#like i drew ghost's mask but i also had delicate flower there at some point for whatever reason idk but ghost's mask doesn't rlly vibe

[ria-starstruck]

ur honor they are literally fucked up little foils of each other

thumbnails of ideas i was having for very fancy pieces under the cut! we’ll see if i get around to actually finishing any of them

[nerdypanda3126]

A Game of Snake and Mouse – Ch. 4

a/n: We made it to the last chapter! (I mean, it took me three months, which is an absolute fail for a sprint challenge, but that's beside the point 😅) Thank you so much for reading!

Viperion finds his way to Marinette's balcony for some much needed comfort.

Read on Ao3

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Viperion paused on a rooftop that was close by Marinette’s balcony. She was out watering her flowers absent-mindedly, her gray jacket tossed aside, her bare arms soaking in the sunshine, humming a soft tune to herself that carried on the wind to his enhanced senses. The melody was so achingly familiar to him that he was running again before he realized it, his legs spurred on by some unconscious need to be close to her. 

When his boots tapped down, she turned and started to smile in greeting. Something in his heart swelled and overwhelmed him and he rushed forward to gather her into his arms, kissing her fiercely. Her watering can dropped to the roof with a metallic clang and water splashed everywhere, but she didn’t seem to care as she twined her arms around his neck again. 

Clumsily, he maneuvered her to the wall and pushed her up against it, tangling his fingers in her pigtails, tugging out her ribbons and throwing them to the side as he went. She pulled away from his lips and panted his name, his hero name, he vaguely registered, but he continued kissing down her neck and brushed his fangs over that sensitive spot he’d found after the first time she kissed him. She squeaked and jolted away, but he chased after her, capturing her lips again. Vanilla. As soon as it hit his tongue, he grimaced and pulled away, wiping the flavor off his lips distastefully. 

She was still panting, and she squeezed at his bicep before she tried to push up on her toes to kiss him again. He pulled back, but pressed his forehead to hers to stay close. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked softly. 

She reached up to cup his cheek, tracing the small point of his mask with her thumb. He turned his head to press a kiss to her palm, then trailed his hand down her back, snaking his arm around her to find her back pocket. She jumped when his hand slid inside her pocket, but he was only grabbing the chapstick she had on her. 

He tore his eyes away from Marinette’s to check the flavor of the small tube he was holding. Strawberry. A sigh of relief escaped him as he wiped her lips gently with his gloved thumb. She watched him with wide eyes. He uncapped the strawberry chapstick and held her chin in his hand, dabbing on the mouth-watering flavor, watching the tint of red cover the pale pink of her lips. When he’d capped the chapstick again and returned it to her, he bent to brush his nose against hers and breathe in the scent. Vanilla was still mixed into the strawberry, but it was better. Marinette ran a hand through his hair, brushing it back from his face. 

“Luka, you’re scaring me,” she said, a small nervous tremor laced through her words. “Is everything okay?” 

“Everything’s perfect,” he whispered back. He cradled her head between his hands and leaned in to kiss her forehead, then moved to kiss her cheeks and her nose. His thumbs stroked against her cheekbones reverently before he bent to press his lips to hers again, committing every curve of their soft shape to memory. 

Just as he was starting to get carried away again, she pushed against his shoulder gently and he pulled back, following her motion. There was a worried crease between her eyebrows and he wanted to kiss that away, too. 

“Talk to me,” she pleaded. “What happened back there?” 

He sighed and took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers and squeezing tightly before he led the way over to her skylight. He helped her through and climbed in after her.

As soon as he was inside, he dropped his transformation and grabbed Marinette around the waist, falling back against her pillows. Her slight weight on top of him and the scent of her all around him on her pillows and sheets helped pull him back to her solid reality. 

She shifted to prop her chin up on his chest. Those gorgeous blue eyes raked over him in concern. He ran his hand through her hair again, letting the loose strands slip over his fingers and spill across her shoulders. 

“Luka?” she asked, softly, like she was scared of breaking him. He hummed in response. Her skylight provided a bright spot of sunlight on them and he was watching it split through the dark strands of her hair. When his eyes traveled back to hers, he was able to smile. 

She was waiting for him to say something. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck, pressing a kiss there before making his way down to her collarbone, across to her shoulder. She shivered, but returned his embrace as much as she could. Her arms tucked around his shoulders felt like home. 

“I am… so lucky,” he finally managed to whisper against the fabric of her shirt. Tears were gathering in the corners of his eyes, but he wasn’t sure if they were happy or not. If the way his chest felt about ready to burst was any indication, it was happiness. 

She started tracing over the fading mark she’d given him on the side of his neck—was that only a week ago? It felt so much longer. 

“Why’s that?” she asked, still in that quiet, soothing tone. 

He laid his head back on her pillow, staring out the skylight while he found his words. She drew lazy patterns down his neck and over his chest, her fingers leaving a pleasant warmth tingling through him as she went. Finally, she splayed her hand out over his thudding heartbeat and he wrapped his hand around hers. Another small reminder. She was here, with him. She was real. This was real. 

“I don’t know if it’ll make much sense,” he started, directing his words at the sky above them. “But for all I know, this might be the one chance out of a thousand—hell, out of a million, maybe—that I get to be here like this. With you. If things hadn’t gone exactly the way they did…” He squeezed her against him before he could choke up again. 

“I’ve seen so many things go wrong,” he forced himself to continue as he brought his gaze back down to earth. Back to his amazing girlfriend and those eyes that were focused entirely on him, even though she had so many other things to think about. There was a deep furrow between her eyebrows as she tried to follow what he was saying, and he reached up to smooth it with his thumb. 

He slid his hand around to cup her cheek in his palm, amazed at how perfectly she fit there. Leaning into his touch, she closed her eyes and let out a small, satisfied sigh that was the most beautiful music to his ears. 

“I’m so unbelievably lucky that this is the one thing that’s managed to go right.” 

He brushed his thumb over her lips as he paused to look at her, then pushed himself up to kiss her again. She fell into his gentle rhythm, returning his kisses with as much care and devotion that he was giving to her. The salt of his happy tears hit his tongue and he pulled away from Marinette to lick them away from his lips. She wiped the rest off his cheeks and away from his eyes and he caught her hand to kiss each one of her fingertips. 

It was too soon, he knew. But he also knew how quickly too soon could turn into too late. And he never wanted to leave the words on his tongue unsaid. So he held onto her hand and locked his eyes on hers. 

“I love you, Marinette.” 

She let out a little squeak as a bright red blush bloomed across her face. He couldn’t help his smile as he pressed another kiss to the inside of her wrist, reassuring her. “So much,” he whispered against the delicate skin. 

Having said what he needed to say, he let his head fall back against her pillows and sighed contentedly. A calm, comforting pause stretched between them. Absent-mindedly, she started threading her fingers through his hair, brushing it back from his face as she went, and he hummed with pleasure. A weight had been removed from his chest and he could breathe again. No matter what happened—in this time line or in any others—from now on she knew where he stood without a shadow of a doubt. 

“I love you, too, Luka,” she finally said, the weight of her words reflected in the gravity of her tone.

His smile widened into a grin and he pulled her back against him, wrapping his arms around her as tightly as he could manage. She tucked her nose into the curve of his neck and nuzzled into him. They were both quiet, processing, until Marinette squirmed a little in his arms and he opened them to let her sit up. She dug in her back pocket and produced the little tube of chapstick. 

“So this one’s the winner, then?” 

His eyebrows knitted together as he tried to follow her train of thought. She was grinning like she’d won some sort of prize—and looking at him like he was the prize—and he swallowed thickly. 

“What do you mean?” 

“This one,” she continued, holding it up as she settled back down and laid her head on his shoulder, “it’s your favorite?” 

She’d been doing it on purpose, then. He should’ve guessed. He chuckled and plucked it from her fingers, rolling it around and around as he considered. “I liked them all, in different ways. The peppermint was… bold and strong and…” He licked his lips as the ghost of peppermint tingled on his tongue. The first time she’d kissed him. The breathlessness and the chill and the beginning of something special. 

“Memorable,” he finished, catching her eyes again. A smile stretched across her face, apparently unbidden, and she hid her face in his chest as she remembered along with him. 

“You didn’t like the vanilla, though,” she protested, her voice muffled in his shirt. “You made a face.” 

He hummed as he considered. It wasn’t really the vanilla he’d had an objection to, but the memory that had been attached to it. Which was pretty easily remedied. He grinned and tucked his finger under her chin to pull her face back up to his to kiss her again. That he could kiss her any time he wanted now and that she was kissing him back was still a dizzying thought. She pulled away a tiny amount and pouted. 

“Don’t change the subject,” she said stubbornly.

“Who said I was?” He smirked. “I was getting another taste.” 

Her squeak was cut off by his lips on hers. He slid his tongue between her parted lips and she relaxed into him, making small noises of pleasure that did incredible things to his ego and his hormones. He shifted to lay more on top of her, pinning her to the bed, before he broke away and pretended to weigh his options. She gripped the fabric of his jacket at his waist and watched him with wide eyes. 

“Can’t really tell the vanilla from the strawberry,” he mused, “they’re kind of one and the same, all mixed together.” He leaned down to brush his nose against hers. Her breath hitched and it made him smile. “Honestly,” he continued, a little breathlessly, “as long as it's on your lips, any flavor of chapstick would be my favorite.” 

She grabbed the lapels of his jacket—God, he loved it when she did that—and pulled him down to kiss him hungrily. Her hands slid up to his shoulders, and he thought she was just smoothing the fabric until he felt a tug on his arms and realized she was trying to take his jacket off. He chuckled and sat up to shuck it off, tossing it to the end of her bed before he came back to her. 

Her hands strayed everywhere then, exploring his shoulders through his shirt, tracing the lines of his flexed arms, trailing down his sides until she slipped them under his shirt and he gasped into her mouth. Having her hands on him was exhilarating. Addicting. He was tempted to tug his shirt off as well to give her more access. 

But Marinette froze under him, and her eyes went impossibly wide. She tossed him off her with surprising ease and scrambled to throw his jacket back at his face before she threw a blanket over him. He was about to protest when he heard what must’ve been Sabine’s voice calling for Marinette and a knock on her trapdoor right before it was opened. 

“Marinette?” Sabine asked. 

“Up here, Maman,” Marinette called, and he noticed with a strange flush of pride that her voice was too high-pitched as she tried to act innocent. There was an excruciating pause and Luka could almost feel the maternal suspicion. He held his breath as if that would help anything. 

“Dinner’s ready, sweetie,” she finally said. 

“I’ll be right down!” Marinette answered, and Luka heard the trapdoor close again. He counted thirty seconds in his head until Marinette let out a sigh of relief and uncovered him. “I thought we were done for,” she whispered. 

“Oh, she totally knows I’m here,” he whispered back, grinning. He reached out to rake his fingers through her hopelessly tangled hair, teasing out the knots that had started to form. Her eyes went wide again and she pulled her hair back hurriedly, glancing around for her ribbons that he knew were still on the roof.

“Hang on,” he said with a sigh. He adjusted to stand until he was halfway out of her skylight and stretched his hand out to reach the abandoned ribbons. He stole a kiss as he returned them to her before he slung his jacket back around his shoulders. 

“Next time I come over, I’ll use the bakery door,” he promised. 

She had her ribbons in her mouth as she fixed her hair, but she nodded to agree. Her cheeks and lips were still flushed from kissing him, and her eyes were brighter than usual. Beautiful. 

He was grinning like stupid, and when she caught him staring at her she blushed a deeper shade of red than he’d ever seen on her. He cleared his throat and looked away before he could get carried away… yet again. It seemed to be a pattern with her.  

With a word to Sass, he was transformed. Her eyes raked appreciatively over him and he was thankful his ears were covered by his hair because they were positively burning. He leaned in and gave her one more kiss. Always one more. He paused to press his forehead to hers, and when he pulled away she leaned with him, chasing after him. 

Her Multimouse pendant had gotten pulled around to the side as they were kissing. He adjusted it casually, but let his fingertips brush the skin at the base of her neck as he did. He was rewarded by another adorable squeak and he couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“Catch you next time, ma petite souris,” he murmured, grinning, before he pulled himself back up to her roof, thankful for the run ahead of him to clear his head. 

When he’d made his way back to the Liberty, detransforming in a nearby alley before walking on deck, Juleka flew at him in a blur of purple and black. All at once she was boxing his ears and hugging him tight. He ducked her blows as much as he could before he caught up to what she was muttering excitedly about. 

“Where the hell were you? How could you just leave like that? We didn’t know what happened and the akuma was exploding and the Ladybugs didn’t bring you back and—” 

He pulled her off him with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Jules, I went to check on Marinette. I should’ve told you.” 

She blinked at him from behind her bangs and seemed to actually look at him for the first time. Her face twisted into a grimace and she tossed his hands away. “Gross. At least send a text if you’re going to be dumb and go make out with your girlfriend during an akuma attack,” she grumbled. 

Self-consciously, he wiped at his lips. Marinette’s chapstick came away on his fingers and he couldn’t help but grin. He had been making out with his girlfriend. Those were words he never wanted to get tired of hearing.

Juleka rolled her eyes and walked away from him, muttering to herself about what a dumbass he was. He shook his head, smiling, before he turned to look back in the direction of Marinette’s balcony.

He didn’t know who’d won or lost their little game; if he’d caught her or if she’d caught him. Maybe a little of both. Either way, it was a game he was more than happy to continue playing for what he hoped would be a very long time.

[sfiddy]

So Bad

For @academialynx , who made a donation to her local food bank in return for a fic!  This is a college AU, moderately prof/student (though the theme is that they DON’T break the rules) boatloads of yearning, and janky building maintenance that leads to getting locked in a closet.  She asked me to consider the Brandon Colbein song So Bad.  Which I did.  :)

Thank you, Dear!  Here we go!

Rated T

On AO3

On FF

On Tumblr!  (keep reading!)

Another champagne cork popped and a delighted cheer spread through the room.  Glasses, plastic cups, and hastily drained coffee mugs were refreshed and the party carried on.  Theirs was not a large music department, so to have attracted a fresh, exciting, multi-talented composition and collaborative piano specialist with a few international awards, one ‘early career’ grant and another from the National Endowment for the Arts meant their modest program was about to gain a little fresh clout at interdepartmental tenured faculty meetings.

“Congratulations again, Erik!”  Dr. Nadir Khan hauled Erik into a vigorous handshake and pumped for a full three seconds.  

Erik winced.  He’d be hamfisting the keys tomorrow if they kept this up.  “Thank you, Dean Khan.  It’s an honor to join as a full professor.”

“I am Nadir to you, and don’t forget it.”  Nadir refilled Erik’s plastic cup and tapped his department coffee mug against it, sloshing their champagne into frothy heads.  “It’s hard to believe it’s been five years, Erik!  You cost me a bet, I’ll have you know.  I didn’t think you’d stay after you had to teach that semester of History of Rock and Roll for non-majors.”

The lantern-jawed oboe professor laughed.  “Or the infamous Intro to Music Theory.”

“No, no,” disagreed Umbaldo Piangi, the portly voice teacher.  “When I went on sabbatical to Teatro La Fenice and you gave him The Chamber Music Outreach Project and graduate tutoring.  No warning!”  Even the big man’s clucking tongue was musical.  “But, Piangi is back, no?  I will cut back my performance hours and take back all the lessons and weekends and let Dr. Erik Devereaux return to his writing!”

“Actually,” Erik said, and the room stilled.  “The only part I disliked was the public part.  I never minded the private instruction.  If you would like to split the load, I’m happy to keep the instructional portion while you handle the tours, performances, and...outreach?”  He suppressed the grimace well enough.

Piangi, Italian down to his fine shoes, let out a whoop and grabbed Erik in a hug so tight it pressed his ribcage and nearly dislodged his delicate porcelain mask from it’s fine wire and leather fittings.

“Ah, my partner now!  I will call donors and show off the little tweeting songbirds with my lovely Carlotta while you teach them not to call for worms!  A toast!”  Piangi held up his plastic cup once again.  

Erik accepted a toast that crackled the edge of his plastic cup and hoped for something new and shiny to distract them.  Or for the lights to suddenly flicker and fail as they were prone to do, along with randomly closing doors in the terribly laid out office and work spaces.  The college had access to talent pipelines that the underfunded and neglected department had not been able to tap.  Their aggressive recruitment of him was a last ditch effort for change before the tiny group was relegated to a four piece for the university reagent’s cocktail brunch and a marching band for the far-better funded football team.

“To Dr. Devereaux!”

With a conspiratorial grin, Erik drained his cup and winked at Piangi.  “To the songbirds.”

…

Tenure in hand, Erik started his campaign.  Once he ditched the worst teaching credits to lecturers and adjuncts, he could focus on recruiting.  Specifically, to score a few respected but not-yet-headliner talents.  Emerging performers without a good gig had few options and the status and modest stipend to be a ‘visiting artist’ might be more attractive than the floating gulag of a cruise ship.  

A few excellent but relatively unknown performers could teach and perform, receive some finishing, and get quickly farmed out into the world.  The reputation-building move would be pricey, but no one gets paid dividends before investing.

His development grant would cover three such artists.  He got more than fifty applications.  Erik rubbed his eyes under the mask.  It was a good thing he never had plans-- it would be a long weekend.

…

The old music labs building had settled over the years and gained what the senior faculty referred to as ‘personality’.   Erik took this to mean ‘genially hazardous’.  No amount of facility requests or complaints brought the doors and keys division to do maintenance.

He was a quick learner though, and only got locked in his workroom twice before catching the door with his foot became second nature.   He even set a flaking brick, plucked from a neglected flower bed outside, in the corner by the door and kicked it against the frame as a doorstop.  Every time he came to his workroom, a narrow converted closet with a work bench and packed with shelves of manuscripts, music, errant repair kits and recording equipment, he would hit the outside light switch, unlock the door, step in, catch the door, then kick the brick.  

Switch, step, catch, kick.  His shoes were gaining new wear marks.

After kicking the brick into place, Erik opened his laptop and went over the last files.  He’d asked the department admins to strip out the audio files to just the audition pieces and remove identifying details from the fifty applications.  If he was going to invite talent, their first hurdle would be their musicianship.  Once he’d culled the herd to ten, he’d submitted his picks to the dean to select the three finalists.  Now they needed invitations.  Two vocalists and a classical guitarist made the cut and he spent the next few hours getting more acquainted with their files and ignoring the pings of his filling inbox.

At least it was just his inbox.  No one came to the music labs and his closet if they could help it.

If he was honest, no one came to meet him in person if they could help it.

…

Most performers were beautiful.  Entire websites and product lines were devoted to skincare for singers, makeup tutorials, look books and wardrobe consulting.  Erik’s particular variety of deformity would stand out in any circumstances, but in an entire department stuffed with the striking, stunning, and unconventionally glorious, he bordered on eyesore.  Even Piangi could command a room with his generous, rosy smiles and booming laugh.  

The mask was the best combination of memorable and functional he could muster.  Yes, surgery was an option but who signed up for years of unnecessary pain and the risk of infection?  He had better things to do.  

Like meet with his new visiting artists.  

The classical guitarist had supple wrists and forearms like Popeye.  His rolled cuffs drew the eye to the action while his cleverly knotted scarf kept you looking at his face, framed by artfully mussed hair.  

“We’re looking forward to your first concerts and hope you’ll consider collaborations with local programs.”

The baritone had a one in a million voice.  How he hadn’t been snapped up for opera yet was a mystery but Erik supposed it was his poor presence.  When you had the goods, you still had to sell them, and the young man’s love of neon, bad hair, and questionable repertoire (pin the tail on a Hal Leonard page) needed polish.  His work was shockingly precise and sounded like he had a cathedral in his mouth.

“Our faculty and staff are a rich resource for young performers and are always eager to assist.  We often work in parallel with the communications department and local professionals to prepare our artists for the culture and community as well as the stage.”

The soprano was the risk.  The recording had been largely boilerplate and her prior experience thin.  The reason she got in was a one-point-two second pause in her audition tape.  It was the silence that told Erik she had chops.  

Imagine, a soprano unafraid of silence.  It had been late in the weekend when he selected her and had not yet been able to examine the head shot.

��I… um...”

“Yes, Dr. Devereaux?”

“Welcome, Miss Daaé.”

…

The visiting artists would survey classes, provide demonstrations and guest lectures, and appear at university events, auditions, and generally get the word out that the department was shifting to a growth phase.  That was the official description.  Unofficially, there would be a mountain of effort to make each emerging artist a shot on goal for the department.  Recording deals, major and paid appearances, and successful auditions all counted toward the tally.  

Guitar was not Erik’s forte, and as much as he could contribute to the baritone’s look and polish, Erik had cultivated a far more… refined profile than the young man aspired to.  Erik maintained collars sharp enough to cut bread and a spotless sheen on his porcelain mask.  Right now, Dean Khan aspired to cut the young man’s mullet tail off.  

“Excellent, Miss Daaé, right on time.”  Erik slid the fall board up and they prepared to work.  She understood how to modulate her tone, how to select the emotional pitch to match the song, to contrast with it for effect.  She explored her range and willingly failed to find her borders.  It all made for an excellent student.

It was the quiet that made her breathtaking.  The anticipation of her.  Tenths of seconds that tightened the chest and made a quiver run through the blood.  Not often, only when it mattered, and only when it would matter enough to do so.  

When he could stand it no more, he asked her about it.

“I’m sorry, I can try to stop.”

“I didn’t ask you to stop, I asked when you started doing it.”

She considered him, her ribbons of curling hair twisting as she shifted.  “When my father was sick.  I could feel the need for silences because he couldn’t talk anymore.  It just felt… right.”

Erik nodded.  “Again.”

…

She’d been a late bloomer.  A ghost on the scene and at least five years older than the rest of the sopranos at her stage.  It also meant she hadn’t spent her entire high school and college career belting Broadway in the recital rooms, building nodes on her vocal chords.  

They finished late one night and he walked her to her car.  “So what did you do for practice?”

She pinked under the parking lot lights.  “I, um… waited tables at an Italian restaurant.  You know, where your server might sing opera when they bring you breadsticks?”

Erik nodded.  “Parmesan and Puccini?”

Bless her, she giggled.  “Bellinis and Bellini.  A few really knew when they were hearing but most just wanted to hear Nessun Dorma because they heard it on Youtube.  I managed to get a few singing jobs out of it but I mostly just waited tables.”  They stopped at her car but she hadn’t reached for her keys yet.  “I was a bartender and the second understudy for a Gilbert and Sullivan society when I saw your announcement.”

“Their loss,” Erik said.  He left off the second half.

“Thanks.”  Christine hesitated.  “I didn’t expect to be accepted, so… thanks.”  

Something changed in the breeze.  Something cool and soft in the night air mixed with the gold light pouring down from the lights.  It highlighted the curls that spiralled out of control around her neck as she tilted her head just so.  

It was just a moment, a funny thump that ricocheted in his chest at her upturned face, her soft smile.  Maybe her eyes flicked down, maybe her sharp inhale had a little catch in it.  Maybe it was the way her lip twitched, but a red flag suddenly waved in Erik’s head and he stepped back carefully.  He had a powerful fear of heat and burns.

“Yes, of course.  The, uh, department was very happy to offer the opportunity.”

She blinked.  “Of course.  Well, thanks for the great session and walking me to my car.  Have a nice evening, Erik.”

Christine drove away and Erik stood in the parking lot for some minutes after her taillights had faded.  He imagined it.  Surely, he’d taken a friendly conversation the wrong way.  She wasn’t his student, strictly speaking, but he had influence over her career, which would be just as bad.  

Besides, he had completely misread the whole thing.  Surely.  Women didn’t look up at him like that-- like he would kiss them.  After a walk after dark, telling him about themselves, and looking at him like that.

No one looked at him like... that.

Oh no.

…

She wasn’t strictly his student.  He was her mentor.  Even a brief thought made it obvious and completely inappropriate.  Did she think it would improve her opportunities?

Erik swallowed.  No, if that was the game she wouldn’t have backed off.  Surely he’d misread the situation.

…

They brewed tea together.  She remembered his favorite oolong.

…

He saw a cascade of curling hair on his way to the post office and his heart leapt.

It wasn’t her.  The disappointment was too confusing to examine.

…

His mouth went dry when her sweater slipped from her shoulder.  Then he knocked the music from the stand.

She smiled and helped him pick up the sheets.  

There were freckles on her shoulder.

... 

Five months into the visiting artist tour and Piangi had the concert hall packed for their first performances.  Franco the guitarist, who preferred just the one name, would play a twenty minute set, followed by the baritone Burton Armstrong, as baritoney a name as Erik had ever heard, then Christine, and finally Franco would play again with accompaniment.  

Erik was content to stay in a tiny box seat far to the side as Piangi introduced each performer.  Franco had gained the stage he deserved, and Burton had been convinced to get a proper haircut and suit, and sang a particularly impressive Russian ballad set.  

Christine was introduced and settled onto the stage.  She was radiant in dark blue, and decorated her baroque set with agility.  From his perch, Erik could as easily imagine her distributing bellinis as gracing an opera stage.  It was not an insult.  After her short set, she nodded and was joined by Burton.  A duet?  

She looked up and found him, up in his perch.  She nodded, and the two launched into a series of excerpts from Semele, Handel’s somewhat neglected tale of a torrid affair between a mortal woman and the god, Jupiter.

Their gazes met as she sang.

O Jove! In pity teach me which to choose,

Incline me to comply, or help me to refuse!

The baritone thundered.

Too well I read her meaning,

But must not understand her.

If Erik’s ears heard the rest of the concert, he could not recall it later.

…

Dean Khan adjourned the faculty meeting.  “Oh Erik, if you have a moment?”

They waited until the room was cleared and Nadir closed the door, then casually looked over the remaining pastries.  “Excellent concert last month.  The work with Burton is certainly paying off.”  

Erik leaned against the table.  “His socks were bright green, but we felt it was a workable compromise.”

“Franco is excellent in front of the crowd.  Has he met the flamenco dancers yet?”

“I put in a call.  I think he’s going to their weekly meeting next Thursday.”

“Marvelous.  Let me know how that goes when you hear, won’t you?”

“Of course.”  Erik felt his chest tighten the longer Nadir perused the snacks and chose to tear off the bandage himself.  “Anything else?”

“There is, in fact,” Nadir did not look up from the muffins.  “Christine’s performance was exceptional.  Truly filled with passion.”

Erik tried to take a sip of coffee but his cup was empty.  He faked it.  “She’s a wonderful artist.”

“Yes.  I couldn’t help but notice--” Nadir paused over the croissants, then passed them over to examine the cookies.  “You two seem to have a unique and strong mentor-trainee relationship.”

“Thank you.”  It had not been a question.  There was nothing here… yet.  “We work well together.”  

“I’m glad to hear that.  The program you’ve created is admirable for it’s transparency and integrity.”

“I agree.  Thank you for noticing.”

Nadir looked up with a slight nod, then selected a macadamia cookie.  “I’m sure the remaining six months will fly by, Erik.”

He had no idea how to respond.

...

Six months.  There were six months left in the visiting artist term.  There were more sessions, a mini tour, and a series of small concerts meant to showcase the new talent the department had ‘produced’.  

Six months of lies, pretending he was misunderstanding something.  Pretending he didn’t notice the way she was at his side and on his mind.  Then she would leave him to the dull, overworked life he’d made for himself in the hopes of making a name for himself while simultaneously avoiding attention.  More lies, but easier to swallow.  

Her voice came from the hallway.  “Erik?  I’m heating up some water, would you like tea?”

“Is it the one you brought?”

A light laugh.  Sparkling.  “Of course.”

He dropped his work and grabbed his cup.  “Be right there.”

…

A very successful fundraiser was wrapping up on the top floor of the performing arts center.  It had a view over the campus, the nice side, and the glow of downtown caught the streaking rain on the tall glass walls.  

The donors had been generous, delighted with the new features of the program and the willingness to be accessible.  Erik stayed to the side, avoiding the center of the room where Piangi and his wife Carlotta took up residence.  Nadir circulated the room, nudging him out from time to time for a refill and to participate.  When forced to do so, Erik sloshed some middling red wine into his glass and let himself slip into Christine’s gravity for a few minutes before drifting away again.  

He could feel her gaze.

The cocktail party was to end at eleven-thirty, and by then nearly all the guests had left.  The last ones were rushed  out and Piangi hurried to the bar.  

“Open season!” 

A quick crush to the bar and every open bottle was ‘liberated’ to the long-suffering exhibits.  Christine topped off her glass and passed the bottle to a fellow soprano, hardly twenty years old, and the two laughed and kicked off their heels.  Piangi and Burton laughed over an earlier flub and the cello player, finally able to pack his instrument and relax, demanded and received a full glass.

Erik tipped back a hearty, warm swallow and emerged from the hinterlands.

“Oh, hi Dr. Devereaux!  Did you just get here?” teased Carlotta.  “Your legend only grows the more you hide.”

“All part of my devious plan,” he conceded.  Christine’s giggle mingled with the laughs of her peers.  “If you’ll excuse me.  Piangi, brilliant as always.”

“Same to you, Erik!  We plan many parties now, no?”

Easing his way towards the mirth, Erik relaxed.  There were plenty of others around, and this was just the after party to a long dog and pony show.  Listen to the pretty songbirds and throw money at the program, invitation only.  They all deserved drinks after three hours of that.

Christine was plucking a pin from her hair.  She shook the curls loose.  “Hi Erik!  God, I’m so glad to see you.”

“Oh?”

She held up a bottle.  “Yeah, you need a refill.”  

It had been a long night.  These events could be tricky to navigate.  Sometimes there was politics, other times business rivals.  More often, donors expected special privilege and access in exchange for their checks, as if the last hundred years of progress meant nothing.  The way a few of them had looked at Erik, maybe it didn’t.  

He let her pour some white wine over the dregs of his red.  Improvised rosé.  “Everything go okay?”  

“Good enough.  I think I have some auditions, and some stuff nearby might open up for me.”

“That’s great.  Who with?”

A nice chorus.  A solid baroque group.  Both could springboard to bigger things.  A few bigger things were here.  

“What’s bigger?”  She asked, her eyes dark and soft.  

He had not meant to speak, and now he rushed his words.  “Things!  Choirs, operas.  There’s a few small opera troupes and there’s churches that need choral directors that know how to work with organ and piano.”

She sniggered.  “Organs.”  The other soprano dissolved into giggles.

Erik pulled out his phone.  Clearly neither was driving tonight.  He absently tallied up his glasses and admitted he wasn’t either.

“Do you play the organ, Erik?”

“Yes.”

Christine stepped closer and, on pure instinct, Erik put his arm around her as she turned her head to speak.

“Can I watch?”  

His collar was tight.  He pulled up the app and ordered a car.

They ran through the rain, more than sprinkled, less than soaked.  Plenty wet to shiver from the chill of the driver’s exuberant air conditioning, though.  Between giggles and poorly composed directions, they dropped off the other soprano who wobbled successfully to her door before their driver sped away.  Christine did not shift away to the other seat, but leaned into him, tucking herself against his side.  

The driver glanced in the rear view mirror, then looked away.

She was cool and smooth.  Her loosened curls had tightened from the wet and tickled his neck and brushed against his mask.  

Her hand on his thigh.  Erik said nothing.  If he was silent there was a kind of deniability, or denial at least, of what was happening.  If he could deny that her fingernails caught on the inner seam of his trousers, then she could deny that his hand was firmly planted at her waist, holding her close.

And if she could deny that, then she could also deny that her nose bumped his chin, her ragged breath loud in his ears.  And they could both deny that their lips grazed, a not-kiss somehow more intimate than if their lips moved and pulled at each other.  Like her singing, it was the pause that made your breath catch and your insides tug.

“What number?”

Dashboards lights reflected in her eyes.  “That one,” she said, and cautiously settled.  The driver pulled forward and Christine unbuckled.  

“Good night, Erik.  See you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Christine.”

The driver glanced in the rearview.  Erik looked down.  “Sorry.”

The driver shrugged.  

One more month.

…

He was hiding.  He’d been hiding for weeks; stopped looking for her, stopped even wondering where she was or if she was alone.  There was no way to be near her without the pretense of a piano that wouldn’t leave him shaking.  No way to think about her without wanting.

He was Erik, a composer, a conductor, performer, designer of auditory spaces and translator of music.  He was a collaborative pianist and vocal specialist.  He’d given everything to music and the service of it, the delivery of it.  He didn’t need this. He’d never had this.

No one ever offered.  So he’d found fulfillment elsewhere, until now.

Erik hunched over his work, safely tucked into his corner of the music labs building.  Between grading, senior thesis submissions, revisions to his own publications, and a request for a letter of recommendation, he could be plenty busy late into the night with no need for anyone to--

“Hello?  Erik?”

Erik snatched at his mask and settled it.  He’d been found.  Time to lie, except he can’t lie to her.

“Can I help you with something, Christine?”  He gathered a stack and stood.  She met him by his door.

“Well, yeah,” she paused, blocking his path momentarily before stepping aside.  “I need your signature on my visiting artist release.  And another on my endorsement for my new job.”

Erik hefted his armload to the work closet.  “I’m sure they look forward to meeting you.  Come on.”  He unlocked the door and held it open, then followed behind her, hitting the light switch with his elbow before catching the door on his foot, then he kicked the brick into place.  He had to hold the stack to keep it from spilling across the work table.

She handed him the forms.  Erik moved to a span of clean tabletop and started scanning the release form.  Government agency boilerplate to satisfy the grant was mixed with flowery language so no one would suspect they were anything but artists.  Yesterday Franco had brought Burton’s form-- yep, this was Christine’s.  So on and so forth.

Erik had just finished scratching out his signature when he heard a familiar scrape.

“Why on earth do you keep a-”

Click.

“--brick?”

Erik pressed the heel of his hand into his chin.  

“Are we… locked in?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”  A faint rumble vibrated in the walls.  “I don’t suppose that was just… construction?”

Erik let out a mirthless laugh.  “There were storms brewing earlier.  Besides, does this building look like they work on it?”

“Not really.”

Another rumble, louder, and the light fixture jittered.  

Christine finally took a deep breath.  “Have you been avoiding me?”

“No!  Yes.  I don’t know.”  He touched his hairline, recapped a pen.  “We crossed a line.  I had to get back behind it and I couldn’t if we…”  His hands skated across the table top nervously.  

“Is this about being my mentor?”

Erik barked an ugly, bitter laugh.  “What else?  God, you just, out of nowhere, with your smiles, and the way you look at me, and sing to me, and the Semele…” Erik’s skin grew tight as he recalled the cocktail party.  He turned, face growing hot beneath the porcelain and his throat tightening.  He was a ruin.

“--and the touching and wanting and you’re… you’re just going to leave!  I’m a fucking idiot!”

On cue, an extended, throaty roar of thunder rattled the stone and brick until the bare bulb above could suffer no more.  With a loud pop, the narrow room went dark.  They both scuffled in the dark until they had hold of something sturdy.

“Erik?”

He was embarrassed.  He was frustrated.  “What.”

“You need to sign the other form.”

“Want to get away that bad?  Fine.”  He reached for a desk lamp and tried to turn it on.  He flipped the switch furiously.  The power was out.

“Here,” Christine held up her phone and lit the screen.  Her screensaver was… them? Beside a piano together?

Erik snatched a pen from the table and slashed his name.  “There.  Just search for facilities or call the university police.  They can unlock the door.”

“Erik, did you even look at it?”

“Why bother.”

She snorted at him.  “God, you’re so blind.”

“The lights were out.”

“Fine, you want to be a jerk, be one, but at least look at where I’m taking a job before you decide to walk.”

She lit up her phone once more and he glared at the page like it was staring at his mask.  He tracked the offer and terms until he reached the party names and…

“You took a job at… a middle school?  Here?”  He looked up into the dim light.  “You’re not leaving?”

“Meet the new grade six to eight choir director.  Go Scotties.  And now you have no direct influence over my career.”

Her screensaver dimmed, and before it went dark, Erik could make out a flash of their faces, turned to each other.  He wondered if Nadir had seen this moment, because they looked as passionate as lovers despite being feet apart.

The room went black again, and he could hear her moving.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That much has been apparent.  What do you know?”

She was close.  Close enough to feel the way she shifted the air.  “I know way too much about motif design, lyric phrasing--”

Closer.  “Go on.”  Her hips were near his. 

“Harmonic theory, vocals”

 “Can attest.”  Her fingertips were at his jawline, tracing his mask.  “I thought it would be cold.”

“It’s been on my face all day.  Early Romantic era competition and,” his voice scraped over gravel, “that I want you. So bad.”

Her kiss was her reply.  Erik’s hands flew around her as she pivoted to the table with him, dragging his mask upwards.  He gasped as cool air brushed his face, followed by light, curious fingertips and her hot mouth.  Erik knocked over the stack of papers and files with a satisfying splatter.

“Is that light over there?” she asked, dragging her lips from his.  “Around that cabinet door?”

“What?” he panted.  “I thought that was a panel.”

She pushed him off gently, peering up at the wall.  “Right there, see?”

Sure enough, there was a thin line of light.  It was a hidden door with a magnetic latch. 

“They can’t keep the regular door from locking you in but they put a trick door at the back?”  Erik complained as he climbed through awkwardly.  Very awkwardly.  Her lips were red and swollen.

“Let me grab my things and we can get out of here.”

Erik checked his watch.  “First, we’re turning in your forms.”

“It’s almost five!”

“We’ll make it if we run.”

Panting, they caught the dean just as he was packing up to leave.

“Erik, Christine?  Are you alright?  That was some storm we--”

Erik shoved the forms at him.  “Yep. Terrible storm.  Here.”

“Indeed, Erik.  Why, your hair is a mess and I’ve never seen your shirt untucked.”

“Big wind.  Yep.  Almost hit by lightning.  Here, time stamp?”

“Miss Daaé, you may want to adjust…”

“For God’s sake just take the stupid form so we can go!” Christine shouted.

Nadir laughed and scanned the forms.  “I don’t want to see you until Monday, Erik.  You better be late.”

He didn’t make it in until Wednesday.

...

[marvelatthehottotties]

Steven Grant Rogers - Chapter 1

Warnings: Mentions of sex, alcohol use, bit of angst, bit of fluff.

Masterpost Prologue

Co-authored by @keliza

Masterpost

He was long and lanky. He’d been slow to grow right up until our senior year of high school. Junior year he’d left for the summer and in just three short months it seemed like he’d sprouted right up into the 6’2” bean pole. 

You’d always liked Steve. Most girls gravitated towards Bucky, the well off, naturally charming mechanic that Steve was connected at the hip with. Not you. 

It was always Steve, with his gentle blue eyes and his kind smile. Just once you wanted to know what it felt like to hold his hand or how he’d kiss. 

You always imagined he kissed like John Thorton at the end of North and South. How many times had you fantasized that he brushed his hand over your skin and breath a little breath to blow away your insecurities like he had with his sketchbook. 

You’d glanced once to see what he drew. Mostly doodles, but once, you’d seen a face. One that broke your heart. Ms. Carter. Your senior lit teacher. He drew her in such a lovely way there was no doubt to his affections for her. And how could you ever compete with someone as fierce and intelligent as Ms. Peggy Carter.

You tended to shy away from him for the most part. Usually too worried about being a nuisance to really try to hold a conversation with him. You were honestly surprised to go see him go to school. He came from a poor family, you knew his mother was sick. It made your heart ache to watch him go through what you did. 

Then it happened. 

Sarah Rogers passed away and he was devastated. So was Bucky if you were being completely honest. He and Steve were like brothers, and towards the end of high school he lived with them, right around the time his dad cut him off. You put everything aside. You went to Bucky and asked if there was anything you could do to help. You did a fundraiser to help raise money for her funeral, they didn’t have health insurance, let alone life insurance. Steve tried to deny the help at first but he slowly opened up. 

Somehow you ended up even more in love with Steve than before. It wasn’t hard. Bucky teased you in private about your crush on the little dork who never backed down from a fight. Now here you were, about ready to finish up your senior year with your two best friends. Ready to graduate, to flee the nest. 

The music was so loud in the backyard it was hard to hear right next to the speaker. But thankfully you didn’t have to stay by the speaker. You saw the blond hair that you’d spot from anywhere. The hair your eyes always searched for. It was habitual now. 

You break into a grin at seeing him. He smiles back. His gentle, amused smile that says he’s feeling a bit mischievous tonight. It’s so distracting you aren’t prepared to be lifted off your feet. Letting out a squeal of terror, you kick your feet. “BUCKY! PUT ME DOWN!”

“Down you say?” 

“Don’t you dare!” You meet Steve’s eyes just as you leave Bucky’s arms. Time slows as you see the grin break out of Steve’s face. You inhale as fast as this slowed time allows you to. The water is warm when you hit it. No guarantee it would be when you climb out. Of course, there was nothing like seeing that twinkle in his eye. 

Time stayed slow under that water. Bubbles surged around you, when it cleared you gazed about the pool. Red solo cups had sunk to the bottom of the pool. There was a pretty pink bra near the bottom as well. A few glow stick bracelets shined from the bottom as well and legs kicked about. A couple guys were wrestling near the other side. 

Why was water always so comforting? You wonder idly, listening to the dull noise of music filter through the water. It was so soft and quiet.

You just wanted to stay down here, to float. It sounds morbid. 

When the blond appeared above the ripples of the water, you forgot about the water and pushed off the bottom of the pool, surging up to break the surface of the pool. “You’re an accomplice, you know?” You hum to him. He chuckles at you, hands stuffed in the pockets of the pants he couldn’t fill out yet. 

“That only counts if I knew about it beforehand,” he replies. You shoot Bucky a hard look, but not too hard. You could never mask your true feelings to them. Instead you just soften into a grin and giggle. 

“You’re dead, Barnes.” He smiles as Steve holds out a hand to help you out of the water.

“Sure, sure.”

“Been here long?” Steve asks you.

“About ten minutes. Thankfully I left my phone in my car.” 

“I tried to call you,” he replies, with a shrug. “Explains why you didn’t answer.” 

Wringing out your hair, “To repent, you gotta get me a drink, Buck.”

“Haven’t gotten one yet?” Bucky asks.

“Nah, was waiting for my body guards so I could feel extra special.” 

“Oh, in that case, I’ll get the princess a drink.” He gives a dramatic bow and then turns to head inside to where the jungle juice lay. Leaving you with Steve. 

“To the balcony?” You ask.

“Sounds good.”

There was an ease about being with Steve, one that wasn’t there before. He made things easier. Made things better. There was no doubt that you loved Steve, even if he wasn’t for you. How you longed to be his muse like Ms. Carter was. He was like dawn on a winter morning, long awaited. He was warm sunshine melting the snow. He was a necessity. You’d prayed so many nights that you could be good enough for him, but you weren’t sure. God could be so cruel.

Soon, you both had made your ways onto the balcony. Exactly where you always went when Tony Stark threw parties at his parents house. He’d moved across the country after high school to go to school at MIT. A smart kid, he’d gone from quiet, like he couldn’t bother with anyone, to a cocky asshole. His parties were statement pieces. Tradition in our little town. There wasn’t much to do besides parties around here. Steve wasn’t a big fan, you knew. 

He’d much rather be at home, drawing memories of his mother. A heart breaking experience for you. This at least got him out. Once he even participated in one of those games. Bucky had talked him into playing the game with cards. Where you have to pass the card by lips alone. It had been Bucky’s plan to get Steve to kiss you. 

It had not worked. 

He’d hoped you’d both finally be able to admit feelings. But it hadn’t worked. Steve ended up locking lips with another girl. Not just once. The girl had spent the night kissing Steve exactly how you’d imagined to kiss, delicate, savory. His hands, brushing hair from her cheeks like she was a flower. At some point you couldn’t take it anymore. You shuffled away, looking for some relief from the awful pain of seeing someone else on him. 

You found it, alright. 

Clawing at some strangers back, hiding your tears and regretting the next never ending weeks. Hating that those hands weren’t Steve’s. The guy, who’s name you didn’t care enough to get didn’t have soft blonde hair, his hands were too soft. He didn’t smell like him. The whole thing took way too long to recover from. It took almost six months for you to even meet Steve’s eyes like you used too.

Now, you both pretended nothing happened. It had been erased like a nightmare fading after waking. 

But dreams still came. You never expected to be Steve’s number one. His number two, maybe his number. When you fell in love with him, a little spot of necrosis began on your heart. It expanded every time you gave yourself hope to be more. You’d settle to dream of him.

There was a recurring one that hurt more than anything else ever had, only because they were so real, you’d forget they weren’t. Waking up to his skin under your fingertips, he’d smile, gentle, free. His fingers black from charcoals, he’d drawn you sleeping, loving the morning light coming through the window. 

You’d once told Bucky you hoped one day you could break away, and love someone else. “One day, I’ll love someone more than him,” you promised. Alas, it wasn’t anytime soon.

“You cold?” Steve asks. As you shiver on the balcony. 

“Hm? Oh, no,” you dismiss. “I’ll be fine.” 

“Here, I’ll get you a blanket, I’m sure the Starks won’t mind.”

“Ah, thanks,” you reply and glance out at the party below. A familiar prickle rose in your gut. Something unsettling. You lean against the edge and ponder. It didn’t seem more than a moment before a voice tore you back, but not completely. There was something, almost like being underwater.

“Sorry, I took so long.” You frown at Steve, throwing a blanket over your trembling shoulder. You weren’t cold though.

“You were only gone a few seconds.” Steve chuckles.

“I suppose. I was gone for almost five minutes.” You shake your head at him, or yourself, you’re not certain. “Maybe you zoned out again,” he suggests.

You didn’t want to worry him, but it happened frequently. “Yeah, probably.”

“Where do you go when that happens?”

“I… There’s this feeling sometimes.” Steve frowns deeper. “It’s almost like the air gets stale… like… I feel like a ghost, Steve. Like I’m not living anymore and I’m just… stuck, just reliving the same moments over and over,” you breathe. “It’s not good or bad or numb… just like I get stuck in these little moments, you know?” Steve doesn’t reply, but he also doesn’t look at you like you’re crazy either.

“Well, you’re not a ghost, (Y/N). You’re alive. More alive than anyone I’ve ever met.” You meet his gaze. You take a moment and nod, reassured for another moment that all was well. 

“Steve?” You ask.

“Yeah?”

“Is it too much to ask you not to leave me, I don’t care if this is dream. But when you get famous for your art, don’t forget about me, okay?”

“A dream?” He repeats. “Why would you ever want to dream about me,” he jokes.

“I’m serious, Steve.” You say, turning and fluttering a hand toward his chest. You hesitate, afraid if you touch him he would crumble into a thousand, thousand butterflies and float away to be gone forever. But when you lay a hand, he doesn’t crumble away like your dreams, instead you stroke the fabric of his collar under your fingertips.

“I would never leave you,” he leans down when you avoid his eyes. Making you meet his eyes, a tiny smile stretching on his handsome face. “‘Till the end of the line, right?”

“Right,” you breathe, like a relief. And suddenly your eyes are holding each other’s and it’s endless. Like one of those moments only you feel very much alive. He’s very close. If you pushed up onto your toes, your lips would meet. Would he want you too?

You could smell him. He smelled like clean sheets and his paints. Like the craft store.

“I got drin- Oh…” Both of you snap your heads. Bucky looked disappointed.

Both you and Steve shifted away from each other quickly, a coolness rising. Dosing us and sending us toward Bucky. The dark haired beauty presses his lips together like he was uncomfortable and heaves a sigh as the both of us took the drinks. 

“This is gonna be a long night,” he sighs into his drink as I shuffle over to the patio furniture with them.

@tomisbaeholland​