#And I was a kid and just wanted to have fun

[whytheylosttheirminds]

Don't Call Me Kid - Chapter 8 (part two)

(Rafe Cameron x Reader series, 6.2k words)

series summary: You'd had a crush on Rafe Cameron since you were six years old, but he friend zoned you at every turn. Once shy and insecure, you found new confidence and self-love after high school. When your high school friends go on a reunion beach trip, Rafe finally sees what he lost, but he isn't going to give you up without a fight.

tropes: unrequited crush, glow up, she fell first/he fell harder

series content: some angst, eventual fluff, slow burn, tomfoolery and shenanigans, drinking, fem!reader has occasional insecurity and body image issues

⇢ series masterlist

A blood curdling shriek rang through the house, jolting Carter from her restless dreams.

She sat straight up in bed, heart racing as she looked around the dark room, head so heavy she could barely remember where she was or how she got there.

In her hungover mental fog, she pieced it together slowly. She was at the beach house, in her room, it was early, she drank so much last night and Topper said -

“OH MY GOD!” 

Another sharp scream came from downstairs, and her heart rate spiked all over again. She pulled the fluffy comforter around her shoulders and hurried out of the room, quiet on the stairs as she nervously approached the source of all the commotion.

When she saw what was inducing Sabrina’s shock, she doubled back, hiding around the corner so they couldn’t see her. Her stomach churned with bitter loathing, and something else even more nauseating…

She dropped the blanket and rushed to the half-bath off the house’s entryway, doubled over the toilet bowl as last night’s poor choices continued to haunt her.

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Rafe drove faster than he had before your interrupted rendezvous, seeming not to want to drag this adventure out anymore. You eyed him nervously from the passenger seat, searching for words that weren’t coming to you. 

Tongue tied and exhausted was not how you wanted to begin this…whatever this was between you. Rafe had given you words, so many of them, back on the beach and all he asked in return was a simple yes or no.

Are you my girl?

No four words had ever felt so heavy. The shitty part was, you wanted to say yes. At the sound of his breathless question every cell in your body was screaming yes! I’m your girl! I’ve always been your girl! 

But then there was that pesky piece of self preservation that cemented itself in your heart all those years ago and didn’t plan to give up any time soon. 

He looked so disappointed when you couldn’t give him a quick and easy answer, his chest now deflated and shoulders sunken as he drove the rest of the route home. Despite your lingering hesitation, you felt like you needed to give him something, needed to lift the frown that was settled on the lips you had tasted so many times this morning.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

“For what?” He asked.

“I’m…slow,” you began, “it takes me a while, y’know? To find the words. I’m not like you, I don’t know how you came up with that speech in less than a minute.”

Rafe laughed, confusing you.

“What?”

“You think I came up with that speech in a minute?” He chuckled, “I’ve been practicing it every day since senior year of high school.”

Your heart clenched at the endearing thought of him in front of the mirror, driving to class, taking a shower all while rehearsing what he’d say if you ever gave him the chance.

“Oh,” you tucked your hair behind your ear.

It was infuriating, your complete inability to get a grip on your own thoughts and feelings around him. It had always been this way. You were well-spoken and sound-minded, until this one person was in your atmosphere, his presence your own personal kryptonite.

To be fair to yourself, it wasn’t just your own weakness for him that had caused you to build such high walls. When you were kids, he sometimes made you feel this way on purpose. He used to have fun watching you get flustered, just the right amount of flirting to send you into a tizzy, only to leave you spinning like a top with no one to stop you.

You truly tried to leave the past behind, burying it somewhere back in the sand on the beach. You reminded yourself that the Rafe of your memories was not the one sitting next to you right now. But that might just be the problem, because at least you knew that Rafe, you knew exactly what he would do next.

If he grabbed your hand, you knew he was about to drop it. If he said something sweet, you knew he was about to say something passive aggressive. If he acted like he loved you, you knew he was about to act like he’d never met you a day in his life.

But this Rafe, this new one, was completely unpredictable. Wild and dangerous in his apparent affection for you. How were you supposed to know what he did next wasn’t going to hurt? He was right about what he said on the jet ski - you won’t know until you give him the chance. Easier said than done.

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” he offered after you’d been quiet for a long time.

“This week has just been…” trying to come up with one word to describe it felt like a futile task.

“Overwhelming?” Rafe tried to help.

“Surprising,” you countered. “I’ve never been good with surprises.”

“You like to know what’s coming next,” he nodded, once again displaying a deep knowledge of you that you never knew he possessed.

Like he could read your mind, his arm stretched across the small divide and his palm, warm and soft, settled on your thigh, a single soothing stroke to let you know he’s still here, he’s still yours. The feeling of his skin touching yours was like aloe vera directly on the burn.

With a grateful smile, you leaned back in the seat and took a deep breath as he steered you home.

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Carter padded down the hall, stopping three separate times, trying to decide if she should just go back to her own room. But the sight of her frantic texts to you still saying “delivered” and not “read” was too concerning to ignore.

She opened Topper’s door without knocking.

He was sitting up against his headboard, typing feverishly on his phone. At the sight of her, he clutched his duvet cover, pulling it up higher over his nearly naked body.

“Have you ever heard of knocking?” 

“Please, like I haven’t seen it all before. Like I didn’t see it yesterday,” she rolled her eyes.

“Oh okay, so you do remember. Based on the way you were acting last night I thought maybe you’d forgotten we’d ever been together,” he snipped at her.

“I don’t want to talk about last night,” she waved him off, dismissing his complaints flippantly, “are you aware of what’s happening downstairs right now? Of who is happening downstairs right now?”

“Yes, I saw her pull up,” he returned his attention to his phone and his frenzied typing.

Outside his cracked open door, Carter heard Kelce, Tom, and a few others come barreling up the stairs, chatting about the recent arrival.

“Be so fucking for real, did you invite her?” Carter said, attempting to lower her voice.

“I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this but you do this thing where you think you’re whispering and you’re actually not,” Topper informed her.

“Topper…”

“No, I didn’t invite her.,” he answered. “Actually I was about to ask if you did.”

“Why the fuck would I do that? I hate her.”

“Wow alright, hate's a strong word, Carter, maybe calm down a little.”

Ever since their knock-down-drag-out at the club last night, the arguing that was usually playful and lighthearted had an edge of actual bitterness to it.

“First of all, if you ever tell me to ‘calm down’ again, I’m going full Lorena Bobbitt on your ass. Second of all, you need to go down there and tell her to leave,” she flicked her hair behind her shoulder and held her chin up as she bossed him around. He hated that despite how mad at her he was, he fucking loved it.

“How does that job possibly fall on me?” He scoffed.

“Aren’t you Mr. Team Rafe-and-my-sister? Don’t you want to get rid of the reason they stopped talking in the first place?” She reasoned.

“I’m not gonna tell her she can’t be here,” he shut her down. “It’s not my house, and it’s really none of my business. Or yours.”

Her eyes narrowed at him, “oh yeah? Then who are you texting so much over there?”

“I’m just giving him a head’s up,” he shrugged. “She should probably know too.”

“And you’re just assuming they’re together?” She snarled.

“Puh-lease,” he rolled his eyes, “did you see them at the club last night? There’s no way they didn’t hook up.”

She wouldn’t accept it, couldn’t, even though she knew somewhere deep in her gut that he was probably right. 

When Rafe still didn’t answer any of his texts, Topper sighed heavily, “fuck it, I don’t care if I’m cockblocking, I’m calling him.”

Before he could dial, the house shook with the slam of the front door. Carter and Topper hurried out to the hall and hesitated at the top of the steps. Your lone voice carried up to them, talking to no one in particular as you muttered, “un-fucking-belivable.”

Carter actually did whisper this time, “I think it might be too late for that…”

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The feeling of Rafe’s hand, warm and steady on your thigh, as he drove the rest of the route home was so nice and comforting, you let yourself slip into the possibility that this could actually be it. Maybe you really could just leave the past behind you, maybe you really had finally found each other and it could just be simple like this.

But your fantasy didn’t last long.

Rafe parked in the spot across the street that you had taken Carter’s car from a few hours ago. Even when he turned the key and cut the engine, he didn’t remove his hand from your leg. 

“You ready?” He sighed.

“For what?” You questioned, eyeing him curiously, his face serious as he looked down at the site of his hand on your skin.

He shook his head like he didn’t know the answer himself, “reality, I guess.”

You placed your hand over his, smirking at the sight of your fingers encompassing each other’s, wanting so much more from these hands and truly believing you’d have all the time in the world to enjoy them. 

“Bring it on,” you gave him a small smile.

“He leaned across the center console and dropped a deep kiss to your lips, causing you to sigh into his mouth. All the times you imagined kissing him, you never thought such a rough-around-the-edges guy would have such soft lips. You felt like you might be able to spend forever with them on your skin.

When he finally pulled away, you reached for the handle of your door, beginning to open it, but Rafe reached across your body and pulled it shut again.

“What are you doing?” You asked in surprise.

He smiled that perfect, dimpled grin of his, “extra credit.”

You giggled as he hurried to climb out of the driver’s side, hurrying around to your door and opening it with a chivalrous flair.

“Wow,” you beamed, accepting his hand as he helped you down from the tall vehicle. “You weren’t kidding about trying to be a gentleman.”

“For you, I’ll be anything,” he flirted.

Despite your best efforts not to, you blushed, the red hue on your cheeks deepening when Rafe kept your hand in his, intertwining his fingers with yours as you walked back to the house. It was the first time he’d held your hand out in the open like this, where anyone could look out from the windows of the beach house and see the two of you together. It was foreign to you, his public display of affection, and yet it felt so right. You couldn’t help but wish it hadn’t taken this long.

“Can I ask you something?” You said quietly.

“Anything,” he squeezed your hand assuringly. 

“Why didn’t we do this a long time ago?” 

Rafe’s face fell slightly, watching his feet as they made less and less forward progress on the sidewalk, until he came to a full stop. The question was mostly meant to be lighthearted, a tease really, but his solemn reaction made your stomach twist with concern.

“I…” he started, voice unsteady, not meeting your eyeline, “I don’t know if I should tell you this but -”

You never knew what he wasn’t supposed to tell you, because before he could, a sickeningly familiar voice called out from the front porch.

“Hey guys!”

Head snapping toward the sound, you looked up, and there she was, as stunning as ever in that same signature everything-you’re-not-ness. 

Cassie Bryant.

Her face was adorned with a glistening smile, yours was noticeably not. Everything in you sunk, including the corners of your lips, completely unable to hide the way your heart dropped six feet under the ground at the sight of her.

She was somehow even more golden and glowing now than she was back then. Glossy blonde hair flowing down her back like a waterfall of silk. Her perfect, blemish free skin glowed in the early morning light. Her big, round Disney Princess eyes quickly found Rafe and flicked over your joined hands, clocking the way they were folded together in unmistakable intimacy.

It happened so quickly, and yet it felt like years worth of hurt and heartache compacted into one small moment. 

At the sight of Cassie on the porch, Rafe dropped your hand.

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Surely, any minute now, a camera crew would pop out from the bushes and announce that you were being Punk’d.

Or maybe it’d be the Mythbusters:

The myth? That you can actually heal from your childhood trauma with just four years of painstaking hard work. Well, we’re about to prove that all of that can be unraveled in the span of 72 hours! Also, we will be using your heart as our crash test dummy. Myth busted!

You didn’t look over at Rafe, couldn’t bear to watch the way he pulled his body away from yours, ever-so-slightly, almost imperceptibly. But you could feel it all the same, and you were sure she could too. 

Before Cassie could say anything else, the front door opened behind her, Sabrina stepping out of the house and taking in the unfolding scene on the lawn.

“Oh shit,” she laughed, “this is awkward!”

It’s like her main goal in life was to find new and creative ways to make your bad moments worse.

“Is it?” Cassie asked, seemingly unaware of the cause of Sabrina’s laughter. “We were just saying hi.”

She caught your eye as she said it, a polite but knowing smile on her lips. You realized with shock that she absolutely knew what was happening and was trying to make you feel better about it. You should just be grateful for the unexpected kindness, but something in you was suspicious. The Cassie you knew would’ve jumped at the chance to embarrass you, and she would’ve loved the way Rafe was treating you like you had the plague.

Plus, her taking pity on you, acknowledging the way Rafe had just hurt you, was somehow worse than her just being mean to you. You’d rather she go back to that.

“Y’all having a good trip?” She asked you and Rafe when the silence had lasted just a little too long.

You looked to Rafe, waiting for him to answer, begging him silently to say something that indicated that you were in fact having a good trip…together.

But he just said, “it’s been cool. Weather’s shit, though.”

“Yeah that’s what Sab told me, but I got a few days off my internship so I thought I’d come hang with y’all,” she said, eyes on you as she spoke, like she owed you an explanation.

“Well, welcome, then,” you smiled a polite smile that didn’t meet your eyes.

“You ready?” Sabrina asked, linking arms with Cassie, thick as thieves. 

“We’re going into town for some brunch if you guys want to join,” Cassie offered.

“That’s okay, I need to check on Carter,” you declined, all eyes turning to Rafe for his response.

“Uh yeah, I’m good here, th-thanks,” he stuttered, so awkward and shaky, a completely different person from the guy who was delivering monologues and sweeping you off your feet just a few hours ago.

Cassie just smiled politely once more as Sabrina pulled her into the car. As they drove off, you stood wordlessly with Rafe on the front walk, your chest completely hollow. You mustered some nerve and finally looked at him, head tilted, a completely unamused smile tugging your lips.

“Weather’s shit?” You repeated his words back to him.

“Look…” he began but didn’t finish the thought.

You just laughed humorlessly, shaking your head at him as you stormed off toward the house. Rafe stood frozen for a moment, kicking himself mentally and begging his brain to catch up with the moment, finally rushing off after you, but not able to before you slammed the door in his face.

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Carter and Topper exchanged nervous glances at the sound of you stomping into the house. 

They slowly and quietly settled on the top step, sitting forward to listen in as the front door opened and closed again, Rafe’s voice echoing through the house.

“Wait…” he said, following after you as you marched further into the house toward the kitchen.

You didn’t stop, “No, go ahead, you should go to brunch with her. Don’t let me keep you from a good time.”

“Wait, let’s just talk,” he pleaded.

“I’m too tired, Rafe,” you rejected him. “I can’t do this right now.”

“So you’re not even gonna let me explain?”

At the top of the steps, Carter and Topper simultaneously held their breath as they listened, both jumping as Kelce’s voice startled them, “what are we listening to?”

“Shhh,” Carter waved her hand at him, motioning for him to shut up.

Kelce plopped himself between them on the top step, shuffling a bit so they’d make room for him. He listened in, picking up your and Rafe’s raised voices quickly.

“Oh shit,” he barely whispered, “trouble in paradise already?”

“Dude shut up,” Topper cut him off.

Soon, Maddie, Tom and Jack joined the little huddle on the top step, each cluing in on the source of the entertainment in their own disruptive way before being shushed by the group and eventually sitting. You continued your argument with Rafe, completely unaware you were performing in front of a live studio audience.

“You don’t need to explain,” you told him, trudging down the front hall toward the kitchen. “I know exactly what just happened because it’s happened a thousand times before. What I don’t know is why I’m even surprised.”

“Come on,” he caught up to you, stopping you in your tracks as his large frame rounded you. “It is not the same as it used to be.”

“It’s exactly the same,” you side-stepped him, walking into the kitchen and dropping Carter’s keys on the counter. “I mean jesus Rafe, it’s the same fucking person! I can’t believe I’m here again, it’s like I’m having a nightmare where I’m back in high school. Next thing you know I’m gonna walk into homeroom and I realize I’m completely naked.”

“Sounds more like a dream to me,” he smirked, trying to flirt.

You just blinked back at him, your sharp eyes cutting straight through his head.

“Do you think this is funny?”

His smirk dropped, snatched right off his lips by your ice cold tone. Good. You’d been waiting years to wipe that shit eating grin off his face. 

Something new was rising in your chest, knocking out the embarrassment and sadness with a closed fist, a fury long buried coming back with a vengeance.

“I thought all that shit was behind us, over and done.” Rafe reached out towards you but you stopped him with your own rough grip, lowering his hand away from you and dropping it like he’d dropped yours.

“Oh, it’s fucking done alright, so fucking done,” you spat.

 “You’re really gonna let ten stupid seconds ruin everything that’s happened between us? You’re not even gonna give me the benefit of the doubt. You really think that little of me?”

“It’s literally only been two hours, and you’ve already lied to me once and pushed me away the second someone saw us. And you wonder why I'm having a hard time saying yes to being with you? It’s because I fucking can’t trust you, Rafe!”

“I don’t know what else I can do to show you I’m different,” he threw his hands up in exasperation. “This is so fucking unfair.”

“Are you being fucking serious right now?” You stepped towards him as you snapped at him. “You’re actually pissed at me?”

“Yeah, I am!” 

“Why?”

“Because I lost my best friend!”

Everyone on the top of the stairs winced, air sucked from the room when Rafe raised his voice at you. For all his flaws and mistreatment, he had never raised his voice at you before.

“Oh shit,” Kelce whispered.

“Shhh!” Carter and Maddie hushed him in unison, everyone leaning in a little closer to hear how you’d react. But you said nothing. They couldn’t see the widening of your eyes, jaw locked tight as you gave him space to follow up on his outburst.

“Do you really think it didn’t hurt me when you just up and stopped talking to me back then?” He took the space you gave him and slowly unpacked the hurt feelings he’d buried for years. “I know I was a dick, I shouldn’t have taken advantage of how you felt about me, I shouldn’t have strung you along. But when that shit went down senior year and you just ghosted me, I wanted to talk to you and make it right. I tried, but you blocked me out, you went from talking to me every day to radio silence without giving me a single explanation. That fucking hurt. And you’re doing the exact same thing now, not even giving me a chance to explain things. So yeah, I am a little pissed. I’m pissed that you’re just gonna throw it all away again over nothing.”

He waited for your response with baited breath, prepared for you to yell, or cry, or do something. But you gave him nothing, mouth closed in a tight line as you turned on your heel and walked further into the kitchen, lifting the coffee pot from its home and filling it in the sink.

He watched your back as you scooped the grounds into the filter and turned on the machine. Minutes passed and you remained silent, hands on the counter, looking out the big window towards the ocean while the coffee brewed one drop at a time.

Finally, after eight cups had dripped into the pot, you spoke.

“How was prom, by the way?” You turned to face him, the edge of the marble countertop digging into your waist as you leaned back against it, hands crossed in hostility over your chest. “I never asked.”

Rafe’s gaze fell from you almost instantly. He didn’t have to ask why you were bringing this up, the ‘hell hath no fury’ look on your face dragging the memory forth from its carefully hidden spot in the back of his brain. Nothing made him feel like a jackass quite like that memory, and based on the mocking curve at the corner of your lips, you knew it.

The memory used to keep you up at night. 

For a full year after it happened, it was like a fire poker bent into the shape of regret and shame was branding your heart over and over. 

Now, the burn was healed over, still calloused and red at the edges, but you’d done your best to cover the scar tissue in the healing balms of self-love and lots and lots of therapy. Still, it was the moment in your life you were the least proud of.

You’d thought it was gonna be you. Really, earnestly, completely delusionally, you believed when he asked for your help with his grand prom-posal that it was all a playful ruse to ask you to be his date. You stayed up all night, decorating three different poster boards with glitter glue so he could pick the one he liked best. You bought out all the battery-powered candles at Michael’s - he said he’d pay you back, he never did. You waited with him in the park until the sun set, giddy with the hope that he’d drop the ruse and pop the question any minute.

“What will you do if ‘she’ says no?” You attempted to flirt.

“I guess I’d just have to take you.”

Every muscle in his body flinched at the memory and the white hot regret he felt every time it replayed in his head.

The kid who said those words was such an asshole. Standing here in the kitchen, looking down at you, the love of his goddamn life, and facing the possibility that he might lose you for good, he wanted to ring the idiot’s neck.

Because he hadn’t asked you. He made you watch while he asked her. And he didn’t even give you a ride home from the park.

Fuck, he wouldn’t forgive himself if he was you, either.

Rafe felt about two feet tall, looking back at you with absolutely nothing to say. He was relieved for a second when you opened your mouth to speak first, until he heard the words.

“You don’t understand. The voice in the back of my head, the one I’ve spent years trying to silence, the one that tells me I’m not enough, that I’ll never be enough…it’s your voice, Rafe.”

He grasped desperately for a reply, but there were no words in the English language that made that statement any less devastating.

“Maybe that’s not fair,” you continued before he could come up with anything, “but I don’t think I have control over that. I don’t know how to undo it, if it can be undone. So those ten seconds that just happened out there? They’re  not nothing to me. When you dropped my hand at the sight of her, I felt like I was that stupid teenage girl again, giving my whole heart to the one person who knows how to break it. Blind and foolish and desperate for you to notice her. I don’t like that girl.”

You made it through the whole speech with a steady voice, up until the last sentence. Your voice cracked on those words, your heart doing the same as you pictured your younger self. The one who would sit on her bed for hours, rereading the texts she sent him and praying he’d reply.

Thinking about that version of yourself, you weren’t sure if you wanted to hug her or slap her. Surely, she’d hit you right back if she saw what you were doing now, potentially pushing away the boy she loved more than anything, finally having him within your grasp and letting him slip right through.

At the top of the stairs, unbeknownst to you, Carter was picturing that girl, too. She would roll her eyes at you back then, using sarcastic comments like “are you sure Rafe even knows how to read?” to mask her truer concern; that he could but he wouldn’t, and the heart you wore on your sleeve would end up crushed again. Even now, she couldn’t protect it, couldn’t save it from reaching out to this boy who did nothing but break it.

Frustration welled inside her, the absolute powerlessness to put an end to this cycle that hurts you feeling like a dark cloud over her head. The anger manifested into hot, watery tears gathering on her lash line. Without permission, one slipped through, rolling down her cheek slowly.

Topper caught the whole thing, and despite their fight and his resolve to freeze her out until she apologized, he couldn’t stop his hand from reaching out and stroking her cheek softly, wiping the tear away with a gentle swipe of his thumb.

They shared a look so full of unspoken words and tender emotions that they almost forgot about the conversation in the kitchen, until Rafe’s voice cut through the moment and pulled them from their silent reconciliation.

“Are you okay?” He asked you after you’d been silent for nearly a minute, trying desperately to compose yourself.

“Yes, that's all just a lot. I’m processing,” you sniffled.

“Take your time,” he said, pulling out one of the high back stools from the counter and motioning for you to sit in it.

Your body was so exhausted, even your stubborn anger at him couldn’t stop you from accepting the offer. You slumped on the plush stool, folding your arms on the counter and resting your chin on them.

“How do you like your eggs?” Rafe asked.

“Is that a pick-up line?” 

“Nope, just a question,” he said as he opened the high cupboard and pulled out a frying pan.

You tried to remind yourself you should reject his offer to feed you, you should storm out, you should tell him where he can put his frying pan…but you were hungry. And so tired.

“Sunny side up,” you answered.

He nodded and got to work cooking you breakfast, eggs and bacon sizzling on the stove, Rafe close by with a spatula in hand, silent as he stirred and flipped. You rested your head on your folded arms, eyes half-closed and brain sleepy, watching him. 

If you blocked out the last twenty minutes, you could pretend this morning was your real life, could let yourself imagine it really was all this simple and pleasant and sweet; he’d cook you breakfast, you’d make him coffee, and you’d kiss until the sun rose.

At the top of the stairs, Kelce stood and started descending, before Carter reached up and grabbed his arm.

“What are you doing?” She whispered.

“I’m hungry!” He whined.

“You can’t go down there,” Maddie scolded him, “give them some space.”

“Are we just gonna stay up here all day?” Tom complained as he and Jack stood to join Kelce’s crusade into the kitchen.

“Everybody sit down!” Topper whisper-yelled. “Give them five fucking minutes, you’ll all survive. You can fuck off back to your rooms if you want but no one’s going down there.”

Carter couldn’t help the heart eyes she made at him, surprised and delighted by his show of aggression in your defense.

Kelce groaned as he backed back down, Tom rolling his eyes and throwing his hands up as he trudged down the hall back to his room, Jack following with a huff.

“Kelce, I have a granola bar in my purse, c’mon,” Maddie offered, leading him towards her own door.

Alone again, Topper and Carter looked at each other for a long, quiet moment.

“I’m sorry,” she mouthed.

“I know,” he mouthed back.

She scooted towards him, nuzzling into his side as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, kissing her temple.

Downstairs, Rafe was done with your meal, scooping it onto a plate and sliding it to you across the counter.

“Thank you,” you sat up and began nibbling at a slice of bacon.

Rafe took the stool next to you with his own plate of food. You sat in silence for a while, only the sound of forks scraping against porcelain and the occasional “can you pass the salt?” between you.

Between bites, you rested your head on your arm again, nearly falling asleep.

“I’m so tired,” you mumbled sleepily.

“It’s been a long twenty-four hours,” Rafe agreed, taking a sip of his coffee.

“That’s an understatement,” you snorted, sitting up again and finishing the last bite of your eggs.

“What about…the next twenty-four hours?” He asked quietly.

You took a deep breath, the smile falling from your face as you considered the question underneath his question. You didn’t answer him right away, hopping down from the stool and collecting your plate and his, carrying them to the sink. Rafe was quick behind you, arm reaching around and pulling the dishes from your hands to lay them in the sink. His hand rested on your waist, turning you to face him, pulling you in. Reluctantly, and without returned tenderness, you let him.

“Rafe, I can’t…” you said sadly.

“Please just talk to me,” he pleaded, hands running up your arms and resting on your shoulders. You shook your head, blinking away fresh tears as you pulled away from him.

“It hurts too much, Rafe,” your voice cracked. “As great as the last few days have been, you can’t see that being close to you hurts me. I worked so hard to get over you. So this isn’t me throwing it all away, this is me protecting myself. Protecting what I’ve spent years rebuilding.”

“So what, that's it then? You’re just gonna go back to school and pretend this never happened?” The pain in his voice was palpable, and you cursed the part of you that wanted to reach out and make him feel better.

“I don’t know, Rafe,” a small tear slipped through, gliding slowly down your cheek.

“You’re just gonna stop talking to me, stop thinking about me?” He continued desperately.

You looked up at him finally, searching his face, nodding sadly.

“I’ve done it before.”

Hurt flashed in his crystal blue eyes, flinching like your words had burned him. “You didn’t…you don’t…think about me?”

“No,” you told him honestly, another tear joining the one before it. “Never. Because if I let myself think about you, I would’ve fallen apart. I’m not strong enough, I would’ve run to you, and every time I did that before, you’d let me down.”

“What about yesterday? What about this morning? Just think about the beach, everything was so good, it can be that way now…”

He reached out and cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing over the tears as he pulled you in toward him, kissing you out of sheer desperation. Like maybe if you tasted his lips, it’d transport you both back in time, back to the beach, back when he’d done and said everything right. 

You allowed him to take you there for just a second, before the incident on the front walk flashed in your mind again, the pain of rejection like a knife to your gut. You pulled away from him quickly, side stepping him and moving to the other side of the kitchen, creating as much distance between you as possible.

“No, no, you can’t just kiss me and act like what just happened with Cassie didn’t happen,” you shook your head rapidly, wiping your tear stained streaks with the backs of your hands. “I can’t do this right now, I need some time to think.”

It required fighting every impulse he had, but he didn’t push, didn’t close the space between you, didn’t try to regain the control he was so used to having. He just sighed deeply and nodded, eyes low.

“Okay, well let me know when you’re done…thinking.”

With one last longing look at you, he stepped away to the basement steps, stopping at the top and turning halfway toward you.

“Oh and that girl? The one who gave me her heart? For what it’s worth, I like her. Always have.”

With that, he was gone, the door clicking softly behind him.

Carter and Topper could hear you approach the bottom of the steps. Carter stood first, fully ready to greet you and grill you on everything that had happened since you last spoke. Topper could see all her questions and comments written on her face. He grabbed her hand and squeezed gently, stopping her before she marched down the stairs towards you. She looked at him in surprise but understood quickly as he gave her a slight shake of his head, whispering, “give her some space.”

Reluctantly, she nodded, allowing him to lead her quietly down the hall and into his room.

Your footsteps were heavy on the stairs, body aching. Your brain was so fried you couldn’t even pick one thing from the morning to focus on, like the part of your brain that processes events was temporarily out of order. So you stopped trying to think and just let your feet carry you to your bed, crawling under the covers in your clothes, falling quickly into a restless slumber.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

In your dreams, you were back in the kitchen with him, shoulder to shoulder in comfortable silence as you did the dishes together. Rafe washed and you dried. 

Only, it wasn’t the beach house kitchen, it was one you’d never been in before. And in that dream-state way of knowing something you don’t actually know, you were sure it was a kitchen the two of you shared, sometime in the distant, unwritten future.

(to be continued)

a/n: I'm so sorry, I had to do it.......also the prom thing may or may not be based on a true story and I may or may not have cried writing it....

also I’m sick and tired so I didn’t edit much sorry for typos! I’ll proofread again tomorrow 😘

please note: the taglist for this series is closed. For updates when I post, follow @whytheylosttheirminds-works and turn on notifs <3

[no-144444]

prince charming- l.norris

summary: lando brings his niece to the ballet, who knew he'd find love?

pairing: lando norris x fem! ballerina! reader

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Another show finished, another day done. All you had to do was meet some children and show them around the stage. It was a thing the company had decided to do after every single show, and you were one of the only ballerinas who enjoyed it. Everyone else ran out of there as fast as they could, but you stayed around, in full costume, showing them everything. 

“Y/n! Y/n! Look!” Mila, the little girl that had been assigned to you pulled on your hand and you followed her over. “It’s your Prince Charming!” She pointed at your co-star, Richard, who was playing Prince Charming while you played Cinderella. He was lovely and one of your best friends, but Mila’s face fell when she saw him kiss another girl, aka his actual girlfriend Mia. “He’s kissing someone else!” she gasped, looking at you hurt. 

You smiled. “We’re only together in the show, remember? My name isn’t Cinderella, is it?” You chuckled and she nodded, laughing. “So, that’s Richard, and he’s Mia’s real-life Prince Charming, not mine.”

She nodded understandingly. “Do you have a Prince Charming?”

You internally cringed, why did kids always want to know about your love-life? “No,” you smiled. 

Her face lit up. “OH! Perfect! Uncle Lala!” she called for her uncle to come over as your face fell. “Uncle Lala will you be Y/n’s Prince Charming so she can be my Auntie and we can have fun forever?!” 

Mila’s excited face and the ridiculousness of her statement, reminding him she truly didn’t know how the world worked, made him giggle. And with Lando, when he starts, he doesn’t stop. It took a whole minute for him to stop laughing, while you sat there awkwardly. You knew who he was, you knew why he was laughing, but it was still rude. Just say no, dude. 

“Mila, it doesn’t work like that,” he explained. “She’s way too pretty for me,” he whispered, sitting down beside her, and in front of you. 

Your eyes widened and you looked down, confused at the entire situation. 

“I know she is,” Mila answered (subtle dig at her uncle, but alright). “But you could ask her to dance or something. Princesses like dancing.”

Lando shook his head. “I’m an awful dancer.”

“Why do you just try talking to her!” Mila scoffed, then ran off to go look at some of the set of the show. 

You looked up and met his eyes and you both started laughing. “I’m so sorry about her, she gets like this sometimes,” he admitted, a slight blush on his cheeks. 

“It’s alright, it happens sometimes,” you waved him off, an easy smile on your face. 

“You get hit on through people’s nieces a lot?” he questioned. 

You chuckled. “It’s more common than you think, people love the ballerina shtick.”

He laughed. “How old are you?”

“I’m 23,” you answered. “And I’m Y/n.”

“I’m Lando,” he held his hand out to be shaken. “Nice to meet you.”

“NIce to meet you too,” you smiled, shaking his hand. “Congratulations on the year you’ve had.”

“You watch F1?”

You nodded. “My mom has been into it since she was a kid, she gave that to me, so… yeah.”

“Who’s your favourite driver?” he smirked and you chuckled. 

“Nico Hulkenberg,” you smirked. 

He chuckled. “Understandable,” he smiled, nodding. “Mila is probably off somewhere trying to destroy your set, I should probably go grab her.”

You both got up and smiled at each other. “It was nice to meet you.”

“It was nice to meet you too, Prince Charming,” you joked, he giggled. 

And that was that. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

For the next few days, Lando could not get you out of his head. You were funny, kind, beautiful, good with Mila, everything he wanted in a person, yet he’d let you slip away. You weren’t even on social media, but he followed the company’s instagram and some of your friends to see pictures of you. He decided, once the season ended, he’d go back and find you. Maybe he really could become your Prince Charming. 

He joined the rest of the crowd in their standing ovation as you bowed, smiling brightly. He waited around and followed a few more people backstage to finally see you again. 

“Lando?” you questioned as you looked at him from behind. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you again,” he shrugged. “Happy holidays.”

You smiled. “So it is true,” your eyes shone with a hint of mischief. “You did follow the company account.”

He screwed his face up in a half-smile-half-grimace, he’d been caught. “You don’t have a public account, thought it would be weird to follow you on your private one.”

You chuckled. “I would’ve let you follow me,” you told him. “You are my Prince Charming, right?”

He beamed. “Right,” he nodded. “Dinner?”

“Let me get out of costume,” you agreed. You started to walk off and he didn’t follow, unsure what to do. You turned back and grabbed his hand. “Come on!”

He was very happy he had brought Mila to the ballet.

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navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

[crazyintheeast]

Are you American? This could explain a LOT. American teens have virtually no indepandance so I could see how it would suck . I grew up in a non american country and in a walkable city so during my teen yearsI could :

Go to school and anywhere else in the city by myself. I could either walk or use my extremely cheap student public transport card to use relible busses, trams,subway and so on to go anywhere in the city

The school didn't keep us prisoner so whenever we had free period or a break we could go hangout at the local park, a cafe, a store whatever

the teacherrs were normal human beings. They didn't treat us like dirt (the way I see American kids constantly being treated) they didn't assign us insane homeworkd( in fact it usually took no more then ten minutes to do your homework so you could it before class quickly, there are no metal detectrs or cops, no school shootings,

univeristy is free here and the only thing that matters to enter it are your grades which are not really that hard to keep up and unless you want to go for one of the elite majors the entrace test to university is not that hard(in fact I didn't even study and I entered without a problem _

As long as your parents are ok with it there is nothing stopping you from gathering a few buddies and taking the train or the bus and going on vacation together. Again children are not treated like criminals here so if someone sees a child without a prent it's no big eal

So yeah the teen yers are the best of your life because you don't have to work or pay taxes, you get to hang out with your friends as much as you want and you just have all the fun without any of the obligations

Hey btw I don't know who needs to hear this, but those adults telling you that your teen years are the best years of your life? Yeah I don't know what the hell they're smoking, either. I'm 29 and every once in a while I just sit here and think "man, it sure sucked to be 14. Glad I never have to do that again."

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Warnings: allusions to Daryl's scars and how he got them, mention of childhood injury (not abuse) "What's this one here?" Daryl asked softly, the pad of his forefinger running gently over a large scar by your collarbone.

You sighed and then laughed a little dryly. "I went over the handlebars on my bike once when I was a kid and hit the neighbor's wrought-iron fence."

"What made ya crash?"

You smiled at him, shifting closer beneath the blanket. "I don't want to tell you."

He pulled back and gave you a look. "What? Why?"

"Because you'll tease me," you laughed.

"Well, if ya deserve to be teased then... ya, prob'ly," he joked.

You sighed and closed your eyes. "There was a frog in the middle of the sidewalk and I was worried I would squish it... so I swerved and slammed on the brakes too hard and—went right over the handlebars."

Daryl chuckled softly. "That—is not somethin' I can make fun of ya for," he drawled. He leaned in and kissed your forehead. "Ya've always been lookin' out for the little guy. S'a good quality." You smiled up at him. "It looks like a star," he said, running his finger over the scar gently again.

"I've never liked it," you admitted. "I was always kind of self-conscious about it. Seems silly now."

"Well, I'll just have to like it enough for the both of us," Daryl drawled, and he leaned in and kissed the mark before settling back down beside you and letting out a content sigh.

You reached out and touched one of his scars visible on his chest. "I'm sorry that none of yours have ordinary childhood stories... about bikes and frogs," you said softly. Tears threatened to well up in your eyes as you thought about all that he had endured, even before the world had turned.

His arms tightened around you. "S'alrigh'. Ain't happenin' anymore. Bein' with ya, holdin' you... makes it feel like another lifetime, almost as if it never happened."

You snuggled in against him and closed your eyes.

Prompt: "I've never liked it."

[1bibypersecond]

Amanda Overton (Arcane's writer) participated in a live reaction to Episode 8 of Arcane. Here's what she said about Sky and Viktor.

Sky was Viktor's humanity

"Sky became the expression of his humanity"

Unlike Jayce, Sky saw Viktor for who he was

"Jayce never truly saw Viktor for who he was in Season 1, and that’s one of his biggest regrets. But Sky was able to see Viktor for who he truly was"

Sky wanted to work with Viktor in a future

"I think Sky’s hope was that she and Viktor would work on that (her project) together, and maybe it would blossom into something more. But he wasn’t in a place to receive it."

Amanda didn't confirm if Sky was real or not

"Sky was absorbed by the hexcore" "Is there a part of Sky manifesting in the Hexcore? Or is it just Viktor’s subconscious projecting her? We always talked about that"

The most fun part of writing Sky

"Sky was always the one giving Viktor warnings, but I loved her the most when she and Viktor were vibing over science. Seeing Viktor happy again, connecting with the anomaly, and having it echo what he used to have with Jayce at the beginning—it felt like he was channeling that relationship into Sky’s character. That was the most fun part of Sky to write."

Implied that Viktor and Jayce hired Sky (i can't remember the exact min, but ill find it)

"We are gonna bring back opportunities to Zaun"

Viktor met Sky when they were kids

"They kinda grew up together"

Viktor 'kept' Sky in the void

'The void he had Sky in'

[dadsbongos]

one must imagine violet happy...

14 k words / warnings - cunnilingus, fingering, choking, strap on (vi giving), drinking your feelings, emotional detachment and flip-flopping, reader's ex is an offscreen 'Her', fem reader

summary - despite vi's (and yours) red flags, you like her so much you can't let go. you think you two can graduate from casual fling to dedicated relationship despite still grieving your exes...

it started out as being vi’s little rebound fuck:

After another win she's drinking and masquerading it as a celebration when there's a meek tap on her shoulder. Vi can barely feel the sheepish, fleeting contact through her thick jacket; but she can make out the sight of a figure right beside her. It's a little wiggly and fuzzy, melting into the background as the warm washes of alcohol begin buzzing beneath her skin.

Vi twirls on the stool, frowning at you, "Yeah?"

Her tone is vicious, full of snot and ridicule, eyes narrowed. Black shade smearing over her cheekbones from the influence of sweat. Similarly, her hair is sweat-slicked, unevenly dyed strands dewy against her temples.

"Uhm, Vi, right?" you clear your throat, leaning close because you're petrified she won't hear you.

"What?" she spits again, though cants toward you -unbalanced.

"Hey, so," your hands knot behind your back, forcing your chest to jut out. Gnawing your bottom lip and eyelashes batting up at her, "I'm kinda like your biggest fan..."

"Hah?" her jaw hangs open, an eye squinting at you in disbelief, "You fuckin' serious?"

"Super serious," you giggle in earnest, hoping maybe a bit more charm will make her hard exterior crack, "I think you're crazy out there."

Vi sighs, surely about to reject you when a hand lands on her shoulder -a brunette man shrugs at her, giving a tiny smile- and she visibly loosens. Shoulders slacking and creased brows smoothing. She turns toward you again.

Heart hammering between your ribs, you catch her gray eyes drifting from your pert face and over your chest and down your hips along your thighs. All sleazy like.

The man murmurs into her ear as she blatantly leers at you. Barely do you catch his advice over the thrumming music: have a little fun.

Vi nods against his tilted head and pats the stool beside her, "Alright, fangirl, hop on."

You've got to clench your bottom lip in razor teeth to withhold a squeal, nodding excitedly and bouncing up onto the seat. Swiveled to face her. Vi reaches boldly between your legs, grasping the chilled metal underside to yank your stool flush against hers. The sides clack, vibrating you in place.

“You drunk?” she slurs at you.

“Uh, no…”

“You want a drink?” she tosses a thumb over her shoulder, toward the shiny shelves of liquor jugs.

“Uh, sure!”

“You picky? What do you want?”

“Uh, whatever you’re having is fine!”

Vi’s brows raise, lips quirking in amusement, “Do you ever start a sentence without some moaning, sweetheart?”

Pushing your lips tight, you have to swallow down the ditzy ‘uhm’ rushing up your throat to refuse, “No! I’m normally super good at speaking.”

“Are you?”

You shrug, “I think so.”

Vi laughs -well more like a loose snicker but still!- and shakes her head at you, combing a wrapped hand through her patchy hair, “You that starstruck?”

“Are you kidding? You’re so cool,” you gush, hands falling to your knees. Squeezing around bone nervously, “I’m totally obsessed with watching you out there.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Ooh,” Vi’s fingers, calloused and bruising, so tenderly draw beneath the strap of your bra. Thumbing the extra frills along each edge and pausing at the bow nestled just above the cups, she pushes the minuscule ribbons up with a blunt nail. Bottom lip trapped between her teeth, “This is cute, cupcake.”

“Yeah!”

.

.

.

“Cupcake?” you giggle, a bit ditzy with confusion swirling with anticipation -clogging your throat.

“Uh-huh,” she hums, blinking stiffly. Steely eyes flocking up from your chest to your face before tumbling back down. Fat spilling over the thin fabric, jiggling with your every labored breath. Vi wraps her other arm around your back, swiftly unweaving the hook, “I gotta get this off you.”

Bending into her grasp, you let Vi greedily peel your bra off; eyes tearing into the way your breasts drop free. One hand cinching the loose lace and the other eagerly pawing at your chest. Pinching a nipple solely to hear you gasp.

“So cute,” her eyes have some faraway film over them regardless of how active her hands are at your bosom as if acting out instinctually, like how she’d brush her teeth or breathe without thought.

“Vi,” you whine, raising your hands toward her arms and burning your prints into her forearm. Searing over her joints and up her bicep before wringing around her neck. Tangling fingers into her hair, “You seem distracted…”

“A little,” she admits, looking up at you so dejectedly you’re almost compelled to avoid eye contact. It’s wrong to see her so welpy and limp in spirit; goes against everything you’ve sifted of her personality through watching her fights.

“Should I go?”

“Don’t…”

“Vi, I’m worried-!”

You yelp then as she wrangles you forward by the hips, plying the flesh carelessly. She surges forward, chapped lips against yours with heat -- chaste pecks a ruse of affection before she’s licking into your mouth. Sour beer invades your senses as she cups your cheek and brings you closer. The brush of her thumb along your cheekbone is jarringly tender.

“Don’t talk,” she grunts, flipping and backing you into her makeshift mattress.

The hand not hovering your face massages your bare thigh. She punches up onto her knees, gasping openly against your mouth before rushing a thigh into the gap. Spreading you open while grinding her knee on your mound. Her palm rounds the top of your thigh to dig the warm inside. Merely squeezing her way down, closer and closer toward the crease where leg meets pelvis until her thumb slips beneath the gusset of your panties. Gliding over where you’re hottest to circle your clit with the pooling juices.

Bucking into her digit makes her laugh openly into your mouth.

Hand fluttering down from your face, Vi draws clipped nails over your neck and traces the swell of your breast -traversing your ribs and stomach before she meets the band of your underwear. Another bow greets her and she laughs again, twiddling the velveteen ornament.

“Dressed up just for me, cupcake?”

When her eyes are shut, she can’t see you preparing to speak but she can feel it -- must be able to because before you can confirm that yes, yes, Vi, I did and I wanted you to see me and notice how the set matches it’s my only one she kisses you again. But somehow, someway you need her to know the truth; you moan as you return the wet smooch.

Frantically humping her palm, anxious to dip her long fingers inside you, with a swooning wordless mewl. Vi purposefully ignores the mindless need, ‘tsk’ vibrating through your lips -she leisurely snags and drags your panties down your thighs. Dark fabric wrinkling between her knuckles, which blister white while following the planes of your legs. Her patience lasts until your ankles, where she finally and appropriately rips the cloth free. Tossing it aside. Then pinning your knee aside with the freshly spare hand.

Vi’s lips leave yours, she sighs and leans back to watch herself fan your cunt open, “You even realize you’re clenching right now? Or are you so desperate I’m all you’re thinking about?”

“I just want you,” you wail, back bending up to jam your tits in her face.

“‘Course you do,” she tucks her face into the junction of your neck. Digging canines into your pulse and sucking a welt as unavoidable evidence you had her between your thighs.

You’d let her vacuum hickies all down your body -- she doesn’t even have to ask.

A ragged gasp barbs your lungs as Vi slips her middle finger into you, curling toward the pouch of your stomach. Crescending from slow drawls into solid pistons, pushing out whines and curses between your teeth. She slides a second finger in, thumb sloppily drawing up to your clit.

Suddenly she’s braced overhead, studying your pinched face with intent. Heaving like she’s the one getting fucked. Gray eyes nonstop racing between your sploshing cunt wrapped around her fingers up to your chest and into your teary lashes. The rough pad of her thumb slides distinct characters along your bud.

You could be delusional, or she could be carving her name into you.

The thought she is makes you seize-- then a hard shot through your gut forces your head back. Lips crowning an ‘o’-shape.

“Breathe, baby,” she coos, pushing against your tummy as she continues fingering you through each spasm, “Breathe for me.”

You do as she says, reaping a big deep breath just for her -- with padded air, you sing, “Oh, Vi!” whole body jittering.

“Good job, cupcake,” she lays an overly sentimental kiss on your forehead as you pant back to normality.

Eyes low, you fling hands out to greedily caress her firm stomach careening toward her chunky belt. Rough hands pause you, Vi shakes her head and cups your face again to kiss you hard, pressing you onto the stiff bed with her weight over yours.

“Just wanna fuck you, cupcake,” she groans, taking a snip from your bottom lip. It stings faintly but she’s pleased with herself so you just run your tongue over the sore.

Then, she slinks away. Shortly, only as far as her nightstand, but you're worming down the bed to sap up her heat again. Vi unleashes something jarring, though not unwelcomed. You watch in stunned silence while she unveils it: a shadowy magenta-hued dildo rigged into black leather. She locks eyes, raising a brow: you get it, this is your chance. If you don't want to get fucked, you should leave. Good for Vi, getting fucked was exactly what you were wanting when you approached her.

Vi presses your hips down on the bed flat. Every fluid thrust into you ends with a deep electric pop. Her fingers stretch out until the silky head of her strap taps her skin and then she speeds up until that tapping is a battering. Her back straightens as you wheeze a sweet sigh; leaning upright. Arm stiffening to cuff your throat, thumb affectionately scrubbing along your pulse. Spare hand grappling beneath your knee to widen the gap between your thighs.

Drilling into you, Vi manages to jolt you across her bed mat. And like a fly to honey, she chases -in a flurry to not leave your cunt too long before returning with a slam. Genuine groans and hums singe her throat: heat spiraling down her arm until your hips hop up toward her pelvis.

“Beautiful, baby,” she grunts, eyes fluttering back in her skull.

Skin slapping skin merges with the music of your wetness wailing around Vi. Firework displays of arousal beget more arousal -- watching her crinkle and fall over you makes you clench around her. Something about her borderline manic moans and drooling makes you feel like she somehow feels it.

Vi squeezes your throat before releasing your windpipe: now using both hands to swerve and press your thighs against your bouncing chest. Cock reaching mysteriously deeper. She folds your torso in half, squatting over you so there’s no escape from her dick. Every twitch away is easily overpowered. Her entire weight crashing into your soaked cunt.

Curses flicking between Vi’s clenched teeth when she finally pulses hard, hard into you. Sitting base deep and grinding, swishing back and forth as her eyes widen and glisten.

“Aw, fuck, baby,” she sounds a bit pathetic but the sounds more intoxicating than what you drank tonight, “Baby, baby, cupcake, so good!”

She lowers to kiss you. Once. Then twice. Then she pulls back to smile down at you. Sleepy and lopsided and hazed with serenity.

After precisely one second, she slowly pulls out. Very kindly massaging your thighs as she lowers both legs before rising from the bed.

Vi meanders toward the bathroom -- kitchen sink hissing to life soon after.

Hands unwound by your head and legs smeared across her bed, your chest thunders with each heave for air. Soft padded steps veer closer before pausing completely at the foot of the bedroom.

“Need a walk down?” Vi’s shoulder burdens the doorway, head tipped toward the frame.

Oh, were you being rude?

Maybe so…

“Yes,” you grunt, hips uncooperative as you slide off her lackluster bed. Vi does not rush over to cradle you off but watches with a satisfied smear. Fighting on your clothing, sans the bra flung somewhere over her shoulder, you eventually crash into Vi’s side.

“Trouble walking?”

“Shut up…”

Vi snorts, sympathetic enough to wring an arm around you. Brunting your weight as you both shuffle toward the door, cracking it open to an uncaring brisk wind. Shivering deeper into the burrow of her side, the cold emboldens you enough to wrap both arms around her waist. Borderline snuggling as she hefts you toward the stairs.

“Cold?” a question, you think. Vi says it with plain confidence. Not that she needed that confidence to declare something bare before her eyes. Sometimes when the sky is dark and a dog is barking, you just have to call them as they are.

You’re fucking freezing.

Wordlessly, Vi shrugs off her jacket -- red leather squeaking along her arms and over yours. Her eyes pounce over you, it could be predatory if you didn’t like it so much- before she ‘hmph’s, “You should keep that. I like it on you,” she jumbles you around easily, “Besides, you should start dressing warmer.”

“Are you telling me to cover up?”

She croons over your pout, blatantly looking down your low top -- nipples cutting through the thin fabric and soon-swelling lovebites on display, “Nope. Maybe a long-sleeve couldn’t hurt, though.”

“Oh?” a sudden stroke of genius (and desperation) lathes you, “And would you come give a second opinion?”

Tone lilting just enough to be casual, you could absolutely play this off as a joke! …but you’re not joking.

“If you want me to,” she shrugs.

No fucking way it worked.

“Yeah, really?” your entire point of cool and casual melts without restraint, an audibly nervous, bumpy chuckle flipping through your throat, “I’d -yeah- I’d like that.”

“Then let’s do it.”

“For sure,” you giggle, positively lightheaded.

“You got it from here?”

“Oh, yeah, I can get home…” when you glance her way, Vi’s eyes are over your shoulder. Her knuckles blistering around the banister, “I don’t live far, really.”

“Yeah?” her foot taps anxiously. You nod with a quiet ‘yeah, vi, promise’ and she returns the gesture. Then pats your padded shoulders, fingers tightening around familiar leather, “Jacket should be enough warning, anyway.”

“You’re just that big and bad?”

“Oh, yeah,” she mimics you, shooting a wink before turning up toward the steps, “Find me tomorrow if you’re serious about that little shopping trip.”

Oh God she’s turning away, she’s about to waltz right out and you know yourself. You know you’ll lose this spontaneous courage as soon as her back has faded up the stairs, so you blurt out:

“Uhm, actually!”

“Huh?”

“...do you want to stay the night at mine?”

Vi blinks herself from her stupor, tackling a single step down with the most conflicted confusion lashing her cheekbones. Rolling the proposal from one tooth, around the ring of her jaw, and finally swallowing, “You want me in your house?”

“I can make you breakfast,” you add, to avoid the accusation of being overtly domestic you then throw in a softening, “I have bread and eggs.”

Unthinkingly, she snubs a hand over her stomach -- merely mentioning food has her guts flipping. Phantom curls of toast twist into her nose, saliva gushing freshening her palette. Vi takes another step down, then another, and another, and she grabs your hand -yoinking you forward silently until you’re guiding her toward your apartment.

***

Wet heat. Feathered scratches. Someone’s mewling.

Oh, oh, oh God -it’s you.

Fingers are already knotting into sheets, hips quirking. Gut clenching.

Startling awake with a gasp, your back’s already sharpened upward. Head thrown back into the pillows and legs tossed over Vi’s shoulders. Thighs shaking around her ears. Instinctually, you try raising your hips from her maw- squirming up the thin mattress for relief- but Vi easily rakes you back down. Blunt nails shoveling into your hips, pushing down to keep you still.

Tongue parting your folds crudely, Vi revels in your apparent distress; blinking up at you slowly as you grapple a fistful of hair. She even has the gall to chuckle at you. Vibrations spiraling and fizzing out in the balls of your hips, but still just knowing it’s her makes your chest tighten. Another squeal tumbles out, tongue fighting its way into your cheek to no avail. Every attempt is halted swiftly with Vi lewdly, loudly, and unabashedly sucking syrupy cum from your hole.

Moaning for more, she swivels her face into your cunt before pulling back to flay a broad stroke over your clit. Circling the bud precisely just to hear your staggered huffs. Frustrated tears well in the corners of your eyes.

Palming her flushed forehead, your shuddering arm tries in vain to shove her away. Vi shakes her head into you again, scolding you with her eyes as she suckles your clit -- pulling away just to ‘tsk’,

“I’m trying to clean you up here, you know?”

An uneven puff of breath leaves you, chest jittering and head flinging limply, “‘s too much, Vi…”

“Too much?” she leans upon her elbows, wrapping an arm around your leg to push two fingers across your cunt, spreading you open and watching you clench around nothing, “But you’re still so wet, baby.��

“Yeah, you’re too much,” you manage to pant out, fractionally grateful for the break and partially wondering if it’d be too hypocritical to hump her shiny face now.

Vi mimics a frown, way dramatically downturning her lips, “Am I?” you nod, “So, should I stop?”

You bite your lip.

You shake your head.

“Aw, okay then,” she slaps your thigh, “Stop whining so much, yeah?”

Vi really is so mean to you.

***

First stop on your mental list is also the sole stop, so ideally, this trip would not last long. Of course, before you two make it far, you’re distracted:

“Nice comb, probably expensive,” Vi gruffs from over your shoulder. She saw and fully knew you were going the wrong way and said nothing, only followed with hunched shoulders and hands in her pockets. Mean glares passed onto leering men.

Squeaking in shock, you cradle the comb to your chest and pray it calms the rapid beating of your heart. Flipping the smooth darkwood in your hand, skimming your fingers along the teeth just to feel each fine spike.

“I can afford it,” you insist.

“You got a job?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Vi’s almost startled by your offense, raising her hands in surrender with a small shrug, “How am I supposed to know? You’re always on me.”

“What?” you pout dejectedly, “You got a problem with that?”

“Nah,” Vi snatches the comb from your hand before twining your fingers together, “I like having a pretty thing around,” she holds the tool up over your head before you can grab it, snickering as you try stretching over her to grab it back, “What do you do anyway?”

“Huh?”

“For work,” she kindly elbows you flat onto your feet, squeezing your hand as she guides you through the coagulated market, “What do you do?”

“I’m a waitress, kinda,” you quiet, leaning your face against her thick bicep. It’s warm against your face, skin soft regardless of her own career, “I open at Bombshells…”

“Didn’t know that place was open before night.”

“Our dancers don’t show up until then, yeah.”

“Slow, huh?”

“I mostly clean with the other girl.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“Says you.”

“I’m fine as long as I win,” she grins wolfishly, canines glinting in the sunlight leaking from above. A honeyed glow cast over her faded dye, “Which I always do.”

Cheeks heating at the dichotomy between jagged danger and her big eyes and pretty face, your gaze darts away. Vi ghosts her lips over your temple, it could’ve been a kiss but you mostly just felt her smirking against you. Whenever an unfortunate head turns your way she fastens you deeper into her side, undoubtedly possessive. Terrible a trait as that is, especially given how the two of you aren’t official, you’re bewitched by the showmanship.

You assume it's a good thing: that she wants you.

When she leads you up to the vendor and uses her own coin to pay for your comb, your assumptions only sink deeper. You pray not into delusion, but you’re sure that possibility isn’t off the table.

“Take care of that thing,” she says with finality, as if you need the warning.

A wood so dark it burns red, strips of yellowish discolor vining diagonally along the middle. Shining in your palm with searing polish. You had a prettier comb when you were little -- a gold spine and black veneer, you carried it everywhere. Until you lost it. Losing that comb was hardly the worst thing in your life, especially at the time, although it was very beautiful and so pricey. This comb, if you lost this comb, you can only guess that the world itself would end.

Again cradling the comb against your chest, now with sincerity, you squeeze the hand Vi has wrapped around yours, “I think it’s my favorite.”

Vi laughs at you. Good-natured, you think. You hope.

She takes your hand in hers back on the way toward shirts all the same.

Vi occasionally has to redirect your sights back onto long-sleeves from tiny cut tops. You manage to pluck two that caught your eye and Vi’s little smirk and nod as she says, “you’ll have to model for me.” makes you weak in the knees.

And the downright perverse way her eyes crawl down your torso doesn’t help. She’s slouched back onto the bed, one thigh bouncing in frenzy.

“C’mere,” Vi slurs, raking you between her spread legs with hands on your hips.

“Vi!” you giggle, maybe a little more vapid than necessary, and try to balance yourself against her shoulders.

Without much concern or forethought, Vi is prying the shirt over your head. Mumbling to herself, just loud enough for you to catch snippets, desperate claws to see your skin. How much she misses it already. Calloused hands scar up from your sides to cradle your back while her lips tease down the swell of your breasts. Laving your nipples in broad tongue-strokes before softly tucking one in her mouth, cheeks hollowing. She croons around the bud as if it’s doing anything for her.

As she pops off, you catch the rouge caked into her cheeks. Webs of slobber stitching her swollen lips to your stiff nipple. Shining with saliva.

Then she’s pushing you away, a non-committed attempt at a kiss ghosts your lips before Vi is turning away. She clears her throat and pets through her hair.

“I’ve gotta get to the bar,” as if she can sense the wild request gushing up your gullet, she adds, “You should stay home and get some rest,” she must feel bad because she turns again to give you another chance at a kiss. Chaste and speedy before she’s darting out, “See you around, babe.”

Baffled as you are by her sudden disappearance, you’re equally -maybe even more- flattered by the pet name.

And in the quiet of her distance, you abruptly and sharply realize:

Oh, I didn’t go to work.

Oops.

Well, it’s too late now.

And the thought of finishing off what Vi started between your thighs sounds rich right about now. Your fingers may not be as satisfying but they’ve finished the job before, they can do it again.

Three sharp taps quake the door. Shrieking hinges shooting you alert. What are those odds? They must be good, right? Who else could be coming to your residence?

Did she forget something?

Does she miss you, too?

Skidding along the flat floor, a shirt hanging over your shoulders with skimpy panties beneath, you fling the door wide. Arms speared on either side, eager to wrap around the disheveled woman. You’re about to pile over her when your eyes hone on the face at your stoop.

Avont.

A grizzled man with wiry black hair curling around his jaw, bridging over his top lip, and connected to the slick-black ‘do of a proper undercity businessman.

“What happened?” oak eyes scrutinize you, scanning from your mussed hair to your bare legs, “Are you okay? You didn’t show.”

Ohhhhh maybe the boss you flaked on. That’s someone who might show up late at night, duh. Completely normal.

Well, fairly: it is normal when it’s Avont.

A faux sniffle schlucks up your nose easier than the throat-stabbing cough you force. Stumbling into the doorway with a very sudden, very apparent light-headedness, “I got- !” you silence yourself with another cough, forcing your voice down into the base of your chest, “Caught something… at that bar…”

Scoffing, Avont nods, “Big surprise. That place is nasty as shit. I keep tellin’ you stop going there,” here he goes again -you mentally retreat, planning the next ploy to aid your virus story, while he spiels, “You’re too nice for a gross ass place like that. No little crush is worth that black-eye waiting to happen! You need to listen to me, I was right about that girl and I’m right about that bar!”

Clearing your throat and shaking off both his lecture and the subtle jab at your dating history, you apologize softly and assure him, “I’ll be back on my feet soon…”

“Get rest, kid. I better not see your ass prancing in the lanes…”

Ugh, no faith. Like he thinks you’re a liar or something!

You feign a pained swallow and show a ‘thumbs up’. Nodding curtly. Shutting the door as he turns away. Returning to bed orgasm-less, and now dulled of all carnal heat upon the sight of your boss ]

***

Rising from bed provides a fresh ache, unrelated to the -still recovering- fingerprints scorched along your hips or the bite marks on your chest. This one curdles inside: above the vagina and below your throat. Acting more as a realization than a concrete feeling, one you think is meant to be stifled instead of acted upon. Not that self-awareness helps any.

Because whether it’s embarrassing or not, you’re itching to see Vi again. No amount of maturity or hindsight can pin that into a designated place. It rattles around, bowling one end of your stomach to the other like a wild hog until you’re shuffling out of bed. Intent on somehow finding those slate eyes on you again.

Skimping on work is something you’d be scolded for at home, which makes you thankful you’re not: you get to flee your house without a lecture on the importance of career dedication.

You planned on waiting before seeing Vi, you could picture it so well: you, posted at the bar by yourself in a cute little number with a drink you took one sip from. Lipstick around the rim. Lashes thick and batting over your shoulder as she approaches you for once.

All of that daydreaming is dashed as soon as you step foot inside.

Vi is already there. Black face paint thick around the eyes, strewn down her cheeks nearing the corners of her mouth -- black lipstick around there, too. Outgrown strands flattening out around her neck like oiled feathers. Individual pieces compiling to craft this perfect ego, some mask to make herself unattainable.

Always there. Always lingering. Always looking despite the danger ahead.

It makes you wonder what she serves. You want to know more. You need her to tell you, whisper it against your lips with her tongue in your mouth.

But she’s always there.

Does she live here or something?

Between strobing lights and swamped bodies, you manage to make out Vi’s stained silhouette. Ear cuffs shining back into your retinas.

Now you struggle with how to approach… should you be upfront? Should you tease from the sidelines and pray she notices?

Before you can formulate the most immaculate lie, Vi spots you in the faded crowd. Her eyebrows raise a smidge, a smoke visibly clearing from her gaze upon the sight of you. As if you could have no other prerogative than her (you don’t), she beckons you forward with two flicks of her middlemost fingers -- effectively eliminating the most awkward part of approaching her. Good!

Bounding toward the woman, you shyly tuck your hands at your hip and give a coy, “Hey, Vi…”

“What’re you doing here?”

Fuck!

“I’m here all the time,” not really a lie, just strategically subtracting the part where you come solely to catch glimpses of her beneath floodlights.

“Sure,” she pushes off the crackled counter, sliding back toward the door.

“I was just bored…” you admit glumly, reduced to a miserable, truthful goop beneath her glittering eyes, “Couldn’t think of anything but this place.”

Vi, naturally, chooses to pick on you, “You thinking of me?”

“Wha- ! Ugh, uh, no. Not really. Not even,” again, your bluffs disperse as simply as smoke with a mere flick of her eyes, “Just super bored.”

“Uh-huh,” she shrugs, jerking her head toward the back of the room, “You bored enough for a quickie in the bathroom? I gotta go out in ten for my first fight, need something to get my heart started.”

“First fight?”

“I get double-booked most nights, sweetpea.”

Your automatic reaction is to squeeze your thighs, feeling that slight nudge of fat ripe against your clit -- the friction. The resounding echo of your heartbeat against each rib bone. A dodgy snort racketing through your sinus, “You need to work on your nicknames.”

Vi’s initial response is to roll her eyes as if she could read the arousal off you like text -- her second response is to quietly mumble, “Forget that one from last night.”

Out of respect, you singularly nod and say nothing else, no matter how oddly the request strikes you.

And when Vi links an arm through yours, out of respect, you let her drag you into the bathroom. Spiked jacket collars dig into you as she crushes you toward the back wall -- rigging a janky lock last-minute; you’re not sure it ever clicked, and you’re also not sure that you care.

She keeps you pinned against the tile wall when you try slinking down her body. Vi ‘tsk’s in your face, nipping your neck, black fingernails already dipping beneath your waistband. Fluttering your bottoms down your thighs before whirling you around yet again. She slides onto the lidded toilet, legs spread wide. One thigh braised, muscle tense. She sits you on that thigh.

“Come on, baby,” she viciously swipes your cunt along her thumping thigh, swerving your hips by force. Rudely mimicking your pathetic whimpers back to you, airy, echoed “ah, ah, ah”s passing between sloppy kisses, “You gonna cum for me?”

Hard pressure and stroke against your clit has a ragged gasp raking through your chest, you spread your legs and wrangle hands into her jacket.

Then twisting those hands up toward her blackened hair. Vi has no sympathy, only pushing down harder and sliding you wetly over her skin.

“Come on, girl,” she moans quietly, “Give it to me. I need to watch you cum.”

Your gut twists at the desperate husk in her voice. Thighs quaking around hers. Nails snagging the nape of her neck.

She nudges up into you on each stroke, pressing her lips to yours.

“Uh- !” you gasp, knot blistering apart in your stomach.

“Yeah?”

“Hah…!”

“Uh-huh, baby,” she slowly releases your hips, allowing you to rut at your own pace while you come down from your orgasm.

“Oh, Vi…”

“Good girl,” she pecks your cheeks. Papping the black lipstick stains away kindly, “I needed that.”

Vi has enough decorum to help you yank up your clothes before shuffling you back out into the crowd.

Her thick jacket is laid over you. She pats the two-headed hound over your back with a playful shrug and chooses to not acknowledge the way you solely gaze at her chest beneath the wrap top. What a merciful and kind woman.

You slide your arms through the sleeves of the heavy jacket, letting Vi guide you via a hand just above your ass. Until you’re squishing through raised pews, not mumbling apologies quick enough for all the shoes you’re trampling. Too fast you’re moving in a space too dark.

“Here, baby,” Vi gruffs from behind you, shoving you as politely as possible onto the stone seat beside a man over thrice your size. She pats your padded shoulder and beams at the man while saying your name, then turns to you amongst the cheering crowd and says, “This is my friend! Just stick with him and nobody’ll fuck with you while I’m down there!”

Eagerly nodding along, you perk up as Vi leans down. One hand on your cheek and the other darting between the open drawls of her jacket -- not-so-subtly copping a squeeze of your tit -- pressing you with a soft, open-mouthed kiss. Then she hops down the pews vertically, carelessly shoving aside viewers. People scream after her in outrage but don’t change their bets on her win.

An elbow jutting into your side knocks you violently into Vi’s friend. Rather than become as upset as the patrons, he smiles down at you softly and slinks an arm around your back to keep you away from the rowdiness.

Lights dim, then shoot alive. Flashing down into the pit. Circling and circling like scavenger birds as a man rippling with black ink enters directly across from Vi.

You sit up seeing her. Eyes widening as if that could provide some higher definition sight of her.

The man keeps you upright among the thrashing throng. He has no room to say it, but the lovestruck haze on your face both terrifies and moves him. He prays for both yours and Vi’s sake that Vi is big enough with those muscles to dwarf her past. He’d love to put the idea of caution in your head, of a safe distance. But for one: the mob is shrieking, and two: your eyes are soaking wet with infatuation.

Even when Vi is making a man even bigger than himself spit out teeth and blood, you look down at her like she’s gifting a ribboned bouquet.

Post win, reveling in the coins freshly lining her pockets, Vi has you on her arm while her friend repeatedly gathers the bartender’s attention with his broader, taller stature.

Stares linger. Regular betters spotting this man with Vi is not unusual, but you are. A glaring lime green dot in the center of this portrait. Girls stray, syrupy voices sultry to lure Vi from her seat; yet it never works.

Her arm hooked around your waist tightens every time, screwing you into her side until your skin is basically glued against hers. If, at any point, you could be worried about her taking a different girl home: she quickly remedies that by how sparingly she diverts her attention from you.

It was always going to be you she takes home, and you were always going to say yes.

“This is cute,” Vi holds, between two fingers, your absolute embarrassment, “You carry this wherever you go?”

“Why are you riffling through my things?!”

You launch forward to rip your bag out of her lap and try snatching the comb from her fingers but she tosses it aside to wrench you forward. Both arms wrapping around your waist; wrapped hands with dried blood around the knuckles securing you against her.

“I trusted you…” you seethe, albeit non-seriously, and slap her shoulder, “I leave you alone for two seconds and you try teasing me.”

“It’s cute! You got a little reminder charm in your purse, it’s adorable,” when you only pout harder, Vi relents, “Sorry for betraying your trust while you pissed.”

“Ew, don’t say it like that…”

“So sensitive,” she lulls onto her back, bringing you with her so you’re fully nestled on her chest.

Grumbling protests into her bosom, you squeeze yourself around her. Throwing a leg over both of hers. Her blunt nails barely make an indent against your back as she draws lines and circles -and hearts you think?- along your spine. Despite her heavy-handedness and rough pads, the ministrations are incredibly soothing. So gentle and sweet that you find your lids drooping.

Heavy lashes beating down onto your cheeks. Breaths evening and slowing. A fragile yawn escapes your parted lips.

Just as your mind is leaking blank, you’re jostled.

“Alright,” she coughs awkwardly, clapping the fat of your ass until you’re shuffling upward, leaning upon your elbows. Lashes clumped by black dye beat up at you, she presses her lips with furrowed brows, “Let’s get you home.”

“At this hour?” you yawn.

Slipping out from beneath you, Vi is already stuffing her shoes back on. Carding long fingers through her tangled hair as she murmurs, “I’ll walk you.”

You don’t suppose that’s the warmest invitation, and so slink off Vi’s board of a bed.

Much of the creep towards your apartment is as silent as it is prolonged. Her silence could speak volumes if she wasn't so flagrantly dragging her feet, pointing into the smokey, unclear sky to attract your attention or pausing you at each sketchy corner to 'scope' rounding dangers. Patiently, you wait for her to tell you any of the multitude of thoughts she's withholding, but that doesn't come before she's clomping outside your door. "Well, sweets, looks like it's goodnight. Keep those bugs away, huh?" lame, yet charming. You wouldn't have imagined someone as made-up and scenic as Vi would have a shamelessly cringe bone in their body and yet she surprises you. You're desperate to see more.

She’s turning, she’s getting away. For some odd reason no matter how much time you siphon from her it is never enough.

“Wait, Vi!” you clap a hand over your mouth as soon as the call has left your mouth.

She quirks a brow at you silently.

“Uhm,” now you can’t retract it. Commit or die of embarrassment, “Are you hungry?”

Vi’s lips raise in disbelief, disbelief that suffocates itself with a confused smile, “I haven’t eaten.”

“Do you want to come in? I’ll make you something good.”

Vi, for an unbearable few seconds of stunted silence, contemplates the offer before shrugging. Face elongating in pure why not energy -- skimming your side as she slides into your apartment. Saddling your stove impatiently with big puppy eyes, just waiting until you follow in.

“I wanna have a special nickname for you…”

“Give me one, then.”

“How about…” you hum thoughtfully, “Red? Like the jacket?”

Vi tenses, then shakes her head wildly, “Too close to one I don’t like.”

“Uh, okay, then… uhm… ughhh, there’s not enough to work with… I don’t wanna just call you ‘V’, that feels so cheap.”

“Full name’s Violet, if you really want more ammo.”

“Violet,” you sing it so sweetly that it makes heat swoon to her cheeks -she almost clutches her palms over her face like a child at the realization- “What if I just call you that? Is that okay?”

The blush is immediately overwritten by a heinous cackle, “That’s the exact opposite of a nickname.”

“Yeah, but it’s just as special because only I’ll call you that. It’s a name-extender, or something.”

“Uh-huh, or something,” when you don’t retort, instead just blinking up at her bashfully, Vi tilts her head sardonically, “Yes?”

“Do I get a nickname, too?”

“Oh, yeah, let’s go. How about ‘princess’?”

“No! It has to be related to me!”

“You don’t see how ‘princess’ is related to you?” brattishly, you shake your head and Vi rolls her eyes (albeit not with any malintent), “Alright, then… Pumpkin? Candy lady? Sweet girl?”

The last one makes you clench and rub your thighs, but you press that down, down, down and pretend to be normal.

“Why are all my nicknames so ‘sweets’ related?”

She answers, or instead dodges, your question with another one, “How can you sit there and be so nice all the time anyway?”

“I don’t know, it just feels better than being spiteful.”

“Okay, well. Sometimes you have to be.”

“Yeah! I didn’t mean anything by it… just, for me. Right? I didn’t mean anything.”

Vi doesn’t seem to buy it, which is confusing because you don’t think you ever gave her a reason to think you would lie.

“Where are you from?” her gaze narrows.

“Huh? How does that matter?”

“Where were you born?”

“Vi, if you just want someone to be mad at you then why are you with me?” sensing she won’t drop the topic anytime soon, you sigh and answer with great hesitance, “Piltover. I moved here when I was sixteen.”

“Why?”

Her questioning makes your skin crawl. You don’t like her sneer. You don’t like thinking about your past. And you don’t want to explain yourself to someone you thought would understand.

“A girlfriend,” you try to wave the answer away beneath the pan’s sizzle, but Vi catches it.

“You moved down here?” you hum and nod passively, praying she’d only drop the subject, but instead she scoffs, “She was stupid to not move over.”

“She had a family to take care of…”

“She could’ve moved them all.”

“Why does it matter?” you move the pan and swing around after stifling the stove, hands clutching your counter and sights rounding with juicy globs of upset. You already know why it matters. You heard it two years ago and you’re reading it in the displeased lines of Vi’s scowl.

“You don’t belong down here,” she speaks so casually.

“I belong wherever I want.”

“Not down here.”

“Not with you?”

Vi inhales slowly, eyes fluttering shut and arms folding, “Come on, you know that’s-!“

“No, you come on! That’s what you’re saying!” you wail, pushing into the rusting stove when Vi steps closer, “That’s what you’re thinking. That’s why you’re saying all this, right? Why else would you care so much about shit I don’t even think about.”

Vi approaches, hands uncomfortably stuffed into her pockets, “I just can’t understand not being angry about anything.”

“That’s not because you’re from Zaun, that’s because your life was hard.”

“My life is hard because I’m from Zaun,” she bites, “I had a little stay topside, and it was still shit for me.”

Again, you can read what she’s thinking. The sudden crease between her brows says it all -- that vengeful twinge and aggravated quirk of her lips. And again, your heart tells you with fiery anguish that you must hear her confirm it verbally,

“Why were you in Piltover?”

Vi looks down at you over the bridge of her nose, “For a girlfriend.”

Staring each other down with only the rocking of your unsteady body against the stove droning through your apartment. You frown while Vi smiles cruelly. She wants you to say it back. You didn’t belong there. She wants you to bang the pan in her face.

“I’m sorry it was so shit for you,” you cough between bulbing sobs, and the urge to spit them out only grows when Vi is visibly disappointed in your response, “If you’re looking for a fight then you should go back to your own place.”

Vi leans back into the counter opposite you. Arms coming up to fold across her chest. She burns thumb and forefinger into her eyes, then massages her brow and trails across to her temple, “You’re so sweet.”

A mirthless laugh scatters from your deflated self, “Like sugar?”

“Yeah…” she sniffs and clears her throat, “Like sugar.”

Foolishly, you allow the disagreement to settle over her stunted compliment(?), “I still don’t like that. You sound like some hounding drunk.”

“It’s all I got.”

“We should work on your nicknaming skills, Violet.”

“Yeah, whatever ‘name-extender’.”

***

Waking up hours earlier than your routine calls for does not suit you finely. But, alas, you do it for Violet. Violet.

Gorgeous name for such a rugged girl. Her scarred lip and gnarly dye-job don’t scream ‘fragile lavender flowers’. Sometimes there are things you can connect Violet to violets over: soft, round eyes and flushing skin and the taste of her lips. Violet. You roll the name between your brain-folds -- like a marble through grout, contemplating the history behind it. Has she always preferred Vi? When did that nickname sprout? Why is it tattooed on her cheek? Would she let you kiss her tattoo? Would she let you moan Violet when she’s inside you?

For the tenth time this morning, you shoot the clock a deadly scathe. Half past ten.

No longer satiated passing time examining her name, you stand to swing the door and survey your floor. Clean of any body, let alone the significant profile Vi provides.

Vi never struck you as a punctual person, definitely seeming the type to be fashionably late even to her own party, but this was grating. Surely she didn’t choke on vomit in the middle of the night, right?

Momentarily, you feel inspired to burst out and give chase: rush to her studio and cradle whatever hungover pieces remain. Then comes the concern: what if she comes here, and you’re out trying to hunt her down?

To avoid creating a complicated circle, you stay plopped on your couch with your elbows stabbed into your knees and your face hanging into your palms. Every time sleepiness creeps over you, dizzying your head or yanking your lids, you’re shocked awake with anxiety: what if she knocks and you don’t hear it?

To avoid inconveniencing Vi, you stay wide awake on your couch. For uninterrupted hours.

Until you’re forced to rise upon the realization that the sun has crashed beneath the horizon. Indigo glows of nighttime bruise your carpet through dusty windows. Slowly waking, the moon yawns behind a veil of thick smoke. Discoloring it to a vague yellow-ish-green-ish.

You’re a very punctual person. Vi tells you a time, and you find a way to be there two minutes early. So ideally, when she said she’d be showing off at 21:00- you would’ve caught her in the ring.

After elbowing toward the front, hands clasped around the top rail to haul you up high above the fighting -eyes wide to peek at Vi’s rough physique and soft face up close. Only to find two burly men duking in the center. Teeth and blood splattered across the chipped floor.

Bathroom, perhaps?

Shuffling around the edge of the room, you budge toward the back where a single light flickers above the sign with missing letters spelling: RE R O

All you find in the bathroom is another hot couple sweating and moaning in a broken-lock stall. Too caught in their rambunctious whirl of passion, neither pays you any mind before you gather the wherewithal to duck out and slam the door.

Between flashes of light and thumping music, you make out that none of the faces in the crowd are Vi.

Outside, then?

Maybe?

You dash outside, cutting between sweat-slick bodies until the cold air greets you. Music muffled behind steel walls and cigarette smoke curdling around unfamiliar faces. Kiramman banners reflect sickly green beneath the street lamps. They don’t swing in the faint billowing wind; stiff material snaking in jagged lines that hide trashed gutters. A girl with long hair stands in the center, shouting and hugging a boy shorter than her -- you would bet she reeks of Zaun’s finest.

Outside was no luck, you twirl vapidly in the street -as if Vi is standing just out of sight to tease you. Then you find the flight up to her apartment: if Vi’s nowhere, she must be up there.

Bracing the trek two steps at a time, you find a conflicting hint to Vi’s whereabouts.

Coming down the same stairs is the big man Vi usually slinks around with, brushing off his hands with an unbuttoned coat and flushed cheeks. You typically think so kindly of this stranger, but whether it's the swollen concern or aching longing you’re quickly assuming the worst of him. Marching up and pushing him back (rather, he’s polite enough to pretend you forced him back).

He stares down at you with lidded eyes. Bloodshot with heavy bags. He’s frowning.

“What’d you do with her?” despite the comically obvious size difference, you shove at the man’s broad chest with both hands. Face twisted up at him and teeth bared, “I thought you were her friend!”

He merely throws a hand toward the stairs, moving aside for you to fly up the steps and throw yourself into her door. Roughly jerking the knob, finding it unlocked for any passerby, and flinging yourself inside with a panicked call,

“Vi?!”

The door clicks shut behind you, and the sullen strange man stalks away.

“Shhh!”

On her side -eyes clenched and legs twisted around one another with both arms flopped out on opposite sides- Vi is thrown into bed. She looks like she got dumped off by a truck and decided moving wasn’t worth the struggle. You imagine she’s feeling that way, too, if the clattering bottles you kick over when trying to enter are any indication. Her teeth bared with the dangerous shush.

An empty brown glass rolls into an empty green one and the dying orange sun makes them glitter into each other. Cautious to not make too much noise, you step over the two bottles and creak her door shut. A black bucket is beside her bed, angled beneath her face (for easy puking, you imagine). Several more emptied bottles marble the floor, and with the new vantage point inside her room, you spot a bottle on its side spewing bubbly beer. No doubt already soaking into the floorboards.

“Oh, Vi…” you husk, ambling through her maze to pick up the abandoned glass. Setting it on her side table and searching for anything to mop up the impending stain.

Your attention is speedily diverted.

“Don’t,” she spits, eyes still crinkled shut.

“Hmm?” you hum, inching forward to gently card hair from her face. It’s a tad too pliant, not so much soft as it is greasy, “‘Don’t’ what?”

“Say that… my name,” you could’ve laughed if she didn’t sound so deadly serious, “‘Oh, Vi’ like you give a shit…”

“I do,” you hope that regardless of your hushed tone, the firmness behind it is all the assurance she needs, “Vi, I care,” she doesn’t reply to that, instead groaning and leaning her head further off the edge of the bed. You silently adjust the puke bucket so it’s closer to her gaping mouth, “Vi, we should shower.”

“‘m fucked up, babe.”

“I can see the alcohol, Vi.”

“Sure…”

“Are you okay to stand?”

“You’re serious about a bath?”

“Super,” you comb through her fringe, “You’ll feel better afterward. All nice and clean, and then you can pass out all you want.”

“I don’t wanna stand,” she huffs.

“Then I’ll wash you.”

She snorts. Then shrugs, “Pick me up, then.”

Standing, you preemptively remove your thin shirt and shorts before cautiously hauling Vi into a sit. Looping one of her arms around your shoulder and dragging her into the bathroom. Vi silently lets you lay her in her itty bitty tub and twist on the water.

“Is it too cold?”

She remains silent. So you assume she’s fine.

As you tip her head, scaling water over matted black knots and scrubbing pigment straight off her neck with gentle ministrations -Vi is leering through the corner of her eye.

“You stripped,” she notices.

“I did,” you scratch soap into her discolored hair, “Should I throw on a towel or something?”

“No,” Vi leans back into your hands, a soft moan escaping as you massage her scalp, “Bath and a show. I like it.”

“I just didn’t want you ruining my clothes. You look like a splasher.”

“It’s water.”

“Yeah, bathwater.”

Vi laughs quietly, proving your point with a flick of her wrist and sending a small sploosh of water up into your chest. Powder blue eyes locked on the way your breasts bounce in your bra as you flinch away, then how they jiggle when you try scolding her,

“Vi!”

“You should walk around like this more often,” she grins up at you.

“Whatever,” you try hiding your face in your arm.

“Yeah,” one of her hands dips out of the water to flip your tit, giggling maniacally as you screech and retch back, “Whatever, huh? Listen when I talk, babe.”

Standing abruptly at the new title of ‘babe’, you shudder and shake out the nerves bottling in your gut, “I might as well join you if you’re gonna soak me.”

“You should,” Vi spreads her legs while leaning back, making an obvious gap for you to fill. Rapping her knuckles against the side of the cramped tub, “I’ll treat you real nice in here.”

“Liar,” you smother your humiliation beneath indignation, then a thin spread of frustration, “You’re getting pruney, let me finish washing you.”

“What if I wanna wash you?”

“Do you? Or do you just want me in the water?”

Vi shrugs playfully, a drunken smile on her face, “Never tell.”

“Okay, Vi,” you roll your eyes, rinsing suds from her hair and watching as the water browns beneath her.

Her skin gleams beneath the shoddy yellow lights now, and you can clearly make out each intricate line in the tattoo going down her spine. Branching off either arm and licking up her neck. Outgrown hair hides some of the neck detail.

“When’s the last time you got a cut?” you wonder aloud. Not really expecting a response.

Vi stiffens, arms locking around her bent knees, eyes unfocused and breath heavy as she answers, “Couple months now.”

Patting Vi’s shoulder into a rise, you unplug the tub before assisting Vi out. She trips over herself and just snickers as you scramble to keep her upright. Vi yawns while you lead her toward her makeshift bed with both hands. Kicking aside empty liquor bottles as you do.

“Wanna get dressed for bed? Or total commando?”

“Naked,” she stumbles up, caught by diligent hands and escorted back onto her stiff, patchwork mats, “Thanks.”

“Hm? Uh, oh, sure. I don’t mind.”

“Okay…”

Despite technically fulfilling her request: you feel guilty leaving Vi there, bare to the sprawling draft on a thin mosaic of lumpy cots. She curls tightly, spiraling around herself with her clasped hands as a pillow. Heart drowning in stomach acid, you sigh and drop onto your knees,

“Vi, don’t you have a blanket around here somewhere?”

She mumbles something and flings an arm straight out, a single finger pointed straight toward the boarded floor. Crouching beneath the bed frame, you reach out blindly into the dark undercarriage; fully unaware there was even enough space down here to fit something. After uncarefully scrounging for all of two seconds, you find bundled fabric. Absolutely not soft enough to be a genuine thread blanket, even from the fissures.

The material itself is… off. Thin, sure, but almost plastic-esque. Not vinyl. Not a sheet.

Yanking the cloth out and flattening it across your lap. No matter how dark Vi’s room grew with the sunlight’s decline, you could make out that boorish symbol anywhere. Hard lines stacked into the most offensive polygon you’ve ever seen;

A Kiramman crest flag.

Did she just rip it from a post? Surely with all she wins, she could’ve gotten something more… well, like a blanket.

“Vi, you can’t wear this, it won’t keep you warm…”

She snores and twists away from you. Jet-black ink staring you in the face, now. Swaying with her breath, but otherwise motionless: perfect opportunity to scan down her spine. Because that’s where her tattoo sits, of course.

Hard rectangular blocks, exceptionally round, screw-like joints and gear types at either shoulder. Never before could you conflate Vi with mechanics because everything about her is so hot.

Blood and skin. Layered hair. Bloodshot eyes. Pink lips. A heartbeat. Flaying lashes.

Perhaps that’s an old part of her. Locked away behind the years since she got the tattoo done. Maybe she doesn’t even remember what the meaning is.

What if it just looks cool?

Slammed out of your thoughts, Vi rolls around again with a strung-out huff. Now a silvering scar denting her top lip stares you in the face. A nose ring glints just to the left, teasing you to stick around. You see both so much better without those black shades she packs on before each rumble. For as much as you adore the hardened painting, you think she’s prettier like this. You catch the roundness of her cheeks better. The wideness of her eyes. Her collarbones.

You inhale slowly and stumble back into a stand. Hands shaking at the sudden, frightening swell of affection.

You should probably go.

Vi shivers, big eyes clenching tight and burly arms roping around herself for cover.

Dropping into a speedy squat, you snatch the Kiramman flag and splay it across her although it does your heart no favors. Still unpleasantly contracting.

She could get sick…

She’s doused by moldy colors. Surely the material is scratchy, too.

“At least I know what’s watching me…” rouses you from the fresh concern.

“Huh?”

“Can’t sleep like this,” Vi laughs, stifling it in the hull of her throat before rolling to sit up. Staring up at you tiredly, “Felt like I was being watched.”

“Oh, I guess I was… I wasn’t, I mean- not like that,” you groan, scrubbing exasperation from your tense eyes, “I don’t wanna hurt you, Vi.”

“Comforting.”

“Just worried… you’ll get sick, you know?”

Vi pushes off to stand, smirking when your eyes momentarily sink toward her chest -- she pinches your cheek, “Cute.”

Shirking a stringy black top and boxers on, Vi snags the flag -and kicks it back beneath her bed before assuring you, “I’ll find something else, okay?”

“Okay…”

Striding past you, Vi opens her door and knocks her head into the frame before gesturing you through, “Ladies first.”

You chuckle, good-naturedly rolling your eyes and flouncing out of her apartment, “You’re a lady, too.”

“Mhmm,” she shuts it behind you both -impulsively going to jam her hands in pockets until she realizes there are none there. She says nothing but leads you toward the wide staircase, “Not like you, though. Coming all this way for me… Undercity’s finest.”

“Not even,” you’re glowing beneath the praise. Goofy smiling and cheeks heated. So you intentionally stray a few steps behind, so she cannot see you.

As you dust the final step, looking out into the narrow alleys -flaying Kiramman flags mystifying the space, so crowded together you can no longer see between them as the wind raises each flap- you realize you have a longer way to go.

Vi must come to the same conclusion simultaneously. Already staring down at you when you peek toward her.

Her mouth opens, lips faintly stained blue around the ridges and smears of black lingering beneath her lashes. Vi’s eyes trace you, hands shaking at her sides. Then she sighs, eyes blinking half a second apart, “I might be too drunk to walk you home, sugar.”

Knowing she’s inebriated gives you an edge -knowing that perhaps tomorrow her head will pound so hard she won’t remember this conversation- you straighten your shoulders, “Then why don’t I stay the night?”

Blinking down at you, drowsy lashes hanging for a moment, Vi hums thoughtfully even though you can see the rejection already in her face, “You shouldn’t…” eyes sliding away from you, “You won’t get much sleep…” she laughs at herself before bumbling out, “the mattress is uncomfortable.”

“Huh,” you twist uncomfortably, an overbearing and embarrassing tension rising as you battle uphill to get back into that apartment, “I’ll miss you then.”

“Stay safe, sugar,” she soothes a hand up your arm before slinking away. Overly cool and completely unbothered, she has to white-knuckle the rail as she climbs back toward her lonely studio apartment.

A biting wind slithers up your back.

You forgot Vi’s jacket at home.

***

Technically, there was no plan to see each other again.

That doesn’t mean you want to any less.

Work is disinteresting and despite living here for coming to eight years, you have yet to establish a social circle independent of work or… Her. Who shall not be named.

The most social stimulation you’ve had today was another knock-switcharoo incident. Flurrying toward the sound, expecting Vi to be leaning there with her muscles and soft lips, you opened the door to find your next-door neighbor with a crooked smile. She held out a silver key and asked you to keep it because it’s a new copy and I don’t trust myself with the duplicate….

That was two hours after you woke up. Many more have passed since then.

A momentary pass of awareness scoops you up: is everyone right? That you don’t belong here? Should you go back home? Would that help you re-grow your spine, would that re-inspire your social battery? Would that alleviate the doubts still gnawing at you with Her teeth?

But then you wouldn’t get to see Vi if you moved back home…

Maybe you shouldn’t.

You sit at home. You don’t know what to do with yourself alone except for craving Violet.

Antsy for something to do, you resolve to rid yourself of the last fossil from two years ago: throwing apart the cabinets above your speckled stove, nearly tearing one door from its hinges. Sparkling from the back, unhidden, is a bottle you haven’t touched since She stormed out of your apartment. Leaving you with a two-bedroom to hemorrhage money over while her things slowly disappeared overnight. Its waxy red neck shivers for warmth, and your palm is awfully sweaty -- it needs something cold to wrap around.

Thrilled spines pierce along your spine and into the arm you’re extending for the bottle. Amber liquid swirls kindly at you, calling your name with such foreign affection that you have no choice but to politely reciprocate. Unscrewing the cap and abandoning it into the garbage. Swigging like water until your throat burns, then you drink more to pacify the sting.

Once your belly is buzzing and hot, and any thought past breathing is too hard for your head to compute: you decide you’re in perfect condition to get out of your stuffy apartment.

After all, don’t you deserve it?

You’ve been locked away too long, you should get out. You should dress up. You should keep the bottle with you as you get dolled up. And you should roam deep into the inner city. For no specific reason except that’s usually where the excitement thrives. Your ex taught you that.

Deep in a cardboard box buried in the back of your closet is a matching set. Your only one. You only wore it twice.

Black thread is thickest in the outline: straps and cups, then a sheer mesh. Wine tinted over your flesh and purple bows on either bra strap, right at the pit of your arm, and over the front of your panties. Vi loved it the first time, she’ll have to love it again. It’ll remind her of that first night: the heat, the passion, she could’ve eaten you alive and it was enchanting.

Over that, you tug a pink dress. Short to let your legs breathe. Hugging around your hips and chest. Simple enough to be unassuming as a slip dress, but undoubtedly tempting for someone like Vi.

When did this abrupt outing become about Vi?

…you don’t remember…

You don’t care too much, either.

A dangerous walk to the pit is nothing to your drunken mind. Determined with nothing but soot in your hands, dust blowing out of your fists without you realizing.

Vi doesn’t notice you with her back turned. She’s alone and hunched over the counter with a vice grip around a glass bottle. Her cheeks are rosy and the glass has only been dug into a fifth of the way. You approach, and she must catch your glinting smile in her peripherals because her head glides your way.

Releasing the bottle, Vi tilts her head onto her newly spare hand while reaching out for you with the other. Fondly, she massages the back of your hand with her thumb -- settling you onto the stool beside her and tugging you flush into her side. She pats your thigh and cups your cheek.

Vi snickers, drawing a thumb beneath your bottom lip and swiping up-away from the corner. Only once you see the crimson smear on her skin do you realize she was cleaning up drooping lipstick. What a romantic…

“You look like me, sugar,” she says strangely. Not happy. Not sad. Just quiet. And her face betrays nothing at all.

“Are you happy to see me?”

“You drink before showing up?”

Her question flies out so quickly it doesn’t occur to you that she completely dodged your own.

“Can you tell?”

She nods, “Hard not to when I can smell it.”

“Augh…”

“You’re still cute,” she promises and swings back her next drink. Dragging the back of her hand across her jaw to catch sour dribbles, “I just have to catch up now.”

Before she can poke even a little, you’re clawing an open hole through your stomach. Guts piling onto the counter in front of her. An earnest glow overtaking your face, and a desperate rag choking your sweet tone, “Vi, I missed you.”

“Did you?” she swallows another shot from the bottle.

“I want you totally, Vi.”

“Do you?”

Now she looks at you again. Your face is spared two seconds before her steely eyes drop toward your cleavage. Elated with having her stare on you again, you don’t catch the pure carnality electrifying her. Raw desire infects her sloppy judgment when she nods.

“I want you too, sugar.”

“Seriously?” despite all your dreams, you hadn’t thought she would agree. Preparing yourself for the utter worst, now you don’t know what to do as she hops down (stealing the whole bottle with her, you notice).

“What else would you be doing here?” she grins up at you from your perch on the stool, “Now come on, are you gonna sit here and make me go home alone?”

She already knows, you can tell by that smarmy lilt in her voice, she must know that isn’t what you came here for.

Taking her offered hand is natural. Medical wrap comfortably fitting into the grooves of your clasp. When you trip over the first step, she dramatically sweeps you up into her arms. Barking a laugh when you scream and curl both arms around her neck in panic, legs tightening and smacking against her clavicle. Regardless of her not being winded or in any detectable pain, you rush to kiss her cheek and spew apologies.

“I’m tough, sugar, don’t be sorry,” she carries you up the steps, “Feel free to keep kissing me though.”

So you do.

Red lip print after red lip print, overlapping and staining her pale cheek. Mingling and murkying with her long-drawn eye makeup. And when you sear your lips against her jaw you see that black shades over some of the red.

As a test, you kiss down her neck and again: black in red. She stained you, too.

It makes you giddier than it should, but you blame it on the alcohol and not your festering obsession.

Vi lets you off after kicking her door open, finding plenty of joy in how you -again- squeal in shock and cling tighter to her. Bonking your forehead against her. Her laugh is so full of fluff, delighted by your dread -she still sounds so pretty. She kneels to unclasp your shoes and slips you out of them with black tar kisses on your knees and shins.

Unlooping the straps of your slip until it bleeds onto the floor: pooling around your ankles. You hop out of it without a second thought.

Kicking off her own shoes, Vi slides her hands over your neck and smooches both cheeks -- grinning broadly with bloodshot eyes at the sight of her lips printed on your skin.

With the door open, you feel free. Unhidden. A bottle about to be chugged. Her hands on your neck, so warm and so gentle. You feel buzzy in your belly and overwhelmed by endearment, you pry your ribs back to expose a still-beating heart. Vi can take it. She should take it.

“I think I love you, Vi.”

Hands tighten around your throat before snaking off, fastening at her sides. Red eyes come alight like she didn’t just carry you up the stairs and kiss your legs, “What?”

“I’m - I mean, uh… I… I want you, I want us…” your shoulders slump, brows furrowing, “I thought…”

“You thought?” she prods, eyes wide and chest erratically pumping. Each breath a gunshot.

“I just thought…”

“Thought what?” she spits, glare spearing you against her bedroom wall, the radiating chill washing your back keeps you stiff, “What could you possibly have thought this was?”

“Uh,” you lull, shoulders rising toward your ears and eyes drooping onto the floor, “uh,” you hesitate and let your arms flop out on both sides, “uh…”

“God!” she scoffs, and it teeters off into a snaking laugh by the end, “Do you ever start a thought without moaning?” Vi shakes her head, eyes cutting aside -toward her cracked mirror, “What did you think I was gonna be for you? What you were for me?” she looks back onto you, low and angry. She’s never looked at you like that, “You can’t be that dumb.”

“Oh,” your chin falls into your collarbones, eyes pointed onto your socked feet and beginning to sting. Hands come up belatedly and curl around yourself, “...oh…”

Vi steps back and collapses on her bed. It creaks beneath her. She isn’t looking at you. You’re not looking at her.

Instead, you’re focused on your clothes strewn over her floor. A baby pink slip you ripped from the lanes -a thin film of soot caked into the fabric- and Vi’s old red jacket. A toppled pair of flats with the soles beginning to poke through the bottom kicked by her door. An unfortunate glance cast toward her mirror confirms the lipstick you wore is now smudged sideways. Hair mussed and whole body constricting to hide itself.

Vi stares at the floor. You feel so stupid.

“Was I actually just sex to you?” you finally ask. A whisper into the buzzing coffin.

Like a nail beneath the hammer, Vi answers, “What else could you have been?”

Maybe her girlfriend.

You don’t suggest that. You just nod. You step back into your dress, pulling each thin strap slowly around the curve of your shoulders. She says nothing. It’s so quiet you can hear the extra step it takes for you to skip over her old jacket and slip each shoe back on.

Fingers tighten around the brass knob, twisting until it squeaks and pops out of frame.

“It’s weird to leave your place without you walking me down,” you whisper, gaze hooking back just to see if she’ll flinch. Vi remains static, bent over herself on the bed.

“You’re still upright,” she mutters, voice low and strapped with razor wire.

“I tried really hard to look nice, Vi.”

She shivers as her name crawls off your tongue, tucking her head down and away from sight. You’re not sure what else you expected. She obviously wants you out, yet you stand just to delay the inevitable. You’ve never spent the night before, that won’t change because you confess how pathetic you are for her.

Leaving feels wrong, staying is wrong.

You step out slowly, as if to taunt Vi into grabbing your hips and yanking you into her chest. As if she would.

“Goodnight, Vi.”

A stiff, low nod is all you get. And the only evidence that’s what you even got was the rustle of tarred hair flapping.

Sliding the door shut behind you, you pull the knob hard to ensure it surely shut. Silently stepping back, you coil around yourself upon a sweeping breeze; peeled eyes set on that dilapidated door. No shuffling, no screaming, no banging. Vi sits on her bed, then, and quietly forgets you were ever there. But you can’t stop thinking about it.

Feet dragging down each step and an unsteady hand clutching the rail. Sniffling. Reconsidering everything you said, every spot in her room you looked too closely at, how you didn’t rush to touch her -hug her, hold her, soothe her. Wondering if maybe had you kept your mouth shut tonight then she could’ve fallen for you, that maybe all she needed was more time. After tonight, she could’ve been yours, right? She just needed time, now she wants nothing to do with you.

But you keep hoping she’ll run down after you. She should be tripping over herself, racing the wind, and skipping three steps at a time to scoop you into her big arms.

A nasty, soaked hiccup chokes you. Cupping a hand over your mouth stifles nothing, but it does make you light-headed with the sudden lack of oxygen. Maybe if you pass out now she’ll find you and feel so bad she just takes you with her anyway.

Or maybe someone else will find you and feel so much pity they stomp you out right there.

Either way, you would have been saved from the humiliating task of blubbering all the way home by yourself.

Only once you’ve stripped and kicked off your shoes do you realize -you left a comb on Vi’s bedside table. Your favorite one. And your favorite bra, too, was thrown somewhere across her bedroom. With much hesitation and more regret, you swallow the fact you’re never seeing either again and climb into bed.

Steely cold sheets slither over your skin, flatly covering with no comfort -- and surely no softness. Despite the conditions, your eyes close and you clasp your hands over your chest, rolled up tight on your side. Never before has your breathing sounded so lonely, ravaged by a swelling throat with lungs knotting around your heart. Slowly unballing your fists, smushing them flat over your eyes just to catch the dripping wetness.

Maybe if you collect it all, and show the swirling cups to Vi she’ll let you stay and cry for her a little bit more.

Or maybe she’d just shut the door in your face.

***

Nights are long. You sleep to get to morning and sleep some more to ignore the day. Tempting is the bottle, but then you'd be flat broke and with all those sick days recently you doubt your boss will be thrilled to keep you around on tough times.

Rolling out of bed for a shift feels how you'd imagine a glass blade dragging over your face feels. Dramatic, possibly, but if someone could bare their palms around your every thought then they'd know the comparison was real. Much dread fills you, so full and so bloated with trepidation that you could spew it out unto neighbors as you walk.

A blinking red sign awaits overhead. Few letters are stubborn enough to remain lit the four minutes you spend procrastinating outside. The rest flicker without remorse, spelling a stuttered and ill-aged: BOM S

Deciding to brave a striding entrance rather than being dragged in by your glaring coworker, you finally push open the cracked glass door. Fingerprints and blood smears of varying degrees of dryness paint the exterior. No new faces decorate the floor: a promise that you still have a position. After all, not many are bustling to work at the poorly managed, poorly budgeted titty bar.

Skidding past the curious and agitated faces of coworkers, you veer into the back room. Pleased to find your locker intact and untouched.

Your name plated across a dinky silver tag with a crooked back pin is still stitched into place over the heart of your black apron. Which smells as clean as you left it. Same with your tiny black shorts and low-cut top. Shucking on the minimalist uniform, you speedily whip out onto the floor and ignore the incredulous stare of your fellow opening girl.

Levaya storms your way while the floor is still empty, an uneasy morning dust still coating each table. Sticky beer clicking your heels into place on the floor. Monte is still at the bar area, wiping the counter before getting to any part of the restaurant used at this time of day - which makes total sense, of course.

Her red lips are twisted furiously, though the pinch in her eyebrows unveils deep concern, “Where have you been? We thought you died!”

“I was sick. Really out of it.”

Scoffing, she rolls her eyes, “You’re always out of it. Just tell Avont before your story changes, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you watch her storm off, “whatever.”

Mornings at Bombshells are never, ever busy enough to justify having two servers on staff -- you doubt there was a sudden influx of patrons before afternoon that has Levaya salty. If anything she must have just been so concerned she gave herself a stress headache, as if that’s your fault.

In any case, you end up outside Avont’s office before the first hour of your shift ends. His name is seared into a rusty board, too thin to be the plaque he insists it is. You knock out of courtesy before simply opening the door, which is never locked because there is no lock. He blew that budget on the front door, a smarter venture given the location.

Avont sighs when he sees you, “Where’ve you been?”

“I was sick, real loopy. Couldn’t tell time, kept falling in and out of sleep.”

“Right, m’kay,” he scrawls -you assume that excuse- in the corner of a paper before waving a hand to shoo you out. As you’re trying to exit, you swear he mutters, “Hope it was worth it…”

The wish makes you swallow hard, and gaze upon the hollow chairs -ghostly tables. Were you better off here than out in the pits?

Levaya palms your shoulder, warm skin on warm skin, she tilts her head, “Are you okay?”

“Huh?”

“You’re usually spacey, but not this bad.”

“Uh,” you clear your throat -you should start thinking without moaning, apparently it’s scathing- “Fine. I'm fine.”

Snapping catches both of your attention, Monte holding out a bucket and two rags. A silent prod if you got time to lean, you got time to clean -- which usually doesn’t bother you, after all, you could’ve moved to the night shift when people actually show up if cleaning bothered you. But right now you’re almost too devastated just standing, let alone scrubbing and soaping.

“Technically,” Levaya seethes, “One of us should be at the host stand,” she snatches the harder job up right in front of your eyes and waves the rag at you like you’re a child, “And you owe me, so you have to take it! No arguing!”

You don’t get to open your mouth before she’s whipping you in the ass with the rag.

So you quietly meander to the so-called ‘host stand’ which is just leaning against the peeling wallpaper and waving at bypassing citizens. Nobody stops in. Nobody ever does since Avont axed the cheap lunch specials. Why would anybody stop into a place like this without dancers otherwise?

Why would someone go where they aren’t fulfilled?

Why do you stay in the undercity?

Levaya swears at a chunk of dried gum beneath a table. Monte laughs. Avont waves papers in his office.

Your name is shot from Avont’s cracked doorway, he flaps a clipboard at you, “You have to sign these!” when you don’t jump up from the wall, he grumbles, “For your sick days, kid, let’s go!”

Waltzing out of Avon’t office provides the kind of show you’ve missed at Bombshells since moving to the morning crew. Shouting. Angry shouting.

.

.

.

Levaya is wringing her grayed rag with fury, mouth similarly twisted as she glares upward, “Get out! I don’t know who you think you are, but she’s not here! And if you don’t get out now, I’ll make you!”

Rarely do you see the dark-haired woman so enraged. So you eagerly round the corner to peek at her opponent to find-

Violet.

Completely pliant to the person screaming in her face. Dormant in a corpse way. Eyes low and fingers knotted kindly although she doesn’t seem to be listening at all.

“Get! Out!” Levaya whacks Vi in the arm.

The woman flinches, glaring down at your coworker but otherwise still. Pale gaze warping around the floor just to find you.

“Vi…?”

She finds you.

Levaya scoffs your name, “Come on!”

You wonder how she knows you so well.

“We should talk outside,” you rush over, pushing Vi around and forward by the shoulder. She moves easier than water, entirely soft beneath your fingertips. Nothing like the stonewall woman you’ve known.

“Good friend,” Vi mutters as soon as the glass doors clink shut.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was drunk last night…”

“You were drunk a lot of nights.”

Vi sighs through her nose. Eyes scrunching shut. Her hands are tight in her pockets.

“But last night, I wasn’t. I didn’t,” she groans, “I wasn’t thinking last night. I got scared.”

“You got scared?”

“I got scared,” she confirms, “And it wasn’t you, it’s everything behind you. It’s topside.”

“I don’t live there, there’s nothing for me up there,” or down here, but you don’t say that, “I can’t be loyal to a place I left.”

“It’s not about loyalty,” Vi lets the statement linger so long you almost start a refusal when she bursts out with, “Last time I had a topside girl, my spirit was crushed. I just don’t want to be that way again. Blinded and unsure, it’s not good,” she gestures to herself as if to add humor but it truly just makes you sad, “You’ve seen the results.”

“I like you, Vi, I like what I see. You treat yourself like a chore forced onto me, but if I didn’t want to be with you then I wouldn’t be,” such generic statements make you nauseous, but it’s the single truest thing you could think to say. The most honest you can be is in those blanket statements.

Vi’s eyes soften, self-loathing dissolving into something much more passionate. She looks down at you sweetly, though her thoughts are anything but: you’re so pretty she wants to choke herself and so kind she wants to pluck out her own eye. You’re terrifying because she knows she could fall for you, and you don’t belong with her.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Vi.”

And yet you’re so concerned with how she feels.

“I don’t wanna hurt you either,” she lets out her pocketed hands just to ball them at her sides, shaky with frustration and red hot need, “I just want you around. Everything’s boring when you’re gone. And your apartment is more comfortable than mine now,” frantically, she cards a hand through her hair and wets her lips, “Or maybe it’s just you because I swear the one time I could lay on my shitty bed without a backache was when you were in it.”

“Why push me away, then?”

“I was scared. But I’m more scared of never seeing you again,” she palms the back of her neck, almost shyly, and nudges her head toward the glass doors, “So, can I see you again?”

“You wanna watch me work for the next six hours? Nothing happens on mornings…”

“But you’ll be here, sugar,” she beams, you can tell she’s trying to be suave but it all cracks into unadulterated glee as you nod.

“Well, I guess you’ll be my first customer…”

“What an honor, I’m sure the service will be great.”

“The best.”

“For some reason, I doubt that,” Vi entwines a shaky hand with yours, dragging you toward Bombshells. Re-entering, but now, you think- you plainly assume- as a couple.

If not, then at this point, what the fuck else could you possibly be?

tagging people i thought would be interested:

@wowcatboys + @ch6douin + @deathrose36 + @opoyend + @fortheharbingers ? *metal on metal screeching sound* maybe y'all?

[heyftinally]

Also it's so fun being the cool family member when they're little?

My cousin's kid is 8, and he LOVES to talk to me about a lot of things, but especially Disney. Not, like, his favorite movies, though - how they create different effects on the rides at the theme parks. And I'm one of the few adults who will happily sit and talk with him about this topic. I'll show him pictures and items I have that he finds interesting. His little sister is only 5, and loves to ask me questions about random things, like why I dress a certain way. I give her honest answers - I like that it makes me feel strong, I like bright colors, etc - and she asks more questions because I don't just brush her off. I actively make a point to hang out with the kids at family gatherings, instead of expecting them to go play away while the adults talk. And the result is these kids WANT to be around me. And that's not something I felt when I was their age. But I genuinely enjoy being a family member that they know thinks they're interesting as people, not just as someone who can talking to me about current events or pop culture.

I know that a lot of you are banking on having little to do with your nephews/neices as children and then becoming their "cool aunt" once they become teenagers, but I think that you will find, upon analysis, that a random middle-aged woman stepping into a whole-ass teenager's life and arbitrarily declaring herself to be a "cool aunt" is, in fact, the least cool thing it's possible to do.

[sinofwriting]

Share - Ollie Bearman

Words: 1,155 Summary: Ollie just wants to cling to his girlfriend after being away from her for weeks. Their nephew has a different idea. Note(s): Slightly NSFW, Clingy Ollie, Set After Jeddah 2025 (ik ik), oh and this is inspired by the vids of guys coming home and wanting to kiss their wife only for their son to be like, no, that’s my mom!

Masterlist | Support Me!

Ollie lets out a sigh of relief as he closes the door to the apartment behind him.

He was finally home.

He knew he was going to be exhausted after his first ever triple header as a Formula 1 driver but then as if everything in 2024 hadn’t been enough, more surprises and drama had cropped up just one race in and left him nearly scrambling for the final two.

But now he was home and would get to see his girlfriend after the last few grueling weeks.

“Ollie?”

He smiles, “Yeah, it’s me!”

Toeing off his shoes, he kicks them out of the way and steps out of the small entryway into the living room and the breath gets knocked out of him.

God, she was gorgeous.

He nearly runs to her, throwing himself onto the couch beside her and wrapping his arms around her.

“I missed you so much.” He mumbles.

Her fingers comb through his hair, “I missed you to bear.”

He pulls away a bit, lips already puckering up a bit when tiny hands are smacking against his side. He jerks away and then a small body is wiggling between him and his girlfriend, legs kicking at him.

“Mine!”

“Noel!”

Ollie looks at the toddler in between them, surprised to see a glare on the normally happy three year old's face.

“Hey buddy.”

He waits for the angry face to turn happy, for the exclamation of ‘Uncle Ollie’ but it doesn’t happen. Noel turns completely away from him, wrapping himself around her.

“What did I do?”

She gives him a sorry look, reaching out to hold his hand where conveniently Noel can’t see. “He’s decided that no one is allowed to touch me. He nearly screamed Joe’s ear off yesterday when Joe tried to hug me goodbye.”

“Oof. How’s Hil feeling about that?”

She rolls her eyes at the mention of Noel’s mom. “She thinks it's great, which is why I’ve had him every day for the past week.” Seeing Ollie’s look, she nods. “Yeah, Joe isn’t happy about it. But they leave today and Joe is off for three days, so I will be off.”

“So, I’ve got to share until bedtime?”

“No share!” Noel chimes in and it’s cute, Ollie even gets it. He loves hugging his girlfriend, everyone and their mother calls him clingy, but he can’t help but already feel tired of it and it’s barely been ten minutes.

He can share, he has shared his girlfriend's attention and affection, but he can’t help but just want her full focus after three and a half weeks away. He hasn’t even gotten a kiss yet and the thought makes him frown.

“No cause papa is gonna be here early. I think I remember something about going out to eat and the park.”

It’s funny to watch the way Noel seems both excited about it but also displeased, already knowing that his favorite and only aunt won’t be coming with.

“Hey, Noel.” His voice is gentle and he pokes at his shoulder. “Could I get a hug from my favorite kid?”

He fully expects Noel to refuse with the way he’s managed to wiggle himself onto Y/N’s lap, but he slowly moves off her lap and hugs him.

“Hi buddy.” Ollie says, hugging him tight. “You been having a fun time with Auntie?”

“Mine.”

“I don’t get to know what you guys have been up to? Have you played race car?”

Noel’s eyes light up and he shakes his head. “No! I want to play!”

Ollie grins, easily standing up and picking him up. His neck aches a bit, but he ignores it as he puts Noel on his shoulders and begins to pace around the living room in laps.

Giggles fill the room and he can’t help but smile, occasionally spinning or making a weird turn that makes Noel claps his hands together before asking him to go faster.

It’s only when he starts to get dizzy that Ollie stops, moving him off his shoulders and holding him upside down.

“I hope he hasn’t been like that long.”

“Papa!” Noel shouts and Ollie quickly rights him and puts him in Joe’s arms.

“Only for a few minutes.” Ollie jokes.

Joe shakes his head with a laugh. “Well, as long as it was only a few minutes.” He looks over at Y/N. “How was he?”

“Good, like always. Still clingy though. He told Ollie that I was his.”

Joe has to stifle a laugh, well aware that Ollie had probably hated that.

“I got to hug her for I think five seconds.”

“Better than me, I got to for maybe a second yesterday before nearly losing an eardrum.”

Ollie sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Tough luck, mate.”

“Very. Alright, bud say goodbye to Uncle Ollie and Aunt Y/N.”

Noel pouts a little and extends his arms out towards Y/N who is now standing.

“Goodbye Auntie.”

She hugs him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Bye Noel. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“Bye buddy.”

“Bye, Uncle Ollie.”

As soon as the door shuts, Ollie whirls around and is tugging her close, their lips pressing together.

It’s a frantic kiss, desperate, and Ollie can’t help the way his hands slip under her shirt, pressing her closer as his fingers dig into her bare skin.

It doesn’t stay a kiss for long. Clothes fall onto the floor and they barely manage to make it to the bedroom, the bed only a few steps away, but they end up on the floor, bodies pressed as close as they can get.

“Fuck, Ollie.” She breathes later, laying on top of him.

He lets out a breathless laugh, kissing her sweaty brow. “I told you I missed you.”

“You fucked me twice. There’s missing me and then there’s that.”

“Is it bad I want to go again after dinner?”

“If you don’t go again after dinner, you're sleeping on the couch.”

He grins, pressing another kiss to her skin. “Fantastic.”

His fingers trace shapes along her back as they both slowly get their breath back, hearts slowing to a better beat.

“Y’know,” She breaks the silence after a few moments. “You’re going to have to share me.”

“I do share you. I just did with Noel.”

She laughs, kissing his chest. “Yes, and I’m so proud of my clingy bear. But I mean, if we ever have kids and we have a boy. He’ll probably be just like you.”

Ollie feels his heart speed up at the idea of them having kids. He can see it in a few years after they’ve been married and are in a house. “Just like me?”

“Yeah, loves me to bits and never wants to be away from me. Your smile, hair, love for racing. Just a mini Ollie.”

“I guess if it’s our kids, I can learn to share you.”

[wonderjanga]

Billy and the Kids.

Billy is like the go to adult that the younger heroes want to hang out with. He’s like that super fun older cousin who’s super nice. So this is just him and the younger heroes bonding. Thats it.

Marvel: “You can do it!” *floating a couple feet in the air*

Kid Flash: *moving his legs really fast to see if he can fly*

Artemis: “There’s no way…” *watches as Wally slowly starts hovering*

Tim Drake: “Yes way.” *pulls a camera from somewhere and snaps like five photos*

There was practically no difference between this and a parent trying to get their baby to walk. Trust.

or

Marvel: “Hey, Robin! You like tigers, right?”

Robin!Damian: “I do. What’s it to you?”

Marvel: “I want you to meet Tawny.” *big smile as he pulls out Tawny in plush form*

*silence*

Robin!Damian: *glares* “I’ll have you know I’m not as much of a child as you think I am.”

Marvel: “What? I’m not saying or thinking that?”

Robin!Damian: *raises a brow*

Marvel: *looks between Tawny and Damian in confusion before putting Tawny on the ground* “Tawny, say hi.”

Robin!Damian: “You can’t seriously-” *blinks and Tawny is in his tiger form*

Tawny: “It’s nice to meet you, Robin.” *holds out paw for a shake*

Robin!Damian: *speechless*

Marvel: *frowns at Dami’s speechlessness* “I thought you’d like meeting Tawny.”

Robin!Damian: *clears his throat* “I do.” *slowly walks over to pet Tawny* “I thank you for this.”

or

Marvel: “You can do this, Donna!”

Donna: *trying to lasso two bulls at the same time*

They rode the bulls and trampled on a lot of stuff with them. Kinda not really sibling bonding. Yay.

or

Raven: “Could you pass me that?” *points to a potion ingredient*

Marvel: “Of course!” *big ahh smile as he brings it over* (He thinks she’s super cool)

Raven: *slightly blinded* “Thanks.” *accidentally puts too much of the ingredient in*

Marvel: “No, prob.”

Raven: *notices the potion start to fizzle* “Uh… Cap that isn’t good is it?”

Marvel: “Oh uh…” *stares at the fizzling substance* “No.”

It promptly exploded.

[skzaholix]

amore , mio stray kids series

AMORE MIO : otherwise known as "my love" is a collective bunch short love stories about our favorite boys based on songs to celebrate the upcoming love season, winter !

HE'S A GENTLEMAN , c.b - in progress / highschool au / sunshine / grumpy trope ! you've always been one who is oppressive to love, rightfully so, you've been through many heartbreaks. yet, what happens when the one guy you've never shown much of an interest in, shows you what love truly is?

MILLION DOLLAR MAN , l.m - in progress / fake dating trope / holidate au "they say money can't buy happiness, but money bought you, didn't it?" in which the million-dollar man chooses you to be his fake date for each holiday with his nagging family.

ARE YOU LONELY? , s.c - in progress / enemies (?) to lovers / popular prson, loser boy trope being popular doesn't mean having friends, at least friends who are real, so what happens when the only person there for you, is the one person that you hate?

KISS ME , h.h - in progress / she's all that au / popular boy , nerdy other trope popular boy, hwang hyunjin gets peer pressured into a bet to date the nerdy, pretentious, loser of the school and to make them popular in 6 weeks yet, what happens when you become more than just a bet?

LOVE , h.j - finished / starcrossed lovers / rich and poor au / lovesick! jisung " It doesn't matter if I'm not enough for the future or the things to come cause I'm young and in love " you're in different worlds yet individuals who love each other, you've accepted it. you know you can't be together but he just can't get enough.

LOVE STORY , l.f - in progress / starcrossed lovers / prince and painter au months, weeks, days are coming very close til prince felix is crowned king and before he does that, he needs to pick someone to rule with him but, why can't it be you?

I WANNA BE YOURS , k.sm - in progress / fake enemies to lovers / sunshine and grumpy trope in the eyes of seungmin, you're annoying, you're too bright, and definitely too happy so when you take notice of that and decide to hang with someone else, why does it make him... jealous?

THE NIGHT WE MET, y.j - in progress / strangers to lovers / starstruck(?) au you, getting away from a crowd of your family's bodyguards ran into him yang jeongin, the man you'll spend a night of fun, scares and more with

AUTHORS NOTE: happy (almost) holidays everyone, i had so much fun preparing these plots for everyone, i kinda feel like we need more sfw fluff in the skz or even more writing communities so i decided to muster up my very first series lmk what ygs think maybe i'll do more series i also wanted to do something new for some members than expected soooo

[do-you-have-a-flag]

as someone who 1. had the books read to her as a child 2. loved them 3.went to the book release parties 4. went to the movies release day 5. cosplayed ficced and fanarted 6. made friends through the fandom I get it.

I get that it's a fun world to play in and you have an attachment to the characters and the flaws of the writing were about on par for a lot of kids fiction at the time even with much better stuff out there it was a unique major pop cultural moment and the fandom did change lives and create friendships. I would never argue that it always being bad means anyone should feel guilty for enjoying it cause that's not how art works. things with bad qualities by bad people can still be influential and their popularity can sill come from a sincere place.

and even with all that, I accepted that I have spent a lot of time and money on the franchise in the past but she soured the idea of continuing to engage with it. I can hold my nostalgia and experiences close to my heart and still chose to disengage from fandom and new content.

I'm just SAYING that this author has done and continues to do real harm in the mainstreaming of her transphobia, and even if you don't conceded that fandom that doesn't line her pockets still keeps HP in a place of pop cultural relevance that supports her financially, I am begging you not to even hate watch this now you know she is involved. do not discuss it unless you are telling uninformed general fans about why she is harmful. let it flop.

"read another book" glosses over the actual phenomenon of how this fandom was experienced. It was so pervasive in a way that has not been replicated. but I am asking you to think about if you want to continue to tie your positive experiences to the words and actions of a bigot who campaigns and donates towards harm and amplifies the voices of extremists. I am asking you to accept that it was something you enjoyed but that you can't recapture that feeling by sitting on this rotting corpse of a fandom. I encourage you to take your friends with you and make whatever you get into contain that same spark of creativity and collaboration the HP fandom gave you be creating it yourselves.

Even Daniel Radcliffe has made clear his support for trans people and said of Rowling "-nothing in my life would have probably happened the way it is without that person. But that doesn’t mean that you owe the things you truly believe to someone else for your entire life.”

you don't have to throw out your merch and denounce HP in the public square, you just have to stop spending money and attention. it's the lack of action that is the bare minimum. it's so easy.

since much of her political news rantings are based in the UK i will just link a relevant charity and encourage anyone inclined to donate

https://mermaidsuk.org.uk/

Welp, if JK Rowling being executive producer and therefore being fully involved in the show wasn't enough for people to boycott, then here's HBO basically saying they don't care JK Rowling is a bigot from hell who literally helped lead a harassment campaign of lies against Imane Khalif in her transphobia and obsession with women being terf's standards of women alongside posting harassment against trans people on twitter at times, they gonna stand by her, while using the excuse, "personal views". Hmm, yes, personal views- that's one way to uh, call what the fuck JK Rowling comes out with a-lot- last I checked personal views do come with consquiences if said out loud....a thousand times in JK's case and still counting....especially if they hurt people, but hey, if it means making another Harry Potter project to milk, just let it fucking be I guess.

[eunimaybe]

theorising : us in parallel worlds

୨୧ ; you and jake sim are in completely different orbits! how did you defy the laws of physics and end up with him?

pairing! physicalsciencesmajor!jake x historymajor!reader | wc. 0.8k | warnings: possibly incorrect science and uni terms, attempted humour, probably cringe EN-

🖇️ : jake version is out now!! this was so cute to write and the reader is so me i can’t do maths and physics either ㅠㅠ need jake to tutor me frfr

so you see

you’ve never been maths and science smart

you’ve always been better at the humanities subjects and the languages, even from middle school

you are the history, geography and literature ACE.

well, jake’s the opposite

he devours maths equations and quantum physics papers for breakfast and proceeds to choke over basic history — more under cut!!

“when did the first world war end?”

“uh, i dunno. BUT did you know something can be a wave and a particle at once?”

jake was the kid that memorised the digits of pi FOR FUN.

he’s the guy who understood organic chemistry and quantum physics when he was nine

like you didn’t even have a consciousness when you were nine how tf was jake understanding quantum physics

of course jake’s a physical science and engineering major

you meet him at uni in your history department because he was waiting for his friend to come out of lecture

and DAMN he’s a lil cutie

you just watched him leaning on the hallway wall whilst you were sitting on that one random really comfortable sofa in the corner

you were NOT expecting him to suddenly stroll over to you

like why is that guy walking over to the sofa WHY IS HE LOOKING AT YOU

he's just here to ask you where the hell the lecture hall for the class that teaches history about people who died a lightyear before is

and you’re just like “oh, you mean ancient history? it’s right over there, room 204.”

he shoots you the most beautiful smile you've ever seen and says "thanks" before leaving

you're just kind of sitting there staring at his retreating figure

WHY IS HE SO SO CUTE????

it might not show but jake's also silently thinking about that

how did he not notice someone like you sooner?

like you're perfect it doesn't matter that the campus is huge and you two are different majors HOW HAS HE NEVER NOTICED YOU

you never even got to know that guy's name and you're scared that you won't ever see him again

you're just mentally kicking yourself for not asking for his name (and number)

you only manage to find him through intensive, if not obsessive internet research with your best friend

you learn that this cute guy's name is jake sim and that he's double majoring in physical sciences and engineering bc he's a lil crazy

how is his skin glowing with that kind of schedule

you always look for him in the university hallways YOU EVEN GO TO THE SCIENCES DEPARTMENT

but you never find him (it's because jake's poking his nose into every history lecture hall instead of being in his department trying to get a glimpse of you)

like he even goes to the philosophy lecture halls bc you sometimes go to them for fun

it’s giving zeno’s paradox omfg ITS GIVING PAULI EXCLUSION PRINCIPLE (except yall aren’t an electron)

but in one of your university's annual festivals you get to see him again!!

you were just in line to buy some lemonade with your friend when he lines up behind you

he recognises you straight away and gives you that smile that's been embedded in your memory for the past month and says a little hello

your friend just leaves because she's been getting daily updates about this guy named jake sim with pictures included

you're just left alone with him and you're so busy staring at him that you don't hear the lemonade stand cashier ask what you want to order

jake buys you a cup of lemonade SUCH A GENTLEMAN

you two have so much fun together at the festival

jake evens wins you a plushie with the darts at one of the stalls

"how're you so good at that? those games are designed to make you lose."

"you just need to understand the science behind it."

turns out jake is really easygoing which you didn't think was possible from an engineering major

you two make plans to meet up together and study at the science department library

tell me why the science library is so much better than the one you go to.

the sofas are so much more nap friendly and it just looks prettier yk

jake helps you with your maths and science studies

you thought you would be free of maths and science once you graduate from high school but turns out basic classes are in the core curriculum

it was a very big disappointment when you found out WDYM YOU STILL HAVE TO DO CALCULUS

you barely managed to do long divisions in primary, you can't do this shit anymore

it's okay, not only is jake really really smart, he's also really really patient

in return, you help jake boost his shitty core humanities grade

he's been barely scraping by

"y/n, i swear, i can memorise dates and all that stuff but i can't with the essays."

jake confesses to you during one of your little study sessions

he sends you a cute heart on the desmos graphing calculator (such a nerd omg)

you two are THE power couple

you get As in your maths and science now and the professor doesn't give you dirty looks anymore

jake managed to boost his grade as well DREAM COUPLE FRFR

heeseung jay sunghoon sunoo jungwon ni-ki

✉️: @icyy-hoon

[luvergirl-866]

something like love

part - 6

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count - 4.7k

c/w - language, tiny bit of angst (this is only the beginning i fear.)

a/n - is it cringe of me to ask for live reactions? bc i want live reactions sb. anyway, sorry ik i said this chap would be long and juicy but i decided to hold off on the juicy part, i needed a lil more plot development! also ty to everyone who sends me asks, even if it’s just things like “when’s the next part😫” i love it sm lol. hope yall like this one!!

The next two days are—at least compared to the first two—almost peaceful. The weather is nice, just warm enough and not too humid, which Azzi’s hair appreciates. She got goddess braids done just before the trip and even in protective styles, her hair gets frizzy at the very notion of moisture.

The peacefulness largely comes from the fact that Paige is avoiding her parents like the plague, instead spending all her time with Azzi and her siblings. The third day they spend almost entirely at the local park, shooting around at the court there under the hot sun. Lauren even reluctantly joins for a few games, and she may be adamant about not wanting to play basketball but the talent for it must be genetic because she’s a natural. And if Paige and Azzi spend the whole ‘competition’ brushing hands and flirting, nobody says anything. (Though Ryan does wrinkle his nose at them a few times.)

The fourth day starts out warm, and so Paige and Azzi sneak the kids out bright and early (Azzi, of course, ends up with the job of waking all three siblings up—not one of them is a morning person whatsoever) and go to an ice cream shop, where they eat their cold, sweet breakfasts on the curb while they chat. Both Ryan and Lauren may have argued that they were too old to be excited about ice cream for breakfast anymore, but they both end up with matching, chocolate-covered grins when they’re done.

The weather turns for the worst before noon, though, and the kids want to go home but Paige insists they go to the arcade instead. When she says she’ll pay for as many games as they want, they’re easily swayed. Of course, Paige and Azzi make a competition out of the day, deciding to keep a tally of all their points so that whoever has the most wins by the end has to buy the whole group prizes.

Azzi gives it a fighting go but Paige plays way more video games than she does so she very nearly beats her—but then, when they’re almost out of game tickets, Azzi pouts at her about the whole situation, and suspiciously, she ends up making an incredible recovery, easily beating Paige at almost every game after that.

Lauren picks a koala plushie, Ryan picks some new shoes, and Azzi gets this shiny plastic tiara.

“You didn’t have to get the cheapest prize,” Paige says as Azzi adjusts the tiara on her head. “I got money.”

“I know,” Azzi replies, smiling at her reflection in the mirror. “But I had to. As the princess.”

Paige gives her that stupid fucking look again—the one Azzi still can’t figure out even though she knows Paige like the back of her hand, which is just driving her crazy—and that look shows up so often Azzi should really just start referring to it as The Look at this point.

But then Paige smiles, previous odd expression gone, and the way she does that,—slips out of it like she doesn’t even realize it was there in the first place—drives Azzi even more crazy than The Look itself.

Now, it is the fifth day. And Azzi reminisces on these past two blissful days to try and distract herself from the fact that Paige and her parents are having a heated argument right in front of her and her scrambled eggs.

“No, Paige,” Amy is saying. “Absolutely not.”

“You can’t do that!” Paige replies, throwing her hands into the air. “I’m an adult, I make my own money, I can do—“

“It’s stupid.”

“It’ll be fun!”

“It won’t, because it’s not happening.” Amy is unpacking a load of groceries, and Dean is lingering in the corner of the kitchen being absolutely useless. That seems to be his brand.

“Yes it will, Mom,” Paige replies, voice lower now but still obviously frustrated. “I wasn’t asking for your permission. I was just seeing if you wanted to come with us. I was tryna be nice!”

“Well it won’t be nice when you crash and we all drown, Paige.”

“Jesus, Mom! I ain’t gonna go around crashing!”

Azzi feels very uncomfortable, wishing she were literally anywhere else, but at the same time this is sort of amusing and she has to hide a smile in a bite of eggs.

This argument is, out of all things, about a boat. Paige wants to rent one and have a lake day, and though she didn’t want to, Azzi convinced her to invite her parents—she figured they’d decline but that they’d be offended if they weren’t at least invited.

She wasn’t really expecting a lecture to come out of it, though. But by the tired look on Paige’s face, she knew exactly what was coming their way.

“You don’t even have a boating license,” Amy continues, placing a new jug of milk and some apples in the fridge. “This is illegal. If you won’t listen to your mother, at least listen to the law.”

That very nearly gets a giggle out of Azzi. She chokes it down.

“This is a private lake, I’on need my license.”

“Well that doesn’t sound shady at all.”

“It’s not, it’s super legit!” Paige makes for her phone in her back pocket. “It has its own website and everything, I looked way into it.”

Amy stares her daughter down for a few seconds, hands on her hips, before she lets out a resigned sigh. “Like you said, Paige, I can’t tell you what to do. You’re an adult, do what you want. But you will not be taking your siblings on that death trap.”

“Wha…” Paige flounders, eyebrows furrowed, and her voice raises again, “that was the whole point of this entire thing!”

“Well, that’s too bad. It’s dangerous.”

“I’ll make them wear life jackets!”

“They’re teenagers,” Dean points out rather unhelpfully, and it’s the first time he’s spoken around her in days but Azzi is already sick of him again. “Neither of them are gonna wear life jackets.”

“I’ll force them, I swear.”

“Paige Madison,” Amy snaps, and Paige may be an independent adult now but she still straightens her back subconsciously at her mother’s warning tone, “no means no. They are my kids.”

“They’re my siblings!” Paige replies—rather boldly, Azzi thinks, because if Azzi were in her place she would’ve given up by now.

But Paige, as most daughters do, knows exactly how far to push her mother to get what she wants—apparent in the way Amy massages her temples with her fingers before saying, “You know what, Paige? Fine.”

Dean is jumping in immediately. “What? No, she can’t take my kids out on a boat.”

“She’s right, Dean,” Amy says, though she looks a little pained to be siding with her daughter for once. “They’re her siblings. She wants to do something fun for them.”

“It’s dangerous!” Dean motions sporadically at where Paige and Azzi are sitting at the island. Azzi’s eggs are gone now and so she has nothing to put her awkward energy into. “Neither of them owns a boat, and they are practically strangers—“

“She is my daughter,” Amy says, and it’s so quiet Azzi almost doesn’t hear it, but she does, and it sends shivers through her. Because there’s something dangerous, something protective in her tone, something only a mother who loves their child could convey. And it sends a flicker of hope through her. “She is my daughter and I trust her with her siblings.”

Dean flounders for something but comes up empty, instead storming off all red-faced like a child. Amy doesn’t look either of them in the eye when she says, “Let me know if you kids need anything today,” before leaving the two best friends alone in the kitchen.

Slowly, Paige turns to look at Azzi, something like disbelief in her expression. “Did that—actually go well?”

“Yeah,” Azzi responds. “I think it did.”

Things may just be looking up.

———————————————

Dean may be an asshole, but it turns out he was right about one thing: Ryan and Lauren will not wear life jackets.

“C’mon, guys, it’s the law,” Paige insists, thrusting a pink life jacket at her sister, who scrunches her nose in disgust.

“No way! That’s so ugly, Paige.”

“The color wont matter when you’re drowning.”

“You sound just like Mom!” Lauren sighs, and Paige’s mouth falls open.

“You did not just say that.”

Lauren gives Paige a smug smile, which amuses Azzi because it’s the same smile Paige gives her whenever she wins an argument. “And I meant it too.”

If Lauren were not much smaller than Paige, she would be tackling her right now, based off the look on her face. But instead she composes herself and turns to Ryan, who is sitting at the front of the speedboat on his phone. He feels his older sister’s gaze and looks up at her, then at the life jacket in her hands. “You’re funny.”

“I’m being so for real.”

“There’s gonna be hot girls in bikinis on the lake,” Ryan replies, as if this is the most obvious thing ever. “No way I’m wearing a life jacket.”

Paige sighs and rubs her temple with her fingers, and Azzi would never say it out loud (for fear of being pushed into the lake) but she does kind of look like her mom in this moment.

When Paige turns on her with a warning look, Azzi startles, wondering if she’s somehow read her mind. But instead, Paige picks up another life jacket and says, “Will you at least wear one?”

Azzi smiles, a little puzzled. “Paige, I don’t need a life jacket. I can swim.” Which is obvious considering she and Paige have spent various lake days at her family’s cabin.

“Yeah, but for my peace of mind, though!” Paige shakes the life jacket in Azzi’s direction.

The truth is, Azzi wouldn’t mind wearing the life jacket. But ever since she put on this bikini—pastel purple in color—Paige has been swallowing thickly and averting her eyes constantly. So Azzi thinks she has other reasons for wanting her to cover up.

And Azzi can’t let her get away with that, can she?

“I don’t need it.” Azzi steps forward and takes the life jacket out of Paige’s grasp, tossing it aside before reaching to trail her hand down Paige’s bicep, squeezing the hard muscle a little bit. “And besides, won’t you save me if I’m drowning?” she asks, smiling coyly.

Paige’s throat bobs, eyes landing respectfully on a spot past Azzi’s shoulder. “Well, that’s not really how that works.”

Azzi blinks, and she knows just how big and brown her eyes are when she looks up at Paige through her lashes. “No? Thought you’ve been in the gym?”

“I have,” Paige says defensively.

“Hm.” Azzi lets her hand trail off Paige’s arm, resting it on Paige’s side before dancing her fingers dangerously over Paige’s exposed abs. “You wanna prove that to me, baby?”

Paige’s eyes widen, and Azzi loves the way she can not only see but feel her stomach tense under her fingers. But the moment is broken by a gagging sound nearby.

Lauren—who has sat beside her brother and pulled out her own phone—is now looking at them with disgust. “You guys are so gross.”

“You shouldn’t be making sexual innuendos in front of Lauren,” Ryan adds on, though his eyes don’t leave his screen.

“Yeah!” Lauren agrees, then furrows her eyebrows and starts tapping at her phone. Azzi guesses she’s probably searching what sexual innuendo means.

“Hey, yo, don’t blame me,” Paige says, putting her hands up and taking two big steps away from Azzi. “She started it.”

“Azzi’s a freak,” Ryan says.

“Whoa, chill!”

“Hey, that’s actually offensive,” Lauren says. She has picked up a habit of defending Azzi with her life these last few days they’ve spent together, and Azzi has decided she would do the same. “That’s like calling her a monster or something.”

Ryan smirks, finally looking up at them. “I didn’t mean that kinda freak.”

“Okayyy!” Paige jumps in before Lauren can do any more Googling. “Let’s get this show on the road. Imma go untie us real quick, then we’ll head out.”

For the first time, nerves bubble in Azzi’s tummy. “Paige, you sure you’ll be able to drive this thing?”

Paige looks almost offended at the question. “Yeah, duh.”

“It’s just, you’ve never driven a speed boat before…”

“Trust me, mama,” Paige says, nodding cockily to herself. “I got driving skills like you’ve never seen.”

Fifteen minutes later, Azzi realizes Paige was telling the truth. She has certainly never seen these driving skills before.

Paige is an—erratic driver, to put it mildly. This lake is private, huge, and though there are plenty of other boaters out Paige drives as if they’re the only ones on the water. At one point, she gets to such a high speed that even Ryan grasps onto Azzi a little bit.

When Paige very nearly runs into a cruising party boat, Azzi finally gets up from her place between the kids and marches over to Paige, who glances up at her with a sheepish smile. “Whoops.”

“Lemme drive,” Azzi demands, beckoning for Paige to get up.

“No!” Paige says stubbornly. “I’m doin’ good!”

“I thought I was going to die!” Lauren pipes up angrily.

Azzi motions to her. “See? You’re scaring your brother and sister.”

“Whoa, who said I was scared?” Ryan says.

Azzi decides against bringing up the fact that he kept clinging to her arm. “This is scary, I wanna drive.”

“But babeee,” Paige groans, bringing the boat to a stop so she can properly argue, “you drive like a grandma.”

“I drive like a sane person, is what I think you mean to say.”

“It’ll be boring.”

“Paige.”

Paige stares her down for a moment before sighing like a stubborn little kid. “Fine. You can drive.”

Azzi nods, pleased, and shoves at Paige’s shoulder when she doesn’t move. “Get up.”

A slow smile creeps over Paige’s face and Azzi doesn’t like the look of that at all. “I gotta show you the ropes.”

“I don’t need you to teach me how to drive this thing,” Azzi says as if it’s obvious, because really, it is. The thought of Paige trying to teach anyone her…unique ways is downright scary. “I got it.”

“Nah, I think you’ll need some help.”

“P, for real, stop being difficult and move.”

“I’m not about to—“

“Can we go?” Lauren says loudly, getting both girls’ attention.

“Yeah, I’m getting hot as hell just sitting here,” Ryan agrees.

“I wanna get to that diving cliff Paige was talking about!”

Before Azzi can turn back to Paige to continue arguing with her, Paige has her hands on her hips and is pulling her firmly into her lap. Azzi squeaks, grabbing onto the wheel for leverage.

“Paige!” she exclaims, turning to glare at the smug-looking girl underneath her.

“You heard them,” Paige says simply, shrugging her shoulders as if her hands are tied. “Let’s go.”

“I don’t—“ Azzi starts to argue once again, but then Lauren is sighing dramatically in that teenage-girl way of her’s and saying, “Seriously, come on!”

So, almost in a daze, Azzi turns back to the front and moves her hand to the shift, getting the boat moving slowly again. She tries desperately to ignore it when Paige leans up close to her ear and murmurs, “Atta girl,” but she can’t help the goosebumps that erupt over her neck and Paige must spot them because she chuckles lightly before leaning back, letting Azzi do her thing.

Trying to shake off the feeling of Paige’s hot breath fanning over her skin, Azzi amps up the speed a little bit, determined to show Paige that she can be fun and safe, as promised.

After a few minutes of skimming over the water, Azzi calls over the wind, “Thought you were gonna ‘show me the ropes’?”

“Looks like you got it,” Paige says, sitting straight so she’s pressed up against Azzi’s back again, and her hands find their place on Azzi’s waist.

“Why’d you make me sit on your lap, then, P?” Azzi asks, and her tone lilts teasingly but she is sort of freaking out on the inside because moments like these—moments where Azzi hardly bothers to hide her feelings for Paige and Paige, instead of shying away, responds—are becoming a little too common for comfort.

Paige rests her chin on Azzi’s shoulder, lips brushing her cheek when she says, “Think you know why, hm?”

Yeah. Definitely far too common for comfort.

Ramping up the speedboat a little bit—enough that Ryan whoops and Lauren leans over the side to touch the water—Azzi shifts her hips. She moves out of discomfort, almost subconsciously trying to get away from this buzzing energy between her and her best friend, but Paige lets out a huff of air at the motion and, curious, Azzi does it again.

A full-on gasp this time.

A flush creeps up over Azzi’s cheeks all the way down her chest, and she’s not sure if it’s from pleasure or shyness, though likely it’s both. But she can’t let Paige have the upper hand, because Azzi can’t even imagine how quickly she’d fold if that happened. So instead, she turns her head to the side and says, “All good, Paige?”

The problem with this is Paige’s face is still turned toward her when she says it. And when Azzi moves to reciprocate the angle, their lips are so close that they brush on the last word. On the utterance of Paige’s name.

Azzi jerks back as soon as it happens, putting a couple inches of distance between their faces, and she’s sure the flush is noticeable by now. She tries for a lighthearted laugh, “Oh, sorry, didn’t realize you were so close—“

She doesn’t see it coming when Paige kisses her.

It pulls a gasp out of her, lips now pressed against Paige parting slightly in surprise, and her eyes don’t even close until she feels Paige’s tongue dip inside her mouth.

It’s a quick swipe, her tongue against the space between Azzi’s teeth and upper lip before she’s pulling away—only enough to make the kiss much more chaste.

Her hands slide from Azzi’s waist to her stomach, and Azzi grips onto the steering wheel for dear life when Paige moans ever so quietly into her mouth, the sound barely heard over the wind whipping around them. And then the wind is whipping Paige’s hair into their faces, a few strands getting in Azzi’s mouth, which she takes as her opportunity to pull away. Paige stares at her—The Look again—for only a split second this time (Azzi much prefers that over the lingering one) before her face is breaking into a smile, not cocky or smug or teasing but just bright, and Azzi can’t help but laugh with her as they pull Paige’s hair out of her mouth.

“Keep your eyes on the lake!” Lauren yells at them, and when they look at her she’s got her nose wrinkled. “What is it with you guys and PDA today?”

“Maybe someone put viagra in their coffees this morning,” Ryan suggests, looking equally as disgusted as his little sister but also twice as amused.

“What’s viagra?” Lauren asks.

“Yo, Ryan!” Paige snaps, her hands moving tantalizingly from Azzi’s tummy to rest low on her hips instead, and Azzi forces herself to look back where she’s driving. “Keep it PG, dawg!”

“I could say the same thing to you,” he replies, and Azzi isn’t looking at him but she can picture the smirk on his face—she knows the look all too well by now.

The three of them bicker for a few more minutes, and Azzi tries really hard to focus on where they’re going rather than the implications of that kiss and all the questions that follow it.

Paige is the bad driver, but when she leans forward and mimics her—“All good, baby?”—Azzi worries she may be the one to crash this boat.

———————————————

“Sunscreen time!”

“No, what?”

“We just put some on!”

“Az, I’m never gonna tan at this point!”

Shaking the sunscreen into her hands, Azzi motions the three siblings towards her. “C’mon, you need it.”

“I don’t burn,” Lauren insists as she steps up in front of Azzi, lifting her arms dutifully anyway.

“You’re already getting a little red,” Azzi points out, applying an extra-thick layer onto Lauren’s rosy nose.

“This is lame,” Lauren groans, though she still lets Azzi work in silence and mumbles a thank you before she turns back to the lake.

Ryan is next, and he doesn’t complain about it but he does stare down at his phone the entire time, his head only falling back down when Azzi tries to push it up. “Ryan,” she sighs.

He tears his eyes away from his phone, only to look around subconsciously. Azzi knows he’s trying to see if the gaggle of teenage girls along the rocky beach have noticed him getting his sunscreen done.

“Hurry up,” Paige complains, nudging her younger brother in the back, and he turns around to shove her.

Azzi fights back a smile. “You can put it on yourself if that’s better.”

“It’s good,” he says nonchalantly, but he hasn’t quite mastered acting like he doesn’t care.

Azzi finishes up quickly, ending the torture with an encouraging smile, watching him run up to join his sister where she stands on the ledge above the lake, sneaking up on her. He pushes her in and Azzi laughs at the way Lauren screeches before her eyes drift to Paige, who is now standing right in front of her, looking awfully petulant.

“You really don’t want me to tan, huh?” she says, wincing as Azzi rubs the cold lotion over Paige’s sun-kissed shoulders.

“Your white ass is gonna burn if we don’t do this every thirty minutes,” Azzi says, reiterating what she said the past five times Paige complained about the sunscreen.

“I got a little melanin in me.”

Azzi looks at the way Paige’s blue eyes are squinting against the summer sun, the way her pale skin is already tinted pink, and raises her brows.

Paige holds her hand up. “Just gimme the sunscreen.”

Chuckling, Azzi squirts some into her hand before giving the bottle to Paige, who turns around and starts doing her front while Azzi does her back. They’ve done this maybe a hundred times, before countless sunny fair days and hot boat rides, but today it just feels a little…off. Everything feels a little off about them recently.

Azzi worries it may be her fault. She has always been good at hiding her feelings for Paige, good at making sure her attraction doesn’t show on her face just like she knows all her other emotions do. But recently, ever since they began this facade—and more so ever since they arrived in Montana—she knows she’s been slipping up. She thought she’d be okay but she wasn’t prepared for the way Paige would look at her like she wasn’t pretending, the way Paige calls her pet names even when they’re alone, the way Paige told her she liked kissing her and wants to do it again.

The way Paige did do it again.

And there lies the burning question: why?

Azzi knows Paige doesn’t have feelings for her. Azzi knows that she’s the only one who lies awake thinking about having Paige in every sense of the word, the only one who wakes up in the middle of the night thinking of Paige with an uncomfortable stickiness between her legs. She is the only one, of course, who is in love.

Then why do Paige’s eyes and hands wander nowadays? Why does she call her baby in quiet moments? Why did she kiss her when she really didn’t have to?

Could she be—attracted to Azzi? Maybe through playing this role, she’s seen Azzi in a new light, and realized her best friend is no longer dorky and fourteen but rather a tall, pretty twenty year old with a great ass. (And yes, Azzi knows she has a great ass.)

She could be attracted to her and not be in love. She could be attracted to her and have no other attachment whatsoever. The two things can be true at once, can’t they?

The thought flatters her but it mostly scares her, because she’s barely surviving this unrequited love as it is. But with her best friend having any level of attraction back? How is she supposed to continue on like that?

“Azzi?” Paige asks, and the tone of her voice implies she’s already said it a few times.

Azzi hums, blinking. “Sorry, yeah?”

“Uh,” Paige says, and it’s then that Azzi realizes her hands have stopped rubbing lotion into Paige’s back and have sort of just come to rest on her waist—like it’s instinctive. Like it’s natural. “You done back there?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Azzi says, but for some unknown reason she can’t find it in herself to let go.

Paige glances over her shoulder. “Azzi?” she repeats.

Azzi can’t really take it any longer.

“Why’d you kiss me?”

Paige’s sides tense up under Azzi’s hands, and then she’s stepping away, out of her grasp, and turning to face her.

The look on her face is guarded, almost closed off completely. This is dangerous territory and Azzi has barely dipped her toes in the water yet.

When Azzi’s hands fall helplessly to her sides, Paige says, “I was pretending.”

As much as Azzi doesn’t buy it, the words—and the flat, cold intonation of them—sting. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“Why’re you being weird about it?” Paige asks, eyes dancing nervously away from Azzi’s face.

“I’m not, Paige. I just—I wanna know. For real.”

“You agreed to do this for me,” Paige reminds her, as if that has anything to do with this. But, of course, it has everything to do with this, and Azzi hates how easy it makes it for the both of them to hide under a facade, a lie.

“I know,” Azzi says carefully, also taking a step back if only to get away from Paige’s chilly stare. “But you didn’t have to kiss me this time. There wasn’t a reason.”

Paige shrugs, and Azzi hates to admit it but she is much better than her younger brother at acting nonchalant. “We’re s’posed to be a couple. I don’t want my siblings getting suspicious. They know I’m a touchy person.”

Getting the sinking feeling that Azzi won’t get anything out of this conversation other than a fight, she nods slowly, looking down at the ground. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Paige, as usual, thaws at the slightest hint of weakness, taking a tiny step forward. “Did it make you uncomfortable?”

“No,” Azzi is a little too quick to say. The kiss caught her by surprise, but they’ve only done it two times and Azzi is quickly coming to find that kissing Paige is the most comfortable thing in the world—it’s natural, and right, and like curling up in bed with a book and a warm cup of tea—and Azzi also knows they should never do it again.

Despite the earnest answer, Paige looks at her suspiciously. “You sure, ma? Don’t ever wanna make you uncomfortable.”

Azzi does her best to fix her face, which she worries may be showing a little too much. “Yeah, yeah. I’m sure.”

“Aight,” Paige says, but she still doesn’t sound very convinced. Azzi’s just glad she’s letting it go.

“Sorry for bringing it up,” Azzi says. She’s not.

At this, Paige sighs, reaching out to bridge the gap between them, running a gentle hand up and down Azzi’s arm. “Nah, don’t be, I get it. Sorry for getting a lil defensive.”

A little? Despite the fact she doesn’t believe Paige one bit, and that she doesn’t like anything about the interaction they just had, Azzi manages a smile. “You’re good.”

Paige nods, and her smile at least seems to be sincere. But as they jump into the lake, and as Paige talks Azzi’s ear off while Azzi floats around lazily in a donut floatie, things feel even more off than before.

Azzi can’t quite place what it is until late that night, when they’re both going to sleep and Paige is, for the first time in ages, strangely quiet. She glances over to find Paige lying on her stomach, face turned away, breathing too quickly to be asleep.

And that’s when Azzi notices it. The gap between them, the sheer amount of space from Azzi on her side all the way to Paige, who is almost on the edge of the bed.

Paige always sleeps close to Azzi.

And she always sleeps with her head turned towards her.

@azzibuckets @smiths-fan--13 @ch12334 @makethemhoesmad @the-other-half @rosemariiaa

lmk if u wanna be on my tag list btw!!

[goldfades]

★ 'cause she's watching him with those eyes / and she's loving him with that body, i just know it / and he's holding her in his arms late, late at night / you know, i wish that i had jessie's girl / i wish that i had jessie's girl / where can i find a woman like that? ───JB⁹

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 18k (a lot more than i expected...)

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | a college student navigates her complicated feelings for her charming yet infuriating neighbor, joe burrow, while dating the seemingly perfect linebacker. after a series of missteps, flirtatious teasing, and an unexpected kiss, she finds herself caught in a whirlwind of tension, confusion, and unexpected sparks, all while trying to avoid the loud, chaotic presence of joe and his ever-constant parade of girls.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | unedited (sorry... i got lazy), NSFW (with lots... and lots... AND LOTS of plot), unprotected sex (wrap it before u tap it, kids) praise, teasing, lots of kissing/foreplay, p in v, uhhh.. descriptions of big dick joe??? enemies to lovers, roommates, mentions of drinking/alcohol, cheating (not on reader), joe being an asshole, cocky joe, lots of fighting, heated arguments.

⟢ ┈ 𝐞𝐯'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | this has been in my drafts for a good 2 months and finally decided to finish it up on the sunday before american thanksgiving! so... yaya! please let me know your thoughts!

The muffled sound of Ja’Marr Chase’s bass-heavy playlist seeps through the thin walls of your apartment, rattling the picture frames you swore you hung up straight last week. The tiny LSU apartment complex, with its peeling beige paint and eternally broken elevator, has its charms—like the way the front door doesn’t lock unless you kick it just right or how the air conditioner only works when it’s below 70 degrees outside.

But Joe Burrow? He’s not one of those charms.

No, Joe Burrow is the bane of your existence, the human equivalent of a pothole on a road you have to take every day. His name alone makes your best friend, Ella, roll her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck in the back of her head. “Just ignore him,” she says every time you come storming through the door, ranting about whatever fresh annoyance he’s cooked up that day. “He only bothers you because you’re fun to mess with.”

Right. Like that’s supposed to make it better.

Living next door to Joe and Ja’Marr was tolerable at first. Sure, they were loud, occasionally messy, and probably violating a dozen lease terms, but it wasn’t personal. Then, you had one small misunderstanding—okay, so maybe you yelled at Joe for leaving his bike in front of your door after you tripped over it—and now it’s like he’s made it his life’s mission to drive you insane.

Sometimes, it’s harmless: an obnoxious smirk when you cross paths on the way to class or his sarcastic comments about how you always seem to be spilling coffee on your shirt. Other times, it’s borderline infuriating: stealing your parking spot, taking the last box of cinnamon rolls at the grocery store, or claiming the shared apartment complex grill for “official game day business” every single Saturday.

Still, there’s something annoyingly magnetic about him, even when you want to wring his neck. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s laughing at his own jokes. The stupid mop of curls he somehow manages to pull off. The effortless confidence that borders on cocky, though you’d never say it out loud because that’s exactly the kind of thing that would go straight to his head.

Ella always jokes that you two are like an old married couple, constantly bickering but secretly loving it. You disagree. Mostly because Joe already has enough people falling at his feet—like the swarm of girls in purple-and-gold jerseys who show up at the apartment complex every other week, giggling like they’re auditioning for a reality show.

You sigh, brushing a stray crumb off the countertop as Ella flops onto the couch behind you, textbook in hand. And if his stupid grin when he sees you on your balcony later tonight is any indication, he’s already got something planned.

You just don’t know it yet.

The parking lot outside your apartment complex is a war zone at 11 p.m., with far too many cars crammed into a space that was clearly designed with only half the residents in mind. You circle the lot for the third time, your headlights cutting through the dark like a searchlight on some hopeless mission. After eight grueling hours at the campus library helping undergrads figure out why their printers are possessed, your brain feels like oatmeal, and all you want is to collapse into your bed.

But, of course, tonight isn’t going to be that simple.

Because there he is. Joe freaking Burrow.

He’s in his Jeep—windows down, music playing softly, and, naturally, there’s a blonde perched in the passenger seat laughing at something he said. Of course, he found the last available spot. Except—it’s not his spot, because you saw it first. Your blinker’s been on since the beginning of time (or at least the last 30 seconds), and you refuse to back down now.

Your grip tightens on the steering wheel as he slowly starts to reverse into the spot, like he hasn’t noticed your very obvious claim to it. Heart pounding with a mix of exhaustion and indignation, you tap your horn. Just once. Polite, but firm. He stops, glances in his rearview mirror, and then—of course—he smirks.

Oh, hell no.

You roll down your window and lean out. “Hey, Burrow! I was waiting for that spot.”

He leans his elbow casually against the window frame, his curls catching the faint glow of the streetlight. “Were you? Didn’t see your name on it.” His voice is slow, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world to be a pain in your ass.

You glare at him, barely suppressing the urge to snap. “I was here first.”

“And I started reversing first,” he counters, raising an eyebrow like it’s a debate class and not a parking lot at nearly midnight. The blonde giggles beside him, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Just let me have it. You look like you could use the exercise.”

Oh, he’s done it now.

“Excuse me?” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but you’re too far gone to care. “I’ve been on my feet for eight hours dealing with entitled freshmen, and if you think I’m about to let you—”

“Alright, alright,” Joe interrupts, hands raised in mock surrender. “Relax, I’m not trying to ruin your night.” He throws the Jeep into drive, and with a dramatic sigh, he pulls away, leaving the spot open for you. But not without one last parting comment. “Don’t scratch the paint when you park. Oh, wait—you’re really close to that pole—”

You park with excessive precision, throwing your car into park before leaning out the window to call after him. “I didn’t ask for your help, Joe!”

His laugh echoes across the parking lot, carefree and infuriating. You slam your door shut a little harder than necessary, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you trudge toward the building. Finally, peace.

Or so you think.

Because just as you reach the elevator, its ding announcing its arrival, you hear the telltale sound of sneakers scuffing against concrete and—because your luck is absolute trash—Joe freaking Burrow strolls in behind you, Blonde Giggles McGee still glued to his side.

“Hey, neighbor,” he says casually, stepping into the elevator with you like he didn’t just steal and relinquish a parking spot out of sheer pettiness. The blonde gives you a wide, vaguely clueless smile, her gum snapping between her teeth.

You press the button for the third floor with a pointed jab and cross your arms, leaning against the elevator wall as Joe and his date take their sweet time figuring out which floor they’re going to. The door finally slides shut, and the tension in the small space is unbearable.

“So,” the blonde says brightly, flipping her hair over her shoulder, “you guys, like, live here? That’s so fun! Like, neighbors and stuff. Wow.”

Your lips press into a tight smile, trying to avoid eye contact with Joe, who you can feel grinning at you like this is the highlight of his week. “Yep. Fun,” you reply curtly, forcing the word out like it’s laced with acid.

Joe’s shoulders shake slightly, and you realize he’s laughing. He glances at you, and there’s that damn smirk again, like he knows exactly how close you are to losing it. “She’s real talkative tonight,” he says, tilting his head toward you. “Usually, she’s got more to say.”

You turn to him with a withering glare. “Don’t you have something else to do, Burrow?”

Before he can reply, the elevator lurches slightly as it comes to a stop on your floor. You step out quickly, muttering a polite “Good night” that is entirely devoid of warmth. Joe follows, his pace annoyingly casual as he throws one last look over his shoulder.

“See you around, neighbor,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

You don’t look back.

The smell of cheap ramen hits you the moment you open the door to your apartment. It’s comforting, in a way—familiar, like Ella’s answer to every late-night craving or bad day. She’s in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove, barefoot and wearing the oversized LSU sweatshirt you’d bought together during freshman year.

“You’re late,” she says without looking up, her voice light with mock reproach. “Was the library on fire, or did you stop to fight Burrow in the parking lot again?”

You kick off your shoes with a sigh, tossing your bag onto the couch. “Option B. Obviously.”

That gets her attention. She turns, spoon in hand, eyebrows raised. “Seriously? It’s, like, midnight. You two are going to give each other aneurysms before graduation.”

You slump into one of the kitchen chairs, letting your forehead hit the table dramatically. “He stole my parking spot. Had the audacity to smirk about it, too. And then—get this—I got stuck in the elevator with him and some girl who wouldn’t stop talking about how ‘fun’ it is to have neighbors.” You lift your head to glare at Ella, who is now struggling to hold back a laugh. “I’m cursed. That man is my curse.”

Ella snorts, pouring the ramen into two mismatched bowls. “He’s not your curse. He’s just a guy with too much charm and not enough common sense. And clearly, you’re living rent-free in his head, which, honestly, is kind of impressive considering he’s got a playbook in there.”

You accept the bowl she slides across the table, your stomach growling despite your lingering irritation. “I don’t want to live in his head. I want him to stop being so… so Joe all the time.”

Ella sits across from you, propping her chin in her hand with a sly grin. “Are you sure? You seem to spend a lot of time talking about him.”

You glare at her over a mouthful of noodles. “Don’t start.”

But she’s already started, her grin widening. “I’m just saying, it’s giving sexual tension.”

You nearly choke, coughing as you wave her off. “Nope. Absolutely not. There’s no tension. Only irritation. And rage. And an overwhelming desire to see him move to a different apartment complex.”

Ella laughs, leaning back in her chair. “Whatever you say, babe. But for the record, I think you secretly enjoy it.”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can form a retort, there’s a knock at the door. Both of you freeze, staring at each other like deer caught in headlights.

“You expecting someone?” Ella whispers, her tone suddenly conspiratorial.

“No,” you whisper back, your heart sinking as a horrible suspicion creeps over you.

Ella gestures for you to check, and with a deep, resigned breath, you shuffle to the door, bowl still in hand. You crack it open just enough to see who’s on the other side, and—because the universe apparently hates you—there he is. Joe Burrow, in all his smug, infuriating glory, holding a box of cinnamon rolls.

“Hey, neighbor,” he says, his grin infuriatingly wide. “Figured I owed you something for stealing your spot.”

You stare at him, speechless, for a moment. Then, finally, you manage, “It’s 11:30 at night.”

He shrugs, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable time for a peace offering. “Better late than never, right?”

From behind you, Ella’s voice rings out, barely containing her amusement. “Is that Joe? Invite him in!”

You turn to glare at her, silently vowing revenge, but when you look back at Joe, he’s already stepping inside like he owns the place.

“Nice place,” he says, glancing around before holding up the box. “So… cinnamon roll?”

You sigh, shutting the door behind him. It’s going to be a long night.

Joe leans casually against the counter, still holding the box of cinnamon rolls like he’s been invited to stay for a late-night hangout. You narrow your eyes at him, folding your arms. “So, what’s this about, really? Cinnamon rolls aren’t exactly your style.”

“Wow, judgmental much?” he says with a mock-wounded expression. “What if I just wanted to be neighborly?”

Ella snickers softly behind you, spooning up her ramen as she watches the exchange like it’s prime-time TV.

Joe grins, ignoring your skepticism. “Actually,” he says, setting the box on the counter with a little too much flourish, “I’m out of sugar. You wouldn’t happen to have any, would you?”

You blink at him, incredulous. “Sugar? You came over at almost midnight to borrow sugar?”

“Yup,” he says, popping the “p” for emphasis, completely unbothered by your glare.

Ella, ever the peacemaker—or enabler, depending on the situation—sets her bowl down and gets up to rummage through the cabinets. “We’ve got some,” she says reluctantly, pulling out a small bag. She walks over and places it in Joe’s outstretched hand, but not without narrowing her eyes at him. “You better bring this back, Burrow. Or at least repay us with something better than cinnamon rolls.”

“Noted,” he says with a charming smile, tucking the bag under his arm. He turns to you, his grin softening into something almost teasing. “Thanks, neighbor. You’re a real lifesaver.”

You don’t bother replying, instead stepping aside so he can leave. He makes his way to the door, pausing for a moment. “Oh, and don’t forget to check your parking job in the morning,” he says with a wink before slipping out into the hallway.

The second the door clicks shut, you groan, slumping against the counter. Ella bursts into laughter, practically doubling over as she grabs her bowl again. “You two are ridiculous,” she says between bites.

“I’m moving out,” you mutter, dragging yourself to the couch. “I don’t care if it’s to a cardboard box in the quad. It’ll be quieter than this.”

You think that’s the end of it—Joe’s random sugar-borrowing adventure, Ella’s endless teasing—but of course, you’re wrong. Because a few hours later, just as you’re finally starting to drift off in the tiny bedroom you call your sanctuary, you hear it.

A muffled giggle. A low, rumbling voice you’d recognize anywhere. Then, unmistakably, the rhythmic creak of a bed frame against the wall.

Your eyes snap open, and for a moment, you pray you’re imagining things. Maybe it’s a nightmare—a cruel joke your overtired brain is playing on you. But then you hear it again, louder this time, followed by a very enthusiastic “Oh my God, Joey!”

You groan, grabbing your pillow and pressing it over your ears.

From the other side of the wall, Ella’s muffled voice reaches you through the darkness. “Is that…?”

“Yes,” you hiss, your voice barely audible through the pillow. “It’s him.”

She snorts, and you can hear her shifting in her bed. “Well, at least he’s getting good use out of that sugar.”

You let out a strangled laugh, torn between exhaustion and disbelief. “I swear, if this goes on all night—”

As if on cue, there’s another creak, louder this time, followed by more giggling and exaggerated moaning.

Ella sighs. “Thin walls, huh?”

“Apparently,” you mutter, rolling onto your side and glaring at the wall like it’s personally offended you.

The noises continue—giggles, muffled moans, the occasional thud that makes you wince. You bury your face in your pillow, silently cursing Joe Burrow and his audacity.

It’s going to be a very, very long night.

The next morning comes too soon. Despite the symphony of creaks, giggles, and thuds that plagued the night, you manage to drag yourself out of bed, bleary-eyed and cranky. The coffee pot sputters as you pour yourself a life-saving cup, muttering curses at your neighbor under your breath. Ella, still in her pajamas, watches you from the couch with an amused smirk.

“You look alive,” she teases, spooning cereal into her mouth. “Barely.”

“I hate him,” you say flatly, taking a long sip of coffee.

“Sure you do,” she singsongs.

You don’t dignify her with a response, grabbing your bag and heading out the door.

As luck—or fate—would have it, the universe isn’t done with you yet. Because just as you’re locking your apartment door, you hear the unmistakable sound of high heels clicking down the hallway.

You glance over your shoulder and immediately regret it.

There she is. Last night’s Blonde of the Hour, strutting toward the elevator with a walk of shame so confident it might as well be a victory lap. She’s wearing Joe’s oversized LSU hoodie, paired with last night’s skirt and heels. Her hair is tousled, but she doesn’t seem to care.

And because the universe apparently has a sense of humor, she notices you at the same time you notice her.

“Morning!” she chirps, her voice way too chipper for someone who clearly didn’t sleep much.

You press your lips together to keep from laughing, nodding in acknowledgment. “Morning.”

The two of you step into the elevator together, the silence stretching awkwardly between you. You steal a glance at her from the corner of your eye, wondering if she has any idea that her night of “fun” ruined yours. But then she sighs and adjusts the sleeves of Joe’s hoodie, completely unbothered, and you realize she probably doesn’t care.

The doors slide open to the lobby, and you step out first, your pace brisk as you make a beeline for the exit. But as you push through the glass doors into the bright morning sunlight, you nearly collide with none other than Joe Burrow himself.

He’s leaning against his car, coffee cup in hand, looking far too put together for someone who should be as tired as you. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you, then flick over to the blonde trailing behind.

“Morning, neighbor,” he says, his voice laced with amusement.

“Morning,” you reply dryly, brushing past him toward your car.

But of course, he can’t just let it go. “Sleep well?”

You stop dead in your tracks, turning to glare at him. His smirk is infuriatingly smug, and you can’t tell if he’s genuinely clueless or just messing with you.

“Thin walls,” you say pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

His smirk falters for half a second before he recovers, lifting his coffee cup in a mock toast. “Noted.”

The blonde, oblivious to the tension, giggles. “Joe, you didn’t tell me your neighbors were so fun!”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead unlocking your car with more force than necessary. “Oh, we’re a blast,” you mutter under your breath, sliding into the driver’s seat.

As you pull out of the parking lot, you catch a glimpse of Joe in your rearview mirror, still leaning against his car, watching you leave. There’s a flicker of something in his expression—amusement, maybe, or curiosity—but you don’t have the energy to figure it out.

Later that afternoon, when you’re back in your apartment trying to catch up on work, Ella pops her head into the living room with a mischievous grin.

“Guess who I ran into at the coffee shop?”

You glance up warily. “Who?”

“Joe,” she says, plopping down on the couch. “He said he’s planning a little ‘building mixer’ this weekend. Invited everyone on the floor. Including us.”

You groan, letting your head fall back against the couch. “No. Absolutely not. I am not going to some Burrow-hosted mixer.”

“Oh, come on,” Ella says, nudging you with her foot. “It could be fun. Free food, free drinks… awkward encounters with your mortal enemy…”

You glare at her, but she just laughs. “You’re going,” she says firmly. “I already RSVP’d for us.”

And just like that, you realize your week is about to get a whole lot more complicated.

Saturday night rolls around faster than you’d like, and with it comes the so-called “mixer” that Joe Burrow somehow convinced Ella you had to attend. You’d held onto the slim hope that it would be a small, quiet gathering of your neighbors in the building, with maybe some snacks, polite small talk, and an early exit for you.

Instead, you step off the elevator into what can only be described as chaos. The hallway is packed with people, the distant thrum of music vibrating through the walls. Someone’s yelling about finding the keg, and the faint scent of spilled beer and cologne wafts toward you.

“This is not a mixer,” you mutter to Ella as you both navigate your way through the crowd.

Ella, of course, looks thrilled. She’s dolled up in a crop top and high-waisted jeans, her hair and makeup perfectly done. “Relax,” she says, looping her arm through yours. “It’s just a party. Have a drink, let loose. Who knows? You might even have fun.”

You highly doubt that, but before you can argue, she spots Ja’Marr Chase leaning against the doorway to Joe’s apartment and perks up immediately. “I’ll catch up with you later!” she says, already untangling herself from your arm and heading toward him.

“Ella!” you call after her, but she’s too busy tossing a flirty smile Ja’Marr’s way to notice.

Great. Now you’re alone in the middle of a party that feels like half of LSU showed up to, surrounded by strangers and sticky floors. You push your way toward the kitchen, hoping to grab a drink and then find a corner to blend into until Ella decides it’s time to leave.

But, because the universe apparently loves messing with you, you hear his voice before you see him.

“Well, well, look who decided to show up.”

You groan internally and turn to see Joe leaning against the counter, a Solo cup in hand and that ever-present smirk on his face. He’s dressed casually in a fitted t-shirt and jeans, but somehow still manages to look like he owns the place—which, technically, he does.

“I’m only here because Ella dragged me,” you say, crossing your arms. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Joe chuckles, taking a sip of his drink. “Come on, admit it. You’re having the time of your life.”

“Yeah, sure,” you deadpan. “Sticky floors and loud music are exactly my idea of fun.”

He grins, clearly enjoying your irritation. “You know, if you wanted to hang out with me so badly, you could’ve just asked. No need to pretend Ella dragged you here.”

“I—” You stop yourself, realizing there’s no point in arguing. It’s exactly what he wants. Instead, you grab a bottle of water from the counter and turn to leave.

“Hey, hold up,” he says, stepping in front of you. “You’re not just gonna drink water all night, are you?”

“Yes, Joe, I am,” you say, trying to sidestep him, but he moves to block you.

“At least let me get you a real drink,” he says, gesturing toward the makeshift bar someone set up on the other side of the room. “I make a mean rum and Coke.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, stepping aside, but not before adding, “But you’re missing out. My bartending skills are unmatched.”

You roll your eyes and head toward the living room, finding a spot near the wall where you can observe without being dragged into the chaos. You sip your water and watch as Joe works the room, effortlessly charming everyone he talks to.

About an hour later, you’re starting to regret not leaving when Ella abandoned you. You’ve been stuck making awkward small talk with strangers, and the music is only getting louder.

Then Ella appears out of nowhere, grabbing your arm with a giggle. “Come with me,” she says, pulling you toward the corner where Joe and some of his teammates are lounging on a worn-out sectional.

“Why?” you ask, resisting her tug.

“Because Ja’Marr wants to introduce me to his friends, and I don’t want to go alone!”

You sigh, reluctantly following her over. Ja’Marr greets Ella with a grin, and she practically melts under his attention. You, on the other hand, find yourself stuck sitting next to Joe, who looks far too pleased about the arrangement.

“Miss me already?” he asks, leaning closer so you can hear him over the music.

“Not even a little,” you reply, glaring at him.

He chuckles, clearly unbothered. “You’re really bad at hiding how much you enjoy my company, you know that?”

You open your mouth to retort, but before you can, one of his teammates interrupts. “Yo, Burrow, who’s this?”

“This,” Joe says, gesturing toward you with a dramatic flourish, “is my lovely neighbor.”

“Neighbor, huh?” the guy says, raising an eyebrow. “You two seem… close.”

You snort. “Not even remotely.”

Joe grins, slinging an arm over the back of the couch behind you. “Don’t listen to her,” he says. “She’s just shy.”

You shoot him a withering look, but he only laughs, clearly enjoying himself.

As the night drags on, Joe makes it his personal mission to annoy you. Every time you try to leave, he finds a way to pull you back into the conversation, teasing you relentlessly. His teammates, to their credit, seem amused by the dynamic, occasionally chiming in with their own jokes.

By the time Ella finally decides she’s ready to leave, you’re exhausted—physically and emotionally. You practically sprint for the door, eager to escape Joe’s smirk and the endless teasing.

As you step into the hallway, he calls after you, “See you around, neighbor!”

You don’t bother responding, instead dragging Ella toward the elevator. But as you press the button for your floor, you can’t help but feel like you haven’t seen the last of Joe Burrow tonight—or any night, for that matter.

The next week at LSU passes like any other, but somehow, Joe Burrow has managed to worm his way into your daily routine. It starts small—running into him at the mailboxes, hearing his muffled laughter through the thin walls at ungodly hours, and the occasional “good morning, neighbor!” shouted across the courtyard when you’re clearly not in the mood.

It’s maddening, really, the way he seems to delight in being everywhere you don’t want him to be. And yet, despite your annoyance, you can’t deny that his presence makes life just a little more… interesting.

FRIDAY NIGHT

Ella bursts through the apartment door, her face lit up with excitement. You’re sprawled on the couch, flipping through lecture notes and wishing the week would end already.

“Guess what!” she exclaims, tossing her bag onto the counter.

“Let me guess,” you say dryly. “Ja’Marr invited you to another party?”

“Close,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “Ja’Marr and Joe are throwing a tailgate tomorrow before the game, and we’re invited.”

You groan, already dreading the idea of spending yet another afternoon dodging Joe’s incessant teasing. “I’m busy,” you lie.

“You’re coming,” Ella insists, plopping down next to you. “It’s practically a campus tradition, and besides, you could use a little fun.”

“Fun,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling being forced to socialize with half of LSU now?”

Ella rolls her eyes. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Food, drinks, and—” she grins mischievously—“a chance to hang out with your favorite quarterback.”

You glare at her. “Joe Burrow is not my favorite anything.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, clearly not believing you. “Wear something cute. We’re leaving at noon.”

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

The tailgate is, unsurprisingly, a spectacle. Rows of tents stretch across the field, decked out in purple and gold, with grills smoking and music blasting. Students and alumni alike mill about, laughing and chatting as they gear up for the game.

You follow Ella through the crowd, clutching a plastic cup of soda and trying to blend in. She, of course, makes a beeline for Ja’Marr, who’s manning the grill with an ease that suggests he’s done this a thousand times.

And where there’s Ja’Marr, there’s Joe.

He spots you almost immediately, his trademark smirk spreading across his face as he waves you over. “Hey, neighbor! Glad you could make it.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, but he’s already stepping closer, his easy confidence making it impossible to ignore him.

“What, no hug?” he teases, holding his arms out dramatically.

“Not in this lifetime,” you reply, sidestepping him.

Ella, now fully engrossed in a conversation with Ja’Marr, leaves you to fend for yourself. You glance around, debating whether to make a run for it, but Joe blocks your path, clearly amused by your discomfort.

“You’re really bad at this whole socializing thing, aren’t you?” he says, leaning casually against the nearest table.

“Maybe I just don’t enjoy your company,” you retort, taking a sip of your drink.

He grins. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be here.”

Before you can respond, one of his teammates calls his name, distracting him long enough for you to slip away. You find a quieter spot near the edge of the field, letting the noise of the crowd fade into the background.

But, of course, Joe finds you again.

“Thought you’d try to escape, huh?” he says, appearing at your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I wasn’t escaping,” you lie, crossing your arms.

“Sure you weren’t.” He pauses, glancing at the crowd. “Not a fan of tailgates?”

“Not a fan of crowds,” you admit.

He nods, surprisingly serious for once. “Fair enough. They’re not for everyone.”

You glance at him, caught off guard by the genuine tone in his voice. It’s a rare moment of sincerity from someone who seems to live for getting under your skin.

And then, just as quickly, the moment passes.

“Still,” he says, his smirk returning, “you’ve got to admit, the food’s pretty good. Ja’Marr’s burgers? Best on campus.”

The party stretched well into the night, turning the once-bustling tailgate into a dimly lit, hazy scene of music, laughter, and scattered conversations. You’d almost forgotten how much you hated these kinds of events. The air was warm, the smell of grilled food and spilled beer thick, but for once, you weren’t faking a smile just to survive.

Instead, you were leaning against a folding chair near the makeshift DJ booth, chatting with a guy named Wes. He was a linebacker for LSU, though, by his own admission, mostly a benchwarmer. Shy, soft-spoken, and refreshingly normal, Wes wasn’t at all what you expected to find at a party like this.

“You’re telling me you’ve never been to Mike’s cage?” he asked, his voice slightly raised to be heard over the music.

You laughed. “I don’t know, it just never seemed like a big deal to me. It’s a tiger.”

His eyes widened in mock offense. “It’s not just a tiger. It’s our tiger.”

“Okay, okay, maybe I’ll check it out sometime,” you said, grinning at his enthusiasm.

From the corner of your eye, you caught movement, and instinctively, you glanced over. There, leaning against the bar table, was Joe.

His usual smirk was nowhere to be seen. Instead, his jaw was tight, and his eyes were fixed on you and Wes.

The sight of his uncharacteristically cold expression sent a jolt through you. Was he annoyed? No, that didn’t make sense. He didn’t care about you, not really.

Wes was saying something about the tiger habitat, but your attention flickered back to Joe. His knuckles whitened around the edge of his red Solo cup, and he seemed to be muttering something to Ja’Marr, who only shrugged in response.

“Everything okay?” Wes asked, his brow furrowed as he followed your gaze.

You blinked, forcing yourself to refocus. “Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?”

Joe, however, was impossible to ignore. At one point, he stormed past your little corner of the party, brushing close enough that you could feel the heat of his arm against yours.

Wes had just finished telling a story about his first LSU practice, his nervous laughter making you smile, when Joe’s voice cut through the conversation like a jagged knife.

“Nice to see you making friends,” he said, his tone just sharp enough to raise the hairs on your neck.

You turned to find Joe standing a few feet away, his trademark smirk forced and strained. He wasn’t looking at you but at Wes, his gaze heavy with something you couldn’t quite place.

“Hey, Burrow,” Wes said, his voice even but noticeably quieter.

Joe stepped closer, ignoring you entirely as he clapped Wes on the shoulder. “Wesley Evans, right? Linebacker extraordinaire.” His words were light, almost teasing, but there was a strange undertone to them.

“Uh, yeah,” Wes said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Though ‘extraordinaire’ might be a bit of a stretch.”

Joe chuckled, his laugh cold. “Oh, come on. Don’t sell yourself short. I mean, someone’s got to keep the bench warm, right?”

The group went silent.

You froze, your stomach dropping as the words settled over the conversation like a wet blanket. Wes’s easygoing demeanor faltered for just a moment—just long enough for you to catch the flicker of hurt in his eyes.

But he recovered quickly, letting out a forced laugh. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta do it.”

“Joe,” Ja’Marr said sharply, stepping forward. “That was uncalled for.”

Joe raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk faltering. “What? I was just joking.”

“No, you weren’t,” Ja’Marr said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You stared at Joe, your chest tightening with a mix of anger and confusion. What was his problem? You’d seen him tease people before, but this was something else. This was cruel.

Joe’s eyes finally flicked to yours, and for a brief second, something like regret flashed across his face. But just as quickly, he turned away, muttering, “Whatever,” before stalking off into the crowd.

The group stood in awkward silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

“I’m sorry about that,” you said softly, turning to Wes.

He shook his head, forcing a smile. “Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.”

But you could see the way his shoulders sagged, the way his fingers tightened around the edge of his cup.

Ja’Marr sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s not usually like that.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you muttered, still staring at the spot where Joe had disappeared.

Ja’Marr shot you a look but said nothing. The group eventually dispersed, the easy energy of the night soured by the encounter.

And as you followed Ella home later, you couldn’t stop replaying the moment in your head, trying to piece together why Joe Burrow seemed so determined to ruin the night—not just for you, but for Wes, too.

The walk back to your apartment was quiet, the faint buzz of crickets and distant party music filling the air as you and Ella navigated the dimly lit sidewalks. The night had been long, and your head was still spinning from Joe’s earlier outburst. You’d always known him to be annoying, maybe even a little infuriating, but tonight was different. There was a sharpness to him, an edge that left you unsettled.

Ella broke the silence first, her voice soft. “What do you think that was about? With Joe, I mean.”

You shrugged, kicking a loose pebble down the pavement. “Who knows? Maybe he ran out of people to torture and decided to branch out.”

Ella laughed lightly but didn’t press further. By the time you reached your apartment complex, the cool night air had started to seep into your skin, making you shiver. All you could think about was collapsing into bed and forgetting this day ever happened.

But, of course, Joe Burrow had other plans.

There he was, right in front of your door, pressed up against yet another blonde, her manicured nails tangled in his hair as they made out like the world was ending.

You stopped dead in your tracks, Ella nearly bumping into you.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered under your breath.

At the sound of your voice, Joe broke away from his hookup, turning to face you with a smirk that was equal parts shameless and infuriating.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite neighbor,” he drawled, his voice low and teasing. “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon. Wes not invite you over for a post-party study session?”

Your jaw tightened. “Get out of the way, Burrow.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “What’s the rush? You don’t want to hang out? I can introduce you to…uh…” He glanced at the girl beside him, snapping his fingers as if trying to remember her name.

The blonde giggled, clearly unbothered. “Stephanie,” she offered, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Right. Stephanie,” Joe said, his grin widening.

Ella groaned softly beside you, crossing her arms. ���Joe, move. We’re tired.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, stepping aside but not before leaning casually against the doorframe, effectively blocking your path again. “But seriously, where’s Wes? Thought you two were hitting it off. Or is he back on the bench already?”

“Are you serious right now?” you snapped, finally losing the last shred of patience you had left.

Joe straightened up, clearly surprised by the sudden bite in your tone. “What? I’m just messing around.”

“No, you’re being a jerk,” you shot back. “First, you humiliate Wes at the party, and now you’re standing here, rubbing it in like it’s some kind of joke. What’s your problem?”

Stephanie shifted uncomfortably, her gaze darting between you and Joe. “Uh, maybe we should—”

“Not now,” Joe cut her off, his tone sharper than you’d ever heard it. He didn’t even look at her, his eyes locked on yours.

Stephanie’s mouth fell open in shock. “Excuse me?”

“Just go,” he said, his voice quieter but no less firm.

For a moment, the three of you stood frozen, the tension hanging thick in the air. Then, with an indignant huff, Stephanie grabbed her purse and stormed off, her heels clicking angrily against the pavement.

Ella’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Wow,” she muttered under her breath.

Joe ran a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply before turning back to you. “Happy now?”

“No,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’re still here.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re acting like I committed some crime. I was just joking, okay? It’s not my fault you can’t take a little teasing.”

“Teasing?” you repeated, incredulous. “Joe, you embarrassed Wes in front of everyone tonight. And for what? To make yourself feel better? To prove you’re the big man on campus?”

His jaw clenched, the cocky facade cracking ever so slightly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then enlighten me,” you challenged, taking a step closer. “Why do you always have to be such an ass?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his gaze dropping to the ground. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and tense. “Maybe because it’s the only way to get your attention.”

Your breath caught, his words hitting like a punch to the gut. Before you could respond, he turned on his heel and walked away, the sound of his door slamming echoing through the quiet hallway.

Ella let out a low whistle. “Well, that was…something.”

You stared after him, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Something.”

“Did he just…?” Ella’s voice was barely a whisper beside you.

You swallowed hard, not trusting yourself to speak. What the hell was that supposed to mean? It wasn’t like Joe to be vulnerable—hell, he practically lived to get under your skin. And yet, there it was, hanging in the air: the truth you never asked for, wrapped up in all his stupid teasing and annoying antics.

“Forget it,” you finally muttered, fumbling with your keys as you moved to unlock the door. “He’s just trying to mess with me.”

“Uh-huh,” Ella said slowly, following you inside. “Because, you know, the guy who just ditched a hot blonde to argue with you at midnight clearly doesn’t care.”

You shot her a glare, unwilling to entertain the idea. “I’m going to bed.”

Ella raised her hands in surrender, smirking knowingly as she headed for her room. “Okay, but don’t act surprised when he shows up tomorrow. He’s not exactly the type to let things go.”

“Goodnight, Ella,” you said firmly, shutting your bedroom door behind you.

But as you lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, you couldn’t get his words out of your head. Maybe because it’s the only way to get your attention. Was he serious? Or was this just another game to him, a way to throw you off-balance and make you question everything?

With a frustrated sigh, you rolled over, punching your pillow as if it was somehow Joe’s fault that you couldn’t sleep. Whatever his deal was, you weren’t going to let him get under your skin any more than he already had.

But deep down, you knew it was too late. Because whether you liked it or not, Joe Burrow had already wormed his way into your thoughts—and no amount of denial was going to change that.

The next morning, you woke up to a series of loud knocks on your door, far too early for any sane person to be awake. Groaning, you pulled the covers over your head, but the knocking continued, persistent and unrelenting.

“Go away!” you yelled, but the noise didn’t stop.

With a huff, you threw off the blankets and stumbled out of bed, yanking open the door with every intention of giving whoever it was a piece of your mind.

But, of course, it was Joe.

He stood there, leaning casually against the doorframe like he hadn’t just woken you up at the crack of dawn, a lazy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Morning, neighbor.”

You stared at him, too stunned and too tired to muster a response.

“Didn’t think you’d be up,” he said, his tone annoyingly chipper.

“I wasn’t,” you snapped, rubbing your eyes. “What the hell do you want?”

His smile widened, and he held up a to-go coffee cup, the LSU logo bright against the paper sleeve. “Thought you might need a pick-me-up.”

You blinked at the cup, then at him, suspicion rising. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he said, still holding it out. “Just coffee. Truce?”

You hesitated, the words from last night still lingering between you. But, against your better judgment, you reached for the cup, your fingers brushing his for a brief second. “Fine. Truce. For now.”

His eyes gleamed, like he’d just won some kind of invisible battle. “I’ll take it.” He turned to leave but paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Oh, and by the way—I’m not going anywhere.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you standing in the doorway with a coffee cup in hand and the distinct feeling that, somehow, things were about to get a whole lot more complicated.

Things between you and Wes have been going really well. You’ve been texting each other daily since that first meeting in the quad, and his messages always seem to bring a smile to your face. Some days, you talk about classes and the usual college chaos—complaining about professors who seem to thrive on assigning last-minute papers, laughing over campus gossip, or sharing music recommendations.

Other days, the conversations drift into deeper topics: family, future dreams, and the things you never thought you’d share with someone you’d barely known a few weeks ago. It's easy, effortless, and you feel like you've known him forever. There's a connection that grows stronger with each passing day, his texts becoming a constant you look forward to amid the swirl of college life.

When game days roll around, you make sure to watch, even if football has never been your thing. You learn enough of the basics to text him encouragement before each game and tease him when his team makes a stupid play. And every single time he wins, you get a photo of him in his jersey, sweaty and glowing with victory, his smile so wide you can feel it through the screen.

One crisp Saturday evening after a particularly big game—a win that had the entire stadium roaring and chanting for more—your phone buzzes. It’s Wes, as expected, but this time the message is different.

Wes: Big win tonight. You should come out to celebrate—party at the house. It'll be fun, promise.

You hesitate for a moment. Frat parties aren’t usually your scene, but the idea of seeing Wes in person after weeks of building up this text-based connection makes your heart beat a little faster. It feels like the right time to finally break out of the comfort of your phone screen. You don’t want to overthink it, so you respond quickly.

You: Okay, I’ll come! What time? Wes: Perfect. Starts at 9, but I’ll be there around 10. Meet me out front? I’ll make sure you don’t get lost.

You can’t help but laugh at that—his protective side has become more apparent lately, and you find it kind of endearing. The rest of the evening passes in a blur of anticipation. You try on half your wardrobe, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness that makes your stomach flutter. After way too much deliberation, you settle on something that’s cute but comfortable—a black crop top, jeans that fit just right, and your favorite sneakers. Casual, but you don’t want to come off like you’re trying too hard.

The party was in full swing by the time you and Wes went in, the familiar buzz of laughter and music filling the air. His arm rested loosely around your shoulders as you made your way through the packed house, a red solo cup already in his hand. It was a typical LSU post-game celebration—teammates hyped up from their win, students eager for a reason to cut loose, and just enough chaos to keep things interesting.

Wes, ever the golden retriever type, was all smiles as he greeted his teammates. You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt as you plastered on your own smile. Wes was great—sweet, thoughtful, and good-looking to boot—but there was something missing. Conversations with him always felt a little too polished, like he was sticking to a script.

Still, you weren’t going to let your wandering thoughts ruin the night. As he led you toward the makeshift bar in the kitchen, you decided to let loose a little, leaning into his world for the evening.

You were two drinks in when you felt it—a shift in the air that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Glancing across the room, your eyes locked with Joe’s. He was leaning casually against the wall, his cup dangling from his fingers as he laughed at something Ja’Marr said. But his focus wasn’t on his teammate—it was on you.

That look.

You’d seen it before, the one that screamed I’m up to something. Your stomach twisted as his lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk.

“What’s wrong?” Wes asked, his voice breaking through your thoughts.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just thought I saw someone I knew.”

Wes didn’t notice your distraction, too busy rambling about the game. You nodded along, but your attention kept drifting back to Joe. He was still watching, and now he was moving.

Straight toward you.

“Wesley,” Joe said, his voice louder than necessary as he clapped a hand on Wes’s shoulder. “Man of the hour! Hell of a game tonight.”

Wes beamed, his chest puffing out a little. “Thanks, Burrow. That means a lot coming from you.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” Joe said smoothly, his grin sharpening. “You’re really making a name for yourself out there.” He paused, his tone dipping just enough to make the compliment feel off. “You’ve got a solid five minutes of playing time this season, right?”

Wes laughed, missing the sarcasm entirely. “Yeah, Coach says I’m improving every week.”

Joe nodded, his expression the picture of sincerity. “No doubt. You’re an inspiration, man. Really showing the bench how it’s done.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back the urge to step in. Wes didn’t deserve to be Joe’s verbal punching bag, even if he was too oblivious to notice.

Then Joe shifted his focus.

“And this,” he said, gesturing toward you with his cup, “is the girl everyone’s been talking about?”

You stiffened, already bracing yourself.

“She’s great, right?” Wes said proudly, tightening his arm around your waist.

“Absolutely,” Joe said, his eyes locking on yours. “Smart, pretty, patient.” His lips twitched as he added, “Definitely one of a kind.”

The room felt hotter, smaller. You knew what he was doing, and you refused to let him win.

“Wow, Joe,” you said, your tone dripping with mock sweetness. “That’s almost a compliment. Are you feeling okay?”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward. “What can I say? I’m a generous guy.”

Wes chuckled awkwardly, clearly missing the tension simmering between the two of you. But the people around you weren’t as oblivious. Conversations around the kitchen began to quiet, heads subtly turning in your direction.

Joe leaned in slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Though I gotta say, Wes, you’ve got your hands full. She seems like the type to keep you on your toes. Always ready with a snappy comeback.”

You took a step forward, your jaw tightening. “Maybe because some people deserve it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re talking about me,” Joe said, his smirk widening. “But hey, you’ve got to admit, I keep things interesting.”

“Interesting?” you repeated, your voice rising. “You mean infuriating.”

By now, you were toe-to-toe, the space between you charged with unspoken words and something else you refused to acknowledge.

Joe’s eyes flicked down to your lips for a fraction of a second before he smiled again, softer this time. “Guess that’s one way to put it.”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, you were certain everyone in the room could see the way your cheeks flushed, the way your chest rose and fell faster than it should have.

Joe straightened, patting Wes on the back. “You’ve got a good one here, man. Don’t screw it up.”

And just like that, he was gone, disappearing back into the crowd with that stupid smirk still on his face.

Wes turned to you, oblivious as ever. “Man, Joe’s great, isn’t he?”

You didn’t answer, too busy trying to calm the storm raging inside you. Because as much as you hated to admit it, Joe Burrow had just gotten under your skin again. And this time, you weren’t sure you could shake him off.

The days blur together after the party, each one bleeding into the next with a heavy quiet you can’t shake. Joe hasn’t teased you, hasn’t made any more snide comments in passing. It’s almost like he’s disappeared entirely, and the silence he’s left behind feels suffocating.

But it's not the kind of peace you wanted—it's the kind that echoes, that bounces around inside your skull, replaying the things he said over and over again until you can’t ignore them anymore. You try to focus on Wes, try to let his easygoing, good-natured attitude soothe the irritation that keeps curling under your skin, but the more you think about Joe’s words, the more they fester. Suddenly, everything about Wes feels too soft, too careful. He’s kind, yes, but there's a blandness to it, a safe predictability that only makes you itch for something sharper.

Then, days later, you find yourself in the apartment lobby, bundled up against the late autumn chill, glaring at a maintenance form on the wall. The hot water’s been out for days, and you’re halfway through filling out a complaint when you hear footsteps behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is—the shift in the air is enough.

"Wow, fancy meeting you here," comes Joe’s voice, smooth and mocking, with just enough bite to make your spine stiffen. You don’t turn around, don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, you keep writing, the pen pressing hard enough against the paper that it almost tears.

"Cold water bothering you too?" he continues when you don’t respond, his tone amused. You can feel him looming behind you, a little too close, and you grit your teeth, willing yourself to stay calm.

"Just trying to get it fixed," you reply curtly, finally turning around and catching the cocky smirk tugging at his lips. You’re not in the mood for whatever game he’s about to play, but of course, he’s not about to let you off that easy. His gaze slides from the form in your hand back up to your face, one eyebrow quirking up in that infuriating way that always makes you want to wipe the smugness off his face.

"Surprised you’re handling it yourself," Joe drawls, his eyes bright with something almost like delight. "Thought you'd get your little boyfriend to do it for you."

Your fingers tighten around the pen, and you force yourself to take a breath, ignoring the way your pulse quickens. "Not everything revolves around Wes," you shoot back, but your voice wavers just enough to make Joe’s smirk widen. His eyes flick over your face, and you hate the way he seems to read every expression, every crack in the mask you’re struggling to hold up.

"Really?" he says, the word heavy with skepticism. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against the wall like he’s settling in for a show. "Could’ve fooled me. He’s got you wrapped around his little finger, huh? I bet you’re the perfect, supportive girlfriend." His voice drips with sarcasm, and something inside you snaps.

"Shut up, Joe," you hiss, your voice low and dangerous. You turn back to the form, determined to ignore him, but he doesn’t move. In fact, he leans in closer, his breath warm on your ear.

"Why?" he murmurs, his voice soft but taunting, like he’s got all the time in the world. "Hit a nerve?"

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because the truth is, he did hit a nerve. And he knows it.

"Come on," he pushes, a note of genuine curiosity in his tone now. "Don’t you ever get tired of it? Playing nice, doing everything right, sticking with someone who’s… I dunno, safe?"

You spin around, eyes blazing, and Joe’s face lights up with triumph. "You don’t know anything about him," you snap, but there’s a waver in your voice that makes Joe’s eyes narrow with interest. "Wes is kind, and he’s decent, and he actually cares about people, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for you."

Joe’s smile doesn’t falter. In fact, it only grows wider, almost wolfish, and you hate that it sends a thrill through you, a charge that leaves your heart racing. "Yeah," he says, his tone almost pitying, "he’s safe. Boring. He’s exactly the kind of guy who’d never get in your way, never challenge you, never push back. And you’re happy with that? Really?"

You glare at him, your blood boiling, but you can’t look away. Because some part of you—the part you’ve been trying to silence for days—knows he’s right, and it makes you want to scream. "What the hell is your problem, Joe?" you demand, your voice shaking with anger. "Why do you even care? What does it matter to you if I’m with him or not?"

For a moment, something flickers in Joe’s eyes, something you can’t quite read, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by that infuriating smirk. "I don’t care," he says, too quickly, his voice a little too smooth. "I just think it’s funny, that’s all. Watching you pretend like he’s enough for you."

You step closer without realizing it, your fists clenched at your sides. "You don’t know what you’re talking about," you insist, but it sounds weak, even to your own ears. Joe’s gaze drops to your lips for a split second, and you feel a jolt of something hot and dangerous twist in your stomach.

"Don’t I?" he murmurs, and suddenly, you’re standing toe-to-toe, your breath mingling with his, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. He’s so close, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his smirk softens just enough to be dangerous.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

There’s a beat, a moment suspended in time where it feels like the whole world has narrowed down to just the two of you, the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavy in the air. Then, suddenly, Joe’s expression shifts, a slow, satisfied grin spreading across his face as he leans back, breaking the spell. He claps you on the shoulder, his touch light but lingering.

"Good talk," he says, his tone infuriatingly cheerful as he pushes past you towards the elevator, leaving you standing there, breathless and rattled.

"Have fun with Wes," he throws over his shoulder, and the door slides shut behind him before you can find the words to reply. You’re left staring at the closed elevator doors, your chest heaving and your hands still trembling around the pen, the echoes of Joe’s taunting voice ricocheting in your mind.

And for the first time in days, the silence feels even louder.

The days drag by, and every one of them feels heavier, weighed down by Joe's words. They hang over you, echoing whenever you try to ignore them, seeping into your thoughts when you're with Wes. The way he holds your hand, the way he smiles politely at your jokes, the way he never raises his voice or teases you too hard—it’s all safe. It’s what you thought you wanted. But now, thanks to Joe, it’s all starting to feel empty, like a shell with nothing inside.

As if to make matters worse, Joe's been louder, more present, and more irritating than ever. He’s upped his game, bringing a new girl home almost every night, the kind who giggle just a little too loud in the stairwell, whose heels click sharply against the tile floors, waking you and Ella up in the middle of the night. You hear them laughing through the paper-thin walls, their voices carrying long after you wish they’d shut up. Ella throws a pillow at the wall one night, groaning in frustration, but you just lie there, staring up at the dark ceiling, the annoyance mixing with something else—something you refuse to name.

And then Wes’s birthday sneaks up on you, like a storm you’d been pretending not to see on the horizon. Everyone's talking about it—the party of the semester, hosted at his parents’ mansion on the outskirts of Baton Rouge. You know it’s a big deal. Wes’s parents are the kind who throw events instead of parties, the kind where everyone’s wearing their best, and you’d feel out of place if you weren’t on Wes’s arm. You spend way too long picking out your dress, ignoring Ella’s teasing smile as you change twice and then settle on something classy, something you think Wes’s parents will approve of.

The mansion is even more extravagant than you expected. Tall, stately, and glowing with warm light spilling from every window. A string quartet plays softly near the entrance, and there’s enough champagne to drown in. It’s a perfect picture of Southern elegance, the kind of party where everyone’s on their best behavior and no one dares spill a drink on the white marble floors.

You’re almost able to relax, standing with Wes as he introduces you to old friends and relatives, his arm around your waist like you’re some kind of prize. But then, from across the room, you catch sight of someone familiar stepping through the grand double doors, and the air goes still.

Joe. And he’s not alone.

On his arm is a girl who looks like she’s stepped straight out of a beauty magazine—perfect curls cascading down her back, a dress that hugs her curves in all the right places, and a pageant smile that could light up the whole room. She’s everything you’re not: polished, pristine, and undeniably beautiful. And Joe’s leaning in close to her, whispering something that makes her laugh, the sound light and carefree, echoing above the music.

Your heart sinks. You should have known he’d be here. You should have known he’d show up with someone like her.

The moment he walks in, it’s like the temperature drops. You feel him scan the room, his gaze sliding over the crowd until it lands on you. There’s a flicker of recognition, a half-smile that tugs at his lips, and for a second, you swear he’s going to make a beeline for you, but then he turns to his date, all easy charm and confidence.

You look away quickly, swallowing down the hot, bitter twinge of jealousy that rises in your chest. Beside you, Wes is oblivious, laughing with some cousin or another, completely unaware of the storm that’s building in your mind.

The party moves on, but you can't shake the weight in your chest. Every time you turn around, Joe is there—always in your peripheral, laughing with his date or effortlessly sliding into conversations with people he’s never met, commanding attention without even trying. And it’s driving you mad. You hate that he’s here, hate the way his presence seems to seep into every corner of the room, hate that you can’t stop looking for him, even when you don’t mean to.

Wes’s parents announce dinner, and you find yourself at a long table, perfectly set with silverware that you don’t even know how to use properly. Wes is on your left, chatting away, and you force yourself to smile and nod at the right moments, though your gaze keeps drifting over his shoulder. Joe is at the far end of the table, but his eyes meet yours—bright and full of something that feels like a challenge. He raises his glass in your direction, and you don’t miss the way his date practically glows under his attention, leaning into his side.

You grit your teeth, focusing on Wes, who’s completely unaware of the way your stomach is twisting. He’s sweet, attentive, a perfect gentleman, and you wish you could ignore the itch under your skin, the restlessness that grows with each passing minute. But it’s there, burning hotter every time you catch sight of Joe, laughing too loud or leaning in too close to whisper in his date's ear.

By the time dessert is served, you’re practically vibrating with frustration, and Wes’s voice is starting to blur into the background. He’s telling some long-winded story about his summer at the family lake house, but all you can think about is how easy it would be to just walk over to the other end of the table and—

“Hey, you alright?” Wes’s voice breaks through your thoughts, and you force yourself to focus on him, pasting on a smile that feels hollow.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lie, reaching for your glass of champagne and taking a sip that burns all the way down. He seems satisfied, squeezing your hand gently under the table, but his touch feels distant, almost suffocating.

And when you glance back at Joe, he’s watching you, his smile sharper than you remember. There’s a glint in his eyes that makes your skin prickle, like he’s waiting for something, like he knows exactly what kind of game he’s playing. His date is still chattering away, oblivious to the way his gaze keeps flicking back to you, like a tether he can’t quite cut loose.

You look away, your face heating, and try to drown out the feeling with another sip of champagne. But it's no use. The night has only just begun, and you already know—it’s going to be a long one.

You escape upstairs, the noise of the party fading as you climb the grand, spiraling staircase. It’s quieter up here, with the muted sound of conversation and laughter drifting up from below, and you can finally breathe a little easier. You’re not even sure what you’re doing—just that you need a break from the suffocating conversation, the polished smiles, and the feeling of being watched. Wes is deep in conversation with a teammate, and it was easy enough to slip away unnoticed. You tell yourself you're only going to the bathroom, but you don’t even bother finding one. You just wander down the hall, hoping to collect yourself, to calm the thudding in your chest.

But then, of course, you see him.

Joe, leaning lazily against the wall at the end of the hallway, like he’s been waiting for you. There’s no sign of his date—she’s probably downstairs, lost in the crowd—but Joe’s here, and he looks too damn comfortable, his tie loosened and his shirt sleeves rolled up. He gives you that infuriating half-smirk the second your eyes meet, like he’s been expecting you. Like he knows you’re going to stop.

“Lost?” he drawls, his voice a low, lazy tease, and you freeze, every muscle in your body going tense.

“No,” you snap, hating the way your heart skips when he pushes off the wall, taking a step closer. “Just getting some air.”

“From Wes?” he asks, eyebrows raising, and you can hear the taunt in his tone, the way he draws out the name like it’s a joke. “Or from this whole perfect little party of his?”

“None of your business,” you shoot back, but he’s closer now, and you hate how your breath catches, how the air between you feels thick and electric. He’s looking at you like he’s stripping away all the layers you’ve put up—the polite smiles, the careful charm—and seeing straight through to the part of you that’s restless and hungry for a fight.

“You know, I can’t tell if you’re actually enjoying yourself,” he says, his voice dropping lower, almost intimate. “Or if you’re just playing the role of ‘good girlfriend’ to make everyone happy.”

“Shut up, Joe,” you warn, but your voice is weaker than you want it to be, and he notices. Of course he notices. He takes another step, and suddenly he’s way too close, the heat of him radiating into the space between you, making it harder to breathe.

“Or is it that Wes is just…too boring for you?” he presses, and something snaps. You step forward, shoving him hard enough to make him stumble back a step, anger flaring white-hot in your chest.

“Why do you care?” you demand, your voice rising. “Why do you always have to ruin everything? You can’t stand seeing me happy, can you? You always have to get in the way—”

“Oh, please,” he cuts you off, his voice sharp with irritation. “Don’t act like I’m the one ruining things. You’re the one who can’t stop looking at me. You’re the one who’s pretending this perfect little relationship is enough for you.”

You don’t even think. You just react, stepping closer, your chest heaving with the force of your anger, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “You don’t know anything about me!” you shout, the words tearing out of you before you can stop them. “You don’t know what I want or what I need, so stop pretending like you have me all figured out!”

He’s laughing now, a low, mocking sound that sets your teeth on edge, and you want to hit him, to scream, to do something to wipe that infuriating smirk off his face. But then he’s had enough. Suddenly, he moves, quick as a flash, and before you can even blink, he’s grabbing you by the waist and hoisting you up as if you weigh nothing, throwing you over his shoulder in one swift, effortless motion.

“Put me down!” you shout, struggling against him, but he just tightens his grip, carrying you down the hall like you’re some kind of rag doll. Your fists beat uselessly against his back, and you’re half-cursing, half-panicking as he ignores you, kicking open the nearest door and stepping inside.

The door slams shut behind him, and you barely register the darkened room—a guest bedroom, dimly lit by the moonlight streaming through the curtains—before he’s setting you down, pressing you up against the wall with a force that steals the breath from your lungs. You’re too stunned to move, your back hitting the cold plaster, and suddenly his body is pinning you there, his hands on either side of your face, caging you in.

“Finally shut you up,” he mutters, his voice rough, and you feel a shiver run down your spine at the way his breath brushes your cheek, hot and fast. His eyes are dark, burning with something you’ve never seen before, and the space between you feels like it’s crackling, alive with an energy that makes your skin prickle and your pulse race.

“Why do you have to be such a—” you start, but he cuts you off, leaning in closer, so close that you can feel the warmth of his chest pressing against yours. His mouth is inches from yours, his lips twisting into a wicked smile.

“Go on,” he taunts, his voice low and dangerous. “Say it. Tell me what you really think.”

You’re breathing hard, your anger warring with something hotter, something that’s been building between you for months, and you can’t stop yourself. “You’re an asshole,” you spit, your hands coming up to shove at his chest, but he doesn’t move. He just leans in, his nose brushing against yours, the air between you thick and suffocating.

“And you,” he says softly, his voice almost gentle, “are a liar.”

You don’t know who moves first—whether it’s him closing the distance or you surging up to meet him—but suddenly his mouth is on yours, hard and desperate, and you’re kissing him back like it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted. The kiss is furious, full of all the things you can’t say, all the frustration and the longing and the anger that’s been building up for so long it feels like it’s going to explode. His hands are in your hair, his grip almost painful, and you’re clinging to him, pulling him closer, gasping into his mouth as he presses you harder against the wall.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he whispers against your lips, his breath ragged, and you shake your head, too far gone to think, to lie, to do anything but pull him closer, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Shut up,” you breathe, and he laughs, the sound vibrating against your skin, before he kisses you again, deeper this time, slower, like he’s savoring the taste of your surrender. The room feels too small, the air too thick, and you know you should stop, you know this is wrong, but you can’t, not when his hands are sliding down your sides, not when his body is pressing into yours, not when he’s kissing you like he’s been waiting for this just as long as you have.

And then, suddenly, it’s too much. You push him away, your breath coming in short, harsh gasps, and he lets you go, stepping back with a grin that’s all arrogance and triumph. Your lips feel swollen, your face flushed, and you hate that you can’t stop looking at him, that you want more even though you know you shouldn’t.

“See?” he says softly, his voice maddeningly smug. “I do know you.”

The words barely have time to leave his mouth before you’re on him again, shoving him away from you, your hands hitting his chest with more force than you intend. He stumbles back a step, a flash of surprise crossing his face before his eyes harden, that infuriating grin vanishing. You’re both breathing hard, the air between you heavy with everything unspoken, with all the sharp words that have been building up since the day you met.

“You don’t know anything!” you snap, your voice cracking, and he just laughs, a short, humorless sound that makes your blood boil.

“You keep saying that,” he shoots back, his voice low and dangerous, “but here you are. Every time, it’s the same thing. You want me to stop? Then say it. Tell me to leave.”

You open your mouth to say exactly that, to tell him to go to hell and stay out of your life, but the words won’t come. They catch in your throat, tangled up with the truth you can’t face, and he sees it. He always sees it. His gaze softens, something like understanding flickering in those dark eyes, and it pisses you off more than anything.

“See?” he murmurs, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. “You can’t. Because you don’t want me to.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, but it’s too late—he’s already crowding into your space, his hand curling around the back of your neck, tilting your face up to his. You hate him for the way he’s looking at you, like he’s unraveling you with a single glance, like he knows exactly how to break you down, and before you can stop yourself, you’re surging up, your hands fisting in his shirt as you kiss him again, harder this time, angrier.

His arms come around you instantly, pulling you closer, and you hate that it feels good, that it feels right, even as you’re pushing against him, your nails digging into his shoulders. It’s a mess of teeth and tongues, the kiss desperate and furious, and you’re drowning in it, in the heat of him, in the way his fingers are tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp.

Then the door swings open, and you both jerk apart, your breaths coming in ragged, uneven pants. You barely have time to process what’s happening before you see Ja’Marr standing there, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. He looks at you, then at Joe, and lets out a long, frustrated sigh.

“Really, Joe?” he says, his voice laced with disappointment. “In the middle of Wes’s birthday party? Do you have a death wish or something?”

“Calm down,” Joe says coolly, like he’s not the least bit bothered, his gaze still fixed on you, as if daring you to run. “We were just talking.”

“Yeah,” Ja’Marr scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Talking, right. Because making out with your teammate’s girl is totally a normal conversation.”

You feel your cheeks burn, and you step back, smoothing down your clothes like you can erase what just happened. “This—this was nothing,” you stammer, trying to ignore the way Joe’s lips curl into a smirk at your flustered tone. “We’re done here.”

Joe just gives you a lazy, almost triumphant smile, like he’s won some unspoken battle, and turns to Ja’Marr with a shrug. “She’s got a mind of her own, you know,” he says, and you want to punch him, to scream, but Ja’Marr just shakes his head, looking equal parts disappointed and resigned.

“Whatever,” Ja’Marr mutters, grabbing Joe’s arm and pulling him out into the hallway. “You need to get your act together. Wes is going to notice if you keep pulling this crap.”

Joe’s eyes flick to you one last time, something unreadable in his expression, before he lets Ja’Marr drag him away. The door clicks shut behind them, and you’re left alone in the darkened room, your heart racing and your thoughts spinning out of control. You know you should follow them, that you should go back downstairs and pretend like nothing happened, but your knees feel weak, and it takes you a long moment to gather yourself, to steady your breathing.

By the time you make your way back down to the party, your face feels numb, and you’ve forced on the brightest smile you can muster. Joe is already back in the thick of things, his arm slung casually around his date’s waist, laughing like he doesn’t have a care in the world. You want to be angry, to hate him for making it look so easy, but then Wes catches sight of you, his eyes lighting up as he excuses himself from his conversation.

“Hey, there you are!” he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pressing a quick kiss to your temple. You try to smile, but it feels fake, like your skin doesn’t fit right anymore. “Where’d you disappear to?”

“Just needed a minute,” you say, your voice sounding hollow even to your own ears. You’re about to say something else, anything to fill the awkward silence, when you catch movement out of the corner of your eye.

Joe’s watching you, his gaze flicking from your face to your mouth, and that’s when you realize—his lips are still stained with the faintest trace of your lipstick, a dark, telltale smear at the corner of his mouth.

Wes follows your gaze, and his smile falters, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Joe, what’s on your—”

But Joe cuts in smoothly, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, his grin widening as if he finds the whole thing hilarious. “Guess I got a little carried away,” he says, his voice dripping with mock innocence, and you feel the ground sway beneath you as Wes’s arm tightens around your shoulders, his confusion shifting to suspicion.

“What’s he talking about?” Wes asks, his eyes narrowing, and you open your mouth to respond, to deny, to do something—but nothing comes out. Your voice has abandoned you, and all you can do is stand there, frozen, as Joe’s smirk deepens and he lifts his drink in a mocking toast, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Good party,” Joe says casually, his tone almost friendly. “Really enjoyed myself.”

You don’t remember what happens next—just the blur of faces, the noise of the party swelling around you, and the hollow ache settling deep in your chest as Joe turns away, laughing with someone else, like he hasn’t just blown everything to pieces.

Wes's smile is strained when he pulls you aside, away from the music and the crowd. There’s a tightness around his eyes you haven’t seen before, something almost defeated, and for the first time that night, you feel a genuine pang of guilt. This is the part you were dreading—the confrontation, the disappointment in his eyes. But instead of yelling, instead of demanding an explanation, he just looks... tired.

“Hey,” he starts softly, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I don’t wanna make a scene, okay? But I think... I think maybe you should go.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words die in your throat. There’s no anger in his voice, just resignation, like he already knows the answer before you can even try to lie. You can’t tell if that makes it better or worse.

“Wes, I—” you begin, but he holds up a hand, a weak, defeated smile pulling at his lips.

“It’s okay,” he interrupts, and there’s something achingly kind in his voice, which somehow makes it hurt more. “I think we both know this... isn’t what you want. Not really.”

You feel relief flood your chest so suddenly that it’s almost nauseating, and that’s how you know he’s right. Because instead of being devastated, instead of scrambling to explain yourself, you just feel lighter. Like a weight you didn’t realize you were carrying has finally been lifted.

You reach out to touch his arm, but he steps back, shaking his head. “Don’t,” he says quietly, and you let your hand drop, nodding numbly. There’s nothing left to say. You don’t try to apologize; you don’t try to make excuses. You just turn and leave, the buzz of the party fading behind you as you slip out the front door, the cold night air hitting you like a slap.

The walk back to the apartment feels like a blur, your mind whirling with everything that just happened, everything you don’t want to think about. You don’t know if it’s the relief of being free from something you never truly wanted, or the shame of how it all went down, but by the time you reach your building, your hands are trembling and your breath is hitching.

You let yourself into the apartment, your eyes already burning with unshed tears, and you find Ella curled up on the couch, half-asleep in front of the TV. The moment she sees your face, though, she sits up, worry creasing her brow.

“Whoa, what happened?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep, but you don’t even know where to begin.

“Everything,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, and then it all spills out. You tell her everything—about Joe, about the kiss, about Wes’s sad, tired smile and the way he let you go without a fight. You’re talking so fast you’re stumbling over your words, your emotions a chaotic tangle of regret and relief and frustration, and by the time you’re finished, you feel completely wrung out.

Ella listens without interrupting, her expression shifting from shock to disbelief to sympathy as you pour your heart out. When you finally go quiet, she just sighs and pulls you into a hug, squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, and you don’t realize how much you needed to hear that until the tears start falling. She doesn’t tell you that you screwed up, she doesn’t lecture you about Joe, she just holds you while you cry, rubbing soothing circles on your back until the tears run dry.

By the time you pull away, your throat is raw, and you’re exhausted. Ella doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look that says she understands, that she’s on your side no matter what, and that’s enough. It’s more than enough.

But then, just as you’re wiping your eyes and trying to compose yourself, you hear it—a loud burst of laughter echoing through the thin wall you share with Joe’s apartment. It’s followed by the high-pitched giggle of a girl, and your stomach twists. Of course. Of course.

Ella catches the look on your face and scowls. “He’s such an ass,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “You want me to go bang on the wall and tell them to shut up?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “It’s... it’s fine. Let’s just go to bed.”

You don’t even believe yourself, but you can’t deal with Joe right now, not after everything. So you go to your room, shut the door, and try to block out the noise. You tell yourself you don’t care. You tell yourself it’s over. But sleep doesn’t come easily, and all you can hear is Joe’s voice in your head, his mocking words echoing long after the sounds from next door have finally gone quiet.

Over the next few days, you try to fall back into a routine, but everything feels off-kilter. Wes doesn’t text you, and you don’t reach out, letting the silence stretch between you until it feels like a mutual understanding—something that was always going to happen. Ella hovers, supportive but careful not to push, and you appreciate that. You just need space, time to sort through everything.

Joe, however, is a different story.

You barely see him around the complex, but when you do, it’s impossible to ignore him. He’s still bringing home girls—more than ever, it seems—and they’re always loud, obnoxiously so, like he’s doing it on purpose, like he’s rubbing it in your face. And maybe he is. Maybe this is his way of proving a point, of showing you that he doesn’t care, that he never cared, and the worst part is... you don’t know if you care either. Or maybe you care too much.

One night, after a particularly sleepless stretch of listening to laughter and footsteps pounding through the walls, Ella finds you staring blankly at the ceiling, dark circles smudged beneath your eyes.

“He’s doing this on purpose, you know,” she says bluntly, her tone halfway between irritation and pity. “He’s trying to get to you.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, rolling over to face the wall. “It’s working.”

Wes’s birthday party fades into memory, and a few weeks pass. It’s easier to pretend you don’t care when you don’t have to face the fallout. You focus on classes, avoid places where you might run into Joe, and try to ignore the way your heart sinks every time you hear his voice next door.

Then, one Friday night, there’s a knock on your door. You’re half expecting Ella’s latest Tinder date or a package, but instead, you find Joe leaning against the doorframe, his usual cocky grin nowhere in sight. There’s something almost hesitant about the way he looks at you, and for a second, you don’t know what to say.

“Hey,” he says, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, and it catches you off guard.

“What do you want?” you ask, and you hate how defensive you sound, how you can’t help but put a wall between you.

Joe’s eyes flicker, and he shoves his hands in his pockets, glancing down the hallway before he looks back at you. “Can we talk?” he asks, and you can’t tell if he’s asking because he wants to or because he thinks he has to. “Please?”

You hesitate, every part of you screaming to slam the door in his face, to tell him to go to hell. “Talk?” you echo, as though the very idea is laughable. “What’s there to talk about, Joe?”

He shifts uncomfortably, his hands still deep in his pockets. “I just—” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. For once, he doesn’t look cocky or composed. He looks tired. “I screwed up, okay? I know that. And I just… I want to make things right.”

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “Now you care about making things right? Weeks later? Where was this when you were busy humiliating me in front of everyone at Wes’s party?”

Joe flinches, and the sight of it sends a small, mean thrill through you. You want him to feel every ounce of the anger and hurt that’s been simmering inside you since that night.

“I was drunk,” he mutters, like it’s an excuse. “You know I didn’t mean half the shit I said.”

“Oh, so you only mean half of it?” Your voice rises despite yourself, and you take a step closer. “Which half, Joe? The part where you said Wes was too good for me? Or the part where you implied I’m some kind of charity case?”

Joe groans, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “That’s not what I meant! You’re twisting it—”

“I’m twisting it?” Your laugh is sharp, humorless. “No, Joe. I’m finally calling you out on your crap. You think you can just waltz in here, throw out a half-assed apology, and I’m supposed to forget how you treated me? Newsflash: I’m done being your punching bag.”

“Punching bag?” His voice spikes, and you can see his patience starting to fray. “Are you kidding me? You think I don’t care about you? That I’d say that stuff to hurt you on purpose?”

“Then why did you say it?” you snap, stepping closer until you’re almost toe to toe. “Why, Joe? If you care so much, why do you always find a way to make me feel like I’m not enough?”

He stares at you, his jaw tightening, his chest rising and falling as he tries to keep his temper in check. But then he snaps, his voice loud enough to make you flinch. “Because you drive me crazy, alright? You’re in my head all the damn time, and it’s like I can’t think straight when I’m around you!”

You’re stunned into silence, your heart pounding in your chest. The air between you crackles with something electric, something you can’t name but can feel in every nerve of your body.

Joe’s eyes are blazing, his chest heaving as he takes a step closer. “You think I wanted this? That I wanted to feel like this about you? I didn’t, okay? But I do. And it scares the hell out of me.”

You swallow hard, your throat dry. “Joe…”

He shakes his head, his voice softening just a fraction. “I’m sorry, alright? For all of it. I just—I didn’t know how to deal with this, with you.”

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, the space between you is gone. Joe’s hands are on your arms, his grip firm but not rough, and you’re looking up at him, your breath catching in your throat.

Joe doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let the anger rise again. He stays close, his hands still resting on your arms, his grip grounding and firm. His gaze softens, something vulnerable breaking through the tension in his voice.

“You think I like being the guy who gets under your skin?” he asks, his voice low, but there’s no bite to it now. Only honesty. “You think I enjoy pissing you off just for fun?”

You stare at him, caught off guard by the sudden shift, the rawness in his tone. “Don’t you?”

Joe lets out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “No. That’s just the only way you ever seem to notice me.” His words hit like a punch to the gut, and your breath hitches. “If I’m not in your face, annoying the hell out of you, it’s like I don’t even exist to you.”

You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. He’s too quick, too honest, and you don’t have a defense ready for the truth.

“That’s why I invite them over,” he continues, and there’s no cockiness in the admission. Just exhaustion. “Those girls, the loud music, the stupid games—it’s not because I want them. It’s because I’m trying to get you to see me. To pay attention. Even if it’s just so you can yell at me.”

Your stomach twists, a lump forming in your throat. You want to stay mad, to cling to your anger like a shield, but it’s slipping through your fingers. Joe doesn’t stop; he steps closer, so close now that you can feel the heat radiating off him.

“I don’t know how else to get through to you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I’m tired, okay? I’m tired of pretending like I don’t care when I do. So much more than I should.”

Your breath catches, and your heart pounds in your chest like a drum. You don’t know what to say, what to feel. Joe watches you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips, his hesitation palpable. And then, before you can process what’s happening, his lips are on yours.

It’s not rough or demanding like you might have expected. It’s soft, tentative, as if he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His hands slide from your arms to your waist, anchoring you gently, and you can feel the tension in his body as he holds back.

For a moment, you freeze, torn between the urge to push him away and the overwhelming need to lean into him. But then your walls crack, and you kiss him back, your hands clutching at the front of his shirt as if it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Joe pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours. His breathing is unsteady, his expression a mix of relief and something deeper. Without a word, he steps forward, his hands tightening around your waist as he gently pushes you through the door.

You don’t resist. You can’t.

He closes the door behind him with a quiet click, then sweeps you off your feet in one swift, effortless motion. You let out a small gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he carries you down the hall toward your bedroom.

“Joe…” you begin, but he silences you with a look—a look so tender, so unlike the Joe you thought you knew, that your words die on your lips.

By the time he lays you down on the bed, the anger and frustration from moments ago have evaporated, replaced by something else entirely. Something that hums between you like a live wire.

He hovers over you, his weight supported by his arms on either side of your head. His eyes search yours, silently asking for permission, for understanding. And when you nod, so small and uncertain, he dips his head to kiss you again, this time deeper, more sure of himself.

Your hands find their way to his hair, tugging gently as he trails his lips down your jaw, your neck, every touch making your pulse race. He’s careful, almost reverent, as if afraid to break the fragile moment you’re sharing.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—Joe Burrow isn’t the selfish, cocky guy you thought he was. Maybe, behind all the bravado, he’s just a boy who wanted you to see him. And now, you finally do.

Joe’s lips trail along the curve of your neck, leaving a warm, electric path in their wake. He takes his time, his breath hot against your skin, and every deliberate touch makes your pulse thunder louder in your ears.

His hands glide over your waist, fingers pressing lightly, almost teasing as they trace the hem of your shirt. You feel his smile against your neck when you squirm slightly beneath him, a soft laugh rumbling in his chest.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. “No more yelling? No smart remarks?”

You swallow hard, trying to find some semblance of control, but the way his hands move, the way his lips hover so close yet don’t quite touch, leaves you breathless. “Maybe I just don’t have anything to say to you right now,” you shoot back, though your voice wavers.

Joe chuckles, lifting his head to look at you, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, I don’t believe that for a second,” he says, his thumb brushing over the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up. “You’ve always got something to say to me. Even if it’s just to tell me to fuck off.”

You glare at him, but it’s half-hearted, your resolve crumbling as he dips his head again, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I like it when you get all fired up,” he whispers, his tone teasing. “But I think I like this quiet side of you even more.”

You huff, trying to ignore the way your body betrays you, leaning into him despite yourself. “You’re so full of yourself.”

Joe smirks, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His hand slides under your shirt, fingers grazing your skin, and you shiver at the contact. “Maybe,” he admits, his tone smug, “but you’re still here, aren’t you?”

You want to retort, to wipe that cocky grin off his face, but before you can, he shifts his weight, his lips capturing yours again. This time, the kiss is slower, deeper, and you feel the teasing edge in his movements as he kisses you until you forget whatever comeback you had planned.

His fingers inch higher, tracing light patterns on your stomach, deliberately avoiding the places where you want him most. It’s infuriating, how easily he has you unraveling, and when he pulls back just enough to smirk down at you, you let out an exasperated groan.

“You’re infuriating,” you mutter, tugging at his shirt in frustration.

Joe leans down, his nose brushing against yours, his lips curling into a playful grin. “But you’re not telling me to stop.”

He shifts again, his hands sliding up to frame your face as he kisses you once more. His lips are soft but insistent, drawing you in until all you can focus on is him—his weight pressing you into the mattress, the warmth of his skin, the way his touch sets every nerve in your body alight.

“Say the word,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice soft but laced with a challenge. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

You stare up at him, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. But the word never comes. Instead, you pull him down again, your fingers threading through his hair as you kiss him with all the pent-up frustration, anger, and longing that’s been building between you for weeks.

Joe groans softly, his hands sliding down your sides, his teasing touch giving way to something more intentional. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs against your lips, his tone smug but laced with something warmer, something that makes your stomach flip.

Joe's lips find yours again, the kiss deepening as his teasing facade begins to slip. His hands roam your body with more purpose now, fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s memorizing every curve. He nips lightly at your bottom lip, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Still hate me?” he whispers, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. He moves back slowly, before pulling off your leggings, his eyes never leaving yours.

You bite back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, you pull him closer, your nails grazing the back of his neck, and the quiet groan he lets out is enough to make your pulse race.

The leggings are long forgotten now, leaving you exposed in your underwear. Joe chuckles softly, his breath fanning against your lips as he trails kisses along your jaw, then lower, his teeth scraping lightly against the sensitive skin of your neck. His tongue follows, soothing the faint sting, and the combination has your hands fisting in his shirt.

“You’re not as tough as you act, you know,” he teases, his voice dripping with amusement. His hands slide beneath your shirt, his palms warm against your bare skin as he pushes the fabric up slowly. “I think you like this way more than you’re letting on.”

“You talk too much,” you manage to gasp, but your retort loses its bite when his thumb grazes just beneath your ribs, sending a rush of heat through your body.

Joe pulls back just enough to tug your shirt over your head, tossing it carelessly to the side. He takes a moment to look at you, his blue eyes dark and filled with something you can’t quite name, and for a second, the teasing smirk is gone, replaced by something softer.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard.

Your breath hitches, and you feel your cheeks flush under his gaze. Before you can overthink it, his lips are on you again, softer this time but no less insistent. His hands trace slow, deliberate patterns along your sides, his thumbs brushing just beneath the band of your bra, and you arch into his touch without meaning to.

Joe grins against your skin, clearly pleased with your reaction. “That’s more like it,” he murmurs, his lips trailing lower as he presses kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, and then to the edge of the fabric.

He pauses, glancing up at you as his fingers toy with the clasp, his expression both playful and questioning. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says again, his tone softer now, without the usual cockiness.

But stopping is the furthest thing from your mind. Instead, you pull him down to you, your lips crashing into his with a fervor that answers his unspoken question.

Joe groans against your mouth, his hands moving to unclasp your bra with surprising ease, and you feel the shift in his demeanor as his teasing gives way to something more raw, more urgent. His lips trail lower, leaving a path of heat in their wake, and every deliberate touch has your body humming with anticipation.

“Still hate me?” he asks again, his voice rough and teasing, but there’s a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes as he looks up at you.

You reach for him, your fingers threading through his hair as you pull him closer. “Shut up, Joe,” you whisper, your voice breathless but firm, and for once, he listens.

Joe's smirk returns, but it’s softer now, laced with something warmer than his usual arrogance. He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low and full of disbelief, as if he can’t quite believe where the night has led. But he doesn’t argue. Instead, he lets his lips and hands do the talking, his touch reverent but still filled with that undeniable fire that seems to burn between you.

He slowly pulls away, looking up at you with a small smirk before he gets up. Before you could start questioning him, he takes off his shirt and sweats swiftly, your eyes widening at his body.

Joe’s smirk deepens as he catches the way your eyes widen, lingering on his toned frame. His confidence seems to grow with every second you stay silent, your gaze betraying the sharp tongue you usually use to deflect him. He steps closer, his movements slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to drink him in.

“You’re staring,” he teases, his voice low and teasing, though his eyes burn with something more primal. “I knew you liked looking at me, but this is a new level.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat rushing to your cheeks gives you away. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, trying to sound dismissive, but your voice wavers slightly, betraying the effect he has on you.

Joe chuckles, leaning down to brace his hands on either side of you, his face inches from yours. “Too late for that,” he says, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “You’ve already done it for me.”

Before you can fire back, he trails his hand down your side, fingers skimming over your waist and hip with maddening slowness. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, then another to the swell of your chest, each one softer than the last, as if he’s savoring the way you shiver beneath his touch.

You can feel his hardened bulge against your stomach, and you're just about done with his teasing. You need him, now. “Joe,” you whined as he pulls back with a smirk.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he says, his voice low and raw. “But I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Before you can reply, his lips are on yours again, his kiss stealing whatever snarky comeback you might have had. His hands move with purpose, sliding over every inch of bare skin, and the slow, deliberate way he touches you has your body aching for more.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against your lips, the words a quiet challenge. But you don’t. You can’t.

Instead, you pull him closer, your fingers tangling in his hair as you kiss him with all the frustration and longing you’ve been holding back for weeks. Joe groans, the sound vibrating against your lips as his teasing slips away entirely, replaced by something deeper, more desperate.

“God, you’re impossible,” he mutters, his voice laced with both exasperation and awe. But his actions betray the truth—he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He finally pulls away, breathless as he gazes down at you, his eyes filled with adoration and lust. “I'm gonna fuck you, alright?” he mutters before leaning closer. “And for all those times you pissed me off, and annoyed me, I'll forget about all of that if I can just... hear you.”

You're caught off by the request and you almost think he's joking, but you're mistaken. He's dead serious. All you could was nod slowly in response and Joe leans away, pleased.

Joe’s control starts to slip, and it’s evident in the way his kisses grow hungrier, more urgent. His hands tremble slightly as they trail over your body, mapping out every curve like he’s afraid this moment will disappear. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide and his breathing uneven.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he whispers, his voice raw, the cocky edge completely gone. “You’ve been driving me insane for months.”

Then finally, he slowly peels off his briefs, and his large, hardened cock falls out.

Joe lets out a small groan as his head falls back, relief in his expression. His pink tip is already leaking with pre-cum. You practically faint at the sight, you couldn't help but let out a whimper. His hands find his cock before he slowly begins to pump it, his eyes finding yours again.

He spreads your legs open before leaning in, his lips finding yours as his hands lead his cock to your cunt. His forehead falls against yours as he slowly begins to insert himself, a heavenly groan leaving his lips at the feeling of your warm, tight walls.

You felt like you were being split in half, in the best way possible. You can't even describe how good his cock felt, he wasn't even a quarter inside of you, but you still felt like you were filled to the brim.

“O-oh, fuck, Joey,” you moaned as your swollen lips form an O, your head falling back onto the plush pillows. Now you understood why the girls in his apartment were so loud—they definitely weren't exaggerating.

His hands grip your hips firmly, pulling you closer as if he wasn't inside of you already. His lips crash against yours again, the kiss filled with desperation, like he’s trying to pour every suppressed emotion into it. It’s intoxicating, the way his need for you feels almost overwhelming, and you find yourself clutching at his shoulders, wanting to be as close as possible.

He bottoms you out slowly, and he tries to give you a second to adjust—he really, really tried. He just couldn't. He slowly started thrusting in and out of you, and before you could even process the change in speed, he was rocking his hips against yours like the world depended on it.

The bed was creaking loudly underneath the two of you, the only sounds that could be heard was your loud moans, his grunts of pleasure, and the sound of skin against skin.

His cock was dizzying, to say the least. It hit all the spots you swore nobody had ever reached, making you question all your previous partners. You couldn't even form a singular thought about anything else except for Joe's huge cock and the way he was making you feel.

“Joe!” You manage to gasp as he begins to pound into you impossibly harder, but he cuts you off with another kiss, groaning softly against your lips.

“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice husky and edged with desperation. He leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes you gasp as his hands spread your legs wider, pinning you to the mattress.

Before you can respond, his lips are on yours again, his kisses growing more frantic, more needy. His hands are everywhere, exploring, worshipping, as if he’s afraid this moment might slip away. The way he touches you, the way he whispers your name like a prayer, leaves you utterly undone.

His words make your head spin, and you can’t find a response. You're too caught up in the way he was pounding into you, like a fucking animal.

But Joe doesn’t seem to care; he’s too caught up in you, his hips moving faster and faster until you're practically crying out loud. His hands roam your body as if he’s memorizing every curve, every inch of skin. There’s no pretense now, no games—just raw, unfiltered desire.

You begin to feel the knot in your stomach begin to form, tight and persistent. You begin to grip his shoulders even tighter, your head falling back into the pillow as you moaned.

“O-oh, fuck! I'm gonna cum, please.” You began rambling as your legs wrapped around his waist, his hips not faltering one bit—if anything, he began going faster.

“Yeah? Gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” He grunted out, his own impending orgasm. “Cum for me, baby.”

That was all you needed. The knot in your stomach snapped violently, your whole body spasming as you cried out in utter pleasure. The orgasm washed over you perfectly as Joe's hips began to falter, and a few moments later, his cum spilled into you.

You both lie there, tangled in the sheets, your breathing ragged and your hearts racing as the room settles into a heavy, satisfied silence. Joe’s arm is draped lazily across your stomach, his fingers tracing light, absentminded patterns on your skin. The intimacy feels different now—softer, quieter, as if the storm that had built between you for so long had finally passed.

He exhales deeply, his chest still rising and falling against your side. “Well,” he says, his voice low and hoarse, “that was... long overdue.”

You glance over at him, your lips twitching into a faint smile despite yourself. “You think?” you reply dryly, the lingering warmth of the moment making it hard to muster the sharp edge your tone usually carries with him.

Joe turns his head to look at you, his hair mussed and sticking out in every direction, his cheeks still flushed. There’s that cocky grin of his, but it’s softer now, tinged with something you don’t think you’ve seen before—contentment, maybe. “Yeah,” he says, chuckling lightly. “So overdue I’m almost mad at us for waiting this long.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. His grin widens as he props himself up on one elbow, leaning over you. His gaze flicks across your face, and he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from your cheek. “But hey,” he says, his voice taking on a playful tone, “now that I’ve finally got you right where I want you, I think it’s time to make this official.”

Your brow furrows slightly as you tilt your head at him. “Official?”

Joe nods solemnly, though the sparkle in his eyes gives him away. “Yup. A real date. No fighting, no yelling, no storming off. Just you, me, and a public setting where we try very hard not to tear each other’s clothes off.”

You snort, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Oh, is that so?”

“That’s so,” he replies with a grin, catching your hand and intertwining his fingers with yours. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, his gaze softening. “Come on, let me take you out. I’ll even behave. Swear.”

You arch a skeptical brow, though the warmth in your chest betrays you. “Behave? You? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Joe leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. “Guess you’ll just have to say yes and find out,” he murmurs, his voice teasing but undeniably sincere.

You roll your eyes again, but there’s no hiding the small smile that tugs at your lips. “Fine,” you say, trying to sound reluctant but failing miserably. “One date. But if you embarrass me, it’s the last one.”

Joe’s grin is blinding as he flops back down beside you, pulling you against his chest. “Deal,” he says, his voice full of triumph. “You won’t regret it. Best date of your life, guaranteed.”

You shake your head, laughing softly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he counters, his tone smug as his hand tightens around yours.

Maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

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[sturnskiss]

juno ! ᥫ᭡

pairing: rafe cameron x fem! reader

word count: 980

summary: boat days with rafey make you so fucking horny<333 based on the song ‘juno’ by sabrina carpenter

warnings: no actual smut, use of y/n, mentions of pregnancy, alcohol, probably more i dont fucking know

authors note: IM BAAAACK! bringing back the short n’ sweet inspired rafe fics

boat days with rafe were your favorite days. you didn’t have to be sexual with rafe to have fun together, and you guys had your own way of showing appreciation— which, of course, included sex some days, but you also just got each other.

your love for each other was showcased best on the druthers on hot and sticky summer afternoons. you’d be tanning and feel a lack of warmth for a second, opening your eyes to see rafe towering over you, blocking the sun. a fruity seltzer in his hand, he’d hand it to you and you’d continue tanning. you didn’t ever have to tell him what you were thinking, he just gets it.

or he’d let you apply sunscreen on him— this was a rarity. he claimed he didn’t care if he got burnt or not, and you’d always reply with something along the lines of ‘you will care when you get skin cancer in 20 years!’ so you’d stand on your tippy toes, rubbing the white substance on his face, chest, back, arms, and legs until you saw fit. this was also a perfect excuse to feel him up. you hated his father, ward, for giving him life-long daddy issues but this was one of the only times you’d thank him. God bless his dad’s genetics, because rafe cameron is one sight to see and feel under the north carolina heat. beads of sweat dotting his face and chest, small freckles appearing on his nose and how gorgeous he looked driving the boat.

today was one of those days; you in a tiny pink bikini and rafe looking particularly fuckable edible hot pretty. you watched as he steered the boat towards wherever the hell he was taking you, his grip on the steering wheel showing off his toned, muscular arms. you just about melted in your sun chair rafe layed out for you.

it was days like this where you seemed to be so in love you’d do just about anything for him. rafe was too busy steering the boat, leaving you alone in your thoughts as you soaked up the vitamin d. you often thought about your future with rafe, and rafe doesn’t talk about the future rarely ever, but you knew he’d want your touch for life. he hasn’t and probably won’t ever come out and directly say he wants to spend forever with you, but his words always allude to it.

you never take the things he says during sex seriously; he’s always grunting about putting a baby in you or telling you to never ever leave him— you wouldn’t dare— but you wonder if he really truly means it. however, this doesn’t stop you from hinting at the fact you would like this all to become a reality. he’d be picking you up to go to dinner and you’d do a little twirl, showing off your dress. he’d tell you you look great, just like always, and you’d be like ‘well, there’s actually one thing missing…’ rafe would grumble something like ‘fuck are you talkin’ bout, kid? you’re fully dressed.’ and you’d stick your left hand out to him, showing him your naked ring finger. ‘missing a rock right there.’ and he’d roll his eyes and tell you to get in the damn truck.

you hopped off the tanning chair and found your way to a mini fridge that’s always stocked with various drinks. you opted for a twisted tea and you grabbed rafe a beer. you giddily walked to find rafe who was standing by the steering wheel, one hand on it and the other glancing down at his phone.

“here ya go,” you smiled and handed him the glass bottle.

“thanks, baby.” he said while placing a kiss to your temple, turning his phone off.

you looked at his hands on the steering wheel, noticing the lack of a wedding ring on his hand. you frown, “looks so boring right here, right?” you look up at him, your finger pointing to his ring finger.

“can you just wait?” he scolded.

“i just think this day would be even more perfect with a mini us running around!” you declared, looking around the boat imagining a tiny rafe or a tiny you waddling all over.

he rolled his eyes and continued steering the boat.

“like, one of me is cute but two though?”

rafe laughed, “are you ovulating or something? holy shit,”

you smiled and planted a kiss on his cheek, “can’t help it.”

“jus’… gimme time, baby.” he muttered before taking a sip of his beer.

so maybe having a baby at 19 wasn’t the best idea. but there were far worse things you could be doing with your life! rafe has enough money to support you and the baby until the end of time, including your retail therapy and regular therapy, so what is so wrong with that?

“give me one good reason why we can’t have a baby right now.” you said, crossing your arms which only made rafe take this conversation less serious because his eyes were immediately drawn to your tits.

rafe smirked, “shit, i dunno. i will say, your tits would be massive with a little baby in you.”

you gasped, “so you do wanna have a baby!”

“never said that.” he sniffed.

rolling your eyes you said, “whatever. god forbid i want a future with you!” you stormed off leaving rafe behind you.

of course, rafe didn’t want to hurt your feelings so he apologized very thoroughly later. he made sure to tell you that he did want a future with you, but he wants you to enjoy your young adulthood before potentially wrecking your life and freedom by bringing a baby into the world. in response to this, you stuck your tongue out at him.

“see, who needs a fucking baby when we got you around?” he said teasingly.

TAGLIST (reply to my tag list post to be added)

@xcinnamonmalfoyx @neediestpuppy @ethanthequeefqueen @maybankslover @pankowblues @drewsphswife @wearemadeofstardust0

[mintmatcha]

Hi, you can ignore if you like. But there is absolutely a point where there’s a big fight, probably promoted by Monoma and his mind games, their teenage kid is like “fuck this I want to live with dad!” And Shinso is the one trying to keep it together, but Reader is the one who says “fine, call him, see if he’ll come get you this time”. The kid is all smug when Monoma does pickup the phone and says he’ll come get him.

Teenage kid thinks he’s won this argument, honestly. He’s at his dad’s place, little rules, no annoying step-dad, it’s great. It’s all fun and games at first, he stays up as late as he wants, his dad lets him order whatever he wants, he doesn’t have to do chores or his homework. But Monoma doesn’t know his schedule at all, doesn’t know what medicines he needs, doesn’t understand that he has extracurriculars he needs help with, doesn’t sit with him and rub his back when he gets freaked out by the battles in downtown, doesn’t make embarrassing songs that make him laugh, no Shinso who has a dry sense of humor that’s just a little too dark that makes the kid spit soda out of his nose.

The last straw is when Monoma swear that they’ll have a boys night, just them. They’ll eat dinner together, watch some movies, play video games together on the expensive game system his dad got him. But Monoma comes home late, some pretty young thing clinging to his arm and giggling. His kid is sitting at the kitchen table, trying to figure out what the fuck an imaginary number is. And he sees Monoma kinda roll his eyes and then usher the woman towards the back of the house before coming over and sitting on the edge of the table, all smiles and laughter.

And Monoma doesn’t really have apologies, just excuses. Swearing that he forgot that it was Friday, that he got busy, that his kid was too Grown Up to really need him around, and when are you going back to your mother’s house anyway?

And the kid realizes at that moment between all the nonchalance and excess promises to make it up to him, that his dad is kind of an asshole.

he has an allergic reaction for the first time in years and Monoma's only epipen is expired by years. he ends up fine, with just a quick hospital visit, but the experience is scary and all he wants is his back rubbed-

he ends up calling you and you're in the hospital within the hour, still in your work uniform, apron still knotted tight.