leia•22•she/her

shuriri

lights, camera, chaos | part 1

lights, camera, chaos | part 2

lights, camera, chaos | part 3

lights, camera, chaos | part 4

the night riri williams died

liquid courage | part 1

riri williams

all that we didn’t say

cruel summer | part 1

cruel summer | part 2

cruel summer | part 3

anyone remember that one scene from sex education where motis were trying to have sex but he kept thinking about his mom?

yea that’d be nashuri in a nutshell 💀💀💀

pairing: riri williams x black!fem!reader

word count: 5.2k

summary: in the summer of 1995, a heartbreaking betrayal between you and your lifelong best friend riri williams erupts into a storm of buried feelings, painful truths, and a kiss that changes everything.

contains: heavy angst, slut-shaming, internalized homophobia, closeted lesbianism, n-word used

a/n: this story is set during the 90s when homophobia and slut-shaming were a lot more normalized by society. could be potentially triggering for some people.

tag list: @mitchesmoon @riris-heart @mariquitaaa @glimreaperss @lyfeofbilly @chivgf @ashleighshaw @mrsudakuwilliams99 @taethetomboy @supersteel13 @bigsapphiccity @onyxstones-world @impinkalicious @criaaturaa @roseamongroses @zaiiswh0rehousee @inmyheadimobsessed

vi.

The music thumped from inside your house, heavy with bass and nostalgia, vibrating through the floorboards beneath your feet. The crowd inside swayed and danced, laughing too loud and drinking too much. Warm bodies filled every corner of your home—some tucked away in your kitchen scarfing down chips and fried wings, others lounging on your worn-out couches, red solo cups in hand. Sweat clung to skin. Heat wrapped itself around every inch of air. The room smelled like summer—cologne, sweat, Hennessy, and the sticky sweetness of spiked fruit punch.

And for once—for once—you were okay with it.

You didn’t plan on enjoying yourself. Not really. You told yourself this was a distraction, a controlled burn to smoke the last three weeks out of your head. You weren’t usually the type to host anything; you’d always been better at showing up and leaving early, hovering at the edges of other people’s celebrations. But you were tired—tired of waking up every morning with an ache in your chest that made every breath hurt. So you borrowed string lights, dragged the speakers out of your room, let people bring mismatched cups, too-sweet liquor, and a mountain of snacks. You told yourself the point wasn’t to be happy. It was just to be here. And somehow, you were.

You were here in the glow of dollar-store bulbs, barefoot in the living room, laughing at a joke you didn’t have to write for yourself. The music echoed in your ribs; the AC struggled against the press of warm bodies; somebody yelled that the pizza was here; somebody else tried to pour shots into a Dixie cup that already had cola in it. Someone was singing. Someone was definitely off-key. A pair of friends had turned your hallway into a makeshift photo booth, snapping pictures with a polaroid camera and shouting pose ideas like anybody cared.

You leaned against the doorframe and let it all wash over you, cheeks warm from both the heat and the alcohol buzzing gently in your blood. You weren’t exactly drunk, but you were loose. Lighter than you’d felt in days. It wasn’t bliss, not even close. But with a drink in your hand and your favorite cds playing, you’d finally managed to feel… fine. Not good. Not whole. But fine enough to smile when your girls hyped you up in the hallway mirror. Fine enough to pour tequila over ice and pretend it didn’t taste like pain.

It had taken almost three weeks of grief, gut-deep betrayal, and soul-burning rage to get to this point. But for once, the weight inside you felt lighter than the room around you.

Not healed.

But something close to… okay.

For the first time in weeks, you genuinely smiled.

For the first time in weeks, you managed to keep her off your mind.

Riri.

Her name hadn’t passed your lips all night, and that alone felt like an accomplishment. You hadn’t seen her, hadn’t heard from her—at least not directly. You knew she’d been trying: the missed calls, the voicemails, the texts you deleted without reading, the pounding at your front door you drowned out by turning up your radio.

You didn’t owe her shit.

Not after what she did.

Not after what she chose.

You hadn’t wasted a second replaying Damon’s pitiful excuses after the fact—the so-called apologies that dripped more with desperation than sincerity. His words were brittle, his tone fragile in all the wrong ways, cracking like cheap glass under pressure. There was no real remorse in them, only fear of losing the comfort you once gave him. And you? You let his pathetic begging fall flat against the wall of your silence, refusing to offer him even the dignity of a response. If anything, Damon had become nothing more than an afterthought, a pale outline that meant as little as he’d always meant.

But Riri… Riri was different.

You kept seeing her in the quiet corners of memory; Riri doubled over with laughter when that bottle of Coke exploded in your face; Riri outside Baskin Robbins grinning with a spoon balanced on her nose just to win a smile from you; Riri’s hands blotched with grease from working all day in Gary’s garage but warm around your wrist in a way that once felt like home—and now only ached to remember.

She was everywhere you didn’t want her to be.

But as the night went on, the music, the mess, the movement began to blur the edges. And Riri…

Riri Williams had started to fade along with it.

Almost.

You stole a slice and didn’t bother with a plate. You let yourself be dragged into the kitchen for a group photo that would look awful tomorrow and perfect in ten years. You even took another shot and chased it down with warm soda, laughing at your own wince as the burn hit your chest. The room tilted a little in a friendly way. You started to think that maybe you’d made the right call with this party.

And then the doorbell rang.

A long, deliberate chime that cut through the music like a wrong note.

You frowned, turning your head toward the front hallway. “Y’all expecting anybody else?” you asked no one in particular.

Someone mumbled “Nah,” over the music.

Your chest tightened slightly.

But because it was your house and the bell was your bell, you put the empty cup on the counter and went to answer it anyway. Someone tried to press another drink into your hand; you waved them off and weaved through the bodies of people you’d invited into your space, into your evening, into the place you’d refused to let anyone into for three aching weeks.

Stumbling slightly towards the front door, you gripped the handle firmly, allowing it to keep you straightened upright. You unlocked it before your brain could fully process the decision.

In your borderline tipsy haze, you hadn’t even thought to check through the peephole.

An oversight you instantly regretted.

You pulled the door open.

And your stomach plummeted like a stone.

There—standing on your doorstep like a ghost you hadn’t summoned—was Riri Williams.

Your treacherous treasonous traitor of an ex-best friend.

Dressed in cargo shorts and that faded black Outkast t-shirt that used to be your favorite on her. Her braids were pulled back in a ponytail, her eyes nervous and unsure under her lashes. Her fists were shoved deep in the pockets of her too-big denim jacket like they could anchor her in place. She wasn’t even trying to look casual.

The bass from inside muffled to a low thrum, and suddenly all you could hear was your own heartbeat thudding in your ears. The buzz of tequila drained from your veins in an instant, leaving only cold sobriety. Your mood instantly soured like spoiled milk—whatever lightness you’d managed to claw your way into shattered in pieces.

Your grip tightened on the doorknob, anger and disbelief tangling hot in your chest.

You didn’t even give her a chance to speak.

“Oh hell no,” you growled, slamming the door halfway shut.

But Riri shot forward and caught it mid-swing. Her palm slapped flat against the wood, the sound sharp in the summer night.

“Wait—please!” she begged, breath ragged.

Your jaw clenched. “Get your hand off my door.”

Her eyes locked onto yours, wild and desperate. “Please, just hear me out. That’s all I’m asking.”

The sheer gall of her—of showing up uninvited to your house, your healing, your fragile piece of peace—ignited the rage that had been simmering beneath your skin since the night you caught her with Damon.

“I swear to God, Riri,” you seethed, muscles tight as you leaned harder against the door. “If you don’t leave right now, I’ll call the cops.”

It was a stupid bluff, and she knew it.

For a moment, she paused and just stared at you. Then she let out a short, disbelieving scoff. “The cops? On me?” Her tone was incredulous. “You really gonna pick up the phone and dial 911 with all the alcohol I know you got packed in that house? Girl, please. They pull up here, I ain’t the one catching a charge—you are.”

Your blood boiled, face heating.

“Try me,” you growled, every syllable dripping with threat.

Riri raised a brow, infuriatingly casual now. “Mhm. Go ahead then. Call the police. We’ll see who’s doing the perp walk first when they haul you off in handcuffs for running a bootleg liquor store out your living room. What you gonna say? ‘Oh, officer, I was just doing communion for the neighborhood’?”

The jab hit deep, mocking and accurate. Her deadpan delivery only made it worse. She wasn’t smiling, wasn’t even trying to be slick—she was just saying it, flat and matter-of-fact, making you feel like a fool. That seemed to be her specialty lately.

Heat and frustration flared through your chest. Your mouth twisted, snapping almost childishly, “Whatever, Riri! Just get the fuck off my porch! I told you to leave.”

You shoved the door with all your strength, slamming your shoulder into it. The sudden force startled Riri—she flinched, body jerking—but she didn’t break. Her feet slid half an inch on the porch, sneakers squeaking against the floorboards, but she reset her stance and braced herself. Her whole body was bent against the door now, arms locked, weight steady.

“Damn it, Riri! Move!”

“No!” she fired back, arm flexing against the frame. She pressed her body into the push with a steadiness you couldn’t fight. “I’m not leaving until you let me explain.”

“I don’t have to let you do anything.” Your voice dropped, low and dangerous.

“One minute!” Her words cracked with urgency. “Just give me one minute. Sixty seconds, that’s it. I swear. If you want me gone after that, I’ll go.”

“No!” You shoved even harder, ignoring the way her words scraped raw across your skin. “You’ve already wasted more of my minutes than I’ll ever get back.”

“Then let me waste one more!”

The wood groaned under the strain but didn’t budge. Riri gripped the edge of the door like she was holding on for dear life, keeping it open with a strength you’d forgotten she had. For every ounce of force you threw into that door, she pushed back with more. Years of engineering, of lifting and building, of auto shop grit were on her side—giving her an advantage you couldn’t beat. You hated how easily she held her ground against you.

“Go home Riri.” you demanded, body trembling with the effort. “You don’t get to show up uninvited and play the victim. Not after everything you did.”

“I’m not playing—”

“Like hell you aren’t! You think you can strong-arm your way in here like I owe you shit? Well fuck that! You made this mess. Now live with it.”

Her eyes burned, but she didn’t back down. “I didn’t come here for me.” she insisted, voice raw with barely concealed emotion. “I came here for you—just you. Because I needed—”

“You don’t get to need a damn thing from me!” The venom in your words snapped like a whip. “Not anymore.”

Riri winced, shoulders hitching, but she still didn’t move. You gritted your teeth as the door continued to hold steady between you two.

“Back up!” you barked, shoving with everything you had.

But she pushed back, harder. The jolt rattled through the wood and slammed into your body, knocking a grunt out of you before you could swallow it down.

Riri’s head snapped up at the sound, panic flashing across her face. “Fuck—I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” She eased up just enough to stop forcing all her weight in, her voice spilling out fast and frantic. “I don’t wanna fight you. I don’t. I just—God, I just need you to hear me out. Please! Don’t shut me out again.”

That cracked something in you—but not the way she wanted. A bitter laugh ripped from your throat, sharp and humorless. You shook your head, rage curling your lips into an ugly snarl.

“Don’t shut you out?” you spat, voice sharp as a blade. “Bitch you got some nerve.” You threw your whole body forward, every shred of anger coursing with the effort to force the door closed. “You should’ve thought about that before you stabbed me in the back and spread your legs for my boyfriend like the nasty no-class trick you are. Guess all those smarts don’t mean shit if you’re still dumb enough to play sidepiece.”

The insult hit heavy, cruel, and deliberate—cutting her down in a way only you could. You watched it tear through her—the way her lips parted like the air had been knocked out of her, eyes wide and shining under the porch light. Her expression crumpled, and for a moment, the front she’d been holding up collapsed—leaving her unguarded with nothing but the raw sting of your words written clear across her face.

But still—still—she held her ground. Her body stayed pressed to the door, grip firm and unshaken. But her voice came back low and rough, carrying something between defiance and self-loathing.

“There’s nothing you can call me that I haven’t already called myself a hundred times over. I know what I did. I know how badly I fucked up. But I’m not walking away without saying what I need to say. Because I can’t—” Her words wavered, but she pushed through them. “I can’t leave it like this. Not with you. Not without you knowing why I fucked up.”

The silence that followed was deafening, just the two of you straining against the door, neither giving an inch. Her desperation radiated from every word, every fiber of strength she poured into holding the line. And all you could feel was fury that she had the audacity to stand here, begging, like she hadn’t already shattered the one thing you thought could never break.

You shoved again, but the door barely shifted against her weight. Rage burned stronger than the liquor ever had—hot enough to choke. You wanted her gone. Wanted her erased from the night entirely. But the harder you leaned, the more obvious it became: you weren’t going to win. She had the leverage, the muscle, and the stubbornness that had always driven you both crazy. The truth weighed heavier than her body ever could.

Riri wasn’t leaving.

Not until she said whatever she came to say.

You couldn’t force her out. Not tonight. Not like this.

The realization twisted your insides. Every rational thought screamed at you to walk away. But instead, with a surge of bitter resignation, you stepped back and yanked the door wide open. The sudden momentum threw Riri off balance. She pitched forward into the space you’d just cleared, almost colliding into you. Her hands shot out instinctively, pressing firmly against your chest to catch herself, eyes wide, breath quick.

“Shit! Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

But the apology barely registered. Her touch did. The feel of her palms against your chest dragged you back to that night at the block party—when you danced together like the rest of the world had disappeared. Your body remembered before your brain did: the way you’d tripped and she caught you, pulling you into her arms, warm and steady, hands firm against your back, your forehead brushing hers as the music folded in like it was meant just for you two.

The ghost of that closeness lanced through you.

You shoved her back—not hard, not even cruelly—but fast and desperate, as if her touch burned. Because it did. It burned in a way that scared you. Because the cruelest truth of all was that despite everything, you still missed it. And the ache of that realization was so painful, it threatened to unravel everything you’d been holding together.

Riri staggered back a step, eyes wide and glistening with hurt. And that look—that wounded flicker—made your fury spike hotter.

She had no right to be hurt.

You stepped out onto the porch, slamming the door behind you so hard the frame rattled, cutting off the pulse of music and the blur of voices. Out here, it was just the two of you, the humid summer air pressing close.

You crossed your arms and fixed her with a glare that could have stripped paint. “You got one minute. Say what you came to say—and then I never wanna see your face again.”

The words came out like shards of glass. Riri flinched. Not dramatically, not something you could pretend you didn’t notice. Her throat worked once. She looked down at the ground for a second, like she was rehearsing her words.

“I know I’m the last person you wanna see,” she chewed her bottom lip, voice barely above a whisper. “I know I don’t deserve your time. Or your forgiveness. Or anything. But I had to come. I couldn’t go another day with you thinking I ain’t been tearing myself up over this. Or that I ever meant to hurt you.”

You stared at her, unmoving. You didn’t speak. You were too full of hurt. Too full of why. Too full of how could you. Your silence was punishment enough.

Riri shifted her weight between her feet, the porch creaking under her.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, like she was racing your minute. “I’m so fucking sorry. For kissing Damon behind your back. For breaking your trust. For making you look at me like this.”

You didn’t expect the hit of those words to land where it did. For weeks you’d lived with the memory of what happened — the image had been enough to gut you — but you’d never known who made the first move. You’d gone back and forth in your head a hundred times, trying to figure it out, trying not to. You’d wondered, but you’d never known.

Until now.

And hearing Riri confess it — in her own mouth, surrendered like evidence you never asked for — shifted the angle of everything. It was worse than anything Damon could’ve done. Worse than any half-truth you could’ve imagined. The confession landed like a body shot, knocking the air clean out your lungs. Your chest was so tight it hurt to breathe — like every word she’d just said was pressing down harder and harder, and all you could do was fight not to let it show on your face.

Your throat went dry, but you forced the words out. “You broke a lot more than trust Riri,” you said, surprised at how even your voice came out. “You broke my heart. You broke us. And you can’t take that back.”

Riri froze like the words cut her open. Her mouth parted, but nothing came out at first — just a trembling breath. Her head dropped low, like she was too ashamed to even look at you.

“I know,” she muttered, voice rough and shaky. “I know I did. But I swear I didn’t wanna hurt you. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I don’t know why I—” she dragged a hand down her face, words tumbling out messy, “I don’t know what was wrong with me that night. I ain’t slept right since. I wasn’t—I didn’t think—”

“No shit you didn’t think!” you cut her off. “You wasn’t thinking about me, or us, or nothing we been through. You were too busy thinking with whatever part of you he was touching.”

“That’s not true!” Riri shot back instantly, shaking her head.

“Not true?” you scoffed, the sound scraping your throat. “If it wasn’t true, then you wouldn’t have chosen some crusty-ass boy over ten years of friendship.”

Your voice rose, cracking with disbelief. “God, could you be more cliché? My best friend hooking up with my boyfriend? Are you fucking kidding me?!”

Riri winced like your words physically struck her.

“I didn’t choose him!” she blurted suddenly. “It wasn’t about Damon.”

“What the fuck does that even mean, Riri?”

She looked down at the porch floorboards, eyes brimming with something fragile. “I didn’t want him. I never even liked him.”

Your expression darkened.

“You what?”

Her eyes snapped up. “I—”

“No. Say it again.” Your voice was ice. “You tellin’ me you threw away everything and fucked me over for a nigga you didn’t even have feelings for?”

“It’s not like that—”

And that made something inside you snap.

You pushed her again—hard enough this time that she had to catch herself on the porch rail to keep from falling.

“YOU DIDN’T EVEN LIKE HIM?!” you shrieked, the words coming out thick with fury and betrayal. “So you stabbed me in the back for what, Riri?! For what?! Just for fun? Just to see how much you could hurt me?!”

“Of course not!” She shook her head wildly. “It wasn’t like that—I swear—”

“Then what the fuck was it like, Riri?!” you yelled, stepping closer now, shaking from far more than just anger. “You kissed my boyfriend. You touched him. You moaned, for fuck’s sake! I saw you. I heard you. And now you tellin’ me it meant nothing?!”

Riri looked like she wanted to crawl out of her own skin.

“I was confused, okay?” Her voice trembled. “I didn’t know what I was feeling. I didn’t—”

“Confused?” you snapped, the word coming out sharp and disbelieving. “That’s what you callin’ it? You don’t get to be confused and wreck me in the process. Like ten years don’t mean shit cause you couldn’t figure yourself out!”

Your words landed, and you watched her face break under them. You’d seen Riri hurt before. You’d seen her angry, scared, exhausted. But never like this. Never broken all the way through. For a split second, it registered — how ashamed she looked, how devastated, how she seemed to fold in on herself like she didn’t even know how to stand anymore.

Something ugly and sharp twisted in your chest, threatening to crack you right open. You felt it — that pull, that instinct to step in, to reach for her the way you always had. You clenched your jaw instead, nails biting into your palms, forcing the rage to stay exactly where it was.

Because if she looked this destroyed now, then that meant she’d known exactly what she was risking — and had done it anyway.

“I didn’t know how to tell you…” she said quietly, the words barely holding together.

“Tell me what?!” You shoved her back, the porch boards creaking under her feet. “That you’re a lying bitch?!”

Riri stumbled, barely catching herself before you were on her again, “That you’re full of shit?!”

She tried to steady herself, but your hands slammed into her a third time, “That you ain’t got a spine when it actually matters?!”

Riri was panicking now, her hands shaking as she lifted them up like she was trying to calm a wild animal.

“Y/N please—” she gasped, scared and breathless.

You shoved her again before she could say anything else. The alcohol in your veins wasn’t helping. It made you louder. Angrier. Messier.

“I gave you everything, Riri! Everything! I trusted you with shit I ain’t never told nobody.” Your voice wobbled. “And you didn’t even tell me. You just showed up at my door like nothing happened. With my coffee. My fucking coffee, Riri!”

Her face broke open. “Y/N—”

You shoved her again.

“Tell me what I did!” your words choked, anger buckling under the weight of heartbreak. “What did I do to deserve this? Huh? What did I do wrong? Tell me what I did to make you rip my fucking heart out like this!”

Your vision blurred, hot tears burning at the corners of your eyes as everything inside you spiraled.

Riri’s expression shattered — and this time, when you shoved her, she grabbed your arms. Not hard. Not restraining. Just latching on, fierce and strong and gentle all at once.

The contact made you recoil on instinct. You tried to pull back, muscle memory screaming don’t touch me, don’t let her comfort you, but her grip held—firm without being rough, desperate without hurting. It was the same way she’d always held onto you when you were upset, like she was grounding both of you at once.

And that’s what did it.

Your breath hitched hard in your chest, the fight draining straight out of you. The tears you’d been forcing down finally broke free, hot and humiliating as they spilled over. You hated that it was her hands that did it. Hated that her touch still knew how to reach you.

“No,” she said, tears welling in her own eyes. “No, this ain’t on you. None of this is your fault.” Her thumbs trembled where they pressed into your arms. “You didn’t do nothing wrong. You were perfect. You are perfect.”

The words gutted you.

“Then WHY?!” you screamed, thrashing in her grip, the word tearing out of your chest. “Why would you do this to me Ri?!”

Riri didn’t answer.

Her eyes burned into yours, her breath coming faster, her own tears slipping free now.

She looked at you like she was drowning, like she was watching you slip through her fingers all over again.

And then, like she couldn’t bear another second of watching you unravel—another second of your pain and confusion and raw, open hurt—Riri made a terrifying decision before fear could stop her.

Her hands slid up from your arms to your face, cupping your cheeks like you were made of glass.

And before the alcohol or the heartbreak or the rage could give you time to react—before you could pull back or shove her or even slap her again—

She kissed you.

Right there. On your front porch. At your party.

Her lips pressed to yours in a clash of apology and explanation — soft but unsure, hesitant but committed.

The shock hit you like cold water.

Your whole body locked up. Your thoughts went blank, the porch light buzzing too loud, the night tilting under your feet. For a heartbeat, you didn’t even understand what she’d done — just that her lips were on yours, that this was real, that this was happening.

You went rigid, eyes blown wide, every instinct inside you screaming no. Your lips stayed closed, body stiff as you tried to squirm away, twisting slightly like you could escape without pushing her. You didn’t kiss her back. You didn’t open your mouth. For a moment you didn’t even know how to breathe.

But you didn’t stop her either.

You couldn’t.

Because all at once, the truth hit you square in the chest — heavy and brutal and impossible to unfeel.

This was the reason.

This was the feeling she’d been running from.

This was what she’d been hiding from you.

From herself.

Riri felt it — your resistance — and it broke her heart even as her hands tightened a little. Not forcing, just holding, like she’d break if she let go. Her lips were warm and shaking, desperation bleeding through every second of the kiss. The mix of tequila and cheap liquor on your breath was intoxicating, waking something inside her she’d spent years pushing down.

She should’ve pulled away.

But she didn’t.

Instead, the kiss deepened on her end — not hungry, not bold, just unbearably earnest. Her lips moved more urgently, trembling and pleading, like she was trying to pour everything she couldn’t say into the space between your mouths. Like she needed you to feel it — the guilt, the love, the longing.

She kissed you with everything she’d been holding back for years, leaning in as if she wanted to disappear into you. Her fingertips ghosted over your jaw, thumbs brushing your face like she was memorizing it. Like she’d never get the chance again.

And that’s when you felt it.

The recognition.

The clarity.

The memory of sixteen year old Riri slipping across wet concrete and laughing with her whole chest. Of inside jokes. Long phone calls. Days spent in Gary’s garage making wind chimes.

Of her always being the one.

Of her always being the first.

The first person you called after getting your acceptance letter.

The first person you looked for in a crowded room.

The first person you thought about every morning when you woke up… and the last before you went to sleep every night.

Even now.

Even after everything.

And then — against your will, against your better judgment, against every jagged shard in your chest that said she didn’t deserve it — your body betrayed you.

Maybe it was the alcohol lessening your ability to think. Maybe it was the tears still clinging to your lashes. Maybe it was the ache that had been sitting in your chest for weeks finally finding somewhere to go.

Your eyes fell shut.

Your shoulders sagged.

And slowly — so slowly it almost hurt — her lips finally coaxed yours open.

The rest of the world vanished.

A broken sound slipped from your throat as you began to kiss her back, shaky and uncertain but real. Your hands, which had been clenched at your sides, lifted on instinct, gripping the front of her jacket like you needed something solid to keep you standing. Riri’s breath hitched when she felt it, and she drew you closer, careful not to overwhelm you. The taste came into focus as your lips moved together — the root beer flavored chapstick she always wore, the faint sweetness of watermelon gum she must’ve chewed earlier, the salt of her tears mixing with your own. She held you like you were something irreplaceable — so delicate that your fingers curled against her wrist where her palm cupped your cheek.

Riri deepened the kiss further, and the center of gravity shifted. Her hands drifted down from your face, arms easing around your waist like she’d done a thousand times before. You reacted immediately, fingers clutching her collar again and tugging her closer. Riri melted against you as your arms traveled upward and snaked around her neck, one hand sliding into her braided ponytail.

The pain between you two didn’t vanish. But for a few fragile seconds, the world narrowed down to that brief, disorienting moment — the taste of tears and summer and ten years of shared history, the way her body fit against yours so perfectly just like it always had.

It was like lighting a fuse. A fire you didn’t know was waiting to explode.

All the anger, all the grief, all the questions — every ounce of it poured into that kiss.

A kiss that was everything Damon’s never were.

Damon.

And just like that, reality crashed back in.

You gasped and pulled away hard, lungs screaming for air.

Dazed. Flushed. Trembling.

Riri stood in front of you, blinking fast, her lips swollen and eyes wide with shock.

The porch felt too quiet. The music inside had faded into a muffled blur.

Neither of you said a word.

The silence was thick and heavy and suffocating.

Because now you knew.

And it didn’t make the betrayal easier.

It didn’t undo what happened.

But it changed everything.

And that was almost worse.

Because the way Riri looked at you in that moment?

✧.* HAPPY BIRTHDAY DOMINIQUE THORNE *ೃ༄

pairing: riri williams x black!fem!reader

warning: mention of blood and violence

a/n: making my official headcanon debut 🫶🏽

tag list: @inmyheadimobsessed @mitchesmoon @criaaturaa @roseamongroses @glimreaperss @mariquitaaa @riris-heart @impinkalicious @ashleighshaw @supersteel13 @chivgf @taethetomboy @lyfeofbilly @mrsudakuwilliams99

INDIVIDUAL

✷ riri started boxing at 15, not just for fitness but because it gave her a way to channel her intense emotions and restless energy into something constructive. her coach jokes that she hits like she’s “arguing with physics”.

✷ she always shows up to the gym in the same beat-up red hoodie (a gift she got from gary on her last birthday with him) — hood up, headphones in, expression locked. people joke it’s her “fight uniform” even when she’s not in the ring.

✷ music always comes first. riri won’t even lace up her gloves until her headphones are in. her playlist is a mix of chicago drill, kendrick, and old school motown—she says the contrast keeps her sharp.

✷ she tapes her hands with a level of precision that looks almost surgical — perfectly straight lines, no wrinkles. if someone interrupts her mid-wrap, she starts over completely.

✷ riri has a scar along her right eyebrow from catching a glove she didn’t see coming when she was 16. instead of hiding it, she wears it like a badge.

✷ when she shadowboxes, she mutters numbers under her breath — “one-two, one-two-three” — like she’s running equations in her head while throwing combos.

✷ her punches sound different from everyone else’s at the gym — sharper, cleaner, meaner. coaches call it “that crackle” when glove meets bag.

✷ she chews gum while sparring — part habit, part focus trick. when the gum loses flavor, she spits it out like a mini victory bell.

✷ she refuses to wear brand-new shoes in the ring until she’s broken them in with jump rope. “new shoes fight stiff. i don’t.”

✷ she never touches the speed bag without blasting music in her headphones. she times her rhythm perfectly with the beat, like she’s boxing in sync with the song.

✷ she hates cardio for cardio’s sake, but will run sprints until her legs give out if she’s in a bad mood.

✷ she sweats buckets during training, but hates showing weakness. if anyone comments on her exhaustion, she just shrugs: “i’m fine.”

✷ she drinks a ton of water, sometimes flavored with electrolytes. she won’t touch soda before a fight—too carbonated—but she’ll crush gatorade or pedialyte for hydration. protein shakes are also a staple.

✷ she avoids heavy, greasy foods before matches or training—says they make her sluggish and throw off her timing/performance. she prefers simple carb combos anyway. “i’m not tryna be weighed down while i’m swingin’.”

✷ riri isn’t a health saint, but she tries to eat clean and keep her diet orderly—mostly because she learned the hard way what she ate or drank before training could come back to bite her in the ass. her go-to pre-fight snack is a banana, half a protein bar, and water with lemon. but on cheat days or when there’s no practice? all bets are off.

✷ nine times out of ten she refuses to “pull punches” for anyone, even friends. “if you ask me to spar, i’m not babysitting you. don’t step in the ring unless you want the truth.”

✷ she ties her hair tighter before every fight. it’s almost superstitious—the ritual of re-braiding calms her nerves and makes her feel grounded.

✷ she always jumps rope before stepping into the ring. not just for warmup—it’s her way of syncing her rhythm, her breathing, and her mindset.

✷ despite being young, riri’s got a reputation for never underestimating an opponent. she’ll study their stance, their tells, and break them down like a math problem mid-match.

✷ right before a fight begins, she always bounces lightly on the balls of her feet — not flashy, just enough to stay loose and keep moving. it’s her way of psyching herself up and locking into focus.

✷ she has to tap her gloves together three times before the bell rings. no one knows why, not even her. she just has to.

✷ riri doesn’t look her opponents in the eye during the first round—she studies their shoulders and footwork instead. “eyes lie. feet don’t.”

✷ she’ll mutter calculations under her breath—“angle’s off, shift left, two-count jab”—like she’s debugging code mid-fight.

✷ she’s ruthless with her feints, often smirking when she sees her opponent flinch. the smirk alone has rattled more than one fighter.

✷ she talks shit mid-fight. not maliciously, but enough to get under her opponent’s skin. “that all you got?” is one of her go-to lines.

✷ once, she accidentally floored a partner during sparring. by the second round, she caught her with a clean uppercut that spilt the girl’s nose—blood everywhere. it became one of those whispered gym stories: “williams doesn’t hold back, even when she doesn’t mean to.”

✷ after a hard match, she’ll soak her hands in ice water while humming quietly to herself, almost like she’s rewiring her body back to calm.

✷ when she loses—which isn’t often—she gets quiet. no tantrums, no excuses. she just goes straight to the heavy bag the next morning and hits twice as hard without breaks.

✷ she has to re-watch every spar or match recording the same night, breaking it down like game film. “i don’t care if i won—i wanna know where i messed up.”

✷ on one hand? riri takes pride in her aura and loves that her presence in the gym carries weight. the way people stop to watch when she’s hitting the bag, the pressure her opponents feel before the first bell — she earned that with her hard work and talent.

✷ what bothers her is when the intimidation bleeds outside the ring. she never wants to be mistaken for a boxer who thrives on cruelty or the reason someone else feels small, especially fighters who are just trying to grow. she likes being respected, not feared.

✷ riri keeps a photo of her stepdad gary and best friend natalie tucked in her gym bag. no one at the gym knows — it’s her private ritual to look at it before every match.

✷ her fighting style is controlled chaos: technical, precise footwork layered with raw, explosive bursts. one coach said, “she fights like she’s got lightning bottled up and finally lets it out.”

MEETING YOU

✷ you spot her at a small south side chicago gym — red hand wraps, cornrows tucked neat, hoodie sleeves rolled up. the sound of her hammering the bag with quick, sharp punches echoes like thunder. she looks carved out of focus itself. it’s almost scary.

✷ you keep your distance at first, instantly clocking the way people glance at her with respect. she’s clearly that girl at the gym, the one no one wants to mess with. you think she looks intimidating, but also magnetic—focused, sweat glistening on her forehead, muttering calculations under her breath between combos.

✷ one time she catches you staring. without pausing her jabs, she says, “you need somethin’, rookie?” the nickname sticks before you’ve even earned it. you get flustered and stammer something about “just watching form,” which makes her smirk. “then keep watchin’. might learn somethin’.”

✷ on another visit, you accidentally drift too close to her bag. she cuts her eyes at you without even breaking stride. “you tryna get knocked out crowdin’ my space like that?” you force a nervous chuckle. “sorry, didn’t know this corner was claimed.” she rolls her shoulders loose, smirking like she owns the whole gym. “everything within arm’s reach of me is claimed baby. thought you’d catch on quicker.” heat rises in your cheeks. “right…my bad.”

✷ she has an aura that makes you straighten up every time she walks by. it doesn’t help that she always smells faintly like cocoa butter, citrus gatorade, and the leather of her gloves. you try to act unfazed, but your nervousness shows when you fumble wrapping your hands. riri leans against the wall nearby and drawls, “you plan on fightin’ with that weak-ass tape job?”

✷ riri notices you keep coming back to the gym. she watches you between rounds, pretending she’s not paying attention, but she definitely is. after days of her quiet side-eyes, she finally approaches you mid-workout. “you serious about learnin’? or you just here for the aesthetics? ’cause watching you on that bag is painful.” when you nervously admit you want to actually get better, she offers to help. “cool. first lesson: don’t get in your own head.”

✷ she fixes your stance — firm but careful as her hands brush your elbows, sliding down to reposition your wrists. you tense immediately at her touch. “relax,” she says softly. “i ain’t tryna kill you. yet.”

✷ she crouches slightly to tap at your knee with a taped fist. “feet apart. you look like you’re waitin’ in line at mcdonald’s, not squarin’ up.” still flustered at the contact, you blurt, “so you runnin’ the ring and the drive-thru now?” she looks smug as ever. “that’s right, happy meal.” your face burns at the nickname.

✷ when you still can’t quite find the right balance, she sets her hands lightly on your hips to shift them. your pulse skyrockets. you mumble, “this feels…awkward.” she grins. “good. if it feels awkward, you’re probably doin’ it right.”

✷ every time her hands graze your arms or shoulders to correct your form, you find yourself hyper-aware of her closeness, the heat radiating from her body. she notices your stiffness and chuckles. “why you all tense? it’s boxing, not prom night.”

✷ you begin training together regularly—her holding mitts, you throwing punches until your arms ache. when you groan about how much your shoulders burn, riri just smiles. “welcome to my world, rookie. no pain, no gain.”

✷ once trying to “be responsible”, you pounded almost a full liter of water before heading to the gym. when you started warming up on jump ropes, the sloshing in your stomach was so loud riri heard it. “yo, is that you or the ac unit?” you had to stop mid-workout, clutching your side. “this was a bad idea.” riri deadpans, “congrats rookie—you just drowned yourself.” she called you “dasani” for a week.

✷ you catch yourself admiring the way she moves in the ring—fluid, precise, like math in motion. she notices your staring again: “focus, rookie. i know i’m cute, but the bag’s not gonna punch itself.”

✷ she teases you constantly about your form, but never cruelly. you throw a sloppy jab, and she barks a laugh. “nah, that ain’t a punch — that’s you politely askin’ the bag for its number. c’mon, put some heat behind it.” embarrassed, you snap back, “maybe i don’t have as much fire as you.” eyes glinting, riri bumps her glove gently against your arm. “then borrow some of mine.”

✷ her banter makes the training sessions (and riri) feel less intimidating. slowly, you stop feeling like you’re under constant evaluation and more like you’re… partners.

✷ eventually she offers to spar. “i’ll go easy.” spoiler: she doesn’t. within two minutes, you’re on the mat, staring up at the ceiling while she looms over you. “told you to keep your guard up.” you groan, “you call that goin’ easy?” she deadpans, “if i didn’t, you’d be asleep right now.”

✷ every sparring session ends with you flat on your ass. but she always offers her glove to help you back up, teasing: “you punch like you’re tryna swat a mosquito.” “ten outta ten fall. elegant as hell.” “sheesh—you steppin’ like you dodgin’ roaches, not punches.” finally, you insist you want her to stop holding back. “if i’m gonna learn, i want the real thing.” riri raises an eyebrow. “…say less.”

✷ from then on, she treats you like a real opponent. you still get floored most of the time, but the rush of pushing her even a little further each match is addicting. your friends tease you about coming home with bruises, but secretly you don’t mind—it feels like proof you’re earning riri’s respect.

✷ one day, riri shows up to the gym before the sun even rises. by the time the doors open at 5 a.m., she’s already waiting outside, hood up, earbuds in. she doesn’t speak to anyone. just tapes her hands, slides on gloves, and goes at the heavy bag until sweat drips down her jawline. she stays locked in for hours, eyes unfocused—her punches quicker, heavier, louder than usual. it’s less training, more exorcism.

✷ when you arrive late morning, you see her shirt completely soaked through. the bag she’s working looks like it’s about to come off its chain. you immediately sense something’s off. her eyes are darker, her movements frantic rather than precise. you set down your bag and quietly suggest sparring to help her reset her focus. “c’mon, ri. work it out with me.” normally she’d smirk or tease you before a sparring session, but this time she just nods, jaw tight.

✷ the bell rings and riri comes at you like a storm—fast, aggressive, relentless. at first you think she’s just testing you, like usual. you try to keep up, adjusting like she’d taught you. but when she whips a strike at your head that you barely manage to dodge—feeling the air split just inches from your face—you realize she’s not pulling back at all today. no playful trash talk, no half-grins between combos—just silence and the snap of leather as her gloves smack against your guard with bone-shaking force.

✷ “riri—” you manage, stumbling back, “slow down—” she doesn’t. her body’s a live wire, all adrenaline and anger funneling through her fists. she ducks under your jab and rips a hook into your side, harder than she’d ever thrown at you before. the impact sends pain shooting up your ribs, knocking the wind out of you. you gasp, dropping to your knees on the mat.

✷ everything freezes. riri’s arms fall to her sides immediately, the rage in her face evaporating into wide-eyed horror. panic laces her words, “shit—rookie, i didn’t mean—are you okay? fuck, i’m so sorry!” she yanks her gloves off, dropping them carelessly to the floor as she kneels in front of you. her hands hover, shaking, like she’s terrified to touch you wrong. you cough, clutching your ribs, looking up at her. the pain and shock in your eyes makes her chest cave in. she stares back, devastated, her own breath coming out ragged. “i swear i wasn’t tryna hurt you. i wasn’t thinkin’ straight—today just got to me and…i lost it.”

✷ only after she confirms you’re okay—that you can breathe normal, that you aren’t cracked or broken—does she grab her bag with trembling hands. “i can’t—i shouldn’t be here. i shouldn’t—” her voice is thick, raw with emotion. she turns and bolts for the exit, desperate to leave before she loses control again.

✷ but you aren’t about to let her go like that. you rush after her, ignoring the ache in your ribs, and call her name. when she won’t stop, you catch her wrist gently just outside the door. to your surprise, she doesn’t pull away. she freezes, shoulders rigid, but there’s a crack of vulnerability in her eyes you’ve never seen before. “riri—hey, talk to me. what’s really going on?”

✷ her chest rises and falls rapidly, knuckles throbbing under the wraps. at first she shakes her head, muttering, “it’s nothing. i’m fine. just forget it.” you try to lighten the tension with a weak smile. “my ribs won’t let me forget it.” the attempt backfires instantly — riri’s face twists, guilt flashing raw across her features.

✷ you shake your head quickly. “hey, i’m not mad. i don’t hold it against you. you know why? ’cause i’ve been training with you long enough to know you wouldn’t come at me that hard on purpose unless something was wrong.” your voice softens, careful not to push too hard. “look… i know your style, riri. but we don’t always gotta let it out in the ring. sometimes we can just talk…if you want.”

✷ for a long moment, riri doesn’t move. then her shoulders sag, the fight draining out of her. she exhales shakily. “today makes five years. gary and nat—” her words choke off. you guide her to the bench outside the gym, sitting beside her in silence until she’s ready to continue. she tells you about gary, her stepdad who treated her like his own—and natalie, her best friend since childhood. both killed in a drive-by…right in front of her.

✷ “gary was the only father i ever knew. and nat…she was my only real friend growin’ up. they were my whole world.” her voice hitches, but she pushes through. “one minute we were just chillin’ in gary’s garage, laughin’, talkin’—and the next…they were gone. just like that.” she shakes her head, eyes glistening. “i didn’t know what to do with all that anger. at fourteen—fuck, it felt like it was gonna eat me alive. boxing was the only thing that kept me from self-destructing.” she swallows hard but keeps her chin high. “i just wanted to be strong enough so that if somethin’ like that ever happened again…i’d be ready. i could protect my people. wouldn’t have to lose anybody else i love.”

✷ without even thinking, you reach for her hand. she flinches at first, but then lets you hold it. the simple contact steadies her. she squeezes your hand once, like an anchor. for the first time, she’s not just your intimidating sparring partner — she’s a grieving girl who built her armor in the ring.

✷ that vulnerable moment shifts something between you two. after that day, she lets you in more outside of training. you start hanging around after sessions, sitting with her outside the gym while you both cool down, sipping gatorade. you text each other about random things—music, memes, movies—things that have nothing to do with boxing. on your walks home together, conversations flow easily. sometimes she tells you stories about gary teaching her how to fix cars, or natalie making her laugh until her stomach hurt. you notice how her voice softens when she says their names. it makes your chest ache.

✷ training together feels different now too—still intense, but with an undercurrent of trust. you know she won’t hurt you like that again. sometimes, mid-combo, you catch her watching you with something softer than amusement in her eyes.

✷ that day becomes a cornerstone in your connection—no longer just sparring partners, but something deeper. she never thanks you outright for stopping her outside the gym, but one night while unwrapping her hands, she murmurs, “guess i needed someone in my corner. didn’t know it’d be you.”

✷ once, you were rushing to get to the gym on time and accidentally forgot your water bottle. since then, riri starts bringing extras with her just in case. when you call her out, she shrugs. “relax. hydration’s important. don’t make it weird.” you roll your eyes and insist it was a one time mistake, but secretly love her awkward charm.

✷ when you wince from sore knuckles, she grabs your hand wordlessly, massaging it gently with her thumb. neither of you lets go immediately, and for a moment you catch a glimpse of her softer side.

✷ while you’re working the punching bag, some asshole walks by and makes a slick comment about you under his breath. before you can even react, riri’s eyes flash dangerously. “say that again and see what happens.” the guy shrugs it off, but you notice how he quickens his pace when he catches the way riri’s fists are clenched like she’s ready. you’d always known riri was intense, but that flash of protectiveness? it wasn’t about boxing. it was about you. something in your chest flutters. you realize just how much she has your back.

✷ a few days later, some idiot leaves water spilled in the ring without cleaning it up. in the middle of your footwork exchange, riri steps back, slips, and falls forward into you. you go down first, back hitting the canvas, and she catches herself with her palms braced on either side of your shoulders. for a heartbeat, neither of you move. her body hovers over yours, faces inches apart. you feel the heat of her chest above you, the brush of her breath on your cheek. her eyes flick down to your lips, just for a second. then she pushes herself back up and helps you to your feet. but her hand lingers on yours far longer than necessary. neither of you wants to let go first. when you finally do, it feels like something invisible snaps between you two.

✷ after weeks of sparring losses, you finally manage to slip one of her punches and jab her clean across the ribs. she freezes for a second, stunned. then a crooked grin spreads across her face. “okay, rookie. i see you.” you grin back, proud. “guess i finally graduated from mosquito-punches.” riri winces, rubbing the spot. “damn. you lucky i like you, ’cause otherwise that hit would’ve put you on my bad side.” the words slip out easy, then falter—like she realizes the weight behind them a second too late. you blink, surprised. “…like me?” she ducks her head, tugging her wraps loose a little too fast. “i meant like your progress. don’t gas yourself.” but the damage is done. you can’t stop smiling for the rest of the session.

✷ after that day, there’s another subtle shift between you—her corrections get softer, her teasing gentler, her gaze lingering longer.

✷ you notice she starts walking you home more often after late sessions, claiming it’s “just in case.” her protectiveness stops feeling like just gym camaraderie. it starts feeling… personal.

✷ one night—after she floors you again in sparring—you joke, “guess i’ll always be your rookie.” riri glances at you earnestly and says, “nah. you’re more than that.”

✷ she buys you new hand wraps in your favorite color and tosses them at you like it’s no big deal. “can’t have my rookie lookin’ ragged.” the way she says my rookie makes your heart skip a beat.

✷ when you land another solid hit on her during sparring, she laughs through the sting. “shit. remind me never to piss you off outside the ring.”

✷ during a cool-down stretch, your hands brush. she doesn’t pull away. neither do you.

✷ over time, riri starts letting you see the vulnerable side of her boxing — the nights she’s worn down, the pressure to prove herself, the fear of losing control. she jokes about bruises like they don’t matter, but one night confesses they’re the only way she knows she’s still standing, still surviving. they remind her she’s fighting ghosts as much as opponents, and how she can hear gary’s and natalie’s voices echo in her head: fight smart, not angry.

✷ boxing is the only thing that quiets her mind, but riri admits that quiet feels fragile — always one bad slip away from breaking, like the day she hurt you in sparring. “thing about bein’ in the ring? ain’t nobody else in there to blame. only i control the gloves, and if i lose that control — that’s on me. people think it’s just about winning, but if i don’t keep my head straight, if i make a mistake…somebody gets hurt. and that shit stays with me.” she goes quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on where her knee brushes yours on the steps. “crowd could be screamin’ my name, but at the end of the day it’s still just me under those lights. that kinda emptiness…it gets to me sometimes. but honestly? i’m more scared of who i’d be without that escape.”

✷ after that conversation, you show up to cheer riri on at her next boxing match. when she spots you in the stands during warmups, her eyes widen in surprise before softening with a flash of fondness. her trademark grin slips back into place, but you can tell just from that look how much it means to her that you came. later, when the ref raises her arm and declares her the winner, riri’s eyes find yours first — like the victory means more with you there to share it.

✷ after the match, riri pushes through the gym doors—still buzzing with leftover adrenaline—and immediately spots you waiting outside. she tries to play it cool walking over, but the goofy lopsided grin tugging at her mouth gives her away—like she’s caught off guard by her own happiness at seeing you. she aims for smooth. “hope you didn’t waste money on that ticket.” you smirk. “nah. worth every cent just to see you almost slip in round two.” she cracks, shoulders shaking with laughter. your smirk softens. “for real though, you were incredible out there. i can see why everybody stares when you’re in the ring. couldn’t take my eyes off you.” she ducks her head quick, biting her lip to keep from smiling too wide.

✷ riri slips her hands into her hoodie pocket (hiding the way her fingers fidget nervously) and glances back up at you. if you didn’t know any better, you’d almost say she looked shy. “i was thinkin’ about hittin’ white castle…you wanna roll with me?” you tilt your head, teasing. “white castle, huh? thought serious boxers like you lived off protein shakes and misery.” she rolls her eyes, bumping your shoulder. “yeah, well, even athletes need real food sometimes.”

✷ white castle turns out to be more fun than either of you expect—half jokes, half banter, all easy. the two of you take over a corner booth, talking and laughing until it feels like the world outside doesn’t exist. when riri isn’t looking, you snatch a slider off her tray. her jaw drops. “hell nah. i know you ain’t just steal from me.” you shrug, chewing smugly. “consider it a reflex test. honestly? i expected more from you, champ.” riri’s smile is a mix of exasperated amusement. “man, gimme that!” she reaches across the table but you lean back, holding the slider out of reach. “you really wanna go right now, rookie?” you grin so hard your cheeks ache around your mouthful. “please, all those hours in the gym and i still robbed you blind. took me less effort brushing crumbs off the table.” riri makes a noise of outrage and chucks a balled-up napkin at you. it bounces off your forehead and you recoil instantly, almost choking as you blurt, “ew—riri, that had ketchup on it!”

✷ riri laughs harder than she has in years, her stomach aching from it. the sound surprises even her. it’s the kind of laugh she hasn’t had since natalie, a joy so sharp it feels like rediscovering a part of herself she thought was long gone. for a second, she feels like the riri she used to be. and the way you make her laugh — the way you make her feel — is overwhelming in the best possible way.

✷ on the walk home, you notice riri’s quieter than you’ve almost ever seen her. at first, you wonder if you did something wrong. you try to break the silence with a joke, “okay, if this is about the slider, you can have one of mine next time—” but she stops under a streetlight so suddenly it startles you. fiddling with the hem of her sleeve, riri blurts out, “okay, i’m just gonna say it before i overthink it. i like you. not, like, sparring partner you—not ‘rookie’ you. you-you. so…yeah.”

✷ her words leave you stunned for a second before you turn fully toward her. in all the months you’ve known her—even watching her today in the ring—you’ve never seen her look like this: small, uncertain, almost afraid. there’s no fire, no confidence, just nerves written all over her face. riri williams—elite boxer who commands the ring and never flinches under a punch—won’t even meet your eyes. when she finally speaks, it’s with forced calm that doesn’t fool either of you. “if you don’t feel the same, it’s fine. i can live with that. doesn’t gotta mess with what we got at the gym. just…please don’t hold it against me, alright? i don’t wanna lose this. i don’t wanna lose you...”

✷ for the first time since you’ve met, there’s something close to fear in her eyes. not fear of a fight, but fear of being vulnerable. you know you should tread lightly, but the smirk pulling at your mouth won’t let you. you let the silence stretch for a beat before closing the distance, voice low and sly. “don’t tell me you’re scared, williams. i’m supposed to be the rookie, remember?” she bristles automatically. “what? nah—” but her eyes flicker, betraying her uncertainty. you don’t give her a chance to backpedal.

✷ boldness carries your hand into hers, fingers interlacing easily. riri’s grip tightens almost at once. her eyes dart up to meet yours, glassy and shining with something fragile, something real. you take a step closer, your chest nearly brushing hers. her breath ghosts across your cheek, and for a moment neither of you moves, both waiting for the other to cross that last inch. your voice comes out velvet smooth. “can i kiss you?” riri’s breathless response is instant. “fuck yeah.” the space between you disappears like it was never there. you both lean in at the same time, lips crashing together in a way that starts tender but thrums with heat underneath, every second daring the other not to pull back. the kiss is fierce and hungry, like all the tension between you two has finally combusted at once. it feels less like a choice and more like gravity.

✷ you both pull back just slightly, foreheads touching, noses brushing. riri exhales a shaky laugh, still catching her breath. “damn…now that’s the kind of cardio i can get with.” you burst into laughter, your smile giggling against her lips.

Riri Williams in the finale of Ironheart (2025)

pairing: shuri udaku x riri williams

word count: 5.4k

summary: from the moment they met, sixteen year old shuri udaku and riri williams hated each other. but when a night of reckless underage drinking spirals out of control, the bitter girls are thrust into a situation where putting aside their differences might be the only way to escape serious trouble.

contains: violence, underage drinking, teenage girls being messy asf

a/n: tried something new to ✨hopefully✨ get me over this annoying ass writers block 🙏🏽 don’t worry, i haven’t forgotten my other fics. i promise they’ll be updated soon. for now, here’s some petty teenage drama to keep y’all entertained ;)

tag list: @inmyheadimobsessed @mitchesmoon @criaaturaa @roseamongroses @glimreaperss @mariquitaaa @riris-heart @impinkalicious @supersteel13 @ashleighshaw

i.

The music was already shaking the walls as Riri Williams gripped another red solo cup, nearly empty, and chugged its contents with practiced ease. The taste was foul, bitter with flat carbonation, but the crowd around her made it worth every second. They whooped and hollered as she stood balanced on one leg atop a rickety wooden stool, her other leg bent sharply at the knee. Her hand remained steady as she tipped her head back and drained the last of the warm beer. She tossed it aside with a flourish, smirking at the sound of it clattering against the patio concrete.

The boy who had challenged her—some white kid from the North Side with too much confidence and not enough coordination—wobbled on his own stool before toppling forward. He landed on the ground with a curse, soaking his shirt with spilled beer. The roar that erupted from the back porch was deafening.

“Riri wins again!”

“South Side champ, let’s go!”

She raised her arms in triumph, laughing as her best friend Natalie walked up beside her, clapping and cheering.

“Six in a row! Girl, you’re on fire!” Natalie crowed, brushing her microbraids from her face.

Riri threw her head back and smiled wide — the kind of wicked grin that dared anyone else to step up and take her on. Her cornrows were twisted back into two low buns, her cheeks warm from the rush of alcohol and adrenaline. The victory felt good. Summer was almost over, and school would be starting back up in just a few days. But tonight was about nothing but reckless teenage fun.

Before Riri could toss back a smart response, her eyes snagged on something—someone—who’d just stepped out onto the back porch a couple feet away. Her smile faltered for the briefest second—then widened into something sharper, meaner, almost predatory. Because standing just outside the sliding glass doors was a person she hadn’t expected to see here in a million years.

Shuri Udaku.

Perfect, pristine, untouchable Shuri Udaku.

Even in the half-light of the patio bulbs, Riri knew that face instantly. Could’ve picked it out in a crowd twice as thick. Those braids pulled perfectly back, that sharp chin lifted just a little too high, that same air of entitlement Riri remembered all too well. She was dressed down compared to the photos Riri had seen of her online or in the background of pop up news ads — no silk gowns or glittering jewelry, but even in jeans and a fitted top she screamed money. Old money. Family money.

Riri’s eyes slid past Shuri to the girl at her shoulder — Nakia. She knew her by sight, had caught glimpses of her at a couple parties before. The kind where music shook the neighborhood and nobody cared what your last name was. Unlike the rest of Shuri’s polished circle, Nakia had always struck Riri as easygoing — more comfortable with a beer bottle at a block party than a champagne glass at some uptown gala. She had a year on them and was dating Shuri’s older brother T’Challa (which carried its own kind of weight). But even with her renowned social status, Nakia was laid-back, down to earth, and never acted like she was above anybody. If Shuri was here tonight, dripping in arrogance and superiority, Riri figured it was only because Nakia had talked her into coming.

The thought made her smirk curve deeper. The heiress was clearly out of her element, and Riri could already smell the chance to knock her down a peg.

Again.

Shuri stood there like she was slumming it, like she’d just wandered out of a different galaxy and wasn’t sure she wanted to stay. And the kicker? She recognized Riri too. She knew her. The flicker of distaste that crossed her face the moment their eyes locked made that obvious.

Riri hopped down from the stool, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and ignoring Natalie’s muttered, “Uh oh.” Her saunter towards Shuri was slow and unhurried, hips loose, a challenge in every step as she crossed the patio with the crowd’s attention still hot on her back. Natalie trailed behind her, already frowning because she remembered what happened the last time these two had crossed paths.

Shuri’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t retreat. She moved with purpose, each step calculated, her poise unbroken. She descended the last porch step and onto the patio, letting the crowd’s chatter hush just slightly in her wake. As always, she carried herself like she owned the space, an aura of command that came as naturally as breathing. Taller than Riri by a few inches, she used that height, straightening just enough to remind anyone watching of the difference. That kind of confidence didn’t come from winning dumb drinking games on back porches; it came from knowing your last name was stamped on the world’s biggest tech empire.

But Riri wasn’t impressed. Never had been. And what she lacked in inches, she more than made up for in attitude. The two teens stopped directly in front of each other — barely a foot of space between them. Natalie stood close at Riri’s back, expression wary but loyal, while Nakia shadowed Shuri, clearly ready to step in if things turned sour.

Riri tilted her head, dark eyes locking onto Shuri’s with an expression equal parts smug and taunting.

“Well, look who it is.” she drawled, letting the words drip with mocking familiarity. Slow, low, and dangerous.

The tension was immediate, a wall of static between them. Shuri’s eyes narrowed further, but she said nothing yet. The noise of the party seemed to fade, replaced by a thick, electric silence. Everyone on the porch felt it, though most pretended not to notice, sipping their drinks and sneaking glances.

Because this wasn’t their first meeting.

Not even close.

The memory of the last time they’d stood face-to-face flashed between them, unspoken.

ii.

Late June, Over A Month Ago

The roller rink was always crowded on summer nights, its neon lights buzzing faintly overhead, the floor alive with the hum of rolling wheels and old-school hip-hop beats bouncing from the speakers. Riri loved it here — it was one of the few places where she could relax, mess around with Natalie and her younger brother Xavier, and not think too hard about life waiting for her outside.

That night, she was laughing at something Xavier had said, gliding backward toward the concessions stand to grab a refill. Her focus was half on the joke, half on not spilling the soda in her cup. She glanced over her shoulder once, saw a space clear behind her, and drifted.

She didn’t see the other girl.

The bump was modest. Not hard, but enough that her soda sloshed over the rim slightly and left faint drops across the fabric of the girl’s blouse.

“My bad,” Riri said quickly, turning around, voice casual but genuine.

The girl spun, eyes blazing.

“Watch where you’re going!” she snapped. Her accent was crisp, aristocratic, every syllable sharp as glass.

She had that kind of striking, almost regal beauty that made Riri pause without meaning to — the kind of prettiness that made other girls straighten their spine without knowing why. Sculptured cheekbones lit up under the neon, perfect braids beveled against her skull like a crown, eyes that could have sold diamonds. Her posture screamed self-possession. The two girls flanking her, both tall and athletic, reached out like synchronized swimmers to steady her.

“Chill, princess. It was an accident,” Riri replied, making sure her voice didn’t bend into shrinking. She glanced at the blouse. Designer. Expensive. A shade of a violet so rich it made the arcade glow look cheap. There were a few dots, tiny constellations, barely staining the fabric. “It’s not even noticeable.”

The girl’s gaze sharpened. “This top is Hanifa.”

Riri squinted at her. “Okay?” Then she tilted her chin, the corner of her mouth quirking. “So what’s the problem? You’re loaded. Just buy another one. Or is your allowance runnin’ short this week?” She took another sip of soda, deliberately casual.

A flicker crossed the girl’s face — offense, then something like boredom squeezing the offense to a smaller size. She muttered to her friends in Xhosa, melodic and quick — “Liqaqa eli,” (riff-raff) — and both of them broke into uncharitable laughter.

Riri didn’t understand the language, but she caught the tone—dismissive, superior. She slid her tongue against her upper teeth to keep a reply from breaking out too hot.

The girl shot one last look, the kind that said “I am choosing to be done with this”, then pushed off, gliding with the frictionless elegance of someone who moved through life like the floor was tilted in their favor. Her entourage followed, interlacing their fingers as they skated away.

“Who the hell was that?” Natalie breathed, stepping into the vacuum left by their departure.

“Shuri Udaku,” Xavier said knowingly, because of course he would know. “Her family owns like half the tech in the country. Maybe the world. They got that campus near the lake, the one that looks like it landed from space.”

Riri rolled her eyes. “And?” She crinkled her cup and took another sip. The soda had that syrupy bite that left a cold sting behind her nose.

“And nothing,” Xavier said. “Just… be nice. Rich people got security like the Secret Service.”

Natalie snorted. “If security was gonna roll up on anybody, it would’ve been at the entrance when you tried to sneak in with those expired coupons.”

They laughed, and the heat in Riri’s chest unwound. The insult slid to the back shelf of her mind, right next to other stupid stares and comments that didn’t get to live rent-free. She wasn’t going to let some uptown rich bitch with a princess complex ruin her night.

Hours later, after returning their skates, Riri and the Washington siblings were sitting on a bench lacing up their sneakers. A few feet away, Aneka—one of Shuri’s friends who looked like she could bench press somebody’s boyfriend—bent over to re-tie one of her skates. Her purse sat open next to her. She checked something inside, frowned, patted around, then tipped the bag and rummaged. Her frown deepened.

“My phone,” Aneka muttered, loud enough for the words to carry. She checked under the bench, then again in her bag. Nothing.

Ayo skated up, brows pinched as she crouched down beside her girlfriend. “It’s not in there?”

“I put it in the side pocket,” Aneka said, frustrated. “It’s gone.”

At the same moment, Riri stood up, slinging her worn tote over her shoulder, ready to head out with Natalie and Xavier. They’d gotten their shoes back on and were already moving toward the exit.

Until a commanding voice cracked behind them, slicing through the air.

“You! Stop.”

Riri froze mid-step. She didn’t even have to turn around to know who it belonged to. Shuri Udaku. Her stomach twisted, not from guilt but from the sour memory of their earlier clash.

She whipped around, scowling. “The hell you talkin’ to?”

“You,” Shuri said, posture stiff and eyes narrowed. She glided toward the trio, wheels hissing quietly against the floor. Her gaze flicked down, not so subtly, toward the opening of Riri’s bag before snapping back to her face.

“My friend’s phone is missing,” Shuri said evenly.

Riri’s eyes drifted past her, catching sight of Ayo and Aneka still searching around the bench. She snorted, flat. “Sucks for her.”

“You were closest to her bag when it went missing,” Shuri continued, authoritative. “Open yours. Just to rule it out.”

For a second Riri just stared, incredulous at Shuri’s audacity.

Her mouth fell open. “Are you freakin’ serious right now?”

“I am serious,” Shuri stated, calm, precise, clinical. “You were closest. You had the most time in reach. It is the most obvious conclusion.“

Riri’s chest heated instantly, disbelief bleeding into fury. “You really just accuse me of stealing?”

“I did not accuse,” Shuri replied coolly. “I laid out the sequence. You were there. The phone was there. Now it isn’t. Any logical person would suspect the same.”

Before Riri could clap back, Natalie stepped forward, eyes fierce. “Suspect? Girl, cut the crap. You rolled up here on your high horse already convinced she was a thief, just too stuck-up to say it out loud.”

Shuri ignored her completely.

Her expression remained cold and unyielding. “If I am wrong, I will apologize.”

“If you’re wrong?” Riri shot back. “Miss me with that fake-ass politeness. You didn’t come to ask—you came to point fingers.”

Natalie stepped in close, her glare fixed hard on Shuri as her hand brushed Riri’s arm—a quiet reminder to hold it together before she lost it herself. Xavier mirrored her, angling his body between Riri and Shuri just slightly, a shield if things got ugly.

But Ayo and Aneka had come over now, closing ranks just behind Shuri. Shoulders squared, eyes hard, they radiated a quiet menace that would’ve made most people back down. Riri caught it, felt the weight of it pressing, and still refused to give an inch.

“You know what this feels like?” she laughed, bitter and humorless. “Feels like you decided the easiest answer is me. Because I don’t look like you. Because I’m not walking around in designer clothes with two bodyguards. Because—”

“That is not what this is,” Shuri snapped, color rising in her cheeks. “This is logic. That is all.”

Riri scoffed. “Logic, huh? You sure it’s not just your ego talking?”

The words landed. Shuri stiffened, eyes narrowing further. “You are wasting everyone’s time. If you have nothing to hide, then why—”

“Because I don’t owe you a damn thing!” Riri shouted, taking an angry step closer.

A ripple of whispers stirred from the nearby crowd. Teenagers had started to circle, sensing the tension. Phones lifted discreetly, recording.

Shuri’s heart beat faster. She hated the eyes, hated losing control of the narrative. She told herself she was doing this for Aneka, but some small, buried part of her knew she didn’t like being challenged—especially not by this girl who met her stare without flinching.

“I am trying to be fair,” Shuri said, her voice clipped. “You are the only variable that makes sense. Refusing only makes you look guilty.”

“Hell no,” Riri shook her head, furious. “You don’t get to put me on trial ‘cause your friend can’t keep track of her phone. My bag’s staying closed.”

“Then perhaps the manager,” Shuri said, nodding toward the office. “We can settle it properly.”

The way she said it—polite, composed—only poured more fuel on Riri’s fire. Like Shuri was doing her a favor, like she was so damn reasonable.

Riri’s temper broke. “Man, you got some nerve—you don’t know me, princess. I didn’t steal shit! Let’s be real—you slapped a label on me the second I messed up that overpriced napkin you call a shirt, and now your bougie ass is just itching to paint me as a criminal.”

Shuri’s jaw flexed, her tone turning harsh. “You spill drinks. You shove people. You snap at strangers. Why should I assume your behavior suddenly improves when no one is watching? Uncouth conduct tends to be consistent.”

The insult cut through her, clean and cruel. A couple kids near the benches stifled laughter.

Riri’s lip curled. “Uncouth? Girl, you talk like a textbook nobody wants to read. Keep throwin’ them syllables around ‘cause I know you ain’t brave enough to throw hands.”

There was a low, obnoxious chorus of “ooohs” but neither girl so much as blinked. They might as well have been alone.

Natalie edged a subtle step ahead of Riri while Xavier shifted his weight again, attempting to create a thicker wall of space between the two groups. Meanwhile, Aneka shifted closer to Shuri, eyes sharp, body angled protectively. Ayo stood like steel on her other side, arms lifted slightly, her stance a quiet warning.

But Shuri merely tilted her head, a portrait of unbothered indifference.

“Resorting to violence so quickly? How primitive. Some of us were taught better — how to settle disputes without raising our fists. But clearly no one ever bothered teaching you that, did they?”

Riri’s nostrils flared. “And clearly no one ever bothered teaching you how to be a decent human being. I’m too busy living out in the real world while you’re nothing but a spoiled brat dressin’ up condescension as character.”

“And you’re nothing but noise,” Shuri returned, her words laced with ice. “You think crude insults make you sound clever. They only remind everyone you have no class. But then, I suppose manners are harder to come by when you never had them to begin with.”

That one stung — class wasn’t just about money. It was about how the words made the crowd look at her. Riri’s eyes burned, her voice rising hot.

“Class?” she spat, raw and vicious. She stepped even closer until there was barely a hand’s span between them. “Girl, you wouldn’t know substance if it snatched that fake-ass crown off your head. You hide behind big words and a last name, and you still ain’t shit without either.”

The crowd gave a low collective gasp, the kind that meant phones were definitely up now, recording every second. Shuri didn’t flinch, but the way her breath hitched just slightly betrayed the hit. For Riri, that was enough — a win, even if only for a second.

“Ri,” Natalie’s voice broke through the tense silence, sharp and urgent. She grabbed Riri’s arm, tugging her back. “Come on. Not worth it.”

“Let’s bounce, sis,” Xavier added, his hand closing around Riri’s shoulder, pulling her subtly toward the exit. His voice was steady, but his eyes never left Ayo and Aneka, who were glaring daggers over Shuri’s shoulders.

Riri huffed through her nose, heat still rolling through her chest, but let Natalie and Xavier coax her back. She was fuming, her pulse pounding, but walking away was at least better than giving Shuri another reason to look down on her.

But Shuri couldn’t leave it. Her pride was stung too deep, her certainty in Riri’s guilt gnawing at her like teeth. Acting without thought wasn’t like her — rare, reckless, beneath the control she prided herself on.

And yet — in a surge of heedless impulse — she reached out and snatched at the strap of Riri’s bag as the girl turned.

The tug jerked Riri sideways. She froze for half a second, shock flashing across her face before pure rage boiled over. Her blood surged hot, adrenaline crashing through her veins.

“Get off me, bitch!”

She whirled around, eyes hard as steel, and shoved Shuri back with all her strength.

Shuri—on wheels—never stood a chance. She completely lost her balance as her body catapulted backwards. She staggered—arms flailing before her skates slid out from under her and she crashed down hard to the floor. The slap of her palms and the crack of her hip echoed sharp, followed by the sick thud of her head hitting the ground. Her bracelet snapped on impact, beads flying everywhere like spilled marbles, rolling under the skates of gawking onlookers. Her purse spilled open, its contents—lip balm, cellphone, money clip—skidding in different directions.

Shuri’s hand instantly flew to the back of her skull, pain tightening her features into a grimace. And for just a flicker of a moment, Riri’s stomach dropped. For half a second, her rage faltered—something fleeting, almost regretful, flashing through her chest. But the anger burned hotter, smothering it entirely.

Aneka was the first to move, skates slicing across the floor as she dropped to her side. “Shuri!”

But Ayo didn’t hesitate, already in motion.

She barreled into Riri, shoulder driving into her gut with bone-jarring force. Ayo moved quicker in skates than most people do in sneakers, tackling Riri straight off her feet. They landed hard, the crack of impact echoing throughout the rink. Air punched out of Riri’s chest as her back smacked the slick ground. Pain shot up her spine—leaving her gasping, breathless.

The crowd lost it—screaming, jumping, phones snapping up higher, all angling for a better shot.

“RI!” Natalie shrieked, throwing herself at Ayo’s back and trying to tear her off.

Xavier jumped in too, attempting to pry the older girl’s arms away from where they pinned Riri’s shoulders. But Ayo was strong, her grip iron-tight. Neither sibling could move her.

Desperate, Natalie grabbed a fistful of Ayo’s ponytail and yanked. Hard.

Ayo let out a sharp sound, twisting around in rage. She spun, fist raised, no longer looking at Riri—only Natalie. But before the punch could land, Xavier jumped in front of his sister.

The fist connected with his jaw instead. The crack snapped through the air. Xavier staggered, a bruise already blooming dark beneath his skin.

“XA!” Natalie cried, catching him as he crumpled to the floor.

Teeth clenched, Riri—seeing Ayo’s back turned now—hauled herself off the floor and lunged. She slammed into Ayo, sending her stumbling forward in her skates. Ayo lost her footing and went down, Riri crashing on top of her.

But Aneka was there in an instant. She rose from Shuri’s side and yanked Riri off her girlfriend like she weighed nothing. Lifting her clean into the air, Aneka hurled her aside with a force that sent Riri sliding across the floor.

The rink was in utter chaos—laughter, shouting, chants, and cheers all mixed together. Dozens of phones hovered now, filming, snapping, immortalizing every second.

Aneka’s focus was locked solely on Ayo now, rushing to help her up. She didn’t even notice where she’d tossed Riri.

Riri’s body skidded, rolling—straight into Shuri, who had just managed to get halfway upright. The collision knocked her off balance again. She slipped on her skates and crashed back down with a cry, Riri landing partly on top of her.

“GET OFF ME YOU LOWLIFE!” Shuri screamed, shoving furiously at her.

“WHO THE FUCK YOU CALLIN’ A LOWLIFE?!” Riri yelled back, forcing her weight down harder.

For five hot seconds the two of them scrapped on the ground, the fight raw and graceless. Shuri tried to sit up beneath Riri’s weight, shoving hard at her shoulder. In the motion her elbow swung wide and cracked against the side of Riri’s head. The sharp pain made Riri’s vision spark white for a second.

Snarling, Riri’s hand shot into Shuri’s braids and yanked hard. Shuri shrieked, the sound sharp and panicked, before Riri dragged her roughly back down and slammed her head against the ground.

Riri dug a knee into Shuri’s stomach, pinning her flat against the floor. A loud, pained noise escaped Shuri’s throat as her body curled against the pressure. Riri pulled back, winding to land a blow, but Shuri’s hands shot up—gripping her arm and wrist—holding on tight to force even an inch of distance. With a growl, Riri wrenched one of her palms free and smashed Shuri’s face, trying to gain leverage. But Shuri thrashed wildly beneath her—legs kicking, arms flailing—and swiped blindly in defense. Her nails raked across Riri’s face, one manicured claw catching her right in the eye.

Riri hissed, the sting immediate, her eye watering as she flinched back. The sudden recoil eased the pressure of her knee just enough for Shuri to buck her hips and swing her legs up, pitching Riri off balance. The wheels of her skates drove hard into Riri’s side, knocking the breath out of her and sending her sprawling off.

Riri scrambled upright and lunged forward again—teeth bared in rage, hands curled into fists.

But the Washingtons were on her in an instant.

Natalie caught her arm in both hands, bracing all her weight back, while Xavier—jaw bruised and lip split—hooked his long arms around her shoulders. Together, they pulled her back, straining to keep her from breaking free.

“Enough!” Natalie shouted, her voice breaking as she dug her heels into the floor. “Let’s go, Ri!”

Ayo and Aneka rushed to Shuri, glaring at Riri with pure venom.

Riri was still thrashing against their grip, chest heaving, eyes locked on Shuri like she was dying for round two—until the sharp slam of a door cut through the noise. A security guard burst out of his office, striding fast in their direction.

Only then did Riri stop struggling, jerking herself out of her friends’ hold and rushing to scoop up her fallen tote. Natalie scrambled for her purse, and Xavier wiped the blood at the corner of his mouth. They bolted for the exit—quick—before things could spiral even further. By the time the security guard arrived, they were already gone out the door.

Shuri staggered upright between Ayo and Aneka—breaths ragged, head pounding, shattered pride burning hot beneath her skin. Her braids, once neat and sleek, now hung wild where Riri’s fingers had torn through them. The weight of humiliation suffocated her—being dragged to the floor, pinned, and manhandled in front of everyone. Phones recording. Fingers pointing. Laughter screaming in her ears.

She hated the way her body ached—hated how her hip was still sore from the first fall, hated how raw her scalp felt from Riri’s violent grip, hated how her stomach throbbed from the knee driven into her ribs. But most of all, she hated Riri Williams—the girl who had stripped away her composure, robbed her dignity, and stole every ounce of control Shuri had carefully cultivated for the past sixteen years.

As they sprinted outside into the parking lot, Riri’s pulse raced—sneakers pounding against the pavement, fury still hot in her veins. Her eye burned as the hot night air slapped her face, the sting of manicured nails refusing to fade. Her temple throbbed where Shuri’s elbow had cracked against her skull, paired with the sharp ache in her back from being body slammed to the floor.

The chaos replayed in her head—the snatch, the shove, the crash of bodies, the crowd screaming with glee as every phone turned on them, capturing the whole brawl on camera. It should’ve fueled her fire, should’ve left her laughing and overjoyed at the heiress’s documented downfall.

But it didn’t.

Because underneath the fire sat something heavier. A gnawing, bitter realization she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Shuri’s words cut back through the haze: uncouth, primitive, crude, classless.

And after all of it—the insults, the fighting, the mess she’d left behind—Riri couldn’t escape the nauseating truth rotting inside her chest.

She’d just proven her right.

And for that, she hated Shuri Udaku—the girl who made her feel smaller than she ever had before, ripped her apart in a place that used to feel like home, and exposed every raw, ugly part of herself that Riri fought to keep hidden.

iii.

Present Day

Neither girl had ever forgotten that night. The bruises had faded, but the memory never did. In the quiet hours between sleep and waking, both of them still carried it: the roller rink lights glaring down, the sound of laughter ringing too sharp in their ears, the sting of hair yanked and elbows thrown, the phantom feel of their bodies pressed together, limbs tangled on the floor. Neither of them admitted it aloud, not even to their closest friends, but they both knew.

They hadn’t seen the last of each other.

In the back of their minds, they wondered with dread — and maybe a twisted kind of anticipation — when their paths would cross again. Even now — here on the back porch with music rattling faintly from inside and the warm Chicago night sticking to their skin — it still caught them off guard. They’d half expected this moment, half braced for it, but expectation didn’t soften the impact. Every day since that night, the anger sat heavy in their chests, calcifying into bitter resentment. And now, face to face once more, it all surged back like it had never left.

Riri’s smirk spread, sly and goading. “You look outta place, princess. Bet this is the first party you’ve ever been to where people didn’t kiss your ass just for showing up.”

A flicker passed across Shuri’s face, a shadow of irritation before her composure locked back into place. She gave a low laugh, soft but cruel, tilting her head just enough to let the sound carry. “At least I go to parties worth remembering. Sticky floors and smelly beer sound more like a punishment than a night out. Though I suppose someone has to keep the bottom-shelf businesses afloat.”

The jab made Riri’s chest prickle, but she masked it with a raised brow, hiding the flare of heat in her stomach. This was her space. Her people. She wasn’t about to let Shuri see her flinch.

“And yet, you’re here.” Riri shot back, her voice mocking, “So why don’t you show everyone you’re more than just a last name?”

Before Shuri could answer, Riri leaned into the moment, cockiness spilling free from the six consecutive wins still warm in her blood. Her smirk widened, wicked, daring. “Next round. You and me. Unless sippin’ tea on Daddy’s credit card is more your speed—‘cause this beer might be too real for someone who only knows how to stunt.”

The crowd stirred immediately—excited murmurs, low whistles, the buzz of anticipation crackling in the air.

For the briefest flicker, logic tried to root itself in Shuri’s mind. She wasn’t a drinker—barely tolerated a sip of champagne at family gatherings. She should have walked away. Should have let Riri bask in her hollow victory. But the sting of humiliation from their first meeting was still fresh. And the smirk on Riri’s face—so smug, so sure, practically daring her to back down ignited something hot and stubborn in her chest. Rationality slipped away, recklessness taking its place.

“I accept,” Shuri announced, icy confidence coating every syllable.

Nakia’s head snapped toward her in disbelief, but Riri’s smile just widened, triumphant. “Taking off the training wheels, huh?” Her voice dripped with self-satisfaction. “Didn’t think you had it in you, princess.”

Shuri bristled as Riri threw a look back over her shoulder at the crowd. “New game!”

The back porch erupted.

Riri hopped down and moved toward the stools, Natalie trailing with an encouraging grin. Shuri stormed after her, heels striking the ground with sharp precision. A stool lay tipped on its side from the last round, and she grabbed it, slamming it upright harder than necessary. She stepped forward, shoulders rigid, braids swinging sharp against her back.

Nakia was right behind her, steady but insistent. “Shuri,” Her voice cut under the noise, soft but firm. “Don’t do this.”

Shuri’s head whipped toward her, eyes hot. “What? You don’t think I can beat her?”

“That’s not what I said,” Nakia countered, shaking her head. “But these games get intense, and you don’t have much experience. You’re clever, but this isn’t cleverness. It’s alcohol. It doesn’t care who’s smarter. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

The words should have convinced her. Shuri knew Nakia was right—she was inexperienced. She barely touched alcohol. Her body wasn’t trained for it, and downing whole cups of cheap booze perched on a stool was far from wise. But wisdom had no place here. Not with the sound of her name being chanted by strangers who would never let her live down a retreat. Not with Riri smiling at her like she’d already won. In the end, pride roared louder than reason.

“I’ll be fine,” Shuri snapped, dismissing Nakia’s warning.

The older girl muttered something sharp under her breath in Xhosa but braced the stool anyway, one begrudging hand steady on the wood. Ignoring the sting of doubt in her own chest, Shuri gripped Nakia’s other hand and aggressively climbed up, planting her suede ankle boots like she was taking a throne.

Across from them, Natalie was already hyping Riri up, steadying her by the elbow as she clambered onto her own stool. Riri planted her Jordans, loose and cocky, her smile dripping with arrogance.

The two of them balanced high above the crowd, cups waiting to be filled. The chants grew louder, the heat of the party pressing in from all sides, but neither seemed to notice in the midst of their silent stare down.

Shuri’s eyes locked on Riri’s with fierce determination, hellbent on wiping that smug grin off her face.

Riri glared right back, jaw set, ready to drag the heiress down in front of everyone.

Their gazes clashed like flint and steel, sparks leaping invisible between them.

Can't wait for the next installment. 💫