#fulldose.

outcast!boy who is the kind of guy who teachers dread when hearing they’ll be handling him this school year. he’s constantly in trouble, always getting scolded, and a detention regular. 

most people avoid him, besides his usual friend group, and those who do are usually just desperate for a joint, or looking for someone to sneak them into a party.

he slouches in the back of the classroom, boots kicked out, smelling faintly of cigarettes and musky cheap cologne. 

most people keep their distance. but they still stare. because, as much as he’s a trouble-maker, most won’t deny the fact that outcast!boy is hot. messy hair, lazy smirk, smudged eyeliner - even the way he talks, his low drawl, slow way of speaking, as if he’s constantly high or just trying to piss someone off.

mean!queenbee is the exact opposite. 

she’s got everything — popularity, money, body, face. her hair’s perfect, clothes perfects, smile perfect (despite how often it comes off as too sharp - at least to those who have that smile targetted at them). 

girls want to be her, copy her, orbit around her like flies. guys practically line the hallway with hopeful glances whenever she walked past.

her image is perfect - simply put, the word to describe her, or what she appears to be, is perfect.

and just like outcast!boy…the whole school wants her too, only less secretly. most wouldn’t be ashamed to admit wanting to be with her.

she’s beautiful in a way that’s untouchable. dangerous. like a lioness, only with less fur.

to most people, they’re polar opposites.

whenever they cross paths, mean!queenbee looks down on outcast!boy as if he was a sewer rat. and the moment he opens his mouth, she looks seconds away from ripping his head off. their arguments are sharp, loud, full of eye rolls, teasing smirks, and biting insults. words thrown around that’d make most cry.

it’s quite a known fact in school that they hate each other.

but unknown to everyone, whenever the eyes that always watch them so closely look away . . .

they’re out late at night, sharing greasy takeout in outcast!boy’s beat up car, still slightly sweaty from what they just did inside it,

they’re sprawled in his garage couch together, arguing over music, while she’s drowning in his hoody,

they’re pressed close together in an empty, tight closet in school where nobody’s supposed to be,

they’re on her bed, mean!queenbee on his lap as she’s trying to test if the new lipsticks she bought were transfer-proof, while outcast!boy’s dizzy from all the kisses . . .

no, they’re not dating.

but they’re definitely . . . something. 

mean!queenbee insists they stay a secret. her reputation was something she’s perfected over the years. how would people react if they found out she’s . . . she has something going on with a weirdo like outcast!boy? being seen with him — being with him of all people — would shatter the perfect, untouchable illusion she’s curated.

outcast!boy, on the other hand?

he loves it. loves the secrecy, the thrill, the adrenaline pumping in his veins whenever they’re ducking behind doors and empty rooms. loves the way her ears turn red as he shoots her a knowing smirk as she’s trying to cover a hickey he left. loves whispering filth in her hear whenever footsteps pass too close.

“relax,” he’d murmur, “you’re the one who wanted it secret. but still so needy, hm?” he grinned crookedly. 

. . . it drives her insane, but mean!queenbee won’t deny the truth in his words and actions - she can feel the excitement rub on her, too. 

. . . damn, is she hanging around outcast!boy too much that she’s starting to think like him? 

then there’s…you. 

a normal student. a wallflower. 

you happen to sit next to outcast!boy in class (whenever he actually decides to show up, at least). which isn’t often but, when he does, he drops into the seat beside you, leisurely, casually, as if he belongs there, as if he’s always sat there. . . . you can count on your two hands how many times he’s actually attended the class.

and maybe it’s obvious. 

but you kind of like him.

he’s hot. 

he smells good; of smoke and something warm and musky.

and every time he leans over your shared desk, invading your personal space, to ask to borrow a pencil — cause he never brings his own bag to school (even if he did, it’d only be filled with…whatever he deals new students with) — he whispers his request right into your ear.

“thanks, sweetheart.” his husky voice would whisper, or “you’re my favorite seatmate, ya know?” he’d grin teasingly.

and your face would never fail to heat up, flushing your cheeks a darker shade. and outcast!boy notices. he always does.

which brings you to here - the gym.

physical ed. was your last class, and your teacher asked you to return some equipment to the closet. the farthest one, the closet in the corner. 

you didn’t mind. you’d always been obedient. and it’s not like you got much going on - a simple student you were, really. 

so, you grabbed what your teacher wanted you to return as they left, promising to turn off the lights on your way out, too. 

you walk through the quiet gym, reaching the closet, and fail to hear the barely contained noises inside as you push the door open without thinking.

and freeze.

because outcast!boy is there. 

standing right between mean!queenbees legs, where she’s perched on a stack of mats - her perfectly styled hair slightly messy, lipsticks smudged and matching the faint color on outcast!boys lips, and his hands braced on either side of her.

they’re very close. close enough that it’s obvious you just interrupted something.

your brain-short circuits, and everything is quiet. 

for a second, nobody moves - 

before panic kicks in, and you bolt, dropping the equipment your teacher asked you to bring there.

behind you, mean!queenbee shoves outcast!boy away, panic and horror on her usually bitchy, confident face.

“are you kidding me?! fuck!” she hisses. outcast!boy just laughs, loud, completely unbothered as he stumbles back.

“stop laughing!” she snaps, grabbing his already wrinkled collar, “they saw us!” 

he only shrugs, grin widening. “told ya doll, someone was gonna catch us eventually.” 

mean!queenbee groans in frustration and shoves him back, and he could only watch, amused, as she sets on fixing her messy clothes.

“fix it.” outcast!boy’s tilts his head, meeting mean!queenbee’s heated glare. 

“chill, doll. the one who caught us ‘s jus’ a quiet kid, no one’s gonna believe ‘em anyway.”

“fix it,” she repeats, voice ice cold “go talk to them.” 

“doll—” she cut him off, “or i’m not entertaining you for a week.” 

. . . a defeated sigh left outcast!boy then. “sigh, fine . . .”

he hums thoughtfully, running a hand through his messy hair. then his grin sharpens. 

this’ll be interesting, he thought. honestly? he’s kind of curious what’s gonna happen, now that someone knows his and mean!queenbee’s secret.

because outcast!boy knows exactly who you are. the kid he sits next to in some random class he couldn’t give two fucks about. the one who blushes whenever he leans close. the one who lends him pencils and pens and erasers cause he couldn't be bothered to bring his own.

and it just so happens that he remembers that he’ll be sitting next to you tomorrow morning.

© jusfneo

you do not sleep well that night. well, that’s a lie. you barely slept at all, because each time you close your eyes, the image flashes back again.

the gym closet. 

mean!queenbee sitting on a stack of mats. 

outcast!boy standing between her spread legs.

their lips suspiciously swollen, clothes oddly disheveled.

your brain refuses to process it properly. instead it just repeats one very clear thought:  you should not have seen that.

you spend half the night wondering if they’ll hunt you down. the other half wondering if you imagined it.

maybe you hallucinated.

maybe you hit your head during physical ed. yesterday.

maybe - 

yeah. 

none of those are true.

what is true is that mean!queenbee has a reputation for being able to ruin people who piss her off. make them outcasts, bullied, judged, avoided. and that outcast!boy very much has connections to some of the jocks in your campus that owe him some favors.

which means you are absolutely, undeniably, royally fucked if they decide you are.

the next morning, you seriously consider skipping class. fake a fever or something. pretend physical ed. wrecked your body and now everything’s sore.

unfortunately, your sense of responsibility wins. your need to keep your (relatively mediocre but above average) grades wins.

so you drag yourself to campus anyway. 

your eyes burn from lack of sleep. your brain feels foggy. and your stomach twists as you catch sight of the usual crowd mean!queenbee usually mingles in. you keep your head down and speedrun to your class.

maybe if you act normal - 

“well, if it isn’t my favorite seatmate.” your heart nearly launches out of your chest as you stop at the door of your class, not even realizing you’ve reached your destination.

you turn your head. outcast!boy is leaning against the wall leisurely. waiting. he pushes himself upright the moment he sees your face.

his hair is a tad messier than usual, like he barely bothered to fix it. dark eyeliner smudged as always under his eyes, piercings glinting in the sun streaming in from the high windows, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

he looks . . . amused. very amused.

you glance around quickly. no mean!queenbee. no intimidating people. just outcast!boy. 

thank god.

“. . . hi,” you manage weakly. outcast!boy smiles.

he follows you as you head into the classroom. uninvited, looking like you two were best buds.

“ya look like shit,” he comments casually. “. . .” you considered running off then and there, regretting your decision not to skip this day. “. . . i didn’t sleep.” 

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

you slide into your seat, and he drops into the chair beside you - boots stretching out under the desk like always.

you thought he’d be normal then, disregarding the fact that he seemed to be waiting for you earlier - arriving early to school even, as odd as it was (he never arrived early. at most he arrived when it was almost lunch time).

for a moment, you think it’d be a normal day. that he might drop the subject.

instead, as always when he talks to you, he leans closer - right in your ear. 

“still thinkin’ ‘bout yesterday, sweets?” your shoulders stiffen instantly. “i promise i won’t tell anyone.” came your immediately, nearly robotic reply.

he studies your face. then he laughs quietly. “relaxxx. . .” except there wasn’t anything to relax about - you knew the hell that was school society. and mean!queenbee has a vice grip on it.

“chill.” he repeats, seeing your apprehensive frown. you do not feel ‘chill’.

“ya look like you’re about to pass out,” he laughs under his breath. 

“. . .‘cause you two are terrifying.” that actually makes him grin wider. “terrifying?”

“yes.”

“i’m flattered. not too sure about mean!queenbee though.” he mutters the last part quietly.

you don’t respond and stare at your desk. 

“i’m serious.” 

“so am i.”

he taps the desk lightly with his fingers.

“you’re safe.”

you blink. “. . .what?”

“mean!queenbee won’t ruin ya.”

“. . .how do you know that.”

he raised a brow, “ya act like she’s gonna eat ya.”

you only stare at him.

outcast!boy blinks, lips curving once more in mirth. he shrugs lazily once, “i told her not to.”

that does not make you feel better. “you told her?”

“yeah.” 

your voice drops, “. . .what did she say?”

at that, his grin sharpens. “she said she wants t’ talk to ya.” your stomach sinks straight to the floor.  “what? why?”

“probably t’ scare ya.” 

you groan quietly and drop your head to your desk. “shit. . .” he chuckles beside you. “dramatic.” 

“she could ruin my social life!” 

“nah.” 

you slowly lift your head. “. . .nah?” he spins a pencil (that he bought for once) between his fingers. “if she was gonna, she woulda done it yesterday.”

“that does not make me feel better.” 

“it should.” 

you stare at him. “. . .you’re weirdly. . .” you bit your lip, “focused. calm in this.” you murmur.

he tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering how to answer. then, he smirks. “ ‘cause ‘s interestin’.” 

“for who?” 

“f’me.” 

“i caught you two making out.” he smiles, as if reminiscing something. “mm, you did. sad, ‘was enjoyin’ it too. legs pullin’ me close, she tasted like -”

“s–shh!” you feel your face heating up, and outcast!boy simply laughs, earning curious looks from the few students who came early. you briefly consider if he was already high. you do not need to imagine that. you were always the visual learner, after all.

“. . .you’re not worried?” 

“nah.”

“this is kinda a social scandal.” 

“for her.” he grins. “not t’me. secrets are fun.”

you sigh heavily. great. fantastic. 

the bell rings a moment later. 

it’s quiet between you as students flood in. 

for a second, you think that’s it. then, he casually steals your pencil. 

you stare. 

“. . .that’s mine.” 

“yeah.” 

“you had one already.” 

“lost it.” 

he definitely did not lose it. . . .he’s literally still holding it. 

you open your mouth to argue, before giving up.

the teacher finally enters, but you barely hear anything they say. 

your brain keeps drifting. toward the hallway. toward the possibility of running into mean!queenbee later. toward the terrifying idea of whatever ‘talk’ she wants to have with you. toward the very likely chance that she’s gonna threaten you to silence, and you’re gonna be red-tagged ‘till the end of your school days.

next to you, outcast!boy is doodling lazily in the margins of his notebook using your pencil, completely unbothered to the crisis you’re having. 

halfway through the class, he suddenly nudges your arm. you startle slightly, and he smiles. “jumpy, aren’t ya?”

you glance at him, and he slides a folded piece of paper across the desk. “what’s this. . .”

“instructions.” he shrugs, and you frown at his vague response. sighing, once you realize he won’t elaborate, you unfold it.

only a few words were scribbled, in neat handwriting that can’t possibly belong to outcast!boy.

‘room 505. after your classes. don’t chicken out.’ 

you look back at him, and he looks away - leaning back in his chair innocently.

“. . .you’re coming too, right?” he looks back at you. he considers that. then hums noncommittally. “maybe.” your stomach twists again. “that’s not reassuring.” 

he chuckles, “not really meant to be. but relaxx, sweets.” he taps the note once with his finger.

“mean!queenbee doesn’t bite.” a pause. then he adds casually, “. . .hard. unless ya piss her off.”

your eyes widen immediately, and he bursts out laughing at your expression. continuing even with the teacher yelling at him, and the eyes now on you two.

and you are starting to realize something horrible. that this might actually be the beginning of a very long problem. 

© jusfneo 

you spend the entire day in a state of dread. like, actual, stomach-twisting, cold-sweat dread.

okay, maybe you’re being a bit dramatic — but it’s genuinely terrifying, okay? you did NOT want to be a social outcast. outcasted by the popular kids, outcasted by the outcasts themselves.

you don’t hear a single word your teachers say as you drag yourself to each lecture hall. notes half-finished, handwriting growing sloppy as the hours drag on.

by the time your last class ends, your legs feel like they’re made of cement. you sit there for a moment after everyone leaves, staring at your desk.

. . . you could . . . not just go. 

skip it.

pretend you never saw the note. never saw them. never saw the whole gym thing.

your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag. 

yeah.

you could—

“ya still here?” 

you flinch.

outcast!boys voice cuts through your thoughts like it always does - casual, close. 

but instead of the butterflies that usually fill your stomach, it feels like there’s leeches instead - sucking every ounce of blood. an uncomfortable, draining, twisting feeling.

he leans against the doorframe like he’s been waiting there the entire time. probably was. probably came to pick you up and make sure you didn’t chicken out.

“. . . i was thinking,” you mutter weakly. “mm, dangerous.” he grins. 

you don’t smile back like you usually do. “. . .’m not going.” 

a pause.

he pushes himself off the wall. slow. unbothered.

“yeah?” 

“yeah.” you repeat further. “this is . . . it’s stupid. honestly, i swear i’ll shut my mouth and we all pretend it never happened —” you start rambling, feeling more nervous by the second as he’s watching you.

“she ain’t gon’ kill ya.”

“easy for you to say.”

“it is.”

you stare. “you’re not helping . . .”

“not tryin’ to.”

he stops in front of your desk. tilting his head slightly as he looks at you.

it makes your skin itch.

then he leans down. too close. “but you’re still gonna go.”

your breath stutters. “. . .no ‘m not.”

his lips twitch. “mm. sure, sweetheart.” 

silence.

“. . .are you coming?”

he hums like he’s actually considering it. “maybe.”

you groan. 

“you suck.”

“i’ve been told.”

you end up in front of room 505 anyway.

of course you do. obedient little you.

your feet move before your brain can catch up, and suddenly, you’re standing in front of the door like you didn’t just argue against this five minutes ago. 

your hand hovers over the handle.

“took you long enough.”

the door opens. you freeze.

mean!queenbee stands there, cigarette between her fingers, looking like she stepped out of a magazine shoot.

her gaze drags over you. slow.

“hello.”

. . . wow. amazing. how polite, you!

she hums. “you look nervous.”

“. . .i wonder why.” you murmur lowly, lips curling into a nervous, wry smile.

“cute.”

you do not feel cute.

“close the door.”

you wanted to stay put, but you do it anyway.

click.

. . . now you’re trapped. in the middle of the room as she’s seated on a table lazily.

it’s quiet once again. you watch as she drags the cigarette out of her mouth, looking up and blowing the smoke out. 

. . . that’s hot—god damn it, why are you even thinking these things right now?

but you couldn’t deny it. the sultry, bored look on her face. tinted lips wrapped around the flimsy white paper.

you open your mouth to say something—

“you saw us.”

ah. straight to it. 

you nod stiffly. “yeah.”

“how much.”

“. . . enough.” 

her brows lifts slightly. 

“i didn’t tell anyone,” you blurt out quickly, avoiding eye contact. silence. she watched you. long enough that it makes your throat dry, your heart speed up.

“good.”

you exhale. just a bit.

“so i’m not–?” 

“you’re not in trouble.”

relief hits — “hm, but you are involved now.” she adds, drawls — your stomach twists.

there it is. 

“. . . involved?”

a small, fake smile curves mean!queenbee’s lips as she kills the cigarette. crushing it under her shoe (you thought briefly how much of a fire hazard her action was) before she’s stalking towards you.

she steps closer. 

you step back. 

your shoulders hit a desk you don’t remember being there. 

great.

“means you’re part of this now.”

“i don’t wanna be part of anything. how am i even involved if i just saw—”

“mm.” she cuts you off. “unfortunate.”

your pulse spikes. “i didn’t do anything.”

“exactly.”

you frown.

“w. .what?”

“you didn’t do anything.” she repeats. “saw something you shouldn’t have and stayed quiet.” 

“now here you are,” she steps closer. your chests nearly pressing against each other. 

she tilts her head, studying you like you’re something mildly interesting she found on the ground. not important — but not boring enough to throw away either.

your breath catches.

she’s close. too close. close enough that you can smell her perfume under the smoke — something sweet, something sharp. close enough that if you leaned forward even a little—

you don’t.

you grip the edge of the desk behind you instead.

“you’re shaking.”

“i’m not—”

“you are.”

her lips curl. not a nice smile. not even a fake one this time. something amused. something mean.

“relax,” she murmurs, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip. “if i wanted to ruin you, i would’ve already.”

. . . great. that does not help.

at all.

“so what,” you swallow. “what does ‘involved’ even mean?”

she hums, like she’s deciding how honest she feels like being.

“means,” she starts, reaching out—

your entire body tenses when her fingers brush your chin.

she tilts your face up. forces you to look at her.

“hm. . .you become. . .our pet.”

your heart drops. then it starts pounding so loud you’re pretty sure she can hear it.

“what?”

“you keep your mouth shut,” she continues softly, eyes locked on yours. “you listen when i say something. do what i want. get shit i want. in short, a dog.”

a pause. 

“be my pet,” her thumb presses—just slightly—against your lower lip.

“do well and maybe i keep you around.”

your brain short-circuits.

“k—keep me around?”

“mm.”

your face is red then. embarrassment, anger, and just a tiny bit of. . .you snap out of it.

she looks. . .entertained.

that’s the worst part.

like this is fun for her.

like you’re fun for her.

“why?” you manage, voice smaller than you’d like.

her gaze flickers over your face again. slow. deliberate.

calculating.

then—

“you’re cute.”

you choke.

“i—t-that’s not—that’s not a reason—”

“do i need one?”

she lets go of your face like it’s nothing. like she didn’t just completely derail your ability to function.

you suck in a breath.

“...a dog? what…—” you cut yourself off then. no use arguing.

“you’re—you’re insane.”

“i’ve been told.”

. . .that sounds familiar.

your stomach drops a little.

“so what, i just— what? follow you around now?”

she laughs softly. and god, that’s worse than the cold indifference. there’s something sharp in it. something that says she knows exactly how much this is messing with you. 

“don’t flatter yourself. can’t have a mutt around me 24/7”

rude.

“you go about your life,” she says. “same as always.”

a beat.

“just pay attention and be a little more careful.”

“careful of what?”

her eyes meet yours again.

“me.”

silence.

thick. heavy.

you don’t like how that sends a shiver down your spine.

you don’t like how it doesn’t feel entirely like fear.

“and him?” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

her brow lifts slightly.

“him?” she blinks. before her smiles returns, although somewhat sharper, somewhat meaner. “what about him?”

“is he—part of this too?”

something shifts in her expression.

subtle. but there.

“don’t worry about him,” she says, a little too easily.

. . .that is not reassuring.

at all.

you open your mouth again—

the door clicks open behind you.

“man, you two done yet or what—”

outcast!boy’s voice cuts in, casual as ever as he steps inside like he owns the place.

his gaze flicks between you — pinned against a desk, clearly frazzled — and her — standing way too close, looking way too pleased.

a slow grin spreads across his face. a low whistle as he eyes you two.

“aww,” he drawls. “already gettin’ along?”

your face burns.

“shut up—”

“she’s tolerable,” mean!queenbee cuts in before you can finish, tone airy.

tolerable??

he snorts. “high praise.”

“don’t get used to it.”

“wouldn’t dream of it.”

they look at each other for a second—

and something passes between them.

something you definitely don’t understand.

something that makes your stomach twist all over again.

“. . .right,” you mutter, pushing yourself off the desk. “great. love that. whatever this is.”

you gesture vaguely between them.

neither of them explain.

of course they don’t.

mean!queenbee just smiles.

outcast!boy just watches you like this is the most entertaining thing he’s seen all day. probably is.

you hate it here.

“you’re free to go,” she says finally, waving a hand dismissively as she turns away, hopping back onto the table like she’s already bored of you.

like you didn’t just get your entire life rearranged in five minutes.

you hesitate.

“. . .that’s it?”

she glances at you over her shoulder.

“for now.”

your stomach drops again.

of course.

of course there’s a ‘for now.’

you make your way to the door, trying very hard to ignore the way outcast!boy walks over to her. ignore the movement in peripheral vision as the two get close, too close—the quiet rustle of fabric, the drop in her voice, the chuckle leaving him—

then you’re rushing out. before you witness something you shouldn’t be seeing again, as you hear soft murmurs inside.

© jusfneo