(Chewing on the bars of my enclosure) I just really like the Yellowjackets and the ships and the thought of them doing things and going places and stuff
like nothing could touch us - lottie matthews x reader
summary: you were always the responsible one — the perfect student, the reliable teammate, the girl who never partied. But tonight, everything changes. The Yellowjackets won Nationals, the drinks are flowing, and the girls seem hell-bent on making sure you finally loosen up. Between chaotic beer pong rounds, stolen glances, and one kiss you definitely didn’t see coming, you start to wonder if maybe... nothing could ever touch you. Not tonight.
warnings: alcohol consumption, drug use (weed), explicit language, implied internalized homophobia, emotional tension, sapphic tension, brief heated arguments, mild angst, teenage recklessness, canon divergence. pairings include: lottie matthews x reader, jackie taylor x reader (brief), heavy tension with shauna shipman.| words: 5.205k
main masterlist | yellowjackets masterlist
-x-
The bass is the first thing you feel. It rattles through the walls of the house like a pulse — steady, unrelenting — matching the wild heartbeat pounding inside your chest. You grip the strap of your bag like it might anchor you to the earth, but even that feels flimsy compared to the chaos unfolding behind that front door.
You're not sure what you expected. Maybe something tamer. A bonfire, soda, some congratulatory hugs. But this... this is something else entirely.
Laughter spills from the open windows. Shouts. The muffled thud of feet stomping on hardwood floors. Somewhere, someone screams — not in fear, but in that reckless, half-drunk kind of joy that only high schoolers can muster when the world feels small enough to conquer.
You swallow. Hard.
“Look who actually showed up.”
The voice cuts through the noise like a blade — sharp, teasing, familiar. You don’t have to turn around to recognize it. Van.
And of course, where there’s Van, there’s Taissa, leaning against the porch railing, arms crossed, grinning like she knows exactly how out of place you feel.
“Didn’t think you had it in you, champ.” Van’s already stepping closer, draping an arm over your shoulders before you can protest. She reeks of beer and victory. “Ladies,” she calls over her shoulder, “the lamb has arrived.”
From inside, a chorus of cheers erupts.
Your stomach twists. Half embarrassment. Half... something else.
“You don’t have to look so scared,” Taissa smirks, unfolding her arms. “It’s just a party. We won nationals, remember? You’re legally required to have fun tonight.”
“That’s not—” You start, but Van’s already steering you toward the door.
“You know the rules,” she grins. “First party, first drink. No arguments.”
The warmth of the house hits you like a wave. It smells like sweat, cheap perfume, spilled beer, and something sweet — maybe weed. Bodies press together, swaying, laughing, dancing. Neon lights flicker over familiar faces painted unfamiliar in shades of blue, pink, and electric green.
Someone hands you a red plastic cup before you can even think to decline it.
“Here,” Lottie’s voice — soft but insistent — finds you through the noise. She’s close enough that her breath tickles your ear. Her eyes sparkle, lips curved in a mischievous smile that’s nothing like how she looks on the field. “Relax. You earned this.”
You stare at the cup. Your heart is a wild animal.
This is it. Your first party. Your first step into the version of yourself that everyone seems so determined to pull out.
You’re not sure whether to run... or to let it happen.
Van slams the ping pong ball onto the table, sending it bouncing once, twice—straight into the cup at the far corner.
“Boom!” she shouts, throwing her arms up like she just scored the winning goal. “Drink, rookie!”
Taissa laughs, nudging the cup toward you. “C’mon, rules are rules.”
You hesitate — but only for a second now. The burn of cheap beer is starting to feel... less like a threat and more like static buzzing beneath your skin. Warm. Numb. Loud.
“You’re a natural,” Van grins, leaning into your side. “Told you she was secretly a menace.”
Another round. Another shot. Your hands are lighter. Your laugh, freer. The constant pressure of being the good one starts to melt, drop by drop, cup by cup.
Somewhere between missing a shot and almost knocking over the table, Van tugs at Taissa’s sleeve with a smirk that leaves little to the imagination.
“Back in a sec,” Van says, not even bothering to whisper. “Don’t miss us too much.”
Taissa rolls her eyes but follows, fingers laced with Van’s as they disappear down the hallway — giggling, colliding into walls like they don’t care who hears.
You’re mid-sip when someone slides into the spot beside you.
“Look at you,” Lottie hums, head tilted, eyes bright with mischief. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
You blink, grinning despite yourself. “Neither did I.”
She leans in like she’s about to tell you a secret. “Y’know... I did corrupt Laura Lee in our freshman year.” A playful grin curves her lips. “Looks like it’s your turn.”
Your laugh bubbles out — tipsy, breathless — and maybe it’s the beer, or maybe it’s the weight of Lottie’s gaze that lingers just a second too long, but there’s something electric in the air now.
Before you can answer, a cup crashes onto the table.
“Move,” Shauna snaps, voice rough, words slurred. She’s flushed, eyes glassy, jaw clenched like she’s seconds away from throwing hands at the next person who looks at her wrong. “I’m in.”
Lottie arches a brow. “Oookay. Welcome to the game?”
You glance at Shauna — tense, unpredictable — and then at Lottie, whose expression shifts, reading the room like it’s a chessboard.
Shauna barely acknowledges you, grabbing the ball with more force than necessary. Her hands tremble — not from nerves, but from something simmering beneath the surface. Rage. Guilt. Maybe both.
Across the room, Jackie laughs — high-pitched, sharp — spinning in the crowd, drink in hand, pretending the tension doesn’t exist. Or maybe fueling it. Her eyes dart toward the table. Toward Shauna.
And then, like clockwork, she saunters over.
“Hey,” Jackie chirps, fake-sweet, not even sparing Shauna a glance. Her hand finds yours without warning, fingers curling around your wrist. “You. Come dance with me.”
It’s not a request.
You stumble after her — half dragged, half following willingly — as Lottie chuckles under her breath, watching like the whole thing is some cosmic joke unfolding exactly as it should.
Shauna mutters something under her breath — sharp, bitter — but you’re already swallowed by the crowd, by the heat, by Jackie’s hand tight around yours as neon lights flicker over her perfect, furious smile.
You’re not sure if you’ve been saved... or if you’ve just landed in the middle of something even messier.
The bass shifts — deeper now, heavier — as Jackie pulls you into the throng of bodies. The air is thick with sweat and perfume, with the static hum of too many voices, too much heat, too much everything.
Her fingers are still around your wrist, but softer now. Familiar. Comfortable. The kind of touch that says, You’re mine, just for now.
“God,” Jackie laughs, tossing her hair over one shoulder, “you really have no idea how much I needed this.”
You spin with her, letting the rhythm take over, not because you're particularly good at this, but because Jackie dances like gravity bends for her — wild and effortless, the kind of girl who commands attention just by existing.
You’ve always known you were different. Where she’s all polished chaos, you’re structure and discipline. Where she dives headfirst, you calculate. And yet… you’ve always liked her. Not in the messy, suffocating way Shauna does — no. Yours is something steadier. A quiet kind of affection. An understanding that neither of you ever really bothers to name.
Her hands find your waist, pulling you closer than necessary. Her smile is sharp, playful, but her eyes — her eyes are somewhere else entirely. Across the room.
You don’t have to look to know who she’s watching.
Shauna.
Of course.
Jackie laughs again — breathless, almost manic — swaying her hips like it’s about the song, but you can feel the tension radiating off her in waves.
“You know,” you lean in, raising a brow, “if you’re trying to make someone jealous… you should probably commit.”
That earns you a sharp look. Amusement. Challenge. Her hands tighten, fingers pressing into your hips. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” You grin, reckless from the alcohol and the music and the fire simmering beneath your skin. “Go big or go home, Jackie.”
For half a second, she just stares — like you’ve flipped a switch she didn’t know existed.
And then —
Her fingers slide up, cupping your jaw, and before you can process what’s happening — before you can breathe — Jackie kisses you.
Hard.
Not soft. Not testing. Not pretending.
Her mouth crashes into yours with the kind of desperation that has nothing to do with you — and everything to do with the girl burning holes into her back from across the room.
But that doesn’t mean it’s not real.
Her hands are in your hair. Yours — without thinking — grip her waist. There’s a second, maybe two, where the whole party dissolves. The lights, the noise, the tension. It’s just her — familiar and foreign all at once.
When she pulls back, her lips are flushed, her eyes wild. She laughs — breathless, biting. “There. You happy?”
You blink. Then grin. “Oh, I’m not the one you should be asking.”
Jackie tilts her head, about to retort — but her gaze flicks past you, and something sharp flashes in her eyes.
You don’t need to turn to know Shauna’s watching.
And suddenly, you realize you’ve just lit a match.
Thrown it straight into a powder keg.
And now… it’s about to blow.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Shauna’s voice cuts through the music like a blade — sharp, ragged, dripping venom.
Before you can even process what’s happening, she’s there, shoving her way through the crowd, eyes burning, fists clenched like she’s seconds away deconstructing the universe with her bare hands.
Jackie stiffens, but doesn’t move. Not yet. Her spine locks straight, chin tilted up, like she’s ready for the hit before it lands.
“Oh, what’s this?” Shauna sneers, arms flinging out dramatically. “Little Miss Perfect playing gay now? Is this—” she waves between you and Jackie, “—just your new performance, huh? Gotta make sure everyone’s still looking at you.”
The crowd starts to hush. Not fully — not yet — but the shift is palpable. People elbowing each other, leaning in. Watching.
Jackie’s smile falters, flickering like a candle in the wind. “Screw you, Shauna.”
“No, screw you,” Shauna snaps, stepping closer, her finger jabbing toward Jackie’s chest but stopping just short. “You’re not fooling anyone. You don’t care about her. You don’t care about anyone. You just can’t stand not being the center of the goddamn universe for five minutes.”
Jackie’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
And then — Shauna scoffs, bitter, broken. “You’re not even gay, Jackie.”
Silence.
Heavy. Brutal. Total.
It sucks the oxygen straight out of the room.
Jackie’s eyes widen — just for a second — then drop. Her hands tremble, trying to curl into fists, trying not to — trying something. Her lips press together so tight they almost disappear, but the shimmer in her eyes betrays her.
“Oh my God,” she chokes — more to herself than anyone — before spinning on her heel.
She pushes through the crowd, head ducked, shoulders tight, one hand scrubbing at her face like she can physically erase the way everyone is looking at her right now.
The crowd scatters, murmuring, unsure whether they’ve just witnessed a tragedy, a breakup, or a murder in slow motion.
“Okay, okay, that’s enough!” Van’s voice booms from across the room as she and Taissa shove their way back in, dragging the rest of the team with them. “Everyone chill the hell out!”
Natalie appears, grabbing someone’s speaker, cranking the music lower. “Party’s over, unless you want someone calling the cops.”
Lottie’s hands are up, her tone weirdly calm for the chaos. “Let’s just... let’s breathe, yeah? Breathe.”
People slowly retreat, pretending to busy themselves with drinks, conversations, anything but the tension lingering like smoke in the air.
You exhale — slow, controlled. You turn to Shauna.
She’s still seething, arms crossed, jaw clenched, like every muscle in her body is begging for an excuse to throw another punch — verbal or not.
You keep your voice steady. Cool. “You’re going after her.”
Shauna scoffs. “The hell I am.”
“Yeah,” you nod, stepping closer, not blinking. “You are. Because if you don’t, I will. And you know damn well... I’m not the one she needs right now.”
Her eyes flash. “Don’t—” Her voice breaks. Just a little. “Don’t tell me what to—”
“Shauna.” Your tone cuts, quiet but lethal. “Last chance.”
She stands there — vibrating with rage, shame, regret, all of it knotted together in that impossible mess that is her and Jackie.
Then — with a sharp, frustrated groan — Shauna shoves past you. “Goddammit.”
You watch her storm after Jackie, her footsteps loud against the hardwood, like she hates every step it takes to get to her.
And you?
You turn the other way.
Because sometimes the best thing you can do... is not be caught between fire and gasoline.
“Hey.”
You barely register the voice before a hand wraps gently around your wrist, tugging you toward the side hallway — away from the crowd, the leftover tension, the wreckage of the fight.
It’s Natalie.
“C’mon,” she tilts her head, smirking. “You look like you could use... literally anything else right now.”
You follow — maybe because you don’t want to go back to the party, maybe because you don’t know where else to go.
A narrow stairwell, a rickety door that groans against its hinges — and then the night spills open around you.
The rooftop.
Wide. Quiet. A little bit magic.
From here, the party looks smaller. People are filtering out, climbing into cars, stumbling down sidewalks, fading back into their normal, boring, post-championship lives.
Natalie flops down onto the ledge like she owns the place, legs stretched out, boots scuffed, her leather jacket pulled tight against the breeze. “Not bad, huh?”
You sit beside her, hugging your knees. “Honestly... kinda perfect.”
She grins, reaching into her jacket. “Yeah, well. It’s about to get better.”
A joint appears between her fingers, expertly rolled. She flicks a lighter. Flame catches. She inhales, holds, then exhales slow — a cloud of smoke curling into the night.
Natalie offers it to you with a raised brow. “First time?”
You hesitate. Then laugh — half-nervous, half-resigned. “Obviously.”
“Relax. It won’t kill you.” She shifts closer, holding it out. “Deep breath in. Hold it. Then out.”
You take it. Fingers awkward. Lips uncertain.
Inhale.
It burns — rough and foreign — but not as bad as you expected.
You cough anyway. Hard. Natalie laughs, banging a hand against your back. “Oh yeah. There it is.”
You cough through a grin. “You’re the worst.”
“Damn right.” She leans back, arms braced behind her, gazing up at the stars like none of this — the chaos, the drama, the world — really matters. “Not bad for your first party, huh?”
You shake your head, giggling. “Not bad at all.”
A comfortable silence settles.
Down below, the music is dying. The house is half-empty now. Just stragglers. Voices softer.
Natalie breaks it first. “You think about what’s next?”
“Hm?”
“College. Life. After all this.” She gestures vaguely — at the town, the rooftop, the weird little bubble of high school you’ve all been trapped in.
“Yeah...” You hug your knees tighter. “It’s weird. I spent so long trying to be... good. Perfect. Soccer, grades, all of it. And now it’s like... what happens if that’s not enough out there?”
Natalie hums. Passes the joint back. “Yeah, well. Apparently... we’re getting full-ride offers. Athletic scholarships. All of us.”
Your head jerks toward her. “Seriously?”
“Dead serious.” Her grin turns crooked, proud. “Coach’s been hinting at it. We won nationals. People notice that shit. It’s... kinda fuckin’ awesome, actually.”
“Fucking awesome,” you echo, laughing as the words taste weird and reckless in your mouth.
Natalie nudges your shoulder with hers. “See? You’re learning.”
You tip your head back, looking at the stars. The high starts to settle — warm, floaty, like your bones have turned into something softer, lighter.
For a moment, nothing hurts. Nothing’s complicated. Not Jackie. Not Shauna. Not growing up.
Just you. Natalie. The rooftop. The quiet.
“You think we’ll be okay?” you ask, voice small but honest.
Natalie doesn’t answer right away. She takes one more drag, then flicks the ash into the night.
“Yeah,” she says finally. “I think we will. One way or another.”
And for the first time in a long, long while — you believe it
“Do you think…” You trail off, lazily passing the joint back to Natalie. “Are we all... really gonna go our separate ways?”
Natalie leans her head back, blowing smoke toward the sky. “Yeah. Looks like it.”
“That’s insane.” You blink, processing it. “Like... even Shauna and Jackie?”
Natalie snorts. “Especially Shauna and Jackie. Can you believe that shit?”
You glance down over the edge of the roof, legs dangling. The scene below is quieter now. Shauna and Jackie stand near the curb, talking. Not fighting. Not yelling. Just... talking. The tension between them’s still thick, but it’s the kind that holds things together instead of ripping them apart.
“I thought they’d never... y’know. Be apart. Like... physically impossible. Like magnets or something.”
Natalie hums, tapping ash off the joint. “Yeah. But... I dunno. Maybe it’s for the best. Different states, different colleges... maybe they’ll survive each other that way.”
You follow her gaze as it shifts to the yard. Mari and the other girls are laughing, posing for selfies, making dumb faces, clinking red cups together. There’s a sense of something final in it. A last hurrah before the world starts expecting more from them than goals and wins.
Then — Misty.
Hovering near the edges. Shuffling from group to group. Smiling too wide, laughing half a second too late. Trying. Failing. Trying again.
Your chest pinches, soft and sympathetic.
Without thinking, you press two fingers to your lips and let out a sharp, loud whistle. Heads turn — including Misty’s. She looks up, startled.
“Hey!” You wave her over. “Up here!”
Misty blinks. Points at herself. “Me?”
“Yeah, you! Come on!”
She practically scurries toward the back door, disappearing inside with the enthusiasm of someone who just won the lottery.
Natalie groans beside you, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Jesus. You had to do that?”
You nudge her, grinning. “Don’t pretend you don’t like her. You two are practically besties... you know... after the plane crash that never happened.”
Natalie stares at you, deadpan, then laughs — an actual laugh, bright and sharp. “Shut the fuck up.”
Footsteps echo up the stairwell. A moment later, the door bursts open, and Misty pops her head out, beaming. “Oh my God, I’ve never been on the roof before! This is so cool!”
She scrambles over, sitting way too close, cross-legged, hands folded eagerly in her lap. “Hi! Hi, guys!”
Natalie wordlessly passes her the joint. Misty stares at it like she’s just been handed an ancient relic. “Oh... oh, wow. Okay. Okay. Um...”
She takes a delicate inhale — more like a sip of smoke than a drag — and immediately starts coughing, red-faced, waving her hands. “Oh—God— oh my God—”
You and Natalie both double over laughing.
“Yup.” Natalie smirks, shaking her head. “Natural-born stoner, that one.”
Misty gasps, recovering, eyes watering but bright. “This is the best night ever.”
And somehow... looking out over the fading party, with Natalie’s lazy smirk on one side and Misty’s chaotic grin on the other... you almost believe it.
You’re not sure how long you stay up there — time gets slippery when you’re a little high, a little drunk, and a little too aware that nights like this don’t happen often.
The three of you just... talk. And laugh. Dumb stories from practice, inside jokes from bus rides, weird moments from tournaments that seemed like the end of the world back then and now feel like nothing but warm memories.
Eventually, the backyard empties. No more strangers. No more random classmates. Only Yellowjackets. The real ones.
It’s fitting that the last night of high school belongs to the team.
You lean back on your hands, grinning at something Misty says — some ridiculous story about the time she accidentally locked herself inside the equipment shed and had to Morse-code bang on the door for an hour before Coach noticed. Natalie rolls her eyes but smiles anyway, nudging her boot against Misty’s shin in that way that’s almost playful. Almost tender.
And that’s when it clicks.
The way Natalie’s watching her — like she’s pretending not to watch. The way Misty laughs a little too hard, a little too eager. The space between them... barely a breath.
Huh.
“Uh...” You push up suddenly, brushing your palms on your jeans. “I... I gotta pee.”
“Classy,” Natalie snorts.
“Yeah, yeah,” you laugh, waving her off as you head back toward the stairwell. “Try not to traumatize each other while I’m gone.”
Downstairs, the house is quiet now — or, quiet in that way that big, expensive houses always are. The kind of silence that echoes.
The bathroom takes longer to find than it should — stupid mansion. But eventually, success. Mission accomplished.
Except... when you step back into the hallway... nothing looks familiar.
You turn left. Then right. Then — another left? Or maybe that was the same hallway?
And that’s when you push open the wrong door.
Lottie’s room.
The first thing you notice is that it’s... warm. Not literally — the AC hums somewhere in the walls — but in the way it feels. Soft. Lived-in. Comfortably chaotic in a way you didn’t expect.
There’s a wall of Polaroids — crooked lines of tiny, frozen moments. The team at practice. Jackie mid-cartwheel. Shauna flipping someone off. Natalie holding a trophy over her head, grinning like the world belongs to her. Misty and Van doing some dumb cheer pose.
A bulletin board cluttered with ticket stubs, flower petals, scraps of fabric, ribbons from tournaments. Little pieces of memory, pinned in place like she’s afraid of forgetting anything.
Her bookshelf is lined with worn paperbacks. Some poetry. Some philosophy. Some weird esoteric stuff you don’t even recognize. Crystals sit in mismatched bowls. A tarot deck half-tucked under a notebook. Candles. Little glass jars filled with — what, herbs? Stones? Whatever magic Lottie believes in.
And in the corner — the unmistakable sight of a folded Yellowjackets jersey, perfectly stacked, number 10 facing out. Yours.
You smile. Something warm pulls at your chest — not quite nostalgia, not quite affection. Something else. Something softer.
It’s sweet. It’s... Lottie. All of it. The whole room feels like her. Like a secret only a few people ever get to see.
You trail your fingers lightly over the edge of her desk, glancing at the framed photo there — all of you together, arms slung over shoulders, laughing, sweaty, stupidly proud after a win.
Yeah. This... this might be the end of something. But it was something good.
“Oh.”
The voice behind you makes you jump — sharp, startled — spinning around like a kid caught stealing cookies.
Lottie stands in the doorway, one hand on the frame, eyebrows raised. Not angry. Not exactly. More... surprised. Amused.
“Didn’t know you were the snooping type,” she says, voice light, teasing. “Kinda creepy, not gonna lie.”
Your face burns instantly. “What— no— I wasn’t— I just—” You stumble over your own words, waving your hands like that might erase the moment. “I got lost! I swear. I was just trying to find the bathroom.”
There’s a beat. And then — a soft laugh, a little awkward, a little shy. “I was kidding. Just... joking.” Her fingers drum nervously against the doorframe before she finally steps inside. “You’re fine.”
Still, there’s this... weird tension. Not bad. Not uncomfortable. But... charged.
For a second, neither of you knows where to stand. Where to look. You glance back toward the wall of Polaroids like it might save you. “Your room’s... nice,” you offer, lame but honest. “It’s... really you.”
Lottie smiles — soft, a little crooked. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Silence creeps back in, thicker this time. Heavy with all the things neither of you has ever said out loud. Things that have always sat quietly between you, in stolen glances, in almosts, in maybe-one-days that never came.
You clear your throat, desperate to fill the space. “Hey... uh... looks like Shauna and Jackie actually managed to... you know. Talk. Like normal humans. Pretty impressive for a final night miracle.”
Lottie hums. But her smile fades a little. Something flickers behind her eyes — hesitation, maybe. Or... nerves.
Her gaze drops, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. “Yeah... um... speaking of... earlier...”
You blink. “Earlier?”
Her eyes lift, meeting yours — uncertain, but steady. “The thing with... Jackie.”
Oh.
Right.
The kiss.
The breath catches somewhere in your chest. “What about it?”
Lottie bites the inside of her cheek — she does that when she’s trying to look casual but isn’t pulling it off. “I just... I mean... What did that... mean?”
The air thins.
It’s not an accusation. Not jealousy, either — not exactly. It’s... softer than that. But cautious. Vulnerable in a way Lottie rarely lets herself be.
And you — for a second — you have no idea what to say.
Your stomach twists. Something cold flickers beneath your ribs.
“Oh.” You blink, forcing a laugh that feels too thin, too sharp around the edges. “I mean... it— it was nothing. You know how... parties are.” You wave a hand, trying for casual, but it shakes. “Drunk girls. Dumb dares. Jackie being... Jackie. Probably just trying to piss off Shauna or— I don’t know. Whatever.”
It’s a lie. It tastes like one. Bitter. Heavy.
Lottie doesn’t buy it. Not for a second.
Her brows knit together, lips pressing into a thin line. “No.” Her voice is soft but certain. “We both know... Jackie’s not pretending. Not about this.”
Your breath catches.
She’s right.
Jackie’s kissed too many girls at too many parties when she thought no one was paying attention. And cried too many times after. Into your shoulder. Into Natalie’s. Into Van’s. Like she’s trying so hard to outrun something that’s always been stitched into her skin.
And none of you ever said anything. None of you ever will. Not until she’s ready.
You swallow hard, shoulders stiffening, defensive. “So... what? Is that a problem for you?” The words come sharper than you mean. Harsher. “Us being... girls? Was that the point of the question? Jesus, Lottie, it’s the nineties. I know how people are.”
Lottie’s eyes widen — startled, almost hurt. “No!” she blurts, stepping closer. Hands half-raised like she could physically catch the words before they hit. “No, it’s— it’s not— I don’t—” She stumbles, breath hitching, fingers fisting at her sides.
Then, softer, shakier: “It’s not about that.” Her gaze drops, lashes fluttering against her cheeks. “I don’t care if Jackie likes girls. That’s not... that’s not what this is.”
You frown. “Then what—”
She looks up. And it’s the most open, the most bare you’ve ever seen her. Voice trembling but steady enough to shatter you.
“I just...” Her throat bobs. “I just care if she likes you.”
Silence.
Loud. Deafening. Crushing.
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
Because oh. Oh.
It was never about Jackie. Not really.
It was always about you.
And her.
And everything you’ve both been too afraid to say.
You blink. Once. Twice. Your brain tries to catch up, to process the fact that Lottie Matthews — Lottie Matthews — just admitted that this... whatever this is between you... matters.
A laugh bubbles out of your chest — breathless, disbelieving, a little stupid. You wave a hand like you can somehow play it cool, but you’re grinning. Wide. Hopelessly wide. “Wow. Okay. Um... yeah. Yeah, same. I...” You shake your head, laughing softly. “God, I feel like an idiot saying this, but... yeah. I care. About you. A lot.”
You glance down, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. “I mean... sure, I care about Jackie. Of course I do. But that’s... different. It’s always been different.” Your gaze lifts, searching hers. “Jackie and Shauna... it’s like... like gravity. They fight it, but no one else even stands a chance. No one ever did.”
Lottie’s lips part — eyes soft, shining, like she wasn’t expecting to hear that. Like it hits her somewhere deep. Somewhere she’s been trying not to look.
And then — it’s like the air itself shifts. The tension coils, thick and electric, pulling tighter and tighter between you.
Neither of you moves. Not for a heartbeat. Not for two.
Until you do.
You step in. Closing the space.
And Lottie — startled — jolts back a half step, hitting the wall behind her with a soft thud. But she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop you. If anything, the way her hands twitch at her sides says she’s waiting. Hoping. Begging.
Your fingers brush her wrist first — hesitant, testing — then trail up, feather-light, until they rest against the curve of her neck. Her pulse races beneath your touch, wild and frantic, matching your own.
Your nose brushes hers. A shared breath. A tremor of anticipation.
“This...” you whisper, lips barely grazing hers, “...feels like the best way to end the party.”
Lottie laughs — soft, nervous, dizzy. Her hands slide up — trembling — fingers curling at the back of your neck like she’s terrified you’ll change your mind. “Yeah,” she breathes, voice cracking around the edges. “Kissing the girl I’ve been in love with for... God, forever... definitely beats beer pong.”
The smile is still tugging at both your lips when you finally — finally — close the distance.
It’s not rushed. Not rough. It’s a slow, aching, devastating kind of soft. A kiss that tastes like every unsaid thing. Every secret look. Every almost. Every what if.
Her fingers tighten, pulling you closer. Like you could possibly get close enough.
Like maybe... you were always supposed to be here.
The kiss burns. Sweet and devastating, like fireworks under your skin. Her hands tangle in your hair, your fingers press desperately into her waist, and for one beautiful, impossible moment… nothing else exists.
Nothing but her. Her laughter. Her breath hitching against your lips. Her whisper: “I’ve wanted this for so long.”
So long.
But the fireworks... shift. Morph. Crackle into something else.
A sharp snap. A distant, guttural scream.
Then—cold. Bone-deep, suffocating cold.
Your eyes fly open.
Darkness. Trees. Snow. The suffocating press of the wilderness. No music. No laughter. No Lottie. No Jackie. No anyone.
Just you. Alone.
Your breath comes in frantic gasps — fogging the frigid air. Your pulse is a brutal drumbeat against your ribs, and for a split second, you don’t know where you are. You don’t want to know.
But reality doesn’t wait for permission.
It comes back like a fist to the chest.
The plane. The crash. The blood. The hunger. The endless, gnawing hunger.
And Jackie — oh, God. Jackie. Her face is still fresh in your mind — smiling, flushed, alive. But here... here she’s a frozen corpse, half-shrouded in snow. Half-eaten.
Your stomach twists — empty, furious. A predator screaming for meat you refuse to give it.
You won’t.
You won’t eat her. Not her. Not anyone.
Even if it means wasting away.
Even if it means dying.
Tears sting hot against your freezing skin. You wipe them away with shaking hands, forcing yourself upright. Your limbs ache. Your bones ache. Your soul aches.
The dream lingers. A cruel, perfect mirage of everything you’ve lost. Everything that was supposed to be yours. A life that never got to happen.
Lottie. Jackie. Natalie. Van. Taissa. Shauna. All of them. Laughing. Loving. Fighting. Living.
But that was then.
And this... this is now.
It’s time to wake up.
It’s time to let go.
Another step. Another day. Another mile between you... and what used to be the Yellowjackets.
looking for another fic this one was about Natasha romanoff through different time periods with different names there was a medieval ish one and actual natasha was there and the reader was immortal i think
dose anyone know this fic where r is natasha and Yelenas sister and in one of the oneshots melina dosn’t trust r and it all suspicious i think r has a metal arm like Bucky
just finished season 3 of Alex rider i’m so sad its fully over but it was actually a good ending i feel like my questions were answered and even though it isn’t getting a new season i do think they could if they wanted
Please reblog if you enjoy Marvel and you're a woman
I have been having an argument with a friend and he says that Marvel is for guys, please help me prove to him that there are lots of women who like Marvel!
*killing everybody saying girls like marvel because only the actors are extremely hot, have you seen the female cast of the MCU dude? you’d be fangirling too, and #SorryNotSorry, but Netflix’s series are amazing and enjoyable for everyone*
*swings in* I am female and I am with Marvel till the end of the line. (I don’t think I even know a male in real life who knows more about the MCU than I do.)
