#pool paramore

[orions-garden]

I’M UNDERWATER NO AIR IN MY LUNGS MY EYES ARE OPEN AND I’M GIVING UP YOU ARE THE WAVE I COULD NEVER TAME IF I SURVIVE I’LL DIVE BACK IN

[dailywilliams]

HAYLEY WILLIAMS via Instagram.

[laramzp]

POOL - digital comic (2022)

In POOL, a digital comic I created in Procreate, the visual poetry commutes between the concrete and the fluid, building on the melancholy of Paramore’s track "Pool." The story invites themes of weight, memory, and surrender - of plunging into love or despair, and of finding yourself swallowed by the immovable.

POOL is a deep dive into the illusion of safety, the inevitable impact when love turns unyielding, and the effort to keep resurfacing when every glug threatens to swallow you whole.

Bodies and water meld, dissolve, and reform - tangled up like drowning and breathing in the same moment.

Fractured pools of memory invite the reader to an aquatic séance, evoking a space where the past is indelible, the present is unstable, and the future is refracted through the cracked lens of yearning.

POOL is a dreamscape where the "deep end" is both a literal and figurative. Love is the tide, pulling you under, and POOL invites you to dive in, not to escape, but to confront the weight and wonder of what lies beneath.

[lizziemothman]

79, 32, 14, 22 for spotify!

79. pool by paramore

32. gay space cadets by lande hekt

14. heat lightning by mitski

22. ICU by phoebe bridgers

[farmlesbians]

pool by samia or pool by paramore

[littlerunonsentences]

Mmm, I don't wanna shut you out I don't wanna rush around or slow down This time, I wanna stay right here I wanna make it crystal clear That I won't give in to the fear "Crystal Clear" Verse 1

In 2020 when Hayley Williams released "Petals for Armor" I was not in the headspace to listen, and appreciate the album. I was broken-hearted, had canceled my wedding three months prior. I was not in a place to acknowledge my emotions. I wanted to have no emotions. At that time, the only song from the album I listened to was "Simmer."

Until recently.

On June 10, 2023 I attended Paramore's concert in Columbus, OH. Hayley Williams beautifully performed "Crystal Clear." Later that week I decided to listen to it again, and really hear the lyrics of the song.

I cried, and I cried. And I listened again, and again.

This was a song that so closely described the emotions, and feelings that I have experienced surrounding reconnecting, and now dating my boyfriend, Nick.

At the beginning of Nick and I's relationship, my therapist spoke with me about treating people like you intend for them to stay. This is something for the last year and a half that I have worked towards. You want people to stay, so you treat them like they will.

The opening lyrics echoed this for me.

The second verse of the song creates a strong emotion of grief, and relief for me.

Paramore has a song from their 2017 album, After Laughter, titled "Pool." Which is an album, and specifically a song that carried me through the hardest times of my past relationship. The lyrics describe drowning in a relationship, and choosing to give the relationship a second chance for the sake of not giving up.

For me, the second verse of "Crystal Clear" connects to "Pool"

In "Pool" they melodically sing,

I'm underwater No air in my lungs My eyes are open I'm done giving up You are the wave I could never tame If I survive I'll dive back in "Pool" Chorus

In "Crystal Clear" Hayley Williams references diving head first into a relationship, only to be met with disappointment. And then, a friend finds her (turned to lover), and revives her. She no longer feels like she is drowning. In fact, the farther and farther deep she goes, she discovers the water is crystal clear.

This was Nick to me, and continues to be.

Diving into a relationship, and trying, and trying to make it work because you don't like giving up is a very lonely pavement to smack into. You feel like you can't breathe. You feel like you're drowning.

Nick saw that I was drowning, and brought me to life again. Like Taylor did for Hayley. (Perceived, of course).

I remember standing on the edge Closing my eyes Counting to three, I Jump in with the rush in my head Only to find, the water was concrete And now you're pumpin' air to my lungs This don't feel anything like sinking In fact, no matter how deep I go Into you it looks like the water is crystal clear "Crystal Clear" Verse 2

This song is so deeply personal to me. It is the development of my life, in words that I could have never so beautifully crafted to describe the experience.

[lelianaslefthand]

to me the bioware gear store is like a yard sale meets redbubble shop. its the most random assortment of items ive ever seen like there are some neat trinkets but the majority of it are things i'd find in someone's garage. the clothes leave something to be desired to say the least and then there's other random things like bed sheets and shower curtains (???) that look like they came straight from someone who just discovered canva's redbubble like what is happening

[vampylily]

i hope i get to see paramore perform pool one day. i know it was on the setlist for fall 2022 but i went to the summer leg 2023 so i didn't get that song.

[snixx]

paramore track 6s and 7s >>>>>>>

[whateveroursoulsaremadeoff]

Uuuuh in my heart, I knew in my heart it's not you, it's not you

[norrisradio]

ONLY EXCEPTION

♡ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ♡ WC: 3.0K ♡ GENRE: tooth-aching fluff♡ INCOMING RADIO: OSCAR PIASTRI MAIDEN POLE TO THIRD WIN YOU ARE MY GOAT!!!!!!!! THE PERFECT WEEKEND, A PERFECT DRIVER! ♡ RECOMMENDED LISTENING: only exception, paramore ● you are in love, taylor swift ● tsunami, niki ● lover, taylor swift ● fallingforyou, the 1975 ● slow dancing in a burning room, john mayer Read my co-driver's (@tsunodaradio) companion fic HERE <3

♡ SUMMARY: Oscar likes following the rules. But all rules have an exception.

Oscar Piastri doesn’t wear jewelry. Never has, never will. It’s a rule, unwritten but absolute, like the geometry of a perfect racing line, like the way his hands find the wheel before anything else. Rings, bracelets, watches—he’s never liked the feeling of something clinging to him, something that isn’t his fireproofs or the familiar weight of a steering wheel in his hands. Metal is for the car, not for him.  

But tonight, in a hotel room in Baku still thick with the scent of champagne and victory, he watches a thin silver ring glint between your fingers, and suddenly, he isn’t so sure.  

"You got this where?" His voice is edged with amusement, but his eyes don’t leave the ring.  

"Some shop in an alley in the Old City," you say, grinning. "Bit sketchy, but I think it suits you."  

It doesn’t, not really. The silver is slightly tarnished, the engraving uneven, a whisper of a pattern he can’t quite decipher in the low light. It’s not the kind of thing a man like him wears—not polished, not pristine. And yet, when you hold it out to him, something tugs at his ribs, an instinct deeper than logic.  

"You won," you remind him, quieter now. "Thought you deserved something to remember it by."  

As if he could forget. As if the day’s triumph wasn’t still humming through his bones, a quiet, electric thing. He should laugh it off, tell you it’s too much, too sentimental. Instead, he picks it up carefully, rolling it between his fingers. The metal is cool, lighter than he expected.  

He tries it on for you, because he knows you’re waiting for it—knows it’ll make you smile. It slips over his knuckle easily enough, but when he flexes his fingers, it spins too loosely, like it doesn’t quite belong.  

"Too big," he murmurs. A strange relief unfurls in his chest, something he doesn’t examine too closely.  

You watch him, eyes unreadable, and then, without a word, you pull at the thin chain around your neck. The one he’s seen you wear a thousand times, barely there against your skin. You unclasp it, thread the ring onto it, and press it into his palm.  

"Problem solved," you say, simple as anything.  

Oscar stares.  

The chain pools like liquid silver in his hand, the ring now nestled in its center. His first instinct is to refuse—he doesn’t do things like this. He doesn’t wear reminders of things, doesn’t hold onto symbols when the feeling itself is already enough.  

And yet.  

The clasp is small, fiddly between his fingers, but he gets it, slipping the chain over his head, letting it settle against his collarbones. The weight is barely there, but he feels it all the same. He catches your expression—soft, almost knowing—and something inside him tightens.  

"You’re ridiculous," he says, voice lighter than he means it to be.  

"You like it," you counter, the corner of your mouth twitching.  

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. The ring is warm now, pressed against his skin, right over his heart.

Oscar doesn’t like public displays of affection. Cameras, prying eyes, the weight of expectation—he’s always been careful. Calculated. A hand stayed firmly by his side, a step measured just so, never giving more than necessary. Affection, in his world, is something to be rationed, held close, not paraded for the world to see.  

But then there’s you.  

You, tugging him close with a laugh, fingers curling around the fabric of his race suit like you have every right to hold him there. You, leaning in without a second thought, pressing a fleeting kiss to his cheek when you think no one’s looking. The touch barely lingers, a whisper of warmth against his skin, but it stays with him longer than it should.  

At first, his body resists, muscles tensing out of habit. A lifetime of discipline, of knowing exactly when and where to let himself feel, doesn’t just fade overnight. But then he catches the way you glance up at him after, like you’re testing the waters, waiting for his reaction. Your eyes, bright and teasing, searching for the line he’ll draw between what is allowed and what isn’t.  

And maybe, just maybe, he leans into it.  

Not much. Just a fraction of a second longer when your lips brush his skin, the way his hand lingers at the small of your back in a crowd. The way his fingers twitch at his side before finally—hesitantly—finding yours. It’s subtle, barely there, but he knows you notice. Knows it in the way your grip tightens, in the way your body slots just a little closer to his like it was always meant to be there.  

The cameras still flash. People still look. He still tells himself he’s careful. But later, much later, when the noise has faded and it’s just the two of you in the quiet of his hotel room, your head resting against his shoulder, he breathes you in and wonders why he ever thought love was something to keep hidden.  

Because here, in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, with the ring on its chain warm against his chest and your fingers tracing absent-minded patterns along his forearm, it feels so easy. Natural. Like maybe, after all this time, he’s allowed to have something for himself.

Oscar doesn’t dance. His body is made for precision, for the sharp control of a steering wheel, for knowing exactly when to push and when to hold back. Dancing—real dancing, the kind that isn’t just nodding along at a team party—is messy. Unpracticed. A loss of control he’s never been entirely comfortable with.

But then there’s you.

You, standing in the kitchen, with the fridge still open behind you, its soft light spilling across the tile. One sock on, one sock missing, your phone’s speaker crackling out a half-forgotten song that sounds like it’s from another time, another place. You, with that grin—bright and teasing—already reaching for him, your fingers curling around his wrist like you’ve already decided.

At first, he resists, just for a moment, because that’s what he does. It’s instinct, a reflex to keep everything in its place, to maintain a sense of control. But you don’t let go. You tug, and your smile is too wide, too persistent, and suddenly, his socked feet are sliding across the cold kitchen tile, the sound of his hesitation lost beneath the crackling beat from your phone.

"Come on," you say, already swaying. "Just one song."

It isn’t a song meant for dancing. The rhythm is too slow, the melody fraying at the edges, but none of that seems to matter to you. You step in closer, fitting yourself against him with easy warmth, guiding him side to side like you’ve already decided he’ll follow. And—God help him—he does.

At first, he moves like he’s thinking too much, like his body is trying to find the right sequence, the right formula for something that was never meant to be calculated. But then you twirl under his arm, laughing when you almost misstep, and something in his chest pulls loose.

He lets himself laugh when you trip over his foot. Lets himself steady you by the waist, thumbs pressing against soft fabric. Lets himself breathe you in, warm and close and here.

The song shifts, bleeding into another, and you don’t stop moving. Neither does he. He tells himself he’s just humoring you, just giving you this moment, but then your hand finds the nape of his neck, your fingers threading lazily through his hair, and—

Maybe, just maybe, he holds you a little closer.

Oscar doesn’t keep souvenirs.

Never has. He doesn’t see the point. His life moves too quickly, each city blurring into the next, each hotel room as impersonal as the one before. What use does he have for things that only serve as reminders of places he’s already left behind? He’s never understood people who collect scraps of the past—ticket stubs, postcards, little trinkets that gather dust in bedside drawers.

If something matters, he reasons, it should stay in your head. You shouldn’t need an object to prove it was real.

But then there’s a ring around his neck.

It started as a joke. A cheap little thing you picked up in the back-alleys of Baku, pressed into his palm with a grin. For your first win here, you’d said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. And maybe it was, the way you said it—like he was always going to win, like you had no doubt. He remembers how it felt when you watched him slide it on, laughing when you realized it was just a touch too big. He could’ve left it in his hotel room, could’ve let it sit on his nightstand and forgotten it there.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he let you loop it onto a chain (your chain), let the cool metal settle against his collarbone. Told himself it was practical—rings can fall off, after all—but that didn’t explain the way his fingers found it absentmindedly, rolling it between his fingertips when he was thinking of you.

Then there’s the polaroid.

The edges are soft now, frayed at the corners from being handled too many times. He doesn’t remember when exactly it was taken—only that Lando had slipped it to him with that sly, knowing smile a few nights after you’d gone home. He’s seen it enough times to know every detail: you, on his lap, laughing with the kind of brightness that makes everything feel lighter, and him, arms looped around your waist, looking at you like you hung the moon in the sky.

He catches glimpses of it whenever he opens his wallet. A flash of you, so full of life, the image almost too real for a photo, like he could reach out and hear your laughter again, feel the warmth of your presence just beyond the edges of the frame. He should take it out—he tells himself this every time he sees it. It’s just a photo, just a slip of paper, already starting to fade with time. But then he thinks about what it would feel like to throw it away, and somehow, inexplicably, that feels worse.

So he leaves it there, pressed between the folds of the leather, a small piece of you he keeps close.

And then there’s the hoodie.

It isn’t his. The sleeves are too long, the fabric too soft, smelling faintly of you—of home. He doesn’t know how it ended up in his suitcase. Maybe you left it there by accident, or maybe you knew, in that way you always seem to, that there would be nights when he’d need it. He tells himself he’ll give it back the next time he sees you, but then it’s the middle of the night in some hotel halfway across the world, and the air conditioning is too cold, and he’s pulling it over his head before he can even think about it.

So, no. Oscar doesn’t keep souvenirs.

But then there’s you, slipping into his life in ways he never saw coming. In rings and photographs and sweaters that smell like home. In moments he can hold onto, in pieces of you he carries with him without even realizing.

And suddenly—maybe he does.

Oscar doesn’t do gifts.

He never has. He doesn’t see the point. Things are just things—objects with no real weight beyond what people choose to give them. He’s never been the type to care about unwrapping presents or fussing over sentimental trinkets. He’d rather give you his time, his presence, the weight of his hand in yours. A quiet dinner over some half-forgotten movie, a lazy afternoon drive with no real destination, the simple certainty of being there. That, to him, has always meant more than anything that could be bought or wrapped in a ribbon.

But then there’s you.

You, with your eyes bright with mischief, pressing a poorly wrapped box into his hands like it’s the easiest thing in the world. The paper is creased at the edges, tape barely holding it together, and you’re grinning like you already know he’s going to protest.

"I don’t need—" he starts, but you cut him off with a look, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

"Just open it, Piastri."

And because it’s you, because he can never quite find it in himself to say no, he does.

The gift is small, unassuming. Nothing extravagant, nothing flashy. Maybe it’s a keychain from a city you visited without him, something to keep in his pocket when you’re apart. Maybe it’s a notebook filled with little notes, inside jokes scribbled in the margins, your handwriting familiar and warm. Maybe it’s a shirt you swear would look good on him, one you know he’d never buy for himself.

It’s simple. Thoughtful. Undeniably you.

And maybe, against all logic, he feels something lodge itself in his chest—something warm, something soft, something dangerously close to forever.

He’s never been good at receiving things. Compliments, gifts, affection—he’s always been wary of taking too much, of letting himself rely on things he can’t control. But when he looks up at you, waiting expectantly, he realizes that this isn’t about the gift itself. It’s about the way you give it, the way you always give—without hesitation, without expecting anything in return.

So maybe, for the first time, he doesn’t argue.

Maybe he just shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips, and mutters, "You’re impossible," even as he tucks the gift away somewhere safe.

And suddenly, gifts aren’t just things.

They’re memories. A tangible piece of you, something to hold onto when you’re miles apart. A reminder that someone, somewhere, is always thinking of him.

Now, Oscar finds himself standing in an airport souvenir shop, staring at the rows of tacky trinkets that all look the same. 

It’s early morning, the kind of grey light that seeps through terminal windows, and Oscar’s tired from the flight, his mind already on the next race. But something about the soft hum of the airport, the chaotic lull of travelers rushing by, makes him pause. He catches sight of a little shop in the corner, tucked between a coffee stand and a news kiosk, and for reasons he doesn’t quite understand, he steps inside.

The shelves are cluttered with the usual assortment of useless things—fridge magnets, postcards, poorly made scarves in neon colors. But then, nestled in the corner, he spots something that pulls at him.

It’s a small, delicate necklace, the pendant a faded shade of turquoise, shaped like a star. Nothing special in the grand scheme of things, but something about it catches the light in a way that makes it glow.

He knows it’s not your usual taste, not the kind of jewelry you’d ever ask for. But he also knows you—knows how your eyes light up when you see something small and beautiful, how you always see things that others might overlook. And somehow, despite himself, he reaches for it.

He buys it without hesitation, not because it’s expensive or because it’s some grand gesture. But because he knows that when you see it, when your fingers graze the smooth surface of the pendant, you’ll smile. He’ll see it in the curve of your lips, in the light in your eyes, and he’ll know that, for just a moment, he’s given you something that makes your world a little brighter.

When he hands it to you a few weeks later, your reaction is everything he expected. Your hands flutter to your chest, your eyes wide with surprise and something softer, something warm. And for once, it’s not the gift itself that matters, but the simple fact that he thought of you, in the middle of a busy airport, surrounded by a thousand distractions.

Oscar doesn’t do gifts.

But maybe, for you, he does.

Oscar doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.

He’s learned, over the years, that words can be fragile things. Promises—those quiet, heavy assurances that hang between people—are often broken, twisted, or misunderstood. He’s been careful, always careful, not to say what he can’t follow through on. In his world, where nothing is ever certain and everything is fleeting, he’s made it a habit to remain grounded, to offer only what he’s certain he can give.

But then there’s you.

You, with your voice low and sleepy, the sound of it curling around the edges of the quiet room, the kind of voice that feels like comfort and calm all at once.

"You’ll always come back to me, right?"

It’s a soft question, one that you barely say out loud, as if the weight of it is more than you’re willing to admit. Your face is pressed into the pillow, your eyes closed in that delicate, half-dreaming state. There’s a vulnerability in your tone that makes his chest tighten, a crack in the armor he’s built around himself.

And before he can stop it, his lips find yours. A lazy, soft press that speaks of something far more permanent than he’s ever said aloud. Your lips are warm, gentle, and for a moment, time feels like it slows. He can taste you—something sweet, something real—and, somewhere in the quiet space between breaths, he’s pretty sure he tastes forever against your smile.

"Always," he whispers, the word slipping effortlessly from him.

It’s simple, easy, almost too easy. But it feels real in a way that’s new, something deeper than the usual assurances he’s offered, the ones that come with a hesitation in his voice, the ones that come with the understanding that promises are temporary things. This one, though—it’s a certainty that settles into his bones, a truth he knows he will carry with him.

And maybe, for the first time, he believes it.

Maybe, for the first time, he can give something that feels as unshakable as the way you trust him, the way you lean into him without hesitation. Because in your eyes, there’s no doubt—just faith, just the unspoken certainty that he will always be there, always find his way back to you, no matter where the road takes him.

And in that quiet, half-lit space between wakefulness and sleep, he knows something has shifted.

Oscar doesn’t make promises lightly. 

But this one—this one he gives you without fear, without reservation, because somehow, in the silence of your room and in the rhythm of your breaths, he knows it’s the truest thing he can say.

[le-velo-pour-dru]

I'm in a really weird mood, anyone have anything nice or fun to send me? :'3 💖

[paramorewillbelegends]

WHY GET USED TO SOMETHING NEW CAUSE NO ONE BREAK MY HEART LIKE YOU

[zoboey]

i've said it before and i'll say it again. i don't think i'll ever recover from the emotional damage i took when i couldn't see paramore in toronto last november.

[rainmaster-simp]

What is 1-A listening to? (But it's mostly my playlist):

Aoyama: he loves new jeans and Freddie Mercury

Mina: Nick Minaj and Doja cat

Tsuyu: Mitski n° 1 fan

Iida: listens only rain sounds to sleep

Ochako: loves Drowing pool and Laufey

Ojiro: Queen

Denki: Rebizyyx and Slipknot

Kirishima: Papa Roach on max 24/7

Kouda: musical songs, he loves Heathers

Satou: any "songs to listen to while cooking" playlist he can find (mostly old pop songs)

Shouji: Green day and The Offspring

Jirou: Paramore, Set it off and Babymetal

Sero: loves Arctic Monkeys and Måneskin

Tokoyami: MCR ofc and Bring Me The Horizon

Todoroki: Cavetown and Marina

Toru: LOVES k-pop and j-pop

Bakugou: MSI and Mother Mother

Midoriya: Red Hot Chili Peppers, SU songs and Rio Romeo

Momo: 5 seconds of summer and loves Melanie Martinez

[boydepartment]

still into you- nishimura riki x reader

a/n: THIS WAS REQUESTED BY ONE OF MY ANONS HERE!

request: now months later reader's in the practice room, late at night on the floor, catching their breath while the music plays in the background softly. it was then when Ni-Ki slams open the door not expecting anyone to be there and their eyes meet through the reflection of the mirror dance rooms have

warnings- none tbh :3 just both of them being goofy

wc- 300-400

MASTERLIST

sprawling out on the practice room floor was like clockwork to you. especially after a long day of dancing and cardio.

it helped to keep you distracted too, your work was everything to you. it helped fill a void that you didn’t even want to think about right now.

you stretched out hearing a couple pops, laughing to yourself before flipping on your stomach to go on your phone.

frowning when you turned it on it was a wallpaper of you and your ex. you really need to delete it, it was still in the wallpaper album that changes it every hour.

it was just a reminder of the void, you weren’t even mad at him anymore. you missed him and wished you had communicated with him more. it’s one of your biggest regrets…

sighing you opened tiktok so you could have your break. your music from your ipad connected to the speakers playing softly in the background. ironically enough still into you by paramore was playing.

you were about to like a video when the door slammed open, scaring you so bad you jumped back.

“GO AWAY IM ABOUT TO PRACTICE!” the boy laughed before walking in, not even taking in your presence as he was looking down at his phone.

for a split second you took in his appearance now. it changed a lot, he looked like he bulked up, his hair was cut shorter, WAS THAT A TATTOO ON HIS FOREARM?

you blinked and he finally looked up at you, “oh.”

oh? that’s all he was gonna say to you? OH? after months of not talking… OH???

“um.” you quickly got up, grabbing your ipad, phone, and hoodie, “you can have the room haha it’s fine anyways-“

“wait no…” riki quickly ran to the door and blocked it, as you were making a beeline to the exit.

you looked up at him, your stuff pooling out of your hands, “get out of my way!”

“no!”

“what the hell!” you started to laugh, “you can have the practice room! let me go!”

“no!” riki said again, now using his arms and legs to block the door, “please don’t leave i really- i just-“

you set your stuff down by your feet, “you need to what? finally explain yourself, apologize for being a dick?”

riki was about to talk, “i-“ he put his hand up, “yeah…”

“little late for that.” you went to pick up your stuff again and you saw him trying to look through his brain for anything. his body slumping against the door now.

part of you felt kinda bad. the breakup was a little messy, him being busy, him not being able to tell you that he loves you, you both being a little short tempered. it just wasn’t the right time for either of you. you didn’t hold bad blood or anything. it was just awkward

you grabbed your stuff properly this time, “okay, move. it’s not funny or cute anymore.”

“anymore? you thought it was funny and cute before?” he put his hands and legs almost in a starfish position again against the door. grinning with that all too familiar mischievous smile of his.

“riki! i’m serious! i’ve been practicing forever, i smell bad and i need to get food!” you tried to move past him. you couldn’t help the small giggles escaping you.

“no! i can’t! i need to tell you that im in love with you still and im sorry i didn’t say it before because i was scared to!” at this point he was word vomiting.

you looked up at him, “you are?”

riki’s eyes were still closed, he nodded rapidly, the last nod he hit his head against the door. which left you falling over laughing.

riki looked horrified, did he just embarrass himself? what if you had another boyfriend already? or girlfriend? it’s been months.

“you’re so cute.”

oh…

his ears turned bright red as he watched you laughing on the floor. you looked up at him with that same sweet smile you had previous to your breakup. he sat down on the floor in front of you.

“i meant what i said…” he said as your laughter died down and you were left staring at eachother.

you smiled at him again, “i still love you.”

his eyes widened and he smiled back, “you do?”

“yes i do.”

he jumped up and did a little dance before grabbing your hands and lifting you up. hugging you and swinging you around.

“i love you so much i’m sorry i didn’t say it before. i really do love you.” he set you down, “even if you smell bad after practicing.”

you shoved his shoulder and riki laughed, “i’m kidding i’m kidding!”

you hugged him again, your arms shaking around his waist.

“can i come with you to eat dinner then?”

“as my boyfriend or my ex?” you mumbled. you felt his arms hold you back, his chin on your head.

“as your boyfriend obviously… if that’s okay…”

you smiled up at him, “yeah that’s okay, if you’re okay with me being stinky?”

he sighs dramatically and raises his eyebrows, ���guess thats okay.”

you both start laughing before getting into a debate on what to eat together.