saintagron

[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.

[saintagron]

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.

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TAGLIST. @f4riedimples , @scatorcciosbabe

[saintagron]

i think tumblr would appreciate my tmasc lesbian nat art

[saintagron]

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.

[saintagron]

natalie going cold turkey when you have kids so now the only cigarettes in the house are candy and come in a justice league box... thinking thoughts

[saintagron]

me trying to figure out if im allowed to follow the mdni account that followed me first

[saintagron]

#1 or #2? both will get published in time—it's just a choice on which one comes first. might be subject to (probably minor) changes because the brainworms steer this ship not me, but the core of it will stay the same.

[saintagron]

camp counselors.

natalie scatorccio x reader. cw. weed, mentions of death, mentions of arrest. schizophrenic episode mentioned but i tried to skirt around it bc i have little to no knowledge on the topic. an. inactivity hurts... but ap exams and final projects are kicking my ass. so. here's natalie while i dream of summer.

Camp Green Pine isn’t exactly the first place someone would pick to spend their summer. Its majority population is kids under twelve, high off of being away from home for a few months out of the year and not quite old enough to sink into teenaged angst of hating everything and anything—including sleep-away camp. 

And you, yes you, are one of its ever-so-illustrious counselors. You get to chase over-enthusiastic children, most of which are away from home for the first time, around a massive swath of grassy clearing and through dense woods. For a whole summer, too! Aren’t you lucky. 

But the camp’s great, really—despite your frequent (and needed) intervention with the kids. You grew up there, spending summers holed up in the teetering bunks that seemingly shrunk until you realized it was just you growing. You’re not quite sure how your family knows Miss Matthews, whether she’s twined to your family by blood or marriage or a platonic bond so deep-rooted she’s your de-facto aunt. But she’s there, and she’s tall and willowy and smells of sweet flowers, so you’ve always loved her. 

She offered you the job when you were barely teetering at adulthood’s edges. Let a seventeen-year-old watch a bunch of elementary schoolers, that’ll go great. But her trust seemed to be founded. You did well—better than well, despite being the rookie, due to the help of all your early-twenties now-coworkers. 

Now you’re freshly eighteen, just off of graduation and out of school’s clutches—if only for a few months, before you pack off to university in the fall. Rapid changes are afoot, and the future distance between you and your family makes your heart squeeze painfully, so you return for one last summer in that nostalgic, constant place. 

ᰔ

Unpacking there isn’t the big, upending task you imagine university will entail. It’s one backpack and a small suitcase, dragging slightly crooked behind you due to its old, broken wheel. It’s your cabin, the only solo one due to the counselors’ odd number, given to you by “chance,” because Charlotte would never admit favoritism. It’s—

A girl. A blonde, bleached, with half-an-inch of dark roots peeking. A girl, laying in one of the beds, face down and her limbs spread like she’s been flattened. You can’t tell if she’s asleep, so you sneak to the other bed, easing your bag over your shoulder and flinching when your case’s broken wheel catches on a floorboard and tumbles loudly, plastic against wood. Shit.

The girl stirs with a start, head jerking up from where it was buried in her arms. Her gaze, sharpened despite her recent unconsciousness, shoots to meet yours with a sort of panicked width to them. “...hi.” Your voice is awkward and slightly strangled. You’re not used to people your age being here; usually it's twenty-somethings looking for a summer job or experience for their resume, if they’re education majors. But this girl is young, as you are, with the stubborn curve of baby fat clinging to her otherwise slim cheeks.

She grumbles something that could be interpreted as a greeting, forehead falling back into the cradle of her biceps. Her next sentence is a bit clearer, but it catches you off guard for the second time.

“...so what did you do to end up in this shithole?” Her voice is slightly muffled by fabric, but the words are clear—spoken with an easy sort of rasp that instinctively makes you straighten. 

“I… work here?”

“...you’re shitting me.” She rolls over, head hanging over the edge of the mattress. Even upside down, her gaze is striking. “You’re the scout Mrs. Matthews was talking about?” 

The already straight-set to your spine stiffens, bristling much like a cat would. 

“I wasn’t a scout. And it’s Miss Matthews. Or just Charlotte.” You busy yourself with unpacking, setting your things next to the old, sturdy dresser that’s eased against the wall. Before your gaze turns away, you catch the curious, much-to-observational purse to the girl’s lips. 

“..she has a ring.” That makes you bite your lip. Shit. The flesh splits, your skin giving under the harsh pressure of your teeth. You wince, lapping at the blood that pearls. 

“Well, she’s not married.” You’re well aware you’re being snippy, and it’s not the best first impression to give when you have to spend the rest of the summer sleeping four feet away from them, but it’s a painful line of questioning you’d rather not go down. The girl seems to recognize it, and doesn’t say another word about it. 

“...I’m Natalie.” The rasp is softer now, the introduction settling on the front of her tongue. Your mouth plays around the syllables, before sharing your own name with her. 

You don’t push about what she did. She doesn’t push about Charlotte. But they settle between the two of you uncomfortably until you turn away, splintering the interaction with a huff. 

ᰔ

With Natalie here, the summer is… different. You’re not sure if it’s bad, not yet, but it’s certainly odd. You’re used to being the youngest, respected for your experience but still ruffled and pushed like a sibling. Now you have someone your age around to snicker with as the others run around like headless chickens after the all-too energetic campers. 

“God, they really have no idea how to work with kids.” You mumble, leaned back against one of the soaring pines the camp is named for. Natalie sits near your feet, knees curled up. Her fingers tap consistently, almost anxiously. There’s a tightness to her expression but an ease to her smile, so you don’t question it.

“Yeah. They’re not great.” She huffs, her head lolling back against the pine’s rough bark. The heat of your thigh sears close to her hair, the skin close and exposed. You can feel the tickle of the bleached strands, the nearness a pressure you’re not used to yet.

“They’ll get better.” Your voice is soft with memory–remembering those from last year who did not return. “They always do.”

ᰔ

Another thing you discover: Natalie is good with kids. She has this dismissive attitude that makes them flock to her, always beneath her feet and tugging at her shirt and copying her lazy gait. And with all the stock she’s put into being a “cool guy,” she’s awfully quick to shed it at the first opportunity. 

She’ll scoop up a second grader when you’re out at the lake, eagerly filling the spot as the other anchor for shoulder wars—sun-warmed and pretty in the provided green one-piece, smiling at you as the kid pulls her hair like she’s a puppet. She’s determined to beat you but doesn’t let competition cloud her judgement, scolding for bad sportsmanship. She even scolds you, but much more physically than she does the kids—shoving your pout into the water and leaving you sputtering in the face of her laughter. 

She’ll join teams for relays, capture-the-flag, whatever games you play. But, you find, she’s especially good at soccer. Soccer she kills at, eventually setting up little workshops where she runs footwork and shooting drills. Somehow, she even roped Charlotte into one. You haven’t seen Charlotte so happily breathless in a long time. 

She even takes up the mantle she mocked relentlessly, taking up the acoustic guitar from the less-than-capable boy who wielded it to coolly strum out the needed chords. (She still refuses to sing.)

Natalie seeps into the community like a well-stirred concrete, filling cracks you didn’t even know existed. She’s a jaded addition you didn’t know you needed. And having a bunk mate was pretty cool, once you finished mourning your solitude. Throughout the stress of college applications and exams, you forgot what it was like to truly relax. She truly brought it, if with… unconventional methods. 

You weren’t sure what Charlotte’s stance on drugs was—goodness knows she probably dabbled, given how she dressed and the serene way she went about every day—but she’d probably advise against smoking in the wooden cabins. Whoops. You didn’t intend to, not really. But when Natalie tugged out a tin and rolled a blunt for herself, stating that it’s been forever, you’re tempted enough to slink over to her bed and press close for a hit. 

“Leech.” She huffs, but it’s half-a-laugh, so you continue to crawl closer. “Nata-lie…” 

“Don’t.” The bite in it is faux, molar’s broad grind instead of canine sharpness. Her lips twitch and tick around the blunt, her mouth emptying from the word before filling with smoke.

You ignore her command, slip into her lap. It’s easy, when the word lands like a desperate bid for stability. She wants, the brick wall keeping it contained crumbling at your warmth. 

She tightens further as your thumb plays over her lower lip.

“Please, Natalie?” Your simpering faux-pout makes something in her eyes crack. There’s no strength there—you have to gather the pieces of her up and keep her upright. Your lips press to hers, already opening in expectation of her exhale. 

“Stealing my pot.” She mumbles after she’s exhaled, and the laugh that catches in your chest doesn’t mix well with the burn of the smoke. You choke, cough, and she thumps you on the back with a laughed curse. “Shit. Careful.”

“Messing me up. Give me another hit.” You huff, and she raises the blunt to your lips with a bare scoff—already relenting before the burn of challenge can sear beneath her ribs. 

It hasn’t hit you yet, the high—in a few minutes it might be curling through you, pushing your rationality to the wayside. Now, you still have the mind to exhale away from her, tilt your head up and away to watch the smoke dance in the air. She takes the opportunity to latch onto your neck, teeth scraping and mouth hot. 

“Natalie.” You exhale, arms falling around her neck—careful to hold the burning blunt away from her body. She presses closer, hands digging into your sides with a force, as if you’d ever try to pull away. 

“Stop saying my name like—“ the words devolve into a groan, vibrating against your skin and catching desperately in her chest. 

“Like I want you?” You huff, hand tugging her hair hard enough to make her detach. She’s glossy-eyed, her lips not yet swollen but still pink with the evidence of you. “I want you, Natalie.”

“Stop talking.” And it’s just a little bit desperate, the way she licks at the seam of your lips. Presses in and past it, like splitting you open like this would somehow expose the sour core of you. All she’ll find is warm, soft flesh and a pulsating heart. She groans when she does—tugs you further into her lap, the grip of her hands wild.

“Please.”

You laugh, but not cruelly. It’s almost delighted, lips pulling wide around a toothy smile. Words are lost in it. Articulation isn’t necessary—not when the air hums, sticky with summer and bubbling intimacy. You attempt to, regardless, because you’ve never seen someone with a girl in their lap look quite so pained. 

“I’m telling you the truth. I want you, okay?” Her chin tips under your guiding hand, tugging it until her eyes flicker to meet yours. She’s slightly red-eyed, lids drooping. When she nods you mirror it, raise the now-stubby blunt to her lips so she can take one last inhale.

The view’s heat is so intoxicating. You don’t notice how the paper sears your fingers until she tugs it out from between your fingers, brow worryingly furrowed. Her mouth opens around words, but they’re left unsaid as someone pounds at your cabin’s door.

“Wakey, wakey, esteemed counselors! Some kid got himself stuck on the roof. We all tried, now it’s your turn.” 

Roof of what, where, how—you can’t puzzle it. Especially not while (admittedly, very mildly) high. But you’re sure they got themselves into a truly mind-boggling situation. Happens every year. You should just ban truth-or-dare at this point. 

“You signed up for this, scout.” Natalie gruffs, and pushes you off her lap. Anything affronted you might say melts into a groan. 

ᰔ

It was bound to come out sometime. Big secrets only stay under wraps for so long. They fester, grow, no matter how hard you try to ignore them. 

Corpses under white sheets still rot.

ᰔ

Charlotte has an episode. It comes out of nowhere. She’d been withdrawing for weeks, yes, but you just assumed it was because—

Well. It seems you were wrong.

It was a normal morning, the day it happened. You awoke at dawn to the deafening sounds of the morning birds, Natalie heavy and warm and half-draped across you. Rising was slow, the weekend granting time off from activities and only mild wrangling of the children. Charlotte wasn’t at breakfast, but she takes morning tea in the greenhouse occasionally. Nothing to worry about. 

Even when a counselor comes, whispering questions about her whereabouts, you’re unburdened until they confess they searched everywhere. The greenhouse, her cabin, the activities hall—every place in the camp, tree’s roots to the canopy's top, and no hint of her. That is what makes your blood run cold. In that moment you set off yourself—and Natalie, seeing the deep furrow between your brows, follows without a word. 

ᰔ

It’s been five years since Aunt Lee died. She insisted you call her that—it was all you could pronounce when you were young. “Lee! Lee!” you’d babble, and she’d kneel down with the sun in her smile and scoop you up, no matter what. Then you’d be shadowed by Charlotte—Aunt Lottie, then—her long limbs like redwoods compared to your childish ones. You’d latch onto her regardless, and that was how their visits went—you clinging to one or the other. 

You were old enough to comprehend what Aunt Lee being gone meant. You’d allowed your mother to swaddle you in black without complaint and clung tight to Charlotte’s hand as you both gave your last goodbyes. The tears, fat and hot, on your face mirrored her own, and you found solace in it. It’s easier to process grief when you’re allowed to express it, unrestricted. And Charlotte’s own emotion was an invitation, one that led you into her heart. 

So you know now. More than the rest, where she’ll be. 

Your feet carry you down a remarkably untravelled path through the pines. It’s largely uncarved, ferns still soft and intact. Each root and divot is familiar to your fastened feet. You cling to Natalie’s hand as she stumbles, her few weeks of living here leaving her still unaware of how to mold her feet to the forest’s earth. 

She doesn’t ask where you’re going—never says a word. Just follows. Her shoulders are as stiff as yours are, if laced with a bit more anxiety. She doesn’t know what’s happening. 

You didn’t want Natalie to find out this way. Not that it’s shameful—it just isn’t your secret to tell. This is a conversation Charlotte guided you through, anxious and fidgeting like a girl. It’s information she spilled vulnerably, opening herself up to let you see the deepest roots so you’d never be unaware. She should’ve been the one to do it, if she chose to. 

ᰔ

When you reach a clearing, you stop abruptly. Natalie knocks against your back, efforts just slightly slow, her elbow clanging into yours. 

“—What?” You shake your head, press your fingers to her lips—her further questioning cut off.

“Stay here, Natalie.” She waits and watches as you approach Charlotte; the tall woman’s limbs are bundled around herself. Though she seems peaceful, her dark eyes are wide, pupils blown with a yawning darkness. You crouch down, voice lowered and soft around the edges. “Hey, Aunt Lottie.”

She reaches for you then; her hand presses around your shoulder, curling you closer until your knees knock. “Do you think she’s here? I can feel her but I—I’m not sure.” 

There’s no question of who she is. Your lip slips, already split from your worried gnawing, back between your teeth. Childhood habit. “...I’m not sure. I don’t think so.” You breathe, hand curling over her own. She slackens, enough so you can maneuver and press her knuckles into your cheek. “I miss her too, y’know.”

Charlotte doesn’t say a word—just curls you closer and dampens your hair with tears. Your own seep into her kaftan as you sink down to lay in the ferns. She speaks up after a few moments, hoarse and overwhelmed. “I saw her this morning. She told me to come find her. I thought—I thought maybe…”

“...I don’t think so.” You repeat softly; you’ll probably croak before you stop reassuring her and, inadvertently, yourself. Your throat aches with the old, bubbling grief. “I know. I’m really, really sorry.”

ᰔ

Natalie corners you afterwards–after you’d risen and walked Charlotte back to her cabin, helped her into bed and promised to stay. She didn’t interrupt as you sat there, holding Charlotte’s hand until she fell asleep. Instead she lingered in the doorway, a wary mass of worry and caution—a storm cloud that follows you until you sigh and address it, halfway into your own cabin.

“Yes, Natalie?” 

“...you didn’t tell me she was your aunt.” It’s mumbled like she’s feeling petulant, but there’s an acceptance to it—that same one forged that first day. You didn’t ask her, she didn’t ask you. And now it seems you’ll be laying it all out after all. You’d think that you’d be furtive—such a confession is raw, and when coupled with others’ inexperience in grief it can bring oppressive, coddling sympathy. But Natalie is just as burdened, and so it curls from your mouth with little more than a slight hesitation. 

“...she is. She’s—she was married to my Aunt Laura. She passed about five years ago. Cancer—bone cancer.” Chondrosarcoma. You don't think that word will ever leave you—it's seared into every neuron so deeply the char marks are more familiar than anything else. You have to cling to a piece of her somehow.

Natalie looks pensive, slightly awkward—the vulnerability seeping into the cool girl’s gashes, those hastily covered and improperly treated—before she blurts out an equal confession, though hurried and ineloquent. 

“...I killed my dad.” It pauses between you. Her shoulders sag, then tighten. The motion would be imperceptible if you didn’t spend two months staring at her (while she pretended not to notice.) “I mean, I didn’t—it was an accident. But people think I killed my dad.”

“...they gave you community service at a kids summer camp for murder?” That makes her laugh—a clumsy exhale startled out of her. 

“No, no.” She stutters over the words through her laughter. “Just… I might’ve gotten drunk and broken into an abandoned factory. And got caught.”

“You’re stupid.” is what falls from you automatically, met by her “You’re stupid.” that’s just as light and bubbling with her deep chuckle. 

“...gotta say, I think yours takes the cake.” You mutter, a baffled shake of your head following. B&E, and a reciprocal death. Not that it’s a competition. 

Somehow, Natalie thinks it is. Or jumps on the competition aspect as a means to get some sort of prize.

“So what do I win?” It’s enough to make you snort. A tug to her collar, and she’s pulled close—another, and she’s half-curled on top of you as you sink back to sit on the mattress, beds long-since pushed together. 

“My phone number. And maybe a kiss, if you’re lucky.” 

“You want to keep in contact?” She breathes, already looking beautifully affected—lidded eyes and parted mouth. 

“Obviously. And to think I thought you were cool.” There’s no time to be indignant; not when you tug her in so close she’s got no choice but to laugh into your mouth.

[saintagron]

How do you think cait would be as a parent? Love everything u write!

no warnings, i believe!

✶. doesn't matter if she gets you pregnant, you get her pregnant, ivf, adoption, etc... she loves them so much.

✶. would definitely want to have multiple kids. she remembers what it was like to be an only child, especially in a house as isolating as hers was. her parents tried their best, but it's difficult to do everything—especially with an entire city to run. she couldn't even imagine only having one. she has had nightmares about it before, about a baby with her blue hair crying and no one being around to hear. makes sure that whenever you're both out of the house your kids have a nanny + the house's staff to take care of them, on top of your kids already having each other.

✶. always up to take a shift when the baby's fussy... she's so used to being up for 24, 36, 48 hours when she was an enforcer—and that hasn't changed now that she's the sheriff (though it's mostly self-inflicted.) so she's always ready, whenever there's a shift or a cry picked up by the hexmonitor, to pat your stomach and push your shoulders back down, whisper "i have her, my darling." and slip out of bed. you think you're the most rested new parent in the world.

✶. competitive. the type of parent to bet on what word your toddler will say first, when they'll walk or when they'll pick up their head. always glaring at you, pulling your giggly, fuzzy-haired baby into her lap and encouraging them to say "mama."

what she doesn't want you to know is that, whenever you're away, she'll curl up just the same—but instead of mama it's whatever you prefer to be called, murmured over and over again. she'll act peeved, but she coos to them later.

"oh, you did such a good job, didn't you, my lovely?" she murmurs, the groggy babe curled into her shoulder with a fat fist lazily clutching a section of hair. the gentle back pats are rhythmic, in tune with her up-and-down, side-to-side bobbing. "saying that." your toddler only nuzzles closer. their tiny lips part around a yawn, and then again around a sleepy "mama." caitlyn's lips purse, and then downturn—fighting off the genuine wave of emotion. "i know, i know. bedtime, darling." gentle hands lay your child down, and the little one is not worried because that's all they've ever been cradled in. the light switches off, the blue nightlight sputtering to life, and she slips out the door. it's only then that she sinks down against the wall and sobs, smile deep-set and the seam of her lips flooding with the tears that streak downwards.

✶. so protective. she’s always close behind, no matter how far they tottle. she’s sure enough of piltover’s safety—she’s in charge of it, after all—to let her children wander, but she follows close enough behind just in case.

(one time she did let them wander further than usual, just to see if they noticed her absence.

they absolutely did. to a large degree. you had to deal with crying kids holding hands desperately, sobbing about how mama's gone.

needless to say, she slept on the couch.)

✶. other than her occasionally... experimental parenting style (she's trying, okay?) she's quite the good mother. totally dedicated to every moment with your kids—even if she's dead on her feet. she'll light up when she gets home from work and they're still awake—no matter how long she's been on shift—and scoop them up.

"oh, here's mama's babies. how was your day today, hm? productive?" she'll murmur, like her under-eyes aren't the darkest you've ever seen and she's actively swaying on her feet. "al-right, time for bed, yes?" and you'll rush them off, giving her that ten minutes to compose herself, shower, change... and she's out before you return to bed. she'll wake up enough to kiss you, always so soft and pliant, before drifting off again—splayed over the bed like the reaper's taken her.

[saintagron]

just saw ur modern cait headcannons!! love them sm, would you be willing to do modern jinx/alt au powder headcannons?

modern jinx headcanons !

no warnings (i think lemme know if i'm wrong) it's late so these are slightly incoherent !!

✶. an absolute academic powerhouse, though she doesn't seem it. double majors in art and mechanical engineering. shows up five minutes before exams looking like a party exploded over her—eyelids still stained with glitter from the night before, accenting her almost purple dark circles—and absolutely destroys the curve, etc etc.

✶. don't remember where i first saw this but she would skateboard everywhere. it's always strapped to her backpack, spraypainted with a chaotic masterpiece and outfitted with custom grip tape. instead of the library she goes to the skatepark, hanging out on the top of the ramps and dual-wielding a paintbrush and a calculator. skates there on the weekend, does a couple competitions, but never gets too too into it. she totally did a bunch of the art as well, the walls covered with pink and blue and purple.

✶. would worship the ground you walked on if you were her regular barista. would refuse to take her coffee from anyone else. even if she just takes it black that day (which is how you know her professors are on her ass) she claims you make it better. tips in doodles and drawings, usually of you that she scrawled while she was sitting there.

✶. being roommates with her would be hell, there's no need to sugarcoat it. sure, she keeps her mess on your side of the room, but she's always awake. you can always hear her too-loud music through her headphones. that's why you like painting nights the best—she doesn't listen to the same blasting music, especially when she's doing a still-life. instead, the sweeping of the brush against the canvas and the rain sounds she plays low lull you better than your own meditation music.

...and then being her roommate turns into being her overseer. she'll be ready to fight a guy at a party, one hand ready to claw while the other instinctively guards in front of the girl behind her and they'll be yelling at you to get your girlfriend, man! so then you have to drag her out of there, get the girl she was defending a car, and then spend the next thirty minutes holed up in the bathroom 'fixing her makeup' (letting her rant out all her anger.)

sometimes you let her beat the shit out of them. as a treat. they're frat bros, it's not like they don't kick each others' asses on the regular.

despite that, it's actually pretty... nice. she'll be stressing about an assignment that's not due for another two weeks, head between her hands and staring through the shitty wood of her desk. you'll make a irritated noise, open up your blankets because really, it's too late (or early in the morning, sometimes) to deal with this and she'll melt over you like marshmallow—sticky and warm and sweet—and smelling like it, too.

✶. anyways... i know i'd expect her to be an absolute shit cook, burnt water and charred toast type of person. but once you both finally have access to a kitchen she's in there daily. presenting you meals as beautiful as her paintings, greens placed elegantly on top of sauce-soaked meat, muffins topped with crumble and full of fat blueberries that pop in your mouth, whatever you can think of. works the kitchen like she's made to be there, somehow a perfect multitasker. she has a bit of a sense for it—the perfect time where it's between undercooked and charring, how much to whip it, how to modify the recipes. you joke that she's not allowed to be good at everything if only to see her sharp-toothed, pleased smile.

i could see her as a meal-prep type of person. she knows she'll be too tired to cook during the week so she'll stock up on meals during the weekend. she's grateful for her forethought every time she stumbles in after a lecture runs late, knowing all she has to do is microwave whatever she left out to defrost.

✶. recreational weed user! usually once a month when her and ekko's schedules finally line up. taking the day to smoke, curling like cats at an open window and passing a blunt (or five...) back and forth. orders a shit ton of takeout and always brings some home to you, so you can't complain.

with you i could definitely see her as more of an edible person. she just loves to be able to pop a gummy and settle into bed, becoming increasingly incoherent watching whatever vine compilation you put on your laptop. looking at you with huge, blown-out pupils and giggling whenever you meet her gaze. total goofball, and it rubs off on you until your ribs ache from laughing and you're too tired to do anything more than lay all over each other.

[saintagron]

Hello! Do u have any modern cait headcanons?

hello ! modern!caitlyn headcanons.

this was a welcome reprise after my ap lang mock exam thank yew <3 cw. age gaps referenced sparingly (older!reader), implied sex, first time together, drunk sex (you're both equally tipsy), just a bunch of cobbled together concepts okay let's go!!

✶. oh frazzled city girl you are so special to me. she's set up in manhattan with a street-view apartment, large enough to hold a master suite and a guest bedroom and a little hideaway bathroom without even encroaching on the joined living room + kitchen. all paid for, of course, mommy's credit card automatically set to send out rent the first of every month.

✶. you wouldn't know that though—not with the way she runs around like she's a missed paycheck away from homelessness. perhaps you're a ceo and you've seen men with families to support lazing around on your dime for long enough that her productivity is refreshing. or perhaps you're her coworker, finally having someone competent to do projects with. or maybe the barista she gets morning coffee from, or the girl at the bodega where she gets her breakfast... so many possibilities.

✶. absolutely enthralled by gay clubs and lesbian bars. you ever seen but i'm a cheerleader? she's megan walking into the cocksucker the first time she slips into the club, id clenched in hand and so grateful that her sharp cheekbones make her look old enough that she doesn't get carded at the bar. (cait who can hold her liquor annoyingly well... she's totally obnoxious about it too.)

✶. thinking about meeting her there, buying her a drink and cooing are you sure you're old enough to be here? just to watch her cheeks flush ruddy. (i don't think she'd have alcohol flush syndrome.. but it would be fun teasing her about it.) or maybe it's your first time at the club as well, and you huddle up in a corner booth and giggle at the drunken dancers, getting progressively tipsier before she eventually propositions you.

("so.. how about my place?" she's significantly less subtle when she's drunk—there's no sly grin on her face or soft coaxing. but it's irritatingly charming, and you're tipsy, so you'll give her a pass. "you're so drunk." you laugh, giggling against her jaw. why you're smushed into the center of the booth when there's four feet of space on either side of you is unclear. but you're both very, very tipsy, and it's hot enough in here that sitting next to each other isn't a bother. "so are you." she accuses, and then falls back into her pleas. "come home with me." "very romantic, cait." "is that a yes?" "...whatever, yeah.")

✶. very giggly, very soft first time—because you're drunk and she's drunk and she won't stop waxing poetically about how pretty you are or about how your arms or stomach or thighs look so beautiful contrasting against her navy sheets. know she's sucking bruises purple and blue onto your skin (working extra hard if you're dark-skinned and they don't show up as well...) and getting so embarrassed about it in the morning. yup yes yay!

✶. and if i say she's addicted to candy crush... needs reading glasses but usually wears contacts. so in the morning she looks so scrumptious with the frames perched low on her nose but delicious! and tasty! are coming out of her phone's tinny speakers. smacking her blindly when it's too early and you're still buried in your pillow, telling her to turn that shit down.

✶. she's absolutely the type of girl that people take videos and pictures of on the subway. tall, with a perfect ponytail and a killer outfit. goes viral every time and becomes a little bit of an internet phenomenon.. she starts an instagram to post random shit like her paper target after she's done at the shooting range (almost perfect, of course) or the sunset from your apartment and she's just flooded with followers. ends up turning off her comments because of it.

✶. from the way she dresses, where she comes from, and where she lives, you would expect her to be another sheltered brat—stuck in manhattan without even growing up there—but she takes you to the most obscure places. a peruvian place in harlem, a hole in the wall sushi place whose owners know her by name... she's got restaurants upon restaurants to take you to. (she only knows so many places because she cannot cook for herself and ate out almost every night before meeting you... don't tell her you know!)

[saintagron]

hunting.

caitlyn kiramman x reader.

cw. established relationship, some fluff, minor smut. blowjob, thigh riding, clothed sex. death of an animal (a buck. caitlyn takes the shot.) t!fem caitlyn. needles and blood mentioned.

divider from thecutestgrotto.

It’s morning when she rouses you, not long after her own self had risen. There’s no sun peeking through the light curtains, hours from dawn yet. Still, she presses her mouth to yours until her awakeness breathes into you. 

“Cait…” you husk. She chuckles and pulls back, wryness in her grin and an ease to her shoulders you scarcely saw before you became… this. Before you became hours-long mornings, and slow dances to crackling records, and stargazing—yet only looking at them reflected in her eyes. 

Now her shoulders are lax all the time. You never noticed the extra half-inch her stiffness gave her until it was all gone. You mourned it, but it does make her all the easier to kiss. 

She’s already dressed, showered and bundled in camo and cargo. Her rifle sits snug, draped over one slim shoulder and quite content with its safety tucked to “off.” She looks cozy. Yet, you acknowledge only one thing.

“...you showered without me?” Is the last thing she expects you to rasp out, bleary-eyed and still sleep-warmed. It startles a laugh from her, much too loud in the morning’s quiet. She coos when you flinch, irritated and overstimulated at the slightest sounds in the morning, and kneels in front of you to kiss the wrinkles away. 

“Yes. I wanted to let you sleep, beautiful.” She chuckles, quieter, against your forehead. You hum and tuck your face into her neck. She only realizes your ploy a half-a-minute past the actions start when you don’t shift from the position. “...hey. No. None of this. You can’t go back to sleep, we really must go.”

𖠰 ݁↟𐂂

Caitlyn drags you from the cabin not long after, still water-logged and drooping. You’re bundled warmly, much like she is, holding her hand through your long sleeve and falling asleep again—even as the earliest birds start their song.

Into the truck you go, the waiting blanket folded on the passenger’s seat coaxing you to surround yourself with it. The vehicle rumbles beneath you, like the earth when it quakes, but to your drowsy self it feels like a rocking bassinet. You only half-remember the last kiss Caitlyn planted on you, already puttering into dreamland.

𖠰 ݁↟𐂂

She wakes you for the second time this morning when you reach the hunting grounds. The dirt lot is wholly empty—no cars, no trucks, not even a stray tent. The earth is slightly damp, and past the dawn’s still-present darkness you can see how it’s clouded with a heavy, grey cover. The light drizzle that tickles your nose as you sling your pack over your shoulder is sure to pick up. At least you’re not carrying a heavy load—today’s more leisure than anything, just a quick tromp to see what you can find. 

Caitlyn’s shoulders are drooping, her long arms the hanging, soft leaves of a willow. She watches you prep, intense look plastered, sat in the truck’s bed impatiently. 

You’ve never seen a city girl so desperate for the woods. You’ll wake to small fowl already littering a section of counter, curled tensely and ready to be plucked, a (your) stray tomcat munching away at a small quail on the porch. She’s the one your neighbors turn to, calling her for trips and tips and oh, could you catch a buck for us, Cait? Makes sense—darlings are darlings, no matter where they land. You’re just glad she landed here with you. 

That doesn’t make her any less annoying, despite how lovely she is.

“Stop lookin’ at me like that.” You gruff, still laden with that drowsy irritation.

She just puffs a laugh, the sound quiet—even in the silence a forest falls into just before dawn—and leans over to kiss you. 

Annoying. It doesn’t stop you from melting into her mouth, or keep a sleepy little sigh from escaping.

𖠰 ݁↟𐂂

It’s comforting, you’ve found, the quiet hum of the forest. In tandem with the shy, peeking sun comes the rise of the birds; and with that, the forest comes alive. Still leaves and branches that were once undisturbed are the squirrels’ playground, a distant woodpecker sounding over their scampering. It’s enough nostalgia to almost make you laugh, bright and unobstructed, but Caitlyn presses a hand over your mouth before it can escape. 

“Shh.” It’s the quietest she’s been all day, meaning only one thing—she’s seen something. She stalks forward, and all you can do is follow curiously.

She finds a patch of rootless land, settling herself stomach-down on the slightly wet earth. She sets her elbows into the inch-deep mud and readjusts her scope just briefly. You step up behind her, watching her more than the buck’s high horns. Really, she should’ve let you shower with her. Then you wouldn’t be quite so distracted by how the camo pulls taunt against her ass.

A deer wanders through the nearby clearing. She cocks the rifle, and you cock her hip—straddling one thigh and pressing your knee high against the other, forcing it to bend as you bully her out of position. 

“What—”

“Keep focused. You want ‘em, don’t you?”

Her breath stutters, but she focuses her gaze back through the rifle’s scope. Raven hair gives beneath your fingers, slipping from its ponytail to spill over your palms. You draw it back, and then again, repeating the motions with a sensual caress. 

“There you go…” 

She shudders. Perhaps it’s the touch of your nails—or maybe it’s the slow rhythm you’ve taken, rolling down onto the back of her thigh, rubbing through layers of thick fabric. 

“Focus.” You hum, watching the buck from afar. Its antlers stretch, high and wide, the last hints of its velvet dripping from the sharp peaks. “It’s old. Y’have to be good. Can you be good, Caitlyn?”

The challenged, slow exhale you receive is testament. She’ll hit it. She’ll always hit the perfect shot, whether it be a tiny, fluttering bird or the largest, hulking bear. You just need to know what buttons to press. Which to caress… and which to force. It’s no good to pull her hair when she’s like this. So you keep on with the gentle touches, gathering it in a makeshift ponytail (paying no mind to the fact that you just rid her of one.)

The buck grazes, and you both watch. You roll down on Caitlyn’s thigh, a rhythm now, the sound of your heavy breaths barely audible. It’s not enough to distract her—but not much is.

Perhaps it feels your burning gaze, or sees the glint of the scope’s glass. Whatever the reason is, it looks over. Dark eyes meet yours, haloed by the gentle ring of white hair, the buck’s broadside fully exposed. 

Caitlyn takes the shot, the sound ringing in the clearing and startling the resting birds. It covers your own sound, though you still drop to bite into her coat. You spill into your underwear before the buck even hits the ground.

𖠰 ݁↟𐂂

 Stringing up the buck isn’t a hard thing, not with habits like yours and dexterity like Caitlyn’s. The rhythmic sound of the rope swishing and the burn in your hands is a familiar thing, yet instead of your father at the other end of the stick it’s your Cait, puzzling over the knot with an innovative look. “No creativity, girl scout. Make the knots I showed you and let’s go.” You gruff. Evening’s already creeping closer. That startles her from her contemplation, and she sets into motion. She falls into the rhythm with you, the taunt sounds of rope tightening echoed twofold. 

(It’s unfair that despite your years of experience, Caitlyn still finishes as fast as you do—though it does wonders for both of your temperaments. You both do terrible at waiting.)

𖠰 ݁↟𐂂

You settle yourself in a sparse area, the trees parting for a small ring but arching over it like they wish to come down and swallow the empty dirt—no matter the fact that their thin roots permeate every inch of it. Despite how deep you ventured, there was no intention for this to become an overnight activity; however, it doesn’t seem like the quickly approaching darkness cares much about those plans. 

“We’re going to have to set up camp for the night, darling.” Caitlyn murmurs, voice a crackle of leaves against the back of your neck. She presses a hand to your back, a kiss to your head. It’s just as she passes, absentminded as she is when focused. You know she’s particular, so you sit, act as her epicenter, and watch as she flutters and flits her way into a fire, a stand for the deer, and your tent. Finally, she withdraws something from her pack, fingers delicate around the metal. 

Ah. She’s always been so prepared. 

She hands the kit to you and you set into motion, unpacking it diligently. The mild, unassuming plastic syringe feels unfamiliar after the day of cool metal and sticky earth, but the weight is comforting all the same. You lean forward, holding the metal tip into the fire—watching as it glows, but keeping it far enough away that the plastic doesn’t heat and warp. Briefly, Caitlyn distracts you. Really, she doesn’t mean to, but you always focus in on her whenever she bares skin. A singular patch of fabric, cut off and then reattached with a zipper (girl scout), gives way as she pulls it back. You breath shakily, and watch as the syringe’s tip slowly cools before drawing from the tiny glass bottle. 

You shift over towards her when it’s cool enough, planting yourself thigh-to-thigh. Your hand braces above the patch of skin, and you both shiver when your thumb brushes over the pale expanse, slightly damp from the alcohol wipe.

“Ready?”

“Mhm.” She licks her lips, squirms. The same excitement she used to hold is dulled, but it still makes her lips twitch traitorously. You exhale a quiet laugh. 

“Alright, here we go Cait.” 

You don’t know why you warn her anymore. Perhaps a comfort to yourself. You’re no longer scared of too much or too little pressure, of hurting her, of messing up. The needle slides in effortlessly, guided by your hands, and the plunger falls under your thumb’s coaxing. She exhales, now used to the metal’s bite, and smiles. 

“Yeah?” You breathe, watching the expression dimple a singular cheek. Her eyes flicker down to the slide of the metal in her skin, the way the flesh gives and blood starts to rush. Caitlyn’s body is frantic, as bodies are, when it comes to injury—even something so minor. It’s a survival response, something that ensured that she and you were here together by some grace of the universe.

As you withdraw the needle, wiping it off and stowing it away, all you can think of is lapping up the beading crimson. 

Caitlyn watches it coalesce, squeezes her thigh to make it strain. The droplet of blood, only about twice the width of the small needle, struggles to keep its tension stable. 

Whether it pops or runs or grows you do not know, as you lean down to suck it from her skin and don’t allow it that privilege.

𖠰 ݁↟𐂂

Caitlyn is like ivy around you whenever you sleep. She meets your wide sprawl and curls into your side, long limbs tossed over the length of you. You’re unused to the presence or pressure of another person, big bed all to yourself ever since you were teensy. She’s used to too-small bunks in too-big boarding schools. It fits. You got used to her weight, and she got used to your warmth. 

It’s the same in the tent, or wherever you manage to find yourself. You spread, whether it be a twin or a king, limbs astray and spine molded to the mattress. Then she, large as she is, is willowy, tucking herself around you—arm over waist, leg over leg, face tucked in neck. 

Tonight you find yourself awake, staring up through the tent’s mesh ceiling at all the twinkling stars. You can see them just as well at the cabin, but here, with your back to the earth, they somehow feel closer. 

It’s a wonder, looking into that cosmic mostly-emptiness and having it look back at you with its trillion eyes. For a moment you’re not here but there, jumping along the rings of Jupiter and floating, unhindered, towards two spiraling stars. They impact you and you are engulfed, yet there is no fear or heat or yanking. Just warm tugs, asking silently—come with us! No, us. The two beasts, with their collapsing cores, attempt to bring you into them as they collide and turn you into something magnificent. 

Then Caitlyn breathes, the warm air rushing over your neck and settling in the hollow center of your collarbones, and you are brought back. The stars crash together and explode without you, and you watch the faint spread of themselves over the full sky. 

𖠰 ݁↟𐂂

You wake her the next morning, dawn creeping first into your eyes. You shift her off as she stirs, eyes opening slowly, blearily. They close again when you tug down her cotton shorts, mouthing her cock hard before swallowing it. She sinks her hands in your hair and scratches your scalp, her whines mixing with the birds’ first calls. You thumb saliva from her base, dipping to press it against the tight ring of her. She startles and then moans, head tipping back and hips jerking up. Her startled shout as you press it in, just barely, makes the entire forest wake as she spills down your throat. 

She’s still trembling as she sits up, tucks herself into her boxers and tugs her cargos on. You tug your gear on as well, snagging it from where it sat in the corner of the tent. 

“Ready to go, doll?” Your words greet both the forest and her as you stall, halfway out of the nylon’s coverage. The morning sun beams itself, still weak, onto one side of your face. It warms your cheek. The visual, when put in tandem with your voice’s morning induced half-husk, makes Caitlyn go slightly moony-eyed.

“Yes, dear.” She moves on shaky legs and accepts your help out, straightening and extending towards the sky. A kiss pressed to her knuckles makes her hum, before she sets to kick out the lingering fire. “Get the tent, would you?”

𖠰 ݁↟𐂂

Lugging the game back was always your least favorite part—especially when you were young, and your father towered over you. Anything large, like a deer, that had to be strung up and carried by two was a less than harmonious affair to get in the truck, much less past the tree line. 

With Caitlyn, and your increased height, it’s easier. Not great, but easier. Your coordination, not a child’s anymore, and Caitlyn’s, honed from years of shooting, work together rather nicely. You each tug a pack over one shoulder and an end of the pole on the other and begin the trek out to the truck. 

It’s silence, for the most part. Even when you’re not stalking, the habits it instills are bone-deep. Caitlyn’s steps behind yours are light, and yours barely crunch in the soft leaf cover, quiet as mice—yet not looking it. Still, even in the silence, there is noise. Caitlyn hums, though she does not realize since it melds so nicely with the birdsong. You’re grateful she cannot see the smile that curves your face, as she would think you were teasing her. 

When you reach the vehicle, metal still beaded softly with yesterday’s drizzle, Caitlyn tuts. She attempts to shift the buck wholly onto her shoulder, to your displeasure. 

“No, no—Cait. Just grab the packs. I’ll get ‘em.”

“If you think I’m letting you lug that heavy thing up onto there—”

“Cait.” Your slow drawl stops her. Her eyes tighten, but she doesn’t say a word more. “Just shift it on with me so we can get back and feed the cat.” 

She puffs, but takes the smallest step towards the open bed’s edge. 

“Thank you.” You huff as the buck’s weight leaves your shoulder, finally. You roll it, feeling the white-hot muscles slowly cool to an ache. 

The buck lays nicely against the black, head and antlers curled towards its body. You shift your pack off of your other shoulder with a satisfied groan. Your eyes dart over—she’s checking her own pack, making sure she’s not missing anything. Perfect.

The pat you give her on the ass distracts her enough (and earns you a slightly pleased, chuckled hey!) so you can slip her carabiner—holding the truck’s keys—off of her cargos. Her next call to you is a bit more indignant as you sprint to the driver’s seat, laughing madly as she chases you. When you slip in she bangs on the window, and you only point your thumb at the passenger’s seat. 

“Let’s go, princess. You drove here, let me drive you back.” 

She does, in the end, let you drive. But only, only if you hold her hand.

© saintagron, 2025.

[saintagron]

𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒.

𝐝𝐧𝐢: zionists, racists, TERFs, misogynists, homophobes, etc. anything like that will result in a block.

── .✦ 𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐒.

requests are open. feel free to ask me questions. i'm always open to thoughts! send them my way. constructive criticism is appreciated!

── .✦ 𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆.

in-bounds . .ᐟ modern aus, fantasy aus, etc. whatever au your heart could desire . monster (vampire, werewolf, etc.) ! character or reader. popular, loner, etc. character or reader. out-of-bounds . .ᐟ non-con, SA, ddlg, abuse, rape, incest, step-cest, pedophilia.

these lists are by no means comprehensive; if you're wondering about something, just send me an ask. i reserve the right to reject requests i do not feel comfortable fufilling.

𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐒 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒.

── 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐬 / 𝐠𝐞𝐧 𝐯 .ᐟ victoria neuman, queen maeve, cate dunlap, marie moreau, jordan li. ── 𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐞 .ᐟ quinn fabray, santana lopez, brittany s. pierce. ── 𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐞 .ᐟ caitlyn kiramman, mel medarda, ambessa medarda, sevika, vi, jinx. ── 𝐲𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐬 .ᐟ lottie matthews, natalie scatorccio, shauna shipman, jackie taylor, taissa turner, van palmer, laura lee, misty quigley, mari ibarra, akilah. ── 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 .ᐟ tara carpenter, samantha carpenter, amber freeman, mindy meeks-martin. ── 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 .ᐟ rhiannon lewis (sweetpea). iris (companion). alison miller (hollow in the land). lee harker (longlegs).

this list, again, is by no means totally comprehensive. if you send me in a request for another character i will 100% research and see if i know who they are and/or want to write for them.

[saintagron]

𝐡𝐞/𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐜𝐡. 𝟏𝟕. 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒. 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓.

requests & inbox: open !

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

𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 .ᐟ → strangers in the night. (ambessa medarda.) → camp counselors. (natalie scatorccio.) → caitlyn as a parent headcanons.