#but now i finally have a few minutes to respond and acknowledge the rec!!!

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

This is a (long) season 5 fic I really love if you want to read something without fear of spoilers, this author is definitely on the syllabus!

https://www.tumblr.com/mashnotesofthemythopoeic/713131077517049856/msrlibrary-snakebitten-by-onpaperfirst-we

you have no idea how excited this makes me!!! thank you so much for taking the time to share :D

[you-guys--are-losers]

Spideychelle Week: Day Six!

//Second to last day, fam! Thanks to @spideychelleweek for the week of incredible creativity and stepping out of our comfort zones, because I was initially nervous about writing this and now I am SO ready. You guys down for this crap? Because guess what: today is College AU day! 

I wrote one of these before, but we’re gonna try another, and I’m going to use a prompt this time! I’m using a prompt from @veronicabunchwrites again, and this time it’s from their lovely list of college aus!

So, the prompt I’m using is this: “I post an ad looking for someone to be my model for my art project and the interviewing process has been a little awkward until you answer it.” I changed it a bit, just because I’m not comfortable writing someone fully nude, but that doesn’t mean we can’t do a little bit of spicy writing. ;)

Summary: MJ is having a hard time finding a model, so when Peter Parker volunteers to do it for her, MJ is extremely grateful. She’s known him since they went to high school together, so it shouldn’t be too hard, right? 

But as soon as MJ sees those abs, she realizes that nothing about this is going to be easy for her. 

Characters: Michelle Jones x Peter Parker

Word Count: 4,399

Warnings: Sexual tension, college-age stupidity, nervous quips, partial nudity

Sculpted

Screw this,” MJ mutters, shoving her phone away from her and leaning her head back on their couch with a groan.

One of her hands rises to her forehead, shoving her hair back from her face in a frustrated movement as she closes her eyes. “I’m dropping out of art school. I guess I’m gonna have to settle for the lame shit you losers are doing.” 

“You mean computer programming?” Ned hums from the futon across their apartment, not looking up from his laptop. “Yeah, sounds reasonable. I mean, it’s kind of a fallback, major, but, y’know…”

“We both know that after some of the modifications I made to the Bugsuit, I would have no problem getting a scholarship,” MJ points out, still not opening her eyes. In any other setting, with any other group of people, she knows it would sound conceited. But her loser roommates know that she’s screwing with them, and more importantly, they know she’s right. 

“What is it this time?” Peter pipes up, and MJ’s eyes open as he returns from the kitchen with the industrial-sized bag of gummy worms they’ve been working on for a week. “Shading? Digital perspectives? Visualizing a room layout?” He plops down on the other end of the couch, swiping the remote from between them and quickly switching the show from the later seasons of Parks and Rec to The Office. It’s been a running feud between roommates the past few weeks, but MJ is too irritated with her work to even acknowledge it tonight. 

“No,” MJ responds morosely, leaning across the couch to steal a few of the sour, sugary gummies from the bag before she settles back in to explain. “It’s not even the art. It’s the prep, which is not the part I was expecting to have trouble with.” 

“What are you working on?” Ned asks, eyes seizing upon Creed and Meredith as he asks the question. “Is it another of those digital ones? I like those.” 

“No, this one’s an oil painting,” MJ answers, leaning her head on the armrest as she allows herself to sink into the show. “But it’s supposed to be a figure drawing partially in the nude, and-”

Ned’s eyes widen across the room, and a strangled cough of alarm escapes his throat as he whirls to look at her. MJ doesn’t have to look across the couch to know Peter is doing the same-- the sound of the gummy worm bag dropping to the floor more than confirms it for her. 

“It’s just a waist-up of a male model, you testosterone-fuelled monkeys,” MJ remarks simply, taking advantage of the moment to steal the remote Peter has just set down. The two stop staring at her like she has just sprouted another set of arms as she switches the show to Parks and Rec again, and Ned lets out a slow whistle in relief. “Well, if I could find one, anyway.” 

“What do you mean?” Peter says slowly. 

MJ lets out a puff of air through her nose as she settles down again, allowing the beautiful sight of Amy Poehler in a lime-green pantsuit to relax her. Yes… That’s better. Leslie Knope is all that MJ will ever need to calm down. 

“I can’t get anyone to pose for me,” she replies after a moment, letting her eyes close again as she explains. “I need someone with fairly defined chest muscles, since we’re supposed to be working on the shading of human muscle. You’d think it would be easy to find someone with all of the guys I see in the gym every morning, so I put up an ad on the bulletin board asking if anyone was interested.” 

“Oh, yeah, I think I saw that,” Ned says slowly. “Betty pointed it out on the way back from pilates.” 

“You’re doing pilates with Betty?” Peter asks incredulously. “Dude, I don’t even know what that is.” 

“Pilates is what you do when you love someone,” Ned replies sagely, causing MJ to let out a soft groan. 

“Gross,” she comments. “I’d think that you’d be fine without the gym, considering the amount of tonsil tennis you two play. You’re practically Serena and Venus.” 

Peter draws in a sharp breath, and a sudden outburst of coughing fit ensues as Peter nearly inhales a gummy worm. Between the sounds of their best friend hacking up a lung, Ned’s eyes narrow, and he shoots her a look. “Continue with your story about how you’re trying to get a guy half-naked, then.” 

“Gladly.” 

After Peter is no longer in danger of asphyxiating, MJ lays out her dilemma. “The problem is that I can’t get anyone who’s serious about it. All of the messages I’ve been getting have been assholes who think I’m looking for a hookup. Please… Like this is some high schooler’s YA story.” 

“I mean, it does sound kind of sexual,” Ned points out. “I think the words ‘nude model’ will do that for you, even if it’s just above the waist.”

Peter lets out a final sigh as he catches his breath, closing the bag of gummy worms. MJ tries to feel bad that she may have killed his gummy worm craving for the evening, but really, she’s just glad there’s more left for her. She’s expecting him to make some comment about how none of them checked to see if he would be okay, and she is already preparing her comeback (“Please, Parker. We know we don’t have to worry about your super-esophagus.”) when he says something that catches her completely off-guard.

“I mean… I could do it.” 

MJ’s eyes fly open, and both MJ and Ned turn to him in shock. Peter’s eyes widen as he finds himself the object of both of their attention at once, and he raises his hands defensively. “What?” he stammers. “I’ve got muscles!” 

“I know,” Ned says, speaking up before MJ has to, “but that’s just… Weird. I think MJ wants to draw, like, a statue-bod kinda guy.” 

Peter’s cheeks heat up, and he looks slightly miffed now. “I can lift a bus, in case you forgot,” he points out, his tone slightly flustered. “And-and I held a ferry boat together.” 

“For, like, two seconds,” Ned muses. 

Before Peter can fire back, however, the unthinkable word drops from MJ’s lips: 

“Okay.” 

Both of them turn to her this time, and now she is the focus of shocked attention. Her cheeks heat up, and MJ turns to the TV, fixing her eyes on the screen and praying they take it for nonchalance.

“What did you just say?” Ned stammers. 

“I said he can do it,” MJ replies, forcing any breathiness out of her voice. “This thing is due in two weeks, I need a model yesterday. And if I don’t have to deal with guys sliding into my DMs and getting my hopes up, that’s a bonus.” 

For a minute, things are quiet. Then, finally, Peter says, “Okay. When do we start?” 

MJ glances away from the TV and makes eye contact with Peter, trying not to notice his bright red ears and the slight catch in his voice. For a minute, she nearly forgets to answer his question. “You can show up to the studios on Friday at four, if that works. Um, unless it doesn’t. I could also do Saturday, or Sunday… Or, um, Monday, right. Because that’s what comes next-” 

“No, uh, Friday works,” Peter interrupts, running a hand through his hair. They both look away at the same time, and for a second silence stretches out as they vehemently avoid looking at one another. MJ tries to focus on the beautiful goddess that is Leslie Knope, but after about thirty seconds she finally gets up. 

“I’m gonna head to bed early,” she decides, not looking at either of them as she chucks the remote at Ned. It narrowly misses his head, and Ned fumbles with it for a moment before catching it. This gives MJ the time she needs to make a quick exit, and then her bedroom door shuts behind her, and she is alone. 

In the dim light of her room, MJ quickly changes into a pair of sweats and a loose t-shirt, trying not to think about what just happened. Nothing happened, she reminds herself as she slides under the covers of her bed, shoving her head onto her pillow. I have a model. That’s it. 

It’s not weird; it shouldn’t be. They’ve been friends since high school, and MJ has seen him in that stupid suit enough times to know that his muscles are developed. It’s not anything uncomfortable. 

But still, the voice in her head whispers, you’ve never had to focus exclusively on the abs. And the pecs. And the obliques, and the- MJ shuts that train of thought down with a frustrated groan. 

Whatever. Peter is attractive; she’s known that since high school. It’s not new, and it’s not weird to admit it. It would be weirder if she denied it. She’s not blind; I mean, she’d expect him to admit she’s attractive, too, because she knows she is. It’s just objective truth. 

Why, then, does the idea of him admitting that fill her with tingly warmth? 

No, nope. Bed. It’s bedtime. MJ repeats it over and over again in her head, Bed time, bed time, for the better part of ten minutes. 

When she finally falls asleep, MJ dreams of brush strokes and blending and oil paint sliding across her skin, of painting on a canvas of freckles and stretch marks and dimples as fingers massage pigment into the contours of her body, making it permanent. 

-

Friday comes with a vengeance, seeming to hurtle into existence a million times faster than any day has before. 

It probably helps that, over the course of the week, MJ forces herself to think of anything but Friday. She focuses herself on schoolwork, social life, and her two best friends, who luckily make everything return to normal the morning after the decision has been made. 

The project fades into Ned’s distant memory, and Peter doesn’t bring it up at all over the course of the week’s antics. In fact, with how little they even mention school, MJ wouldn’t have been surprised if Peter forgets to even show up. 

But, sure enough, 2:00 finds MJ in her favorite studio in the building, and 2:03 brings Peter Parker into the room. He finds MJ there, with a canvas on an easel, setting up her paints and her pallet. Across from the canvas is an old sofa, something that she found in the back of the studio and figured would serve their purposes. The windows of the studio are open to let in natural light, and the sofa is positioned beneath a skylight in a way that will allow her to paint him with lighting from the angle she wants. 

“Um, hi,” he greets her, offering her a grin. The smile relaxes MJ because it is familiar. It is dorky and earnest and slightly sheepish, and all of those things are so Peter that she knows this will be alright. 

“‘Sup, loser,” she greets, nodding in his direction before returning to her pallet. She’s wearing old painting clothes, and her hair is pulled back into a messy sort of ponytail that will keep it out of her face while she works. She has a habit of getting herself a little bit streaked with paint when she’s not paying attention, and it’s a pain to get out of her hair. 

Peter begins to walk around the room, studying the various tools and the setup. MJ has to keep herself from subtly observing him as he does it, even though she wants to take in the endearing wonder written on his face. 

“This place is cool,” he comments, his voice relaxed and curious as he studies a posing chart hanging on the wall behind her. “Do you come here a lot?” 

“For most of my projects, yeah,” MJ hums. “It’s my favorite studio, so I may or may not have started a rumor that someone died in here so it’s always available.” 

Peter snorts in amusement behind her, and though MJ isn’t looking, she can’t keep away a grin now. “Why didn’t you ask the ghost to pose for you?” he asks. 

“Well, it was an axe murder, so that might be a bit messy.” 

Peter laughs for real this time, and then for a moment, they lapse into a comfortable silence. Peter watches as MJ begins mixing her highlight, and then he queries, “So… How do you wanna do this?” 

MJ is careful to control her urge to stiffen. Right… This is why they’re both here. It’s no big deal. 

“Um, right,” she breathes, glancing at him for a moment before returning to the pallet. “So you can, uh, take your shirt off.” 

“You’re not gonna buy me dinner first?” Peter jokes. His cheeks are pink, however, and his voice is slightly constricted as he pulls his shirt off, and MJ hears the fabric drop to the floor. It takes all of the self-control in her body to refrain from looking. 

“Nah, not unless you want the cold paella in my bag,” she hums. “I think it’s from, like, yesterday.” 

“I’ll pass,” Peter comments, and MJ grins. For a second, she forgets about her situation and looks up. 

Craaaaap. 

To preface: MJ knew that Peter was kind of jacked. She has seen the muscles through the suit before, has seen them in action on Youtube videos, whatever. She is supposed to be prepared. 

She is most certainly not. Nothing could prepare her for this. 

Her eyes find it immediately: Peter Parker’s muscular chest, standing before her in all its glory. His jeans ride slightly low on his hips, meaning that the ‘v’ of his abdomen is what catches her eye first, more defined than it was on any of the example sketches. She hurriedly drags her eyes away from that, up higher, but that isn’t any better. If she looks there, she has to focus on the clearly defined abs that are staring her in the face, begging her to touch them to see if they’re as firm as they look. It doesn’t get any less defined as her eyes travel up his body, to defined pecs and muscular arms that cause her to swallow, quickly looking anywhere else. 

Finally, her eyes find his face. Peter’s cheeks are pink, but his gaze is awfully intense as it meets her own, causing her heart to pound faster than it already was. 

“I- Uh- Um, right,” MJ stammers, forcing her eyes to give him a quick once-over as if she was only examining them from an artistic standpoint. “Alright. Yep, that’ll do.” In her own ears, her voice sounds an octave too high as she begins to mix the colors on the pallet, not looking up. “You can, uh, sit on the couch, I’ll tell you how to position yourself-” 

“MJ.” 

Peter’s voice interrupts her, and MJ can barely breathe as she looks up. When she does, he’s grinning sheepishly. “Shouldn’t I get oiled up first?” 

It’s a bad joke, but it causes MJ to laugh anyway. She’s grateful to think about something, anything other than the muscles that seem to be calling her name, the ones she’s somehow going to have to depict without being blinded by all of their splendor.

“Shut up, loser,” she instructs as she continues mixing. “If you keep talking, I’m gonna charge you a commission fee.”

“I’m the one doing this for you,” he points out playfully as he takes a seat on the sofa. “It’s not like I want to hang this in my room.” 

“Why not? It’ll be a tasteful layout. We’ll do some pin-up poses.” MJ examines him, and for a moment, she thinks maybe she can do this. “Alright. I want you to turn a little to your right, but keep your legs straight. Then flex for me.” She’s got this. 

Peter obeys her, and MJ’s blood rushes to her head. 

Nope. Nope. She does not got this. 

After he’s in place, MJ busies herself with getting music playing on her phone. She needs something, anything to occupy her mind as she does this. “Sunflower” by Post Malone starts playing, and almost immediately, MJ relaxes. She looks up, and this time, she manages to keep her cool as she studies the shade of his skin tone. Sure, she’s never gonna be able to unsee this, but for now, she can do it. 

After she’s mixed the paint, they settle into a rhythm, and then MJ loses herself in the work. She is completely focused on the art: the colors, the blending, the highlights, how she wants to do the shadow. Each stroke is precise, intentional… Everything is exactly where she wants it, and every step is clear to her. 

Sure, the muscles are rather lovely. But as long as she steels herself before looking up, she manages to keep herself from drooling over them for as long as it takes her to make a quick assessment and return to the work. 

The muscles are a new variable, something she hasn’t had to battle with before. But the work? The work she knows, the work she understands. Its beat is one she has heard a million times, and it carries her along with ease. 

An hour or so passes, with the silence stretching on comfortably. Every so often, Peter warns her that he has a muscle cramp, and MJ watches carefully so that she can guide him back to the position after he’s adjusted a bit. Peter is a good model. Sure, he has to move a bit more than most of the people they’ve painted in studies, but he also doesn’t complain. He just follows her direction, letting his eyes wander the room or sometimes close as he soaks in the sun. 

And, every so often, MJ wonders if she can feel those eyes on her. 

It’s about half an hour in when MJ looks up from her canvas, really looks, for the first time since she posed him. There are flecks of paint all over her fingers and upper arm from where she carefully used a nail to remove an excess of pain, or just from when she forgot about the pallet in her hand while adjusting the canvas and supplies as the light changed. Her hair is determined to escape from her ponytail, it seems, and it hovers on the edge of her vision in several curly tendrils that she ignores. She knows she makes faces while she’s concentrating, and between the paint on her clothes, hands, and a spot by her temple where she brushed away some hair, the stiffness of her body and neck, and the mess of her hair, MJ knows she looks disheveled. 

That’s why, when she looks up and find him studying her like he’s been studying the beautiful prints of art on the walls, she stops still. 

His eyes, when they meet hers, hold the warmth that makes them Peter’s, but they also hold something else. Whatever it is in insistent, piercing as it works its way to her through their shared gaze, and penetrating as it seems to search her from head to toe. 

Whatever it is takes her breath away. 

MJ draws in a sharp breath, and her sudden change of posture causes Peter to stiffen, too. His eyes go wide upon the realization that he has been caught staring. However, he doesn’t look away. After balking for a moment, his gaze actually becomes more intense, almost as though he is determined to prove himself. 

MJ sets down her brush, and Peter’s eyes track her motion expectantly as she turns to look back at him again. 

“Peter,” she finally says, her tone tight and controlled. 

“Yeah?” Something earnest enters his eyes, then his voice, too, as he waits for her to respond. 

“You moved.” 

When he realizes what she means, his face falls for a fraction of a second before he becomes composed again. “O-oh, right. Um, let me just-” He attempts to take up his former position, and MJ busies herself comparing it with the likeness on canvas in order to ignore the warmth in her cheeks. After looking from his position, to the painting, and then back to him again, MJ shakes her had. 

“Not quite,” she says slowly. “You need to twist more at the waist.” 

Peter attempts to angle his body more to the side, but he still is twisting his upper body more than his lower body. MJ watches, then shakes her head again, biting her lip. “Nah, it’s more-- here.” 

MJ sets her pallet on the floor and strides over to the sofa. She is painfully, painfully aware of the amount of Peter’s bare skin in front of her, bright in the golden sun, but she struggles to ignore it as she sits on the ground in front of him and raises her hand to hover in front of his abs. 

“You need to twist more here,” she says, gesturing to the muscles. 

He’s already moving, however, so rather than her gesture hovering in front of him, her loose hand crashes into his muscles. MJ’s eyes widen as her the palm of her hand presses against his lower abdomen, and her whole body stiffens for a moment before she can register that she should pull back. The muscles are warm beneath her fingertips, solid and firmer than she could have imagined. 

“MJ-” 

She pulls her hand back immediately, but a sinking feeling enters her chest as she realizes what happened. Her paint-covered fingertips have left smears of paint across his skin, the highlight that MJ was attempting to scrape off her knife with a nail before she looked up. The paint clings to him, and instinctively, MJ reaches out to brush it away. 

All she succeeds in doing is rubbing it in further with fingertips that dance across his skin. MJ can barely breathe, and her head is spinning as she tries again, only making it worse. “Shit, Parker, I’m sorry,” she stammers, shaking her head. The loose curls go flying, and a few brush against his skin from where she is seated. “I forgot about it, let me get-” 

“MJ.” 

Slowly, MJ raises her eyes to his, her breath caught in her throat. 

Peter is staring down at her, his lips slightly parted as his eyes scan her countenance. His cheeks are crimson, and he still looks like her loser as he blinks several times, taking a sharp breath as his eyes explore her face. There is awe in his eyes, and a hesitant gleam, as he looks down at her. She can’t look away, can’t breathe, can’t even move her paint-covered hand from where it lingers on his abs. 

Peter opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. His hand finds her other hand, one with streaks of wet paint on the palm where she was testing colors. The paint transfers from her hand to his as he links their fingers together, and she exhales as their fingers lace into a lattice. 

“You have paint all over you, now,” she breathes, blinking once, then twice. 

Peter swallows, his eyes not moving. He looks as if he regrets even having to blink as he drinks in her eyes. “Then…” His voice falters, and so Peter swallows and tries again in a voice that is slightly raspy, catching in his throat. 

“Then what’s the harm in a little bit more?” 

Before she knows it, MJ is standing, and Peter’s hand in hers helps guide her to her feet. She does not let go of his hand. The fingers on his skin dance across his lower chest experimentally as she looks into his eyes, leaving little trails of pale pink in their wake. Her eyes don’t leave his, and his skin is warm underneath her fingers as her hand travels greedily up his chest, taking its sweet time. Peter’s eyes flutter shut and he leans into th contact, breath hitching whenever her touch grows heavier.

Finally, after she has explored his chest in detail, her arm snakes around his neck. Her hand plows a path through his hair, lightly tugging on the curls to bring him closer to her as she leans down slightly. Her lips crash into his, then, and their linked hands rise as Peter tugs his free to cup her face. Paint kisses her cheekbone as Peter caresses it with a thumb, and her other hand is happy to join the first in flecking his brown locks with pink and white. His other hand impatiently pulls her hair free of the ponytail, causing her to hum against his lips, tipping her head so that their lips fit together more closely. 

For one slow, delicious moment, MJ drinks him in, and he does the same for her. The kiss is insistent and intense, and more than anything, it’s an exploration. Her lips learn the dance of his own soft ones, and his hand traces the contours of her face, blazing its own line of highlight across her cheek and down her jaw. 

Finally, when they both need to come up for air, MJ breaks the kiss apart. Her breath comes in greedy gasps, drinking in the air of the studio as the golden light sinks into their skin, turning the shadows longer. The paint is cool and prickly on her skin as it begins to draw, and a smile crosses MJ’s swollen lips as she drinks in the strange sensation, eyes closed. 

“Told you you should’ve oiled me up.” 

Peter’s cheeky comment causes a laugh to leave MJ’s lips, closely followed by an insistent hum and she dives in for more. 

Maybe she has a project she should be working on… But, then, MJ has found a new canvas, and one that she much prefers. After all, Peter Parker really is a masterpiece… And MJ looks forward to studying every shadow, every contour, and every new perspective of her best friend in detail with her artist’s eye. 

After all, painting may be rewarding, but in the warmth of the studio, MJ decides that when it comes to Peter Parker, she prefers being the canvas to being the artist.

[dark-unimaginably-stupid-kids]

Getting Undressed

As usual, Klance, Voltron...and this one IS A ONE SHOT okay. It’s second person. that’s it this is done. :| I bring you 2.5 pages of Lance whining, and then 6.5 pages of boys being ridiculous. Also making out and Keith is a lil touch starved okay bye. Synopsis: Lance can’t stand Keith’s Blade of Marmora suit. (Supposed to be set after season five because Lance is just crazy high strung and Keith is tired.) ---

You want him to take off that suit.

He looks at you, violet eyes quizzical as ever and dares to ask, “Why?”

Why?

Why.

Why…!?

Because that suit makes you angry.

Because that suit is everything wrong with your life right now.

Because it’s almost like every time he puts that awful thing on it’s just another step closer to death.

Because it’s almost like that’s exactly why he wears it.

It’s almost like he planned it.

Because its hard and soft in all the wrong places.

Because it will never protect him the way you can.

Because it’s a reminder of what he chose over yo—over your family. Over Voltron, you mean. Because you aren’t so stupid.

He isn’t here for you and he never has been, there’s no point in trying to put emphasis on something that isn’t there.

Your eyes narrow at him despite how it hurts you to do so. Because he’s not angry. He’s not trying to pick a fight. He has, in the past, on occasion spurred on by your own goading, but lately he hasn’t.

Maybe it’s because you mean so much less to him now. You don’t even have that together anymore.

This thought hardens your resolve, keeps your eyes narrow to combat his near doe-eyed stare.

How does he do that. How does he look at you like that.

“There’s enough negativity around here, Mullet.” You bite out.

“I can see that,” He replies, a little too quickly.

Oh. Maybe he is trying to pick a fight.

Maybe you miss that.

“And what’s that supposed to mean!?” Your voice has already hit that higher pitch. Are you that tired? Your shoulders are so tensed.

Why has it been so long since you’ve seen him. And why did you react like this. And why are you saying stupid things like demanding he take the suit off.

And yet when you reach out to him as if to shove him, noticing he doesn’t flinch or move away from you at all, you simply reach into his hood and push it down. Your fingers grazing the back of his neck on the recoil and you catch motion in your periphery like his eyelashes fluttering.

You turn your gaze downward regardless, your fingertips buzzing.

He brings his arms up, wraps them around himself in typical mullet fashion.

“I didn’t realize it offended you so much,” He mumbles.

You feel your cheek twitch. Your foot taps impatiently though you aren’t sure what you’re waiting for.

He raises his head, you catch the motion even though you aren’t looking directly at him, he makes to move toward you. You return his earlier trust and don’t move, but unlike you he doesn’t go through with whatever he’d wanted to do. His fingers dig into his arms, he shakes his head.

He stares at you for a long moment and you dare to peer at him from the corner of your eye.

He catches you. His brows furrow in his confusion, “Are you…”

Okay?

It’s unspoken but you’re sure that’s what he wants to ask you.

Maybe he can see the tension in your back.

“I’m fine. I just hate that suit.” You hiss before suddenly your turning, aiming to walk out of the rec-room.

But he grabs your arm so quickly you stumble back, nearly falling into him.

“I’ll take it off then.” He says, just as quickly, not even waiting for you to growl out some remark about how he’d almost made you trip.

“I won’t wear it while I’m here, okay?”

While he’s here.

While he’s here.

The implication being that he won’t always be here. Where he’s supposed to be. By your side.

“Yeah whatever,” you respond, all your fight ebbing away at the thought he’ll be gone again soon.

Running head first into danger. Brash. Impulsive. Suicidal.

Keith.

You try to walk away again but he hasn’t released your arm. You stare at it. You feel your skin burning even under his gloves and your own armor.

Maybe if you’re lucky Pidge will walk back in, forgot something on the couch maybe. Cut the tension.

You’re not lucky. It’s still just the two of you.

You eye his fingers. You miss how you used to always be able to see them because of his stupid fingerless gloves. The ones he never wears anymore because he’s always in that stupid suit.

“I’ll take it off now,” he starts again, a faint flush brushing his cheeks, so light you can almost pretend you’re imagining it. “I just need a little help with the clasp if… if you don’t mind.”

You raise a brow but turn to look at him directly, you’re sure you’re not imagining that blush and your bad mood is draining as fast as your fight.

“…Are you asking me to help undress you?”

His eyes dart to the ground and his cheeks get decidedly pinker, “You’re the one who asked me to get undressed.”

…Fair.

You cut the space between the two of you and turn him around so you can face his back, presumably to find that tricky clasp he was talking about. But you don’t find a clasp, the back of the armor is simply rounded, smooth, nice.

Your eyes dart downward for the briefest second because yes, Keith’s entire back, lower back in particular, is nicer.

“Uhm?” You offer.

He hangs his head, a mumbled “it’s at the front actually…” your only response.

You turn him around again and he’s forced to raise your head when you look him over again, your hands on his shoulders.

You still don’t see it, “Why do you need help with a clasp in your front? How are you this useless?”

You don’t mean it as badly as it sounds coming out of your tired lips and thankfully he doesn’t take it that way.

“It’s just. It’s on the inside and…” He pulled the breast plate forward a bit from the cloth part of his suit and pointed his head straight down to try and stare into darkness, “I can’t see it, so it just—I fumble with it for like fifteen minutes every day I swear it—”

You don’t need to acknowledge his darkening cheeks to realize you’re staring at him. You’re not even going to stop.

You’re just. Astounded.

You’re astounded with the power this boy has over you.

You’re amazed by his ability to go from “stoic space emo” to… this. This awkward adorable mess.

You inhale deeply.

You look at his eyes even though he is doing everything in his power not to directly look at you.

You nod to yourself.

You love him.

That’s just the fact.

No one else can make you so angry and so happy in two seconds flat. No one else can get so deep under your skin they can nestle next to your heart like he can.

“Alright, let me see,” you lower one hand form his shoulder and look down into the darkness between the breastplate and the skin tight suit beneath it.

You can see… something vaguely clasp like, toward the left side over the ribs.

Man, that must be uncomfortable.

“Okay. I get it. Come into the light a bit.” You tell him as you finally release him and start removing your own armor, starting with the bulky parts on your arm.

“W-what are you—” He stumbled out.

You blink at him, slowly.

“Taking off my armor?”

“Yeah but.”

You blink at him again, just for the effect of it. You watch him bite his lip in his frustrated confusion because at the very least he knows your look means there’s something he’s missing.

You’re not sure he can be any more endearing than he is at moments like these.

“Armored wrist. Will not fit,” You finally inform him.

His mouth makes that perfect little O shape and you need to breath deeply again. Each one releases so much tension from your shoulders. Bless this stupid dangerous boy.

You move to sit on the long circular couch and motion for him to join you. It takes him a moment to remember why and in the mean time you roll your eyes and remove your own chest piece if only because you feel like it has the tiniest possibility of getting in the way too. The space allowed by Keith’s ridiculous suit is small and you’re probably going to have to squeeze yourself up to him to get at it.

Not that that’s a bad thing.

Once he finally takes his spot beside you, you prop one leg beneath you and turn to face him. While you pull on the breastplate again he adjusts so he’s sitting on both of his legs and looking straight at you, his face still pointed down so he has to look at you from beneath his lashes and you wonder if this is something else he does on purpose.

You pull the armor as far as it will go, which isn’t much, and you reach in with the other.

You suddenly realize why he has so much trouble, the top of the breastplate presses into your arm and you immediately wonder how uncomfortable the entire thing must be to wear. But then the back of your hand is brushing against the suit which is impossibly soft even against Keith’s hard chest. Maybe that balances it out.

You try to see where the clasp is again, pushing into Keith just like you thought you’d have to. It’s not as fun as you’d briefly considered but that’s not to say it isn’t entirely.

Your faces are very close and despite staying very still Keith looks so overwhelmed he might bolt any second.

You’re not sure when you fell in love with him exactly. You’re sure it must have happened ages ago though. Was it the conversation in his bed room? The lion switch? Was it during any of your missions together? When the castle was acting up and you had to brace yourself against each other to try and escape an elevator?

Was it the bonding moment you still only barely remember despite it being the first time you held his hand?

Was it when you watched him grin against the handlebars of a hover bike and out maneuver trained garrison officials?

Was it when you heard about his expulsion and you witnessed the absolutely horrific state of Iverson’s face in the few weeks before it was decided you would take his place?

Was it when you first met and those violet eyes stared right through you?

…You grit your teeth.

No, probably not then

Probably closer to the night on the hoverbike.

You lean your head forward, pressing your forehead side against his and pushing him. “You’re in my light,” You clarify at his amusing squawk.

He bumps you back anyway.

So you do it again, he’s still in your light.

This time your cheeks brush.

His skin is amazingly soft and it flares your temper again because how dare he have such perfect skin when he doesn’t do anything to it.

Maybe throwing yourself into life or death situations is good for skin.

You’re about to shake your head, force yourself not to think about it, not feed that stupid little bitter thought, but he’s nudged you again just as your finger grazed the clasp.

“Are you serious!?” You hiss, because of course, you lost it now.

“W-w-well you started it!” He cries.

You push his head with your own again and this time go so far as to lean your forehead against his now bared neck to better look on the inside.

At this angle, the clasp even reflects the light. Score.

You can feel his throat bob as he swallows on nothing.

It takes you a second but you’re finally able to unlock the damn thing and suddenly your arm has much more room.

“You’re welcome,” you say flatly, raising your head again.

This was a mistake.

His chest is heaving, his eyes are nearly shut, his lips are loosely parted, and his neck is still bared to you.

It’s like he’s frozen, like he doesn’t realize he can move again.

You reach up, your fingers graze his neck. What you’re doing now is extremely risky but you can’t help it. Maybe it’s the influence of the red lion, but you want to act on your impulses and this is your impulse.

You walk your fingers lightly up his neck and along his jaw until you’re cupping his chin, your middle finger tucked just under his earlobe which you may or may not rub as you tilt his head back down toward you.

“You alright there…?” You ask him.

His voice is breathier than you’d ever heard it, “I…uhm… no.”

You strengthen your grip on his chin a bit and this tiny but absolutely delicious noise comes out of Keith’s throat.

“It’s just—I don’t think we’ve ever—I don’t think anyone’s ever—uhm…”

“Is your neck sensitive, Keith?” you offer the stumbling mess in front of you.

He sags in defeat and nods against your hand.

“Right, then I’ll stop touching it,” You finish, releasing him and pulling away.

But then, Red was Keith’s lion first.

The loose chest piece slams into your own unprotected chest and Keith winces too, possibly because the thing is highly uncomfortable, but it’s not enough to stop him.

His arms are wrapped around your neck and he’s pushed you back against the seat of the couch. Out of reflex you reach around him, your arms wrapped tightly around a slim waist that slides against you in the same way his lips do.

They’re soft, much like the rest of his skin, much like his hair which is falling into your face now, much like his eyes, and much like his voice when he talks to you.

You’d smack yourself if there was a possibility it wouldn’t alarm Keith, but at this rate you know that’s impossible.

He bites at your lip and you don’t put up an ounce of fight as his tongue slips into your mouth.

Because it takes that tongue massaging yours, those tiny noises from Keith’s throat, that hand gripping tightly at your hair, for you to realize that…

Well, you’ve been an idiot.

Because all of Keith’s blushing and stuttering from the second you got on the castle ship make sense.

Because maybe you have reasons to hate this stupid suit digging into your chest (and taking points off of what is still probably the best day of your life) but none of those reasons can be because the suit is some kind of proof that he doesn’t care about you.

Because—ah god he kisses like he’s starving, and you might love that—he absolutely does care about you.

He has from the beginning.

Ah damn it and now you’re going to have to thank the stupid suit for this finally happening, aren’t you?

It presses into your rib and you groan which just encourages the boy on top of you to press into you harder.

Quiznak.

You love him but shit.

You reluctantly pull away, pushing him back with one hand on his shoulder and the look on his face almost kills you but you power through it.

“Not stopping. Pausing. Cause this thing.” You flick the hard chest piece, “This thing has to go.”

Keith flushes in embarrassment and nods, sitting up and reaching down to pull the piece over his head himself but you shake your head.

“Arms up.” You tell him.

His lips are a deep bruised red and his eyes are blown wide and as you sit back up and lift the breastplate over his head you can’t help but wonder how it’s possible someone who had the ability to look so utterly beautiful could want to kiss you so desperately.

…Well, a caballo regalado no se le miran los dientes.

One of Keith’s arms wrap around his now slightly exposed chest. That suit really doesn’t leave anything to the imagination. Not that it matters, you used to change around each other all the time.

Granted, you’ve never kissed before…

You stare at him for a long moment before leaning forward and bumping his nose with your own.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” He replies, too quickly, too anxiously.

You chuckle. He shivers.

“If you’re cold I can fix that.”

This is the real defining moment. That kiss? That kiss could have been anything. But when Keith flushes beet red at your little flirtations remark and stutters out an attempted, “c-could you now…?” instead of looking unimpressed and dismissive like everyone before him…

Well.

You already knew you loved him.

Now you knew you were screwed.

And now that the most offensive part of the suit was out of the way…

“Yeah.”

You reach forward, grab a hold of his thighs and pull him into your lap. This time you initiate the kiss and the feeling of his warm chest pressed against yours is so much better than you could have imagined.

He arches his back as if he can’t be close enough to you and you grip him tightly to let him know you agree.

You find out later that Pidge did actually forget something and had, at some point or another, attempted to enter the rec room again. Of course, she had immediately back pedaled. But whatever, that was fine, you’ll blame the suit for that too.

[andtheniwrotemarvel]

Love Stinks

Peter Parker x Reader

Assumed female reader

Word Count: 2114

Based on the song Love Stinks by the J. Geils Band

You love her But she loves him And he loves somebody else You just can’t win And so it goes ‘Til the day you die This thing they call love It’s gonna make you cry I’ve had the blues The reds and the pinks One thing for sure

“So Ned loves you–”

“Likes. We’re sophomores in high school, Michelle. We can’t possibly know what love is.”

“And you love Peter–”

“Like.”

“And Peter loves Liz.”

“Likes!”

“Fine! Likes!” Michelle finally consented.

“And from what I’ve heard, Liz likes Peter. Are you happy now?”

“Hardly,” you scoffed. “Man, this isn’t even a love triangle anymore,” she complained. “This is some sort of messed-up square or something. Why are you involving me in this again?”

“Because you don’t care.”

“What? That makes zero sense.”

“You don’t care in the sense that you’re separate from this whole mess. You’re not really involved,” you tried to explain. “I don’t know. I know what I’m thinking, but I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Nah, I gotcha,” she said. “I’m not apart of this messed-up love square, and I frankly don’t care how it turns out, so I’m the perfect person to vent to about it.”

“Yes! There it is,” you exclaimed. “Thank you for being perfect, Michelle.”

She gave you a look. “You need to stop telling me I’m perfect. I might actually believe you one day.” She shuddered. “I can’t even imagine how insufferable I’d be. I’d be worse than Flash.”

“And that’s really hard to do,” you added, then began chuckling at a surfacing memory. “I still can’t believe you had a crush on him in eighth grade.”

“We don’t talk about that anymore, (Y/N). We agreed that middle school is off-limits,” she complained. “Besides, extreme cockiness was very attractive in the eighth grade.”

“I wish you were wrong…but you’re not,” you grimaced. “Gross. Can you even imagine having a crush on Flash now?”

“That would be like having a crush on Tom from Parks and Rec. Really embarrassing and full of moments where you wondered why the heck you ever started to like him in the first place.”

“I bet that unless Flash suddenly decided to mature, he’s going to end up just like Tom Haverford,” you postulated. “But, I mean, anything could happen right?”

“Well, one thing’s for sure.”

“And what’s that?”

Michelle looked you straight in the eyes and said, “Love stinks.”

You nodded slowly. “True that.”

Love stinks Yeah, yeah (Love stinks)

“Liz, are you alright?” you asked the senior girl. You weren’t necessarily close, but you had come to care about her general wellbeing. When you saw her crying in the hall, you had to ask why.

“I’m sure you heard all about my dad. Seems like everyone has by now,” she replied, her voice cracking.

“No, I haven’t heard anything,” you said. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, though.”

“Yeah, I don’t really want to talk about that,” she sniffled. “The kicker is that I’m moving to Seattle, I guess.”

A rush of joy was quickly followed by a rush of extreme guilt. No Liz meant that Peter Parker would be forced to turn his romantic attention elsewhere, but then you felt terrible that your first thought was that you were happy that she was leaving. Your horror at your own thoughts had you beet red, unable to say anything. Was it wrong to be happy that a corner of the messed-up love square was going away?

“I’m so sorry, Liz,” you said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Do you want a hug? You really look like you need a good hug.”

“That would be great,” she responded, unable to hold any more tears back.

Even as you embraced your sort-of mentor tightly, you still felt incredibly guilty about the part of you that was glad that she was moving.

“Take care of the decathlon team, okay? I don’t want to spoil anything, but we’re going to have two co-captains next year instead of just one captain,” Liz told you. “I recommended you to be one of them, but who knows whether or not it’ll actually happen, right?”

“Hey, regardless, I’ll still keep you up to date,” you promised. “I’m really going to miss you.”

“Hey, Liz!” a voice called from down the hall. It was none other than the notorious Peter Parker, coming to apologize after another ill-timed disappearance.

“I need to get to class,” you excused yourself. “Promise to keep in touch?”

“Of course, (Y/N).”

Two by two and side by side Love’s gonna find you, yes, it is You just can’t hide You’ll hear it call Your heart will fall Then love will fly It’s gone, that’s all I don’t care what any Casanova thinks All I can say is

“And for the co-captains, I’ve nominated Michelle and (Y/N),” Mr. Harrington announced.

Michelle looked up from her book in surprise while you smiled at your colleagues as you accepted their applause.

“Thanks, but my friends call me MJ,” Michelle said with a hint of a smile.

“But I thought you didn’t have any friends,” Ned countered, confused.

“I…didn’t.”

“Are we finally acknowledging that we’re friends?” you gasped.

“I wouldn’t go that far. We’re more like ranting partners at this point.”

“We’ve been ranting together for four years, and we’re not even to the friend mark yet?”

“That sounds about right,” she agreed.

“I gotta go,” Peter Parker said, not looking up from his phone. “See you guys later.”

“Where are you going?” Michelle stopped him.

Flustered and without words, Peter pointed at the door. Even when he was gaping like a fish, he managed to make you fall more in love with him.

“What are you hiding, Peter?” she asked, seemingly staring into his soul.

Peter stared at her, wide-eyed, making it clear that he was definitely hiding something.

Michelle suddenly burst into giggles. “Just kidding. I don’t care. Bye,” she waved him off.

He left quickly, clearly relieved. That arose a question in your mind: what exactly was he hiding?

(Love stinks) Love stinks Yeah, yeah (Love stinks)

“Here’s the plan, (Y/N). When we sit, I’m going to ask Ned out to distract him while you ask out Peter,” Michelle stated as you walked together to the cafeteria.

“Only if you want to,” you clarified. “Oh, I want to,” she chuckled.

“Because you’re sick of me pining for Peter?”

“No, because I actually think he’s a really nice guy.”

You started laughing, but soon stopped as you realized that Michelle wasn’t laughing with you. “Wait, you’re serious? Like, yeah, Ned’s nice and all, but you actually want to go out with him?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, I actually do. He’s great boyfriend material.”

“Was it actually an awkward love pentagon this whole time?” you gasped. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I knew you’d react like this,” she grumbled. “This is why we’re only ranting partners, (Y/N). You need to chill out a little bit.”

“Oh, come on, 'MJ,’ we balance each other out,” you said as you entered the cafeteria. “You’re too chill, so I make up for that.”

“Whatever you say,” she responded, scanning the cafeteria for Peter and Ned. Flash had decided that he liked their usual spot, and had taken it over with all of his little goons. “Oh, there they are, in the back corner.” 

 You and Michelle walked over and sat directly across the table from them, as you had been doing since Michelle had told everyone they they were her friends.  

“(Y/N), Michelle,” Peter acknowledged you with a nod. He was scribbling furiously on a Spanish packet that was due right after lunch. 

 “You look nice today, (Y/N),” Ned complimented you. “That’s a pretty sweet shirt.” 

You looked down at your shirt, realizing that you had decided this morning to wear your new shirt with a Spider-Man logo on it. “Oh, thanks. I just got it the other day,” you said, straightening your shirt. 

 “Hey, Ned,” Michelle interjected. “On a scale of North Korea to Antarctica, how free are you on Friday night?” 

 “What?” Ned asked, confused. “Um…Antarctica, I guess? I mean, I don’t really have any plans.” 

 “Cool. Meet me at my house at six, and we’ll go see a movie or something,” she said. 

 “Sounds good to me,” Ned replied, smiling. 

 That was supposed to be your cue to ask Peter to do something with you, but you suddenly found yourself mute. The blood running though your veins was ice cold as you tried to say something. Michelle nudged you discreetly, nodding her head towards Peter in a way that made it look like she was just flipping her bangs out of her eyes. You shook your head, your eyes wide and your heartbeat becoming frantic. 

 “You are so disappointing on so many levels,” she sighed. Then, much louder, she said, “Oh, I forgot my homework that I was going to do. Ned, why don’t you come with me to my locker so I can get it?” 

 “Yeah, sure,” he agreed, standing up to accompany her. 

 As soon as Michelle and Ned were out of earshot, Peter asked you, “Why does Michelle think you’re disappointing?” 

 “She thinks everyone is disappointing,” you shrugged, covering quickly. 

 “But she voiced it to you, which is more than she tells anyone else.” 

 “I’m just closer to her than anyone else. Believe me, it’s not a big deal,” you insisted. 

 “If you say so,” he backed off. 

You slipped into an awkward silence, neither of you knowing what to say. No one said anything for a few minutes, even though both of you visibly tried a few times. Now or never, you thought finally. 

“You want to go do something on Friday with me?” you blurted out. 

 “Oh, um…” he began, taken off guard. “Like, with Michelle?” That wasn’t what you were hoping to hear. 

“I was thinking it could be just the two of us, but I can ask Michelle if we can crash on her date.” 

 “No, no, it’s fine. I was just wondering,” Peter covered. “Just you and me, huh? What are we going to do?” 

 “I haven’t really gotten that far in planning yet.  Is there anything you want to do?” you asked. 

 “There’s a roller rink not too far from my place that just opened. We could do that, then go out for ice cream or something, if you want,” he suggested. “That sounds great,” you grinned.

I’ve been through diamonds And I’ve been through minks I’ve been through it all 

 Neither of you had ever skated before, and that resulted in a lot of falling on your backsides, but two hours in, losing your balance was at a minimum. It certainly helped both of you when you were holding hands, which made the two of you blush like tomatoes. You were okay with that, though. 

 “May always tells me that I should get really good at skating,” Peter commented later, taking a sip of chocolate milkshake. You had decided just to get milkshakes at McDonalds after skating. 

 “Why’s that?” you asked. 

 “I can take girls skating on first dates, and if they’re not good at it, they have to hold my hand the entire time,” he explained, chuckling. 

 “Your aunt is a pretty smart lady,” you laughed. “Either that, or she just knows how to get the girl.” 

 “Nah, she’s smart and gives good advice about pretty much everything.” Peter’s phone buzzed on the table, and lit up with a text message. As he read it, his eyes went wide. “Really, Mr. Stark? Now?” he complained quietly. 

 “Oh, your Stark Internship is calling?” you asked, interested, but disappointed at the same time. 

 “I’m sorry, (Y/N). It’s urgent, otherwise I would just go in tomorrow,” he apologized. 

 “No, it’s okay,” you assured him. “I totally get it.” 

 “Thanks, (Y/N), you’re the best. I had a really nice time tonight.” 

 “Me too,” you smiled. “Maybe we could do this again sometime?” 

 “Yeah, for sure!” he agreed, standing up. You walked to the door tomorrow, but then realized that you had to part ways from there. “Hey, say hi to Michelle for me,” he said. 

 Just like that, your night of fun was ruined. He wasn’t really interested in you as more than a friend. His eyes were on Michelle. Tears filled your eyes as you walked home, and you sighed dejectedly, trying not to let the tears spill over.

  Love stinks

Tags: @shamvictoria11 @cookies186 @sweeneytoddler @sophialirllis

[bosstoaster]

Team-45? Maybe after they all catch space flu.

It’s the 1000 Followers Special!  Based on these prompts.  Prompts are now closed.  Don’t want to see all 35 of these?  Block ‘1000 Followers Special’.  Can’t read on mobile?  These will slowly be posted to AO3 starting in a few days as ‘Hold Up Half the Sky’.  A huge thank you to Xagrok for the beta’ing!

This was probably inevitable.

With the number of disasters they responded to, it wasn’t really a surprise that the team ended up running into a lot of injury and disease.  Even with the advanced technology of many of the species they encountered, some things couldn’t be fully prevented.  After all, even the pods couldn’t curse illness, only injury.

Shiro was the first to get it.  It was just a little sniffle, he’d thought.  A stuffy head.  Barely even a cold: maybe he was just allergic to something around here.  No big deal.

It had been so minor he’d barely mentioned it.  Until Lance had started to sniffle next, and Hunk made and went through a huge pot of tea all by himself.

Soon all of the humans were done with what was essentially a nasty cold: strong enough to keep them from using Voltron if it wasn’t an emergency, but not bad enough to mean they needed constant medical attention.

Allura took about an hour to get fed up with the sick paladins, and instead dumped them all in the rec room with enough snacks, drinks and games to get them through a siege.  She told them to call her in case of an emergency, then left them to suffer together.

She had not been amused when Lance had immediately paged her for ‘the good snacks.’

(Read More Below)

“So,” Shiro asked, reaching for his pad.  It was difficult, because it was on the table and he was in the comfy chair, so he’d have to actually sit up.  And that hurt.  Finally Pidge shoved it closer with her feet until Shiro could snag it with the edges of his fingers.  “What do you want to watch?”

“Something quiet,” Keith muttered, pulling his blankets up higher.

Hunk made an agreeing noise.  “No loud at all.  Headache.”

Waving a hand in acknowledgement, Shiro squinted at the screen.  His eyes were watering, which was unfortunate.  Combined with the way he kept sniffling to clear his nose and throat, it was like he was constantly about to cry.  “Is Bambi loud?”

“No, but it’s boring,” Lance groaned.  “I thought we were trying to distract ourselves?”

“Sleeping wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Shiro replied.  “And I don’t know these movies.”

“Give it to me,” Pidge shot back, holding up her hand.  After a moment of hesitation, Shiro threw it underhanded.  It slipped out of Pidge’s slack fingers and hit the blankets, but luckily it was made of tougher stuff.  No need to worry about broken glass.

Leaning over Hunk rested his chin on top of Pidge’s hair, and whined when she used her hand to block his view.  “I wanna see.”

“Then ask instead of reading over my shoulder.”

Lance snickered.  “He’s not, he’s reading over your head.”

There was a shuffle under Pidge blankets, like she was considering trying to kick Lance, but gave up.  “Is Indiana Jones too loud?”

“Helicopter scene,” Hunk reminded.  “And the screaming at the end.  Ow.”  He considered.  “Is the third one better?”

Lance reached over and nabbed the pad, ignoring Pidge’s shriek.  Keith groaned and covered his ears, curling up farther.  “Princess Bride.  Done.”

Frowning, Shiro considered.  “I think I’ve seen that one.  Doesn’t it have literal screaming water monsters?”

“For like two seconds,” Lance replied.  “But it’s fun, it’s quotable, it’s not that loud except for a couple of parts, and you’re not going to get a quiet movie that isn’t, like, romance crap.”

Hunk hummed.  “I’m okay with romance crap.”

“I’m not,” Keith muttered.  “Princess Bride is fine, whatever.”

Turning her head, Pidge looked Hunk over.  “They’re my movies.  There isn’t any romance on there.”

“Princess Bride is romantic,” Shiro pointed out, already curling back into the pillows.  Whatever they wanted to watch was fine with him, because no way he was going to stay conscious for the whole thing.

Pidge made a frustrated noise.  “But it’s not a romance.  So it’s different.”

“Sure,” Shiro replied, without a shred of sincerity, and he smiled at Pidge’s annoyed groan.

Eventually, the movie started and the lights began to dim.  Just as Shiro was starting to nod off, his chest felt too tight.  He tried to cough it out, but the tiny, dry jerks did nothing.

“Need tea?” Keith asked, cracking his eyes open.

Shiro shook his head.  “No, m’fne.  Give me a minute.”

After a minute of solid coughing, Hunk groaned.  “Shiro, c’mon.  I’ll bring you the damn tea.”  He started to shuffle to get up, clumsy as he tried to untangle himself from the blankets.

Okay, no.  That wasn’t happening.

With a groan, Shiro kicked off the blankets and padded over to the main couch, waving Hunk down.  There was a container of tea in some sort of would-be thermos.  Pouring himself a cup, Shiro looked back over at his chairs and all his discarded blankets. It may as well have been a mile away instead of five feet.

“Screw this.”  Pidge grabbed the back of Shiro’s shirt and tugged him backwards.  Only quickly slapping the Galra hand over the top of his cup saved him from losing his drink.  “Stop being over there.  It sucks.  Just stay here.”

Shiro glanced back over, frowning at her.  “I’m squishing you.”

Shoving at his arm, Pidge snorted.  “Then scoot.”  Shiro shifted so she could get out from under him, and then she slumped against his side.  “Problem solved.”

Shiro drained the tea and set it down, then considered trying to get back to his private chair.  On one hand, he could stretch out as much as he wanted.  On the other, this couch was warmer and Pidge felt nice against his side.

With a yawn, Lance flopped over, resting his head on Shiro’s shoulder.  “Pass me tea, too?”

Well, that settled it.

Handing over another cup, Shiro settled in comfortably, eyes falling shut now that the pressure in his chest was gone.

Warm, sleepy, and as comfortable as he could be, Shiro drifted off.