lifted
chapter two – we are the reckless, we are the wild youth
Summary: She'd been looking through a different set of lens her whole entire life—the kind that has been dulled by orphan lights and the gray hues of necessity. But he came in with silver frost and tonic grass raining down his enigmatic smile, and with one focused flash, she found herself lifted. Or, the one where falling in love with soccer star player Jackson Overland, had given shutterbug Elsa access to the world of high class living and low class morals.
Prompt: An experience, a moment, and also the music video to Colors by Halsey, and a little fanfiction called Beauty and the Beat—not naming which fandom it was for though.
Disclaimer: I own not Jack Frost of Dreamworks, nor Elsa of Disney. I simply live to admire these two characters. And also, I don't own any prompts – they're merely inspirations for this story I write.
There is no one more so charming than Peter Piper Pan.
The belief that circulates around Corona Sin Clair—a so called myth told by many tongues and prying ears—is told in such an extravagant manner, one would believe it's all just fairy talk. Of course, there are different varying versions of the story that are continuously whispered amongst the people inside the gothic arches of Corona's gates. But this one in particular, is the very first of the many told.
And it goes a little like this.
Mother Nature gave birth to two children of charisma. One wore the boyish essence of the earth's warm tones and fire glow, and the other was a child of cool and frosty wonder, wearing colors of pastel blues and dark navies. But then, Mother Nature decided, one shall lead and that one shall have all the power to charm the whole of the world just by his smirk, and whatever was leftover can be dusted off and sprinkled onto the other child. It just so happened that Peter Piper Pan, had been the lucky one.
That is what the whispers, the rumors, and the story books would like you to believe. Elsa on the other hand, digresses. Because as hypnotic and persuasive Peter Pan is with his earthy green eyes haunting her, and striking red hair catching her like fire, nothing he does can charm her quite as well as the genuine smile of one Jackson Overland Frost. It is quite a shame he's taken—taken by the heart, taken by the label, no one ever really knows for sure anymore—really, because in Elsa's distorted perception of the world, she and Jack fit perfectly well together. But it is no surprise for Jack to be taken – in fact, most of the good guys are. And by good, the world means the pretty ones, the sly ones, and the inevitably awful ones.
The best of them is the worst of them—and there is no one worst than Peter Pan. No one knows who holds the collar on his neck. They say he plays a little too often with a little too many girls, but his eyes speak volumes of admiration for one girl alone—one girl people can never quite get the name of. They say his smirk is adorned conspicuously with a kiss, tender and beautiful, shy and mysterious. Peter would never put whoever owned it right up the frontline of fire, and Elsa does not understand how someone so in love can still fuck around like there's no tomorrow.
Second down the list, a target to his name, is pretty faced Flynn Rider. He's adventurous, and dangerous. He's a student by day, and a thief by night – notorious for having no proof or evidence to his escapades ever found. He's sly, sneaky, and conniving—and no knows his real name. Elsa likes to think she does though. She remembers little Eugene Fitzherbert from two doors down, whose parents died in a fire, who was sent to an orphanage, who was never found again after. She knows they're the same, but she doesn't care enough to say. She knows he remembers her, because it says it all there in his troubled hazel eyes. He bares more than just his soul through those small windows, just like he bares more than what he feels for a certain blondette. The people don't say it, but they all know it—that he's got the heart for Rapunzel An Corona, and it's tragic really, because she is not his to keep.
Speaking of which, the blonde bombshell is the girlfriend of the third, Jackson Overland Frost. He's the spare child of charisma—they called untapped potential and wonderment in his being. He's always second best to Peter Pan, but he holds not a word of woe or complaint to his brother. Instead, they stand together, side by side, as best friends should. The only thing Peter cannot hope to take away from the other is his talent on the field. Jackson is an A class striker, and a genius player all around. Scouted for his strong kicks and precision, he is the best soccer player of Corona Sin Clair – better than their captain, better than the best athlete of the school. Peter doesn't dare try to take that throne—whether it's out of respect or pride, no one can really tell with him—he just stands back, no words at all, and supports. She wonders briefly about the relationship the two boys have built throughout these three years in Corona – their dynamic that has miraculously turned them into legends like those of storybooks.
Elsa's role in the grand scheme of plot—begins the day she joins the Sin Clair Times newspaper.
She walks the halls of their school, different, and quiet. She doesn't talk to anyone, except for the odd few greetings to small acquaintances and others like her. She and Rapunzel share short whispers and sometimes secrets, but they never really interact. They're best friends outside the dividing walls, but in the sphere of the high school social strata, home connections don't really matter now—do they? If myths like Mother Nature, Peter Pan, and Jack Frost could exist as reality in this world, then the outside world is nothing but a mere window to this fantasy kind of living. And people like it better that way.
She's closing her locker, when a pretty brunette walks up her way, and she recognizes the girl. High strung, simply strict, with the lust for writing, Wendy Moira Angela Darling—Sin Clair Times newspaper chief editor. She's brave in her steps, confident in her smile, and everything Elsa wishes she could be.
"Hey there." Wendy greets happily, a hand out for Elsa to shake. "I'm Wendy."
"I know." Elsa eyes her carefully, gently taking in Wendy's hand into her pale and bony fingers, marveling how soft it feels despite the rough callouses on the edge of her pointer and middle finger. "I've heard a lot about you, and I very much admire your work."
Wendy bats a hand away, as if to shy from the compliment, but the small tug of her upper lip is telling of her pride.
"I'm glad someone as prestige as you would take notice of little ol' me."
Wendy speaks in odd and sarcastic riddles that Elsa has only ever heard come out of one other person's mouth—Peter Pan. She looks at Wendy, really looks at her, and notices the similarities. They have the same unabashed confidence, the same stubbornness evident in the crease of their foreheads, and the same volatile eyes that express both the mischief of a child, and the danger of the devil. She wonders why, despite Wendy's warm smile and soft hands, she feels like she's being cornered by Peter instead. Maybe its because they're both British, and within their circle they hold that charm that only people like them could ever pull off. Whatever it is, it makes Elsa feel very uncomfortable.
"I'm not prestige at all."
Elsa breathes out, steadying the thumping of her heart. Her eyes dart around, as if waiting for Peter to come out of the shadows with his trademark smirk looking down on her, and his sharp tongue ready to laugh insults to her face of how easily fooled she is.
"I saw the pictures you took, of last week's basketball game?" Wendy brushes off Elsa's strange behavior, and instead pulls out a manila folder from her brown leather shoulder bag. "I really like these pictures."
With her soft touch, ever so charming and disarming, Wendy pushes the folder into Elsa's waiting fingers. The blonde clutches it into her hold, a small tingling sensation going up and down her spine. She swallows and stares at the folder in her hand, as if the small piece is as offending as its owner. Shaking off her distress, she daintily opens it, and sees her shots the night of the basketball game playoffs, when Corona Sin Clair took home the win, and the chance to beat Alacar High for the golden chance at the finals. They are very handsome photographs, a few of Elsa's best work to date, and she can't deny herself that – the pressure of Wendy looking upon her with so much persuasion, is a little more than just alarming.
"Please do me a favor."
Wendy breathes, all innocence bright in her eyes, but it's a little too blinding for Elsa. The girl's a darling, that's for sure—but that same thud in her heart whenever she's near Peter is still ever present, and clearly insistent in making itself known.
"We don't have photographers as good as you Elsa." Wendy reasons, an apologetic smile on her gentle features. "And the football team could really use the coverage."
There it is. The offending word she has been waiting for—football. Now that it's out in the open, the situation now feels like some sort of a scheme. But Elsa reminds herself that this is not Peter Pan she is talking to—it's Wendy. Wendy who always raises her hand in Religion and Politics class, Wendy whose English essays are always a little bit better than everybody else's, Wendy who doesn't talk to anyone but her co-workers for the paper, and Wendy who's always been so nice to her. Elsa doesn't understand why she feels the way she's feeling—of being haunted, and being used, but it's wrong. Because this isn't manipulative, snake-eyed, and arrogant Peter Pan. It's just Wendy Darling.
"Okay."
Relief floods Wendy's features and Elsa feels the slight weight of guilt in her heart. She knows she should not suspect such horrendous things from such an innocent girl, but it's there, and she can't help it. Wendy is ever pleasant and walks up to hug her, even twirling her around as Elsa is taken aback, squeezing the folder tight to her chest. When Wendy lets go, she prattles on about things to do with photography and the newspaper, all which are just blurred words to Elsa. She's looking at one tight spot in the corner of the hall, where devil eyes grin upon her, and she wonders if she's walked right into the play of his hand.
It's hours later, that she finds herself dragged up to one of the charity football games, of reds versus blues, local team vs district high school team. It was Wendy's idea—get to know the canvas, she said, in her rhythmic sarcastic riddle. So Elsa obediently sits by the bleachers, filled with giggling cheerleaders and high school students, nothing else better to do with their lives other than watch some flimsy game of ball kicking.
It's the first time ever she's seen the world of the high – and it's exactly like she expected. The boys are pretty, wind swept hair, sparkling eyes, and mouths that never smile—they always smirk, always. The girls are fancy, with their dusted face, and stained lips in red, jewelry on their neck, and prices to their names. There's stashed bottles of alcohol at the side, hidden in iced blue coolers, with water bottles thrown on top of them like a heap. But Elsa can spot Vodka from a mile away—she would know. And the boys sip at them like they're some sort of energy drink, before they run off to the field in the highs of adrenaline.
That is when Elsa sees him—really, truly sees him, for the first time ever. Jackson Overland Frost, forever the name whispered by her lips—and if she ever had a kiss like Peter does, it'd be his kiss that she'd wear. His hair glistens silver, and he's so quick on the field, the sun can barely touch him. His frosty skin is like a ghost against everyone else's, so pale, so much like hers—it's beautiful. And before she knows it, she's lifting the camera hanging by her neck, and taking multiple shots of him, in his stride, in his smirk, and every single bit of the glory he is.
The game plays on and the ball is passed back and forth, but Elsa doesn't notice at all—her eyes follow one person only. Her camera continuously burns white in flashes, his every move, his every breath, taken by her click of the index finger.
The sun beats down on the grass, the blades flying everywhere as shoes cut through it. Peter sees his plan on full effect, and smirks, passing the ball fast to Jack in one swift kick. The silver haired boy catches it by his chest, and Peter sends a knowing wink that Jack gets. His eyes dart to the blinding flash by the side, and looks through the lens of the camera, into one lone blue eye. Elsa is focused, taking photos one after the other. For a short while, she pulls the camera down to admire her work—but she sees him, looking right at her through the lens. She takes a quick glance up, and he's still looking—this time, right into her eyes, right into her soul.
Her mouth parts, as if to explain herself, but he only grins and throws her a thumbs up. She blushes, despite herself, and smiles back as he carries on to his game. She feels a sly glance from Wendy beside her. She turns to say something, but the brunette only shakes, an understanding gleam in her eyes, before she turns her focus back on the game, hand vigorously writing on her pad, as if she hadn't looked away for even a second. Elsa feels those same shivers running up and down her spine—and it's both scary, and exciting. She doesn't let herself dwell too much into it, and turns her attention back to the game, mind completely at loss at what exactly is going on. She thinks they're winning, and they might be—she can no longer tell.
The game flows well into the favor of their team. Jack is always the MVP, with captain James Pleiades Hawkins – Jimmy Hawkins, for short as they call him – just a little below, and Peter third down the list. But things like that—it's not enough for coach Edmund Aster, with the strong voice and the stern glare, it's never enough to just beat the foe and win.
The celebration begins, and most of everyone in the bleachers rush down to the field, ready to scream cries of happy winnings, and Elsa stumbles down with Wendy holding her by the wrist, a mission to interview Jimmy about their win. Her eyes scan the area for that hair of fresh silver snow, but she can't find him. The weight in her heart is heavy as she is tugged towards Jimmy's direction, but she doesn't miss the cheshire grin that greets her amongst the crowd of students – Peter's mouth twitches up, the curve is just as sly and sneaky as he is, and as green and morbid as his eyes are. Her heart jumps, and she makes a move to reach out to him, but he's gone as quick as he'd been there—and it's almost like he never was. So she lets Wendy drag her, questions she's dying to ask, stuck in her throat.
The field is wide, and across the other side, Jackson barely breathes. There's too many people, and all around him he feels the crowd growing way too fast. He stumbles away from everyone—the noise is too much, and his head hurts. He looks up, and the glare of his coach is evident, even through the bodies that pass them by. With a click of the tongue, Coach Edmund shoves a thumb to the side, jerking towards the locker room as Jack's eyes widen. Sucking in any ounce of air he can catch, he pushes past one of his teammates who's already started his celebratory drinks. The alcohol spills, grass stained in the offending gold liquid, and Jack near enough punches his way through.
"Hey bud!" A voice beams beside him, the one with the perfect timing for everything—Peter Pan. "Let's get out and get drunk, we deserve it!"
He crows enthusiastically, his grin ever sarcastic as he slings an arm around Jack's shoulders. The latter stumbles forward, a quick glare sent Peter's way.
"I need a shower." Jack mumbles, trying to lift the arm right off him, but Peter is persistent. "Let me go."
"I'll shower with you." The red head exclaims, quite too cheekily, and Jack rolls his eyes in a playful banter. "There's nothing on your nude body I haven't seen before."
Some girls snicker, hearing the loud chatter between them. Jack would blush but, he's used to this—Peter and everything he stands for.
"So, what'd you say we get off and have a party after the locker room talk is done?"
Peter grins wide, a grin only one like Jack would ever see. It's the genuine kind of grin that's reserved for just a few special ones—his girl, she who shall not be named, his apparent brother Jackson, and a mysterious boy named Felix that no one ever dares approach except for Peter himself. Jack thinks the grin suits Peter better, but it's not his place to say—it never is. So he just shrugs with a small smile, and moves onwards to the far side of the field, heading back to the school lockers' and changing rooms.
The rest of the team are already there, sweaty and half naked, as Peter and Jack walk in. They march to their lockers as if they owned the place, with confidence bursting through their eyes. The other boys watch them with an envious glow of admiration—how they wish they could be like the two, so talented, so carefree, so charismatic.
Jack stops in front of his locker, still laughing at Peter's quips and winks. He's packing his things, shoving them all carelessly into his blue bag, wrapping his dirty shoes in white plastic. The locker room is buzzing with an air of different noises, from senseless conversations, loud drunken howls, the banging rough clatter of metal doors closing, to the light tapping sounds of shower water spraying against tiled floors. It's hot, and the steam is both stifling and comforting. Somehow, the atmosphere, as unruly and reckless as it is, calms Jack in the most pleasant of ways—until a punch against his locker door disrupts it all.
The locker room goes silent, all eyes on the coach who stands before Jack. His nose is flaring, but Jack looks at it as if he's been wiggling his whiskers – picturing his demon of a coach as a big fluffy bunny is the only way Jack can stay sane in the midst of all the pressure.
"'Ello there Mister Overland, having fun celebrating?"
"Uh, yeah?"
Jack dares to raise an eyebrow, his blue eyes unwavering, staring up at the man before him. The rest of the team is deathly silent, even Peter, who only stands there leaning against his own locker, lips pursed and squinted green orbs.
"Well, must be nice to get off a win on a lucky scathe, isn't it son?"
"Lucky?!" One of the younger boys exclaims—Kristoff, they call him. "If it weren't for Jack's—"
He doesn't finish his sentence because someone elbows him hard on the ribs, and he starts wheezing. The coach's eyes never leave Jack, and Jack doesn't pay any attention to anyone else but the man before him. Kristoff looks up confused at his assailant, Aladdin who just shakes his head, lips tight in a frown. Aladdin's eyes stay focused on the pair, and Kristoff follows his gaze with a hard bite on his bottom lip.
"You know that wasn't good enough." The coach grits out. "You know if he saw it—if that fucking bastard saw that performance, he'd have your head, and mine."
"I know."
Jack doesn't hesitate to answer, still standing brave before the coach.
"Then you understand that your screw up screws me up too, so for the fucking love of god—get your act together."
Jack takes in a heavy breath, but his eyes never leave the coach's stern gray ones. Everything is fuzzy and hazy in his head, and he really just wants to sleep. A flash of blonde hair disrupts his tired thoughts, gone as quick as it came, but the effect is everlasting.
"You've got a debt to pay, so play fucking well or you're off the team."
Edmund B. Aster, high profile coach of Corona Sin Clair's famed soccer team. He is ruthless, aggressive, and tactful. No one ever questions his methods of training because they always, always work. Hired at twenty-three, a mere six years before Jackson Overland Frost graced the school with his presence, Edmund built up the deteriorating team of Corona, from rag tag wannabe soccer players with not a clue about what made the sport a game, to the under eighteens state champions, four years in a row—a title and reign they marveled in for a good long while, until this particular team came into fruition.
They tore down expectations and lost their very first match back, the peak of Jack's freshman year. Angered, Edmund demanded an explanation from the Headmaster himself, Kozmotis Michaelis Pitchiner Black – I know, it's a mouthful to say. The only response he ever got was it's for PR.
But everyone knew Edmund has got the best players in his arsenal, from young James Pleiades Hawkins, and his rough cut aggression, built from years of missing his father, and a leadership he never knew he possessed, to star athlete Peter Piper Pan, a vicious intellect with the skills to match, who's got eyes for the prize—and only the prize. But Edmund knew that the best had always been Jackson. Jackson who ran with the wind, quick, and steady, with controlled movements, and powerful kicks. Jackson was the supposed beacon of hope for the soccer team—and Edmund did not get why he purposefully lost the game for them.
After long days of prying and angry words thrown across each other in the office of Headmaster Black, he found the reason—third year, he'll play well, and only well, and if Jackson plays bad, he'll live in hell. Those were his headmaster's words so forgive him if he thought it important—if he cared enough for the smug little seventeen years old—to push the boy past his limit, as hard as he possibly could, to avoid that from ever happening.
The coach shoves Jackson out of the way and growls as he walks off from the crowd of his team – his temper can still be heard in the loud steps he takes. Left in the wake of their mess, is Jack who punches his locker door, leaving a gaping dent right above the divide. He curses, fist tight, fingernails digging deep into his skin as his jaw clenches and shakes. He picks up his bag, not a word out of his mouth as he too stomps his way out of the locker room.
Peter watches, no grin, no smirk. His face is unreadable—not completely unsatisfied or mad, but not happy either. No one can really tell with him, they all suppose. His ears perk up, as dainty footsteps hurried their way to the hall, and he darts his green eyes over to the sight of long golden blonde hair, flowing freely in soft tangles. He sees her—the girlfriend—running up to Jack and demanding an explanation – one he refuses to give. And after several minutes of his silence, she bites her lip in a frown, and walks away, heavy tears forming around the ducks of her eyes. Peter could almost feel sorry.
But his phone vibrates and all thoughts of pity dissolve the moment he reads the text.
Tip: Tatiana and Tadashi, ground floor behind the art building.
And just like that, his grin is revived.
He shoves the phone back into his pocket, and pushes himself off the wall of lockers he's been leaning on. He walks out of the locker room, grabbing his bags without bothering to close them. The bottles that cling on his every stride marks his reputation well, and he doesn't bother to hide the flashes of alcohol seen through the open zip of his bag. In fact—he feels as if noting can bring him down from this high.
Peter's grin is bright, and devilish—holding everything he stands for. He walks past unwavering eyes of scared boys, and jealous murmurs of the others that can't touch him. He's the king of this high school pyramid—built the system from scratch, and has only expanded it further as the years progressed. He might not have been the smartest bloke on the block, but he's clever where it counts. And with his sharp eyes ever so aware, he squints those leafy irises to focus on the small movement of bleached blonde hair from afar, one of his victims.
There, a few floors down is little Elyssa Mari Arendelle, wandering. Her camera, as always, is with her. She holds it firm in her hand, slim pale fingers clutching the back as her thumb scrolls through the screen. Her eyes are trained down on the photographs she's taken—some of the boys, little snippets of Peter and Jimmy, and even the team from the other side. But most prominently she carries, are all pictures of Jackson in different angles, with different expressions, but that same silver hair, and those same blue eyes. She bites her lip, scrolling past one picture in particular of him jumping, and his shirt is lifted, revealing a little of his v-line underneath. She stares for a moment before shaking her head—she quickly scrolls past the image. Her eyes never leave her camera, and she walks past people with swift ease, used to having her head down for the photographs rather than her nose hidden behind the books.
It takes a giggle to snap her out of her trance. High pitched, suspicious—explicit. Her ears perk up, and her sly eyes leave the image for more time than she'd like to, to survey her surroundings. She's somehow landed herself in one of the secluded halls of the school, with its wide spaces, empty lockers, and glass windows. She drops her camera, allowing it to stay on—just in case—as she lets her curiosity guide her to the soft clues of moans and whines. She knows those voices – the deep and husky tone, the excited squeal, it's all too familiar. She walks ever so silently to the end of the hallway which lead towards the back door of the Art block.
Elsa finds what she's looking for—hidden in a small gap, dark and dirty, with grey smoke aestheticizing the scene, are two people least likely to ever be seen together. Tadashi Hamada, pretty boy with the brains to match. His eyes are soft colored brown, and honest, and everything about him is sincere and wonderful. Which is why, it's a surprise to see his figure latching onto the frame of who Elsa could only guess is Tatiana Faye. Beautiful and rebellious, Tatiana goes by the name Tooth for her fascination of the pearly whites, and the shine of her grin. She's not a bad person—she just has a bad reputation. Multiple boys to her name, multiple drugs in her veins, multiple colors dyed on her hair—no one ever knows what her natural hair color is because she's never worn it—she's every mistake Corona Sin Clair would like to hide from their record books. Yet, here she is—resident slut and bad girl, with the school's smartest scholar.
Elsa can't help it if she's an artist. If she sees something beautiful, something worth taking a picture of, she'll take it—regardless of the consequences. So hidden from the corner view of the two, she lifts her camera up to take the shot – of rough hands tangled in short dyed hair, and chappy lips blowing smoke into each other's mouths while a finger taps the ashes away from the cancer stick. The image taken is beautiful—the flash that goes off, not so much.
Startled by the blinding light, the two models in question jump off of each other, Tadashi accidentally banging his head against the bricked wall behind him. Tooth's eyes dart towards the direction and Elsa is frozen in her spot, not a muscle would move under her command. She panics and her heartbeat accelerates. Her mouth opens in explanation, but before Tooth can catch her, Elsa is being yanked backwards behind the line of dumpsters, a hand over her mouth.
Her eyes are wide as she stares into those blues she'd been desperately dreaming about. About to scream, Jack tightens his clasp over her mouth with warning in his glare. He brings an index finger up and blows a sh through it, and she nods meekly. They hear the clatter of two people scrambling to look for the culprit, one of the figures banging against the dumpster directly in front of Jack and Elsa.
"Who the fuck was that?" They hear Tooth screech, and the steps get louder as they get closer. "I'm going to fucking kill them!"
"Tooth, calm down!"
"Fuck no!" There's a louder bang, and Elsa can tell Tooth is kicking the dumpster in front of them endlessly. "I bet you it's one of that Wendy bitch's minions—she's always out to get me!"
"Tooth, you can't—"
"Fuck, let's get out of here before they bring their friends over."
The steps begin to fade, hurried and erratic. Jack waits a little longer, eyes up to check behind him, before he sighs in quick relief, his hand leaving Elsa's mouth. He stands up with an easy bend of his legs, looking down on her as he extends a hand to her.
"Thank you."
She answers softly, taking in his strong and firm hand into hers as he pulls her up. A moment of silence passes by them—of weakness, and eyes that scrutinize every inch and detail of the other's faces. Of Elsa's tiny dotted freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose, and her lips plum and cherry red. Of Jack and his breath that blows more than just gray smokes of ecstasy against her skin, and their fingers touching and never wanting to let go.
Jack is first to pull away. He turns his head quite suddenly to look away, and gently brushes Elsa's hand off of his hold. A tint of baby pink scatters across his cheeks, and Elsa bites her lip as she too, turns away from him. He breathes in, autumn, unforgiving and delicious, the only witness to their small rendezvous. And she's as breathless as he is shameful, for the beating in his heart, drumming into his soul, he's reminded of bright green eyes and golden blonde hair—and it hurts to love more than two people at once.
He makes a move to leave, and Elsa doesn't stop him. He shoves his hands into his pocket, and turns on his toes, walking away from her. She eyes his back like she's always had for the past three years—the brooding figure of wonder and childlike happiness, of mystery and so called charisma. She likes him, she admits to herself, and no one else—labored breath speaks more for her feelings than her own mouth will ever dare to utter. But right there at her fingertips, so close to her reach—she lets him slip by. Because morals are morals, and her best friend would kill her—and she can't tell if Jackson even likes her at all. But he turns to look at her one last time, and her breath hitches, and her heart is going mad crazy, before his eyes drop onto the camera hanging by her neck.
"Hey Shutterbug." He speaks calmly, tilting his head back, darting his eyes back up to focus onto her cerulean blue ones. "Careful where you point your camera at."
There's a snicker from above that watches them carefully, with dark amused eyes. Up the second floor behind shadowed glass windows, another boy spies on them—his grin ever so wide and disconcerting. He's always crowed his successes, but this is one he'll keep to himself – because the thrill of this game is better than the taste of victory. He leaves the shadows as soon as he sees Jack walking away, this time with no intentions of looking back at the confused and awestruck blonde.
Peter flicks a salute at Jack's retreating figure, not a care in the world whether the silver haired boy sees him or not. He doesn't stay longer than he needs to—he ups and leaves his hiding place, measured and careful steps as he walks the silent hallways of their school. In muscle memory, his legs take him to a familiar corner, where only four or six lockers stand, old and dusty. And as he approaches his destination, his smirk becomes ever more present, his slanted eyes sparkling at the figure turned from him.
There's a girl whose kiss lingers on Peter's lips—a mark of ownership. Despite what people think, Peter doesn't own everyone. There's someone he just can't seem to get, someone who holds him well by his collar, and someone he'd gladly bow to. No one knows the name of this person—no one knows if she even exists. They see his smirk and wonder who can tame someone as wild and free as that of the child of charisma. No one would ever expect it to be this girl.
"Hey babe, you did good today."
Peter whispers, arriving just behind a ladylike figure with long tresses of brown curls held up high in laced ribbons. Her dress is white and dainty, perfectly curved by her waist, and flowing free to her knees. Peter leans down her small frame, his vicious lips touching the crook of her exposed neck, as she shivers, and melts under his touch. His calloused hands wrap around her waist as he pulls her close, lips moving against her skin, and he lets out more breathy whispers.
"You really are one of a kind."
"You know why they don't let people like us get together, Pan?"
She asks, teeth biting her bottom lip, as she pays no mind to his tight hold on her. She carries on placing her books and things inside the locker, eyes never leaving the back spines of her many, many, novels.
"Why?"
He mumbles softly into her skin.
"We're dangerous together."
Peter answers in a growl as his bite sinks deeper, the soft spot of her neck driving him wild in flavored ecstasy. She mewls back a moan, before finally shrugging him off, turning around with a hand slamming her locker close. Wendy Moira Angela Darling stares back into the abyss of green eyes, and Peter locks eyes with her, sly grins and everything. His hands shake as he licks his lips.
"You're a dick for doing that to the poor girl."
She reprimands, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, but her tone is flat, rather than scolding.
"And you're an accessory."
He points out, blowing a puff of amused air.
"I know."
He smirks before taking a step towards her, caging her between his arms, against the metal lockers of the small corner. He dives in for her neck and she doesn't fight him off, instead she stands there and takes it, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
"We are the reckless, we are the wild youth." Peter hums, hands traveling all over her skin. "And that's why they can't keep us apart, darling—and they can't keep those others like us either from finding each other."