Chapter Text
Jaune Arc rubbed his eyes, the afterimage of that weird flash still dancing behind his eyelids like a faulty lightbulb. The scroll—ancient, yellowed parchment rolled tight in a ornate brass cylinder—lay innocently on his bunk now, looking every bit the dusty relic his father had described in the note.
Family heirloom, the letter had said. Something to remind you of home. And... sorry for doubting you, son. Proud of you for making it to Beacon. Use it wisely... Sorry.
Jaune snorted softly, folding the note away. Wisely? It was just a fancy old scroll with some faded ink scribbles that looked like a wonky star. Probably some Arc ancestor’s bad attempt at a family crest. Still, the flash had been freaky—bright enough to make him wonder if Pyrrha had snuck in one of her training gadgets as a prank. Nah, she was too busy drilling him on form in the courtyard earlier.
The dorm was quiet; Ren was off meditating somewhere zen-like, and Nora was probably terrorizing the armory for "upgrades" to her hammer. Jaune glanced at the clock—lunch hour. His stomach growled in agreement.
Yeah, cafeteria it is. Act normal. You've got this, Arc.
After spilling his guts to Ren and Nora about the forged transcripts, the weight on his chest had lightened. They hadn't kicked him out of the team or anything dramatic. Just given him those stern, no-nonsense looks before promising to whip him into shape.
You belong here
Ren had said, like it was the most obvious thing in Remnant.
Nora had punched his arm hard enough to bruise. Duh! Now let's break some training bots!
Jaune pocketed the scroll—cylinder and all, because why not?—and headed out, shoulders a little straighter. The halls of Beacon buzzed with the usual post-class chaos: students laughing, weapons clinking, the faint scent of gun oil and cafeteria mystery meat wafting from below. He nodded to a few familiar faces—Cardin was mercifully absent, probably nursing his ego after the Forever Fall fiasco—and made his way down to the bustling dining hall.
Team JNPR claimed their usual table near the windows, the one with a view of the Emerald Forest that always made Jaune feel like he was one bad initiation story away from becoming Grimm chow. Pyrrha slid in beside him with her perfect grace, setting down a tray piled with what looked like a balanced meal for a Spartan warrior. Nora bounded in next, juggling pancakes like they were grenades, while Ren followed with his zen tray of greens and rice, ever the picture of unflappable calm.
Across the hall, Team RWBY was already in full swing. Ruby zipped around like a caffeinated hummingbird, chattering about some new scythe mod. Weiss was primly dissecting her salad, looking equal parts annoyed and amused. And then there were the other two—Yang, sprawled back in her chair with that trademark grin, golden hair catching the light like a halo for a devil; and Blake, tucked into the corner with her book half-open, amber eyes flicking up now and then like she was casing the joint for hidden Faunus-hunters.
Jaune waved awkwardly as their eyes met the group. "Hey, guys! Mind if we—"
"Jaune!" Yang's voice cut through the din like a shotgun blast, louder and brighter than necessary. She was on her feet in a heartbeat, chair scraping back with a screech that turned a few heads. Her lilac eyes locked on him, and for a split second, Jaune swore they widened—like she'd just spotted the last slice of pizza in a room full of starving wolves.
"Over here, Vomit Boy! Saved you a seat. Right next to me."
He blinked, caught off guard. Yang's nicknames usually came with a side of teasing jabs, but this? This was... enthusiastic. Almost predatory, in the way her grin sharpened, like she was sizing up a sparring partner she planned to enjoy dismantling.
"Uh, sure? Thanks, Yang." He shuffled over, teams merging into one big, chaotic blob of trays and elbows. Pyrrha shot him a knowing smile—probably thinking it was just Yang being Yang—while Nora whooped about "team bonding time!"
As Jaune squeezed in beside Yang, her arm brushed his—deliberate, he realized, when she didn't pull away. Heat radiated off her like her semblance was itching to ignite, and up close, her scent hit him: leather, gunpowder, and something sweeter, like vanilla laced with wildfire.
"So," she drawled, leaning in a fraction too close, her breath warm against his ear, "heard you had a rough go in the forest. Cardin being a tool again? You should've let me handle him. I'd have turned that bully into barbecue."
Jaune chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's... handled. Mostly. I mean, I handled it. Kinda."
Why was his face heating up? It wasn't like Yang hadn't flirted with half the academy before—playful punches and winks were her love language. But this felt... heavier. Like she was hanging on his every word, lilac eyes tracing his jawline when she thought he wasn't looking.
Across the table, Blake shifted. Her book had snapped shut with a soft thud, forgotten on her tray. Those amber eyes—usually guarded, shadowed by secrets Jaune could only guess at—were fixed on him now, intense and unblinking. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers lacing together like she was holding herself back from something.
"Jaune," she said, voice low and smooth, like shadowed silk. "You look... different today. More... steady." There was a hitch in her tone, almost a purr, and Jaune nearly choked on his first bite of sandwich.
Steady? Me?
He swallowed hard, glancing between her and Yang. Blake, the girl who'd once stared down a Death Stalker like it owed her money, ears twitching faintly under her bow, a rare crack in her cool facade. And she wasn't breaking eye contact. If anything, she inched her chair closer, her knee brushing his under the table. Accidental? No way. Blake didn't do accidents.
"Uh, thanks? I guess? Just... trying to keep up." Jaune's mind raced.
What's with everyone today? Did I spill food on my shirt again?
He tugged at his collar, oblivious to the faint, ethereal glow that had etched itself into his skin earlier—a five-pointed star, hidden now beneath fabric, pulsing with an ancient rhythm he couldn't feel.
From the far end of the hall, another pair of eyes tracked him. Coco Adel sauntered in late, designer shades perched on her nose, beret tilted just so. Team CFVY's leader was a force of nature—baggy pants, cropped jacket, and that minigun purse slung over her shoulder like a fashion statement from hell. She was bad news wrapped in luxury leather: whispers followed her about "creative" interrogations of White Fang cells, her love for high-stakes brawls that left craters, and a reputation for breaking rules like they were suggestions. Coco didn't just fight Grimm; she hunted them, and anyone who got in her way.
She paused mid-stride, tray in hand, head snapping toward Jaune's table like a heat-seeker locking on. Her shades slipped down her nose, revealing chocolate-brown eyes that narrowed, then softened in a way that didn't match her swagger.
What the—? Coco blinked, shaking her head like she'd walked into an invisible wall. Her heart—usually a steady drumbeat of adrenaline and ambition—stuttered, then raced. Jaune Arc? The gangly blond from JNPR who'd tripped over his own sword during initiation? He was... hot. Like, unfairly, stupidly hot. The way his messy hair fell over those blue eyes, the earnest slump of his shoulders that screamed protector even when he didn't know it. And that aura—faint, but pulling at her, like gravity she couldn't fight.
Get a grip, Adel. You're not some lovesick freshman.
But her boots betrayed her, veering off course toward RWBY's table unbidden. "Mind if I crash, ladies? And... Jaune." Her voice came out smoother than intended, laced with that husky edge she saved for closing deals—or sizing up marks. She dropped into the empty seat across from him, shades now hooked on her collar, revealing the full force of her stare.
"Heard you clocked Cardin good out there. Respect. Most guys fold under that kind of heat."
Jaune's eyes widened. Coco Adel? Talking to him? Like they were old sparring buddies?
"O-Oh, hey, Coco! Yeah, it was... intense. Thanks? I mean, you're like, the queen of intense." He laughed it off, but inside, his brain was short-circuiting. Yang was grinning wider now, a possessive glint in her eye as she slung an arm over the back of Jaune's chair—territorial much?—while Blake's foot nudged his again, deliberate this time, her tail flicking restlessly under the table.
Pyrrha watched the exchange with polite confusion, stirring her tea. "It's wonderful to see everyone getting along," she said brightly, though her green eyes lingered on Yang's arm a beat too long. Nora shoveled pancakes obliviously, and Ruby beamed like this was the best lunch ever. Weiss, meanwhile, arched a brow at the sudden influx of "delinquents" orbiting her team leader's oblivious teammate.
Coco leaned in, ignoring the subtle glare from Yang, her fingers drumming the table near Jaune's hand—close enough to brush, if she wanted. And oh, she wanted. The pull was inexplicable, a itch under her skin that whispered he's yours to protect, to follow, to unravel. She'd crushed skulls in back-alley dust-ups, orchestrated takedowns that left informants begging, but this? This was a craving she couldn't bag or bullet.
"Tell you what, blondie," she murmured, voice dropping low enough that only he caught the full timbre. "You ever need backup—or just someone to show you how to really handle heat—you holler. I've got your six."
Jaune nodded dumbly, cheeks burning under the triple assault of attention. "S-Sure. Thanks, Coco. All of you, really." He took a hasty bite of his sandwich, chewing like it might save him from whatever weird Beacon voodoo was turning lunch into a minefield.
Unseen, the star mark on his palm tingled faintly, its ancient curse weaving its web. Bad girls—thieves of shadows, brawlers with blood on their knuckles, schemers with cruel smiles—were drawn like moths to his flame. Not controlled, no; their wills redirected but unbroken, loves blooming fierce and flawed in the cracks of their armored hearts. Yang's fire would burn hotter for him, Blake's secrets unravel at his whisper, Coco's empire tilt toward his clumsy throne.
For now, though, Jaune Arc survived lunch. Barely. As the bell rang and the table erupted into chatter, he slipped the scroll deeper into his pocket, wondering why his skin felt alive with static.
Little did he know, the Arc heirloom had chosen its bearer. And Remnant's bad girls? They were just getting started.