[ilovestarwarsworld]

MANCHILD

Dallas Winston x reader

You and Dallas were never official but he did act like it sometimes but he’s so childish to you, and you’ve had enough and are ready to move on, until Dallas Winston comes running to you.

…

You always knew Dallas Winston was trouble. You’d known it the moment you saw that smirk—the one that could light a fire under you and burn you at the same time.

And maybe you liked it. Maybe you liked him. But that was before you realized he was the living, breathing definition of a manchild

⸻

It started the night you let him drag you to Buck’s party.

You showed up in ripped jeans and your favorite leather jacket, hair pinned back just right—meanwhile, Dallas rolled in late, cigarette hanging from his lips, like the universe owed him applause just for showing up.

“Bout time you got here,” you teased, arms crossed.

“Doll, don’t start,” he shot back, eyes flickering over you like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss you or roll his eyes.

Classic Dallas.

⸻

Later, you found yourself sitting on the porch, arms tucked around your knees, watching him through the window.

He was laughing too loud, drinking too fast—pushing Steve and Two-Bit around like a punk kid trying to prove something.

God, he was infuriating.

You stayed outside your chin resting on your knees as you watched Dallas.

⸻

When he finally stumbled outside, swagger on full display, he plopped next to you on the porch.

“Why you lookin’ at me like that?” he drawled.

“You really wanna know?” you shot back, voice like honey laced with venom.

He smirked, leaning closer. “Lay it on me, sweetheart.”

You took a breath. “You act like you’re so damn tough, Dally. But half the time, you’re just throwing fits ‘cause you don’t get your way. Like a little kid.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“You don’t wanna talk about feelings. You can’t say sorry unless it’s a joke. And you sure as hell can’t love someone without turning it into a dare,” you snapped.

“You’re a manchild, Dallas Winston. And it’s getting old.”

Silence.

For a second, you saw something crack in his eyes—fear, regret, something real.

But then it was gone, replaced by that stupid grin.

“You done yet?” he scoffed, reaching for another cigarette.

You stood, voice soft but sharp as glass:

“Yeah. I’m done.”

You walked off the porch, leaving him there under the porch light, cigarette burning down to ash.

And maybe your heart hurt—maybe it broke, just a little.

But you’d rather break your own heart than let a manchild like Dallas Winston do it for you.

…

A week passed.

Buck’s place hadn’t changed: same haze of smoke, same cheap whiskey, same people laughing too loud. But something felt different tonight.

Maybe it was because you weren’t there, sitting in your usual spot, rolling your eyes when he bragged too much.

Or maybe it was because he knew why you weren’t there.

Dallas Winston had been called a lot of things: punk, criminal, good-for-nothing.

But even he knew you were right when you called him a manchild.

Didn’t mean he had to admit it out loud.

He tried to shake it off—drowned it in whiskey and laughter. But then, outside Buck’s, he saw you.

You were leaning against the wall, laughing at something some guy in a letterman jacket had said.

And for a second, Dallas couldn’t move.

Your smile didn’t look forced.

Didn’t look guarded, like it sometimes did with him.

It looked… happy.

And it made something ugly burn in his chest.

Dallas pushed through the crowd, jaw tight, shoulders squared.

“Hey,” he barked, voice like gravel.

You froze, laughter dying on your lips. “Dallas.”

The guy—clean-cut, all-American—looked at him, sizing him up. “Problem, man?”

“Yeah, there’s a problem,” Dally snapped, eyes locked on you. “Who the hell is this?”

You lifted your chin. “None of your business.”

“Don’t play games, doll,” Dally spat, voice rising. “You know what you’re doing.”

Your eyes flashed, tired and sharp all at once. “And what am I doing, Dallas?”

He opened his mouth, words snarling up in his throat.

You were his—you had to be.

But the truth burned behind his teeth: He’d never actually asked you to be.

All he’d done was push, pull, tease, and dare. Never just say it.

The guy stepped closer, protective. “She said it’s none of your business, man.”

Dallas barely spared him a glance. “Beat it, hero. This ain’t about you.”

But you stopped him cold: “No, Dal. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to treat me like crap and then get mad when someone else treats me better.”

It hit him then—harder than any punch.

He’d always thought you’d stay.

That you’d roll your eyes, call him an asshole, but still stick around.

Because deep down, Dallas Winston was too damn scared to admit he needed anyone.

And now, staring at you next to a guy who actually treated you right, he realized he’d pushed too far.

His voice dropped, rough and low. “Y/N… don’t.”

“Don’t what, Dal?” you asked softly.

“Don’t leave,” he choked out, like the words hurt worse than bleeding.

For a heartbeat, you almost stepped closer.

But then your face hardened. “I already did.”

And with that, you turned, walking away with the other guy—leaving Dallas Winston standing there, fists clenched, heart pounding, finally understanding what it meant to lose something real.

The boy you were talking to smirked at Dallas and shoulder checked him and of course Dallas wasn’t gonna take that. He turned around and angrily grabbed the dude.

Dallas didn’t even remember throwing the first punch.

One second, the guy was standing there, looking smug and solid in that stupid letterman jacket.

The next, Dally’s fist cracked across his jaw, sending him stumbling back.

The music from Buck’s spilled out around them, but it felt muted—like everything else blurred except the rage boiling inside him.

The guy fought back—caught Dallas in the ribs with a clean right hook. But Dally barely felt it.

All he could see was you standing there, arms crossed, watching.

Not rushing in to stop him.

Not screaming his name.

Just… watching. Calm. Detached.

Like you’d finally decided you were done saving him from himself.

“Don’t you ever touch what’s mine,” Dally snarled between swings, knuckles splitting open, adrenaline roaring in his ears.

But even as the words left his mouth, they tasted wrong.

Because deep down, he knew: you weren’t his.

Not anymore.

Buck and Two-Bit ran out, shouting, grabbing Dallas by the arms, yanking him off the guy.

He fought them at first, chest heaving, face twisted in fury.

Then his eyes locked on yours.

And the rage faded—just for a second—into something raw and desperate.

You didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look scared.

You just tilted your head, studying him like he was some stray dog that bit every hand that tried to feed it.

“Fuck my life” you mumbled throwing your head back.

And then you turned your gaze to the guy next to you, gently touching his shoulder where Dallas had hit him.

You said something soft to him—words Dallas couldn’t hear over the pounding in his head.

But it gutted him all the same.

“Y/N!” he rasped, voice rough, breath catching in his throat.

But you didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

You grabbed the boy that Dallas just beat as you and led him outside looking back at Dallas as Buck and Two-Bit dragged him back, Dally kept staring at you.

Blood on his knuckles. Sweat in his eyes.

And for the first time in a long time, Dallas Winston felt small.

Felt like the manchild you’d always said he was.

And this time, he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t true.

…

The knock on your door came late.

You almost didn’t answer. Part of you hoped it was him. Part of you dreaded that it was.

When you opened it, there he was.

Dallas Winston, leaning against the doorframe like the world itself was too heavy to hold him up.

His lip was split, a bruise blooming purple under his cheekbone, and his eye, knuckles scraped raw and still bleeding.

And for once, he didn’t look cocky. Didn’t look pissed.

Just tired.

“Can I come in?” he rasped, voice low and rough like gravel.

You didn’t say yes.

Didn’t say no, either.

You just stepped aside, letting the door swing wider.

Inside, the silence stretched so tight it felt like it might snap.

Dallas looked around, like he didn’t recognize the place he’d been a hundred times before.

His eyes finally landed on you.

“You ain’t gonna ask if I’m okay?” he asked, trying to sound amused—but his voice cracked halfway through.

You stayed where you were, arms crossed. “You okay, Dal?”

He swallowed. “No.”

The word hung there, heavy and honest.

He took a shaky breath, fingers twitching at his side like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I messed up,” he mumbled, staring at the floor. “I know that. I… I lost it when I saw you with him.”

“Why?” you asked, voice steady.

He looked up, and in that moment, the bravado dropped.

All that was left was a boy—hard edges dulled by fear.

“Because I thought you were mine,” he whispered.

“And then I realized… you were never really mine, ‘cause I never had the guts to ask you to be.”

You put an hand on your forhead. “Why do you always come running to me Dallas.”

“I’m a screw-up, Y/N. You know that better than anyone,” he muttered, rubbing at the bruise on his jaw. “But when I saw you lookin’ at him the way you used to look at me… I—”

His voice cracked again. “It scared the hell outta me. ‘Cause it meant you don’t look at me like that no more.”

Silence.

Your heart thudded against your ribs, because this was the closest Dallas Winston had ever come to an apology.

The closest he’d ever come to saying he needed someone.

“Dal… you don’t get to fight someone for me and think that fixes everything.”

“I know,” he whispered. His eyes burned into yours, raw and unguarded.

“But I need you to know… I’m sorry. For real. I’m sorry for being a coward. For being… a manchild.”

For a heartbeat, you saw the kid he used to be, buried under all that anger and bravado.

The part of him that loved fiercely, even if he didn’t know how to show it.

“Dal…” you said softly, stepping a little closer. “Why now?”

“Because I thought I had time,” he choked out. “And then tonight I realized… I don’t.”

His voice dropped, hoarse and broken:

“I don’t wanna lose you, Y/N. I don’t know how to say it right, but… I need you.”

You stood there, staring at Dallas Winston, breathing hard like he’d run all the way here.

Bruised knuckles, swollen lip, haunted eyes.

He looked like every warning you’d ever ignored—and every reason you’d ignored them.

And for once, he wasn’t smirking.

Wasn’t hiding behind jokes or threats.

He just… was. Raw. Real.

Your chest tightened so bad it almost hurt.

Because the truth was: you missed him too.

Missed the late nights when it felt like the whole world had emptied out, and it was just you and Dally under the streetlights.

Missed the way he’d slip his hand into yours like it wasn’t a question.

And even though you knew he’d mess up again, and again, and again…

You also knew he’d always come back, bleeding and breathless, trying—really trying—to get it right.

You took a shaky breath, stepping closer.

“So… what now?” you whispered.

His jaw clenched, voice low and ragged. “I don’t know. But I’ll try. I swear, Y/N, I’ll try this time. I’ll be better.”

You searched his eyes, looking for the lie.

All you saw was him—terrified, stubborn, messy, yours.

Your voice came out softer than you meant. “That’s all I wanted, Dal. For you to just… try.”

“What about Mike?” You furrowed your brows referring to the boy Dallas had beaten up and you were talking to.

“Forget him” Dallas smirked walking closer towards you.

Before you could answer, he closed the distance.

Your hand found his cheek, rough with stubble, warm under your palm.

You leaned in, heart pounding out of your chest, and pressed your lips to his.

The kiss was clumsy at first—salt and blood and desperation.

Then slower. Softer.

Like an apology neither of you had words for.

His hands slid around your waist, holding you like he was afraid you’d vanish.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, the world falling away until it was just the two of you and the quiet between heartbeats.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads touched, breath mingling.

“You still look like hell,” you murmured, half a smile tugging at your lips.

“Yeah?” he rasped, a ghost of his old smirk flickering through. “You should see the other guy.”

You laughed, soft and tired, pressing your forehead closer to his.

“Come here,” you whispered, tugging him inside, closing the door behind you both.

And for tonight, at least, you let yourself believe that was enough.

That bruised knuckles could learn to hold gently.

That even a manchild could learn to love right—if he wanted it badly enough.

And Dallas Winston, for once, wanted it more than anything.

[ilovestarwarsworld]

PROJECT X: DUCK EDITION

Y/n Bombay’s birthday her and her two friends, Connie and Julie decided to throw a little party in Y/n words but Connie was not gonna let that little party happen, it was going to be the biggest party of the century, leaving Y/n as the host.

Adam Bank x Reader

The roar of victory from the varsity game had barely faded when spring swept through Eden Hall. The Ducks were legends now, walking the halls like heroes. And in the center of it all was you — Y/N Bombay, daughter of the legendary Gordon Bombay and girlfriend to none other than Adam Banks.

Your birthday landed just a week after the game, and if you had your way, it would’ve been a chill Friday night — a lowkey hangout with the team and a cake from that bakery across town you liked. Twenty people, tops. You even told Connie and Julie that. Told them clearly.

That morning at school, however, you should’ve known something was up. Connie had a look in her eye — the kind of look she had right before she talked Charlie into joyriding Coach Orion’s van that one time.

“Y/N, you have to throw a party,” she said, walking beside you to class, practically vibrating with excitement. “You only turn seventeen once! You’re a Bombay — this has to be legendary!”

“I am throwing a party,” you replied, eyeing her warily. “Like… twenty people. You know, team and close friends?”

Julie nodded. “Yeah, super chill.”

But Connie? Connie just smiled.

Your dad was off in Chicago for the weekend, doing Junior Goodwill coaching and scouting stuff, and had left you the house with strict rules: No parties past midnight, no breaking anything he couldn’t fix, and no letting the Ducks talk you into bad decisions.

…

You all were getting the party ready, when you went outside you seen a bouncy house you looked at it in shock.

“Who the hell brought in a bouncy house?” You pointed at it looking around at your duck friends.

“I got it, it’ll be great Y/n!” Averman chuckled throwing in some inflatables into the pool.

“Averman” you sighed.

Fulton and Dean walked in—sweaty from hauling things, grinning like two kids who’d just gotten away with something. Fulton had two duffel bags slung over his shoulders, and Dean followed behind carrying a heavy ice chest.

Y/N froze. “Uh… what is that?”

Dean kicked the door closed behind him. “Supplies.”

Fulton dropped the bags with a thud and gave a smug shrug. “Party fuel.”

Julie squinted. “What kind of supplies?”

Dean cracked open the chest with a dramatic flair.

Connie gasped with a smile. “Oh my God. Is that… beer? Liquor?”

Fulton looked proud. “Only the good stuff.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped. “Are you insane? My dad’s going to kill all of us if he finds out!”

Dean gave her a crooked smile. “Relax. We’ll keep it lowkey. It’s not like we’re throwing a rave.”

Julie raised an eyebrow. “Dean, you just brought enough alcohol to stock a bar.”

Charlie walked in just in time, took one look at the chest, and laughed. “Whoa, okay. This party just went to a whole new level.”

Y/N ran a hand through her hair. “No way. No. If this gets out of hand—”

Fulton stepped forward. “We’ll keep it under control Y/n. Promise. Look, we figured… if you’re throwing the party of the year, it might as well be the one everyone remembers.”

Y/N hesitated, looking from the ice chest to her eager teammates.

Connie leaned in again, whispering like the devil on her shoulder. “Come on. One night. One wild memory. What’s the worst that could happen?”

At 9 PM, the doorbell rang. Adam was the first to arrive, grinning with that quiet charm of his and holding a bouquet of daisies — your favorite. He kissed your cheek, handed over the flowers, and you finally felt like the night was going to be perfect.

Then at 9:30 PM, the doorbell rang again.

And again.

And again.

By 9:45, your quiet little get-together had turned into something else entirely. Music thumped from all directions. There were at least a hundred people in your house. Your living room was packed, the kitchen was overrun, and there was a slip ’n slide being set up on the lawn.

There was people jumping from your roof into the pool.

You found Connie by the snack table, grinning ear to ear.

“Connie. What. Did. You. Do.”

“I might’ve posted it on the school bulletin board… and texted everyone… and maybe made a ‘Y/N Bombay Birthday Bash’ flyer.”

“Flyer?!” you hissed.

“Look,” she said, tossing a chip in her mouth. “You wanted twenty people. I gave you twenty groups of people.”

Adam sidled up beside you, arm around your shoulder. “This is a mess,” he whispered, but with a laugh. “But it’s kind of epic.”

Just then, Charlie skidded past in socks, yelling, “Someone just brought a karaoke machine! And Goldberg’s trying to DJ!”

Julie passed you a soda. “At least you’re popular?”

By 10:30 PM, there was a conga line in the hallway, Russ was battling Portman in a dance-off, and someone had tied balloons to the family dog. You found a moment of peace on the back porch, Adam sitting next to you, fingers laced through yours.

“You mad?” he asked, nudging you with his shoulder.

You sighed, leaning your head against his. “No. Just… surprised. Dad’s going to freak.”

“Maybe. But it’s your birthday relax and have fun you won’t be a teenager forever…” he kissed the top of your head while you look at him.

“You’re right…” you smiled.

…

The music was thumping so loud the floor practically shook with the bass. Colorful lights flashed in the backyard and through the windows like some kind of rave had taken over your house. Bodies were everywhere—dancing, shouting, laughing. Drunken chaos had fully taken over the Bombay residence.

“WHAT IS HAPPENING?” you yelled over the noise to Connie as she danced beside you in the living room, now cleared out and transformed into a makeshift dance floor.

Connie just grinned, eyes wild with excitement. “It’s called a good time, Bombay!”

You stood there for a second, stunned. The yard was packed. You didn’t recognize half the people. Someone had set up beer pong on your dad’s patio table. Charlie and Adam was crowd surfing in your pool.

This wasn’t just a party.

It was a rave party

Julie ran up to you, breathless. “Okay, there’s a guy trying to light fireworks in the front yard. Dean tackled him but now he’s drinking out of a blender.”

“What?!” you blinked. “Why do we even have a blender outside?!”

“I don’t know! But Goldberg is playing mad tunes”Julie just laughed and disappeared into the crowd.

“Connie!” You turned back to the girl.

“Y/n relax have a great time, it’s your fucking birthday!” She put her hands on your shoulders and shook you as you sighed.

If this was going to be your party, you were going to live it.

You walked over to the kitchen and poured you some shots and took them one by one.

By the time you made it back to the dance floor, you were already feeling it—the warmth in your chest, the haze in your head, the way your body suddenly didn’t care if people were watching.

You laughed, spun around, danced with Julie and Connie, and shouted along to whatever song was playing.

The music shifted—bass pounding, the lights strobing overhead.

“I’m on the pursuit of happiness, and I know…”

Kid Cudi’s voice washed over the crowd like a wave, the kind of song that made your chest ache and your limbs move without thinking. You were already sweaty, flushed, tipsy—but your eyes were locked on one person.

Adam.

Still leaning by the stairs, still watching you like he couldn’t believe this version of you existed. Bold. Wild. Alive.

Without a second thought, you pushed through the sea of dancing bodies, grabbed his hand, and grinned. “Come on!”

He blinked in surprise, but your fingers were already laced through his, tugging him onto the dance floor. “Y/N—wait—”

“No waiting tonight,” you laughed.

The crowd swallowed you both as the chorus hit. You jumped. He followed.

“Tell me what you know about dreams…”

You and Adam were dancing, bodies close, arms bumping, sweat on your skin and that dizzy feeling in your head from both the music and the alcohol. He looked at you with that dazed, breathless smile—the one that made your heart stutter.

And then, somewhere in the middle of the song, in the middle of the madness, your hands slid up into his hair, and his mouth was suddenly on yours.

Soft at first—like maybe he couldn’t believe it was happening.

Then rougher. Messier. Your lips moving hungrily, crashing together like you were both afraid it would stop if you hesitated for even a second.

You were kissing Adam Banks in the middle of the living room, and the party could’ve exploded around you and you wouldn’t have noticed.

His hands settled at your waist, pulling you closer. Your fingers tightened in his shirt. The music pounded through your bodies like a heartbeat.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, laughing—he stared at you like you’d just rewritten everything.

“Wow,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours.

You grinned, breathless and tipsy and high on everything. “Told you no waiting.”

…

You and Adam collapsed onto the couch, lips still tangled, arms wrapped around each other like gravity was holding you there. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as you laughed breathlessly into his mouth.

Your head was spinning—in the best, worst way. The alcohol was hitting hard now, and everything felt like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from.

As you tilted your head back, catching your breath, your eyes scanned the chaos around you—and that’s when you saw them.

In the corner of the room, Guy and Connie were completely wrapped up in each other. Connie was in his lap, her hands tangled in his hair, his arms tight around her waist as they kissed like no one else existed. You raised your brows.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones,” you mumbled against Adam’s lips.

Adam followed your gaze and smirked. “Well, I guess everyone’s just full of surprises tonight.”

But it didn’t stop there.

Near the kitchen doorway, Julie was pinned up against the wall—Julie—kissing Scooter, her longtime rival-turned-secret flirtation. His hand was braced against the wall beside her head, and she was laughing between kisses, wild and unbothered.

You snorted. “Okay, now this is just getting ridiculous.”

Adam chuckled. “Did someone slip love potion in the punch or something?”

You were about to respond—lips brushing his again—when suddenly a bright light flashed in your face.

“WOOOO!” someone yelled.

A boy you didn’t recognize—definitely not a Duck—was crouched in front of you with a camcorder in hand, the old-school kind, blinking red as it recorded.

“Say hi to the memory reel birthday girl!” he laughed, clearly drunk out of his mind.

You blinked, dazed and giggling, as you and Adam both turned your heads toward the camera. You leaned into Adam, one arm thrown around his neck, both of you flushed, sweaty, and way too far gone.

You smiled wide, eyes glassy. Adam held up two fingers in a peace sign.

You hide your face in Adam’s chest biting your lip

The guy whooped and ran off with the camera, shoving it into someone else’s face as he disappeared into the crowd.

You groaned, flopping against Adam’s chest. “That footage better never see the light of day.”

He laughed, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Or it’ll be on the news and Coach Bombay will ground the entire state.”

You laughed with him, warm and happy in a haze of lights, music.

…

The security that Connie hired which were two kids, just informed you that the police were on the way.

“Shit” you pushed yourself off of Adam and told him to get everyone in the back,

The music was still pounding. People were still drinking, laughing, falling over each other in the hallway. You could barely hear yourself think.

You found Connie and Julie and told them that the cops were on the way.

You, Connie, and Julie exchanged panicked glances.

“EVERYONE OUT BACK!” you screamed, waving your arms like a traffic controller.

The room exploded into a frenzy. People scattered—some leaping over furniture, others shoving through the sliding glass door like it was the only way out of a burning building.

Fulton and Dean started directing people to the yard like it was a military drill. “Move, move, go, go, go!”

You barely had time to grab Julie and Connie before straightening your hair, tossing your beer cup into a plant, and yanking open the front door with the most innocent expression you could muster.

Two officers stood there, unimpressed, arms crossed.

“Evening,” one of them said flatly. “We’ve had a few noise complaints.”

You smiled like you weren’t hosting a party. “Sorry, officers! Just a small birthday hangout—got a little loud. We were actually just wrapping it up.”

Connie nodded behind you, all teeth and charm. “Totally under control.”

Julie added, “We were just about to turn the music down.”

The cops didn’t look convinced, but after a few seconds of awkward silence, one of them sighed. “Just keep it down. Last warning.”

“Yes, sir,” the three of you chorused like a choir of angels.

They turned and walked off, and the second the door clicked shut behind them, you all burst into breathless giggles.

“I cannot believe that worked,” Julie whispered.

“Duck magic,” Connie smirked.

You sprinted to the backyard, heart still pounding—and froze.

Everyone was standing silently. Huddled in the dark like scared kids at a summer camp, beer cups in hand, music paused, eyes wide.

You couldn’t help it.

You grabbed an abandoned Solo cup, held it high over your head, and yelled at the top of your lungs:

“TILL THE BREAK OF DAWN!”

The crowd exploded into cheers.

Someone cranked the music back up. Fireworks someone definitely shouldn’t have brought lit up the sky. Goldberg started dancing like his life depended on it. And just like that—the party was back.

You grinned, turning toward the chaos again as Adam reappeared beside you, slipping an arm around your waist.

….

The party never slowed down—it only grew.

At some point, someone swore there were over a hundred people in the house and backyard. You weren’t sure if that was true, but judging by the way your front lawn looked like a music festival, they probably weren’t wrong.

You and Adam danced like no one was watching—except, of course, everyone was watching.

“CHEERS!” you shouted, clinking cups with Guy, Goldberg, and Connie while Julie crowd-surfed across the lawn, carried by a bunch of guys you’d never seen before.

Russ was hyping people up near the pool. Dwayne was doing cartwheels with streamers on his head. Dean and Fulton were trying to DJ off someone’s stolen laptop, while Averman had somehow ended up in a kiddie pool with a snorkel mask yelling, “I’M A SEA KING!”

You seen Charlie making out with some girl, hell even the Varsity was here and Dean and Fulton where sure pushing their buttons.

You couldn’t breathe from all the laughing.

And through it all, Adam never left your side.

He kept you close, his hand always somewhere—your hip, your hand, your back—as if letting go would ruin the moment. You danced together, sweat-slicked and smiling like your faces couldn’t forget how. The song changed a dozen times, but the rhythm between you stayed the same.

At one point, a camera got right up in your face again. You and Adam turned, still laughing, cheeks flushed and eyes glossy from the drinks and the joy and the sheer madness of it all.

You leaned your head on his shoulder and stuck your tongue out at the lens. Adam threw up a peace sign, then kissed your forehead as the camera guy whooped and ran off again.

…

You didn’t remember exactly how you ended up in the middle of the backyard again—but there you were, between Connie and Julie, the three of you stumbling through the crowd like a trio of blackout goddesses.

Julie had her arm draped lazily over your shoulders, sweat glistening on her collarbone, eyes glassy and wild with laughter. Connie clung to your other side, mascara smudged under her eyes, shoes long gone, hair sticking to her face.

You were in the middle—dizzy, high, absolutely soaked in sweat, the world spinning with neon lights and deep bass thumping from the speakers someone had stolen from a club, apparently. Everything felt like it was glowing.

The alcohol had kicked in hard.

You felt invincible. Electric.

…

The bass was still pounding through the walls, rattling the mirror. People screamed, laughed, cheered just outside the bathroom door, but in here—it was like a little island of silence. Sort of.

The lights were too bright. Your mascara was smudged under your eyes, your hair stuck to your forehead, and your face was flushed—sweaty, glassy-eyed, gone.

You leaned against the sink, swaying a little. One hand held your phone, the other gripped the edge of the counter like the ground might fall out beneath you.

You flipped the camera to front-facing.

Hit record.

“Hey, Dad,” you slurred, voice soft, slow, words sticking together. “It’s me. Y/N.”

You sniffed, blinking hard.

“I know I’m not supposed to be doing this. I know this whole thing is… bad. Like, really bad. But I swear I wasn’t trying to ruin anything. I just wanted us all to have fun for once. Just once.”

Your reflection stared back at you—drunk, flushed, ashamed.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I know you’re gonna be mad. Disappointed. Whatever. I’m so… drunk right now, I don’t even know if this is making sense.”

You laughed a little—dry, sad.

“I just wanted to say sorry. For the mess. For dragging your name into it. For not being better.”

Your lip trembled, just for a second.

“But… I love you, okay? And I’m still your daughter. Even if I’m a total screw-up tonight.”

You hesitated.

Then whispered, “Please don’t hate me.”

You hit stop.

Saved it.

But didn’t send it.

You sniffled and went back out to have fun.

…

The air was electric up there.

You, Connie, and Julie stood barefoot on the roof, your sweat-soaked clothes clinging to your skin, your hair sticking to your neck, your bodies glowing under the flashing backyard lights. You were so high and drunk and alive, the night felt infinite.

Below you?

Chaos incarnate.

Hundreds of people flooded your yard, music blasting, people making out in bushes, dancing on cars, jumping into the pool in their clothes. Beer cans littered the lawn. A guy in a flamingo costume crowd-surfed past a line of screaming students. It looked like a riot with better lighting.

And then—you heard it.

The chop-chop-chop of spinning blades.

You turned your head slowly, heart racing, eyes wide and glassy as the helicopter hovered into view above the yard. A blinding spotlight beamed down across the house and yard, lighting up the crowd like a busted ant hill.

Someone screamed, “IT’S THE FEDS!”

Julie gasped. Connie started laughing so hard she almost fell.

You?

You threw your middle fingers up into the sky, grinning wildly.

“MY PARTY IS LEGENDARY!!” you screamed, voice cracking with adrenaline and defiance.

People below looked up and cheered. Phones filmed you from every angle. The crowd was eating it up.

You turned to Connie and Julie, both breathless and shining under the moonlight. You grinned, completely unbothered, like the world was yours.

“I love you guys,” you slurred, giggling.

“Don’t you dare,” Connie warned, laughing nervously.

“Y/N—no,” Julie gasped.

But it was too late.

You stepped back, raised your arms…

And leapt.

You flew off the roof like some half-dressed party superhero—and landed in the giant bouncy house below with a heavy WHUMP, bouncing once, then again, before collapsing in a fit of hysterical laughter.

People went wild.

Julie and Connie shrieked, then jumped after you.

It was reckless. It was stupid.

It was epic.

And for one perfect second before the sirens started wailing in the distance—you felt immortal.

…

It happened so fast.

One minute, someone lit a Roman candle on the roof—probably Averman, because of course—and the next, the fireworks tipped, shot sideways, and slammed straight into the makeshift DJ booth beside the pool.

And then—boom.

Flames.

Screams.

Someone yelled, “THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE!”

Your head snapped up as thick black smoke started pouring out of the windows. Fire licked up the siding, devouring it like paper. You were frozen for a second, mouth open, brain struggling to process it all through the haze of drugs and booze.

Then—

“MOVE! MOVE! GET OUT!”

Sirens howled in the distance. Bright red and blue lights flashed across the smoke.

And then came the smoke bombs.

Pop—pop—pssshhhhhh.

Gas flooded the yard. People screamed, coughed, scattered like roaches in headlights.

You spun in the madness, coughing, eyes stinging, trying to find someone—anyone.

Then—arms around you.

“Y/N!” Adam’s voice, rough and scared, pulling you tight. “C’mon, we gotta go, now!”

Your vision blurred, but you clung to him as chaos exploded around you. People were leaping fences, knocking over trash cans, shoving through hedges. You saw Goldberg run past shirtless, dragging Luis and Russ behind him. Guy was screaming Connie’s name. Dean was carrying Dwayne like a sack of potatoes. Averman was sobbing, “I didn’t mean to! I just thought it would look cool!”

Julie was getting carried by Fulton, and Charlie was already running

The Ducks were everywhere—running like headless chickens, ducking under smoke clouds, gasping for air, calling each other’s names through the madness.

Your house—your dad’s house—was going up in flames behind you.

“My house Averman!” You yelled staring up at it in shock

“Y/n let’s go!” Adam tugged you toward a side gate. You stumbled, tripping over your own feet, lungs on fire.

“Where do we go?” you gasped, voice hoarse.

He didn’t answer.

He just ran.

⸻

The Ice Rink.

It was silent, cold, untouched by the madness. Someone had busted in the side door—probably Fulton—and turned on the lights.

One by one, the Ducks arrived.

Soot-streaked. Eyes wide. Clothes torn. Shoes missing. Everyone coughing, all of you sitting on the bleachers like shattered glass.

Nobody spoke for a long time.

Not until Connie mumbled, “…what the hell did we just do?”

“Something not good” Guy mumbled his hands in his hair.

You sat with your knees to your chest, Adam beside you, his hand still wrapped tightly in yours.

Your dad’s house was probably gone. The FBI literally smoked your party out. And you were all 100% dead when this caught up to you.

But in that moment—chilled to the bone, high still lingering, hearts pounding—you had each other.

And somehow, that was the only thing that made it bearable.

…

The sound of the rink doors slamming open echoed like a gunshot.

You all turned—dazed, exhausted, half-frozen—to see him standing there.

Gordon Bombay.

His eyes scanned every single one of you. No yelling. No cursing. Just that look.

Disappointment.

That was worse than anything.

One by one, you and the Ducks stood up—heads low, silence stretching between you like ice cracking beneath your feet. Nobody said a word.

He finally spoke. His voice was cold.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

You winced.

He looked at Charlie. At Connie. At Goldberg and Julie and Fulton and Adam—who still held your hand.

“You could’ve been arrested. Or worse. Someone could’ve gotten killed. You think this was just a party? This was a disaster. A nightmare. And for what? A few hours of fun? You burned down my house, you trashed your reputations, and you put each other in danger.”

No one dared to meet his eyes.

“Go home. All of you. We’ll deal with this later.”

One by one, the Ducks quietly slipped out. No jokes. No snark. Just quiet goodbyes and shame.

Only you remained.

Gordon turned to you. His jaw clenched. His voice dropped. “Let’s go.”

You walked beside him down the street in silence.

Still in your party clothes—shorts and a glitter-stained tank top, shoes in your hand, mascara streaked down your cheeks. Your legs ached. Your head pounded.

And when you rounded the corner—there it was.

Home.

Or what was left of it.

The front yard was soaked, covered in ash and red Solo cups. The house itself was charred on one side, black smoke stains running up the walls, windows shattered. The front door was wide open, busted off the hinges.

You just stood there.

Your dad did too.

Neither of you said anything for a long time.

Finally, your voice cracked, hoarse from smoke and tears. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

He didn’t look at you.

“I know.”

Another beat of silence.

“I didn’t mean for it to get that bad. I just…” You swallowed hard. “I wanted one night. Just one where we weren’t the Ducks, or students, or perfect. One night to feel alive.”

He closed his eyes, exhaled slowly.

“I get that,” he said. “I really do.”

Then he finally looked at you—tired, worn down, but softer than before.

“But there’s a line, Y/N. And you crossed it. You all did.”

Tears welled up in your eyes.

“I know.”

He put a hand on your shoulder.

“You’re cleaning this up. Brick by brick. And I’m not bailing any of you out of the consequences.”

You nodded.

And even though your world was in ruins, and your home smelled like smoke, and your heart was tangled in guilt—you knew this wasn’t the end.

It was the start of paying for it.

Of rebuilding.

Not just the house.

But yourself.

The school doors creaked open.

You stepped inside, flanked by Connie and Julie, still feeling the weight of the weekend on your shoulders—bruised knees, smudged eyeliner, and barely any sleep.

“Did your dad freak?” Connie asked under her breath, adjusting her hoodie like it could hide the disaster still clinging to her.

“Big time,” you muttered. “Made me stand in front of the burned house like it was some after-school special.”

Julie snorted. “Same. My mom grounded me so hard I think I actually time-traveled.”

All three of you groaned.

“Hey, look at this”Connie smiled trying to pick up the mood.

“The Ducks causing mayhem in Minneapolis last night—someone get these kids a reality show!” Connie read

There they were.

All of them.

Y/N in the middle, tongue out, throwing a peace sign. Julie and Connie striking dramatic model poses. Charlie holding up a drink like a toast. Dean in sunglasses indoors again. Adam and Guy on either side of Y/N, mid-laugh. Fulton doing the Rock On sign. Goldberg flashing double thumbs-up. Averman pretending to faint in the corner. Dwayne with jazz hands. Luis was on the ground posing, Russ was shrugging Ken had on sunglasses holding up the peace sign.

“We look so cool!” Connie exclamied

You smiled at the photo and shook your head.

“Jeez it already has 10k likes!”

You stepped into the main hallway.

And it was like the whole school paused.

Dozens of students froze, turned their heads, and then—it started.

Clapping.

Cheers.

Someone whistled. Someone else started chanting: “Y/N! Y/N! Y/N!”

Then came, “CONNIE! JULIE!”

Phones were out, flashes going off, people grinning, nodding, giving high fives, slapping lockers.

“Yo, that party was insane!”

“Legendary, bro!”

“Birthday girl!”

“Best party of the year!”

You blinked, stunned, as the three of you stood there—exhausted, mildly traumatized, but apparently legends.

Julie leaned in close and whispered with a smirk, “Okay… we might’ve just peaked.”

You couldn’t help it. You smiled. Despite everything—the fire, the grounding, the mess—you owned the hallway.

For once, it wasn’t just about being the coach’s kid. Or the Ducks. Or doing the right thing.

It was about being the girls who threw the most chaotic, unforgettable party in school history.

“Walk slow,” Connie whispered. “Soak this in.”

You spotted him leaning against his locker.

Adam Banks.

Hair still a little tousled, eyes tired, but that lazy, crooked grin on his face when he saw you coming? Yeah, that hit different.

You pushed through the crowd, Connie and Julie drifting behind you, still basking in your walk-of-fame moment. Your feet dragged, your head throbbed, and your body was basically running on caffeine and pure chaos—but you made it to him.

“Hey,” you said, voice scratchy, smile tugging at your lips.

“Hey, party legend,” Adam said, smirking. “How’s it feel to be the most talked about person in school?”

You rolled your eyes, though you were secretly loving it. “Like I’ve been hit by a truck. A flaming truck. With a DJ booth in the back.”

He laughed softly, eyes scanning you—and then flicking toward your neck.

That’s when you remembered.

You reached up, fingertips grazing the side of your throat.

“Okay… be honest.” You squinted at him. “Did you do this?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Do what?”

You tilted your head, pulling the collar of your shirt to the side just enough to show the purplish mark stamped on your skin.

Adam blinked. His grin widened.

“Ohhh… that.”

“So that was you?” you asked, laughing but exhausted. “Because I seriously do not remember.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… maybe? Things got a little fuzzy after body shots.”

You snorted. “A little fuzzy? I almost kissed a houseplant.”

“Well, I definitely kissed you,” he said, softer now. “A few times.”

Your heart did a weird little skip.

The hallway noise faded just a bit. He was looking at you like the rest of the world didn’t exist for a second.

“So,” you said, voice low, teasing, “are you gonna be leaving me mysterious neck souvenirs again, or was that just a Project X special?”

He grinned, leaning just a little closer. “Depends. You throwing another party?”

You rolled your eyes. “God, no. I’m trying to survive this week without getting arrested again.”

“Fair,” he said, then winked. “Still… if you ever want to remember the next time, maybe we do something a little less insane.”

You blinked. Smiled. “Shut up” you grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him softly.

He smiled into the kiss wrapping his arms around your waist.

…

The interview was live.

Like, full-on news truck, cameras rolling, boom mic hanging overhead, live-on-the-scene type of deal. And who did they somehow manage to shove in front of the camera?

Goldberg.

Hair still messed up, wearing sunglasses indoors, shirt half-buttoned, and clearly riding the tail-end of whatever was left of his party high.

The reporter—some poor, overly serious woman in her mid-30s with a press badge and a whole lot of regret—cleared her throat as the camera rolled.

“We’re here with Greg Goldberg, one of the, uh… attendees of the now-infamous teen party known as ‘Project X.’ Greg, what do you have to say about what happened?”

Goldberg leaned into the mic with that crooked grin like he was about to perform stand-up.

“First of all, it was legendary. I mean, like… history-book worthy. Y/N Bombay—queen of chaos, straight up.”

The reporter blinked. “There was an FBI response and property destruction—”

“Yeah, but did you see the drone footage? Someone had sparklers on a unicycle. It was art.”

She tried not to lose her composure. “There were fires. Illegal substances. Paramedics.”

Goldberg smirked, pushing his sunglasses up. “Look, I’m not saying it was safe, I’m saying it was unforgettable. And just between us…” He leaned in, voice dropping. “Project X 2 is definitely happening.”

She looked like she aged five years in five seconds.

“You do realize,” she said flatly, “that encouraging another party like this is… wildly irresponsible?”

“Only if you don’t get invited,” Goldberg shot back with a wink.

She blinked. “Don’t you think it would be more appropriate to apologize?”

He shrugged. “Eh… I mean, I could. But that sounds kinda boring. Also, hey—are you single?”

She blinked. Hard.

“We’re cutting to commercial.”

The camera faded just as Goldberg smiled proudly like he’d just nailed a TED Talk, waving to the crew like a celebrity.