#OH OH WAIT AND A DOUBLE PAGE IN MY OTHER SKETCHBOOK

[wings-of-angels]

Rushing to do all my art work tonight cos i have school tomorrow and i procrastinated on it all holiday

[brainrotcharacters]

Colors

ship: Klahadore/Kuro x reader

summary: For Kaya's upcoming birthday, the best painter in town had been commissioned for a portrait of her. Never mind your secret crush on her butler. This was a chance to continue the sketch you've been working on, as well.

a/n: requested by @angeli-fucking-cat

tags: I pretend I'm a painter (I'm a writer), events take place before episode 3, cliffhanger Kuro, etc.

--

You made another brushstroke when you asked again. "Are you sure you don't want to take a break?"

"I'm alright." Kaya remained in her seat. Klahadore stood to the side, smiling faintly at your thoughtfulness. "I don't want to take up too much of your time."

The glare you gave Kaya was softened by the affection in your smile. "I've been painting for most of my time, Kaya. I'm happy to do it," You dip your brush into a darker shade of gold, to match the shade of her hair. "Especially for a friend's birthday."

Eighteen. Kaya was going to be of age in a matter of days. Klahadore had commissioned you to paint a portrait of the celebrant; your hidden affections for the man aside, you made good progress on the piece. Never mind the fact that each time Klahadore stood over your shoulder to praise how lifelike your painting was, he stood significantly close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath on your ear.

Kaya smiled softly, then conceded. "Well, I do feel a knot in my neck—"

Another coughing fit escaped her mouth, and Klahadore was there, gently ushering her from her chair and onto her bed. Her tea already waited at the bedside table.

You committed the image to memory, how Klahadore's gloved hands firmly, steadily grasped Kaya's arm, as you reach for the sketchbook in your bag. It wasn't strange for you to switch between mediums, but as you flip to the page of the half-finished sketch of Klahadore, you did your best to discreetly angle it so Klahadore and Kaya remained in front of you.

Kaya attempted to speak, to apologize in the middle of her wheezing, but you insisted. "You have nothing to be sorry for. We have all the time in the world." You caught the butler's eye. "Let me know if we'll be fit to continue."

"Of course." he smiled politely, gratefully, and you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from giggling. You look back at your sketch.

The side of Kuro's lips twitched upwards as his eyes lingered on you. Then he shifted his attention back to Kaya, to the mission.

*

Kaya was coughing too much to continue the portrait, but she offered that you could stay the night if you wanted, even teasing that you can't refuse if you had so much time on your hands as you claimed. When Klahadore doubled down on the teasing, you half heartedly took your tools into a spare bedroom, joking that you would get back at them somehow.

You wander the corridors of the mansion now, under the moonlight casted through the windows. Both charcoal and paint mixed on the pads of your fingers as you blend the lines that sketched Klahadore's jawline.

You take a left turn, perching onto a windowsill with especially marvelous moonlight. Lamplight, or sunlight even, looked too harsh for this singular piece of Klahadore. You continued to work in peaceful silence, adding a curve here, an edge there…

Kuro approached your spot, footsteps soft, and hummed lowly over your shoulder. "Oh, dear."

You yelp, angling your sketchbook the other way. But too late. "Klahadore! You scared me."

"My apologies," he smiled softly. "I couldn't help but be curious about what you had been sketching…"

"Careful. You know what curiosity does to cats." you murmur to yourself, scraping the edge of your sketchbook using your nails.

It was a nervous habit that made Kuro smile wider. "I am flattered, believe me. However, I haven't given you my permission nor my consent to create my self portrait. In light of Miss Kaya's birthday."

You open your mouth. Then closed it. And opened it again. "I-I have no excuse. I didn't plan to show this one to anybody, anyway."

"Good." he said. "It shall be our little secret."

Your eyes shot to him, and his sly smile. Did he know about your affections? Or was he bluffing? All the observation skills of a painter and yet you couldn't read his damn face.

"Please don't stay up so late," he reached out to gently clasp one of your hands between both of his own. The closest you've gotten to touching him thus far. "There is no need to hide your art from me. I'd hate to see your health decrease, after all."

In the moonlight, the way your pupils dilated was clear for Kuro to see. A faint blush comes to your cheeks as you nod, softly pulling your hand away. He allows you to. "Thank you. Good night, Klahadore."

"Good night, Miss Y/n."

You walked past him, but if you'd have glanced behind, you would've seen the expression in his face harden. Sharpen as he considered how you would participate in his mission.

[partnersatfazbear]

Sketchbook Pages 41, 42 (according to my notes)

Hope you guys are enjoying all these double uploads of art and fanfic =XD I’m just really wanting to leave yall with something to tide yourselves over!

To give some background info, I’ve been: drawing a lot of anatomy, especially legs; drawing a lot of non-FNAF fan art (because I’ve been playing old games as a comfort mechanism--I am absolutely miserable without my things and it sucks)

Page 41: I scribbled a lot of notes... Spoilers for RS Chapter... 17? Some fluff, some crazy!Will. I drew his face upside down and like... ya know without turning the paper, and it came out pretty creepy. I hate it XD I reread RS and I just really love William talking to the Spring Bonnie head. I’d probably watch an entire movie of him just crazy rambling, venting, and crying over this inanimate thing he loves. It’s really where you can tell William has gone off the deep end. Even though this was an idea I had originally, I’m glad that TSE’s actually reinforced the idea somewhat. Rewatching FNAF 6 again cuz why not... my wife and I always joke that Henry would encourage Mike to purposely fuck up the Scraptrap salvage mini-game. XD Drew a little comparison of my Mike and William, since they are very similar. The top drawings were done in a pen I prefer, but I misplaced it (like always) and had to switch to a more liquid pen and... well, my sketches get super sloppy with it since the heavier ink tends to dab and smear. I drew this spoiler sketch for Sammy and the AlmagAfton and was wondering where I got the inspiration from (pretty sure it was End of Evangelion. I’ve been biding my time waiting for my wife’s vacation to watch Evangelion 4.0 and it sucks waiting. End of Evangelion, which 4.0 is a recreation of, happens to be in like my top 3 anime films of all time, so...) ANYWAY, I decided to give CEO!Sammy a rabbit... he names it PJ... I very very much picture him like a Bond villain and that’s OK. =:) Oh, the random girl in the center is my personal OC. I wanted to draw her in the night guard uniform >>; She’s a cop in my universe, anyway...

Page 42: The top left has some scraps from other pages (you aren’t missing anything, I was doing non FNAF comic page planning underneath). These were done in pencil, hence the shade difference. Drawing faces and emotions is a huge comfort for me.Like I said before, I reread RS and it’s such a shame Elizabeth and Charlotte didn’t hang out more “on screen”, as I think Charlotte would be this quiet, mature type; Elizabeth is an impulsive and stubborn type (like their old men, I guess). So, like, Elizabeth could get Charlotte to open up more and Charlotte could teach Elizabeth some manners XD There’s a small sketch in the center of a (badly drawn) William for the scene when the Mangle prototype briefly comes to life due to the dog remnant. It’s a creepy scene in the story, even if the theory is universally hated now. It’s not something I believe, really, but I NEEDED it to happen so William could discover Remnant. There’s more angry William and a few more sketches of CEO!Sammy. I really have fun drawing him and I was refining the idea from the previous page. He’s one of many posessed by Glitchtrap, so I tried to show that... (Also, it bothers me that he looks like Rasputin from Devil Summoner: Raidou Kuzunoha 1, BUT its fine. I’ll deal with it.) Please ignore my Aerith sketches. Since my PS4 HDMI died and I can’t get it repaired and I can’t find/afford a PS5 and I haven’t experimented with remote play as a back up yet, I can’t replay FFVIIR, so I’m playing FFVII on my Switch again. Aerith is probably my favorite character of all time, so...

As you guys may have guessed I’m really revving up on inspiration to try and finish Truth Seeker... I think I will be posting more of it soon as the final two chapters of RS come out.

If you like my work, please reblog it, share it, or at least comment and let me know what you loved =:) I really wanna cater more to you guys, but I have no idea where to begin!

[prettytoxicrevolver]

Drawing | Colson Baker

Requested? Yup! I hope you like it :) @bakerkells

Warnings? None 

Summary: Ever since knowing Colson Baker, you’ve always had an affinity for drawing him 

Word Count: 1,245

You sit relaxed, legs extended in front of you with your worn sketchpad propped on your legs. Music plays in the background, your Apple Music playlist displaying random songs. Your hand works mindlessly, sketching lightly over the already messy page and casting a glance up at the sunset you're trying to recreate.

"Baby!" you hear Colson call out as you continue to draw.

Your boyfriend comes bounding into the room, a wide smile spread across his lips. He heads over to you, collapsing into the seat next to you and tilting his head to see what you're drawing. You continue to sketch as Colson slides an arm around your waist and you lean into his touch.

"Whatcha drawing?" he asks, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.

"Sunset,” you murmur and he hums in response.

You had been drawing practically your entire life. You had started young, doodling along the sides of notebooks during class, drawing on the back of tests and all over binders. It became a habit to make everything personalized with a touch of your drawing. 

Over time your skills improved and you continued to draw and eventually paint as you fell in love with the art. You drew and painted anything before you, loving putting your own spin on anything. 

When you moved to Los Angeles, your inspiration only grew. You and your best friend had planned for years to move out of your small town to the city of angels ever since your obsession with movies started. You both wanted to see where it's all created and add to the magic. Your best friend wanted to be an actress while you wanted to display your art.

One day you had been sitting at Starbucks with your best friend, zoning slightly as she talked excitedly about her new project for what seemed like the millionth time. As you look out at the people around you, a boy catches your eye.

He's waiting in line, phone in right hand while his left arm wraps around himself. Your eyes trail over his features a sharp jawline accompanies sharp blue eyes, and a tiny double x tattoo decorates just below his ear.

You instinctively pull a napkin towards you, grabbing the pen you keep in your hair you begin to sketch the boy. Memorizing each detail your hand works faster than your eyes trail and before you know it, a rough sketch of the blonde decorates the Starbucks napkin.

“Who is that?” your best friend asks, her eyes trained on the napkin.

“Oh, uh-“ you begin but your best friend is already looking around the small shop. 

She spots the boy still waiting in line, and a devious smile forms upon her lips. She grabs your pen from the table starting to write something on the napkin but hiding it from your eyes.

“I'll be back,” she says, shooting you a wink before grabbing the napkin and getting up.

You watch as she marches straight up to the boy and begins talking to him. You're horrified as she hands him the napkin, and gestures back to you. He glances back to you, a smile ghosting his lips as he looks at you before turning back to your best friend. They exchange a few words before she heads back over to you.

"What did you do?” you ask when she sits back down.

"Gave him your number," she says with a shrug of her shoulders.

“You're fucking crazy."

“And you’re talented. Can we go?” 

Shortly after you leave, a text pops up on your phone and you stop in your tracks. Your best friend gives you a curious look and you smile widely as you read the text.

“A little creepy, but flattering nonetheless thanks for the portrait,” it reads and you’re flushed from head to toe at this point. 

“Does someone have a crush already?” your best friend jokes. 

“Shut it.” 

That was how you met your boyfriend Colson Baker. You had always had an affinity for sketching strangers, you loved catching their natural gaze and stature. It was authentic and beautiful and something you liked to keep for your sketchbook. 

However, you had never given any of your sketches to the people you drew. You were beyond grateful for your best friend stepping in that day. Ever since, you and Colson were inseparable and later fell for each other.

Two years later, you hadn't stopped drawing Colson. Falling head over heels for the man of your dreams only made you more enchanted by him. You swore you found a new detail to love and engrave in your sketches every time you looked at the love of your life. 

From studio sketches, to dinners out, to random late nights together, you had what felt like hundreds of sketches of Col in your notebook. It became second nature to you, and you were surprised that Colson didn’t know that you always ended up sketching him. 

Colson leans his head on your shoulder as you continue to sketch. His hand rests on your thigh, tracing patterns against the exposed skin. You're distracted as he moves his hand farther up and you stop drawing altogether.

"Colson,” you whine and the older boy smiles mischievously.

He pulls your sketchbook from your hands and tosses it onto the coffee table forgotten for the moment. His hand slides up to your cheek and he pulls you in with ease as your lips meet his. You turn to meet him and his arm circles your waist pulling you into him.

You end up in his lap, legs swung over his as you sink into his touch. You're flush against each other as his hand travels from your cheek to the back of your neck, deepening the kiss. As you let go for air, you're smiling at Col and he leans his forehead on yours.

“What’s that?” Colson asks and you sit up straighter giving him a confused look.

His eyes trail to your sketchbook that ended up on a page that you sketched Colson on. It was your favorite sketch of your boyfriend you had ever drawn. He was hunched over the soundboard scribbling notes and lyrics most likely for the new album.

Colson picks up the drawing with care, and you watch as his eyes trail over it. A smile breaks wide over his lips and you grow nervous as he continues to scan the sketch.

“You drew this?” he asks in a quiet voice.

“Uhm yeah, when you were writing bloody valentine I think.” 

“Baby you make me look good,” he says and you laugh lightly.

“Darling, that's what you always look like to me. No one else catches my eye like you do.”

Colson looks up at you with the most endearing look in his eye that almost makes you cry. You recognize the look in his eye, it's the same one you have when drawing him. It radiates love and the most adoring energy.

“Have you been drawing me ever since we met?” he asks, now flipping through the rest of your sketchbook, a gleam in his eye. 

“Pretty much yeah,” you admit and Colson smiles again. 

“Well I’ve been writing songs about you since we met so I guess we’re even,” he says and you giggle quietly.

He pulls you in again, dropping your sketchbook once more to wrap his arms completely around you and soak up the love from the two of you.

[wonderwomanfantasy]

tattoo crazy

Hell yes I love some Honenuki fluff

Honenuki x Tattoo artist! Reader

warnings: swearing, tattooing, that's about it

word count: 1,200 (about)

summary: tattoo parlor and flower shop au

Honenuki didn’t mind the long hours that Posy Pushers asked of him. He liked arranging bouquets for weddings and parties. Honenuki genuinely enjoyed the light pastel uniform and watering the rose bushes out front. The only part he didn’t really enjoy about his flower shop job was the across-the-street neighbor. Maple Street was a nice place, dotted with yarn stores and candy shops frequented by old ladies and their grandchildren. Bur right across the street the was a black bricked tattoo parlor that just ruined the whole vibe.

He could hear the loud music pounding through the tinted glass, and the whole place smelled like cigarettes. Honenuki leaned against the counter. Peering through the glass and Jagged Ink as the door opened and strains of an angry punk song coming through to him as you walked out on a lunch break.

Honenuki’s heart throbbed, as he saw you, in a loose black tank top, ripped black shorts, and combat boots. His cheeks went pink as you turned and started heading across the street towards him. He didn’t much care for the store itself but the people who worked there were cool he supposed.

The door chimed as you came in. “H-Hi! Welcome in let me know if I can help you!” he chimed shooting upright. You gave him a soft smile.

“Just me kid relax,” you said teasingly. The blush on his cheeks darkened. You usually came in on your lunch break to sketch flowers and leaves and eating silently. You moved a pot off of a white iron stool and sat down in front of a hanging planter of ivy. Honenuki took a deep breath and calmed himself down peering over at your sketchbook in your hand.

“You ever think about getting a tattoo?” you asked, not looking up making him jump. You usually didn’t speak unless it was to ask about a certain arrangement.

“Not really, It’s not my style,” he said.

“I think some ink would look nice on you,” you said looking up at him your intense eyes hitting him with full force. He felt his knees go weak and he was glad that you couldn’t see the way his legs shook. He was such a sucker for you, you barely spoke and yet, just the hint that you think he’d be more attractive with a tattoo made his head spin.

“Would you do that for me? Tattoo me that is,” he breathed. You smiled at him.

“I’d love to, I’ve got some designs I think you’d like,” you said shifting and flipping through the book on your lap. You’d been thinking about him?

“It’s not a flower is it?” he asked walking around the counter to your side seeing your art.

“Oh please I wouldn’t be so cliche,” you scoffed landing on a page with multiple small designs. And pointed to one in a corner. “This one is for you.”

He peered down and saw it was a small snail with mushrooms growing out of the back of his shell.

“Wow,” he breathed.

“It’s cool as hell right?” you asked proudly.

“I love it,” he said. “But don’t tattoos hurt?” he asked meekly. You smirked at him.

“Ever pricked your finger on a thorn?” you asked.

“Sure,”

“It’s no worse than that, I promise,” you said glancing down at your watch. “Shit I have to get going, but think about it, I can squeeze you in Thursday afternoon,” you said with a wink, whipping your hands off on your shorts and leaving him with a small wave. He watched as you left and put his hands in his head and groaned. He was so very whipped for you. Then he smiled to himself. You’d been thinking about him, you’d drawn up a tattoo for him.

Honenuki was shaking like a leaf as he waited in the lobby of Jagged Ink. he was still in his pastel work sweater. The woman who sat behind the counter eyed him sympathetically. Her hair was dyed a vibrant orange and she had more piercings on her face than he could count. She was very nice as she checked him in for his appointment but all he could think about was how this chick could totally kick his ass.

The other clients and artists inside didn’t help set his mind at ease either. But then you came up to the front and grinned at him “good to see you kid, come on back and we’ll get started,” he followed you meekly not making eye contact. One of the other artists whistled and called your name

“This the boyfriend?” he called

“Shut it Olly,” you said not looking back. His cheeks went bright red

“B-boyfriend?” he stammered you just rolled your eyes.

“Olly just likes teasing, he thinks I like you cus I always go over to your place for lunch,” you said casually, stopping at a chair. Your explanation didn’t calm him down. People thought you liked him? Why? Did you talk about him? Why did you have to call it his place, that made it sound like you were coming over to his house? Did you like him?

“Did you decide where you want it?” you asked. Honenuki sighed and tapped the back of his shoulder. You nodded “sounds good, go ahead and take your shirt off,” you said sitting down on a backless stool and setting up your gun and ink. This, he was prepared for, he’d practiced in the mirror you saying those words and then him actually doing it. He still had to take a few deep breaths before shrugging off his top. You glanced up then did a double-take.

“Damn kid you’re ripped as hell how did you get so buff?” you asked openly learning at his chest. He was so not ready for this, he had to fight the urge to cover himself.

“I work out, I mean I have a life out of the flower shop,” he mumbled before sitting down in the backwards-facing chair. You laughed.

“Alright alright fair enough, lets get started yeah?”

You were right the pain wasn’t that bad, it was kind of nice almost he could see why some people got addicted to getting tatoos, what was even better was the constant drone of conversation. He just liked talking to you.

“It looks gorgeous,” he said holding up a mirror and admired your finished work. You beamed.

“Let me know if you ever want something else I’ve got a couple other things I think you’d like,” you said. There you went again, making him blush like it was nothing. Honenuki couldn’t help but feel adrenaline build up in his chest. Fuck it right? He was already doing out of character things.

“If I asked you out on a date you stay yes?” he asked bluntly. It was finally your turn to look flustered.

“I-I uhm I mean yeah,” you stammered before looking down at your hands fidgeting with your fingers. “Do you want to go over the care again?” you asked falling back on what you knew. He smilled.

“I’m good, How about lunch tomorrow? Something casual,” he said, very much enjoying the power he seemed to have over you, it was nice to know that you liked him the same way he liked you.

“Cool,” you said nodding.

“cool.”

[starcrossedkaiju]

Kingslayer AU: Chapter Eight

I don’t know what to say other than I like this one. Rendog enjoyers come get your free angst!

Scott filled the pages of his sketchbook gradually at first. He sat at his window and drew what he saw, focusing on putting shapes on the paper. Many times he was unhappy with the finished product, almost ripping out and throwing away his limited space.

He had to learn to be okay with it. The next time it would be a bit better, and a bit better, until the tree he’d been slaving over didn’t look half bad.

Soon his interests turned to drawing his friends. Their faces would pop up on his pages, drowned in eraser smudges at first. Then it became easy. Like second nature, he could memorize Grian’s knowing grin, Jimmy’s downturned eyes, Martyn’s slightly crooked nose.

He drew the way he saw Ren’s piercing yellow eyes that night, the way they were shadowed by his brow.

It felt better. To have a place where his memories could stay exactly the way he saw them. Scott even pinned some up on the wall of his room.

Soon his supply of paper started dwindling, Martyn told him if he needed more drawing paper to come back and ask him for some. So he did, after Jimmy went to bed and the world was quiet under the snow.

Scott made a trip to the Renchanting base, entering through the tunnel hidden under the mountain. It took him right to the storage area. Which was dark and deserted. Only a clock ticked on the wall, everyone else must have been in the sleeping quarters or back at their bases to fend off the Phantoms.

He took a torch from the “stuff chest” and started making rounds, looking at each storage container. Food, Armor, ores, wood, stone, and redstone. Until there was a wall of chests with people’s names on them.

Everyone in the Red Army had a chest, from left to right there was Ren, Martyn, Etho, Skiz, Impulse, Tango, Joel, and then Scott.

The last chest on the right side, Scott’s name was carved on top. It hadn’t been there before. He placed his hand on the lock, wondering if he should even bother opening it. Someone had cared enough to dedicate a space for him to put things. Under the roof of Dogwarts no less.

His torch flickered and Scott decided he’d spent too long lurking around, so he flipped the lock up and quietly opened the chest. Slowly so it wouldn’t creek.

Inside there was a single stack of drawing paper. Hand-sewn like the one Martyn had given him.

Scott placed the torch down and retrieved the paper. He knew it must have been Martyn. A smile found its way onto his face, and he let it stay there. This time, when nobody was looking.

Blowing out the torch and closing the chest, Scott gathered the sketchbook and decided to just leave through the front. It was almost midnight anyways.

Up the stairs and to the double doors of the enchanting room. The book on the table rose from its position and opened towards him as he walked past. Scott still had his hand on the doorknob when he opened it and stepped out into the frigid night.

Of course he didn’t expect to see anything, so when he did see something he froze in place.

In the spot that Martyn would typically occupy, on the very top of the walls sat Ren. His grey cape was bundled around himself to keep out the cold and his pointed ears were pressed low on his head. He was facing away from Scott.

Huddled on the perch, Ren’s shoulders were shaking. Silently, he cried.

Scott stood in the doorway motionless. He couldn’t believe the scene in front of him. Ren wasn’t one to cry. He was calculating and smart, rarely loosing his temper to even the worst of setbacks. A humorous man in charge of an Army of vagabonds, he never cried. He never expressed so much as a single weakness, he couldn’t afford that.

So it really shouldn’t have been a surprise, not really, that the Red King would save his sorrow for when nobody should be looking. Under the loneliest arm of the Milky Way, coldly gazing down on him. The weight of every star in the sky on his shoulders.

It made him look small.

Scott backed away from the door and ran back to the tunnel he came from, the kind of running you do when you are convinced your worst nightmare is snapping at your heels; and maybe for Scott it was.

He sprinted home without looking back. Trying to shove the image of Ren out the back of his mind.

That night he crept quietly back into bed, doing his best not to disturb Jimmy. Who stirred momentarily before simply turning over.

Scott stared at the arm of the Milky Way through the window until he fell into a dreamless sleep.

Days pressed by, Scott slithered too and from the walls of Dogwarts under the noses of his allies and between Spy Ring meetings. The first page of his new sketchbook lay empty, because whenever his pencil hovered above that damn page all he could see was a man huddled up under a galaxy of stars that would never return his wishes.

So when he was called out on night watch to the Renchanting base, Scott snuck out with his empty sketchbook held close to his chest. He arrived to a sleeping base, aware that his shift would be over in an hour and he would get to go home when the next guard showed up.

He yawned and stared out the window, at the stars above the wall. A pencil came to his hand and he started drawing what he saw. The shape of the wall against the glowing sky. He drew it, but it wasn’t right. The image in his mind came back to the front.

A weeping man holding a million stars on his shaking shoulders, the end of his frayed cape flaring out when the breeze kicked up. Tiny compared to the infinite sky. Scott’s fingers and palm turned black with graphite as he crafted the cosmos onto that paper.

His scribbling and smudging consumed all his thoughts as he focused on making the scene perfect, the pencil dulled and threatened to snap under the pressure.

“Major,” a stern voice came from right behind him.

Scott seized up in his chair, a feeling of terror so pure exploded in his chest that his vision left him for a few seconds. He gasped and turned around with his jaw on the floor.

Behind him was Ren. Clad in his winter jacket, a hand on the back of Scott’s chair. He stared directly into the other’s eyes from behind the dark lenses of his aviators. All the color had gone from his face.

Hoping the Red King hadn’t seen what he was drawing, Scott moved his hand to close the book.

It was too late. Ren had been watching him draw for long enough to know.

“You saw me?” Ren asked, but it was phrased more like a fact. It was.

Scott’s hesitation was enough of an answer. He stared up into Ren’s glasses, reminded of a familiar time. This time was different though, and this time Scott wished he could see behind the lenses.

He nodded and tore his eyes away, it felt intrusive to be staring.

“Ren,” Scott said to the floor, but was dismissed.

“No. Just go home. Now,” the other man ordered with a wavering voice.

Scott didn’t nod, he didn’t look at Ren. He gathered the sketchbook and slammed it shut within five seconds.

He didn’t say goodbye as he fled the walls. Scott ran from Ren, and this time he felt bad about it.

Scott didn’t return to Dogwarts for a week after that. Nobody called him to the night shift, nobody asked him to run any supplies. Maybe he was grateful for that, in the sense that he wouldn’t have to look Ren in the eyes again.

Until one night he couldn’t sleep. The clouds cast a dark blanket over the sky. Scott huffed and crawled out of bed, not bothering to change out of his pajamas. He pulled his boots on and took his coat off the hanger.

A walk is what he told himself he was going on, but really he knew where he was going. He didn’t know why, but for some reason Scott had a feeling he wasn’t the only one that couldn’t sleep.

This time instead of entering Dogwarts through the underground he rounded the front, cresting the hill right in front of Big B’s house. Scott scanned the top of the wall and saw what he was looking for. He shoved his hands in his pockets and entered Dogwarts through the front door.

Scott climbed the ladder and balanced himself as he walked over to Ren, who was sitting with his legs dangling over the side of the wall. His jacket was pulled tightly around him. Scott didn’t greet him when he sat down, Ren had seen him coming a mile away.

Ren didn’t look at him, he breathed in heavily, then sighed out a burst of vapor into the cold air.

“You couldn’t sleep?” Scott started the conversation this time.

“Wouldn’t matter if I could. I’m on night watch,” Ren said after a beat of silence.

Scott nodded, turning his head to the dark sky, “it’d be nicer with some stars, hm?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Ren trailed off. He stared at his shoes.

“Okay I’m sorry, I’ll just-“ Scott made to get up and leave but Ren interrupted him.

“No, wait, you can stay,” Ren pulled on the sleeve of Scott’s elbow.

Scott nodded and pulled his knees closer to his chest. A pocket of clouds had moved, creating a window that let the moon gaze upon the Earth.

“Do you stargaze a lot?” Ren asked, this time he looked at Scott.

He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses.

“I try,” Scott replied, “there’s this huge book I found uh, In a village library a while ago. It has everything you can possibly see from down here in it,” he mused.

“Have you ever read one?” Scott asked.

“Uh, an astronomy book?” Ren’s eyes flicked to the left in thought, “I mean I’ve seen them. I haven’t read them. You like astronomy?” he asked.

Scott nodded, then pointed north, into the cloud cover, “you can’t see it now, but Ursa Major would be right over there,” he said.

Ren looked over like he was trying to imagine it, “you like Ursa Major?”

“Easiest to remember,” Scott said plainly.

“I’ll bet. S’ like a namesake,” Ren rested his chin on his palm, “I wish I had a constellation with my name,” his ear twitched on his head.

Scott’s metaphorical ears perked up, “Oh well, there’s one kind of like that,” he said. Ren’s actual ears perked up.

“It’s called Canis Major. It means Great Dog, or Big Dog,” Scott pointed south, “it will always be easy to see on a clear day. One of its stars is called Sirius,” he explained.

Ren nodded, “I’m familiar. Brightest in the sky, right?”

“Yeah. That’s right,” Scott replied.

“Canis Major huh?” Ren repeated. Scott nodded.

“Canis Major, and,” he looked over at Scott, “Scott Major,” Ren nudged the other on the shoulder.

“Right,” Scott said, and suddenly the sky didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

Not when you have a friend to share it with.

[jaeminzie]

worth it | l.dh

↳ lee haechan x gender nuetral!reader

synopsis: having a turtoring session with fratboy!hyuck that you were bribed into turned into a cuddle session, but he definitely didn’t mind at all

genre: fluffff

word count: 2,123

you rubbed your head in frustration as the memory kept replaying in your head, making you regret your past decision. earlier in the day, lee donghyuck was practically begging you to tutor him for his upcoming exam. you were so set on saying ‘no’ because you very much disliked the guy but he began to wave fifty dollars in your face. and you, a broke college student, completely forgot about all the unfavorable feelings towards the boy and gave in.

but as hours passed by, you began to reconsider if spending time with donghyuck was worth fifty dollars. maybe if it were doubled then you wouldn’t be second-guessing your past decision. you looked at your phone to check the time, just to see if it was too late to back out now. and unfortunately for you, it was.

you let out a loud groan in the middle of the student café lounge area that you and your best friend, renjun, were relaxing in. “nice to see you doing well, y/n.” renjun took a pause from drawing on his sketchbook and looked up smiling mockingly at you to which you didn’t respond to in any way shape or form. the smile dropped and a wave of annoyance took over his facial expressions. “okay, what is it. are you hungry? you should’ve just aske-”

“i’m not always hungry.” you rolled your eyes at him and lowered yourself in your seat. “it’s donghyuck-”

“oh god. then whatever it is, that obnoxiously loud groan was valid.” he groaned with you. renjun never had a good impression on donghyuck because he didn’t brake his car for renjun when he was trying to walk across the pedestrian crosswalk, and donghyuck never said sorry nor look apologetic. instead, he just gave renjun trauma. he’s the reason why renjun always wait ten seconds minimum before crossing the street. although it gets annoying, his lost face before crossing reminds you of a cute kitten which makes up for the long wait. “what did he do this time?”

“he’s paying me to tutor him at his frat.” his face was evident in disgust and empathy. “i’m regretting saying yes because i’m too exhausted to deal with him.” you whined and put your face in your hands, rubbing it harshly in an attempt to wake yourself up.

“y/n, you are so strong.” he grabbed your hand away from your face and rubbed your hand awkwardly as he looked at you with apologetic eyes. “no but seriously, text me when he starts acting up. i’ll have jaemin with me for backup because i mean.” he lifted up his arms and tried to flex his arm muscles. key word: tried. “you know.”

you let out a chuckle, closed your eyes, and let your head fall back. “i’ll definitely be live texting you whenever he says and does something stupid.”

“so basically, what you’re saying is that you’ll be texting me every second. might as well have me on facetime.” 

you looked back at your best friend who was showing a toothy grin. “basically.” you checked your phone again and saw that if you didn’t leave now then you’d be late to the session. “fuck, i gotta get going. please wish me luck.” you lazily got up, got your bag and stood still in front of renjun with a face that was screaming ‘help me.’

“c’mon at least you’re getting paid, right?”

“you’re right, i need to stop being such a child.” you sighed and tried to erase every negative thought and feeling inside of you.

“kick his ass if he acts up though.” he raised an eyebrow at you.

you scoffed, “of course of course.” you sighed once again and pet renjun’s hair as you walked emotionless out of the student café and made your way to the bus stop.

donghyuck’s fraternity was only a couple blocks away and it honestly wouldn’t take long to walk there but you were too tired to even try.

the commute was quick but you wish it wasn’t. there you were, standing outside the door of regret. the outside was fairly clean but you knew that the inside would be a completely different story. you knocked a few times on the white door before a smiling donghyuck greeted you. “oh wow, you actually came.”

you fought back the urge to roll your eyes. “you’re welcome.” you both stood there awkwardly while he stared you down and you tried avoiding eye contact.

“oh sorry, come in.” he turned his body to make way for yours to enter his place. “i made sure we’re alone because it’s usually loud when the others are here. they’ll be back in a couple hours, though.” he scratched his neck and yawned while you examined the place. you were right, the inside was messy but to your surprise, it wasn’t too bad.

“yeah sounds good. it shouldn’t take too long” you turned to face him and gawked at his appearance. okay there’s no denying donghyuck is pretty decent looking, but he looks extra good today. he stood there awkwardly with his hands rested in the pockets of his oversized black jacket. his hair was slightly ruffled up, you can tell he just woke up from a nap. “you really thought i’d flake on you?” you raised an eyebrow.

his eyes wondered your facial features and marks. “i mean, you kinda hate me so.”

“i don’t hate you.” you corrected him. you may have a strong disfavor of him but you don’t hate him.

he smirked, his body seemed to relax a lot more. “then, let’s get started.” he walked past me and lead the way up the spiral staircase and into his room, which was surprisingly clean and well decorated with a tidy computer gaming set at the corner.

you set your bag right by the bed which you sat on. “so specifically, what are you struggling on?” you asked him looking at his figure that was leaned against his dresser a couple feet across from you.

“uh everything?” he let out a shy laugh and crossed his arms in front of him.

you decided not to scold him for always partying because truth is, you don’t know anything that’s going on in his life so you swallowed the upcoming insults that were climbing up your throat. “oh, well, we should get started asap then so we don’t finish too late.” you cleared your throat.

his eyes widened in surprise like he was expecting your usual witty remarks that he secretly loved, but you weren’t aware of his fondness for your attitude. “yeah for sure, let me get my stuff.” he hurriedly gathered his materials and set them on the bed next to me since he didn’t have a desk in his room. well, he did have his computer desk but there was definitely no room for books there.

he climbed on the bed and rested on his stomach and flipped the pages of the textbook, trying to find the first section he needed assistance on.

you kicked off your shoes and laid down next to him, but keeping your distance from him. he smirked slightly while still keeping his focus on the page. “you can scoot closer so you can see the book clearer.” he looked at you with innocent eyes.

in instinct, you rolled your eyes and scooted a bit closer to him. close enough to smell his cologne and close enough to see his moles randomly placed on his face and neck clearly. you took your attention away from his face when he suddenly made eye contact with you, catching you off-guard. 

his warm, soft bedsheets did no help in keeping you awake. you tried to focus on the words he was spitting out but every word entered one ear and went out the other as your eyelids began to feel heavier, and your vision slowly began to black out.

—

“dude what the fuck happened?” an unfamiliar whisper woke you up from your sleep but you ignored it, just trying to go back to your dreamland.

until you felt something absurd, someone’s warm embrace wrapped around you, your head was now resting on a pillow and an arm, and your cheek was rubbing against a wet patch of what you assumed was your drool on a white t-shirt fabric. “bro shut the fuck up, you’re gonna wake y/n up.” now, that was a familiar whisper to you. your heartbeat raced faster and faster as you made the conclusion that you were cuddling with the lee donghyuck. you internally groaned knowing that renjun will never shut up about this once you tell him. this will be his winning comeback for your future arguments. i mean, you could not tell him but what kind of best friend would you be if you didn’t inform him of the time you magically started cuddling with a man you disliked—but still enjoyed it.

“you better tell me everything later.” the whisper was a lot harsher than the first one, then silence followed after the unknown boy closed the door. you assumed he was gone but you waited to lift your head up to make it not obvious that you were awake to listen to their conversation.

“i know you’re awake.” donghyuck laughed above you, his chest rumbled against your cheek. “you stopped snoring a while ago.”

you groaned in annoyance and also in embarrassment. you slowly lifted your head up to look up at him and you were not ready to see the sight of him looking down at you with a soft smile and even messier hair, causing your heart to skip a beat. both your arms were still wrapped around each other, leaving no space between you both. “what the fuck.” you blurted out, not knowing what else to say.

donghyuck’s tired smile widened. “i should be the one asking you that. sweetheart, you’re the one who cuddled up to me first.” he enjoyed watching your face flush red in embarrassment, anger, and also by the way he looked at you so attentively. “you know, its quite rude.” he tightened his grip around you. “i’m supposed to be paying for a tutoring lesson.” he pursed his lips and furrowed his eyebrows, not breaking eye contact with you.

you remained looking at him with shaky eyes, not believing the situation you were in. your mouth opened, then it closed, then it opened to say something but donghyuck cut you off. “but this is so much better, my money well spent.” he sighed contently and closed his eyes, rubbing his cheek against the top of your head.

you could’ve protested or done anything to get out of his grip but your body stayed the way it is. “i didn’t even get to teach you one lesson, i’m sorry.” you were sincere with your apology, you wasted his time and now he’s probably gonna fail his exam if you two keep cuddling.

“i don’t care about that. i prefer this much more.” his eyes were still closed. you continued to admire his face and tried to memorize every single detail and placement of each mark. “hmmm, why don’t you take a picture?” he hummed, still keeping his eyes closed.

your hands made their way up his ear and pinched it. he let out a whine and finally opened his eyes which immediately landed directly on yours. “quit it.” you warned him.

“as you wish, darling.” his voice became lower and it almost sounded like a whisper. a soft smirk appeared on his face and his eyes were sparkling under the moonlight that shined through his window. “i love talking to you but i think i finally found something i love even more—sleeping with you.”

you opened your mouth to say something but his finger pressed against your lips to keep you quiet. he shushes you softly while he shuffled slightly to find a comfortable position, still keeping his embrace secure around you and his eyelids began to slowly drop. you admired his face once more before closing your eyes as well.

the question you asked yourself earlier today lingered in your mind before drifting off to your sleep again. is spending time with donghyuck worth fifty dollars? considering how warm he felt against you, and how you loved to hear his breathing and soft snores above you, and how perfect your body naturally molded into his embrace. you could finally answer the question confidently, yes.

[hello-im-not-a-possum]

Hell's Studio fic idea: A pipe bursts and Sammy becomes a toon Imp like Snowflake and Bendy, and Joey doesn't know how to reverse it ASAP, so Sammy is stuck as a toon Imp and Sammy decides to hangout with Snowflake until Joey can reverse the ink's magic (Bonus points if: Sammy gets a uncontrollable stutter as a toon Imp, Susie cooing her small boyfriend, and Sammy drawing with snowflake)

I am So sorry that this took so freaking long, but here you go!

Wally slapped his forehead in exasperation as he heard the pipe bursting from the music department's break room. Then proceeded to go in there, with Snowflake following close behind just in case he needed someone small to check in any holes in the wall that the pipe made in the process.

The sight was familiar, but unwelcome to the pair; a pile of thick ink sliding down onto the floor through the broken pipe peeking through the ceiling. Snowflake was only thankful that it had spilled to the floor instead of the pool table.

“I’m startin' ta think dat eitheah we should completely tear down da music department to put in a betteah pipe system, or just stop fixin' the dang things so dat they at least stop surprisin' us."

The Janitor grumbled as he started mopping up the mess.

"A-at least nobody got caught in it this time."

As soon as Snowflake said that, something under the pile began to move.

“Mmmmh?"

"Yikes, spoke too soon, kiddo."

Wally stated calmly as he started to scrape the excess ink off of what looked exactly like Bendy, except the imp's tie lacked the fun patterns Bendy often wore, and more importantly, he was missing his mouth. So the obvious conclusion the pair made was: The ink ruined his tie by dying it black and also stole his mouth.

"M-mr. Bendy?! are you okay?!"

The formerly buried imp looked at the other one with a perplexed expression before mouthing something, realized that he wasn't saying anything, patting his face where his mouth should've been, and looking like he was about to panic.

"MMMMmmPPHH?! MMMH!! MMPHH!!!"

"Looks like the ink erased your pie hole, boss."

The imp rolled his eyes at stared at Wally in a very sarcastic manner before leaving the room, most likely to visit Joey about this issue.

"...Do you think he's not going to want to do that drawing lesson later?"

"What, Bendy? not want ta draw with ya overah somethin' like this? Nah. It's nothin' fun to wake up to, but I don't think it'll eat at him like it will if it happened ta Sammy."

----------------------

"MmMMmMMM?!?! MMPHH!! MMMPPHHH!?"

Sammy hopped up and down while wildly gesturing to the blank white space on his face where his mouth was supposed to be while Joey flipped through heavily ink-stained spell books. Meanwhile, the real Bendy was still gawking at his doppelganger, still not quite sure whether he should feel flattered or offended that the ink pulled this on Sammy. But also not saying anything because he couldn't find any jokes to lighten the mood with.

It would be one thing if the ink also gave Sammy Bendy's trademark smile (that could make other expressions too). If it did that, Bendy would be making so many mirror and twin related jokes. But it didn't.

"It's going to be fine." Joey repeated almost more to himself than to the hopping mad imp. "Just because an ink flood took out some of my reversal spells, doesn't mean that you're going to be stuck like this forever. Best case scenario, it'll take a few hours for me to find the right one, worst case scenario I'm going to need to order a new book, and that might take a while."

"MMm MmhP?"

"I don't know how long! Some of these are the rarest on the market! Goodness knows how long it'll take to replace if it's ruined and has the correct cure in it..."

The music director let out a heavily muffled, frustrated sigh.

"Yes, I'm annoyed too." Joey sighed as well. "But at least it's not going to be forever."

'Easy for you to say.' Sammy thought to himself as trying and failing to talk was starting to hurt his jaw. 'You're not the one dealing with this! how am I supposed to do my job when I can't speak to anyone?!'

He must've been gesturing as he thought this as Joey snapped his fingers in realization and handed Sammy a notebook and a pencil.

"I know it won't help with the more vocal aspects of your job, but it's better than not having any way to communicate. And much easier than trying to learn sign language in less than a day and with only four digits on each hand."

He tried to write down 'Thanks Joey' but his hands refused to obey him. Confusingly, he instead drew a thumbs up.

"Why thank you! Glad to see that you're taking this better than expected Sammy. I'd better get to work on looking for that spell..."

As Joey left the room, Sammy frowned at the notebook, trying to figure out why he did that. Bendy also peeked at the drawing and felt something click.

"So..." the copied imp awkwardly tugged at his tie as he avoided making eye contact with Sammy. "Just outta curiosity sake, does Snowflake know about this? At least, the fact that it's well, you instead of me?"

Sammy gave Bendy a funny look but nodded anyway.

"Okay, follow up question: ...Is now a bad time to tell you that before you burst in here trying to tell us to fix this that Joey and I were arguing over whether I should go to this meeting with GENT or to give drawing lessons to Snowflake like I promised to, and literally right before you came in I said: 'Well dang it Joey if I could be in two places at once, I would!'?"

Sammy frowned as he saw the guilty yet pleading look in Bendy's eyes, calmly took the newspaper off of Joey's desk, rolled it up and smacked Bendy right upside the head.

"Hey! What gives?!" He sputtered as he rubbed the back of his head.

The Mute music director drew a series of pictures: Bendy putting something in the ink, the ink rising up and flashing him the 'ok' hand sign, Bendy giving it a thumbs up in return and leaving on his merry way, a shift in perspective revealing Sammy as a human having seen the interaction but shrugging it off, Sammy (still human) playing pool with Jack, Grant, and Johnny, the four of them having a good time, the ceiling above them creaking and rumbling ominously, making the four opt to leave, Sammy coming back into the pool room slightly later and keeping an eye on the ceiling, Sammy taking what he came back into the room for, the ceiling above him suddenly bursting and covering him with ink, and the last picture; a bunch of puzzle pieces being fit together, with the picture on the pieces being a lit light bulb.

After showing Bendy his work, he crossed his arms and tapped his foot on the ground.

"What?! You can't seriously blame me for- Okay, yes. I did kinda make a request... but I figured I'D be the one getting drenched! Not you!"

Sammy raised a single eyebrow as Bendy let out a frustrated sigh.

"Look, if I knew that this was what would happen, I wouldn't have done it! But now that it's happened ...would ya help me out with this?"

Sammy's next drawing was his current form with an intentionally bad scribble of Bendy's mouth on the space where he was supposed to have a mouth to indicate it was (poorly) drawn on, and he was trying and failing to do Bendy's job for him as he couldn't speak.

"Of course I'm not going to shirk my responsibilities to make you pretending to be me look like an idiot in front of those big wigs at GENT. I mean, goodness, if this thing flops, who knows what'll happen."

The Musician then showed Bendy a drawing that was so horrible and cold that he wouldn't even dare grace it with a description.

"WHAT KINDA DEMON DO YOU THINK I AM, LAWRENCE?!" Bendy quieted down and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I get it, Damned if I do the thing, damned if I don't do the other thing. I can't let down Snowflake, but if I'm not at that meeting, the studio's relationship with GENT could get bruised! This is why I tried this stunt in the first place!"

He sighed as Sammy just continued to tap his foot in annoyance. "Tell you what, help me and I'll give you anything you ask for! A raise, me not pranking you for a month, more paid vacation days, magic-repelling acetone, name it and it's yours!*"

*Within reason. I'm a demon not a miracle worker!

Sammy showed Bendy an intentionally shaky 'Ok' sign, the closest thing he could think of to a picture version of a hesitant and unwilling 'fine, I'll do it...'

"Oh Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" Bendy practically crushed his doppelganger in a spine-breaking hug. "I really owe you this one Sammy!"

'I hope you realize how goddamned lucky you are that I like that kid.' Sammy thought to himself as he patted his double on the back. 'Otherwise I'd hang you out to dry for doing this...'

------------------------

The music director had no interest in deceiving Snowflake; even if he wanted to follow Bendy's plan to the spirit of his deal, he knew too well that the studio and it's ink would always drag any secret up to the surface. So it would just be easier to come clean at the start before lies had the chance to spiral into something that could completely break the poor kid.

"Hi Mr. Bendy! Are you ready for our lesson?"

Sammy nodded, but gestured for his pupil to wait a second before he flipped through the pages of his sketchbook and showed him a series of pictures: some showing the origin of his new condition, and the others showing his deal with Bendy.

"Oh." The child imp seemed sad, and slightly disappointed, but also not surprised. "So Bendy couldn't make it today either..."

The older imp sympathetically patted Snowflake on the back and tried his best to draw out an explanation, but it's kind of hard to put 'He really did want to make it, in fact, he wanted to so much that he was willing to split himself in half for it! But as you can see, it kinda backfired...' into picture format, luckily he got the message across fairly well.

"I-it's okay, I understand. Thanks for filling in for him Mr. Lawrence!"

Snowflake pulled out his own notebook and pencils.

"Do you think you can show me how to do hands that well?"

Sammy eagerly nodded and flipped his book to a blank page.

[strange-lace]

Did you think I was joking when I said my Monkie Kid, Nagi, becomes a pseudo therapist for the team? FOOLISH, SHAPESHIFTING MEANS FREE THERAPY! But I have no idea what this is, I just started writing for some hurt/comfort (I think) post episode 9 and wanted to post it without editing because why not? Plus I just wanted to do some more with Nagi since it’s been a hot minute since I talked about her.

Enjoy and hopefully you get some chuckle worthy mental images like it did for me!

It was an odd sensation to Nagi, shapeshifting that is.

The closest way she could describe it is like that of her body becoming clay, free to be morphed into anything that she desired as long as she had a clear image in her head and enough practice. Hair length, color, height, weight, vocal cords, all were free for her to change and allow herself to fit into any setting like a chameleon. Or more accurately, like a snake camouflaged into its surroundings, waiting for the perfect moment to strike at its prey.

The sensation of always feeling like she was hiding among others was one Nagi had felt since birth.

It had only gotten worse with the sacrifices forced on her that made her shapeshifting even stronger.

Some days, she felt like her ability to become anyone was more trouble than it was worth.

But this was certainly not one of those days.

“Are you sure about this kiddo? Remember, the moment it becomes too much for you, all you gotta do is say something and I’ll shift into something else. This is meant to help you above all else, got it?” Nagi lectured for what felt like the third time, wanting to hammer in the point to MK before they began. When the little guy had entered her cave at the crack of dawn asking for a favor, this was certainly not what she was expecting.

Then again, Nagi was still a sluggish mess when MK had shaken her from her slumber in a frantic desperation.

“Uhhh, what’s goin’ on kid? What time is it?” She slurred, noting the faint rays of blue, pink, and orange barely providing a break from the darkness in her cave. The last traces of sleep snapped away from her eyes once she took notice of MK who, to put it bluntly, was an absolute mess.

Dark rings circled his eyes, hair a tousled mess without his signature headband, and clothes rumpled as if he had slept in them. Though Nagi genuinely questioned if he had even slept throughout the night. Wait, were those bruises?

“Nagi can you… can you shift into someone you’ve never met before?” MK asked, completely ignoring her questions. He seemed almost tense as he stood at the edge of Nagi’s nest, a giant cluster of pillows that she had collected over the years.

“That depends bud. If you give me a detailed enough picture, then sure. No guarantee I’ll have the voice right, but it can be done. Why do you ask? You need my help with something?” She pulled herself out of her nest, letting out a groan as her stiff bones cracked yet kept her eyes on MK. He seemed almost relieved at this answer, heavy shoulders relaxing the slightest bit before pulling out one of his many sketchbooks from his jacket. Pages were flipped through with frantic speed before he found what he was looking for, practically shoving the book in Nagi’s face.

At first she had thought it was a drawing of Sun Wukong until she took notice of the dark fur and, more importantly, the almost sadistic smirk on his face. He was surrounded by shadows that seemed to sprout from the ground at his feet, all with matching grins and empty purple eyes. Overall, it was certainly an ominous picture of an individual that Nagi hoped to never have the misfortune of meeting.

But evidently, MK did.

“Would that work?” Okay, now MK was starting to make her worried.

“Uhhh… sure, yeah. And not that this isn’t a wonderful art, but you mind telling me who this guy is? A friend of Sun Wukong’s perhaps?” Nagi asked and internally winced when he seemed to flinch at the question. MK was silent for a moment, as if debating with himself whether to tell her, before simply giving a sigh.

“That’s Macaque. I… I’ll tell you more later, I promise. I just need you to do this important favor for me.” She was starting to not like where this was going. But the demon could never say no to the kid, the heavens help her.

“Alright, you already know I’m willing to kill for you so out with it bud.”

“I need you to shift into Macaque and just… I don’t know, whatever with me. I just want to not be afraid of his face anymore,” MK mumbled, his knuckles white at how tight he was holding on to his sketchbook. All sorts of alarm bells were going off in Nagi’s head at this and a part of her wanted to push for more information now, so she can find this Macaque and skin him alive. But that wasn’t going to help MK right now, so she pushed that heat in her chest down.

“Alright, that I think I can do bud. Let me go get my rollerblades and KO!”

And that led to where they were now, at the outskirts of the city with Nagi wanting nothing more to ensure that MK was comfortable.

“I know, I know Nagi! Just… do it before I chicken out, please?”

“Alright, alright, as long as you’re sure.” With that, Nagi closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She focused on the image MK had given her and felt her very being soften like clay to be molded. Her hair morphed into thick, black fur which spread over her body, clothes shifted to match the armored garments in the drawing, and she gained a familiar tail and large ears. It felt none too different to when she shifts into the Monkey King himself if she were to be honest.

Yet the look of uneasiness and fear Nagi was met with when she opened her eyes made her want nothing more to shift into anybody else.

“You still with me MK?” She asked tentatively, remaining perfectly still despite her wanting to scoop him up in a hug. MK gave another flinch, this time at hearing Nagi’s squeaky, hissy voice coming out of what looked like Macaque yet at the same time he couldn’t help but chuckle at the bizarre contrast. It quickly became a full on laugh as Nagi gave him an expression of exaggerated offense, the demon quickly catching on to the best idea on how to make this face less terrifying.

“I’m- I’m sorry, but hearing your voice come out of Macaque’s mouth is too funny!” He stuttered and the ache in her heart started to lighten up, just relieved to see the young man not as tense.

“I’ll have you know I have the voice of a goddess, young man!” Nagi said with an over-the-top huff, hands on her hips and a pout on her face. That only caused another bout of uncontrollable giggles from MK and she couldn’t help the smile on her face before taking the opportunity to put on her rollerblades. She was completely aware of how ridiculous she looked since said rollerblades were bright pink and decorated with numerous stickers courtesy of Mei.

Oh, Nagi was going to have so much fun ruining this Macaque’s reputation, whoever he was.

“Now, do me a favor and push me. I’m gonna skate down this entire hill backwards!”

“Isn’t that, I don’t know, kind of dangerous?”

“Oh it is, which is why I’m doing it and not you.”

Despite the look of skepticism on his face, that was enough for MK as he gave her a hearty shove. Nagi didn’t bother to hold back the scream of both terror and joy as gravity pulled her down the hill, frantic giggles punctuating the air. MK merely watched the spectacle with amusement as Nagi continued on into the city streets. She practically flew past confused pedestrians at the speed she was going, a number of those did double takes to be sure of what they saw.

The sound of a crash caused him to wince and quickly use the staff to pole vault over to where the demon had come to an unfortunate stop.

“You okay?!” Despite being covered in trash and hit a dumpster hard enough to make a dent in the metal, Nagi looked giddy as a child.

“I’m all good bud, thankfully I didn’t break my spine so it was totally worth it!” She said, prying herself out of her dumpster crater and happily brushed herself off. Seeing such a toothy but genuine smile combined with Macaque’s face was strange to MK, but he managed to not flinch as Nagi rose to her full height so it was a start. “Want to hit the arcade next? Or are you too afraid of your big sister beating you at all your favorite games?”

That certainly perked him up.

“Oh you’re so on!”

“That’s the spirit! Race you!” And like that, Nagi was off again though at a much more controlled speed and MK wasn’t too far behind.

“Hey that’s not fair, you’re on rollerblades!”

Up above the streets on his nimbus, Sun Wukong watched the two with an unidentifiable expression.

“No way, you absolutely cheated!” MK repeated for the third time, being carried on piggyback by Nagi as the demon skated down to Pigsy’s Noodles. It was now dusk and the both of them were still riding the high of spending a whole day goofing off for therapeutic purposes. 

“I don’t know, that sounds like sore loser talk to me. But… did you have a good time bud? How are you feeling?” Nagi asked, tone turning completely serious. MK was quiet a moment, tightening his grip around her shoulders the slightest bit before speaking.

“Yeah, yeah I had a great time. I feel… weird. Because a part of me knows that I spent the day with you, not… him. But at the same time, I’m gonna remember you crashing into a dumpster if I ever see his face again and possibly die from laughing.”

“Then it sounds like my work here is done, ruining reputations is my forte after all!” She came to stop in front of the noodle shop, ears downturned in disappointment. Yet the demon still put MK down, knowing that Pigsy would have her head if she kept the kid out after dark when he had work the next day. “But I’m glad I could help you out kiddo. You get some good rest, alright? I’ll be around to bother you and Pigsy tomorrow.”

And Nagi thought that would be that, until she found herself pulled into a tight hug by MK.

“Thank you.”

She returned the hug without hesitation.

“Don’t mention it.”

Nagi stayed put until she was sure MK made it inside his apartment safely before turning around to return to her cave. After such a busy day, she was ready to curl up in her nest and finish that book Tang had loaned her weeks ago. Maybe brew some tea while she was at it.

Or that was the plan, until she caught the scent of peaches and mischief on her serpentine tongue as she stopped at the entrance of her cave.

“Oh no, not him,” Nagi groaned, secretly hoping that was just the remnants of MK’s scent. Unfortunately that was not the case as she walked inside to find the Monkey King lounging about her home like he owned the place and eating her apples. Resisting the urge to lose it for that alone, the demon took a deep breath and forced a smile that was all teeth.

“Sun Wukong, to what do I owe the pleasure?” She said as if it were anything but a pleasure to be around him. Despite the venom in her tone, the Monkey King continued to lazily chomp on an apple as he finally faced her. Her displeasure quickly evaporated once she noticed how tense he seemed despite the forced nonchalance.

“Hey Nag, took you forever to get here! Saw you hanging out with the kid today.” And despite his attempt to sound serious, Nagi could only blame hanging out with Mei and MK for what she said next.

“R-Rebecca it’s not what you think!” 

“I won’t hesitate bitch!” Seems the Monkey King has been around the kids too long too.

They were both silent for a moment in an attempt to process what happened before the tension broke as they both giggled.

“I don’t know what to tell you man. He just woke me up this morning, asked me if I could shift into this guy called Macaque, and we just did dumb, fun stuff all day. Went out of my way to make the kid laugh until I was sure he’d lose a lung. But he never did tell me why he was so afraid of this face…” Tea. She really needed tea right now. So tea she began to make, not even realizing she had grabbed two cups and was making peach tea until it was too late.

“Oh he didn’t, huh?” Nagi gave him a silent nod, tail twitching in agitation as silence took over again.

“What did this guy do to the kid Wukong? What happened?”

“It’s a long story but let me say you don’t need to hunt him down because we beat him up plenty, it was mainly the kid though.” His pride in MK was infectious as she found herself smiling at that, handing Sun Wukong a mug of warm peach tea as she sat down next to him.

“Good, saves me the effort of doing it myself. I won’t push if either of you don’t want to tell me. But… listen, I’m not just here to help the kid and the others. You annoy the hell out of me but I’m here for you too Wukong. That’s what family does, right?”

The Monkey King was silent at that yet leaned in when Nagi wrapped her tail around his shoulders to gently pull him closer.

“Thanks Nag.”

“You’re welcome.”

[sylvie-writes]

In the Apple Fields.

Summary: You and Steve go on a double date with Bucky and his girlfriend, Ruth, to go apple picking in Saratoga.

Disclaimer: I know nothing about the 30’s/40’s so plz pardon the lack of detail in my writing and anything that is incorrect, I am trying to expand my writing field.

It was kind of hard for me to write this for whatever reason, so it didn’t go as exactly planned, I hope you still enjoy it though!

Warnings: none. besides my dumb-ass apple puns at the end (it was just so a-peeling) I’m done I swear.

As always, plz pardon any mistakes, the stories are always proofread but I tend to make many mistakes regardless.

Part of my Fall Writing!

“Hey doll! Ya ready for today?” 

You excitedly gripped the bright red telephone against your face, your cheeks heating up and a large grin on your lips. In the kitchen, your mother looked back from the stove, to see your childlike giddiness, a smile forming on her own face. 

When you were three, your mother and father moved to Brooklyn from Philadelphia, a better job presenting itself to your family. As soon as you moved in, two little boys, a few years older, came up to greet you and your family, the three of you soon clicking. Days later, you came to know them as Bucky and Steve. Your parents were all very close, a tight knit circle soon forming. 

And now 21 years later, you all were still just as close.

When Steve’s mother had passed, it was hard on everyone. Mrs. Rogers had the best personality, she was like a second mother to you.

When the news arrived that she had passed, Bucky had tried to get Steve to come over and live with them, the stubborn man refusing. Your undeniable love for him made you do just the same. Relentlessly, you’d bother him, bringing him muffins, taking him for lunch, yet not once did he ever budge. 

It was scary to think of Steve ever being homeless or not having any food, for his mother worked hard to make sure that it didn’t happen.

Steve and Bucky were two years older than you, and at the age of five you started developing a crush on the little blonde. Sure, he might’ve been smaller than other boys, but you loved him regardless.

It always crushed you to see Steve getting rejected or teased for the way he looked. In your eyes, he was just as perfect as any other man. As you guys became older, and dating became more prominent, you made sure to be there for Steve. He already had a spot reserved in your heart, if only he knew then. Bucky would try and set Steve up with other girls, but the second they rejected him, the blonde would sit on the sidelines, moping, until you’d find him and spend the whole night with him.

Eventually, Bucky caught on and you even truthfully confessed your feelings, making the man pinky promise on not telling Steve. 

Weeks passed until Bucky was finally over the two of you dancing around each other.

“C’mon punk! She’s totally into you!”

“You’ve lost your mind Buck.” 

Steve just shook his head and solemnly picked at the french fry basket in front of him. You were out shopping with some old friends from high school, when Bucky knew that now was the time to prep Steve.

“Why would I lie about this? She told me! I even made a pinky promise on it.”

Now Steve was full on laughing not realizing Bucky was being dead serious. When his laughter stopped, he saw Bucky’s unamused expression. 

“Wait, you’re being serious?”

“No shit, Sherlock. (y/n) loves you and you need to man up and ask her out, ya idiot.”

“Well, if you are being serious, how would I go about asking out (y/n)?”

“I’m glad you asked…”

And this is the part where Bucky pulls out a 20 slide presentation titled How To Ask Out A Woman. 

That morning Bucky had stopped to invite you for lunch later with them, but you politely rejected, for you had a day planned out with some other friends. When you told Bucky he seemed almost ecstatic which honestly kinda confused you.

Later that day, you’d find out. 

To be more specific, you’d be sitting on the couch, the doorbell ringing. Opening the door, you’d find a well dressed Steve, red roses in one hand, while the other anxiously swiped at his dangling hair. Soon after he’d hand you the roses, his meek voice would speak something along the lines of “Will you go on a date with me?” 

(Sorry about the weird switch of verb tenses) 

And of course you were over the moon! Happily, you rushed the man in and kissed him deeply, his cheeks turning crimson red causing you to giggle. The poor thing was so nervous, you were afraid he was gonna have an asthma attack from just asking you out. 

Now here you were, a year later. Happy with Steve, enjoying every date. 

“I’m so excited Steve!” 

You could hear the man’s laughter over the phone, your smiling only growing bigger. 

This was your first road trip in New York and you were delighted. Last week, you had even invested in some brown leather loafers for the trip, taking on many extra shifts at the library earned you those shoes and you’d treat them like gold from here on out. 

“I couldn’t tell, pumpkin. Bucky and I are gonna go get the car from his cousin’s, then you and Ruth.”

His small sarcastic quip made you giggle some more as you bid him goodbye. 

“Okay, I’ll see you then, darlin.”

“See you soon, angel!” 

Oh! And that’s another thing. 

Since Steve has been dating you, your parents, Bucky, even Bucky’s parents noticed he has a new found sense of confidence. 

Hanging up the phone, you sighed in bliss, picturing the lovely moments to come. Unfortunately your daydream was interrupted as your mother moved from the kitchen, folding her apron on the chair beside you. 

“You don’t want to be late, now do you, dear?” 

With that your mother pulled you away and into the bathroom, grabbing a comb, a red bandana, and some hairspray to pin up your hair. 

To match the hairstyle; navy overalls, a red and white striped shirt underneath, and you were soon prepared for the buggy and muddy fields of the apple orchard. 

An hour later, Steve showed up at your doorstep, holding a hand out for your own. You hugged your parents goodbye and looped your arm in Steve’s. 

The man planted a kiss on your cheek, his arm falling to wrap around your waist, giving a gentle squeeze. 

“Hiya sugar! How are you?” 

You both slowly walked in sync down the apartment stairs. 

“I’m better now that you’re here, honey!”

Turning your head, you threw a small wink his way. 

Steve, ever the gentleman, took your small duffel bag and threw it into the trunk of the convertible as you went to the driver’s seat. 

Kissing Bucky’s cheek, the man then pulled you in for a hug, disregarding the door separating you two.

“Hey doll-face! Excited for the trip I see?” 

You nodded your face and quickly went to the passengers seat. 

Ruth sweetly smiled at you, getting out of the car and embracing you in a hug. 

Out of all of Bucky’s girlfriends, Ruth was by far the sweetest one, the two of you quickly clicking. 

“Hiiiii (y/n)!!” 

“Hey Ruth!” 

“You look absolutely adorable, girly!”

Looking down at your clothes you smiled and returned the compliment to Ruth, taking in her own outfit. A pair of high waisted denim trousers, a white puff sleeve blouse, black loafers, and her strawberry blonde hair tied in a low ponytail. 

The two of you continued to make small conversation, awaiting Steve’s return, who then showed up not too long after. 

Ruth pulled down the passenger seat, allowing you and Steve to crawl into the back. With the sun out, and a small breeze, it was the perfect time for the convertible’s top to be off, after all, it was a three hour drive to Saratoga. 

The three hours passed quickly as you took in the scenery, Bucky making jokes, and you and Ruth singing along to the radio. 

Just as you were fifteen minutes away from the orchard, Steve picked up your hand and kissed it, a way to get your attention. You had been so caught up in helping navigate, and just goofing around, that you hadn’t even noticed what Steve had been doing the whole time. Your head immediately turned towards him at the affectionate gesture, a smile spreading on your lips as Steve showed you his sketchbook.

On the page, a beautifully sketched woman matching your attire, leaning against the car door, her hair slightly blowing in the wind although it was in an updo as yours. Soon your eyes traveled up to the woman’s face, a bright beam plastered on her lips as she was mid laugh, soon your eyes met hers and you came to realize that it was you.

At the bottom Steve penned his name and a sweet note.

For you my love. -Steven Rogers 

“Oh Stevie! It’s beautiful!

Carefully, you set aside the picture and flung your arms around his neck, leaving the man chuckling but soon holding you close. 

“All right kids, simmer down, we’re here now.”

You pulled back from the hug and shot Bucky a glare in the rearview mirror, to which he stuck his tongue out at you. 

As soon as Ruth stood up from her seat in the car, Steve scrambled to get out and around to your side, flinging open the driver door. You giggled at his chivalry and put your hand in his outstretched one. 

The four of you walked through the gravel parking lot, careful not to get rocks in your loafers. 

The woman at the gate politely greeted you all and handed each of you a burlap sack, explaining that the apples are priced by the pound. 

You and Ruth soon interlocked arms and bounded off into the orchard, leaving Bucky and Steve behind who kindly waved you both off. 

“I’m not gonna say I told you so, but… I told you so.”

Steve slapped Bucky’s arm that was wrapped on his shoulder.

“Oh shut up will ya, Buck?”

Bucky removed his hand in surrender before heading off to go find you and Ruth, Steve following suit.

Upon discovering you intermingled with the trees, Steve couldn't take his eyes off the sight in front of him. You and Ruth were happily picking the cortland apples for cider tonight, laughing about something you had just said, while playfully throwing apples to each other’s sacks.

In Steve’s mind, no picture could ever justify how beautiful and mesmerizing your smile was. He could just stare at you all day, a smile cemented onto his lips, and to say, that's exactly what happened.

The whole day as you all picked apples, and ran up and down the orchard, Steve was just grinned the entire time, adoring your every movement.

Later, many apples in the burlap sacks, Bucky and Ruth ahead, you looped your arms in Steve’s 

You just smiled, taking in the picturesque sunset behind the trees of the orchard. Out of the blue, it hit you that you were in love with this man, and it was about time he knew.

“I love you, Stevie.”

You turned from the sunset to kiss his cheek, the man freezing up and you were about to apologize for overstepping when he opened his mouth for a deep breath.

“I love you too, (y/n).”

The two of you then smiled like lovesick idiots before sealing the deal with a kiss, Bucky’s whistle and cheers ruining the moment.

“I’m gonna kill you, Barnes.”

Bucky just shrugged, turning back to the produce stand. The man beside you let out a small laugh at the goofy banter before gaining a surge of confidence pulling you into a kiss once more. Your eyebrows raised in surprise, soon laying back down as you smiled into the kiss.

“C’mon guys, save it for the hotel!” 

Pulling away, you picked up the sack of apples, going to the scale. Steve then offered to pay even after your relentless arguing about it. 

The burlap sack over your shoulder, you and Steve quickly caught up with Ruth and Bucky who were already close to the car. 

What better way to end a fun day with one of Steve’s terrible puns?

Ruth was locked into Bucky’s side, you doing the same with Steve, when the man beside you dug around in his pocket, an apple now in his hand. 

Lifting the apple to his eye, the blonde spoke up. 

“I’d say (y/n) is the apple of my eye!” 

Cue the playful groans from you, giggles from Ruth and the “atta boy” from Bucky. 

“Okay! Okay! Lemme just say that I’d like to apple-ogize for the pun…”

You couldn’t have picked a better boyfriend.

As they say, don’t judge an apple by its peel, and always look on the brighter cider of life.

I promise you will never see a pun from me again.

Taglist: @memissbee​ @tricereads​ @buckybarnesthehotshot​ @bval-1​ @tonystankschild​

the taglist is open! lemme know if you want to join!

[athenagc94]

This One Time in Atara - First Meetings

Me? Not writing a story where I live out my dream to romance Gust? Never. But it’s true. Here’s a story about how Albert and Gust first met in Atara. I plan on writing more stories of their shenanigans in Atara while they were younger (as they come to me). So please enjoy! 

I’ll also post them here in AO3: This One Time in Atara

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh and this one time back in Atara,” Albert managed around a boisterous laugh, “Gust convinced the local Civil Corps members doing their rounds to join us for a game of darts. We made a little competition out of it to see who could wrack up the most points.” He took a sip of his hard soda and stifled another chuckle. “Well, we just about won the clothes off their backs. Though that might have been Gust’s goal from the get go. The one with the wing tattoo across his right shoulder was quite the looker. I think you got his number in the end, didn’t you?”

He winked at Gust as he pulled Sonia a little closer into the crook of his arm and planted a kiss on her cheek, then on her mouth. Gust grimaced at the overt display of affection. Did he have no shame? He turned away from them and traced the intricate basket weave pattern of the Round Table’s wallpaper. Beside him, Piper squeezed his hand sympathetically. It was only a minor consolation considering their present company.

Albert continued in blissful ignorance, “That was shortly after we met, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard the story of how you two met,” Piper said as she took a sip of her red tea.

“Is it a good one?” Sonia added as she twirled a strand of dark hair around her finger.

Gust rolled his eyes. “That depends on your definition of a good story.” He ran his thumb back and forth over the bridge of her knuckles. How did Piper convince him to go on a double date with these two again? They were practically on top of each other and right in front of him and his dinner. “It’s rather depraved if you ask me.” He cut the man across from him with a pointed glare. “Much like Albert and his effect on women.”

Albert gave him a wounded look. “Low blow, I think it’s a pretty great story,” he said, “Gust here really helped me out of a tight spot. How could I not want to be best mates with him after what happened.”

Piper arched an eyebrow at Gust. “It’s not that spectacular,” he insisted with a languid swipe of his free hand, “Albert was being a fool and I didn’t want to get caught up in his shenanigans. That’s all. End of story.”

Piper snorted and pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. He ducked his head to hide the heat burning at his cheeks. She turned back to Albert and said, “Well, now I have to know. What did he do?”

“Well,” Albert said as he shifted forward in his seat. A feline smile curved his lips that made Gust’s skin crawl. “All good stories start with a pretty...”

“It started with a sketch.”

All eyes turned to Gust in surprise. Even he was mildly surprised by his interjection. He planned to sit back and roll his eyes at Albert’s dramatic retelling, like he usually did, but a small part of him hated his side of the story. The last thing he wanted was to subject Piper to his bullshit. He cleared his throat and took a sip of his vodka and apricot juice.

“It started with a sketch,” he said a little more firmly, “and a bad case of creative block…”

☼☼☼☼☼☼

Gust settled back in his seat and regarded the sketch in front of him. He spent the last two hours outlining a simple two-story structure with crow stepped gables. He had yet to settle on where he wanted to place the windows. Should he go with a symmetrical design? Or make things interesting and only include windows on one side of the building? Which would Vera choose? He nibbled thoughtfully on the end of his pencil as he traced and retraced the lines with his eyes.

The answer was simple, wasn’t it? She’d say his design was shit and tear it in half.

So, he did just that. He ripped the sheet off his drafting table and tore it right down the middle. The shreds of paper landed at his feet, joining the rest of his discarded designs. He growled and combed his fingers irritably through his hair. Shit. All his designs were absolute shit. He knew it. Vera knew it. Everyone knew how much of a failure he was. At this rate, he’d never become one of the great architects of his time.

Maybe he should cut his losses and go home with his tail between his legs.

He wrinkled his nose at the prospect. He would never stoop so low. Portia was in the past and he wanted to move forward. He refused to go back and waste away in that backwater town. He would make it as a great architect, even if it killed him. Vera took him on as an apprentice despite the fact that he had a personality blander than stale bread dipped in water ー her words not his. So, she had to have seen some potential in him, right?

He huffed and reached for the sketchbook. He just had to keep working at it. He wouldn’t give up, not until his dreams became a reality. He’d show everyone. He flipped to a blank page and began outlining a new design. He only got a few short strokes in before ripping it out and tossing it to the side.

Then started again. Then again. And again…

Shit. Shit. And more shit. Why couldn’t he get it right?

He sighed and glanced around his bedroom. At the wads of paper littering his floor and the half-finished designs tacked up on the walls, so he couldn’t see the moldy wallpaper beneath. They mocked him. He could hear their whispers at the back of his mind, telling him he’d never be good enough. He snarled and swiped his shoulder-length hair into a low ponytail.

He needed a change of scenery and maybe some fresh air, but he had no desire to actually leave his dorm. His gaze fell to his window and the streaked panes of glass that hadn’t seen a rag in over a year. He could see the vague outline of the Atara skyline. He fell in love with all the different buildings that made up this fine city. It was one of the reasons he sought out Vera in the first place. He wanted to make his mark on this city with a design of his own.

He straightened in his seat as an idea struck him. Maybe he could… if he was careful, there wouldn’t be any harm in it, right? The Civil Corps couldn’t arrest him if he was just hanging out on a window ledge. He glanced down at the half-hearted attempt at a new design in his lap, then back to the window.

Fuck it.

He stood and pushed the window open. Its rusted hinges whined in protest, but it opened just wide enough for him to shimmy out onto the lip of stone that jutted out just far enough so he could sit comfortably. He settled back against the relief carved trim that decorated his window and turned to a new page of his sketchbook.

He admired the skyline with a faint smile, then took a moment to watch the people mill about in the streets below. The sweet smell of coffee and black tea wafted from the café below and curled up and around him like a blanket that warmed him to his core, despite the crisp autumn air outside. He hummed contentedly.

He loved this city. He never wanted to leave.

He used the buildings in front of him as inspiration as he began to sketch a new design. Something a little more angular that used a lot of geometric shapes and windows. It wasn’t like anything he’d designed before now, but the longer he stared at it, the more he liked it. It was something new. It was something innovative. He only hoped Vera would feel the same. He worked until the sky turned a lovely shade of pink and bled into the faintest of light purple. The color reminded him of the heather plants that grew in the gardens outside Vera’s home. His fingers itched to mix a paint color that matched it, but he resisted that urge. He needed to keep his mind focused on architecture. Painting for pleasure could wait until he made a name for himself.

A window slammed open and jolted him from his thoughts. He almost lost his grip on his sketchbook entirely, but managed to clutch it to his chest before it toppled over the edge. His lip curled in disgust as he turned to glare at the source of the commotion. A young man with dark hair, clad only in a pair of plaid underpants and long grey socks, scurried out onto the ledge and the window slammed shut behind him as soon as he cleared it.

“Come on, Moira, you don’t have to do this,” he drawled with a lilting accent as he rapped his knuckles on the glass, “I don’t care if you have a boyfriend. In fact, he’s welcome to join in the fun. I’m flexible and I know you are.”

Moira didn’t deign to respond and the young man’s shoulders slumped as he pouted and turned away from the window. He noticed Gust immediately and blinked at him owlishly. Gust mirrored his surprise, still clutching his pad protectively to his chest. He glanced down at his bare chest and then the tent in his pants. The heat burned at the tips of his ears as he stared pointedly at his face. The young man grinned at him fiendishly.

“Just another Wednesday, am I right, mate?”

Gust furrowed his brow at him. He didn’t even know how to respond to that. A normal Wednesday for him involved take out from the noodle vendor that set up shop outside his building and banging his head against the wall until inspiration finally struck him. And when inspiration failed, he drowned his sorrows with a few shots of vodka. If this was a regular Wednesday, he didn’t even want to consider what Saturday looked like for this man.

“Uh, actually, I…”

The man sidled down the ledge until he settled down beside him. He reeked of sex. Gust wrinkled his nose and leaned away from him. “”I live two floors down from you, but I was enjoying Moriaー you’ve met Moira, right? She’s this pretty young thing with big brown eyes and a mouth always painted red as sin. Anyway, I was enjoying her company this evening and...”

He paused and the corners of his mouth dipped into a frown. “Or at least I was until her boyfriend returned home early from class. Then she freaked out and suddenly developed morals or whatever.” He threw his whole body into the eye roll. “Now here we are, just two blokes sitting on the ledge of their building, shooting the shit.” He kicked his legs absently as he offered him a hand, “the name’s Albert by the way. Pleasure to meet you.”

Gust stared at his outstretched hand, utterly mystified by the entire situation. How… How was he supposed to proceed? Did he pretend this man wasn't just kicked out of a woman's dorm because she was cheating on her boyfriend? Was he supposed to ignore his bare chest and the tent that refused to go away in his pants? Was it too late to just ignore him? Probably. He squinted at him, but didn’t take his hand. “Gust.” He turned back to his sketchbook and continued, “now please leave me alone.”

Albert let his hand fall to his side. “Well Gust, you see, I would, but as you can see I’m currently on the side of a building wearing nothing but my underthings,” he snorted, “so, you’re stuck with me until Moira let’s me back in or you let me in.” He inclined his head towards Gust and hummed thoughtfully. “So, the ball’s in your court, mate.”

He went stock still at the mere suggestion. He wanted to use his window to get out of this? Never, not in a million years. He had no reason to help this sexual deviant escape the consequences of his poor choices. “Fuck off,” he mumbled as he dragged his pencil across the page, “I don’t have to help you.”

Albert hummed. “Very true, you don’t,” he said with a sigh, “I guess that means I have to wait with you and go into great detail about the various things Moira and I were doing before her boyfriend got here. Let’s see there was this one position where Iー”

Gust cut him with a glare. “If I let you use my window, will you promise never to speak to me again?”

Albert made a crisscross motion over his chest. “Cross my heart,” he said with a wide grin, “you’ll never have to see me again after this.” He winked. “Unless you like what you see. Like I was saying before, I’m flexible.”

Gust gave him another once over. He wasn’t unattractive, quite the opposite. He had a charming smile that showed off a shallow divot on his right cheek. His dark hair was tousled from the soft breeze and, he had to assume, the sex he just had. Not normally his type, but Gust didn’t see too much action these days. But he wouldn’t give this bastard the satisfaction of knowing he considered his offer for a moment.

He glowered at him and said, “Just get inside.”

Albert beamed and, together, they crawled back through the window and into his bedroom. Once his feet were safely planted on the ground, Gust turned and glared at the half-dressed heathen. He stood in the middle of his bedroom, hands planted firmly on his hips as he regarded the sketches on his walls with mild intrigue. His heart leapt into his throat.

Gust wanted to die. He forgot about all his shitty designs on the walls. He resisted the urge to jump in front of him and wave his arms wildly to distract him from his shame.

“Alright,” his voice cracked on the panic mounting in his chest, “you’re inside, now leave.”

Albert ignored him and peered more closely at the design hanging over his bed. An intricate layout for a botanical garden he designed when he first vied for Vera’s mentorship several years prior. It was the first and only design she ever complimented. And by complimenting, he meant an almost smile and a ‘it’s alright’, which was high praise coming from someone heartless and stone-cold like her.

“This is pretty good, more than good actually,” he noted with an appreciative tilt of his head, “are you an architect too?”

Gust blinked. “Uh, yes, I’m trying to be?” His brow furrowed at him. “Wait. Too? Are you an architect?”

He buzzed his lips and took a step back. “Construction management, actually,” he drawled with a wave of his hand, “but I’ve met my fair share of architects while tailing my mentor across the Free Cities. None of their designs look like these though. You’re pretty good.”

“Oh.” He scratched sheepishly at the nape of his neck. He turned and busied himself with grabbing a shirt and sweatpants from his dresser. “I’m alright, I guess,” he said as he tossed the clothes at Albert, “now get dressed, you look utterly ridiculous sporting around in nothing but your underwear.”

“Don’t be modest,” Albert said as he tugged the shirt over his head, “I know talent when I see it. I’d throw my hat in your ring if you wanted to make a living out of it.”

“Well, I’d need to get certified first,” Gust grumbled under his breath, “and who knows when my master will allow that. She hates my work.”

Albert nodded. “Well, when it happens, you should come find me,” he said as he shoved his hands in the pockets of Gust’s sweatpants. The soft grey fabric pooled around his feet, considering he stood at least a head shorter than him. “We’ll make a living of it, mate.”

Gust wrinkled his nose and said, “You agreed to never speak to me again if I helped you.”

He pursed his lips. “I did, didn’t I?” He shrugged and made his way towards the door, “well then, thanks for your help. As promised, I’ll never seek you out again.” He paused, hand on the doorknob and glanced back at him. “But if you seek me out again, I won’t turn you away. So, don’t be a stranger.”

Gust clucked his tongue. “Just leave.”

“You got it, mate,” he said, “thanks again.”

And with that, he disappeared through the door and Gust was alone again. He didn’t move right away. Instead, he glanced at the design above his bed, then the one next to it, and then the next, until he’d surveyed the whole room. Albert liked his work. Albert thought he had what it took to be one of the greats. Knowing someone felt that way, even if that someone was a half-dressed imbecile, was… oddly inspiring?

He turned back to his half finished sketch and smiled to himself. The wells of inspiration flowed freely through his veins and he already had a few ideas swirling around at the back of his mind.

He was convinced Vera would love them.

☼☼☼☼☼☼

“And that’s how Albert and I met,” Gust concluded with an indignant sniff, “see, he’s a depraved sexual deviant who drags me into his shenanigans.”

“Wait,” Albert started as he leaned forward in his seat, “you actually considered my offer to sleep with me?”

Gust scowled. Was that all he took from that story? Sexual deviant, indeed. He settled back in his seat and shrugged. “A pretty face is a pretty face, but then you opened your mouth and I quickly reconsidered your offer.” He leveled him with a glare. “I think I made a good call in the end.”

“I didn’t want you anyway,” Albert insisted as he toyed with the ends of Sonia’s hair, “you’re too grumpy for my tastes.”

“That’s a pretty cute story actually,” Piper teased. She elbowed Gust in the ribs and chuckled. He made a face, but it softened when Piper smiled up at him. He wrapped an arm around her and placed a soft kiss on the top of her head. “It’s good to see you’ve always been a stick in the mud and that wasn’t a new development.”

“That’s not true,” Albert exclaimed, “Gust was a very charming individual when he wanted to be. Why, I remember this one time in Atara…”

[forasecondtherewedwon]

can you do #11 for spideychelle plz

Thanks to both of you, Anons!!

11. Secret relationship

find light

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E Word count: 13252

Summary:

MJ's got it bad for Peter Parker, but she's on track to be valedictorian while he sells weed at parties. Not the ideal person to get involved with if she wants to maintain her reputation as a serious academic. Solution? Conduct a relationship in secret until they graduate. But that only works for so long, and leaving high school behind isn't a guarantee that things will get easier.

She’s under no illusion about whether or not he actually quit smoking. When he speaks to her, there’s no hint on his breath, but the scrappy black hoodie he wears almost every day reeks of cigarettes. He has his forearm braced on the locker next to hers as he leans in. The only thing MJ’s ever felt before that’s anything like this is fear. She keeps her gaze straight ahead, sliding her textbooks carefully into her backpack behind her sketchbook. Associating with Peter Parker would be as normal or sane as walking into the shop class and gripping a live wire. Sure, she hears about him―who doesn’t?―but they do not interact. They do not talk, they do not meet. Though they’re both students at Midtown, their trajectories do not cross.

What she last heard was that he went cold turkey. That’s just a highly unlikely story for the guy who gets suspended weekly for walking down the hall with a cigarette dangling from his lips and sells dime bags at parties, making him simultaneously the most popular and most shadowy person in the room. The sanctity of her grades, among other reasons, is why she’s never approached him.

Because there’s no number of A’s that’ll make her stop finding him sexy, MJ slams the door of her locker.

It’s surprising to her when he jumps. But he doesn’t walk away.

“So,” he says, “like I’m saying, the project… Hey, asshole!”

MJ’s so wound up that she’s not sure how she manages to sigh when Peter’s attention is completely diverted by one of his buddies striding past, stopping so the two of them can perform some stupid handshake. They start talking about an upcoming house party and she decides she’s not a big enough idiot to keep standing there waiting for Peter Parker to remember she exists. She’s pretty sure he just found out when they were assigned this joint Chemistry project. Were this a different kind of joint project, she bets he’d show a little more interest. She’ll reward the teeny-tiny bit of initiative he demonstrated by coming up to her at all by doing the whole project herself. He’s astoundingly intelligent, she knows that, but he’s not the most reliable groupmate and she’d rather do double the work than receive half the grade. It’s senior year and she can’t afford that.

“No, wait, wait, wait,” he begs, briefly grabbing her upper arm when she turns to walk away. Apparently, his friend takes this as his dismissal and it’s Peter and MJ, alone again by her locker.

“I’ll do it,” she says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“What?”

“The project.”

“Shit! Would you? That’d be great!” He beams, then laughs at her expression. So it was a joke. Wow, nice one. “No, seriously, I really want to work with you.”

“No, seriously, I’ve got this,” MJ pushes back, feeling warmer the longer they talk, not only because he made a joke at her expense. His eye contact isn’t great, but when their gazes connect, it scrambles her brain.

“Well, it was assigned to both of us.”

“And both of us know who’s going to do it and who’s going to flake out.”

She stares at him in astonishment. She didn’t mean to say that out loud, it’s just that she’s never been fought on project responsibility before. Doesn’t Peter know her as the Girl Who Gets Good Grades? AKA the least thrilling Stieg Larsson novel of all time. Even if he doesn’t really register her presence as a classmate or a girl or a human being, she thought he would at least be familiar with the role she fills in their academic dystopia. If Midtown were an arrivals gate at the airport, she’d head for the welcome sign reading ‘Smart Girl’.

Peter laughs and it nearly sucks her in because it’s not designed to mess with her this time, but she walks swiftly away from him instead. No more touching. It feels too… unexpected.

“Good talk, Jones!” he calls jubilantly after her.

Nobody’s ever addressed her solely by her last name before. It sends a flutter through her as she slips outside.

―

“Ok,” Peter says the next day, spinning a chair around backwards and dropping into it. “What are we doing?”

MJ knows what she’s doing―reading Midnight’s Children in the library over lunch hour. His arrival is so visually demanding that she’s almost startled by her own proof of a sandwich in one hand and the novel in the other; beyond the disruption of sitting with her, he folds his arms on the chairback and she stares. He’s pushed up the sleeves of that trademark hoodie to expose his forearms, but what’s holding her gaze a moment too long are his hands. The rather beautiful fingers. The scarred knuckles that are his souvenir for beating the shit out of Brad Davis in the student parking lot last spring. She didn’t see the fight and doesn’t know which of the rumours about what started it is the truth. When it comes to Peter, she tries to put any information out of her mind.

“About what? The project?”

“Yeah,” he replies, ostensibly in complete earnestness. “Where are we at?”

“Like, how much have I done?”

“No, I mean who’s doing what?”

“If you really want to help, I’ll send you jot notes when I’m done and you can do the PowerPoint,” she offers sceptically.

“Can do. But what about the rest of it? Let’s start working on it.”

Finally, MJ slips the piece of paper that’s her current bookmark between Rushdie’s pages, setting down her leisure reading and her ham-on-sourdough.

“What is this?”

“This is the library,” Peter tells her with slow sarcasm. “Sorry, I thought you’d been in here before.”

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to pull my weight, if you’ll ever fucking let me.”

His tone’s not annoyed, it’s almost teasing. All she wants to do is press her hands to her temples and think through how she might have fallen into an alternate reality housing a studious Peter Parker.

“Why?”

“All these questions! Because that’s what you do with projects, right? Teacher assigns them, you do them, grades and shit…?” He’s motioning with one hand to emphasize the oncoming flow of stages that seem to continue past ‘grades and shit.’

“I just didn’t think…”

“Oh, I know you haven’t been thinking about me.” Disconcertingly, he throws her a wink. “You were expecting a deadbeat partner.”

His words, not hers.

“Fine,” MJ agrees, to get past that wink. “Let’s go over to the computers and start researching.”

“Hell yeah.”

She doesn’t glare at him for his oddness, but once he’s seated next to her at the computer bay, she wishes she had. Maybe he would’ve sat farther away. He’s shorter than she is, and yet he kicks his legs out beneath the table and somewhere under there they grow long enough that hers are in constant danger of brushing them or twining with them or―the thought that horrifies her most―having their shoes knock. Shoe-to-shoe contact strikes her as something exceedingly flirtatious, like sending sexts through Morse code. She tucks her feet under her chair and crosses her ankles while they work. Which they do, in unanticipated companionableness. MJ ignores every one of her urges that tell her to slip her fingers through his where he cups the mouse, to lean in and grab his shoulder for balance as she looks at the website he found, to drag her chair close enough to wrap her arms around his waist, holding tight to the sweater that, logically, she never wants to touch because it stinks.

When lunch hour ends, she finds herself flustered and relieved.

“It was cool hanging out,” are Peter’s words of farewell.

Hanging out? Did they hang out? MJ’s almost too disoriented to find her locker and stow the remains of her lunch before her next class.

―

He keeps turning up. To their Chem class? Almost never. But her locker transforms into some kind of Peter Parker homing device without her knowledge and now he’s always swinging by. One time, her eyes dart back and forth from his face to the cigarette tucked (jauntily, brazenly, and―it must be said―idiotically) behind his ear. A teacher spies it too and Peter gets detention just standing there. His broad grin at Mr. Dell and the, “Aw, man, really?” he jokingly demands put MJ’s heart in a hammock, swaying wildly and beating in question as to why only this boy has a smile like that.

She seeks solace in Cindy. Initially, MJ divulges very little and her friend assumes that her current daftness is the result of struggles to find citable sources for her Chemistry project.

“Who’s your partner again?” Cindy asks over lunch.

“Peter Parker,” MJ says quietly. She tries to let her hair hang forward to shield her blush, but she’s far too slow.

“Oh, MJ.”

“Don’t.”

“MJ. You like Peter Parker? But he’s―”

“I know.”

“Damn,” Cindy says, which is more than enough to communicate how MJ happens to feel and also far too little to provide any clue about what to do. This is not the suffering she usually expects with group projects.

“He’s a smoker,” her friend points out, trying to be helpful by stating the most obviously off-putting thing about the guy.

“I heard he’s trying to quit.”

“I heard that too. Apparently, he has nicotine patches in his locker. And mints.”

MJ just buries her face in her arms and groans.

“I’m so screwed,” she says, voice muffled. “He won’t leave me alone.”

“Maybe he likes you.”

MJ laughs sharply into her sleeve.

“Maybe he likes you,” Cindy repeats gently.

“I can’t.”

“I know, babe.” Her friend squeezes her shoulder. “But you could.”

She lifts her head.

“I couldn’t.”

“You could,” Cindy refutes, gaining momentum. “You could do the project and then, you know, do Peter.”

“Shhh!”

They’re eating in the cafeteria and have the table to themselves, but still.

“Just a hook-up,” her friend says, as though she has any more experience with casual hook-ups than MJ does. They’re both firmly at zero.

“That would be insane. No. I’m not just going to hook up with my Chem partner. Would you hook up with your Chem partner?”

Infuriatingly, Cindy seems to truly consider this question. MJ wishes she’d focus more on the rest of the conversation.

“No. I got paired up with Betty. I find her too adorable to be hot.”

“It was a rhetorical question.”

“Well, if Betty ever asks you about me, you know what to say to let her down easy.”

MJ rolls her eyes.

“What if Peter keeps talking to me after we hand in our report and do our presentation?”

“Depends if you’re planning to nail him before or after.”

“I’m not planning to nail him at all.”

“You should at least plan a little. Use a condom.”

“Cindy, for real.”

“For real,” her friend insists, twisting to give her a hard stare. “You already got your college acceptance letters and you’re not going to let your grades drop just because you sleep with this one guy! You can do this!”

“He deals drugs,” MJ reminds her in a hushed voice.

“Not hard drugs. And you’re on academic decathlon. Lots of people have extracurriculars!”

“I can’t believe you. If this were the other way around, you would be freaking out over the very idea of being with someone like him.”

“I enjoy pushing you into things while I remain safely on the sidelines,” Cindy agrees, smiling brightly.

“This is terrible, but, if anybody found out… my parents, any of the teachers… his reputation would reflect badly on me.”

“You’re right,” her friend says. MJ drops her face back into her arms. “You’re gonna do it, aren’t you?”

MJ groans.

―

On the day of their presentation, Peter’s late, but he’s there. MJ perks up in her seat, which makes her frustrated with herself. He doesn’t even get detention for his lack of punctuality. She guesses this is because he so rarely decides to come to class at all that the staff don’t want to discourage him any further.

They aren’t up right away and their lab benches are a few apart (everyone organized alphabetically by last name), but he turns around to glance at her more than once. No backpack, but he has a binder with him, from which many loose pages poke. As long as a couple of those are their report, she’s thrilled. Although, she did also do the entire thing herself just in case. She almost feels bad for not trusting him. Then again, he was late and watching the clock stressed her out.

When they go up to present, he slaps his papers on the front desk and flips a red USB out of his sleeve like he’s flicking open a switchblade.

“PowerPoint,” he explains to the unnerved expression MJ can feel on her face. “You didn’t think I forgot, did you? If I can just…”

And he slips behind her to plug it into the port, sweatshirt brushing her back. Despite the self-assurance she has in the quality of her work, speaking in front of the class always makes her feel slightly ill, so she’s backed up nearly to the defunct blackboard when Peter makes his move around her. He could be going behind her to try to be subtle about the setup. Yeah, that’s probably why he didn’t cross in front where there’s so much more space. He smells intensely of the outdoors, like grass―grass grass―and she inhales it the whole presentation long. What was he doing before this? Playing tackle football where the field’s just been mowed? MJ delivers her portion of the information somewhat robotically, but Peter surprises her by darting around, making bonds out of chalk to illustrate the finer points of this organic chemistry assignment. His lines are brisk and sure and she stares along with the rest of the class. Yes, she does.

“That was a novelty,” he says, suddenly at her side so they’re walking through the door together when class is over.

“Which part?”

She glances back to see Cindy making an ‘ok’ sign at her, looking from Peter to MJ. MJ waves her off, trying not to get ungainly as Peter stays with her. Seems as though he’s intending to walk her all the way to her locker. She has no idea where his is, or what he keeps in it. What she can most easily picture is Bender’s locker from The Breakfast Club.

“Oh, the whole thing. Having the entire class looking at us, getting time to talk, standing up there with you.” He elbows her arm gently while he grins and MJ gives the most pitiful laugh. He’s impossible.

“You were weirdly impressive.”

Peter jogs ahead, then turns to walk backwards, watching her face as he continues to grin.

“Aw, I’m flattered. You think we did ok?”

MJ’s ready to say that of course they did when a little freshman darts down the hall. Instinctively, she reaches out and grips Peter’s wrist. Her hand slides as he halts. Their palms meet. His fingers flex around hers for a second before she shakes him off.

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I think we did fine.”

He nods, now walking along at her side.

“Good.”

They get to her locker and Peter still doesn’t leave. She attempts to ignore him as she trades her Chem books for Geography, but he makes it difficult, pushing her locker door open all the way and producing a stick of chalk that she realizes he must’ve tucked into his pocket after writing on the board.

“What are you doing?” she asks when he blocks her view of the door with his arm.

“Shhh.”

He steps away after a few seconds and she sees that he’s vandalized her little magnetic chalkboard with ‘PP wuz here.’

“I need to get new initials,” he says thoughtfully.

MJ scoffs.

“What you need is a better understanding of personal property.”

“Don’t worry, Jones. Chalk wipes right off,” he informs her, like she’s unfamiliar with the substance.

She shakes her head in annoyance.

“But this you better be careful about,” Peter says, lowering his voice abruptly (goosebumps for MJ) as he deposits the chalk in the door tray that holds her Chapstick and a broken magnet. “I stole it, so it’s contraband. If anyone asks, you say you’re holding it for a friend.”

He gives her an irresistible conspiratorial smile and leaves her at her locker.

MJ doesn’t touch the chalk. She doesn’t touch what he wrote either.

“Hell,” she mutters.

―

“Your parents think you’re at my place and my parents will not be worrying about where I am until four in the morning. The greatest benefit of having an older sister,” Cindy lectures, “is that she broke our parents in on abandoning the midnight curfew.”

Still, MJ’s nervous. They’re heading to a party at Flash Thompson’s after the semi-formal dance. The lights on the bus are bright and MJ’s feet are tired from her two-inch heels, but she won’t be taking her shoes off on public transit. Uh uh.

“You just better stay with me,” she warns her friend.

“We’ll be inseparable until you shoo me away so you and Peter can be alooone.”

“Shut up. He wasn’t at the dance.”

“All that means is he’s more of a jeans-and-sweatshirt kinda guy. I bet he’ll be there. You wanna bet?”

“No, I wanna wimp out and go home,” MJ admits.

“I’m not letting you!” Cindy says cheerily, rocking into MJ’s side. “It’ll be good for you to see him outside of school. Maybe he becomes totally unappealing and you squash this crush like a bug.”

“Maybe.”

Cindy is a steadfast companion as they do a loop of the main floor at the Thompson residence. MJ gingerly carries a Solo cup Flash handed her, but she doesn’t drink. She has no idea what’s in it. She’s wary of both Flash’s taste and the sad mustache he’s trying to grow before graduation. Although she’s been to a few house parties over her high school years, arriving in a ‘60s-style burnt-orange minidress and heels makes her feel strange, obnoxious, and watched, even though everyone else is also wearing their nice clothes from the dance. Minus Flash, who has changed into party attire that strikes a balance between retro aerobics-wear and spring break in Florida.

It’s an hour before she concedes to herself that Peter isn’t here. She leaves Cindy by Betty and goes to the bathroom. Peeing, she checks her texts, which is dumb because there’s no way she’ll see what she wants to see; he doesn’t have her number. Working up her courage as she washes and dries her hands, MJ wanders through the big family room at the rear of the house. There’s a sudden burst of laughter as the back door opens―some people are out drinking and smoking on the patio, and then Peter’s stepping inside right in front of her.

“Oh,” she says.

“Michelle. Hey.”

His eyes are red-rimmed and it’s not from crying. She catches the movement of him slipping a lighter back into the pocket of his jeans. There’s something wrong with her that she finds him hot even in this state, isn’t there? It’s his looseness. The extra crinkle around his eyes as he squints tight to smile at her. He could be a cornered grizzly bear. That’s how much she feels the visceral impulse to not be around him. He will snarl and swipe and she will suffer. Rather than returning to Cindy, MJ shifts her weight, wanting to remove her shoes so she can step down and closer to Peter.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Hi,” she repeats, rigid with the fear of her own potential actions. It makes him laugh.

“You wanna go downstairs? I heard there’s pizza.”

“Yes.” It comes out strong.

It shouldn’t be this easy to go with him, to let him lead because he knows where the door to the basement is and she doesn’t. There should be checkpoints that ask if she’s sure she wants to proceed. Peter bounds down ahead of her and, at the bottom, turns to look at her. His expression is confused, then, quickly, so awed that it makes her blush and wonder if Sofía Vergara or some other bombshell is coming down the stairs behind her. But MJ’s own soles are the only sound against the carpeted hush.

“You look so gorgeous. Damn.”

The words could be meant only for himself except that he waits until she’s down the stairs and next to him to say them.

“You always look great,” he goes on before she can sever the intimate thread of the moment with a flippant remark about the male gaze equating beauty with value. “Fuck, isn’t time funny? I swear I was watching you walk down here for, like, an hour.”

You’re stoned, she wants to remind him. Why bother? Being compelled to state the obvious would only make her seem equally impaired.

“You wanna hang out with me?” MJ asks instead. This setting―the TV left on and a pile of pizza boxes on the sleek glass table the deep sectional curves around―seems more suited to it than Midtown’s library.

“Yeah.” He smiles.

MJ texts Cindy to let her know where she’s gone, then Peter eats pizza and MJ takes her heels off with a groan of pleasure that makes him sit up alertly before slumping back with a laugh. Everything makes him laugh. Missing his mouth with the pizza, the dreary Jason Statham movie they don’t bother changing the channel from, and MJ. So many times, MJ. Her dry humour rocks his THC-coated world and some of her horror at the evils of recreational marijuana use vanishes because he’s just so sweet like this, he’s so friendly. Somehow, he starts asking questions about the sketchbook he noticed she carries at school and, magically, there’s a pen in her hand and she’s doodling from his wrist up his forearm, roughing out the beginnings of a sleeve tattoo from the kooky ideas that stream from his lips. He watches her silently when she asks him to quit jerking his arm around and then it gets really quiet, apart from the occasional explosion onscreen. There are windows high up in the walls, level with the ground outside, and night sounds pulse in. Noises that are frogs and bugs but that, from childhood, MJ has always associated with the distant jingle of stars.

“I have to go now, Peter,” she murmurs when the movie’s over and he has his head resting back against the couch with his eyes closed. She collects her shoes and makes to climb over his legs, always sprawled straight out, but he catches her hand in his slack, warm grip.

MJ stares at his hand around hers and Peter opens his eyes and he stares at their hands too. An imagined scene of a haybale being pitched into a barn’s loft comes to mind at the feeling inside her chest, the sudden upward heave of her heart. She leans back and he sits forward, willingly releasing her when she half-turns away from him and grabs an empty beer bottle from the table. She lays it on its side and gives it a spin. While it’s still slowing, MJ stops it so it faces him. She can see Peter’s chest moving as he breathes, glancing from the bottle up to her eyes, probably trying to gauge her intentions. Thinking very little and feeling so much fear and want and freefall, she rests her knee on the couch between his splayed thighs and clutches the front of his hoodie in a fist that’s almost numb at the end of her arm. His eyes are locked on her mouth when she leans down to kiss him softly.

Peter’s tongue slipping into her mouth wakes her vagina up instantly.

“Uhmm,” she moans, parting her lips more and inexpertly attempting to copy what he’s doing because the pressure and the occasional sucking of her tongue are turning her on swiftly and utterly and she wants him this turned on.

His hands hardly touch her hips and she’s scrambling onto his lap, shoes cast to the floor. Peter adjusts her, lifting from below the highest part of her thigh and pulling her forward so she can’t fall backwards off the couch. She supposes. Her head’s hazy with the green-pepper taste of his mouth and the boy-smell of his skin. He seems hesitant about putting his hands any higher, since her already short skirt has hiked up around her hips with her legs straddling him, but then his palms land on her ass, over her underwear. They break the kiss, panting across each other’s tongues as MJ rocks her hips ahead and Peter’s steady, shaky hands press her against his hard groin. He makes a wild, desperate sound at her most tentative forward nudge.

She’s wet through her underwear, she knows it, but it feels so good to rub herself against the front of his jeans, knowing that she gave him that erection. His fingers caress the back of her neck, then dig up into her hairline as he Frenches her with the furious, winding nonsense of a rabid animal.

“Ah!” she gasps, clipping his tongue with her teeth as he tries to pull her in again and deeper. “Aah!”

He shifts both hands back down to her ass and steers her grinding, forcing her faster when the pitch of her voice climbs.

“God,” Peter groans into her throat when she stretches her neck, face naturally tipping upwards. “Fuck yes.”

He’s damp with sweat across the nape of his neck and down between the mounded muscle of his back where she tucks her hands. MJ drags against him until the entire inside of her body feels like it’s had tingling mouthwash poured into it and shaken around, sparkling, bliss like the scrape of a blade without puncture. She cries out, comes, then cries out again, hugging him close around the neck with her eyes clamped shut. Peter’s orgasm noise is a grunting huff and MJ draws back in time to watch his face. It looks as though his expression’s trying to melt right off his features, like she could thrust a spatula under his skin and lift his whole face off like a crêpe. She feels terrifically powerful.

After a minute of them shuddering against each other, she struggles back to her feet, feeling like someone’s grabbed her and spun her a million times. Dizzy with how fast it happened. That it did happen. Peter gives her a smirk full of the secret they now share because, yes, this will have to be a secret. She assumes he knows that.

Standing, he pulls the front of his baggy sweatshirt down to hide his crotch. MJ puts her shoes on and waits silently―brain buzzing―until he evidently understands that she wants him to go ahead of her. She has no interest in proceeding him up the stairs with the sodden underwear beneath her minidress. Her first priority after leaving this house and going back to Cindy’s is to get into her clean pajamas. When Peter turns and ducks in to kiss her after climbing to only the first stair, she’s startled but reciprocates, though the rush of getting off with him is being replaced by a different, more anxious rush as they prepare to rejoin the party. MJ nearly loses her footing at the realization of how easily they could’ve been caught. Jesus. This is exactly why Peter Parker is the guy for a hookup. A repetition is so inadvisable that he’ll never suggest it. She can’t be messing around in classmates’ basements, taking these risks. It’s not what a smart girl does.

“Wha’s happenin’ in the basement?” a guy’s slurred voice asks the second Peter opens the door.

“Pizza,” he says simply, and they escape.

MJ walks quickly away from the scene of the, well, not crime, but very private indiscretion, hunting for Cindy’s iridescent white dress in the family room, kitchen, and living room, where most people are still gathered. Disconcertingly, Peter hurries along at her side. She’s certain she feels the ghost of his hand on her waist when she stops suddenly to avoid the slosh of someone’s drink across her path. What is he doing? Doesn’t he see that they’re like spies, that they can’t be spotted together or they’ll be in danger of someone finding out? The story of her reckless kiss and the impulsive grinding it led to are in her every feature. They must be.

Aha, Cindy!

MJ taps her friend’s shoulder and leans in quickly.

“I’m ready to go,” she says.

Though she’s angled her back to shun Peter (for their own good), she watches her friend’s eyes move from her face to something behind her and knows he must be standing there.

“Ok, we’ll go right now,” Cindy agrees, reaching down and clasping her hand.

She tosses Abe and Betty a quick goodbye and they hustle to the door like the mice in Cinderella. Which reminds MJ to slip her shoes on. Just before they exit, she flings a glance back into the room and sees Peter laughing with his friend Ned, a cigarette already tucked behind his ear. Good.

―

MJ thinks Cindy’s asleep when her friend rolls over and asks what happened.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No,” MJ assures her.

“You came out of nowhere and you had a weird look on your face.”

“Are you saying you don’t like my face?”

Cindy draws a limp arm out of the blankets and presses her hand to MJ’s cheek, lightly shoving her face away in joking response.

“But what went down?” she persists, then yawns. “You were with him, weren’t you? You don’t expect me to believe that he just came up behind you the second you came to get me.”

“No, I was with him.”

“And?”

She still feels it somehow, the unexpected, exhilarating kick of Peter kissing her and gathering her close and wanting her like that. Before he complimented her on the stairs, MJ hadn’t even known he was aware of her in that way, as anything more than a reliable project partner. If she reveals anything to Cindy, well, it’s like giving up something precious, no matter how much she trusts her friend. There won’t be a repeat of tonight. She’ll delicately wrap the memory in mental tissue paper, storing it neatly, preserving it well. She’ll be able to walk down the hall at Midtown, see Peter, and know she hit that. Non-penetratively. It counts. They are Pluto and Mercury. They do not talk, they do not meet. Their trajectories crossing was a once-in-an-infinity event that will not reoccur.

“We talked and… nothing happened.”

“Well, good,” Cindy decides. “I was thinking about you after you sent me that text and I thought―” She yawns again, triggering an echo from MJ. “―probably not the best idea. He’s just so unpredictable. You deserve more than that.”

“Yeah.”

“Man. Peter Parker.”

“Peter Parker.”

―

She doesn’t greet him warmly, or at all, when he returns to her locker. He doesn’t push and he doesn’t chase, though he definitely has the charisma for it if he ever felt like channeling that shit. Focused, his sweet charm could set a girl on fire like a kid roasts an anthill with a magnifying glass. Honestly, MJ’s surprised Peter doesn’t have a girlfriend, except that he probably prefers not being accountable to anyone but himself. She’s the same.

Even congratulating herself is stale by the day he approaches her again, there’s been such a gap between Flash’s basement and this Thursday afternoon. She’s waiting for her brother to pick her up and Peter lobs the cigarette he was smoking away. It streams thin smoke and rolls from the pavement into the grass.

“That’s littering,” MJ tells him.

For a moment, he just stares back.

“So, what’s up?”

“Waiting for my brother.”

A smile flashes and dies on his face.

“What’s going on?”

“Not much,” she says in the most casual tone, not looking at him at all. Her posture’s defensive. If someone walks out of the building and sees them, she wants them to find it impossible that they’re viewing Michelle Jones and Peter Parker talking. She wants them to believe their eyes are deceiving them.

His laugh is breathy but brutal.

“I did not think you were this girl.”

“What girl?” MJ darts an angry, sideways look at him. She won’t tolerate any ‘you’re not like other girls’ bullshit, even if he’s planning to turn it around and use it as an insult.

“Someone who messes around at parties and then acts like we don’t know each other.”

“I can’t honestly say that we do.”

“Ok, smartass,” Peter says sharply. She sees him dig in his pocket and extract a pack of cigarettes. He shakes his lighter out into his palm first, then plucks one free.

MJ looks firmly away from him before speaking.

“I heard you quit.”

“Habits, you know?”

“No.”

“No?” he presses. She hears the sound of him lighting up, like a piece of paper being ripped. Schik, schik, then the tear that goes right through. The soft blow of his first polluted exhalation. “Studying’s not a habit? Doing well in school’s not a habit? You could just quit?”

“Those things aren’t bad for you,” MJ informs him blandly, scanning the intersection a block down for her brother’s car.

“Something or somebody taught you to ditch the guy you fooled around with and that’s been bad for me, so I’d appreciate a little sympathy.”

She glances at him again, dropping her gaze to the motion of his thumb drumming his cigarette, tapping away the building ash. When he brings it back to his mouth for another drag, his cheeks pull in and further exaggerate the criminally-well-defined line of his jaw. MJ exhales with him.

“I didn’t ditch you, we ditched each other. Mutual ditching,” she explains. “I figured you’d want the same thing.”

“I don’t actually remember you ever asking me what I’d want.”

“Yeah, well, it’s done.”

“You think so?” he asks thoughtfully. He puts his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and traps his cigarette between his lips as he wanders over to the butt of the last one and stamps on it. She frowns in disbelief when he picks it up and takes it to the trash can.

MJ lifts her courage like she lifts her heavy backpack when she’s carting all of her textbooks home at once. Figuratively, she bends from the knees.

“You just want me to fuck you so that you can do the ditching after that. I’m not interested,” she says coolly.

“Uh, you kissed me. If anyone’s suppressing a desire to fuck, it’s you, Jones.”

“So you don’t want to fuck me?”

Who is she? She feels as large and obvious as Lincoln in his Memorial saying these words to Peter Parker, with his shifting eye contact and his nicotine hands.

"I’d like to fuck you,” he says, breathing out smoke and incredible nonchalance, “and I’m really into you and would definitely be down for you to stop acting like I ceased to exist the second I came in my pants for you. I don’t do that for just anybody.”

“Jesus, Parker, shut up,” she hisses, stunned. Violated. Aroused. No.

Peter abandons his easy posture and storms right up to her, turning his head at the last second to puff his mouthful of foul air over his shoulder. Minimal decency.

“Hey, if you’d told me that I was signing up for a one-off by going down to Thompson’s fucking basement with you, maybe I would’ve said no!”

“Really?” MJ blurts, too invested in the answer for it to be wise to ask.

“Probably!”

“If you’re so mad at me, then why don’t you just leave me alone?”

“Because I can’t! I can’t,” he says more quietly. He grips his hair with the same hand that holds his cigarette and she worries that he’ll burn himself, but whatever. “I happen to really like you, ok?”

She spots her brother’s car pulling into the school and immediately distances herself from Peter. They hold each other’s eyes as she gets in.

“Were you smoking?” Louis asks her while she buckles her seatbelt. “You better not let Mom smell that.” MJ rolls her eyes.

“No.”

“Good. Don’t start. That shit’s addictive.”

She looks out her window to see Peter still watching her as Louis puts the car in gear and they drive away.

―

If it would be weakness to message him on Facebook late that night and send him her number, then MJ is weak.

―

Their happy medium is smiling at each other in the halls, stopping by for a very short chat when they happen to be near each other’s locker, and making out fiercely behind the magazine shelf in Midtown’s library. MJ has this all under control. She’s admitted to herself that she’s still attracted to Peter―if there was any doubt that what happened in Flash’s basement had done anything but strengthen that attraction―and that, as long as they keep things fairly low-key, she’s curious. There’s more she’d like to do with him, but she doesn’t want the pressure or anxiety of anyone knowing what’s going on, not even Cindy. The judgement will kill what they have and what they have is chemistry in and out of the classroom. The surge MJ feels when Peter presses her back against the end of a bookshelf is incomparable.

He'd rather they were public, she knows. Fortunately, he doesn’t force her to break down point by point why it wouldn’t be a good idea. Doing that would teach her exactly how much she could hurt him and she doesn’t need that guilt. She likes Peter and she likes fooling around with him, but what she really likes is not getting caught. That, and knowing that she can stop this whenever she wants. The fact that he’s really into her means he’ll listen to what she wants from this non-relationship. MJ tries not to think of herself as manipulative, simply as someone who’s attempting to broaden their horizons in a closed-course physical agreement. She needs to believe in her own agency, especially since she saw how fast things can spiral when they kissed for the first time.

All they’ve done at school is kiss. Once, he accosted her at the end of the day on her way to decathlon practice and got his hands on her ass before they heard footsteps. They were separated, though MJ was sweating like a fiend, when Betty appeared. Peter’s presence surprised her and he had to lie about how he was considering rejoining the decathlon team to explain why he was nearby at that time of day. MJ’s glad it was a lie. Actually having him in one of her extracurriculars would be distracting and she needs to compartmentalize. Besides the Chem presentation, the little slice of her life she spends with Peter and the much larger slice that’s for school won’t overlap. Chem’s their only class together and they don’t share any friends, just acquaintances from decathlon.

Except Peter asks where she lives and it changes everything.

Technically, MJ’s aware that it’s not exactly an inspired idea to give her address to a small-time drug dealer. She doesn’t know what the precise consequences could be, but that’s the point! Control, good. Unknowns, bad. Still, she figures that Peter’s also just a seventeen-year-old like her. He’s smart, he’s cute, his hoodie stinks like smoke―except at parties, when it stinks like pot. His suspensions, aside from the Brad Davis incident, have been for dumb shit. He can’t be totally irresponsible, totally untrustworthy, or Midtown would expel him. Peter seemed to abandon his unofficial experiment on how far white male privilege would protect him after purpling Brad’s cheek and shredding the skin above his eyebrow. (She heard Brad got stitches, but the whole thing was covered by a gauze pad when he came back to school.)

But Peter makes her want things and it turns out, one of those things is wanting to know what he plans to do with her address. The afternoon she’s at home and hears clanging on the fire escape, she’s sure it’s him before she sticks her head out a window and sees him looking up at her from a story down.

“Oh, good,” he calls up. “I didn’t know which floor you were on!”

“What are you doing?! How did you reach the ladder?”

The ladder, which is tucked up eight feet from street level. The ladder, with its protective plate to prevent unauthorized users from touching the rungs for another three feet.

“Uh, jumped!”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“What else did you want? Knock knock?”

MJ rolls her eyes and retreats inside, where she drops the annoyed act and starts chipping at her flaking terracotta-coloured nail polish, heart racing as she secretly hopes she hasn’t scared him off. She paces, then strides to the living room, with its tall window that opens onto the fire escape Peter’s currently scaling. She turns her back for a second and, suddenly, his voice is much nearer.

“Hey,” he says, loudly through the glass. She spins around and he waves, smile lopsided and sweet.

A marble seems to fall down her throat and go swirling around her stomach because there’s a motion inside her that veers from ecstatic to terrified. Making up her mind, she crosses to the window and pries it up.

“What are you doing here?” MJ demands.

He looks confused by the question.

“This is where you live.”

“Nuh uh,” she says when he makes to swing his leg over and enter. “The sweatshirt is not coming inside. You’re not leaving the rank scent of that thing for my parents to smell when they get home.”

“Parents aren’t home? Huh,” Peter says, a high, sarcastic, and thoroughly dangerous noise with the way it makes her body react. Her brain starts trying to convince her it’s go time.

He behaves enough to remove his sweatshirt and knot the sleeves around the fire escape railing. Even takes his shoes off. If he behaved a little better, she wouldn’t see more than half of his bare back when he yanked the sweatshirt off and it dragged his grey t-shirt up with it. MJ has sat some major exams, held a chair during the most vomit-inducingly stressful decathlon tournaments, but seeing that much of Peter’s skin at one time is not something she feels equipped to contend with. Maybe she should tell him to put the sweatshirt back on. Maybe her parents don’t know what marijuana blended with cigarettes smells like. Maybe the scent will leave the soft surfaces of their rugs and couch before tomorrow, when Louis gets home from spending the night at his buddy’s place. Too late, Peter’s inside, and while that sweatshirt might be oversized, the t-shirt has to have been improperly laundered at some point in its life because it is tight. Is MJ breathing hard? No, it’s just the effort to shut the window.

“So, ’sup? What do you want?”

Sonofabitch laughs at her question. Not a guffaw, just a private little chuckle, as he holds her eyes.

“I had a question,” he finally says.

“About Chem homework?”

“About parameters.” She waits for him to continue. “Because, nobody knowing about you and me? I got that one.”

“That’s an important one,” MJ agrees, watching this boy like he’s something that bites.

“And that I probably shouldn’t try to do more than kiss you at school.”

She’s a little short of breath when she responds. Fucking window.

“Probably not.”

“But then, other locations. See, that’s where I get confused.”

“Do you?”

“I do, Jones,” Peter says solemnly, ducking his chin and looking up at her with eyes that promise, while he may be the sort that bites, he will most certainly not bite her. “I get confused.”

“Like Flash’s basement?” she checks, swallowing, gaze going from his mouth to his eyes.

“No. I know the rules for Flash’s basement. I’m a big fan of Flash’s basement.” He grins at her, a child’s smile. Innocent. “When I come here though, to your apartment, what happens? Do you have rules for this?” Peter takes a step towards her and they weren’t too many steps apart in the first place. “Tell me, Jones. What’s allowed?”

Her lips part for increased airflow. He’s done nothing―nothing but climb up the side of her building and request entry―but she doubts his thoughts are as inactive as his body’s unconcerned posture.

“My parents get off work in an hour. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Definitely not,” Peter agrees, still not moving. “I’m bad news.”

MJ edges towards him, eyes darting all over his face like crazy, and touches her mouth to his. She can feel him shudder. Then, Peter parts his lips wider and finds her tongue with his, everything staying slow, until they’re gripping the back of each other’s neck and clicking teeth in their haste. She feels gawky and foolish because the only kissing she’s really gotten used to is the easier pace they practice in the library so neither of them gets too worked up before having to go to class. His hands shift to cup the sides of her face and suddenly she doesn’t have to worry; he’s steering now. A moan quivers up her throat with his hold so tender and the motion of his tongue rough and confident. There’s an instinctual clench between her legs.

“Come with me,” she says, breaking away to lead him to the room right off the living room: her bedroom.

“My clothes stink, right?” he teases when he follows her in. “So I should probably make sure they don’t touch any―”

MJ kisses him quickly.

“Don’t be an idiot.”

She means it to be funny and persuasive, but there’s a moment where Peter’s expression freezes. His grin sours.

“No. Michelle Jones bringing an idiot to her room? We couldn’t have that.”

Her shoulders slump.

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” she assures him.

“Nobody does.” He smiles unconvincingly. “If I were, I’d be less disappointing. Nobody’s surprised by a stupid fuck-up.”

“You’re not disappointing. Or a fuck-up.”

Peter looks at her carefully for what feels like a long time.

“If I had you, I’d say I don’t deserve you.”

“You have me,” MJ counters. She kisses him hard, harder, until he wraps his arms around her and kisses her back. She’s proud of herself for saying, “I don’t deserve you,” before he peels his t-shirt off.

She doesn’t want him to think the sentiment’s just about his body, which it very well could’ve been because damn. He is cut. He is ripped. He is any other verb one could use to describe removing a coupon from a flyer. Peter must climb a lot of fire escapes to develop a body like that, reach for a lot of ladders to get those arms, and haul himself up and over a lot of railings to sculpt those abs. As long as he didn’t get the practice by visiting other girls―a quick knife of jealousy as he sits on her bed and she takes up the familiar position of straddling his thighs―she’s grateful.

His hands push her t-shirt up enough to grasp her hips as they kiss. When he doesn’t push for more, MJ takes a deep breath and sits back in his lap to remove her own shirt. Peter’s gaze is fast and eager and his palm is a revelation against the naked skin in the middle of her back. She’s only been touched like this in the pool, when Cindy would scramble onto her shoulders and they’d team up against Cindy’s cousins for a chicken fight, both teams inevitably toppling with a splash. This doesn’t feel like summer memories. Nor does the rigid bar in the front of Peter’s jeans that nudges between her legs when she shuffles forward.

To jump the hurdle of her inexperience, MJ decides to grope him where he obviously wants her. It’s also somehow less forbidding to rest her hand against the denim of his jeans than the warm skin of his chest or abdomen. Peter groans into her mouth when she rubs up and down the length of him, wrist twisted to position her hand right. Ok, good, she thinks. Good. Before thirty seconds are up, he’s letting go of her back to open his fly and lower his zipper.

“If you want to,” he breathes, eyes lowered like he’s either shy or staring at her chest.

MJ does want to, so she nods and grips him through his striped boxers. This is so much different. The warmth, the give at the head, and the feeling of him throbbing in response to her strokes prove that Peter truly does have a penis and it’s not just an object that she was fondling through his jeans. And, theoretically, he wants to put this penis inside her. What should be absolutely alien only makes her wetter. She kisses him to distract herself from the foreignness of holding this thing in her hand and recognizing how intimate it would be, connecting like that. Sliding her hand up, her palm runs across a damp patch in the cotton. He’s turned on, like she is.

She hesitates for a second all the same. At Flash’s, she made him orgasm. She knew it at the time and he reminded her later, in the parking lot. When it happened, he had his jeans done up, plus, she was in the middle of her own climax. In her bedroom―where her brother coming in to look for something he lost or wake her up early on weekends like an asshole has been the only young male presence since she was 12―it’s different. Undone jeans is different. All the attention on what she’s doing to him is different. So when Peter’s hands skim the waistband of her joggers, MJ’s relieved.

“Yes,” she says and closes her eyes, trying to remember to continue the handjob though her wrist is tired of this funky position, as his fingers slide under the elastic.

He has his fingertips on her abdomen, over the cotton of her underwear, then reversing, finding the edge of her underwear, and slipping beneath it. She takes in a deep breath as his hand moves lower.

And this. This is different from grinding at the party. Being stimulated by another person’s hand is strange and entirely unlike rubbing against his crotch, with the temperature of his skin less than that between the labia he’s fingering experimentally and the movements outside her control. Though MJ does buck reflexively when Peter curls a finger inside her a little ways.

“Hey,” he whispers, choking when she remembers again about her part in this and squeezes his cock, “tell me how it feels.”

Instantly, MJ clams up. She’s a bird who’s forgotten how its wings work mid-flight. Flailing, plummeting.

“Um. Fine.”

“Fine? Dammit. Sorry, I was just trying to get you out of your head and I fucked up. Here,” Peter says, pulling his hand out and grabbing her thighs, “lie down instead.”

They disentangle themselves and lie down. Then, with clear thought, he drapes his body half-over hers, hovering. Her pillow props her head up high enough that she can glance at the swell in the front of his boxers. Shifting around has dragged his jeans down a bit.

“Can I put my hand here?” he asks, almost touching her stomach.

“Mhmm.”

His palm lands, fingers tracing the strip of skin above her joggers.

“Close your eyes. I won’t make you talk.”

With that promise and his hand resting inside her pants but over her underwear for several minutes and the lazy kisses he places on her shoulder, it’s easier to accept the feelings that come. His fingers work slowly, skimming and dancing. Eyes shut, she remembers his fingers on a cigarette, a stick of chalk, propped over the back of a chair in the library. The realization that it’s those same fingers gently rolling her clit makes her gasp. Peter groans next to her head in response, exhalation blowing her hair against her ear, which tickles. She opens her eyes and takes a cautious peek at him. His gaze is hot when she meets it. He doesn’t release her as he moves his hand lower to probe at her entrance again, only this time she’s even wetter and he’s fucking staring at her, cheeks a feverish red. Rocking her hips to encourage him, she puts a palm on his chest and slides it down, touching every inch of skin from collarbones to navel before his boxers get in the way. The wet spot is cold, so she tries to grip a little lower when she takes him in hand again. He presses his forehead to her shoulder and moans.

It’s so quiet, such a normal afternoon with the light fading and homework postponed, but Peter Parker’s hips are hunched around hers like he wants to mount her and she can no longer feel any disparity between the heat of his fingers and the heat inside her exceptionally regular underwear. He adds pressure and she gasps, hips bucking off the mattress.

“Shh, shhh,” he murmurs. “God, you’re so gorgeous.”

“Heard that one before,” she says, then whimpers, sweating between her shoulder blades and behind her knees.

“Shoulda brought my thesaurus.”

“Peter! Peter!”

His fingers arc into her hard and fast and she jerks her hand desperately up and down his dick. He swears with his lips pressed to her neck.

“Now you’re repeating yourself,” he recovers enough to taunt.

MJ’s eyes slam shut as she concentrates on making his strokes work for her, but she doesn’t let him off easy. Or, rather, she does, darting her hand down to flex her fingers around his balls, then pumping him rapidly so he never has a chance to catch his breath. Peter makes a noise like he was lying on a couch and a large dog jumped on his stomach out of nowhere. It’s a good noise. MJ enjoys it almost as much as she enjoys the way he jams his thumb down on her clit when his climax hits and scrubs mercilessly until she cries out. With the temperatures matching up and the satisfying twitches and caresses of his fingers, her vagina seems to have accepted his hand as part of her body. It certainly constricts around his middle finger like it’s not allowed to go anywhere. Uh uh. That’s hers now.

“If my sheets smell like smoke after this,” she pants as they lie together on their backs, “your access to this location is revoked.”

“I’m tryin’ to quit.”

MJ wants to be supportive, but she’s not sure she believes him.

―

She falls in love somewhere between Peter sneaking into prom to dance with her in the dark hall outside the gym where no one can see and graduation. It takes a long time for love to seem like a problem because what it feels like is the best thing she’s ever experienced. The only thing she’s ever felt such thorough ownership of. On four separate occasions, she almost tells Cindy. MJ starts to feel sorry for her friend that she doesn’t know. It’s neater than feeling sorry for herself because 98% of her time is spent wanting to hold Peter’s hand and only 2% is actually holding it―never for long, always in private―or because she can’t hug him after she crosses the stage at the rented convention centre to get the rolled up sheet of blank paper that they pretend is a diploma until the school mails out the real ones. He’s not even in the building.

Thanks to his phenomenal performance on exams―because he’s gifted enough to figure out the material day-of, not because he comes to class or studies―Peter is graduating high school. Unfortunately, his suspension, in tandem with the couple dozen detentions he earned this year, denies him the privilege of the ceremony. They aren’t supposed to be on their phones while it’s happening, but MJ misses him and surreptitiously texts around the folds of her black grad gown. Apparently, what he’s decided to do with his day is get really fucking high and the couple texts he manages to send her in response don’t make much sense.

She calls him afterwards, while her parents are talking to her teachers, everyone so happy to gush over the valedictorian (she saw the title coming from a long way away and gave the speech she prepared so many months ago that, by now, it’s lost all emotion). Peter’s voice is sickeningly lazy and also something she wants in her ear right now as she cuddles up to him. What MJ believes is that they’re better together. Over the phone, he says he loves her. Stunned, she replies, “You sound really far away,” and tries not to cry when she looks up and Cindy catches her eye from across the room. She’s just so happy. Everyone is just so happy.

She’s disappointed but not surprised when Peter defers his acceptance to Columbia―where she’ll be attending―to work for a year. His grades mean a more than respectable bursary haul and still, he needs money. His aunt needs money. It’s an expensive city. MJ and Peter talk and settle on the idea that things can only be better for them now. The college won’t give a fuck about her dating life the way Midtown would have. They can have their relationship in the open, no longer ending every conversation slightly sad because coming together is wearing on them, way harder than walking away.

MJ calls Cindy, studying music, and sobs for half an hour after her first week of classes. School is going well, but she hates it. Her classes interest her, but she wants to skip them all. Peter―yes, Peter, yes, Peter Parker―didn’t help her move into her residence like he said he would and she had to buy groceries alone and carry them back to this place that is not her home alone and what is she even doing who even is she and Peter, Peter, Peter, why can’t he just be here when she needs him?

She bristles when Cindy expresses true sympathy for her heartbreak. Heartbreak? This isn’t heartbreak. Heartbreak is for something that’s over and MJ’s relationship with Peter isn’t over. She cries all over again, and more ragged, after she and Cindy fight and end their conversation with a terseness that is an unwelcome intruder on the friendliness, the sisterliness they’ve always had.

But then Peter texts her after 1am that he’s outside her building, MJ lets him in, and he holds her in his arms the way she remembers. Her scholarly prowess guaranteed her a dorm on a quiet floor with single rooms. It feels natural to use this gift for what it was intended. Not uninterrupted study, but losing her virginity. She loves him so much…

…and that certainty grows more confused with every thrust.

She tells him the look on her face when they’re done is because she’s feeling a lot. She is. Just not the things she’s probably supposed to be feeling. Her feelings are prickly things, restless things. They toddle and swoop and disturb her peace as she tucks herself into bed and into Peter’s body. Against her cheek, his heart is steady. Is this all her? Is she crazy? There’s a black hoodie on the floor that won’t let her rest.

―

Things are on a definite uptick by the end of September. The nights grow deep and cold and velvety and the two of them stay out late. The stroll the familiar paths between the buildings of her campus with his arm up around her shoulders, playing with the string of her sweater; he’s trying to quit smoking again and needs something to twiddle between his fingers. It’s dark where shadows slice away from the moon and security lights and MJ would like to melt down into water, spreading through these lanes, touching everything in this place that’s becoming hers. Peter bobs up and kisses her temple. The world is for them.

He gives her a piggyback in her Spider-Man costume on Halloween. Over winter break, he casually admits to being Spider-Man and, hey, suddenly she gets additional wears out of that costume, putting it on every single time he says he’s coming over after that, just to mess with him. They end the year at the movies, kissing over their shared bag of popcorn at midnight (Peter ducks his head inside his sweatshirt to look at his phone screen and check the time). In January, it rains a lot, in February, it snows, and by the time the precipitation’s tapering off, she’s survived year one at Columbia.

Peter starts his first year that fall under a cloud that tries to claim MJ as its creator. Because she planned to no longer live in the dorms and he didn’t care whether he did or not, feeling infinitely older than the other freshmen (despite a measly year of age difference), he asked her to share an apartment with him. The question threw her back like a shove to the shoulders. Share an apartment? Share responsibilities, split rent, see each other every day, complete second year while he did first, then third and fourth. What if she did grad school? Moving out and leaving him in the lurch to find a new place or a roommate to cohabitate in the space they’d made theirs for three years, pretending to be adults and scalding coffee to the bottom of the pot. And if they lived together for years and years, what then? A ring slid towards her between takeout boxes one day and then Peter forever.

When he asked, she fished; MJ cast the line of her thoughts ahead through a clear five years, five more years, hazier the farther she tried to look. Then, she reeled it all the way back. It ran smoothly through their cozy recent past, but soon snagged. Snagged, snagged, snagged as she tugged it insistently back to high school. How much or little have they changed since she was the cautious valedictorian-in-the-making, he the assumed burnout, skipping Spanish to take on local crime?

She turned him down and, because he’s softened since stepping out of the outline of a seventeen-year-old badass who eats Brad Davises for breakfast, Peter wears the rejection in plain sight. Every day that she sees him, on campus or on a date, there’s something in his expression or the pitiful hang of his head. Some days, even his hair looks sad, she’d swear. Most of her wants to repair this immediately, but MJ can’t quite give in. Letting him have his way would mean beginning an apartment hunt ASAP―because this idiot is still reckless enough to leave student housing partway into the year and fumble his way through trying to get some of that money back. She likes her current roommates (three girls from her program) and doesn’t want the stress of uprooting herself. Besides, he’s not really just asking to share an apartment. He’s asking for her time, her constant presence. Eventually, if things were to go as she’s forecasted, her life. It startles her that this brash, playful, independent guy needs her. More than she needs him.

For a firm two weeks, MJ steps away from their relationship of approximately two years. She feels naked. Walking down the sidewalk, she feels vulnerable and shivers in the sunlight. On the weekend, she takes a train out of town to visit Cindy. It’s been a year since their almost-fight and they’ve spoken plenty since, but MJ’s been scared to relax into their friendship, fearing it would not bear her weight. Everything in Cindy’s city is new, MJ’s never been here before, with no trace of Peter anywhere but on the clothes she packed in her bag. Everything of her is still so much him.

“So, did you break up?” Cindy asks over lunch. They’re at a place that serves sandwiches so tall that they can barely fit them into their mouths for a bite.

“I didn’t want… I don’t think… we don’t need to talk about that.”

“MJ,” her friend says softly and love floods in through MJ’s porous exterior where sun and sound have only battered her since the last time she spoke to Peter. Tears roll down her cheeks.

“I don’t even know,” she wails, glancing around in embarrassment at this public place. Cindy pats her hands and dashes from the table to pay and bring MJ back to her apartment.

Her eyes itch and her nose runs and her body’s heaving with sobs like a violent coughing fit, so Cindy redirects them to a spit of a park. A bench.

“M, what happened?”

“Nothing! Nothing―” Gasp. “―even happened! But he loves me so much and I, I can’t stand him! And I love him!”

“Ok,” her friend says soothingly, rubbing briskly at MJ’s arm. “What do you want to do?”

“Can I stay here with you forever?”

“Of course you can, babe, but I don’t think you’re going to be happy until you resolve this.”

“I’m never going to be happy,” MJ corrects, and cries harder as Cindy pulls her head down to let her bawl into her sweater.

“You will. You always know when things aren’t right.” MJ shakes her head slowly against her friend’s shoulder, sowing her tears more widely. “Yes, you do,” Cindy counters. “You do.”

―

Breakup sex is what MJ talks Peter into. She never calls it that, but he knows. He meets up with her outside his dorm, breathing hard like he ran to make it on time. It’s their final good day together―day, not night, because she doesn’t want him to expect her to wake up in the morning feeling different, like they should stay together. She doesn’t want to stab him in the heart with the probable reality that she would slip out while he slept.

They stop and start, her to shake off her trembling and him to turn his head away for more than a minute. She really doesn’t want to think that he’s trying not to cry.

His clothes remind her of their first hookup at Flash’s party: different sweatshirt, same smell. Peter never gave up weed, just smoked less, but its earthy funk rises alongside the even more offensive stench of cigarettes when she gently pulls the hoodie over his head. She doesn’t comment. His choices belong to him. She’s never going to have to worry about her husband dying from smoking-induced lung cancer because that man won’t be Peter. That’s the thought that has her crumpling to her knees before she can perceive the world tilting out from underneath her, but he catches her and hoists her into his arms.

“Steady,” he tells her.

MJ cups his cheek, staring back into his bloodshot brown eyes. She watches his jaw clench and relax. Then, MJ smooths her hand over his ear, around to the back of his head, and pulls him into a kiss. It feels like they’ve been practicing this a long time and have finally arrived at the day of their performance. The nudge of his mouth is strong without being rough and as he sets her on the bed, her palm finds his heart hammering beneath his t-shirt. When Peter joins her, she rolls on top of him. There are no accidents of him manhandling her or her accidently pushing a knee into his nuts as she shifts. Everything is intentional, including the desire not to separate, MJ laid out the full length of Peter’s body. They flop back and forth as they remove each other’s clothes. It’s not a rush so much as the gentle tumble of laundry as a dryer winds down its cycle. They are. They’re winding down.

He scoots his hips lower and his cock prods her as she parts her legs, lifting because they’re on their sides. Peter sinks in by gripping the back of her thigh and pulling her towards him rather than thrusting up. They’re forgoing a condom because MJ’s still on the pill. She doesn’t know yet whether she’ll renew her prescription when she runs out. It’s tempting to stop and flush the chemistry from her body. Seeking something deeper, she hikes her knee up his thigh and Peter grabs it, hauling it to his hip. Soon, she’s sweating with her hand still on his chest, though there’s hardly room between them. Peter huffs as he plunges himself inside her with the opening salvo that is the reliable flick of his hips. MJ’s hand clutches his pec with his first serious thrust.

At the noise she makes, Peter tips her onto her back, but stays almost suffocatingly close on top of her, skin skimming skin. His forearms are braced on either side of her head. Careful, loving fingers brush against her temples, briefly making his arms a triangle with the top of her head as its peak. MJ looks up while he’s looking down, chin tucked so far that he must be watching himself move in and out of her. His hair is nearly in her eyes. She realizes they haven’t kissed since he entered her and panics, grabbing his chin.

Peter’s startled expression scares her, but then he slams his mouth down onto hers and ratchets up the speed and force of his thrusts. She makes such a variety of sounds, all running into each other, that it takes a little while for them to streamline down to one constant, “Mmmmm,” as he bucks, shaking her body. Her legs fall open instead of wrapping up around him because the way his proximity is rubbing her clit has her twitching from toe to hip. His hands clasp hers and pin them down on either side of her head; she doesn’t think twice―like she probably should―before twisting their fingers together.

She comes like a hiccup when his pubic bone pushes down against her clit, then slides away on a withdrawal, then returns because she detangles their fingers to clasp her hands to his hips, then his ass, and yank him back to her. Her head tips back, pulling her hair where it’s trapped against the sheet, and she breathes out his name in a gust: “Peter.” Though she knows he’s close, can feel him there at the end of his rope and see the struggle in how harshly he squeezes his eyes closed, he only goes faster.

“Come on,” MJ bids, sweaty and trapped by his weight, still clutching his ass with both hands.

“No,” he pants.

“Let go.”

“Can’t.”

Peter forcefully pulls her hand into his and locks their fingers securely together. And she stares up at him, baby-faced and overextended. He zigzags between school and Spider-Man duties and looking out for his aunt, trying to kick his bad habits while the stress of everything has him craving relief that much more. He’s spiraling. Whether it’s down, up, or just kinda in place like a carousal only depends on the day. He lives his life in a circle and when MJ observes him, she feels an ache compressing her heart. She wants to be there for him, not leave him, and she has to remind herself that she has been. While he flitted all over the place―high or just high up, navigating the city rooftop-to-rooftop―she walked below him with an outstretched net. One eye was always on him. She’s been reliable, present, giving, and she can’t keep being those things alone. This will never be because she didn’t care. The truth is simple and the most awful realization she’s ever had: he was right when he said he doesn’t deserve her.

All her life, MJ’s felt like she’s done a good job of recognizing her own worth. Now she has to prove it. It feels like she’s walking up to a checkout and realizing she doesn’t have enough money on her; she never dreamed it would cost so much to put herself first.

“Peter.” She’s frustrated now, and hurt. She clenches around him to encourage him over the edge.

“Unnhhh!”

She’s trying to think of something else to say, filtering out all the ideas that are too blunt or cruel (she doesn’t want to say anything too sweet either), but Peter orgasms seconds after he made that noise of pleasure as he fought against it. When he climaxes, tightening his grip on her hand, he moans, “Love you, MJ,” which is the worst thing of all.

―

She can’t know. She puts distance between herself and anyone who might tell her how Peter’s doing. She almost changes schools until basically every person in her life lectures her not to. She’s scared enough to accept her own cowardice. She lives in the background as she hasn’t done for a while, though she steps forward slowly over time―months and years. She puts herself first. She’s valedictorian at the end of her four-year degree and considers lying about bronchitis every day up until convocation, when she gives a haphazard, heartfelt speech that makes her brother cheer riotously from the audience. Valedictorian. First again.

Then the years just pass like they do. MJ’s chronically underpaid before finding a company that values her, though the job isn’t what she really wants to be doing. After hours, she paints. Just for herself. She moves in with Louis and that’s not as bad an idea as it seems until the year they host a Halloween party and her brother (now 33) bumps into Cindy (now 28) for the first time since she was one of his sister’s dorky decathlon friends. Cindy shows up dressed as a vampire, fake fangs and all, and MJ is highly suspicious when she notices the fangs are missing after Cindy went to ‘help Louis add ice’ to the bathtub serving as their cooler for the night. Whatever. They’re married seven months later.

Life is so funny. That’s what MJ can’t communicate to her small circle of friends at their corner booth of the bar as they do their damnedest to get her shitfaced on her thirtieth birthday. She evades and redistributes drinks amongst them, but she can tell they think she’s drunk. She doesn’t normally talk this much or open up so willingly. But she’s thoughtful tonight, with one less decade left to live. She smiles to herself, looking down into the glass she keeps wiping condensation off. She knows how they look―peepers wide and dollish because alcohol makes three out of five of them into glassy-eyed babies with false lashes askew. “I used to know this guy…” MJ tells them and Cindy’s hand bumbles across the table to clasp reassuringly around her wrist.

She continues to smile. She doesn’t know why tonight’s the night he’s on her mind. The rings that sparkle on her friends’ fingers, maybe. Age. Or the way the love of the people around her calls back to another love, the only partner she’s bestowed that word on, though she’s dated since. Love, she tells her friends, unlike life, is not so funny. It’s earnest and needy. It’s the hand that holds yours and it’s the hand that comes up to slap yours away. Her friends decide she’s sad and begin talking over and across her before she can finish. Younger her would set them straight, but she’s neither a cynic nor a pedant on her birthday evening, so she lets them cart her out of the bar instead. They’re like a flurry of babysitters or lady’s maids and it’s totally ridiculous as she’s the most sober among them.

While they’re putting their foggy heads together to figure out the rideshare app on Cindy’s phone, MJ catches a red flare out of the corner of her eye. A cigarette, a smoker. Normally, she gives those a hard stare to encourage them to rethink their choices, but now, she snaps her mostly-clear head away. Unlikely, her brain tells her. Unlikely. She swallows and watches her friends, giggling and all trying to get a finger on the screen to wrest control away from the others. To be MJ’s hero and secure her ride home. With a shallow breath, she turns from them.

He’s already looking at her in a way that says he wasn’t completely sure until she turned.

Peter pushes away from the wall and the cigarette trapped between fingers that aren’t his. The other man looks mildly curious, then gets over it and averts his gaze, continuing to sprinkle ash on the sidewalk. Not that she’s perceiving him anymore.

“Happy birthday,” Peter says, eyes speaking so loud.

MJ self-consciously touches the distinguishing button the girls pinned to her dress before they came downtown, but he shakes his head.

“No,” he tells her. “I remember when it is.”

“Oh.”

“Mine’s―”

“August tenth.”

“Yeah.”

One of her friends tries to call her over and MJ jumps, glancing back at them. She sees Cindy watching her cautiously. Sees Cindy touch their friend’s arm and redirect her attention. MJ looks back to Peter. She looks at his hands and can’t see the scarring in this light. Can’t see a wedding band either, but with his superhuman side-hustle, it’s possible he just wouldn’t wear one for fear of losing it.

“Night off?” she asks. These should be prime swinging hours for Spider-Man.

“Nah, I was out there until half an hour ago.”

MJ peers at him more closely. He looks a little tired, but not wiped like he used to look when he’d show up late years earlier. She wonders if he’s learned to take better care of himself, if he’s had any major injuries.

“Do you work set hours now or did you have to stop for a hospital visit?” She’s joking without any lift to her words and spies Peter’s quick smile.

“No broken bones tonight,” he brags. “I got hungry. I grabbed some food right before this.”

She meets his eye and watches as he summons something from himself.

“You wanna go inside and get a birthday drink?” he offers, jerking a thumb towards the bar MJ and her friends just left.

Her smile is gradual and regretful without permitting room for him to persuade her.

“I can’t,” she says. “I have to get home.”

MJ puts out her hand to him and when Peter grips it, she steps slowly into him, bowing her neck to rest her chin over the shoulder of his jean jacket, which doesn’t smell like anything in particular. His free hand presses high on her back. It’s tentative, but when she doesn’t pull away, he cradles her, arm encircling her more protectively.

“It’s good to see you,” he murmurs.

Before she backs off, she tells him that she still walks the paths at Columbia some nights, in the glow of Butler Library.

“That’s funny,” Peter says, letting his arm slide down so MJ can draw back and look him in the eye. “Not funny funny, but, you know. So do I.”

more clichéd tropes and prompts

[squeeneyart]

Breathe in the Salt - Chapter Fourteen

AO3

Beta read as always is @thesnadger​

Martin returns a lost item.

It's cleaning day. 

She was still in bed.

Martin breathed out his nose. This was normal, what with the early hours he kept. Still, as he shut the door, the smallest amount of tension left his shoulders. His mother would wake up in a few hours and go about her day as usual with what energy she had. Things were normal. 

He pressed his forehead to the wood.

She hadn’t been holding her skin.

Stowed it away, perhaps, to keep it close and secure instead of sitting in the corner of a stuffy attic. Tucked out of sight, as if it had never been there. If this was what she wanted, fine. He would leave it. He stepped away and continued with his morning, leaving the silence undisturbed.

His routine dragged on, and yet before he knew it he’d sped through the whole thing. Teeth, shower, some small nothing of a breakfast that he barely managed to get down. Pill box set on the counter, the previous day’s dose empty. Some dishes left in the sink that he hadn’t gotten to the night before quickly rinsed and set aside. Then, before he felt any time truly pass, he was slipping on his shoes.

His bag felt heavy as he lifted it from the table, though the sketchbook inside was no physical burden. This would be over soon, he told himself. It made no difference to his nervous insides.

He should’ve gotten more sleep.

It had been a mistake to stumble out of the house the night before. He could’ve complied with his mother’s demand for solitude by simply leaving the room and going upstairs to his own bed. Instead, he’d had to be walked home late at night like a drunk after last call. And above all, he was up earlier than usual, the final nail in his sleepless coffin. 

Martin rubbed away some of the exhaustion from his eyes and hefted the bag more securely onto his shoulder. Upon exiting his home he was met with a dreary, drizzling morning that sprayed his glasses with tiny droplets. Before long he would have to wipe them, but he kept his umbrella stored away.

“No reason to look up,” he muttered to himself, turning his back on the sea. It churned and scattered itself over the rocks. “Nothing but water in your eyes.”

It was easy enough to focus on the path as it sloped upward, and when he reached town he turned to walk on a street perpendicular to his normal route, that towering thing clawing at this periphery. He had another destination to avoid eye contact with first.

On the way he passed the storage house, doing his best to look like an uninterested pedestrian. It was hard not to stare. So quiet in the early morning, the building could’ve been unused for years if Martin hadn’t known better. 

He shook his head. There was no more business to be had there, at least for the moment. If none of them had been tracked down by the police (or worse), it wasn’t worth worrying about. No, the only person who knew about their little investigation was ahead of him, and like a fool Martin had to trust that he would keep this whole thing quiet.

The house was probably the same as it had been. Martin couldn’t tell, as he kept his eyes away from its large frame and numerous windows. The front gate was open and inviting, the mouth of a whale waiting for the tiniest specks of sea life to float inside.

A woman in a neat suit stood at the front door, apparently waiting for him. “Martin. Simon told me to expect you. No problems, I assume?”

“No.” Martin sifted through his bag and handed her the sketchbook.

“Wonderful. I’ll deliver this to him for you.” She lightly brushed at the cover, lips parting in a smile. “Also, Simon wished for me to tell you that the view from up high later today won’t be one to miss.”

Her face said to be excited, as if she were telling him discreetly of a meteor shower or a fireworks display. A fun, secret end to his family vacation that wasn’t mentioned in the brochure. She tucked the sketchbook under her arm, never letting the friendly grin drop.

“Have a nice day,” she said, through her sparkling teeth. The door was promptly shut in his face.

Backing away, Martin almost looked up at the windows overlooking the front of the house, then snapped his head back down. There was nothing for him up there but dark glass and rainwater.

--

“That’s…hm.” Jon grimaced in his chair. “It’s certainly ominous.”

Martin sat at his small desk making a modest attempt at getting his work done. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be looking out the windows later.”

Jon nodded. “Yes, that would be for the best. I am concerned, though. The possibility of that book being something more significant hadn’t crossed my mind with everything else going on. If I’d had more time to think, I would’ve asked to take a look at it.”

Across from Jon, Tim was flipping through Martin’s work contract with some intensity. Without looking up, he said, “Well, there’s no helping it now. It probably would’ve just given you a headache, or worse. Martin, is there a list of- oh, wait, I found them.”

Sasha leaned over to look at the pages in Tim’s hand, chewing on the inside of her cheek. When Martin had come in for the day, the three had already settled into their workplaces with a strange energy about them. Sasha in particular had been on edge, seemingly unable to sit for too long. 

When he’d asked about this, her only response had been, “Elias hasn’t contacted us yet.”

Jon had argued that it was early, that he had sent out an email the night before and Elias might not have seen it, but there were lines of worry etched in his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. 

Or perhaps he was also in need of a better night’s sleep. If Martin had to guess, none of them were running at full capacity. If combing through his incredibly boring work contract helped Tim and Sasha them feel productive, so be it.

“Well, whatever the book was,” Jon continued, “when you go upstairs later, make sure to take Sasha or myself with you. We’ve been largely unaffected by this place, so if anyone is to follow up on Fairchild’s… tip, it should be one of us.”

“He’s the type to rile people up for fun. Maybe it’s nothing.” Martin couldn’t even convince himself.

“Not worth the risk, what with the symptoms you and Tim have exhibited.” Jon glanced at the other two, who did not look away from their reading. He cleared his throat. “Better to be safe in this circumstance, I think.”

The group fell back into silent work, Martin at his desk, Jon on his laptop, and the other two scanning line after line of employment agreements and mind-numbing blocks of text Martin probably hadn’t read before signing. When he’d gone over it days before, there had been no secret clauses or double meanings. Maybe they would have more luck.

Tim eventually spoke up. “Huh. Martin, have you done any of the cleaning bit since we’ve arrived?”

Martin raised his eyebrows. “What? Sorry, did I leave a mess in the sink or-”

“No, no, that’s not it.” Tim tapped the back of his hand onto the page in front of him. “Says here you’re basically the janitorial staff. Something about having to go through the place and clean everything.”

“Oh. Right, yeah, it’s part of my job since no one else works here.” Heat crept up his neck. He’d completely forgotten in the week’s excitement. He muttered to himself, “Shit. I’d better get that done today. If Peter comes in tomorrow and sees it’s a mess-”

“Don’t worry, we won’t interrupt. Just tell us if we need to move anything.”

Martin nodded and pushed himself out of his chair. “Thanks for reminding me. It’s not a priority most of the time since it’s just me, but at the very least he’ll notice if the floors are bad.” And with all the weather and the people, they absolutely were. Goodness.

Tim clicked his tongue. “Can’t have him thinking of us as an intrusion, not if we want to keep the work going.”

“God, I hadn’t even thought about that.” Martin walked over to the closet and began to pull out cleaning supplies. It would have to be the kitchen first, then the floors…

Before long, he’d settled into his cleaning routine. All of the dishes were properly washed instead of just rinsed out, not that the tea stains would be coming off anytime soon. He did his best to mop the main area without disturbing the researchers. Besides some lifting of feet, there were no interruptions on his part.

He would have to go over some spots later, but there was no helping it with all these people about. With so many shoes on the tile and all the rotten weather, the place had gotten dirty and slick. He really would need to get a better mat for the front door if people were to come in more often, especially once it started snowing.

Pushing that thought gently aside, Martin walked toward the stairs with his mop and bucket full of sudsy water. 

“Wait, you really have to lug that all the way up?” Sasha asked. 

“Yeah…” Martin sighed and started climbing. “There’s nowhere to fill a bucket up there, but people go up just enough that it gets dirty.” 

From behind him, there was the sliding of chairs on tile. He looked back. Sasha led the other two toward him and said, “With what Fairchild said, it’s best not to risk anyone going up there alone. Besides, I want another look at the windows before it goes weird.”

“Okay… Just don’t look too far down when you do.” He glanced behind her. “Tim, are you sure you don’t want to-”

“Oh, I’ll be staying nice and safe in the center of the room where I can keep an eye on everyone.” Tim smiled with at least some humor. “Besides, you were right. The contract was a terrible read.”

Martin shrugged and continued his ascent with everyone trailing behind. He wouldn’t bother with the stairs until he was on his way down, in part due to safety but also because it was the biggest pain to keep the bucket balanced. 

Halfway up the stairs the shoulder pain kicked in as it usually did, near his neck and right between the shoulder blades. He knew it must’ve been from holding things wrong in some way. Maybe the shifting weight of the water messed with his muscles, but no matter how he held himself he had always managed to get at least a crick in his neck.

“Martin?” Jon said, sounding distant at the back of the line. “Is everything okay?”  

Martin hummed in response, stretching his neck. He didn’t work with proper posture, so that was almost definitely a factor. Setting a timer could be helpful. How often were people supposed to stand and move when sitting for a long time? Every thirty minutes? That seemed a bit too often, but he was no expert in muscles or spines. 

He wasn’t an expert in anything, really, but in this case he could at least google it. How often had he told himself he would google ‘when should you get up sedentary job?’ without doing so? Was thirty years when things started going wrong with your back? Martin was a tall man, and his back had never been great, not with his lifestyle or all the lifting he sometimes had to do at home, but he knew being tall could really mess up the spine. Herniated discs were apparently-

“Martin!” Sasha’s voice snapped, echoing up into the stairwell.

The sound of steps behind him had stopped. Martin paused and looked over his shoulder to find Sasha’s hand on it, giving it a shockingly forceful shake. The three of them seemed to sag in relief. Tim was gripping the handrail and leaned his head against the wall, while Jon just looked at him with his hands raised as if to prod Martin’s arm.

With a nervous laugh, Martin flicked his eyes between them. “W-what’s going on? You look like you’ve seen-”

“Martin, what just happened?” Sasha asked. Her fingers continued to dig into his shoulder, keeping him in place.

“We… walked up the stairs? I carried a bucket?” He lifted the bucket up as evidence, then stared at it. “Sorry, did some of the water splash out and make the stairs slippery? I tend to overfill it, but-” 

Jon cut him off. “Let’s just- we’ll talk when we get upstairs.” He glanced behind himself with some alarm and hurried to the front of the group.

Martin was about to argue, to say that no, if something happened he deserved to know- but one look at their faces was enough to shut him up as they resumed the trek upward. He gripped tight the bucket and mop. 

It became clear on the quiet walk that the others were waiting for something. Sasha kept lightly squeezing Martin’s shoulder as if to push him forward. Only once did they stop for Tim to get his bearings, after several instances of Tim waving off his own stumbles as nothing.

From the front Jon regularly looked over his shoulder, usually at Martin but occasionally past him down the winding steps. Martin attempted to catch his eye more than once to raise an eyebrow at him, but the man was distracted by whatever it was that had everyone all in a tizzy. 

Besides those tiny moments of confusion, it was easy enough to settle into the now familiar headspace of focusing on Jon’s back and not thinking too hard about it all.

Finally, thankfully, they reached the upper floor. Bright morning light filtered through the panes of glass, a startlingly intense change from the stairwell. Despite this, Martin shivered. If he dared go near the windows, he thought, would they be at all warm?

Sasha’s hand guided him to a small, faded couch in the corner. He set the cleaning supplies onto the floor, sat with his hands together in his lap, and waited.

Sasha began, “So, I’m sure that was… strange for you.”

“I mean, yeah?” Martin replied. He started rubbing a thumb into the back of his hand. “Clearly something happened that I don’t know about.”

Sasha looked around at the other two before fishing her phone out of her pocket. “Well. Before we get into that, there’s something you should hear. Late last night, I received an interesting voicemail.” 

Martin’s eyes grew wide. “Wait, she actually-”

“She didn’t actually claim to be anyone. Understandably suspicious.” Sasha looked at her phone and pulled something up on it. “Nevertheless, she had some… advice.”

She tapped the phone, then held it out.

A tired, irritated voice came through, muffled with static. “I’m not interested in talking, not if you’re involved with those people, that family. They’ve harassed me, stalked me, who knows what else.” 

There was a quick sigh. “But you found my number and just... called me. No one would blow all that work on such a weak lie unless they were being sincere. I guess. Or it’s just easier to hope that someone else sees that something is wrong.”

“So, before I realize this is a bad idea, tell this to whoever they got to replace him: Don’t assume incompetence. They know how to get away with things. It’s all making you ignore what’s right in front of you because, no, of course it must be a mistake or a typo. It’s about getting away with a lie without actually lying.” Another sigh. 

“That’s where he went, or where they took him, I know it. When he came out from- from wherever the first time, he found me losing it on the stairs after he-.” The person laughed, just barely. “Almost dropped the stupid water bucket when he saw me there. He was always- no. No. If you’re really trying to figure things out, then best of luck to you. You’re probably fucked, but either way, don’t… don’t go in alone. You’ll just get lost. Don’t bother calling this number again.” Click.

For a moment Martin stared at the phone. Her voice had been cracking near the end, and he pushed down the bile that rose in his throat. “This is, um… So, she saw something, and that something was…”

Tim nodded, fishing a folded page of the contract out of his pocket and giving it over to Martin. “She was right. It’s the smallest detail. No one would think it’s anything other than a mistake.” 

Slowly, Martin unfolded the page listing his general duties. It took him a moment, but after scanning a few lines he found it. His stomach twisted. “‘Upper floors’. There’s only the main floor and the top floor, nothing else.”

“Apparently not,” Jon said, sitting on the arm of the couch. “Because about halfway up the stairs you disappeared straight into a wall.”

[silverwhiteraven]

Borne of the Stars - Chapter 3 - An MLB Kryptonian AU

Kryptonian AU Tag List:  @eve-valution @weird-pale-blonde-person @kris-pines04 @soulmate-game @abrx2002 @amayakans @vixen-uchiha @heldtogetherbysafetypins @raisuke06 @dorkus-minimus @captainartsypants @mopester-is-here @moonlightstar64 @annabellabrookes @daminett4life @toodaloo-kangaroo

[ Posted on Ao3 ] [ Chapter 1 ] [ Chapter 2 ] [ Chapter 4 ]

[A/N: I am on a roll today! Three chapters in one day! That’s right, Chapter 4 is almost done, too! ]

[ Summary: Supergirl sees something off, and she’s hella suspicious. Now she has questions. ]

There's a long pause as the hero’s stare continues and her frown only seems to deepen.

Another beat, and then a double echo of “Supergirl?” from both Marinette and Superman. Marinette’s had the faintest pitch of panic to it, because this time, she was certain that Supergirl’s grip had loosened and they had dropped in altitude, though just barely in both cases. And he may not have noticed, but it seemed Superman had been dropping with them. 

The double call seems to snap her attention back up, but she still looks… Puzzled. 

“I’m… Fine,” she sounded unsure of that, but actually shook her head as if to clear her thoughts away and pasted her big grin back where it belonged. “No, really! Geode, you are completely unharmed from this, no worries! Though you do seem to have some… Let’s say, older injuries from the past that are concerning me, just a smidgen. 

“Kal!” The older hero had been about to speak up in curiosity, his mouth already open, but it snapped shut at the overly cheerful tone of Supergirl. “How ‘bout you head out and do that sweep of the city, yeah? I can finish up here, I just have a few things to ask of Geode, about stuff. What happened here, how she’s feeling, some normal safety warnings, ya’know, that sort of stuff, you know how it is. I can handle it, no worries!”

The amount of times she’s said ‘no worries’ has Marinette a bit more than worried, gripping just a bit harder to the hero, and the squeeze gets returned, but she can't tell why it half feels protective, and half feels like she’s just been trapped to prevent an escape. 

And somehow, the same nickname twice felt off, too. 

What in the world had Supergirl seen?

Superman’s hesitation was clear, and Marinette, uncomfortable enough to wish to get everything over with, spoke up. “I’m fine, really, and I’m okay to answer any questions she has. I have nowhere to be yet,” she adds as a final reassurance, and continuously makes sure she can still feel her phone securely in her pocket. She can.

He glances between the two, then gives an approving nod to Supergirl, though still a tad hesitant. “We’ll have a meeting and debrief tonight, then.”

“Great idea!” the hero pipes up in response, still all too cheerful. “Besides, you must be feeling a little tired, aren't you? Should get going so you can rest up, you're a busy guy after all!” 

Superman raises a brow at her, but nods. “Yeah, odd, I didn't notice until you pointed it out. Good work today, Supergirl, thank you. I’ll see you later then.” 

He turns to go, and Marinette has a slightly sudden reminder of a thought, and she reaches out an arm as if to stop the hero from leaving. “Wait!” She quickly grabs right back onto Supergirl as she can bodily feel how much of a bad idea it was to reflexively let go with one hand. 

“Uh, please,” she adds in a mumble, embarrassed as he turns back to them. 

“Yes?” He asks with patience, and she greatly appreciated that he didn’t snap at her for stopping him. 

“You probably get this a lot, but my friend would probably disown me if she finds out I met you and didn't ask. You see, my friend, she's a huge superhero fan, and also an aspiring reporter, and, well, you know how fans and reporters are, you being a public hero and all. Do you think you'd be willing to do an interview with her, even just a quick hello?” She was nervous to ask, but she was determined to persevere, for Alya’s sake. 

It takes barely a breath of a moment before Superman breaks into a smile and nods. 

“Absolutely, anything to help out such a dedicated reporter and her friend. Supergirl can give you a number to one of the reporters at the Daily Planet, she knows which one. He can get up in contact. Until then,” he finishes with a salute, and finally turns and flies off, picking up pace and disappearing faster than Marinette can fully voice her thank you. 

There's no time for awkward silence as Supergirl is suddenly taking them back down, and Marinette yelps at the unexpected drop.

She looks back down towards the ground as they fall, and she points, with her chin this time, at the now dust covered bench with her messenger bag and sketchpad still sitting there unsupervised. “Over there, I left my bag on the bench. I hope everything is still safe.”

They drop to the sidewalk and Marinette takes a moment to get her feet under her before stepping away from the hero. Supergirl seems reluctant to let her go, and Marinette gets the feeling once more that she's been trapped despite having no reason to run. 

Dusting off the open sketchbook, she makes sure the sketch isn't ruined by the dust before picking up her bag and gently beats the dirt and pebbles from the fabric. As she slings it back over her shoulder, she looks up in time to once more catch the blue-green eyes of the blond teenager she had saved earlier. 

He seemed to be waiting for someone now, standing across the street on the corner. A mountain of broken concrete was between them now instead of just one chunk and a door. They blink at each other in a moment of surprise at seeing one another, before he nods in acknowledgment, and she can tell it's his way of saying thank you without actually coming to her to say so. She nods back, and he goes back to his waiting, his book once more in his hands. She notices, though, that his earbuds remained with one in and one out.

Supergirl mutters what sounded like “Luthors” before she clears her throat, and Marinette turns back to her curiously. The other girl was tense, and her eyes were boring back towards the mystery teen. 

“Do you know him?” Supergirl sounded as tense as she looked, and cautious, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Oh, no, of course not,” Marinete waved her hand as though to brush Supergirl’s worries away, before finally picking her sketchbook back up. 

“I just helped him when the planet thing was coming down,” she added, “we almost got crushed by it.” She downplayed her saving of him, for one, not wanting to seem like she was boasting, and two, she felt that trying to act like a hero was not a good idea in the moment. She didn't know Supergirl’s temperament at all, unlike the more predictable and known one of Superman, so Marinette concluded that her usual quiet would be the best play until she knew what had given the superhero’s hackles a rise.

“Uh-huh,” Supergirl sounded skeptical, but she relaxed minutely. She turned back to Marinette, and the tension in her shoulders dissipated as she uncrossed one arm and pointed to the open sketchbook in Marinette’s hands. “What is that?”

“Huh?” She looks down, and her scarlet blush returns. “Oh,” She stutters out, looking at the open page of Superman costume redesigns. The beginnings of a Supergirl-styled skirt sat in one of the corners. 

She hesitates a moment, still not used to sharing her drawings, but finally holds the sketchbook out tentatively to the superhero for her to see better. Supergirl takes it with her own amount of hesitance, but as she scans the page, her other arm uncurls and she holds the book fully and more carefully. 

Marinette fidgets a bit nervously, but relaxes as Supergirl’s expression seems to be appreciative and showing consideration for the designs. She even seemed to be eyeing a particular design with a gold and red cape with golden clasps, red boots and cloves, blue bodysuit, and a red and gold sash-like belt around the waist. The designer had a slight feeling she liked it, but not as a suggestion for her cousin. 

The phone in Marinette’s pocket buzzes before sounding out a wordless Jagged Stone tune, and she jumps back from where she had been standing close to and looking over the shoulder of the superhero. 

She quickly pulls it out and answers. “Hello? Papa? Oh yes, I’m still at the park, of course! You heard the news? Am I hurt?” She stuttered a bit on the last two questions, looking nervously at Supergirl who raised a brow back at her. She didn't want to worry her parents, but she knew the situation would still concern them nonetheless. She sighs and turns back to her phone.

“No Papa, let Maman know I’m alright, just a bit dusty; I was pretty close when it happened. Yes, I’ll meet you on the other side of the park, promise, see you soon. Oh! And, please don't freak out,” she adds to her worried father on the other end of the line. “The local superhero wanted to make sure I was okay, so she’s with me at the moment, don't be surprised if she's still with me when I get there!” 

Marinette smiles to herself as she notices the unproccessing look of having been blown away on Supergirl’s face. She guessed it had to do with not being called Superman’s sidekick like Marinette had heard before, or even Superman’s cousin or Superman’s partner. It was probably that she had simply called her the local superhero, as though she was the only one. Marinette could admit, from everything she knows from Alya and from today, Supergirl deserved a little shameless time in the spotlight all on her own, even if just from one person.

Realizing her father had gone silent from a moment of his own shock, Marinette quickly ended the call with a rushed “Okay-Bye!” and put the phone away. She beamed at Supergirl happily as she gestured into the park, past the bronze planet nestled into the grass. “Shall we?”

She didn’t wait for a reply before turning on her heel and almost skipping as she jogged off for the other side of the public space. Honestly, she was just happy the whole almost-dying ordeal was over.

She glanced back, confirming that Supergirl was flying after her silently, still just a tad dazed but with a fresh new grin of pride on her. 

By the time they got to the other end of the park, Supergirl seemed to be bursting at the seams with glee, but she kept it contained respectfully as Marinette went up to her already waiting parents and hugged them. 

Worries and reassurances passed between them for a couple moments before the hero was once more clearing her throat, her positive energy from a moment ago toned down into something more serious. 

“Not to be a spoilsport or anything, really,” the superhero seemed to shuffle on her feet awkwardly, though she wasn't even touching the ground. “But I have a question. Geode- I mean, uh-”

“Marinette,” she supplied, and the hero nodded.

“This may seem like an odd question, but it’s not, I assure you. Marinette, have you ever been caught up in a meteor shower?”

[talkfastromance4]

Ashton snippet

Found this while perusing through old docs, it’s titled ‘Don’t Call Me Angel” and it ends abruptly because I never finished or I don’t know what happened. But here’s a snippet of a TA!Ashton as an art teacher. 

Might have to add this to my list of WIPs to finish if it gets good reviews. Let me know what you think :)

Copyright talkfastromance4 © All works is intellectual property of the author. All rights reserved. Any redistribution or reproduction or any part or all contents in any form is prohibited. You may not, without written expression and consent from the author, distribute works amongst other social media platforms

donate to my ko-fi here :)

Masterlist

• • • •

Ashton has always felt things so deeply. He loves deeply, he rages deeply, he sympathizes deeply and he plays his drums with everything he’s got. He tries to keep his emotions in check but they change like the tides, even he finds it hard to keep up with them.

Ashton lives, breathes and sweats creativity. His passion is seen in his brush strokes, his despair is shown through the negative space of his photographs. Long hours spent in the dark room and sometimes endless nights painting on large canvases in his studio apartment has given him the cliché brooding artist look; dark circles under his eyes complete the look.

When he’s not in the dark room or his apartment he frequents the coffee shop that is the perfect halfway point between his familiar places. It’s called Java Bean and serve the best iced coffee Ashton has ever tasted to tell you the God honest truth and the shop is a literal godsend for being open twenty-four hours.

Ashton’s insides are made of caffeine, paint and a constant ebb and flow of pulsating thoughts and phrases that won’t leave his mind unless he writes them down in his sketchbook. That’s another thing Ashton can never leave the house without, his sketchbook.

It’s large, black and hard covered even though the spine has long since lost the potency of its glue causing it to lie open like a cracked crab. It’s filled with his thoughts, lyrics he can’t get out of his head, small sketches of flowers or images he sees late at night when he dreams (when he gets a chance to sleep).

The book is his vice and he would rather die than ever part with it for Ashton is a closed book with every person (aside from his three best friends) but he opens up fully between those pages.

For his last year at University he’s the TA for his favorite art professor, Miss Dooley who is the perfect amount of scatter-brained and genius. She calls every student ‘pet’ and always has incense or essential oils burning in her classroom.

It has been Ashton’s wish and dream to be an art teacher for high school students, to help those like him who want to stay in their shell reveal who they truly are on the inside.

“Hello, my pet,” Miss Dooley trills in her usual sing song voice as Ashton enters the large art classroom.

He inhales the acrylic paint, the fresh wood waiting to be turned into canvases and the waxy aroma from the oil pastels stowed away in a cupboard. It’s one of his favorite smells in the world, the mediums just waiting to be used and Ashton’s fingers twitch in anticipation to create.

“Hey, Miss D,” he grins making a beeline to her desk at the front of the room. Behind her on the charcoal colored chalkboard is her name in calligraphy with broad strokes of curves and flowers.

‘Advanced Art Multi-Medium’ is written in block letters below her name as well.

“Excited for this year?” she asks rolling around a small was of blue putty in her hands. She claims it keeps her fingers and joints from failing so she’ll always be able to make art.

“Yeah, does it look like we’ll have a good class this year?” he taps the pads of his fingers on the black resin tabletop, a habit he’s always had when he’s anxious.

“Oh, I think so,” she beams her robin’s egg eyes twinkle. “It’s a full class this year, which I have you to thank for my little chickadee.”

“Me? What do you mean?”

“You’ve been the best student for the past six years you’ve been here, my prized pupil and a very handsome fella if you don’t mind me saying.”

Ashton feels the back of his neck heat up from her sentence full of compliments. Surely he’s not the reason for a full class this year? That’s ridiculous.

“I don’t think—“

Before he could finish the double wooden doors swung open and a flood of college students entered and Ashton couldn’t help but judge the first few that came in. He recognized three of the girls in front who were in Delta Zeta which he knew the only amount of creativity in their body was decorating photo backdrops.

Apart from them the rest of the class he’s seen hanging around the art wing of the school and at some of the showings he was at. At the rear was one of his best friends, Michael Clifford who decided a month ago to dye his hair a deep purple again. Michael smirks at his friend as he takes a seat next to a petite girl opening up a small black notebook.

Ashton let out an exasperated breath through his nostrils at his friend who did not tell him he’d be taking this class.

“ . . . Twenty- three . . . and twenty-four. Excellent! We’re all here!” Miss Dooley claps her hands together and moves to the front of her desk to smile sweetly at her pupils. “I recognize some of your faces but welcome to Advanced Art! I am Miss Dooley and this young man next to me is Ashton Irwin who will be my aide for this year. Would you like to inform them what this year will consist of?”

Ashton clears his throat then steps forward to stand next to Miss Dooley but ends up leaning his back against the counter behind him. He wanted them to see he was relaxed.

“Hey everybody. This year will be about using different mediums and creating something great out of them and also finding your niche in your art. Every class you’ll have five sketches of a landscape or a self-portrait or anything else that catches your eye. If you don’t have a sketchbook I recommend getting on.”

Every eye is on him and he is making a point not to look anywhere near Michael in the back. He clears his throat again before continuing.

“Your final exam for the first semester will be the beginning of your portfolio which will show the progression of your ‘voice.’ When—“

“Our voice?” a platinum blond of the Delta Zeta trio asks with her hand in the air, a confused pout on her glossed lips.

Ashton folds his arms across his chest, the leather of his jacket squeaks from the motion.

“Each artist has a voice in their work, a certain style that is all their own. That’s why when you see the blurred colors of a lily pond you know it’s Monet or the small pointed brush strokes and vivid colors of Van Gogh. Art is a voice for when you don’t know what to say, you can convey so much emotion into it. By the end of the year I want to be able to tell who’s piece is who’s, that’s how prominent it needs to be.

“If you don’t think you have it in you or won’t rise up to the challenge of being vulnerable, then I suggest you drop the class. Some people really want to be here and create art, I don’t want you to be deprived of that.”

He stands there eyeing each and every person almost daring one of them to stand up and walk out. A motion of a hand raise catches his eye in the back, he thinks it’s Michael and is ready to kick his friend out if he makes a rude comment. But it’s not Michael, it’s the girl sitting next to him.

“Yes, pet?” Miss Dooley calls on her.

“How many pieces should be in our portfolio?” she asks in a gentle voice but with sureness behind it.

“However many it takes to find your voice,” Ashton answers her. She nods then bends over her notebook to write furiously on the page.

“Well, since no one has jumped ship, let’s start off with a little exercise. Turn to the person you share a table with, introduce yourself and sketch them while you get to know each other. You will be each other’s buddies for the semester. Begin, my pets,” Miss Dooley claps her hands together again and all the students shuffle around for pencils and paper.

» » » » »

It’s a Friday night and Ashton is sitting in his favorite booth at Java Bean with his sketchbook out and earphones in to block out the small chatter of other college students. His first week of class as a TA went really well, a lot of the students showed promise. To his amusement Michael’s first sketches were of the little succulents he has scattered about his apartment.

Ashton was pleased that they took him seriously and Miss Dooley always offered her help and guidance to those who had questions. None of the students had approached Ashton but he was fine with that, he’s still learning by watching Miss Dooley interact with them.

Ashton’s hazel eyes landed on Michael and Calum approaching his table as he sipped at his black coffee. He licks his lips watching them approach with shit eating grins on their faces and he reluctantly removes his earphones. He closes his sketchbook with a soft thump, slightly glaring at his friends. They know better than to interrupt him while he’s drinking coffee and immersed in his sketchbook.

“Hey teacher,” Michael snickers pulling up a chair from the next table over. He slumps down in it with his fingers twiddling in his lap while Calum spins the chair opposite Ashton around and straddles it.

Calum pulls his dark gray beanie down lower over his ears then rests his chin on his elbows.

“Can I help you with something?” Ashton sighs leaning back in his own chair.

“Luke’s throwing a party tonight,” Calum begins, “a back to school rager, if you will.”

“Good for him.”

“C’mon Ash,” Michael whines leaning forward on his knees. “Come party with us like old times.”

“You mean like when we were freshman and your head caught fire?” Ashton quirked his eyebrows up.

“We were young and dumb then,” Michael waves it off. “Come on, it’ll be great. The girl I sit next to in your class will be there.”

“And?”

“What girl?” Calum pipes up.

“And she’s cute,” Michael shrugs, “and it will be fun for you to get out of your little hermit hole you’ve set up here.”

“I dunno guys. I want to get up early tomorrow to take some photos of the waterfall. In my photography class I’m doing a series of different locations throughout the seasons, and I think the—“

“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Calum interrupts holding his hand up. “Just . . . come hang out with us before you get neck deep in your work, yeah? Just for a few hours.”

Ashton rolls his eyes then sighs before giving in.

“All right, fine. I’ll come.”

“YES! The Ash Man is back!” Michael hollers clapping his friend on the back and the other customers turn to look over in irritation.

“You’ve never called me that,” Ashton says gathering his stuff in his shoulder bag, “and don’t start now.”

 The party was like any other party Ashton has been to in his college career, granted it is a bit tamer than when they were all freshman and sophomores. For the most part everyone had their clothes on which relieved Ashton. He hated having to try and wrangle whoever it was to get their clothes back on.

The townhouse was stuffy with vape smoke making the air foggy, beer and liquor filled his nose and he felt the music course through his body.

“Hey, you brought him!” Luke exclaims with a large smile. His arms are raised bringing Ashton in for a tight hug. “Glad you’re here, buddy.”

“Thanks man,” Ashton says tousling the younger guy’s golden curls.

“Drinks are in the kitchen, but I think I hear a shot of fireball calling your name,” Luke wiggles his eyebrows dragging the guys into the kitchen.

“I haven’t had fireball since New Year’s two years ago,” Ashton chuckles.

“Ashton! Hey!”

His head snaps when he hears his name then wishes that he hadn’t. The voice belonged to Breanne Thomas, a girl he used to hook up with on and off a few years back. She was even the model for some of his photography assignments.

“Oh, hey, Breanne,” he nods politely then shuffles past her into the kitchen. He did not want to relive old times with her at the moment.

“Yikes, sorry, mate,” Calum says handing him a shot glass filled with the golden liquid.

“Whatever, let’s cheers to a new year,” he shakes it off holding his glass up in the air. They all clink and down the shots heartily. Ashton remembers the burn as it travels down his throat and into his stomach.

As the night progresses he becomes pleasantly buzzed and that’s when he knows to stop. He just stumbles out of the bathroom when he hears his name being called and looks up to see Michael waving him over near the back of the house to the backyard.

Ashton pushes through the bodies, waves of weed swirl around his head and it’s so strong he’s sure he’ll get a contact high from it. When Michael becomes more in view he notices the girl from his class standing next to him.

“This is Lennox Hastings,” Michael introduces with a loopy smile. “Lennox Hastings this is Ashton Irwin. Our teacher. My best friend.” A small hiccup escapes him.

“Hi,” she smiles shyly at Ashton, “And it’s just Lennox. You don’t have to use my last name Michael.”

“It’s a badass name, Lennox Hastings! I have to say it all. You should show him your notebook, he’s got one too. Oops, I’ve got to go. Bye!”

He skirts away into the crowd and Ashton shakes his head at his drunken friend then turns to Lennox who now looks oddly familiar now that he knows her name. Apart from seeing her in his class he swears he’s seen her somewhere else before, but where? Or did she have a twin?

“I’m sorry you’re stuck with him as a table partner,” Ashton apologizes and she laughs lightly.

“He’s not so bad. He’s fun to talk to when I’m not working.”

“How’re you liking the class so far?”

“It’s good, I’ve been looking forward to it since I got here, actually. I was in all advanced classes in my high school and I’ve heard how amazing Miss Dooley is.”

“Yeah, she’s great,” he smiles then glances around at their surroundings. There’s a couple making out against the fridge and Ashton realizes it’s Calum and some short blond haired girl. “You wanna step outside? Get some fresh air?”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” she smiles opening the door.

Ashton picks up two water bottles from the bucket on the counter then follows her into the warm August night. The screen door swings shut behind him, he inhales deeply and sits on the gliding bench besides Lennox.

“Thanks,” she says taking the water bottle from him and takes a sip. “This isn’t weird, is it?”

“What isn’t weird?”

“Us being out here? You’re basically my teacher,” she laughs nervously.

“Nah, I’m just an aide. I’m not a teacher yet,” he grins at her.

Now that he’s not inside the house with loads of distractions all around, he can finally get a good look at her. She looks familiar for some reason now as he stares at her in the yellow porchlight. Her auburn hair is pulled up in a half ponytail with some fly aways clinging to her round cheeks. Her eyelashes are long atop her doe eyes and Ashton finds himself wishing to see what type of blue they are and if he could paint them.

“You’ll make a good one,” she says pulling him from his wandering mind.

“Ya think?” he leans back and rocks the glider back and forth slowly, it creaks and groans as he does.

“Yeah, you control the room well and I can tell how passionate you are about art.”

“Thanks,” he says sheepishly. He’s never been able to take compliments well, whether it’s about his art or himself. “How’re the rest of your classes going?”

“Okay so far, lots of work already in my poetry class and advanced art,” she gives him a sly smirk and nudges his ribs playfully with her elbow.

“You write?”

“Mhm. Wrote a lot this summer, great inspiration,” she says grimly.

“That’s good, right? I’ve heard writers block is shit.”

“It is.”

“So what inspired you?” he turns his body so he’s angled towards her more.

Lennox shakes her head, a piece of hair clings to her lip and Ashton desperately wants to pull it away.

“I don’t want to bore you with my heartbreak, Mr. Irwin,” she says.

“Please, call me Ashton,” he grimaces at the title. “I’m an artist, too, remember? Heartbreak makes the artist.”

“You already know it, though, the cliché story of girl meets boy. Girl falls for boy and they date and commit but then the boy gets a record deal and leaves girl behind.”

“Wait,” Ashton sits up straighter when he heard record deal. “You aren’t talking about Harry Styles, are you?”

“You know him, huh?” she says airily.

“Yeah, we don’t get along very well. At all, actually,” he chuckles.

“How come?”

“That’s not important right now. I’m sorry he hurt you.”

• • • •

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[breakingsomething]

french toast

basic summary: jameson makes breakfast.

trigger warnings: read the tags! i was worried putting the warnings here would spoil the fic, so look in the tags if you want to know :)

the sun came up the same every morning. five am exactly, jameson knew. time was something he was intimately familiar with in a way he couldn't explain. it ran through his veins with his blood. it rang in his ears every second of the day. it burned in his fingers and warmed every tear that he spilled. he owned it. there wasn't another man living who was as powerful as he was.

and nobody knew it but him.

it was far too cold in the bed. jameson couldn't feel anti beside him. that wasn't unusual, or normally wouldn't be, except for the fact that it was very early and he knew anti hadn't gone to bed until just past two. he'd heard him having a nightmare at twenty past three. after that he'd gone silent, and jameson had properly slept. now, he sat up, blinking and rubbing his eyes, adjusting to the empty, slowly lightening room. he wished they has curtains, but he supposed beggars couldn't be choosers when it came to a situation like theirs.

looking around, it made him wonder what the creator's boys were doing right now. probably all still sleeping, maybe eating food that they hadn't stolen or fought tooth and nail for. maybe when they woke, they'd take a shower without worrying about the hot water bill for a house not registered under their name. maybe they'd dress in clothes they picked out themselves. maybe they'd spend the day thinking of pastries and youtube videos and magic and jewelry and whatever else people thought of. not a thought to be spared for anyone else. jameson almost snorted at the thought.

his bare feet padded to the door, the silence almost deafening. his heart raced in his ears. a-n-t-i? he knocked on the doorframe, to which he got no response. probably for the best. definitely for the best. gave jameson a bit more time.

he went over to the cupboard and quickly pulled on some proper clothes, a blue hoodie and black tracksuit bottoms with mismatched socks that had holes at the top. drank some water that he'd left on his bedside. then he pulled out something that he'd hidden in between his sketchbook pages and slipped it in his pocket, along with something else that he'd hidden in his shoes. just as precautions. eventually, he went to the bathroom and quickly brushed his hair with his fingers before slowly making his way downstairs.

anti was sitting at the kitchen table. he didn't look up when jameson came in, though; he was slumped over with his face in his arms, whistling softly in his sleep. jameson wasn't used to seeing him in just a t-shirt, and for a moment he just stared at his ink black tattoos, marred by raised pink scars from an event jameson hadn't been around to witness, which he was grateful for. anti's hair was getting long too, falling in curls around his freckled face. right now, it was almost hard to look at him and see him as a manipulative murderer, a torturer, an actor and a kidnapper and a liar and a thief. but jameson knew he was. he always had been.

he wished he could have seen it earlier.

he made breakfast. he'd managed to convince anti that he wanted to try his hand at cooking, and his brother had relented after just a few days of begging for ingredients. eggs, vanilla extract, yoghurt and berries - french toast was on the menu this morning. by the time anti had slowly begun to stir, the scent had filled the warm kitchen, making the house that wasn't theirs feel so much more cosy. anti yawned, shaking his arms out and wincing. jameson watched him with a raised eyebrow and a soft smile, waiting for his brother to notice him.

it took a moment before he did. "oh - morning, dap," anti mumbled, scrubbing sleep from his eyes. "what the fuck're you… it's, like, six am, shouldn't even you still be asleep?"

jameson grinned, holding up the two plates he'd already set up and placing the left one proudly in front of anti. "toast," he signed as soon as he had both hands free. "french toast. also, i'm an early bird. figured i'd use my time well."

he sat at the table and slid a fork across the table to a surprised anti, who caught it and stared down at his plate in amazement. "you absolute mad lad, dapper," he grinned, brown eyes flashing. "i knew it was a good idea to let you buy all that shit."

that was bullshit. anti hadn't wanted to buy it at all, and jameson had had to behave perfectly to his older brother's standards in order to get it. like a dog being rewarded with a treat. jameson bit his lip hard and didn't respond, forcing a smile onto his face.

they dug in, the two of them eating in relative silence as a conversation was difficult to have when one party couldn't speak without their hands. jameson tapped the edge of his plate with his fork, the sound ringing out in the quiet. his hoodie pocket felt suddenly very heavy, despite it now being lighter than before.

"doing anything today?" he asked once he'd eaten a few bites, setting the fork down at the side. he didn't feel very hungry. anti bobbed his head and held up a hand while he swallowed, coughing into his hand immediately after.

"i have to go shopping soon, actually," he said, drumming his fingers on the table to a tune jameson didn't recognize. "do we need anything specific? i can definitely get more of this shit if we need any, ha. i know we need, uhh… fuck, my head hurts and i don't remember shit." he closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. "d'you know, dap? anything important?"

jameson waited for anti to remember that he wouldn't be able to hear his brother's reply and sheepishly open his eyes before responding. "i don't think we'll need anything. as far as i'm aware, it's all taken care of."

anti furrowed his brows, frowning. "i'm sure we… needed something. i dunno what it was." he yawned again, shivering. "christ, it's gotten dead cold in here. and for some reason, i'm still tired as shit."

"why'd you sleep down here?" jameson asked. might as well ask. anti did love to talk about himself.

it took the man a moment to respond, and when he did, his voice was slightly slurred. "had a weird fuckin' dream, didn't wanna be 'round you. was gonna sleep on the couch, but i came in here for water 'n i fell 'sleep…" he suddenly coughed again, doubling over and covering his face. when he sat up again, he had gone very pale, hair sticking to his face with sweat. "shit, i don't… don't feel well, what th'fuck…"

this time when he coughed, his hands came away from his mouth red. "fuck!" he swore, trying to stagger to his feet. but his legs gave out beneath him and he crumpled to the floor, gasping and wheezing. "fuck, fuck, i'm - dap, help me up, shit!"

jameson watched calmly from his place at the table. anti looked up with desperate eyes that widened as he saw his brother's blank expression, pupils dilating to pinpricks. "dap?" he rasped, retching with a hand clamped over his mouth. "wh-what the fuck did you -"

"a-r-s-e-n-i-c," jameson signed with a smile. his movements were smooth and deliberate in comparison to anti's pained thrashing. "i went classic. there was enough in there to kill a man in half an hour, i'd say. i'm surprised you didn't taste it. you may be experiencing nausea and vomiting, muscle cramps, dizziness, abnormal heart rhythm, sudden convulsions…"

he trailed off, smirking as anti clawed at his throat, gasping for breath and gagging. jameson wasn't even sure the man could see his signs anymore. "y-you fucking - you poisoned me?" anti stammered, wrapping his arms round his stomach and paling even further. "christ, well, that's a first -"

jameson grimaced in disgust as anti threw up without warning, still coughing afterwards. "gross," the time traveler signed, screwing up his face. "die with a little dignity, anti."

anti looked up in time to catch the last few words, although by this point jameson supposed his vision had blurred enough that he couldn't see very well. nevertheless, he managed to sit himself up, wiping spit off his chin. "you want me - why the fuck d'you want me dead?" he managed. his arm twitched wildly, and he gasped in pain. jameson watched him clutch at the counter, trying to pull himself up. "i g-gave you everything, you unappreciative shit, what is wrong with - you f-fucking -"

he suddenly spasmed, and jameson sighed. "oh dear," he signed, despite anti not being able to see him. "it appears you've reached the stage of convulsing and seizures. that's not good, especially with your epilepsy, is it?"

anti choked, and jameson laughed without noise, pulling his phone from his pocket and quickly typing into the text to speech box. he wanted anti to hear what he had to say. "you say you gave me everything," the monotone male voice spoke. "then why am i always in pain? why are you always hurting me, one way or another? why do you treat me like i'm less than you?"

"i - love you, you b-b-bastard," anti gasped, stopping to cry out in pain as he convulsed. "i do, tha-that's nottalie, swear, swear, stop it, stop -"

jameson had finished typing his next lines by that point. "you always say you love me but you don't fucking show it. buying me sketchbooks and ingredients for meals doesn't count as love." his fingers flew across the keyboard. "love is not hurting someone just because you want to. love is not demeaning someone and making them feel small and worthless. love is not stepping on someone to elevate yourself. love is not hurt. love is not you."

"no, no, no," anti mumbled, curling up on the floor, hissing through his teeth. "i - i - you don't underst-t-tand - protect, trying to protect, ah, ah, nngh, i'm - dap -"

"and there's another thing," the voice said cooly. "my name isn't dapper. it's jameson jackson. you don't notice anything, do you, anti? this wasn't a sudden rebellion."

"a li'l p-poison isn't gonna kill me," anti laughed hoarsely.

jameson stood. "no," he signed. "but this will."

he pulled the other item from his pocket, slowly, so anti could take it in. he smirked as his brother's breath hitched at the sight of the silver kitchen knife, reflecting the light from the window above the counter. the reaction was so satisfying to watch.

"y-you're gonna stab m-me, eh?" anti tried to laugh again, but it came out more like a weak whimper. he retched again, head slamming against the wall as he twitched. "f-feels like it's f-fitting that you'd b-be - be the one to kill me. if anyone did, you-you're not - the worst choice."

jameson rolled his eyes. "sure." then he leaned down and pressed his knife to anti's bandaged throat. "anything else to say?"

anti was still shaking, blood dribbling from his mouth. but his eyes, flickering from colour to colour and eventually coming to rest on grey to match his brothers, were full of an emotion that jameson didn't understand. "didn't mean to - you - i -" he threw his head back, whimpering with pain. "b-b-bastard, i - fuck -"

jameson didn't let him get any further.

once it was over, jameson slumped back against the kitchen cupboards, staring off into the living room with unfocused eyes. he'd done it. why didn't he feel happier, more free? why did he feel more trapped than ever?

his hands were red.

he washed them. ten times over. then he took a shower and changed his clothes. he stared at his reflection for a full half hour, lost in thought, hands shaking as his nails dug into his palm.

anti was still on the floor when he went back downstairs. fuck, best get rid of him. jameson crouched down next to him and pressed a hand to his brother's chest. with closed eyes, he let the magic channel through him, burning his skin, burning anti's skin, crushing him under the weight of time itself. several minutes passed, and by the end of it, anti's body was gone. eaten away, dissolved.

jameson didn't feel lighter. really, he felt so much heavier. like he'd gone swimming in a full denim outfit. like he'd gone swimming with rocks in his pockets. like he'd - like he'd just killed his brother. there was no sugarcoating it.

it had felt good. jameson had never been more disgusted with himself.

what would he do now? there was no where else to turn. no one else to go to. except - jameson narrowed his eyes. no one else but the creator's boys. the one's who'd called themselves his brothers. the one's who'd left him with anti. they'd left him with anti, they'd left him with - they'd left him here. they'd been too fucking cowardly to come save him.

jameson picked up the knife from the place anti's body had been. maybe he had something he could do after all. loose ends to tie up. more brothers to put in their places.

his hands weren't red anymore. they felt red.

jameson's french toast had gone cold.