Kota pushed through the main entrance of Westfield High, the familiar smell of floor wax and teenage body spray hitting him like a wave. The hallways were already buzzing with the usual morning chaos, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking on linoleum, and the rhythmic clap clap clap of massive asses swaying in every direction. He kept his head down out of habit, weaving through the crowd toward the lockers near the science wing.
His stomach growled. Loudly. He had forgotten to grab breakfast in the rush to get ready, and his wallet was sitting on his nightstand back home. No money. No food. Shit. Hopefully Theo had something in his office, or maybe Riley had packed extra. Riley always had snacks. Riley was always prepared for everything, usually in the sluttiest way possible.
He spotted Riley near the water fountain, and for once, the platinum haired femboy was slightly less half naked and slutty than usual. He was wearing a white button up shirt that was actually buttoned, tucked neatly into a pair of tight black leggings that hugged every dramatic curve of his hips and that legendary planetary ass. The leggings were so tight they looked painted on, the fabric stretching thin over the massive globes, the deep cleft visible even from twenty feet away. His makeup was lighter today, just a sweep of gloss and some mascara. He looked almost innocent. Almost.
The moment Riley saw Kota, his face split into a wide, delighted grin. He rushed over, his ass bouncing and swaying with every hurried step, and threw his arms around Kota's bicep, hugging it tight against his chest.
"Kota! Oh my god, where have you been? It feels like forever since I saw you. How's the amazing stud doing? Tell me everything." His voice was bright and eager, his glossy lips curved into that familiar teasing smile.
Kota shrugged, trying to act casual despite the warm body pressed against his arm. "Not much. Just been dealing with some stuff. What'd I miss around here?"
"Cool, cool," Riley said, nodding along. But his eyes were already glazing over, his fingers tracing little circles on Kota's forearm. "So, listen. Are you in the mood for a quickie? Bathroom's right there. Five minutes. Nobody's using the handicap stall."
Kota blinked. "I just asked what I missed. You didn't answer the question."
"Oh, right, right. Not much happened. New sub in chemistry. Otis is still the hottest PE teacher alive. Sebastian's still a pretentious dick." Riley's hand slid higher up Kota's arm. "So about that quickie. My ass is literally empty right now. Like, completely empty. It's tragic."
Kota gently extracted his arm from Riley's grip and started walking toward the English wing. Riley followed, undeterred, his tight leggings making soft swishing sounds with every step.
"So Dennis has the flu," Kota said, trying to steer the conversation toward something normal. "That sucks. Is he okay?"
"Yeah, he's fine. Just fever and chills and throwing up everywhere. It's gross." Riley paused, then added, "So I've been taking care of him for like four days now. Four days, Kota. Do you know how long that is without getting fucked? Do you know how horny I am right now? I need someone to fuck me or someone to fuck. I don't even care which at this point. Are you in the mood?"
"No," Kota said bluntly.
Riley pouted dramatically, his lower lip jutting out. "You're no fun. None at all. You used to be fun. Remember when you bent me over in my bedroom and railed me until I couldn't walk straight? Remember when you fucked Dennis so hard he forgot his own name? That was fun. Why can't we have fun anymore?"
"Because it's eight in the morning and I haven't even had breakfast."
"I could be your breakfast," Riley offered, wiggling his eyebrows.
Kota sighed and kept walking. Riley sighed too, more dramatically, and stopped following him. "Fine. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me. And you will change your mind. They always change their mind." He turned away, already scanning the hallway for another target. His eyes landed on a lanky femboy with a nose ring who was struggling with his locker combination.
"Hey," Riley called out, striding over with renewed confidence. His voice dropped into that low, seductive purr. "I'll let you cum in my ass if you follow me to the bathroom right now."
The femboy's locker slammed shut. He turned around, his eyes going wide as he took in Riley's curves, the tight leggings, the knowing smirk. He nodded so fast his nose ring jingled. "Yeah. Yes. Absolutely. Right now. Lead the way."
Riley shot Kota one last grin over his shoulder before grabbing the femboy by the wrist and dragging him toward the nearest bathroom. The door swung shut behind them, and the last thing Kota heard was the femboy's excited, breathless "I've been waiting for this all year."
Kota shook his head and kept walking. At least someone was getting what they wanted.
He reached the English classroom just as the bell rang. The room was already mostly full, students slouched at their desks with the usual Monday morning exhaustion. Kota headed straight for his spot in the back, the one near the window where he could nap without being too obvious. He dropped his backpack on the floor, sat down, and immediately put his head down on his folded arms.
Sebastian swept into the room like a king entering his court. He was wearing a tweed blazer with elbow patches, because of course he was, and his hair was styled with the kind of precision that suggested he had spent at least forty five minutes in front of a mirror. He set his leather satchel on the desk with a deliberate thump and turned to face the class with a smile that was meant to be inspiring but came across as deeply self satisfied.
"Good morning, future scholars," Sebastian announced, his posh accent dripping with self importance.
"Before we begin today's lesson on the nuances of postmodern narrative structure, I'd like to take a moment to remind you all of the standard to which you should be aspiring. Every student in this room should strive to be half the intellectual that I am. Half. That's all I ask. A reasonable goal, I think, given the vast gap between my own academic achievements and your current levels of mediocrity."
A collective groan rippled through the classroom. Someone in the front row muttered "not this again" under their breath.
Sebastian's smile faltered. His ego, fragile as spun glass, cracked audibly. His eyes narrowed, and he straightened up to his full height, adjusting his tweed blazer with an indignant tug.
"I see. I see how it is. You don't appreciate my presence. You don't appreciate the sheer privilege of being taught by an Oxford graduate who scored a near perfect 3.9 GPA, a feat only marred by one pedantic examiner who lacked the vision to appreciate my thesis on Joycean epiphanies. You think I'm just another teacher. You think you can groan and roll your eyes and mutter under your breath without consequence."
He paused, letting the silence stretch. The class had gone very still.
"Anyone who doesn't like me," Sebastian said, his voice dropping to a cold, imperious tone, "will receive a minus twenty percent on their final grade. Effective immediately. No exceptions. No appeals."
The classroom erupted into frantic movement. Slouching students straightened up so fast their spines cracked. Someone who had been texting under their desk shoved their phone into their backpack. The kid in the front row who had muttered "not this again" was now sitting ramrod straight, his eyes wide with panic.
Sebastian's smile returned, wider and more satisfied than before. "That's more like it. Now. Open your textbooks to page three hundred and forty seven. Today we're discussing the fragmented narrator in late twentieth century literature. I expect vigorous participation."