#if you look in under the bathroom sink in chapter 1 there's a nearly full bottle of ICE-E pizza body spray (gross)

[cookie-stars]

Kris and the player but they're petty

[kowaiitenshii]

My Mistakes Were Made For You // Ch. 2

Dr. Otto Octavius x Reader

(( SFW // AFAB reader // cw: none really. reader is described as curvy, some fear is involved with the dynamic but hey you’re the one who wants to date a villain. ))

It had been two days.

Two days since your encounter with Dr. Octavius.

You were showering, trying to rinse away the day; Really just trying anything to quiet your frenzied mind.

The water glides smoothly over your body, gentle hot touch caressing away your worries.

You frown when you notice the water slowly becoming cold.

Letting out a huff of disappointment, you turn off the water, knobs creaking in protest as you do so.

Stepping carefully out of the shower into the fog filled bathroom, you grab your towel off the bar.

Wiping a big enough window in the condensation on the mirror to see your body, you stand there, looking yourself over.

Leaning in closer, you take note of the dark circles under your eyes and sigh softly.

“Gotta get better at getting my beauty sleep.”

You half-heartedly dry your hair off, mussing it up with your towel.

The thoughts that had been clouding your mind slowly rolled back in, a thunderstorm on the horizon.

Your heart begins to feel tight, throbbing softly in your chest.

You remember the sheer delight on Dr. Octavius’ face when he discovered your secret.

Pure satisfaction.

A sinking settles within you like an iron weight in your stomach.

He held your fate in his hands and you swore you could feel the very grip of those hands on you.

But…he hadn’t made any moves yet.

there was nothing in the news, not even a single headline.

Not yet.

You weren’t sure if it was because he had the good grace to keep your secret or if he was just waiting for the most effective time to use it against you.

You lean on the vanity of the sink, white knuckling the counter and still scolding yourself up for getting yourself into what could be serious trouble.

But that wasn’t the only thing on your mind.

You kept going back to the moment his snaking titanium tendrils had grabbed you and held you face to face with him.

Remembering the look in his dark eyes when he saw you; full of wonder, exhilaration, hunger.

The intense focus in his coffee-colored gaze.

You remember the feeling of heat pulsing in your cheeks under his unrelenting stare.

Your own strange fascination.

Traces of the scent still linger in your memory, the smell of warm tobacco and cologne, with sharp notes of iron nearly tangible.

The sadistic smile on his face when he said your moniker.

Your cheeks go hot again envisioning the ravenous grin on his face; the feeling of him, them, constricting you.

Being utterly powerless to him, It was terrifying… thrilling.

Your mind swims with images of him, treading through them like huge black waves.

Tightly balling up your fists, you press them to your face; ashamed in the act of wanting something you can’t have.

God this is ridiculous… you scold yourself internally.

It all felt so immature, this hopeless pining.

You sigh discontentedly, shaking yourself back to reality.

You wrap your towel around yourself, and it covers you only just barely, clinging lasciviously to your curvature.

You look at yourself in the mirror and give a tired chuckle.

Your ass is literally only just barely covered.

Good thing you live alone.

Stepping out of your bathroom into your small studio apartment, the sight you’re met with makes you jump out of your skin.

You feel as if every bit of heat in your being just fell out of you through the floor.

Your blood runs ice cold, pin pricks forming on your skin and the fine hairs raising on your neck.

He’s there.

In your apartment, on your couch across from the foot of your bed is Otto Octavius, sitting casually with his arms thrown over the back of the couch as if he belongs there.

His broad, imminent form paired with his automated limbs surrounding him like a dark aura makes the room feel crowded, claustrophobic.

You stand there dumbfounded, mouth agape, eyes wide.

Your eyes flick from his position on the couch to the open window to the right of him, cursing yourself for not locking it.

He has a sly smile on his face, only cracking for a split second when he registers what you’re wearing. Or not wearing, rather.

He quickly regains his composure, but he can’t hide the tinge of redness spreading across his face.

“Hello, (Y/N.)”

It takes you a moment, but once the realization registers it’s as if a thunderbolt has hit you.

Not only is he in your house, he apparently knows your real name now too.

You stand there silently, knees buckling.

Anxiety pools in your gut like a frozen ocean, churning sharply.

You feel as if you could faint.

“H-how….” You pause, exhaling shakily and you try to pull it together.

Swallowing thickly, you choose your words carefully.

“Why are you here?”

You choke it out, short and sweet.

“No need to worry, my dear.” His tone is smooth and even, as he slowly extends a mechanical tendril, reaching and curling towards you.

You shudder.

“We’re just here to return something.”

You tentatively watch as the metal limb reaches out to you, mechanisms opening it’s claws to reveal your wallet within it’s grasp.

You look at it, then back to him, with that sly smirk on his face.

The pieces of the puzzle begin to fit together.

You must have dropped it, either when you had been sent flying or when Dr. Octavius had snatched you up.

“Explains a lot.” you whisper meekly.

You take it, fingers cautiously grazing his cold titanium touch.

“Thank you.” You say hesitantly, watching him with a careful eye.

He gives a slight nod.

“If you don’t mind…” he pauses, giving you a brief once over. “I’d also like to talk about some things.”

Brow pinching together in confusion, you cock your head slightly.

“Talk? Talk about what?”

You try unsuccessfully to pull your towel tighter, reddening under his gaze.

He has the common decency to look away.

His artificial entourage however, does not.

The red pin pricks in the centers of his automated arms rove over your form, unrelentingly taking in the sight.

“I’d like to make you an offer.”

Your mind goes blank.

An offer?

Your knees buckle again and at this point you figure you better sit down.

You cross the room and plop bluntly down on the couch next to him, staring at him with complete bewilderment.

There isn’t much space between the two of you, considering it’s a two seater couch and he’s a tall, slightly stocky man even without his extra appendages; not that you care in this moment.

He watches as you approach and if you didn’t know any better you’d think he jolted a little when you sat down.

“Well, go on.“ you implore after a couple beats of silence.

He clears his throat and looks back at you, holding your baffled stare intently.

“I saw some rather interesting things in your wallet.”

Your expression twitches with confusion, searching for the implied meaning behind his words but unable to find it.

He smiles, amused.

You wonder if you left one of your dirty polaroids in there or something.

“Your Oscorp badge.”

Your face falls, your shoulders slumping defeatedly.

Could this get any worse?

He knew your identity.

He knew where you lived.

And now he knew where you worked.

There was no escaping him.

He was all encompassing, a now dark and suffocating presence in your once simple and clean life.

You pinch your brow between your fingers and exhale sharply.

He notices your discontentment and coos softly.

���Oh come now, pet. Remember, this is an offer, not a threat.”

You can feel your pulse in your cheeks at this point, the sweet intonation sending a shiver up your spine. His voice was soothing despite your obvious reluctance.

He pauses for a moment, a thoughtful expression dancing on his features before he continues.

“We’ve been adversaries a handful of times, and I’ve seen firsthand what you can be capable of.” He looks away for a moment, looking contemplative, and then meets your gaze again.

“You see, your powers combined with the knowledge you handle on a regular basis…” one of his titanium limbs reaches towards you and gently tilts your chin up so your gaze meets his.

It’s cold, the sensation sending fine shivers through you.

“You could prove to be rather useful to us.”

Your heart pounds painfully as you stare back into his raven eyes.

“Useful?” You whisper. You’re frozen in place, not daring to move.

“You have information I want…” his cold metallic finger traces your jawline in a way thats softer than you would have imagined it was capable of.

When he touches you it feels electric, bolts of lightning dancing over the skin.

“If you work with me… help me…” his voice isn’t much louder than a whisper, it falls gently on the ear; like fingertips caressing the skin.

“We could be unstoppable.”

You say nothing, staring at him wide eyed and stunned, breaths shallow and ragged.

“I….” Your mind is blank as your voice falters. You look away, practically panting.

You feel his gaze on you, burning your skin.

He smiles softly, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he chuckles.

“That’s alright, you don’t have to answer me right now. “

Your chest feels too tight for your rapidly beating heart. You had tens of emotions rushing through you, each fighting for their place at the forefront.

Hesitation. Exhilaration. Fear. Attraction.

You were simply overcome with thoughts and feelings.

You stay like that for a moment, staring into each others very souls, saying nothing at all.

You feel like a insect under glass, writhing under his watchful eye.

Then, he makes his exit as abruptly as he made his entrance.

“I’ll be in touch.” He hums with that same slight smirk and a nod.

He nimbly slips out of the open window, leaving you in stunned silence.

Your hands drop slackly to your sides, no longer worried about modesty.

What was happening to you, really truly happening to you, was beyond your wildest dreams.

Dr. Octavius, the infamous “Doc Ock” had more or less just asked you to be his sidekick.

Your eyes flick down to your exposed thigh, and you give yourself a good hard pinch.

It stings.

You aren’t dreaming.

Breathing shakily, you lift your fingertips to your cheek, ghosting them along ; Mimicking Dr. Octavius’ movements.

It elicits a dreamy shuddering sigh from you, your eyes slipping shut.

You curse yourself internally for your sinful fascination with him.

Yet you don’t push it away.

You sigh heavily, shaking your head.

This really is ridiculous.

[xxblackballoonxx]

Maybe That Was New York: Part 4

This is a work of fiction.

We're back with a little Joe and Jenny time! The pic above is full inspiration for this chapter 🙌🏻

Updates on both of my John Shelby fics, The Heart Underneath and Electric (modern J Shelby), coming soon!

Taylor Swift's "You Are In Love" has been a big part of my writing soundtrack for this story.

Part 1  Part 2 Part 3

Maybe That Was New York: Part 4

Jenny walked into the train hall, looking towards where Joe said he was waiting for her. She couldn’t help but grin as she caught sight of him, leaning against a pillar. He saw her and gave her a little head nod and a smile back before walking to meet her. He seemed more attractive than when she saw him last and she could feel the heat between them.

“Hey, love.” Joe said as he kissed her cheek.

“Hi, gorgeous.” Jenny replied back, hugging his side.

She looked up and noticed that he’d put a small silver hoop in his ear piercing and she grinned again, reaching up to touch it. His eyes burned into hers as her fingers grazed his ear.

“And what is this?” She asked in mock surprise.

“A little something just for you, darling. Thought you might like it.” Joe responded, smirking.

“Oh, I like it.” Jenny said, dragging her fingers down his neck, stopping at where his chain peeked out from his shirt.

“Doing things to you, is it?” Joe whispered.

“Many things. All of which point to getting out of here, immediately.”

Joe laughed and took her suitcase as he held her hand and led the way outside. They hailed a cab and settled in for the ride downtown, Joe slipping his arm around Jenny’s shoulders. She leaned into him and immediately felt at home, with his cologne surrounding her like a gentle cloud, his lips pressing against the top of her head before he spoke to the cabbie. 

As promised, Joe had called Jenny each night they’d been apart, sending her a few texts during the day. A gentle way of saying that he was there, he was keeping his promise, without being overwhelming. They’d talked about film, books, art, travel, what they loved to do, dreams for the future. The time apart had allowed for the conversations to happen that often came with early dating. By the time Jenny got on a late afternoon train back to the city that Friday, she was completely smitten.

Joe had spend the days attending a few production meetings and studying his script. He’d also spent a significant amount of time day dreaming, his mind occupied by seeing Jenny again. It felt like he was in a dream, and he was afraid that if he woke up, she wouldn’t be real.

In the half second it took for the elevator in his building to close, Joe had pushed Jenny against the back wall, no longer able to wait. The tension had been building in the cab ride home, and he kissed her as hard as he dared, feeling her relax into him, her hands running up under his shirt.

The elevator dinged as it stopped at their floor and he smiled down at her, touching her lips as she smiled back in a daze. He nearly forgot to grab her suitcase as they walked out into the hall and then to his door. 

“Welcome back.” Joe said softly as he opened the door and let Jenny walk in first.

He rolled her suitcase into the living area and then took her hand, leading her to the small half bath that was near the front entry. 

“I figured when you’re here, you could use this bathroom if you like, some private space for you to get ready or whatever.” Joe said, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

“Thank you.” Jenny said with a smile and kissed his cheek.

Joe backed her gently against the bathroom sink, his hand sliding up under her shirt, his hips pressed against her body. Jenny felt like she couldn’t breathe in the best way possible, the way he looked down at her, pupils wide and his fingers caressing her skin.

“I want nothing more than to just pick you up and bring you to bed, “ Joe said, speaking quietly against her neck, “but I think you’re going to need some supper, yeah?” 

Jenny laughed and then nodded against his shoulder. She was hungry. For more than food, but it was a good place to start.

Joe grinned and kissed the top of her head, leaving her in the bathroom to wash up after being on the train. He walked over to the row of arched windows that faced the street, looking down into the fading sunlight. His mind wandered, thinking back to the last morning they’d been together, waking up with his arms around Jenny. Completely content but also consumed by the memory of how she’d looked underneath him the night before.

He felt small hands run across his sides, underneath his shirt and then around to his front. He smiled again as Jenny hugged him from behind, her face against his back.

“What are you thinking about?” She asked.

“You.” He replied, turning around towards her.

There was a moment where it seemed like time stopped, as Jenny put her hand to his face, her fingers running through the scruffy beard he’d been growing out. Briefly touching his earring and then trailing down the side of his neck. The look in her eyes was everything he’d been wanting. Lust and desire mixing intensely with something else. Something that told him this was a forever kind of thing.

************************************************************************

The following evening, Jenny sat at the kitchen island with a glass of champagne, watching as Joe chopped vegetables on the other side, the concentration in his face so endearing to her.  They’d spent the day wandering the neighborhood, stopping at a cafe in the late afternoon.  She could feel Joe watching her as they sat there, and she lowered her sunglasses to look at him.

“What?” She asked him with a laugh.

“I want to cook for you tonight.” Joe replied, reaching out for her hand.

“That sounds really nice.” Jenny responded, her voice catching a bit.

They had sat at the cafe for another half hour, hands linked as they talked about Joe’s upcoming filming schedule. But he hadn’t missed the way her voice had caught, like she had been holding back tears. There was still a lot they didn’t know about each other, but one thing he’d realized instantly was that underneath what came off as a tough exterior, Jenny was very sensitive. She was used to doing everything for herself, and the thought of a man taking care of her in the way he wanted to seemed to be touching her profoundly.

Joe had walked her back to his place and then set out once again to gather ingredients for the meal he wanted to make. He’d come home to find a few candles lit and Jenny walking out of the bedroom, pulling one of his hoodies over her head. 

“I feel like I’m in an early 2000s rom com, where the girl is sitting with a huge glass of wine at the counter while her date is cooking her dinner and nearly burning something.” Jenny said now, jokingly.

Joe grinned up at her, his smile piercing into her heart. He looked great to her all the time, but today in particular, with the color of his sweater, he looked even better. She could feel her pulse increase as she watched him pile up ingredients into a bowl, thinking about how those same hands touched her. After a minute, she picked up her phone and took a few photos. 

Damn this boy is way too photogenic, she thought with a smile.

“I can feel you watching me, love. Are you taking some sneaky photos?” Joe said lightheartedly, looking over as he stood at the stove.

“What can I say, J? You look good doing this and I need photographic evidence.” Jenny replied.

She took a sip of her champagne and watched him over the top of the glass as he watched her back. She seemed to have no idea of how beautiful she was and Joe found himself often getting lost in her presence, endlessly captured by the way she looked at him, how she spoke, the way she touched him.

Joe placed a tray in the oven and set a timer before coming back around the island. He took the glass from Jenny’s hand and took a sip before carefully setting it down on the counter, nudging her legs so he could stand between them. 

They were eye to eye, and he kissed her, hand gripping the back of her head. Jenny wrapped both of her arms around him and he kissed her neck before settling into a hug. This was the biggest part of why he was falling for her. How it felt to be like this, the sexual tension simmering on the back burner as their bodies craved a simple embrace.

“You’re so … huggable.” Jenny whispered with a giggle, her lips against his ear.

“Well hug me all you want, darling, I don’t want to be anywhere else.” Joe whispered back.

In the movies, the camera would’ve panned out slowly, leaving the couple embracing in the kitchen, dim lighting and a pot boiling on the stove, steaming in the background. And just as quickly would’ve cut to a new scene with more action, more dialogue. 

But both Jenny and Joe knew the best parts of love were the quiet moments. The hugs in the kitchen while a timer counted down to dinner, bodies entwined, chains glinting in the setting sun, quiet whispers against soft skin.

************************************************************************

Joe sat quietly on the couch, Jenny fast asleep with her head against his chest and her arm loosely around his side. The movie they had been watching ended nearly an hour before, and he could feel the moment she went from drowsy to sleeping, during the credits. He hadn’t wanted to move, hadn’t wanted to wake her up. There was something about her being comfortable enough with him that she’d fallen asleep this way that was he was very aware of. 

He lay there for awhile longer, hand on her back, looking up at the city lights coming through the blinds on the windows. All the people living their lives, spending the night alone, or with someone they love, maybe someone they could love, or even someone they shouldn’t be with. It was happening all around him and yet it felt like the loft was magnified, that him and Jenny were the only people experiencing what it was like. To fall in love.

“Joe?” Jenny mumbled, waking up.

“It’s me, love.” Joe whispered, rubbing her back.

“How long have I been asleep?” 

“Maybe an hour.”

“You must be uncomfortable.”

Jenny looked up at Joe, and even in the dim light she could see the way his eyes pierced through the darkness. How they looked into her soul. It was scary and amazing but also monumental. She’d only felt it once before.

“Not at all. It was really nice.” Joe admitted, a small smile on his face as Jenny sat up.

Jenny nodded and couldn’t help but smile back as he stood and pulled her up with him. He wrapped his arms around her and she melted into the hug. Into him.

“Are you ready for bed? I’m going to take a quick shower.” Joe said, his head against hers.

“See you in a bit then.”

Joe watched as Jenny walked into the half bath and then went into the bedroom to use the en suite there. He turned on the shower water and watched it steam for a moment before pulling off his sweater. He was reached down for his belt buckle when he felt Jenny step behind him.

“Thought you were in the other bathroom?” Joe said, leaning back as her hands went to his belt.

“I was. And now I’m here.” Jenny replied.

Joe looked down as she undid his belt buckle and then the button and zipper to his jeans. Her hands moved back up to the t-shirt he was still wearing and she pulled it up over his head. He finally turned towards her and stayed quiet as she pushed his jeans down to the floor.

“You sure about this, Jen?” He asked, grasping onto whatever control he had left.

“I’m sure. Very sure.” Jenny replied.

Joe watched as she pulled his hoodie over her head, and then her shorts fall to the floor. His hands found her tank top and he took a moment to appreciate how she looked, standing in the steamy bathroom, just in her bra and underwear. He committed it to his memory, the way her hair tumbled down as she untied it, never breaking eye contact.

Something changed as Joe unhooked Jenny’s bra, slowly pulling it down, before doing the same to her underwear. There was a difference between sex and intimacy, and the way Joe was touching her was a level of intimacy they hadn’t reached yet. He stepped back into the shower, holding onto her hand as she stepped in with him. 

Jesus. Jenny thought as she looked up at the man in front of her, the water pouring down his back and wetting his hair. She’d truly never felt more attracted to anyone ever in her life. Her eyes wandered his body, stopping for a moment to watch the water drops hit the chain around his neck. She reached up to touch it, gently, and then moved her hand up to run her thumb over his earring. Joe pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her waist as she held onto him. 

“Still huggable when wet?” Joe asked, his smirk burning into Jenny’s neck.

“The most.” She replied with a laugh. 

Later, as Jenny sat on the bed, watching Joe towel off his hair, she realized she was entering territory she’d never quite been to before. To be at this point, so early on, it was daunting. Because she knew what lay ahead was uncharted. The unknown. Something that many people ran from. Two souls finding each other at last.

Joe watched Jenny from the mirror on the door, her hair piled up in a towel to dry. He could see she was thinking deeply, and he figured they were probably having similar thoughts. Every day, every moment it seemed, brought them closer together and more deeply involved. 

The scars from his last serious relationship still made him flinch if someone got too close. But he was ready. For Jenny. For her to reach out and touch each scar in the gentle way she had. To show him that not everything ended badly. That she could love him as much as he could love her. 

[danny-chase]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Batman (Comics) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Damian Wayne & Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne & Bruce Wayne Characters: Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne Additional Tags: Damian Wayne Centric, Panic Attack, Sickfic, Sick Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, he gets half a hug, Damian Wayne is a sweetheart, Dick Grayson is a Good Brother, Damian Wayne is a good brother Series: Part 10 of Bad Things Happen Bingo Summary:

Sequel to Pneumonia, Damian decides to spend his day home with Richard.

Full story under cut

Footsteps echo through the hall, light, but heavy enough to be intentional. Too carefully timed to be confident in their placement. And with too little bounce to be Richard’s.

 Nor would he waken if they were Richard’s and that’s really his first clue. Briskly throwing off the sheets and flattening his hair, he throws open the door before his father can make it the rest of the way down the hall. The footsteps stop in their tracks.

 He leaves the door open as invitation, yet it’s unnecessary – father doesn’t approach. From what little time they’ve spent together, Damian finds it strange – his father is single minded in his work but yet so indecisive in his home – well – really this wasn’t his home. “How is he?” The words come out too harshly and he grits his teeth, hoping for leniency – father is to be respected, not talked to in such a manner.

 Nor was father was pleased the last time he erred in his judgment. Ever since he’d failed the first time he meant, he’d been treated like a plague, locked in his room then, and avoided now.

 …But he’d heard stories from Richard about a softer man than the one he’d met a year ago. A man whose love was stronger than his hate – who took in children and saved their souls.

 It was odd that such a man had shied away from his own son. Damian couldn’t understand what he’d done wrong – he understood the skirmish with Drake was wrong – but Richard spoke of a man who could forgive. And yet. He’d only seen forgiveness from Richard.

 He’d thought perhaps, that had been his father’s influence.

 Another footstep resounds around him, and the realization strikes – he hasn’t moved. Huffing – at no one in particular – he silently strides forward, yanking his dresser drawers open to retrieve a set of perfectly folded clothes.

 “Damian.” Father stays just out of sight beyond the door. Its nerve wracking – almost painful – waiting for information. Richard promised he would be fine, last night, he promised Bruce could take care of the things – would be back – would fix it.

 He’d almost believed him, but for a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

 It was odd, seeing him waver – especially because he’d seen for himself how much Bruce cared for him. He’d read the worry in his expressions and the thinly veiled pain as he stitched his successor’s side. Father was back – he’d believed that much – though he didn’t believe it when Richard said it – and that was… a complicated thing.

 Suffice to say, he’d kept watch from afar until he heard the doorknob turn, leaving once father began to speak.

 An awkward clearing of the throat makes him turn. Father stands in the doorway, looking stern but unsure, finally having decided to make an appearance. It’s irritating, how tall he seems; his head mere inches away from the top of the doorframe. “What?” He can’t keep panic from slipping into his voice. Swallowing, he makes another attempt. “How is Richard?”

 Frowning, father shakes his head slightly looking displeased. Damian’s heart sinks to the floor – Richard couldn’t – he promised – he –

 “He’s not doing as well as I’d hoped. His blood oxygen level fell last night, I had to put him on an external canister to raise it.” Damian lets out a long breath, his pulse returning to normal as father continued. “He’s stable, Leslie came over an hour ago. She predicts a full recovery, just don’t expect him to bounce back too quickly.” His father paused, giving him a curious look. “You look flush, are you alright?”

 Suddenly full of the desire to be alone, he shuts the door. “Yes. One moment.” For a moment he thought – never mind that now. Turning back to his clothes, he kicks off his pajamas, hastily changing. He runs a hand through his hair, breathing steadily – everything is fine.

 He can hear his father hesitating, the floorboards groaning as he shifts his weight. “School starts in an hour. I’ll drive you.” It takes all the willpower he can muster not to let a groan escape his lips. School’s awful on the best of days, a miserable prison with miserable teachers not paid enough to put up with his obnoxious rich classmates’ egregious behavior.

 “I’m not going.” Richard needs monitoring after all and his father had fulfilled the task last night. For proper care, he needs properly awake caretakers.

 “You will go.” The response is firm, but not without minor hesitation – something Richard had taught him to look for – something he could exploit in interrogations – something he could exploit here (for a good cause of course).

 His argument must be flawless – rational and logical, nothing else will suffice. Pulling on his socks, crossing the room, he flings the door open, storming into the hall, in a display of righteous fury. “The benefits of my attending school today do not outweigh the benefits Richard would receive if I monitor his progress and allow you sleep in order to be prepared to monitor him tonight. Firstly, I know the material already.” His father makes a noise to interrupt, but he continues unperturbed.

 “Secondly, I understand the social benefits are a concern to you. Ask Richard, I have made a friend. His name is Colin and he’s much better than any of the awful children at that school. And I’ve met with Lian and Irey and Jay.” The Titan’s children were annoying, but he wasn’t lying. It was awful, but he’d made it through the ‘playdate’. “Thirdly, as for extracurricular activities, Grayson has provided me with all necessary materials to pursue my interests. And…” He trails off, finding his father’s eyes tired, the bags under them unreasonably puffy. Gesturing vaguely, he pointed back at a mirror in his room. “Just look at yourself, you expect to watch him well like that?” They can debate all they’d like, but if father refuses to sleep much longer, the argument will be decided in his favor.

 The eyes shift to the mirror and back, then to him, to the floor, then covered by a hand. His father turns, muttering something he can’t quite hear, but he makes out the words from reading his lips. ‘What the hell has Dick been teaching you?’ A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth – he’s won. Perhaps, with further needling, he’ll be out of school for good, but today, he doesn’t press his luck.

 Father drops his hand with a sigh. “Fine. Keep up with your studies.” He takes a few steps back. “You can sit in the room but don’t bother him.” Damian holds back an eye roll, as if he would bother Richard while he’s recuperating. “Call if anything changes, I’ll make breakfast.” Father turns, Damian’s eyes follow, watching him stride down the hall, ducking into the kitchen.

 As the kitchen door smoothly thuds shut, he turns back to his room, swallowing down the odd sensation that stirs in the base of his throat. His steps are silent – mindlessly so, as he pads over into the adjacent bathroom to finish his morning routine.

 He emerges – the strange feelings sticking with him – he supposes he ought to feel relieved, but dread builds in the pit of his stomach instead at the prospect of seeing Richard.

 Father said Richard would be fine. Leslie said Richard would be fine. Richard promised he would be fine.

 None of them are liars – but what if they missed something? The thought wracks his mind on an endless loop. The hallway seems to stretch out as he takes a step towards his brother’s room. What if something changes before he gets there? What if the medication doesn’t work – what if it’s a super virus or an antibiotic resistant bacteria? Their enemies could come up with ridiculously effective toxins, pathogens aren’t that much different.

Richard promised. He tries desperately to hold on to that thought, stumbling forward, forcing himself closer to his room. His heart pounds harder the closer he inches, his head joining the party and thudding along in time. He feels like the deer slipping on ice on that dumb movie Richard made him watch; it’s as if his legs have forgotten to function.

 He’s nearly there – the hallway spins slightly but it’s just a few more steps – he needs to get control of himself but he can’t breathe. Two more steps. Two more steps and then he can. See Richard.

 Halfway through his next step, he trips, falling face first onto the floor, unable to do anything but choke out unsteady breaths, his mind screaming the counts to a breathing exercise learned as a child long ago.

 Pathetic. He would have been killed in the League for less. He mastered control of his emotion as a child – this – this is unacceptable! He reaches a hand forward, sheer willpower the only thing keeping him from curling in on himself – he has to keep moving.

 His hand connects with a foot, he looks up, finding a flush face with bleary eyes staring back. “Damian?” Richard’s voice is rough and quiet, guilt floods his stomach – Richard shouldn’t be out of bed – he shouldn’t have panicked like this – this is – “Woah, buddy, breathe.” There’s a hand resting on his shoulder, the next time he looks up, Richard sits next to him on the floor, tapping his hand in time to a new count, one he learned here a few months ago.

 There’s a million pieces of his mind scattered about the hallway and the longer he sits there breathing, the more pieces settle back into their places. Richard’s verbal count shifts into coughs, but he keeps his hand steady. When he finishes, the tapping’s all that’s left.

 Damian shakily pulls himself up on his knees, not quite sure what exactly happened. Richard gives him a small sad smile, his eyes full of sympathy – sympathy that Damian doesn’t want – feels guilty for receiving – sympathy he’s never earned. It’s overwhelming – and something’s wrong with him – because he doesn’t cry – hasn’t cried since he was nine – and he’s nearly eleven and he’s over this.

 He can’t cry because everything’s okay – Richard’s arms are open in an invitation, his hand receding from his shoulder, but close enough to hover. He’s fine. Richard is fine. Tired, yes, but his side’s not gushing blood, and his coughs subsided. Damian wipes his eyes on his sleeve, glancing around – ensuring they’re alone – before sliding up against the wall next to Richard, scooting under one of his shoulders. A muscular arm drapes over his shoulders, hand settling back on his shoulder.

 He’s warm, a bit uncomfortably so, and his breathing sounds raspy, but as he leans against his brother’s chest, he hears a steady heartbeat and it’s unbelievingly reassuring. The hand on his shoulder is firm, but not tight; he can slip out; he’s not trapped.

 Really, he ought to be ashamed, of needing comfort like some sniveling third-grader, but it’s different – coming from Richard – someone he’s seen far too many times on the wrong end of some twisted concoction of fear gas, crying and screaming – needing comforting himself. Fear gas. Maybe this was an after effect – he files away the notion to mull over later – perhaps run a blood test on himself later.

 Richard’s grip tightens as he coughs, turning to face away. Damian’s gut drops – Richard was supposed to be on supplemental oxygen. Guilt claws at his insides as he quickly stands, pulling his brother along the best he can. It gives him appreciation for Nightwing’s smaller frame – his brother is way heavier and bulkier than he was a year ago – supporting him takes nearly all his might. “Come on.” He urges, dragging Richard into his room, this times his steps steady and stable.

 They’re both out of breath by the time they’ve made it to the bed. Richard plops down, bouncing slightly on mattress, gasping for air. Biting back his guilt, Damian quickly traces the path of the nasal cannula, shoving the nose piece into Richard’s hands. “Here.” He watches the man fumble for a second before settling it place.

 He slides down, tucking himself into a tight ball beside the bed, listening as gasps turns to wheezes, wheezes to coughs, coughs to rasps and back again, as Richard learns how to breathe like a normal human being. “Thanks.” He grunts, nudging Damian with his shin.

 Damian huffs, he shouldn’t be thanked – he caused this mess! “For what?!” He half-shouts, quickly lowering his voice before he can say more. He needs to stay calm – he’s not supposed to be a disturbance. “It’s my fault you-”

 “Damian.” Richard groans in an annoyed way, not an ‘I’m about to hack up another lung’ way. “Thanks for staying in to keep me company. It’s sweet.” Some company he is, forcing his brother out of bed to come pick him up off the floor. “Quit pouting, I’m fine.” The leg nudges him again. A third time when he doesn’t respond. He pushes back. Richard nudges him again. Damian scowls, what’s he supposed to even do in this situation?! “Let’s play Mario Kart or something.” Richard says, as if he’s overheard Damian’s thoughts.

 Just as he pauses to mull over the suggestion, the door screeches on its hinges, shaking him out of his musings. “We should get that oiled.” Father mutters, carrying a tray of breakfast foods. He freezes in his tracks at the sight of Damian on the floor. “Everything okay?” Unfreezing, his motions are rigid and forced, his lips pursing into a straight line, brow furrowing, contorting into deep worry lines.

 Richard swings his legs back onto the bed. “Just left to use the bathroom, Damian helped me back.” The lie sounds natural, comes far too readily out of his mouth. Damian swallows, staring at the floor as his father ponders whether the statement rings true.

 It seems he’s decided to let it slip if he knows. He grunts an acknowledgement, setting the tray aside the bed, passing each a plate. It’s funny – how their dishes are so plain – just pure white, no décor. It struck him as odd when he’d first used them, now no longer odd, but fitting. The bland dish fits right in with Richard’s bland room.

 Father leaves as quick as he came, and Damian’s left to reflect on the empty room as he munches on a bagel. He hasn’t spent much time in here, out of respect for privacy, he’s seen it before, but never thought what it would be like to live in it. “Don’t you get bored of looking at the walls?” He mutters, after swallowing a bite. His own walls are cluttered with his possessions; trophies from fallen enemies, keepsakes from his mother, and gifts from his brother (even a friendship bracelet from Brown is tacked to his corkboard). Richard’s are bare, save one faded poster. His eyes linger on the grinning young acrobat, gracefully swinging with his parents in the background.

 Richard hums, curiously following his gaze. “Walls are walls, I don’t normally look at them. I just come in here to sleep.” He nods towards the television. “If I’m bored I can watch a show.”

 Damian rolls his eyes. “When’s the last time you even turned it on?” He stands, spinning, taking in a full view of the room. “Room color effects your mood.” It’s something Richard used an excuse, to get him to pick a new color for his bedroom when they first moved in. “And potted plants are good for overall wellbeing.” He has a few on his dresser, he even set up an automatic watering system. He could hang some ivy over the balcony. Though… maybe not ivy.

 Richard smiles to himself, letting out a little raspy noise that he supposes could be a laugh. “You’re really into it, huh?” Damian feels heat rise to his cheeks, he’s not ‘into’ anything as trivial as room décor. “Go wild, you can order whatever online and have it delivered.”

 Damian turns his attention back towards Richard, hastily scoffing as he finishes speaking. “I’m not interested, I just wondered how <em>you</em> of all people could have such a bland room.” A flash of annoyance runs over Richard’s face, lingering long enough for Damian to properly identify it. It’s surprising to say the least; Richard almost never looks that way at him anymore.

 Annoyance fades as Richard gazes out past the balcony. “I… lost a lot of stuff in the move.” Damian kicks himself mentally – Richard last lived in New York, but a month ago he overheard him and Drake talk about an old apartment back in Blüdhaven. He’d done some snooping in old casefiles, Richard’s stint there had been quite extended. Extended enough to have his property demolished by a villain even before the entire city was leveled by a nuclear explosion. “Damian.” Richard looks at him, face carefully neutral. “Don’t worry about it, let’s play cards or something.”

 Don’t worry about it – how can he not worry about it?! He’d be devastated if he lost the gifts from his mother – some things aren’t replaceable. He gives the room another glance – it’s still empty – but he could fix it slightly. Maybe consult with Drake about the former apartment, if necessary contact – he shudders – the Titans during – he gags – one of their playdates for advice. “Damian are you okay?” Richard looks perplexed.

 He shoves his plans back down, first things first, walls and flooring. He turns on the spot, marching out the door. “We’re fixing your room.” He mutters, storming down the hall to grab his laptop.

 When he walks back in the room, Richard is staring at him. “What?” He demands, as Richard’s eyes follow him all the way to a chair aside the bed. He’s a bit annoyed at the chair even, it’s from the kitchen, probably dragged in here by his father last night. He adds ‘seating’ to his mental list – if Richard’s ill or injured, it would be nice for Pennyworth or him to be able to sit somewhere.

 Richard shuffles back, edging closer and sitting upright against a mountain of pillows. “Nothing. I just thought you weren’t interested.” He cocks an eyebrow as Damian pulls up a paint comparison site.

 “I’m not.” He spits. “I don’t want to look at your boring walls anymore.”

 Richard laughs again, in his modified way. “Mm. Yup. Sure.”

 Damian ignores the comment, already delving into the program, comparing colors against the wall - connecting to the TV to display them, and weighing the pros and cons of each one. Richard watches, providing occasional commentary, rating each color on a scale from one to one hundred. They argue over shades of green, and the correct way to make purple pop – nothing serious, nor work related. Later the room will be full of things, but for now he’s content to let their conversation fill the void.

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

Fine Line | Jurdan Quarantine AU

Written for Jurdan Week 2020, hosted by @jurdannet​ | Day 4- Song Crossover (Adore You by Harry Styles requested by @mysweetvilllain​ )

Chapter Rating: M

CW: mature themes, explicit descriptions, vulgar language, eventual explicit content.

Summary: Two vindictive assholes. One shitty apartment. And a vow to get under each other’s skin. Stuck in hate together twenty-four-seven, this can only end in a crime of passion.

Next Chapter    |    Fine Line Masterlist    |    Masterlist    |    AO3 

Chapter 1- Adore You (Verse 1)

[Cardan POV]

The minute I walk into the kitchen, I know I’m fucked.

She’s sitting there on one of my bar stools, at my island counter, eating my strawberries straight out of the plastic container. I say “my” because I’m still in denial that I have to share this shit-hole with anyone. Especially her.

When I put the ad up online, I was skint and desperate. I would’ve taken anyone short of a serial killer, really, but I was hoping for normal. Or at the very least, boring. It’s just my luck that the only person who responded to the ad was someone so insufferable.

We were civil with each other for all of a day. Three weeks had me almost driven to moving out. Me. Moving out of my own damn apartment because even that is easier than living with Jude Duarte. 

That’s when corona hit, so I guess I’m stuck.

It’s been a fortnight of isolation. Putting up with her unmitigated bullshit. Her ceaseless presence and mulish disposition. Our constant butting heads. 

On a good day, I give myself over to the ashen taste of resignation. On the bad ones, I want to throw myself down the stairs just so I can spend the night in hospital. 

Anyways, I’m fucked because my wretched flatmate is sitting there in her baggy black sweatpants and oversized hoodie. Her knees are tucked up to her chest, giving me a plain view of those stupid rainbow socks she’s always wearing. Her hair is a mess on top of her head. Everything about her sets off a tick in my jaw.

Except the way she eats strawberries.

Her full pink lips wrap around one now and—fucking hell. I swear my cock twitches. When she sinks her teeth in, those lips come away red-stained and glistening. A line of juice dribbles down her chin as she chews. Then, she pops the stem into her mouth and eats that, too.

I find myself imagining her on her knees, strawberry lips wrapped around something else of mine. The way the back of her throat would feel as I ram into her mouth—

I blink. My lip curls. I need coffee, and maybe a cold shower.

The former is closest, so I stop standing in the doorway like the twat that I am, and walk into the kitchen. Thankfully, she’s got earphones in and is so immersed in whatever the fuck she does on her laptop all day that she hasn’t noticed my blatant ogling.

If she notices me at all, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

Good. It’s better this way. The less we talk the less we end up screaming at each other. It’s only happened twice. The neighbors came round both times.

I pull a mug and the instant coffee down from a shelf.

It irks me. Just last night, I was standing in this very spot, doing everything in my power not to lose my shit after finding a pile of her dirty dishes in the sink. For the third time this week. She always says “they’re soaking”, and I always end up doing them later anyway, because I can’t stand the mess.

She does things like that a lot. Dishes and crumbs and wrappers. Stealing my food. A week ago I found a pizza crust jammed in between the cushions of the sofa. She denies all accountability, of course.

Not to mention, she sets her alarms for the ass crack of dawn. She’s such a heavy sleeper that I’m invariably wide awake well before she is, listening to the incessant shrill of her phone through the walls as she hits snooze, over and over.

I’m certainly not without my faults, of course. I know she hates me just as much as I hate her. She’s told me as much. Which is why I’m miffed that suddenly, without any warning, I want to fuck her into the kitchen counter.

There’s a spoon in the drying rack and I use it to stir my coffee. 

Nicasia hated me, I think to myself. She loved me once, but she hated me for a while before she did anything about it. Then, I stop. Because I don’t want to uncork that bottle today. Point is, maybe it’s not completely out of left field. To want someone right when they’re giving you the very least of their attention.

I tap the spoon against the lip of my mug. Usually, I’d retreat back to my bedroom at this point. Instead, I throw the spoon in the sink and turn around to lean against the counter.

She’s still sitting at the island, honed in on her computer. I can hear the thin, metallic wail of a guitar coming from her earphones. She bobs her head slightly to the beat.

It’s not as if she isn’t attractive. In her own, unique way.

She’s strong. If I didn’t hear her pummeling that blasted punching bag she’s got hanging in her room every night, I’d have known she boxed just by the way she looks. She’s got a fighter’s build about her. It lives in her shoulders, in the barrel of her chest. As if every line of her was made bold and unyielding. With intention. 

Again, I have to stop my own wandering thoughts. I’m starting to wonder if maybe my dead end job that has me editing bad romance novels for a living is starting to go to my head. 

It pays the bills until it doesn’t. And then it rots my brain. Maybe I should quit.

Still, I tell myself it’s the quarantine talking. That if I wasn’t trapped in here with her, I wouldn’t find anything about her attractive. That I’d probably be willing to whore myself out for one cigarette right about now. And I don’t even smoke.

But then she looks up at me, mid-bite. Those honey-brown eyes are wild. They threaten to cut straight through me. She squints, accusatory. Chews her bite, slow. Swallows.

My mouth goes dry as the fucking Sahara.

“What are you staring at?” she demands, glare blazing.

Apparently, I’m in the mood to walk that fire, because I take a sip of my coffee and say, smug as I can, “You.”

Sometimes, it’s better to be completely honest with Jude. The truth always seems to appall her far more than any lie ever could. As if she expects everyone to be deceiving. Or maybe it’s just that my truths are so outrageous to her that she doesn’t believe them.

I wouldn’t blame her there. I can hardly admit to this truth, myself. Whether she believes me or not, though, it gets under her skin.

“Right,” she scoffs. “Is it because I’m pretty? Is it because you like me so much?” She bats her lashes at me, mocking. I am stunned by the fact that, for a moment, I wish it was real. That I’d gladly lose myself in that look if it came from her eyes in earnest.

Then I shake my head. I sound like the biggest shit-for-brains. It’ll take more than a few eyelash flutters to make me surrender.

“Oh, no,” I say, trying to match her taunting tone, “I don’t like you. I adore you.”

That makes Jude roll her eyes. “Please,” she says. “You’re probably plotting ways to stick me in my sleep or something. Fucking psychopath.”

It’s that last part that makes me take a step toward the island, lean forward to rest my elbows on the counter so I’m nearly in her space. She doesn’t draw back. Just gives me a scathing look from over the top of her screen.

“If I’m ever depraved enough to stick you,” I tell her, smirking, “I guarantee you won’t be sleeping, love.” Which may come off as anything from perverted to downright murderous, but I don’t care. The face she makes is worth it.

It’s all jaw dropped, vicious gaze, blush creeping into her cheeks like red smoke. I’ve never challenged her before. It makes her look at me like she despises me. Like the only thing she’ll ever do is despise me. I don’t know why that eggs me on, but it does.

“Would you look at that,” I hum, “You’ve got the face about right, too.”

Her nostrils flare. Jaw sets. There’s a lovely shade of puce coming up on her already heated cheeks. She’s absolutely livid, and I can taste it in the air between us. It’s like static on my tongue.

That’s when something cold and slimy hits me dead between the eyes. Jude’s half-eaten strawberry plops to the counter. I’m so surprised I almost laugh.

“You’re disgusting,” she says with as much derision as I feel coursing through me.

Part of me wants to give into that anger. Sling a string of curses at her. Throw the strawberry right back in her face. Those things won’t annoy her half as much as what I actually do.

Keeping an unbothered expression, I pluck the strawberry off the countertop and pop it right into my mouth. Stem and all. I lick my fingers for good measure. All while keeping direct eye contact with the little menace sitting across from me. Her gaze flits to my lips. So I swipe my tongue over them. She blinks.

“Delicious,” I say.

She looks just the right amount of scandalised for me to straighten, take my coffee back up in one hand, and saunter out of the kitchen. I don’t say anything about the strawberries. Or how stealing isn’t a very good exercise in courtesy.

We’ve never been courteous with one another, anyway.

When I’m back in my room I lean against the closed door and scrub a hand over my face. My heartbeat is raging since I did not.

Sometimes, I think the irritating things she does are all on purpose. Just to get under my skin. I rarely give her the satisfaction of knowing it works, but I don’t like letting her trample all over me, either. It gives me an oily feeling. Like I’m back to being under someone else’s thumb, and I hate it.

But that—whatever that was—felt more like fighting back than I ever thought I’d have the balls to do. I feel more alive now than I’ve felt in months.

Maybe that makes me a bastard. C’est la fucking vie.

I start shucking off my clothes, throwing them into the hamper in the corner, one by one. My bedroom is mercifully en suite. If I wanted to, I could live in here for days at a time without leaving.

I don’t know why I ever bother.

I go into the bathroom and turn on the shower. As I stand there under the cold stream, I think about how dangerous it is, this game I’ve entered. Flirting with Jude to get a rise out of her is one thing. That’s clear cut. A direct retaliation.

It’s another thing entirely if part of why I’m doing it is to take the edge off of my own perversions. I mean, what kind of sick fuck has sex fantasies about someone they hate? Someone they’re stuck in isolation with, twenty-four-seven, for the foreseeable future? Someone who hates their guts, too, and could probably easily take them out if it came to physical blows?

I guess that sick fuck would be me.

It’s a fine line to walk but there’s no turning back. I’ve already begun.

☽☽☽☽☽

AN: So I guess I’m hopping on the quarantine fic bandwagon 😅 this is definitely not what I expected to come out of this song crossover prompt, but I kind of like it? It’s (very loosely) based off of Adore You by Harry Styles- the threads are there if you look for them 😉

I’m planning on making this a 12 part series (one chapter for each song on Fine Line) so if you’d like to be added to the tag list for this, or to my Jurdan Forever tag list, let me know in the comments/my messages/inbox and I’d be happy to add you! 

-Em 🖤💫

Title Inspo: Fine Line (album) by Harry Styles, Adore You (song) by Harry Styles

Tag List: @velarhysismine​ @knifewifejude​ @the-mithridatism-of-jude-duarte​ @clockworkgraystairs​ @thesirenwashere​ @judexcardanxgreenbriar​ @nite0wl29​ @aelin-queen-of-terrasen​ @whocares-idont​ @babycardan @mysweetvilllain​ @aesthetics-11​ @storiesandschemes​ @jurdanhell​ @poeticbrownmermaid @thechainofiron​ @random-llama-socks​ @villanellevi​ @lady-thea-of-narnia​ @b00kworm​ @flowersinvegas​ @vanessa172003​ @cardanstrickytail​ @queen-of-glass​ @doingmyrainbow​

Next Chapter

Fine Line Masterlist

Masterlist

[micheldechevin]

Gladiolus Pt. 1

I decided to start a Flower Language series for Dr. Richter. This is the second one in the series, the first was actually a request, but if you like it I would appreciate if you gave it Kudos on my AO3 Link to the fic on ao3 Pairing: MC x Vyn Richter Series: Tears of Themis Rating: T Word Count: 1619 Chapters: 1/2

It had been several weeks, and Rosa still felt no closer to the end of this case. Every new turn she took lead to a dead end and while usually it didn’t frustrate her to this degree she couldn’t help but feel a lot rode on this. Even the Beautiful Gladiolus that Dr. Richter had given her were looking sad and frustrated—she hadn’t changed the water nearly enough as she had been too busy. It was a shame that the petals were wilting and gathering around the bottom of the Vase. It was an on the nose metaphor for how she felt right now, wilting and gathered around the bottom of this case.

She was about to delve back into the pits of her notes, when her phone buzzed on the table next to her. It was Dr. Richter—almost as if he knew she was thinking about him. For a moment, she considered not answer; he would know she wasn’t sleep well pretty immediately, but her desire to be honest won out in the end. There wasn’t a point to hiding anything from her and she did want to speak to him. It had been a handful of Saturdays since they last had tea together and she….missed him very dearly. With a sigh, she tried to put on her cheeriest tone as she answered; knowing that it wouldn’t fool him in the slightest.

“Hello? Dr. Richter?” Rosa answered in the same polite tone she always used, but she could practically hear him frowning on the other end of the—oh no caught already. She couldn’t help but wonder if maybe on some level she wanted to be found out because she knew he would want to take care of her. Despite all of her good intentions—there were times where she was just a little bit selfish.

“Rosa,” There was a pause on the other end. “Are you feeling well?” He didn’t even bother to say hello much to her dismay; she really wasn’t good at hiding her lack of sleep and her emotional turmoil from him. “You have not been over working yourself, have you?” It was a rhetorical question, she could tell he didn’t need an answer. There was concern mixed with dissatisfaction in his voice. This is what she wanted to avoid by not contacting him as much lately—but she was a little relieved that she could have someone to talk to now. Even her boss had been mostly shut out while she worked—this was a case for her to do and she wanted to prove herself.

“No point in lying is there?” A soft laugh, one that wasn’t echoed from her...friend. “I may have been skipping a few hours, and focusing only on this case, yes.” A pause. “I’m sorry Dr. Richter.” For what she was apologizing for, she wasn’t sure but it seemed necessary. Maybe for his concern? Or all of the Tea time she had missed? Maybe the lack of calling and texting. Maybe for all of it. “It’s just...this case is very important for me, my client is very upset and I know she didn’t do it; but the further I dig the harder it is to piece everything together.” She knew she was right, but she was starting to doubt her capabilities—not a path she usually traveled mentally but it was just difficult.

There was a long silence on the other end, before Dr. Richter spoke up. “Perhaps, I could come and help you sort through your thoughts.” It was less of a question and more of a statement, he was inviting himself over as politely as he could, and Rosa wasn’t someone who would refuse company of her closest companion. She wasn’t sure when they had fallen into this sort of closeness, but there was nothing she minded less. Instead she hummed her approval, checking the time. It was only 3pm and she was already exhausted. Maybe a distraction would be for the best. They both hung up, and Rosa made for the bathroom to make herself look less exhausted.

--------

It was about a half an hour before Dr. Richter arrived with and odd assortment of things; Fresh Gladiolus, Madeleines and tea to brew. Rosa couldn’t stop herself from smiling just a little as she answered the door—though it was obvious she had fallen asleep and only woke as he tapped on the door. “I still have the last Gladiolus you brought me.” Rosa stood off to the side allowing him to enter and set his things on the kitchen counter—immediately turning to change out the water and flowers from the vase that sat on the counter near her things.

“I made the assumption that if you were not sleeping well you would not be changing out the water.” It wasn’t chastisement of any kind, it was a gentle plea to accept his help. “I also had hopes that fresh Flowers would temporarily brighten your mood so that you might be able to allow yourself rest.” Vyn had turned to Rosa, frowning ever so slightly—he didn’t like seeing her this way; tired and at the end of her rope, and to a degree he felt helpless. There was a number of things he could do for her clinically but he didn’t want to help her in such a sterile fashion, he wanted her to depend on him in a more intimate way but he also knew he couldn’t force it.

Vyn watched Rosa sit down and look at her notes again, her brow furrowing; she already looked close to forgetting he was here at all and normally he wouldn’t mind but that would defeat the purpose of his visit. He was here to soothe and distract. Swallowing his formalities and manners, he reached across the counter and rested his hand atop hers, which immediately on the page. “Rosa, please take a rest; you can not do much for your client if you work yourself past a reasonable limit and I am sure whoever they may be that they would agree.” His tone was soft, tender teetering on the edge of loving.

He was right of course, this was no way to do this. “I know you’re right but….” The but was the end of the sentence, there was no argument she could have back—especially not with his hand on hers...it was so warm. Not a callus to be found anywhere, her heart was racing. Perhaps for his sake, she could rest. Rosa relented, but left her hand under his. “Alright, you’re the Psychiatrist, you would know better.” Still she didn’t close her notebook, she didn’t want to lose his touch just yet.

“Thank you.” To Vyn, it was clear what she meant by not removing her hand. His heart flipped and he gave a light squeeze. He was a little glad he had won out against her insistence to keep going. A relief, he wouldn’t have to worry just yet—not more than he already was. “I brought Chamomile with me this time because it has relaxing properties and I also brought more of the madeleines we liked.” They had eaten those a month ago, but now they had been incorporated in several of their visits. Her wanted to do anything to bring Rosa comfort. “If after we take a break together,” He removed his hand to turn towards her cabinets to find a tea pot, “You feel you need to keep going I will talk through it with you. Sometimes a second mind can help one sort facts and emotions. Especially a third party with no prior opinions.” Vyn found what he was looking for and quickly filled the pot with water.

“That sounds good to me Dr. Richter…” Rosa closed her notes and pushed them off to the side, eyes turning towards the fresh Gladiolus in the pot. Yes her mood was already improving. “Thank you, for everything. I would like some help talking through this, there are a few things I’m a little hung up on, but for now we take a break.” Her gaze turned to Dr. Richter's back—the sunlight filtering in through the windows casting a halo glow around his silver hair. Every so often, she was reminded of how breath taking he was, not that she was willing to voice that to him—but he was. The glow of his hair, the tenderness of his voice, the deep pools of summer golden eyes. Ethereal wouldn’t be too far off, but that was a little embarrassing. Her eyes were growing heavy accompanied by thoughts of Doctors and Halos. She was far more tired than she realized, and now that work had been removed from her sight, her almost reckless schedule was catching up.

“I would like nothing more than to help you walk through your case, and perhaps you can have a full rest after.” Vyn gave all of his attention to the pot, not realizing Rosa has slumped and started dozing. It was several moments later when the tea was made that he turned around realizing she had fallen asleep on him. Vyndidn’t mind—in fact he was relieved, she must have needed the sleep if she napped with company. Another, deeper part of him felt pleased that he was deemed safe enough to sleep near. Setting the cups to the side, he walked around the counter and rested his jacket over her shoulders carefully, not wanting to disturb her. With a pat on her head, he wandered back to the sink—he would tidy up to keep himself occupied while she slept even if it took all night.

[hale-13]

The Trouble with Tabloids

By Hale13 for @jenniboo311

“Oh look at this, this is a good one: ‘Some suggest that Parker’s powers include the male spider’s ability to hypnotize females.”

“Stop, c’mon,” Peter says back, slightly irritated at her teasing.

“Yes my Spider-Lord,” MJ says, dropping her voice in pitch and, against his will he starts chuckling. It makes him feel lighter and calmer and warm.

“Can we just like sit up here all day? It is so crazy down there.”

MJ hums and flicks over to the next page, still skimming. “I mean we could,” she says, neutral. “But would it really help anything?”

Or

MJ reads the Daily Bugle and Peter is an nervous mess about returning to school after his identity is reveled to the world.

Words: 5313, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandom: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Relationships: Peter Parker/Michelle Jones, Peter & May, Peter & Ned

Read on AO3 or below line break

“Does any part of you feel relieved about all this?” Michelle is curled up on her side, the half priced Christmas twinkle lights she picked up off a dusty shelf when they went thrift shopping a few months ago hung up haphazardly behind her. They make the edges of her hair glow red and throw strange and beautiful shadows across her face. Peter is almost too distracted looking at her to register her question.

“What do you mean?” His voice quiet and questioning. His living room is completely dark – his face lit only by his phone screen where he holds is just above his chest.

MJ’s face scrunches a little and she readjusts her head on the pillow, a few stray fractals of light bouncing off the broken black dahlia necklace and painting rainbows onto the wall and ceiling. “Now that everybody knows you don’t really have to hide or lie to people.”

Peter feels his hackles rise just a little at that comment but he’s too tired and burnt out to really be upset. He feels like he’s been fighting for years even though its only been a few weeks since Beck outed him to the world. His head pulsates with the starts of a headache and he just sighs. “For the record,” despite his desire to sound neutral his voice has a bit of an edge, “I never wanted to lie to you. But how do you tell someone that you’re Spider-Man?”

MJ hums noncommittally, it’s the sound she makes when she disagrees or has strong feelings about something in particular but doesn’t feel like arguing – he’s sure it will come up later and that her opinion will probably be correct. It makes him feel thankful and pissed simultaneously but he takes a deep breath and tries to let it go. Anger seems to be his default emotion these days. Anger and frustration and a dash of hopelessness. “Are you ready for tomorrow?” MJ asks, changing the subject abruptly and Peter settles a little more firmly into the ancient couch that May picked up from one of their neighbors. It groans under him.

“Sure,” he replies with a bit of a crooked smile that he can tell doesn’t reach his eyes – the little image in the bottom of his screen that shows his reflection makes him look pale and washed out and so so tired. No wonder May had been hovering so much recently. “I’ve always wanted to try and balance being a well known vigilante while going to high school.”

MJ chuckles and gives him a fond smile. The school year technically started a few weeks ago but Peter has been on unofficial home arrest while the NYPD and FBI and the freaking UN sorted out what to do with him. The unaltered footage from EDITH along with the character witness statements and testimonials from Happy and the newly returned to Earth Nick Fury (shape-shifting aliens what the fuck?) made it clear quickly that he was innocent but just opened the door for a whole host of other problems.

Like a large portion of conspiracy theorists still saying he killed Beck and that the government was covering it up. Or the fact that his address had gotten leaked and people had camped outside with signs or support or hatred and he and May had needed to move somewhere new. Or how Ned had been accosted by a crazy Fox News journalist on his way home from school one day.

That had made Peter see red and it was only May and Happy taking his web-shooters and phone and nearly restraining him that kept him from leaving to do something he would probably (maybe) regret later.

Jimmy Woo, the FBI agent over his case, had advised him to just lay low while the local and worldwide organizations hashed everything out. Peter was still too young to sign the Sokovia Accords but they couldn’t have him running around and ‘causing untold destruction’ in other countries. And, well, the NYPD still wasn’t his biggest fan when it came to the low-to-the-ground and neighborhood problems he liked to deal with.

As it was, he was now allowed to continue being Spider-Man in New York City but he would need special permission from local governments to act anywhere else. This suited Peter just fine; he would rather not leave home anytime soon after his last ‘vacation’ and Spider-Man was a Queens hero anyway. The clock on his phone ticked over to one in the morning just as his battery bar turned red.

“Hey,” Michelle said, pulling his attention back to her. She gave him a tired smile and pulled her blanket up higher on her shoulder. “We’ll be there with you the whole time.”

“I know,” Peter whispered, fingering the stitching of the t-shirt he had stolen from his girlfriend and was wearing. It still had just a bit of her scent that he could probably only pick up due to his enhanced senses and it made his chest feel a little full. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You will,” MJ said, ending the call and leaving Peter alone. The shadows that stretched across the walls from his dim phone light looked foreboding and he stared at them until his screen went dim. He really should get up and go to bed. He should pack his book bag. He should definitely charge his phone.

Instead, Peter creeps to his room and shimmies into his suit, jumping out his window into the cool night. ———————————————

Peter crawled back through his window just before his alarm goes off at six, tired and sweaty and still freaking out a little but feeling marginally better now that some of his nervous energy was gone. May is sitting at their little kitchen table nursing a cup of coffee in her robe and looking just as exhausted as he feels. He can tell she knows that he’s been out all night but he’s thankful she chooses not to say anything as he makes his walk of shame to their cramped single bathroom to shower.

When he emerges about twenty minutes later with damp hair and layered up in his favorite flannel shirt and a plain white t-shirt May has brewed another pot of coffee and has a stack of toast and jam on the table and his heart clenches. Toast and jam has always been his go-to for mornings where his anxiety is at an all time high and his stomach is twisting and he wraps his arms around May’s shoulders from behind in a fierce hug and tucks his face into her neck like he’s a little kid again. May gives him a kiss on the temple and lets him soak in some comfort from her before she shoos him over to his seat to eat.

They both sit in silence; Peter munching on his toast and drinking black coffee full of sugar to perk him up and May nursing her own cup and staring at the wall. May’s knee bumps against his when she scoots a little closer and he can feel a little bit more of the tension leak out of him – as long as he still has her he’s okay. No matter what happens with school and Spider-Man and the Avengers he has May.

“I’m so proud of you,” May tells him a few minutes later as he’s chewing on his last piece of toast and Peter can feel the tears pooling in the corners of his eyes but he refuses to cry. He sniffs and coughs, choking on emotion and May scoots her chair over more to pull him into a hug and he just lets himself be held for a minute.

“I love you,” he tells her, leaning into the hug for just another second before pulling away. May smiles, her own eyes watery and she fidgets with his hair, smoothing out the wild curls and fixing his collar. He knows she hears everything else he’s trying to say: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t want this.

“I love you too,” she says; It’s okay, its not your fault. “I have the next week off so if you need me for anything – and I mean anything – I want you to call me okay? I’ll come get you.”

Peter nods even though he would never call her to come bail him out and goes to the sink to rinse his cup and brush the crumbs off his plate. “I know May and I will, I promise.” Liar. The knock at the door interrupts them and Peter glances at the clock; its later than he thought. May bites her lip like she’s waffling on saying more but relents and goes to answer it. He can hear her greeting MJ and Ned, can hear the brushing of clothes as she hugs them both and Peter takes just a moment for himself. He closes his eyes and takes a fortifying breath – in through his nose and out through his mouth – and straightens his spine, squares his shoulders.

He can do this.

And he’s does. He’s fine as he slinks out of his building (the first time leaving as Peter Parker since his arrest and meeting with multiple government organizations and moving) and down the steps to slide into Happy’s car with Ned and MJ on either side of him. Ned is wearing the ridiculous letterman jacket from Acadec that he spent way too much money on and MJ is wearing a dark blazer he’s never seen before but instantly loves. He would probably love everything she wore to be honest.

“Hey kid,” Happy says. He looks completely unruffled in his usual dark suit and tie but Peter can hear his heart beating faster than usual as he double and triple checks his mirrors before pulling away from the curb. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Peter says but his voice is all wrong and he clears his throat to try to get rid of the lump that’s formed there unsuccessfully. Michelle slips her hand in his and squeezes tightly and Ned presses their sides together in a quick moment of support on his other side.

Ned’s phone buzzes against Peter’s leg and he fishes it out, unlocking it and reading through the message before typing a short reply. “Flash is meeting us out front,” he says. And that, probably, had been the biggest surprise from this whole identity reveal mess but it probably shouldn’t have been. When they had come back from the blip, fifteen kids out of their class of forty-three, they had come to an understanding.

The apology and forgiveness had gone unsaid between them but, suddenly, Flash wasn’t as terrible to be around. There was still some ribbing and snarky commentary but nothing to the intensity of before. No more ‘Penis Parker’ no tripping him in the halls or pushing him into lockers like before.

If the Blip had done one thing it was reset everyone’s preconceived notions and priorities.

After Beck had released his heavily doctored video, Flash had practically beat down Ned’s door and asked how he could help. With his large Twitter, Instagram and TikTok following, he had been able to help get the word out about local protests and had been the person behind #NY❤️sSpidey and #PeterParkerisInnocent trending on twitter for multiple days.

Peter had uninstalled all social media from his phone weeks ago to protect his sanity and had basically only been texting May, MJ, Ned and Happy but he really appreciated the sentiment and had dropped in on Flash when he was in the park the other day as Spider-Man to say a quick ‘thank you’ as he patrolled. Flash had looked stunned and excited in equal measure but had offered a scoff and a fist bump that Peter gladly returned before swinging off.

“Well shit,” Happy muttered as he turned into Midtown drawing Peter out of his thoughts.

The school was a madhouse – news trucks were lining the perimeter, their cameras and newscasters being careful to not step onto school property and under close watch from the scattering of NYPD and SRO on the scene. That was fine, they had expected that.

What Peter had not expected, what no one had prepared for, was the literal mob of protestors with signs and banners and t-shirts screaming and chanting behind a series of guardrails that fringed the path up to the school. His classmates were walking up the path mostly unmolested and filming and taking pictures, some of them lingering around the front entrance or on the steps or surrounding lawn as they watched in fascination. A couple were enthusiastically talking to a cluster of cameras and reporters near the subway entrance.

“How did they know I was coming back to school today?” Peter asks, mouth and throat dry and making his voice croak.

“Someone must have slipped it,” MJ says, not sounding surprised. There had been a school wide assembly the Friday before where Principal Morita had announced Peter’s imminent return and had put some ground rules in place – don’t treat him like a zoo animal, no crowding the halls, no harassment – but Peter didn’t really expect anyone to listen. He’d had his own meeting with May and Morita via Zoom a couple weeks before to hammer out the details of his continued education at Midtown and his tardy and absence policy. The man has assured him that he would do everything he could to keep Peter’s school experience as normal as possible which had bolstered May’s confidence but Peter had known it was more of an empty promise than anything else.

“It’s fine Pete,” Ned said. “They can’t do anything to us.”

Happy met his eyes in the rear view mirror and raised a questioning brow and Peter gave a shake of his head. He wasn’t going to back out now, besides, the car had been spotted and multiple cameras were pointed in his direction and the mob was screaming and waving their signs even more aggressively now.

Happy pulled to a slow stop in front of the path and put the car in park. “I can have them removed if you want,” he offered. “Or find a back entrance? You don’t have to deal with them Pete.”

Peter looked at the crowd again and gnawed at his already ragged lip. “It’s okay. It’ll just make it worse if I try to avoid them.”

Happy muttered something about self-flagellation under his breath with a fond eye roll but didn’t fight him. “Just don’t say anything,” he advises. “Don’t look at them and don’t say anything. Just keep walking until you’re in the school okay? I’ll be here right at four-thirty to pick you up after decathlon.”

“Thanks Happy,” Peter says, trading seats with Michelle so that he’ll be the first to emerge from the car and tightening his backpack straps. He wishes he had his red and black suit with him instead of the Iron Spider in its housing units on his wrists – the weight, minuscule as it is, is always comforting on his back. He wishes he was wearing his mask. He wishes he could just be plain Peter Parker again. He takes a deep, fortifying breath and opens the door.

The angry roar of the crowd when they see him nearly deafens him and he fights the urge to cover his ears and protect his sensitive hearing. Flash materializes out of nowhere to stand staunchly at his side as MJ slips out of the car, clearly nervous but ignoring the mass of people and grabbing his hand. “Nice hair Eugene,” she teases as Ned joins them and closes the door. Flash rolls his eyes at her and pushes his shockingly blonde fringe out of his eyes.

“You wish you could pull this off,” he offers in response and her smile becomes more genuine at the ribbing.

“Maybe red,” she muses, adjusting her own bag on her shoulder before she starts to walk up the sidewalk.

The path is only wide enough for them to walk two by two and MJ pulls him closer and holds his hand tighter as they face the school. Peter tries to ignore the signs and screams as he walks resolutely toward the door but he can’t completely block them out, especially after seeing a blown up copy of his year book photo with devil horns calling him a murderer. The woman holding it, wearing a t-shirt with a similar message and a button with Mysterio’s helmet on it, spews even more vitriol when she sees him look her direction. Her face is red and angry and Peter redirects his attention back to the school.

His classmates crowd the stairs and most of them have their phones out to livestream him coming to school. He feels like a bug pinned under glass and he can feel his breath speed up in his chest but he tries not to show it. Ben had always told him that he was an open book and that anyone could read his every thought on his face. It had been funny back then but now Peter just wishes that it was anything but true.

It, unfortunately, doesn’t get any better inside. The halls are lined with curious teenagers and teachers alike who all watch him walk down the hall and film him and get way too close for comfort. Morita had told him that he can’t, technically, enforce the no phone rule before school officially starts for the day and after it ends so Peter will have to deal with it.

His locker is also, unfortunately, down a completely different hall than Ned, MJ and Flash’s so they have to separate if they plan on being on time for home room. He’ll meet Ned there but he won’t see the other two until second period and he has first period, APUSH, completely alone. It’s almost enough to send him over the edge.

“I can walk with you,” Ned offers, adjusting his bag but Peter just shakes his head. He can do this. He has to do this.

The heckling gets worse once the others leave and his classmates get bolder – pushing into his space and taking selfies with him and asking invasive questions. He’s never been popular and he’s always been ignored and its just getting to be too much but at least he understands why some celebrities go off the deep end and straight up punch paparazzi now.

He makes quick work of getting his locker open and stowing his extra notebooks and gym bag before hassling in the direction of his home room. Ned meets up with him halfway there, a little out of breath from clearly rushing to meet him and pushing through the crowd, and the groupies back off a little once he’s around and forming a barrier between them and Peter. Ms. Warren glances at them from her desk when they enter and her eyes linger on Peter a little longer than normal but she otherwise ignores them and Peter feels honestly faint in relief.

“Dude,” Ned tells him as he slips into the seat to Peter’s right at the scratched up black lab table. Peter groans and drops his head onto his crossed arms, not really knowing how to respond. “At least you have Dell for APUSH – he won’t put up with any shit in his class.”

“Yeah,” Peter responds. “Lucky.”

Ned winces and goes to say something else but the bell rings and the school morning newscast starts playing on the TV. Ms. Warren turns it up just as Betty Brant says “This morning our very own Midtown Avenger joined us back in classes. In case you missed it, Jason and I were live on the scene for his-,”

Peter crammed his headphones in and turned on the white noise to drown out the sound of the newscast and pointedly ignored Ned’s sympathetic looks and Ms. Warren who looked at his headphones in blatant disapproval but didn’t ask him to take them out. Thank God.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he peeked at the message coming through – a single eye rolling emoji from MJ followed by Must be a slow news day. He smiled despite himself and tucked the phone back away just as the bell rang.

His first class alone was a nightmare – Mr. Dell had assigned them all seats and had put Peter front and center in what was, probably, an effort to keep his classmates for hassling him too much and keep everyone’s attention on what he was teaching and not on Peter. It didn’t really work since people kept taking sneaky Snapchat pictures and videos of him under their desks when Mr. Dell’s back was turned. Peter set his jaw and tried to ignore it but he knew he would have to borrow Ned’s notes if he even hoped at passing the class.

His AP English class was a little better since he had both Ned and MJ with him but Mr. Harrington who was, arguably, his favorite teacher and one that had, apparently, really gone to bat for him against the PTO and school board so that he could keep his scholarship and go to school, was a little oblivious. His classmates were even more bold and blatant and he was clenching his jaw so much he thought his teeth might break.

“Come with me,” MJ said, pulling him out of his desk right as the bell rang and rushing out the door.

“Where are we going?” Peter asked, stumbling after her as she pulled him toward one of the stock rooms, pushing him in and closing and locking the door behind them.

“To the roof,” she answered, standing on an overturned bucket to open up the small window. Peter blinked in surprise.

“But you have art this hour.”

“And you have a free period,” MJ said like it was obvious, hopping off the bucket and herding him to the window. “Ms. Goode loves me anyway so she won’t care if I miss a class. Hurry up and get sticky.”

Peter let out a bark of a laugh and climbed up the wall, pulling Michelle through the window after him and carefully avoiding the classrooms and front of the building until they reached the roof. The sun was bright and warm on his skin and he laid on his back just reveling in the silence. “This is nice,” he said, catching the book MJ dropped before it hit his stomach without opening his eyes and positioning it behind his head as a pillow. She settled in next to him, rustling with some paper and he cracked open one eye to glance at her. “What is that?”

“The Daily Bugle,” she answered, flicking through a couple pages and skimming the words, ignoring as Peter choked on his own saliva and fell into a coughing fit.

“You’re actually reading that garbage? You know what they’re saying about me right? Jameson keeps calling me a ‘Spider-Menace like that even makes sense-.”

“It’s actually pretty hilarious,” she said interrupting his tirade and stopping her flicking to read through a page. “Oh look at this, this is a good one: ‘Some suggest that Parker’s powers include the male spider’s ability to hypnotize females.”

“Stop, c’mon,” Peter says back, slightly irritated at her teasing.

“Yes my Spider-Lord,” MJ says, dropping her voice in pitch and, against his will he starts chuckling. It makes him feel lighter and calmer and warm.

“Can we just like sit up here all day? It is so crazy down there.”

MJ hums and flicks over to the next page, still skimming. “I mean we could,” she says, neutral. “But would it really help anything?”

Peter sighs and flops over on his stomach to beat his head gently into the book. “Probably not.” His stomach growls and he sighs – at least lunch is next. MJ’s hand skims down his neck to sit in the small of his back.

“I can think of something that could take your mind off it,” she says lightly and Peter feels his cheeks heat just a little but rolls his head over to smirk at her.

“Do tell.”

She gives him a little smile of her own before poking him until he moves enough for her to perch on his lap. He curls block out the sun and she’s at just the perfect height for him to lean forward and pull her into kiss.

They slip back into the window of the stock room just before the bell rings to end third period with their lips swollen and their hair a little more messy than it was before but with bright smiles and less tense muscles. Peter keeps his ear to the door and waits for the hallway to clear before they slip out and make their way to the lunch room.

Both of them had brought lunch so it was easier to creep in unnoticed through the side door and join Ned and Flash in the back corner of the cafeteria. It didn’t take too long before their classmates started murmuring and pointing and, despite the numerous warnings from various administrators and the fact that five of the sophomore level teachers were seated at their own table near the front of the room, many of the students took notice of their sudden appearance and were attempting to take surreptitious pictures and videos of them on phones hidden under tables and halfway in hoodie pockets. Peter felt his ears turn red as he ducked his head closer to the table and nearly into his sandwich. MJ glared at the table closest to them and the few girls seated there at least had the decency to look ashamed though they didn’t tuck their phones away.

“So this is fun,” Flash muttered as he picked at the flavorless and congealed school spaghetti on his tray. His normal table of friends and groupies were seated a few tables away and looking at him with jealously. Awkward silence followed his deadpan grumbling and Peter shifted uncomfortably.

Michelle rolled her eyes and snorted indelicately before glancing at Peter with clear mischief in her eyes and slapping her copy of the Daily Bugle on the table before flipping it open to a page she had earmarked. Peter groaned and dropped his head to thunk on the table dramatically as MJ said “ Did you know that Peter can hypnotize females with his spider powers?”

Ned snorted so abruptly some of the water he was drinking dribbled out his nose causing him to cough and gag and Flash to thump him on the back. “Oh my God,” Ned said reverently, touching the gossip rag and cradling it like it was special as his eyes darted across the page. “This is the best thing I’ve ever seen. I need to get this framed!”

Peter whined and thumped his head on the table a few more times. “Yo Parker, this says you lay eggs,” Flash pointed out, skimming the edge of the page where a bullet pointed lists of ‘Fun Facts!’ were.

“I don’t lay eggs!” Peter groaned out in dismay, giving MJ his best betrayed look. She ignored his misery as she gleefully looked at the paper upside down to read the other inaccurate facts listed about him. “This is abuse,” he muttered, trying to pull the paper away from Ned but failing as his friend dodged and Flash batted his hands away.

“Does your ability to hypnotize only work on females? What exactly is the process?” Ned teased, voice shaking in mirth. “Wait! Wait what do you make them call you? Master of the Spiders? Arachnid King?”

“Spider Lord,” MJ provided with a shit-eating grin that had Flash and Ned sputtering with laughter and drawing even more attention their way.

“Oh come on,” Peter begged. “Don’t let anyone hear you or they’ll believe it!”

“Of course Spider Lord,” Flash intoned with barely concealed glee causing Ned and MJ to cackle more.

“You’re all the worst,” Peter told them without heat. To be honest this was the best he had felt all day – he hardly noticed the extra stares and muttering anymore. The bell announcing the end of their lunch rang and he hurried to cram the rest of his sandwich in his mouth as quickly as possible; they all had to hurry since they had gym and had to change before the tardy bell rang in ten minutes.

The heckling continued up until they split off to enter different locker rooms and Peter abruptly clenched his jaw as he realized the majority of his class was not only early to class to change but also waiting in the locker room and looking busy while they waited for him. Ned shot him a wince as he ducked into one of the stalls to change. Peter could feel the eyes following him as he did the same.

“Come on Parker,” he told himself as he took a few moments to center himself. “It’s just gym. You’ve done it a hundred times. This time’s no different.” He took as much time as possible to change, only sneaking out just before the bell rang and the majority of the room emptied.

MJ had saved them seats a bit away from the rest of the class and Peter squeezed between her and Ned, taking her hand and giving it a soft squeeze. Coach Wilson, looking particularly bored, was lugging a couple bags of foam balls from the locked equipment closet and Peter felt his stomach turn with dread. He detested dodgeball.

“You know the drill,” Coach Wilson drowned from the middle of the court. “Split in half, game starts on my whistle. Not you Parker,” he called over the din of talking and scuffing tennis shoes. “New PTA rules – you can watch and do individual work but no more team or contact sports.”

Peter felt his face flush again as he lowered himself back into his seat as the class broke out into louder conversations around him. Ned clapped him on the shoulder and said “Don’t worry about it man,” and Peter opened his mouth with the intent to thank or reassure his friend that he was okay but Ned, taking advantage and wearing a smirk, loudly went directly for the kill. “Besides, its unbecoming of a Spider Lord to comport himself like one of us mere plebes.”

Flash promptly tripped down the stairs and barely caught himself from falling on his face and breaking his nose on the floor, MJ had to sit back down to get herself under control as the rest of their class just stared at them with confused looks on their faces.

“I can’t believe you’ve done this,” Peter told Ned seriously causing his friends to break out into laughter again. If you can’t beat ‘em right?

“You’ve been an awfully good sport about this,” MJ told him later, leaning against a neighboring locker as he packed his bag and grabbed his decathlon binder. He shot her a questioning glance as he zipped up his bag. “The Spider Lord thing. It doesn’t actually bother you right? Because Ned already changed your name in the group chat and I’d hate to hurt his feelings by changing it again.”

“No its fine,” Peter reassured her. “It’s a little funny.” He slammed his locker shut and took her hand, “We’re going to be late Captain,” he told her, walking in the direction of the library. And maybe it didn’t bother him but it didn’t stop the wheels from turning. The attention rankled and he just wanted to go back to being Peter Parker again, to be completely anonymous.

He may know a guy who could help with that – it would only take a quick trip to Bleeker Street.

[whenisitenoughtrees]

to be honest, capable (of holding you) (part 2/3)

He walks forward, crouching over the snake, and when it doesn’t stir at all, he works up his courage and pokes it, just a little. Its scales are warm and smooth under his fingertip, and he resists the urge to stroke them. He doubts he could get away with that.

“Janus?” he asks, trying to keep the somewhat hysterical laughter from his voice. “That you?”

Thomas didn’t know that Janus could turn into an actual snake, but he’s glad to hang out with him regardless. More than glad; ecstatic, even, because he’s been trying to figure out how to befriend him for ages, and this seems like a good first step. What he can’t figure out is why human-Janus is being so weird about it.

(Alternatively: Janus doesn’t trust easily. He wishes he could stop trusting Thomas— it would be so much less terrifying.)

Chapter Warnings: blood and injury, Remus being mildly unsettling

Chapter Word Count: 5,074

Pairing: platonic Thomceit

(part 1) (part 3)

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

They don’t talk about it.

Thomas would very much like to talk about it. But whenever he goes to bring it up, Janus glares at him in a way that promises a world of trouble if he so much as breathes a word, and Thomas really does not want to set back any of the progress he’s already made with him, so he shuts up about it. He’s not entirely sure why Janus is so opposed to addressing it; it can’t be that he doesn’t want the others to know, after all, because all the others are literally parts of Thomas and as such are privy to the knowledge of everything that Thomas experiences.

As best as Thomas can tell, it’s some sort of embarrassment that holds Janus back, some sort of shame, and Thomas doesn’t get it. Surely he knows that Thomas doesn’t mind at all, that Thomas enjoys the time they spend together, even if their conversations are far more one-sided than he would like. Janus seems to be under the impression that coming to him at all is in some way unseemly, while Thomas just wants him to be comfortable enough to approach him as a human.

But as more time passes, that seems less and less likely. Thomas spends far more time with snake-Janus than with human-Janus, and Janus begins to come with him even when the sun shines bright and his spot by the window is available. Thomas becomes quite familiar with carrying a weight looped around his neck, and wishes he could puzzle out why Janus is acting this way.

The worst part is that with every passing day, he feels like he understands Janus less, not more. Because the way he acts during meetings and discussions, when he pops in to offer opinions and advice masked as sarcasm and cutting quips, is entirely different to the way he acts as a snake, when he and Thomas are alone together, when he leans into all the contact Thomas has to offer, seeking warmth, and, Thomas suspects, company. It’s almost as if he’s dealing with two entirely different people, each one unwilling or unable to discuss the other, and frankly, Thomas has no idea what to do about it.

Because he’s worried that if he pushes too hard, demands one answer too many, Janus will stop approaching him at all, in any form. And that is the last thing he wants.

So, he leaves it be, and resigns himself to the idea that human-Janus may just remain incomprehensible to him, and that snake-Janus is the closest he will get to making a friend out of him. And if that turns out to be the case, then gosh darn it, he will be the best friend to snake-Janus that he possibly can be.

This has the side effect of leading him to a snake-centric fact-finding mission, which Logan appreciates, at least, because “even if the information may not be applicable to most aspects of your life, at least you’re learning something, Thomas.” Which he supposes is fair. He learns a great many things about snakes over the course of a few days, most of it interesting, if not particularly relevant. He doesn’t know how much of this actually applies to Janus, since he’s not a real snake.

Though he does find out that snakes don’t have eyelids. That would explain the whole no-blinking thing.

Other than his impromptu investigations, they fall into an equilibrium fairly easily. Janus will seek him out at all hours of the day and wrap himself around his arm or neck, sometimes staying awake and aware and sometimes drifting off into sleep. And when he’s fed up with the company, he leaves, disappearing with neither warning nor fanfare. Thomas settles into this new routine with little effort, and decides that if this is all he’s going to get from Janus, he’ll take it.

He gets used to it, so much so that he stops looking every time he feels Janus curl around him. This turns out to be a mistake.

He’s procrastinating, as per usual. His deadline is a full week away, and even Virgil has been unable to provide the urgency that Thomas needs to push through and finish his latest project. He knows that this will only end badly, that he’s going to end up staying up until the early hours of the morning in a few days if he doesn’t get started now, but he simply doesn’t feel like it. So, he’s scrolling through Amazon instead, clicking through pages of items that he neither needs nor particularly wants.

He’s been looking at a lot of frogs, lately. Cute, decorative frogs, the kinds that sit on mantles and don’t do much of anything. And plushies, too, and those are actually tempting. He’s pretty sure that it’s Patton’s influence.

“What do you think?” he asks, holding up his arm so that Janus can see the screen. Janus hisses quietly, and he laughs. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.” He doesn’t have the money to spend on a bunch of decorative frogs, even if he had a strong inclination toward doing so, but it’s fun to look. He’s seriously considering a stuffed animal, but he’s pretty sure that Logan intends to talk him down from that, so there’s no real need to be concerned about it. Even if he ends up buying one after all, he thinks it would be worth it.

He glances down at Janus, trying to figure out if he’s enjoying this at all, or if he’s just irritated. And that’s when he finally notices the blood.

He freezes up, his muscles tensing, and blinks hard, hoping that it’s a trick of the light, or that spending so many hours doing practically nothing has fried his brain at last. But no; Janus’ scales are dotted with rusty red, and Thomas traces the blood back to a long gash trailing down his side, sluggishly oozing, slowly dripping onto his arm. He stares for a long moment, his mind stalling, and he wonders if the scent of iron flooding his nose is real or imaginary. Or rather, real by a certain standard, since everything to do with his sides is technically imaginary, but oh god, why is he bleeding so much? He thought that his sides could wave off injuries, that nothing could truly affect them unless they wanted it to? Or is that just Logan? And then there’s the question of what did this to him in the first place, and how exactly he’s supposed to treat someone who’s a figment of his imagination, and whether or not any of the real medical supplies he has would work at all—

Focus, Thomas.

It’s like a whisper in his ear, gentle and firm. Logan’s voice. The world snaps into sharp clarity, mind and adrenaline working in tandem.

“Oh my god,” he says, and Janus’ head swivels to face him. The movement is slow, almost lethargic, as if he’s operating on a time delay. “You’re hurt. Okay. Well, not okay. But you’ll be okay.”

He has a first aid kit in the bathroom. He has no idea whether that will help or not, but he won’t know until he tries, as his logic helpfully points out. So the first order of business is to get to the bathroom. He stands, setting his laptop to the side, trying to jostle Janus as little as possible. Now that he’s paying attention, more and more details filter in; Janus’ grip on his arm is looser than usual, his eyes dull and glazed. His hat, usually so perfectly placed, is just slightly askew.

He makes it to the bathroom in short order, yanking the kit out from under the sink and nearly spilling its contents across the floor. He’ll need both hands for this, and he looks to Janus with no small amount of trepidation, wondering how well he’ll take being moved. He doesn’t want to cause him more pain than necessary, and he doesn’t know how aware he currently is, doesn’t know if he’ll lash out if he feels threatened. He gives him an experimental nudge, prodding at him with one finger, and Janus hisses, shifting his coils to hold on tighter.

“C’mon,” Thomas says. “You gotta let me help you, buddy.”

There is is again: buddy. He still doesn’t think it fits quite right, but it seems to slip out anyway, and now is hardly the time to worry about it, not when Janus still shows no sign of budging.

“Please, Janus,” he says, dangerously close to begging. “I promise, I’m not gonna let anything else happen to you, but you need to let me see where you’re hurt.”

Janus’ tongue flickers out, tasting the air, and his eyes seem to focus just a bit. One minute passes, and then another, and Thomas is about to try to remove him by force when finally, he lets go, slithering onto the counter, his motions hesitant and pained, softly hissing all the while. Blood begins to drip onto the sink, the sickening red smearing across the countertop.

“Thank you,” Thomas says, not bothering to hide his relief. “Okay, um, I’ve got bandages. And painkillers, if you want them… can snakes take painkillers?” He sets things out as he names them, slowing as he hits a snag. Not only does he not know if snakes can take painkillers, but he also doesn’t know if there are any other substances in here that would do more harm than good, or if there are any special steps he should take due to his scales, or the fact that he’s cold-blooded. In fact, he has absolutely no idea how to treat a snake, and the idea that he might end up making things worse is enough to send his anxiety ratcheting up a few notches.

Is he overthinking this? He might be overthinking this. But what if he’s not?

Try to remain calm. If you don’t know enough to work within this situation, change the situation.

Logan again, though he’s not sure how that’s supposed to help. He would change the situation if he could— heck, that’s what he’s trying to do— but if it were so simple as wishing this whole scenario away, he would have done it by now. He’s not sure how to—

Oh, wait. Change the situation, or change Janus’ situation?

He has absolutely no idea how to treat a snake. But Janus doesn’t have to be a snake.

He crouches down so that he’s on eye level with Janus, who is limp and unmoving on the sink counter, tracking his motions with clouded eyes. It’s not just the large gash, he realizes; that’s the worst of it, but there are several shallower cuts, all still open and bleeding, and he swallows hard.

“Okay, so, I don’t want to make things any worse,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Do you think you could turn back into a human for me? Just so that I know what I’m doing?”

Not that he knows much about treating humans either, but at least he’d know where to start. Perhaps if Janus’ injuries were less severe, he could work with them in this state, but that prominent gash looks deep and angry, probably about six inches long, wide and painful, rending scales apart and leaking dark blood and god, he is so afraid of making this worse—

Janus stares at him, and doesn’t react.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, because he is. He doesn’t know why Janus only initiates contact with him as a snake, doesn’t know why the very idea of deviating from that seems to disquiet him. Asking him to be human now, like this, almost seems wrong, like they’ll be breaking what understanding they do have between them, breaking the peace they’ve found with each other lately. But then, the peace is already broken, he thinks, has been broken since Janus showed up bleeding. “I know you probably don’t want to. But I want to make this better, and I don’t think I can if you’re uh, shaped like this. I… I guess I’m asking you to trust me.”

It’s a tall order, and he is well aware of that. Janus is Deceit, after all, and Deceit is practically the antithesis of trust. He’ll probably have to work with Janus as a snake after all, and he’s just resolving himself to do the best he can when Janus shifts in place, raising his head.

Thomas isn’t sure how to process what happens next. One part of his brain tells him that the change happens slowly, that Janus’ form stretches and morphs in impossible ways, scales fading away and features rearranging before his eyes. The other part of his brain insists that the shift is instantaneous, that it happens as quickly as blinking, that in one moment, there is a snake curled on the counter and in the next, there is a man, with no gradual transition between the two. But however it happens, Janus now sits in front of him, arms and legs all present, hunched in on himself and wheezing. One hand flies to his side, clutching at his shirt.

Thomas blinks. For a second, his mind fights with itself, trying to decide on what, exactly, he just watched. Then, he decides that it doesn’t matter, that he’ll have a crisis about it later, and that there are more important things to concentrate on.

He reaches out, placing a steadying hand on Janus’ shoulder. “Easy, easy,” he says, raising his voice to be audible over Janus’ gasps. “Are you okay?”

It takes a minute for Janus to get his breathing under control, and when he does, he looks up at Thomas, his expression pinched. “Just fine,” he rasps. “Absolutely perfect, can’t you tell?” His voice is strained, tension showing in the lines around his eyes and in the thin set of his mouth. “Really, Thomas, the fuss is hardly necessary. I—” He cuts off with a slight gasp, eyes squeezing shut, and Thomas feels his heart clench.

“Hm, yeah, no, I think I’ve got the right to fuss a little bit,” he says, hoping his voice stays level. He looks him up and down, searching for the injury, and finds nothing; his shirt appears immaculate, his whole outfit as perfectly assembled as usual, not a rip or tear in sight. If it weren’t for the pain on his face, the tremors wracking his frame, Thomas wouldn’t suspect that he was injured at all, and he frowns. “Can you, uh—” He gestures— “take off your shirt, maybe? So I can see where you’re hurt?”

Janus sighs heavily, as though the request has greatly burdened him. He waves one hand in the air, and his shirt and capelet vanish, revealing his bare torso. Under any other circumstance, Thomas might be fascinated by the scales that trail all along his chest and left arm, but right now, his attention centers on the gash bloodying his side, and the thinner scratches that cover him. They all look bigger than they were before, more serious, and he hopes that he didn’t make the wrong decision in requesting him to shift. If it had been a bad idea, he would have refused, right?

“God, Janus,” he says. “What happened?”

Janus sighs again, rolling his eyes. “A mishap in the Imagination,” he says. “Unfortunately, both Roman and Remus designed the place so that its effects stick around even after leaving.”

… Alright. That’s probably something to talk about later; he doesn’t particularly like the reminder that he has no idea how most of the mindscape works. “But I thought you could heal yourselves?” he can’t help but ask. He vividly remembers the day he met Remus, the way that none of his attacks seemed to affect Logan for more than a few seconds.

“We all can, to some degree,” Janus agrees. “It’s more difficult for some of us than it is for others.” He hesitates, and the next words come out slow and almost defensive. “I am capable of it, if I succeed in persuading myself that the problem doesn’t exist in the first place, but in order to do so, I need to sufficiently distance myself from any negative sensations that accompany the harm. I am… currently finding that difficult.” He glares. “I’ll mange perfectly well, given time. There is no need for any of this.” He waves an arm to punctuate the declaration, and it might have been somewhat convincing if it weren’t for the fact that he immediately curls in on himself, face paling, like he’s pulled something the wrong way.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Well, how about you let me help you anyway, just for my peace of mind?”

Janus stares at him for a long moment, face unreadable. Finally, he glances away. “Do what you wish,” he says. “If you want to waste time on this, be my guest.”

He hums noncommittally, already inspecting the wound. “I don’t think that taking care of you is a waste of time,” he says, fishing through the first aid kit. He comes up with a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol, looking up just in time to see what can only be an expression of shock fade from Janus’ face, and god, what must he be doing wrong if that is Janus’ reaction to being told that he cares about him? He can’t unpack that right now, or else he might cry, so he holds out the Tylenol instead. “Painkillers?”

Janus nods slightly, and takes two dry. From there, Thomas works in silence, cleaning the wounds as best he can and bandaging them. It takes longer than he expects, and he debates whether or not the long gash will need stitches. He decides not to make the attempt, trusting that what Janus says is true and that he will be able to heal before too long. So he wraps bandages around his torso, and Janus, for his part, remains perfectly still, staring straight ahead, an occasional soft hiss the only thing that betrays his discomfort.

“Okay,” he says quietly, inspecting his handiwork. “I think that’s the best I can do.”

Janus shoots him an unreadable look. “In that case,” he says, “I believe I’ll be going now.”

He hops down from the counter before Thomas can stop him, and his face crumples like a wet sheet of paper. Thomas catches him as his knees give out, hooking his hands under his arms. He is surprisingly light, his skin cool to the touch.

“How about we don’t do that, actually,” he says. “I’ll tell you what, let’s go to my room, and I can work and you can get some rest?”

Janus hisses, trying to jerk away. It’s not difficult to prevent him from doing so; he has all the strength of a floppy pool noodle. “Oh yes, because I’m in dire need of a babysitter,” he spits out, and perhaps Thomas should feel intimidated, but looking at him, at the way all the color has drained from his face, at the way his eyes have glazed over even as they dart around the bathroom, all Thomas can muster up is a deep worry.

“I’m not trying to babysit you,” he says. “Believe me, I know that you of all people don’t need babysitting. But if you try to sink out now, I’m just gonna be stressed out, so if you’d stick around for a little bit, I would really appreciate it.”

Janus stills. The silence stretches on.

“Fine,” Janus says. “Sure. Whatever.”

Thomas restrains himself from letting out a sigh of relief, instead adjusting his grip on Janus until he is only supporting part of his weight. From the look on his face, Janus wants very much to grumble about the indignity of the situation, but miraculously, he remains quiet all the way to Thomas’ room, though he begins to drag his feet when he sees what Thomas intends.

“If you want me to rest,” he says, “I am perfectly capable of doing so in my own room. There’s hardly a need for me to take up space in your bed.”

“Okay,” Thomas says, lowering him to sit on the bedsheets and doing his level best to ignore his glare, “but then I won’t know that you’re alright. Also, I don’t see what the big deal is? It’s not like we haven’t done this before. You were just, uh, snakier.”

He knows immediately that it is the wrong thing to say. Janus’ face sets into an impassive wall, and he looks away, refusing to make eye contact. Thomas can’t tell what he’s feeling, whether it’s anger or embarrassment or frustration or some stubborn combination of the three. But he settles himself against the headboard without further argument, seemingly determined not to carry on any further conversation, so Thomas resigns himself to the silent treatment and sets up with his laptop on the other side of the bed, several inches placed between them.

The atmosphere is awkward, heavy. They both know that Thomas wants to talk, and they both know that Janus will not reply, or if he does, it will be with sharp sarcasm or otherwise cutting words, an answer that will not answer anything at all. So Thomas doesn’t say anything, merely glances over every now and again to be sure that Janus is still there, is still fine, is still breathing. Every time, he is greeted with the same sight: Janus staring off into the empty space in front of him, face blank, a faint tightness around his eyes the only indication that he is still in pain. There is a wall between them, invisible yet insurmountable, and Thomas has no idea how to breach it.

Why does their relationship feel so off-kilter now? Why are things so natural between them when Janus is a snake, small and speechless and cuddly, and not when he is a human?

“I don’t mean to force you to stay,” he murmurs. “If you’re really that uncomfortable, it’s alright if you leave.”

He’s watching him out of the corner of his eye, and as such, he sees the wince, slight though it may be.

“It’s… not that,” Janus admits. “I am grateful for your concern, truly. I just… so love being in unfamiliar territory.” His voice is a quiet drawl, but laced with exhaustion, his words just shy of slurred together.

He takes a second to parse through the words, and then smiles. “Well, that makes two of us,” he says. “I’d be alright with muddling through together. And look, I know that most of the time, when we hang out, you’re a snake. And that’s fine! One hundred percent fine, if that’s what you’re most comfortable with! But uh, I really wouldn’t mind spending more time with you as, like, a person, too, if that makes sense. Not that you’re not a person when you’re a snake! Wait—” He furrows his brow, trying to untangle his words, and looks over, certain that Janus will at least be amused by his rambling.

He’s not. Because Janus is asleep, his chin resting against his chest and his hat about to fall into his lap. Thomas feels an inexorable sense of fondness sweep over him, and with a gentle movement, he reaches over to pluck the hat from Janus’ head, revealing brown hair that falls in springy waves. He places the hat on the nightstand, casting one last look at Janus before returning his attention to his laptop.

There is plenty of work to do, and he is content to do it here, sitting in bed with Janus napping by his side. So he does, his fingers clacking against the keys long into the night, and Janus sleeps on.

-----------

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. But he must, because he wakes, and slowly processes the fact that all is not as he left it. For one, the light is off, the room dark, and his laptop is resting on the nightstand, next to the shadow of Janus’ hat. For another, there is a heavy weight on top of his chest, pinning one of his arms against his side, and in the seconds before his eyes adjust sufficiently to the darkness, he fears the worst, fears that someone has broken into his apartment and… crawled into bed with him, and the irrationality of that idea is enough to dampen his panic. He squints, trying to will his vision into focus, and begins to make out what features he can see of the face pressed against his chest, features that very closely resemble his own, and that is when he remembers: Janus on his arm, Janus injured and bleeding, Janus on his bed, Janus asleep. Janus… still here.

Janus, snuggled up against him, his head resting on his chest, his body curled into his side, latched onto him with both… no, there’s more than two arms. At least four, maybe more; it’s difficult to determine without the light on, because all that Thomas can tell is that he is being very thoroughly hugged, and that it feels very nice.

This fact is distracting enough that it’s a full three minutes or so before he realizes that there is another figure perched on the edge of his bed. Panic roars up in him once again, his heart pounding and the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, but then he notices the details, notices the poof of the figure’s sleeves, the wildness of their hair silhouetted against the light that creeps around the edges of the doorframe, the unholy red gleam of their eyes. And he… well, he doesn’t relax, not exactly. But most of his fear sidesteps directly into annoyance.

“Remus,” he hisses, as quietly as he can manage. “What are you doing?”

Remus cocks his head, his eyes shining brighter. He’s crouched almost like a grotesque parody of a cat, ready to pounce. But the Duke himself is still and silent, and it’s very odd. Almost worrying. And when he finally speaks, it’s not at all what Thomas was expecting.

“DeeDee got hurt,” he says, voice a subdued whisper, and Thomas is taken aback, both by the seriousness of his tone and the evident consideration toward not waking Janus up.

“I— yeah,” Thomas replies, uncertain as to where this is going. “I, uh, patched him up as best I could. He said he’d heal soon.” A thought occurs to him, and if Janus weren’t keeping him flat on his back, he’d be sitting bolt upright, finger pointed in accusation. “Wait, he said he was hurt in the Imagination. Did you have something to do with that?”

“I can’t keep an eye on every part of La La Land at once, Thomas.” He shrugs. “It’s not my fault if Snake from Snake Farm wandered into something he shouldn’t have.” He giggles, high-pitched and a little manic, but Thomas wonders at his tone of voice. It’s as irreverent as always, but underneath that— can it be concern? He really didn’t think Remus did concern. “Snakes should know better than to let their guard down. Your mind is dark and full of terrors.” He smiles, several rows of pointed white teeth gleaming an unnatural white in the shadows.

“I don’t even watch—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, and then freezes as Janus makes a small sound. Seconds pass, and he waits with bated breath, but Janus doesn’t seem to wake. “Okay, then,” he continues, more quietly. “Is there a reason why you’re here?”

Remus blinks, and once again, Thomas is reminded of a cat. A terrible, eldritch horror of a cat, but a cat nonetheless. “DeeDee doesn’t like to be around people when he’s hurt,” he says, rocking back and forth in place. “He doesn’t like people knowing when he’s weak.” He sighs through his nose, his breath whistling more than is natural. “He holes up in his room and doesn’t come out for anything, usually. Not even when I bang on the door and put rats in his air vents.”

Thomas stares, trying to process that. “But he’s here with me,” he says dumbly. “He decided to stay here. He’s…” He trails off. He doesn’t need to describe what Janus is doing; surely, Remus can see it for himself, can see them engaging in what can only be labeled as cuddling. And it’s not as if this is the first time; it’s just the first time Janus has been human-shaped.

“Yes, he is,” Remus agrees, voice sharp, and he is definitely trying to convey something here, something that Thomas is missing. “Tommy-boy, Tommy-boy, Tommy-boy, you’re just not getting it, are you? Well, that’s fine. Just remember that the snakes on the plane die too, if the plane crashes.”

“Is the plane crashing?” Thomas asks, voice hoarse, hesitant, and once again, Remus smiles, wide and dangerous.

“Not now, maybe,” he says. “But it still could. It always can. That’s the fun thing about airplanes. I could help with that, if you wanted.”

“No thanks,” Thomas is quick to reply.

Remus shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says, and then pauses. “Janus doesn’t let just anyone this close, you know. So don’t fuck it up.”

It’s such an uncharacteristic statement that by the time Thomas has recovered enough to reply, Remus is gone, melting into the bedsheets in a grotesque puddle of goo, and then, even that disappears. Thomas is left in a dark, quiet room, and he has never felt more awake.

But Janus is still here, still asleep, is holding onto him for dear life and hiding his face against his chest. And it’s something precious, something intimate, something that Thomas feels privileged to see at all, and Remus’ voice rings loud in his head: Janus doesn’t let just anyone this close. Why, then, has he allowed him this? Why has he let Thomas see him at his most vulnerable, no matter how reluctant he was at the start? Why did he choose to stay, rather than leaving once Thomas nodded off?

Each question only leads to more questions, and it’s clear that he won’t receive any answers tonight. So he settles back in as best he can, though it is a long time before he manages to fall asleep again.

In the morning, Janus is gone. He wishes he could be more surprised.

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

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Druck | SKAM (Germany) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Fatou Jallow/Kieu My Vu Characters: Fatou Jallow, Kieu My Vu Additional Tags: S6E10: Bis in die Unendlichkeit?, Post Mittwoch 18:31, more healthy communication between kieutou, aka what we deserved in canon Summary:

“I wanted you from the day I met you. Really,” Fatou tells her, and she wonders how many times she’s going to have to say it for Kieu My to get it, how many old texts between her the Cash Queens are going to have to be dug up, displayed as half-ashamed, half-victorious evidence of her infatuation. “You were the only one on my mind, all the time. From the very beginning.” “You were too, you know,” Kieu My says.

Title comes from the song "Worst Behavior" by Ariana Grande.

I adore these two so much! If you enjoyed this fic, please let me know, comments and kudos make my day!

     “I hated fighting with you,” Fatou says. It’s barely audible, just a murmur in a room robbed of sensory indicators— nearly pitch black, with a white noise fan to the left of the bed, a radiator pumping heat in the diagonal, perched between a bookshelf and a closet. Fatou wonders if it’s intentional, meant to drown out the sounds; if Kieu My’s parents are home, if they know anything about her. That’s a question for another time. 

     “I forgot what we were even fighting about after a while.”

Kieu My doesn’t react, not right away, but Fatou knows she hears her both times she speaks. Tonight, she’s heard her more than ever, perhaps more than anyone ever has, and Fatou is hoping, praying, willing with all of her might that that statement alone will remain true for a long time to come.

Kieu My’s heartbeat is steady against Fatou’s ear, slow; her chest smooth, heated, bare. When Fatou nods, mostly to herself, Kieu My feels it, her chin bobbing with the movement of Fatou’s head beneath it. 

     “But I think at the time, we needed to be on our own, to process things. A lot was happening, you know?”

Kieu My chews her lower lip, looks up at the ceiling. Fatou doesn’t have to look at her to know this. She sees it even when she closes her eyes, lets the darkness of the room blend into the blank shield her eyelids provide, so similar that when she opens them, there’s no way to even tell the difference. Kieu My is all new, rapturous, something to be discovered, but just the same, Fatou knows her well. She wonders, distantly, if Kieu My knows her tics and habits too, if she can predict minute reactions seconds before they happen, almost like second nature. A part of her doesn’t want to know the answer; another part of her wants Kieu My to know every single piece of her, every ounce of spirit and soul, chopped up and served for her observation alone, her entertainment.

     “But not anymore,” Fatou finishes, and it’s palpable: Kieu My’s exhale. Her relief. 

It takes some maneuvering, some twisting of blankets and bedsheets and a shove of a pillow that somehow got caught under her armpit, but then Fatou is on her stomach, a leg slung across Kieu My’s splayed thighs. She keeps her eyes on her, watching, and Kieu My is reluctant, wavering, when she responds, “I was afraid you didn’t want me anymore.”

Fatou frowns. Doesn’t know how to react, what to do, except spit out the only truth she knows: “I always wanted you.”

Fatou isn’t sure what time it is. Two AM, maybe, maybe earlier or maybe far later. Time is bending in Kieu My’s room, becoming a clandestine oasis, defying physics, shifting just for them. She’s thankful for it, knows it’s working in her favor either way, especially when Kieu My hums beside her. Fatou knows what that means, can interpret it like broken English that’s slowly finding its way into a pile of knowledge in her brain marked “I get this”: Kieu My is thankful, honored, a little bit indignantly disbelieving. 

     “It’s true,” Fatou says. She tightens the hook of her knee, her ankle around Kieu My’s legs. Irritation brews in the pit of her stomach, primarily directed at herself because Kieu My doesn’t get it, Kieu My doesn’t know—  

     “I wanted you from the day I met you.”

This time, from this position, Fatou can see it happen as Kieu My worries her lower lip, twists minutely under Fatou’s weight. Not protesting, not leaving, just reacting.

Fatou’s hand breaks away from its position, sandwiched between the two of them and now dangerously close to being encompassed by pins and needles, falling asleep. She finds Kieu My’s face, turns it toward her. Kieu My doesn’t protest, not this time.

     “Really,” Fatou tells her, and she wonders how many times she’s going to have to say it for Kieu My to get it, how many old texts between her the Cash Queens are going to have to be dug up, displayed as half-ashamed, half-victorious evidence of her infatuation. “You were the only one on my mind, all the time. From the very beginning.”

     “You were too, you know,” Kieu My says.

It surprises Fatou. It’s not the kind of conversational turn that she was expecting— Kieu My’s hand is pressed against the arch of her spine, snaking up the lower seam of her bralette— and suddenly the fan in the corner seems ten times louder, almost deafening.

Fatou doesn’t mean to sound so meek when she replies, “really?”

Kieu My laughs, full-on and vibrant, and Fatou can’t help it, she’s sitting upright, wide awake and giving Kieu My a glare she won’t be able to decipher. Damn the dark, Fatou thinks, why doesn’t Kieu My own a nightlight or something, because she wants to see this now, wants to see everything. She could before, back when the moon was lower in the sky and traffic passed by consistently. Now, she finds Kieu My’s knee under her clasped hands, an unintentional touch but certainly not one she’s going to pull away from under any circumstances, and uses her imagination to see everything she wants to, everything she knows is there. 

In the heavy seconds that follow— it can’t be more than six, but Fatou swears it feels like sixty— she’s almost expecting Kieu My to abandon the idea she’d brought up altogether, to give up talking and kiss Fatou until she’s dizzy instead.

(Or maybe rush off to the bathroom, come back with water and snacks— two things that she had done earlier when Fatou had asked, love-drunk, if Ismail had ever brought up the top or bottom discourse to her as well. To be fair, Kieu My had proved the question to be rather invalid moments before, so she’d giggled, skipped the whole way to the sink, almost tripping on the rug in her effervescent haste.)

     “You really didn’t notice?” Kieu My asks. She sounds small again. She’s shifting, ever-changing, maybe more like a chameleon than a turtle, and Fatou marvels, reaches out again. She strokes her thumb atop Kieu My’s shin and Kieu My finds her fingertips in the dark, holds on tight. 

     “It was always you for me, too,” she admits. “I was just…” she trails off, turning to look the other way— Fatou only knows because she hears the swish of her hair against her tank top, the creak of the bedframe beneath her— “...I wasn’t sure you’d ever go for someone like me.”

     “Serious?” Fatou replies. She can’t help the way it comes out a bit like a laugh, one that shatters the sanctity of the moment between them, or at least transforms it into something of a different breed. Something lighter, fuller, sanctified for the hundredth time in one evening. “You are so my type.”

Kieu My laughs then, too. Fatou feels herself breathe, relax again, become giddy in that way that she’s only ever known as love love oh scheiße I’m in love. This time, somehow it’s better, different, stronger than ever before. This time, it feels like it’ll last. 

     “Like, you’re completely my type. One hundred percent, in every way. How did you not get that?”

Kieu My gasps out another chuckle, slings her arm around Fatou’s neck. She finds her lips in the dark, Fatou’s eyes closed long before she gets there. “Well, I know that now.”

[3pirouette]

Fic: Nobody's Baby: Menace (1/1)

Title: Menace

By: TriplePirouette/3Pirouette

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

Menace at AO3

Nobody's Baby Series at AO3

Story Summary: Steve wasn’t sure he was going to make it.

Six weeks.

There were six weeks left, give or take, and then…

Well, he supposed that things would change, but the truth was, he wasn’t sure and neither was Howard.

A/N: Set in April of 1954, right before the Epilogue of Nobody’s Baby. For Steggy Week Day 6: Our Favorite Family. I’m also using this to cross “Domestic Fluff” off my Steggy Bingo Board because I don’t think it gets much more domestic OR fluffy.

I… have no idea what kids learned in school in 1954. Just… made my best guess.

~*~

Steve wasn’t sure he was going to make it.

Six weeks.

There were six weeks left, give or take, and then…

Well, he supposed that things would change, but the truth was, he wasn’t sure and neither was Howard.

Mandy was enough of a tornado; at eight she had the energy of three grown men and the ability to sit still for about five minutes if something didn’t capture her attention. But adding Peggy into the mix…

He scratched his head, looking at the dent in the refrigerator. He was strong enough to reshape the metal, but he wasn’t exactly sure how to get to it without disassembling the whole thing. He bit his thumb and turned back to his wife who was watching him from the door, hands on her stomach.

“How, exactly,” he started, curious but still gentle, “did you manage this one?”

Peggy looked contrite, her lip between her teeth and eyes sad as she stroked her pregnant belly. “I leaned on it too fast.”

Her earnestness hit him in the gut and he could do nothing but laugh.

She gently pressed off the wall, frustrated. “It’s not funny, Steve!”

“Awww,” he tried to suppress his laughter, but it still trickled out as a chuckle as he pulled her tight into his embrace. “I’m not laughing at you. It’s just…” When she sniffled he knew he’d gone too far. Steve leaned back, taking her chin gently in his hand. “I’m just getting really good at home repairs, is all.”

Peggy shook her head fiercely, eyes welling. She was still subject to horrible mood swings, even this late into the pregnancy. “I’m a menace.”

“You’re my menace,” Steve replied quickly, kissing her forehead and cradling her tight in his arms. “Besides, the refrigerator needed a little… style.”

He wasn’t sure if the sound Peggy made was a laugh or a sob, but her held her just a little tighter, anyway. They hadn’t been sure, after so long of trying and nothing happening, that they’d be able to have children of their own. Being pregnant was a big enough surprise after years of thinking it wouldn’t happen, but the enhancements she was displaying since, well, those were a little harder to deal with.

Howard had tried to figure out exactly what was happening, but could only give them his best guesses since he and Erskine hadn’t ever gotten this far in their planning or research. He assumed it was something about Peggy and the baby sharing blood supply and genetic material, but as to how long it would last once the baby was born or if it was a permanent change to Peggy’s system, he didn’t know. Anytime they asked him a question he didn’t know the answer to, Howard would wave his hands in the air and say it was the “miracle of pregnancy.”

Neither Steve nor Peggy were very partial to that answer.

The hearing and sense of smell were both helpful and annoying to her, the quick healing was quite useful, but the strength had knocked her for a loop and almost seven months later she was still having little… mishaps.

“I know I say this all the time,” Peggy mumbled into his neck, “but how did you manage?”

“It was a war,” Steve whispered, not caring how many times he’d have to talk about it. “People didn’t care if there was some collateral damage until I figured it all out.” He swayed them side to side gently, rubbing his hand over her back. “Though, they were a little sore on the USO tour if I managed to break something.”

Peggy shook her head against him. “The kitchen table, two chairs, three… three doors off the hinges, the shower head, two holes in walls, the typewriter, the bathroom sink, and the refrigerator. Any other casualties I’m missing?”

Steve winced, but said it anyway. “The dollhouse.”

She deflated in his arms. “Yes, and the dollhouse.” She turned sideways, letting her belly rest against his so she could lean into him. “What if this never goes away?”

Steve let his hand flatten over the curve of her stomach, stroking gently through the fabric of her dress. “Then we will have the most well protected kids in the world.”

“Right,” she muttered, “As I stumble around and put holes in the walls.”

Steve continued gentle strokes up and down over the curve of her stomach. “No, by then you’ll have regained your balance and with the little guy—”

“Or girl,” Peggy mumbled.

“Or girl,” Steve amended quickly, “on the outside we can get you training- get you used to it.” He rubbed his cheek against her hair. “No matter what happens, in a few weeks we’re going to have a new focus, but I’m not going to let you struggle, ok?” He gave her a gentle squeeze. “I’m right here with you.”

Peggy hummed, unconvinced as she did a little two step to turn them to face the refrigerator. “Perhaps.” She sighed, her tears abated for the moment and her mind set on more practical things, “But what are we going to do about right now?”

“Well—”

Steve’s long, drawn out syllable was interrupted by the slamming of the back door and Mandy tearing into the kitchen, her bag falling off her shoulder and braids in shambles. “Hi Mom, Dad!” She hugged them tight, her bag falling to the floor.

Steve’s arm wrapped around the girl as Peggy held tight to him, Mandy’s energy nearly knocking her over. She let her hand settle on the back of the girl’s head after she finally regained her footing with more than a little help from Steve’s sure grip. “Well, aren’t you full of energy today!” Peggy laughed out, her fingers running over the hairs sticking out of the braids.

“School was so boring today,” Mandy mumbled, looking up at them. She turned her head and pressed a kiss to Peggy’s stomach, whispering something unintelligible to the baby before pulling away from her parents.

Steve could see Peggy tearing up again as she rubbed the spot Mandy had kissed. He gave her a little squeeze and turned back to Mandy, who was gleefully chattering on, unaware she’d done something precious. “Math was a review and I got all the answers right from last night’s homework, so I just had to listen. Then we had time to read our chapter books, and we had to write a summary, which is boring because I already read it, so why do I have to talk about what I just read?”

Steve smiled as Mandy sat herself on the floor, digging through her bag. “So that you can show you understand it. That’s an important skill.”

Mandy looked up at him and after a moment of contemplation, shrugged. “Ok,” she muttered, turned back to her bag. “We had art today, too, and that was pretty fun. We used different kinds of macaroni to make a map yesterday, and then after lunch today we painted it.” Mandy was almost halfway in her backpack now, looking for the errant art project. She pulled it out with a flourish and smiled. “Miss Williams said mine was the most colorful, and Jeremy got in trouble.”

“Jeremy got in trouble?” Peggy asked, smiling as Mandy stood and tried to show them both the sheet of paper filled with an explosion of various shaped pastas in bright colors.

“He said they should have kept the pasta for lunch because lunch was bad, so he got sent to the principal’s office for talking back.” Mandy shrugged and handed the picture to Steve. “He’s not wrong. The turkey sandwiches were dry.” She scrunched up her face and shook her head like she was trying erase the memory of the food.

“Be that as it may, this is quite lovely dear!” Peggy smiled and looked at the paper. “What is it the map of?”

“Well, we were supposed to make a map about a place we know, but I thought that would be boring.” Mandy sat back down on the floor and started to put all the papers and pencils from her bag back in. “So, I made a treasure map instead.” She stood back up and hefted the bag over her shoulder. “I only have a little homework tonight so I’ll be done pretty fast. Just some science homework. What’s for dinner?”

Peggy stepped away from Steve, setting a hand on Mandy’s shoulder. “Well, that’s good that you don’t have much, because Aunt Ana has invited us over for dinner tonight.” She smiled and moved to head her towards her room. “We need to get you a little more presentable, and you can work on your science while we’re talking about boring adult things after dinner.”

Mandy squealed in delight, bouncing. “Do you think Aunt Ana’s cooking or is it Uncle Jarvis? Maybe she’ll have the little rolls I like. Oh! Will Bernard be there?”

Steve shook his head, chucking under his breath as he moved towards the refrigerator, a glint in his eyes.

Peggy laughed and flicked a half-unraveled braid over Mandy’s shoulder. “Absolutely not. Bernard lives in California, darling.” She turned her daughter towards the door. “I’ll let you pick your dress but you must sit still for me to fix your hair, understood?”

Mandy could barely hide her excitement for the night out. “Yes, Mom.”

“Hey, what do you think? Temporary fix?” Steve caught both of their attention, pointing to the refrigerator where he’d hung Mandy’s art up with a magnet over the dent with a proud smile on his face.

Peggy rolled her eyes good-naturedly at him, rubbing a hand over her belly “I suppose it shall do for now.” She sighed happily, felling just a little overly domestic at the sight of Steve standing by their daughter’s artwork, proud of both her and himself. “Alright, you two, we need to get a move on. Edwin’s expecting us.”

“Yes,” Steve agreed, starting to move then stopping, turning his head to the side as he contemplated the macaroni art. “Mandy?”

She and Peggy stopped half out of the kitchen. “Yeah, Dad?”

“Is this…” he paused, a concern growing in his head, “is this our yard?”

She nodded proudly. “Uh huh.”

“Oh!” Peggy smiled, smoothing down her daughter’s hair, oblivious to Steve’s discovery. “I can see the shed and the little garden patch in the back. Very good job.”

“And…” he paused again, this time his hesitancy caught Peggy’s attention and her smile dropped just a bit. “And where’s the treasure?” Steve asked, cautiously. “I don’t see an ‘x’ to mark the spot.”

Mandy chuckled, her face alive with what they’d come to know as her mischievous smile. “You’re going to have to find it.” She turned, moving out of the kitchen and bounding up the stairs. “Especially if you want it back!”

Steve and Peggy stared at one another for a long moment, the sound of Mandy bouncing around in her room a far second to the panic they both felt.

“What did she bury?” Peggy asked, her voice quiet and as deathly serious as if she were in the field.

“What are we missing?” Steve asked, just as serious, eyes flying all over the room. He and Peggy passed one another as Steve kept looking for little holes where trinkets or heirlooms might have caught Mandy’s eye while Peggy scoured the colorful macaroni for anything that might be a clue. Steve stopped and turned slowly, another thought dawning on him. “Honey?”

“Hum?” She asked, eyes still scouring the page.

He tried to keep his voice as calm as he could, but he knew that if he was right, this was unlikely to go well. “Where’s your ring?”

“I couldn’t find it this morning; I must have missed my jewelry dish last night and I couldn’t quite get on the floor to check under…” She stopped, her mind finally clicking over. She stood slowly, looking at him. “No.”

He grimaced. “I mean…”

Peggy’s jaw tightened and her eyes grew serious. “You need to take this one back,” she gestured at her belly. “I can’t handle two.”

Steve smirked and took her hand, gently pulling her towards the stairs. “A little late for that, I think.”

Peggy reluctantly let him pull her along. “No. Absolutely not. I can’t handle another little carbon copy of us scooting about, being sneaky and subverting our every effort to parent them.”

He stopped them at the bottom of the stairs, smiling softly. “It’ll be fine.” He kissed her softly then started up the stairs. “Let’s just take it one refrigerator and wedding ring at a time, huh?”

Peggy grumbled and started up behind him, significantly slower. “That little devil is lucky I love her, Shield has some beautiful new detention cells I’ve been dying to try out.”

Steve paused at the top. “She’s scrappy, like her mom.” He kissed Peggy’s forehead and helped her up the last few stairs.

“And as stubborn and sneaky as her father when she gets an idea in her head.” Peggy took a slow breath and stood near the doorway. “It’s your turn.”

Steve rubbed his face, suddenly not liking where this was going. “Then why’d you come up?”

“Because while you’re digging out in the yard for my ring, I’m going to have to get that whirlwind of a child ready and as you just saw, I do need a hand nowadays if I’m to get up here in one go.” Peggy shook her head and gave him a push towards the door. She smiled, a glint and a challenge in her eye. “You’re up, Daddy.”

He took a deep breath, and with a voice and facial expression Peggy knew well from the days of the red, white, and blue suit, entered enemy territory. “Amanda Grace? Where did you bury your mother’s ring?”

Her voice was so proud when she replied, Peggy nearly doubled over with laughter. “I told you, you’re going to have to find it. That’s what the map is for!”

Peggy wasn’t sure she was going to make it.

Six weeks.

There were six weeks left, give or take, and then…

Well, she supposed that things would change, but the truth was, super strength and buried rings and all, she wouldn’t give it up for the world.

[nikibogwater]

A Shot in the Dark: a Tales of Arcadia Fanfiction (Chapter 1)

"...The Arcane Order doesn’t actually care whether you live or die. They have given me permission to do to you whatever I deem necessary. So...” Douxie swallowed and grit his teeth as Rivan’s hand began to glow with an ugly, pulsing red light. “...I will ask politely one more time before I resort to more extreme measures. Where is the forest-child Nari?”

When Douxie is stripped of his magic and captured by a new enemy, Nari and Archie risk everything to come to his rescue.

(Chapter 2)

(Chapter 3)

Here we are, dears, the first chapter. Don’t forget to check out the author’s commentary after you’ve finished (if that’s the kind of thing you’re interested in) and I will be back with the next chapter on Nov. 13. Thank you all for waiting, and I hope you enjoy. 💕

Read on Ao3

Or under the cut:

Most of Douxie’s mornings began with the harsh, clattering sound of his phone vibrating and whistling next to his ear. Necessary as his morning alarm was, he still hated it with every fiber of his being. So he had been borderline ecstatic when he slipped into bed the night before and left his phone alarm off, envisioning a long, uninterrupted sleep that he hoped would end no sooner than ten am, preferably eleven. This Saturday marked his first real day off since moving to this blasted city, and he intended to relish in it with all his might.

So he was just a tad miffed when, at approximately eight-fifteen, a strange, nervous sensation rising in his chest slowly pulled him from slumber. He attempted to ignore it, simply burrowing down deeper into his pillow, but the feeling did not abate. He could not shake the peculiar awareness that he was being watched. In the end, centuries of experience forced him to heed his instincts, and he pried one eyelid open and glanced over his shoulder.

Two pairs of luminous golden eyes were hovering uncomfortably close to his head and staring at him fixedly. Douxie yelped and threw off his covers, scrambling upright and fumbling for his magic vambrace nearby. A small green hand held it out to him politely, and after a bit of confused blinking, Douxie finally registered the faces of his companions. Nari and Archie were sitting on the floor next to his mattress, looking at him eagerly. He felt himself deflate as he gave a long sigh of relief.

“Fuzzbuckets, you two, don’t creep on me like that,” he admonished lightly, fastening his vambrace around his left wrist. Nari gave him a sheepish smile while Archie stepped up onto his mattress and rubbed against Douxie’s side.

“Next time, don’t oversleep,” the Familiar replied. “You do remember what day it is?”

“Yeah, it’s Saturday. My day off. Hence the reason I was sleeping,” Douxie said with a yawn, stretching his arms above his head.

“It’s also the day you promised to bring Nari to Central Park,” Archie informed him.

“...It is?” the wizard mumbled groggily, looking at the wood nymph crouched nearby. She gave him a somewhat apologetic nod.“...It is. Ah, fuzzbuckets, I’m sorry, I completely forgot.” He tumbled out of his bed, snatching up his day clothes from a heap on the floor. “I’ll be ready in two shakes,” he promised, ruffling Nari’s hair before pushing himself to his feet. He staggered to the bathroom, running his fingers through his sleep-mussed hair, very nearly smacking his head on the doorframe.

“Perhaps we should not have woken him,” Nari fretted as the door closed behind the wizard.

“You know Douxie always acts like a plague victim first thing in the morning, regardless of how much he slept.” Archie reminded her, following Nari into the kitchen area and pulling the box of English Breakfast tea out of the cupboard while she filled the kettle at the sink.

Mornings for Nari looked very different than they used to, she realized as she set the kettle on the stove, stepping back so Archie could light it (due to her somewhat complicated relationship with Bellroc, she was still wary about anything that involved fire). As a demigoddess who had existed for hundreds of millenia, she had never had much experience with something as human as family domesticity. Her siblings (if the Arcane Order could ever really be called such) certainly never spent mornings bustling around a kitchen making tea for one another, but even if they had, Nari was beginning to understand that there was more to being a family than the mundane routines. There was a feeling in the air around her, a sensation of companionship and contentment that felt almost otherworldly at times, yet it was inextricably linked to these small, daily, human gestures of kindness.

Douxie emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, just as Nari was squeezing out the teabag. His damp hair was combed back into its usual neat appearance, and he was wearing his favorite hoodie. He mumbled a quiet ‘thanks’ as Nari presented the cup of tea to him, and slumped back against the island countertop as he took a sip. Archie sat down on the counter behind him, pressing against his wizard’s back and purring contentedly into the soft, warm fabric of his jacket. Nari mirrored Douxie’s position beside him, trying to quell the nervous excitement fluttering in her chest. She had heard much about Central Park, and after going two-and-a-half months without feeling any real grass beneath her feet, the thought of visiting even the smallest pocket of nature made her spirit tingle in anticipation. But she kept still and quiet, trying her best to be patient as Douxie drank his tea, slowly working his way back to full alertness.

“Right,” he sighed after he had drained the last drop from his mug. “You two already had breakfast?”

“Nari was kind enough to open a tin of sardines for me earlier,” Archie answered. “And she says the sunlight is strong enough today that she will not require any food.”

“Okay,” Douxie hummed as he set his mug in the sink and ran water in it. “Then I guess we’re ready.”

“Wait,” Nari chided, opening one of the cupboards and pulling out two granola bars. “You need sustenance as well.”

“Right. I forgot,” the wizard chuckled, slipping her offering into one of his pockets. “I’ll eat when we get there.” He grabbed his keys off of the counter and held out an arm for Archie to clamber up onto his shoulder. Nari scurried to the door eagerly, practically bouncing on her toes as Douxie reached out to undo the magical seals. Before his hand made contact with the door, he drew back suddenly and snapped his fingers.

“Fuzzbuckets, I’m forgetting all kinds of things today,” he muttered, turning to the small demigoddess. “Nari, face me and hold very still for just a second.”

“What is this for?” she asked, intrigued as Douxie knelt down to her level and placed his hands on either side of her head, his middle and index fingers pressing gently against her temples.

“I’ve been looking into some concealing spells that can be cast directly onto a person, rather than on an area. It’s a lot more complicated than the standard protective wards, but it should make your aura undetectable to other magic users for a little while.”

“Isn’t that a little excessive?” Archie remarked, climbing down from Douxie’s shoulder in order to give him some breathing room for the spell. “The entire reason we came here is because it is almost impossible to detect individual auras in a place this crowded.”

“I don’t see any harm in taking extra precautions,” Douxie replied. “Keep very still for me, Nari.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his aura flowing out and wrapping around her like a warm, familiar cloak. “Celare,” he murmured, and Nari felt a sharp tug on her spirit as the spell washed over it, cool and comforting like the shade of an old tree. Douxie’s hands fell away from her head and he sat back on his knees, his breath short and a little ragged. “Wow,” he panted. “You have....a lot of magic. I almost didn’t have enough of my own to cover it all.”

“...I’m sorry,” Nari answered meekly, unsure of what else to say. Douxie laughed breathlessly and shook his head, bringing a hand up to squeeze her shoulder.

“You’re fine. I’m just impressed.” He levered himself back to his feet, bracing himself against the door for a moment, before seeming to collect his bearings. Archie hopped back up onto his shoulder and nudged his head in silent inquiry. Douxie waved him off with a soft ‘I’m fine.’ Then he disabled the protective seals and opened the door, stepping back and gesturing to Nari. “Let’s go.”

“Should your magic not also be concealed?” she asked as they emerged into the hallway, pausing while Douxie locked the door behind them (the ordinary way--he didn’t see any need for magic seals if none of them were home).

“I’m afraid I can’t cast the spell on myself,” he explained, pocketing his keys. “Anyways, I don’t think the Order had enough time to get a good feel of my aura. It’s your magic signature they’ll be looking for. Relax.” He smiled down at her as they began descending the uneven stairs (it was unknown whether there was ever a time in history when the elevator in this complex had actually functioned). “There’s nothing to worry about. Let’s just focus on having a good time today, alright?” He stopped her halfway down the flight so he could lift her over a broken step.

“Alright,” Nari promised. They made it to the lobby and burst into the sunlit street outside, the taste of freedom burning on the wood-nymph’s tongue like those carbonated drinks humans were so peculiarly fond of. The park wasn’t too far away, and Nari was still somewhat distrustful of automobiles, so they had opted to walk. She made sure to hold on to the edge of Douxie’s hoodie tightly so she wouldn’t accidentally lose him as her eyes wandered the cityscape, taking in the sights.

The first time she had walked the streets of New York City, Nari had been on the verge of tears. There were so many sensations assaulting her mind at once, the feeling of countless souls buzzing around, a crowd of spirits so thick that sometimes it felt like a wall. Even without tapping into her roots, she was drowning in a sea of tangling energies, as hundreds, even thousands of voices echoed in her soul all at once. It was more than she had ever experienced in one place before, and it had made her frantic with the desire to claw her way out of her own skin. The protective wards Douxie cast on their apartment helped filter out most of the magical noise, but it had taken several weeks of regular exposure before Nari was able to walk out in the open without clinging to Douxie’s hand so tightly that her nails left crescent marks on his fingers.

She had learned how to block out most of the noise now, and only felt the faintest twinge of anxiety as they joined the sea of bodies traversing the city. It helped that whatever spell Douxie had put on her was having a sort of swaddling effect on her aura. Her spirit felt comfortably nestled within her, not completely deaf to the world around her, but still separated from it in some way. She was even able to discern the individual life forces of the people around her, pick out who was emitting which charge. It was like a chaotic smear of colors had sharpened into a recognizable picture, one where she could finally see the finely drawn details and appreciate the contrasting shades.

Until suddenly, with a jolt in her stomach, she realized that one piece of the picture was missing entirely.

She and Douxie had stopped at a crosswalk, and were waiting for the signal, when her eyes drifted across the figure of a man, leaning against some brickwork near the turnoff into a smaller alleyway. He was fashionably dressed, (“business casual,” the humans called it), with an elegant black trench coat hanging nonchalantly off of his arm. He had dark brown hair, handsomely trimmed and styled, just a bit longer than Douxie’s, and was wearing a large pair of expensive-looking sunglasses. He looked thoroughly uninterested in the world around him, and had the appearance of someone who was waiting to meet up with a particularly tardy acquaintance. But Nari couldn’t sense that he was waiting. She couldn’t sense anything from this man. He emitted no life force, no aura or energy of any kind. He was like a standing, breathing corpse. Feeling oddly sick all of a sudden, Nari pressed closer to Douxie’s side and frantically tugged at his sleeve.

“What’s wrong?” he murmured, the sound swallowed by the noise around him, though Nari was able to feel his intent through his aura.

“I-I am not sure. I felt...Well, actually I did not feel...” she stammered, unsure of how to communicate what had just happened. Across the street, the signal changed, and the people around them surged forward. Douxie glanced at the crosswalk and then back at her, a silent request for her to make this quick. Out of ideas, Nari pointed back to the space between two buildings a few feet away from them, hoping to bring his attention to the man in question.

Except, when she looked back, he was gone.

“...What is it?” Douxie reiterated, glancing between her and the alleyway in confusion.

“There was... There was a man there, just a moment ago. Except, he was not there. I-I could see him, but I could not feel him. He had no aura or life force.”

“Perhaps he was a spirit?” Archie suggested, speaking as quietly as he could so as not to draw attention to himself.

“No, I have seen spirits before. He was definitely a living human,” Nari objected. “But he....It was like he had no soul.”

Across the street, the crosswalk signal changed again. Beside her, Douxie’s aura was rippling with unease. But a moment later, his spirit stilled, and he put an arm around her to turn her away from the alley.

“...Whatever it was, we don’t know for sure that it was a threat. It was strange, yes, but I don’t think we need to worry about it just now. It might not have anything to do with us. Heck, it might’ve just been a trick of the light, or--”

“Douxie, I know what I saw,” Nari interrupted, putting as much force into her small voice as she could.

“--or it might have been something real,” Douxie amended, giving her an apologetic look. “But whatever it was, we don’t have any reason to be anxious about it. Not yet, and maybe not ever. Let’s just get to the park and have a good time, alright?”

Nari fell silent, and gave a reluctant nod. A minute later, the crosswalk signal changed once more, and they continued on their way. Though Douxie’s spirit was radiating a placid energy, Nari couldn’t help noticing that he kept his arm around her for the rest of the journey.

To be continued. ✨

[keelywolfe]

FIC: The Rose and the Thorn: Chapter 10 (Mafia AU)

Summary:  We left off with Edge and Rus on a cliffhanger, let's see where they go from there!

Tags: Spicyhoney, Cherryberry, Mafia AU, Flower Shop AU, Violence, First Meetings

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9

~~*~~

Read on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

Rus knew what he looked like. Tall, gangling skeleton and his bones were thin, almost delicate. Most people probably thought a stiff breeze would send him off like a tumbleweed and they were sort of right. He would’ve had more than a couple scars from a childhood from tripping over his own feet if his brother wasn’t such a good healer.

But if you took his innate clumsiness out of the equation, it was a load of bullshit, really. He’d helped his brother set up their garden, hauled bags of soil and manure, lugged oversized flowerpots, carried fencing and poles. He wasn’t weak, thank you very much, but even he had to admit, holding up a Monster of Edge’s size for any length of time was pushing him to his limits.

Luckily, he didn’t have to manage long. Edge caught his balance quickly, rocked unsteadily back to his feet and once Rus wasn’t completely blanketed by tall skeleton, he got a better view of the Dogs standing on either side of him, helping hold him up. Okay, they were at least part of the reason Edge hadn’t fallen on him, so what, he was pretty sure he did his part.

More Dogs, wow, did they buy these guys by the six pack? They were pretty good at the stoic, almost as good as Edge, but Rus didn’t miss their brief, amused tail wags. Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, watching him trying to catch Edge must’ve been a funny sight, like a meek village fool trying to catch a crumbling mountain.

But watching them immediately school their expressions to bland seriousness when Edge looked at them was even better.

Large hands settled on his shoulders, drawing his attention back to Edge and more to the point, his face, holy fuck—

“I’m all right,” Edge started, and no, just no.

“you certainly don’t look like it!” Rus snapped. He took hold of one of Edge’s sleeves, flinching at sight of the charred fray that was all that remained of his gloves. “come on, for pity’s sake, come sit down!”

Edge didn’t really resist, bemusedly letting Rus lead the way down the hallway. Only for Rus to stop a few steps in, turning back to admit sheepishly. “um. i’m not sure where you were going?”

He hadn’t heard any of the Dogs speak yet, but that wasn’t entirely unusual, some Monsters didn’t use a verbal language. It didn’t stop one of them from letting out a snicker, hastily quelled when Edge slanted him a dour look.

“This way, flower shop.” Edge took the lead and stayed on his feet mostly under his own steam with the occasional steadying hand from one of the Dogs. He led the way to another of the thousand doors, only this one had a panel that opened to reveal a keypad. Rus pointedly didn’t watch as Edge punched in the code and went inside.

But it wasn’t an infirmary of any sort or even a bathroom. Inside was a large bedroom, dominated by an enormous four poster bed that was covered in an fluffy comforter and huge pillows, with actual curtains hung around it, like they’d taken an accidental trip with the Ghost of Gyftmas Past and wandered into the bedroom of Ebeneezer Scrooge. Rus hovered awkwardly by the door as the Dogs helped Edge to one of the wide sofas set in a half-circle in a sort of open-air sitting room.

Once Edge was settled, the Dogs took their leave and Rus didn’t miss the wink one of them sent his way.

Well, it seemed they were expecting him to play nurse, not exactly a role he’d had much experience in. One look at Edge had him setting his shoulders, ready to step up and give it his best shot, though if there were any cracks about him putting on a little white dress, he was out.

Or maybe he was fooling himself, because he couldn’t possibly leave Edge alone like this. His clothes were streaked with burnt marks, the fine suit from that morning looked like it only recently stopped smoldering. Worse of all, the bone all down one side of his face was scorched and blackened, and Rus supposed it was a small mercy that the damage was on the already injured side of his skull.

Just looking at it made nausea lurch up into his throat. Rus swallowed it down and walked over, biting the tip of his tongue and focusing on that tiny hurt while he inspected the damages.

It must be painful, but Edge didn’t flinch from Rus’s timid prodding as he tried to decide if he actually could help or if he needed to find a phone to call for someone more qualified. So much soot and who knew what damage beneath it. Rus blinked hard as sympathetic tears welled; he’d always hated seeing anything hurt, Rus was the one getting teased for rescuing worms from the sidewalks after a storm and giving the pigeons in the park the crusts from his sandwiches. A thumb grazed underneath his socket, wiping away the trickle of tears, and Rus could smell the smoky char on Edge’s ruined gloves.

“It’s not that bad, flower shop,” Edge murmured. “I’m only a little crisp around the edges.” If he were trying for lightness, he failed, and Rus could feel wetness escaping from around his touch, trickling down his cheekbones. “Don’t,” Edge tried, “You don’t need to—"

“this is about us, isn’t it?” Rus interrupted softly. He wasn’t sure what kind of fool Edge thought he was, but he could at least manage to put 2 and 2 together and know that a vengeful fire monster who was prone to kidnappings likely matched up with fresh burns.

Edge said nothing and that was all the answer Rus needed.

“then i think i do.” Rus drew away, wiping impatiently at his damp cheeks bones with his sleeve. “where’s the bathroom?”

He followed where Edge pointed and one step inside was enough to stifle his remaining tears. If he thought his own lavatory was opulent, this one seemed to belong more in a palace than above a strip club in the red-light district, all of it gleaming dark marble streaked with gold. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and sighed. All his efforts to obey his brother’s scold to keep his new clothes clean ruined by smudges of soot streaked all down his shirt and a full set of handprints impressed on his shoulders.

Welp, guess it was a good thing he probably wasn’t going to be doing the laundry.

Under the sink was a basin that he filled halfway with cool water, along with a well-appointed first aid kit. Rus snagged both along with a couple clean washcloths and clumsily carried the lot of it out, only spilling a couple splashes of water to disappear in the lush carpet.

Edge hadn’t moved, only watched him with an intensity that sent an odd prickle down Rus’s spine. Whatever, let him stare. Rus ignored it to set his newfound supplies on the coffee table and sat on the sofa next to him to get to work. First, wetting a washcloth and very gently washing away the layers of soot to reveal the chalky, damaged bone beneath. It actually wasn’t too bad, he was relieved to see, at least Edge was right about that. Most of it was filth, the only real damage seemed to be to the very side of his face, a ragged line that ran from his forehead nearly to his chin. Edge never made a sound even when Rus had to really scrub to clear away the sooty blackness. The friction must have hurt terribly, but he allowed Rus to clean him up as he muttering vague apologies the entire time, because honestly, if he’d been the one hurt, Rus would have been howling for mercy by now.

The silence grew to be too much, nothing but the splash of water as he wrung out the cloth again and Edge’s crimson eye lights following his every move. Luckily, filling silences with nervous chatter was one of Rus’s greatest skills.

“i’m glad the bathroom was close,” Rus admitted with a self-deprecating laugh, “if it was in the hallway, i would’ve been a while. i’m not sure if i could find anything in this labyrinth.”

“It’s not as big as it seems,” Edge’s sockets fell half-closed as Rus gingerly cleaned around the delicate, damaged rim, showing only a bare gleam of crimson. “You only think it is because of the Dogs.”

That gave Rus a pause. "what do you mean?”

Edge offered him that little half-smile of his, "The hallways are designed like a labyrinth and my brother has the Dogs lead people through the same ones several times. Even the artwork is designed to change the picture when someone walks past it, to make it seem larger and more confusing than it is.”

“seriously? what kind of low-rent james bond villain bullshit is that?" Rus blurted. He winced at his own words, shit, calling Red a villain wasn’t exactly what his brother would call good manners, but Edge's slight smile only widened.

"I prefer the term frugal.”

“hmmph,” Rus huffed, deciding not to argue the point. If Red wanted a subplot of being a cheapskate, that was his problem. “are you going to tell me what happened?” he asked, dabbing gingerly at a particularly darkened spot. The bone beneath was slightly pitted and he could only hiss in sympathy, imagining how much it must hurt.

That little smile faded. “I went to see Blaze in a neutral location, to negotiate.”

“looks like negotiations went south.”

Edge grunted in agreement, closing his sockets entirely as Rus finished cleaning his skull with a last gentle wipe. He dropped the washcloth into the dingy basin water before digging through the first aid kit for burn ointment. With the soot cleaned away, the burns matched Edge’s assessment of not too bad. They should heal fine, probably wouldn’t even scar if Edge kept it clean and well treated. Of course, there was another option.

Rus carefully set the ointment aside, reaching out instead with a cautious bare hand, “you were right, it isn’t too bad. i’m not as good as my brother, but if you let me heal you—”

The hand that caught his wrist moved so quickly Rus barely saw it. He yelped in surprise and automatically tried to pull away. Uselessly, that grip tightened painlessly as Edge said, firmly, “No.”

Even sitting, Edge was taller than him, especially when he wasn’t slumped back on the sofa. Taller than him, larger than him in every way and even sitting here in a ridiculously lavish bedroom in his ruined suit, Edge seemed larger than life, nearly a force of nature. And Rus looked up directly into his hurt face and asked boldly, “why not?”

The flick of his crimson tongue over his teeth nearly distracted Rus from his words. “Because having someone else use their magic on me outside of a fight is entirely too intimate for my tastes.”

Intimate. That was the problem? Considering that Rus was in possession of a shivery memory of Edge’s weight on top of him, pressing him into the cushioned plush of the rug with the heat of the fireplace pouring over them as Edge’s gloved hand skimmed against his bare hip…um…better to stop there. Anyway, considering all that, it seemed silly to him for Edge to suffer through days of discomfort when a little healing magic could ease it.

Exasperated, Rus pointed out, “you were willing to have sex with me but won’t let me heal you?” It was only after he said it that Rus belatedly remembered that actually, Edge hadn’t been willing to have sex with him, that was sort of where their awkwardness this morning came from and he looked away, a miserable blush rising in his cheekbones, like an echo of Edge’s burns.

To his shameful relief, Edge didn’t comment on that, only ran his thumb over the delicate, interlocked bones at the inside of Rus’s wrist. “It’s not the same. Magic involves souls, sex is only as intimate as you allow it to be. Anyone can take your body, flower shop.”

“yes, thank you for that reminder,” Rus muttered unhappily. He couldn’t hold back a shudder, remembering Blaze’s unbearably sweltering hands on him, forcing his touch on Rus as he whispered horrible things, cruelly teasing threats about Rus’s mouth and what he might do to it.

Edge’s voice jarred him from the unpleasant memory, cushioned in gentleness. “You’re safe here. This club is as well protected as it could possibly be. Aside from basic security precautions, we’ve been layering on every sort of protection spell possible over it since we got to the surface.”

That was a comfort to know, for now. But what about when he left, they left, him and Blue heading back to their shop and their lives without an ounce of protection surrounding them.

“i want to go home.” The words slipped out, small and miserable. And true, their home was small and a bit cramped, but it was home.

“I know,” Edge said, softly. He offered no promises about getting Rus there and he wondered wanly if he should be grateful for that honesty. Rus reached up and took hold of the large hand still holding his other wrist as his gaze searched Edge’s face, eye lights skimming from the untouched side to the one stark with darkened burns. With a tug, Edge brought their joined hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss against them and murmuring, “I’m working on it.”

There was something in his voice, something coldly dark beneath that tender touch and Rus swallowed hard, “you’re going to try to kill him, aren’t you.”

“Don’t ask questions that you don’t want answered.”

“aren’t you?” Rus persisted.

Edge let out a small frustrated sound, "It's the only way to end this. The only way you'll get your life back."

Rus shook his head, helplessly. That couldn’t be true, the only answer simply couldn’t be tainting Edge’s soul with XP, racking a LV onto Edge’s conscious in the name of their wellbeing, his and Blue’s and Rus knew without question that his brother would agree. “there has to be another way.”

“Are you willing to bet your life on that, flower shop?” Edge countered, “What about your brother’s?”

“there has to be! i can’t let you—” kill someone. Rus choked on the words, felt the ache of tears welling up again.

Again, that thumb rubbed a soothing little circle against Rus’s wrist. “Why do you care so much?”

“I…” Rus swallowed nervously. “it’s…it’s the right thing to do!”

“Of course,” Edge said wryly. “And you always do the right thing, don’t you.” He let go of Rus’s wrist and sank back into the cushions. “Go on, then.”

“huh?” Rus blinked, confused, ready to argue that he wasn’t about to leave with this debate still between them.

“Go on,” Edge repeated, “Heal me.” A sardonic slash of a smile tipped up the undamaged side of his mouth. “Since it’s the right thing to do.”

Oh. Rus had to kneel up to reach, leaning across Edge’s torso to settle his bare hand lightly against the side of his skull. It was a matter of moments to focus his magic, calling up the tingling warmth of healing and concentrating it on the burns. He certainly didn’t miss Edge’s relieved sigh; it must’ve hurt something awful and honestly, fussing about intimacy when the alternative was days of pain? He really couldn’t understand these people.

When Rus finally stopped, the bone beneath his hand was smooth and unblemished, at least as much as previously cracked bone could be. All signs of any burns were gone and Rus beamed at Edge, pleased.

“there,” he said triumphantly. “isn’t that bett—oh!”

The way Rus was leaning already put him off balance and the sudden, strong arm winding around his waist sent him nearly sprawling into Edge’s lap. A rough chuckle greeted his twisting and squirms until he was sitting across Edge’s femurs, looking up into his newly healed face with wide sockets.

“Yes,” Edge agreed softly, “This is much better.” He lightly bit the tip of one of his fingers, tugging off his glove and spitting it aside before reaching out to brush bare fingertips lightly over Rus’s mouth, cautious of the sharpened tips. Rus sat frozen beneath that touch as it slid lower, broad knuckles curling beneath his chin. “To tell the truth, I’m at a loss,” Edge murmured, low, like a confession. “Even if I deal with Blaze, you’re irrevocably linked to me now. Do I let it be? Or do I embrace it?”

That…that sounded…Rus wasn’t sure, his thoughts were in wild turmoil, caught up between Edge’s words and his embrace, “what about what i want?” he asked, weakly.

A soft chuckle gusted over him like a caress and Edge’s face was close to his own, as he said, “Pretty flower, you’ve wanted me since the day I walked into your shop.”

Rus wanted to deny it, but what was the point? It was true, he couldn’t possibly have been more obvious. He didn’t move as Edge leaned in, every possible protest twittering out of his mind even as Edge said, his deep voice raw with the barest of regrets, “Just remember, I tried to let you go.”

His mouth was achingly gentle, coaxingly sweet and Rus parted his teeth with a watery sigh as he met it with his own. Parted his teeth to timidly meet the slide of a clever tongue with his own. He was surrounded, Edge around him, beneath him, the arms that circled him held Rus close. Safe, he realized, he was safe, and Rus groaned shakily, clinging to Edge’s broad chest as those dizzying kisses deepened, teeth scraping with tantalizingly deliberate roughness as a low growl rumbled out from deep within Edge’s chest.

In the back of his mind, Rus was hyperaware of the enormous bed behind them, equal parts inviting and terrifying to consider Edge carrying him to it the same way as he had to the rug. His heavy weight again between Rus’s femurs, the hard press of his hips, and the senseless magic settling in Rus’s pelvis wanted that, wanted even more. He could feel his magic taking form, embarrassingly eager wetness dampening his undershorts. His mind might well be unsettled, but his body was making its wants known to them both and he couldn’t help wriggling again, already feeling the response of Edge’s body beneath his pelvis.

The door bursting opened shattered any burgeoning arousal and Rus jerked back, scrambling away even as Edge reluctantly let him go.

Red didn’t even seem to notice them yet, kicking the door shut as he groused, “dogs said you and blaze got into it, bro, you okay—” he stopped, staring blankly at his brother, eye lights gliding over where Edge’s joints were flushed and his jaw clenched. Then flicking to Rus who was curled up far on the other side of the sofa with a burning blush high on his cheekbones. Red chewing on the end of his cigar furiously, saying acidly around it, “might need to have a word with ‘em, since they didn’t see fit to mention this lil’ tête-à-tête.”

“Perhaps they thought they didn’t need to,” Edge said, coolly, “There is this charming social construct called knocking, you should consider trying it sometime.”

“uh huh, you know me, all up in the social constructs.” Red turned his sour look back on Rus, who only cringed harder, “sorry to interrupt, but i’m fresh outta social constructs right now. me and my bro need to talk, hit bricks.”

Edge crossed his arms over his chest, “No, he can stay.”

Yeah, because Rus was all about hanging around Red with his magic still uncomfortably roused between his legs. “i really don’t mind, i can go.”

Neither of them paid him any mind, both brother’s glaring. Finally, Red shrugged, “i was gonna talk business, but if you wanna scar your pretty lil’ flower, ain’t no skin off my bones.”

That seemed to give Edge a pause. He frowned, considering, then sighed out, “Go, Rus.”

Rus wobbled to his feet, all ready to head for the door. Only to have Edge catch his wrist, reeling him in. He didn’t try to take a kiss, thankfully, no attempt at a little pda in front of his brother. He only studied Rus’s face as if drinking in the sight of him, then tapped him lightly on the nasal aperture as he said, sternly, “Behave.”

That made him remember that morning, sneaking downstairs to chat with the ladies in the break room. Rus gave him a wobbly nod, and said, “i always do,” hoping his guilt didn’t show on his face as he slipped away and headed towards the door.

He skirted widely around Red and even that didn’t keep Rus from hearing him mutter, “if that’s you behavin’ flower shop, can’t wait to see ya bein’ bad.”

Outside the door one of the Dogs was waiting and Rus was about to ask them to show him back to his room, preferably without the extra mileage, when his eye lights caught on a long line of blistered redness along their muzzle.

“did you get burned, too,” Rus gasped, appalled, “that must hurt, do you want me to heal…it?” He trailed off awkwardly, expecting to be brushed off. But the Dog only whined and lowered their head, their dark brown eyes hopeful.

The little wound was even easier to heal than Edge’s and the Dog heaved a sigh of relief when Rus was finished, offering him a slightly slobbery grin, along with something else that had been sitting unnoticed by their feet. They held it out in offering and Rus took it, uncomprehending at first until the familiar jangle made him look down in disbelief.

It was his backpack, somewhat sooty and Spongebob was more than a little worse for wear, but it was his, with all his pins still attached.

“how did you—” Rus started, dumbly. There was only one answer and Rus glanced at the door speculatively, wondering if he’d gotten the backpack before, after, or during getting burnt to a crisp. Questions for later and he added it to his list as the Dog led him back to his room.

The moment he opened the door, a loud shout almost sent him tumbling head over heels back out.

“Where have you been!?”

Rus sighed to himself and shut the door, bracing himself to face his brother.

Where was a kidnapping when you really needed one.

tbc

[angelcorebabyowo]

Can I have a ride home, I'm at a party and I dont know anyone...

Paring: RemRom

Words: 2771

Chapters:1[or 2]/ ???

Warnings: cursing, somewhat unsympathetic light sides from how you look at it,

oman knew this was a bad idea, he knew going to this dance was a bad idea, he knew that his friends would most likely stand him up, trust me he did. What he didn't expect was to be sitting on the gym bleacher gently crying his eyes out. He didn't expect his brand new dress to be ripped or the heel of his heels to just tear off because he fell. Despite his shaking so much he mages to get his phone and call up his brother, one of the only people he cares about anymore and puts the phone up to his ears begging for someone to answer. Tears had started flowing more freely now, no control to him, and had started full-on sobbing.

"You've reached the trash can! Leave a message after the beep!" was all that came from the other line and Roman almost threw his phone. He tried one more time and it finally worked and he nearly jumped when it worked. The sound of Remus' voice put a smile on his face despite the circumstance.

"Hey whats u- wait, are you crying?" The voice on the other line was hoarse and sounded as if they just chugged a gallon of those drink packets. Just like Remus. He had stayed home seeing as he had gotten expelled earlier in the year for beating up one of the kids who picked on roman and sent them to the hospital, he was lucky that no charges had been pressed, although it was bad enough the school board hadn't wanted him to come back unless he pulled that stunt again.

"They stood me up!" Roman cries and tries to form a ball but the bleachers hadn't given much room to so much as move another inch, "Told me I was too annoying to hang out with them anymore!" he knew it sounded childish but that was the exact wording, and he wasnt about to back down.

"Who do they think they are!" both of them said at the same time, although, Remus sounded angrier than Roman. Roman made a sound that sounded a bit like a whimper at the tone, he never did like it.

"Look, I'm in the middle of something right now, and by that I mean I just woke up. I'll pick you up in a few minutes. Do you want me to stay on the line, or will you be alright?" Remus asks his tone of voice nearly completely changing after he heard Roman's reaction to it before. He might have been an asshole but not enough to fully harm his brother during their weakest point, he would never swoop that low.

"Can you um..Can you stay on the phone?" Roman wasn't crying anymore but he was still sniffling up a storm and it was apparent with every word. He had a small problem with being alone when he was in the state. He knew he couldn't do anything but it still made him beyond uncomfortable to be alone.

"Alright then, go and wash your face off to get all the snot off of it" Remus exclaims, Roman could hear him getting up and his bones popping in the prosses, "You're a messy crier"

Roman does just that well at least walks to the bathroom, wincing and hissing as he walked to the bathroom, he refused to take his shoes off so every step was painful and he nearly started crying again.

"What's the damage? I hear you hissing, sound like Dee" He heard Remus ask him, it was muffled due to the phone not being directly on his ear and more on his shoulder. Dee, Or Jauns Lawrenson, was their mutual friend who had graduated last year and was currently going to Law school or something like that. Neither of them paid enough attention to their friend's career to tell anyone about it.

"My shoe broke and my dress has a gnarly rip in it, luckily the dress looks pre-ripped, can't say the same for the shoes." Roman practically growls annoyed that his favourite outfit was remotely ruined."Stop laughing! It's not funny! It's not fucking funny!" He practically shouts as he gets into the unisex bathroom and locks the door. Luckily there was only one stall so it wasn't like anyone would barge in on him or yell at him for being too loud.

He slowly sets the phone down on the sink and moves to turn the water on, his movements were slow as if he didn't know if he wanted to turn the handle. In all honesty, he didn't want to, he didn't want to hear the noise of it right now, but looking in the mirror at his face he knew he needed to do it. His eyeliner had smeared and his mascara had dripped down to his cheeks and with how much he's rubbed them it was smugged in more places than one on his face.

"It's alright, look I'll tell you a trick that helps me. Paper towels. Get them as wet as you can and then turn the water off when it's as full as it can be, that way the water isn't on for that long and the struggle of everything isn't as bad as it would be!" Remus says cheerfully. Roman could hear the car door close and the engine start. "Want me to pick up Dee? I doubt he'd mind if so!"

He'd never be more relived for Remus to get behind the wheel, and the thought of Dee being there sounded beyond amazing, but it was always just a little too loud with all three of them in the car."No! Just you is enough, hurry up, would you? All the lights are hurting my head, I'll meet you out front"

"I'm also bringing you some pyjamas so that you don't freeze to death tonight. Love you, I'll see you soon" Remus says quickly before hanging up the phone. He had said it so many times in the past, the simple phrase 'I love you' although, it sounded a bit more affectionate today, Roman didn't question it.

After 10 minutes of scrubbing his face raw to get the makeup off he finally got a text from Remus alerting that he was outside. With that Roman practically runs out and to the car and quickly gets the passengers seat and groans as the somewhat to warm hits him, he gently sings into the seat not even putting his seatbelt on. He looks at the roof with a somber expression, it wasn't a good look on him at all.

"That bad huh?"Remus asks handing Roman MacDonald's bag and a normal Walmart bag "I picked you up a cheeseburger and a small fry, would've picked up a happy meal but I didn't know if you would've wanted that. Plus I know damn well you didn't eat anything today, don't play dumb with me. You also got some fuzzy bottoms and a paw-patrol shirt because I couldn't find the normal clothes, Hope that's alright." Remus started driving as Roman dug into his food. The other twin was right, after all, he hadn't had anything all day because of his nerves.

"Yeah it's all right, my guy," Roman says with a big bite of food in his mouth, a smile was now playing at the corners of his lips now instead of a frown. He then changed his shirt, not even carrying if people could see him do it. He wasn't a particularly interesting site to see after all, the only intresting part would be a scar over his heart from a surgery a few years back.

.

"Don't talk with your mouth full. Not polite" Remus says with a breathy laugh as he continued to drive, he was driving to the beach because he knew that was Roman's favorite place, most definitely at night. He just wanted to see the other happy again .

Roman rests his head on the window as the streetlights, and the city in general, fade into a bleak nothingness. He was used to it, he and Remus drove this same route nearly every night. Not under the same circumstances, of course, just on the nights Roman couldn't sleep or if Remus dragged him out of another midnight adventure. Tonight, after the prom fiasco, had the same calming air to it as all of the other times did. Roman sat up slightly, still making sure to slouch just enough to not touch the top of the seat so that he was still comfortable.

The music from the radio was soft enough to make the car seem a little bit alive. The twins' silence was never an awkward one it was, more often than not, a comfortable one. This didn't mean they enjoyed it though. It was Remus who broke the silence, it typically was, and smiled over at him. It was awkward seeing as the "elder" had sharpened his canines to a vampire-ish point on summer and now continues to do it anytime it somewhat goes dull. Roman did the same thing, although, he was too much of a wuss to do it for more than that summer so his teeth had dulled a lot in that area.

"I'm not going to ask you again Ro, what flavour milkshake do you want?" Remus questions as he pulls into a Rallys parking lot, not wanting to go to the drive-through without knowing the full order "If you same say some shit like vanilla I'm going to leave you in this parking lot."

"Jokes of you, I hate Vanilla milkshakes. Banana and can you ask for extra whipped cream" Roman says laughing softly and sits up completely before crossing his legs. He felt better now, and with the promise of something sweet his entire mood changed even more. "And I'll give you ten bucks when you get home if you get me a thing of funnel fries, like a small thing, not even a medium"

"I'll get you a medium shake and a small thing of those fries," Remus says with fake disgust, in all honesty, hed most likely steal a few of Roman's "How can you even eat those things? Think of all of the parasites that are in that dough"

"This is coming from the guy who drank the pond water from my science project!" Roman says with a smug smile. a few years ago Remus, as a dare, drank an entire jar of muddy pond water leaving him in the hospital for a month with several bacterial infections and nearly died. Roman was lucky Remus found it funny or hed most likely would have gotten slapped.

"Ugh- don't remind me, I'm still trying to pay off all of those hospital bills!" Remus groans sadly before pulling into the drive-through line before quickly saying his order and playing and getting his change back, he then got the food just as fast because it had been only them and it seemed pretty much deserted at the time. He quickly drove off mumbling something about how the workers seemed mean and he should go back and give them a piece of his mind.

"Ah shut up and give me my food," Roman says and practically snatches the bag from Remus' lap with a small smile and keeps it on his side. He wasn't being mean it was more of a playful/teasing type if anything. He was rarely mean to his brother but when he was it was for typically good reason, or he just wanted to be a nuisance. "None for you!"

"Little shit!" Remus says laughing fondly before reaching over and stealing one of the fries and plopping it in his mouth before taking a sip of his milkshake "Before everything, want to go home or do you just want to ride around? We don't have anything big planned so it's not like we have to even wake up early. I was going to bring us to the beach but I'm pretty sure we'd get chased off by those snobby rich guys again." "Want to risk it to see if they do?"

"Nah, knowing them they'd press charges or some shit trespassing and I don't feel like getting arrested tonight"

"You're no fun anymore!" Roman wines

"Finnnnneee We'll go later when there's no chance of us getting caught! That better Little prince?"

"Hell yes! now come on start driving faster!" Roman says with a grin looking over at Remus before turning up the radio and practically bouncing in his seat. He had heard that nickname so many times it might as well had been his name, it was a reference to one of his favourite story as a kid and even to this day "Our song!" Roman quickly rolled down the window and started tosing scream the lyrics to "tongue-tied by Grouplove" it was rarely played on the radio but when it did Roman made sure to sing it.

It had a good summer and over the top entry they could both get behind

"Let me guess, you want me to sing along with you?" Remus says laughing softly before rolling down his window as well as the other two windows. If the two of them were going to be loud they were going to be so loud that the entire neighbourhood they had been driving through was going to have to file a noise complaint on a random beat-up car that drove through the neighbourhood. and started screaming the lyrics. "Take me to your best friends house! Loved you then and I loved you AND I LOVED YOU NOW!" They both sung that part ith all of their heart, Roman was playing the air guitar and Remus jamming out while thumping on the wheel as he drove. The car was filled with the two Teens laughing their asses off as the music practically blasted as they screamed and laughed just as hard. For a moment they forgot about everything that ever happened to them as they jammed out.

Everything was perfect in that time and space.

Eventually, everything calmed down and Roman yawned and leaned back looking at the ceiling closing his eyes slightly and took a sip from his now melted Milkshake. "This was fun Re-"

"Really? I think it was the best experience we will ever have in this plane of existence."Remus says pulling into the driveway and parked the car, they didn't go to the beach seeing how late it had gotten and both had started to get overly drowsy "And yeah, it was fun for me as well. Want me to carry you or are your legs good enough?"

"Carry me" Roman whispers tiredly and making grippy hands in Remus' direction "Please?"

Remus took the keys out and got out of the car before walking over to Roman's side and helps them out and picks them up bridal style."You good?"

"Always am Rem, now hurry up before I spit in your face for moving to slow. "

"Oh you know I love it when you spit on me"

"Ugh! Shut up and get a move on, would you!"

Remus laughs as he walks into the house, it was unlocked because Remus kept losing the front door key, and then walks to Roman's room and flops them on the bed. "You going to sleep or want me to keep the light on? I'll most likely not come back for a few minutes because I have to go fix up the car," he asks walking over to the light switch. They shared a room because Neither Remus nor Roman had the strength to clean out, or sleep, in their parents' old room after they died despite it being years ago.

"Off, yeah off," Roman says softly nuzzling into the blanket cocoon he already managed to get himself into. His mind was practically mush at this point so he didn't feel like talking

"Goodnight sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite," Remus says turning the lights off fully.

Roman snorts "Goodnight Rem! Don't let them bite you either!"

Remus fondly rolls his eyes and playfully blows a kiss and closes the door and sighing softly as he hears the tiny click. He slowly walks back to the car to get all of the stuff and runs back inside and puts the stuff into the tiny kitchen before going to the room flopping down on his bed and looks over at Roman who seemed to be peacefully sleeping. He smiled and wrapped himself in his own blankets before finally falling asleep.

[hale-13]

Ultraviolet

By Hale13

For the Summer of Whump Day 7 - Sunburn

The best part about having free run of Tony Stark’s penthouse in the Tower is the Olympic sized pool that overlooks all of Manhattan. Peter could happily spend the whole summer here.

Words: 2503, Chapters: 1/1 (Complete), Language: English

Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Rating: Gen

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Bruce Banner

TW: Teenage Dumbassery

Read on AO3 or below the line break.

“Why are you wearing the Armani?” Peter asked, pushing the pair of battered bodega sunglasses he had been using for the past two years up to sit in his chlorine damp hair and squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dimmed lights of the penthouse. FRIDAY closed the automatic door to the balcony and pool behind him.

“First of all this is Tom Ford how dare you,” Tony said, pointing at him with the ‘dad finger’ but not looking up from his rapid texting. “Second of all I’m wearing the Tom Ford, not Armani you absolute heathen, because I have to step into a couple of meetings this afternoon.”

Peter hummed in confusion, taking a bottle of cold Gatorade (the red one because it was clearly the best flavor) from the fridge and chugging it before sitting on one of the barstools. Tony flicked his eyes away from his phone to glare at the puddle dripping off Peter’s swim trunks pointedly – Peter just smirked at him and cracked open the second bottle he had pulled from the fridge, sipping on it slowly. “I thought you were playing hooky all week?” Peter teased, referencing the plan Tony had laid out earlier in the week to do absolutely nothing of value while Pepper was out of town.

“That was the plan,” Tony conceded, tucking his phone into his inner jacket pocket and then fussing with the immaculate pocket square. “Pepper was supposed to land thirty minutes ago but she had to divert her plane to our LA office for… something. Honestly I wasn’t paying attention.”

“And that leads to you going to meetings?” Peter asked with a raised brow.

“Apparently,” Tony groused, pulling the colorful beach towel from around Peter’s neck and dropping it to the floor to soak up the puddle forming under the barstool. “Sorry buddy – I know I promised a week of fun bullshit but I think we both would prefer that I keep my head attached to my body so…”

“It’s fine,” Peter brushed off and it really was. To be honest, he was still tired from their thirty hour workshop bonanza and he could do with a nap. It was a pleasant day for June in New York with a good breeze and some light cloud cover – a nap on one of the obscenely large pool floats sounded heavenly. “I was thinking about napping anyway.”

Tony’s brow furrowed for a second before his hand darted out to land on Peter’s forehead. Peter batted his hand away, narrowly avoiding falling off the stool. “You don’t feel warm. Are you sick? FRI is the kid sick?”

“All vitals within normal limits Boss,” FRIDAY answered, almost sounding amused.

“I’m not sick! Teenagers can enjoy naps you know.” Peter protested, dodging another of his mentor’s attempts to check him for a fever. “It’s pretty much our MO actually.”

Tony rolled his eyes before slipping his tinted AR sunglasses onto his face. “Oh to be young again,” he said sarcastically, gathering up a couple thin files and his StarkPad, tucking his phone into his inner jacket pocket. “You sure you’ll be okay for a few hours?”

“Yes, Tony, jeez.” Peter said with an exaggerated eye roll.

“Oh joy, teenage snark. Aren’t I lucky?” His mentor questioned as he ruffled Peter’s hair into disarray, flinging little water droplets on the counter top and causing the loose curls to tighten up more as they dried. “I’ll be back in time for dinner. Want to grill?”

“Sounds good,” Peter said with a smile, finishing off his second drink and tossing the bottle in the recycling and waving as Tony entered the elevator. Peter let out a large yawn and stretched, sighing happily as his back popped and realigned, before hopping of the stool to gather his towel off the floor and get a couple bottles of water from the fridge.

The sun was bright and warm as he stepped back out onto the pool deck and Peter luxuriated in its warmth, momentarily blinded – he hated the cold more than anything and loved being out in the heat. It took him a few minutes to pick his pool float, Tony had collected an obscene number of ridiculous ones over the past month, but he eventually decided on the watermelon one for its large round shape. He loaded it up with his water, towel and sunscreen before pushing it into the pool and following it with a splash.

He agilely climbed up to sit in the middle and took the bottle of sunscreen, spraying on another protective layer before wadding his towel into a lumpy pillow and face planting into it. “Hey FRI?”

“Yes Peter?” FRIDAY’s voice asked from the waterproof speakers situated around the pool.

“Can you play my lofi playlist?” He nearly slurred, already half asleep.

“No problem Peter,” she answered before the soft music poured from the speakers and Peter let out a sigh before fully relaxing. There was truly nothing better than a nice warm nap out in the sun. The gentle rocking of the water was quick to put him into some of the best sleep of his life.

————————————————

“Peter? Peter! Wake up kiddo!”

Peter groaned, his body stiff and tight and hot and he cracked open his crusty eyes to stare at the edge of the pool. “T’ny?” He croaked out, mouth impossibly dry and vision blurred.

“Yes, Jesus, you really cooked yourself buddy. Can you paddle over here?” Tony was looking at him with worried eyes, pulling his jacket off and slipping out of his Italian leather loafers.

“Come over there?” Peter questioned, confused. The sun had sunk behind the tower and the rooftop was now covered in shade and Peter shivered. Why was it so cold?

“Pete focus up now. I need you to come to me.” Tony said, his voice patient but with the clear undercurrent of concern that he used when Peter had gotten himself into some form of trouble.

“Okay,” Peter grunted. He tried to shift his heavy arms and then gasped in pain, clenching his eyes shut. “Ouchies,” he mumbled, not making any effort to move again. A splash sounded and Peter opened his eyes to see Tony in the water with him, efficiently swimming over to his ridiculous pool float. “But Tom Ford,” Peter protested dumbly.

“This was last seasons suit anyway,” Tony dismissed as he reached the edge of the float, treading water. “I’m gonna help you get into the water Petey – you’re way too hot. It’s not going to feel all that great but you need to trust me alright?”

“You’re Iron Man,” Peter agreed, groggy. “Trust you.”

“Good to know buddy,” Tony said as he carefully reached out and put his arms under Peter’s chest. Peter let out a gasp as his mentor’s wet sleeve rubbed against his sensitive arm but kept his body limp and let Tony maneuver him to the edge of the float while barely keeping it from tipping completely over on them both. “Alright kiddo, take a deep breath for me and hold it okay?”

“Yeah,” Peter grunted before pulling in a large gulp of air and squeezing his eyes shut. To his benefit, Tony was fast – he lifted Peter off the float and dumped him into the water before hooking his forearms under Peter’s armpits and pulling his head up above water again. Peter coughed as he surfaced, more awake and aware now, and really feeling just how truly fucked he was. His skin from the back of his neck down was tight and burning and he remained limp to not stress out the damaged skin any more. “That sucked.”

“Sure did,” Tony agreed, carefully paddling the both of them to the shallow end of the pool where a gentle incline would lead back up to the pool deck. “Think you can walk if I help you?”

“Maybe,” Peter answered, but did adjust himself in the water so he was floating next to Tony with his arm wrapped around the man’s shoulder and Tony’s arm wrapped around his waist just below the edge of his swim trunks to prevent him from touching the tender skin of his back. Exiting the pool was difficult since Peter realized he had definitely burned the bottoms of his feet but, with Tony’s help, he was able to limp out of the pool and towards the penthouse door.

“We’ve gotta get you in some oatmeal,” Tony told him as they entered the living room. The cool air from the AC made Peter shiver but the cool polished concrete floor felt like heaven on the soles of his feet.

“Why oatmeal?” Peter asked, letting Tony steer him down the hall and past his own bedroom towards the master bedroom and into Tony’s own ridiculously huge bathroom.

“It’s an anti-inflammatory,” Tony told him as they entered the bathroom. The large porcelain tub that could probably fit seven or eight full grown men was filling with tepid water mixed with oatmeal – clearly FRIDAY had been listening to their conversation and had acted accordingly. Well that or Peter had missed when Tony had asked her to set it up.

It took some maneuvering, but, soon, Peter was lying face down in the tub, his head pillowed on a pile of soft towels with Tony applying damp washcloths soaked in the cool water and oatmeal to the parts of his back that weren’t submerged in the water. Peter shivered violently once, his failing thermoregulating attempting and not succeeding in functioning, before he just lay, missable, in the tub.

“Close your eyes,” Tony said, wetting another washcloth in the sink with clean water only and wiping his face down. He frowned as his hand ran over Peter’s forehead and he draped the cloth over Peter’s face and eyes to cool the reddened skin. “You’ve got quite the fever brewing Webs.”

“I just wanted a nap,” Peter moaned and he heard Tony let out a little sad sounding chuckle.

“I know. Just relax and try to cool down for now,” and then he stood up and walked to the door. “I’m going to grab you some dry shorts and get the bed set up. Try not to drown.” It took more effort than Peter thought it would but flipping Tony off over the lip of the tub was totally worth it.

He fell into a light doze from there – drifting off as the stinging in his back dulled down to a more comfortable level. “Oh Peter,” Bruce said from above him and Peter jerked in the tub, dislodging the washcloth from his face and causing his body to let out a sting of pain and protest. He let out a little grunt and Dr. Banner winced from above him. “Sorry Pete. I thought you heard me come in. You really burnt yourself.”

“I know,” Peter said, wanting to be irritated but too tired to feel much of anything. Bruce gave him a sad smile.

“According to FRIDAY your temp is down enough we can get you out,” Bruce told him as Tony leaned over the tub as well so both of them were staring down at him. Peter just blinked. “Let Tony and I do most of the work – you don’t want to stress your muscles. Once we can get you out and dried off I’ll get you started on some fluids and electrolytes and that should help some. And my aloe plant donated a couple of leaves to the cause.” Dr. Banner joked. Peter gave him a weak smile in response, not really looking forward the the execution part of Bruce’s plan.

Getting lifted out of the tub was nothing short of agony even though Tony and Bruce lifted him under his armpits again and left him leaning his chest heavily against the bathroom counter to keep as much weight off his feet as possible. Bruce pointedly left the room and Peter endured a few mortifying moments where his mentor had to help him dry off and change into a loose pair of athletic shorts that sat low on his hips so as to not interfere with the burn. He was going to have an awful tan line by the end of this he thought sadly, taking in the lobster colored skin of his back and neck.

Bruce crept back in moments after and had Peter lean his hip against the sink so that he could place the IV catheter into his forearm while standing – making it easier on both of them once they would get him settled into bed. The California king sized bed had been stripped down to just its fitted sheet and, with a little assistance, Peter did a controlled flop face first into the memory foam pillows, letting his eyes shut as he felt Bruce connect the IV line and the cool rush of fluids through his veins.

He was nearly out when a cold plop on his back tore his eyes back open in surprise and he felt immediate relief from his tight, hot skin where the wet mass had landed. “Feels good,” he slurred drowsily as a careful hand massaged the goop into his back. A second set was working on his tight calf muscles, loosening them up and easing the burn.

“Fresh aloe,” Dr. Banner told him. Nothing better for a sunburn.”

Peter hummed in agreement and let himself drift off, finally comfortable.

—————————————-

“I just wanted a nap,” Peter whined as he limped and hobbled into the kitchen of the penthouse almost three days later, Tony following a few steps behind to catch him if he fell over and relying on the walls and his ability to stick to anything to keep him from falling. “I wore sunscreen!”

“Clearly not enough,” his mentor told him, voice tight with irritation. Peter had been saying the same thing on repeat since he woke up from his nap and it was clearly grating the man’s nerves. Peter opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, cracking it open and taking large gulps. Even days later and after Bruce pumped him full of fluids Peter still felt parched and dehydrated. “You know you’re supposed to reapply like every hour in direct sunlight and water right?”

“Well I do now,” Peter answered, leaning against the stove so he could take the weight off his legs. His skin still felt so tight that it felt like it may burst. And the blisters… best not to think about it. Tony clocked the movement.

“Time for more aloe,” he said pointedly, shooing Peter off toward his bedroom. “I’ll get it out of the freezer and be right behind you.”

“Thanks Mr. Stark,” Peter said as he hobbled away. He passed by the door to the pool, the water sparkling brightly in the mid-afternoon sun and he looked at it thoughtfully. “Redo next week,” he promised to himself. He’d just have to get FRIDAY to wake him up every hour next time. Besides, he needed to even out his tan.

[verai-marcel]

The Things That We Could Be (Charles x F!Reader, Biker AU, 18+, 2 of 3)

Tags, summary, and notes are in Chapter 1.

AO3 Link is here, baby.

Word Count: 2891

Chapter 2 - Close Enough to Touch

“Here we are. Mi casa es su casa, as Javier would say.”

Your home is my home. You smiled; he had mentioned Javier a couple of times, that he didn’t come around while the store was open in case somebody recognized him. When you had asked Charles why he would be recognized, he had shown you a magazine. He flipped to one of the ads, and a man with tanned skin, beautiful dark hair, and a seductive smile, wearing some of the latest outfits of a well-known clothing brand took up a whole page. Charles had told you that he didn’t want the attention that he got sometimes and that his cafe was a safe place for him to chill with just the cats. Wanting a safe place was something you could easily relate to.

As you followed Charles inside, you took in his apartment; a door across from the entry led to a small bathroom. To the left of that was a kitchenette with a stove, oven, sink, microwave, and a fridge. Past the kitchen was a door leading to his bedroom, and to the left of that was a small living area with a sofa and a TV. Tucked away in the corner was a small table with two chairs.

Small, but efficient. It was definitely bigger than your apartment.

You peeked into his room, your temporary bedroom for the next week. Charles left your duffel bags at the foot of his bed. He had a king sized bed; he was a large man and needed the space. Unfortunately, because the bed was so large, there was hardly any space for anything else in his room, not even a desk. There was a chest of drawers on one wall and a small nightstand next to the bed.

“So, should we make something for dinner?”

You turned around and took the one step into the kitchen, watching Charles as he started to pull food out of the fridge. “Sure, but is there even room in there for me to help you?”

He turned around, looked at you, and smiled. “I suppose there isn’t. Unless you don’t mind being close.”

You swallowed. Was he saying things like that on purpose?

“I’m kidding. Make yourself comfortable. I was going to make some chicken and rice, if you don’t mind.”

“Sounds good to me,” you said as you bounded over to the couch and looked out the window that overlooked the street below. There were still people walking around, restaurants and breweries bustling with activity, but the windows were closed and blocked out most of the sound.

You went back to Charles’ room and grabbed your laptop bag, went back to the couch, and started working.

***

Dinner was wonderful, and you found yourself getting sleepy very quickly. After helping with the dishes, you told him you were going to settle in for the night, despite the early hour.

He nodded and bid you goodnight, grabbing a blanket and a sheet for the sofa. You felt bad about him offering you his bed, but when you had tried to talk him out of it, he stubbornly refused to hear you out.

Nestling into his large bed, you noticed that it smelled of him. You buried yourself under the covers, surrounded by his scent, took a deep breath, and felt protected for the first time in a long time.

***

You had not intended to wake up so early, but you supposed that was because of how early you had gone to bed. Stepping out of the bedroom with a change of clothes and your bathroom bag, you were shocked to full wakefulness by the vision before your eyes.

Charles had just exited the shower, wearing only sweatpants and a towel around his neck. His black hair was damp, loose around his shoulders and trailing down his back and chest, drops of water sliding down his body. His biceps made your mouth water, his pecs made your body burn with desire. Your hands itched to touch him, to feel his hard muscles under your fingers.

“G’morning,” he said as he looked up at you. Walking towards you, he pointed a thumb at the shower. “It’s all yours.”

You could only nod, your eyes catching a glimpse of the outline of his manhood through his sweatpants. Trying to hide the sudden sharp intake of breath you took, you scurried to the bathroom, desperate to take a shower and drown out the burning of your lust.

***

You weren’t proud of the fact that you had imagined Charles pinning you up against the wall in just his sweatpants, his hair deliciously framing his gorgeous face, his hands holding your wrists above your head. Stroking yourself in the shower, picturing him pulling out his huge cock as he spread your thighs, and then taking you against the wall in an animalistic show of primal lust, rutting into you as if you were the last woman on earth, you came so quickly that you nearly forgot to hide your small cries.

Cleaning yourself off, you finished your shower, did your usual routine, and came out of the bathroom, sated but feeling somewhat guilty. You jilled off in his bathroom! You couldn’t believe yourself, but after seeing him like that, how could you not?

“Coffee?” he asked from the kitchen as you walked by.

“Yes please,” you said as you put your bathroom bag and pajamas into the bedroom and came over to the small dining table. Charles placed before you a hot mug of coffee with only a little splash of milk, just the way you liked it.

“Thank you,” you said gratefully as you sipped the delicious nectar of the gods. “God, this is just as good as you make it in the cafe.”

“Of course, it’s the same beans. I buy a batch for myself whenever I put my order in.”

“It’s not just that, you make it so well… I end up using the wrong temperature or the wrong amount and it ends up tasting gross.”

“I’ll teach you my ratios,” he said as he sat next to you with his own cup. A few moments of silence passed as the two of you enjoyed your drink.

“Are you alright? I thought I heard you cry in the shower.”

You nearly choked on your coffee. “I- I’m fine! Just nearly dropped my razor, that’s all. No biggie. I’m fine.” You winced, knowing that you had repeated yourself, knowing that it sounded like you were lying, which you were.

Charles looked at you for a few moments more, your heart pounding with the stress. Finally he nodded. “Alright, but if you’re not feeling well, don’t push yourself.”

You mentally let out a huge sigh of relief. Outwardly, you smiled. “Thanks Charles. Really. I owe you big for helping me out.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, his hand reaching out to touch your arm. “Let me know if you need anything.” 

You swear his voice dropped an octave when he said ‘anything’.

***

The week passed by far too quickly. Every morning was the same; you would take your shower after Charles, then he would go downstairs to open the cafe while you did some writing or did phone interviews in his living room until it was time to meet someone in person. When you weren’t working on a news article, you were researching the ODB MC, or you were apartment hunting. You found very little on the internet about the MC, and your apartment hunt was turning up nothing.

Worried that you would be overstaying your welcome, you planned to go back to your old apartment by the end of the week.

As Charles came up the stairs after closing up the cafe on the last day of the week, he spotted you packing your bags once more. You had sprawled out your items at the beginning of the week, but now you had put everything away.

“You found a new place yet?” he asked as he leaned against the doorway.

You shook your head. “Not yet.”

“Then why are you leaving?”

“I’ve been here a week, I think it’s been long enough.”

You heard Charles’ footsteps as he padded up you and knelt down next to you on the floor. You wouldn’t look at him, didn’t want to see his eyes, because you knew whatever he said, you would listen if he caught you in his earnest gaze.

So when he took your chin between his fingers and turned your head towards him, you were trapped by the worried look in his eyes.

“Please. Stay. Until you find a new place.”

You swallowed. You worried that you were troubling him.

It must have shown on your face, as his eyes roved over your features. He suddenly leaned in and kissed your forehead gently. “You’re not a burden. I’m happy to have you here.”

As he got up and walked back to the kitchen, you slowly raised your hand to your forehead.

Had he really just kissed you?

***

You ended up staying for another week, and with each passing day, you felt more and more guilty for staying with Charles. He didn’t say anything, but you could tell that sleeping on the couch wasn’t the more restful sleep for him. He was yawning more often, and looked a little more tired every day. He even had spent a good chunk of his day off taking a nap.

Determined to find your own place so you’d stop feeling like a leech, you spent more time looking for apartments.

Your luck seemed to have turned around by the end of the second week. You had found an ad on Craigslist for someone renting out an apartment closer to downtown, a basement level unit for super cheap. When you went to look at the place, it was surprisingly clean and neat, but it was also very small. However, the price was right and the location was much closer to the cat cafe, which was a significant plus for you.

You bit the bullet and broke your lease with the other place. Fortunately, the landlord understood why you were doing it. Unfortunately, he still made you pay the huge fee that came with leaving early.

With your bank account mostly drained, you were left with no real way to move your stuff out other than by taking everything apart and dragging it to your car on your own.

But Charles insisted on helping you. And he brought his friends.

John, Arthur, and Javier, along with Charles, came by to help you move your stuff out of the old place and into the new one, making your move so much faster. John had brought his pick up truck, and you had your ancient Honda Civic. Although the other guys just had their motorbikes, they were stronger than you and could carry boxes and furniture all day, leaving you to do clean up and organization. 

You were grateful for their help, offering to buy them pizza when you got your next paycheck. They had laughed it off, saying that they needed the exercise anyway. You weren’t sure how much Charles had told them about your situation, but when they all told you to stay safe, you had an inkling that he told them enough.

***

After you had moved into your new place, you still felt the need to come home before sundown, but as each day passed and you felt safer in your new place, you stayed out later and later. The library was safe, and you started to regularly stay until they closed at 8PM.

Driving past the café, you looked through your window to see Charles sweeping the floor. 

It was only a moment, but you swear he looked up and saw you. Part of you immediately felt guilty for not paying heed to his warning, but you shook that feeling away. There was no way he would have recognized your generic looking car. 

Your phone suddenly rang, the ring tone coming over your car speakers via Bluetooth. You glanced at the screen. 

Charles. 

Hitting the phone button on your steering wheel, you girded yourself. 

"Hello?" 

"You just drove past, didn't you?" 

"...Yeah."

"Don't get out of your car, I'll meet you at your place."

"I'll be fine, they haven't bothered me in a few weeks."

There was a heavy silence for a few moments before he spoke again. "That's what worries me. I'm coming to you, if only for peace of mind."

You knew better than to argue with him when his voice was like this: deep, commanding. It was sexy as hell, even as you rolled your eyes at the fact that he was probably being paranoid. 

You parked your car in your car spot and got out, just as Charles pulled up on his bike, an Indian Chief Vintage, decked out in all black. 

"How'd you get here so quickly?" 

He glared at you. "Didn't I ask you to stay in your car?" he asked, ignoring your question. 

This time you definitely rolled your eyes. "C'mon Charles, I have my mace, I know some self defense, it's not that far from here to my door, it'll be–" 

Just as the two of you were about to reach your door, the three men who had harassed you before stepped out from around the corner. 

Charles immediately stepped in front of you. 

"Get outta here, lover boy. We just want to talk to the lady."

"I know your idea of 'talk'. Leave her alone."

The three men loomed closer. 

“Or what?” the leader asked, sneering.

Charles just stood his ground, but you observed his stance widening slightly, his muscles flexing as he prepared to defend you.

You took a step back and widened your stance as well. Holding your keys in one hand like a knife and wielding your mace in the other, you stood ready to defend yourself.

However, all three of them went at Charles, attempting to grapple him to the ground. They completely ignored you as they threw punch after punch at him.

Seeing Charles stand his ground and landing a few good punches on his own, you gained the courage to help him. You launched yourself at the nearest man and swung your elbow at his face. Landing a hit on his cheek, you quickly jumped back as he swung a fist at you.

“Bitch,” he snarled as he turned his attention towards you. 

You quickly sprayed him with the mace. Yelling in pain, he grabbed at his eyes and took a few steps away from you. Then he suddenly charged at you blindly, catching you off guard. Knocking you to the ground, he grabbed your face and squeezed, all the while coughing and gagging.

You jammed your keys into his arm as hard as you could, but despite his growl of pain, he wouldn’t let go, keeping your head in place. His eyes closed, he lifted his fist, about to pummel your face in.

Then he suddenly flew off of you as you watched, almost in slow motion, as Charles roundhouse kicked him in the head, knocking him away. You quickly got up as the two other men launched themselves at Charles. He dodged one, only for the other man to wrap his arm around his neck in a chokehold. As Charles pivoted around and broke the man’s chokehold on him gracefully, he grabbed the man’s wrist and pushed it down at the same time pulling his elbow upwards with no mercy.

The sickening sound of a shoulder being dislocated echoed in the air, the man groaning in pain. 

Throwing the man away like yesterday’s news, Charles turned to the other man, who was currently backing away.

“Oh shit… you from the VDL.”

You blinked. The VDL? The Van der Linde Riders, a small but powerful motorcycle club that disappeared almost a decade ago? They had caused trouble, but had never been caught for anything illegal, though there were reports that any other gang picking a fight with them would inevitably leave town. 

You wouldn’t have believed it, if you hadn’t seen him fighting just now. 

Charles glanced down to see his shirt sleeve torn, revealing a VDL tattoo on his shoulder. He looked back at the man and grinned viciously. 

The man paled.

“Take your friends and leave,” Charles said in a low, threatening tone. “And if I ever see you back here…” He let the threat hang in the air as the three men regrouped and left quickly, not even bothering to look back.

You looked at Charles, his chest heaving with the exertion, his shirt was torn from the fight, bruises starting to appear on his cheek, and his lip a little bloody.

And you were incredibly turned on.

Charles softly called your name as he held his hand out to you. “Let’s go back to my place,” he said. “It’s not safe here.”

You took his hand and nodded as he led you back to your car.

In the rear view mirror, watching him ride his bike beside your car as you drove back to his apartment, you had a glimpse of who Charles had been, and wondered what had led him from being an outlaw biker to the owner of a quiet cat cafe.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 3 is the last part, and it’s got the good stuff 👀

[ohshit-itsyagorl]

Four Dipshits and a Michelle

Part 6

Y’all I’m getting tired of linking all the chapters every time I post an update, so I’m just going to link the first part and my masterlist.

Part 1, Writing Masterlist

Read the story here on AO3

Summary: Michelle never believed in soulmates. But what happens when she turns seventeen and gets her mark? What happens when she inevitably finds the person with the matching tattoo? And what is she supposed to do with Peter Parker. Her best friend in the whole world. Her crush. Someone she feels drawn to for some inexplicable reason.

Also, I know it’s been a long time since the last update (yikes). I actually update every Sunday night on AO3 and just haven't had the time to catch up, so if I ever go a long time without updating just check there first lol. Alright, here we go...

Michelle woke to the sound of a camera clicking and soft snickering. The sun made her head hurt, eyes blinking rapidly.

“I’m sending this to the group chat,” she heard Ned say from somewhere behind her. She yawned into Peter’s chest. Oh no—this was not happening right now. She turned her head to see Ned standing in the doorway, furiously typing away on his phone, grinning like an idiot.

“Ned,” she whined, “please don’t.”

“Too late. It’s already done.”

“Damn you, Ned. It’s too early for this shit,” Michelle complained, though she kept her voice quiet so as not to wake Peter sleeping behind her.

She carefully tried to shimmy out of his grip, successfully turning around to face the edge of the bed, but when she tried to scoot out of his arms she found she couldn’t.

Peter mumbled something and pulled her closer to his chest, arms banding around her waist—going under her shirt—as he buried his nose in the hair at the base of her neck.

MJ felt her cheeks redden as Ned tried and failed to hold in his laughter, letting out a loud cackle that effectively woke Peter up and simultaneously ruined MJ’s morning.

She turned her head and watched as he blinked the sunlight out of his eyes, then looked to Ned, who pointed at MJ, who wanted to sink into the ground and die just to escape the embarrassment she felt crawling like ants under her skin.

Peter looked down at her. He stared for a second—two; then he seemed to realize what he was doing—one hand wrapped around her waist while the other disappeared under her shirt, scraping across her ribs, dangerously close to the undersides of her breasts. “Oh my—oh my god,” he cried, quickly withdrawing his hands and sitting up. The sheet pooled around his waist, and MJ shivered as her eyes dropped to his chest. To that spider tattoo over his left nipple. Peter covered his face with his hands, tight muscles rippling with the movement. MJ bit her lip.

Click.

“Goddamnit, Ned!” Michelle screeched. She grabbed a pillow, soft sheets scraping against the calluses that covered her hands from drawing, and threw it at his head with all her strength.

Ned squawked in outrage. Then seemed to remember what he was doing. “Man, Betty and Cindy are never going to let you guys live this down,” Ned muttered, looking at his phone. “So embarrassing.”

Michelle stumbled out of the bed, grabbing her phone and bag on the way to the bathroom. She flipped them both off for good measure. She slammed the door and collapsed down onto the toilet. Pulling out her phone, she opened up her text messages.

Four dipshits and a Michelle:

Ned: Check it out!

Ned’s text was followed by a photo of Peter and her. She had her face pressed against his chest, his arms were banded around her sleeping form, and his nose was buried in her hair. The sheet had been kicked down to their waists, and Michelle blushed when she realized her shirt had ridden partway up her back. It did look rather incriminating, though it really wasn’t. She scrolled down.

Betty: WHAT THE FUCK?!?

Cindy: I FUCKING KNEW IT ERIJFNCNDLW

Then there was the other image. The one of Peter’s shirtless chest, abs on full display, hands covering his face. And there she was—obviously looking lower than his face, biting her lip, large t-shirt hanging off her left shoulder, clearly showing she wasn’t wearing a bra.

She opened the other group chat with incoming messages—the one with only Betty and Cindy.

Cindy: Well, this is a morning I will never forget

Betty: The way she was looking at him in that second photo, tho

Cindy: I KNOW! MJ with horny eyes is almost scarier than MJ with angry eyes.

Betty: Someone’s got the hoTS FOR PARKER!!!

Betty: MJ, have you locked yourself in the bathroom yet?

Michelle’s fingers flew furiously across her keyboard.

MJ: Those were NOT horny eyes.

There was a split second where the bubble icon popped up. Then it disappeared. Reappeared.

Cindy: They were definitely horny eyes. Betty?

Betty: I agree. The council has convened. Michelle Jones has a crush on the nerd next door.

Betty: Also, SINCE WHEN HAS PETER BEEN RIPPED???

Cindy: Yeah, when the fuck did that happen?

MJ: He’s had abs for a while.

Cindy: You’ve seen him shirtless before?

Betty: !!!

Cindy: Girl, you are so screwed.

MJ: Stop trying to kill me. I died, like, twenty minutes ago.

Betty: But you LOOOOVE him

Michelle shut off her phone at that. One minute. She would allow one minute of embarrassment, then move on.

She leaned her head back against the wall and groaned, trying to use the cool tile to calm her racing mind. Her eyes fluttered shut, slowly counting down from sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight.

The way Peter had reacted, like he was uncomfortable waking up with her. She had been uncomfortable, too, but that was because of Ned. What if Peter was uncomfortable because of her?

Forty-five.

Her skin still felt like it was on fire, mark tingling pleasantly in a way that sent shivers down her spine. She cursed quietly.

Thirty. Twenty-nine.

And maybe the unrequited love was starting to drive her crazy, but she could have sworn he had been breathing her in—he had been asleep, of course, but…

Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve.

Her whole body cried out at her to tell him, to be with him, to make him feel good—body and soul.

Seven.

But she couldn’t.

Three.

Silence. Resignation. Determination.

One. Zero.

MJ stood up and shucked off her t-shirt and Peter’s boxers, nearly tripping in the tight confines of the bathroom. And maybe she was being selfish, but she shoved the boxers into her bag along with her shirt. Peter wouldn’t miss one pair. But wearing his clothes… it just felt so right, and she decided that after this morning, she would allow herself that small satisfaction. She put her hair up into a ponytail and looked at herself in the mirror. Then, before she could think better, she reached out a finger and touched her tattoo. Hissed. It was so sensitive—so sensitive after a night spent curled up with him. She could feel her heart beating quickly in her ears, but she could also feel the pulsing rhythm of a slower heartbeat; Peter, it seemed, had calmed down more than she had.

She put her clothes on and marched out of the bathroom. “Not a word from you,” she snapped at Ned as she stalked past. Peter had already put on a shirt and shorts, thankfully. She didn’t think she would be able to keep her eyes off that spider tattoo and then Peter might start to get suspicious.

Michelle turned to look at them. “So… the park and then lunch at Delmar’s?” She asked.

“Sounds good to me,” Peter replied, running a hand through his hair. Michelle looked away quickly, lest her eyes track the movement.

Ned noticed, though. He smirked. “Shut up,” MJ quipped.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You said nothing very loudly,” MJ grumbled. Ned just grinned at her. She flipped him off.

————————————————————————

By late August, the heat had become pretty much unbearable, the little air-conditioning units used in the cramped New York apartments no match for the sweltering summer.

Which is why Michelle found herself reading on the fire escape with a fold-out chair, trying and failing to cool down, sweating buckets and hating mother earth.

She turned the page. A small breeze swept through the alley and caught her bookmark. She reached out blindly to catch it before it flew out of reach of the fire escape. Just as she caught it, upper body leaning over the railing, sweat plastering her hair to her forehead, she felt hands come to steady her waist.

MJ screeched and whipped around, punching her attacker straight in the face.

Spider-man stumbled backward, hand reaching up to cup his masked jaw, and cried, “What the hell was that for?” His voice was clearly being altered by mask. Another way to protect his identity, she guessed.

Michelle shook out her wrist. “You touched me.”

Spider-man’s eyes widened. He reached his hand up as if to run it through his hair, but he was wearing a mask. “I was trying to help!” He said indignantly, bringing his arm back down and crossing them both over his chest. “I thought you were going to fall.”

“I wasn’t even off balance,” MJ quipped. She reached to push some stray curls off her sweaty forehead, then eyed his suit. “Shouldn’t you be dying in that thing? It’s, like, over a hundred degrees out today.”

“Built-in cooling technology,” he said, leaning against the railing. Michelle rolled her eyes; she supposed he thought it looked cool. It did, but that was beside the point.

“Lucky you,” she snarked. “I’d kill for that on a day like today.” She motioned to her sweaty face.

“The sweat suites you, darling,” he said, white eyes shifting down her body.

Michelle’s face reddened. “Oh my god, that’s disgusting. You could be forty—and if you touch me again, I swear—”

Spider-man’s eyes widened in shock. “No—I’m not forty! I’m a boy—I mean—young man!”

Michelle raised her eyebrows. “How old are you, exactly?” She asked. She waited a moment. “If you don’t answer I’m going to assume you’re older than thirty, which is still creepy, by the way.”

“I’m not, okay?” He said. She waited. “…I’m seventeen.”

MJ furrowed her brows at that. She was seventeen. She could know him. “Okay,” she said.

“You believe me?”

“Do I have a reason not to?” She arched a brow at him, a small smile tugging on the corners of her lips.

He shook his head furiously. “All I’m trying to say is you’re still really pretty, even with all the…perspiration.”

She looked at him more closely; something about him seemed familiar, the way he talked, or the way he held himself—maybe she really did know him from school. “Thanks, I guess. You’re not too bad yourself for a teenager wearing a spandex unitard.”

His hand slipped from the railing, and he stumbled to keep his footing. MJ’s shoulders shook with repressed laughter as she watched him, forgetting for a moment how hot out it was. “It’s not spandex!”

Michelle reached out and touched his arm. He froze. She chuckled. “It sure feels like spandex.”

“Well, it’s not,” he said a bit defensively. He nodded to her book. “What are you reading?”

“A Secret History by,” she checked the cover, “Donna Tartt.”

He nodded. “Is it any good?”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “Yeah, I’ve actually read it before, though. I ran out of new books and I’m too lazy to go to the library so I just picked up an old one.” She shrugged.

“Maybe I’ll go get it after the superhero gig tonight,” he said. She held out the book to him. He just looked at her, then at the book. “What?”

She rolled her eyes. “I was offering for you to borrow it, dipshit.”

His eyes widened again—it was actually a little creepy how they dilated; like, how did they know when to dilate? “Really?” He squeaked, reaching out to grab the book.

She pulled her hand back. “You’re not a serial killer, are you?” She eyed him suspiciously.

“What? No, I’m a superhero,” he said, still holding his hand out. “Why is that part of the vetting process for borrowing one of your books?” He made little grabby motions with his fingers.

“I feel like being a serial killer goes hand-in-hand with ruining borrowed books,” she said, narrowing her eyes. She handed him the book. “But if you damage it, I’ll kill you—friendly neighborhood Spider-man my ass.”

“Who’s the killer now?” He joked. Then he tilted his head to the side. “Well, I’ve got to go. Duty calls!” He reached his arm out and shot a web, swinging off the balcony with the book in his other hand.

“Don’t you dare drop it!” She called after his retreating form. She shook her head, not sure why she was smiling.

———————————————————

Michelle saw Spider-man again two days later. She was out reading on the fire escape again when he landed with a soft thud. She didn’t look up right away, determined to finish one last page.

He cleared his throat.

“I know you’re there,” she said.

“Oh.”

MJ let out a hum, reaching blindly for her bookmark and slipping it between the pages of her book. She looked up at him. “What do you want, Spider-pig?” She smiled to herself at her inside joke, remembering that day in biology with Peter.

He held her copy of A Secret History out to her. “I finished. It was really good—I can see why you enjoyed it.” She took the book from his hands, peering at him from her chair. His eyes narrowed at her.

“What do you want? I can tell you want something,” she deadpanned.

“What should I call you?” He hopped up onto the railing. Her eyes widened a fraction watching him. He chuckled, “I’m not going to fall. Spider-man, remember?” He mimed shooting webs out of his wrists in rapid succession.

“You can call me Michelle.”

“Really? Your friends call you Michelle?” He swung his feet back and forth, leaning back over the railing so his body hung precariously over the alleyway below to grab a piece of garbage floating in the breeze.

“No. I have a nickname, but you can call me Michelle.” She didn’t just let anybody call her M or MJ, and just because he could swing around the city on wisps of silk didn’t mean he deserved special treatment from her.

He huffed a breath. “Fair enough. You look nice today. How have you been?”

Wow, that was a lot to unpack. She looked nice? She was wearing a ratty old painting shirt that hung below her knees and her hair was up in a topknot. How had she been? Well—

She decided to ignore the first comment. “I’ve been fine. I painted today so now my back hurts, but beauty is pain, right?” She said, gesturing to her paint-stained t-shirt.

“You have paint on your face,” was his only reply. He leaned forward, reaching his hand out toward her cheek, “Here, let me.” He brushed his finger over where she assumed the paint was, but then his eyes narrowed and he ran a finger over the spot again.

“It won’t come off, Idiot. It’s dry.” She smirked at him as he withdrew his hand.

“You didn’t punch me,” he breathed.

She raised her eyebrows. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t. Don’t get too comfortable, though—I might be in a bad mood next time you try to pull shit like that.” She mimed a quick sucker punch, then blew on her fist as if to cool it off.

Spider-man laughed at her antics. “You could give most common criminals a run for their money, you know.”

She shrugged, looking down at her hands. The paint under her fingernails seemed way more interesting than it had earlier that day when she had opted not to spend twenty minutes cleaning it out. “I learned from experience. My dad—” She stopped herself before she could say anything more. That was too much information; information she hadn’t even told her best friends, that she definitely did not want to tell an almost-stranger.

She was saved by a ding coming from next to her on the chair. She picked up her phone.

Four dipshits and a Michelle:

Ned: Has anyone seen Peter? We were supposed to meet to build the millennium falcon.

MJ snorted. She quickly typed out a reply.

MJ: Nope. He probably stayed late at the stupid Stark internship.

MJ: Also, you’re both total dweebs.

She looked up to see that Spider-man wasn’t sitting on the railing anymore. She almost had a heart-attack when she heard a voice right next to her ear. “Peter… Peter Parker?”

She squawked, turning around to see him upside down in an army-crawl position on the wall behind her. “Never,” she panted, “do that again.” Then his words registered. “Wait, you really know him?”

Spider-man propped his head up on his elbows. “Yeah, I know him—from the, uh, the Stark internship—which, by the way, is not stupid.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “It’s rude to read someone else’s messages.”

“Well, I got to go,” he said suddenly. “I have somewhere I need to be.” He shot a web to the roof of the building next to hers and launched himself off the fire escape, disappearing as quickly as he’d come. Michelle looked down at the book in her lap. “Hey!” She looked up to see a red and white mask peering at her from above. “What book are you reading?!”

“The Assistant by Bernard Malamud!” She called back.

He gave her a thumbs up and disappeared again.

She waited, but he didn’t come back a second time.

Part 7