The Mighty Ducks x Reader
My Fulton Reed Masterlist
My Mighty Ducks Masterlist
(A bit out of character, for Fulton, but you know),
There he was. Again. He locked eyes with you. Again. His expression. Unreadable.
You didnât know what to thing of Fulton Reed. You couldnât decide whether you wanted to punch him in the face, or kiss him until your lips were sore. He offered you that blank expression every time you saw it. Heâd been staring at you for the past twenty-three minutes, and you either wanted him to cut it out, or say something to you.
You tried focusing your attention back onto the board, of third-period Physics, but you couldnât help but occasionally glimpse at the boy in the corner, his feet on the desk, eyes not leaving the back of your head.
Thoughts began to run a marathon. Was your hair greasy? Was there something on your face? Was there mascara under your eyes? You didnât know. But one thing that you did know, was that he had been doing this, every lesson, for two months straight. Never writing anything that was going on, but had pretty decent grades. (As far as you knew, anyways).
You turned your head fully on the board, determined to remove the ice-hockey player, from your: âReed-Cloudedâ brain. And to your: âluckâ, (note the sarcasm), your teacher had just begun his everlasting-drone, of a speech - about density, mass, and volume.
Suddenly, you felt a gentle, but forceful, hit - to the back of your head. You turned, to see that it was a piece of crumbled-up paper, which had been transformed into a tight-hall. Ironically, you looked directly at Reed, but his expression did not change. He just blinked, eyes narrowing - just slightly.
You looked at the scrunched-up paper, (now in your hands), and you began to unravel it. There was nothing on the inside. Just. A blank sheet, of white. You shook your head, morphing it back, into its previous state - before throwing it back to the boy at the back.
You could have sworn that you saw a small smirk on his lips for a split second, but you couldnât swear by it - because as quick as it had came, it had already left.
He let the paper hit his forehead, only going to grab it, when it had made itself a home, on his empty-desk. Eyes, although, still not leaving your own.
He had slow reaction times for a hockey player, you had thought - to: yourself.
He threw it back, and you caught it with the hand that wasnât, *attempting* to take notes. Revision, and exams, could wait for you. You threw it back, mouthing a quick: âquack quackâ to him, before turning back to the front, to focus on the remained of this lesson. You didnât give yourself time to see his reaction to your silent remark, however - anticipating, that he had even *had*, one!
The bell announced your departure from the subject, hurriedly retrieving your equipment from the desk, and restricting yourself from relocating eyes with: him. The boy, at the back of the room.
You placed your belongings in your locker, knowing that you would only need yourself, your presence, and your attendance, for the next class - only bothering to carry with you an empty bag, as a solution, to not get questioned, by people, (whether teachers or students), monitoring the hallways, of this hell-hole. Although the past two months, no one had even attempted to say a word to you, at all. No one even dared breathe in your direction, for some unknown reason, to yourself - of course.
It was obviously a consequence, of crossing paths, with Fulton Reed. But you didnât know that...
You made your way to poetry-class, the majority of your peers already sitting in their unassigned seats, (as a result of the teacher allowing free-roam, of her classroom).
Our teacher promised us all an A+ grade, for simply showing your face, in her lessons. The school district, was going to cut off the poetry classes, if no more people took it. So she bribed her previous students, from when the subject was mandatory a few years back, and bribed us all for sitting there, and doing nothing - for two hours.
You were planning on, going and sitting with your friend, whom of which, was sat at the opposite end of the Shakespearean-themed: âwannabeâ - arena.
That was when you made eye-contact with him. Again. Reed sat, slouched in a chair - his (also), empty bag, lazily strewn across the back-rest behind him, and arms: crossed, almost: protectively, around his torso.
As you were about to walk past, Fulton kicked the chair in front of you; out, so your ability to get past, was no-more. You looked at him again. He nodded his head slightly, in the indirect: direction, of the discarded chair, that he had just ungracefully blocked your path, with. You didnât want to give in to him. You just wanted to walk around him. Ignore him. But for some reason: you obeyed.
You fucking obliged, to Fulton Reed.
You rested your back beside you, on the chair leg, and perched in the seat. You too, slouching in your (very much) *uncomfortable*, seat.
You could feel his eyes bearing into your soul, let alone the back of your head. After about seven, or eight minutes, of the periodâs: commence, you head a slight commotion behind you. You didnât turn to look, knowing full well who the culprit was. He was dragging his chair, across the floor, and by the sounds of it - closer to you, too.
You could almost feel, his breath - on the back of your neck, and he loudly exhaled, through his nose. Youâre eyes were fixated in front of you, and you were unable to move - as if: you were frozen. As if: mobility, was, no more.
His arms slowly made their way around your arms, and slightly over your shoulders - hands loosely intertwining together, over your torso. Then you felt his chin on your right shoulder, head slightly nuzzling into your neck.
As you began to melt, from your frozen state - you felt yourself leaning into his touch - resting your head, on top of his own. As as the minutes slowly ticked by, you felt yourself becoming: more, and more relaxed in his arms. Maybe the period wasnât going to be so bad. Maybe, just maybe, Mr. Tough guy, wasnât so bad; after all.
You almost dozed off, as you and Fulton just eased into each other - not a word spoken. Not before, nor now. The intrusive bell rung once more, and you went to stand up - only to be pulled back into the position, that you really didnât want to leave.
Slowly, you and Fulton stood up - but before you could to anything, to snatched your bag - having it strung over, one of, his: shoulders, and grabbed you, twirling you, into the situation, of which his arm was defensively encircling your shoulder.
He looked down at you, and you looked up at him - as you walked the halls.
âDinner. Five.â He spoke up, for the first time: ever. You stopped for a second, raising your eyebrows, and gathering your words - attempting to not pass up the opportunity, to hand him a snarky, cocky, remark. âIs this your way of asking me out, Reed?â You asked, after a short, (almost unnoticeable), while, of thought. âYes. Iâll pick you up at five.â He nodded, a teensy-weensy: smile, slowly; crept onto his lips, but disappeared quickly - like before. âAnd itâs babe to you, okay doll?â You noticed his courage sky-rocket for a while, as he bit his bottom lip. âSure thing,â you looked him up, and down. âBabe.â He smirked, the both, of: you, continuing walking.
âMighty duck.â You called him, after a moment.
âQuack quack.â He replied, the both, of: you, sharing a quick, assertive; laugh.
