#boarding school au

[keplerdrawsthings]

When the academic rivals maybe... kinda... lowkey... want... eachother

rumi and mira from my developing religious boarding school au 🤑🤑🤑 slowly but surely... TRUST🙏 work in progress might post a more polished version if i get around to it

[mianaissante]

suddenly, i'm a fiend and you're all i need

summary: you've been transferred to an all girl's christian boarding school for admitting that you fucked your old high school's janitor, toji fushiguro, by your parents and now your bratty attitude is being tamed by the Jujutsu Boarding School's head priest, hiromi higuruma.

;or priest!higuruma punishes you after confessing that you touched yourself thinking about him, the head priest of jujutsu boarding school.

pairing/s hiromi higuruma, toji fushiguro. wc: 00k

warnings!! takes place in the confessional booth, age difference, dry humping, face riding, squirting, orgasm denial, edging, pussy slapping, vaginal fingering, oveerrrrr sexual overstimulation😮‍💨, manhandling, power imbalance, dom/sub, brat taming, choking, rough sex, improper use of a crucifix, heavvyyyy watersports, dumbification, brat, brat tamer, improper use of the lord's prayer.

tags: hiromi higuruma, higuruma x reader, bratty reader x brat tamer higuruma, top higuruma, priest!higuruma

a/n: i don't think anyone will forgive me for my sins....

for the experience, listen to never be the same by camila cabello🫦🫦

it's a work in progress:)) comment down below so I can tag you when this posts!!

[echoingmyths]

The Gilded Cage: Lessons in Power

Summary: Natasha Romanoff’s mission is to get close to Y/N Medici, the perfect, untouchable heir. It’s a game of manipulation and secrets, a slow burn in the halls of an elite academy.

Warnings: Deception, Betrayal, Angst, Manipulation, Violence (attempted murder), Boarding School

Word Count: 4037

Part 1 Part 2

This is part 1 of unknown number of parts in a series.

The Gilded Cage and the Ghost Within

The air at Accademia Medicea tasted of old money, fresh linen, and the faint, metallic tang of ambition. It was a scent Natasha Romanoff had been taught to recognize, to wear like a second skin. She moved through the grand, sun-drenched atrium, her fabricated identity: Nadia Nabokov, a scholarship student from a newly respectable Russian industrial family, settling comfortably around her. The other students were peacocks, their laughter too loud, their designer backpacks slung with practiced carelessness. They were performing wealth.

And then there was Y/N Medici.

She stood by a towering marble pillar, not posing, not seeking attention. She was simply present. Her posture was immaculate, a straight line from the crown of her head to the sole of her leather flats. She wasn’t wearing the most conspicuous labels, but the cut of her blazer, the quiet sheen of her silk shirt, whispered a price tag the others were shouting about. She held a tablet, her fingers moving with economical grace. She wasn’t arrogant. She was a fortress.

That’s not arrogance, Natasha thought, a predator’s instinct humming to life. That’s conditioning.

Their first class was Diplomatic Ethics, held in a soaring room with vaulted ceilings and tiered benches. Natasha saw her opportunity. Y/N was already seated, a notepad and fountain pen arranged with geometric precision before her. There was an empty seat beside her, a buffer zone most students respected. Natasha did not. She slid into the seat, her timing perfect, just as the professor was clearing his throat. She settled, her arm resting on the shared armrest, her shoulder a breath too close to Y/N’s.

Y/N’s pen stopped mid-word. She didn’t turn her head, but her gaze shifted, a flicker of dark lashes. “You’re in my personal space.” The voice was low, clear, and utterly devoid of accusation. It was a statement of fact, like noting the time.

Natasha let a slow smile curve her lips. “Already?”

“I allow it to be violated socially,” Y/N said, her gaze returning to her notes. “Not academically.”

Natasha had to physically suppress a laugh. Interesting. Most girls would have giggled, blushed, moved away. Y/N simply established a boundary and expected it to be honored. Gracious, but steel-edged.

The professor, a man with a face like a disappointed hawk, skipped any pleasantries. “Miss Medici. Explain why power structures collapse from the inside rather than the outside.”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. “Because the outside is an enemy, and enemies forge unity. The inside is a parasite, a slow decay of trust. It introduces doubt where certainty is required, replacing loyalty with self-interest. It turns the foundation against itself. The collapse is not an invasion; it is a suicide.”

Her answer was flawless. Measured. Elegant. Utterly devoid of passion. It was a textbook recitation, but delivered with the authority of a queen.

Silence. Then Natasha raised her hand. “Yes, Miss… Nabokov?”

“With respect,” Natasha began, her voice pitched to carry just enough to challenge without being insolent, “collapse doesn’t come from power structures. It comes from people who believe they’re untouchable.”

The air in the room grew thick. The professor’s hawk-like gaze sharpened with interest. For the first time, Y/N turned her head fully, her eyes meeting Natasha’s. There was no offense there, only a calm, analytical curiosity.

“That assumes arrogance,” Y/N said, her tone even. “Not all power is blind.”

Natasha tilted her head, letting her gaze drift over Y/N’s face, committing the sharp line of her jaw, the intelligent glint in her eyes, to memory. “True. But all power is human.”

A dangerous smile touched the professor’s lips. “Excellent. Both of you.”

They had just been publicly anointed as intellectual rivals.

As students began to pack up, the spell was broken. Y/N continued to write for a moment longer, then capped her pen with a soft click. “You didn’t need to challenge me,” she said, still not looking at Natasha.

Natasha shrugged, gathering her own bag. “I wanted to see if you’d fold.”

Y/N finally looked up. Her eyes were sharp, but held no trace of being bothered. “Did I?”

Natasha grinned, a genuine, predatory flash of teeth. “No. That’s… disappointing.”

A soft exhalation escaped Y/N’s lips, so brief it was almost imagined, the ghost of a laugh. It was the most unguarded sound she had made all day. “If you intend to antagonize me all semester, at least be honest about it.”

Natasha stood, leaning in just a fraction, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “I intend to understand you.” She let the pause hang between them. “Antagonizing you is just a bonus.”

And for the first time in a long, long time, as Y/N watched her walk away, she wasn’t thinking about quarterly reports, or her father’s expectations, or the five-hundred-year-old weight of her name. She was thinking: Oh. She’s dangerous.

Circling Each Other

Proximity became a weapon, a schedule created by the Red Room and embraced by Natasha. They shared Advanced Economic Theory, Renaissance Art and Propaganda, and, most cruelly, a mandatory study period in the library where seating was assigned alphabetically. Medici and Nabokov. Side by side.

Natasha made it her mission to find the cracks in Y/N’s polished facade. “You know,” Natasha whispered one afternoon, leaning across their shared table, the scent of old books and Y/N’s faint, clean perfume filling the space, “you’re allowed to relax your shoulders. They won’t actually shatter.”

Y/N didn’t look up from her text on Florentine banking systems. “And here I thought this was my relaxed posture.”

The deadpan delivery was so perfect, so utterly sincere, that Natasha had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

Natasha played the part of the charmingly uncultured new-money girl, asking questions about proper place settings or the significance of a particular fresco. Y/N would correct her with a gentle, patient precision that was both infuriating and endearing. She never made Natasha feel stupid; she simply informed her.

But Natasha was watching. She saw the way Y/N’s smile was a timed event, appearing at the appropriate social cue but never quite reaching her eyes. She heard how Y/N referred to herself not as “I” but as “a Medici,” or “in my capacity.” She was a function, a role.

Once, after a gruelling lecture on dynastic succession, Y/N paused for a full ten seconds, her gaze fixed on the marble floor before she straightened her spine and resumed her note-taking. It was a flicker of discomfort, registered and filed away. Natasha, who had been trained to exploit such weakness, felt a strange, unwelcome ache. She thought about the life Y/N was being groomed for a perfect, political marriage, a legacy of cold power, she would make a perfect widow. She wouldn't wish that life on anyone, especially someone with a hidden laugh like that.

Y/N was watching, too. She noticed how Natasha’s stories about her family in St. Petersburg were just a little too smooth, a little too generic. She noticed how Natasha could navigate a crowded hallway with the silent grace of a panther, her body always angled for the best line of sight and the quickest exit. She noticed that Natasha’s brilliant, captivating smile vanished the second she thought no one was looking, replaced by a chilling, blankness.

The Language of Hands

The cracks began to show not in words, but in small, thoughtless actions. One evening in the library, Natasha was wrestling with a particularly dense passage on derivatives when she felt a light touch on her hand. Y/N had reached across, her finger pointing to a line in Natasha’s textbook.

“You’re misreading the liability structure,” Y/N said softly, her voice a low murmur in the hushed silence. “The risk isn’t in the asset itself; it’s in the counterparty guarantee. See how the obligation is layered?”

Her finger lingered for a second longer than necessary, a warm point of contact on Natasha’s skin. Natasha didn’t pull away. Instead, she turned her hand over, her fingers brushing against Y/N’s. It was a test.

Y/N didn’t flinch. She simply met Natasha’s eyes, a flicker of understanding passing between them before she withdrew her hand, the moment broken. But the space between them had changed. It was no longer just a seat at a table; it was charged with a new, unspoken electricity.

Another time, they were walking across the quad after a late lecture. A group of boisterous students jostled past, and Y/N stumbled slightly on the cobblestones. Natasha’s hand shot out, steadying her by the small of her back. It was a firm, protective touch, and Y/N leaned into it for a half-second before regaining her composure and stepping away. The brief contact left an imprint on both of them, a ghost of warmth against the evening chill. They walked the rest of the way in a silence that was no longer merely companionable, but heavy with anticipation.

The Unforced Error

Natasha’s mission was a constant, low-frequency hum in the back of her mind. Her handlers wanted leverage. They wanted secrets. One afternoon, she saw her chance. Y/N was leaving the headmistress's office, looking more strained than usual. She clutched a leather-bound portfolio, the kind used for sensitive family documents.

Later, in their shared study period, Y/N set the portfolio on the table beside her, absently turning the combination lock. It was a simple, four-digit code. Natasha, feigning a stretch to relieve boredom, watched from the corner of her eye as Y/N’s thumb hovered over the dials. She didn’t enter the code, but her fingers twitched, forming a pattern: 1-4-8-9. The year Lorenzo de’ Medici died. Obvious. Predictable.

That night, Natasha slipped into the empty library. It was a simple matter to bypass the rudimentary alarm on the study room door. Her heart was a steady, cold drumbeat. This was what she was built for. She found the portfolio, the leather cool under her fingers. She spun the dials: 1-4-8-9. The lock clicked open.

Inside were not financial records or blackmail material, but something far more intimate. It was a collection of architectural sketches and personal notes. Y/N was designing a wing of the Palazzo Medici Riccardi, not as a museum, but as a public arts education center for underprivileged children. The notes in the margins were in Y/N’s elegant script, but the thoughts were passionate, almost desperate. “Art should not be a cage. It must be a key.” “If the family’s legacy is only stone and gold, it is a tomb.”

Natasha felt a sickening lurch in her stomach. This wasn’t a vulnerability. It was a soul. She took a photo of a single, innocuous-looking page about structural load-bearing and sent it to her handlers with a note: “Academic focus on civic engineering. No immediate leverage.” Then she carefully re-locked the portfolio and left, the taste of betrayal like ash in her mouth.

The External Threat

The threat didn’t come with a bang. It came with a whisper. A new groundskeeper who asked too many questions about Y/N’s schedule. A failed attempt to breach the academy’s digital network, targeting Y/N’s personal file. And then, the accident.

A heavy stone frieze, undergoing restoration on the building’s facade, “malfunctioned,” crashing down just feet from where Y/N was walking. The world shattered into dust and screams. The groan of stressed metal and the percussive crash of ancient stone against marble echoed through the courtyard.

For a frozen second, Y/N just stood there, her mind refusing to process the chaos, her body paralyzed by a lifetime of being protected, not protecting.

Then, a force slammed into her, knocking her off her feet and behind a massive stone planter. The impact was jarring, the body covering hers a solid, unyielding weight. A hand clamped over her mouth, not roughly, but with absolute authority.

“Don’t scream,” a voice hissed in her ear. It was Natasha’s.

Y/N’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum against Natasha’s steady frame. She could feel Natasha’s heart, rhythmic beat that was terrifyingly composed. Dust filled the air, tasting of chalk and earth. Through the haze, Y/N saw the place where she had been standing a moment before. It was a crater of pulverized marble and twisted iron.

Natasha moved first, lifting her weight off Y/N with a fluid grace that defied the chaos. Her eyes were no longer the playful, teasing things Y/N was used to. They were sharp, scanning, calculating. “Are you hurt?”

Y/N could only nodded her head, her throat too tight to form words.

“Good. We’re leaving. Now.” Natasha grabbed her hand, her grip firm and certain. She didn’t head for the main archways, where teachers and security were already converging. She pulled Y/N towards a narrow service alley, her movements economical and sure.

They found themselves hidden in the cool, dim confines of a disused wine cellar beneath the library. The only light came from the narrow grate high on the wall, casting long, dancing shadows. The air was thick with the smell of dust and forgotten things.

Y/N finally found her voice, though it came out as a shaky whisper. “That wasn’t an accident.”

“No,” Natasha said, her back against the stone wall, her gaze fixed on the cellar door. “It wasn’t.” She had a small cut on her forearm, a thin line of welling blood that she seemed oblivious to.

Without thinking, Y/N pulled a clean, folded handkerchief from her blazer pocket. She stepped closer, gently taking Natasha’s arm. Her fingers trembled as she wrapped the linen around the cut.

Natasha flinched at the touch, a barely perceptible tension that vanished as quickly as it came.

“Thank you,” Y/N whispered, her eyes fixed on the makeshift bandage. She wasn’t thanking her as the Medici heir. She was thanking her as a girl who had almost been crushed.

Natasha looked down at her, at the dust smudging Y/N’s cheek, at the genuine terror and relief warring in her eyes. A strange, unfamiliar feeling twisted in her chest. This wasn’t part of the mission. The instinct to shield Y/N with her own body, to feel a surge of pure, unadulterated rage at the attempt on her life that was not in her orders.

“I was just here,” Natasha said, her voice softer than Y/N had ever heard it.

That night, huddled together in the darkness, the adrenaline gave way to a raw, quiet intimacy.

“I’m terrified,” Y/N confessed, her voice barely audible. “Not of dying. I’m terrified of failing this. My family… this legacy. I never asked for it, but if I break it, I break everything. I don’t know how to be a person and a Medici at the same time.”

Natasha’s own heart ached with a truth she couldn’t share. “I’ve never had a choice at all,” she murmured, the words feeling dangerously close to honesty. “Not about anything. My path was set for me before I could walk.”

In the darkness, with the dust of a near-death experience settling around them, it was enough. They were two girls trapped in gilded cages, and for the first time, they weren’t alone.

Falling

The wall between them didn’t just crack; it disintegrated. The study sessions in the library changed. Natasha would reach out, her fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from Y/N’s face, and Y/N would lean into the touch instead of pulling away.

Their first real date wasn’t a date. Natasha “forgot” her keycard and was locked out of her dorm after hours. Y/N simply let her into her own spacious, single suite. They sat on the plush rug, sharing a bottle of water Y/N had insisted on chilling, and talked for hours. Y/N showed Natasha the completed model of her arts center, her eyes alight with a passion Natasha had only glimpsed in shadows.

“You’re going to build it,” Natasha said, her voice filled with a certainty that surprised them both.

“I have to,” Y/N replied, her smile small but genuine. “It’s the only part of the Medici name that feels like mine.”

The first kiss happened in the music room, after hours. Natasha was teaching Y/N how to loosen her grip on a piano key, to let the note breathe instead of striking it. Her hand covered Y/N’s on the ivory, their fingers intertwined. Y/N turned her head, her eyes searching Natasha’s. There was no calculation in her gaze, only a desperate, hopeful longing.

Natasha closed the distance. The kiss was hesitant at first, then deepened, a silent acknowledgment of everything they couldn’t say. It tasted of relief and shared secrets.

Natasha’s handlers applied pressure. Reports were demanded. What are her vulnerabilities? What are her father’s plans? Create emotional leverage.

Natasha lied. She reported on Y/N’s academic brilliance, her formal demeanor, her unremarkable social circle. She delayed, obfuscated, protecting the girl she was supposed to be exploiting. The dramatic irony was a poison in the well.

They planned a summer. “You have to come to Florence,” Y/N said one evening, her head on Natasha’s shoulder as they looked out at the manicured grounds. “I’ll show you the real Uffizi, not the tourist version. We can walk the Palazzo Pitti garden.”

“I’d like that,” Natasha whispered, and the lie felt like a shard of glass in her throat. She was getting closer to the goal, closer to having the access the Red Room needed, but all she could think about was the way Y/N’s face lit up when she talked about art.

The Reveal

Y/N didn’t suspect Natasha emotionally. Trust, for her, was a binary state. She trusted Natasha completely.

But she was a Medici. She had been raised to observe patterns, to see the matrix beneath the reality.

It was the little things. Natasha referenced a specific 14th-century Medici banking tactic, one so obscure it was only discussed in internal family archives. During a security drill, when a flash-bang simulated an attack, Natasha’s reaction wasn’t fear; it was an immediate, tactical crouch, her eyes scanning for exits and threats with a precision no teenager should possess. She spoke of powerful families with an insider’s cynicism, not an outsider’s awe.

It wasn’t suspicion. It was due diligence. As the heir, anyone who got close was subject to a standard background verification through Medici security. It was a formality, a box to be checked. She authorized it without a second thought, a quiet administrative task on a Tuesday morning.

The report came back digitally, encrypted and direct to her tablet. She opened it expecting to see a simple, clean history: a birth certificate in St. Petersburg, school records, a family tree linked to a manufacturing conglomerate.

She saw nothing of the sort.

No verifiable childhood records before age twelve. Educational credentials loop back to shell institutions with ties to defunct state programs. Multiple passports under different names, all tied to the same biometric profile. And one name, flagged across a dozen intelligence agencies as a person of interest:

NATALIA ALIANOVNA ROMANOVA.

Alias: NATASHA ROMANOFF. NADIA NABOKOV

Affiliation: RED ROOM.

Y/N read the file once. Then again. The words didn’t change. The world did.

The warmth in her chest didn’t shatter. It turned to ice. Every shared laugh, every whispered secret, every tender touch was re-contextualized in the cold, harsh light of this new reality. The piano lesson. The library study sessions. The night in the wine cellar. It was all a script. And she had been the perfect, willing audience.

She closed the tablet. The soft click of the case meeting the screen was the loudest sound she had ever heard. That silence, that complete lack of outward reaction, hurt worse than any scream.

The Break

The end wasn’t dramatic. It was clean.

The next morning, Y/N was gone before Natasha could meet her at her dorm door. At breakfast, she didn’t look at Natasha. She didn’t acknowledge her existence. Natasha felt a cold dread creep up her spine. She tried to catch her eye after class, but Y/N moved with an entourage of advisors and security, her posture more rigid, more controlled than ever. She was a Medici heir again. The girl was gone.

The extraction began at dusk. Two black, unmarked sedans pulled up to the main entrance. Men in dark suits, Medici security, moved with quiet efficiency. They weren’t there to arrest Natasha. They were there to remove a contaminant.

Natasha was stuffing clothes into a bag, movements sharp and economical, the way she’d been taught to pack in under thirty seconds. She didn’t hear the door open. She just felt the air change, the temperature dropping by several degrees.

She turned.

Y/N was standing there, alone in the doorway. No security. No entourage. Just her, silhouetted against the light of the hallway, looking like a marble statue come to mourn.

“Y/N…” Natasha’s voice was rough, the name catching in her throat. It was the first time she’d said it without a layer of performance.

Y/N’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, it hardened. “I loved you.”

The words weren’t an accusation. They were a verdict. Delivered with the same calm, devastating precision she used to dissect a hostile takeover. They were a fact. A past-tense fact.

“I know,” Natasha whispered. The admission was ripped from her, raw and unguarded. It was the only truth she had left to give, and it was the cruellest weapon she could have used. It confirmed everything. The vulnerability, the connection, the late-night confessions, it wasn’t just a mission. It was real. And the betrayal was, too.

A flicker of something, maybe pain crossed Y/N’s face before being extinguished by a chilling resolve.

“They’ll be here in two minutes,” she said, her voice flat. “My father’s men. They don’t take prisoners. They erase problems.”

Natasha stared at her, a hundred unspoken things dying on her tongue. Why are you telling me this?

Y/N’s gaze held hers, a final, unreadable transaction. “You taught me that all power is human.” Her voice was a monotone, but the words trembled with a repressed fury. “You’re not a problem. You’re a lesson.”

She took a step back, a deliberate, final movement. “This is my one and only act of sentimentality. Don’t make me regret it.”

And then she was gone.

The two minutes were a lifetime. Natasha didn’t hesitate. She slung the bag over her shoulder, didn’t bother to zip it, and moved to the window. It was a three-story drop to manicured hedges. She’d jumped from worse. With one last look at the empty doorway, she slipped out into the night, disappearing into the shadows just as the heavy, purposeful footsteps of Medici security echoed down the hall.

Epilogue

Six months later.

Natasha Romanoff, now fully herself, stood on a rooftop in Prague, the wind whipping her hair. The mission in Milan was a failure, but she had been reassigned. The Red Room was pragmatic. Failure was a data point.

She scanned the financial news on a secure tablet. A headline caught her eye: Medici Heir Announces Landmark Philanthropic Endeavor. There was a photo of Y/N, standing before a press conference. She looked different. The stiffness was gone, replaced by a calm, unshakable authority. She wasn’t performing the role of heir; she was embodying it. The article detailed the groundbreaking of the "Centro Medici per le Arti Giovanili," a public arts education center in Florence. It was Y/N’s design, Y/N’s vision. She had done it. She was building her legacy.

Natasha felt a pang in her chest, a complex mixture of pride and profound loss. Y/N had taken the lesson and built something stronger from it. She had taken the betrayal and turned it into a foundation.

As Natasha watched the image of the woman she had loved and broken, a single, encrypted message appeared on her screen from an unknown source. It was just four words.

Natasha’s breath hitched. She knew, with absolute certainty, who had sent it. She looked back at the photo of Y/N, who for a fleeting moment seemed to look directly out of the screen, not at the camera, but at her.

The ghost in the machine was gone. In her place was a queen. And Natasha was just a shadow in her past.

[fraisebrin]

Bend and break (but I can’t turn away)

It starts with a paper ball thrown across a classroom, and it should’ve ended there.

Instead Connor Bedard starts noticing things: the silver glint of glasses three rows ahead, the quiet scratch of pencil annotations in the library, the way Minten somehow understands hockey without ever touching the ice. Somewhere between chapel, pond hockey, dog-eared books, and a series of increasingly suspicious coincidences, Connor realizes he might be paying far too much attention to one boy.

Bedmint boarding school au

Connor’s head, he figures, is buried deep in the pebbly shore of Prince Edward’s Island, or dunked in the warm sea of Saint Kitts, facing the open ocean air. Really, he thinks, after running his tongue across the rows of his teeth, he could almost taste the salt of the sea. He lets the pads of his fingers run through the pages of some history book he couldn’t care less about, tingly from the shkkt-shkkt of the shuffling pages.

“…Now, this is where most assumptions are made, all false of course, judging from the heinous essays you all submitted,” Draisaitl’s monotonous voice drones in the room, bouncing around the walls. Connor blinks, once, twice, before he straightens up a little.

He looks around the room, just three tables from him is Will Smith, folding an ugly paper crane from his exam paper. Connor watches in some false pretense of curiosity, or more in entertaining his boredom as Will’s exam paper turns into a bird-like thing, he would take anything other than listening about Gilgamesh and his weird friend.

Just outside, the snow is melting into disgusting gray sludge, he had spent most of his weekends shoveling slurry as punishment for bailing on his classes. But then again, it’s not his fault Draisaitl’s classes are boring as hell.

“And Enkidu…” Connor remembers that name from the half-assed essay he submitted, Enkidu being the wild man who ends up wrestling Gilgamesh, then surprisingly becomes best friends, or whatever. Draisaitl continues, in this horrible way that makes Connor wish he could combust spontaneously, “Forged himself an alliance with this spectral being.”

He fights the urge to lay his head on the cool surface of his desk, already having a stack of disciplinary notes under his belt, he really couldn’t afford the axe right now, the next shit hole waiting for him being Fork Union. So he averts his gaze from Will’s now crumpled paper crane to the boy in front of him. From here he could only see the back of his curly head, and the silver temples of his glasses.

The boy, if he’s not mistaken, is called Minten.

And Minten is drinking up this boring ass class, hand diligently jotting down every word that comes out of Draisaitl. Connor shifts in his seat, peering over to catch a glimpse of Minten. This Minten kid is such a royal pain in the ass. Always making the rest of the class look bad next to him, him and his stupid glasses and fountain pens. Seriously. Connor tears a piece of paper from his book, as silent as possible, then crumples it into a ball.

He’s not mature, in any way, and everyone makes sure he knows that. Nothing comes across in his head as he condenses the paper ball in his palm, aiming for the back of Minten’s head, and launches it when Draisaitl is reading from a thick-spined book.

Will jolts in his seat as the paper ball whizzes past him and hits Minten’s head. Connor slaps his hand to his mouth, concealing a laughter. Minten stops writing, and he looks down to the rolling paper ball on the floor. Will looks past his shoulder to Connor, red-faced and grinning, “Good aim,” he mouths.

Minten picks up the culprit by his feet and surveys the room around him, before ultimately landing his eyes on Connor. He frowns, displeased, obviously. Connor leans back in his chair, chest basked in the pride of successfully distracting the otherwise untouchable boy. The boy scowls behind his glasses, then opens his mouth.

”Gentlemen,” Draisaitl interjects, whipping both of them back to face the board. “If there is something you want to share with the class, by all means, please.”

Connor sucks his teeth, he was just about to have an ounce of fun, already imagining the dorkish retort Minten could come up with. “Uh, nothing.” Connor breezily says with a shrug, “Just wanted to borrow a pencil.”

Minten glances at him again, eyebrows knitted in the center, eyes narrowing.

Draisaitl rounds his stand, stepping down. “Is there even an ounce of truth to that, Mr. Bedard?” He asks, punctuating every word, probably to intimidate Connor, but honestly he should’ve known better.

“Yeah,” Connor deadpans, then he thinks about Fork Union and having shit-on-a-shingle as breakfast, “Yes, Sir.” He corrects.

Draisaitl’s eyebrow quirks, bluntly displaying his doubt, God forbid Connor’s telling the truth, right? Connor exhales, eyes shifting to Minten whose ears are now a soft shade of pink. He almost feels bad, now.

“Is that the truth, Mr. Minten?” Draisaitl taps Minten’s desk, and Minten actually flinches in his skin. Connor watches the way Will’s shoulder shakes, holding in laughter. Connor himself couldn’t find himself to find this as entertaining as Will, suddenly aware of the prospect of Minten getting into trouble.

That paper ball toss was supposed to be just a little joke, easing his boredom. It did, for the first five seconds before Draisaitl meddled in with his usual assholery.

Minten flexes his fingers, “Yes, I was about to hand it to him. I was just asking if he wanted a mechanical one or the… wooden ones.” Connor’s eyes widened, as subtle as he could, expecting Minten to throw him under the bus.

Draisaitl weighs it for a moment, assessing the look on Minten’s face that Connor could only imagine looks like a thief caught in action. Connor holds his breath for what feels like an eternity, picking up the little details on Draisaitl’s sour face, trying to catch the displeasure before he could verbalize it.

But,

”Very well,” Draisaitl says, quite agreeably. Connor’s mouth twitches, relishing in this victory and the newfound respect he has for this four-eyed dork. “Who here can enlighten the class with their interpretation of Enkidu and Gilgamesh’s relationship?”

Connor slumps in his seat, the tacky sweat that has formed behind his back sticking to the cotton of his shirt. He eases his mind again, he’s back home now, playing pond hockey until his nose is stiff, while he tracks Minten’s hand slowly raising into the air, ready to enlighten the class.

—

Frank Nazar is crouching underneath the table, Connor folds his leg underneath him to avoid kicking Frank’s ribs. The rest of the table waits for their turn, each holding a steak knife in their hands while huddled shoulder-to-shoulder to conceal Frank maneuvering below them.

“Hurry up,” Olen hisses, slamming his fist on the table. Connor could feel Frank shift under them in annoyance, “What the hell are you carving down there?”

Connor peers down, catching the shine of Frank’s leather shoes he oh so prides, scuffing the flagstone floor. Frank has his tongue sticking out in focus, eyes blinking away the debris that’s chipping away with each scratch from his steak knife. “You cannot rush art,” Frank chirps.

The water in their glasses shakes along with the table when Frank hits his head, earning a suspicious look from Father Reaves. Connor kicks Frank’s shin in a warning. It’s been a tradition for them to carve out a crude picture, or just their initials followed by the year under each dining table. They’d rotate tables every week. The first week after the winter break was the table closest to the teacher’s table, which was the most challenging one. Will was almost caught if not for Connor spilling a whole jug of cherry kompot, enough to distract the dinner ladies.

Olen leans closer, an annoyed look clear on his face. “If that Lohrei kid opens his mouth again, I’m gonna lose it” Connor shifts, intrigued at Olen’s sudden venom. He knew the Lohrei kid. Always in cahoots with Minten, even though they don’t share a class together. Practically glued to his side, but he looks… less with a stick up his ass.

Will punches a breath from his nose, elbow pressing against Connor’s. “What’d he do this time?”

“Told Reaves I skipped chapel,” Olen says, eyes zeroing right by Connor’s ear. Connor sneaks a glance past his shoulder to the table across the dining hall to find Lohrei talking to Minten. Minten’s got a ratty copy of Dostoevsky’s White Nights open in one hand, and the other hand bringing a dainty tea cup to his mouth.

“I swear, that Lohrei kid.” Olen’s voice sobers him, right, Lohrei. Connor clears his throat, bringing his attention back to Olen. “I bet he and his bootlicking friends keep a ledger or something. Who breathes too loud, who blinks too fast.”

Connor couldn’t help but let out a little noise of amusement, even if he didn’t agree with the sentiment, it was still pretty funny. Will on the other hand, shrugs, “I don’t know. Macklin’s alright.”

“Shit. Reaves, twelve O’clock,” Connor warns. Will immediately starts stuffing his mouth with food, a pathetic attempt at masking the delinquency happening just below them. Olen grunts, knocking the table impatiently.

In this little commotion, Connor slips a look past his shoulder to find Minten laughing at something Lohrei said.

The table rattles one last time, “Alright, move, move, I’m done.” Frank squeezes past an opening between Olen and Will, squinting at the dining hall lights. He smiles, all teeth, clumsily settling down on a chair across Connor. “Who knew anatomy classes would come in handy?”

Connor scoffs, “You’re disgusting.” He doesn’t mean it of course, he’s laughing anyways. “My turn.” He grabs the discarded steak knife from Frank’s plate, sawdust clinging to the glinting blade. He kneels down, ducking under the table cloth, and everything is quiet down here.

Frank’s leather shoes are nicer up close, and Olen’s missing a chunk of his shoe lace, Will must’ve gotten new cleats. He muses for a handful of minutes, picking apart the sludge smearing Olen’s soles and grass stains on the side of Will’s brand new kicks. Down here, the conversation is dulled, as if he’s submerged underwater, or he has traveled into an alternate reality where nothing exists other than what he sees.

It’s nice, grounding in the isolation. The humming of chuckles reverberates into this muted warmth, he thinks, if a memory has a sound, it would be this. It reminds him of his childhood of hiding under his own bed, pissed-stained-pants scared of getting sent away to a boarding school.

Connor looks up to the underside of the table, he dismisses the dried up chewing gum from generations ago, and sets his eyes to the smooth surface next to Frank’s carved rendition of the female upper body anatomy. He presses the blade, scratching a curved line to form some hopefully coherent letters.

He had read, ages ago, back in Roman times, their graffiti was carving instead of spray paint. That was not the part that amuses him the most. He didn’t care how they did it, or why, since it was mostly politics. What amused him was this: humans have always wanted to let their presence be known, be immortalized, to not be forgotten. Like the ancient Romans have their own way of saying, “I was here, you dick heads.” And Connor had found something romantic in that, no matter how crude and boorish the messages were.

He coughs out the falling debris over his nose, carving deeper and deeper into the wood. One day, when the world is burning because some idiot president or something started a nuclear war and the only surviving thing is this very table, they will all know a group of boys from Barton Academy had left a very important message.

Connor brushes the rest of the debris collecting in the little crannies he carved, smiling to himself. They will be immortalized, somehow, if this table doesn’t end up to be firewood, and if he wants to be remembered, he wants the image to be simple and straightforward of who he is.

Inspecting his work, Connor lets another wave of chuckles wash over him from above.

Virtus et depravata

A/N: here we go! As promised, a little snippet of the bedmint boarding school au (with willmack slowly happening in the background) please excuse my mediocre skills in tumblr blogging. There are more sitting in my google docs, but I’ll be posting all of it on ao3 soon when it’s 3/4 done. Check out my ao3 for my past works if interested: frasermittens

thank u party people

[trashytracktales]

that new boarding skl pic of Oscar. Lily saw him in the fit and said ‘I want that one’ bc who wouldn’t. respectfully I need him to pull me intro an empty classroom and ruin me while still wearing that outfit.

Young Royals Oscar has me in a chokehold that’s so Wille coded I CAN’T BREATHE. He looks like he’d whisper we shouldn’t while already locking the door behind you and pushing desks out of the way... 💭

[burningcrackbaby]

Boarding school with Suguru Geto

➽──────────────❥

“Really Suguru, her?”

“Trust me, everyone one from town says that she’s so cool.”

A short story in which a boy from your town has been crushing on you, hard, for months now.

➽──────────────❥

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

wc: 3.5k

Different day, same shit. 

Get to the breakfast extremely early to avoid Suguru, go back to my dorm before class, go to class, wait for the lunch service to practically be over to go to avoid Suguru, go back to my dorm to eat, go to class, go back to my dorm, take a nap, wake up in the last five minutes of dinner, take my plate and go back to my room. 

Lemme just end it right now. 

“[Name], open up! It’s us!”

My two lovely friends are outside my door, maybe I shouldn’t end it. 

I get up to open the door for them, both girls look so happy. Especially Utahime. 

“Ohhhh, I take your plan went well?”

“Yes!” Utahime gives me a tight hug while Yuki makes herself comfortable on my bed, “Yuki spoke to Nanami, then sat at their table, Geto joined, then I joined!”

“Nanami is such a workaholic though.” The blond groans, “Who the fuck does assignments while eating?”

“Shut up!” Utahime hisses, “He could’ve been eating with his foot and I would’ve thanked him for the opportunity to sit with Geto.”

“I haven’t seen him up close but he can’t be that hot.” I sit next to Yuki on my bed,

“Oh [Name].” Both girls say simultaneously.

“You should join us tomorrow. The conversation went so well during lunch that I think we became a friend group.” 

“What?”

Yuki questions my reaction, “You don’t wanna sit with us tomorrow?” 

No actually, I’d rather not. Like seriously.

“Uhhh, I think I’m gonna be studying during lunch tomorrow. Wouldn’t wanna be considered a workaholic like Nanami! Hahaaaa…” 

“You’re acting weird.” Utahime sits on the chair in my room, “First you hide under the table with me, now you don’t wanna sit with us?”

“If you say ‘sit with us one’ one more time it sounds like we’re in mean girls!” I exclaim trying to divert their attention, 

“Come onnnnn [Name] please sit with us-“

“You can’t sit with us!” Yuki imitates Gretchen Wieners, 

“Fine. Fine I’ll meet these two boys tomorrow. And I swear if Geto isn’t as hot as you claim-“

“Oh I think he’s hotter. Back off my man.” Utahime scowls at me. 

Top 3 most terrible decisions I have made in my life. I just agreed to sitting in front of Geto, next to my friends that don’t know I know him! Extremely well! 

“Anyway! You won’t believe what I heard today [Name]!” Yuki exclaims, 

“What?”

“There are two new students joining us. Guess who?” 

This can’t be good.

“Gojo and Shoko!”

What? 

My heart drops.

What? Why? Did their parents catch them doing some sneaky shit too? I haven’t spoken to them in a month since Gojo asked me to keep an eye on Geto. 

This changes everything if they come. Yuki already knows I know Gojo and Shoko, then that’ll force me to explain I knew Geto this entire to time, and it isnt like I cant avoid them too because they know I go here! This is just a big huge mess. I swear. Fuck me in the ass. 

And at least Shoko will definitely come talk to me, cuz I know her. Even if I treat her the way I do. She’ll come back. Gojo might go to Geto and ignore us again cuz they’re toxic in their own way. 

But that doesn’t change anything, Yuki and Utahime will find out I was lying, Gojo and Shoko will find out I’ve been ghosting them on purpose not because of exams or tight schedules, and Geto… What will he think? We’ve been on the same campus without a sign of each other, because I avoid him like the plague.

Basically what I’m saying is: I am fucked. I kept this lie going too long-

My dazed and panicked state get Utahime and Yuki concerned, “What’s with your face?”

“Ohhhh… I’m just so so happy my friends are coming!” 

“Really? You don’t look it.” 

I love her to death, but can Utahime shut the fuck up? 

“Well, I haven’t seen them in months, its just a surprise to me! Yuki,” I turn to her, “How did you find out?”

“The administration called me to give both of them a tour when they come. It’s also like super top secret so please don’t tell anyone we have two new students joining us. I only told you two.”

“Tell me about your friends guys! I feel left out!” Utahime exclaims,

I wish I were fucking left out bro.

“Gojo Satoru, is. So. Hot. Utahime.” Yuki begins,

“I don’t think you’ll get along though! Hahaaa…” I take over before she can hype Utahime up to meet him.

“Why?”

“Uhmm, he’s mean! Yeah! I grew up around him and he just teases you for anything. It gets pretty annoying!” I nod my head, “He should have a big warning on his forehead. Everyone from town avoids him.”

“That’s not true,” Yuki calls me out, “I legit met him and he was so nice, Shoko and Toji were with him. I wouldn’t say they avoid him. He seems like the life of the party,” she clears her throat, “And, he gassed you up. He said you were his ride or die.”

How about everyone shuts the fuck up? Starting now.

“Well, he is fun, sometimes. Rare occasions. Extremely rare. Still, he’s mean a lot of the time.”

That’s not completely false if you can’t deal with incessant sassiness and attitude coming from a 6’3 guy, still, his looks make up for a lot of his attitude. I’d still let him hit. 

“And how’s the other friend?”

“You mean Shoko?” Yuki starts talking this time,

I am curious as to what Yuki has to say about my sloppy seconds. 

She releases a deep breath, “Shoko Ieiri is fucking beautiful Utahime, she’s so sweet, she always has that hint of cigarette smoke on her, beautiful silk hair, beautiful-“

“Wowwww, you sound in love.” I say coldly,

Yuki scowls at me, “Maybe I am, what’s it to you?”

“Nothing, just hope you’re down to fuck the pity party in town.”

What am I doing? Am I jealous? I stifle a laughter when that thought passes my mind, I know damn well I’m not jealous. I don’t even like Shoko. 

“I thought you were friends with Shoko?” Utahime asks in surprise, whenever I curse it’s meant to be funny- not to insult. 

“I am, but I’m friends with Yuki as well. Shoko’s a little crazy… If you get what I’m saying.”

“No actually. I don’t.”

Yuki sounds mad, what the hell?

“Are you upset about something?” 

“I don’t know a single person who calls their friend a pity party. It’s mean. I didn’t fuck with that.”

“Deadass?” I roll my eyes, “I’m sorry. I’m just saving you the trouble of fucking with her, she gets attached and emotional. It’s actually pretty annoying.”

“So?”

“Oh you’re into that? You want an actual relationship? Not just a fuck buddy? Then Shoko Ieiri is your girl. She does not understand ‘no strings attached’ for the life of her.”

“You’re being a bitch.” 

“You’ll see for yourself soon enough.” I turn away from Yuki because I don’t want to explain more details to her if she asks, 

“[Name], it just sounds like you’re trying to keep Yuki away from Shoko. Let them have their fun.” Utahime speaks up

“Have all the fun you want. I don’t care.” I say nonchalantly knowing I truly mean the words coming out of my mouth. 

“We will,” Yuki gets up from my bed, “I’m gonna go out.” 

“Where?” We both ask,

“To the yard. I need a cigarette.”

“Yuki.” I say seriously, “You had something to smoke all this time and you didn’t say anything?!”

“[Name], I literally told you she smokes!”

“I was too nervous to ask! A non-smoker can’t detect a smoker!” 

“Come on,” The blonde laughs, “I think I have an extra one for you.” 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Smoke lingers in the air while Utahime stays far away saying she can’t stand the smell, “So, where’d you get them?” 

“Speak louder! I can’t hear you!” Utahime whisper yells,

“Then come closer! We’re outside! No smell will stick to you!” Yuki responds, “I got them from Geto.”

Ahhhh, see?! What did I say about him not being able to be sober for over 10 hours? 

“Ohhhh nice,” I let out a cloud of smoke, “He has good taste.” 

Utahime approaches us and coughs dramatically. Yuki blows smoke in her face, “Heyyy!!! Ew! Stop!” 

Andddd Utahime is back in her corner. 

“Do you want another one?” Yuki asks me as she stubs out her cigarette on the floor. 

“Are you gonna have one?” 

“Yeah.”

“Then give me one too.” 

“Guys.” Utahime speaks up nervously as we light our seconds up. 

“What?” 

“There’s people approaching.” 

“What?!” 

I almost stub my cigarette into the ground and make a run for it,

Yuki grabs my wrist “Chill. It’s just Geto and Nanami. I told them to come.” 

She did what. 

“You- What?” I say nervously, “Whyyyy????” 

Yuki and Utahime look at me confused, “Dude, chill. They’re super nice.”

Yes!!!! I should fucking know Yuki!!!!

Oh my God I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die. That’s it. I have been avoiding this stupid ass guy for two months!!! And I have been successful!!! 

I thought I was joining them tomorrow!! Not now! I had time to mentally prepare— Fuck me fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!!!

“Hey,” Suguru’s nonchalant voice broke the silence as he hugs Utahime. 

Huh… Looks like they’re actually into each other. 

Nanami says hello to Yuki, 

Please God keep me the third wheel that no one pays attention to. Please please please-

“Hello, I’m Nanami.” He turns to me

Why?! Why did this guy have to say hi!!! Whyyyyyyyy-

“Sorry, I don’t know what’s up with her right now. Her name is [Name], ignore her. She’s probably buzzed off the cigarette.” Yuki tells Nanami. 

I can see from the corner of my eye Suguru’s head slightly turn at the mention of my name. But he doesn’t move. 

What the fuck? 

Okay listen it’s only not weird if I’m the one avoiding him. He shouldn’t avoid me! Especially not after what happened. 

“Ow!” The cigarette ash dropping on my finger pulls me out of the staring contest I had with Suguru. 

“Sorry. I was out of it. My name is [Name]. It’s nice to meet you.” I try to shake his hand with the hand that’s holding the cigarette, this is so awkward. 

“Nice to meet you too.” Nanami takes my hand anyway,

“Oh! I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize. I didn’t mean to shake your hand with this hand.”

“It’s fine.” He turns around to Utahime and Suguru that look to be chatting about something sooooo interesting. 

Blegh. 

“This is my friend, Suguru Geto.” Geto’s ears perk up and instead of ignoring his name, he walks over. 

“Hey, I’m Suguru. Nice to meet you.” 

He can’t be talking to me. 

I take a long while to register he actually was. 

I furrow my brows as I answer, “I’m [Name]? Uh, it’s nice to meet you too.” 

Yup! Perfect!

“Why do you sound hesitant?” Utahime laughs at my awkwardness. 

Oh my God. I’ll never hear the end of this. She’s gonna say ‘See! I told you he was hot!’ 

And wow. He is. Has he been going to the school gym? His muscles are more refined. He looks better. Healthy.

I’m glad. 

Suguru laughs softly, “Do you like it?” 

He’s too good at acting like he doesn’t know me. 

“Yeah. Where’d you buy them from?” I ask Suguru

“I brought them with me. From my town. You may have heard of it you know.” 

My heart drops. I know we know each other but the uneasy feeling still doesn’t want to leave my body. 

“Oh yeah! Where are you from Geto? You never told us!”

“That’s because you’ve never asked.” Suguru says smoothly, 

Oh my God that voice! He could lead a cult off it alone! 

“Do you sell?” I ask Suguru,

“Do you buy?” 

I roll my eyes, “Would I be asking if I didn’t?” 

“Fair point. Give me your number.” 

Utahime’s jaw drops— am I doing something wrong? I hope she doesn’t think I’m going for her man or something.

I take his phone from him and type my number, 

He still has it saved. 

He still has it saved as “[Name]❤️”. 

How many times can a heart drop with agony and heartbreak in a night? 

“Uh,” I give his phone back after deleting the emoji, “Ring me so I have yours.”

He calls my number and when I pull out my phone to reveal the unsaved number, I can see his heart wrenching for a change. 

“It’s getting late.” I stub out my cigarette after taking the last puff, “I don’t feel like getting into trouble. Goodnight everyone.” 

I walk away to the dormitory, thankfully no one’s here watching over the students. 

I unlock my door and immediately lay on my bed, fuck the light cigarette smell, fuck my night routine. Fuck everything. 

Because why does he still have my number saved like we care for each other?

We haven’t. Not for a while. 

Get out of my head!!!! I scream into my pillow,

I know my problem! I haven’t been kissed in months! Thank God Shoko is coming soon! 

I doze off while overthinking my whole existence, and my phone pings but I’m too tired to check it, 

+81-90-XXXX-XXXX 

█ yo

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Snooze. 

Snooze. 

Snooze. 

Stop. 

How many times do I press this button on my alarm you ask? 

I have 20 alarms spaced out 5 minutes from each other if that answers your question. 

I deleted my 5:45AM alarm because I no longer have to avoid Suguru now. Courtesy of Yuki. 

Last night was a fever dream right? Hopefully. 

Ughhhhhhh, I have to get up. There’s no time to think about Suguru. Or his stupid face. Or his piercings. Or his sexy muscles-

What am I doing? Get a grip [Name]. 

I take my phone and delete the upcoming alarms I snoozed… 

Who the fuck is this number?? 

Me

█ who’s this? 

+81-90-XXXX-XXXX

█ 😒

Me 

█ ?????? 

█ wtf who is this 😭😭

I close my phone and get up to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. Next I lazily put my clothes on and grab my phone-

+81-90-XXXX-XXXX

█ it’s suguru 

Oh… ohhhhhhh. 

So last night wasn’t a feverdream. Awesome! I deleted all of our past messages and deleted his number too before coming here! Nice! 

I never thought it would come back to bite me in the ass. 

Me

█ oh 

I type, then stop, then restart, then stop, then-

+81-90-XXXX-XXXX

█ hru? it’s been a while. 

It’s. been. a. while. 

Nah he has to be rage baiting me. 

Me

█ fine 

█ yh it’s been a while 

I’m not dealing with this. Not this early in the morning. 

I shouldddd save his number though… In case I need anything… 

Suguru (bitch)

█ i’m good thanks for asking 

My eyes roll to the back of my head dramatically,

Suguru (bitch)

█ anyway

█ i got sum shit if u want any 

Nowwwww he’s talking 

Me

█ what shit? 

Suguru (bitch) 

█ yk what 

█ the stuff u love lmao

Me

█ you don’t know what i love 

Suguru (bitch)

█ ik a lot abt u

█ anyway u want sum or not? 

Me

█ how much? 

Suguru (bitch) 

█ $5

“-there is no one on planet earth, apart from his little fling, Satoru Gojo, that gets $5 worth of anything from him.” Shoko’s words replay in my head. 

I groan and rub my temples with my hand and simultaneously close my phone,

Today has a challenge called Today and the challenge is I get through today. 

Simple. Easy. Efficient. I just gotta get through it. 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

“Are you sureeeee?” I try to peer pressure Utahime and Yuki,  “Pleaseeeee we won’t get caught if we skip. Come on! Come on! I know you wanna!! Who wants to head into that class?!” I raise my hand dramatically, “Not me!” 

“[Name]. Didn’t you tell us the last time you skipped if you got caught again you’d get suspended?” Yuki applies her lipstick in the bathroom mirror between passing periods. 

“Okayyy? And I skipped after that. And I never got caught.” 

“I can’t anyway, if I get caught skipping before Gojo and Shoko come here I won’t be able to tour them around. But after that, I’m all yours baby. I promise.”

Ouffff did it just get hot in here? 

“Okay.” I try to cover up my stutter. 

Before you judge me— if fucking Yuki Tsukumo just called you baby and ‘all yours’ you’d be blushing too. 

“I’ll skip with you.” Utahime comes out of the bathroom stall, “I don’t feel like going to class either.” 

Yuki and I look at each other, “Wowwwwww, Utahime Ioriii!! Bad girl!” I joke around. 

“Oh shut up. That teacher has it out for me. I don’t feel like dealing with it.” 

“Yayyyy! You’re the best!” I rush to give her a tight hug and blow a raspberry at Yuki, “Loser loser loser loser-“ I chant and dance around the now angry blond. 

Yuki rolls her eyes jokingly, “Whatever. See you guys later.” She puts her bag over her shoulder and leaves to get to class,

“Come on,” I intertwine mine and Utahime’s arm and start walking towards the dorms, 

“Is that Geto?” 

“Oh. He must be skipping too.” I see Utahime’s eyes literally sparkle at the sight of him, “I’m gonna go talk to him… Do you mind?”

“What? No. No not at all. Go girl, I’ll be in my dorm.”

I let Utahime walk over to Geto and they spark up conversation. It isn’t my place to join in, but I can’t help to think to myself how he’s doing? Really doing. 

It would be weird to ask him though… Because my friend has a crush on him and blah blah blah it’ll just be a big mess—

Smack!

Owwwww… My face right on the fucking door of my dormitory. 

I have got to get my fucking head out of the clouds! 

Putting the key into the door and unlocking it, I walk in and set my bag down..

I’m already hereeee soooo… 

I’m not leaving. There’s no way I’m attending the rest of the classes.

I lazily pull out my phone while kicking my shoes off, 

Me

█ yuki btw when r shoko and gojo coming?

Yukiii♡

█ tmrw 

You liked this message. 

I should’ve really fucking savored that moment of relaxation and carelessness. 

Cuz tomorrow is going to be a whole problem in itself,

how am I going to deal with this? 

Will Shoko understand? Will Gojo understand? 

Why am I overthinking? This doesn’t matter. It doesn’t mean anything. 

I avoided Geto, and he acted like he didn’t know me. That’s all basic shit, they’ll understand since Gojo and Shoko been in pretty sticky situations themselves. 

But the reason as to why we’re ignoring each other is one that is much much more complicated. And it really does mean something. 

Ping! 

Suguru (bitch)

█ did u know that satoru and shoko were coming tmrw? 

Me

█ yea?

Suguru (bitch)

█ huh 

I can hear the fucking scoff and smug smile just through his text message. 

Me

█ what??

Suguru (bitch)

█ nothing lmao 

█ i can’t ask questions anymore?

Seen 

I can’t be asked to deal with him. Shouldn’t he be flirting with Utahime anyway?

Me

█ i’m at my dorm

█ wya

█ r u still w geto?

Utahime（╹◡╹）♡

█ We just said bye to each other. I’m on my way to your dorm. Keep it unlocked. 

Explains why he texted me. Utahime must’ve told him. Even after Yuki asked her to not say anything to anyone. 

“Honey I’m home!” Utahime says while entering my dorm, “Where’s dinner?” She sits on my chair and props her feet up on my desk.

“Ha ha. Very funny.” I roll my eyes, “How was your quickie with Geto?”

“Quickie?! We didn’t have a quickie!”

“Oh my God relax,” I laugh, “I’m kidding. I’d hope you don’t have a quickie in the middle of the school’s hallway.” 

She stares at me for a while, 

“Whatever you’re thinking I don’t want to hear i-“

“I would soooo have a quickie with him in the middle of the hallway.” 

“Utahimeeeeee,” I groan mildly disgusted, “I never took you for a voyeurism chick.” 

I hear soft giggles from the both of us go around my dorm, 

“[Name],” I lift my head up to acknowledge her, “I really appreciate our friendship. When I came I was so nervous and you seemed so welcoming. I’m glad I spoke to you.”

“Yeah. Me too.” I respond quietly because I know her opinion would change at some point in time when she finds out my lie about not knowing Suguru. 

Utahime gives me a tight hug that I reciprocate. 

I shouldn’t have made up that lie to begin with. But I have made my bed, it’ll be time to lay in it soon. 

a/n: drama is cooking up :p

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭

[sibbydoo]

RESONANCE.

A Soul Eater Resonance Bang fan-comic, based on the story by VultureBeetleSnake

I had the honor of drawing for this absolutely BEAUTIFUL story by VultureBeetleSnake for my second Resonance Bang! I got so excited knowing it was my first choice, and both my fellow artist and the author are so kind and creative and it was just so so much fun. Oh, and the fact that I get to draw SpiritStein art for the first time is also a massive bonus!!

RESONANCE by VultureBeetleSnake !!!

The story is genuinely so gorgeous- the author has a way with words that I can't even begin to describe. If you want to see Spirit, Stein, and their friends, young and enrolled in a boarding school to learn, practice, and perform classical music, all whilst exploring the innocence and wholesomeness of belonging, of love, of resonance — then this story is for you.

That said, I also highly encourage you to check out the several other amazing art and fanfic that Resbang writers and artists have made this year! Everyone's so friggin' COOL and I can't wait to join the next one!

[velvetbriar]