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scorchieart · 2 years

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Straight Eights - Chapter 1

Straight Eights - Chapter 1 | AO3

The Princess and the Guard Dog

Rating: T (for implied violence and blood)

Characters: Emma/Belle, Leon Dompteur, Rio Ortiz

Word Count: ~4.9k

[couldn't breach the 5k (∩︵∩)]

Summary: When scholarship winner Emma walked through the doors of her elite high school, she wanted nothing more than to blend in with the crowd and draw as little attention to herself until graduation. But that plan flies out the window when she ends up slapping a boy in the face before the first bell! Being the talk of the school makes her a huge target for these preppy rich kids, especially when it comes her bizarre classmates and unconventional teachers, so she has to play some cards from her old life and learn some new tricks to keep her identity a secret while still maintaining her grades and keep her place in school.

A/N: Part of the Different Universe Same, Love Content Creation Challenge hosted by @xxsycamore and @queengiuliettafirstlady

Thank you both for setting this up, it pushed me to finally start writing this fic!

Prompts: Academia AU, Modern AU, and a smidge of Role Reversal AU

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When I was a little girl, I slapped a kid so hard in the playground for kicking sand in a group of toddlers’ faces that he ended up with periodic nosebleeds for weeks. Since then people called me Princess Noble Beast, after our district’s mascot, fair and swift in her judgment. I wore that title like a badge of honor, walking through the halls of my primary school like royalty, my hands held high as divine sentencers. Children opened their arms wide accepting me into their friend groups and adults praised me for my poise and commitment to the rules. I stood at the top of the food chain and no one dared cross my path.

But as I stand here, palm stinging and staring up at the dozens of eyes trained on me, a teenage boy cradling his cheek at my feet, I feel less like a princess delivering justice and more like a criminal caught red-handed in the act.

I shakily lower my right hand and slide it into the pocket of my blazer, only to remember I hadn’t yet bothered to remove the thread binding them shut. Is this common for custom-made clothes? Women’s pockets were already small enough, why add on to the struggle with this extra barrier? I manage to snake my thumb and forefinger in between some loose stitching as a tall figure with black hair approaches from within the crowd.

“That’s one way to make an introduction,” he says to me before kneeling in front of the collapsed boy. “A little over-excited for the first day back, yeah?”

“Looking for a fight?” the boy starts, raising his head. But as soon as his eyes meet the other’s he stiffens, face turning beet red.

“No one’s looking for any trouble, friend,” the dark haired figure says, offering his hand. The boy timidly accepts and is pulled to his feet, one hand still on his cheek and his eyes trained on his shoes. “Why don’t you swing by Mr. J’s class before homeroom, get that cheek looked at.”

The boy nods quickly then disappears into the sea of students. Faces from all directions are still pointed at us as an arm extends to me this time. “That was a mighty blow. You hurt?”

His eyes are the color of the buttons that adorn our matching uniforms, golden and resplendent, but that is where our similarities end. He stands a full foot taller than me with broad shoulders and hair that looks almost too untamed to be accidental. The collar of his dress shirt sticks out at an awkward angle from underneath his blazer, hinting that it either wasn’t ironed properly or folded neatly before he put it on. And even though he stands a respectable distance away from me unlike the last boy, I still catch the faint whiff of perspiration and see beads of sweat dripping down his brow, most likely a result of when we all stampeded through the main doors just moments prior.

He beckons lightly and I take it he is offering to check over my reddening hand. I slide the fingers out of the pocket and fold my hand over my other arm, cradling two books tight to my chest as nonchalantly as I can. “I’m fine,” I say, preparing to spin on my heels hoping I can dissolve into the crowd like the other boy.

“Hey, is that the new Heartwringer?”

He’s pointing at the outer of my books, a pink hardcover dotted with dozens of embossed reflective hearts and squiggles.

“Uh, you read Heartwringer?” I ask.

“No, but I know someone who does. Says it’s got its merits, but every time I open one up I can’t get past the first chapter.”

I’m not sure what surprises me more, the fact that this guy tried reading a mushy young adult romance series or that someone actually recommended it to him.

“You’re not exactly the target audience,” I offer, hoping I sound as inoffensive as possible with the flock of ears still surrounding us. Honestly, don’t these people have someplace to be?

“Hey, if they didn’t want me reading it the publisher would have plastered ‘No jocks allowed!’ on the cover,” he says, and some snickers emerge from the audience. He brushes his swoopy bangs out of his face, and for some reason that irritates me.

“As long as they can make a quick buck, ads will convince you there’s twenty-one things wrong with your hair and only their product can fix it,” I say.

“Wait, you mean that gel I bought off that shady website was just a scam?” He says, vigorously running his hands through his hair in an exaggerated manner. The result is his head looking even more like a rat’s nest and the crowd erupting in laughter.

“Better get your money back, dude!” someone calls.

“Yeah, rip ‘em a new one like you did to Jade in the semifinals!” another whoops.

The tension that filled the air only moments ago slackens so abruptly that I have to lean against the wall to keep my knees from melting into jelly. It was so quick and uncomplicated with no threat of violence or fear. He mollified the crowd like it was as simple as combing his hair. The satisfied students disperse soon after, several offering the boy fist bumps and high-fives along the way, and it was as though time was allowed to flow again.

��And that’s why you should never accept opinions from strangers,” the boy says, shooting finger guns at a group of giggling girls as they passed.

“Thanks for the public safety announcement,” I say, pushing myself off the wall towards the front entrance as more students stagger in.

“Hang on, you don’t wanna head back out there. Trust me,” he says.

“What was that about not trusting people you don’t know?” I say.

“Touché,” he says, “but for real, you’re better off staying put. At least for the next five minutes or so.”

“I’m waiting for my friend.” I push past him, but he swipes the two books out of my arms and holds them out of reach. “Return those, please.”

“After the first bell rings. Promise.”

My hand twitches in the familiar way when I prepare to deliver a slap, but I can’t tell if the smile he wears is conniving or genuine, so I’ll hold off on judgment until his appointed five minutes are up. He barely registers my gracious consideration nor his narrow escape from justice as he opens up the novel.

“Someone’s been up late,” he says, flipping to the last third of the book where my bookmark lay. “Didn’t this just release the other day?”

“It’s been out for almost a month now.”

“Seriously? I coulda sworn it blew up on Twitter only yesterday,” he says. So he can’t stand reading the books themselves, but he keeps up with the discussion on social media?

“That’s because the Second Prince's review only dropped yesterday,” I say.

Rhodolite isn’t actually a monarchy. We’re the smallest of a cluster of independent districts each ruled by a governor. We each specialize in our own fields of labor and mainly deal with each other only in trade. Though we aren’t hostile towards one another, the neighboring districts aren’t exactly friendly either. We primarily keep to ourselves and only consider crossing borders for nominal purposes, like business or travel or inter-district conferencing. The Second Prince was the first to transcend these borders for entirely personal reasons, and wound up the Saving Grace and Gossip Girl of the bibliophile world in the process.

There was a time before I was born when the ever-increasing work hours and diminishing leisure time of our modern age withered Rhodolite’s printing industry to near extinction. Coupled with the fact that technology was quickly dominating the written word, our district wasn’t holding up so great. We specialize in arts and the humanities; physical media is our bread and butter. We are the leading supplier of printed works throughout the districts, from paper to paintings to sculptures, and having one of our largest industries struggle took a big hit to our economy and national pride.

Then just when a bunch of big name publishers seemed ready to shut their doors for good, thousands of orders flooded all the bookstores across the district in the span of one hour. No one knew anything about the source of those orders other than that they were all placed under the name of the Second Prince, paid in cash, and picked up by masked gentlemen the next day. Bookstore owners publicly shared the details of the orders out of curiosity, and it quickly became clear that this Second Prince could be no common citizen. The majority of the books ordered were first editions or hardcovers or generally the priciest versions on the market. Some titles were even ordered multiple times from different locations. One enthusiast compiled all this data and calculated the prince’s total bill to be in the ballpark of half a million dollars.

Naturally, news of this incident spread like wildfire, and people across districts began concocting theories as to the identity of this mysterious Second Prince. Some believed he was a wealthy shareholder who held a lot of stake in the publishing industry. Others said he was one of those big time influencers or corporate heirs with tons of cash to throw around on a big prank. Some even claimed that the Second Prince was actually a coalition of booklovers taking their last stand against the dying industry.

Whatever the intention, the stunt got results. People all over swarmed Rhodolite’s bookstores demanding titles the Second Prince ordered with fervor, and it wasn’t long before mile-long backlogs and waitlists became the norm for all releases. The influx in popularity drove publishers manic and book printing ramped up nearly tenfold over the next decade. We still feel the effects of the prince’s efforts to this day. Books regularly fly off store shelves to the point that many chains were forced to open locations in other districts to meet demand. Reporters claim recreational reading beat out sports for the number one leisurely activity in our district for the tenth year running. Newsprint flourished as the people’s main source for updates as fans wrote in with any info they had on the prince, or as was becoming more common, claiming they were him.

But it didn’t stop there. Just when everyone thought the reading fad was close to ending its course, five years ago book reviews started popping up on a tiny internet blog. These weren’t your typical “Five stars! Would recommend” remarks but full-length literary analyses, complete with scholarly theses and bibliographical citations. Every single book released in the past decade received two, one spoiler-free version and one dissecting the plot and themes to their core, often brutally so, and never totaled less than twenty pages. What shocked readers more than the length though was the signature at the end of each review: From the desk of the Second Prince.

Again the enthusiasts had a field day with this new discovery, sprouting fresh theories as to whether this was the same Second Prince from the book drought twenty years ago or just another poser trying to ride the coattails of his fame like in the papers. Would his revival signal a second boom in Rhodolite’s economy? Did it spell another economic decline in the near future? Those who remembered Rhodolite’s last recession went into a panic, the scars of wounded pride still fresh in their minds, and rushed to their nearest bookstores stockpiling copies the moment a new review circulated no matter what the prince said about them. Meanwhile, the rest of us too young to remember or weren’t around for his first appearance adopted a more relaxed approach and take the reviews as they are; literary critiques. I have a feeling it’s what this “second” Second Prince intended for them anyhow.

As an elected royal myself, I could respect the prince’s dedication to his craft, even if it was exhibited anonymously. I’d spend hours up at night scrolling through his blog, filtering through my favorite genres, on the hunt for my next read. Dedicated fans noticed he typically posts in the late evening, and come morning his verdict is law. To get a glowing review from the Second Prince basically equates to your book’s success, bookstores calling in the printing companies for extra orders by the hundreds. However, fail to impress him even once and your entire career is flushed down the drain into oblivion. It’s a risky business being a blooming writer Rhodolite, but a gauntlet many young authors stepped up to accept, and one I intend to take on someday, too.

“And here I thought you understood my lesson on not trusting people on the internet,” the dark haired boy says, waving me off as he flips to the inside cover. “Whoa, you got a first edition?”

“Yes, and I’d appreciate it if you would handle it with care,” I say, tapping my foot.

“Aye aye, captain.” He closes it extra softly and digs a hand into his stitch-free blazer pocket. “For real though, you gotta let me know how that book goes, I dunno if I can make it to the end in time before it gets memed to death on social media.” He pulls out a slick smartphone encased in a deep maroon cover with a golden lion, and sticks it up to me. I’ve seen this gesture before. On TV when characters want to exchange contact information, they simply touch the backs of their phones together and the data automatically transfers. It’s a feature that was introduced a few years back and all the latest releases nowadays come equipped with it, though I’ve never personally tried it before and freeze on the spot.

He seems to notice my hesitation and retracts the phone. “Sorry, bet that was weird, swapping numbers with a guy you just met. Practice what you preach, am I right?” He smooths down some of his hair strands then opens the second book I was holding; a blank composition notebook. He subtly plucks a pen from the breast pocket of a passerby student, jots something on the first page, then returns both books to me with a smirk. “If you’re ever up to fangirl over some fictional relationships, just give me a ring.”

I flip the notebook open to find he’s scribbled his number and a short note underneath.

I can’t help the snort that comes out. “I’ll consider it.”

Leon D.

The jock with the cool hair

“Anytime. Oh, and if you ever run into trouble again, it’s cool to give me a call, too, uh… sorry, what should I call you?”

Before I can open my mouth, I hear my name called like it’s a rocket barreling towards us.

“Princess Emma!”

Hordes of students clap their hands over their ears as Rio yells in his default high volume, but to me it’s as though a nostalgic hymn serenades down these halls.

Rio’s been my best friend for the past three years. He moved to my neighborhood in the middle of the school year, so the kids mostly ignored him when he first showed up. That stopped the moment he beat an eighth grader in a wrestling match during the annual sports festival, and the rest of his friends ganged up on him behind the parking lot after school. A classmate tipped me off to this as we were walking home, and I turned around on the spot. By the time I arrived, Rio had been beaten half to death, his blood sparkling against the patched concrete and his limbs twisted in unnatural angles like fallen tree branches. It only took a raised hand and a verbal warning from Princess Noble Beast before the gang scattered, and I managed to haul Rio’s mangled body back to school where a teacher discovered us and called an ambulance.

I’m not too certain about the details following that; I wasn’t allowed to ride with him to the hospital. I was told by the adults I’d done a good job and should just head home. But ever since the day Rio dragged himself back into class on crutches we’ve been inseparable. Or more accurately, I haven’t been able to shake him off my tail. He’d sit next to me during the classes we’d shared and follow me around in the hallways with a huge smile plastered across his face insisting I teach him the technique I used to scare off the eighth graders. I had grown well accustomed to admirers flanking me for my coveted slap by that point, but no matter how many times I explained it was merely a Princess’s duty to protect her people he’d refuse to leave my side. It didn’t take long for the student body to come up with another one of their famous nicknames, and soon enough Rio was anointed the Princess’s Pet Puppy.

It turned out that I’d tire of this nickname more than Rio. Between tailing me everywhere I went, partnering with me for all in-class assignments, and clinging to me as I walked home after school, Rio quickly monopolized all my time. I figured if I showed him indifference he’d eventually lose interest, but that only made him double-down on his efforts to make me interact with him. It all came to a head the day my female friends disinvited me from a slumber party because they didn’t want to risk a boy showing up, and after school when I saw Rio skipping towards me and waving with his big goofy grin I snapped.

“Why won’t you just leave me alone!” I shouted at him midway through crossing the street.

He stopped in his tracks and stared with a gaze so empty it reminded me of when I found him beaten behind school. “You don’t like having me around?” he said, voice cracking.

“No, I don’t! All my friends don’t like me anymore because of you, so just go back to where you came from!”

Middle school is a time defined by mistakes and regrets, and I still consider that to be the most horrible thing that’s ever come out of my mouth. My only solace is that I was cut off from saying any more over the sound of the car horn blaring in my direction.

I should have been hit, it would be fitting retribution for the vulgarity I spewed, a suitable end to the pure-of-heart princess who strayed from her path at the height of her reign. But instead of a steel bumper, the sun assaulted my vision as I laid face up on the opposite curb completely unharmed, Rio bawling apologies over my toppled body.

It’s a funny thing, when two people save each other from certain doom. You develop a sort of bond that’s not quite like friends, or family, or even lovers. It’s more like an unspoken vow, like we can look at each other and know exactly what the other person’s thinking and feeling.

I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s ok, you didn’t mean it. I shouldn’t have intruded so much on you. We cool? Yeah, we’re cool.

I could never truly understand what it was or even put a name to it, though I suspect Rio felt the same way.

Things sort of went back to normal, if you can call it that. Rio still stuck by my side, but I never told him off again. Maybe it was out of pity for the transfer boy with no friends, maybe I still felt guilty for what I said on the street, or maybe some perverse side of me actually enjoyed having a constant shadow watching my back at all times. Whatever the reason, I sort of took him under my wing and taught him the way things worked in our school; what students to avoid, how to best sneak into class when you’re late, which lunch ladies dished out the biggest servings… that sort of stuff. Maybe he was just super excited that I started responding to his presence again because he held onto every tidbit I fed him like it was the gospel, and soon enough he mastered the inner workings of our school as though he lived there his entire life.

I’ve got your back and you’ve got mine.

And so the days went on with the Princess and her now Guard Dog patrolling our tiny neighborhood with an iron fist and adamant authority. Rio quickly proved his victory in the wrestling match wasn’t a fluke as he could take on any opponent one-on-one no matter the size, and he built up a reputation of his own as a harbinger of justice.

We shared our ambitions, mine of becoming a successful author and him to backpack around the world, and soon enough I was looking forward to seeing him and his dopey grin everyday. Life was turning out well as the years went on and it seemed that our little tag-team was set to last, at least until this June when my acceptance letter to Rhodolite Academy arrived.

Ever supportive, Rio was even more ecstatic at my admission than I was, railing on about how I was the most qualified person on the planet for the scholarship to anyone who would listen till their ears fell off. That unspoken feeling we shared was enough for me to tell it was all a cover though; Rhodolite Private Academy only offers two scholarships a year to incoming high school freshmen, one boy and one girl, and I’d seen Rio crumble in tears by his mailbox from my bedroom window the same morning my acceptance letter arrived.

I told him going to different schools wouldn’t hamper our friendship, and I’d still be living at home so we could always hang out after school and on the weekends. But Rio was adamant about us sharing our high school experience, and if there was one word I’d use to describe him it would be persistent.

Every morning in July, Rio marched up to the campus at dawn (a full hour on foot each way) with a loudspeaker and perched himself in front of the iron gates demanding to speak with the headmaster. Technically he never stood on school property and presented his case as a minor protesting his right to free speech, so the cops couldn’t legally drive him away without crossing risky territory. I held off telling him that the headmaster probably wouldn’t be at school during Summer Break until the staff finally let him in on the last day of July on the condition that he never bring the loudspeaker again. I remember he nearly bust down my front door at sunset panting and screaming that he got in.

The school couldn’t formally offer a third scholarship on account of some archaic legacy nonsensicality, so Rio’s enrollment was settled under the rug as him taking a part-time job assisting in the main office during his free periods and some weekends. This arrangement ensured money he earned would be put directly towards his tuition and doubled as work experience during his high school career, but I could tell Rio couldn’t care less about the details as long as it meant we could continue studying together.

I have to admit I’d spent much of the summer agonizing over the fact that I’d be moving to a new school alone, far away from my kingdom and people, starting at the bottom of the food chain in a totally new environment full of snooty rich kids who’ve been mastering the trade since birth, but seeing Rio paddle up the stairs and through the main doors with his goofy smile reminded me how lucky I was to have saved the boy with no friends all those years ago.

“I thought you were going to wait for me at the front entrance! We were supposed to take the first step of our high school journeys together!” Rio pants, clutching his knees and catching his breath.

“Sorry, I kinda got swept in the wave,” I say. It was the truth, too. Students trampled the path leading from the gates up to the Entrance Hall with such ferocity you’d think they were trying to escape a mass murderer. I’d done my best to stand my ground at the base of the steps waiting for Rio, but pushing in the opposite direction only proved futile with my arms preoccupied protecting myself and my books, and it wasn’t long until I fell victim to the flow, getting tossed left and right and up like a ragdoll. The boy I slapped earlier shoved me particularly hard into the entryway with his backpack, and the rest, as they say, is history.

“Those ruffians, I’ll never forgive them for stealing this memory from me!” Rio fumes. I figure this is not the best time to bring up the fact that he’s been coming to school everyday without me for the past month for training. Instead, I pat him gently on the shoulder.

“It’s no big deal, Rio, really. We’ve got the next four years to fill with plenty more memories.”

“I know, but first impressions are the foundation to the future. That’s what Bossman said when I spilled coffee on his rug my first day of training, anyway,” Rio says, opening his backpack. “And let me tell you, this first term is not leaving us with much future to look forward to. Look, we only have three classes together!” He flashes two laminated sheets of paper side-by-side in his hands. It isn’t hard to figure out that these are our timetables, and I can tell by the exorbitant use of neon color-coding and comments in the margins that Rio’s already raked through them calculating the maximum amount of time we can spend together each day.

“P.E., Home Ec. and Health. Even with homeroom and lunch we barely scrape four hours. How’s a guard dog supposed to protect his princess when he’s separated from her half the day?” Rio moans.

“I’m sure we’ll manage.” I reach for my timetable, but a hand descends from above and snatches it out of sight. Rio’s arrival brought back my carefree middle school days so vividly that I completely forgot the previous conversation I was having.

“Princess, huh? Does that mean I have to call you ‘Your Highness’ from now on? And this guy’s your guard dog?” Leon asks, scanning my schedule.

“Know your place, knave!” Rio growls. He launches for the paper, but Leon easily raises it out of reach above his head.

“AP Literature and Composition… you’re taking a senior-level course as a freshie?” Leon asks, angling his neck around the hopping Rio to look at me.

“Yeah, I like to read,” I blurt out faster than I intended.

“I got that much, but APs are no joke. You think you can scrape by just because you read a few romance novels? Most kids don’t even think about enrolling in APs until at least third year.”

“If it’s not a challenge, then what’s the point of even paying this crazy tuition?”

“There’s a difference between a challenge and burnout, you know? You seriously wanna walk that line right from the start?”

My throat dries and my hands twitch. Even though I know the hallway is still filled with students and Rio’s so close, it feels as though I’ve been transported to an abandoned tunnel underground with just Leon there questioning me.

“I won’t know until I’ve tried,” I say, willing myself to meet his gaze. “And I’ll need my timetable to get started, Leon.”

At that moment, Rio ceases his jumping and looks at me with the same gaze he wore when he opened his rejection letter back in June. “Did you just say Leon… as in Leon Dompteur?”

Rio’s voice is low and frigid, unlike anything I’ve ever heard from him before, and it pulls me out of my tunnel-trance.

“Uh, is that what the D stands for?” I ask.

“Yeah, bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?” Leon laughs. “You heard of me, pup?”

Somewhere overhead the first bell rings, but the sound is drowned out by screams and splatters filing through the main door. Students scamper up the steps, bobbing and weaving and shielding their eyes, trying to evade the onslaught of what appear to be balloons pelting the entryway, bursts of red exploding on every surface they impact as they rupture. Scarlet ooze drips from the ceiling to the walls to the doors, ambushed students are on their knees gasping for breath, and a putrid odor somewhere in between rotten eggs and sewage fills my nostrils and makes my eyes water. As quickly as the attack began it ceased, leaving behind carnage as gruesome as one straight out of a horror movie.

“Whoops, I gotta take care of this. Promise me you’ll stay out of trouble!” Leon salutes us and dashes off to the swarm of suffering students.

Rio doesn’t answer, he doesn’t even look back. Instead he grabs my forearm and pulls me along with the fleeing crowd, my last sight Leon venturing head held high into the faux bloodbath before we round a corner.

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*looks over shoulder to other wips* yeah I've got time

Tagging: @atelieredux

#ikemen prince #ikepri #different universe same love ccc #ikepri belle #ikepri leon #ikepri rio #scorchie writes #edit: forgot to add cut line again...#edit2: forgot to add chapter title...#emma/belle #leon dompteur #rio ortiz

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