#project x

Jaiden James / Rasharn de Vera Agyemang

Aw10

"Both born in London and graduated from London College of Fashion and Philip Green's Fashion Retail Academy. The design duo's creations were featured in fashion magazines and growing fan base."

Project X Master Post

Project X is a Wild Life/Life Series AU where the Lifers are kidnapped and tested on like lab experiments, and through this testing, they gain superhuman abilities and mutations. As they're continuously tested on, their anger and anxiety grows, and they wait for the perfect opportunity for escape.

✧ Official Playlist

Project X: A Life Series Lab Experiment AU

✧ Official Works

Project X on Ao3 Initial Headcanons (Original post about the AU)

✧ Fan Works

Project X Fan Works

✧ Subject Files

Subject 001: Grian Xelqua Subject 002: Scott Major Subject 003: Pearl Moonshine Subject 004: Martyn Woods Subject 005: Scar Goodtimes Subject 006: Cleo Nekyia Subject 007: Joel Smallishbeans Subject 008: Bdouble “Bdubs” Hundred Subject 009: Ren Diggity Subject 010: Tango Tek Subject 011: Etho Slabs Subject 012: Impulse Vee Subject 013: Skizz Hoffmann Subject 014: Gem Taylor Subject 015: B. “BigB” Statz Subject 016: Mumbo K. Jumbo Subject 017: Lizzie Shade Subject 018: James “Jimmy” Solidarity

✧ Scientist IDs

Xavier Void—Head of Project X “Doc”—Head of Experimentation Xisuma Void—Head of Data Collection Zedaph Shepherd—Data Collection

✧ Extra Characters

The Conspiracy Theorists

✧ Important Information

Cell and Facility Layout Character Heights Character Ages and Occupations

PROJECT X: DUCK EDITION

Y/n Bombay’s birthday her and her two friends, Connie and Julie decided to throw a little party in Y/n words but Connie was not gonna let that little party happen, it was going to be the biggest party of the century, leaving Y/n as the host.

Adam Bank x Reader

The roar of victory from the varsity game had barely faded when spring swept through Eden Hall. The Ducks were legends now, walking the halls like heroes. And in the center of it all was you — Y/N Bombay, daughter of the legendary Gordon Bombay and girlfriend to none other than Adam Banks.

Your birthday landed just a week after the game, and if you had your way, it would’ve been a chill Friday night — a lowkey hangout with the team and a cake from that bakery across town you liked. Twenty people, tops. You even told Connie and Julie that. Told them clearly.

That morning at school, however, you should’ve known something was up. Connie had a look in her eye — the kind of look she had right before she talked Charlie into joyriding Coach Orion’s van that one time.

“Y/N, you have to throw a party,” she said, walking beside you to class, practically vibrating with excitement. “You only turn seventeen once! You’re a Bombay — this has to be legendary!”

“I am throwing a party,” you replied, eyeing her warily. “Like… twenty people. You know, team and close friends?”

Julie nodded. “Yeah, super chill.”

But Connie? Connie just smiled.

Your dad was off in Chicago for the weekend, doing Junior Goodwill coaching and scouting stuff, and had left you the house with strict rules: No parties past midnight, no breaking anything he couldn’t fix, and no letting the Ducks talk you into bad decisions.

…

You all were getting the party ready, when you went outside you seen a bouncy house you looked at it in shock.

“Who the hell brought in a bouncy house?” You pointed at it looking around at your duck friends.

“I got it, it’ll be great Y/n!” Averman chuckled throwing in some inflatables into the pool.

“Averman” you sighed.

Fulton and Dean walked in—sweaty from hauling things, grinning like two kids who’d just gotten away with something. Fulton had two duffel bags slung over his shoulders, and Dean followed behind carrying a heavy ice chest.

Y/N froze. “Uh… what is that?”

Dean kicked the door closed behind him. “Supplies.”

Fulton dropped the bags with a thud and gave a smug shrug. “Party fuel.”

Julie squinted. “What kind of supplies?”

Dean cracked open the chest with a dramatic flair.

Connie gasped with a smile. “Oh my God. Is that… beer? Liquor?”

Fulton looked proud. “Only the good stuff.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped. “Are you insane? My dad’s going to kill all of us if he finds out!”

Dean gave her a crooked smile. “Relax. We’ll keep it lowkey. It’s not like we’re throwing a rave.”

Julie raised an eyebrow. “Dean, you just brought enough alcohol to stock a bar.”

Charlie walked in just in time, took one look at the chest, and laughed. “Whoa, okay. This party just went to a whole new level.”

Y/N ran a hand through her hair. “No way. No. If this gets out of hand—”

Fulton stepped forward. “We’ll keep it under control Y/n. Promise. Look, we figured… if you’re throwing the party of the year, it might as well be the one everyone remembers.”

Y/N hesitated, looking from the ice chest to her eager teammates.

Connie leaned in again, whispering like the devil on her shoulder. “Come on. One night. One wild memory. What’s the worst that could happen?”

At 9 PM, the doorbell rang. Adam was the first to arrive, grinning with that quiet charm of his and holding a bouquet of daisies — your favorite. He kissed your cheek, handed over the flowers, and you finally felt like the night was going to be perfect.

Then at 9:30 PM, the doorbell rang again.

And again.

And again.

By 9:45, your quiet little get-together had turned into something else entirely. Music thumped from all directions. There were at least a hundred people in your house. Your living room was packed, the kitchen was overrun, and there was a slip ’n slide being set up on the lawn.

There was people jumping from your roof into the pool.

You found Connie by the snack table, grinning ear to ear.

“Connie. What. Did. You. Do.”

“I might’ve posted it on the school bulletin board… and texted everyone… and maybe made a ‘Y/N Bombay Birthday Bash’ flyer.”

“Flyer?!” you hissed.

“Look,” she said, tossing a chip in her mouth. “You wanted twenty people. I gave you twenty groups of people.”

Adam sidled up beside you, arm around your shoulder. “This is a mess,” he whispered, but with a laugh. “But it’s kind of epic.”

Just then, Charlie skidded past in socks, yelling, “Someone just brought a karaoke machine! And Goldberg’s trying to DJ!”

Julie passed you a soda. “At least you’re popular?”

By 10:30 PM, there was a conga line in the hallway, Russ was battling Portman in a dance-off, and someone had tied balloons to the family dog. You found a moment of peace on the back porch, Adam sitting next to you, fingers laced through yours.

“You mad?” he asked, nudging you with his shoulder.

You sighed, leaning your head against his. “No. Just… surprised. Dad’s going to freak.”

“Maybe. But it’s your birthday relax and have fun you won’t be a teenager forever…” he kissed the top of your head while you look at him.

“You’re right…” you smiled.

…

The music was thumping so loud the floor practically shook with the bass. Colorful lights flashed in the backyard and through the windows like some kind of rave had taken over your house. Bodies were everywhere—dancing, shouting, laughing. Drunken chaos had fully taken over the Bombay residence.

“WHAT IS HAPPENING?” you yelled over the noise to Connie as she danced beside you in the living room, now cleared out and transformed into a makeshift dance floor.

Connie just grinned, eyes wild with excitement. “It’s called a good time, Bombay!”

You stood there for a second, stunned. The yard was packed. You didn’t recognize half the people. Someone had set up beer pong on your dad’s patio table. Charlie and Adam was crowd surfing in your pool.

This wasn’t just a party.

It was a rave party

Julie ran up to you, breathless. “Okay, there’s a guy trying to light fireworks in the front yard. Dean tackled him but now he’s drinking out of a blender.”

“What?!” you blinked. “Why do we even have a blender outside?!”

“I don’t know! But Goldberg is playing mad tunes”Julie just laughed and disappeared into the crowd.

“Connie!” You turned back to the girl.

“Y/n relax have a great time, it’s your fucking birthday!” She put her hands on your shoulders and shook you as you sighed.

If this was going to be your party, you were going to live it.

You walked over to the kitchen and poured you some shots and took them one by one.

By the time you made it back to the dance floor, you were already feeling it—the warmth in your chest, the haze in your head, the way your body suddenly didn’t care if people were watching.

You laughed, spun around, danced with Julie and Connie, and shouted along to whatever song was playing.

The music shifted—bass pounding, the lights strobing overhead.

“I’m on the pursuit of happiness, and I know…”

Kid Cudi’s voice washed over the crowd like a wave, the kind of song that made your chest ache and your limbs move without thinking. You were already sweaty, flushed, tipsy—but your eyes were locked on one person.

Adam.

Still leaning by the stairs, still watching you like he couldn’t believe this version of you existed. Bold. Wild. Alive.

Without a second thought, you pushed through the sea of dancing bodies, grabbed his hand, and grinned. “Come on!”

He blinked in surprise, but your fingers were already laced through his, tugging him onto the dance floor. “Y/N—wait—”

“No waiting tonight,” you laughed.

The crowd swallowed you both as the chorus hit. You jumped. He followed.

“Tell me what you know about dreams…”

You and Adam were dancing, bodies close, arms bumping, sweat on your skin and that dizzy feeling in your head from both the music and the alcohol. He looked at you with that dazed, breathless smile—the one that made your heart stutter.

And then, somewhere in the middle of the song, in the middle of the madness, your hands slid up into his hair, and his mouth was suddenly on yours.

Soft at first—like maybe he couldn’t believe it was happening.

Then rougher. Messier. Your lips moving hungrily, crashing together like you were both afraid it would stop if you hesitated for even a second.

You were kissing Adam Banks in the middle of the living room, and the party could’ve exploded around you and you wouldn’t have noticed.

His hands settled at your waist, pulling you closer. Your fingers tightened in his shirt. The music pounded through your bodies like a heartbeat.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, laughing—he stared at you like you’d just rewritten everything.

“Wow,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours.

You grinned, breathless and tipsy and high on everything. “Told you no waiting.”

…

You and Adam collapsed onto the couch, lips still tangled, arms wrapped around each other like gravity was holding you there. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as you laughed breathlessly into his mouth.

Your head was spinning—in the best, worst way. The alcohol was hitting hard now, and everything felt like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from.

As you tilted your head back, catching your breath, your eyes scanned the chaos around you—and that’s when you saw them.

In the corner of the room, Guy and Connie were completely wrapped up in each other. Connie was in his lap, her hands tangled in his hair, his arms tight around her waist as they kissed like no one else existed. You raised your brows.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones,” you mumbled against Adam’s lips.

Adam followed your gaze and smirked. “Well, I guess everyone’s just full of surprises tonight.”

But it didn’t stop there.

Near the kitchen doorway, Julie was pinned up against the wall—Julie—kissing Scooter, her longtime rival-turned-secret flirtation. His hand was braced against the wall beside her head, and she was laughing between kisses, wild and unbothered.

You snorted. “Okay, now this is just getting ridiculous.”

Adam chuckled. “Did someone slip love potion in the punch or something?”

You were about to respond—lips brushing his again—when suddenly a bright light flashed in your face.

“WOOOO!” someone yelled.

A boy you didn’t recognize—definitely not a Duck—was crouched in front of you with a camcorder in hand, the old-school kind, blinking red as it recorded.

“Say hi to the memory reel birthday girl!” he laughed, clearly drunk out of his mind.

You blinked, dazed and giggling, as you and Adam both turned your heads toward the camera. You leaned into Adam, one arm thrown around his neck, both of you flushed, sweaty, and way too far gone.

You smiled wide, eyes glassy. Adam held up two fingers in a peace sign.

You hide your face in Adam’s chest biting your lip

The guy whooped and ran off with the camera, shoving it into someone else’s face as he disappeared into the crowd.

You groaned, flopping against Adam’s chest. “That footage better never see the light of day.”

He laughed, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Or it’ll be on the news and Coach Bombay will ground the entire state.”

You laughed with him, warm and happy in a haze of lights, music.

…

The security that Connie hired which were two kids, just informed you that the police were on the way.

“Shit” you pushed yourself off of Adam and told him to get everyone in the back,

The music was still pounding. People were still drinking, laughing, falling over each other in the hallway. You could barely hear yourself think.

You found Connie and Julie and told them that the cops were on the way.

You, Connie, and Julie exchanged panicked glances.

“EVERYONE OUT BACK!” you screamed, waving your arms like a traffic controller.

The room exploded into a frenzy. People scattered—some leaping over furniture, others shoving through the sliding glass door like it was the only way out of a burning building.

Fulton and Dean started directing people to the yard like it was a military drill. “Move, move, go, go, go!”

You barely had time to grab Julie and Connie before straightening your hair, tossing your beer cup into a plant, and yanking open the front door with the most innocent expression you could muster.

Two officers stood there, unimpressed, arms crossed.

“Evening,” one of them said flatly. “We’ve had a few noise complaints.”

You smiled like you weren’t hosting a party. “Sorry, officers! Just a small birthday hangout—got a little loud. We were actually just wrapping it up.”

Connie nodded behind you, all teeth and charm. “Totally under control.”

Julie added, “We were just about to turn the music down.”

The cops didn’t look convinced, but after a few seconds of awkward silence, one of them sighed. “Just keep it down. Last warning.”

“Yes, sir,” the three of you chorused like a choir of angels.

They turned and walked off, and the second the door clicked shut behind them, you all burst into breathless giggles.

“I cannot believe that worked,” Julie whispered.

“Duck magic,” Connie smirked.

You sprinted to the backyard, heart still pounding—and froze.

Everyone was standing silently. Huddled in the dark like scared kids at a summer camp, beer cups in hand, music paused, eyes wide.

You couldn’t help it.

You grabbed an abandoned Solo cup, held it high over your head, and yelled at the top of your lungs:

“TILL THE BREAK OF DAWN!”

The crowd exploded into cheers.

Someone cranked the music back up. Fireworks someone definitely shouldn’t have brought lit up the sky. Goldberg started dancing like his life depended on it. And just like that—the party was back.

You grinned, turning toward the chaos again as Adam reappeared beside you, slipping an arm around your waist.

….

The party never slowed down—it only grew.

At some point, someone swore there were over a hundred people in the house and backyard. You weren’t sure if that was true, but judging by the way your front lawn looked like a music festival, they probably weren’t wrong.

You and Adam danced like no one was watching—except, of course, everyone was watching.

“CHEERS!” you shouted, clinking cups with Guy, Goldberg, and Connie while Julie crowd-surfed across the lawn, carried by a bunch of guys you’d never seen before.

Russ was hyping people up near the pool. Dwayne was doing cartwheels with streamers on his head. Dean and Fulton were trying to DJ off someone’s stolen laptop, while Averman had somehow ended up in a kiddie pool with a snorkel mask yelling, “I’M A SEA KING!”

You seen Charlie making out with some girl, hell even the Varsity was here and Dean and Fulton where sure pushing their buttons.

You couldn’t breathe from all the laughing.

And through it all, Adam never left your side.

He kept you close, his hand always somewhere—your hip, your hand, your back—as if letting go would ruin the moment. You danced together, sweat-slicked and smiling like your faces couldn’t forget how. The song changed a dozen times, but the rhythm between you stayed the same.

At one point, a camera got right up in your face again. You and Adam turned, still laughing, cheeks flushed and eyes glossy from the drinks and the joy and the sheer madness of it all.

You leaned your head on his shoulder and stuck your tongue out at the lens. Adam threw up a peace sign, then kissed your forehead as the camera guy whooped and ran off again.

…

You didn’t remember exactly how you ended up in the middle of the backyard again—but there you were, between Connie and Julie, the three of you stumbling through the crowd like a trio of blackout goddesses.

Julie had her arm draped lazily over your shoulders, sweat glistening on her collarbone, eyes glassy and wild with laughter. Connie clung to your other side, mascara smudged under her eyes, shoes long gone, hair sticking to her face.

You were in the middle—dizzy, high, absolutely soaked in sweat, the world spinning with neon lights and deep bass thumping from the speakers someone had stolen from a club, apparently. Everything felt like it was glowing.

The alcohol had kicked in hard.

You felt invincible. Electric.

…

The bass was still pounding through the walls, rattling the mirror. People screamed, laughed, cheered just outside the bathroom door, but in here—it was like a little island of silence. Sort of.

The lights were too bright. Your mascara was smudged under your eyes, your hair stuck to your forehead, and your face was flushed—sweaty, glassy-eyed, gone.

You leaned against the sink, swaying a little. One hand held your phone, the other gripped the edge of the counter like the ground might fall out beneath you.

You flipped the camera to front-facing.

Hit record.

“Hey, Dad,” you slurred, voice soft, slow, words sticking together. “It’s me. Y/N.”

You sniffed, blinking hard.

“I know I’m not supposed to be doing this. I know this whole thing is… bad. Like, really bad. But I swear I wasn’t trying to ruin anything. I just wanted us all to have fun for once. Just once.”

Your reflection stared back at you—drunk, flushed, ashamed.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I know you’re gonna be mad. Disappointed. Whatever. I’m so… drunk right now, I don’t even know if this is making sense.”

You laughed a little—dry, sad.

“I just wanted to say sorry. For the mess. For dragging your name into it. For not being better.”

Your lip trembled, just for a second.

“But… I love you, okay? And I’m still your daughter. Even if I’m a total screw-up tonight.”

You hesitated.

Then whispered, “Please don’t hate me.”

You hit stop.

Saved it.

But didn’t send it.

You sniffled and went back out to have fun.

…

The air was electric up there.

You, Connie, and Julie stood barefoot on the roof, your sweat-soaked clothes clinging to your skin, your hair sticking to your neck, your bodies glowing under the flashing backyard lights. You were so high and drunk and alive, the night felt infinite.

Below you?

Chaos incarnate.

Hundreds of people flooded your yard, music blasting, people making out in bushes, dancing on cars, jumping into the pool in their clothes. Beer cans littered the lawn. A guy in a flamingo costume crowd-surfed past a line of screaming students. It looked like a riot with better lighting.

And then—you heard it.

The chop-chop-chop of spinning blades.

You turned your head slowly, heart racing, eyes wide and glassy as the helicopter hovered into view above the yard. A blinding spotlight beamed down across the house and yard, lighting up the crowd like a busted ant hill.

Someone screamed, “IT’S THE FEDS!”

Julie gasped. Connie started laughing so hard she almost fell.

You?

You threw your middle fingers up into the sky, grinning wildly.

“MY PARTY IS LEGENDARY!!” you screamed, voice cracking with adrenaline and defiance.

People below looked up and cheered. Phones filmed you from every angle. The crowd was eating it up.

You turned to Connie and Julie, both breathless and shining under the moonlight. You grinned, completely unbothered, like the world was yours.

“I love you guys,” you slurred, giggling.

“Don’t you dare,” Connie warned, laughing nervously.

“Y/N—no,” Julie gasped.

But it was too late.

You stepped back, raised your arms…

And leapt.

You flew off the roof like some half-dressed party superhero—and landed in the giant bouncy house below with a heavy WHUMP, bouncing once, then again, before collapsing in a fit of hysterical laughter.

People went wild.

Julie and Connie shrieked, then jumped after you.

It was reckless. It was stupid.

It was epic.

And for one perfect second before the sirens started wailing in the distance—you felt immortal.

…

It happened so fast.

One minute, someone lit a Roman candle on the roof—probably Averman, because of course—and the next, the fireworks tipped, shot sideways, and slammed straight into the makeshift DJ booth beside the pool.

And then—boom.

Flames.

Screams.

Someone yelled, “THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE!”

Your head snapped up as thick black smoke started pouring out of the windows. Fire licked up the siding, devouring it like paper. You were frozen for a second, mouth open, brain struggling to process it all through the haze of drugs and booze.

Then—

“MOVE! MOVE! GET OUT!”

Sirens howled in the distance. Bright red and blue lights flashed across the smoke.

And then came the smoke bombs.

Pop—pop—pssshhhhhh.

Gas flooded the yard. People screamed, coughed, scattered like roaches in headlights.

You spun in the madness, coughing, eyes stinging, trying to find someone—anyone.

Then—arms around you.

“Y/N!” Adam’s voice, rough and scared, pulling you tight. “C’mon, we gotta go, now!”

Your vision blurred, but you clung to him as chaos exploded around you. People were leaping fences, knocking over trash cans, shoving through hedges. You saw Goldberg run past shirtless, dragging Luis and Russ behind him. Guy was screaming Connie’s name. Dean was carrying Dwayne like a sack of potatoes. Averman was sobbing, “I didn’t mean to! I just thought it would look cool!”

Julie was getting carried by Fulton, and Charlie was already running

The Ducks were everywhere—running like headless chickens, ducking under smoke clouds, gasping for air, calling each other’s names through the madness.

Your house—your dad’s house—was going up in flames behind you.

“My house Averman!” You yelled staring up at it in shock

“Y/n let’s go!” Adam tugged you toward a side gate. You stumbled, tripping over your own feet, lungs on fire.

“Where do we go?” you gasped, voice hoarse.

He didn’t answer.

He just ran.

⸻

The Ice Rink.

It was silent, cold, untouched by the madness. Someone had busted in the side door—probably Fulton—and turned on the lights.

One by one, the Ducks arrived.

Soot-streaked. Eyes wide. Clothes torn. Shoes missing. Everyone coughing, all of you sitting on the bleachers like shattered glass.

Nobody spoke for a long time.

Not until Connie mumbled, “…what the hell did we just do?”

“Something not good” Guy mumbled his hands in his hair.

You sat with your knees to your chest, Adam beside you, his hand still wrapped tightly in yours.

Your dad’s house was probably gone. The FBI literally smoked your party out. And you were all 100% dead when this caught up to you.

But in that moment—chilled to the bone, high still lingering, hearts pounding—you had each other.

And somehow, that was the only thing that made it bearable.

…

The sound of the rink doors slamming open echoed like a gunshot.

You all turned—dazed, exhausted, half-frozen—to see him standing there.

Gordon Bombay.

His eyes scanned every single one of you. No yelling. No cursing. Just that look.

Disappointment.

That was worse than anything.

One by one, you and the Ducks stood up—heads low, silence stretching between you like ice cracking beneath your feet. Nobody said a word.

He finally spoke. His voice was cold.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

You winced.

He looked at Charlie. At Connie. At Goldberg and Julie and Fulton and Adam—who still held your hand.

“You could’ve been arrested. Or worse. Someone could’ve gotten killed. You think this was just a party? This was a disaster. A nightmare. And for what? A few hours of fun? You burned down my house, you trashed your reputations, and you put each other in danger.”

No one dared to meet his eyes.

“Go home. All of you. We’ll deal with this later.”

One by one, the Ducks quietly slipped out. No jokes. No snark. Just quiet goodbyes and shame.

Only you remained.

Gordon turned to you. His jaw clenched. His voice dropped. “Let’s go.”

You walked beside him down the street in silence.

Still in your party clothes—shorts and a glitter-stained tank top, shoes in your hand, mascara streaked down your cheeks. Your legs ached. Your head pounded.

And when you rounded the corner—there it was.

Home.

Or what was left of it.

The front yard was soaked, covered in ash and red Solo cups. The house itself was charred on one side, black smoke stains running up the walls, windows shattered. The front door was wide open, busted off the hinges.

You just stood there.

Your dad did too.

Neither of you said anything for a long time.

Finally, your voice cracked, hoarse from smoke and tears. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

He didn’t look at you.

“I know.”

Another beat of silence.

“I didn’t mean for it to get that bad. I just…” You swallowed hard. “I wanted one night. Just one where we weren’t the Ducks, or students, or perfect. One night to feel alive.”

He closed his eyes, exhaled slowly.

“I get that,” he said. “I really do.”

Then he finally looked at you—tired, worn down, but softer than before.

“But there’s a line, Y/N. And you crossed it. You all did.”

Tears welled up in your eyes.

“I know.”

He put a hand on your shoulder.

“You’re cleaning this up. Brick by brick. And I’m not bailing any of you out of the consequences.”

You nodded.

And even though your world was in ruins, and your home smelled like smoke, and your heart was tangled in guilt—you knew this wasn’t the end.

It was the start of paying for it.

Of rebuilding.

Not just the house.

But yourself.

The school doors creaked open.

You stepped inside, flanked by Connie and Julie, still feeling the weight of the weekend on your shoulders—bruised knees, smudged eyeliner, and barely any sleep.

“Did your dad freak?” Connie asked under her breath, adjusting her hoodie like it could hide the disaster still clinging to her.

“Big time,” you muttered. “Made me stand in front of the burned house like it was some after-school special.”

Julie snorted. “Same. My mom grounded me so hard I think I actually time-traveled.”

All three of you groaned.

“Hey, look at this”Connie smiled trying to pick up the mood.

“The Ducks causing mayhem in Minneapolis last night—someone get these kids a reality show!” Connie read

There they were.

All of them.

Y/N in the middle, tongue out, throwing a peace sign. Julie and Connie striking dramatic model poses. Charlie holding up a drink like a toast. Dean in sunglasses indoors again. Adam and Guy on either side of Y/N, mid-laugh. Fulton doing the Rock On sign. Goldberg flashing double thumbs-up. Averman pretending to faint in the corner. Dwayne with jazz hands. Luis was on the ground posing, Russ was shrugging Ken had on sunglasses holding up the peace sign.

“We look so cool!” Connie exclamied

You smiled at the photo and shook your head.

“Jeez it already has 10k likes!”

You stepped into the main hallway.

And it was like the whole school paused.

Dozens of students froze, turned their heads, and then—it started.

Clapping.

Cheers.

Someone whistled. Someone else started chanting: “Y/N! Y/N! Y/N!”

Then came, “CONNIE! JULIE!”

Phones were out, flashes going off, people grinning, nodding, giving high fives, slapping lockers.

“Yo, that party was insane!”

“Legendary, bro!”

“Birthday girl!”

“Best party of the year!”

You blinked, stunned, as the three of you stood there—exhausted, mildly traumatized, but apparently legends.

Julie leaned in close and whispered with a smirk, “Okay… we might’ve just peaked.”

You couldn’t help it. You smiled. Despite everything—the fire, the grounding, the mess—you owned the hallway.

For once, it wasn’t just about being the coach’s kid. Or the Ducks. Or doing the right thing.

It was about being the girls who threw the most chaotic, unforgettable party in school history.

“Walk slow,” Connie whispered. “Soak this in.”

You spotted him leaning against his locker.

Adam Banks.

Hair still a little tousled, eyes tired, but that lazy, crooked grin on his face when he saw you coming? Yeah, that hit different.

You pushed through the crowd, Connie and Julie drifting behind you, still basking in your walk-of-fame moment. Your feet dragged, your head throbbed, and your body was basically running on caffeine and pure chaos—but you made it to him.

“Hey,” you said, voice scratchy, smile tugging at your lips.

“Hey, party legend,” Adam said, smirking. “How’s it feel to be the most talked about person in school?”

You rolled your eyes, though you were secretly loving it. “Like I’ve been hit by a truck. A flaming truck. With a DJ booth in the back.”

He laughed softly, eyes scanning you—and then flicking toward your neck.

That’s when you remembered.

You reached up, fingertips grazing the side of your throat.

“Okay… be honest.” You squinted at him. “Did you do this?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Do what?”

You tilted your head, pulling the collar of your shirt to the side just enough to show the purplish mark stamped on your skin.

Adam blinked. His grin widened.

“Ohhh… that.”

“So that was you?” you asked, laughing but exhausted. “Because I seriously do not remember.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… maybe? Things got a little fuzzy after body shots.”

You snorted. “A little fuzzy? I almost kissed a houseplant.”

“Well, I definitely kissed you,” he said, softer now. “A few times.”

Your heart did a weird little skip.

The hallway noise faded just a bit. He was looking at you like the rest of the world didn’t exist for a second.

“So,” you said, voice low, teasing, “are you gonna be leaving me mysterious neck souvenirs again, or was that just a Project X special?”

He grinned, leaning just a little closer. “Depends. You throwing another party?”

You rolled your eyes. “God, no. I’m trying to survive this week without getting arrested again.”

“Fair,” he said, then winked. “Still… if you ever want to remember the next time, maybe we do something a little less insane.”

You blinked. Smiled. “Shut up” you grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him softly.

He smiled into the kiss wrapping his arms around your waist.

…

The interview was live.

Like, full-on news truck, cameras rolling, boom mic hanging overhead, live-on-the-scene type of deal. And who did they somehow manage to shove in front of the camera?

Goldberg.

Hair still messed up, wearing sunglasses indoors, shirt half-buttoned, and clearly riding the tail-end of whatever was left of his party high.

The reporter—some poor, overly serious woman in her mid-30s with a press badge and a whole lot of regret—cleared her throat as the camera rolled.

“We’re here with Greg Goldberg, one of the, uh… attendees of the now-infamous teen party known as ‘Project X.’ Greg, what do you have to say about what happened?”

Goldberg leaned into the mic with that crooked grin like he was about to perform stand-up.

“First of all, it was legendary. I mean, like… history-book worthy. Y/N Bombay—queen of chaos, straight up.”

The reporter blinked. “There was an FBI response and property destruction—”

“Yeah, but did you see the drone footage? Someone had sparklers on a unicycle. It was art.”

She tried not to lose her composure. “There were fires. Illegal substances. Paramedics.”

Goldberg smirked, pushing his sunglasses up. “Look, I’m not saying it was safe, I’m saying it was unforgettable. And just between us…” He leaned in, voice dropping. “Project X 2 is definitely happening.”

She looked like she aged five years in five seconds.

“You do realize,” she said flatly, “that encouraging another party like this is… wildly irresponsible?”

“Only if you don’t get invited,” Goldberg shot back with a wink.

She blinked. “Don’t you think it would be more appropriate to apologize?”

He shrugged. “Eh… I mean, I could. But that sounds kinda boring. Also, hey—are you single?”

She blinked. Hard.

“We’re cutting to commercial.”

genre: haikyuu imagine, fluff

pairing: shoyo hinata x fem!reader

summary: in which you and shoyo throw a party.

notes: project x adjacent.

it starts, like all bad ideas do, over fries.

you’re sitting across from shoyo in the corner booth at that dingy little diner by school—the one that smells like syrup and fryer oil no matter the time of day. it’s monday. the kind of monday where everyone’s already clocked out mentally, waiting for the weekend to come back around to do something stupid. you’re poking at your milkshake with a straw, and he’s halfway through a basket of curly fries when he says it:

“what if we threw a party?”

you look up. blink once. twice. “what?”

he leans in, eyes shining with that dumb shoyo sparkle. “like, project x. but our version. here. this weekend. my mom’s flying to fukuoka friday for her sister’s wedding, and she’s not back until monday. that’s two full days.”

you snort. “you’re insane.”

“c’mon,” he grins, flinging a fry at you. “you know it would be legendary.”

“legendary as in jail time?”

“legendary as in… people will acknowledge us. for once.”

and that part gets you a little. just a little. because it’s true, you and shoyo have spent the past three years as the background of someone else’s story. nobodies in the hall. not cool enough to party, not weird enough to avoid. just… there. always there, together.

you shake your head. “no.”

he tries again at school the next day, whispering across the aisle during chem. you flick your pen at him and tell him to go study. two days later, he catches you during your nightly facetime while you’re taking off your makeup.

“but think about it,” he whines. “just imagine the backyard. music blasting. lights everywhere. freshmen idolizing us and seniors praising us.”

“shoyo.”

“you could wear that one dress. the black one you pretend you’re not saving.”

you pause mid-wipe. “you’re annoying.”

he beams. “but i’m right.”

he brings it up again while you’re riding bikes past the river trail. he brings snacks, bribes you with pink starbursts, and nearly crashes into a mailbox when you finally say, “fine. but if we get arrested, i’m telling them you drugged me.”

he yells so loud a dog starts barking from someone’s porch.

…

your “friend group” consists of six people total, and that’s only if you count yachi’s cousin who’s always tagging along. they’re all in when you tell them, but in that way where they’re actually not in at all.

“you guys are going to die via alcohol poisoning or police brutality,” tsukishima says, unimpressed behind his glasses.

“you’re probably gonna burn down the house,” yamaguchi adds helpfully.

“i’d literally rather run drills for two hours than clean up after that,” kageyama grumbles.

yachi looks like she’s about to cry. “what if the cops come? can’t you guys go to jail?”

they all agree it’s a terrible idea. naturally, you and shoyo immediately start planning.

you borrow a fake ID from a sketchy upperclassman who graduated last year and now works at a vape shop. he only agrees after you promise him VIP entry and a whole pizza to himself. shoyo handles the liquor, somehow scoring three kegs, a handle of pink whitney, and a case of twisted teas through a college guy he knows from volleyball camp.

you find speakers from yachi’s older brother, dig christmas lights out of your attic, and spend the night before the party helping shoyo shove his mom’s breakables into a closet and vacuum the couch cushions for the first time since eighth grade.

“are we gonna survive this?” you ask him as you blow up your tenth inflatable pool float for the backyard.

he grins at you from where he’s taping down cords. “nope.”

…

at 9:17 p.m. there’s only one guy in the kitchen who won’t stop talking about his soundcloud.

you and shoyo exchange a look.

but then—

a car pulls up. then two. then eight.

by 10:00, the house is full.

and by 10:30, it’s a fever dream.

…

the party doesn’t start all at once. it builds.

the lights are already low when you walk back in from checking the front lawn: low and hazy and pulsing blue and pink. there’s a strip of LEDs under the kitchen counter casting a violet hue across the tile like a neon spill. someone’s already spilled something sticky and red across the fridge door. the bass starts to throb.

your body picks it up before your ears do.

it’s thick, pounding, alive. the kind of rhythm that sinks into your chest and stays there, like a second heartbeat. heads are thrown back, arms in the air, someone’s got sunglasses on inside. the living room is packed shoulder-to-shoulder, everyone sweating and moving, pressed up against each other like a collective body.

you push your way through it, lights flashing over your face in stuttering jolts. pink. blue. green. then pink again. someone grabs your hand—shoyo, and you spin into him, laughing. he’s flushed, glowing, damp with sweat, and his mouth is moving but you can’t hear him over the beat.

everything smells like weed and sweat and vodka. it smells like teenage bad decisions and febreze. the music shakes the floor. you can feel the bass in your ribs. someone’s pouring jungle juice into a mop bucket. the bathroom door is locked and someone’s making out against the wall outside it. there’s glitter on the ceiling fan. someone just slid down the stairs on a mattress. the backyard has become a jungle—floaties everywhere, kids in the pool fully clothed, tiki torches lit with someone’s lighter.

you wander past the sliding doors and feel the humid air slap your face. the music is louder out here somehow. maybe it’s just inside you now.

someone high-fives you like they know you. another one yells your name. “this party is absolutely fucking insane.” someone offers you a hit of a pink lemonade geek. you shake your head. your drink’s half gone. or maybe this is your second. or third?

you find shoyo on the back deck, surrounded by upperclassmen. someone’s teaching him how to shotgun with a twisted tea. he looks up, sees you, and the second he does, it’s like the rest of the world drops away.

he shoves the can at some random senior, stumbling toward you through the crowd like you’re the only thing he can see. the back of his neck is flushed a deep pink, his hair messy and sticking up, glitter dusted across his cheekbones from god knows where.

he reaches you, breathless, wide-eyed, like he can’t believe you’re actually real.

“there you are,” he says, and you can barely hear him over the bass rattling the deck.

you laugh, half-drunk and warm all over, and he just stares for a second, blinking like he’s trying to commit you to memory. your skin, your hair under the pink and blue lights, your mouth curved in a smile just for him.

he reaches out, hands hesitating for a split second before settling low on your waist, fingers splaying out like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

his touch is hot. through your shirt, it feels like he’s burning right through you.

“you’re so pretty right now,” he murmurs, voice rough and messy with everything he’s feeling.

you laugh a little under your breath, heart thudding painfully hard against your ribs. “you’re so drunk.”

“doesn’t mean it’s not true,” he says, almost stubbornly.

his hands tighten a little on your waist. he’s close enough that you can smell him: sweet alcohol, faint chlorine, something a little sharp like boyish deodorant and sweat. close enough that every time the bass hits, your bodies bump together, just a little.

he leans in, forehead nearly brushing yours, eyes a little glassy. “surprised you didn’t go find ichimura or whatever. he’s here, right?”

you blink. “huh?”

he pouts, and it’s honestly a little ridiculous how adorable he looks. “you know. that guy you dated for like, a second.”

you snort, bumping his chest lightly with your hand. “i dated him for like, a month in ninth grade, and no. i’m not looking for him.”

he raises an eyebrow, fake-offended. “oh. sorry. thought maybe you had a thing for guys who think being on JV is a personality trait.”

you laugh, full-belly, real, and his face softens immediately, like he could live off the sound.

“besides,” you say, smile fading into something smaller, more real, “i like someone else.”

his grip on your waist falters for a second. “who?”

your heart stutters. for a second, the whole world feels like it tilts sideways.

his voice is so earnest, so impossibly hopeful, it knocks the air right out of you.

you tilt your head a little, pretending to think, dragging it out just to see the way his brows scrunch and his lips part, waiting, like he’s hanging off the edge of a cliff.

and then you kiss him.

you press up on your toes, hands sliding up his chest to hook around the back of his neck, pulling him down into you.

his lips crash into yours like he’s been holding back for years and finally couldn’t anymore.

he’s warm. and desperate. and so, so soft.

his mouth moves against yours hungrily, a little clumsy, like he can’t decide if he wants to kiss you slow or devour you whole. your fingers tangle into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and you feel him shiver under your touch.

he kisses you like he’s trying to memorize everything, like if he kisses you hard enough, you’ll never be able to leave him behind.

his hands move too, sliding up from your waist to your ribs, tentative, reverent, like he’s scared he’s dreaming you. when your teeth catch lightly on his bottom lip, he lets out a tiny, desperate sound from the back of his throat, like a whimper he didn’t mean to make—and it sends heat rushing through your whole body.

you deepen the kiss without thinking, pressing closer, until there’s no space left between you. your whole body buzzes, high on the moment, the heat, the bass thumping through the wooden deck under your feet.

when you finally pull back, gasping slightly, he chases after you with a soft, broken sound, eyes fluttering open slow and dazed.

his lips are red and swollen, glinting wet under the neon pink lights. he looks wrecked. completely wrecked. by you.

he sways forward again instinctively like he can’t help it, forehead falling against yours, his breath mixing with yours in the humid air.

“was that—” he starts, voice cracking.

you smile, a little drunk, a lot in love. “yeah.”

his smile splits his face, messy and huge and all teeth.

“cool,” he breathes out, like it’s the only word he can remember.

you squeeze his hand, grounding both of you. he squeezes back, so hard it almost hurts.

behind you, someone yells about the pool, and another person drops a speaker into the deep end. the party is still spinning out of control around you, sirens in the distance, the smell of smoke somewhere in the air, but you barely notice.

because shoyo hinata just kissed you like you’re the only person who’s ever mattered.

and nothing else even comes close.

…

the cops come at 1:48 a.m.

someone runs across the neighbor’s roof. a flamingo float ends up in the street. someone throws another speaker into the pool like it wronged them.

you and shoyo hide in the laundry room, giggling under a pile of towels, whispering about how dead you’re going to be.

but you’re smiling.

because this night, the chaos, the lights, the mess, the kiss—it’s yours.

and they’ll never forget your names.