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forasecondtherewedwon · 5 years

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On the Subject of Your Subject Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E/NSFW Word count: 5717

Spideychelle Week Day 6: College AU

Summary: MJ's spending her summer taking yet another art class, but it's not about the college credit, it's about the practice. She's considering how to fix a sketch when she overhears some classmates discussing their work. While the work might be their own, MJ hears enough to know that the subject most certainly is not. It's time for this art studio wallflower to stake a claim on Spider-Man.

MJ was very observant. It was one of the two things that had remained constant as time went by (faster all the time, she swore)―the other being the boyfriend she’d had since her junior year of high school. Right now, she was hoping it was the observing thing that was going to eventually get her a job. Oh, she was sure that the boyfriend could get her a job if she asked, but it would almost definitely require crippling overtime, a wardrobe full of metal, and a readiness to go starry-eyed with hero-worship at the mention of the name ‘Tony Stark.’ Or at least that was the cue she was getting from him. The boyfriend. Peter.

But the job, yeah. So, what she was doing didn’t exactly look like laying the foundation for steady employment right now, like, per say, but between the three years of college still ahead of her, bursaries, and some additional bankrolling from her mother the doctor, MJ was going to use art school to turn her detention caricatures into a career.

Something she’d observed since starting college was that not everybody wanted to be there. MJ found it totally disturbing (if not occasionally warranting a pity laugh) that so many people either barely showed up for classes or only showed up; in her opinion, the former were fledgling adults still acting like children and the latter were today’s youth already clocking in and out like weary middle-aged suits.

Meanwhile, she couldn’t get enough. Couldn’t get enough studio time. Couldn’t get enough of her ideas on paper. Enough charcoal under her fingernails. Enough standing behind a canvas until her feet ached, or curved with feral possessiveness around a drawing pad on her lap. Enough lines drawn and redrawn and redrawn and redrawn and redrawn.

So MJ had completed year one (her mom bought a very fancy cake that they ate with their feet up on the coffee table at home, using forks which neither of them could absolutely confirm were clean, since between an on-call doctor’s schedule and a student’s, nobody had exactly been on top of loading and emptying the dishwasher) and enrolled in a summer class. It was figure drawing, which, yes, she’d already taken as it was a mandatory class―arguably the class upon which all other art classes depended―but while figure drawing had finished with MJ, MJ had not finished with figure drawing. She felt that it was impossible to overlearn the basics, plus the professor she’d had the first time around had been a dick. In fact, MJ believed that there had not been a bigger dick known to humankind since Michelangelo got up close and personal with David.

The summer prof was a marked improvement. Less ego, more encouragement. More understanding, less likely to make MJ want to flip her easel and ram one of its legs up their… Warhol. And with fewer students enrolled during the warmer months, there were fewer classes running, and therefore more studio time, which she took gleeful advantage of, with a territorial staking-out of the best spot in the room and the nasty glare she sent towards people who were too friendly. She was gleeful on the inside.

Was that boyfriend mopey about her choosing the art life instead of spending her summer with him? Absolutely not. Peter had his own thing going on (this was how MJ downplayed the daily saving of lives). Besides, they found ways to see each other. Like how she bought the famous Spider-Man a hot dog in Central Park after he turned one end of the skipping ropes for a couple of kids playing Double Dutch. Or how he scared the bejesus out of her while she was painting alone in the studio and glanced around to see what was throwing a shadow on her canvas (just a dork waving at her through the window―a window on the fourth floor).

They had to be careful when Peter was in the suit; it wasn’t really safe for any of those freaks (‘Earth’s Mightiest Heroes,’ or whatever) to make potentially skulking bad guys aware that they had less-than-super friends, kids, girlfriends, etc. Lucky for Peter, MJ was incredibly good at careful. It was worth it for the rest of the time that they got to be together without the suit.

The suit wasn’t her problem at the moment though. There was no article of clothing (pioneered by Tony Stark or otherwise) that was her problem. Actually, the lack of clothes was the problem, because she was hesitating, hand hovering over a nude sketch that she wanted to fix. MJ squinted. She just couldn’t see how. A trio of bohemians across the room sent up giggles like scattered pigeons and MJ closed her eyes in irritation. She opened them and stared at the sketch. Yeah, maybe she could stand to watch something else for a while.

With a little subtle angling, she created a line of sight to the other girls. Looked like two of them were clustered around the easel of the third. They were teasing her. Ah, but this particular student―MJ had observed―liked to be teased. It wasn’t the common mocking of the scholarship kid or the uninventive, elementary school, lunch money shakedown. It was that sunny, sticky teasing that left extroverts flushed from all the attention. Yuck.

MJ watched the three friends, studied their postures and dynamic. Everything was food for art. Reading their body language might help her sort out her difficulties with this sketch. She assessed them with her ears as well as her eyes; art might have been a largely visual experience for the viewer, but for her, shaping a piece in ways that could never be understood in the passing sweep of a gaze, it was multisensory. Peter might have taught her a little something about that. He claimed that she had her own enhancements, even without the super-biology.

From their words and the giddy pitch, it was obvious that they were tackling the same type of project that MJ was: a nude. She directed her face downward, towards her page, as she rolled her eyes. Art models were just people, not porn stars. Students at this level should really understand that, MJ felt. Giggling over a bared breast or the muscular indent of a man’s ass was amateurish.

She rolled her shoulders, trying to shrug off the judgement. Ok, maybe these three were inelegant twerps, but who said twerps couldn’t be art? If Dalí could find inspiration in a loaf of bread, then MJ could see how she progressed with a vapid, unoriginal muse. As long as her own work didn’t turn out derivative, the girls could present as clichéd a scene of immaturity as they pleased. MJ listened harder and let her grip loosen on her pencil. The lines would come when she was ready.

“You didn’t,” Girl One insisted.

“Of course she didn’t.” Ooh, bit more of a petty tone from Girl Two. “She just wants the attention. She can’t get the grades, so she’s hoping to cause enough of a scandal that her work is noticed and somebody pays big bucks for it. Who gives a fuck about a degree when some dude drops a million and puts you on the map?”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not that big of a deal,” said The Artist Herself. MJ blinked a few times in case any of that false modesty was airborne, keeping her eyes free of the irritants her ears couldn’t help but admit.

“Everyone’s going to freak,” Girl One squealed effervescently.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t stay quiet instead? Just keep this piece for myself or… maybe give it to him?”

“You can’t! This would be, like, a cultural phenomenon.”

Don’t get ahead of yourselves, MJ thought wryly.

Girl Two snorted, earning her a moment of approval from the observer.

“But no one’s even going to know it’s him,” the skeptic argued.

MJ frowned. All of their models this term had been female. Sure, it was reasonable that the artist could’ve had someone else pose for her―either professionally or casually (though MJ didn’t have that kind of relationship with any of her friends)―but it sounded like the girl’s plan A was to submit her piece as part of her coursework. That didn’t add up. Their instructor preferred that the students work from the same subject, one that the professor themselves was familiar with so that they could properly assess the fidelity of the rendering.

“They’ll know by the title,” The Artist Herself asserted.

“You’ll still have to give him a face, Mel.”

“It’s kind of avant-garde this way though, right?” Girl One’s comment was plenty chipper.

“It’s a copout,” Girl Two stated. “If you really slept with him and you’re prepared to tell the tale, you can’t just call the thing ‘Spider-Man in Repose’ and leave it at that.”

They carried on with their playful chatter, but MJ’s hearing had fuzzed out. What they were saying―that this art bitch had nailed her dork of a boyfriend―was impossible. She didn’t need to endorse the ridiculous claim by actually asking Peter if it was true. No, MJ wasn’t heartbroken or confused, she was angry. Didn’t they, any one of them, consider Spider-Man’s privacy? The respect he had earned as a public figure? He wasn’t just a mask, or a picture of that mask on a souvenir t-shirt. This would be libel if Spider-Man’s real identity was known to the general public. Little kids needed to see their hero on the morning news helping old ladies across the street and rescuing animals from burning buildings, not as the subject in some horny coed’s mediocrity.

“―it seriously. This is probably the only case where people are more interested in seeing a celebrity’s face than his dick.”

The pencil fell from MJ’s fingers and she didn’t pick it up, more focused on controlling her expression so she’d look unaffected if any of them glanced over.

“Sandra, stop,” Girl One twittered.

MJ supported the sentiment, if not the tone of voice. She lifted her foot and deliberately stomped on the end of her pencil, snapping the point. Uh oh, it looked like she’d have to go to the supply room to find a sharpener. It was located through a door half a dozen feet behind the other girls. Convenient for sneaking a look at whatever was on that canvas, which would enable her to come up with a tailored plan to fix this.

She began with a loud sigh and a forlorn look at her broken pencil. Again, not trying to be quiet, she pushed her sketch aside and crossed the room. The girls were still talking. Maybe they hadn’t forgotten MJ was there. Maybe they were crossing their fingers that she was a shit-stirrer. A patient zero for the gossip they were hoping to benefit from spreading. She circled around them and darted into the supply room, swinging the door only partially shut while she rattled a box of pencils before coaxing as much noise as possible out of the most ancient-looking sharpener she could find.

“Would you do him again?” Girl One asked.

“If she says no,” Girl Two cut in, “then she’s definitely making it up. Who the hell would hit-it-and-quit-it with Spider-Man? Especially if he’s that ripped under the suit.”

MJ crept to the threshold and looked in their direction. The Artist Herself shifted from one foot to the other, contemplating her own work, and MJ finally got a look at the unfinished painting. In its technical aspects, it was fine. Not accomplished, not garbage. So, better than she’d been expecting. It just wasn’t Peter. Even without a face, it wasn’t Peter. Peter was ripped―not that these people knew that, or ever would―but this wasn’t his body as she’d come to know it. Which was extremely well.

Grinning, MJ hurried back to her sketchbook and flipped it shut. Watching the girls from a different angle had made her consider a new approach to her block with her work in progress, but that wasn’t what propelled her out of the studio. She had an amazing idea.

\\\

“I don’t see how this solves the problem,” Peter said. “It still generates Spider-Man gossip.”

“But if it involves me, no one will believe it,” MJ emphasized, grabbing his shoulder. “I’m background noise in that studio. I’m furniture, Peter. I’ve never tried to be the center of attention and we can use that.”

He narrowed his eyes, but she could see the trust in them, like always.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. You’re just confused because this is a plan and those are foreign to you.” She gave him a sad smile and released his shoulder with a consoling squeeze.

“Hey―what? I-I plan,” he said defensively, crossing his arms over his chest. Yep, this was the body of her Spider-Man, not that generic canvas Adonis.

“You’re impulsive and adaptable. You can think on your feet in the middle of a fight, but, babe, you don’t plan.”

“But what about―”

“Peter.”

“There was that time I―”

“Peter.”

He sighed.

“Ok, when are we gonna do this?”

\\\

The research was really only two steps: showing up on campus at different times to learn when The Artist Herself (and co.) normally arrived, and figuring out how to unlatch one of the large studio windows. Both of these elements fit extremely easily into MJ’s schedule.

The friends’ interest in the Spider-Man portrait seemed to rise and fall and rise again; frequently, they actually worked on their own pieces instead of gossiping. Ok, instead of only gossiping. They still gossiped. Whenever it wasn’t about the unfathomably unrealistic Spider-Man affair, MJ drowned them out with headphones and made progress on her sketch.

She gave it a week―the recon―because that was a standard length of time and the mission felt more scientific that way. Ugh, these were Peter’s words. Her head was full of Avengers vernacular these days, all mixed up with a spectrum of graphite hardnesses and the names of a couple dozen French landscape painters. That was how MJ really knew her body wasn’t going to one day reject Peter like a mismatched blood donation. He’d become part of her mental vocabulary, and that was her sanctuary.

She hustled him through the propped-open window and into her physical sanctuary, the studio, on a Friday. Midmorning and the light was clear and white. The room would transform around 4:30pm when a hot afternoon glow inflamed the space through westward-facing glass, but this earlier, crisper light was good for a lot of things. Uniform illumination across textured sheets of watercolour paper. Fidelity of oil paint colours roughly blended and scraped with a palette knife. Minimal shadows cast as Peter’s feet, saran-wrapped into his Spidey suit, landed on the wood floor. With heavier footfalls, thanks to her black combat boots, MJ led him to the supply room and shut them in.

“Cutting it a little close,” she complained, glancing at her watch.

“I was on my way,” Peter said, gesturing widely (what kept MJ calm was the knowledge that his superhuman agility would make sure he caught anything he knocked over before it hit the ground), “and then there was this guy trying to grand theft auto a flour truck out in front of this bakery.” He pointed like the bakery was hiding just across the room behind the industrial-sized jugs of linseed oil. Peter deflated, mind snapped swiftly into the present. “Long story short, the bakery owner promised me free bagels if you wanna go after.”

MJ nodded, trying to tame her fond smirk. She would’ve loved him just as much if his biology had been totally garden-variety, but Peter in the suit―eyes of his mask widening as he relayed his latest crime bust―was adorable.

“After.”

“Ok… ok, great.”

Peter attempted to lean casually into a stack of collapsed easels, which squeaked loudly across the floor, threatening a noisy topple, before he jerked upright and steadied them. The way he’d never gotten calmer about her saying yes to a date was pretty adorable too.

“So, when are they―”

MJ heard the door to the studio bang open and slapped a hand across the mouth area of her boyfriend’s mask. Her palm didn’t actually obstruct his words, but the action silenced him. He tensed at her side as they tilted their heads, listening. A more minor part of the mission―dammit, plan―had been for MJ to make sure there were enough easels, brushes, and various other tools of the trade out on and around the counter that spanned one wall of the studio; the last thing she and Peter needed was an unsuspecting audience member striding into the supply room. Oh, those girls would know they were in here, but it wasn’t going to be by accident.

“You don’t think they’ll leave when they hear us?”

MJ shivered―Peter’s lips were right against her ear. She hadn’t heard him peel up his mask and lean in. Turning her head slightly, she tried to respond just as softly.

“Not these three. They’re shamelessly curious.”

“You’re sure?”

God, her face was getting hot. He was just talking to her. Talking at a whisper. Fine, it was kinda sexy, though there were things besides his last-second questioning of her brilliant plan that she’d rather have heard in that voice.

“You didn’t see the painting,” MJ reminded him.

“Yeah, there’s that,” Peter allowed.

They waited a few minutes longer, enduring the insignificant chatter and grating laughter coming from the studio. MJ tried to keep as still as Peter. Gradually, the human sounds lessened and were replaced by the glop of a brush through too much paint, the hiss of that same brush across a taut canvas. She looked at him and nodded.

“We’re starting?” he murmured.

MJ turn away from the door and smacked the center of his chest, turning the Spidey suit into a slack mass that Peter reflexively caught in his elbows before it could fall all the way down. She raised her eyebrows. Peter let the suit drop.

“This isn’t very romantic,” he complained quietly, yanking his feet free and piling the suit on the lid of a large tub of gesso.

“Yeah, well, we can’t exactly do this with the suit on.”

“The mask?”

MJ assessed his face, everything below his nose uncovered.

“I think half-off is fine, in case they barge in. The lower part of your face isn’t very distinctive.”

She twisted towards the door once more. At this point, they were supposed to be past discussion. Peter really didn’t understand the concept of planning something in advance, even when they had planned this in advance.

“Again with the lack of romance,” he griped, suddenly pressed up right behind her. Immediately, MJ’s heart was pounding more fiercely.

“Trying to be practical, nerd.”

Her voice didn’t come out overly stern, not with Peter’s hands touching down very lightly on her hips.

“But what do I always say when we order pizza and you try to get me to choose between bacon and ham?”

“You don’t need that much meat on a pizza. It’s high in sodium.”

His sigh ruffled the hair hanging in a loose ponytail against the back of her neck.

“No, that’s what you always say. What do I say?”

Pressing her palm to the door, MJ let her eyes slide closed. One of Peter’s hands had ducked under the hem of her shirt. She felt the side of his thumb skim her abdomen.

“That you prefer both,” she replied.

He made a low agreeing noise, flattened his palm against her for a second, then rotated his hand to unbutton her jeans. There was a surge within her. Peter always turned her on, but this was a fresh excitement. Subtly, MJ pressed her hips forward. She heard him breathe harder. His other hand moved from her hip to grasp the waist of her jeans while he unzipped them. She could feel it. She could feel him behind her, rising and thickening. Dipping his hands into her undone jeans, Peter nosed her hair out of the way to kiss her for the first time since they’d entered the room, on the side of her neck.

“I think I prefer both too,” she said.

She felt his teeth as he smiled and pushed against his crotch in response. His groan was abbreviated to a grunt when he clamped his mouth shut; the clench of Peter’s jaw bumped her throat. MJ grinned to herself and rolled into him again. There wasn’t any hesitancy as his fingers pried the thin elastic edge of her underwear away from her skin and plunged one hand beneath it. She gasped aloud and the fact that they were doing this for a reason came back to her. That didn’t mean being overheard had to be the only reason.

Because MJ knew it was one of Peter’s weaknesses, she grasped his wrist, slowly smoothing her hand down to lay flat on the back of his, and urged it further. He panted, kissing her neck, more loosely this time. Reaching up and back with her other hand, she toyed with the little flick of hair at back of his neck, right where it started to curl if he went too long between haircuts―exposed below the peeled up mask. With a shudder, Peter stroked a finger through her increasing arousal. Her hand tensed on his. A subtle widening of her stance wouldn’t be quite so subtle to the guy whose super-senses allowed him to notice the tiniest details even when distracted, but so be it. It wasn’t like he didn’t already know how she wanted him to touch her.

She turned her head, disengaging Peter’s before bringing him back just as quickly with a thorough kiss. Continuously, MJ’s fingers stroked his hairline. Goosebumps spread across the back of his neck.

“Let me know,” she said in a teasing voice, pausing to lick his lower lip, “if I’m being too romantic.”

Peter’s lips smiled against hers.

“And you tell me…” His mouth remained open, questioning almost, as he traced her opening with the tip of his finger. MJ exhaled roughly. “…if I get too practical.”

With that, Peter withdrew his hand (she would not admit to actually fucking whimpering in disappointment), grabbed her hips, and spun her, forcing her back against the door. The resultant thud was followed by confused-sounding voices from their prey in the studio. Exhilarated more than panicked, MJ looked her boyfriend sternly in the eyes of his mask.

“We need to make more noise, now, before they come to investigate,” she murmured.

Appearing to barely make contact with his fist, Peter forced another thump out of the door. MJ rolled her eyes, heartrate dropping.

“Not like that. They’ll just think somebody’s locked in here.”

“Like what then?”

“Like… sex-type noises,” she said, gesturing vaguely before folding her arms around his neck, fingers back to playing with his hair.

The only problem with Peter’s improvising was that he didn’t give her enough time to check him out―wearing nothing but his boxers and folded-up mask―before he did it. He just stepped close and snatched the jeans and underwear down her legs, then cupped his hand between them. MJ panted in surprise and reawakened desire. It wasn’t loud enough. They both knew it.

Necessity was supposed to be the mother of invention, but she figured the smirk on Peter’s face right before he stroked his finger inside her was necessity’s other child. MJ sighed in pleasure and paired it with a look that said, about time, nerd. Though he dug in deeper, he would only curl his finger slightly, making her hips wriggle and, consequently, bump against the door.

Shit, there were footsteps heading their way. Peter had it handled―MJ flushed retroactively at her mental double-entendre―pressing another finger into her and hooking both firmly. She let out a genuine wail.

From the other side of the door, a hysterical giggle.

MJ didn’t care what they said, just that the girls stayed in the studio―that was vital. Rather than straining to hear the specific words constructing the scandalized tone, she pulled Peter closer. Running a palm down his chest, she had him faintly trembling before she suddenly grasped his erection through his boxers. He groaned loudly enough to send a prickle down MJ’s spine. Now the listeners would know there were two people in here, instead of a lone pervert masturbating to the sight of uniformly sharpened coloured pencils. (She did enjoy being surrounded by beautiful new art supplies, just not in a way that made her want to go American Pie on them.)

Biting lightly along Peter’s jaw (so maybe she thought the lower part of his face was more special and alluring than she’d implied), MJ released her hold on him, only to sneak her hand inside his boxers and grasp him properly. He was hot and pulsing in her palm, breath muggy on the side of her face. It intensified her pleasure. She stroked him, steady and torturous, and eased down on his fingers as Peter continued his own motions.

“You’re getting me so wet, Spider-Man,” MJ breathed.

Peter tilted his head away.

“Louder,” he said.

She kissed him before taking a good look at his parted lips and the pink of his cheeks, delicate as a watercolour wash. Peter interrupted her study.

“They should hear you say it,” he prompted, glancing down to where he fingered her. “So they know you’re in here with him. Me.”

Gradually, still grinding down on his hand as he kept a fixed momentum, MJ grinned.

“Would it really be for their benefit, or yours?”

Peter looked up immediately. His gaze slid from one of her eyes to the other. Suddenly, he jabbed his fingers more insistently. MJ gasped and automatically squeezed her fist, making her boyfriend lurch closer.

“Let me see you for a minute,” she said. It stopped being a request as she pushed his mask up herself.

He raised his free hand, trailing the backs of his fingers across her cheek, then slapped his palm to the door, making it (and her heart) jump. Biting down on her lip, she tempered and tenderized her excited smile.

“Just say it,” Peter demanded, brown eyes molten.

Letting her head tip back and hit the door, MJ repeated herself at a much higher volume. That got the girls in the studio talking again.

“Better?” she asked Peter, looking him square in the eye. He shook his head.

“I didn’t like that one either.”

His thumb went to her clit and she rubbed while he held still, fingers unmoving inside her.

“Suggestions?”

MJ was trying for nonchalant. The truth was that she couldn’t manage a full sentence, not at the moment, not while a tingle like static charge was building, climbing her body from the location of Peter’s thumb. He gave her a kind, very normal, Peter sort of smile.

“Say it to me.”

Locking eyes with him, MJ rotated her wrist, caressing up and down his length. She saw his jaw clench.

“You’re getting me so wet, Spider-Man.”

Peter exhaled evenly.

“Condom?”

“Front pocket.”

First, his hand went from the door into his boxers, gently unwrapping her fingers from his dick with an expression of great sacrifice on his face. Continuing to gaze back at her, Peter pushed his boxers off and nudged them away with the side of his foot. MJ lowered her eyes to sweep his body, but when they came back up, she discovered he hadn’t quit looking at her. With another trust-inspiring smile, he knelt. Dextrous fingers retrieved the condom from her jeans. Peter kissed her hip, her inner thigh, before helping her out of her boots and clothing the rest of the way. Only her thin t-shirt stayed on, and he could probably feel her nipples through that, especially when he straightened up and lifted her by the backs of her thighs. MJ’s hand met his against her leg and she took charge of the condom, opening it and then unrolling it on him.

“Already feels good,” Peter told her. She kissed him for a lengthy minute in exchange for his honesty. And for his desire for her, currently standing rigid between them. “M,” he whispered fervently as their mouths parted.

Her inner thighs clamped to his hips as she shifted, angling herself. Ready. He was careful not to hide his grin as he tugged the mask back down over his eyes and nose. Peter’s expression became focused as he followed her guiding hand, delving into her. Already too worked up to receive him slowly, MJ used her legs to draw him all the way in, although it stopped her breath. When she inhaled, the sound in her ears was of someone surfacing from a deep dive.

“Spider-Man,” MJ said, loud, clear, hungry.

Peter thrust.

“Oh, Jesus,” she gasped, though she’d only ever found religion in paintings; angels―good and terrible―in unearthly detail, or obscured by heavenly backlighting.

Her boyfriend spoke to her like mindreading was part of his lunchbox assortment of superpowers.

“How would you paint me,” Peter asked, begging while he commanded. Another thrust, deeper. She clung to his shoulders.

“Haloed,” MJ panted.

Surging forward, he kissed her messily. She did nothing to bring order to the kiss, tongue twisting and tumbling with Peter’s, moaning lustfully into his mouth. He rocked his hips even harder when MJ clawed her fingers into his hair beneath the mask and took a good grip. She didn’t know anymore if they were noisy, couldn’t count how many times his driving thrusts tested the strength of the door. Every breath shaky, MJ rolled what felt like her entire body. She sweat―the room’s circulation was poor and the day must have been getting hotter―and Peter’s hand smoothed greedily over her hip and up to her waist, under her t-shirt.

His other hand supported her, the grip on her leg soft yet strong, and MJ was confident, throwing her hips down onto his, caught by a solid prod and the best feeling in the world. Peter bucked faster and her hand clamped to the back of his neck, the other sticky on his shoulder. Formless, desperate sounds left her mouth, giving up on the kiss, and convinced her boyfriend to reach between her legs and manipulate her clit in tight circles.

“Spide… Spi… Sp…”

MJ climaxed, yanking Peter’s torso to hers, and squeezing her eyes shut. Things were blurry, even inside her head. Holding tight to thighs that felt only distantly like her own, Peter strove through a final handful of thrusts, ending in a completion that heaved MJ’s limp body into the door one last time. They waited it out, the calming. She wanted to tell him that he was her hero for not having weak human arms, which might have been worn out by the sex and set her bare ass down on the supply room floor (ew), but she prioritized breathing. There would be other opportunities to make the nerd blush.

Peter exhaled forcefully after a little bit.

“Are you good? Do you wanna stand?” He pulled back, swiping hair away from her face. Damn ponytail had been too loose.

“Yeah.”

MJ’s feet touched the floor and she stepped around Peter. That was when her legs forgot how to be legs and she tripped over a massive roll of bubble wrap. The jolt woke her up, but it was Peter’s quick hands that caught her.

“Now I’m good,” she said, a little giddy.

“Ok.”

Peter’s hands backed off, but his arms stayed extended towards her.

“Relax.” Her voice probably wasn’t sarcastic enough to hide how sweet she thought he was being. “If I need rescuing while I put my pants on, you’ll be the first to know.”

They dressed quickly―meaning MJ did her best, skipping her socks (they went into her pocket), while Peter stood there, already in his full Spider-Man suit. Yeah, if her outfit was a single sausage casing, she’d be fast too. She assumed the condom had made it into the large trash can, alongside pencil shavings and her classmates’ scrapped ideas.

“Show off,” she mumbled.

“Hey, I don’t want to keep the bakery guy waiting. I have a lot of respect for the schedule of a man who wants to give me free bagels.”

MJ couldn’t see the smirk on his face since he’d pulled the mask down, but she could hear it.

“Yeah, yeah. Go out the window and I’ll meet you two blocks down, like we planned.”

Peter nodded and she let him hold the door for her as they stepped out into the studio. Looked like the audience had hung around. Applause would’ve been nice, MJ couldn’t lie.

“Until next time,” she told Spider-Man, ignoring the others for a moment.

He did a lame little salute that she was definitely never going to let him do again before bounding to the window and scrambling out. Maybe it was smoother than a scramble, but she was suffering from the lameness of the salute.

“How’s the painting going?” she asked The Artist in a tone of colossal disinterest once Spider-Man was out of sight.

Before the girl could answer―or maybe she couldn’t, all three of them did look pretty stunned―MJ strolled to the far end of the studio and collected her sketchbook and pencils, tucking them into her bag. The trio continued to stare at her as she leisurely returned and circled behind them to scrutinize the artwork for herself.

“Huh,” she said, and headed for the door.

One of them―Girl Two, if her memory served―managed a few words.

“Was that…?”

MJ turned back to them, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.

“Yeah.”

With a ridiculous feeling of power, she approached them again and pointed at the painting of so-called ‘Spider-Man.’ Her finger made a circle in the air in front of not-Peter’s crotch.

“You haven’t been generous enough here,” she critiqued. “I’d drop his name from the title, if I were you. The inaccuracy gives the whole thing away. Not that any of you will ever get the chance to see for yourselves.”

This time MJ didn’t pause on her way out, just called back, “Have a super weekend,” and let the door bang behind her.

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greenninjagal-blog · 5 years

Text

Bury the Body ch3

I apologize for the delay, here’s the return of the serial killer au! You can find the previous chapter here, and the beginning of this fun little psychotic story right here! Big thanks to @unsolvedsexualtension for being my beta.

TW: Attempted Murder, stabbings, broken noses, arson, severed heads, Actual Murder, broken glass, knives, name calling, Ethanol, murder, violence, gore, dark humor, blood, and I can not stress this enough: Murder.

Words: 5717

Quick Taglist: @seaspider10 @chelsvans @felicianoromano @jemthebookworm @holliberries @stricken-with-clairvoyancy @treasureofpriam

Read on AO3

As it turns out, his companions did not have a problem remembering their names. It was much like once they had learned the names each had been scribbled down in a dictionary, preserved and the page tabbed, so they might never lose it.

So, no, the problem wasn’t remembering the names of the people they were sitting with.

Logan repeated them like a mantra in his head: the smiling man, Patton, Patton Sanders, Patton like plastic, fake, meltable, plastic Patton Sanders; the hooded man, Virgil, Virgil Sanders, Virgil like vigilant, like vagrant, like vexing Virgil Sanders; the man in white and red was Roman Prince, Regal, Royal, ridiculous Roman.

It wasn’t a problem remembering their names.

It was a problem remembering to use the names.

The smiling man in particular just had an even better affinity for word play. The man in white slung insults like second nature, and the hooded man let scathing remarks choke out of his throat.

Which wouldn’t have been a problem at all– Logan would have collected each of their souls in turn, dragging them to some place deserted and drowning them in gasoline, twisting and twirling lines with the flammable liquid and then dropping a single spark into the barest edges. He needed to buy a stopwatch, just to prove his theory that Virgil would be the one to scream first. Logan would have made the most beautiful art out of all of them.

If he could remember to use their real names just slightly better than the rest of them.

“Fine,” Logan snarled at Peppy Patton’s face, spitting the word with all the malice he could muster when the other had him pinned to the floor and their respective strengths were the only things keeping a body from being discovered by the next train attendant who walked by. Logan could see the flecks of his spit splatter on the other’s glasses, could see the unsymmetrical count of freckles on his face that he had somehow missed during their kiss earlier, could see the way his own arms were trembling to keep the butterfly knife from filleting him.

“Fine!” He snarled because he had never been good at admitting himself wrong, or that his carefully considered plan could have had such a loophole as this. “Three chances!”

The smiling man– Patton– eased just enough that Logan could wedge his fingers under the other’s hold on the knife and bend his thumb back until gravity retook the knife. It fell into a pile of clothes from Logan’s bag: something that had been overturned no less than five minutes prior by, uh, Roman.

Somewhere beyond Patton, Roman and Virgil were fingerpainting the seats with blood. From his angle, Logan couldn’t tell which was whose: Roman’s arm had been sliced, but a good punch to Virgil’s nose had resounded in a crack sometime between Patton calling Logan “a sore loser” and Logan calling Patton a “myopic milksop” and ended with an impressively bloody nose.

It seemed that rather than facilitate with murdering each other, Patton’s game had only wrought unconcerned chaos to the compartment.

Logan was more annoyed than he had a right to be. His strict order had been unheaved by these unhinged hooligans and Logan found himself rising to the challenge of it: he never liked things to be easy, never liked the ones that didn’t wake up before the flames consumed them, the ones that didn’t scream or cry or pray. He wanted to see Patton do it, wanted to see that plastic expression melt away and reveal that truth of a human from underneath. Patton was a challenge, a puzzle.

Logan had never been one to give up.

“Three chances,” Logan repeated when the scuffle beyond them didn’t immediately cease. “Three chances from here on out!”

Virgil slammed against the window, but managed to roll away from the punch that Roman threw at him. Roman’s fist slammed the glass window hard enough to send vibrations throughout the small room.

“Fuck!” Roman yelled as he flung his fist open and then waved his fingers losely. His knuckles were strikingly pink compared to the scarlet blood on his bicep. “Ow! Jesus fuck, Twenty eight!”

“One!” Logan snapped. “That’s one for you, Prince!”

“Do last names count? Is that a thing?” Virgil asked, balancing himself in a couch on the seat, much like a cat ready to flee out of the way again. His hoodie swallowed his hands, but Logan didn’t doubt that his hands were full of those little knives that him and his brother were so fond of.

“Logan’s at one, too!” Patton sang.

“Fine!” Logan hissed. “Last names do not count. Roman and I are at one, Patton and Virgil are at zero.”

The compartment breathed for a full second. Logan could feel the pressure of his clothes on every inch of his chest as he inhaled testily. The rain outside pounded on the windows, a raging thunderstorm that did not deter their train in the slightest. Lightning cracked on a distant hill.

“Are we done?” Logan asked.

There was a flurry of glares around the room. Well, glares and a condescending, lithe expression from Patton. For an overly tense moment no one seemed to be ready to back down, no one seemed ready to adhere to the rules that they had all so easily agreed to playing.

Then Roman flexed his fingers on the fist that had so elegantly punched the glass window flipped both his palms out for them to see him unarmed. “Truce?” He said, and Logan was certain there were several half syllables that were tacked on the end, the beginnings of a nickname that he cut himself short from saying. Roman took a deep breath, and he let it out with a laugh that dripped with a madness.

“Oh,” Roman said, throwing a deadly little look in Logan’s direction. “You’re definitely on my list now.”

“A pleasure,” Logan said, “You’re standing on my shirt.”

Patton picked up one of the other shirts around the floor, along with his little knife, and brought the dark blue fabric to his face. He smelled it, and smiled that ridiculously dreamy smile of his. “It smells like you, Logan!”

“Of course. It’s mine.” Logan snatched it from his hands. “I’d thank you not to touch my stuff at all, Mr–Patton.”

The other let out a teasing little laugh, leaning into Logan’s personal space. Their legs were touching, the warmth of his body making the rest of Logan’s limbs feel rather cold in comparison. “You really are amazing, Logan, for being so broken as you are.”

Logan’s eyes caught sight of the puckered cigarette burn on Patton’s collar bone. He wet his lips, imagining the smoke coming off his body again.

“You’re going to lose my little game,” Patton said fondly, and raised his hand as if touch Logan.

Virgil’s hand snaked out and grabbed his wrist before it could. Virgil didn’t look at either of them, but he sneered at the knife scars in the wooden flooring.

“Don’t,” He said, but without elaborating on exactly who should have not been doing whatever it happened to be. Wasn’t that curious?

Logan’s eyes watched the brothers’ hands, watched as Patton laughed again so carefree and wild and gave a tug that brought Virgil to the floor with him. With a fistful of his pastel sweater sleeve, Patton practiced wiping the blood from Virgil’s chin.

Roman used one of Logan’s iron pressed pants to wipe a smear of blood from seat.

“Must you?”

Roman blinked, “Sorry, uh–” The man snapped his fingers twice frowning, “You?”

Patton laughed again, “Oh dear, did you forget already?”

“Does that count?” Virgil asked. “Is he at two now?”

Roman glared at him, “Oh, shut up, Jason Toddler!”

“That one counts,” Logan said. Although Roman wasn’t his primary target, he couldn’t help that small swell of excitement that came from the increasing number, from the prospect of scorching flames and smokey flesh. “Roman is at two. I am at one, and both of you are at zero.”

“Fuck off,” Roman said and threw Logan’s pants at him in a very mature show of annoyance. The fact that he didn’t tact on another insult however made Logan suspect that he was attempting to learn to hold his tongue.

Interesting. Perhaps cattle could learn to think for themselves.

Roman stretched up to the luggage rack over their heads, his shirt rising ever so dramatically and flashing hints of the toned body underneath all that white. Unmarred and soft and would most likely bubble if Logan got a chance to press the tip of his lighter into his feeble flesh.

Evidently, he wasn’t alone in the thought process. Patton curled in on himself giggling and peeked through his fingers at the sight in a mockery of modesty, while his brother inhaled so sharply it turned to an audible growl.

“Like what you see?” The killer at the center of attention smirked, “I don’t mind.”

“I mind,” Virgil snapped, “That’s not even your bag.”

Roman grinned until Logan could see his canines. There was something about his smile, something that didn’t quite look right. It wasn’t fake– not the way that Patton’s was, but it was practiced.

“Are you afraid of what we might find in your bag?” Roman asked grabbing the handles and giving it a tug.

“I never said it was mine.”

The bag rolled off the rack and thawpped to the ground taking Roman’s arm with it. It hit the ground with a crash, that sounded suspiciously not like any bag of clothes Logan had ever heard before. Something liquid started leaking from the bottom of the bag, pooling on the floor in colorless puddles.

Roman looked up at the twins, and pointed at the bag, “What is that?”

Patton cupped his own cheeks, gasping in that false surprise that made Logan want to press another cigarette to his skin– maybe even in his neck, and burn straight through the tissues until every breath the man took was accompanied with a whistling noise.

“Roman!” Patton chastised, “I can’t believe you would call my little Kady Kay a “that”! She’s obviously a person! It wouldn’t be fair if I took my brother with me on this fun trip but didn’t bring my favorite patient with me!”

Logan blinked for a moment, staring at the bag, at the liquid coming from it, and suddenly recognizing the ethereal smell coming from it.

“Is that…” He didn’t have to finish because Roman had unzipped the bag to confirm what they both were thinking.

“What the fuck.” Roman whispered, somehow stunned beyond that cocky attitude of his.

“Aw, You broke her,” Patton whined, reaching between the flaps and poking the soggy strips of hair attached to the human head that was not attached to a body. He picked a shard of glass from over the wide open, spiritless blue eyes, and held it up for them to see. “Oh! This one looks like a dog! Look Virgil!”

The ethanol on the floor soaked the bottom of a pile of Logan’s shirts. His brain whispered about Safety Data Sheets he remembered from chemistry class so long ago: a colorless, highly flammable liquid, and Logan’s lighter was only a few feet away. His fingers itched for it. To light the Ethanol, to light the bag, and the head and perfect, peppy, plastic Patton on fire.

“Take a good look, Princey,” Virgil said, leaning over Roman’s shoulder with a nasty little smile, “Because that’s what I’m going to do to you.”

“That’s one for you, VeeVee!” Patton laughed, “And one for me, too!” He looked down at the bag, and curled a strand of hair around his fingers. “I like this game a lot!”

Patton made eye contact with Logan, his eyes shining through those glasses, still crooked on his nose after the fight. He pressed his fingers to the corners of his own mouth, widening his smile even more and leaving glistening dewdrops of ethanol on his cheeks.

“Thanks for playing with me, Logan!” He said.

It was ridiculous. For a moment, Logan was convinced he meant it.

But then there was a rap on the train compartment door, and Logan became acutely aware to the absolute chaos that was their appearances: Logan’s neck was a breath away from bleeding again, Vigil was nursing his own bloody nose, while Roman’s arms were in need of bandaging. Not to mention Patton’s sleeves were splattered with blood from wiping it off.

The compartment, too, was ransacked: the floor covered with bits of Logan’s luggage, and where it wasn’t it was carved up with a knife, blood on the seats, blood on the window, ethanol on the floor and broken glass in a bag knife hole in the seat that they had no hope of covering up at all. Not to mention the human head.

Thunder rumbled over the sound of the train, the rain fell in sheets.

Logan supposed the easiest thing would have been to stay silent and pretend like none of them were there– there was a nice little dining car several more cars down that Logan had passed on his way on the train all those hours ago. If no one knew they were there, they wouldn’t have to open the door or explain away the detestable mess the others had created in their carelessness.

However, the easiest thing was clearly not the thing that all the others agreed on. Logan suspected it hadn’t even crossed any of their minds at all.

Patton slid the train door open with his wide grin, “Hello!”

“Patton!” Logan yelped, reaching out to the door to slam it closed before the train attendant on the other side could register anything.

Patton shoved a foot between the sliding door and the gap, and he held it open without looking away from the man in the white uniform. “What can we do for you, sir? Oh, I love your tie!”

“My–? Oh, uh, thank you, sir. I was just coming around to inform you that the train will be making an emergency stop at the next station to wait out the storm. The next distance is too dangerous to attempt while the tracks are wet–I’m sorry, sir, are you bleeding? Your sweater is–”

Patton laughed.

Logan wondered how many people died with that as the last thing they heard. The poor unfortunate souls who had such an annoying grating sound following them to the afterlife– Logan pitied them. Just as he pitied the train attendant who never had a chance to finish his thought.

Patton’s hands weaved forward and around and before the man had even noticed, Patton had ensnared him in that blasted clay cutter. His throat sucked for air to scream with, but there was none to be had: Logan would know, he’d just been on the other side of that weapon as well. Panic expelled from the man’s body, the wire slicing through the tie that Patton had just complimented. Despite the train attendant being three inches taller than him, Patton twisted his body and leveraged the panicking man into their compartment by his neck like it was no trouble at all.

He landed in a puddle of ethanol, mere inches from the severed head. His blood mixed with the fluids on the floor.

Logan kicked the door closed before anyone else had the time to wander by.

By the time he turned back around, Virgil had gotten the man acquainted with his knife: severing the spinal cord and turning medulla oblongata to pin cushion. The life left the man’s eyes without even a scream, probably not even a thought.

A cold death, cruel and crude and effective. Still Logan thought the flames might have suited him better; white fabrics always looked best singed and dusted with charcoal.

“Oh great,” Roman said, “A dead body. Which one of you brainiacs are gonna explain away this one?”

Virgil wrenched the knife from the body and pointed it at him, “That’s another nickname! That’s three!”

“I’ll allow it,” Logan interjected stiffly.

“What why?! It’s a clear violation of the rules!”

“Because the question needs an answer.” Logan snarled at him, “I assumed one of the two of you had a single brain cell. However, now I see that I was mistaken!”

Patton pouted, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Even his lips quivered at the attempt to break from the mold of his plastic grin. “That’s really cold, Logan.”

“So was this death, Patton.” Logan’s mouth curls around the name, fitting it between his teeth in just a way that feels foreign. Part of him remains confused over how he could possibly be satisfied with something that was over so quickly, something that was so heartless, productionless, expressionless. The man was dead and there was nothing glorifying about it.

It was a dead body on a train in a compartment that pointed all the fingers to them.

Logan knew that most of the human population was stupid, but it wouldn’t exactly take Einstein himself to work out that something nasty and unpleasant had happened in their train compartment. Someone would go digging and they might discover the strangeness of Logan requesting to be sat in this train car specifically, with his name right next to Patton and Virgil Sanders, who happened to have just withdrawn a large sum of money from his bank…

No, Logan didn’t like the implication that a discovery of the body or the blood could create. He had built himself a lovely little life back in the city, had a nice little promotion, and this very nice paid vacation. He had Jeff from two cubbies over to publicly humiliate again, and an ashtray to send to his sister who would forever remain ignorant of why exactly he got them for her.

He wasn’t about to let two halfwitted hooligans ruin the little world he created.

“Don’t you remember?” Virgil said, sullenly. He pinched his blade between his thumb and index finger and slid them across the flat of the knife. The train attendants blood came away easily, dripping off the hooded man’s fingers and on to the man’s white clothes. “He said there was going to be an emergency stop soon.”

“And?”

Patton laughed.

Virgil glared at the window, “Do I have to spell it out for you? Trains can catch on fire, dumbass.”

“That’s two,” Roman said.

Virgil threw his knife at him, and missed by several inches. Roman still yelped.

“Are you suggesting that I set this train compartment on fire in the middle of a rainstorm?” Logan asked.

A haunting question, a dangerous question. Logan’s lips twitched at the mere suggestion, a slim crack in outward stonewall of a personality, but a crack nonetheless. It was ridiculous what a little iota of fire could do to him.

Everyone has their vices, though.

“Most definitely not.” Logan said, “I won’t.”

“What, aren’t you an arsonist?” Roman said, and then jabbed a finger the twins, “That’s not name calling. It’s an observation.”

“Of course, I am,” Logan said, folding his fingers under the collar of his shirt, rubbing the tender wound across his own neck, and ruffling the trim of his hair. “What is the point of lighting the room on fire unless one of you are left here to burn in it?”

“Really,” Virgil said. “There’s a dead guy on the floor, right here.”

“Dead bodies don’t scream.”

Patton laughed again. He leaned forward, coming rather close to Logan’s personal bubble. “Do you like to hear them screaming? That’s so bad, Logan! You are broken!”

“I’d like to remind the room that you are the one with the severed head in your bag, Patton.”

Patton reached into the bag and hoisted the head out by the scalp, showering the floor in broken glass and splattering ethanol on Virgil, the train attendant, and the seats. Roman shrieked, dancing back from the scene. Logan found himself in a staring contest with the person he had intended to turn to ashes three days previous before the opportunity was so rudely stolen away from him.

“Look! It’s not in the bag anymore!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Roman yelled, “Put that thing away!”

Virgil snarled, sprouting to his feet and squaring up for a fist fight, “Nothing is wrong with him!”

Roman retook the steps he had retreated until the two of them were chest to chest. “He is dancing with a severed head. Oh my god, what if the brains fall out? Do brains catch on fire?”

“Congrats, you’ve impressed me by being even more of a clueless moron than I thought you could be.” Virgil threw up a hand and shoved the other back. “The brains are in another jar.”

“Yep!” Patton laughed and reached into the bag again to reveal an unbroken glass cylinder, with what Logan assumed was four sections of a brain carefully cut apart and bobbing in the clear liquid. “Look what happens when I flip it upside down!”

“That’s a third strike for you!” Roman said, “Name calling, Virgil. You lost the game.”

“Let me introduce you to the difference between a proper noun and an adjective, Roman Prince.” Virgil snapped back. “For example: a proper noun is a name that I might hypothetically call you, such a “Pompous Princey”. An adjective is an insult might that I use to describe you, such as “washed up actor who never made it big and never will”.”

Roman’s face screwed up, his eyes hardened, and before any of them could move his strong world crushing hands curled around Virgil’s hoodie and pulled him close. Well, as close as they could be when Virgil tripped over the corpse on the ground.

Roman had several inches on him; several inches in height and several feet in sudden boiling bloodlust. “Say it again.”

Patton titled his head to the side, his smiling losing the genuine happiness of the moment. “Hey,” He said, “Look.” He flipped the brain jar again, “Bubbles.”

They ignored him.

“You’re a joke, Roman,” Virgil said. “A joke that’s so old it’s not funny anymore. Child star grows up, no longer cute, no longer getting prime time on TV, no longer remem–”

Roman shook him.

“Stop,” Logan said, although not with much conviction. Part of him was curious: would Roman default to breaking the rules of the game to murder Virgil? Would Patton truly let him? His brain started running the calculations like a silent watcher of a movie.

“–Did I hit a sore spot?” Virgil smirked, the dribbles of the blood from his nose smeared over his top lip still. “You read like a book, Roman. A stupid, easy, dumb-”

Logan was curious to see if Virgil did have any better insults to toss around, but unfortunately before he could the train itself gave a jarring squeal of metal wheels, a shrill whistle sliced through the pattering of rain on the windows. The carriage jolted forward sharply, sending Roman tripping over Virgil who tripped over the train attendant. They both fell over, hitting the seats and Roman’s right leg landing entirely in the bloody ethanol.

Logan grabbed for the door to steady himself while Patton hit the backrest and wrapped his arms around the head to protect it and let the brain jar drop on the seat next to him. The lights overhead swung with the motion of the train, the liquids on the floor sloshed around, a few misplaced knives skidded over the hardwood floor.

In a flash of yellow, Logan caught sight of one of his familiar possessions in the mess: his bottle of lighter fluid that had been stashed under his folded socks. Virgil’s words rang in his ears: reminding Logan how easy it was for Ethanol to go up in flames, almost easier than it was for Butane. With the amount of flammable liquids in the room, Logan was almost giddy: a simple spark could send them all up in those glorious flames. And wouldn’t it be such a sinch to slip out the door while they were busy trying to put out an alcohol fire with what little materials they had and jam the door closed while they were discovering that not even water would put it out.

The train was losing speed, quickly. Someone would come looking for the train attendant who was neglecting his duties due to an untimely demise. Someone would see the mess they had created in the collision of their four different personalities in such a small place.

Logan could feel his heartbeat in his ears, the thundering pulse that matched the speed of his thoughts. How many times had he flicked his lighter? How many times had he counted the nanoseconds it took the flame to ignite?

It would be over before the others would even know what happened. The game would have one winner: Logan, by default. Because you very well couldn’t play the game without other players.

Roman yelled something at Virgil.

Logan wasn’t able to hear it over the roar in his ears, the rush of adrenaline in his veins, the thud of his heart. Whatever noise the others made, it was lost in the static the second Logan’s fingers (the ones that still worked at least) slid his lighter from his pocket and flicked it open.

“LOGAN!”

His lips twisted into something– the corners pulling, pulling, up, baring his canines for the rest of them to see, there was a smear on his glasses that became apparent the moment his cheeks seemed to lift, but he could see around it enough to catch the expressions of surprise, maybe even worry on the other’s faces.

His thumb rolled over the trigger, hitting the switch that would release the gas bottled up inside and strike the flint to give one of its glorious flames that brought forth an exciting buzz in Logan’s head, in his chest, across his skin–

Something slammed into his stomach. And even if Logan didn’t feel pain– couldn’t feel pain– he felt the crushing panic in his lungs when the air was forced from them. His body lurched back, the edge of the sliding compartment door went right between his shoulder blades, like a knife to his back. Logan’s tongue spit out of his mouth along with what little saliva he had. He hit the ground a second later, and the lighter tumbled from his useless stupid fingers at the same time as Virgil’s hand shoved his jaw upwards.

Curious, wasn’t it, that this close to another person, a different person, and the only thing Logan could think was Virgil smelled so much like Patton.

Logan rolled to the side, up heaving Virgil from on top of him. His knee slammed on the seat, jarring the fluidity of his motions, but the second Logan caught sight of the metal rectangle on the floor he was scrambling for it.

Virgil’s fingers tore through his hair. He missed the lighter. A pastel-rainbow checkered Van swung through his line of vision and his metal lighter went careening across the floor, bouncing off the train attendant’s limp arm colliding with the seat, and then tumbling right to Roman Prince’s feet.

Patton laughed, stamping his pastel shoes and hugging the severed head close to his face.

“Nice try, Logan!” He said, “But it looks like we’re a step a-head!”

Logan felt his breath tear through his throat, tickling that cut on his throat that probably had started bleeding sometime during the tussle. Virgil yanked his hair again and Logan imagined those fingers being burned off, being cut off and cauterizing each bleeding knuckle.

“What’s the matter, Logan? You’re not smiling anymore! You don’t like my puns?” Patton asked, squatting next to Logan’s face. The head banged against Patton’s knee and then hit the ground. “Or you just don’t like me?”

“I find you utterly detestable,” Logan snarled as Virgil yanked his hair at the roots again. His ribs pressed the floor, held in place by Virgil’s surprising amount of weight, his arm pinned to his side in a foolish mistake of his own making.

Patton laughed to his face, that ridiculously grating noise, that was just a decibel short of causing Logan’s ears to bleed. He booped Logan on the nose.

Behind him, Roman picked up the lighter. “Oh please, you were going to set us on fire with this little thing?”

He twisted it in the air, sniffed it, and shrugged with a cocky type of grin. “Oh look at me! I’m Logan Ackroyd! I kill people in the most boring-est way and play with my lighter when I’m bored– oh fuck, oh SHIT!”

Logan saw the flame, the spark that seemed to come alive with a whisper of danger, of delight.

And then he saw it snuff between Roman Prince’s fingers– those very vulnerable fingers with those very vulnerable three nerves– and then Logan saw the entire lighter drop to the floor, and spun into a puddle of the bloody ethanol.

Once, when Logan had been in high school, had been all his teachers favorite quiet kid, had been stupidly trusted with the keys to several class rooms, Logan had broken into the chemistry classroom to remove several chemicals he had a better use for than the teachers did. He had spent the weekend in his backyard setting things on fire, timing it, and picturing what the Baseball Team’s Captain’s face would look like burned out and ashy.

None of them had been quite like watching the Ethanol light up.

It was magical: a sizzle, an explosion, the pinpricking all over his skin like a blanket thrown over him, except that it was nothing more than the heat in the room evaporating the liquid. It was dazzling to watch as it leapt from the puddle, out to the splatters, taking a bite of the train attendant and then consuming the canvas duffle bag that Patton had brought with him whole. It cracked like a whip, churning out blackened smoke, and dancing with that ethereal orange glow.

“Logan!”

Roman’s boots landed next to his face, shocking Logan from that trance. It took him only a moment to reset himself, to curse himself for being so easily distracted. The sliding door had been shoved open, the twins already evacuated from the compartment. Patton’s grinning face appeared in the smoke, his bloody pastel sweater, holding the door open, as if he was just stopping by.

“You can’t smile yet, Lolo!” Patton told him, “My game’s barely even started!”

Virgil appeared again, grabbing Patton by his shoulder, “Come on, the train’s stopping.”

Logan scrambled to his feet, his hand twisting around the nearest item: his bag just inches from the fire and glowing with warmth that made his own skin bubble. His other hand found one of his shirts, his turtleneck and pressed it to his face. He dragged it after him as he threw himself out of the room.

Logan took one last look back, a final glance at that dead body overwhelmed with the dancing light and not a single noise coming from those lungs–not even a crackle of the gases in the stomach– and then shoved the sliding door closed.

Roman and the twins were already down the hall, close to the end of the train car where the door separating the cars provide an ample amount of room for a slim person to climb the safety fence and slip off the train.

Patton was laughing, laughing, laughing.

Logan breathed in the smokey smell of his own shirt, blinked the unnecessary tears from his eyes, and was glad to see the train was just beginning to settle into the deserted train station that was only lit up with four and a half night lights.

He wrapped the bag over his shoulder, stuffed his one shirt in between the unzippered pouch and then swung himself over the edge of the fence. His shoes pushed off the metal bars and he lunged for the station platform with the others.

Virgil had one bag with him, staring up at the flicking light like it had personally offended him. Patton clung to his arm, grinning so widely he might have lit up the entire station by himself. Roman sneered at the ashes on his white shirt, and the searing tiny holes all over his pants– which Logan was almost upset to see. Surely for someone who had fallen into the ethanol, he might have caught fire a bit better? A bit brighter?

“That was another one,” Logan said, once his breath had returned to a functional state.

“What?” Roman asked bitterly.

“Patton referred to me as Lolo.” Logan said, “That makes the score currently the rest of you at two. I am at one.”

Patton laughed like it was some type of joke. He moved just enough that Logan realized his other hand was holding something–the severed head. It bobbled in the air. “Looks like the rest of us are just losing our minds! Isn’t that right, Logan?”

Logan did not dignify that with a response. The head’s eyes stared at the distance train that was sure to blast a fire alarm soon. Logan didn’t want to be there when it did. He nodded towards the exit of the platform, where the rain was pounding exuberantly for the hour of the night. Thunder rumbled overhead.

“So,” Roman said, eyeing the rest of them, “What now? We set the rest of the city on fire?”

“Sleep,” Virgil muttered.

Patton gasped excitedly, “Yes! We can have a sleepover! Remember Virgil? A sleepover! Like when we were kids! With us and our new friends! And Kady Kay!” He swung the head up between them.

“A sleepover?” Logan repeated, as if saying it one more time would allow them to hear how ridiculous that sounded. A bunch of grown men sharing a room? Preposterous!

Virgil looked at him with a crooked, broken smile– something that should have been infested with spiders and cobwebs for all the practice it seemed to have. “Yeah, a sleepover Logan. How else are we gonna make sure you two aren’t gonna run off in the middle of our game?”

Chapter Four

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rickydonovan60-blog · 5 years

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Hold The Presses, Johnny Oops Thoughts Are Running there Are Numerous Page

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01721003977safil-blog · 5 years

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songwriternews · 3 years

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New Post has been published on SONGWRITER NEWS

New Post has been published on https://songwriternews.co.uk/2021/08/rock-god/

Rock God

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thisdaynews · 4 years

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Watch: Fed Cup qualifier - GB's Dart aims to level tie v Slovakia

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/watch-fed-cup-qualifier-gbs-dart-aims-to-level-tie-v-slovakia/

Watch: Fed Cup qualifier - GB's Dart aims to level tie v Slovakia

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Find out more

Live Reporting

By Emma Sanders

All times stated are UK

Posted at 18:0618:06

Tie-break

*Kuzmova 6-6 (2-4) Dart

Make that four points in a row!

Posted at 18:0518:05

Tie-break

Kuzmova 6-6 (2-3) Dart*

Mini-break back for Dart! Good depth on the backhand which throws Kuzmova off. The Brit then opens up the court and finishes off the point with a forehand winner.

Dart has won three points in a row.

Posted at 18:0418:04

Tie-break

*Kuzmova 6-6 (2-1) Dart

Second serve… gobbled up by Kuzmova. A backhand winner down the line.

And again? Nope. Kuzmova skews it into the net. She’s up a mini-break though.

Posted at 18:0218:02

Tie-break

Kuzmova 6-6 (1-0) Dart*

Kuzmova gets off to a good start with a big first serve.

Posted at 18:0218:02

Great Britain hold – into a tie-break

Kuzmova 6-6 Dart

BIG first serve out wide from Dart. Advantage Britain…

And Dart delivers, winning a stunning point with a superb slice drop shot after Kuzmova had sent her chasing from corner to corner.

Tie-break time!

Posted at 18:0018:00

Post update

Kuzmova 6-5 Dart*

Kuzmova goes for the winner on the second serve but clips the net. JUST bounces wide.

Deuce.

Posted at 17:5917:59

Third set point – Slovakia

Kuzmova 6-5 Dart*

Another second serve which Kuzmova takes advantage of. She plays a good cross-court backhand and Dart can only return it wide.

Third set point.

Posted at 17:5817:58

Post update

Kuzmova 6-5 Dart*

Dart saves another one with good depth on the serve and baseline strokes. Kuzmova drags her backhand wide.

Deuce.

Posted at 17:5817:58

Second set point – Slovakia

Kuzmova 6-5 Dart*

Huge luck for Kuzmova, who clips the net on her return and it bounces over in her favour.

Second set point.

Posted at 17:5717:57

Post update

Kuzmova 6-5 Dart*

What a shot!

Kuzmova pings a flat forehand across the net and Dart somehow picks it up off the clay and slices into the far corner.

Deuce.

Getty ImagesCopyright: Getty Images

Posted at 17:5717:57

Set point – Slovakia

Kuzmova 6-5 Dart*

Kuzmova moves up the court on the second serve, pushing Dart further back. It opens up a first break point and a set point.

Posted at 17:5617:56

Post update

Kuzmova 6-5 Dart*

Dart loses just her fifth point on serve when she pulls a forehand wide. She then pulls off a superb backhand winner down the line and roars in celebration.

An ace follows (and a fist pump with ‘come on!’) Kuzmova then reminds Dart not to serve short, thumping a backhand winner. 30-30.

Posted at 17:5317:53

Post update

Kuzmova 6-5 Dart*

Anne Keothavong and Harriet Dart look so relaxed. They’re chatting away and laughing at the changeover.

Dart definitely doesn’t look fazed by the pressure. Can she take the first set to a tie-break?

Getty ImagesCopyright: Getty Images

Posted at 17:5217:52

Slovakia hold

Kuzmova 6-5 Dart*

Ace number three from Kuzmova. Dart hooks a backhand long. Ace number four.

And a hold to love with a forehand volley.

Posted at 17:5017:50

Great Britain hold

*Kuzmova 5-5 Dart

Really good length from Dart, who has Kuzmova pinned behind the baseline. A big serve out wide takes her up to 40-0.

Kuzmova punishes a short serve with a brilliant backhand return but Dart holds comfortably with a serve out wide.

Posted at 17:4617:46

Slovakia hold

Kuzmova 5-4 Dart*

Posted at 17:4517:45

Post update

*Kuzmova 4-4 Dart

A wild drive volley from Kuzmova but she responds with a big forehand which Dart can only slice into the net.

Kuzmova pings an ace then pushes Dart wide again with a forehand. The Brit responds and forces Kuzmova to pull one into the cords. 40-30.

Posted at 17:4317:43

Great Britain hold

*Kuzmova 4-4 Dart

Dart’s serving is still doing its job. She holds comfortably to love with Kuzmova struggling to cause any damage.

Posted at 17:4017:40

Post update

Kuzmova 4-3 Dart*

Just the four unforced errors from Dart so far. Seven from Kuzmova. Pretty clean from both players.

Posted at 17:3917:39

Slovakia hold

Kuzmova 4-3 Dart*

Nice serving from Kuzmova, who pushes Dart deep behind the baseline. The Slovakian’s drive volley is lobbed over by Dart and she goes 40-0 up.

Kuzmova then hooks a brilliant forehand pass to hold to love.

#level #Slovakia

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kendalljenneroutfitsupdates · 4 years

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giveawayplan · 4 years

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Game And Fish Magazine Crescent Tools Giveaway - Win Tool Package

Game And Fish Magazine Crescent Tools Giveaway – Win Tool Package

Game And Fish Magazine Crescent Tools Giveaway is open to legal residents of the United States. All active participants should enter fast before the end date which is May 10th, 2020. Just submit your entry and get chance to win Tool Package with ARV of all prizes is $1336.88.

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rootonesixgrind · 4 years

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Episode 18 - Go Local

Call us Hotline: 919-694-3356

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From the Field will feature part one of the series “How to build your bow!”

In our On Target segment Instructor One from Ryker USA covers Every Day Carry (EDC) part three, bags.

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Then we wrap the show up with a Cup of Joe.

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johanjoha115-blog · 4 years

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coffinsahetrickjw10insuranc-blog · 5 years

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