#<- only for the science classroom (high school one) though

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

academic rivals request! viktor x fem!reader, nsfw

request: @4-leafed pls... if u have time pls write a viktor x reader that r both geniuses at the academy but very much toe the line of rivalry and sexual tension...i love competitive smart people that fall in love when the rivalry becomes respect ... and they FREAK IT!!! possibly in a lab ! up to you : 3c

i liked this request so much that i ended up writing a decent-ish one-shot….

rating: explicit

word count: 3,5k

warnings: academic rivals. LOTS of dialogue and bickering. dubious science because i skipped it in school, had to do some basic chemistry revision to write this pornographic catastrophe, so please pat me on the back. rough sex? rough… foreplay, that’s for sure. dirty talk, if you can call bickering that. penetration. reader tries to slap viktor, spits in his mouth and he cums in his pants. normally, i only write vanilla stuff, so i have no idea how it turned out THIS kinky (at least for me okay). not proofread (yet). nsfw under the cut:

—

“How do you take your coffee?”

His voice betrays the feeble intention of civility, fusing that polite inquiry into a hiss—a phonetical torture you didn’t even know could occur before. So much for killing you with kindness. Outstaging quips by desecrating courtesies. 

“I don’t care,” you mutter on autopilot. Can’t let him in on any personal preferences, no matter how insignificant. “Just don’t put arsenic in it.” 

Viktor scoffs. Puts the kettle away and peers at you over his shoulder, all wretchedly complacent. 

“So the rest of the periodic table is welcome, I presume?” 

Viktor. The local Nikola Tesla knock-off. Never a moment of peace with him; and the fierce taste of competition grows coppery in your mouth whenever he’s in your sight—the most handsome trigger of your cheek-biting reflex.

His name is an insult on your lips and you want to taste it. Chew it, crush it with your teeth and spit right out, preferably aiming for those poignant eyes seeking you in every classroom—so eager to light up with objection the second your opinion differs from his. 

Always the first prick to disparage your input. A never-resting generator of all the meticulous ways to denounce your projects. 

“If I may.” 

Sickeningly polite, too. With that lithe finger pointing in the air— so irritatingly comical. He may not, but there isn’t a chance he’ll shut up, now, is there?

And so he’d clear his throat, straightening his tie in that ridiculously solemn fashion. As if stepping on a pedestal to deliver a life-changing speech—not some shallow nitpicking regarding your circuit breakers. All eyes on him while his kept staring only into your soul. Special treatment, if you will. 

You will not.

“Using magnetic frames is careless,” he’d state. With his hand imposingly pointing to the blueprint on your slide. “Copper coils may oxidize. Not to mention the overheating. I would use thermoplastics. They’re significantly more efficient. And heat-resistant.”

Oh please. Like someone here gives a shit about what you’d use. 

But you can’t say that. Not in a room full of professors. And, judging from the countless nods of approval, the shits were, in fact, being given. 

“Too risky,” you oppose. “Thermoplastics often degrade at high temperatures. Electric insulation is not worth the damage of releasing hydrocarbons. I assumed that you’d be aware of that, Viktor. But I suppose that was an omission on my part.” 

More nods of approval, now in your favour. Here it goes again—the ever-lasting spectacle of hatred. Elegant, when entertaining the audience. Anything but discreet, in private. A perpetually drawn game of chess. By repetition, not agreement. Both of you refuse to retreat until checkmate. 

Oh yes, the sentiment was mutual. You and Viktor were notorious for tearing at each other's throats. The things you’d sacrifice to make that more than a mere metaphor, though. To pull him by that neat tie to sweet asphyxiation and hear him rasp for mercy with eyes full of pathetic condemnation. And he dreamed of that, too. His cane was itching to give you a smack—to paint your behind a plum so deep you’ll have troubles sitting without wincing. When it came to making metaphors literal, he’d pick being the pain in your ass.

However, your mentors couldn’t care less about the rivalry. The Collegiate Inventors Competition was coming up. And who could possibly make better candidates than two greatest minds of the engineering department, with academic excellence so accurately neck and neck that both of your names now occupy the honorary first place in every ranking table? 

That’s how you ended up with your sentence—three weeks of after-hours cooperation in the lab with the incorrigible bastard himself, a quarter of which you’d already successfully wasted on pointless bickering. Well, not without achieving some common grounds. The choice of prototype landed on one of your personal ambitions—a wearable exoskeleton for post-surgery rehabilitation, with plenty of robotics involved. Endorsed by Viktor, for once. The greater good must have swallowed even his dispute. Off to a nice start, if someone were to ask you.

However, the first issues struck early: on the very stage of development. Viktor volunteered for modelling: meaning, the framework would be custom, to accommodate his spine specifically. An object lesson for everyone involved, it would seem—but only in an ideal world. Which, considering what you had at hand (acrimony, bitterness, an entire picky bit of gall), was filtered out by default.

Now, five gruesome days and who’s-even-counting-anymore restarts later, you’re nowhere near close to at least a draft, yet borderline keen on murdering each other. And you’re certain the latter is approaching. He did just contemplate putting arsenic in your cup, after all. 

Viktor stirs the coffee. Watches his reflection smudge in the dark, whirly water, shooting you an askance glance from beneath thick brows when you start stirring yours—the spoon clanking a tad too loud, as if you were doing it on purpose. Which, you undoubtedly were. 

“Stop that,” he groans, almost leaping out of his chair. Heavy, disturbed gaze meets your cheeky simper. “You don’t have to stir it so thoroughly. It’s not like you take it with sugar anyway.”

“Of course.” You shrug. “I don’t drink slop.”

“Oh, I figured. There’s nothing sweet about you, so why would your coffee be any different?”

“There’s plenty of sweetness about me. I simply don’t squander it on entitled pricks.” 

That finally grounds him. And you’re giddy for the way his sturdy hand grips the cup so hard that it almost shatters into his palm, knuckles growing pale enough to match the porcelain. More so when you take a loud, languid sip, feigning innocence. Fully wallowing in his darling, defeated speechlessness. 

“Excuse you,” he mutters. “Entitled?!” 

“So you agree with the ‘prick’ part?” 

“Yes, and I take great pride in it. You may mark me flustered.” 

“Don’t forget to bust in your pants.”

Viktor sneers: chapped lip twitching, scowl growing defensive. Lanky legs untangle as he rises to his feet, towering above you in an angry lean on his cane—long frame transforming into your personal, scrawny menace, pissed exhale sharp and nasal above your head. And you admit to looking small beneath him—all hunched shoulders, weak smile finally tumbling lopsided. 

“Don’t you dare call me entitled,” he demands—and means it. It’s palpable in the way he twists the handle of his cane, the squeaky sound violently scratching your brain. “I sweated blood to achieve my privileges in this establishment.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “So did I, and yet you keep ordering me around as if I’m some braindead apprentice. We’re counterparts, Viktor. You’re supposed to be mindful of my perspective.”

“I never see you being mindful of mine,” he counters.

And, well. You can’t argue with that. 

Your coffee break continued in avoidant silence, but the ambience simply reeked of hostility—stifling enough to make you leave the lab feet first. The deadline’s chokehold besieging your neck wasn’t of any help, either—you had to submit the draft for approval by Sunday. And, so far, you haven’t even agreed on the design plan. 

You shoot Viktor a reluctant glance. Pensive, he sat slouched over his parchment, emitting pure peril. Like his shoulder blades might stab you if you attempt a single tap, belligerently peeking through the thin shirt. You tucked your lip under your teeth, chewing hard, tongue running over every small, neurotic wound inside your mouth. Fruitless negotiations held a special spot amongst your least favourite endeavours, but this conundrum called for a desperate measure.

“Viktor.” You winced at how chocked up it came out. He noticed that, too—because of course he did—turning in his chair to nod at you, ever so shit-eatingly. Lancing eyes scrutinised their way up to your face. What an affront. 

“Yes?” Always chiding in that condescending tone of his. Hissy ‘s’ echoed in the lab, gnawing at your nerves. 

“We have to submit something by the end of this week. Let’s at least decide on the blueprint.” 

“Fine.” He shrugged, returning to his sketch. “We’re going with mine.” 

“No!” You snapped. “We’re coming up with a new one. Together.” 

Viktor hummed in mock consideration. The strand of hair he’s been twirling unraveled, claiming more attention than you deemed him worthy of. Sighing, he lazily reached for your graph, frowning as his eyes started skimming over the scribbles. You made your way to the desk, claiming a spot behind his shoulder. That required a tacit truce. 

“You really want to wield… hydraulic actuators?” He winced, looking up at you. Had your breath hitching at that respectful attempt, the effort prominent in the very way he uttered those words—as if struggling to filter out swear ones. 

“Yes,” you mustered. “For high power.” 

“But they’re so heavy.”  

“Well, what would you use?” 

He chuckled—rich and malicious. Flipped the page and finally averted those curious eyes, arching a bushy brow. 

“I thought no one gave a… crap about what I’d use.” 

Oh, well. It felt nice while it lasted. 

“How did you even—“

“You ought to be more discreet with your vitriol,” he retorted. “I’ll let you know that I’m a decent lip-reader.” 

“Then don’t stare at my mouth next time. What would you use, Viktor?” 

Now that left you both startled. His fingers stilled above the diagram, flexing in disbelief, hollow cheeks hued a puzzled rouge as you almost chomped your tongue off, showing an embarrassed curse back into the depth of your throat. 

“Ahem. Electric motors,” he chanted, pretending to overlook the slip-up. And for once, you were grateful for his tact. 

“I see. Well, er… put that down, please.” 

He instantly complied, fetching a pen. Left you to reflect on your misery to the rhythmic sound of his scrawling, pressing a sweaty palm to his forehead. 

“Right.” He sighed. “What about the power supply?”

“Rechargeable batteries?” You suggested weakly. “Lithium-ion.”

“Very well. Frame?”

“Something durable. Titanium?” 

“Absolutely not,” he scoffed, pushing the notes away. “Why must you always insist on using the heaviest equipment?”

“I don’t know, corrosion resistance?” You muttered back, hovering over him. “Biocompatibility?”

“That’s perfectly manageable with carbon fiber!”

“So it shatters after the tiniest bump? Bravo, Viktor, how ingenious.” 

He lurches forward—rigid breath quivering over yours. Close enough to crush that thick skull with your forehead—if only you ventured, that is. But, alas, you’re not as brave just yet. Some brief eye-stabbing is about all you’re good for. 

“Fine,” he agrees, pulling away. “We’ll use aluminium alloys. Corrosion resistant and easy to machine. No one wins. Does that suffice?” 

“Yes. Now will you finally let me take your measurements for the sketch?”

He doesn’t answer—at least not verbally. Merely stands up and nods to the measuring tape, face still heavily contorted with displeasure. But you don’t oblige just yet. How can you, when Viktor’s fingers suddenly reach for his collar, fumbling with the button? And—oh no—now they’re sliding lower, reiterating once, twice, thrice, until his chest (flushed, but that might just be wishful thinking) is fully peeking out, teasing the smooth scrap of ivory skin. 

“What�� are you doing?” You mumble, utterly startled. 

“…Undressing?” He says matter-of-factly, looking up at you so askance as if you’d just asked him if the sky is blue. One more ministration and the shirt is neatly folded next to the parchment—waiting for you to be through with the measurements to be slid back on his bony shoulders. 

“That, I can tell,” you mumble. “Why did you undress?”

Viktor’s gaze daggers into you again. “Don’t tell me you were actually intending to measure me clothed? Can you not comprehend precision?”

“Precision?”

“The prototype is expected to cling to me. I don’t see how that’s achievable with my shirt on— I assumed that was rather obvious.”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“Ah, sweet civility. I even started worrying that other entitled pricks must’ve depleted your decorum, but it seems like you saved some up for me after all. I’m flattered, really—“ 

You don’t even register when it happens.

Next thing you see is Viktor seizing your wrist—sternly yanking your slap off his face before it gets the chance to land there in a flared handprint. Nothing but pure rage and prickliness—right where his short nails are lancing your skin, engraving an ugly bracelet you’ll wear for hours.

Well, maybe there is something else. Something inexplicable, and tremendous—deep in the way your eyes keep drifting south—where his pants sling low on defined hips, and the pretty trail of dark hair runs from navel to waistband—no doubt circling exactly what you manage to make out in the convex slope of his crotch. And you want to slap him for that, too—sonorous, and frenetic. Going in again with full force, but his force always turns out to be fuller—and in an instance he firmly twists your arm, pinning it behind your back—pale face barely five inches away from your flushed one. 

What happens next is beyond any explanations. Later, he’ll blame it on inertia—that stupid urge to maintain the speed, to stay in motion with your messy antics until some external force stops him—a simple need to claim you before the inevitable collision.

But there’s no inertia in escalation. In the way his free hand grabs you by the nape and clashes agape mouths together, teeth bumping hard enough to make you consider booking a dentist appointment later. Not a sign of inertia when you grab him, either—a little clumsy through the sharp pain in your twisted arm—bold fingers raking his scalp in a vengeful tug on his hair. 

And it’s more than a kiss. If anything, it looks like you’re trying to eat him—tongue out and thrusting into his throat so fiercely that he gags on it, almost tearing up. Now you know what sheer desperation sounds like, and it’s grunting against your mouth, suddenly pitching to a pathetic moan when you grab a handful of chestnut hair and pull so hard that his eyes roll back, lean frame shaking under your violent approach. You use that startled momentum to try and pry your arm free, but he still keeps it in place. 

“You’re hurting me!” You hiss, attacking his neck—the very one you always shamefully admitted to finding the sexiest any man can possess, and your teeth roughly pinch at his voice box, coaxing another whine. 

“Good.” He groans with spite. “I hope I am.” 

And yet, he releases your aching arm, trading it for a calculated squeeze of your waist. But the audacity overshadows his little mercy. You instantly use the unrestrained privileges to force a finger into his mouth—astounded at the way he instantly opens up, almost mockingly pliant. More so when you spit on his tongue, sparing no shame—as if trying to rile him up beyond recognition. Grinning, when your saliva dribbles down his chin. 

“Ah.” He huffs, instantly licking up the remnants. “Thank you. Ever so disrespectful.”

“You haven’t earned my respect,” you lie, nudging him towards the chair. Not even bothering to wait until he lands, impatient hands already messing with his belt—so treacherously earnest as you shake, unfastening the buckle, and the bastard chuckles at that, looking down at your eager work. 

“That’s a new low, then,” murmurs coyly, helping you into his lap, heavy head leisurely thrown back. “Sleeping with someone you don’t respect.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Oh yes. You’re about to.” 

You glare at him from under heavy lids, but the anger refuses to linger—not when he stares back full of indignant awe, so clearly basking in your attention. With his cock half-springing out of undone pants, shamelessly twitching against your palm. And not a single breath was hitched to conceal his excitement. 

“Must you always be so insufferable?” You reproach, pushing his hair back—too domestic for your own liking, and yet it doesn’t feel unfitting. Especially when he leans into your hand, welcoming your touch on his sweaty forehead—like he wanted you to feel it fever up with want.

“No.” He shakes his head. “But if it can grant me this, I’ll triple the effort.” 

“What happened to new lows? You don’t have a fraction of respect for me, either.”

“You’re right.” He shrugs. “Fractions could never encapsulate my tribute to you.”

And his hand slipped under your skirt, shakily crawling home—precisely where you’d never confess to needing him a mere minute ago. But the sentiment did a decent job at diluting your rancour. There came no protest when he introduced two long fingers into your underwear, openly gasping at the evident dampness. And you allowed him that with no regrets. Moreover, you helpfully sank yourself knuckle deep, wincing at the brief burn, arms wrapping around his neck as he sweetly looked up, seeking your  permission. Which was instantly found in the pretty moan you spilled into his mouth, slick tongues back at their futile attempts to strangle each other. 

However, your patience was running thin. As much as you wanted to indulge in proper foreplay, whatever masochistic dance he exposed you to had you in agony ever since it started—and it was getting unbearable to ignore the ache, no matter how bad Viktor  craved to postpone the main course. 

Your thighs clenched hard as you crouched above him, fingers wrapping around the hilt to awkwardly line the tip up with your cunt—the slick sound of it slowly sliding down suddenly igniting some tender bashfulness. Like you didn’t just spit in his mouth with a vile smirk. Like he never had to confine you from slapping him in the face. 

That stretch felt different from the one after his fingers. Significantly richer, it made you whine—a pitiful sound reverberating against his skin as you held on tighter and allowed him to bottom out, savouring every little crevice inside you. Raw, yet neither of you seemed to care—that concern was pushed alongside your underwear, then forgotten altogether when your walls clenched him, offering tight bliss. 

“Move,” you demanded, grabbing him by the chin. Viktor rasped something back, but you didn’t catch it—already too busy tongue-fucking his pretty neck, turning your teeth into sharp tools ready to stain it mauve with bites. 

And he complied again. One hand trembled on your hip while the other crawled between your legs—first missing your clit in the chaotic pace of thrusts, then finding it again as it grazed his fingertips. So cheeky when he dared to pinch it, avenging every pull on his hair. Though, he couldn’t gloat in your wince. Not when it clearly was one of the pleasured kind. 

But you didn’t feel like letting him regain composure. You already missed his husky groans—ached to test what else fucking you could make him mutter. Fogy gaze found his face again, softening at the sight—all wet forehead full of concentrated creases and thin lips bitten to bloodless paleness. 

You took over. Let him lean back and rest as you roughly rode him into the chair—and for that he gave you a grateful moan, the insistent thumb toying with your clit never stopping even for an instant. Good with his hands, and he knew it—proudly grinned when you struggled to keep going, taut legs treacherously giving up astride him. 

That didn’t please you in the slightest. You wanted him to be close, too: slid a hand up his chest and angrily tugged at one nipple—chortling when his mouth dropped in a stunned gasp. Bewildered, but he didn’t mind it—amber eyes squeezed shut when his head lolled, and you finally got his lovely moans back—raspier than before, ravenous enough to make your head spin. 

You could already feel it, pulsing somewhere deep within. Blurry vision couldn’t make him out anymore, the lab smudging into a mess of weird shapes—you were about to cum, hard, and Viktor threatened to follow suit any second—his thumb failing to hold steady, and yet the pressure was still there, courtlesly helping you chase that sweet relief. Such a gentleman. 

“Close,” you chanted. “So, so close.” 

“I know,” he answered, choking on a groan. “Me too.” 

And you melted, almost crushing him with your weight. Quivering in a spasm so intense that it had him struggling to keep moving, and yet he was mindful of the risk—used the last fractions of his brain capacity to gently nudge you off his cock and pump it fast and hectic. Cumming in one endlessly thick rope, with a moan so vocal that it reached you even through the layers of foggy, ear-buzzing aftermath. Had you shuddering when you clung off his shoulder, glassy eyes wide with trembling astonishment. You stared at him through the approaching wave of disbelief. 

No signs of regret so far, or maybe it was simply still forming—for now, you silently admired not a snarky bastard, but a pretty, fucked out boy beneath you. 

“Oh, would you look at that.” Viktor chuckled, sheepishly looking down. “I didn’t forget.”

“What?” You mumbled in confusion, following his gaze.

And when it finally caught your attention—sticky and relentlessly staining his pants—you slammed a hand over your mouth, muffling the hysterical laughter. 

“And here I thought I finally fucked your remarkable memory out.”

“Oh, by no means. As, eh… intense as that was, that misery of mine is not going anywhere. However,” he trailed off, his hand skittishly moving towards yours, “sex clearly proved beneficial for our… dynamic.”

You smile, sliding your palm into his warm grasp. 

“Can it ensure us enough civility to win the competition?”

And Viktor scoffs, coyly looking you in the eye. 

“Why should we limit it to just that?” 

[wordsofelie]

🌌The stars he left in the sky

Oikawa x f!reader

Summary: The stars he left in the sky are nothing compared to the footprints he etched on the earth.

or when you fall in love with Oikawa Tooru, only to have your heart collapse into his orbit.

Sequel:🎋The footprints he etched on the earth

Content warnings: angst, high school & time skip setting, manga spoilers, swearing

Words count: 4.5k

You shouldn’t have been impressed by stars. After all, they were just distant objects burning quietly in the void, destined to explode in silence. Yet, every time you looked at them, a feeling of greatness gripped you.

But they were out of reach. You knew that. You would never touch them; they were bound to the laws of science. You had known this since childhood.

And it made sense, really. Stars exist on a scale far beyond your own. So why did you ever think you could change that? Why did you let yourself believe you could stand beside one? Naivety had swept you up, convincing you that proximity was possible. But no matter how far you stretched your arm in their direction, they remained a universe away. And so did he.

You met Oikawa Tooru during your second year of high school, a time when everything seemed to fall into place for you. You were diligent, sharp, and unassuming—the perfect daughter, the good student, the nice friend. Life was predictable and neatly organised. You weren’t really popular in school, didn’t really care about romance and boyfriends. You just had a normal life, and you were fine with it. But that’s precisely why you found it strange when he, the infamous volleyball captain and your senpai, started taking an interest in you.

Your eyes met his for the first time when you went to the third years floor to discuss a club matter with someone from his class. He got up from his chair the second you called for your clubmate’s name.

“She’s not here. Should I deliver a message for you, chibi-chan?” He spoke.

You found the nickname weird but tried not to look flustered by it.

“I…yes. Thanks, I guess.” And you handed him a paper, he looked at it with attention.

“You’re in the baking club, huh?” He read on the paper, “would you bake me milk bread someday?”

You tried to ignore the pressure coming from his classmates glaring at you, “Sure, if you want, Oikawa-senpai.”

Before you could leave the classroom, he asked for your name because “it’s only fair since you already know me.” And his charming smile made your ears warm.

After that, he often came across you. He always made sure to linger on you when you walked past by in the corridors, fasten his pace to reach you on your way to school (leaving Iwaizumi on his own, not that it disturbed the outside hitter).

And you found yourself looking for him more. You wanted to see him everyday. And little by little, it made your heart beat loud in your chest.

“Hello there, chibi-chan. Mind if I join?” he sat next to you one afternoon in the library and leaned over your shoulder. “What’s that book?” he asked.

“I’m preparing for the university exams,” you replied.

“Even though you’re in your second year? You’re so cool,” he said, his lips turning into a smile.

“What about you senpai. Are you planning to go to university?”

You bet he would. Oikawa Tooru wasn’t only pretty and athletic, he was smart and studious. He could get accepted in the best schools; get the highest scores in everything he would do.

“Me? Nah, I’m going to be the best setter in the world.”

In the world. Those words should have been your first warning, but the glow of his confidence made you blind to how far his dreams really stretched. He was bright, made of light. You were attracted by him the way meteorites are pulled into an orbit. There was nothing you could do about it anymore, you couldn’t look away from him. So when he asked you to be his girlfriend a few weeks later as he walked you home—“Even though it’s my last year and volleyball’s my priority, I promise I’ll take care of you. If you’ll have me, of course”—you didn’t hesitate and said yes, under the starry night.

Oikawa Tooru was the kind of boyfriend who made you believe in true love.

Every morning, he was there waiting for you in front of your house, his scarf loose around his neck, cheeks pink from the cold. On bitter winter days, he let you slip your frozen fingers into his coat pockets, teasing you about how small they were. For your birthday, he somehow convinced—or maybe, forced—Iwaizumi into helping him bake chocolates for you.

The taste wasn’t too bad, but you told him that next time you would teach him how to bake proper chocolate biscuits. You liked to hear him talk about his passion, and in return, you talked about yours.

When you sat together in his room for what you insisted were “homework sessions and nothing else,” his hands inevitably found their way to your hair. He would twirl strands around his fingers, brushing it with the same precision he used to set a ball. It would always end up in heated kisses sessions.

You gave back in your own way. You never missed a game—not even practice matches—always in the stands. Your cheers were never as loud as his fangirls, but it was always your voice he heard first. At lunch, you peeled fruits for him, offering slices in a delicate handkerchief. He didn’t even like apples, but when you held one out with that quiet smile of yours, he couldn’t refuse.

He liked your baking, though it was never enough sweet for his taste. The first time he tried your chocolate mousse, he stuck out his tongue and wrinkled his nose.

“Heh… Too bitter,” he told you.

“Oi! Trashykawa,” Iwaizumi growled. “Say thank you, it probably took hours to make.”

“Oops, thank you chibi-chan.”

Matsukawa looked at you with a detached look, “don’t mind the guy, he always puts two spoons of sugar in his hot cacao.”

“Matsuuu!” Oikawa whined, “I’m sure everybody does that, right?”

“You’re gonna dye of hyperglycaemia someday.”

The setter pouted and he hid his face into the crook of your neck, “help me, I’m being bullied.”

Everyone laughed, expect for your boyfriend who pretended to be hurt and Hanamaki who was trying to find the definition of “hyperglycaemia” in his biology book.

You didn’t bake him much after that. It’s not that you didn’t want to but rather you were scared it wouldn’t meet its liking, and you had to focus on your studies anyway. You needed to be great for him so he would be proud to tell the world you’re his girlfriend.

When he failed to make it to Nationals, your eyes held no pity—only love and respect. That was the moment he realised how rare you were.

At first, you both kept your relationship quiet.

“That’s how you know she’s different,” Makki had said.

“All the other girls would be screaming from the rooftops,” Matsukawa added.

Oikawa only smiled. You were special. So special. But he only truly understood how special when it was too late.

After high school, his world shifted.

Even though losing at the semi-finals had been a heavy pain, Oikawa never allowed himself to feel down on failure, or at least he didn’t show it. His dreams reached far beyond high school volleyball, beyond Japan itself. So, when he created the opportunity to train in Argentina under his hero, José Blanco, he didn’t think twice. Even if it meant leaving his family and Iwaizumi behind.

Should he have felt guilty when you promised to get a part-time job to save for visits, while a quiet voice in his mind whispered that he hadn’t thought of you at all when making his decision? Maybe. But when you asked if long-distance was okay, he still said yes.

It was the second warning you ignored.

You had never been like Iwaizumi Hajime, you were not able to read between the lines the way he did, or to decipher what Oikawa hid behind his pretty face, so you trusted him.

You believed it would be alright. Your first love would last (but every seventeen-year-old would think so; it is an incredibly naive time to fall in love).

The day he boarded the plane for San Juan, you started your final year of high school.

“Tell me when you get there,” you said, forcing a smile to hide the sadness, “and send me plenty of pictures. Call me every day.”

“I will,” he answered. “Go on now, or you’ll miss your entrance ceremony.”

Move on, he should have said instead.

Distance, it turned out, was more than just eighteen thousand kilometres. It was in every missed call, every half-hearted apology, every time zone that stood between you.

The “plenty” of pictures you had asked for became sparse, dwindling to nothing. One day, you learned he had cut his hair short through a post on Instagram. He didn’t even tell you. You cried all night.

Oikawa was amazing. Articles were written about him, fans started queuing outside arenas just to catch a glimpse of him, coaches from all around the world praised his sets. And each time you read something about him, you remembered. Remembered his brightness, his light. Remembered he was a universe away, out of your reach.

You were a mere object; he was a beautiful star.

And that reality hit you in the face on a May evening, a year after he left.

You had planned to talk but the phone call came late at night. You tried to picture him, somewhere in his room, the sun coming through his window, where it was the moon on your side of the world. Maybe his face was glowing faintly from his phone screen, maybe he had dark circles under his eyes like he often had when he trained too much. Maybe his brown curls were falling on his face. He probably looked handsome anyway.

“Will you come for Christmas?” you asked at some point during the call.

He paused. Too long.

“I’ll try,” Oikawa said, his voice sounded polished but there was something brittle beneath his words. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow, after your exams.”

“Do you promise you’ll call?” You hated how childish your voice came out, but you were desperate to have him on the phone. You wanted him to the first you would hear after your exam.

“Promise,” he said. And though his tone softened with a warmth coming from an impossible distance, you doubted.

When the exam ended the next day, you waited for his call.

He will call, you repeated a few times in your head. He promised.

But as the evening turned into night, your phone remained silent in your pocket. After what felt like longer than the exam itself, you started walking, though you didn’t know where you were going.

You only stopped at some point in front of a shop. It was the smell that drew you in.

It was a little pâtisserie tucked between two tall buildings. Inside, it was warm and so you sat somewhere by the window. It was oddly comforting.

You weren’t hungry, you didn’t even know why you were here, yet, when the waitress asked what you wanted to eat, you found the courage, somewhere deep in your gut, to order something.

“What would you recommend?”

“Try the black chocolate cake,” she said. “It’s my favourite.”

You didn’t regret the choice, and the first bite melted on your tongue, it was rich and bittersweet. For the first time in hours, if not in days, you felt good.

When you stood by the door, on impulse, you asked, “Is it hard? Becoming a pastry chef? Running a shop like this?”

The woman smiled, “it’s hard work,” she said. “But it’s worth it.”

What if it was worth it for you as well?

Your phone finally rang just past midnight.

“Hey,” Oikawa’s voice came through. “I’m so sorry, I lost track of time. Are you okay? How was your exam?”

You hesitated before saying. “It was fine.”

You could have told him in details how it went, what exercise you found hard, which ones were easy, but somehow, you found yourself losing the will to do so.

“Is everything okay?”

“You promised you would call.”

You heard his mouth opening and closing a few times, “I know and I’m really sorry. Training went longer than expected and since I became the starting setter, I really need to put more effort into work.”

You stayed silent, to be honest, you didn’t even know what to say. Should you have gotten mad? Gotten sad?

He was the one to continue the conversation.

“Listen, I won’t go home for Christmas.” He finally admitted with a long sigh.

You stopped breathing. You couldn’t move. In this moment, you were convinced that if someone looked into your heart, they would find nothing but broken pieces, “Why?”

“I’ve been offered to play for the National Team here. But I need to apply to become a citizen first and the appointment with the embassy is around Christmas.”

“I’m not going to university,” you informed.

There was a long silence again. Oikawa was probably waiting for your disappointment or congratulations. But neither of those things left your mouth, “What? Why not?”

“Because,” you said and your voice started trembling slightly, “I’ve decided to become a pastry chef.”

“But… you’re so smart. You’ve always talked about university. I mean, baking is nice but that’s just your hobby, right?”

The words hit like a slap, and something inside you snapped. “My hobby?” You repeated his word. “I’ve been baking for I don’t know how many years. That’s the only thing that truly makes me happy and you call it a hobby? Of all people, I thought you would understand what it’s like to pursue a dream. But of course you wouldn’t even know this was my dream, heh? You’ve never really paid attention to me anyway.”

“That’s not true,” his voice rose. But you didn’t let him finish.

“I can’t do this anymore, Tooru.” You tried to hold your ground even though your stomach twisted and your throat tightened. “I think we should break up.”

“What? Wait, shouldn’t we have a real conversation about it? I-I will call you tomorrow morning, alright? Try to get some sleep first.”

“No, sorry Tooru. It’s over. Good luck with volleyball.”

There was a muffled sound on the other end—a sob, barely stifled—but you ended the call before it could break you more.

The days that followed felt like a blur. He sent a few messages—apologies, explanations—but you didn’t answer.

You told your parents you wouldn’t apply for universities here in Japan, they couldn’t hide their confusion at first but supported your choice after your brother mentioned how happier you would be if you did what you really wanted.

(You made sure to bake your little brother dozens of cookies.)

You started researching schools and ended up going for the one that stood out the most: l’École Ducasse, in Paris. It felt like a long shot, but you applied anyway.

A few days later, an email arrived. You opened it with trembling hands, your heart was pounding in your chest.

You’ve been invited to attend the exam, in France.

You stared at the screen.

“I knew you could make it nee-san,” your brother grinned.

“I didn’t get in yet; I still need to pass the exams.”

“Yes, but you’re going to Paris.”

Your eyes were filled with tears, happy tears. And in a rush, you booked your ticket and began packing your bags.

For the first time in years, you felt like you were moving toward something that was truly yours.

Maybe, just maybe, life wasn’t entirely against you.

When you stepped into Paris at the age of nineteen, you didn’t imagine it would become your home for the next five years—but it did. You passed the entrance exam and began your studies. The first few months were tough. You missed Miyagi. You missed the crisp sound of cicadas in the summer, the quiet beauty of snow-draped mornings in the winter, the comforting taste of miso soup, and the warmth of home. Everything felt foreign—the dormitory walls, the sound of words, even the stars above you.

Still, you told yourself it was for the better.

Some days were great, especially when your teachers praised your work. Other days were marked by a single, damning silence—the kind that hurt more than any harsh critique. You’d lie awake at night, blaming yourself.

Who did you think you were, chasing this dream? You were no Oikawa Tooru. You didn’t have his tireless hard work or his ambition and would definitely never polish your instinct the way he polished his. You found yourself missing him more than when you broke up with him. You missed his curly bed hair, the lock that fell on his eyes when he was sweating after practice, his wink to you from the court after a powerful serve, the face of disgust he would make when you baked dark chocolate mousse.

Regrets invaded you; homesickness ached your heart.

Had you made a mistake leaving Japan? Had you walked away from your true love?

You were on the verge of giving up the next morning. Still, you decided to get up to attend the chocolate-making workshop with students from a year above you. Afterwards, you decided that you would talk to your director and move back to your hometown.

“Bonjour,” you murmured hesitantly. You were still struggling with French. You looked around the room and tried to remember the right orders of words to ask a question, “Est-ce que c’est là… I mean… Ici pour le classe de chocolat?”

Shit, you know “classe” is feminine, so what did you get it wrong? What are they going to think of you?

Your eyes fell on your feet. You were tired.

“Yes, welcome,” someone replied.

The words weren’t in French but in Japanese. You blinked, startled, and turned toward the voice. Your own language sounded familiar and foreign, and somehow, both felt like a lifeline.

“Well, well. Isn’t this Oikawa Tooru’s girl?”

It took a moment to place him—Tendou Satori. But you had not doubt it was him with his red hair, his thin silhouette and curled smile. Your ex-boyfriend would often refer to him as “Ushiwaka’s freak middle”, you had also heard, probably from Iwaizumi, that his nickname was “the Guess Monster”.

Class began, and Tendou ended up as your partner. He was just as sharp and quick-witted as you’d heard, but also kinder than you’d expected. After the session, you wanted to find a way to spend more time with him, so you came up with the excuse that you had a few questions about chocolate making, since it was his speciality. Instead of brushing you off, he asked if you wanted to come with him “somewhere nice”, you said yes. He led you through the Parisian subway, chatting the whole way, until you found yourself standing in front of a small Japanese restaurant tucked into a side street.

The owners welcomed you warmly. They were from Akita, just next to Miyagi, and when they placed full plates of oysters and steaming gyutan in front of you, you didn’t wait a second to bring your hands together in clap and with a grin (and a little drool at the corner of your mouth) exclaimed a loud “Itadakimasu.”

You shared a few beers and had zunda mochi for dessert. It tasted like home and more.

“It gets easier,” Tendou said as you walked along the Seine later. “You just need to find your own rhythm. Do you still want to give up?”

You opened your mouth in shock. You never talked to that guy before tonight, and still, he had been able to read you like an open book. You simply offered him a smile and a “of course not.”

The Friday evenings at the restaurant became a ritual, it was always followed by long walks by the water. Paris felt less overwhelming with Tendou around, you even came to believe that meeting him was a miracle. And so, slowly, you found yourself thinking less and less about Japan and about Oikawa.

One evening, as the two of you strolled, you tried to be discreet, but Satori noticed right away. He always noticed.

“You keep looking up,” he said, nudging you lightly with his elbow.

“It’s just… we don’t see the stars here. In Miyagi, they’re so clear and bright.”

“It’s because of the pollution.” He said matter-of-factly.

“But what do you do when they’re not here?”

“There’s water,” Tendou replied after a moment, he didn’t stop walking. “And trees, and buildings, and wind. They’re here and they’re close. You can touch them and feel them. Isn’t that better than stars?”

You smiled faintly, and the pain in your chest seemed to be relieved, even a little. “I was always scared of what Tooru would think of me. I thought, if I didn’t succeed, if I didn’t become something impressive, he’d stop walking beside me. I wanted to go to university to become a lawyer or an engineer just so he’d be proud. Am I weird for following my dream and breaking up with him instead?”

Tendou glanced at you, then grinned suddenly. “See that rat?”

Startled, you followed his gaze to a fat, black rat scurrying across the cobblestones.

“Most people hate them. Think they’re dirty and gross. But no matter what, rats keep doing their thing. People try to chase them away, kill them even, but they always come back.”

“Are you comparing me to a rat?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Rats are cute.”

“Not the ones in Paris.”

“Fair.”

You both laughed, the regrets eased.

“What I mean is,” Tendou said, almost turning serious, “there’s something you’re meant to be. It’s up to you to figure it out. But once you do, you’ll always be drawn to it. Your cakes are amazing. I think you’ve already found your path. So, stop worrying about whether that loser would have been proud of you or not.”

“He’s not a loser,” you said instinctively.

“Come on. It’s just between you and me. I know you want to say it.”

“Well…” You hesitated, “maybe he is a loser.”

“You can say it louder.”

You turned toward the Seine, cupped your hands around your mouth, and shouted, “OIKAWA TOORU IS A LOSER!”

Tendou burst out laughing again, and so did you.

That night, you went back to your dorm and, perhaps because you felt a pang of guilt, you sent Oikawa a text (because he really was not a loser, you were simply a bit heartbroken). You attached a photo of yourself in your chef’s uniform, smiling brightly.

“If you ever come to Paris, you can visit my school. We have a restaurant, and I’ll bake you milk bread.” you wrote, “I’m happy here. I hope you’re happy too.”

He replied quickly. “You’re so cool!!!(*´◡`*)” A moment later, he sent a picture of himself on a mountain peak, lying in the snow. “This was in Patagonia a few weeks ago… I got high on coca leaves. It’s supposed to help with nausea. It didn’t for me >﹏< But I’m glad to know you’re happy. I’m happy too.”

You laughed quietly at his message. You wanted to tell him more; that it was hard, and that you cried a lot, you almost wrote it down. You imagined him answering that it had been hard for him too, working even more than in high school, learning a new language, fitting in a complete different society. The two of you, maybe, weren’t so different after all. But you decided to keep those thoughts to yourself.

“Do you have one of those big white hats, like the real chefs?” he texted.

You scrolled through your photos. There was one selfie with Tendou where you were both grinning, wearing tall chef’s hats, you sent it. “This one?”

A few seconds passed before he called you.

“First Iwa-chan, now you? Traitor,” he accused. You knew he was pouting on the other side of the phone as he told you about Iwaizumi and Ushijima meeting in California. You asked for updates on his childhood friend. The call stretched on, two or three hours, his afternoon overlapping your late night.

“Shit, I have to go to my physiotherapy session. You know for my knee. I’m good though,” he added quickly. He suddenly remembered the old times in high school when you scolded him for not going to the doctor even though his knee hurt or when he forgot to apply the anti-inflammatory cream. “But I prefer when you’re the one putting it chibi-chan.” (he would always get you to do it).

“Tooru… thank you. I mean, for everything you taught me. Talent really blooms when you let it.”

This was a moment you knew you’d always remember. It was like an in-between, a raw instant and it made you feel like your universe was finally meeting his.

Stars were distant objects burning quietly in the void, destined to explode in silence.

However, they don’t explode to disappear, no, they create something new. They die and then, they are born again.

“And thank you”, he said, his voice softer now. “For teaching me to believe in myself.”

You never asked what he meant by that. Maybe he said it out of politeness. Maybe he truly meant it. Either way, you wanted to keep those words in the back of your mind forever.

Years passed, and your hard work paid off. You got an internship which turned into a permanent position at the prestigious Ritz in Paris.

Eventually, life pushed you to London. You climbed the ranks and carved out a name for yourself.

One day, Oikawa walked through the doors of your workplace in the UK, always so charming but more confident than when you met him. He was visiting from Argentina, he explained, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to drop by unannounced. You made him a chocolate mousse (you didn’t forget to add two extra spoons of sugar in it.)

Tendou, meanwhile, often took the train to visit you. You would always go out in the city to try the best pastries and rank them (it would usually end up with a stomach ache). He never stayed too long, but his visits would brighten your days.

You loved Europe, deeply, it had a special place in your heart now, but maybe it was time to go back, you found yourself thinking one day. Not because you’ve failed here, but because you missed Japan—its sounds, its tastes, its skies.

When you returned home, you noticed how brightly the stars in Miyagi shone, but you knew there was one, on the other side of the ocean, that shone even brighter.

Slowly, you stopped searching for stars above you. You began to think that what you have here on earth is enough. Perhaps what you’ve been seeking all this time isn’t a thousand kilometres away or in some distant universe. Maybe it’s real. Maybe it’s closer than you imagined.

Maybe it’s already within reach.

And one day, it might find its way to you (but that’s another story).

author notes: this will be the first part of a 2 parts story. i really enjoyed writing it so i might post the second part before i start writing ‘and i will wait for you (a thousand springs, a lifetime)’, my apologies 🫣

btw as a non-english native speaker i found it really challenging to write in the past tense, so i really hope the grammar and stuff is consistent, please tell me if you see mistakes <3

lots of love

Elie

[storiesaplenty]

Principle Price (18+)

John Price x f/Reader

Call of Duty Masterlist

Back to School Masterlist

This has not been proofread. Please enjoy, though.

Warnings: swearing. Unprotected sex. Oral (f receiving) p in v sex.

WC: 432

Gifs does not belong to me. 1st gif belongs to @selinay-04

©️ storiesaplenty 2024: Do not repost or translate my work. This is the only place I post my work.

Summary: You're the new history teacher at the local high school. You were supposed to be shown around the school by VP Garrick, but it was Principal Price who does the tour, ending in your classroom, who gives you a proper welcome to the school.

You're the new teacher, who Principle Price insisted on giving you the tour of the school just a few weeks before school started.

Usually this was be the job of the Vice-Principle Garrick, but he called out sick.

Principle Price couldn't help but put his hand on your low back, which you didn't mind.

You found the older man handsome, and his touch had your stomach fluttering, and he could tell.

He could tell you liked him just by the way you looked at him.

"Come on now, let me show your classroom." He seemed to almost purr as once again directed you towards where he wanted you to go.

Before you knew it, you found yourself sitting on your desk, your skirt hiked, and Principle Price's head was buried between your thighs, his fingers quickly thrusting in and out of your sopping, wet pussy.

You would have been embarrassed at how wet you were, but not with how he is eating you out like you are his last meal.

You grinded your pussy against his face as you came, your head head flung back as you cried out his name, your body continuing to shake from the aftermath of your orgasm, that you didn't seem to care that he stood up quickly, his cock in his hand as he quickly jerked it off, before slamming into your pussy.

Covering your mouth with one hand as you screamed at how long and thick he is.

"Principle Price." You whined as he pushed you onto your back, his hands gripping your hips to fuck into you even harder.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, holding him close to you, so he can barely pull away.

Your pussy started to flutter around his cock, indicating that you were close to finishing.

"That's it. Cum on my cock." He groaned, rutting against you, making you gasp out his name.

A few more thrusts, and you came, your back arching off of your desk, as your nails dug into his biceps.

Price couldn't hold back, he stilled as he grinded his pelvis against yours as he came, filling you to the brim it seems like.

What you didn't know, was that there was a pair of eyes watching the two of you, who couldn't help put smirk as he pulled out his phone to text a few of the other teachers and Vice-Principle what he just saw.

'Guess Price was right about our new hire.' Was the text the science teacher, Mr. MacTavish, sent.

Gym Teacher Riley (18+) - (part 2)

[hellfirenacht]

Plus One Chapter 1

Summary: Once upon a time, you made a deal with the school freak that if he ever got famous then he'd invite you to be his plus one at a red carpet event. Now a decade later an invite shows up at your house asking you to be the +1 to Eddie Munson, front man of Corroded Coffin.

Tags: modern!au, Eddie and Reader are in their late 20's/early 30's after the deal is made. Rockstar!Eddie. Friends to strangers to friends to lovers, references to Flight of Icarus characters eventually

The squeak of desks being pushed across linoleum flooring made you wince as everyone adjusted the classroom for partner work. It was too early for this, you hadn’t slept the night before and had almost been late to this class, taking your seat at the last second just as the bell rang. 

First period science wasn’t your hardest class, but it wasn’t exactly your best subject either. You’d been floating along with a solid C and that was as good as you were hoping to get. As long as you graduated by this point, you’d be happy. It was near the end of your senior year, and senioritis was hitting you hard. It was your hope that you could just coast these last few weeks, pass your finals and get the hell out of the public school system. 

There would be no coasting this morning though as you were all assigned partners. No one was thrilled about this development aside from a few peers who had been partnered with their friends. You weren’t exactly unpopular but you didn’t have anyone in this class that you would consider a friend or even an acquaintance. You’d borrowed a pencil once from Randy who sat in front of you, but other than that you kept to yourself first thing in the morning. 

Which is why when the name ‘Munson’ was called out along with your own surname you’d barely registered who that was. A few people snickered and you caught one girl giving you a pitying look as you tried to connect the name to a face. It took your partner sitting down across from you for you to realize who you’d been paired with. 

Munson. Eddie Munson. Eddie ‘the Freak’ Munson. 

Ah. That Munson. 

“Uh, hi.” he said, with a wave and you desperately tried to reconnect the tired wires in your brain to say hi back. 

“Mornin’” you managed to spit out. He sat in the back of the class on the opposite side of the room. You rarely even saw him in class because you were usually here before him, and he was the first to get out the door when class ended. You never said a word to him the whole semester, but again, you didn’t talk to anyone in this class. 

Worksheets were passed around and you stared at the different questions and equations. You might as well be sitting in Latin class with as much as this made sense to you. 

“I know this is a higher level than what you all are used to, but this is what is going to be expected of you in college next year.” Your teacher explained, followed by a chorus of groans which included yours as well as Eddie’s. 

The two of you stared at the worksheet for a moment before making eye contact. You felt a little nervous under his gaze; you’d seen him around school and had heard the rumors about the leader of the Dungeons and Dragons club. He’d been seen pushing around freshmen wearing the same shirt as him, and was often regarded as a loudmouth and a danger to everyone in school. 

It didn’t help his case that he looked older than you. His broad shoulders were only accentuated by the heavy leather jacket and denim vest giving him the appearance of someone who absolutely should not be in high school. How old was he anyway? 

“Eddie.” 

You blinked, surprised he was the first to speak. You offered your name as well with a nod, neither of you going for the handshake. 

“So... does any of this make sense to you?” he asked, looking back down at the worksheet. 

You glanced down with a small laugh. “Not even a little.” 

“Shit.”

“Shit.”

He looked up at you with a sheepish grin, and you swear it took at least five years off his appearance. You found yourself relaxing just a bit, if he was as dangerous as everyone made him out to be, at least he wouldn’t do something stupid in the middle of class. Hopefully. 

You grabbed your textbook and opened it up and Eddie leaned over the desk to read with you. 

“Sorry, forgot mine.” He said and you adjusted the book so it sat between the two of you. 

The next half hour was a testament of will as the two of you tried your best to work out the formulas put in front of you. The ancient calculators that the teacher had provided only caused more confusion between the two of you and you tried to figure out buttons that you had never had to press before. 

“I’m sure someone, somewhere is using this on a daily basis.” you said as you jotted down a string of numbers that you were positive were wildly incorrect. “I understand that this is important to someone, but outside of a trivia game there’s no way I’m ever going to even think about this ever again.” 

You were mostly talking to yourself, not expecting a response from your partner. He was looking at the calculator, and your string of numbers with equal confusion. 

“Music is as advanced as my math skills go.” Eddie said. He’d removed his jacket at some point where you were staring at your textbook with a blank expression trying to understand how to apply the formulas. You couldn’t stop your eyes from occasionally flicking towards the tattoos that covered his right arm. So he was at least old enough to get tattoos... or to have a parent or guardian agree to let him get tattoos. 

You weren’t sure why you were so hung up on his age. Maybe it was easier to focus on that mystery than the jumble of letters and numbers that was making your brain more numb than it already felt. 

“What kind of music?” The question was out of your mouth without thinking. You didn’t think you’d seen him hang out with the band or orchestra kids before. 

“Metal and rock music mostly.” Eddie said, erasing one of the numbers. His pencil was a cheap one, and only managed to make a huge smudge on his paper rather than clear his answer. You handed over your own pencil on instinct and he took it with a thanks. 

“Do you play an instrument or something?” you asked, already checked out of the worksheet. Fuck it. It’s not like it was going to count for much anyway. 

“Yeah I, uh, I’ve been playing guitar since I was a kid.” There was a light in his eyes that made you wonder why anyone would ever think he was dangerous or scary. In the half hour that the two of you had been struggling with this busy work the two of you had been making small talk that you’d found way more engaging. 

“Electric or guitar?” you asked, and it was when Eddie let out a laugh that you realized what you had asked. You pressed your hands to your face with an embarrassed chuckle. “I didn’t sleep last night.” 

“I play electric and guitar.” came the teasing response. “But I lean more towards electric unless my uncle is home or I need to keep it down.”

“Are you any good?” 

“Good enough to have a steady gig at the Hideout.” he shrugged. “It’s not much, but it’s a stage. Sort of.” 

Eddie had also given up on the worksheet and was using your pencil to absently doodle in the margins of the paper. 

“I have no idea where that is.” 

“Shady dive bar in the warehouse district. My band and I play on Tuesdays, you should come see us sometime. It’s a shithole, but it’s safe.” The last part was added hastily as he saw your weary expression. 

A shady dive bar on a school night? Not a great chance of that. 

“What’s your band called?” 

“Corroded Coffin.” he dug around his pockets in his jeans and jacket before he pulled out a bent cut out piece of flashcard and handed it to you. It had the band’s name scribbled on it in sharpie and a list of socials on the back. It screamed home made and there was a charm to it that made you smile. 

“I’ll check you out.” you said, tucking it into the book you had been reading for the past week knowing damn well that you were probably going to forget about it the second it was out of sight. 

“Don’t worry about the worksheet being perfect.” the teacher piped up from their desk. “Just do your best, and it’s only being counted as pass/fail. I’m just trying to see that you’re all able to use your critical thinking skills to look up information.”

“I’m about to use my critical thinking skills to bullshit the rest of the worksheet.” Eddie muttered and you laughed. 

You grabbed his worksheet and scribbled down a formula and some numbers and handed it back. “Long as there’s something written down she doesn’t care.” 

That was good enough for the both of you as you set the papers aside. There was still a good fifteen minutes left in class, and you expected that the two of you would just sit awkwardly in your grouped desk facing each other until the bell rang. You almost laid your head down on the desk and try and get a power nap in, but curiosity was getting the better of you. 

“So, you wanna do music for a living?” you asked, looking at him again. 

“Ideally.” Eddie said, fidgeting with your pencil still. You decided that it was his pencil now, you had others in your bag. “I know it’s a long shot and most of my band is still gonna be in school when I graduate this year but we’ve got a few songs that we’ve been working on.”

“So you’re gonna be famous one day?” It wasn’t a sarcastic question, but a genuine one. Maybe this guy could be famous one day, you didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t even want to be famous. 

Eddie shook his head and laughed. “I’ll be lucky to keep the lights on with my music, but I’m gonna try.”

“You’re going to be famous.” you told him with a firm nod. The lack of sleep was catching up to you. It’s not like anything in this class was going to matter in the future anyway. “I’ve decided it.”

“You decided that I’m going to be famous?” he asked slowly, as if trying to decide if you were fucking with him or not. 

“Yeah, why not?” You replied. 

He stared at you and his gaze turned intense as he sat up straighter. Eddie’s gaze swept over your face, looking for any sign that you were speaking with ill intent, when he found none, he gave you a smile. 

“I’ll hold you to it then.” he said. “If I don’t get famous I’m holding you personally responsible.” 

“Alright, but there’s a catch.” your smile widened. 

“A catch? You won’t let me get famous on my charm and talent alone?” He tilted his head with a grin. 

“Nope. I need payment. Deciding things isn’t cheap, you know.” you were delusional from lack of sleep, and you probably sounded crazy to him.

“Alright, what’s your fee?” Eddie leaned back in his chair, looking as if he were trying to start a business deal. His demeanor change starkly contrasted the long dark hair, band t shirt, and heavy metal rings he wore and you had to stop yourself from laughing. 

You thought about it for a moment. “I want to be your plus one to at least one of your red carpet events.” you said. ���I think that’s payment enough.”

He rubbed his chin in thought, as if carefully considering your offer. “And if I don’t.”

“If you forget to come back for Madame Zeroni, you and your family will be cursed for always and eternity.” you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing now at how ridiculous you sounded. 

“Holes? Really?” Eddie snorted. “Alright, I know how that story ends. You have a deal.” 

He offered you his hand and you two shook on it. 

And because you two had at least ten minutes to kill, Eddie took out a beat up notebook and started drawing up a contract to make it official. The two of you debated on the wording, and how it should be drawn out. In the end, it was decided that Eddie would have at least five years after his first red carpet to invite you to an event (your idea) or else he’d be cursed and he’d end up on TMZ in a scandal involving a goat and a runaway parade float (his idea).

You each signed the fake contract, dated it, and had the teacher notarize it. 

“Did you two even try to do the worksheet?” they asked, signing and stamping the notebook with a ‘GOOD JOB!’ stamp.

“We tried.” Eddie smiled at the teacher, taking the notebook back and trading it for the worksheets.

The bell rang and you two shook hands one last time. The last few weeks flew by in a whirlwind of spring break, prom season, and graduation. You barely talked to Eddie after that class, occasionally saying hi to him in the hallway, or the odd small chat during class. You’d managed to get him to sign your yearbook, but he hadn’t asked you to sign his. You felt a little sad about it, looking back. He’d been nice to talk to, and his reputation hadn’t lived up to that hour that you’d been forced to spend with him. 

Graduation was the last time you’d seen him, when he’d run across the stage, flipped off Principal Higgins and ran off like a bat out of hell. You had looked for him passively in the chaos and sea of graduates and their families taking photos and congratulating each other. Okay, maybe you’d looked for him a bit more deliberately than you’d let on. 

Maybe you had developed a small crush on Eddie in that hour that you’d spent working on that stupid worksheet. Maybe you had hoped that when you gave him your email in that contract he’d reach out to you to say hi. Maybe, yes, you did eventually remember the handmade business card for Corroded Coffin and had looked up their information a month into summer to find them as dead and dry as the Sahara desert, with only a muffled .mp3 of one of their songs to go off of. 

There were a lot of maybe’s that came with being in high school. 

But life moves on. You forget about the man with the long dark hair and boyish smile. Your yearbook gets tucked away in a box, out of site and out of mind. The homemade business card gets lost under the bed and eventually tossed in a deep clean as you get ready to move to college and move out. The muffled .mp3 sits in your computer for years until you get a smartphone and stuff a ton of your old music on it, shuffling it into your streaming playlists. 

The song gets skipped over more often than you’d ever admit. 

And now there you were in your new apartment a year after graduating college, living on your own for the first time. No dorm, no family, no roommates, no partner. 

It was the middle of your work week, and you were outside checking the mail. You flipped through the envelopes of junk and bills for anything that would have been worth the walk from your apartment to the community mailbox. 

A thick envelope with your name and address was in the middle of the pile. Your name was hand lettered in fancy script and you glanced at where the return address should be. 

WR RECORDS 

Who?

You pulled the envelope out and glanced at the rest of the mail to make sure there was nothing important there before tossing it into your neighbors recycling bin. You ripped open the envelope. 

Inside was a thick black card, and your name was once again written in beautiful red ink that reflected off the dark card stock. 

WR Records would like to invite you to be the +1 to Mr. Eddie Munson of Corroded Coffin to this year's annual Hellfire Awards.

And below that in chicken scratch handwriting that wildly contrasted the careful lettering of the rest of the card: 

A deal’s a deal.

You stared at the words and read them over and over and over again, trying to make sense of them and only one question passed your mind. 

“Who the fuck is Eddie Munson?” 

---

Please comment and reblog <3

Tag List: @hellfiredarling @crocwork-clockodile @hitoshislut @kurdtbean @kennedy-brooke @daisyridleyyyy

[therestlesswon]

I had 10 cats at once one time :3

(It was hell and two thirds.)

BaaaKA. I need art requests NOW!!!

[queenshelby]

The Law Student (Rewritten)

Part One: Starting Out

Pairing: Cillian Murphy (20) & Reader (30)

Note: This plays in 1996, just before Cillian drops out of law school.

Today was your first day as a lecturer at the University of Cork, and you felt a mix of excitement and nervousness.

After completing your law and teaching degrees, you started working at a local law firm. You had a successful career, but your soul craved teaching and interacting with young minds.

As such, when the university at which you had studied yourself reached out to you with an irresistible offer, you couldn't turn it down.

Even though you had never lectured at a university before, you were still confident in your abilities. You knew that this where you wanted to be right now in your life and the only issue was that your ex, James, was employed there as well. 

You had been married to James for several years , but eventually, things went south and you both mutually decided to part ways. It was an unpleasant breakup that left you both drained.

James had never really forgiven you for leaving him for bigger and better things, and he constantly reminded you of the time you both spent together. You were thirty now and rented a nice apartment in the center of Cork.

You had no children with James and, luckily for you, he was a science professor rather than a professor at law, so you knew that you wouldn't see each other often. His faculty was far away from yours and, keeping that in mind, you accepted the position the university had offered you. 

*** The First Lecture ***

Your first day at the faculty  finally arrived and you stopped by to check your lecture schedule. You noticed a lecture hall number for which you had to find your way.

Arriving at the given classroom number, you glanced around the area. You felt intimidated as you entered the ancient gray lecturing hall with its high ceiling, tall windows, wooden benches and old, but friendly-looking, portraits mounted above.

A wave of anxiety came over you. The room was almost filled to capacity. Students sat scattered throughout the hall, laughing, chatting, and seemingly relaxed.

They reminded you of a wave of colors, with some sporting all black, while others wore bright, vibrant pinks and oranges.

Their expressions reflected excitement, mixed with anxiety, and you could sense the tension due to the first day of the school year.

For every person in the room, there was a unique set of circumstances that had led them to attend this lecture. This reignited your dedication towards mentoring and teaching these young minds, which eased your nerves.

Retaking a deep breath, you flashed a charming, confident smile and walked over to the lectern.

"Hello Everyone, my name is [Your Name], and I will be your Law Professor this semester," you announced, projecting your voice while placing your notes calmly down.

A sudden eruption of chatter and movement ensued as the students received this information. You took a moment to soak it all in, making sure to scan the room for any familiar faces and, of course, there were none. 

During the first year, you knew that the students would mainly be under your supervision as you taught the introductory law course, Law 101 and Law 100. You were well aware that around thirty percent of your students would not continue into the second year and you also realized that not everyone was cut out for studying law, so you made an effort to make the subject interesting for your students.

"Unfortunately for you, you will be stuck with me this year as I will be covering off all of the introductory law subjects and, whilst some of the coursework may be dry, I promise that I will make your learning experience here as enriching as I can," you continued. "What I need from you is dedication, passion, and an open mind."

You paused for a moment, drinking in the environment, and stared into the eyes of the sea of attentive young faces.

"As part of this journey, I would also like to get to know you a little better, so I have prepared some questionnaires for you all to fill out. This will help me gauge your understanding levels and any unique, personal interests or experiences you might have."

You then pulled out some sheets from your briefcase.

"Now, if you would take these out and pass them forward to the nearest person to you, and once filled in, pass them back, we can proceed to understanding who you are better."

A collective scribbling of pens ensued as students started filling out the questionnaires.

It was amazing to see the diversity that lay here before you. Each entry was a life, a story, a legacy that had individual values, fears and expectations and, after all of the students handed back their papers, you dove straight into the lecture content for which students were required to read thirty pages from their textbook. 

As you were speaking about the material covered, you noticed that a group of young men in the second row were not paying much attention to what you had to say. Instead, they were actually looking at a magazine while happily discussing its content .

You recognized their behavior as being disengaged from the lecture and, just as you were about to lower your rating for their participation, you noticed that the young man on the far left of them was pushing the magazine away.

He was staring at you now as if he was a deer caught in headlights. He knew that he had been caught for not paying attention and as you followed his line of sight, you noticed how adorably flustered he was, all pink cheeks and disheveled hair.

"Now that I have your attention, can you tell me why the judge 's rulings in this scenario would establish the doctrine of foreseeability?" you asked, addressing him directly, causing even his fellow students to put the magazine aside. 

He looked bewildered, slowly gathering his thoughts and in that moment.

Fumbling his way around the answer, his vulnerably and clearly unpracticed nature showed as his hands gripped onto a textbook placed upon his lap. The vulnerable energy exuded by this raw and real response captivated you.

"Uhm ... Mhm. Yes, well, I suppose the judge's ruling," he stammered , followed by a deafening pause while you waited for the continuation of his answer. He glanced around nervously at the other students as if seeking validation for what his answer might be. "What case was this, Miss Y/LN?" he then asked, raising his right eyebrow in genuine confusion and you couldn't help but feel even more captivated by this young man, who still seemed to be embarrassed from being caught.

He had a subtle accent that hinted at coming from the country.

"It was Hart v Hart," you explained with a smile.

"Right, sorry. It was Hart v. Hart," he repeated as he furrowed his brows and continued to examine the pages spread before him. "In Hart v. Hart, the judge  ruled that if a person engages in an inherently dangerous activity, such as driving under the influence of alcohol, then that person can be held partially liable for any harm that results from their actions even if the other driver was actually at fault," the student then explained nervously, making you realize that he had, indeed, read the prescribed reading. 

"Yes, that's correct, uhm...I am sorry, I need to really memorize all of your names. I promise, I will try," you replied, not recalling his name. 

"Cillian," he answered, holding your gaze firmly while pushing his hair back with his free hand.

The moment our eyes met, you noticed that his were the most captivating deep blue eyes you had ever seen. He flashed you an enchanting smile, and you couldn't help but become conscious of your own smile as your cheeks turned a light shade of pink.

You recovered quickly, clearing your throat and stating, "Thank you Cillian,"  as you darted your gaze back to the students before you, trying to easily move on from this moment.

As soon as you were finished with the lecture, he approached you while his friends walked out of the lecture hall, giggling and whispering to each other as they watched their friend 's interaction with you.

Cillian now stood before you, looking a tad bit intimidated as he ran his hand through his hair nervously.  

"Cillian, right?" you  asked to confirm, nodding in acknowledgment.

"Yes," he replied with a smile, his cheeks turning a soft shade of pink.

"How can I help you?" you asked, your curiosity welling up due to his lingering presence, as you noticed the intense look in his eyes.

"Well, I just," he stammered. "I am sorry about earlier Miss Y/LN ," he said sincerely, averting his gaze, manifesting in a newfound confidence that, surprisingly, didn't intimidate you at all.

"It's alright. It happens," you admitted with a chuckle.

"So we are good?" he asked, lifting his gaze back to yours.

"Yes, we're grand," you confirmed with a smile, finding his nerves endearing.

The way he was fidgeting before you reminded you of a curious young boy rather than a young university student.

"Okay. Good," Cillian murmured, the relief washing over him. He smiled again, exposing his dimples. "Then, have a good day, Miss Y/LN," Cillian stammered, glancing at you one more time before walking away to follow his friends. 

*** Cillian's POV ****

"Someone has a thing for our new professor," his friend Ben teased as Cillian walked over to them, and they left the building together.

"Don't be an eejit ," Cillian replied, playfully shoving his best friend as his cheeks burned up. "I was just trying to be polite ," he muttered, feeling flustered at being put on the spot.

Ben and the others laughed, enjoying the spectacle of their now clearly flustered friend.

Ben shook his head amused. "Suuuure!" he drawled, skepticism oozing from his tone. "You could have fooled us, because you sure looked like you could hardly take your eyes off her," he continued, teasing him relentlessly.

"She's our teacher for fuck sake," he retorted and it was rare for Cillian to get flustered like that, but there was something about you that drew him in.

"And she is one good looking MILF," Ben quipped and they all burst into laughter at his comment, but Cillian couldn't help the feeling of annoyance bubbling inside of him. He couldn't exactly say why, but the thought of his friends objectifying you made him angry.

You were smart and confident, and Cillian had to admit that your intellect intrigued him, but it was more than that. He couldn't explain it and tried to simply ignore his attraction towards you, hoping it would go away. Cillian knew that he had to focus on his studies and his future career prospects even though his passions were laying elsewhere. Law was not for him but, even at twenty years of age, he had yet to realize what his real calling was.

His father had always been proud of Cillian and supported his education, but at the same time, he, like many fathers of his generation, believed in the importance of material success. Law was a well-paid profession and, at least in his father's eyes, Cillian not having chosen a suitable career path yet was a source of concern.

His mother, on the other hand, had recognized the fire in his eyes at a young age.

She sensed his innate desire to create and to perform. Even at fifteen, he would spend hours, almost obsessively, learning musical pieces and theatre scripts. He found beauty in unfolding stories told through music and film and, by sixteen, he was performing with a band - an unstable career path, one that wavered with uncertainty.

His heart and soul belonged to art and performance, but the fear of letting his father down haunted him a little so he went to law school instead. 

*** Your POV ***

The fact that law wasn't his calling also became evident to you when you began to read the questionnaire Cillian had submitted.  It contained answers that demonstrated genuine interest in the subject, but at the same time, you noticed that he had written entire paragraphs about his passion for theater and music.

You smiled at this realization.

You chose to believe that some people simply haven't yet found the courage to pursue what they truly loved and you pondered about how often this happened when it came to students choosing courses and careers in college.

Most of them were at an age where they were experimenting and discovering who they were, what they liked, and what they weren't particularly fond of.

It was during this period of self-discovery that many of them realized that their passions lay elsewhere - that their more practical choices were not aligned with their true callings.

As you continued to read through Cillian's questionnaire, you realized that his passion for acting became apparent in his answers. The cases he chose to delve into on the questionnaire were cases that were made more interesting due to their underlying personal and emotional aspects rather than just the black tops and white bottoms of legal principles.

He related these cases to his own experiences in story telling. For instance, in answering a question about an interesting case of tort law, he wrote about "The Deer Hunter" movie and the emotional turmoil the character had to go through due to his experiences in the war. He then compared this scenario to what happened in the case and his answer grabbed your attention not only due to the co-relation between the movie and the case, but also because it pulled at your heartstrings and made you feel something profound and unforgettable.

Cillian had a way with words, and you found yourself reading through Cillian's answers multiple times, simply because they were so much more than just the mere facts.

He weaved stories within stories, connecting the dots between fiction and reality, between law and life. You recognized a young, fresh, and overflowing talent in him, although clearly, this talent was not going to be one in law. 

*** The following two weeks ***

Over the next two weeks , you spent a considerable amount of time crafting the perfect lecture content for your students, ensuring it catered for their different learning styles.

You designed a series of hands-on workshops for your students and introduced practical lessons to illustrate the concepts learned in your lectures. It was important to you to teach them in an engaging and interactive manner so that they would have greater retention and overall understanding of the concepts.

For each workshop, you created different scenarios where students would have to analyze, argue, and debate the legal issues presented before them.

This allowed them to think critically, discuss differing viewpoints, and most importantly, experience firsthand what it was truly like to be a lawyer.

In doing this, you incorporated your own past experiences as well. This allowed you to connect with your students on a personal level while teaching them valuable communication skills that they could use for their future careers.

Cillian, for instance, showed remarkable passion for this type of activity, demonstrating an ability to argue thoughtfully and eloquently, while always remaining respectful when disagreeing with his classmates and you couldn't help but praise him for his particpation.

"Dude, you are trying way too hard," Ben teased Cillian after the workshop which was a comment you overheard but chose to ignore.

Instead, you observed Cillian share a look of irritation with his friend. "I am not even trying, seriously," he replied flatly with an eye roll that made you stifle a giggle.

"Yes you are. You are trying hard to impress our professor, whom you still have a massive crush on. You are nowhere near as engaged in Torts and Contracts," Ben retorted, poking fun at his best friend, causing him to blush with embarrassment.

"Shut up man. I am not having a crush on her," Cillian muttered, trying to downplay it while you found this exchange rather amusing, overhearing it while still grading student assignments.

You had heard some rumors amongst your peers that a couple of your students may be having a crush on you and you heard from others that this wasn't really unusual. Many students had innocent crushes on their teachers and, while you could understand how that might happen, you had to remind yourself to always maintain a professional distance.

Keeping your distance from Cillian, however, soon proved much harder than you anticipated when he started to struggle with some of the course content in another subject for which it was recommended that you tutor him.

By the fourth week, you already tutored three other students for subjects you did not, yourself, teach to them and singling Cillian out from tutoring because of his little crush didn't strike you the right way. Thus, when he asked you for help during the break in your next lecture, you did not hesitate.

*** The Beginning of Tutoring ***

"I've been having some trouble with contracts and torts," Cillian said, running a hand through his hair, looking nervous and uncertain. "And my lecturer in those subjects recommended that I seek additional help."

"Of course," you said, giving him a reassuring smile. "I'd be happy to set up some tutoring sessions for you. I think it's great that you're taking the initiative to seek help in areas where you're struggling," you said, maintaining a professional tone.

Cillian nodded, looking relieved. "Thank you, I really appreciate it. I want to do well in this program, you know," he stammered  , his eyes flickering nervously around the still-bustling lecture hall. "I can't afford to fail any subjects," he added, biting his bottom lip.

His vulnerability struck a chord within you, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of empathy towards him. You understood the pressure that students faced when it came to academic performance, and you admired Cillian's determination to succeed.

"Of course, I completely understand. How about we start on Thursday?"  you suggested, favoring an informal approach. "I'm available from four until six-thirty, so we should have plenty of time to go over any areas you're struggling with without feeling rushed."

Cillian nodded, grimacing slightly. "Yeah, that'll be grand," he replied, managing a weak smile. "I'll see you then, Miss Y/LN," he added, before gathering his belongings and rushing off to his next class.

You couldn't help but watch him leave, taking in the sight of him as he walked confidently through the crowd of students. The way his hair fell onto his forehead and the determined look in his eyes stayed with you even after he had left.

You let out a long sigh, trying to shake off the odd sense of familiarity that washed over you. The idea of tutoring Cillian ignited a spark of excitement in you, mixed with a pinch of anxiety.

You were nervous at the prospect of spending two extra hours alone with him every week, given what you had picked up from the rumor mill about his crush, and, to make matters even worse, no matter how much you tried to deny it or push it away, the truth was that you, yourself, had started recognizing a certain level of fascination towards Cillian. It was a fascination you knew you shouldn't have. Not only were you ten years older than him, but he was also your student. 

Tags:

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@heidimoreton @nela-cutie @futurecorps3 @delishen @nosebleeds-247 @thirteenis-myluckynumber @gills-lounge @hjmalmed @lost-fantasy @tiredkitten @sidechrisporn @smallsoulunknown @charqing-qing @hopefulinlove @aporiasposts @shycrybaby @me-and-your-husband @hjmalmed @lacontroller1991 @galxydefender @aporiasposts

@galxydefender @hunnibearrr @saint-ackerman @lunyyx @gentlemonsterjennie1 @ihavealotoffandomssorry @nadloves @lost-fantasy @nolucesn@mcavoy-girl @hjmalmed @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @blushykiss @tatumrileyslover @teawithsatanx @orijanko @rhaenyra4ever @xcinnamonmalfoyx @budugu @nadloves @kmc1989 @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @forgottenpeakywriter @smailaway @sophiaaguirred

[whorediaries-09]

Hi! if you still taking requests I'd love to make another one about the love of my life, James Potter.

I know it might be super cliche but I was thinking about professor! James forgetting his lunch or maybe reader is a sweetheart who brings lunch to him and everyone at Hogwarts it's obsessed with them because they're sooo cute and they're like their cool school parents

Please and thank u, muak right to youuu.

ugghh this is so cute!! i loved writing this one!! i hope you like it!

labyrinth;

pairing- professor!james potter x professor!reader warning(s)- fluff. (let me know if i should add more) a/n- i literally changed a lot but it's low-key similar?? i'm sorry though i hope you understand, my brain could only come up with this.

little train.

' you would break your back to make me break a smile you know how much I hate that everybody just expects me to bounce back '

'good morning students! i hope you've got your models ready for today.' you say, walking into the class. the curtains have been rolled up perfectly by your plethora of eager art students, who chant a good morning, staring at you as your steps fall into the classroom. they know you like to work with the sunlight.

they scramble around their canvases and models, the soles of their shoes rubbing against the newly polished tiles. they look at you with eager faces, waiting for your model to appear. you raise your hands, addressing them.

'okay so this the first class is for realism - which annoys a lot of people over here, i know. but everybody has to pass these few assignments okay? i've to send them for supervision to the higher authorities so that they can ensure i've put on the correct grades according to the quality of the work.'

'because unlike you, they don't care about the creativity,' the political science professor enters the classroom, wearing his dazzling white smile. the students turn their heads, watching him enter the room. among the few students who know both him and you, there's rumbling. and among those who know you, there's questions rising of the cause of the sudden rumbling.

'quieten down kids, no more talking. this is a very important class. you'll learn the basics and the importance of this branch of art. mr. potter,' you look him in the eye. he visibly tones down his raised arms and shoulders, 'i need you to bring me two tools and a canvas.' he nods.

*-

james is sitting directly under the rays of the sun. they are golden, reflecting upon his beautiful dusky brown skin. it hits him in the eye, but he's still, letting you take your sweet time while you explain the theories and the basics of the art.

he likes how patiently you teach them the correct ways and methods while also consoling them by reminding them every other artist has a unique style and shouldn't be bound by some rules. you stay to teaching them the outlines of color theories, which couldn't be modified much when this art style was practiced.

he's also never felt this nervous and giddy. he's usually a very confident man, but within your presence, a few ties of his uptight confidence break, and all hell loses free. he's turns into a puddle right under your piercing gaze, which is unusual for a man like james potter. he would still remember the day you'd asked him to model for you. he'd gone home and giggled into the pillow like a high school high on hormones.

'hi, mr. potter,' you'd whispered behind him. he'd been talking to sirius. he'd been taken aback by your sudden appearance- and sirius' lack of reaction, considering he'd been sitting facing james.

he turned around, and by habit ruffled his already messy hair. he smiled, trying to hide the pleasant shock behind his eyes. he felt his cheeks warming up with the way you looked at him. sliding him a paper cup, you stood, twiddling with your thumbs.

'this is?-'

'chai! masala chai! consider it a bribe for the awkward question i'm about to ask.'

'nothing is awkward james, love. i think you'll be fine.' sirius said. he slipped his fingers within the crook of his jacket that had been hanging on the edge of the chair. he smiled, a mischievous uplift of his lips. 'but just in case,' he said, walking out of the room, leaving you and james alone. james gulped, following his friend's silhouette.

'so...'

'yeah, uhm so i was wondering whether you'd model for me? only if you're comfortable though!' james was sure the red hot blood rush into his cheeks was extremely was visible. he felt his nerves turn mush and stomach flip with giddiness.

'i don't particularly mind it no,' he said. he took the burning cup into his grip, taking a slow sip. he only hoped it wouldn't be too spicy.

'so you're up for it?' you asked. he saw the tension from your back literally lift up, and a glee float in your eyes.

'i am up for it,' he said taking another sip of the tea. 'but you need to tell me why me,' you rubbed the back of your head, laughing nervously.

'uhh... i think you've gorgeously complicated features which would allow me to teach my students with enthusiasm because i teach the best with complicated features. i don't mean it in a harsh way, i also think you're beautiful so...' he nodded letting your words sink into his brain and stop himself from taking you by your neck and press his lips onto yours.

'is it any good? the tea?' you asked, breaking the awkward tension and the lack of his response. you wondered whether you made him uncomfortable with your answer.

'it's perfect. the sweetness and the spiciness.'

it was not.

*-

'okay so carefully outline your vision for the model, and let your brains take over your mind! this has been a boring class i realize but please submit your homework by the deadline so i'll suggest ways for improving your work-'

'-because this is extremely important for your grades students. now the kids over here who are also in my class, i'll deduct grades if you all don't take her words seriously.' james completed for you, cracking his back and rolling his shoulders. the students booed mockingly. one of them, a fiery person too raised her voice,

'you're barely serious in your own classes!' james knitted his eyebrows.

'are you questioning my abilities of teaching?'

'no, i'm not. i'm saying you're not serious in your own lessons sometimes- and you're a pretty much of a goofball yourself.'

'that's fine, i can be a goofball and be a good professor too. ms. grace, please mind your tone, or i'll be obliged to turn into an insufferable old prat.'

'okay come on let's not create an unnecessary drama over here, you have theatres and mr. pettigrew to help with that.' you said, trying to calm down bubbling waters. the students picked up their bags, walking away. yet again, leaving the both of you alone.

james helped you put on your coat. he wondered whether his part was done. he wondered why he cared so much about whether his part was done or not. the question lingered at the tip of his tongue before he spat it out.

'is my work done now?' he asks. you linger, your back faced towards him. he feels a wave of heat from your body crumple over his senses. you turn around, facing him. the remnants of the sun rays surround him, filtering out his outline. there's something in his eyes. a string of vulnerability you've never seen in his eyes. a string of vulnerability he's never felt within his.

'no.' you say. your breath is hot, which falls on his lips. he gulps, noticing how close you are. somehow it feels natural. in your piercing gaze he feels his beating heart stop. it's as if your features are one hell of a drug, reeking him into a spiral of things he's never felt before. your beauty is surreal, captured within his memories and his heart. he wishes he'd capture the way he sees you onto the canvas.

'are you bored of me, james?' you ask. you've never said his name before. it sets his senses on fire, a creeping hotness melting onto his nerves.

'no,' he says. he moves closer, his mouth so close to yours. he wants to touch them, get drunk upon the reminiscent taste he's never tasted before.

'are you sure, james?' you ask, your eyes falling onto his lips. he nods, unable to answer. in your eyes, he sees his portrait in a beauty he's never seen before. his fingers slips into yours, and he feels them.

and he wonders, when your fingers work on the canvas, how you conceive him, how you decipher him. all he's sure of is that he's the most beautiful when you portray him.

*************************************

taglist - @reggieisfit @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader @jamespottergf @eternallybipanicking @fictional-magic @iamgayforyourmom1510

(if you want to be tagged please send a request through my inbox.)

****************************************

[candywife333]

Pizza Face

[TEASER]

-SLATED FOR RELEASE IN DECEMBER AS PART OF CHRISTMAS SPECIAL

incel/nerd jungkook (+soft yandere) x horny chubby reader

Trigger warnings: obsessive love, dub con, voyeurism

"I want to climb up your chimney", she solemnly declared with a straight face.

Jungkook started coughing ceaselessly, choking for air, "Excuse me? Were you talking to me"?

Y/N's glare fixated on him threateningly, "Who else would I be talking to? My tits? My pussy? Who else is the only human being in the room right now"?

Jungkook was truly stunned by Y/N's question, nobody ever talked to him. Most of the student population ignored him, or worse, bullied him for his soft spoken nature and acne ridden face. His nickname was pizza face at school and not even one person would try to be his friend. Even when he approached people, they ignored him, as though he were air, as if he didn't exist in the realm of humans.

Y/N asking him a lewd request was even more shocking. She was a straight-laced, high performing honor student who was super popular for her beauty. Never did he expect her to talk to the likes of him.

He still couldn't forget the the vision of her moaning in the empty classroom a few months ago. He had sneaked back in to the deserted science classroom to look for a book that he lost. Wandering into the empty classroom he had suddenly ducked as he heard the loud mewling coming from the front of the room.

To the bewilderment of his eyes, he saw a blessed, divine sight he had never before seen in his life. A living, real flesh and blood woman, naked. It had been Y/N, spread out in all her glory on the teacher's desk, school skirt pulled all the way up, pink lacy panties pushed down, shirt unbuttoned with her scrumptious tits bouncing up and down.

She was facing towards the classroom as he saw her delicate fingers rubbing up and down her slick core, hair disheveled as she had spread her legs completely open to expose her perfect pussy to the chilly air of the classroom. She had already clearly reached her high as a bunch of her release dripped down her pussy, falling onto the linoleum floors below.

With a satisfied smile, Y/N proceeded to pull her panties back up, licking the release on her hand, and buttoned up her shirt.

Irritated by Jungkook staring off into a daze, zoning off mid-conversation with her, she compelled him with her glare, "So, do you agree to meeting with me in the church at 6 PM? It will be empty and will suit our needs perfectly". Jungkook, still trying to grasp her request, shook by her even interacting with him, stuttered out,"Y-y-yes Y/N. I will".

Gratified with his weak agreement, Y/N sauntered out of the room smoothly as Jungkook stared at her. It seemed that Christmas had come earlier for him.

Keep in mind, even the credits are 18 +

Credits/Inspiration for this upcoming fic. The last two are my favorite church/sinner fics of all time :

Triple H -episodes 1 and 4

Between Two Sinners- loquacious lo (creator) on AO3

Fully Absolved- by anonymous on AO3

[the-whispers-of-death]

High School Teacher AU

So the results from this poll was to do the AU with both my OCs & the 141, but I want to clarify that while I might do Teacher!141 x Reader if asked, this AU is mainly a Kali x Stone AU. The 141 aren't really the main focus (though that's not to say they'll only appear rarely).

Anyways, I wanted to first to an introduction of all of the characters (because I finally named my newest OC). We're going to talk about what class they're teaching, a little bit about them in this AU.

We're going to do this by grades (because some of them are teaching the same subject ((ie history)) but they're different classes). It's important to note that this is a U.S. high school, not a British/UK one. Also, some of them still have their callsigns because those callsigns could easily be written as a nickname they got from students.

Okay now onto the cast:

Peter Williams, Personal Fitness (Grade 9)- Coach Williams is well-loved by the students and is a former Marine. He's not very strict, very much lenient, hence why the freshmen love him. He has a knife scar that goes through his left eyebrow and all the way through his left eye (but didn't blind him). He is known for gushing about his wife and daughters (though some students and faculty believe that Dr. Greene is actually his "wife").

Arun "Hellstorm" Khatri, Environmental Science (Grade 9)- Mr. Kahtri is a former Naval pilot and is known as "Hellstorm" because he once "rained hell" down on a teacher who humiliated a student by making them stand outside the classroom with a sign detailing how they misbehaved. That being said, he is known for looking like he's perpetually bored due to his face usually being neutral and his voice monotone.

Kyle Garrick, Creative Photography 1 (Grades 9-12)- Mr. Garrick is a former SAS soldier who moved from the UK to teach kids how to get into photography. He teaches Creative Photography 1 only because he primarily works with film instead of digital cameras. Students often gush about how he makes them love photography and how his tips help them become better photographers.

John MacTavish, 2D Studio Art 1 & 2 (Grades 9-12)- Mr. MacTavish is a former SAS soldier and he moved from the UK to help American kids either start their artistic career or better improve their artistic skills. He's very out-going and he's a hit amongst the students. Don't tell the administrative faculty, but he often puts on movies for the kids on slow days.

Fariz "Heartthrob" Shah, Nutrition & Wellness (Grades 9-12)- Mr. Shah is a former Marine and he got his nickname due to being very charismatic. He is said to make all of the faculty swoon and even some students (though he stays away from students, even if they're eighteen). He teaches his students the joys of cooking.

Ashok Kumar, Chorus 1, 2, & 3 (Grades 9-12)- Mr. Kumar is a former Marine and he is extremely tall at 6'6". He walks a fine line of being demanding in terms of choir performance while also having days where his classes are just watching movies to relax. He and his senior chorus class go to Disney every year to perform. His choirs have won more trophies than the football team.

John Price, World History (Grade 10)- Mr. Price is a former SAS soldier and he moved to America as a favor to the principal of the high school whom he had fought alongside with. He is considered to be a rather fair teacher, stern but not too strict. He's vying to be the favorite history teacher among the tenth graders, often clashing with Stone/Mr. Mishra who also teaches tenth graders.

Vasanti Singh, IT Systems and Applications (Grade 10)- Ms. Singh is a former information systems technical and she took this teaching job simply because it was easy enough to let her mind rest. She's known to goof around, being a hit among the students and the other faculty members. Most students take her class because they think it'll be easy, oh how wrong they are.

Simon "Ghost" Riley, Weight Training 1, 2, & 3 (Grades 10-12)- Coach Riley is a former SAS soldier and he is known for being a hard-ass. He's really strict and has made kids cry, but he was the best out of all of the potential candidates so he got hired. His nickname is due to him being able to just disappear without anyone noticing. He lowkey has animosity towards Coach Williams because he doesn't understand why Coach Williams is so easygoing with the students. He pushes his students to be the best they can be. He has declined offers to become the new football coach, despite his leadership potentially being the key to improve the football team.

Nathan Greene, AP Pre-Calculus (Grades 10-12)- Dr. Greene is a former Marine and he has a PHD in mathematics. He could be teaching at a college and be a professor, but he loves to help improve younger students' love for mathematics. He is rumored to be Coach Williams' "actual" wife as he once popped his head in the gym and asked "how their girls were doing" while referring to Coach Williams' daughters. He has a son and most faculty members who believe Coach Williams and Dr. Greene are actually married swear up and down they can see similarities in both Dr. Greene's son and Coach Williams.

Vikram "Stone" Mishra, United States History (Grades 10-12)- Mr. Mishra is a former Corpsman and is a complete mystery to most people. He has managed to hide his first name from most faculty members and all of the students, as the scantrons they take in his class only refer to him as "Stone Mishra". No one knows where the nickname comes from, but every adult refers to him as "Stone". Students are in awe of his countless old battle scars, enough so that they take his class despite knowing how strict he is. He is often told to be the strictest teacher on campus.

Ivan Kohli-Petrov, AP English Literature & Composition (Grades 11-12)- Mr. Kohli-Petrov is a former Marine and is a man of few words. Despite being mostly silent, his teaching has helped the school's overall test scores improve with how much he makes his class seem more fun. Most juniors and seniors say he makes reading more fun than their previous English teachers. He's not known for his friendliness, considering the looks he gives whenever someone asks him how the right side of his body got severely burned.

[dreamlessimp]

— procrastinate

summary: you sleep over at isagi’s after long procrastinating an assignment, there he makes a decision

warnings: isagi yoichi x gn reader, reader goes to isagi’s high school, blue lock not mentioned, 2.4k wc, reader sleeps over at isagi’s house, they do not share a bed, please don’t read this i’m begging

“did you read yesterday’s chapter?” isagi whispered to you, on the topic of a new manga you both enjoyed.

you looked around the classroom before whispering back. “not yet. i think i’m falling behind.”

“that’s fine. i won’t spoil it.”

you smiled, you knew the two of you would likely fall into an hours long conversation after you read it.

the two of you were sitting next to each other in class, clearly a mistake by the teacher. she didn’t seem to notice though, as she announced the pairings for a project she’d given many warnings about.

“isagi and…” she began, before looking around the room. “y/n.”

that caught your attention. she likely hadn’t seen you in conversation, so you gave an awkward nod as if your neck hadn’t just snapped up at your name.

“cool. what’s the project again?” isagi looked just as confused as you were, neither of you having been listening.

“i dunno. i think she’ll explain again later though. hopefully.” you said. 

after that, you turned your attention back to the teacher, and explain she did.

“your assignment is to create a poster about our school. you are to draw your favorite part of our school and attach an essay referring to the drawing. if you have any questions, approach me during class tomorrow.”

with that, the bell rang and you moved on to your next class without your friend.

you and isagi shared many classes, the last class of your day—a free period—being one of them. when it ended, the two of you began for the library, already falling behind on homework.

the two of you walked next to each other, brushing shoulders every other step. neither of you had much to say so you walked in a comfortable silence occasionally pointing out a pretty flower in a yard, or a squirrel running along a fence.

once there, he led you to a small table in the back of the building. you dropped your backpack onto the floor as he turned his own upside-down and emptied it out onto the table.

“what did we have in math again?” he asked, sorting through his messy notebook.

you wracked your brain for a moment before responding, “worksheet. i didn’t finish it but i did the first bit.” 

“uh huh. can i copy off you? please.” he gave a bright, guilty smile that you couldn’t say no to, even if you’d hadn’t already been about to hand it to him.

“yeah. i’ll work on those science questions. it’s only like 5 right?”

he had just pulled out his own, blank assignment before raising his head to meet your gaze. “oh, i did that. do you want mine?”

you did in fact want his, but you shook your head anyway. “no, he’ll probably recognize your answers. plus, this lesson isn’t that bad,”

he gave a serious nod. “okay.”

studying with isagi was a normal thing for the two of you. both of you would swear you worked better together, and no one could disagree because you each worked almost exclusively with each other. 

he made studying worth it, especially considering that he’d usually walk you home afterwards even if his home was in another direction.

after nearly an hour of homework, isagi remembered that he had promised his dad he’d be home to make dinner early that day.

“sorry, my mom is out of town and my dad’ll probably burn the house down.” his explanation was clearly true, considering that you had seen his dad try to cook before. “i guess he’s too fancy for take-out so the responsibility has fallen onto me.”

you nodded in understanding. “okay, you should get home.”

he began packing up his backpack. “come on. i’ll walk you home, i’m not supposed to be back for half an hour anyways.”

you smiled, amused at the sight of him cramming his many books into an already-overstuffed bag, the sight never getting old.

the two of you walked out of the library for your house. it wasn’t late, so the sun hadn’t yet begun to set, and the weather had improved from earlier that day.

as you walked, you and isagi both had a thought at the same time.

he stopped walking. “wait.” he said, trying to think.

you paused next to him. “weren’t we going to do something?”

it came to him. “yeah. the poster thing.”

“oh right.” you said, remembering. “we can do it tomorrow?” 

he nodded. “okay. it shouldn’t be that bad. when’s it due again?”

you shrugged. “i’m not sure. we can ask her tomorrow during class.”

“no point in panicking, then.” he said with a smile, before continuing walking. “are you going to read the chapter when you get home?”

“oh yeah. i’ll text you when i’m done? we can talk after you make dinner.”

“great, it’s a really good chapter. i don’t want to spoil it but a certain character comes back at the end!”

“i have no idea who you’re talking about.” you said with a small laugh, evident in your voice. 

your home was close to the library, so your talk was cut short when you rounded the corner and saw your house. you didn’t want to hold isagi for too long, so after you saw it you waved him an exaggeration goodbye and walked off, telling him to get home early.

after your talk with isagi about working on your project the following day, you both were fully ready to begin.

but, you didn’t. 

the next day you had a large test in a class. the day after he had a test in one of his.

eventually, it had been days since you’d last spoken about the poster you had agreed to work together on.

your teacher gave reminders nearly every class period, but she gave no time to work on it during school.

soon, even with the constant reminders, all thoughts of the impending assignment had left the minds of both you and isagi.

that was, until late at night on the thursday before it was due the next day.

it took isagi calling you, obviously in a panic, for your memory to be jogged.

“y/n!!” he yelled through the phone, clearly in a state of mid-panic.

“what happened?” you spoke back, concerned for both the safety of your friend and yourself.

“the project. it’s due in two days!” he said, still panicking. “the one we didn’t do!”

“oh.” you said, freezing. “oops.”

“uh…” he began muttering under his breath about something you couldn’t hear.

“you should come over to my house tomorrow. it’s too late to do anything today.” he paused. “you should sleepover.”

you felt your heart leap, although it was already racing from isagi’s panicked voice.

of course you had been to his house before, but you’d never slept over at his house. even if it was because of a forgotten assignment, it was better then nothing.

plenty of people would have accepted the late, but isagi wasn’t like that. he obviously wasn’t the best with schoolwork, but he was smart.

and, of course, their was his determination that he showed on the soccer field that tended to shine through in everything he did.

you didn’t realize you had forgotten to speak until you hear his calmer voice from the other end of your phone. “hello? are you there?”

“oh, sorry isagi.” you clear your throat and rock back and forth on your heels. “i’ll be there, can i come at 19:00?”

you hear the smile in his voice. “yeah, of course.” he pauses for a moment. “by the way, my mom will be back by then.”

“okay, thanks. good night!” you say, finally realizing how late it was.

“night, y/n. see you in school tomorrow.” there was a second of silence before he ended the call.

a smile appeared on your face. even if you had left it for so long, there was no way the poster would take all night. if you worked quickly, you could probably finish in time to actually hang out with him.

you rapped your knuckles on the door three times. with no answer, you repeated the process.

this time, isagi arrived at the door as you finished and pulled it open for you.

you quickly took off your shoes and followed isagi into the kitchen, where you met his mom.

“hello mrs. isagi.” you said quietly, only having spoken to your friend’s mom on a few occasions.

“hello y/n, i hear you are here for a sleepover?” isagi’s mom asked, enjoying the sight of her son awkwardly shifting from side-to-side behind you.

“yeah.” you said. “we’re working on a- “

“ -movie. that i’ve been wanting to watch. isagi quickly cut you off.

you quickly figured that he hadn’t told his parents about your procrastination, which you silently thanked him for. it would have been awkward to explain that you were only there to panic and finish a project.

he turned to you. “we should go now. we have a lot of plans for this.”

“yeah.” you said. “thank you.” you addressed his mom with a bow of your head, before moving to follow isagi up the stairs to his room.

once behind his closed door, he collapsed against it.

“thanks for not saying anything. i promised my mom i’d stay on top of everything, and clearly i have not.” 

“oh, that makes sense. i’m glad too, it would have been awkward to explain to her why we procrastinated for so long.”

“well, we should probably start now.” isagi said, ending a short silence.

“yeah. i’ll do the essay if you do the drawings?”

“okay.” he gave a nod without meeting your eyes, and pulled out blank poster paper from his backpack.

although you did it to yourselves, neither you nor isagi particularly enjoyed rushing your assignment.

still, within a couple hours, you had each nearly finished and decided to switch places so you could touch up isagi’s drawing and he could proof-read your work.

while working, isagi decided to end the comfortable silence that had long reached its peak.

“what do you want to do? like after this?”

you looked up from the poster. “what?”

“we’re almost done, and you’re spending the night.” he smiled with a raise of an eyebrow. “what do you want to do afterwards?”

“oh, i…” you paused. “ -didn’t think that far ahead. i guess whatever you want?”

his face contorted into something obviously belonging to someone deep in thought. “we could play video games?”

“hah. okay.” you looked down at your lap and remembered what you were meant to be doing. “after we finish though.”

he shot finger guns in your general direction. “right, yeah.”

in a flurry of typing keys and light erase marks, you each finished half an hour later within 10 minutes of each other.

you stood back to appreciate your efforts. 

isagi looked over at the clock next to him. it wasn’t that late, but you had been working for hours. “i think my parents are asleep.”

“should we be too, though?. you asked jokingly, knowing the answer would be something along a the lines of ‘probably not’.

he shook his head and led you down the stairs of his house into what was likely his living-room.

“here.” he smiled. “we can play whatever game you want.”

you quickly noted with a snicker that the boy who claimed to not often play video games, appeared to have a solid dozen soccer games.

“how about something not soccer related?” you proposed, already sorting through his games for something you could both enjoy.

you settled on a basic fighting game where you’d be pit against enemies, on the same team. as long as neither of you were charged with friendly-fire, it would be calm.

after an hour of play, isagi abruptly stood up and shut down his gaming system. unfortunately, this left the room in an eerie dark that you were more then keen to get out of.

from the darkness, isagi began to speak. “we have school tomorrow, so we should probably get to bed.”

you let out a muffled laugh, and followed the sound of his voice to return to his room from the unfamiliar area. “yeah, it won’t help to pull any all-nighters on week days i guess.”

you, again, followed him up his stairs into his room. he gestured at a futon on the ground and spoke. “i’ll sleep on the futon, you sleep on the bed.”

you smiled. he could be ridiculously sweet sometimes, not even leaving you room for refusal. 

“fine. if you wake up with back-pain in your own room, it’s on you,”

he, again, smiled. “deal.”

he turned his lights off and moved his door to be mostly closed, leaving the door slightly ajar.

the two of you quickly settled in, and a light silence took over the room as you both drifted off to sleep, in different beds.

except, isagi couldn’t sleep. for a long while, he tossed and turned on the futon, plagued with the feeling of something being wrong.

it wasn’t you, the fact that you were in his room. it was, that he was so far from you.

he vowed to himself, that in the morning, he would change that.

you woke up easily, and early. for this, you blamed isagi’s alarm clock. 

getting ready for school was a bit disjointed due to your and isagi’s conflicting morning routines, but you both tried your best. in the end, you both were ready for school, on time.

walking to school together with isagi certainly wasn’t rare for you, but you could have sworn he was going the wrong direction.

still, you chose to say nothing considering how little he was ever late. that, and the determination in his eyes was evident from a mile away. you didn’t doubt him.

in isagi’s mind though, he was starting to regret his split-second decision. he trusted himself though, and continued on.

finally, he stopped. you were confused at this and stopped as well. “are you ok- “

“i like you.” red erupted on his cheeks at his statement, as your eyes widened and cheeks burned as well.

in your state of shock, you responded breathlessly. “i like you too.”

he moved closer to you and tentatively took your hand in his. without words, a soft grin took over his gestures and he led you to school, where you arrived just on time, as a new couple.

[rhondafromhr]

Wrote a little snippet for my “Grace joins the cheer squad” halocheer AU! There’s also a little bit of my “Pete joined the popular kids in middle school and now he’s a bully and also Max’s best friend” AU mixed in, so there’s some lowkey spankerman going on in the background, but it won’t be the main focus and it’s only really hinted at in this section.

If Brenda doesn’t do something drastic, Hatchetfield is doomed. Well, Hatchetfield High, at least.

See, cheer is more than a sport. It’s more than a hobby. It’s more than a thing she does that makes her cool and hot and popular (that’s just a bonus). It’s a promise to keep the team’s hopes up, even when things couldn’t look bleaker. It’s a responsibility to keep the entire town from falling into a gloomy state, which can last upwards of two weeks when they lose to Clivesdale—which is exactly what’s going to happen if she can’t figure out how to revamp the squad and get some pep in their step.

It’s not that they’re particularly bad or anything. Lately, their routines have been clean and tight. They move in perfect harmony, executing their perfectly choreographed moves flawlessly. Their cheers are just as loud, just as passionate, just as energetic, and lately, they’ve added some really catchy and creative verses about how much Clivesdale sucks. Those are always a hit with the crowd, even at games where they aren’t playing against Clivesdale. None of this stops the team from losing, though.

For a while, Brenda’s had a sense that their usual tricks are getting stale, and even with their super awesome new chant about how nobody cares about the stupid fucking cherry festival, they aren’t enough anymore. What they need is to shake things up. Do something bold and daring that gives them an edge. Do something completely unexpected. Figuring out what exactly that is is exhausting, though. It’s taking more brain power than all six of her classes combined, which is fine, because it’s way more important, but it’s starting to get draining.

“Maybe we should bedazzle our uniforms with one of those guns on those late night TV ads,” says Stacy as they walk the hallway side by side. “It’d be eye catching. And maybe if the sun hit them just right, the light would reflect right into the opposing team’s eyes and temporarily blind them!���

“Stace,” she says. “I love you, but who the fuck still gets informericals? Who the fuck still has cable?”

Stacy’s face falls, and it tugs at Brenda’s heart a little. Maybe that was a little harsh. When did she become such a buzzkill? It must be this whole cheer conundrum getting her down.

“It was a YouTube compilation,” Stacy says wistfully.

“Okay, we can bedazzle something, just not our cheer uniforms.” Much to Brenda’s relief, Stacy immediately perks up again.

“Denim jackets?” she says excitedly.

“As long as you promise never to wear double denim.”

Stacy’s face contorts into a disgusted expression. “Double denim? Oh, God, ew, of course not! Who do you think I am?”

Brenda smiles softly. “Your place after the game this Friday?”

Stacy eagerly agrees, and Brenda really is looking forward to it now, but the reminder that the game is, in fact, this Friday brings her attention back to her original problem. She wishes the answer would just fall into her lap.

“Hey, ho! Heck, no! Co-ed dances gotta go,” cries Grace Chasity as she marches in their direction and hoists her picket sign up high, her movement animated and full of energy, her eyes burning with passion, her voice ringing out loud and clear through the mostly empty hallway. Max stalks this hallway more than any other, waiting for Pete to get out of class, and nerds avoid it like the plague (which is probably inconvenient for them, because this is where all of the math and science classrooms are and nerds love that shit). Most nerds avoid it, anyway.

“She’s actually really good at chanting,” she says to Stacy absently.

“Yeah, she’s a natural,” she agrees.

Really, it’s a shame that Grace is wasting those skills and that energy fighting to get homecoming canceled, of all things. Brenda would be surprised if she’d gotten a single signature. She admires the drive and dedication, at least. Max tried to menace her into stopping—probably because there’s somebody he obviously wants to take to the dance this year, even if he thinks he’s playing it cool and being slick about it—and she didn’t back down. She wasn’t even scared of him. She’s kind of badass, actually. It’s a little sexy, the way she told him off and didn’t give a fuck.

“Imagine her on the cheer squad.”

Stacy tilts her head and gives her a quizzical look. Brenda’s just about to reply that she was only joking, but then stops herself. Wait a minute. She might be onto something here. It would definitely be unexpected, and it would give them the edge she’s been looking for.

“No, seriously, she should join the cheer squad! I know she’s a little weird, but maybe a little weirdness is what we need. C’mon, Stace! There’s so much on the line here! We’re the only thing standing between this school and losing to the fucking Chemists.”

Stacy scrunches up her brow and makes that disgusted expression again when Brenda mentions the Chemists. She looks at Brenda, then at Grace, then back at Brenda. Her face softens and becomes more thoughtful, and she nods solemnly.

“Hey, Grace!” Brenda calls after her, just before she makes it to the end of the hallway. She turns around and looks a little surprised for a second before that fiery passion returns.

[trulyyours-rune]

"You're Safe with me."

Quick warnings: Topics about bullying, name calling (such as queer, not mention a lot though.), bit of angst, language here and there, male x male, fluff ending, bit of violence, kinda short cause I'm tired, reader is male and uses he/him, reader is badass cause why not?

BILL'S P. O. V:

"For as long as I can remember, me and my brother, Tom, are often called names a bullied at school from seeming different in everyone's eyes. Even though known to be most popular boy of our grade has been helping us pull through. I like him, don't take this the wrong way of course! Only like a friend. Now...the more I think about it...Is it just a friend way?" I scribble down with messy writing into a diary I recently bought myself, a nice black leather one with a lock with a code. "Bill! C'mon! Hurry up, gonna' be late for school!" I hear my twin brother yell from down stairs. "Give me a minute!" I shout back.

I rush as I put the book in my drawer, grabbing my backpack and nearly tripping down the stairs. The front door opens and my mom is already in the car, smiling and waving her hand gesturing for us to hop in. "Shotgun!" Tom tells and sprints to the car. (He would so do that.) I groan and hop in the back, setting my backpack to the side. We pull out of the driveway and make out way to what me and Tom call hell.

Not gonna lie I'm hoping y/n will be at school today. We're good friends. Many people would sacrifice a lot just to be friends with him, but he only sticks with my band/friend group. He's funny once you get to really know him, and pretty... Pretty? Yea- no. Well he was handsome of course because girls slobber on him day and night. Never dated one of them? Wonder why.

I seemed so drained in my thought the kids from outside if the car screaming snapped me out of it. "Bye, love you ma." "Love you too, have a good day alright you boys?" "Alright." Both me and Tom almost say in sync as we grab our backpacks and stepping out of the car. Georg and Gustav were waiting at the nearby fence. "Where's y/n?" I tilt my head while approaching them, Tom close behind. "Haven't seen him yet." Gustav shrugs, looking over his shoulder for the boy. I feel myself frown a bit, I was really looking forward to seeing him. Especially inside of school. Hate it in there.

The high-pitched bell rings, making me jump a bit from the sudden loud noise. "Got science first today, you guys?" I ask, looking at my friends as we walk. "Me and Tom got math first." Georg rolls his eyes and Tom groans. "History." Gustav shrugs once again. "Y/n was supposed to have science." I pout a bit. We soon enter the school and a overwhelming feeling surrounds me with looks and stares. I keep my head down, and so does Tom.

I reach my locker and grab the stuff I need in a swift motion, slamming the locker door shut and locking it. I feel an arm shove into me, which makes me bump into my locker. "Watch it, queer." A male voice I hate to recognize walks past me. I clench my teeth together and tense my hands into fists, soon relaxing and walking to Mr. James classroom. (Suck at names 🤩)

I find the spot where I usually sit beside to y/n like usual. Sliding my books under my desk and keeping my head down as I figit with my fingers. The bell rings again, meaning class has started. 1 hour and 30 minutes to go. Lucky me. The teacher passes out empty notebooks, still putting one on y/n's desk like he doesn't notice he's here or not. We pull out our textbooks and that's where the boring part begins.

A couple minutes pass by, we have 1 hour and 12 minutes left. I scribble random doodles on my notebook. A loud "bang!" Of a door slamming open was heard, making me mess up the drawing and look back. Y/n entered through the door breathing quick and heavy as if he just ran an olympic race, "Sorry I'm late, uhm..." He looks down at his shoes to find an excuse. "Parent's car wasn't working." Pretty lame excuse, I smile to myself, but at least he was here.

He sits down in the desk next to me, looking over and signing a quick small wave, I wave back with a smile.

Y/N'S P. O. V:

I knew he would be here, and I feel guilty for being late. Who knows what happened to him while I was gone already? I look down at the notes, clueless what was going on. I never paid much attention anyways.

A minute or two passes by, when a small note gets passed onto my desk from behind me. I open it up and it's one of those 'do you like me?' notes but instead of '□ yes □ no' it was marked '□ yes □ yes' signed from: -the girl behind you. The girl obsesses over me, does this 4 times a week. I chuckle and catch Bill's attention, showing him the note from my desk, pointing behind me. He smiles a bit before drawing God knows what. I erase one of the 'yes' and replace it with no and I check 'no' and crumple it back up and toss it behind me. I hear her open it and sigh in defeat. I smile to myself by the rejection.

(Lunch time cause I have 0 clue what to do now 🥰)

I wait by Bill's locker as he grabs his stuff, he seems off today. Not usually talking to me as often as he does. Tom happens to pass by and I wave to him, he waves back but continues his walk to the cafeteria.

"You alright Bill?" I look at him, he looks at me and closes his locker. "Yeah I'm alright." He looks down a bit. I hum crossing my arms and standing up straight. We start walking to the cafeteria and I see glares getting passed on towards Bill. I glare back at the people and stand my ground, they look away and continue to do whatever they were doing. Feeling power for reputation and both good was a nice feeling. Being respected all because of their reputation could go down if they make a fool of themselves and I use it against them. I would never to Bill, he's one of my best friends after all. He's a sweet boy, not sure why people pick on him. Who cares if people are different? Someone popular could get an ugly haircut and no one bats an eye, and other kids are bullied for what seems to be 'looking different.' Who gives a crap!? Not me, that's for sure, and hell, I get respected.

People call him "Gay." "Emo." "Queer." and the list goes on, ruins his self esteem. Which makes my blood boil each time, he tries to get me not to worry about it so much, but he's my friend! A pretty one at that. Wait- where am I going with this? "Earth to y/n." I see a slim hand wave in front of my face as we walk, snapping me back to reality. "Wait- what's happening?" "Lunch." He shrugs, standing in line.

Eventually it's our time to pick up food, wasn't even all that good after all. Yet I'd rather not starve. Our trays are full and we stand off to the side to spot out the group. Bill sees dirty blonde dreads and starts heading the direction so I follow closely to him.

"Hey man!" A random guy, seems to be a huge sports wannabe guy, stops me in my tracks, startling me. Bill doesn't notice and keeps walking. I hear other guys giggling their asses off like idiots, coming from the nearby bleachers where Bill is walking. "Hey man liste-" I try to talk my way out but he interrupts me with questions I don't even care about. I try to shimmy past him but he just walks in front. I start to get more and more annoyed as the other boys get closer to Bill with what seems to be small opened cartons of milk. "Move!" I shove him with my shoulder but I already hear a splash ahead of me, my heart drops at the moment. Everyone's laughing and Bill is soaking wet with milk while his tray lays on the ground.

He forms tears and runs off to the bathrooms, I go to go chase him but I shove my food tray into the guys chest, ruining the jersey he probably doesn't even know the team of. I run off to the men's bathroom, hearing a stall slam shut and light sobs. "Bill?" I call out. "Go away." "Bill come on, it's me." I put a hand on the stall he was on, pushing on it slightly, he locked it.

I sigh as I still hear the crowd laughing from outside and rage fills my gut. I hear a small click and the stall is unlocked and opens slightly. I see a soaking wet Bill, his usual eyeliner running down his cheeks. I feel my heart break at the sight, I frown and hug him, he hugs back and continues to sob into my shoulder. I rub his back gently and let him cry. "Here." I say, letting go for a moment to sit down against the wall, reaching out my arms. He rests on top of me, arms wrapped around my stomach.

Poor boy looks so mentally and physically drained. I wipe one of the tears of eyeliner across his cheek, it smears a bit but mostly gone. "I wanna go home." I hear him mumble. "My place? I was late because I got your favorite snacks. Still forgot them at home though." I giggle. He smiles and nods, sitting up. I stand up, my clothes may be wet, but it's not like it's the worst thing that will happen to me. I wrap my arm around his shoulder and walk him out, his head cowered down, hiding from shame. After a bit of walking we see Tom, Gustav, and Georg at the office at the entrance. Tom and Georg hug him, also not caring if their clothes got wet or not.

"We're heading to my place, got snacks so he gave in." I chuckle. Tom nods. I take Bill's cold hand and walk him out the entrance, the sun glare making us squint a bit.

BILL'S P. O. V:

(Once they're at y/n's place 👍)

I walk inside the warm house, kicking off my shoes by the door."You can go to my room and change your clothes with mine, I don't mind." Y/n looks at me, walking into the kitchen to grab the snacks he was talking about. I nod and walk to his room, opening the door to the place I felt most comfortable. I spot his drawer and take one of his shirts and pants (that we're both a bit big for him.) and changed into them. They were warm and cozy unlike my milk soaked ones. I walk into his bathroom and grab a towel and dry off my hair, making it messy in the end but who cares beyond this point. I turn on some warm water and wash the eyeliner off my face, drying my face off too and turning off the water.

I walk back to his room and he's already laying in his bed, eating. "Your parents not home or something?" I ask, grabbing some chips he recently bought. "Both working today, their shifts been crazy this week." He shrugs. "Wanna watch a movie?" "Your pick." I say, y/n smiles and puts on a horror movie, Scream I suppose. "You know..." Y/n looks at me. I look at him, letting him know he has my attention. "You're safe with me." He smiles, his cheeks seem redder than usual, but mine feel a bit hotter now and my heart is beating like crazy. I return the smile, after those simple 4 words I truly do feel like I am safe. I want to stick by his side, for... Eternity. He's my safe space. He's the one I come crying too whenever I can. I must be smiling like an idiot now.

I lay back into his bed, closing my eyes a bit. I feel something weighted beside me, it's y/n, also laying down with his eyes closed. He looks so pretty like this, he always has. It's almost like I wanna kiss him sometimes. (Cause you do 🤩). You know what? Fuck it. I place my hand on his cheek and the other one I lay a quick kiss too. My face red as I roll onto my side, facing away from him. Rethinking life choices.

My heart just acted as if it got chased by a bear. But I hear a chuckle and arms wrap around me and pulls me into him he laughs and kisses the top of my head. I must be blushing madly because my entire face feels like it's on fire. I dig my face down into his shoulder as my arms wrap around him. He was my safe space after all.

__________

And kids that's how I met your fath-

Anyways. It's 1:52 in the morning and I've been fighting every nerve to stay awake so it may seem rushed. Anything does when you're half asleep after all.

But ngl, hope you enjoyed <3

[chaotic-goodsir]

For day 2 of this Hatchetverse series thing, here's part of the sequel to You Could Call This Luck that I've been trying and failing to finish. Turns out plotting a thing about time travel with multiple POVs and timelines is hard.

To avoid confusion: in this particular timeline, (most of) the events of the musicals didn't happen. Time Bastard did, though, because we all know Ted can't catch a break.

(Also sorry for the long post - I don't usually post fic like this directly to Tumblr, but since this is unfinished I didn't want to put it on Ao3 just yet)

*

Pete Lauter sits at the desk in his science classroom at Hatchetfield High School, trying to finish the last of the week's marking. His eyes are dry from staring at his tablet screen, and the hum of the heating units is starting to get on his nerves. His students' lab reports all blend into one after a while - most of them are clearly written by AI. Getting teenagers to write anything as unexciting as a lab report on their own these days is almost impossible. He's not sure why the school still requires it, but then who is he, a mere teacher, to question the relevance of the national curriculum? Only the guy who sees first-hand how badly it works for his students.

Pete doesn't hate his job, most of the time, but it can get exhausting. This particular evening, he's ready to go home, heat up yesterday's leftovers - maybe make a hot chocolate, why not? - and enjoy the Friday-night peace and quiet. Theo will be out somewhere with his friends, and Steph's away on highly-classified work business. It's the perfect time to finally start that sci-fi novel that's been sitting on his bedside table for weeks. He's craving some decent, interesting writing that isn't the work of a teenager or a robot.

Sounds like a plan, he thinks, saving the report he's been working through and switching the tablet to sleep mode. He'll get the last of the marking done on Sunday night. For now it's future-Pete's problem.

He pulls on his jacket - his favourite, the one with the elbow patches that Steph bought for him last Christmas - and is about to pack the tablet away when the screen blinks into life again.

Ruth Fleming's icon (a photo from her honeymoon in Europe, Ruth and her wife smiling in front of a clear blue sky) flashes onto the screen. It's no surprise that she's still at work - drama club starts in an hour, and she has rehearsals to direct. Pete sighs and taps the icon, hoping she isn't about to ask him to help out again.

'Hey Ruth,' he says. 'I was just about to head home - do you need something?'

Ruth sounds a little out of breath, the way she always does when she's anxious.

'Pete, thank god you're still here. You need to come to the north wing staffroom, now. It's your son.'

Pete freezes. 'Theo?'

'Of course it's Theo. Do you have another son? Look, I don't wanna worry you, but he's hurt. You should come quick.'

'What do you mean, hurt?' Pete asks, panic rising. What is Theo even doing in school, on a Friday night? Something stupid and dangerous, clearly, if he's managed to hurt himself.

Pete swings his backpack onto one shoulder, carrying the tablet in his free hand as he rushes out of the room. He doesn't bother to lock the classroom door.

'How badly? Like, ambulance bad?'

'I don't know. I don't think so. But he's talking crazy.'

He's talking, Pete thinks, okay. He feels bad for thinking it, but he's not 100% convinced this isn't just Theo pulling a prank. He wouldn't put it past his son to do this kind of thing for attention. Theo Lauter is a lot of things, but a well-adjusted teenager doesn't seem to be one of them, no matter what Pete and Steph try.

Ruth knows that, of course, and the worry in her voice is making Pete worry too. She'd see through a typical Theo prank pretty easily. Which means this is probably real.

'I'm on my way.' He tells Ruth. 'I'll be five minutes.'

He hangs up and races down the corridor, cutting through the courtyard to get to the North Wing. The staffroom is upstairs, in the English and Languages corridor. When he gets there, the door is wedged open. Ruth is by the sofa, trying to comfort a teenage boy who looks a lot like his son.

But there's no sign of Theo's trademark denim jacket or band t-shirt. This kid is wearing a white shirt, suspenders, and bowtie, all stained with - Pete realises in horror - a concerning amount of blood. Instead of Theo's ponytail, this kid has his hair down, shoulder length, pinned back to keep it out of his face. And this kid is wearing glasses, with a crack across one lens.

Theo has his mother's eyesight. He's never needed glasses in his life.

Either Theo's pranks have reached a whole new level of elaborate, or this is not Pete's son at all. This kid looks more like-

Well, he looks more like him. Like Pete himself, when he was 25 years younger.

Not for the first time, Pete considers that he really needs to move his family out of Hatchetfield. Only in this messed-up town would something like that even be a possibility.

The kid notices him standing in the doorway, and his eyes go wide behind his cracked glasses. Then he says something that disproves neither the actual-time-travel theory nor the Theo-pulling-a-prank one, but spooks Pete either way.

'...Ted?'

*

Agent Stephanie Lauter is in a highly classified meeting at the PIEP HQ when the smartwatch around her wrist starts to buzz.

She glances at it, annoyed, and sees her husband's icon blinking at her. Pete knows she's busy today. He wouldn't call unless it was something urgent. He's one of the only contacts who can call her through the HQ's high tech digital barrier system.

Maybe it's just an accident. She swipes the icon away. If it's urgent, he'll call back.

She waits for a pause in General Lee's presentation, then raises a hand.

'I'm sorry, sir. My husband is trying to call me - I think it's urgent.'

'Well, you had better take it then,' Lee says, with his characteristic earnestness. No matter the situation, the old General has a way of always seeming that he knows more than anyone else about what's going on. It's a little disconcerting.

He waves towards the door. 'Good luck, Agent Lauter. I hope your family are all safe and well.'

She thanks him, apologises again, and leaves quickly. Outside the meeting room, a security guard in a bulletproof vest watches her pace anxiously up and down the corridor as she returns Pete's call.

'Steph,' he says when he picks up. There's an anxious note in his voice that she does not like the sound of. 'Sorry, I know you're at work. Are you busy right now?'

'It's fine,' she says. 'What's wrong?'

'It's Theo,' Pete says, then pauses. 'Well, no, it's not Theo. At least he says he's not, and I think he's telling the truth. I... I don't really know how to explain this, Steph. It's gonna sound crazy.'

'Breathe, babe,' Steph says, because Pete is talking at about a hundred miles an hour now. 'I work for PIEP. I can cope with crazy.'

'Okay.' Pete says, taking a breath. 'Okay.'

'Is Theo alright?'

'Yeah. At least I hope so. He's at his friends, probably. I'm at school, and there's a kid here that looks like him. Ruth thought it was Theo, and he's covered in blood - not hurt, thank god, just covered in it - so she called me. But it's not. Not Theo, I mean.'

'What? Who is it?'

'I think it's me.'

To anyone else, in any other context, those words wouldn't make sense. Pete is a 41 year old man, and their son is 16. It would be insane to mistake one for the other. Not to mention that Pete is Pete. This kid that's shown up covered in blood can't possibly also be him. One person can't possibly be in two places at once.

But in Hatchetfield, anything is possible. And then, on top of that, there's the Spankoffski Effect.

Steph has often wished she could tell Pete more about the work she does for PIEP. About the data that shows his brother Ted's disappearance, back in 2019, wasn't just an unexplained tragedy but a large-scale temporal incident affecting multiple universes. Pete doesn't even know that there are multiple universes. It would probably break his little nerd heart if he knew she wasn't telling him.

Nor does Pete know about how, the day she told the now-retired General MacNamara that she and Pete were engaged, his congratulations came with a warning:

'By all means, marry a Spankoffski if you wish, Miss Lauter. But a word of advice. I'd strongly suggest you don't take that name, and don't give it to your children.'

When she asked him why, he'd told her that was classified. It wasn't until she graduated from training that she first heard about the Spankoffski Effect, and put two and two together.

In every timeline known to PIEP researchers, something with the power to sever a person from the flow of time itself has an interest in - no, more like an obsession with - Pete's brother, and possibly his entire family.

She's not sure she could tell her husband that part even if she had clearance.

And now Pete's younger self has appeared at the school where he teaches. Steph does not like the sound of that at all.

'You're sure it's not Theo pulling a prank? I wouldn't put it past him.'

'If it is, he deserves an oscar. And this kid has my phone, Steph. From years ago. With my medical alert details, everything. I don't think Theo would go that far.'

Probably not, no, but she wants to be absolutely sure. 'Have you called Theo? Checked where he is?'

'Shit,' Pete says, then catches himself for swearing in front of a student. 'I mean, uh, shoot, no. I should have done that.'

She tries adding Theo to the call they're already on. The line rings out, so she tries again. No answer.

'Steph, if you're calling him, I can't hear it ringing. I don't think this kid has Theo's watch.'

A message appears on Steph's watch screen:

< Fuck off, mom, I'm busy :) >

'Well,' She says, wondering briefly about nature and nurture and whether it's some failure of parenting that turned her son into such a little shit, 'our son just messaged me. Unless he can do that with only his mind, I don't think he's with you.'

'Okay,' Pete says. Then, 'shit.' He doesn't catch himself this time.

Shit is right, Steph thinks. 'Wait there. Keep the kid calm. Stay calm yourself, okay? I'll come to you.'

She doesn't tell him she's planning to bring PIEP agents with her, but he's probably figured that out already.

'Aren't you in DC?'

'Yeah, so you'll have to hold out for a few hours. Anything weird happens - anything else weird - you call me straight away, okay?'

'Okay. Yeah. Love you.'

'Love you too.'

Steph hangs up. She pinches the bridge of her nose with one hand and groans, wondering why she never had the sense to move her family out of Hatchetfield.

Would that have helped, though? If something from the Black and White is after Pete, couldn't it find him anywhere, if it wanted to?

The security guard is staring at her.

'Everything okay, ma'am?'

'Yeah,' she says. 'I'm fine. Just - don't ever marry a Spankoffski, no matter how cute he is.'

The guard blinks, clearly baffled.

'Um... right.'

[thewidowsghost]

Lost, Then Found (Max Mayfield x Adopted!Harrington!Reader) - Part 1

Series Masterlist

Max Mayfield Masterlist

Main Masterlist

@baylegend6 asked:

Can you write a fem y/n x Max Mayfield y/n is the older sister of El by 1 year. She is taken in by Steve's family. She goes to school with the party and meets Max who takes a interest in y/n the two become friends and y/n trusts Max that she tells her the truth and shows Max her powers as proof. Max falls in love with y/n and asks her to the snowball and confesses her feelings and the two date. S4 y/n and El defeat Vecna saving Max and Hawkins

Steve Harrington slows down outside of the middle school, and (Y/n), his younger adopted sister, opens the door to slide out of the car.

"Hey, kiddo," he stops (Y/n) before she can get out of the car. "You have a good day, yeah?"

(Y/n)'s expression softens, and she smiles. "I'll try."

Stepping out of the car, she shoulders her backpack. (Y/n) takes a step towards the sidewalk but jumps backward as a blue Camero almost runs her over. She's so startled, that a heat had started rising in her fingers, and (Y/n) probably would've blown up the car if she'd had less control.

Staring after the car, (Y/n) watches it turn into the high school parking lot.

"(Y/n)! Hey!" (Y/n) hears Dustin call.

"You almost got run over by a manic!" Lucas says as he, Mike, Dustin, and Will walk over to meet her.

"No kidding," (Y/n) agrees, looking over at the car. She watches as a girl with long, fiery red hair gets out of the passenger side of the car.

She's pretty, (Y/n) thinks before she shoves the thought away. I'm not supposed to like girls that way.

. . .

(Y/n) finds herself at the back row of her science classroom, tapping her fingers on the desk quietly.

"Meet the human brain," Mr. Clarke sets the model of the brain on his desk. "I know. I know, it doesn't look like much. A little gross even, right? But consider this. There are a hundred billion cells inside of this miracle of evolution. All working as one. No, no, I did not misspeak. I did not stutter. A hundred billion."

The door closes, and (Y/n)'s gaze flies to the door.

"Ah, this must be our new student," Mr. Clarke says.

"Indeed," the principal. "All yours."

The redheaded girl starts to walk towards the only other open seat – the one to (Y/n)'s left, nearest to the window.

"All right. Hold up," Mr. Clarke says and the girl stops. "You don't get away that easy." He waves the redhead back up to the front of the room. "Come on up. Don't be shy." The teacher looks at Dustin. "Dustin, drum roll." The boy taps his fingers on his text book. "Class, please welcome, all the way from sunny California," Mr. Clark says, and (Y/n) fixes her gaze on the girl, who was trying to look everywhere but at any of (Y/n)'s fellow classmates, "the latest passenger to join us on our curiosity voyage, Maxine."

"It's Max," the girl mutters.

"Sorry?" Mr. Clarke asks. "Nobody calls me Maxine. It's Max."

"MaxMax," Lucas whispers.

"Well, all aboard, Max," Mr. Clarke smiles. "You can take a seat next to Ms. (Y/n) back there."

(Y/n) almost crawls into her own skin when she sees Max studying her before she moves to the empty seat beside (Y/n). She does almost laugh when she sees that her four friends – Dustin, Mike, Will, and Lucas – had turned to follow Max's movement to the back of the classroom.

Max glances over at (Y/n), who's (E/c) eyes gleam with amusement as she watches her friends.

. . .

"There's no way that's MadMax," Mike says as the five of them watch Max skate around on her board at lunchtime.

"Yeah," Will agrees. "Girls don't play video games."

"Excuse me," (Y/n) smacks Will's arm gently.

"Ow," Will exclaims, though the smack hadn't hurt.

"And even if they did," Mike glances at (Y/n) apologetically, "you can't get 750,000 points on Dig Dug. It's impossible."

"But her name is Max," Lucas argues.

"So what?" Mike asks.

"So, how many Maxes do you know?" Mike asks.

"You guys are being creeps," (Y/n) comments, moving away from the boys. "I'm going inside."

She circles the fence towards the stairs, but (Y/n) stops when she almost runs into Max.

"Oh," she stops suddenly. "I'm sorry."

Max studies (Y/n)'s face, she (Y/n) feels her skin growing hot, though she doesn't know if it's from her power, or embarrassment. 

Or both.

"You're friends are total creeps," is Max's only comment, and (Y/n) mouth twitches.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you that I just told them that," (Y/n) replies, her (E/c) eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Where were you headed?" Max asks.

"The library," (Y/n) admits. "You wanna come?" she offers.

Max takes a moment to consider the offer. "Sure."

. . .

Dustin and Lucas sit outside the arcade, Lucas looking through a pair of binoculars.

"Still no sign?" Dustin asks.

"Jack shit," Lucas replies. "Just (Y/n)."

"Oh! Damn it. My mom's gonna murder me," Dustin mutters.

"So go home. I'll radio if she comes," Lucas replies.

"Oh, yeah, nice try. You just want me out of here so you can make your move," Dustin retorts.

"Oh, 'cause you're such a threat," Lucas says.

"That's right," Dustin agrees proudly. "She will not be able to resist these pearls," he makes a purring sound like a cat or a tiger.

Lucas rolls his eyes in exasperation.

"Ten o'clock," Dustin hits Lucas's arm. "Ten o'clock."

"What?" Lucas questions.

The blue Camero skids to a halt in front of the Arcade.

Max gets out of her brother's car, arguing incoherently. The car's tires squeal as the car, and (Y/n) raises an eyebrow at her new friend.

"My brother's an asshole," Max says. "C'mon, let's go."

. . .

The three boys – Dustin, Mike, and Lucas – ride up to the school singing the Ghostbusters' theme song. The three boys rack their bikes. "Who you gonna call?" the boys sing.

"Ghostbusters!" Will exclaims – he and his friends – dressed up as the main characters from the Ghostbusters movie.

"Hey, guys," (Y/n) joins her friends, dressed simply in black jeans, a red shirt, a black leather jacket, and black Vans shoes.

"Guys . . . Guys! Guys!" Dustin shouts, interrupting Lucas and Mike's arguing. "Why is no one else wearing costumes?"

Walking down the hall, some of the other kids laugh at Lucas, Mike, Will, and Dustin.

"When do people make these decisions?" Dustin asks out of the corner of his mouth.

"Everyone dressed up last year," Will mutters.

"It's a conspiracy, I'm telling you," Dustin replies.

"Just be cool?" Mike offers.

"Who you gonna call?" A boy calls from behind. "The – !" (Y/n) silences him with a glare.

. . .

(Y/n) leans against her locker, watching as Lucas and Dustin unsuccessfully invite Max to go trick-or-treating with them later that night.

Max's gaze falls on (Y/n), who was watching the boys with amusement.

Feeling eyes on her, she looks over to find Max watching her closely.

Lucas and Dustin trudge away, and (Y/n) takes their place.

"Nice thought," (Y/n) comments. "Bad execution."

Despite herself, Max laughs.

"We do want you to come with us," (Y/n) says. "We took a vote and everything."

Max's mouth twitches. "That's presumptuous of you."

(Y/n) expression screws up in confusion.

"Maybe I'll see you later, stalker," Max says, and she turns around, shouldering her backpack, and walking away.

. . .

(Y/n) steps silently into the house after walking home alone – Steve had picked up Nancy from school and they'd gone out.

She sighs, heading up the stairs. No one else was home. No one else was ever home. Her adoptive parents were always at work, and she really only ever saw Steve when he was picking up – or dropping her off – from school.

She drops the backpack onto the floor, dragging with exhaustion from trying to be so happy all the time.

(Y/n) missed her younger sister, Eleven, who had died less than a year ago.

(Y/n) sits on the floor, and allows her hands to catch fire.

"How did they find us?" Mike asks as he, Dustin, Lucas, Eleven, and (Y/n) run down the stairs.

"I don't know, but they knew we were in the gym," Lucas pants, he and his friends running down the hall of the middle school.

"Lando," Dustin gasps.

"Stop!" (Y/n) says suddenly, and the others stop in their tracks, watching as they have harsh, bright lights shining in their faces.

A scream rips itself from (Y/n)'s throat, and a wall of flames surges towards the 'bad men."

(Y/n) shakes the fire from her hands, staring off into nothing.

. . .

"If I get another 3 Musketeers, I'm gonna kill myself," Lucas comments as he and his friends leave the house.

"What's wrong with 3 Musketeers?" Dustin asks.

"'What's wrong with 3 Musketeers?'" Lucas echoes.

"No one likes 3 Musketeers," Mike agrees.

"Yeah, it's just nougat," Lucas adds.

"You'd like it if you'd never had candy before a year ago," the words slip out of (Y/n)'s mouth, and she almost kicks herself. The other glance over at (Y/n), who looks apologetically at the others. "Sorry," she mutters.

The five kids return to the road, walking towards the next night.

A figure wearing a Micheal Myers mask jumps out from a bush, and the others scream. Steam rises from (Y/n)'s shirt, and she swats the sparks from it.

The figure lifts the mask from her face, and the four boys and (Y/n) see Max.

"Holy shit! You should have seen the look on your faces!" Max laughs. "And you," she points her fake blade at Lucas. "Who screams like that, you sounded like a little girl." Max turns, starting to walk towards the next house. "Hey, you guys coming or not? Oh, I heard we should hit up Lock Nora," Max says, turning back to the group. "That's where the rich people live, right?" she laughs. Lucas, Dustin, and (Y/n) follow after Max, leaving Mike and Will trailing behind slightly.

. . .

"If you're not out in an hour –" Billy Hargorve threatens his step-sister as he drops her off outside the arcade.

"I'm skating home. I know," Max rolls her eyes.

"Hey! Watch the attitude, shitbird," Billy retorts.

Max huffs, rolls her eyes, and flips Billy off as his tires squeal.

The redhead enters the arcade, moving straight to Dig Dug, but she groans when she finds an Out of Order sign on the arcade machine.

"Sorry about that, Road Warrior," Keith, still eating his Cheese Puffs, tells the redhead.

"What happened?" Max asks.

"Short circuit in the motherboard," Keith smacks the machine. "A real bummer. But fret not. I got another machine up and running in the back."

He leads Max back to the staff office. The door opens and Max finds (Y/n) sitting in the office in front of the old Dig Dug machine, smiling sheepishly.

Max rolls her eyes and she steps into the office.

"You better get me that date now, Harrington," Keith threatens.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," (Y/n) grumbles.

As soon as the door closes, Max whips around to look at (Y/n). "What the shit, stalker?" Max asks.

"Sorry, I just needed a safe place," (Y/n) replies, fiddling with her fingers.

"To do what, exactly?" Max asks. "Be creepy?"

"To tell you the truth," (Y/n) answers. "But if anyone finds out, you could be arrested. Or worse."

(Y/n) can tell from the look on Max's face that the girl was about to laugh. "Killed?"

"I need to know," (Y/n) pauses, looking Max straight in the eyes. "Do you accept the risk?"

"Oh, my God!" Max says, looking exasperated. "This . . . this is so stupid."

"Do you accept the risk?" (Y/n) replies, her eyebrows knit.

Max rolls her eyes. "Yeah. Sure. Fine. I accept the risk." The redhead slumps into a chair, and (Y/n) sits back down on her stool.

"Last year . . ." she pauses. "Will didn't get lost in the woods. He got lost somewhere else."

. . .

"And that's the last we saw of her. After that, she was gone. It feels like yesterday," (Y/n)'s jaw tightens noticeably, and Max adverts her gaze.

"Yeah, I mean. I bet. Wow."

(Y/n) nods.

"It's crazy, but . . . I really liked it."

(Y/n) recoils, "Excuse me."

"Well, I mean, I had a few issues," Max replies.

"Issues?"

"I felt it was a little derivative in parts," Max says.

"What're you talking about?" (Y/n) asks, frowning heavily.

"I just wish it had a little more originality," Max says. "That's all."

"You don't believe me?" (Y/n) frowns.

"(Y/n), come on, seriously? How gullible do you think I am?" Max asks.

"Why would I make all this up?" (Y/n)'s eyebrows knit angrily.

"I don't know. To impress me or something? Or you're just, like, insane," Max says.

(Y/n) sets her jaw. "I tell you all this, and this is how you react?"

"I mean, yeah?" Max says, getting to her feet, grabbing her skateboard, and walking towards the door.

"Where are you going?" (Y/n) asks, also standing up.

"Story time's over, isn't it?" the redhead asks. She opens the door into the main part of the arcade, and (Y/n) follows close behind.

"I don't understand what's wrong. I gave you what you wanted," (Y/n) sounds legitimately confused.

"I wanted to be part of the group, not a part of some joke," Max turns to face (Y/n).

"It's not a joke," (Y/n) insists.

"You did a good job, okay?" Max says, and (Y/n)'s head tilts a little to the side, her eyes wide with confusion. "You can go tell the others I believed your lies if it gets you experience points or whatever."

Max starts to walk away, but (Y/n) rests a hand on Max's arm, and the redhead stops. "We have a lot of rules in our party, but the most important is, 'Friends don't lie'. Never ever. No matter what."

"Is that right?" Max rolls her eyes, stomping back towards Dig Dug, ripping the 'Out of Order' sign off the screen, and pressing the tape onto (Y/n)'s shirt. "How do you explain this?"

"I had to do that. To protect you," (Y/n) replies, pulling the 'Out of Order' sign off her shirt and holding it loosely in her hand.

"To protect me from who, exactly?" Max turns to the Dig Dug machine. "The big bad government kidnappers from Hawkins Lab?"

"Quiet," (Y/n) hisses, the paper going warm in her hand.

"Or maybe it was to protect me from the Demogorgon from another dimension," Max says, even louder, and a boy standing two machines down glances over at the two girls.

"Seriously, Max, quiet down."

"Oh, no, no!" Max says light a laugh. "You know what it was? It was Eleven. The girl –"

(Y/n) finally steps forward, placing her hand over Max's mouth. "You are going to get yourself killed. Do you understand?"

"You're serious?" Max asks, once (Y/n) lowers her hand.

"I wish more than you that I wasn't," (Y/n) replies, the piece of paper starting to smoke in her left hand.

. . .

(Y/n) tosses a stone at Max's window to get the girl's attention.

"Hop on," (Y/n) gestures to the seat of her new bike once Max opens the window.

"What?" Max asks, looking confused.

"I have proof."

. . .

"I said medium-well!" Lucas calls from his bike, riding beside (Y/n) and Max.

"Who's that?" Steve Harrington asks, looking towards Max.

The three join Dustin and Steve.

. . .

"You told her?" Dustin hisses, he and (Y/n) ducked behind an old car.

"'So what?'" (Y/n) asks. "If anyone has the right –"

"So what?" Dustin interrupts.

"You wanted to tell her too. So did Lucas."

"But we didn't, all right? We agreed not to tell her and to look for Dart," Dustin says.

(Y/n) goes to say something, but then a, "Hey, assholes. How come the only one helping me is Lucas and this random girl?" comes from Steve. "We lose light in forty minutes. Let's go! Let's go, I said."

. . .

Max watches, her eyes wide with amazement, as (Y/n)'s hand blazes, welding pieces of metal to the bus.

Steve pours a trail of gasoline from the center of the junkyard to the front of the bus. "Hey, sis?" Steve says, and (Y/n) looks over. "Don't accidentally set us on fire? Okay?"

(Y/n)'s gaze twinkles with amusement, and, a careful fifteen feet away from the line of gasoline, she snaps her fingers, sparks cascading over the body of a broken down car.

Max steps over to where (Y/n) had gone back to welding metal together.

"Here," Max hands (Y/n) a bottle of water and a granola bar.

(Y/n) pauses her welding to accept the water and granola bar. She sits down, leaning against the bus.

Max sits down beside her. "You're amazing," Max flushes brightly, realizing her slip-up at the last second. "I mean –" She stops when she sees (Y/n)'s shy little smile.

"You are too," (Y/n) replies softly. "Amazing, I mean."

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you at first," Max murmurs, playing with her fingers in her lap.

"I wouldn't have believed me either if it hadn't happened to us," (Y/n) replies, summoning a tiny flame to dance in the palm of her hand.

Darkness is beginning to fall on the junkyard, and Dustin, Lucas, Steve, (Y/n), and Max enter the bus, closing the door.

. . .

(Y/n) sits on top of the bus, looking into the fog with a pair of binoculars.

"It's kinda awesome," Max says, and (Y/n) turns to see her standing at the top of the ladder.

"Huh?" (Y/n) asks, scooching over so Max could take a seat beside her.

"The fog," Max clarifies. "Looks like the ocean."

"You miss it?" (Y/n) wonders aloud.

"What?" Max tilts her head in question.

"The ocean," (Y/n) replies, shifting slightly to look at Max better. "The waves? California?"

Max shrugs.

"Hawkins seems pretty lame, I bet," (Y/n) says.

"No, no, no, it's not that. It's just . . ." Max pauses, and (Y/n)'s gaze rests silently on her. "My dad's still there. So . . ."

"Why?" (Y/n) asks, not knowing the answer.

"It's this legal term called 'divorce'," Max explains patiently. "When two married people don't love each other anymore –"

"Ohh," (Y/n) realizes. She'd heard Steve talking about their parents possibly getting divorced, but she shoves the thought away.

"My mom and my stepdad, they wanted a fresh start away from him," Max continues. "As if . . . As if he was the problem, which is total bull. And things . . . are worse now. My stepbrother's always been a dick, but now he's just angry . . . all the time and . . . Well, he can't take it out on my mom, so . . ."

"He takes it out on you," (Y/n) finishes.

"I don't even know why I'm telling you this," Max mutters. "Your childhood was so much worse than mine."

(Y/n) glances back out over the fog, as though considering Max's words. "You shouldn't measure trauma," she says finally.

(Y/n) looks back over to meet Max's gaze.

"When did you get so smart," Max teases.

(Y/n) scoffs comically, nudging Max with an elbow.

Max sighs before she continues, "It's just . . . I know that I can be a jerk like Billy sometimes, and I do not want to be like him. Ever. I guess I'm angry, too, and . . . I'm sorry." Max looks like she's about to cry."

"Hey, listen," (Y/n) straightens. "You're nothing like your brother, okay? Last I know, you didn't attempt to run me over with a big blue car," she jokes, trying to make Max smile – at least a little. It does work, because Max cracks a grin. "You're cool and different. And super smart. And like, totally tubular," she deepens her voice on the last two words, mocking Dustin and Lucas from Halloween night.

Max laughs, her eyes crinkling. "Nobody actually says that, you know."

"Well, I think I do now," (Y/n)'s eyes gleam with amusement.

"It makes you sound really cool."

"I like talking with you, Mad Max," (Y/n) says, and Max's smile widens.

"And I like talking with you, stalker," Max replies, and (Y/n) is glad for the darkness, hiding her darkening cheeks.

Suddenly, a growling sounds rips (Y/n) and Max out of their moment.

"(Y/n)!" Dustin's voice comes from below in the bus. "What's going on?"

"Hold on!" (Y/n) shouts in reply. She presses the binoculars to her eyes, and then sees the demodog appear from the fog straight ahead. "Straight ahead!" (Y/n) replies.

(Y/n) watches Dart. "Why isn't he coming closer?" She hears Dustin asks.

"Maybe he's sick of cow," Steve replies.

"You sure that's not a dog," Max says.

"Max!" (Y/n) looks bewildered.

Suddenly, blood pounds in (Y/n)'s ears when she hears Dustin's, "Steve? Steve, what are you doing?" And then she sees when Steve steps into the middle of the foggy clearing.

Max grabs (Y/n)'s shoulder, shaking her out of her daze.

The two girls descend down the ladder. (Y/n) makes her way towards the bus door but Lucas stops her. "What are you doing?" he asks.

"I gotta help," she replies. "I'm the only one who can."

Lucas pauses, considering the reasoning. "Fine," he says, moving to the door to open it.

"Shut the door when I get out, you hear," (Y/n) meets Lucas's gaze. The boy nods. "On three." (Y/n) says. "One. Two."

"Three," (Y/n) and Lucas say in unison, and (Y/n) charges out the door.

Steve and (Y/n) stand back to back, as they hear the familiar chittering sound of the demodogs.

Steve makes a whistling sound, as if to call the monster closer, and it dives at the Harrington siblings. 

Word Count: 3525 words

Taglist:

Lemme know :)

[m0ther-of-p3arl]

i crack and out i pour

(robert aeor high au p3)

masterpost

FINALLY JIMMY'S HERE ODKSLFJLSDKJ i've been waiting so long for this ohhh my god welp this is the longest update yet :)

hope you like!!

Jimmy. So that’s his name- Joel had been wrong about that bit, at least. Scott can’t help but take note of his ruffled blonde hair, short and scruffy, tucked behind his ear with a pink, flower-patterned hair clip, his standard knee-length skirt showing thin, bird-like legs. He’s quite short, his height even less impressive than Scott’s five foot seven stature, and this is what causes Scott to come to a startling realization: Jimmy can be no one else but the person he’s just bumped into in the hallway; if only he’d known.

or, Scott meets the new boy! and they have a conversation :)

(4279 words)

Science is decidedly Scott’s favorite class, if only because he shares it with Owen and Shelby. To be fair, though, he does somewhat enjoy what they do, loves that he can just sit and talk to his two friends while doing some dumb experiment where everyone knows what the final reaction will be. Stepping into the familiar, vaulted classroom today, Scott scans the tables quickly, spotting Shubble and rushing over to claim the seat next to her, as Owen doesn’t seem to be here yet.

That’s another great thing about science: they’re allowed to choose their own seats, and they can choose new places to sit every day. Scott is almost always sitting with Shelby and Owen, his two friends in the class- the only time when he’s not is when Shubble wants to sit with Pearl and her group of crazy friends, or Owen with Lilith, his partner. But today, Shelby’s sat at the table they usually pick, nestled comfortably in the back corner: Scott’s favorite place.

“Hey, Scott!” Shelby smiles in greeting, eir legs swinging from her chair as eir eyes just barely peek over the table, her mushroom hat the only reason Scott was able to spot em in the first place.

“Hey, Shubble,” he says, “Do you want something to sit on?”

“Yes please,” Shelby exhales, “I tell you, it’s hard being this short.”

“For your species, you’re actually quite large,” Scott points out, pulling a few textbooks out of his school bag and plopping them down next to his friend. Technically, what he’s said about Shelby’s height is true. For a gnome, ey’re very tall, but for any other species? Not so much. She stands at a whopping three foot five, and the few times Scott’s seen her with her parents, ey’ve been towering over them by at least six inches. “You can sit on these, I don’t need them till later.”

Shelby’s dark brown hair is parted into two braids, which stick out from underneath her iconic hat, made of a bright red mushroom speckled with large white spots. Ey’re one of the only people who actually looks good in the school uniform, the navy blue and white tie complimenting her dark eyes quite nicely.

“Thank you, Scott.” Shubble says, propping up his textbooks on her seat and clambering atop them, crossing eir arms neatly on the table. She’s always polite, and that’s one of the reasons Scott loves em so much. They’ve been friends for almost three years, the final addition to their little group, that until Shelby came along, had been composed of only Scott, Joel, and Owen. 

And speaking of Owen, here he is now, weaving quickly in between the tables before sneaking behind Scott and Shelby’s, plopping himself down on the chair next to the gorgon. “Ready to science?” he grins, stretching and grinning at the other two.

“I need to talk to Shelby for a sec, but after that, yeah, duh,” Scott smirks back at his best friend, though he knows Owen will be listening in the whole time.

“What about?” Shubble leans in close, as if Scott’s telling her some big secret. And he supposes he is to an extent, though really, it’s nothing huge.

“Xornoth, my father, a dream I had, just a ton of shit.” Scott leans down onto the table, just Shelby’s concerned face already easing him a little bit out of the breakdown mindset.

“Oh, no- not Xornoth. What was ze doing now?” Shubble has had eir own experiences with the tiefling, and Scott knows that her distaste for zir is just as great as his own, if not even more pronounced.

“...trying to touch my snakes,” Scott confesses, his insides twisting into an anxious knot just remembering zir calloused hands rubbing roughly against his head.

Owen and Shelby’s reactions are immediate and identical. They both swing their heads towards Scott, their faces shocked and seemingly disgusted, yelling, “What?!”

“Quiet down back there!” the teacher, Mx Leiverman, yells from the front of the class.

Scott’s friends ignore them, Owen still staring, horrified, at Scott, and Shelby jumping down from her chair to stand on the table directly in front of him, glaring down at him, eir eyes angry and scared.

Owen speaks first. “Scott, that’s… not an okay thing for zir to do.”

“No, it most certainly is not! Why didn’t you text me?” Shubble chimes in, waving her arms in the air. “I could have helped! You could have had a breakdown! Honestly, I’m surprised you’re not completely catatonic right now- I know how much you hate unwanted touch, and from Xornoth? That’s, like, twelve times worse!”

“I didn’t want to bother you guys,” Scott reasons. He should have known they’d react like this, should have known they’d take it as such a huge deal. “It’s not really all that bad. I’m fine.” He’s not.

“I don’t believe that for even a second.” Shelby’s continuing to yell at him, pointing accusingly at his head. “If something like that ever happens to you again, I want you to tell me right away. Understood? That is disgusting.” Scott’s disgusting. “I can’t believe anyone would ever do anything like that- but if anyone was going to, it would be Xornoth, wouldn’t it-”

“Shelby, please quiet down!” Mx Leiverman sounds annoyed now, and Scott gestures to Shelby for em to climb back into eir seat. She shakes her head defiantly, anger and worry bubbling up behind eir eyes.

“Jesus, Shubble, it’s really not that big of a deal.” Scott’s struggling to keep acting this nonchalant, doesn’t really know why he’s keeping up the charade, really, but he doesn’t want to worry his friends. Even though Shelby’s the therapist of the group, and he’s been planning to tell her all this since it happened, Scott can’t seem to allow himself to open up. Shubble really seems to care, and he can see her blowing up even further, opening eir mouth, no doubt to argue.

“Yes it is,” Owen says so quietly, it’s almost a whisper, “That’s a legitimate legal offense. You could probably sue Xornoth for that, and I mean this genuinely.” He enunciates the last word, each syllable coming out crisp and clear.

“But I’m not going to, because it’s no big deal!” Scott’s getting frustrated now. He should have known they’d take it like this, should have known they’d get this angry. Well… no, that’s not completely true. He should have expected Shubble to act like this. Owen? Not so much. He’s just full of surprises this morning, it seems.

“Well, if you don’t want to talk about it or press charges, we aren’t going to force you,” Owen sighs. “Right, Shelby?” He glares at her, clearly signaling to em to drop it. Owen’s known Scott long enough now to know when he won’t crack, and even if he’s certain that Owen agrees wholeheartedly with Shelby, he at least knows when to let sleeping dogs lie.

“...Sure.” Ey seems slightly embarrassed, and she climbs off the table, returning to eir chair. “But Scott, if you ever change your mind about this, tell me. If you ever want to bring this to the attention of school authority, please let me know.”

“Yep, absolutely,” Scott mutters, more to ease the gnome’s worry than to actually agree. He knows he won’t, if only because it’ll make him even easier to pick on than he is now, but he also knows how it’d be such a sign of weakness, how disappointed his father would be, because Scott’s so horrendous already, he doesn’t need to add coward to the long list of things wrong with him.

“Good.” Shelby’s relieved; he can tell by the way eir shoulders relax, the way her eyes lose the intense ferocity they had harbored not seconds ago.

Owen catches Scott’s eye, nodding slightly. “Seriously, though.” Scott feels a sudden pang of affection for his friends, because though they’re being annoying as hell, he does need to hear this from time to time, hear that they care for him, hear that what he’s going through is real.

“Thanks, Shubble. Thanks, Owen.” He offers each of them a smile, sinking slightly at the edges but more genuine than any expression he’s made in a while. 

Before Scott’s friends can respond with more than a rueful shake of the head and a small grin from Owen, Mx Leiverman is clapping from the front of the room, a loud, harsh sound that signals that they have an announcement to make.

“Attention, please! Hey! That means you, Pearl, listen up!” While Mx Leiverman is trying to get the attention of the class, Scott notices that there’s a person, leaning up against the wall behind the teacher’s desk, their arms crossed tightly across their chest, bright yellow wings peeking out from behind them.

It’s the new kid, it has to be, there’s no one else it could be. Grian’s a parrot, he has mostly red, patterned wings, and Bek’s an owl. They’re the only two avians in school, and even on the small off-chance that one of those two would be in this room for whatever reason, they look nothing like the one standing stiffly at the front of the class.

Shelby’s noticed him too, and ey peeks over at Scott, her eyes inquisitive. “Is that the kid Joel was talking about?”

“I guess so,” Scott whispers, being very careful that the new boy can’t hear them. “Owen, did you see those texts?”

“Yeah,” Owen mutters, looking everywhere but the avian stood in the corner, glancing back at him every few seconds. “Timmy, right?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” Scott answers, before Shubble shoots them a “stop talking” look, and all three direct their attention to the front of the room, where the teacher has finally gotten the class under control.

“Alright, everyone,” Mx Leiverman calls out, exerting their voice so it carries across the whole room. “As many of you may know, this-” they gesture to the avian- “is our new student, Jimmy. Would you like to introduce yourself to the class, Jim?”

Jimmy. So that’s his name- Joel had been wrong about that bit, at least. Scott can’t help but take note of his ruffled blonde hair, short and scruffy, tucked behind his ear with a pink, flower-patterned hair clip, his standard knee-length skirt showing thin, bird-like legs. He’s quite short, his height even less impressive than Scott’s five foot seven stature, and this is what causes Scott to come to a startling realization: Jimmy can be no one else but the person he’s just bumped into in the hallway; if only he’d known.

“Um. Hey, I’m Jimmy?” The statement comes out inquisitive, making it sound like the avian is questioning his own name. Mx Leiverman gestures for him to elaborate, and Scott can see Jimmy sinking into his wings as they twitch. He’s evidently trying very hard not to wrap them around himself. 

When he doesn’t continue, their teacher takes it upon themself to prompt him into speaking. “And where did you move from, Jimmy?”

Jimmy’s eyes have gone wide, and he looks like he’s struggling not to curl into a ball on the floor. “I-I moved from the… from a city a couple miles south.” Scott furrows his brow. This had obviously not been what Jimmy was originally going to say, and he’s obviously distressed. Scott feels for the guy, hopes for his sake that Mx Leiverman stops asking questions. It’s obviously making him very uncomfortable, and Scott’s been in similar situations before. It’s never fun.

“...What was the city called?” Mx Leiverman asks, prodding for more information.  Scott almost facepalms, because any idiot can see how much the avian’s struggling right now, how much he wishes he could get out of the spotlight.

“Um, it was called…Jimmyville?” The class is working hard to hide their snickers, especially Joey, sitting alone at a table near the front of the class.

“Uh huh. Sure. What’s it really called, Jimmy?” Mx Leiverman is not amused, their nails beginning to drum a simple rhythm on their opposite arm.

“Can I go sit down now?” Jimmy doesn’t look like he’ll be answering any more questions. He’s staring determinedly down at his feet, as if not looking at all the people in the room will make them go away, will make them stop looking at him. His feathers ruffle, shaking slightly before laying back down into a more subdued pattern.

He’s kind of cute.

In the way all avians are cute, of course.

“Sure,” Mx Leiverman sighs, rubbing their temples and scanning the room, their gaze glancing over all the tables before landing on Scott and his friends. “I think you’d fit right in at that table in the back, Jimmy.”

He grabs his textbooks and walks over, still staring daggers at the floor, his wings pressed close against his body, prickling up in something that Scott assumes is either anxiety or embarrassment- though given Jimmy’s interrogation, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was a combination of both.

Shelby smiles at the canary as he trips towards them and scoots himself into the seat between her and Scott. “Hi, Jimmy!”

“Hey,” Jimmy mutters, attempting to smile and failing utterly. Shubble seems to have a good idea of what’s up, though, and ey leaves him be, though not before offering half of her granola bar, which Jimmy accepts gratefully.

Over the course of the introduction to class, Mx Leiverman drones on and on about what they’re going to be doing today, what obvious experiment will be conducted. Scott opens and closes his mouth several times, trying to find sentences that he can use to speak to the avian. 

But Jimmy’s head is still ducked close to the table, his wings hanging loosely off the back of the chair, and Scott can’t seem to come up with words that sound genuinely friendly, and not weird or awkward. It doesn’t help that every time he tries, his insides feel like they’ve just been dropped off the high end of a cliff.

What is happening?

Scott turns his head away from Jimmy, staring intensely at the instructions on the board, determined to look anywhere other than Owen, who’s flashing him looks. Scott does not need to feel more confused than he does right now, and he can feel a bout of self-hate beginning to push in, disgust at how he’s feeling.

He hasn’t even spoken a word to this short bird boy, and already he can’t control himself. All Scott wants to be is normal, to be a full gorgon, to have the right feelings, to be the way men are supposed to be.

Scott glances behind him, and is suddenly aware of a huge mass of bright yellow feathers extending from Jimmy’s back. He’s stretching; his wings spread out to their full extent, eyes closed and arms stuck into the air. He does a little shake and his wings retract, folding back into their unassuming shape.

“You have a really large wingspan for your height,” Scott notices, not realizing until too late that he’s spoken aloud.

“Oh, yeah, I guess so,” Jimmy answers, looking surprisedly at the gorgon.

Well, Scott can’t let the conversation drop now. Plus, he has questions. “I’ve never really known an avian before, do you mind if I ask you some questions? Oh, I’m Scott, by the way.” Scott supposes he should at least introduce himself if he’s going to be this kinda guy.

“Well, I’m not exactly the best person to ask about that kind of thing…” Jimmy rubs the back of his neck self-consciously, grey-blue eyes looking to the side.

“I don’t mind,” Scott says quickly, and perhaps a bit too earnestly. He can hear the excited edge in his voice, and worries that he’s startled the canary. But instead of seeming weirded out, Jimmy laughs, a melodious, bird-like noise, clear and high-pitched.

“Well, I suppose so, then- only if I can ask you about being a gorgon, though. Back where I’m from, I only knew one. Her name was Nellie and she was ke- she lived on the other side of the city. I didn’t know gorgons could be cyan, tell me about that?”

Scott can feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickling up, discomfort coursing through his veins. “Um…normally, we can’t? I’m a hybrid, though, my mother’s a siren.”

“Huh, that’s interesting. I didn’t know hybrids between species were even a thing.” Jimmy’s picking at his feathers as they talk, never quite looking Scott in the eye, which he appreciates. Eye contact is something Scott’s never been a fan of, as it reminds him of his father, and he’s very relieved that Jimmy doesn’t seem to particularly enjoy it either, making the conversation a lot more comfortable for the both of them.

“Yeah, some species can crossbreed, some can’t. Apparently, a siren and a gorgon are close enough genetically that it works out.” Scott shrugs, trying to be nonchalant when really he’s warding off a breakdown. “I mean, if they weren’t, I wouldn’t be here, would I.”

“I guess not,” Jimmy agrees. “So, wait- can you still turn people to stone?”

“No.” Scott doesn’t elaborate, the question has already sent off too many alarm bells in his head, stupid defective fake disgusting wrong-

Scott realizes that Owen’s back, turned away from him and Jimmy, tensed at the avian’s last question. He’s been eavesdropping- again- and he knows it’s a topic Scott’s sensitive about. He feels a sudden burst of affection for his best friend.

“Sorry-” Jimmy starts, clearly having picked up on Scott’s anxiety.

“It’s fine,” he reassures the avian, “It’s just… kind of personal, you know?” Jimmy nods vigorously, his hair clip starting to fall out. Scott has to resist the urge to reach over and tuck it back in.

Owen’s back relaxes, and Scott feels quite proud of the way he handled such a sensitive subject as well. “So, about being an avian- can you fly?” Now it’s Jimmy’s turn to look uncomfortable, and Scott knows he’s overstepped, though he doesn’t know how.

“...kind of,” Jimmy answers, his posture somehow more rigid than before. “I was a little late learning, though- I’m not the best at flying.”

“Huh. I’m a gorgon who can’t petrify, you’re an avian who has trouble flying. Looks like we’re both de-” Scott stops himself from saying defective, reminding himself that though it’s true for him, other people often get defensive or weirded out when he calls himself that. “I guess we’re both kind of in the same boat,” he corrects himself.

“Yeah,” Jimmy agrees, offering a small, quivering smile that causes a shiver to run down Scott’s spine. “Yeah, I guess we kind of are.”

The conversation kind of dwindles after that, Scott not really knowing what to say, but kind of feeling like there’s not much more that needs to be said, at least right now. Mx Leiverman has finally finished the instructions for what they’re doing in class today, and Scott realizes that he’s been so caught up in his conversation, and even after it was finished, just thinking about what was said and Jimmy and other things, but mostly Jimmy.

“Shelby, do you know what we’re doing for class?” he half-whispers, leaning behind the canary to get a clear view of the gnome.

“You need to listen better,” she hisses, throwing him a glare that he knows by now is fake. 

“Fine, I’ll ask Owen, then,” Scott challenges. Shubble rolls eir eyes, barely concealing a smile.

“Ask me what? And why are we whispering?” Suddenly Owen is there, out of his seat, head leaning in between Scott and Shelby. 

“Oh, hello- I was just wondering what we’re doing, I didn’t catch what Mx Leiverman said,” Scott explains to his best friend. They’re all still crowded around right behind Jimmy, and Scott imagines it must be quite awkward for him- surrounded by people who you don’t know, who aren’t talking to you or about you. Scott’s been in similar situations before and it’s not a particularly nice feeling, so he leans back into his seat, gesturing for Shubble and Owen to do the same.

“Jimmy, did you hear what Leiverman said?” Scott asks, turning to the avian.

“No, I was talking to you, remember?” 

Of course he was! Scott feels quite silly, and mutters a half-agreement before feeling Owen tap him on the shoulder and gesture to the corner. Scott raises an eyebrow before following, reassuring Shelby that they’ll be back in a second.

“So, what do you think of Jimmy?” Owen always feints around the questions he really wants to ask, and never says anything without a reason. Scott can tell he’s up to something, but he also knows that Owen’s trying to get more information out of him first, and he’ll never find out what about until Owen wants him to.

“He’s fine, he seems like a nice kid? I don’t know, I’ve known him just as long as you have- cut to the chase, Owen, what are you on about now?”

“Whatever could you be talking about,” Owen smirks, picking lint off the dark red sweater he always seems to be wearing, even times like now when he’s supposed to be donned in only the school uniform.

“You know full well what I’m talking about, what do you want from me?” Scott’s quite fed up with Owen's little guessing games at this point, because though at times they can be quite endearing, other times, like this, they’re just really bothersome. 

Owen widens his eyes innocently, barely hiding his trademark grin. “I couldn’t possibly know what you’re referring to, Scott Smajor.”

“Come on, Owen, give it up. Why are you asking me about Jimmy?” Scott swears he can see the avian’s ear feathers peak up at the mention of his name. Owen shushes him loudly, having obviously seen it too.

“Fine, but don’t get mad. You have a crush on him, don’t you.” 

Scott’s eyes widen at the tiefling’s statement, and he shakes his head vigorously. “No, no, no, no. And even if I did, you know I’m not supposed to like guys, I just haven’t found the right girl yet- I can’t be gay, do you understand how disgusting that would make me? Even worse than I am now, even more of a horrific person-” He’s shaking, hyperventilating, almost, because he hates talking about this, he hates bringing it up, he hates when Owen brings it up, because it’s bad to even think about and Scott hates himself-

“Scott! Stop it with this shit. You’re just as gay as I am bi,” Owen glares at him, momentarily snapping him out of his bubble of anxiety. “Just because you’re in denial and live with an abusive family-” he doesn’t, and he’s not in denial- “does not mean you get the right to be homophobic or self-deprecating.”

“And plus,” Scott adds, ignoring Owen’s outburst because he can’t let himself believe he’s anything but the disgusting idiot he is, he just can’t, he doesn’t know who he’d be if he didn’t hate himself- “I’ve literally known this kid for five seconds. Even if I was gay, it’s not like I’m gonna suddenly fall in love with whatever random chap looks in my vague direction.”

“You’re changing the subject. Apologize.”

“Fine.” Scott rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry I don’t want to be even more revolting than I already am- I have it hard enough without having to think about… that.”

“That is not an apology. Being queer is not revolting. Do you think I’m revolting? What about Shelby? What about Jimmy, who’s pretty obviously gender non-conforming with his skirt and hair clip?” Owen gestures angrily towards their table, where Jimmy and Shubble seem to be getting on splendidly. “Do you think we’re revolting? ‘Cause I’ll remind you, the majority of your friends are not straight and/or cis.”

“I- no, I don’t think you’re revolting-” Scott’s on the defense now, backing up with his hands raised in surrender.

“Then what are you getting at?” Owen jabs him in the chest, hard, not the friendly pokes Scott’s used to, and he stumbles backwards, eyes wide. “Because you can’t really hate one queer person due to their gender or sexuality without hating all of us, even if that one queer person is yourself. Look, I get that you have a fucking hard time. I get it! But this does not give you the excuse to press your trauma on everyone else. Now properly apologize. Or else.”

Scott doesn’t know what to do, he can’t figure out how his own logic works, how he’s gross because he’s gay, but all his friends aren’t- his mind reels. But he does suppose he has to apologize. “...I’m sorry, Owen.” It’s almost too soft to hear, but Owen seems satisfied, folding Scott into an awkward hug for the second time that day. 

“It’s okay,” Owen reassures. “That’s what I’m here for- to correct you when you say the dumbest shit imaginable. Now come on, let’s go do a science experiment.”

Owen walks back to the table, Scott trailing slowly behind him. He doesn’t think his friends are disgusting, he really doesn’t, so then why does he feel like he is? Because no matter how many times he tries to take what Owen says to heart, he can’t, he just can’t. 

For a moment, just for a moment, Scott tries to let himself imagine what it would be like if he hadn’t grown up the way he had.

He thinks… he thinks it might have been nice.

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Pomegranate Ink: III

Series Synopsis: Unable to heal but willing to fight, with a fiancé in Kyoto and a last name that looms over everything you do, you accept an offer to study at Tokyo Jujutsu Tech. What you did not know was that your salvation and your ruination alike would soon join you at the school, neatly wrapped in the form of a boy followed by death.

Chapter Synopsis: You meet the dangerous special-grade sorcerer, Yuta Okkotsu.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Yuta Okkotsu × Female Reader

Chapter Word Count: 8.0k

Content Warnings: angst, misogyny, naoya zenin, forbidden relationships, canon-typical violence, character death, original characters included

A/N: i forgot how much i love yuta he’s such a cutie

You had never been in a public high school before, so this was a new experience. It was deserted and cold, the moonlight an eerie silver color. You weighed the merit of running back to the safety of Gojo’s embrace. The tears that threatened to gather in the corners of your eyes meant that there was some value to the action, but your pride would not allow for the cowardice. So you determinedly kept walking, ignoring the heavy cursed energy pressing down on you, choking your lungs until breathing was a chore and it felt like you were wading through syrup.

Whoever this sorcerer was, he was breathtakingly powerful, and you questioned Gojo’s judgement at sending you to face him alone. You and your thin silver needles. Their musical clanking in your pocket, muted but noticeable, was the only thing comforting you as you walked. They would probably not do much against a special-grade, but it was still soothing to know you had something with you. It was like — like a security blanket of sorts, but a threadbare one, the type that would do little to warm someone but was nice to cling to anyways.

“Room 313,” you said to yourself, allowing yourself a moment of distraction and pulling out your phone. Gojo had forwarded you the email with the PDF containing the mission details; you had been surprised to find out that the higher ups used emails to communicate, but it made sense enough when you thought more about it.

The sorcerer and his pet curse were estimated to be located in Room 313, a science classroom. Perhaps they were something of a science experiment gone wrong; you snickered at the thought that a chemical shower could’ve prevented all of this quite neatly. It was a naive and uninformed take, but as you were nearing the classroom rather rapidly, you preferred to be amused than wetting yourself from fear.

The final few steps were the hardest, and not for the first time, you wished that you were not alone, that you had some companion making this easier. Maki, with her nearly abrasive personality, or Toge’s kind smile and calm experience; you would even take Panda, though you barely knew him. The cuddly bear would at least be a solid barrier between you and an enemy, but as it was, Gojo’s whole plan was to teach you total self-reliance. Which was well and good, but at the moment, you had barely any skills to rely upon, so this was sort of a silly idea on his part, really.

Even his half-baked plan of you trying to charm the sorcerer was easy to poke holes in — not only were you engaged, it had been an arranged relationship, carefully planned out at dinner tables by your parents and several Kamo clan elders. You and Noritoshi had little to do with it; actually, the only role you had played was accepting the ring he gave you and appearing at parties when told to do so. You had no experience with being charming. Also, you still wore your engagement ring on your left hand. You hoped the sorcerer would not notice it, but you also did not want to take it off. It would feel too much like cheating if you did so.

The door to Room 313 creaked open ominously. You winced — there went any ideas of sneaking up on the sorcerer. If he had not known of your presence beforehand, he certainly did now. Reaching into the pocket of your uniform, you let your fingers curl around the small box of needles you had brought with you.

There was no attack nor sudden blast of energy. The room was silent and still, bar a faint sniffling noise. Aware that you could be walking into a trap but not really having much other choice, you entered the room and looked around.

Clearly, the sorcerer was a master of disguise. You could not make out a trace of him, not in any of the chairs and not at the teacher’s desk. Indeed, the room seemed all but deserted, except for that infernal sound, like a child that had lost its mother. Perhaps this was a trick of the curse — it would drive you mad with its strange, pathetic cries and then strike when you were distracted.

This was a little bit infuriating, and your footsteps ceased to be the light, graceful walk you had perfected since childhood. Instead, you were stomping around the room like a petulant toddler, muttering swears under your breath. The fear had been mostly pushed down by anger — though, this might’ve been the curse’s influence as well…you resented the creature and its sorcerer for manipulating you so thoroughly when you could not so much as see them. How unfair!

It appeared as though the room was clear; you were about to call Gojo and then leave when you heard a rustling. You froze, eyes widening as you remembered in a rush that you were facing a special-grade sorcerer and his special-grade curse. You wished you could go back to the irritation, but your earlier fear had made itself prominent again.

You slowly turned to face your foe. It was a boy — briefly, you wondered how you had missed him earlier — pressed against the wall under the window. He was hugging his knees to his chest, and though most of him was nondescript, fading into the shadows, the one thing that stuck out to you was the shade of his irises.

They were a distinctly poisonous blue, the same dark shade as dart frogs from the Amazon, shimmering with crystal tears that fell onto the lavender-tinted shadows under his eyes. Dark lashes brushed against his cheeks as he blinked at you. You blinked back.

“Please don’t come any closer,” he whispered. Your phone clattered to the floor, Gojo’s contact still pulled up, and you did not have the self-possession to do anything but scream. Loudly, shrilly, it was altogether a terrible first impression. The boy reached his hands out as if to silence you, but this only made you scream louder, backing up quickly, unsure of what method he’d take to shut you up.

“You — don’t — touch me! Don’t touch me!” you said, gasping for air and pointing at him accusingly. He wilted, shoulders sagging. You did not falter. You would not fall for one of his tricks.

“I wasn’t going to,” he muttered miserably, “Or else she’d kill you.”

“Well, all the more reason for you to stay away! What are you doing, creepily appearing like that? Are you the sorcerer? Are you the one who hurt all of those people?” you snapped. He covered his ears at the barrage of questions; you scowled firmly. He was piteous, but you did not dare let this sway you.

“I’ve been here the entire time. You just didn’t notice, and I didn’t want to call attention to myself in case she noticed,” he said finally, quietly, “And I don’t know what a sorcerer is. Rika hurt those people. Rika always does. She’s trying to protect me.”

“Is Rika the sorcerer, then?” you said, “Odd name for a high school boy. Wait! Are you a high school boy?”

“Yes,” he said, “Rika’s not a high school boy, though. She’s a girl. Or she used to be, at any rate.”

“Used to be,” you said, your racing heart calming, the adrenaline fading as the boy proved himself to at least be a willing conversationalist. He had not tried to attack you yet, so as long as you kept your guard up, talking to him could prove productive. “So she’s the curse, then.”

“I guess so,” he said, nodding his head towards the closet door, “She’s in there, probably. If you want an interview or something.”

“No, thanks,” you said, wrinkling your nose at the blood trickling down the floor, “I’m assuming she attacked someone and they’re in there? No matter, we have people at the school that will take care of them soon enough. They’ll live. Probably.”

“That’s good,” he said. He seemed genuinely cheered up by this, which you found odd.

“Can you put her away or something? All of her cursed energy is uncomfortable,” you said. The boy shrugged.

“I wish I could, but she doesn’t ever listen to me. She’ll probably leave soon,” he said.

“Okay,” you said, “I guess I’ll just wait here with you until she does.”

“Why?” he said. You sighed heavily, sitting down across from him — a safe distance away, to be sure, but the sitting served to put the both of you at ease.

“I’ve been tasked with retrieving you, you see. Which will be much easier to do without a special-grade curse floating around, trying to kill me,” you said.

“Oh. Alright,” he said, “Though it might be a while before she goes.”

“Tell her to hurry up,” you said, confused that he wasn’t questioning you a little more, “If you want her victims to survive, at least.”

“I can try,” he said, furrowing his brow, “Rika, please go away.”

There was a garbled cry from the closet; it grated on both your nerves and your ears, but the boy seemed to understand.

“What’s the verdict?” you said, raising your eyebrows.

“I don’t know,” he said, “Hopefully soon.”

“Wonderful,” you said under your breath, “Well. I suppose we should at least introduce ourselves. I’m Y/N L/N. You can call me Y/N.”

“Yuta Okkotsu,” he said, sounding nervous, as if introductions were something he was not practiced in, “Yuta. Just Yuta is fine.”

“Nice to meet you, Yuta,” you said, politely enough that the lie was believable.

“Nice to meet you, too, Miss Y/N,” he said. Your face scrunched.

“Um, I think we’re the same age, so please don’t call me Miss,” you said. He ducked his head.

“Sorry, you just look so formal and official in your uniform. It feels odd to think of you as my peer,” he said awkwardly.

“If I’m not mistaken, you’re probably leagues more powerful than me,” you offered, “So you may think of yourself as above me, if you wish.”

“N-no!” he said immediately. “I’m not above anyone!”

“I was just joking, relax,” you said, amazed at his vehement disagreement. Before he could respond, there was a crackle of static electricity, and then the cursed energy vanished from the room. You let out a sigh of relief, allowing your body to release the tension coiled in every one of your muscles and then springing to your feet. Yuta seemed surprised at the sudden motion but did not try to follow. You ignored him, retrieving your phone and calling Gojo.

“Hello?” he said.

“Gojo! Useless oaf, you can come up here now,” you said.

“You’ve been hanging out with Maki too much. I can’t believe my sweet little Y/N is insulting me now!” he said.

“Sorry,” you said, out of habit more than anything, “I didn’t mean it.”

“I was just joking, relax!” he said, hanging up instantly. You made a sour face at the dark screen, not appreciating your own words being thrown back at you — not that Gojo knew he was doing that.

Once Gojo arrived on the scene, things got done very quickly. The boys that had been attacked by the curse, Rika, were sent to be healed by various Reverse Cursed Technique users, including your family. You wondered what your father would think when he found out that you had been instrumental in rescuing them.

You and Gojo were currently being driven back to the school by Ijichi, who was a sorcerer given the unfortunate task of being something like Gojo’s personal assistant. Gojo himself was in the passenger seat, which he had reclined so far back that he was practically lying down. It was impossible to tell with the white bandages covering his eyes, but there was a good chance he was asleep. You were in the backseat, behind Ijichi, and currently on the phone with a worried Noritoshi.

“What was he thinking? You might’ve been killed!” he said.

“I’m the one who wanted to be a sorcerer,” you reminded him, picking at your nails, cleaning microscopic pieces of dirt out from beneath them.

“That doesn’t mean you go and fight special-grade curses!”

“It was pretty easy, I just talked with some kid the entire time,” you said. Gojo’s shoulder’s shook with silent laughter, which meant he was awake. This was good, because you had several questions to ask him — once you were done with talking to Noritoshi.

“That’s besides the point!”

“Noritoshi, I’m fine. If I were in Kyoto, I’d tell you to come check on me to ensure such a thing, but I’m not, so you’ll have to take my word for it. I was with Gojo the entire time, anyways, do you think he would’ve let me get hurt?” you said.

“Yes?”

“You’re not wrong on that count, actually,” you said, more towards Gojo than anything. The man in question clutched his heart as if wounded.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that. What did you say?”

“Nothing. Look, I was never in any real danger, and doing stuff like this is part and parcel of sorcery. Your concern is appreciated but misplaced; save it for when — if I ever really get hurt,” you said.

“I still don’t like it, but as long as you’re alright…”

“I am,” you affirmed.

“Fine, then. Be safe.”

“You, too,” you said, hanging up before he could create another reason to worry for you. “Gojo, I have a question.”

“What’s up?” he said.

“What’s going to happen to that kid? Yuta?” you said.

“Aw, are you worried for him?” Gojo teased. You glared at him.

“Hardly. Just curious; don’t you think it’s natural to wonder how my first mission will turn out? Or at least semi-first mission,” you said.

“If the higher ups get their way? Execution. He’s too powerful to be kept alive, or so they’ll reason. I expect he’s been imprisoned at the moment, somewhere where he can’t use his cursed technique and where his curse, Rika, can’t manifest. Then they’ll kill him and the monster in one cowardly fell swoop,” he said, all playfulness gone from his tone. It was heavy and sad now, and you looked away, staring at the trees through the window as they blurred past.

“Oh,” you said, “Execution. I see.”

“Hardly feels fair, does it? He’s the same age as you,” he said.

“He’s a special-grade sorcerer with an equally powerful curse attached to him,” you said, leaning your head against the cool glass of the window, “It’s probably for the best. The higher ups know what they’re doing.”

The same higher ups that were content with you never leaving your future husband’s home. The same higher ups that allowed your engagement to Noritoshi, even though the both of you were still children. You were not so sure that they knew what they were doing, after all.

That night, when you slept, you dreamt of poison-blue eyes weeping a mournful lament, as if you were the one that was going to die.

After last night, your mission with Toge was the opposite of nerve-wracking. For one, you would not be alone, and furthermore the curse you had to deal with was only a grade 3 — which was nothing, not when compared to Yuta and Rika.

Yuta and Rika. You hoped they would at least find some peace together in the afterlife. It was a mean thought, but what else could you wish for? It wasn’t like you had the power to stop the higher ups from executing the boy, and no matter what, the girl was a curse. Perhaps death would be a release for her. If you were in her place, you were certain that you’d want to die. Trapped for the rest of your days as a monster — what sort of a half-life was that?

“It says here that we have to rescue this girl from a curse or something,” you said to Toge as the two of you walked into the building, “Seems very fairytale inspired, wouldn’t you say?”

“Salmon,” he agreed absentmindedly.

“Oh! And she’s related to a well-known sorcerer? Supposedly she’s visiting from America, that’s where she’s from. She began showing symptoms of having a cursed technique, so they sent her here to train with her cousin, but he’s so busy that he left her alone, and of course an untrained sorcerer’s a magnet for curses, and now she’s somewhat stuck,” you continued.

“Salmon,” Toge said, reminding you that he had read the report as well.

“Oops, sorry, it just makes me feel better to reread it out loud. I don’t mean to suggest that you’re unprepared,” you said. He just shrugged as if to say it was no big deal. You beamed at him before returning to the email. “Hey, I know her cousin! He comes by my family’s house to get treated rather frequently. He’s pretty nice — his name is Kaito. Doesn’t surprise me that it’s his cousin in trouble, though, he’s notoriously dedicated to work. Actually, that’s probably why he’s always at our house, he’s always biting off more than he can chew…”

You couldn’t recall what Kaito’s cursed technique was, but it didn’t matter — it wasn’t a guarantee that the girl would have the same one, and even if she miraculously did, she would still be unable to utilize it, so it was a moot point. You did remember that he was rather handsome. But this was not helpful, so you pushed it away, internally chiding yourself for the deviant thoughts.

Making your way through the building, you cursed Kaito for leaving his cousin alone on the top floor of the giant skyscraper. You were certain the girl didn’t care — she was probably lounging about in her penthouse, or at least as much as she could without getting killed by the curse, but you were on your thirtieth flight of stairs and feeling a bit murderous.

“I’ve been a lot more irritable recently,” you mused, “Maybe I should stop spending so much time with Maki.”

“Bonito flakes,” Toge said.

“I’m glad you think that. At least someone appreciates it; Gojo certainly doesn’t,” you said. You were surprised that you were able to interpret him already, but he was so expressive with just his eyes that it was not that difficult at all.

He had pretty eyes, the soft purple like mountains shrouded in mist. Far softer, far kinder than Yuta’s. They were almost magical, but you didn’t want to stare at them for too long — it would be odd. You doubted Toge would appreciate it very much; Noritoshi certainly would not.

Observing him in a more stealthy manner, you often tried to discern if he had feelings for anyone. Not for Maki, that was for certain; they were friends for sure, but you also got the sense that Toge — and Panda, for that matter — was slightly scared of her. It was fair, you were also a little terrified of the girl at times, but it was an affectionate sort of terrified.

He was also not really interested in you, you were confident in that. He was a good friend, without a doubt, and you enjoyed spending time with him, but his gestures were unfailingly platonic. This was probably self-preservation on his part; if he were to actively pursue you and you told Noritoshi, he would basically become a pariah in jujutsu society, if not worse.

Your engagement ring was heavy on your finger, a reminder of the fact that Toge’s love life was none of your business. You were going to be married to a kind man; what did it matter who your classmate cared about?

Actually, you were somewhat nosy, though you liked to put it down to being observant. Things like gossip were interesting to you, loath to admit it though you were. Who liked who, the latest scandals — you were a bit of a stereotype with regards to such affairs. That was all this was; you would be just as involved if it were Maki’s relationships you were digging into.

Unfortunately, Maki had absolutely no interest in anything resembling romance; you were the person she liked talking with the most, and by that, you meant you were the only person she allowed herself to smile around, instead of her usual frown. And Panda was a panda, which did not lend itself much to anything juicy, meaning you were stuck speculating about Toge.

You could always ask him, but what would he say? Nothing, probably, just look at you strangely and laugh off the uncomfortable question. Even now, his eyes kept flickering to you curiously. He was obviously confused about what you were so deep in thought about, but you were not about to enlighten him, and the silly little scenarios you made up kept you company as you continued to march up the endless stairs.

Maki had been disowned by the Zenins, but you remembered there was another Zenin girl your age — Mai? Perhaps Toge was fond of her. She had been polite enough when the two of you had met, and she had congratulated you on your engagement, if not a little brusquely. Though this was not necessarily her fault, as Naoya had appeared almost instantly to shepherd her off. The Zenin clan did not have much of a good reputation when it came to how they treated their women, so you hardly blamed Mai for any perceived shortness, but even with that, you could not see someone as gentle as Toge getting along with her especially well.

You were just about considering calling Noritoshi and asking him to name his female classmates when you realized you were at the door of the penthouse where the girl was trapped. Toge looked at you expectantly; you snapped out of your daydreaming and realized you would be stuck explaining the situation to Kaito’s cousin. Maybe that was the real reason you had been assigned to the mission, for Toge certainly didn’t need help with exorcising the measly curse.

“They should just call me Gojo’s human resources representative,” you said, exhaling when you came to the realization, “I’m basically just a glorified secretary. Tagging along on missions to make friends with people.”

Toge patted you on the head. “Mustard leaf?”

“Ah, it’s alright. I’ll get over it,” you said, “Besides, I’m sure this isn’t all I’ll be doing forever. It’s just until I’m more experienced, right?”

“Salmon!” he said cheerily, opening the door and marching into the penthouse. You followed after.

“True, everyone starts somewhere, so this definitely isn’t permanent,” you said, stroking your chin, brow furrowed, “I’ll get to be independent soon! Though I don’t know how much I’m looking forward to that; really, I’m a little bit worried —”

“Tuna!” Toge interrupted you. You froze and looked at the floor. The tiny grade 4 curse you had been about to trip over looked back at you with large, insect-like eyes. You shuddered and pulled out a needle, poking the creature with it. It deflated like a balloon before dissipating into nothingness.

“Sorry, I’ll be more careful,” you said. “I guess we should probably try and find this girl. Hello? Anyone home?”

There was a thud from what you assumed to be the master bedroom. Exchanging looks with Toge, you began to walk over to where you had heard the noise, him by your side. Whether or not it was her, it remained that someone or something was in the bedroom, and as the sorcerers on duty, it was somewhat your responsibility to check on it.

You threw the door open and narrowly dodged a frying pan flying at your head. You slammed the door shut again and glanced at Toge, who seemed equally as taken aback. You cracked the door open again, only a little.

“Get back, you stupid, ugly, creepy monster!” a feminine voice shouted. You pouted and looked at your arms.

“Am I really that ugly looking?” you said.

“Bonito flakes,” Toge assured you. You flashed him a grateful smile.

“Thanks. Hey, lady, we’re not the curse! We’re jujutsu sorcerers sent to help you,” you called into the room.

“That’s the oldest trick in the book!” she said with a scoff. You had never felt the urge to smack somebody as strongly as you did at that moment, “Is there some sort of Captcha security system for humans?”

“Are you an idiot? Curses can’t talk! Isn’t that Captcha enough for you?” you said.

“Actually, high level ones can, and anyways why would I believe anything you say? You’re the curse, you’d only gain benefit from lying to me,” she said. She was unfortunately right about both things, so you could only grind your teeth in aggravation.

“Your cousin’s name is Kaito?” you said.

“Anyone could tell you that. The house is in his name!” she rebutted.

“There’s a certain point where street smarts circle back around to just stupidity,” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose, “Do you have your phone with you?”

“Duh, no way would I hole up in a bedroom without it,” she said.

“Okay, I’ll request to follow you on Instagram and then you can see that I’m real!” you said, “What’s your username?”

“Tullia.Ferraro,” she said. “Good luck with that one! This is a stupid way to prove your identity, what kind of a — oh.”

“Did you get the request? I’m Y/N_L/N,” you said.

“Yeah,” she said reluctantly, “I guess you’re real. You can come in, I won’t attack you.”

“Thank you,” you said, standing and opening the door, walking in. You were met with the sight of the girl, crouched behind a bed, wielding another frying pan. In the back of your mind, you wondered how many she had stored away in the bedroom. She was pretty, with cactus-green eyes and dark blonde hair neatly woven into two thick braids, loose strands escaping and framing her delicate face. “Now, I’m here to —”

You were interrupted by her shrieking and throwing the pan. This time, it was not at you but at Toge, who was too surprised to dodge. It struck him in the face before he could do anything, and he slowly fell backwards. You gaped at him in horror when you realized she had knocked him unconscious.

“There,” she said, sounding satisfied, “I got rid of that thing that followed you in.”

“That thing was my partner!” you said in dismay, “My far more experienced partner, who was the one actually meant to save you! I was just here because he’s a cursed speech user and needed a translator.”

She at least had the decency to look abashed. “Oops?”

“Oops?” you screeched. “This is my first mission! We’re well and truly screwed, you know that? Might as well just hand ourselves over to the curse at this point!”

“I could hit it with another frying pan?” she offered.

“How many of those do you have with you?” you said.

“...a lot. Kaito’s a bit of a cook, and I panicked and grabbed a bunch before barricading myself in here,” she said.

“Uh-huh. I can see that,” you said, filing away Kaito’s cooking habits to be considered later. “Okay, we need a strategy. Not only is Toge out for the count, we’re going to have to look out for him while we fight. Do you have a cursed technique?”

“Supposedly, but I have no idea what it is! Kaito said he’d tell me, but he never did,” she said.

“Your cousin is a frustrating man,” you said. Any fond feelings you previously had for Kaito were rapidly disappearing.

“And a shitty guardian,” she added.

“That, too,” you agreed, “Seems like this is going to be up to me. We need to figure out where the curse is located, and then we need to exorcise it. And by we, I mean me.”

“I can help. It’s my curse, isn’t it? I know some basic curse theory. It’s manifesting from some fear I have or something, right?” she said.

“It’s not that simple,” you said, “You’re not going to be aware of it; if you are, then it’s not a deep enough fear that a curse could manifest from it.”

“At least it’s a start,” she insisted, “Come on, Y/N, I can help!”

“How do you know my name?” you said.

“You just requested to follow me on Instagram,” she reminded you.

“Oh, right. You’re Tullia, then?” you said.

“Yup, that’s me!” she said.

“Fine. Tullia, please watch Toge and make sure nothing happens to him while I look around the apartment,” you said.

“Alright. But please don’t leave me,” she said.

“What? Why would I leave you? The entire point of me being here is to help you,” you said, crossing your arms.

“I know, but Kaito was supposed to help me, too, and look where that ended up!” she said. You narrowed your eyes.

“I suppose you’re right. I won’t go anywhere, don’t worry,” you said, “Just stick with Toge. He can be your insurance policy, if anything.”

“Alright,” she said again, timidly sitting next to Toge and placing a hand on his red forehead, wincing when he groaned slightly in his sleep. You prayed he did not have a concussion, even if Shoko could probably reverse it rather quickly.

Now you had to figure out where the curse was lurking. It wasn’t in the master bedroom, but you had an idea beyond that. This wasn’t a particularly high-levelled curse, so you doubted it would be incredibly inventive or tricky. Having talked with Yuta last night and seeing Rika, the thought was already in your mind, and Tullia’s trembling voice confirmed your idea.

Striding towards the coat closet, you felt a pit forming in your stomach. You weren’t actually scared, which meant that your theory was probably correct — this was the effects of the negative cursed energy coming from Tullia’s curse.

Abandonment — that was what this was. Kicked out from her family’s home in America and sent across the world to train with a cousin that she most likely did not know very well, and then left behind by that exact cousin to face an unknown threat.

Your earlier annoyance faded, and you felt bad for the girl. She was just scared and alone in a hostile world, forgotten by the people meant to care for her the most. You thought about your father, who had all but sold your hand in marriage off to the highest bidder and then made you Noritoshi’s responsibility. If Noritoshi had not been as good as he was…perhaps you and Tullia had more in common than you initially thought.

The curse you were faced with was humanoid, its figure vaguely resembling a dark haired woman you assumed to be Tullia’s mother. There was a ghastly grin so nonhuman on it, though, that it was obviously the farthest thing from a person. It was mumbling disjointed nonsense under its breath, not exactly understandable sentences but bone-chilling in the similarity they bore to something intelligible. When it noticed you staring at it, it let out a cackle before shifting between forms, trying to decide upon one that would hurt the most.

Your parents. Your cousins. Noritoshi. Gojo. Maki. Toge. Panda. It even shifted into Yuta’s figure for a second; this made you scowl at the audacity. He was probably dead at this point — you could not see the higher ups hesitating for very long. How dare the curse take on the form of a murdered boy?

Executed, you reminded yourself. There was a reason he had been killed. It wasn’t murder if the law condoned it.

“Dissection,” you said coldly. The curse was trapped in Yuta’s form, its eyes widening. They were not the same poison-blue you remembered; the richness of the color was gone, clouded over with cursed energy. It was a cheap copy, and you laughed as its weak spots glowed green.

It let out a wail as you sent a needle flying into its heart, collapsing at your feet. You looked down your nose at it, snorting in dry amusement.

“I met him once. Did you think you’d hurt me by pretending to leave? I don’t care about him. If you really wanted to make me upset, you should’ve tried to stop me from being a sorcerer. There’s nothing I hate more than people that treat me like I’m weak,” you said as it crumbled into dust, “Idiot curses. Can’t even scare people properly nowadays.”

Tullia was shaking Toge’s shoulders when you rejoined them. He was starting to stir, lashes fluttering as he awoke. You watched impassively as he opened his eyes and was met with Tullia’s concerned expression.

“I’m sorry for knocking you out, Mr. Inumaki, sir!” she said, clasping her hands, “Really sorry! Please don’t, like, try to kill me for your honor? Or jail me or anything? I think you’d win in a duel! Or maybe not, I mean I did knock you out with a frying pan. But I won’t again! Promise!”

“Mustard leaf?” he said, dazed, his cheeks turning pink. Your jaw dropped. There was no way —

“What does that mean?” she said, turning to you in confusion. Toge’s eyes followed her, and you suppressed a gasp.

“He’s asking if you’re okay,” you said, watching the two of them, feeling equal parts put-out and excited. It was obvious to you that Toge had developed a crush on her, which made your love for drama feel quite satisfied. But it also hurt your feelings — why hadn’t he fallen in love with you so quickly?

Well, probably because you were engaged already. Even still. You fought back the urge to sniff haughtily and resolved to be happy for your friend. Tullia was kind of an idiot, but if someone as good as Toge liked her, then there was obviously more to her than met the eye. He was, if anything, an excellent judge of character. Though you did wonder if he was as excellent as you had thought — after all, his first impression of her had literally been a frying pan to the face. Perhaps this was less a crush and more a concussion speaking.

“Oh, I’m fine! The question is, are you okay?” she said.

“Salmon,” he said, clutching his head and gingerly standing.

“That means yes,” you supplied helpfully.

“Great to hear! So you won’t sue me?” she said. Toge looked at you. You shrugged.

“Probably not. Accidents happen, and Toge’s too nice to sue anyone,” you said.

“Salmon,” he said again, nodding and then immediately wincing. You cringed.

“Although you might have to help nurse him back to health. Looks like you gave him a concussion. Have you ever thought about trying out for a baseball team? You’ve got a good arm,” you said, leaving her to fawn over Toge, who looked happy about the attention, and calling Ijichi to take all of you back to the school. You doubted Kaito would mind if Tullia went; actually, you didn’t even know if he would notice. Judging by the state of the house and Tullia’s fear of being left behind, he probably wouldn’t.

“Gojo’s introducing a new student right now,” Ijichi told you, “So you’ll have to make your way to the classroom by yourself. Will you be alright?”

“Sure, I’ll be fine,” you said, slipping out of the car once he had parked, “Have a nice day, Ijichi. Thanks for being as prompt as always.”

His chest puffed out in pride at the acknowledgement; it was probably uncommon. Gojo was not one to thank people. “Of course, Y/N. Let me know if you need help again.”

“Will do. Tullia, can you help Toge to the infirmary? He knows the way, but I’d feel better if he had someone with him, in case he, uh, faints or something,” you said, throwing your friend the bone, winking at him once Tullia’s back was turned. His eyes widened and he shook his head furiously at the implications. You only chuckled and watched them go fondly. If anyone deserved to be with someone they actually cared about, it was him.

And then there was you. You kicked the dirt as you made your way to Gojo’s classroom. It wasn’t that you didn’t like Noritoshi; he was a good person, and as far as future husbands could go, he was perfectly agreeable. Certainly, it was better than someone like Naoya. But you didn’t love him. You didn’t feel butterflies in your stomach or a sense of warm belonging when you thought of him. He was more friend and partner than a dearly beloved significant other.

Things could be worse, but still you found yourself wishing that you could’ve fallen in love with someone, experienced the silly flusteredness and shy tripping over your words, the longing stares and the thrill of reciprocation. You looked at your engagement ring. It was beautiful. It was a reminder. You almost wanted to take it off.

But you didn’t. You were a good girl, the heir to the L/N name. This was your only contribution to your family. So you left the ring on and pushed your sentimental thoughts away. Anyways, who would you fall in love with here? Gojo? He was too old. It would be wrong, and you could not view him as anything more than a chaotic older brother figure.

When you opened the door, you were surprised to see four people in the room instead of the expected three. Gojo stood behind his desk, his trademark white bandages wrapped around his eyes, while Maki brandished her spear at someone and Panda had his fists — paws? — raised in a combat stance. Both of them looked surprised to see you, but you were not focused on them, for at the front of the classroom was the one and only Yuta Okkotsu.

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” you said. This did nothing to break the tension in the room; if anything, it only mounted. Yuta squeaked.

“Y/N!” he said, darting to hide behind you.

“Um, hello,” you said, “What’s going on here?”

“How was the mission? Where are Toge and Kaito’s cousin?” Gojo said instead of responding.

“Er, she gave Toge a concussion, so she’s helping him to the infirmary,” you said.

“How?” Maki said.

“Frying pan to the face,” you said.

“That’ll do it,” Panda said, “Did she think he was a curse?”

“She did,” you said, “It was a mess, but the curse itself wasn’t that strong, so I was able to take care of it. Oh, and don’t tell him I said anything, but I think Toge’s quite taken with Tullia — that’s the cousin’s name.”

“Wow. Never thought he’d be into that type of thing, but different strokes for different blokes, I guess,” Panda said.

“Can we get back to the subject at hand?” Maki said, “Although we’ll definitely be revisiting this later.”

“Right, I’m a little confused. Weren’t you supposed to be executed by now?” you said, twisting to face Yuta.

“Gojo told me he could help me control Rika better and free her from her curse,” he said shyly, “He managed to hold the higher-ups off.”

You weren’t sure why you felt so much better about this outcome. You put it down to a general distaste for the higher ups and then nodded.

“That’s good to hear. And yeah, if anyone can help you with Rika, it’s Gojo. He’s the strongest,” you said.

“She gets it!” Gojo said.

“Y/N, this kid is dangerous,” Maki warned, “Can’t you sense it?”

“I can,” you said, “I think as long as we don’t attack him, Rika will stay away. That’s correct, right, Yuta?”

“I think so,” he said, voice still soft.

“Okay. One more question,” you said. “Why are you hiding behind me?”

“You’re the only one I know. And they seem like they want to hurt me,” he said.

“Gojo wouldn’t let them,” you said.

“Would I?” Gojo said.

“Shut up, Frosty the Snowman!” Maki said, pointing her spear at him instead. He raised his hands in the air as if to prove his innocence, fooling just about nobody with the act. Well, maybe Yuta, who did not know Gojo very well yet.

“You’ll be alright. Look, Maki, Panda, I’m fairly certain he’s a nice kid. You all are scaring him,” you said, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. Yuta screwed his eyes shut, as if expecting Rika to appear, but nothing happened.

“He should be scared,” Maki snarled, “Listen, wonder-boy —”

“Is she talking to me?” Yuta whispered.

“I think so,” you whispered back.

“Hey! Quit whispering!” she said, “As I was saying, if you step one toe out of line, I’ll kill you myself — that’s a promise. And don’t stick so close to Y/N! She’s engaged, and her fiancé is crazy powerful. He won’t take kindly to you making heart eyes at her.”

“Maki,” I said, “Stop. Don’t you think he’s nervous enough as it is? Let him be.”

“Sorry,” she said, though it was obvious she was only apologizing for your sake. “Whatever. Screw this, I’m going to go train. Come on, Panda.”

It was an obvious dismissal. You rolled your eyes, knowing her tough guy act was nothing more than just that: an act. She felt threatened by Yuta — you were all aware of the sinister energy lurking in and around him — and was posturing so that he did not turn against her. It was unnecessary, in your opinion.

“Can I come?” Yuta said. The effort to befriend the prickly girl warmed you to him, even though you knew it would be futile.

“No,” Maki said, storming off, Panda waving to you as if his friend had not just thrown something of a tantrum. Yuta watched them go forlornly, and you bit your lip, debating your next move. Finally, you turned to Gojo, who was spinning in his chair like a child.

“I can show you around the school, Yuta. Unless Gojo has already given you a tour?” you said, directing the second statement to your teacher.

“Nope!” Gojo said, slowing to a stop and shooting you a thumbs up, “That’s a great idea, Y/N! Yuta, stay with her. She’s a sweet girl. She’ll make you feel really welcomed.”

“I feel as if you’re insinuating something, but I don’t have the time nor the brainpower to figure it out,” you said, “Let’s go, Yuta. We can start with the infirmary; something tells me you’ll be spending a lot of time there.”

“W-why?” he said, following after you like a lost puppy, “Is the school dangerous?”

“Not really. But Maki is,” you said. His eyes widened, and he began to shiver comically.

“Does she not like me?” he said.

“She doesn’t really like anyone at first, or at least it can seem that way,” you said, “Don’t worry about it. She’ll settle down. You can’t blame her; you have to know that you’re kind of scary.”

“I’m scary? Really?” he said.

Looking at him, you could admit that it was kind of ridiculous to call him scary, by any meaning of the word. His eyes were soft and large, his dark hair sticking up endearingly. He shrunk away from loud noises and flinched at sudden movements, and his white shirt was baggy, the fabric draping over his frail frame.

But his shadow was moving even when he was still. This was the crux of the matter; he was not the scary one.

“Your friend is, at least. She’s intimidating, and Maki just doesn’t want to end up another statistic. She’s only bluffing so you don’t attack her, because she knows who’d win if Rika decided to pay her a visit. And you said you don’t really have control of Rika yet — she only appears if you’re in danger? So you’ll forgive Maki for not wanting to be close to you, in case Rika appears at random and hurts her,” you explained, waiting for him to catch up and then purposefully slowing your steps so that the two of you were walking side by side.

“So then why are you being nice to me?” he said.

“You’re full of questions,” you said, tilting your head to look at him and half-smiling, “I already met Rika, sort of. Last night. She didn’t try to hurt me, so I have to assume that she won’t in the future. And I won’t try to hurt you, not ever, so I think she and I are on the same side in that sense. Do you think she’ll hear me if I say something to her? Might as well give it a shot. Listen, Rika: Maki, Panda, Toge, and I — probably Tullia, too, I’m not sure what her whole deal is — are going to be Yuta’s teammates. That means that we’re on his side, just like you are. So don’t hurt us, alright? We have to look out for one another.”

There was a silence, and then Yuta rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I have no clue if that did anything.”

You smiled at him, a full, genuine thing this time. “At least I said it. I think she knows. Wanna test it out?”

“No!” he said quickly, holding his hands out in front of him. You grinned.

“Did you feel threatened by me in that moment?” you said.

“Uh, yeah?” he said. You cheered.

“And Rika didn’t appear! This is progress!” you said.

“I don’t know, I mean you didn’t try to attack me or anything,” he said. You raised your fist jokingly.

“I can do that, too,” you said.

“Please don’t, I really don’t want to push my luck,” he said. You unfurled your fingers and held out your hand for a high five.

“I was only kidding,” you said. He stared at your hand blankly; slowly, you lowered it when it became evident he was not going to reciprocate. Instead, he blinked in confusion. You decided he was probably just overwhelmed and so you should not take his noncompliance personally.

“Okay,” he said. You began to laugh — not in a harsh or mocking way, but as if he had told you an especially good joke.

“You’re odd. Did you not have any friends growing up or something?” you said.

“No,” he admitted, “Rika would chase them away.”

“Oh,” you said, expression softening, “Actually, neither did I. My father didn’t think I needed them, so…welcome to the club, I suppose. Maki was my first friend. I’d be honored to be yours, if you’d like.”

“If your fiancé’s okay with it,” he said.

“Maybe it can be our secret,” you said, nudging him, “Noritoshi is in Kyoto, so he won’t find out. If he does, I’ll deal with him. Come on, Yuta, we’re going to be classmates, think of how awkward it’ll be if you say no! Plus, I’m the only one being nice to you. You’re somewhat limited on options.”

He glanced at you. You did not glance back, continuing to sedately walk forwards as if you hadn’t thrown him into a crisis. You weren’t sure why you were so set on being friends with Yuta. Maybe you felt a little bad for him. Maybe you felt somewhat slighted by Toge’s fascination with someone other than you. Maybe you liked his strange eyes and the way he spooked at every bird and plastic bag. Maybe he was more like you than you were okay with. There were a lot of possible reasons.

“Okay,” he said, offering you his hand to shake like this was a business deal, “Friends.”

You took it, holding back a giggle and affording the moment the seriousness it deserved. With a shake, the declaration was sealed. You vowed to yourself that you would keep it like a contract.

“Friends.”