certified loon !

sophia • she/her • 18

[f1a-writes]

hello !

my name is sophia (fia/phia for short), and I write fics about whatever I’m currently fixated on :P you’ll know it when you see it.

feel free to send requests ! I just don’t write explicit smut. (I promise y’all don’t want it from me)

Otherwise, stay a while and enjoy :)

[f1a-writes]

Hot take maybe but I HATE how ppl portray nanami as a willing workaholic. Like this is Mr. “The corporate world sucks so bad I would rather risk my life fighting curses on a regular basis than sell one more stock.” Mr. “I’m not working this mf overtime.” Like. He wears a cheetah print tie to work are we serious 😭😭

[f1a-writes]

wings pt 3: The Dance at the Gym

Riff x Anita’s Sister! Reader Tony and Maria’s less well-intentioned friends. warnings: period-typical racism summary: you go to your first dance in New York! it does not go as planned. a/n: ok wow so this took FOREVER. mbbb, but thank you guys for all the love on this series !! (esp you, @isthisphildumpster)

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The gym is full of light and color and brass. You can’t keep the grin off your face as you look around. The floor is full of dancers, their energy lively and infectious. You tighten your grip around Manolo’s arm in anticipation. You’re drawn up short. You peek over Chino’s shoulder to find Bernardo bickering with a Jet. With a roll of your eyes, you tug Manolo onto the floor.

“Sin miedo,” you tease with a grin, “que no muerden.”

He scoffs at you and does a bad job of keeping the smile off his face. You liked Manolo. Not that way. The two of you had too much and too little in common. You shared smart mouths and a neighborhood, even before coming to the States. But he’s like Bernardo, thinking you need to be protected, believing the way to do it is a pissing contest with the Jets. But if you don’t get too deep, he’s good company. And a damn good dance partner.

Javi’s band plays something bright and mounting. You move out onto the floor, ignoring stares and steering around couples in blue. When you reach the far end of the gym, you notice Bernardo and Anita dancing in the center. You grin at the familiar sight, cheering them on with your neighbors. You and Manolo find a place on the floor and your step, but it’s not long before he stills.

You turn to see what he’s looking at, and your brain stalls.

Because in the center of the floor, smirking and taunting Bernardo, is the boy from the shop.

You turn to Manolo— maybe to tell him to relax— when the tension in the gym snaps. He sidesteps you to rush to the line with the other sharks with nothing but a squeeze of your shoulders.

Your jaw drops indignantly. No sooner do you open your mouth to yell after him than a whistle pierces the air. You push through the crowd for a look. It’s a cop, breaking up the fight. Between his accent and the noise, you can’t make out his words but an organizer follows him. You half listen to the man’s instructions as you look for Manolo.

You tap his shoulder a little harder than necessary and give him an acidic smile. You take a moment to appreciate the look of understanding on his face before you turn back to the center of the floor.

“—all youse fall in!”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then: Bernardo, sauntering in and holding his hand out. Anita makes a show of joining him, and you smile. Your sister had been the life of every party you could remember, and you’re glad she’s here to brighten this one.

After a beat, the boy peels off from the crowd on the gringo side of the gym. His date is beautiful. She’s got blonde curls and red lipstick and long legs like a character in the movie you’d seen with Maria your first week in America.

In a second, you can’t see her anymore as couples from both sides shuffle to line up. You shoot Manolo a look and take him by the hand. He follows and you’re grateful, even though he likely wouldn’t if Bernardo weren’t on the line.

You look around for Maria and frown when you see her on the sidelines, two feet from Chino. You start to nod her over, but the music begins to play.

You look left and right as you walk, watching as men and women alike stare at those passing by.

The music comes to a halt. The silence thickens as couples size each other up. You look up into the face of your supposed dance partner. It takes you a beat to recognize him like this, but when you do, your eyes widen to an indignant glare. “You.”

Riff gets that feeling he gets when he’s dancing. Like the energy humming under his skin has harmonized with all the music and movement in the room. He grins. “Me.”

Both of you turn when you hear Anita call the band. Riff’s smirk deepens. You grin at the familiar sight. The music kicks back into gear and you feel a hand on yours. Before you can even turn your head, Manolo’s pulling you back in.

The grin doesn’t leave your face as you dance. The whole experience is as gleeful as it is competitive until your mind drops away to the music. You stay like that, delighting in the rhythm until you hear a thud from the corner of the gym. You turn to see a white boy, flat on his ass, Bernardo glaring down at him.

Oh no.

You slip away from Manolo in the next second. Your neighbors and friends rush all around you toward the scene. You can’t hear clearly over the crowd but what you can catch isn’t good.

“Que pasó?” You hiss at Anita, having pushed through.

“Maria estaba detrás de las gradas con ese muchacho.”

Your eyes widen, but before you can ask Maria what happened, you see Bernardo draw his fist back.

The boy from the malt shop appears out of nowhere. He slips between Bernardo and this boy in a second, speaking lower and steadier you’d ever expect him to, and just like that, he’s walking away, two jets trailing behind him.

Bernardo’s shoulders are square; the other sharks are back on edge as they start in the same direction as the boy in blue.

You’re following them before you know it. You ignore Anita when she calls your name.

You snatch at sleeve. “Bernardo-” To your relief, he actually stops. You look from the sharks to the jets and back to him. “Que estas haciendo?”

He only sets his jaw and shakes his head. “No te metas.” He tries to turn back but you plant yourself in front of him.

“Que haces?”

“Voy a enseñar a estos comemierdas que no nos pueden faltar el respeto—“

“No seas estúpido, está lleno de policía—“

“Nos salgamos, pues.”

“Tu te crees gringo?”

He glares at you, bewildered. “Que-“

“Tu crees que te van a tratar como ellos? Que te van a meter en una celda por unas horitas y así no mas? Si te encuentran, te van a matar.”

You watch him falter for one precious second. He shakes his head. “Ya basta y/—“

“Tu quieres a Anita?”

He scoffs your name, his patience thinning.

“La quieres?” Your eye snags on the cross around his neck. His mother’s. For a moment, you stare at that cross and you pray.

A beat. “Mas que nada.” The words are so quiet you can barely hear him.

“Entonces no la dejes,” you press, “mírala.” You turn to look at her yourself. She’s watching you both intently, just out of earshot. “Y mira a María.” She looks over her shoulder as Chino walks her out, worry vivid on her face. You felt terrible. Her first night out in America, now such a mess. “Te necesitamos. Tu quieres perder tu dignidad, a lo menos, a estos gringos?”

He just stares back at you, his expression unreadable. Then, he pulls away. Turns his back. Your heart sinks to your shoes as he steps back toward Quique and Braulio.

But he shakes his head. “No vale la pena.”

Your shoulders drop in relief. They press him, of course they do, but you know they’ll listen.

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It was like you were haunting him. Like this whole night had been some sort of payback for that cup of coffee. And you’d been so sneaky about it, too. He hadn’t noticed you come in. He’d just waltzed around that lousy circle, and there you were.

He’ll admit that he wouldn’t have minded dancing with you. It’d be fun to take you for a spin, see if all that about Latin girls was actually true. But then the music kicked back into gear and he lost sight of you.

Well… sort of.

It seemed to him that every time he looked up from Graz he saw you, like scratching an itch without realizing.

But the scene with Tony and Bernardo had wiped his mind clean.

You were there again. He was checking behind him for Tony, shoulders square, ready to go— and there you were. In Bernardo’s face, speaking in hushed, serious-sounding Spanish. What’s more, he actually seemed to be listening to you.

He pulled his gaze away. It didn’t matter right now. He needed Tony if they were negotiating a rumble, especially after he pissed off the Sharks even more, but he wouldn’t come. He watched his friend— his best friend— shake his head and turn away.

All there’s left to do is go to the head. He stalks into the small tiled room, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. He forces all his frustration into a cold focus, an easy, formidable calm.

He and his boys stand there and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Ice sighs. Riff snaps at Action to stop pacing. Riff lights a cigarette, and nobody calls it the nervous tic that it is.

Over fifteen minutes pass before they get the sense to leave the bathroom. Riff hurries out, questions and demands waiting on his tongue when he stops.

Bernardo is not outside the bathroom. A look around the room says he’s not anywhere, not him or his girl or his sister.

Something ain’t right.

He forces off the unease and laughs. “He’s chicken.” Action starts to argue, but Riff cuts him off. “We’ll see him again. And next time his old lady won’t be there to drag him off,” he assures.

It takes some doing, but Action and Ice make their way back to the floor. Riff can’t spot Graziella, or doesn’t want to. He feels spring loaded, with no trigger to release him. He slips out the gymnasium doors.

The night’s cool, a relief from the heat of the day and floor inside. He’s got another cigarette halfway to his mouth when he spots you. Your back is turned as you walk away from the gym, but he recognizes that dress. All of a sudden, he remembers what he saw: you, whispering harsh at Bernardo; him, starting to listen.

[f1a-writes]

Part 2 of gojo and his crush as requested 🤭 @pickledsoda @sleepymooooon

“Quit going easy on me!”

Gojo laughs and darts out of your range. “Relax. I don’t wanna kill you.”

You almost snarl in your irritation, but you keep coming. “If you wanted me dead I’d be dead, Gojo, stop dancing and fight!”

“This isn’t dancing,” he drawls back. Then, unnervingly close, right behind you: “I can show you if you like.”

You turn to hit him and stumble when he sidesteps you. “Looks like you need it,” he snickers.

You are regretting the decisions that led you here. You’d begrudgingly agreed to spar him, all in the interest of getting stronger. After all, insufferable as he is, you can’t deny that he’s skilled. You forgot, however, that his favorite skill is ragebaiting.

You turn and attempt a backhand, but he’s faster. “Come on,” he entreats, just out of reach, “let me take you out!”

“Let me take you out,” you retort.

He falters for half a second.

That’s all it takes for you to reach him.

You hook your leg behind his ankle, sending him on his back. You come down on him and your hands find his throat. He didn’t even have limitless on?

You can feel your heart pounding with the exertion, but it’s nothing compared to how satisfying this feels. “Now, are you gonna take this seriously?” you pant.

You feel him swallow under your palms. He nods mutely, and you grin.

“You wanna get off of me now?” He needs you on your feet now, before you shift a couple inches lower and discover he means everything he’s said to you.

You laugh a little breathlessly. “Sure.” You lift your hands—

And they do not move.

You try to move your leg from his side. Same problem.

“Gojo.”

“Hm?” It comes out ridiculously high pitched.

“I can’t move.”

“What-?” He has to take his sunglasses off. He squints, forcing himself to tune out your cursed energy and focus on the current of his. He can’t quite believe what he finds. You were stuck inside limitless. Caught within the bounds of the technique when it activated. He nearly groans.

“Right, um— just give me a second.” He shuts his eyes. Has to. He can’t exactly force himself to let you away from him when you look like that.

“Let me up!”

“I’m trying!”

[f1a-writes]

thinking ab third year satoru gojo and his crush he’s just a little scared of.

You hit the ground with a grunt, knocked over once more by the cursed corpse you were sparring. You were regaining your footing when you heard that agitating voice a ways off:

“I could always give you some pointers, y’know!”

You don’t take your eyes off the corpse as you call back. “In your dreams, Gojo.”

He just grinned. You bet.

To your utter dismay, he sat himself down on the edge of the field. “I’m just saying,” he shrugs, “you gotta beat the best to be the best.”

You roll your eyes and nearly dodge too late. “You’re a range fighter anyway.”

“Not true!” He laughs. You hear the sound grow closer. Before you can turn to look, he strides up—

And blows a hole through the cursed corpse. “I can be very versatile,” he drawls just a little too close to your ear.

You stop short, dropping your arms when it stays down. You whirl on him with a huff. “I was using that!”

Still that same, insufferable smile. “Why would you when you’ve got something better?”

You scoff. “Fuck off, Gojo.”

He just follows you. “How many times do I need to tell you to call me Satoru?”

“None, I’m not going to.”

He leans closer. “C’mon, what’s the issue? You like being weak or something?”

You stop walking. Turn slow. “‘Scuse me?”

Satoru feels his heart skip a beat. Now we’re talking. “You heard me. You’d be a lot better by now if you’d just use your resources.”

You arch a brow at him. “And you’re my resources?”

He straightens and steps closer to you with a grin. “I’m at your service.”

“You’re full of shit.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Guess you just want me to keep coming to your rescue.”

You narrow your eyes at him. Well, if he’s asking for it— You reach up to smack him upside the head.

And your hand stops.

Infinity.

It’s like pushing repellant magnets together. You stare at the gap between your palm and his face. Gojo looks as surprised as you are. You let out an irritated laugh. “It’s like that?”

“Uh—“ Satoru tries to come up with something. He does!

But he can’t turn it off.

After another moment, you draw your hand back with a roll of your eyes. “Whatever, man.” You walk past him. “See you in class.”

Satoru watches you go, at a complete loss.

Just when he feels he couldn’t be more embarrassed, Suguru steps up next to him. He’d witnessed the whole interaction, and approached to get a better look at the thousand yard stare on Satoru’s face.

“I can’t believe I just got cockblocked by my own technique.”

Suguru side-eyes him. “She was trying to hit you.”

“She was going to touch me.”

He shakes his head, following his gaze. “This is getting seriously pathetic, Satoru.”

a/n: I started season two of jjk last week and when they mentioned how gojo subconsciously uses limitless based on what he perceives as a threat I got to thinking… also I swear I’m working on wings school has just been kicking my ass but it’s coming !!!

[f1a-writes]

Tbh this was inspired by me watching jjk and realizing that as fine as he is, Gojo would PISS ME OFFFF irl. Like I’d still want him but I’d be so mad about it.

[f1a-writes]

thinking ab third year satoru gojo and his crush he’s just a little scared of.

You hit the ground with a grunt, knocked over once more by the cursed corpse you were sparring. You were regaining your footing when you heard that agitating voice a ways off:

“I could always give you some pointers, y’know!”

You don’t take your eyes off the corpse as you call back. “In your dreams, Gojo.”

He just grinned. You bet.

To your utter dismay, he sat himself down on the edge of the field. “I’m just saying,” he shrugs, “you gotta beat the best to be the best.”

You roll your eyes and nearly dodge too late. “You’re a range fighter anyway.”

“Not true!” He laughs. You hear the sound grow closer. Before you can turn to look, he strides up—

And blows a hole through the cursed corpse. “I can be very versatile,” he drawls just a little too close to your ear.

You stop short, dropping your arms when it stays down. You whirl on him with a huff. “I was using that!”

Still that same, insufferable smile. “Why would you when you’ve got something better?”

You scoff. “Fuck off, Gojo.”

He just follows you. “How many times do I need to tell you to call me Satoru?”

“None, I’m not going to.”

He leans closer. “C’mon, what’s the issue? You like being weak or something?”

You stop walking. Turn slow. “‘Scuse me?”

Satoru feels his heart skip a beat. Now we’re talking. “You heard me. You’d be a lot better by now if you’d just use your resources.”

You arch a brow at him. “And you’re my resources?”

He straightens and steps closer to you with a grin. “I’m at your service.”

“You’re full of shit.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Guess you just want me to keep coming to your rescue.”

You narrow your eyes at him. Well, if he’s asking for it— You reach up to smack him upside the head.

And your hand stops.

Infinity.

It’s like pushing repellant magnets together. You stare at the gap between your palm and his face. Gojo looks as surprised as you are. You let out an irritated laugh. “It’s like that?”

“Uh—“ Satoru tries to come up with something. He does!

But he can’t turn it off.

After another moment, you draw your hand back with a roll of your eyes. “Whatever, man.” You walk past him. “See you in class.”

Satoru watches you go, at a complete loss.

Just when he feels he couldn’t be more embarrassed, Suguru steps up next to him. He’d witnessed the whole interaction, and approached to get a better look at the thousand yard stare on Satoru’s face.

“I can’t believe I just got cockblocked by my own technique.”

Suguru side-eyes him. “She was trying to hit you.”

“She was going to touch me.”

He shakes his head, following his gaze. “This is getting seriously pathetic, Satoru.”

[pt 2?]

a/n: I started season two of jjk last week and when they mentioned how gojo subconsciously uses limitless based on what he perceives as a threat I got to thinking… also I swear I’m working on wings school has just been kicking my ass but it’s coming !!!

[kriss42]

ugh he’s so fucking fine.

[f1a-writes]

good god I have to pick this draft back up. I need that.

[f1a-writes]

Thinking about art donaldson with a stem major reader…

“You’re coming on Friday, right?”

You don’t lift your head. “To your match?”

“Yeah.”

“Course.”

This had become a routine for you two. Art’s roommate was always out, and you found the lounge in your hall to be downright depressing, so you always found yourself here. On your stomach in front of your homework on Art’s twin xl while busied himself at his desk, watching film from a match or doing work of his own.

It was a total fluke, the way you met. Partnered for an assignment in some gen ed, when you both surprisingly— at least to you— hit it off. You knew next to nothing about tennis. You couldn’t say what division Stanford’s athletic teams played in. But one day, you decided you wanted to come out and support your friend, get involved the way your professors had kept telling you to do.

Art won that match in straight sets. When you came to find him afterward, he was beaming wider than you had ever seen him do. That night, he excitedly explained every nuance of every point in the game over fries at a local diner. He refused to let you pay— even though you were technically celebrating his win— insisting that his grandmother would be affronted if she knew he’d let a young lady cover him. It would be the first, but far from the last time he used his poor grandmother to get away with something.

Since then, he considered you his lucky charm. Which meant, of course, that he needed you at every match. And he was persistent. He’d get you there if it meant he had to buy you food, guilt trip you, beg on his knees (once very publicly and very embarrassingly, in the quad).

You thought he was ridiculous, but he was convinced. He justified it with all kinds of bullshit, your zodiac sign, the colors you liked to wear, the spot you liked in the bleachers, anything became evidence.

Today, your eyes cross a problem in your physics textbook and you smile. “You know I can’t watch your matches anymore without seeing vectors?”

He looks over and cocks his head at you. “What?”

Your smile deepens at his confusion. You nod at your textbook. “A bunch of these problems have to do with tennis.”

“Really?” He scoots closer, leaning in to look at the page. “What about it?”

“Well it’s velocity, momentum-“ then your head snaps up. “Actually, can I explain the whole thing? I’ve got a quiz next week.”

Art nods again and sits back. “Go ahead.”

“Alright, so-“

Art tries his hardest to pay attention. He really does! It’s not even all that hard to follow; it’s first year stuff he half-learned in high school already, and you’ve always been good at explaining things. He’s sure he’d get if he were listening.

But something about your voice makes it hard. He’s more focused on the sound than the form, your words escaping him in your tone like fish through a river. Then there’s the way you talk with your hands— fingers moving to trace the arc of an imaginary ball. And your face. Eyes bright, fully invested. He could sit like this all day.

You laugh, and he tries to zone back in. Something about a spherical cow? You shake your head. “But yeah, that’s it.”

He nods along like he has been. “That’s.. very enlightening.”

You laugh again. You must think he’s an idiot. He can’t say he minds.

“Hey, maybe for my next exam we could get one of those speed guns, you could hit a few, and I could practice calculating position,” you joke.

He smiles at the thought. “It’d make good practice,” he agrees.

You smile and settle back onto the bed to finish your work. Art watches you until he feels too much like a creep.

—

a/n: this was supposed to be shorter… not our regularly scheduled programming but I was doing physics hw and I kept getting tennis ball problems so here we are. enjoy !

[f1a-writes]

wings pt. 2: Something’s Coming

Riff x Anita’s Sister! Reader Tony and Maria’s less well-intentioned friends. warnings: period-typical racism summary: you rant to Maria about your day at work while Riff finds himself distracted a/n: this is sort of a lame bridge chapter so sorry about thattt. I did have to force myself to write it, esp because I’m back at school. brief heads up for like a single use of y/n. also brief note about my spanish: while I am latina, I am not Puerto Rican, so if you are and you catch anything that looks way off, please tell me ! also also, I thought it would be fun to mirror Tony’s gut feeling onto Riff as a nod to something’s coming 😋 enjoy !

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You speed-walked home as soon as your shift ended, grumbling as you fumbled with your keys: “lousy fucking- malparido, descarado de mierda-” You toed off your shoes once inside, nearly tripping over one in your haste to get to your room. You breeze past Maria where she sits on her bed to fling yourself onto yours. You muffle a scream into the pillow, kicking your feet like the mattress owes you money.

Maria sets her magazine down, turning to you in concern. She calls over to you. “Que te pasa?”

You sit up with a huff. “One of those fucking gringos came into the shop,” you start. “El hijueputa me tira una taza de café— casi me quema el cabrón— y se va sin pagar! I had to take it out of my tips!”

Her eyes go wide. “Ay, I’m sorry. Estás bien?” She’s looking you up and down, checking if you’ve been cut anywhere.

You shake your head with a sigh. “Fine. Just- annoyed.” You flop back on your bed, glaring at the ceiling like you can see his face in it. “Está bien. Pero la próxima vez que vea a ese comemierda, me va a conocer,” you resolve.

You hear a little snicker and your head snaps to the side.

“You sound like Bernardo,” Maria teases.

You gasp and throw a pillow at her. “Don’t say that to me!” It only makes her fall back laughing until you can’t help joining in. “Alright, alright,” you roll back, “the gringo will live another day.”

“Thank you,” chides Maria, “we don’t need anyone else starting problems. Especially not at the dance tonight.”

You lift your head. “I almost forgot about that.”

Maria sighs. “I haven’t. I’m excited, pero-“ she huffs wistfully. “Anita’s making me wear white. Like a baby.”

You frown sympathetically, about to answer before you both hear the door.

“Hello,” calls Anita.

“Speak of the devil,” you remark back at Maria. You leave the room to greet her, leaning against the doorframe. “Hola, Anita,” you lilt.

“English,” she reminds you, “we need to practice for tonight.

You roll your eyes lightly. “Hello,” you amend, exaggerating an American accent.

She shoots you a look, half smiling as she sets her things down. “Funny. How was work?”

You suppress a grimace. “Fine.” You knew what she’d say if you told her about the boy and the coffee. Just ignore it. They think they can get to us. Prove them wrong. So you redirect. “How’s the shop?”

“The usual. It was busy today,” she replies absently, now fidgeting with her hair in the mirror. She huffs, not yet satisfied with her reflection. “I am going to get ready,” she decides. She glances back at you and Maria. “You girls should do the same,” she advises.

Anita had long been you and Maria’s foremost example on all things womanhood. So, if she said you should all start getting ready, that was that.

Turns were taken with the shower. You bickered with Anita over her hogging the rollers. Bernardo came home, got dressed, and went off to fetch Chino and Manolo. Before you all knew it, Maria was sulking over her dress as you pulled yours on. “How come y/n gets to wear red?” She protested to Anita as she laced up her dress.

“y/n made that dress herself,” she replied. She took a second glance at you, narrowing her eyes. “And last time I saw it, it was white.”

You give her an innocent smile. “I only used a little dye,” you insist, “to make it fun!”

She gives you a hum. “Not too much fun,” she warns lightly.

Your jaw drops in a feigned look of offense. “Me? Never!”

“Aja,” she laughs. She looks back to Maria, an idea forming. She puts her belt around her waist.

You smile as you watch Maria beam at the mirror, twirling and insisting Anita had saved her life.

You almost thought you’d gotten away with the dress.

When Bernardo comes home, boys in tow, he of course starts by bickering with his sister. You watch them fondly. You make the mistake of laughing, drawing Bernardo’s attention. He pauses when he really gets a look at you. Turns to Anita, “Mi amor?”

She hums.

“Tu no crees que ella se ve-“

She lifts a brow and the words freeze in his throat. But he tries again.

“Un poco-“

“Speak English,” she reminds him.

He huffs at the correction and the realization that he’s not winning this one. “Fine.” He turns back to you. “But remember that what I said goes for you too. El primer gringo que te falta el respeto-“ you smile and Anita laughs, ushering him out the door. You find Manolo to follow them and grin when you turn to find Maria putting on lipstick.

Tonight’s gonna be fun.

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Riff’s got a bad feeling. It’s uncanny, but he can’t put his finger on it. He’s jittery, restless like right before a fight, but it’s heavier. Sticky and deep like he chased hard liquor with an entire milkshake.

Maybe it was Tony. After all, he hadn’t agreed to come to the dance, much less negotiate with the Sharks, and the Jets were still expecting him. But that wasn’t it. Riff had been worried about losing Tony since the day he went upstate. That feeling had become constant and easy to ignore as a mosquito by your ear. No, it wasn’t that.

He wasn’t afraid of the Sharks. They were a gang like any other, and the Jets would clear ‘em out like every other. It wasn’t that.

Riff’s thoughts stray, not for the first time this afternoon, to that girl. The waitress who’d replaced Marcie. The curl of her accent and the color of her eyes and that look on her face.

The look was familiar, if nothing else about her was. It follows him wherever he goes. He’s seen it on cops, clerks, and lately, spics: that goddamn, uppity, “you’re not worth my time” look. It’s got the immediate effect of making him wanna give the looker something to look at.

But none of that changes what he’s feeling now. Like someone’s holding his breath for him, like something’s just hanging over him, too far up to see.

But he shakes it off. Just girls sipping punch, he reminds himself. And speaking of, he’s still gotta meet Graziella. He looks in the mirror one last time and takes a breath.

This’ll be fun.

[f1a-writes]

wings pt. 1: Prologue-Jet song

Riff x Anita’s Sister! Reader Tony and Maria’s less well-intentioned friends. warnings: period-typical racism summary: one month after moving to america, you find yourself up close and personal with one of those jets your sister’s boyfriend keeps talking about. a/n: ok so formatting is actually really hard. Also, I will try to avoid use of y/n in these as much as possible. I’m off to a good start because there’s none in here 🙂‍↕️ hope you all enjoy !

next

You thought you knew what malt was before you took this job. You’d perked up when you saw the ad in the paper: “Malt Shop Hiring.” Finally, something familiar.

But, when you showed up after the owner begrudgingly hired you and you saw ice cream and a soda fountain in place of the beverage you were so familiar with, things became clearer.

Malta. Malt. They should be the same thing. Son la misma puta palabra.

But you suppose it’s not so bad. You could be like Maria, stuck working night shifts and still waking up to do house chores in the daytime. The shop isn’t even all that different. You can work a counter! Just as soon as you figure out the soda spouts…

You’re cleaning a glass and humming along to the radio when the bell on the door rings. It’s a boy about your age. Blue shirt, sleeves rolled up on thin, lean arms. Scar on his left cheek.

Not that you were looking. And if your smile wasn’t entirely motivated by politeness, that’s your business.

He strides up to the counter. Looks left and right and finally at you, his head cocked lightly. “Where’s Marcie?”

You blink at him before your brain catches up. “Ah, she moved, so I have her old shift now.” Your boss had been complaining about it when he trained you. “But, what can I get you?”

He narrows his eyes. “I dunno,” he replies with a shrug as he slinks onto a stool, “whaddya got?”

You nod lightly and start rattling off the menu, but Riff’s not listening to a word of it. The more you talk, the surer he is. It’s in your vowels, in your pause before the letter s, in the way you say ah instead of um. You’re one of them.

When you come to a stop he hums. “You sure you didn’t have trouble readin’ all that? Seein’ as it’s in English and all.”

You go still. Your expression shutters. It had to happen sooner or later. Better here and now than in some dark alley. Anita had prepared you for this.

“I’m speaking to you in English,” you remind him evenly.

“Not real good.”

“Real well,” you correct.

His brows furrow. “Huh?”

“You mean real well. Are you sure you speak English?”

If you were someone else, somewhere else, maybe he would have laughed. He liked a girl who bit back. But all he can think about is how you sound like every teacher who’s ever told him to talk right, and how you must have a lovely, boring mother at home who taught you that.

“‘M sure I could teach you some manners,” he spits, leaning a little more heavily on the counter, “you allowed to talk to customers like that, girly?”

“Customers buy things,” you chime.

“I want a cup of coffee,” he follows up, watching you with an infuriatingly smug expression. Your eye twitches. He finds he enjoys the sight.

You grit your teeth. You nod tightly. “Right away.” You’re both wary of turning your back and grateful you don’t have to look at him as you fetch the pot. You set the mug down maybe a little harder than necessary and pour him a cup. Your smile is now a thinly veiled insult.

He doesn’t take his eyes off you as he flicks the mug over. You barely dart back in time to avoid getting burned before it shatters on the floor. “Whoops,” he drawls, voice dry as kindling.

You look from him to the floor and back incredulously. You are well on your way to breaking a few teeth— either his or your own, only time will tell. You take a slow breath. You are better than this. You need this job.

“No worries,” you grit out, carefully stepping around shards to get the broom.

He watches you all the while. Even leans over the counter when you crouch to clean the spill. “You’re lucky I’ve got someplace to be,” are his last words. You glance up just in time to see him leave. Relieved as you are that he’s gone, you’re still tense for the rest of your shift.

Although you cleaned the floor to perfection, the spot where the mug fell feels different when you step over it.

[f1a-writes]

started this blog because I realized you truly do have to do things yourself if you want them done.

currently working on a riff lorton x anita’s sister!reader 🙂‍↕️ vibe is they hate each other but they keep meeting while covering for tony and maria. planning on multiple chapters. keep an eye out for tony and maria’s less well-intentioned friends ‼️