hiii, so in honor of the last day of pride i thought i'd write something for the woman who DESPERATELY needed a girlfriend. a girlfriend would've saved tashi and i'll stand on that till the day i die. :) happy pride!!
summary: when you inevitably catch feelings for the amazing tashi duncan, you don't expect anything to come out of it. when something surprisingly comes out of it, how could you say no?
warnings: swearing, TENSIONNNN, lesbian tension (that in itself needs a warning cuz good lord), a man who's secretly in love with his best friend, cheating, brief nudity, slight smut tbh, desiring big time
word count: 3.5k 😛
Stanford, 2007
You met Tashi during Orientation, her charming attitude practically forcing you to gravitate towards her. By the end of it, she had her arm wrapped around your shoulders and laughed with her face nuzzled in your neck.
Sleepovers in your dorms became a necessity after that. Whether it be study dates, watching movies — or tennis matches — on either of your laptops, it was always the first thing that you asked each other at the end of each week.
Tashi’s flirty personality worked on you relentlessly. It didn't surprise you when you slowly developed a crush on her. Her drive for tennis and the way she was so devoted to something she’d worked so hard for just drew you in more. It was almost sensual with how she talked about the sport. She’d made you play countless times, teaching you the correct techniques and how to hold the racket. Standing behind you with her chest to your back was something she did a lot when adjusting your grip.
You’d even noticed the way her eyes trailed over your legs when you wore tiny little tennis skirts. Strange.
As the months went on, you two became inseparable. You had a couple classes together and immediately sprinted toward the other once one of you were spotted. Among the sea of unknown people, it was nice to have someone to hold onto while meeting new individuals. Someone reliable.
That person for Tashi, was you.
—
Tashi had ended up telling you about a guy she started seeing while her head claimed a spot on your lap. Patrick was his name, maybe? You couldn't quite remember, despite all the talk about his dick size that came from Tashi’s mouth. In your opinion, he sounded arrogant. He sounded like somebody that Tashi didn't need. She reassured you they weren't in love, but you still thought she deserved somebody better even if they weren't.
The first time you met him face to face, he was on top of her with his drawers half way down his legs. Which resulted in you getting a face full of ass when you walked into Tashi’s dorm. You were only there to give back her copy of Twilight she’d let you borrow, but of course that didn't go to plan. Patrick whipped his head back, his back hunched as he leaned over your friend with blushed lips.
“Shit-” Patrick muttered, sliding his boxers back up to cover himself. Tashi just laughed, slipping out from under him and walking over to you. You were covering your eyes from the events in front of you for obvious reasons, when Tashi held your wrist and moved it from your eyes.
“What do you need, baby?” she asked with a cheeky smile on her face.
She had a sports bra on, her hair still slicked back into her signature braid. She must've just come from practice.
You looked back at Patrick, who was now awkwardly sitting on Tashi's bed, twiddling his thumbs. Now that you got a good look at him, you couldn't blame Tashi for keeping him around. He was kind of hot.
You nudged the book into her hands. “I just wanted to give you this,” you spoke quietly. Tashi’s eyebrows rose a smidge upon seeing the book.
“You brought it back.”
“Why wouldn't I?”
She shrugged.
“I thought you'd forget it. You have a tendency to do that sometimes.”
“Oh shut up, Miss Perfect.”
She just huffed out a laugh and let go of your wrist, now grazing her hand along your forearm. “Well, thank you. Text you later?”
“Yeah, have fun getting your pipes cleaned.” You deadpanned with a little laugh, Tashi joining in on your laughter as she leaned her forehead to your shoulder. Patrick let out a small chuckle himself, and Tashi turned her head to look at him with a furrowed brow.
—
The first time you properly met Patrick and his blond friend, Art, was after one of Tashi’s matches. You had been sitting on the bleachers, sitting in the front so Tashi could see you, when two guys had sat next to you. You didn't pay much attention to them until the one next to you nudged your arm.
It was Patrick.
He had a smile on his face that tugged at one side more than the other, looking down at you with a laugh. “Hey, you.”
“Hey.” You replied, a small smile grazing your lips.
Patrick scoffed, “Oh c’mon, don't get all shy now. You've literally seen my bare ass.”
The blond perked up at Patrick’s words, raising an eyebrow and looking slightly disgusted between the two of you.
“It was unconsensual.” You sneered, leaning forward slightly to see Patrick’s friend better.
His friend smacked Patrick’s chest, “The hell, man?” he asked before turning to you and putting his hand out.
“Art.”
You took his hand in yours and replied with your own name, smiling at him. A sweeter one than you’d given Patrick. He returned the smile and you both took your hands back, leaning against the wooden bleachers.
Art was also cute, not hot, but undoubtedly handsome. He looked a little mousy, and you were definitely staring for too long. You turned your head towards the court, the sound of hands clapping together as Tashi moved with purpose onto the painted concrete.
Goosebumps slowly grew on your arms and legs, something about seeing her on the court always sent shivers down your spine. People chanting and whistling at Tashi made her smile and wave her hand at the large crowd, but she was obviously looking for you. Maybe not obvious to everybody else, but you could tell. She always stood up a little straighter when you were at her matches.
She finally found you and gave you a small wave and smile that made your own widen. Illuminating confidence was something that Tashi could just do. You didn't know how it came so easily for her, even the most perfect people in the world had things they were insecure about.
But then again, was there anybody more perfect than Tashi?
To nobody's surprise, the match went swimmingly, adding another notch in Tashi’s beautifully crafted belt. You watched as the sweat fell down her chest, absorbing into the spandex of her tank top. Nothing could compare to the look of pride that fell upon her face once she won, it was like being crowned queen in her world. Even after being to a couple of her games, you still watched her with endearment. Most would be jealous of her position, but not you. Okay, maybe you were a little bit. But who could blame you!
Patrick nudged your elbow and scoffed when you snapped out of your trance. “Earth to Goo-Goo Eyes. You ogling my girlfriend?”
You laughed, covering your mouth as if mocking him.
“Is that what you're calling each other now?
“Yeah, I think she’s making me an honest man.”
You sighed and murmured under your breath, “ain’t what she said…”
Patrick cleared his throat and furrowed his brows at you, sitting up straighter as Art started to get up from his seat.
—
After the three of you met up with Tashi, she went back to her dorm and showered, while you all sat in her small dorm. Art was sitting on the floor, Patrick was standing, and you had claimed the bed.
Patrick and you had argued about who got to sit on the bed for a good two minutes before Tashi paused her shower to yell from the closed bathroom door, “Fuck, Patrick! She gets it!” The running water resumed as you two stared at each other, dumbfounded. However, you found satisfaction in taking your sweet time to sit on the mattress.
“Oh fuck off.” Patrick spat while plopping himself back into her desk chair, Art giggling to himself as the two of you bickered.
“I’ve earned the title.” You purred, a smug smile on your face as you leaned back on your forearms.
Patrick just rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone, typing out replies on the small keyboard. You wondered just how many letters got bashed because of his unruly typing. “So where do you guys wanna go to dinner?” Art asked as he cleared his throat, looking between the two of you.
You shrugged, looking down at Art. “We could try that new sandwich shop down the street?”
“Didn’t some guy from your class get food poisoning from that place?”
“I'd pay anything to see either of you get food poisoning.” Patrick chipped in, looking up at the two of you with that stupid side smirk.
Art punched his calf and Patrick yelped in return, holding his leg up to his chest. The three of you all laughed amongst yourselves until Tashi stepped out of the bathroom in a t-shirt and shorts. She raised an eyebrow and smiled at the three of you, huffing out a laugh.
“We’re going to the new place down the street, you in?” Patrick asked, slumping in his chair more as he looked up at her.
Tashi shrugged and nodded, grabbing your hand and dragging you up from her bed while you giggled. “Let’s go.” She said calmly, turning her head to watch you trailing behind her.
The two boys got up from their seats and followed you both in the direction of said sandwich place, Art spinning half way through the walk there to trip Patrick.
“Dick!” Patrick shouted as he lost his footing, grabbing onto Art’s forearm to keep himself stable.
Once you entered the restaurant, you took a good look at your surroundings. It resembled a 70’s diner with the striped wallpaper and vintage jukebox in the corner that still played music. The four of you were seated in a booth that clung to your thighs when you sat down, with Tashi sliding in next to you. Patrick and Art sat across from you, and you could tell almost immediately that Art was eyeing Tashi. He was looking at her the same way that you did while she was on the court.
It was cute, really. Patrick noticed from the corner of his eye and then looked at you, as if to say “he thinks he's slick”. You both snickered as you looked down at your menus, Tashi lightly nudging your foot with hers and then placing a hand on your thigh.
You held your lips between your teeth for a second before letting them go, trying to suppress the small smile on your face. Whenever Tashi was quietly intimate with you, butterflies filled your stomach and sent a quick jolt to your heart. You just weren't expecting it, was all. Wasn't it?
You looked up through your lashes to find Art in front of you, who was “discreetly” eyeing Tashi the whole time. You didn’t think he’d looked down at the menu once. Patrick however, wasn't paying any attention to anything at all. He didn't stare like Art did, not pathetically like you did while she swung the racket, he didn’t stare at all. He skimmed. He glanced.
It made no sense to you, how could you look at Tashi and not want her to be the only thing you see? She was otherworldly. She had the type of beauty that made girls look in the mirror and sigh in disappointment. You knew her struggles, her problems, she broke in your hands and you let her lie there. It made her all the more beautiful, though.
You just couldn't wrap your head around what Patrick was even doing with Tashi. If he wasn’t willing to gaze at her like she was the only woman on Earth, what was he possibly doing?
A waitress soon walked over, taking your orders and then rushing away. Tashi finally looked up at Art, raising an eyebrow and grimacing at him. “Art.”
His trance never broke, only replying with a quiet, “yes?”
“What’s up?”
“You look good.”
Tashi huffed out a laugh, putting a damp curl behind her ear and brushing him off. "Sure, Art."
Patrick wasn't even mad about Art blatantly hitting on his girlfriend. You looked perplexed, sitting back against the fake leather of your booth and looking between the two.
To be frank, you never got an explanation.
Soon enough, your sandwiches were laid out on the table and you all began to dig in. Tashi made a small moan after taking a bite into hers. You swallowed your bite but still covered your mouth as you spoke.
“Good?”
“Really fucking good.”
She leaned a bit closer to you, offering you a bite of her sandwich. You took it, how could you not? Anything with high praise from Tashi must've been good, right? As you chewed, your eyes slightly widened while turning to her.
“It's great, right?”
You nodded vigorously, swallowing your bite again and laughing a little. Tashi continued to stare at you, it was soft, something that never really crossed her face very often. She was always so cold and cut, so seeing her with a quieter look made her seem more human than tennis fiend.
You felt heat start to slowly creep up your neck the longer she stared, so you forced yourself to look away and went back to eating your sandwich. It was nowhere near as good as Tashi’s, but you didn’t mind.
Neither of the boys commented on the prolonged eye contact that the two of you had. You were expecting them to mock you both in some way, but that didn't happen. You looked back up at the two in front of you and saw why they hadn't commented on it. Patrick was staring at Art the way Tashi had stared at you. It was almost a painful look of yearning, pathetic even.
When you and Tashi finished your sandwiches, she placed her hand on your thigh again and gave it a light squeeze to get your attention.
“We’ve got that exam tomorrow, right?”
You looked over at her and nodded, resting your chin on your fist.
“We should probably go then. I know how much you hate studying last minute.”
You looked in front of you at the guys and they didn't seem to hear your conversation. You turned back to face Tashi and then bit your lip anxiously. “Shouldnt we wait for them to finish?”
Tashi raised an eyebrow and put a hand on your shoulder. “Patrick won't mind paying.”
“Alright… sure.” You said, sliding out of the booth and letting Tashi slide out next to you. When the two of you started walking, you heard Patrick and Art say something – but couldn't make out what it was. They were probably cursing the two of you out for leaving so abruptly. She put a hand on your lower back, guiding you through the restaurant and leaning close to your ear with a little laugh. “Ignore them.”
Art sighed, turning to Patrick with a little laugh. “You’re paying. I don't have any money on me, man.”
“Greedy bitches.” Patrick returned, not only directed at the two of you, but at Art too.
—
When you arrived back at Tashi’s dorm, she let you go in first, trailing not too far behind you.
You set your things down and stacked books on top of each other in the order you would take notes in. Tashi put her phone on her nightstand, slipping off her shoes and watching as you unpacked your bag.
“You should shower, can't be dirty during a sleepover.” She said, plopping down on her bed with a sigh as her eyes trailed down your figure.
The word “sleepover” was like a trigger in your mind. You were like a dog hearing its favorite word with the way you perked up. You laughed a little and put a piece of hair behind your ear, turning your head to look at her.
“Fine.” You dragged the word out as you slid your shoes off, walking to the small bathroom and shutting the door behind you.
While the water ran, the door opened to Tashi putting a pile of her clothes on the lid of her laundry basket. When you got out of the shower and saw the folded articles of clothing, your heart grew two sizes bigger. You opened the door to find Tashi sitting on the floor, using your books to write her notes. She looked up from her pen, her eyes lingering on you in a way that couldn't be platonic.
“You look good.” She smiled, following your every movement as you sat next to her and reached for your own notebook.
Your cheeks reddened, lightly smacking her arm with the back of your hand. “Quit flirting with me.” You said with a smile you couldn't bite back.
Tashi didn’t say anything after that. She stared like she didn’t want to do anything else. She stared like you’d disappear if she stopped. It was soft, comforting, something you wouldn't trade for anything else. Even if it flustered you, you wouldn't tell her to stop. You couldn't possibly do that – it was considered sacrilege in your mind.
While you wrote in your notebook – transferring different quotes to the paper – Tashi had forgotten about her notes entirely. Her legs flat against the floor as her notebook rested against her thighs.
Her hand reached to grab your jaw, turning your face to her and crashing her lips against yours in a way that could only be described as vulnerable. You squeaked, but didn't pull away. If anything, you melted against her. Falling against her and pulling her in close by your arms around her neck. She was holding onto you hard enough that she might leave bruise marks, but you weren't concerned with that at the moment. Tashi Fucking Duncan was kissing you!
She pulled away first. “Tell me to stop and I will.” She said, her voice full of breath as she leaned in for another kiss. You only nodded and pulled her closer, her chest now against yours while you both slowly fell to lie on the uncomfortable, rough carpet.
You pulled away, biting her lip a little and dragging it towards you before letting it go. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that.” you said quietly, laughing a little. She laughed a little with you, resting her forehead against yours.
“Why didn't you?”
“Youre with Patrick, I didn't want to cause any proble-”
“Fuck Patrick.”
You laughed again, pulling your head away from her to look around you. “Okay then. Fuck Patrick.”
“See, baby? You get it.” She said, leaning in for another kiss, which you happily obliged.
Her hands settled themselves on your waist, lightly running her hands up and down a bit. The two of you didn't separate, no. You kept going. It got messier, it got desperate, it got noisy.
“God, you’re fucking gorgeous.” She muttered in between kisses, resting her palm against your cheek.
She dragged you up to her bed, carefully laying you down and crawling on top of you once again. The kiss still didn't break. It only broke once Tashi lifted herself up, straddling your hips as you sat up on your forearms while she put her thumb to your lips.
You looked up at her with a pathetic look in your eye, slowly parting your lips and placing her thumb in between your front teeth.
Tashi smiled, tilting her head slightly but never taking her eyes off of you. “You know what to do, hm?”
You pulled back from her thumb and kissed the pad of it, leaning upwards to pull her into another passionate kiss. Your hands slowly trailed up her abdomen, now with her sitting in your lap. You retracted yourself from her lips and started to slowly kiss her neck, right under her jaw.
She let out a small whimper when you grazed your teeth to the hollow between her shoulder and neck. You laughed a little, lifting your head back to embrace her lips with your own once again while your hands got closer and closer to her bra.
Tashi got on top of you again, your head now landing on her pillow as one of your legs came to rest on her hip. The kiss was rough, ludicrous, everything you could’ve wanted from her, but you felt the need to tease her a bit.
“Fuck you.” You said in between breaths.
“For what?” She asked.
You smiled, kissing her with urgency. “For not doing this sooner.”
She pulls away and rolls her eyes.
“God, you’re needy.” She teases before diving back in to kiss you, pulling your shirt over your head and tossing her own to the side. Tashi’s lips trailed down your abdomen, dragging your shorts down with her teeth while you watched in awe.
She looked determined, like she did on the court, which got you even more flustered. She tugged at her own shorts and kissed your inner thighs, leaving light bite marks behind.
Tashi was like a starved woman, your fingers curling in her hair as she went to work. Your back arched against her mattress and she slid her hand up to hold yours, intertwining your fingers and squeezing. Just to feel how your hand gripped her own, evidence of how good she was doing.
That night, you learned what Tashi meant when she said she wasn’t in love with Patrick.
hope you guys liked this!! its a little different than what I normally do, but i want to start writing things like this more often. hopefully its not too bad lol. <33
likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!
i do NOT consent my work being translated, reposted to any other site, or put into ai.
I don't know if this is a dead blog or not but. if you ever check your tumblr again I would like you to know that your ambessa fic strangers in the night is absolutely beautiful. I love how you wrote the dynamic between her and the reader and it's just. *chef's kiss* I love your take on modern au AHHH
tldr: I just wanted you to know that your writing is exquisite and I have reread it a dozen times :)
aww thank you, i really appreciate it! and this is not a dead blog, i was just so busy finishing up my senior year :( i still use it to browse and i'm getting back into writing slowly. thank you so much for reading!
an. apologies for the radio silence, senior year is kicking my ass.
cw. masochistic!ambessa, sadistic!reader. painplay, knifeplay, no smut. brief mentions of death, execution, and captivity. non-linear narrative. let me know if anything else should be tagged; it's very late and i should be asleep. 3.9k words.
Sweat drips down your wrists. It beads into droplets over your forearms, inevitably coalescing heavy enough. The slide of them, down to your elbows and through the hair that curves over your skin, is like a teasing caress, their coolness feeling all but frigid. In your rest, head pounding with your heart inside of it, there’s not much else to focus on. Not unless you…
Your eyes drift to her. Back turned, this is the only time you get to observe her as you wish. Not with the calculated sort of wariness or unfocused exhaustion, but with softened eyes that she so detests.
“I can feel you staring, little one.”
You do not respond. Instead, you’re caught up in the meandering of sweat down her back, curving around shifting muscle and pooling in shadowed dips. You stay silent and shiver and imagine lapping it up.
“...I don’t appreciate being ignored.” It’s sharper now, and you’ve peeved her enough that she glances over her broad shoulder. She falters when she glimpses you, expecting disinterest—not the eager flutter of your lashes as you stare. Still, her instability doesn’t last long. It never does. She rights herself and raises a brow, mouth pursing around unsaid words.
“I’m not ignoring you.”
“I see that now.” Softened with apprehension but no less suspicious, she turns. Involuntarily, your lips twitch down—mourning the view’s loss. Except now you get to see how her quadriceps shift, the look in her eyes as she squats in front of your half-fetal form. “Are you quite tired?”
You stiffen, straighten. That question can be a trick, but it can also be an out. One time you drowsily hummed a mindless affirmative, only to be pulled into another hour’s spar. Another day, when you did the same thing, she let you off with a pat to the shoulder and a helping hand up.
Her lip twitches, amusement so strong it seems poorly disguised.
“You’re a bitch.” Your bold mutter, rounded by submission’s sand-papery edge, makes her smile wide.
“Give me one more, then.”
You groan, but stand. Your joints protest, a chorus of creaks, but there’s no need to pay them any mind—they’ll only be worse with focus.
She stays, awaits you. Urges you closer with the taunting tick of her fingers, before striding hard, long, and attempting to wrap the same fingers around your throat.
It worked once—it doesn’t work this time. You catch them instead, tug them until she hisses, and you’re lost in the heat of motion once more.
When you come to you’re sweaty and aching and pinning her. Your knee digs into her bicep, the other in her stomach, tense hands pressing her chin back until her throat strains. She doesn’t squirm with much force, saving the strength to clench her teeth until they creak.
“Why are you doing this?” She strains evenly. It’s not why are you doing this to me, but why are you in this position? Why did you choose this?
“The body follows the head. If you can’t pick your head up, you can’t get up.”
“And why else?”
Why else? For another strategic advantage, perhaps, or to gain a position of control. Respect—or wariness—could be achieved from such an answer, but that’s not what you’ll get. You know it, because you know her.
You settle on something—a feeling. The truth. You feel it burn, thrashing behind your ribs and bubbling delightedly, even more so when you think about this position from her view. How it must feel to have a full person’s weight sunk into the more delicate parts of yourself, unprotected by bone. It feels like a treat to witness it. Her expression, controlled as it is, still twitches with every twinge and shift you make. The truth writhes and heats until it’s boiling; you spit it off of your tongue reflexively, the char of it slipping fast like wetted ash.
“I want to hurt you. I want you to hurt.” You confess, the words leaving you in a rumble—as if an animal, something large and gruff, had taken residence in your throat.
She grins, all teeth.
“That’s why you’re my best thing.”
The feeling howls, gritting between your excitedly baring teeth. You twist your knee, the joint digging harder into her bicep; she groans, grits her teeth right back.
“Even if you’re a pain.” She grunts, even as her eyes flutter pleasantly.
⚔︎
She had collected you a few years ago. Not recruited, nor captured, specifically collected. You were not one of her prisoners, nor an ordinary citizen who spurred a moment of hopeless resistance. Instead, you were a prisoner of your own state, kept captive and unintentionally safe below ground as she razed the land above.
It was only her dedication, her unabashed unwieldiness that caused her to find you. Instead of relying on the report she was given about the castle’s emptiness she searched it herself, untrusting and doubting her soldiers gave the task the thorough attention she required to quell any and all anxiety. Surely she was searching for an escaped royal or a cowardly official hiding away in the ruins’ walls. Instead she found you, trapped deep in the dungeon behind thick iron bars. The rest of the cells were either empty or bloodstained.
Your rasp startled her when she first found you. She had not yet spotted you further down the hall, so when you spoke up it was a surprise. Someone’s alive?
“You don’t look like one of his generals. That’s quite the cloak.” You’d gruffed, your voice rough and gravelly—clearly used sparingly.
“I do not work for that king. I took his head off myself after his kingdom fell to me.” She’d bit out, unsure as to why it was you who made her hackles rise so high. Perhaps it was your solitude—being the only thing alive in a palace brimming with death can only mean it was you who was more dangerous than whatever got them. More dangerous than her. “Why are you the only one here?”
“Luck, I’d say.” Your voice was evening now, but it was still nothing close to the sound she’d love in a year’s time. “Everyone else was executed yesterday quickly—probably because of you. But he wanted to make mine stick. My execution date was today. Your men came before it.”
She fell silent, mouth pursing as she digested your words.
“You are the only one left.” The words slip, honest off of her tongue. “This entire castle is dead. But not you.”
“I’m lucky.” You had insisted, hissed through your teeth. Your shoulders were tight, clenching in tandem with the rest of your body.
“I need luck.” She’d rumbled, the sound low. Not knowing her well enough yet to decipher it, you’d started to curl back—body curving in instinctively. “I’m not looking to be someone else’s prisoner. You might as well finish the job.” You’d huffed.
That statement made her laugh, the sound magnified by the bare stone, bouncing off of the straight metal.
“My soldiers aren’t prisoners. You wouldn’t be either.”
Your mouth pursed contemplatively, but the hollow state of your cheeks made the decision for you.
“...fine.”
Her sword had split the lock on the bars. You’d moved out, thinning with hunger but strong in posture. She’d offered you no help, but even malnourished and weak you didn’t seem to need it—or want it. She’d watched the flex of your calves and licked her teeth instead.
⚔︎
You both understand pain’s merits. Pain is punishment. Pain is comfort. Pain is steady. It burns between you, a sparking connection between your flesh and hers. Bruises were relished in and abrasions were lauded, trophies of the vicious scraping. Yet those were surface level; a blade’s weight is realer, colder than the press of your knuckles into her ribs. And so you’re remarkably timid with a knife—as timid as one can be when they’re iron-forged and flame-souled. The drag of it under your hands is soft, almost, more of a scrape than any bite into flesh. She growls, grumbles, quick to become discontent and unafraid of letting you know.
“Scars are a warrior’s honor. I want to carry them from you.”
You pressure down then, dig the knife into a second of unmarred flesh. The drag of it, half-inch deep, makes her hiss—but her hips shudder under you. Her flesh, usually rock-hard, feels like warm, rich butter under your blade. You get a sizable line, one that curves along her second rib, before you can resist no longer. You withdraw and press your mouth to it, her large hand instinctively curling around the back of your head.
Tongue darts between flesh. The blood drifts down your throat, a steady suckle flooding the thin gash with crimson. Her hips flex before she turns you on your back. Dark, scarred fingers press into the cut, wetting them with blood, before she eases them between your teeth. You open and let them slip as deep as they’ll go.
⚔︎
You weren’t always so close. There was a time when you wouldn’t let her stand closer than ten feet away unless you were sure she was unarmed. She, too, bristled around you for a while. You were too silent. All of her soldiers had clanking armour and heavy steps. You were lightfooted and stuck close to the walls—the instincts of someone used to sculking around dark, dank alleys, not the wide, well-lit halls of her manor. She caught you, always, without shadows to hide you. Her gaze was a heavy pressure on you, and yet she didn’t speak. For months she allowed you to press to the walls and hide from everyone. She intended to intervene at some point.
Her daughter got there first.
Mel was still wrapped in Noxian colors, still swaddled by her mother’s fear. She was small for an eleven-year-old, but knowing her parents’ size she’d shoot up like bamboo by the turn into her teens. A curious little thing, she trailed behind you around the house, leaving a sizable enough distance as to not to stir your skittishness. Smart enough to stalk, but not predatory enough to hunt—and kind enough to talk to you, eventually.
“Y’know, there are better ways to get around here.” She had murmured, voice almost a whisper behind you. You’d grown used to her presence and didn’t flinch at the sound. Mel felt—still feels—more like a curious, shy domestic than any wild thing. So you waved her closer, let her come up to your side, and asked her how. Her smile was worth the mental exertion that came from fighting your instincts.
Your chest had traitorously bloomed with warmth. Now, remembering it, you can't blame yourself; Mel was a particularly endearing child.
“My daughter’s shown you the servant’s passages.” Your shoulders stiffened. The library’s visage, crafted from dark bookshelves that soar over your head and groan with the weight of a thousand tomes, had distracted you. You had left your back to the door. Of course, in that moment, she’d sneak up on you.
Even now, comfortable and half-lax, she still gleams when she catches you off guard.
“Are they still the servants’ if none of them are permitted to use them?”
“I prefer my people visible at all times. There’s nothing more reckless than letting another know your home as well as you do.”
A sharp silence settled over the room. Her gaze burrowed into yours, unyielding and firm as ever; something you didn’t recognize gleams there as well. At that point you hadn’t spent nearly enough time together. Despite living in her manor for months, you only saw her from a distance—you always scurried by if she was ever in the same room, all while being as close to the wall as you could.
Your insistence on staying so far in the beginning is almost comical, knowing where you ended up.
“I promised you my soldiers were not prisoners.” She murmured. “But you are not a soldier.”
“...so I’m your prisoner after all?” Your face twitched. There was a snarl brewing there, ready to flash. You know you would have either attacked her—in vain—or thrown yourself through the library window’s glass—to your death. Thankfully, you didn’t have to do either.
“No. I’ll make you a soldier.”
“Now?” The rise of your eyebrow (and finally, a glimmer of personality beyond skittish and ready to bolt) made her mouth twitch pleasantly.
“In the morning.” She had hummed. The seriousness that usually encompassed her face was less tense that day, curling at the edges with a subtle satisfaction. At the time her amusement had annoyed you; your face had marred with a pursed scowl. Now the same curve of her lip that used to incite such rage makes you burn.
She then let you leave, after your nodded confirmation. She shuffled to the side a bit, but didn’t leave the doorway; it allowed enough space for you to slip by but not enough that you could have avoided bumping into her. Your shoulder impacted her arm roughly, hard as bone with muscle, and her own had jumped at the feeling.
“Goodnight.” She had hummed, more strained than before.
You wouldn’t find out why she reacted like that until the next morning.
⚔︎
She wakes later now. You both do. Slowed, however minutely, with age, you don’t rise before the sun anymore. Unless it’s really, truly important.
Instead, when the sun shines through your room’s massive windows, streaking across your faces and making your skin gleam like the warm, dark edges of a flame, you’ll turn and tuck into her chest and she’ll, in turn, tuck her face into your hair. Your eyes will squeeze in sync, and then her arm will tighten around your back. You’re both awake, half so, but pretending the other doesn’t know.
“Is it time to get up?” She grumbles every morning. It contains a multitude of other questions: do you want to go back to sleep for a bit? Are you hungry? Do you feel restless?
Some days you’ll fold back into her, the warmth of her at your front and the warmth of the sun at your back.
Today, you push away from her chest—her irritated grumble vibrating under your palms, and turn on your back, accepting the light’s assault on your eyelids.
“I’ve got energy to burn.” You huff, forcing yourself to sit up. It buzzes in your thighs and across the edges of your hips; you need to move, otherwise you’ll be irritable by breakfast.
“We can’t burn it… another way?” Her arm settles over you again, heavy at your waist. It startles a laugh from you. Just years ago, it would have made you hit the ceiling; now she drapes herself and you barely flinch.
How the time has changed you. Beyond the firmer muscle or the new scars or the grey at Ambessa’s temples (and maybe one or two strands at yours.)
“No… no.” Your first ‘no’ is hesitant, the second firmer. She grunts when you smooth a single hair back, the grey gleaming and sun-stained under your thumb. “I need to move, ‘Bes. Really move.”
For a second she gets heavier, sinking her weight deep into the mattress. How rude. You wouldn’t have been so skittish when you first met if you knew the two of you would end up like this.
“Come on.” You push at her shoulder, wiggling out from under the limb. Her hand blindly reaches to catch a part of you. Her arm swings with an uncharacteristic clumsiness, fingers clenching and unclenching as she searches. A groan echoes through the bed when she’s unsuccessful; you’re already up and wrapping yourself in the familiar, light fabric.
“Bossy.” You can hear the slide of the silk as she pushes herself up. When she wraps around your waist, pressing her nose into your nape, you’re stricken again with how far you’ve come.
⚔︎
You were already in the room when she stalked onto the thin training mats. Slightly hidden from sight and smushed in the corner, you’d been sitting there for… however long. Since after you had snuck through the kitchens and snagged breakfast. The staff, after months of your routine, laid out a tray for you every morning that would normally go to the dining hall. The house, and all its inhabitants, seem to pull from a never-ending well of patience for you in the beginning; the gratitude is a headier rush than a draw of tobacco.
You were slotted between a leather sandbag and the padded wall, the gap so thin one of your arms was forced over your chest. Her light steps didn’t reach your ears, so your dozing was uninterrupted.
She paused when she spotted you, then eased down to sit on the mat. Her fist thumped against the floor, creating more vibration than sound, and awakened you carefully; she stayed far away, still and silent, as if you were a large, hungry predator, waiting for your consciousness to follow your body.
You eased yourself out from the alcove when you noticed her. Your joints popped as you extended, legs lengthening and arms stretching high above you. It’s ridiculous to think that she was wary, given your disposition—more a kitten than a tiger.
It’s the most relaxed she’d ever seen you; she was the spaciest you’ve ever seen her.
“Good morning.” She had hummed quietly. Her volume never seemed to exceed a low rumble with you when you were at your flightiest.
“…yeah.” You hadn’t lost your calm in her presence. She had seen that as the hard-fought win it was. “Morning.”
“Did you eat?”
“...yeah.”
While you spoke, she took a step closer. When you didn’t tense, she took another one.
“If we’re going to train together, and I’m going to make you a soldier, you can’t shy away from touch.” Your face scrunched up, lips pulling thin, but nothing escaped between them. She took that as an invitation to continue. “Fighting brings you very, very close to the other person. Sometimes it gets messy, even if you try to avoid it; you might end up locked tight with another person. You need to be clear-headed when you do.”
She then reached out a hand, flexed her fingers twice; take it.
You did. Her lip had twitched, and she didn’t let go.
“Good.”
⚔︎
You weren’t allowed to stick to the walls anymore. More often than not, you were at her side during the day. Your meals were no longer set out in the kitchen, and so the scent of it herded you into the dining hall. Your plate was always set to her left—as close as possible. She joined you in the library, and you trained together twice a day.
It was torment, those first few weeks, the closeness. She was there constantly, a warm hand planting on your shoulder or around your hip. Then it became habit. You tilted, leaned, and then pressed into it. In training, hand-to-hand shifted to wrestling more often than not; slicked, sweaty skin joined as you pressed her into the mats again and again.
Perhaps you should have predicted it. Looking back, it was obvious her preferences. A flutter of the eye there, a heavy breath where it shouldn’t have been… but you were both younger, dumber, and you didn’t know it. Not until you planted an elbow into her ribs, the slam accidental, and a groan warmed your neck. The hands that had pushed at your waist suddenly tightened.
“...hm?” You had frozen, unsure if you should keep going. She certainly wasn’t budging beneath you.
“...ignore me.” She had puffed, breath still hot in the curve of your neck. The sweat on your cheeks melded as you both paused; you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away from the heat.
You then prodded two fingers against the fabric-covered skin, curious but gentle with concern. Touching when and where you probably shouldn’t, if she was hurt. “Are you tender there?”
She inhaled again, the resulting exhale tight, chest expanding. Her teeth gritted, and your proximity—cheek to jaw—means it vibrated through your own skin.
“...yes.”
Thoughtlessly, hedonistically, you pressed harder.
Then she flipped the both of you and the motion began again, your hands working to slip out of her grip before your mind caught up. Her reaction was flooded from your mind by adrenaline, but memories like those that unlock the deepest parts of a person never stay away long.
⚔︎
“Stop letting me beat you, Bes.”
“…I have no idea what it is you’re talking about, darling.”
⚔︎
“Ambessa.” You spoke from behind her, one hand on the doorway, but her shoulders had stood strong—no flinch raised them as she tilted forward, hands resting on the desk. Before, you’d briefly marveled at her stoicism; now you know she’d heard you before you even reached the room.
“Yes, darling?”
The words briefly distracted you from your pressing query.
“When did you start calling me that?”
She had hummed, and pushed another paper to the side—the noncommittal noise was as much of an answer as you were going to get.
“What did you need?” Redirected, you pushed off of the doorway, stepping closer until your hands planted at hers’ side on the desk.
“Do you like it when you get hurt?”
A paper crumpled under her fist, clenched with surprised strength. If you peered close enough, you could see the barest widening of her eyes.
“...sometimes I regret forcing you out of your shell, darling.” The words were exhaled easily, and without tension, so you kept pressing.
“That’s not quite an answer. It is a yes or no question, you’re aware?” Your mouth tipped up in a smirk. It was then that you drew her gaze, and then her grimace.
“I am aware.” She licked her lips, the pink darting from between the beautifully dark mouth that framed it, and sighed. “...pain is a thrill I’m forced to indulge in. It’s a driver out in battle, yet with you, it’s slower. More pleasurable. The same rush feels different when I know I’m not truly in danger.”
Your hand slowly shifted to cover hers, creeping over her knuckles to feel all the small scars.
“...I enjoy seeing you hurt.” You then admitted, before your lips pressed together, as if the sound of that truth was a betrayal. It felt shameful; what human enjoyed inflicting harm on another? “But I’ve never before. It feels wrong.”
“Perhaps it is.” She shifted, turned to face you, her hand not in yours curled at your nape. Her palm was soft, capped by firm calluses. The skin was warm—always is warm—and you exhaled at the touch. “But it can be right here. It is myself who governs this empire I have, and this house we live in. Not outer society.”
You hummed—there was nothing more to be said. Instead, you leaned into her palm and then pressed your arm around her back.
She tucked against you and hummed back.
⚔︎
Now you lay in bed, years later, tracing the red lines your nails sunk into her back. She turns, groans, and pulls with a heavy hand until you slip back into her embrace.
“No more.” She exhales, face tucked into silk. You laugh against her shoulder and reach past the joint to continue your hedonistic explorations.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, my love.”
▶ loser ! jackieshauna . whose first encounter with you is, by fluke, at warmups during a home game.
They're huddled up near the bleachers, doing stretches (read: Shauna is, Jackie is prepping a pep talk that no one will listen to and no one, quite frankly, cares about. The team just plays well because they feel guilty about disappointing her after what is essentially a ten minute long sermon on how much she loves them.)
She's pacing around like a mob boss, reciting a speech she clearly practiced in front of the mirror to Shauna, who's mid lunge and only half listening. And then, she stops mid-sentence, jaw dropping in that cartoonish way that gives the impression that she's a very well animated cartoon character.
That catches Shauna’s attention, since she had, in the span of her entire seventeen years of living, reasserted multiple times that she was sure the only thing that would ever shut Jackie up when she was on a tirade was a nuclear bomb imploding two feet away. Or one of the Spice Girls dying.
She looks up, halfway through the excruciating process of doing crunches, expecting to see a mushroom cloud on the horizon, rapidly approaching and impervious to Jackie’s annoyance at her parley being cut off.
Instead, she finds her mouth going dry and she stops mid-crunch (incredibly painful, by the way, her abs still hadn't reached the ‘resistant to fire, water and muscle-pull attacks that feel like being clawed at by a wolf’ stage yet), eyes growing to the size of saucers.
Sauntering alongside the cheer captain was you— new transfer student, evidently, she'd definitely have noticed if you were around previously, hips swaying subtly in your cheer skirt, gold ribbon tied around your wrist, a traffic-stopping smile on your face as the chattering girl— Kelcy? Kelly? Kryptonite? Shauna isn't sure, nor does she care.
She's sure the hit-with-a-fish look on her face mirrors Jackie’s perfectly, an embarrassment she will never live down if the others catch a wind of it, but her eyes are stuck on you like someone pressed pause on a vhs tape.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spots Jackie, mouth still hanging open, yearling eyes impossibly huge, looking like her tongue is a pom-pom shake away from rolling out of her mouth and dropping to the floor as she watches you greet the other girls on the cheer squad shyly and then get overwhelmed as they take you under their goody-goody wings.
With a trembling hand and eyes that are fixated on you as your gaze hones in on the girls teaching you the warmups, Shauna reaches up and pushes Jackie’s mouth closed.
▶loser ! jackieshauna . who bond over being slightly in love obsessed with you at sleepovers now. You're always the hottest topic, the moot point, every other matter at hand shoved aside to talk about how you smiled for two seconds longer at Jackie than the usual ones you'd bestow on the other kids like gifts, how you picked up Shauna’s chewed up pencil and handed it back to her with a beam in bio despite the fact that she'd gotten frog guts all over it and more things that both would normally be busy-bodying about in between makeout sessions.
The makeout sessions stay. The busy-bodying is swapped out in preference for talking about how your shoulder brushed Shauna’s during fire drills.
▶loser ! Jackie. who completely gives up her military sergeant drills every time she sees you. She'll be dragging Lottie through the literal muck for completely bungling the last goal in the practice round and then the second she sees you, she just— lets go of Lottie’s collar and lets her fend for herself in the mud.
Natalie swears on her late dad’s life that a new change comes over Jackie when she sees you doing your routine. “She's like a fuckin’ abandoned puppy seeing her master again!” She chortles to a very devious looking Van, gesturing towards Jackie who's standing stock-still, beaming harder than the sun beating down on you all, and it's true— if Jackie had a tail, the fluffy thing would be helicopter-ing hard.
You catch her eye and wave to her with one pom-pom, executing a flawless backflip and landing on your toes gracefully. She falls forward over absolutely nothing.
▶loser ! Shauna. who commits social suicide every time she attempts to say more than one word to you.
One moment she'll be giggling with Tai over how stupid Mari looked when she flubbed the ball that was right under her nose, leaning back against the lockers like her father (famously the CEO of Hello kitty) paid for it and then you saunter by, smiling at her and she'll completely fumble like a delirious parrot.
“Hey! Uh you looked- really- I mean- you- played well- fuck- I liked your bow today-” and then she'll turn red as a tomato, cursing her mother for giving her skin so pale everyone can see her cheeks mantle, burying her face in Tai’s shaking shoulders as she hears your tinkling laugh.
She elbows Tai in the gut as soon as you're gone. “Don't laugh, asshole.” She mutters to Tai, who is doubled over and completely undeterred from her show of raucous laughter.
▶loser ! Jackie. who gets your number by complete and utter luck. She gets paired up with you for a group project on something in some class she wasn't paying attention to till the teacher took your name and she nearly shot out of her seat like a rocket.
Shauna isn't there to put a lock on her excitement, so she nearly peels herself off her seat to volunteer to be in your group.
You come up to her after the weird looks quiet down and she's shaking like a fizzed up soda can, grinning so hard she's almost positive her face is going to split into two.
“Uh- hey!” She greets you, trying hard not to sound like someone just told her that her childhood dog came back to life. “So uhh- I guess we're in this thing together now! I promise I won't mooch off your work!” She tries to joke and it falls flat on her own ears. She cringes but you don't, instead rewarding her with a small laugh.
Her eyes do that thing where they nearly pop out of her head as you slide a small piece of paper across her desk, slinging your bag over your shoulder with the other hand. Her brain registers two things— number and you.
“I get your number?” She says out loud, in a tone so wondering that she flinches again, resisting the urge to throw herself on the floor, dig a hole and die in it. Fuck, she sounds pathetic.
You grin cheekily at her. “Mhm. Hand it over to Shauna too, will you? I need some way to talk to you— but don't call after 9. It's my home number.”
She snatches it up like she's playing a game of dog and the bone with herself, jaw hanging open a little in awe. “Y-yeah, thanks…” she mumbles, eyes locked onto the paper like it holds the secrets to the universe.
You titter like she's the world’s greatest captain, gliding backwards as the bell for class goes off. “See you around, Cap'n.”
“S-see you around!” She nearly yells back, startling Nat awake from her seat to the right where she was previously getting some much needed shut-eye. She mumbles some hasty apology to Nat, who's now grousing about how she ‘needed this, dude' and more trifling matters, glued to the sight of you exiting.
Jackie later regales the incident to a very skeptical and incredibly stuffy-nosed Shauna over her phone, gripping the handheld receiver so hard it nearly cracks the plastic. Shauna sniffles as she finishes, kinda ruining her dramatic tale about how you then kissed her cheek before leaving.
“And I'm supposed to believe that she actually said ‘catch you later, hotshot?’” Shauna says in a cynical tone that screams that she would believe that dinosaurs had been resurrected easier than this.
“Hey, don't rain on my parade, okay?” Jackie sighs, reclining back on her bed like she's about to doze off any moment, clutching the slip of paper that has been covered in so many kiss-marks it's barely legible (but it's okay, Shauna insisted on noting it down in that pushy way of hers). “Just let me have this, Shipman.”
She can hear Shauna’s eyeroll through the phone. “Don't you always.”
▶loser ! Shauna. who asks you out on a date unwittingly during a project prep session and then panicks about it later to an envious Jackie.
“No, I don't know how it happened Jackie, stop asking!” an out-of-breath Shauna whisper-yells to Jackie (the last time they were loud at a sleepover, Mrs. Taylor made them sleep in the hallway), the reason for her lack of blood circulation being Jackie’s hounding for each detail down to what colour shoes you were wearing.
“I was just— talking about that new diner downtown and how I'd like to go and then i just— I dunno, mentioned that she's a fun person and then she looked up and told me to pick her up at one!” Shauna blubbers, running her hands through her tresses like she's a hair away from ripping it all out.
Jackie groans, so green in the face, she vaguely resembles a tree, flopping back on her bed miserably. “Atleast you'll have fun…going on a date….with a superhot cheerleader….” She mutters dourly.
Shauna looks her dead in the eye. “You mean, we're having fun going on a date with a superhot cheerleader.”
Jackie straightens up so fast, her spine nearly snaps clean in two. Her eyes are sparkling like gems and Shauna nods sourly, confirming her hopefully theory. “She asked me to bring you too.”
And the rest is history.
▶loser ! Jackie. who is the very epitome of the loser lesbian archetype as soon as you start dating. She stretches like putty for you, bending over backwards to watch you smile. She keeps picking up stray cats and bringing them over to your house, much to an allergic Shauna’s dismay and your absolute stupefaction.
“Jax, we don't even live together!” You squeak, as Shauna dances over you on the bed, giving a wide berth to the gamboling cat pawing at the threads of the edges.
Jackie pouts like you just denied her a hug, watching Shauna perform a one woman tango on the bed as the orange furball leaps over you, determinedly making its way towards her. “But she was lonely! And meowing at me! Cmon, it can be like our practice child!”
“Jax, that is an unvaccinated stray-”
“And now its an unvaccinated housecat!”
“I am not falling for anti-vaxxer propaganda, Jackie!” Shauna squeals as she bumps her head on the ceiling and dives off the now messed up and nicely fur-coated bed. She looks up, rubbing her head that's growing a lump the size of an egg now, at Jackie, who's tickling the tiny menace under its chin, curling into your arms.
“That….thing has to go.” She says, in a tone that could strip paint.
(You end up having to wheedle Jackie into placing the cat at the adoption centre. She only agreed because you let her cry dramatically into your chest later.)
▶loser ! Shauna. who writes super-cringe worthy poems about you and Jackie in class. I'm talking real gag-inducing stuff.
It's like 20% cuteness and 80% so sappy, a valentine's day store would close down just for displaying it.
It's basically just her waxing poetic about your eyes ‘like deep pools of affection I wanna drown in’ and how Jackie’s smile ‘fills me with a deep-rooted love so warm, I burn up like an exploding star.’
She writes them in literature class as a last resort after exhausting shooting spitballs at the back of George Twain’s head, counting the number of times the teacher ‘ooh’-ed and ‘ahh’-ed at his own jokes and retying her shoelaces so tight that they squeeze the life out of her feet.
She'll stare at them for a minute, fantasize about killing herself multiple times over in her head and then tear them out of her journal to rip them up into little scraps that she stashes away to stoke up fires.
Once, she forgot to do so before coming over to your place. And despairingly, you discovered her journal in her bag while she was washing up in the bathroom.
Your cheeks turned a shade of rouge as you perused the poem over, knowing damn well you had no business doing so. You slipped the journal back into her bag and that should've been the end of that, but your surreptitious movements caught Jackie’s eye.
Which, of course, meant that Shauna was treated to a nice little soliloquy on Jackie’s end, complete with exaggerated gesticulations and tone changes that would've caused Shakespeare's best actors to burn up in envy.
Shauna stood there, sopping wet and bashful as you doubled over in laughter, clutching your stomach in an attempt to hold it in.
▶loser ! Jackie. who is banned, capital B, from the kitchen. That would be due to what you have ominously dubbed the Shauna incident.
Despite what the foreboding name might suggest, the Shauna incident refers to the time that Jackie decided it would be very romantic if she surprised you and Shauna by cooking something for you two. Sounds cute and totally not haphazardous, right?
The only problem? Jackie didn't know how to cook. And she intended to learn in two hours.
Sufficed to say, when you and Shauna returned from a grueling day of staying back for extra practice and enduring harangues from both your respective stick-up-the-ass coaches, you were immediately greeted with Jackie having a pyro-induced crisis.
Or, as they like to call it in layman terms, hellfire brought fresh to your kitchen, along with a side of charred meat.
After several rounds of screaming and attempting to figure out how to use the fire extinguisher, you, Jackie and Shauna collapsed in a sweaty pile on the floor, panting and covered in foamy stuff that would definitely cancel out whatever the effects of your conditioner would do for your hair.
“Sorry.” Jackie mumbled sheepishly from the bottom of the grime-pile. Shauna groaned in response, sandwiched in between you two. You raised your head, ever the optimist, and sniffed hopefully. “I mean, it doesn't smell too bad….”
Famous last words. I'm sure you're wondering what this incident had to do with Shauna?
Well, that would be the salvaged meat dipped in peanut sauce.
Peanut sauce, made from organic, elephant-food peanuts.
Peanuts that Shauna was so allergic to, you had put up little signs on the doors of all your kitchens with the words ‘NO PEANUTS ALLOWED’ scrawled in bold letters, which, apparently, had completely escaped Jackie’s mind on her road to culinary success.
One hospital visit later, Jackie watched sadly from your side as a completely pooped-out Shauna furiously stuck a new sign on the ebony kitchen door, right under the first one.
‘NO JACKIES ALLOWED.’
Jackie truly did have such a way around a kitchen. Now, Shauna just starts hollering at the top of her lungs every time Jackie is in the general vicinity of cutlery.
▶loser ! Jackie. who once jumped into a pool. Fully clothed and drunk out of her mind.
It was one of your parties, a high-end affair hosted by freshman nepo baby #1 on the cheer squad in what was clearly an attempt to make a splash with the rest of the team.
You had been generously granted a plus two card (a charity, you're sure) to this swanky dinner party and had dragged along your girlfriends in hopes of getting them to rub elbows with your cheer squad, who ridiculed them quite often.
Most of the other Yellowjackets showed up too, given that most had hooked up with a cheerleader atleast once— a pleasant surprise to Jackie and Shauna, not so much to you, who had been hoping to secretly marry your two friend groups in one giant amalgamation to elevate time management. Clearly, that wasn't gonna happen tonight.
Still, you could have a nice rave together right? Put your differences aside for one night? You must've used up your prayer passes with God, because that did not happen.
Shauna was being crabby, folded over like an ikea chair on your shoulder, solo cup that had previously held the disgusting inconsumable of milk and Malibu she liked to have now rucked, wayyy more inebriated than she usually would've been— a spiking indicator of well….spiking, slurring about how she wanted to go home, when Natalie strutted up to you, grinning like the cat that got the cream.
Obviously, this awakened some survival instinct in you, given that Nat only ever grinned like that when she discovered some new drug for her to hit or that one time she set the chem lab on fire with her lit cig.
You tensed up under Shauna’s deadweight, eyeing her suspicously. “Nat, what did you do?” you asked, trying to keep your voice level to a minimum to not stir the alcohol monster that was a zonked out Shauna on your shoulder.
Nat shrugged, trying to look contrite and failing spectacularly. She raised her spiked punch to her lips, taking a delicate sip, pinky sticking out poshly in the way only Lottie did.
“May or may not have dared your girl to jump into the pool. Yknow, to prove she's not the pussy the rest of us think she is.”
That was enough to snap the drunkard right out of Shauna.
You both spun around in cinematic slow motion, complete with identical looks of utter horror as Jackie bunched up her black dress and cannonballed right into the pool, marking the end of her elaborate hairdo, as well as her dignity.
Or rather, she attempted to cannonball. Her arms stretched out around her knees for a split second before they gave way like she was about to hug someone, and then her legs dangled like limp spaghetti.
She hovered in the air for just a moment before drenching everyone in a two mile radius in pool water that was definitely more rotgut than chlorine now, bobbing around like an apple, sputtering and gasping.
She was silent the entire time you towelled her down. Lottie had bravely sacrificed her pretty frock to dive in after her and drag her out like she was a mermaid saving a sailor. A very stewed, seeing doubles of everything sailor with a heart necklace.
She caught your eye. She knew you were holding back titters. She caught sight of Shauna’s eye twitching despite her best efforts. She knew that she had just horribly lost face and every single brownie point she had gained with the cheerleaders that night.
You opened your mouth to say something vaguely comforting and passive-aggressively a barb but she held up a single finger.
“This never happened. We do not speak a word of this, because tonight as a whole did not happen.”
You nod somberly, assuming a deathbed expression. “Mum’s the word.”
And Shauna fucking loses her shit.
▶loser ! Shauna. who drops everything she's doing to help you out. She could be mid-important game, the biggest game of the season after she spent the rest of it cleaning everyone's clocks— but the moment she sees you struggling to lug a duffel bag behind you, she just lets the ball free.
Jackie’s screaming like someone died, the crowd is booing Coach is yelling at her to get back in— which she does— right after proudly lifting the bag up to where you wanted it like a knight unlocking a princess’s castle.
She sees you handing out lemon slices to the team during halftime and the second she sees your arms tremble, she drops her sucked-dry lemon the ground without a care for where it lands and starts handing the little yellow fruits out herself. The team jeers and calls her a simp, but she doesn't even care.
There was one particular instance of this puppy-dogness that sealed itself in your mind like really sticky candy.
You were balancing precariously on the top of the pyramid, arms held out like a bird about to take flight, your face holding that ‘i think the dog just peed on the carpet’ look that held nothing good for the near future, according to the ghost of cheer present and she was mid-practice, about to score a free shot in Van’s direction that would've definitely gone in.
That is, had God not decided to check his emails right around that time and your legs decided that they'd always wondered what it would be like to be smashed into smithereens.
Down you went like a ship with a hole in its hull, yelping pitifully, eyes closed in acceptance of your fate.
Shauna kicked in the ball in a completely off direction and sprinted towards you like a movie-star, arms extended for you as she dove in what would've been an amazing move for mouse-catching— not girlfriend-catching.
Spoiler alert: she did not catch you. It was two of your more bona fide peers who had clearly seen cheer-recreations of Die Hard before and had instinctively caught you in a fish net like trap with their hands.
Not only did she miss her goal and completely embarass herself, she also scraped her knee and was now sniffling like a sorry dog. Talk about death by a thousand cuts.
It was all worth it though, when Jackie held her hand as you cleaned out her wound and you kissed her head for being so brave after you were done. She blinked slowly and smiled up at you in that endearingly shy way that made her eyes sparkle like a cartoon.
God, you love these dorks.
( #notes(￣ヘ￣;) ) hear ye, hear ye, get your regularly scheduled loser jackieshauna hcs *checks calendar* five days late ! and it's ridiculously short ! a true bargain !
maybe i like pulling out my debit card instead of using apple pay. maybe i like untangling my wired headphones. maybe i like typing something into the search bar instead of using siri or whatever. maybe i like curating my own social media feeds over an algorithm. i just don’t think everything has to be perfectly streamlined and efficient i like it when things feel tethered to the real world.
sixteen carriages plays every time I remember Shauna shipman isn’t real, That’s how bad it hurts. Anyways!
can we get a Drabble based off climax by usher(glorious ahh song, give it a listen)?
-🐰
climax. ᥫ᭡ shauna shipman.
a/n · wellll my requests are closed, but it’s a short drabble so…. :3
꒰ ꒱ CW . yellowjackets typical antics. canon compliant. angst, because it’s the only thing I know how to write. infidelity but it’s on Jeff so who cares. suggestive. post-rescue. slight spoilers for s3. (๑⃙⃘´༥`๑⃙⃘) 1k words. no beta, we die like half the cast.
There was a reason you and Shauna had earned the title ‘Fire and Ice’ before the plane went down. Jackie was gentle rain, extinguishing the inferno that burned in Shauna, melting the ice around what you proclaimed was a heart of stone. The mediator, the martyr, the pariah in some ways garnering resentment from both of you for being so….pure. Innocuous, for lack of a better word.
She didn’t have the burning rage that Shauna had, she didn’t have your frigid demeanour. Her death was preventable and yet you didn’t raise a finger to stop it. If there was anyone who could’ve, it was you. But you didn’t. You brushed it off as a tiny fork in the road that didn’t concern you, didn’t need your involvement. You weren’t the peacemaker and you certainly weren’t the peacekeeper.
The only person to stand up to Shauna, to dump ice water on her flaming head, to match her fight head on and knock her off her high horse of misery and self-pity. It’s what made your love tick— the messy, fervid struggle for control that was more a tug-of-war game between children vying for each other’s attention.
When Shauna rose to power, you were right there— her consecrated consort, the cool one in the face of adversity who managed to somehow talk her down from the murderous rampage she had flown into after finding out about Natalie’s successful operation to call for help.
The attraction between you was stormy, tiptoeing the line of being a danger to both of you. Canines drawing blood, rough nails that had been pared off with a knife coated with the essence of others, digging into scarred skin, hands that touched you like sickles, kisses saccharine enough to rot the harvest.
Now here you lay, Shauna’s head a weight on your stomach where the shirt you stripped off her back has risen up, sprawled out in a tangle of limbs on your childhood bed, passing a blunt back and forth, the scent of hunger and smoke tangling with the innocence of a room that was no longer yours— the picture of domestic indolence. Nobody could tell what had happened to you, what you had been through, if they didn’t look into your eyes, where the light had long since drained.
But then again, you’ve always been a savant at pretending everything’s fine, haven’t you?
“You seem pretty morose for a blushing bride-to-be.”, you comment dryly, your voice holding a serrated edge that sharpens against Shauna’s ears, sharp as the knife she held so treasured out there.
She lifts her head up at you, the same eyes that burned with wildfire once now dimmed down to an insipid black. “You know I have no choice.” She’s searching for pity. Hard luck that she’s forgotten who she’s talking to.
The response comes just as she expects it. “Yeah? I don’t seem to remember you having any such qualms when you were fucking your dead best friend’s boyfriend— willingly, might I add.” Cold air, potent and heavy, stinging her flushed cheeks like it had slinked in through a cracked window.
“Point taken.” Her head droops back onto your lap, groaning. There’s some malaise in the atmosphere now, lingering resentment and angst that won’t fade. There had been a choice to make. It was either you played perfect housewife with Jeff or she did. Mrs. Taylor was insistent on it. And you made Shauna take the fall, of course. Not your crime, not your time.
You take another lazed hit of your joint, rustling her tousled hair affectionately. She jolts up, her ironically frigid hand grabbing yours, a juxtaposition to the warmness of your palm. Ah. There’s that fire you’ve missed. She has an idea. A lurid one, judging by the twitch of her lips. You eye her, leery.
“We could run away.” The cadence of her voice is urgent, breathless— like she’s running to catch a leaving train. You stare at her dourly, and then sigh, exhuming smoke fumes right into her face. She doesn’t so much as flinch as you put it out in your makeshift ashtray.
“Us? Run away together? We’d kill each other before we make it past the edge of town.” You huff, squeezing her cheeks between the pads of your rough fingers— gentle, but stern. A warning. To stop dreaming of what can never happen.
Her nails, no longer jagged as you remember them to be, dig into your thighs, leaving crescent shaped marks that you have no doubt will be covered up by the garishly extravagant maid of honour dress tomorrow. “If you die on me”, she grits out, her voice grating, “I’ll eat your heart.”
It takes a bit of time for you to snap out of your stupor. You sort through the hash in your mind, searching for the appropriate response to what you know is a serious declaration.
“If you die”, you say just as somberly, like you’re attending a funeral, “I won’t write you a eulogy.”
She gives you a once over before letting out a snicker that soon turns into raucous peals of laughter from both of you. You’re just kids here, not the monsters forced to grow up, not the beasts that have been tamed after so long of being rabid.
Shauna’s head goes lax on your lap, melting into your thighs with that devil-may-care attitude you know so well. “We wouldn’t even make it past the gates of the venue, huh?”
“Nope.” You say in a cheerfully chipper voice that does nothing to hide your rancour. “Mrs. Taylor would probably come for us with a gun, locked and loaded.” You clear your throat and assume a falsetto, scrunching up your face.
“And where do you missies think you’re going?” you mimic in what could not be a more terrible impression of a doddery old lady, but is rewarded by the unladylike snort that emits from the dark head on your lap.
You sink back into your low spirits as fast as you emerged. Your hands card through the dark locks that can never truly be washed free of the blood, the scent of woods and bitterness of starvation.
“You’re going to be a married woman tomorrow, Shauna.” your heart is loaded down by the weight of that information. That you’ll be there, in a dress that isn’t white, standing not opposite to Shauna on the aisle, but next to her as she promises her heart to another, expected not to projectile vomit all of duck egg white satin curtains (meticulously hand picked, of course). The girl who’s always been yours.
It’s imperative and it’s inexorable. Nothing you do would stop it. Your fate’s been set in stone since you let her into your heart, since you let her burn off the stalagmites guarding your love. You feel strangely jilted, even if you were never together.
There’s, of course, the unspoken that she’s technically already his. The douche had been too eager, probably more so for the gratuity money than actually for her, and had signed the papers as soon as the word ‘yes’ shaped in her mouth. But that thought rankles you far worse than the others.
“And I’m leaving after the wedding.” you continue, desultory, forcing her chin up to look at you, really look for what may very well be the last time. “I have to let you go.”
How anticlimactic. The souls that were so tangled with each other that their strings were knotted into loops, have now been separated by the looming scenario of her, living a woefully boring life with a milquetoast man and you, off with the wind, letting life do whatever it wishes to you.
No more emotionally charged arguments, no more surreptitious make-up visits, no more of that familiar dance that’s been yours for longer than you can remember. Really, you could almost cry like a child, a lover seeing their darling off at a train station for a sabbatical. Only, this one’s permanent. And she was never yours, not really.
Shauna ensconces you in her arms, hands gripping onto the shirt that still smells like her, looking up at you with eyes you could paint in your sleep. She’ll always be your fire, the heat that scorches your welcoming arms. “Then stay with me. Just for tonight. One last time.”
You can give her that. The final climax of a ‘love story’ (if you could even call it that) that was always hurtling towards an unhappy ending at breakneck speed.
prguitarman
pixelskylines
baratheonpilled
kianamaiart
amandla
tangentwithtanner
gummygunk
andulkaphoto
