#they now have a lease violation

[nitr0m-nik]

I think it should be legal to kill obnoxious neighbors

[thestarsofpines]

okay but why

[palms-upturned]

.

[katierosefun]

cannot believe i’m studying for my property exam by telling my landlord that hey, buddy, did you know by doing X, you are actually breaking the law. tenant rights to quiet enjoyment of the premises!

[goldfades]

★ 'cause she's watching him with those eyes / and she's loving him with that body, i just know it / and he's holding her in his arms late, late at night / you know, i wish that i had jessie's girl / i wish that i had jessie's girl / where can i find a woman like that? ───JB⁹

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 18k (a lot more than i expected...)

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | a college student navigates her complicated feelings for her charming yet infuriating neighbor, joe burrow, while dating the seemingly perfect linebacker. after a series of missteps, flirtatious teasing, and an unexpected kiss, she finds herself caught in a whirlwind of tension, confusion, and unexpected sparks, all while trying to avoid the loud, chaotic presence of joe and his ever-constant parade of girls.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | unedited (sorry... i got lazy), NSFW (with lots... and lots... AND LOTS of plot), unprotected sex (wrap it before u tap it, kids) praise, teasing, lots of kissing/foreplay, p in v, uhhh.. descriptions of big dick joe??? enemies to lovers, roommates, mentions of drinking/alcohol, cheating (not on reader), joe being an asshole, cocky joe, lots of fighting, heated arguments.

⟢ ┈ 𝐞𝐯'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | this has been in my drafts for a good 2 months and finally decided to finish it up on the sunday before american thanksgiving! so... yaya! please let me know your thoughts!

The muffled sound of Ja’Marr Chase’s bass-heavy playlist seeps through the thin walls of your apartment, rattling the picture frames you swore you hung up straight last week. The tiny LSU apartment complex, with its peeling beige paint and eternally broken elevator, has its charms—like the way the front door doesn’t lock unless you kick it just right or how the air conditioner only works when it’s below 70 degrees outside.

But Joe Burrow? He’s not one of those charms.

No, Joe Burrow is the bane of your existence, the human equivalent of a pothole on a road you have to take every day. His name alone makes your best friend, Ella, roll her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck in the back of her head. “Just ignore him,” she says every time you come storming through the door, ranting about whatever fresh annoyance he’s cooked up that day. “He only bothers you because you’re fun to mess with.”

Right. Like that’s supposed to make it better.

Living next door to Joe and Ja’Marr was tolerable at first. Sure, they were loud, occasionally messy, and probably violating a dozen lease terms, but it wasn’t personal. Then, you had one small misunderstanding—okay, so maybe you yelled at Joe for leaving his bike in front of your door after you tripped over it—and now it’s like he’s made it his life’s mission to drive you insane.

Sometimes, it’s harmless: an obnoxious smirk when you cross paths on the way to class or his sarcastic comments about how you always seem to be spilling coffee on your shirt. Other times, it’s borderline infuriating: stealing your parking spot, taking the last box of cinnamon rolls at the grocery store, or claiming the shared apartment complex grill for “official game day business” every single Saturday.

Still, there’s something annoyingly magnetic about him, even when you want to wring his neck. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s laughing at his own jokes. The stupid mop of curls he somehow manages to pull off. The effortless confidence that borders on cocky, though you’d never say it out loud because that’s exactly the kind of thing that would go straight to his head.

Ella always jokes that you two are like an old married couple, constantly bickering but secretly loving it. You disagree. Mostly because Joe already has enough people falling at his feet—like the swarm of girls in purple-and-gold jerseys who show up at the apartment complex every other week, giggling like they’re auditioning for a reality show.

You sigh, brushing a stray crumb off the countertop as Ella flops onto the couch behind you, textbook in hand. And if his stupid grin when he sees you on your balcony later tonight is any indication, he’s already got something planned.

You just don’t know it yet.

The parking lot outside your apartment complex is a war zone at 11 p.m., with far too many cars crammed into a space that was clearly designed with only half the residents in mind. You circle the lot for the third time, your headlights cutting through the dark like a searchlight on some hopeless mission. After eight grueling hours at the campus library helping undergrads figure out why their printers are possessed, your brain feels like oatmeal, and all you want is to collapse into your bed.

But, of course, tonight isn’t going to be that simple.

Because there he is. Joe freaking Burrow.

He’s in his Jeep—windows down, music playing softly, and, naturally, there’s a blonde perched in the passenger seat laughing at something he said. Of course, he found the last available spot. Except—it’s not his spot, because you saw it first. Your blinker’s been on since the beginning of time (or at least the last 30 seconds), and you refuse to back down now.

Your grip tightens on the steering wheel as he slowly starts to reverse into the spot, like he hasn’t noticed your very obvious claim to it. Heart pounding with a mix of exhaustion and indignation, you tap your horn. Just once. Polite, but firm. He stops, glances in his rearview mirror, and then—of course—he smirks.

Oh, hell no.

You roll down your window and lean out. “Hey, Burrow! I was waiting for that spot.”

He leans his elbow casually against the window frame, his curls catching the faint glow of the streetlight. “Were you? Didn’t see your name on it.” His voice is slow, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world to be a pain in your ass.

You glare at him, barely suppressing the urge to snap. “I was here first.”

“And I started reversing first,” he counters, raising an eyebrow like it’s a debate class and not a parking lot at nearly midnight. The blonde giggles beside him, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Just let me have it. You look like you could use the exercise.”

Oh, he’s done it now.

“Excuse me?” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but you’re too far gone to care. “I’ve been on my feet for eight hours dealing with entitled freshmen, and if you think I’m about to let you—”

“Alright, alright,” Joe interrupts, hands raised in mock surrender. “Relax, I’m not trying to ruin your night.” He throws the Jeep into drive, and with a dramatic sigh, he pulls away, leaving the spot open for you. But not without one last parting comment. “Don’t scratch the paint when you park. Oh, wait—you’re really close to that pole—”

You park with excessive precision, throwing your car into park before leaning out the window to call after him. “I didn’t ask for your help, Joe!”

His laugh echoes across the parking lot, carefree and infuriating. You slam your door shut a little harder than necessary, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you trudge toward the building. Finally, peace.

Or so you think.

Because just as you reach the elevator, its ding announcing its arrival, you hear the telltale sound of sneakers scuffing against concrete and—because your luck is absolute trash—Joe freaking Burrow strolls in behind you, Blonde Giggles McGee still glued to his side.

“Hey, neighbor,” he says casually, stepping into the elevator with you like he didn’t just steal and relinquish a parking spot out of sheer pettiness. The blonde gives you a wide, vaguely clueless smile, her gum snapping between her teeth.

You press the button for the third floor with a pointed jab and cross your arms, leaning against the elevator wall as Joe and his date take their sweet time figuring out which floor they’re going to. The door finally slides shut, and the tension in the small space is unbearable.

“So,” the blonde says brightly, flipping her hair over her shoulder, “you guys, like, live here? That’s so fun! Like, neighbors and stuff. Wow.”

Your lips press into a tight smile, trying to avoid eye contact with Joe, who you can feel grinning at you like this is the highlight of his week. “Yep. Fun,” you reply curtly, forcing the word out like it’s laced with acid.

Joe’s shoulders shake slightly, and you realize he’s laughing. He glances at you, and there’s that damn smirk again, like he knows exactly how close you are to losing it. “She’s real talkative tonight,” he says, tilting his head toward you. “Usually, she’s got more to say.”

You turn to him with a withering glare. “Don’t you have something else to do, Burrow?”

Before he can reply, the elevator lurches slightly as it comes to a stop on your floor. You step out quickly, muttering a polite “Good night” that is entirely devoid of warmth. Joe follows, his pace annoyingly casual as he throws one last look over his shoulder.

“See you around, neighbor,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

You don’t look back.

The smell of cheap ramen hits you the moment you open the door to your apartment. It’s comforting, in a way—familiar, like Ella’s answer to every late-night craving or bad day. She’s in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove, barefoot and wearing the oversized LSU sweatshirt you’d bought together during freshman year.

“You’re late,” she says without looking up, her voice light with mock reproach. “Was the library on fire, or did you stop to fight Burrow in the parking lot again?”

You kick off your shoes with a sigh, tossing your bag onto the couch. “Option B. Obviously.”

That gets her attention. She turns, spoon in hand, eyebrows raised. “Seriously? It’s, like, midnight. You two are going to give each other aneurysms before graduation.”

You slump into one of the kitchen chairs, letting your forehead hit the table dramatically. “He stole my parking spot. Had the audacity to smirk about it, too. And then—get this—I got stuck in the elevator with him and some girl who wouldn’t stop talking about how ‘fun’ it is to have neighbors.” You lift your head to glare at Ella, who is now struggling to hold back a laugh. “I’m cursed. That man is my curse.”

Ella snorts, pouring the ramen into two mismatched bowls. “He’s not your curse. He’s just a guy with too much charm and not enough common sense. And clearly, you’re living rent-free in his head, which, honestly, is kind of impressive considering he’s got a playbook in there.”

You accept the bowl she slides across the table, your stomach growling despite your lingering irritation. “I don’t want to live in his head. I want him to stop being so… so Joe all the time.”

Ella sits across from you, propping her chin in her hand with a sly grin. “Are you sure? You seem to spend a lot of time talking about him.”

You glare at her over a mouthful of noodles. “Don’t start.”

But she’s already started, her grin widening. “I’m just saying, it’s giving sexual tension.”

You nearly choke, coughing as you wave her off. “Nope. Absolutely not. There’s no tension. Only irritation. And rage. And an overwhelming desire to see him move to a different apartment complex.”

Ella laughs, leaning back in her chair. “Whatever you say, babe. But for the record, I think you secretly enjoy it.”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can form a retort, there’s a knock at the door. Both of you freeze, staring at each other like deer caught in headlights.

“You expecting someone?” Ella whispers, her tone suddenly conspiratorial.

“No,” you whisper back, your heart sinking as a horrible suspicion creeps over you.

Ella gestures for you to check, and with a deep, resigned breath, you shuffle to the door, bowl still in hand. You crack it open just enough to see who’s on the other side, and—because the universe apparently hates you—there he is. Joe Burrow, in all his smug, infuriating glory, holding a box of cinnamon rolls.

“Hey, neighbor,” he says, his grin infuriatingly wide. “Figured I owed you something for stealing your spot.”

You stare at him, speechless, for a moment. Then, finally, you manage, “It’s 11:30 at night.”

He shrugs, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable time for a peace offering. “Better late than never, right?”

From behind you, Ella’s voice rings out, barely containing her amusement. “Is that Joe? Invite him in!”

You turn to glare at her, silently vowing revenge, but when you look back at Joe, he’s already stepping inside like he owns the place.

“Nice place,” he says, glancing around before holding up the box. “So… cinnamon roll?”

You sigh, shutting the door behind him. It’s going to be a long night.

Joe leans casually against the counter, still holding the box of cinnamon rolls like he’s been invited to stay for a late-night hangout. You narrow your eyes at him, folding your arms. “So, what’s this about, really? Cinnamon rolls aren’t exactly your style.”

“Wow, judgmental much?” he says with a mock-wounded expression. “What if I just wanted to be neighborly?”

Ella snickers softly behind you, spooning up her ramen as she watches the exchange like it’s prime-time TV.

Joe grins, ignoring your skepticism. “Actually,” he says, setting the box on the counter with a little too much flourish, “I’m out of sugar. You wouldn’t happen to have any, would you?”

You blink at him, incredulous. “Sugar? You came over at almost midnight to borrow sugar?”

“Yup,” he says, popping the “p” for emphasis, completely unbothered by your glare.

Ella, ever the peacemaker—or enabler, depending on the situation—sets her bowl down and gets up to rummage through the cabinets. “We’ve got some,” she says reluctantly, pulling out a small bag. She walks over and places it in Joe’s outstretched hand, but not without narrowing her eyes at him. “You better bring this back, Burrow. Or at least repay us with something better than cinnamon rolls.”

“Noted,” he says with a charming smile, tucking the bag under his arm. He turns to you, his grin softening into something almost teasing. “Thanks, neighbor. You’re a real lifesaver.”

You don’t bother replying, instead stepping aside so he can leave. He makes his way to the door, pausing for a moment. “Oh, and don’t forget to check your parking job in the morning,” he says with a wink before slipping out into the hallway.

The second the door clicks shut, you groan, slumping against the counter. Ella bursts into laughter, practically doubling over as she grabs her bowl again. “You two are ridiculous,” she says between bites.

“I’m moving out,” you mutter, dragging yourself to the couch. “I don’t care if it’s to a cardboard box in the quad. It’ll be quieter than this.”

You think that’s the end of it—Joe’s random sugar-borrowing adventure, Ella’s endless teasing—but of course, you’re wrong. Because a few hours later, just as you’re finally starting to drift off in the tiny bedroom you call your sanctuary, you hear it.

A muffled giggle. A low, rumbling voice you’d recognize anywhere. Then, unmistakably, the rhythmic creak of a bed frame against the wall.

Your eyes snap open, and for a moment, you pray you’re imagining things. Maybe it’s a nightmare—a cruel joke your overtired brain is playing on you. But then you hear it again, louder this time, followed by a very enthusiastic “Oh my God, Joey!”

You groan, grabbing your pillow and pressing it over your ears.

From the other side of the wall, Ella’s muffled voice reaches you through the darkness. “Is that…?”

“Yes,” you hiss, your voice barely audible through the pillow. “It’s him.”

She snorts, and you can hear her shifting in her bed. “Well, at least he’s getting good use out of that sugar.”

You let out a strangled laugh, torn between exhaustion and disbelief. “I swear, if this goes on all night—”

As if on cue, there’s another creak, louder this time, followed by more giggling and exaggerated moaning.

Ella sighs. “Thin walls, huh?”

“Apparently,” you mutter, rolling onto your side and glaring at the wall like it’s personally offended you.

The noises continue—giggles, muffled moans, the occasional thud that makes you wince. You bury your face in your pillow, silently cursing Joe Burrow and his audacity.

It’s going to be a very, very long night.

The next morning comes too soon. Despite the symphony of creaks, giggles, and thuds that plagued the night, you manage to drag yourself out of bed, bleary-eyed and cranky. The coffee pot sputters as you pour yourself a life-saving cup, muttering curses at your neighbor under your breath. Ella, still in her pajamas, watches you from the couch with an amused smirk.

“You look alive,” she teases, spooning cereal into her mouth. “Barely.”

“I hate him,” you say flatly, taking a long sip of coffee.

“Sure you do,” she singsongs.

You don’t dignify her with a response, grabbing your bag and heading out the door.

As luck—or fate—would have it, the universe isn’t done with you yet. Because just as you’re locking your apartment door, you hear the unmistakable sound of high heels clicking down the hallway.

You glance over your shoulder and immediately regret it.

There she is. Last night’s Blonde of the Hour, strutting toward the elevator with a walk of shame so confident it might as well be a victory lap. She’s wearing Joe’s oversized LSU hoodie, paired with last night’s skirt and heels. Her hair is tousled, but she doesn’t seem to care.

And because the universe apparently has a sense of humor, she notices you at the same time you notice her.

“Morning!” she chirps, her voice way too chipper for someone who clearly didn’t sleep much.

You press your lips together to keep from laughing, nodding in acknowledgment. “Morning.”

The two of you step into the elevator together, the silence stretching awkwardly between you. You steal a glance at her from the corner of your eye, wondering if she has any idea that her night of “fun” ruined yours. But then she sighs and adjusts the sleeves of Joe’s hoodie, completely unbothered, and you realize she probably doesn’t care.

The doors slide open to the lobby, and you step out first, your pace brisk as you make a beeline for the exit. But as you push through the glass doors into the bright morning sunlight, you nearly collide with none other than Joe Burrow himself.

He’s leaning against his car, coffee cup in hand, looking far too put together for someone who should be as tired as you. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you, then flick over to the blonde trailing behind.

“Morning, neighbor,” he says, his voice laced with amusement.

“Morning,” you reply dryly, brushing past him toward your car.

But of course, he can’t just let it go. “Sleep well?”

You stop dead in your tracks, turning to glare at him. His smirk is infuriatingly smug, and you can’t tell if he’s genuinely clueless or just messing with you.

“Thin walls,” you say pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

His smirk falters for half a second before he recovers, lifting his coffee cup in a mock toast. “Noted.”

The blonde, oblivious to the tension, giggles. “Joe, you didn’t tell me your neighbors were so fun!”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead unlocking your car with more force than necessary. “Oh, we’re a blast,” you mutter under your breath, sliding into the driver’s seat.

As you pull out of the parking lot, you catch a glimpse of Joe in your rearview mirror, still leaning against his car, watching you leave. There’s a flicker of something in his expression—amusement, maybe, or curiosity—but you don’t have the energy to figure it out.

Later that afternoon, when you’re back in your apartment trying to catch up on work, Ella pops her head into the living room with a mischievous grin.

“Guess who I ran into at the coffee shop?”

You glance up warily. “Who?”

“Joe,” she says, plopping down on the couch. “He said he’s planning a little ‘building mixer’ this weekend. Invited everyone on the floor. Including us.”

You groan, letting your head fall back against the couch. “No. Absolutely not. I am not going to some Burrow-hosted mixer.”

“Oh, come on,” Ella says, nudging you with her foot. “It could be fun. Free food, free drinks… awkward encounters with your mortal enemy…”

You glare at her, but she just laughs. “You’re going,” she says firmly. “I already RSVP’d for us.”

And just like that, you realize your week is about to get a whole lot more complicated.

Saturday night rolls around faster than you’d like, and with it comes the so-called “mixer” that Joe Burrow somehow convinced Ella you had to attend. You’d held onto the slim hope that it would be a small, quiet gathering of your neighbors in the building, with maybe some snacks, polite small talk, and an early exit for you.

Instead, you step off the elevator into what can only be described as chaos. The hallway is packed with people, the distant thrum of music vibrating through the walls. Someone’s yelling about finding the keg, and the faint scent of spilled beer and cologne wafts toward you.

“This is not a mixer,” you mutter to Ella as you both navigate your way through the crowd.

Ella, of course, looks thrilled. She’s dolled up in a crop top and high-waisted jeans, her hair and makeup perfectly done. “Relax,” she says, looping her arm through yours. “It’s just a party. Have a drink, let loose. Who knows? You might even have fun.”

You highly doubt that, but before you can argue, she spots Ja’Marr Chase leaning against the doorway to Joe’s apartment and perks up immediately. “I’ll catch up with you later!” she says, already untangling herself from your arm and heading toward him.

“Ella!” you call after her, but she’s too busy tossing a flirty smile Ja’Marr’s way to notice.

Great. Now you’re alone in the middle of a party that feels like half of LSU showed up to, surrounded by strangers and sticky floors. You push your way toward the kitchen, hoping to grab a drink and then find a corner to blend into until Ella decides it’s time to leave.

But, because the universe apparently loves messing with you, you hear his voice before you see him.

“Well, well, look who decided to show up.”

You groan internally and turn to see Joe leaning against the counter, a Solo cup in hand and that ever-present smirk on his face. He’s dressed casually in a fitted t-shirt and jeans, but somehow still manages to look like he owns the place—which, technically, he does.

“I’m only here because Ella dragged me,” you say, crossing your arms. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Joe chuckles, taking a sip of his drink. “Come on, admit it. You’re having the time of your life.”

“Yeah, sure,” you deadpan. “Sticky floors and loud music are exactly my idea of fun.”

He grins, clearly enjoying your irritation. “You know, if you wanted to hang out with me so badly, you could’ve just asked. No need to pretend Ella dragged you here.”

“I—” You stop yourself, realizing there’s no point in arguing. It’s exactly what he wants. Instead, you grab a bottle of water from the counter and turn to leave.

“Hey, hold up,” he says, stepping in front of you. “You’re not just gonna drink water all night, are you?”

“Yes, Joe, I am,” you say, trying to sidestep him, but he moves to block you.

“At least let me get you a real drink,” he says, gesturing toward the makeshift bar someone set up on the other side of the room. “I make a mean rum and Coke.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, stepping aside, but not before adding, “But you’re missing out. My bartending skills are unmatched.”

You roll your eyes and head toward the living room, finding a spot near the wall where you can observe without being dragged into the chaos. You sip your water and watch as Joe works the room, effortlessly charming everyone he talks to.

About an hour later, you’re starting to regret not leaving when Ella abandoned you. You’ve been stuck making awkward small talk with strangers, and the music is only getting louder.

Then Ella appears out of nowhere, grabbing your arm with a giggle. “Come with me,” she says, pulling you toward the corner where Joe and some of his teammates are lounging on a worn-out sectional.

“Why?” you ask, resisting her tug.

“Because Ja’Marr wants to introduce me to his friends, and I don’t want to go alone!”

You sigh, reluctantly following her over. Ja’Marr greets Ella with a grin, and she practically melts under his attention. You, on the other hand, find yourself stuck sitting next to Joe, who looks far too pleased about the arrangement.

“Miss me already?” he asks, leaning closer so you can hear him over the music.

“Not even a little,” you reply, glaring at him.

He chuckles, clearly unbothered. “You’re really bad at hiding how much you enjoy my company, you know that?”

You open your mouth to retort, but before you can, one of his teammates interrupts. “Yo, Burrow, who’s this?”

“This,” Joe says, gesturing toward you with a dramatic flourish, “is my lovely neighbor.”

“Neighbor, huh?” the guy says, raising an eyebrow. “You two seem… close.”

You snort. “Not even remotely.”

Joe grins, slinging an arm over the back of the couch behind you. “Don’t listen to her,” he says. “She’s just shy.”

You shoot him a withering look, but he only laughs, clearly enjoying himself.

As the night drags on, Joe makes it his personal mission to annoy you. Every time you try to leave, he finds a way to pull you back into the conversation, teasing you relentlessly. His teammates, to their credit, seem amused by the dynamic, occasionally chiming in with their own jokes.

By the time Ella finally decides she’s ready to leave, you’re exhausted—physically and emotionally. You practically sprint for the door, eager to escape Joe’s smirk and the endless teasing.

As you step into the hallway, he calls after you, “See you around, neighbor!”

You don’t bother responding, instead dragging Ella toward the elevator. But as you press the button for your floor, you can’t help but feel like you haven’t seen the last of Joe Burrow tonight—or any night, for that matter.

The next week at LSU passes like any other, but somehow, Joe Burrow has managed to worm his way into your daily routine. It starts small—running into him at the mailboxes, hearing his muffled laughter through the thin walls at ungodly hours, and the occasional “good morning, neighbor!” shouted across the courtyard when you’re clearly not in the mood.

It’s maddening, really, the way he seems to delight in being everywhere you don’t want him to be. And yet, despite your annoyance, you can’t deny that his presence makes life just a little more… interesting.

FRIDAY NIGHT

Ella bursts through the apartment door, her face lit up with excitement. You’re sprawled on the couch, flipping through lecture notes and wishing the week would end already.

“Guess what!” she exclaims, tossing her bag onto the counter.

“Let me guess,” you say dryly. “Ja’Marr invited you to another party?”

“Close,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “Ja’Marr and Joe are throwing a tailgate tomorrow before the game, and we’re invited.”

You groan, already dreading the idea of spending yet another afternoon dodging Joe’s incessant teasing. “I’m busy,” you lie.

“You’re coming,” Ella insists, plopping down next to you. “It’s practically a campus tradition, and besides, you could use a little fun.”

“Fun,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling being forced to socialize with half of LSU now?”

Ella rolls her eyes. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Food, drinks, and—” she grins mischievously—“a chance to hang out with your favorite quarterback.”

You glare at her. “Joe Burrow is not my favorite anything.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, clearly not believing you. “Wear something cute. We’re leaving at noon.”

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

The tailgate is, unsurprisingly, a spectacle. Rows of tents stretch across the field, decked out in purple and gold, with grills smoking and music blasting. Students and alumni alike mill about, laughing and chatting as they gear up for the game.

You follow Ella through the crowd, clutching a plastic cup of soda and trying to blend in. She, of course, makes a beeline for Ja’Marr, who’s manning the grill with an ease that suggests he’s done this a thousand times.

And where there’s Ja’Marr, there’s Joe.

He spots you almost immediately, his trademark smirk spreading across his face as he waves you over. “Hey, neighbor! Glad you could make it.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, but he’s already stepping closer, his easy confidence making it impossible to ignore him.

“What, no hug?” he teases, holding his arms out dramatically.

“Not in this lifetime,” you reply, sidestepping him.

Ella, now fully engrossed in a conversation with Ja’Marr, leaves you to fend for yourself. You glance around, debating whether to make a run for it, but Joe blocks your path, clearly amused by your discomfort.

“You’re really bad at this whole socializing thing, aren’t you?” he says, leaning casually against the nearest table.

“Maybe I just don’t enjoy your company,” you retort, taking a sip of your drink.

He grins. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be here.”

Before you can respond, one of his teammates calls his name, distracting him long enough for you to slip away. You find a quieter spot near the edge of the field, letting the noise of the crowd fade into the background.

But, of course, Joe finds you again.

“Thought you’d try to escape, huh?” he says, appearing at your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I wasn’t escaping,” you lie, crossing your arms.

“Sure you weren’t.” He pauses, glancing at the crowd. “Not a fan of tailgates?”

“Not a fan of crowds,” you admit.

He nods, surprisingly serious for once. “Fair enough. They’re not for everyone.”

You glance at him, caught off guard by the genuine tone in his voice. It’s a rare moment of sincerity from someone who seems to live for getting under your skin.

And then, just as quickly, the moment passes.

“Still,” he says, his smirk returning, “you’ve got to admit, the food’s pretty good. Ja’Marr’s burgers? Best on campus.”

The party stretched well into the night, turning the once-bustling tailgate into a dimly lit, hazy scene of music, laughter, and scattered conversations. You’d almost forgotten how much you hated these kinds of events. The air was warm, the smell of grilled food and spilled beer thick, but for once, you weren’t faking a smile just to survive.

Instead, you were leaning against a folding chair near the makeshift DJ booth, chatting with a guy named Wes. He was a linebacker for LSU, though, by his own admission, mostly a benchwarmer. Shy, soft-spoken, and refreshingly normal, Wes wasn’t at all what you expected to find at a party like this.

“You’re telling me you’ve never been to Mike’s cage?” he asked, his voice slightly raised to be heard over the music.

You laughed. “I don’t know, it just never seemed like a big deal to me. It’s a tiger.”

His eyes widened in mock offense. “It’s not just a tiger. It’s our tiger.”

“Okay, okay, maybe I’ll check it out sometime,” you said, grinning at his enthusiasm.

From the corner of your eye, you caught movement, and instinctively, you glanced over. There, leaning against the bar table, was Joe.

His usual smirk was nowhere to be seen. Instead, his jaw was tight, and his eyes were fixed on you and Wes.

The sight of his uncharacteristically cold expression sent a jolt through you. Was he annoyed? No, that didn’t make sense. He didn’t care about you, not really.

Wes was saying something about the tiger habitat, but your attention flickered back to Joe. His knuckles whitened around the edge of his red Solo cup, and he seemed to be muttering something to Ja’Marr, who only shrugged in response.

“Everything okay?” Wes asked, his brow furrowed as he followed your gaze.

You blinked, forcing yourself to refocus. “Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?”

Joe, however, was impossible to ignore. At one point, he stormed past your little corner of the party, brushing close enough that you could feel the heat of his arm against yours.

Wes had just finished telling a story about his first LSU practice, his nervous laughter making you smile, when Joe’s voice cut through the conversation like a jagged knife.

“Nice to see you making friends,” he said, his tone just sharp enough to raise the hairs on your neck.

You turned to find Joe standing a few feet away, his trademark smirk forced and strained. He wasn’t looking at you but at Wes, his gaze heavy with something you couldn’t quite place.

“Hey, Burrow,” Wes said, his voice even but noticeably quieter.

Joe stepped closer, ignoring you entirely as he clapped Wes on the shoulder. “Wesley Evans, right? Linebacker extraordinaire.” His words were light, almost teasing, but there was a strange undertone to them.

“Uh, yeah,” Wes said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Though ‘extraordinaire’ might be a bit of a stretch.”

Joe chuckled, his laugh cold. “Oh, come on. Don’t sell yourself short. I mean, someone’s got to keep the bench warm, right?”

The group went silent.

You froze, your stomach dropping as the words settled over the conversation like a wet blanket. Wes’s easygoing demeanor faltered for just a moment—just long enough for you to catch the flicker of hurt in his eyes.

But he recovered quickly, letting out a forced laugh. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta do it.”

“Joe,” Ja’Marr said sharply, stepping forward. “That was uncalled for.”

Joe raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk faltering. “What? I was just joking.”

“No, you weren’t,” Ja’Marr said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You stared at Joe, your chest tightening with a mix of anger and confusion. What was his problem? You’d seen him tease people before, but this was something else. This was cruel.

Joe’s eyes finally flicked to yours, and for a brief second, something like regret flashed across his face. But just as quickly, he turned away, muttering, “Whatever,” before stalking off into the crowd.

The group stood in awkward silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

“I’m sorry about that,” you said softly, turning to Wes.

He shook his head, forcing a smile. “Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.”

But you could see the way his shoulders sagged, the way his fingers tightened around the edge of his cup.

Ja’Marr sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s not usually like that.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you muttered, still staring at the spot where Joe had disappeared.

Ja’Marr shot you a look but said nothing. The group eventually dispersed, the easy energy of the night soured by the encounter.

And as you followed Ella home later, you couldn’t stop replaying the moment in your head, trying to piece together why Joe Burrow seemed so determined to ruin the night—not just for you, but for Wes, too.

The walk back to your apartment was quiet, the faint buzz of crickets and distant party music filling the air as you and Ella navigated the dimly lit sidewalks. The night had been long, and your head was still spinning from Joe’s earlier outburst. You’d always known him to be annoying, maybe even a little infuriating, but tonight was different. There was a sharpness to him, an edge that left you unsettled.

Ella broke the silence first, her voice soft. “What do you think that was about? With Joe, I mean.”

You shrugged, kicking a loose pebble down the pavement. “Who knows? Maybe he ran out of people to torture and decided to branch out.”

Ella laughed lightly but didn’t press further. By the time you reached your apartment complex, the cool night air had started to seep into your skin, making you shiver. All you could think about was collapsing into bed and forgetting this day ever happened.

But, of course, Joe Burrow had other plans.

There he was, right in front of your door, pressed up against yet another blonde, her manicured nails tangled in his hair as they made out like the world was ending.

You stopped dead in your tracks, Ella nearly bumping into you.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered under your breath.

At the sound of your voice, Joe broke away from his hookup, turning to face you with a smirk that was equal parts shameless and infuriating.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite neighbor,” he drawled, his voice low and teasing. “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon. Wes not invite you over for a post-party study session?”

Your jaw tightened. “Get out of the way, Burrow.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “What’s the rush? You don’t want to hang out? I can introduce you to…uh…” He glanced at the girl beside him, snapping his fingers as if trying to remember her name.

The blonde giggled, clearly unbothered. “Stephanie,” she offered, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Right. Stephanie,” Joe said, his grin widening.

Ella groaned softly beside you, crossing her arms. “Joe, move. We’re tired.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, stepping aside but not before leaning casually against the doorframe, effectively blocking your path again. “But seriously, where’s Wes? Thought you two were hitting it off. Or is he back on the bench already?”

“Are you serious right now?” you snapped, finally losing the last shred of patience you had left.

Joe straightened up, clearly surprised by the sudden bite in your tone. “What? I’m just messing around.”

“No, you’re being a jerk,” you shot back. “First, you humiliate Wes at the party, and now you’re standing here, rubbing it in like it’s some kind of joke. What’s your problem?”

Stephanie shifted uncomfortably, her gaze darting between you and Joe. “Uh, maybe we should—”

“Not now,” Joe cut her off, his tone sharper than you’d ever heard it. He didn’t even look at her, his eyes locked on yours.

Stephanie’s mouth fell open in shock. “Excuse me?”

“Just go,” he said, his voice quieter but no less firm.

For a moment, the three of you stood frozen, the tension hanging thick in the air. Then, with an indignant huff, Stephanie grabbed her purse and stormed off, her heels clicking angrily against the pavement.

Ella’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Wow,” she muttered under her breath.

Joe ran a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply before turning back to you. “Happy now?”

“No,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’re still here.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re acting like I committed some crime. I was just joking, okay? It’s not my fault you can’t take a little teasing.”

“Teasing?” you repeated, incredulous. “Joe, you embarrassed Wes in front of everyone tonight. And for what? To make yourself feel better? To prove you’re the big man on campus?”

His jaw clenched, the cocky facade cracking ever so slightly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then enlighten me,” you challenged, taking a step closer. “Why do you always have to be such an ass?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his gaze dropping to the ground. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and tense. “Maybe because it’s the only way to get your attention.”

Your breath caught, his words hitting like a punch to the gut. Before you could respond, he turned on his heel and walked away, the sound of his door slamming echoing through the quiet hallway.

Ella let out a low whistle. “Well, that was…something.”

You stared after him, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Something.”

“Did he just…?” Ella’s voice was barely a whisper beside you.

You swallowed hard, not trusting yourself to speak. What the hell was that supposed to mean? It wasn’t like Joe to be vulnerable—hell, he practically lived to get under your skin. And yet, there it was, hanging in the air: the truth you never asked for, wrapped up in all his stupid teasing and annoying antics.

“Forget it,” you finally muttered, fumbling with your keys as you moved to unlock the door. “He’s just trying to mess with me.”

“Uh-huh,” Ella said slowly, following you inside. “Because, you know, the guy who just ditched a hot blonde to argue with you at midnight clearly doesn’t care.”

You shot her a glare, unwilling to entertain the idea. “I’m going to bed.”

Ella raised her hands in surrender, smirking knowingly as she headed for her room. “Okay, but don’t act surprised when he shows up tomorrow. He’s not exactly the type to let things go.”

“Goodnight, Ella,” you said firmly, shutting your bedroom door behind you.

But as you lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, you couldn’t get his words out of your head. Maybe because it’s the only way to get your attention. Was he serious? Or was this just another game to him, a way to throw you off-balance and make you question everything?

With a frustrated sigh, you rolled over, punching your pillow as if it was somehow Joe’s fault that you couldn’t sleep. Whatever his deal was, you weren’t going to let him get under your skin any more than he already had.

But deep down, you knew it was too late. Because whether you liked it or not, Joe Burrow had already wormed his way into your thoughts—and no amount of denial was going to change that.

The next morning, you woke up to a series of loud knocks on your door, far too early for any sane person to be awake. Groaning, you pulled the covers over your head, but the knocking continued, persistent and unrelenting.

“Go away!” you yelled, but the noise didn’t stop.

With a huff, you threw off the blankets and stumbled out of bed, yanking open the door with every intention of giving whoever it was a piece of your mind.

But, of course, it was Joe.

He stood there, leaning casually against the doorframe like he hadn’t just woken you up at the crack of dawn, a lazy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Morning, neighbor.”

You stared at him, too stunned and too tired to muster a response.

“Didn’t think you’d be up,” he said, his tone annoyingly chipper.

“I wasn’t,” you snapped, rubbing your eyes. “What the hell do you want?”

His smile widened, and he held up a to-go coffee cup, the LSU logo bright against the paper sleeve. “Thought you might need a pick-me-up.”

You blinked at the cup, then at him, suspicion rising. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he said, still holding it out. “Just coffee. Truce?”

You hesitated, the words from last night still lingering between you. But, against your better judgment, you reached for the cup, your fingers brushing his for a brief second. “Fine. Truce. For now.”

His eyes gleamed, like he’d just won some kind of invisible battle. “I’ll take it.” He turned to leave but paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Oh, and by the way—I’m not going anywhere.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you standing in the doorway with a coffee cup in hand and the distinct feeling that, somehow, things were about to get a whole lot more complicated.

Things between you and Wes have been going really well. You’ve been texting each other daily since that first meeting in the quad, and his messages always seem to bring a smile to your face. Some days, you talk about classes and the usual college chaos—complaining about professors who seem to thrive on assigning last-minute papers, laughing over campus gossip, or sharing music recommendations.

Other days, the conversations drift into deeper topics: family, future dreams, and the things you never thought you’d share with someone you’d barely known a few weeks ago. It's easy, effortless, and you feel like you've known him forever. There's a connection that grows stronger with each passing day, his texts becoming a constant you look forward to amid the swirl of college life.

When game days roll around, you make sure to watch, even if football has never been your thing. You learn enough of the basics to text him encouragement before each game and tease him when his team makes a stupid play. And every single time he wins, you get a photo of him in his jersey, sweaty and glowing with victory, his smile so wide you can feel it through the screen.

One crisp Saturday evening after a particularly big game—a win that had the entire stadium roaring and chanting for more—your phone buzzes. It’s Wes, as expected, but this time the message is different.

Wes: Big win tonight. You should come out to celebrate—party at the house. It'll be fun, promise.

You hesitate for a moment. Frat parties aren’t usually your scene, but the idea of seeing Wes in person after weeks of building up this text-based connection makes your heart beat a little faster. It feels like the right time to finally break out of the comfort of your phone screen. You don’t want to overthink it, so you respond quickly.

You: Okay, I’ll come! What time? Wes: Perfect. Starts at 9, but I’ll be there around 10. Meet me out front? I’ll make sure you don’t get lost.

You can’t help but laugh at that—his protective side has become more apparent lately, and you find it kind of endearing. The rest of the evening passes in a blur of anticipation. You try on half your wardrobe, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness that makes your stomach flutter. After way too much deliberation, you settle on something that’s cute but comfortable—a black crop top, jeans that fit just right, and your favorite sneakers. Casual, but you don’t want to come off like you’re trying too hard.

The party was in full swing by the time you and Wes went in, the familiar buzz of laughter and music filling the air. His arm rested loosely around your shoulders as you made your way through the packed house, a red solo cup already in his hand. It was a typical LSU post-game celebration—teammates hyped up from their win, students eager for a reason to cut loose, and just enough chaos to keep things interesting.

Wes, ever the golden retriever type, was all smiles as he greeted his teammates. You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt as you plastered on your own smile. Wes was great—sweet, thoughtful, and good-looking to boot—but there was something missing. Conversations with him always felt a little too polished, like he was sticking to a script.

Still, you weren’t going to let your wandering thoughts ruin the night. As he led you toward the makeshift bar in the kitchen, you decided to let loose a little, leaning into his world for the evening.

You were two drinks in when you felt it—a shift in the air that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Glancing across the room, your eyes locked with Joe’s. He was leaning casually against the wall, his cup dangling from his fingers as he laughed at something Ja’Marr said. But his focus wasn’t on his teammate—it was on you.

That look.

You’d seen it before, the one that screamed I’m up to something. Your stomach twisted as his lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk.

“What’s wrong?” Wes asked, his voice breaking through your thoughts.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just thought I saw someone I knew.”

Wes didn’t notice your distraction, too busy rambling about the game. You nodded along, but your attention kept drifting back to Joe. He was still watching, and now he was moving.

Straight toward you.

“Wesley,” Joe said, his voice louder than necessary as he clapped a hand on Wes’s shoulder. “Man of the hour! Hell of a game tonight.”

Wes beamed, his chest puffing out a little. “Thanks, Burrow. That means a lot coming from you.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” Joe said smoothly, his grin sharpening. “You’re really making a name for yourself out there.” He paused, his tone dipping just enough to make the compliment feel off. “You’ve got a solid five minutes of playing time this season, right?”

Wes laughed, missing the sarcasm entirely. “Yeah, Coach says I’m improving every week.”

Joe nodded, his expression the picture of sincerity. “No doubt. You’re an inspiration, man. Really showing the bench how it’s done.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back the urge to step in. Wes didn’t deserve to be Joe’s verbal punching bag, even if he was too oblivious to notice.

Then Joe shifted his focus.

“And this,” he said, gesturing toward you with his cup, “is the girl everyone’s been talking about?”

You stiffened, already bracing yourself.

“She’s great, right?” Wes said proudly, tightening his arm around your waist.

“Absolutely,” Joe said, his eyes locking on yours. “Smart, pretty, patient.” His lips twitched as he added, “Definitely one of a kind.”

The room felt hotter, smaller. You knew what he was doing, and you refused to let him win.

“Wow, Joe,” you said, your tone dripping with mock sweetness. “That’s almost a compliment. Are you feeling okay?”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward. “What can I say? I’m a generous guy.”

Wes chuckled awkwardly, clearly missing the tension simmering between the two of you. But the people around you weren’t as oblivious. Conversations around the kitchen began to quiet, heads subtly turning in your direction.

Joe leaned in slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Though I gotta say, Wes, you’ve got your hands full. She seems like the type to keep you on your toes. Always ready with a snappy comeback.”

You took a step forward, your jaw tightening. “Maybe because some people deserve it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re talking about me,” Joe said, his smirk widening. “But hey, you’ve got to admit, I keep things interesting.”

“Interesting?” you repeated, your voice rising. “You mean infuriating.”

By now, you were toe-to-toe, the space between you charged with unspoken words and something else you refused to acknowledge.

Joe’s eyes flicked down to your lips for a fraction of a second before he smiled again, softer this time. “Guess that’s one way to put it.”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, you were certain everyone in the room could see the way your cheeks flushed, the way your chest rose and fell faster than it should have.

Joe straightened, patting Wes on the back. “You’ve got a good one here, man. Don’t screw it up.”

And just like that, he was gone, disappearing back into the crowd with that stupid smirk still on his face.

Wes turned to you, oblivious as ever. “Man, Joe’s great, isn’t he?”

You didn’t answer, too busy trying to calm the storm raging inside you. Because as much as you hated to admit it, Joe Burrow had just gotten under your skin again. And this time, you weren’t sure you could shake him off.

The days blur together after the party, each one bleeding into the next with a heavy quiet you can’t shake. Joe hasn’t teased you, hasn’t made any more snide comments in passing. It’s almost like he’s disappeared entirely, and the silence he’s left behind feels suffocating.

But it's not the kind of peace you wanted—it's the kind that echoes, that bounces around inside your skull, replaying the things he said over and over again until you can’t ignore them anymore. You try to focus on Wes, try to let his easygoing, good-natured attitude soothe the irritation that keeps curling under your skin, but the more you think about Joe’s words, the more they fester. Suddenly, everything about Wes feels too soft, too careful. He’s kind, yes, but there's a blandness to it, a safe predictability that only makes you itch for something sharper.

Then, days later, you find yourself in the apartment lobby, bundled up against the late autumn chill, glaring at a maintenance form on the wall. The hot water’s been out for days, and you’re halfway through filling out a complaint when you hear footsteps behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is—the shift in the air is enough.

"Wow, fancy meeting you here," comes Joe’s voice, smooth and mocking, with just enough bite to make your spine stiffen. You don’t turn around, don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, you keep writing, the pen pressing hard enough against the paper that it almost tears.

"Cold water bothering you too?" he continues when you don’t respond, his tone amused. You can feel him looming behind you, a little too close, and you grit your teeth, willing yourself to stay calm.

"Just trying to get it fixed," you reply curtly, finally turning around and catching the cocky smirk tugging at his lips. You’re not in the mood for whatever game he’s about to play, but of course, he’s not about to let you off that easy. His gaze slides from the form in your hand back up to your face, one eyebrow quirking up in that infuriating way that always makes you want to wipe the smugness off his face.

"Surprised you’re handling it yourself," Joe drawls, his eyes bright with something almost like delight. "Thought you'd get your little boyfriend to do it for you."

Your fingers tighten around the pen, and you force yourself to take a breath, ignoring the way your pulse quickens. "Not everything revolves around Wes," you shoot back, but your voice wavers just enough to make Joe’s smirk widen. His eyes flick over your face, and you hate the way he seems to read every expression, every crack in the mask you’re struggling to hold up.

"Really?" he says, the word heavy with skepticism. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against the wall like he’s settling in for a show. "Could’ve fooled me. He’s got you wrapped around his little finger, huh? I bet you’re the perfect, supportive girlfriend." His voice drips with sarcasm, and something inside you snaps.

"Shut up, Joe," you hiss, your voice low and dangerous. You turn back to the form, determined to ignore him, but he doesn’t move. In fact, he leans in closer, his breath warm on your ear.

"Why?" he murmurs, his voice soft but taunting, like he’s got all the time in the world. "Hit a nerve?"

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because the truth is, he did hit a nerve. And he knows it.

"Come on," he pushes, a note of genuine curiosity in his tone now. "Don’t you ever get tired of it? Playing nice, doing everything right, sticking with someone who’s… I dunno, safe?"

You spin around, eyes blazing, and Joe’s face lights up with triumph. "You don’t know anything about him," you snap, but there’s a waver in your voice that makes Joe’s eyes narrow with interest. "Wes is kind, and he’s decent, and he actually cares about people, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for you."

Joe’s smile doesn’t falter. In fact, it only grows wider, almost wolfish, and you hate that it sends a thrill through you, a charge that leaves your heart racing. "Yeah," he says, his tone almost pitying, "he’s safe. Boring. He’s exactly the kind of guy who’d never get in your way, never challenge you, never push back. And you’re happy with that? Really?"

You glare at him, your blood boiling, but you can’t look away. Because some part of you—the part you’ve been trying to silence for days—knows he’s right, and it makes you want to scream. "What the hell is your problem, Joe?" you demand, your voice shaking with anger. "Why do you even care? What does it matter to you if I’m with him or not?"

For a moment, something flickers in Joe’s eyes, something you can’t quite read, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by that infuriating smirk. "I don’t care," he says, too quickly, his voice a little too smooth. "I just think it’s funny, that’s all. Watching you pretend like he’s enough for you."

You step closer without realizing it, your fists clenched at your sides. "You don’t know what you’re talking about," you insist, but it sounds weak, even to your own ears. Joe’s gaze drops to your lips for a split second, and you feel a jolt of something hot and dangerous twist in your stomach.

"Don’t I?" he murmurs, and suddenly, you’re standing toe-to-toe, your breath mingling with his, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. He’s so close, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his smirk softens just enough to be dangerous.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

There’s a beat, a moment suspended in time where it feels like the whole world has narrowed down to just the two of you, the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavy in the air. Then, suddenly, Joe’s expression shifts, a slow, satisfied grin spreading across his face as he leans back, breaking the spell. He claps you on the shoulder, his touch light but lingering.

"Good talk," he says, his tone infuriatingly cheerful as he pushes past you towards the elevator, leaving you standing there, breathless and rattled.

"Have fun with Wes," he throws over his shoulder, and the door slides shut behind him before you can find the words to reply. You’re left staring at the closed elevator doors, your chest heaving and your hands still trembling around the pen, the echoes of Joe’s taunting voice ricocheting in your mind.

And for the first time in days, the silence feels even louder.

The days drag by, and every one of them feels heavier, weighed down by Joe's words. They hang over you, echoing whenever you try to ignore them, seeping into your thoughts when you're with Wes. The way he holds your hand, the way he smiles politely at your jokes, the way he never raises his voice or teases you too hard—it’s all safe. It’s what you thought you wanted. But now, thanks to Joe, it’s all starting to feel empty, like a shell with nothing inside.

As if to make matters worse, Joe's been louder, more present, and more irritating than ever. He’s upped his game, bringing a new girl home almost every night, the kind who giggle just a little too loud in the stairwell, whose heels click sharply against the tile floors, waking you and Ella up in the middle of the night. You hear them laughing through the paper-thin walls, their voices carrying long after you wish they’d shut up. Ella throws a pillow at the wall one night, groaning in frustration, but you just lie there, staring up at the dark ceiling, the annoyance mixing with something else—something you refuse to name.

And then Wes’s birthday sneaks up on you, like a storm you’d been pretending not to see on the horizon. Everyone's talking about it—the party of the semester, hosted at his parents’ mansion on the outskirts of Baton Rouge. You know it’s a big deal. Wes’s parents are the kind who throw events instead of parties, the kind where everyone’s wearing their best, and you’d feel out of place if you weren’t on Wes’s arm. You spend way too long picking out your dress, ignoring Ella’s teasing smile as you change twice and then settle on something classy, something you think Wes’s parents will approve of.

The mansion is even more extravagant than you expected. Tall, stately, and glowing with warm light spilling from every window. A string quartet plays softly near the entrance, and there’s enough champagne to drown in. It’s a perfect picture of Southern elegance, the kind of party where everyone’s on their best behavior and no one dares spill a drink on the white marble floors.

You’re almost able to relax, standing with Wes as he introduces you to old friends and relatives, his arm around your waist like you’re some kind of prize. But then, from across the room, you catch sight of someone familiar stepping through the grand double doors, and the air goes still.

Joe. And he’s not alone.

On his arm is a girl who looks like she’s stepped straight out of a beauty magazine—perfect curls cascading down her back, a dress that hugs her curves in all the right places, and a pageant smile that could light up the whole room. She’s everything you’re not: polished, pristine, and undeniably beautiful. And Joe’s leaning in close to her, whispering something that makes her laugh, the sound light and carefree, echoing above the music.

Your heart sinks. You should have known he’d be here. You should have known he’d show up with someone like her.

The moment he walks in, it’s like the temperature drops. You feel him scan the room, his gaze sliding over the crowd until it lands on you. There’s a flicker of recognition, a half-smile that tugs at his lips, and for a second, you swear he’s going to make a beeline for you, but then he turns to his date, all easy charm and confidence.

You look away quickly, swallowing down the hot, bitter twinge of jealousy that rises in your chest. Beside you, Wes is oblivious, laughing with some cousin or another, completely unaware of the storm that’s building in your mind.

The party moves on, but you can't shake the weight in your chest. Every time you turn around, Joe is there—always in your peripheral, laughing with his date or effortlessly sliding into conversations with people he’s never met, commanding attention without even trying. And it’s driving you mad. You hate that he’s here, hate the way his presence seems to seep into every corner of the room, hate that you can’t stop looking for him, even when you don’t mean to.

Wes’s parents announce dinner, and you find yourself at a long table, perfectly set with silverware that you don’t even know how to use properly. Wes is on your left, chatting away, and you force yourself to smile and nod at the right moments, though your gaze keeps drifting over his shoulder. Joe is at the far end of the table, but his eyes meet yours—bright and full of something that feels like a challenge. He raises his glass in your direction, and you don’t miss the way his date practically glows under his attention, leaning into his side.

You grit your teeth, focusing on Wes, who’s completely unaware of the way your stomach is twisting. He’s sweet, attentive, a perfect gentleman, and you wish you could ignore the itch under your skin, the restlessness that grows with each passing minute. But it’s there, burning hotter every time you catch sight of Joe, laughing too loud or leaning in too close to whisper in his date's ear.

By the time dessert is served, you’re practically vibrating with frustration, and Wes’s voice is starting to blur into the background. He’s telling some long-winded story about his summer at the family lake house, but all you can think about is how easy it would be to just walk over to the other end of the table and—

“Hey, you alright?” Wes’s voice breaks through your thoughts, and you force yourself to focus on him, pasting on a smile that feels hollow.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lie, reaching for your glass of champagne and taking a sip that burns all the way down. He seems satisfied, squeezing your hand gently under the table, but his touch feels distant, almost suffocating.

And when you glance back at Joe, he’s watching you, his smile sharper than you remember. There’s a glint in his eyes that makes your skin prickle, like he’s waiting for something, like he knows exactly what kind of game he’s playing. His date is still chattering away, oblivious to the way his gaze keeps flicking back to you, like a tether he can’t quite cut loose.

You look away, your face heating, and try to drown out the feeling with another sip of champagne. But it's no use. The night has only just begun, and you already know—it’s going to be a long one.

You escape upstairs, the noise of the party fading as you climb the grand, spiraling staircase. It’s quieter up here, with the muted sound of conversation and laughter drifting up from below, and you can finally breathe a little easier. You’re not even sure what you’re doing—just that you need a break from the suffocating conversation, the polished smiles, and the feeling of being watched. Wes is deep in conversation with a teammate, and it was easy enough to slip away unnoticed. You tell yourself you're only going to the bathroom, but you don’t even bother finding one. You just wander down the hall, hoping to collect yourself, to calm the thudding in your chest.

But then, of course, you see him.

Joe, leaning lazily against the wall at the end of the hallway, like he’s been waiting for you. There’s no sign of his date—she’s probably downstairs, lost in the crowd—but Joe’s here, and he looks too damn comfortable, his tie loosened and his shirt sleeves rolled up. He gives you that infuriating half-smirk the second your eyes meet, like he’s been expecting you. Like he knows you’re going to stop.

“Lost?” he drawls, his voice a low, lazy tease, and you freeze, every muscle in your body going tense.

“No,” you snap, hating the way your heart skips when he pushes off the wall, taking a step closer. “Just getting some air.”

“From Wes?” he asks, eyebrows raising, and you can hear the taunt in his tone, the way he draws out the name like it’s a joke. “Or from this whole perfect little party of his?”

“None of your business,” you shoot back, but he’s closer now, and you hate how your breath catches, how the air between you feels thick and electric. He’s looking at you like he’s stripping away all the layers you’ve put up—the polite smiles, the careful charm—and seeing straight through to the part of you that’s restless and hungry for a fight.

“You know, I can’t tell if you’re actually enjoying yourself,” he says, his voice dropping lower, almost intimate. “Or if you’re just playing the role of ‘good girlfriend’ to make everyone happy.”

“Shut up, Joe,” you warn, but your voice is weaker than you want it to be, and he notices. Of course he notices. He takes another step, and suddenly he’s way too close, the heat of him radiating into the space between you, making it harder to breathe.

“Or is it that Wes is just…too boring for you?” he presses, and something snaps. You step forward, shoving him hard enough to make him stumble back a step, anger flaring white-hot in your chest.

“Why do you care?” you demand, your voice rising. “Why do you always have to ruin everything? You can’t stand seeing me happy, can you? You always have to get in the way—”

“Oh, please,” he cuts you off, his voice sharp with irritation. “Don’t act like I’m the one ruining things. You’re the one who can’t stop looking at me. You’re the one who’s pretending this perfect little relationship is enough for you.”

You don’t even think. You just react, stepping closer, your chest heaving with the force of your anger, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “You don’t know anything about me!” you shout, the words tearing out of you before you can stop them. “You don’t know what I want or what I need, so stop pretending like you have me all figured out!”

He’s laughing now, a low, mocking sound that sets your teeth on edge, and you want to hit him, to scream, to do something to wipe that infuriating smirk off his face. But then he’s had enough. Suddenly, he moves, quick as a flash, and before you can even blink, he’s grabbing you by the waist and hoisting you up as if you weigh nothing, throwing you over his shoulder in one swift, effortless motion.

“Put me down!” you shout, struggling against him, but he just tightens his grip, carrying you down the hall like you’re some kind of rag doll. Your fists beat uselessly against his back, and you’re half-cursing, half-panicking as he ignores you, kicking open the nearest door and stepping inside.

The door slams shut behind him, and you barely register the darkened room—a guest bedroom, dimly lit by the moonlight streaming through the curtains—before he’s setting you down, pressing you up against the wall with a force that steals the breath from your lungs. You’re too stunned to move, your back hitting the cold plaster, and suddenly his body is pinning you there, his hands on either side of your face, caging you in.

“Finally shut you up,” he mutters, his voice rough, and you feel a shiver run down your spine at the way his breath brushes your cheek, hot and fast. His eyes are dark, burning with something you’ve never seen before, and the space between you feels like it’s crackling, alive with an energy that makes your skin prickle and your pulse race.

“Why do you have to be such a—” you start, but he cuts you off, leaning in closer, so close that you can feel the warmth of his chest pressing against yours. His mouth is inches from yours, his lips twisting into a wicked smile.

“Go on,” he taunts, his voice low and dangerous. “Say it. Tell me what you really think.”

You’re breathing hard, your anger warring with something hotter, something that’s been building between you for months, and you can’t stop yourself. “You’re an asshole,” you spit, your hands coming up to shove at his chest, but he doesn’t move. He just leans in, his nose brushing against yours, the air between you thick and suffocating.

“And you,” he says softly, his voice almost gentle, “are a liar.”

You don’t know who moves first—whether it’s him closing the distance or you surging up to meet him—but suddenly his mouth is on yours, hard and desperate, and you’re kissing him back like it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted. The kiss is furious, full of all the things you can’t say, all the frustration and the longing and the anger that’s been building up for so long it feels like it’s going to explode. His hands are in your hair, his grip almost painful, and you’re clinging to him, pulling him closer, gasping into his mouth as he presses you harder against the wall.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he whispers against your lips, his breath ragged, and you shake your head, too far gone to think, to lie, to do anything but pull him closer, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Shut up,” you breathe, and he laughs, the sound vibrating against your skin, before he kisses you again, deeper this time, slower, like he’s savoring the taste of your surrender. The room feels too small, the air too thick, and you know you should stop, you know this is wrong, but you can’t, not when his hands are sliding down your sides, not when his body is pressing into yours, not when he’s kissing you like he’s been waiting for this just as long as you have.

And then, suddenly, it’s too much. You push him away, your breath coming in short, harsh gasps, and he lets you go, stepping back with a grin that’s all arrogance and triumph. Your lips feel swollen, your face flushed, and you hate that you can’t stop looking at him, that you want more even though you know you shouldn’t.

“See?” he says softly, his voice maddeningly smug. “I do know you.”

The words barely have time to leave his mouth before you’re on him again, shoving him away from you, your hands hitting his chest with more force than you intend. He stumbles back a step, a flash of surprise crossing his face before his eyes harden, that infuriating grin vanishing. You’re both breathing hard, the air between you heavy with everything unspoken, with all the sharp words that have been building up since the day you met.

“You don’t know anything!” you snap, your voice cracking, and he just laughs, a short, humorless sound that makes your blood boil.

“You keep saying that,” he shoots back, his voice low and dangerous, “but here you are. Every time, it’s the same thing. You want me to stop? Then say it. Tell me to leave.”

You open your mouth to say exactly that, to tell him to go to hell and stay out of your life, but the words won’t come. They catch in your throat, tangled up with the truth you can’t face, and he sees it. He always sees it. His gaze softens, something like understanding flickering in those dark eyes, and it pisses you off more than anything.

“See?” he murmurs, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. “You can’t. Because you don’t want me to.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, but it’s too late—he’s already crowding into your space, his hand curling around the back of your neck, tilting your face up to his. You hate him for the way he’s looking at you, like he’s unraveling you with a single glance, like he knows exactly how to break you down, and before you can stop yourself, you’re surging up, your hands fisting in his shirt as you kiss him again, harder this time, angrier.

His arms come around you instantly, pulling you closer, and you hate that it feels good, that it feels right, even as you’re pushing against him, your nails digging into his shoulders. It’s a mess of teeth and tongues, the kiss desperate and furious, and you’re drowning in it, in the heat of him, in the way his fingers are tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp.

Then the door swings open, and you both jerk apart, your breaths coming in ragged, uneven pants. You barely have time to process what’s happening before you see Ja’Marr standing there, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. He looks at you, then at Joe, and lets out a long, frustrated sigh.

“Really, Joe?” he says, his voice laced with disappointment. “In the middle of Wes’s birthday party? Do you have a death wish or something?”

“Calm down,” Joe says coolly, like he’s not the least bit bothered, his gaze still fixed on you, as if daring you to run. “We were just talking.”

“Yeah,” Ja’Marr scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Talking, right. Because making out with your teammate’s girl is totally a normal conversation.”

You feel your cheeks burn, and you step back, smoothing down your clothes like you can erase what just happened. “This—this was nothing,” you stammer, trying to ignore the way Joe’s lips curl into a smirk at your flustered tone. “We’re done here.”

Joe just gives you a lazy, almost triumphant smile, like he’s won some unspoken battle, and turns to Ja’Marr with a shrug. “She’s got a mind of her own, you know,” he says, and you want to punch him, to scream, but Ja’Marr just shakes his head, looking equal parts disappointed and resigned.

“Whatever,” Ja’Marr mutters, grabbing Joe’s arm and pulling him out into the hallway. “You need to get your act together. Wes is going to notice if you keep pulling this crap.”

Joe’s eyes flick to you one last time, something unreadable in his expression, before he lets Ja’Marr drag him away. The door clicks shut behind them, and you’re left alone in the darkened room, your heart racing and your thoughts spinning out of control. You know you should follow them, that you should go back downstairs and pretend like nothing happened, but your knees feel weak, and it takes you a long moment to gather yourself, to steady your breathing.

By the time you make your way back down to the party, your face feels numb, and you’ve forced on the brightest smile you can muster. Joe is already back in the thick of things, his arm slung casually around his date’s waist, laughing like he doesn’t have a care in the world. You want to be angry, to hate him for making it look so easy, but then Wes catches sight of you, his eyes lighting up as he excuses himself from his conversation.

“Hey, there you are!” he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pressing a quick kiss to your temple. You try to smile, but it feels fake, like your skin doesn’t fit right anymore. “Where’d you disappear to?”

“Just needed a minute,” you say, your voice sounding hollow even to your own ears. You’re about to say something else, anything to fill the awkward silence, when you catch movement out of the corner of your eye.

Joe’s watching you, his gaze flicking from your face to your mouth, and that’s when you realize—his lips are still stained with the faintest trace of your lipstick, a dark, telltale smear at the corner of his mouth.

Wes follows your gaze, and his smile falters, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Joe, what’s on your—”

But Joe cuts in smoothly, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, his grin widening as if he finds the whole thing hilarious. “Guess I got a little carried away,” he says, his voice dripping with mock innocence, and you feel the ground sway beneath you as Wes’s arm tightens around your shoulders, his confusion shifting to suspicion.

“What’s he talking about?” Wes asks, his eyes narrowing, and you open your mouth to respond, to deny, to do something—but nothing comes out. Your voice has abandoned you, and all you can do is stand there, frozen, as Joe’s smirk deepens and he lifts his drink in a mocking toast, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Good party,” Joe says casually, his tone almost friendly. “Really enjoyed myself.”

You don’t remember what happens next—just the blur of faces, the noise of the party swelling around you, and the hollow ache settling deep in your chest as Joe turns away, laughing with someone else, like he hasn’t just blown everything to pieces.

Wes's smile is strained when he pulls you aside, away from the music and the crowd. There’s a tightness around his eyes you haven’t seen before, something almost defeated, and for the first time that night, you feel a genuine pang of guilt. This is the part you were dreading—the confrontation, the disappointment in his eyes. But instead of yelling, instead of demanding an explanation, he just looks... tired.

“Hey,” he starts softly, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I don’t wanna make a scene, okay? But I think... I think maybe you should go.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words die in your throat. There’s no anger in his voice, just resignation, like he already knows the answer before you can even try to lie. You can’t tell if that makes it better or worse.

“Wes, I—” you begin, but he holds up a hand, a weak, defeated smile pulling at his lips.

“It’s okay,” he interrupts, and there’s something achingly kind in his voice, which somehow makes it hurt more. “I think we both know this... isn’t what you want. Not really.”

You feel relief flood your chest so suddenly that it’s almost nauseating, and that’s how you know he’s right. Because instead of being devastated, instead of scrambling to explain yourself, you just feel lighter. Like a weight you didn’t realize you were carrying has finally been lifted.

You reach out to touch his arm, but he steps back, shaking his head. “Don’t,” he says quietly, and you let your hand drop, nodding numbly. There’s nothing left to say. You don’t try to apologize; you don’t try to make excuses. You just turn and leave, the buzz of the party fading behind you as you slip out the front door, the cold night air hitting you like a slap.

The walk back to the apartment feels like a blur, your mind whirling with everything that just happened, everything you don’t want to think about. You don’t know if it’s the relief of being free from something you never truly wanted, or the shame of how it all went down, but by the time you reach your building, your hands are trembling and your breath is hitching.

You let yourself into the apartment, your eyes already burning with unshed tears, and you find Ella curled up on the couch, half-asleep in front of the TV. The moment she sees your face, though, she sits up, worry creasing her brow.

“Whoa, what happened?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep, but you don’t even know where to begin.

“Everything,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, and then it all spills out. You tell her everything—about Joe, about the kiss, about Wes’s sad, tired smile and the way he let you go without a fight. You’re talking so fast you’re stumbling over your words, your emotions a chaotic tangle of regret and relief and frustration, and by the time you’re finished, you feel completely wrung out.

Ella listens without interrupting, her expression shifting from shock to disbelief to sympathy as you pour your heart out. When you finally go quiet, she just sighs and pulls you into a hug, squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, and you don’t realize how much you needed to hear that until the tears start falling. She doesn’t tell you that you screwed up, she doesn’t lecture you about Joe, she just holds you while you cry, rubbing soothing circles on your back until the tears run dry.

By the time you pull away, your throat is raw, and you’re exhausted. Ella doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look that says she understands, that she’s on your side no matter what, and that’s enough. It’s more than enough.

But then, just as you’re wiping your eyes and trying to compose yourself, you hear it—a loud burst of laughter echoing through the thin wall you share with Joe’s apartment. It’s followed by the high-pitched giggle of a girl, and your stomach twists. Of course. Of course.

Ella catches the look on your face and scowls. “He’s such an ass,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “You want me to go bang on the wall and tell them to shut up?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “It’s... it’s fine. Let’s just go to bed.”

You don’t even believe yourself, but you can’t deal with Joe right now, not after everything. So you go to your room, shut the door, and try to block out the noise. You tell yourself you don’t care. You tell yourself it’s over. But sleep doesn’t come easily, and all you can hear is Joe’s voice in your head, his mocking words echoing long after the sounds from next door have finally gone quiet.

Over the next few days, you try to fall back into a routine, but everything feels off-kilter. Wes doesn’t text you, and you don’t reach out, letting the silence stretch between you until it feels like a mutual understanding—something that was always going to happen. Ella hovers, supportive but careful not to push, and you appreciate that. You just need space, time to sort through everything.

Joe, however, is a different story.

You barely see him around the complex, but when you do, it’s impossible to ignore him. He’s still bringing home girls—more than ever, it seems—and they’re always loud, obnoxiously so, like he’s doing it on purpose, like he’s rubbing it in your face. And maybe he is. Maybe this is his way of proving a point, of showing you that he doesn’t care, that he never cared, and the worst part is... you don’t know if you care either. Or maybe you care too much.

One night, after a particularly sleepless stretch of listening to laughter and footsteps pounding through the walls, Ella finds you staring blankly at the ceiling, dark circles smudged beneath your eyes.

“He’s doing this on purpose, you know,” she says bluntly, her tone halfway between irritation and pity. “He’s trying to get to you.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, rolling over to face the wall. “It’s working.”

Wes’s birthday party fades into memory, and a few weeks pass. It’s easier to pretend you don’t care when you don’t have to face the fallout. You focus on classes, avoid places where you might run into Joe, and try to ignore the way your heart sinks every time you hear his voice next door.

Then, one Friday night, there’s a knock on your door. You’re half expecting Ella’s latest Tinder date or a package, but instead, you find Joe leaning against the doorframe, his usual cocky grin nowhere in sight. There’s something almost hesitant about the way he looks at you, and for a second, you don’t know what to say.

“Hey,” he says, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, and it catches you off guard.

“What do you want?” you ask, and you hate how defensive you sound, how you can’t help but put a wall between you.

Joe’s eyes flicker, and he shoves his hands in his pockets, glancing down the hallway before he looks back at you. “Can we talk?” he asks, and you can’t tell if he’s asking because he wants to or because he thinks he has to. “Please?”

You hesitate, every part of you screaming to slam the door in his face, to tell him to go to hell. “Talk?” you echo, as though the very idea is laughable. “What’s there to talk about, Joe?”

He shifts uncomfortably, his hands still deep in his pockets. “I just—” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. For once, he doesn’t look cocky or composed. He looks tired. “I screwed up, okay? I know that. And I just… I want to make things right.”

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “Now you care about making things right? Weeks later? Where was this when you were busy humiliating me in front of everyone at Wes’s party?”

Joe flinches, and the sight of it sends a small, mean thrill through you. You want him to feel every ounce of the anger and hurt that’s been simmering inside you since that night.

“I was drunk,” he mutters, like it’s an excuse. “You know I didn’t mean half the shit I said.”

“Oh, so you only mean half of it?” Your voice rises despite yourself, and you take a step closer. “Which half, Joe? The part where you said Wes was too good for me? Or the part where you implied I’m some kind of charity case?”

Joe groans, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “That’s not what I meant! You’re twisting it—”

“I’m twisting it?” Your laugh is sharp, humorless. “No, Joe. I’m finally calling you out on your crap. You think you can just waltz in here, throw out a half-assed apology, and I’m supposed to forget how you treated me? Newsflash: I’m done being your punching bag.”

“Punching bag?” His voice spikes, and you can see his patience starting to fray. “Are you kidding me? You think I don’t care about you? That I’d say that stuff to hurt you on purpose?”

“Then why did you say it?” you snap, stepping closer until you’re almost toe to toe. “Why, Joe? If you care so much, why do you always find a way to make me feel like I’m not enough?”

He stares at you, his jaw tightening, his chest rising and falling as he tries to keep his temper in check. But then he snaps, his voice loud enough to make you flinch. “Because you drive me crazy, alright? You’re in my head all the damn time, and it’s like I can’t think straight when I’m around you!”

You’re stunned into silence, your heart pounding in your chest. The air between you crackles with something electric, something you can’t name but can feel in every nerve of your body.

Joe’s eyes are blazing, his chest heaving as he takes a step closer. “You think I wanted this? That I wanted to feel like this about you? I didn’t, okay? But I do. And it scares the hell out of me.”

You swallow hard, your throat dry. “Joe…”

He shakes his head, his voice softening just a fraction. “I’m sorry, alright? For all of it. I just—I didn’t know how to deal with this, with you.”

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, the space between you is gone. Joe’s hands are on your arms, his grip firm but not rough, and you’re looking up at him, your breath catching in your throat.

Joe doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let the anger rise again. He stays close, his hands still resting on your arms, his grip grounding and firm. His gaze softens, something vulnerable breaking through the tension in his voice.

“You think I like being the guy who gets under your skin?” he asks, his voice low, but there’s no bite to it now. Only honesty. “You think I enjoy pissing you off just for fun?”

You stare at him, caught off guard by the sudden shift, the rawness in his tone. “Don’t you?”

Joe lets out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “No. That’s just the only way you ever seem to notice me.” His words hit like a punch to the gut, and your breath hitches. “If I’m not in your face, annoying the hell out of you, it’s like I don’t even exist to you.”

You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. He’s too quick, too honest, and you don’t have a defense ready for the truth.

“That’s why I invite them over,” he continues, and there’s no cockiness in the admission. Just exhaustion. “Those girls, the loud music, the stupid games—it’s not because I want them. It’s because I’m trying to get you to see me. To pay attention. Even if it’s just so you can yell at me.”

Your stomach twists, a lump forming in your throat. You want to stay mad, to cling to your anger like a shield, but it’s slipping through your fingers. Joe doesn’t stop; he steps closer, so close now that you can feel the heat radiating off him.

“I don’t know how else to get through to you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I’m tired, okay? I’m tired of pretending like I don’t care when I do. So much more than I should.”

Your breath catches, and your heart pounds in your chest like a drum. You don’t know what to say, what to feel. Joe watches you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips, his hesitation palpable. And then, before you can process what’s happening, his lips are on yours.

It’s not rough or demanding like you might have expected. It’s soft, tentative, as if he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His hands slide from your arms to your waist, anchoring you gently, and you can feel the tension in his body as he holds back.

For a moment, you freeze, torn between the urge to push him away and the overwhelming need to lean into him. But then your walls crack, and you kiss him back, your hands clutching at the front of his shirt as if it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Joe pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours. His breathing is unsteady, his expression a mix of relief and something deeper. Without a word, he steps forward, his hands tightening around your waist as he gently pushes you through the door.

You don’t resist. You can’t.

He closes the door behind him with a quiet click, then sweeps you off your feet in one swift, effortless motion. You let out a small gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he carries you down the hall toward your bedroom.

“Joe…” you begin, but he silences you with a look—a look so tender, so unlike the Joe you thought you knew, that your words die on your lips.

By the time he lays you down on the bed, the anger and frustration from moments ago have evaporated, replaced by something else entirely. Something that hums between you like a live wire.

He hovers over you, his weight supported by his arms on either side of your head. His eyes search yours, silently asking for permission, for understanding. And when you nod, so small and uncertain, he dips his head to kiss you again, this time deeper, more sure of himself.

Your hands find their way to his hair, tugging gently as he trails his lips down your jaw, your neck, every touch making your pulse race. He’s careful, almost reverent, as if afraid to break the fragile moment you’re sharing.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—Joe Burrow isn’t the selfish, cocky guy you thought he was. Maybe, behind all the bravado, he’s just a boy who wanted you to see him. And now, you finally do.

Joe’s lips trail along the curve of your neck, leaving a warm, electric path in their wake. He takes his time, his breath hot against your skin, and every deliberate touch makes your pulse thunder louder in your ears.

His hands glide over your waist, fingers pressing lightly, almost teasing as they trace the hem of your shirt. You feel his smile against your neck when you squirm slightly beneath him, a soft laugh rumbling in his chest.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. “No more yelling? No smart remarks?”

You swallow hard, trying to find some semblance of control, but the way his hands move, the way his lips hover so close yet don’t quite touch, leaves you breathless. “Maybe I just don’t have anything to say to you right now,” you shoot back, though your voice wavers.

Joe chuckles, lifting his head to look at you, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, I don’t believe that for a second,” he says, his thumb brushing over the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up. “You’ve always got something to say to me. Even if it’s just to tell me to fuck off.”

You glare at him, but it’s half-hearted, your resolve crumbling as he dips his head again, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I like it when you get all fired up,” he whispers, his tone teasing. “But I think I like this quiet side of you even more.”

You huff, trying to ignore the way your body betrays you, leaning into him despite yourself. “You’re so full of yourself.”

Joe smirks, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His hand slides under your shirt, fingers grazing your skin, and you shiver at the contact. “Maybe,” he admits, his tone smug, “but you’re still here, aren’t you?”

You want to retort, to wipe that cocky grin off his face, but before you can, he shifts his weight, his lips capturing yours again. This time, the kiss is slower, deeper, and you feel the teasing edge in his movements as he kisses you until you forget whatever comeback you had planned.

His fingers inch higher, tracing light patterns on your stomach, deliberately avoiding the places where you want him most. It’s infuriating, how easily he has you unraveling, and when he pulls back just enough to smirk down at you, you let out an exasperated groan.

“You’re infuriating,” you mutter, tugging at his shirt in frustration.

Joe leans down, his nose brushing against yours, his lips curling into a playful grin. “But you’re not telling me to stop.”

He shifts again, his hands sliding up to frame your face as he kisses you once more. His lips are soft but insistent, drawing you in until all you can focus on is him—his weight pressing you into the mattress, the warmth of his skin, the way his touch sets every nerve in your body alight.

“Say the word,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice soft but laced with a challenge. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

You stare up at him, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. But the word never comes. Instead, you pull him down again, your fingers threading through his hair as you kiss him with all the pent-up frustration, anger, and longing that’s been building between you for weeks.

Joe groans softly, his hands sliding down your sides, his teasing touch giving way to something more intentional. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs against your lips, his tone smug but laced with something warmer, something that makes your stomach flip.

Joe's lips find yours again, the kiss deepening as his teasing facade begins to slip. His hands roam your body with more purpose now, fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s memorizing every curve. He nips lightly at your bottom lip, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Still hate me?” he whispers, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. He moves back slowly, before pulling off your leggings, his eyes never leaving yours.

You bite back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, you pull him closer, your nails grazing the back of his neck, and the quiet groan he lets out is enough to make your pulse race.

The leggings are long forgotten now, leaving you exposed in your underwear. Joe chuckles softly, his breath fanning against your lips as he trails kisses along your jaw, then lower, his teeth scraping lightly against the sensitive skin of your neck. His tongue follows, soothing the faint sting, and the combination has your hands fisting in his shirt.

“You’re not as tough as you act, you know,” he teases, his voice dripping with amusement. His hands slide beneath your shirt, his palms warm against your bare skin as he pushes the fabric up slowly. “I think you like this way more than you’re letting on.”

“You talk too much,” you manage to gasp, but your retort loses its bite when his thumb grazes just beneath your ribs, sending a rush of heat through your body.

Joe pulls back just enough to tug your shirt over your head, tossing it carelessly to the side. He takes a moment to look at you, his blue eyes dark and filled with something you can’t quite name, and for a second, the teasing smirk is gone, replaced by something softer.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard.

Your breath hitches, and you feel your cheeks flush under his gaze. Before you can overthink it, his lips are on you again, softer this time but no less insistent. His hands trace slow, deliberate patterns along your sides, his thumbs brushing just beneath the band of your bra, and you arch into his touch without meaning to.

Joe grins against your skin, clearly pleased with your reaction. “That’s more like it,” he murmurs, his lips trailing lower as he presses kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, and then to the edge of the fabric.

He pauses, glancing up at you as his fingers toy with the clasp, his expression both playful and questioning. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says again, his tone softer now, without the usual cockiness.

But stopping is the furthest thing from your mind. Instead, you pull him down to you, your lips crashing into his with a fervor that answers his unspoken question.

Joe groans against your mouth, his hands moving to unclasp your bra with surprising ease, and you feel the shift in his demeanor as his teasing gives way to something more raw, more urgent. His lips trail lower, leaving a path of heat in their wake, and every deliberate touch has your body humming with anticipation.

“Still hate me?” he asks again, his voice rough and teasing, but there’s a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes as he looks up at you.

You reach for him, your fingers threading through his hair as you pull him closer. “Shut up, Joe,” you whisper, your voice breathless but firm, and for once, he listens.

Joe's smirk returns, but it’s softer now, laced with something warmer than his usual arrogance. He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low and full of disbelief, as if he can’t quite believe where the night has led. But he doesn’t argue. Instead, he lets his lips and hands do the talking, his touch reverent but still filled with that undeniable fire that seems to burn between you.

He slowly pulls away, looking up at you with a small smirk before he gets up. Before you could start questioning him, he takes off his shirt and sweats swiftly, your eyes widening at his body.

Joe’s smirk deepens as he catches the way your eyes widen, lingering on his toned frame. His confidence seems to grow with every second you stay silent, your gaze betraying the sharp tongue you usually use to deflect him. He steps closer, his movements slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to drink him in.

“You’re staring,” he teases, his voice low and teasing, though his eyes burn with something more primal. “I knew you liked looking at me, but this is a new level.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat rushing to your cheeks gives you away. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, trying to sound dismissive, but your voice wavers slightly, betraying the effect he has on you.

Joe chuckles, leaning down to brace his hands on either side of you, his face inches from yours. “Too late for that,” he says, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “You’ve already done it for me.”

Before you can fire back, he trails his hand down your side, fingers skimming over your waist and hip with maddening slowness. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, then another to the swell of your chest, each one softer than the last, as if he’s savoring the way you shiver beneath his touch.

You can feel his hardened bulge against your stomach, and you're just about done with his teasing. You need him, now. “Joe,” you whined as he pulls back with a smirk.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he says, his voice low and raw. “But I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Before you can reply, his lips are on yours again, his kiss stealing whatever snarky comeback you might have had. His hands move with purpose, sliding over every inch of bare skin, and the slow, deliberate way he touches you has your body aching for more.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against your lips, the words a quiet challenge. But you don’t. You can’t.

Instead, you pull him closer, your fingers tangling in his hair as you kiss him with all the frustration and longing you’ve been holding back for weeks. Joe groans, the sound vibrating against your lips as his teasing slips away entirely, replaced by something deeper, more desperate.

“God, you’re impossible,” he mutters, his voice laced with both exasperation and awe. But his actions betray the truth—he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He finally pulls away, breathless as he gazes down at you, his eyes filled with adoration and lust. “I'm gonna fuck you, alright?” he mutters before leaning closer. “And for all those times you pissed me off, and annoyed me, I'll forget about all of that if I can just... hear you.”

You're caught off by the request and you almost think he's joking, but you're mistaken. He's dead serious. All you could was nod slowly in response and Joe leans away, pleased.

Joe’s control starts to slip, and it’s evident in the way his kisses grow hungrier, more urgent. His hands tremble slightly as they trail over your body, mapping out every curve like he’s afraid this moment will disappear. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide and his breathing uneven.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he whispers, his voice raw, the cocky edge completely gone. “You’ve been driving me insane for months.”

Then finally, he slowly peels off his briefs, and his large, hardened cock falls out.

Joe lets out a small groan as his head falls back, relief in his expression. His pink tip is already leaking with pre-cum. You practically faint at the sight, you couldn't help but let out a whimper. His hands find his cock before he slowly begins to pump it, his eyes finding yours again.

He spreads your legs open before leaning in, his lips finding yours as his hands lead his cock to your cunt. His forehead falls against yours as he slowly begins to insert himself, a heavenly groan leaving his lips at the feeling of your warm, tight walls.

You felt like you were being split in half, in the best way possible. You can't even describe how good his cock felt, he wasn't even a quarter inside of you, but you still felt like you were filled to the brim.

“O-oh, fuck, Joey,” you moaned as your swollen lips form an O, your head falling back onto the plush pillows. Now you understood why the girls in his apartment were so loud—they definitely weren't exaggerating.

His hands grip your hips firmly, pulling you closer as if he wasn't inside of you already. His lips crash against yours again, the kiss filled with desperation, like he’s trying to pour every suppressed emotion into it. It’s intoxicating, the way his need for you feels almost overwhelming, and you find yourself clutching at his shoulders, wanting to be as close as possible.

He bottoms you out slowly, and he tries to give you a second to adjust—he really, really tried. He just couldn't. He slowly started thrusting in and out of you, and before you could even process the change in speed, he was rocking his hips against yours like the world depended on it.

The bed was creaking loudly underneath the two of you, the only sounds that could be heard was your loud moans, his grunts of pleasure, and the sound of skin against skin.

His cock was dizzying, to say the least. It hit all the spots you swore nobody had ever reached, making you question all your previous partners. You couldn't even form a singular thought about anything else except for Joe's huge cock and the way he was making you feel.

“Joe!” You manage to gasp as he begins to pound into you impossibly harder, but he cuts you off with another kiss, groaning softly against your lips.

“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice husky and edged with desperation. He leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes you gasp as his hands spread your legs wider, pinning you to the mattress.

Before you can respond, his lips are on yours again, his kisses growing more frantic, more needy. His hands are everywhere, exploring, worshipping, as if he’s afraid this moment might slip away. The way he touches you, the way he whispers your name like a prayer, leaves you utterly undone.

His words make your head spin, and you can’t find a response. You're too caught up in the way he was pounding into you, like a fucking animal.

But Joe doesn’t seem to care; he’s too caught up in you, his hips moving faster and faster until you're practically crying out loud. His hands roam your body as if he’s memorizing every curve, every inch of skin. There’s no pretense now, no games—just raw, unfiltered desire.

You begin to feel the knot in your stomach begin to form, tight and persistent. You begin to grip his shoulders even tighter, your head falling back into the pillow as you moaned.

“O-oh, fuck! I'm gonna cum, please.” You began rambling as your legs wrapped around his waist, his hips not faltering one bit—if anything, he began going faster.

“Yeah? Gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” He grunted out, his own impending orgasm. “Cum for me, baby.”

That was all you needed. The knot in your stomach snapped violently, your whole body spasming as you cried out in utter pleasure. The orgasm washed over you perfectly as Joe's hips began to falter, and a few moments later, his cum spilled into you.

You both lie there, tangled in the sheets, your breathing ragged and your hearts racing as the room settles into a heavy, satisfied silence. Joe’s arm is draped lazily across your stomach, his fingers tracing light, absentminded patterns on your skin. The intimacy feels different now—softer, quieter, as if the storm that had built between you for so long had finally passed.

He exhales deeply, his chest still rising and falling against your side. “Well,” he says, his voice low and hoarse, “that was... long overdue.”

You glance over at him, your lips twitching into a faint smile despite yourself. “You think?” you reply dryly, the lingering warmth of the moment making it hard to muster the sharp edge your tone usually carries with him.

Joe turns his head to look at you, his hair mussed and sticking out in every direction, his cheeks still flushed. There’s that cocky grin of his, but it’s softer now, tinged with something you don’t think you’ve seen before—contentment, maybe. “Yeah,” he says, chuckling lightly. “So overdue I’m almost mad at us for waiting this long.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. His grin widens as he props himself up on one elbow, leaning over you. His gaze flicks across your face, and he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from your cheek. “But hey,” he says, his voice taking on a playful tone, “now that I’ve finally got you right where I want you, I think it’s time to make this official.”

Your brow furrows slightly as you tilt your head at him. “Official?”

Joe nods solemnly, though the sparkle in his eyes gives him away. “Yup. A real date. No fighting, no yelling, no storming off. Just you, me, and a public setting where we try very hard not to tear each other’s clothes off.”

You snort, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Oh, is that so?”

“That’s so,” he replies with a grin, catching your hand and intertwining his fingers with yours. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, his gaze softening. “Come on, let me take you out. I’ll even behave. Swear.”

You arch a skeptical brow, though the warmth in your chest betrays you. “Behave? You? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Joe leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. “Guess you’ll just have to say yes and find out,” he murmurs, his voice teasing but undeniably sincere.

You roll your eyes again, but there’s no hiding the small smile that tugs at your lips. “Fine,” you say, trying to sound reluctant but failing miserably. “One date. But if you embarrass me, it’s the last one.”

Joe’s grin is blinding as he flops back down beside you, pulling you against his chest. “Deal,” he says, his voice full of triumph. “You won’t regret it. Best date of your life, guaranteed.”

You shake your head, laughing softly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he counters, his tone smug as his hand tightens around yours.

Maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[chronicallycouchbound]

I refuse to call government assistance programs “welfare” or “benefits”.

I’ve been on government assistance programs my whole life. I have never lived above the poverty line.

It’s a system that doesn’t care about my wellbeing, they care about doing the bare minimum to keep people alive enough to function and work, and if you’re disabled and cannot work, they give significantly less of a fuck.

And benefits?? What benefits?

Food stamps that run out within two weeks because I am budgeting with 8$ a day with literally dozens of dietary restrictions? Or do you mean the housing voucher that I have to never even have a gift card, penny to my name, Sams club membership, phone bill, literally anything that could be “income” in order to qualify? That same housing voucher system that if I mess up even once with I not only lose all government aid for at least 5 years, it’s also mandatory PRISON time for 1 year?? “Oh but they would never do that, right?” Nope! I have several friends who are now felons for minor lease violations and unhoused as a result! Oh maybe you mean the state health insurance that doesn’t cover most treatments, specialists, and testing I need and if I tried to make a gofundme to cover, I would lose aforementioned housing? Oh and we can’t forget all the money I get for being disabled, which is exactly 0$. I’m still fighting for SSI and have been for 6 years! That’s over 6 years with absolutely zero income. ZERO. And guess what, whenever I *do* get on SSI, I will lose my housing voucher. And I won’t be able to afford my current apartment because even in subsidized low income housing it’s too expensive for the maximum SSI “benefit” amount. And on SSI you can’t have savings over 2000$. Oh and they do make housing for people who are low income where you pay 30% of your income but I can’t even be on the waitlist since I don’t have any income. And on top of all this, I can never get married because I’ll lose all of the programs.

I could keep going. That’s not even half of the programs I’m a part of.

• None of them give me cash in hand. Even for vouchers I have to provide receipts for everything.

• Food stamps just straight up won’t even cover ineligible items. Which includes hot foods.

• I genuinely don’t believe that there’s a way to “game the system” and why would you? You would gain literally nothing.

• It’s designed to keep people poor. Once you make over a certain amount, you lose all or almost all benefits. There’s no way to slowly transition out of the programs, if you’re someone who’s able to. It’s all in or all out.

• All of these barriers are made significantly worse while unhoused/homeless. I’ve been homeless for over half of my life and there’s so many fucked up rules. If I missed one night staying in the shelter, I lost my housing voucher because I no longer was “verified as homeless” even if I was sleeping outside still.

[quietwingsinthesky]

was writing this down for an ask but realized i was quickly getting off topic for that ask lmao. let’s talk about Dean’s handprint, the wild misinterpretations of it, and how those have affected how people read Anna covering it during her sex scene with Dean.

We have to establish the obvious first: the number one way the handprint is misinterpreted is to establish a romantic connection between Dean and Castiel from their very first meeting. Because of how popular the ship is, we’re now left with the unfortunate aftermath of people knowing the ship first and the show second, and therefore being more inclined to interpret the show through the lens of the ship. Needless to say, while looking at season 4 through that lens for hints of destiel is fun, it doesn’t lead to a thematically cohesive reading. The handprint is the best way we can demonstrate this. If we take the handprint to indicate that Castiel has been romantically interested in Dean since minute one, or even that he sees Dean as a person rather than an instrument of Heaven’s will at first (put a pin in that), then the rest of his character arc for the season is incoherent and meaningless. To assert that this is what the handprint is about takes the conclusion Castiel needs the entirety of season 4 to reach and transplants it onto him at the very beginning in order to make it easier to find evidence for the ship.

There’s a lot of media out there where interpreting it through the lens of a ship, even one unintended by the author, can enhance the original text. (Lest we all forget our Winter Soldier roots.) Supernatural does not have that relationship to interpreting it to be about destiel. A season 4 where the handprint means Castiel is in love with Dean is a weaker story and does a huge disservice to Castiel’s actual character arc.

So, now that we’ve established what the handprint isn’t, can we talk about what it is? Yes. It’s pretty simple, actually.

Think of it this way: To Heaven, Dean is livestock, and the handprint is the brand telling everyone (but especially Dean) what ranch he belongs to.

Let’s start with the obvious: it isn’t a metaphorical brand at all. It’s literal. It’s burned into his skin permanently (or at least, when the makeup department wants to put it there.) I’d argue that from the nature of it being notable as the only scar Dean has from being raised from Hell and later showing up during his sex scene with Anna that even if we don’t see the handprint, we’re meant to interpret it as continuing to be there for… well. The rest of his life, most likely. And that’s horrifying. The handprint is telling us two things when it shows up: one, letting us know that Dean’s resurrection was intentional and through a manner we as the audience don’t have the information to guess at yet. Anyone who watched the show airing, or watches it now without knowing about angels would have assumed demonic deal intervention as being the cause of Dean’s new lease on life, and this. handily. discards that theory. But secondly, it tells us that this resurrection was violating. All resurrections on Supernatural are.

We assume from Castiel’s line, you know the one, we all know the one, Mr. Gripped-You-Tight, that he’s the one who put it there. However, to then make a further leap that it was Castiel’s personal decision to do so is, I think, a misunderstanding of his role. Take that pin out now. Dean is not a person to Castiel at this point. They’re not friends. Dean is a tool for Heaven to use, a tool that should be honored and grateful to be picked up at all. Make no mistake: Castiel branded him for Heaven, not for himself. Castiel’s a ranchhand. They aren’t in the business of letting the cows run free if they look a little sad to be slaughtered later.

Castiel needs to start here for his arc to be as impactful as it is. He can’t begin rebellious. He has to learn how to doubt. He has to develop a personal friendship with Dean that threatens his allegiance to Heaven. He has to see Anna having chosen to fall rather than obey Heaven and to be betrayed by Uriel being so desperate that he’s turned to killing their brothers and sisters trying to find a way out from under Heaven’s control.

There’s another line I think gets misinterpreted a lot in this initial meeting. “You don’t think you deserve to be saved?” On its face, easy bait for someone looking for shipping fodder, but that misses the actual point of the line. It’s a powerplay. We don’t learn until later why Dean wouldn’t think he deserves to be saved (aside from his general Winchester levels of self-esteem, but knowing that trait about him actually serves as a pretty good red herring to mask real reason Dean is thinking about himself as irredeemable now until the reveal. It’s not that Dean had a low opinion about himself in general, but that he tortured people in Hell and can never forgive himself for that.) , but Castiel does know. All of Heaven knows what Dean’s sin in Hell was. Without saying it, Castiel can remind Dean of it here. This line isn’t about Dean being so inherently good that Castiel had to rescue him. It’s about making sure Dean knows that the only way he can be ‘redeemed’ is through obedience to the heavenly powers who own his ass now. This is how he deserves to be saved. Because God commanded it. Because they have work for him.

And if he doesn’t bow? Then, as Castiel puts it in the very next episode, “I dragged you out of Hell. I can throw you back in.” This threat hanging over Dean’s head won’t go away for the rest of the season, not from Heaven. The only shift is that Castiel’s continued doubt and disobedience levels the playing field between them. They’ll both be punished, rather than Castiel taking on the role of disciplinarian. (It’s a really clever way of dealing with that power gap between them, actually. There’s always a bigger fish.)

The handprint and Castiel’s early conversations with Dean serve as a reminder of the precarious position he’s in. We shouldn’t take him ‘being saved’ at face value, no more than we should take Heaven being good just because they’re the angels in this equation as a given. Dean hasn’t been saved. He’s being used, just as much (if not arguably more) than Ruby is using Sam. (Because at least Ruby truly believes this is for Sam’s benefit, in the end.) And the worst part is how aware of it Dean is. How could he not be? His entire stint in Hell is defined by how Alistair used him. He’s just been handed off to a different owner, one that will still happily push him into the thing they ‘saved’ him from the minute it proves useful. Dean needing to torture Alistair reminds us just how little his circumstances have actually changed. He’s not allowed to say no to this.

So. The handprint is Heaven’s mark of ownership. It’s Dean’s status as their tool, their victim, burned into his flesh and inescapable. What does it mean when Anna places her hand over it?

I’ll lay my cards on the table. I’ve been thinking about this for so long because the aforementioned tendency to assume that the handprint is evidence for destiel means that the scene between Anna & Dean also gets lumped into being interpreted as more evidence for destiel. For over a decade, I have endured people joking about Anna being jealous of Cas for getting to leave a mark on their boytoy. And that’s one of the nicer things the Supernatural fandom will say about a woman who they perceive as a threat to their ship.

So, not to be rude or anything, but fuck Castiel. This ain’t about him.

This scene—It’s a lovely scene, a fantastic continuation of Dean and Anna’s previous conversation into the language of a sex scene—is about two people who have both been used and threatened by Heaven connecting over that shared trauma. Before, Anna gives space for Dean to open up about Hell, but he can’t, not yet, and though she knows what he’s gone through, she hasn’t been there herself. But when it comes to what Heaven has made of them, she does understand. It’s an incredibly vulnerable moment.

You make the handprint about Dean and Cas, and you erase what that scene is about entirely: the way Heaven’s abuse has tangled itself deep into Dean and Anna’s lives, into their bodies, and how they can resist it, if only for a few moments together.

The handprint was never about Castiel at all. It was about Heaven and its dehumanization of Dean.

[mariacallous]

RealPage says it isn’t doing anything wrong by suggesting to landlords how much rent they could charge. In a move to reclaim its own narrative, the property management software company published a microsite and a digital booklet it’s calling “The Real Story,” as it faces multiple lawsuits and a reported federal criminal probe related to allegations of rental price fixing.

RealPage’s six-page digital booklet, published on the site in mid-June, addresses what it calls “false and misleading claims about its software”—the myriad of allegations it faces involving price-fixing and rising rents—and contends that the software benefits renters and landlords and increases competition. It also said landlords accept RealPage’s price recommendations for new leases less than 50 percent of the time and that the software recommends competitive prices to help fill units.

“‘The heart of this case’ never had a heartbeat—the data clearly shows that RealPage does not set customers’ prices and customers do what they believe is best for their respective properties to vigorously compete against each other in the market,” the digital booklet says.

But landlords are left without concrete answers, as questions around the legality of this software are ongoing as they continue renting properties. “I don’t think we’re seeing this as a RealPage issue but rather as a revenue management software issue,” says Alexandra Alvarado, the director of marketing and education at the American Apartment Owners Association, the largest association of landlords in the US.

Alvarado says some landlords are taking pause and asking questions before using the tech. Software like RealPage “has made it much easier to understand what is happening in the market,” Alvarado says. “Technology has helped us in so many ways to make all these processes more efficient. In this case, it’s now borderline too efficient.” And members of the AAOA are asking questions about the legality of revenue management, she says. “The first thing landlords typically think is, what is the legal repercussion? Am I going to be in trouble for using this software? If the answer is maybe, it’s usually off the table.”

Dana Jones, president and CEO of RealPage, said in a statement released alongside the booklet that “the time is now to address a number of false claims about RealPage’s revenue management software, and how rental housing providers operate when setting rent prices.” RealPage did not respond to WIRED’s queries asking what prompted the lengthy statement in June. Officials appear to be narrowing in on RealPage, as the Justice Department is allegedly planning to sue the company, according to a report from Politico last week. The company declined a request to comment on the latest in the ongoing Department of Justice probe.

Allegations of price-fixing that may constitute antitrust violations have dogged the software company since late 2022, when ProPublica published an investigation alleging that RealPage’s software was linked to rent rises in some US cities, as the company used private, aggregated data provided by its customers to suggest rental prices. (In response to ProPublica's reporting, RealPage commented that it “uses aggregated market data from a variety of sources in a legally compliant manner.”)

RealPage’s software is powerful because it anonymizes rental data and can provide landlords and property managers with nonpublic and public data about rentals, which may be different from that advertised publicly on platforms like real estate marketplace Zillow. The company contends that it’s not engaging in price-fixing, as landlords are not forced to accept the rents that RealPage’s algorithm suggests. Sometimes it even recommends landlords lower the rent, RealPage claims. But antitrust enforcers have alleged that even sharing private information via an algorithm and using it for price recommendations can be as conspiratorial as back-room handshake deals, even if landlords don’t end up renting apartments at those rates. The reported antitrust investigation is ongoing.

RealPage’s algorithmic pricing model is among one of the first subject to scrutiny, perhaps due to its involvement in housing, a necessity that has ballooned in price as housing supply languishes. Typical rent in the US is just under $2,000, according to Zillow, up from around $1,500 in early 2020. “Housing affordability is a national problem created by economic and political forces—not by the use of revenue management software,” Realpage says. But renters can’t tell whether their rates are rising because of algorithms or not.

“It’s almost impossible to know if you are just a spectator or a victim,” says Shanti Singh, legislative and communications director with Tenants Together, a California-based coalition of tenants activists. If tenants call a hotline over raised rent or fees, “we’re not necessarily going to be able to see or connect that their landlord is using RealPage.”

The state of Arizona sued RealPage and nine landlords in February, claiming a conspiracy between the company and landlords led renters in Phoenix and Tucson to pay “millions of dollars” more in rent. That followed a similar lawsuit out of Washington, DC. In the capital’s greater metropolitan area, more than 90 percent of rental units in large apartment buildings were priced using RealPage software, according to DC’s attorney general.

The cases against RealPage puts algorithmic pricing to the test; as the technology becomes more common, antitrust law has yet to keep pace. Officials have other concerns around algorithms used for alleged hotel price fixing, as well as e-commerce algorithms. “The concern of regulators that algorithms can be used in ways that harm competition—that idea is here to stay,” says Ed Rogers, a partner at law firm Ballard Spahr who focuses on antitrust cases. “RealPage could end up really being a test case, not just for the real estate rental industry but for this aspect of AI and software and its role in a competitive landscape.”

The impact of algorithmic pricing varies greatly. Amazon has been accused of pushing up prices with a secret algorithm. (Amazon has said the “allegation that we somehow force sellers to use our optional services is simply not true.”) But others operate in plain sight, like dynamic pricing for rideshare costs, and don’t involve multiple companies sharing information. Not all of these algorithms are engaged in activity that may be considered anticompetitive. A Nevada judge in May dismissed a suit brought by hotel guests against several Las Vegas hotel operators, finding there was no agreement among them to fix prices using shared algorithms.

Yardi Systems, another US property management company, is also facing a class action suit regarding antitrust violations for artificially inflating rent prices. The company has said it did “nothing illegal,” as it does not mandate rent prices through its software or make “collusive pricing decisions.”

Typical rental costs in Phoenix have increased by more than about $500 a month from April 2020 to 2024, and by around $400 in Washington, DC, in the same period, according to Zillow.

Renters have also filed numerous class action suits against RealPage and property owners that have been consolidated. Some landlords named in those settled claims earlier this year. The court threw out a lawsuit regarding price fixing for student housing but has said the class action from renters can go forward. Attorneys representing some of the plaintiffs in the class action did not respond to requests to comment.

RealPage laid off about 4 percent of staff in June. “RealPage is hyper-focused on innovation and accelerating its business growth in 2024 and beyond, and as a result has made the decision to eliminate a small number of roles within the company,” Jennifer Bowcock, a spokesperson for the company, says. The layoffs were not connected to the antitrust lawsuit, she says. Thoma Bravo, the owner of RealPage, did not respond to a request for comment for this story.

As of 2020, RealPage said it was collecting data on some 16 million rental units across the US. There are 44 million renter households in the US, and nearly 22 million rental units are owned by for-profit businesses. RealPage grew when it acquired Lease Rent Options (LRO) in 2017, after clearing antitrust scrutiny by the Justice Department. The DOJ did not comment on questions from WIRED about its reported investigation into RealPage or its approval of RealPage’s acquisition of Lease Rent Options in 2017.

When asked about the latest in the probe, RealPage referred to a portion of its recent lengthy statement, which said: “The DOJ extensively reviewed LRO and YieldStar in 2017, without objecting to, much less challenging, any feature of the products.” RealPage also says that its “products are fundamentally the same today” as they were when the acquisition received approval.

In June, The New York Times asked assistant US attorney general Jonathan Kanter, the Justice Department’s top antitrust official, if he would view an AI tool communicating pricing information as the same as humans colluding, with the question referencing the reported RealPage investigation. Kanter replied: “I often say that if your dog bites somebody, you’re responsible for your dog biting somebody. If your AI fixes prices, you’re just as responsible.”

The Justice Department also last year filed a statement of interest in the RealPage combined class action lawsuit, as the case could become a precedent setter in algorithmic pricing. The statement mirrored Kanter’s argument that the method of price setting doesn’t matter, and algorithms are just the latest evolution in information gathering and sharing.

“In-person handshakes gave way to phone and fax, and later to email. Algorithms are the new frontier,” the Justice Department argued in a statement of interest it filed in the class action lawsuit against RealPage and landlords. “And, given the amount of information an algorithm can access and digest, this new frontier poses an even greater anti-competitive threat than the last.”

[mostlysignssomeportents]

2023's public domain is a banger

40 years ago, giant entertainment companies embarked on a slow-moving act of arson. The fuel for this arson was copyright term extension (making copyrights last longer), including retrospective copyright term extensions that took works out of the public domain and put them back into copyright for decades. Vast swathes of culture became off-limits, pseudo-property with absentee landlords, with much of it crumbling into dust.

After 55-75 years, only 2% of works have any commercial value. After 75 years, it declines further. No wonder that so much of our cultural heritage is now orphan works, with no known proprietor. Extending copyright on all works – not just those whose proprietors sought out extensions – incinerated whole libraries full of works, permanently.

But on January 1, 2019, the bonfire was extinguished. That was the day that items created in 1923 entered the US public domain: DeMille's Ten Commandments, Chaplain's Pilgrim, Burroughs' Tarzan and the Golden Lion, Woolf's Jacob's Room, Coward's London Calling and 1,000+ more works:

https://web.law.duke.edu/cspd/publicdomainday/2019/

Many of those newly liberated works were forgotten, partly due to their great age, but also because no one knew who they belonged to (Congress abolished the requirement to register copyrights in 1976), so no one could revive or reissue them while they were still in the popular imagination, depriving them of new leases on life.

2019 was the starting gun on a new public domain, giving the public new treasures to share and enjoy, and giving the long-dead creators of the Roaring Twenties a new chance at posterity. Each new year since has seen  a richer, more full public domain. 2021 was a great year, featuring some DuBois, Dos Pasos, Huxley, Duke Ellington, Fats Waller, Bessie Smith and Sydney Bechet:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/16/fraught-superpowers/#public-domain-day

In just 12 days, the public domain will welcome another year's worth of works back into our shared commons. As ever, Jennifer Jenkins of Duke's Center for the Public Domain have painstaking researched highlights from the coming year's entrants:

https://web.law.duke.edu/cspd/publicdomainday/2023/

On the literary front, we have Virginia Woolf's To The Lighthouse, AA Milne's Now We Are Six, Hemingway's Men Without Women, Faulkner's Mosquitoes, Christie's The Big Four, Wharton's Twilight Sleep, Hesse's Steppenwolf (in German), Kafka's Amerika (in German), and Proust's Le Temps retrouvé (in French).

We also get all of Sherlock Holmes, finally wrestling control back from the copyright trolls who control the Arthur Conan Doyle estate. This is a firm of rent-seeking bullies who have abused the court process to extract menaces money from living creators, including rent on works that were unambiguously in the public domain.

The estate's sleaziest trick is claiming that while many Sherlock Holmes stories were in the public domain, certain elements of Holmes's personality were developed in later stories that were still in copyright, and therefore any Sherlock story that contained those elements was a copyright violation. Infamously, the Doyle Estate went after the creators of the Enola Holmes series, claiming a copyright over Sherlock stories in which Holmes was "capable of friendship," "expressed emotion," or "respected women." This is a nonsensical theory, based on the idea that these character traits are copyrightable. They are not:

https://web.law.duke.edu/cspd/publicdomainday/2023/#fn6text

The Doyle Estate's shakedown racket took a serious body-blow in 2013, when Les Klinger – a lawyer, author and prominent Sherlockian – prevailed in court, with the judge ruling that new works based on public domain Sherlock stories were not infringing, even if some Sherlock stories remained in copyright. The estate appealed and lost again, and Klinger was awarded costs. They tried to take the case to the Supreme Court and got laughed out of the building.

But as the Enola Holmes example shows, you can't keep a copyright troll down: the Doyle estate kept making up imaginary copyright laws in a desperate, grasping bid to wring more money out of living, working creators. That's gonna be a lot harder after Jan 1, when The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes enters the public domain, meaning that every Sherlock story will be out of copyright.

One fun note about Klinger's landmark win over the Doyle estate: he took an amazing victory lap, commissioning an anthology of new unauthorized Holmes stories in 2016 called "Echoes of Sherlock Holmes":

https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/Echoes-of-Sherlock-Holmes/Laurie-R-King/Sherlock-Holmes/9781681775463

I wrote a short story for it, "Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Extraordinary Rendition," which was based on previously unpublished Snowden leaks.

https://esl-bits.net/ESL.English.Listening.Short.Stories/Rendition/01/default.html

I got access to the full Snowden trove thanks to Laura Poitras, who jointly commissioned the story from me for inclusion in the companion book for "Astro noise : a survival guide for living under total surveillance," her show at the Whitney:

https://www.si.edu/object/siris_sil_1060502

I also reported out the leaks the story was based on in a companion piece:

https://memex.craphound.com/2016/02/02/exclusive-snowden-intelligence-docs-reveal-uk-spooks-malware-checklist/

Jan 1, 2023 will also be a fine day for film in the public domain, with Metropolis, The Jazz Singer, and Laurel and Hardy's Battle of the Century entering the commons. Also notable: Wings, winner of the first-ever best picture Academy Award; The Lodger, Hitchcock's first thriller; and FW "Nosferatu" Mirnau's Sunrise.

However most of the movies that enter the public domain next week will never be seen again. They are "lost pictures," and every known copy of them expired before their copyrights did. 1927 saw the first synchronized dialog film (The Jazz Singer). As talkies took over the big screen, studios all but gave up on preserving silent films, which were printed on delicate stock that needed careful tending. Today, 75% of all silent films are lost to history.

But some films from this era do survive, and they are now in the public domain. This is true irrespective of whether they were restored at a later date. Restoration does not create a new copyright. "The Supreme Court has made clear that 'the sine qua non of copyright is originality.'"

https://www.law.cornell.edu/supremecourt/text/499/340

There's some great music entering the public domain next year! "The Best Things In Life Are Free"; "I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for Ice-Cream"; "Puttin' On the Ritz"; "'S Wonderful"; "Ol' Man River"; "My Blue Heaven" and "Mississippi Mud."

It's a banger of a year for jazz and blues, too. We get Bessie Smith's "Back Water Blues," "Preaching the Blues," and "Foolish Man Blues." We get Louis Armstrong's "Potato Head Blues" and "Gully Low Blues." We get Jelly Roll Morton's "Billy Goat Stomp," "Hyena Stomp," and "Jungle Blues." And we get Duke Ellington's "Black and Tan Fantasy" and "East St. Louis Toodle-O."

Note that these are just the compositions. No new sound recordings come into the public domain in 2023, but on January 1, 2024, all of 1923's recordings will enter the public domain, with more recordings coming in every year thereafter.

We're only a few years into the newly reopened public domain, but it's already bearing fruit. The Great Gatsby entered the public domain in 2021, triggering a rush of beautiful new editions and fresh scholarship:

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/01/14/books/the-great-gatsby-public-domain.html

These new editions were varied and wonderful. Beehive Books produced a stunning edition, illustrated by the Balbusso Twins, with a new introduction by Wellesley's Prof William Cain:

https://beehivebooks.com/shop/gatsby

And Planet Money released a fabulous, free audiobook edition:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/18/peak-indifference/#gatsby

Last year saw the liberation of Winnie the Pooh, unleashing a wild and wonderful array of remixes, including a horror film ("Blood and Honey") and also innumerable, lovely illustrations and poems, created by living, working creators for contemporary audiences.

As Jenkins notes, many of the works that enter the public domain next week display and promote "racial slurs and demeaning stereotypes." The fact that these works are now in the public domain means that creators can "grapple with and reimagine them, including in a corrective way." They can do this without having to go to the Supreme Court, unlike the Alice Randall, whose "Wind Done Gone" retold "Gone With the Wind" from the enslaved characters' perspective:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wind_Done_Gone

After all this, you'd think that countries around the world would have learned their lesson on copyright term extension, but you'd be wrong. In Canada, Justin Trudeau caved to Donald Trump and retroactively expanded copyright terms by 20 years, as part of USMCA, the successor to NAFTA. Trudeau ignored teachers, professors, librarians and the Minister of Justice, who said that copyright extension should require "a modest registration requirement" – so 20 years of copyright will be tacked onto all works, including those with no owners:

https://www.michaelgeist.ca/2022/04/the-canadian-government-makes-its-choice-implementation-of-copyright-term-extension-without-mitigating-against-the-harms/

Other countries followed Canada's disastrous lead: New Zealand "agreed to extend its copyright term as a concession in trade agreements, even though this would cost around $55m [NZ dollars] annually without any compelling evidence that it would provide a public benefit":

https://www.newsroom.co.nz/nz-agrees-to-mickey-mouse-copyright-law

Wrapping up her annual post, Jenkins writes of a "melancholy" that "comes from the unnecessary losses that our current system causes—the vast majority of works that no longer retain commercial value and are not otherwise available, yet we lock them all up to provide exclusivity to a tiny minority.

"Those works which, remember, constitute part of our collective culture, are simply off limits for use without fear of legal liability. Since most of them are 'orphan works' (where the copyright owner cannot be found) we could not get permission from a rights holder even if we wanted to. And many of those works do not survive that long cultural winter."

[Image ID: A montage of works that enter the public domain on Jan 1, 2023.]

[blushweddinggowns]

When Steve’s mom forced him to get a tutor for biology, he was not happy.  Frankly, he was pissed. Sure he was sitting on a solid D- and yeah he wasn’t exactly known for his academic prowess, but it still sucked. He didn’t have time for tutoring. He had things to do, especially when it came to Sundays. It was one of only two days a week when Steve got Eddie all to himself, no band practice, no sports, no Hellfire, just the two of them. 

But Eddie, the goddamn hypocrite was actually on his mom’s side.

“I’m just saying that it would help with the college thing.” He said, rolling his eyes at the way Steve glared at him. Maybe it would have been more intimidating if he wasn’t currently straddling his lap and playing with a piece of Eddie’s hair, but Steve was too comfortable to move, even if he was pissy. 

“Y’know, there’s a solid chance nothing I do will be good enough for a college.”

“Well then at least we can say you tried, can't we?"

“I’m just saying, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment if you think I’m just going to start academically succeeding out of nowhere. My dumbass won’t be our ticket out of here,”  Steve sighed, ignoring the way Eddie’s eyes softened at his words. He was staring downward, eyes focused on a suddenly interesting bleach stain on Eddie’s shirt. 

"You’re not stupid Stevie."

And as sweet as that was, it wasn’t true. He was a straight C- student on a good year, and that took effort. And yeah, the two of them may be in the same ballpark with their grades, but it was different. Eddie was actually smart, just not when it came to people outside of Wayne and Steve telling him what to do. He taught himself how to draw, how to write, Jesus, he basically taught himself how to read, all while living in a house from hell for his formative years. He didn’t know what it was like to be truly dumb. He missed 2⁄3 of middle school and he was still doing better in English than Steve was. 

Steve could feel his eyes start to get wet as he sniffed, instantly annoyed at himself for getting emotional over something so stupid. But at least it fits the profile, stupid people do stupid things. 

He didn’t fight it when Eddie hooked a finger under his chin, forcing him to look up at him. He kissed him first, two light pecks to his lips before mumbling against his mouth, “I could never be disappointed in you. You could drop out tomorrow and I’d still love you as much as I do now.”

Steve couldn’t help but smile a little at that, “Yeah?”

“You know I would. And well…in all honesty babe I always thought drug price inflation was going to be our ticket out of here. I have been overcharging ninth graders for like, a year and a half now.”

Steve smacked his lightly in the chest for that, even if it made him laugh, “Ass. If you can’t trust your local drug dealer then who can you trust?”

“Not my fault I have a family to take care of,” Eddie grinned, swooping in for another kiss, "But seriously baby you're not stupid."

Steve opened his mouth to argue but Eddie slapped a hand over it before he had a chance, “And I know you don’t want to hear it but you’re not. Who was the one to find out that Rick was shortchanging me?”

Steve rolled his eyes. That didn’t even count. He was just the first one to notice that the numbers Rick had written didn’t match up with what the scale said, and the first one to threaten him over it. Eddie would have figured it out eventually. 

But he let it go, mumbling beneath his hand,  “I did.”

“And who saved us fifty bucks in rent after threatening the landlord with a lawsuit?”

That…that shouldn’t have counted either. Steve had been on a cleaning kick that day and just happened to stumble across an old copy of their lease. And he only read through it because he was bored waiting for Eddie to come home. And the only reason he knew there were violations was because he spent nearly 80 percent of his time there, and yeah maybe he was good at threatening people with legal jargon, but that was only because he retained shit he’d heard from his dad.

“I did but-”

“But nothing,” Eddie interrupted, “Because you were also the guy who actually paid attention during CPR class and saved that lady from drowning sophomore year. And you’re managing to scam your parents into giving you money while banging gay trailer trash. If that’s not smart, I don’t know what is. So I think that you're more than capable of passing a biology midterm. And even if you're not it won’t erase all of the other things you’ve done. Understand?”

Steve blushed, a confusing mix of annoyed and pleased at the praise. Part of him still wanted to fight him, even if everything he said was technically true. But a bigger part wanted to get back to kissing him, and he knew Eddie wouldn’t let it go without him conceding at least a little. 

“I understand,” Steve sighed, “But if I’m a big fat failure at this you’re still contractually obligated to love me.”

He wrapped his arms around Eddie’s neck, eyes darting to his lips every few seconds while Eddie chuckled, “Baby, you could try to kill me and I’d still love you.”

Steve leaned back in, tired of waiting. He licked over Eddie’s lips, smiling when he obediently opened his mouth so he could slip his tongue inside. Besides, maybe he was right, maybe Steve could handle it, but it didn’t matter either way. As long as Eddie loved him, he’d be fine. 

And that’s how Steve found himself being shaken awake by Eddie on a Sunday for freaking studying. Yeah the make-out session from last week had been pretty convincing but it was a whole different thing in the light of day. 

He groaned at the sound of Eddie’s voice, purposefully loud as he sang out, “Time to wake up sunshine! You got some learning to do!”

Steve buried his face in his pillow, groaning again when Eddie took that as an invite to sit on him. He leaned over, whispering in his ear, “If you wake up now I’ll make it worth your while.”

Steve giggled, immediately charmed by the asshole who was already starting to tickle his sides, “What, like you did last night? How are you going to top that?”

Eddie whispered a few more things in his ear, some very interesting things that suddenly left certain parts of Steve very much awake. He pushed Eddie off of him before jumping out of bed, scrambling to put on the loosest pair of sweats he owned while Eddie laughed behind him. 

They went downstairs together, and somehow Steve only managed to embarrass himself twice during the whole interaction. It helped that Nancy ended up being  one of the most patient people on the planet, always willing to re-explain the things that Steve didn’t get on the first try. It helped even more knowing that Eddie was in the other room, like his presence alone was his own personal security blanket, even if all he was doing was snoring on the couch. 

The whole thing wasn’t nearly as bad as Steve had been expecting. He had kind of thought that the daughter of someone who could stand to be friends with his mom would be…well a bitch. But Nancy was nothing like that. She was straightforward and to the point, but also kind with 0 condescension to Steve’s lack of studying skills. 

They drove her home after, and he had to admit she dealt with him and Eddie bickering over the radio like a champ. Eventually she just threw her hands up and batted both of them away, with a stern, “Passenger side gets to pick!”

But at least he knew who ABBA was now, and Steve was a pretty big fan of both their music and the way it made Eddie cringe. He kept it on the whole ride home and surprisingly enough, he was actually looking forward to their next session. 

He thought that would be the next time he saw her, so imagine his surprise when he walked into first period with Nancy Wheeler already seated by the window, a book in hand. That was new. He walked up to her, taking the desk in front so he could turn back. She didn’t notice him at first, too absorbed in her book. He gently tapped on her desk, knowing from previous experience that it was really easy to jumpscare people when they were absorbed in reading.

She glanced up at him, surprise written all over her face. Which made sense, this was probably the first class they’d ever had together.

He smiled at her, “When did you get added to this class?”

Steve frowned when she looked away from him before answering, voice quiet, “I’ve uh, been here all year actually.”

Steve blinked at her, stomach twisting in a knot. Oh. Oh no. Could he look like a bigger dick? But maybe he could still save this, “Oh. Then I guess this is what you meant when you said we’ve met before?”

Nancy shook her head, still looking anywhere but at Steve’s face, “It was uh, actually last year? We were lab partners in Mrs. Kay's chemistry class. And um, I guess as a warning I’m also in your History class. And uh, Biology. That’s why I’m your tutor.”

Steve stared at her, mouth opening and closing like an idiot. He knew that he was a bit notorious for his one track mind, but he didn’t realize that it was that bad, “I am so sorry.”

She shrugged, “It’s not your fault I’m forgettable.”

Steve opened his mouth to argue, but the next thing he knew he was being shushed by the teacher and Nancy was already back to reading. He wiped a hand down his face, mind already racing on just what he could do to make up for accidentally ignoring her existence for a year plus. But by the time class ended and he turned around she was already walking out of the door. 

She was fast for such a little person. And despite the fact that they apparently had three classes together he couldn’t manage to catch her once. He whined to Eddie about it the whole way home, glaring at him when he had the audacity to laugh. Steve was still pouting about it by the time they walked through the front door of the trailer, especially since Eddie was still giggling behind him. 

“Babe, I said I was sorry! And hey, at least you didn’t fake date her right?”

Steve groaned as he flopped down into their bed, only the slightest bit appeased when he felt Eddie tug his shoes off for him, “Lab partners is so much worse. I didn’t even know her name until last week. I’m awful.”

“Oh come on, you can still win her over!” Eddie said as he plopped down next to him, laughing when Steve immediately started to play with his hair, “You just got to use some of that signature Harrington charm.”

Steve sighed as he twisted a lock of Eddie's hair around his finger, trying and failing to make his brain come up with an answer. But then it hit him, “Hey, do you still have enough stuff here to make more muffins?”

Eddie raised a brow at him, “Are you going to try and bribe her into liking you with chocolate?”

“If you make them for me I will,”  Steve was trying to put on his most convincing face, the cute one that almost always got Eddie to do what he wanted. And it seemed to be working if the way his eyes softened was anything to go by. 

Eddie sighed, pretending to think about it for a second, “What’s in it for me?”

Steve leaned into kiss him, two quick pecks to the side of his mouth before saying, “My undying love?”

Steve loved how something so corny was enough to make Eddie melt, “Deal.”

God, he was so easy. 

He left Eddie to bake while he drove all the way back to his house. There were a lot of other things he’d rather be doing than digging around in his mom’s desolate wrapping paper drawer in the middle of the night, but he made it work. 

By the time he got back to the trailer they were baked and cooled, and Steve made sure to give Eddie a thorough kiss for his efforts. He wrapped a few of them up in some purple cellophane, paired with a pink and white bow, the least ugly combination he was able to find at one a.m.

He added a small white card, scribbling a little something into it before presenting it to Eddie in bed, “Tada! What do you think?”

Eddie laughed as he took it from him to inspect, in good spirits despite the fact that Steve insisted he stayed awake until it was finished. He seemed just as impressed with his handiwork as Steve was, “I think it’s perfect."

Steve preened, “You think she’ll like it?”

“She’ll love it,” Eddie reassured before gently placing it on the nightstand. He grabbed Steve’s arm, hauling him down from his sitting position to nearly laying on top of him before grabbing a blanket to cover them both up in, “Now can we please go to sleep?”

Steve didn’t argue when Eddie went to turn off the light. He was right, especially since he was going to make them wake up early on top of it.

The next morning Steve was actually in class early. For the first time in well…ever. But Nancy had still beat him there. She was in her usual place, nose in her book. She didn’t even look up when Steve sat in front of her, but she did startle a bit when he dropped the gift on her desk. 

He grinned at her, way too excited for her reaction, “These are for you! To say I’m sorry for y’know. Being oblivious.”

Nancy looked at the muffins and back to Steve, a small smile slowly growing on her face, “You made me apology muffins?”

“Well…Eddie made them,” Steve admitted, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck, “But I helped! And did the decorating and wrote the card.”

Nancy plucked the small card off the ribbon. She read it out loud, her small smile transforming into a full blown grin, “‘I’m Sorry I’m an Asshole.’ I’m guessing you did the little frowny face too?”

Steve nodded, “I may have the art skills of a ten year old but I do mean it. You’re not forgettable Nancy. I’m just an inconsiderate moron. Okay?”

Nancy stared down at the gift in her hands before looking back to Steve, voice soft, “I…thanks. I appreciate that.”

They talked for a while after that and Steve was pretty sure he was planted firmly on the path of forgiveness. But he wanted to be 100 percent sure. He had made it this far, why not push a little more?

“Do you want to have lunch together today?”

Nancy looked more than a little surprised at the request, “Oh, I already have plans with Barb.”

Steve shrugged, “She can come too. The four of us can go to Benny's and get some burgers or something.”

“Isn’t that against school rules?”

Steve smiled to himself. He forgot for a second that he was talking to a goody two shoes over here, “Only if you get caught. And if we did Eddie and I would take the blame, scout’s honor.”

She bit her lip, hesitating before finally nodding her head, “If Barb says yes then, um, sure.”

That was good enough for Steve, even if he had no clue who Barb was. But he’d trust Nancy’s judgment. And surprisingly the whole thing goes a lot better than Steve had been expecting. He was a little scared that their table would be dead quiet after they all realized they had nothing in common, a completely unfounded fear considering that Eddie was with them. He had a knack for getting people to open their mouths, even if it was only to tell him to shut up. And that little skill was great to get both girls to open up a little. 

Turns out Steve and Nancy actually had something in common, a mutual love for Blondies, in particular Heart of Glass, while Barb and Eddie both agreed that it was one of the most annoying things they’d ever heard. They created a united front to tease them both over it, and Nancy and Steve bonded over just how misunderstood Deborah Harry was. 

It was fun, fun enough for Eddie to invite them both to lunch more and more often. Nancy says yes more than Barb, who is surprisingly busy with a few of her extracurriculars. But it’s still fun. Nancy’s fun. And soon spending lunch together turns into inviting her over to watch a movies with him and Eddie at the trailer, or getting food while Eddie was caught up in Hellfire or Band practice. 

It all snowballs into the two of them spending a lot more time together, most of it outside of their tutoring sessions. And Steve was starting to think that he had actually managed to make a friend.  The real cincher is just how well she gets along with Eddie, and watching them both laugh together was enough to make Steve feel all warm and happy inside. 

Because he likes Nancy. Like, really likes her. Like doesn’t want to throw her to the wayside likes her. She’s smart and kind, a little strict in a weird but pleasant way. And sometimes he’ll look at her and Barb doing something, something as casual as whispering to each other at  the lockers, all smiles and shared secrets, and Steve can’t help but want that. 

Because he doesn’t really have his own friends outside of Eddie. He has his teammates sure, but it’s not like he can let himself get too close to them. Then there were Eddie’s friends, and they were all great, really, but they weren’t…his. There was Wayne, but as much as he loved him he’d always be more of a parent then a friend. That said, Eddie was still his best friend. He loved Eddie, he loved Eddie more than anything on the planet. 

But he can’t…talk to Eddie about Eddie. And yeah, maybe it was a bit too feminine to want to gossip about your boyfriend at the lockers with a new girl bestie. But then again, he probably lost his “man” card the second he shoved his tongue down Eddie's throat for the first time. And it’s not just that he wants someone to talk about his relationship. He wants her to be able to talk to him too. Whether it be her own crushes or complaining about her parents, he wanted to connect with her more. It sounded…fun. Maybe gay as hell but whatever. Technically it was fitting. 

But he knew that he couldn’t have that if he didn’t tell her the truth. 

~

 From this fic, and the 1.5 Part of this post

Part 2 Part 3

@missarte-beltane

Idk tag etiquette so I only added the person who asked for it because I don't want to be annoying! But if you want to be added let me know!

[laurasimonsdaughter]

Dear magisowo

I just moved into a new home, and, on paper, it had everything I needed: close to my university, walkable city, and no low hanging lights I can hit my horns on. On paper, that is.

See, the issue started the day I moved in. The landlord gave me my keys, and I went inside. The interior was nice, however, as I quickly discovered, my new home was already inhabited by a multitude of ghosts, who were, to their credit, just as confused as me.

They're not troublesome spirits, far from it, but i was under the impression that a landlord had to disclose things like this before you sign the lease. (But it is my first time renting, so i may be mistaken) Either way, the landlord isn't returning my phone calls.

According to Martha (oldest ghost in the house, very motherly) none of them were informed the house was even open to new tenants. We're willing to compromise and try to live together, but as of right now, it's.. crowded. I wasn't prepared for roommates and they weren't prepared for me. Do we have any legal options here? I'm not looking to get them kicked out, of course, just wondering if we could get compensation from the landlord.. or at the very least a second bathroom.

- sincerely, one very cramped were-goat

(With the supervision of Martha, Daniel, Priya, Micah, Suki, and Horace, amiable ghost-roomies)

Hello!

We’re sorry to hear you were taken by surprise in such a way! Let us first assure you that your landlord should indeed have told you that the building you were renting is haunted. Not doing so is a violation of the duty to disclose that every landlord has towards their tenants.

Even if your landlord was not aware of the haunting (which, though unlikely, is possible if they lack all second sight) it is still their responsibility to have their property inspected for such things. Considering you are Sighted yourself and are not opposed to sharing with the ghosts, we are guessing you’re not looking to get out of your lease, but it is certainly grounds to renegotiate your rent.

When it comes to the rights of your ghostly housemates, that is rather more tricky. Our current laws still state that the incorporeal cannot have legal possession of physical property, but there are various provisions in place to protect their well-being. The following people may be able to help you:

The Dial-a-Ghost Agency, experts in (re)housing haunting spirits. In case any of your housemates wish to relocate.

The neighbourhood mediums of our Medium-ation Programme. They usually mediate between people like yourself and the spirits haunting them, but they also have a great deal of knowledge on the ghostly and will be able to communicate with your housemates.

If necessary we can help you find a lawyer specialising in tenancy law, or an Incorporeal Entity Advocate that can look into your housemates' options.

Sincerely,

~ the MagISoWo Team  

[ghostblackberry]

trying to figure out if writing yet another greiveance about my building's refusal to get accessible laundry machines and that actually being a violation of the lease and Fair Housing Act is worth it. Like I have no faith in the system rn

Unfortunately, said lease also says I must still pay rent even if requests & compliants regarding anything with the unit or public areas are not addressed so I have no bargaining power. I have gotten doctor's and physical and occupational therapist notes. I have cited laws, both state and Federal. And then, when the property manager changed, they took the one accessibility adaptation i was originally granted away.

That adaptation was me being able pay rent digitally due to my complete inability to write comfortably and legibly by hand, as well as basically being homebound due to temperature sensitivities and chronic migraine. I now literally have to either get a check via church that is completely typed or trust a friend to get and fill out a money order with my own funds which is scary every time. So far, none of my friends have stolen my money. In fact, some of them actually end up giving me funds or using their money for said money orders and I Venmo them back, but it's still scary as fuck. I actually almost lost this apartment because the one attempt I made at writing a money order myself had such poor handwriting, the new property manager couldn't tell which apartment it was for.

Also this isn't the property manager, but the housing authority refuses to recalculate my rent despite my reporting every income change within the ten days so I'm like 90% sure there's overpaying going on.

[fireheartedpup]

Oh I'm. So drunk. I understand why drunk people misspell now.

My fight or flight has been triggered twice in three days. It took like two days to recover from the last one and I had no one to lean on because I didn't want to bother anyone and no one responded. And I feel bad for leaning so hard. What do you do when you grandma was brainwashed? I wasn't prepared for this. She doesn't want to listen to me.

I got fed up with my neighbor's weed coming through the vents every time i turn the air conditioning on. It's 100 out and I've been turning the temp up just so I won't have to smell it. So last night I was kinda manic and finally gathered the courage to march over and knock on her door.

Admittedly, I was too aggressive with it. I left a note. I told her I would report her every time I smelled her smoke. I wouldn't do that if it weren't against the lease. I already tried recommending filters she could blow into. Idc if she smokes so long as it doesn't come into my apartment.

She didn't answer, so I left a note telling her I'd report her every time I smelled it. I just wanted her to stop or use a filter. Idc if she's violating the lease so long as she's being considerate.

She doesn't even want to acknowledge me as human being unless she's shouting. She pounded on my door TWICE and for some reason I answered. She said she'd beat my ass of I did that again.

I took karate for 4 year and made it to brown belt. It's not anything in comparison to street fighting, but I did practice blocking punches. Honestly, try it. See how well that works out for you. See how much muscle memory I have left. I'm curious.

I've been out of it wayyy longer than i was in it. But I was going every week, often 2x a week. I could probably take her. I've been angry for a long time. Give me a reason. Go ahead, throw the first punch, see what happens. I'm curious.

Not that curious tho because it left me shaking. I went to dad's house and had dinner. I felt like throwing up. I was shaking. It takes a lot for me to feel up to confronting people, even casually.

Like. I could probably defend myself. I don't want to get in trouble. I just want some support. I want community. I would've had her back and tried to troubleshoot homemade filters for her if she wanted to get around the rules.

Nope. She wants to yell and threaten me. The office doesn't want to kick her out because they want her money. The manager said it was her first warning. What? This is like the sixth report.

They did tell me to call 911 if I felt my safety was threatened. Just. Get. Her. Out. I didn't violate my lease. I'm sure it's hard to get a smoke friendly environment these days, and I have a lot of sympathy, but dear God just take an edible I'm begging you. I can't just slap a mask on my dog. She has a heart condition.

Can you do it for my baby? She curled up on me last night even though it was uncomfortable and she couldn't go to sleep. She deserves to not breathe secondhand smoke. Can you do it for her?

My neighbor can't. She doesn't like her barking. Dogs bark! That's how they communicate! I try to not let it go on too long and I tell her off it she barks when I think normal people are sleeping! She yelled at my dog!

She just wants some carrot. She thinks barking is an enjoyable pastime.

Baby.

Anyway. I am unwell. How are yall.

[tinkerbelldetective]

It is not their first words, or the place you meet, or the first place you touch. It is the first time you argue. There is no feeling like seeing the words on your wrist slowly turn from being a touch darker than your skin to a brilliant gold, but as an attorney, it certainly is awkward to watch it happen in the middle of a suppression hearing, or immediately afterwards.

Michael Cutter is startlingly dismissive of the detectives who searched your client's house without a warrant, of the beat cops who stopped her without reason. The evidence Michael Cutter is so vehemently supporting is nothing less than the fruit of the poisonous tree. He has nothing without it, and he knows it.

"Mr. Cutter, we both know the evidence is inadmissible. You're an intelligent man. Turn your energy to reminding the officers who bring you evidence that they are bound by law just as we are."

His blue eyes-cold, calculating, intelligent - flash over to you. It occurs to you he probably has, but was determined to fight for what they acquired, as it is his job.

"The NYPD not only serves me, but you as well, counselor. We would not be here if Elisabeth Williams had not harbored evidence from the police."

Your client was a victim of domestic abuse. A survivor who was finally trying to get out. A woman who had been intimidated into hiding a weapon and photographs.

"My client is just another victim, your honor. Her rights have been violated enough. The knife was only found because Officer Braco stopped her for loitering 3 feet away from her own property and found out that the person who was recently taken off the lease had an active warrant on file."

"Mr. Cutter, the knife is out."

"The photographs?"

"Also out, pending further investigation, any charges regarding Ms. Williams and the objects found in her home are hereby dismissed."

"Thank you, your honor," you nodded, slipping the case files back into your brief case.

*

"We'll call her as a witness," he asserts, following you into the elevator.

You scoff, "Haven't you considered that putting your suspect's former partner on the stand may hurt your case? Or, hurt her?" A sigh leaves your lips as you switch your bag over to your other hand. "Ben Stone made cases without murder weapons. Surely, you can manage."

Cutter tensed, hand tightening around his own briefcase. A glance at his wrist revealed "Surely you can manage." turning to a faint rose gold script.

Of course. Of course, it would happen here.

His eyes flick over to you once more, noticing the way you tug at your lip with your teeth as you think.

Did his words already rescript in gold over your skin?

*

Your wrist feels cooler than it had 20 minutes ago, when Cutter had turned to you and wondered why you finally answered the call from Legal Aid.

"Charity wins out in the end, I suppose."

You had wished those words were said near the end of the argument, a laying down of arms, with fond teasing and acceptance. Yet, Cutter's words had burned in more ways than just the changing color of the sentence on your wrist.

Now, in the elevator, you finally catch the smallest glimpse of gold peaking out under the gray of his suit jacket.

Your words tumble out before you can stop them, "Photographs still need film to be developed."

And you both know. There's no way he doesn't feel the pull, the snapping of the thread of hostility, like breathing in new air.

His smirk is disorienting, somewhat unsettling, and it beckons you to match.

[houseofbrat]

Submission: The Royal Lodge

The move to Adelaide Cottage NEVER made sense to me. I think that W&K have always had their eye on the Royal Lodge precisely because their children were becoming school-age, and it made sense for them to move closer to the children’s schools. Unfortunately, for them, I think several things conspired to delay that handover, which forced them to squeeze into Adelaide Cottage once George started school and making do in the cramped space until they could oust Andrew. First, nothing was going to happen as long as the Queen was alive. She had established that lease for a reason. As wonderful as QEII was, she had a rock-hard vision of what royalty was entitled to (note her jewelry) and no one was going to force Andrew out of his home as long as she had a beating heart. Then she died, and the idea once again floated in the media. And it didn’t fly, despite Andrew’s questionable past because the queen’s death was too raw and her wishes on that score too well known, plus we have Fergie’s cancer diagnosis, which put a temporary spanner in the works, and put Charles in a difficult spot. He could disregard his mother’s wishes under the full court press of W&K, even as Fergie was undergoing CANCER treatment, or wait, and let Andrew violate the terms of the lease, which has happened. Now Charles can tut-tut, wag his finger at the state of the peeling paint, and then kick his brother out. Unfortunately for W&K, none of this happened fast enough, and how W&K find themselves adding on to Adelaide Cottage because they are bursting at the seams.

I believe that Andrew will hang on with bloodied fingernails to stay in the Lodge because like so many of his family, he believes that his birthright takes precedence over, well, anything. Plus, Mummy said he could live there.  Although I think he is an entitled, arrogant, narcissistic predator, I do think that kicking him out and reducing him to live at Frogmore Cottage is possibly a bridge too far. After all, Andrew also knows where the bodies are buried. And if you compare where his brothers and his sister live, Frogmore looks like a motel in comparison.  

The cynical side of me says that W&K are pushing for the Royal Lodge right now because although Andrew’s popularity is where it has always been for years–in the toilet–the Wales’ stock is riding high. They are now in a position to push Charles to push Andrew out of the Lodge (even in defiance of his mother’s wishes) because they are currently asbestos. But Andrew will not go quietly, and I guess the debate is, should he?

—————————

I’d also note that Queen Elizabeth II was rumored to have paid off the remaining 55-years or whatever is left of Andrew’s lease in advance before she died. 

I’d also note that according to that article in The Sun about Adelaide Cottage last month, the construction to the extension or extra building at Adelaide Cottage hasn’t begun yet. Conveniently, there is time to stop that construction if they can get Andrew kicked out before the construction begins.

I’m no fan of Andrew, but he’s about to become a bigger heat score in July and later on this year. 

And, hey, let’s not forget when William drove Andrew to church last August!

Such a touching move while William aims to occupy his uncle’s living space!

[dailyanarchistposts]

Special thanks goes out to Co-op America, and responsibleshopper.org, whose publications aided in the research of this chapter.]

Section I: Abuse of the Consumer (Modern)

Abbott Laboratories sold genetically engineered baby food in the Indian Market — the food had not medical approval and many instances of genetically engineered foods have included the illness and fatalities of many. [663] Customers in the Cincinnati area are charged 57% more for Delta Airlines flights than any other region. [664] Disney is opposed to any legislation that would regulate the safety of amusement park rides. [665] Mitsubishi admitted to “systematically concealing defects and avoiding the recall of thousands of vehicles over the past two decades.” [666] In the early 1990’s, Archer Daniels Midland had engaged in a price-fixing scheme for additives in animal feed. [667] ConAgra, Ortho Pharmaceutical Corporation, and Warner-Lambert Co. were named top 100 corporate criminals of the 1990’s, whose fraud allegations have resulted in fines exceeding millions. [668] In April of 1996, security guards were stopping many of its customers — later it would be confirmed that all African American customers were followed and treated as suspects [669] General Motors and Honda Motors were two of five auto makers to pay $1.9 million in fines because of hiding lease terms in contracts. [670] Mazda Motors paid over five million total for confusing leasing promotions in 1997. [671] Quaker State advertised that its engine treatment oil reduced engine wear, but such claims were unproven. [672] In 1998, American Airlines was discovered to have 51 violations of FAA rules to protect its customers. [673] In one year, three people were killed by falling merchandise at Home Depot. [674] Monsanto’s genetically engineered growth hormone (rBGH) has been shown to increase prostate cancer in males. [675] In 1998, Owens-Corning was responsible for 176,000 asbestos poisoning cases. [676] In 1998, three African-Americans at a Shoney’s restaurant were harassed, intimidated, and finally the store refused to serve them. [677] In August of 1998, more than 10 safety violations were found with Continental Airlines. [678]

USAirways uses pesticide regularly on its flights, even though scientists believe that it could threaten the health of passengers. [679] Montsanto’s director told The Now York Times: “Monsanto should not have to vouchsafe the safety of biotech food. Our interest is in selling as much of it as possible. Assuring its safety is the FDA’s job.” [680] In 1998, two white Eddie Bauer security guards told a black teen to remove his shirt and told him to go home shirtless to get a receipt for the shirt. [681] The Federal Trade Commission and Justice Department are investigating Citigroup for use of deceptive lending terms and high fees that strip away equity. [682] A court ruled that General Electric Company was “deceptive” when selling dishwashers in 1999 that had a fire hazard. [683] Smurfit-Stone Container Corp. has produced faulty siding for homes that would prematurely fail, so as to get a returning customer. In a lawsuit, it may have to pay over $20 million. [684] In January of 1999, 7,000 customers of Northwest Airlines were subjected to 11 hours of waiting, with overflowing toilets and lack of food. [685] It has been concluded by the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration that as of May 1, of 1999, air bags used by DaimlerChrysler had killed 76 children and saved none. [686] In June of 1999, two minority women at a Dillard’s store were searched for stolen merchandise, only to find receipts for everything. They were detained for another hour and issued citations for fabricated offenses, and then charged with criminal trespassing. The same thing has happened in previous years of minority customers being detained and accused of shoplifting. [687] Toyota hes released 2.2 million vehicles to customers with faulty pollution-detection systems. [688] Delta Airlines was fined $77,000 by the Federal Aviation Administration for failing to adhere to safety regulations. [689] Investors of Fruit of the Loom, between September of 1998 and November of 1999, were issued false and misleading statements, artificially inflating the price of the stock. [690]

In October of 1999, Abbott Laboratories sells Prevacid, an ulcer medication, for $393 for a standard dosage. [691] When an independent pharmacy in New York City closed, it sold its customers records to CVS and other corporations — violating the privacy of hundreds. [692] In December of 1999, K-B Toys refused to accept personal checks from black customers, but accepted them from white customers. [693] Federated Department Stores has store aisles that are 17 inches wide, disallowing customers with wheelchairs. [694] In 1999, Toys ‘R’ Us was employing over 300 employees aged 14 and 15, at 19 stores, working longer hours and late in the night, violating labor law. [695] In 2002, Amazon.com used spyware to steal personal information about its customers. [696] Bank One settled a class action case for issuing improper late fees and interest rate increases, as well as lying about its financial status to investors. [697] Ford Motors knew of at least 35 deaths and 130 injuries relating to its tires without taking any action. [698] Kmart in 2000 decided to eliminate the sale of mouth toys containing phthalates (“Some phthalates cause liver cancer, kidney damage and reproductive system impairment in animals.”), but no other dangerous chemicals. [699] In early 2000, Rite Aid did not allow their ATM machines accessible to disable customers. [700] Toys R Us promised that it could deliver toys by Christmas in 2000, but knew it could not deliver its promises. [701] Tyson Fresh Meats was found guilty of stealing C&F Packing Company’s secret process for making pre-cooked Italian sausage pizza topping, and then undercut C&F’s prices. [702] In February of 2000, Black & Decker failed to inform the public about potential fire hazards from one of its toaster models. [703]

In March of 2000, the presence of lead was found in Johnson & Johnson baby powders. Lead is capable of causing psychological problems. [704] In March of 2000, KBToys refused to take checks from African-Americans. [705] Sanyo Electric Co. released over 10,000 solar cell systems that were faulty and inefficient. [706] Wyeth Corporation recently was prosecuted by many of its customers for the diet drug fen-phen, which caused destroyed heart valves and strokes. [707] In May of 2000, Continental Airlines hiked up its fares during a time of record profits. [708] Northwest Airlines shipped a container of compressed hydrogen, which could have destroyed the plane and its private passengers. [709] In 2000 of June, American Airlines failed to make fulfill security regulations. [710] The US FDA seized syringes by Abbott Laboratories for failing to meet up production standards. [711] MCI Worldcom in June of 2000 changed their customer’s long-distance plans without their permission. [712] In June of 2000, Sprint misled customers about fine-print restrictions and add-costs. [713] In July of 2000, Qwest Communications paid $1.5 million for changing their customers long distance service without their permission. [714] 21 reported traffic deaths in August of 2000 were linked to the Ford Motor tires. [715] Alltel has overcharged customers between $130 million and $140 million since 1996. [716] Amazon.com uses a strategy called “dynamic pricing,” where they “gauges a shopper’s desire, measures his or her means, and charges that shopper accordingly.” [717] Amazon.com stated that it considers customer information an asset, and that it may potentially be sold. [718] In September of 2000, CVS shared the information of a Maryland couple and violated confidentiality laws. [719] Ford Motor’s engineers, safety officials, and board were aware of the faultiness of its ignition system that caused cars to shut down — resulting in deadly and other serious accidents. [720] MBNA Corp. placed misleading ads, saying that there was a charge of 6.9 percent for new credit card customers, whereas it was mostly 17.9 percent on new purchases. [721] PG&E passed $4.63 billion in profits to its parent company, but filed for bankruptcy, losing its investors all their money. [722]

In October of 2000, Humana (an HMO) offered its doctors incentives to steer patients away from using treatments. [723] MCI WorldCom has ripped off 5 million customers with surcharges of up to $88 million. [724] Owens-Corning filed bankruptcy because its asbestos-containing products damaged enough people, with a liability as high as $7 billion. [725] In 2000 of October, a woman died after a Rite Aid pharmacist erroneously doubled her prescription. [726] In that same month, Rite Aid overcharged 29,000 uninsured customers of up to $500,000. [727] Wyeth Corporation had repeatedly violated manufacturing standards at two of its drug factories. [728] Wyeth Corporation, in that same month, had to pay $4.7 billion to consumers for the fen-phen drug combination, which resulted in fatal heart valve damage and pulmonary hypertension. [729] In November of 2000, Abbott Laboratories failed to meet quality standards of hundreds of medical testing kits. [730] 6,500 trust account beneficiaries were cheated out of refunds owed to them by Bank of America, amounting to $35 million. [731] CIGNA and ACE breached their insurance contracts of up to $27 million in insurance premiums. [732] Goodyear Tire & Rubber knew about the failure of Firestone tires for over four years. [733] In November of 2000, Goodyear was linked to 15 deaths in accidents with their tires. [734] Morgan Stanley Dean Whitter mislead its investors into losing $65 million. [735] Three directors at Priceline.com used inside information to sell stock of the company, profiting up to $247 million. [736] Tens of thousands of Californian customers were billed by Qwest Communications for services they never ordered, or had their long-distance service switched without their permission. [737] Rite Aid sells prescription drugs at a lower cost to those who have insurance. [738] Also in November of 2000, Rite Aid released misleading information that artificially inflated the company’s stock price, causing damages up to $200 million. [739]

In December of 2000, Gateway Inc. has misled investors about financial statements. [740] Rite Aid pharmacies offered discounts on cash-only prescriptions, but had added hidden charges. [741] In 2001, two ConAgra plants were halted because of health violations. Another ConAgra facility had the highest rate of salmonella of all turkey processors tested during 2001. [742] In 2001, Enron “cheating millions of investors out of billions of dollars.” [743] In 2001, a severed rat’s head in a McDonald’s hamburger was partially ingested by a nine-year old girl. [744] Mellon Financial Corp. was contracted by the IRS to do tax returns, but ended up destroying up to 71,257 tax returns, worth $1.2 billion. [745] In fall of 2000, Priceline.com and its key officers and directors omitted material information and disseminated false and misleading statements concerning the company’s financial condition. [746] Reebok uses PVC in its shoes, which can cause toxic dioxins. [747] Schering-Plough failed to tell its customers that its drug Claritin is only effective for about half of its users. [748] In January of 2001, Allstate discouraged people from hiring attorneys, violating consumer-protection law. [749] Disneyland was found at fault for an accident where a four-year-old boy was brain damaged by one of the rides. [750] Federated Department Stores had two of its black customers arrested for using a stolen credit card, though no evidence existed to prove this besides a $1,000 purchase. [751] International Forest Products Limited managed to use deceptive contract tactics to sidestep the government’s fees by $224 million. [752] Time Warner Inc. has sent magazines, books, CDs, etc., to hundreds of Florida consumers who never ordered them and then charged them for it. [753]

In February of 2001, lawsuits were filed against Aetna, CIGNA Corporation, and four other major HMOs, claiming that the company delayed payments, affecting healthcare of patients. [754] Bausch & Lomb conspired with American Optometric Association to force customers into buying replacement contact lenses, in 32 states. [755] One customer at Kmart was arguing about a rebate with a salesman when a security guard tackled him, and then beat him into unconsciousness. The security guard was promoted, even though he had attacked other customers. [756] Nike executives sold stock just before announcing poor earnings, resulting in the stock plunging. [757] PG&E executives sold stock before the company issued a bankruptcy warning that sent stocks into a decline. [758] Pharmacia Corporation in February of 2001 misled its customers about Celebrex, minimizing crucial risk information about the drug. [759] Clothing sold by Wal-Mart has shown a tendency to easily catch on fire; during a trial concerning this, the judge found the company “repeatedly concealed documents and witnesses.” [760] Wyeth Corporation has been using blood, fetal calf serum, and meat broth (high potential of mad cow disease) from cattle for over eight years, stopping in 2001. [761] In March of 2001, Chrysler bought back defective vehicles from customers, only to resell them. [762] Kmart sold a faulty pellet gun to a teenager, whose was brain damaged after he was accidentally shot in the head with it. [763] Schering-Plough is under investigation for causing an inflation in government reimbursed drugs, as well as shorting Medicaid payments. [764]

In April of 2001, CompUSA promoted product rebates without stating up front that customers had to sign up for three years of internet service. [765] Security guards who work for Dillard’s have routinely harassed and beaten black customers, leaving one person dead. News stations that carried the stories, such as CBS, had advertising funds pulled — while ABC and NBC didn’t cover the report and continued with Dillard’s advertising. [766] In April of 2001, a black woman was denied a free cologne sample from Dillard’s. [767] Federated Department Stores sold flammable children’s pajamas and robes. [768] Johnson & Johnson agreed to pay a settlement of $860 million, because the instructions on its contact lenses was to throw them away after one day, when they can be worn for two weeks. [769] In April of 2001, security guards for Rite Aid killed a woman who was trying to shoplift. [770] Wells Fargo & Co. realty website would only link shoppers to neighborhoods with the same income and racial makeup of the shopper’s current neighborhood. [771] Abbott Laboratories hiked up its prices and bribed doctors to prescribe Lupron Depot. [772] AstraZeneca cooperated with other companies to maintain unreasonably high prices for the breast cancer drug Tamoxifen. [773] Dillard’s was involved in the death of one man at its stores; the store claimed the man was psychotic, police came and handcuffed the man, and then witnesses claim to have seen the officers beat the handcuffed man who died two days later. [774] In May of 2001, Dillard’s was ordered to pay more than one million dollars by the courts, for detaining two minority women and accusing them of shoplifting. [775] Dow Chemical sold Dursban for home and garden use, when it was a proven hazardous substance. [776] In May 2001, a California state appeals court upheld the $26 million verdict against Ford Motor, whose Bronco II sport utility model has caused one man to become quadriplegic and unable to breathe without a ventilator. [777] In May of 2001, Hilton Hotels, Hyatt, Marriot International, Starwood Hotels & Resorts, and one other corporation added energy surcharges onto guests bills that weren’t apparent until guests were checking out. [778]

Cardura, a drug sold by Pfizer, has been linked to increased heart failure, but the company has issued no safety warning yet. [779] A 10 year-old boy died after taking Dimetapp. Wyeth Corporation failed to provide a warning that a key ingredient could be dangerous for children. [780] Abbott Laboratories had a patient undergo chemotherapy, a hysterectomy, and a partial lung removal after being diagnosed with cancer that she never had. “The doctors did not follow proper medical practice. A simple urine test would have prevented this tragedy,” said an Abbott spokeswoman. [781] In June of 2001, American Airlines was found in 197 instances that violated regulations for batteries and battery charger maintenance, for its emergency floor lights. [782] Circuit City refused to take rainchecks to customers for out-of-stock sale items that were advertised, violating a state consumer protection law. [783] In June of 2001, Eli Lilly sent out an e-mail message to 600 people, reminding them to take their dose of Prozac — each person received everyone else’s e-mail address, violating privacy. [784] In June of 2001, Mattel Inc. was fined for failing to report defects in its Power Wheels line of toys, causing fires and electrical failures. [785] Sara Lee Corp. plead guilty in June of 2001 to selling contaminated hot dugs and meats in 1998 — causing 100 illnesses, six miscarriages, and 15 deaths. [786] SBC Communications failed to meet standards in wholesale service to its rivals. [787] SBC Communications had to yank adds criticizing a rivals’ cable modem operations for slow service during peak hours, when its own service was equally susceptible to slowdowns. [788] Sony created a phony film critic to invent quotations to provide positive reviews for its Sony films. So-called moviegoers praising Son films in promotion ads were actually employees of Sony. [789] In June of 2001, Viacom made customers pay inflated fees for overdue rentals between 1992 and 2001. [790]

In July of 2001, American Airlines changed the rules to its frequent flier program once customers signed up by limiting seats. [791] A three-months pregnant woman shopping at Dillard’s was detained and strip-searched. No stolen items were found. [792] Interstate Bakeries produces bread made with bromate, a chemical that causes cancer in rats. [793] Microsoft Corporation’s Passport identification system allows the company to become a storehouse of personal data, being ripe for abuse. [794] Frito-Lay Inc. is trying to permanently seal records that show its snack foods were contaminated with toxic solvents. [795] In August of 2001, Aetna, Cigna, Emipire Blue Cross/Blue Shield, Excellus, Oxford, and United Health Care were being sued for engaging in illegal practices and routinely breaching the terms of contracts with physicians. [796] Limited Brands imported and sold flammable children’s sleepwear, having to recall 390,000 pajamas and 17,600 robes. [797] May Department Stores did not comply with American Disabilities Act. [798] A report obtained through the Freedom of Information Act revealed that Sara Lee knew it was shipping tainted hot dogs and deli meats. They were aware of increased levels of listeria before the listeriosis outbreak that killed 15. [799] United Airlines uses pesticides in the cabins of its planes, where some attendants developed rashes, and customers were potentially harmed. [800] In September of 2001, AstraZeneca was found to be pricing medications above the allowed maximum. [801] Merck advertised its drug Vioxx saying the company minimized potential risks, when a preliminary study indicated the drug caused an increased risk of heart attack and stroke. [802] Shortly after the Sept 11th terrorist attacks, Northwest Airlines forced four Arab-American men to leave a plane. [803] Verizon knowingly marked cell phones that exposed users to radiation. [804]