ain't no love; pt. 1
"ain't no love in the heart of the city"
— miles g morales x gn!reader series
SUMMARY: Miles Morales is just a kid without a father; the Prowler is just a "rotten" vigilante. Both of them start coming into your life — one in the middle of the semester, and the other by total accident.
SERIES MASTERLIST 📼 PART 1 / PART 2 →
chapter summary: [READER POV] The one day you decide to skip breakfast, your deskmate comes in. AP Calc has never been more unbearable — and interesting.
content/warnings: brief mentions of death, depictions of hunger, a little bullying </3
word count: 4.8k
a/n: first series idk what im doing BUT WE ROLL (criticisms accepted lmao) proofread courtesy of @qiuweyballs you're a real one
You were starving. In AP Calc, no less, with probably the least talkative bunch of students in the whole school, the period before lunch. Whoever made your schedule was a monster, and whoever put this class together was even more of a monster. Everyone was dead silent, which was usually fine, but not when your stomach was threatening to detonate a nuclear grumble. Maybe it’d even echo given how big the classroom was. It was too early in the year to have a mental breakdown, though — you’d save that for midterms.
Even the teacher found the silence awkward, muttering to himself as you walked into the dreary classroom. He was a bit of a pushover, Mr. Wellston — a newbie who really had no idea what he was doing besides fixing his unevenly cut hair every two seconds while everyone pretended to know what was going on. God bless AP Calculus; you didn’t even know how to do the starter activity on the board.
But your teacher’s ridiculous inadequacy didn’t matter right now. The most important decision you had to make was what poor soul you were going to look at sideways when everyone turned to the source of the growl. Being nice wasn’t exactly an option when you were 3 seconds away from dying of starvation.
Thankfully, you were at the back, and the only seat next to you was empty. It wasn’t so bad, you tried convincing yourself as other students started to fill up the seats in front of you. Maybe you'd even forget about how hungry you were if you engrossed yourself in "one of the most riveting fields of mathematics", as advertised by your freshman year math teacher. Just one hour. You could hold back your hunger for one hour.
"Attendance..." Wellston murmured, looking around the room without much attention. It was reasonable to assume was here as usual, except for one kid who'd been absent since the first week. "Morales" — you didn't know his first name, not like you had the chance to learn it.
Scribbling down whatever activity there was, a part of you was glad this kid wasn't here today. It was one less person to hear the result of your unfortunate choice to not have breakfast this morning. You'd never spoken to the kid, but everyone knew why he wasn’t here. The renowed "hero", PC Davis had passed away — his dad. It was all over the news: "PDNY OFFICER DIES SAVING A CHILD", around mid-freshman year. You couldn't guess what was going on with the kid almost 2 whole semesters into sophomore year, but you couldn’t exactly think too hard when your pen had barely touched the page, and your other hand was clawing into the side of your shirt.
You were sure your stomach was going to growl, and loud. And your teacher was looking at you. Pretty much every muscle in your face was straining. You probably looked insane, which you’d actually rather be right now. The worst he would make was a bad joke, but the sheer panic that rose in your chest when Mr. Wellston started to walk towards you made your heels dig into the ground, ready to bolt out the class. You were exhausted, anxious, praying to anything you could think of that your teacher would just turn around and stop looking at you and—
Creak... Everyone's eyes, including Mr. Wellston's, turned to the door. You could make out someone with a black jacket — teacher? They wouldn’t let you wear jackets inside. Not important. Water.
"Nice seeing you here, Morales," Wellston said, his expression as unamused as he could attempt. The pushover was feeling confident today.
You drank so much water that it got stuck in your throat for a moment, making you scrunch up your face. "I'd take off that jacket if I were you,” Wellston continued.
The boy obliged with an incoherent mumble, stepping into the classroom and slipping off his jacket. His eyes landed on the seat right next to you. Even if he wasn't looking at you, something about his gaze made you look away immediately. Great. 53 minutes until lunch. Why did he have to show up today? Why did you wake up late and skip breakfast? A part of you was telling you it’d be better to not blame it on this guy either — maybe it was your gut. Ha-ha. Maybe you were insane.
Screeech! The slap of a notebook next to you snapped you out of your mini-spiral. You were now all the more aware of the boy next to you. His attendance was so low that it competed with your will to live, so you couldn’t help but look. His hair was in two braids slipping just past his collar, but that’s all you dared to notice. They were kind of cool, you admitted to yourself. The muttering was quickly shut down by a grating "Focus!" from Wellston, and you tried to get back to your work.
Calculus, calculus... When was the last time you’d gotten a question right? All you could do was keep uselessly pressing the fraction button on your calculator, watching the empty boxes stack up. It felt like he was staring at you. Math, come on, you know math. What was the probability he was looking at you? What if he was just glancing at you? What was his eye colour? Black or dark brown, probably. You could check — if he was staring, of course. Not his eye colour. That'd be weird.
That tight feeling built up in your stomach like the foreshock of an earthquake. You pictured yourself slamming your head into the desk, far too vividly to be normal — like an insane person. No need to traumatise the “new” kid on his first day back.
"Alright class, considering we have a full house now," You stopped yourself from imagining Wellston’s head slammed into a desk. "I suggest you all try to solve this problem. It's the hardest question that's ever come up on Calc BC, and you're getting secret access to it."
Yeah, like you cared. This man did not have a lesson plan, as usual. Now you had to fight the urge to look at the kind of cool kid next to you, fight your hunger like a famished Victorian child and fight the stupid calculations forming a jumbled mess in your brain. You were fighting a lot of things, and losing miserably. Just looking at the question made your brain hurt, and you could see it in the rest of your class too. All Calc BC nerds who were just now realising their mistake in taking this class with this particular teacher, probably. Visions was a scam.
"Does anyone have an answer?" It hadn't even been two minutes; it was like the man just wanted to feel smarter than everyone else. Something about him today was even more annoying than the pitiful jokes he usually came up with ― just because a "new" kid came in? Maybe this was to make up for the first day of class where he totally embarrassed himself mumbling all lesson, the bell ringing overtop of him.
The awkward silence and the slight cocky curl to the corner of Mr. Wellston's mouth made you question why they hired someone who was fresh out of college to teach you the classes that were supposed to get you into college. Your frustration only grew when you were going in circles with your attempt.
"No? Guys, you that you have a midterm soon." Helpful.
"This is more simple than you think." Explain it, then?
"Nobody? Really? Okay, you really should start paying attention, the―"
"Six." You almost forgot about the kid next to you until he spoke up. He put down his pen, giving Wellston an expectant look while the whole class was silent.
"…Six what?"
"Litres per hour."
The man quickly shuffled to his computer. Of course he didn't know the answer either.
"Six litres per hour," Wellston confirmed. No other kid had a chance to retort. Wellston seemed surprised for once. A part of you was surprised too at how simple the answer sounded when it came out of the "new" kid's mouth. You noticed that the boy didn't even have a calculator.
"Well, it looks like you all have something to learn from Morales here," he continued, something almost like contempt in his words. "Do you want to explain how you got that?"
The boy went about explaining it pretty simply, almost like he was reading off of a script. It was concise, different to what you'd learnt. Something about chain rule, which you truthfully had no idea how to actually use because someone didn't bother to go through it properly. Even if you were still somewhat unsure, it sounded easy enough.
"Interesting method..." Wellston murmured, trailing off for a moment. "Well, that settles it then. Do you guys understand how we got six?"
We? This guy... Aside from the fact that he was looking at you a little too much for comfort (probably because you were still clutching your stomach like you’d been shot) you had another reason to be annoyed by this teacher and his stupid hair. Everyone just returned his question with silent nods and mumbles, people taking opportunities to actually look at the calc-wiz.
You took a chance too, looking over at his seemingly unbothered face. You were almost right about the brown eyes. They were more coppery than anything, maybe even a little green. If he was staring before, you couldn't tell, his gaze trailing his desk with disinterest. Why did his eye colour even matter?
Forty minutes of class to go. You felt like you could eat your calculator at this point. The mystery kid didn't seem to need one anyway, and you weren’t getting much use out of it.
BRIIIIIIIIIING!
"The bell doesn't―" The screeching of chairs cut him off.
Like that would work this far into the semester. The Morales kid was already gone by the time you'd stood up. Letting out a drawn-out sigh, you debated between your tiredness and hunger. Would you try to fight to the death to get to the front of the lunch queue? All you wanted was food, maybe a nap afterwards, definitely no more calculus.
That couldn't happen, of course. For some reason, you were the only one left in class. You heard your name, wincing a little as you stopped in your journey out of the door.
"I just want to speak for a moment, spare me a few minutes?" You figured this was coming. It looked like he wanted to speak to you about something all class; his expressions weren’t exactly mysterious like that new kid. You wanted nothing more than to strangle him with his ugly patterned tie as you walked over to him.
Mr. Wellston leaned on his desk by his elbows, lowering his voice as if he was about to tell you something serious.
"You're not doing very well in this class." Okay… not that serious. "It’s the longer questions, I think. FRQs.”
Your grogginess made it impossible to focus on Wellston’s rant, but what you did pick up on was his weird accent. You guessed he wasn’t from Brooklyn, but the way he was talking right now let you pick up on the strange intonation in his voice you otherwise wouldn’t care to notice. Almost European-sounding. First that kid's eye colour and now your teacher's accent... what was it with you and random details today?
"So..." he continued, looking up at you with his head still low. "I'm going to start an extra class after school. I want you to come to it." Okay, this is worse. You couldn't have lunch, and now you couldn't even have after school.
"When is it?" It better not be some unreasonable time.
"Well, I've only got Friday afternoon free. You know how it is, meetings..." If he was trying to be apologetic, or convincing, he was failing at both. "I'll call you in later to discuss it further."
You just nodded, the grip on your backpack tightening. "Okay."
"It's important that you come!”
His voice was drowned out by the flood of students in the hall as you shut the door, turning on your heel to head to the cafeteria. The line was probably impossibly long by now. You couldn't care less about that extra Friday class. Forget college. You'd be a bum, or work at a WcDonalds. You'd probably make more money than Mr. Wellston there anyway. Forget Visions.
Forget that Morales kid who was standing outside the door all that time while you were too frustrated to notice.
You slumped down onto an empty table as you tried to rid your mind of him.
The probability that he'd show up to class with his cool braids and coppery-green eyes again was too low for you to care anyway.
"Soy Miles. Miles Morales."
Calc-wiz, or Miles as you just found out, was also in your Spanish class, and was also sitting directly behind you. It seemed like he was coming into more classes than he had been all semester — good for him?
"Morales… ¿Eres hispano, Miles?" (Are you Hispanic, Miles?) Miles simply nodded while Mrs Hernández flicked through the worksheets, licking her finger to set them down on individual desks. Spanish was one of the classes you actually liked. Apart from your classmates, Mrs Hernández was funny, and a good teacher, even if she was a little strict.
She paused for a moment to look at Miles again, eyebrow raised. "¿Guatemala?"
"Puerto Rico." The woman's raised eyebrow fell along with the rest of her expression, eyes narrowing in disappointment. She was always talking about where she was from, Guatemala. You found it kind of endearing, though you weren't sure if she'd get any teaching done if there was another kid from there.
"All these years y nadie de Guatemala..." (and nobody from Guatemala...) She simply frowned, cracking her knuckles while making her way back to the front. Most of the people taking AP Spanish were Hispanic, just trying to get extra credits, but it seemed like Mrs. Hernández was out of luck when it came to finding her natural favourite. "Vale clase, quiero que miren este articulo sobre―" (Okay class, I want you to look at this article about―)
All that class you felt like Miles was staring at the back of your head, of course. If he wasn't uncomfortably silent, he was conversing with Mrs Hernández, and she came over more than once to talk to him behind you. As much as you wanted to overhear, they were talking too quietly and quickly — and in Spanish. What they were talking about wasn't your business — most likely about his absence. You had also no idea what this article was talking about. It was something about art, but most of the words you were reading were unfamiliar as your highlighter hovered uselessly over the paper.
It had almost been a week since Miles first came in. You constantly saw him get pulled out of class or talking to teachers — except in AP Calc; it seemed like he was doing just fine there. He could speak Spanish fine too, but was behind on everything else. Other than teachers, he never really talked to anyone. You occasionally saw him with his earbuds on in the hallways, but more often his jacket was what got him chased down by teachers; the kid didn’t really seem to care. Good for him. He was probably more ahead of you anyway given the way your studies were going.
“Oye, look a little alive!” You noticed Mrs Hernandéz standing over you, and that your highlighter bleeding through the paper from pressing too long. A half-hearted “lo siento” (sorry) is all you could offer. “Extraño (strange) — What's different today, chicos? Is it because you’ve got a new friend here?” She crossed her arms, eyeing everyone with her brows knitted together.
The atmosphere around Miles was strange. Not only was he known for being missing since freshman year, but also for his late father. It wasn’t a secret, as much as he didn’t talk about it. Everyone could tell from the way teachers whispered to him and how he disappeared to the counsellor’s office that he wasn’t treated like any other student here. In fact, he didn’t even live in the dorms according to what you’d heard. He was quiet, but the rumours were undeniably loud. You tried not to involve yourself — you hadn’t even spoken to him yourself, anyway.
“He’s not the only Puerto Rican. You gonna forget about us, Señora?” The voice made you hold back a sigh. When Rafael started speaking there was no stopping him. You figured it was time; no matter how far he was moved from his friends, he always found a way to talk to them from the other side of the classroom. He was also right next to you. You had a few reasons to want to drop this class, and each of them were all going “yeah” in agreement to what Rafael had to say.
“I think you’ve forgotten that you have an article in front of you, Rafa.” You couldn’t help but crack a smile at your teacher’s words, and nickname. To your dismay, Rafael noticed you immediately.
“You makin’ fun of me, bro?” He turned his head to stare at you.
“Rafael,” Hernandéz warned.
“Nah, Señora, you don’t get it, I should be sitting over there.”
She wasn’t amused by the way he was gesturing to his friends. “I’ll kick you out.”
“Come on man…” He just threw up his hands and sunk into his far too tiny chair. You prayed he wouldn't start rocking on it and make that god-awful creaking sound. Mrs. Hernández simply turned to ignore him and continue with class.
“Why’s he special anyway?” Rafael mumbled to himself. “Famous cause of his dad?”
Tension – it was so thick you could cut it. The only thing that was cutting through it, apart from your Spanish teacher’s rant, was Miles’ gaze. You could feel it burning right through you. It seemed like Rafael, the moron, for some twisted reason, wanted Miles to hear that.
If you had anything to say at all, it was too late to give Rafael a piece of your mind. Considering how quickly he'd shut you down, it would be useless to stick up for some kid you barely knew. Nobody else heard Rafael anyway; it'd just pit everyone against you. Still, a part of you felt bad. Even though you didn’t really know Miles, he was in a lot of your classes. You’d gotten used to his presence over the past week: moving out of the way so he could get to his seat, occasionally picking up each other’s fallen pens, giving unshared glances to see how the other was doing on the work.
He seemed nice enough despite the lack of words you'd exchanged, but when you turned a little to fix your chair, the expression you caught was anything but. It was almost scary, if you could make out anything from his darkened features. There was a strange sense of focus in his eyes, like he was calculating something – deliberating. You didn't try to guess what, keeping silent and trying to listen to Mrs. Hernández talk about the article while ignoring the deadly gaze simmering behind you.
If you were stronger, scarier, more influential, maybe you’d punch one through Rafael right now. Just looking at him was irritating, and it's not like you hadn't thought of it before. Maybe you wouldn’t have to, though, because it seemed like Miles was thinking the exact same thing. As much as you wanted to learn Spanish and not have a fight happen right next to you, it’d be nice if he was able to teach Rafael to shut up instead of the material he didn't seem to care about.
Miles didn’t look particularly strong — he was kind of scary-looking right now, but that didn’t mean he could take on a 6ft tall football player, no matter how pissed off said football player made him. You couldn't tell what he was thinking, but Miles stayed put for the rest of class; it felt like a sniper was right behind you.
The all-too-familiar creak of the chair made you automatically grit your teeth.
“Oy, mi pana, you got gum?” Rafael murmured to you in his worst friendly voice. It was 10 minutes till the end of class, and he was asking now? You still had no idea what pana meant since he moved next to you, but the way he said it always made you feel icky regardless.
You quickly shook your head, getting a sigh out of him. You hoped he’d give up, but he just leaned over to whisper to you. “What do you think of that dude, huh?
“What?”
“Strange, yeah?”
“He’s okay.” Your defence was quiet, but it was the most you could do as you heard Miles scribbling right behind you.
“He’s drawing, dude.”
You looked at him almost incredulously. Rafael just rolled his eyes.
“Why do you care?” Your voice came out louder than you wanted.
“¡Silencio!” You gave Mrs. Fernandez, another one of your muffled “lo siento”s, shrinking into your seat as her eyes locked onto you. Snickering from Rafael’s friends only fuelled the embarrassment surging through your cheeks. Miles shuffled in his seat behind you, followed by the sound of paper being crumpled up. You wanted to crumple up the smug expression plastered on Rafael's face right now.
Class ended with another stack of homework in your backpack, and you were more than happy to leave. Free period — you could get a start on the homework. Or talk to Wellston about that extra class. The thought made you wince, but you didn’t exactly have a choice. You had to see him by the end of the day.
“Ay, Milo!” You turned to see Rafael and his little group approaching Miles’ desk. “What’s good?”
“Nothing.” He kept his voice low, pushing his chair under the desk. The boys just laughed as he got up, a grating mix of malice and mirth.
“Right, right. Puerto Rican, eh?” It sounded like Rafael was just talking for the sake of talking. You were also standing for the sake of standing too, of course.
Miles let out a mumble as a confirmation of sorts. Heading for the door, he was blocked by Rafael.
“Ay, where you goin’? Let’s talk, huh? Got a free period?” You could see Miles’ eyes narrow, a flash of impatience in his demeanour before he let out a breath. Rafael was trying to get a kick out of this. A kick out of some kid with a dead dad.
“Someone’s waiting for me.”
“Huh? What’d you say? You got friends?” The start of more laughs were already forming around Miles.
You didn’t know what came over you. Maybe it was the regret of not saying anything earlier, or the strange intrigue you’d felt since a week ago. Peeking your head through the door, you took a step back into the classroom. “Miles, c’mon.”
The gnawing feeling only intensified as you felt four sets of eyes on you at the same time. You’d rather it be hunger than the anxiety coursing through you at that moment.
“Comin',” he murmured, shoving past the three boys towards the door.
The two of you left the classroom, hearing a faint “what the hell man?” as the door fell shut. Miles lingered behind you as you approached the next turn in the hallway.
“What’s your name?” He’d already stepped in front of you.
No thanks or anything? Well, he didn't really owe you anything. It was "the right thing to do", like the many anti-bullying posters around the school encouraged you to do. God damn Visions.
“You uh… know my name.”
“Wanna hear it from you.” His voice had a little twinge of an accent that you hadn’t noticed before. You tried not to think too hard on it. Too many details for too little of an interaction.
“You’ve gotta introduce yourself first — pretty sure that’s how it works,” you tried to joke, something like embarrassment replacing the lingering anxiety in your stomach.
“I did — in class.” Miles’ face was unreadable, but there was something like amusement in his voice.
“Not to me specifically, though.”
The two of you stood in the hallway as people ushered past you. A freshman almost hit you running past, making the two of you retreat to stand beside some lockers. Damn freshmen. You were a freshman only last year, but shoving past them in the cafeteria wasn’t exactly fun. Miles seemed unbothered, as he usually did.
“You seriously don’t know my name?” you continued, almost frowning a little.
“Let’s say I don’t.” He leaned back against the cold blue metal of the lockers, tilting his head at you. The tiny mannerism only made your embarrassment grow. “What’s your name, pana?”
“…I still don’t know what that means.” The frustrated sigh you let out made the corner of his mouth curl up.
“And I still don’t know your name, pana.” No wonder you didn’t bother to talk to anyone. It seemed like you never had the upper hand, first with Rafael and now with Miles. Truthfully, though, you knew which you’d rather talk to.
“Sounds like a food,” you continued, shrugging.
“Could be,” he pretended to muse. And to think you thought he was nice. You hadn’t decided to be annoyed yet, though.
“You know my name, Miles.” You must’ve looked funny the way you crossed your arms and furrowed your eyebrows, because that got an entertained breath out of him.
“Who’s Miles? Haven’t introduced myself yet.” His smirk wrote guilty all over his face.
“Milo, then?” It was a bit harsh, but his cockiness made you say it without much thought. The apology was written on your face already, and you unfolded your arms, deciding you couldn’t have Mrs. Hernandéz’s sass today.
“You wanna be called pana forever?” He slipped an earbud into one of his ears, the blue light flickering into life. At least you didn’t tick him off.
“Not like I care,” you murmured, trying to take a step away.
“Seems like you do.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” you asked, trying to keep your tone in check as you glanced down the hallway.
“Do you?” You felt like you were talking into a mirror, one that reflected back a person that got all the more mysterious and annoying when you did.
“Yeah, actually.” Mr. Wellston’s class. The thought made your eyes narrow, probably in exhaustion, most likely in irritation. “Need to speak to a teacher.”
His brow raised in mild interest. “You in trouble?”
“I wish. It’s about some extra class I have to take.”
“Calc?” You turned to look at him again, and his expression was more knowing than curious now.
“How’d you guess…?” It sounded more like a statement, your tone more disappointed than surprised. Were you really that bad at Calculus? Maybe you did need this class, especially if calc-wiz thought so.
“…You have lunch today?” he thought to ask instead. For a moment, you were confused, until you remembered calc last week.
“Shut up.” Your cheeks burned, hand balling up the fabric of your uniform. God. Damn it. All.
“Aight, sorry.”
More silence. You should’ve blamed the growling on him.
“Why the class though? You failing?”
“I’m not failing… Just need some help, I guess” Your shrug wasn’t very reassuring.
“Anyone else goin’?” The longer he kept inquiring, the more you figured Mr. Wellston’s attitude was building up.
“No clue. Bet everyone else is gonna join, though. He’ll probably tell everyone anyway.” The people in your class were quiet, but desperate to out-do each other. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, but the fact that everyone else was trying so hard.
“He didn’t ask me.” The corner of his mouth dimpled into his cheek in thought.
“You’re good at calc anyway.”
“Haven’t been here a while, so I gotta catch up, right? Lemme come with.”
You tried to think of what to say as your hand found the back of your neck, but he was already walking past you. Miles looked back at you to see if you were following.
If he had somewhere to be, it didn’t seem to matter. You noted the slight rhythm to his step, wondering what he was listening to, and if his eyes were green or brown. Ripping away your gaze from him before you could chase that thought, you tried to dodge all the freshmen running around as the bell went for next period.
You had more questions than answers so far — both in your backpack to do this period and in your mind. Aside from Miles, you wondered what that extra class would be like, and what Wellston would say. A part of you hoped that Miles would be in that class with you, despite your less than favourable introduction. Maybe you’d figure out why the answer was six litres an hour. Maybe you could be friends.
What was the probability of that? Some questions couldn’t be solved with a calculator. But Miles didn’t need one, after all.
thank you for reading. im so tired of looking at this but its okay part 1 !!! hooray !!! next chapter is miles pov .... need more Substances in my Bloodstream before i post that though LMAO
reblogs appreciated!!!! go back to the series masterlist here or to my atsv masterlist here :)
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After years of seeing "I'm very disappointed" on report cards, and hearing "Thank God your dad can just buy your way into college" from classmates, Stephanie Lauter had accepted that she was not smart.
It wasn't that she didn't like to learn -- when she was young, she loved school. Her favorite class of science. She loved learning about the world around her, and how it worked.
Miss Tessburger would pick her up after school in her dad's black Porsche, and Steph would immediately start explaining the things she had picked up from class that day.
"Did you know that insects make up half the world's known species?" She'd recite.
And each time, she'd be met with something along of the lines of, "Stephanie, your father is very busy today, so don't bother him with this nonsense."
She thought it was the fact itself. Maybe Miss Tessburger just didn't like insects! Steph knew her father was a very busy man, and so it made sense that she shouldn't bother him unless the fact was really worth it. So she'd try history facts. She'd tell Miss Tessburger about weather phenomena. She'd explain mathematical equations which, although not groundbreaking for an adult, were quite impressive for a child of eight years old. Each time, she watched for the hint that this time, it was worth telling her dad. And each time, she recieved the same, disinterested responses.
So, eventually, she came to the conclusion that the things she was learning in school where not important. Her father was very successful, and he didn't want to hear the things she was learning, so who was to say she needed to know them?
And so she stopped telling Miss Tessburger facts on the way home from school. She stopped reading for fun. She stopped paying attention in class.
That was when her grades started getting worse, but the school didn't notify her father unless she failed a class, and he couldn't be bothered to check each time Steph brought home a report card.
In a way, it was easier to slack off. She didn't have to consider the complex concepts she used to seek out. Pretty soon, she forgot the rush of exhilaration she used to get from learning. Pretty soon, it was like she had never cared in the first place.
So no, Stephanie Lauter was not smart.
And yet, when Peter Spankoffski tutored her, he treated her like she was Albert Fucking Einstein.
"So, the domain of f(x) cannot be zero." She worked out, scribbling on her loose leaf. She looked up at Pete, expecting him to correct her. Instead, he broke into a goody grin.
"You got it Steph! Composite functions have nothing on you." He looked over her work with admiration. "I'm not sure you even need me anymore. You know all this stuff."
Steph smirked. "Maybe, but I think I'll keep you around."
She turned back to her paper, but could clearly see Pete turning bright red out of the corner of her eye.
"Ah, see, I do need you. Because I have no idea what the hell this one is asking me to do." She pointed to an equation.
Pete leaned over, and read the equation out loud. "Find the inverse of f(x) = (x/2) + 7. Oh, this one's easy." He said, grabbing a pencil and starting to write.
"Easy for you to say." Steph mumbled. "You're in the hardest math class this shit-hole offers."
Pete looked up at her. "Not true! I'm in AP Calculus, and they offer Linear Algebra." He sighed, noting Steph's unamused expression. "Look, I only said that cause I know you know this."
"I don't though!" She groaned in exasperation.
"Yes you do! How do you find the inverse of a function?"
"I don't know!" She exclaimed.
"Steph, look at me." Reluctantly, Steph obliged.
Pete took her hand, and looked into her eyes with his own deep brown ones. She softened.
"Take a breath. You know how to do this, I promise. How do you find the inverse of a function?"
Steph took a breath and closed her eyes. "You- you switch x and y, then solve for x."
Pete's smile was the only confirmation she needed. "I told you that you don't need me." He said softly as she got to work solving the equation.
Steph considered it. "Either way, can you stay?"
And the doe eyes strike again. "Of course, Steph." He paused. "I'll always stay."
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Her Voice–Steve Harrington
Steve woke up to someone reciting different mathematical formulas. He looked around, completely and utterly confused. He continued to listen to the voice as they memorized those formulas that seemed a little familiar to Steve.
He got ready for the day, the voice not stopping. Whoever it was whose voice he was hearing, was clearly nervous about a calculus test she had today. Steve wished he could say something to help calm her down. As he drove to school, he listened to her go through her study guide.
It was clear to Steve that she was going to pass the test. He couldn't help but smile as he listened to her continue to mumble her formulas. Once he got to school, he ignored his friends and focused on listening to her voice.
"Hey."
Steve jumped when the locker next to his was kicked. He looked over to see Carol and Tommy smirking at him.
"What's wrong with you?"
"Us?" Carol giggled. "What about you?"
"You were just having an intense staring contest with your locker," Tommy scoffed.
"I was just. . ." Steve said, clearing his throat. "I started. . ."
"Let me guess," Carol said in a sing-songy voice, "you started hearing Her Voice."
"Ohhhhhhhh," Tommy laughed. "Can she hear your voice yet?"
"I don't know," Steve shrugged as he shoved things into his locker. He lowered his voice as he added, "I haven't tried yet."
Tommy just scoffed as he hit Steve's shoulder and walked away. Carol was about to follow him but stopped.
"Hey," she said, the tone of her voice changing. "I know this is all scary and overwhelming, but it's not meant to be bad. Once you start hearing their voice, it's up to you if you want to reach out. And once you do, you won't regret it."
"You sound like you come from experience."
He meant it as a joke but he stopped laughing when he saw the look on her face. "You've reached out to yours?" Steve asked. He glanced over at Tommy before looking back at Carol. "And it isn't Tommy?"
"Before you give me the protective-best-friend act," she sighed, "relax. It's not like I've done anything or cheated on Tommy."
"I believe you," Steve shrugged. To be honest, he didn't really care about Carol's and Tommy's relationship. It's always been more. . . sexual than anything else.
"Besides, sometimes it's nice having someone to talk to about real things," Carol added before finally leaving to go catch up with Tommy. Steve thought about what she said as he slowly closed his locker. He leaned against it and debated. He took a shaky breath as he decided to just go for it.
Good luck on your test, he thought.
He was walking to class, his heart practically in his throat. It officially made the jump when he heard a small chuckle.
Thanks, her voice came through softly.
* * * * *
Steve froze when he heard his soulmate's voice again. This time, it sounded different. It sounded nearby. He looked around, searching for the source of the voice in his head. He stopped, his heart jumping into his throat when his eyes finally landed on her.
He recognized her as Y/N. She and Steve have grown up together. Not as friends. Not even really as acquaintances. They've been in several classes together every year growing up. He knew of her, but he didn't really know her.
Could she be the one? Is nerdy Y/N really his soulmate?
Right as she looked up, he quickly tucked into the nearest hallway. He held his breath, not sure where to go or what to do.
There was no way she was going to accept him. Y/N has never gotten a B on anything. Steve is barely passing his classes.
Why would Hawkins High's smartest student want anything to do with the basketball jockey known for his three-throws and hair?
And what was he supposed to do? Walk over to her, interrupt her studying for one of her AP classes, and ask if she wanted to go out with a C-average student?
He ran his fingers through his hair as he rounded the corner. His stomach bungee jumped into his stomach when he ran into someone. The chord broke when Steve looked up and saw Y/N staring at him.
"Hi," he stuttered.
"Sorry," she stuttered, looking down at the textbooks in her arms. Steve felt weird when he saw how tightly she was holding her books. "I wasn't looking where I was going. I'm sorry, Steve."
"It wasn't your fault," he said quickly. "I was the moron who bolted around the corner. I know we don't really know each other, but are you alright?"
Y/N looked up at Steve "the Hair" Harrington, unable to hide her surprise.
"I'm fine," she said slowly. She tightened her hold on her books, unable to maintain eye contact with Steve. He wasn't offended by it. He thought it was adorable.
He opened his mouth to say something, but Y/N spoke up first. "I should probably. . . The bell is going to ring."
Steve stuttered as she walked past him. He needed to get her to stay. She was his soulmate.
"I heard you," Steve blurted. He held his breath as Y/N slowly turned around.
"What?"
"I heard you studying this morning," he said, the little bit of confidence he had now up in flames.
"This morning?" She stuttered. "Steve, what are you talking about?"
"I can hear your voice in my head, Y/N."
"No," she said under her breath. "Really? Because that means. . ."
"This morning you were reciting formulas," he explained. "You spent the entire way to school studying your notes and spouting off the formulas you clearly already had memorized."
"If you can hear me in your head. . . That means. . ."
Steve stepped a little closer to her, not wanting to throw himself at her. He slowly reached down and grabbed one of her hands. He gave her every chance to pull away. His chest tightened when she didn't move away from him.
"We're soulmates?" She asked, her voice under her breath as she looked up at him.
"It would seem so," Steve chuckled.
The two stared at each other, neither one of them really sure what to say. Y/N looked down and studied their intertwined hands. Her face burned, unable to stop herself from noticing how well their hands fit together.
"Now what?" She asked under her breath. "I know as soulmates we need to start thinking about what's next for us, but it seems kinda. . . Too soon."
"Then how about a date?"
Y/N looked up at Steve, completely shocked to see him smiling at her.
"Are you sure?" She stuttered.
"Of course," he shrugged, pulling her closer. "Instead of thinking about what's next and our future, let's focus on tonight. Dinner, just you and me so we can get to know each other better."
His stomach lurched when he saw the look on her face. "Is something wrong?" He asked.
"It's just. . ." She looked down at their hands, suddenly embarrassed. Steve reached over and used his other hand to lift her chin.
"Talk to me," he whispered. "Please, soulmate?"
Y/N blushed at the nickname. She took a shaky breath as she slowly gathered her courage. She didn't want to embarrass herself in front of her soulmate.
"Promise you won't laugh?"
"Of course not," Steve said quickly as he let go of her chin. "You can tell me anything. Do you not want to go out with me? Is it something Tommy said? Or Carol? Did Carol say something to you, Y/N?"
"No," she stuttered, surprised by his sudden anger toward his friends. "It's just. . . It's a school night. I don't want to be out late."
Y/N held her breath as she waited for Steve to laugh in her face. Instead, he smiled as he pulled her closer. He wrapped his arms around Y/N's waist and smirked when he felt her book pressed between them.
"Good point," he said without an ounce of judgment. "How about Friday night?"
"I could do Friday night," Y/N shrugged. She bit her bottom lip, hesitating. When she found the courage she added, "We don't have to wait until then."
"What did you have in mind?"
"Lunch tomorrow?" She offered.
"I'll meet you out here."
Y/N's stomach dropped. She was about to pull away but couldn't move. "Because you don't want to be seen with me," she mumbled, studying her shoes.
"No!" Steve said quickly. He grabbed her chin again, making her look up at him. "Y/N, I'm not embarrassed to be seen with you."
"Then why do you want to have lunch in the quad and not inside with everyone else?"
"Because I wanted to be able to focus on learning everything about you without being interrupted by stupid people," Steve said, dropping his voice and slowly letting go of her face. "Let me make something perfectly clear to you. I'm not embarrassed that you're my soulmate, Y/N. I'm embarrassed that I'm your soulmate."
"Wait, what? You're embarrassed for me?" Y/N asked under her breath.
"Because you're the smartest girl in school," Steve chuckled, "and your soulmate is a basketball star that is barely passing his classes."
"I could help you study," she shrugged. Steve pulled her in closer, tightening his arms around her waist. He smiled as she slowly snaked her arm that wasn't holding her book around his neck.
"You'd really be willing to do that?"
"Of course," she smiled. "Sometimes it's easier to. . ."
Steve cut her off by gently kissing her. She sucked in a breath, surprised by his sudden burst of confidence. It took her a second but she eventually started kissing him back.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, breaking the kiss. "I told myself we would take this slow. Whatever lace you want. The last thing I want to do is push you or force you. . ."
It was Y/N's turn to cut him off. She stood on her toes and pressed her lips to his. Steve instantly kissed her back, tightening his arms around her as their lips moved in sync. They broke apart, both of them out of breath.
"So lunch tomorrow?" Y/N asked, her voice soft. Steve smiled as he reached up and tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear.
"I promise," he said sweetly, "I won't be late."
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