Making It

Sometime in the summer of 2027, I don't fuckin' know.

Gianna barely had time to blink the sleep out of her eyes before her phone vibrated on the nightstand. She groggily reached for it, squinting at the name flashing on the screen.

Bridgette.

She swiped to answer, voice still thick with sleep. "Mmmph. Babe?"

She activated the speaker and dropped phone beside her. On the other end, Bridgette was breathless. Not from running or exertion--no, this was something else entirely.

"Gravitational microlensing," Bridgette purred, low and husky, like she was whispering in Gianna's ear instead of calling from some sterile conference hall. "Light bending around a massive object, warping spacetime itself--"

Gianna shivered, immediately awake. The speaker was on, but still she pressed the phone tighter to her ear, heart pounding. "Fuck."

Bridgette hummed, pleased. "Think of it, cara mia. A star's light stretched, magnified, distorted by something impossibly dense. A black hole... bending space itself. Can you picture it?"

Bridgette's voice. She could be reading a Reddit thread about gardening, and Gigi would get wet.

Gianna swallowed hard. "I--fuck. Yeah."

Bridgette's voice was a slow, deliberate caress. "That's what I'm going to do to you when I get home."

Gianna whimpered, already shifting under the sheets, body thrumming.

Bridgette chuckled, wickedly smooth. "I'm warping your world, aren't I?"

Gianna's breath caught. "Jesus, Bridgette--"

"Distorting your perception? Making you feel like there's nothing but me?"

Gianna bit her lip, heat rushing through her. She clutched the sheets, desperate for something to ground her, but Bridgette pulled at her, drawing her in, reshaping her entire existence around the sheer gravity of her wife's voice.

Bridgette knew exactly what she was doing.

And she wasn't stopping.

Not until Gianna was completely undone.

Gianna barely had time to catch her breath before Bridgette shifted gears. The teasing, the scientific seduction--it was gone. Now, Bridgette's voice was pure, hungry intent.

"I miss my wife's perfect fuckin' tits."

Gianna whimpered, already lost, her body lighting up like a damn circuit board at Bridgette's tone. "Babe--"

"Shut up," Bridgette ordered, voice dark, hot, completely in control. "I should be there. Should have my mouth on you. Should be ruining you before you even have a chance to wake up properly."

Gianna exhaled sharply, heat rolling through her. "God, you're awful."

Bridgette laughed. "Yeah? And you love it."

Gianna clenched the sheets, already nodding even though Bridgette couldn't see her.

"I can hear it," Bridgette continued, voice dropping to a whisper. "You're probably already wet, aren't you?"

Gianna swallowed hard.

Bridgette choked, her own arousal breaking through. "Fuck, you are. My perfect little wife, waiting for me, needing me--"

Gianna squeezed her eyes shut. "Baby, please--"

"No." Bridgette was relentless. "You wait for me. You don't get to touch yourself, Gianna. Not without my hands on you first."

Gianna whined.

Bridgette groaned at the sound. "You better be in that bed when I get home. Naked. Ready. I want my face between your thighs the second I walk through that door."

Gianna's head fell back against the pillow, her entire body trembling. "I--God, yes--"

Bridgette's breath was ragged now, all restraint slipping. "I'm gonna ruin you, baby. Make you forget everything but my mouth. My hands. My fuckin' tongue."

Gianna moaned, raw and desperate.

Bridgette shuddered. "Fuck, I need to get out of this conference right now--"

Gianna gasped out a laugh, still breathless. "You can't."

Bridgette growled. "Then you better be ready when I can."

Gianna clutched the phone like it was the only thing tethering her to reality. "I will be."

Bridgette exhaled sharply. "Good girl."

Gianna said, "I love you, Mrs. DeLuca."

"And I love you, Mrs. Jakubowicz."

The line clicked.

Gianna stared at the ceiling, wrecked, her body still on fire.

Bridgette was going to destroy her the moment she got home.

And Gianna couldn't fuckin' wait.

"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?"

Gianna jerked upright, eyes wide, still breathless, phone clutched in her shaking hands.

Out in the living room, Carina Marie Delvecchio sat up on the couch, looking absolutely wrecked in the worst way--wild hair, drool dried at the corner of her mouth, wearing one of Zach's old hoodies like it was a security blanket.

She blinked blearily at Gianna's bedroom door, eyes haunted.

"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK WAS THAT?"

Gianna froze.

Shit.

Carrie shoved the blanket off her legs, rubbing her face like she was trying to erase the last few minutes from her brain. She grins and lets Gianna have it. "Jesus Christ, Gigi, I wake up to what sounds like the entire concept of lesbianism collapsing in on itself, and it's you? In this nice, wholesome, high-end Drexel housing? Just desecrating it?"

Gianna flopped back onto the bed, groaning into her pillow. "Carrie--"

"NO. No, don't 'Carrie' me. I thought you were a good girl, Gigi. I thought you were out here, waking up, making a cup of coffee, doing, I dunno, normal wife things. But NO. Instead, I wake up on this too-nice couch to you getting obliterated by a goddamn phone call--"

Gianna whined into her pillow.

Carrie gasped. "Wait."

Gianna peeked out.

Carrie's grin was downright unholy. She faked a revelation. "Was that Bridgette?"

Gianna threw her pillow at the door. "Shut UP."

Carrie cackled, catching the pillow and hugging it like it was a newfound source of entertainment. "Oh my God. That was your wife turning you into a mess from an undisclosed scientific location. Jesus Christ, she got you from a conference hall."

Gianna groaned. "I hate you."

"No, you don't," Carrie said, stretching, voice thick with sleep but still full of shit. "I gotta admit, I never expected Bridgette to be the aggressive one--"

Gianna sat up so fast Carrie actually flinched.

"Don't you dare talk about my wife."

Carrie howled with laughter. "Oh, my God, she owns you."

Gianna, cheeks burning, flopped back down, pulling the blanket over her head.

Carrie leaned back, smug as hell. "Guess that science brain really knows how to break a bitch down, huh?"

Gianna said nothing.

Carrie grinned wider. "Microlensing, though?"

Gianna grabbed another pillow and threw it harder. "GET OUT."

Carrie, still grinning like the menace she was, stretched her arms over her head and turned toward the door. But before she left, she paused--just long enough to smirk over her shoulder.

"Nice tits."

Gianna launched the bedside lamp.

Carrie ducked--barely--and cackled all the way out of the room, hands up in mock surrender as she disappeared back into the living room.

"Love you, Gigi!" she called, flopping back onto the couch like nothing had happened.

Gianna groaned, shoving her face into the pillow.

Bridgette wasn't even home yet, and she was already ruining her.

Carrie padded through the high-end Drexel housing like she had just broken into a different reality. Barefoot, Zach's old hoodie hanging off her like a security blanket, she moved from room to room, staring. She'd been here before, but every time, she felt the same way.

This wasn't real.

This wasn't the Gigi she grew up with.

She flicked a light switch. The fixtures were fancy. Like, actual glass (or crystal, fuck, she didn't know) instead of the shitty plastic covers she was used to. The bulbs dimmed smoothly instead of flickering like they were deciding whether to explode.

The kitchen? A dream. Stainless steel appliances. A fridge with an ice dispenser. The countertops--real marble. She ran her fingers over them just to feel it.

"Jesus Christ," she muttered.

The stove had six burners. Who the fuck needed six burners? Bridgette, probably, with her scientist brain and her excessive competence.

Carrie opened a cabinet, half-expecting to find normal shit, but no. No Great Value peanut butter. No suspiciously off-brand cereal in a ripped box. Just neatly arranged organic snacks and expensive European chocolates.

She whistled low. "Gigi, you made it."

She wandered into the bathroom and stopped dead.

Heated floors. A bidet. A goddamn rainfall shower with one of those wand attachments that she knew Gianna wasn't just using for showers.

Carrie grinned at the thought.

Then she moved into the bedroom, where Gianna was still huddled under her blanket, recovering from her phone call-induced breakdown.

Carrie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Hey, Gigi?"

Gianna groaned. "What."

Carrie smirked. "You live like a fuckin' queen."

Gianna peeked out, still flustered, cheeks red. "Shut up."

Carrie gestured dramatically. "Marble counters! Six burners! A bidet, Gigi! You wipe your ass with warm water now!"

Gianna whined into her pillow.

Carrie put her hands on her hips, shaking her head in fake disappointment. "And yet, despite all this wealth, all this luxury--you still let Bridgette absolutely wreck your shit over the phone like you're some desperate, struggling little housewife."

Gianna grabbed another pillow.

Carrie bolted.

Carrie and Gianna sat at the massive, borderline obscene kitchen island--Carrie in one of the nice barstools that felt way too fancy for her ass, Gianna nursing a cup of expensive coffee that probably had some French-ass name Carrie didn't recognize.

For a while, they just sat. Let the quiet settle. The sun streamed in through the pristine windows, casting warm light over the marble countertops and the absurdly expensive appliances.

Then, finally, Carrie stretched her arms over her head and let out a slow breath. "You know, Gigi... for a second, I thought you might've gone soft on me."

Gianna arched a brow over her mug. "Oh?"

Carrie smirked, propping her elbows on the counter. "Yeah. Thought maybe Bridgette took you outta South Philly. Thought maybe you got too comfortable in this civilized little scientist-wife life."

Gianna laughed, shaking her head. "Carrie, come on."

Carrie grinned, tilting her head. "Then you go and threaten to fuckin' kill me with a bedside lamp the second I say nice tits, and I realize--nah. My little sis's still got it."

Gianna smirked. "Damn right."

Carrie nodded, satisfied. "Good. 'Cause you know how much it'd hurt me to find out you'd lost your edge." She gestured vaguely at the kitchen. "I mean, don't get me wrong. This is some wild shit you got here. Bridgette's got you living like a Drexel princess. But you? You still got South Philly in you."

Gianna shrugged, sipping her coffee. "I don't know any other way to be."

Carrie chuckled. "Good."

The conversation drifted, stretching out into easy territory. They talked about work--Gianna gushing about some brilliant thing Bridgette had published, Carrie complaining about customers at the CVS.

They talked about food--how Carrie still swore by Lorenzo's, while Gianna insisted she'd found a place that did it better (Carrie almost flipped the table over that one).

They talked about the old neighborhood, about Ma, about how everyone they grew up with either got out or got stuck forever.

And Carrie? She wasn't jealous.

She could've been. She could've looked around at all of this--at the marble, at the stainless steel, at the fact that Gianna had a goddamn dishwasher--and thought, Why not me?

But she didn't.

Because Carrie knew. She was going to get here one day--by the sweat of her brow, by the force of her own goddamn will.

She wasn't going to marry into it. Wasn't going to luck into it.

She was going to build it.

Gianna must've picked up on it, because she gave Carrie a knowing look over her coffee. "You'll have all this too, you know."

Carrie leaned back, smirking. "Yeah. But I'm getting it my way."

Gianna smiled, shaking her head. "You really don't know how to do things the easy way, do you?"

Carrie laughed. "What the fuck do you think?"

And with that, she stole a sip of Gianna's coffee--because fuck if she was going to live in this fancy-ass kitchen without taking a taste of what was coming to her.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Carrie sat slouched in a SEPTA bus seat, hoodie pulled over her head, earbuds in--except she wasn't listening to shit. Just staring out the window, watching the city shift as the bus rattled from the clean, well-maintained parts of University City back toward her real world. South Philly.

She could've let Gigi drive her home. Could've. But that felt wrong.

Gigi had a car now. A nice one. Leather seats, push-to-start, the whole deal. But Carrie? Nah. She still belonged to this world. SEPTA buses, shitty air conditioning, weird stains on the seats. The unspoken rules of public transit--don't make eye contact unless you're about to throw hands.

And speaking of--

Across the aisle, some dipshit was talking too loud.

"...the fuck you wearing, dude?"

Carrie blinked, turning just enough to catch the scene.

Some kid--eighteen, maybe. Skinny, pale. Black hoodie, black jeans, but his nails were painted a shiny black, lips the same shade. Eyeliner, sharp and dramatic, like he actually gave a shit about how he looked.

The guy talking shit? Typical SEPTA loudmouth. Mid-40s, beer gut, wife-beater under an unbuttoned flannel. He was grinning like he thought he was funny. Like he thought he was teaching a lesson.

Carrie sighed, barely rolling her eyes before she launched.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

The whole damn bus froze.

Carrie twisted in her seat, throwing a look at Loudmouth that could've peeled paint. "You really tryna impress all of us right now? This your big fuckin' moment?"

Loudmouth blinked, caught off guard. "Uh--"

Carrie steamrolled him. "You're pushing fifty on a SEPTA bus, my guy. You got a flannel that smells like fuckin' menthols and regret. And this--" she gestured broadly to the kid, "--is what gets your blood pressure up? A kid in lipstick?"

People started chuckling.

Loudmouth scowled. "I'm just sayin', it's--"

Carrie leaned in.

"Ohhh, you're 'just saying'? You got some deep, intellectual insight for us?" She threw up her hands. "Wow, guys! We got a philosopher on board! Socrates over here is gonna tell us why fuckin' nail polish is a goddamn moral crisis!"

More laughter. The kid with the eyeliner smirked.

Loudmouth shifted in his seat, defensive. "Jesus, relax--"

Carrie pounced. "Nah, nah, fuck that. You started this. Now you get to feel real fuckin' stupid." She tilted her head, smirking. "But hey. If it bothers you so much, maybe it's 'cause you got some shit to work through, huh?"

A pause.

Carrie let the smirk spread. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

Loudmouth went quiet.

Carrie turned back to the kid, nodding at him like, You good?

The kid grinned. "Yeah. Thanks."

Carrie shrugged. "Ain't for you. I just hate listening to dumbasses."

The bus rolled on, and Loudmouth? He stayed quiet the rest of the way.

Peak Carrie.

She didn't do it for clout. Didn't do it for some deep moral stance. She did it because she hates listening to people be loud and wrong in her general vicinity.

And she wasn't gonna let some middle-aged flannel-wearing nobody get his ego boost by picking on a kid just trying to exist.

Carrie didn't need to win. She needed to bury him.

Mission accomplished.

The SEPTA bus rolled through South Philly, and Carrie leaned back in her seat, pulling her hood up, earbuds in--still listening to nothing.

But now?

Now the whole damn bus knew better than to fuck with her.

The bus doors hissed open at the next stop.

And in walked DeeDee fuckin' Castiglioni.

Carrie froze.

No. No fuckin' way.

DeeDee was impossible to miss. Tall as hell, slim like she lived off espresso and cigarette smoke, black leggings that should've been illegal, oversized leather jacket hanging off her shoulders like she just owned the entire block she walked on. She had that hair--thick, dark, always up in some effortless bun that made her look like she just got out of some rich-ass loft in Rittenhouse instead of a shitty rowhome.

And loud.

Loud like she was born on South Philly concrete and had been yelling across corners ever since.

Carrie and DeeDee locked eyes across the bus.

And immediately, the tension went nuclear.

DeeDee smirked. "No fuckin' way. Carrie Delvecchio, sittin' on a SEPTA bus like a broke bitch."

Carrie leaned back, arms crossed, lips curling into a smirk. "Yeah? And what the fuck you doin' here, Castiglioni? Thought you only traveled by fuckin' chariot."

DeeDee made a show of flipping her hair. "Please. I take public transit 'cause I choose to."

Carrie snorted. "Yeah? Then where's your personal driver, Dee? He drop ya off at the bus stop for the experience?"

DeeDee gasped, hand on her chest, mock scandalized. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was talkin' to a self-made woman. How's CVS treatin' ya, babe? That minimum wage hittin' different?"

Carrie grinned. "Awww, someone's still mad I ain't call her back."

The bus oofed in unison.

DeeDee's eyes narrowed.

Carrie knew she'd hit a nerve.

They'd fucked once. One wild, chaotic night, fueled by whiskey and bad decisions. Neither of them had spoken about it since.

DeeDee leaned against the pole, staring Carrie down. "Please, babe. That? That was charity work."

Carrie's grin sharpened. "Yeah? That why you came twice?"

The bus went feral.

Some dude three rows back whistled. An older woman shook her head, but she was smiling.

DeeDee? She tilted her head, tongue running along her teeth, sizing Carrie up like she was about to devour her.

Carrie held her ground.

They both knew this wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

The bus vibrated with the sheer force of South Philly energy radiating off the two of them.

DeeDee stepped closer, gripping the overhead rail, towering over Carrie with that lean, smirking menace she did so well. "Twice? Babe, you wish I came twice. You were too busy runnin' your mouth, tryin' to out-talk me instead of puttin' in any real work."

Carrie scoffed, legs stretching out in front of her like she had all the time in the world. "Bitch, I was the work. You were out there whimpering into my fuckin' neck like I was the last good thing you were ever gonna get."

The whole bus hollered.

DeeDee grinned, dark eyes flashing. "Cute. You always this full of shit, or just when you see me?"

Carrie shrugged. "You bring it outta me. Like a fuckin' allergy."

DeeDee's laugh was sharp, biting. "Right, right. That's why when I walked in, you looked like you just seen God. Like--" She mock gasped, clutching her chest. "Oh nooo, not DeeDee Castiglioni! I ain't emotionally prepared for this!"

Carrie leaned forward, grinning up at her. "Bitch, please. Only thing you got me doin' is wonderin' how the fuck you still ain't found nobody better since you fumbled me."

DeeDee cackled, stepping closer, practically between Carrie's knees. "Fumbled? Babe, you were a one-night special. Like a half-off hoagie at Wawa after midnight."

Carrie barked a laugh. "Yeah? And you ate that shit up. Couldn't get enough. Tell me, Dee, you still think about me when you're--"

DeeDee clapped a hand over Carrie's mouth.

The bus exploded in cheers.

Carrie's eyes widened in mock offense before she licked DeeDee's palm, making her yank her hand back with a disgusted snarl.

"FUCKIN' ANIMAL!" DeeDee wiped her hand aggressively on her leggings.

Carrie smirked, licking her lips. "Mmm. Tastes like regret."

A guy in the back yelled: "DAMN, SHE GOT YOU!"

DeeDee was breathing heavy now, eyes sharp, calculating. Carrie could see it--the same look she had when she got that little evil idea right before she went in for the kill.