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libraryofgage · 9 months ago

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Harlequin Prince (2)

Part of: Steve Deserves Good Parents, Actually

This part was line-jumped on Ko-Fi, which means y'all got it sooner than I originally planned!

If you want to line jump your favorite series, you can learn more here

Ironically, even tho the post says about a week of turn around, I get so excited that somebody wants to line jump that I just write it immediately lmao

Steve finally gets a good fight in this one, but it ends way too soon the poor boy. Either way, he also gets to meet some of the party!

As always, if you see any typos, no you didn't ;)

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Steve knew his dad wasn't in the picture, but he never knew why. He never asked, but he started to get this horrible feeling after a while. Harley Quinn's past was well known to Steve, her previous...associate and her relationship with him isn't exactly a secret, no matter how much his mother tried to keep them from him. She couldn't protect him at school, and she couldn't protect him from hearing people talking on the streets.

So, yeah, from the age of nine, Steve walked around with this horrendous knowledge in his gut, a knowledge that he wanted to think was just him being paranoid. But it wasn't. He knew it wasn't. He just couldn't admit that to himself, and he couldn't ask his mother because he didn't want to send her down that particular lane of memories. So it festered, and Steve pretended it didn't exist at all.

Until, that is, his 13th birthday. It was held at Uncle Bruce's mansion because his mother wanted to go all out. It was as much a celebration for her (a full three years without getting sent to Arkham!) as it was for him (managing to stay alive for 13 years in Gotham with Harley Quinn for a mother). Steve hadn't minded, either, especially when he saw the absolute joy she had when picking out the hugest bounce-house she could find with Uncle Bruce's sleek black credit card.

The party was catered by Steve's favorite Indian restaurant, the guests were limited to immediate friends and family, the bounce-house was extra bouncy, and a table was practically buckling under the weight of the gifts piled on top of it. It was, by far, Steve's best birthday, surpassing even the one he spent in Arkham after letting Poison Ivy out of her cell.

"Hey, Dumplin'!" his mother shouted, waving at him from the top of the bounce house she'd managed to climb. When Steve looked at her, she grinned even brighter and jumped, launching off turrets and rolling down sloped walls before landing on her feet on the ground. "Let's get to them presents!"

Steve laughed, looked at the table eagerly, and nodded. Her grin somehow getting wider, Harley turned, cupped her hands around her mouth, and shouted, "GET YOUR ASSES IN GEAR, EVERYONE! STEVIE'S OPENIN' PRESENTS!"

Soon enough, Steve was standing in front of the table, surrounded by everyone, and not at all sure where to start with the mountain of presents. "You should open mine first," Jason said, grinning as he gestured to a bike-shaped package.

It was, in fact, a bike. A motorcycle, specifically, with a red and black helmet and the promise of lessons from Jason whenever he wanted. Steve loved it immediately and ignored Uncle Bruce muttering about driving laws and how Steve couldn't operate any motorized vehicle until he was fifteen. "Well," he said, "as long as I don't get caught by Batman, who's gonna know?"

That had earned him a laugh and his mother's hand ruffling his hair. "Go on, Dumplin', choose another."

Dick got him a literal outfit's worth of Wonder Woman merch, accessories included, that made Bruce look ready to pop a blood vessel. Tim gave him small tracking pins and a hacked handheld game console to watch the trackers with the promise of free upgrades anytime he wanted. Damien gave him daggers since he "wasn't good enough for real swords, but everyone should have a blade" on them, just in case. Cass, Steph, and Barbara pooled their skills together (and Alfred, they borrowed Alfred a lot) to make him an Unofficial Robin costume, complete with shorts only slightly less scandalous than Dick's original costume.

Bruce, when he finally stopped glaring at the three of them, gave Steve a fingerprint panic button shaped like a bat and easily attached to a key ring. "For emergencies, Steve," he said, "Just hold your thumb to it for three seconds."

"This is perfect for the next time we run out of ice cream," Steve said, grinning as he attached it to his key chain.

"Emergencies."

"Oh. So if we run out of mint chip, specifically. Got it."

Bruce merely sighed and let him return to opening gifts.

Alfred gave him a tin of homemade cookies that Steve immediately had to protect from the others. Poison Ivy gave him a Venus flytrap and the promise to help him grow it properly. Selina couldn't be there, but Bruce passed along her gift: a pair of goggles Bruce had handed over with a sigh and quiet request for him to use them responsibly.

Steve opened Duke's present last, eyes widening at the red leather jacket. "Wait, seriously?" he asked, holding it up as he looked at Duke.

"You're gonna be a troublemaker, Steve," Duke said. "Might as well make sure you're bulletproof for it."

Steve grinned wider and pulled on the jacket, swimming in the leather but eager to grow into it all the same.

There was nothing from his mother in the pile, but Steve figured the party itself was his present since she'd done all the planning. When she pulled him away to a secluded room in the manor after they'd all had cake, Steve realized it was just because she didn't want to share this moment with anyone.

She smiled at him, reaching up and gently tucking a few strands of hair behind Steve's ears. "You grew up so fast, Dumplin'," she said, sighing softly.

"Ivy says I'm like a weed."

"Ives is right," Harley said, nodding once before looking away. "Okay, ready for your present?"

"Wasn't the party my present?"

"No, no, Dumplin'. The party was for fun," she said, grinning as she reached behind her and pulled a comically-large mallet from seemingly nowhere. "This is your present."

Steve blinked, leaning over to look around Harley. "Where'd that even come from?" he asked.

"Jester Logic, Dumplin'. Don't worry about it. I'll teach you the trick later," she promised, holding the mallet out to Steve with an expectant expression.

When Steve took it, the weight threw him off. He frowned, shifted his grip, and suddenly had no problem holding it up. He took a closer look, noting the scratches and marks on the mallet and the faded paint. "This was yours," he said.

"Yeah, it was."

"I've never seen it before."

Harley sighed, tugging on one of her pigtails with a slight frown. "Yeah, well, I wasn't exactly a great person when I used it, Dumplin'. Tried to forget about that Harley and all," she explained.

"Then why give it to me?"

Harley looked back at Steve and smiled, reaching out to cup his cheek. "Cuz you're so much better than me," she said. "I think you'll do some great things, Dumplin', and maybe all the good you do will erase most of the bad this mallet's got."

Her words were so serious, her smile was so bittersweet, and she looked ready to cry and deny it. This was the closest he'd ever gotten to learning about her past straight from the source, a past he knew about it, a past that involved a certain person that haunts Steve's mind with terrifying potential. Suddenly, he had to know.

Steve didn't really think before blurting out, "Is the Joker my father?"

Harley froze, her shoulders tensing and her eyes widening as she stared at Steve. "You don't got a father, Dumplin'," she finally said, her voice quiet and her expression conflicted.

"Fine. Was he the sperm donor?"

With a sigh, Harley stepped closer and placed her hands on Steve's shoulders. "I won't lie," she said. "He is, but that don't mean a thing. His crazy ain't hereditary, Dumplin', and he's never gettin' anywhere near you."

"Does...does he know?" Steve whispered, "About me, I mean."

"It don't matter," Harley said, her voice firm and her eyes more serious than Steve had ever seen them. "I'll kill him before he gets near ya. Ives will kill him. Hell, Brucie wil---no, wait, he's got those pesky morals. Fine, Jason will kill him before he gets near ya. Actually, Jason'd kill him anyway, but the excuse will be good if Brucie scolds him for it."

Steve couldn't help laughing at that, feeling a little lighter when his mother smiled back at him. When his laughter trickled to nothing more than a smile, he asked, "Then, was I the reason you left?"

Harley nodded and gently tugged Steve into her arms, holding him to her and cradling the back of his head. "Yeah, you were," she said, her voice soft and soothing. "I was excited to tell 'im when I learned about you, but then I heard him talking to some goons. He was laughin' about running a kid over, breakin' their legs, and I realized...you wouldn't be special to him. You'd've been like his goons, all expendable and not even worth a glance. I couldn't put you through that, and I couldn't put me through it, either. So, I got us out the only way I knew how."

"By finding Uncle Bruce," Steve said.

He felt her nod. "By finding Brucie," she agreed. "He tried to deny bein' the Bat and all, but your mama ain't dumb, Dumplin'. I'd done my homework, and the butts matched. Once I explained it all, once I told him about you, he agreed to help."

Steve nodded, listening to his mother's heart beating against his ear. He glances down at the mallet again, tightens his grip, and takes a deep breath. "Thank you," he said, "for the gift and for telling me. I'll do good with it, I promise."

"That's my boy," Harley said, pulling back and ruffling his hair. "Now, lemme explain that Jester Logic to ya."

----------

Hawkins remains boring even after meeting Eddie. After all, Eddie's in high school (his second attempt at senior year, apparently), and Steve...isn't. He should be, probably, but there's no way he's stepping one foot in that suburban nightmare of a building. He can feel the normalcy, the utter boredom, oozing from the place, and he'd rather not subject himself to that.

So, he spends his day wandering around Hawkins, getting a feel for the little town until he could navigate the place blindfolded. He can do the same in Gotham, but it's more impressive there with the winding streets and sprawling sidewalks. Here, it's nothing special.

The most interesting part of his day is when he's sitting on the roof of a video store, one leg dangling over the edge with the other pulled to his chest so he can rest his arm on his knee. He's about halfway through a cigarette when a cop car pulls into the lot and a middle-aged man steps out.

He looks up at Steve, frowning as he calls up, "You shouldn't be there, son."

"I ain't your son," he calls back, grinning as he takes another drag and blows smoke out as the guy rests his hands on his belt. It reminds him so much of Gotham PD rookies trying to posture that Steve can't help laughing. "Is that supposed to intimidate me?"

"I'm serious, kid," the cop says, apparently ignoring Steve's question. "It's dangerous up there. If you don't come down, I'm gonna have to call the Fire Department to bring the ladder."

Steve sighs and puts his cigarette out on the roof. He gets up, stretches his arms above his head, and stands on the ledge of the roof. He grins at the cop, casually stepping into empty air and hearing the guy shout as he falls. He lands in a crouch on the awning over the door, swings to hang from it, and lands on his feet on the sidewalk.

It wasn't even much of a fall, but the cop looks like he's about to have a heart attack. Steve glances at the badge on his chest. "We done now, Officer Hopper?" he asks.

"Don't do that again," Hopper says, pointing a finger at Steve, "Or I will drag your ass to the station and call your parents."

Steve snorts, doing his best to hold his smile back. "I'll keep that in mind, sir," he says, giving a mocking two-finger salute before turning on his heels and walking down the street.

After a few blocks, he veers off into the forest, figuring he'll wander around the trees for a while before going to the Hideout to bother Bev and stare at Eddie and quietly pray someone else is gonna look for a fight.

Did he mention Hawkins is boring? Because it's fucking boring.

Steve sighs, kicking a stick as he shoves his hands into his jacket. He idly notes the forest is healthy. Sure, a few pieces of litter are strewn around, but it's not as bad as the parks in Gotham can get. Poison Ivy would find this place barely passable, which is hard to manage, and he's tempted to call her when he gets home to tell her about it.

He hums softly as he walks, enjoying the sounds of the forest until they just...stop.

The entire forest falls silent, which is weird; forests are too full of life to go silent. Even the bugs seem to have frozen in place, too scared to risk making a sound by moving. Steve stops, looking around him with a frown and trying to figure out what's caused this.

He gets the answer a second later when he hears a scream. The voice sounds young and cracks slightly, so it definitely belongs to a child. Despite himself, Steve can't help grinning as he takes off in the direction of the scream.

This is the most exciting thing to happen in the four weeks he's been stuck in Hawkins. As he runs through trees and easily jumps over bushes to take the shortest path, he makes guesses on what he'll find. Maybe Hawkins has a villain that's only now showing up. Maybe the town has a secret alligator or something that's decided to have a midday snack. Hell, maybe someone just decided to be a dick today.

He realizes every guess is wrong when he slides into a clearing to see a few kids (two boys, one girl) surrounded by some weird dog-looking...things. They have heads but no faces, crouched low to the ground and growling at the kids they've cornered. There's around ten of them, which would normally make Steve hesitate, but he's so desperate at this point for a real fight that he doesn't care.

Instead, he reaches over his shoulder, thinks about how fucking hilarious it's gonna be to jump out of nowhere with a giant mallet, and grips the handle as he swings it over his shoulder. "Hey, monster mutts!" he shouts, grinning when all the monsters and the kids finally notice him. "Let's play."

Pure, unfiltered joy rushes through him when the first monster-dog jumps at him. Steve's eyes are bright and his grin is positively feral as he swings the mallet and sends it flying into a tree. He roundhouse kicks another dog, using the momentum to bring his foot down on the head of a third before smashing its body with the mallet.

"Are you insane?!" one of the kids shouts.

"Certifiably!" he shouts back, watching as another monster-dog jumps at him. He waits for the perfect moment to back flip, bringing his feet under the dog to send it flying. He brings the mallet up as he lands, clocking another monster under the jaw. It yelps, crashing into another dog.

"Where'd this guy even come from?" the girl asks, turning to look at the boys with her.

"I don't know, but I'm happy to let him deal with the demodogs."

Oh. That's what they're called. Steve hums softly at the name, grinning as he twirls the mallet and swings with all his strength at one of the demodog. He rests the mallet on his shoulder like a baseball bat, watching the demodog arch in the air with an appreciative whistle. "Solid air," he says, nodding once before looking at the remaining demodogs.

There's only three, the others scattered in the clearing. He can't tell if they're dead or not, but he could always smash them to mush when he's done. Steve grins at the remaining dogs. "C'mon, then," he says, only to be filled with disappointment when they creep back, turn heel, and run.

"Damn, that's no fun," Steve says, sighing as he rests the mallet on the ground and leans on the handle. He looks at the kids. "You guys okay?"

The girl has orange hair pulled back into a messy braid. She's staring at him like he's got two heads but is kind of impressed by it. One of the boys has curly hair being smothered by his hat, and the other is wearing a basketball jersey. They're also staring at Steve like he's crazy. "Dude," the curly-haired one says, "that was awesome!"

"Where'd you get that mallet from?" the girl asks.

"Jester Logic," Steve explains, shrugging as he picks the mallet up and walks over. "Wanna hold it?"

When the girl lights up, he passes the mallet to her, snorting when she immediately staggers under its weight. "How do you hold this so easily?"

"Jester Logic. Again. It's funnier when other people find it heavy."

"That makes no sense," basketball jersey says.

"Who are you?" curly hair asks.

"Steve. Moved here recently. What about y'all?"

"Dustin," curly hair says.

"Lucas," basketball jersey says.

"Max," the girl says, her voice strained until Steve takes the mallet back, twirling it like it weighs nothing.

"Great. Nice to meet y'all. Now, what the fuck were those?"

"How much time you got?" Dustin asks.

Steve grins, thinking he's finally found something that can keep him entertained when he's not hanging around Eddie. "Plenty."

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Tag list (let me know if you'd like to be added!)

@nectandra, @y4r3luv, @just-a-tiny-void,

#steddie #steddie fic #harlequin prince #steve deserves good parents actually #steve harrington #harley quinn #bruce wayne #jim hopper #dustin henderson #lucas sinclair #max mayfield #dc comics crossover #wayne family adventures crossover #i kinda let the muse take over with this one actually #unhinged steve harrington #as he deserves #poison ivy #robins

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etherealperrie · 3 months ago

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The Chart (pt. 2)

"...she is not a mirror in which you reflect, she is of material substance..."

Shane Mccutcheon x OC (Original Character) | The L Word

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: explicit language, references to drinking/alcohol, and explicit sexual activity

...

There’s nothing worse than a hangover. Jules has handled dozens in her time, but all when she was much younger, more agile to bounce back. Nothing could’ve stopped her the morning after a night out in college – hell, she’d taken one of the most important finals of her life hungover and damn near aced it. But now, not even Tylenol is touching the pounding in her skull.

Sighing, she drops her head into the cradle of her hands, running her fingers through her hair. Her ‘free for the weekend’ motto hadn’t considered that her more productive self made an appointment in the library archives at seven the next morning. She mumbles some half-hearted words of encouragement to herself before shifting in her seat and taking a deep breath. On the exhale she swipes the hair from her neck up into a mangled mess away from her eyes. There’s no one else here – everyone else is home properly recovering, or, maybe waking up with that stranger from the night before in their bed.

Jules would much prefer that to this. On the circumstance that it might be Shane. She can’t quite shake the vision of her from her mind, having tossed and turned over her all night. Not to say Jules regrets leaving her at the bar, but she can’t stop imagining what it would have been like to stay. The heat of Shane’s fingerprints are burned into the skin around her hip, the taste of Marlboro reds somehow still on her lips.

“Juliana?” A voice interrupts her daydreams. “Did you want me to get the next box down for you?”

An older woman from the archives stands in front of Jules, her hands perched on the desk for support. Jules shakes her head, clearing her throat. Right, the research. The whole reason she’s here in the first place. The project that quite literally drove her to drinking over the weekend.

“Please.”

The woman nods and turns on her heel back down to the front of the room, her skirt swishing with each step. Jules looks back to the papers sprawled across her desk. There are a few photos scattered about, one catching her attention. Picking it up carefully – by the edges as she was instructed prior to entering the archives – she squints to make out the image.

There’s a blonde woman standing in front of what looks to be a whiteboard full of markings she can’t quite make out. The woman is smiling, obnoxiously big, her pixie cut sticking up in various directions. Jules chuckles, flipping the photo over, a caption scrawled in blue ink on the back.

Alice Piezecki showcasing ‘The Chart’. Color. 2004.

She can’t stop herself from wondering about the context of the photo. More importantly, how did something this recent make it into the archives so quickly? It’s less than five years old. And into the box she specifically requested, labeled, “A Queer History of Los Angeles County”?. Though, most importantly, how did she not recognize this woman or whatever this chart was? Jules taps her fingers against the desk. It’s maybe not surprising, though, one could study queer history all their lives and never fully experience all its aspects. And Jules’ life has, quite literally, been here – in the California University School of Arts library – since she started her program four years ago.

Jules flips the photo back over. She stares at the glossy paper, the unintelligible writing on the whiteboard coming to life. It’s a list of names. Well, not a list but a chart, all of the names connected to one another by lines of varying color. Some of the names are emphasized, bolded or circled, somehow noting their significance over others. Most of the names are unfamiliar to her, but Jules jots them all down in her notebook, underlining where appropriate. All of these women, tied together somehow.

She continues down the line, her handwriting devolving to scrawl, the list impossibly long. Francesca, Marina, Max, Jenny…

Shane.

Jules stops, her eyes lifting from the paper. A name she recognizes. A name both bolded, underlined, and circled. Her heart pounds in her chest although she’s sitting firmly in her chair. For a second she swears the library has transformed into the club, Shane’s dark eyes staring directly at her. The Chart. The women outside the bathroom.

“Tell Shane to fuck you in the men’s room next time.”

Jules laughs to herself. She was so drunk she thought those women were genuinely upset about her and Shane preventing their access to the bathroom. She turns her attention back to the chart, shaking her head with disbelief as she follows the myriad of lines connecting Shane’s name to what appeared to be hundreds of others. She may as well add her own now. She jots it down in her notebook.

Jules.

Part of her is angry, her face red with embarrassment. The other part of her can’t believe the discovery she’s just made. Something like this – the chart – would be integral to her dissertation. Before she’s able to make up her mind on her true feelings, the woman from the archives is calling her name from across the room, lifting the next box. Jules listens to the swooshing of her skirt as she approaches, breathing through her cacophony of emotions.

“Here you go, dear,” she says, setting the box down onto the desk with a thud. “Can I do anything else for ya?”

Jules smiles, lifting the photo up. “Yeah, could I get a copy of this?”

…

Sunday morning. Sun streams in through the window, bathing the bedroom in a wash of yellow light. Cars honk on the street outside as dozens of locals make their morning commutes. Shane wakes to the light, crossing an arm over her eyes as she yawns. It’s bright. Too bright. She flips over onto back, knocking into something – no, someone – in her bed as she adjusts to her surroundings.

The room is familiar, her own.

“Fuck,” she groans. She made a rule a few months ago to go anywhere but back to her own place. It made things easier, much less messy – figuratively and literally. Shane wouldn’t have to worry about women getting attached and she could disappear without consequence. She’s always been good at that.

“Well good morning,” the woman mumbles, turning to face Shane. She’s pretty, they always are. Her eyes are brown, doe-like, her chin-length red hair splayed out on the pillows, her bangs hanging just above her long, fluttering lashes.

Shane smiles briefly before pushing herself up and out of the bed. She can’t linger here with this woman even if she might want to. Anyway, she couldn’t really remember where they met – The Planet? No, that was Thursday night. The club, maybe? A memory washes over her, being left in the bathroom stall by that nameless blonde. She needed to get off, to soothe her bruised ego? Maybe, but Shane wouldn’t admit that to anyone out loud. Rejection is uncomfortable, it doesn’t happen to her often.

“Yeah, good morning,” Shane replies, crossing the room to slip on a t-shirt. She checks herself in the mirror, ruffling her hair until it settles in a way she likes. She turns back to the woman, whose name she couldn’t remember, who’s now sitting up in her bed, the covers slipping down her nude chest. God, Shane could easily give it all up and dive right back into those sheets. She bites the inside of her lip, holding herself to where she stands near the window. “I, uh, forgot I have a couple of clients to get to today.” It’s a lie. She plans on keeping the shop closed today, one of the perks to owning her own salon. In all honesty Shane doesn’t have any plans.

“Oh.” The woman sighs, nodding. She’s clearly disappointed. Shane looks away when she rolls out from under the covers, fully nude, quickly dressing in her outfit from last night. When she sees the ‘Kit Porter’ branded t-shirt, it all comes flooding back. The alluring eyes that met her as she left the bathroom, the beckoning finger she gave this woman, and the way she could barely make out the road on the drive home, what with this woman all over her. Shane was shameless, she’d have fucked this woman right in the middle of the club, but she’d already been turned down once. Which is how they ended up here, in Shane’s room.

“Do you need a ride?” Shane asks, raising an eyebrow.

The woman shakes her head. “No, I’m good. I just, uh, here –” she bends over to pick her bag up off the floor, pulling out a pen. She pulls the cap off and closes the space between her and Shane in a few small steps. Shane chuckles, shaking her head, women never cease to amaze her. She loves them, loves this game of push and pull. I want you, but I’m going to hope you chase me. But Shane doesn’t chase, she doesn’t need to.

She doesn’t object when the woman takes her hand and flips it over, writing a string of numbers on her palm. The woman smirks, rolling Shane’s hand into a fist and kissing it when she’s finished. “Call me, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane replies, swerving when the woman comes in for a kiss. The woman laughs and pulls away. Shane watches as she saunters out of the room and out the front door.

She wonders where she’ll go and if they’ll ever see each other again. Los Angeles, despite its size, is somehow incredibly small. She’d see her again, Shane knows it, and she hopes the woman won’t be upset when they run into one another months from now, when she realizes that Shane never called.

It’s not her fault, it’s just the way Shane’s wired.

She yawns, shrugging her shoulders, and swipes her phone from the dresser dialing a familiar number.

“I can’t believe it!” Alice laughs, tossing her head back.

Tina slides into the booth, her hands wrapped around a tall cappuccino. She raises an eyebrow, looking between Alice and Shane.

“Believe what?” she asks.

Helena leans in, reaching for an almond croissant sitting on the plate in the center of the table. The Planet is where the girls ‘break bread’, debriefing their nights and latest escapades. Though, sometimes, Shane would prefer to keep things a bit closer to her chest, especially the way they’ve blown up the incident of the night prior back at the club.

“Shane was left high and dry at SheBar last night,” Helena says between bites.

Tina laughs. “Losing your power, Shane?”

Shane shakes her head. “We were interrupted, she got spooked, no big deal.” She shrugs and sits back against the booth, sinking down into the leather seat.

“Just admit it, Shane,” Alice pokes. “This girl had a moment of clarity and didn’t want to fuck you!”

“What does it matter?” Bette interjects, lifting her arm from around Tina’s shoulders to interrupt. “It’s not like she went home alone.” A smile creeps onto Bette’s lips, feeling smug as she picks at the crumbs of a muffin.

Shane shoots her a look. She was certain no one saw her leave with her redhead accomplice. Shane should’ve known nothing gets past Bette. She’s always been hyper observant.

Alice scoffs, rolling her eyes in disbelief. “I’d say I’m surprised, but I should learn to expect nothing less from you, Shane.”

Max looks up from his computer for the first time since they all gathered at the table. “Fuck, Shane, I just finished updating the site.”

This elicits a confused look from the entire group, the taunts towards Shane finally ceasing.

“The site?” Shane asks, thankful for the attention off of her for a few seconds.

Alice and Max share a look.

“I’m having Max put the chart online, you know, make it more…interactive.”

“The chart?” Tina repeats. “The chart from your apartment?”

“Our Chart,” Max clarifies. He flips his laptop around to showcase the website to the table. There’s a spindling web of lines connecting various names together. Everyone at the table recognizes their own names, following their own little universes of connection. Max taps on his own name to demonstrate, his cosmo filled with two lines, one to Jenny and another to a name Shane didn’t recognize.

“Alice, this is ridiculous,” Bette says, directing Max back to the mainpage. “These are the intimate details of people’s sex lives.”

“And they love it!” Alice defends.

Shane leans back in her seat. It didn’t matter to her. She couldn’t really understand the obsession with the chart in the first place, when Alice first drafted it. She remembers being in her apartment the day Alice created it, snapping a photo of her. She remembers seeing her own name circled in red ink, her web taking up near half of the whiteboard. She didn’t care. Shane never makes it a point to keep track of her sexual conquests, she simply enjoys getting off when and where she can, with who she can. The human connection. The body of a woman – the way it feels, the way they taste, the warmth of skin against skin.

“Listen, all I know is that we’ve got just over a thousand hits and the site has only been up for a couple of days.”

“A thousand?” Helena echoes Max’s statement. He nods.

“Well shit, Al,” Shane chuckles, taking a sip of her coffee. “To Our Chart.” She raises her glass and Alice smiles proudly, knocking their mugs together.

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