a/n: this is short and sweet because im going on a trip today! ill try to be active but i'll doubt ill be able to write. didnt want to leave you all with nothing!
the moment he saw you at the club he was hooked.
loud, obnoxious, slutty.
everything that tashi wasnt.
he was up for a change since his divorce, plus he always felt inferior when he was with tashi...you were his chance in being as rough and demanding as she was.
but what he didn't expect was him loving it. loving the way your pussy clenches when he calls you a slut while fucking you in his bed. loving the way tears roll down your cheeks as he forces your head down to take his cock deeper into your throat.
but he also loves the soft side of things. the aftercare, the hangouts...the soft touches while cuddling. he shouldn't feel so attached to you; your act is clear as day.
you're only here for the money.
and he's only here for the sex.
so why does he feel a pang each time you leave his place after a long night of sex?
"how much money for you to stay the weekend?" he mumbles as he crosses his arms behind his head. watching as you put your clothes on after hours of sex. a faint grin forms as he notices your wobbly legs.
"stay? like in here?" you giggle, brushing it off as a joke. "yeah. i can pay you $2000 a day." he says casually, too willing to throw away money for you.
"yeah right." you fish under his bed in search of your panties before you feel yourself getting hoisted up. "hey! stop!" he plops you beside him, his arm wrapping around your shoulders tightly.
"you're staying." "but i dont even-" "ill buy you clothes. food. anything you need."
you press your cheek against his peck, a pout on your lips. "dont act like you dont want to? what are you going to do? go fuck another man?"
"that's none-" he cuts you off, again. "it is my business. it turned my business the moment i fucked you." he says matter of factly, nuzzling his cheek against your forehead. your cheeks burn, but you dont answer.
instead you curl up further into his arms, draping your arm across his chest. "plus," he starts again. "no way you're sleeping in this state. you can beraly hold yourself up." he taunts, giving your ass a loud smack. but you beraly react, too deep into his arms to care.
he sighs, smiling. like a real a smile, a smile he hasnt let out since his divorce. and maybe, just maybe, you're it.
you're his person.
a young girl that has her life ahead of her. years of experience waiting for her. but he wont let you do that; wont let you be touched by someone else.
its like the same fixation he felt with tashi back in college. but this time he's in control, he wont let you get away from him.
thankfully for him tho, you look like you have no means on leaving. not with you sleeping so peacefully against his chest. not with your naked body pressed against him.
he kisses your forehead softly before giving your ass another squeeze. leaving his hand there while using his other hand to pull the blanket over both of you.
he closes his eyes, ready to rest.
because he knows the weekend is going to be full of sex, love, dinners, shopping. everything that you could ever want.
the wilderness chose lottie— the antler queen. a messiah must be born, and who better to bear the one destined to carry on lottie’s divine reign than the love of her life
lottie matthews x reader
tw: cult themes, religious undertones, slight mention of blood, implied pregnancy. this is kinda an au? it makes the wilderness more supernatural and explores how deeply ingrained lottie is with it, especially if she was actually antler queen. also, this definitely took a different route than i intended.
The wilderness had always whispered to her. Before the plane crash, before the blood on the snow, before the horns. But now, it screamed, not in terror, but in exultation.
And it had chosen Lottie.
She was the Antler Queen now.
The crown had grown into her—figuratively at first, then with something closer to bone. She moved through the clearing with reverence, every step silent despite the frost. The other girls knelt when she passed, eyes lowered, breath visible in the chill. They murmured prayers only the wilderness could teach.
But none of them saw her—not really. None of them knew her.
Except you.
You stood just beyond the firelight, cloaked in a deerskin Lottie had draped over your shoulders weeks ago, back when winter's bite had first settled in. You still wore it, despite the smell, despite the blood that had never quite washed out. You wore it because it was hers.
“You always stand at the edge,” she said, approaching you slowly, like a wolf that wasn’t sure if it was about to bite or beg.
You didn’t answer.
“You should come closer. The fire’s warm.” Her voice was soft, reverent.
You turned to her, eyes full of something harder to name than love, but deeper than doubt. “You’re warm.”
Lottie smiled, like the trees were listening.
“They chose me, Y/N.” Her hand touched your arm lightly—not enough to draw attention, just enough to remind you. “And through me… they chose us.”
Your mouth went dry. The fire popped behind her, the smoke trailing up like it was incense in a cathedral.
“You said we could leave,” you whispered. “That when the snow melted, we’d try and get home.”
“I meant it,” she replied, voice distant, as if speaking from two places at once. “But the wilderness changed its mind. It wants us here. It… needs us here.”
You stepped back, but her hand caught yours.
“Don’t pull away,” she pleaded, her eyes wide and frighteningly clear. “You’re the only one I can still feel when they speak. Everyone else is just static now. But you? You’ll help me bring it forth.”
Lottie stepped closer, her forehead pressing to yours.
“You carry my heart,” she whispered. “And soon, you’ll carry the rest.”
You blinked.
“What are you talking about?” you asked, already knowing. Already dreading.
“The wilderness gave me a vision.” Her hands cupped your face. “A child—born not of fear, but of devotion. Our child. The one who will walk both worlds. Not just survival… divinity. Our legacy.”
Your throat clenched.
“Lottie, I—”
“Shhh,” she breathed. “You love me. And love is sacrifice.”
Outside, the wind howled.
Inside you, something broke.
Later that night, they crowned her again.
She stood at the center of the circle, firelight licking the hollow beneath her collarbones, antlers rising dark above her head. The girls chanted, rhythms that felt older than language.
You stood behind her, bare feet in the snow, stomach bare beneath the wolfskin robe she’d wrapped you in. A red smear ran down your navel—berries, she’d said. But it looked too much like blood.
She turned to you and extended her hand.
The chanting stopped.
The forest hushed.
You stepped forward.
You had loved her before the crash, when she was only strange, not sacred. When her hands trembled during chem class and you held them under the desk. When she nervously kissed you in the parking lot after every game. When her madness had edges.
Now, it was endless.
“Do you accept the blessing of the wilderness?” she asked, her voice soaked in smoke and frost.
You didn’t speak.
She didn’t need you to.
She leaned in and kissed you, her lips warm and cracked. “We are going to bring the world a miracle,” she whispered against your mouth.
The fire roared.
The forest screamed approval.
And somewhere deep inside you, where you thought only doubt could live now, something small and terrifying bloomed.
SUMMARY : you call Rafe by his government name to see how he’d react and he basically goes through five stages of grief.
A/N: I had to make up a middle name and Henry sounded pretty Kook to me. Also I tried to make it funny but also Rafe-like as possible 😌
You sit at the edge of his bed, arms crossed, gaze fixed firmly on him. You haven’t smiled in ten minutes—not even when he muttered, “What is this, an interrogation?”
You just blinked.
And then you’d said it.
“Rafael Henry Cameron.”
He stopped mid-step like you sniped him. Now he’s doing that thing where he overthinks everything but refuses to admit it.
You glance up just in time to see his jaw tighten. He turns slowly, trying to play it cool, but his eyes are already giving him away—guarded, sharp, flickering with ‘what the hell did I do?’
“Okay,” he finally says, “why’d you say it like that?”
You don’t answer.
Stage One: Denial.
“I didn’t do anything.” He says it with full confidence, hands up like he’s innocent until proven guilty. “You’re messing with me. I know you are.”
You raise an eyebrow, still silent.
Stage Two: Deflection.
“Why do you even know my middle name?” He squints. “Did my sister tell you? Was it Wheezie? I’m blocking her.”
Stage Three: Bribery.
“Alright. You want something? A shopping trip? Dinner anywhere. I’ll even go to that overpriced candle store with you and pretend to care.”
Still, you stay quiet, arms still folded, and watch him squirm.
Stage Four: Guilt.
“Okay, seriously,” he mutters, pacing again, voice lower. “If I forgot something, just say it. You know I’m not good at this—this emotional decoding crap. Just… don’t go quiet on me. I hate that.”
Still nothing. He’s unraveling. Deliciously.
Stage Five: Unhinged affection.
Rafe walks over, crowding into your space. His hands go to your waist, pulling you closer, his nose brushing the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent like you’re his precious cocaine.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” he says, voice dangerously low. “But don’t pull that tone again unless you’re gonna follow through and punish me properly, baby.”
You finally crack a smile. Just a little.
He notices instantly. “Oh my god. You were messing with me?”
You shrug, innocent. “Maybe.”
He pulls back, his eyes flashing with both betrayal and amusement. “You’re evil. I went through the five stages of grief in ten minutes.”
“You were very dramatic.”
“I was ready to propose.”
You grin. “I know.”
He leans in, brushing his lips by your ear. “You do that again, I’m never letting you leave my bed.”
You finally laugh and tilt your head with that twinkle in your eyes that makes Rafe feel like he’s been shot in the chest.
the bus to the away game was buzzing with energy—no pun intended. the girls on the soccer team were loud and excited, practically vibrating with adrenaline and anticipation. music blasted from someone’s speaker, and bursts of laughter erupted every few seconds.
travis sat alone near the back, slouched low in his seat like he was trying to disappear. he was only on this bus because he had to be—his dad was the coach, which meant mandatory attendance at every game, even though he couldn’t care less about soccer or the people who played it. the girls got on his nerves. they were too loud, too cheerful, too much.
with a dramatic sigh, he shoved his headphones over his ears and hit play on his battered walkman. the opening chords of "there is a light that never goes out" by the smiths filled his head, a small escape from the chaos around him. he turned the volume up just enough to drown out the shouting, the laughter, the chanting.
"i love the smiths."
travis flinched slightly, pulling his headphones down and pausing the track. he looked up to find y/n, the team's star forward and arguably the loudest of them all, standing in the aisle beside him.
"sorry?" he said, unsure if he heard her right over the noise.
she nodded at his headphones, her smile widening. "i said i love the smiths."
travis blinked, caught off guard. of all people, he hadn’t expected her to know or care about his music. he glanced down at his walkman, then back up at her. for a second, the noise on the bus seemed to fade, just a little.
"...yeah," he said, awkwardly. "they’re... cool."
y/n tilted her head, studying him. “didn’t peg you for a morrissey fan.”
he shrugged. “didn’t peg you for someone who’d even know who that is.”
she laughed, and it wasn’t obnoxious or mocking—it was soft, almost endearing.
“people aren’t always what they seem, travis.”
she walked away before he could come up with a response, leaving him staring after her with the headphones still dangling around his neck.
a/n: this shit is so damn corny but also that scene just kinda fits travis. enjoy this while i most likely put off everything i should be working on
TREBLE-MAKER!ART X BARDEN BELLA READER who are both freshman in college, they bumped into eachother on their way inside the college and he didnt even say excuse me, he simply brushed past her with a lingering gaze. he didnt even help her pick up her books. which she found slightly rude but didnt speak up about it.
BARDEN BELLA!READER who fits right in with the bellas. she was the perfect fit in aubreys eyes; super hot girl, bikini ready body who can harmonize in a perfect pitch. and best of all, she didnt challenge her aubrey like beca does. she's very shy tho, despite her awesome voice, she's more obedient and quiet than the rest of the bellas. despite that she's still a key member.
TREBLE-MAKER!ART who hates the treble-makers (except jesse). but he still joins because his voice is excellent, so excellent that bumper sees him as competition. he's still very much arrogant and cocky, but maybe a sweet girl like bella!reader can soften him up.
BARDEN BELLA!READER who is really close to chloe and aubrey due to her just fitting the aesthetic of the bellas. this also means aubrey prohibits her from even looking at any of the treble-makers.
TREBLE-MAKER!ART X BARDEN BELLA!READER in their first acapella party art had his eyes on her. despite bumper telling him to not get involved with any of the bellas because of how obnoxious they are. but art cant take his eyes off her.
TREBLE-MAKER!ART X BARDEN BELLA!READER who start meeting up secretly after practices. he cares about the competition, sure. but he looks forward to hearing and seeing you sing. but he also wonder what else your mouth can do. their dynamic is like mr. grumpy x mrs. sunshine, and god, he wouldn't mind acting soft towards you.
the sun was already glaring down on the junior tennis camp courts by 10:00 AM, and the smell of sunscreen clung to the air. kids in matching white polos stood in a crooked line, squinting up at their four reluctant volunteer coaches.
tashi duncan looked terrifyingly serious for someone holding a juice box. she adjusted her visor like she was stepping into the finals of the u.s. open rather than facing a group of nine-year-olds.
art donaldson, ever the golden boy, wore his camp polo tucked in, a streak of zinc sunscreen down his nose and optimism in his smile. he waved cheerfully to a kid who immediately dropped his racket in fear.
patrick zweig leaned against the fence, visibly sweating and deeply regretting his life choices. his sunglasses covered what was either a hangover or a full-body protest against being awake before noon. or both.
and then there was y/n —clipboard in hand, the only person actually pretending this was an organized activity.
“okay, everyone!” y/n called out, their voice slightly too chipper, causing patrick to roll his eyes behind his sunglasses. “welcome to youth tennis camp. this week is about fun, sportsmanship, and most importantly: no racket throwing."
Tashi didn’t even blink. “are we allowed to intimidate them into greatness?”
y/n opened their mouth, closed it again. “let’s just try to keep the emotional damage to a minimum.”
“too late,” patrick muttered under his breath, already pulling a folding chair into the shade. “this camp is damaging me.”
art clapped his hands. “c’mon, guys, this’ll be great! we’re mentoring future tennis stars! maybe one of these kids will go pro because of us.”
“i’ll settle for them not crying,” y/n replied.
ten minutes later…
a tennis ball bounced violently off the chain-link fence and into the street. one kid was frozen mid-swing, lower lip trembling.
“she said if i miss another volley, i’m benched like a scrub at wimbledon!” he wailed, pointing dramatically at tashi.
tashi didn’t flinch. “i said might be benched.”
y/n shot her a look. “they’re children, Tash. not ranked juniors.”
“exactly,” tashi replied. “might as well train them before they develop bad habits. like... smiling during drills.”
patrick, now horizontal in a lounge chair under a giant umbrella, lifted a hand. “i’m just gonna say it—this is my nightmare."
art chuckled, unfazed. “why don’t we split up duties? i’ll take the beginners. tashi, you can work with the advanced group—ones who, uh, thrive under pressure. patrick... you man the juice table?”
patrick pointed at him approvingly. “that’s leadership. delegation.”
y/n rolled her eyes. at patrick's dramatic praise. "alright, damn, zip it up when you're done."
by afternoon, the camp had descended into a sort of joyful chaos.
tashi led grueling footwork drills like a boot camp instructor. children panted, sweat dripping, but some clearly loved it—especially a set of twins who whispered “no mercy” before every serve.
on the opposite court, art gently guided a circle of kids in a silly volley game, cheering every swing, even the misses. y/n walked among them, correcting grips and high-fiving every child like it was a mini wimbledon.
and under the umbrella, patrick narrated a one-on-one game between two six-year olds with the dry enthusiasm of a british sports commentator.
“little oliver approaches the baseline,” he murmured to no one, “with all the icy determination of a toddler hopped up on Capri Sun. meanwhile, emily prepares her serve… oh, it’s a toss! And it… bounces off her own forehead.”
y/n passed by, overhearing. “are you actually commentating their match?”
“better than trying to coach them,” patrick replied. “no one’s cried on my court. yet.”
“i hate to say it,” art added, arriving with an armful of tennis balls, “but he might be the camp mvp.”
tashi jogged over, her hair sticking to her forehead. “okay. slight issue. one of the twins just said tennis is a ‘cruel god’ and sat down in protest.”
y/n sighed. “let me guess—you called a nine-year-old a ‘mental weakling’ again?”
“i was motivating him!” tashi said, defensive.
art laughed. “with war trauma?”
they all looked around: one kid asleep in the ball hopper. another trying to wear a racket as a hat. somehow, several had started a conga line. it was utter chaos—and yet, weirdly, kind of working.
“well,” y/n said, brushing a leaf out of their hair, “we survived day one.”
“barely,” patrick added.
“only five more days to go,” tashi said, already plotting her next drill.
“i need a nap,” patrick muttered. “or a therapist.”
“or both,” y/n agreed.
then they all looked at each other, exhausted but oddly content. four tennis stars playing camp counselors. not the dream they’d imagined—but, like most of the shit they got into, it was working.
Toxic!Dad!Rafe is so protective, and although he is toxic no-one's allowed to talk shit about his girl- (except for him obviously but thats different duh)
The sun is out, the country club buzzing with chatter and the occasional thwack of a golf club striking a ball. Y/N is settled in a shaded area, her baby girl sitting in the grass, her tiny hands grabbing at the white golf balls, rolling them back and forth as she giggles at the way they wobble on the lawn. Rafe is standing a few feet away, talking with Topper, Kelce, and some other guys Y/N doesn’t really know. Some trust fund babies, probably. The type who think their daddy’s money makes them invincible. She doesn’t care to know because right now, her attention is on their daughter, the way she beams when Rafe glances over at her, proudly showing him her new 'toys.'
“Yeah princess, you got ‘em.”
His voice is soft when he talks to her, completely different from the cocky, arrogant way he speaks to everyone else. Y/N watches with a smile as he grins, winking at their little girl which makes her giggle, before he's going back to his conversation. She’s just about to pull out her phone and snap a picture when she hears one of the guys laugh. A little too loud, a little too amused.
“Guess it worked out for her, huh?”
It’s casual, muttered between swigs of beer to the other new guys, but it makes her stomach drop.
“Got kicked to the curb by her family—”
Her heart rises to her throat.
“—but hey, at least she had Cameron to knock her up. Now she’s set for life, right?”
Silence.
The kind that makes the hairs on the back of Y/N’s neck stand up, she knows exactly what’s about to happen. She watches the way Rafe's shoulders stiffen, the muscle in his jaw ticks, his grip on his beer tightening like he’s two seconds away from crushing the glass.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
His voice drops slow and controlled but lethal. The guy, oblivious or maybe just plain fucking stupid, grins and shrugs.
“Chill, man. I just meant- ”
Wrong move.
Y/N is already standing, her heart in her throat. She doesn’t give a fuck about the comment itself— it’s Rafe she’s worried about. Rafe, who’s already moving. He steps forward, beer bottle still in hand, shoulders squared.
“Nah, go ahead. Say it again.”
He challenges the guy who now shifts on his feet chuckling, but there’s an edge of nervousness evident in his actions.
“Jesus man, it was a joke.”
“Oh yeah? Not fuckin’ funny.”
Rafe’s jaw clenches at his petty excuse. Y/N barely has time to react before he shoves the guy back.
Hard.
Not enough to knock him down- but enough to make a statement. Enough to make everyone around them go silent. His fist tighten by his sides and Kelce mutters something under his breath looking over to Topper who sighs, shaking his head.
“Don’t fuckin' talk about her like that.”
His voice is deadly, protective, and it makes Y/N’s breath catch. Her throat is tight, her skin burning. Not because of what the guy said- but because he wasn’t entirely wrong. She’s heard it before.
Lucky to have Rafe.
Lucky to have their daughter.
Lucky because otherwise she’d have nothing.
She swallows hard, blinking fast but Rafe sees red and he shoves the guy again, harder this time. Kelce lets out a low whistle and Topper rubs a hand down his face. Y/N moves quickly, stepping between the two guys, one hand pressing against Rafe’s chest. She can feel how hard his heart is pounding, how tense his muscles are, like he’s just waiting for an excuse to swing.
“Rafe, stop.”
He doesn’t move. Just stares the guy down, nostrils flaring as he opens his mouth again to say something but is cut off- a tiny giggle.
Y/N whips around at the sound.
Their daughter is still sitting in the grass, completely oblivious to the tension, laughing as she claps her hands, watching her daddy like she thinks this is just another game. It’s enough to make Y/N’s stomach drop. Rafe must notice it too, because his shoulders drop slightly. He doesn’t turn away from the guy, but he exhales sharply through his nose.
“You’re fuckin’ lucky I have my kid with me.”
The guy doesn’t say anything. Just nods before stumbling back, shoving his hands into his pockets. Rafe rolls his eyes at him, shaking out his shoulders. Y/N stares at him, momentarily unsure of what to say as she watches the guys walk away.
“You can’t keep doing this.”
He scoffs.
“Yeah? What, I’m just supposed to let him run his mouth?”
“You have your daughter with you, Rafe.”
That’s what matters. That’s what she cares about. Rafe’s gaze flickers to their baby girl, still sitting on the grass, still smiling at him and something softens in his expression. He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath before bending down and scooping her up.
“C’mon, princess. Let’s go home.”
Y/N doesn’t argue. Just lets him lift their daughter into his arms as he adjusts her small white hat, her tiny hand clutching onto his shirt. She watches him as they walk towards the car, feeling exhausted but knowing one thing for certain:
Rafe Cameron will never let anyone disrespect his family.
AUTHORS NOTE - mueheheheheheh i need him. also can we talk that WE as a community wrote fics for these pictures not even a day after they came out?? we're truly the best community i fear... also! this is also a reqs someone sent for husband!art for the pic in the middle! (i lost the req sorry but yk who you are!)
"good morning," he whispered against your temple after walking through the door.
he thought retirement would be better; more time for you and the twins, more time for himself. less time in the public eye.
he was so wrong.
he did spent most of his time with you and the twins.
he does have time for himself. which helped him change alot of things about him.
his diet, his time management, his hair.
but when he wasn't he was out for photoshoots, promo photos, advertisements. it was less grueling than hours of daily practice, tasteless, dry meals. but it was still alot.
but that's what came with being a prodigy at tennis, with being a household name.
"mornin'" you groaned, stretching your arms as he walked to your vanity to check himself out. "how was the event?" you asked tiredly, resting your cheek against your arms as you watched him look at himself in the mirror.
"boring, like usual." you hummed at his response, curling up further into the sheets. "you know..." he turned to you, a slight frown on his face. "do you think i should cut my hair? an interviewer asked about it." he murmured, walking up to you, kicking his shoes off, unbuttoning his shirt before laying down beside you. "but like in a condescending way, i guess."
you took his position as an invitation, scooting closer to him, resting your forehead against his. "i think," you whisper, brushing one of the front pieces of his hair off his face. "you should think about what i think about your hair more than what an interviewer said."
he grins, closing his eyes, relishing on the warmth your body is radiating. "and what do you think then?"
"that you look so fucking hot."
he groans, getting ontop of you and catching your lips in a sloppy, wet kiss. his hands dropped down to your breasts, giving them a slight squeeze before his lips descended onto your neck. "yeah? you like my hair that much?" he growled, parting your thighs so he could easily fit inbetween them.
you nodded, breathlessly moaning as he bit your neck. his kisses continued going lower and lower until finally reaching your stomach.
"art.." you whined, arching you back.
your fingers go tangled up in his hair. and you tugged.
he would be lying if he said he's keeping the length just for that. you pulling at it when you feel needy, when you want him to stop because he's overstimulating you. but also when its just you and him in bed, and your fingers go through his hair as he rests his head on your chest.
he moans without him realizing, his cock throbbing already.
but he cant.
he needs to please you first.
"lift up your hips for me baby." and you do, ofcourse you do.
he tosses your panties away, his eyes locked in your wet cunt. you tug him down, pressing his face into your core. he groans, taking in your smell he became so, so familiar with before going absolutely crazy inbetween your legs.
he's slurping, sucking, licking and spitting. the sounds both you and him are making are straight out of a porn video. "f-fuck!" you yelp, tugging harshly at his hair, bucking up your hips against his face.
"are you coming baby?" he says against your pussy, the vibrations making your body tremble. you nod, your free hand gripping the sheets. "do it all over my face. come on."
meanwhile, he's full on humping the bed, his cock is throbbing painfully. aching to be inside the person he adores and loves more than anything else. you.
you groan loudly, your eyes watering as you come. "fuck fuck fuck.." you moan out, body going limp from the feeling of the orgasm. he slurps every drop of your orgasm, softly rubbing your hips before giving your cunt tiny kisses. "there there."
you tug at his hair, again. wanting him to hold you. and he does, taking off his already loose buttoned down shirt before kissing your cheeks. and you bury your face into his chest, nuzzling your cheek against his chest hairs while your hand is still in his hair, but instead of pulling, you're now caressing his scalp.
"so i guess this means i shouldn't cut my hair then?" he whispers, tucking his chin ontop of your head while chuckling. "you think?" you giggle,running your finger up and down his abdomen.
"do you... to go again?" he whispers, already unbuckling his belt. and you nod. your hands already inside of pants. "before the twins wake up."
The air inside the plane had felt like plastic wrap—thin, tight, and on the edge of tearing.
Lena had been humming under her breath to distract herself. She tapped her nails against the armrest in a rhythm that didn't match the turbulence. A private plane. Paid for by Lottie's dad. The kind of thing that screamed overcompensation. Lena had joked about it before takeoff, mostly to Mari.
She'd spotted Travis across the aisle, staring blankly out the window like the sky owed him something. Alone. Just how he liked it.
Lena nudged Mari, nodding her head in Travis' direction and smirking.
She tilted toward him. "If we die in a fiery crash, just so you know, I've already decided I'm haunting you specifically."
He didn't even look at her. "Can't wait."
"God, you're fun," she muttered, rolling her eyes, turning back to Mari.
The girls couldn't hold back their excitement. They were on their way to motherfucking nationals.
Then everything broke.
The plane lurched—hard.
Screams. The world tilting sideways, then violently back. Lena's head slammed against the seat in front of her, Mari quickly reaching to pull her back.
Coach Martinez had lunged toward her, trying to get her mask on. She remembered his hands—fast, shaking—then a rush of air, and he was gone, just like that.
She woke up to fire and blood and cold air that sliced through her like glass.
The plane was cracked open. Smoke bled into the trees. There was crying, screaming.
Lena pushed herself out of the broken seat, eyes stinging, head pounding, and her wrist possibly fractured. She stumbled toward the open wreckage, gagging on smoke and metal and something worse—something burned.
Chaos was everywhere. Shock rippled through the group as they scrambled, shouting for each other amid the wreckage. Lena had fallen out the door, dazed on the ground. Laura Lee rushed to her side, helping her up and dragging them both away from the burning debris.
Misty spun around, panic gripping her. Coach Scott—where was he?
She found him pinned under part of the plane, his leg crushed.
"Coach Scott!" she called, waving the others over.
They ran to him, his face pale but grateful. “Hey, girls… is it… can you move it?”
They immediately sprang into action. Lena gritted her teeth, pain flaring in her wrist as they lifted the jagged metal. Her vision blurred, but she didn’t scream. Beneath the wreckage, Coach Scott’s leg was mangled—completely crushed. The sight made her stomach turn.
She crumpled beside Tai, crying, trying to help wake him.
“What the fuck?!” Lena sobbed, burying her face in Lottie’s shoulder to block out the horror.
Misty returned with an axe in her hands, an unsettling glint in her eye. Lottie yanked Lena back just in time as Misty raised the blade—and brought it down.
Everything went still.
After the shock began to settle, the survivors focused on helping each other with whatever supplies they’d salvaged. Lena found a pink shirt in one of the bags, tore it into strips, and walked over to Travis.
“Give me your arm.”
Travis scowled. “Seriously?”
“Unless you’d rather bleed out and die.”
He rolled his eyes but held his arm out. Lena quickly tied the fabric around his wound.
“Ah—watch it,” he snapped.
“Then hold still,” she replied, frustrated.
Before she could adjust it, Misty pushed her aside. “It’s too loose.” She yanked the fabric tighter. Travis cursed loudly.
Still bleeding and exhausted, he slumped down against a tree. Lena sat beside him with a groan, resting her head back, expecting him to tell her to ‘get the fuck away.’ But he didn’t.
They sat in silence, everything slowly sinking in.
Then Nat approached. “Travis, hey… your brother’s trying to get back on the plane. I think he’s looking for your dad.”
Travis didn’t respond right away. When he did, his voice was heavy. “The door ripped open when we were going down. He was trying to help one of you idiots put on an oxygen mask, and fell out.”
Lena went cold.
She was the one. She was the one Coach Martinez had been helping with the mask. She was the reason he fell out.
Natalie tried to reason with Travis, encouraging him to check on Javi.
“Maybe you should mind your own fucking business,” he snapped.
“Oh-“ Lena flinched as she spoke out loud. That was harsher than she expected. Travis stormed off before anyone could respond.
A scream pierced the air.
“Laura Lee?” Lena shouted, bolting toward the sound. Others followed, hearts pounding.
“Dad!” Javi cried, his voice cracking.
Their eyes followed his line of sight. Up in a jagged tree, a tree spike through his chest, was Coach Martinez.
Panic broke out again.
Jackie stared up, then tilted her head. “Okay. Who’s got the best arm?”
Mari raised her hand. “I do, Jackie.”
“We could try and throw things at him and see if he moves.”
“He fell out of a fucking plane, Jackie,” Lena snapped.
Van spoke bitterly, “You’re really on fire today, Jackie. Oh wait—that was supposed to be me, huh?”
“Guys, stop it,” Shauna cut in. “We need a plan here.”
Laura Lee stepped forward. “We could lower him with ropes…vines? I don’t know.”
Natalie rolled her eyes. “For fuck’s sake, Laura Lee. We’re not gonna Tarzan him out of a tree.”
Before anyone could say more, Travis burst through them, breath catching.
“Dad?” he whispered, eyes wide.
Then he ran.
“Travis!” Lena called after him.
Some reached to stop him, but he was already climbing the tree.
Lena caught Javi by the shoulders as he tried to follow. “No. Come here. Stay here. Stay with me.”
Misty was already working, gathering jackets, fabric, scraps of the plane to make a makeshift tarp. “In case they fall,” she murmured. “Just in case.”
Up in the tree, Travis reached his father. The branch groaned beneath his weight.
“Dad…” His voice cracked.
No response.
Then a snap.
The branch gave way, Travis barely making it back over. Coach Martinez’s body fell, crashing through the branches before slamming into the forest floor.
Lena turned Javi’s face into her shoulder before he could see as the group sobbed.
This was her fault. She had killed Coach Martinez.
The sun hung low over the soccer field, casting long golden shadows that cut across the grass like blades. The scoreboard glared 3–3 in bold digits, and the air thrummed with noise—squealing whistles, clapping hands, the distant scream of someone’s parent. But Lena Mona didn’t hear any of it.
She was in motion.
Sweat trickled down her spine as she tore across the midfield, lungs burning, cleats biting the turf. Shauna had the ball. Then Taissa. Then Shauna again. It didn’t matter—Lena could see the play before it unfolded, could feel it like muscle memory.
This was where she belonged. On this field. In this moment.
Lena belonged on that soccer field. It was home. Her teammates were her family. And she refused to ever let her family down.
The ball lifted off Shauna’s foot, arcing toward the box. It wasn’t perfect—too high, a little wide. But Jackie was already there, charging in full-speed, arms pumping. Lena slowed for just a heartbeat, watching.
The ball smacked Jackie in the face and ricocheted off her head straight into the net.
For one glorious, stunned second, silence.
Then the field exploded.
Girls screamed. The crowd roared. The announcer’s voice crackled over the speakers, barely audible over the chaos.
The team swarmed Jackie near the goal, piling onto her like a human avalanche—laughing, gasping, squealing. Taissa leapt onto her back. Shauna tackled her in a hug. Even some were crying.
Lena slowed her steps again, smiling, chest heaving. She felt that giddy wash of adrenaline surge through her bloodstream—not just because they’d won, but because they’d done it together.
She jogged over to join the huddle. Someone grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her in.
They gathered at midfield, arms slung around each other, a writhing circle of sweat and celebration. Grass-stained knees. Bruised shins. Bright eyes.
Then, as if summoned by instinct, the chant began.
One voice at first—then two. Then ten.
“BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!”
Lena chanted with them, voice hoarse, fists clenched. For one perfect second, they were unstoppable. Unbreakable.
Family.
And nothing could tear them apart.
Not yet.
a/n: i didn’t proof read this yet, so if there’s any mistakes or it’s a chop, let’s just ignore that
