#and catch up on a fuckton of homework

[toy-pigeon]

I come with two things: Request and thanks

I am the author of the color palette Katrielle (yep Ovent0, secondary account) And you literally made my day (I love the comments on the tags, they give me high amounts of serotonin).

Now, how about Lucy and Katrielle going out there to eat? I wonder if they would be able to ruin the business because of their big bottomless stomach—

Now I hope you have a nice day, afternoon or night ✨

HI SORRY THIS TOOK ME SO LONG TO RESPOND TO I GOT REALLY BUSY!!! also i had to teach myself how to draw katrielle LMAO. she’s a tough one!

sidenote, i always try to leave nice comments for the artists in my tags! so i’m glad u enjoy :D

[siriusblack-the-third]

Boredom, Flustration and Love Confessions part 1

Hdjdjd my very first non- Percy Jackson fic djsgdkd i hope you like this little drabble

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

It starts like this:

Sirius is bored.

A bored Sirius, James knows, is never a good thing, because the boy will whine in James' ear and poke him in the ribs or bite his shoulder or tug on the fringe on the back of his head that's a bit longer than the rest of his hair (he had a munj ceremony when he was eight and he still keeps the evidence at sixteen) till James is sighing and giving in to Sirius' demands of chaos.

And honestly, James is way too fond of Sirius to be even remotely annoyed by his antics. Also doesn't hurt that he thrives off of chaos just as much as the other boy does.

However, there are times when Sirius doesn't bother to wheedle James into causing mischief, and simply goes off to do it on his own. On those days, he is dead set on giving James a heart attack.

Days like today.

It's a beautiful Saturday, really— the sky isn't too blue but it isn't cloudy either, and the breeze is just this side of cold. Perfect for Quidditch. James is sitting in his favourite seat in the Gryffindor common room, where he is far enough away from the fire that his skin isn't burning and he can stare at the Quidditch pitch through the open window. He and Remus are getting their homework over with between the exchange of sarcastic barbs, prank ideas and wicked smiles. Peter is off at detention and Sirius... come to think of it, where is Sirius?

The Fat Lady's portrait opens, but James doesn't look; he turns to Remus with the question of Sirius on the tip of his tongue, but is cut off by the werewolf lifting his head up and catching sight of someone.

"Oi, Pads," Remus hollers, "fuck've ya been?"

James whips his head up and grins widely at his best mate, who is sauntering up to them with a lazy smirk and an effortless elegance to his long limbs that James never figured out how to imitate. His grey eyes harbour that perpetual devilish gleam that is unique to Sirius, and James' gaze catches on the few stray waves of pitch black hair that are slipping out of his bun. Sirius walks close enough to get a ray of sunshine across his face, and silver glitters at his ears.

See, here's the thing: Sirius has piercings. A fuckton of piercings, ranging from the generic lobe piercings to the playful helix to the risque belly button to the roguish eyebrow to a downright sinful industrial. In total, he has nine piercings, compared to James' simple lobe piercings that his parents got done when he was a baby. Sirius also has a huge collection of earrings and ear cuffs, and he is never seen without at least four accessories in. Today, he's wearing all of them.

James resolutely keeps his eyes away from that attention-grabbing jewellery.

"Cheers, Padfoot," he chirps, and Sirius chuckles as he plops down next to him, lifting a hand to ruffle James' hair. The younger boy squawks and swats at his hand, making Sirius and Remus snicker.

"Alright Moons, Jamie?" he nods at the both of them, leaning back and spreading his legs so that his left one is thrown across James lap. The black ripped denim jeans stretch obscenely across his thick thighs, but James keeps his smile on his face.

"Just the Arithmancy essay," he answers, but keeps his quill down and drops his head onto Sirius' shoulders. "The one about the compression of space-time in Apparition. Where have you been?"

"Oh y'know," Sirius shrugs, and James shifts back to follow the line of his broad, leather-clad shoulders before he catches himself and looks away, heat crawling up his cheeks. "Getting a piercing."

Oh, no.

James notices Remus perk up out of the corner of his eye (the lad has his own impressive collection of piercings) but he is more invested in scanning Sirius' ears for the new addition. A second later, he frowns; all the piercings are old ones.

"Where is it?" he asks, curious. (The poor boy forgets– curiosity killed the cat.)

Sirius' grey eyes flicker with mischief, and James is given barely a second to register the foreboding feeling that suddenly fills his guts before his best friend is sticking out his tongue, a sly tilt to his lips. A flash of silver hits James' eyes.

"Holy shit!" Remus crows, and Sirius laughs, but James' mouth has gone dry. He stares at that tongue, at the sneak peeks of the metal ball he gets when Sirius starts a rapid-fire conversation with Remus, gaze drawn to the full, pale pink lips as they curl around words that James cannot be bothered to listen to.

Oh, fuck.

A tongue piercing.

Sirius has a tongue piercing.

Fuck.

[mathemadept]

First Post I guess

This is a new experience, never made a blog or been active on tumblr before. Feel like this might help me stay motivated with my uni course, or it could just be me justifying spending time online... Only time will tell.

Plans

My main goal is for this blog is to serve as

a kind of archive for material I find interesting relating to my uni course, learnt material, etc.

a journal/diary of my day to day stuff: musings, interesting stuff I've read, my totally uneducated takes on current events

a (hopefully) entertaining experience for me, myself, and anyone who happens to stumble across my dreadful writing

now that I stop and think about it, I'm basically describing a dump account. Which is also fine. Crossing my fingers hoping that it will, at the very least, be a mathematically rigorous dump account.

As a STEMlord, a title which I carry with just the right amount of snobbery, most of my academic posts are going to be STEM related. Specifically, as a TP student it's gonna be a whole fuckton of mathematics, sprinkled with a smidgen of physics modules, and a drop of humanity electives.

Structuring/format

The system that I'm planning to use for blog posts, safely stored within my head, is as follows:

Journal/diary entries will have "journal/diary" followed by an entry number and short title in the header, e.g.

Journal (0): In the Beginning

Maths/physics/ academic posts will take a similar form,

Academic, Maths (Complex Analysis): Proof of the Riemann Hypothesis

might make more sense to skip the academic and maybe even subject sections in favour of just the module name:

Group Theory, Group Homomorphisms: Sets, Sets, and More Sets

Dumps, ramblings, interesting stuff will have their own title. Not sure how I'm going to characterise homework stuff, gonna tackle that problem when I get there. Currently on "reading week" which I should have used for catching up on what I missed in lectures and what not up until now but most of the time I've spent wasting away my braincells glued to my phone. Still got some group theory homework due around the 31st, might post about it later in the week.

I hope to refine this system as I go along, it is very much a work in progress atm. None of this is except from change in the future, we shall adopt a fluid and lax approach to formatting until a robust system is found to work.

-Peace out to the void

[monoxidecahedron]

running low

I wrote this in forty-five minutes last night and actually edited it today! can you believe it? no neither can I. anyways this one’s for the girls aka @neptrabbit and her amazing headcanons. contains hamgelica but it’s not the main focus of the story, just some general fluff featuring alex & co.’s terrible habits. mention of past jefferson/hamilton and jefferson/angelica. please enjoy.

“Oh hey Peggy,” Alexander says blearily, looking up from the mound of books, papers, loose pens and assorted office supplies he’s buried in. The youngest Schuyler sister smiles cheerily at him despite the late hour as she enters, shutting the door behind her with her heel. Catching sight of his giant mug of coffee (a gift from Eliza, who immediately regretted enabling his all-nighters) and smaller, empty ones scattered around him, she laughs. “Coffee? That’s gonna give you a heart attack someday and then I’ll get to say I told you so as you die on the floor,” she says. Alex rolls his eyes. “Sugar is sooooo much better,” she continues. “I’ve still got a fuckton of Halloween-sized assorted bags and Laf bought me some peppermints and Skittles so I’m all set. Didn’t even have to buy any myself!”  Ah, he thinks, so that’s why she bounded into my study at- a glance at the digital watch on his wrist- one A.M. in the morning. 

“Pegs, that shit will kill you too,” he grumbles. She shrugs. “Maybe, but for now I’m hyper as hell, feeling GREAT and I’m actually going to get some work done!” He watches her plop onto a beanbag in the corner and promptly fall out, giggling. “Oops!” The next few tries all end up the same way and around the fifth time she gives up, spreading her papers on the floor and lying down in front of them. Alexander sighs and goes back to work.

It only lasts for about five minutes (well, he thinks five minutes, time is a foreign concept to his coffee-soaked, exhausted mind) before another Schuyler bursts in. “Cowards!” Angelica Schuyler crows, computer held aloft. “You’re all weak-minded cowards. Coffee, sugar? I rely on nothing. I get by on sheer force of will and spite alone.”

“Hey babe,” Alex says, not looking up. She laughs, seating herself on the other side of Alex’s desk. “Hello, dear. I see we’re both at it again.” 

There’s a loud huff from the floor. “We’ll see how well your ‘spite’ holds up when it’s five A.M. and you’ve spent all your energy keeping yourself awake,” she says. Angelica’s eyes glint, and even Alexander looks up at this. Just like him, Angelica Schuyler does not take challenges lightly. 

“Oh, you’re on.” 

And that’s how Elizabeth Schuyler finds them six hours later, wandering the halls looking for them. “Hey guys?” she calls as she swings Alex’s study door open. “You guys it’s breakfast ti-” She stops short. Peggy’s lying sprawled on the floor, face in her papers, snoring, stray candy wrapper in her hair. Alexander is still at it, just barely, mumbling incoherently and attempting unsuccessfully to lift a pen, nose brushing the desk.

And Angelica. Angelica’s face is scrunched up in determination, fingers still typing away at her keyboard, locked into focus even though her eye is twitching and she’s vibrating slightly. “Uh, Angie?” Eliza asks softly, stepping forward. “Angie? Hello?” 

Eliza has to physically wave her hand in front of the computer screen to get Angelica to snap out of it. Even then, she can tell she’s having trouble concentrating on her sister’s form in front of her for a few seconds until she suddenly seems to snap to attention.

“Did I make it?” she asks immediately. Not waiting for an answer, she looks around the room- first across the desk, where Alexander is still muttering, and then at the floor, at Peggy passed out on top of her French homework. 

“YES!” she shouts. Alexander jolts, and Eliza rushes to his side. 

“Oh my goodness, you all didn’t just try to out-sleep-deprive each other, did you?” she asks, worried.

“No, no, no, ‘liza dear,” Alex mutters, words still slurred, slouching in his chair. “It was just an- an exper- expurmint, we were looking at what’s most effective to keep people awake.” Eliza raises an eyebrow. “Really, Liz! We had- we had the- what is it? The varbles and everything,” he protests. The fact that his voice is barely above a mumble doesn’t help his case. “We were testing candy, coffee and- uh- what was it you said, Ang? Oh yeah something about, like, was it sp- spat- no- no, it was sprite? Uh-” 

“Spite?” Eliza offers. 

“Yeah! Yeah, spite.” 

Eliza sighs. “I can’t believe you roped Peggy into your little workaholic club,” she says. Alex shrugs. “Wa’n my fault. Pegz just wants to impress Laf. Plus she didn’t pay attention in class b’cuz Maria sits in front of her so she waited till the last minute to do her stuff.” 

“I-” Eliza takes a deep breath. “Okay. We’ll unpack all that later. For now- do you have an excuse? Were you trying to impress Washington or something?” 

Alex just shrugs. “I gotta get shit done,” he says. It isn’t much of an explanation, but Eliza can sense she won’t be able to get much more out of him, so she rounds on Angelica. “What about you?” 

Angelica shrugs too. “Gotta get shit done.” 

Eliza takes another deep breath. “Jesus, you guys. I almost wish either of you were still dating Jefferson so I could call him in here and get him to chew you out.” 

Angelica offers a guilty smile. “I could leave and then come back in again and yell at Alex?” 

“No, silly, you did this too,” Eliza reminds her. “I’m very mad at both of you.” She closes Angelica’s computer and walks over to Alex’s side of the desk, slowly sliding his papers out from under him. “You two are going to come and have breakfast, and then you’re going to take a nap. And then you’re going to never do this again.”

“But Liiiiiiiiiiizaaaaaaa,” Alex whines, trying to pull the papers back towards him. 

“No. No ‘buts’. This is unacceptable.” She tries to put on a stern face. It doesn’t work well. Alex just pouts harder, and she can see Angelica edging closer to the computer out of the corner of her eye. 

“I see you, Angie. Out. Breakfast is laid out in the dining hall- you know, on second thought I’ll just bring it to your bedroom. Go. Now.” Alex screws up his face. 

“What about Peggy?” 

“Peggy is asleep right now. She’s also younger, and more susceptible to these sorts of behaviours. You two know better.” Alex could have sworn he saw Peggy stick her tongue out from behind Eliza’s back at that, but she’s back to her sleep face in a second. He huffs. “Fine,” he says, petulantly. Angelica follows him out silently. 

Alex has a room in the Schuylers’ mansion, but he doesn’t sleep there much anymore, and even though neither he nor Angelica speak as they walk through the halls, they’ve both set a course for Angelica’s bedroom.

He stumbles slightly on a patch of carpet and Angelica grabs his shoulders quickly, holding him upright. He sighs, leaning into her touch, feeling her pull him closer. “C’mon,” she mutters. “We’re almost there.” 

They are, indeed, almost there, and they reach her bedroom without further incident. Angelica goes straight for her bed, collapsing onto the soft duvet and closing her eyes, sighing happily. Alex follows, making an attempt to spoon her from behind, but he’s too small and too tired to make an attempt to figure it out and she ends up turning, pulling him in and tangling their legs together, laughing quietly. He just snuggles closer, arms around her, and tries to let himself drift. Normally it’s hard for him to relax, let alone sleep, but there’s a fog of exhaustion and caffeine crash dulling his normally ever-active mind, and Angelica’s so warm, and she smells so nice, and he finds himself falling asleep before he knows it.

~~

Eliza taps Peggy gently on the forehead. “Wake up, dear,” she murmurs. Peggy stirs, cracks one eye open. There’s a glint in her smile that clues her in immediately. “Peggy!” she admonishes, smacking her sister lightly. “You can’t just fake sleep to avoid consequences!” Peggy just grins, mischievous as always, but her eyes are tinged with bleariness, and Eliza picks her up with little effort or protest, nudging the study door open with her foot and carrying her out. Peggy hmms softly, shifts in her arms, and falls asleep again.

Eliza deposits her sister softly on her bright-yellow bed, making sure to tuck her in just lightly enough so she can still move around, and leaves, shutting the door with a quiet clunk. Once she’s outside, she leans on the doorframe for a moment, smiling. Her sisters- and a certain sister’s boyfriend- may be absolutely impossible, but she loves them anyways. 

By the time she enters Angelica’s bedroom with two plates of eggs and bacon, Alexander’s there just like she expected him to be, and they’re cuddling on the bed, wrapped in each other, not awake enough to have pulled the blankets over them. She sets the plates down on Angelica’s nightstand as quiet as she can and exits.

[ninjakitty15]

Chapter 7: Ain’t Nothing But A Horned God (Loki x OFC Pairing)

"You know, super strength and natural parkour aside, that kid is really living up to his second identity," I mused as Peter popped in right after Loki and I got dressed in our daywear clothes and were about to binge watch the Orville.

"Why do you say that?" Loki asked, eyeing Peter as well.

"If you get rid spiders the humane way and just release them into the wild again, they will still find their way back in. Hand me that newspaper over here, I can fix that."

"I thought you said he was cute, isn't that a term of endearment?" he teased.

"He lost that effect when he killed the mood I was about to build up here. The fuck you want, kid?" I barked at the energetic idiot Tony loved so much.

"Mr. Stark's not here?" Peter squeaked.

"Hell if I know, ask Friday or better yet, beat it."

My trying to get rid of the kid seemed to somehow have the exact opposite effect I had hoped for, not unlike when a person that can't deal with cats walks into a room with one in it, that cat will instantly greet the hapless person and never leave them alone. Peter apparently grew a pair and turned his attention on me specifically, seeing as he apparently had met Loki while I was in captivity.

"So you're one the team now, huh? Where you from?"

I blinked at his sudden confidence. "Lynn, Lynn, the city of sin," I sang the old tune of my town.

"Where's that?"

"Near Salem," murmured Loki beside me. "No wonder you wanted to go there yesterday, you were homesick."

"You've been in my position before I'm told so I'm guessing you know how I felt."

"Why didn't you just say so?"

"That would mean admitting I actually feel things and I'm not one to catch feels here, gross."

"Have you got a superhero name yet?" asked Peter eagerly.

"I'd have to be a hero first for that to work and I'd rather not."

"Why not, its the funnest! Get to meet all kinds of people and everything!"

I wrinkled my nose in disgust. "That's supposed to convince me? Really? Tony told me you were clever too, Loki you're the god of lies, how could you let that slide? I hate people, if anything that'd push me toward antihero or even villain. Kill em all and then add em to the undead army, who's with me?!"

"You said so yourself that would take a lot of energy and convincing to make your victims part of your army," mused Loki.

"Sshh, he doesn't know that. Why are you still here if Tony's gone?" I asked Peter.

"He told me I'm welcome to hang out with the team in his absence," Peter replied confidently. "What were you two doing before I got here?"

"Having passionate s/m sex in every room we can get into, you look a bit too young to join but you're welcome to watch," I teased.

"No one gets to watch that," Loki stated stiffly. "That's for our eyes only. Don't you have homework that needs doing about this time?"

"All finished, Aunt May says I can't go out and be Spiderman till its done. Hey, Mr. Loki, Tony says you're not actually from Asgard but a planet of frost giants, is that true?"

"How astute of him to bring that up," grumbled Loki. "Yes, what of it?"

"What do Frost Giants look like?"

"Pete, hun, you don't go asking gods questions like that," I warned the kid, seeing Loki get all tense and serious. "Didn't your aunt ever tell you to stop sticking your nose in places it's likely to get broken in?"

Loki however had other thoughts though didn't look too pleased in acting on them as his once fair skin started to turn blue, green eyes became red and curious markings formed on his head and face. Peter looked absolutely excited being the obnoxiously curious kid he was but made no move nor questions and just tried to his best not to piss off the god while studying him at the same time. I however couldn't help but reach over to touch his face though he caught my wrist.

"You'll burn with frost bite if you touch a frost giant or one touches you."

"Sweety you are touching me," I noted. "My flesh is dead, hydra already tried extreme temps on me, no sweat."

He quickly let go despite my reassurance in fear he was freezing me with his touch, a blackened handprint remained where he held me for a moment before my necro-magic healed it and I was back to simply being a reanimated walking dead girl. I gently touched his face, my thumb brushing over the markings.

"People seem to think red eyes always means evil here," I mused. "Yet theres a fuckton of superheroes wearing red elsewhere, Tony, this little arachnid that needs to be swatted with a newspaper, Thor's cape. Red doesn't mean evil, it means power, anyone wearing red is displaying a power move."

"You don't wear it," Loki told me.

"Weren't you listening during my many rants? I don't make a habit of displaying what I'm capable of, that totally gives me away before I can even attack. It's all about subtlety, something spiderling here needs to work on before asking gods sensitive questions." I glared at the kid who had the grace to look a little ashamed, it was almost cute. At that point, just for funsies, I snatched the newspaper on the coffee table, quickly rolled it up and started smacking the poor boy with it. "Bad spider!" Peter made little move to defend himself though didn't seem too bothered by being whacked by a dead woman either.

"Don't break him or Tony will kick you out," Loki warned though I could tell he was just as amused by my antics as I was smacking around Peter.

"Dude can catch a bus with his bare hands while some people can barely catch them on their feet, he's fine. Ain'tcha kiddo."

"Stop calling me kid, I'm a teenager," mumbled Peter.

"Which is just another term for a kid that thinks they're an adult so really you're not helping your case here. It's adorable how easy it is for you to dig your own grave, even if it with a beach shovel."

"Maybe he's more likely to break you if you keep teasing him," Loki noted.

I arched an eyebrow at him. "I find your lack of faith disturbing."

At the reference, Peter seemed to perk up again. "You've seen those movies?"

"Sweety, I might have been locked up for 5 years but even I know that everyone's seen at least one of them that's still alive."

"Why were you locked up, are you a criminal?"

"What did I tell you about asking sensitive questions, Loki, give me back my spider smasher."

"She was kept by Hydra, no you will not be beating on Tony's favorite project, especially not when there's surveilance everywhere in the tower."

I rolled my eyes at Loki and glared at him. "Meaniepants."

"Do all necromancers look like you?" Peter piped up.

My glare shifted to him then. "Look like me? You really wanna go there? I might be dead but I can still kick your ass, Spiderboy."

"It's spiderman," he grumbled.

"Not with that attitude it ain't."

He shot a web at me angrily and while I knew he never actually meant any harm and I wasn't quick enough to dodge it, I really hated spiderwebs since the first time I walked into one face first, unable to see it. Death magic rushed to the spot he hit me and essentially dissolved/rotted away whatever the hell the webs were made of so they fell apart and off me. Loki looked at me curiously while Peter looked just a little bit horrified. "Try that again, Pete, I dare you, I double dare you motherfucker." My eyes went white while blackened veins popped up around them. That got Peter more than horrified and he backed away with repetitive squeaky apologies. Seeing as he got the message, my face relaxed back to its normalness. "I fucking hate spiderwebs."

"I'm curious, if that was an enemy in front of you and not Peter, what would you have done?" asked Loki.

I turned over to the god and smirked maniacally. "Point me in the direction of one and you might find out."

"You didn't do this when we raided the Hydra base the second time."

"They weren't enemies, they're minions of them. Peter you're really cute but your curiosity is harshing my buzz here, lay off on the sugar and either buzz off or calmly wait for Tony to return. You're like ice cream to me right now, so good but so not worth the brain-freeze it comes with."

"If you're always getting a brain-freeze then you're eating it wrong," countered Peter smugly.

"There's hardly a wrong way to eat ice cream, kiddo."

"Um yeah there is, any way that's not right from a cone. Surely you jest."

"Prefer it with a spoon so I don't make a bigger mess of myself than I already do...and don't call me Shirely."

"Call me biased but I believe the spoon is the better option if we're talking the same food she was wolfing down right after she moved here," Loki noted. "I can't imagine a better way to eat it out of its original tub."

"Plus you can fend off intruders and late night food thieves with a spoon, kinda defenseless since you'd eat the cone after and then you got nothing but a sticky mess to contend with," I added.

"Hold up, that was you that ate my moosetracks ice cream?" Peter squeaked.

"Tony said he bought it and therefore it was his ice cream but he also said his helado es mi helado so not yours at all. Also Thor was the one that finished it because unlike some other Asgardians, he asked nicely."

Loki scoffed and playfully glared at me with crossed arms. "I do and take what I want, there's no need for formalities." His response was a well aimed throw pillow to the face because why else would you call them throw pillows if not for their intended purpose? "Are you sure you want to do that, love?"

"Am I sure? Kinda late to be asking that after the fact, init? But seeing as it already happened, I'm gonna go with yes I am, whatcha gonna do about it?"

"I have to ask if you're sure you wanna challenge the God of Mischief like that?" Peter asked me worriedly.

"Firstly, what's with people asking me if I'm sure, of the three of us which one here is still a virgin and learning the ropes of kicking ass and taking names? Secondly, if you're calling him that based solely on Norse Mythology he's also the goddess of eight legged foals and father of a world ending snake and thus far the only thing close to those myths is the bigass snake in his pants but that's none of my business."

Loki looked beyond amused at me both calling him out on his mythology and representation of it and that not so subtle compliment that may or may not have boosted his ego to the size of Yggdrasil and all the nine realms combined. "While I'm pleased with the last statement about me, I can very much assure I'm the master of mischief, that much of the myth is 100 percent true, Thor can attest to that and any surviving Asgardians besides him that know of me."

"Just because you are known for something specific does not make you the master of it. By that logic, I'm the Goddess of Zombies."

"Hela beat you to that by at least a thousand years," Loki argued.

I glared at my lover and eyed the nearest throw pillow in contemplation, maybe I should hold it against his face gently and then apply pressure. "Sure, if there really was just one realm of gods to go with that might work in your favor."

"What do you believe in then? Where does your faith lie if not in yourself?" he challenged.

"In my life, in my experience and in my line of work there is only kind of gods I follow in faith and those are the gods of death."

Whether he caught onto it or knew my line of thought somehow or not, I couldnt tell but his next response was damn near perfect. "And what do you pray to the gods of death."

I grinned wickedly. "Not today, bitch."

"I'm hurt you wouldn't consider praying for me on your knees," purred Loki.

"The only way to get me on my knees is by taking away what keeps me standing and at the moment you've become my reason to stand these days," I replied smoothly, catching him off guard with the claim of more mortal devotion. "Would think that's obvious considering I come alive at your touch."

We stared at each other for a long silent moment, Loki looking somewhere between admiration and something else I couldn't quite place, his eyes shining like freshly cut and polished emeralds. He also looked torn between wanting to shove me against the nearest wall and makeout or reply with a smoother, wittier comeback because this dude was as desperate to have me as he was to have the last word and prove he was the master of mischief. Men in a nutshell, doesn't matter where they're from or how hard they are to kill. Speaking of things hard to kill, the arachnaboy was still present in the room, watching the two of us verbally spar/flirt before something apparently clicked in his head and he frowned, turning toward me.

"H-how exactly would you know if I was a virgin or not?"

I cackled at his attempt to call me out and act at least a little more confident. "Elementary my dear Parker. Besides the fact you both look and act a day before you're legally of age in this country? It might have something to do with your reaction to Loki's pants snake- there it is! You look different shades of uncomfortable hearing about just the size of someone's dong. Guys usually are either confident with what they got or pretend they are long enough to snag someone to use it on and hope for the best...There's also the fact regardless of age and powers you're radiating with life unsullied, I can sense it on you. Lemme know when you are legal and I might be able to help you with that though." I winked at him, causing yet another priceless reaction from Peter and a scowl from Loki.

"I'm not overly fond of sharing."

"Don't knock til you tried it, besides, I could be six fix under by the time he's open for business, right Pete?" I nudged the poor kid with an elbow for good measure, it was too much fun messing with him.

"I'm sorry, I'm just getting so many mixed signals from you right now I gotta sit down and um wait for Mr. Stark."

I watched the kid scoot away to another room, leaving us alone for once and I grinned and relaxed, turning my attention back to Loki. "And that is how you get rid of a spider properly, if you can't kill it, make it wish it never came in."

"That whole charade was to scare him off?" asked Loki incredulously.

"He's just so precious and innocent, his ears must be burning from the naughty stuff by now. I mean yeah, if he was legal I still wouldn't mind corrupting him physically but I doubt he's got the stones to take me up on that should I be around then. Besides, there's more than one way to sacrificing a virgin these days, isn't that what you gods demand all the time?"

"I'd rather just take you on the sacrificial altar several times over till I'm the only god that can give you what you pray for," he growled.

I blinked in surprised, he was usually a little more clever and subtle in his suggestions and I somehow activated the animal in him with my incessant sexual teasing between him and Peter. "Would the couch do? I don't think the coffee table would survive despite it being solid mahogany." An uncharacteristic squeal of surprise escaped me as his response was a low growl followed closely by a master of mischief pouncing on me.

[cainduboisarchive2]

[ benjamin wadsworth, cismale, 20 ] did you see CAIN DUBOIS ? looking as broke as ever. rumor has it HE is usually - BITTER and - TEMPERAMENTAL but is also known to be + QUICK-WITTED and + TALENTED. we’ll see about that. they kind of remind me of SHATTERED PHONE SCREENS, STOLEN CIGARETTES and PAINT STAINED HANDS. maybe because they’re a TAURUS. they’ve been living around here for HIS ENTIRE LIFE. i wonder when they’ll make it out…

hello and welcome back to my channel! it’s jo again, here to introduce you all to one of my favorite muses ever, my lil garbage king cain 🖤 

tw: child neglect, mental health issues, drugs, alcoholism mention, underage sex.

cain didn’t get any adult supervision growing up, what with having a drunk for a father and a workaholic/serial cheating mother. the job of raising him instead befell on his brother, romeo. despite being only six years older than cain, the boy was more of a parent to him than any adult ever was. romeo did everything in his power to keep his baby brother safe, fed and happy, to varied results. whether it was taking cain to the hospital, helping him with his homework or teaching him how to skate, romeo was cain’s entire support system.

so when romeo left home to become a professional athlete, 10-year-old cain was predictably heartbroken. though time helped him understand his brother’s reasons for moving out, being left by the one person who cared for him at all changed him.

at first he tried getting his parents attention through good behaviour: getting straight A’s, keeping the house spotless, bringing his father beer when he ran out and whatever else he could think of. but none of it managed to make even a dent in their wall of indifference. it was especially hard to win their affection when his brother was now a star athlete, with enough money and fame to finally catch their parents’ eye.

as infuriating as it was to realise he’d never be as impressive as romeo, it was also freeing to stop trying so hard to be good. his parents didn’t ask any questions about him smoking stolen cigarettes at 13 or the black eyes he came home with from fights picked with much bigger kids. they didn’t even notice when he spent the night out, getting drunk off his ass or sleeping with men twice his age.

despite never mastering the art of basic self-care, cain became very good at surviving. he learned to fend for himself with resourcefulness, a quick-wit and loose morals. he became as good at getting himself out of messy situations as he was in getting into them. failed a class? suck the teacher’s dick! not enough money to get that red bull? no prob, just steal it! when it came to being social, he used his charm to his advantage and developed a biting sense of humor that got just enough laughs out of his peers to provide him with the rush of attention he didn’t get at home.

the other thing he excelled at was art. thankfully, it also happened to be his biggest passion and healthiest coping mechanism. but it wasn’t until high school that he realised that there really wasn’t anything else he’d rather to do for the rest of his life. so, using the money he’d scraped together from his jobs to buy a drawing tablet, he decided to make a career out of it. he’s been selling online prints, doing commissions and whatever freelance opportunities pops up ever since. and even though it’s not the most lucrative job (certainly not enough to live off it alone), getting recognition for his work is enough to keep cain satisfied.

SOME FACTZ:

sense of humor to mask feelings how original

an absolute asshole when he wants to be (often)

working as a barista to make ends meet and hating every second of it

in love with animation and comic books. he avoids talking about it too much because he gets very passionate and sounds like a lil nerd and we can’t have that

as a great donkey once said: "you’re so wrapped up in layers onion boy you’re afraid of your own feelings!”.  cain wants to be seen as this careless, cool guy without feelings but boi o boi he feels a lot. like a fuckton. deep down all he wants is to be loved and appreciated but feels unlovable.

has absolutely no concept of self-care. this bitch chainsmokes and forgets to eat for entire days and gets no exercise and will either sleep for the entire day or for 5 mins.

is always doodling. do not leave a pen or he’ll draw on your face if theres no other surface available.

sexually attracted to attention though i guess you could also describe him as bi

secretly loves his friends a lot but is too much of a coward to show it, afraid of finding the feeling to be one-sided and making a fool out of himself. still, very loyal and will cut a bitch to defend his friends’ honor.

WANTED PLOTS:

roommates — pls!!!!!! i need!!!!!! possibly more than one!!!!!!

angsty exes — maybe this was the first person cain actually cared for and they broke his heart further reinforcing his idea that people will always disappoint, or maybe he was the one who did the heart-breaking? both highly likely!

chill exes — sometimes you’re just better off as friends

the almost — it could’ve worked out but alas it didn’t because nothing ever does

one night stand — this boi sleeps around so gimme many of these

best friend — someone who’s managed to get past like 2 of cain’s 3423 walls. they might’ve even unlocked his tragic backstory!

stoner buddies — they get together to get high off their heads, watch regular show and discuss conspiracy theories

muse — someone who cain likes to draw often, maybe asks to pose for him

good influence — someone who suggests that hey maybe you should eat something sometimes!!

bad influence — honestly he probably goes after these

ying yang — someone nice to balance him out

people he knows from work — someone who either works in the same coffee shop as him or who frequents it

drinking buddies

friends with benefits

enemies

they got into a fist-fight in a parking lot that one time but it’s cool now

LITERALLY ANYTHING PLEASE GIVE ME ALL THE PLOTS!!!

[written-s0ul]

Finding Home (1)

Summary: Avengers High School AU. Gender neutral reader-insert. You, the new kid, just want to be left alone. But instead, you get the Avengers gang – and maybe, a new home too.

Warnings: Cursing. Mentions of weed? Something resembling a panic / anxiety attack, though probably not, but just in case. No specific ship in this entire story, tbh, but I’ll make sure to add some fluff + sexual tension between you and everyone, lol.

Author’s Note: HEY. So, it has been a long time since I’ve written any fanfic, much more an Avengers fanfic. I hope all the characters are in character, ehehe. So, I’ve decided to do a series of connected one-shots of your high school senior year with the Avengers gang + other Marvel characters, inspired by the 30 day drabble challenge (although I will not be doing drabbles, and for now, I’ll just do seven of them, depending on my inspiration). So, hope that you enjoy this! Let me know if there are any mistakes. Thank you! (:

Finding Home: Part #1: beginning. Part #2: accusation. Part #3: restless. Part #4: coin. Part #5: haze.

1: beginning

n. a starting point / new or inexperienced

This office was such a fucking dump. You looked at the pee-colored wall, bare but for the chippings on the corners by the ceiling. Good thing a few bulky, metal cabinets covered that eyesore of a wallpaper – although that still didn’t help in the general aesthetic quality of the room. There wasn’t even a window in here.

Your gaze fell on the small desk in front of you, unoccupied except for a laptop, a fuckton of paperwork, and some kind of 1940 action figure of a man in blue-white-red spandex. Oh, and of course, the name of your class advisor-slash-guidance counselor on a rusty, golden plaque: Mr. Phil Coulson.

He cleared his throat. You looked up to meet his gaze, and he raised a brow at you. “So?” he said. “How’s your day going?”

You cocked one brow in return, but couldn’t help the chuckle huffing out in between your teeth. “You excused me from class to – to check up on me?” You shook your head, amused. “You’re not being paid enough for this.”

He breathed out a sigh, almost as if to say no shit, but then leaned forward, the chair rolling with him, hands clasped on the desk. “Look, you’ve been here for three months already,” he said. “And I can still see you sneaking out of the cafeteria to eat by the bleachers. Or the library. Or, I suspect, even the restroom.”

Your heart squeezed. How could he know that? But you swallowed the creeping anxiety, and instead, gave him a tiny smile. “I’m fine alone, Mr. Coulson.”

“Your parents are worried about you,” he said, his already thin lips pressing down to a thinner line. His brows drew together, creases cracking his immaculate forehead. “I’m worried about you.”

You waved a dismissive hand. “I’m–”

“That’s why I’m assigning someone to you.”

You froze. What?

Knock, knock! The door behind you clicked, then creaked. You didn’t dare look who it was.

“Sir, you called?”

Mr. Coulson grinned, brighter than anything in the office. “Come on in,” he said. He waved a hand in the direction of the newcomer, and you looked up to the familiar flames-of-hell red curls on porcelain skin and the most intimidating pair of eyes you have ever seen. Correction: most intimidating human being. “I presume you’ve met Natasha Romanoff?”

When did your back become so rigid? In fact, when has your entire body been this tense? Goddamn it, Mr. Coulson. You nodded at her anyway, giving each of them a tight, tiny smile, then dropping your gaze onto a loose fabric on your shirt. “We have History and English together,” you said.

“Oh, right,” she said, nodding. A smile of her own, much more relaxed and genuine than yours, bloomed on her plump, pink lips. “Aren’t you new?”

You were about to bob your head in response, but Mr. Coulson spoke up first, providing your formal introductions – which you could most certainly have done yourself, thank you very much, but also relieved you didn’t have to do it yourself, thank you so fucking much. “That’s exactly the reason why I called you, Miss Romanoff. Our friend here needs some help around the school and, uh, getting some company – you know, the usual. Do you mind?”

Heat sizzled underneath your skin, blood swelling and tainting your whole face to the sheeny shade of a tomato. Asking another student to carry your deadweight shit? What the hell is he thinking?

“Consider it done, sir,” she said. Your eyes widened, and you couldn’t help looking up at her now. Composed and pleasant, the edges of her lips were tilted up, as if she hasn’t been asked to basically watch over another student. Another student that she doesn’t even know. She glanced down, redirecting the smile to you.

The heat in your body suddenly didn’t twist your insides. Instead, it warmed them, the way a mug of hot chocolate would be reassuring in a freezing, stormy night. You smiled back, small and hesitant.

“Great! Thank you, Natasha,” Mr. Coulson said, nodding in approval. “Always knew we can count on you.”

Riiiiiiing!

Your stomach dropped. Oh, shit.

“Just in time for lunch,” Mr. Coulson said, rising from his squeaking seat. “Go grab your bag from your classroom, Miss Romanoff, we’ll wait for you outside.”

She nodded, and after sending you a see you later look, left the room. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, you stood up and faced your adviser. “What. The. Hell?”

He pushed his chair back into his desk, then pulled out a drawer underneath. “If you’re not going to approach other people, I’ll make other people approach you,” he said, taking out a brown paper bag and setting it on the desk. You glanced at it. Does he pack his lunch everyday? “And Natasha knows a lot of other people.”

You shook your head, teeth gritting. “Sir, you’re just putting us in an awkward and embarrassing situation. This isn’t going to work.”

“Well, if it doesn’t,” he said, meeting your gaze with one corner of his lips perked up. “At least, it’s a start.” He stepped towards the door, his fingers encircling the knob, and his expression softened. “We both know you need this, kid. Give it a chance. I’ll see you next week.” Pulling the door open, he gestured for you to leave, and after shouldering your bag, grumbling to yourself, you stepped outside. Right next to Natasha herself.

“Hey,” she said, just as the door behind you clicked shut.

“Hi.” You looked down at the dull shine of your shoes. The dreaded, uncomfortable silence, you could sense, was already settling in the air between the two of you, in spite of the background noise of the chatter and laughter of a hallway full of students.

She cleared her throat. “So. Is it okay if we pass by my locker first?” she said, adjusting the stack of thick books – with foreign titles, you noticed – in her arms.

You swallowed. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” you said. “I’ll just make something up for when I see Mr. Coulson–”

“It’s fine,” she said, dismissive, as she began walking ahead, staying at the shore of the river of students, and not totally immersing herself into it just yet. “He always asks me to help out with the new kids, so I don’t mind.”

Catching up with her, you furrowed your brows. “Why?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “I guess I get along well with everyone.”

Huh, that made sense. You’ve seen her in the hallways and during classes, hanging out with such a variety of people: from elite bad boy Loki Laufeyson to young prodigy Peter Parker – a sophomore who’s in your Math class already – to Class President Steve Rogers himself. She’s quite everywhere. Or maybe, for you. It’s hard not to notice someone with a presence as intimidating as hers.

“Nat!”

Both of you spun to the voice, found a blonde in a tight pair of black jeans jogging towards you, backpack over his shoulder. Upon closer inspection, you recognized him as the guy who not only hung out a lot with Natasha, but also has the sharpest eyes in probably the entire school – Clint! Yeah, Clint, uh, Bartson. Barton. You think.

He reached behind his ear, as if adjusting something, then beamed, like an excited kid. Throwing you a nod, he looked at Natasha. “New assignment?”

Her nose wrinkled. “You make this sound like some extra-credit homework.” Gesturing to you, she made the proper introductions, and you had to pat yourself on the back. It was Clint Barton.

Looking at you, his eyes narrowed. “Have we met before?”

You nodded, keeping your heart calm and your face clear of any emotion. “We have–”

“PE!” he said, brightening. “We have PE together! You’re the one who keeps on tripping in the gym, right?”

Beside you, Natasha raised her brows, amused. You looked away, lips pressed together as heat crawled up your neck. That’s not exactly your fault. Mostly, it’s the awful combination of a frictionless pair of sneakers and a constantly mopped, smooth floor. You nodded anyway.

Clint huffed out a chuckle. “You’re a lot fun.” Then, looking at Natasha, his eyes lit up, as if remembering why he was here in the first place. “Oh, you guys getting lunch?” His gaze flickered between the two of you.

Natasha shook her head, lifted her books. “Got to do something first. You can go ahead, grab a table before everything’s occupied.”

“I’m pretty sure Pietro’s got that covered,” he said, grumbling. Pietro, you thought, then remembered: one of the foreign exchange students from a country in Europe that you can’t recall or pronounce!

“Assuming he’s not getting high in the backstage of the auditorium,” Natasha said.

Whoa. Well, he does look like a very chill guy. But now, Clint does not, his forehead creased and his jaw unhinged as if affronted. “That asshole! Why doesn’t he ever share?” he said, then frowned, contemplating. “I’ll look for him–” He stepped aside, ready to leave, but somehow, with one look from Natasha alone, he returned to his position in front of you, looking like a child who’s just been scolded.

“Are you more hungry for weed or for food?” she asked, brow cocked.

The corners of his lips dropped even further. He breathed out a reluctant sigh and hiked up his backpack up his shoulder. “Fine. See you later.” Giving her a solemn salute and you a playful smile, he sauntered off to a nearby stairwell.

“Clint!” Natasha said, a warning in her tone as she turned to watch him go. Without looking back, he raised a thumb-up in response.

Your brows furrowed. “He’s not going to get high in the middle of a school day, is he?”

She heaved out an exasperated breath from her nose. “Not usually. At least, ninety percent of the time.” Turning away, she headed to the row of lockers in the corner of the hall, with you trailing behind her, and throwing one last look to where Clint had disappeared.

Reaching the lockers, you let yourself avert your gaze as she unlocked hers. Once it was open, she stuffed her books in there, but not without arranging them first – alphabetically? You weren’t sure. Some of them were in a foreign language.

Behind you, someone cleared their throat. Your heart leapt as you stepped aside to see the intruder, Natasha turning to face them too, for both of your gazes to fall on none other than the mysterious Bucky Barnes. Or, at the moment, the uncomfortable Bucky Barnes. He was shuffling his feet, hands shoved down into the pockets of his ripped jeans, and face contorted in such a way that it seemed as if it physically pained him to even stand there. It was almost kind of cute, if his presence wasn’t so alarming.

Natasha blinked. “You have a message for Cap?”

The Cap? You frowned, shot her a questioning look.

She caught this, shrugged. “It’s our nickname for Steve.”

Ah, Steve Rogers, you thought. Him being the class president and an amazing athlete, it made sense.

He ran a hand through his shoulder-length locks, strands of it swaying beside his face from the movement, reminding you, for some reason, of a field of tall grass dancing against a strong breeze. Sparing you a look, for a moment, it looked as if he was considering whether or not to speak with your presence nearby, but then, he returned to Natasha, and nodded. “Let him know I can’t make it to movie night, will you? Gotta serve detention under Mr. Sitwell … again.”

Crossing her arms, Natasha raised an amused brow. “You gonna leave him all alone with Sammy-wammy?” she said, playful.

He shot her a look, the kind one would have when they’ve heard a joke too many times for their patience to take it, and stepped back, ready to depart. “I’ll see you around, Romanoff.”

“How about lunch?” she asked.

His face squirmed again, like he didn’t like what he was going to say. “Detention. Mrs. Carter.”

Wow. Can someone really have two sessions of detention in a day? Beside you, Natasha shook head in a manner of why’d I even bother, but waved him a hand of farewell, before returning to the contents of her locker.

At the corner, you caught Bucky sending you another look, this one much more piercing, brows furrowed, as though trying to remember something. But before you can decipher it any further, he has already disappeared among the mass of students. You looked back at Natasha, just as she slammed her locker shut, locking it. “Is he … okay?” you asked, tone somewhat playful.

But as she met your gaze, her face darkened. “He’s trying to be,” she said. Then, her eyes brightened, and she raised an arm, waving at someone over your shoulder. “Steve, c'mere!”

Turning around, your eyes fell on the magnificent Steve Rogers, who was just about to turn into another hall, but now paused in his tracks, looking up from a folder of documents, just as his gaze landed on you. Or Natasha. Right, Natasha. Sauntering over here in a jacket and a t-shirt too tight for the good of anyone’s eyes, it was like he was glowing.. But that may also could’ve been the sunlight from the windows. Probably. You doubted it.

“Yeah, Nat?” he asked, once within earshot. Seeing you, he flashed a smile of greeting, but then froze, brows knitted. Then, he said your name, face igniting with a look of recognition. “Don’t we go to the same Arts class?”

You nodded, heart bouncing. Whoa, he’s noticed you? From what you can remember, your interactions with him was limited to mostly staring at the way his face and muscles moved while he sketched, and picking up fallen pencils. Oh god. You hoped he hasn’t noticed you staring too.

“You draw pretty good,” he said, the corners of his lips stretching to a smile that could hearts. It most certainly could have melted yours. Especially with such a compliment.

Brushing hair off your face, you tried to return the smile without compromising your stoic disposition, tight but abashed. “Uh, you too.”

In between the two of you, Natasha cleared her throat, and the focus was on her. With an amused sideway glance at you, she looked at Steve. “Barnes wanted to say he can’t make it to your movie night threesome with Sam–”

“It’s not–”

“He has detention with Mr. Sitwell,” she went on. “Oh, and right now too, with Mrs. Carter.”

Steve drew his brows together, disapproving and dismayed. Creases lined his forehead, and it was almost tempting to smooth them out. “Right. Thanks for letting me know, Nat.”

“One of the many services I offer,” she said, waving his gratitude away. “You joining us for lunch?”

He shook his head, low and disappointed. “Council meeting. I’ll just catch up on you guys later,” he said, now walking backwards. “See you around!” Flashing you another brilliant smile, he turned and disappeared into another hall.

You looked at Natasha, frowning. “Are all of them your friends?”

One corner of her lips perked up. “You haven’t even met half of them.”

Soon enough, you reached the cafeteria. An open dining, students gathered in this area, purchasing and consuming their food, in such great numbers that they have spilled to the surrounding picnic tables outside, beneath two towering trees and stretching, bushy branches. Friendly breezes blew past, bringing along with it chatter, laughter and the smell of … roast beef?

“Food first?” Natasha said, as both of you approached the main cafeteria, overflowing with so many students that stepping inside felt like being in a stuffy oven, despite the lack of any walls to actually contain anything. “Hopefully, Clint and the others saved us a table.”

Oh, right. You’re going to eat lunch with her and her friends. With actual people after three months of lunch solitude. Or isolation, Mr. Coulson will probably say, because you have no life. Unlike Natasha, who does, and whose life you’re now basically intruding. Fitting, squeezing yourself inside of it. Damn it, Mr. Coulson. “Natasha–”

“Call me Nat.”

“Okay, uh, Nat–” you said, clearing your throat as both of you stepped onto the end of the line. She leaned forward and grabbed two trays. “I think for today, I’ll eat somewhere else–”

She turned around, and gave you a look. The line moved forward, but she didn’t budge. “Listen, if I didn’t want to help you out, I wouldn’t. Really. But I do. So, are you going to take this tray or not?” She shoved it towards your chest.

If the line hadn’t been moving, and the other students behind you weren’t complaining, maybe you wouldn’t have taken the tray. But either way, you did, and the corners of her lips perked up, small but satisfied. She turned back to the line and edged forward, selecting the food she wanted. You followed suit, taking whatever suited your appetite at the moment. It wasn’t much.

After paying for the food and stepping out of the line, you wondered – why? Why did she agree to help you? In fact, why does she even want to help? It wasn’t like she has anything to gain from this. You looked at her, watched as her sharp eyes narrowed, scanning the tables for familiar heads. Does she?

“Oh, there they are,” she said, nodding at a crowded table underneath one of the trees. Her whole face seemed to must have brightened, thrumming with a controlled level of excitement. That’s what it must be like to have friends, you thought.

Your throat dried up, chest squeezing your already galloping heart, as you stared at that table, that table of Nat’s friends. Even from afar, you can already see some familiar heads: Clint Barton, Tony Stark, Bruce Banner – even you’re-pretty-sure-he’s-from-another-world Thor Odinson, and the twins from that European country you can’t pronounce, and that sassy guy from that African country you can’t remember, and three other guys who’re probably in your other classes too. But none of whom you have ever interacted with. Not a meaningful interaction anyway. Maybe bumping them in the halls, helping them pick up a fallen pen, vice versa. But nothing real. Now, maybe you’re about to have that. Meaningful, real interaction. And who knows where that could lead to?

But you already knew the answer to that, and it’s not a happy one. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You can feel the panic clamoring in your chest, building and slamming into the walls of your insides, pushing sweat out of your pores and tying your stomach into ribbons and chasing your heart–

“Hey.” You felt a gentle hand on your arm, and your wide-eyed gaze fell on Natasha’s concerned but kind face, her brows furrowed and the corners of her lips tilted up, as if she was torn between looking worried or comforting. “You okay?”

Stepping back, you blinked a few times back to the present, but nodded. “Yeah, sorry, I just–” You shoved some saliva down your desert-crisp throat, and cleared it. “I don’t think I can–”

“No one’s going to hurt you,” she said, tone soft and reassuring. “And you’re not going to hurt anyone.”

You stared at the table, as a wind whispered past, bringing along Thor’s booming laughter and Tony’s witty remarks. They looked so … happy. You’d hate to ruin that.

“You don’t even have to say anything,” she said. “I’ll handle it.”

You fixed your gaze on her, and watched the sunlight play with the color of her eyes. Flickering from green to gray to blue to green. Sweet, comforting, safe. You wondered if she understands, understands why you just can’t jump into … something like this. She looked like she does. Maybe, maybe it won’t turn out too bad. Maybe.

With one last inhale and exhale of air, you gathered all your strength, and nodded at the table. “You sure we can still fit in there?” You’re not sure of the capacity of the tables here, but you’re pretty sure ten students – a few of whom were built like Roman gods – couldn’t possibly fit in that single picnic table.

She released a relieved breath. “We better,” she said, approaching them already, with you lagging a bit beside her. “Or someone’s going to get their ass kicked.”

Ha, funny. But then, you saw her face. Wait, was she serious?

Part #2: accusation.

Author’s Notes: Okay, I think I’ll leave the whole “introduction to the team” to you, lol. Sorry! No matter what, I can’t seem to write down that scene right. No idea how those Marvel writers can handle such a humongous cast. But anyway, I’ve made it look like you already do know the cast, being in the school for three months already and they’re also well-known students, so I didn’t think it was totally necessary. The important part is bonding moments with them, yieee. Which we will all get into soon. (:

Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think. ❤️

[tobiologist]

swipe right (if you like me)

Keith/Lance // met on tinder!au // 7.8k+ // sfw // part 2/?

Summary: "I’m doin’ it. Lance giggles under his breath and drags the cat meme picture to the right side of his screen.

But this, friends, is why one shouldn’t tempt fate over Tinder.“

or: Lance finds the most unlikely match on Tinder and (might) gain a boyfriend in the process

Keith

He could strangle Pidge for making him download this stupid app.

It makes absolutely no sense. People rattle off a sentence or two about themselves and hope to lure others in with similar interests, shitty jokes, or a pretty face. Potentially all of the above. Keith doesn’t have the lowest self-esteem in the world, but his ego certainly isn’t in the best shape. When it comes to any of the usual Tinder criteria, he feels like an outlier.

Keith has no desire to hook up with strangers.

>> READ THE REST ON AO3 <<

No, Keith enjoys the idea of sex more than the actual act itself. His hypothetical ‘cherry’ still has yet to be popped, in most senses of the word. He kissed a couple classmates back in high school, girls and guys alike, but nothing more. He’s never seen it as a big deal. Really, Keith could care less about whether he’s getting laid.

School is his top priority at the moment and has been since his sophomore year of high school. Once he can start designing aircrafts, working on spaceships with his own two hands, it won’t be an issue anymore. But until then, he has to stay focused—keep his eyes on the prize.

So, he doesn’t go out of his way to get into the dating scene. It’s downright exhausting, and Keith is just as happy to go through college with a couple friends and a sometimes-nosy-yet-fantastically-compassionate brother. A boyfriend would just cause unnecessary trouble.

Of course…

Things changed a bit when he took an interest in Lance. But it was just that, okay? An interest.

It was hard to ignore the loudest person in every lecture hall. Sure, he quieted down once class started but, before the professor walked in, he chatted with anyone in the general vicinity willing to listen. In the beginning, Lance’s enthusiasm annoyed the absolute shit out of Keith. The guy talked your ear off, whether you wanted him to or not.

But, as time went on, Keith realized most classmates enjoyed Lance’s crazy rants. They were off-the-wall, no doubt about it, but they were interesting. Keith learned they were more like conspiracy theories than rants, which… well. That may be the real root of the problem; Keith lives for conspiracy theories.

That’s what first captured his attention. Lance never engaged Keith directly, but he had no qualms with eavesdropping on Lance’s conversations with other classmates. And, once he took notice of Lance, he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

The jerk was amazing. He spoke, moved, breathed as if he were born to tell ridiculous stories and persuade people. He’d be talking to someone and, surely enough, more students would hop into the discussion with their own input. Keith refused to partake—mostly because the thought of embarrassing himself in front of Lance and showing any sort of weakness sickened him—and sat quietly.

Listening.

Lance filled the silence with outrageous stories and theories, ‘fun facts’ and ‘words of wisdom.’ Keith wished, more than anything, he could’ve clamped his hands over his ears and forced himself to tune it out. It was no use, though. It was too late.

Keith liked listening to Lance.

His excitement and passion for what he loved, the timbre and inflection of his voice, every detail sucked Keith in. He’d rather be struck dead than acknowledge it out loud, but he might have developed the slightest bit of a crush on Lance.

Even when tests were passed back and Lance flashed him a look of pure hatred, Keith couldn’t bring himself to dislike the guy. Although Lance never confronted him face-to-face, he had heard about their ‘rivalry’ from Pidge countless times.  And—maybe he’s fucked up in the head—but the very idea of a competition between him and Lance stoked a fire deep in the pit of his gut.

It was absolutely thrilling.

Keith found himself working even harder in class. Of course, he also got distracted more often, what with his gaze drifting to a certain seat, usually a row over, whenever there was a lull in the professor’s lecture. He enjoyed hearing Lance speak, enjoyed listening to the way he regarded the universe as something special, something vast and begging to be explored—

Yeah, Keith had a pretty good feeling he had a crush.

But that didn’t give Pidge any reason to set up a Tinder profile for him. It’s a total trainwreck of a profile, in his opinion. The pictures are… okay, granted, the only picture he wishes she hadn’t included is the knife cat meme.

(Not that he’ll admit that to Pidge.)

So, the pictures—he doesn’t have a big issue with them. It’s the bio he really wants her to change.

He’s stared at those same two lines of text on multiple occasions and still can’t come up with anything else to include. How does someone even decide what to put in a Tinder bio? Most people are there for hookups anyway so what does it matter?

Keith hardly uses his own account. Pidge and—horrifyingly enough—Shiro do most of the swiping for him.

Tonight, however, Keith is bored.

He glances over at the small stack of textbooks propped against his leg. Fuck. In theory, he could work on an assignment instead of putting things off another day. But he wants to make the most of his free time before he confronts the metric fuckton of schoolwork headed his way.

Keith props his feet up on the table and sinks deeper into the couch. Shiro won’t be home tonight so he has the entire apartment to himself. It isn’t all that uncommon for Shiro to spend the night at Matt’s place or, occasionally, Allura’s. But this early on in the semester, when Keith hardly has any homework—he can’t pass the opportunity up.

For the first couple hours, he watches Westworld. When he catches himself drifting off, he disconnects his laptop from the television and reaches for his phone. It’s only 11 o’clock, which is way earlier than he ever goes to bed.

“What the hell do I do now?” Keith asks the empty apartment. Predictably, no one answers him.

Keith groans and tips his head back, fixing his eyes on the ceiling fan overhead. It turns at a leisurely pace, just fast enough to keep him from feeling uncomfortably warm. He tracks the movement of the blades and lets his mind wander.

He could always text Pidge and ask if—dammit. She’s over at another friend’s place tonight. Hunk? Keith is almost positive that’s the guy’s name. And his roommate… Keith swears he knows the roommate, too.

Suddenly, it hits him. He does know the roommate.

“Of course that’s who it is,” Keith mumbles. Because Hunk lives with the same guy Keith has been silently creeping on for the last year or so. Yes, of all the people Hunk could live with, it’s Lance. Fucking aerospace engineering Lance. Who just so happens to also be friends with Pidge.

Keith’s plan to text Pidge is shot down in an instant. Although it does give him an idea.

A totally fucked and uncharacteristic idea, but, again, Keith is bored.

Cautiously, Keith unlocks his phone. His eyes flit across the screen, from app to app, until he spots the one he’s looking for. An app, mind you, he’s only opened and used a handful of times since downloading it. Which Pidge had done two months ago.

There’s a small circle in the center of the screen with his bike picture. Red concentric circles start there and spread outwards, while a message displays underneath. “Finding people near you…” it says. Keith almost wishes it wouldn’t.

Eventually, a profile appears. The guy looks vaguely familiar. Shoulder-length blond hair frames his round face, green eyes glinting promisingly. His pictures show him standing in front of easels—his own art, most likely—or surrounded by friends.

Keith is about to swipe the picture to the right when he realizes he doesn’t remember which way to swipe for people he likes.

“Idiot.” He settles for clicking the little green heart at the bottom of the profile.

Tinder has the decency to remind him which direction to swipe, depending on whether he’s interested in the person or not, and Keith sighs a quiet sigh of relief. He was right about the directions after all. Fantastic.

He goes through about fifteen more profiles—most of which he swipes left on because, wow, there are a lot of fuckboys at their university—before he comes across another familiar face.

But this familiarity hits Keith like a punch to the gut.

“What?” he cries, voice echoing off the thin walls of their living room. “No, no, no.”

There’s no mistaking the flawless skin and golden brown hair, begging to be ruffled. The wicked smirk and dangerous glimmer in his eyes, drawing attention to himself in every picture Keith scrolls across. In one, he wears a baby blue t-shirt with the word “peachy” screened across the front. Keith is almost positive he has class with the guy standing to Lance’s left—maybe that’s Hunk?—while Pidge stands proudly on the other side with an arm around Lance’s waist. The party pictures are easy to spot, considering the large groups of people, as well as the wide array of nonsensical stuff Lance chooses to wear, like a bra made from two red solo cups and beer box over his head.

Just like the Lance that Keith has come to know from class, the Lance in each picture has a certain charm Keith can’t even begin to explain. Even with the plastic cup bra pulled tight over his white crop top.

Just swipe left, he silently urges himself. Nothing good would come out of swiping right. Of course, the chances of Lance finding him attractive enough to want to match with—or the chances of him recognizing Keith and trying to match as a joke—are awfully low.

Keith looks off to the side and then back at Lance’s last picture. He’s at a museum, standing alongside an SR-71 Blackbird, sleek and beautiful. He seems absolutely ecstatic to be there and, for some strange and horrifying reason, Keith is reminded of his father, the man who preferred spending his days rocketing through the sky then down on the ground.

His hands move of their own accord and—

The phone nearly falls out of his hands, and Keith is sure his neighbors must hate him for the noise that comes bursting out of his mouth. Fingers quivering, he stares at the screen, dumbstruck.

“It’s a match!”

No, it can’t be, he wants to tell the stupid app. That’s impossible You’re wrong. He can’t even imagine Lance wanting to swipe right on a social pariah like him. Keith Kogane, the hotheaded and cocksure student who’s always questioning his professors and authority figures. The boy who hates loud and crowded places, like parties or clubs, and finds it difficult to make new friends. He’s the antithesis of everything Lance stands for so why… what the hell could’ve possibly influenced Lance to swipe right?

Keith shakes his head and sets the phone on the table, just of reach.

He’ll watch more Westworld, that’s what he’ll do. After the recent plot twist, he has to watch more and see how events unfold. And avoid thinking of Lance or the fact they matched on Tinder.

Everything is perfectly fine.

But, after one episode, Keith can’t stay away. “Fucking idiot,” he growls at himself and snags his phone off the table. To his horror, he has a message waiting for him. Lance sent you a new message!

“The fuck he has,” Keith exclaims, voice cracking unpleasantly somewhere in the middle of his outburst. Tentatively, he unlocks the screen and presses the notification.

is your mom an alien? because dat ass is out of this world

Keith doesn’t care how cute this asshole’s smile is; he wants to punch him. But the comment is so fucking… cringey that Keith can’t help but let out a short laugh. And the messages don’t stop there. He only has to wait a few minutes for the next couple.

the aliens made me swipe right

hey baby wanna take a ride in my flying saucer?

Keith is definitely laughing now. He’s finding it hard to believe Lance thinks any of this garbage will work. How the fuck could someone as smooth as Lance score hookups with lines like this? Not that Keith has any idea whether Lance hooks up with people he meets on Tinder. It’s just a hunch, alright? A totally unbiased hunch that has nothing to deal with how obnoxiously adorable he finds Lance’s face and quirky fashion sense.  

He deliberates locking his phone, possibly turning it off for the rest of the night to avoid this nonsense Lance calls “flirting,” when the last message arrives.

well you seem cool as fuck

A rush of tingling warmth spreads through Keith’s body. He reads the message again, just to be sure he didn’t imagine it, but it’s real. The social butterfly he’s been dying to talk to for months just told Keith he thought he was cool. Him. Keith.

“Me? Cool?” Keith’s thumb hovers over the blank message bar.

He’s never had anyone say that to him before. ‘Freak’ is one he heard often back in elementary school. And, as he grew older and recognized his sexuality, there were a slew of other insults. Compliments were few and far between, unless they were teachers praising his grades and intellect. Which never lasted long. Once he snapped and turned on a classmate for insulting his family, the teachers went back to giving him a wide berth and avoiding him like the plague.

Keith catches his reflection in the television screen. He speaks again, enjoying the taste of the word in his mouth. “Cool.”

His entire body feels warm, pleasantly so, down to the tips of his toes and fingers.

As planned, Keith turns off his phone for the rest of the night. But he vows to at least say something to Lance the next day in class.

 Lance

-present day-

Phase 1 doesn’t go as well as planned.

The first time Lance asks Keith out, he’s met with obliviousness. Because of course life would be too easy if Keith understood the situation right off the bat. No, the universe has to spice things up a bit for Lance.

Lance heaves a sigh, back propped up against the wall. His laptop whirrs softly, a warm presence on the top of his thighs but not nearly as warm as Keith’s presence beside him. The bed is actually quite small. It used to be problematic whenever Lance had someone spend the night, but, ever since he and Keith started hanging out, there’s only been one guest in his room, other than the occasional Hunk.  

He’s been drowning in thoughts of their ‘rivalry’ for the better part of the day, and, for the life of him, Lance can’t remember how it even started. “I’m such an idiot,” he mutters, seemingly out of the blue.

“No comment,” Keith deadpans, blinking at the laptop screen.

“You’re not supposed to agree with me on that one, dude. But, uh. Yeah, I kind of feel like one right now.”

“Why?”

“Because this ‘rivalry’”—he motions between the two of them—“has been going on since, like, freshman year, and I’m finally starting to ask myself what happened to kick it off.”

“I mean, wasn’t it an issue over grades or something? Every time we got a test back in class, I noticed you glaring daggers at me.”

Lance wishes, more than anything, he could shoot that excuse down. But alas…

“No, nope. That’s not it. Way too petty. I never would start a legendary ‘rivalry’ over something dumb like that.”

“Pidge told me you said ‘I won’t rest until I outscore that stupid hotshot,’” Keith recalls drily. “I would assume I’m the ‘stupid hotshot.’”

Did I really call Keith stupid? He knows he never would’ve meant it seriously, regardless of his competitive nature. “I was just joking!”

“The way Pidge told the story, it didn’t seem that way. You used to shoot me dirty looks in class so I wouldn’t be too surprised.” Keith tries to put a few extra inches of space between them and—Lance panics.

“You’re not stupid at all!”

“You sure about that?” Keith’s voice drips with skepticism.

“Positive! Okay, just— just hear me out.” Lance maintains the space between them, worried he may spook poor Keith. “But you can’t laugh at me or anything.”

“You didn’t laugh when I told you about the alien thing so” —Keith shrugs and continues, albeit grudgingly—”I’m not a dickhead. Go ahead.”

“Alright, well, I was jealous.” There you go, Lance, just bite the bullet.

Keith’s nose scrunches up. “Jealous?”

“Yeah, I was jealous. Because you always got good grades and acted like it was no big deal. I slaved over my assignments, but I was lucky to get a B on anything I turned in. Pick a class, any class. You were always way ahead of me.”

Keith pales, like he’s just seen a ghost or run into the Demogorgon from Stranger Things.  

“Um. Oh,” Keith eventually stutters out.

Lance quickly snaps his mouth shut. He definitely said too much. Keith would want nothing to do with him after a selfish excuse like that, and Lance wouldn’t blame him.  “I’m sorry, I... It sounds pretty messed up, when I put it like that, huh?“

And then Lance remembers.

The plot. Hunk and Pidge’s brilliant plot to get Keith and Lance together. It may not be the perfect moment to ask, but it’s not the worst either. They’re talking about grades, right? And what does someone have to do to maintain their grades? Study.

Which—drum roll, please—gives Lance an opening. He could totally ask Keith out on a study date. Lance pictures how the whole conversation will go down in his head and barely quells his desire to preen like a proud peacock.

“Here, I have an idea. To make it up to you.” Lance carefully flips his laptop shut. To his credit, Keith makes eye contact instead of staring intensely at a random spot on the wall, like he had been doing. “How about we study together?”

“I don’t study well in groups.”

Holy mother of-

“I promise to behave myself,” Lance insists, fluttering his lashes. “I’ll stay on task the whole time.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about…”

“What are you worried about then? Is it the whole ‘memories getting trapped in your mullet’ thing? Because—“

“No, Lance.”

“Is it… because you hate me?”

Lance doesn’t know why he says it, but immediately regrets doing so when Keith’s expression twists into one of pure fear. “I don’t hate you.”

“Then what is it?”

“I… I’m worried I won’t be able to focus.”

Pieces of the puzzle slot clumsily together in Lance’s brain; they aren’t quite meshing together, though.  

“I told you, I’ll only ask relevant questions. No sidetracking, no gossip. I swear on my model aircraft collection that I’ll be the best study buddy you could ask for.”

Keith snort-laughs. “I know that.”

“Then why?”

“It’s just that…“

“Hm?”

“I, uh, you see…”

“Keith, dude, seriously—“

“It doesn’t matter if you sit quietly and read the fucking Dictionary to yourself, Lance, I’ll still be distracted by you!”

Lance is totally unprepared for the surge of emotions. The words turn over in his head, faster and faster, and Lance starts to gain a loose grasp on what Keith is saying. Is he… is he saying he would be too busy watching me?

There’s no way—absolutely no way. But it’s the most viable explanation. Either the slightest noise disturbs Keith or he’s concerned Lance’s very existence will serve as a distraction.

“Just to be sure I’m not going crazy here,” Lance starts, hesitantly, “are you implying that you’ll be too busy ogling the goods to focus on studying?”

And now Lance is getting shoved. Not enough to send him toppling off the bed but enough that it smarts a little where Keith jabbed him. Curious, he glances up and— Keith, the poor dude, bears an uncanny resemblance to a tomato. Lance can practically see the smoke pouring out of his ears.

“Shut up,” Keith growls. The laptop tips precariously to one side, and Keith steadies it. “Forget I said anything. Let’s just—get back to the movie? It’s been so long since I last watched it.”

Keith has a point. It’s been ages since Lance watched The Last Starfighter. He fell in love with the film the very first time he watched it, sitting in his family room with his younger siblings crowded around him. As a young boy, he’d spent hours searching through his father’s expansive sci-fi collection, watching more movies and televisions shows than he’d care to admit.

When rumors were being spread around the engineering department about the prodigal new student and pilot, Lance couldn’t help but be reminded of Alex Rogan. The kid never expected to be put behind the controls of an actual spaceship, but he was born with the skill necessary to do so. Rewatching the film, Lance can’t help but imagine Keith in a similar scenario.

He’d totally be the kind of guy capable of saving the world.

In reality, as Lance grew older, he developed a bit of a celebrity crush on the young Lance Guest. Bonus points went to the guy for having the same first name as Lance. And, okay, he wasn’t as cute as young Harrison Ford, but he was still pretty high on Lance’s list of ‘Sci-Fi Actors I Would Climb Like A Tree.

“Yeah… yeah, okay,” Lance concedes. He pulls the laptop over until it sits comfortably between them again, half resting in each of their laps. “You’re lucky I love this movie, or I’d ask your stubborn ass more questions.”

Keith merely sighs and flips the laptop back open, reaching out to press the spacebar. The movie resumes, and Lance is left with his thoughts, torn between gushing over space dogfights or devising new plans to ask the most oblivious person in the fucking world out on a date.

--

Lance

“I can’t believe that didn’t work,” Hunk grumbles, adjusting his protractor before sketching another line.

Lance sits in the floor of their living room, an open textbook in his lap. Like a cat, Pidge lies stretched out on the couch. She fits perfectly, whereas Lance and Hunk both have to tuck their legs or prop them on the armrest when in her place. Fingers flying across the keyboard, she pays little to no mind to Hunk and Lance’s discussion.

“Are you kidding? It’s Keith.”

Or not.

Lance groans. He’s recounted the whole story of his failed attempt twice now. Between homework problems, Hunk tries taking the situation apart, piece by piece, in search of Lance’s mistake. Pidge butts in with a comment every now and then.

“I know, but still,” Hunk huffs, “That idea seemed pretty foolproof to me. Kudos to you, by the way, dude.”

“Thanks,” Lance mumbles half-heartedly.

“You have to be straightforward with Keith. Otherwise, he thinks he’s imagining things. Or that you’re trying to trick him.”

“Paranoid, much?” Lance flips the page of his textbook, staring aimlessly at the pictured airfoil. “How would I trick him with a study date? Feed him the wrong answers? That’s fucked up, rivals or not.”

Hunk curses under his breath, and the distinct sound of an eraser, pressed hard against paper, fills the apartment. “You ruined my mechanism sketch, dude.”

Lance shoots him a classic ‘you’ve got to be kidding me’ look. But Hunk merely nods. “Spouting that garbage. You and Keith never really were rivals in the first place, but you’re definitely not now. You’re friends, at least. More than friends, if things go your way…”

“Anyway,” Pidge drawls, “I don’t know why he wouldn’t want to study together. He comes over to our place sometimes to work on stuff. Says it’s quieter than his place when Shiro invites Allura and Matt for dinner.”

So… Lance might not have told Hunk and Pidge the entire story. The last bit of their talk—when Keith revealed he wouldn’t be able to focus with Lance in the room—remains a closely guarded secret. It’s  definitely better that way. If anything, Pidge would tease poor Keith and, well, Keith would punch Lance in the dick for sharing something so personal.

Lance would deserve it, of course. No question there.

“Not a clue. Maybe he thinks he’s too good to study with his ri—“ Hunk tosses his eraser at Lance. The worn, white block smacks into his cheek, and Lance squeaks. “Hey!”

“Chances are, he’s too shy,” Hunk explains, fixing Lance with a frustrated grimace. “You should know by now that Keith isn’t an academic prude or anything. I’m sure he has his reasons.”

Oh, he has his reasons alright.

“Yeah, he can be pretty, uh, eccentric sometimes. He obviously likes spending time with you, though, so I wouldn’t lose too much sleep over it,” Pidge adds, tone matter-of-fact.

Other than his own brother, Pidge is Keith’s closest friend. They bonded their junior year of high school over conspiracy theories and alien abduction, if Lance remembers correctly. Shiro and Matt were already close friends at the time so the two older brothers were encouraging them to get to know each other better. According to Pidge, she’d been a little reluctant at first. Keith was quiet and sometimes snapped at complete strangers. But, the more time they spent together, the closer they became.

Now that Lance knew Keith better, he could see why their personalities meshed so well. In the past, he’d wracked his brain for reasons why the two got along and always came up with zilch, nada. Not anymore.

As Keith’s closest companion, Pidge knows nearly as much as Shiro. Enough for her to judge whether Keith actually likes Lance or simply tolerates him for the sake of keeping up appearances. He obviously likes spending time with you, she says.

“So, what should I try next?” Lance prompts. It’s a welcome diversion from his homework. And, well, he really doesn’t know where to proceed from here when it comes to Keith. “Do I try asking him out again?”

“Maybe?”

“Or—or, you could always ask him how he feels about dating,” Hunk suggests. “Not you specifically but, like… dating in general? Maybe that’ll get him to share some valuable information. If he’s interested in dating anyone right now, if he has any crazy exes, if he’s already talking to someone.”

Ugh. The last suggestion leaves Lance feeling queasy. Keith wouldn’t have someone special like that in his life and not tell Lance… right?

“Eh, I guess.” Lance smooths his fingers over the lines of text on the page. “That could work. You really are a genius, buddy.”

Hunk grins, wide and genuine, and pats Lance soundly on the back. “There he is, Sir Lancelot.”

“Defender of the universe!” Lance doesn’t even shut his book before he stands, placing his hands on his hips. If only he had a cape. “The resident sharpshooter, the tailor himself!”

Pidge objects loudly from her place on the couch. “Hunk, no, why do you encourage him?”

The two go back and forth—making judgments on which nicknames should stay and which have to go—but Lance is only half-listening. The man of action has a new plan of action now.

The next step in Phase I will now commence.

--

Keith

This is weird.

Actually, ‘weird’ doesn’t feel quite right. It doesn’t encompass the full magnitude of ‘what the fuck is happening’ Keith experiences when he’s around Lance. Emotional vertigo, to be honest.

Let’s just say Keith hasn’t mentioned the real reason he matched with Lance on Tinder— to anyone. No, it wasn’t Pidge who made the decision. Keith’s very own finger swiped Lance’s profile to the right. Completely sober, completely in control of his actions, Keith had been the one to kick himself in the ass and shoot for a match.

And it’s only progressively gotten worse now that Lance pays attention to him.

“You certainly seem like you’re in a good mood,” Shiro calls out from the kitchen. Past experience tells Keith the remark is supposed to sound offhanded; it doesn’t.

Keith glances up from his textbook, brows raised. “Really?”

“Well, you seem to be smiling more often.” Shiro’s lips pull up into a soft smile of his own. “It’s nice, seeing you happy.”

“I don’t… feel any different.”

“I’m used to you bursting through the door, full of complaints. Usually about that boy in most of your courses. Oh, what’s his name…”

Shiro is so full of shit. Keith groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes falling shut. “Lance. His name is Lance.”

“Yes, that’s the one! But you two seem to be getting along a lot better now. Is that right?”

“You’ve been talking to Matt… haven’t you?”

Keith watches, just to catch the guilty expression on Shiro’s face and catalogue it for later. “Uh, well. We had lunch the other day, and he—he might’ve brought it up.”

“And what’s ‘it’?”

“Your friendship with Lance! He says the two of you started sitting next to each other in his aerospace structures class.” Shiro fiddles with a couple spoons as he pulls them from the dishwasher. “He also mentioned that… it almost seemed like flirting to hi—“

“No, no,” Keith quickly interjects. “Definitely not. Lance and I are friends now. So we talk? Nothing weird about that, right?”

Shiro turns to fully face Keith. He leans back against the kitchen counter. The scar along the bridge of his nose is far more noticeable when he’s like this, gaze fixed intently on Keith, forehead creasing just the slightest bit. Keith has grown over the years, but Shiro still has a few inches on him. Plus, he works out consistently and has the stocky, solid build to show for it. It doesn’t take long for him to switch from ‘sweet older brother’ mode to ‘intimidating father figure’ mode.

“This isn’t the first time we’ve discussed Lance in the past few weeks. You’ve started hanging out with Pidge and ‘her friends’ on the weekends. I know that Lance is one of those friends.” Shiro narrows his eyes. “I also know how fidgety you were the first time you came home, after hanging out with them. Fidgety but also… kind of… giddy?”

“Giddy?” Keith feels his cheeks start to pink. God, he hates when Shiro does this to him. “That’s the word you’re going with?”

“I can’t think of a more appropriate one,” Shiro laughs. “You could barely sit still and kept checking your phone. Especially with the way you were acting the night before… I was suspicious.”

Shit. Keith had really hoped Shiro hadn’t noticed his odd behavior the night he matched with Lance. The night. The cursed night.

“Like I said, we’re just friends,” Keith stresses again. He knows it won’t be the last time he has to tell Shiro. “He’s a huge pain in the ass, but he’s also a nice guy. That’s the only reason I’ve probably seemed happy. Or whatever.”

“Or whatever…” Shiro whispers the words under his breath, but Keith hears him. He turns and strides over to where his briefcase sits, propped against the table. “Anyway, I have to get to work. These homework assignments need graded, and I haven’t had a chance to hand them off to the TA yet.”

“Yeah, alright. Is it just going to be you tonight for dinner? Or are Allura and Matt coming?”

Shiro chuckles faintly, shaking his head. He fixes the lapels of his shirt and adjusts his tie. Keith is eternally grateful he doesn’t have Shiro as a professor. Not only has he seen the sort of homework he hands out, but he’s the kind of person who would love calling on his “genius little brother” for questions during class.

“Just me.” Shiro finishes inspecting his outfit in the mirror and makes for the door. “I’ll probably be busy, though, so I may bring back Chinese takeout. If that’s okay?”

Keith shrugs. “I don’t mind. You’re the one who likes to cook.”

Translation: Keith is not the world’s best chef.

Shiro flashes a fond smile in his direction before stepping out the door. A rush of cool air filters into the room, and Keith shivers. He’s not looking forward to going out in this weather. Plus, the bus will be packed with the usual crowd plus people who normally walk to campus.

Keith can only hope this isn’t foreshadowing for how the day will go

--

Lance

This will work—this has to work.

His second attempt? Yeah, as expected, that went to shit. The two of them had been sitting in the library, eating lunch, when Lance decided to bring it up.

“So,” he’d drawled, amidst chewing. “You wanna go to the arcade tomorrow?”

“Uh, sure. Is Pidge going?”

Lance almost choked on his sandwich. “I don’t… know? Why?”

“You better make sure you invite her. She’s been dying to go,” Keith says, motioning at Lance with a carrot before crunching into it. “I promised I wouldn’t go without her.”

Of course, Lance had thought about begging Pidge to lie and pretend she had plans. But there were too many loopholes, and Lance would feel bad about robbing Pidge of her opportunity to ‘destroy noobs’ and scrape up some decent cash in the process.

So, back to square one.

A couple days later, Lance settled on a different approach. And his third attempt? You guessed it—also a real bummer. He took yet another L.

“Hey, you wanna go to the movies this weekend?” Lance prompted. He and Keith were walking down to the bus stop, swaddled in thick layers of clothing. “Like, maybe Friday?”

Keith let out a noncommittal noise. It was barely audible past the scarf around his neck. “What movie?”

“I’m not sure… anything you’re interested in seeing?”

“Eh, not really.” Keith paused for a moment before continuing. Lance buried his gloved hands deeper in his pockets. “To be honest, I’d rather just watch something at your place.”

Normally, Lance would’ve danced and cheered because, hell yeah, watching a movie all alone with Keith. But not this particular weekend. Because Shay was staying over and the awkward atmosphere would kill any chance of Lance making a Move.

The initial three attempts in ‘Operation: Woo Keith’ were unsuccessful. Not much of a surprise there. But this idea? His latest idea? Fourth time’s the charm.

Lance scribbled the plan down yesterday, during a break between classes. The chairs in the engineering lounge were crazy comfortable and, curled up in his personal favorite of the bunch, Lance outlined his idea on a scrap piece of paper. Finished, he’d tucked it in his backpack to carry out the following day, when he would have class with Keith.

In a bit of a rush, Lance scrambles to put his lunch together. He spent a decent amount of money on drinks for their last party and needs to pinch pennies for the next few days. Sliding the fridge door open, he reaches for the blueberries.

And, with his fantastic luck, drops the container.

The blueberries roll everywhere—under the fridge, behind the trashcan, managing to even reach the couch. Lance screeches and bends to pick a couple up.

“What are you—oh my God, the fruit killer strikes again!” Hunk freezes just next to the counter. A baggy orange shirt stops just above his knees, hair sticking up at weird angles on top of his head.

“I’m not the fruit killer!”

“Yeah, tell that to the pineapple you sacrificed last week. And the countless other victims in the past!”

Lance scrapes up as many blueberries as he can and dumps them in the trash. He needs to leave soon or he’ll be late for his usual shuttle. And if he’s late to catch the shuttle, he’ll be late to class.

Which means—yep, that’s right. He’ll have to wait to talk to Keith.

Now, that doesn’t completely spoil his brilliant plan. But it deviates from it enough to make Lance anxious. That’s what will throw things off. Because once uncertainty comes into play, Lance freaks out and has been known to sabotage himself.

“The fruit killer has to hurry the fuck up,” Lance says, jamming notebooks and a binder into his bag. He snags the lunch he somehow managed to throw together. “Or he may screw himself over.”

Hunk stops, a few blueberries cradled in his open palms. “This is your last chance to ask him or we’ll have to fix things and reschedule.”

“I know, I know. It’ll all work out, okay?”

Lance is out the door before Hunk can say anything more.

--

Keith

Tap, tap.

Keith glances down at his phone, pressing his thumb lightly over the home key. 8:58 AM.

Tap, tap.

Lance is hardly ever late to class. As a matter of fact, he usually beats Keith there.

Tap, tap, tap.

Keith squeezes the pen in his hand. He’s almost positive the guy he used to sit next to is glaring at him. Obviously he doesn’t appreciate Keith tapping his pen on the edge of his desk. Calm the fuck down.

This isn’t the kind of class you’d want to be late to either. The professor has a strict attendance policy and doesn’t take kindly to people walking in late. There have been a few students who walked in ten minutes late and were ‘politely’ asked to leave. Not that Keith thinks Lance will be that late.

Just as he’s about to text Lance and beg him to get his ass to class, the man of the hour comes crashing into his usual seat.

“Dude—“

“Yeah, I might’ve sacrificed some blueberries to get here on time.”

Keith blinks at Lance, watching as he quickly digs through his backpack. He tugs the desk over his lap and slaps down his notebook. “At least you spared the pineapple this time,” Keith points out.

“You and your love of pineapple.” Lance clicks his pen and turns to the next blank sheet. He pauses, eyes flitting to Keith. “Did you just make a joke?”

Bastard. He can feel the heat creeping across his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. “Professor Coran is going to walk through that door any second now and bitch at you for talking and interrupting class.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll ignore the fact that super serious Keith Kogane, envy of all mullets, cracked a joke.” Lance throws Keith a wink. He can practically feel his insides turning to mush. “Also, I know I probably don’t have to ask at this point but, uh. You wanna come to our party tonight?”

“Oh, it’s tonight?”

“Yeah, but that’s not a problem, right?” There’s a hint of desperation in Lance’s tone that piques Keith’s curiosity.

“No, no. It’s not. I’m just used to them being on Saturday’s.”

“Yep,” Lance answers with a nod, “Just come over at eight. A little early so you don’t have to deal with the rush of people.”

Keith cocks his head to the side. There’s something strange about Lance’s demeanor. He almost sounds… nervous. Which makes no sense whatsoever. This certainly isn’t the first time he’s invited Keith. More like the fourth time—not that Keith’s keeping track or anything.

“Are you okay?” Keith is momentarily distracted by Lance’s fingers, fiddling with the cover of his notebook. “You seem more… jittery than usual.”

“Totally fine, dude,” Lance answers, “just trying to calm myself down after sprinting here from the bus stop.”

If not for Coran charging through the door like a man on a mission, thick pile of papers crammed under his arm, Keith would’ve interrogated Lance further. But he knew better than to open his mouth once their professor entered the picture. The man would definitely call Keith out. He may spare Lance, but Keith… yeah, maybe he deserved to be called out.

“Alright, class, how is everyone this fine morning?” A collective groan fills the room, and Coran scoffs. “Now, now, it’s lovely outside! This weather reminds me of the time I spent up North. I bet this is what it’s like to live on Europa, hm? “

Coran has a reputation for his bizarre anecdotes, random sound effects, and mild obsession with space and alien life. At the mention of Europa, Keith can already tell today is going to be an entertaining lecture.

“Anyway,” Coran singsongs, claiming his usual place at the front of the room. “Today we’re going to discuss the dihedral effect and how we model…”

Keith sighs and writes the date in the top left-hand corner of the page. For the rest of the lecture, he blocks out his surroundings and focuses on the strings of complicated words coming out of Professor Coran’s mouth. This isn’t the sort of class he can afford to ignore.

He makes it through a solid hour and fifteen minutes without dwelling on Lance or his peculiar behavior or the party later that night—

Ugh.

Seriously, Keith puts it all out of his mind until he’s free to go home. That’s when he’ll sit and worry over everything. Which, once he slinks through the door and throws himself down onto the couch a couple hours later, is exactly what he does.

—

Lance

Lance pouts his lips, watching his reflection mimic the gesture.

“You got this,” he tells himself. He checks his shirt for wrinkles, running his hands over the front of his navy blue flannel. It used to belong to his dad, and Lance has always loved the way it hangs on his frame. He wears the sleeves rolled up to his elbow, exposing the long lines of his forearms, and the shirt offers a nice glimpse of his collarbone. A sturdy belt holds his khakis in place, tan fabric hugging his hips and waist in all the right places. He usually reserves these pants for class presentations and interviews, but a date with Keith seems like a worthy occasion.

“Keith used to be your rival, and, sure, he has a mullet. But he’s the coolest, and you’re not going to fuck this up.” Lance jabs his finger into his reflection’s forehead. “I repeat, you will not fuck this up.”

Yes, the mantra is new. He’s never met anyone he legitimately needed a pep talk to approach. Not that needing positive words of encouragement to talk to Keith is a bad thing! It’s more like an ‘I really need to impress this person and convince them I’m worth the effort’ sort of thing.

“I won’t fuck this up.” Lance straightens his spine, standing tall with his hands poised on his hips. “I won’t fuck this up. I won’t, I just won’t. I, Lance McClain, will not fu—”

There’s a hesitant knock at the door, just loud enough that Lance hears it from down the hall. And, oh God, Lance shrieks like a teenage boy who just discovered a spider hidden in the bottom of his boot. He mumbles reassurances under his breath and hastily smooths his hands down the front of his body for probably the millionth time that evening. There’s a slim chance his ministrations only serve to wrinkle his shirt further, but he doesn’t give a flying fuck because Keith Kogane is waiting at his door.

“C- I’m coming!” Lance calls out. He almost trips over a stray sock but catches hold of the doorframe before he can actually fall. “Gimme a second!”

Keith doesn’t answer, but Lance easily conjures up what he must look like. Standing there, likely dressed in his usual dark jeans and cotton red shirt, the worn sort that looks soft to the touch. He’s almost definitely wearing his leather jacket, a pair of scuffed combat boots or, maybe, his red Converse sneakers. Quite honestly, Lance has a soft spot for those stupid shoes.

Lance comes to a screeching halt in front of the door, nervously tugging at the hem of his flannel for several tense seconds, before cracking the door open. His eyes flutter shut, and he repeats the mantra once more. I won’t fuck this up.

But nothing could’ve prepared him for what awaits him on the other side.

Hair— that’s the first thing Lance notices. Dark strands are swept back into a low ponytail, strays framing Keith’s face, the shortest hairs curling at the nape of his neck. The style draws more attention to features Lance had never allowed himself to contemplate before. A barely visible mole near the tip of his left eyebrow, the grey-purple hue of his irises, a tiny pimple hidden alongside the bridge of his nose. Every detail, every minor flaw, leaves Lance riveted. And steals the words right out of his mouth.

“Hey,” Keith, the cute bastard, has the nerve to say. As if nothing about his appearance is weird or hazardous to Lance’s health. Lance seizes the opportunity to give Keith a onceover and, yeah, of course he’s wearing the Converses. Shit.

“Uh, oh, hi,” Lance responds, oh so eloquently.

“Hey,” Keith repeats, the barest hint of a smile taking shape on his lips. “Can I… come in?”

“Uh, yeah, duh, of course.”

Keith takes one step into the apartment and falters. “You’re still doing it.”

Oh crap. “Doing what?”

“Acting all weird and jittery. What the hell is your deal?”

Lance is going to burst. If he holds the truth in any longer, he might literally explode and spray his guts all over their nice, clean walls. I won’t fuck this up, I won’t fuck this up, I-

“There’s no party tonight!” Lance gasps, like the confession is punched out of him.

Keith stops mid-stride and turns on Lance. He stares blankly, uncomprehending, silent questions hanging between them. The motion is quick, sharp. A few extra flyways join the other stray bangs hanging around Keith’s face, tickling his cheeks. Lance distantly wonders if they actually tickle.

“...What?”

“Surprise!” Lance holds his arms out to the side. He’s genuinely shocked his heart hasn’t climbed up his throat yet. Plastering on his best confident grin, he gestures at the entirety of the apartment. “It’s just the two of us tonight!”

Keith’s lashes flutter wildly, and he spins, surveying the empty living room and kitchen. “Uh, did you— just the two of us? You and… me?”

I won’t fuck this up.

“Keithy, boy, what would you do if I told you this was a date?”

[allegaeon]

tagged by @kikoloureirosdeliveryservice

5 things you’ll find in my bag: 1. A fuckton of pens. I have so many jfc 2. My japanese books and whatnot. 3. My english book 4. Gum 5. Usually a tomato and/or an apple. I ate them by now tho

5 things in my bedroom: 1. My computer and TV 2. 3 guitars and a bass lmao 3. Way too many posters. I have more poster than wall lmao 4. Food lying around probably. I like snacks 5. Some dinosaur toys i keep around for decoration. I have a huge velociraptor and a medium sized spinosaurus just sittin there

Things I’ve always wanted to do in life: 1. Own a snake. Either really colorful or really big. Or both. Reptiles in general. They are all my friends. 2. Move in with someone I love. 3. Play metal live 4. Scuba dive to feed hoards of sharks 5. Publish something, whether writing or video or music or even a meme and have it spread worldwide.

Things that make me happy: 1. Emily 2. Music. Metal mostly 3. Puns!!! 4. Friends 5. Cats and ever animal on earth. And plants. Except humans. And mosquitoes flies and roaches. And dogs. Other than that all of them

Things I’m currently into: 1. I'm on a slight dinosaur hype of late, mainly cuz of a class I'm taking but I've been rewatching some old documentaries and whatnot. 2. Trivium and Allegaeon have been quite big in my music taste lately. Especially since i got my new guitar 3. My new guitar. It's a Schecter 8 string it's lovely. And obviously all my previous babies i love them all. 4. Emily. Not too new but definitely into her my guy she great. 5. Puns. An oldie but goodie fam.

Things on my to - do list: 1. Homework. A buttload of it. 2. Needy organize my schedule so i can get a job 3. License 4. Clean my goddamn room 5. Catch up on my reading and start work freeing up next weekend for bae time

5 things you may not know about me: 1. I'm very good at drawing but fucking hate drawing 2. I have a diving license 3. My favorite videogame of all time is a tie between Pokemon and Zoo Tycoon 4. My favorite day to day snack is a tomato. Just a whole fucking tomato. Not even sliced or anything i eat them like apples. 5. I've been growing out my hair for the past year or so cuz metal lmao

Thanks for the tag fam, and I'm too goddamn lazy to tag anyway so anyway,,,