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amenazaaaa · 17 days ago

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FEED ME!

sevika x pregnant!reader | 8.2k words

SUMMARY:

Sevika plays a game of cat-and-mouse.

TAGS: 18+! smut with feelings (thigh riding), vomiting mentions, PTSD, graphic violence, blood and gore, a lot of character development, soft!protective!mean sevika (it’ll make sense), listen this chapter is 8k a lot happens

NOTES: there are a lot of things in here that were really cathartic to write for me (i bet u can guess one of them) so uh i hope u enjoy it!!! if it sucks, i give yall permission to beat me with hammers

-> READ ON AO3 | PART 1 / SERIES MASTERLIST

The warm body in her bed is her worst idea yet, but you had begged her so sweetly, promised that you would stay on your side as you clung to her in the living room. You have a way of shaving down her edges, making her a certain kind of weak that she thought she would never experience again.

She finally accepts the fact that's been staring her in the face since the very first night she met you: you're her responsibility, especially with your attacker still roaming the streets. Nobody will protect you like she can, has both the skills and reputation to remain unmatched in the Undercity. It has to be her.

You’re also a liar. Fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow then immediately rolled over and curled yourself against her back. So here she lay, wide awake, shoved to the edge of the mattress as you attempt to fit yourself between her ribs. The curve of your stomach sits perfectly against the small of her back, your arm thrown over her waist, gripping her shirt in a loose fist as if terrified that she'll up and leave. The heat of your breath between her shoulder blades makes her skin crawl.

Well. She’s slept in worse conditions. And she wouldn't dare move you after the day you've had. At least you're warm, and you smell nice, and maybe the flush weight of your body isn't the worst feeling in the world.

In the dead of night, she touches your hand. A ghost of fingertips over the hills and valleys of your knuckles, and your tightened fist relaxes. That's how she justifies it—an action borne not from her own want, but for your comfort.

Behind her, you stir awake, groaning against her back, and she tugs her hand away like you've burned her.

“Sorry,” you mutter, voice thick and gravelly, “but if I move right now, I'll throw up.”

She looks over her shoulder and barely makes out the curve of your cheek in the darkness. “I have a bucket.”

You exhale a pained laugh, and she tries and fails to suppress the stretch of her lips. “Oh shit, don’t make me laugh.”

“I told you to stay away from the mystery meat.”

“It smelled so good, though,” you whine, forehead thumping against the notches of her spine.

“Was it worth it?”

“No.”

A few minutes later, you relax against her, and the long, rhythmic breaths against her back tell her that you're finally asleep. Your hand returns to her belly, curling into a weak fist, and she soothes her thumb over the breadth of your knuckles.

And that's how she falls asleep, too.

The next morning, you stumble into the kitchen bleary-eyed and squinting, roused by the smell of fried apples Sevika cooks on the stove.

She’s not used to making food at home. Sees no point in it when there’s only her to worry about, and would much rather save herself both the time and effort by stopping at a food stall or sneaking snacks from the bar’s stash.

But she has a reason now. Glances over at you as you lean against the counter nearby, shirt hiked up over your bump to scratch at your belly—

Two reasons.

At least you put on underwear today.

“What’s on the menu?”

“Fried apples and sweetbread.”

You lean close to the pan, twisting toward her to keep from hitting the stove, and close your eyes on a slow inhale. “Smells amazing.”

She scoffs. “It’s fried apples. Nothing special.”

“Says you.”

Good point. You probably haven't had a fruit in months.

You stay close to her, even as she fusses in the kitchen to collect plates and silverware. At one point, she almost elbows you in the stomach because you needed to be right behind her at the drawers, and she hisses back a sharp breath. Spins around to snap at you.

“Can you just—” at the sight of your stiffened shoulders, she cuts herself off, inhales deep and counts to ten, “sit down.”

She isn’t used to this. People crowding her space, her apartment housing an extra body. And she definitely isn't used to the sniffling coming from her kitchen table.

She makes your plate of food then puts it down in front of you. You sit with your head in your hands, elbows balanced atop the table. By the time she’s ready for her own breakfast, you haven't even touched yours.

“What, you don't wanna eat?”

Your only response is to push the plate away, still sniffling into your hand.

She considers the best way to go about this without making the situation worse. Considers ignoring you, letting you cry it out, but she doesn't wanna do that. She feels bad.

So she scratches at the back of her neck, peeking at you from beneath her brow. “I didn't mean to upset you, but I don't want you hurt.”

“I know,” you grumble, voice gravelly and pouting. “Just hurt my feelings.”

“Then eat.” She moves your plate back across the table. “It won’t be good cold.”

With one final sniff, you pick up your fork and cut a piece of syrupy apple in half.

“It's good with the bread,” she says, picking up a piece and motioning for your fork.

She stabs at a few slices of apple then mashes them into the toast, spreading the syrup over top. Your eyes glaze over as you track the motions of her hands, your crying spell quickly forgotten at the sight of good-smelling food. She reaches you the slice, and you immediately bite into it.

At your low moan, the closing of puffy eyes, her lips twitch toward a smile. “Good?”

You hum in response, nodding your head. “Amazing. Thank you.”

Always a ‘thank you’, she's noticed. Grateful to a fault.

“I’m going to the markets today. You can come, stop by the consignment shop.”

She doesn’t know how else to make the morning up to you aside from buying you a few gifts. Things to occupy you when she inevitably leaves you alone for a few days.

In a few hours, you're back on the streets with a familiar hand in hers. The Lanes in particular have no doubt noticed your presence by now, some strange woman following her around like a lost puppy. All they do is talk around here. Let them.

The consignment shop is relatively close to her apartment, and yet you still have to stop a few times to rest, complaining about the ache in your back. She waits, though. Knows a thing or two about pain.

Your mood brightens when you step into the small building, heading straight for the small section of books and tomes. She glances around the place, walls stacked floor to ceiling with all manner of objects, some useful and some decidedly not.

You pick various books up, tilt your head as you read an excerpt, then slot them back onto the shelf. Over and over again, making slow work of the first section.

Picky woman.

She walks over to you, hovering nearby to let you concentrate in silence with an adorable furrow to your brow.

“Do you like to read?” you ask, sparing her no more than a glance before turning back to the page you opened to.

“I stopped reading after my mom died.”

An olive branch. She knows something horrible about you, and now you know the same. Can count on one hand how many people she’s mentioned her mother to.

Your lips curl into a sad frown as you set down the book in your hands. “Can I ask how she died?”

Sevika swallows, eyes flickering down to the swell of your belly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Did she read to you?”

You breeze past the question like you never even asked it, and she’s grateful. This isn’t a good place to start opening up old wounds.

She nods, trailing behind you as you waddle down the small aisle. “We didn’t have much, but she bought these picture books that we’d flip through before bed. I never really gave a shit about any of the words.”

Up ahead, you laugh, looking over your shoulder with a teasing smile. “I can see that.”

“What about your parents?”

You sigh. “Well, let’s see. My dad died in the mines when I was little, my sibling was stabbed to death in an alleyway, and my mom just… up and left when I was sixteen.”

A backstory all-too-common in the Undercity. Throw a cog in the street and hit a hundred traumatized people.

“I can't believe you turned out so…”

“Weak?” You scoff, picking up a thick book before reading its spine. “Yeah, my mom always said I was nothing like her. Hear that enough from somebody you can't stand, and you start being proud of it.”

Sevika blows out a breath, running a finger along the dusty shelf you stand next to. “I understand that more than you think.”

She bucked against her old man’s discipline for years. Fought her way out of the box he tried time after time to shove her in. Hard to believe, but there was a point in her life when she resembled you a bit too much.

But the world has a funny way of teaching you when the words of your parents fall on deaf ears. And teach her, it did.

“Regardless of what happened, I think we turned out alright.” You give her a small smile, expression absent in your eyes.

You turn back around to keep sorting through the books.

Another month goes by without incident. But with your mobility slowly decreasing, she finds herself at your feet more often than she ever expected to. Helping you with your socks and shoes, grabbing cookware from the bottom cabinet, picking up the items that you drop.

It's weirdly domestic.

One day, she wakes up to you plastered against her side, snoring into her shoulder, and she can't remember a life without you in it. That morning, she laid there for an embarrassingly long time just soaking up your warmth, the weight of your arm over her ribs, the leg tangled with hers.

She's fucked. No coming back from this. You’ve burrowed a place for yourself beneath all the rot, a speck of star in the expanse of midnight sky, and she doesn’t think you’ll ever dig yourself out. Doesn’t think she wants you to.

With her bag slung over her shoulder, she steps into the doorway of her bedroom where you rest beneath the sheets of her bed. You've slept a lot the past few days, eaten your weight in the pastries she's brought home. Not that she minds—it means you feel safe.

“I'll be gone for a few days.”

She doesn't want to leave you, doubly so when fear washes over your face, leaves you wide-eyed and frowning from where your face sticks out of the blanket.

“Do you have to go?” you ask, voice so broken and pitiful that she almost says fuck it and sets her bag down to lounge with you the rest of the day.

Instead, she sighs out through her nose, eyes closing to block out your pleading expression. “I do. Important business.”

Doing Silco's dirty work. She doesn't tell you that, but you already know.

“Just be careful, okay? I gotta tell you about the book I've been reading when you get back.”

She nods, hovers in the shadows of her dark apartment for a long moment before reciting her usual rule: don't go out unless you need to. At this point, you can quote it right alongside her.

She stays long enough to commit your lazy smile to memory before dragging herself out the door.

While she's away, she takes the opportunity to look into her mystery man once again. Silco's late to their meeting, no doubt some bullshit with Jinx holding him up, but today, she's grateful for it. The conversation she overhears at the bar between two of Smeech's goons is just what she needs.

“—swear, I thought the kid was gonna shit himself.”

The man closest to her, face pockmarked with scars, laughs low and wheezing. “Shit, did he tell you why?”

“Something about this girl he knocked up. He's worried she'll try to use the kid against him.”

Her fingers tighten around her glass, the liquid inside untouched. She doesn't drink much these days, but she can still keep up appearances. Loose lips and all that.

The man beside her whistles, shakes his head. “Man, that's rough. He say what he was gonna do?”

“Well, he's gotta find the bitch first. Saw her at that market thing last month, so she's clearly alive.”

The muscles in her legs tense up to keep her seated, but she wants nothing more than to get up and smash the guy’s teeth out against the bar top.

“Bet somebody’s hiding her.”

Before she can act on it, they finish their drinks and leave, passing by her in a tipsy rush as they fuss over being late to wherever they’re going.

At least she has information to go on, something tangible for the first time in a solid month. There’s no doubt in her mind that you’re the bitch they refer to, and now she knows that he’s looking for you.

Fuck, she hopes you stay inside. She doesn’t want to have to tell you all this, to stress you out for the sake of the kid.

So she’ll have to stop by their hideout, have a little talk with the guys at the bar. It's been a while since she's had a good game of cat-and-mouse.

The next day, she returns to a cold, stale silence inside her apartment. Different than when you’re sleeping or in the bathroom when she gets home. Empty.

She checks the other rooms to make sure and, just like she suspected, you’re not here. Shoes no longer near the front door, jacket still thrown over the back of the couch, a dent taken out of the money she always leaves behind.

Panic. The first place her brain goes. Did you leave in a hurry? Were you in trouble? Had he already tracked you here?

This is exactly why she never wanted to get attached. Sevika is not irrational. The word has no business in her damn vocabulary, and yet here she is, pacing a hole in the floor, fucking up her hair with her fingers because you're not here and the Undercity is a big place and she has no idea where to even start looking.

But she has to start.

She leaves out the front door and beelines down the hallway, shaking the nerves from her hands. Just as she goes to exit the building, a hooded figure steps inside.

There's no mistaking the roundness of your belly, the shape of your body even beneath the familiar cloak draped over your shoulders (an old one she used to wear, left folded in the bottom of a drawer).

You spot her with a wide smile. “Sevika, hey—“

She strides up then pulls you into a hug, arms tight around your shoulders, and you squeak as the breath leaves you in a rush, a paper bag rustling in hand. You wrap your unoccupied arm around her waist, hood falling off the back of your head.

“Nice to see you, too.”

She pulls away and takes your face between your hands, brows pinching up in the center. “Don’t do that to me again.”

Don’t make me worry. Don’t make me think about you every moment I’m awake. Don’t make me care.

“What?” Confusion washes over your face, and you grasp at her wrist. “I just went to get food.”

Not what she’s talking about, but she doesn’t expect you to understand. Neither does she, really. The special place that she's sets aside for you in her heart.

Even without the similarities to your situation and her deepest regrets, she—

Well. That seems to be the problem. You're her second chance.

“Whatever, just… let's go.”

Admittedly, she's frustrated when she walks back to the apartment with you in tow. All that stressing for nothing. Deals with enough bullshit on a daily basis without adding you into the mix.

She collapses onto the couch, balances an elbow on the armrest, and worries a hand over her forehead. Bone-deep exhausted. It’s been a long two days.

You settle in next to her, plastered against her side, and open your paper bag. The smell hits her: pastries from the small bakery down the street.

“I got some berry muffins. Wasn’t sure what kind you like, so they gave me a variety.” Huh. How thoughtful of you. “You gotta be hungry.”

“I'm not.”

“Oh, don't be that way. You need to eat.” You hold up a muffin in front of her face, waving it around as if to entice her. “They're really good,” you sing, and she turns to glare at you.

“I'm not a baby.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

She takes the food from your hand with a huff and bites a large chunk out of it to shut you up.

Apple. Go figure.

“Good, right?”

Might be the best she’s ever had.

She shrugs. “I’ve had better.”

With a scoffing laugh, you shove at her shoulder. “Liar.”

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence as you eat. A dozen muffins gone in five minutes, so full you don't even want to move.

Sevika sighs. “So. How have you been?”

“Haven’t been sleeping well. Nightmares.”

She hasn’t either. Can't sleep anymore without a warm weight against her back.

“What kind of nightmares?”

“The scary kind.” You rest your head on her shoulder, folding then unfolding the paper bag in your hands. “Just feel like something bad is gonna happen. I dunno.”

She can't tell you what she learned at the bar. You're still too skittish, too emotional to not freak out, and that's even more dangerous than being kept in the dark. At least you're safe with her, but she can't protect you if you decide to run off while she's gone.

She leans her weight against you, just enough to remind you that she's here. “If it does, we'll handle it.”

“What if you're gone?”

“Trust me. I'll know about it.”

Your cheek moves against her shoulder, and she looks over to find you grinning. “I'm so glad I'm not on your bad side.”

Venturing into Smeech’s territory is always an uncomfortable affair. The chaos is worse here, streets littered with trash and tossed-aside food and cigarette butts. Darker, too. Oppressive.

At least she knows the way to her destination. Stopped here a few times to swap information about one thing or another, and for the most part, the people she passes leave her be. She ignores the ones who don't.

When she steps inside the small building, the air fogs up with smoke so thick she heaves a cough. Packed with all types of people: working girls curled up in laps, soot-covered miners chatting at the bar, Smeech’s goons gathered around tables at the back. It only takes her a few moments of searching the crowd before she finds the pockmarked man from the bar, sat in the corner with two other men over a round of drinks.

She strolls up to the table and plops down in an unoccupied chair, and the men pay her no mind, still deep in conversation.

“Got a question for you boys,” she says, loud enough for them to hear over the crowd.

The one with the pockmarks snorts her way, taking a large gulp of his drink. “Who’s asking?”

“Me.” She leans forward when they turn to finally look at her, resting her metal arm atop the table. “I have some information one of your friends might be interested in.”

They all lean forward at that, setting their glasses down.

“Is’at right?”

“Heard from a little birdie that somebody’s looking for a pregnant girl. I know where she is.”

She’d never offer you up to them, but just the thought of their hands anywhere near you makes nausea broil in her stomach. Has to remind herself for a moment that this isn’t real. She’s playing pretend.

The pockmarked man slowly nods, gaze sharpening as he sizes her up. “Alright. Kid’ll wanna know that.”

“What’s his name? I can go find him.”

Hook.

“Or I can tell him for you.”

She shakes her head, face twitching into a grimace. “No can do. His ears only.”

Line.

He glares at her a long moment, tongue swiping over his teeth in some unnecessary display of bravado. One she doesn’t have time for.

With a disappointed sigh, she rises to her feet. Says, “No name, no information.”

And just as she goes to turn away—

“Alright, alright. Kid goes by Joker. Hangs out around The Smiling Jack. Know where that is?”

Sinker.

“I do.”

Easiest interrogation of her life. Barely worth the damn time it took to get here.

She leaves without turning back.

Sevika opens her eyes that morning and knows that something bad is gonna happen. Doesn't know what, or why, or how, but anxious dread settles like a stone in the pit of her stomach.

The feeling follows her throughout the day. Through her trip to the docks for a package, then to Silco's for its delivery, then down to the markets to settle a minor territory dispute. By the time she makes it back to Silco's office, she's exhausted yet wound-up. Expecting a fight with the unknown while fully unprepared.

The time comes when a bouncer creeps into his office, wide-eyed and wary. “Sevika. Hate to bother you, but there’s a girl downstairs wanting to talk to you. I didn’t know what to tell her.”

She already knows it’s you. Doesn’t even have to ask as she strides past him to the balcony overlooking the dance floor. And for you to be here, to leave the safety of her apartment past dark can only mean one thing: trouble.

It’s horrible timing. She has a meeting with Silco any moment, and here you are, huddled in the corner of the club, face shadowed by your hood. You look small, defenseless, ripe for the picking.

She stomps down the steps to the ground floor, people from the crowd staring as she crosses the room to meet you.

“What happened?” she asks, hand rising to rest on your shoulder as she looks you over for injuries.

You tremble beneath her touch, wide-eyed beneath the hood of her old cloak. “I went to the bakery to get some more muffins and these guys were standing outside the apartment when I walked out, and I noticed that they were following me but I didn’t know what to do so I went to the bakery anyway—“ you inhale a deep breath, growing more frantic as your story goes on, “and Tayla was there behind the counter. You haven’t met her but she’s really sweet and when I told her what happened she told me to hide in the back room until they left.”

You pause a moment to look around before continuing, “They stood outside for so long, to the point that I fell asleep at this desk they have in the office, and as soon as I woke up I came here.”

Sevika blinks. Tries to process the mountain of information you just gave her. So two men found out where you were staying, followed you to the bakery, then you came here.

Which means they could’ve followed you here. You can’t leave yet, not without her.

Stupid fucking meetings.

The hand on your shoulder squeezes to draw your attention back to her. “Listen. I've got a guy outside. Tell him you're with me, and he'll watch you until I'm finished here.”

One of Silco’s loyalists, a man she’s worked with countless times before. Hopefully, you know what to say. She doesn’t have time for a debrief.

“No, please–” You reach out to grab her, shaking hands tight around her wrist. “Please don't leave me.”

“I have to.” More than anything, she wishes she didn't. “Wait outside.”

She urges you toward the door with a gentle hand on your back, then heads back up to the office. Silco already sits in his chair when she strolls in, fingers tapping impatiently on his desk.

He scolds her for being late, and that’s the only thing she comprehends for the entirety of the meeting with you worming around in her skull. Something that happens more often these days.

You’re driving her crazy.

He can tell that she's distracted—as if it isn't the most obvious thing in the fucking world—but lets it go in favor of dismissing her once he's gone over the week's activities.

She doesn't hesitate to leave, bullying her way through the club, and her heart drops to the pit of her stomach when she sees the man she secondhand entrusted you to tossing back drinks at a nearby table.

Her first mistake was thinking some asshole would actually do his job.

She drags him out of the chair by the collar of his shirt, the glass in his hand shattering on the floor. “You're supposed to be outside.”

He stutters, eyes widening in surprise. “I was! I just came in to get a drink.”

“Where's the girl?”

He squints up at her. Clearly had more than just a drink. “Huh?”

Her hand tightens around his collar. “The girl I told you to watch.”

“Shit, she’s fine! I left her right outside, next to the door.”

With a frustrated growl, she shoves him away and leaves for the alley.

The first thing she hears when she steps out the door is a hushed conversation:

Who have you told?

Nobody, I swear.

She turns the corner and spots two figures against the wall, one trapping the other with a hand on their face. No mistaking you.

“Long way from home, Joker,” she calls, boots thumping on the pavement.

A surprised laugh echoes off the walls as he releases you, stepping away to spread out his arms. “Sevika. I heard you were lookin’ for me. Also heard you've been walking around the Lanes with a little stray nipping at your heels.”

Her lips twist into a scowl at his mocking tone, and she glances over at you huddled against the wall, a shaking hand pressed to your cheek.

“Let’s get on with it,” she growls, prosthetic hand clenching into a fist at her side.

He stops. Shakes out his arms as spider-like fingers elongate, each metal joint bending back with a squeal as they separate into razor-sharp knives beneath the sleeves of his coat.

Huh. Never seen that before.

Sevika readies herself. Tosses her cloak aside and adjusts her stance, heart pounding against her chest, blood burning hot in preparation for a fight.

This is what you saw before he—

He propels himself forward, crossing the distance between them in an instant. She sidesteps at the last second, head twisting away from his clawing hand. But she isn’t quick enough. The needle tip of a finger cuts across her brow, a stream of blood catching on the corner of her eye.

They turn to face each other. Her focus narrows as she sizes him up, lets him back her away from the mouth of the alley while your form slowly fades into the shadows.

That’s it, asshole. Keep it coming.

“Why you running?” he asks, smile toothy and wide. “Is the big, bad Sevika scared?”

He lets his guard down, slightly rising from a crouch, movements quick but imprecise, stance novice-like. Cocky.

Boring.

She rushes him, her prosthetic fingers slotting between his claws and twisting, bending them back with a spark of light. Her other fist catches the edge of his jaw, a crack from her knuckles as he stumbles onto a knee, arm stretched out behind him from her grip on his mangled fingers.

She rectifies that by ripping them out. Tossing them behind her.

“Scared, am I?” she asks, skirting the range of those annoying ass knives to face him. “Get the fuck up.”

He stumbles to his feet in a rage, growling as he runs at her again. Stabs his arm out when she ducks under his slash but fails to turn his hip into the motion, leaving his left side wide open. Exactly what she needed.

It takes less than two seconds for her to block with her fleshy arm and plant her metal fingers between two of his ribs. To shove him back until he hits the wall, teeth bared as he growls and spits blood from his mouth. Yanks his hand in an attempt to dislodge his claws.

Thankfully, her forearm wasn’t impaled, but the blood pours down her bicep and shoulder. Cut all to shit.

She heaves a much-needed sigh to calm the pounding of her heart, wriggles her arm out of his hold and presses it to her stomach to stem the bleeding. “Congratulations. This was the most boring fight I’ve ever been in.”

Anticlimactic, really. She didn’t expect him to go down so easily after all that bravery. Look where his shit-talking got him.

She yanks out her prosthetic hand with a wet squelch, and he slides down the wall, gritting his teeth around a pained cry.

From the corner of her eye, she sees it: the swing of a pipe. She stumbles away before it can hit her, eyes wide as your form comes into view, your face contorted in pure rage. It meets the side of his head with a squishy thump, knocking him to the ground.

She steps out of the way.

You need this. An outlet for your pain, to give the finishing blow. Sevika did her part.

She lets you bludgeon him as she catches her breath, wiping her face off with the hem of her shirt. It’s a bloody affair, already drying on her prosthetic and clothes, and the spray of his blood covers you, too.

You, consumed by anger, screaming at him until your voice grows hoarse:

I fucking hate you.

You ruined my life.

Motherfucker. Asshole. Piece of shit.

When you start coughing, she looks over at you. Still going, kicking at him with an exhausted foot. His head isn’t even a head anymore, just a bowl for brain and blood and tissue. No coming back from that. Gone.

It’s over.

She steps in. Wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you back to her chest with little effort, smearing her blood on your shirt and skin. You struggle against her, wriggling beneath her hold, and she presses a cheek to your temple.

“Alright. Hey, it's done. You got him, honey.”

She scrubs a calloused hand up and down your arm because she knows the adrenaline crash well, and the way you collapse into her, chest heaving for breath, blares a warning that you’re already there.

Which is how she knows what comes next.

You rip free from her and stumble over to the wall, palms flat against the brick as you throw up and cough and heave until your lungs threaten to collapse.

Yeah. She doesn't miss those days.

She walks up to you as the pain of her injury finally blooms, and soothes a hand over your back as you brace your body against the wall, legs threatening to give.

“It’ll pass soon.”

You spit onto the pavement. Turn to glance up at her with red, teary eyes. “I’m aware.”

Still, the anger consumes you. She knows that feeling well. Shaped hers into a weapon, a default state of being after everything else failed her. Too bad that finally worked—anger is a hard emotion to shake.

You rest a hand over your stomach with a wet cough, turning to fully face her. “Fuck, I feel awful.”

“Water will help.” She holds out a bloody hand, and you take it, eyes empty and lifeless as you meet her stare. “Come on.”

She spares what’s left of Joker little more than a glance as the two of you pass by, but takes a moment to grab her cloak from the ground. He doesn’t deserve recognition even in death, and she shields you from the sight, steering you away with an arm across your shoulders.

The bouncers wave you inside, and she stops to tell them what happened. They’ll find somebody to take care of it. Always do.

She sits you down at an unoccupied corner of the bar where the shadows bleed deepest. You’re about to have a really bad time, and you deserve the privacy to unpack everything until she can get you home.

You down the cup of water she brings you in four big gulps, then hand it back and ask if she can bring you another. And then another, and another. After the third cup, she cuts you off. You’re no doubt one sip away from throwing up all over the floor.

She sits down beside you, a thick towel from the bar tied around her weeping arm. You’re bloody from head-to-toe, some hers but most his, glistening to an almost comedic extent beneath the flashing neon lights.

You stare ahead, blinking in thought. Calm.

Shock.

“I just killed someone.”

Back here, the music muffles, quieter than on the main floor. Don’t have to scream even when you sit right next to each other.

“You did.”

“I got you hurt.”

“He did.”

“I shouldn’t have come here. What if he killed you?”

She coughs out an amused laugh. “That prick? I’m insulted.”

You don’t laugh, or smile, or joke back with her. You just sit there, still as stone.

“I lied to you before.”

She pauses, leans in as your voice shrinks to hear over the vibrating bass. “About?”

“I did know him. We… we used to be friends, I guess, through his sister. I lived with her family after my mom died, and he was always really nice to me until… well. You know the rest.”

“So how'd you end up on the street?”

You swallow thick, eyes misting beneath the lights. “I tried to tell my friend what happened, but she didn't believe me. Said she knew her brother and he'd never do something like that.” You wipe a frustrated hand over your eyes. “She kicked me out. Didn’t even let me get my shit.”

Everything makes a lot more sense now. Why he was so adamant on finding you. Why you were in that alley in the first place. What the goons meant when he said you could use the kid against him.

Something inside her shatters. A crumbling of walls at the sight of you collapsing into sobs.

She wraps you up in an awkward side hug, arm exploding with pain, but she doesn't know what else to do. Can't say anything that would make the hurt stop.

The two of you are seated on the couch again. Hours out from a shower, teeth brushed, ready for bed. But neither of you can move from this spot. The soft cushions seek to swallow you up after the day you’ve had.

Nobody's ever brushed her hair for her. Maybe her mom when she was little. It's not like she'd actually let someone, but you're the first person to ever offer, and she’s so exhausted she took you up on it.

It’s nice. Nicer than she expected. You’re gentle about it, brushing from ends to roots, combing your fingers through each section afterward to make sure that all the tangles are out. She could fall asleep right now.

A tangible, piercing weight against the side of her face makes her turn her head. Your gaze tends to do that. Affection so thick it manifests into reality.

“Your hair looks pretty like this,” you say, soft and content.

“A mess?”

“Mhmm. You look a lot more relaxed.”

She shoots you an unimpressed look. “Haven't relaxed a day in my life.”

You set the brush down on the coffee table then cuddle closer to her, testing the boundaries of her personal space. She wants to say something, to push you away, but she's exhausted and—

And frankly, she doesn't fucking want to. You're warm and soft, and she needs that right now. The comfort, the companionship. Things she's deprived herself of for years, decades at this point. But there's not a fucking point anymore. You're bonded for life, share the blood on your hands of a man who deserved a fate worse than death.

Her eyes catch the swollen curve of your nose, the abrasion on your cheek, and she's ready to kill him again. She scrubbed the blood from beneath her nails hours ago, and yet she still feels it there, cloying and sticky.

She stares at you, brows pinching together, half-terrified and half-angry. “I don’t know how to be anything else besides this.”

Cold and cruel. A weapon of destruction. Lonely. A lot of very bad things.

“Then don’t.” You shrug, as if your solution is common sense. Easy. “But I think you want to be a worse person than you actually are. I mean, you saved me from that alley.”

“I almost left you there.”

“But you didn’t.”

She stares at you, eyes flickering over your features—the curve of your cheeks, the shape of your lips, the color of your eyes. You hold no resentment, no anger for her admission. For a moment, she almost believes you.

“I wanted to.”

But you have no idea what kind of person she is. The shadows that haunt her.

”But you didn’t.” You lean in close, close enough for her to count your lashes, for the curve of your belly to press against her side, and she holds her breath. “And you buy me books, and cook me food, and put my socks on. You let me cuddle you. You make me feel better when I’m sad.”

Don't do this to me. Please don't do this. I can't take it.

Things weren't supposed to go like this. She did what she thought was right, and now her entire world has upended because of you. She's soft now, malleable with you around. It's dangerous. Could fuck up everything she's worked so hard for, the empire she helped build with the teachings from her old man.

You brush a strand of hair behind her ear, thumb caressing her skin just above the jagged cut on her eyebrow, so tender she could cry, and she blinks away the mist in her eyes as you smile—that same smile with your crescent-shaped eyes and full cheeks. So much fuller since she saw you that night in the alley.

She did that. Something so gratifying about watching you get better in her care.

Maybe you’re right.

“You’re good to me.” Her heart threatens to shatter her ribs, right hand fisting the fabric of her pants as you rest your palm on the curve of her knee. “I'm so glad for that. Glad I met you.”

So is she. Her life has meaning on a human-need level. Someone to come back to, that’s seen the worst in her and still chose to stay. A home that feels like home, with your little decorations laid out across the apartment, your own personal fingerprint that brings life to the space.

She doesn’t say and of that, though. Couldn’t form the words if she tried.

So she kisses you instead. Hopes you understand from the press of her mouth that the feeling is mutual and terrifying and exhilarating all at the same time.

It's what you've been waiting for, coaxing her toward all evening. Pitiful little thing, so desperate for love that you settle for hers. All but worthless and you don't even know it yet, but a part of her knows that you wouldn’t care.

Once your lips meet, neither of you can stop. A crescendo of the last three months together—the eggshell-walking and the what-ifs, and she tried to prevent this for as long as she could, but she knows a thing or two about inevitability.

You kiss her like you love her, like you pour your soul into each flick of your tongue against hers. Sevika doesn't do things in quarters or halves, and neither do you. She understands that now. All or nothing.

Her metal hand cups the underside of your thigh, dragging you into her lap. You smell nice, ripe at the curve of your neck where she layers wet, sucking kisses. You whisper her name like a promise, comb scratching fingers through her hair, and she fights every cell in her body to keep from marking you with her teeth.

Not now. Not yet. Some time soon when you stop feeling like glass in her hands.

You grip the strands at the base of her skull, tilting her head back against the couch, and her lips spread into a salacious smile at the bite of pain in her scalp.

Seems her stray kitten has claws.

You fit your thumb inside her mouth, following the blunt underside of her front teeth. Back and forth, before you press against the wet heat of her tongue.

“So pretty,” you mutter, eyes lidded as they roam the features of her face, as if you’re seeing her for the first time.

She bites you. Just hard enough for you to jolt, a jarring scrape of her teeth against the fleshy pad of your thumb. You pull away in a fit of giggles, smacking her lightly on the right arm.

“Don't do that!”

“Don't call me pretty.”

Don’t let me be vulnerable.

“Then what can I call you?” You lean forward, mouth brushing along the curve of her jaw. “Beautiful?” A kiss just below her ear. “Handsome?” Another against the pulse of her neck.

Heat wells in the pit of her stomach at your words, at the kisses you trail down her neck and across the bare skin of her shoulder.

“Nothing.”

You sit back with a huff, lips twisted up in a pout. “Then I'll call you all of them.”

She rolls her eyes, response quickly ripped from her thoughts when you suck a rough kiss into her collarbone, and then the curve of her jaw, and then the column of her throat. A hand cradles the back of your neck as your hips grind against her, thumb following your thumping pulse.

“I'm sorry,” you pant into her shoulder, nipping her with your teeth, “but you're so pretty and it's been so long—”

She shushes you, lips ghosting against your temple. “Take what you need.”

You whine into her neck, shuffling your legs around to straddle a muscular thigh, and she curls a warm palm over the curve of your ass. Thicker here, too, filled out everywhere. You lean back, balance yourself with both hands on her knee, and rut your hips against the rough fabric of her pants.

You’re a sight to behold. Head thrown back to expose the column of your throat, full tits bouncing under your shirt with each pass you make over her thigh. The wet spot your cunt leaves behind drives her a little crazy, sunburst-hot between the legs. She wonders what you taste like, how tight you’d be around her fingers. How wet she can get you. How many times she can make you cum in a row.

How good she can make you feel.

“Needed this, didn't you?” she rasps, hands moving to your hips to help you build up a steady rhythm.

“Yes—“ You lift your head to look at her, head lolling on your shoulder, slack-jawed, brows tilted up in pleasure. “Fuck. Please.”

“I know.” She cups a hand over the back of your neck, eyes roaming over your face. (So pretty. So sweet. So soft.) “I’ve got you.”

She doesn’t expect you to start crying. To nuzzle against her wrist and repeat the same two words over and over again:

Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Her heart aches like a fresh bruise. You’ve suffered so much, more than she probably knows, and still, you’re good. Soft and sweet. Weak. Ill-fitted for the world of the Undercity.

You collapse forward with a ragged gasp, forehead fitting perfectly in the curve of her shoulder. Like you were made for each other.

(A good thing she found you then.)

Curled up against her, your body tenses, lungs seizing as you rock against her so hard the couch creaks.

And then everything stops. You breathe again, your muscles relax, you press a kiss to her lips that tastes like the salt of tears.

“Thank you,” you whisper, panting breath ghosting over her mouth.

She grins, hand soothing over the curve of your back. “Any time.”

You exhale a laugh, hiding your face in her shoulder. “Sorry. I got a little carried away.”

“A little?”

“Stop. It’s embarrassing.”

“Quite the show, though.” The slick mess she’s made in her pants is proof of that. “I liked it.”

You whine, carefully rolling off her lap to the cushion beside her. “It’s not nice to tease people.”

“Do you know who you’ve been living with?”

You try to glare at her, though your venom is less potent with how fucked-out you look. Reminds her of the pent-up heat in the pit of her stomach.

She needs a damn shower—twenty minutes, hot water, and her imagination. A few good orgasms should do the trick.

“Do you want me to…” Your hand finds its way to the inner curve of her thigh, and her hips twitch in response, a silent invitation completely out of her control.

Not that she doesn’t want it (fuck, she does), but your eyes struggle to stay open, unfocused as you look up at her.

“You’re falling asleep.”

“I still want to.”

She shakes her head, curls her fingers around your wrist. “Go to bed. I’ll take care of it.”

“Can I watch?”

She rises to her feet with a hoarse laugh then pats you on the leg. “No. Bed.”

Twenty minutes, a stream of hot water, her imagination, and three orgasms later, she falls into bed beside you and promptly passes the hell out.

She wakes up beside you in nothing but a pair of underwear, face down against the sheets. Has no idea how she didn’t smother to death in her sleep.

When she turns her head, she finds you already awake with your nose in some book she brought home last week, lit by the morning sun that streams in through the window. Glowing. Beautiful.

Shit. She has it bad.

“Can I ask you something?”

At the sound of her voice, you smile, looking away from your book. “Of course.”

“You plan on keeping the kid?”

The first thing out of her mouth, a bit impulsive from the foggy remnants of sleep. A question she’s been wondering this whole time.

You wince like she's smacked you across the face, and she wishes she could take the words back. “Listen…” a heavy sigh, “I know it doesn’t make sense, but I feel protective over her. It's not something I can even explain—”

“You don't have to.”

Your head drops, and you fiddle with the pages of your book. “Sevika, I don't have anybody. But I can… I can start over now, give her a good life. We don't have to run anymore.”

“You keep saying ‘her’.”

“She's a girl. I can feel it.” You look down at your belly, head tilting to the side as you give it a steady pat. “It's funny. I don't even know how far along I am.”

Sevika blinks. Never realized that she doesn't either. “Then you need a doctor.”

“Can't afford one.”

“I can.” She shrugs, as if her solution is common sense. Easy.

“I'm not gonna ask you to do that.”

She sits up with a pained groan (fuck, she needs to change her bandage) and ignores the way your eyes lock on to her bare chest. Bites back a teasing grin. “I offered. And besides, we gotta make sure the kid's okay.”

You look at her like she hangs the stars in your sky. “See what I mean? You’re so good to me.” A chaste kiss to her lips, the ghosting taste of cheap tea. “More than you realize.”

Maybe if you say it enough, she'll start to believe it.

Maybe a part of her already does.

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