Archive of Our Own ^beta

If there’s one thing Lucy has learned about the Wasteland, it’s that things happen fast.

They happen so fast, and they happen so much. Really, the past few weeks have just been an unending string of happening, happening, happening. At first it had looked like killing her husband (she supposes; she’s still not so sure about that one), and then it had looked like losing her father. And then— because neither of those were enough— it had looked like chainsawing a dead man’s head off, and nearly being eaten by a giant frog, and being sold into sexual slavery.

(Except not really, thank god; it had just been organ harvesting. Just. Since when had organ harvesting been a just for her, or for the MacLeans in general? Lucy had thought she’d known the answer for sure back then, back when the bewildered inquiry had first popped into her mind after the whole ordeal was over: it had been a loud and resounding never. So she’d left the man who had tried to sell her— tried to change her— right there on the ground where he’d collapsed, and in that moment, she had known that she was better than him. Thought she was, at least. But now? With her father in a cage, and her mother—)

She cuts the train of thought off, and she cuts it off hard. It’s not something she wants to think about, not even now, so she won’t. Besides, it’s not like the Wasteland is all bad. For a second there, she’d kind of adopted a dog. She’d saved all of those people from the organ harvesters, and she’d met Maximus, and she’d fallen in love or… something, maybe, she isn’t sure yet— it had just been a kiss, but it had been so, so nice, and then he’d asked her if she wanted to do more, but they hadn’t had time because Vault 4 had been full of mutants and lunatics and Lucy had needed to prove it to him and—

And now Lee Moldaver is in her bed.

Kind of.

Lucy isn’t quite sure she likes the way her brain had reminded her of that fact on first pass, so she runs it back: Lee Moldaver is sitting next to her, on the edge of her bed, while Lucy’s mind races a mile a minute. Better. Quietly, Lucy studies her face; Moldaver is waiting for her to speak, Lucy knows, but she’s going to have to wait a little bit longer. She hadn’t been being facetious when she’d asked to take the night to think— if Moldaver would be so kind as to put her up for the evening— and as it had turned out, Moldaver could, so.

So.

Here she is, trying and failing to take stock of not just the events of today, but the events of her entire life up until this point.

How she got here. Where she’s going. What the future could even look like in a world where her father is a murderer, and his victim paramount is an entire civilization rather than just Lucy’s mother— who had never been just anything in Lucy’s mind— at least until the moment that everything had clicked, and Lucy had understood all at once that no matter what she’d been before, her mom really was just a Ghoul tied to a chair in Moldaver’s dining room for at least the last twenty years. Or something. For some reason.

(Lucy knows the reason in her gut of course, but it’s easier to ignore. Maybe she’ll come back to it; maybe she won’t. It’s part of the reason she needs time to think, but Moldaver is talking again, saying something, and—)

“Sorry,” Lucy interrupts, voice hoarse from disuse, hoarse from crying all by herself in this quiet but homey little room. Do all the people at the Observatory have soft, comfortable beds like this? Had all the people in Shady Sands, before her father had— if Moldaver is to be believed— wiped it off the map?

(She thinks of the diorama back in Vault 04. She swallows back what could be bile, or might just be more tears, and then—)

“Sorry, I didn’t… could you just… what were you saying?”

She tries to force a smile and manages. It’s a tired, tiny thing, but practice makes perfect, and it seems to work just fine. Moldaver’s eyes soften, and Lucy blinks, smile turning briefly towards the genuine, because they can do that?

(It makes sense of course, on some abstract level, that Moldaver could be soft; it’s in keeping with everything she’s learned, but that doesn’t make it easy, because everything she’s learned today has been really, really hard, but this is a bright spot. This is—)

Confusing, Lucy’s brain supplies, because just like that, Moldaver is reaching out to touch her face, to cup her jaw gently with a hand. She’s too tired to flinch or even to tense, so she doesn’t. Moldaver’s hand is warm and calloused, and her touch is kind, and it’s almost too much.

Almost.

“It’s nothing,” Moldaver is saying softly, almost too softly for Lucy to catch, and then she’s speaking more firmly, and she sounds heartbroken, she sounds— “I’m sorry, Lucy. God, you look just like your mother; has he ever told you that?”

Yes he has, Lucy wants to say; he tells me all the time, but she doesn’t. Because the truth is that she doesn’t remember, and Lucy doesn’t lie, but still, Lucy does wonder. Is there some world out there where Moldaver asks, and Lucy answers without missing a beat?

Had there ever been? And if there had, can’t she please just go back to it? Somehow?

Her first thought is that she’d give anything, but that isn’t true; she can’t imagine a version of herself that doesn’t know what she knows now, can’t even imagine what she might look like in the mirror. Would she even still be Lucy, if she went back? She doesn’t think so. She wants to say all of that, too. She wants to say a lot of things, but wanting is easier than doing these days, so instead she just says mmh, and shakes her head no ever so slightly, still studying Moldaver’s face as she’s studied in turn.

The older woman’s lips purse faintly in displeasure. Her brows knit together and then lift, almost imperceptibly. It’s a micro-expression, but Lucy still catches it; still can’t help but note the way Moldaver seems to get that much softer when that flicker of negative emotion passes, ultimately replaced by something else entirely that borders on kind, or… something.

“Well, you do,” Moldaver says firmly at last, leaving no room for argument, and her voice is aching now, openly; it’s enough to make Lucy’s own heart clench in sympathy, enough to keep her frozen as Moldaver keeps on looking. She’s brushing the pad of her thumb over Lucy’s cheekbone now, resting it briefly against the tip of her nose, and Lucy is flushing because now that thumb is trailing down to her lips, and… “You do, Lucy, god, you do.”

What does she even say in this situation? What can she? Does she have to say anything? The pad of Moldaver’s thumb is pressed gently to the seam of her lips now, and it’s… kind of nice, actually.

(No one’s touched her this gently in ages, without hurry or rush or doom right around the corner, and if she speaks then the moment— whatever it is— will break, and…)

Oh. Moldaver’s kissing her. That’s what that look before had been about. Okay.

Her lips are surprisingly soft, and shockingly warm, and does Lucy want this?

No, scratch that; is she even okay with it?

To her credit, Lucy’s brain moves fast, just like everything else in the Wasteland now that she’s a part of it and it’s a part of her. Rapid fire, she reviews the facts; it’s not like Moldaver had asked. It’s also not like Lucy isn’t young enough to be her daughter. It’s not even like Lucy hadn’t been, for a little while— her daughter, that is— not that she really remembers, so does doing this count as wrong by that metric or does it not?

Does it matter?

She needs to focus, because none of those are the big one. The big one is unavoidable. It’s an elephant in the room in the form of lips on hers, and it’s only been half a second, but Lucy needs an answer to it quick.

Does she like women?

And how has she never thought about this before?

The answer to the second question is pretty obvious, at least. Chet had just been… there, and accessible, and Lucy definitely likes boys, so that had been that. The first one, though…

Well. There are a few ways to find out, surely. Lucy has one right here at her fingertips. Moldaver wants her, just like she’d wanted Lucy’s mom.

(And sure, that’s a little weird, but Lucy thinks she’s done weirder; on a scale from one to ass-jerky, this is probably about a six, and where would she draw the line anyway, if it were up to her? An eight? A nine, maybe? That’s a question for future Lucy, current Lucy decides. As it were, it’s time to address the elephant.)

When Moldaver’s lips had first met hers, she’d made a soft, startled little noise in the back of her throat; now, as Lucy relaxes, she makes a deeper, more intentional one. It’s a hum against Moldaver’s lips as she closes her eyes— an invitation as she lifts both hands to cup Moldaver’s jaw the way Moldaver cups hers— and Lucy has always loved this part of kissing, the moment it goes from being kind of whatever to the moment when everything clicks.

Their lips are moving against each other with purpose now, an eager give and take that seems to light up every nerve and even make Lucy’s brain tingle. Their bodies are so close as she leans in harder that she swears she can feel heat radiating off Moldaver— even from beneath her clothes— or maybe she’s just touch-starved?

It doesn’t actually matter. Moldaver is soft, and warm, and her mouth tastes good. The kiss can’t last longer than a few seconds, but still, Lucy’s made up her mind: this is so weird, but she wants it. Deserves it, even, because sex and feeling good are simple even when everything else is complicated, and things have notably been way too complicated lately. She drags herself back just to pant for breath, and then she’s going back for more, and then—

Moldaver is gone, or— no, that’s not quite right.

Moldaver is standing up. More accurately, Moldaver is extricating herself, fumbling out something Lucy doesn’t quite catch past the ringing in her ears as she brushes Lucy’s hands off of her. And Lucy blinks, Lucy shifts her weight, Lucy pants in reply, bewildered:

“Hey, wait, I— what?”

“Shit,” Moldaver huffs, and Lucy is glad that she’s long since learned not to flinch or scowl at profanity. “I shouldn’t have. I need to leave; you need to rest. I’m sorry.”

Moldaver isn’t talking like someone looking to be convinced. Not even remotely. As a matter of fact, she’s already putting distance between herself and the edge of the bed where Lucy sits. She doesn’t even look at Lucy as she speaks the words, as if looking might make things worse, but all at once, Lucy knows she needs to convince her anyway. Everything has been so awful lately. She can’t not have this one, simple thing, not now that it’s been offered.

“Wait! Wait, it’s okay, it’s—”

Lucy lurches forward, a hand closing around Moldaver’s wrist. Half on the bed, half off, she can feel her heartbeat in her throat, feel it other places too as she stares pleadingly up at Moldaver.

(Lucy thinks the older woman looks a bit like Wilzig had looked when Ma June had jammed that Jim’s Limbs foot onto his stump back in Filly— stricken is probably a good word for it, all the color drained from her face— and generally Lucy tries not to remember what that had looked like, she really does, but she remembers it just fine anyway, so if memory really does serve then she has about three more seconds left to make her point before Moldaver brushes her off again and makes herself scarce. Shoot.)

“—it’s fine, it’s—”

Lucy tightens her grip on Moldaver’s wrist and feels her tendons twitch in response. She’s running out of time. How is she so bad at this all of a sudden? Chet had been so easy.

“—it’s great, actually!”

At that, Moldaver gives her a look; Lucy wilts, just a little.

“I just mean— that was nice. Really nice! I’ve never thought about homosexuality, but—”

At that, Moldaver snatches her wrist back, rubbing it lightly with her opposite hand as if Lucy of all people could ever hurt her; Lucy thinks that’s a bit ridiculous, but whatever. Is that a hint of amusement curling Moldaver’s lips, or is it wishful thinking? She presses on regardless.

“But, I’m not… mad or anything, I promise. I liked that a lot, so maybe you could stay, and we could…”

Lucy trails off again. Moldaver waits. Rather than thinking about what she wants to say next, Lucy finds herself thinking instead, just briefly: Would it kill you to say something?

(To be fair, if the expression on Moldaver’s face is anything to go by, it might kill her; it’s one reason of many that Lucy keeps the thought to herself, biting down on her bottom lip instead of speaking it.)

And then at long last— because she can’t think of anything else to say— she settles on:

“I just really want to feel good right now, okay? It’s been a crazy couple of weeks, and everything is awful up here, but that wasn’t, that was really nice. So maybe we could do it again? If you wanted to? I mean— it wasn’t awful, right?”

Maybe there’s a universe out there where Lucy’s voice doesn’t crack with desperation somewhere around the middle of the plea, but if there is, it isn’t this one. Instead her voice pitches up into her most imploring tone somewhere around awful whether she likes it or not— she doesn’t, for the record— and by the end, she’s only managed to rein it in a little bit despite all her best efforts. It’s the same tone that had once made the Ghoul snap and ask if she’d always been this fuckin’ squeaky— his words, not hers— and thinking about that still makes Lucy mad, but.

But.

“No,” Moldaver says as she turns back around, and she sounds almost defeated as she does. “No, it wasn’t awful.”

But I am, Moldaver doesn’t say. Or I will be, if I stay here. If I do this.

“…Ooookie-dokey,” Lucy replies, drawing out the first syllable as she sits back down on the edge of the bed and shifts her weight awkwardly from hip to hip, those big hazel eyes staring straight into Moldaver’s rotten fucking soul. “I mean, not exactly a world-class review, but I can do better—”

“You did fine,” Moldaver interrupts, clipped, terse, and then— because something in her tone of voice makes Lucy flinch ever so slightly, shit— “Good,” she amends, voice still tight, but less so now. “It was good.”

(It was better than good, of course. That’s the whole fucking problem. It was—)

“Great!” Lucy chirps helpfully, grinning that hopeful, dazzling, comforting little grin of hers as she leans forward on the edge of the bed, and god help Moldaver, doing this will make her awful if she isn’t already, but she’s going to do it anyway. The girl has Rose’s eyes. “So you’ll stay, then? We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, I’m all about consent—”

“I’ll stay,” Moldaver interrupts again, not unkindly this time, and Lucy actually drops it, thank god. She clasps her hands together in her lap instead of continuing with the thought, wringing them eagerly as Moldaver settles on the edge of the bed beside her, and then:

“Great,” Lucy repeats, no less eagerly this time as she turns her body to face Moldaver. “That’s great, thank you, I just— I’ve never done this before. With a woman, I mean.”

Lucy doesn’t sound anxious. She sounds fucking thrilled, and does that make what Moldaver is about to do better or worse, in the grand scheme of things?

(Does it matter, when the only other woman whose opinion she’d ever care to hear on the matter has had nothing to offer but hollow gasps of animal hunger for the past twenty years? Has she even been able to remember Rose’s voice since the moment she’d heard her daughter’s in that god-forsaken Vault, or has it only just been Lucy’s between then and now? Will it ever be Rose’s again, if she does this?)

Lucy is edging closer now, leaning in slightly like she’s not sure what’s appropriate— like she doesn’t want to scare Moldaver off again— and Moldaver realizes all at once that she’s been far too fucking quiet, far too fucking motionless. She probably looks fucking crazy, but Lucy still wants to kiss her, still wants Moldaver to make her feel good, so.

“Come here,” she rasps, startling herself with the roughness of her own voice in that moment as she swings her legs up onto the bed. She’s still wearing her boots, but she has a sneaking suspicion Lucy MacLean doesn’t give a shit about that. Then she’s lifting her chin in invitation, beckoning loosely, praying Lucy won’t make her say it, and—

Lucy doesn’t. She clambers right into Moldaver’s lap, straddling her hips, and god, she’s so warm and real and alive that all at once Moldaver is just so fucking glad that they’ve both decided to let themselves have this.

Don’t they deserve it? Doesn’t she, doesn’t Lucy?

There are hands on Lucy’s waist now, strong hands— hands that only want to help, not to harm, not to hurt for what feels like the first time in recent memory as Lucy kisses her— and then those hands are sliding back, back over the stupid blue fabric of Lucy’s cute little Vault-Tec jumpsuit, and Moldaver is palming Lucy’s ass regardless of whether or not it’s technically a good idea. She can’t help herself— wouldn’t want to even if she could as Lucy gasps into her mouth and their teeth click together, all warm breath and warmer lips— and Lucy arches into the touch, making this sweet little sound of surprise in the back of her throat that Moldaver knows is going to haunt her every night until the day she dies.

I’ve never done this before is still ringing in her ears. With a woman, I mean.

Lucy’s hands on Moldaver’s shoulders, and then cupping Moldaver’s jaw. Lucy licking into her mouth with the same kind of eagerness as Rose, all those fucking years ago, and Moldaver thinks, not for the first time:

Could have fooled me.

It doesn’t matter what Moldaver thinks, though; not to the reality of the situation she’s found herself in tonight, and certainly not to Lucy. “This is so nice,” she’s murmuring against Moldaver’s lips now as she presses herself into her lap— into her warm, steady hands— and then Moldaver is squeezing her ass again a bit more purposefully in response as she pants into Lucy’s mouth in turn, and wow, okay, Lucy loves that.

Still, she wants more. Wants to see what those same steady hands can really do. Wants them on her thighs, on her tits, wants them brushing just so against the backs of her knees, where Chet had always been ticklish but Lucy had always thought light touches felt so, so nice, really; Steph had laughed when Lucy had told her that, and Lucy had scowled and blushed and never mentioned it to either of them ever again, but now…

She’s licking into Moldaver’s mouth eagerly again when she finally shifts her hips just right in the other woman’s lap, pinning the seam of her jumpsuit right up against her own needy, throbbing clit like she has a hundred times before, humping a pillow and knowing she’s going to have to find an excuse to do her own laundry when she’s done. She’s nipping Moldaver’s bottom lip gently when she draws back, because Chet had never liked it when she was too rough, but then Moldaver is biting her in return and Lucy is whining and her whole world is spinning as they both go back for more.

(Has she ever been this wet with another person? Has she ever been this wet in general? If her own sexual education hadn’t been so robust, she might be worried something was actually, literally wrong down there. Instead, all she can think is that this is so much better than cousin stuff. It’s even better than Monty, and that had been pretty great, at least up until the whole him trying to kill her thing. Does that come with the territory of marriage for MacLeans? Lucy’s starting to notice a pattern, but surely Max would never—)

“Shoot!”

Lucy doesn’t curse. Rose hadn’t either. Still, Moldaver gets the point as the girl almost startles out of her fucking lap— only the grip she has on Lucy’s ass keeps her there, but Moldaver shifts that grip to Lucy’s hips instead just to be decent as her own eyes go slightly wider. They’re still no match for Lucy’s, as it were, but—

“Hey, easy.”

She tries to keep her voice steady and calm, but it’s hard to bite down on the panic rising in her throat like bile. Has she done something wrong? Overstepped? Moved too fast? Said too little, or too much—

“I think I might have a boyfriend.”

Moldaver blinks, and Lucy feels so, so stupid, but—

“What?” The word slips out unbidden, a rasp of a sound. Moldaver hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but it’s too late now to take it back.

“A boyfriend,” Lucy repeats, as if that’s the question Moldaver had been asking. She’s too smart for that though, and Moldaver knows it; luckily Moldaver’s smart too. She can’t lose this— not now that she’s had it, not now that she’s so fucking close— so she waits, rubbing soothing circles into the divots of Lucy’s hips over her jumpsuit, and as ever, Lucy doesn’t disappoint. “I met a boy. On my way here. A man, really, I mean he’s my age, but— he rescued me. He’s a knight. And he’s good, Moldaver—”

“Call me Lee,” Moldaver interrupts one last time for good measure, telling herself that if she’s doing this— and she is— then she at least wants to hear her name as she damns whatever’s left of her soul to oblivion. If offering it up to be used endears her to the girl in her lap, all the better, but it isn’t her intention. Then, still rubbing little circles: “A knight? Like the Brotherhood?”

Of course like the Brotherhood, Moldaver knows; Lucy nods, just like Moldaver had known that she would. A beat of silence.

“And he rescued you, you said— I can only assume you traveled with him, then?”

Moldaver supplies the question helpfully after another beat, patient and only vaguely inquiring; like they’re talking about the weather, like she has no stake in the answer at all. She studies Lucy’s face all the while though, watches her chew on the question, no doubt wondering how she should answer or if she should answer at all. Lucy’s jaw works ever so faintly; her brows furrow just a little bit, lips pursing and then relaxing over and over, until finally:

“Yes,” she says, and then: “Well, no. I mean…”

Moldaver waits for her to finish, still rubbing little circles.

“…It’s complicated,” Lucy settles on at last, chewing her lips before frowning deeply. Moldaver can feel her trying not to fidget, feel the way her inner thighs tense and relax; she pets a little more liberally and feels Lucy settle, watching her dragging in a deep breath to chase her own frown away and plaster on a tight smile. Moldaver recognizes that expression for what it is all at once, the only thing it can be: Lucy is trying to make light. “You just— you have no idea how hard it was to get here. I mean, we’d be here all night!”

Lucy rubs Moldaver’s shoulders to accompany the words, voice pitching up into a nervous sort of half-laugh on the last sentence. She even rolls her eyes a bit for emphasis, tilting her head to and fro in a sort of so-so, duh motion as she does so before returning her gaze to Moldaver’s face, and Moldaver feels her jaw tick, feels her heart ache; thinks stop it, Lee, you’re a grown ass woman.

“But,” Lucy is finishing now, taking a deep breath, so Moldaver takes the chance to take one too, “Yes, we traveled together. For a little bit. We kissed, and… ugh! I mean I wanted to have sex with him but we kept getting interrupted!” She sounds indignant now, rightfully frustrated and plaintive as she searches Moldaver’s face intently for some as-yet-unspoken opinion, and fuck Moldaver wants to eat her alive; how’s that for being a grown ass woman? “He’s the only reason I’m here,” Lucy is continuing, and then, “He said he’d find me, I… I told him to find me.”

Moldaver watches her deflate ever so slightly. Feels Lucy’s grip on her shoulders go just a bit more slack, watches Lucy chew her lips and frown, and then—

“He sounds like a good man,” Moldaver says conversationally, gaze drifting down to the place her hands rest on Lucy’s hips; Lucy’s eyes follow. The words don’t come easily, because fuck the Brotherhood, but— “I’m glad he got you here,” she continues. “I’d say I’m sorry it was hard, but that’s not true.”

Lucy’s eyes jerk back up to Moldaver’s face at that, a questioning frown already forming; Moldaver’s eyes follow, her brows lifting faintly in a practiced sort of easy now.

“You wouldn’t have met him if it had been easy,” she supplies patiently, as if it had been obvious what she had meant, and she watches Lucy’s expression relax. There’s still that cute, barely there little divot between her eyebrows that tells Moldaver she’s still thinking, still that faint, wavering downward turn to her lips that says she’s not quite sure, but— “It sounds like you really like him.”

“I do,” Lucy replies without hesitating, and Moldaver pets her thigh almost idly, letting the words hang in the air for a moment. And then, just as patiently:

“But you know the Brotherhood is celibate.”

It’s a gamble— a statement phrased almost like a question, but not quite— and Moldaver watches it pay off in real time as Lucy hesitates.

“Well… yes.”

And then, when that isn’t enough for Moldaver:

“We talked about it. Kind of.”

Lucy doesn’t sound defensive anymore.

“You wouldn’t want him to break his vows,” Moldaver posits after a beat, searching Lucy’s face, and Lucy chews her bottom lip. Then, a bit exasperatedly, with a little roll of her eyes:

“I mean— no, obviously, not unless he wanted to, but—”

(Obviously. Obviously. Because Lucy is a good person, obviously—)

“—what are you getting at?”

She fixes Moldaver with a look— hands still resting on her shoulders, brows still faintly furrowed— all out of patience and exactly where Moldaver wants her to be.

“I’m saying,” Moldaver replies conversationally, “that it sounds like you two are going to have a lot to work through before you can start having sex when you meet back up again. It sounds like you’re quite fond of this man, but sex with him might not even be on the table.”

“So?” Lucy asks stubbornly, still lost, still searching Moldaver’s face, and—

“So, that doesn’t sound like a boyfriend to me,” Moldaver supplies, and lets the words sink in before she continues. “It sounds like a boy that you like, that’s all. Whether or not you’ve kissed him, or promised to wait for him, or any of that. And I think…”

She trails off— lets her eyes wander down again as she trails her hand back up over Lucy’s thigh, all the way back to her hip— feels the curve, and the warmth, and the barely-there twitch of Lucy’s thighs around her waist as she does.

“…well. I don’t think he’d be upset with you for feeling good in the meantime,” she offers as she returns her gaze to Lucy’s face, and then as addendum, crinkling her nose in mild distaste: “I mean I might be, mind you, but those Brotherhood types, they’re all just so…”

She pretends to grasp for the word. Lets it elude her, just like her fucking conscience, until just a beat later—

“Chivalrous?” Lucy supplies helpfully, and finally, Moldaver grins.

“That’s it,” she says as she does, giving Lucy’s hips a squeeze. “That’s the word.”

Lucy gasps out a laugh as she does, a brief burst of sound as her hips jerk in response to the squeeze. Ticklish, or just startled? Maybe she’ll find out later, but for now Lucy is settling back into her lap, still grinning and blushing and…

“Okay,” Lucy breathes, leaning in to rest her forehead against Moldaver’s and closing her eyes; Moldaver can feel Lucy’s breath feathering out over her face as she does, see the blissed out smile of sheer disbelieving relief curling Lucy’s lips. “Okay, I mean, you’re probably right. Obviously. That was silly, I just…”

Lucy huffs out a good-natured sigh, close enough to kiss.

“…I’m sorry,” she says at last.

“Don’t be,” Moldaver hums, the sound flat but for the slightest hint of amusement, of affection, of barely stifled want as she closes her eyes and revels in the solid weight of Lucy in her lap, of Lucy beneath her palms. “You’re young.”

And then Lucy is kissing her again. Finally.

Lucy can be as sorry as she wants, so long as she stays right here.

(God knows Moldaver is, but not sorry enough to stop.)

“…I’m really not you know,” Lucy protests breathily between kisses some few minutes later, and Moldaver knows it would be hopeless to try to catch up between the warm, hungry glide of familiar lips. She hums against Lucy’s mouth in question instead; feels Lucy shift in her lap beneath wandering hands, feels Lucy lick into her mouth, feels Lucy’s hands cupping her face, and then—

“I’m not young. I mean, maybe to you, but…”

Lucy’s breath stutters out across Moldaver’s lips, hot and feather-light. There’s a hand on Moldaver’s wrist now instead— fingers fluttering, an almost-grip— and Lucy swallows thickly.

“I’m really not. And this is really nice.”

Moldaver knows, of course; knows what Lucy’s really asking, too. Thinks to herself just for a moment, just for a heartbeat as if Lucy might somehow be able to hear:

Please don’t ask me to do this.

(As if she couldn’t say no; as if any part of her actually wants to. As if the answer was ever going to be anything other than yes, and I’m sorry Rose, I’m so fucking sorry—)

“Can you touch me?” Lucy breathes shakily, and Moldaver groans into Lucy’s mouth, pulling Lucy closer by the grip she has on her hips and kissing her hard enough to bruise.

(She never is quite sorry enough these days, but—)

It doesn’t matter. It never has.

“Only if you want to,” Lucy pants between kisses when Moldaver finally lets her, dizzy in the aftermath. “If it’s not too much, if it’s not weird—”

“I want to,” Moldaver breathes back steadily, eyes still closed as she reaches— as if by memory— for the zipper of Lucy’s jumpsuit: “It isn’t too much.”

She lets the rest lie. It doesn’t seem important. Nothing does, not in the face of Lucy in her lap so wet Moldaver can fucking smell her as she tugs the zipper down. Lucy wiggles her arms free, and Moldaver practically hears the fabric pool around her waist, feels the Vault suit fall over the hand she’d left resting on Lucy’s waist for the duration of the endeavor.

“Oh,” Lucy breathes happily as that same hand leaves her waist to splay out gently over her newly-bare stomach, and then Moldaver is kissing her again and that hand is sliding lower, and Lucy is panting, shifting her hips and blushing and drawing back to look like she wants to see the moment Moldaver’s hand disappears into her underwear—

She’s definitely never been this wet before. It’s Lucy’s first thought as Moldaver’s fingertips slide readily through the hot slick mess between her thighs. The second one is something Lucy can’t even say, not because she doesn’t feel it but because she doesn’t curse; instead, as Moldaver’s fingers rub and glide almost lazily along the lips of her cunt in full, Lucy just pants:

“Lee, Lee—”

“Easy,” Moldaver rasps, and Lucy presses their foreheads together with a whine. This close, it feels like they’re sharing everything— sharing pleasure, sharing heat, sharing breath— and in a way Lucy supposes they actually are.

Her heartbeat throbs in her clit as Moldaver kisses lower; hammers away beneath Moldaver’s tongue as Moldaver sucks one mark into Lucy’s neck, then another, then another, the first three of however many Moldaver wants so long as she never stops touching Lucy like this, and—

“Easy,” Moldaver repeats, ragged but steady and muffled against Lucy’s throat this time, because Lucy’s hips are twitching up and away from too much direct stimulation and that hadn’t been Moldaver’s intent, not here, not now, not this time. She wraps her free arm around Lucy’s waist, tugging her close and keeping her steady as she works to find just the right angle with the other by way of apology, and it works.

Lucy relaxes. Moldaver melts. Sighs against Lucy’s neck: “I’ve got you Rose, I’ve got you—” and the words skip over the surface of Lucy’s pleasure-addled mind like flat rocks over still water, leaving barely so much as a ripple in their wake.

The same can’t be said for what they do to Moldaver’s. The words sink like stones, a cold splash that settles heavy in her chest as her mind catches up with her mouth; her fingers slow between Lucy’s legs at first, and then stop, and then…

Moldaver fucking hates herself. Suddenly, utterly, and completely without compromise. For the first time in a long time, she doesn’t know what to say.

(Her apologies, as evidenced, have never been good for much in the long run, but—)

Lucy groans in disappointment, miserable and wet and confused, and then:

“Oh,” she pants, brain finally catching up. “No, Lee, it’s…”

Lucy trails off in spite of herself. She doesn’t actually know if it’s okay. Every instinct screams that she wants it to be, and isn’t that all that matters so long as no one is getting hurt? Still there’s the matter of Moldaver, to whom other things seem to matter very much; even now she’s moving to withdraw her hand from between Lucy’s legs, muttering something to herself, face twisted up like she’s in agony and—

“It’s okay, it’s— it’s okay, hey, wait a minute, just—” Lucy’s grip tightens on Moldaver’s wrist just enough to keep her in place, just enough to keep her steady, and Moldaver’s expression flickers; Lucy flashes a tight, anxious little smile, but it doesn’t feel anxious, not in the moment. “It’s okay,” she repeats a bit more steadily once she has Moldaver’s undivided attention, and then, holding her gaze: “You miss her, I— I miss her too, I miss her all the time.”

Moldaver blinks at her. Swallows hard, like she’s swallowing around glass. Lucy feels her wrist twitch against her hold, tendons flexing; Moldaver opens her mouth as if to speak, but Lucy cuts her off hard.

“No, Lee, you— listen to me,” she pants, and to her credit, Moldaver does, grinding her teeth loudly enough for Lucy to hear after her mouth snaps shut. “It’s okay, it’s— I’m not angry. We both miss her so much, and it’s okay if that— if you need to, to make it easier...”

Lucy studies Moldaver’s face, pleading, and Moldaver studies Lucy’s, tortured; she clenches her jaw again as her fingertips twitch where they’re trapped against Lucy, all slick heat and wiry hair and Rose, Rose, Rose.

(Will Lucy ever cease to amaze? Or is this just Moldaver’s lot in life, now that karma has finally caught up with her for all the things didn’t do in her lifetime and some of the things she did? Her fingertips are pruning slightly, pressed to the warmth of a MacLean woman’s cunt, and Lucy is begging to be called by her mother’s name; Moldaver isn’t sure she can do it, suddenly isn’t sure she can do any of this, but—)

“Please,” Lucy breathes desperately, shifting her hips as she searches Moldaver’s face, and Moldaver’s whole body clenches. “It’s okay, it doesn’t have to be weird, just…”

(It is weird, Moldaver knows, but Lucy is the one asking, so really she thinks she has no choice but to try. Even if it kills her— even if it hurts the whole time she’s dying— there are worse ways to die than stars in the sky these days, and certainly worse ways to hurt.)

“Alright,” she says at last, and then more steadily: “Alright, just…”

She cups the back of Lucy’s neck. Kisses her softer. Lucy shudders happily as Moldaver rubs steady, gentle circles into her throbbing clit, and Moldaver feels it; closes her eyes again as Lucy whispers thank you, thank you in between breathless, hungry kisses that linger much longer and deeper than before.

When Moldaver finally sinks a finger into Lucy’s cunt, they both shudder.

“I can take more,” Lucy pants near-immediately as Moldaver bottoms out, hips already canting slightly into the palm of Moldaver’s hand, and yeah, Moldaver thinks, that seems about right.

Lucy is so warm and wet and welcoming inside. She definitely could take more, but Moldaver just hums instead of giving her what she wants right away, a flat, amused note pressed up against Lucy’s lips as she guides her back in for another, deeper kiss. Gliding one finger lazily in and out of Lucy as she kisses her is the easiest thing in world— well, second easiest— and Moldaver finds that so long as doesn’t get too caught up and forget to curl on the downstroke, Lucy’s insides twitch and flutter eagerly every single time regardless of how full she isn’t.

(Everything about fucking Lucy is almost too good to be true— from the faint grind of Lucy’s hips to the breathless little whines she keeps panting out against Moldaver’s lips— but Moldaver knows that it isn’t. Knows it can be even better, knows it will be; knows she just has to wait, and then…)

“Please?” Lucy begs breathily after just a minute or two more of that, digging her blunt nails into Moldaver’s shoulders through layers of fabric the same way Moldaver has been digging her toes into the soles of her boots for the past forty-five fucking minutes at least, and Moldaver groans. She can feel Lucy’s thighs trembling, feel the tension in her whole body, feel…

“You won’t hurt me,” Lucy whines, tucking her face against Moldaver’s neck this time, breath fluttery and hot and so close to Moldaver’s ear: “I promise, Lee, I promise, just—”

Lucy cuts herself off with the cutest, most desperate little groan Moldaver thinks she’s ever fucking heard the next time that she presses inside of her; three fingers are more than one after all, but Moldaver is gentle and Lucy is pliant and in the end they go so fucking easy.

Tight but not too tight, full but not too full, Lucy pants when Moldaver bottoms out this time, the sound eager and frantic and tinted with a whine. The webbing between her ring finger and her pinky pressed flush to Lucy’s cunt, Moldaver wonders almost idly how much effort it would take on both of their parts for Lucy to take one more, but…

That would be selfish, Moldaver knows.

(And, realistically, it would also just be too soon.)

She can still feel Lucy fluttering and squeezing around the bulge of her knuckles; still feel every little full-body shiver as she continues to adjust, grabbing at the fabric of the back of Moldaver’s jacket and clutching it tightly in her fists. “Okay,” Lucy pants shakily, eagerly against Moldaver’s neck: “That’s— I mean that’s definitely three, right? It feels like three—”

“It’s three,” Moldaver hums in patient amusement, cutting her off. Her lips are close to Lucy’s ear now— and when she rocks inside of her for the first time this way it’s less of an in-out of her digits and more of a gentle push-pull of her entire hand.

(It feels good, getting to gently tug Lucy closer by the cunt like that and then let her go over and over; Lucy seems to agree wholeheartedly, hips eager to follow Moldaver wherever she might lead. Otherwise, she seems perfectly content to just grind and twitch into Moldaver’s palm whenever Moldaver takes a break to grope her; a curl of the fingers inside of Lucy and a squeeze of the hand putting them there means pressure in all the right places on all the right things, and Lucy whimpers every time she does it, wetness pooling in Moldaver’s palm. Not for the first time, Moldaver thinks that she never wants any of this to end, but…)

“Lee,” Lucy is whining against her neck over and over again like a prayer, breath hot and damp, and she’s riding Moldaver’s fingers in earnest now, practiced hips rising and falling and thighs trembling faintly with the effort it takes as she clings to Moldaver’s shirt. “Lee, Lee, Lee. Oh—”

Moldaver curls her fingers hard. Tells herself it’s okay to give in, just the once; whispers, tight and desperate and right against Lucy’s ear:

“Easy, Rose. That’s it.”

Lucy groans like she’s been shot, hips buckling and insides squeezing tight as she takes Moldaver’s fingers all the way down to the last knuckle. The angle has the rim of her cunt pressing hot and wet against the webbing of Moldaver’s thumb, and not for the first time, Moldaver thinks Jesus fucking Christ; it’s all she can do to curl her fingers roughly again and hold Lucy close with her free hand as she does, letting Lucy pant and grind and do whatever else she needs to do to further their shared goal of getting her to come her fucking brains out in Moldaver’s lap.

(Between breathless, frantic little gasps as she grinds, some very distant part of Lucy worries she’s the one making this weird now; at least if she is, it doesn’t seem to matter to Lee. It’s not like Lucy had known she would like being called by her mother’s name, so maybe that makes this less weird, somehow; it’s all just so overwhelming and Lee is so good at this and—)

“Oh,” Lucy whimpers as Moldaver curls her fingers just right, every conscious thought wiped from her mind as her hips jerk hard in Moldaver’s lap. “Oh, gosh—”

“I’ve got you,” Moldaver breathes soothingly, still stroking Lucy just right inside over and over and over again, and then— “I’ve got you, Rose. That’s it, sweetheart.”

Lucy comes so hard she sees stars.

It’s not like she’s never orgasmed before— quite the opposite, in fact— but something about this one is different. Moldaver curls her fingers again as Lucy does, murmuring sweet nothings against Lucy’s ear that Lucy doesn’t catch— and all Lucy can do about it is ride those fingers even harder, cling to her jacket even tighter, try (in vain) to keep her head on straight as her hips jerk and her insides flutter and her whole freaking world goes white with pleasure.

(There’s a part of Lucy— a big part— that never wants it to end, but as she’s been learning lately, all the best things in life eventually do. Lee works her through that realization too with steady, expert hands, and Lucy is so, so grateful for it; as the pleasure ebbs and Lee eases up slowly but surely, Lucy even tries to say as much, but in the end she isn’t sure how many words— if any— had actually managed to break through her own ceaseless litany of broken, helpless noises, so…)

“Thank you,” Lucy pants again just to be sure as she continues to come down, once she’s come back to herself enough to know for certain that she’s actually speaking out loud; not whining or whimpering or gasping this time, but speaking in a way that can be understood. “Oh gosh, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Mm,” Moldaver hums, lips pressed to Lucy’s throat, and is delighted to find that something about the timbre of her voice is just enough to make Lucy’s tired cunt clench and flutter briefly around her fingers where they’re still buried. “You don’t need to thank me. I liked that just as much as you did, I promise.”

(…and okay, Lucy isn’t sure how that could even be possible, but she doesn’t let it give her too much pause; she hesitates for just a moment, one hand trailing up to play with the fine, wispy hairs at the base of Lee’s neck with her fingertips as she does, and then—)

“Oh,” she chirps, still a little breathy. “Alrighty then. Still though…”

Lucy trails off, drawing back to look at Moldaver; Moldaver, knowing the look, just lifts a brow in question and watches as Lucy’s blush spreads from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. Her expression says out with it, but the hand on Lucy’s hip says I’ve got you, don’t worry— and Lucy finds her courage as a direct result, clearing her throat before pressing on.

“Ahem. Sorry. You’ll just… I mean, you’ll have to let me return the favor sometime, that’s all.” Lucy sounds so plaintive and bargaining and sweet as she offers— like she genuinely can’t imagine any other alternative— that for a moment, Moldaver can almost imagine a world where she’s actually tempted. Almost. Then Lucy is continuing, all the more sincere: “I mean I’ve obviously never done it before like I said, so I probably won’t be great, but I’m a quick learner; you’ll see! That was just… really, really nice, and…”

Lucy flutters around Moldaver’s fingers again; Moldaver’s fingers twitch.

“…and I want to make you feel good,” Lucy finishes.

Moldaver hums, flat but not unkind; she studies Lucy’s face as she does, her own desire sparking back up in response to the sheer desperate want that she finds there. And god damn it all, she doesn’t actually feel like having this conversation right now— not when it’s unlikely to be relevant to Lucy ever again beyond tonight— so, masterfully, she sidesteps instead. Strokes Lucy’s hip, feels Lucy shudder, and offers up almost carefully as she meets Lucy’s gaze:

“Alright.”

(And then— before Lucy can get ahead of herself, because Moldaver swears she can see it in the younger woman’s eyes—)

“If you want to make me feel good, you can start by taking more. How does that sound?”

(It sounds pornographic, Moldaver thinks, but Lucy doesn’t seem to mind. Her eyes just go a little bit wider, and her blush gets a little bit brighter, and then she’s squirming faintly in Moldaver’s lap, and—)

“Oh,” Lucy breathes, chewing her bottom lip and squeezing eagerly around Moldaver’s fingers. “I mean, Chet was always a one and done kind of guy, but if you want me to…”

“I do,” Moldaver assures, only mildly amused to hear so casually about one and done Chet; when she’s finished she thinks he’ll be lucky if Lucy even remembers his name.

(Still, if you want isn’t yes, so she curls her fingers gently again; that seems to get Lucy’s attention, seems to conquer any lingering doubt or uncertainty she might have, and—)

“Okay,” Lucy pants, and she’s looking at Moldaver like Moldaver put the fucking stars in the sky now as Moldaver continues to gently stroke inside of her. “Yeah, okay. I can do that, just be gentle. I really can’t be sore tomorrow—”

There’s no way they haven’t crossed that bridge already, Moldaver thinks, but doesn’t care to communicate as much; she interrupts by dragging Lucy into a soft, hungry kiss instead, cupping the back of the younger woman’s neck and licking into her mouth. Then she drags her fingers out, slowly— palms her hand over Lucy’s whole cunt instead of immediately testing her with four— and grins as Lucy shudders.

(And really, Moldaver would have stopped teasing there— except a twitch of Lucy’s hips into her hand had become a stutter, and then that stutter had become a grind, and then that had happened over and over and over again. After a few minutes of that, when Moldaver had gently squeezed, Lucy had actually humped, and then it had been off to the races; not her fault at all, but regardless—)

“Lee,” Lucy breathes a t last, fingers digging into Moldaver’s shoulders hard through three layers of fabric like she just can’t take it anymore. Her expression is a focused one despite her desperation, or maybe because of it: brows furrowed, jaw tight, her eyes are wild with need as she peers down to the point where they meet, and fuck is it cute. “Lee, please, Lee—”

She’s still humping Moldaver’s whole fucking hand as she begs, of course— still grinding her hot wet cunt over and over again into Moldaver’s waiting palm, still bumping and rubbing the firm little nub of her clit into Moldaver’s life line with every pass— and all of that distracts Moldaver just enough to delay immediate realization, but.

But Lucy is begging.

(Lucy is really, properly begging, at least by the standards of a Vault Dweller. Her sweet voice is cracking, and sweat is beading faintly between her furrowed brows, and her thighs are trembling where they straddle Moldaver’s lap, and all at once, all of it hits like a slap.)

Moldaver feels her whole body clench in response. Works her hand cooperatively between Lucy’s legs just a little bit harder, without even having to think about it.

“Ohmygosh, Lee, please—”

She could drag this out, she knows— and fuck, is it tempting— but she already has in a way, hasn’t she?

Better to give Lucy what she wants. What they both want, really.

So she hushes Lucy with a kiss— soothes her with an open palm, rubbing the small of Lucy’s back through her bloody, beat up white tank top— and on the next pass of her steadily grinding hips, Moldaver eases four fingers into Lucy’s cunt up to the knuckle.

Lucy squeaks. Then, the sound tapers off into a groan— a hot, melty kind of noise as she settles onto Moldaver’s fingers properly, really feeling the stretch now if the way her insides clench and flutter is any indication— and Moldaver has to bite back a sound all her own, something animal and low.

(She’d been expecting close enough to what she’d wanted, if she’s honest with herself; close enough has been more than enough for what feels like as long as she can remember after all, better than nothing, better than never, better than no one. But Lucy? This?)

It’s heaven.

…As close as someone who’s done the things she’s done is ever going to get, anyway.)

“There you go,” she praises without even thinking about it, voice low and rumbling and satisfied. How could she not be? Lucy feels so good inside; she’d felt good before around two fingers, and then three, but now? Around the better part of Moldaver’s whole hand?

Well.

Lucy drips down around her fingers, slicking Moldaver’s palm as her insides squeeze. Then Moldaver crooks all four of them, gently— Lucy whimpers, Lucy bucks, Lucy sinks right down over Moldaver’s knuckles at their widest point— and then she’s grinding down desperately into the heel of Moldaver’s palm, and Moldaver is groaning again but Lucy is groaning louder, and—

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Moldaver breathes the words like a prayer, overflowing with affection she hadn’t realized she’d had left in her to give until this very moment. One hand splayed out over the small of a Vault Dweller’s back to hold her close and the other curling four fingers inside of her, all at once Moldaver is proud of Lucy, not her mother; wants Lucy just as much as Rose, not just for their similarities but also for their differences. Rose might have kissed Moldaver, but Lucy is the one pressing their foreheads together hard instead— Lucy is the one whimpering as she rides— Lucy is the one panting open mouthed in Moldaver’s lap, hot breath fluttering out over Moldaver’s lips with every rock of her hips and and grind of Moldaver’s palm into her clit, and Moldaver wants Lucy.

(She hadn’t expected it, but it’s nice. To give up the ghost as it were, just for a moment, but then—)

“Mom,” Lucy is whining frantically as her hips stutter, because good things don’t just happen to Moldaver anymore; not without some catch or another, and there it fucking is, because of course it is. “Ohmygosh, mom—”

It should feel like a bucket of ice water to the face.

It doesn’t.

Still, Moldaver feels her whole fucking body lock up in response to whatever the feeling actually is as it registers, both her better judgement and whatever she had once tried passing off as a conscience sloshing dangerously around in her skull like hot fucking lava. The more the feeling sinks in, the more the skull in question begins to feel remarkably empty, save for one thought, over and over and over again:

Maybe she really should kill herself.

(Or, maybe she shouldn’t.)

It’s hard to know for sure with Lucy’s cunt wrapped so fucking tight and so fucking perfect around the better part of her whole fucking hand, so Moldaver resolves to figure it out later. For now, eyes shut, she focuses instead on trying to restart her own fucking brain, a temporary fix that will at least get her fingers moving inside Lucy again— but then Lucy is whining, panting open-mouthed and shifting in her lap and kneading at her shoulders like a fucking kitten, and—

“I’m sorry,” Lucy is rasping, fluttering around her fingers and squeezing her fingers so tight again; she sounds close to tears, voice warbling and thick and frantic, and it’s almost enough to make Moldaver’s whole world start spinning all over again, something ugly and animal and raw clenching hard in her chest where her heart should be. “I don’t know why I said that,” Lucy is still babbling, because Moldaver still hasn’t moved, and their foreheads are still pressed together as Lucy trembles in her lap. “I’m sorry Lee, I’m sorry, I was so close I just—”

“Don’t,” Moldaver interrupts, licking her lips immediately afterwards like a nervous dog; she sounds sharp, almost pained at first, but levels out as she continues. “Don’t be sorry. Don’t be sorry, it isn’t—”

Moldaver stops herself. Clenches her jaw hard for a moment, eyes still closed as she bites down on the words, because it is wrong, but—

“You don’t— have to be sorry,” she tries again. “It isn’t…”

She can hear Lucy’s breathing. Feel Lucy’s pulse tick-tick-ticking away against various spots along the half a hand she has buried in the younger woman’s cunt, but most especially against the backs of her knuckles where they press tight against Lucy’s back wall. The hesitation can’t actually last more than a few heartbeats this time— Moldaver counts Lucy’s just to ground herself, just a little bit— but it still feels like a fucking lifetime, because she’s doing this, she’s decided, consequences be damned.

(There’s no one left to enforce them but herself anyway, so—)

“We both miss her,” Moldaver says carefully, taking a deep breath in through her nose and then breathing out slowly as she rubs the small of Lucy’s back. “It’s… okay, if that makes it… easier, for you.”

(Okay if she likes it, okay because Lucy does too, okay because she can deal with the guilt and the anger and the self loathing later if they come but for now all she’s been able to hear ringing in her ears for what’s felt like at least twenty fucking minutes but can really only have been about five is mom, mom, ohmygosh mom—)

“…Really?” Lucy asks a little bit shakily, like she’s hesitant to get her hopes up; eyes still closed, Moldaver gives a tiny nod and hums her affirmation, completely and utterly defeated by her own fucking… whatever this is. Whatever Lucy is. It’s beaten her, and she wants it, loves it, even, and...

When Lucy kisses her— breath still a little bit shaky and lips already faintly damp— Moldaver tastes salt. She doesn’t say a word about it. Knows now that Lucy doesn’t want her to; knows now that there are more important things she can give the young woman in her lap than soothing words or even hard truths, namely steady, gentle thrusts and a practiced curl of all four of the fingers buried inside her cunt every now and again.

“You’re so warm,” Moldaver murmurs after a little while— after a particularly good curl leaves Lucy shuddering and breaking away from their kiss to pant for breath— and Lucy whines happily in response, insides fluttering and hips twitching down as Moldaver does it again and again and again. “You know it’s been a very long time since I’ve done this with anyone, sweetheart. I’d almost forgotten.”

(A truth and a lie, of course. She could never forget, not really, and she’s sure that Lucy knows that, but she’s kissing Lucy’s neck now and it doesn’t really matter because Lucy is lapping it up anyway, giggling breathlessly and rocking her hips a little harder and squeezing her tighter and then—)

“I don’t believe you,” Lucy replies with a shaky sort of amusement coloring her tone, voice breaking with arousal on don’t before it settles back into something steadier, and yeah, Moldaver thinks, there it is. She knows now, on some level, that this is worth it; that all of it had been worth it, just for this, just for Lucy, but.

But.

She can’t say that. Not yet. Maybe not ever, so.

“…That’s because I’m lying,” she says patiently instead, smirking against Lucy’s neck and curling her fingers hard just once for emphasis before upping the pace just a little bit. She thinks Lucy can probably take it if the way she’s already squeezing is any indication, and she’s right of course— Lucy groans in response, strangled and eager at first, but then fucking petulant of all tones to take as her cunt spasms pleasantly around Moldaver’s fingers, and—

“You shouldn’t— you shouldn’t lie to people you’re having sex with.”

Moldaver surprises herself. She fucking laughs.

(It’s a bark of a sound, brief and muffled against Lucy’s throat, but it rocks her whole body and it feels good and she can’t fucking help it. When was the last time? It doesn’t matter; she can picture the scowl, picture the furrow of Lucy’s brows, feel the faint bob of Lucy’s throat beneath her lips as she swallows. It’s fucking perfect.)

“You shouldn’t scold people while they’re fucking you,” she counters, and then sets about worrying another mark into the pale skin of Lucy’s throat with her teeth; Lucy whines, hips stuttering, clit throbbing against the heel of Moldaver’s palm where she grinds.

“Some people are into that,” Lucy answers after a long moment, breathier now but still trying to be smart, and Moldaver hums.

“…Really?”

Like she’s surprised. Like it’s news to her. Moldaver lets her tone drip with false, slightly aloof intrigue, while Lucy drips down her fucking wrist because it’s the only thing she can do as Moldaver curls her fingers hard again; Moldaver can feel her getting tighter, feel the shake in Lucy’s thighs and the tension in the small of her back and—

No smart comeback this time; Lucy’s too close. That’s good; Moldaver wants her to be. The slick, obscene sound of her fucking Lucy is steady and intoxicating, just like it’s always been, but now, in the absence of chatter, the silence otherwise almost feels too loud. Lucy’s still panting into her mouth between kisses, still whining softly when she curls her fingers just right, but she’s remarkably quiet otherwise, and Moldaver knows she could leave it at that, knows she probably should, but…

“Doing okay, sweetheart?”

Her voice is low. Careful. Maybe even a little bit maternal as she checks in, but she tries not to think about that. Lucy bites back a strangled noise in response— grinds her hips a little harder, nods frantically where she still has her forehead pressed to Moldaver’s— and Moldaver smiles faintly, humming as she keeps her hand steady.

Not upset then; just concentrating. It’s sweet. Lucy’s not the first woman she’s had in her lap who gets quiet on the brink of something mind-blowing instead of loud, but if Moldaver has her way, then she might just be the last.

(Stay, some insane part of her wants to say as Lucy trembles, some desperate, idealistic part she’d thought to be long dead: Stay, and let me protect you. I can do it this time, I’ll get it right, I fucking swear—)

“Oh,” the girl in her lap whines, voice pitching up all at once as Moldaver sets about kissing her throat, hot and open-mouthed. “Oh, oh, oh—”

“I’ve got you,” Moldaver murmurs, fingers curling hard one last time; if she’s reading Lucy’s body language right, she thinks that should do it.

(She thinks right, perhaps unsurprisingly.)

“Mom,” Lucy whimpers, hips juddering, and finally fucking comes. “Mom, mom, mom—!”

Moldaver feels it around her fingers of course— hot, rhythmic fluttering— but Lucy feels it everywhere. It crashes over her like a tidal wave, knocking her legs right out from under her; she sobs something utterly incoherent as she sinks down hard onto those curling fingers, taking them deeper, squeezing them tighter, and for a moment, the whole world goes white.

Even when things come back into focus, Lucy still can’t really seem to get a grasp on any of it. One moment she’s grinding her hips just to ride out the feeling, staring in wonder down at the place where their bodies meet with big, wide eyes— the next, Lee is doing something with her hand, or her fingers, or both, and then Lucy’s eyes are slamming shut because it’s the only thing she can do and then holy cow, she’s coming again.

Maybe she never really stopped. Maybe this is just one really good, really long orgasm. Or maybe she’s up to three now, which isn’t more than she’s accomplished on her own of course, but which is absolutely way more than she’s ever managed with a partner, so—

“Easy, sweetheart.”

Even through the haze, Lucy knows that voice.

Lee.

(It’s a little hard to hear past the ringing in her ears, not to even start on the pitchy, rhythmic kind of whining sound filling the room as she rocks her hips shallowly; what’s that about, anyway? Lee is kissing her, and the sound stops dead as Lucy licks into her mouth, but then Lee is gently drawing back and Lee is asking her something and oh, Lucy realizes, that sound must have been coming out of her.)

“…okay, honey?”

Lucy blinks, still pleasantly dizzy, and she’s… crying? That doesn’t seem right, but those are definitely tears rolling down her cheeks, so…

“I’m okay,” she breathes, reaching up to wipe at her eyes with the back of one of her hands, utterly bewildered. And then, laughing breathlessly: “Sorry, uhm, more than okay, that was… that was wow, I don’t know why I’m…”

Lucy trails off. Gestures vaguely. Laughs again.

Moldaver feels her what’s left of her heart clench painfully inside her chest.

(Wonders, distantly; are Lucy’s ears still ringing too? She’s relieved of course, that Lucy is okay— the tears had been a surprise— but she can still hear all the rest, too, and the high has passed. Why had she done this? Why had she let herself do it? Why does she want so fucking badly to do it again already? She wants to apologize— to Lucy, to Rose, to herself, but—)

“It can be overwhelming,” she reassures calmly instead, almost clinical in her remove as she takes a deep breath. “It’s okay, really. You’re hardly the first person to cry during sex. I’m going to pull out now.”

Lucy doesn’t really need the warning, but Moldaver gives it anyway. When her fingers slip free and leave Lucy empty, they both shudder.

“That was really nice,” Lucy hums, smiling and leaning in to bump her forehead almost affectionately against Moldaver’s— and Moldaver nods, not quite blankly but not quite… not. “I feel much better. If I stay, then… maybe we could do it again sometime?”

Moldaver blinks, thoughts snagging on the word stay, and then—

And then Lucy is easing out of her lap, flopping down onto Moldaver’s bed.

(The bed Moldaver had once shared with another MacLean, with Lucy’s mother, the bed Moldaver had offered Lucy tonight without even thinking in so many more ways than one, and…)

“The sex, I mean, not— not all the other stuff. Like not the saying I have a boyfriend, or the crying, just—”

“I’d like that,” Moldaver says tightly, and stands hurriedly before she can make another mistake. Lucy either doesn’t notice her sudden haste or simply doesn’t care, but Moldaver thanks her lucky stars either way as she continues:

“I should go. You must be exhausted.”

“Sure am,” Lucy huffs with a smile in her tone; Moldaver hears her Vault Suit zip up, but doesn’t dare turn around to look. “See you in the morning?”

Moldaver hums affirmatively. Hesitates by the door— her dominant hand is still wet.

Fuck.

“See you in the morning,” she says, voice still tight, head still spinning, and three MacLeans none the wiser.