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Let's Call it a Draw -Part Two: Victory.

Part One

Summary: Sevika pines. She drinks. Then she competes in some arm wrestling and makes some very sapphic eye contact.

She loses, loses again, and then she wins.

Or maybe she wins all three times. It depends on your point of view.

(Basically just a very self-indulgent fic that spawned from an idea about Sevika and a big, buff Reader that I'll probably never get around to writing in full, so I wrote this as a way of honoring that idea.)

Pairing(s): Sevika x Reader.

Rating: E for explicit sex.

Word count: 7.2k.

Author's Note: Me? Posting more than once a year? Surely not.

In other news, my CFS/other body and brain shit is still overwhelming. It basically took dragging myself through editing to be able to post this latest round of fics (for those of you who don't check out my other works, no worries, but I like to post in little caches so that everything is updated mostly together). I'm not trying to vie for pity; I'm really fucking proud of myself for pushing through and being able to post. I had an unofficial goal of wanting to post more fics before April was over (because April is my birth month), and I did it! I am that bitch!

Thank you all for your patience -and all the comments! They really kept me going when the grind of editing was starting to wear me down.

Happy Reading!

Your apartment is a moderate walk from The Last Drop; not too far to make the commute unbearable, but long enough that Sevika is able to walk off the last of her buzz on the journey over. (She’s secretly grateful for the jaunt, because the last thing she wants is to go into what’s coming with anything less than perfect clarity of mind.) Your unit is tucked into a series of samey, stone-faced, grime-coated buildings, near the halfway point between the Lanes and Entresol.

Even better, it’s about fifteen minutes from her apartment. She tucks that tidbit of information away for later as she follows you up two flights of wrought iron stairs.

When asked why you picked your particular unit, you shrug and slide your key into the lock. “Quiet.” You open the door, then motion with one hand for her to step inside first. “Private. Decent enough neighbors.”

Sevika shrugs in response, hanging back in the entryway until you turn on a light. “Good enough reasons as any.”

Your apartment is small –a single, sparsely furnished studio with one solitary window that boasts a splendid view of the side of the neighboring building and the metal fire escape stairs. A light, covered with a cracked glass diffuser, hangs in the center of the room. On the far wall, next to the window, is a galley kitchen with wooden cabinets. A bed, stacked atop a few pallets, is tucked against the wall opposite the kitchen –and it is, certainly, bigger than hers. There’s a wooden table and a single chair between the bed and the kitchen. A chipped dresser rests at the foot of the bed. There’s a door near the entryway that boasts a glimpse of a tiled floor and the reflective flash of a mirror on the wall –a bathroom.

Oh, honey. She can’t really judge. She remembers what it was like when she got her first place. Her job had paid shit, and her apartment had looked like shit in return.

Your place, however, is conspicuously clean. There’s no trace of dust anywhere. No dishes left to fester in the sink. The counters and floors are immaculately tidy. Even your bed is perfectly made. The coat you use during the colder months hang on a hook next to the door, and your spare pair of boots sit on a mat beneath your coat.

In sum, it’ll hardly be the worst place she’ll ever fuck in.

“It’s not–” You purse your lips, then duck your head and look away from her. “I don’t –I’m not…” You swallow hard, then mumble, “Not so good at decorating.”

“That’s fine.” She hooks her fingers through your belt loops, then tugs you until you’re forced to face her. When your gaze stays glued to the floor, she murmurs, “Baby, look at me.” It takes a few long moments, but when you finally look her in the eye, she says, “It doesn’t bother me. Okay?”

Something dark and flighty clears from your eyes. You lift your chin, lower your shoulders, then reach behind you and finish closing the door to your apartment. “I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now–” you turn away briefly to lock the deadbolt and slide the security chain into place “–but uh…” You swallow, then laugh quietly. “I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

“You’ve been doing great so far.” Warmth unfurls in her gut when you perk up at the praise. She smirks, then uses her grip on your belt loops to gently draw you further into your apartment. “And I don’t mind taking things slow.” She grins when your gaze flicks from her eyes, to her mouth, to her chest, then back to her eyes. “Might make things more straightforward if I ask you a few questions, though.”

You nod. “Shoot.”

“You ever get yourself off?”

You laugh –a proper, real laugh that makes your eyes crinkle around the corners. Tension melts from your shoulders, and your face lights up like the sun. “I’m not a nun.”

Sevika hums in understanding. She takes a few moments to savor the brightness on your face, then continues. “What do you like?” When you blink blankly, she clarifies, “When you’re touching yourself?”

“Uh…” You look away, eyes wide with confusion. Your brows draw together, and you huff before shrugging. “Getting off? I…”

“I meant how do you prefer to get yourself off?” Sevika interjects. “Toys, fingers, penetration–”

Your hackles rise before she even gets “penetration” all the way out. Your mouth creases into a tight grimace, and your jaw locks. You swallow hard, gazing locking on the floor as you take a deep, bracing breath. You shake your head. “Don’t like penetration.”

“Alright.” She lets go of your belt loops and smooths her hands over your hips in small, soothing circles. “That’s alright.” She waits until you glance at her, then smirks and arches one eyebrow suggestively. “Still leaves me with plenty of options.”

You let out a small, choked whimper.

She grins. “How do you like to touch yourself?”

“Um…” You swallow hard, then follow with dazed, uneven footsteps as she guides you towards your bed. Your eyes stay locked on her –her face, her mouth, her body. “With my fingers.”

“How many?”

“U-usually two.”

The heavy, dark weight of your gaze and your ragged panting makes her ache. She waits for a moment, watches as you wet your lips with your tongue, then asks, “Where do you use your fingers?”

You let out a shuddering breath. “On my clit.”

She grins wider, then goes in for the kill. “Good girl.”

You whine. Your knees nearly give out, and you slump partway against her. A few stitches on the seams of her pants pop when your hands clamp down on her hips. “Fucking hell –Sevika–”

She kisses you. She grips the contours of your waist to steady you both, then sets about plundering your mouth with her tongue.

You whimper into her mouth. Your hands migrate upwards, until they find the gap between the waistline of her trousers and the hem of her top. Greedy fingers press against her skin, mapping out every exposed inch, then edge higher still as you slide them beneath the bottom of her shirt.

She shudders, then breaks the kiss with a wet pop. She admires your kiss swollen, spit slick lips for a moment, then looks up and drinks in your wild, ravenous, lust-heavy eyes. “Mind if I run something by you?”

“Go for it,” you say, voice gone to gravel.

She grins and rubs her thumbs against your waist. “I want to get you in this bed…” She nudges you gently, then pivots when you move so that you’re standing against the bed and she has her back to your kitchen. “I want to get you out of these clothes…” She presses on your shoulders, then clambers onto the bed and straddles your lap when you drop down on your bed. She winds her arms around your neck and looks you in the eye. “And then I want to use my mouth on you until you forget your name.” She smirks when your mouth falls open. “How’s that sound?”

“Yes.”

She chuckles, then kisses you again. She hums with approval when you grab her ass, then slides one hand into your hair. She tugs, then grins when you groan. “You didn’t quite answer my question, sweetheart.” She has to bite back a laugh when you look up at her with dopey, slightly glazed over eyes. “If there’s something you don’t want –or do want–then I want to hear about it.”

You swallow audibly, gaze locked on hers. “I –I like the sound of everything you said.” You slide your hands up her sides, callused fingers catching on the rough material of her shirt. You admire her body for a long moment, tracking the journey of your hands, then look back up at her. “Can –can you get undressed, too?”

She smiles and nods. “Sounds good to me.”

You exhale shakily, then lick your lips. “I want to get you off, too.”

Her smile sharpens with smugness and anticipation. “That’s fine by me.” She strokes her fingers through your hair, and her heart flutters when you sigh contently. “What else do you like?”

“I–” You shiver when her fingers graze over your scalp. “I like it when you touch me.”

She smirks. Easy enough. She drags her fingers down the nape of your neck. “What else?”

“Wh –when you–” You tip your head back to chase her touch. “When you tell me what to do. Makes me feel like I’m –like I’m not gonna fuck up.”

Like she was ever worried about that. “Guess it’s a good thing I like giving orders.” She smirks when you chuckle –but her mirth fades when she catches a slip in your expression. Your mouth pinches tight, and she sweeps her thumb over your cheek. “What is it?” Her eyes narrow when you duck your head and mutter under your breath, and she presses her fingers under your chin and tilts your head up until she can see your face. “Speak clearly, babygirl.”

You stare up at her with wide, glossy, reverent eyes. You swallow, jaw flexing, then breathe out, “I like –I like it when you tell me I’m good.”

Sevika grins. She’d already figured as much, but it’s so much more satisfying hearing you say it. “Oh, that’s easy, sweetheart.” She leans in, relishing how you tremble when she brushes her lips over your jaw. “Because you are so very…” She trails her lips down your neck, over your thundering pulse. “Very…” She licks the hollow of your throat, then finishes off with a graze of her teeth. “Good.”

Your fingers dig into her thighs as you moan. “Sevika–”

She presses her hands against your chest and pushes you back onto your bed. She follows you down, mouth attached to your neck, and murmurs a simple command into your skin. “Touch me.”

You do so quickly, ravenously. Your hands dig into her thighs and ass. You whimper into her mouth when she tightens her human hand in your hair, then your hips buck up against her when she tugs you head back and goes after your neck with her tongue. “Ohfuck!”

She plasters herself against you. Her tongue and lips and teeth trace over every inch of your neck, leaving no inch of skin unexplored. Arousal curls heavy in her gut as you shudder beneath her. She moans when you pull at her hips, causing her to grind against you. She rolls her hips against yours, then leans to one side and nips at your ear. “Good girl.”

A breathless whine leaves your lips. Your hands move up, up, up, until the tips of your fingers catch beneath the hem of her top.

She catches the hitch in your breath and pulls back to study your face.

You’re panting, lips slick with spit and kiss-swollen. Your gaze is locked in on the stripe of skin bared between her pants and her shirt. You drag your eyes up, over her chest, until you meet her own steady stare. Your throat bobs as you swallow. “I… Is this okay?”

“It is,” she assures you. She leans back, then reaches for the bottom clasp of her shirt with her right hand. She holds her hand there, not making to start undoing the clasps (which are designed to be undone with one hand, since her left catches on fabric too easily). “But it’ll be more comfortable if I take it off.”

Your eyes go dark and wide at the suggestion. You swallow again –then, hesitantly, lift one hand until it joins hers. “...Can I?”

Sevika smiles and moves her hand away to give you more space to work with. “Sure.”

You go slowly, but your hands are surprisingly steady. Gaze almost reverent, you work your way up each clasp until her shirt hangs open, exposing more dark skin and the fabric of her bra. You swallow hard when she shucks her shirt off and tosses it aside, then thumb the elastic band of her bra. “Can –is it –would you–”

Sevika merely smirks, then pulls her bra off over her head. The fabric thwaps lightly against the floor when she tosses it away, and then she gazes down at you like the cat that got the canary. “Better?”

All that comes out of you is a faint, strangled squeak. Your eyes jump up and down as you valiantly try to avoid ogling, only to lower back to her exposed chest.

She chuckles, then cups your face with her right hand. “You’re allowed to look.” She smiles down at you when you let out a shaky breath –then grins, all teeth and sly satisfaction. “I’d rather you did, considering I’ve got my shirt off and all.”

“Geh.” You sputter, half-formed words and grunts tumbling out, until your eyes finally wander down and stay there.

Sevika watches, unabashedly proud, as your lips part in dazed rapture. She holds still, lets you study and admire her bare skin and breasts.

She’s not necessarily voluptuous, by any means. The sheer physical demands of her life over the years has lent itself to the development of hardened muscle, not supple fat. Years of food scarcity (and money scarcity, for that matter) also means she hasn’t had ample opportunity to glut herself like the pigs up Topside.

She’s strong. Her body does its job, and garners the attention and attraction she wants. As such, she doesn’t spend time fretting about being “pretty” or more conventionally shapely –a good thing, since the explosion left a great deal of scarring over the left side of her chest and ribs.

Beauty contests are overrated, anyways.

So, it takes her off guard when you stroke the side of her waist and murmur, “You’re so pretty, Sev.”

She blinks a few times, lips parted in surprise. Then, out of instinct more than anything else, she scoffs. “That’s what everyone says to gal with her tits out.”

“No –it’s not–” You plant your hands on her thighs, then stare beseechingly up at her. “That’s not it,” you insist. “You’re pretty, Sevika.” You lift one hand and stroke the swell of her cheek with your knuckles. “I think you’re so beautiful.”

Her stomach flips. She swallows, suddenly light-headed, then leans down and kisses you again.

Callused hands smooth over her skin once more; you’re greedy, mapping out her abdomen and back. But you stall when your fingers graze the underside of her breasts. Your breath hitches against her lips, and your hands go still.

Without breaking the kiss, she takes one of your hands and presses it to one of her breasts. Amusement flashes through her when you let out a choked whimper, but it’s short lived as your touch lights her up. Mirth quickly yields to pleasure; she presses into your tentative touch, then groans against your lips when you squeeze her tit experimentally.

Enthusiasm seems to be all the reassurance you need. Your other hand envelops her other breast, and you squeeze and knead her chest with surprising gentleness.

She sets her agenda aside for now. As much as she wants to strip you down and break you apart until you’re a slick, sobbing mess, she doesn’t want to override your curiosity or confidence. She groans when you roll her stiff nipples beneath your thumbs in tight, circular motions. “That’s it –fuck.” She grinds her hips down against yours to try and appease her aching cunt. “Good girl.”

You whimper when she drags her teeth along the length of your neck.

She wanders lower, down to the collar of your shirt –but freezes when you take your hands off her tits. She leans back when you prop yourself up on your elbows. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you pant empathically. “I just–” You sit up, then shuck your shirt and bra off over your head in one swift movement. You toss the clothes onto the floor next to your bed. Trepidation flashes across your face the second after the garments thwap against the wooden floor. You slowly turn your head and look at her. “Is… is this okay?”

Sevika grins, slow and hungry. “This,” she murmurs as she drapes her right arm over your shoulder, “is very okay, sweetheart.”

The grin you flash at her in return is pure, giddy joy.

You’re built a lot like her. Big, strong, with scars and a few prison tattoos along your arms and shoulders.

The more analytical, tactical part of her mind notes you’ve put on weight since leaving Stillwater. Her mind harkens back to early days of training with you, then cleaning up after in the gym showers after. You’d still been big, and built, but she’d been able to see your ribs while you’d changed shirts. Now, you’ve filled out nicely. You look like you’re actually eating, instead of starving on the prison rations.

She lays you back out on the bed, admiring you from above. She sweeps her right hand along the yoke of your shoulder and over your collarbones, skirting above your chest (for now).

Your eyelids flutter. You sigh, then latch on to either side of her waist and pull her down on top of you.

Skin contact is nice. She’s not usually the type to get up close and cuddly with most of her lays, but even she can concede that the sensation is pleasant. It runs the gambit of being soothing or exhilarating, depending on circumstantial context.

You gasp when her chest presses flush against yours. The bed creaks as you arch up against her. A broken, ecstatic moan falls from your open lips.

Sevika lets out a low, aroused groan in response to your excitement. She plasters herself against you, then busies herself in working her way down your neck and drinking in your unrestrained noises of pleasure.

She pauses long enough, just above your breasts, to ask “Is this okay?” Your immediate, ragged “Yes!” spurs her on, and she lowers her head to kiss your left breast. She slides her tongue over soft skin experimentally, mostly to gauge your reaction. Another open-mouthed kiss elicits a breathy exhale and some slight squirming. Satisfied, she moves lower, and gently wraps her lips around your peaked nipple.

Your responding sigh trails into a faint moan.

She cycles through a few staples –swirling your nipple beneath her tongue, rhythmic sucking, even carefully biting the stiffened bud. The last one gets the strongest response –a deep, broken, surging groan that she’ll be replaying in her mind for weeks to come–but she opts to move on after giving some cursory attention to your other breast. She kisses her way down your stomach, leaving smudged lipstick marks as she goes. Sevika lifts her head to admire how her lipstick looks against your skin, then lowers her mouth once more and drags her teeth over a spot on the side of your waist.

You yelp. The bed rocks as you thrash and try to squirm away from her mouth.

Sevika bars your hips down with her metal arm (but even then, it’s a struggle) and lifts her head. “You okay?”

“You–” You lift your head, then narrow your eyes when you catch her smirk. “You bitch.”

Her smirk widens into a grin. She carefully teases your side with the tips of her metal fingers, then chuckles when you squawk. “Something wrong, baby girl?”

“Fuck you.”

She laughs again, then takes mercy on you and goes back to lavishing your abdomen with her mouth.

She traverses lower, steady but slow enough that she can gauge your reactions. When the tension, the freezing she’s waiting for never comes, she hooks her human fingers beneath the band of your pants and briefs beneath. “I’d like to take these off you.” She waits, trailing soft, barely-there kisses along your abdomen. When you don’t respond past a shuddering, quiet moan, she asks, “That okay?”

“Yes,” you answer in a drawn out, somewhat strangled whimper.

She waits while you undo the buttons on the fly of your pants, then drags your trousers and briefs down once you lift your hips.

You draw your legs up to aid the process. Once your pants and underwear hit the floor, though, the hesitance creeps back in.

Sevika stills when she watches your shoulders bunch up. She waits for a moment –but, when you don’t say or do anything, she nudges. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You nod, then swallow. “Just –uh…” Your tongue works inside your cheek for a moment, and then you let out a breathy, nervous laugh. “Just– I think– might feel less silly, uh, if–”

A small smirk plays on her lips when you gesture between the two of you. “That’s fine.”

The clasp of her belt clacks when it smacks against her thigh. She kicks her boots off, then shucks off her pants and underwear in swift, even motions. The last of her clothes join yours on the floor.

“Wow.”

She does a double take when she hears the hushed, awe-struck whisper. She looks at you, brows raised towards her hairline. She takes in your wide-eyed, almost worshipful expression. Something soft and sweet settles in her chest like Firelight wings, and she smiles in spite of herself. “Good to know I’ve still got it.”

Your eyes rove over her body, tracing out every curve. “I don’t think you ever lost it.”

She chuckles, shakes her head, then straddles your bare hips. “You’re a fucking sap.”

“You’re beautiful.”

She rolls her eyes to try and play off the warmth spreading through her chest. She plants one hand on either side of your head. “Try saying that when I’m not naked.”

Wide, panicked eyes snap up to hers. Your mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “I –you’re–”

She laughs. When you let out an irritated huff, she laughs harder. Sevika shakes her head, then cups your cheek with her right hand. “I’m just fucking with you, baby.”

You scoff and roll your eyes, even as you lean into her touch. “You’re a dick.”

“You just got that?”

A bemused smirk plays on your lips, before slipping away to something softer, more contemplative. Your hand hesitates halfway up, before circling behind her head. “Can I take this down?”

“Sure.” She reaches back with her right hand to help you undo the tie keeping her hair back, then shakes her head once her hair is free.

You smile, small and soft. You run your fingers through her hair, then tuck a few locks behind her ear. “You’re so beautiful.”

Heart racing, she leans down and kisses you. “No, you.”

Her journey back down your body is swifter this time around. She still teases your skin with her mouth, keeping that precious contact she’s learned you crave so fervently, but wastes no time in reaching her goal.

You let out a shuddering gasp when she situates herself between your thighs. A soft gulp emanates from your throat. “What –what should I do?”

“You’re supposed to enjoy yourself.” She brushes her lips against your inner thigh, then smirks when trembles wrack your body. “You put your hands on my hair, if you want.” She licks the junction where your thigh and hip meet, dragging a high-pitched moan past your lips. “You can tell me how good it feels.” And it’ll feel good, believe me. “But, otherwise, you just enjoy it, sweetheart.”

Your hips jerk when her breath fans over your cunt. One hand stutters down your body, then settles atop her head. You whimper. “Okay.”

Sevika pushes your thighs a little further apart, then settles on her belly, drapes her metal arm over your hits, and presses a soft, closed-mouth kiss against your pussy.

She's an old hat at eating women out. She’s not so proud as to call herself an “expert” –unless she’s drunk and bragging–but she knows she’s good at it. She knows the rules of eating pussy like the back of her hand.

First, don’t be afraid to explore. Don’t just focus on the clit and ignore everything else. The cunt is a buffet, and you’re there to eat.

Second, pay attention. Listen to how your bedmate responds, and listen to anything they mention beforehand. Being a know-it-all isn’t sexy.

Third, have fun. If you treat going down on your partner like a chore, they’ll pick up on it, and they won’t enjoy anything you do to them.

Fourth, don’t stop until they physically push you away.

She groans as she drags her tongue between your inner labia. Satisfaction sings through her veins –not so much at the taste (though she certainly enjoys that, too), but because she’s finally got her hands –mouth–on what she’s yearned after for so long.

It’s like working a marathon, back breaking, days long shift, just to finally come home and sink into a warm, soft bed. Except it’s eating pussy. Or whatever.

Ah, well. Metaphors can go fuck themselves, anyway. She has bigger priorities right now.

“Sev-vika!”

Like that.

Hitching, needy moans spill past your lips. “Ohmigod.” Your hips jerk against the (literal) iron bar of her mech arm. “Fuck –please, please–”

Sevika’s eyes dart up when you clap your other hand over your mouth. She pulls away from your dripping pussy –resulting in a strangled, confused whine from you–and tugs your hand away from your mouth. “Nuh-uh. Let me hear you, baby.”

Eyes glazed over and slightly unfocused, you stare at her glistening mouth before swallowing hard. “O-okay.”

She settles back between your legs, but pauses long enough to lock eyes with you again. “Good girl.”

Your responding whine is delicious.

She laps at your clit, swirls her tongue against the sensitive bud, then moves back down to lick around your entrance and suck on your sensitized flesh. She moans when you grind your clit against the bridge of her nose. “That’s it,” she growls into your soaked cunt. “Good girl.”

“Fuck!” Your fingers curl tightly into her hair. Thick, trembling thighs squeeze either side of her head. “ Quiet, strangled moans strain from your throat, followed by ragged, full-chested cries of pleasure, before cycling back to attempts to stifle yourself as pleasure rolls through you. You whimper, back arching off the bed. “Nnngh –that –m-more. More p-pressure, Sevika–”

She strokes your clit harder with her tongue, then starts alternating between sucking on your clit and licking it.

“Yes!” Tremors overtake your body. “That –that. Please. Please, please, please–”

Her eyelids slide shut when your cries cut off into silence. Her mech arm strains as your hips jerk against her mouth. She slowly ramps down the pressure and speed, coaxing you through your orgasm and into the afterglow.

Or, that’s the plan, at least.

Your body shudders as an aftershock runs through you. You let out a choked sob –then clap one hand over your mouth as another tremulous cry follows too close behind.

Crap. Sevika pulls her mouth away from your glistening pussy when you draw in a high-pitched, staggered, panicked breath. “Hey, hey.” She wipes her mouth on the back of her right forearm, then crawls up the bed. “Easy, sweetheart.” She wedges herself into the space next to you, then slides her right arm beneath your neck as she lies down. “C’mere.”

You curl into her and bury your face in her neck.

Hot, salty tears smear across her skin. She ignores the sensation in favor of stroking your hair and crooning reassuringly in your hair. “Just breathe for me. Come on.” She models a deep breath for you, then brushes her lips against your temple when you mimic her as best you can. “Attagirl. That’s it.”

A minute, shaky whimper falls from your lips. “I’m sor–”

“None of that,” Sevika cuts off, voice stern but gentle. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, baby. Just breathe for me, okay?”

Within a few minutes, you’re breathing more normally, even if you’re still tense as a rock and hiding your face in the crook of her neck. You swallow audibly, then curl one arm around her torso. “Sorry for freaking out.”

“What’d I say about doing that?” The corner of her mouth twitches up when you grunt into her neck. “It happens more than you think.”

“What, people have the best orgasm of their life, then blubber like a baby about it?”

Resisting the urge to preen is arduous. She inhales slowly, quietly, then forces her voice to come out neutral. “It’s called sub drop in BDSM communities. Endorphin and emotional high, followed by a drop after orgasm or a scene, followed by a crash. Happens in regular sex, too.” She cranes her head back and tilts her chin down until she can just see your eyes. “It’s normal.”

You drop her gaze and grunt against her shoulder.

“If anything,” she continues, “I should’ve warned you that it could happen. Prepared you better.” She strokes your hair lightly. “Ought to be me apologizing.”

You scoff. “Pretty sure you made me see god, if they exist. Think that balances everything out.”

She allows herself a smirk, then kisses the top of your head.

Once she’s confident that you’ve settled reasonably, she excuses herself to your bathroom. She washes and dries her face, then checks a couple drawers beneath your sink until she finds a few folded washcloths.

You lift your head when she walks back out of the bathroom. A confused frown tugs on your mouth when you see what’s in her hand. “Why…”

She arches one eyebrow and lifts the damp, clean rag. “For your sake, I hope you know to wash up after sex. Or masturbating.”

“I–” You sputter and scrunch up your nose at her. “Yes, you jackass, I know that! I haven’t been living under a rock my whole life!”

“Great.” She sits on the edge of the bed, then swipes the cloth over one of your inner thighs. “Figured you did, since you tasted pretty clean.”

“I –shit!” You shiver and hiss through your teeth. “That’s cold!”

“I used warm water,” she chuckles. “Your body’s just hot.”

“Fucking–” You flinch when she wipes down your other thigh, then prop yourself up on your elbows and squint at her. “I can do this myself, y’know. You don’t gotta…”

She shakes her head when you gesture to her hand, then carefully wipes along your cunt. “It’s good etiquette.” She tosses the used rag onto a wooden crate next to your bed that doubles as a nightstand –if the small camping lamp and a couple of books are anything to go by–then meets your doubtful gaze. “I’ve got a reputation for taking good care of my girls. I’m not about to start slacking now.”

You grunt and roll your eyes, but that seems to be the last of your protesting. You certainly accept the glass of water she fetches for you moments later with less belligerence.

Sevika waits until you set the empty glass on your makeshift nightstand, then clambers onto your bed and nudges you with her knee. “Make room.”

You oblige and shift towards the wall. Once she’s flat on her back, you settle against her side, half-draped on top of her.

Sevika resumes stroking your hair with her right hand.

“Didn’t take you for a cuddler.”

“Most people don’t.” She twirls a lock of your hair around her index finger. “It’s part of aftercare manners, too. Releases endorphins, helps calm everyone down again.”

You hum softly. Your hand presses flat against her ribcage, fingers smoothing over soft, dark brown skin. “You’re very good at it.”

She chuckles and grins. “Well, thank you, baby girl. You’re not so bad at it, either.”

The two of you settle into silence for a bit. It’s surprisingly peaceful –there’s muffled noises from the adjoining apartments and outside (Zaun is never truly quiet), but it’s a familiar, comforting drone.

Her heart leaps when you let out a little sigh, then relax against her. It’s taking everything to keep from grinning like a sap. She feels like she’s glowing from the inside out; she’s the cat that got the cream. After stewing in frustrated, uncertain yearning for so long, she’s done. She has her hands on you, she’s cracked you open, and she’s drinking everything. Being in the wake of your coveted softness feels like standing in a summer’s evening sunbeam, akin to her rare journeys to the docks, or up to the Promenade when running errands for Silco.

She brushes her hand from the nape of your neck, down the line of your spine, to in between your shoulder blades. Your skin is wondrously soft here –unscarred, untouched by calluses–and it feels exquisite beneath her fingertips. She soaks up the way you shiver, how you bury your face in her neck and sigh contentedly–

You prop yourself up on one hand and rise abruptly. Brows drawn together, you stare down at her with a small frown. “What about you?”

She blinks a few times, caught off guard. “What about me?”

“I’m pretty sure those were my brains you wiped off my thighs.” You smirk when she laughs, then continue once she settles back down. “I don’t want to freeload.”

Sevika shakes her head. “This isn’t how that works. If you don’t feel–”

“I want to,” you cut her off, expression and voice earnest. “I’m just not…” you gesture up and down her body, “...sure where to start.”

“Well,” she purrs as she stretches slowly. Smug satisfaction curls through her chest at the way your hungry, awestruck gaze roves over her body. Damn right. “There’s options, depending on how involved you want to be. If you don’t feel like touching, you can watch me masturbate. If you want to touch, but want me to have more control, I can always sit on your face. And if you want to touch and have more control, I can lie back and you can go down on me like I did for you.”

Your mouth hangs open. Dark, wide eyes flit down between her legs, then back up to her face. “Yeah.”

She grins. “Which one?”

“I mean…” You quirk your mouth to one side, glance away, then shrug ever so innocently. “We could have time for all of them.”

“We could,” she agrees, her grin growing wider. She reaches up, curls her fingers around your chin, and guides your head until you’re looking at her again. “Where do you want to start, sweet thing?”

Your expression goes blissfully blank for a moment.

She’s having far too much fun with this. You’re so responsive, she barely has to do anything to turn you into a muddled, lusty mess. It’s a gamble if you’ll stay this way, once you’re not so touch-starved and have some more experience, but right now she’s going to indulge and enjoy herself.

A few seconds later, you collect yourself and inhale sharply. “The –the face sitting. That’s a real thing?” Your breath hitches when she brushes her hand downward, over your neck. “I– I thought it was just in dirty novels. Or people talking shit.”

“It’s a real thing.”

“That.” Your voice is a rough, hungry growl. You lick your lips. “Sit on my face. Please.”

Exhilaration sings in her veins. She sits up slowly, maintaining eye contact the whole time, until she’s a hairsbreadth from your lips. “Good girl.”

You whimper into her mouth when she kisses you.

She directs you onto your back, then straddles your chest. She takes a moment to enjoy the view –you beneath her, hair mussed, lips kiss swollen–then works her way forward on her knees. She braces her arms against the wall, gets one knee over one of your burly shoulders –then laughs softly when you let out a strangled, high-pitched moan. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, emphatic. You’re staring at her thighs, her abs, her hips. “Pretty sure this is the best day of my life.”

She cackles, taken in by your enthusiasm, then swings her other leg over so she’s straddling your head. “Glad to be of assistance.” She finishes positioning herself over your mouth, then reaches down and grabs your hands. “Feel free to touch. Or hold on.”

“Hnmm.” Your fingers curl around her hips. “What –I –should –mouth?”

“Tongue and lips,” she answers with a smug smile. “Don’t be afraid to get messy. I’ll give you more direction in the moment.”

“Yesma’am.”

She smirks, then gives into your minute tug on her hips and lowers herself against your face.

You stay still for a moment –aside from your eyes rolling back in your head before sliding shut–until she reminds you, “Tongue and lips,” and then you start tentatively exploring her pussy. The first lick is soft and shallow, but the second goes deeper. Your tongue slides between her folds, and you groan softly in the back of your throat.

She hums lowly. Her head tips back, and she lets out a quiet sigh as you tease her pussy with your mouth. She lets you explore for a few moments –for you, she’s willing to be patient and let you test the waters–but soon rests her forehead against the wall so she can look down at you. “Up higher.” She groans when you tilt your chin up and drag your tongue over her clit. “Right there. Good girl.”

Your responding whimper is muffled by her thighs and cunt. The bed rocks gently as you squirm beneath her. Your fingers curl into her hips as your eyelids flutter shut, and you give into the bliss of eating her out.

To your credit, you’re a quick learner. It only takes a few more directions –adjusting speed and pressure, and reminding you to vary it up between your tongue and lips–before her thighs start quivering on either side of your head.

Your name falls from her lips in a breathy sigh. She rolls her hips against your mouth –then, when you freeze, she reaches down and sinks her fingers into your hair. “Don’t stop.” When you resume with just as much vigor as before, she groans. “Fuck –good girl.”

A strangled groan gets swallowed by her cunt. You’ve got your eyes shut; understandable, since it’s not like seeing in the most important function, given your current position.

But she wants to see your eyes. She wants to see how wrecked you are for her.

Her command to look at her goes unheeded for a moment. (Again, she can’t blame you. Pussy is a powerful drug.) But when she tugs on your hair and growls, “Look at me,” again, you get the message. You gasp, high-pitched, and then your eyes shoot open.

The wide, dazed look in your eyes makes her clit throb. She moans, making her forehead thunk against the wall. “Good girl.”

You whine her name into her cunt, and your eyes slide shut again–

Sevika tightens her grip on your hair until you let out a squeak and open your eyes again. “Keep ‘em open.” She braces her metal forearm above her head for stability, then rolls her hips experimentally a few times. When your gaze stays locked on her –although it unfocuses slightly, but she can’t say she blames you–she rewards you with another growled, “Good girl.”

Your responding whine reverberates through her pussy.

Thirst for obedience quenched, she sets into chasing her own pleasure.

It isn’t terribly protracted. Worshiping you earlier left her in quite the sweet spot –even after a break for aftercare and cuddling. She can already feel the tell-tale ache in her cunt; her orgasm’s not too far off, and between your mouth, the pace of her hips, and the pussy-drunk look in your eyes, it’s not going to be a difficult chase.

“Fuck!” Though she’s trying to be mindful that this is your first time, that you haven’t ever had someone ride your face, she can’t help but grind down harder. “Fuck –shit!” Her eyes roll back in her head, before she forces herself to look down again; she’s told you to keep your eyes open, and she’s not going to waste a single second of your compliance. “G-good girl. Shit. You’re –suchagoodgirl.” A breathless, higher pitched moan tears from her throat when your fingers curl into her ass –and again when you start helping her rock against your mouth. “You’re so –fucking perfect!” She groans, loud and broken. Her own eyes are crossing now; she can barely make out your face. “My perfect… perfect… good girl…”

You squeal the broken syllables of her name into her soaked pussy.

That’s all it takes. She climaxes with your name on her lips, bracketed between slurred curses and praises. Her eyelids finally slide shut, and she slumps against the wall as the rolls of her hips break down into softer, fluid humping. Eventually, she stills, panting like she’s gone five rounds in a fighting pit.

You wait, the picture of patience, while she catches her breath and comes back to her senses. Until, that is, curiosity and impishness overrides nerves and you decide to try sucking on her clit again.

She nearly jumps out of her skin. The ensuing oversensitivity borders between delicious and delirium, too good and too much, but she’s not in her head enough to navigate you through that right now. She lifts her hips off your face with a choked gasp. “You little shit.”

You grin up at her, lips, and chin, and cheeks, and neck coated in her arousal. “Sorry.”

She squints blearily down at you. “Somehow, I don’t buy that.” She smirks when you giggle, then shudders when you kiss the inside of her thigh. “Alright, enough. Make room.” She hefts one leg, so she’s no longer straddling your head –then stills when she feels her metal fingers catch against the wall. Slowly, ruefully, she looks up.

Five jagged, long gouges carved –by her–into the painted drywall greet her with no small amount of judgment.

“Shit.”

“Sev?” You squeeze her thigh gently. When she doesn’t respond, you crane your head back and

look up. Your gaze zeroes in on the gouges, and you beam. “I take it I did a good job?”

Relief chases away any sheepishness she might’ve felt. She snorts softly, then smirks down at you. “You were great, champ.” She smiles softly when you laugh, then nudges your shoulder with your knee. “Now, move over.”

You disappear shortly after she lies down; the sound of water running the bathroom cues her to where you are –not that there’s many places to wander off to in your place.

Sevika lets herself drift. She feels good. Warm and loose, the way she always does during afterglow.

Your bed’s surprisingly nice, too. Good balance between support and squish, decently soft bedding, solid enough frame that doesn’t shake beneath her every time she shifts.

Definitely not the worst place I’ve ever fucked in. She nestles into the bed, then grunts when her lower back gives a satisfying pop. She doesn’t bother to open her eyes when the water shuts off in the bathroom –not until she hears your footsteps (which are surprisingly quiet) approach the bed, and your shadow cuts through what light she can perceive through her eyelids.

You set another glass of water down on your nightstand with a faint clink. Then, you carefully sit next to her on the bed and start wiping down the insides of her thighs with a warm, wet washcloth.

Warmth blooms in her chest. Sevika smiles, then pushes up her left hand and wraps her right hand around the back of your neck.

You still briefly –then sigh and melt into the kiss once her lips touch yours.

…Yeah. She owes Ran a drink.

#sass writes #sevika x reader #smut #not safe for Tumblr #arcane: league of legends

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master-sass-blast · 16 hours

Text

Resurgence.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five: Chapter One, Part Five: Chapter Two, Part Five: Chapter Three, Part Six: Chapter One, Part Six: Chapter Two, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, Part Fourteen, Part Fifteen, Part Sixteen

Summary: You grin when you step off the elevator and see Lin waiting down the hall, in the doorway of her apartment.

She smirks when she sees you, then smiles faintly when you jog down the hall to greet her. “Someone’s eager.”

“What, you didn’t miss me?”

She hums into your kiss, one strong arm banding around your waist. “Well,” she murmurs against your lips, “maybe just a little.”

You giggle, then let her usher you inside as she kicks the door shut behind you both.

AKA you and Lin meet up for an evening to blow off steam. Unfortunately, things don't go as planned.

Pairing(s): Lin Beifong x Reader.

Rating: M for sexual content, panic attacks, PTSD symptomatology, vomiting, and arguing.

Word count: 5.9k.

Author's Note: Me? Posting more than once a year? Surely not.

Thank you all for your patience -and all the comments! They really kept me going when the grind of editing was starting to wear me down.

Happy Reading!

P.S. Shout out to the commenter who pointed out how guilty Lin must feel for not saying anything about the locks. I hadn't even thought of that.

Wake up. Stretch. Get ready for work. Catch the 8:30 morning tram.

Get to work. Clock in. Review client roster for the day. Confer with reception Start off with your first patient for the day.

Clock out for lunch. Eat lunch. Talk to coworkers. Take a short walk during break.

Clock back in for the afternoon. Work with more patients. Confer with an assistant on upcoming scheduled appointments. Take your afternoon break. Drink some tea.

Wrap up your last scheduled appointment. Update client progress charts. Tidy work space. Clock out.

Catch 5:45 evening tram. Stop by the market to pick up food for dinner. Go back home. Make dinner. Do chores and general “life maintenance.” Try to relax. Get ready for bed. Go to sleep.

And on, and on, and on, and on…

You like your job. You love the field of work you’ve picked. Carrying on your grandmother’s legacy –the tradition of the Northern Water Tribe’s healing work–gives you reason to hold your head high each morning.

You have purpose. Passion. You help people.

Maybe you’re a workaholic in denial. Or maybe it’s the fault of your mad idea to also work at Yue General as a trauma recovery specialist and on-call surgical assistant. Whatever the case, at least once a year, you hit a point where the daily grind of your life starts drilling through your head and draining your will to live.

In years past, you’d usually take a few days off, after about the fifth week of dragging yourself through the motions. You’d promise to “refresh” your life –clean up your apartment, take care of responsibilities left to the side in the wake of your waning motivation–then spend your time off eating your weight in take out and napping on your couch.

Well. It works. Each year, you’re able to return to work after a few days living as a shut-in hedonist with renewed joy and drive.

This year, however…

You grin when you step off the elevator and see Lin waiting down the hall, in the doorway of her apartment.

She smirks when she sees you, then smiles faintly when you jog down the hall to greet her. “Someone’s eager.”

“What,” you say, somewhat winded, as you slow to a stop in front of her. You wind your arms around her neck and curl your fingers into her curly, short hair. “You didn’t miss me?”

She hums into your kiss, one strong arm banding around your waist. “Well,” she murmurs against your lips, “maybe just a little.”

You giggle, then let her usher you inside as she kicks the door shut behind you both.

…

The second the deadbolt slides into place, the weight of your daily grind melts away.

Technically, the second you got a phone call from your darling girlfriend, and thus received the invitation to come over for an evening, a lot of the drudgery bearing down on you had abated. But you’d still waited, balancing electric anticipation, looming over your head as you counted down the days, then the hours, then the minutes…

You moan into Lin’s mouth as she grabs your ass with both hands.

Bliss.

You’ve always hated waiting for what you want –for anything, really.

Lin shoves you against the nearest wall. She growls when you squeeze her ass harder than necessary, then grabs your hands. “Behave.”

“No.” You take the opportunity to nip at her lower lip –which makes her gasp gloriously–then utilize her shock to fight her grip. “I–”

Lin all but slams your hands against the wall, over your head. She brushes her lips along your jawline –which makes you tremble–then murmurs huskily in your ear. “Enough. Be patient.”

“Patient?” you sputter. “I’ve been patient the whole damn week–”

“I called you only three days ago.”

“It felt like a week!” You whimper when Lin nips at the side of your neck. Feigning submission, you tip your head back and melt against her –until she loosens her grip on your wrists.

“You little–” Lin catches your hand halfway on its journey up her shirt with one hand, then grabs your face with the other. She forces you to look her in the eye and glowers down at you. “What did I just tell you?”

“You called me three days ago.” A cheeky, self-satisfied grin stretches across your face when she growls at you. You smile up at her, the picture of innocence, then use her moment of distraction to jam your thigh between her legs.

Lin lets out a choked gasp of your name and stumbles against you.

“Aw, baby, did you miss me?” you purr. “You could’ve called me so –FUCK!”

In one fluid motion, Lin tosses you over her shoulder and marches down the hall, towards her bedroom.

A short grunt escapes you when she tosses you on her bed, and then you squeal when she yanks you over her lap. In short order, your pants are yanked down around your knees. You mock-glare at her over your shoulder when she pulls roughly on your underwear. “Don’t rip these! I like them!”

Lin grabs a fistful of your hair and pushes your head back down against the bed. “Shut up.”

Blissful pain shoots across your scalp. Your eyelids flutter shut, and you moan into her bedspread.

(Regardless, she heeds your demand and doesn’t ruin your underwear.)

Your underwear follow the trajectory of your pants in short order. Anticipation and arousal pulse through your cunt, prompting you to squirm atop Lin’s lap.

She pins you down by barring one strong, unyielding arm across the small of your back. Her free hand gently smooths over the swell of your bare ass –almost worshipful, in contrast to her ire with your bratting. “Last chance. Behave.”

You can’t resist. “Or what?”

Her hand cracks down against your skin.

You yelp –then whimper when she kneads your asscheek, drawing out the underlying ache. “Lin–”

“Be. Good.” She leans over your back to growl in your ear. “Or I won’t let you cum tonight.”

…Come on. She practically set that up on a silver platter for you.

“What makes you think you can make me cum to begin with?”

SMACK!

A delighted sob rips out of your throat. You writhe –well, as much as you can, anyway, since Lin’s always bound to win any contest of strength between the two of you–then moan when she spanks you one, two, three more times. Stars burst behind your eyelids, dazzling and transcendent as all coherent thought leaks out your brain through your dripping cunt. “Fucking spirits–” You groan, low and ragged, when Lin’s hand cracks down against your ass for a fourth time. “Oh shit!”

She keeps spanking you in irregular intervals, until your ass feels hot and you’re a whimpering, slick mess. Lin brushes her fingers against your labia, then pulls away when your hips push against her fingertips. “What? Nothing smart to say now?”

And you don’t. The ability to speak has since left your brain, drowned out by arousal, and endorphins, and the feeling of your girlfriend’s hand against your throbbing skin. So, in lieu of saying what’s on your mind, you opt for a physical demonstration.

“You little fucking brat–”

Or, well, you try to.

You manage to twist your arm and get half a hand on Lin’s chest –her beautiful, soft chest that you would never take your hands off, if you had things your way–before the bottom drawer of her nightstand flies open and a familiar glint of silver whizzes past your head.

Your stomach lurches, akin to airsickness, when the first metal cuff closes around your wrist.

“You never listen, never learn–”

It’s like you’ve toppled into the Northern Ocean in the midst of winter. Every muscle in your body seizes, practically frozen solid. You’re sinking, slipping beneath the surface as La drags you into their depths, theirs forevermore.

“–okay? Talk to me–”

You can’t breathe right. There’s a burlap bag over your head. You’re tied to a chair in a dank basement, there’s a bag over your head, and you’re going to die–

“Breathe.” Lin undoes the cuffs with her metalbending, then tosses them aside. She lifts you into her arms, turning you so that you’re sitting in her lap. “What’s wrong? Did I–”

“Don’t leave me again!” A broken sob tears from your throat. You throw your arms around her, clutching her close as you bury your face into her neck. Shudders wrack your body as you cry louder. “Don’t –don’t leave me–”

“Okay! Okay.” Lin cups the back of your head with one hand. “I won’t leave you. Just breathe for me, alright?”

You’re trying. But it’s like you’ve been punched in the gut. You can’t catch your breath, can’t get your diaphragm to open up properly.

“What does she taste like?”

The back of your throat burns. Your mouth tastes like acrid metal.

“I want you to tell me. What does she taste like when you use your tongue on her?”

Clammy sweat beads along your forehead.

“I guess I’ll have to find out for myself.”

You shove yourself to your feet, then clap one hand over your mouth when you retch.

Lin’s reflexes succeed where yours fail. When you double over, she grabs you by the shoulders and rushes you to the bathroom.

The first heave makes your eyes water and burn. You cough, stomach roiling as your whole body rolls. Putrid bile spews into the toilet basin on the second heave, burning your throat on the way out. You sob when you can breathe again, falling to your knees on the hard, cold tiles of Lin’s bathroom floor.

Lin’s hand is strong, yet gentle on your hair. She quickly tucks a few stray strands away from your face. “Easy. Just let it happen.”

Like I have any control here. Panting, you clutch the rim of the toilet bowl. “I–” You retch, then curl over the toilet again.

…

Things go fuzzy. Once your stomach is empty, you collapse against the side of Lin’s bathtub. You’re gasping, clammy and trembling as you try to suck down enough air to stop the feeling of drowning.

A cool glass of water is pressed into your hands. You take a small sip, rinse your mouth, then spit into the toilet bowl before slumping down again.

At some point, you wind up in Lin’s bed, tucked carefully under the covers. Your knees and hips ache from the harsh, unforgiving tile floor. Still shaking, you wince as you curl up on your side. Short, shallow breaths puff past your lips. I’m okay. It’s okay. Everything is okay. You’re safe, Lin’s here–

Except she’s not.

You bolt upright, terror coursing through your veins. The bathroom’s empty, there’s no light peeking out beneath the door to her home office, and the kitchen is silent. Your stomach drops into your feet, and you lunge out of bed. “Lin?”

“What’s wrong?” Her feet hit the floor in her living room, and then she appears at the end of the hallway, expression pinched from concern. “Are you–” She stumbles back a few steps when you careen into her. “What the –hey!”

You lock your arms around her waist and bury your face in her neck. Your pulse pounds in your ears, racing and erratic. “You left me again!”

“I–” Lin’s hands grip your shoulders tightly. “I stayed with you while–”

“Not then! Earlier! You left me!”

Lin tightens her hold on your shoulders, then forces you back so she can see your face. “I don’t know what we’re talking about!”

You lock your jaw to keep yourself from rambling and gibbering like an unhinged loon. Throat tight with fear and anguish, you force yourself to breathe as deeply as you can. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Bile roils in your empty stomach; you swallow hard, then pull away from her. “You left me. After the warehouse. After Kim.”

Lin goes perfectly still. Her wide, green eyes lock onto your face, then quickly focus on the floor instead, before finally drifting to the empty kitchen. Her scarred cheek twitches minutely. “I don’t understand what that has to do with right now.”

“I’m trying,” you spit out between clenched teeth. Frustrated –with her, with the situation, with yourself–you close your eyes and scrub at your face with your hands. “I’m not –you aren’t –I don’t want to–”

“Breathe.”

You do as Lin says, relaxing minutely when her hand brushes against your upper arm. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Use the diaphragm and abdominal muscles to control things. Deep inhale, even slower exhale.

Once you’re visibly calmer, Lin speaks again. “Why did you panic when I cuffed you?”

“I…” You swallow hard, then shrug small and sad. “I flashed back to –to the warehouse fight.” A pang of anxiety makes your voice crack. “When Kim had me tied to a chair in the basement.”

“Shit.” Lin rakes one hand through her short, wavy gray hair. “I’m sorry, I should have thought–”

“Of nothing,” you cut her off, suddenly weary.

“I should have checked in before restraining you–”

“And I would have said ‘go for it.’” You level her with a firm stare. “I didn’t know it was going to happen, either. It just… came out of nowhere.” The anxiousness crests higher, and you compensate by stepping into Lin’s space and wrapping your arms around her waist. You bury your face into the crook of her neck. “Thanks for helping me when I freaked out.”

“Of course,” Lin says as she wraps both arms around your shoulders. “What, like I was going to leave you like that?”

“I know, I know,” you reply automatically.

She left you after the warehouse.

It’s a poisonous, traitorous thought. Cold, nauseating ire roils in your gut. It turns hot as it swirls up your spine, until it breaks over your head in a tidal wave of rage and indignance.

It’s not fair. You and Lin have talked about the whole Kim aftermath fiasco. It’s been put to bed.

Has it? You chew on your lower lip as your mind turns the issue over. If you’re still upset about it, has it really been laid to rest?

How many times have you lectured your patients, after all? Some small injuries or aches, if left unattended, can morph into much bigger problems.

The tell-tale sensation snaps back –almost like vertigo, your head spins as the room suddenly feels miniscule around you. You can feel the walls of Lin’s apartment closing in around you, feel your scalp pressing against the plastered ceiling, even though your girlfriend is still holding you and your head is still comfortably pillowed against her chest. The urge to curl in on yourself, to find somewhere dark and small to hide claws up your legs and back, snarling and demanding your immediate submission. Breathe. Your eyes slip shut, and you press your forehead against your girlfriend’s shoulder. I deserve to exist. My feelings deserve to exist. Teeth clenched against a fresh wave of nausea, you breathe through anger and frustration and pain. Ask, don’t accuse. You swallow around the lump in your throat. “Why –why did you leave me after I got kidnapped?”

Unsurprisingly, Lin freezes again.

You can hear her swallow nervously. When she doesn’t speak, you decide to keep talking. “I needed you. I–I was so fucking scared, and hurt–” Your voice cracks as hot, stinging tears well up behind your closed eyelids. You press the heels of your hands against your eyes, trembling all over as you try to compose yourself. “Sorry. Just –give me a second.”

Lin says nothing, simply waiting in patient silence.

Outside, down in the street below, a Satomobile door thumps shut. The engine revs, then settles into a steady purr before fading away. The familiar rattle of the city tram breaks through the autumnal winds that rip off the harbor. The sound of the tram’s bell soars higher, sailing into the night air like asclepias puffs in the wind.

You flex your feet against the hardwood floors of Lin’s apartment. Pretty grain pattern, part of your brain notes inanely. Must’ve been expensive to refine and install. “Why did you leave me?” you whisper hoarsely, once you finally manage to scrape yourself together. You swipe at your face with the cuff of your sleeve; you hadn’t even managed to get undressed before everything went to shit. You clear your throat. “I… I don’t understand.”

For several long, tense moments, you think she might not answer at all. Then, Lin sighs. “I… I panicked.”

You watch Lin sharply, trying to read her often inscrutable expression and posture.

She walks away from you, over to the window in the living area that overlooks Republic City. She stares out at the night skyline –despite the sun having already set, the city glows from all the electric lights. She braces her hands against the white windowsill; she almost looks like a pensive, noir-style detective from the murder mystery radio shows you like so much.

You tuck your tongue in your cheek to keep from giggling hysterically.

“It was my fault.” She doesn’t look at you. “The nature of my job creates enemies.” She steps back from the windowsill; her hands curl into fists at her sides. “I should’ve known better. I do know better. And despite that, I didn’t keep you safe.”

“It’s not–” With a long, heavy sigh, you shake your head. “You can’t possibly predict every–”

“I did.” When you sputter disbelievingly, she faces you –but her gaze doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “The security on your building is shit. And you’d be a lot better off with platinum locks.”

After a moment of your best river carp impression, you manage to close your mouth and shake your head. “Lin…” You hold up one finger when she opens her mouth to argue. “That’s not the same thing as knowing that Kim was going to kidnap me.” When Lin’s unconvinced, pinched expression doesn’t lift, you sputter, flabbergasted. “Okay, look –Lin. Baby. If I don’t expect you to make sure every aspect of my life is safe, what good does it do to hold yourself to that kind of standard?”

“I still–”

“‘Still’ nothing, Lin! You’re not a fucking god! Okay, so you thought about my locks; that –that doesn’t obligate you to do anything,” you insist. Sweat beads along your back, soaking into your shirt. You sigh, then sweep your hair off the back of your neck to try and cool off. “As it so happens, I’m an adult; I’m ultimately responsible for myself, and that includes my own safety. Besides, it’s a nice enough neighborhood!”

Lin stares at you, flat and unimpressed. “Bad things happen anywhere.” Her jaw tightens. “You would know.”

You sputter, caught flat-footed by her audacity to use your own assault against you. “I –how fucking dare you!” You clench your hands into fists at your side, fingernails biting into the meat of your palm. “I am not –I cannot believe–” Sense takes hold before you cavalier too far down the road of rage and indignance; as angry as you are, you don’t want to spew vitriol all over Lin. Even if she’s kind of earned it. You glare at her, jaw locked tight. “Even if you have a logical point,” you spit out through clenched teeth, “the woman who skipped out on me after I was assaulted does not get to use that trauma against me in an argument!”

Lin’s lips press into a thin line. She looks at the floor, expression somewhat chastened. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

“Yes, yes it was. And thank you.” In a testament to your self-control –which, normally, you’d pass off as lacking at best–you inhale deeply and try to yank your temper back into some semblance of calm. Your head is starting to throb dully. So much for a relaxing night off. You rub your temples as you struggle to process and respond to Lin’s adamant self-blame. “I don’t –I don’t walk around with this notion that being your girlfriend comes with some sort of pass to perfect protection! I don’t expect you to package me up all nice and safe so nothing bad ever happens to me!”

“I know–”

“Then what, in Yue’s name, is the fucking problem!” You fling your arms wide, voice rising as your frustration mounts again. “There are associated risks with living in the real fucking world, and I have never asked, or intoned, or suggested that you safeguard me from every bad thing that could ever happen! Why…” When your mind finally runs blank, anger petering out, you throw up your arms before letting them fall back to your sides. Your palms hit your thighs with a light slap. “What’s the point? What’s the point of putting yourself through all that, Lin?”

Lin scowls. She turns partly away and rakes one hand through her thick, curly hair. “It’s still my job.” She sighs harshly. “I know you don’t expect me to protect you.” She looks back over you, expression solemn. “I know. But it’s still my job. I don’t–” She presses her lips into a thin line, frustrated, then crosses her arms over her chest. “I believe in police work. I believe that doing my job keeps people safe. Even when I’m ‘off the clock,’ my duties to the people I care about don’t stop, and that includes keeping them safe.”

“Okay.” You nod along, choking back retort after retort through sheer force of will. It matters to her. It matters to her. It matters to her. “Okay.”

Lin fully turns away from you –but even without seeing her face, you can still tell she’s on edge. The line of her body is rigid as she stares out the window of her living room. She takes a deep, audible breath, shoulders rising and falling as she does. She clasps her hands behind her back and bows her head; for a moment, she looks exactly like the countless press release pictures of the indomitable Chief Beifong (which you may or may not have clipped out of the newspaper and tucked away for your own edification, you’ll claim the fifth if asked to testify, presumed innocent until proven guilty). “I didn’t know if we were going to be serious or not. It was more comfortable, for me, to keep you at arm’s length. And that included not making an issue of your building’s security problems.”

It stings, you can’t lie. Her confessed, deliberate indifference to your safety –when it’s apparently a big deal to her–hurts. You swallow hard, then tuck the inside of your cheek between your teeth to keep from firing back before she’s done talking.

“It was my fault,” Lin states, voice flat and final. “After Kim… I couldn’t deal with it.” Finally, she turns and looks you in the eye. Her expression flickers for a moment, nearly giving way to anguish, before locking down to something more neutral with what you know to be an insurmountable, bone-deep reserve of will. “I’m sorry.” She stiffens, then frowns slowly when you start shaking your head. “What? What is it?”

“I–” Hot, stinging tears trace down your cheeks. Your palms are clammy, and your back is drenched in sweat. “That –thank you. Thank you for being honest. But–” You draw in a shaky breath as you try to school your thoughts into something more coherent. “I don’t –the locks wouldn’t have changed anything, Lin. They –no.” You hold up one finger and glare harshly at her when she opens her mouth to argue. “No. We both know that Kim had a very particular goal in mind. Better locks wouldn’t have stopped him. He would’ve had his goons just, I don’t know, kick in my door, or some shit.” You shrug, defeated, then rub your hands over your face. “I –I don’t care about the stupid locks. I get that it’s important to you, and that’s fine, but the locks don’t make a difference to me.”

The locks wouldn’t have held your hand in the hospital, after all. The locks wouldn’t have talked to you on the phone after you woke up from yet another nightmare. The locks wouldn’t have rubbed salve into the rope burn on your wrists from where you’d chafed your skin trying to wriggle free. The locks–

Your face crumples, but you manage to keep going as you start crying. “I needed you.” Your whole body shudders as you draw in a shaky, broken breath. “I was so fucking scared, and hurt, and I didn’t know what was going to happen to me–”

Lin presses her lips together in a tight line, then holds her arms out to you.

You choke on a sob, then rush into her embrace. “I was so fucking scared!” You bury your face into her shirt, trembling as you weep. “I felt so lost, and small, and you just left me–”

Lin tucks your head beneath her chin. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“It was cruel,” you insist, voice pitiful to your own ears. “And selfish.”

Lin draws in a shaky breath. “It was,” she agrees, her own voice wavering. She hugs you close, as though she can squeeze the pain and suffering right out of you. “I was wrong –and cruel, and selfish. I’m so, so sorry.”

Something inside you releases, like a locked muscle finally relaxing after a good, thorough healing session. You melt against her, hurt yielding to assurance and peace. A shaky exhale floats past your lips. “Thank you.”

…

Once you stop crying and settle into the post-panic attack-argument-meltdown, Lin disentangles from you and sequesters herself in the bathroom.

You can hear the sink tap running; if you felt up to it, you could probably extend your bending and feel the water swirling down the drain.

Exhaustion has you feeling hollowed out. You peel your shirt away from your skin with a grimace. The stress of the evening made you sweat. You try to adjust your underwear under your skirt. All of your clothes, frankly, feel uncomfortably, grossly stuck to your skin. This is not how I wanted to get wet tonight.

You drop down onto Lin’s couch gracelessly. You slump into the dark green cushions and close your eyes.

Your whole body feels raw. Your skin almost feels like you’ve been scraped along the pavement outside. Throbbing and tender, you shift restlessly, trying to find some position that will agree with you.

Outside, a Satomobile honks loudly, which is quickly followed by the sound of tires screeching.

Flinching, you curl forward and comb your fingers through your hair. Fuck me. Quickly, you flip on Lin’s radio, then let out a sigh when instrumental music starts droning through the speakers. You turn up the volume dial, just until the crushing feeling of overstimulation starts to abate. That’s better.

Eventually, Lin emerges from the bathroom. (It’s probably not very long, but your poor, fatigued brain has settled into the muddy state where time starts moving like molasses.) She heads straight for the kitchen and starts quietly puttering about; a few cabinet doors open and close, the tap for the sink runs briefly, and the range hisses as Lin lights it with match.

You borderline drowse as you half-watch her work, half-melt away into the syrupy ooze of reality.

Hours, maybe minutes later, Lin joins you at the couch. She sets down a tray with a fresh pot of tea and two cups onto the coffee table, then reaches over and turns the radio down. “Here.”

You force yourself into a more upright position and accept the cup of steaming, fragrant tea she holds out to you. “Thanks.”

Lin sets down next to you, and makes no protest when you immediately invade her space and curl up against her. She wraps one arm around your shoulders, then picks up her cup of tea with her free hand.

The tea is nice –no doubt some very expensive, well grown blend. You wish you could do more than sip tiredly at it, but your head feels heavy (probably from the swelling in your sinuses, on account of all the crying).

Distantly, the healer part of your brain starts noting all the facets of recovery after crying. Parasympathetic nervous system takes over. Brain releases endorphins. Muscles release tension from build up of stress. Autonomic nervous system reins in heart rate, respiration rate, and blood pressure.

“You alright?” Lin murmurs when you let out a shaky breath..

Nodding, you hum, then tip your head back and kiss her softly. Even though you’re tired, your head feels clearer. The consuming static of terror and rage have finally been swept out, leaving subdued peace and clarity.

Speaking of…

“Hey.” You crane your head back so you can see her face better. “If… if something happens to me again–” You pause when Lin grimaces and looks away. After waiting a moment, you press your fingers against her jaw and gently guide her head until she’s looking at you again. “If something happens to me again,” you repeat, “don’t… don’t push me away.” A lump rises in your throat, but you push past it. “I won’t ever be angry at you if something bad happens to me, okay? And it’s –it’s so much worse–” Your voice breaks; you have to take a moment to pull yourself together before you try speaking again. “It’s so much worse with you not around.”

Blinking rapidly, Lin nods. “Alright.” She looks away for a bit, gaze distant. She swallows hard, jaw rolling as she lets out a sigh, then asks, “Would you consider getting platinum locks?”

“They’re expensive.”

“Victim’s Assistance fund should pay for them, considering your apartment was broken into during the course of an abduction,” Lin fires back, almost like she’s reading the fine print straight from the page. “All you’d have to do is submit a request form and a copy of the police report to their office. And if they don’t pay for platinum locks, I will.”

Part of you wants to protest the notion of her paying for any of it. It’s your apartment and your responsibility. Feasibly, you could scope out some options, compare prices, and then allot the necessary savings into your monthly budget.

A quiet, wiser voice in your head whispers, ‘It’s okay to let her help you.’ “Would you feel better if I had platinum locks?”

Lin’s reply comes without hesitation. “Yes.”

You sweep your tongue along the back of your teeth; part of you chafes at the thought of acquiescing. You can take care of yourself, after all. You moved here on your own, put yourself through university and therapeutic certifications, built yourself up as a reputable and capable physical therapist and surgical assistant. While Lin’s compensated you for ruined clothes and the odd day when she’s worked you over enough that you needed to take a day or two off work, you’ve never needed –or expected–her to bankroll your life.

If the Victim’s Assistance Fund comes through, she won’t have to pay, you remind yourself. And it’s just one set of locks, and she’ll feel better knowing you’re safer.

That’s the clincher, in the end. Stubborn pride isn’t worth your girlfriend’s peace of mind –especially over something as non-invasive as a good set of locks.

You nestle back against the warmth and comfort of Lin’s embrace. “Alright. I’ll start figuring out the Victim’s Assistance fund stuff tomorrow.”

“I can give you the number for one of the department heads.”

“Okay,” you murmur, cheek squished against her shoulder. Part of you thinks it’s a little ridiculous –there’s no reason you can’t go through the same process as everyone else–but you’re too tired to argue (and, honestly, bypassing some of the formalities and traditional run-around will be nice). You sigh, then nuzzle against her and close your eyes. “I’m sorry for freaking out at you earlier. I know –I know you were just taking a moment to breathe, and you weren’t actually leaving me; I just –I was still so out of my head from the cuffs, and the panic attack, and I–”

“It’s okay.” Lin wraps one strong arm around your shoulders. “You were scared; it’s okay.” She kisses the top of your head, then squeezes you a little closer. “Stay here tonight. I’d rather you go home once you’ve had a chance to rest.”

You sniff, then nod. “Okay.” Melting into her embrace, you tuck your head into the crook of her neck. “That sounds nice. Thanks.”

“Of course.”

The radio croons on; the singer –a woman with a smooth, low voice–drawls on about the ocean and the land meeting as lovers. Down the hall, the gentle, intermittent rumble of the elevator interjects between the radio and the sounds of the city at no particular rhythm. Outside, the distant, waning sounds of Republic City’s nightlife echo into the air.

The two of you lapse back into comforting silence.

…

Once the two of you finish your tea, Lin tidies up before shepherding you to bed.

You rinse off in the shower first. You worry about washing your hair, or anything too involved, but getting the sweat off your skin is essential if you don’t want to wake up irritable and itchy.

Your stomach still feels shaky –no doubt from all the mucus and drainage from crying. You turn down the water to a comfortably cool temperature (helps with the inflammation), then mechanically work through the steps of washing up as quickly as you can.

You borrow Lin’s toothbrush (and, fine, it’s really not the grossest thing, especially since you’ve made a point of burying your face between her legs whenever she lets you), and she lends you another baggy, Republic City Police Academy shirt to sleep in.

The gray shirt feels exquisitely soft between your fingertips, against your skin. You tuck away the notion of “borrowing” it for future you to ponder.

It’s nice, slipping beneath the covers on Lin’s bed. Her sheets are luxuriously soft –no doubt a vastly higher thread count than what you can afford.

You stretch your legs like a polar bear pup. Something pops in your lower back, and you groan. “Ugh, finally.”

“You okay?”

“Cracked my back.” You wait for her to turn off the lamp, then cross the space between you and curl up against her side.

Lin obliges you by slipping her arm beneath your neck and winding it around your shoulders. Her fingertips slip beneath the collar of your shirt and stroke along the base of your neck.

The familiar sounds of the city dwindle as the night drags on. The surrounding apartments are equally still. Here, in Lin’s bed, in her arms, you’re enveloped by safety. By warmth. Every breath you take is filled with the familiar scent of Lin –traces of the cologne she favors, the fresh mint of her toothpaste, even the fragrant tea you both had earlier. The blankets are cozy, exquisitely soft, and the perfect weight to help lull your frazzled mind and body into slumber.

Just for a moment, right before you drop off into sleep, your body relaxes into a state of perfect contentment. It’s almost like you’re floating, perfectly supported and enveloped, much like floating in a pool for a moment of rest before swimming again. Tranquility seeps through your veins, washing away any remaining tension and panic from earlier in the evening.

You fall asleep to the gentle thumping of Lin’s heart and her steady, deep breathing.

#sass writes #lin beifong x reader #legend of korra #hands that heal #hurt/comfort #tw: panic attack #tw: ptsd #tw: vomit #heavy on the emotional hurt in this one

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master-sass-blast · 17 hours

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Let's (Not) Party, Baby.

Summary: You rub your swollen belly, both fond and exhausted. “I think it just feels weird to me. Like, the gender reveal party was to celebrate the healthy pregnancy lasting so long. But I just feel really weird about being, like, ‘I’m growing a human, come give me shit.’”

Kitty laughs as she unwraps another bar of chocolate. “Well, I think it’s the duty of the community to support pregnant mothers, y’know? It’s about equipping the parents with what they need to care for the baby.”

“Yeah, but everything I’ve read about and seen online is a whole spectacle,” you grumble. “And, honestly, I don’t have the energy for a party. I’m fucking tired. I feel bloated and sore. I don’t want to have a party where I have to put on real pants and eat melted candy bars out of diapers.”

Kitty stills, then slowly looks over at you with a wide-eyed expression of horror. “That’s a thing?”

“It’s a game,” you answer with a roll of your eyes. “You’re supposed to guess which kind of candy it is.”

Pairing(s): Piotr Rasputin x Reader, Kitty Pryde x Illyana Rasputin.

Rating: G.

Word count: 4.3k.

Set after "S'mores for Two."

Author's Note: Me? Posting more than once a year? Surely not.

Thank you all for your patience -and all the comments! They really kept me going when the grind of editing was starting to wear me down.

Happy Reading!

“I guess I’m just not sure what to do.”

Kitty nods as she paints your fingernails a pretty shade of shimmering lilac. “Well, I think it just depends on, like, what you and Piotr want to do, y’know?”

The two of you are on the family room couch; you’ve both taken over the space a bit, actually. It’s a scheduled at home spa day, courtesy of Kitty. There’s dozens of bottles of nail polish lined up on the coffee table, next to two discarded face mask wrappers, a tub of coarse sugar scrub, a sleeve of cotton discs, and an entire store's worth of toners and moisturizers. There’s a half-empty pizza box on one end of the table, several bars of chocolate (and more wrappers), an open jar of pickles (the good, Kosher deli kind, according to Kitty), and a cereal bowl half-filled with peanut butter.

You swipe one end of a pickle spear through your bowl of peanut butter, then crunch down. I mean, I know that’s the point, but… “I think it’s more, like,” you begin once you’ve swallowed, “that I never thought I’d be in this position in life. And that if I ever did get to this stage in life–” you gesture vaguely around you with your munched-on pickle spear “–that I’d automatically know what to do.”

Kitty nods, curly hair bobbing with the motion of her head. “I get you.” She finishes your right hand, then screws the lid back onto the corresponding bottle of polish. “It’s, like, hard to wrap your head around.”

“Yeah. I mean–” You pause to load more peanut butter onto your pickle, which is harder than it sounds. “How are you even supposed to plan baby shower stuff?”

It’s a quandary that’s been gnawing on the back of your mind for months now. The gender reveal party, at least, had been easy. Tasty food, balloon with colored confetti inside, Aiden’s photography team because you and Piotr had wanted pictures, done. It’d been a celebration of having a pregnancy last long enough to see the baby’s gender –and a wonderful day where you and Piotr learned you’d be welcoming a daughter in a few months.

Trying to plan a baby shower, however…

You rub your swollen belly, both fond and exhausted. Your eviction date is coming for you, Masha, whether you like it or not. “I think it just feels weird to me. Like, the gender reveal party was to celebrate the healthy pregnancy lasting so long. We all ate food and enjoyed each other’s company. But I just feel really weird about being, like, ‘I’m growing a human, come give me shit.’”

“Yeah, but everything I’ve read about and seen online is a whole spectacle,” you grumble. You hold your hand out for a square of chocolate, then pop the piece Kitty gives you into your mouth. “And, honestly,” you continue as you tuck the chocolate into your cheek like a hamster, “I don’t have the energy for a party. I’m fucking tired. I feel bloated and sore. I don’t want to have a party where I have to put on real pants and eat melted candy bars out of diapers.”

Kitty stills, then slowly looks over at you with a wide-eyed expression of horror. “That’s a thing?”

“It’s a game,” you answer with a roll of your eyes. “You’re supposed to guess which kind of candy it is.”

She gags, then shakes her head. “Fuck that. That’s just gross.”

“Exactly!”

Kitty eats a few squares of chocolate, expression contemplative. Once she swallows, she says, “I guess I don’t see it as that big of a deal –not having a baby shower and all that. We don’t have baby showers in Jewish circles.”

“Oh.” Your brows lift upwards. “Why not?”

“It’s considered inauspicious,” she explains. “My best friend’s older sister’s parents kept all the baby stuff at their house until she gave birth. Then, they went over to her and husband’s place and set everything up for when she came home.”

“Oh.” You cock your head to one side, considering, then grimace and shrug. “We already have the nursery part way set up, though–”

“I didn’t mean that, like, that should do the same thing,” Kitty interjects. “I meant it, like, whatever you do should serve you and your happiness.” She offers you a reassuring smile. “There is no real rule about what’s normal or not. If a baby shower sounds exhausting, then don’t do it.”

“But people might be expecting for us to have one,” you sigh wearily, “so they can celebrate.”

“Fuck them and their expectations.” Kitty grins when you laugh. “I’m serious! All that matters is what makes you happy.”

“And Piotr,” you tack on once you catch your breath. “And he might want one.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find that out–” Kitty twists towards the front of the house when the front door swings open, then thumps shut. “Hey, speak of the man!”

Piotr pauses his conversation with Illyana as he looks towards you. He glances at you, eyebrows raised, then at Kitty, then back at you again. “Chto?”

“Your wife has a question for you!” Kitty hollers before flashing a dazzling, enraptured grin at Illyana. “Hi, baby!”

Piotr takes off his shoes, then strolls towards you. “You have question, myshka? Is everything okay?”

“Well, first things first.” You cock your head back so you can look up at him. “Will you give me a kiss, even though I’ve been eating peanut butter on pickles?”

He smirks, then bends down and presses his lips against yours.

“Aaw, what a man,” Kitty croons. She cocks her head back when Illyana approaches the couch. “Will you kiss me, even though I’ve been eating pickles without peanut butter?”

Illyana chuckles, then cups Kitty’s chin with her hand and kisses her girlfriend. She looks up when you and Piotr share a grin, then gently tugs on Kitty’s elbow. “Davay.”

“Help yourself to the pizza!” Kitty tosses over her shoulder as Illyana ushers her towards the front of the house (and away from prying eyes).

Piotr kisses the top of your head, then circles around the couch and sits down next to you. The couch creaks beneath him as he helps himself to a slice of cheese pizza, then again when he leans back and settles in. “Ty v poryadke?”

“Da,” you assure him. “I was just talking to Kitty about baby shower stuff.”

Piotr’s brows draw together as he chews a mouthful of pizza. He swallows, then says, “I thought baby showers were not held in Jewish communities.”

“They aren’t. It was more like…” You gesture vaguely with one hand and sigh. “I don’t know if I want to have a baby shower. I’m so tired, and I feel like a boat, and I don’t want to wear pants.”

Piotr lets out a bellowing laugh mid bite, then quickly claps one hand over his mouth. He finishes chewing between giggles, then swallows and sighs. “Oh, moya serdtse. One day, there will be pants that you like.”

“Doubtful.” You smirk, but it quickly gives way to weariness. “I mean… I just don’t know if I have the energy to deal with a baby shower, y’know? But if you want one, I don’t want to take that away from you.”

“What I want–” Piotr sets his partial pizza slice down on a piece of paper towel, then leans over and draws you into his arms. “I want you to be happy and well.” He kisses the crown of your head, then tucks your head beneath his chin. “Masha will be loved and cared for regardless of having baby shower. If you are tired, then you deserve to rest, myshka.”

“Yeah,” you agree as you bury your face in his burly chest, “but if everyone’s expecting us to have one–”

“‘Everyone’ does not get say,” Piotr interrupts gently. “If they wish to help or give gifts, they know where to find us.”

You sigh, then nuzzle against his shirt when he starts stroking your hair. “Maybe we can have, like, a nice dinner or something? With family and close friends? And some help to finish setting up the nursery?”

Piotr gently rubs your back. “That sounds nice.”

“Cool.” You sigh again, far more relaxed this time, then lean over and grab your jar of pickles. “Want a pickle?”

Piotr hums, then nods and plucks a pickle spear out of the jar. “Spasibo.”

“Konechno,” you say before kissing his cheek.

…

“Thanks again for driving me,” you say as you stretch your seatbelt around your swollen belly. “I’ve just been so tired lately that driving isn’t really a good idea.”

“Konechno, ptitsa,” Alex says as she starts the engine on her truck. “How did your appointment go?”

“Good,” you sigh as you stretch and settle into the passenger seat. “Everything’s looking good. Baby’s healthy. Blood sugar looks good. My iron’s still low, though, so I’m taking a higher dose of supplements and I need to be careful about overtiring myself.”

Alex hums and nods as she navigates out of the clinic parking lot. “What can we help with at home?”

“Uh…” Your face and mind go blank. You try, unsuccessfully, to kickstart your brain, then rub your face with your hands when your mind refuses to cooperate. “I think that’d be a difficult question without factoring in pregnancy brain.”

“Fair enough,” Alex chuckles.

“Man, I thought I was spacey before,” you lament. “And then it was bad enough weaning off my meds, but now–” You stop mid-sentence and gape when you see the sign for a McDonalds. “McFlurry.”

Alex laughs again, then changes lanes and drives into the McDonald’s parking lot.

One order for a large fry and an Oreo McFlurry later, the two of you are back on the road and headed for home.

You hum contentedly as you swirl a few fries in your McFlurry. Before you can indulge, though, your addled brain kicks back into gear. “Oh. Did you have a baby shower when you were pregnant with Mikhail?”

“No.” Alex pauses to turn, then explains, “It’s considered back luck in Russian culture. Most expecting parents won’t have one or purchase things for the baby until they are born.”

“Oh.” You blink a few times –the curse under your breath when McFlurry drips off your fries and onto your shirt. You shove your fries and remaining McFlurry “dip” into your mouth, then wipe down your shirt with a tissue (not that it does much good). Once you’re cleaner, and you’ve swallowed, you ask, “Then why was Piotr so ambivalent about whether we have one or not?”

“Because that boy will follow you to the ends of Earth if you asked,” Alex answers with a smirk. “And he’s Americanized a bit since moving here. Plus, we didn’t necessarily raise our kids to be so superstitious. Nikolai and I saw it as more to not ask about someone’s pregnancy unless they wanted to share, rather than luck related. We still prepared a nursery for Mikhail and stocked up on supplies.” She drums her fingers against the steering wheel while you wait behind another car. “To be honest, even if parties were part of our culture, I wasn’t in any shape for one.” She chuckles ruefully beneath her breath. “I was a wreck during that pregnancy.”

“Honestly, I feel the same way,” you admit with a heavy sigh. “I’m so tired, and sore, and I don’t want to wear pants.” You smile when Alex laughs, then continue with your griping. “Plus, all of the shit I’ve seen for baby showers just… doesn’t appeal? I don’t have the energy to decorate, and apparently there’s games you can play? But it’s weird stuff like melting candy bars in diapers, then having everyone try and guess what kind of candy it is–”

Alex grimaces. “That sounds disgusting.”

“Yeah. Plus, if I’m getting candy, I just want to eat the candy.”

“Understandable and wise.”

“We talked about having family and friends over for dinner,” you continue after grinning, “and to have some help around the house and finishing the nursery… but, like, how do you ask people ‘hey, come bring some food and hang out and help us with the nursery and house stuff because we’re expecting a baby?’”

Alex smirks and shoots you a sidelong glance. “That seemed pretty coherent to me.”

“That’s not what I–” You stick your tongue out at her when she laughs. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” she assures you. She brakes for a red light, then looks over and puts one hand on your shoulder. “Just ask, ptitsa. Ask, and we’ll be there.”

You smile, and place your hand over hers. “Thanks, Alex.”

…

“I was thinking of actually printing invitations? I don’t know why, I just think it’d be funny.” You spit toothpaste foam into the sink, then resume brushing your teeth. “We could print an extra one to keep. It’d be, like, a cute memory thing.”

Piotr smiles at you in the bathroom mirror, amused. “We could. What would these hypothetical invitations say?”

“I dunno.” You rinse your mouth and toothbrush, then stick your toothbrush in the little holder you keep on the sink. “‘We’re having a baby; come eat food about it.’ Whatever works, honestly.” When he chuckles, you turn to face him. “Do you have a better idea?”

Piotr laughs, shakes his head, then bends and kisses the top of your head. “I trust your creative vision, myshka.”

“Damn straight.” You smirk, self-satisfied, then turn back to the sink and resume your bedtime routine. Floss, fluoride, wash face… what kind of food are you supposed to serve at a baby shower? “What kind of food would we have?”

“Uh…” Piotr clears his throat. “I am not sure,” he calls from the bedroom. “Perhaps we should discuss in morning. Take night to sleep on ideas.”

Your reflection scrunches its face as you floss. “I don’t think it’s that serious. It’s just, like, a potluck dinner. Almost anything would work.”

There’s a pause, and then your husband’s heavy footsteps approach the bathroom. He leans around the doorway and meets your gaze in the mirror, lips pursed. “Da. However…” He tucks his tongue inside his cheek and looks away. “Your nighttime cravings are… ravenous. And unpredictable.”

“I am not that bad!” You blow a raspberry at him over your shoulder, then toss your used flosser in the trash. “Fine. We’ll talk about food in the morning.” You reach for the bottle of fluoride –then gasp and scamper to the bathroom door. “We should have pancakes for breakfast!”

Piotr laughs and nods as he turns down the bed. “Pancakes for breakfast, very good.”

“With blueberries!”

“With blueberries.”

Pleased, you smile, then head back to the sink. Once you’re done with your routine, you head to bed and heft yourself onto the mattress.

Piotr, the saint he is, helps arrange pillows behind you to support your back. He leans over to watch as you scroll through YouTube. “Ah, nighttime listenings.” He holds out one hand. “Would you like me to find Among Us gameplay for you?”

“I can do it,” you insist, frowning. “I’m pregnant, not missing my hands.”

“Nyet, nyet,” he agrees. “But–”

“‘History of Americana Diner Food.’” You gasp when you see a thumbnail displaying burgers, fries, and a milkshake. Your stomach growls, and you groan. “Oh, burgers sound so good.”

Piotr bites the inside of his lower lip when you gaze up at him pleadingly. He hesitates, then sighs and relents with a soft laugh. “Davay, myshka. Let’s get you burger.”

You coo happily, then leverage yourself out of bed. “Just for that, I’ll share my fries with you.”

…

“I meant to ask you something earlier.”

Piotr glances over as you rummage through your take-out bag, then turns his attention back to the road. “Chto?”

“Why –that smells so fucking good.” You stop to cram a few fries in your mouth, then continue once you’ve swallowed. “Why aren’t you bothered by baby shower stuff?”

There’s a long silence. Then, with quiet bewilderment, Piotr says, “I think I am not understanding your meaning.”

“I mean… Your mom said that baby showers are inauspicious in Russia. But, when I asked you if we had to do one, you seemed ambivalent about it all.”

“I do not believe much in luck,” Piotr says after a moment, shrugging. “Some things are beyond control, da, but choices are what impact outcomes. Not unseen forces.” He pauses to change lanes, then adds, “And I want to be sensitive to you. You had bad upbringing. If there was something you wanted in preparation for our baby, for healing, then I want to make sure that happens.”

“Not everything comes down to my shitty childhood,” you press. “I’m not the only person in this relationship, and this isn’t just my baby we’re expecting.” You wolf down a few more fries. “I don’t want you to set aside what you’re comfortable with just because I had fuckheads for parents. This is all supposed to be about compromise.”

“I am not making myself uncomfortable, dorogoy,” Piotr assures you, tone gentle. He takes one hand off the wheel and takes hold of yours. “I think baby showers as tradition –as mandatory–is foolish. But if you want one to celebrate our baby, that would make me very happy. And if you just want to rest, that makes me happy, also. Khorosho?”

“Alright.” You squeeze his hand lovingly, then reach into your bag and retrieve a few fries. “Open up.”

Piotr chuckles, then opens his mouth and lets you feed him fries. “Spasibo.”

…

The two of you settle on printing one commemorative flier, just for the two of you, then email your prospective guests. The promise is for a breakfast-style buffet of sorts; the two of you will provide the blinis, kasha, and some beef bacon (so Kitty can partake), and everyone else has been asked to bring their favorite breakfast dish.

You bust out laughing when Wade –with Nate and Russell in tow–shows up with a trunk full of Poptarts. “You would!”

“We are not keeping all of those,” Piotr mutters as he eyes the wall of blue boxes uneasily.

“Says you,” you tease. “I’m eating for two! These should last us… oh, about a week.”

Ellie and Yukio supply doughnuts and muffins, Neena comes with a box of freshly made breakfast burritos, and Alex, Nikolai, and Mikhail bring a veritable feast of traditional toppings for the blinis and set up to make fresh latkes.

Kitty and Illyana arrive last.

You blink rapidly when you see the numerous bags and containers carried between the two young women. “You didn’t have to–”

“You’re the one who said to bring breakfast foods!” Kitty interrupts with a cheery grin.

You eye the gallon plastic bowl in her hands with mild suspicion. “What kind of breakfast is that?”

“Okay, this–” she gestures with the bowl as she bustles into the kitchen “–isn’t breakfast, but my mom heard that you’re pregnant, and she wanted to send along some food to help you guys out. This–” she lifts the bowl again “–is cholent, and ‘Yana’s got some roast chicken and challah from mom, for you guys, too. Do you have room in your fridge? Anyway,” she continues as Piotr starts rearranging the fridge contents to make room for everything, “we brought good bagels and toppings for them, because you can’t have breakfast without bagels.” She turns, finally catches sight of all the food in the kitchen, and her jaw drops. “Oh shit.”

“If you leave hungry, is own fault,” Nikolai announces while grating potatoes.

“Hey, that’s my kind of party!” Kitty says with a laugh. “Let me get my skillet and shit set up, and then I’ll start helping you, Nick. Where should I drop everything?”

“We have counter space for you over there,” Piotr says, pointing towards the back of the kitchen. “And vegan pancake mix.”

“There’s dairy free breakfast burritos for you in the paper bag!” Neena calls out. “And the guy doesn’t use pork for any of his recipes.”

“And the pork gelatin free toaster pastries!” Russell adds.

“The doughnuts back there are parve, too,” Ellie pipes up.

Kitty beams. “Thank you so much. You guys are awesome!”

You smile, and pause for a moment to take it all in.

It’s been an inexorably long journey. As far as you’ve come from your past, there are times where you still can’t believe you’ve made it here –somewhere good, and healthy, and safe. It almost feels like a dream. Or a magical trance. Or like you’re watching a movie, and you’re waiting for the credits to start rolling and for the house lights to turn on.

But it’s real. You’re in a beautiful home, with a wonderful husband, surrounded by people who love, respect, and care about you and each other. And you have a baby on the way, on top of it all.

“Myshka?” Piotr places a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“I’m okay,” you assure him quietly as you wipe tears away from your eyes. “Just very happy.”

Piotr smiles softly, then bends down and kisses your forehead. “I love you very much, moya serdtse.”

“I love you, too.” You tug him down by the collar until you can kiss his cheek, then pat his chest when he straightens back up. “Alright, let’s get this show on the road.”

“Uh, only if you’re sitting down.” Kitty blocks you when you try to enter the kitchen. “Pretty sure you’re supposed to be resting? Doctor’s orders and all that?”

You purse your lips. “You guys are guests–”

“And we’re here to help.” Neena gently takes you by the shoulders and ushers you towards the couch. “So, let us help.”

“Resting is good, myshka,” Piotr starts when you protest.

“Aren’t we here to help both of you?” Ellie pipes up, voice flat but eyes glinting with unmistakable mischief.

“Yeah, but who’s gonna muscle Colossus out of the kitchen?” Russell stage whispers in reply.

All heads turn towards Alex.

Piotr’s confident expression quickly slips away as his mother looks him dead in the eye. “Mama…”

“Are you going to sit?” she asks in Russian.

“Bozhe ty moi –I am not pregnant,” Piotr insists. “I can help.”

Alex sighs, then rounds the kitchen island. “Alright.”

“Nyet, nyet, I am not, mama don’t –blyat!”

You laugh along with everyone else when Alex scoops Piotr up bridal-style.

She carries him over to the couch, then sets him down with surprising gentleness. “Be good,” she admonishes lovingly in Russian. She kisses Piotr’s forehead, then glances meaningfully at you. “Rub your wife’s shoulders.”

Piotr chuckles, somewhat exasperated, and rolls his eyes as his mother strides back to the kitchen. “I am grown man, you know.”

“Da,” Alex agrees without turning back. “You are heavy like one.”

You giggle when Piotr rolls his eyes again, then reach over and grab his hand. You fix him with your prettiest, most pleading eyes when he looks at you. “You don’t want to sit with me?”

“I always want to sit with you,” Piotr assures you, relenting immediately. He moves closer to you, then puts one arm around your shoulders. “Would you like me to rub your back?”

“Oh, always.” You lean against your husband, then relax as he starts rubbing your sore back with his thumbs. You groan, eyes sliding shut, and bask –in him, in the warmth of your home, in the happy chatter and delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen.

Your life certainly feels full of magic.

...

Epilogue:

“Insert Leg A into Slot G–”

“That doesn’t fucking tell me which shitbag it is!” Wade snaps. He snatches the instructions out of your hands, scans the page, then growls and hurls the paper against the floor. “You’re a goddamn rocking chair! No one fucking asked you to run the elementary school accelerated program!”

“Definitely comes with the same baggage,” Neena mutters.

Wade looks over his shoulder at her, then back at you. “Remind me why she’s being the peanut gallery again, instead of using her internal magic eight ball to help us?”

Neena rolls her eyes. “For the last time, that’s not how my powers work.”

“Not to mention they’re probably already maxed to keep you from throwing the materials through the window,” you mumble under your breath.

Things would’ve been simpler if you’d just purchased a pre-assembled rocking chair. Unfortunately, not many of them come rated from someone of Piotr’s size (or the wear and tear you’re both certain that your baby –and, eventually, kids–will put the seat through).

“I keep telling you guys, you’re going about this all wrong!” Kitty calls as she carries the vacuum cleaner down the hall.

“Yes, do enlighten us, Ms. ‘Quantumania Axed the Best Character,’” Wade grumbles.

Kitty stares at him for a long moment, face scrunched up in conclusion. “...Right.”

“KURT WAS A GEM, AND WE ALL KNOW IT!”

“Look, you guys just need to let Alex and Ellie do this,” Kitty presses on as she gestures to the mess of wooden slats and rocking chair pieces on the ground. “It’s butch magic. They’ll sort it out in, like, ten minutes.”

“I already told you, Katherine,” Ellie hollers from down the stairs, “I can’t assemble a fucking chair!”

“Fine, Ellen!” Kitty shouts back. “Then just let Alex do it! Honestly, you have a hyper-competent badass in the house, and you don’t stick her on IKEA assembly? The fuck is wrong with you all!”

“Let’s keep things moving, please.” Alex’s voice and footsteps echo up the stairwell. “And reasonably calm,” she adds with a knowing look at Kitty. There’s a pause until Kitty nods and heads off, and then Alex appears in the nursery doorway. “What am I doing now?”

“How good are you at assembling rocking chairs?” Neena asks.

Alex chuckles, then plucks the instructions off the floor. “I’ll give it a go.”

#sass writes #piotr rasputin x reader #kitty pryde x illyana rasputin #the aforementioned gender reveal fic will be coming soon #but this is what i had so they're gonna be out of order #x men fanfiction #deadpool fanfiction #colossus hyperfixation collection #i wrote a lot of this when i was hungry can you tell #the reference to quantumania at the end is for my bff ily mady

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