I do not give anyone permission to repost my fics on any other site. I will only post my fics on here or on ao3 under the username gotham_fc. If you see anyone else reposting my fics and claiming them as their own, please let me know and report the account. I work very hard on my fics and I do not want them stolen and for someone else to get credit for my work.
I do not use AI in my works and I never will. All of my writing comes from my own head and I will never ever use AI in any of my writing. Furthermore, do not feed my works to AI for any reason. If I find out that you are doing that I will block you instantly don't test me.
That ‘comment on your a03 work’ email hits like a line of cocaine every time. unmatched dopamine increase. shoutout to everyone who leaves a comment on fics. you deserve the world
I sure would love it if my landlord informed me when she was sending people to do work upstairs so I would be prepared for it instead of, you know, chilling in my pjs in my house and then having some guy knock on my door and say he needs to see the fuse panel and then having to clear a path to the fuse panel while he’s watching me
We really could’ve solved this by idk just telling me a worker is coming over and might need to flip some breakers on the fuse panel
Jess just being like I dont have the time or the energy for a harem, I've got too many things to do (like try to convince ann to stop running to the halfway line, and go on dates with ann and also keep on top of my second career as a social media influencer by posting once a month) so I'll dog sit for them instead 😊 jess gets to continue her work on trying to get ann to get them a dog. Ann presumably is swapping chaos tips woth abby. And the harem dont have to worry about Beau. Its a win win all round.
It truly is a win win all around, like Jess gets to hang out with a dog, the harem gets a free dogsitter when they need it, akb gets a fellow chaos demon to bond with, everyone's happy
Okay! Finally time to reveal: I have split my masterlist! It got too big for tumblr to handle, so I split it into a woso masterlist and a woho masterlist. So all my woho fics will go on the new masterlist now which is still linked in my bio, so easy to find. Let me know if anything is funky on either one and I'll fix it asap
Memories - Reader insert. Collection of memories following Canada's Worlds win in 2021
Daryl Watts
Slut Era Interlude - Post breakup and post gold medal game, Daryl finds herself in a bar with the Americans, and she want Caroline to hurt the way she's hurting
Gwyn Philips
No One's Fault - In her first game back with the Charge after the Olympics, Gwyn loses in the shootout. It hurts more than she expected, and she hates letting her team down. Good thing her teammates are there to remind her that they love her no matter the score
Hilary Knight
Sailing Again - Hilary Knight x younger!reader through the first tumultuous year of their relationship
The One - Part 2. Immediate aftermath of part one.
Recovery Night - Part 2.5. Expanded scene from part 2.
Locker Room Fun - Short fic outside main story. Hilary and R get caught in the locker room by their teammates.
Will You Stay Here For A While Dear - Part 3. The announcement of the PWHL and the inaugural draft. Hilary goes to Boston, but where will R end up?
Puck Drop - Hilary and R are married with kids and R comes to the first Boston game to support Hilary and the PWHL
Blinded by the Light - Keller asks a question that sends Hilary’s whole world into a tailspin
Jocelyne Larocque + Renata Fast
sorry about the blood in your mouth (i wish it was mine) - Jocelyne and Renata followed their fight during the game
Marie Philip Poulin
Top Shelf - Reader is American and loses Worlds to Canada and her girlfriend MPP scores the game winning goal
Sleeping with the Enemy - Reader insert. MPP is dating Hilary's younger sister and Hilary is not happy about it.
Marie Philip Poulin + Laura Stacey
Famille - Reader is 16 and has her first call up to Team Canada. Pou takes her under her wing.
Désolée - Part 2. Reader comes to visit Pou and Stacey in Montreal and tempers flare.
Dormir - Part 3. Reader stays up late to finish homework while she's at team Canada camp and learns that's not a good idea.
When You Touch Me Like This - It’s hard enough having a crush on one teammate, let alone two. And it’s even harder when those teammates are married. To each other.
Marie Philip Poulin + Laura Stacey + Nicole Gosling
L'Amour à Trois - Nicole gets really drunk at the Walter Cup celebration parade and her captains take care of her. Then the next day they take care of her.
Pull the Bitter Taste Out - Nicole signs a contract with Hamilton and the throuple has lots of emotions about it. Laura in particular.
Recrue de L'année - Laura and Nicole take on the PWHL Awards with Marie staying in Montreal, feat Maureen Murphy
Megan Keller
Torn - Reader is Canadian and gets hurt really bad in a rivalry series game, her and Megan try to cope.
Yukon - After Boston gets eliminated from the playoffs, Megan takes her anger out on reader. Can their relationship be fixed or is it too late?
Nicole Hensley
Baby on Ice - Reader insert. Nicole brings her baby to practice and shenanigans ensue
Sophomore Year - Nicole and reader are in a "secret" relationship.
Warnings: Smut. Angst. Keller being a bad girlfriend at the start
Summary: After Boston gets eliminated from the playoffs, Megan lets her anger get the better of her and takes it out on her girlfriend. Can their relationship be fixed or is it too late?
A/N: sorry? hope you don't hate me?
Title from the Justin Bieber song
AO3 Link
You’re in shock when the final horn goes off. You lost. You lost the game, you lost the series, and now it’s over. Your season, over, just like that. You had the best team, you thought, the right pieces, all falling into place. You clinched so early, barely missed out on first place. Still, you felt there was no one better than you. You could taste the Walter Cup in your grasp for weeks at the end of the season.
And you lost.
It’s over.
Another early exit, another missed chance. You lost in the finals in season one, didn’t even make the playoffs in season two, and you got upset in round one of season three. No matter what you do, it doesn’t matter. It’s not enough.
You’re sitting on the bench, staring out onto the ice, mouth open. It’s over. You blink. Blink again. And again. And again. And again. As if you’re going to open your eyes and the game will just be starting, you’ll have another chance, and it won’t be over. Ottawa is celebrating on the ice and you can’t help thinking it should be you. It was never supposed to be this way.
Megan says something in the locker room. Something about loving the team, about being proud, about the trophy not being everything, about the season being a success despite the result. Her words are hollow, you know this. She’s crushed as much as you are. The season means nothing without the Cup in the end.
The bus ride back to the hotel is silent. Everyone processing the loss in their own way. You want more than anything to sit with Megan, to cry on her shoulder, to have her hold you and tell you it’ll be okay. But that’s not what Megan needs. Megan needs space, needs the bus ride to get to a place of acceptance with the loss. You can give her space.
Everyone breaks off to their own rooms. You have a flight tomorrow back to Boston. You were supposed to be getting on that flight and prepping for game five. Instead you’re flying back to Boston with nothing and you’ll have to wait another season before you get another shot.
Megan doesn’t even look at you.
Not when you disembark the bus, not when you walk through the front doors into the lobby, not when you pile into the elevator with a handful of your teammates, not when you follow a step behind her towards her room. She doesn’t look at you as her hand shakes as she tries to swipe her room key, or as the light flashes red over and over.
“Meg,” You try. You try to get her to look at you, to acknowledge you. “Let me do it.” She doesn’t. “Meg.”
When she finally gets it, she barely opens the door enough for herself and tries to close it quickly behind her. You jump quickly, good reflexes even through the physical and mental exhaustion, and manage to get your shoulder in the way so she can’t close the door. You know she doesn’t want to be alone. She thinks she does, but she doesn’t. Or you don’t. It doesn’t matter. She won’t want you to be alone if you don’t want to be. She’d be upset later if you left and didn’t tell her you needed her.
You squeeze your way in, and Megan huffs and throws her key card down on the desk. She paces, moving around the room, moving things that don’t need to be moved, running a hand through her hair every few seconds. She still won’t look at you.
“Meg.”
You’re not letting her do this. You’re not letting her spiral.
“Megan.”
You step in front of her when she doesn’t respond. She walks into you. You stumble back and she doesn’t catch you. You stay in her path, in the way. You’re not letting her do this.
She doesn’t do what you expect her to do. You expect her to break down, to cry, collapse. You expect her to start yelling. You expect her to start going over the game, or rationalizing why Ottawa was better, why you lost, explaining what needs to change for next year. She doesn’t do any of that. She keeps stepping forward, and you keep stepping back, until your lower back hits the edge of the desk. She keeps moving until she’s pushing you against the desk. You expect her to kiss you.
“You have one fucking job on this team. Put the puck in the back of the net. Why the fuck can’t you do your job when it fucking matters?”
Megan’s right, that’s the worst part. You had a terrible series. No goals in four games. You barely managed to scrape out one measly assist in game three. Not that it mattered. You lost game three anyway. You lost the series anyway. You don’t even want to look at your plus/minus in the playoffs. You didn’t do very good two seasons ago either, but nobody noticed because the rest of the team stepped up. You made the finals, almost won, so it didn’t matter how you played. It matters now, now that you got upset, now that you’re not playing for the Cup, now that you’re standing in front of your captain and girlfriend and having to answer to why her team fell short again.
“What’s the point of all your stats if you can’t get it done when it matters?”
You feel like you might start crying. You wanted to win so bad. You let the team down. You let Megan down. You know what everyone said after season one, what they’re going to say now, what they’ve already been saying after the first three games. Regular season merchant. Cracks under pressure. Never getting a Cup. Should’ve been benched. You see it, you’ve had to answer for it before, after season one, before this series started. You’ve had to try to explain away your inability to produce on the biggest stage.
Megan has never asked you to. Never once treated your performances as something to be explained, or justified. She’s never asked you to justify your spot on the team after your worst games. She’s asking now, and you don’t think you have an answer.
Megan’s not even fucking looking at you.
When she drags you to bed, you go willingly. It’s your penance. For letting her down, for playing bad, for keeping her from a championship for the third year in a row. You push aside your needs for hers. You can be what she needs. You couldn’t do it on the ice, but you can do it here.
She’s tearing your clothes off before you can even settle in bed. You reach for her and she slaps your hand away. You try again, try to pull her shirt over her head, and again she slaps your hands away. You keep trying, keep trying to make it feel like you’re doing something, that you’re contributing, that you’re not just her puppet. After the last of your clothes hit the floor, Megan grabs your wrists and pins them to the bed with one hand.
“Meg…”
She’s holding you so tight that you’re sure you’ll have bruises in the shape of her fingers against your wrists. She doesn’t waste any time. She immediately plunges three fingers into your cunt and you cry out at the intrusion.
Megan loves foreplay. She loves getting you ready. She loves your tits, and your thighs, and your stomach, every part of you she can touch that draws noises of you. Most of the time she doesn’t even go inside until after you’ve cum at least once. She’ll drag things out until you’re dripping onto the sheets below you and begging for it. It’s never like this.
She kisses you, rough and hard. You can’t keep up. It takes a moment for your body to catch up, for the slight burn from the stretch to turn to pleasure. Despite everything, the anger and disappointment, Megan still knows your body like the back of her hand. She knows exactly what to do to bring you pleasure. There’s fury behind it, almost like she’s angry at herself for knowing you, for not being able to fuck you without making it good for you.
When Megan’s not kissing you, she’s not looking at you. She stares up at the wall, or at the pillow over your shoulder, or she’s staring at her own arm above you.
You’re not looking away.
When you cum, or rather, when Megan pulls an orgasm from you, she leaves her fingers inside you for a moment. You think she’s going to keep going, and you can, if she wants, but she pulls her fingers out unceremoniously. You think that’s it, that she’s gotten it out. She’s breathing heavy over you, hand still pinning yours down. And then she lets go, and she’s shoving you over, onto the other side of the bed, and laying down beside you with her back turned.
You’ve never felt more used in your life.
That’s it. Megan got what she wanted from you and now she’s done. There’s no aftercare, no asking if you’re alright. She’s not once asked how you’re doing after the loss. You know she’s struggling with it, and you want to help her, but you also want her to care about you too. Tears prick at the corner of your eyes. You cry silently. Megan doesn’t want you to cry. Megan doesn’t want to have to comfort you.
When you’re sure Megan’s asleep, you pull yourself out of bed. You find your clothes on the floor and dress yourself. Megan doesn’t move. You look at her and she’s out cold, with a crease in her eyebrows still. You feel the urge to brush it away, to run your fingers over it until she settles in her sleep. Megan doesn’t want that from you, though, so you don’t.
The hallway is empty when you shut the door behind you. The lights are blindingly bright and you have nowhere to go. You slide down the wall beside the door and tuck your head against your knees and cry.
You don’t know how long you sit there for. You let it all out. Everything you’ve been feeling since the horn went, since the final horn went in season one. The pain, the disappointment, the feeling of letting your team down, letting the fans and the city down. Letting Megan down. Whatever you did to make Megan not even be able to look at you. Whatever you did to kill the part of Megan that loves you unconditionally.
The door cracks open. You don’t lift your head.
There’s a hand on your arm, tugging at you. You don’t have strength left to fight it. She pulls you back inside. She hugs you and you don’t hug back.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Megan whispers, “Why are you hiding in the hallway?”
You want to laugh. You want to ask Megan, genuinely, what part of her behaviour tonight made it seem like she wanted that? How were you supposed to believe you could tell her how upset you are and have her comfort you? You don’t, because there’s nothing to fight about tonight. There’s no point in it. You gave Megan what she needed. It doesn’t matter if she didn’t give you what you needed. Not tonight, at least.
She pulls you back to the bed, to the bed where she fucked you like she hated you, and she pulls you down to lay on top of her. She’s holding you, not letting you go, and when you try to shift, she holds you tighter. Arms, legs, everything of hers wrapped around you, keeping you close.
This is about her too.
She needs this, and you’ll give it to her, even if you don’t think you need it anymore.
-
On the way back to Boston, you spend your time with anyone but Megan. If your teammates notice, they don’t mention it. You woke up still in Megan’s arms, and you extracted yourself immediately. You left for your own room before Megan could even wake up fully, and you haven’t spoken to her since. Today is about you, you decide, what you need. And what you need right now is not to be with Megan.
She gives you space.
You wonder what would’ve happened last night if you’d just given her space.
There’s still a general haze over the group, everyone still depressed and in disbelief. It’s the most somber plane ride you’ve ever had. There’s no laughing, no joking. You sit with Ratty since you know she won’t ask about last night, or why you’re not sitting with Megan.
When you get home, you take your bags into the bedroom. Megan doesn’t follow. You don’t unpack yet, still exhausted from everything that’s happened. You sit heavily on the bed. On your bed. On the bed that still smells like Megan’s shampoo. That has strands of Megan’s hair on the pillows. Where Megan made love to you for hours until you were shaking and soaking the sheets after game one. Where you felt unstoppable.
You don’t get up for hours, going over every moment in your head that happened since that night after game one. You only come out of your trance by your stomach growling painfully. You hadn’t eaten since you forced down dry protein bars in the airport.
Megan’s nowhere to be found when you head into the kitchen. Her bags aren’t at the front door. It’s dark outside but the lights are on in your apartment. You told Megan once that you hated a dark apartment, you hated walking around in the dark, and she always kept a light on for you. You have no energy to make anything, so you scrounge around in the cupboards until you settle on a bag of Goldfish crackers. You can barely taste them as you eat, but they do enough to quell your hunger. You go back to your bedroom and collapse face first on the bed and fall asleep.
-
You wake up in the morning and Megan isn’t in bed with you. You haven’t seen her since you returned to your apartment the day before. You drag yourself out of bed and you’re greeted in the kitchen with a bouquet of flowers and breakfast plated for you. You snag the card out of the flowers.
I’m so sorry
I love you
You read it, once, twice, flip it over, read it again, then toss it on the counter. You sit and eat the food. It’s a little warm still, but cooled enough that you know Megan made this a decent amount of time ago and left it for you. You want to be touched, you want to feel like you used to when Megan did things like this for you. You’re not.
Megan doesn’t come home all day.
You know you could text her, or call her, and ask where she is. You don’t. You didn’t do anything wrong. You shouldn’t be the one fixing it. Megan needs to fix it. You know the flowers and the food are her way of fixing it, but it’s not enough for you. Which she would know if she was here.
-
The next day you wake up to a new bouquet and another breakfast.
You toss the note with the other one – I love you more than anything – and eat. You spend the day unpacking and packing up your hockey gear for the season. There’s no point in leaving it all out. You won’t be using it for a while.
Megan doesn’t come home.
-
Next day the same thing.
You are my best friend and my whole world
-
The next day – My darling, I don’t deserve you – you make a decision. If Megan is too cowardly to face you, you’ll make her.
You park yourself on the couch, determined not to let her sneak in or out without you noticing. Your phone has been blowing up ever since you got back to Boston. Mostly your family offering condolences and asking when you’ll be coming home, or your teammates asking how you’re doing and inviting you to hang with them. Plus the one single message from Ratty: Hey, everything okay with you and Megan? Understand if you don’t want to talk about it but I’m here for you if you need anything.
You don’t respond, and you don’t think you’re going to.
You actually have no idea where you and Megan stand. You have no idea if you’re ready to forgive her yet, or if she even knows what she’s apologizing for.
You’re starting to doze off against the arm of the couch when you hear a door creak open. You open your eyes and you’re staring at Megan’s form tiptoeing out of the guest bedroom. She notices you on the couch and freezes like a deer in the headlights. For a moment, neither of you move. Then, slowly, Megan steps backwards into the guest room again. As soon as she does you surge from the couch and march towards her.
“Did you think flowers and food and avoiding me is going to fix everything?” You push through the door.
It’s a mirror to before, with you backing Megan up until her knees hit the messy, unmade bed.
“I was giving you space,” Megan answers with a mumble.
“You were giving me space? Did I tell you I wanted space?” Megan shakes her head no. “Has it ever occurred to you to ask me what I want instead of assuming for me?”
“You didn’t seem like you wanted anything to do with me.”
“And who’s fault is that?”
Megan flinches. She’s staring at the floor. You can’t take it anymore.
You give Megan one solid shove in the chest. “Fucking look at me!” You screech.
You’ve pushed Megan multiple times before. On the ice, in practice and in games when you used to be on different teams. In the gym when she won’t get out of your way and let you work out in peace. At home when she’s in the way of you cooking dinner. Every time, every single time, Megan doesn’t even move. She’ll smile condescendingly at you and ask if that’s all you got. She’s stronger than you, has better balance, and she enjoys teasing you. So she never moves.
Megan stumbles back and falls onto the bed. She catches herself on her forearms and like you asked, she looks up at you. There’s tears pooling in her eyes that she won’t let fall. She looks broken. You probably look the same.
“Do you even know what you did?” You ask, suddenly calm.
“I hurt you.”
“How?”
“Baby-"
“How?”
Megan swallows. Her eyes flick down for a moment, then quickly back up at you. “I didn’t mean what I said. I was mean. I was upset and angry and I took it out on you. I wasn’t angry at you, I was angry at myself.”
“That’s it?” You laugh incredulously, “That’s all you’re sorry about? What about holding me down? What about fucking me like it was the last thing in the world you wanted? What about treating me like a worthless whore five seconds after it was over?”
The tears start to fall from Megan’s eyes. Yours have already been falling. You can see it on her face, can see that she knows exactly what she did, exactly how she hurt you, and she’s been avoiding you because she can’t face it.
“I needed you,” You say, “I needed you to be my girlfriend. To be the kind and caring person you are and to make that night not feel like the world was ending. And you weren’t that person. You were different. You made everything my fault. And maybe it is, maybe it is all my fault that we lost.” Your voice cracks, but you keep going. “Maybe you would’ve won if I wasn’t on your team. But you’re not the one who’s supposed to tell me that.”
You turn around and leave before Megan can answer. You go into your bedroom, shut the door behind you, and cry.
When you calm down a bit, when you’re able to see through your tears, you look around the room. This is your bedroom. The bedroom in the home you’ve made with Megan. Her clothes are in the closet, her toothbrush in the bathroom. There’s a shelf in the fridge filled of foods only Megan eats, and one for you. Your eyes find the photo wall above the dresser. Pictures of Megan, of you and Megan. You made it, you printed so many photos from over the years and carefully organized them in the right order.
Megan is competitive. In all things. When you first started dating, you took her to a board game night at a local café. She sat, jaw clenched, as you racked up points to win, until you reached over and touched her arm and told her she doesn’t need to let you win. A switch flipped and she wiped the floor with you. She smiled in a way she hadn’t before.
Every game, practice, scrimmage, she has to win. It doesn’t matter the stakes, if there’s something to win, she’ll win it. She gloats when she wins against you, and then when you beat her she refuses to talk to you for an hour. She won’t play video games with you because she always loses. She takes every kind of loss as a personal affront to herself, as if it’s a moral failing on her part that she didn’t win.
You love her so much. You have loved her in every moment of your relationship.
She hurt you. She hurt you worse than you have ever been hurt before. She made you feel so small, like an ant beneath her shoe, like you were nothing but a burden to her. You had never felt as awful as she made you feel.
And still, you loved her all the way through it.
And you will love her all the way through this as well.
You’ll never not love her.
You go back to the guest room. Megan hasn’t moved from where you left her. You take her hand and you pull her with you into your bedroom. She follows you willingly.
“I’ll follow you anywhere.”
“Even to the worst team in the league?”
“I’ll go wherever you go.”
You sit her on the bed, and you climb into her lap, knees on either side of her hips. You put her hands on your hips, and you tilt her chin up so she’s looking at you.
“I love you,” You say, because it’s true. “I’m so angry with you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”
“I know.”
“I want you to make me feel better. I want you to take the pain away.”
She swallows heavily. You can tell she’s fighting to keep her eyes on you.
“Kiss me?”
She does. Softly, barely any pressure. You take her bottom lip in yours and tangle your fingers in her hair. This is what you wanted, after the game, this is the version of Megan you wanted.
She kisses you, lets you lead, and she doesn’t move her hands until you reach down and pull them under your shirt. She touches you reverently, like she can’t believe you’re with her. When you tug your shirt over your head, she doesn’t even glance down at your chest, she stays looking you in the eye. It’s almost overwhelming, but it’s Megan, and you love Megan, so it’s not.
She takes her time with you, touching every part of your exposed skin with her hands, and then with her mouth when you appreciative sounds. She doesn’t look away from your face. When she finally shifts, lays you down on the bed, you can almost imagine the other night didn’t happen, that this is the first time she’s touched you since the horn went.
She makes no move to remove the rest of your clothes. She touches you, kisses you. You know Megan, you know she would be happy to just do this. To just kiss you and touch you above the waist and do nothing else. You don’t even need to touch her back. But you need more.
“Please Meg.” You tug your own pants down. She pauses.
“Meg.” You stop. You cup her cheek. “Talk to me.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.” As she speaks, a tear falls from her eye. It lands, cold and wet on your collarbone.
“You’re not going to hurt me.”
“I did,” She says, “You said so. I hurt you so bad. I can’t ever make it better. I can’t undo what I did. I can’t make the pain go away.”
“Maybe it won’t,” You admit, “But I love you more. I love you more than the pain. I want to fix it.”
Megan finally breaks eye contact when she lets her head drop onto your shoulder. You can feel her tears hitting your skin, her shoulders shaking with each sob she lets out. You hold her and you don’t say anything. When she stops crying, she lifts her head up. You use your thumb to catch some of the linger wetness under her eye.
“Is it…” Her voice is thick. “Is it okay if… Is it…”
“Tell me,” You encourage her.
“Is it okay if I don’t… If I don’t go inside? If I…”
“Yes,” You interrupt. “I’m not asking you to fuck me Meg. I want you to make love to me.”
She pulls your pants the rest of the way off, then your underwear. She runs her hand up and down your thigh, everywhere except where you need her and this is Megan. This is your Megan.
“Can I use my mouth?” She asks.
“Yes. God yes, Megan, yes.”
She takes her time kissing down your body, making sure you feel every press of her lips against your skin, every pass of her tongue. She’s worshipping you. It’s everything you wanted from her. When her mouth finally finds your pussy, you almost feel like you could’ve cum from her mouth on your hips alone. Her tongue touches every part of you, savouring every drop of your slick. Your hands grip her hair, pull her harder against you. She moves to focus on your clit and your thighs clamp around her head. You worry a little that you might suffocate her, but she just presses herself tighter against you.
When you cum, she eases you down, backing off slowly. She kisses your thighs, licks up the wetness that has seeped onto your inner thighs. You let out heaving breaths. You bring one hand across your chest, feeling your heart racing beneath your palm.
“Good?” Megan asks.
“Uh huh.”
“Can I go again?” She’s staring up at you from between your thighs. She’s panting slightly, tongue just cresting over her lips. She reminds you of a dog, waiting for orders from her master.
“Fuck.” You groan. “Yeah, yeah Meg, yeah, you can go again.”
Her mouth finds you again, sensitive from your first orgasm. Her tongue presses against you firmer this time, but she avoids your clit. When you cum again, she suctions her lips around your entrance and licks up the escaping slick. Again, she pulls back and brings you down slowly. And again, asks if she can go again.
You lost track of how many times you cum, how many times Megan has asked “Can I go again?”, until she asks again and you can’t speak. You shake your head no. Megan, looking at you, not having taken her eyes off you since you started, kisses her way up your body.
Her face is a mess. The lower half of her face is soaked with your wetness and you can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed. She kisses you, and you can taste yourself on her lips.
“I’m getting you all wet,” Megan says when she pulls back, wiping up the slick that she’s left around your lips. You want to say that you got her wet first, but you don’t really have the energy for words. She wipes her face on her upper arm.
You throw your one arm around her shoulders. She has one arm holding herself up over you and the over she uses to rub up and down your side. You can feel yourself still trembling.
“Good baby?”
You nod.
Megan kisses your lips again, then your cheeks and chin and your nose and forehead. You let her, let her care for you. You fall asleep with Megan’s hand on your hip and her lips on your hairline.
-
In the morning, you wake up to flowers and breakfast waiting for you, but this time Megan sits across from you at the table. She washes the dishes when you’re done. She cleans up the guest room, unpacks her suitcases, while you hover in the doorways to be near her. At night, she lays you down in bed and puts her mouth on you, asks you “Can I go again?” and you say yes. Every pass of her tongue, every touch of her hands, starts to erase what happened before. The painful memories replaced with your hands in Megan’s hair, her mouth on your hips, her hands on your thighs. This time when she asks “Can I go again?”, you can barely remember what she’s apologizing for.
Abby 🤝 AKB - Flirting with their respective Jess's by causing absolute chaos on the ice/pitch to sneakily create opportunities to slam into them at full speed.
Jess C is less oblivious to the harem recruitment than she seems, she simply realises that she can only have 1 agent of chaos being a menace in her general vicinity at a time.
Yesss you see the vision
And yeah maybe Jess will see abby and her army of jess's and go ah I see what's going on, well not for me but I do like having friends and they need someone to watch beau while they're fucking each other, so I will be the platonic jess not involved in that but just there to hang out and see the dog
