†

[saintagron]

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ the sleepiest guy there’s ever been

kiera. 18. femme. he/she.

rules. masterlist.

requests & inbox: open !

[saintagron]

praying i see less bioessentialist “feminism” in 2026. i’m really sick of y’all.

[saintagron]

there’s two types of posts on eyekontwt right now:

posts bashing orlando

posts shipping manon and kazuha

and it’s beautiful

[saintagron]

[saintagron]

when they panned to elphaba in that sweater in the treehouse scene

[saintagron]

training.

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.”

© saintagron, 2025.

[saintagron]

the looming threat of college applications whenever i try to write

[carouselise]

when I'm stalking oomfie's blog 'nd they post something but I gotta act nonchalant and wait five minutes before liking

[carouselise]

✴︎ AND FUCK IT ALL , jackie 'nd shauna kinda want you.

IT'S IMMORTALITY, ✷ MY DARLINGS. ────── loser jackieshauna ⋮ cheerleader reader · HCS.

𝓲nfomercial ✦ ( 𝓙.t. && 𝓢.s. ) . CW ── 𝒇 ! reader. '⬚ ִ cheerleader x jocks trope but they're 'downbad ݂ ✦ ݁˒˓ nocrash / precrash au.

▶ 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 !

[boycritter]

maybe i like my tech a little bit inconvenient

[boycritter]

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.

[saintagron]

masterlist.

arcane.

hunting. (caitlyn kiramman.) modern!caitlyn headcanons. parent!caitlyn headcanons. modern jinx/powder headcanons. strangers in the night. (ambessa medarda.) training. (ambessa medarda.)

yellowjackets.

camp counselors. (natalie scatorccio.)

currently working on: cate dunlap x ta!reader. lottie matthews x pen pal!reader. have you? (quinn fabray.)

[saintagron]

longlegs rewatch.. lee harker my wife i missed you

[saintagron]

someone check on all the pazzi enthusiasts after the hard launch. if this year’s super bowl set a precedent, they might just raze dallas.

[carouselise]

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.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

TAGLIST. @f4riedimples , @scatorcciosbabe

[smoggydoggyy]

i think tumblr would appreciate my tmasc lesbian nat art

[carouselise]

WISH YOU WERE HERE ! [ TAPE 1 ] ☾ jackie.

꒰ (e.) cryo /ˈkɹʌɪ.əʊ/. — involving or producing cold, especially extreme cold. ꒱

Jackie loved you. she really, really did. but she couldn't claim to be ecstatic when you started crying every time she brought her future up.

DARLING, I SHOULD TELL YOU. THIS TAPE IS RATED R:

angst . slowburn. hurt, no comfort. omniscient dynamics. graphic descriptions of cannibalism n gore. dead dove, do not eat. sweet moments of bliss before a storm. canon compliant (so far).

5,710 words. no beta, we die like Laura Lee.

· · ────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

TK-SHH. the sound of a woman's heavy breathing comes over the mic, crackly and nearly cacophonous. "Uh..." the hesitation in her soft voice is clear. the sound of buttons being pushed makes it through the screen. "Van, is this thing on?"

somebody, presumably Van, sighs and fiddles with some buttons. the audio quality is considerably better now. another woman clears her throat. "So... we're making a couple of tapes, to try to remember what happened to her. Back then." her voice is raspy but the catch in her voice is audible as she utters the last syllables.

there's a beat of silence and then another voice, eager and enthusiastic, pipes up. "Well, she was part of the Yellowjackets." there's a couple of 'duhs' and grumbles of 'can it, Misty'. Misty obliges without any objections.

Van clears her throat. "Uhm....she liked to hang out with all of us. In the woods, usually." she chuckles placidly.

"Jackie- Jackie hated the creepy-crawlies in there. But she would always go when she asked. No matter what. They- they were close. I think. Jackie and her. Jackie and her 'cinder'."

Jackie Taylor was perfect. perfect girl, perfect grades, perfect boyfriend, perfect life— that was her to a T. if you asked someone to define flawless, they'd probably point you in her direction.

and she maintained the image well. captain of the school’s star soccer team. prom queen. a best friend who bent backwards to make her happy. it's all a teenage girl could dream for and more, right?

wrong. there was nothing more Jackie Taylor hated than being ‘perfect’. a doll in someone else's playhouse, an untouchable goddess whose smiles were bestowed upon everyone like gifts.

her future was set in stone. a script, written for her to play Barbie and Ken with Jeff, live a perfect demure life with frilled aprons, a huge family, to stay quiet and bury all her dreams, to waste her twenties scrubbing stains out of her husband's stiff-collared shirts while waiting for him to come home to his dingy apartment from his 9-5.

if she'd known that picking the pretty boy from the litter to be her boytoy would lead to this perdurable life, she would've just sucked it up and admitted that she liked girls, even if it meant her parents would boot her to the curb.

college was just something to pass time till Jeff put a ring on it, her parents would tell everyone. it's why they were sending her to Rutgers. a nice, sensible finishing school would've been better, of course, but their daughter needed a complete education at least (even if she would be holed up in a trashed living room for the next living years of her life).

she'd agree politely, letting honeyed words roll off her tongue, pretending that all her dreams of becoming a journalist, a professional soccer player, of being free were just tongue-in-cheek, ignoring the bitter aftertaste that came with them.

she longed to lash out, to scream at the world that she didn't want to be who they were forcing her to be, to sob her pain of not being understood by anyone, not even Shauna, who seemed to shut down every implication that Jackie’s life was anything less than perfect with a subtle laugh.

but let's be real. little miss perfect would never do anything that didn't fit others’ images of her.

that's why she liked you. why she admired you. why she loved you.

she knew how the other kids spoke of you. ‘mad as a march hare’, ‘off her rocker', ‘nutty as a fruitcake’ and a variety of other names too crass to repeat, even in her head.

how they'd avoid you when they saw you gliding down the halls, feet never making a sound, like a mouse. how she'd been warned several times by classmates to ‘stay away from the looney tunes girl’ whenever she was called for soccer practice.

how even coach looked at you like you were a ticking timebomb, liable to explode.

but she couldn't, for the life of her, understand where those misconceptions came from. she could never pin all those stupid rumours to a vision of you in her mind’s eye. ‘crazy’ sounded like an oxymoron next to your name.

if anything, you were a wallflower. an observer, not an instigator. quiet, taciturn, walking like you were on the most fragile of ice, always smelling like lavender and rain and something so faintly earthy, she couldn't put a name to it.

she used soccer as an excuse to get closer to you. she wasn't quite sure why you even joined the team. you were a star player, an ace up their sleeves for sure, but you didn't seem all that interested in kicking balls and getting all sweaty in soccer jerseys and whatnot.

you were popular among the team if not among the school, at least. everyone wanted a piece of you— which was both gratifying and incredibly annoying when Jackie just wanted you to herself.

she'd ask you to come with her to the new cafe downtown? you'd apologise and tell her that Lottie already asked you to go see her mother's new flower show.

she offered to lend a hand with the little thatch of flowers you were growing in your own little corner of the outskirts of town? Nat had already come around and pulled weeds with you the previous weekend.

getting you alone was a task akin to pulling teeth, but the reward was worth it.

she'd show up to the outskirts of town in her most comfortable clothes— usually some overalls and a loose shirt, sneakers already covered in mud (something that would've given her mother a heart attack had she not stowed them away in a shoebox under her bed), hair tied in a scrunchy, car coated in a fine inch of dust from not being used, and wait for you to show.

you didn't tell her where your house was, and she didn't ask.

it was just an unspoken rule— she'd camp around the edge of the woods surrounding Wiskayok and you'd show, copious amounts of flowers in your hands, a camera slung around your neck, inconspicuously handing her poppies and leading her by the hand into the heart of the wilderness you seemed to know so well.

she'd watch, enamoured, as you sang to the flowers around you, coaxed the creepers to grow, cajoled the skittish squirrels onto your arms and then petted their trembling heads. she'd never had a green thumb, Jackie, much to the woe of her pitiful mother, but she liked it on you. it suited you, the real you.

she'd often take these opportunities to articulate her miseries, venting her frustrations of being the perfect moldable doll to you, knowing that unlike the rest of the world, you'd listen.

sometimes, Jackie would wonder if you were the earth personified. she could think of no other explanation, no other reason why the woods would listen to you so well, why you seemed like such a wild child, why your presence felt like being cocooned in a warm blanket of magma and shrubbery, so nurturing, so unselfishly caring.

your penchant for getting reclusive baby animals to love you had earned you the affectionate nickname, ‘Cinder’. “Like Cinderella”, she had proclaimed to you proudly, resting her arm against the metal locker, strands of wispy auburn hair sticking to her chin.

you'd just snickered and accepted your new moniker with grace. it was another reason why she liked you. she could be herself around you. playful and warm and awkward like every other teen, not docile and obedient. not perfect.

you'd listen to her patiently, stroking your fingers along the tapered, paper-thin wings of the butterflies that perched on your fingertips, one ear tilted to her, the other tilted to the ground like you were trying to listen to it too.

and when it was all over, when she was shaking with rage and animosity towards everything, when her hands would go to clutch at the poppies in them and crush the petals just because she could, you'd look at her. really look at her. the eyes are a gateway to the soul, someone had once told her. if that was true, you may have seen hers— but she certainly couldn't see yours.

your eyes were always fogged over, distant. like you were staving off the thought of a place that wasn't here, like your heart was in a home completely detached from your body.

but there was always that piercing glint in them. that look that spoke a thousand, raucous words that rang in your ears only, but were hushed husks of whispers to her.

there was a knowing appearance to them— not pitying, just sad. full of empathy. like you were let in on secrets that she wasn't. for once, it brought solace to her. she wasn't sure she wanted to know what kept a gentle soul like you up at night— if you even slept.

“The frost will override the heat one day, Jackie.” you'd tell her ruefully, your typically steady hands shaking as you set a magpie down on the moss, watching it spread its wings to soar away, it's belly full of seed you'd just fed it from your pocket.

she snickered, nudging your arm with her elbow. “Uh-huh. And what's that supposed to mean?”

but you didn't elaborate. you never did.

this same statement was repeated to her several times, and each time she would question it and each time you would just…go mute, like you wanted to tell her but you couldn't— tugging at your hair nervously, plucking at your clothes like they were too tight on your body— so she'd just let it go.

the closest she got was that one time you convinced her to scale a tree. she was panting as she crawled up behind you, muttering a small ‘fuck’ as she noticed the small tear in her shorts— the hem had caught on a stray branch or whatever, clearly.

you were balanced precariously on the far end of a broad branch, shuffling what appeared to be a deck of cards in your hands, muttering something to yourself. that wasn't new.

she'd caught you talking to yourself in hushed voices many times, only to come to a terse stop everytime someone else came near you. she could only make out a few words each time and none made sense.

‘mother’ and ‘snow’ and something about grief that her brain had tuned out automatically— the cons of having mastered the ability to blank out basically everything.

and yes, she's aware that eavesdropping is a shameful crime, yada yada yada, but it doesn't technically count if you're spying on just one person, right?

as she settled herself against the less hazardous limb of the tree, you looked up at Jackie, your eyes fire in the cool morning air of a New Jersey sunday. her heart beat faster and she beat off the feelings with a stick. ‘She’s a girl', she told herself firmly. ‘And you have a boyfriend.’

“I'm going to try to tell you what I see today.” you had said urgently, face staid and earnest in perfect juxtaposition.

Jackie nodded just as dourly, though she was not ashamed to admit that she was suppressing titters. she doubted she could ever see what you saw— you were just wired different.

you saw colours where they didn't exist, people who were long gone, emotions as swirls and mists rather than something abstract. it sounded cool on paper, but even Jackie wasn't oblivious enough to ignore the haunted look in your eyes, the jittery cadence of your voice.

you shuffled the cards so rapidly, Jackie couldn't keep track. you held them out to her, your voice louder than usual, almost eager. “You're the querent, you have to draw.”

“The que- what now?” you ushered her in the direction of the cards. she shrugged and took off the top card.

“The Hierophant.” she drawled with an air of blitheness. she turned the card around and showed it to you. a priest, sitting in front of his disciples.

“That is who you are.” you told her. “It represents traditionalists, following the norms of society, accepting your fate without looking at new approaches.”

she winced internally. well, she couldn't argue with that. she didn't want this life. she didn't want that prom crown, she didn't want Jeff to be her king. she didn't want him as much as she wanted you, as much as she wanted Shauna. but she went with it, because it was the right thing to do.

“Lucky guess.” she murmured, realising only too late that you heard it. but you didn't bother to comment.

instead, you held out the deck again, taking her old card and placing it in between you two. “Take another one.”

she eyed the deck suspiciously. “How many do I have to take before this is over?”

“Six.”

she blinked, holding back a groan of agony, instead deferring gracefully, picking up another card and turning it around for you. “This one's upside down.” she commented descriptively. she'd always had an eye for details like that.

“Your past. Temperance Reversed.” you noted, placing it on one side of the center card. “Lack of balance, excess pressure. You're unable to fit the pieces of yourself together, because they were all made by other people, you're unwilling to change.”

Jackie’s stomach tightens. she’d always felt like that— a body with two left feet, with odd hands, limbs and organs that didn't belong to herself, clothes she didn't even like. it was like churning in a pressure cooker. being forced into beauty pageants as a child, being made to walk across hallways with books on her head like her home was some fucked up princess school.

she took another card silently, holding it up for you. you plucked it from her grip solemnly and placed it down on the other side of the center card.

“Your present. The two of Wands, reversed. You could break the cycle, you could break free. The leap is right there, but you're unwilling to make it. You're afraid of failure, of losing your safety, so you don't move on.”

Jackie shifted uncomfortably, her clothes suddenly feeling too stiff on her, too ragged. she knew you were right.

it was right there. the escape from her gilded cage. Rutgers may not have been the best school she could have gone to, but getting any education at all would mean that she could leave her home behind. find her own way.

but she didn't like the thought of having no warm fireplace to come back to, no love to fall back on, the prospect of working a long job just to barely afford rent.

another card.

“Your future. Seven of Cups. You will struggle to find meaning, you won't be able to reach for any possibilities, any hope. Without drastic change, your fate is sealed to be devoid of hope.”

Jackie scoffed playfully, but there was a clandestine hint of fear in her voice. she'd always been a skeptic, a non-believer. she went to church because her parents wanted her to, not because she actually found faith in God.

“A lot about change, huh?” she snorted, folding the edge of the future card that was placed in front of her. “Is someone going to come from the sky and pelt me with lightning bolts or something?”

you shot her a withering glare that paused her weak chuckles. “I don't believe in these cards as much as I believe in my intuition. I believe what they're insinuating, because I can feel it in my bones. You will strike yourself down if you're not careful, if you don't drop your attitude, if you don't change."

she sobered up immediately, assuming the expression one would have on the deathbed of a dear friend. she picks the next card with unnatural stiffness, offering it to you like she was presenting an award.

you examine it carefully. “Your obstacle. The Moon Reversed. Betrayal, confusion, misinterpretation, fear. Somebody will betray your trust when you need them the most, and you won't understand why.”

Jackie started, her eyes widening as you place it across the centre card. “Wait- who's gonna betray me?” you shrug. “I don't know.” something told her that you were fibbing. but like always, Jackie never asked.

she reclined again, stretching to reach for the final card.

“Your destination-”, you started off as she grasped the topmost card. “Death.” she finishes, staring at the card in trepidation. a pit suddenly formed in her stomach, boring holes into it.

she put it face down, like it was a bomb about to explode, gaping at it. there was an uneasiness that wasn't there before, and she didn't like it. she wasn't gonna be a superstitious idiot after shunning fallacy for so long.

“Inverted Death.” you correct. she looked up at you, startled. your voice was squeaky, wavery. “End without change. Rot. Decay.”

and you burst into tears.

Jackie immediately scrambles forward, her face etched with concern as she reached for you. the cards promptly fluttered to the ground, covered by the shrubbery. she didn't give a damn.

she realised pretty quickly that the branch was snapping far too low, bending under your combined weight, so she took your hand and practically hauled you to the sturdy limb, taking you in her aching arms.

growing up in a household where she was coddled and comforted for even tiny papercuts meant that she knew exactly what to do when the tears started.

she whispered words of affirmation in your ears, reassuring you over and over again that they were just ‘silly cards that should've been used for poker or something' and it wasn't real, that nothing would happen to her.

she couldn't even tell if she herself was at rest with her reading, but what did it matter, when you were sobbing into her shoulder like your heart was cracking, like a flood of sorrow had just emerged from somewhere deep rooted inside you and shown itself in such a raw way?

you seemed damn near inconsolable when the weeping started, but you stopped just as quickly, wiping frantically at your eyes, almost bashedly, like you were ashamed of displaying such lack of self control.

Jackie fished around for her handkerchief, the one engraved with her initials and handed it to you. you wiped your flushed face with shaky hands and stowed it away in your own pocket, mumbling a promise to have it back to her by Monday.

Jackie shook her head no. “Keep it.” she had told you. “It's yours now. Just a token. To tell you that I'm all right.”

you looked unconvinced, but thanked her anyway, enveloping her in a hug that lasted far too long, that had her drunk on your scent. the scent of the earth.

“Hey. Tell you what. Let's go down to that new diner that opened like two blocks from here.” she talked to you like one would a startled animal. "You didn't wanna go last week because of all the terribly-kept plants, but you might like it now..." something in her voice seemed to soothe you. your mask appeared again, the one that made you seem so reticent.

you smiled sweetly at her, nodding as a sniffle escaped you. “Only if you foot the bill.” you said slyly, taking her hand in yours. she rolled her eyes. “Gladly, freeloader.”

she helped you down the tree— your legs were trembling like leaves.

she started to walk off, leading you by the hand like it was a leash. a tight leash. but you tugged on her wrist. she turned around almost stiffly, like a plastic doll. she was more affected than she was letting on.

“Jackie.” you started off, your voice urgent, “I need you to promise me. That you'll be more aware- that- that you won't ignore what's right in front of you.”

she stared at you for a bit, and then laughed, like you were pulling her leg. “Oh c'mon, I know I can be a bit oblivious sometimes, but I'm not that bad.”

she tried to start walking again, but you didn't budge an inch, staying mired on the ground. “No, Jackie I'm serious. Promise me you'll change.”

change. there was that word again, that annoying word that crawled into her head like a parasite and rooted itself there.

“I promise.” she sighed after tarrying for a bit. “I'll try.” you hold out your pinky to her. childish, but the only bond you ever truly trusted. a bond that ran deeper than blood pacts.

she looked at your jutted pinky and silently sealed the promise. you finally uprooted yourself from the mud, watching as she turned around and started trampling her way through bushes.

you pretended to not notice her smile fade when her back was turned to you. she pretended not to see the look of distress in your eyes when she turned away.

and look, Jackie loved you. she really, really did. but she couldn't claim to be thrilled when you'd start crying every time she brought up her future.

when the private plane to nationals (courtesy of Mr. Richy Matthews) crashed, when she was jogged out of her peaceful sleep to the sounds of screams and what she had no doubt was her death knell, her eyes were drawn to you and to Shauna— who was unconscious.

her throat closed up in panic, her lungs wouldn't work properly. she knew Lottie would take care of you, she knew she wouldn't let you die. she had Shauna to deal with now.

she dragged Shauna out of the burning wreckage of the plane twice that day, both times with guilt in her stomach, the last time with tears in her eyes as Van screamed for help behind her, screamed to not be left alone with the burning bodies of her teammates and her own voice.

Shauna clattered on the ground like a sack of potatoes, cuts forming a mosaic on her face, but she was safe. Jackie's eyes darted around the carnage and the wreck, searching desperately for the figure she knew would be dressed in blue.

she spotted a blue blur out of the corner of her eye just as she was about to start screaming your name, and she caught you by the waist just as you jumped into her arms, toppling over.

her wobbly hands clutched at your shirt desperately, trying to make sure you were real. she pulled back, her eyes scanning the wounds littered on your face. “Are- are you hurt anywhere else? Do- do we need to-”

“Where's Van?” you cut her off, staring around the wreckage with wide, sparkling eyes. your eyes reflected the fire behind her right in her face and she shrank back automatically, the shame creeping over the relief she felt.

she rubbed her arms nervously, clambering to her feet. “I….she's…”

“You left her.” the words come out of your mouth so cold, so hostile that Jackie’s knees nearly cave in. her mind is wiped clean of all the multiple excuses she once used to maintain her perfect image.

the look you give her, the look of pure revulsion, so different from that warm gaze of yours— the one that made her feel on top of the world, makes bile rise in her throat. she clutches her stomach like she's trying to hold her innards in— or perhaps rip them out and give them to you.

you push the hand that's reached out to graze the edge of your loose shirt away, shooting her one last scowl before taking off— right towards the inferno burning at the plane.

“Cinder— wait !” Jackie starts to chase after you, but aciculur fingers tug at her shoulder, pulling her back. It's Lottie, looking oddly steely. her eyes gleam with something as she watches your retreating back, her arms locking Jackie to her place— adoration, maybe. Jackie knows where you're going. where you'll always go.

with Lottie practically pinning her against her body, preventing her from dashing to your side like a dame in a bloody letterman jacket, Jackie wriggled out of her grasp to check on an incredibly pissed Shauna. no matter. she knows Shauna, knows how she'll always forgive her, knows how she'll always be there, even if you're not.

sure enough, when she's trying to wheedle an acceptance to her apology out of Shauna, you show up— with Van in tow.

you're both covered in ash and soot, Van looks the worse for the wear— but you're still alive. that's a lot more than she could say for certain other people, she thinks, as she gawks at Coach’s body, lolling over a tree, dripping tiny droplets of blood like rain.

she catches Van's eye, then yours, and she knows she's not welcome. the harsh glares bore into her like a stake to the heart. she turns and walks away as Tai engulfs Van in a hug that lasts far too long to be friendly.

and thus grows the emotional rift between you two. the longing glances she shoots in your direction, only to be met with radio silence or often times, nothing at all. but you're not petty. you never were, and she knows and god, it makes it so much worse.

to know that you still stand up for her, still defend her indolence when she lazes around instead of helping with gruelling chores, still defuse the tension between her and the others, even though there's the hatchet that can never be buried in between you two.

losing Laura Lee was painful for everyone, but more so to you and Lottie. she was there, watching the plane fall just as quickly as it rose, watching you run out to the lake, Lottie following suit, watching as you dropped to your knees, Lottie screaming her heart out beside you. she padded into the frigid waters and held you to her chest, her heart beating in time with yours as you sobbed silently, each gulp of air a wheeze that probably rendered you blind with its fervidity.

you drank the soup with everyone else at Doomcoming. you watched her go off with Travis, your eyes all knowing, shining with a clarity that no other foggy eyes held. you locked her in the closet that night. not out of spite, but out of fear for her own safety. this hive was no longer hers to control, no longer looked up to her like she was their queen who hung the moon in the sky. and you knew better than most, like you always did.

she started to protest as you shoved her in, cans of stale food crashing to the ground as she gripped at the wooden shelves for support. “Stay here, Jackie!” you hissed, your voice unnaturally deep. the look in your eyes was…proud. confident. like you knew what you were meant to do, for once in your life.

Jackie wiped the dust off on her dress, starting to follow after you as you took long strides towards the door. but you whipped around, pushing her back in with a force that was practically inhumane. she stared at you, her mouth agape. “I'll come back for you, I swear!”, you seethed. she didn't miss the slight hint of rancour in your voice as you made the promise.

silently, she extended her pinky to you. the harsh shadows that had settled on your face seemed to clear, if only for a moment. you clamped your pinky around hers, locking eyes with her own clear hazel. then, you slammed the door shut behind you as she slid to the floor, curling in on herself.

but you didn't come back for her, did you? not when she needed you the most, not when she needed you to bring her back in from the cold. literally. when the inevitable fight with Shauna came, when years of hidden acrimony and malice surfaced, when feelings that had never been communicated to her— ugly, jealous feelings, came to light, she had no one.

she had fallen from her throne. no longer the untouchable goddess. no longer the high-horsed queen. in a setting where morality and traditionalist ideas didn't matter, Jackie had nothing going for her.

Shauna, with no qualms about the ‘eat or be eaten’ rule, with nothing holding her back, unloaded years of anger and scorn onto her, and everyone turned their backs on her. her, who held fast to civilized behaviour, she who refused to adapt as the situation required.

Jackie gathered up her pillows and blankets, marching to the door on feet that felt unnatural on her body, her eyes locked onto the pretty, soft hands that were useless, that no longer mattered in a callous life. everything she had known collapsed in on her. she had lost all meaning, all purpose, all will to live, to eat and to do anything that once mattered to her.

she turned back one last time, to make one last cutting remark at Shauna. but something stopped her. you were huddled by the fire, counting your fingers, dressed in a loose, thin-strapped black dress that was so far off from what you would've usually worn, Jackie wasn't even sure she was looking at the same person anymore.

but then again, it seemed she had never known any of these people, jammed together in a dilapidated cabin in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. it was the look in your eyes when you raised your head that stopped her cold.

your eyes glittered like gemstones, reflecting the firelight in a way that should've been impossible. instead of the warm atmosphere your gaze usually gave her, the butterflies, the red cheeks, Jackie felt like there were a million bugs crawling up her legs, binding her, suffocating her. you gave a fleeting glance towards the door and returned to counting your grimy fingers, like nothing ever happened. like her conceited self deserved her fate.

like you never even knew her. not the mask she put up, not the face behind it.

it crushed her. because fuck, it hurt. it hurt so bad, she didn't know it was possible for an ache so deep to exist after all the pain she had just suffered through. it gave her the courage she needed to walk out the door, to feed her own ego.

you didn't want her anymore? well fuck you. she didn't want you either. she wouldn't change. not for the world, which was always given to her on a silver platter, but had now rotted with her heart.

your last words to her rang in her ears, crept into her dying dream as her body grew colder and her soul grew warmer. “I'll come back for you, I swear.” you're reneging on your promise, just like she did on hers. eye for an eye, huh?

when Jackie woke the next morning, she was no longer herself. she was detached, more detached than she had ever been. she rose and her body did not follow. she couldn't say she was very surprised, staring at the white snow that coated everything, every surface, every treetop, even her own cold, cold body. so your damn tarot reading came true after all.

she wanted to see your reaction to finding her like that. blue-faced, but peaceful, more peaceful than she had ever been in life. and hey, she certainly left a pretty corpse behind for you to find, right? she blocked her ears against Shauna’s screams. they were too blood-curdling, too painful to hear, even if she had declared the brunette dead to her mere hours ago.

she had one priority and one priority only. her transcluent eyes scanned your impassive face. nothing. not a tear. just cold disinterest, like she had never mattered to you at all. all she could glean was a twitch of your lips and nothing more.

Jackie decided to stick around. somehow, she knew that there was no ‘light at the end of the tunnel’ waiting for her. she would be free when she chose to be. she hadn't panned out in life and she wouldn't move on in death. take that, reversed Temperance. she knew exactly who she was. a petulant, stubborn bitch who wouldn't let go.

over the course of the blazing winter, somehow, the darkest, murkiest parts of her had manifested into this twisted version of herself that communed with Shauna sometimes, mocking her and taunting her for the death that was, in Jackie's opinion, at least, entirely her own fault.

but she was pleased to know she was haunting someone, if not you. or maybe she was.

because after Tai found out that PTSD Shipman was playing dress up dolly with her two month old corpse and the spontaneous decision to cremate her was made, you stepped up just as Shauna was about to light the fire. you stooped down to her body and pressed a kiss on the forehead of the stinkin cadaver, before gently unhooking the necklace that rested on her bony collarbones.

you fastened it around your own neck, untangling the golden chain with an almost reverent hand, kissing the heart charm.

your eyes were closed, but she could feel the sorrow around you like an aura, emitting towards her in a way your feelings never had before. maybe she was having like a spiritual connection to you or something. cuz of the necklace. maybe she had haunted the necklace with like— her skin cells or something.

she had expected to feel some tie to her physical body post-humous cremation. some agony tantamount to being burned alive or something. but as she watched her former teammates rip into her perfectly cooked body, scarfing down chunks of her flesh like it was ambrosia, sucking her fingers like they were cornucopias and would leak nectar, she felt nothing. nada. not even disgust, let alone anything physical.

she supposed she didn't have anything corporeal to feel her pain with anymore. there goes her plan of being a vengeful ghost.

Jackie never really put herself in your shoes. she never saw what you saw. she loved you, but not enough to consume you. not like you did now. you weren't ravenous like the others, weren't giving into your baser instincts, despite being as emancipated as anyone else.

you took your time, running your fingers along smoked flesh, the curve of her hip, the trail of her face. no one else noticed or commented, lost in their gluttony. you picked carefully, sitting at the metaphorical head of the metaphorical table.

her feet, nearly burned to a crisp, a symbol of humility. her eyes, the gateway to her soul. her hands, the ones that had made so many promises with you over the years. her lips, the ones which you had grazed with your own on nights when she was too tired to lie to herself.

she felt those, even though she didn't. placebo effect or whatever, but she did. a pleasant burning in her eyes. featherlight fingertips over her feet. a warm press in her numb palms. a brush of plush, chapped lips on hers, reminiscent of a time when her future was still set for her, but not as bleak when she was still on top.

you looked straight at her and the hole where her heart should've been gave a feeble twang. a desire for what could've been. you've always been one to love like that. devouring her like an animal with all the softness of a human.

so no, Jackie never really did understand you. but there, looking at your eyes, the only ones filled with tears at a table full of beasts as wild as yourself, but in your senses, so painfully aware, gave her an inkling that even if it was for just that small moment, she did.

————————————————————

a/n : ran into so many hiccups on the way but it's finally here ! this is part 1/10 ! find the main masterlist here.

TAGLIST: @beaucate @theoreticalfreak @f4riedimples @scatorcciosbabe @theworldscalamity

[saintagron]

strangers in the night .

an. the best type of young love is between older women cw. strangers to lovers. retired business owner!reader, business owner!ambessa. vetting disguised as flirting... which turns into actual flirting. sneaking off like teenagers (because love makes us all young again). age gap; reader is in their early 30s, ambessa is in her mid 50s.

The Christmas Gala, once a ironically-named event held in your small, two-floor office space, had evolved. Greatly. No longer were you organizing the simultaneous potluck or hiding Secret Santa lists—you weren’t even organizing it at all. Despite the hefty royalty checks you cashed and the occasional memo sent your way, you’d pulled out of business and sunk into leisure. 

So now, along with the company’s—corporation’s, to be precise, as of a few years ago—rapid proliferation, the Gala, in turn, had snowballed and grown to fit its name. No longer were your five employees shuttered into the break room, no. Now a river of investors, your successors, and upper management floods a grand venue once a year, to chat and consort each other and wheedle deals over seemingly unending champagne. 

What was once an ugly sweater contest had turned into black tie, suits fitted and dresses ankle length. Heels are high and cufflinks are shiny, speaking to each person’s apparent wealth and influence. You, yourself, also look the part; dressing up is uncontrollably enticing, no matter if it’s your first or fiftieth time. 

Pearls round your shoulders, clinging to the satin that plunges shallowly at your chest and pools low at the bottom of your spine. Each shift of your shoulders etches shadows and reveals highlights, making you an unending piece of art. Whether it be the dimples that sit low on your back or the shallow lines of your shoulder blades, they reflect beautifully in the venue’s glittering lights. 

You’re greeted as you enter, but thankfully most understand your desire for observational solitude. The high, curving ceilings are a better greeting—silent, beautiful, glimmering. They meet at a point in the center of the room, the domed glass segmented and exposing the sky’s winking stars. Their light calls you, and it’s more welcome than anything that you’ve ever heard audibly. You tear your eyes away, though. Stargazing can come later, when your task is wrapped up in a tight bow. 

Deal-making is not your job anymore—you’ve left that to your successors. Yet, every once and a while, they come to you with a plea. Unintentionally, you’ve become their “vetter.” They send you to speak with potential business partners, often without educating them on the company’s history and your part in it. An unaware person is an honest one, and your judgement has always been the sound law of the land. 

Tonight you have another mark. It feels like a shot of lightning, thinking about it. You accept a glass of champagne but don’t sip, buzzing with too much energy. Perhaps it reflects badly on your life’s level of excitement that a faux-investigation, reminiscent of a 90’s spy film, is enough to make you fuzzy with adrenaline. Ah, well. Tonight isn’t the night to scrutinize yourself—instead, it’s time to investigate another.

You spot her from across the room, and it makes you stop. Pictures pale to the way the bare light makes her glimmer, smooth and dark and defined. Initially it looks as if she’s in a dress, the crimson fabric loose at the legs, until she moves and reveals the pantsuit’s disconnect. The golden accents shine just as her skin does, each shift of her restless stance revealing new divots for your gaze to explore. 

Her eyes flicker towards you. They don’t meet, but it’s much too close for comfort. You relieve yourself of your drink, placing the untouched flute on a passing tray, and tug your CMO into a dance. She laughs against your hair as she obliges, curling her hand in yours and resting the other at your waist.

(She used to be so small—not in stature but in confidence. It’s sweet that she leads, after so many years of you taking up that role.)

ᰔ

Miss Medarda is popular. You watch her while you’re drawn, pulled, and guided through dances—reveling in the orchestra’s swell, as well as her subtle glances. She’s swarmed by people, most dwarfed by her height and beautiful musculature. They vie for her attention like minnows around a scrap, tugging helplessly in so many directions she does not move at all. 

You’ll never tear through the swarm. But your gaze will. 

You allow it to drift lazily, naturally towards her. The slower dance, spins less vertigo-inducing, grants ample time to meet her eyes. She glimpses you. You meet it. Unintentionally, there’s a quirk to your lips—not meant as a challenge, but merely an instinct of politeness and a show of mild amusement. But she takes it as such, meets the challenge, even though you’re an unknown from across a crowded room. You can see it in the sudden, subtle clench of her jaw. 

She joins the dancing crowd not soon after, seemingly drawn in by a slightly-drunk, over-eager business partner. They hold her clumsily through the song, and you can see every wince as they stumble over her feet. Every time you glimpse her again you’re laughing silently, smile so wide she can spy the white gleam of your canines. 

Thankfully for her feet’s wellbeing, the next dance is one that incorporates switching partners. She maneuvers closer and closer to you, even as you spin on the arms of others. It’s predatory in its intensity—even with other men and women in front of you, all you can pay attention to is the burning of her gaze at the back of your head. 

She’s coming for you. 

It’s stupidly thrilling. It feels like a spy movie—you the secret, mysterious operative and her, the intense, almost-desperate government agent. Your heartbeat picks up every time you’re passed off, wondering if you’ll be scooped up at the next switch. 

The song rises to its crescendo. The flutes guide the melody, high and melodic, the rest of the woodwinds following after; the strings follow suit, rumbling bass and cello supporting the croon of the violas and violins. It climbs higher and higher, the breathtaking sound amplified by the hall’s high ceilings and far-reaching walls. You’re already breathless when she scoops you up, driven more by your heart, the muscle beating in the music’s rhythm, than by your own mind. You can’t help but laugh, the sound falling warmly between you; your hands curl around her shoulders, they roll under your palms.

“Why are you watching me?” She rumbles, low and unintentionally curious. The words are pressed into your cheek—she leans down to kiss the skin like she’s a friend. Femme fatales curled together. Who needs a James Bond or a Jason Bourne?

However, there’s no high stakes to the question, unlike in the movies. Revealing your identity wouldn’t be a detriment. But that’s not what you’re here for, and so you charm your way through a lie. It doesn’t matter if she believes you, really. It’s all just a bit of fun now. 

“Because you’re beautiful.” You breathe, low and drawn out, hopelessly enamoured against her dark cheek. The skin is oh so soft, luminous and flush to your own. And her fragrance—oh, how wonderful she smelt up close. A hint of something spicy, sharp, before it melted along your tongue like tangy cherry and a morning rose. 

Your breath hitches, because how could it not. 

She chuckles; lets her hand venture further down your back. It presses, large and warm, into the base of your spine. 

“You’re too blatant to be malevolent.” She murmurs, and drops her head like she wishes to nose at your hairline—lingering just far enough that you can feel the cool brush of every inhale and the slow release of every exhale. “But I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth, either.” 

You exhale then—one slow, delicate, shaky breath. And then again, another breath, this one half-laughter. You’ve laughed more tonight than you have in the past month. It’s the full-body type that makes your cheeks hurt and your chest burn, not the half-hearted sort of chuckle you give to an almost-funny joke. It’s wonderful. Your eyes squeeze shut with the gentle force of it. “I guess I’m transparent.” You murmur, pressing your own hands into her spine. This isn’t the first time you’re grateful her pantsuit is backless, and it surely won’t be the last. The skin at her spine, thinly covering the most defined muscles you think you’ve ever had the pleasure to lay your hands on, is as warm as the rest of her. Those muscles ripple under your fingers—every shift, you feel; every movement is cataloged and marked with your prints. 

It’s quite distracting.

She spins you, then; you go turning past who was probably your next partner, their hands decidedly empty of either you or her. Their wide expression makes you feel guilty for about half of a second before she’s breathing against your ear again and nope, you’re totally willing to do another rotation with her. 

“So, who are you, then?” She hums, the barest quirk of her brow following. A lie sparks across your tongue—one of the many aliases you’ve used brimming—but it fizzles and dies under her gaze. Something in it says that she’ll know. So you give her your name then, the words only loud enough for her. 

She gives no reaction. There’s not even a shift in her gaze. But you know she’s heard of you. Just like everyone’s heard of her. 

“Ambessa Medarda.” She offers in return, as if anyone here—or in the business world you soar above—doesn’t know who she is.

“Pleasure.” You murmur. It’s the most genuine thing you’ve said all evening. It’s not surprising—she’s warm and flirtatious, a natural conversationalist who’s not overwhelming. She appeals to your withdrawn sensibilities, not borne naturally but created through your lax early retirement. So when she smiles just a hint and starts to (not-so-subtly) ease you off the dance floor, you go with her. 

ᰔ

The first thing you realize when you breach the perimeter is that it was warm in the venue. It wasn’t clear when you were in there, but the rescinding heat and subsequent brushing chill is enough to make your shoulders tense. 

“Cold?” She hums, passing over a flute of champagne—two of them dwarfed by her hands, one in each palm. You didn’t even see her grab it. 

You hum a denial, accepting the drink. The venue’s set on a beautiful piece of land—sprawling, manicured fields of grass intercut with intimate gardens. It’s always been a dream of yours to see it at night, ever since you first came here as a child. The light pollution that covers most other places is gone, especially further out on the grounds. If all the electricity went out, you’re sure you could see galaxies long forgotten. 

Your heart pulls you again, guides your feet—not your head. She trails after you, curiously quiet, intelligent enough to read the silence and enamoured enough to sink into it. 

The grass is cool, slightly misty. The sprinklers had long since gone off, leaving just a gentle sheen of water; it’s barely enough to wet your skin. You ease down to sit in it, the short, even stalks skimming your wrists and curving gently at your ankles. She sinks down next to you as you take your first sip of champagne all night, letting her long legs splay out and the crimson fabric of her pantsuit separate. Your wrist tilts, offering your flute at a subtle angle, and she bumps her own against it with a gentle tink. 

“I’m not made for that anymore.” The idea has been growing in your mind for a long while. You once relished in it—in the networking. In meeting people, growing your business, and fighting to keep your principles cemented at the forefront of it.

Now you’re just tired of it. Perhaps it’s retirement (the one you swore was just a break) seeping into your bones, or maybe the ache for connections outside of coworkers, subordinates, and business partners caught up for you. 

All you know is it’s not for you anymore.

There’s no sure reason why you’re sharing this with her of all people; it’s well known she’s made for this. Groomed since birth, now an eternally cemented figure. The businesswoman of the generation before you. In the years where you were struggling to scrape together salaries and your own rent, she was already there—and she’s outlasted you.

(Rumor says she’s never taken a day off. You think they’re so bullshit, but… sometimes you wonder.)

“I’m not sure you ever were.” She responds, champagne swirling in her glass. She’s never quite still. As if noticing your gaze, she takes a sip. Wets her lips, and then continues. “But you did very, very well, in a world not made for you.”

Your eyes tighten for just a second—not suspicious, but scrutinizing. She knows who you are, obviously, if not your face than your name. But everyone knows your name. She seems to know you. 

So of course you ask. Burning curiosity was one of the things that got you so far, after all. Among other things. 

“How do you know me? We’ve never met before.” She takes another sip from her flute, red lip printing on the rim. 

“...I saw you present at a conference once. I’ve been keeping track ever since.” She may be unabashed and honest, but the words make your face hot. 

“That was—” you huff, mentally searching through the years. When was the last time you presented—?

“Seven years ago. You were just getting off the ground.” Her tone is even. Soothing in its smoothness, but overwhelmingly calm. Especially with the information she’s divulging—speaking as if it’s nothing more than an itinerary. 

Your mind spins. Seven years. 

“Why?” Is all that comes to mind—bubbling on your tongue worse than the champagne.

“My children have never been as ruthless as I… thought they needed to be.” The words ease out—slow, controlled. As if admitting her misstep was a challenge. She turns to gaze at you, open hand coming to cover your own. “You gave me hope. That they, too, could succeed in this cruel world.”

You let the moment simmer. Watching her gaze deepen is a pleasure—the quietness allowing you to really observe her. 

“...did you just attempt to flirt by comparing me to your children?” She blanches, and then bites back a laugh when she spots your wry grin. Her teeth bare with the effort, but the lines in her cheeks sink in regardless. 

“You’re evil. So very evil.” Her laughter is soft. Who else gets to say they saw her laugh like this? It’s a privilege you tuck close to your chest. 

“Why didn’t you talk to me that day?” That question makes her quiet. 

“...you were so young.” Your head tilts, an eyebrow raising. You’re old and experienced enough to spot a half-truth—with enough younger cousins to know, instinctively, the tone they carry. 

Her lips press together, caging the confession. But under your gaze, she relents. “...and very pretty. I was… different, then. I had just lost my husband. I knew I couldn’t resist, and that you’d get pulled into my grief. I wanted to let you bloom, unimpeded by anything.” 

“It would have been very controversial.” You quip.

“Completely.” Her lips twitch. 

“A scandal. At least your children are a… well. One of them is younger than me.” Comes your hum, your lips pursing. 

“That… really wouldn’t have helped, I don’t think.” She huffs—but she’s smiling. 

“...I would have been into it.” That makes you both break, falling into laughter. The motion pulls you into each other, the humor like a vortex. Her shoulder bumps yours, and your hand curls purposefully into hers. It’s heart-pounding, juvenile.

“You’re a character.” You’ve spent enough time around older people—both socially and in the business—to know that means you’ve got attitude, but I like it. It makes you beam. 

The silence settles comfortably, your cheeks aching when your smile slowly melts into something softer. 

“I always wanted to see the stars here.” You confess, eyes tilting up towards the midnight-smeared horizon. The sky isn’t black, here, the darkest color still carrying a tint of blue or purple, the colors only further illuminated by every bright star. “I loved this place when I was a child… but they closed the grounds at night. Even before the sunset.”

“It really is wonderful.” She hums, the sound rumbling from the back of her throat and coated with understanding. “This is my first time here; I’ve never been one for historic buildings. I’d rather frequent the war museums, or stroll through the parks. Old, rich houses are beautiful… but they’re empty of people.”

War museums.

“Your father was a veteran, wasn’t he?” You question, suddenly reminded of it; you’d learned it years ago from some stray magazine article, bored and half-asleep in some waiting room. Thank you, Vogue, for having insightful interviewers.

“Yes, yes he was.” Her huff is surprised, a subtle raise of her brow following your question. “And I’m the only one who’s been watching?”

You can’t help the grin that splits your face. “You’re everywhere. Whether you like it or not.” 

She laughs brightly. You can feel her breath rush, warmly contrasting against the cool night air, against your hairline, and instantly you’re aware of how close she’s pressed. Through the conversation you’d both migrated close, until your shoulders hover just an inch apart. 

The flush that settles over your entire body is juvenile. It feels nostalgic and foreign all at once, the feeling an old memory—like the lightness you felt at prom, heels digging into your ankles and dress heavy as you danced. The pain and happiness, joined, had all diminished into sparse reflections you had to grasp at. This feeling was no different, yet now it was back with a vengeance. 

“...god, you make me feel young again.” You scoff, temple pressing to her solid shoulder. 

“Isn’t that my line?” She teases, but her smile is soft. “I’m supposed to be revitalized by a younger lover, not the other way around.” 

“I’m already retired. We could argue that I’m older in spirit.” Your words make her laugh again—a quiet thing, exhaled over your hairline. 

“Sure.”

You sit there, side by side, twined for a while. It’s not clear how much, the moon’s shifts your only gauge. When someone comes to find you it’s already peaked, heading down towards the horizon, yet still with a while to go. 

The house’s doors have never been quiet; oiled and maintained, yet the sound of age still echoed when they opened. Music and quiet conversation spills out over you the few seconds it’s open. 

“Miss Medarda? You have—” Their breath stutters, before they regain momentum. “—um. You have people looking for you; the night’s winding down and they’d like to talk once more before it ends.”

She grumbles something unintelligible, but moves to rise. You catch her forearm, stopping her halfway.

“One second.” You slip your hand into the dress’s pocket, tugging out an old relic—a business card. It’s an old habit, but you still find yourself sliding a few of them into whatever pocket, purse, or bag you have that day. You procrastinated cancelling the continuous orders for too long, and now you’ve got about a million. But you’re thankful for that in situations like this. “Take my card.” 

“...you’re asking me to call you?” She hums, looking mildly amused and wholly appreciative. “Why not?” You quip back, brow raised subtly. Two can play at that, hm?

“...I’ll be in touch.”

ᰔ

They call you then, the next morning, after you’d completely forgotten why you were actually at the gala. 

“We couldn’t find you before we left. What’d you think?” Your successor’s voice crackles over the line, half-groggy. 

“Too much whiskey?” You tease instead, biting your lip to suppress laughter. You’re not successful in the slightest. “Shut up, please. The sooner you answer the sooner we can both go back to nursing our hangovers.” They groan, and it makes you give up on holding back your mirth.

“Okay, okay.” You hum, still exhaling chuckles. “She was wonderful. I think she’d be a good partner.”

They breathe out, relief palpable even through the phone. “I was hoping she’d be good. She’s a wonderful businesswoman; she’d be a great asset.”

“Mhm.” Your phone vibrates against your ear. When you pull it back, you’re met with an unknown number. “I’ve got to go, okay? But let me know how it goes.”

You hang up before they can respond, perhaps too quickly. But there’s only one person who would be calling you right now.

“Hello?”

“Good morning.” She hums, sounding much more awake than you. “How are you?”

“...I’ve got good news for you, actually.”

© saintagron, 2025.