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sugawarassoulmate · 2 years

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and i can be needy, way too damn needy

“oh, didn’t like what i had to say?” she must have noticed your reaction, feeding off your palpable anxiety. “both of them feel that way, you know. they only really hang out with you because your mothers are good friends. you think they would give you the time of day if they had a choice?”

atsumu too? no, that couldn’t be true. he’s always been your best friend. yeah, your moms were close and it was easy to go to their house after school while your parents were working, but atsumu’s smile always grew wide whenever you walked through the door. surely all of that had been genuine?

“that’s a lie…” you mumble, wishing for once you could find the strength to stick up for yourself. this doesn’t feel the same as when osamu teases you, that’s something you can navigate. this is uncharted territory. never has anyone else been so callous towards you. usually because one of the boys was there to step in—atsumu to offer a kind word and osamu to throw a punch or two.

but maybe that was the problem. maybe they didn’t want to waste their time saving you anymore.

this really wasn't meant to turn into anything! i've had this doc sitting on my computer for months thinking nothing was gonna come from it, but you guys really liked the snippet i shared so here it is.

if you were expecting a big confrontation between osamu's girlfriend and reader, sorry! my crybaby doesn't play that way but she does get her comeuppance 👀

also there wasn't going to be any smut in this fic but.......osamu's hot LOL

words: 3.8k

cw: fem!reader, insecurity, name-calling, fingering, jealousy, possessiveness, infidelity mention, minors dni

disclaimer: on this blog, we discuss and explore toxic relationships/situations/ just because i write about these themes does not mean i condone/support these types of relationships nor do i do them in my own personal life.

these are fictional characters in fictional scenarios and nobody should be taking real-life advice or mirror the actions of the characters in these stories!

You walked into the kitchen expecting to see Osamu with his head in the fridge as usual. Instead, you found something worse, his girlfriend leaning on the counter. A scowl on her face as soon as she locks eyes with you. It’s the first time you’ve ever been alone with her, without Osamu there to make a mean comment at your expense that makes her laugh sweetly, “Baby, you’re being so rude!” she’d say in her shrill voice.

But there’s none of that in her face at the moment. She crosses her arms, eyebrows furrowed as she gets a good look at you. “Of course, you’re here too,” she says, attempting to grumble under her breath but it’s definitely loud enough for you to hear.

You don’t really want to know what she meant, mumbling an apology in her direction before trying to shuffle past her to the stairs. She’s quicker than you, though, blocking your path and almost tripping you in the process. “What the hell are you doing here?” She gets in your face, demanding an answer. It’s only when she’s so close that you take in how pretty she actually is: full, pouty lips, a high arch in her eyebrows, sharp cheekbones, a straight nose.

She didn’t look like the kind of girl Osamu dated, but you figured that wasn’t a fair assumption for you to make. You didn’t really know what kind of girls Osamu liked. Whenever his brother brought the topic up, it usually ended with a punch to the gut.

“Atsumu and I have plans,” you said, hoping she’d leave you alone. She purses her lips, seemingly not satisfied with your response. “Could you—”

“Do you not have friends of your own? You’re always tagging along with the twins, aren’t you embarrassed?�� her features twist into a smile, one of ridicule. You’re not sure how to respond, mouth clamping up as you hope for someone to come downstairs and save you. But you’re not that lucky and your silence only pisses her off even more. “Not even going to defend yourself? Samu’s right, you’re hopeless!”

Hopeless? Had Osamu said that about you? He’s said worse things to your face, sure, but never once did you think he spoke about you behind your back. Did he talk about you to her? Complain about you? Of course, you weren’t his favorite person in the world but did he actually feel that way?

You could feel your stomach churning, a bitter taste bubbling in the back of your throat. You had to get out of there, but your legs wouldn’t move. “Oh, didn’t like what I had to say?” she must have noticed your reaction, feeding off your palpable anxiety. “Both of them feel that way, you know. They only really hang out with you because your mothers are good friends. You think they would give you the time of day if they had a choice?”

Atsumu too? No, that couldn’t be true. He’s always been your best friend. Yeah, your moms were close and it was easy to go to their house after school while your parents were working, but Atsumu’s smile always grew wide whenever you walked through the door. Surely all of that had been genuine?

“That’s a lie…” you mumble, wishing for once you could find the strength to stick up for yourself. This doesn’t feel the same as when Osamu teases you, that’s something you can navigate. This is uncharted territory. Never has anyone else been so callous towards you. Usually because one of the boys was there to step in—Atsumu to offer a kind word and Osamu to throw a punch or two.

But maybe that was the problem. Maybe they didn’t want to waste their time saving you anymore.

“Please, do you think they’d say it to your face? To the crybaby that lives next door? They don’t want to hurt your feelings but someone needs to give you a reality check.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” you snap back, feeling the tightness in your chest. Even when Osamu was giving you his worst, he never made you feel so small.

She laughs humorlessly, taking a step forward into your personal space and leaning down. It feels so humiliating. “I know enough,” she claims. “Every time I’m with my boyfriend, he never shuts up about you. What makes you so damn special? Maybe he wouldn’t bitch about you so much if you just fucked off and found friends of your own.”

You wanted to tell her it wasn’t true. That you knew more about the twins than she did, but all the energy you had left disappeared. And, in turn, her words started playing in your head over and over. Maybe it was true. Maybe your friendship with the twins had run its course—or rather your friendship with one of them did. Osamu had never been your friend before, had he?

Right on cue, the tears started running down your face. You could imagine how red and distorted your face had become, your nose becoming runny and mouth growing dry. You’re rushing out of the room before she could say anything else, running towards your house and slamming the door behind you.

It’s only when you’re finally alone that you allow your sobs to get loud, to feel all your insecurities pouring out into the open. And it’s just so pitiful that your first reaction is to run to Atsumu and point out the person who made you feel this way. What’s most surprising is that, for once, it wasn’t his brother who was at fault. Not even Osamu could make you cry this much.

Your phone starts buzzing every few seconds and through tears, you read out the notifications on the screen.

From: ☀️tsumu☀️: did ya get here yet?

From: ☀️tsumu☀️: thought i heard the front door..

You want to reach out to him, to both of them. But you can’t even bother with a reply. Instead, you turn your phone off, and let your tears flow some more.

You’ve never avoided both of the twins before, but you couldn’t face them after that conversation. It was hard at first, having both of the boys blow up your phone for most of the day was pretty normal. The three of you were always together, whether at each other’s houses, going out, or running errands together. If that wasn’t the case, you’d be on the phone with one of them, usually Atsumu, for hours.

But for the first time, you haven’t been giving either of them your attention—you turned off notifications on your phone, started waking up an hour earlier so you wouldn’t have to walk with them, and you told your parents not to answer their calls.

“Did you get into a fight?” your mother had said. “What did Osamu do this time?” But you didn’t really have an explanation, the real story being far more embarrassing than anything else.

At school, it was harder to steer clear of them. You didn’t share many classes but you ended up moving your seat in the few you did, ducking out of the room as soon as the bell rang to avoid having to talk to them. Thankfully, volleyball kept them busy and limited your interactions.

There was one incident in the cafeteria where you nearly broke your-self isolation.

It was easy for Atsumu to find you in a crowded room, locking eyes with you across the cafeteria. The boys were there with Suna and Ginjima talking amongst themselves and being rowdy as usual. Atsumu waved in your direction, beckoning for you to sit with them and you nearly did. Until you saw her cuddled up to Osamu’s side, a disapproving look on her face.

Osamu’s face didn’t look that pleasant either. “Maybe he wouldn’t bitch about you so much if you just fucked off and found friends of your own…”

Suddenly feeling nauseous, you turned your back on the table. Grabbing your food, you make your way towards the roof and eat there. You could usually be alone up there, without being a bother to anyone else.

“Did Osamu do something to you?” Suna asked one day when you were in the library. It was safe to study there—the boys had been banned in their first year after one too many fights. Suna sat across from you, an unreadable look on his face as he watched you take notes. “You haven’t come to practice in a week.”

You figured there was no use in avoiding him and continued to keep doing work. “Why does everyone think he did something?”

“Something had to have happened. Tweedledee and Tweedledum said you haven’t spoken to them in a while,” he leans back in his chair with his feet up on the table. Even during the worst moments with Osamu, you’d still end up getting dragged to practice somehow. “They’ve been fighting a lot more than usual. Kinda annoying, honestly…”

That didn’t do much to quell your anxiety. It was always nasty when the boys fought but the idea of sitting in the bleachers with her after what she said made you queasy. Maybe it had nothing to do with you. The twins fighting wasn’t out of the ordinary, what made you so special?

“I’m really busy with school, okay?” you motion towards the mess of papers on the table you’re working at. But Suna looks unconvinced, probably thinking back to all the times you’ve either done homework or studied while watching the team practice. “Just don’t tell them that you spoke to me, please?”

One thing you love about Suna is that he doesn’t pry. If you’re not ready to talk about something, he’ll hold off on asking questions. “Fine,” he sighs, getting up. “Whatever it is, I’m sure you’ve got it figured out. But do something quick, ‘cause I don’t know how much patience Kita has left.”

You can’t explain the uneasiness in your gut while watching Suna leave the room. He was wrong, you didn’t have it figured out. There wasn’t a plan or an end goal in mind. But you couldn’t face the boys just yet. And, honestly, whatever was going on would figure itself out with or without you.

“No, no, no, no…” you groan to yourself fishing through your backpack for the tenth time, hoping your keys would somehow magically appear. There was a torrential downpour outside and your parents weren’t home or answering their phones. Like an idiot, you forgot your keys and certainly didn’t have an umbrella, your soaked uniform sticking to you, your body freezing and shivering.

The only people who had spare keys were the twins and their mother. “For emergencies,” said your own mother so long ago but they were never actually used for emergencies. All too often, the boys would barge into your home for snacks or drinks, but mostly for you. They’d pluck you from your bedroom—it didn’t matter if you were studying or sleeping, really—and drag you back to their house to watch a movie or settle an argument.

You asked your mother to tell them you weren't home or hid out in the library until it was too late for them to show up at your front door. But now, you were royally fucked and were running out of options. “Please be here…” you cried, wishing for your keys to end up in your hand.

“Are ya stupid? Yer gonna catch yer fuckin’ death out here!” It wasn’t hard to figure out who the voice belonged to. Osamu stormed to the front of your house, pissed off as he shoved you under his umbrella. “The fuck ya standin’ here for? Yer practically blue!”

You didn’t have the energy to argue or come up with some excuse to distance yourself from him. Not when your crybaby tears were threatening to come back again. “I don’t have my keys,” you sobbed, feeling cold and pathetic.

Osamu grabs you by the sleeve and hauled you next door to his house, cursing with every wet stomp of his feet. You’re pushed through the front entrance, already forming a puddle on the floor. The shoes by the door let you know their mother isn’t home either.

“Dude! Ya were right behind me, what took ya so long—” Atsumu stops dead in his tracks when he spots you, an unreadable emotion on his face but he’s quick to go into protective mode, running towards you and his brother. “What—”

“She forgot her fuckin’ keys,” Osamu grouches, sticking the umbrella in a stand near the door. He turns to you, looking as if he wants to bite your head off. “Go upstairs and take a hot shower. We’ll get ya clean clothes.”

“Aren’t you embarrassed?” her words are in your head again. The twins need to take care of you yet again because you’re too stupid to remember to carry a fucking key. “I just need my—”

“I don’t remember askin’ ya,” Osamu says, pushing you in the direction of their bathroom. “Go.” Your eyes flick to Atsumu but he’s in agreement with his twin. Embarrassed, you start heading upstairs, wishing for all of this to be over.

The boys left clean clothes for you outside the bathroom door after your shower. As expected, the shirt and pajama bottoms were much bigger, completely drowning you. Your wet clothes were thrown in the laundry room to be washed and dried. You’re too nervous to go into the living room and face them, but hiding upstairs would only make the situation worse.

You decide to just rip the band-aid.

Wringing the rest of the water with your towel, you walk in to see the boys talking amongst themselves. They stop when you enter the room, Atsumu looking apologetic as he leaves room on the couch for you to sit. A cup of tea sits on the coffee table, likely made by Osamu and you’re certain his anger would only get worse if you refuse.

It doesn’t take very long for Osamu to start interrogating you as soon as you sit down. “Why the fuck didn’t ya come here sooner?” he stands in front of you and his brother, grey eyes shooting daggers at yours.

“I thought I had them,” you lied, letting the cup warm your still cold hands. “I just didn’t want to bother you.”

“But why would ya think yer a bother?” This time Atsumu spoke, his hand reaching out to rub your shoulder. You appreciated the extra warmth. “Better yet, where have ya been lately? Ya stopped talkin’ to us out of nowhere.” You don’t miss the way his eyes glance over at Osamu. He probably thinks it’s his fault too.

“You think they would give you the time of day if they had a choice?” You’re so fed up at this point that her name falls from your mouth before you could stop yourself. Osamu quirks his brow, probably wondering what she has to do with any of this.

So you tell them—You mention all the nasty things she said to you, the cruel looks she’d shoot your way at school, and how you felt too stupid to tell them because a part of you really wondered if it was true. By the time you’re done, there are a few stray tears running down your face that you didn’t notice at first. A frustrated crybaby to the very end, you’re nothing if not consistent.

They’re both angry now, eyes locked with one another. “Did ya know about this?” Atsumu’s tone was accusatory.

“Of course I fuckin’ didn’t, why didn’t ya tell me?” Osamu asked, looking at you, but his brother is quick to come to your defense.

“It doesn’t matter when she told us, what matters is that it was yer girlfriend that said that shit to her.” He snaps, pulling you closer to his frame to soothe you. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Osamu, tongue poking his cheek. “What’re ya gonna do about it, Samu?”

The younger twin rolls his eyes takes a deep breath and walks out the room, choosing not to start a yelling match for once. Once you are alone, Atsumu wraps you in his arms for a hug. “Please don’t disappear like that on us again,” he says, refusing to let go. “I won’t be so nice next time.” You can hear the dumb grin on his face. You’ve missed him, both of them. Atsumu makes sure you finish the rest of your tea before walking off to set up the futon for you—he suggested you spend the night and didn’t take no for an answer.

You’re folding your uniform a few hours later after taking it out of the dryer. It should probably be ironed before you could wear it again but, thankfully, there’s no school tomorrow. While you’re there, you decide to fold the rest of the clean clothes there as well, knowing the boys’ mother would appreciate it.

The sweet silence was broken with Osamu’s heavy steps coming downstairs, screaming into his phone, unaware that you’re also in the room. “I don’t wanna hear it and don’t even think about comin’ here and gettin’ yer shit,” From all the years of knowing him, you’ve never heard his voice get like that. Even when he and Atsumu were fighting and he’s certainly never yelled at you like that.

“Get one of yer stupid friends to pick it up from Atsumu or Suna or I’m throwin’ it the fuck out. I’m blockin’ yer ass after that. Fuck off.” He hangs up without another word and that’s when he catches you kneeling in front of the dryer with piles of folded clothes. His face doesn’t soften as he gets down on your level, eyes scanning your form. “That’s Tsumu’s shirt…”

Staring down at the much too big shirt, you now realize that he’s right. You hadn’t really considered which of their shirts the boys gave since you were more concerned with having warm clothes than anything else. “I just grabbed whatever was there—” Osamu’s quick movements take you by surprise. Next thing you know, he has you pinned to the floor, hovering over you. It rattles you at first, but Osamu’s always been known to push you around whenever he felt like it. “Samu—”

“Don’t keep secrets from me. Ya should’ve told me as soon as she said that shit.” His knee is between your legs and you wonder if his intentions are pure. All of your clothes were soaked from the storm and all Osamu had to do to get to your more intimate parts was wander his hands just slightly underneath your shirt. It had been a while since he did anything like that. Osamu was loyal to the girls he dated. At least you think. So many times he’s trapped you for a quick kiss when nobody else was in the room, it’s possible that you had overlapped with his relationships a few times.

Maybe that’s why she hated you so much.

“If any of that bullshit was true,” Osamu continues, noticing the apprehension on your face. “I wouldn’t put up with yer sensitive ass.”

“I’m sorry…” you mumbled, fingers twisting between the fabric of your shirt. You felt stupid, letting your own insecurities and her words get to your head when you know none of them to be true. With all the years you’ve known them, you should have given the boys more credit. “I missed you.”

Finally, Osamu’s face relaxes. At this point, you wonder if he was actually upset with you this whole time, or with himself since it was his ex-girlfriend who had said caused all this. He leans in, pressing his lips to yours. It’s overwhelming, like all his kisses and it feels wrong to be so close just moments after he broke up with her, but it doesn’t stop you from deepening it.

“Such a pretty little crybaby, don’t know why I even bother with anyone else,” his voice is thick while his hands tug at your clothes. “Take this off. I’ll give ya my shirt in a bit, just lemme see ya.”

The sensation of your breasts being exposed to the cold laundry room to Osamu’s warm mouth wrapping itself around your nipple. A sharp whine leaves your lips but you stifle it, remembering that Atsumu is still upstairs. Osamu bites down on the sensitive bud, as one of his hands reaches past the sweats you had on, groaning when he realizes you aren’t wearing underwear.

Two of Osamu’s fingers plunge into your cunt without warning. It gets harder and harder to muffle your noises, eyes welling up with tears. “Wanna hear yer pretty noises, dummy. Been hidin’ from me too fuckin’ long. I deserve ‘em,” he growls, biting down hard on your breast just to force a high-pitched cry from you.

You pray that Atsumu is in his room. The thought of anyone seeing you in such a compromising position—half-naked and humping against Osamu’s hand—would be so humiliating but it has you whining and moaning even more.

“Can feel yer pussy clenchin’ around my fingers. Gonna make ya cum on the fuckin’ floor like a slut,” You can hear how wet you are, juices flowing down Osamu’s hand and it’s becoming too much. His thumb circles your clit as his fingers speed up. You pull him in for a kiss, burying your cries into his mouth. “Cum fer me, stupid girl. Missed this pretty pussy, need ya to cum.”

By the time he adds a third finger, you’re already too far gone. With a final, exasperated sob, you cum around Osamu’s hand. He stares, mesmerized by how sensitive your cunt is when he pulls his fingers out, your essence catching the light.

Your brain is too fuzzy to notice Osamu wiping his hand with Atsumu’s shirt, too busy trying to stop your legs from twitching. “Samu…”

“Don’t start yer whinin’, I’ll clean ya up,” he warns, grabbing a clean t-shirt to put on you. It’s one of his, of course. “Much better.”

“Don’t mind her, y/n,” Suna says after following your line of vision. The two of you were sitting at your regular lunch table a few days later when you felt someone staring daggers at you. Sure enough, there was Osamu’s ex looking back. Her usually pretty face now red and puffy. As horrible as she was, you still feel bad.

“Don’t mind who?” Atsumu asks as he and his brother join you after getting their food. Osamu feels your body tense up and is swift to see the reason why. Watching his eyes meet with hers brings back that unpleasant sinking feeling in your stomach for some reason.

But Osamu is quick to look away, an arm wrapping around his waist as he offers you some of his food. You sneak a brief glance back at her, just in time to see her storm out of the cafeteria.

It shouldn’t make you smile, but it does.

#haikyuu #haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader #osamu smut #osamu #osamu x reader #osamu miya smut #osamu miya x reader #osamu miya #miya osamu #miya osamu smut #miya osamu x reader #miya twins #haikyu x reader #haikyu smut #✨#✨osamu #bully!osamu

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so-long-soldier-writes · 2 months

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Study Buddies

isaac lahey x reader

summary: isaac asks you for help in chemistry. you agree on one condition.

tags: high school, studying / tutoring, mutual crushes, awkward flirting, caught in a lie, shyness, embarrassment, play fighting / tickling, bad puns, confessions, first kiss, teasing, fluff, pre-wolf isaac; his dad still sucks; autistic-coded reader

word count: 4.5k

a/n: this is my first time writing for teen wolf. I feel like I'm encroaching on claimed territory. 😅 also i've had this tab up for almost a week but have been afraid to post it, so here goes

Mr. Harris slides your progress report down onto your desk before you have a chance to react, and it catches wind and falls to the ground a moment later. You sigh and roll your eyes, but he’s already halfway across the room, impatiently handing out the rest of his stack. Your own little slip of paper is nowhere by your feet, and you resist the urge to make a remark about it.

“Hey.” A voice interrupts your intruding thoughts at the same time a tap lands on your shoulder. Gentle, as if the tapper hates to disturb you, yet needs your attention.

You turn, and temporarily forget about your lost report as your eyes meet Isaac’s, the boy who sits behind you, and has the cutest smile imaginable. You drop your gaze instantly, only for it to fall on his dimpled smile, and then, finally, on the paper held between two fingers.

“I think this is yours,” he says, holding it out to you.

Your name is clearly printed on the front, followed by your most recent grades in the class. You blush, immediately remembering it had dropped in the first place.

“Oh. Thank you.”

“No problem. He seems like he’s in a mood today.”

You nod, then take your paper from his hand. By this time, Harris has made his way back to the front, and is clearing his throat in a demand for the class’ silence. Quiet mutterings amongst friends cease at once, and you turn back to face the ill-tempered chemistry teacher.

“Take a good look at your progress reports. The midterm is coming up, and some of you have more studying to do than others. Today, we will be learning new material, but next class period, we will have a review day. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask. You can ask at the appropriate time in class, or come see me after school, or shoot me an email. Regardless of your grade, everyone should be studying, however, some of you have to move up a whole letter or two. That is on you to be aware of, and for you to put in the effort to do. Now, pull out your notes so that we can cover this section. It isn’t the hardest thing we’ll cover, but I expect it will be a struggle for some.”

And after that condescending introduction, he begins to teach.

When the bell finally rings, your head is swarming with so much chemistry, your eyes are beginning to glaze over and put you to sleep. You’re relatively good at the subject, but that topic was more challenging than he warned it would be, making even you confused at times. You shake your head when you reach your lockers, trying to relieve yourself of the numbers swirling about in your mind. It takes a moment. A very stressful moment.

A tap on your shoulder, more urgent than the last, pulls you out of your mental headspace. The chemistry bounces out of your mind entirely, bringing you back to reality, but making you jump in place at the sudden contact.

“Sorry,” a familiar voice apologies, “didn’t mean to scare you.”

Turning, you come face-to-face with Isaac again. His normally bright blue eyes are slightly cloudy, which worries you more than you’d like to admit. “No worries. Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I have a question, actually, to ask you.”

“What’s that?”

“Okay, I wasn’t looking at your report, I didn’t mean to see your grades. I accidentally saw them when I picked up your paper, but I promise I wasn’t looking on purpose.” He stalls, continuously apologizing for something not at any fault of his own.

“It’s okay,” you interrupt as politely as you can.

He pauses, “um. I was wondering if you could help me? Like, in chemistry. Help me study, kinda like a tutor, I guess?”

You pale immediately. Just because you’re doing okay in the class doesn’t mean you have a clue how to help him understand. “Um-”

“Just… I just need a little help, if you can. I understand if you don’t want to, or can’t, or… I don’t know… are busy.” He runs his tongue along his lips nervously. You snap your eyes to the floor, avoiding eye contact.

“I don’t know… I’m not a good teacher.”

“But you’re really good in the class. Probably a better teacher than Harris has been lately.”

You chuckle, but you’re still not sure. Being that close to the boy you’ve liked for ages? On top of not being able to teach well? He’ll reduce you to a stupid, stuttering mess, just look at yourself now, unable to look him in the eye. No, don’t look at him, that was rhetorical.

“I just,” he continues, “when he was talking about people who needed to go up a whole letter, he was talking about me. I know you’re good, you sit in front of me. If you can even just explain it to me as you study, it would help a lot.”

Half of your mind races to find an excuse, looking for an out, while the other begs you to agree. Isaac shoves a hand in his pocket and waits for a response. You debate with yourself for a moment, but then the urging part of your mind wins the argument with a question of its own.

“What about this,” you start, “I’ll help you in chemistry, if you help me in French?”

“What?” He asks, taken off guard. “I’m not good at French.”

“You’re better than me. You have the answers to most of Ms. Morrell’s questions, and I can hear you when she asks us to recite words out loud.” His eyes narrow at that, to which you reply, “you sit behind me in French, too.”

“Right.” He smiles, but doesn’t meet your gaze. Instead, he rests his head against the locker beside yours.

“So?”

“How do you know I’m not just guessing?”

“What’s your grade?”

“A,” he sheepishly answers.

“See? You can tutor me.”

“What’s your grade?”

You purse your lips and avoid his eyes again. “Too embarrassed to say.”

“Really?”

“Languages aren’t my strong suit. We all have our strengths.”

“Alright, deal. Help me in chem, and I’ll help you with French.”

“Sounds good. Library, or at one of our houses?”

“I can probably go to the library sometimes. Maybe during lunch or free period. But after school, I have lacrosse, and you probably don’t want to wait around school for that to be over.”

“Okay, so then your house or mine?”

“Where do you live?”

“Like ten minutes from here. You?”

“A bit closer than that. Parents?”

“Don’t really care what I do.”

“My dad is a little controlling,” he admits.

“Would he care if I were to come over?”

“Not if you’re helping me study.”

“Okay. You want to meet a couple times a week at your house, and sometimes during lunch?”

“Sure. Practice ends around five. Is seven too late?”

“Not for me.”

“Cool. So, um, I’ll text you, and we can plan dates.” He shakes his head. “I mean, like, what days work best.”

You blush at his embarrassment. “Have to give you my number first, doofus.”

“Oh.”

You scribble it onto a sticky note and hand it to him. “Let me know.”

“I will. And thank you.”

“Thank you, too.” You hurry your way to your next class, leaving him red in the face and hands at having a girl’s number. Granted, it’s just for studying, but it’s the fact he was able to talk to you at all that has him shaken. Isaac forces himself to breathe, before entering it in his phone and tucking the sticky safely in his backpack. As the bell rings, he hurries to his next class.

~~~~

The next evening is the first time you meet up to study. You drive to the address he’s given and knock on the door as gently as possible. Isaac had mentioned his dad is controlling, so the first thing you want to do is to avoid pissing him off in any way you could. Controlling could mean a lot of things, and the boy wasn’t specific at all. For both of your sakes, you tread lightly.

Isaac opens the door a moment later, dressed in a simple t-shirt and sweats. You try really hard not to blush as he invites you inside, but then his dad’s strict voice snaps you back into reality. You can see Isaac take a visible deep breath before rounding the corner in the kitchen, you in tow. You put on your best look of professionalism while trying to anticipate how the next couple of minutes might go.

“And? Who was it?”

“Y/N, the girl I told you I was studying with… with whom I am going to study,” he corrects at the last minute.

His father’s posture tenses a bit less when his son corrects his own grammar without prompt, but it doesn’t stop his cold eyes from floating over to you. “And you’re studying what?”

“Chemistry, sir. I’m helping Isaac, and he’s helping me with French.”

“And you know French well enough to help her?”

“I believe I do,” he says, trying to sound confident.

“I think he does, too. In class, he always has the answers, and Mrs. Morrell’s often impressed, and she’s hard to impress more than once.”

“Hm.” His dad takes a sip from a glass, then carefully sets it down on the table. His eyes are locked on Isaac the whole time. The boy stares at the ground, any confidence shaken by the interaction. You study the scene, confused. “Well… Go study. Bring up those grades.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply at the same time.

Isaac nods for you to follow him to his room, which you oblige. His dad remains seated as you make your way up the stairs. You bite back a comment about the man, even in the safety of Isaac’s bedroom, and he doesn’t say anything, either. The same remark is in both your heads, yet while you want to ask it in a question, he wants to use it as a reassurance. Yes, he’s a bit more controlling than Isaac originally said. No, he won’t do anything stupid while you're there. He tries to convey this in an expression, which you half-understand, but eventually drop it. If anything happens, you’ll leave. Simple as that.

As it turns out, the first night of you studying together ends up nothing like the initial interaction you had in his house. Isaac is gentle, patient, and willing to learn and teach the best that he can. He’s admittedly worse in chemistry than you are in French, but you’re able to convince him that you only need to work on a few things; an hour of time doesn’t have to be devoted to your studies, maybe only twenty minutes. On the contrary, the other sixty are put towards chemistry. And, of course, the first five are for settling in, and the last five are for uncontrollable laughter at a mispronunciation.

Thirty minutes to nine, you realize how late it’s gotten and start to pack your things. Isaac looks exhausted, and frankly, as much as you’re enjoying his company, you’re getting tired from talking.

“Voulez-vous qu’on se rencontre vendredi?” He asks, rather quickly.

You stare for a moment, then, “what?”

“Vendredi.”

“Thursday?”

“Non.”

“Friday?”

“Oui, rencontrer?”

“Meet then?”

“Yeah, would you like to?”

“Sure.” You nod. “Say it again?”

“Voulez-vous qu’on se rencontre vendredi?” He says it slower this time. It has the same effect on you, but you can comprehend each word better.

“Cool,” you say, not at all thinking about his accent that paints the words so beautifully. “I’ll bring my H2O, since I forgot it this time.”

The boy snorts with more laughter. “Bad joke.”

“Absolutely horrible,” you agree. “See you in school tomorrow.”

“Drive safe.”

“Be safe,” you reply before you can stop yourself, referring to his dad downstairs.

Isaac only nods. He walks you to his front door, then hurries back up to his room.

~~~~

Each day you study together follows a similar routine to the first: five minutes to settle in, sixty of chemistry, twenty of French, then five of joking around with each other. Sometimes Isaac pushes for thirty of French instead, worried that you’re sacrificing your own studies for his, and never understands when you push back that you’re good with only twenty.

His chemistry improves immensely with your help. In three weeks, he manages to pull it up to a ‘C’. Not only is his father a bit more lenient to him after the next progress report, but he’s also more pleasant to you the next time you come around to study. He even cracks a smile.

Today, you go over just the same as you have been. Seven on the dot, you’re greeted by his dimpled smile and half-friendly father. The man has now graduated to welcoming you, and has once clapped you on the shoulder as you’ve passed. You’re polite to him, though you can tell Isaac’s uncomfortable with his unusual behavior, so you always try to retreat upstairs as soon as possible. This time, he’s busy with something in the kitchen and doesn’t talk for long. He makes one comment about grades; you promise him you’re both doing well, then he lets you go.

Finally away, it doesn’t take long for you to settle down anymore. You make yourself comfortable on Isaac’s bed, pulling out your notes and pens, and smiling when he joins you. You’ve come to be good friends in the last couple weeks, and although there’s something definitely in the air, too, you’re good with being friends if that’s all you can convince yourselves you are.

You start, per usual, with chemistry, reading over notes and figuring out problems. He moves closer and closer to you each day you teach, simultaneously making you nervous and excited. Either way, your water bottle remains beside you to calm your ever-growing heart rate. When it comes time to switch subjects, you excuse yourself a minute to recover and prepare for the next half hour. In the beginning, it was easier to hide your blush, promising you’re still getting the hang of the co-teaching thing. Now, your excuse dwindles. The shy smile you wear as he recites words of the love language has never faded. You have to compose yourself entirely, elsewhere, to be able to control your reaction and face him.

“Can I use your bathroom real quick?”

“Yeah, just over there.”

“Thanks.”

As soon as the door shuts, Isaac jumps off the bed to check his hair in the mirror. In the process, your French binder falls to the ground and loses its page. The boy sighs, mutters an ‘oh shit,’ then pulls it back up to find the page again. He opens the flap and immediately finds a stash of old progress reports. You seem to keep all of your old ones in the front flap of your binder; he’s noticed you have all your chemistry reports, too. Curious, Isaac steals a peek. Despite confessing about his ‘D’ in chemistry, you’ve always cheekily refused to share your French grade. He doubts it’s that bad, but he’s never gotten you to admit it.

He glances at the bathroom door, then checks the date on the report before scanning the grades. Guilt eats at him the longer he looks, but nosiness, then confusion keeps his eyes glued. Is he really reading that right? There’s no way you have a-

“Sorry about that,” you say, closing the door.

Startled, he drops your binder and looks up at you. “It’s no worry.”

“What’s wrong?” You notice his change in behavior, like a young boy being caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing.

“Nothing. Your binder fell off the bed, I was picking it up.”

“Oh. Thanks.” He smiles when you join him back on the bed. You’re not sure if you still have a right to be suspicious, or if he’s just embarrassed because he’s so shy. “So, um-”

Isaac, on the other hand, is brimming with questions. As anxious as he is that you caught him peeking, he can’t help but wonder about what he saw. You start to speak, maybe to change the subject, but he cuts you off, guilt and curiosity both winning. “You have an ‘A’ in French?”

“What?”

“You’ve had an ‘A’ since the start of the year. Why do you need me to tutor you if you already know it?”

You shut your open mouth immediately, face paling at the realization you’ve been caught. “I-... I don’t know. Your grades are better than mine.”

“By one point.”

“Two points. You have a 94. I have a 92.”

“Doesn’t explain the need for a tutor,” he argues.

You study him, choosing to base your reaction off his own. He’s smiling; seemingly happy, curious, and not at all upset. His tone implies no accusation, just confusion, and his body posture is straight, shoulders relaxed. A twinkle shines in his baby blue eyes; his level of eye contact is neither constant nor avoidant. He’s safe.

“I, um,” you decide to tell him the truth. Or, rather, stutter out the truth. “I don’t need a French tutor.”

“So I’ve gathered.” Decisive tone, yet still friendly. Still safe.

“I figured, since I would help you with chemistry, even though I’m not that good of a teacher, if you had to teach me something too, it would put less pressure on me to be a good teacher.”

His eyes narrow. “Okay… but why French?” He’s still a little confused on that reasoning, but doesn’t question it. He knows you’re shy. If that’s what you had to do to make it work that you could help him, he doesn’t mind.

“I, er, well, the French provided a win-win scenario.”

“Which is?”

You shrug, body warming quickly as you near your deeply guarded secret. “I- I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Mhm, really?”

“You’re best in French,” you offer instead, on a whim.

“True,” he agrees, “though I feel that’s not the real reason, judging by your lack of eye contact.”

“I’m always bad at eye contact.”

“You’ve been getting better with me these last few weeks.”

“Yes, but…”

“I’m not going to judge, Y/N. Whatever you say, it’s safe with me. You trust me, right?”

“Of course.”

“Then how is me teaching you French a, as you call it, win-win scenario?”

Finally, you fess, “because I get to hear you speak it every time you teach me.”

Isaac’s quiet for a moment. Then, you realize it seems to have gone over his head as he says, “you hear me speak all the time in class.”

“Yeah, but… with twenty other voices mixed in, too. I like hearing just your voice. The way you know just how to sound it out perfectly, and the way your accent flourishes each sentence. Most people in class sound like they’re gurgling saltwater, but you make it sound hot, like the way French is supposed to sound.” Your mouth utters words before your brain can catch up and prevent you from embarrassment. As soon as you realize what you’ve said, a dizziness swarms your head and it feels like the temperature’s gone up ten degrees.

Isaac is speechless in front of you. He’s first stuck on the fact that you like his voice, then on his pronunciation being described as perfect, but then he short-circuits as the word ‘hot’ falls from your lips. He doesn’t even realize when you plant your face into your binder, shocked by your own confession.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize. It’s muffled, but he hears it enough to pull him from his trance.

“You like my voice?” He asks, cursing himself for the stupidity of the question. It’s all he can think of to say, though, still trying to cool his own rising body temperature.

“I shouldn’t have said all that, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I wasn’t thinking.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” he blurts out quickly. “I’m actually quite charmed by that.”

You resist the urge to look up at him, desperate to see if he’s smiling or not. Isaac seems to have a similar thought, and tries to hook a finger under your chin to lift your head. He succeeds, but then you instantly embarrass again, and dive for the pillows, burying your face amongst them.

“Oh no, get back here,” he jokes. You feel him before you look out to see him. His hands shake your shoulder, but when you don’t respond, he playfully starts to tickle your neck. You scrunch and try to scramble away, but he only continues. “C’mon.”

“I can’t!” The words have finally sunken into his head; the weight of them falls on your chest.

“Oh, yes you can!” He teases more, moving pillows away from you, just for you to grab another and bury back under it. When Isaac realizes there’s no use in trying to win the pillow war, he swings a leg over yours and begins to tickle your stomach. Your shirt has begun to ride up from your movement, and temporarily, he forgets you’re classmates, not longtime best friends. “C’mon, give it up!”

“I-I can’t!” You’re running out of breath, and pillows. He pulls another away from you, then puts his hands back on your sides. Your eyes are squeezed shut, but only do you open them because of the unfamiliar feeling of him touching you. A beat skips in your heart at the sudden, unexpected realization that he’s not only touching your skin, but he’s also straddling your waist. You swallow hard. He pinches your side lightly, shocking you back into reality, and making you grab another pillow to hide your face again. Before you can grasp it, Isaac grabs your hands and pins them above your head. You pant, heart racing a mile a minute. His too, as you can hear in the moment you both grow quiet.

“You think it’s hot when I speak French?”

“No, I think you’re hot when you speak French. There’s a difference.”

“Is there now?”

“The temperature of the room doesn’t get hot, it’s you that gets hot.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Not that you’re not always hot… I mean, sometimes, you’re more like a cute little puppy than a hot, French-speaking…” your words fade as your brain catches up, faster this time, yet still not fast enough.

“Am I now?”

What’s done is done, you figure. Can’t take it back now, can only admit it. “Yeah.”

“Huh. So all this time, you’ve been teaching me chemistry, and I’ve been talking pointlessly while you listen and learn nothing?”

“When you word it like that, it sounds bad.” A pout graces your lips as guilt floods you. “But I have learned some things. I was struggling with direct objects, and now I’m not.”

“Ah. So I’m not totally useless?”

“Never. You wouldn’t be useless even if I knew perfect French.” Before he can reply, you continue. “I’m sorry I wasted your time. I shouldn’t have. Can you forgive me?”

“Forgive you for what? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I wasted your time when we could’ve been doing more chemistry.”

“Darling, too much chemistry and my brain woulda exploded. The French lessons are a nice intermission. Besides, I wouldn’t consider any time with you as time wasted.”

“Really?”

He drops your hands and they fall back down to your waist. He seems, then, to realize he’s still on top of you, and begins to climb off. “Sorry, I-”

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Can I confess something else?”

He pauses. “Sure, anything.”

“I would’ve been okay with just tutoring you chemistry, but I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to look you in the eye long enough to do it well.”

“You’ve been doing great with the eye contact thing. I know it’s not your strong suit, but you’ve made a lot of progress these last couple weeks.”

“Thank you,” you smile. “It’s not only that.” A heartbeat passes. “I like you.”

“You like me?” His eyes narrow before he assumes only, “you like my voice.”

“No, I like you. I mean, yes, I like your voice, but I like it because I like you.”

“Like me, as in…”

“Like I have a crush on you.”

He tilts his head like a confused dog. “On me?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Why do you seem so surprised?”

“I’ve never had anyone have a crush on me before,” he admits.

Now you’re confused. “What?! How?!”

“I don’t know!”

“That’s stupid. Never had anyone admit it, maybe.”

“I’d never know.”

“Well I’ve had a crush on you since the seventh grade.”

“You moved to Beacon Hills in the seventh grade.”

“Exactly.”

“And you’ve had a crush on me this whole time?”

“Very secretly.”

“Huh. Well I’ve liked you since the first day of school,” he confesses.

“I’ve liked you since orientation, so I win.”

He smiles, then shakes his head playfully. “So I sit behind you in classes for years and only finally get the courage to talk to you when I’m borderline failing chemistry, and you only get the courage to talk to me for more than one minute if you can convince me to talk half of the time that we’d be studying together.”

“Sounds about right.”

“And my portion of the talking is in French, because you think my accent is hot?”

“Your accent is always hot; your French is hot on its own.”

“Ah, I’m following now.” He chuckles, letting his fingertips grace your hips.

“So,” you ask, “as two people with several year long mutual crushes on each other, what do we do next?”

“Well you’re the one that’s been tutoring me chemistry, love, I’m hoping you have the answer.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes playfully. “Wrong kind of chemistry, dork.” You reach your hands up to the sides of his face anyway, and pull him down for a kiss. Isaac complies immediately, setting one hand down beside you, while the other caresses your chin. Your legs hook around his waist, keeping him close until he starts to pull away, needing air. You let go, then hide your face as his own turns a rosy pink.

“That was worth the wait,” he says, smiling, and touching a finger to his recently-kissed lips. “Êtes-vous d'accord?”

“Shut up,” you tease, pushing him slightly. “Chemistry time.”

“We just had chemistry time. It’s French time now.”

“No, we can skip a round,” you insist, unsure you can hear anymore French fall from his lips without folding and kissing them again.

“On the contrary, I think you need to sharpen your vocabulary.”

“I think I’ll need a water break first.”

“That we can do,” he agrees. “I’ll make sure to get yours with extra ice.”

“Shush!”

#i feel like i'm cheating on kai #but i promise kai isn't going anywhere!!#nor are the mikaelsons - those for which i'm trying to write more #i have simply ✨ added ✨ another man to my collection #y'all i spelt his name wrong so many times writing this #have i ever mentioned i had a crush on a boy named isaac in my junior year of hs?#he was a twin #anyway #isaac lahey x reader #isaac lahey x y/n #teen wolf fanfiction

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