Work Text:
Saturday morning rolls around with a blare of your work alarm—an early shift to cover for your sick coworker, with the added bonus of overtime for this pay period.
Sevika isn’t too happy about seeing you go, arm wound tight around your waist, grumbling out a throaty protest when you try to wriggle beneath her hold.
You spend every weekend at your girlfriend's new apartment. Twice the size of her last, with an extra bedroom neither of you ever use outside of temporary storage. She’s been weighing the idea of getting a roommate, with the recent hike in rent by her scummy landlord, and you would jump at the opportunity, if not for her insistence that you take things slow.
(You’ve been dating for two years. In Zaunite terms, you might as well be married already.)
Ten minutes later, after wrestling for your freedom from the cage of her bed, you shuffle into the kitchen with a loud yawn. Wearing nothing but a long shirt and a pair of random underwear.
You freeze at the sight of an unknown woman stood at the sink, scrubbing a dish. Pink hair, broad shoulders, intricate tattoos. Dressed similarly to you.
Who the fuck…?
“Uh, hi,” you say, hid half-behind the wall to conceal your state of undress. The woman turns to look at you, and—
(Pot of boiling water, meet frog.
Inevitability is a crazy, crushing thing when combined with your power of extreme denial. One moment, you're sitting in a jacuzzi, and the next, your skin is peeling away from the bone.
A slow, sanguine death.)
“Oh, hey,” she replies, reaching to dry her hands off on a nearby towel. “You're Sevika's girl, right?”
You nod your head and offer up your name, stepping out to stand behind the lip of the counter.
“Name’s Vi. I'm the new roommate.” Ah. Would've been nice if Sevika had warned you beforehand. “I'm just gonna,” a thumb points to the once-spare bedroom, “crawl back in my hole now.”
“Right. Good morning, Vi.”
“Yeah. Morning.”
You return to Sevika’s bedroom with a scowl on your face and a complaint on your tongue, shutting the door a bit harder than you meant to. Her shape beneath the sheets jolts at the sound, head popping up from the pillow.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you had a new roommate?”
She blinks, swiping her palm over each eye, jaw dropping to make room for a loud yawn. “Oh, her.”
“Yeah. Her.”
“Relax. Vi stays in her room all day,” spoken mid-stretch, her lone arm reaching for the lip of the headboard.
“That’s not the point. What if I had walked out there naked?”
“Then she’d get one hell of a show.”
You physically deflate, shoulders curling inward, and shuffle over to the bed. Sevika scoots over to give you room, then lifts the sheets in invitation.
“You know I'm joking, right?” she asks, the curve of her nose brushing against your cheek.
“I know… ‘m just embarrassed.”
“Don't be. Vi has three braincells to her name. No chance she even noticed.” Sevika pauses a moment, then gives a lazy shrug of her shoulder. “Probably.”
Thus begins a new era of your relationship: Roommate Woes. Except, Vi isn't the problem here. She keeps to herself, does her chores, pays rent on time via her night shift job (whatever that is). Sevika, on the other hand, never learned subtlety, and coupled with her insatiable libido, you experienced PDA on levels previously unknown to humankind.
But gone are the days of her bending you over the kitchen counter, or fucking you on the couch, or being as loud as she wants—just to spite the cantankerous old lady living next door. While Vi works, Sevika sleeps. Opposite schedules that leave you no room for sexual intimacy. As such, both you and Vi share in this odd stall-state of perceived encroachment. Her, encroaching on your relationship; you, encroaching on her home.
So. In an amiable show, you decide to talk with Sevika about inviting her to your weekly movie night.
The two of you stand in the kitchen mid-discussion, making food to much on as the television plays the movie's menu screen on repeat.
“But why do I have to ask her?”
“Because this was your idea in the first place.” Sevika steps away from the counter with a sigh, hand adorned with a sickly-pink, heart-patterned oven mitt (she swore when you bought it for her that she would never wear it, and now it's the only one she uses). “She won't bite.”
“I think she hates me.” At the crook of her brow, you scoff, voice veering toward whiny. “I’m serious. Every time I come over, she scurries off to her room and I don't see her the rest of the weekend.”
“She does that anyway.”
“It's different, though.”
“… Just knock on the damn door.”
Against your better judgement, you trundle off and away, stopping before the looming pane of wood that separates you from Vi's bedroom.
Really, it's not a big deal. It shouldn't be. But your girlfriend's roommate is a pink-haired enigma, a puzzle stuck in a perpetual state of unsolvable. A disappearing act that, you gotta admit, hurts your ego a bit. You don’t recall saying anything wrong, but maybe, given the circumstances, you should double check that your presence is even wanted. Vi lives here, after all.
So you knock on the door—a few quick raps of your knuckles, just loud enough to grab her attention. You wait for a beat, then another, then another, and just as you turn to leave, the door swings open in a rush of cool air.
Some sort of fan whirs a steady noise from inside her bedroom, the floor strewn with clothes, room dark except for the blue-light halo emanating from her computer. She starts at the sight of you, jolting half a step backward before collecting herself.
“Oh. Sorry, I thought you were—”
“Do you wanna watch a movie with us?” The question comes out in a rush, your synapses a live-wire of anxiety.
Shit. You just want her to like you. Better for all parties involved when you show up every week without fail.
She blinks the kitchen light from her eyes, hand slipping beneath her shirt to scratch at a hip. “What?”
“A movie? Neon Carnivores just came out, and Sevika picked up the DVD after work. It's supposed to be this noir-horror filmed in the Lanes. Thought you might like it.”
“Uh,” a quick shake of her head, “yeah. I'll be there in a minute.”
Then she slams the door in your face.
You shuffle back to the living room, head emptied of all thought. Bewildered. Sevika sits on one end of the couch sans prosthetic, munching on a slice of pizza fresh from the oven. Carefree and oblivious.
“How'd it go?” she asks, bumping her shoulder into yours when you sit down beside her.
“She slammed the door in my face.”
Sevika has the audacity to laugh. To say, “Oh, she's got it bad.”
You land an admonishing smack on her thigh. “Stop, Sev.”
“It's true.” Another bite of her pizza. “You’re all she talks about.”
“What, about how much she hates me?”
“Do you want her to hate you?”
“No.”
“Then shut up.”
Your mouth drops open in half-serious shock, but she continues to eat her stupid slice of pizza and stares at you like she said nothing wrong.
Vi's bedroom door creaks open. A beat of awkward silence passes before she appears in the corner of your eye, weighing her choice of couch or recliner. One glance at Sevika makes up her mind, and Vi takes the cushion beside you. She offers up a tight-lipped smile when you meet her gaze, turning away before you can reciprocate.
The rest of the evening follows a similar pattern: Vi curled up against the armrest while Sevika cuddles you against her side, the movie you chose bathing the room in colors of neon velvet. An indie-arthouse flick hallmarked by practical effects and unusual cinematography.
Sevika spends the last thirty minutes of the movie with her head tucked to her chest, vehemently arguing against the idea of exhaustion every time you wake her up and tell her to go to bed.
When the credits roll, Vi excuses herself, and your girlfriend finally succumbs to your prodding. Kisses you goodnight and shuffles off to bed.
So here you sit, stretched out on the cushions, cold and lonely and mourning the loss of Sevika's weight against you. Some game show continues in the background as you scroll through your phone, leagues away from the exhaustion that usually sends you to bed.
“Hey.”
The sudden greeting jolts you, and you turn around to find Vi stood at the entrance of the small hallway, housing her bedroom on one side and bathroom on the other. Scarred knuckles curled over the wall's edge, almost skittish in her stance.
“Oh. Hey.” You sit up against the armrest, elbow denting the back cushion.
“Where's Sevika?”
“In bed.”
“This early?” A click of her tongue, arm swinging a lazy rhythm as she steps into the living room. “Somebody's getting old.”
The first conversation you've ever had with her, aside from the greetings-in-passing on your way to Sevika's bedroom. But those don't count, right?
“Yeah, I tell her that all the time.”
Then silence. Vi remains awkward behind the couch, glancing around the room as if seeing it for the first time. Your teeth tug at a piece of stubborn skin on your bottom lip. The show drones on, forgotten in the wake of her presence.
“So. How long have you two been together?” she asks, hands finding comfort in the pockets of her sweatpants.
“Two years tomorrow.”
She exhales a sound halfway between a hum and a grunt, brows lifting clear to her hairline. “Shit. Practically married, huh?”
“Something like that.”
Sevika doesn't believe in marriage. A piece of paper solidifying love? Bunch of bullshit, far as she's concerned. And it isn't that you don't agree, but… well. It would be nice to have the option this deep underground. That useless piece of paper is only reserved for pilties.
“She’s happy with you.”
You blink, and she's circling around the couch. “You think so?”
She plops down in Sevika's recliner, one leg thrown over the armrest. (Sevika would kill her if she knew, but you swear yourself to a vow of silence. An olive branch for a budding friendship.)
“Definitely. She helped me out a few years back. Less of an asshole now, with you in the picture.”
So, they know each other. That makes more sense than Sevika inviting some random stranger to live with her. She's made too many enemies to consider such an idea.
“How'd you two meet?”
Her foot jitters back and forth, shaking the armrest. “She knew my old man when they were young, and when he died a few years ago, she kinda… took me under her wing.”
Vi says nothing else, and you don't intend to pry. But you're curious. Who wouldn't be? Sevika stays tight-lipped whenever Vi’s name comes up in conversation, and she’s the only person you know to answer all your burning questions. Aside from the woman herself.
But you're not there yet. Your nosiness will have to wait.
So you smile and say, “Yeah, that sounds like her.”
When she smiles back with a lopsided quirk of her mouth, you think you might be kind-of-halfway friends.
—
A simple text changes everything.
Hey. Turn your tv up.
Sender: Sevika. Recipient: Vi.
A heat-of-the-moment decision from a brain fogged by hormones and the sight of your bare tits in the mirror while changing into pajamas. Post-anniversary date, mid-makeout in her bed, she grabs her phone and sends The Text.
What follows is a marathon of impressive proportions. A box of sex toys, a bottle of lube, and two very insatiable libidos. You expected this after teasing her all night—kissing her neck on the drive to the restaurant, groping her ass during the post-check bathroom break, babbling about your ideas for sex after the two of you make it home.
She fucks you like she's trying to leave a scar in the mattress, maybe carve your body into the wrinkled sheets. Heavy and hot. Angry. Staking her claim. A routine of feeding you her strap until you cry, then soothing the ache with her mouth, then flipping you over and doing it again.
Then, a shadow under the door, shifting its weight. Sevika doesn't notice, too busy lapping at your wet cunt, but you do. Head tipped upside down over the side of the bed, that little patch of inky darkness is all you can look at.
For a moment, you contemplate saying something. You should say something, but you're selfish, and the looming orgasm that numbs you down to the bone steals away every braincell capable of thought.
You know Vi's been listening. Sevika and subtlety mix as well as oil and water. That fucking text. Her shadow lingers under the door like a spilled-ink stain as you whine and whimper through orgasm number three. Even when your world shifts, and Sevika kneels over your prone form, your gaze remains on the shadow beneath the door. A constant, an anchor to the real world.
Strap buried inside your pussy, Sevika flattens herself along the expanse of your back. The soft plush of her lips ghosts over the shell of your ear.
“We have a visitor,” she mutters, and you shudder beneath her. “What do you say? Should we ask her to join?”
The scary part? You actually think about it. Not exactly crossing the line to consideration, but you entertain the idea. The width of Vi's shoulders spreading your thighs, the softness of her mouth against your skin, the layers of her mullet caught in your fist—
Okay. So you consider it.
“Seriously?” you ask, voice a hissing breath of disbelief.
Sevika mouths along your pulse, the cold metal of her prosthetic hand smoothing up your spine. “She's standing outside for a reason.” A sharp bite to the curve of your shoulder, and an inhale catches between your teeth. “That reason isn't me.”
“I—”
Her posture softens, and her voice along with it. “Just think about it, okay?”
Sweet and tender, a facet of Sevika that she reveals only to you—almost comedic given the circumstances. Dangling the idea of a threesome in front of your face, so blasé about the whole thing that you're afraid to take her seriously. No, it's nothing more than dirty talk. Fantasy.
(The disappointment that knots in your gut doesn't actually exist.
Right?)
Things become… weird after that night. Tense as a band waiting to snap. Vi avoids you like you've caught the plague, lurking at the corner of your vision but never daring to approach. No more late-night conversations on the couch, or sharing the burden of dishes, or trading memes back and forth during the week. Like she never even existed at all.
You fucked up. You don't know how, but you did.
Her absence shouldn't bother you so much, but Sevika obviously cares about her to an extent. Why wouldn't you want Vi to like you? And yeah, maybe you enjoy her being around. She's easy to talk to. A comforting presence that reminds you a lot of Sevika.
Given her indefinite absence from your life, you don't expect your phone to blare with her ringtone on a typical Wednesday night (three thirty-two a.m. to be exact) long after you've fallen asleep. You paw at the nightstand for the familiar rectangle of your phone, bleary-eyed and frustrated at the interruption.
At the sound of her voice when you answer the call, you bolt upright in bed.
Slurred and trembling, weak:
“Fuck, it's late, I know, but my boss won't let me walk and I can't call Sevika like this. Can you just—” rustling on the end of the line, a muffled exchange between two voices that you can't quite hear, “I need a ride home.”
Before she can finish her last sentence, you’re throwing a coat on and snatching your keys from the coffee table. “Where are you?”
“Um,” she sniffles, “Apex Eleven. It's this club near the apartment.”
“I'll be there. Wait for me inside.”
She mumbles in agreement then hangs up.
You know that place. Sevika took you there when you first started dating, and though the night started out awkward in that new-romance-learning-curve way, you eventually coaxed her onto the dance floor after a shot or ten. You shared your first kiss in the parking lot outside, right before throwing up all over her pants.
In the heart of the Lanes, the streets awaken at night. Traffic thickens as you near the strip of bars and clubs and brothels, neon signs blinking in rhythmic disorder. Crowds of people stroll down the sidewalk on either side of the street, a jumble of conversation and thumping music intruding on the silence inside your car.
You pull into the club's parking lot then beeline for the front door. One ID check later, and you step inside the club to meet a thick wall of smoke and the smell of sweat-masking body spray. The floor sticks to your shoes as you skirt the outer edge of the dance floor, pinballed between drunken bodies. A party of overstimulation.
Vi sits slumped at the bar, her pink hair a stand-out amongst the sea of clubgoers, undeterred by the lights that cloak her form in multicolor strobes. The tattoos branching up her bare arms ring familiar.
You sidle up beside her, shaking her by the shoulder. “Hey.”
She sits up at the sound of your voice, eyes squinting in confusion, body drawn tight and angular—preparing for a fight.
After a long, breath-stilling moment, she relaxes. “Oh. Hey.”
You nod toward the exit. “Let’s get you home.”
“Whatever. This place sucks anyway.”
Now, the hard part: dragging her to the car. A task she makes no effort to help you with, still sat at the bar, eyes never leaving your face. Low-lidded and darker than you’ve ever seen them.
“What is it?” you ask, shifting back and forth on your feet. The atmosphere of the club renders you drunk by proxy.
“Fuck, you're pretty.” A hand reaches out to touch your face, palm sweatslick against your jaw, fingers ice-cold as they follow the curve of your skull. “Anybody tell you that lately?”
You grab her wrist and step away, a suggestion written in the tug of your hand. “Sevika. Ya know, my girlfriend?”
She slithers out of the chair, balance precarious as her brain struggles to command her feet. One step, then another, until her shoulder collides with yours. You steady her with an arm slung across her back, wincing beneath the drag of her weight as you begin to walk.
None of your Vi-shaped puzzle pieces fit together. No red string to connect all the details. During all your conversations, she kept topics shallow, information casual: likes the color blue, and exercise, and video games; grew up rough; has a sister and a nameless ex. Harmless breadcrumbs to leave behind.
And now there’s a brand new tidbit, filed away under ???????
Fuck, you’re pretty.
She’s far from sober. People say anything when they get a few drinks circulating in their blood, and she passed that threshold a while ago. Mystery solved.
Vi climbs into the passenger seat of your car and curls up against the console. When you buckle her seatbelt, she barely stirs. Something tender and aching rises at the sight of her, impossibly fragile and motionless, just before you close the door.
The drive back to her shared apartment is silent. She adjusts her position every few minutes, grumbling something under her breath—thankfully, still breathing.
Dragging Vi over to elevator is another mountain to climb. She stubs up once she recognizes the run-down shell of her apartment building, slurs something about Sevika and disappointment, and you don't understand the issue. There's no way you could drag her up four flights of stairs to your elevator-less apartment.
“Besides,” you continue, “Sevika's asleep. It'll be alright.”
It takes even more reassurance before Vi finally agrees to walk. You lead her through the small hallway, into the elevator, and up to the third floor.
Before you can find the key in one of Vi's many pockets, the apartment door swings open, and there stands—
“Sev. I didn't think you'd be awake.”
You find no anger in her features, but they contort all the same. Behind her shines the kitchen light, a small halo that cuts through the empty shadows plaguing the small living room.
Her eyes cut to Vi, sharp and piercing. “Women's intuition.”
"How'd you know?” Vi asks, head lowered, unable to meet the gaze of the woman before you.
Already, she stands a bit straighter, weight easing off your shoulder. No doubt sobered up by shock.
Sevika shrugs. Takes a drag of her cigarette. Says nothing, but steps aside to allow you both entry. And once inside, she takes Vi by the arm not slung over your shoulders.
“I got her, honey,” she says, stepping forward in silent request for you to take the cigarette from her mouth.
They disappear into Vi's bedroom. You take a seat on the couch and pass the time by chewing on the filter and watching the paper burn with each lung-filling puff. A fitting end to a night of self-destruction.
A few minutes later, Sevika comes back. Worn down to the bone, wet around the eyes.
“Is she okay?” you ask, scooting over to give her room to sit down.
She collapses beside you, head tipping back against the couch. “I don't know.”
A bad sign. Whatever they talked about, Sevika can't immediately fix, and the worry carves wrinkles into her brow.
Your fingers find the soft thickness of her thigh, comfort stamped in the press of your lips to her shoulder. She's warm, impossibly so. Worked up. Angry, even.
“The deal when she moved in was that she stayed sober.” She scrubs her hand over her face, frustration tangible, thickening up the air that surrounds you. “I told her that job was a bad fucking idea.”
“Is that what you helped her with a few years back?” you ask, voice never daring to rise above a whisper. “Getting sober, I mean.”
“She told you about that?”
“She just said you helped her with a situation.”
A stretch of tense silence, where nothing you say can fix the situation, and Sevika has no interest in wasting the energy on words.
“She wants to talk to you, by the way. You don't have to, but… Vi's a good person, she's just…”
“Been through a lot.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
You're not angry. Worried, yes, but angry? Your Vi-shaped puzzle sharpens into view: a bad childhood, a sister she either doesn't talk to, an ex she refuses to name, a struggle with addiction. One awful event after another, woven into bone and muscle and joint and tendon. Staining everything she touches.
(Really, you don’t know why you care so much.)
When you open the door to Vi's bedroom, she’s laying in bed, tucked beneath the sheets. Staring up at the ceiling, she wipes her face on her shirt.
“Feel like company?” you ask, offering up a smile when she cranes her head to look at you.
The room lay dark, her form a deep splotch of shadow against the wall as she sits up. “Yeah.”
You sit down on the edge of the bed and wait for her to speak.
“I just wanna say that I'm sorry for tonight. I know I should've called Sevika but I was terrified that she would,” she shakes her head, “kick me out.”
“She wouldn't.”
“Well, I know that now, but… sorry for being trouble.”
You shrug. “Better you call me than something bad happen.”
She snorts, pillows creaking beneath her weight. “The worst already has.”
Your jaw aches from the force you exert to keep it shut. Curiosity rears its ugly head once again, but now isn't the time for indulgence.
“You can ask. If anybody deserves to know, it's you.”
“When Sevika helped you a few years ago, what was that about?”
“Oh, that? Funny story, actually.” A sharp sniff. “I was living on the streets at the time, going to bars and clubs every night, fighting for money. Literally, by the way. And one night, this woman walks up to me and says she knew my dad, Vander, before he died.
At that point, I’m ready to knock her out and go back to drinking, but she starts giving me details about his old life that nobody would know. So we go back to her apartment and she’s an asshole about the whole thing, but she helps me get my life straightened out.”
“And after that?”
“I move out on my own. Things are good for a while, but… life always catches up with you, I guess. I start thinking about Vander and my sister and—and Cait, and I start to spiral again. Go back to my old ways.”
Cait. A name for the unforgettable.
“It’s easy, isn’t it?”
The shadow moves, and you think Vi nods her head. “Yeah, it is.”
In a stroke of courage, you move from the end of the bed to its head, and after a bit of searching, you find Vi’s shape beneath the sheets. You lean into her, throwing your arms over her shoulders in an awkward hug. The smell of vodka leaks from her pores, skin sweatslick and sticky, and you can only hope that this brings her comfort.
“You’ll be okay. Maybe not for a while, but horrible things don’t last forever.”
Her hands press against your back, following the curve of your spine. “I’ll take your word for it.”
—
Vi loses herself for a while. She regresses back to some younger, weaker version of herself; back when everything was too much and too big and too scary. She quits her job at the club and starts sharing Sevika's bed at night. Another presence to drive out the demons that plague her.
It happens in the dark.
You're trapped between two very warm, very clingy bodies after a long conversation about boundaries and adaptation and how Vi fits into your life. Sevika tells you that you don't have to stay, that she isn't your responsibility, but you aren't gonna just leave her like this.
(You don't know why you care so much.)
“Can I kiss you?” Vi asks, whispered against the shell of your throat.
The world stops turning. She leans back and rests her head on the pillow, bright eyes wide, bottom lip sucked between her teeth.
Sevika lay right behind you, fitting perfectly against the curve of your spine, arm slung over your waist. That arm tightens, tugging you impossibly closer.
“It's okay,” she says.
Her hips grind against your ass, soft enough that you almost believe it an accident. Soft enough to jump-start the pulse between your legs.
You can't come back from this. Once your lips meet, it's done.
Does Sevika really not mind? Watching you kiss her… whatever Vi is? Friend, responsibility, something inbetween?
Fuck it.
You meet Vi's gaze and nod your head, and her smile flickers beneath the light of the television. As she leans in, her nose brushes yours, and Sevika's buries her face in your shoulder.
Vi kisses you like she loves you, all passionate and needy. Like you mean something to her, for all the ups and downs of your short relationship and her isolating tendencies.
Before Sevika, you never experienced love as a universal truth, giving or reciprocal. No butterflies, or fuzzy feelings, or giddiness at the sight of a lover. But when Vi kisses you, it feels… right. Comfortable. She licks into your mouth and she's warm and soft and impossibly sweet. Tender and careful and savoring.
She pulls away with a sigh, and the hand on your belly moves to cradle your jaw. A turn of your head, and Sevika sucks Vi's taste off your tongue.
It happens quick. The pulse between your legs sparks a fire that threatens full-body consumption. The women that sandwich you in take turns stealing the breath from your lungs, over and over and over again. A competition brews between the two regarding who can turn you into the biggest mess, and while one kisses you, the other nips at your neck and gropes your tits and teases at the seam of your underwear.
You don’t know how things turned out this way, but you aren’t complaining. Not when Vi rucks up your shirt and sucks a nipple into her mouth, and Sevika's lips feel like home against yours. Too much yet not enough, brain dizzy from overstimulation.
“Wait, fuck,” you gasp in a breath when they both part from you, “I just—I need a second.”
So horny you could honestly cry. If Vi wasn't here, you'd be begging Sevika for the strap, face buried in the sheets, ass in the air. They give you time to calm down, and you mourn the loss of their weight and warmth, skin buzzing from the ghostly stamp of their hands.
“Are you okay?” asks Sevika, nosing at the divot of your temple.
“Yeah, just…” you try and fail to suppress the stretch of your lips, “I didn't think you liked to share.”
She exhales an unamused breath, eyes darting to Vi when the latter drapes herself over your middle, hair tickling your chin.
“I'm a special case, right?”
Sevika shoves her off by the shoulder. Says, “Shut up. At least I don't listen in on my roommates—”
Vi stutters a moment then holds up a defensive finger. “Okay, that happened once. Once.”
“Porn exists.” A beat of silence, and Sevika laughs under her breath. “But you don't want porn, do you?”
You're definitely missing context for this conversation, but they argue like you don't even exist in the room.
“Don't,” Vi hisses, rising onto an elbow to glare at Sevika through squinted eyelids. “Seriously, I'll kick your ass.”
“Just ask her.”
Finally, you chime in. “Ask me what?”
Vi's glare turns to pleading, but beside you, Sevika remains stalwart.
“Ask me what?”
“Vi wants to fuck you.”
You blink. The neurons in your brain short-circuit. “For how long?”
“A while,” Vi grumbles, turned on her side, facing away from the two of you.
It's not the idea that surprises you, but the verbal admission. You know how to take a hint, and Vi's slip-up at the club cemented what Sevika already told you as fact.
“It doesn't bother me, if you're worried about that. Brat wants to feel good and she trusts you.” A lazy shrug that jostles your shoulder. “Your choice, honey.”
You look over at Vi to gauge her reaction, and find her already staring at you with pleading eyes. Tender as a healing wound.
It's an easy decision. Easier than your conscience allows. Your memory returns to the night Vi stood outside the bedroom door, when Sevika teased you about inviting her in. She recognized your own attraction before you did. That soft spot on your heart for an unsolvable woman.
“Let's do it.”
The once-playful atmosphere thickens into something anticipatory when Vi crawls between your legs, and your nerves might fray to breaking if not for Sevika’s presence at your side. Always doing what she does best—why you stayed despite her every effort to snuff your relationship out.
As Vi's hands find your inner thighs, Sevika kisses you soft and slow in an effort to tame the wild buck of your pulse.
“Go easy on her,” Sevika says to you, lips stretched in a teasing smile. “I'm sure it's been a while.”
“Fuck you,” Vi mutters, but says nothing in her own defense.
As if it even matters. Your girlfriend serves as the warden of your pussy, and she loves to bark an order or ten. You’re in good hands.
Off come your clothes while the other two remain dressed, a feeling of stark vulnerability that seeks to fry the white matter of your brain. Sevika rubs a comforting hand over your belly, while Vi shoulders your thighs apart.
The first thing you do is reach down to run your fingers through her hair. Soft as you imagined.
She dives in tongue-first, licking you from hole to clit, and groans when your thighs close around her head on instinct. It's all soft, wet heat. Messy from her spit. What she lacks in technique, she makes up for in enthusiasm. Moans so loud against your pussy that you almost believe she can feel your pleasure.
Sevika doesn't let you forget her. She murmurs praise into your ear, teases you for being so wet, asks you how good Vi's mouth feels. You've made it clear how her voice affects you, and she wields dirty words as a weapon any chance she gets.
Good girl.
You look so pretty like this.
How's it feel, honey?
You kiss her just to shut her up. The burn in your belly turns to a blaze embarrassingly fast, and when Vi slides a long finger into your cunt, stars burst behind your closed eyelids. There's no holding back your orgasm when her tongue circles over your clit, slick and hot and—
You turn away from Sevika's mouth and fist Vi's hair in both hands, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Fuck, please."
"Come on, honey." A pair of plush lips trail down the line of your neck, nipping at your drum-beat pulse. "Let her make you feel good."
That's all it takes. Permission. Weeks without so much as a finger on your clit leads you to a breath-stealing release, and your hearing blots out as you grind against Vi's face. So selfish, needing more, craving the impossible: inevitability.
When the pleasure breaks, you sink into the mattress with a heaving sigh. Each lobe of your brain makes a slow return to normal, and when you blink your eyes open, Vi's face sharpens into view.
Wide-eyed and nervous, she smooths a hand up and down your thigh. "Was that okay?"
All you can do is giggle and nod your head. Too fucked-out to form words.
To your left, Sevika wraps a thick arm around your ribs and pulls you to her. She knows you too well. A long cuddle is neccessity after an orgasm, and she's warm and soft and her chest makes a great pillow. And if you fall asleep for a few minutes, you're none the wiser.
You open your eyes again to Vi gently cleaning you with a washcloth. Sevika sits beside her, nursing a glass of water.
"Hey, Vi." They both look down at you. "Want me to return the favor?"
She shakes her head, slick lips stretching into a dopey grin. "No. I got what I needed."
When Vi moves to lay back down, Sevika catches her by the shoulder. "Wash your face."
"Why don't you clean me up?"
You watch the exchange half-lucid and half-listening, until their voices filter through a lens of fading lucidity. What they both fail to realize is how alike they are, and suddenly everything makes sense.
That's why you care so much.