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stagtorccio · 16 hours ago

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into you (like a train)

lottie matthews x fem!reader

request: x summary: you didn’t survive pep rallies, hallway politics, and three separate backstabbing best friends just to end up stranded in the middle of a hippie forest cult. and yet, here you are. rating: explicit, 18+ warnings: manipulation (who's surprised), mentions of drugging, fingering (r receiving), it's secretly fluff if you get through the horrors word count: 4.2k author's note: two (three?) lottie requests back to back ... gotta show love to the forest's favorite weirdoe

AO3

𓃢𓃦𐂂 ── .✦

You didn’t survive pep rallies, hallway politics, and three separate backstabbing best friends just to end up stranded in the middle of a hippie forest cult.

And yet, here you are.

You’ve stopped counting days. Somewhere around month sixteen, it just got pathetic. But your body knows how long it’s been. You feel it in the way your posture has slipped into a slouch, in the knots in your calves, the dirt under your nails that never really washes out.

You weren’t built for this shit.

You were built for Friday night lights and cutting glances across cafeteria tables. You were built for late-night parties in basements that smelled like sweat and booze, for soft, low-stakes cruelty. You used to rule in a world of social hierarchy.

Out here? The only thing that matters is who’s still standing. So you keep your head down. Stay useful; clean wounds, haul water, cook. You’ve done things nobody should have to. You’ve bitten your tongue more times than you can count.

Sometimes, though, when it’s late, and the fire’s low, and your hands are too sore to keep working, your mind drifts. Wanders too far from the woods, to a time when things were simpler. Or at least, when they felt that way. Back before the plane crashed, that faux anno domini that it ushered in. Back when the worst thing you had to worry about was a failed algebra test and whether someone was picking on your boyfriend.

Travis.

God, he used to be such a dumbass.

A sweet one, though. Sweet in that awkward, boyish kind of way, like he’d never quite figured out what to do with his hands or how to step out of his father’s shadow. He always tried too hard to act detached, but you knew better. You could see it in the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing that made sense to him when the rest of the world didn’t.

And for a little while, that had been enough. Until it wasn’t. A relationship borne of necessity, when high-school social war sparked symbiosis: Travis needed you to deter his bullies, you needed Travis to boost your reputation.

It was never going to last past graduation, that much was evident. Somewhere along the way, you realized that loving him didn’t feel the way it was supposed to. That the softness you felt toward him wasn’t quite the kind you’d been told it would be. That kissing him didn’t make you feel more like yourself, it made you feel like you were trying on clothes that didn’t quite fit.

You never told him all of that, not really. Just said it wasn’t working. That you were better as friends. He didn’t fight you on it. He probably felt it too.

Still, you cared. Care, present tense.

Which is why watching him now, distant and quiet, with that glazed look in his eyes after another one of Lottie’s “attempts to connect”, makes your stomach churn.

It’s not just the look, either. It’s everything.

The way he barely talks anymore unless prompted. The way he flinches at sudden noises, and worse, sometimes doesn’t flinch at all, even when he should. The times you sat with him for hours, brushing wet hair out of his face, whispering whatever scraps of comfort you could muster. Telling him stories from back home, dumb girl shit about the mall food court and parking lot fights and fucking Madonna . Anything to bring him back.

Now, he follows Lottie like she hung the fucking moon.

And maybe that’s what pisses you off the most. Not just the fear, not just the helplessness, but the betrayal, this other version of him that doesn’t even see you anymore. Like all those nights holding him through panic, all the ways you tried to keep him tethered, they didn’t stick. They didn’t matter. You’re not sure when the reminiscing turns to rage, but it does, and fast. It rolls up inside you hot and sharp, something sour blooming in your chest.

Because it’s bullshit. All of it. The rituals, the whispery nonsense Lottie’s been feeding them, the way everyone’s just letting her take over, like she’s ordained , like the fucking wilderness is a home and not a cage. And no one’s stopping her.

But the night you see Akilah crying by the fire, that’s it.

She’s hunched near the edge of camp, half-shadowed, knees tucked up to her chest like a terrified child. The firelight flickers across her face, catching on the sheen of tears.

No one’s comforting her. No one’s even looking . It’s just another failed “connection,” another night of silence from the so-called wilderness, and another girl cracked open by the promise of something that was never real.

You catch sight of Lottie’s back disappearing into the trees. And then you move. You don’t think, you go , across the clearing, past the embers and the indifferent stares.

It ends tonight.

You follow her, and she doesn’t hear you at first, or maybe she does and just doesn’t care. She stops at the base of a towering tree, hands clasped in front of her, head tilted.

You watch the line of her neck, the slow rise of her chest with each inhale. Her lips move silently and candlelight dances across her features, gold flitting to and fro.

The sight ignites a spark in your gut. Hot, pulsing tension curling low in your stomach that pulls and pulls with the inevitability of gravity. You grit your teeth. You want to grab her. Shake her . Say something cutting, cruel, remind her she’s not divine, not chosen. Just a girl playing God.

“Lottie,” you snap, voice already rising. “You need to stop.”

She turns slowly, calm. Expectant . It’s fucking infuriating.

“Stop what?” she asks, all saintly softness, like you haven’t just watched her break someone again.

“You’re hurting them.” The words cut sharp. “You’re hurting Travis, and Akilah— what the fuck did you do to her?”

Lottie tilts her head, unreadable. “She saw something. She’s still learning—”

“She didn’t see shit!” The words rip out of you. “She’s scared and confused and crying and you’re just— what, gonna leave her like that?”

“She’s… opening,” Lottie says evenly. “It’s painful, but necessary.”

“You’re fucked up , Lot,” you snap, voice dropping. “You’re sick in the fucking head.”

Something flickers in her eyes at that. Disappointment, hurt. But still, she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t raise her voice. And well, that just pisses you off. You shove her. She stumbles back a step, catching herself on the tree behind her. And when she straightens again, it’s with surprise, like she predicted everything but this twist.

“I know you’re angry,” she says, like she’s trying to soothe a wild animal. “But you’re not like this.”

You laugh. “Don’t tell me who the fuck I am.”

You’re on her in an instant. Your hand finds her throat before you think. Not tight, not crushing, just enough to feel the frantic drum of her pulse beneath your palm. Just enough to make her still. Her back hits the tree, your bodies too close, breath tangled.

Lottie swallows. Her lashes flutter. For the first time, she looks unsure.

“If you ever touch them again—” You lean in, your nose brushing hers. “If you go near Akilah, or Travis, or anyone else, I will make you fucking choke on this messiah complex you’ve got, I swear to God—”

You don’t get to continue, because lips lock yours up tight.

The kiss lands messy, open-mouthed, too fast, not trying to be gentle. It doesn’t ask for permission. It’s a break in the dam. It stuns you, and you freeze.

For a second, your rage spikes— How dare she ?— white-hot and blistering. But underneath it, beneath the raw heat in your throat, there’s something else. The fury doesn’t fade, but it twists. Blooms into a pang, the telltale gnaw of hunger.

You shove her off, just enough to break the contact. Just enough to catch your breath.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper, more to yourself than her. Your hands tremble.

“You need to calm down,” she says, voice steady, soft. “Or you’re going to do something stupid.”

That pisses you off all over again.

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” you snap, pushing forward again, hand still ghosting her throat. “You don’t know shit about me.”

She doesn’t flinch. “I know you’re hurting,” she says, and you even think she might be smiling .

Your chest feels tight. Your face is hot with shame, with rage, with that low, coiling need that keeps rising no matter how hard you shove it down. You shake your head.

“You’re so fucking full of yourself—”

Her hands are on you again before you can finish, one on your waist, the other ghosting up your chest to stop right over where your heart is thundering.

“If you want me to stop,” she says, “tell me now.”

You don’t say anything, jaw clenched tight.

So she closes the distance, kissing you again. It’s slower this time, more careful, like you don’t have your hand around her throat, like she’s never once been afraid of you. Her mouth moves against yours with such impossible patience, it startles something inside you loose.

She exhales against your lips, a little sound that shouldn’t make your pulse spike the way it does. You don’t know when your bodies started moving, pressing closer, but now you can feel her, the steady roll of her hips against yours, just enough friction to make your thoughts blur.

Her fingers slide up to your jaw, guiding you. The thought that occurs to you is a startling one: she’s been thinking about this . You break the kiss with a sharp inhale, forehead still pressed to hers, your breath shallow and hot.

“Jesus,” you mutter, a feeble attempt to save face. “How long have you been a fucking perv , Matthews?”

Her lips curve. Not in a smirk, it’s something sweeter, softer, hell, maybe even a little thrilled. It throws you.

“A while,” she says simply. “Since… before.”

You blink. You weren’t expecting her to admit it.

She tilts her head. Her hand trails from your waist to your lower stomach, fingers light, feathering just above your waistband.

“You’re very hard not to notice.”

You try to scoff, but it catches in your throat as her hand drifts lower, fingers sliding between your legs, cupping you through your clothes. It’s gentle, like everything else she’s done tonight, and that’s what undoes you. You let out a shaky breath.

“You’re so weird.”

It sounds utterly juvenile– better muttered in high-school halls, not somewhere like this, but Lottie’s hand stills for a second. Her breath hitches, just barely, and then she laughs, soft and surprised against your mouth. It’s not mocking. It’s warm. Delighted.

“Mm,” she murmurs, thumb dragging slow, deliberate circles now. “Is that what I am?”

And then another thought hits you, hard and hot and immediate: She likes it.

She likes it when you’re mouthy. When you snap. When you press your nails into her arms and call her names through clenched teeth. The realization floods you with something dizzying and hungry and— regrettably— mind-blowingly horny.

She kisses you again, and this time there’s something firmer in her grip, in the way her hand presses down between your legs. Her other hand finds your wrist, guiding your hand to her waist like she wants you on her.

Now, all you can think are three words on loop: I’m so fucked.

And then, God help you, her fingers find your belt. Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a gasp and a protest.

“Wait, we shouldn’t—”

“Shh,” she murmurs, already working the buckle loose, lips curling on a smirk, and you should say something else, but your brain’s been reduced to static, hands clenched tight in the fabric of her shirt as she pops the button and draws the zipper down slow.

She slips her hand past the waistband, past the cotton, and cups you properly now, skin to skin. The contact is electric. You jerk in her grip, a startled sound tumbling out of you before you can swallow it down.

“There you are,” she breathes, like it’s some wonderful discovery. Her thumb strokes, light but knowing, and your whole body tightens like a bowstring.

“ Shit ,” you swear without meaning to, and that prompts a laugh.

“You’re worked up,” she says, amused and affectionate. “... Was it the belt?”

“God, fuck off,” you whisper, not meaning it.

Her smile widens. And then she starts to move: slow, confident strokes, her other hand braced at your hip, keeping you steady while you start to come apart.

She’s good at this, sort of unfairly good, the kind of good that makes you wonder if it’s practice or intuition or just dumb luck. Her hand doesn’t rush or fumble— there’s just this smooth, certain rhythm, the kind of touch that makes your legs shake and your thoughts scatter. Every pass of her thumb pulls a sound out of you you weren’t ready to make, each one a little more embarrassing than the last.

You try to speak. Try to say her name, or ask her to slow down, but the words come out thin and broken.

“Lottie, I—” you gasp, but she cuts you off with a kiss to the side of your neck.

“Don’t talk,” she murmurs.

You clench your jaw, try again, but another shudder rolls through you, and your knees nearly give. Before you can collapse, her hands are already on you, one at your waist, the other sliding behind your shoulder blades, and then she’s turning you, gently but without asking, guiding your back against the tree.

“Here,” she murmurs, pressing her palm flat to your chest for a moment, just to feel you breathe. “Lean.”

Your shoulders hit bark, and then her body’s right there again, thigh between yours, hand back where you need it. She never even falters.

“There,” she whispers, lips brushing the edge of your jaw. “Better, huh?”

You nod, barely.

“Good,” she breathes. “Now don’t go anywhere.”

She strokes you again, firmer this time, and your head tips back with a sharp, choked sound. She circles your clit with the pad of her thumb, featherlight and taunting, while two fingers slide down, pressing in wet and easy from just how damn badly you want it.

You gasp, sharp, and Lottie groans like she’s the one being touched.

“There you go,” she whispers, kissing the edge of your mouth. “That’s good.”

Her fingers curl inside you, slow and firm, and the stretch has you keening, hips canting up into her hand. You’re already throbbing around her, your body betraying every last bit of control you thought you had. She works you open, dragging her fingers in a steady rhythm that leaves your thighs shaking.

You moan ragged and Lottie leans in, lips brushing your cheek, the curve of your ear. Her voice is a whisper, full of heat, but there’s something else threaded through it now, soft and guilt-tinged.

“I know you’re angry with me,” she says, and kisses you before you can answer, tongue licking into your mouth slow and aching. “But I didn’t mean to hurt you. With Travis. With any of it.”

You want to snap, spit something venomous, but her hand’s too fucking good. She drags that spot again, thumb never easing up on your clit, and your mouth just falls open, a broken noise spilling out instead.

She presses a kiss to your temple, gentle, almost chaste, in contrast to the slick, obscene sounds echoing from between your legs. You can feel her fingers inside you every time you clench, and you imagine how soaked her palm must be now.

“I just want to help,” she says, all dusky and breathless, and fuck , that lands low in your stomach.

Once again, you open your mouth to will actual words to come out, but she doesn’t stop. She fucks you through it, thumb pressing tighter, rubbing in wet circles that make your knees buckle. Your jaw clenches. You want to bite down on your lip, keep the whimper in your throat where it belongs, but it breaks free, needier than you’d ever admit.

Your chest tightens, fury still simmering just under your ribs like coals that won’t go out. You’re mad . You are. The memory of Akilah’s tears, the hollow look in Travis’s eyes, it still sits hot in your blood, makes your hands curl like you should shove her off again.

But she’s not cruel. Not right now. Right now, Lottie’s murmuring apologies against your cheek, mouth warm and tender, fingers inside you like she’s trying to soothe an ache. Like you’re the altar to which she’s devoted.

You swallow hard, eyes burning. It’s not fucking fair how good it feels to be… handled like this. You feel it mounting fast, tight and raw and electric, and it pisses you off how easily she’s pulling it out of you, pisses you off even more that you don’t want her to stop.

So you kiss her to shut her the fuck up.

Her breath catches in surprise, but she melts into it, kisses you like you’re air and she’s been drowning. Her fingers never slow, still driving into you, thumb circling harder now, pushing you right to the edge.

“Don’t stop,” you break the kiss only long enough to gasp, voice cracking.

You feel her smile against your mouth, barely there, before she presses her lips to your jaw, your throat, whispering soft nothings you can’t even hear over the blood rushing in your ears.

Her fingers work deeper, more insistent now, the heel of her palm catching perfectly with every roll of your hips. You bite your lip so hard it stings, trying to keep yourself quiet, but it’s useless. Your body jerks as it crests, white-hot pleasure tearing through you with a shudder.

It takes a moment to catch your breath. Your chest rising and falling hard, your legs trembling around her wrist. She’s still looking at you like you’re holy.

You blink, dazed, then scowl, or try to. Your voice is hoarse when you manage to speak.

“Promise me,” you rasp. “Promise you’ll stop hurting people.”

Lottie stills. You feel her breath against your throat. Her hand is gentle now, resting over your thigh. When she finally lifts her head, her eyes are dark and solemn.

“I’m not trying to hurt anyone,” she says. “I only ever wanted to help them.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

A beat. Her gaze drops, just for a second, then returns to yours.

“I promise,” she says softly. “If they want out, I’ll let them go.”

Your jaw tightens. You want to believe her. You’re not sure you do. But for now, you nod.

And for now, she kisses you again, reminding you of your tendency to return favors.

The morning sun filters in through slits in the sticks, warm and golden and entirely unwelcome.

Your head aches faintly. Your thighs moreso.

And then there’s the weight. Heavy, warm, and clinging, all limbs and heat and way too much fucking hair in your face. It takes you a second to place it.

The blanket’s tangled around your legs. There are rough furs under your back… and there’s a long, lanky frame pressed flush against your side, one arm slung across your waist, the other wedged beneath your neck.

Lottie .

And she’s wrapped around you like the world’s neediest koala. You groan quietly.

She stirs. Not all the way, just shifts and noses against your collarbone like she’s trying to burrow deeper. You lie there a moment, staring up at the roof of the shelter, heart thudding way too loud for the ass-crack of dawn.

You should move. Scratch that. You need to move before someone else does it for you.

“Lottie,” you mutter, nudging her gently. “Hey. Rise and shine.”

She makes a sound. Something between a sigh and a whine. You elbow her lightly. Okay, maybe not as lightly as you could, but you’re lacking fine motor skills right now.

“ Seriously . Up.”

That gets her attention. She blinks at you, still half-asleep, eyes puffy and hair a complete mess. You hate that it’s— God help you — cute.

“…I’ll get up,” she murmurs, voice gravel-rough. “Just… stay here a minute?”

“Can’t,” you say, already untangling yourself. “Chores. Nat’s gonna be on our ass already.”

Lottie’s fingers tighten slightly at your side. She leans up, presses a kiss just under your jaw before you can stand all the way. You’d love to pretend you aren’t flushed first thing in the morning— but really, there’s no denying it.

Your eyes meet. You look away first. Lottie keeps looking like she’s perusing a magazine, gaze trailing up and down in a faintly appraising way that has you burning even hotter.

“You know,” she says lightly, “we should go down to the lake later. Wash up. It’s warmer in the afternoon.”

You don’t look back at her. “S’a little early to ask to see me naked.”

You can hear the pure smart-assery in her tone when she speaks next: “I’ve already seen you naked.”

You choke. Turn around to find her grinning all Cheshire-like.

“That was— we were in a group . That’s contextual.”

Lottie hums. “Sure.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat in it. Just warm, fizzy awkwardness, shyness that comes with having someone look at you like you’re wanted.

“…I’ll think about it,” you say, quieter now.

She smiles, genuine this time. Less teasing, more soft.

“Okay.”

You shake your head and duck out of the shelter before you can say something stupider. With your back sore and your shirt wrinkled, you scope the area for any onlookers, only to walk directly into Van.

She stops. You stop.

She eyes your hair. Your neck. Your limp . Then her brows go up so high , and you know you’re so fucked .

Van’s face scrunches.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Good morning to you, too,” you mutter, tugging your shirt down.

“Did you get in a fight with a mountain lion ?” she continues, “Or did you just bust your ass? Seriously. You look like shit .”

You grit your teeth. “Can we not do this shit this early in the fucking morning?”

Van squints. Eyes you up and down again. Then cranes her neck toward the shelter behind you, where movement stirs and Lottie comes out next, equally as mussed, half as ashamed.

Her jaw drops.

“No,” she breathes. “No fucking way .”

“Shut up,” you snap. But it’s already too late.

Van lets out a strangled wheeze and doubles over, laughing like she’s just heard the funniest joke of her life. You lunge forward, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her away from camp before anyone else can hear.

She stumbles along beside you, barely able to breathe through the cackling.

“Oh my God,” she wheezes, “I knew you were gay.”

“ Van !” you hiss, clapping a hand over her mouth. She’s grinning under your hand. You can feel it.

You release her just long enough for her to gasp, “So? How was it? Are her fingers actually —”

You shove her. She nearly falls into a bush and laughs harder.

“Fuck off,” you mutter, ears burning.

“You like her,” she singsongs, following you down the path giddily.

“I don’t —”

“Oh, no, you’re right. You just fucked in the woods, then slept together , literally. Casual.”

“I swear to God.”

“But seriously, how was it? I mean, who was ringing the Devil’s doorbell ? Was there tongue ?”

You whirl around. “Van. Please . Shut the fuck up.”

She holds up her hands like she’s innocent. Like she’s not about to say something worse.

“I’m just asking,” she says, all faux-seriousness, “Can’t blame me for being curious.”

You groan and drop your head into your hands. Van claps you on the shoulder, smug and utterly relentless, still chuckling to herself.

“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

You lift your head. Narrow your eyes. “You’re going to tell Tai.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

You groan louder and start trudging back toward camp before you’re counted as missing. Van falls into step beside you, arms swinging, already halfway into her next round of commentary.

“So, you gonna do it again? Have a routine? Make a schedule ?”

“I'm not answering that.”

“You’re gonna. Eventually.”

You scowl at the ground and keep walking.

She pauses for dramatic effect. “ You know , for someone who spent months calling Lottie creepy, you sure folded like a lawn chair—”

“ Van —”

But then you stop.

Lottie’s standing near the animal pens, sleeveless dress flowing with the morning breeze, hair a little messy from sleep still, and a soft smile curling at the corners of her mouth like she knows exactly what you were just talking about.

She catches your eye. To your absolute horror , she waves, a shy thing that has you blushing up to your goddamn ears. You wave back.

Van explodes, laughter echoing through the trees like a fucking maniac.

“Oh my god!” she wheezes, grabbing your arm to keep from collapsing. “You’re fucked !”

You don't respond. Because unfortunately, she’s not wrong.

Not even a little.

#mdni #lottie matthews x reader #lottie matthews x you #yellowjackets x reader #if you see the messed up formatting its because i copy pasted from ao3 sorry

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stagtorccio · 1 day ago

Note

Hey man, you still write for companion?

Hope your alright!

Thanks

Anon

hi!!

i do still write for companion, im open to anything as long as i have a little bit of something to work off of 😭

thank you anon!!

#asks 🫎#i hope YOURE alright anon #right back atcha

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stagtorccio · 1 day ago

Text

Heartache | PART TWO: Don't Ruin This

pairing: natalie scatorccio/fem!reader

summary: Natalie shows up in the middle of the night—again. Things get physical—again. Then emotional. Then confusing. But really… when aren't things confusing with Natalie?

wc: 14,600

warnings: angst, fluff, smut, strap-ons (referred to as dick/cock), oral sex, hair pulling, fingering, begging, (referenced) semi-public sex, desperate sex, spit as lube, drug use (weed), alcohol use, false comfort, emotional repression, natalie scatorccio uses sex as emotional distraction (shock), i attempt to describe a soccer game (i have never watched a match), nat's childhood trauma in full force (once again, shock)

a/n: "spoons you know you can break it into more than one chapter it's okay—" shhhhhhhh let me write over 10k words for one chapter "write an essay, write a book, please i beg—" nuh uh im gonna write fanfiction

ao3 / masterlist

PREVIOUS - PART ONE: Will I Know You?

NEXT - PART THREE: UNTITLED

You haven't heard from Nat for days.

No knocks on your door at odd hours of the night, no phantom footsteps in the hall, and no calls to your phone that she never got the number for. It's not unusual, especially given your muddy history with her, but this time, it feels different for a reason you can't name.

Her copy of Trainspotting remains where she left it on your floor that morning—untouched—as if moving it would make her absence permanent, like the book was a promise you were gullible enough to believe in.

When you're lying in bed the following Friday, listening to Nothing Compares 2 U by Sinéad O'Connor on your CD Walkman, you're not thinking about Nat. No, you aren't thinking about her dumb laugh or stupid hair, and you definitely aren't thinking about the way she made you feel.

…Until the disc stops playing. Then, you're left alone in the oppressive darkness with nothing more than your thoughts. You debate putting in a new mixtape or just replaying the one you currently have in there, but listening to the ideas that run through your mind seems more comforting than hearing the trove of sad songs you have on hand.

The quiet whirring of the overhead fan is the only reprieve from the silence that surrounds you. It spins steadily above your head, a mechanical heartbeat to replace the one that started skipping the moment Nat stepped back into your life. You stare at the ceiling like it might offer answers. It doesn't.

She walks back into your life at exactly 2:19 A.M.

It's that same rapping on the door you've come to recognize: three slow knocks, three fast knocks, then three more slow knocks.

You don't think you've ever jumped to your feet so fast.

Your Walkman clatters to the floor, the burned CD you had inside falling out of the player as it opens upon impact. You stumble to the door, brushing salt and vinegar chip crumbs off of your shirt in an attempt to make yourself look half decent, and you take a deep breath to steel yourself before you unlatch the lock.

Nat.

She's standing at your door, wearing a faded band shirt, the school's letterman, a pair of ripped jeans, Converse, and holding the strap of a backpack that's flung over her shoulder. She doesn't look as rough as she did the last time she was here, but she still has a small handful of cuts and bruises.

"Hey," she murmurs, shifting on her feet, unable to meet your gaze. "I'm, uh, here for my book. Think I left it here last week, or something." She shrugs, like she's trying to find some excuse for being here that isn't just I wanted to see you.

You don't call her out on that, though. You never have, you never will.

"Yeah, of course. C'mon in." You step out of the door, allowing her to enter the room without any further prelude.

Nat moves as if she's been here a thousand times already.

She grabs the book off the floor, not even surprised that it's still in the same spot—you've always been sentimental—and sits herself on the bed. Not on the very edge as she did the last time she was in your dorm, but directly in the middle as she unzips her backpack.

"Thanks for keepin' this here. 'preciate it." She tucks the copy of Trainspotting into the bag, then proceeds to rifle around in there for a few more seconds before pulling out a dime bag of weed and some rolling papers. "I'm assuming you still can't roll for shit?" She looks up at you with a toothy grin, like she didn't just show up at some random hour of the night (again), lie and tell you she was just there for her book, and immediately assumed you still smoke weed.

Well, you do, but that's not important right now. What is important, however…

"I'm assuming you still buy ditch weed?"

Nat laughs, throwing her head back, and just like that, all the tension leaves your shoulders. You're no longer thinking about the fact you haven't seen her in a week; you're just happy to see her. "Nah. I upgraded. Some of the girls on the team have a friend who sells—good shit, this time—so I buy from him now." She huffs, shaking her head. "I no longer buy from some dude that smells like cat piss and sells out of his mom's basement, yeah? I've… moved up in life."

You return the laugh, sitting beside her on the bed and nudging her knee with yours. "Yeah, right. That shit's probably still ninety-percent stems."

"Nuh-uh!" She counters immediately, turning on your bedside lamp and waving the baggy around in front of your face. "Real nugs."

You squint at the bag for effect, grabbing it out of her hand and inspecting it under the light. "Hmm. I dunno, Scatorccio. Could be oregano, for all I know."

She makes a wounded noise—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh—and snatches it back with a muttered curse.

But then she's breaking down the weed in a grinder you didn't even realise she had pulled out, rolling the joint between her fingers like a professional, her knee brushing against yours as she works. You don't say anything at first—you just watch. The lamp's soft glow makes her look a little gentler, like the bruises are fading into memory.

For a minute, it feels normal. Comfortable. Like you didn't spend a week wondering if she'd ever show up again.

"How's your RA feel about pot?" Nat asks without looking up from what she's doing. "'cus mine's okay with it, 'long as you share. Am I gonna have to roll a joint for someone else?"

A laugh bubbles up from your throat, and you shake your head. "Ryan? As far as I know, he doesn't smoke. But he also seems like… he's a little too into the rules, y'know? He'd probably call campus security and demand they contact the cops."

Nat hums, adding some tobacco before nodding to your window and licking the sticky part of the hemp paper. "Crack the window, yeah? We'll blow the smoke out the window and hope the wind doesn't force it back in."

You get up and do as you're told without having to be asked again, popping the window and pushing it open as far as it'll go. "Doesn't go out farther than this. Some guy jumped out of the window in this building last year, so all of them are on some sort of… lock."

"Nice," Nat rolls her eyes, placing the spliff on the nightstand as she starts on your joint. "Did they also put up motivational posters? Someone in my dorm OD'd in the laundry room last semester. Instead of, I don't know, actually helping people, they just put up some stupid 'you matter' posters, like that's gonna do somethin'."

"Shit, we got posters everywhere. Actually…" You move off the bed and wander to your desk, rummaging through a cluttered cup of pens, highlighters, and miscellaneous crap until you find what you're looking for. You hold up a pencil in triumph and hand it to her. "They gave these out after a mandatory floor meeting last semester."

The words stamped along the side read in bold, cheerful font:

"YOU MATTER! (even when it doesn't feel like it)"

Nat breaks out in laughter, nearly dropping the half-rolled joint on the carpet. "Oh, shit! We got fuckin'… uh…" She waves her free hand, trying to fish the memory out from wherever it's buried. "They handed out these pens after it happened—swear to God—one of 'em said 'Breathe. You've got this.'" Her grin falters into something more incredulous than amused. "Which is… kinda fucked, right? Like—he couldn't. That was the whole problem."

Your smile twitches downward for a split second at the dark humour, but shrug it off just as quickly. "That's—Jesus. That's bleak." You shake your head, but not at her. "Like handing out umbrellas after a hurricane."

"Somethin' like that," she chuckles, passing you the joint. "God forbid they do anything to prevent it from happening."

"Nah." You roll the filter between your fingers, looking at her handiwork. "That means they actually have to try and care. Easier to play the sympathy card after the fact."

She grunts in agreement but doesn't speak on it further, grabbing her spliff from where she had put it down and shuffling closer to the window. The orange glow of the streetlight outside casts soft shadows across her face, and for a moment, she looks older than she should. Like someone who's seen too much, too young, or someone still waiting for the world to cut her a break.

You don't say anything, either. You just watch her in the quiet, the kind that only comes when it's too late to be awake for any good reason.

Nat sparks one of those cheap plastic lighters to life and brings it to the end of her reefer, taking a few puffs to get it going before passing the lighter off to you. She's courteous with the smoke, making sure to blow it all out the window before turning back around. Her gaze stays on you as you light your joint, expression unreadable.

Your first puff isn't nearly as clean, seeing as you cough profusely and canoe the joint, but that's beside the point. The warm laugh that falls from Nat's lips at your struggle is all that matters right now.

"Dude," she chuckles, nudging you with her foot. "You still got fuckin' baby lungs, huh? Some shit never changes."

"Yeah, yeah. Go fuck yourself," you say with a roll of your eyes, ashing the joint against the window pane. "Not all of us smoke ten joints a day and have the lungs of an eighty-year-old military vet who's been smoking since World War One."

"World War One?" Nat scoffs, exhaling smoke through her nose. "Christ. Give me some credit. World War Two, maybe. Korean War on a bad day."

The silence that follows after she finishes talking isn't stifling or unnerving, but rather… comforting—like walking back into a warm house after a cold winter's day or smoking a joint with an old friend that you have a strange connection to.

As much as you want to, you don't ask her where she's been, what she's been doing, or who she's been with. You're content enough watching how her face is carved out in the low light and how the shadows seem to highlight her features in a way that makes you feel seventeen again, hoping for something she was never ready to give.

By the time both of you have finished smoking, you have a nice, gentle buzz floating around your head. You think Nat makes a joke about how you were always a lightweight, and you're pretty sure you respond with some equal teasing, but the sound fades into white noise as you watch her lips move.

Maybe it's the weed. Maybe it's Nat.

But you're feeling bold.

So, you kiss her.

You lean in before you can stop yourself, cupping her jaw in both hands and drawing her in for a kiss that's more instinct than thought, and you let the feeling swallow you when she responds in kind. Your lips part just enough for Nat to take advantage of that, and you can't fight the groan that rips from your throat as her tongue enters your mouth.

At some point, she moves into your lap and wraps her arms loosely around your neck, shrugging her jacket off and carelessly discarding it onto the carpeted floor. Fingers tangle in your hair as she presses her chest against yours to be closer, kissing you like she's trying to erase the week you spent apart—like there's something she needs to prove, bury, or apologise for. Probably all of the above.

Cold fingers slip beneath the hem of her shirt, stretching across the taut skin of her stomach. She twitches slightly but doesn't stop you; she just lets herself feel as your thumbs trace the pale scars that scatter across her torso. They're small, healed over; touching them feels like you're handling something fragile—even though you know that Nat is far from it.

Your hands roam higher, reverent without meaning to be, palms skimming along warm flesh until they reach the edge of her bra. She doesn't flinch, leaning forward just enough for you to reach around her back, inviting your fingers to fumble at the clasp.

The fabric gives with a soft snap. Still, her shirt stays on, pooling loosely towards her right shoulder like she hasn't decided whether to stay or go. You press your hands to the newly exposed skin, and your mouth travels to her jaw and down her neck, biting hard enough to sting but not draw blood or leave a mark.

Nat sighs when you press the flat of your tongue to the hollow of her neck, but she pulls you back before you can go any further. You start to murmur a complaint, only for it to die on your tongue when you realise the reason for the distance was so she could remove her shirt and bra.

A part of you wishes there was more light in the room, like if the overhead light were working or it was midday instead of the dead of night. But there isn't. So you let your hands do the seeing, running up her torso and palming at her breasts greedily.

Her lips return to yours before you can say something stupid, tongue immediately seeking entrance to your mouth and fingers pushing underneath your clothes in an attempt to feel your bare skin against hers. She sighs into you as her calloused fingers spread over your stomach, dragging along the dip of your waist. There's no finesse to it—just heat and need and the quiet hum of her breath as she pushes your shirt up higher, not bothering to ask before lifting it over your head and tossing it somewhere behind her.

She marvels at you for a moment before cupping your jaw to pull you back in fast enough to give you whiplash.

Things move quickly from there.

Pants and shoes are strewn around the room, and you get time to stare at her unabashedly. There's none of that tender kissing from last week. Everything is about contact—fingers digging into flesh, spit swapping between mouths, and the frantic clashing of bodies. It's messy, uncoordinated, and a little too fast to be pretty—but it's real. It's Nat reaching for you like she's afraid to stop, like if she slows down even a little, the façade she's carefully crafted will fall apart.

The shift is harsh and almost has you reeling, but you don't comment on it; you can't—not when Nat's climbing into your lap and straddling your thigh, pressing her knee between your legs as she pushes down hard into you. She's already slick and aching as she rolls her hips against your thigh, the pressure nearly enough to make you forget how fast this is moving.

You're pushed back onto the bed with a soft groan from Nat as she looks down at you, her hands coming to rest on your shoulders as she grinds fervently down into you. She looks beautifully debauched like this, with her head thrown back and eyes screwed shut. You worship her body with your hands as if she were an altar to some god that never paid you any mind.

You already know it's the closest you'll ever get to being answered.

"Shit…" you murmur in awe, the high only serving to amplify the heat of the moment.

Nat scoffs above you, although the sound is closer to a stifled moan. "See something you like?" She rolls her hips down more deliberately, pressing her knee harder against your cunt.

The sound that rips from your throat is borderline feral. Your nails dig into her as you rock your hips, trying to ignore the fact that you are growing exceedingly desperate. "You know I fucking do."

She smirks like that comment was exactly what she wanted. "Just wanted to hear you say it, babe."

"Cocky motherfucker." You flip positions, forcing her onto her back. "Were never this bad when we were kids."

"Mm. Well. We aren't kids anymore, are we?" she quips back, arching her back off the bed as if to punctuate the point—shoulders rolling, grin lazy but eyes sharp.

You sit back on your heels, panting slightly, and glance over your shoulder toward the drawer you keep half-shoved closed with an old sock.

Nat notices the shift instantly, sounding slightly unsure as she speaks. "What? 's wrong?"

You run your tongue along your teeth, heart hammering. "I, uh… have something we could use. Only if you want."

She doesn't ask what it is. Just watches as you lean over and yank the drawer open, revealing the harness tucked between an extra hoodie and a roll of mismatched socks.

The coy smirk that spreads across her face is unmistakable. "And I'm the cocky one?"

You let out a shaky breath, pulling the harness free. "Never said I wasn't prepared."

"Mm, well, what's the piece that comes with it?" she asks, propping herself on her elbows to track your movements as you stumble to the floor, pulling a shoebox out from under the bed.

"It's nothin' exciting. Just something I picked up at Spencer's."

"Please." She rolls her eyes, but despite outward appearances, she's unable to hide the slight waver in her voice. Almost… excited? Nervous? Some weird combination of the two? "I couldn't care less what it looks like, 'long as it does the job."

You open up the shoebox and place it on the bed, presenting Nat with the contents—a rubber dildo (the cheapest one you could find without it becoming a biohazard), a handful of single-use foil lube packets (free samples from the college's counsellor), a metal bullet vibe (which is definitely not waterproof—you learned that the hard way), and a single condom that says Rock Hard! on it.

"Shit… you're prepared, huh?" A nervous chuckle escapes her as she looks into the box, nodding at the lube packets. "You also steal a few of those from Jessica?"

"Yeah, that and the condom." You show her the writing on the foil, and she gives you a soft huff, some of the tension easing off her shoulders. "But… never really planned on using it, y'know? It's just… funny, I guess." It gets tossed back into the shoebox, and you tentatively run your hands over the dildo. "This is, uh, what I was looking for, though."

The dildo isn't exactly anything to behold, but it gets the job done. It's a neon purple that looks like it would belong in a rave, not the bedroom. It's curved slightly to the left, completely smooth, and has a suction cup base.

Nat gives a slight hum upon seeing the toy, reaching a hand out to wrap around it. "Yeah, that'll work." She glances back at you, not removing her hand from where it's seated at the base. "You asking me if it's okay to use it on me?"

"Well… yeah. I just…" You shrug half-heartedly. "Just wanna make sure it's okay. Don't wanna do anything you aren't comfortable with."

Her demeanour visibly softens at that, her expression turning more understanding than cocky. "Yeah, babe. I'm okay with it."

You give a small nod, grinning all the while, and quickly slide the dildo into the O-ring harness before placing your legs into the faux leather straps. It takes you a moment to tighten around your hips, trying to make sure it won't glide around and break the moment, then give a satisfied grunt when you determine it's ready.

"Right. Now…" You toss the shoebox back onto the floor with a soft thud, grabbing a packet of lube in the process. "Now, the fun stuff."

Nat eyes the foil packet between your fingers, then lifts her chin and reaches a hand out to stop you from ripping it open. "Mm… let's not waste the good lube, yeah?"

You cock an eyebrow at her, amused. "You want me to warm you up with my mouth, then? 'cus I was already planning on doing that, but this just gives me extra incentive."

She scoffs, crawling across the bed with that same feral gleam in her eyes from earlier. "Nah. Save your energy."

Her hands find your hips, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of the harness as she tugs you onto the bed. There's no mistaking the way she looks at you as you settle onto the twin-size mattress—as though she's about to ruin you on purpose and enjoy every second of it.

"C'mere," she murmurs when you finally lie flat. "Let me."

"What—"

You don't get a chance to ask her what she means. She shows you. You barely have time to process the thought of 'oh, she's serious?' before she's moving.

Her right hand wraps around the base of the toy while her other moves to grip your thigh, and she leans in, lips brushing the head of the strap—and it's impossible to fight the groan that comes from deep in your chest as her tongue follows.

She licks a stripe up the underside once, twice, then wraps her lips around the tip and takes it into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the tip before taking it deeper.

It takes everything in you not to arch off the bed and push yourself further into her mouth. She looks up at you as she works her head up and down the shaft, detaching her mouth at some point to let some saliva fall onto the rubber cock.

"Yeah, figured you'd like this." She grins up at you, beautifully debased and far too cocky.

You narrow your eyes at her, but any attempt at being intimidating falls flat when your words come out in a soft whine. "Fucking… cocky little shit."

Nat doesn't deny it. No, she just smirks at you like this was her plan all along, and you watch as she spreads her saliva over the smooth surface. The challenge in her gaze is more than obvious.

With other partners, maybe you'd get rough. Force them into the bed, make them fight for it… but Nat is different. She always has been. So, instead of roughhousing, you gently guide her back onto the mattress, watching as her smug smile falters slightly as you climb over her. The harness digs into your hips and presses into her bare skin as you position yourself between her thighs, and for the first time tonight, she's the one left speechless.

The foil packet crinkles in your fingers, and you make a point of ripping it open slowly with your teeth—just to watch her squirm.

"You still wanna save the lube?" you ask, voice far breathier than intended.

She swallows hard and takes a moment to respond, just as far gone as you are. "...use it."

You squeeze the water-based lube out of the packet and onto the dildo, spreading it up and down the shaft and mixing it with Nat's saliva as she watches with rapt attention.

Your hand glides along the slick surface as you toss the empty container in the general direction of the trash bin, and it's all you can do to fight the groan that threatens to rip from your chest at the sight in front of you—Nat, with her legs spread, giving you a front-row view to the sight of her aching, throbbing pussy.

"Shit," you murmur, rubbing the tip through her folds as you shuffle closer to her.

"Yeah," she replies easily, reaching a hand down between her legs to guide the tip of the dildo to where she wants it. "Shit."

You push in slowly, letting the tip catch on her entrance before gradually sliding the rest in, watching as it sinks into her, inch by inch. Your breath catches once your hips press flush to hers, and you give both of you a chance to adjust to the feeling.

After a few seconds of laboured breathing and hands attempting to find a place to sit, Nat groans in frustration at your lack of movement. "C'mon. Fucking…" She rolls her hips, trying to encourage you into doing something, and places her hands on your ass to try and move you herself.

"Needy," you mumble, placing your hands on her thighs and pulling back until just the tip remains, then immediately follow that up by—

"And you're too slow." Nat locks her ankles around your back, forcing your hips back into hers with a shared gasp.

"Oh, fuck—"

You don't hold back after that.

Your next thrust is sharper, more confident, and Nat meets it with a gasp that sounds more like a sob. Her hands fall from your body in favour of gripping the bedsheets somewhere between her breath catching and eyes rolling back.

You set a rhythm that she takes without complaint, her eyes fluttering shut, her mouth parted around broken moans she attempts to hide. She's not loud—which doesn't surprise you—but the sounds she creates are far from performative if the faces she's making are any indication.

Another thrust lands deeper than the last, and she chokes on a curse as one of her hands flies between her legs, immediately working her clit with the kind of focus that borders on desperation. She's shaking now, thighs trembling beneath your hands every time your hips slam against hers.

Just when you think she's close—when her breath starts hitching, and her grip on the bedsheets goes slack—Nat flips the script. In a move that feels more muscle memory than decision, she pushes at your chest and forces you flat against the mattress in her place. The strap slips free as she settles on top of you, hands braced on either side of your head. She doesn't say anything, but her pupils are blown, and she's staring down at you like you're her first meal all week.

She reaches between you and slides your cock back into her, groaning unconsciously as her hips meet yours again. She leans down and presses her mouth to your jaw, wet kisses to heated skin, and lets her hands wander across your collarbones and down your chest before her body starts moving against yours once more.

Now that she's controlling the speed and depth, she doesn't even consider taking it slow.

A brutal pace is set from the start—hips slamming down against yours with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs. Each thrust drags a sound from deep in her throat, something low and ragged that you swear you feel more than hear. You stare up at the ceiling uselessly as she continues to trace your jaw with her lips and tongue, your breath hitching when those kisses turn to bites.

Your hands grip her thighs, nails digging crescents into her skin in a desperate attempt not to fall apart completely. Every time she grinds down, the pressure hits just right, and your legs twitch without your permission. It's too much—it's not enough. You can't help yourself when you slap her thigh, and she can't help herself when she groans in response to the sharp pain that shoots up her thigh.

"Oh, fuck, yes—" Nat moans into your ear, fingers coming to curl in the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging on the strands. "Again. Fuck, again—"

And, well, who are you to resist that?

Her movements get sloppier as your palm connects with her ass this time, and her lips drag from your jaw to your waiting mouth, breathing in your exhaled air before she kisses you with a desperation that implies she'll never get the chance to do this again.

"Y'close?" you manage to slur, voice shredded beyond belief.

She just nods, biting down on your bottom lip hard enough you think she might draw blood. Her rhythm stutters for a second, falters—then she grabs your hands and pins them above your head fast enough that you'd blink and miss it, and her fingers thread between yours, like they're the last tether she has.

"Don't move," Nat growls, the movements of her hips growing both sloppier and more deliberate at the same time. "Just—fuck, stay."

You do. You stay, wide-eyed and gasping, as she fucks herself on your cock and presses her face into your neck like she's chasing oblivion and refuses to stop until she finds it.

When she finally does—when her body tenses, her breath catches, and she chokes out what you think is a curse—she collapses onto you without ceremony: all muscle and sweat and trembling limbs. No words follow, just the weight of her, still shaking against your chest as her hold on your hands loosens.

"Shit," she whispers, trying to catch her breath and cease the slight quiver that still rakes her frame every few seconds.

"Good?" you murmur back, squeezing her hands twice in an attempt at a soft reassurance.

Nat hums an affirmative, squeezing your hands back once before untangling them and sitting up, pushing her hair back from her face as she does so. She looks down at you with rosy cheeks and parted lips, and kisses you again. It's slower this time, but still with that same underlying desperation she's carried the entire night.

She pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against yours. You can feel the tremble still working through her muscles, barely restrained, like her body hasn't quite caught up with her yet. Her eyes flick down your body, then back up, blown out and unreadable.

"Your turn," she finally gets out, breathy and broken.

A protest starts in your throat, and you shake your head. "You don't have to—"

"I want to."

"Nat—"

"I need to." She closes her eyes for a second like she's embarrassed by the intensity, but then she moves, sliding down your body without waiting for permission. She's relentless when she wants something, and apparently tonight, that something is you falling apart on her tongue.

You try to stop her with a hand in her hair, but she just brushes it off, mouthing at your thigh right below the harness strap and tugs at it like it's personally wronged her in some way. There's no teasing, no patience, just her undoing your harness and tugging it off before diving in like you're a five-course meal.

There's nothing delicate about the way she touches you now. No ceremony, just the kind of focus that feels like compulsion—like if she doesn't make you come, she won't have a purpose in this bed. Her hands push your thighs apart with no hesitation, and then she's licking into you without preamble, mouth hot and messy against your already soaked pussy.

You curse and try again to stop her, fingers threading into her bleached hair in a way meant to pull, not guide. She doesn't budge, just lets out a low, vibrating noise against your cunt that shoots straight through your spine.

It's fast. Desperate, even. Her tongue moves with such desperate intent, even your vibrator wouldn't stand a chance. It's impossible to fight the way your body gives in to hers. One of her hands slips beneath your thigh, lifting your leg onto her shoulder while the other circles your entrance before slowly sliding two fingers in.

You're far too gone to argue. It's not like you would want to, anyway. Not when her fingers curl upwards and hit that rough spot inside of you, causing your vision to go white at the edges with every thrust. You tug her hair like a lifeline, letting her take you apart.

It doesn't take long for you to reach your climax, and you're almost surprised by how fast it hits—but Nat isn't. She doesn't gloat or tease, just keeps coaxing you through it, going until your full-body tremors stop and the throbbing of your clit becomes more oversensitivity than arousal.

When it's over, Nat climbs back up beside you, silent save for her heavy pants as she slows her breathing into a more manageable rate. She doesn't say anything, just presses her face into your neck, lets her hand find yours, and exhales like she's just outrun something she doesn't have the words to name.

A part of you is shocked that she doesn't smoke a cigarette.

You'd probably let her pass out like this—it seems like she's already halfway there, anyway—but there's a slight chill bleeding in from the window that didn't close properly, and she's lying on the blanket.

"Hey," you murmur, running your thumb over her knuckles. "Let me pull the blanket up? It's cold in here."

Nat mumbles what you think is a negative response—seeing as she presses herself closer to you, like a koala with raccoon-style eyeshadow—and refuses to remove herself from atop the blanket.

"C'mon." You nudge her with your shoulder, moving your other hand to rest on the nape of her neck. "Please? Promise you can clock out immediately after."

"Y're fuckin' annoyin'," Nat mumbles, voice laced with heavy reluctance. Still, she untangles herself from you all the same, sliding her lithe body underneath the quilt before forcing herself back against you with all the grace of a puppy with attachment issues.

You laugh at that, like the interaction is the most natural thing in the world, and let yourself crawl underneath the covers as well.

Hiding the smile that crosses your face when Nat tucks her head under your chin proves to be difficult, so you let it consume you, just as sleep does when her hand finds yours again.

A knock on your door comes at 8:32 A.M.

You let out a groggy noise, still feeling the weight of Nat curled against your side, and throw your arm over her waist, like the knock never came.

Until it comes again, louder, and with a voice. "Hello? It's Ryan?" A few more knocks, each more insistent than the last.

"G'fuckin' answer t'door," Nat murmurs, reaching a hand behind to swat at you. "'m still fuckin' sleepy…"

"So am I." You sigh, then reluctantly untangle yourself from her and your very warm bed. It takes a few seconds to get your bearings together, sitting on the edge of the bed and rubbing sleep from your eyes. "Fucking shit. Why the fuck is he here so—"

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

"HOLY FUCK RYAN. I'M COMING!" you yell, standing up from your bed with a grunt.

It takes you a moment to find some clothes to cover yourself up with, and another minute to actually put them on. By the time you stumble to the door—nearly tripping over one of Nat's boots—you already know your RA is going to be at least marginally disappointed in your lack of urgency.

When you open the door and glance out into the hall, Ryan is standing there, looking like he's awake too-fucking-early for this shit.

"Y/n," he rasps, scratching at the fuzz on his chin. "Look. I hate being this dude, but I got a report that… there was a distinct odour of cannabis and loud noises very early in the morning."

You freeze immediately, standing up straighter and hoping to God that fucking dildo isn't visible to him right now. "Uh… from my room? Are you sure?"

"Yeah, man. Your room. I try to be pretty chill, but we got rules for a reason. Like, for example, the sign-in sheet that I keep posted…" His voice trails off as you pick up the sound of shuffling behind you, like someone is trying to hide under the blanket and not doing it quietly enough.

Your hand flies to the doorframe, and a loud cough leaves you in a poor attempt to mask the sounds Nat's making. "Yeah! Yes. Right. I remember you talking about that at move-in. You know, I really appreciate all the effort you put in around the dorm. My RA last year was… totally absent. It's nice to have someone who really cares, you know?"

Ryan preens at that, puffing his chest out slightly. "Oh, sick, thank you! I wanted to give people—especially those who haven't lived on campus before—a bomb space to chill this year." He runs a hand through his hair, shaking out the mess. "You should, like, totally come to the event I'm planning tomorrow evening. Watch that new Pirates of the Caribbean movie. Just picked it up on DVD a week ago. Maybe have some pizza ordered in from Domino's."

Realising that he's seemingly forgotten about the whole reason he came to your room in the first place, you force a smile. "Oh… you… are? I will… have to see if I can make it…" You say, nodding your head as if trying to convince yourself. "I usually go to the… library… on… Sunday evenings? But I can… maybe… reschedule?"

"Yeah, yes! Totally. That would be dope. The more that show up, the better." He nods eagerly, tucking the clipboard under his arm and clapping his hands together. "If you come tomorrow, I promise I'll save you some pizza. It usually goes pretty fast…" He trails off with a laugh, trying his hardest to appear suave and not like a dude making uncomfortable conversation before ten. "Anyways. Look… about those complaints… it's still early in the year. I get mistakes happen, and stuff. But next time… especially with the Mary Jane stuff… I don't wanna have to get security involved, you know?"

You nod again, laughing awkwardly and starting to close the door in his face. "Totally. Yeah. Thank you, dude, for sure. I will definitely see about tomorrow." Another strained laugh, then you're closing the door and locking it.

The sigh of relief that leaves you is palpable as the sound of footsteps gets further and further from your room, and you turn around just in time to see Nat peeking her head out from under the quilt, a wry grin on her face.

"Pirates of the Caribbean? Oh man, that sounds like a fuckin' steal." Nat bursts out laughing, and you quickly cross the room to slap your hand over her face.

"Shhhhh!" you laugh along with her, pressing your hand harder over her mouth. "You're so fucking annoying! Can't stay quiet for twenty seconds?" You manage between laughs, straddling her waist over the blankets.

Nat shakes her head, grinning against your palm as her hands come to rest on your thighs, like they were meant to be there.

You keep your hand over her mouth for a beat longer than necessary, just watching the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles beneath it. There's something about her like this—half-buried in your sheets, sleepy and smirking—that makes your chest feel a little tight.

Eventually, you pull your hand away, letting it fall to her cheek instead. There's a moment of stillness that passes, the kind that makes you feel like you could live inside it if you really tried. Her hands are still on your thighs, and your legs are still on either side of her. Everything feels… weirdly okay.

Then, like most things in her life, Nat ruins the moment before something else can.

"Y'got any food around here?" she grumbles, glancing around your dorm. "I'm fuckin' hungry."

A deep sigh leaves you, and you remove your hand with a roll of your eyes. "Jesus," you murmur before glancing away from her. "Yeah. Might have some day-old coffee and a protein bar or two."

Nat grunts. "That works. I'll take it. You drink it straight from the pot, or you got a mug?"

You scoff, incredulous. "You drink it straight from the pot? Heathen." Although truthfully, you aren't that surprised. She would do something exactly like that. "But yes, I have a mug you can use. Hope you enjoy your coffee cold."

"Hell yeah. Temperature doesn't matter, 'long as it gets the job done." She sits up following that statement, glancing around your room for her clothes, paying no mind to the bedsheet as it falls from her chest. "You got anywhere to be today?" She asks casually, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and kicking the blanket off. "Or you gonna be chilling in your dorm all day?"

"Dunno yet." You look over at her, forgetting that she's still naked for a moment, and then proceed to fight the urge to gawk like it's your first time all over again. "Might just…" You flash your eyes back to the coffee pot, gesturing at it in an attempt to think of anything else. "Deep clean the dorm… or something."

"Fucking lame." Nat rolls her eyes, swatting at your chest with the back of her hand. "Your dorm looks fine." A beat of silence passes before she clears her throat. "I've got a game later, if you wanted to watch us kick a ball around, or whatever." She stands up fast enough to give you whiplash, like the silence between you hadn't stretched into a week without explanation. "Just because… like… it's cool to have people in the bleachers."

Clothes are thrown on her body with the speed of someone who isn't looking to stick around much longer, so you do what you can to make her stay a little longer. "I'll be there," you say just as she begins tugging her jeans on. "I'm not doing anything that can't be put off a little longer."

She pauses in her race to get dressed, turning to face you. "Oh?" She looks away again fast enough, trying to prevent you from seeing the very obvious blush that creeps up her chest. "Dope. I'll, uh." She tugs her shirt on, then takes a step towards her backpack and pulls her copy of Trainspotting out, ripping out the acknowledgements page and writing a phone number on it in messy text. "Call me later. Game starts at two."

You nod, grabbing the piece of paper once she's done scribbling on it. "Yeah. I'll call you… noon?"

"Gotta be earlier. Usually already changed and shit by then." She grabs a Clif Bar from your desk, ripping it open and taking a bite from it almost immediately. "'leven, or somefin' like that," she manages between chews, graceful and poignant as ever.

"Alright. Eleven. Sure." You huff a breath of disbelief, heading over to the coffee pot, grabbing a mug from a dresser drawer as you do, giving it a once-over to make sure it looks clean. "Still want that cold coffee?"

"Duh," Nat mumbles, walking up beside you as you pour.

She takes the mug from you without a word, fingers brushing yours for a second too long, and hums faintly in lieu of thanks. You watch her take a long sip from the mug, but no attempt is made at meeting your eyes again.

Her back rests against the wall, and she looks over your room without expression. "Your RA see that?" She nods to the harness and dildo lying on the floor next to a textbook. "Shit, maybe he's into that. Guys have been getting more… adventurous lately."

You roll your eyes, pouring the remainder of the coffee into a plastic cup. "Yeah, I bet they have. Sucks I'm not into guys."

She snorts into the mug. "Yeah, well. Your loss. Ryan looks like he cries during sex."

You stifle a laugh behind your hand, nudging her with your elbow. "He looks like he apologises for coming too fast before it even happens."

"Jesus," she wheezes, setting the mug down on your desk with a soft thunk, then waiting a beat for dramatics before continuing. "Think I could find out—"

Nat doesn't get a chance to finish that thought before you smack her upside the head with your free hand, just barely resisting the urge to pour the coffee in your cup down her shirt just to spite her. "You will not be finding out, or so I swear to God I will fucking kill you, Scatorccio."

A sharp laugh escapes her as she ducks out of reach, already moving toward the door with the protein bar clenched between her teeth. "Gotta catch me first. Both know I've always been faster." She crouches to lace her boots just enough to keep them from slipping off on the walk back to her dorm, tying each knot tight with practiced efficiency. The bar stays wedged in her mouth as she works, a picture of an infuriating cool.

"You still want me at the game?" you ask after a long moment in relative silence, partially fearing her response, despite the fact that she told you that she wanted you there less than ten minutes ago.

She hesitates, not long enough to lie, but long enough to mean something, then meets your eyes. "Yeah. I do."

There's no kiss goodbye or half-assed hug, just a backpack slung over her shoulder and a half-lidded look that could mean anything. "Don't forget to call," she mutters, removing the bar from her mouth.

Then she's gone.

And you're left in a quiet room that still smells faintly like sex, sweat, and cold coffee.

You call Nat at a quarter to eleven and show up to her soccer game twenty minutes early.

Which is a mistake. It's cold out, the bleachers are uncomfortable, and you do not want to sit out here for two hours, but you came prepared just in case: a bottle of water, a vending machine granola bar, and an umbrella.

She didn't say where to sit, just to come. So, you find yourself a seat somewhere in the middle rows, close enough to see but not front and center.

You find her immediately. Of course you do. You'd find Nat in any crowd at any time.

Number seven. She looks just as dishevelled on the field as she did in high school.

It's almost astonishing how different the girl who woke up in your bed this morning looks with her teammates on the turf. The game hasn't even started yet, and it's already apparent that although she looks the same as she did in high school, she is far from the same. She warms up with a certain level of professionalism you thought she would never develop, mind set on a singular goal—win.

When the game starts, she plays aggressively. Scrappy. Like she has somewhere to be, and this game is just an obstacle between destinations. Her passes are pinpoint, her body checks border on illegal, and she never stops long enough to be caught.

The crowd doesn't cheer her name, not really. They cheer goals, saves, and close calls, but Nat's the kind of player you notice only if you're paying attention—if you know what to look for. The quick glance over her shoulder before a cross, the slight shoulder dip before a sprint, the shove that buys her just enough space to launch a perfect assist.

The first goal doesn't come until halfway through the second half, and it's a messy one—a scramble near the net, a toe-poke, a fumbled save—but it starts with Nat. She cuts through two defenders like she's done it a hundred times before, drawing a third in before slipping a short pass to the left wing. The girl there doesn't hesitate. One touch. Goal.

The team swarms the scorer, but not before a few of them clap Nat on the back, one even ruffling her already-windswept hair. She takes it all with a smirk that doesn't quite reach her eyes, swatting the hand away like it's an inconvenience more than affection. But you catch the twitch of something warmer—something close to bashfulness—before she schools her expression and jogs back to position.

They win. 2-1. It's a rough match to the end, but the Raccoons hold their ground. The final whistle blows and the bleachers erupt.

You wait near the edge of the field, watching players file toward the locker rooms in clusters, sweat-slick and tired. When Nat spots you, she peels away from her teammates with a wave, still breathing heavily, cheeks flushed with the chill and the win.

"Guess you're my lucky charm," Nat says, grinning like she means it.

It shouldn't make your chest tighten, but it does. You smile back at her, but you don't get a chance to respond before her name is called and she's already walking away, flashing a lazy two-finger salute like nothing just happened.

You don't follow. You just turn and start the walk back to your dorm, wondering if being her lucky charm means you'll get to see her again tomorrow, or if that was the extent of your magic.

You don't see her the next day. Or the day after that.

What you do get, however, is a call Tuesday evening from Nat asking if you want to get pizza and chill.

The answer you give her—unsurprisingly—is a yes.

A knock on your door comes nearly half an hour later. Less rushed and frantic when compared to the rhythmic pounding you would get on your door after midnight, but unmistakably Natalie. She's not bruised or intoxicated, which is already an improvement, and she gives you a soft smile when she sees you.

"Hey," she rasps, pizza box in one hand, six-pack in the other. "You still like shit-fucking beer?" The Pabst Blue Ribbon rattles as she kicks off her shoes by the door—thrifted Sambas, scuffed to hell—and breezes past you into the dorm. "It's warm. Hope you still like warm-ass beer."

You scoff, closing the door behind her. "Gee, Nat. Come on in!"

"Thank you for your hospitality," she chimes in with, glancing over her shoulder on her way to your bed. "And you're welcome for the free beer and pizza, loser." The beer is thrown onto the bed without much care, but the pizza box stays in her hands as she sits down. "I got pepperoni. Take it or leave it."

With a soft roll of your eyes, you drop down beside her, scooting back until your shoulders hit the wall. "Thank you, Natalie. I greatly appreciate the free food and company," you add, a grin tugging at your mouth as you swipe a slice from the box the second it's open.

"Yeah, I bet. Saving your ass from another night of instant ramen and VHS porn." Nat hums, grabbing a piece from the box and taking a massive bite from the crust, like the soulless animal she is. "Whuh woul' you do wifout me?"

"Probably get more sleep?" you offer. "And maybe eat pizza with someone that doesn't eat it like a fucking… caveman."

"Mm. Me love crust," Nat grunts, taking another mouthful of food. "Crust good. Taste good."

It's impossible to fight the smile that takes over your face at the stupid comments, so you kick her leg in an attempt to save face. "Jesus. When did you become such a dork, Scatorccio?" you ask, like she wasn't always a complete dumbass.

And she just grins, all stupid and smug-like, chewing slower as if to emphasise the point she's trying to make.

So, being the equal dumbass that you are, you take a bite out of her pizza, the piece ripping in half when she attempts to yank it away before you can latch onto it, but is ultimately a little late.

There's no retaliation. She just looks at you with this glint in her eye like she's thinking about it. But instead of a quip, she leans back on her elbows, chewing slowly, and lets the silence settle. You sit there, watching her, and it hits you all over again: how easy this is. How natural this feels.

How dangerous that makes this relationship.

It's hardly a surprise when you end up having two PBRs each—and somehow the pizza disappears too, though neither of you mentions who had the last slice. You're both buzzed, not drunk, but just warm enough to laugh easier and sit a little closer without thinking about it. Her shoulder brushes yours every time she shifts, and you throw your arm around her before you can talk yourself out of it.

She leans into you without thinking. You kiss the top of her head like it's instinctual.

Somewhere between the start of Trainspotting (the movie, not the book) and the end of Dazed and Confused, the last of the beers are finished off, and you reposition so you can sit together with legs intertwined and bodies touching wherever possible.

The movie ends without either of you noticing at first, half asleep and curled into each other.

"You wanna spend the night?" you finally ask, voice shaking despite yourself. "Y'know my bed is always open for you."

Nat doesn't answer for a good thirty seconds, and when she ultimately does, it's with a slight hum and vague nod. "Mm… yeah. That works." She closes her eyes, pressing further into your side. "Y're comfy. An' I don't have to move. Win-win."

"Yeah," you whisper, as though speaking too loudly would scare her off. "'least I can do for the free food and killer company." You tug the blanket up higher, letting the warmth of the bed mix with the darkness of the room. "I appreciate it." The words are supposed to come off like a sarcastic tease, but end up being more of an actual thanks than anything else.

For her part, Nat doesn't respond with words—just a faint noise that sounds suspiciously like a sound of contentment, and a squeeze of her arms around your waist.

She flinches right before she falls asleep like she's expecting the worst to happen, but her entire body relaxes into you once her subconscious realises that it's safe.

That makes your chest ache more than anything else in recent memory.

The next time you see Nat is at her soccer practice, two days later, showing up unannounced with a bottle of warm water and a stale granola bar. Hey. It's the thought that counts, right?

You didn't tell her that you'd planned on coming to her practice, fully intending to surprise her, but now that you can see the back of her head, you're starting to regret it. For all you know, she could be pissed that you showed up unannounced. Tell you off, or even—

"You're a fucking dork, you know that?" a raspy voice cuts through your thoughts, and you didn't even realise that you had made it to the end of the field, clutching the items with a deathgrip. "Showin' up here, water and snack."

When it registers that Nat is standing directly in front of you, squinting through the sunlight, you shake yourself mentally, throwing on a half-smile. "Figured you'd be hungry. You were never very good at remembering to eat." You hold out the crushed granola bar and bottle, hoping you don't seem that pathetic.

She pushes her damp hair back from her face, though a few loose strands remain stuck to her forehead. "Fuck, I won't say no to free food." The grub in your hand is snatched fast enough that you wonder if Natalie knows she plays for the Raccoons, not that she has to act like one, with her heavy eyeshadow and dumpster diving skills that would put a professional to shame.

"I gotta get—" She rips the granola bar open, crumbs scattering across the grass. "—back out there. Coach'll fuckin' kill me if I slack off today. Somethin' about 'playing to the best of my abilities'." The scoff that leaves her is incredulous, as though the very notion of trying her best is ridiculous. "Mmfanks, dork," she adds between chews, starting to walk away from you. "Stick around?" She gestures to the bleachers. "I'll show off my wicked tricks."

You don't get a chance to respond, watching as she walks back to her team with a pep in her step that's so far out of character it's almost shocking.

The bleachers are frozen and barren, and you aren't ashamed to take a seat with a perfect view of the field. The few other people around you are mostly family or close friends of the players, but one or two have a clipboard and are paying far more attention than the average person would.

Nat does as she said she would, showing off a small collection of tricks she likes to flaunt during the scrimmage, although it earns her more than groans from the teammates who are forced to endure her dumbassery. Her favourite trick appears to be the same as it was in high school—the butterfly—and she does it enough that more than one person jokingly shoves her.

When practice ends, she doesn't hesitate to grab her sports bag and head towards you, throwing a sweaty arm over your shoulders and guiding you off the pitch. "Didya see my tricks?" she asks with a giddy grin, amped up on post-practice adrenaline. "Yeah, that's right. Told you I still had it," she says, pulling her shirt up to wipe her face with the hem. "You think the butterfly's dead? Nah, I've been resurrectin' it on these bitches all season."

You scoff, rolling your eyes and jabbing her ribs with your elbow. "And you call me the dork, Scatorccio. Yeah, I saw all your tricks, although most of them were against my will."

She hums at that. "Yeah, you sound like my teammates. That's a bummer, dude. Guess you shoulda look da'way."

Anecdotes are swapped between you as you walk back to the residential part of campus, the air of familiarity allowing words to flow easily.

Her fingers graze yours more than once on the walk back, but she never takes hold of them, and you don't dare break that fragile trust that you've come to build. At some point, a group of students stops Nat, attempting to talk with her about the soccer game later that week, but she brushes them off with a wave of her hand and keeps strolling with you like no one had shown up in the first place.

When you reach the path separating the two dorm buildings, Nat seems to hesitate before heading to hers.

"You… didn't have to do that, y'know." She scuffs her cleats on the pavement, as if the pebble she kicks across the cement is the most interesting thing in the world. "Bringin' food n'shit to practice."

"I know," you reply easily, shrugging half-heartedly. "I wanted to. Wouldn't have done it if I didn't want to."

She glances away, but it does little to hide the blush creeping up the back of her neck. "Well… thanks, or whatever. I guess."

You chuckle. "You're welcome. Or whatever."

Nat rolls her eyes, but doesn't argue. Just starts walking toward her dorm, shooting you a glance as she heads off, lips twitching at the corners. "Don't make a habit of it, yeah?"

"No promises."

You two start hanging out pretty often after that. Between classes, after soccer matches and before club meetings. You wouldn't call them dates, but you sure as hell wouldn't call them platonic hangouts.

Well, okay. Maybe you would call them dates, but you know Nat would sooner die than admit she's going on dates.

Like right now, for example.

It's around 1 A.M. on a Wednesday, and the two of you are standing outside of a dining hall, half-drunk and half-high, attempting to jimmy open the door without drawing too much attention to yourselves.

"You gotta—" Nat giggles, pointing to the makeshift lockpicking tools in your hands before schooling her expression. "Listen. This is the real deal, yeah? I'm, like, a locksmith but also unemployed." She leans against the wall, vaguely gesturing to the door, like that does all the explaining for her. "But, also, this only works if the door doesn't have a deadbolt. If it's got one… just… forget it. Or like… I dunno, climb through vents like in the movies. Anyway. Standard knob lock? Totally doable."

"Yeah, you know what else is totally doable?" You grin up at her from where you're crouched, trying your hardest to flash her a suave grin that you know just looks like a drunken smile. "Me. I'm totally doable."

She rolls her eyes and kicks your leg, choosing to avoid responding verbally to your comments. "So take the card, right? And then you gotta jam it in the crack where the door meets the frame. The part with the… the metal… latchy thing. Y'know. The latch tongue. The little snappy bitey bit." She mimics jabbing the ID card in the door, which you do to the actual door. "Yeah, yeah, exactly. But you gotta wiggle it in there—" She walks over to you, grabbing your hand and angling the card manually. "At an angle. Like you're… like you're seducing the door. Yeah. Smooth and sideways. Not straight on, that's amateur hour."

"Hate to break it to you, Scat, but I am an amateur."

Her face contorts at the nickname. "Gross. Never call me that again, dumbass. Anyway, I was saying…" She clears her throat, getting the card into an ideal position. "The bobby pin, okay, that's like… plan B. But this door has no keyhole, so it's pointless." She tosses the pin to the ground, focusing on the card that's between the door and frame.

With Nat's guidance, the card catches just right. There's a moment where nothing happens. Then, all at once, it gives. She mutters something under her breath—probably sarcastic—and you barely hear it over the quiet, victorious click.

She whips her head around to look at you, eyebrows up, like even she was surprised that it worked. "You ready to do some real delinquent shit?" She grins, snatching her card back from you and standing up. "C'mon. Let's go be criminals."

"We already committed an act of breaking and entering. We're already criminals," you tease, opening up the door for her and letting her into the pitch-black dining hall.

"Psh. That's small fries. We've barely scraped the surface of being—" She nearly stumbles into a table on her way in, swaying on her feet and trying to suppress giggles. "—being criminals. Wait until I teach you how to boost a car."

"You already did teach me how to boost a car, dumbass." You close the door behind you with a soft click, hoping it draws no attention from the ancient security guards roaming the halls. "It ended with the alarm blaring and us running from Dean Johnson's dad and hoping he doesn't unload his gun on us."

Nat hums like the memory doesn't even phase her—or like she doesn't remember it at all. "Yeah, well, he didn't. So…" She shrugs, walking towards the kitchen without a care in the world. "Just means we can keep doin' dumb shit."

You switch on the flashlight you had brought along, quickly catching up to Nat's long strides. "You think we'd get shot if we were found in here?"

"Please," she scoffs, wiggling the handle that separates rooms. "I doubt the guards even have guns. Probably lucky if they even have tasers." The door to the kitchen swings open after Nat works some magic on it, picking the lock like she's stone-cold sober and not two sheets to the wind.

The scent of deep-fryer oil that hasn't been changed in far too long fills your nostrils, and it takes everything in you not to gag at the repulsive scent. This is exactly why you only lasted working two weeks at McDonald's, you think.

"What're you feelin' tonight?" Nat pulls open the industrial fridge, surveying it like she's looking over her own personal buffet. "Bologna? Margarine? Precooked pasta? Coffee creamer?" She opens up a few different drawers, rifling through them. "Some of this shit looks like it's been here for longer than I've been alive."

Your stomach growls in protest at her lacklustre options, and you drape yourself over her shoulders to peer into the fridge alongside her. "Boo. Do they have any of those… premade PB&Js that they do for lunch on the weekends? I'd eat one of those. Or two. I'm kinda hungry."

She grunts, shaking her head. "Doesn't look like it." She shoots you a teasing look from over her shoulder. "You really think they'd prep for the weekend this far in advance? Please. It doesn't even look like they have today's breakfast ready."

"Whatever. Keep looking, loser." You shove the back of her head, and she gives you a low laugh at that, but complies regardless.

A few more drawers are dug through before you two finally find something worth taking: pudding cups—the holy grail.

Nat shoves a handful of pudding cups into your arm with a wild grin, grabbing some variants and stuffing them in the pockets of her hoodie. "Fuckin' jackpot, dude."

You grab a couple of plastic spoons from a jar on the counter and head back out to the dining hall with Nat in tow, who is already ripping the lid off an unsuspecting container and shoving her index finger into it, then licking it clean. "Spoons are for nerds," she says, mouth full of pudding. "Use your hands like a real man." She flops down into a chair, the wood creaking in protest.

"Jesus. You eat like a fucking gremlin." You throw a few napkins at her face, which she ineffectively bats away with her sticky hand. "You're awful." But you sit next to her all the same, kicking your feet up into her lap.

She grins at you, all teeth and butterscotch pudding. "Damn right I'm awful. And yet…" Nat points her spoon—still wrapped in plastic—at you like it's a dagger. "Here you are. Sittin' next to me. A fellow pudding thief. You're just as bad." The spoon is flicked at your forehead, and Nat scoops another dollop of pudding from the cup. "Kinda like it, though."

The two of you eat more than a few pudding cups in the darkness, just sitting together in comfortable silence. By the time Nat tosses her fourth empty container onto the table and pats her stomach, she looks like the cat that just caught the canary—dessert staining the corner of her lips.

"We'd be terrible criminals, you know." You gesture to the table and evidence of your wrongdoing with your spoon, accidentally flinging a blob of pudding onto the mess. "Leaving all this behind."

Nat just shrugs, wiping her hands on a napkin. "We were terrible criminals," she replies. "Still are."

You glance over, take in the smug tilt of her smile and the ridiculous smear of butterscotch on her mouth, and snort. "You look like a goddamn child," you laugh, unable to stop the grin that pulls at your face. "You've got pudding everywhere."

She licks the corner of her mouth in an exaggerated motion, missing the spot entirely. "Hot, right?" she deadpans, leaning back in the chair like she's posing for a magazine spread. "Real sexy."

You scoff, tossing a balled-up napkin at her chest. "Jesus, you're disgusting."

"Bet you like that," she says, catching it with one hand and tossing it right back. It bounces off your shoulder, but you're too busy laughing to retaliate.

"You're fucking impossible," you manage, shaking your head and turning away—if only to hide how fond your expression's gotten. But the second you look back, she's already halfway leaning in, one foot tucked beneath her on the chair, the other dragging quietly across the tile.

There's still a smear of butterscotch on her lips. You point at it, mostly to distract yourself from how hot the room suddenly feels. "You still look like a mess."

Nat just keeps that infuriating grin on her face, crooked and unbothered. "Yeah?" she says, then—"Shut up," right before she kisses you.

It's fast, warm, and definitely a little sticky, but you return the kiss without taking a moment to think about it. She pulls away just enough to speak, already making her way into your lap. "Taste like you've been eating my pudding."

"Tastes like you didn't bring enough," you mutter, hands finding their place on her waist.

Her eyes narrow playfully. "Yeah, well. You gonna fight me for the last one?"

And maybe you would—maybe you wouldn't. But either way, you can't stop looking at her. Pudding smeared on her cheek, eyes bright despite the darkness of the room, and hoodie in disarray. She kisses slowly, wrapping her arms around your neck, and leans into you like it's second-nature.

Suffice to say, you eat more than just dessert in the hall that night.

"You're too nice, y'know?" Nat murmurs, late one night, as you clean her up in the communal dorm bathroom. "Always fixin' my shit."

You hum, wiping the blood from the scrape on her knee with a damp cloth. "Not 'fixing' anything. Just helping you out when you need a hand." The mark on her knee is something to marvel at, far more pronounced than the usual injuries she'd get during a soccer match, this one the result of being tripped while running full speed at the ball.

Bright red blood runs down her shin, undeterred by the attempt to cease the bleeding with the rag. The wound itself is a different story altogether—what looks like a standard case of road rash at first glance turns out to be something nastier the longer you examine it. Strips of skin have been abraded raw, and bits of rubber turf pellets are still embedded in the wound, dotting the exposed flesh. The area is flushed an ugly red, ringed with irritated skin that looks one wrong move away from infection. A deeper gash cuts through the center—less scrape and more tear—where the synthetic field clearly bit back. It's not gushing, but it bleeds slow and steady.

"You really know how to get fucked up," you mutter without thinking much about it, wiping the wound again before holding pressure on it with one hand and digging through a first aid kit with the other. "Couldn't have landed on your ass or something? Somewhere that was actually protected by clothes?"

She scoffs, rolling her eyes and fighting a smile. "My bad. Next time someone trips me in the middle of a game, I'll make sure to fall in a way that's convenient for you." Her back is against the dorm shower wall, cleats discarded somewhere in the mess and dirty rags—and she's still wearing her soccer gear, not bothering to switch clothes after the game and opting to head straight for your dorm instead.

With a clean alcohol wipe from the first aid kit, you remove the rag from her wound and replace it with the wipe, earning a sharp hiss from Nat. "Jesus, you're supposed to blow on it."

A warm laugh leaves you, and you shake your head as you continue to clean the wound, watching as the blood gradually slows to a halt, no longer running down the pale skin of her leg. You take a few moments to remove the granules from the area before wiping it once more."Nah. That's how you get extra bacteria on it. You can tough out the sting from a little wet wipe. Big baby."

"I'm gonna wrap it with gauze," you murmur to a pouting Natalie, who is obviously upset that she's being doted on (although, notably, she's doing nothing to resist said doting). "You wanna shower off the game first? Makes no sense for me to wrap this if it's just gonna get wet."

Nat sighs deeply, rubbing at her brow. "Yeah, I probably should. I smell like hot ass." A beat, and then she groans and leans her head back against the tile with a thunk. "Fuck. I don't wanna walk back right now."

You wave your hand dismissively before she can finish the thought. "Nah. You can shower here. I'll get you my shower caddy and some clean clothes for after. It's not a big deal." You snap the first aid kit shut, grabbing the trash around the shower stall. "C'mon. Let's get you clean." Standing takes more effort than it should, your knees burning in opposition to crouching so long.

She gawks at you like you just said you're giving her a new car. "Seriously? You're gonna let me use your shit?"

"Why wouldn't I?" You glance at her, reaching a hand down to help her out. "I've known you since we were kids, and we've fucked more than once. You using my shampoo is… basically the same thing as sleeping in my shirt. It's not a big deal. Come on." Her hand slides into yours, and you pull her up, the touch lingering longer than friendly. "Seriously. Don't stress about it. I don't mind."

Nat scoffs like you said something ridiculous, but the way she avoids your eyes betrays her. "Shit," she mumbles, dusting invisible dirt off her soccer shorts, "you better not be gettin' attached, or some shit."

You laugh, not because it's funny, but because it's easier than admitting that maybe you already are. "Don't worry, Scatorccio. I'm not gonna write in my diary that you rock my world, or anything."

She doesn't let go of your hand until you're nearly back to your dorm, and even then, it takes her a second too long. "Y've got a real saviour complex, y'know that?" she mutters, almost absentmindedly, but the way her thumb brushes yours on the way out says something else entirely.

The shirt you end up giving her has one of those dumb prints of a cat on a skateboard on it, and the scowl she gives you is half-hearted, but she takes the clothing that was offered anyway.

You bandage her up after the shower. She spends the night.

It feels almost like the start of domesticity.

The fan hums above you, and Nat's fingers drum absently against your thigh, talking about nothing like it means everything. You aren't quite sure when she started being into the whole pillow-talk thing, but you're hardly complaining.

"When you were a kid, did you ever think this would be your life? Me, you, PBR, pudding, and late-night hookups?" Nat asks, somewhere in the afterglow.

You let out a confused laugh, fingers pausing where they were raking through her matted hair. "I mean… no. I really try not to think about the 'what-ifs' 'cus it usually just ends in a spiral of 'I should have done this,' you know?" A beat of silence passes before you resume combing her hair with your fingers. "Not like we could have changed much, anyway. We never got to pick our hands, y'know? We just played what we were given."

"Yeah," she murmurs, leaning into your touch like a spoiled cat. "Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I never started playin' soccer." Her face is hard to make out in the low light, but you can still see the way it falls into something less amused and more unreadable. "Maybe I would've OD'd in that trailer, y'know? Or died the same way he did—but, like, intentionally, or whatever."

There's no need for clarification on who he is, so you don't ask—he doesn't deserve to be spoken about, anyway. "Maybe," you manage after sitting with that thought for a moment. "Guess we'll never know though, huh? 'cus we got outta that shithole."

"You still go back for holidays n'shit, though," she says petulantly, although it's more teasing than cruel. "And we're only a fuckin'... fifty-minute drive from Wiskayok."

"But we aren't in Wiskayok anymore. That's what matters. Even if we're only…" You wave your free hand dismissively before resting it on her waist. "Even if we're less than an hour from Wiskayok—we aren't there."

Nat sighs, tucking herself a little closer to you. "I guess. Kinda wanna just… get the fuck outta Jersey though. Maybe hitchhike out west, fuck around and join a cult or somethin' like that."

You hum in response, not quite agreeing or disagreeing, just acknowledging the sheer want in her voice at moving to a place where no one knows you or your backstory. "Reckon you'd make it two towns over before you starved," you murmur, resting your chin lightly against her temple. "Three, tops, if someone picked you up, thinking you were hitchhiking ironically."

She snorts. "Nah. I'd charm the fuck outta some trucker. Flash a little thigh, tell 'em my daddy's in jail. People eat that trauma shit up."

"Jesus," you laugh fondly, letting your fingers drift up her side and stop just under the hem of her—no, your shirt. "You're awful. Probably not wrong, but still awful."

"I just know how to use what God gave me," she shoots back, pressing her cheek to your neck. "If some idiot falls for a sob story, they had it comin'."

"Yeah, you would scam your way across the country. Defraud some old douche out of his grandkid's college savings." You chuckle again, moving your hand to the small of her back. "Probably blame him for being stupid, too."

"Damn right," she mutters, the smirk evident in her voice. "Gotta have a backup plan in case soccer doesn't work out."

You hesitate for a second, then say, "Saw a couple people with clipboards attending your practices. Thought maybe they were scouts."

Nat scoffs, burying her face further against your neck. "Please. Probably just some washed-up coach from Rutgers tryna poach a few D3 kids, or some assistant getting extra credit for pretending anyone gives a shit." She sighs. "Ain't like we're goin' pro. Not unless I grow six inches or turn into Mia Hamm overnight." A dry laugh spills from her, self-mocking.

"You get assists in every game you play. You're basically Mia Hamm, loser."

"You're talking shit?" Nat pulls back to look at you with a crooked smile. "You little bitch. You couldn't kick a ball into a goal if your life was on the line."

"Okay, rude," you scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically. "I was trying to be nice, and you're attacking me. Fucked up, Scatorccio. Fucked up."

She grins at you—wide and wild-eyed—for a long moment before it relaxes into something softer. "Yeah, well, just saying what I see. And what I see…" Her fingers move to grip the front of your shirt, and she gives you a look that you swear is something similar to longing. "Is someone who wouldn't last five minutes on the field, but still shows up for me more than anyone on my team ever has." Then she shrugs, like it wasn't the nicest thing she's said to you since you were twelve.

"Don't make that weird," she murmurs after a tense beat of silence, pressing her face back into your neck. "Please."

You don't make it weird, as much as you want to, but it does make your chest feel warm.

So you just hold her. You let her breath even out against your skin, and the silence stretch as she drifts into sleep on your chest for the millionth time in the past few weeks alone.

Movie night.

The night starts off the way they always do: blanket pile, DVD menu looping in the background, Nat stealing far more than her share of popcorn.

You aren't sure what movie you're watching—something Nat had picked up at Blockbuster the other day—but it's not what you're watching that really matters. It's the fact that she's willingly having a date night with you, her head on your stomach, fingers tangled with yours as Matthew Lillard gets tormented by thirteen ghosts.

"Y'wanna dye my hair this weekend?" Nat murmurs during a dull moment. "Maybe Friday after my game?"

"Sure." You glance down at her, taking in her grown-out roots. "Haven't done that since high school, but sure. You gonna buy the dye?"

She hums happily at that, squeezing your hand once before playing with your fingers again. "Hell yeah. I'll stop by Walmart." A beat, then she scoffs. "After we kick Northvale's ass. Fuckin' rich assholes."

"Rich assholes is right. Every time they show up for an away game, I see their fucking custom coach sitting in the parking lot, and it pisses me off. It's Knight Time! is a shitty fucking catchphrase, and I stand by that." You look back at the TV, suddenly remembering that you were supposed to be watching a movie, and let the conversation fade into the background for now.

Around the halfway point of the film, your drink runs dry and you realise the movie was far more boring than you thought it would be, the scares falling flat and your attention being drawn more to Nat than the screen.

"Miss Honey was hotter in Matilda," you comment idly, Nat's head having moved from your stomach to your chest. "Feels like she's just… I dunno, boring in this movie."

Nat snorts, shaking her head without turning to look at you. "You sound like every lesbian who watched that movie." A beat. "She dies, anyway. We just haven't got there yet."

You scoff and pinch her hip. "Asshole. Spoilers!"

"Please. You weren't even watching the movie. You've been zoning out for the past fifteen minutes, at least."

She's not wrong. And that means she notices things—your things—without even being told, which makes you feel like a middle schooler all over again, falling hard and trying not to name it. "Perhaps. You know I think horror movies are lame, though."

The movie is paused, and Nat props her chin up on your chest, looking at you with a crooked grin. "That's because nothing scares you. You like shitty rom-coms and Disney movies." She rolls her eyes teasingly. "I've never seen someone so excited to watch fuckin'... Emperor's New Groove."

"Hey, I didn't see you complaining when I played it for our last movie night," you huff. "You seemed more than okay with my movie choices, idiot."

"Maybe I just didn't wanna start shit. Think of that?" she shoots back, clearly enjoying the easy banter the two of you are firing at each other. She laughs, but it fades a little too fast, the moment hanging heavier than it should. Her thumb brushes against your wrist, absent-mindedly.

And maybe it's the silence, or the weight of her against you, but—

"This feels real," you murmur, before you can stop yourself.

Nat stiffens immediately. The teasing grin that was on her face falls off, leaving you with an unreadable expression that borders on painful. "It is real," she replies sharply after spending far too long in uncomfortable stillness. "Why are you trying to box it in?"

You blink, caught off-guard by the sudden hostility, and the way she seems half a second from darting off your bed and out of your room. "I… I wasn't. I was just—"

"Good," she cuts you off sharply, facing the screen once more. "Don't ruin this."

She presses play on the movie again, and all you can do is nod tensely and hope she doesn't run off. Neither of you is really watching the screen now—the atmosphere shifting from a relaxed, joking one to something akin to the silence right before someone walks away.

You clean your dorm for the first time in what seems like years. Spotless. All signs of dust or decay swept away like they'd never been there to begin with. A fresh pot of coffee—brewed, for once, instead of the instant stuff you usually make—sits on the dresser, steam still rising from the top. Her hoodie—the one she constantly 'forgets' when she stays the night—is thrown over your desk chair, looking painfully out of place in a room that suddenly feels too clean.

It's Friday. You know that Nat likes to spend her weekends drowning herself in college parties and late-night bullshit, but she told you that she'd be by tonight. That she'd spend the night, maybe play that album that just came out and smoke some weed.

Things have been going well lately. The past few months have had you feeling nostalgic, swept up in the whirlwind that she's created by stepping back into your life as though she only stepped out for a smoke.

Which is why you start growing uneasy the longer the night stretches without her arrival.

When she doesn't show up by eight, you aren't that surprised. She's never been very punctual, even when you were kids.

But when ten hits and she still isn't knocking at your door, you grab your Nokia and shoot her a quick call—only for it to go straight to voicemail. Alright, fine. Maybe she's just in the middle of a call, or her phone is off. It's not the biggest surprise, so you try not to think too hard about it.

Eleven hits. No sign of arrival. You call again—still no answer, still going straight to voicemail.

Midnight. The Chinese food you had ordered to be split between the two of you has long gone cold, sitting half-eaten and abandoned on the desk, the scent of ginger and soy sauce permeating the enclosed space. The burned CD you made for Nat spins inside your player, turning your own mixtape into a goddamn punchline.

You Oughta Know by Alanis Morissette blares through your headphones, and you let out a sardonic laugh. You can't decide whether to snap the disc in half or play it until the laser gives out.

It's just one missed date, you know that, but… it feels like the beginning of the end. It reminds you of the first Thursday she didn't come over to spend the night with you, back when you were in high school and convinced that you and Nat would escape Wiskayok together.

1:30 A.M., now.

You've stopped assuming that she's going to call. The food has been cleaned up and stored away in your mini-fridge, air freshener sprayed around the dorm to remove all lingering scents from the lo mein and General Tso’s.

Her hoodie—the one you left out on your desk chair—now sits crumpled in your laundry basket. Discarded and shoved under a mountain of your clothes to hide it from view, like being unable to see it would ease the hurt. It doesn't help. The pain remains.

The CD has long been swapped out with something that's less Natalie and more… well, literally anything else. Which works, until every song begins reminding you of her. Waterfalls by TLC? Check. The Scientist by Coldplay? Check. ...Baby One More Time by Britney Spears? Christ. Jesus, what the fuck were you smoking when you put all these songs on the same disc?

You take your headphones off as if you're expecting the relative silence to be kinder now, like maybe the ache will have dulled with repetition. It hasn't. The fan still whirs overhead, steady and impersonal, a background noise to everything you wish you could forget. You stare up at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster like you used to count sheep when you were younger.

No tears are shed. You just lie there, eyes dry and burning, until your body gives up before your mind does.

Sleep doesn't come. When you toss for the umpteenth time and come to face the wall, you reach for the other side of the bed out of habit—it's cold.

It stays cold.

a/n: my google search history looks fucking wild bro. "photo of knee with bad road rash" "disney movies" "horror movies early 2000s" "shitty beer new jersey" "what does an ra do" "average college dorm 2003" "vhs tapes 2003? or dvd" "mixtape but on a cd"

also, for my fics that i also post on ao3, ao3 gets them first. tumblr gets them, like... hours later or smth depending on my mood. just as an fyi for those of yall that use ao3 :pray:

#BANGER BANGER BANGER BANGER BANGER #dont let the word count stop you from unimaginable sadness #reblog #spoons 🥄#supporting my homies 🫶

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stagtorccio · 5 days ago

Note

this is kind of shameful and embarrassing to admit, and you probably don’t care, and there’s absolutely no pressure to respond, but i wanted to tell someone—

after almost a year of using it every day, i’ve finally deleted c.ai from my phone. i’ve come to realize that it wasn’t doing much good for my mental health, and while it felt like a comfort while i used it, becoming attached to an app— to ai, nonetheless— is very obviously not good for a person. so, i made the leap to delete it.

no one i know irl knows that i used it, but i feel proud of myself so i just wanted to share. i know you have your own opinions of c.ai, which i think is why i decided i wanted to tell you.

but…. yeah! that’s all.

hi anon,

for starters: i do care. very much so, actually. i strive to help people, even if we don't know each other or if i'm just a writer behind a screen to you.

so much of the human connection is based around shared experiences. by writing this ask, you might've just struck a chord with many other people going through the same thing. posting it will give people an opportunity to interact, connect, and share their own stories. so, thank you for that!

secondly: i'm proud of you too! even if we walk different paths of life, even if we never speak again, i am proud of you in this very moment for making the choice to overcome an obstacle, even if it is just deleting an app that wasn't good for you. it's wonderful that you're proud of yourself, and i appreciate that i was someone you chose to tell about this milestone.

while writing is just my hobby, i genuinely love moments of connection like this. there's so much apathy in the world lately, so getting these asks are like a little parting in the clouds.

thank you so much, anon. take care of yourself and be well <3

#asks 🫎#you did it!!!! that's the important thing!!!!!

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stagtorccio · 13 days ago

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🏐ྀི WHS yellowjackets #5 — lottie matthews

lottie matthews volleyball player headcanons (for 🪼 <3) warnings: none

𓃢𓃦𐂂 ── .✦

general

lottie matthews, setter for the wiskayok volleyball team. tallest girl on the roster, absolutely devastating with a jump serve that looks straight out of a damn highlight reel

absurdly composed on court. never yells, never shows nerves, just gives you a death stare if you’re slacking on your rotation. she’s both feared and adored

she is an excellent setter due to height privileges, but she would’ve preferred outside hitter because she likes being on the outskirts “protecting” the rest of the team

appearance

hair always tied back in her little pigtails i love you lottie pigtails, sometimes adorned with ribbons or bows in team colors

tapes her fingers. religiously. she says it’s for grip and protection but everyone thinks it looks kinda badass and hot

as far as uniforms go, i think wiskayok would have two options, long-sleeve or short. lottie opts short. more movement, more air

volleyball things

absolutely deadly with a float serve, it’s near unreturnable by the opposing team every time

doesn’t realize her own strength, really. once spiked a ball so hard it split the seam. everyone stopped. she just went to get another ball like it was nothing

if someone is hurt or having a meltdown mid-game, she is the first person there with a calm hand on their shoulder. she’s the team’s unspoken anchor

she gets very quiet before games, to help her focus. it’s a little unnerving but go off queen

injuries. so many injuries. i don’t think lottie pays very much attention to her body when she’s playing a sport, so she’s ALWAYS getting hurt in little ways because she uses every part of herself to the full extent. definitely gets shoulder and knee injuries most often. rotator cuff and ACL tears… also sprains her ankle at least once a month

off-court

she’s the type to be somewhat averse or nervous to attend team bonding nights at first, but warms up to them after a while

drinks electrolyte water literally every second of every day. a girl is thirsty all the jumping involved in volleyball is definitely strenuous for her

studies game film. i like to think lottie is very academic / study driven because it gives her a place to focus her mind when it’s restless

wears her wiskayok letterman the same way a knight wears armor. it’s proof of community and family to her. the tight-knit nature of a smaller volleyball team would be perfect for her stepfather-ing behavior

#lottie matthews thoughts #lottie matthews headcanons #lottie matthews #why did i put so much effort into something so silly. god #writing 🪶#HI JELLY ILY JELLY i'll do mafia lott soon i swear

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stagtorccio · 13 days ago

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“no one wants to read this” ok but you do. and that’s enough. and also wrong. i want to read it. hand it over

#PLEASE PLEASEPLEASE PLEASE PLEASE #'novody cares about this' I DO!!!! IM A CREEP IM A WEIRDO AND I CARE!!!!#reblov #I'm jigh

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stagtorccio · 14 days ago

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#skull emoji

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stagtorccio · 15 days ago

Note

okay so [gip means a girl with a dick/penis!] :>

and for the plot idea im still deciding if pre-crash or not. you decide pls 😭 but here’s the idea if pre-crash so maybe after the party the reader took lottie back to her home and lottie decided its time for them to take each other’s virginity (??) since they’ll be going to the nationals tomorrow.

as for after crash, they kept on fighting cause of minimal alone time and lottie is always starting it, the reader was oblivious at first but then she was catching on then decided to take lottie away from the group and have their alone time :D

[clearly im not the best at this plot making but u decide on what to write 😭]

— 🦌

hiii 🦌 anon!! SO sorry this took a while.. but here you are! i decided to go with the second prompt bc it had more feelings and i could conceptualize it better, idk idk ... just something about it spoke to me

#asks 🫎#it's meta if you squint #withdrawal frustration iykyk

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stagtorccio · 15 days ago

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please be rude

lottie matthews x gp!reader

request: x summary: Lottie's been off since the crash. You've got a running theory as to what's making her act out. rating: explicit, 18+ warnings: implied established relationship, porn with feelings, penetrative sex, girl penis reader (thanks anons), brat lottie renaissance, probably unsafe sex but it's fictional, (brief) fingering word count: 3.2k author's note: i know i know i know the header image is a season 3 screenshot but this takes place in season 1. in my head. please keep that in yours for maximum enjoyment <3

[AO3]

𓃢𓃦𐂂 ── .✦

You’re fairly certain Lottie Matthews has never gone untended for very long in her life. Not really, anyway.

Never a bruise left without a bandage. Never a craving unanswered, never a cut left to scab. Even now, stranded and filthy and mosquito-bitten, hair tangled as hell and half-starved most days like the rest of you, she carries herself like someone will look after her, sooner or later.

Your hypothesis, your grand theory, is that this is why she’s been such a fucking asshole lately.

Sulking around the cabin. Picking fights that don’t need picking. Taking your things and then daring you to make her give them back, and when you do, she just laughs, utterly pleased with herself.

At first, you’d chalked it up to stress. Called it cabin fever, as morbidly on-the-nose as it was. But the last time she teased you in front of everyone, she bit her lip the second you snapped back.

It clicked then, sort of like kindling catching. That for some reason, she wants you angry. Wants your attention and doesn’t care how she gets it.

Today, it’s while you’re hauling water from the lake, arms slick with sweat, jaw tight from a full morning of silent effort. Van's helping you boil it in a dinky pot that never stays level, and Lottie—

Well, Lottie isn’t being very helpful at all.

She’s leaning on a stump nearby, legs crossed at the knee. When you mutter something about needing more hands and fewer onlookers, you hear the faintest scoff. You think you feel your eye twitch— which you thought, up until now, only happened in Saturday morning cartoons.

“Careful, you’re spilling,” Lottie comments, mostly innocuous, but it irks you regardless.

“Maybe because I could use some help,” you snark back, setting the bucket down a little too forcefully. It sloshes onto your shoe like some sort of karmic deliverance.

She does move to help you, eventually. With the same kind of theatrical sigh someone might use when they’re asked to actually do the thing they were trying to avoid. She crouches beside you, scoops up the handle of the next water bucket with a little more attitude than necessary.

The two of you walk in silence for a while.

The path down to the lake is worn now, familiar. Mud sun-hardened, branches cleared by the group’s repetition. Your boots crunch over dry pine needles and damp leaves, and behind you, you can hear Lottie’s steps following in sync.

She keeps bumping into you, shoulder brushing yours, like she can’t quite figure out how much space she wants. She doesn’t apologize. You try not to snap.

The trees part near the bottom of the hill, and the lake stretches out in front of you, glassy and still in the midday heat, rimmed with cattails and buzzing crowds of mosquitoes.

You set the buckets down by the shore and roll up your sleeves. Lottie crouches nearby and watches you for a moment, arms looped loosely around her knees.

You feel her eyes flick toward you, then away, then back again.

Something in her still isn’t sitting right.

You glance over at her. The sunlight’s catching on her cheekbones, her collarbone, the sharp line of her shoulders under her tank top. Her mouth is set in that same stubborn pout it always falls into when she’s trying not to say something.

You want to ask what’s really going on. But you don’t.

You just get up with your full bucket and start walking. Lottie follows suit. The trek back to the cabin is filled with more of that tense, sticky, unbearable silence. By the time you make it there, sweat is beading at your temples and the tension feels so tightly wound you’re sure one of you will explode soon.

And then it happens. Lottie fumbles her bucket just as you both reach the fire, water surging toward the rim like it’s ready to escape and drench poor, unsuspecting Mari.

“Careful—” you gasp, hand flying out to steady it instinctively.

“I know,” she snaps, jerking it upright before you reach it.

You both freeze.

She sets the bucket down and backs away from it like it might bite her. You watch her jaw work, her breath come faster. She scrubs a hand down her face, agitated, then across the back of her neck like she can’t shake off the heat or the frustration or both.

“You okay?” you ask, tentative.

Lottie lets out a breath. “Fine. It’s fine.”

Her voice is brittle and fast. The kind of fine that’s meant to shut you up. The kind that means the exact opposite of fine.

You study her now. The stiff set of her shoulders, the way she won’t quite meet your eyes. Lottie, who never really hides anything, not well. Not from you.

You reach out. “C’mere,” you murmur, gesturing in some vague direction– anywhere away.

She lifts her head, wary. “Why?”

You keep your voice low, eyes cutting to the rest of the girls, but they seem preoccupied.

“Because I want to actually talk about this.”

Lottie hesitates. Long enough to pretend like she might say no.

Then, she mutters a resigned, “Fine.”

It’s a small victory.

You take her deeper into the woods. Not far. Just out of sight of the others. Where the air is cooler, the sunlight slants differently, and there’s the illusion of privacy, at the least.

Lottie leans against a tree, arms crossed. Still prickly. Still pretending this isn’t about anything in particular.

“Lottie,” you say softly.

“I’m alright,” she replies, but she doesn’t sound sure. She just sounds like she’s trying to convince you– or maybe convince herself.

“But you’re not.”

She huffs. But she doesn’t deny it. Her eyes flick up, then away.

Then, quietly, like a confession: “I don’t know. I’m… frustrated.”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

She exhales through her nose. “It’s like—" she starts, then falters. “Like my skin doesn’t fit right. Like something's too much. In here.”

She gently touches her fingers to her sternum, skimming the pads of them over the fabric of her top with a creased brow, as if she’s actualizing herself in real time.

“Everyone is… too close. And you—”

That catches you off guard. “Me?”

She licks her lips. Looks you dead in the eye, for once.

“You make it worse.”

You flinch. Just a little, because fucking ouch. But she’s already stepping forward, shaking her head.

“Not like that,” she murmurs. “You just— we never have any time alone anymore—”

She cuts herself off again, jaw flexing, and that’s when you notice it. The flush creeping up her throat. Spreading across her cheeks, blooming high on her ears. Like she can’t believe she just said that out loud. Like maybe it wasn’t supposed to come out like that.

Hypothesis proven, you suppose.

You let the silence hang just long enough for her to get nervous, fidgety. Then:

“Lottie Matthews,” you murmur, a smile tugging at your lips, “are you telling me you’ve been a jackass because this whole time, you wanted me alone?”

She looks away, but she doesn’t step back. “I didn’t say it like that...”

“No,” you agree, “you didn’t. You’re just terrible at asking for what you want.”

She swallows. “I know.”

You step into her space, close enough that your fingers brush the hem of her shirt, just light enough to tease.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, voice soft. “Maybe just… tell me next time?”

She looks at you like a deer in headlights, eyes huge, then grabs you by the collar and kisses you.

It’s teeth and salt and heat, the kind of kiss that feels like a devouring. Like she’s been wanting to do it for days– which she probably has.

There's a moment where she pulls back, as if stunned by her own want.

"Sorry, I just—"

You shake your head.

"Don't be."

And then your back hits the tree. Her hands are in your hair. Yours are gripping her waist, guiding her forward, chasing the friction–

She lets out a surprised breath. So do you, because you’re goddamn embarrassed. It wasn’t supposed to happen this fast. You’ve barely kissed her and your body has already decided to betray you.

Lottie stills. Just for a second. Then shifts away just enough to throw a purposeful glance down to the straining fabric of your shorts, voice catching on a laugh.

“Oh,” she says, delighted. “Really?”

You want to melt into the tree. “Shut up.”

She grins. “No, no, I mean—” She rolls her hips just slightly, just to feel it again, and a shiver crawls up your spine. “It’s cute.”

Your hands flex at her waist. “Don’t call it cute...”

“Then what?” she murmurs, pressing closer again, her voice dropping. Her mouth brushes your jaw now, lips warm and teasing. “... Hot?”

You groan. “Lottie.”

“Sorry,” she laughs, breathless, surprised at herself once more.

You kiss her again. Harder, this time. Your hands thread into her hair and tug just enough to make her gasp. Her own are under your shirt now, fingers skating along your ribs. You’re both panting, sweating, giggling between kisses.

You barely register the bark scraping your back, the dirt under you, the heat coiling low in your spine. All you feel is her. Her breath, her mouth, the soft drag of her body against yours as the rhythm builds.

She grinds down again, and this time, the sound you make is loud. Lottie exhales against your neck, half-laugh, half-gasp, and you can feel her smiling when she presses a kiss just beneath your jaw. Soft, warm, absolutely fucking maddening.

“Shit,” you whisper, “you’re— fuck.”

She hums, pleased, almost smug. But when she looks at you again, she’s flushed and bright-eyed, her lips kiss-bruised.

Her fingers go to your belt. You freeze for just a second, startled, but she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t say anything. She just starts to undo it, slow, almost shy. Fumbling, her hands shaking.

You grab her wrist. Not to stop her. Just to ground yourself. Her eyes flick up to meet yours. Waiting for you to tell her yes or no.

You nod. Barely. That’s all she needs.

The buckle slips free. The button pops open. She lets out a breath like she’s been holding it for hours. Her hands slip lower, toying with the waist of your boxers. She hesitates, then curls her fingers underneath, knuckles grazing your stomach as she drags the fabric down.

You bite your lip. Your hips lift, helping her, or maybe just needing her. And then you’re bare to the air, flushed and embarrassingly hard against her palm.

Lottie exhales through a grin, wide-eyed with something close to awe.

“God,” she murmurs, fingers curling loosely around you. Her voice is low, warm, like it’s a secret she’s thrilled to uncover. She gives you a gentle stroke and watches the way your mouth falls open.

You kiss her again, slower now, one hand skimming up under the back of her shirt, palm flattening against the warm curve of her spine. The other drifts down. Fingers brushing the band of her shorts. You tug at it once, a teasing little pull, then glance up at her, a wordless question.

She nods fast, maybe too fast, but you don’t move right away. You drag slow fingertips across her stomach, reveling in the way the muscles jump under your touch. When you slip your hand further down, brushing where she’s already wet, her whole body jolts forward. She buries her face in your shoulder to mask a noise suspiciously close to a whimper.

“Jesus,” you murmur, “you’ve been like this all day?”

She nods against your neck. “Could we just—”

“Yeah. We can.”

You hook your fingers in her shorts and ease them down over her thighs, her briefs coming with, damp and clinging, pulled past her knees in a rush. You're kissing her jaw as you go and she shudders, legs twitching when the air hits her.

You sit back just enough to look at her. Really look. Her cheeks are flushed deep, her lips kiss-swollen, her pupils so wide the brown of her eyes is almost gone.

“Don’t stare,” she murmurs, smiling even as she says it. “It’s embarrassing.”

“I’m not allowed to look?” you ask, grinning. “I thought you wanted my attention.”

That earns you a full-body blush. She laughs, breath hitching, and swats at your arm. You catch her hand and kiss her knuckles.

“Come here.”

You guide her gently down, easing her back onto the pine-needle-soft earth. She giggles as her elbow sinks into a patch of moss, adjusting herself with one leg cocked, already open for you without thinking. Her hair fans wild beneath her, and her hands flutter, unsure of where to go— your shoulders, your chest, your hips— like she’s wanting all of you at once.

Her thighs part further to welcome you in, and your bodies fit in that fumbling way, hot skin to hot skin, breath to breath. There’s a beat of quiet where you both just look at each other, pressed close, trembling, grinning like fools.

“Okay,” Lottie breathes after a moment, a smile still curling her lips. “You can— if you want to, I mean. I’m ready.”

You nudge your nose against hers. “Yeah?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

So you press into her slowly. Carefully. The world narrows to the sound of her breath catching, her thighs tightening around you, her mouth falling open in a gasp. And when her eyes find yours again, wide and wet, you feel her everywhere.

You still, giving her a moment, your forehead pressed to hers. Her breath fans across your lips, fast and shallow. Her eyes flutter shut, then open again like she doesn’t want to miss a damn second of this.

“You okay?” you whisper.

She nods. “Yeah,” she breathes. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

You shift a little deeper and she exhales like the air got knocked out of her. That sound’s going to haunt you for a few days, surely.

Her back arches just slightly, hips tilting to meet you. It’s messy, ungraceful, bodies slick with sweat and effort. But it works. By God, does it work. Your skin sticks where it touches hers: the inside of her knee brushing your waist, the curve of her calf against the back of your thigh. Her hands slide down your back, nails dragging lightly, coaxing out shivers.

Each movement is tentative at first. Then again. And again. Until it isn’t so shy anymore.

Lottie moans low in her throat– startled first, then thrilled. Her laughter catches somewhere inside it, and she hides her face in your neck.

“You feel so—” she starts, then gives up on words altogether. Just breathes and moves.

You match her pace, slow and careful, but the friction’s maddening. Every shift drives a little more sound from her. Every grind of hips has you biting your lip. Your hand slips between you and you find her clit with your thumb, slick and swollen and aching for attention.

She jerks against you with a strangled gasp. “Oh, fuck.”

The idea of Lottie Matthews having such a filthy mouth makes you laugh out loud. You circle your fingers gently, teasing just the lightest pressure, and she whines, her whole body twitching.

“Good?” you murmur, fingers sliding a little firmer now, just enough to make her hips stutter.

She makes a high, breathless sound. “Yes,” she sighs. “Just— please don’t stop.”

You don’t. You angle your hand, thumb gliding to press in tighter circles as your hips meet hers again, deeper this time. She’s falling apart already, thighs shaking, nails digging into your shoulder.

“God,” she breathes, voice cracking. “You’re gonna make me—”

You kiss her, quieting her with your mouth, swallowing every gasp and curse. Her body tenses, then trembles, thighs locking around your hips, walls pulsing around you as she comes hard against your hand, against you.

The pull of it– that tight, dragging heat– breaks you. That rubber band inside you snaps. You let out a low groan as you spill into her, hips twitching once, twice, your hand still caught between you as the last aftershocks rip through you both.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Just breath and sweat and silence. Her head pressed to your shoulder, your cheek against her temple, both of you boneless and slick, hearts pounding in time.

Lottie strokes a hand down your spine, slow and absent. Touch that’s not about sex, not anymore– just reassurance. She hums, soft and content. Muffled against your skin.

“Thank you,” she murmurs eventually, voice still shaky.

You laugh. You can’t help it. It bubbles up, warm and stunned. “Of course.”

She spreads her legs to let you pull away, winces a little at the mess between you, then slumps back again with a whimpering giggle. “Gross.”

You hum in agreement, eyes fluttering shut as you rest against the tree. A breeze moves through the trees overhead. Sunlight filters down in sleepy patches. You hold her like that for a long time, damp and tangled and peaceful.

Lottie shifts, nuzzles her face into the crook of your neck with a small, satisfied sigh. “We should head back soon.”

You snort. “Oh, now you’re eager to do chores.”

She laughs, tired and light, the sound buzzing gently against your collarbone. “Just trying to avoid the gossip.”

You kiss her hair. “They’ll talk anyway.”

“True,” Lottie mumbles. “At least it was worth it.”

You both linger a moment longer, reluctant to move. The ground is uneven, your limbs are half-asleep, and your clothes are… in an unfortunate state. But there’s something soft here. Settled.

Eventually, Lottie sighs and pushes up on her elbows, grimacing as she pulls her underwear back into place. “Well. We’re disgusting.”

“Speak for yourself.”

She gives you a look— irritated yet fond— and reaches down to help you fix your belt with trembling fingers. Her hands linger at your waistband a touch too long. You don’t mind.

Once you’re both mostly decent, you gather your scattered minds and try not to think about how you’re going to walk back into camp looking freshly ruined.

You glance over as Lottie runs a hand through her hair, fails to tame it, and sighs like she’s given up entirely.

“I look like I got mauled by a bear,” she says dryly.

You grin. “Was the bear hot?”

“Mhm,” she hums, tilting her head like she’s remembering. “She was gorgeous.”

Your face warms immediately. Lottie sees it, of course she does, but pretends not to, biting her lip like she’s trying to hold back a smile. Seven different ways to call her an asshole come to mind, but before you can pick one, she leans in and kisses you again. Quick and sweet, just because she can.

Then, quieter, her voice muffled against your shoulder:

“You’re not still mad at me, right?”

You shake your head. “I wasn’t mad at you in the first place.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, something soft in her eyes. Relief, maybe a touch of surprise. That smile blooms again, fuller this time. Uninhibited.

You reach for her hand. She takes it without hesitation. Together, you start the walk back through the trees, sore, sticky, still laughing, and already missing the moment.

#mdni #lottie matthews x reader #lottie matthews x you #yellowjackets x reader #lowkey dont like this one but c'est la vie

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stagtorccio · 17 days ago

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mutuals, followers, lurkers, lend me your ears... and help pick which WIP i should finish and release?

#yapping 🗣️#im not telling you which ones if any are smut because i know some of you will just smash the vote button

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stagtorccio · 21 days ago

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thank you for the tag spork spoink spife spoons 🥄 🫶

all of these are the codenames for the wips but they progressively get longer

camp rock!

brat renaissance

phoebe bridgers-maxxing

bill & ted's new jersey roadtrip

an italian experiences the trial of job

a dissertation on the stalking potentials of zillow

i have nobody else to tag so if you see it and wanna join then hit that like and subscribe reblog button

🌱 wip game🌱

rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have wips.

Thanks for the tag @vamillepudding!

revenant

Inheritance

Side of your father

these are high pressure tags. if you don't play my feelings will be hurt forever @coquitten @galaxythreads

#yapping 🗣️#reblog #tag game #caveman noises. yeah ik what that one is. yeah.

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stagtorccio · 21 days ago

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You should make a whole vampire au with nat!

the voices.... the voices.....

#someone take my keys (google docs) im about to drunk drive (work on something i'll never finish)#asks 🫎

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stagtorccio · 23 days ago

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Abandoned Souls | Natalie Scatorccio

pairing: natalie scatorccio/gn!reader

request: just a short and sweet fic, you x natalie, my idea was that the whole sacrifice thing happens again, but you are chosen, so you get chased by everybody, but find some sort of hiding spot (up a tree? dunno), natalie finds you, but feeling terrible about javi and the past, chooses just to stay and comfort you until the night, cuddlefucking, fall asleep, undeterminate ending!! (anon)

wc: 3560

warnings: canon-typical violence/trauma, smut, bottom!nat, tribbing, fingering(nat!r), apology(?) sex, nat cannot catch a fucking break, it's really just angst with smut sprinkled on top, not proof-read we die like shauna's baby

a/n: post cabin fire, pre s3e1. like during the rebuilding phase ykwim

"We should draw cards," Misty's voice cuts through the sound of trees moving from the rough winds of deep winter, causing you to look up from the point of ground you've been staring at. "It's the best choice. Most fair."

"We aren't doing another fucking hunt, Misty," Nat replies sharply, warming her hands up in what remains of the cabin fire. "We aren't… eating someone else." Every word is laced with absolute disdain at the idea, but the clawing hunger that had shown itself in early winter is only getting louder. She already knows there won't be much choice soon, especially if no game is found, and the loss of the cabin only made everything more urgent.

Taissa looks up from where she's seated next to Van, her face impassive. "So our two options are dying of exposure, or dying of hunger." She deadpans with a roll of her eyes. "Great options, Nat. Really."

Nat's eyes snap to Tai, glaring daggers. "We aren't fucking killing anyone else."

"Misty is right," Lottie murmurs, barely audible. "It wants us to. The cards will decide."

"Majority vote? All those for drawing cards, raise your hands." Misty immediately raises her hand, looking around at the others.

Lottie is the first to follow. Close behind is Shauna, whom Melissa immediately follows.

"You guys can't be serious!" Nat tries, her voice cracking as she glances around the group. "We can't just—"

"Let them vote, Nat!" Shauna snaps, cutting the Antler Queen off. "We were voting." Her gaze darts back around to those who haven't raised their hands, and speaks again. "All those for drawing cards so we can finally fucking eat, raise your hands."

For a second, no one moves. You hear Nat whisper something under her breath, maybe a curse or a prayer to a God she never believed loved her, but she doesn't argue further with Shauna. Then Tai lifts her hand, Van raises their hand, a very reluctant Akilah, and Mari seals the group's fate when she joins them.

You watch a tear roll down Nat's cheek, her jaw clenching in an attempt to hold back genuine sobs.

"That's more than half the group." Shauna glares at Nat. "We draw cards."

"I know," Nat murmurs after a long, tense moment of silence. Her eyes flash between people, trying to come up with the right words for the situation. When her gaze lands on you, you see flashes of a terrified girl thrust into a position of power she never asked for. But when she looks down at her feet for a second, you already know she's resigned herself to following the will of the group.

Shauna doesn't wait for Nat to respond. She just gets up, brushing her hands on her pants, and moves towards what's left of their supplies.

"Van. The deck."

There's no ceremony to it. No chanting or prayer. Just a silence that feels too big to speak through.

Van hesitantly pulls the battered card deck from the inside of her coat. The edges are warped from moisture, some cards curling at the corners. You've seen them before. Sometimes for card games, but recently? Recently, they've been an omen of something no one wants to name.

One by one, everyone gathers. A tight circle forms beside the flickering flames that still bleed from the cabin.

A few separate people shuffle the deck, as if to make sure no one's rigged the draw against anyone. When it's sufficiently scrambled, Van squeezes the deck a few times nervously before moving to stand next to Tai in the circle. "Should I..?" Van mumbles, unable to look at the emaciated teens who stand barely upright, fingers twitching like the nerves are misfiring.

Shauna's eyes are glassy, distant. You're not sure she's actually heard a single word since the vote started. She turns to Van, but it's not focus—it's vacancy, like she's seeing a ghost, or nothing at all. "Yes. You can start."

So, they do.

Van draws the first card. Ten of spades.

Tai follows. Nine of diamonds.

Gen. Three of hearts.

Robin. Seven of spades.

You. The queen of hearts—

Time stops. Your pulse pounds in your ears, bile threatening to destroy what's left of your already damaged esophagus. You display the doomed card to the group, hands shaking from more than just the freezing cold.

No one speaks or sobs. No shocked gasps or anguished cries pierce the air.

Nat steps forward, steps laced with heavy reluctance, and removes Jackie's necklace from around her neck and loops it around yours. The golden heart settles solemnly against your chest, condemning you to a fate that may have been avoided at some point.

For a second, your eyes meet.

You see her jaw clench. You see the thousand words she wants to say die behind her teeth.

And then you speak.

"I'm not going to lie there and let you butcher me."

You step back. The pendant shifts against your sternum with the motion.

Lottie's voice is hauntingly devoid of emotion as she speaks. "I'll count to thirty."

You don't wait for one.

You turn and run.

The trees blur past you. Pine needles catch on your letterman as you nearly trip over a stray root peeking up from the snowy forest floor. The only noises you can make out are the vague sounds of girls howling and your panting breaths.

You aren't sure how long you run for. It feels like hours—although it could very well be seconds—but your perception of time feels foggy on a good day, and this is far from a good day.

You don't recognize this part of the woods, and you gradually slow as you realise that you are helplessly lost. You no longer hear the animalistic cries of girls who have long since lost their sanity to the howling winds, and you're left with a crushing feeling of loneliness that you've never felt before.

Being out here was already isolating. Knowing you're completely alone, and that the only people you have left are the ones hunting you for sport, amplifies that tenfold. You subconsciously scratch dead skin flakes from your knuckles, a nervous habit you had before the crash that worsened once the hunger started to set in.

Your feet slowly resume their movements, carrying you in a random direction… hopefully away from the people actively tracking you.

Eventually, you stumble across a narrow gap in a moss-covered rock wall—no more than two feet wide, maybe less. Wide enough to slip through sideways or crawl, but you already know that your clothes are going to snag on the jagged edges.

It takes some maneuvering, but you manage to climb in through the opening, sacrificing a small scrap of fabric from your jacket on the way in.

It's already night outside, but the inside of the cave might as well be pitch black. Your hands guide you through the darkness, running along the walls until you reach a point you think is the far corner, and you shuffle down the rock until you're seated on the cold floor.

You aren't quite sure what your plan is, because either way, the ending doesn't look positive, but you decide to shelter in place temporarily. Maybe until morning, maybe until you're forced out, but you remain seated all the same.

An attempt at self-soothing is made, humming a song you barely remember from before your entire world got turned on its head.

That's when you hear the quiet crunching of snow from outside your hideout, and your hand flies over your mouth in an attempt to muffle any and all sounds you can emit. You notice the flicker of firelight seeping in through the opening, and that's when you see a familiar ring-adorned hand clutching a torch.

When hazel-coloured eyes peer in, your heart drops into your stomach. She doesn't speak at first, watching you as though you were a cornered animal, and right now it sure as hell feels like you are.

You inch closer to the wall, as though it could save you from an inevitable fate, and try pleading with whatever Gods exist in this long-forsaken forest.

Nat doesn't speak as she inches her way through the opening, but she does hiss when she accidentally hits her head on a protruding piece of rock. The flame from the torch flickers across the walls, revealing a far smaller cave than you originally thought, and you clutch the sleeves of your jacket in fear.

She slings the rifle you didn't even realise she had from off her shoulder, but rather than pointing it at you like you thought she would, she tosses it to the ground. The sound reverberates in the confined space, and you can see the tears brimming in her eyes when you look up at her.

She's shaking like a leaf in high winds. She sits down opposite you, next to the crevice, and rests the piece of lit wood against a rock like a makeshift holder. Once her hands are free, she immediately presses her palms into her eyes in what appears to be an attempt to ground or comfort herself.

"I can't do it again," she finally mumbles, hands still covering her face as though she can't bear to look at you. "I can't… we can't…"

The first sob slips out before she can stop it. The second tears through her chest. It's raw. Heartbreaking.

You want to comfort her, just like you want to be comforted, but the look on her face makes it feel all backwards. She's just as young as you. Just as fucked-up. Just as much as a high school kid pulled into something no one was meant to survive.

"Nat…" you whisper, inching a little closer. "It's… I know. I know you don't want this. I know you'd never want to hurt anyone. I know."

She looks up then, eyes rimmed red and tears streaking down her cheeks.

"I should." Her voice is flat. Cracked. "I should turn myself in. Or… I don't know. Something. But I—" Her breath hitches. "God, I'd rather die than have it be you. I can't watch that again."

Her body folds inward with the words, desperate attempts for air clawing their way from her chest, like the words physically hurt to say out loud.

And you're still scared. Of course you are. But underneath the fear is something else—something that says Nat would sooner freeze to death in knee-deep snow than lay a hand on you.

At some point, you realise you're crying too. It's pathetic. Gross, even.

You don't know who reaches out first, but it doesn't matter. You collapse into each other like gravity has given up trying to keep you apart. Her hands fist in your jacket, your face presses into her neck. The cave disappears. The cold fades. All that's left is the way she clings to you, like letting go might kill either one of you.

You curl into her because the cold hurts more than the fear does right now. The same girl you spent an entire childhood playing stupid games with, now comforting you after watching you be sentenced to death.

For a long time, you just hold each other. Shivering. Breathing. Existing in the same collapsing silence.

Then her hand moves—slow, unsure—resting just above your hip. Not bold or groping, just there, like she needs the anchor as badly as you do.

You don't speak. You just shift closer and let her touch you.

When her fingers slip beneath your shirt, you gasp against the skin of her neck. She flinches, almost pulls away—but you kiss her instead.

It's clumsy. You don't know who moved first—just that it felt easier than talking. Cold mouths and chapped lips desperately meeting in the dim light the fire provides as it gradually dies out. You tell yourself it's just to swap body heat, maybe provide some semblance of comfort in a place that has none, but you know it's a lie when you tangle your fingers in her hair and pull her towards you.

She's trembling—or maybe you are. Whether it's the cold, the events of the night, or being in each other's arms that causes the shakes is left unsaid, but you aren't sure any answer would satisfy the deep-seated ache in your gut, regardless.

You feel it before you see it: the hesitation in her hands, the way her breath hitches against your throat as she drags her lips up your pulse, and the quiet motion of her climbing into your lap like it's something she shouldn't ask for out loud.

She never used to have to ask, anyway. That spot was always hers.

Nat's knees press into the cold floor on either side of your hips. The weight of her settles across your thighs, warm and shaking, and for a moment neither of you moves. Her arms come up around your shoulders again, clinging tighter than before.

You brace her by the waist without thinking, fingers slipping under the multiple layers she's wearing to rest on the small of her back. Her skin's clammy, and you swear you can feel her heart thumping as if it belonged to a rabbit, and not a woman leading a group of girls.

She leans back in, pressing her forehead to yours, and for a second, it feels like she might say something. But she doesn't. Just exhales.

Then her hips shift. Barely, but it's enough.

Your breath catches. Her lashes flutter. And then she does it again—slow, uneven, like she's not sure this is happening but knows she can't stop.

You don't stop her, either. Not when she shifts to straddle one of your thighs, and especially not when she bites on your lower lip, drawing it into her mouth and moaning at the taste.

"Is this okay?" you tentatively ask between kisses, one of your hands sliding under the waistband of her jeans. "Are we—" You don't get a chance to finish the thought before she's pulling your head back in to slot her lips against yours once more, and you take that in place of a verbal answer.

Nat whines when your hand palms the rapidly dampening fabric of her boxers and eagerly presses her hips down in an attempt to find any form of friction. It's far from the first time the two of you have been together, but it feels like the first time—desperate hands and wanting bodies finding one another in the safety of night. Unlike your first time, neither of you makes an effort to discard anything that provides you with protection from the elements.

Hips frantically grinding against each other through layers upon layers of cloth, cold denim and rough seams scraping against each other as the final flame from the torch flickers out, leaving you and Nat in complete obscurity.

"God, I fucking hate you," Nat whispers against your lips, somewhere between her hands sliding under your shirt and rolling her hips in a bid to find friction. "Why did you have to fucking…" A sob tears loose from her chest as she crashes into you again—mouth, hips, everything at once. It's a fleeting attempt to distract herself from the static that eats at her mind every time she's left alone too long.

"I'm sorry," you say in return, burying your face in the crook of her neck as your fingers start to circle her clit through her boxers. "God, I'm so fucking sorry." You aren't quite sure what you're apologising for, or why you're doing it so desperately, but the words keep spilling from you as you work her.

She sobs against your hair, nails digging into the skin of your back. You don't flinch. You just let her hold on, let her shake against you as your hand keeps moving in slow, uneven circles through the damp fabric of her boxers.

"I hate you," she gasps again, but it doesn't sound like hate. It sounds like please don't stop.

Your mouth moves without thinking, pressing hot kisses across her throat and anywhere else you can reach. "I know. I know," you whisper, nudging her jaw with the tip of your nose.

Tears continue to spill down her cheeks, soft sobs mingling with broken moans. She's desperate, just as eager as you are for some salvation in this forlorn forest—something to hold onto, even if it's only each other. Her thighs tremble where the straddle your leg, muscles twitching with every slow grind of your palm against her throbbing clit.

You pull your hand back just enough to push it underneath the waistband of her underwear, fingers brushing through the thick curls at her center. There's no hesitation as you move lower, just the steady need to make her feel something other than fear.

Fingers slide through her folds, and you both groan as your middle finger starts circling her entrance. She clenches instinctively, breath catching in your ear, hips grinding down in an attempt to force your digits deeper. Maybe, if the situation were better, you'd make her wait. Tease her, draw it out… not tonight. You ease a finger into her, slow but steady, and feel her exhale like she's been holding her breath since the cards were drawn.

She's tight. Warm. Her cunt flutters around your finger, and you let her pull you deeper. Take what she needs. Her mouth finds your shoulder, canines digging into the wool body of your letterman as you push your index finger into her heat alongside your middle. Another sob escapes her, but this one is quieter, less afraid.

Muscle memory takes over any other course of action you had initially planned, finding those spots inside her like it's instinct.. It isn't long until you curve your fingers towards her belly button, finding that ridged patch on her inner walls.

You settle into a steady rhythm, curling your fingers with every thrust, each movement rewarded with a breathy moan against your shoulder. It's messy and frantic, the kind of touch that's born not from lust but starvation—emotional, physical, and spiritual. Nat grinds down against your hand, chasing every ounce of friction you can offer, even as her body trembles from the cold and her mind tries to outrun the things it's seen.

Her mouth finds your neck, but she doesn't kiss you. She just breathes you in like she's trying to remember something—anything—good.

You press your cheek to hers, closing your eyes because you're unsure you could handle seeing her right now as she is—wrecked, falling apart at the seams, and trying not to cry again.

"I got you," you murmur as your fingers shift into a familiar rhythm that's brought her to orgasm a thousand times before. You keep going, stroking her from the inside with a practiced precision, feeling her slick streak down your wrist and further ruining her boxers.

Then her breath catches.

Her whole body goes taut, a low sound slipping from her throat as her nails dig into your back. Her hips lock into place as her cunt clenches around you so tight it's almost painful.

You don't stop, easing her through the orgasm that rakes her frame, each thrust of your fingers slower than the last, letting her ride the wave as it breaks over her in shudders and gasps. Her forehead presses to yours again, damp with cold sweat, and she lets out a trembling breath that sounds like it could tip into a sob if you weren't already holding her this close.

The last time you held her like this, it was the night her dad died.

That feels like a lifetime ago, now.

"I've got you," you repeat, brushing your lips against the corner of her mouth.

She doesn't answer, just curls around you tighter as your hand eases out of her pants and comes to rest on her hip, rubbing small circles into the flesh as she attempts to make herself as small as possible, just a ghost of the girl she once was.

You aren't quite sure what time you wake up—or when you fall asleep—but when you do, you're still holding Nat in your arms, gripping her like a lifeline. You're freezing, but from what you can remember… you're still shivering, so it can't be that bad.

Nat shifts in your arms when you begin to stir, turning to face you, her expression as numb as she probably feels.

"Hey," she murmurs, eyes meeting yours in the dim light. "You sleep like shit, too?" She tries to laugh, as if the past ten months had been nothing more than a cruel joke, but it falls flat when you both remember the events that transpired less than eight hours ago.

"What're we gonna do, Nat?" you whisper, running your digits through her matted hair. "We… they're still looking for us, aren't they? I… what if they—"

The crack of someone—or something—stepping on a branch outside yanks you from the conversation you had just started, and Nat slaps her hand over your mouth to cut you off. Her eyes bore into yours, and as footsteps and voices grow closer, you can only hope that they keep walking.

The torn shred of your letterman still attached to a jagged piece of rock on the crevice wall tells you they won't.

a/n: trying something new with the headers and shit we'll see if it sticks or not

#'the last time you held her like this it was the night her dad died' you're VILE #EVIL ASS ENDING #EVIL EVIL EVIL #spotify play angst in my pants #recs #reblog #spoons 🥄

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