#outside of school and choir

[iridescentis]

does anyone have any rtc fic recs that don't take place within the canon setting or situation?

im missing the cliche fanfic tropes and AUs that most fandoms have but i swear they're so rare in rtc fics

[trevination]

i feel a little bad bc like i’ve been so busy and exhausted all the time recently and i haven’t been posting or like reaching out to people or doing stuff 😭 i prommy ily all my mutuals and im always thinking about these characters and ocs but school and musical theatre and choir and my solo pieces etc etc has been making me so exhausted and tired i barely have energy for stuff 😭😭😭

[scissor-spider]

Watching junior year while in my junior is both very good and relatable and also gravely upsetting in how relatable the stress and lack of any connections are

[oh-no-its-bird]

Callback to when I was in school and the internet there was just really, really bad

(shout out to all the schools out there who attempted to block out all internet and cell service in the halls in an attempt to keep students off their damn phones, but only succeeded in tossing out a very very large and messy net of dead zones across the entire building)

And so every single day on the bus going to school I would be frantically "select all"-ing copy pasting fics off of ff.net, chapter by painful chapter bc there was no "show all chapter" button to use, into my Google docs so I could read them in school without fear of the page reloading and my precious stories being lost

[alaskan-wallflower]

i’m not ready for it to be september can we maybe go back to july i liked that better

[jackass-jones]

Really into the episode of Ouran where this girl confesses her love to Mori but he doesn’t feel the same because he’s into Honey and the girl’s reaction is just like YIPPEE I LOVE YAOI THATS SO COOL FOR YOU YAY 🥰

[faunandfloraas]

i need felix or chan to either do a song with missy higgins or cover one of her songs just because the level of australian accent would be extreme and i'd have a great time

[longlivetv]

I have come to the conclusion that the reason this has become such a pop culture moment that transcends the Swifties and the Kingdom is that Taylor and Travis are the Homecoming Queen and King of America

[confused-canid]

Guys I hate school air so much. Like it makes me feel so grimy and I clean myself regularly and it's awful and I hate it so much. What is in the school air that's out to get me I every way

[teenagefeeling]

"how many concerts have you been to in your life?" you.... count???

[alatariel-galadriel]

love when the cringe response emerges to memories of past events that are definitively not cringe, thanks brain :) :) I needed that

[sage-nebula]

Let's talk about Toriel.

Toriel is a grown woman, a mother of two. She teaches kindergarten at the local school, and volunteers at the local church as part of the choir. She is recently divorced. Her oldest child has recently gone off to college, and her youngest is:

Adopted from a young age

A different species

Known for pulling pranks and otherwise causing trouble, sometimes to great expense (e.g. bath bombs in the toilet)

Despite this, Toriel loves her youngest child as though they were her biological child. She checked out a "how to care for humans" book many, many times over the course of parenting Kris. She drives them to school each day, makes sure they're fed and cared for, and is clearly invested in their social life given how excited she is to learn that they've made a friend. As a newly single mother, she's doing her best.

But let's talk about her being newly single, shall we? She recently divorced her husband, Asgore. Unfortunately, Asgore has not accepted this. Toriel is being stalked by her ex-husband; he keeps giving her unwanted bouquets of flowers, and showing up wherever she goes. He even lampshades this, as though it's funny, when he pops out from hiding in the bushes near the church, after knowing that she would be there. Every time he does this, Toriel responds with obvious discomfort and anxiety, and makes an excuse to get away as quickly as she can. Asgore's behavior seems goofy and "well-meaning," but he is clearly ignoring his ex-wife's boundaries and actively disrupting her living her life by showing up where he knows she'll be, uninvited and unwanted.

So Toriel is recently divorced, with one child off to college, and another child who is clearly not doing well (despite Toriel's best efforts) still at home. She is being stalked by her ex-husband, but in such a way that it comes across as "friendly" or "kind" to everyone else, meaning she can't really make a big fuss about it or she'll look like the bad guy.

Then a new guy moves to town. He's friendly, he's funny, and they hit it off immediately. And unlike everyone else in town, this is a friend that doesn't have a connection to Asgore. (Rudy was Asgore's friend first, after all; it's not as if Toriel can really open up to him about how much his best friend is really putting the ass in Asgore.) This is someone that she can open up to, someone that she can confide in, someone that she can let a little loose with. Because she can't let loose at school, around the children; she can't let loose at church, in front of the wider community; but with a friend, in her own home?

And Sans is non-judgmental. Sans likes her jokes. As mentioned, Sans doesn't know Asgore, so he's not going to be inclined to brush off Toriel's concerns or discomfort because "well he just really loves you" or "he's just being kind." (Not to mention, Asgore also trauma dumped to Sans a bit, making Sans visibly uncomfortable as well, so Sans might even be more inclined to hear Toriel's side.) Sans knows about responsibility, given that this version of Papyrus seems to have issues of his own, and therefore perhaps Sans can relate with Toriel on how it is taking care of someone when you love them, but you don't exactly know how best to help them. Finally, Toriel has someone in her corner, someone who can understand, who she can have fun with.

Toriel isn't one of the main characters, and she's a grown woman and a mother (figure) at that, so I feel like it's easy to dismiss her side of things. Was it great that she was drunk when Kris came home, or that she and Sans continued partying even after Kris tried going to bed? No. But Toriel is a person, a whole entire person with a life outside of being Kris' mother. She's allowed to not always be on her best behavior, and she's allowed to make and spend time with a new friend when she, too, is pretty isolated as a result of her divorce and clearly stressed with the fact that Asgore is stalking her. ("Trying to win her back" is not, it turns out, an excuse for stalker behavior.) Toriel even tells Kris that the house feels lonely now that it's just the two of them, meaning that she, too, has been plagued with loneliness just like the main cast, and that Sans is, perhaps, her Susie.

Toriel is not an awful, uncaring mother because she got a little silly drunk with the first friend that is truly hers since her divorce. She's just a person. And she's allowed to be a person.

[fairy-ganj-mother]

i hate how there were so many people i just didnt realize i loved

[dykebehaviour]

⋆ ˚｡✞ ⋆˚sanctified⋆ ˚｡✞ ⋆˚

rebel!ellie x preachers!daughter!reader

✞ summary : you, the preacher’s daughter, falls for the school’s rebellious out lesbian. shame, faith, and first love collide in a slow-burning secret romance that threatens to ruin everything - unless you’re brave enough to choose it.

glass saint

✞ cw : religious themes, internalised homophobia, fem!reader, emotional repression, drug use, language, emotional vulnerability.

✞ wk : 4,500

✞ 1 > 2 > 3

you grew up believing heaven was measured in obedience.

pressed skirts, bowed heads, and whispered amens. that was the currency of salvation. your father taught you that. he didn’t say it so much as live it - voice steady at the pulpit every sunday, always dressed in some shade of holy, his faith shining like a sword in the dark. you were raised like a precious thing. protected. sheltered. moulded.

so when you came to saint agnes girls academy - the all-girls religious boarding school nestled in the woods just outside ashland - you already knew how to keep your mouth shut and your knees together. you already knew the words to every hymn, every psalm, every prayer. you already knew who to be.

but nothing could have prepared you for ellie williams.

you’d heard of her before you ever saw her. the whispers started day one. “don’t sit near her.” “she’s a freak.” “she got expelled from three schools already.” “she kissed a girl and told the priest to go fuck himself.” you told yourself you didn’t care. that she was just another lost soul on the edge of ruin.

but that was before the chapel incident.

it was the third week of term when it happened. wednesday evening mass. you were sitting in the front row, back straight, cross necklace gleaming like polished silver in the candlelight. ellie stumbled in halfway through the sermon - late, of course - and didn’t even pretend to be reverent. she slouched into the pew behind you, her uniform a mess: tie loose, shirt untucked, black hoodie poking out from underneath her blazer. her shoes, beat up and definitely not regulated, clunked against the floor as she kicked them up onto the wooden bench, arms stretched wide like she was crucifying herself.

you didn’t mean to look. you really didn’t. but you couldn’t help it. something about her demanded to be seen.

her eyes met yours halfway through father matthews’ reading from leviticus. you hadn’t realised she was staring. her gaze was piercing; sharp, amused, knowing. and when the priest read, “thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind: it is abomination”, ellie smirked.

then, quiet, low, just loud enough for you to hear, she muttered: “guess i’m going to hell.”

you flushed hot all over.

not because you were scandalised.

but because your thighs pressed together, tight.

you didn’t speak to her for weeks after that. you avoided her when you could. she always seemed to be somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be: behind the science labs smoking weed, or carving something into the underside of a desk in ethics class, or passed out in the sun with headphones on during choir practice. people gave her a wide berth. the teachers tolerated her only because she was too smart to flunk and too stubborn to punish.

but you were different. you couldn’t ignore her.

because she was the only thing in this place that made you feel like you were unraveling.

and you hated that.

so the first time you talked to her, it was out of spite.

she was lounging outside the dormitories, sitting on the hood of one of the school vans with a sketchpad in her lap and a cigarette between her lips. the sun was setting behind her, turning the clouds violet and gold.

you stood over her with your arms crossed.

“you’re not supposed to smoke on school grounds.”

she didn’t look up. just exhaled slow and said, “you’re not supposed to lie, either. but i bet you do.”

you stiffened. “excuse me?”

ellie finally looked up. her eyes were green and wicked. “you think no one notices you staring? you practically drool every time i walk past.”

“i don’t-“

“relax,” she said, smirking. “i’m flattered. daddy’s little saint wants to be a sinner. cute.”

you slapped the sketchpad out of her lap.

it fell to the pavement, flipping open to reveal a half-finished charcoal sketch.

of you.

you turned and walked away before she could see your hands trembling.

from that day forward, she started talking to you like it was a game.

little things. snide comments in the hallway. winks from across the dining hall. notes slipped into your locker with things like “tell me again how you’re not gay while you keep staring at the girls in the locker rooms like that.” or “confession at 7? you should really bring up the way you stared at me in theology today. real unholy.”

you hated her.

you hated the way she made you feel.

you hated that she could say those things so freely, like she wasn’t scared. like she’d already made peace with the part of herself you were still trying to drown in scripture.

but the worst part? you started writing back.

the first note was angry. accusatory.

i feel sorry for you.

her response?

that’s funny. i touch myself to you.

you nearly set it on fire.

but you didn’t.

you kept it in your bible. right next to the book of james.

the slow burn wasn’t fire at first.

it was silence. stolen glances. unspoken tension.

it was the way she sat behind you in chapel, always one pew back, always close enough that you could hear her breathing. it was the way your skin burned when she brushed past you in the hallway. it was the fact that you started watching her hands in class, long fingers smudged with ink, drumming against the desk, always restless, always creating.

and then it was anger again.

one day in ethics, when father matthews launched into another homophobic diatribe, ellie laughed. loud. too loud.

you turned around in your seat, furious.

“can you show some respect?” you hissed.

ellie leaned back, one arm slung over the back of her chair. “for what? a bunch of bigots using god to hide their hate?”

“he’s a priest-“

“he’s a coward.”

you stared at her, your face burning.

“you’re disgusting.”

she smirked. “and you’re a liar.”

that was the first time she kissed you.

not there. not then.

but later, that same night, when you found her sitting on the chapel steps, legs outstretched, blunt in hand, sketchbook resting against her thigh. you meant to yell at her again. you meant to tell her to leave, to stop tormenting you, to act like a decent human being.

but when you opened your mouth, all that came out was:

“why me?”

ellie didn’t look at you.

she exhaled smoke and said, “because you’re the only one who looks at me like you want something you’re not allowed to want.”

and then - quiet, almost soft - “because you hate me the way i hated myself.”

she didn’t wait.

she just leaned in, fingers curled under your jaw, and kissed you like it didn’t matter if the world burned down around you.

✞ perm taglist : @yasmilks , @natsheretic , @lovemiraamira , @ellies-real-wife , @wewerewildandfluorescent , @jullsii , @eyesttokill , @dmenby3100 , @bunchogravie , @oneinameliann , @intheshadowofthestars , @pariiissssssss , @vanpalmertruther , @madsxh1022 , @rbnvrnxoxo , @firefly-ace , @alyaserrax , @silly-pigeon69 , @glassofgreenteapls , @pearlsiie , @aj0elap0l0gist , @sincerelyherz , @imsiriuslycool , @0phantom0 , @ggutpunch , @leeidk87 , @mikellie , @celiacallsitcasual , @gurlbownerr , @l0veylace , @bluminescent-moon , @oatmatchalatte <3

[4mrplumi]

crow choir: seven minutes min. two - hatchling (batfam x neglected!reader)

ms. 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08

something bites at your hand, and with a jolt, you awake from your sleep to find it’s your own mouth pressed against it. you pull it away under the weight of your quilt, blinking up at the ceiling above you. 

time’s moved differently since you came here, the minutes you used to spend being angry replaced with a whole lot of nothing now. it’s dilated, you’ll think a day has passed only to find out it’s been an hour, the present feels like a distant memory, your bones too little for your body.

the time… right, what’s the time? you look at the alarm clock on your bedside table, vision blurred and difficult to figure out. nearly eight o’clock. your family might be up already, you squint, getting up, except maybe tim. 

even though you wake up at eight, you don’t get up until much later. time passes differently in the wayne manor, remember? it’s only around nine thirty that you actually sneak down the stairs, footsteps light as they avoid alfred cleaning in the living room, and into the kitchen to get yourself an apple. dick’s come to visit, from bludhaven, but you haven’t seen him so far yet.

you take a bite of the apple, swerving off into the back garden, sitting behind a bush. you hope by the time you’re done eating, a million years have passed, and you don’t have to see any of them again; your family. what happens instead, is your ears pick up some conversation, and the only thing you can make out are the voices. damian, dick and bruce. 

you blink, and suddenly you’re fourteen again, having your first meal with the family. you didn’t know jason and damian back then, your older brother still six feet under to your knowledge, and the younger likely scaling a mountain after breakfast. it was you, bruce, alfred and tim, since dick lived in bludhaven.

what was there to say, or do, really? you didn't feel much left out of anything, since they rarely ever did anything. tim and bruce both spent much more time in their rooms and offices, or at galas and ceremonies than they did at home. and what in the world would you have in common with alfred? you avoided him more than he did you.

your life got relatively busier once you got enrolled in school, feeling horribly awkward among children entirely out of your league. of course, your guardian was the bruce wayne, you weren’t out of place financially. simply put, (name) was a loner, having no friends before or after the “wayne intervention”. you’d sit far off in a corner during lunch, speak to only your teachers, and busy yourself with work when the loneliness got too suffocating. too big for your little bones.

you can’t blame yourself entirely for being a loser in the early days. tim skipped school regularly, so despite being in the same class, you two were barely ever in the same place at the same time. the other kids thought you were too posh, or arrogant, seeing you so closed off to them. bruce wayne’s money must’ve got to your head fast, they’d assume. either that, or you were just too much of a freak to be around, that old gleam having never quite left your eyes, despite how tired they were nowadays.

being at home was positively worse. the hallways stretched out for what felt like miles, always empty and quiet. you would’ve considered sun shining through the windows a blessing when you were younger, but now it just made you ill, the orange and yellow making your head spin. waking up felt like a chore, since you got up to the same quietness that you fell asleep to.

the little relief you had from this monotony would come when dick came to visit from bludhaven. despite how miserable you seemed, unapproachable even, he did try. he’d take you and tim outside to a number of food trucks and parks and carnivals, sometimes he’d bring back gifts from bludhaven. the two of you were never really close, no, not the way he was with tim, or damian later. but he was there, for a while. he'd tried to be ordinary, and you'd tried to be anything but.

you could go as far as to say you didn’t dislike him as much, maybe, for just a second even considered him family. but things fell apart eventually, they always do! things age, they rot, they become old. you grow older.

at some point cassandra became a name you hear murmured among tim and bruce more and more often, but you payed no mind. you met her, the two of you content with avoiding each other's attendance. there’s a shine in her eyes, attentively sharp, different from the heavy weight and bluntness you’ve felt from your own reflection in mirrors. bruce favours her, you understand, and it drives the little surviving wrath you have for him mad. too ordinary.

you’re not too sure when dick started distancing from you (you noted with a little disdain, that very little came in between his bond with tim). maybe a little while before you met jason for the first time?

jason. 

you spit an apple seed onto the ground, eyes zoning out on it. you don’t like him, but you don’t know enough to dislike him. the first time jason came around to the manor was much after everyone else had already met him- after he “came back”. no one bothered to tell you what that meant, though. came back from where?

you’d woken in the middle of the night, with a crater formed in your chest from this ever-persistent sense of anxiety, and couldn't go back to sleep. with nothing to do to get rid of that feeling, you’d made a silly decision to haunt the kitchen at midnight, fill that crater with some imported snack. after all, gotham was always prettier at night, and there’d be no alfred to catch you.

maybe if you’d chosen another day then, you wouldn’t be so weary to leave your room at dark now. it was just your luck to accidentally stumble upon a disheveled and blood-stained jason, digging through the pantry like an animal. were you dreaming? was this some nightmare?

you’d both tensed in sync, but where his hand instinctively reached for the gun strapped to his thigh, yours clamped around the edge of the clothes you were wearing. he didn’t grab his gun, neither of you said anything.

some expression of distaste went over his face. you could see it- a silent “another one?”, peeking out from behind him domino mask in the dark, and nothing more. you both agreed quietly, that you didn’t see each other, and he left through the window, leaping.

all your interactions after that have been “supervised” by somebody else. you’ve not talked to jason. you think he doesn’t want to ever have to talk to you. you have nothing in common, so with very little remorse, you decide you really don’t care.

it’s not until damian arrives that you truly feel jealous. that you really begin to resent your reclusivity, your inability to be a part of their family for the first time. it’s the softness in dick’s expression that stopped being directed to you long ago, that sends you rabid, bruce’s hand on his shoulder that makes you bite your tongue into bloody bits, and the way he scowls and bites so often, and gets away with it, that truly makes you upset for the first time.

maybe if he’d been like the rest, nothing but a coloured mass in the corner of your eye, you would’ve gotten over it. you had a lot to do. a lot, really. but he wasn’t like them, no- he was like you. but he wasn't ordinary, so were you like him? you were only ordinary.

his presence felt suffocating, even when he was far off in the corner away from you. if you tried to shut your eyes, your little brother shone through your eyelids like a radiating studio-light, persistent. 

damian noticed you, that’s what was the worst. you’d once peered down at him from a balcony, watching him swing a sword around in the garden, caught off-guard when he looked up and stared back at you. the attention startled you, the smallest sneer that pulled at his lips discomfited you greatly. what was more startling, and possibly your worst observation, was the look in his eyes.

the same storm the desk ladies used to talk about, when they talked about you, was there. that freak was reborn, you were sure of it. the only difference? a freak in a family of freaks is nothing, the ordinary becomes an alien.

how did he manage it? to fit in so quickly? you were both fish out of water, adapting to your new surroundings (unfamiliar surroundings, you correct yourself, you’ve been here for years now), but where he got an aquarium, you got a plastic bag filled with water.

you observed from the gaps between the staircase railings, how he culled his accent and matched his mannerisms to bruce’s. he adapted, integrated into the elite gothamite-society. you’d just frozen the time around you, remaining the same ghoulish child, in a bigger body, with little bones. jealousy ate up at you, dissolving the cobwebs in your unfeeling self and making space for new, unwelcome feelings

for a while, you went mad. nobody noticed you did. your neck, and shoulders burned, ears pulsing with doubts, chest heaving in tension. a pebble of sorts formed in your throat; urging you to vomit even when there was nothing you could throw up.

you couldn’t change this. you couldn’t change who you were. what you are. bruce took in dick, he took in jason, cassandra and tim, damian’s mother loved him and his father loves him dearly. you were forced upon them, made to haunt their manor like a ghost from an old movie- a curse. you couldn’t change who you were, a gothamite gargoyle, useless next to dying sisters and and a wild beast to unsuspecting, kind people.

you were a punishment, on their family, contributing to nothing good- not once in your life. bruce must despise you, alfred must loathe having to care for one more person, one far more ungrateful than the rest. you can’t even imagine how your siblings feel about having to see this stranger in their house. and you know you’re a stranger, the way they hesitate in the middle of their conversations when you walk in, the way damian still glances at you with a frown, despite having “sobered”, the way jason’s- so alienated and other, presence seems more natural than you… you know how horrifying it is to be an ordinary stranger.

a gargoyle, a ghoul, a ghost. too polished to return to your life in the common streets and too out-of-place to colour yourself as one of them. there’s no place for you here, and none anywhere else, that’s your punishment.

you finish your apple, suddenly aware of tears that prick at your eyes. you wipe them away quickly, no, you refuse to cry over such silly things. there are so many far more unfortunate people out there. you have no right to be miserable. none.

dick, bruce and damian wayne walk away, and a million years still haven't passed. you try to rest your head against the bush-pillar, but your hair catches on twigs and nettles. this is your punishment.

the second minute passes painfully, while you tug frizzing hair out of the leaves.

˖ 𑣲 a/n: it's so cool getting to upload these in queue, 'cause it somehow feels like i'm playing into the whole "time dilation" feel from the start bit lol. is the lack of dialogue a bit much? i will write conversations, i guess right now the style needs it for 'recounting' bits. anyway, thank you for reading!

taglist: @lettucel0ver @marsmabe @alishii @1abi @c4xcocoa @bbmgirll @sirenetheblogger @privatebumblebee @noone1233nobody @4ishere @mev-fizzah-writes @quack-a-vasion @myjumper @pix-stuff @callenreesevzx @cupid73 @nininehaaa @nisarelle @jjsmeowthie @ollyissleepy @uppersurper @angwngss

[twistedsistas-stuff]

School Daze’

Sammie Moore x reader.

Modern 90s/2000s College AU!

Wrd count; 12,440

Warnings: come on yall know me by now 😏(smut) Sammie Moore……

——————————

Back in school, you wasn’t ever that girl folks looked twice at. Glasses too big, always ducked off somewhere, eyes to the floor like you was scared to be seen. You kept to yourself mostly. Not all the way solo—you had a lil crew. Two, maybe three homegirls, but y’all was all on the same wave. Quiet. Closed off. Real lowkey.

But your girls started poppin’ over time—glowin’ up for real. Got they first lil boyfriends. Started rockin’ with dance teams, joinin’ clubs, throwin’ on them cheer uniforms. Meanwhile, you stayed tucked in. No boyfriend, no flings, no nothin’. Head always in a book, studyin’ for some exam that wasn’t even on the radar yet. Two semesters ahead, tryna be grown before you had to be.You did have one lil crush though—if that’s what you could even call it that.

His name stayed floatin’ down them hallways like the beat of a marching band on game day. He had that kinda presence—loud without even sayin’ nothin’. You used to tag along to his games with your girls, sittin’ up in them bleachers pretendin’ like you was there for the team. But truth was, you barely even cheered. Just watched. Quiet. Nervous. Lowkey fascinated.

You liked Sammie in that way where just hearin’ his voice made your heart do flips. Couldn’t even look him in the eye. That country accent? Whew. Only ever caught it when he passed by, talkin’ to his boys or flirtin’ with some girl in 3rd period.

Then one day he was gone. Transferred schools—somethin’ about bigger chances, better shine. You ain’t ask too many questions.

And just like that, the crush faded. So did that version of you.

Your girls held you down, pulled you outta that shell. Got you dressin’ different. Walkin’ different. Laughin’ louder. You was still shy, yeah, but you had a lil swag now. Started feelin’ yourself. Steppin’ into that new vibe. That grown woman glow-up.

And for the first time… you was feelin’ real good. Like, damn, this might be my season.

Delta U had that feel to it. That’s why you chose it.

Like somethin’ out a Spike Lee joint or a Jill Scott song—Black, loud, full of soul. First week on campus was like a block party and a family reunion all wrapped in one. Greek orgs out on the yard strollin’, grills fired up on the lawn, somebody’s cousin tryna DJ off a Bluetooth speaker while the Ques already sweatin’ through they shirts. Whole campus smelled like shea butter and BBQ chicken. It was Welcome Day. And your dorm? A whole mess of chaos and lip gloss. You was posted up on the edge of your bed, half-dressed, heart racin’. “I don’t think I wanna go, y’all,” you mumbled, barely audible over the music comin’ from the hallway.

They all groaned in unison like a tired choir. “Here she go again, y’all,” one said, floppin’ down on the bed across from you.

“Girl, don’t piss me off tonight,” your other homegirl snapped, already halfway through her winged eyeliner.

Then the ringleader of the crew—the bold one with the rat tail comb always ready to check somebody—got dead in your face. Eye to eye. That comb damn near touched your nose.

“Look, bitch,” she said real calm, too calm. “It’s fine-ass niggas outside. The sun out. You thick as hell. And guess what? We in college now. Not high school. Not church. College. So guess what we doin’? We goin’ out.”

She spun away like she dropped the mic. You sighed, stood up, and turned to the mirror. Took yourself in.

Them little jean shorts was hangin’ on by faith and friction. Your thighs was thangin’. Your chest sittin’ real proper thanks to the double-bra combo your homegirl swore by. You turned side to side, let out a tiny smile.

You knew you looked good.

“Aight, y’all… I’m ready.”

You turned back to face the room, grinnin’ from ear to ear.

The whole squad paused for half a second—then exploded. Screamin', tongues out, feet stompin', hypin’ you like you just stepped on stage at Homecoming.

“OKAY MISS MA’AM!”

“YES THICKNESS!”

“We outside tonight!”

Y’all laughed, yellin' over each other, snatchin’ purses and keys, lip glosses flyin'.

Ready for whatever the night was gonna bring.

And in that moment? You wasn’t shy no more.

You was just her.

Y’all finally hit the yard, and it felt like the ground was vibrating beneath your feet. Bass thumpin’ so hard your chest caught the beat before your ears did. Speakers stacked on folding tables, Greek letters spray-painted on bedsheets hangin' off dorm windows.

Boys in jerseys sweatin’ and flexin’. Girls in sundresses glistening in the heat, edges laid, gold hoops swingin’. DJ shoutin’ over the mic, “WELCOME TO DELTA U, CLASS OF LEGENDS!” and the crowd goin’ stupid.

Y’all walked through like you owned the place, hips swayin’, laughs high-pitched, bodies glistening in that 5 p.m. sun. Somebody handed you a red cup—pink punch with that bite in it. You took a sip and coughed low, but didn’t let it show. Your girls was already two-steppin’ near the speakers, hips rollin’ to the beat. Dudes slid up behind ‘em, tryna catch a vibe.

“Ayo, ma, you got a man?” one dude tried, leanin' in a lil too close.

Your homegirl turned around slow, gave him a once-over. “I got three. All of 'em crazy.”

“Damn, you can’t just say no?”

“I did say no,” she said, turning right back to the beat like he ain’t exist.

Another boy tried your other friend: “You dance like that in church too?”

“Only if Jesus show up wearin’ grey sweatpants.”

He stood there stunned while she twirled away, drink in hand, and you laughed—finally loosening up.

You were buzzed just enough to stop overthinking, but not enough to stop squintin'. Your lashes too long for your glasses, so everything looked like it had that soft blur to it.

You kept glancing around the yard, eyes skimming faces. Not really lookin’ for nobody… just watchin’. Floatin’

Then—bump.

Hard shoulder to your arm. Your drink flew out your hand like it got snatched by the air.

“Shit—!”

Your cup hit the grass with a soft splat, pink liquid staining the blades.

Your girls turned fast.

“Damn! You can’t say ‘scuse me, nigga?” your girl barked, already turnin’ up.

His boys stepped forward like what’s up then, all arms folded and necks cocked.

“Man, y’all too loud for no reason. It was an accident.”

“Accident is trippin’ over a curb. He bodied her like she ain’t got bones!”

“Nah, y’all better back up ‘fore we get un-Christian out here.”

You stayed quiet, eyes still low, focused on that cup layin’ sideways in the grass. Lips pressed tight.

You didn’t like scenes.

Didn’t like heat that wasn’t from the sun.

Then you heard it.

“I’m sorry ma.”

“I ain’t mean to.”

That voice.

Soft drawl. Familiar rhythm. Sounded like old gum wrappers and middle school yearbooks. Like gym bleachers and hallway whispers.

You blinked.

A hand—big, warm, steady—came into view. Reached down, picked up your cup like it was glass instead of plastic. And as your eyes followed his fingers up to his wrist, to his arm, to his—

“...Sammie.”

You said it out loud before you could catch yourself.

All your girls paused mid-argument. Froze. One even blinked twice like she needed confirmation.

“Oh mf! Why didn’t you say it was you?” your homegirl shouted at him, pushing her lipgloss back into her purse.

He looked at her for a second, then back at you. Smiling like trouble you knew better than to want.

“I remember you,” he said, voice low, rich.

“Quiet lil thang.”

He stepped back just a bit, eyes dragging over you real slow. Licked his lips. That old

Sammie habit.

You tried to hold it in, but your smile betrayed you. It was comin’ anyway, soft and shiny like the gloss your girl put on you.

Your girls noticed. Of course they did.

They looked at each other eyebrows raised, hands covering grins, whisperin' fast.

You panicked. Had to say something.

You cleared your throat. “I remember you too… benchwarmer.”

“Oooooooohh!”

His boys hollered behind him, all hands to their mouths, jokin’ like they was on the schoolyard again. Sammie dropped his head, one hand rubbin' over his waves, that crooked smile sneakin’ back out.

“It’s like that, ma?” he said, eyes locked on you.

“Maybe,” you replied, real smooth. Then turned around like it was nothin’.

You walked off, hips steady, heart doin’ flips. Your girls followed close behind, mouths pressed shut just enough to stop screamin’. Y’all didn’t have to say it—but they knew.

You wasn’t just out here now.

You was in it.

The party was long gone, the music a ghost now, just bass memories still rattlin' in your chest.

Your dorm was dim, lit only by the soft blue TV glow and a phone light somebody forgot to turn off. One of your girls was already knocked out across her bed, one shoe still on. The other halfway under the covers, lashes askew, mouth wide open. They didn’t even bother changin’.

You laid there for a second, buzz finally faded, makeup itchin', body tired but restless.

So you got up. Showered slow. Let the heat wash over you until the bass left your bones.

Now you were in your real skin. No lashes, no gloss. Just you. Clean. Barefaced. Sports bra, cotton shorts, big t-shirt. Edges puffed up, bonnet tied loose. Slippers slid on, keycard in hand.

You went lookin' for a snack—first the mini fridge, then the cabinets. Nothin’ but dry-ass ramen, ketchup packets, and your roommate’s suspicious yogurt.

You sighed, tugged your t-shirt lower, and shuffled down the hall to the vending machines.

The hallway was quiet, just the hum of old AC and the click of your steps.

You stood there, starin' through the glass like it was gonna speak to you. Your finger hovered over the buttons. Hot Cheetos? Snickers? Twix?

“Damn, the machine got you stuck like that?”

You turned, slow.

Sammie.

Leanin' in the doorway like he belonged there, hoodie half-zipped, white tee underneath, chain glintin’ under the cheap fluorescent lights. Eyes real low. Smile even lower.

You rolled your eyes. “Why are you even in here?”

He stepped forward with a smirk.

“Co-ed, baby.”

You sighed and pressed B7. The machine groaned, then thunked out your Twix. You bent to grab it, not even thinkin’ about it.

Sammie thought about it though. Thought about it real hard.

His eyes trailed up from your calves, slow like honey. To the curve of your thighs. To the way them shorts barely held on. He bit the inside of his cheek.

Cornbread-fed. Just how he liked ‘em. He was from the South—he didn’t believe in women who couldn’t hold a plate or carry a man’s whole attention without even trying.

You stood back up, unbothered. Turned to him.

“Get a good look, pervert?”

You slid past him.

“I don’t know… let me see again,” he

grinned.

You smacked his arm lightly. “Horny lil’ boy.”

“I was jokin’, you know that, mama,” he said, stepping up close behind you. His arms slid over your shoulders like he done it before.

“Boy, if you don’t get off me—”

He laughed but held on tighter. “Why you bein’ like that?”

“I ain’t bein’ like nothing. Boy, you got all these girls on you already. Drama ain’t for me.”

He leaned back, blinked like you just told him the sky was purple. “And it’s for me?”

You gave him that be serious look. Chin tilted, eyes narrowed.

“I’m serious,” he said, voice low now. “Them girls just… girls. That’s it.”

You looked at him like he was wearin’ stupidity on his chest instead of that chain.

“Boy, you don’t even make sense.”

You didn’t wait for him to try again. You turned. Walked.

“Goodnight, Moore.”

Back in your dorm, you slipped into bed, pulled the blanket up, popped a DVD into your player— Brown Sugar—just somethin’ soft and familiar.

You watched the screen flicker, eyes growin’ heavy.

He wasn’t in the room.

But he was in your head now.

And you hated that.

The dining hall was loud like always—linoleum floors, the smell of syrup and turkey bacon mixin' with cheap coffee and last night’s regrets. You sat at your usual table, bonnet still on, hoodie zipped, tray full of breakfast you barely picked at. Your girls were all around you, gigglin' between bites, still full off last night’s turn-up.

“I know you not gon’ sit there and act like that ain’t Sammie Moore had you stuck at the vending machine like a redbone deer in headlights,” one of your girls said, grinnin’ wide.

“I was not stuck. I was mindin’ my business.”

“Chile please,” another said, mouth full of biscuit, “you was starin’ like he had a scholarship between his lips.”

You rolled your eyes, sippin’ your orange juice. “I don’t even like what he stand for. He drama. I ain’t come to college for all that. I’m tryna keep it cute, keep it clean, get my degree.”

“Cute and clean, huh?” your friend teased.

“Is that what they call that ass you had out last night?”

You swatted her with a napkin, smilin’ despite yourself.

That’s when some boys walked over—three of them, tall and lookin’ like trouble dressed in varsity jackets and gold chains. One had dreads, the other two low fades. But it was the one in the black tank and Cuban link that caught your attention first.

He locked eyes with you like he already knew your name.

“’Scuse me,” he said, voice low and syrupy, “didn’t mean to interrupt. I’m Smoke.”

You raised a brow, not budgin’. “I don’t do nicknames.”

He smiled slow, head tilt slight. “Then let’s get it right. Elias.”

That name sat nice on his lips.

You felt your spine react before your mouth even moved.

You cleared your throat, coolin’ the smile that wanted to creep. “Okay then, Elias.”

“Okay then,” he said back, eyes takin’ you in respectful—but not shy.

He turned a little so he wasn’t blockin’ your homegirls. “Y’all should come out tonight. We throwin’ somethin’ over on Palmer. Real easy. Just vibes.”

He looked back to you. “Be good to see you there.”

Then just like that, he turned and walked off, smooth like the song playin’ low from somebody’s speaker nearby. You blinked, caught off guard.

“Uhhh–HELLO?” your girls said in unison, smacking the table.

“You better get your ass in formation!”

“Girl, who was THAT?”

“Baby I’m wearin’ heels tonight—I don’t care if my ankles bleed.”

You laughed, tray forgotten, heart a lil' fluttery. “I mean… why not?”

And right on cue—like somebody summoned him with your thoughts—Sammie walked up, his boys trailing behind, chain swayin’ over his chest, durag tied down, eyes already scanning the table.

“What y’all so juiced about?” he asked, a lazy grin on his face.

You didn’t even flinch. “Elias invited us to his party.”

His smile dipped, just a second. He looked off to where Elias and his boys were posted up.

“Word?”

“Mhm. Said it’d be good to see me there.”

You said it calm. But your girls caught the shift—Sammie’s jaw tightenin’, the light in his eyes dimmin’ just a touch. He played it off though, noddin' once.

You tilted your head, leaned forward just a little.

“You jealous?”

He looked down at you, lips pressed but still smirkin’.

“Nah. Ain’t no reason to be.”

You stood up, the air thick now, the table quiet like the cafeteria just paused for y’all.

“You want me,” you said, eyes never leavin’ his.

He stepped up, close, eye to eye. He was taller, but you ain’t back down.

“I do,” he said, noddin’ once.

That heat was back—heavy like the Delta sun in July. You felt it, and you liked it.

You looked in each of his eyes slow, readin’ the want sittin' behind them lids.

“Drop the hoes then, Moore.”

You popped your gum, eyes draggin’ down his chest and back up like you were takin' inventory. Then you turned and walked off with your girls, hips swingin’, all of them whisper-screamin’ behind you like high school all over again.

Sammie and his boys were still there, stuck in place.

One of his boys leaned close, clapped his shoulder.

“Better get busy, my boy.”

He didn’t say nothin’, just smiled slow, hands in his pockets as he watched you leave.

He had a type, sure.

But you weren’t a type. You were a whole damn category.

And Sammie Moore wanted all of it.

Music knockin’ low from the speaker—some classic R&B remix with a new-school beat. Perfume in the air. Heat from flat irons and the smell of edge control mixin’ with laughter. You and your girls were in full formation, baddie-mode activated.

Legs out, arms oiled, bangles singin’ every time y’all moved. Lip gloss poppin’, shades sittin’ right on top of your brows. You had on a lil Baby Phat-style jean romper, hugging every curve like it got hands.

Pumps to the sky. Hair curled up with that midnight bounce—your mama would’ve smiled seein’ them braids had finally done what they was supposed to.

You posed in the mirror, tongue peeking between your teeth, adjusting your hoops.

“Damn, I love college,” one of your girls said, doing a slow turn in the mirror.

Another smacked her gum, tossing her curls. “Both them boy crews? Whew. It's like God dropped fine into the registration office.”

“Okay, but who you tryna lock in with?” they asked, looking right at you.

You smirked, sliding your shades down your nose.

“Let’s see who show up tonight.”

They screamed. Laughed loud. Even the shy one was gigglin’. You all looked too good to be humble.

You raised your arm up, gold bracelet catchin’ the light.

“TO COLLEGE!”

They all clinked their red cups with yours. “TO COLLEGE!”

The energy was different on this side—lower, smokier, but just as electric. Loud bass thumped from a Bluetooth speaker, weed smoke curling up to the ceiling fan.

Sammie was leaned back on the futon, durag hangin’ off, T-shirt stretched over his chest, black jeans crisp. One of his boys rollin’ a blunt, another lined himself up in the mirror with a phone flashlight.

“Bro…” one of them said, already crackin’ up.

Sammie looked up, raising a brow.

“You really gon’ act like we ain’t watch ole girl stiff-arm you in the caf this morning?”

The whole room broke out laughin’.

Sammie shook his head, grinnin'. He could take it.

“Aye, man…” he exhaled, takin’ the blunt slow. “Y’all wild. I ain’t even on that lil groupie run no more. I’m tryna make her mine. Real talk.”

One of his boys mugged up, snatching the blunt.

“Man, here you go with that soft shit again.”

He hit it, exhaled deep, voice cuttin' through the smoke.

“All I know is—her girls? Man... them girls look like they stepped out a Vibe magazine.”

The room lit up with head nods, somebody clappin’.

“They bad bad.”
“I’m talkin’ curated bad.”

“Shit,” another said, sittin’ up, “we could all lock in tonight.”

The whole room paused, lookin’ around.

“Oh nah, y’all niggas trippin’,” one laughed.

Sammie stood, brushing his shirt off, lookin’ in the mirror like he was about to sign a deal. Ran his hand over his waves, durag in one hand, gold watch glintin’ under the light.

He looked through the mirror at his boys, confidence written all over his face.

“Let’s roll.”

They stood like a unit—too loud, too good-lookin’ for their own good.

The four of you stepped out that car like destiny walkin’ on heels. Laughter on your lips, gloss shinin’ under the porch lights, hips swayin’ to the beat echoing out the open doors.

Elias was the first to greet y’all.

“Whewww—look at this,” he said, leanin’ against the porch post like he been waitin’ all night. “If y’all was any finer, I’d need a warning label just to breathe.”

You smiled without tryin’, lookin’ away as your girls giggled. His boys peeled off fast, gravitatin’ toward your crew like bees to fresh honey.

Elias took a step closer, hand brushing the small of your back.

“You came,” he said, voice low and smooth.

“I said I would,” you replied, tryin’ like hell not to let his cologne live rent-free in your chest.

“Come on, let’s grab a drink.”

He led you through the crowd, shoulder to shoulder with strangers, the house alive with bass and bodies. Somewhere between the kitchen and hallway, a Soul Train line was tryin’ to start.

Girls were twerkin’ like it paid the rent. Air hot. Thick with weed. Full of life.

Y’all stopped at the drink table—red cups stacked, Jungle Juice swirling in a Gatorade cooler.

“You want sweet or strong?” Elias asked, already pourin’.

“Strong,” you said, takin’ the cup from him—fingers brushing, eyes meeting.

Leanin’ against the counter, y’all fell into that low talk. He told you about his major, his plans, how he liked how you carried yourself. Quiet confidence, he called it.

You were just startin’ to let your smile relax when—

He walked in.

Sammie Moore.

Black tee clingin’ to his chest, pants sittin’ grown-man low, chain swayin’ like a whisper.

That smirk already cocked on his lips like he knew the script before the scene started. His eyes scanned the room once—twice—

Then locked on you.

You. And Elias.

You felt it in your neck, your spine, the base of your stomach.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t speak. Just dipped his chin, gave you that look, and walked deeper into the crowd—dap-tappin’, noddin’ to the beat like it was just another Friday night.

But it wasn’t.

Elias leaned close, voice soft in your ear.

“That your man or somethin’?”

You shook your head, steadyin’ yourself.

“No.”

He grinned. “Good. Come dance with me then.”

You followed him to the living room-turned-dancefloor, Jungle Juice in hand. The song shifted—Aaliyah’s “One in a Million” remix slid in low and sensual.

Y’all moved close. That slow grind—just enough to spark heat but not burn. Elias knew how to move. Hand on your waist. Breath near your ear.

But your eyes kept driftin’.

Across the room—Sammie, posted on the wall. Watchin’. Not hiding it. Jaw tight. Eyes hard.

He wasn’t sayin’ a word, but his body was yelling loud.

That look? That look said you had no damn business lookin’ that good with somebody else.

The song faded. Elias leaned back just a little, like he might say something deeper.

But then—

You felt it.

A hand on your wrist.

“Lemme borrow her real quick,” Sammie said, low and gravelly, eyes never leavin’ yours.

Elias raised his brows, but you already knew. You nodded at Elias, heart thumpin', and let Sammie guide you away.

He pulled you down a short hallway, the noise behind y’all fading into a hum.

“Boy, what the hell is wrong with you?” you said, tryin’ to snatch your arm back—but not really.

Sammie turned, steppin’ close ‘til the wall kissed your back.

“You was lookin’ too good to be up on him like that,” he muttered, voice thick.

You blinked at him, lips parted, chest tight.

“Elias don’t got nothin’ to do with you.”

He smirked, leanin’ in, his breath all up in your space.

“Then why you keep lookin’ at me like he do?”

No answer. Not with his hand braced beside your head, not with that fire in his eyes like he was daring you to lie.

Your breath caught. His face inched closer.

“You know I want you.”

You swallowed, eyes lockin’ with his.

“I told you,” you whispered. “Drop the hoes, Sammie.”

He paused.

Then smiled.

“Watch me.”

Next day, class hit—but your mind was somewhere else. Still buzzin’ from the party, from the hallway, from the way Sammie looked at you like you was the only thing in that room.


You slid into your usual seat in the back of the lecture hall. Hoodie on, lips glossed, eyes low. Tryna stay out the way.

Then the door opened—and the whispers started before you even turned around.
It was him. Sammie Moore.


Steppin’ in like the whole classroom was his stage.

Girls straightened in their chairs.
You could hear the lil, “Hey Sammie,” “Oh my God he in this class?” floatin’ through the air like perfume.


He didn’t give none of ’em no play. Just scanned the room, eyes movin’—’til they locked on you like a bullseye.
Then he grinned.

Next thing you know, he joggin’ up the stairs—loud, on purpose—then flopped down next to you like he’d been doin’ it all semester.
His arm slid over the back of your chair, all casual, like it belonged there.

You ain’t say nothin’ at first. Just stared straight ahead, pretendin’ like your heart wasn’t thumpin’ out your chest.

“Morning,” he said, voice low and lazy—like y’all just rolled outta bed together. “You miss me?”

You sucked your teeth, tryna hide your smile. “Boy, get on.”

He chuckled, leaned back, spread his legs wider like he paid rent in the seat.

That’s when they walked up—two girls in Fashion Nova fits, tryin’ to play it off like they needed help with the syllabus.


One leaned in too close, eyes skippin’ past you like you ain’t even there.

“You really not gon’ say hey to nobody now?” she said, twisting her mouth. “You actin’ brand new, Sammie.”

He didn’t even blink. Didn’t shift. Didn’t smile.


“Nah. I’m good.”

The other girl gave you the slow once-over, nose turned up. “You ain’t even all that. He gon’ treat you the same way he did the rest of us.”

This was exactly what you meant.
You wasn’t even gon’ say nothin’. You ain’t need to.

But Sammie turned—slow. Looked her dead in the face.


And when he spoke? His voice dropped into somethin’ you hadn’t heard before—deep, steady, real.

“I don’t talk to girls like this,” he said, jaw tight. “But for her? I will. So back the fuck up.”

Silence.

You blinked. Looked at him like… who is this?

He was still watchin’ them, unblinking. Daring one of ’em to say something.


They didn’t. Just rolled their eyes and stomped off, heels clackin’ down the stairs.

You turned back to him, still lowkey stunned.

“You don’t talk to girls like that?” you said quiet, voice almost teasing.

He leaned in, looked you dead in the eye.

“Nah. Never had a reason to.”

Your heart dipped, flipped, did all types of flips.

You looked at him like you wanted to be mad… but you wasn’t.
Not even close.

Class started. Professor talkin’ about somethin’ you couldn’t even pretend to care about.


‘Cause next to you? Sammie’s knee kept brushin’ yours. His arm still draped behind you. And that look on his face?

Like you was already his.

Professor Davis was old-school. Always came in wearin’ some too-tight slacks, cologne from the ‘70s, and vibes like he been waitin’ all year to catch somebody slippin’.


He clapped his hands once—loud—snappin’ everybody out they whisperin’ and giggling ’.

“Aight class, listen up. Time to separate the passers from the repeaters. First project of the semester starts today. Two-person teams. Full breakdown due in three weeks. I’m assigning partners—don’t come cryin’ to me.”

You sat up straight. That anxious flutter startin’ in your chest.


You always took school serious. GPA clean. Ain’t no way you was about to let some random boy mess that up.

Professor started callin’ names off his clipboard, pairin’ folks up one by one.
“Danielle and Marcus… Tiffany and Kayla…”

You tuned most of it out, until— he looked up pen pointing through the seats before his eyes landed on you.

“You… and Sammie Moore.”

The whole row went: “Ooooooooh.”

You closed your eyes, breathed deep. Lord, why me?

Sammie? Of all people?

You turned your head slow, like maybe you heard it wrong.

But there he was—grinnin’ like he just won a Grammy.


Mouth wide open. Gold flashin’.

He slapped the desk once and leaned into your space, breath smellin’ like spearmint and sin.

“Oh, this gone be fun,” he said, teeth gleamin’.

You sighed. Loud.

“I ain’t never even seen you with a syllabus, Sammie.”

He threw his head back laughin’. “Ayo chill on me! I’m tryna turn over a new leaf. Be a scholar n’ whatnot.”

You side-eyed him. “You ever even own a textbook?”

He pointed at your bag. “Nah… but you do.
And since we partners… closed mouths don’t get honor roll.”

You blinked, jaw tight. “Lord.”

He leaned closer, voice low, smooth. “What? You don’t trust me?”

You crossed your arms.

“I don’t even know you.”

He grinned wider, tapped the desk twice. “Well. Guess that’s what the project’s for.”

Sammie kept it one hundred.
He said he’d put in work—and he did.
Showin’ up every day like clockwork.
Sometimes early, posted up outside the library like he belonged there.

“Thought I’d get a head start,” he’d say, flashin’ that cocky half-smile.


“Or maybe I just like lookin’ at you tryna act like you ain’t impressed by a nigga.”

You’d scoff, but you never sent him away.
Truth was—he was tryin’. Hard.

He’d sit across from you, brow furrowed, tryna follow your notes while low-key givin’ you his own kind of test.

“Yo, derivatives?” he said one day, flippin’ his notebook around with dramatic flair. “These just wild disrespectful.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself—and he grinned like he just won the championship game.

“There she go,” he said. “Knew I could crack that mean girl shit eventually.”

You tried to play it cool. “Focus, Samuel.”

“I am focused,” he said, eyes lockin’ on you just long enough to make your heart skip.


“On the sexiest tutor on campus. Don’t blame a nigga if you distractin’.”

Every time he talked slick like that, you swore you wouldn’t react.


But your cheeks always gave you away—heat risin’ like you caught a sunburn indoors.

“That a blush?” he teased, leanin’ in like he tryna get a better look. “Don’t start fallin’ for me now.”

“In your dreams,” you shot back. But even you heard the smile in your voice.

From then on, study sessions were never just about the project.


He’d pass you a highlighter and let his fingers graze yours.


Let y’all knees touch under the table like it wasn’t on purpose.


Lean over your shoulder like he tryna read the worksheet—when really, he just wanted to breathe you in.

“Okay, brainiac,” he’d say when you breezed through a problem. “You really just be out here rememberin’ formulas off the dome like that? You sexy as hell.”

You froze. “Sammie.”

“What?” He shrugged, all fake innocence. Eyes scanning you full of anything but. “I’m just sayin’— brains and looks? That’s dangerous.”

It wasn’t long before you started leanin’ in too.


Not ‘cause you had to.
But because you wanted to.

Little things added up.


A hand on your back when he leaned closer.
The way his eyes tracked every word when you explained something. Really listened.


Like you was the only person in the room.

He still messed up equations. Still talked too much. Still flirted like it was second nature.

But he was showin’ up.
Every time.


For you.

And somewhere between late-night study grinds and lowkey heart flutters…
Sammie Moore stopped bein’ the boy from the back of the class and started becoming the one who had you smilin’ between blinks,
blushin’ between smile lines and fallin’ just a little harder every time he cracked a joke.

College life meant party life—and here y’all go again.

Your girls talkin’ you into steppin’ out with ’em.


You was easier to convince than usual. All it took was them bringin’ up Sammie.

“How close is close?” one of ’em asked, nudgin’ you.


You tried to play it off, but that blush crept up quick.

“He just… I mean…”


You rolled your eyes, but you told ’em. How fine he was. How deep his voice got when he was focused. How you couldn’t hold out much longer.

“Who said you had to?” one of them smirked.

Another girl leaned in, fanning herself. “I bet he talk you through it too,” she said, and y’all lost it, laughin’ all over again.

You grabbed your gloss, touched up in the mirror, and tried not to smile so hard.
You was feelin’ yourself tonight. And you should.

Y’all finally headed out—heels clickin’, perfume thick in the air, dressed like you had something to prove.
Which maybe you did.

Or maybe… you just knew Sammie was gon’ be there.


And tonight, you was gon’ let him see it.

The party started before y’all even hit the door. Lights low. Bass heavy. Air thick with perfume, weed, and sweat. Everything bathed in that purple-blue glow like a dream you wasn’t supposed to wake up from.

Y’all pulled up together—but separate.
You and your girls all sharp edges and lip gloss, heels clickin’, skin glistenin’ like honey under neon.


Them and Sammie? Posted on the opposite sidewalk, black tees, gold chains, eyes cuttin’ through the dark like heat.

It was automatic.


You stepped out the car and locked eyes with him.


Sammie already waitin’. Already smilin’.

“Damn,” he said under his breath, loud enough for the fellas to hear. “Y’all see this?”

You tried not to, but you blushed. Again.

Your girls noticed. Teased you. One popped your arm with her clutch, whisperin’, “Girl, if you don’t go say hey—”

But you ain’t have to.


Sammie was already crossin’ the street. Already comin’ to get you.

He stopped in front of you, the world hummin’ low behind his eyes.

“You wear that for me?”
His voice hit your chest first, then your knees.


You looked him up and down—black denim, clean kicks, rings on his fingers, that gold chain you always noticed when he was leanin’ over your notes.

“You think everything for you,” you murmured, tryin’ to sound unaffected.

He just grinned. “Only the good shit.”

Your girls and his boys fell into that easy, flirty back-and-forth.


Laughin’, flirtin’, dappin’ each other up like this was just another night.
But you and Sammie?


Y’all was in your own bubble. One step slower. One look longer.

And when the door to the club cracked open, that bassline slid out like smoke—and Sammie turned to you.

“Aight,” he said, reaching for you smooth and easy, like he already had the right.


Arm slid over your shoulder. Firm. Warm. Protective.


“Come on. You wit’ me.”

And just like that, you let him guide you in.

Walkin’ through that crowd like you was made for it.


Shoulder to chest, his hand droppin’ to your hip when somebody brushed too close.
Eyes on the DJ, the dancers, the lights—but always comin’ back to you.

Inside, it was wall-to-wall heat.


Bodies movin’. Drinks spillin’. Hooks loopin’. Lights stutterin’ like camera flashes in slow motion.

Sammie leaned down, lips close to your ear.
“You good?”

You nodded, barely able to hear yourself think.


But his arm didn’t move. Stayed locked around you like it belonged there.
And for the first time… you let it. Let yourself settle into it.

Let yourself feel how good it felt to be next to him—not just in study halls or library booths, but here.


In the lights. In the noise. In his world.

Some girl tried to come up. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.


Just kept his body turned toward you like she wasn’t even there.

“You drink?” he asked, mouth back at your ear.
You nodded again. And just like that—he was leading you through the crowd, still holdin’ you close.

You felt eyes.
Felt envy.


Felt the beat thumpin’ in your chest.

But most of all—you felt safe.

Like maybe, just maybe… this boy was serious.

Like maybe… you was ready to find out.

Sammie didn’t say nothin’—just nodded toward the back, hand still resting heavy on your waist as he guided you through the bodies like he had a key to every room in the house.

Past the living room speakers, past the swayin’ couples, past the girl in red heels dancin’ like she ain’t have a care in the world.

The kitchen was cooler, quieter.
Dim light from the stove clock. Ice clinkin’ in cheap glass cups.


Somebody’s cousin passed by with a bottle tucked under his arm and a blunt behind his ear. Didn’t even look twice at y’all.

Sammie stepped to the counter, opened the fridge like it was his place.

“What you drink?” he asked, back still to you.

You shrugged, leanin’ against the island. “Pick for me.”

He turned, brow raised. “You don’t drink like I do.”

You tilted your head, smirkin’ just a lil. “Try me.”

He chuckled—low, lazy.
“This gone be funny,” he said, grabbing a red bottle and somethin’ brown from the corner.


Poured heavy in two cups, eyes low from the weed hummin’ through his system.

Then he took a sip.


Slow.


Eyes on you the whole time.

Mouth still on the rim when your gaze dropped—followin’ the line of his throat, the way he pulled back from the cup slow, lips glossy, glistening under the overhead light.

He wiped his hand down his mouth, rings glintin’, and your eyes tracked every. damn. move.

Then—he licked his lips.
Just once.

Your gaze dropped there, couldn’t help it. You watched his tongue slide across those thick lips, the gold of his slugs lookin at you.

He stepped in closer, the space between y’all shrinkin’ like breath in cold air.


Held your cup in one hand, lifted your chin just a touch with the other.

“Go 'head,” he said, voice dipped in honey and dare. “Let’s see if you real.”

You opened your mouth, and he pushed the cup to your lips—fingers gentle, but sure.
His other hand slid back, found the nape of your neck, thumb pressin’ just enough to ground you.

You drank.

All the while, his eyes never left you—low, watchful, wantin’.


That tilted POV got you dizzy, heat spreadin’ slow down your spine.


He smelled like kush and cologne and the sweat on his skin. You looked up from under your lashes, caught his mouth twitchin’ like he was thinkin’ somethin’ he couldn’t say out loud.

You dropped the cup without speakin’.

He let it fall—plastic, not glass—no spill. No need to say nothin’.

His thumb brushed your bottom lip, slow.
Wet. Glossy. Warm.

He hummed low in his throat.
“Sweet,” he said. Could’ve meant the drink. Could’ve meant you. Didn’t matter.

Then he pulled back, just enough to breathe, fingers curlin’ around yours.
Didn’t tug. Didn’t pull. Just led.

Back through the smoke and color.
Back to the music, where it was louder, hotter.


Back to the floor, where the bass made your bones hum and the lights turned his eyes to fire.

Hand in hand.

You and him.

And this time… you didn’t let go.

AYEEE my first req of many whoever requested this it got too long baby this coming in parts but enjoy thiss one 😏

Pt2 here😫

Next up is : @yourm0mish0t Sammie x Reader cause yall can’t get enough. It’ll come soon so here’s a title ‘songbird sins’ #staytuned #stayloyal #stayfreaky