#I said I’d do an essay | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pboogerswbb · 4 months ago

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TOO LOST IN YOU - part III

Paige Bueckers x bartender!oc

Warnings: toxic!paige, SMUT, language, cheating lowkey...

Wordcount: 6.6k

A/N: SURPRISE!! enjoy this please, someone was asking for more fluff and i promise the next one will have more!! i appreciate all the love and support, please again tell me which parts you enjoyed the most and what you want more of!! i appreciate all of it ty guys (AND HAPPY UCONN HOOPS DAY)

“Riri…”

My fingers move over the keyboard, typing faster than my brain could keep up with. After hours of studying my brain worked on autopilot.

“Babe..?”

“Gimme a bit,” my murmur is barely audible as Jay sighs next to me, rolling her eyes and falling back down on the bed we’re sitting on. I’m curled up in the corner, my laptop on my knees, eyes bloodshot from the hours of work I’d been doing. The sound of a show I didn’t like blared in the background from Jay’s laptop, breaking my concentration. I wanted to shut her laptop and tell her to leave, but telling the person whose room you were in to get out seemed a little rude. Instead I shut my eyes for a moment and sigh.

“Could you grab headphones or something?” I suggest, as nicely as I could but some annoyance makes its way through.

Jay looks at me, her blonde hair in a messy bun on top of her head as she sighs dramatically. She had been wanting my attention all day but I was seriously behind on some school work. Studying and writing essays was pretty much all I’d done for the past week. That and Jay. It was for the best, I didn’t need any time to overthink or dwell on… well… “the Paige situation” is what my best friends called it. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Valerie, you've been working all day again…” Jay says in a slightly whiny voice, the tone of it hits my ear uneasily. She wraps her arms around my bare thigh and hugs it tight. The pressure of her touch against my skin irks me - everything she did irked me. I blamed the overstimulation of everything going on . I peel her hands off me as gently as I could. Couldn’t she see I was busy?

“Just a little more I promise,” I mumble absentmindedly. I had been sitting on this corner of the bed since this morning, obvious from the state of me. My brown hair was up in a clip, half of it falling out messily, my face was bare of any makeup, and the light pink oversized t-shirt I was wearing had a picture of Tweety on it. I hadn’t even bothered to put on any pants all day.

“Babe you said that like an hour ago,” Jay points out, letting go of my thigh and sitting up next to me, brushing my hair off my face. I push her hand away, huffing a little bit, trying to let her know it was time to leave me alone.

“I need to work,” I remind her, a little annoyed by the neediness.

“But the party,” she sighs and closes my laptop, forcing me to look at her. I look into her brown eyes, as she raises her brows at me expectantly. I pout at her, looking at the freckles on her face before I sigh.

“I promised, didn't I…”

“You did,” Jay chuckles and grabs my hand. I let her. We had been seeing each other for a couple weeks now, ever since I finally let go of the foolish hope that someday Paige would actually care about me. God was I naive.

Jay was sweet, she always let me sleep over which I wasn’t used to. She loved to touch me, her hands were constantly on me. Sometimes it was a little frustrating but I think I just wasn’t used to it yet. Like when we walked around campus, she always wanted to hold hands. It made a knot grow in my stomach, but I knew I’d get used to it eventually. It just felt like a little too soon, we weren’t officially dating even though Jay certainly behaved like we were.

“I don’t feel like partying,” I sigh, glancing down at my shirt, knowing I looked like a mess.

Jay rolls her eyes but smiles a little, her lips pressing against mine. Absent-mindedly I kiss her back, not even bothering to close my eyes. It was just a peck anyway, I didn’t feel like it was a kiss worth closing your eyes for.

“C’mon Riri… everyone’s going,” she tries to convince me but she’s not doing a very good job. I almost felt sorry for how she thought she could talk me over.

“I look like shit.”

“No you don’t.”

I let out a chuckle and climb out of the bed over Jay, checking myself in the mirror. I really did. I raise my brows and look at her, still on the bed.

“Well… just put on a little bit of mascara and we can go,” she chuckles, climbing out of bed, wrapping her hands around my waist as she approaches me from behind me. I watch in the mirror as her chin rests on my shoulder. I feel my stomach stir, wanting to push her hands off me again, but I think I had done that one too many times today already.

“You really wanna go? Like… really?” I ask with a frown, meeting her eyes in the mirror. She nods and looks at me pleadingly. It irked me, the way she was looking at me. But she was good to me, so I decided to give in.

I had barely brought any clothes to her dorm so I head to the party with Jay, wearing black yoga pants and the Tweety shirt I had slept in. A little bit of makeup and brushing through my hair had been as much effort as I was willing to put in.. I didn’t want to go to the stupid party anyway. The sooner we were in and out, the better. I didn’t care about impressing anyone on campus, not anymore.

The muffled sounds of music fill the hallway as we walk towards the right dorm. Jay’s hand is snug on the small of my back, guiding me. She looks at me and laughs a little, grabbing me a beer from her bag. I hated beer.

“Turn that frown into a smile,” she suggests with amusement. It only annoyed me further. I open the can and take a few sips.

“Gonna take a lot more beer,” I complain. She kisses my cheek and I see a girl walking past us, and realise we must look like a couple right now. The thought makes my chest tighten in the worst way.

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” Jay laughs, fixing the collar of her orange sweater that clashes horribly with my pink shirt. I suggested she should change into something else but she refused, which got me in an even worse mood. Her cheesy sayings weren’t helping.

I smile at Jay and knock on the door, the golden bracelet on my wrist dangling as I do. The door opens fast as my eyes widen seeing the amount of people they had managed to pack in this tiny dorm.

“Uh… where did you hear from this party again?” I ask a little hesitant and Jay laughs and guides me in confidently.

“It’s just some guy Brent who’s been throwing crazy parties in his dorm every february since he came here. I guess the word’s been going around huh?” She yells over the loud thumping of the music. By the time we’re inside I must’ve bumped into at least 12 people already, working hard not to spill my beer. I was already overstimulated and in a bad mood, not to mention stressed from all the due dates of my assignments sneaking up on me. The thumping of the music, the hot, humid air in the dorm and the sweaty bodies of students around me, spilling drinks all over the place was only making my mood worse.

“Jay I don’t know if I-” I start but she’s already walking past me, hurrying to her friends. I sigh and follow her, smiling awkwardly to the group of people greeting Jay. I didn’t really like her friends but I knew I should give them a chance. Jay was good to me.

“Bro, forreal I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you play Drake,” I hear a familiar voice from behind me. I feel the way my stomach drops, the way my hands immediately sweat a little as the tighten around the can of beer.

“It’s the principle, I’m team Kendrick,” some guy argues.

“Please dude I’m serious… she’ll flash you for it,” the familiar voice yells over the music and this statement is enough to make me turn around.

What I see proves what I had already known to be true. Paige is standing a few feet behind me, in black cargos and a white Nike t-shirt, the number 5 dangling on her silver chain. Of course she looked perfect, with her blonde hair down - I always loved it when she wore it like that. My fingertips tingle when I remember what it felt like to brush my hands through that hair.

“Oh my gooooood PAIGE!!” the brunette girl standing next to her squeals and only then I notice Paige’s hand wrapped around her hip, rubbing circles on it as they both laugh. My mouth parts as I blink at them stupidly, a painful squeeze taking over my chest.

“Valerie!” Jay yells over the music, and Paige turns to our direction. Her eyes widen in recognition as she sees me, softening for a moment. Her hand drops from the hip of the strange girl next to her, as she stares into me. I felt a wave of electricity run through my body as I felt her eyes on me, like I was coming alive for her again. I was so in shock from seeing her here I felt myself forget why I had even been upset with her in the first place.

Jay grabs my waist and pulls me close, but my gaze remains locked on Paige. Her brows furrow as she sees Jay’s hand squeezing my ass gently and suddenly I feel sick for the way Jay’s touch felt against my skin. No, it wasn’t that. It was Paige’s fault, all of it, the way I felt, the way I was being a bitch to Jay when all she did was good to me. Struggling to do so, I finally turn my gaze to Jay and offer her a warm smile, leaning my head into her shoulder. I quickly down my beer, frowning at the taste but grabbing another one anyway.

Why was she even here? Who was that girl? Why did she stare at me like she hadn’t called me a slut straight to my face just last week? I quickly glance behind me, not at Paige who was joking with a big group of her teammates, but at the girl. She was only a little taller than me, brunette, and she seemed to giggle a lot. I feel my stomach twist as I watch her reach her hand up to Paige’s hair and brush through it, like I had so many times.

I already hated her.

I downed another beer as one of Jay’s friends, Em or something, pointed behind me and Jay and whispered something to her. Jay looks behind us, her eyes widening and mouth falling open when she saw who it was. She leans into my ear, her lips brushing against my skin but I don’t feel anything.

“Babe omg, that’s Paige Bueckers,” she whispers excitedly into my ear, nodding toward the tall blonde and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Jay had no idea how familiar I was with Paige Bueckers.

Jay glances behind us again and giggles in a giddy manner, looking around the circle. “And that’s Jana and Allie and Azzi too, right?” she gasps and looks at me expectantly. I glance behind us too dismissively.

“Oh wow,” I murmur, my tone flat.

Jay rolls her eyes. “Oh c’mon who doesn’t love Paige.”

“I don’t,” I say matter of factly, shrugging at the blonde girl next to me, her hand still rubbing my side. I ignore the way her touch did nothing to me, didn’t leave any spark at all.

“Oh right she won’t even go see a game with me can you believe that,” Jay tells her friends who all chuckle. I fake laugh with them, trying to ignore the way I could feel Paige’s eyes boring into the back of my head. I knew the feeling far too well from all the times she had come to ogle at me at Ted’s, all the times I turned to look at her to find she was already staring.

“I just don’t like basketball,” I explain, shaking my head. It was a huge lie, but a harmless one so I didn’t feel bad about it. Sure, I could tell Jay that me and Paige had history - but why worry her over nothing? Trust me, I was lying for her sake.

“I’m gonna go ask for a pic,” Jay nods to herself and my eyes widen. I immediately shake my head, wrapping my arm around her.

“No you’re not,” I chuckle, my face turning hot.

“Why not?”

“Because!”

Jay looks at me, waiting for me to continue. I meet her gaze, my mind blanking.

“Becausee… she probably just wants to be left alone!” I mumble and press a kiss on her cheek, plotting a distraction. “C’mon Jay let’s get you another drink.” I try to sweet talk her but it’s pointless. Jay shakes her head at me with a laugh, her hand returning to her side as she turns to the group of Uconn Huskies behind us, chatting in a circle.

Embarrassed, I cover my face with my hand, cursing at the universe for making me go through this over and over again. I just needed a break from Paige fucking Bueckers.

I try to sneak away but Jay’s hand pulls me to her as she taps Paige on the shoulder. The easy conversation between the Huskies goes quiet, and all their eyes turn to Jay. I feel myself wanting to melt away, maybe to self implode or something to get me out of this situation.

With a lick of her lips, Paige turns to me and Jay, her eyes meeting mine first. Suddenly I hated myself for not running to my dorm to grab a nicer outfit earlier or at least some false lashes and foundation. I flip my hair over my shoulder, praying it made me look a little more presentable. She must’ve thought I looked awful. I had been replaying a fantasy in my head of me looking flawless, perfect the next time she’d see me after our “situation” at Ted’s. I guess the universe truly despised me. I must’ve been an axe murdered in my previous life. I need to make sure I’m desperately good in this one

“Hey sorry I don’t wanna bother you guys but I’m such a big fan, like I come see every game,” Jay says, a slight nervousness apparent in her voice. I chew on my inner cheek, feeling my insides turn as Paige’s eyes move from me to Jay, tilting her head back as she sizes her up. Suddenly I’m aware of how much taller Paige was than Jay. How much broader her shoulders were. I swallow, watching a smug smirk spread on Paige’s face.

“Of course bro let’s do it,” she says in a friendly tone, but I could recognise a hint of arrogance in it. I grab my phone, tapping on the camera app, trying to ignore the way my lower abdomen was stirring with unease but it was no use. The people bumping into me and the loud thumping of music wasn’t helping any of it. I felt sick to my stomach.

Paige throws her arm around Jay’s shoulder, looking from her to me with that arrogant smile on her face, that made me want to slap her and kiss the hell out of her at the same time. I was praying she’d play along, pleading with my eyes for her not to say anything about our history.

“You don’t want a picture?” Paige grins teasingly, her eyes landing on me. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out, all I felt was my throat going dry.

“Ohh she doesn’t like hoops, never goes to a game with me,” Jay complains which makes Paige nod knowingly, her tongue running along her lower lip, clearly trying to hold in a laugh.

“Oh is that so?” Paige asks, our eyes meeting again in a stubborn staring contest. My cheeks turn red and a heat pools between my legs but it doesn’t make me look away.

I scoff and nod. “Yup, hate it actually,” I lie, my tone lighthearted. From the corner of my eye I see KK and Ice watching the interaction, snickering. The thought that they were laughing at me and how stupid I had been thinking I could have Paige all to myself crosses my mind, and it makes me finally break eye contact. I bet they all thought I was an idiot. Poor girl who really truly believed that Paige could someday love her.

“I’m sure I could change your mind,” Paige argues and Jay nods next to her as they clink their plastic cups together.

“See?” Jay laughs, and I felt a little bad for her. Here she thought she was bonding with someone she admired, no idea what was really going on.

“Let’s just take the pic,” I sigh and watch them through the screen, seeing the way Paige’s rings decorated her fingers, the way her jawline sharpened as she tilted her head and smiled. I don’t even notice Jay next to her in the picture, all I could see was Paige.

“Got it,” I murmur and hand the phone back to Jay. My mind was spinning in a way I didn’t like, flashing with memories of what happened at the back of Ted’s with Paige, the words that were said, everything I had blocked out. I knew my only option was to leave or drink a lot more, quickly.

“I need another drink,” I murmur, and push past Jay, Paige and the rest of her team, taking hurried steps towards the kitchen around the corner. To my relief, I find it empty and quiet, giving me time to calm down. I brush my hand through my long, thick hair and place my palms on the kitchen counter, watching the cups and the liquor bottles on the table. I don’t understand why I couldn’t escape her. It felt like a hopeless battle, like a war I couldn’t win - if I let myself get consumed by her I got hurt, and if I tried to forget, she was everywhere. I simply could not win.

Paige steps into the desolate kitchen through the doorway, carefully watching me. I notice her and immediately turn my back to her.

“Don’t,” I tell her sternly, knowing how easy it was for her to make me forget all the bad that she had done. Each way that she had hurt me.

Paige raises her hands in surrender, a little amused by my dramatics. “Relax, just needed a drink,” she chuckles and starts looking through the liquor bottles on the table. I take a deep breath and turn back to watch her, her broad back facing me as she reads through the label of a bottle. She had always been horrible with mixing drinks.

“You want one too?” she asks carefully, her voice hoarse from having to yell over the music.

I take cautious steps towards her, stopping next to her but making sure I leave plenty of space between us. It was like my body was screaming, every inch between us too much, every cell in my brain trying to lose all sense.

Paige’s fingers wrap around a bottle of vodka, carelessly pouring it into a cup.

“Whoaa, okay no, let me,” I stop her abruptly, snatching the bottle from her. Paige lets me, a smirk on her face as I take lead, dividing the generous amount of vodka between two cups. She leans one hand on the counter, the veins on her hand popping, making it hard to think straight.

“So… your girl’s a fan huh?” She asks complacently, leaning down slightly to speak into my ear. I feel her body heat radiating off her, turning my breathing laboured. I shake my head, not wanting to speak in case my voice shook. I reach to the other corner of the counter for the passion fruit liqueur, feeling Paige step back a little. Her hand was still resting on the counter though, as I slid between her body and the counter, my back brushing against her chest. I swallow hard, a knot appearing in my stomach. My ears felt like they were burning.

I stand still between Paige and the counter, as I pour some liqueur in each cup.

“Why’d you tell her you hate basketball hm?” she asks teasingly, her eyes looking down on me.

“Because I do,” I lie, my breath hitching when I felt her front press closer to my back the tiniest bit.

“Right… what’s her name anyway,” Paige asks with a chuckle.

“Jay.”

“Jay?”

“Yup.”

“What kinda name is Jay?” Paige laughs a little and I roll my eyes.

“It’s a nickname,” I explain, filling our cups with some mixers.

“For?”

I shift a little, placing the bottle of juice down. Paige’s proximity was making me dizzier than I already was.

“Justine,” I say matter of factly and Paige lets out a loud laugh, her hand finally falling off the counter.

“Justine?” She asks astonished and amused, her brows raising and mouth fighting a smirk as I turn to face her, leaning my back against the counter.

“Shut up!” I scold her, feeling the way my mouth wanted to twist into a smile too. She had one of those laughs that just made you laugh. It was one of my favourite sounds in the world.

Paige grins and nods to herself, trying not to laugh. “Justine huh…” she murmurs to herself. She steps in closer to me, her eyes heavy, locking on my lips as she reaches behind me for her drink. I lean back, pressing my back tight against the counter, having to tilt my head back to look at her.

Paige sips the drink and smirks, not moving away.

“She’s short,” she says with a grin.

“No she’s not!” I scoff, watching the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the heat between my legs growing. Having Paige this close to me was making me feel more than Jay had done in all of the last two weeks. I hated realising that.

“She short,” Paige repeats smugly, still looking down at me, towering over my frame. I’m all the way pinned against the counter, not able to back up any further.

“You’re just freakishly tall,” I murmur, feeling her move closer, her front pressing against my chest, hand sliding to my waist. I felt like my knees might give out.

Paige looks at me for a while, her eyes roaming my face. I realise she has never seen me with this little makeup on, this undone. Embarrassment and the effects of the alcohol make my cheeks flush red. Paige bites on her lower lip as her eyes soften.

“You look so beautiful ma,” she whispers, her voice hoarse. And I snap.

My hands wrap around her body and I pull her in, her front flush against mine as our lips clash in a hungry, starved kiss. Her hands are everywhere, my waist, my chest, cupping my ass, pulling me closer by my hair. Paige tilts my face just right to deepen the kiss, her tongue sliding into my mouth with urgency.

I feel the counter digging into my back painfully but I felt too euphoric to mind. She tastes like passionfruit, and most importantly like herself, and her kisses send sparks everywhere. As I moan into her mouth, pulling her closer by her hair, Paige takes it as an invitation and slides her leg between mine, pressing her thigh into my core. I wanted more, needed to feel all of her. It was too late now, I was too far gone. I couldn’t bear to be away from her. I was too weak to try.

Suddenly it rushes back, the nights I spent crying over her, the way she would rush me out of her bed telling me she didn’t like sleepovers. The words she had said to me last I saw her and how it had torn me apart when I got home after my shift. A panic took over me, I wasn’t strong enough to go through that again.

In a rush I push Paige off me, my chest heaving. She wipes her lips, looking at me confused. Grabbing my drink and my mind spinning, I rush out of the kitchen looking for one thing only. I needed to forget.

“Hey where have you be-” Jay starts but I shut her up by kissing her roughly, my hand wrapping around the back of her neck, tongue sliding into her mouth. It felt like nothing compared to Paige, but I tried to forget. I needed this to stop. I needed to force myself to forget.

Jay is taken aback, her blonde hair falling out of the bun she was wearing as I tuck on it. When my lips kiss along her jaw and neck, I hear her chuckling a little, hand rubbing up and down my back. “What’s all this about?” she asks.

I had told her I hated PDA - which in a way was true. With her I did hate PDA. But now my mind was spinning and I was desperately clinging to her like she could help me stay afloat, like she could save me from the depths that were trying to lure me in.

“Just kiss me,” I say breathlessly, returning my lips to hers. Paige walks past us, her arm bumping into me in the tightly packed living room as I kiss Jay in a way I had never kissed her before - with real hunger. Only it wasn’t hunger for her.

As the song switched to the familiar beats of Heartbeat by Childish Gambino, Jay gasps, pulling away from the kiss.

“I love this song!” She shouts over the music, pulling me towards the area where people were dancing. My stomach turns as I’m reminded of all the times me and Paige had fucked while this song played in the background, how many times I had been between her legs, buried into her, the sounds she made, the way her perfect hands gripped my hair.

“You thinking that the songs coming on to tempt me

I need to be alone like the way you left me

You start calling, you start crying

I come over, I'm inside you

I can't find you”

The lyrics blast into my ear when I see Paige in the corner of the room, her hands kneading the ass of that girl she was with, kissing her roughly. It made me sick to my stomach. The way I could see the girl was putty in her arms, Paige’s eyes tightly shut as her lips slid against hers. I hated knowing that other people knew the way her lips felt, the exact pressure of her kiss.

I wrap my arms around the back of Jay’s neck and swing to the song with her, moving my hips as she sings the lyrics, her hands gently on my sides. The red tint of the led lights was making my vision blurry, and the people all around us bumping into me would’ve annoyed me if I hadn’t been so focused on Paige and this girl, still staring straight at them.

“Stupid, so dummy

Say the wrong thing and wrong girls come runnin'

I'm paranoid that these girls want something from me

And it's hard to make a dime go one hundred”

“Thank you for coming here with me,” Jay murmurs into my ear, her tone blissful from how touchy I’d become with her suddenly. My eyes flick to hers and I smile weakly, pressing kisses on her lips when I feel that all too familiar burn of Paige’s eyes on me.

Jay’s lips move to my neck as we keep dancing, and I can’t help the way my eyes flick over her shoulder, to find Paige already staring at me.

”I miss the sex when you kiss whenever you through

Sixty-nine is the only dinner for two”

It’s not the kissing on my neck but the intensity of Paige’s gaze, dark and hungry, that makes me let out a small whimper. Jay smirks against my neck satisfied, thinking it’s all her doing as her hands travel to my hips.

The brunette dancing with Paige says something to her, the eye contact finally breaking, making me feel like I could breathe again. I felt all my emotions swirling in my head, making me feel confused - hate, lust, anger, love, jealousy all overwhelming me. I felt myself sinking.

It feels like the room is spinning when Jay grabs my jaw, her lips pressing into mine harshly as her hands rub up and down my sides. But I had to see Paige. As Jay keeps kissing me I open my eyes, seeing Paige kissing the brunette on the other side of the room, but her eyes are wide open staring right back at me. It’s so hot I nearly moan.

“So we're done? This the real shit?

We used to hold hands like field trips

I'm a jerk, but your dude is a real dick”

The girl clings onto Paige’s t-shirt for dear life, her hand snaking around the back of her neck to pull her in closer. Jay’s hands tighten on my hips, her tongue sliding against my lower lip but I barely notice. My mind is woozy, never breaking eye contact with Paige as the song comes to an end, my core aching with how bad I needed her. We didn’t need any words, we both knew the thoughts going around our heads.

“Are we dating? Are we fucking?

Are we best friends? Are we something in between that?

I wish we never fucked, and I mean that”

“Excuse me,” I murmur to Jay in a haze, pulling away from her kiss and hurrying towards the bathroom. I close the door behind me, about to lock it when I hear a firm knock. Chest already heaving from anticipation, I open the door to find Paige pushing herself in, just as breathless as I was.

Before I have the time to think whether any of this was smart, I’m being backed into the sink, Paige’s lips urgently attacking mine. I immediately whimper into her mouth, my eyes squeezing together involuntarily as my hands slip underneath her white shirt, the need to feel the warmth of her bare skin taking over me.

“Mmh,” Paige moans softly, her hands sliding down my back to my ass, squeezing roughly. Her lips move from my lips to my neck, sucking underneath my ear hard enough to leave marks but at the moment I couldn’t care less. The want I felt for her took over everything, my anger, jealousy, any sense I had.

I throw my head back and look at the ceiling, breathing heavily as Paige’s hand slides to the waistband of my pants, fingertips dipping beneath the fabric already making my legs feel weak.

“Didn’t think you were into short girls,” Paige grins against my neck, her hand itching closer to where my need for her was pooling desperately, aching for her.

“She’s not sh-” I start but an involuntary gasp interrupts me when two of Paige’s fingers slide into me suddenly. Her brows furrow in lust when she feels how wet I am, the way I swallow her fingers up with ease. My hands grip the sink behind me trying to steady myself as Paige’s skilled fingers started pumping in and out of me, curling just right.

“Oh god,” I moan, my head thrown back. Paige grabs my hair and pulls me into a kiss, getting as much pleasure out of this as I did. Her thumb brushes against my clit making me hiss, but she swallows the sound with a needy kiss, other hand holding me up and steady by my hips.

“So wet,” she gasps against my mouth, the speed of her fingers making my head spin. “You this wet for Justine?” Paige whimpers, her breathing laboured against my lips.

I shake my head, my eyes opening for a moment to meet hers as she watches me in awe, like she could never get enough.

“Who you this wet for then?” Paige asks, her pupils dilated and dark as she towered over me. Her fingers were making a quick mess of me, already making me throb around her.

“Shit, ah - for you Paige,” I moan and Paige’s eyes flutter shut at my words, from how bad she had needed to hear that.

“Fuck,” she moans, her fingers pumping at a rapid pace now, the veins in her forearm popping out. “That’s right ma,” Paige coos leaning down and kissing my neck roughly as I felt the familiar knot in my stomach quickly grow. My mind spinning I bring my hand to Paige’s abs, feeling them flex as she worked hard to get me to my peak.

I was gushing around her fingers, surely dripping down her wrist and arm as she quickly worked me to the edge. It was dizzying, when she had me like this - she could’ve made me do anything she wanted. I hadn’t felt like this since the last time we slept together. No one could do what Paige Bueckers did.

Suddenly there’s a knock on the door and Jay’s voice rises over the thumping of the music.

“Riri you in there?”

Paige quickly covers my mouth, but her fingers don’t stop. My eyes widen as she looks at me sternly, telling me to stay quiet with her eyes. I felt myself tighten around her fingers, the tremble in my legs letting Paige know I was close.

Jay tries the door handle, and I thank God Paige locked it. The knocking stops and Paige lets her hand fall away from my mouth, brows furrowing as she looks down between our bodies, hissing.

“Shit, I can feel how tight you are baby,” she murmurs hoarsely, and I feel my eyes roll into the back of my head as her fingertips hit just the right spot to make my orgasm build up fast.

“Oh fuck P-” I whimper, but my mind was spinning too much - I couldn’t come up with anything comprehensible.

“I know Val,” Paige murmurs into my ear, keeping the steady rhythm of her fingers as she pumps them in and out, thumb rubbing against my clit just enough to bring me to my peak. I don’t have to tell her, she knows.

“Come for me ma,” she coos into my ear, leaving wet kisses on my neck and groaning hoarsely. “S’ wet and tight, all for me.”

With that, an involuntary gasp spills from my lips as I release all over Paige’s fingers, dripping down her hand, my body trembling desperately as I moan as quietly as I could. It was the way the air smelled just like Paige, the pressure of her kisses on my neck, the familiar, perfect way her fingers worked me, all of it made me unravel.

“Oh shit,” I mumble breathlessly, leaning my head forward and resting it against Paige’s chest. Slowly, Paige pulls her hand away and brings it to her mouth, her tongue licking her fingers clean of me, groaning a little as she tastes me.

I look at her and giggle a little at the way she was savouring the taste, licking her lips hungrily. If Paige Bueckers was anything it was a munch.

“You better wash those hands too,” I tell her, my voice a little whiny from the way she had just made me fall apart, all for her.

Paige smirks a little, licking her lips and leaning down to kiss me. But this kiss was different, it wasn’t hungry, or demanding - it was gentle and soft, I would’ve called it loving if I knew Paige Bueckers loves nothing but basketball.

“Val,” Paige starts. Her nose nuzzles against mine, hands holding my waist when I feel my phone ring in my pocket, interrupting the moment. I quickly pull away and answer, Jay’s voice coming through the other line.

“Riri where are you babe?”

“Uh,” I mumble and move away from Paige’s grip suddenly realising what we had done. I step away, watching her start to wash her hands, jaw clenching as she listens to me speak. “I had to find another bathroom.”

“Well where you at this party’s getting a little crazy,” Jay asks, clearly drunk.

“Umm, just wait there and I’ll find you,” I tell her and hang up, my cheeks reddening in shame. What was I doing?

Paige dries her hands and fixes her shirt before looking at me. “Let’s head out then?” she asks and I nod, feeling myself start to freak out. I was fucking everything up for a person who couldn’t care less about me. I was raised better than this.

Just as I reach for the lock, the guilt begins to take over. Noticing, Paige grabs my jaw and presses another kiss on my lips. A tender one again, the kind I wasn’t used to getting from her. I feel all the guilt and shame trickle away as she hums against my mouth.

“Okay, let’s go ma.” she murmurs and opens the door for me. The party’s even more packed than before so no one notices when we slide out of the bathroom together. Her hand is on the small of my back as she guides me through the crowd, pushing people away to make sure no one bumped into me.

“Babe!!!” Jay calls out and forces her way over to me and Paige. I quickly push Paige’s hand off the small of my back as Jay reaches us and wraps her arm around my waist urgently.

“Sorry I uh… got a little lost,” I lie looking at the ground and then at Paige. The lie was written all over my face, but Jay was way too drunk to take note of that. Or the brand new purple bruise on my neck.

“Ye, she was knocking on some poor freshman’s door. Prolly scared the shit outta her,” Paige quickly backs up my story, grinning convincingly. My eyes are heavy, still staring at her, unable to look away.

“Of course she did,” Jay giggles and pokes my cheek. I wanna slap her hand away. “Well thanks bro.”

“No problem,” Paige smiles at her. Jay’s hand reaches over to dab her up and I watch, red cheeked and flustered at their hands, me and Paige both knowing that her fingers had just been inside me not more than a few minutes ago.

“Uh we should go I’m tired,” I murmur and offer Paige a weak smile. Her blue eyes stare at my narrowing back as me and Jay push our way through the crowd, into the hallway of the building.

Jay kisses my cheek and wraps her hand in mine as my stomach twisted in guilt.

“She’s so nice,” Jay gushes rubbing her thumb against my skin.

“Huh?” I ask absentmindedly.

“Paige. She’s really nice, who would’ve thought huh.”

I swallow.

“Yeah, she is.” really nice.

taglist: @thaatdigitaldiary @wbbismypassion69 @bueckersfive @onlyhereforpazzi @lovegalor333 @mandyvivic @frankoceanlvr303039 @angryflowerwitch @taylynbueckers44 @mamixdanni @rosemariiaa @d3arapril @vbueckers @sageworld @makethemhoesmad @sierrale8ne @tndaqlifwy @justliketoreadsowhat @oreo2sblog @sftlyortega @slvt4her @julieloveswbb @vsz333 @faeries-posts (sry if i forgot to tag you 😭)

#too lost in you #lilas writing #paige bueckers #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x female oc #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers fanfiction #wnba x oc #paige bueckers smut #Spotify

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loving-barnes · 1 year ago

Text

LOGAN HOWLETT - PROM

A/N: As I already mentioned, I have developed a huuuuuge crush on Wolverine.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x mutant female reader

Warning: smut

Please, do not read if you are under 18. This story has sexual scenes.

Words: 6600+

Important note: The reader has long hair, did my best to not describe her at all. ALSO, I know Wolverine is like 160cm but... I forgot about tha that so, he's a tall MF. (They kinda fucked that up in some of the movies, so whatever.)

FULL MASTERLIST | LOGAN HOWLETT MASTERLIST

Logan Howlett - Prom

A peaceful evening, that’s what he wanted. Once the students were in their room, Logan could finally have some time off with a bottle of beer that he was able to sneak into the school. And since he knew no one would be in the lounge room at this hour, he grabbed the beer and walked there. To his surprise, he was met with Y/N sitting there.

She was surrounded by papers. It seemed she was grading some essays. He observed her. The way her body hunched over the papers, how her head was low, he knew she was almost asleep. But then her head fell a little and she made a sound. Shaking it, she whispered “shit” under her nose and continued to work on the essays.

“Go to bed,” Logan said when he fell on the leather couch.

Y/N’s head lifted, frowning at her colleague and friend sitting there as if he owned the whole damn place. “I need to finish this tonight.”

“You need to rest,” he talked back, annoyed by her stubbornness.

Her eyes followed his every move. The way he sipped the beer, how relaxed he was on the couch and his eyes kept checking out the papers all over the place. “No, I need to grade. Only a few more left.”

Y/N taught English and literature in the school. She wanted to have this out of her neck before she would give them another assignment - that is, if someone would piss her off again, like the last time.

“Need any help?” he offered.

She kinked a brow and grinned. “Have you read The Great Gatsby?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then, unfortunately, you cannot help,” she said with a teasing smile.

“So, what did the kids do to deserve to write an essay?” he asked. His eyes never stopped following her hands over the table as she went through all the papers.

She sighed and put a grade C on the essay she finished correcting. Then she put down a comment, for the student to know what they did wrong. “One of them was rude to me. He made an inappropriate comment and the class laughed at his boldness, or as I’d like to call it, stupidity. He got detention and the whole class had to write an essay.”

Logan chuckled. “You are strict.”

“Well, no offence, but the kids respect you out of fear. They don’t respect me and so I punish them like this,” I glanced at him with a smile and put one of the last essays in front of me. “2500 words is not that much, to be honest. Especially when the theme is: Gender roles in The Great Gatsby.”

He opened his mouth to comment on it but then closed it. “Fair enough.”

Y/N yawned again and rubbed her eyes. She put down the pen and stretched on the couch. “Alright, a little break won’t hurt me. Just a few minutes.”

“You will fall asleep.”

“No, I won’t,” she said with her eyes closed.

“Yeah, you will, Y/N. Don’t argue with me. I know you well,” Logan said grumpily. He knew he was right.

Sighing, she stood up and did more stretching, just to wake up a little. “Now, I won’t.”

He rolled his eyes and sighed at how stubborn she was, again. “Hey, is it true that Colossus is taking you to the prom?”

Y/N stopped moving and slowly turned her attention to him. What the hell was he talking about? “What?” she was confused. “What prom? And no?”

Now it was his turn to be confused. “The prom that the Professor promised the students like a month ago. It’s this Saturday,” he reminded her.

With her mouth agape, she sat her ass down on the leather couch, her eyes wide and unblinking. “Shit, I forgot! How could I forget? I never forget anything when it comes to my job, the kids… Shit.”

Logan had to chuckle at her reaction. He found it quite adorable. “Y/N, you’ve been working your ass off for the kids. No wonder you forgot. It’s a good thing I reminded ya.” He drank the rest of the beer in one go. “‘Cuz I’m the best at these things.”

“Fuck, right,” she said with an irony in her voice. She wanted to smash her head against the nearest wall.

Y/N was never the one to forget anything and now, it happened. Where was her head the last few weeks? “I have no dress or shoes or anything,” she started to talk mostly to herself. The panic, tiredness and some anxiety showed in her power that she had thanks to her mutation. A forcefield started to glitch around her.

Logan’s eyes widened. “Uh, princess, you need to calm down,” he said. “Take a few deep breaths before you hurt me.”

Y/N’s forcefield was unique. It could protect but be deadly if she handled it correctly.

She glared at him but did as told. She took a few deep breaths until the glitching forcefield stopped. “You know I hate that nickname,” she growled. Logan was no idiot - she was a liar. She liked those nicknames he called her. It made him chuckle.

“Sure,” Logan winked at her. “Lie to yourself all you want.” He enjoyed it when he could rile her up. “So, do you have a date for this prom?” he asked her again.

“No,” Y/N replied as she started to pack all the papers. “As you didn’t already notice, old man,” she knew where to press his buttons, “I forgot about the whole thing. So, no, no date.”

“Wait,” Logan stopped her before she could leave. “So you are telling me, that you don’t have a date? How is that possible?”

She shrugged. “No one asked me. But it doesn’t matter anyway. I believe Bobby is taking Kitty, and Charles and Storm will be attending together. And I think Colossus will ask Angel to be his date since they have this thing going on.”

“What if I was your date?” Logan suggested nonchalantly. His eyes were fixed on her, watching her reaction - and it was a good one. A sparkle appeared in her irises, she stopped talking and just opened and closed her mouth like a fish underwater. “We could go together if you’d like.”

Her lips twitched to a small smile, intrigued by it. “You’d want to go with me?”

“I wouldn’t mind going as your date,” he said, his voice was a bit husky.

“And here I thought you would like to avoid an event like this,” I shook my head in disbelief. “Too much noise, too many kids at the same place.”

“I am full of surprises, princess,” he winked at her.

That stupid nickname made her roll her eyes. “Fine, you can be my date,” she agreed after a while. “But we still need to look after the students and be responsible teachers,” I warned him. “No booze, sir.”

“What?” he frowned, obviously not happy with that information.”Who made that rule?”

“It’s a student prom and they are all underaged,” I explained to him. “You think the Professor will allow alcohol? Ha, wake up, darling.”

“Look who is using nicknames,” he pointed it out. “I was about to say I am excited about the whole prom thing. This changes everything. I don’t even know if I wanna go.”

Y/N got annoyed by that comment. She gave him an evil glare. “Fuck you, Logan. And here I thought you’d be excited that I agreed to be your date. Maybe I should ask Hank to be my date.”

“Oh, come on, princess, I am messing with ya.”

When Y/N was sure she had all her belongings, she walked away from him. “Goodnight, Logan,” she sang to him.

She couldn’t see but Logan had a gentle smile on his face, pleased by all the teasing. There was some excitement bubbling inside of him. She agreed to go to that stupid prom with him.

Y/N hid in her room where she finished grading the last essays. She didn’t let herself think about anything, or anyone until the work was done. Luckily, the last essays were very good and they all received an A.

She changed into a T-shirt and shorts and got into her bed. The moment she turned the light off, she thought back to the last half an hour - to the part where Logan asked her to be his date for the school prom.

A laugh escaped her throat. The Wolverine asked her to be his date for a school prom. How surreal.

Her heart fluttered and her cheeks got hot. The truth was, she liked Logan a lot. There was something eye-gripping and panties-dropping about him. In the past, she would date the exact opposite men than was he. And the way Logan would mess with her, she secretly loved it.

With him, she didn’t have to pretend to be someone she’s not.

The next few days were normal. She taught English and Literature classes and found the time to dress shop with Angel two days before the prom. She found a beautiful red dress with secret pockets on each side and an exposed back. It had a deep cleavage that would show her breasts perfectly.

“So, found a dress yet?” Logan stopped by her side the day before the prom. He was standing close behind her, breathing in her scent.

“Aren’t you a curious soul,” she tilted her head and grinned. “You know what they say: Curiosity killed the cat.”

“What if I want to match a tie?” he asked innocently, to which she had to laugh. “I am serious, Y/N.”

Y/N turned around and was met with his eyes staring into her. She pressed a book closer to her chest and smirked at him. “See, if I tell you my dress is blue, would you put on a blue tie?”

He made a face. “No,” he said seriously.

“So why ask if you won’t do it anyway.”

“Come on, Y/N, tell me,” he nudged her shoulder.

She laughed and pushed him out of her way. “I want it to be a surprise, so stop being nosy,” she winked at him and left to teach another class.

Logan grinned when she left him standing in the hallway, but there was one person who saw the interaction - Hank. The Beast passed by him in the hallway, staring at the Wolverine, chuckling. “You two are unbelievable,” he commented.

“Shut up,” he growled at Hank.

“Come on, it’s… adorable,” he said the word carefully.

Logan rolled his eyes, already done with the conversation. He walked down the hallway to his class where he taught history.

He had a thing for her and he couldn’t even lie to himself about it. Logan’s eyes would linger on her longer than necessary. He would watch her leave and stare at her back until she was gone (well, he stared at her ass, because god, it was a good ass.)

When Saturday came, all the students were excited about this event. The girls who came up with the idea of having a prom were praised by many. The boys and men had to help set the outside with balloons, giant speakers, and other decorations. Storm and Kitty were in the kitchen preparing the drinks for the evening - making sure they were non-alcoholic. Charles forbade any kind of alcohol because the students were too young to drink.

Logan was still pissed about it. It was one thing to go to a stupid prom with a beautiful woman by his side, which made him rethink the whole “stupid” thing. But on the other hand - no alcohol? Not even a beer? It would be difficult.

Y/N came to the kitchen with two big boxes on top of each other, followed by Bobby who had another three, keeping them cool. Deserts arrived. They decided that finger food was the best option for this event.

Bobby wanted to take one dessert, but his fingers were smacked by Kitty, who glared at him. “No,” she said strictly.

“But I helped,” he pleaded. When Kitty didn’t permit him one tiny piece of cake, he left the kitchen puffy.

“Will this be enough?” Storm asked when she looked at all the boxes.

“Maybe you should ask that boy, Dean, who can make any food with a snap of his fingers to make us something,” Y/N suggested, smiling innocently.

“Wouldn’t that be mean?” Kitty questioned.

Y/N only shrugged as she walked out of the kitchen. “It’s worth trying,” she then shouted at them when she was farther away.

Logan walked inside the school just as Y/N was about to hit the upper floor. “What’s with the dumb face?” he pointed at her, curious about that smile playing on her lips.

Her eyes squinted, giving him an annoyed expression. “Always so curious, huh?”

“And you are always so mysterious,” he smirked at her.

“You like it, Logan,” she gave him a wink and continued walking up the stairs.

If only she turned to see the smile on his face as he watched her walk up the stairs. “Hey,” he stopped her before she disappeared into the upper level. “Should I come for you tonight?”

Y/N leaned against the wooden bannister. “It depends on…”

“On?”

“What kind of movie effect do you want: ‘Princess walking down the stairs - the Princess effect’ or ‘I shall come for you, my darling to admire you in secret’.” She said the other one dramatically. “So, what do you want?” And then she made the Scales with her hands.

She could see the wheels spinning inside Logan’s head. He thought about what he wanted to happen. And then she heard a faint “fuck” coming out of his lips.

“Both of them sound good, huh?” she smiled brightly, showing him her white teeth. “If you don’t come by 6:30 pm, I’ll know you want the ‘Princess effect’.” And she was gone.

That woman is a fucking tease, he thought. She did things to him and he was hard, painfully hard. Gritting his teeth, he left the hallway and went to the kitchen to fetch himself something to drink.

When he didn’t come by 6:30, Y/N knew he decided on the ‘Princess effect’. She checked her appearance in the mirror one last time before she left her room. The prom would start at 7 pm and the teachers had to gather a bit earlier.

Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor. She was curious to see Logan’s reaction. Hell, she still couldn’t believe he asked her to this prom. Y/N had to laugh at it. But it was thrilling. There were butterflies inside her stomach, tickling her - or was it her vagina?

As predicted, Logan, Hank and Bobby were chatting at the stairs, all dressed in fancy suits. And from what she could see, Logan chose an all-black suit. Fuck, she thought.

Bobby was the first one who saw her. “Wow,” he said when his eyes landed on her. “You look good, Y/N.”

And then Logan turned and his eyes widened, observing Y/N in her long red dress. She looked gorgeous, like a princess. Fucking princess effect.

There was a slit up her right leg to her thigh that showed up when she walked. Her breasts were screaming at him, as they were pressed against the dress and popping out. The way her hair was loose on her shoulders and her make-up and… he was fucked. Her scent surrounded his being, influencing his every sense.

“Gentlemen,” she greeted them with a soft smile.

“Dressed to kill?” Bobby commented.

“Something like that,” she winked at him. “After all, this is my first prom ever.”

Logan’s eyes still lingered on her face, occasionally drifting to her breasts and then up her neck to her lips and eyes again. He still didn’t say a word to her. Maybe he forgot to talk? Fuck, he forgot to breathe and exist.

“First prom?” Hank was surprised. “If that’s the case,” he looked at Logan and chuckled, “you are doing a splendid job.” He patted Bobby on his shoulder as a sign to leave Logan and Y/N alone.

She made a face and looked at Logan. “Did the ‘Princess effect’ work?”

He released a breath that he was holding. “You look hideous.”

Y/N laughed out loud. She wasn’t offended, because she knew he didn’t mean it at all. “Uh-huh, sure, if you say so.” She reached her hand to his face and helped him close his mouth. “You are drooling.”

“The fuck I am,” he rolled his eyes. Like a gentleman, he gave her his arm to grab. When she did, they walked outside.

They looked like a deadly couple. When they arrived at the outdoor prom, everyone who was present turned their attention to them. Logan, dressed in black, which was shocking as it was, and Y/N in a sexy red dress, was a deadly combo.

Some of the students, who were already there, stared at the couple, whispering about them. Logan could hear their whispers. Enhanced hearing was a blessing and a curse. They couldn’t believe that those two were attending together.

Is Mr. Howlett dating Miss Y/L/N?

How could she say yes to him?

How the hell did that happen?

More students came and the prom could finally start. The music was loud, drinks and finger food were served and the students had a great time. The teachers stood together at a drinks table, talking. Compliments were flying around. The women even admired how Logan looked in his suit, but he would grumble something under his nose. He was getting grumpier by the second. He desperately needed alcohol or anything else that would help him survive the night.

“Shit,” Y/N gasped when her eyes found Johny zapping other girls with his electric ability. “I’ll be right back.”

Logan was the first one to watch her leave, eyes travelling up and down her body. “Fuck me,” he cursed.

“We are not blind, Logan,” Charles wheeled to his side, his eyes were in the crowd, watching as Y/N talked to the young student. “And, excuse me, but your thoughts are screaming some things that I wish I didn’t have to hear.”

“So don’t be a creep and listen.”

Charles chuckled, shaking his head. “You should make a move, Logan.”

“We are colleagues,” he said.

“Whatever you say. But we see the chemistry between you two. Plus, you make a good team during missions.”

Annoyed, he turned to Charles to talk back, but the man was already talking to Kitty. Logan shook his head in disbelief. He hated to admit that what Y/N meant to him was something he wished he didn’t want to experience again - out of fear of losing that person, again. She was the air he needed to breathe, the water he needed to drink.

Some teenage boys approached Y/N on the dance floor once she was done with Johny. Logan frowned, not liking how close they were to her. Horny teenagers.

“You look real’ nice teach,” said one of them.

“Wanna dance?”

“No, first with me. I do enjoy your classes the most.”

What a fucking liar, Logan thought. None of the boys were interested in her classes or teaching or her knowledge.

Logan clenched his fists tightly. The more he listened to how those boys talked to her; how their eyes travelled her body, looking where only he should be the one looking, the more he wanted to scare the shit out of them. And when she took a step back, his legs moved forward, determined to step in and shoo them away.

“Is there a problem?” his voice got darker, more intimidating.

The boys feared the great Wolverine and so they quickly stepped back. “We were just…”

“I believe there are other girls more suitable for you,” he hugged, crossing his arms over his chest. “Go bother them.”

With a snap of fingers, they were gone. They wouldn’t dare to talk back to the Wolverine. And, they feared he would make their lives miserable during history lessons.

“Charming,” Y/N commented, chuckling.

“You should have seen how they were looking at you,” he glared at her. “As if you were their prey.”

“Good thing you came to rescue little ol’ me.”

He rubbed his face with a hand, sighing. “I need a drink. To hell with this no alcohol policy.”

“Already so grumpy? And the prom barely started,” she gently stroked his arm, feeling the muscles under his suit.

“Well, it sucks.”

She took a step closer to him, tilting her head up to watch his face. “You know, this dress has secret pockets and I might have something inside of them that is forbidden this evening.” She gleamed with innocence.

Logan inhaled her sweet scent again. He saw that teasing smile, could feel her body heat and he could breathe her in until the end of his time. “Are you suggesting that there’s some forbidden substance on you right now?”

Her lips crooked into a wicked smile. “Come with me.”

He didn’t have to be told twice. He walked by her side, farther away from the students and the whole prom, heading to the pond. The estate was vast. It was a perfect place to sneak around at night.

“For a teacher, you know how to break the rules,” he commented.

“Rules are meant to be broken, or am I wrong?”

They stopped by the pond, next to one of the big thick trees standing there proudly. It was a perfect spot to be hidden but also see if any of the students were sneaking away from the party.

They were surrounded by darkness. Only the moon gave them enough light to see each other’s faces.

Y/N reached into one of the pockets and took out a black flask. She waved it in front of his eyes. “You are the best, princess,” he said. He was quick enough to take it out of her hand, open it and take a sniff. “Whisky?” he was surprised.

“Please, repeat that I am the best, go on,” she goaded him.

“You are the fucking best, princess,” he said and took a sip of the liquid. “Damn.”

He handed her the flask and it was her turn to drink. “We are the two most irresponsible teachers. How can Charles trust us with the kids?” She put the flask to her lips and drank the liquid. It burned her throat and she turned up her nose. “It’s been a while since I had whisky.”

“Why drink if you don’t like it?”

“Who says I don’t like it?”

“Your face,” he grabbed the flask from her again.

“Rude, you know that?” she made an offended face.

“Shut up,” he laughed at her and drank once more. “You’re a bad influence, you know that, eh?

She raised a brow. “Are you complaining? I can take the flask and leave you here while I enjoy the drinking alone.” Y/N reached for the flask but he grabbed her wrist tightly.

“Don’t you dare, princess,” he huffed. “You’d let old man suffer like this?”

She scoffed. “What a fucking liar.”

“I’m over 150 years old,” he states, his hand not leaving her wrist. “So, yeah, I’m old.”

“Uh-huh, ancient even,” she put a mocking smile on her face. “ The Smithsonian called, they want their fossil back.”

“Very funny.”

Her eyes drifted to his hand wrapped over her wrist. “You know, I don’t mind that you are holding me, but I want to drink.”

Logan clears his throat and lets go of her. “Sorry,” he apologizes.

Y/N drank the whisky. “So Canadian,” she commented, making a fake French accent. “Always apologising.”

“Are we on this again?” Y/N loved to tease him about this. The Canadian jokes were funny. Then again, he would tease her for her European heritage.

“Oui, oui ma chérie,” she replied in the best French she could muster.

“Fuck you with those Canadian jokes.”

“Ha, you wish.”

Logan took the flask out of her hand to drink again. Y/N was quick enough to take it before he could put it to his lips. A new sound escaped Logan’s throat as he pressed himself closer to her to reach for the flask again. He was successful. Y/N wanted to steal it again but Logan put it up in the air, mocking her to take it from there.

The annoyance on her face was evident and he laughed. “Come and get it, princess.”

Y/N tried. To get it, she took a step closer to him and stretched her arms up as much as her body let her. The front of her body pressed against his hard, muscular chest. Logan could feel the shape of her perfect breasts.

His eyes found her. That’s when he realised how close her face was to his. All he needed to do was to lean closer and he would be able to get to her lips - taste them for the first time. Once her breath hit his face, he went for it.

Logan closed the gap between them and pressed his lips against her in their first soft kiss. He tested the waters, just to find out if she wanted this or not. When the kiss deepened, he let the flask drop to the grass and his arms wrapped tightly around her body. Their lips moved, exploring each other lips and mouths. He found a moment where she would grant him access and he pressed his tongue inside her mouth to explore it a bit further.

Y/N’s arms were around his neck, pulling herself as close to him as possible. “Logan,” she moaned his name when his lips moved to her chin and then to her neck. He found a sensitive spot that got her weak in the knees and another moan got out of her throat.

Logan stopped the kissing to look into her face. “Fuck, princess, I dreamt about this for some time now.”

“So why are you stopping now?” she whispered.

“I don’t think I will be able to stop,” he admitted, brushing her lower lip with his thumb.

Y/N took it between her lips and sucked on it. “Maybe I don’t want you to stop,” she said after she let it out with a pop.

His lips were back on her in a messier kiss. It was all tongue and teeth, biting and pulling. Her hands stroked his chest over the fancy clothes he wore, wanting to feel as much of him as possible. Logan’s hands gripped her ass tightly, enjoying how it felt on his big palms. “I want you, baby girl.”

“I want you too, Logan,” she moaned into his mouth.

He pressed her harshly against the nearest tree they stood by, pushing his body to her. He was painfully hard and there was no way he’d be able to stop now. So when her hand found his bulge, he was a goner.

“Fuck,” she gasped.

His hand found her exposed thigh and it travelled up until he made her wrap the leg around his waist. Then he pressed the bulge against her clothed pussy. And that was rewarded by another sweet moan.

All of a sudden, he stopped and looked into her face. She was breathing heavily, a hint of confusion evident on her face. Her eyes asked why he stopped. Her hands grabbed tightly onto his jacket. “Not here,” Logan said after he caught his breath. He wanted to slap himself for saying that.

“Why not?” she sighed, impatient.

“‘Cuz a princess like you should be treated like one,” he explained. “Plus, tonight you look like a fucking princess.” He wanted the best for her. “And maybe in time, I’d fuck the soul out of you somewhere in the woods.”

A slow smile pulled on her lips. “Ah, so you think about this not being a one-time thing?”

He carefully let her exposed leg go. He then put a finger under her chin. “Fuck, no. You can’t deny there’s somethin’ between us.”

Y/N’s arms were back around his neck, breathing in his scent. He still hadn’t smoked those cigars because there was no trace of the smell on him. Her fingers scrapped his nape and it made him roll his eyes in pleasure. “The teasing, the banter, how we make fun of each other… yeah, there definitely is.”

He hummed. “Plus, everyone can see it, as they kept reminding me the last few days.”

That made her laugh. “Yeah, I had my talk with Ororo.”

Y/N pushed her back from the three and she yelped in pain. Some of the wood scratched her back. “Fuck,” she cursed.

“And that is another reason why we should take this somewhere else,” he said as his hand brushed her hair off the back and swiped off some of the bits of wood and dirt. He could smell a bit of blood.

Before they headed back to the dance, Logan picked the flask from the ground. There was some alcohol left. He handed it to her and she took a sip. Afterwards, he drank the rest of it. They walked side by side, his big hand brushing against her smaller one. Here and there, they would give one another fleeting stares.

“I’m gonna take you for a ride tomorrow,” he said out of nowhere and that got her attention. “What do you say?”

“Oh, like a date?” she nudged his shoulder. “I didn’t know you do that. I always thought that you were above these things. You know, toxic masculinity and shit.”

“Now you hurt my feelings, princess.”

“I’m just messing with you, Lo’. But I’d be lying if I said I’m not surprised. I really didn’t picture you as the one who would ask a girl on a date. It’s nice.”

“So, is that a yes?”

Quickly, she got on her tiptoes, pulled on his hand to lean a bit to her and she kissed him on the bearded cheek. “Yes.”

When they came back to the prom, they kept some of the distance between them. Kitty was the first to approach them. “Hey, I think the Professor said no alcohol,” she pointed at the flask that Y/N was holding in her left hand.

“Cough syrup,” she said innocently.

Logan had to hold back his laugh. Kitty, on the other hand, shook her head in disapproval. She watched as her friend put the flask into a pocket of her dress. “Sneaky.”

“I told her she’s a bad influence,” Logan commented. That earned him a slap on the shoulder.

Someone’s gentle fingers brushed against her back. “What happened to you?” Ororo’s voice came from behind her. She found the tiny scratches on her back. When she moved her hair to the side, there were more of them.

“Oh,” Y/N waved a hand. “Just slippery grass and I bumped into a tree.”

Kitty made a face and Ororo glared at her too, knowing she was lying to them. Then their eyes were on Logan. “She’s fucking clumsy.”

“Right,” Ororo commented.

“If you’ll excuse me, I am going to the bathroom,” she said. Nothing better came to her mind to get away from that situation. And with her head high, she left her friends and Logan standing there.

Y/N ended up in one of the closest bathrooms where she tried to take a peek at her back, to see how bad it was. She was able to see some scratches on the left side of her shoulder, but it was not that bad. Yes, there were scratches and some blood, but nothing horrible. All she needed was to clean it off with a wet cloth.

Her sigh reverberated through the room. It all kept coming back to her - the way his lips felt, how he kissed her and touched her. How he pressed her against the tree, ready to have his way with her. Fuck, he was packing. She thought they would fuck there, right against the tree, but he didn’t want to. And it all brought a smile to her face.

Y/N had been pining for him for some time now. In her eyes, Logan was the exact opposite of a man that she would date in the past. He was the epitome of a man. She couldn’t count how many times her panties dropped when she talked to him, or when he did something. And those damn claws. Fuck!

After washing her hands, she left the bathroom and headed back to the prom. Maybe she could ask him to dance with her? Would he?

That didn’t happen because Logan was standing at the stairs, waiting.

“Why are you not outside?” she asked.

He reached a hand to her. She eyed him, curious why he did that, but gave him her hand. “Just come,” was all he said.

Logan took her upstairs, all the way back to her room. He was inside maybe twice, never paying her room any special attention until now.

She had a guitar by the table, a queen-sized bed with a night table and a lamp. Her walls were decorated with shelves and books. It was a cosy room, better than his. Y/N opened her mouth to question him. Logan made her sit on the bed. “You have a disinfection?”

She peaked at him through her dark lashes. “Bathroom.”

Logan went to the other door in the room where found a shower, toilet and a sink with cabinets and a mirror. He went to the cabinet under the sink where he found a box marked a first aid kit.

He sat behind her on the bed, brushing her hair away from her shoulders so he could have a peek at her exposed back. Without words, he cleaned the tiny scratches from the tree. “Shit, there’s some wood inside this one,” he cursed once he found one wound that needed more treatment.

He found tweezers that helped him get out the piece of wood. She didn’t even flinch. Once he was done, he put the first aid kit back in the bathroom.

Y/N stood up and waited for his return. “How will I repay you, my knight in shining armour?”

His actions spoke louder than words. He grabbed her by the neck and pulled her close to his body, his lips back on her as they were over half an hour ago. Her hands removed his black jacket and let it fall on the floor.

“You look so hot in a suit,” she mumbled between the kisses. “I could eat you up.”

He chuckled. “I think that is my line, princess. Now, tell me, how much do you like that dress?”

Y/N stopped everything she was doing and took a step back. “Oh no no, do not touch the dress with your claws. It was fucking expensive and I like it.”

That playful grin on his face would be her death. He sat down on her bed and took off the tie. “Take it off for me, now, or,” he looked down at his fist as his three adamantium claws came out of his skin. “Or there will be no dress left.”

Her fingers found the tiny zipper on her side. Y/N’s eyes never left his dark eyes, boring into them as she teasingly took off the dress as he commanded her. His claws were gone once he stood in front of him only in her red thong.

“Fuck, princess, look at you.” He ogled her from head to toe, his eyes lingering longer on her perky breasts. Her body had beautiful curves that he dreamt about for a long time.

Y/N was quick to get to him and sat on his lap, pressing her pussy against his hard bulge. Her hands grabbed the middle of his black button-up. He couldn’t let a sound out, she ripped the buttons, exposing his hard-toned chest.

“How is that fair?” he snarled.

“And how is it fair that I am almost naked here while you sit here, all comfy and clothed?” she cocked her eyebrow. She took the piece of clothing off him completely, admiring everything and anything on him - those toned arms and shoulders, that chest, and fuck, even though he was a hairy man, she was into it. Her fingers dug into his skin, leaving deep red marks on his chest.

His lips found her neck in delicate kisses that he pressed to her skin, trailing down to her collarbones until he found her chest and latched onto her nipples hungrily. “These tits were made for me.” He bit onto one, making her yelp.

Y/N’s hands went between their bodies, finding his belt and zipper, trying to get inside of them hurriedly. “Impatient?” he asked.

“Yes.”

She heard his dark chuckle that then turned into a moan once her hand got inside his trousers and grabbed his length. “Princess, don’t be a tease.”

With his help, the rest of his clothes were gone. Logan lay down on her bed, watching her crawl on top of him. Her breasts were right at his face. One piece of clothing was separating her sweet cunt and his cock and that was the damn thong. One of his claws got out of his hand and precisely tore the piece of fabric without hurting her. He took the damaged panties away and threw them on the ground.

“Now, are you gonna stare at me or are you gonna ride me with that sweet pussy of yours?” His hands then rested on her thighs, lazily travelling up to her sides and then to her gorgeous breasts, squeezing them. His fingers tweaked her hard nipples, making her moan for him.

“Come on, princess, be a good girl and ride me.”

Y/N grabbed his cock and aligned it with her entrance, carefully sinking onto it. Her mouth was agape as she kept her eyes locked onto his one. “Fuck, so thick.”

First, the pace was slow. She tried to get used to his girth. After a few thrusts, she sped up. Logan’s hands grabbed her and they entwined their fingers. “Shit, sweetheart, you squeeze me so well. Your pussy is amazing.”

“Logan,” she said his name hoarsely.

He quickly lost his patience and switched them. Y/N landed on her bed with a huff and he entered her before she realised what happened. The room filled with skin-on-skin slapping sounds. He fucked her rough and fast. Y/N’s nails dung into the skin on his back. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t hurt him.

His left hand went between their bodies until he found her clit and toyed with it. “Fuck, Y/N. I’m going to cum.”

“Yes,” she moaned. “I’m s-so close. Fuck.”

“Come on, cum for me, princess. I wanna feel you.” He put her right leg over his shoulder and got deeper than before. “I can feel you’re close. Come on, cum for me.”

It took a few more thrusts and some strokes on her clit when she climaxed. The way her cunt squeezed his cock brought him to his peak fast and he spilled inside her, coating her walls white. “Ah!”

“Fuck, fuck,” he cursed as his thrusts got sloppier, slower. He stopped once her pussy stopped spasming and his release ended.

Their breaths were heavy. Her chest was heaving and it was a beautiful sight to watch her breasts move in front of his eyes. He latched onto one of the nipples, sucking on it. “Fucking beautiful.”

Then their lips connected in a heated kiss, tongues battling. She giggled when he looked back at her. “Damn,” she whispered. “That was hot. Maybe…”

“Maybe what?” Logan was curious. He rolled next to her side.

She snuggled closer to him, resting her head on his chest, breathing in his scent. “How about,” she started slowly. “Tomorrow, after you take me for a ride on your bike, I ride you on your bike?”

He laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You will be the death of me, princess.”

#Logan Howlett x reader #Logan Howlett x female reader #Wolverine x reader #Wolverine x female reader #Logan Howlett x reader smut #Wolverine x reader smut #Logan Howlett fanfiction #X-Men fanfiction

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devotedlyandrogynousyouth · 23 days ago

Text

Sugar, Baby

Chapter Two: Company

| Part 1 |

Bruce Wayne x Sugar Baby! Reader

Yayyy finally made a par two!!

WC: 2000~

Summary: Bruce? As in Bruce Wayne? At the bar you work at? Surely that can't end well. But maybe it won't hurt as he slides a black card over to you...

Taglist: @itgirlofthe21stcentury

It had been nearly a week since the Wayne Gala, and you’d mostly convinced yourself that your brief encounter with Bruce Wayne was just that—brief. A momentary brush with Gotham’s elite, a funny story to tell later.

Except you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Not just about him—though, admittedly, that was a factor—but about the way he had studied you. Bruce Wayne wasn’t just making small talk that night. He had been assessing you, the way you imagined he did with board members, potential investors, or maybe even enemies. That kind of attention from someone like him? It was unsettling.

Still, you had more immediate concerns. Rent was due soon, and you had an essay deadline looming. You didn’t have time to dwell on enigmatic billionaires.

You worked at a downtown bar most nights, the kind of place that sat on the border between upscale and dive, where Gotham’s more interesting characters passed through. The well-dressed corporate types from Midtown came in for post-work drinks, but so did struggling artists, tired students, and the occasional low-level criminal trying to lay low. You liked it here. It felt real.

It was just past ten when you saw him.

Bruce. Fucking. Wayne.

You almost dropped the glass you were drying.

He was out of place in the best possible way—standing near the entrance in a crisp navy suit that probably cost more than your yearly tuition. He scanned the bar, eyes locking onto you the second you met his gaze. There it was again, that sharp focus, like he was peeling back layers just by looking at you.

Your heart kicked up, but you forced yourself to play it cool. You had dealt with worse than a billionaire with a dangerously good jawline.

He made his way to the bar, sliding into an empty stool directly in front of you.

“My favorite journalism student,” he greeted, that smirk just barely touching his lips. “Nice place.”

You arched a brow, reaching for a glass. “Didn’t think this was your scene, Bruce.”

His smirk deepened. “I like to broaden my horizons.”

You exhaled a laugh. “Right. What can I get you?”

“The same as last time,” he said. “Old Fashioned. And one for yourself, if you’re allowed.”

You hesitated—drinking on the job wasn’t exactly encouraged—but your boss wasn’t around, and Bruce Wayne wasn’t exactly a regular customer.

You made his drink first, then poured yourself a small glass, leaning against the bar as you took a sip.

“So,” you said, watching him carefully. “I have to ask—why are you here?”

He tilted his head slightly, considering you. “I had a good drink. Good conversation. Thought I’d see if I could get both again.”

You let out a soft huff of amusement. “You don’t exactly need to come here for conversation.”

“No,” he admitted, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “But you interest me.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Does it?” His lips twitched.

“A billionaire taking a sudden interest in a broke journalism student? Feels like the start of a very bad idea.”

Bruce leaned in slightly, just enough to make the space between you feel smaller, more charged. “I like bad ideas.”

Your stomach did something annoying. You took another sip to distract yourself.

“So,” you said, shifting the conversation. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not just here for drinks and conversation?”

Bruce’s gaze remained steady. “Maybe I like investing in things that interest me.”

Your brows furrowed. “Investing?”

Without breaking eye contact, he pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and placed it on the bar.

“For the drink,” he said smoothly. “And the company.”

Your breath caught.

“That’s an insane tip,” you muttered.

His smirk returned. “Then consider it a thanks.”

You hesitated before picking up the bill, feeling the weight of the situation in a way that had nothing to do with money.

Bruce Wayne wasn’t just being generous. He was making a statement.

And you weren’t sure what that meant for you.

—

Bruce became a regular.

Not in the traditional sense—he didn’t come in every night, or even on a set schedule. But every couple of weeks, he would show up, always at the same spot at the bar, always asking for an Old Fashioned. And always, without fail, leaving absurdly large tips.

At first, it unsettled you.

Why you? What did he get out of this?

But over time, the nerves gave way to something else.

Anticipation.

You started looking forward to the nights he showed up, the way his gaze settled on you like you were the only person in the room. You liked the way he listened when you spoke, the way he actually seemed to care about your thoughts. And okay, you definitely liked the way he smirked when you called him out on his bullshit.

It was dangerous, how easy it became.

And the tips? They only got more ridiculous.

At first, it was just hundreds. Then he started slipping you five hundred-dollar bills. Once, he left a whole grand after you called him out for his terrible whiskey choices.

“I feel like I should be reporting this on my taxes,” you joked one night, holding up the absurdly large tip.

Bruce just chuckled, sipping his drink. “Consider it a scholarship.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. You’d be lying if you said the money wasn’t helping.

Rent was easier. Tuition was less terrifying. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you could breathe.

But then, one night, he changed the game.

It was late. The bar was quieter than usual, most of the customers already gone. You were wiping down the counter when Bruce placed a black card on the bar.

Your heart skipped. “What’s this?”

“A more efficient way to handle things,” he said casually. “Use it for whatever you need. Rent, tuition, books.”

You stared at him. “Bruce.”

He met your gaze, completely unreadable. “Think of it as an investment.”

You swallowed hard. You weren’t stupid. You knew what this looked like.

“What do you want in return?” you asked, voice quieter than before.

Bruce smirked. “Just your company.”

You should have said no.

You should have.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you reached for the card, your fingers brushing his as you took it.

Masterlist

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dolphin-diaries · 29 days ago

Text

Detrans/Uncis (Part 2)

Originally published on Dolphin Diaries.

My first steps on a detransition journey were underscored by a peculiar mantra: “but I’m not detransitioning though.” I don’t feel like a man, so I’m not a trans man, but I’m still taking hormones, so I’m not detransitioning. I’m getting laser, but I’m not doing anything to my voice—hold on, actually I am. I’m lowering my dose of testosterone, actually, but I’m still taking it, and it’s not like I’m a woman. Only I want to be gendered by strangers as a woman, but that’s different. Actually I’d hate to have any further changes from T, so I’m not taking it at all—but I’m still not detransitioning though. Actually, could you speak of me as she? And her, too? No detrans though.

At a certain point it started to approach total absurdity. My friends and loved ones, well-versed in the queer gender soup, said nothing of it, but I am myself strongly averse to repression, denial, and self-deceit. So I was the first to say I was wrong. The first to say, “I am, though.” And at no point, from the beginning to the end of my epistemic conga, have I encountered any meaningful pushback from my close circles. No implications of betrayal, no cold shoulders, no silence when I walk in the room.

So why the mantra, then? Why was I so averse to the idea?

A large part of that was the politicisation of detransition; how indelibly it is associated with the Right—I said as much in my first essay. On a personal level, though, it was trivial to realise I wasn’t doing a grift. I was confident I hadn’t been brainwashed into anything. I’ve never had any meaningful contact or affiliation with any sort of gender-conservative person or movement.

And I did encounter pro-trans detransitioners. Some of them sniped back at the right-wing ones, some merely told their stories independently. Regardless, they—just like me—did not receive great or meaningful pushback from their trans friends, nor even strangers. They weren’t always understood or necessarily celebrated, but they were taken at their word, believed, and more or less respected as much as any gender deviant. Before I had any thoughts to detransition myself, I had seen detrans people beyond the pale of the rhetoric multiple times, and…

And I hated them. They made my skin crawl. I was never rude or condescending, and as those encounters were online-only, it was trivial to maintain respect and civility. I also realised I had no real cause to hate them. They’d done nothing wrong, nothing wrong at all. It was easy enough to say that in principle, when they talked in the abstract, but when they spoke of their bodies, their lives, the flesh and blood of it all, I felt such visceral revulsion as I might’ve never felt before.

Or have I? Have I known this already, this knee-jerk lip curl, this morbid disgust with another’s aberrant sex? This idea in my mind, spreading like cancer, that these people were wrong? That they’ve violated something inviolable? And how civility and compassion chiselled this violent core into arrogant pity towards an untouchable other?

No, I have known this. And not such a long time ago.

The Body Horror

When I first came out as trans to my university class—cis-majority if not totality, naturally—the perverse fascination with my body was hard to escape. They were mostly polite, of course. My university was very ‘decadent Westian’ (pardon the quasi-inside joke). We were hip with it. Nevertheless—

“It’s okay for you, of course, but if my future children—”

“You mean to say you date women? How do you—”

“You mean to say you date men??”

“I wasn’t looking at you like that in the bathroom—I mean—uh—”

You don’t need to say it outright. Sometimes you don’t need to say a thing at all. I see it. I know.

That’s to say nothing of the doctors’ dehumanising dissection and the conservatives flashing the least flattering post-operative pictures like they’re gore. As a transsexual, you don’t even need dysphoria; you will be informed of your physical monstrosity in great detail and in every possible manner, from the subtlest glance to the bloody megaphone.

You learn to see transsexual bodies this way very young and not voluntarily, but I was not just any random person. I transitioned aeons ago, and I did not find the flesh of my fellow transsexuals a subject of psychosexual fascination anymore. We were just people. I’d learned that.

I thought I did, anyway.

That’s the thing about the biases that systemic oppression seeds and wields. They are, in my experience, nothing less than psychosocial cancers. Leave one cell alive, and they will surely regrow. Maybe into a new shape, maybe into something old, but they will never die left alone.

Although I’d mentally graduated to gender abolition and genderfuckery-as-political-stance, to activism, to gender constructivism and to queering everything, especially feminism, I’d first come to see transsexuality through the lens of the DSM. Not my fault or anything—that’s what was available to me. Transsexual transition, then, was first presented to me as a linear transformation, a path from A to B, at the end of which laid gender nirvana. Or, like, happiness and fulfilment, I suppose. White-people Buddhism was fashionable at that time, so please excuse my French.

So genderfuckery was all well and good, but you know, done respectably. For me, that was performing picture-perfect transsexuality, just a little spiced-up. So long as I still appeared cis. Anything that marked me as ‘clocky’ was unseemly; although I no longer needed to see any doctors about it, I’d been trained to sniff out such features and weed them out for the sake of gaining medical access. But that’s not the only way ‘respectable gender’ is ensured in queer circles. I’ve also observed it to be an absence of transsexuality. That is, gender is to be fucked with in words and pronouns and haircuts and porn—but to transition about it would be kind of gauche, don’t you think? A little gender-conformist?

Different outcome, but for the purposes of this discussion, same principle: it is disgust with transition. Visible transition, obvious transition; transition at all. My case was not altogether different from ideological non-transitioners; it was just modified to accommodate for some alteration of sex.

After nearly a decade of virilising HRT, my detransition wasn’t simply a matter of changing my name and putting on lipstick. That would just make strangers say ‘yas gurl.’ No, if I wanted to live as a woman beyond my immediate social circle, I needed to make more invasive changes. More than that, I wanted those changes. I didn’t merely wish to say I’m a woman—I wanted to look in the mirror and believe it.

The first truth a detransitioner learns is this: to detransition, you must transition again.

Again?!

Oh, it’s not the same as your first time ‘round, sure. Not just because of the difference in desired sex; if you’ve never had your gonads removed and have no prior issues with hormone production, you can simply cease to take HRT and stop depending on the vagaries of medical supplies. Doctors will, generally, be a little more understanding of your desire to change sex. Often, from their perspective, you’re not changing it; you’re fixing it. So if you were allowed to take the so-called ‘cross-sex’ hormones, you’ll probably be allowed the ‘same-sex’ ones. Conversely, because no such thing as a ‘detransition procedure’ usually exists, it’s a dice roll if any surgery will be covered by the state, your insurance, or anything. Yes, you’re ‘fixing’ your sex—but the fact you’ve ‘damaged’ it at all renders you a bit of an unreliable witness to your own mind. A little bit crazy, you could say. Isn’t it all quite literally your own fault?

However, the day-to-day mundanities of detransition would be highly recognisable to any trans person. Indeed, I got all the ideas on how to relieve my gender dysphoria from my transfem friends. I learned of laser hair removal from them, and they advised me on voice training. Some of the professionals that serviced me had no idea I was detrans—how would they? Kind of an odd thing to randomly bring up while getting your beard fried.

‘Detrans woman’ is not a legible social category (nor any other kind of detrans person). People know what these words mean—at least, if they’re up on the latest gender lingo—but they don’t truly know what that looks like. Maybe they imagine a particular grifter when you say ‘detrans,’ maybe it’s just a void—but it’s never you. No one will ever assume that’s what you are.

So how does a detrans woman move through the world? She passes, of course. She is either assumed to be a cis woman, having worked to file off any signs of testosterone’s magic touch, or she stands out with those features. If she transitioned after adolescence, she might have a leg up on passing, but should a stranger’s transvestigation radar starts beeping, they will surely scan her for other hints. Sometimes they’ll find what was never there, and sometimes they’ll decree a feature that occurs in all women, cis and trans, a sure sign of inborn manhood. I’ve always had a visible Adam’s apple, for instance, but it didn’t use to be proof I was born a man. Now, though, take that and a bad voice day, and I don’t have a leg to stand on.

And if someone decides I don’t belong in a women’s bathroom, do you think it’ll help if I cry I was born to piss here?

Here’s the second truth a detransitioners learns: it doesn’t matter how many times you transition, to what end or for what reason. If you do it at all, you will never be cis again. It’s the real red pill—the one the Wachowski sisters intended, not what the chuds on the internet made of it. Your body, your social and legal history, your continuity of self—it is different now. Not the way it’s supposed to be. Changing sex at all was never meant to be.

Regime and Treachery

Um-actuallying people who think I’m a trans woman will not help me under most circumstances. It won’t help with a strange man in an alley, and it won’t help with an employer that discovers my last manager knew me under a male name. In one case nothing but a good run will help, and in the other—come on now, they won’t think any better of me.

It will not make me cis, and it doesn’t help—under most circumstances.

Detrans women aren’t the only ones which may be assumed for trans women. Cis women that never touched a drop of testosterone get transvestigated too—not nearly as frequently, but it happens all the same, and regularly. The case of Imane Khelif is one that probably jumps to mind first these days, but she is perhaps in the minority of women that never responded to such accusations by loudly proclaiming she is completely and utterly unlike those filthy transsexuals—she is a real woman!

Detrans women have the whole transsexuality thing in common with trans women, of course. But they aren’t quite the only ones—intersex women that were assigned female at birth are also often assumed to be transsexual. They are also subject to severe medical violence and neglect. Some require exogenous hormones to stay healthy. Some wish to take ownership of their body via voluntary sex alteration, for a change. It is rather transsexual-like, all in all.

But yet you will not search long to find similar underbus-throwing. The AFAB intersex woman is not like that trans woman—she deserves gender-affirmative treatment. She’s a real woman. The birth certificate said so.

And so too the detrans woman, despite all her history, despite the indelible mark of transsexuality, looks at the dangling carrot of Real Womanhood—and like a dog, jumps.

She will never be allowed the full extent of it. It is irreversible damage, after all. That’s important. The detrans woman that betrays her sisters—her class, even—must forever cry about the wounds transition left on her, must never heal from them. And trust me, the cis aren’t nice about it behind her back. The detrans woman is promised a shred of cis-ness, of real-ness—but only so long as she divorces herself from all things transsexual. Loudly, repeatedly. The moment she stops, she will be reminded: she too is transsexual. She has seen sex/gender for what it is; her body is evidence. She has eaten of the tree of knowledge. It’s only at the regime’s great mercy that she can peek into Eden—but god forbid, never enter.

Because what would happen if the ‘damage’ wasn’t irreversible? If society allowed the detrans woman to be a woman wholly and totally—its woman, real woman? Why, it would mean sex can be changed without repercussion. It would mean you could leave gender.

It wouldn’t quite mean that trans women are women and trans men are men—it would only allow that your birth sex can be ‘returned to.’ But if even that much was permitted, it would make transition no longer a threat. You could do it and come back just fine, see? What’s there to fear? Why not just try it? And if you can just try it, just leave and come back as you please—how can you force people to obey gender?

It would mean I could opt out of womanhood any time. Of the mandate of reproduction, of subordination, of sexual and domestic servitude—of the constant fight to break free of those things. I could opt out even if I didn’t like being a man. I’d always have one foot back in the door, if I pleased. And that’s the thing about the patriarchy: women must never be allowed to leave. Or to desist, or to fail. For that they must be punished. Want fewer lashes? Kick the weaker bitch out the door.

Cis-ness is a regime. A status quo. To define it merely by the relationship to birth-assigned sex is erroneous—intersexness reveals this, but if you’re the kind of person who thinks the intersex are some sort of rare and bizarre exception (they’re not), perisex detransitioners must surely hammer the nail home. To be cis is not merely to self-identify as the sex on your birth certificate; who’s even looking at those? It is to live in accordance with your biological destiny, and every social law that entails. This destiny is assigned at birth, yes, but it does not end there: it follows you all the way.

Cis-ness is not an identity—it is a reward for doing as you’re told.

The Freedom of Sex

It is obvious, then, why detrans medical care is a pain to get even though you’re complying with your birth sex assignment. That is the true engineer of detrans misery, of dysphoria and resentment. To come to dislike the features you’ve acquired during transition is one thing—but to be prevented from changing them? To be looked at like a lunatic? To not know what to do, because information about de/transition and how it works is so understudied and obscured?

If transition was easy, known, free—more people would detransition, certainly. But that wouldn’t mean much. Because they’d be people like anyone else. Their bodies—transsexual bodies—would be just the same, just as worthy. They would be real.

The implications are even greater than that. Freedom of sex, as Andrea Long Chu puts it, means a freedom to change anything about your sex, in any way, for any reason, without restriction. Not the A->B path I was first taught under the illusion of two wholly distinct, non-intersecting sexes—rather, the tweaking of individual aspects. It is to really examine how sex works and take it apart on your person. It is what some trans people already do, with microdosing and what you might call small acts of detransition. If you don’t like the beard after T, why not zap it off? If you want to be on oestrogen but don’t like the breasts—double mastectomy works just the same regardless of initial sex. The idea of customisable, ‘nonbinary’ transition is one that’s gained prominence in recent years, even as attacks on all transition have exponentially increased.

Linear transition was written in an attempt to enforce a kind of gender austerity. Only those that really need it can get it, and so there must be competition, a hierarchy of haves and have-nots. There must be doctors that will prescribe you wrong dosages based on irrelevant research and leave you to wonder why you feel so off. You must not pick and choose the changes you want, because your sex is not for you to decide—it is to be granted to you, justified via a constant defense of self-identification. For the crime of violating sex/gender, your autonomy is branded as harebrained desire until proven otherwise. You’re not allowed to simply want something; you have to need it, hence the attempts to naturalise and essentialise transsexuality—you have to be real, you have to be born with it.

Above all you must be kept in the dark and hurting, so that any time someone suggests anything as ‘frivolous’ as the freedom to have their body as they wish, you snipe back: Shut up, vapid idiot! You’re going to hurt yourself in your stupidity! I’m not like you—I’m the one who’s really hurting!

To look at de/transition from the perspective of liberation is to ask: why? What’s the austerity for? We have the hormones, the surgeries, almost all the treatments we want, and the science isn’t calling it quits tomorrow last I checked. What horrible thing are we preventing by stopping people from doing to their sex whatsoever they wish? Are we running out of gender juice?

But of course, I already told you why. A smarter woman than me has also written extensively why. It is because sex and gender come with a fine print, a set of prescripts, which must be enforced. Irreversible damage to fertile wombs must not be allowed. The pedestal of Man must not be tarnished.

Freedom of sex, then, is the patriarchy’s anathema.

Detransition is part of freedom of sex. To accept acts of detransition as neutral is to allow that changes wrought by transition—just like naturally developed sexual characteristics—can be changed at will. Even disliked. To be free is to embrace the possibility of discontent, too; to allow oneself to do something you may regret later, and to be free to go back. To accept that nothing is final. Finality is one of the ways transition is made more difficult than it needs to be: you must be sure, must be happy with what you get—or else, it is argued, you never had a real need for it anyway.

That is plainly not true. I know that from my own example.

Transition served me well way back when. I do not know of an extant, realistic alternative that could’ve helped me as effectively. I was happy with my transition for years, and suicidally discontent before then. So who cares if transitioning proved in the end an imperfect permanent solution for me? Why must transition be held to perfection and permanence before it is allowed? It worked and it saved my life—who are you to tell me I shouldn’t have done it? And who are you to hold me hostage to it?

What if, even now, I enjoy that I’ve been constructed rather than simply born?

Not So Fast

Now that’s a nice thought, isn’t it? I can feel the gender nirvana coming on already.

Unfortunately, it can’t be that simple. To dream of a world you want, you must first contend with the world you already live in.

There’s a particular aspect that’s been largely absent from my essays so far: forced detransition and conversion therapy. In part, that’s because I argue from the perspective of a willing detransitioner with no shadow of a right-wing past or influence; a viewpoint which is lacking in the public conscience. Plenty of trans writers and thinkers already staunchly argue against forced detransition. They omit the detrans by virtue of either irrelevance or ignorance or both. When voluntary detransition is mentioned, people tend to merely point out there’s not that many of us. In actuality there’s very little statistical research to give definitive numbers, but it’s certainly true we are the minority of transitioners, and the absence of statistical evidence only further confirms: the Right are pulling numbers out of thin air.

Except, saying that is missing the point. The Right never cared about numbers. Or facts. Or logic. Their argument is that willing detransition ought to be the nail in the coffin for transition. If you retort that, um actually, there’s only half as many willing detransitioners, you still concede we exist and are a contradiction to you. That is enough to prove the Right’s point. I, therefore, wish to argue we are not a contradiction to trans rights or existence, but in fact on a continuum with both. That by virtue of our needs and lived realities, we are trans. Differently trans, but trans nonetheless. Some (trans and detrans) may not enjoy that assertion for a number of reasons, but the empirical fact is that we are irrevocably cast out of cis-ness, and we are in need of support structures that are near-identical to those of trans people. If by every function we are trans, then it’s under that name that we should be understood, because it is the only thing that makes sense and yields results.

But.

Detransition is not a neutral act in practice, even if it has the potential to be. Just like transition isn’t. Both are politicised, and the nature of detransition’s politicisation diverges from that of transition quite sharply.

In the current political climate, as trans people are being denied medical care and the anti-trans rhetoric pollutes every information space, this cannot be avoided or denied. Transition is reviled, and detransition is said to be the cure and is wielded as a punishment. Detransition-as-sex-freedom cannot be understood without also grappling with the other two kinds of detransition I distinguish based on motive and emergent needs: forced and coerced.

Forced detransition is the simplest to define. It is detransition that occurs when circumstances necessitate it as the only possible course of action, or it is altogether done unto the transitioner without any pretense of choice. The starkest example is, say, the new law in Florida which forcibly detransitions the incarcerated. But it needn’t be so wholly dystopian to qualify as ‘forced.’ Detransitions due to family or peer pressure, poverty, lack of access, or social isolation are all forced in nature, even if in the most technical sense you made the ‘choice’ to undergo it. If you wish you were still transitioning, it is forced.

Coerced detransition is a grayer area. It is motivated by an individual’s choice—not a lack of one or a pseudo-choice, as above—under circumstances in which transition is possible, but highly discouraged. You will naturally recognise conversion therapy as an extreme example, but it needn’t be so blatant. Often it isn’t.

Say, for instance, your closest circle of friends regards transition as a frivolous neoliberal excess. Or, let’s say, your cis boyfriend is perfectly happy you’re a man now, he swears, but—well, he’s not gay, you know? Just for you. It’s different with you. Except he still treats you the same way he did before your transition—but that’s a good thing, right? Good thing he still wants you at all? He would probably prefer a girlfriend, and he’s never dated men—actually, is this whole thing really that important to you? Aren’t you rushing into things? Do you really know what you want? You don’t mind if he slips up on pronouns when you’re not in the room, do you?

Or maybe your general practitioner keeps insisting any time anything is wrong with you, that it’s the hormones’ fault. The classic ‘trans broken arm’ syndrome. And when something actually might be wrong with the hormones, the solution is always to just stop HRT altogether. And the surgeries—they’re just so dangerous; look at how horrifying post-op pictures are! It’s just biology, just facts, which don’t care about your feelings (but remember: it’s only a fact if it makes you feel worse.)

In other words, the decision to go through coerced detransition is made in a state of reduced agency, often caused by social pressure and/or misinformation about transition. Nothing is explicitly preventing you from doing as you will to your sex—and so it is precisely your will which must be subverted and undermined.

Notice that I make no claim whether detransition is right or wrong for the person in question. Perhaps they would’ve arrived at this decision another way, perhaps not. The point is, they are led to believe detransition is simply more sensible, healthier, better. It is the superior choice—so of course, they make it. In the end, coerced detransition is not truly dissimilar from the forced kind. What merits it separate consideration is that it’s designed to make you relinquish your own judgement, and your very own sense of self. Under such conditions, even if you would’ve ultimately detransitioned regardless, your relationship to your sex/gender is made maladaptive, and your independence as an individual is maliciously compromised.

The needs of coercively and forcibly detransitioned people are closely aligned. The forcibly detransitioned, naturally, require that the circumstance which necessitated their detransition is removed, and that their retransition is facilitated and supported. The coercively detransitioned may or may not require the same thing—some detrans people do, in fact, discover they genuinely desire detransition in less-than-ideal circumstances—but what they certainly need is a pathway to recovery from conversion. They are to be given their agency back, as well as access to accurate information about transition and transitioners, so that they are free to make the choice to retransition or to keep detransitioning as they see fit.

Both cases run counter to detransition-as-sex-freedom, to voluntary detransition—which is to say, a choice made due to a shift in self-perception, under circumstances in which continued transition is unhindered. The needs of a voluntary detransitioner are also starkly different, and most resemble that of a transitioner. A voluntary detransitioner requires a facilitated pathway to sex modification and gender recognition, from hormones to surgeries to legal procedure. It is the same thing for which trans people fight; it need only be recognised that voluntary detransitioners are part of that fight.

Grouping voluntary and involuntary detransitioners under the same umbrella makes little sense. We may superficially share some experiences, but such an equation falls apart from the perspective of rights and needs; it obfuscates motive, absolves abusers and systemic injustice, and it smooths over radical differences in our stories and perspectives. It draws a false equivalence that either condemns voluntary detransition or celebrates forced and coerced detransition, thus making it impossible to either embrace or reject detransition in good conscience. Thus no progress can be made.

In other words, conflation of voluntary and involuntary detransition only works from the cis perspective—from the perspective of the regime, which observes its deviants and wishes them gone, and rejects understanding them on principle. From either the trans or the detrans perspective, it is nonsense.

Except…

How do you know, though? How do you know? How do you know, when everything from your very cradle is telling you trans people are aberrant for existing, and when trans life is so hard? The coercively detransitioned wholeheartedly claim total autonomy; they are not really lying; from a strictly liberal-minded perspective, they are not wrong. How exactly can continued transition be ‘unhindered’ when society is engineered to always make it difficult?

How do you really know it’s your choice and your choice alone?

We all realise the answer: you don’t. You can’t. Not with complete certainty. There’s no such thing as a pure, unadulterated, individual choice, and there’s very rarely such a thing as an unhindered transition.

We live in a world that reviles transsexuality, that denies and despises the mutability of sex and stamps out any proof that gender is smoke and mirrors. The regime of cisheterosexism seeps through every layer of society and through every aspect of life. Purely voluntary detransition is, in the strictest sense, impossible. Sex/gender is a regime, and no act under it is free; all are forced to exist and be legible within its framework, or else be totally exiled. To exist socially is to exist under sex/gender.

This is not whatsoever unique to detransition. Or detrans people, or trans people. Cis women, for instance, must grapple with what it means to be a woman when Woman is defined as subordinate to Man—even as most do not transition about it. So, too, do men grapple with what their gender means when Manhood is defined and enforced via violence towards women, other men, and the gender-deviant. Even the cissexual must contend with the demands placed on their bodies—almost all transsexual treatments originate in cissexual healthcare. There is no exit from this struggle, because patriarchal sex/gender is constructed to be all-encompassing and mutually exclusive. Woman is everything Man isn’t, and vice versa; never the twain shall meet, and no stone will they leave unturned. No matter what you do, it will be sexed, it will be gendered, and though the conclusion will shift from occasion to occasion, in any particular instance it will allow for no ambiguity. Even when someone yells at you on the street, “Are you a chick or a dude?!”—that is not ‘ambiguity.’ It’s just a longer version of a slur.

Similarly, this is not the first (nor the last) time when sex/gender alteration has been contorted and weaponised against transsexuality—that is, sex-mutability’s most blatant, most acute manifestation. The Cass Review has notably cited the existence of non-transitioning nonbinary individuals as ‘proof’ transition must be curtailed:

“Secondly, medication is binary, but the fastest growing group identifying under the trans umbrella is non-binary, and we know even less about the outcomes for this group. Some of you will also become more fluid in your gender identity as you grow older. We do not know the ‘sweet spot’ when someone becomes settled in their sense of self, nor which people are most likely to benefit from medical transition. When making life-changing decisions, what is the correct balance between keeping options as flexible and open as possible as you move into adulthood, and responding to how you feel right now?”

Doubtless, the Gender Criticals wish the nonbinary non-transitioner to be as non-existent as their more deviant sibling. But while a greater deviant still exists, those that happen to be more acceptable, more assimilate-able, are called upon to do the one thing they’re good for:

Kick the weaker bitch out.

Such too is the final fate of detransitioners under the patriarchal regime. They are to be the knife in the back of their siblings, and when those are gone, they will find their own backs perforated.

So far I have provided eloquent arguments towards clear and singular conclusions—at least, I hope you’ve found me eloquent and clear. Today, on this matter, I offer no such thing. I have nothing to offer but this: so long as transition is reviled, so long as the transsexual are persecuted in any manner at all, there is no freedom of sex and there is no neutrality. Insofar as this pertains to detransition: so long as the transsexual are persecuted, hated, and forced into obscurity, we are likewise bound to their persecution, hatred, and abandonment. So long as that holds, voluntary detransition can never be free.

What Now?

I know. I’m a killjoy. It’s a fate all serious anarchists and college dropouts must contend with: if we’re really sincere about what we think, the mood will be thoroughly murdered.

The fight is clear. The fight is needed. And, the fight is hard. But there is life to be lived in the meanwhile, and it’s worth living even if we don’t see a victory during our time. Total certainty may be impossible and foolish to seek—but you have to make choices anyway. Doing nothing is merely choosing passivity and inertia; you face the consequences either way.

So I ask again: how do you know?

If you’re someone contemplating detransition, here’s the second best thing I can offer: have the courage, the self-insight, and the compassion to face yourself and be honest. Have the intelligence and the disobedience to measure what you’ve been told about transition and transsexuality against the things you have seen and experienced. Have the audacity to be wrong, to make mistakes as many times as you need. Have the pride to ask for better things than you are offered. Have the humility to not think yourself exceptional. Above all, never relinquish the responsibility over your life and your choices to anyone or anything else. No, no one else knows any better. No, there is no easier way.

The first best thing I can offer—to anyone, detrans or not—is to tell you how I knew. In the end I speak from my own experiences, and so it’s only fitting that the message I broadcast is incomplete without a degree of testimony.

Oh, it is to my chagrin, believe me—well, kind of. For all that I love attention and getting told I write oh so powerfully well, a part of me also detests personality pieces. I’m just one woman; I don’t mean much; I shouldn’t mean much. But you must’ve wondered, right? Especially if you don’t recognise yourself in me. I’ve spoken briefly about aspects of my de/transition, and let’s say you took all that for granted, but you must’ve wondered: how did I get here in the first place? How did it feel? How does it feel? Really, truly, how? And why?

I don’t like personality pieces because I think they mine for compassion. That can be a catalyst for a great many things, but just as often I’ve had people treat me with total nicety and then vote for a politician that would kill me, or exile a child that used to be me. Compassion is common, human, and incredibly cheap.

It is also required for kinship. For comparison, for legibility. And one of the issues that plagues detransitioners is illegibility. Silence. A lack of reference by which to see yourself. Community is best known by example.

So an example I shall provide. Next time.

Recommended Reading

On the freedom of sex: Andrea Long Chu, The Right To Change Sex.

On the nature of sex/gender hierarchy within the patriarchy: Talia Bhatt, Understanding Transmisogyny, Part 1.

On the mechanisms of gender-conservatism among women: Andrea Dworkin, Right-Wing Women.

#transfeminism #detrans #detransition #material feminism #sex is a social construct

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jewish-kulindadromeus · 27 days ago

Text

I may or may not have an extremely… controversial, I think… essay in my head about how by ignoring the place anti-Jewishness has held in society and history and the evolution of oppression, and by not centering the deconstruction of that in liberational movements said movements were doomed to fail from the start.

If you think this is worth me writing when I have the time and spoons, chime in.

Yes, I know I need to finish the porn essay. I’d do that first.

#jumblr #leftblr #liberation #antisemitism #supersessionism

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b3ach-bunn7 · 2 months ago

Text

NONSENSE

You're horrible at technology, and find yourself fliriting with you university's IT customer service.

University!au, noquirk!au, fluff

(side note i love shinsou hitoshi)

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You’re sure your stupid shitty laptop could break world records with how useless and slow it is.

You don’t think you’re much better. You study veterinary medicine so you can name every bone in a cat's ass but it would take you ten years to figure out how to send a Word document to somebody. The only up to being so horrible at technology, is your university has an IT customer service.

It’s weird and you don’t really understand how it works, but according to the front page, you can call anytime from 10am to 3am. With the clock ticking minutes before your submission date, and with an essay due tomorrow, you decide it will be less embarrassing to confess you have no idea how to work the university’s submission system, than not submit at all. You dial the number quickly, biting your thumbnail as it rings a couple times before it picks up. The person on the other line barely said their hellos before you started rambling.

“Okay, I know this is really stupid, but I cannot figure out how to attach my submission to this stupid fucking- I mean, this stupid system. And I have like, twenty minutes before my submission date, so I’d really appreciate any help you can give me.”

“Why would you leave your submission so last minute?”

You frown. You’re unaware that customer support could be so sassy. And also attractive. At least his voice is. It’s smooth and soft, and you press your phone closer to your ear to hear him better.

“Uhm. I don’t need the sass, thank you, I need the help.” You drawl, clicking at your laptop aggressively.

There’s a little chuckle of amusement on the other end of the line. “Apologies, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?”

“Would you prefer sir?”

Your face twists in annoyance. “I’d prefer you to help me.”

“Alright, alright. Okay, so enter the module the work is for, scroll to the bottom.” He pauses slightly so you can follow his instructions.

“Okay.”

“Then click the three dots on the top left. Where it says enter, click that and select your file, then submit.”

“Oh. Why doesn’t the button say submit. Instead of fucking enter.” You grumble, quickly attaching your work and handing it in.

“Not sure. I’ll let the university know.” He says, faux sympathy coating his voice.

“That’d be nice.” You glanced at your phone. You’re not sure what exactly happens now.

“So. Is that it?”

“Is what it?”

“Do I just. Hang up? Now that you’ve helped me?”

You can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks again. “Unless you wanna keep me company for the rest of my shift?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

You hang up, trying to ignore the small smile on your own face as you do it. You don't have to miss him for long though, because you find yourself calling them back only a few days later after the wifi in your room refuses to work.

You turn it off, then on. You carry your laptop all around your flat and hold it up to the ceiling knowing it won’t make a single difference. You ask your roommate and she is having no issue. It’s only when you’re about two seconds from snapping your laptop in half before you realise you’re not even connected. And after you find out your roommate is fine once more, you find yourself scrolling through your call history to find the IT number.

“UA University IT Services, how can I help?”

You gape. “It’s you again!”

“Hey, it’s submission girl.” He grins. “You forget it’s called enter again?”

You roll your eyes. “Ha ha. I’m not calling for your horrible comedy, I'm calling because my WiFi isn’t working. You can help me with that, right?”

He groans into the phone. “Do I have to?”

“Yes you have to. It’s your job, IT guy.”

“I suppose. Since you asked me so nicely.”

You sit up in your bed. “Okay. What should I do?”

“Are you sure it’s not just the WiFi being shitty?” He asks.

You hum questionably. “No, I don’t think so. I asked my roommate and she said that hers is fine. And it’s also saying disconnected.”

You pause for a minute. “Wait, how do you know the WiFi is shitty?”

He snorts a laugh. “I’m a student too, idiot. I have to deal with shitty wifi as well.”

“Oh.”

You’re not shocked per say. He certainly doesn’t sound like a middle aged man you’d imagine working in IT. It’s nice to confirm though. And the fact that he is probably around your age means you can keep finding his voice hot.

“What, do I sound that old?”

Definitely not. “Yeah.”

“Shut up. You sound worse.” He mumbles and you tut.

“Horrible customer service. I’m filing a complaint.”

A small laugh is heard from the other line. “I’d rather you didn’t. Rent is not cheap here.”

You lay back on your bed, dragging your laptop up on your knees. “You live in the student dorms?”

“Well, duh. I am a student, after all.”

You roll your eyes. “What year are you?” “Second.”

“Hey, me too! How old are you?” “Should I be concerned by these questions?”

“Not if you answer.”

He replies that he’s nineteen, just like you. You wonder if you’ve seen him around before. Maybe he’s even in the same course as you. You could ask for his name, but you think that might be a little weird. That, and you sort of love the mystery around the man. Who knew being so useless at technology would lead to such great things?

Your laptop flickers off, and it’s only then you remember that you called him for a reason. You tap the keyboard and it lights back up, and your anger flares up once more. You huff, and IT guy seems to remember why you called too.

“Right, your wifi. You said it’s working for your roommate?” He asks.

“Yeah. And it’s working on my phone, it’s just my laptop.”

He hums, and you can hear the faint sound of clicking on the other line. “What building are you in?” You raise an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned by these questions?”

“Not if you answer.”

You smile. “I’m in 4A.”

He takes another few seconds, and you lean your head back on your bed as you wait for him to say something.

“Alright. Your password should be, ‘uab4a’. You wanna try type that in?”

You groan, sitting up again. “I have, like six hundred times. But okay.” You huff, doing it once more.

Nothing. You sigh, defeated. All you want to do is watch some Netflix.

It takes about five tries before IT guy finally starts to get stressed out with you. He tells you to click different things, turn your laptop on and off, restart it. You follow all his instructions to no avail, and you shake your head.

“You know what, maybe I’ll just watch Netflix on my phone.” You sigh, said phone now on speaker and thrown on your bedsheets.

IT guy tuts. “None of that talk. I just don’t understand. We’ve tried literally everything. The only way I-”

Suddenly the other line goes quiet. You grab your phone to check he didn’t hang up and you see that it’s now been 18 minutes of you two on the phone together.

“Why have you gone all quiet?”

“Is your caps lock on?”

You bark a laugh. “Right. Like I’m that stupid to-”

You look down. The little light next to your capslock button is flashing, and your face heats red and IT guy starts cackling down the other line. You write the password once more, in lower case this time, and you let your face fall in your hands at the sign of four wifi bars flashing back at you.

“Oh my god.” You mumble, and IT guy just keeps laughing.

“Oh- Oh my god, you idiot.”

“Shut up! I dont- How did I not realise?” You cry, slamming your laptop shut.

IT guy takes a deep breath. “I really don’t know.”

You shake your head, putting the phone back up to your ear. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.” You mumble.

“Aw, don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I think you’re the only person that calls this line, anyway.”

You decide to ignore the nickname, and the tingle it leaves in your gut, and nod. “Good, then. I’m keeping your job for you.”

“So kind. Alright, go watch your show.”

“Night, IT guy.”

“Goodnight.”

Over the next two weeks, you end up calling a handful of times. Your password needs resetting, you accidentally deleted a file. Each inane task ends up with the two of you sitting on the phone for ages afterwards. You learn that he’s an insomniac, and that’s why he always works the night shift. He also lives in building 5B, which is about a ten minute walk from your place. The fact he’s so close, that you could go see him right now, taunts you in the back of your mind everyday. The fact that he was in your university, that he could be your classmate or someone walking around campus.

But, like all things, your horrible internet habits mellow out. After a few days of no problems, you find yourself missing him. You’ve only spoken a handful of times, but he’s funny. He’s sarcastic and a little mean, but in a good way, a way that makes you a little giddy. And of course, now that you want issues, it’s so much harder for you to find some.

Over wine poured in mugs and reruns of you confess to your roommate your situation. She’s a little skeptical of the lack of identity, but she thinks you should just call him again. It couldn’t hurt, right? Worse case scenario, you hang up and the two of you never have to speak again. But best case scenario, you can have a conversation that’s actually about something meaningful. And you can get called sweetheart again.

It takes another two days for you to build up the courage, despite your friend’s support. You wait until it’s late, remembering that he told you he works the night shift, and anxiously dial the number.

“UA University IT Services, how can I help?” His voice sounds bored, automated, but you recognise it immediately.

“Hey, IT guy.”

You hear a shuffle on the other end. “Hey, it’s my favourite customer.”

“It’s me.” You say nervously.

“So, what is it today? WiFi on the fritz again?” He teases.

It takes a second for the words to get out. “Uh, no, I. I actually don’t need help with anything today.”

“Okay. So what’s the call for?”

“I just wanted to talk to you.”

Silence. Oh god. You immediately cringe, and you are never listening to your roommate again, because she’s always wrong and stupid.

“Really?” He says quietly.

You swallow. “Really really. Don’t sound too excited.” You joke and he laughs.

“Trust me, I am. I wanted to talk to you again too, but I had no way to. The numbers on our end don’t get saved after every call, so. I was waiting for you.”

You perk up at his words. “Really?” “Really really. I also couldn't ask around. I doubt you go by submission girl in your everyday.”

You walk into your room, hopping into bed. You lay down on your stomach, and place your phone in front of you, resting your face on your arms.

“No, not particularly. Wouldn’t it be weird, though? If we actually knew each other in person this whole time and we never knew?” “Nah, I doubt it. Think I’d remember a pretty voice like yours.”

Your face flushes. “Shut up. ” You say, pressing your palms to your cheeks to cool you down.

He snorts a laugh. “What do you study?”

“Veterinary medicine.”

“Wait, that’s sick. Do you get to see cats?”

You grin. “Yes! I volunteered at a shelter last summer, they were so cute.”

He hums. “I love cats. I have one, you know.”

You eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Here? On campus? Isn’t that against the rules?”

“Nobody knows about her. We won’t get caught/ She's a good girl, she isn't loud or anything. And my roommate in under sworn secrecy.” He says.

Good girl. There's no way he isn’t talking like that on purpose. You nod your head even though he can’t see you.

“Okay, and what if she came to live with me?” You ponder, and he scoffs.

“I’m not co-parenting my cat with you.”

You’re lucky enough that your room faces the setting sun and now, a soft orange glow covers your room. It’s just cold enough that you’re wearing a hoodie and your fluffiest socks, but your window is still open to freshen the air. There’s a vanilla scented candle on its last life on your bedside table, and you prop your phone up against it and lean back in your bed.

“I could report you, you know. They’ll kick you out the uni.”

IT guy pouts. “You don’t want that to happen. Then you’ll never see how beautiful I am in real life.”

You snort a laugh. “Well, what do you look like? So I know what to avoid on campus.”

He hums thoughtfully for a moment. You yourself have spent countless minutes wondering. Is he tall? Short? Blonde, or brunette, or maybe he’s bald. You have no idea.

“Well. I’m like, 6’1.”

“Yum.”

“Shut up.” He chides, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “And I have like. Kind of long hair. And I always look sleep-deprived, 24/7.”

“Night shifts will do that to you. What colours your hair?”

“Hm. No.”

You protest. “What do you mean no?”

“It’s a dead giveaway! I want to keep some of my mystery.”

He asks you what you look like. You give him the same cryptic descriptions he gave you.

“Wow. I can find you easily now.” He drawls and you grin.

“No matter. We’ll meet one day.” You say.

The two of you end up staying on the phone for hours. It’s unfair how easily you find things to talk about. He tells you about his course, Psychology, and you listen as he rambles in your ear about studies and experiments. As it gets later his voice gets deeper, lacing deliciously with sleep as his voice rumbles in your ears. The time wears on and your eyes start to blink heavily. You look at the time and it’s been three hours. Unfortunately, you are not like IT guy, and not only do you have classes tomorrow, but you need sleep to function.

You yawn heavily. “Look, I hate to be a buzzkill but I gotta sleep. I’ve got a ten am tomorrow.”

“Boring. But fine. I’ll, uh. Talk to you later.”

You nod sleepily. “Night.”

You reach your phone over to hang up but IT guy’s voice rings out, scratchy through the speaker.

“Wait! I- Can I give you my number?”

That’s enough to wake you up.

You sit up on one elbow, rubbing at your eyes. “Your what?”

“Phone number? It’s those numbers you dial in when you wanna call me.”

“It’s too late for sarcasm.” You scowl.

“Sorry, sweetheart. It’s just I’d like to have a way to communicate with you. And call you. And text, or whatever.”

You smile slightly. “Okay. Yeah, of course you can.”

He reads out his number and you jot it down. He hangs up soon after and you send him a quick text.

September 17th

01:20 am

You: goodnight IT guy 😁

IT guy: Goodnight 💜

Life gets much easier with his phone number. Now you can text him during your lectures, during the walk to and from your work. He calls you during his shifts and you keep him company for as long as you can before you fall asleep. Which you have embarrassingly done a few times.

He sends you pictures of his cat. A cute black one called Pesto. You ask for the meaning behind that and he said he was eating pesto pasta when he got her. There’s one picture where you can see his hands in the corner, fingers long and slender and you have to stop looking before your thoughts take a dangerous turn.

Theres a time, maybe a week in, that things between you shift. The playful flirting is upped, and the conversations between you become more meaningful. You start anxiously awaiting a text back, face flushing at the stuff he says sometimes. Maybe it isn’t the smartest idea to fall for a guy who you don’t really know, but you don't care.

He knows Denki, for one. You’d mentioned the name and he’d perked up. Denki was an energetic guy you met at a house party once. And if IT guy is friends with him then that's more than enough confirmation for you that he isn’t a freak.

You tell him more about what you look like. You haven’t sent a picture, but you think he might know enough to catch you on campus. He still hasn’t told you much else, and he confesses to you one night that he’s nervous about it.

IT guy: I don’t wanna be a buzz kill but I’m scared ur gonna be disappointed

You: literlaly shut up

You: idc if u look like a troll

IT guy: right

You: or an ogre

IT guy: is this supposed to make me feel better

You: YES

You: look what im trying to say that i genuinely don’t care because i like u regardless of all that

You: ur smart and ur funny and ur mean but ina good way

You: and u hace a cute cat called pesto

IT guy: so ur using me for my cat?

You: duh..

It’s been two days since that conversation, and IT guy has been much more active ever since. You’d like to think you’ve given him a little boost of confidence, but you don’t care why it’s happening. You’re just happy that it is.

You wish you could reply to whatever he’s sent you right now, but your boss might fire you if he catches you on your phone again.

You like the coffee shop you work at. It’s a quaint little hippy spot that’s a ten minute walk from your place. The pay is good enough, and you like your coworkers. Specifically Tokoyami. He’s quiet and keeps to himself, but he lets you chatter away to him every time you’re on shift together, and he always has good music recommendations for you.

Today, it’s the both of you on shift. You’re wiping down the coffee machines in the back and you can see him talking to someone at the counter. You can’t hear what they’re saying, but it’s rare you see him talking so animatedly. So you try to get a closer look. And wow.

You don’t know who he’s talking to but you’d like to. His hair is purple. That’s the first thing you notice. It’s a lavender and it looks so soft and fluffy you want to reach out and touch it. His eyes are a deep brown, and there’s heavy bags under them, but they somehow make him look even more beautiful. He’s got a lazy smirk on his face as he says something to Tokoyami and you’re itching to reach forward and eavesdrop. But you can’t. You’re on cleaning duty. Of course you are when a cute guy comes in.

You feel a pang of guilt suddenly, when you remember IT guy. You don’t think you should be thinking about any other guys. Even really cute ones. You get your head down and keep wiping. It’s only a moment later when you hear a crash and your head shoots up. Something happened out in the shop, and a moment later Tokoyami pops his head in the kitchen.

“Someone spilled some shit on the floor. Can you take Shinsou?”

Shinsou. Tokoyamis told you about him before. A friend from university, or something like that.

“The purple haired guy?”

“Yep.”

“Gosh, the famous friend I’ve heard so much about. You never mentioned he’s so cute.” You wiggle your eyebrows and he rolls his eyes at you.

“Yeah, sorry but. He’s got a little girlfriend texting thing going on.”

You tell him you were only joking and he just pushes you out to the front. You peek a look at Shinsou and he’s looking off into the distance. Deliciously so.

You check his order and it’s just a black coffee. Simple enough. You make quick work of the drink, humming something under your breath as the machine whirls to life. You write his name on the cup in sharpie, and fill it up, pressing the lid and slipping on a cover so he doesn’t burn his hands.

You walk up to the counter. “Hiya. You’re Shinsou? Tokoyami’s friend? He’s mentioned you before. All good things.” You smile as you slide the drink over.

And Shinsou looks back at you like you’ve got two heads. Or like you’re the most shocking thing he’s ever seen in your life. You step back a bit, slightly nervous at the shocked expression on his face.

“Is everything okay?” You ask, your smile falling a little.

“No. I mean yes! It’s-“

And it’s as he’s stuttering through his words you hear it. That voice. That same deep, smooth voice you’ve been flirting with over the phone. And you’re sure your face now looks like Shinsou is the most shocking thing you’ve ever seen in your life. Your face heats up and he doesn’t look shocked for much longer because that same unfairly attractive smirk graces his face.

He leans forward slightly. “Is this submission girl in the flesh?”

“Oh my god. IT guy?”

His smirk widens into a grin. “I go by Shinsou, but. You can call me that too.”

You roll your eyes to the side but you can’t help but keep them on him, an incredulous look on your face. “You were worried for us to meet? You’re fucking hot.” You say.

And he looks even better when the tops of his cheeks dust the slightest red. You smile, leaning forward on the counter.

“Thank you. And you’re beautiful.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Even in my gross work apron?”

“Especially in your gross apron, sweetheart.”

You feel like giggling like you’re fourteen with a crush again. You brush a lock of hair behind your ear.

“You’re not working tonight, right?” You ask.

He shakes his head and purple locks of hair dance around his face. Slender fingers grab the cup and take a sip.

“Perfect. We’re going out.”

Shinsou tilts his head to the side. “Shouldn’t I be asking you out? Seems much more traditional that way.”

“We met on our uni's customer service number. I don’t think anything about this is traditional.”

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

guys i LAAAAUUUVVVVV shinsou and like he does not get enough attention or love or fics....... it makes me wanna scream

also this nearly took a steamy turn... with that cellular device.... but i did not because i cba

also i noticed that jason todd fics do so wel compared to my other stuff?? maybe cause hes not as popular but i will keep that in mind my people.

i hope u all enjoyed this! <3

#oneshot #fluff #b3ach bunn7 #shinsou hitoshi x reader #hitoshi shinsou #shinsou hitoshi #mha #mha shinsou #mha shinso hitoshi #bnha #bnha shinsou

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hxlxnaaa · 2 months ago

Text

𝐳𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 ─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─ 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐬

★ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: unrequited love manifests itself as a beautiful disease

★ 𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: first-person pov, university au, hanahaki disease, ANGST with no happy ending

★ 𝐰𝐜: 2k

★ 𝐚/𝐧: zayne, i'm so sorry </3

Google Search: Why am I throwing up flowers??????

Hanahaki Disease (花吐き病 (Japanese); 하나하키병 (Korean); 花吐病 (Chinese)) is a disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings, or when the victim dies. The flowers can now be surgically removed, but all feelings towards the beloved will dissipate.

I already knew what it was. Everyone does. From the first tulip petal I coughed out while working on my essay, to the bouquet that came up from my lungs, covered in blood, just days later.

It was progressing rapidly as the days went on, and everytime I took a breath my lungs would constrict; the vines curling around them, crushing my breathing ability, and my heart.

At first, I tried to ignore it. I’d go out with friends and attempt to go to class, but I felt embarrassed. Ashamed, even. I could feel their eyes on me, watching as I tried to smother my chokes in the middle of a lecture, only to have to dismiss myself to throw up a rose in the hallway.

It’s not like I could go through campus and see him, the one who gave me this. I ignored his calls, ignored his texts. Not that they came often anyways.

‘Are you okay?’

No, Zayne, do I look like I’m okay? I’m sitting in a pile of flower petals and my own blood on my bathroom floor.

Zayne. He was my childhood best friend, and growing up it always felt like I had to fight for an ounce of his attention. He was top of the class in highschool, popular with all the girls for being smart, stoic, and undeniably sexy. Not once did he entertain any of them, and it made them want him so much more. I was excited for college, thinking I could finally have him to myself, without feeling like I was sharing him with the whole school and his extra curriculars. I knew realistically he’d still lack the time for me, studying biology to go to med school, become a doctor, follow his dreams; and I would never be one to step in the way of that. I knew my place. I was just his best friend. I was aware there were boundaries I shouldn’t cross.

At least, until now.

I remember the moment it hit me.

After days, weeks of begging him, I had finally convinced the introverted, brooding nerd to go to a stupid frat party. For the laughs, I had said, follow the college stereotypes. ‘You only live once, Zayne!’ He humored me, I’ll be grateful for that. Giving it barely an hour (and a few free drinks), he quickly got sick of everything, inviting me outside. We sat outside on the driveway, the cool air a breath of freshness compared to the stuffy, sweat smell from inside.

A dumb rap song played inside, and Zayne looked over to me.

“Slow dance with me.”

I smiled and rolled my eyes, knowing it was the alcohol talking and not him. He’d regret this in the morning, and I’d get a stern talking to.

He stood, reaching his hand out, narrowing his eyes. I took his hand, figuring the least I could do was indulge in this moment. For once, his attention was fully on me.

I laughed as we swayed together, a muffled remix of a shitty rap song as our only background music. Looking up at him, I questioned when he had grown up so much. His once round, soft face with chubby baby cheeks had matured into a sharp jawline and high cheekbones I thought about grazing my hand over. Behind his eyes wasn’t a childish glint anymore, and I wondered how long ago that disappeared.

Pressing my face into his chest, I only felt us. One of his arms around my waist, the other holding my hand that was pressed against his shoulder. My free hand clutched his black jacket, like he would disappear into thin air, and my grasp was the only thing keeping him here.

To a passerby, it would’ve looked like a movie; two college kids dancing together outside of a frat party, holding onto each other like it’s the end of a world. In the movie, the two best friends would confess to each other the next day. The boy would rush to the girl's door, with a bouquet of flowers, gasping for air, saying “I love you, I love you, I love you, I never realized that I did.”

But only I realized. Only I realized I loved him.

Zayne never showed up on my doorstep the day after he walked me home that night. The only flowers I got were the ones that filled my lungs.

I refused to speak to him. I wasn’t mad at him, why would I be? It was my fault for forgetting my boundaries. For forgetting the rules. For thinking I had a chance since all the little highschool girls no longer followed him around like lost dogs. For once thinking that I was no longer his side character, for thinking maybe I could be his love interest in his story.

What would I say to him if we did speak? I couldn’t hide what was growing inside my chest. I couldn't hide my split lips from the thorns, or my scratchy voice. The dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep, too busy catching up on work from missed classes and not getting a break from coughing or vomiting. Tell him I was sick? He’d scold me for not taking care of myself, that I need to rest and eat properly. I didn’t want to hear it, scolding me for something he caused. His concern would only grow when I would accidentally cough up a flower in front of him.

Would he ask who I loved? Or would he just look right through me and tell me I needed to get the surgery to fix all of this. ‘Nobody is worth that kind of illness’ He’d say bluntly.

I knew I couldn’t face him. Not knowing if he even cares, yet knowing that the way I look at his face is different from the way he looks at mine. How he sees his future with someone who isn’t me.

“What are you going to do?” I was hanging out with a friend from one of my classes, Tara. She was the only person I felt like I could confide in about all of this.

We were hanging out at one of the campus coffee shops when I told her. It was a good day for my lungs, after almost overdosing on decongestants and ibuprofen.

“I’m not sure.” Twirling my spoon in my cup, I avoided her eyes. “It’s not like I can get the surgery. I can’t afford it.”

She looked me up and down, and I felt as if she could see into my soul. She did, Tara was like that.

“Can your pockets not afford it, or can you not afford it?”

Tara was right. I could afford the surgery, my university healthcare covered the surgery since students caught the disease so often;

But my heart couldn’t afford it.

It had gotten so used to loving Zayne, it would feel empty without the compassion for him. I feared I may act differently, lacking all love for him. Would he even notice?

I quickly made up my mind, looking out the window - seeing the person I dreaded the most.

Zayne sat outside in a car on the other side of the street, and I could only tell it was him if I stared hard enough. He was holding the hands of a girl I had seen around campus. Zayne had briefly mentioned her a few times, talking about the assignments they’d work on together, and I never thought too much of it.

He brought their hands up to his mouth, kissing the back of her hand, and each of her knuckles. His face was gentle, a look I had never seen on him before. She giggled, and I wondered what it would be like to be her. To have him stare at me with all the love in the world, to be able to feel his soft pink lips I had stared at so many times, wishing to just touch, to just feel. To be on the receiving side of his care, his compassion, no more blunt harsh responses and stern looks.

“Hey-”

I turned back to Tara, and coughed up a flower on the table, and I choked back a sob. Tears threatened to poor, but I couldn’t embarrass myself more than I had with the bloody peony in front of me. She came around the table and hugged me, and I mumbled through quivering lips, “Can you take me home please?”

That night the girl had made it official that she and Zayne were dating. All the pictures on social media, the hearts that their friends commented on each other's posts. A disgruntled feeling made my chest spasm, any time I’d post a picture of Zayne he’d make me take it down immediately.

The morning of my surgery, I got up and put on my favorite sweater Zayne had gotten me for my sixteenth birthday.

“I got it for you last month when you stared at it in the shop’s window.” He smiled when he saw my excitement, one of the rare moments I could see his lips turn upward.

On my walk to the bus stop, I saw him sitting there. Once he looked up and saw me, he stood.

“Where have you been?” Zayne looked at me and frowned. I suppressed the immediate urge to roll my eyes.

“I never see you around campus. You’re never in your usual spots, and I texted you. I was supposed to help you study. Are you still attending your classes?” Even after not seeing each other for weeks, he still found a way to shame me. His eyes hard, lips pressed together into a tight line, I wasn’t even sure he was happy to see me.

The bus pulled up.

“Are you going to take the bus?” I asked him, avoiding his gaze.

He shook his head, “No, I’m waiting for-”

“Yeah, okay. I have to go.”

“Wait,” I turned around to him. It had begun to snow, so the small flakes sparkled on his head in the early morning light like glitter. He always loved winter, the snow.

He stared at me for a few seconds before shaking his head, changing his mind.

I nodded. “I’ll see you, Zayne.” Saying his name felt like acid on my tongue.

Turning around without taking another look at him, I boarded the bus.

Two days later, when I finally came home from my surgery, the only difference I could tell at first was that my chest didn’t hurt anymore. I could finally breathe again without feeling like I was choking on air. The doctors gave me a bag of all the flowers that they collected out of me, and at first I refused to look at them.

Yet as soon as I got home, I felt compelled to sit on my floor and sort through them.

I made piles of each flower, twirling them in my fingers before placing them in their designated places. Some had long vines that I used to tie them together into a crown.

After I finished, I spotted a jacket under my bed. I pulled it out to see it was the black jacket he wore the night we danced together outside that stupid party.

I took a deep breath of it, wishing I would feel the same way I did that night;

But I felt nothing.

It was now just a jacket. He was now just Zayne.

I put it on, wrapping it tightly around my body. I nestled the flowers along my head like a crown of thorns.

Looking at the girl in the mirror, staring at her with her blood stained flower crown, I broke down.

#zayne x reader #zayne x you #zayne x y/n #love and deepspace zayne #zayne #l&ds zayne #lnds zayne #lads zayne #lads #lnds #lnds smut #lnds fluff #lnds angst #zayne love and deepspace #zayne fluff #zayne x mc #love and deep space #hxlxnaaawrites

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hiiikiko · 17 days ago

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𝖈𝖆𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖎𝖓 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖜𝖊𝖇

[7: ex’s and oh…]

tlou m.list | series m.list

spiderman!ellie x reader

synopsis: could ellie be anymore confusing?? is she even worth the headache? i mean you do have better options…. particularly a blonde who invited you to a ball….. or maybe a particular masked vigilante….?

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“I thought you were over Abby,” Gwen arched her brow as she held up another dress against her and looked in the full length mirror opposite where you sat.

“I-I am.. I think but.. I don’t know, Gwen, I can’t keep waiting around for Ellie to wake up,” you grumbled and shook your head at the dress Gwen was holding, “No, that colours hideous.”

“Yeah.. kinda reminds me of the dress I wore in sixth grade, remember that? I threw up all over it.. ugh, now I’m nauseous,” you giggled as you made your way over to help her look through dresses, “Hey, are you not gonna get a new dress?”

You held up a dress to Gwen, “Nah, Markus is making me one, he said something about me being free advertising, wearing one of his dresses around all those snobs will do his work some justice by bringing attention to it,” you hung the dress back up.

“Ugh, lucky…” Gwen whined and flopped back onto the couch, “Not only are you getting a dress customed made for you, you have one of the hottest girls taking you to the ball? Your life is like a fucking drama, like Gossip Girl or something.”

“Lucky isn’t what i’d call it.”

ELLIE’S POV:

Ellie bit the cap of her pen, trying desperately to pay attention to what the professor was saying but her mind was still reeling from what Jesse had told her a few days prior.

After arriving at Jesse’s apartment, he pulled up a video of another Spider-Man..? They looked very identical to Ellie but.. their suit was all black and looked almost liquid, not to mention this ‘Spidey’ looked bigger.. more threatening than her. News sources around the city were saying that Spidey had wen ‘Back to Black’ which she did appreciate the pun but it didn’t make sense at all because she had never owned a black suit previously and on top of that, this Spidey seemed to be better than her.. they were stronger, faster but at the same time.. they were rougher and seemed almost animalistic in their movements.. not to mention, they looked a little too familiar for Ellie’s taste.

“Ellie? Hellooooo?”

Ellie nearly jumped out of her skin, “Y-yeah? What’s up?”

“I said class was dismissed,” the profesor chuckled and roughly pat her on the back, causing Ellie to let out a little ‘oof.’

“Yeah, sorry.. I was distracted..”

“My dear girl, you should go back home, I’ll even extend the deadline on the final essay for you, just.. just don’t tell anyone okay? It’s really not a secret anymore but you’re by far my favourite in this class, hell, maybe even the whole school,” he chuckled and waved his hand as he made his easy down the stairs, “I’ll see you tomorrow for coffee.”

“Bye professor,” Ellie smiled softly, momentarily distracted from the dire situation at hand.

Gotta find them before things get outta hand.

YOUR POV:

Abby: Did you get your dress?

You: ya

Abby: I’ll pick you up at 8 tmrw

You: k

Abby: don’t sound so enthusiastic

You: k

You rolled your eyes and tossed your phone down next to you, you so did not want to go to this stupid ball. You grumbled and sat up, knowing that you should probably get something to eat, so you tossed on your favourite Spider-Man hoodie and some warm jeans and sneakers to head downstairs. You had made a little extra this month, so you decided to treat yourself to your favourite food.

You plugged your ears with your airpods and stepped into the chilly street.

“Shoulda worn a warmer jacket,” you muttered and made your way through the somewhat empty streets, shoving your hands deep into your pockets and humming softly along to the song blasting through your headphones.

The crisp night air soothed your reeling mind, almost cleansing it of Ellie and Abby.

To get to the restaurant, you had to pass through a couple alleys… you knew you shouldn’t, you could get robbed… or worse but part of you knew that wouldn’t happen because you had your guardian angel on your side.. right?

You weaved your way through garbage bags, potholes, and dumpsters. There were a few bums here and there but most were either drunk out of their minds or poor down on their luck business men.

The echoes from your hums bounced off the walls and back to you as you walked.

Fuck, this is reckless… maybe I shouldn’t be doing this..

You shove your hands deeper into your pockets and chew on your inner cheek… this was reckless but you needed to know if he would come.

Lost in thought, you didn’t even see the approaching shadow behind you until you felt a cold hand on your shoulder. Jumping with a yelp, you spun around with a smile on your face.

“I thought you’d never sho—,” your smile is quickly wiped off your face when you come face to face with a tall gangly man, his eyes red from too much alcohol, his breath sour with beer and cigarettes, and face bloated from too many drunken nights.

“Well, here I am,” he smiles crookedly and brings a knobby hand up to his chin, rubbing at the stubble there, his beady eyes roaming over your finger, clearly sizing you up.

You feign a polite chuckle, “Sorry, I-I thought you were someone else..”

“I’ll be whoever you want me to be, sweetheart.”

Ew.

“Yeah, no thanks,” you scoff and turn around to head back down the alley.

“Come on! I’m a great actor,” his hand wrapped around your wrist and pulled you closer.

“Hey look, I’m not fucking interested,” you say through gritted teeth.

His smile never wavers, “Why the fuck are you acting like such a bitch?” He pulls you even closer, you can feel his vile breath against your neck and a slimy hand snaking itself around your waist.

“Get off!” you yell and stomp your foot down onto his foot before pulling your knee back up and slamming it into his balls.

The man keels over, “You fucking bitch!”

You roll your eyes, raising your leg to kick him again but quickly withdraw your leg when the man pulls out a gun. Before the man could pull the trigger he’s pushed against the wall by an… invisible force…..or..? Is that webs..? You take a step closer, your eyes peering into the darkness, making out two figures, one on top and pummeling it’s arm into the pulp on the ground, the sound of grunts and please to ‘stop’ echoeing throughthe once hum filled alleyway.

Suddenly the cries stop and you feel another hand on your shoulder, you screamed and spun around.

“Woah, woah, calm down! It’s just me, you can put that er.. uh, pepper spray away?” Spidey chuckled and nodded at your glitter bottle of pepper spray that definitely would not have worked.

“H-Holy shit!” you yell exasperatedly, a breathy chuckle leaving your lips.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!” he yelled, you totally weren’t expecting that..

“W-What are you—?”

“You could’ve been seriously hurt!” Spidey yells and puts his hands on his head, “God, are you that reckless?”

“I-I was going t-to get d-d-dinner,” you cry.

Spidey puts his hands down, letting out a sigh, “Then come on.. let’s get your dinner.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

[A/N: so sorry for the delay, a sequence of events happened that prevented me from having access to this account and giving me time to write, next chapter will be longer :p]

taglist: @elliecoochieeater @wavesgocrash @g3latin @elliesflowersblog @usuck @elliessweetheart @miss-chananandler-bong @lvlymicha @prettywhnyoucry @g0d-wont-let-me-die @errorlovernotfound99 @thatgiraffefromtlou @ilovewomenfr @abbyswh0r3

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coqhee · 1 month ago

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HATE NISHIMURA !

IN WHICH ✷ prepping for the school's annual charity event, but with your #1 public enemy ∘ ∘ ∘ more

enemy riki x f!r ― one-sided e2l comedy angst(if you squint) fluff comedy cursing kissing menace!riki ⨯ 6334

em's note ★ this was supposed to be for riki's bday back in dec but I just never got around to proof reading, so theres' a lot of christmasy related themes,, hope its still fun n readable lawl. no joke it took so long to write cause when I was editing I kept adding scene after scene with more detail

it was hard being the class president, filing papers, being every single teacher’s errand runner, and always taking the beating when your class was just being so dumb. though, it wasn’t all bad. you enjoyed planning the school events, and having this sort of responsibility.

this winter, you were planning your school’s annual winter charity drive, your goal was to surpass any other year.

every single school year, your school has fallen way behind their set goal, it was like people had no christmas spirit of giving. you had your mind set to change that.

and what was better than having a little bit of help. when the school admins had notified you saying that you’d have a student ambassador voted by the student body to help you out and co-lead, you were elated.

until you found out, it was none other than nishimura riki.

you hated the way nishimura riki smirked whenever you scolded him for skipping class.

you hated the way he’d talk back to teachers.

you hated the way he laughed during truth or dare in 7th grade when someone else revealed your crush on him and he laughed.

you hated nishimura riki.

─── ♡

you were filing papers in the copy room when a tall figure loomed behind you.

“hey pres, when do we get started,” riki’s voice rang through your ears, startling you. you turned around, glaring at the boy, then went back to filing and stapling.

“you sure you’re not here to be a pain in my ass?” you questioned back with venom in your tone. some part of you wishes you were a little more shameful talking back to another student in front of the other teachers in the room, but you couldn’t find it in you to hold back.

the other teachers in the room exchanged amused glances but stayed quiet, clearly entertained by the exchange. riki had that effect on people—effortlessly charming, even when he was being an absolute menace.

“who says i can’t do both?” he grins back

you sighed, setting the papers down with a little more force than necessary. “look, nishimura, if you’re here to joke around, the door’s that way.” you nodded toward the exit. “i have actual work to do.”

“oh, come on, y/n,” he said, leaning casually against the filing cabinet, his grin unwavering. “you act like you don’t secretly love having me around.”

“yeah and i’d love if you could’ve read the email i sent a week ago with what i need to have done before today,” you rolled your eyes, giving a mock smile to the boy.

riki feigned a look of guilt, his hand flying to his chest. “ah, so that’s why you’re mad. you’re holding a grudge because I didn’t read your essay-length email?”

you crossed your arms, fixing him with a pointed stare. “it wasn’t an essay. it was three bullet points, nishimura. three. and if you had bothered to read it, we wouldn’t be behind schedule. i gave you a week of prep and we are running so far behind with vendors and financing.”

he shrugged, the grin never leaving his face. “guess I like living on the edge. keeps life interesting.”

“you know what’s really interesting?” you shot back, grabbing a stack of papers and thrusting them into his hands. “you doing your job for once. congratulations, you’ve been promoted to my assistant for the day.”

“not even co-pres,” he sighed, hoping to annoy you further, lucky for him, it did.

it only took a moment of fidgeting for riki to figure out how to use the copy machine, and while it was a simple thing, god you hated how he already found a more efficient method than what you were doing within 5 minutes.

“impressed yet?” riki smirked, glancing at you as the copier whirred to life. “i think i’m a natural. maybe you should consider me for co-president after all.”

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t deny the pang of annoyance—and grudging admiration—that flared up. “don’t get too comfortable, nishimura. one productive moment doesn’t erase a weeks worth of slacking.”

“ah, but it’s a start,” he said, stacking the freshly printed papers with a flourish. “besides, you need me. who else is gonna keep you from working yourself into an early grave?”

“i don’t need you,” you retorted, grabbing a paper clip and aggressively fastening a stack together. “i just tolerate you because i don’t have a choice, the school admin assigned someone from the student body to help, and it just so happens the student body thinks you’re oh so funny.”

“tolerate, huh?” he leaned in, his voice dropping to that infuriatingly confident tone that always got under your skin. “clearly, it’s more if you trust me to copy fliers for..” he looks down at what he’s been copying all along.

“‘Jinglin Bucks for Joy’ Holiday Auction” he trails off with a look of disgust.

“who named this charity auction?” he spewed out pure critique from his tone.

you rolled your eyes, snatching the top sheet from the stack in his hands. “does it matter who named it? it’s for a good cause. not everything needs your approval, riki.”

“oh, come on,” he said, leaning against the copy machine with an exaggerated pout. “you have to admit it’s a little... cringy. ‘Jinglin’ Bucks for Joy’?”

“it’s festive,” you countered, defending the name despite secretly agreeing it could’ve been better. “and unlike you, the rest of us are focused on making sure this event actually raises money instead of nitpicking the title.”

“just saying, i think you could be earning a lot more if you didn't have that as a name,” he put his hands up at your accusatory tone.

“well, too bad that’s what it is,”

“anyways, i’m done copying these, and i’d say i did a pretty damn good job,” he smugly said waving around the last stack of copied papers in his hand.

“congratulations,” you said dryly, grabbing the packet from him. “you’re officially the MVP of the copy room. want a medal or something?”

“actually, i was thinking more like dinner,” he said casually, tossing the suggestion out like it was no big deal.

your hand froze mid-motion, the papers suddenly feeling heavier than they should. “dinner?”

he shrugged, a playful grin still plastered on his face, but there was something softer in his eyes. “just to celebrate our hard work, of course. unless you’re scared i might make it fun.”

“you wish,” you muttered, turning away to hide the blush creeping up your neck. “finish your stack first, and then we’ll talk.”

he laughed, the sound warm and light. “deal. but don’t keep me waiting too long, pres.”

─── ♡

for the longest time ever, nishimrua riki could not figure out why you hated him so much. every glaring look you gave him when he greeted you.

every sarcastic comment you threw his way—none of it made sense to him. sure, he liked to tease you, but he teased everyone. with you, though, it felt personal, like there was an invisible barrier between you two that he couldn’t break through no matter how hard he tried.

he wasn’t even sure when you had started hating him, let alone why.

back in 6th grade when you were classmates and he swears thats the last time you’ve ever been nice to him in like, the history of ever.

riki racked his brain, replaying every interaction the two of you had since sixth grade. back then, you’d actually smiled at him, even laughed at his dumb jokes about the teacher’s weird handwriting.

he even thought you were cute and might’ve been developing a crush at the time. that’s an understatement though.

actually, riki had been obsessed with you in sixth grade. the kind of crush that made him extra careful not to look like an idiot when you were around. he remembered trying to impress you during gym class, running just a little faster during laps or kicking the soccer ball a little harder, even if it meant face planting into the ground one too many times.

he was convinced that if he ever had the chance to tell you how he felt, you’d smile at him and say you liked him back and you’d live happily ever after. childish, sure, but he was a sixth grader—what did he know about anything?

now that you and him were finally working together on the school’s lame, and failing charity event, he was determined more than ever to get to the bottom of why you hated him so, so bad.

and of course, it starts with dinner.

that, being the $6 after hours discount sushi at your grocery store. okay, so maybe it wasn’t the best dinner imaginable, but with riki’s limited budget and even more limited time, it was the best he could do on short notice. plus, he was convinced sushi was a universal icebreaker—who could resist a good spicy salmon roll with day-old rice and browning avocado?

no wonder it was $6.

“dinner,” you deadpanned, staring at the plastic containers he held out. “this is your grand idea to fix whatever this disaster of a charity event is?”

“no,” he grinned, plopping the containers onto the nearest desk and pulling up a chair. “this is my grand idea to get you to talk to me without biting my head off.”

you raised a brow, unimpressed. “and why would i do that?”

“because,” he started, peeling the lid off a tray of salmon rolls, “you’ve gotta eat, and i’m not leaving until we clear the air.”

you rolled your eyes. there was no way you were going to be talking about your issues with riki. “i’m not talking about my issues with you, we’re gonna be talking plans for the charity event,”

riki sighed dramatically, picking up a piece of sushi with his chopsticks. “fine, fine, charity event it is. but I’m warning you, my feelings might get hurt if you keep ignoring me.”

“oh, cry me a river,” you muttered, flipping open your notebook and pulling out a list of tasks. “we need to finalize the vendor approvals, confirm the auction items, and—”

“kinda cold out no?” he asked absent mindedly looking at his phone. you groaned in disapproval, how many more reasons could he give you for hating him?

“can you focus for 2 seconds nishimura?” you questioned with annoying radiating strongly from your tone. “you’re the reason we’re behind right now, and we need to get a move on, except no, you’re on your phone, and get to take credit for the work, i’m doing,”

riki slowly put his phone down, his lips twitching like he was holding back a laugh. “you done, boss?”

“no, i’m not done,” you snapped, glaring at him. “you’re insufferable, nishimura. do you even care about this event?”

he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with an easy smirk. “of course i care. i’m here, aren’t i?”

“barely,” you shot back, flipping through your notebook aggressively. “you’re here, but you’re not actually helping. if you cared even a little, you’d—”

“relax,” he interrupted, his tone unusually calm. “you’re gonna give yourself a stress headache. i already checked in with the admins about the vendors, they’re all approved, and i sorted through part of the auction items already,”

you were skeptical to say the least, unsure of the quality of work riki would put in. he turned his phone around and handed it to you, letting you look through all the documents and files he’d pulled up.

you scanned the screen, flipping through the emails and spreadsheets he’d meticulously organized. it was... surprising. everything looked in order, maybe even more thorough than what you’d expected.

“don’t stress yourself out, kay? i’ve can handle stuff too. that’s why they put two of us up to this,”

you narrowed your eyes at him, still not entirely convinced. “you’re way too relaxed about this. it’s weird. are you trying to mess with me?”

“y/n,” he put his hand around your wrist forcing you to set your chopsticks down for a second, “put some faith into me, let me help,”

you hesitated, staring at where his hand rested lightly on your wrist. his touch wasn’t overbearing, just steady enough to get your attention. his words lingered in the air longer than you cared to admit.

“fine,” you muttered, pulling your hand back and avoiding his gaze. “but if you screw this up, it’s on you.”

─── ♡

one week had gone by since nishimura riki had started being useful. you were surprised with the quality of work he put into the project, not ever once worrying about any finance emails as he was quick to take care of it.

not only that, but he had started showing up to your study sessions, popping by with snacks or making sure you were eating at least once a day.

it was… weird to say the least. you couldn’t say you didn’t like it though. it felt nice to not be entirely alone, worrying about yourself and everyone else constantly.

riki even brought coffee to your early morning meetings with the district board, handing it to you with a teasing smirk, "you looked like you were about to fall asleep in your notes, so I thought I'd help."

you tried not to smile too much at the gesture, but it was hard to ignore the small spark of fondness that began to grow inside you. his thoughtfulness was... unexpected, especially given how much you had believed him to be nothing more than a lazy troublemaker.

you kept trying to find reason after reason to nitpick at riki, yet none came up. you could’ve sworn it was easier to find so much fault in everything he’d do before you had started working together, but all of a sudden they’ve faded.

at first, it had been so easy to be irritated by him. the way he’d walk into a room like he owned it, his stupid grin that seemed to always be a little too smug, the way he’d talk as if everything was a joke.

you'd spent years loathing his presence, convinced he was just some annoying, carefree guy who only cared about himself and was out to make your life more difficult. that’s what you’d told yourself. that’s what you believed.

but now? now, it was different. working side by side on the charity event, you began to notice things you’d never seen before. the way he cared about the details. the way he would take over when you got overwhelmed, quietly working to fix things before you could even ask for help. the way he showed up on time every day, doing everything he could to make sure things ran smoothly.

it was... disorienting, to say the least.

it was late one evening, the two of you sprawled across the desks, working on the final details of the charity event.

"you’re the only one who would still be working at this hour," riki said, leaning back in his chair and watching you from across the room. his gaze softened for a moment, but you didn't notice. you were too busy finishing a set of final emails. "can I help with anything else?" he asked casually, but you could hear the underlying sincerity in his voice.

“guess you can take a break you bum, go grab a snack from the vending machine or something, grab me a sprite while you’re at it,” you say, digging out a $5 bill from your pocket and holding it out behind you, while focused on the screen in front of you.

he raised an eyebrow, but there was no hesitation as he stood up and took a step toward the door. "i got it," he said with a grin, slipping the bill back into your hand before you could protest. "this one’s on me."

a few minutes later, riki returns, the sound of the vending machine bag crinkling in his hands. he places a can of sprite on the corner of your desk with a flourish. "your highness," he says dramatically, "your drink, as requested."

“mm thanks,” you hum, cracking open the can and taking a sip out of the cold refreshing drink, the fizz laying dormant on your tongue.

“you don’t need to keep doing all this nice stuff to win me over, just cause we’re working on the auction, you know that right?” you comment after taking another sip.

“ah, so I’m starting to win you over,” riki grinned, a playful glint in his eyes. “told you I’d be useful.”

you rolled your eyes, but your lips were tugging into a small smile. "don’t get ahead of yourself, nishimura," you muttered, though it was clear you were no longer bothered. in fact, you kind of... liked having him around.

you didn’t hate nishimura riki.

─── ♡

the day before the auction rolls around faster than you thought it would.

while you and riki should be meeting with the vendors in person and getting other important work done, the two of you found yourselves putting up the last batch of fliers for the event, your hands full of paper and tape.

“ugh, why do we have to be the ones doing this?” you muttered, sticking another flier to the wall, your fingers lightly brushing against the cool surface. "we should be overseeing the auction, not putting up fliers like we're in charge of the school play's promo team."

riki chuckled from beside you, holding a stack of fliers in his hand as he adjusted his baseball cap. "hey, someone’s gotta do it. besides, you’re the one who wanted these ridiculous posters," he teased, pointing at the flyer in your hand, which featured a picture of a reindeer in a santa hat with overly saturated colors.

“i’ll have you know, these posters are actually art,” you shot back with a grin, tapping the paper to the wall a little more forcefully than necessary. “besides, i’d like to think they’re festive.”

“sure, sure,” riki said, his grin spreading wider as he glanced at the flier you were working on. “if by festive you mean blinding.”

you laughed, feeling a warmth spread through you. riki’s teasing had become a lot easier to tolerate, maybe even fun. he was good at making you laugh, something you never thought he could do before.

the playful banter you’d shared over the past week was slowly chipping away at the character of riki you’d spent years building up in your mind.

“you tryna go out and get hot chocolate after we wrap this up?” he asked, cocking his head gauging your reaction.

“in this weather?” you asked, glancing outside where the wind whipped against the window and the sky was an icy gray. “are you out of your mind?”

“maybe,” he grinned. “but hot chocolate makes everything better, right?”

you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. riki was right, in his own annoying way. hot chocolate did sound nice, especially on a day like today. the thought of sitting down somewhere, just the two of you, without the weight of the charity event hanging over you... it felt strangely appealing.

“fine,” you sighed, rolling your eyes dramatically. “but if you make me walk to the corner shop in this cold, i'm blaming you.”

“deal,” he said, not missing a beat. “we’ll take my car.”

he flashed a grin at you, and for a second, you almost felt like it wasn’t just about the hot chocolate. there was something more in his eyes, something that made the conversation feel different, lighter, almost... comforting.

you quickly pushed that thought aside. no, you weren’t about to go down that path. but you couldn’t deny that riki was making it harder to keep your walls up. every little interaction, every small smile, made you rethink the way you’d viewed him for years.

it was as if the years of tension, of seeing him as nothing more than an annoying, reckless guy, were slowly fading into something else.

yet, in the back of your mind, that old familiar voice crept in—the one that told you to be careful, to guard your heart because you knew exactly what happened when you let your guard down.

you’d been there before. back in seventh grade, when you’d caught feelings for him and let yourself believe maybe—just maybe—he could feel the same. but that was before the truth or dare game, before he laughed it off like it was a joke, like it was nothing worth taking seriously.

he’d been so carefree, so effortlessly charming in front of everyone, and you’d been so embarrassed. you’d sworn to yourself you’d never let yourself fall for him again.

and yet, here you were. laughing with him, sharing these moments like you were the closest of friends. it was easy to forget the hurt, easy to ignore the part of you that still flinched at the memory of his laughter.

you wanted to be able to move past though, and believe he wouldn’t be the same boy who’d laugh if you told him you liked him

he stood up, pulling his jacket on and offering you a hand as if he had all the time in the world. “you ready?”

you hesitated for a moment, then grabbed your own coat and stood up. “mhm, yeah.”

“you won’t regret it,” he said with that same confident grin, and for the first time in a long time, you believed him.

you shook your head, trying to push those thoughts away. there was no way he would do that to you again, right? no, he’d changed. he had to have changed.

but even as you smiled back at him, as the two of you walked out into the cold night together, the doubt gnawed at you like a constant shadow, just waiting for the perfect moment to remind you of all the reasons you had to keep your distance.

─── ♡

nishimura riki could feel himself falling. again. though it’s not like actually every fell out liking you to begin with.

and now, as he sat across from you, trying to figure out how to navigate this new territory—where the walls you’d built between you were finally starting to crumble—he couldn’t help but feel that same pull toward you, that same feeling of wanting to be close.

he felt himself feel like he was back in middle school with you all over again.

then it hit him what had gone wrong, and he knew he had to set the record straight.

“so... seventh grade,” he started, turning back to you, handing you your cup.

you froze mid-sip, the mention of that year, let alone night, sending a jolt of embarrassment through you. “what about it?”

he set his chopsticks down, his expression unusually serious. “is that when you started hating me?”

you scoffed, crossing your arms as the words slipped out before you could stop them. “sure.”

you felt your walls building back up, stronger this time, higher than before. that night had been the catalyst for everything that followed—your reason for hating nishimura riki.

riki watched you carefully, his eyes softening. there was no sign of mockery in his gaze, no hint of teasing—just the same quiet sincerity you had seen over the past few weeks. but you weren’t sure you could let yourself fall for it again.

“i’m serious,” he said quietly, his voice lacking the usual playful edge. “was it really that night? or... was it just easier to keep hating me after?”

your chest tightened at his words, a mixture of frustration and confusion swirling within you. “i don’t want to talk about it,” you muttered, finally meeting his gaze. you couldn’t read the expression on his face, but it only made you more anxious.

“if it brings you any peace of mind, i laughed because i liked you, okay?” the words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, and his cheeks flushed pink. “i liked you, and you blurting out that you had a crush on me... it threw me off.”

your jaw dropped, the confession catching you completely off guard.

“you... what?”

“i liked you,” he repeated, quieter this time, his gaze dropping to the table. “but i handled it like an idiot, and i’m sorry. i should’ve stood up for you, if you wanna keep hating me, go ahead.”

“i’m sorry for holding it against you all this time,” you mumbled.

riki didn’t look up at you immediately, but you could see the tension in his shoulders ease just a little. you had no idea what to say after that. the words you’d carried with you for so long—the reasons you hated him, the reasons you pushed him away—suddenly felt like nothing more than old wounds that had started to heal on their own, without you realizing it.

you sat in silence for a moment, both of you unsure how to move forward. it was almost as if the confession had left you both vulnerable, unprotected.

“you really liked me?” you asked, half laughing at how ridiculous it sounded now that it was out in the open.

riki’s eyes flickered with an unreadable emotion, and he shrugged, the teasing tone returning to his voice. “yeah. shocking, right?”

the playful comment was like a breath of fresh air, and for a second, the tension between you both was broken. but you couldn’t ignore the way your heart was racing, the fluttering feeling you hadn’t experienced in so long.

“i think, i like you too nishimura,”

“good, keep it that way,” he smiled, reaching out his free hand not surrounding his cup to clasp yours.

you felt your heart skip a beat at the sincerity in his eyes. "you know, you’ve actually been pretty decent lately," you said with a teasing smile, hoping to lighten the moment a bit. "maybe you’ve actually grown up, or maybe i have"

me chuckled, leaning back in his chair, but his hand remained near yours, his fingers lightly grazing the back of your hand. "maybe I have. but I’m still the same guy who likes you. just... trying to be better about it."

you bit your lip, your smile softening as you took in his words. for once, you didn’t feel like you had to keep your guard up. "i think I like this version of you."

"good," riki said, his voice barely above a whisper. "because this version of me likes you too."

a silence fell upon the two of you as you took in the atmosphere around you, looking around awkwardly.

“well,” you said after a beat, not sure where this was headed, but feeling oddly at ease. “you really know how to make things awkward.”

riki grinned, the corners of his lips curling into that familiar mischievous smile. “you’re the one who’s been holding a grudge for, what—years?”

“rightfully so, you’re the one who laughed. you’re lucky the student body voted you to work on the auction with me,” you shot back, the edge of your tone softening just a bit. It was hard to keep being mad when he was being so... well, riki.

“hey, don’t act like you could’ve done this with anyone else,” he teased, nudging your arm lightly with his own. “i mean, look at us. we’ve made a pretty good team, right?”

you rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. "yeah, a pretty good team that almost got yelled at and kicked off the project because you were too busy texting during the planning meetings."

“hey, i was checking in with the vendors,” he said defensively, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “i’m a multitasker.”

“you mean you’re just a distraction,” you replied, your voice laced with playful sarcasm.

“uh huh,” he rolled his eyes, grinning afterwards.

─── ♡

the day of the auction soon came and you found yourself getting ready with a hopeful mind of what was to come.

the last few weeks of you and riki’s hard work would finally be tested, and hopefully you could bring back some holiday cheer for charity, though a layer of uncertainty was still in your mind.

as you stood in front of the mirror, adjusting your dress, you couldn’t help but feel a little more at ease than usual. the nerves had faded, replaced with something lighter. maybe it was the fact that you and riki had finally talked things out, or maybe it was just the comfort of knowing you weren’t doing this alone anymore. you still didn’t have everything figured out between the two of you, but for the first time, it felt like you were both on the same page.

you met riki backstage before the event started. his hair was perfectly styled, and the suit he wore fit him just right. there was something about him in that moment—calm, collected, yet still as mischievous as ever—that made your heart do a little flip.

“you look good,” you said, trying to sound casual, though there was a softness to your voice that you couldn’t hide.

riki turned to you with a teasing grin, but his eyes softened when he took you in. “you look amazing,” he said, the sincerity in his tone making you feel a little shy. “i mean it.”

your heart skipped, and you brushed your hair back, trying to play it off. “well, don’t get used to it. you’re the one who’s been doing most of the work,” you joked, nudging his arm playfully.

“true, true,” he agreed, a smile tugging at his lips as he adjusted his cufflinks. “but you’ve been the brains behind it. i’m just the pretty face.”

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile creeping up on your face. “right, the ‘pretty face’ who kept texting during all the important meetings.”

he chuckled, the sound light and easy. “hey, it was multitasking. get it right.”

before you could respond, someone called your names, signaling that the event was about to start. riki offered you his arm with a grin, the moment feeling a little more like a date than anything else.

as you walked into the venue together, the lights dimmed, and the guests filled the room. the auction was about to begin, but in the chaos of people and students gathering around and the rush of excitement, you found yourself standing next to riki, feeling surprisingly calm.

“you ready for this?” he asked, his voice low, just for you.

you gave a small nod. “i think so. let’s just hope we don’t screw anything up.”

he grinned, his hand brushing yours briefly. “even if we do, we’ve got each other’s backs.”

you took your seat in the front row with your bid paddle in hand as you watched riki announce each item.

the first few items went smoothly, and you found yourself glancing over at riki every now and then, catching his eye, and feeling his radiating confidence.

you glanced back at the screen over and over, watching the donation reach close to the school goal of $2000, feeling hopeful you might actually hit it for once.

the auction had been a smooth ride so far, with everything going according to plan. the excitement in the air was palpable, and you could feel the buzz of anticipation from both the audience and the team behind the scenes. each item was going for more than expected, and the donations were rolling in steadily. everything was shaping up to be a success.

then came the final item.

riki stepped up to the microphone, his usual teasing grin plastered on his face. “alright, folks,” he began, his voice smooth and confident, “we’ve got one last item up for grabs. it’s the grand finale, the cherry on top of this entire event. it’s... a date with yours truly.” a cocky smile formed on his face, as he nodded smugly, pointing to himself.

you froze, the surprise hitting you a second too late. the audience erupted into laughter and applause, but you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at riki’s ridiculousness. he gave a mock bow, and the laughter grew louder.

“that’s right, ladies and even gents,” he continued, his eyes scanning the crowd. “you get to spend an evening with the one and only nishimura riki. dinner, a walk in the park, maybe even a movie if you're lucky. the best date of your life. no need to thank me.” he shrugged, clearly enjoying himself.

you couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking your head. “seriously, riki?” you mouthed towards him watching as he smiled smugly back.

“alright we’re starting this bid at $1, any takers?” his eyes scanned the crowd jokingly as he continued on, watching as people egged each other on to bid.

but before you could stop yourself, you found your hand reaching for your bid paddle. your eyes flickered to riki, who was watching you with an amused expression.

“come on, y/n,” he teased, “you know you want to.”

you hesitated for a moment, but the playful glint in his eyes, the way he looked at you as if daring you to do it, pushed you forward. with a mischievous grin of your own, you raised your paddle, calling out “$100!” with a cheerful smile.

the crowd’s reaction was instantaneous—there were gasps, followed by bursts of laughter, as the bid sheet was raised for all to see. the final bid was noticeably higher than the previous ones, and you could feel your face flush with the attention.

“going once, going twice, and sold!” he announced, slamming the gavel with a strong bang.

“well, well,” riki said, stepping back to to take the microphone from the stand to hand it to you, his expression one of mock shock. “looks like someone’s feeling bold tonight. looks like y/n just won a date with me, someone’s got a crush, i don’t blame her.”

you shot him a look, trying to keep your cool. “you better be prepared, riki,” you said, your voice just loud enough for the mic to catch as he handed you the mic to give your statement.

he raised an eyebrow, looking both impressed and slightly nervous. “oh, it’s on. and just like that lady and gents, we just hit our goal too,” he added, glancing at the screen where the total amount had just surpassed the $2000 mark.

the room erupted into applause, and you felt a mix of satisfaction and embarrassment settle over you. riki’s grin softened into something a little more sincere.

as the applause continued and the event slowly came to a close, you found yourself standing beside riki, the noise of the crowd fading into the background as the two of you shared a quiet moment. there was something unspoken between you now, something that went beyond the playful teasing and jokes.

“you know,” riki said, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, “this whole thing—working together, laughing, making this auction happen—it’s been... nice. really nice.”

you turned to him, catching the genuine warmth in his gaze. “yeah,” you agreed, feeling a sense of contentment you hadn’t realized you’d been missing. “it’s been good.”

the awkwardness from earlier had melted away, replaced by a sense of ease you hadn’t felt in a long time. you could see riki in a new light now, not just the careless, teasing guy from your past, but someone who actually cared, who had grown alongside you.

“so,” riki said, breaking the silence, “now that the auction’s done, what do we do next?”

you raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “well, since you owe me a date, we could start with that,” you said, unable to resist.

riki smirked, his usual confidence returning. “oh, i’m looking forward to it.”

riki’s smirk softened as he took a small step closer to you, his gaze lingering on yours in a way that made your heart race. the space between you felt different now—more intimate, charged with a new energy that neither of you had quite acknowledged until now.

“yeah?” he asked softly, his voice almost a whisper as his hand brushed against yours, just a touch, but it was enough to send a jolt through you.

you nodded, feeling your breath catch. “yeah,” you replied, your voice steady, though your heart was anything but.

he was so close now, his presence overwhelming in the best way, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. the noise of the event faded away, leaving just the two of you standing in the soft glow of the lights.

without another word, riki leaned in, his eyes flickering down to your lips before meeting your gaze again, seeking permission. you could feel the warmth radiating from him, the same warmth that had been growing between you both over the last few weeks.

you couldn’t help but smile, a little breathless, before you leaned in, closing the gap. the kiss was soft at first, tentative, but the moment your lips met, something shifted. it was like a weight had been lifted, like all the years of misunderstandings, teasing, and distance finally melted away.

riki’s hand found its way to the back of your neck, pulling you just a little closer as the kiss deepened, slow and gentle. it was everything—everything you’d both been waiting for, without even realizing it.

he pulled away smiling, wiping the small bit of lipgloss that had smudged, looking into your eyes.

the two of you shared a look, the kind that spoke volumes, and for the first time, you weren’t worried about the future. you didn’t know where this would go, but for once, it didn’t matter. what mattered was that you were here, together, and that was enough for now.

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