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#so sevika biting on her cigarillo's tip
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Sevika x Fem!Reader - Like Fine Wine
Contains: explicit content and a recurring theme of Sevika being an older woman (love me a childless milf amirite).
Word count: 1949
AO3 link here. Minors DNI.
She’s a menace. Arrogant, unapproachable, yet inexplicably inviting. And she’s mean, too. So fucking mean, but she butters you up with cocktails and pet names that sound like molasses in that deep, gruff voice of hers. A little too old for you, and you both know it. Neither of you care. It’s hot.
One humid, smoggy night was when it all began. You had plans with a woman, who said all the right things to you the day before, to go to the Drop for a couple of drinks and a good time. Wear something pretty, she said. Pretty as those pretty red lips of yours – that left you swooning. So you waded through the blinding kaleidoscope of neon lights, all dolled up for her, struggling not to cough on the smoke from a hundred cigarillos, only to find said woman grinding against a girl in an even skimpier dress, probably telling her the same old shit.
It affected you more than you cared to admit. Maybe that’s what drew Sevika’s gaze to you. A sweet thing in a shimmery little dress, nothing new. But one with a quivering lip, looking sorry at the bar in the middle of a chaotic mess, staring in dismay at two shadows on the dancefloor… Who wouldn’t take pity?
You couldn’t fight the hammering in your chest when she approached you, towering, suave and unbothered by the ruckus of the club. Dressed in a mulberry shirt, tailored to accommodate her daunting mechanical arm, half the buttons undone, giving you a tantalising view of the swell of her cleavage and a peek at a rock hard abdomen. If she wasn’t Silco’s right hand, your eyes would have drifted lower and honed in on the tightness of her trousers.
Her offer to buy you something fruity to take the sting off things didn’t register immediately. You were too captivated by her stern, sculpted face, those steel eyes and powerful nose and frown lines that looked so soft. There were so many little scars, some harsher than others, like the mesmerising web of aquamarine cutting into her beautiful dark sepia skin.
She chuckled at the distracted glaze coating your bleary eyes, gently repeating her offer, snuffing out her smoke on the bar countertop. It wasn’t tobacco; it didn’t smell like utter shit, instead fragrant with the aroma of spices you couldn’t quite place. Something fancy, imported. You could get used to breathing it in.
Your drink took priority over the long queue of patrons, courtesy of her status. Hell, you were still blinking back your surprise at such a woman’s sudden interest in you by the time she was guiding you towards a secluded alcove, sheltered from the thumping of rave music.
Alone in the cushioned nook, you chatted about everything and nothing, sipping on an electric blue beverage that made the tips of your fingers tingle. You were interrupted once, and only once, when Sevika held up her hand, signalling for the bar staff to fetch her a drink. At some point, your legs found their way onto her lap, with her huge calloused hand languidly stroking your exposed skin. Intoxicated by her scent, her attention, the way she shamelessly eyed you up and whatever that boozy syrup in your cocktail was, you couldn’t help but bite your lip when she asked you one simple question:
“You ever been with a woman my age, doll?”
No, was the answer you gave, slightly shaky at the subliminal suggestion woven into her words. She smirked.
Widening her legs, she welcomed you forward onto her lap until you comfortably straddled a bulky thigh, the leathery fabric of her trousers pressing into you snugly. Soft, warm lips that tasted of piquant smoke and ambrosial drink ensnared yours. You expected her kiss to be bruising. Not sensual and hasteless, dizzying, wholly dichotomous to the brute beneath you.
Nursing her whiskey glass in her claw, Sevika cupped your behind with her organic hand, inviting you to grind your heat against her leg as two fingers snaked downwards. They stroked your slit through your underwear, pushing in ever so slightly until the patch of fabric covering your modesty was all slicked through. She didn’t need to ask what made you twitch in wanting – her experience made her near telepathic. Breathy little sighs poured freely from your lips, swallowed by hers.
Her teasing – foreplay – grew unbearable very quickly. You started to push back against her fingers, hoping she’d sense your desperation and indulge you by…fuck, you’d really let her debase you in public, wouldn’t you?
Oh, she knew what filthy thoughts circulated your foggy little mind. She made a promise through smirking lips: you be nice and patient while she finishes her drink, and she’ll take you home, eat your pussy so damn good until you’re sobbing and you’ve forgotten all about the bitch you came here for.
Fuck, did she fulfil that promise. Tenfold. Her tongue had your back arching off the bed, and when your oversensitive squirming got in the way of things, she flipped you onto your front, and had you kneeling face-down so she could continue enjoying her meal while you drooled, moaned, cried into the pillows until your legs gave out.
As she wiped you down gently that night, she contemplated. It had been a long while since she’d fucked someone who wasn’t one of Babette’s whores. Knowing you fell into her bed of your own volition, no gold attached, did something for her psychologically. There was no obligation in spite of her status. Just raw attraction. Desire.
She could get used to that.
Thus began your little relationship, although there’s hesitation in the term. Emotions are hard for Sevika. But, while she never addresses them aloud, you know she cares for you. Otherwise, she wouldn’t hide her metal arm under a pillow at night so you can rest on her without hurting yourself. She wouldn’t keep a box of your favourite tea in her home for when you spent the night. Nor keep that alcove in the Drop where it all began vacant every night, giving you somewhere clean and quiet to relax in during your visits, away from the obnoxious music. She certainly wouldn’t be paying your rent to give you more time to focus on your passions.
While your attraction certainly extends beyond sex, that’s the foundation of things. That’s what she’s most comfortable with. She oozes confidence and dominion between the sheets. Before her, you thought the expression “seeing stars” was purely metaphorical, until she made you come so hard that white spots danced about your eyes.
No two nights are the same with Sevika. There’s always a new pattern, a new position, a new location. Some nights are slower, full of titillation and passion. Others are downright pornographic, but with boundaries in place and your comfort the top priority. It’s exhilarating.
Ruination is almost always her objective. The sex may last the night, the soreness the morning after, but the flashbacks…those last until the next time she fucks you, and then some.
You can still feel the phantom sensation of her from last night.
Wrists cuffed to the bedframe – the inside of the metal was padded with something soft, she isn’t a monster – you lay face-down in the pillows, knelt obediently, presenting your glistening wetness to her. An indent of her teeth sunk into the skin of your thigh from when she feasted upon you against the bedroom wall, insisting she couldn’t make it to the bed without a little taste. Her organic thumb ghosted over the mark as she hummed, your nectar still fresh on her tongue.
“Ain’t that a sight,” she purred, deliciously husky, her metal hand carefully gripping the flesh of your rear, spreading you for a better look. You heard her chuckle darkly from her stance behind you before letting go.
“You know, one of the goons I gambled against tonight had this topsider bimbo on his arm.” Two warm, rough fingers find their way onto your clit, pressing a circle into the nerves. “Helped me bleed his pockets dry even faster, but man, was she gripping that arm tight.” The tips of her claws raked feather-light up your back, sending a shiver down your spine. You felt her breath on your shoulder as she wove the augmented hand through your hair, expertly making a fist that didn’t leave you in any pain, only gasping in delight. “Made me miss how tight that little pussy feels around my fingers,” Sevika smirked.
In one swift, concupiscent motion, the devil of a woman tugged on your hair and sheathed two fingers in your drenched heat to the knuckle. The cuffs rattled as you gripped the bedframe tight, panting at the sudden fullness brought by her long, thick fingers. She adjusted her wrist, curling the fingers down, hooking them and giving a slow, rough thrust, ripping a moan from your lips. There was no need for exploration, no trial and error – she knew exactly where to press them against to have you thoroughly wrecked.
Lewd squelching resonated through the room as she began to drill her fingers into you, impossibly deep, at a steady pace. The position only did a favour for the brute’s stamina; she’d keep you there as long as she pleased. Her claw in your hair forced your back into an arch, letting her hammer your sweet spot freely, and stopping you from muffling your mewls of bliss in the bedding.
“Oh, fu-ck,” you whimpered, legs shaking under the force of her thrusts. Your sensitivity from her earlier ministrations only added to her onslaught. You felt so good, stretched around her relentlessly pounding digits. Pleasure welled up in your core alarmingly fast, a heavenly pressure forming on the verge of bursting, fire consuming your veins. Sevika never altered her tempo, never pulled them out far enough to give you a moment’s reprieve.
Wanton sounds spilled freely from your parted lips as you spiralled towards your precipice. “’Vika, fuck,” you gasped, knuckles turning pale from your clenched grasp on the bedframe. “Please, ‘Vika, please don’t st-op—”
“I know, baby, I know,” she grunted. “We’re not stopping until you’re dripping down my arm, princess.”
Someone had called you “princess” in the past, and you hated it. There was condescendence in the name. The underlying implication that you were spoiled, ungrateful and haughty.
But when she calls you “princess” – usually while she’s buried inside of you, or about to be, or you’re begging for her to be – it’s different. Sure, there are times where she uses the name to be condescending, cooing it when you’re trembling and split open on the thick onyx strap she loves so dearly, but there’s always respect to the title. A sweet undertone that you’re treasured, no matter often you succumb to debauchery in her grasp. Even if she spoils you with pleasure, keeping you dumb and cumming in the bedroom, you’re still important and valued.
And you love it. Whyever would you want to be with someone spritely with commitment issues and financial instability, when instead, you can have the affection of this tall glass of fine wine?
It might not be the healthiest disposition by societal standards, but you couldn’t give a shit. Society doesn’t see the way Sevika holds you at night. Doesn’t hear the way she laughs out a “dumbass” in the morning when you attempt to flip a pancake, only for it to end up decorating the kitchen floor, with an enamoured smile on her face. Doesn’t feel the delicate press of her lips to your temple when she has to leave.
She’s a menace, absolutely. But never to you.
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