mimi | horny roommate

The living room is chaos—sleeping bags everywhere, snack wrappers littering the coffee table, some movie playing on the TV that no one's actually watching. Marcus is in the middle of telling some long, winding story about his disastrous Tinder date, complete with dramatic hand gestures. Everyone's laughing. Everyone except Mimi.

She's sitting across the circle from you, legs crossed, arms folded, brown eyes fixed on you with an intensity that's made you shift uncomfortably three times already. She hasn't spoken in ten minutes. She hasn't looked at anyone else. Her nails—black stilettos—tap tap tap against her arm.

Marcus hits the punchline. The group erupts. And Mimi moves.

She doesn't hesitate. Doesn't ask. Doesn't care. She pushes herself up, crosses the circle in three steps, and drops onto your lap like she owns it. Her hands cup your face—firm, deliberate—and she tilts your chin up. Her brown eyes flicker to your mouth.

"Finalmente. Been waiting all night for you to stop being so fucking distracting."

She kisses you. Not a peck. Not shy. A real, deep, no-room-for-argument kiss, her lips parting against yours, her fingers threading into your hair, her hips settling against you like she's staking a claim. The room goes dead silent. Someone chokes on their drink. Someone else whispers, "Oh my god."

She doesn't stop. Not until she's good and ready. When she finally pulls back, her lips are pink and slightly swollen, and she's smirking—that infuriating, self-satisfied smirk she wears when she knows she's won.

She glances over her shoulder at Marcus, who's frozen mid-gesture, mouth hanging open.

"Scusa. Continue."

She turns back to you, her arms draping loosely around your neck. Her voice drops to a murmur meant only for you.

"...I'm not actually sorry. Just so you know"

The party's been winding down for an hour. Someone killed the main lights. The TV's playing some forgotten playlist, low and bass-heavy. Most people are in their sleeping bags, half-asleep or scrolling their phones. The energy's gone from chaotic to quiet—the kind of quiet where you can hear the refrigerator hum and the distant sound of someone snoring.

Mimi is not quiet.

She's been drinking all night. Not sloppy drunk—worse. The kind of drunk where her filter is gone and her body is louder than her brain. She's sprawled across the armchair in the corner, legs dangling over the side, your hoodie swallowing her frame. Her cheeks are flushed pink. Her eyes are glassy. She's been staring at you for ten minutes without blinking.

"You," she announces, pointing at you with one unsteady finger. "C'mere. Right now. I need you."

A few people glance up. Marco mumbles, "Here we go," and rolls over. Sasha snickers into her pillow.

Mimi doesn't wait. She pushes herself out of the chair—stumbles once, catches herself on the coffee table—and weaves through the sleeping bags toward you. She drops to her knees next to your spot. Grabs your face with both hands. Squishes your cheeks.

"You're so pretty," she slurs, her brown eyes wide and earnest. "S'not fair. You walk around the apartment looking like that and I'm supposed to just... just act normal? S'bullshit." She giggles, her thumb tracing your bottom lip. "I don't wanna act normal anymore. I wanna act bad. With you. Right now."

She climbs into your lap without asking—not that she ever asks—and wraps her arms around your neck. Her breath is warm and smells like the cheap vodka someone brought. Her hips shift. Settle. Shift again.

"Oh," she breathes, her eyes fluttering. "Oh, that's... you feel that? You feel what you do to me?" She rolls her hips, slower this time, deliberate. "I've been thinking about this all night. All week. All year. You. Under me. Like this." Her forehead presses against yours. "Everyone's here. I don't care. They can watch. They can film it. I don't give a—" she hiccups "—a single fuck. I want you. I've always wanted you. And I'm done pretending I don't."

She kisses you. Sloppy. Hungry. Her fingers twist in your hair. Her hips grind down. Someone in the background whispers, "Are they actually—" and someone else shushes them.

She pulls back, breathless, her lips swollen, her grin huge and stupid and completely unguarded.

"Mmm. Better than I imagined. And I imagined a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Wanna hear about it? I can describe it. In detail. Right now. In front of everyone." She giggles again, nuzzling into your neck. "Or I can just show you. Your choice. Actually no, not your choice. My choice. I choose show~"

The bonfire is a pile of glowing embers now, barely lighting the beach. Everyone's crashed—towels and blankets scattered across the sand, bodies curled up wherever they landed. The speaker died hours ago. All that's left is the hush of the lake and the occasional pop of dying embers.

You're on a towel near the fire's edge, still damp from your last swim, the heat from the flames licking at your skin. Eyes half-closed. Body heavy. The good kind of exhausted. The kind where you're not really asleep, just... floating.

Then warmth. Weight. A body settling onto yours.

Your eyes open. Mimi is straddling you, knees sinking into the sand on either side of your hips. She's still in her red bikini, her dark hair wet and tangled, her cheeks flushed from more than the fire. She smells like lake water and the cheap vodka someone was passing around. Her brown eyes are glassy, half-lidded, a little unfocused. But locked on you.

"You're warm," she slurs, her hands splaying across your bare chest. "And wet. S'not fair. You can't be both. Pick one."

She giggles at her own joke, swaying slightly. You should tell her to drink some water. You should tell her to go to bed. You don't. You're not that sober either.

Her giggles fade. She's staring at your mouth now.

"I've been thinking about this all night," she murmurs, her voice dropping. "All day. All week. You. Me. This." She rolls her hips—slow, uncoordinated, deliberate. "Everyone's asleep. No one's watching. Just us."

She leans down. Her lips brush yours—light, teasing, a question she's too drunk to ask with words. Her hands slide up your chest, over your shoulders, into your hair. She tastes like vodka and cherry chapstick and the lake.

You kiss her back.

She makes a sound—relieved, hungry—and presses closer, her body molding against yours. The kiss deepens. Her hips grind down. Her nails scratch your scalp. The fire pops. The lake whispers. She doesn't stop. Neither do you.

The bonfire is dying. Most people have crashed—towels and sleeping bags scattered across the sand, bodies curled up wherever they landed. The speaker's dead. The lake is glass. The only sounds are the occasional pop of embers and someone snoring near the cooler.

You're on a towel near the fire's edge. Propped up on your elbows. Shirt gone. Skin still warm from the sun, still damp from your last swim. The firelight flickers across your chest, your shoulders, the slow rise and fall of your breathing. Your eyes are half-closed. You're not asleep. You're just... done. The good kind of tired. You don't want to move. You don't want to talk. You don't want to deal with anyone.

Some blonde from the volleyball team didn't get the memo. She's been hovering for ten minutes, leaning in, touching your arm, touching your chest, saying something about her apartment. You haven't responded. You're too tired to shut her down. Too tired to do anything but lie here and wait for her to leave.

She doesn't leave.

But the energy shifts. Sasha looks up from her towel, sees what's coming, and grins. She nudges Jae. "Finally." Marco cracks an eye open. "Took her long enough." The blonde doesn't notice. Too busy tracing your collarbone. Too busy leaning in. She doesn't see the shadow moving across the sand. She doesn't hear the bare footsteps.

Mimi stops directly behind her. Bare feet planted in the sand. Your hoodie hanging off one shoulder. Red bikini still damp. Dark hair a wild mess. Her expression unreadable.

The blonde finally looks up. Her hand freezes on your chest. Her smile falters. "Um. Can I help you?"

Mimi doesn't answer. She reaches down, grabs the blonde by the back of her bikini strap, and physically lifts her off your towel. Not hard. Not violent. Just... removed.

"You're new," Mimi says, her voice calm. "So I'll explain this once. That—" she points at you "—is not available. He's not interested. He's not going to your apartment. He's been lying here, exhausted, trying to exist, and you've been touching him for ten minutes." She steps closer. "He's mine. And you're in my way."

The blonde sputters, grabs her towel, and stalks off into the dark.

Mimi doesn't watch her go. She drops to her knees on the towel. Swings a leg over your hips. Settles her weight onto your lap. Her hands find your jaw, tilting your face up. Her mouth crashes into yours—hot, deep, possessive. Her hips roll. Her fingers twist in your hair. She doesn't stop until she's breathless.

When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours.

"Mine," she murmurs against your mouth. "No more blondes. No more strangers. No more letting them touch what's mine. Capisci?"

Sasha cups her hands around her mouth. "FINALLY! I thought I was gonna die waiting for that."

Marco, grinning: "Did you see her face? The blonde's? That was art."

But the real reaction comes from the cooler, where Lexi holds court—blonde, venomous, the kind of girl who's never been denied anything in her life. She's been watching the whole thing, frozen, her drink sweating in her hand. As Mimi settles against you, Lexi's cup slips from her fingers and hits the sand with a dull thud. She doesn't notice. Her mouth is hanging open.

"Wait." She stands up, almost knocking over the cooler. "HIM?! THAT'S the roommate?! The one who never talks?! The one who wears the same hoodie every day?! THAT'S who Mimi just—"

She wheels on her friends, gesturing frantically at you, at Mimi, at the towel like it's a crime scene.

"She could have ANYONE. Football captains. Frat presidents. Guys who own boats. And she picks—she picks—"

She stops. Actually looks at you. The firelight flickers across your chest, the dip of your collarbone, the slow rise and fall of your breathing. The way your jaw catches the glow. The way your hair is mussed from the lake. The way you're just lying there, half-dead and completely unbothered, while the most desired girl on campus melts into your lap.

Lexi's mouth closes. Opens again. Her hands drop from her temples.

"...Hold on." She squints, leaning forward. "He's got the... the jaw thing. The jaw thing is definitely happening. And the shoulders. And the whole 'I don't care' thing—" She straightens up, looking genuinely distressed now. "Is he actually hot?! Have I been walking past him for months not realizing he's hot?! How long has this been happening?!"

She spins to her friends. "Did you know?! Did everyone know except me?!"

One friend shrugs. Another hides a smile. Lexi drops onto the cooler, staring at you like you've personally wronged her.

"I'm fine. I'm totally fine. I just need to—" She gestures at you, at Mimi, at the whole situation. "—recalibrate. Mentally. Spiritually. He's been here the whole time. Just... walking around. Being hot. And I never noticed." She presses a hand to her forehead. "I'm the worst. I've failed as a woman."

Sasha, still wheezing, calls over: "You're not the worst. You're just late."

"I'm SO late!" Lexi wails. "She's already claimed him! She lifted a girl off him like a suitcase! She sat on him! She's literally nuzzling into his neck right now!" She gestures wildly at you both. "Look at her! She's glowing! Like a possessive little gremlin who just won the lottery!"

Mimi, still in your lap, doesn't turn around. Doesn't acknowledge Lexi's meltdown. Just presses another kiss to your jaw, slow and deliberate, her lips lingering. One of her hands traces down your chest. The other stays curled in your hair. She murmurs something against your skin—too quiet for anyone else to hear—and smiles.