cw: scissoring, grinding, fingering, sugar baby!reader, sugar mommy!sevika, wealthy sevika, switch sevika, switch reader, too much plot, plot longer than smut, slow burn, slowly fall for each other, miscommunication, make-up sex,
The first time you meet, the bar smells like oak and whiskey. Low jazz curling in the corners like cigarette smoke.
ou’re perched on one of the high stools, knees crossed, the hem of your dress skimming just enough skin to draw glances you don’t bother returning.
The fabric clings like a secret. It’s the most expensive thing you own, bought for nights exactly like this.
Nights when the lighting is warm enough to flatter everyone, the glasses are crystal, and the people around you don’t care if you belong, as long as you look like you do.
As long as you look good enough to be there.
You’re mid-laugh with one of your friends when you see her.
A few stools down, toward the end of the bar, surrounded by a cluster of coworkers, judging by their loosened ties and flushed cheeks, their laughter a little too loud. She doesn’t laugh, not exactly, just smirks, listening, as though everything’s mildly amusing to her.
A half-empty glass of whiskey rests in her grip, and she holds it like she’s got nowhere else to be.
The suit is the first thing you notice. Charcoal.
Tailored so sharp it could cut you. It fits across her shoulders like it was made just for her, probably was. Underneath, a crisp white shirt, a button or two undone, showing a strip of collarbone and the faint glint of a chain.
Then there’s the cigarette. Resting between her fingers like it belongs there, glowing faintly every time she draws it to her lips. You can almost smell the smoke from here.
But it’s the Rolex that makes you pause. Gold and steel, heavy on her wrist, glinting every time she moves. You know the price tag without having to look it up. You know how fucking expensive a Rolex like that is.
That’s not just money, it’s wealth.
Your gaze drifts upward again, and she catches you looking.
It’s not a casual glance, it’s direct. Heavy enough to pin you in place.
She tilts her head like she’s taking you in, like she’s letting herself look too.
Broad shoulders. A mech arm, only the sleek metal hand visible around her glass. Dark hair swept back. Her mouth quirks, just barely, a half-smile that feels like a secret, like she already knows you.
You look away, heat licking the back of your neck.
You tell yourself it’s not about the watch. Or the suit. Or the way she wears both like they’re just another skin.
And when you chance another glance, she’s still looking.
Your friends are still talking, voices a pleasant blur in the background, but your attention is drawn taut like a wire between you and her. She leans back in her stool, taking a slow sip of whiskey, never breaking eye contact.
It feels like an invitation. Or a warning.
You blink a few times, drag your gaze away, and force yourself into the conversation again, smiling, nodding, laughing when your friends do.
You’re good at that, slipping back into the moment even when your head is elsewhere.
But every time your glass tips to your lips, you’re aware of her. You can almost hear her.
The sound of her low chuckle with her coworkers. The slow inhale of her cigarette. The weight of her attention still clinging to you, even when you’re not looking.
Eventually, your friends say they want to go back home, but you don’t follow them.
You tell them you will call them if you don’t have a uber or if you don’t want come back alone.
You hug them and watch them go with a smile on your face, waving your hand one last time as one of them send you a flying kiss.
Then you’re alone at the bar.
You reach for your drink, thinking about scrolling your phone to fill the space.
A stool scrapes beside you.
You glance over. And there she is.
Up close, she’s even taller, the breadth of her shoulders more obvious in that sharp suit.
The heat of her presence is immediate, like she takes up more than just the seat next to you. She sets her whiskey down, a faint clink of glass on wood, and you catch the flash of that Rolex again, its weight a quiet statement.
“Evening,” she says, voice low, rough in a way that makes your skin tighten.
You turn fully to her, and for a heartbeat, you forget what you were going to say.
But you recover. You always do.
“…Evening,” you echo, and your voice is steady, like you’re not sitting inches from the kind of woman who makes your pulse skip.
She doesn’t glance away, doesn’t look at you form head to toe in that obvious way men sometimes do. No, she studies you like she’s already memorizing you.
It’s not that you’re not intimidated; you are.
The warmth in your cheeks betrays you. But your shoulders stay square, your chin tilted up just enough to meet her gaze head-on.
Because you’re not looking at your shoes for anyone.
She smirks, slow and deliberate, like she sees the blush and the steel underneath it, and she approves.
“What’s your drink?” she asks.
“Depends who’s asking,” you say before you can stop yourself.
That earns you a soft huff of laughter, and she leans in just slightly, close enough for you to catch the scent of her cologne, smoke threaded through it.
“Someone,” she murmurs, “who might buy the next one.”
Your lips curve into the faintest smile, not enough to look overeager, but enough to give you away if she’s paying attention.
And she is. She’s watching like every shift in your expression matters.
“Martini,” you tell her, voice smooth. Then, after a beat, “Should I get you one too?”
It’s not just a line, it’s genuine. A small offer slipped in without thinking.
And for a second, she just looks at you, like you’ve surprised her.
Not the polite kind, not a restrained chuckle.
It’s low, raw, and dark, curling through you like smoke.
“Sweetheart…” she says, and the way the word rolls off her tongue makes you feel like you’ve been claimed. “That’s cute.”
Your cheeks warm, but you don’t look away.
“Cute?” you ask, one brow lifting.
Her smirk deepens. “You offering to buy my drink. I like that.” She shifts closer, elbows on the bar, her gaze steady and hot.
“But you won’t be paying for anything tonight.”
The bartender approaches, and she orders without looking away from you. “Martini,” she says for you. Then, “Whiskey. Neat.”
It’s deliberate, the way she says it.
Like she’s already decided you’re hers for the evening, whether you’ve agreed or not.
In no time, the bartender sets the martini in front of you, crystal-clear with a single twist of lemon. Sevika’s whiskey lands beside it.
You lift your glass, fingers steady, the stem cool against your skin.
Her eyes track the movement.
Not subtly, not hiding the way she’s watching you taste something she’s just bought for you.
You take a slow sip, and it’s perfect. Crisp, clean, fresh, burns a bit at the back of your throat. The kind of drink that makes you want to cross your legs and smile like your purse is heavy.
When you set it down, she’s still watching.
“You’re not gonna say thank you?” she asks, leaning just a fraction closer, her voice dipping low enough that it hums in your chest.
You shrug one shoulder, lips twitching. “Thought you’d read it in my eyes.”
That earns you another one of those laughs. Low and rough, warm as smoke.
She looks at you like she’s re-evaluating, like you’ve just turned into a more interesting puzzle.
Her gaze lingers on your face, deliberate. “What are you?” she asks suddenly.
You blink, then tilt your head. “Hm… A human being,” you say slowly.
She smirks. “Cute. Try again.”
You pretend to think, eyes narrowing in mock concentration. “A woman,” you say at last, letting the word linger. Then, a faint grin. “Particularly.”
For a second, her smirk turns into something sharper, amusement threaded with interest, like you’ve just passed a test you didn’t know you were taking.
Her metal fingers tap the bar once, a soft metallic sound, before she lifts her whiskey.
“Particularly,” she repeats, like she’s tasting the word.
You clink your glass against hers without looking away.
The faint clink of glass fades, and she doesn’t move her hand right away.
Instead, her metal knuckles rest lightly against your knee.
Not enough to be forward, but enough to make you aware of every inch of space between you.
You don’t flinch. You don’t even look down. You take another sip of your martini, letting the cool bite of it sit on your tongue before you speak.
“I’m not…” you start, voice casual, “working.”
You shake your head, setting the glass down with care. “Still in school. Last year. Getting my MA in art history.”
There’s a pause, just long enough for her to take in the sight of you saying that here, in this bar with crystal glasses and leather stools.
Her gaze flicks to your mouth, then down to where her Rolex glints on her wrist.
You know she’s doing the math.
How the watch on her arm is worth as much as your tuition.
“Art history,” she says, the words slow, deliberate. “That explains the way you look at things.”
The corner of your mouth curves. “And how’s that?”
She leans in, her hand still warm and solid against your knee, voice low enough to curl around you. “Like you’re deciding whether you want to admire them or own them.”
You close your eyes for a second, tilt your head at her, lips quirking. “That line… was cheesy,” you say, voice warm with amusement.
Her smirk widens like she’s been caught.
“But,” you add, swirling what’s left of your martini, “it worked.”
She leans back slightly, looking far too pleased with herself. The kind of satisfaction that comes from getting exactly the reaction she wanted.
Your gaze drops briefly to the watch again before you meet her eyes.
“So,” you say, “what about you? What do you do… besides sit in expensive bars buying strangers drinks?”
The metal fingers against your knee shift just a little, like she’s aware of exactly where your attention is, and how she’s got it.
She takes a slow sip of whiskey before answering. “I manage people.”
It’s vague. Deliberate. The kind of answer that says nothing but makes you imagine everything.
“Manage people,” you echo, drawing the words out. “That sounds… very mob boss of you.”
She smiles, not denying it, not confirming it. Just letting the idea hang there between you.
“Let’s just say I make sure things run the way they’re supposed to.”
“And those things are…?” you press, teasing.
Her gaze locks on yours, steady, heat threaded through it. “Lucrative.”
It’s not an answer, not really, but the way she says it makes your skin hum.
You sip your martini, letting the gin settle warm in your chest. “Well,” you say lightly, “guess I’m talking to a hitman or something. That’s… endearing.”
Her mouth curves. Not a grin, not quite a smirk, just enough for you to know she’s entertained.
“Endearing,” she repeats, voice dry. “Haven’t heard that one before.”
You shrug. “Guess I’m just like that.” Then, tipping your head toward her drink, you add, “So, you gonna tell me what you actually do, or…?”
She shakes her head slowly, that damn Rolex catching the light again as she sets her glass down. “Nice try.”
And then she leans in, close enough that the scent of smoke and whiskey settles around you. “But you’ve been trying to turn the questions on me since I sat down, sweetheart. Doesn’t change the fact I’ve been watching you since the moment you walked in.”
Your pulse skips, but you keep your face composed, your chin tilted in that same deliberate way.
Her gaze drags over your face.
Not in a crude way, but in that focused, evaluative way you’ve only ever seen in people who know exactly what they want.
“You touched the strap of your dress when you first sat. Crossed your legs right after. Didn’t take your eyes off the bottles behind the bar for a solid ten seconds before you even glanced at the people in here.”
It’s not just that she noticed. It’s that she remembers.
The turn you take is unexpected.
You rest your elbow on the bar, turning toward her fully now, matching her lean with your own.
“And what exactly,” you ask, voice steady, “are you trying to do here? Intimidate me?”
Her smirk flickers, almost like she’s amused you’d even bring it up.
“Or,” you continue, letting your gaze sweep over her in one slow, deliberate pass, “are you… just trying to make it clear you’re more than interested?”
Your eyes are not sharp. Your voice is still soft.
You’re not just holding her ground, you’re flipping the script right back at her.
For the first time, there’s a pause, a split-second beat where her eyes narrow, like she’s reassessing.
“Careful, sweetheart,” she says softly.
You smile faintly, ignoring the warning in her tone. “I noticed a few things too.”
“You don’t laugh at half the jokes your coworkers tell you. You keep your drink in your left hand because your right…” your eyes flick briefly to the mech hand resting on your knee “draws too much attention. And that shirt,” You tilt your head. “You unbuttoned an other button after I looked at you.”
The corner of her mouth twitches, but it’s not the same easy smirk as before.
It’s something sharper. Appraising.
She studies you for a long moment, then huffs out a quiet laugh, like she’s decided you’re both more trouble and more interesting than she expected.
“This,” she says, almost to herself, “isn’t gonna be what I’m used to.”
At your first, official date, the restaurant is all white tablecloths and soft lighting, the kind of place where the waiters move like shadows and the wine list is thicker than a novel.
You’ve been aware of the numbers on the menu since you sat down, but you’re not about to let it ruin your night.
Sevika’s been… different tonight. Still sharp in her suit, still wearing that watch that probably costs more than your rent for a year, but warmer. Laughing, leaning in when you speak, her gaze lingering in a way that makes the room fade out around her.
She doesn’t talk about money. She doesn’t have to. It’s clear.
By the time the plates are cleared, you’re full, both on the food and the low hum of tension between you.
The waiter glides up with the card reader, polite smile in place, and you can see the way Sevika’s already reaching for her wallet.
You don’t think. You just slip your credit card from your clutch and snap it lightly against the machine before she can hand hers over.
The sound makes her head turn.
For the briefest second, her eyes widen. It’s not shock so much as… recalculation.
“Sweetheart,” she says slowly, like she’s testing the word in this new context, “what are you doing?”
“Paying for my half,” you say simply, voice even.
Her brows draw together, not in anger but in something sharper. Surprise, maybe even intrigue. “That’s not how I planned this.”
You hand the waiter your card, ignoring the weight of her stare. “We don’t always get what we want.”
She leans back in her chair, watching you like she’s seeing you all over again. “No,” she says finally, low and certain. “we don’t.”
And she sounds… thrilled about it.
The night air is cool when you step outside, the city humming softly around you.
Sevika walks beside you, her hands in her pockets, every inch of her still radiating that quiet control, even though you’d just swiped it out from her at dinner.
She doesn’t look annoyed.
“You really didn’t have to do that,” she says at last, glancing down at you.
“I wanted to,” you reply, meeting her gaze without hesitation.
Her smirk returns, slow and edged. “You’re not gonna make this easy for me, are you?”
You hum. “Think it depends on what you’re trying to do.”
She huffs out a soft laugh, shaking her head like she’s half-exasperated, half-impressed. “Most people would’ve let me pay. Hell—most people expect it.”
“Yeah,” you say, watching the way the streetlight catches in her hair, “I’m starting to get that.”
And that’s when it clicks. The watch. The suit. The bar. The way she talks about “managing people” without ever explaining it.
You stop walking, turning to face her fully. “You were gonna take care of me, weren’t you?”
Her brow lifts, but she doesn’t deny it.
“Like… all of me,” you add, blunt. “Not just tonight.”
There’s a beat of silence, her gaze locked on yours, and then she steps in, just close enough that the air between you sharpens. “And if I was?” she asks, voice low.
You feel the heat in your cheeks, but your voice stays steady. “Then I guess I should ask what exactly that means… and what you’re expecting in return.”
Her smirk deepens into something darker, more deliberate. “Now that’s the right question, sweetheart.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens, like she’s measuring your reaction to every second that passes.
“What it means,” she says finally, “is that you wouldn’t have to think about things like splitting the bill again.”
It’s casual, almost offhand. But there’s weight behind it.
“And what you’d be expecting in return?” you press.
Her smirk tilts, almost dangerous. “Time. Your company. The occasional evening where you wear something that makes me lose focus.”
It’s not a full answer. But it’s enough.
Before you can respond, she steps in that last inch, her hand, warm and solid. The faint chill of metal threaded through, finding the small of your back.
She doesn’t pull you in, doesn’t make a scene. Just lets her presence settle over you, steady and certain.
Her voice dips low, meant only for you. “I take care of the things that get in the way. You take care of keeping me interested. Fair trade, don’t you think?”
Your breath catches, not because you’re shocked, but because you understand. Finally.
It sounds so easy when she explains it.
But you know yourself, you don’t jump without looking. You’ll need time.
Time to figure out if you want what she’s offering… and if you can handle it.
So you smile, slow and careful. “Maybe I’ll let you explain it over another date.”
Her thumb brushes lightly against your back before she lets her hand fall away. “Good. I’m patient.”
And for the first time tonight, you wonder just how patient you’ll be.
The same night, She’s just stepped out of the shower when her phone buzzes on the nightstand. Hair damp, towel slung low on her hips, she swipes the screen without thinking.
‘I like you better when you’re not trying to intimidate or seduce me. Tonight was amazing.’
‘Sorry to say, you found a sentimental girl.’
For a second, she just stands there, thumb hovering over the glass, water still dripping from her hair.
Not trying to intimidate or seduce.
She’s never had anyone call that out before. Much less prefer her without it.
Her first instinct is to smirk, to toss back something teasing, keep it light.
But instead she feels… off balance. Not in a bad way. More like she’s been shifted out of the role she thought she was playing.
Most girls she takes out want the theater, the show of it.
The watch, the suit, the bill slid across the table without a blink. They eat it up, lean into it, give her exactly what she expects.
This one sits in a bar with her knees steady under her hand, pays her own bill in a place where she doesn’t belong, and then tells her she liked it better when she was warm.
It’s ridiculous. And it’s infuriating. And it’s…
She leans against the dresser, typing with slow precision.
Sentimental, huh? I can work with that.
She almost leaves it there. Almost. But then her fingers move again.
‘You’re going to make me learn you the hard way, aren’t you?’
She hits send before she can think about why she’s smiling.
She gives you the choice of the place for your second date.
Sevika shows up sharp as ever. Dark shirt, hair tied back, Rolex glinting like punctuation on her wrist.
When she told you to pick the place, she half expected some quiet little restaurant, maybe a gallery if you wanted to lean into the art thing.
She did not expect the mall.
“Really?” she murmurs as you slip your hand through the crook of her arm. “This is where you want to spend our evening?”
“Mmhm,” you hum, “You said anywhere.”
Her eyes flick to the polished storefronts around you. Jewelry dripping diamonds, high-end lingerie behind spotlit glass, designer clothes that cost more than some people’s rent.
She knows this territory. This is where her money talks loudest.
So when you tug her toward the jewelry display, she’s not surprised.
She slows, already ready to tell the clerk, wrap it up.
You just glance at the glittering cases and keep walking, humming under your breath like it was background noise.
She arches a brow but says nothing.
She’s certain you’ll pull her in, tease her with lace and silk.
But you glide right past, tugging her toward the neon sign of a café kiosk tucked in the corner of the food court.
You order a ridiculous drink. Something pink, piled with whipped cream, sprinkles melting into the foam. When it comes, you take a careful sip, then grin, lips dusted with sugar.
Sevika stares at you, silent for a long moment. Then she finally says, “You do realize I was prepared to drop a small fortune tonight, right?”
You blink at her. “Your fault for assuming I wanted that.”
The smirk she gives you is faint, but it doesn’t hide the surprise in her eyes.
She’s dealt with plenty of girls who would’ve dragged her straight into the diamond store, let her spoil them without a second thought. She expected it. Counted on it. Because she choose her girls right.
But you? You’re content walking beside her, sipping your sugar-sweet drink, holding her arm like it’s the only luxury you need.
And she can’t help but wonder, does she even get what I’m offering?
Or worse. Does she, and she’s just refusing to play it the way I’m used to?
Sevika leans against the little café counter, watching you sip your ridiculous pink drink like it’s the finest wine on the menu.
Sprinkles cling to the whipped cream, sugar dotting your lips, and you look like you’re having the time of your life.
She can’t help herself. “You know this isn’t exactly what I meant when I said I’d take care of things.”
You glance up at her, straw still between your lips, and grin. “Oh, I know.”
Her brow furrows just slightly, the Rolex on her wrist catching the light as she folds her arms. “Then what are we doing here? You could’ve had that necklace we walked past. Or the lingerie. Hell, a whole new wardrobe.”
You laugh, light and easy. “I don’t need a necklace. Not when it costs, what… thirteen hundred dollars?”
“That’s nothing,” she says without hesitation, her voice flat with certainty.
“Not to you.” You tip your head, sugar-sweet smile curving your mouth. “To me? That’s everything. That’s rent. Groceries. Half a semester’s books. A necklace doesn’t make sense when you could pay tuition with the same swipe of a card.”
Her eyes narrow. Not angry, just… baffled.
Like you’ve just spoken in a language she’s never heard before.
You lift the cup, tapping the plastic lid lightly. “This though? This was overpriced for what it is. I wouldn’t normally buy it. But today, you’re standing here with me while I drink it. This is everything. It’s gonna make my whole night and probably my morning too.”
For a second, Sevika just stares at you. The din of the mall fades, replaced by the low thrum of her pulse in her ears.
“You’re serious,” she finally says, half to herself.
“Dead serious.” You sip again, licking whipped cream from your lip before meeting her gaze head-on. “So yeah… I get what you meant.”
Her throat works, jaw tightening for a beat before she huffs out a laugh, low and incredulous. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
And she looks at you like she’s never wanted anyone more.
You swirl the straw in your drink, then glance up at her with that playful tilt to your chin. “Want a taste?”
Sevika raises a brow, glancing at the pastel-pink sugar bomb in your hand. “That looks like diabetes in a cup.”
“Maybe,” you say, sliding it across the counter toward her. “But don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”
She hesitates, then leans in, lips closing around the straw. It’s sweet. Too sweet, the kind of thing she’d never order on her own. But your eyes are fixed on her mouth when she pulls back, and suddenly the taste doesn’t matter.
You grin. “See? Better than that fancy restaurant, huh?”
Her brow arches. “That’s debatable.”
“No, it’s not.” You shake your head, hair brushing your cheek as you lean just a little closer, voice dropping. “That place where we met? It’s fun, once in a while. Once a year, maybe. But it’s not really… pleasure. Not for me.”
Your smile turns softer, more dangerous. “A cheap sandwich, a drink too sweet for its own good, and a bed. That’s real pleasure.”
Something in her chest tightens.
This girl with red-stained cheeks who held her ground from the first second… isn’t playing by any of her old rules.
You study her, eyes gleaming with mischief. “So… let me make it easy for you. If I say I love Louboutins?” You tilt your chin up toward her, refusing to bow. “Buy me dupes. Nothing over fifty bucks. Otherwise I’m not wearing them.”
Her laugh is sharp, caught between disbelief and desire.
“And if you buy me lingerie? Don’t make it expensive. If I find out the price, I’m not wearing it. I’m not thanking you for it either.”
Her throat works. She should be irritated. You’re tearing down the very structure she’s built her arrangements on.
But instead she’s burning from the inside out.
Because you’re not easy. You’re not pliant. Even if you want to shake.
And that makes every word, every glance, every pushback so much hotter than the polished girls who’d melt for a necklace.
Sevika leans in, her mouth close enough that you can feel the ghost of her breath. “You really don’t make it easy, do you?”
Your lips curl in a smile, sugar-sweet and defiant. “Wouldn’t be fun if I did.”
And God. She knows she’s fucked.
Because she’s never wanted someone so much.
You finish your drink, the straw rattling against melting ice. Then you set the cup aside, wipe your mouth with a napkin, and glance up at Sevika.
Her gaze is still fixed on you, like she’s trying to puzzle out what the hell you are. She’s powerful, loaded, untouchable. And yet you’ve got her at a mall café corner, licking sugar off her lips.
“Now,” you say, voice calm but firm, “I want your arm.”
For a second, the air holds.
You can see the flicker in her eyes. The split-second calculation, the instinct to resist just to prove she doesn’t have to listen.
But then she shifts, slow and deliberate, and offers her arm.
Your chest warms, heart hammering.
You slide your hand into the crook of her elbow, fingers brushing the fine wool of her sleeve, and it feels like a small victory.
Because she gave. Because your theory is right.
If Sevika wants to spoil you, she has to do it your way.
You walk beside her through the mall, chin up, pulse racing. To anyone else, it looks simple. A girl and her date, hand in arm.
But in your head, it’s thunder. You’re proud, triumphant, flustered as hell, but steady.
And Sevika? She keeps stealing glances at you, her jaw set, like she knows she just surrendered something small but crucial.
She doesn’t say a word. But she doesn’t pull her arm away, either.
And that’s all the proof you need.
The drive back is quiet, but not uncomfortable.
Your hand is still looped through Sevika’s arm in your mind, even if it’s no longer physically there.
You can feel the ghost of it as the city lights pass, shadows dancing across her profile. Sharp jaw, steady hands on the wheel, that damn watch catching every neon sign.
She pulls up in front of your building, the engine humming low. Students pass by on the sidewalk, laughing, backpacks slung carelessly.
You turn in your seat, facing her. “So… this is me.”
Her eyes flicker to you, unreadable, then back to the road. “Yeah. I can see that.”
You smile faintly. She’s so damn composed. Thinking about it, it’s almost too much.
But under the surface, you can feel it.
That tautness, that energy she hasn’t figured out what to do with around you.
You breathe in, steadying yourself, and then say, soft but certain: “I’m going to kiss you now.”
That gets her. Her head snaps toward you, brow arching, eyes dark. “You’re telling me?”
“Yes.” You lean closer, chin tilted up. “So you know you’re not the one deciding.”
For a second, you think she’ll scoff, maybe laugh that low dangerous laugh. But she doesn’t. She just watches you, like you’ve hooked her in place.
And then you close the distance.
Her lips are warm, rougher than you expected, and she doesn’t move at first, like she’s stunned that you’d dare.
But then she exhales sharply, her mouth pressing back against yours, hungry but restrained.
You pull away first. On purpose.
Her jaw flexes, and you see it, clear as day, that she hates it. Hates that you get to decide when it ends.
But the way she’s staring at you? She loves it too.
Your lips curve, heart hammering. “Goodnight, Sevika.”
And you slip out of the car before she can speak, leaving her in the driver’s seat with the taste of you still on her mouth and the burning realization,
She hears the door shut. That little click echoes louder than the city noise around her.
Sevika grips the wheel like it might steady her, fingers flexing, leather groaning under her palm. Her throat is dry. Her chest feels tight.
What the fuck just happened.
She’s kissed dozens of women.
Paid for their time, paid for their smiles, paid for their fucking affection. And she fucking liked it.
She’s always had the power. Always.
A wallet heavy enough to tip the scales, a presence sharp enough to keep them off balance.
You told her. You warned her.
Like she was the one who needed permission. And she let you.
She sat there and let you set the pace, take the lead, pull away first.
Her jaw clenches so hard it aches.
Hates how her pulse is still racing, how her lips are still tingling from the soft press of yours. Hates that when you whispered goodnight she wanted to drag you back in and make you eat the word right out of her mouth.
And yet. Fuck. she’s smiling.
A small, dangerous curve tugging at her mouth despite herself. Because that kiss, it didn’t feel like something she bought.
It felt like something she earned.
Her hand slams the wheel once, a sharp crack of leather.
Fury and arousal tangle in her gut, molten and maddening. She’s Sevika. She doesn’t play by anyone else’s rules.
Except now, she’s playing yours.
She’s not walking away from a new game.
She listens to you. She has to. More than she wants to admit.
No Louboutins. No designer dresses. No sleek velvet lingerie sets that cost more than a month of rent.
You told her straight, and she listened. Against all her instincts, against every bit of her old game, she listens.
And when she listens? She sees it.
You twirling in front of a mirror in a $30 dress she slipped off a rack in some downtown boutique, laughing like it’s spun gold. You holding up a belt in a thrift shop, eyes wide, whispering “Sevika, look how gorgeous it is!” like it’s some miracle, when it’s only a ten bucks accessory. You slipping a cheap oversized pearl bracelet on your wrist, declaring it perfect, and then never taking it off. Wearing it with everything from ripped jeans to cocktail dresses.
She’s used to women fawning over diamond studs, silk, and leather. But you? You gasp, gasp like you’ve been handed the world, over twenty-dollar shoes. And Sevika, towering, sharp, in control, is sitting there watching you, chest tight, obsessed.
She catches herself staring too long, watching your hands smooth down the cheap fabric, watching your smile stretch wide enough to split her open.
And every time, she thinks the same thing:
I’ve never spent so little and gotten so much.
It’s infuriating. Addicting.
She hates how much she loves it. How much she wants to keep feeding you, even if it means lowering herself into your strange, stubborn rules.
Because the truth is, every little thing she hands you; every bracelet, every dress, every belt, isn’t just spoiling anymore.
And Sevika’s never been obsessed with obedience before.
But now? She’s fucking drowning in it.
Then one night, you’re at her house.
The door clicks shut behind you, heavy and final, and before Sevika can shrug off her jacket you’re kissing her. Hard. Hands in her shirt, pulling her down to you like you’ve been starving all week.
She tastes like smoke and whiskey, feels like heat pressed into steel. And when she groans into your mouth, you feel it all the way down your spine.
She thinks she’s guiding you.
Big hands sliding down your waist, steering you through the dim house.
But then your fingers fist in her shirt, and you tug. Just enough to knock her balance off.
She stumbles back against the bed, and suddenly it’s her falling onto the mattress. Her eyes widen for half a second.
Before your weight is over hers, your lips still chasing, your body pressing her down.
“Oh, shit,” she mutters against your mouth, low and raw, a laugh tangled in her voice. She wasn’t prepared for this.
Because Sevika doesn’t get pushed. Doesn’t get toppled. Doesn’t let anyone else write the rhythm.
But here you are, kissing her like every new gift, every little thing she’s given you, earned this.
Every time she obeyed your stubborn rules, she was building to this moment. And now she’s collecting her rewards.
Your hands roam over her chest, down the line of her jaw, tangling in her hair. And Sevika? She lets you.
Her head tips back into the pillow, lips parting, the smallest sound slipping out of her throat, unplanned, desperate.
And for the first time in years, Sevika feels something rare and sharp in her chest.
Not just desire. Not just power.
And it’s your hands pulling it out of her.
But you don’t rush. That’s the first thing that wrecks her slowly.
Sevika’s used to urgency, clothes peeled off, skin pressed fast, wanting her body like it’s the last drink in the bar. But you, you take your time.
Straddling her waist, you kiss her slow, like every brush of your mouth is deliberate. Your hands skim her jaw, her throat, her chest, trailing down just enough to make her twitch beneath you before pulling back again. Teasing. Testing.
“Thought you were the one in charge,” you murmur against her lips, voice low, playful.
She growls, actually growls, like she wants to flip you, pin you down, remind you who’s bigger, stronger, heavier.
She doesn’t move. Her mech hand curls tight in the sheets, her flesh one gripping your thigh, and that’s it.
Because you told her what you wanted. And Sevika listens.
You shift, lowering just enough to press your mouth against her throat, and she hisses through her teeth, head tipping back. The sound she makes when your teeth scrape lightly against her skin. It’s filthy, unguarded, and she hates how fast it tears out of her chest.
Your lips pull away only to whisper, “See? This is how you spoil me.”
Her eyes snap open at that. Dark. Dazed. Furious with herself for how badly it works on her.
Because you’re right. Every kiss you drag down her neck, every brush of your fingers across her ribs, every slow grind of your hips over hers.
It’s not just touch. It’s payment.
And Sevika, who’s never surrendered a day in her life, finds herself lying still under you, heart pounding so hard she’s sure you feel it.
Her chest heaves. Her jaw clenches. And when your mouth brushes the corner of her lips again, she almost begs.
Her breath catches when your fingers find the first button of her shirt.
She swears she’s still in control, can still flip you if she wants, make you whimper for her instead, but she doesn’t stop you.
Each undone with maddening, controlled slowness, each one leaving more of her chest exposed to the warm air between you.
“Careful,” she rasps, though it comes out weaker than she means it to, her voice raw with something closer to need than warning. “You think you can handle this?”
But the soft, almost tender smirk tugging at your lips says you already are.
By the time you spread her shirt open, Sevika’s jaw is locked tight, her pulse hammering against your palm when you lay your hand flat against her skin.
Warm, soft. So different from what she expected.
And when your thumb brushes deliberately over her breast, teasing the edge, her body jerks before she can stop it.
“Fuck,” she mutters, low and sharp, her mech hand tightening into the sheets.
She wants to snap. To grab your wrist, throw you on your back, remind you what she is.
But then your other hand joins, cupping her firmly, thumb sliding across her nipple through the thin lace of her bra, and her hips lift helplessly into yours.
The sound that rips out of her throat is humiliating.
Not a growl, not command.
Her head falls back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, teeth gritted like she can hold onto the last shred of dominance.
But every nerve in her body is betraying her, alight under your touch.
Because Sevika’s always thought control was natural. Something she carried like smoke, like weight. But here, with your hands unbuttoning her shirt, and now with your fingers teasing her breast like you own it. fuck.
And she realizes, with horror and heat flooding her all at once, that maybe she doesn’t want to fight it.
Her muscles tense beneath you, her mech arm moving, her torso shifting like she’s about to roll you under her.
She can taste the instinct, the snap-back, the need to take back the control you’re stealing from her inch by inch.
And then your mouth closes around her breast.
“Fuck—!” The word tears out of her, broken, unfiltered. Her back arches hard off the mattress, her hand flying up but not to stop you.
No, it tangles in your hair, holding you closer, desperate.
Just like that, the instinct to flip you is gone.
Gone under the hot press of your lips, the slow drag of your tongue, the sharp scrape of your teeth over her nipple. Her mech hand slams into the mattress instead of your hip again, the sheets tearing a little under the force.
And the worst part? She likes it.
She’s grinding up into you now, chasing the friction of your hips rolling against hers, each shift hitting that maddeningly good angle that makes her stomach clench.
She can’t think. Can’t plan. Can’t dominate. She can only feel.
When you finally lift your head, lips glistening, you look at her like you know exactly what you’ve done. And you do.
You straighten on her hips, still moving, slow, grinding pressure that has her cursing under her breath.
And then, with deliberate, devastating calm, you peel your own shirt over your head and toss it aside.
Her eyes snap to your bare skin, chest heaving, pupils blown wide with hunger.
She swallows hard, her jaw tight like she’s fighting to keep any shred of control. But she’s not fooling either of you.
Because you’re on top. You’re moving. You’re the one making her come apart.
The second your pants hit the floor… Sevika thinks she might finally regain some ground.
Push herself up, take back control, remind you who the hell she is if she has the strength for it.
But you’re quicker. Before she can brace on her elbows, you catch her thigh, lift it over your arm, and press your core down between her legs.
The sharp gasp she makes is primal, punched right out of her chest when your soaked heat drags against hers.
“Oh, fuck—” It’s wrecked, broken.
Nothing like the cool control she had in that bar, nothing like the dark chuckle she gave you over whiskey.
Your bodies slot together perfectly, hips rolling, wetness slick between you. The pressure is sharp and electric, her thigh trembling against your arm as you set the rhythm.
Your bodies slot together perfectly, hips rolling, wetness slick between you.
The pressure is sharp and electric, her thigh trembling against your arm as you set the rhythm.
Sevika’s head falls back hard against the pillow, teeth bared, mech hand clenching uselessly at the sheets.
Every grind of your hips steals more of her resolve, every brush of your clit against hers sending sparks down her spine until her body is chasing the friction helplessly.
She’s not leading, she’s following.
Your nails dig into her thigh, holding her open, using her body like she’s the one being spoiled, fucked, owned.
“Shit—fuck, baby—” Her voice cracks as her hips buck up into yours, chasing, losing herself.
Her abs tighten under your touch, sweat gathering along her collarbone, her shirt already thrown somewhere forgotten on the floor.
And then you lean forward, pressing your forehead against hers, your voice steady even as your body shudders with each grind.
“Sevika… this is what it feels like,” you whisper, your breath hot against her lips. “This is being spoiled.”
Her eyes snap open at that, pupils wide, chest heaving, and then she moans again, long and guttural, the sound ripped from her throat as her hips jerk up hard against yours.
You’re a mess above her, hair sticking to your damp forehead, lips parted, voice shameless with hers as it spills into the quiet of her room.
Every grind drags another broken sound from your throat, high and soft, and Sevika swears she’s going to lose her mind.
You sing it. You give it to her, unashamed, every sound echoing through her chest until she feels it in her bones.
It tips her right over the edge. The second your mouth crashes down against hers, hot and desperate, her resolve snaps.
The kiss is wet, messy, your moans spilling straight into her mouth.
And she comes undone beneath you, hips bucking wildly, grinding up into you with no rhythm left, soaked to her inner thighs.
The pleasure rips through her, white-hot, scattering everything she thought she knew about control.
She moans into your kiss, broken and guttural, her thigh trembling hard in your grip until she can’t keep still.
And you don’t stop. You ride her through it, your voice high and wrecked, and then, you’re gone too.
Your whole body shudders, your nails sinking into her skin, another desperate moan spilling into her mouth as you grind down hard one last time.
The world stills. The air between you is hot, damp with sweat, your chests heaving against each other.
For a moment, Sevika just lets herself float in it, lips dragging across yours, dizzy with how good you taste.
Then, without warning, she moves.
Not with the sharp, brutal flip she thought she’d give you when this night started, but with a steady press of strength.
She shifts, rolling you beneath her, bracing her weight carefully so you’re not crushed.
Her lips hover over yours, her grey eyes blown wide and wild.
It’s not about being a dom anymore. Not about power, not about control. It’s about being closer. About feeling you under her, against her, all around her.
And when you smile up at her, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from kissing. She finally understands she’s fucked.
Because this isn’t a game anymore. This is hers now.
That’s when she notices it the most.
The room still smells like sweat and your perfume, the sheets tangled and damp beneath her elbow where she props herself up to look at you.
And she shouldn’t. She knows she shouldn’t. This is the moment where she usually gets up, lights a cigarette, lets the distance reset everything.
But you’ve got her pinned without even trying.
You’re smiling. A little lazy thing, lips swollen, lashes fluttering against your flushed cheeks as you look at her like she’s not some woman who just dragged you into her bed and made you lose your voice.
Like she’s not dangerous. Like she’s not her. Not like the woman she met at the bar and who asked her to be her sugar baby.
Your hand drifts up to her chest, tracing idle circles against her skin, and Sevika realizes she hasn’t moved in minutes.
She’s just… staring at you. At the way you glow in the aftermath, at the warmth rolling off you like it belongs to her.
It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
Sugar babies get their gifts, they get their kisses, they get the fantasy. Sevika gets to hold the reins. Take control, her pleasure. What she’s paying for. That’s the deal.
Except with you, there’s no deal anymore.
There’s your smile that guts her every single time.
There’s the way you gasped when she slid that cheap bracelet on your wrist and the way you’re still wearing it now, tangled in her sheets, like it’s worth a fortune. Because it’s a gift from her. Not because it cost.
There’s the way you make her feel like every gift, every gesture, every touch has weight. Real weight.
She drags her fingers down your side, softer than she means to. Lingering.
And you just sigh, curling into her touch like it belongs there, like she belongs there.
That’s when it hits her. The creeping dread between the ribs, the one she’s been ignoring since that first kiss in her car.
This isn’t material anymore. It isn’t power.
Because it’s you. And Sevika’s falling so hard she doesn’t know how to stop.
To you, in her mind, it’s probably simple:
Sevika buys you a little something; cheap shoes, a second-hand dress, your groceries, pay your rent, and you smile at her like she’s given you the world.
But she touches you softer than she did the first time.
Kisses lingering on your jaw, hand resting on your waist a little too long, and you melt right into it.
You don’t see the way it breaks her.
Because Sevika knows exactly what this is supposed to be.
She knows the rules, she fucking wrote them.
You don’t get soft with your sugar baby. You don’t linger in their bed. You don’t buy them something cheap just because they’ll squeal and wear it every day.
You don’t… look at them while they’re asleep beside you and feel like you’re going to fucking drown in it.
But here you are, smiling up at her with that stupid cheap bracelet glinting under the lamp, and Sevika’s chest aches in a way that money can’t fix.
You don’t know you’re wrecking her. You don’t know she’s sitting there, watching you laugh at your own dumb joke, and thinking fuck, this isn’t an arrangement anymore.
It’s not sugar mommy and sugar baby. It’s not transactional. It’s not supposed to be real.
And Sevika hates it. Because she can’t let it be.
Not when she knows she’ll lose herself in you completely if she doesn’t stop now.
Sevika tells herself all the way through the drive: no touching, no kissing, no letting you in deeper than you already are. She grips the wheel until her knuckles pale, forces her eyes to stay on the road, keeps the conversation light.
She can do this. She has to.
But then you’re there beside her, laughing softly at something you said, brushing your hair back, the cheap bracelet she bought you catching the streetlight through the windshield.
And Sevika’s chest twists.
She parks in front of your building. The engine hums, a low, steady thing that doesn’t match the chaos in her head. This is it. She just has to let you go. A simple “goodnight” and you’ll be gone.
You unbuckle slowly, turning in your seat to look at her with that calm, steady gaze that’s ruined her since the bar. Your lips curve faintly. “Not going to kiss me goodnight?”
Her throat goes dry. She should say no.
She should let you walk out of the car and close this thing before it’s too late.
But you lean closer, and all Sevika’s resolve snaps like glass.
The kiss happens because it has to, because not kissing you feels like holding her breath underwater.
Your hand comes up to her jaw, warm, firm, and she leans into it without thinking, mouth moving against yours like it’s instinct, like it’s been years instead of weeks.
By the time you pull back, breathless but smiling, Sevika’s stomach sinks. Because she’s lost.
And when you whisper, “Goodnight, Sev,” before slipping out of the car, she grips the steering wheel so hard her palm aches, furious with herself.
Furious because she let herself kiss you.
Furious because she already wants the next one.
Furious because it doesn’t feel like an arrangement anymore.
And it happens again. The sex.
That’s what’s supposed to happen, right?
That’s what you both signed for.
Her hand moves inside you, steady and sure, two fingers curling deep and slow, and it should just be sex.
It always was before. Just release, just power.
But with you, she can’t stop herself from leaning down, her lips dragging over the slope of your shoulder, the side of your throat, the soft skin beneath your breast.
She kisses and bites, not even thinking about it, like her mouth has a mind of its own. Every sound you make, every arch of your body, draws her closer, makes her hungry for more than what she should want.
And the worst part, it’s that you let her. You smile at her. You sigh her name like it means something.
Her bed is all silk sheets, dim lights, the expensive world she built brick by brick. You don’t belong here, she knows it, can feel it every time she presses you into the mattress.
You’re supposed to be impressed, supposed to let her buy you, keep you, own you.
But you look at her like none of that matters. Like she’s not a walking bank account, not a sugar mommy with a fat wallet.
You look at her like she’s yours.
Because you never looked at her like she was your sugar mommy.
Your hand fists in her hair, tugging when she curls her fingers just right, and you whisper through broken breaths, “Sev… you’re so good to me.”
It wrecks her. Like a knife straight to the chest.
She’s good at this. She knows she is. But you’re not talking about her fingers, or her tongue, or the way she’s making you fall apart.
You’re talking about her.
Hates how your words feel like a chain pulling her under, how every kiss she plants on your skin feels like signing a contract she can’t afford. Hates how your praise burns through her like a death sentence.
She still kisses you again, harder.
And she still fucks you like she’s already yours.
You’re bent over her coffee table, slipping your books into your bag.
It’s starting to be late, you’ve got class in the morning, and she knows your routine now by heart, knows when you’ll stand, when you’ll pull your coat from the chair, when you’ll turn to kiss her goodbye before heading back to your shoebox of a dorm.
She lights her cigarette instead. Her fingers don’t want to work, her lighter nearly slipping before the flame catches.
The drag doesn’t calm her, it never does when you’re around, but it gives her the excuse to keep her mouth busy, to keep from saying the words she shouldn’t.
But then you look up, smile faint and tired, still soft for her, still too much for her. And she can’t hold it, she can’t keep it.
It lands heavy between you.
Her voice doesn’t crack, but her hand does, the cigarette trembles slightly, ash scattering on the tray.
You freeze mid-motion, book halfway zipped into your bag.
You blink, once, twice, like maybe you misheard her.
Your lips part, ready to ask what she just said, but she cuts you off with another drag, with eyes that don’t meet yours.
“You heard me,” she says. Cold. Final. Cruel enough to make you believe she means it.
And still. Her chest aches, because all she wants is for you to argue, to fight her on it, to crawl back into her bed and ruin every reason she’s trying to convince herself with.
But she won’t tell you the truth.
That the real reason she can’t keep you here is because she already loves you, and that’s the one thing she swore she’d never let happen.
Because she doesn’t have the fucking time. The fucking mindset. She’s not one to love.
Normally, you’re unshakable. Chin up, voice level, always meeting her eyes without flinching. But not now. It’s impossible to pretend.
Your voice cracks. Just barely, but Sevika hears it like a blade dragged across her chest. You blink fast, lashes wet, but no tears fall. Not yet.
The smoke of her cigarette is curling up and stinging her eyes, or maybe that’s not the smoke at all.
She keeps her gaze on the ceiling, anywhere but your face, because she knows if she looks at you now, she’ll fail.
You swallow hard, shoulders lifting like you’re trying to force yourself steady again, but your voice betrays you a second time.
So small. So raw. Not angry, not sharp, not the quick wit you always use to shield yourself.
The question lands heavier than any accusation could.
Sevika drags in smoke until her lungs burn, but it doesn’t stop the hollow echo of your words in her skull.
Doesn’t stop the guilt, the urge to cross the room and take it all back, kiss that look off your face until you believe she’d never hurt you.
Instead she exhales slowly, lets the ash fall, and keeps her silence. Because the only answer she has is the one she’ll never give you.
Because I love you, and that’s not allowed.
Your chest is rising too fast, breath shallow, as the silence stretches between you. She won’t even look at you. She just sits there with her damn cigarette, smoke curling around her like armor.
You laugh. It comes out shaky, wet. Ugly. “…Wow.”
Her jaw tightens. She doesn’t move.
“Coward.” The word cuts sharper than you meant it to, but you don’t take it back. You shove your last book into your bag with jerky hands, not caring if the corners bend.
“You couldn’t even make up a good reason, could you? Just—‘don’t come back.’ Like I’m supposed to nod and walk out like a good little girl.”
Your eyes sting, throat burning, but your voice finds steel under the shake.
“You know what’s funny? I really thought you loved me. Stupid, huh? Me, thinking I mattered more than that.”
You finally turn on her, wet lashes, red cheeks, heartbreak blazing in your stare. “Turns out I was just the fool. And you—” your voice cracks, fury and pain twisted together—“you’re just a coward.”
You snap your bag shut, the sound loud as a gunshot in the quiet room.
Sevika’s hand trembles around the cigarette even more.
You hitch the bag onto your shoulder so violently it nearly topples you, but you don’t care. Your pulse is thunder in your ears. You jab a finger at her, trembling with fury.
“You don’t even respect me enough to end it with care.” Your voice cracks, ragged and sharp, but steady enough to cut.
Sevika finally looks at you.
Her lips part, like she’s about to say something, but nothing comes. Just smoke spilling from her mouth, and those wide, haunted eyes you don’t even recognize.
Your chest heaves, your breath is chaotic. “You think you can just—do that? Like it’s so easy to say, so easy to do?” The words slice her in two, you can see it. You want her to feel it.
“…You don’t love me?” Your voice cracks, quiet but brutal, the kind of question that slices both ways.
Her cigarette has burned too low; the ash drops on her jeans, singeing the fabric. She doesn’t even notice.
“Say something!” you scream suddenly, chest heaving. “All this big mouth, these fucking scary eyes—for what?!”
For the first time since you met her, Sevika looks… undone.
Not dangerous, not powerful. Just caught. Trapped. Like she can’t breathe.
Her jaw flexes again, like she’s grinding down the words before they come out.
But then, rough and low, Sevika forces them anyway.
“We’re not supposed to love each other,” she mutters, each syllable bitten off like it hurts to say. Her fingers twitch against the table, knuckles whitening. “It’s not… it just can’t be. That’s not how this thing works.”
Her words are like a slap, sharp and cold enough to knock the air out of your chest.
The reminder slams into you all at once, what you are, what this has been.
A game made of money, of affection bought and sold.
A sugar mommy and her spoiled girl, dressed up with laughter and kisses and late nights tangled in bedsheets.
Not what you thought it was turning into.
Your heart thunders and then sinks, dragging everything inside you down with it. You feel your pulse in your throat, your ears, the tips of your fingers, and yet you can’t make a sound. Not even a sob.
How could you forget? How could you, stupid, sentimental, let yourself believe it was more?
Your lips part, your eyes lost, but no words come out. Just stunned silence, the kind that feels like a freefall.
Because for a moment, you really, completely forgot why you were together in the first place.
Across from you, Sevika stares like she’s watching you slip through her hands, and she’s the one who shoved you.
Your hands tighten on the strap of your bag, nails digging into the leather. The fight burns out of you all at once, leaving only something heavier, darker, in its place.
“You bought my affection.” Your voice is hoarse, cracked, but steady enough. “And now you’re throwing me away.”
Sevika’s jaw locks, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Just stares.
“Not even… breaking up with me like a person,” you add, a bitter little laugh scraping out of you. “You couldn’t even say it was time to stop. No—you had to throw me out. Like an object…’don’t come back’.”
She flinches. She actually flinches.
But you don’t give her time to reply.
You turn, every step feeling like it carves another piece of you away, and head for the front door of her house. Your hand grips the handle, the weight of your bag heavy on your shoulder, and you don’t look back.
Behind you, there’s the scrape of wood on tile, sudden and violent, her chair shoved back.
It’s rough, desperate, the kind of sound that doesn’t belong to her. Not the Sevika you know.
But you don’t stop. You can’t.
The door swings open, and before she can take a second step toward you, before she can decide to drop the pride choking her, you step through.
The heavy click of the lock slotting back into place feels like a bullet between you both.
Sevika stands frozen, half-risen from her chair, cigarette ash scattering on the floor. Her chest heaves once, twice, but she doesn’t follow. She doesn’t dare.
The silence after the door closes is a roar in her ears.
The apartment is too quiet without you. Too fucking quiet.
She lights another cigarette, the fifth in an hour, but it doesn’t burn away the hollow in her chest.
Smoke coils through the air, clinging to the silk curtains, but she can’t chase out the ghost of your laugh, your perfume, the sound of you humming in her kitchen when you thought she wasn’t listening.
Again, this was supposed to be easy.
Girls wanted shoes, handbags, sparkling necklaces they showed off like trophies, and Sevika gave it all without blinking.
They played the part she liked, adoring, eager, pliant, and she got to feel like a god.
She knew the rules, and she always, always won.
But you? You ruined the game.
You walked into it with that smile, pretending nothing mattered, sipping that too-sweet drink like it was treasure, brushing off her offers of diamonds with a wrinkled nose and a laugh.
You told her from the start at your first official date; you were sentimental. You didn’t give a fuck about the money. You wanted her, not the bills in her wallet.
Sevika didn’t take it seriously. Not at first.
But then, like a fool, Sevika wanted you back. Fell so fucking hard it knocked her flat.
Every muscle in her body itches to call you, to show up at your shitty student building and drag you back here where you belong.
Because what would she even say? That she’s in love? That she’s terrified? That she doesn’t know how to be anything other than the woman who buys affection and calls it a relationship?
The cigarette burns down to the filter between her fingers. She doesn’t even feel it.
What she does feel, is that sickness in her stomach. Like cigarettes suddenly make her sick.
Or is it really the cigarettes ?
You shove your bag down on your desk, harder than you mean to.
The textbooks spill out, pages bending, but you don’t care. The room feels too small, too suffocating, and the silence presses on your ears until it aches.
You thought you were smarter than this.
So, so smart. You never understood the type of girl to fall for lies. It’s so obvious, isn’t it ?
You thought you could handle her, her money, her sharp tongue, the way she looked at you like she could swallow you whole. You told her you were sentimental.
But still, deep down, you let yourself believe she might feel the same way.
Because of course she doesn’t love you. She never said she did. Never promised forever. Never gave you anything except the rules of the game: gifts, money, touch, kiss, repeat. And you? You broke them.
You let yourself believe that when she brushed her thumb over your cheek in bed, when she kissed your forehead, when she bought you that stupid fake pearl bracelet, you let yourself think it meant something more.
It was always just an arrangement.
And you’ve been living in a dream.
Now your chest feels carved out, raw. Your one stupid tear from earlier dried on your cheek, but another slips down before you can stop it. You press the heel of your palm hard against your eyes, but it doesn’t change the truth.
She threw you away. And the worst part?
You’d go back if she asked.
Sevika, on her side, tries to bury it.
She throws herself into work first.
Longer shifts, barking orders, like sharp knives moving fast under her hand.
She pushes harder, sharper, meaner, until her coworkers give her a wide berth, muttering under their breath when she’s not listening. But when she walks in a hallway, pass by a woman she doesn’t even know the name of, the smell of something sweet brings back the memory of you pressing that pink drink to her lips, asking if she wanted a taste.
So she switches to going out after hours.
Drinks with her colleagues, the kind of nights where the bar is loud enough to make her ears ring, where women laugh too close, touch her arm, tilt their heads like they’re offering something. She should want it. She used to.
But their perfume isn’t yours, their smiles aren’t yours, their voices don’t make her chest feel like it’s splitting apart.
And it’s that same fucking bar.
Everything reminds her of you.
The sight of cheap keychains by the gas station counter makes her freeze.
Walking past a clothing rack and seeing a thirty-dollar dress in the window makes her stomach twist.
She lights a cigarette on the balcony of her bedroom and swears she can feel the warmth of your head on her shoulder.
She’s Sevika. She doesn’t pine, doesn’t ache, doesn’t let anyone crawl under her skin. Not even when she was a stupid kid fumbling through her first kiss did she feel like this. This… hunger. This hole she can’t fill.
And it’s driving her insane.
By the time she stubs out her cigarette, Sevika admits it to herself. She can’t forget you. She doesn’t want to. The taste of you, the sound of your laugh, the way you fucking smiled at her like she wasn’t a monster.
One day, she’s fucking exhausted.
Her whole body feels heavy when she leaves the huge building, like she’s carrying bricks in her bones. She takes the long way home, just to breathe, just to… not think.
It’s stupid. It’s a fucking candy shop.
Neon pink light spilling out the window like something childish, something she has no business staring at. But she does.
And there, right in the display, sits a plastic bucket full of Ring Pops. Giant, cheap, sugar-slick jewels in every color.
She just walks in, buys the whole pack. Doesn’t even look at the cashier when they raise their brow at the sheer amount. She can feel her hand shaking as she shoves the bag into her jacket, her throat too tight, her chest too full.
In the car, she presses her eyes shut, forehead resting on the steering wheel. Her other hand grips the bag until the plastic crackles.
What the fuck is she doing?
A woman like her, bringing candy jewelry like it’s some kind of peace offering. Like it’ll make up for the way she threw you out, for every stupid wall she put up.
But she can’t stop herself.
She turns the ignition, drives. Not home.
Not to her empty, echoing, too big house.
The closer she gets, the faster her heart beats, pounding like it’s trying to break free from her ribs.
She parks too fast, too close, and for a long minute she just sits there, staring at the glowing windows above.
She can’t breathe. She’s terrified.
But then her fist closes around one of the candy rings in her pocket, plastic edges cutting into her palm, and she gets out of the car. She has to.
But fuck, she shouldn’t be here. She’s shaking. She’s going to make it all so much worse.
But Sevika has already knocked. One short, sharp knock, her knuckles still tingling from the door, her chest still hammering from the hours she spent stewing in her car like a coward.
You’re standing there, hair mussed from studying, eyes red in a way that makes her throat close up.
Three full, agonizing seconds.
You just look at each other.
It feels like the world holds its breath.
The candy ring digs into her palm, sweaty and ridiculous and so heartbreakingly small compared to everything she wants to give you.
And then you crash into each other.
The kiss is all teeth, clumsy, desperate, wet.
She doesn’t care when her lip splits on your mouth, doesn’t care that it’s messy, too much, not enough, her hand cups the back of your head, pulling you in harder, while the other fists uselessly around that stupid ring pop she brought, crushed plastic against the metal.
You breathe her name into her mouth like it’s the only word you’ve spoken in days, and Sevika groans, low and wrecked, like she’s been underwater and finally got air.
She presses you against the doorframe, foreheads colliding, panting, kissing you again because a few days apart was too much. It was unbearable.
And in her chest, Sevika knows with terrifying clarity: she’s not letting you go again.
The door barely clicks shut and she’s still on you into the narrow space of your tiny dorm, mouth moving over yours like she can make up for the days she lost.
The candy ring clatters uselessly onto your desk as her mech hand finally grab what they’ve been starving for.
Her voice breaks against your lips.
“Don’t leave—” it’s hoarse, desperate, spilling out like she doesn’t care if it ruins her.
“Don’t leave, don’t leave.” Every kiss between the words. Every plea dragging her lower, breaking her down.
You clutch at her jacket, pulling her closer.
It’s dizzying, too much, too fast.
But after the days apart, neither of you care.
Sevika crowds you against the bed, and the way she presses her forehead to yours while looking at you is more raw than any gift, any money, any deal you ever made with her.
She kisses you again, gasping, like the words are being ripped from her chest. “I can’t—don’t leave me. Don’t leave.”
And for the very first time, you feel her shaking.
The kisses aren’t careful. It’s messy, bruising, her teeth dragging your lip like punishment and apology at the same time.
Her hands are everywhere at once. Your waist, your back, your face, like she can’t decide what part of you to claim first, terrified you’ll slip away if she lets go.
You try to speak, maybe to ask why, maybe to tell her fuck you for what she did, but then her mouth is on your throat, hot and frantic, biting like she needs proof you’re here.
The sound that leaves you is shaky, broken, but Sevika swallows it like oxygen.
‘’Missed you,” you breathe, barely audible.
Sevika growls against your skin, metal hand gripping your hip so hard it drags a gasp out of you.
She’s shaking, but it’s not anger. It’s relief. “You don’t know—” Her voice cracks against your collarbone, her lips trembling there. “You don’t know how much.”
Your bed creaks under her weight as she lays on top of you, pressing into you like she’ll lose her mind if there’s space between your bodies.
She’s desperate, unbuttoning the rest of your clothes with trembling fingers, dragging her own shirt off like it’s suffocating her.
You arch into her, your hands running down her bare sides, nails catching skin.
She lets out a sound, half-groan, half-moan, that makes you dizzy, makes you realize how badly she missed you.
And for once, you don’t fight her control.
You just grab her face, pull her back into your kiss, and give it all back, how much you missed her, how much you need her, too.
Every inch of bare skin collies, your legs tangled, your mouths bruising from the force of the kiss. It’s still so sloppy, wet, desperate; the kind of kiss that hurts, the kind that heals.
Sevika’s hands are frantic, roaming over your body like she has to relearn every curve, every dip, every shiver she pulls from you.
Her metal hand grips your thigh and drags it higher around her hip, grinding down into you so roughly you both gasp into each other’s mouths.
You tug at her hair, pull her closer until your teeth knock against hers again. Neither of you stop. Neither of you can.
“Fuck—” Sevika’s voice is raw, breathless, breaking apart as she mouths at your jaw, your shoulder, lower, biting like she can brand herself into you.
“Don’t— don’t you fucking leave me again.”
You clutch her face, forcing her to look at you, your forehead pressed against hers.
“You’re the one who pushed me away,” you rasp, but then you’re kissing her again, moaning into her mouth, because you can’t stop, because you don’t want to.
Your hips move together, slick and desperate, no rhythm, no finesse, just need.
The sounds spilling out of both of you are messy, helpless, filling the tiny room.
She buries her face in your neck, teeth dragging your skin raw.
You hold her tighter, nails carving lines into her back. Her whispers are broken between thrusts of her hips—“I know, I know— I know.”
And when release crashes through you, it’s violent, ripped out of your chest with a sob that Sevika swallows in a kiss.
She follows you down seconds later, cursing into your mouth, shaking against you, like she’s unraveling piece by piece.
After, she doesn’t let go. Her arms cage you in, her breath ragged against your shoulder, your pulse still thundering under her lips.
It’s still not careful, not soft, just clinging, desperate, like she’ll die if she lets you slip away again.
Sevika’s still half sprawled on top of you, her breath hot against your collarbone, her hand resting on your stomach like she’s afraid to move it.
The room smells like sex and sweat and the faintest trace of your perfume, of hers, and her chest is still heaving, trying to slow down.
You keep your hand in her hair, even though your body is trembling under her weight. Your lashes flutter, your lips still swollen from all the biting and kissing, but your eyes are sharp when they find hers.
And Sevika feels it hit her like a punch: that look.
The one that tells her you’re not going to let her run from this again.
That the next time she tries, you’ll walk out and stay gone.
She knows it’s on her now.
That she’s the one who has to put it all into words, even if words were never her strength.
So she just lies there, heart pounding, jaw clenched, trying to find the courage.
For now she keeps whispering “I know” like a prayer, because she’s not ready for more yet—but she will be. “Don’t leave”
You let her hold you, let her breathe you in like she’s anchoring herself, because you both understand it now: the sex wasn’t the fix, it was just the lifeline.
The real fix will be in the talking, in her finally telling you the truth she’s been choking down.
took so many hours writing, deleting, writing, deleting, adding, deleting… I probably did a few mistakes and I would love to talk about it because I KNOWWW I didn’t correct it. not only spelling errors but also the characters development I had to shorten because I felt like this was already too much, but I won’t talk abt it now, I’ll do it later. There’s so much to say actually.
I hope you’ll love it as much as I do! Even if it’s… a bit long and I probably repeated myself too many times and I’m too sick of my writing (after writing so much ofc, ykwim) to realize it now. Anyway, I NEED TO SLEEP
Thank you again everyone, I hope you enjoy it. ♡
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