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you-guys--are-losers · 5 years

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Spideychelle Week: Day Six!

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

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

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

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

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

Characters: Michelle Jones x Peter Parker

Word Count: 4,399

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

Sculpted

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?” Peter says slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gladly.”

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

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

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

“I mean… I could do it.”

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

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

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

“For, like, two seconds,” Ned muses.

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

“Okay.”

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

“What did you just say?” Ned stammers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Craaaaap.

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

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

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

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

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

“MJ.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nope. Nope. She does not got this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever it is takes her breath away.

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

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

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

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

“You moved.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“MJ-”

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

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

“MJ.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Told you you should’ve oiled me up.”

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

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

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

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assholetozier · 6 years

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If These Walls Could Talk

Pairings: Stanley Uris x Mike Hanlon, Richie Tozier x Eddie Kaspbrak, Ben Hanscom x Beverly Marsh

Warnings: mentions of light self harm (nothing intense atm)

Word Count: 1,841

Part: 1/?

a/n; Hi! This is my first work for the IT fandom and all that jazz and I would give a sappy intro to this but all I am going to say is that it will get better as it goes blah blah blah, and that I worked very hard on this and stuff. If any of you have any criticism, ideas, or just positive feedback let me know! Requests in my asks, all that jazz and I can also add to the tag list. Alright let’s do this.

Stanley always hated math with a passion. Numbers just sometimes felt off to him; four felt better than three, ten better than eleven. They gave him this weird feeling in his chest, like there was a tea kettle ready to explode in his abdomen. He’d pinch the thin skin on the back of his hand until it was a rosey pink and read math through clenched teeth.

But everyone hated math, right?

What is the answer to number fifteen, Stanley?

Why couldn’t it have been sixteen? Maybe he would’ve felt better. Maybe he could have focused and understood the problem. Maybe he could have closed his mind off and answered the goddamn question. He tried, he tried so hard that his teeth pierced his skin on the inside of his cheek without even noticing.

“Is it… twenty…” It’s twenty three goddammit just say it, you act like the number will hurt you. “..four. Is it twenty four, so b., right?”

The teacher shook her head, and wrote a petite cursive a on the chalkboard. The iron taste suddenly flooded his mouth.

“D-duh-do you know what the t-test is over?”

It was letter A, not B.

“Stan the Man! Are you gunna eat that?”

It was letter A, not B.

“Ugh, Stanley, could you please tell your best pal Richie over here that my mother isn’t an object?”

It was letter a, not B.

Why couldn’t his brain just leave him alone? Was it because he didn’t read the Torah enough? Was it because he wasn’t good enough? Was it because, yeah he could admit, he didn’t look at Betty Ripsom the same way he looked at the warm cocoa boy when he saw him riding his bike through the town every sunday.

The older the boy got, the worse he felt. Every minute, he did something wrong. The line he drew wasn’t straight enough. He put too many onions on one side of the salad versus the other. He stepped on his left two more times than he did on his right. It was too much.

******

The curly haired boy paced back and forth in his barren hospital room. It had been a month since he was admitted and for the entire four weeks he was on quarantine from social interaction. The only people he ever saw were his nurses, who just shoved a rainbow of pills down his throat and talked to him like a lost puppy.

But he heard the hollowed voices in the halls. When he pretended to be asleep, he heard the whispers. Today was the day he was moving. With people, and ...he didn’t know anything else after that.

Who was he living with? Were they all his age? What if he has to be around old people? Did the rooms have actual colors? Could he open the windows? How many others would-

“Mister Uris? Doctor Newby would like to see you in his office right away.”

Stan’s legs practically slid against the carpet like ice. The hallways were long, wide, and had no color to them whatsoever. If he was lucky it would be the last time he would ever have to see them again.

“You wanted to see me, Doctor Newby?”

Doctor Newby, in short, reminded Stanley of a marshmello. A pale man indeed, with a hearty, sweet laugh he could always hear stretched for miles. He was a larger man, with broad shoulders and a bit of stubble on his chin. Above which, was a permanent smile that he had never seen leave his chapped lips, pearly whites shining underneath.

The teeth flashed, “Please, call me Bob.”

An awkward pause floated in the air. The younger boy took the chance to straighten his leather chair. It stuck to his skin.

“Right...Bob.” His eyes glued to the man’s deep mahogany desk, curved in all the wrong places. His teeth gritted.

“So, it has been a month for you here, am I right?”

The curly haired boy felt himself give a curt nod, not even caring to listen to the bright man talk. He was too concerned with the pencils that sat in random spots on his desk. His eyes ran over it a million times, at what felt like ninety miles an hour. His ears shut down.

Until he heard the clearing of his throat, “your mother agreed it was time to move on in your treatment, so I hope you didn’t grow attached to that dead room of yours.”

Bob’s hearty laugh filled every corner of the room, making Stan almost crack a smile. Almost. Instead, he ran his fingers through his hair, twice, and intertwined his fingers so he could squeeze his sweaty hands

“I don’t understand… did I do something wrong?”

The man’s lips straightened for a millisecond, “No, not wrong. However, we noticed that you being alone like you and your mother requested has not helped.”

Stan almost squeaked, “So what are you doing to me then?”

“We’re going to try what we call ‘colab therapy’. Your faction has six other kids your age with six different… issues. The goal is to support each other, while having a support system on the outside that aren’t just doctors prodding at you like science experiments.”

Another laugh, but it quickly burned out. Stan didn’t know what to feel. Hell, he barely knew how to feel, after being locked away for four weeks, it was hard to make eye contact. Bob seemed to notice, because he scooted back in his chair and clapped his hands together.

“Try it out! They’re all good kids I promise. We can move you out the second you feel uncomfortable.”

Why couldn’t Stan just go home?

Nonetheless, the jewish boy felt his legs carry him on a twenty minute walk through the building of which he only thought had ever consisted of his and twelve other patients in his unit. They passed by what seemed like hundreds of room numbers. Each had a particular sound and or smell, some exerting wails of agony, some with mechanical laughter, some had tears pouring out of the cracks under the floorboards.

The worst were the ones that were silent.

Everything was shut off as soon as the elevator doors opened to the top floor. It looked almost like a condo of sorts. The area was open, with three leather couches and two love-seats curved to a tee (which, was better in Stan’s opinion than them being scattered everywhere.) A single television, with a timer besides it on the long, tree trunk colored stand. A few boxes, of what seemed like belongings, were already scattered among the living space on a few random stools and chairs.

Looking past the open space, there seemed to be a long hall to the right with more rooms, and looking forward there was a large bright circle table with what looked like several documents and papers.

Stan felt the corners of his lips rise, “When did this...isn’t this a hospital?”

“This used to be a VERY large corporate office, but when I got the project approved we had some renovations done.”

His pearl teeth released from his clam-shell lips, showing of a warm smile that made Stan feel safe. His legs urged him to go fix the chairs at the table, they were all hassled and pushed every which way. When his long, pale finger reached up from his side, however, he heard the scream from the long hallways.

“Richie, if you touch my cheek one more time I will cut your nuts off in your sleep.”

“...kinky.”

At first, Stanley was repulsed. But then.. He remembered those voices. From where? No clue.

Bob huffed, pulling the curly haired boy out of his trance. A few strides forward, then a pause. “I’ll have to apologize, Stanley. The boys are a little..rowdy sometimes.”

“Am I the last one to move in?”

The broad man chuckles, “No, Beverly and Bill are still in solitary at the moment. Both had..rough nights. They’ll move in tomorrow morning.”

Bob smiles again, walking over to him and taking a seat at the circle table. He calls for the boys to join them in the room.

The first boy looked like a mop. His hair was curly and covered his ears in the black ringlets. Coke-bottle glasses made his dark-near black eyes buggy and shiny. Defined cheeks and jawline, cheeks littered with freckles. He wore a smirk like a necklace.

A much shorter boy almost clung to him at the hip, gelled back milk chocolate hair to reveal a pair of soft, innocent hazel eyes. His lips were pink a full, pulled into a straight line across to his pink cheeks. Although he seemed drawn to the mop, he still in a way stayed to himself, in his own little bubble. He was gripping a bottle of hand sanitizer.

Both muttered mini apologies and let their eyes trail up to Stan.

“It’s a newby!”

“No shit, Richie, I thought he was a mail boy.”

“FIRST of all, are you assuming genders? You don’t know, what if mail kid here is a girl?”

“Okay, not fair.”

“You know what isn’t fair? You always nagging at me, I swear to dear fuck-”

Bob clears his throat, and the boys’ voices immediately drop.

“This is Stanley Uris, yes he is another new roomate. Where are Mike and Ben?”

The shorter boy nods, “They’re talking about this book in the room-”

“Mikey! Haystack! Newby awaits!” The mop, who Stan assumed was Richie, screamed at the top of his lungs.

Hazel eyed boy gave him a pointed stare as the floorboards creaked and two other figures emerged.

They both had on bright smiles. The taller boy had cocoa skin and a scar on his eyebrow. His hands, calloused and bruised, were slightly shaking at his sides almost as he was afraid. But if he was, his face surely didn’t show it. His arms were strong and build.

The other boy besides him, however, was a cute kid. His cheeks were puffy and pink, lips tinted and plump. He had long eyelashes, elongating his emerald eyes that were bright and dusted with gold. The features all seemed… very feminine. But Stan didn’t want to make any assumptions.

The pale boy reached out a hand, “Ben Hanscom.”

So the other boy, who he assumed to be Mike, was pacing around the room. Stan noticed that if one part of him was still, two others were moving.

“Stan-”

Richie practically hacked a hair ball, “Let’s quit it with the friendship-bullshit. Can we finally know who we’re rooming with?”

The Jewish boy’s eyes became saucers, “I don’t know if I can-”

“Richie, you will be with Beverly. Eddie, with Mike. Bill, Stan and Ben all three together. You have… three minutes to go fight over rooms. Go!”

Richie and the shorter boy took off like sonic the hedgehog.

Newby burst out laughing, “I have your rooms assigned already I just think it’s so funny how they argue.”

______________

Tag list:

@trashmoutheds @stanleyurisisalive @rainy-kaspbrak @whipashwhipash @trxshmouth-t0zier @eddiekaspbraklives @theperksofbeingawallflwer @murderoleff @richie-n-eds @welcometothemagentaparade @richrichbeep

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kitgilmore · 7 years

Text

FOUR // OH WHAT A THING TO DO.

The girls found the school easier to navigate than the first thought, after finding their locker, they found their first classroom fairly easy, Kit was sitting being a blonde girl who names she thinks might be Paris, Rory a few seats over. Much to Kit delight, the classes seemed to be studying Russian Literature, or maybe French Literature, it was a bit confusing.

“And while French culture was the dominant outside cultural influence, especially for Russia's monied class, English culture also had its impact. Tolstoy's favourite author, for instance, was. . .”

“Dickens.” Kit whispered, taking notes.

“Dickens.” the girl in front of her said

“Yes. And of course, last week we discovered Dostoevski's main authorial influences. . .”

“Sand and Balzac”

“George Sand and Balzac.” she said again.

“Good. As Tolstoy commenced writing both War and Peace and Anna Karenina, Count Leo would turn to. . .”

“David Copperfield.” Kit said a little too loud to be a whisper, it earned her a glare from the girl in front of her, plus a few other people, she just looked down

“Correct Miss��, He would turn to David Copperfield for inspiration..”

“Gilmore” If almost to save her a tall blonde guy entered the room.

“ Ah, Mr. Dugray.”

“Sir.”

“Nice to have you back. I hope your Grandfather's better.” The teacher asked him.

“Much better, sir.”

“Good. Take your seat, please.” Walking past he looked at between Kit and Rory, Kit noticed the boyish smile, Kit just smiled back trying to be polite, while Rory shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Great Expectations, A Tale of Two Cities, Little Dorrit, all major influences on Leo Tolstoy. Tomorrow we will focus on. . .”

“Who are they?”

New girls. Twins.

“Writing styles of these two literary masters, Tolstoy and Dickens.” Just then the bell rang.

Class dismissed.

“Looks like we got ourselves a Mary.” Kit heard cute, blonde boy say. Gathering up her books, she adjusted her backpack.

“Miss, Gilmores, could you come up here please?”

“Here are last week's study materials.” He hands them both separate binders, filled to max capacity with notes.

“There'll be a test on them tomorrow, but since you're new, you can take a makeup on Monday. Will that be sufficient time?”

“Monday? Sure, that's fine.”

“Good. That's just an overview. It would be very helpful to you to borrow one of the other student's personal notes. They tend to be more detailed.”

“More detailed than this?” Kit asked.

“t seems daunting right now, I know.”

“No, no. It's okay. It'll be fine.” Rory said flushed.

“Remember to get those notes. They'll be a lifesaver.” The twins nodded and exit the classroom. Kit looked at this binder and decided she needed a car if she was going to cart her cello and all of this work back and through every day. Kit was lost in thought she didn't notice Rory stopped in till she said.

“Oh”

“I'm Paris.”

“I didn't see you there. Where'd you come from?” Rory asked.

“I know who you two are?. Lorelai and Christine Gilmore from Stars Hollow,” she said eyes the twins up and down.

“You can call me Rory.”

“Kit”

“Are you going out for the Franklin? she asked Rory rather, abrasively

“The what?”

“Nice innocent act. At least I know you're not going out for drama club.”

“Are you?” she asked Kit

“Am I what?”

“I'm confused,” Rory said.

“The Franklin, the school paper, are you going out for it?”

“I don't know, I have to find my locker first,” Rory told her, the twins tried to walk away but like many of the conversation they had on this campus, it didn't end there.

“I'm gonna be editor next year.”

“Well, good for you.” Kit snapped, annoyed with this girl already.

“I'm also the top of the class, and I intend to be valedictorian when I graduate.”

“Okay, we’re going now,” Rory said, Kit didn't need to be told twice.

“You'll never catch up. You'll never beat me. This school is my domain and the Franklin is my domain. And don't you ever forget that.”

“I wonder if she pee’s on the floor to make that her domain”. Kit remarked.

Kit found the Chilton’s Auditorium easy enough, After lunch the twins went their separate ways, She’s had a meeting with the music teacher/ conductor, at the beginning of the lesson they talk about her previous experience, about the school’s orchestra they currently had 40 students, 8 cellists, two of whom were freshman, Mrs. Kepnes said that she would probably take one of their spots being a sophomore, the way she said it made Kit feel terrible.

but then had to prove she knew what she was doing in theory, with her cello in her hand she begins to play 2nd Bach Suite No.2 in D minor, Just you and the cello, she had to remind herself, it's not like there was a sea of students all judging her, once she was through the room was silent, then her teacher asked for someone more contemporary so she played, Yo-Yo Ma’s Triptych: |.. Kit began to lose herself in the music she could feel the tension of the last couple of days fade away, like a storm cleaning the air, she thought about Peter, about what he would say if she was playing just for him “vy slishkom bespokoit'sya, vy igrayete Amore, ispol'zuyte svoye serdtse” you worry too much, you play Amore, use your heart.

Again she was met with silence, Mrs.Kepnes than asked her to play something from the last twenty years so she played Yellow by Coldplay that was the last modern song she’d learned on her cello. When Kit was though she smiled, as he teacher dismissed her, she took her cello and left the stage, once she was standing outside she began to breathe, really breathe she wasn't sure what just happened. Just when she felt like she was going to cry, the short girl with short dark hair she’d eye stalked early, come out, pushed the door open to find Kit with her head against the locker doors.

“That was amazing” Kit straighten up, smiled at the girl, whose freckles were more visible unclose.

“Thanks, I think. that wasn’t. I don’t think that was.. “ she began, but the girl stopped her, her blue shirt rolled up at the sleeves.

“No really, I haven't seen anyone play with that much passion in a while, most of us are forced to take an instrument but you it's like yours.”

“Thank you but I'm sure that's not true..” Taking a deep breath she introduced herself “I’m Kit, by the way, Kit Gilmore.” extending her hand.

“Kit… Not Christine”

“Never Christine”

“Alright Kit never Christine, I'm Hazel McCrae, Violin, welcome aboard.”

Once all that was said and done, Kit went to find her sister, stopping by her locket the halls were pretty empty. Kit wished she could leave most of this stuff here, but was thankful her mother was picking them up, she checked her watch, she still had one class left.

“So you're the other Mary”. Looking up she saw the blonde guy from her earlier class, behind him was another guy, slightly taller, loose-limbed and slim, he was busy getting books from his locker.

“Excuse me?” she said, looking him in the eye.

“I’m Tristan.” he said, moving closer.

“Here I thought you the lamb Mary was looking for”. Tristan slightly scoffed but the boy behind him chuckled.

“I guess you’re not as sweet as your sister”.

“We have more of a betty veronica thing going on.”

“And which one are you?” Tristan said, smiling a charming smile Kit was sure would work on any other girl. Before she could answer, the guy behind him said

“Veronica Lodge or Veronica Sawyer” Tristan took a step back to involve his friend in the conversation, Kit turned to say him, she could see his eyes now a little more blue than green, his hair dark and curly. She pursed her lips, before saying “Either, either, both.” Kit smiled at him, before pulling her book bag higher on her shoulder. “Kit Gilmore,” she said extending her hand.

“Emmett Talbot” his hands were firm, his handshake was strong. Kit was slightly worried he was going to say something else and ruin her impress of him, so she picked up her cello and said

“Nice to meet you Emmett Talbot” before, leaving to put her cello in the music locket she’d been assigned.

“Seats now, please.” Her history teacher said, Kit hadn't found Rory but she knew they had History together when Paris walks in she gives Kit the meanest look, she could be made about her answer that question in English could she. Kit found a seat near away from her, took out her pen and notebook. When Rory walked her she heard Paris say “Oh, you've got to be kidding me.” she frowned. Rory took in front of her, while Tristan sat next to her.

“Hey, Mary.” he said to Rory.

“Okay, we left our projects off on Friday with Mr. Gaynor, so today we will pick up with Miss Gellar.”

“I don't have my project,” Paris said as she stood up.

“Miss Gellar, did you have sufficient time to complete your project?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you don't have it done?”

“Nope.”

“All right, you will receive an incomplete for this project.” She sounds disappointed and Kit actually felt bad for Paris when Rory stood up, interrupting.

“It's my fault.”

“Who are you?”

“Rory Gilmore. I wrecked her project.”

“Shut up,” Paris said.

“I don't have a Rory Gilmore, I have a Lorelai Gilmore and Christine Gilmore.”

Kit raised her hand when her name was called.

“That's me.”

“You are Rory and Lorelai Gilmore?” The old woman said as if she didn't understand the concept of a nickname.

“Yes. And I wrecked her project. My locker got stuck.”

“Just stay out of this.”

“Do you go by Rory or Lorelai?” She asked Rory before looking around her and say to Kit “Do you go by Christine Gilmore”

“No... It’s Kit” she said looking around making sure everyone knew that, she didn't want anyone to call her Christine every.

“Whatever. It's not her fault.”

“I need you to pick one.”

“One what?”

“One name.”

“Rory.”

“Fine, thank you. Rory, you wrecked Paris' project when?”

“Just before class.”

“Very convenient.”

“No, I did. My locker got stuck and when I opened it. . .” Rory tried to explain.

“Stop it!”

“Miss Gilmore, since you say you wrecked Miss Gellar's project, then you may help her fix it. You have until tomorrow.” Their teacher said.

“Fine,” Rory said as if it was no big deal as if she didn't have a million things to be to catch up already.

“No,” Paris replied getting more and angrier.

“Why not?”

“I don't want your help!”

“But I don't mind doing it.” Rory was still calm.

“Just stay out of this.”

“What is wrong with you? I'm trying to help you.”

“Well, don’t!”

“Ladies, enough. Miss Gellar, if you don't want Miss Gilmore's help, then you may have until tomorrow. If it's not done, you will receive an incomplete. Is that understood?”

“Yes.” Paris says sitting down.

“As long as you're standing... .could you also stand. “ She said to Kit, who slid out of her seat, straightening her skirt she smiled ”…Class, we have two new students. Say hello to Rory and Kit Gilmore.”

“Hi, Rory and Kit,” The class said in a chorus.

“Hello, Mary,” Tristian said.

“Does Jesus know just how clever you are?” Kit said taking her seat with Rory.

The Rest of the class went on without fault, their teacher was nice enough, the subject matter wasn't as daunting as her first class. There was so the tension between her sister and Paris, but she guessed Rory would just have to learn to be more competitive.

“Let's try another passage. "The Romanists have, with great adroitness, drawn three walls round themselves, with which they have hitherto protected themselves so that no one could reform them, whereby Christendom has fallen terribly." Who said this?” The teacher asked.

“Martin Luther,” Rory says.

“Very good, Miss Gilmore. And what year did Martin Luther address the Christian nobility?”

“1520.”

“Very good, Miss Gilmore.” When the bell rings their teacher excuses them “Until next time,”

“Stay out of my way. I will make this school a living hell for you.” She heard Paris say to Rory

“See you tomorrow, Mary.”

“Gosh, what a sheep.” Kit said pulling Rory up from her seat, “Come on, Kid”

Overall Kit’s first day at Chilton was long but interesting, she had a good audition for Orchestra, maybe bad a friend, meet a cute non-douche boy. Her classes were engaging, she didn't find herself getting bored, or daydreaming and not once had she wrote music in her margins. This private school thing wasn't so bad. Once they picked up her Cello the twins made their way outside to find their mother. Rory ran into her arms when she saw here. While Kit made a beeline for the coffee.

“Mm. Hey, you.”

“So, this whole plaid-skirt thing... .my idea?” Kit opened the back door, putting her cello inside.

“My day sucked, too.”

“Promise?”

“Swear on my mother's life.” Kit was enjoying her coffee a little much, this school really needed a coffee machine available to students, it would seriously help. Looking around she found Hazel, getting into the same car she arrived in this morning. She wasn't sure whether to wave, but she waved first, Kit smiled as waved back. Maybe she had made a friend.

“I brought us some coffee.”

“Why, I'm shocked.”

“It's sooo good” Kit told her, before climbing into the jeep.

“Triple caps, easy foam.”

“Wow. What, do they expect you to get smart all in one day?” Their mother commented holding up Rory’s backpack.

“Oh, they expect a lot of things,” Rory said climbing inside the jeep, Kit let her jump into the back and their mother pass her the bag.

“Well, so tell me.” She said, Rory, put her head between the seats and said

“I don't know. It was just one big, long, scary, tweedy, bad eight hours,” she complained.

“Add some hairspray, and you've got my day.”

“How about you?” she said nudging Kit, who just shrugged.

“One of the girls already hates me, the guys are weird.” Rory continued.

“Weirder than other guys?”

“Yeah, they kept calling me Mary.”

Both Kit and Lorelai sniggered. “You’re Kidding me. Wow”

“He tried that with me”.

“What did you say”? Rory asked her.

“I told him, we have more a Betty, Veronica thing going on” taking another sip of her coffee, she mother hummed in agreement.

“Why? What does it mean?”

“Mary, like Virgin Mary.” Kit told her.

“It means they think you look like a goody-goody.”

“You're kidding.”

“No.”

“Well, what would they have called me if they thought I looked like a slut?” she almost whispered.

“Well, they might have added a Magdalene to it.”

“I might have made a friend and meet a boy who got my Heathers reference.”

Both Rory and Lorelai looked at Kit like she was the sunshine in their raining days.

“Drive on” she said gesturing her head towards.

#Gilmore Girls #Gilmore Girls OC #Kit Gilmore #The Adaptation of Kit Gilmore #Gilmore Girls Fanfiction #Oh What A Thing To Do #Rory Gilmore #Lorelai Gilmore #Emily Gilmore #Paris Geller #Luke Danes #Tristen Dugrey #Hazel McCrae

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jugandbettsdetectiveagency · 7 years

Text

Tacos and Tequila - Ch.9

So I finished the next chapter and posting two in one day to get back on track will make me feel better about missing a day, so here you go my loves! <3

Ch.1 / Ch.2 / Ch.3 / Ch.4 / Ch.5 / Ch.6 / Ch.7 / Ch.8 / Read on AO3

Hour 32

“What do you think the weekend would have been like if Archie had been here?” Betty cringes slightly as the question leaves her mouth but she can’t help but ask it. Her head is resting comfortably on Jughead’s shoulder, his arm around her waist while the pad of her finger traces idle patterns on his chest over the fabric of his shirt. The muted tones of Bruce Willis fill the air.

It wasn’t the mention of her best friend – no matter how tough she tried to be, Betty was a forgiving person by nature. No, what was bothering her is the guilt seeping through her body over the fact that she feels grateful Archie hadn’t been around when she arrived. Betty turns her chin to rest on his chest, looking up at him with round, questioning eyes.

Betty had thought that college would be a fresh start, a place to try again where she was completely anonymous and without reputation. While that part had been right, she was also, it seemed, entirely invisible. With her preppy ponytails and pink sweaters she was the epitome of forgettable. Betty hadn’t just felt lonely, she’d been alone.

Jughead had made her feel like someone, worthy of conversation and reciprocation. From one of the crappiest moments of her newfound adulthood had come a weekend she knew she’d never forget. There was nothing grand or ostentatious about the time she’d spent with this boy, trapped together because of their mutual acquaintance and unfortunate weather, but that was the point. Betty felt comfortable in a way she had been lacking for far too long. They’d worn their pajamas and eaten junk food and watched too many movies. They’d talked about their favourite things and the worst parts of themselves, and Betty knew she’d shared more with Jughead than she ever expected to. And, right now, she felt as if she could keep going, keep telling him her every last secret and the creeping shame that usually accompanied such admissions would never come, only relief.

“What do you mean?” Jughead asks, twirling a lock of Betty’s hair through his fingers. She sighs, propping herself up with one hand on his chest, fingers still rubbing absentmindedly across the worn cotton.

“I mean, if Archie had been here we wouldn’t have done all this,” she begins, gesturing to the sheets above them. He’s watching her face with rapturous attention as she tries to find the words to express her worries. She can’t quite meet the intensity in his eyes. “I’ve never had a weekend like this… never felt so close to someone so quickly. It’s kind of scary but I can’t imagine what it would have been like if we hadn’t… I could have come here, said hi to you in the kitchen or on my way out of the bathroom and that could have been it. I would have gone back to college at the end of my stay exactly the same person I left as. And I don’t think I will anymore, because I feel different in myself. Thanks to you,” she whispers her last confession, peeking up at him shyly. “I’m sorry, that’s a lot to put on someone right away.” Jughead lets out an unsteady breath, cupping the back of her head as he leans up for a gentle kiss.

“I don’t know what I did, other than treat you as a human being not a project, but I’m really glad, Betty. You deserve to feel good. But I know you would have gotten there in the end, even if we hadn’t had this weekend together – although I’m so happy we did. I know you can do it,” he replies with a smile. The overwhelming belief Jughead has in her floors her. She’s not quite sure she sees what he sees, but she’s going to give herself time to.

“I just feel guilty that…” she starts, biting her lip.

“You’re allowed to do things for you, Betts. For only you.” Only her. She knows he’s right, he’s been right this whole time. They’d talked some more about his dad, her mom, their families. He’d let go of other peoples’ expectations while she clung to them. She wanted everyone to like her while he pushed everyone away. Together, maybe they could find a balance.

So, for her, she brings Jughead’s lips back to hers, pouring every ounce of gratitude into her kiss. She rocks back, pulling his body on top of hers as they make out languidly, with no rush or restraint. She licks her way into his mouth, tasting every corner of him she can reach, fingers tugging at the short hairs at the base of his neck, eliciting deep moans that make her shiver. She paws impatiently at his shirt, lifting it over his head to reveal the chest she’s had imprinted into her mind since her arrival. His hand makes the journey back up her side, this time slipping beneath the fabric of her shirt after she nods quickly at his questioning look.

His fingers run over the smooth expanse of skin revealed to him, raising goosebumps in their wake as they travel up the soft, warm plane. Jughead hesitates at the edge of her bra, pausing for permission. Betty bows her back, arching into his touch as a needy whine escapes her. His hand dips beneath the fabric, squeezing her breast gently at first, then harder, running his thumb over the hardened peak when she lets out a sinful whine right next to his ear that has his hips bucking involuntarily.

His lips trail red hot kisses along her jaw, down the elegant slope of her neck as her breath becomes increasingly uneven. He finds the thrumming of her pulse under the delicate skin and sucks, working until there’s a beautiful purple bruise blossoming beneath his mouth.

“Juggie,” she whines, hands clutching at his biceps in desperation. “Please.” Betty wasn’t completely new at making out, she’d had her fair few experiences with high school boys, but this desire that was rolling over her body in all-consuming waves was something she’d never known before. She didn’t know what to do with herself as Jughead’s touch felt like too much and not enough all at once. He leans back to look at her, pupils blown wide with lust, a dark reflection of her own.

“What, Betts? Tell me,” he murmurs, rough voice sending a tingle down her spine, warmth pooling between her thighs and tightening the coil in her stomach. Betty tugs on the hand beneath her shirt, guiding it down until it rests on the elastic of her waistband. She bites her lip, watching him with nervousness in her eyes, but a firm set in her jaw, as she lets him take the next step.

“Are you sure?” he asks, letting the elastic snap back against her hipbone lightly, relishing in the hitch in her breath. She nods as her hips lift subconsciously.

“Yes,” she breathes, eyes fluttering closed as his hand dips below the fabric.

His forehead drops to her collarbone with a thud when he feels her arousal against his fingertips. She’s so warm and sweet, and Jughead feels as if he could get lost in her for days. Watching her writhe and whimper beneath his ministrations, hearing her high pitched sigh when he finally moves his fingers to where she craves his touch most, he couldn’t have imagined his weekend would have gone this way; but he’ll be damned if he questions whatever fates aligned to bring him here, looking at the vision before him.

His thumb comes up to rub where she’s most sensitive and he can feel all the signs of her release building. Her chest is heaving, thighs quivering, and her teeth are ravishing her lower lip as she bites back moans of pleasure. He captures her lips, swallowing down the sounds as stars burst behind her eyes.

Jughead watches as she comes down from her high, brushing away stray hairs that are sticking to her forehead and stroking over her rosy complexion with exploratory fingers. Her eyes open slowly, blinking sleepily up at him with a blissed out smile.

“You look smug,” she comments, voice airy. He glances to the side as he pretends to contemplate her words.

“I feel it,” he replies, smirk staying firmly in place as she makes a half-hearted attempt to punch his shoulder. Her eyes flick lower, hands reaching for his waistband.

“Here, let me…” Jughead halts her movements, pressing his lips to her fingertips.

“Later,” he whispers against her skin, moving off her body and pulling her lax frame into his side. She shuffles closer, tangling her legs with his. The air is a little too hot beneath their makeshift tent to be comfortable, but neither of them lets go.

Hour 40

Bettys wakes up long before Jughead, slipping out of his embrace only to use the bathroom before she’s crawling back beneath the blankets. Time seems to have stopped for them these past few days, she thinks with a heavy heart as she contemplates the lonely drive home later that day.

She amuses herself instead by finding constellations in the moles and freckles that cover his skin, memorising every one.

“Only psychopaths stare at people while they sleep,” Jughead mumbles through barely moving lips. Betty giggles, ducking forwards to plant a kiss behind his ear. He hums in contentment, fingers tightening around her waist as he finally opens his eyes to the new day. “Morning.”

“Good morning,” she replies, curling closer. Her lips find his, their lazy movements reflecting the mood. Her hand runs down the ridges of his exposed abdomen, causing Jughead to shudder in anticipation as she lightly brushes the bulge in his pants. “It could be a very good morning,” she murmurs teasingly, pressing harder as Jughead groans.

The pop of their bubble is audible, and it comes in the form of a slamming front door.

“Hello? Betty?” an all too familiar voice calls out as Jughead’s eyes snap open, Betty bolting upright. She scrambles to get out of the tangle of sheets, giving Jughead a moment to collect himself.

“A-Archie, you’re back,” Betty stutters as she runs nervous hands over the front of her shirt, tucking loose hair behind her ears.

“Betty, I am so sorry. You have to believe me, I would never– what’s all this?” Archie breaks off as he looks behind her in bemusement. Betty glances over her shoulder as if she doesn’t know that the mess of sheets and rearranged furniture is still behind her.

“Um…” she begins, not sure how she should explain. She’s saved the task by Jughead emerging from the fort. He’s put his shirt back on.

“Hey, man,” Jughead says, not quite meeting Archie’s eyes. “Good trip?”

Archie is silent as his eyes flit suspiciously between the two, taking in their sleep rumpled appearance and guilty expressions. His brows furrow as no explanation is offered.

“What happened here this weekend?”

#bughead #bughead fanfiction #bughead au #betty cooper #jughead jones #betty x jughead #riverdale #riverdale fanfiction #bughead fan fiction #jetty #writing

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