in the same exact spot, brows drawn in quiet focus.

So… not her.

Couldn’t be.

You let your shoulders relax, barely. A breath slipping out of you before you even realized you were holding it.

And yet—

Why did that feel like disappointment?

The thought didn’t even finish before another crashed in.

What if it had been her?

The idea alone sent a wave of heat and panic flooding up your spine. You tried to shove it down, but it lingered—rising anyway.

You thought about the photos you’d sent. The unfiltered, teasing messages. The fics. The way you flirted like it was a game, like it didn’t mean anything.

The idea that this girl across from you—Ellie, with her freckles and sharp tongue and dinosaur figurines—might’ve been on the receiving end of all of that?

Dread curled sharp in your chest. Embarrassment came right after—fast and bright and cloying. But beneath the dread, buried somewhere in the quiet crackle of your nerves, was something else.

Something you couldn’t name yet.

And that scared you most of all.

You unconsciously turned your attention back to your screen—anything to distract from the way your chest still felt tight.

But then your breath caught.

The document was… gone.

One second it was there, the cursor blinking like normal—and the next, just a blank screen. The title still at the top, autosave icon spinning, but no text. Not even a draft in the history.

“Fuck.”

No response.

You said it again, louder. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

Ellie looked up from her laptop, brows furrowing. “What happened?”

You angled your laptop slightly toward her, panic bubbling in your voice. “I don’t know—I didn’t touch anything. It just… disappeared.”

She didn’t answer. Just stood wordlessly and walked over.

You barely had time to scoot forward before she was behind you—standing at the back of the sofa, leaning over. One hand braced lightly against the cushion beside your shoulder, the other already sliding across the trackpad.

You froze.

Her face was close. Closer than it had ever been. You could smell her perfume again—clean and soft, with something sharp underneath. Something citrusy and grounding, like cedar and white musk.

You didn’t mean to look at her, but your eyes flicked sideways.

Her focus was locked on the screen, brows drawn, lips parted just slightly in concentration. Her fingers moved with quick, confident precision across the keys. Her head was tilted down, so close to yours you could feel the whisper of her breath against your cheek every now and then.

You didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

Your own mouth parted—just a bit. The warmth between you was suddenly too real. Too loud.

She didn’t seem to notice.

Her right hand stayed pressed behind you on the couch for balance, close enough to feel the heat of her knuckles. You were caught—body still, heart sprinting, stomach twisted in something you couldn’t quite name.

This was fine.

This was just Ellie fixing the doc.

Except…

Except your mind wasn’t on the laptop anymore.

It was on the curve of her shoulder, the quiet sound of her breathing, the way she looked from this close—freckles soft across her cheek, scar curling slightly over her brow, lashes lowering as she focused.

“It’s fixed,” Ellie said simply, tapping a few final keys before standing like she hadn’t just made your heart try to break through your ribcage—and went back to her spot on the opposite sofa, resuming her quiet focus like nothing happened.

You just sat there.

Staring.

Your screen glowed in front of you, but your eyes didn’t register anything. Your heartbeat was still racing—loud, fast, confusing. You pressed your palm lightly to your chest, like you could calm it down through sheer will.

Damn it.

You only felt like this when E texted you something flirty. When she said your name in lowercase followed by a period.

So why the hell were you feeling it now?

You looked over at Ellie again, who was already typing like nothing happened. No trace of what just passed between you. No sign she noticed how close she'd gotten. How soft her voice had been. How her perfume still clung faintly to your nostrils softly.

What is happening to me?

You blinked and looked away.

Just as your heart finally started to settle, Ellie’s voice cut through the silence—calm, a little smug.

“You know, for a one-page document, you really freaked the hell out.”

You turned your head slowly, squinting at her. “It was deleting itself.”

She raised a brow, fingers still tapping away. “Mm-hm.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting your laptop back onto your lap. “Don’t worry. I’ll finish this at home and send it to you immediately, boss.”

Ellie looked up, deadpan. “Yeah, I doubt you’ll actually do that.”

You gasped, mock-offended. “What do you mean? I study at home. Like… all the time.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it.

Because okay, she wasn’t wrong. You did spend most of your time after class texting E. Not exactly studious behavior. But she didn’t know that.

Right?

You rolled your eyes, recovering. “Oh, right. Sorry. I forgot you’d rather have someone else do this project with you anyway.”

Ellie let out a short laugh, shaking her head with a smirk. “Yeah,” Ellie said, dry. “Someone who doesn’t scream bloody murder when their laptop hiccups.”

You glared. “I didn’t scream.”

“You said fuck three times,” she replied, raising an eyebrow.

Something about the way she said it—calm, flat, unbothered—made heat crawl up your neck.

Why the hell did that sound hot?

It was just a word. One you said. But hearing her say it, with that voice, that look—

You blinked hard and looked away.

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

You were losing it.

You sighed as you slipped your laptop into your bag. So many things happened today. Well—not many, technically. You just spent it with Ellie. But still.

Why are you feeling like this?

Why did her fixing your document feel… hot? Why did the way she leaned in nearly knock the air out of your lungs? Why is she the one making your heart feel like it’s skipping steps?

Is it because the thought of her being E crossed your mind?

You glanced over.

Ellie was quietly gathering the snack wrappers, her back turned as she picked up the root beer can and half-eaten popcorn bag to bring them downstairs. The curve of her arm flexed slightly as she lifted the snacks, her black tank top hugging her back just enough to make your thoughts spiral all over again.

Her sweatpants hung low on her hips. Her shoulders were strong. Her posture effortless.

Fuck.

You needed to go home. You needed to get away from her.

I don’t like her.

You repeated that to yourself like it might cancel out whatever was happening in your chest.

When Ellie stepped out of the room, you nearly exhaled in relief.

The second the door clicked shut, the air felt easier to breathe. Like the heat that had been crawling up your neck finally backed off.

You grabbed your bag and headed downstairs. The sun was long gone, sky outside bruised and dark. You weren’t even planning on saying goodbye—just a quick escape.

But as you reached the foyer, she reappeared from the kitchen.

“Uh,” she started. “Can I ride with you? I just need to stop by the store.”

You froze for half a second.

“Uh… yeah,” you said, even though you absolutely did not want to.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath.

You stepped out into the night air, crossing her driveway toward your car as Ellie trailed a few steps behind you.

And even with all this distance, you still felt the press of her in your thoughts.

You drove with one hand on the wheel, eyes straight ahead. Ellie sat beside you, quiet. The car filled with nothing but the hum of the engine and the occasional shuffle when you turned.

On a normal day, you might’ve said something dumb by now. Something teasing or annoying. You’d poke fun at her playlist, or ask if she really believed Pluto shouldn’t be a planet. She’d groan. You’d grin.

But not tonight.

Not after… everything.

The silence settled too comfortably between you both. Heavy. Stifling.

She pointed when you reached the street corner. “There,” she said softly.

You pulled over by the small convenience store, the red glow of its sign washing over the dashboard.

She got out after muttering a simple “thank you,” the car door clicking gently shut. Still in that black tank top. Still completely unaware of what she was doing to your brain.

You watched her walk up the short curb. Then your gaze flicked to the two girls standing outside near the vending machine. One of them nudged the other. Laughed under her breath. Their heads turned.

Staring at Ellie.

Your fingers curled around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening just slightly.

They were checking her out. Of course they were. She looked like that.

You swallowed, jaw tight.

Why does it piss me off that they get to see her like that?

You blinked hard and shifted in your seat, willing yourself to breathe through your nose. Your foot tapped lightly against the gas pedal, like your body was ready to drive away before your mind gave permission.

But you didn’t.

You just sat there, staring out the windshield. Telling yourself not to care. Not to feel anything.

You need to talk to E.

You need to remember who you like.

You need to get a grip.

tag list:

@eclipcee8 @darkdanixoxo @chappellroankisser @senjukawaragitr @saverdelrey @appleofmyii @wzcoffeefloomo @fatbootymuncher @oneinameliann @ilahrawr @spiderx18 @vampirq @mioluvzsevika @ff4mi @ggutpunch @ellies-dinosaur @butchchase @bambiaches @velvetinkbym @rhian88 @azxteria @yxsmina @zaunite-516 @sweetshrew @eriiwaiii2 @bluminescent-moon @elliespotion @mascspleasegetmepregnant @dykeissih @babydoll-ivory @summerdaysout @tiedinbows @eilishfike @vixenkii @wtvmOmO @angelsglitch @vanpalmertruther @mikellie @re1daway @irysque @notkyleelol @the-sick-habit @autisticratbagtm @burden-4-dina @elliepoems @fragilevampirr @crucifiedfem @abbyandcaitlover @lovewitchss @soltwent

[sevikalvr]

(𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑/𝟒: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓)

──𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓;

(lead guitar!vi x band manager!reader): managing a punk band is the dream gig. for you, it's made all the more sweeter by the sexy guitarist you get to call yours.

wc: 8.4k | cw: guitarist!vi, dom!reader, sub!vi, oral sex (v! and r!receiving), fingering (v!receiving), strap-on usage, cowgirl, degredation, praise kink, exhibitionism (public sex), orgasm control, MINORS DNI.

note: vi time!! this fic really took me through the trenches, but i emerged victorious! omg i can't believe we're almost done, team. it's been wild.

Managing a bunch of punk rockers wasn’t part of your five-year plan. You got the big, shiny business degree, racked up honors, and stood at the precipice of a dozen possible futures. The world was your oyster and, yet, you found yourself in your parents’ guest room (previously your room) with your laptop open and your ambition flickering like a dying light. 

The job market wasn’t kind and neither were your expectations. Everything sounded boring. Everything looked like it would suck your soul dry. Then Mel Medarda called.

She had joined her brother at No Kings Records, a newer label still trying to carve out a space in a saturated industry. She said there was a band she was watching—loud, messy, brilliant—and they were about to be a big deal. 

What they needed was someone smart, someone tough, someone who could wrangle chaos into results. Someone like you. She didn’t sugarcoat the gig. She said it would be brutal, exhausting, loud, and probably short-lived. But if you were willing to get your hands dirty, it might just be fun.

It started out better than fun. It was electric. Your rhythm with the girls clicked instantly and it was clear they weren’t in it for just fun or quick cash. They were out to make noise, make change, and burn the whole scene down while they were at it. 

You brought Caitlyn into the fold when they needed a bassist, though she was hesitant to step into the spotlight. She agreed to join on one condition: anonymity. You made it happen. You built C.K. from the ground up, constructed her persona, masked her identity, and made her the most mysterious face in the genre. No one’s cracked it yet.

You pulled Sevika out of a failing band and got her to join without too much fuss. That alone earned you serious credit. Sevika doesn’t do petty drama, doesn’t do bullshit, and definitely doesn’t like being handled. But she trusts you. They all do. And they should. You’re the spine of Hotwired. You take care of the money, the contracts, the schedule, the messes they leave behind. You make sure the machine keeps running and that the engine never burns out.

You’ve made a name for yourself in this business. People know better than to try and lowball your artists or waste your time. Other bands keep you on retainer just to negotiate their tours. 

But you stay with Hotwired. This band is yours. And maybe that has something to do with Violet Lanes, lead guitarist and walking temptation. You’ve been tangled up with her for almost a year now. There’s no label, no public declaration, and no press leaks. It’s a secret, for now. One that works. Sort of.

It started at a wrap party. Just one of the many half-organized, fully unhinged celebrations the band liked to throw after a successful leg of touring or the end of a video shoot. 

A handful of close friends, the crew, and the few trusted people under NDA who were allowed to look Caitlyn in the face. There was good booze, bad lighting, and music blasting from a Bluetooth speaker someone forgot to charge. It wasn’t glamorous. None of their parties ever were. But it was loud, it was fun, and you let yourself unwind a little. For once.

Vi had been watching you all night. You’d felt it in the way her gaze clung a second too long, in how her laughter got louder whenever you were nearby. 

You weren’t exactly blind to her, either. She looked good. Messy pink hair, eyeliner smudged from the heat, tank top sticking to her chest. She was holding a red cup and leaning against the wall like she was trying to look casual, but it wasn’t hard to see through her. She wanted you to notice. You did.

The touches started as slow, harmless things. A hand grazing your lower back as she passed. The brief brush of fingers when she handed you a drink. It built in the spaces between words and glances until the tension stopped feeling subtle and started to feel like something alive. The two of you slipped out without much fanfare. Her car was parked around the corner, windows tinted, backseat big enough. You’d barely closed the door before her mouth was on yours.

It was supposed to be a one-time thing. You were both buzzed on whiskey and adrenaline, and nobody said anything about seeing each other again. But you did. Again and again. Late nights in hotel rooms. Quickies in dressing rooms with your hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. Her name in your phone saved as something boring. A recurring thing. A routine. A secret.

And that was the problem.

It’s unprofessional. You know that. She knows that. You’re her manager, and managers don’t fuck their talent. Not if they want to keep their reputations clean. Not if they want to avoid HR disasters or bloodthirsty tabloids. But it’s not just that. Vi’s publicist—some smug asshole from her label who thinks he invented branding—made it painfully clear that her appeal is built on sex and availability. She’s not supposed to be anyone’s. That’s the fantasy. A girl like Vi Lanes doesn’t settle down. She tempts. She teases. She performs.

Which means this—whatever this is—has to stay behind closed doors. No slip-ups, no PDA, no getting caught. Not that it’s easy. Vi’s never been particularly good at doing what she’s told.

Your phone buzzes against the glass table beside your laptop. You glance over, already knowing who it is from the contact photo alone—a blurry picture of Vi flipping off the camera while mid-laugh, pink hair catching the sunlight, middle finger painted black. You answer it without thinking.

"Hey, Boss."

Her voice has that usual lilt to it, all lazy mischief and unspoken suggestion. It grates on your nerves in the way only she can manage. You lean back in your chair, clicking your pen shut and tossing it onto a notepad full of half-legible scribbles. "You only call me that when you want something."

"That’s not true," she says, but it absolutely is. "Sometimes I call you that when I’m thinking about you. Which is, like, all the time."

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrays you with a twitch. “What do you want, Vi?”

“Dinner. With me. Tonight.” There’s the brief sound of a lighter clicking, a slow exhale on the other end. She smokes too much when she’s bored. “I’m making that thing you like. With the spicy oil and the noodles.”

“You hate cooking.”

“Yeah, well, I hate a lot of things. But I like you. So.” Another puff. “Come over.”

You glance at the time. It’s barely past three. “You’re back in town already? Vegas not offer enough stimulation for you?”

Vi laughs, low and warm and just a little rough. “Vegas was a blur. Got proposed to a bunch I’m pretty sure I gambled away a small fortune. That was the highlight. No offense to the city of sin, but I missed you.”

Your stomach does that stupid little flip it always does when she says shit like that. “Is that right?”

“Dead serious,” she says. “You’re the only stimulation I need, baby.”

You exhale through your nose, already standing to grab your keys off the counter. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet, you’re coming over.”

You don’t bother denying it. “Yeah. I’m coming over.”

Vi hums her approval. “Knew I could count on you. I’ll have wine ready.”

“Don’t drink it all before I get there,” you warn.

“No promises,” she says, laughing. 

—

You pull into Vi’s driveway just as the sky starts its descent into gold. You know the way by heart. The sensor lights flick on before your foot even hits the step, and you don’t bother with the doorbell. Vi gave up on coming to greet you at the front door every time a while ago.

You kick your shoes off in the foyer, leaving them in the haphazard pile already there. The house smells like garlic and something rich, spicy. You hear the low hiss of a pan and follow the sound, feet padding over hardwood and past the framed gold records and chaotic art she’s nailed directly into the walls.

She’s in the kitchen, standing at the stove in a loose black tank and those threadbare sweatpants she frequents at home. There’s a towel slung over her shoulder and her hair’s half up, slightly damp like she showered not long ago. The sleeves of tattoos peeking out under the hem of her shirt look darker than usual, saturated in the evening light and soft sweat.

Vi turns when she hears you enter. That easy grin stretches across her face, sharp and crooked. “Hey, you.”

“Hey yourself.” You cross the kitchen slowly, with clear intent.

You slide your hands around her waist without hesitation, palms settling low on her hips. She’s warm and solid under your touch. Your lips find the space just beneath her jaw, pressing in gently, breathing her in. She tilts her head for you, and you kiss her mouth next, slow and familiar.

Vi smiles against your lips, then pulls away with one last peck. “I already poured your wine,” she says, jerking her head toward the counter. “Go on, sit. Let me cook for you, will you?”

You take her in for a beat longer before moving to grab the glass, leaning against the island to watch her work. You know better than to argue when she’s like this. Comfortable in her home, in her skin, in the rhythm of a domestic moment she’d once sworn wasn’t her thing.

And maybe it still isn’t. But she lets it be with you.

Vi moves easily around the kitchen, shifting a pan with practiced flicks of her wrist, tossing in a handful of basil like she’s done this a hundred times before. You sip at the wine she poured for you, content to let the soft sounds of sizzling garlic and her low hum fill the space.

“You cook like this for all your hookups?” you ask lightly, tracing the rim of your glass with one finger.

Vi smirks without looking up. “Only the ones who handle my tour schedule and have full access to my financials.”

You huff a laugh. “Careful, Lanes. You’re starting to sound a little clingy..”

She tosses you a look over her shoulder, eyes bright and teasing. “You’re the one who came all this way just to see me. Don’t act like I’m the clingy one.”

“Mm. You called me.”

“Touché.”

She sets the sauce to simmer and wipes her hands on the towel slung over her shoulder. Then she’s crossing the space between you, slow and deliberate, until she’s standing between your knees. Her hands slide up your thighs and rest just beneath the hem of your shirt.

“I missed you,” she says, the teasing edge gone from her voice. “More than I probably should have.”

You look up at her, searching her face for the sincerity you already know is there. “Yeah?”

Vi nods and leans in to kiss you again, mouth warm and familiar. She takes her time with it, lips parting just enough to pull a small sound from you. When she pulls back, her voice is low. “Thought about you every damn day.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Prove it.”

Vi’s smile shifts into something eager, almost conspiratorial. Her hands are already at your waistband, fingers deftly unbuttoning your pants. You lift your hips without hesitation, letting her ease them down just enough to expose the tops of your thighs and the line of your underwear.

She sinks to her knees, hands running up and down your bare skin with a reverence that borders on obscene. She drags your pants the rest of the way down as she goes. “You wanna know how I got through those long nights in Vegas?”

You open your mouth to answer, but the words catch when she leans in and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss against the inside of your thigh. Then another, closer to where you’re already aching for her. Her hands settle on your hips, firm and grounding.

“Thought about this,” she murmurs against your skin. “The way you taste, the way you sound when I get you worked up, how fuckin’ mean you get. Drove myself crazy.”

Another kiss lands over the damp heat of your underwear, sloppy and lingering. She noses along the seam, breathing you in with a low, satisfied hum that vibrates right through your core. You thread your fingers into her hair, heart pounding against your ribs.

Vi doesn’t wait for permission. She never does. She slips your panties to the side with two fingers and dives in with a moan that vibrates through your core. 

Her mouth is hot, sloppy, ravenous. She licks you like she missed you more than she can admit, like she needs this to live. Her tongue slides through your folds, her nose bumping against your clit as she moans into you.

You lean back on your elbows, watching her work, your fingers already tangling in her hair. She’s making a mess of you, wet sounds filling the kitchen as she devours you with single-minded focus.

"Is that really your best?" you ask, voice cool. You yank her head back by the hair just enough to look into her eyes. "Because right now? It feels lazy."

Vi pants against you, cheeks flushed, lips wet. "Fuck you."

"Not until you earn it."

You push her head back down and grind against her mouth. She whines, but she doesn’t resist. Your fingers tighten in her hair, holding her exactly where you want her. You set the pace, fucking her mouth until she starts doing better, until those moans turn broken and bleed into helpless whimpers.

She tries to tease you again, tongue slowing just a little, testing your patience. That earns her a sharp pull to the scalp and a withering look from you. It clearly only serves to turn her on more. "You want to be difficult? Fine. I'll finish without you."

Vi whimpers.

"Then stop fucking around."

She snaps back to it, tongue moving fast and purposeful, sucking your clit between her lips like she finally remembers what you like. Her hands grip your thighs tighter now, grounding herself as you pull her even closer. Her mouth is filthy, her moans desperate. You're right there, and she knows it. You feel her murmuring against you, hot, broken pleas that only make your release come faster.

When you come, it’s with your head thrown back and a hand fisted tight in Vi's hair. She keeps her mouth on you the whole time, letting you ride out every last wave, only stopping when your thighs start to tremble from overstimulation.

You pull her back by the hair, slowly. She’s flushed, mouth shiny, eyes hazy. You rub your thumb over her spit-slick bottom lip.

"Now that," you say, breathless, "was better."

Vi looks wrecked. She grins anyway. "Told you I missed you."

You lean down and kiss her hard, tasting yourself on her lips, claiming her in every sense of the word.

Vi stands on trembling legs as you instruct her to get back to dinner; you slip your underwear back into place and pull your pants up without bothering to button them. They’ll be right back off in a few minutes anyway, so there’s really no need. 

And that’s how it is between the two of you sometimes: sex, a nice dinner and the time simply melting away. 

Sometimes, though, it’s much riskier.

—

It’s been a long shoot day. You’ve been managing half a dozen people, answering too many questions, reviewing footage, and trying to make sure everything runs on schedule. And then there’s Vi.

Vi, who keeps casting you smug little smirks between takes. Who "accidentally" misses her marks. Who saunters up to you every time the cameras stop rolling just to press a kiss to your cheek when she knows damn well she shouldn’t be touching you in public. 

Vi, who’s sitting in the makeup chair now and spinning slowly, round and round, kicking her boots against the wood like a kid who’s just discovered what being annoying can get her. You’re doing your best to ignore her antics, you easily bury yourself in the countless emails you’ve got.

"You know, Boss," she says, real casual, like she hasn’t been grating your last nerve since lunch. “You look real tense. Want me to rub your shoulders? Or ride your face? I’m generous like that.”

You level a look at her. Vi grins.

She’s testing you. She’s been testing you all damn day. And you’ve been good. You’ve been so good. Because there are cameras. There are stylists and lighting techs and assistants. Because you’ve got to be the responsible one. But now you’re alone in the dressing room while everyone’s setting up the next scene, and she’s still talking.

“I mean, I’m just saying,” Vi adds, standing from the chair and stretching in that deliberately slow way she does, arms above her head, tank top riding up just enough to show off the waistband of her boxers. “If you’re so stressed, I could help.”

You cross the room slowly, watching her eyes light up when she realizes she’s finally pushed you far enough.

“Hands on the dresser,” you say quietly, firmly. “Bend over.”

For a moment, she doesn’t move. But you can see it: the way her throat bobs when she swallows. The slight shift in her stance like her body’s already heating up, anticipating what’s coming.

Then Vi obeys. And it’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen.

She plants her hands against the vanity, arching her back just slightly. She looks at you in the mirror, eyes wide and a little smug. “This better not fuck up my makeup,” she says, but it’s breathless. You take a slow step behind her and press a hand between her shoulder blades, making her fold more fully over the dresser.

“You should’ve thought about your makeup,” you murmur, voice low and sharp, “before you spent the last four hours acting like a spoiled little brat.”

Vi shivers. Her smirk falters just a little, and you catch the way her fingers tighten against the wood.

“I wasn’t that bad.”

You lean down, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“Don’t lie to me now. You begged for this.”

You curl your fingers into the waistband of Vi’s sweats and yank them down to mid-thigh, her boxers caught in the same tug. She gasps softly, biting down on the inside of her cheek as the cold air licks at her skin. Her ass is already pink from the spanking, a delicious contrast to the black ink of her thigh tattoos and the tension in her frame.

“Hands flat, feet planted,” you murmur, close to her ear. “And stay quiet.”

“Not really my forte,” she says, voice shaking just enough to betray her anticipation.

Your fingers skim the crease where her thigh meets her pelvis, careful not to give her what she wants. Not yet. Vi’s hips twitch. She’s always like this: bratty, stubborn, aching to be broken down and remade in your hands. You trail one hand over the curve of her ass, squeeze, then slap hard enough to make her jolt and groan.

“This what you’ve been acting up for?” you ask.

“No,” she says, the word tinged in amusement. 

You slap her again, harder this time. She gasps, but holds her place.

“You sure? Because I can keep going like this until your knees give out.”

She moans quietly, pressing her forehead to the mirror. “Yes, fuck, fine. You’re just too put together all the time. Somebody’s gotta loosen you up.”

You hum, finally letting your fingers drift between her thighs. She’s soaked. You drag two fingers through it, not slipping inside—just letting the slickness coat your fingertips. Her thighs quiver as you bump her clit and just as quickly retreat.

“Of course you’re dripping. All it takes is a little discipline, huh?”

Vi whimpers, turning her head so she can see you over her shoulder. “Please.”

“Please what?”

She tries to grind her hips back into your touch, but you quickly correct the behavior with another hard swat at her ass. Her hips still and she makes a small, desperate sound. She knows, just like you do, that you don’t have a lot of time.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Vi says, voice bordering on petulant. “You know what I want. Pretty sure you want it, too.”

“Is that how we ask for things?” You lean in to whisper it in her ear and revel in the way they go a little pink at the tips. You circle her clit in slow, lazy circles and watch as she fights not to keep her hips still. “I don’t know how long you plan to keep playing this little game, but we don’t have forever.”

“Oh my god, fuck off,” she says instantly. Like reflex. Then, she seems to think better of it. “...Fuck me with your fingers…please. I’ll be on my best fuckin’ behavior.”

Normally, you would drag it out considerably more. It’s a true joy to reduce a woman so frequently larger than life to a crying, begging mess. But, simply put, there isn't time. “I’ll remember your poor manners for later,” you promise. 

You press two fingers inside her without another word. Her head falls forward, a raw moan escaping her lips. You curl your fingers just right and start working her over with steady, relentless precision. Vi clings to the dresser like it’s the only thing keeping her upright, panting and trying so hard to stay quiet like you told her to.

“That’s it,” you mutter. “That’s what you get when you behave.”

She nods, breathless, hips rocking back to meet every thrust. You reach around with your other hand, thumb circling her clit in slow, tight strokes. Vi’s legs shake under her and her voice starts to slip past her lips in soft, gasped whimpers.

“Such a mess for me,” you murmur. “You like when I fuck the attitude out of you, don’t you?”

“Y-yeah,” she breathes, so close. “I love it.”

You’re well and truly fucking your fingers into her, basking in every little punched out moan you pull from her . Vi is so close she’s shaking, her knees barely holding her up, hips rolling back into your touch with frantic rhythm. Her breaths are short and ragged, her hands pressed flat to the dresser just like you told her.

“Please,” she whispers, voice cracking. “Please, baby, I’m right there.”

“I know,” you murmur, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You’re doing so well.”

She shudders under your praise, body tightening like a bowstring.

Then—

A knock. Sharp. Followed by a voice from the other side of the dressing room door.

“Vi? We need you on set in five. Are you almost ready?”

You freeze, fingers still snug inside her, the pad of your thumb barely hovering over her clit. Vi lets out a strangled sound, somewhere between a whine and a sob, her forehead dropping against the mirror.

You push your fingers in slow, letting Vi feel the stretch. It’s clear she’s letting herself get lost in it, completely ignoring the person just on the other side of the door. And you can’t have anyone getting suspicious.

“She asked you a question,” you say, quiet and cold.

Vi grits her teeth, her hips stuttering against the building pressure. “Be—” Her voice cracks and she tries again, shakier this time. “Be right there!”

“Good girl.” Your fingers curl inside her, your thumb making tight, fast circles across her clit. You watch the way she arches into the touch, the pants falling free from her lips. She jerks forward, biting down on her own forearm to muffle the scream building in her throat.

She comes like that, trembling and desperate and completely at your mercy, her entire body contracting around your fingers as she lets the orgasm crash over her in trembling silence.

“Now get back to work,” you say, pulling her pants back up over her ass. “Swing by my place when you’re done.”

Vi turns and wraps her arms around your waist. “You’re leaving?” She asks, voice soft around the edges. And she’s looking into your eyes like a lost puppy. It really is unbearably cute. 

“Yep. I’m gonna lay across my bed, fully naked and fuck myself open until you get there,” you answer. You watch as her face flushes, a grin breaking out across her lips. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll have forgiven you by then.” It’s a lie and you both know it. 

“Can’t wait,” Vi says, capturing your lips in a lingering kiss. 

—

It’s not often that Vi asks for anything plainly. She’s all suggestive comments and lazy assumptions, convinced she doesn’t need to beg because you’ll always end up giving her what she wants anyway. But a few days before the show, she calls you directly and there’s something in her voice that sets her apart from every other interaction you’ve had.

“I want you to come,” she says. No slyness, no teasing. Just raw honesty. “It’s a big night. I want you there.”

It isn’t even a choice. You say yes before she’s even done talking.

Now you’re backstage, leaning against the cool cement wall just a few feet off the wings of the stage. The house lights are dimming, the crowd of fans beyond the curtains an endless sea of bodies, their buzz already palpable, vibrating in your teeth and your chest. You can hear them shouting, stamping, calling for the band to come out like they’ve all been waiting a lifetime.

Your arms are crossed loosely, but your attention is razor-sharp, zeroed in on the movement near the far side of the stage. Vi appears first, guitar already strapped over her shoulder, the stage lights catching the glint of her chains, the shocking pink of her tousled hair. She’s dressed like she always is for these moments: low-slung jeans with the waistband of her boxers proudly on display, a tank top that clings to her frame, showing off her tattoos, the view entirely indecent.

The applause hits as soon as she steps into the light, deafening and almost aggressive. Your pulse responds accordingly, as if your body is feeding off the crowd's energy by proxy.

Sevika saunters out next, twirling a drumstick between her fingers. C.K. emerges from the opposite side, mask already in place, head down, shoulders set in that quiet intensity she carries like a second skin. And then Jinx, of course, skipping out like a bomb with a pulled pin, grinning from ear to ear, hands raised like she’s blessing her congregation.

Vi’s the last to approach the mic, the rest of the band already in position. She doesn’t speak right away. Just stands there, letting the frenzy of the audience wash over her. She looks out into the darkness like she can see the faces of every single person that got them here, that packed this place wall to wall just for them.

When she finally speaks, her voice is a low purr that still carries through the mic, dripping with casual charm. “Happy fucking anniversary, huh?”

The crowd screams back their approval, a wall of sound.

“You know full well who the fuck we are,” Jinx says, riding the wave Vi’s started. “It’s been a long journey to get this here. If you would’ve told baby Jinx and Vi that one day they’d be playing sold out shows, I would’ve laughed in your face. Hard.” There’s a ripple of cheers and laughter; Jinx always lights up under the attention. “But here we are! And, boy, have we got a show for you!”

“Wouldn’t wanna do it with anyone else, sis,” Vi says, yanking Jinx into a hug that seems to take her totally by surprise. You see a million cameras flash to capture the moment. 

Vi releases her sister and hustles back to her spot.

You watch her in profile as she slings her guitar into place. She looks good under the lights, the lean cut of her arms, the practiced ease of her hands on the strings. You know those hands in other contexts, on your body, in your mouth, curled tight in your hair. You think about the way her voice sounds when she’s right against your ear, the way she begs and whines. You think about how tonight, after the show, she’ll be buzzing from the high of the stage, desperate to blow off steam, and you’ll be more than happy to give her that outlet. You’ll remind her who keeps her grounded.

The music kicks in, hard and fast, a thrumming bassline that reverberates straight through the soles of your feet. Vi tears into the first riff, her body moving with the rhythm like it’s muscle memory, like her guitar is just another extension of herself. She’s in her element here, head tilted back, eyes hooded, hair falling wild around her face.

And she knows exactly where you are. She steals glances between verses, finds you in the dark, mouth curling into a smirk when your eyes meet. It’s a look you’ve seen a hundred times before in hotel rooms and greenrooms and the backseat of her car. It says tonight’s yours, boss, just you wait.

Jinx is spinning across the stage, climbing on amps, nearly eating it twice but catching herself with the same chaotic grace that keeps the crowd glued to her every erratic movement. Sevika’s arms are steady and brutal on the kit, her gaze flicking to C.K. now and then to keep the unspoken communication alive between drummer and bassist. The whole band moves like one organism, electric and loud and so goddamn alive.

You lean against the wall and let yourself enjoy it. The show. The music. The certainty that later, when the lights come down and the last encore is played, Vi will find you, still flushed with adrenaline, and drag you somewhere dark and private.

You think about the things she’ll beg for, the things she’ll call you when she forgets herself completely.

The lights go up and the crowd is still roaring, but backstage the energy has already begun to settle into that warm, post-show haze. The band filters off one by one, each of them slick with sweat, drunk on adrenaline but grinning ear to ear. You’re waiting just inside the hallway, the pulse of the venue still thudding faintly through the walls, your body practically humming from proximity alone.

Jinx finds you first, bounding over and throwing her arms around your shoulders, still vibrating like she’s got electricity running under her skin. “We fuckin’ killed that, huh?”

You chuckle, steadying her before she can knock you both over. “You killed it, Jinx. Don’t let it go to your head, though.”

“Too late!” She’s already peeling off toward the rest of the crew, tossing waves and blowing kisses, basking in the last dregs of applause.

Sevika brushes past next, towel slung over her shoulder, the collar of her shirt stretched from yanking it off during the encore. She pauses just long enough to nudge your arm with a fist. “You sticking around for the after-party?”

“Doubt it,” you reply, already anticipating the real reason you’re not staying. “I’ve got other plans.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Sevika snorts, but there’s no malice in it. She moves on, calling after Jinx.

Caitlyn walks by with her mask already off, face flushed from the heat but collected as always. She offers a small smile and a quiet, “Good to see you,” before following the others.

You’re scanning the crowd for Vi when your phone buzzes in your pocket. One look and your stomach flips.

Vi: wanna get outta here? wait by my car. Vi: wanna put my mouth on you already

You huff out a breath and pocket your phone, weaving your way toward the back exit. No one pays you much attention. That’s the point. You leave first, like you always do, and wait in the shadow of Vi’s black muscle car parked just outside the artist entrance.

It only takes a couple of minutes before you hear her boots on the pavement. She rounds the corner, jacket slung over her shoulder, damp hair pushed back, still flushed from the show. She sees you waiting and grins wide and cocky, like she’s already won.

Then she’s on you.

Vi crowds you against the car without hesitation, her mouth slanting over yours before you can get a word out. She kisses like she plays—hungry, all teeth and tongue, hands bracketing your hips before sliding lower, her fingers skimming beneath the hem of your shirt like she’s already claiming the skin beneath.

You make the mistake of moaning into her mouth, which only encourages her. Her hands go bolder, squeezing your ass, grinding her hips forward like she can’t even be bothered to wait until you’re somewhere private.

You break the kiss with a gasp, lips wet, still panting into her mouth. “Vi—”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Get in the fucking car,” you order, voice low and tight. “Get us home. I’m sick of waiting.”

Vi grins, cocky and unrepentant. “Yes, ma’am.”

She presses one last kiss to your jaw, all mock sweetness, before finally pulling back to open the door. You’re already sliding into the passenger seat, pulse racing, thighs pressed tight together.

The second the door clicks shut behind you, Vi's on you again—grabbing at your hips, trying to crowd you against the wall. But you’re quicker, stronger when she’s all pliant for you. You spin her, pressing her back to the door with a heavy thud, one hand wrapping around her throat, the other braced above her head.

Her breath catches, pupils blown wide already, that signature grin starting to creep back. She loves when you catch her like this—when you remind her who she belongs to. She tests your grip anyway, dragging her hands under your shirt, cool fingers skating up your sides.

You tighten your grip just slightly, enough to get your point across. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Vi swallows hard, her hands freezing. “Yes, ma’am.”

You lean in close, just enough for her to feel the heat of your breath on her lips without the satisfaction of a kiss. Then you step back and nod toward the stairs. “Upstairs. Now.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice. She practically jogs up the stairs, the sound of her boots thudding against each step, and you follow at a more deliberate pace. You want her flustered. You want her desperate.

When you reach the bedroom, she’s already standing there waiting, practically vibrating. You take a seat on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, and tilt your chin up at her.

“Undress,” you tell her, voice level, commanding. “Here.”

She steps between your legs without hesitation, standing right where you want her. Her eyes don’t leave yours as she peels off her jacket and tosses it aside. Then she grips the hem of her shirt, pulling it off slow, all the while rolling her hips just a little—like she’s still on stage performing for a crowd.

It’s all for you.

She shimmies out of her jeans next, dragging them down with a little wiggle of her hips, bare legs flexing as she steps out of them. She kicks them away carelessly, left only in her boxers and the sports bra clinging to her chest. The ink of her tattoos stands out stark against her flushed skin.

She hooks her thumbs in her waistband, pausing, watching your face like she’s waiting to see if you’ll crack.

You don’t. You keep your face steady, unimpressed, though your pulse is already hammering in your throat.

“Don’t stop on my account,” you murmur.

Vi grins as she peels her boxers down her thighs, slow enough to tease, dragging the soft fabric over the curve of her ass and the muscles of her legs. She kicks them aside and stands fully naked between your legs, shoulders back like she’s showing off. She is.

Her body’s already warm with color, her skin flushed with anticipation. She knows she’s gorgeous like this—cocky and unashamed—but still, her eyes flick to yours, looking for that flicker of approval.

You don’t give it to her yet. You keep your face even, one eyebrow ticking up like you’re still deciding if she’s done well enough. She squirms just a little under your gaze, her hands twitching at her sides, like she doesn’t know where to put them.

“Like what you see?” she asks, voice breathy and rougher than she probably intended. There’s a wobble under the playfulness, like she can’t quite keep herself steady under your attention.

You hum, eyes dragging over every inch of her, slow and deliberate. You take your bottom lip between your teeth, letting it catch there as you admire her. “You know I do, baby,” you tell her, voice soft and warm, full of the kind of honesty that always gets under her skin. “You’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen.”

That earns you a flush that creeps from her chest to her cheeks. She looks away, fussing with her hair, trying to act like it’s no big deal, but the nervous habit betrays her. She always does this when she doesn’t know what to do with your sincerity. You smile, fond, as you stand and gesture to the bed. “C’mere and lay down for me.”

Vi obeys without argument, grinning like she’s still got the upper hand, like she thinks she knows exactly where this is headed. She drops onto the bed with a satisfying bounce, stretching out like she’s expecting to be pampered. She props herself up on her elbows to keep you in view, her eyes hungry as they follow your every movement.

You strip slowly, letting her watch the reveal of your skin piece by piece, each discarded item joining the pile she left behind. The room feels thick with it now. Anticipation, tension, want that neither of you have bothered to hide.

By the time you’re climbing onto the mattress, her eyes have darkened considerably. That smirk she wears, the one that always promises trouble, starts to waver when you settle between her thighs and start dragging your palms up the length of her legs, parting them just enough to make her breath catch.

“I’ve been thinking about this all night. Having you under me like this,” you murmur, lips brushing over the jut of her hip. Your teeth scrape lightly against her skin, just enough to sting. “You gonna be good?”

She shivers beneath you, muscles twitching. “Yeah,” she whispers, throat bobbing on the swallow.

You close your mouth around her, finding her already so wet from just the anticipation of what you’re going to do for her. You start out with long, deliberate licks, unhurried, savoring her. It barely takes anything rile Vi up. You mouth at her clit until she’s moaning, hips lifting to chase your mouth. 

The sounds she makes are soft at first, the occasional gasp, a breathy curse, but the longer you tease, the more she squirms. You feel it, every little tremble in her thighs, every sharp inhale when you get too close to the spot she wants most.

Just when her breathing picks up, when her body starts to shake in that telltale way that means she’s close, you pull back. She lets out a broken, frustrated groan, her head dropping back onto the bed, fists curling tight in the sheets.

“You’re fucking evil,” she huffs, panting, her voice ragged.

You smirk, nails dragging lightly down the inside of her thighs, leaving trails of flushed skin in your wake. “You know what to do if you want it.”

Vi whines, twisting beneath you, eyes pleading. You watch in vague amusement as she bites the inside of her cheek; she always pretends to hate this part but you can see the shift in her. The way her breathing speeds up, the way her fingers twitch to touch you. “Please,” she gasps, finally. “With sugar on top,” she can’t help but add. Anything to lessen the suffocating pleasure.

You lap lazily at her again, slow enough to make her sob. “No. Be patient or I stop,” you warn, voice low and firm, even as you keep her right there, straddling the edge.

By the time you work her up again, she’s shaking so hard it’s a wonder she hasn’t snapped already. Her hips stutter, trying to fuck your mouth on instinct, and her hands fly to her hair, tugging, like she can ground herself with the pain.

“Hold it,” you repeat, firmer now, when you feel that pulse under your tongue.

“I can’t,” she whimpers, nearly crying with it. “Please, I can’t—I’m so close.”

“Ask me nicely.”

Her breathing stutters, and her hands clench tighter in her hair. When she looks down at you, her eyes are wet, shining with need. “Please, please let me come. I’ll be good, I’ll be so fucking good for you. Just let me have it, I need you so bad, please.”

That does it. You grin against her, finally satisfied. “Good job,” you say, entirely patronizing and smug. “You can come.”

She allows herself to grind her cunt against your eager tongue with reckless abandon, her mouth falling open to mutter and whine words that slur together. 

Her whole body goes taut, back arching high off the bed before collapsing again. She shudders through it, loud and filthy, her hips jerking helplessly with every flick of your tongue until she’s boneless, gasping, thoroughly spent.

You press a kiss to Vi’s thigh, then another higher up, lips dragging over sweat-slick skin. She’s still trembling, still catching her breath, but the look she gives you is nothing short of starved.

You hum, pleased with her wrecked state, and crawl up the length of her body until you’re nose to nose. She’s flushed and sweaty, lips kiss-bitten, eyes heavy-lidded but still burning for more.

“You earned yourself a reward,” you murmur, brushing your mouth against hers, not quite kissing yet. “You want it, baby?”

Vi nods without hesitation, swallowing thickly. “'Course I do.”

You cock your head, smiling faintly. “You wanna fuck me? Or do you want me to fuck you?”

She grabs weakly at your waist like she’d drag you down right now if she could. “Need you to fuck me,” she whispers, voice hoarse. “I wanna be full. Need it rough, boss.”

There’s something sweet in the way she asks, even when she’s desperate for it. You kiss her, slow but heavy, your tongue sweeping into her mouth until she’s gasping into it. “Good girl,” you praise, just before you pull back. “Hold tight.”

You slide off the bed, naked and still flushed from everything that’s come before. Vi watches you, gaze tracking your every movement as you cross the room to where you keep the harness stashed.

She licks her lips when you pull it on, adjusting the straps snugly against your hips. She can’t tear her eyes away once you’re fully strapped in, her chest rising and falling faster just at the sight.

Once you’re back in bed, you stretch out on your back and gesture her closer with a crook of your finger. “C’mere. On top.”

Vi wastes no time shifting on the bed, straddling your waist with that crooked grin you love so much. But there’s something softer beneath the bravado—a tremble in her thighs, the way her breath hitches as she lowers herself until her cunt brushes against the silicone. You let your hands roam up the backs of her thighs, slow and easy, feeling the way her muscles twitch under your palms.

“Wanna make sure you’re ready,” you tell her, your voice a low rumble meant just for her. You slip a hand between her legs, fingers gliding easily through the wet mess she’s already made. She’s soaked, your name practically written between her legs, but you slide two fingers in anyway, curling them just right, feeling the way she clamps down instantly.

Vi lets out a guttural moan, bracing her hands on your chest, hips rolling in little needy circles. “More,” she pants. “Fuck, I want more.”

You oblige her, working her open with your fingers, slow but firm, making sure she feels every inch of it. She whines, hips canting down, desperate for more friction, more stretch, more of anything you’ll give her.

“You sure you’re ready?” you ask, though your cock is already slicked with her, lined up and pulsing with anticipation.

“Yes,” she growls, practically shaking, “fuck me.” She pauses for a moment and then, remembering her manners, adds, "Please."

You grin and guide her hips, holding steady as she sinks down, slow at first. She lets out a strangled sound, breath stuttering, eyes fluttering shut as she takes you deeper.

Vi tries to take control, riding you with all that bratty confidence still clinging to her, her hands braced on your stomach for leverage. She bounces on your cock with a sharp rhythm, panting hard, her face scrunched up in concentration like she’s determined to make a show of it.

But it doesn’t last. She starts to falter, hips shaking, pace stuttering every time she sinks too deep. The slick drag of her pussy around you gets messier, louder, and her thighs are already trembling like she’s barely holding herself up.

You grin, watching her struggle, hands resting lazily on her hips. “What’s the matter, baby? That all you’ve got? Thought you were gonna show me how bad you needed it.”

She lets out a whimper, trying to keep moving, but she’s uncoordinated and desperate, eyes squeezed shut. You let her flail for a few more seconds before you’ve had enough.

Your hands clamp down on her hips, hard enough to bruise, and you start fucking up into her, heavy, punishing thrusts that drive her right back into the mattress with every bounce.

Vi cries out, head dropping back, mouth open and sloppy sounds pouring out without shame. Every sharp snap of your hips has her yelping, her whole body rocking with the force of it.

“That’s better,” you murmur, voice thick with hunger. “This is the Vi no one else gets to see, huh? Everybody out there thinks you’re so dangerous. Hotwired’s wild little guitarist. But here you are—my pretty little pet.”

She moans high and breathy, nails digging into your ribs, but she doesn’t deny it. Can’t.

“You beg to come for me. Make those pretty fucking noises for me. You’re lucky I’m the only one who knows what a mess you really are.”

Vi’s hips are jerking, erratic, like she’s caught between trying to meet your thrusts and just taking it, letting you use her how you want. She’s babbling now, gasped little pleas, your name in a shaky loop, spit pooling in the corners of her mouth.

“You look so fucking pretty like this, baby. Like you’re made to take it. That right?”

“Yeah,” she gasps, barely audible. “Fuck, yeah—please, I can’t—”

“Oh, you can,” you croon, fucking her harder, deeper, the wet sound of her pussy getting louder with each thrust. “You’re gonna take every fucking inch until I say you’re done.”

Vi shatters then, body locking up with a wrecked sob as she clamps down around you, her climax ripping through her so violently it sends her whole body shaking. You don’t stop. You fuck her through it, driving her higher until she’s gone glassy-eyed, until every cry from her mouth is half-formed and breathless.

The rest of the night barely feels real. You don’t let up on her, not for a second, keeping Vi pinned under you or in your lap, tangled in the sheets and each other until the sky outside the window starts to pale with the earliest morning light.

At some point, bodies sore and spent, you both finally crash in the mess of the bed, limbs locked together, your breath still mingling. She whispers something sweet to you, something warm and quiet and meant just for this private space between you, but you’re too far gone, too comfortable to hold onto the exact words. You just know it felt good to hear.

It's morning now, the both of you in the tub, the heat of the water doing its best to soothe the ache deep in your muscles. Vi’s pressed to your side, thigh over yours, idly toying with the wet ends of your hair while you lazily glide a washcloth over her shoulder and down her arm. The two of you trade sleepy barbs, teasing over who wore the other out more, Vi insisting it wasn't your 'best work', even though the bruises on her hips say otherwise.

It’s soft. Easy. Like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

Then Vi’s phone starts buzzing on the tile floor. She groans, stretching just far enough to snag it, drying off her hand on the nearby towel before answering and switching it to speaker.

“What?”

“Bitch!” Jinx’s voice comes through loud and shrill, her tone somewhere between delighted and scandalized. “How the fuck did you manage to keep a secret relationship from me? From us?! I thought we told each other everything!”

Vi barks a laugh, her brows furrowing together in obvious confusion. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you and our fucking manager! You’ve been bumping uglies this whole time and didn’t say shit! How long has this been going on?! Sevika says she’s known for months. Cait won’t confirm, but she sounded real smug about it. I feel fucking betrayed!”

You sit up straight, heart dropping into your stomach, already reaching for your phone on instinct. You unlock it, pull up your socials—and sure enough, your feed is flooded.

Pictures. Dozens of them. Of you and Vi at the car after the show, all over each other, making out like the world wasn’t watching. Multiple angles. The articles have already spun it up—Hotwired’s Violet Lanes Spotted in Secret Relationship with Band Manager! Is Our Rebel Girl Finally Settling Down?

“Fuck,” you whisper, scrolling fast, your pulse spiking. “Vi, we’re fucked.”

“Speak for yourself,” Vi chuckles, looking over your shoulder at the screen, completely unbothered. “I think we look hot.”

Taglist (lmk if u wanna be added!!): @izzy-sevika, @shxdy0ariia, @sevikas-whore, @mcqueeferson, @ctrlaltedits, @riotstemple29