a/n: a little filler while i get this other shit done :) seems like manon is the most emotional out of the three that thinks yn betrayed them.. why's that? 👀
✱ model!manon x blk!masc!photog/cr.director!reader
ⓘ reader being a dick lowkey , rivalry in full form , tension , a little backstory , meet cutes or uglies idk , i’ll tag properly later lmno
⋆ play the lure before track three
Twenty is when Manon felt it slip.
Only four years in the industry, and she was already learning how fast the world could forget you. How simple it was for a name to go without thought.
The room was bright and oddly sterile. And Manon stood awkwardly in the middle of it all—a small studio, ring lights beaming with the hum of the electricity. She was styled for a simple Margiela editorial. A heavy blazer engulfed her frame, dragging across the studio’s floor with every movement she made. Underneath, the director opted for a trending white button-up, smothered in lipstick prints at the collar, and cropped to expose the model's toned midriff.
She had done this countless times before. The careful tilt of her chin. The fragile way her fingertips caressed her own torso. It was muscle memory. Instinct. Predictability.
The photographer looked up from his camera with every wince the director let out. “Is there something wrong?” He mumbled.
The director didn't answer at first. Only running a hand down his face like he was trying to wake himself up. He let out a sigh. That long, theatrical exhale that made every person tense. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning Manon, his face shifting between simmering irritation and boredom.
Manon stayed still, bottom lip tucked between her teeth. Her hands fell down to her sides, terrified to move. If she had done this countless times, why was it so difficult now? Her body trembled, and her eyes welled up with tears out of frustration.
She’d been in the studio for hours.
Sweat beading under the harsh ring lights, the smell of hairspray and fabric starch clinging to her. Every shutter of the camera felt like a countdown.
She blinked rapidly, holding the tears back exactly where they belonged. Behind her bold mascara, not streaking through it. Crying wasn't professional. Crying is what you'd do if you were ready to be labeled exhausting.
“I can do it differently,” she nodded, her voice quieter than she meant to be. “I can give you something else—more…m-more emotion—”
The director shut her up with a single tired wave of his hand. “Non, non…it’s more than emotion. You could cry right now. Hell, you could throw a tantrum and faint on the floor—” his hands waved dangerously, water splashing around in his bottle, “—and I wouldn't feel a damn thing.”
Manon felt her fist clench. She wasn't angry. She couldn't be angry. People like her didn't get the privilege of anger—not if they wanted to keep their jobs.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, while his hand gripped at the bridge of his nose. His eyes sharpened like they would stab right into Manon’s shivering body. “Because I'm not buying shit you're trying to sell me.”
“I’m…” she swallowed, her thick spit reminding her how dry her throat had gotten, “I’m trying to—”
“Ah!” The director clapped his hands and stood up quickly. The sound of the chair scraping the floor made Manon flinch. “I love that word, trying!”
“Trying is the difference between a person who has it, and a person who had it. A person who has it doesn't have to try. You, I mean..." He gestured by tossing a hand with a scoff. "You're not convincing anyone by trying to play it safe."
Manon’s jaw tensed, her gaze ultimately falling to the pure white floor. God, she felt like barbed wire had begun to constrict around her throat. The silence was unbearable. Workers tried to resume their day as if the outburst had never happened, but their eyes still managed to land on Manon with pity all over them.
Manon wanted to disappear. To fold herself into the pristine white of the studio walls and vanish before anyone could see the humiliation written across her face.
The director muttered something to the photographer in a low, dismissive tone. A tone meant to exclude her but make sure she still heard. “Let’s bring in the other model. I want to see how the light hits on someone else.”
Someone else really meant someone new.
A young assistant appeared from the corner, clutching a clipboard to her chest. “Uh, Manon, you can...step off set for now. They’re…uhm—switching models for lighting tests.”
Lighting tests. Sure.
She nodded automatically, slipping out of the oversized blazer, folding it neatly as though respect could still save her. “Should I…stay for the next set?” she asked, her voice quivering despite her best efforts to sound stable.
The assistant hesitated, glimpsing nervously toward the director before presenting a delicate smile. “We’ll reach out.”
That was it.
“Right, of course.” Manon nodded slowly before gathering her belongings.
Manon walked out of the studio like she was trying to seem like she was never there in the first place. Her heels clicked too loudly against the concrete hallway, every step echoing against the empty walls.
By the time she made it to the parking lot, the late afternoon light was fading, that melancholy shade of gold that always made the city look softer than it really was. She sat in her car for a long time, staring at her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her lipstick had smudged in the corners of her mouth, and mascara had smeared from her mindless wiping of tears that weren't even there.
The sun oozed through the car window, dousing Manon's face in the soft, forgiving apricot rays. She sat in the passenger's seat of Sophia's sleek black escape, sunglasses perched on her nose while a lukewarm latte balanced in one manicured hand. The drive was dead silent beside the faint buzz of some Ariana Grande song on the radio.
"Aren't you excited?" Sophia yipped, breaking the quiet, "This could be the one...the revival since your hiatus, Manz!"
Hiatus. That's a polite way of saying she was forgotten.
Manon kept quiet, adjusting a strand of loose hair from her face. "A revival," she repeated in a monotone voice. "Right..."
They pulled into the secluded lot beside a modern glass building. Sleek and minimal in a way that didn't need to announce its being. Inside, the lobby was lined wall to wall with framed campaigns and long flowing ivy that ran from plants that rested high on the walls. Manon could list every model on that wall, it made her gulp. Do they really trust her to hold up the seasonal campaign?
"Ah! Mes dieux! Mes Amours!" A voice cut through the lobby, bright and theatrical.
"Beau Ivory, the designer," Sophia reminded with a hushed whisper.
A taller man jogged towards the women. Clad in a cream turtleneck, smothered in charm and cologne. He greeted them each with double air kisses on their cheeks before gripping Manon's hands in his.
"Manon Bannerman, darling, I could not believe it when they told me you were free! What a gift, you're a blessing, mon dieu!"
"Thank you, Beau." Manon grinned tightly. "It's great to see you."
"Great no, this is divine! We're in the meeting room, our...creative lead seems to be running late, you know how LA traffic is."
They followed him down a long corridor flooded with racks of fabric and different articles of clothing. The meeting room was enormous. Glass and chrome stretched across every inch, sleek and sterile like a sci-fi club from the 2000s. A long table sat in the middle, cluttered with iced coffees, and half-unwrapped croissants. A large digital board displayed the header GUCCI: Fall/Winter Concept - Creative Direction Preview in a minimalist font.
Interns and assistants occupied seats along the edges, tapping away on their tablets. An untouched iced drink stood abandoned on the table, its condensation pooling on the polished surface. Manon caught sight of a name scribbled on a Post-it beside the drink and felt a flicker of curiosity. Yours.
Beau took his seat at the head, crossing one leg over the other, and folded his hands across his lap. “So! Let’s get started! We’re launching a winter capsule: intimate wear meets outerwear. A little scandal, a little comfort, just the right kind of things to get people talking.”
Manon blinked. “Intimate wear? For Gucci? I thought that was more of a...Victoria's Secret thing?”
Beau laughed, A full, dramatic laugh that made people look up. “Ah, Manon, that’s the point! Gucci is always posh and old boring money, non? We needed something to rebrand. Something to wake people up!"
Sophia laughed politely, but the silence that followed was heavy. They talked around numbers, tone, and visuals. Beau was growing increasingly distracted as the seat next to him stayed empty.
Twenty minutes later, the glass door finally swung open.
“Fuck, sorry. Melrose was fucking loaded,” your voice announced before you appeared, half-pulled together and yet wholly confident. Chrome Hearts sweats that shuffled down to reveal your plaid boxers, an obnoxiously tight white tee that gripped your arms, and worst of all, Gucci shades that remained on even though you were indoors. Daniela, your assistant, followed right behind you, iPad in hand, mumbling her own apologies.
Beau stood and smiled, "Ah, finally!” Beau threw his arms open as if greeting a celebrity rather than a coworker. “Our director arrives!”
You grinned. “Don't tell me you started without me, Mr. Ivory.”
Your gaze landed on Manon. Recognition flickered instantly, that precise, assessing kind of look that made people feel both seen and cornered. “Manon Bannerman?” you said, smile widening as you took off your glasses. “Feels like a dream, I couldn't believe you were actually available. You know, I’m a huge fan.”
Manon blinked. “That’s…flattering.” Her tone made it sound like an accusation.
You slid into the seat beside her, tossing your phone and bag on the table. “No like, seriously. Your Dior campaign in 2019? I still have that on my mood board. I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Neither can I,” she muttered, crossing one leg over the other. Sophia nudged her side with her elbow. Be Nice.
Beau clapped his hands. “Well! Now that our star has arrived, I'll let her take over, yeah?”
You flipped open your tablet, swiping through a series of mood boards. Lush fur coats, thick winter boots, and glimpses of lingerie beneath. Hotel hallways, gold mirrors, cracked-open doors letting light spill through. Every image felt half voyeurism, half opulence.
“It’s about the way someone can feel so confident to the point it turns debauched to others,” you started, pointing at the screen to a shot where a model’s fur coat slips off her shoulder.
Sophia nodded and took notes, but Manon’s lips parted in quiet disbelief, glancing around to see if anyone else was perturbed. “So…we’re catering to voyeristic perverts?”
Your brow arched. “No, but if that's what you believe, Miss Bannerman—”
“I’m just asking,” she said, voice growing louder. “You’re selling lingerie with fur coats and heels. Who’s supposed to relate to that?”
“The people buying it,” you shot back smoothly. “They don't really want to relate to you, they can't. They want to be you, they want to be desired like you.”
Beau raised a hand gently, a careful laugh left his mouth, “Let’s keep the energy—”
“I just think it’s superficial,” Manon continued, ignoring him. “And disrespectful. It turns women into props.”
You leaned forward, your tone already infuriating Manon further. “I’d argue I'm doing the opposite. I'm just showing how desire can make people do anything. Even buy an intimate wear collection in cold weather.”
“Just like those shitty directors who ramble about how the female body is its own art and do nothing but film an hour-long sex scene?” Manon retorted, crossing her arms.
The room went dead silent. She knew she shouldn't have talked back. She knew she shouldn't have been difficult instead of going along with what could possibly get her name back on runways and editorials. But whenever she saw you or even heard your name, she couldn't care less about those unspoken bullshit rules.
Your smile only grew as you gripped onto the edge of the table, eyes snapping to Daniela. “Like I said, whatever you want to believe.”
Manon scoffed and leaned back into her chair, glancing at Sophia in absolute astonishment. Sophia only responds with a shrug. “Whatever.”
You ran a hand down your face, smirk unwavering. “Well if you want to try something new, I think Old Navy is looking for models or—oh! I have a friend who owns this Instagram shop, he'd love to have you!”
The room went silent. Sophia shifted in her seat, looking ready to intervene, but Beau only sighed and pressed his fingers to his temple, muttering curses in French.
Manon tried to defend herself, but no words came out, she thought anything she would say would just end up being retorted quickly. Instead, she straightened in her chair and looked away, the embarrassment seeping through her blood. She wanted to just punch that smile off your dumb face.
You leaned back, casual again. “That's everything so far. I'll send out anything I might've forgotten. As well as the schedule!” You closed the iPad in its case and drummed your fingers against it.
Everyone stood except for Manon. She felt her hands shake and subconsciously fold into fists.
Beau rose first, his energy already turned toward the next meeting. “Brilliant work, everyone,” he declared, tone bright enough to paste over the tension that still crackled in the room.
Sophia gathered her things slowly, glancing between you and Manon like she was trying to gauge who might swing first. “Let’s go, Manz,” she whispered, patting gently at her shoulder.
But Manon didn’t move. Her knuckles were white, pressed against the glass edge of the table, and her eyes were locked on the slick surface where your reflection wavered. Annoyingly unbothered.
Beau leaned down toward you. “Next time, my love,” he murmured in your ear, “no fights, oui?”
You smirked without looking up. “No promises.”
prologue . . . table of contents . . . chapter two
─── 𝓘n a sun-bleached southern town where everyone knows everyone, sophia is the preacher’s golden girl—sweet, proper, and untouched. she sings in the choir, smiles like she means it, and never steps out of line... except when it comes to you. you're the girl their mothers warned them about—leather jackets, cigarettes, and bruises on your knuckles. no one knows that sophia's been slipping out her bedroom window just to feel your hands on her hips and your cigarette smoke on her lips. in a world that worships purity, she’s been craving the ruin of you.
❝𝔦 owe you a black eye and two kisses,
𝔱ell me when you wanna come and get 'em.❞
𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶ♱ ྀིྀ pairing churchgirl! sophia laforteza x troublemaker!femr
genre fluff, mention of homophobia, religious themes
wc 5k
❝𝔦 only want him if he says it first to me,
𝔦 wanna, uh, him in the back of his mom's mercury.❞
“AM I REALLY THAT UNFUCKABLE?”
yves’ comment had you choking on your joint, smoke catching in your throat as you doubled over, half-laughing, half-coughing at the out-of-the-blue statement.
your arm thrown over your mouth in a desperate attempt to muffle both. beside you, she narrowed her eyes, clearly unimpressed.
“it ain’t funny, i’m bein’ serious.”
you snorted in response, still coughing while she slapped your back multiple times out of annoyance and, you suppose, to help you stop coughing. it felt less like aid and more like a payback, each hit a punctuation mark to her wounded pride.
wheezing out a last laugh between coughs, voice hoarse as you gasped. “jesus, yves—i’m gon’ die ‘fore you get your answer.”
she rolls her eyes, completely over your antics as she pinches the joint between her fingers and lifts it up to her lips to take a hit, smoke blanketing the both of you for a brief moment before dissipating, her gaze burning holes in the closed doors of the chapel.
“i just don’t know how keeho does it, man. fuckin’ asshole always barges into my room every few days just to rub it to my face ‘bout how he’s hooked up with another girl from our school.”
you hummed in response, grabbing the joint from her and taking a long hit, glancing at her and blowing it in her face—which earned you a punch in the arm.
“please, it’s like you don’t know how your cousin is. i mean, d’you remember that time he got caught in the middle of doing it with someone in mr. bell’s barn—”
“shut up, y/n. door’s open.”
you huffed at her words, sitting up straighter in the truck bed and eyeing the doors of the church that slowly trickled out with churchgoers, groaning and jumping off the truck to open the door of the driver’s seat, with yves following suit.
“say, is mr. whatchamacallit really down to lend your momma some money? seems out of his capability, y’know, with him bein’ a preacher and all. ain’t seem like he makes much.” she’d commented as you grabbed your cowboy hat and haphazardly put it on.
“it’s mr. laforteza, and he said he’d apparently take some from the church offertory.”
yves’ eyebrows furrowed, adjusting the baseball cap she had swiped from your truck’s glove compartment. “ain’t that a sin? stealin’ from god?”
“ain’t stealin’ if he gon’ bring it back. if my momma ends up payin’ him back, that is.”
you’d merely shrugged, making your way toward the chapel, the sun glaring down at the both of you so harshly that heatwaves shimmered off the pavement like mirages. sweat clung to your back, and each step felt like walking through molasses.
ahead, the chapel stood proud and pristine, untouched by the sweltering heat, where the preacher—mr. laforteza—stood outside, all smiles and handshakes, chatting with the townspeople like he didn’t have a single bead of sweat on him.
like the heat wasn’t killing him as much as it was killing you.
goddamn the southern heat.
and as you neared the chapel steps, the air shifted. not just because of the heat, but from the way the townspeople’s eyes began to trail toward you. conversations quieted, glances sharpened. they all knew your last name.
they all knew the stories. the fights, the screaming matches at 2 a.m., the broken windows, and the trouble that followed your family like a bad smell. you weren’t just a girl—you were that girl.
the girl every mother warned their children about.
their stares weren’t subtle. they never were as you’ve come to know. but you were used to it. you were born to be used to it.
mr. laforteza noticed the tension instantly, his smile faltering just for a breath before he caught your eye. and then, with a gentleness that felt like an unexpected reprieve, he offered you a small smile and nodded.
“come inside, y/n.” he said simply, holding the door open like the judgment behind you didn’t exist.
“i’m here to take what my momma had asked of you, uh… pastor.” you murmured unsurely as you glanced behind you to see if yves had still followed, but the woman had stayed down the steps of the chapel and just shot you a look, crushing the joint under her foot but not without one last drag.
he’d nodded, continuing to usher you in. “yes, yes. i’ve got it ready.”
he led you deeper into the chapel, footsteps echoing softly against the cool wooden floor as the heavy wooden doors shut behind you, muffling the heat and whispers from outside.
the sudden dimness inside made the stained glass glow, casting fractured blues and reds across the pews and altar.
ahead of you, mr. laforteza was already loosening the crisp white collar around his neck—no, not the collar, you realized, but something longer, more ornate. some kind of stole? you weren’t sure what it was called. religion wasn’t exactly a family tradition in your household.
you hadn’t grown up surrounded by gospel hymns or sunday rituals. your home worshipped a different altar. one stacked with overdue bills, liquor bottles, and whatever was left of last week’s paycheck.
the only thing anyone ever knelt for was dropped change or forgiveness after a screaming match, and the closest thing to prayer was someone muttering “please just one fucking lucky break.”
god had no place in your kitchen, no seat at your dinner table.
so all the symbols around you now—candles, crucifixes, golden goblets—felt foreign, maybe even a little intrusive. still, you followed quietly, eyes trailing the length of the chapel while mr. laforteza moved quietly, and you felt incredibly out of place.
“sophia?” he called out gently in the silence of the chapel, grabbing the folded papers scribbled with the day’s gospel and hymns and the like, gathering them in a pile as he exhaled softly, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
he offers you an almost sheepish smile. “sorry, my daughter’s helping me clean up after today’s mass. my wife’s out of town with my boys, so it’s just me and her.”
you wave it off, leaning against the end of a pew with your arms crossed.
“s’all right, pastor,” you say, voice soft and worn with that drawl of yours. “ain’t like i’m in a rush. take your time.”
he nods, appreciative, before disappearing behind the small archway that led toward the back of the chapel.
you take a moment to let your eyes wander—at the candlelight flickering low, the faint scent of incense clinging to the air, the silence that somehow presses against your chest more than the noise outside ever could.
your fingers drum lazily against the polished wood as you exhale, trying not to let the quiet make you feel more unsettled that you already are.
god’s house, they called it—but it didn’t really feel like home. not with all the gold and solemnity, the pews too neat, too empty, too honest.
“didn’t know god needed that much help cleanin’ up,” you mumble under your breath, mostly to yourself, mostly to fill the silence.
and then you hear it. footsteps. lighter this time. smaller. and when you glance up toward the back room, that’s when you see her.
sophia laforteza.
and god help you, she looks like every good decision you’ve never made.
you felt your hands go clammy and your throat go dry at the sight of her stepping through the archway—the kind of dry that made you swallow twice, like that’d somehow fix the way your heart did jumping jacks.
she held a white envelope sealed with red wax in one hand, the other brushing delicately at the hem of her white lace dress like it was second nature. sunlight from the stained glass hit her just right, casting a rosy hue over her cheeks, and for a second, she didn’t look real.
like you needed to touch her to make sure she’s alive.
mr. laforteza trailed just behind her, but your eyes didn’t leave his daughter. not once.
as they made their way toward you, you scrambled to get your act together. cleared your throat, tugged off your hat with a fumbling hand and held it against your chest like it might keep your heart from jumping out.
you even straightened your collar, trying not to look too much like the mess you knew you were. the mess your family made you to be.
you weren’t too sure what she thought of girls like you, with her pretty, neat, white lace dress, a stark contrast to your worn out boots and second-hand shirts from your brothers.
she was the preacher’s daughter, and you were a death row inmate’s daughter.
mr. laforteza shoots you a smile. “y/n, this is my daughter, sophia. sophia, this is y/n tucker, willoughby’s younger sister, if you remember him. i’d assume you both know each other from school?”
your lips tightened into a forced smile. willoughby was the best of you. part of the church choir, charming in a way that made church ladies adore him and teachers call him gifted. always had a bible in one hand and a joke in the other.
he was the only one who stood tall when your father got dragged into court, voice steady while the rest of the family cracked. when the sentence came down—death row, final—willoughby was the one who actually gave a damn about what happened next.
and then he vanished a few months back.
drove off with ethel, the girl he used to call his “saving grace,” and didn’t even leave a note. not even a goodbye.
you’d looked up to him. hell, maybe too much. and now, every time someone mentions his name with that nostalgic fondness, it leaves a bitter taste sitting on your tongue.
you don’t tell mr. laforteza that.
you also don’t tell him you barely go to school anymore.
sophia smiles at you in response, surprisingly enough. even offers her hand out for a handshake, to which you’d unsurely accepted. “hi, you took woodwork with keeho, right? mr. bell’s class?”
she knew you? you cleared your throat again. “uh, yeah, yeah. were you… there when the whole thing with keeho went do—”
her pointed look at you shuts you up, remembering you were in god’s house with a preacher closely watching the both of you.
you let go of her hand, stuffing it back in your pocket and nodding awkwardly. mr. laforteza kindly gestures at sophia to hand you the envelope.
“that’s got all of what your mother could ever need, y/n. please tell her to take care of herself and if possible, to bring it back again so we could be at peace with the lord.” he murmurs as sophia extends the envelope for you to take.
you hum. “‘course, pastor. thank you for your time.” you glanced at sophia. “see you around.”
down the steps and back into the simmering heat of the south, yves follows you like a lost puppy, groaning under the force of the sun while you tugged your cowboy hat back on, kicking some dirt as the pastor closed one of two doors to the entrance.
“so, d’you see sophia? is she as pretty as they say? as religious as they say?” yves’ questions flowed like water into river, continuous even until you reached the inside of your pickup, shoving your hat back in your glove compartment without a care.
“she’s easy on the eyes, that’s for sure. could see why boys at school are so hellbent on getting her hand in marriage.” you’d mumbled nonchalantly like you weren’t about to burst into a ball of nerves upon the sight of her.
“ha, i think i’d shoot my own cousin just to have a chance with her.”
yeah, me too.
—--
she looks like she works with her hands and smells like marlboro reds.
sophia never thought that she’d be sitting inside a short-bed truck under the stars behind the chapel, the scent of tobacco clinging to the air. the pastel blue flannel she wore didn’t belong to her. it hung loose off her shoulders, sleeves rolled sloppily like you’d done it for her in a rush.
the collar was stretched a little, worn soft from use, and smelled faintly like you: a mix of sweat, sun, and marlboro reds.
she was hunched forward, elbow braced on one knee, the other hand trembling slightly as she held the cigarette between her fingers.
she coughed once, then again, harder, the sound ripping from her throat like her body didn’t quite know what to do with itself. foreign.
this was her first time, of course she didn’t know what she was doing. and it’d be embarrassing now to pretend like she did.
you looked just like an expert on the topic.
strings of giggles slipped from your mouth, cracked with amusement as you reached out and rubbed her back with one palm, half-concerned, though mostly entertained.
the cigarette still burned between your own fingers, the filter wet from being passed back and forth between your lips. does this count as an indirect kiss? sophia wonders. oh god, would this be my first kiss then—
“you good there, church girl?” you drawled, grinning.
she nodded, barely, ripped from her thoughts. cheeks pink, hair a little messy, pupils blown wide not from the nicotine but from you. so close, so smug, so goddamn intoxicating.
and god, if she weren’t so mortified, she might’ve smiled too.
she never thought she’d end up here, with you. not just in your truck, but behind the chapel.
behind the actual house of god, hidden from the road by oaks and old fences, where the choir’s voices couldn’t reach and the stars blinked down like they knew a secret. this was sacred ground. and yet, she wasn’t kneeling in prayer. though she might if that meant she could spend more time with you like this.
sophia laforteza, the preacher’s daughter. prim, sweet, composed. the girl with folded hands and spotless shoes, always helping her father set up communion or hand out hymn books. the one with the perfect reputation. the one mothers pointed to and said, “why can’t you be more like her?”
smoking in your passenger seat.
it was everything she wasn’t supposed to be.
yet it thrilled her. she’d never known life outside the church, and god, you. you with your tattered reputation and camo jackets (occasionally) and fucking corner store robbings.
you’d never been indicted, though. the town felt it too much of a bother to keep you locked up in state juvie where you’d most likely influence more teenagers to act out.
enablers? sophia thinks so, but with the way you gazed at her and batted your eyelashes like you weren’t what the mothers think you are, she might as well be an enabler too.
because fuck, she’ll feign sickness to skip church as many times as she could if it meant being with you.
“so,” she utters after a beat as she passes the cigarette back to you, placing it between your lips as you take a deep hit of the tobacco, her eyes flitting down to watch the smoke escape and continue to fog up the car.
“what brings you to the chapel this late at night?”
“what brings you to join me?”
“don’t turn the question back to me.”
you held your hands up playfully, brows raising in surprise at her response, chuckling softly as the stick of tobacco hung loosely around your lips.
“damn, alright. came to church thinkin’ i’d possibly, maybe, pay the dude up there a visit.” you’d shrugged, slightly cracking a window open and letting the the fog spill out in waves upon the notice of sophia starting to cough at the compiled toxic smoke.
“you good there, laforteza?” you mumbled in concern, continuing to crack the window open and grabbing the stick between your lips to transfer over between your fingers, sticking it out the window and skimming the pad of your thumb to shrug off the ashes.
sophia waved a hand in front of her face, still coughing a little, brows pulled together. “i’m fine. nothing i can’t handle.”
the two of you sat there for a moment, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. the hum of crickets filled the air outside, soft and steady. she was unsure what to do next. she’d never found herself in this situation, much less stuck in a car with you of all people.
“so…” you started, lips jutting out slightly as you thought of what to say next. sophia’s eyes flicked down, almost on instinct, watching the movement before she could stop herself. she bit her lip, then blinked rapidly, trying to chase away the sudden thought of what it might feel like to kiss you. she faked another cough, hoping it’d hide the colour creeping into her cheeks.
you eye her. “you ever kissed anyone before, laforteza?”
her head snapped up, eyes wide at the question. you weren’t teasing, not really. just curious, your voice smooth and even, smoke curling lazily from between your fingers as you pulled your arm back in the truck.
“um… why do you ask?” sophia chuckled nervously, voice soft but a little shaky.
her eyes darted everywhere but you. the dashboard, the windshield, the faint glow of the chapel lights in the distance. anywhere to avoid the weight of your gaze. her fingers fidgeted in her lap, brushing over the hem of your flannel still draped across her shoulders.
you tilted your head, the corner of your mouth curling up just slightly as you took another drag and leaned back against the seat. “just curious,” you said, smoke spilling from your lips with the words. “you don’t strike me as the type who’s been kissed.”
she laughed again, too high-pitched, too awkward. “well, i-i have!” it was more of a squeak, really.
“yeah?” you asked, looking over at her with a lazy smile, glossed over eyes twinkling playfully. “by who, your hand?”
sophia’s mouth fell open, an incredulous sound escaping her as she swatted your arm, cheeks blazing pink. “oh my god, shut up!”
your laughter filled the truck, loud and warm, echoing off the metal doors. she tried to glare at you, but the corners of her lips betrayed her, curling into a reluctant smile.
you looked at her for a moment longer, the humour softening in your eyes. “i’m just sayin’, church girl like you? i figured you’d be too busy followin’ rules to break one like that. ‘specially with the dude up there.” you’d pointed up at the roof of the truck.
her smile faltered, replaced by something quieter. she looked down, thumb brushing against the fraying edge of your flannel sleeve.
“yeah, well,” she murmured, almost to herself, “guess i’m starting to learn.”
and the way she said it, barely above a whisper, almost like a confession, made your grin fade into something else entirely. something slower. heavier.
the cigarette burned low between your fingers.
you leaned back a little, studying her face, the way she avoided your eyes but kept tugging at the flannel sleeve like it grounded her. your voice came out low, quieter than before.
“you wanna learn how to?”
her head snapped up, eyes wide. “learn how to what?”
you raised a brow, fighting a smirk. “kiss someone.”
the colour rose instantly in her cheeks, her whole posture stiffening as if she’d just been caught doing something more sinful than being in your truck, covered by your flannel. “i—what?” she stammered, voice cracking slightly. “you’re not serious.”
you shrugged, still calm, still leaning back in that lazy way that made it seem like you had all the time in the world.
“never been more serious.” you took one last drag from the cigarette, flicked it out the window, and turned back to her. “you said you’re learnin’, right? might as well start with somethin’ worth learnin’.”
she laughed nervously again, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “you can’t just—ask that out of nowhere,” she muttered, eyes dropping to her hands.
“sure i can,” you said easily. “you can say no, if you want.”
she went quiet for a beat, chewing on her lip, thinking too hard. the hum of the night filled the space between you again. crickets, wind, the faint creak of the truck. and then, so softly you almost didn’t catch it,
she asked,
“…what if i said yes?”
you smiled, slow and crooked, the kind that made her chest tighten. “then i’d tell you to close your eyes, church girl.”
—--
it makes me so, uh, and i can’t get enough of it. something’s been feeling weird lately. there’s just something about you, baby.
it had been a week since sophia had seen you. not that she’s been looking around for you, or jotting down the days in her calendar since the last meeting. no, certainly not. her diary certainly hadn’t been hearing your name every five fucking seconds as well. definitely not.
but god, my god, she could scrape her knees right now and she wouldn’t even bat an eye because you’d walked into the chapel. you. in the chapel. huh.
it wasn’t every sunday you decided to show up for mass, and certainly not on time.
heads turned almost immediately, conversations faltering mid-sentence as people started noticing your sudden appearance, and you, being such a thorn on their side, met their gazes, mouth curling into the faintest smirk before you pulled your cowboy hat off and held it against your chest. the movement was slow, deliberate, and respectful enough to pass.
their whispers started soon after. you heard your name once, twice, hushed under breaths that weren’t as quiet as they thought. you didn’t care. you found an empty pew near the middle and sat down, shoulders relaxed, gaze fixed straight ahead at the altar like you belonged there. maybe today, you almost did.
and from her spot near the front, sophia couldn’t look away.
she froze halfway through setting the hymn books, fingers curling around the spine of one as if that could keep her steady.
your presence alone was enough to knock the air out of her chest. you looked the same—hair a little messy, boots scuffed from the road, that calm expression that somehow said everything and nothing all at once.
but to sophia, all she could see was that night. her first kiss, still lingering like smoke on her tongue no matter how many prayers she’d whispered since.
and now here you were, sitting in her father’s church like it was the most natural thing in the world.
she should’ve looked away. she knew that. but she couldn’t. she couldn’t stop thinking about the way you’d smiled against her lips before pulling back, the faint rasp of your voice when you’d whispered, “see? not that hard.”
now, her pulse was unsteady all over again, her breath catching when your gaze flicked up and met hers for the briefest second across the room.
you didn’t smile. neither did she.
but the look said enough.
after church?
sophia nods.
—----
maybe i’ll just be crazy. and piss her off till she hates me. yeah right, she fucking loves me.
“ow,” sophia hissed as her foot caught the edge of the windowsill again, knuckles gripping the frame tight as she eased herself down.
it wasn’t her most graceful landing—never was—but at least this time she didn’t knock over the garden lantern like the seventh time she’d tried this.
by now, she should’ve been better at sneaking out. the bruises on her knees said otherwise.
you stood waiting beneath the window, arms crossed, that familiar crooked grin pulling at your mouth.
the low rumble of your truck idled a few yards away, headlights off, moonlight spilling just enough to outline you. leather jacket, messy hair, that same air of trouble that made sophia’s stomach twist and flutter all at once.
“you keep makin’ that noise and your old man’s gonna come out swingin’ and i’m dead,” you teased, voice a low drawl that made her pulse skip.
she shot you a half-hearted glare, brushing dust off her nightdress before tugging on your flannel from the truck bed and pulling it over her shoulders. it was far too big, smelled faintly of smoke and motor oil, and fit way too big on her. but that was exactly why she liked it.
“you’d think i’d have learned by now,” she muttered, rubbing at her shin with a wince.
“you’d think,” you echoed, leaning close enough that your breath warmed the shell of her ear. “but maybe you just like findin’ excuses to see me.”
she tried to scoff, but it came out softer than intended, her voice betraying her with how easily it wavered. “don’t flatter yourself.”
you grinned wider, and she hated how it made her chest feel light.
“sooooo,” you drawled om, humming softly. “what’s the move tonight, laforteza?”
“you tell me.” she climbed in beside you, the seat cracked and warm from the southern night.
your fingers brushed hers on the gearshift, casual and unhurried, and still it made her breath catch.
as you pulled onto the dirt road leading away from the chapel, sophia glanced back once toward the steeple barely visible through the trees, cross glinting faintly in the moonlight before she looked at you again.
you caught her staring. “what?”
“nothin’,” she whispered, smiling just a little. “just… hoping god’s asleep right now.”
you laughed, low and warm, reaching for her hand. “then let’s not wake him.”
—-----
low slung bad bitch, baby, come and get you some. can you read my mind? i’ve been watching you. couldn’t fight to save your life but you look so cool.
it was the twentieth time of sophia slipping out of her window at an unreasonable time when you’d resembled that of a kicked dog.
bruises painted your knuckles, a small cut split your lip, and a purpling shadow was already blooming under your left eye. you looked like hell. pathetic, really. and god, it made sophia want to cradle you in her arms and pepper soft kisses all over your battered face.
“god, you look like…” sophia trailed off, glancing back toward the house, eyes flicking nervously to the prayer room window before finishing with a hissed, “shit.”
her words make you laugh, boot scuffing up a bit of dust as you kicked a pebble down the dirt road, leaning lazy against your truck. “usin’ the lord’s name in vain, huh? and swearin’ on top of it. lord have mercy, i really am a bad influence on you, laforteza.”
she giggled, light and unrestrained, like she didn’t just check if the coast was clear to curse. “mm, maybe. i do hang around you too much.”
she stepped closer, thumb brushing across your cheek, her brows knitting at the sight of the split in your skin. “have you cleaned this up?”
“uh… kinda? jus’ threw some water on it, figured that’d do the trick.”
she made a face at that, grabbing your wrist gently as her eyes skimmed over the bruises scattered along your hand.
“you idiot,” she muttered, pinching your cheek. “i heard what happened from lara. i don’t know why you’d fight someone as huge as dustin.”
you groaned, shoulders slouching as you kicked at the dirt. “got me some cool scars outta it, though…”
sophia sighed, pushing you gently back toward the truck. she opened the glove compartment with ease, like she’d done it a hundred times, pulling out a box of bandages and a small bottle of alcohol she’d stashed there weeks ago. your eyes widened in alarm.
“wait, hold on, laforteza—no alcohol.”
“shut up,” she said, tone half fond, half firm. “this is what you get.”
the burn hit instantly, and you hissed, jerking back with a wince. “shit—fuck, sophia, that stings!”
sophia narrowed her eyes at you, the corners of her mouth twitching like she was trying not to smile. she caught it immediately. that was the first time you’d ever said her name instead of dragging out “laforteza” like it was a joke.
“really? that’s what makes you use my name? and don’t be such a baby,” she muttered, catching your hand again when you tried to pull away. “you’d think after throwing punches, you could handle a bit of disinfectant.”
“yeah, well, fists don’t burn near like this,” you grumbled, wincing as the alcohol bit into your skin and caused your eyes to water.
her laughter bubbled out before she could stop it. “oh, sweetheart,” she teased, voice dripping with amusement, “you’re gonna cry over a little alcohol?”
“it’s just—” you bit your tongue, cheeks heating up. “it’s just the damn burn, that’s all.”
“swear?” she raised her brows, eyes watching how you sniffled like a big baby at the sting of the alcohol on your split knuckles.
“swear.”
sophia’s smile softened. her thumb brushed under your eye, and something in her chest squeezed tight. the sight of you, rumpled, bruised, and still trying to act tough, made her heart stumble.
she could still smell the cigarette smoke clinging to your jacket, the faint salt of dried sweat, the warmth radiating from your skin under her palm.
and just like that, it hit her. hard, deep, and terrifying.
oh, shit.
she might actually be in love with you.
—------
good men die too, so i’d rather be with you.
sophia stirs at 3 a.m. at the constant tapping on her window, eyes bleary and fuzzy as she sits up in bed. she groans, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with one hand, and huffs, dragging herself out from under the covers. the tapping comes again, sharper this time, and she realizes with a groan that it’s not the house. it’s pebbles, small stones hitting the glass rhythmically.
she pads across her room, the floorboards cold under her bare feet, and squints through the moonlit haze. there you are, standing below her window, hands shoved deep in your jacket pockets, a sheepish grin on your bruised face. the moonlight catches the swelling under your eye and the cut on your lip, and the sight twists something painfully tight in her chest.
her breath hitches. “…what are you doing out there?” she whispers, brows knitting together, voice rough from sleep.
you grin, shrugging lightly. “phia, i’m runnin’ away.”
her heart drops. “what?”
“yeah,” you mutter, looking anywhere but her. “plannin’ on leavin’ now. came to say bye. my uncle, y’know, the homophobic one? he found out i’m into girls and,” you chuckled nervously, running a bandaged hand through your hair.
sophia’s blood runs cold, stomach twisting, chest tightening. panic surges through her veins. she’d only just realized what that flutter in her chest meant when you laughed, what that ache behind her ribs was when you smiled at her.
she’s in love with you. and now you’re leaving. without her. headed god knows where, unable to follow you.
the air feels impossibly thick, heavy with the scent of summer night, grass, and something faintly metallic from the bruise on your lip. she stands frozen, gripping the window frame, unable to form words, and watches as you shuffle your weight, shoulders slumping, exhaling softly.
“um… sorry for wakin’ ya, phia,” you continue quietly, voice soft, almost hesitant. “i’ll… see myself out, i guess.”
her lips part, but no sound comes. the silence stretches, taut like a wire.
“are you really not gonna ask me to come with you?” she finally whispers, voice breaking at the last word.
you blink at her, startled. “…you wanna come with me?”
her eyes widen as if she’s seen a ghost. “…are you serious?”
“i just… didn’t think you’d wanna come with me of all people…” you gaped at her, jaw falling slack and she rolls her eyes.
“…give me a few,” she mutters, voice tight, and darts back into her house, boots slapping softly against the floorboards.
inside, drawers slide open and slam shut. her hands fumble, pulling clothes and a small bag together, tossing them over her shoulder with hurried movements. every sound is amplified in the quiet of the house—her breath, the rustle of fabric, the thud of sneakers against hardwood.
you lean against the truck, arms crossed, watching the moonlight trace her movements through the window. after a few long minutes, the window creaks again, and bundles of clothes tumble down to you.
a second later, she climbs out herself, your missing leather jacket tied around her waist, bag slung over her shoulder, hair messy and wild in the soft moonlight. huh… so that’s where it went.
“hold up,” she hisses, landing lightly beside you, boots scuffing against the asphalt.
you take her hand instinctively, thumb brushing along her knuckles. she shivers at the contact, eyes wide.
“you ready?” you whisper, pressing a gentle kiss on the crown of her head, opening the door for her and placing her clothes in the back of your truck, peering down at her in concern. “no turning back now.”
sophia swallows thickly and glances back at the house, all quiet and dead asleep, then back at you. nodding. “yeah. let’s get out of here,”
she enters the truck and so do you, engine running as you start to drive away from her house, humming under your breath.
“hey,” you mutter after a moment.
“yeah?”
you grip the wheel a little tighter, then glance over at her with a small grin. “just so y’know… i think i might be in love with you.”
for a second, sophia just stares. like she’s not sure she heard you right. then, soft laughter bubbles out of her. she reaches over, takes your free hand, and presses a kiss to your knuckles.
“good,” she murmurs, smiling against your skin. “’cause it would’ve been real awkward if i was in love with you and we ran away together without you feeling the same.”
oh, i’d rather be with you. ‘cause good men die too, so i’d rather be with you.
a/n. um... quite embarrassing that it took me almost four months to finish this and not only that... its wayyyy off what i originally wanted this fic to look like... scratched head. nonetheless, i hope u guys enjoyed it😭😭 i'll continue to keep working on the event n the reqs😛
★ contains: smau, top!masc!reader (don't like don't read), eventual smut (not this chapter), tooth-rotting fluff
part one ★ down bad | series masterlist
in which a popbase interview reveals all: you and lara's unsubtle pda, sophia being the best leader, yoonchae's snark, daniela calling you out on your shit, and the fans eating it all up.
popbase on X: "a pre-award show interview with katseye, featuring y/n l/n. watch the full video here now!"
the video starts with all the girls in frame, dressed to the nines. they're illuminated by camera flashes and surrounded by over-excited fans behind barriers, being interviewed by a reporter.
"we worked really hard on beautiful chaos," sophia says seriously into the outstretched mic, in response to a question regarding the latest ep. "every song represents part of who we are as a group. we're so grateful for the fans who've supported us along the way-"
sophia gets unceremoniously cut off by a loud squeal from lara. the camera pans out, then zooms in on a familiar face.
you've just wrapped your arms around lara's waist from behind, entirely too intimate, nearly lifting her off the ground in your efforts to scare her. lara just throws her head back and laughs, resting her hands on your forearms. the crowd behind you loses it.
"hi, you," lara says quietly, her smile stretching from ear to ear.
"hello, my love," you respond, your smirk easy enough to be considered playful, wide enough to be perceived as more than that.
sophia pretends to sigh in exaggeration but you can tell from her good-natured smile, along with the girls' greetings, that your interruption is not at all unwanted.
"good afternoon, eyekons," you wink at the camera, dashingly put together in an all-black suit. "i saw you lot and couldn't resist crashing, i love my girls."
"girls plural or girl singular?" dani asks, unimpressed, dramatically eyeing your arms still around lara's waist. this earns an 'ooh' from the other girls, and you can see the interviewer frantically gesturing for the camera to zoom in.
you reluctantly pull back, sticking your tongue out at daniela. as the interview continues on, you miss the way lara pouts at you.
at some point, lara forcefully drags your arm to sling around her shoulders, arguably platonic. the two of you seemed to toe that line dangerously often.
platonic it could have been, that is, if not for your treacherous thoughts as lara moves to stand more in front of you, allowing you an open view of her backless dress.
your eyes dart down once, twice, before you force yourself to look up at the interviewer again, and by then your mouth has run dry.
"y/n!" the interviewer repeats, snapping you out of your trance. "i was just saying, have you listened to the new ep? do you have a favourite song?"
you swallow subtly as lara shifts again, the soft silk of her dress brushing against your front. well, two could play at that game.
you clear your throat as your hand daring slides down to her waist, and you don't mistake the sharp hitch in lara's breathing. "i can't choose a favourite. all of them are just amazing. gnarly, even."
"you're unfunny," yoonchae pipes up, smiling eagerly as she gets to use a phrase megan had surely taught her, resulting in another bout of laughter from the others.
all except lara, whose eyelids are lowered to gaze on the rings that line your fingers, wrapped around the bare skin of her waist.
she has to swallow before she looks up again, and the warmth you emit doesn't help in the slightest.
"--that's all for today's interview. thank you for watching, and stream beautiful chaos which is out now!"
the lot of you wave at the camera, blowing kisses, before the girls turn their attention to the eager fans behind you.
you're about to walk away, too, when lara stops you.
despite her heels, she has to drag you arm down in order to press a chaste kiss onto your cheek. heat rushes to your face as the fans go wild again.
"let's go lesbians! and bisexuals i mean!" you hear someone scream from afar, making you and lara laugh out loud.
you tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, smiling far too wide. the hoots and the screams become louder, but finally lara pulls away.
as she goes to join the other girls delivering autographs and signing albums, the camera focuses on your face, a fond expression painting your features as you gaze after lara's retreating figure.
after a few seconds, you tuck your hands into your pockets and walk away. the video ends.
@eyekonicshit: WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT ENDING. WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE FUCK.
@ynssecretwife: they're so in love i'm gonna throw up. IM SICK
@ynlarano1shipper: are we still supposed to believe they're just friends???
@danielaslefttoe: my girl dani called them out on their shit, never change miss avanzini 😭
@wifeoflara134: jaw DROPPED. lara looks teww good in that backless dress 🫦🫦
| @lesbians4katseye: seems like y/n enjoyed that view too 😏
| @wifeoflara134: CLOCK THAT
@lafortezasonlylover: look at 3:45 when y/n's arm is around lara... lara looks like she's in heat... someone help her.... 😩
| @butchbait123: i mean can you blame her. y/n choke me 🛐🛐🛐 i mean who said that
| @hornkneecorner: need to gnaw on that arm like a dog on a bone
| @yoonchipsupremacy: yall are down BAD
| @simpforynln: id rather go down on her instead
| @yoonchipsupremacy: JESUS
@polytrix-truther-1: do they need a third?
| @slvt4ynlara: get in line
@ynxeyekon: @ynofficial no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while i gasp for air... read more
| @ynofficial: oh. what happened to hello hi whats your name?
| @ynxeyekon: the same thing that happened to you when you saw lara's dress
| @ynofficial: 🤐
| @skiendielstan: GAGGED
@chewuponherbubblegum: y/n wants that cookie sooo bad
@profesional-yearner: are they lovers?
| @larashotiron: worse
series masterlist
and that's it for part one!! here's to many more interviews, livestreams etc... like and reblog if you wanna see more like this! i would love to get feedback 💗
WAIT A SECOND...... UR TELLING ME THISSS IS HOW NAT AND LOTTIE USED TO LOOK AT EACH OTHER BEFORE THE CRASH..???
oh GOD and liv enthusiastically nodding and smiling and agreeing saying 'they were teammates, they were friends,' as jasmin says 'oh, thats sweet. its.. tragic.' (also sophie totally implied they communicated that way outside of games cus she followes it up like 'blah blah blah')
