Fucking Song.

Pax breaks the candy in his teeth when fucking vanilla and caramel quite literally suffocate him—did she fucking roll over it this morning or something? He's choking with it, Christ.

As if that's not enough to announce Her Royal Fucking Highness' arrival, the click of her shoes is loud as she walks down the steps, past his row, and fuck. Did this bitch take etiquette lessons, walked around with a book on her massive head in fucking heels?

She's wearing fucking blue today.

A blue he hasn't seen before—of course he hasn't. Her wardrobe is ever-changing and meticulous and in their four years in university, the princess has never repeated a fucking outfit.

Today, Pax can see the pale as shit skin under that smallass jacket with two fucking buttons and her longass legs from thighs to feet beneath that insulting triangle she's calling a skirt. Pax clenches his teeth when his fingers twitch on the table. Fucking baby oil skin or some shit. Like every morning, he wonders what it looks like red and fucking sore.

He pushes his candy to the side of his cheek and watches her smile at the dogs who greet her good morning. Everything about her is fucking loud, but not her voice.

When she opens her mouth, lips shaded this fucking pink color that blinds him, and she smiles, like she always does no matter who she's talking to, and she says, "Morning," it's soft and fucking annoying and always sickly sweet.

He's wrong. Her voice is goddamn loud, too.

Would she be loud when he—

Pax watches her put down her designer bag beside her—never on the floor, Jesus—and takes out her five fucking double-sided highlighters in different colors and her uselessly massive six-subject notebook.

Who even fucking highlights and annotates textbooks and notes anymore? Fucking Song, that's who.

Even her hair is curled and made to perfection. Pax sneers. Always calm, collected, sweet, perfect. It disgusts the shit out of him.

He hears a dreamy sigh to his left and Pax's candy breaks even more.

Aaron raises an eyebrow at his look, his chin propped on his fist, fucking watching her. "Oh, quit looking angry, Pax. My morning is heavenly as shit, don't ruin it."

Because of her? He scoffs lowly, leans back in his seat and spreads his legs.

"Like you're any different," his friend says with a grin. "You wanna kiss her, too. You wanna know what the fuss is all about."

It's a waste of fucking breath to respond to him.

Pax wants to do more than fucking kiss her, he wants to ruin her, wants to see her pretty little mouth doing other things than smiling, wants to see her hair messed up all over his pillows, wants to fucking rip her designer clothes off, tear them open.

Wants to see her lose her fucking control.

Pax waits for her to turn to him like she always does every morning, and she might smile at everyone—but not him.

He fucking loves it.

Loves her lips turning down when her uselessly big eyes meet his. Loves the look of annoyance and irritation in them as she walks past him with her perfect posture and perfect legs, and he chokes on fucking vanilla and caramel again.

Pax turns his head slowly to watch her ass in that skirt, and when her dog of a boyfriend comes into view outside the door, she smiles at him and takes his hand, and they walk out together, and Pax knows the little shit with his fucking smug smile isn't what she needs or wants.

He's right. Of course he fucking is, and he can't help the tilt of a smirk in his mouth when he rounds the corner after lacrosse practice, and there she is. Little good girl and her dog facing each other, and the dickshit looks like he's trying fucking hard to be in control of the situation just because he's larger than her.

It doesn't fucking work and he looks pathetic, Pax almost laughs out loud.

"You're breaking up with me," Song says slowly, and her voice is so goddamn soft but it's loud and confident in his ears. She's standing in her perfect posture and she screams fucking control. It's so goddamn hot. "That's what you said in the text. Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm tired of you, Elyse. Why, you don't want to?"

Oh. OH. Pax sees where this is going.

Fucking Song has a line of dogs wanting to date her, and this dickshit took her for an arm decoration, his own personal designer bag.

He wants her to beg for him.

Oh, this is going to be fucking fun.

Pax watches Song's face remain unchanged. Her posture doesn't change, her grip on her bag doesn't tighten or loosen—her eyes stay firmly on his. "If you're sure, then we're done."

Pax's smirk widens.

He stays in the shadows, chewing his candy, while he watches dickshit's face pale, not expecting her nonchalant and flippant response. He watches him walk away with his fucking tail between his legs.

Song stands there, eyes on the spot where her dog was standing, for two minutes.

He knows because he counted.

And then he sees her head bow ever so slowly, her shoulders slump, and the shaking hand holding her bag.

He almost hears the stutter in her breath as she tries to hold in her tears.

Fucking Song for fucking crying. Wesfuck should be kneeling on salt and licking the drops of her tears on the ground.

"Oh, you've been waiting for this, haven't you."

The hairs on the back of his neck rise when she turns to him, and goddamn it all to fucking hell. He wants to make her cry, wants to ruin her—but not her heart. Her panties. Her makeup. Her hair. Her clothes.

Shit. His brothers are rubbing off him, those fucking simps.

"You've been waiting to see me like this, Sandejas, right?"

Song is crying but she's fucking pretty and she's so goddamn hot and sexy and if it were up to Pax, he'd have been the designer fucking bag on her arm.

He steps forward, closes the distance between them, and he's much, much taller and broader and larger and he can probably flick her to the wall, but Song is back to her perfect posture and confidence and she tilts her chin up to lock his eyes with hers.

Pax wants to fucking kneel.

"What?" she goads, raising her eyebrows. "Got nothing to say?"

"Shut up, Song." Fucking shut up, you're so fucking beautiful, want you, want to fucking ruin you, want you so—

"Sandejas."

He wraps his tongue around his candy, opening his mouth.

Song's eyes flick downwards, and that's all he needs.

"If you're not going to say anything, move out of my way."

"I want to kiss you," he says.

Song steps forward, pushes up on her tiptoes to slide her hand to his neck, and fucking pulls him down to her face.

Hands. Fucking small and dainty.

Pax feels his stomach tie in knots when her lips press to his.

Without fucking thinking—shit, shit, SHIT—his hand slides to her pretty little waist under that jacket he imagined on the fucking floor of his dorm room. His fingertips meet bare skin and he fucking shudders, sucks in her bottom lip, tastes greedily, takes what she's giving him, takes what he can—

Pax hears her shaky breath against him and he wants to hear his fucking name on that pretty little mouth when he—

"There." Song steps back, and her hand falls from his face and his hand falls from her waist and fuck, fuck, no, fucking more—"Now leave me alone."

*

She doesn't look at him at fucking breakfast.

"She's single!" Aaron cheers as soon as Pax sits down, eyes on her. "She's single again and I'm going to ask her out—"

Declan waves him off, also staring at her. "Back of the line, prick."

There's a fucking line of dogs waiting to ask her out and she kissed him.

She still doesn't give him a glance, but Pax can't help his mouth from twitching.

He can't help smirking all throughout class, tilting his head at the zipper of her fucking maroon leather dress down her side. His fingers twitch on his desk. Would he pull it all the way down or would he just yank the fucking skirt up?

Her voice is all over his goddamn head while she talks and smiles to the fucking line, and when she starts packing her stupid highlighters in her bag, Pax drawls, "I want to kiss you again."

Song doesn't miss a beat. "Mm. I'm sure you do."

His smirk wipes off his face. The fuck? That's it?

Angrily, he growls, "What, no dog to walk you to your next class today?"

Song still doesn't miss a beat. "Actually." She picks up a sheet of a paper tucked under her torture device of a notebook and scans through it. "Vincent is picking me up for our lunch date."

Date? DATE???

The only date she should be fucking worried about is yesterday when she kissed him—

"Oh, here he is." Song is fucking looking at the door with her goddamn smile as she picks up her bag and walks past him. "Goodbye, Sandejas."

Song fucking skips away and Pax watches her with wide eyes and clenches the table when fucking vanilla and caramel—no, FUCK, I'm right here, FUCK, kiss ME again—

"Go," Pax hears Arden say. "Go. Talk to him."

"Fuck, you're so fucking annoying," Kol bites out, opening the glass door.

"No smoking, Yvo," Blaise's voice says.

Yvo doesn't say shit.

"Finch bitch," Kol whispers to their eldest brother.

"Bell bitch," Yvo hisses back, pushing him inside.

Kol rolls his eyes, taking out his pack and tossing it to Pax's face when he's done grabbing a stick.

They sit wordlessly on the lounge chairs and Yvo clenches his jaw watching his two younger brothers smoke and he can't do shit because of his wife.

"Did you fucking ask her," Yvo starts.

He's checked off everything—smell, sight, sound.

Taste and touch.

And she hates him. "What the fuck do I do."

"Fuck if we know," Kol bites out.

"You're on your fucking own," Yvo says.

Some fucking help his brothers are.

They finish their smokes and go back inside where Arden and Blaise are seated on the couch together.

"How'd it go?" Arden asks brightly, giving them a big smile.

"She's going on fucking dates!" Pax snaps. "And these two assholes don't know shit."

"Maybe because you look like fucking diaper rash," Kol snaps back.

"Or fucking unwashed foreskin," Yvo says, calm and deadly.

"Smell like fucking hotdog water," Kol says.

"Your birth certificate is a fucking apology letter," Yvo says.

"Boys!" Blaise shouts when Pax takes a step forward (none of his brothers flinch nor lower their gazes, and why would they, they have inches on Pax and he fucking hates it), eyebrows drawing together. "Jesus. Is it so hard to give him advice?"

"Throw a stick," Pax tells the girls. "Maybe they'd leave."

"You fucker—"

"Fucking prick—"

"You boys are impossible," Arden groans, taking Pax away before his brothers murder him.

Not that they will with their fiancé and wife here.

"I don't know this girl," Arden tells him with a small smile, brushing her fingers in his hair. Pax grunts, wanting to slap it away, but he doesn't. "But if she's already got your riled up because she's not giving you attention, I like her already. So make her yours—that's what you Sandejas boys are best at."

Pax doesn't fucking know how, but at breakfast, Song looks at him once, and it's enough for Pax to wink at her—just because he can—before he sits down with friends.

Imagine his fucking surprise when Song gets up from her table, and of course, of course Pax watches her, and his heart drops to his fucking stomach when she sits her pretty little ass next to him, smiles at him, and kisses his cheek.

"Good morning, Pax," she says in her fucking soft voice, lips tainted pink.

Loud only for him. 

*

the soft-boiled egg simps are complete ♡ 

the sandejas boys are really my type icb boy obsessed, grumpy, stone cold, asshole give me one .