contains lazy morning sex, oral sex s!receiving, vaginal fingering s!receiving, sub sevika
Sevika’s mech arm rests on the bedside table, a dull glint catching the early light filtering through the blinds. The low thrum of the music from your shared playlist is playing on your phone, filling the room.
She’s stretched out on her side of the bed. Hair messy like she came back and barely survived from war, face half-buried in her pillow, one long leg kicked out from under the sheets.
You know she’s been awake. Hell, she got up earlier, she always do.
She brushed her teeth, even started getting dressed. Except “getting dressed” apparently stopped at boxers, socks, and the first shirt she grabbed before she collapsed back into bed. A win is a win, isn’t it. She has clothes on in the end.
And she’ll keep pretending she’s a morning person.
You’re at the sink, toothbrush dangling lazily between your teeth as you listen to the faint hiss of the coffee machine in the kitchen.
You’re no better than her, just more awake. You have your panties on and an old band shirt of hers, too big but clean and comfortable.
The air is warm with the smell of coffee and something sweet; pastry, sugar. Something from breakfast earlier.
You spite and rinse. When you pad back into the bedroom, Sevika’s still exactly where you left her, except now her one arm lifts just enough to grope at the nightstand.
“Going back to sleep?” you ask with a teasing smile, leaning against the doorframe.
Her only reply is a low, incoherent groan. Not even a word. Just a sound. Like a big black panther after a long nap.
The thought makes you smile. Then her fingers find the familiar cardboard box, and she pulls out a cigarette with the precision of some kind of muscle memory.
Before she can get it to her lips, you’re there, plucking it right from her hand.
She doesn’t fight you. Doesn’t even open her eyes. Just lets her arm fall back to the bed with a soft thud and tilts her head back in defeat.
“You know you can’t smoke in here,” you remind her.
She grunts. An acknowledgment, not agreement, even if she knows you’re right. But the corners of her mouth twitch like she’s amused.
You toss the cigarette onto the bedside table like it’s never existed and climb onto the bed, settling yourself across her hip like you own her.
Which, honestly, you do. Sevika’s never once pretended otherwise.
Her hand finds you automatically. Big and warm against your thigh, fingers sliding up just far enough to find bare skin beneath the hem of her shirt you’re wearing.
She strokes lazy patterns there, the rough pad of her thumb dragging lightly, like she’s reacquainting herself with her favorite spot.
You lean down, your hair brushing her jaw, and her eyes finally crack open.
There’s a smugness there, even through the haze of sleep. The kind that says she’s completely aware of the effect she has on you, and she’s not above enjoying it.
Her mouth curves into the faintest smile before you close the distance, pressing your lips to hers.
It’s not a quick kiss. It’s slow, deep. A little greedy. Her lips are warm, soft despite the faint drag of chapped edges, and she tastes faintly like the coffee you brewed earlier.
She hums low in her throat like she can’t help it, pulling you a fraction closer, hand tightening on your thigh.
You can feel her chest rise under you, the solid heat of her body soaking through the thin cotton of her shirt.
The track changes in the background, bass line rolling steady as her tongue brushes against yours. Unhurried, claiming, like you’ve got nowhere to be and she’s going to make sure you stay exactly where you are.
In her arms, in the bad you share, in those sheets.
Where nothing else matters.
Her hand doesn’t stay idle for long. The lazy stroking on your thigh turns into slow, deliberate sweeps of her palm, up and down, fingers pressing just enough to make you feel them.
She’s not rushing. Just exploring like she’s got the whole day to map you out. And she does.
You smile against her mouth. You know her too well.
When she slips her fingers just a little higher, you murmur against her mouth, voice low but teasing. “You’re starting something:”
She tilts her head, eyes half-lidded, and there’s that deep, warm chuckle, the kind that rolls from her chest more than her throat.
“Maybe,” she says, voice low and rough, the word half-laugh, half-confession.
She leans in to steal another kiss, slower this time, almost indulgent. You feel her smile against your lips, not wide but real.
It’s silly. The way she’s like this. Laughing so easily with you, letting her guard down enough to just be.
She’d never admit it out loud, but you know she doesn’t do this with anyone else.
That laugh, that lazy affection, that way she holds you like she has every right.
It’s yours. Tucked away between slow mornings and rumpled sheets.
Her thumb drags higher on your thigh, brushing dangerously close to the edge of your underwear. She hums again. Her eyes stay on your face, like she’s memorizing every reaction.
You match her stare, unblinking, that same soft smile playing at your lips like you’ve already won.
Your thumbs trace slow, easy circles over her chest, feeling the steady rhythm of her heart beneath your touch.
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away, just lets her eyes travel over your face like she’s drinking in the sight of you in the morning light. The sunlight cuts across the bed, warm against your back, catching the curve of her jaw where you lean in.
Your mouth finds her neck, and you press a kiss to it. Soft at first, just a brush of lips.
You feel the subtle shift in her. That tension that’s not quite tension, like she’s already bracing herself to give in.
You kiss her again, slower, this time lingering, and her breath hitches almost imperceptibly. One of her fingers flexes against your skin, gripping just a little harder. Like you’ve pulled a string that makes her move.
By the third kiss, she’s tilting her head back.
Giving you more without hesitation. Her eyes flutter closed, and the quiet hum that leaves her chest feels like surrender.
Her breathing’s slower now, deeper, but there’s a weight to it. A heaviness that says she’s not holding herself back anymore.
That hand on your thigh starts to wander, dragging upward with deliberate slowness, fingertips tracing over the curve of your hip like she’s mapping every inch.
You keep your mouth on her neck, the angle perfect to catch the steady thud of her pulse under your lips.
She smells faintly like the clean soap from earlier and a hint of that cigarette she never got to light. When your lips graze just below her ear, you hear the quiet sound she makes.
Low, caught between a sigh and a groan.
Her palm shifts even higher, brushing over the dip of your waist, then spreading wide across your back beneath the shirt, warm and sure.
She’s still not rushing, just taking. Possessing you like she always does but without any edge.
You press another kiss just under her ear, slow and deliberate, your breath hot against her skin.
“Mm,” she hums, that rare sound she makes when she’s fully at ease. Always with you. And her fingers flex against you, pulling you slightly closer.
It’s easy like this. Her giving in completely, you spoiling her like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Because she deserves it, because you want to give everything to her.
You can feel the tension draining from her shoulders under your touch, replaced by something heavier, needier, waiting.
Her fingers on your back shift lower, curling just enough to guide you down.
Gentle, like she’s asking without words.
The pressure is subtle, almost nothing, but you’ve been waiting for it all morning.
You’d planned this the second you saw her sprawled out.
Shirt riding up, hair a mess, the faint scowl that wasn’t really a scowl. You just wanted the sign. And here it is, as soft as it is undeniable.
Your lips leave her neck with one last slow press, trailing down along the line of her collarbone.
She tilts her chin up, eyes half-lidded, watching you with that quiet, unreadable hunger she only lets you see.
Her fingers tighten fractionally on your skin. You follow the pull, kissing lower, mouth brushing over the dark skin at the edge of her shirt.
She’s still letting you set the pace, but every small shift of her grip is its own request.
You glance up once, and she’s looking at you like you’re something to be worshipped and consumed at the same time. It’s enough to make you linger there, lips moving slow, tasting her skin before you keep going.
Inch by inch, lower and lower.
Your lips keep traveling, lazy, like you’ve got all day. And maybe you do.
The hem of her shirt rides up under your touch as you go down, down, down. Baring more of her stomach to the warm air.
You press a kiss there, slow and deliberate, feeling the faint twitch of her muscles beneath.
Her hand moved up as you get down slowly, guiding you without any force, just enough pressure to make her want clear.
The music hums low in the background, a lazy music that seems to sync with the rhythm of your kisses.
You mouth at her skin just above the waistband of her boxers, and she exhales hard, her fingers curling tighter.
“Fuck,” she murmurs, not sharp but thick with the sound of someone who’s been holding back too long.
You glance up at her through your lashes, her head’s tipped back against the pillow, jaw slack, eyes heavy. Vulnerable in a way she’d hate anyone else to see but you.
Your hands hook in the waistband, dragging her boxers down slow, your mouth following every new inch of skin and dark hair of that thin line on her stomach. She doesn’t stop you.
And when you finally settle between her legs, she’s already breathing like you’ve been touching her for hours.
“You’re really gonna—” she starts, soft hoarse but soft in her own way.
She can’t say more, you cut her off with the press of your lips exactly where she wants them, and the rest of the sentence dies in a sharp inhale.
She’s gone the second your mouth touches her. Head tipping back. A curse falling out of her that’s more breath than voice.
There’s no fight left in her. Not that there ever really was with you.
She gave in the moment you climbed onto her hip, and now she’s too far gone to even think about going back.
Her hand slides into your hair, fingers threading through slowly, not to pull but to anchor herself.
You feel the gentle weight of her palm on the back of your head. The quiet, wordless way she keeps you there.
You take your time, giving her exactly what you promised without ever saying it out loud.
The kind of pace that draws low sounds from her chest, the kind that has her exhaling like she’s been holding her breath all morning.
The music keeps rolling in the background, bass low, steady, and she’s moving with it now.
Subtle shifts of her hips, the occasional flex of her fingers in your hair.
When you glance up, her eyes are half-lidded and watching you with a hunger that’s no longer restrained.
“Fuck, baby…” she mutters, voice rough, almost fond in its ruin.
It’s growing pleasure. It’s love. It’s trust.
Her thumb strokes absent circles against your scalp, like she’s half here in the moment, half somewhere higher you’ve pulled her to.
She’s not thinking about anything else. Not the day ahead, not the cigarette she never lit, not the coffee gone cold on the counter in the kitchen. Because nothing matters.
Just you, exactly where she wants you.
Exactly how she likes it.
You shift just enough to slide your fingers inside her, the motion unhurried, smooth. Like you’re easing her into the next wave instead of dragging her.
Her breath catches hard. A sharp inhale that’s followed by a low, drawn-out groan.
Her hand tightens in your hair, holding on.
She’s breathing like every exhale might be the one that tips her over. Her chest rising against the fabric of her shirt that’s twisted halfway up her ribs.
You keep your mouth on her folds, on her clit. Slow and steady. Letting your tongue and your fingers move together in an unbreakable rhythm.
Every shift of your hand draws a new sound from her. Low, soft huffs, a shaky mmh that’s more instinct than language.
Her hips roll up to meet you, the movement lazy but desperate in its own way, like she wants to keep up but doesn’t have the energy to do anything but give herself over.
And you’re not asking her to. You’re taking care of everything.
“God, you’re—” she tries, but the words cut off when your fingers curl on that spot. Her jaw drops, a sound spilling out that she’d never make for anyone else. “O-oh, fuck…”
She’s not saying much now. Only fragments of your name, a muttered ‘again’, a rough inhale that catches halfway. Her hand helplessly moves from your head to the bed; fist in the sheets, knuckles pale, while her chest rises and falls fast beneath the fabric of her shirt
You look up, just for a second.
Sevika sprawled against the pillows, hair messy, lips parted, eyes heavy and fixed on you like she’s watching something sacred. All she has to do is lie there and take it.
And she’s lost now, eyes fluttering shut as her breathing grows uneven, her body reacting before she can even think about controlling it.
Every slow drag of your fingers, every soft press of your mouth on her pulls her deeper under, until she’s nothing but sensation and the quiet pulse of your touch.
“Don’t stop…” she breathes, voice wrecked but low, like she’s too far gone to speak any louder.
You feel her chest rise hard under your palms. The tension winding through her body, coiling tighter with every movement.
You can hear it in the way her breathing stutters, see it in the way her head tips back against the pillow like she’s trying to hold on and failing.
“Baby—” she starts, but the word breaks off into a low, ragged moan when you curl your fingers deeper and suck on her clit.
Her thighs twitch around you. Her whole body tensing for a heartbeat before it melts into release.
She comes with a shudder that runs the length of her.
Her hand clutching the sheets like it’s the only thing keeping her anchored to the things you’re doing to her. The sound she makes is low and guttural. Pulled from somewhere deep.
And you drink it in. Slowing your pace only when you feel her start to tremble beneath you.
When it finally goes down, she’s sprawled against the pillows, chest heaving, eyes closed.
Her hand slides from the sheets to your cheek, thumb brushing lazily over your skin in silent gratitude. She’s quiet, except for the faint, pleased hum she always makes when she’s too blissed out to speak.
And you can’t help but smile.
Because really, all she had to do was lie down and look pretty.
And she did it perfectly.
Listening to the Honeymoon Album by Lana del Rey while writing this made me feel like I was writing the next erotic bestseller, music is important when writing trust me
@lonerslug @riotstemple29 @summ3rbummer
