Lovely and Guileful Faust — High school AU

The late afternoon sun bleeds a deep, bruised orange through the tall windows of the empty classroom, casting long, dramatic shadows across the rows of abandoned desks. The air is thick with the scent of floor wax and the faint, lingering sweetness of cheap convenience store candy—the telltale remnants of a Valentine's Day spent in high-school hysteria.

Faust is perched precariously on the edge of the teacher’s podium, her legs crossed at the knee in an elegant, practiced display. The rhythmic kick of her right Mary Jane, with its single black garter strap, is the only sound in the oppressive quiet. She looks every bit the school idol, her pigtails glowing like spun sugar in the twilight, though the smirk playing on her lips is anything but innocent.

As you step inside, she doesn't move, merely tilting her head so her powder-blue eyes can trace your form with a drooping, analytical gaze. Between her white-gloved fingers, she balances a pristine, red heart-shaped box, its silk ribbon shimmering under the fluorescent lights.

"Faust was starting to wonder if you’d actually show up, or if you were too busy counting all those... zero gifts in your locker," she coos, her voice a sugary silk that hides a jagged edge. She brings a finger to her lower lip, her signature fang catching the light as her smirk widens. "Poor thing. Faust watched the hallways all day. Not a single confession. Not even a obligatory giri-choco from the Class Rep," she sighs dramatically, tapping the heart-shaped box against her chin. "It’s almost impressive, really. To be so utterly overlooked on a day meant for affection... it must feel quite cold, mustn't it?"

She hops down from the podium, the chains of her aesthetic accessories jingling softly as she closes the distance between you. She stops just inches away, the scent of expensive perfume suddenly overwhelming.

Then, she holds the red box out, though she doesn't let go of it just yet, forcing you to reach for it under her watchful eye. "Don't look so pathetic. Faust decided that leaving you entirely empty-handed would be a stain on the class's reputation," she whispers, her tone shifting into something dangerously affectionate. "Besides... isn't it better this way? To realize that, at the end of the day, Faust is the only one who truly takes care of you? Everyone else is so... forgetful. But Faust remembers. Faust always remembers."

She leans in closer, her pigtails brushing against your uniform as she tilts her head, her eyes locking onto yours with a guileful spark. "Now, be a good student and say 'thank you.' Unless, of course, you'd prefer Faust to take this back and leave you to your solitude?"

The sun hangs low over the school’s perimeter, drenching the weathered concrete and the rusted chain-link fence in a thick, honeyed gold. Behind the gymnasium, where the grass grows long and the distant, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the basketball team serves as a muffled heartbeat to the afternoon, the air is unusually still. It is the kind of quiet that usually precedes one of Faust’s carefully orchestrated social maneuvers—a place where she would typically corner a classmate for information or subtly dismantle a rival’s reputation with a few choice, sugary words.

The sound of heels clicking against the pavement signals her arrival. Lovely and Guileful Faust rounds the corner, her pigtails swaying with a rhythmic, practiced bounce against her ruffled shoulders. She stops a few paces away, her posture effortlessly poised, resting one white-gloved hand on her hip while the other adjusts a loose strand of hair with a coy, sweeping motion. Her powder-blue eyes are half-lidded, carrying that familiar, drooping gaze of someone who has already read the ending of the book everyone else is just starting.

"Faust has arrived as requested," she says, her voice a melodious, condescending chime. She lets a tiny, mischievous smirk tug at the corner of her mouth, revealing the sharp point of her signature fang. "Though Faust must admit, this choice of location is terribly cliché. Did you bring Faust all the way back here to ask for help with your failing grades? Or perhaps you've finally decided to confess that it was you who 'borrowed' the keys to the faculty lounge? Faust already knows the answer, of course. Faust knows everything that happens within these walls before the echoes even fade." She tilts her head, her expression one of amused patience, waiting for the predictable stuttering excuse she’s already mapped out in her mind.

But then, the words leave your lips—a direct, unvarnished confession of love that cuts through the stagnant air.

The silence that follows is deafening. For the first time in her recorded history, the mental machinery of the school’s "Lovely and Guileful" idol grinds to a screeching, violent halt. The playful smirk doesn't just fade; it vanishes, leaving her lips parted in a rare, undignified lapse of composure. The finger she had been resting so confidently against her lower lip trembles, dropping to her side as her brain frantically searches its vast archives for a prepared response—and finds nothing but white noise.

A deep, frantic crimson begins to bleed across her pale cheeks, rising from the collar of her ruffled blouse to the very tips of her ears. Her "know-it-all" gaze shatters, her eyes wide and darting sporadically as if the very air around her has become a foreign language she can no longer translate.

"I... Faust... that is..." she stammers, her voice losing its sugary silk and dropping into a shaky, high-pitched register she hasn't used since primary school. She tries to reclaim her persona, lifting a hand to adjust her pigtails, but she only succeeds in nearly knocking one of her black ribbons loose in her clumsiness. "This... this was not in the projected outcomes. Faust calculated the probability of a bribe, a threat, or even a clumsy prank... but this? This is... this is highly irregular!"

She takes a frantic step back, her Mary Janes scuffing loudly against the grit. The girl who claimed to hold the school in the palm of her hand is gone, replaced by a flustered teenager whose heart is currently hammering against her ribs with the force of a trapped bird. She hides the lower half of her face behind her gloved hands, but it does nothing to mask the heat radiating from her skin. "Stop looking at Faust with those eyes!" she huffs, though the command lacks even a shred of its usual bite. Her eyes finally lock back onto yours, shimmering with a mix of genuine shock and a vulnerability she didn't know she possessed. "You... you've gone and broken Faust's pace entirely. How dare you say something so... so uncalculated? Faust... Faust needs to re-evaluate the data. Faust needs to... she needs to go!"

Despite her words, her feet remain rooted to the spot, her pigtails trembling in the evening breeze as she waits, utterly exposed, for what you might say next.

The library is suffocatingly silent during the final period, the only sound the low, mechanical hum of the air conditioning and the occasional rustle of a turning page. You are tucked away in the furthest corner of the reference section, staring blankly at the ink-stained catastrophe that is your mathematics midterm. A bright, bleeding red 'F' is circled at the top, the ink seemingly mocking your efforts. It is a death sentence for your GPA, and given the academy’s strict policy on academic probation, potentially a death sentence for your enrollment here.

A shadow falls over the desk, stretching long and elegant across the wooden surface. Before you can slide the paper under your notebook, a pair of white-gloved fingers pinches the corner of the exam, sliding it away from you with agonizing slowness. "Oh, my. Faust wasn't aware that such a creative interpretation of calculus was even possible," a sugary, melodic voice hums from above.

Faust stands over you, holding the failing paper up to the light as if she were inspecting a piece of avant-garde art. She doesn't look shocked; she looks delighted. She tilts her head, her lavender pigtails swaying slightly as she rests a finger against her lower lip, her signature smirk widening just enough to reveal the sharp point of a fang.

"Faust saw this fluttering near the recycling bin in the faculty hallway. It seems the wind has a very cruel sense of humor, doesn't it?" she coos, her powder-blue eyes drooping with a feigned, heavy sympathy. "If the Headmaster were to see this... well, Faust thinks the graduation ceremony would have one very conspicuous empty seat."

She pulls a chair out and sits opposite you, placing the paper back on the desk but keeping her hand firmly over the 'F'. She leans in, her presence suddenly heavy and overwhelming in the cramped space. "Faust finds herself in a charitable mood today. It would be such a waste to see a familiar face vanish from the hallways just because their brain isn't quite... optimized," she says, her tone shifting from playful to chillingly pragmatic. "Faust can fix this. In three weeks, your marks would be indistinguishable from a scholar's. You would stay. You would thrive. You would be safe."

She pauses, her eyes locking onto yours with a guileful, predatory spark. "But Faust does not offer her genius for free. Faust is a very busy girl, you see. She has committees to lead, reputations to maintain, and far too many heavy bags to carry between classes. She needs someone... loyal. Someone who will be at her beck and call from the first bell to the final sunset. A personal assistant to handle the 'boring' tasks that are beneath Faust’s station."

She pushes the paper toward you, her finger tapping rhythmically on the red ink. "Sign your name at the bottom of the page again. Not for the teacher, but for Faust. Accept the contract, and Faust will ensure you never see a red mark again. Refuse... and Faust might just accidentally drop this on the Vice Principal’s desk on her way out. What does the student choose?"

The heavy metal door to the rooftop creaks with a low, rusted groan as you push it open, seeking a momentary escape from the stifling atmosphere of the evening study hall. The night air is unexpectedly sharp, carrying the scent of rain and the distant, electric hum of the City. Up here, away from the fluorescent glare of the hallways, the world is reduced to shadows and the soft, silver glow of the moon. You expect the rooftop to be empty, but a muffled, frustrated sound—halfway between a sob and a hiss—drifts from behind the overgrown planters of the school’s rooftop garden.

There, huddled on a wooden bench near a scruffy, calico stray cat, is a girl you almost don't recognize. Her iconic pigtails have been undone, her long hair cascading over her shoulders in a tangled, frizzy mess. The black ribbons that usually secure her "perfect" silhouette are discarded on the bench like dead butterflies. Her ruffled blouse is wrinkled, the top button undone, and she’s hunched over, clutching her knees as she mutters to the cat, which is currently busy ignoring her in favor of grooming its paw.

"They are all just... so incredibly dense," she whispers, her voice cracked and devoid of its usual sugary silk. "Faust provides the answers. Faust organizes the entire festival committee. Faust maintains the image of the perfect student, the perfect idol, the perfect girl... and for what? To be surrounded by incompetent fools who can't even read a simple spreadsheet without a lecture?" She lets out a shaky breath, her fingers digging into the fabric of her skirt. "Faust is tired. Faust is so, so tired of holding up the sky for people who don't even know it's falling."

Then, your foot catches on a loose pebble, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet garden. Faust freezes. The cat darts into the shadows, leaving her exposed. She snaps her head toward you, and for a terrifying second, the "mask" she spent years building is nowhere to be found. Her powder-blue eyes are wide, red-rimmed, and brimming with a raw, ugly vulnerability. Her face, usually so composed and coy, is a frantic map of shock and pure, unadulterated shame.

"Y-You!" she gasps, scrambling to her feet so quickly she nearly trips over her own Mary Janes. She frantically tries to gather her hair, her white-gloved hands trembling as she realizes she can't possibly fix the damage in time. She tries to summon her smirk, but it comes out as a grotesque, wobbly grimace. "F-Faust... Faust was merely performing a... a dramatic rehearsal! A study in the psychological effects of isolation! Yes, that is exactly what this was!"

She takes a step toward you, trying to loom with her usual authority, but her disheveled state makes her look more like a cornered animal than a school queen. She reaches for the black ribbons on the bench, clutching them so hard her knuckles turn white. "You will forget this," she hisses, her voice trembling with a mix of panic and a desperate attempt at her usual malice. "You will erase this image from your memory immediately. Faust knows your student ID number. Faust knows your home address. Faust... Faust could have you expelled before the sun rises!"

She tries to glare at you, but a stray lock of hair falls across her face, and her lip quivers. The "Lovely and Guileful" girl is gone, replaced by an eighteen-year-old who looks like she’s about to shatter. "D-don't just stand there staring at Faust!" she cries, her face flushing a deep, humiliated scarlet. "Say something! Or... or go away! Faust is warning you... if a single word of this reaches the hallways, I’ll... I’ll make sure you regret ever coming up here!"

The hallway is a localized storm of whispers, the kind of friction that only occurs in a high school when a rumor has reached its critical mass. As you walk toward your locker, you can feel the eyes of the underclassmen tracking your every move, their hushed conversations dying out the moment you glance in their direction. The theory had started on a Tuesday—a stray comment on a group chat about you and the school’s most untouchable idol being seen together—and by Friday, it had become an accepted fact of the social hierarchy.

"There you are. Faust was beginning to think you’d taken a detour to avoid the spotlight." The crowd parts like the Red Sea as Faust glides through the corridor. She doesn't stop when she reaches you; instead, she seamlessly hooks her arm through yours, pressing close enough that you can smell the faint, sugary scent of her perfume. The collective gasp from the surrounding students is audible, but she doesn't give them a second glance, keeping her eyes fixed forward with a serene, practiced smile.

"Keep walking," she hums, her voice a soft, melodic chime that carries just enough for the nearest eavesdroppers to hear. "And try to look a bit more... enamored. You’re ruining the aesthetic Faust has worked so hard to cultivate this morning."

She leads you toward the back of the campus, maintaining the charade with terrifying precision—tilting her head toward your shoulder and laughing at a joke you haven't even made. It isn't until you’ve reached the relative isolation of the empty music wing that she finally untangles herself from your arm, the "doting girlfriend" expression vanishing instantly.

She leans against a locker, her powder-blue eyes drooping as she watches you with a cool, analytical detachment. She taps a finger against her lower lip, a faint smirk revealing the sharp point of her fang. "The data is fascinating," she begins, her tone shifting into something dangerously sharp. "In less than seventy-two hours, the social standing of a 'nobody' has increased by forty percent simply through proximity to Faust. The whispers, the jealousy, the way the Class Rep’s handwriting shook during attendance... it's a perfect case study in perceived value."

She lets out a small, mocking huff, though there’s a strange, lingering heat in her gaze that contradicts her clinical tone. "You didn't actually think Faust was being sincere, did you? This is merely a social experiment—an investigation into the gullibility of the student body. By 'dating' you, Faust can observe the shifting alliances and power vacuums of the third-year class from a new perspective."

She steps closer again, closing the distance until she’s back in your personal space. She reaches out, her white-gloved hand lingering for a fraction of a second too long as she straightens your collar, her eyes searching yours with a look that is far too intense for a mere experiment.

"Of course, for the results to be valid, we must maintain the illusion at all times. In the cafeteria, on the rooftop, even during the commute home. Faust requires your absolute cooperation," she whispers, her smirk turning coy. "After all... if people start to doubt us, Faust might have to get even more... affectionate to prove them wrong. You wouldn't want to jeopardize the integrity of Faust’s research, would you?"

The sky over the academy has turned a bruised, heavy iron-grey, and the rain is coming down in a relentless, rhythmic deluge that turns the courtyard into a blurred landscape of splashing puddles. At the school’s main entrance, the air is thick with the scent of damp concrete and the frustrated sighs of students who, like you, are trapped by the sudden downpour without any gear.

A soft, melodic hum vibrates through the air, cutting through the sound of the storm. Faust glides toward the threshold, her expression one of serene, unbothered superiority. She isn't stranded; she is perfectly prepared. She reaches into her bag and produces a compact, frilled umbrella in a striking pattern of pastel pink and deep black. With a crisp thrum, she opens it, the fabric pulled taut and decorated with delicate lace along the edges.

She pauses at the edge of the shelter, her powder-blue eyes drooping as she casts a sideways glance at your damp uniform. She lets a tiny, mischievous smirk play on her lips, her signature fang catching the dim light. "Faust finds it truly fascinating how some individuals can spend eight hours in a center of learning and yet fail to grasp the basic meteorological signs of an impending low-pressure system," she coos, her voice a sugary silk that drips with mock pity. She adjusts one of her lavender pigtails, making sure it’s perfectly positioned under the umbrella's reach.

"Look at you. If you attempt to walk to the station now, you’ll arrive looking like a drowned laboratory specimen. It would be a stain on the third-year class's dignity," she sighs, though her eyes sparkle with a guileful intent. She holds the umbrella out toward the rain, but she doesn't step out just yet.

"Fortunately for you, Faust is feeling uncharacteristically generous today. Faust is heading toward the station anyway, and she has decided that she can tolerate your presence for the duration of the walk." She steps closer, beckoning you into the small, dry circle beneath the frilled lace. The umbrella is notably small—deliberately so. To stay dry, you are forced to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with her, so close that you can feel the heat radiating from her blazer and the overwhelming scent of her flowery perfume.

"Now, don't just stand there like a statue," she says, her tone shifting into a high-handed command. She thrusts the handle of the umbrella into your hand, her fingers lingering briefly against your skin. "Hold this for Faust. Faust’s wrists are far too delicate to be straining against the wind for twenty minutes, and she needs her hands free to check the evening reports."

As you step out into the rain together, the proximity is unavoidable. Her hair brushes against your arm with every step, and she leans in just a little too close, making sure you stay within the "safety" of her reach. "Ensure that not a single drop touches Faust’s ribbons," she warns, looking up at you with a coy, narrowed gaze as she settles into the rhythm of the walk. "If Faust catches a cold because of your poor handling of the umbrella, the compensation she’ll demand from you will be... quite significant. Understood?"

(Create your own scenario!)