peter x mj oneshots

three sketch rule

Listen, life is never simple. MJ knows this, like she knows that she will punch the next person who thinks Billie Holiday is a man, even though violence is against every policy she holds. See? See how nothings simple, and everything's a tangle of contradictions, and Peter Parker, friendly neighbourhood slice of white bread, is somehow always on her mind?

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(Parker. She calls him Parker at first.)

Parker has a boring face that used to be kind of cute in a little kid way and then was just boring. Boring boring boring. MJ repeats this as needed, until need isnt enough and hes cute, dammit. Cute in a dangerous, teenage-boy way, if you were wondering.

His eyes are more hazel than shed expected.

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The rule is: if you draw someone three times, it means you have a crush.

But what does it mean to draw someone?

The fifth time she doodles Parkers profile in the margin of her notebook, she decides that only a real, honest-to-God portrait counts a as drawing. Everything else is in the limbo of unanswerable questions.

Surely, this is sufficient explanation. The conversation is only with herself.

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His hands are a boys hands, stubby nails, weird scars. Half of the scars are probably from misadventures with Lego. The other half—

But MJ is a realist. She has her suspicions, though she wont voice them yet.

(Not even to herself.)

The point is, Peters hands are interesting to draw. She finds that charcoal suits them best, gives them a grace that—well, that they already have, but charcoals buttery smudges soften the edges. The problem with drawing hands is that they become so known, so familiar, that she cant help imagining what his fingers would be like if they slipped through hers.

Ahem.

Its not a portrait. It doesnt count.

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Drawing Peters—oh, shit, shes thinking of him as Peter now—shoulders is a bit more risky. Still, she justifies it because she always sits behind him in class, and yes, objectively, there is value in knowing the history of Stamp Act, but MJ has had enough of white men arguing over taxation. Shed much rather know what kind of Black culture was developing in the late 1700s, still decades away from emancipation. Anything that is a quick wiki away, and probably the subject of a Chernow book, isnot really worth her time.

And thus, here she is, drawing Peters shoulders, which are annoyingly developed for a teenage boys. Shes used to the concave biceps and poky shoulder blades that her classmates do their best to accentuate anyway. Shes not used to the lean, solid muscle that actually ripples whenever he raises his hand, which is often.

She does his shoulders in mechanical pencil, because that makes it nothing at all, not even a real sketch.

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Peters eyes call out for acrylics, and hes not in her art class—barely anybody is. Therefore, MJ decides its safe to do a study of the whorls of green and amber, the curling lashes. It is one of the great injustices of the gender binary, that guys have longer eyelashes, as a rule, than girls.

The fact that its biology is not welcome in MJs internal conversation. Biology is stirring up enough shit these days.

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The first portrait she draws of Peter doesnt count, because its the goofy one she did in detention, poking fun at his melancholy (with the best intentions, of course). That was before she admitted that she went by MJ, before Liz left and MJ felt the whole world tilting on its axis, opening doors she hadnt even knocked at.

Her grand-dad started the MJ nickname. He said Michelle sounded too fragile, and she was always one-thousand percent steel.

She doesnt feel like steel when she looks at Peter, at the way his hair curls softly at the nape of his neck when it needs to be cut. She doesnt feel like steel most of the time, actually, but thats why she—and everyone else—wears armor.

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"Hey, MJ." His voice isnt breaking anymore. Its steadier, now, and so are his eyes. MJ clutches her sketchpad in her hands until her knuckles whiten.

"Hey, Peter."

He grins. Its wide-open, like her heartbeat wants to be. Shell draw him later, in pen-and-ink. A proper portrait. She still has one left, doesnt she? Or maybe shes counting wrong—maybe it is too late.

"What do you want, Peter?" She means to say it with steel, but the armor slips so fast she can almost hear the clatter.

He waggles a finger in the direction of her pad. "You ever gonna let me see your work?"

Theres a bruise blossoming under the edge of his t-shirt, just above his hip. She caught a glimpse of it in gym, which—tells you enough, probably.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours." It's time to stop pretending that Peter Parker isnt better drawn in red and blue and heroism.

"We all have our secrets," is what MJ comes up with, and she holds her drawings close against her heart.