into you (like a train)
lottie matthews x fem!reader
request: x summary: you didn’t survive pep rallies, hallway politics, and three separate backstabbing best friends just to end up stranded in the middle of a hippie forest cult. and yet, here you are. rating: explicit, 18+ warnings: manipulation (who's surprised), mentions of drugging, fingering (r receiving), it's secretly fluff if you get through the horrors word count: 4.2k author's note: two (three?) lottie requests back to back ... gotta show love to the forest's favorite weirdoe
AO3
𓃢𓃦𐂂 ── .✦
You didn’t survive pep rallies, hallway politics, and three separate backstabbing best friends just to end up stranded in the middle of a hippie forest cult.
And yet, here you are.
You’ve stopped counting days. Somewhere around month sixteen, it just got pathetic. But your body knows how long it’s been. You feel it in the way your posture has slipped into a slouch, in the knots in your calves, the dirt under your nails that never really washes out.
You weren’t built for this shit.
You were built for Friday night lights and cutting glances across cafeteria tables. You were built for late-night parties in basements that smelled like sweat and booze, for soft, low-stakes cruelty. You used to rule in a world of social hierarchy.
Out here? The only thing that matters is who’s still standing. So you keep your head down. Stay useful; clean wounds, haul water, cook. You’ve done things nobody should have to. You’ve bitten your tongue more times than you can count.
Sometimes, though, when it’s late, and the fire’s low, and your hands are too sore to keep working, your mind drifts. Wanders too far from the woods, to a time when things were simpler. Or at least, when they felt that way. Back before the plane crashed, that faux anno domini that it ushered in. Back when the worst thing you had to worry about was a failed algebra test and whether someone was picking on your boyfriend.
Travis.
God, he used to be such a dumbass.
A sweet one, though. Sweet in that awkward, boyish kind of way, like he’d never quite figured out what to do with his hands or how to step out of his father’s shadow. He always tried too hard to act detached, but you knew better. You could see it in the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing that made sense to him when the rest of the world didn’t.
And for a little while, that had been enough. Until it wasn’t. A relationship borne of necessity, when high-school social war sparked symbiosis: Travis needed you to deter his bullies, you needed Travis to boost your reputation.
It was never going to last past graduation, that much was evident. Somewhere along the way, you realized that loving him didn’t feel the way it was supposed to. That the softness you felt toward him wasn’t quite the kind you’d been told it would be. That kissing him didn’t make you feel more like yourself, it made you feel like you were trying on clothes that didn’t quite fit.
You never told him all of that, not really. Just said it wasn’t working. That you were better as friends. He didn’t fight you on it. He probably felt it too.
Still, you cared. Care, present tense.
Which is why watching him now, distant and quiet, with that glazed look in his eyes after another one of Lottie’s “attempts to connect”, makes your stomach churn.
It’s not just the look, either. It’s everything.
The way he barely talks anymore unless prompted. The way he flinches at sudden noises, and worse, sometimes doesn’t flinch at all, even when he should. The times you sat with him for hours, brushing wet hair out of his face, whispering whatever scraps of comfort you could muster. Telling him stories from back home, dumb girl shit about the mall food court and parking lot fights and fucking Madonna . Anything to bring him back.
Now, he follows Lottie like she hung the fucking moon.
And maybe that’s what pisses you off the most. Not just the fear, not just the helplessness, but the betrayal, this other version of him that doesn’t even see you anymore. Like all those nights holding him through panic, all the ways you tried to keep him tethered, they didn’t stick. They didn’t matter. You’re not sure when the reminiscing turns to rage, but it does, and fast. It rolls up inside you hot and sharp, something sour blooming in your chest.
Because it’s bullshit. All of it. The rituals, the whispery nonsense Lottie’s been feeding them, the way everyone’s just letting her take over, like she’s ordained , like the fucking wilderness is a home and not a cage. And no one’s stopping her.
But the night you see Akilah crying by the fire, that’s it.
She’s hunched near the edge of camp, half-shadowed, knees tucked up to her chest like a terrified child. The firelight flickers across her face, catching on the sheen of tears.
No one’s comforting her. No one’s even looking . It’s just another failed “connection,” another night of silence from the so-called wilderness, and another girl cracked open by the promise of something that was never real.
You catch sight of Lottie’s back disappearing into the trees. And then you move. You don’t think, you go , across the clearing, past the embers and the indifferent stares.
It ends tonight.
You follow her, and she doesn’t hear you at first, or maybe she does and just doesn’t care. She stops at the base of a towering tree, hands clasped in front of her, head tilted.
You watch the line of her neck, the slow rise of her chest with each inhale. Her lips move silently and candlelight dances across her features, gold flitting to and fro.
The sight ignites a spark in your gut. Hot, pulsing tension curling low in your stomach that pulls and pulls with the inevitability of gravity. You grit your teeth. You want to grab her. Shake her . Say something cutting, cruel, remind her she’s not divine, not chosen. Just a girl playing God.
“Lottie,” you snap, voice already rising. “You need to stop.”
She turns slowly, calm. Expectant . It’s fucking infuriating.
“Stop what?” she asks, all saintly softness, like you haven’t just watched her break someone again.
“You’re hurting them.” The words cut sharp. “You’re hurting Travis, and Akilah— what the fuck did you do to her?”
Lottie tilts her head, unreadable. “She saw something. She’s still learning—”
“She didn’t see shit!” The words rip out of you. “She’s scared and confused and crying and you’re just— what, gonna leave her like that?”
“She’s… opening,” Lottie says evenly. “It’s painful, but necessary.”
“You’re fucked up , Lot,” you snap, voice dropping. “You’re sick in the fucking head.”
Something flickers in her eyes at that. Disappointment, hurt. But still, she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t raise her voice. And well, that just pisses you off. You shove her. She stumbles back a step, catching herself on the tree behind her. And when she straightens again, it’s with surprise, like she predicted everything but this twist.
“I know you’re angry,” she says, like she’s trying to soothe a wild animal. “But you’re not like this.”
You laugh. “Don’t tell me who the fuck I am.”
You’re on her in an instant. Your hand finds her throat before you think. Not tight, not crushing, just enough to feel the frantic drum of her pulse beneath your palm. Just enough to make her still. Her back hits the tree, your bodies too close, breath tangled.
Lottie swallows. Her lashes flutter. For the first time, she looks unsure.
“If you ever touch them again—” You lean in, your nose brushing hers. “If you go near Akilah, or Travis, or anyone else, I will make you fucking choke on this messiah complex you’ve got, I swear to God—”
You don’t get to continue, because lips lock yours up tight.
The kiss lands messy, open-mouthed, too fast, not trying to be gentle. It doesn’t ask for permission. It’s a break in the dam. It stuns you, and you freeze.
For a second, your rage spikes— How dare she ?— white-hot and blistering. But underneath it, beneath the raw heat in your throat, there’s something else. The fury doesn’t fade, but it twists. Blooms into a pang, the telltale gnaw of hunger.
You shove her off, just enough to break the contact. Just enough to catch your breath.
“What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper, more to yourself than her. Your hands tremble.
“You need to calm down,” she says, voice steady, soft. “Or you’re going to do something stupid.”
That pisses you off all over again.
“Don’t tell me to calm down,” you snap, pushing forward again, hand still ghosting her throat. “You don’t know shit about me.”
She doesn’t flinch. “I know you’re hurting,” she says, and you even think she might be smiling .
Your chest feels tight. Your face is hot with shame, with rage, with that low, coiling need that keeps rising no matter how hard you shove it down. You shake your head.
“You’re so fucking full of yourself—”
Her hands are on you again before you can finish, one on your waist, the other ghosting up your chest to stop right over where your heart is thundering.
“If you want me to stop,” she says, “tell me now.”
You don’t say anything, jaw clenched tight.
So she closes the distance, kissing you again. It’s slower this time, more careful, like you don’t have your hand around her throat, like she’s never once been afraid of you. Her mouth moves against yours with such impossible patience, it startles something inside you loose.
She exhales against your lips, a little sound that shouldn’t make your pulse spike the way it does. You don’t know when your bodies started moving, pressing closer, but now you can feel her, the steady roll of her hips against yours, just enough friction to make your thoughts blur.
Her fingers slide up to your jaw, guiding you. The thought that occurs to you is a startling one: she’s been thinking about this . You break the kiss with a sharp inhale, forehead still pressed to hers, your breath shallow and hot.
“Jesus,” you mutter, a feeble attempt to save face. “How long have you been a fucking perv , Matthews?”
Her lips curve. Not in a smirk, it’s something sweeter, softer, hell, maybe even a little thrilled. It throws you.
“A while,” she says simply. “Since… before.”
You blink. You weren’t expecting her to admit it.
She tilts her head. Her hand trails from your waist to your lower stomach, fingers light, feathering just above your waistband.
“You’re very hard not to notice.”
You try to scoff, but it catches in your throat as her hand drifts lower, fingers sliding between your legs, cupping you through your clothes. It’s gentle, like everything else she’s done tonight, and that’s what undoes you. You let out a shaky breath.
“You’re so weird.”
It sounds utterly juvenile– better muttered in high-school halls, not somewhere like this, but Lottie’s hand stills for a second. Her breath hitches, just barely, and then she laughs, soft and surprised against your mouth. It’s not mocking. It’s warm. Delighted.
“Mm,” she murmurs, thumb dragging slow, deliberate circles now. “Is that what I am?”
And then another thought hits you, hard and hot and immediate: She likes it.
She likes it when you’re mouthy. When you snap. When you press your nails into her arms and call her names through clenched teeth. The realization floods you with something dizzying and hungry and— regrettably— mind-blowingly horny.
She kisses you again, and this time there’s something firmer in her grip, in the way her hand presses down between your legs. Her other hand finds your wrist, guiding your hand to her waist like she wants you on her.
Now, all you can think are three words on loop: I’m so fucked.
And then, God help you, her fingers find your belt. Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a gasp and a protest.
“Wait, we shouldn’t—”
“Shh,” she murmurs, already working the buckle loose, lips curling on a smirk, and you should say something else, but your brain’s been reduced to static, hands clenched tight in the fabric of her shirt as she pops the button and draws the zipper down slow.
She slips her hand past the waistband, past the cotton, and cups you properly now, skin to skin. The contact is electric. You jerk in her grip, a startled sound tumbling out of you before you can swallow it down.
“There you are,” she breathes, like it’s some wonderful discovery. Her thumb strokes, light but knowing, and your whole body tightens like a bowstring.
“ Shit ,” you swear without meaning to, and that prompts a laugh.
“You’re worked up,” she says, amused and affectionate. “... Was it the belt?”
“God, fuck off,” you whisper, not meaning it.
Her smile widens. And then she starts to move: slow, confident strokes, her other hand braced at your hip, keeping you steady while you start to come apart.
She’s good at this, sort of unfairly good, the kind of good that makes you wonder if it’s practice or intuition or just dumb luck. Her hand doesn’t rush or fumble— there’s just this smooth, certain rhythm, the kind of touch that makes your legs shake and your thoughts scatter. Every pass of her thumb pulls a sound out of you you weren’t ready to make, each one a little more embarrassing than the last.
You try to speak. Try to say her name, or ask her to slow down, but the words come out thin and broken.
“Lottie, I—” you gasp, but she cuts you off with a kiss to the side of your neck.
“Don’t talk,” she murmurs.
You clench your jaw, try again, but another shudder rolls through you, and your knees nearly give. Before you can collapse, her hands are already on you, one at your waist, the other sliding behind your shoulder blades, and then she’s turning you, gently but without asking, guiding your back against the tree.
“Here,” she murmurs, pressing her palm flat to your chest for a moment, just to feel you breathe. “Lean.”
Your shoulders hit bark, and then her body’s right there again, thigh between yours, hand back where you need it. She never even falters.
“There,” she whispers, lips brushing the edge of your jaw. “Better, huh?”
You nod, barely.
“Good,” she breathes. “Now don’t go anywhere.”
She strokes you again, firmer this time, and your head tips back with a sharp, choked sound. She circles your clit with the pad of her thumb, featherlight and taunting, while two fingers slide down, pressing in wet and easy from just how damn badly you want it.
You gasp, sharp, and Lottie groans like she’s the one being touched.
“There you go,” she whispers, kissing the edge of your mouth. “That’s good.”
Her fingers curl inside you, slow and firm, and the stretch has you keening, hips canting up into her hand. You’re already throbbing around her, your body betraying every last bit of control you thought you had. She works you open, dragging her fingers in a steady rhythm that leaves your thighs shaking.
You moan ragged and Lottie leans in, lips brushing your cheek, the curve of your ear. Her voice is a whisper, full of heat, but there’s something else threaded through it now, soft and guilt-tinged.
“I know you’re angry with me,” she says, and kisses you before you can answer, tongue licking into your mouth slow and aching. “But I didn’t mean to hurt you. With Travis. With any of it.”
You want to snap, spit something venomous, but her hand’s too fucking good. She drags that spot again, thumb never easing up on your clit, and your mouth just falls open, a broken noise spilling out instead.
She presses a kiss to your temple, gentle, almost chaste, in contrast to the slick, obscene sounds echoing from between your legs. You can feel her fingers inside you every time you clench, and you imagine how soaked her palm must be now.
“I just want to help,” she says, all dusky and breathless, and fuck , that lands low in your stomach.
Once again, you open your mouth to will actual words to come out, but she doesn’t stop. She fucks you through it, thumb pressing tighter, rubbing in wet circles that make your knees buckle. Your jaw clenches. You want to bite down on your lip, keep the whimper in your throat where it belongs, but it breaks free, needier than you’d ever admit.
Your chest tightens, fury still simmering just under your ribs like coals that won’t go out. You’re mad . You are. The memory of Akilah’s tears, the hollow look in Travis’s eyes, it still sits hot in your blood, makes your hands curl like you should shove her off again.
But she’s not cruel. Not right now. Right now, Lottie’s murmuring apologies against your cheek, mouth warm and tender, fingers inside you like she’s trying to soothe an ache. Like you’re the altar to which she’s devoted.
You swallow hard, eyes burning. It’s not fucking fair how good it feels to be… handled like this. You feel it mounting fast, tight and raw and electric, and it pisses you off how easily she’s pulling it out of you, pisses you off even more that you don’t want her to stop.
So you kiss her to shut her the fuck up.
Her breath catches in surprise, but she melts into it, kisses you like you’re air and she’s been drowning. Her fingers never slow, still driving into you, thumb circling harder now, pushing you right to the edge.
“Don’t stop,” you break the kiss only long enough to gasp, voice cracking.
You feel her smile against your mouth, barely there, before she presses her lips to your jaw, your throat, whispering soft nothings you can’t even hear over the blood rushing in your ears.
Her fingers work deeper, more insistent now, the heel of her palm catching perfectly with every roll of your hips. You bite your lip so hard it stings, trying to keep yourself quiet, but it’s useless. Your body jerks as it crests, white-hot pleasure tearing through you with a shudder.
It takes a moment to catch your breath. Your chest rising and falling hard, your legs trembling around her wrist. She’s still looking at you like you’re holy.
You blink, dazed, then scowl, or try to. Your voice is hoarse when you manage to speak.
“Promise me,” you rasp. “Promise you’ll stop hurting people.”
Lottie stills. You feel her breath against your throat. Her hand is gentle now, resting over your thigh. When she finally lifts her head, her eyes are dark and solemn.
“I’m not trying to hurt anyone,” she says. “I only ever wanted to help them.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
A beat. Her gaze drops, just for a second, then returns to yours.
“I promise,” she says softly. “If they want out, I’ll let them go.”
Your jaw tightens. You want to believe her. You’re not sure you do. But for now, you nod.
And for now, she kisses you again, reminding you of your tendency to return favors.
The morning sun filters in through slits in the sticks, warm and golden and entirely unwelcome.
Your head aches faintly. Your thighs moreso.
And then there’s the weight. Heavy, warm, and clinging, all limbs and heat and way too much fucking hair in your face. It takes you a second to place it.
The blanket’s tangled around your legs. There are rough furs under your back… and there’s a long, lanky frame pressed flush against your side, one arm slung across your waist, the other wedged beneath your neck.
Lottie .
And she’s wrapped around you like the world’s neediest koala. You groan quietly.
She stirs. Not all the way, just shifts and noses against your collarbone like she’s trying to burrow deeper. You lie there a moment, staring up at the roof of the shelter, heart thudding way too loud for the ass-crack of dawn.
You should move. Scratch that. You need to move before someone else does it for you.
“Lottie,” you mutter, nudging her gently. “Hey. Rise and shine.”
She makes a sound. Something between a sigh and a whine. You elbow her lightly. Okay, maybe not as lightly as you could, but you’re lacking fine motor skills right now.
“ Seriously . Up.”
That gets her attention. She blinks at you, still half-asleep, eyes puffy and hair a complete mess. You hate that it’s— God help you — cute.
“…I’ll get up,” she murmurs, voice gravel-rough. “Just… stay here a minute?”
“Can’t,” you say, already untangling yourself. “Chores. Nat’s gonna be on our ass already.”
Lottie’s fingers tighten slightly at your side. She leans up, presses a kiss just under your jaw before you can stand all the way. You’d love to pretend you aren’t flushed first thing in the morning— but really, there’s no denying it.
Your eyes meet. You look away first. Lottie keeps looking like she’s perusing a magazine, gaze trailing up and down in a faintly appraising way that has you burning even hotter.
“You know,” she says lightly, “we should go down to the lake later. Wash up. It’s warmer in the afternoon.”
You don’t look back at her. “S’a little early to ask to see me naked.”
You can hear the pure smart-assery in her tone when she speaks next: “I’ve already seen you naked.”
You choke. Turn around to find her grinning all Cheshire-like.
“That was— we were in a group . That’s contextual.”
Lottie hums. “Sure.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat in it. Just warm, fizzy awkwardness, shyness that comes with having someone look at you like you’re wanted.
“…I’ll think about it,” you say, quieter now.
She smiles, genuine this time. Less teasing, more soft.
“Okay.”
You shake your head and duck out of the shelter before you can say something stupider. With your back sore and your shirt wrinkled, you scope the area for any onlookers, only to walk directly into Van.
She stops. You stop.
She eyes your hair. Your neck. Your limp . Then her brows go up so high , and you know you’re so fucked .
Van’s face scrunches.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“Good morning to you, too,” you mutter, tugging your shirt down.
“Did you get in a fight with a mountain lion ?” she continues, “Or did you just bust your ass? Seriously. You look like shit .”
You grit your teeth. “Can we not do this shit this early in the fucking morning?”
Van squints. Eyes you up and down again. Then cranes her neck toward the shelter behind you, where movement stirs and Lottie comes out next, equally as mussed, half as ashamed.
Her jaw drops.
“No,” she breathes. “No fucking way .”
“Shut up,” you snap. But it’s already too late.
Van lets out a strangled wheeze and doubles over, laughing like she’s just heard the funniest joke of her life. You lunge forward, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her away from camp before anyone else can hear.
She stumbles along beside you, barely able to breathe through the cackling.
“Oh my God,” she wheezes, “I knew you were gay.”
“ Van !” you hiss, clapping a hand over her mouth. She’s grinning under your hand. You can feel it.
You release her just long enough for her to gasp, “So? How was it? Are her fingers actually —”
You shove her. She nearly falls into a bush and laughs harder.
“Fuck off,” you mutter, ears burning.
“You like her,” she singsongs, following you down the path giddily.
“I don’t —”
“Oh, no, you’re right. You just fucked in the woods, then slept together , literally. Casual.”
“I swear to God.”
“But seriously, how was it? I mean, who was ringing the Devil’s doorbell ? Was there tongue ?”
You whirl around. “Van. Please . Shut the fuck up.”
She holds up her hands like she’s innocent. Like she’s not about to say something worse.
“I’m just asking,” she says, all faux-seriousness, “Can’t blame me for being curious.”
You groan and drop your head into your hands. Van claps you on the shoulder, smug and utterly relentless, still chuckling to herself.
“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”
You lift your head. Narrow your eyes. “You’re going to tell Tai.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
You groan louder and start trudging back toward camp before you’re counted as missing. Van falls into step beside you, arms swinging, already halfway into her next round of commentary.
“So, you gonna do it again? Have a routine? Make a schedule ?”
“I'm not answering that.”
“You’re gonna. Eventually.”
You scowl at the ground and keep walking.
She pauses for dramatic effect. “ You know , for someone who spent months calling Lottie creepy, you sure folded like a lawn chair—”
“ Van —”
But then you stop.
Lottie’s standing near the animal pens, sleeveless dress flowing with the morning breeze, hair a little messy from sleep still, and a soft smile curling at the corners of her mouth like she knows exactly what you were just talking about.
She catches your eye. To your absolute horror , she waves, a shy thing that has you blushing up to your goddamn ears. You wave back.
Van explodes, laughter echoing through the trees like a fucking maniac.
“Oh my god!” she wheezes, grabbing your arm to keep from collapsing. “You’re fucked !”
You don't respond. Because unfortunately, she’s not wrong.
Not even a little.
