#how to land fall bass

[betweenapitchandacast]

These Baits Will Land You Fall Bass

Fishing changes just like the seasons. Don't miss out on this list of must-have bass baits!

Sometimes, it can be challenging for anglers to catch fish when the weather shifts from Summer to Fall. Changes in barometric pressure can make fish swim to different depths, and when a cold front comes in, you might not catch any fish at all. Although the weather and temperatures can be quite unpredictable, there are certain techniques that can enhance your chances of landing a sizable…

[ellecdc]

hi! so i was wondering if i could make a request of poly!jegulus x reader fic where the reader goes out to maybe a bachelorette party or smth and gets drunk and james and regulus takes care of her afterwards? if not then no worries! hope you have an amazing day!

thanks so much darling! I love our little Jegulus fics <3

please note: my requests are currently closed as I finish exams and work through the requests that I currently have.

poly!Jegulus x fem!reader who they pick up from a bachelorette

Regulus tried to ignore the strobe lights and the booming bass that currently accosted his senses as he pushed through the masses of sweaty bodies and drunk people “dancing” in his mission to find you.

Fortunately he needn’t search long.

Unfortunately, his and James’ appearance elicited blood curdling squealing from the bachelorette party you were currently attending.

The bride (Alice) and maid of honour (Lily) started wolf whistling at the two boys and Regulus was certain it was Marlene who started the chant “take it off!”

Much to Regulus’ chagrin and to everyone else's joy, James actually started lifting his shirt before Regulus pinched him harshly in the side.

“James Fleamont Potter, you keep your sodding clothes on!” Regulus hissed before his eyes finally landed on you.

He ignored what sounded like a petulant “I was only giving the ladies what they wanted” from James as he crouched in front of you.

Regulus tried (and failed) to control his love sick smile as your foggy gaze cleared when you realised who was suddenly situated in front of you.

“Regulus!” You cheered, your mouth hanging open in a permanent smile as if you couldn’t possibly believe he was truly here.

“And James!” James added as he sat beside you on the pleather settee and roughly pulled you into his side. 

“What are you guys doing here?” You slurred slightly as you looked lovingly between your two boyfriends. 

Regulus felt his eyebrows pinch, but James - ever the master of nonchalance - simply pressed a kiss to your hair. “You asked us to come for you, angel.” He explained plainly.

Your eyebrows pinched to match Regulus’ as you let out a quiet “oh.” 

“Well, that was ver-very smart of me.” You declared through a hiccup. 

“Yeah? Why’s that?” James asked as he rubbed your arm and Regulus confirmed that all of your belongings were safely stored within your purse.

“I was just thinking how much I, how much I would like to be home with my boys now.” You admitted in a sigh, letting your head - which seemed to weigh far too much for your neck - fall onto James’ all-too-willing shoulder.

“Awe, you’re such a sweetheart, aren’t you?” James murmured, earning him a snort from Dorcas. 

“Right, you’ve got yourself a real sweetheart there Potter - which one of you taught her how to play poker?” Dorcas sneered, causing James to bark a laugh, you to hide shyly into his shoulder, and Regulus to grin proudly.

“Did you take them for all they’re worth, amour?” He whispered as he encouraged your face from its sanctuary in James with a gentle hand on your chin.

“Of course she did.” James answered for you, blowing a cheeky raspberry over your head at your friends. “She’s an all-star.”

Dorcas laughed good naturedly as Lily rolled her eyes fondly. “That may be; but she’s officially banned from playing with us.”

“Fair enough.” Regulus admitted as he smiled at your petulant pout and helped you stand like a baby fawn in your heels. 

“How’s everyone else getting home?” James asked the other girls as he supported you with a gentle arm around your waist.

Dorcas, Marlene, and Pandora were getting a ride from Barty and Evan, and Lily, Mary, and Alice were getting picked up by Frank.

After far too many hugs and cheek kisses and what looked like the beginning of tears on Pandora’s part as Regulus finally pried you away from the group, you clumsily made your way into the back of Regulus’ waiting car with James. 

“Did you have fun tonight, sweets?” James asked as he ensured your buckle was properly clasped. 

“Oh, yes.” You declared breathlessly; as if being chaperoned to the car, basically lifted in and buckled up was exhausting work. 

The streets were quiet at this time of night and Regulus enjoyed the comfortable silence that came over the three of you as he stole sneaky glances over his shoulder, sharing soft smiles with James at having their girl back.

“What time is it?” You asked urgently; your tone and words suddenly sounding half-sober as you interrupted the serenity of the car.

“It’s almost three, amour.” Regulus answered, peaking in the rearview mirror to see you staring straight ahead and James looking at the side of your face concernedly as Regulus navigated the quiet, lamp lit streets. 

“In the morning!?” You shrilled, causing James to snort a laugh and rub at your hairline with his thumb as he rested his hand at the nape of your neck. 

“Yes, baby. In the morning; that’s usually when the party’s over, yeah?”

“Did I wake you guys up?” You asked far too shyly for Regulus’ liking.

“Of course not, amour.” Regulus responded quickly, which was followed up with a “we stayed up waiting for you” from James.

Regulus heard a disbelieving breath escape your lips, the sound of James pressing a kiss to your hair, and then nothing but the sound of the tires on the road beneath you for a few moments.

Suddenly, disturbingly, upsettingly; he heard a sniffle.

Regulus immediately took his foot off the gas as he looked at you through the mirror to find your face pointed down in your lap and James leaning forward in an attempt to see your face.

“What’s the matter, angel?”

“Do you feel okay?” Regulus asked quickly, worrying you may be sick.

“I feel fine.” You cried quietly; Regulus could just make out what looked like the fall of a fat tear from your eyes where your head was lowered.

“What are the tears for, sweetheart?” James asked again, trying to encourage you to face him which you stubbornly refused.

“Why is she crying, Jamie?” Regulus asked desperately.

He pretended he didn’t see James shoot him an unimpressed look in the rearview mirror.

“Amour?” He whispered which elicited a quiet sob from you.

Regulus - only slightly unsafely - hastily pulled onto a side street and parked the car before he moved out of his seat, opened your door and crouched beside you.

“Amour, please darling. What’s wrong?”

“Do you feel sick?” James asked, still rubbing affectionately at the nape of your neck. You quickly shook your head no.

Regulus was at least a little relieved you weren’t about to sick up on him.

“Why are you crying, mon cheri?” He whispered, moving a lock of your hair behind your ear and tracing his thumb across your cheekbone.

“You guys are so lovely.” You admitted miserably.

“Angel.” James cooed as he roughly rubbed between your shoulders as if trying to ‘shake you out of it’. “You’re crying because your boyfriends are lovely?”

“Yes.” You sobbed and hid your face in your hands.

“Okay, that’s it.” Regulus demanded as he stood and closed your door gently before walking around the car and opening up James’.

“You’re fired. Get out.” He barked simply.

James let out a disbelieving laugh and looked at Regulus strangely. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“You have our sweet girl sobbing back here.” He explained (overdramatically) as he flung a hand in your direction. “So, you’re fired; you have to drive now.”

James couldn’t help the fond grin that took over his face (the kind Regulus loved the most; the kind that resulted in two dimples instead of just the usual one) as he shook his head in exasperation and acquiesced to his new role as chauffeur. 

“Okay amour, that’s enough now, yeah? You had a good night? Lot’s of fun with the girls? And two boys who love you a lot?” Regulus cooed as he took James’ recently vacated seat.

“I know!” You cried and flung your hands into your lap. “I’m so lucky!”

Regulus made an embarrassingly gooey ‘tsking’ sound as James laughed.

“Thank you, but we’re the lucky ones, angel.”

This just caused you to cry harder.

Regulus could have killed James right then and there if he didn’t look so sodding good behind the wheel of his car.

He’d deal with him later, though; for now, he had a sweet drunk lovie to snuggle.

[xo-hoon]

club nights — DJ p.sh

minors do not interact!

pairing: dj!sunghoon x fem!reader

genre: smut, strangers to lovers (maybe)

synopsis: you just wanted to unwind after studying hard for your upcoming exams. little did you expect that your quest for relaxation turned into an electrifying connection that left you pleasantly surprised.

word count: 3.1k

warnings: contains smut MDNI! unprotected sex (don’t..), fingering, public sexual interaction, clubbing, intimate dancing, slight alcohol consumption.

You were sprawled on your bed, textbooks and notes scattered around like a battlefield.

You were powering through your study session, knowing full well you'd ace your exams. This was more about keeping the edge sharp than actual worry.

Your phone buzzed with a text from Wonyoung

Wony🐰: big night for jay’s celebration. clubbing’s on us. come on, you deserve a break!

You smirked, your focus momentarily shifting from the textbooks. Before you could reply, Winter’s call came through.

“Y/N, you coming to Jay’s party? It’s gonna be epic. You need to let loose for a bit."

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Just finishing up some stuff first.”

You answered with a casual tone.

Winter chuckled.

“Thought you might say that. See you soon.”

You ended the call and tossed your phone aside, gathered your things with a practiced efficiency, and slipped into your clubbing gear—something that combined effortless style with a hint of rebellion.

The exams were no sweat, but tonight was about embracing the energy and leaving the stress behind.

As you headed out, you knew you’d hit the ground running again tomorrow, but for now, it was time to reclaim the night.

The lights flicker in a chaotic dance with the bass, casting shadows that meld with the crowd's movement. You were nestled in a dimly lit corner, nursing a drink that’s losing its chill. Your friends are lost in the pulsating rhythm on the dance floor, but you're craving something different—something with an edge.

As you watched the swarming sea of bodies, you catch snippets of conversations and laughter. The usual group of guys has wandered over, but their small talk falls flat. They offer nothing but predictable flattery and lackluster charm.

Your gaze sweeps through the crowd until it landed on the DJ.

He was almost surreal, his features striking and chiseled as if crafted by divine hands. The way he commands the decks, lost in the rhythm, makes him look effortlessly magnetic. Every movement is fluid and intense, and there’s an undeniable allure about him that keeps your eyes locked on him.

But despite your fascination, you held back from approaching. You’ve always been the one to stay aloof, letting others make the first move.

Tonight, you were determined to stick to that principle.

If he’s interested, he’ll have to find a way to chase you—because that's how things have always worked for you.

You spent the night there, stealing glances at him from time to time. You knew right then and there that you wanted him.

—

Over the past few weeks, you've returned to this exact club every night, disregarding your exams because you knew you'd ace them anyway.

The club was throbbing with energy as usual, and you were nestled in your favorite corner, watching the DJ work his magic at the booth. The music feels particularly electrifying, and your focus remains unwaveringly on him. A mix of curiosity and desire simmers beneath your cool exterior.

As the night wears on, a sober friend of a friend, someone you’ve seen around but never spoken to, strikes up a conversation with you. He was a regular and seems to know everything about the club’s inner workings.

After a few exchanged pleasantries and a bit of small talk, he leans in conspiratorially, as if sharing a well-kept secret.

“You know,” he says with a smirk, nodding toward the DJ booth, “that guy up there? His name is Park Sunghoon. He’s not just some random DJ. He’s actually loaded. His family’s got more money than they know what to do with.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he continues, “He’s got this whole other life. Runs a bunch of businesses and everything. But he’s here every night, spinning records because he genuinely loves it. He’s quite famous around here; definitely one of the best assets of this club. And despite the fact that girls are practically falling over themselves for him, he couldn’t care less. It’s like he’s got this whole detached cool thing going on. Makes him even more interesting, don’t you think?”

You were taken aback, sensing that he’s aware of your interest. “So, why does he stick around here if he’s got all that?”

The informant’s smirk widens, as if he’s been waiting for you to ask.

“Well, it’s obvious you’ve been keeping an eye on him. I figured you’d want to know. He sticks around because this is his sanctuary. No one bothers him about business or family here.”

You nod, feeling a mix of surprise and satisfaction at his perceptiveness. “Sounds like he’s got a lot more going on.”

“Exactly,” he replies, his eyes twinkling with knowing. “And he’s not one for easy connections. If you want to get to know him, you’ll have to bring something real to the table. He’s not impressed by the usual attempts.”

The revelation hits you with a jolt of excitement. The fact that Sunghoon is both wealthy and dedicated to his craft, combined with his indifference to the attention he gets, only deepens the intrigue you feel.

You thanked your informant with a nod, and he headed off, leaving you to process this new layer of mystery surrounding Sunghoon.

As the night progressed, you watched him with renewed interest. His effortless charisma and the way he immerses himself in his music take on a new significance. There’s a sense of challenge now, a question of whether you can penetrate the cool facade and discover what lies beneath.

The Next Night

You were at the club again, drink in hand, the familiar beat of the music pulsing through the air. The night is set for its usual course: you’re in your favorite corner, eyes fixed on Sunghoon at the DJ booth. It’s become a bit of a routine for you—an exercise in patience and subtlety.

Tonight, you were ready for what you have expected. To be just another night of silently sending your unspoken message: “Fuck me.”

You figured if you stared hard enough, he might have somehow pick up on it. It’s a game you’ve gotten used to, even if it seemed a little ridiculous. You were so focused on him until a guy approached you.

The guy was tall and confident, his smile effortlessly charming. "Hey there. Care for a dance?"

Normally, you’d turn a man down without a second thought, but tonight, you were feeling a bit adventurous. You considered the offer, a spark of curiosity piqued by the idea of doing something different. With a playful smile, you sat your drink down and nodded.

“Sure,” you said, rising from your seat. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

As you headed towards the dance floor, you stole one last glance at Sunghoon, who was focused on his turntables but would glance at your way occasionally.

You wondered if he noticed your change in routine. The night just might turned out to be more interesting than you’d anticipated.

The music is pulsating, and the crowd is moving in sync with the beats. As you start dancing, you make sure to catch Sunghoon’s eye, knowing he was watching.

You danced seductively, grinding and moving in intimate ways with the guy, all the while keeping Sunghoon in your peripheral vision. The guy seems to enjoy the attention but notices your focus elsewhere.

As you were dancing, you felt a presence behind you. The guy you were dancing with seemed to have sensed it too and steps aside, giving way to the new arrival.

And there he was. The famous Park Sunghoon emerges from the crowd, his gaze locked on you with a smirk.

He approached with purpose, his confidence radiating.

"Mind if I cut in?" Sunghoon’s voice was deep and smooth, and you can hear the hint of a challenge in it.

You turned to face him, your heart racing. "Not at all," you replied, flashing him a flirtatious smile.

Sunghoon took the guy’s place, his hands finding your waist as he pulled you close. The intensity between you two is palpable, and you can feel the heat of his body against yours.

"You’ve been coming here a lot," Sunghoon murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.

You looked up at him, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Hmm, I have my reasons."

"Really? And what might that reason be?" Sunghoon asks, his voice low and intrigued.

You teased, "You'll have to find out."

Sunghoon's smile widens, and he pulled you even closer. The music faded into the background as you focused solely on each other. His hands were firm but gentle on your body, guiding you as you moved to the beat. The chemistry between you was undeniable, and you can feel the passion building.

"So, what made you decide to come back here night after night?" Sunghoon asked, his lips brushing against your ear.

You shivered at his touch, your voice barely a whisper. "I’m seeing someone."

"Someone like me?" he probed, his tone both teasing and serious.

"Maybe," you replied with a playful smile. "Or maybe someone who makes me feel this way."

Sunghoon's eyes darkened with desire as he looked at you. "And what is that feeling?"

You met his gaze, your voice steady but filled with longing. "Excited. Alive. Wet. Like I can’t get enough."

Sunghoon’s fingers traced a path down your side, sending shivers through you. "You’re making it hard for me to keep my distance."

You leaned closer, your lips almost touching his ear. "Then don’t."

The dance floor seems to blur around you as you lose yourself in the moment. Sunghoon's touch is electrifying, and you can feel the heat between you growing stronger. The music was pulsing around you, creating a perfect backdrop for the connection you're building.

After a few more songs, Sunghoon took your hand and guided you through the crowd, out of the club and into the cool night air. The contrast between the stifling heat of the club and the crispness of the night is refreshing.

You walked in silence for a moment, the adrenaline from the dance still coursing through your veins.

Sunghoon led you to a quieter, darker alleyway behind the club, away from prying eyes. The city's sounds faded as you stepped into the shadows, and he turned to face you. The intensity in his eyes was palpable, and you felt the electric charge between you.

He pressed you against the wall, his lips crashing onto yours in a fiery kiss. The urgency and passion of his touch took your breath away, and you responded eagerly, your hands exploring his body as his hands finds their way to your curves. Every touch, every kiss is a whirlwind of sensation, and you lost yourself in the moment.

Sunghoon’s hands slid under your dress, and you gasped as he found the sensitive spots that made you shiver. Your moans were muffled by his mouth as he kissed you deeply, his touch sending waves of pleasure through you.

His touch was both rough and tender, igniting a fire within you. You can feel his desire growing, and it heightens your own.

He lifted you slightly, your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. The alleyway’s cold walls press against your back, but the warmth of his body and the intensity of his touch creates a cocoon of heat around you. The world outside seems distant and irrelevant; it's just the two of you and the throbbing beat of your hearts.

He pulled back slightly, making you slightly groan at the lack of closeness, his breath mingling with yours. His gaze is full of raw emotion, and you saw the hunger in his eyes.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire.

You smiled, your voice a soft purr. “That’s the idea.”

With renewed passion, Sunghoon's hands grew bolder as they roamed over your body, starting from your legs and moving up to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze.

The touch elicited a soft whimper from you, a sound that made his eyes darken with desire. Taking advantage of the moment, he plunged his tongue into your mouth, exploring it thoroughly and claiming it as his own.

He lifted on of your legs off the ground, securing your waist in a possessive grip as he pressed your body tightly against his.

Your fingers traced a slow, tantalizing path from his neck down to his broad chest, feeling the hard planes of his muscles under your fingertips. They continued their journey to his defined abs, each touch sending shivers of excitement through you.

Just as you were about to reach for his clothed cock, his hand shot out to stop you, and with a swift, controlled movement, he pinned both your hands above your head, holding them there firmly.

“Fuck… Not so fast, baby.” He whispered in your mouth as you looked up at him, your breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. His eyes were dark and filled with desire.

“S-sunghoon.. please—“ He smirked at the sight of your neediness.

“Shh, let me handle this.” He lowered his head, trailing kisses down your neck, leaving a blazing trail of heat in his wake. You arched your back, pressing your body closer to his, craving more of his touch.

His other hand roamed over your body, exploring every curve and inch of your exposed skin that he could, making you even needier and wetter than you already were.

“Sunghoon… Please. I need you.” He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“Patience, baby. Good things come from those who wait.”

His lips captured yours once again, and this time the kiss was sloppy and even more intense, filled with a hunger that leaves you breathless. He releases your hands, and you immediately tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer.

“I can’t wait anymore.”

“I know, baby.” He whispered against your lips.

With that, he lifts you up, your legs wrapping around his waist. He carries you to a more secluded area of the club, where the lights are dim and the music is just a distant thrum. He sets you down on a couch, his body pressing against yours.

“Are you sure about this?” He asked genuinely, you locked your eyes with his as you nodded.

“I have never been more sure,”

Sunghoon groaned at your response as his hands roam over your body again, this time more urgent, more demanding.

He slips his hand under your dress, fingers teasing the edge of your panties.

“God, you’re so beautiful.” He stared in to your eyes, his hand slipping inside your panties, fingers finding your most sensitive spot. You moan into his mouth, your body arching into his touch.

He continued to rub circles on your clit, thoroughly enjoying the expression you were giving him. You moved your hand to his, pushing his fingers deeper, indicating that you wanted him to give you more.

“So, so needy,” he murmured, his voice dripping with a mix of amusement and desire. He leaned in, licking your earlobes before slipping two fingers inside you.

The sudden intrusion made you moan out loud, arching your back as waves of pleasure coursed through your body.

“Fuck,” you breathed into his ear, your voice trembling with need. You began to grind your hips, matching the rhythm of his fingers. Each thrust of his hand sent shivers down your spine, making you crave more.

“Fuck me now, please. I want your cock inside me. Fuck me hard.”

He smirked against your neck, his fingers pumping in and out of you faster, curling just right to hit that perfect spot inside you.

“You want it that badly, huh?” he teased, his voice a low, seductive growl.

You could only nod frantically, your body desperate for more. “Yes, Sunghoon. Please,” you begged, your hips bucking against his hand. “I need you. Make me yours.”

His eyes darkened with lust as he withdrew his fingers, leaving you feeling empty and yearning. He quickly undid his pants, freeing his hard length. You glanced down, your eyes widening at the sight of him.

Without another word, he positioned himself at your entrance, teasing you a bit by rubbing his tip against your wet folds. The sensation made you whimper, your hands clutching his broad shoulders.

“Tell me how much you want it,” he demanded, his eyes locking onto yours.

“I want you so fucking,” you gasped, your voice almost a plea. “I want you to fuck me hard, fuck me until I go dumb.”

With a groan, he thrust into you inch by inch, slowly filling you completely. The fullness made you cry out in pleasure, your nails digging into his skin.

Without letting you savor the moment of his cock deep inside you, he started to move in a rough, fast pace, each thrust sending waves of ecstasy through your body, making you roll your eyes.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your moans and his grunts blending with the pounding music in the background.

“God, you feel so good,” he panted, his lips crashing onto yours in a heated kiss. “So tight, so perfectly made for my cock.”

You could only moan in response, the pleasure overwhelming your senses. You matched his rhythm, meeting each of his powerful thrusts with equal fervor. The pressure built up inside you, threatening to explode.

“Sunghoon, I’m gonna—” you managed to gasp out, your body trembling on the edge of release.

“Cum for me, baby,” he urged, his voice rough with need. “Cum all over my cock.”

With one more thrust, you shattered, your orgasm ripping through you. Your walls clenched around him in intense pleasure, making him moan.

Sunghoon continued thrusting into you, riding out his own high. Still sensitive from your release, the overwhelming pleasure made you moan on the top of your lungs and cling to him tightly.

"I'm cumming, baby," he groaned. With one final, powerful thrust, he poured his hot release into your tight, convulsing heat, filling you completely.

He collapsed on top of you, both of you panting and spent. After a moment, he lifted his head, looking down at you with a satisfied smirk.

“You were amazing,” He murmured, pressing a gentle kiss on your lips.

"That was... incredible," you say, your voice still shaky with emotion.

Sunghoon chuckles softly, pulling you close again. "It really was. We should do this more often, and maybe you might consider going on a date with me.”

You smile, feeling a new connection with him. "A date? With that Park Sunghoon? I’d like that."

As you walked back to busy area of the club, hand in hand, you were filled with excitement and anticipation for what comes next. The night has just begun, and you can't wait to see where this new connection with Sunghoon will lead.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

hi! could you help with describing different sounds of materials and textures? like dripping of water, clinking of glass etc. maybe a vocab list or your advice in general, doesn't matter ☆

Chatter - to click repeatedly or uncontrollably (teeth chattering)

Chime - to make a musical and especially a harmonious sound (clock chimed at midnight)

Clang - to make a loud metallic ringing sound (anvils clanged)

Clatter - to make a rattling sound (dishes clattered)

Clop - a sound made by or as if by a hoof or wooden shoe against the pavement (clop of hooves)

Clunk - the sound of a blow (books fall to the floor with a clunk)

Crackle - to make small sharp sudden repeated noises (fire crackles)

Creak - a prolonged grating/squeaking sound (creaking wheels)

Crinkle - to give forth a thin crackling sound (crinkling silks)

Fizzle - to make a hissing or sputtering sound (fireworks fizzled out)

Grate - to rub or rasp noisily (metal grating)

Gurgle - to make a sound like that of a gurgling liquid (water gurgling through the pipes)

Hiss - to make a sharp sibilant sound (hissing steam)

Jangle - to make a discordant often ringing sound (keys jangling)

Pitter-patter - a rapid succession of light sounds or beats (pitter-patter of rain on the roof)

Pulse - rhythmical beating or sounding (pulsed from the speakers)

Rasp - to produce a grating sound (rasp of steel)

Rattle - a rapid succession of short sharp noises (windows rattled)

Ripple - to play with a slight rise and fall of sound (rippling water)

Ruffle - a low vibrating drumbeat (ruffle the pages of a book)

Rumble - to make a low heavy rolling sound (thunder rumbling)

Rustle - a quick succession of small sounds (rustling leaves)

Scrape - a sound made by scraping (chairs scraping against the floor)

Sizzle - to make a hissing sound (a sizzling pan)

Slosh - the slap or splash of liquid (water sloshed around)

Splash - to make a sloshing sound (waves splashing)

Splutter - to make a noise as if spitting (spluttering engine)

Squeak - to utter or make a short shrill cry or noise (squeaking wheel)

Susurration - a whispering sound; murmur (susurration of waves)

Throb - to beat or vibrate rhythmically (throbbing beat of the bass)

Thrum - to sound with a monotonous hum (wings thrumming)

Thud - a dull sound (bag landed on the floor with a thud)

Thump - to strike or beat with or as if with something thick or heavy so as to cause a dull sound (thump of footsteps on the stairs)

Whish - to make a sibilant sound (baseball whished past)

Whiz - a hissing, buzzing, or whirring sound (cars whiz by)

Some Words to Describe Different Sounds

Harsh or loud. If you want to articulate abrupt, piercing, or loud noises, use: beep, bellow, blare, cackle, clack, clang, clank, clink, croak, earsplitting, full blast, grating, high frequency, huff, jarring, rasp, rumble, scrunch, shriek, toot, twang, vibrating, wail, and zap.

Soft or subtle sounds. Some descriptors to use to evoke quiet noises: breathy, chime, droning, fizz, glug, gurgle, jingle, moan, sizzle, squish, swish, swoosh, tinkle, trill, wheeze, whir, and whoosh.

Animal sounds to describe noises. English language readers often associate these words with animal noises, but you can use them to create imaginative descriptions of other sounds: bleat, bray, chirping, cluck, hoot, howl, meow, neigh, purr, quack, roar, woof, and yelp.

How to Write With Sound

Auditory imagery engages the sense of hearing.

Literary devices (onomatopoeia; alliteration) can help create sounds in writing.

Sound is a great sense to use to create a mood.

Consider two scenes of the same forest:

You might describe the chirping of many small birds, the rustle of small mammals moving through the softly falling leaves, or the whispering of a breeze through the trees. This creates a particular atmosphere, one that seems peaceful and maybe even a little magical.

Now consider another set of sounds from the same forest. Somewhere in the distance you hear the howl of an unidentifiable animal. Nearer to you, the creak of an old branch, followed by the snap of a twig. The wind, when you hear it, seems to moan.

The same two descriptions of a forest can create entirely different atmospheres with sensory language. Some exercises:

Carry a notebook with you as you go about your normal day.

Pay attention to the sounds you notice and write them down as you go.

Does your coffeemaker whistle, or would you say it hisses?

Do the sirens of emergency vehicles wail, or perhaps blare?

Does your door squeak?

The more you can become attentive to these things, the more you’ll be able to incorporate them into your writing.

Use onomatopoeia to help capture the sound of a scene:

The plop of a frog dropping into a pond

The clink of two champagne glasses

The crackle of a dry log on a hot fire

The whoosh of a car racing by

Onomatopoeic Words: hiss, ping, crunch, pop, sizzle, bang, swish, smash, flutter, clunk, peck, whistle, smack, whack, hush, whir, tip-toe, thud, zap, twang, cock-a-doodle-doo, squish, stomp, tap, thump, splash, purr, tinkle, gush, kerplunk, slurp, swirl, crash, whirl, clang, mumble, squeak, boom, meow, cuckoo, pow, splat, quack, screech, zoom, tick-tock, burp, clip-clop, eek, hiccup, moo, oink, buzz

In general, though, you’ll want to be judicious about using onomatopoeia, unless you’re going for a deliberately cheesy, comic book-type effect.

Tips for Describing Sounds in Writing

Consider your purpose. As you begin a project, decide if you want to render a specific experience faithfully or creatively. Consider the target audience for your creative writing, blog, or journalism. Understanding your goal and audience helps you make descriptors more effective and precise.

Employ onomatopoeia. Onomatopoeia is a type of sensory language in which the descriptive word sounds like what it describes—words like “drip,” “bang,” or “plink.” If you want to achieve an especially sound-driven description, consider using existing onomatopoeic words or craft your own.

Pay attention to verbs. While adjectives (words like “loud” or “sharp”) are the obvious choice for describing sounds, verbs are a powerful tool that can also help you achieve a strong description. For example, saying, “the jet was loud” is accurate and descriptive, while “the jet screamed” evokes an even stronger sense of the sound.

Sometimes less is more. Descriptions are most effective when focused, allowing readers to zero in on the essential details. If you include too many synonyms or attach multiple adjectives to each noun, you can overwhelm or confuse readers.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ 100 Sensory Words

Hope this helps with your writing! :)

[stargazsblog]

how to lose a girl in 10 days | ch.1 the bet

ryomen sukuna x fem!reader

ʚɞ ryomen sukuna is tall, devastatingly handsome, and the campus heartbreaker. everyone knows his name, and his reputation for leaving girls with broken hearts. but then there's you uninterested and completely unimpressed by him. you're the only girl who couldn't care less about him. when his friends tease him about it, everything changes. they challenge him with a bet to make you, the one person who isn't affected by his charm, fall in love with him in just 10 days, sukuna accepts the challenge, thinking it'll be an easy win. it's just a game, a way to prove he can get any girl he wants. but the more time he spends with you, he finds himself wanting something he never expected.

ʚɞ warning/tags: angst, fluff, romance, use of cigarettes and alcohol, jealousy, asshole sukuna, heartbreak, inspired by how to lose a guy in 10 days, college au, enemies to lovers.

ʚɞ now playing - no. 1 party anthem by arctic monkeys

note: hi guys! this is the first chapter and I'm so excited this is just about how the bet starts nothing crazyyyy YET… i can’t wait to write more! merry christmas!! <3

masterlist

“I still don’t know why I let you talk me into this,” you muttered, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself. The muffled thump of bass from inside the house was enough to make your ears ring, even from a distance. The faint smell of cigarette smoke and cheap beer mixed with the crisp winter breeze, making you wrinkle your nose.

“Because,” Shoko said, throwing an arm around your shoulder. “Deep down, you know you’ll have fun if you let yourself.” she grinned at you.

You side-eye her, “Have fun?, this is a party of drunk idiots I have to pretend I like.”

“Don't be dramatic.” Shoko rolled her eyes, patting your shoulder as she let you go. ”You spend too much time brooding alone in your dorm, anyway.”

“I call it peace,” you shot back, but Shoko was already halfway up the stairs.

The door swung open before either of you could reach it. A group of boys tumbled out, laughing and shouting, nearly knocking you over in the process. You stepped aside just in time, muttering a curse under your breath

The heat of the crowded house hit you immediately. The air was thick, almost suffocating, with the smell of sweat, spilled drinks, and overly sweet perfume. Bodies pressed together as people danced to the relentless beat of the music.

“Come on, let's get a drink,” she said, grabbing your wrist and leading you towards the kitchen. You stuck close to her, pushing past people in the crowd and avoiding eye contact as much as possible.

“This is a disaster,” you muttered as you reached the kitchen, leaning against the counter. Shoko handed you a bottle of water before pouring herself something that smelled suspiciously strong.

“It's just a party,” she replied.

As she took a sip, she leaned against the counter, her eyes scanning the room again. “There he is,” she said, nudging you with her elbow.

“Who?”

“You know who.”

Your gaze followed hers, landing on a familiar figure sprawled out on the couch in the corner of the living room. Ryomen Sukuna.

He was sitting on the couch like he owned the place, his long legs stretched out, one arm casually draped over the back of the sofa. He was wearing a white shirt, the fabric clinging just enough to hint at the toned muscles underneath. His eyes scanned the room with practiced boredom, like none of it was worth his time.

A girl was sitting on his lap, twirling her hair around her finger and giggling as if he’d just told her the funniest joke in the world. She leaned closer, whispering something in his ear, but he didn’t seem to be paying attention. Instead, his gaze drifted and then locked onto yours.

He grinned, a slow, cocky smirk that made something in your chest tighten not with attraction, but with irritation. It was the kind of grin that said he knew exactly the effect he had on people and loved to watch them crumble under it. He tilted his head slightly, as if to say, Caught you staring

As you looked away, you could feel the weight of his gaze on you. But you didn’t turn back. You weren’t interested.

“Great,” you muttered, taking a long sip from your water bottle. “Now I have to burn this memory from my brain.”

Shoko laughed, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “Oh, come on. You’ve got to admit, he’s hot.”

“He’s insufferable.”

“Hot and insufferable. The best combination.”

“I’ll leave right now.” you turned heel, but Shoko grabbed your arm, stopping you from your track.

“Relax, I’m just teasing you.”

Your jaw tightened, but you stayed put, watching as Sukuna leaned back even further, his eyes still fixed on you. The girl on his lap pouted, clearly annoyed at his lack of attention, but he didn’t seem to care.

“I hate him,” you muttered under your breath. The words came out bitter, but they were true. “Did I mention that before?”

“Yeah, like hundreds of times,” She replied, laughing “You really hate him, huh?”

“I just don’t get how people fall for his act,” you said.

Shoko shrugged. “Like I said, he’s hot. People like hot.”

“Hot doesn’t excuse being an asshole,” you murmured, crossing your arms. “What’s his deal, anyway? Does he just sit there all night waiting for people to grovel at his feet?”

“Pretty much,” Shoko said with a shrug. “But he’s good at it. Watch.”

As if on cue, another girl approached him, drink in hand. She leaned down, her lips close to his ear as she said something you couldn’t hear. Sukuna smirked, his attention finally shifting away from you, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“See? he’s harmless,” Shoko said.

“Harmless,” you repeated, your voice with sarcasm. “Sure.”

“You know, you’re the only one who doesn’t fall for his charm.”

“Good,” you said firmly, crossing your arms. “I’m not about to start. I don’t need someone like him in my life.”

“You gonna keep her there all night?” Suguru asked, nodding towards the girl on Sukuna’s lap.

Sukuna smirked tilting his head back. “why not? She's comfortable here.” the girl giggled again, clearly tipsy, but Sukuna's attention has already wandered. His eyes scanned the room lazily, taking in the usual suspect, drunk athletes, and the occasional out-of-place loner. Until it landed on you.

You stood in the kitchen, keeping your distance from the chaos, leaning against the counter with your arms crossed. Your eyes roamed over the room, observing, until they met his. He caught you looking, and a smirk tugged at his lips. When you quickly looked away, he let out a low chuckle.

His friends noticed this.

“You’ve been staring at her for the last ten minutes, what’s the deal?” Geto voice cut thought Sukuna’s thoughts, and he glanced over at his friend.

“I’m not staring,” Sukuna retorted smoothly, his tone laced with nonchalance as he effortlessly lifted the girl off his lap. She let out an irritated groan, before stalking off in a huff. “Just observing,”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Geto teased, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve seen the way you're staring at her, that’s not the ‘I’m observing’ look you usually give what’s going on with you.”

Sukuna’s gaze flickered to you once more. “She’s different,” He had noticed you around campus—the way you never spared him a second glance when you passed by, completely unaffected by his presence. Once, he’d even tried to strike up a conversation, but you had brushed past him without so much as acknowledging him, as though he were invisible.

Gojo chuckled “Different? Dude, that girl is the only one who doesn’t drool over you.”

Sukuna’s lip curled into a sly grin. “So what?”

“So,” Suguru continues, crossing his arms, leaning against the couch. “you’ve never met a girl who doesn’t fall for your charm, right? You’ve been with everyone but her? she couldn’t care less.”

Gojo snorted. “And she’s probably the only one on campus. That’s gotta sting.”

Sukuna scoffed, leaning forward slightly. “Please. She is probably playing hard to get.”

Geto exchanged a glance with Gojo, and then a mischievous grunt flashed his eyes. “All alright, how about we make this interesting? We give you ten days.”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, “Ten days?’

“Yeah,” he said with a sly smile “Ten days you make her fall in love with you.”

Sukana let out a short laugh, but the challenge already sounded fun to him. He never was the type to back down from a game. “You think I need ten days?”

Suguru shrugged, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “It’d be easier if it were any other girl. But this one… she’s too—what’s the word? Stubborn. Definitely not into guys like you,” he said, “She won’t be an easy win. That’s what makes it interesting, though.”

Satoru chimes in “Yeah, man. You can’t just use your looks and charm this time. You’re gonna have to actually work for it.”

Sukana's eyes flicked back to you for a split second. You were standing there unaware of the conversation that was happening a few feet away from you. “Ten days huh?” he murmured.

“Ten days” Gojo repeated. “And if you fail you lose. It's as simple as that.”

His expression turned darker, the idea of him not winning seemed unthinkable. He wasn’t just going to prove them wrong he was going to show them that no one could resist him.

Gojo leaned back, a grin tugging at his lips. “Oh, and one more thing,” he added, glancing at Sukuna. “You can't be seen with other girls. It’s gotta look real, after all.”

Sukuna’s expression shifted slightly, an eyebrow raised in silent challenge. “You think I need rules to make this work?” he asked.

Geto gave a small nod. “It’s just to make sure no one gets suspicious. You’ll need to actually put in the effort.”

Sukuna smirked, unfazed. “Fine. I’ll play by your rules, but don’t expect me to go easy on her.”

Ten days to make you fall for him. The girl who wouldn’t give him the time of the day. The girl who didn’t care about his reputation. The girl who has no idea what was coming for her.

Unknowingly, you had already been pulled into his game.

“You think his shirt could be any tighter,” Shoko muttered, nodding towards a guy who was flexing across the room.

You snorted. “Pretty sure it's painted on.” leaning against the kitchen counter. Shoko grinned at your words, sipping from her cup.

The kitchen was quieter than the rest of the party, you leaned against the counter sipping on your water. Shoko perched on the edge of the sink, swinging her legs as she talked. You were nodding and listening to the story she was telling you. You hear a group of people walking in the kitchen, their laughter loud and careless. You don’t even need to turn around to know who it is. The weight of his presence pressed into the room like a rebound heartbeat. Ryomen Sukuna.

His graze swept the kitchen, it lingered on you for a moment too long, and a smirk appeared on his face.

“Shoko,” one of his friends called out, his tone playful, but almost teasing. “Come help us with something. It’ll be fun, I promise.”

Shoko raised an eyebrow, glancing between you and them. “Fun, huh? i doubt it.”

“It’s better than being stuck in here,” another white-haired friend chimed in.

She rolled her eyes but slid off the counter anyway, giving you a quick pat on the shoulder. “Don’t get too comfortable,” she said with a wink before following them out of the kitchen. And then, it was just you and him.

Great.

Sukuna didn't say anything, but you could feel the weight of his gaze, as he leaned against the counter across from you.

“Guess it’s just us now,” he said finally his voice low and smooth.

You didn't look up, keeping your focus on your drink “Lucky me,” you replied, your tone dry.

He chuckled softly, the sound rich and deep. “You don’t sound too thrilled.”

When you finally glanced up, he was much closer than you’d expected. His tall frame leaned casually against the counter opposite you. Up close, the details of his features were almost overwhelming—the sharp line of his jaw, the subtle curve of his lips that formed an infuriatingly smug smirk, and the mess of his hair falling carelessly over his forehead. You couldn’t deny it, no matter how much you wanted to. He was hot—like, really hot.

“You’re not exactly the first guy to try this,” you said coolly, taking another sip from your drink, your gaze steady as you met his.

Sukuna tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in amusement. “Try what?” he asked.

“Whatever you’re doing right now,” you replied, “the whole brooding, mysterious thing. It’s not as original as you think.”

He laughed at that, his head tilting back just enough to expose the line of his throat. It wasn’t often that people spoke to him like this, you realized. Most would have thrown themselves at him.

“You’re sharp,” he said, pushing off the counter and taking a step closer. The scent of him hits you. “I like that,” he added, his voice low, a hint of approval in his tone as his gaze lingered on you.

You arched an eyebrow, unimpressed by him. “And I don’t care.”

He paused not being he was offended, but because he wasn’t used to being dismissed, even by someone who didn't so much flinch under his gaze.

He took another step forward, closing the distance between you. “Most people would kill to be in your position right now,” his tone quieter now, almost intimate, as his eyes locked onto yours.

You smirked, setting your drink on the counter behind you. “Then maybe you should go find ‘most people,’” you replied coolly, not breaking eye contact.”

The silence hung in the air. Sukuna’s eyes lingered on you for a moment, then slowly, his gaze dipped to your lips. The smirk on his face faltered just slightly as if he was plotting something in his mind, before it returned—sharper, more amused.

“You’re different,” he murmured finally, his voice low, the words lingering in the air as his gaze stayed fixed on your lips, the tension between you growing with each passing second.

“Should I take that as a compliment?” you asked.

“Take it however you want,” he said, his voice softer now, almost a whisper, his gaze still lingering on your lips as if he was waiting for your next move.

His gaze made it hard to look away. But you forced yourself to break the connection, turning your focus elsewhere. You weren’t sure what Sukuna was trying to do—charm you, challenge you, or maybe a little of both.

“I’m not interested in you, if that’s what you’re wondering,” you said, your tone firm, making sure he knew you weren’t fazed by his presence.

He tilted his head, his smirk fading for a moment. He just looked at you, his dark eyes searching yours as if he were trying to read you.

“We’ll see about that,” he said, his voice low and confident, before turning and walking out.

You let out a slow breath, the heat of his presence lingering in the air. Sukuna wasn’t used to being ignored, and for him, that only made you more of a challenge.

But you weren’t here to play his game.

At least, that’s what you thought.

taglist: @clp-84 @ssetsuka @lymsfm @monic19 @bol0-de-morang0 @strxberryicecream @r0ckst4rjk @gojocumslut @elliebelliegi @kazuuhali @luna-v-roiya @sussiesushi @nakiich @mourart7 @neuvilletteswife4ever @rusted-dolly @blueyesuguru @lillycore @yourhornysister @bnbaochauuu

[i-drop-level-one-loot]

Could I request reader x Yandere Giant? I feel like you'd write this concept so well!!

CW: ridiculous size difference kink, living fleshlight, non-con, oral, cummflation, anal

Fear gripped (Reader) as they helplessly swung from the tree they had landed in. Just the day before (Reader) was boarding a plane, excited to travel with the opportunity to continue their learning, studying to become a professor of anthropology. Tragically, five hours into the seventeen hour flight something went wrong with the plane, sending it careening through the air and falling in a nose dive back down towards the earth. (Reader) wasn't sure how it all happened, but suddenly there was a painful amount of wind pressure inside the plane, and their seat was sucked out.

They had been lucky enough to not die, their seat getting caught in a tree during the fall, however they were now trapped with no way down. The drop was still too high to land safely without breaking anything, and the branch the seat had lodged itself into was too far away from the trunk for an attempt to shimmy down. So they were stuck, too afraid to move and cause themselves to fall further. Helplessly, (Reader) began crying and screaming for help.

"Goddamnit! I'm not an outdoors person, I can't get down!" (Reader) bemoaned their predicament, screaming more to vent than to actually attract help, not knowing if anyone else survived the crash. "Help! Me!"

The anthropology student cried themselves weak.

(Reader) had just began nodding off, unable to hold their eyes open, when a loud earthquake rumbled the forest, shaking (Reader's) seat dangerously. The booming shakes repeated rhythmically, becoming louder and shaking (Reader) more violently.

"Stop! Stop! I'm going to fall!" (Reader) wasn't sure who they were crying out to, possibly God, pleading only because the fear of dying overrode their rational thinking.

It continued closer, frightening (Reader) into gripping their seat belt for dear life. As the sound became louder, the more it resembled footsteps, walking up to the tree (Reader) hung from. The thundering echoed from behind (Reader).

A hand large enough to wrap around (Reader's) ribcage grabbed the chair and yanked it out of the branch, lifting (Reader) up to meet their "savior" face to face. A large man taller than (Reader's) family home stood almost fully naked. Even from their position strapped to a chair, (Reader) could tell that the monster's face was more than half their height in length.

"What an odd little bird." The giant's deep voice rumbled out, reverberating in (Reader's) rib cage like the bass of a suped up car.

Refusing to believe that what (Reader) was seeing was real, they pointed a finger at the being, shaking harder than a chihuahua while they (not-so) confidently exclaimed "I'm not a bird!"

Bright green eyes the color of the trees surrounding (Reader) twinkled with amusement. The huge man brought (Reader) closer, his skin pleasantly smelled like dirt after rainfall in spring. "Oh, is that so?" He teased, overjoyed by the mixture of fear and embarrassment painted visibly on (Reader's) face. "But you are perched in a tree like a bird, and you squawk like a bird.."

Salty tears dribbled down their dirty cheeks. "Please don't kill me." (Reader) begged, quickly giving up their (unconvincing) facade of bravery.

"Kill you? I would never.." the giant chuckled, carrying the still strapped in (Reader) in his hand as he began back the way he came. "If you were able to survive a fall like that, perhaps it was fate that we should meet."

Their nerves tingled at his words. "How.. did you know I fell?"

A roaring laughter shook the trees and nearly burst (Reader's) ear drums. "You are quite adorable in your stupidity, little bird!"

(Reader's) questions were outright ignored for the rest of the trip, only occasionally hearing a chuckle or a 'hmph' in response to their frightened inquiries. The giant brought (Reader) deeper into the mountain, revealing a large cave tunneling into it's side, obviously the giant's home, decorated with ornate wooden carvings and drapes meticulously sewn out of leaves, similar to his loin cloth.

He only spoke after setting (Reader) down on a handmade table. "Are you going to tell me your name, or shall I continue calling you bird?"

Unbuckling as fast as (Reader) could, their leg muscles were weak from the plane crash, so what they had intended to be a show of bravery, standing tall in the face of uncertainty, was more like the wobbling of a newborn deer, knees bonking together pitifully. "Not until you tell me your name first!"

"Hah! You couldn't pronounce my name, bird. My name is the sound of the rapid river rushing down this mountain." A hissing growl hummed in the back of his throat.

"Okay, Growley, my name is (Reader)."

The giant smiled, pulling a stool up to sit beside the table (Reader) stood on. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Because he sounded sincere (Reader) struggled to remain angry, reminding themselves that this was a possibly dangerous stranger was difficult when he was acting so charismatic. "Thank you.. for getting me out of that tree, I guess.. But I should be looking for an open area without trees, or better, the crash site, so when rescue comes they'll find me."

The smile drooped on "Growley's" lips, a conflicted grimace taking it's place. "I'm sorry to break it to you (Reader), but no one is coming for you."

"What?! Why??" (Reader) loudly cried out, heart shattering painfully in their chest.

"My island is protected by magic. It is concealed from all eyes."

(Reader) sat down, trying not to have a panic attack. "Would they be able to see me from the water?"

"You would have to be quite far from my island before it's protection waned. You would drown before rescue arrived."

They slumped down further, laying flat against the wood, focusing on their breathing. "Oh."

"Do not be perturbed, little bird. Our meeting was fate, as I have said, so I am confident that you will learn to think of this as your home as well."

"Fuck your fate." (Reader) wearily whined.

A sigh shook the furniture. "I have been alone for a very long time. For hundreds of years I have prayed to the spirits of the universe that they would resurrect another giant so I may have someone to speak to. I was desperate. So when I saw the giant creature flying high above me, having difficulties in it's flight, close enough to the ground to interfere with the magic bubble.." (Reader) sat up, face twisted in rage. "I trusted the spirits, and helped bring the monster down faster."

The bottom lip on (Reader) quivered. "What did you do?"

There was no remorse on his face as Growley responded. "I acted on impulse, and knocked you out of the sky with a boulder."

(Reader) shuffled away, hysterical. "You-you-you!"

"Don't curse me, little bird, please. You have no idea the torment I've suffered, alone with the corpses of my family."

They shakily stood, and began running towards the edge of the table. Growley's gnarled hand effortlessly scooped (Reader) up, unfazed by their fists weakly slamming into his fingers.

"I know how frightened you must be, but this was fate! You were sent to me from the spirits. And with the spirits mercy, you will be blessed to live with me for the rest of my life.."

Using his nails, Growley pulled (Reader's) pants off, exposing their bare lower half. They clamped their thighs shut while crying out in protest, but it was too late for bargaining; he had been alone for long enough, and was desperate for companionship.

(Reader) was incapable of fighting back as they were lifted with one hand, pressing their bare ass to the giant's face. With his free hand he stretched one leg to the side so he could look at (Reader's) everything. They couldn't see what was happening over his hand clamped on their chest. They squeezed their eyes shut in anticipation, but popped them right back open when something hot and wet ran across their naked groin.

"EW!" (Reader) screamed, feeling a tongue larger than their face taste their body. It roughly pressed against their anus and ran upward over their sensitive organ.

He continued doing so over and over as (Reader's) body began reacting against their wishes.

They could only hope that he couldn't taste their fluids as they became aroused, the tongue still prodding at their ass and folds.

The hands holding (Reader) up changed positions, cradling the body with both hands, but now holding up their legs with his thumbs, pressing them back till (Reader's) knees brushed against their face. The stretching was discomforting, but the aching was forgotten as Growley stuck their entire pelvis in his lips, sucking hard as his tongue tried to force its way into their ass. (Reader) couldn't take their mind off of the assault, the suction on their sensitive glans sending convulsions up their trembling thighs. A knot inside (Reader) formed, building like a wave, threatening to come crashing down.

"Stop, I'm going to cum!"

(Reader) dug their nails into his fingers as they released inside their kidnapper's mouth, moaning loudly as they did so despite their attempt to conceal their pleasure.

The giant removed (Reader) from his lips, swapping them back to being held by one hand, and dropped his only piece of clothing. "I cannot wait any further, little bird." His eyes were almost apologetic as he lowered (Reader), giving them a full view of his erection. The length of his enlarged dick was almost as large as his face, making (Reader) weep in anticipation.

"Please don't!"

Their entrance was already wet from the tongue poking at it, wasting no time in slowly pressing the tip into (Reader's) clenched ass. The pain was like getting ripped open, having something so large pushed into them. The giant groaned with pleasure, and rammed (Reader) further onto his cock.

Like masturbating with a flesh light, he used (Reader's) tight bloody hole selfishly, fucking them as deeply as he could physically fit. The sounds of his grunts drowned out (Reader's) heaving sobs, moving faster and faster, almost cracking their ribs under the force of his grip.

A loud growl escaped as reached his climax, cumming inside (Reader's) gut, extending out their midsection as he bloated them up. Yanking (Reader) off his dick, jizz leaked out of their swollen bottom as he pressed his slit against (Reader's) lips before they could clench their jaw shut. Releasing the rest of his load into their mouth, shooting so much into their throat that they believed they could feel the smelly cum hit the bottom of their stomach.

When he finally finished, (Reader) was a mess, covered in his sperm and spilling his seed out of both ends. Growley kissed the top of (Reader's) sweaty head lovingly, overwhelmed by just how sexy they looked ballooned out by his love.

"I told you it was fate, little bird. Rest now, for we have three hundred and twenty-eight years of loneliness to make up for~"

[livingformintyoongi]

Get to know the life of the members of Bring On The Night! The pop/rock band of the moment that has a whole generation addicted to their music, lyrics and performers.

| Kim Seokjin: The Bassist

You were Jin's childhood friend, the one who always went to all his bass practices, the one who went to all his mini concerts, the one who tested the songs before he played them live, you were even the first person he ran to tell the news that his band had been dominated to his first award.

The problem with this? You were always just that to Jin, the typical childhood friend he wouldn't give up for anything in the world, but would never see as anything more.

A few months ago Jin started dating yet another girl, a certain Yeji, whom he had met in college.

You were starting to feel how awful it was to be just another friend, and you wanted to give it your last try before giving up forever with Jin and moving on with your life.

| Min Yoongi: The Producer

You had been in a fully sexual relationship with Yoongi for over 5 years. Yes, you went out on the occasional date in secret, but nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that would make the public think you were a couple, or sex partners.

You had never had a problem with this, until little by little you noticed how you started to feel things for him that definitely had nothing to do with your fully sexual relationship, so you did what you did best.

You ran away.

-> Drabble 1 [Request]: How did they meet?

| Jung Hoseok: The Composer

You met Hoseok in a dance class you had during your last years in college. The two of you hit it off perfectly and decided to stay in touch.

You talked to him when he won his first award, he talked to you when he heard you got a permanent contract at your current company. You called him when you found out he had landed a fairly well known girlfriend in the middle, he congratulated you on finding your fiancé.

Now, 2 years after that, you had no idea how to tell him that your husband and his fiancée were fucking in your bed.

| Kim Namjoon: The Drummer

You were Bring On The Night's manager since their debut. You had taken good care of them, always tried to give them a reasonable schedule, always talked to interviewers before interviews, always tried to keep them safe without asking for anything in return. That's exactly what made Namjoon fall at your feet.

From the beginning he always had eyes for you, he always drowned in his feelings thinking about how annoying it might be for you to stay on the job knowing that he had feelings for you.

However, this same attitude not only attracted to him, but to other guys who worked in the same industry. It was this very thing that made Namjoon decide to fight for you, even if it would destroy your working relationship and friendship.

| Park Jimin: The Keyboardist

You were Jimin's girlfriend during his pre-debut era. You would go to support him at practice, bring him food, water, sometimes even a change of clothes. You loved the way he loved his job, but love wasn't always enough to overcome the adversities that made life as a star. That was made clear to you by the Ceo of Bring on the night's discography.

You broke up with him shortly after his debut, you didn't give him any explanation, you simply told him that you didn't want to be with him anymore and you left.

Years later, in the present day, Jimin had become a world star, famous for his talent on the keyboard, and you, for your part, had achieved your goal of becoming a critically acclaimed actress.

What you never thought was that, as you were both on the same level, you would inevitably meet at events such as awards shows, and, to be honest, you didn't think you could ever say no to Jimin again.

| Kim Taehyung: The Guitarist

For the first time in your entire career as an artist you had gotten into a scandal, and one of the worst scandals there could have been. A rapper whose name you didn't even know had told hundreds of gossip channels that the two of you were in a solely sexual relationship.

Now, with no excuse to give because no one would believe you without proof, you and your manager decided to make a completely risky bet; talk to Kim Taehyung, the guitarist of BOTN and ask him to pretend to be your boyfriend. To your surprise, he didn't hesitate to accept.

The deal was clear: neither would have feelings for the other, neither would meddle in the other's relationships, and neither owed the other any explanations.

At first you thought it would be simple, just another performance, just like you did for your music videos.

How wrong you were.

| Jeon Jungkook: The Vocalist

Jungkook considered himself a very tolerant person. He tolerated Jin with his horrible jokes, he tolerated Namjoon breaking his stuff by accident from time to time, he even tolerated Jimin stealing his stuff, but there was one specific point where he would never tolerate any bullshit.

That point was you.

The day he found out the idiot you were dating, he almost broke his phone from how hard he smashed it against the wall. He believed you deserved better, no, he knew you deserved better, no doubt about it, and he was more than willing to show you what would be the minimum point you should accept in a man.

[chloeangelbaby]

i'd been reading all your stories and omg i love them 🥺 can i request for something where crybaby reader is jealous? Something like Rafe selling his drugs and some girl trying to flirt with him, while reader is literally on his lap (almost falling asleep, because she didnt want to be in that party, but neither wanted to be alone without Rafe)

Thank you!! so much for all the love and I’ve been wanting to do a jealousy fic for a while now so this was perfect, I don’t think this is quite what you’re wanted but I still hope you enjoy.

Crybaby! Reader x rafe Cameron

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The bass of the party’s music thumped against your chest, its rhythmic vibrations almost lulling you to sleep where you sat on a worn-out leather couch in the corner of the room. You had been practically glued to Rafe’s side all evening, your head tucked against his chest, fighting off the weariness of a party you hadn’t wanted to attend in the first place. You’d come along because the alternative—staying alone in his too-big house—felt worse than enduring the noise and chaos.

Rafe had promised he wouldn’t leave you for long, but business was business. He’d been making the rounds, his baggie of pills tucked in his jacket pocket, slipping into conversations with all the wrong people. Each transaction pulled him a little farther from you, and your comfort slowly unraveled. Now, he was a few feet away, leaning against the kitchen counter with a blonde girl hanging off every word he said.

You tightened your arms around yourself, watching them through narrowed eyes. The girl’s laughter was loud and obnoxious, her hand brushing against Rafe’s forearm as she leaned in closer. Your stomach twisted with an ugly pang of jealousy, your tiredness melting into something sharper.

“Dolly,” Rafe had said earlier, tilting your chin up to kiss your pout away. “It’ll be quick. Just stay close, and I’ll take care of you.”

But now, he wasn’t taking care of you. He was entertaining someone else, his charm on full display. You could tell from the easy way he smiled at her that he wasn’t interested—not really. Rafe didn’t care about anyone but you. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was how her hand lingered too long and how her laugh was too bright. It made you want to storm over there and rip her perfectly curled hair out by the roots.

You shuffled in your seat, pulling your knees up to your chest as your heart thudded unevenly. A little voice in your head whispered that you were overreacting, that Rafe’s flirtatious demeanor was just part of the job. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being brushed aside.

“Rafe,” you finally called, your voice small but insistent.

His head turned immediately, his eyes softening when they landed on you. “Hey, baby,” he said, dismissing the girl with a casual wave before crossing the room to you. “What’s wrong?”

You tugged at his sleeve, urging him to sit beside you. He dropped down onto the couch without hesitation, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “You okay?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I want to leave,” you mumbled, burying your face in his chest. The warmth of his body and the familiar scent of his cologne helped ease some of your tension, but the jealousy still simmered beneath the surface.

“I thought you were asleep over here,” he teased, his lips brushing your hairline. “You looked cozy.”

“Was trying to,” you admitted, your voice muffled. “But that girl wouldn’t stop flirting with you.”

Rafe’s chest rumbled with a quiet laugh. “That’s what this is about? Dolly, she’s nobody.”

You pulled back just enough to glare up at him. “She didn’t look like nobody to me. She was all over you.”

He cupped your face with one hand, his thumb stroking over your cheek. “You’re cute when you’re jealous,” he said, his grin infuriatingly cocky. “But you don’t have to be. You know I’m yours, right?”

“You didn’t look like mine when she was practically sitting in your lap,” you muttered.

Rafe leaned in, his nose brushing against yours. “Baby, I’m only here because you are. You think I care about anyone else in this place?”

“I just don’t like seeing other girls around you,” you admitted, your voice cracking slightly. “Makes me feel… small.”

His expression softened, the cockiness replaced with something gentler. “You’re not small,” he said firmly. “You’re everything, Dolly. Nobody else even comes close. Okay?”

You nodded reluctantly, and he pressed a kiss to your lips, slow and sweet, as if to remind you of exactly where he stood. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I’ve got better things to do than hang around a bunch of idiots anyway.”

You smiled despite yourself, allowing him to pull you to your feet. As he guided you through the crowd, his hand firmly on your waist, you cast one last glance toward the blonde girl. She was watching you with a sour expression, and for the first time all night, you felt smug.

Rafe’s fingers gave your hip a reassuring squeeze. “Told you,” he murmured, leaning down so only you could hear. “I’m yours, Dolly.”

———————————˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊————————————

[comet-forgot-you]

Hii girlie, I wanted to thank you for feeding us every day🙏🙏 your fics are so good and I really appreciate that you make effort to post everyday(but don't overwork yourself!). I'd also like to ask if you could write anything for Sam Carpenter?? Thank you bb, ur awesome!!💖💖

hurry

sam carpenter x reader

summary: the drummer of your brother's band is hot.

warnings: 18+ pls, smut, thigh grinding, mentions of previous events, fingering, marking, biting (just like once), almost caught but def not, i think thats all lmk if theres more. 

a/n: HEY GUYS DID U MISS ME??? enjoy this one in a million occasion of me writing for someone other than a mikey madison character😱😱 this is my first time writing for sam dont bully me im just a girl. do not repost for any reason.

your brother and his stupid band. the same one that gathered in the garage every saturday and played the same music every time. you usually never minded the music, but you were frustrated. the house was hot, the air conditioner was being worked on and the heat was really starting to get to you.

you were laid on the couch in the living room, stripped down to your sportsbra and shorts hours ago, trying your best to cool yourself down. the glass doors leading to your backyard were wide open, a small breeze flowing in. you didn't understand how they did it. how they practiced in the small, hot garage. it was much hotter in there than it was in the house, opening the garage door hardly helped cool it down.

the sound of the music stopped and a few minutes passed before the door leading to the garage opens and your brother walks out. you sit up slightly, looking over at him as he grabs his keys.

"where you goin'?" you ask, eyebrows furrowed slightly.

"to get a fan, it's hot as fuck in that garage," you brother mumbles, walking back to the garage. "why, need somethin'?" you shake your head, falling back onto the couch. the door closes and you let out a sigh of relief at the quiet house.

the sound of drums interrupt the silence and you can’t help the giddy feeling that washes over you. sam was still here, of course she was. you pull yourself off of the couch and walked towards the garage, eyes landing on her the second you opened the door.

fuck.

she was hot, you knew it, she knew it, but right now? with the way sweat coated her body, her arms on display due to the sleeveless shirt she wore? it forced a wave of heat to pulse through you. her muscles flexed with every beat of the drum, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. she looks up at you, slowly coming to a stop. she pries a headphone out, nodding up at you. "hey," she says loudly. she cringes at the volume of her voice, “sorry, what’s up?”

a smile tugs at your lips. "hey, sam. didn't want to go with my brother?" you ask, stepping into the garage. sam shakes her head, grabbing the almost empty bottle of water sat next to the bass drum.

"nah, already hot as it is, didn't want to sit shoulder to shoulder in his small ass car with all of em'." she pulls her headphone case out, taking her other headphone out before stuffing it back into her pocket. you could feels sam’s eyes on you as you move to stand next to her, head tilting slightly as you look over the drums.

"want me to teach you how to play?" she asks. you down at her, biting the inside of your lip.

"sure," you mumble, taking the sticks she offered you. you stood awkwardly next to her, waiting for her to get up, but her hands find their way around your hips, pulling you to sit down on her lap. she holds onto the backs of your hands, moving them to beat against the drums softly.

her breath is hot against your neck as she whispers instructions. you try to listen, you really do, but the way her hands hold onto you, the way you can feel her chest flush against your back, it was so fucking distracting.

sam shows you how to play a small piece before she lets go of your hands completely. you miss it almost immediately. she bounces her leg slightly in an attempt to get you to repeat the motions she had just showed you, but the feeling of her thigh pressing into your clothed cunt has you surpressing a whine. you shakily reach out to beat against the drums, repeating what sam had just showed you.

"yeah, just like that," she mumbles. she holds onto your hips, the feeling driving you insane. her leg bounces against your cunt so nicely with every beat against the bass drum. you're overwhelmed, the feeling of her pressed against you, the way she unknowingly pressed into your cunt so perfectly, it was all so much and so so fucking good.

"fuck," you let out a quiet whine as sam's leg grinds against your cunt again. you lean back against the girl, drum sticks gripped tightly in your hands, your head resting on her shoulder. sam's arms move to wrap around your waist, a fake look of worry plastered on her face.

"you okay?" she asks.

you roll your hips against her thigh. "don't act innocent, sammy," you whine. sam traces her fingers across the exposed skin of your stomach. “you know what you’re doin’," you mumble. sam smiles, finger dipping into your waistband before pulling it back to let it smack against your skin. you arch into her touch, drumsticks falling to the ground.

“can’t help it, you look so pretty.” you pry her hands from around your waist before turning in her lap. a small smile paints her lips as she looks up at you, eyes blown with lust. her hands find their place on your hips again, yours holding her shoulders for support.

seconds pass before your lips are pressed against each other, sam guiding your hips to grind down on her thigh. quiet moans fall from your lips and sam’s quick to take advantage, pushing her tongue into your mouth. your hands tangle into her hair, tugging lightly to separate the two of you.

“need y’so bad, sam,” you mumble against the skin of her jaw. sam’s grip on your hips tightens ever so slightly when you suck a deep mark in her neck.

“your brothers gonna see that,” she mumbles in, pushing her hand into your shorts. “he probably saw the last ones, too,” you groan, memories of sam’s head buried between your thighs flashing through your head.

“shut up,” you whine, pulling away from her ever so slightly. “living room, need you so bad, please?” sam lets out a quiet groan, nodding her head. you smile, taking her hand into yours as you pull her into the cooler house.

you can barely make it to the couch, sam’s hands wandering all over your body. you push the brunette onto the couch, straddling her lap almost immediately. sam’s lips trails up and down your neck, pausing every once in a while to suck marks into your skin. she pushes a hand into your shorts and you quick to grind down against it, needy moans falling from your lips.

sam rubs your clothed clit, “just fuck me already, sammy, need it.” sam pulls your underwear to the side, swiping a finger through your soaked folds.

“fuck,” she groans. her hand holding your hip moving to wrap around your waist. “so wet, all for me?” you nod frantically, needy moans falling from your lips when sam prods your entrance with her fingers.

“yeah, all for you, promise. js’,” you pause for a moment, bucking your hips into her hand, “please.”

sam sinks two fingers into your cunt, curling them slowly, before pulling out completely, spreading your wetness to your clit. you let out quiet whimpers at the stimulation, her fingers gently teasing your pulsing clit. you call her name in a quiet whisper. its a plead you can’t help but let out. her actions send waves of heat surging throughout your body.

“hmm?” she hums against the skin of your neck, pulling you impossibly closer to her as her fingers sink back into your cunt. she’s gentle despite the aggression she took out on her drums mere minutes before.

she thrusts her fingers into you rhythmically, curling them to hit the spot that has you biting your lip to suppress the noises that threaten to slip out. sam’s free hand moves to cradle your haw, thumb tugging at your lip. she tsks, “none of that, you wanted me, let me hear you.” the demanding tone in her voice draws a whine from you. sam’s thumb grazes your clit and your hips jerk at the feeling.

its not long before you’re teetering on the edge of your orgasm, sam’s thumb rubbing tight circles around your clit, finger’s pumping in and out of your dripping cunt so deliciously. the sound of your brother’s car has you whining against her neck, “better hurry up before they come in. wouldn’t want them seein’, hmm?” you let out a loud moan, biting her shoulder in an attempt to keep yourself quiet. sam lets out a hiss at the feeling. “unless thats what you wanted. wanted em’ to see you all slutted out for me.”

“no! no, please, fuck, no don’t want em’,” your sentence is cut off when sam’s fingers curl into you.

“come on then, cum for me,” she mumbles. your orgasm hits you seconds later, loud moans muffled in her neck. same pulls out of you, bring her fingers up to her mouth and licking them clean. the motion has you stifling a moan that threatens to escape. the sound of the large garage door opening has you pushing yourself off of sam’s lap, still struggling to catch your breath.

“go,” you mumble, cheeks warm from your previous activities. sam doesn’t move, her lips twitched up into a teasing smirk.

“why? don’t want em’ to see how much of a slut you are for me?” you roll your eyes, heat building in your core.

“shut up, sam. go.” sam smiles, pushing herself off of the couch.

“same time next week?” she jokes, walking back to the garage. you roll your eyes at her, a soft smile etching its way onto your lips.

“idiot,” you mumble beneath your breath.

reblogs much appreciated :D

[daisykihannie]

𝚂𝚠𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 | 𝙺.𝙷𝙹

Pairing: Hongjoong x afab!Reader

Warnings: Smut, nsfw, weird, established relationship, p in v, unprotected sex, fluff, crack, body swapped, kind of self-sex?? etc.

A/N: My brain is running on approximately 3hrs of sleep and my brain had a blurb and i cannot go to sleep until i get this written. Also, i couldn’t decide who to write this for sooooo Hongjoongie it is<3

When you woke up this morning, you felt the weight of your boyfriend’s head on your chest. Apparently at some point in the night he started clinging to you instead of you clinging to him. You weren’t really sure how, why, or when the two of you swapped sides on the bed but he was now sleeping to the left of you.

Your eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep and you went to stretch just your legs a bit so that you wouldn’t move too much and wake him. Your foot collided with the wall, further proof that you were currently sleeping on Hongjoong’s side of the bed but why were you so cramped on a king sized bed?

Shaking off the compiling thoughts all correlating to your current position, you looked down to your chest, wanting to see how adorable he’d look clinging to you like a koala. Instead you were met with a mop of hair that was not your boyfriends. Actually it was your hair and your face and your body pressed against… Hongjoong’s body?

You were looking at your form on top of Hongjoong’s but from Hongjoong’s point of view. After who knows how long of just staring, your brain finally caught up and in the blink of an eye you were scrambling away from your body. You tripped over the covers you didn’t think to throw off first and landed hard on the floor before moving further away. You stared at the stirring figure in bed as you increased the distance between the two of you until your back collided with the full length mirror in the corner of your room that was pointed towards the bed.

“Mmmm” Hongjoong grumbled and sat up with a yawn, still not opening his eyes or- your eyes? You were far past the point of confusion and your brain was constantly misfiring while trying to comprehend your current situation.

Your boyfriend scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand as he spoke, “What’s wrong?” his voice was low but it was significantly higher than normal considering it was actually your voice and not his. “Why do I sound-“ his sentence was cut off when he finally opened his eyes and looked at you and instead of seeing his partner, he was staring at himself and his partner was actually visible in the reflection of the mirror, staring back at him.

His eyes grow wide and they flicked back and forth between himself and the reflection in the mirror, his brain was probably going through the same agonizing misfiring as your own but neither of you were fully panicking for some reason. Had it not fully caught up with you two yet? Were you both too tired to care? No, you both cared, a lot really, but maybe it just wasn’t all that scary since you two were dating and have been together for years.

“D-did we- are you- am i-“ Hongjoong couldn’t finish a single string of words and his thoughts weren’t any better. You just nodded, wide eyes locked with the others as you both silently worked through everything in your heads. “We…” Hongjoong started. “Body… swapped…” you spoke for the first time, slightly jumping from the startling and unfamiliar bass in your voice. This is fucking insane.

“o…kay…” that single word that your boyfriend spoke was heavy and drawn out. The reality finally fully settling in now and you tried to get off the floor but your legs were far too weak to hold your weight, the adrenaline causing your knees to buckle and you fell back to the floor. Hongjoong, seeing you falling, moved to try and catch you but you met the floor first. His own knees buckled only a short distance from you as well, causing his knees to meet the floor harshly.

You both looked at each other and your non-functioning legs and you were the first one to start giggling, trying to hold them in but when Hongjoong burst into his own explosive fit of laughter, trying to hold them in was useless and you two were both giggling messes. After a long fit of laughing, you both ended up clutching your sides when they began to ache.

Hongjoong had your body doubled over the arm around his abdomen and you had Hongjoong’s body on its back on the floor, writhing around and kicking his legs. It took a minute of heavy breathing for you two to stop laughing and just looked at each other. Even though you were kind of looking at yourselves, that same expression full of love and adoration was visible in each other’s eyes.

“So um- Babe?” you called out and he tilted his head slightly to the side, showing he was listening. “Why is your dick hard?” you asked, a redness creeping up your neck. “Huh?” he asked and looked down at his body’s groin, momentarily forgetting that he didn’t have his dick anymore. “My body doesn’t have a dick.” you coo teasingly and Hongjoong looks to your body, seeing the tent that was obvious in the loose fitting plaid pajama pants he wore.

“Oh. I guess even with your brain, my body still reacts to you the same as if it was my brain in there.” he says and reaches forward to start stroking the hard-on you were sporting. Your body jolted away from his touch at the unfamiliar feeling, letting out a soft gasp. “Sorry- that felt… weird.” the blush that had settled into a soft pink was bright red again with embarrassment.

“It’s okay baby. How about i help you out yeah? Since it’s my cock, i know what feels good.” He suggested and you took a moment to think about it, cock twitching in excitement at the thought. “I have always wondered what you feel like when you fuck me…” you trailed off, looking away from your boyfriend who was still staring at you. “Oh? Well, i guess you finally get to find out.” his tone sensual but completely different than the low growl his own vocal cords normally took on.

He held his hand out to you so he could help you get to the bed. It was weird to be led to the bed by your slightly smaller body, to be dominated by yourself but kissing felt mostly the same considering you could close your eyes. But when your pants were removed and you felt that first stripe licked up the underside of your cock, you couldn’t help the deep guttural groan that escaped you. When warm lips wrapped around the head and a soft tongue was moving up and down in tandem with the plush pink muscle moving up and down your length, you couldn’t help the way your hips bucked and spasmed at the overwhelming feeling.

This was a completely different experience than getting head normally. Hongjoong knew what he was doing from learning what does and doesn’t feel good during blowjobs. He knew exactly what spots were most sensitive and made sure to focus on those. It didn’t seem to bother him that he was technically sucking his own cock which only helped him to fully fit into his role.

Once you felt a familiar knot begin forming in your lower stomach, the muscles of Hongjoong’s abs constricting ever so slightly and your moans growing more airy, he pulled off with a pop. You whined at the ruined orgasm but you knew that he only stopped because if you came now, you wouldn’t get to feel what it’s like for Hongjoong to fuck you.

After a few moments of the both of you breathing heavily, he was climbing up your body. He sat himself on your pelvis and pulled the pajama shorts, on his temporary body, to the side to expose your dripping cunt. He began to roll his hips over the expanse of his cock, fully drenching it in your fluids.

Neither of you could contain the soft, airy moans that left your throats at the new feeling. Once you were both well lubed with your fluids, he lifted his hips off your pelvis. He reached in front of himself to grab his cock and line it up with your hole. He lined it up and then took a deep breath, feeling nervous for the first time now that he realized he was about to be impaled by a cock.

His larger hands met the hip bones of your body and began to massage them soothingly. “Baby, remember that it’s my body. My body is comfortable taking your cock. It’s nothing new to the body you’re in so it’ll only feel good.” you reassured him and that seemed to help him a bit but he was still struggling to physically impale himself.

“Here, let me help.” you said and got a tighter grip on his hips, moving him just low enough for the tip to be inside so he wouldn’t have to hold his cock anymore. “You can let go now, grab my hands so you’re holding them.” you cooed and he did that, grabbing the backs of your hands that remain on his hips. Once his breathing calmed and he nodded softly, you began moving him further onto your cock.

He took it inch by inch, the stretch causing his jaw to go slack in a silent moan and his thighs began to quiver at the overwhelming amount of pleasure he was feeling. You weren’t really fairing much better, once your cock was buried to the hilt and Hongjoong was able to relax and just rest with your cock buried inside him, you felt his hole tensing over your length.

“oh- fuck. Is- is that what it- shit! f-feels like when- when my pussy f-f-flutters?” speaking was extra hard with the overwhelming, and very very new, sensations you were feeling. It was so wet, warm and tight inside of him. It was like your cock was wrapped in the softest, wettest, and somehow the most tingling sponges ever. It was heavenly.

He nodded and let out a shuddering breath. “I d-didn’t think about h-how every time we fuck… oh shit… your pussy m-muscles have to st-stretch like this…” he was not keeping his composure as well as he normally did. “F-feel good?” you ask, lungs still heaving but getting better. He nodded with his eyes still shut. “s-so fucking good.” he moaned out and did an experimental roll of his hips.

“Fuck… i’m not g-gonna last long Jagi…” he whimpered softly, voice cracking slightly. “I-it’s okay joonie… I’m n-not either.” you replied, a moan following as he began bouncing up and down despite his legs shaking. You grabbed his hips and held him in place an inch or two above your pelvis. You bent your knees to give yourself some leverage to move, “let me.” was all you said and Hongjoong was grateful for the offer because he was incredible sensitive everywhere and his brain was struggling.

You began to jack hammer into his body, the way you love being fucked the most, punching wanton moans from him and grunts from yourself. You were both crying out each others names and a lot of “Fuck”s,”shit”s, and ”oh my god”s. It didn’t take long for the knot in your abdomen to snap, slamming his smaller frame down hard on top of yourself as you spilled inside of him and his body began convulsing through its own orgasm.

After a few moments, both your bodies collapsed from exhaustion, his body becoming dead weight on top of yours while your cock was still buried inside him. At that moment it was like someone clapped and you were now on top of him, his cock buried inside you. “oh thank fuck-“ you groaned, feeling more at peace now that you were back in your own body.

“Holy fuck… we both had the most insane orgasms and we swap back… how fucked is that.” a spiteful chuckle left his chest after he finished speaking, both of you a bit too exhausted to care about anything more than being in your own bodies again and being held by the person who had become your home, in post orgasm bliss.

[aemondapologistfrfr]

Does the Devil Have a Name?

modern!aegon x fem!reader 

Summary: Your friends drag you to a halloween party that you had no intention of going to. After meeting the host you’re thankful they made you come. 

Warnings: 18+ swearing, drinking, drugs, oral(f receiving), p in v, unprotected

Authors Note: the plot is i love this man and i have to have him 🧎🏼‍♀️inspired by that tvd scene bc it was life changing but instead of i feel so close to you it’s more like slow down by chase atlantic 

Word Count: 3k

⊹˚₊‧꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

I stare at my friends with a straight face as they try and pry me from my bed. I wrap my hands around my headboard as they pull my ankles. One of them starts to pluck my fingers and I gasp as I’m flung off the bed. The three of us land on the ground in a fit of laughter as I push them off of me. 

“It’s a Friday night and you need to get over him. You can do so much better.” I roll my eyes at my friend Krystal’s words and try to crawl back up my bed. 

“Absolutely not.” Rhiannon says pulling me back. “Go take a shower and we’ll go grab your costume from the car.” 

“What do you mean my costume from the car?” I look at them with raised eyebrows. 

“We knew you wouldn’t buy one for yourself because we knew you would try and back out of it.. so we got you a costume.” Krystal smiles pulling me to my feet. 

“What kind of costume?” I glare at them. 

“It’s a surprise. Go start getting ready.” Rhiannon nods her head to the bathroom and I drag my feet across the floor and slam the door shut. 

I know they mean well but I had full intentions of bed rotting and watching movies all weekend. I turn the shower on and connect my phone to my speaker before letting the steam consume me. I come out with my hair and body wrapped up in a towel and enter my room to see my friends giggling and setting out a costume. 

“Let’s see then.” I walk over to the bed looking down at the costume. “Are you fucking kidding?” I look at my friends who fall back into a fit of giggles. 

“You don’t like it?” Krystal says wiping her eyes. 

“It’s just the most cliche option you guys could’ve picked.” I say snatching up the white feathered wings. “A fucking angel.” I sigh shaking my head at the ceiling. 

“Just put it on. You’re going to look perfect.” Rhiannon coos. 

I grab the white mini dress and push into my closet. I pull the dress on and look at myself in the mirror. I walk back out to my friends and they shower me with compliments. We all begin to work on hair and makeup before adding finishing touches to each other. I slip on my wings and they place a halo around my head and pull me out of the front doors. We slide into the uber and I look out the window wondering how I allowed them to drag me along. 

“Enough with the pouting. Here.” Rhiannon shoves a pen in my hand and I inhale deeply before blowing it out the window. 

“This is a smoke free uber.” the man says. 

“I’m sorry. Do you want a hit?” I raise my eyebrow at him in the mirror. 

“No, put it away.” I chuckle at his words before handing it back to Rhiannon. 

The drive is longer than I anticipated but soon we’re pulling up to a massive house surrounded by cars. The uber stops in the center of the road and we quickly get out and start walking up the walkway. I hold my hand out for the pen again and we all pass it back and forth before we make it to the front door. 

“Host says angels get in for free.” the man at the front door nods his head back into the sea of people and I shrug and enter leaving my friends behind. 

There was no way I was paying to enter a party I didn’t want to attend anyway. I turn and they come up behind me with smiles as we look around the house. Cheap halloween decorations are taped to the walls and ceiling and I smile at the drink table. I turn to see if my friends will come with and they seem to have found their own way. 

“Of course,” I mumble. A new song starts and the bass has my body thrumming. I look over the array of drinks and bottles and settle for their jungle juice. I take a sip and almost cough as it slides down my throat. It’s like they put every liquor known to man in here with a splash of fruit punch. 

“Angels can have better drinks.” I turn around at the velvet voice and see a man in a beautiful red suit with dark horns poking out of his head of silver locks. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a bad idea. 

“Where are these better drinks?” I look him over and smirk. 

“Come,” his fingers lace with mine as he brings me to the kitchen. This must be one of the only off limit places surprisingly. The lights are dim as he snakes us around the counter and opens up the cabinet. 

“Are you running a bar?” I laugh as I take in all the bottles and mixers.

“No, I’m hosting a party.” he grins pulling out a whiskey. 

“Absolutely not, that will turn me into a menace.” he barks out a laugh at my words and pulls two shot glasses down. 

“Just a shot, angel.” he licks his lips. 

“You’re a bad influence.” I grab the bottle from him and pour us an overflowing shot each. We tap the shot and down it. I shiver as the amber liquid burns going down. 

“Not so bad, right?” he smiles as I grab my chest rubbing it.

“You might be the actual devil.” I clear my throat laughing. 

“I never said I wasn’t.” he starts rummaging through cabinets. 

“Mm, and does the devil have a name?” I lean against the counter. 

“Aegon,” he turns with a wicked smile. “What is my angels name?” he hums walking toward me with a clear bottle. 

“Y/n,” I watch him grab a shaker and start making me a drink. I lean over the counter and watch him as he pours it into a glass. 

“Try this.” he smiles sliding it over to me. I bring the glass to my lips and take a sip. 

“Damn,” I sigh. “That’s like really fucking good.” he smiles at my words and begins to prepare himself a drink. 

“Thank you,” I don’t miss his cheeks reddening. 

“The devil blushes?” I giggle and his eyes snap to mine. “Who would’ve thought?” 

“I didn’t know that angels teased people.” he raises an eyebrow to me with an amused expression. 

“Is that teasing to you, Aegon?” I let his name come out a little breathier as I lean over to show him more cleavage. 

“What a naughty angel.” he tsks looking to me with dark eyes. I finish my drink and he looks to me as he downs his. “Dance with me.” it’s not a question and it doesn’t need to be at how fast I’m nodding my head. 

He comes around the counter and grabs my hand tugging me back into the party. He weaves us through the sea of people until we’re surrounded and pulls me against him. My hands land on his chest and I’m quickly sliding them up around his neck. The hand on my lower back is keeping me mended to him and the hand on my upper back travels to my hair as he tilts my head. I smile at him with low lids waiting. 

His lips crash to mine and I hold him against me. My hands behind his neck slide into his hair as we continue to move with the music. He presses his lips down my jaw until he’s nibbling at my neck. I gasp holding him against me as we move against one another. He licks across my throat before going to the other side and I don’t hold back my moan. He chuckles against my neck and pulls up to look at me and hovers his lips above mine.

“I would say that’s teasing.” he licks across my lower lip and pulls back. One of my hands travel down between our knit bodies and stops against his erection. 

“Seems like you got more worked up than I did though.” I squeeze against him before bringing my hand up his chest. 

“I need to have you right now.” his pupils blown. 

“We just started dancing.” I pout biting my lip. 

“Real quick.” he pulls me from the crowd and back into the kitchen. He has me bent over the counter the second the door clicks shut and is pulling my dress up. I press my cheek against the marble as he pulls my panties to the side and tracks his fingers through my wetness as I squirm. 

“You’re dripping.” he groans as he removes his fingers. I hear his zipper and soon he’s pressing into me. 

“Fuck Aegon,” I moan as he stretches me open. 

“I’m gunna fuck you real quick then we’re going back to my party.” he pulls out and dips back in. “Then I’m gunna kick everyone out and absolutely devour you.” his hips snap against me as my walls hug around him. 

His fingers dig into my ass as I push back into him. I whine as I feel my pleasure begin to build. With every roll of his hips I’m gasping and searching for something to hold on to. His fingers find my bundle of nerves pulling a moan from my lips. I give up trying to find something to steady myself on and let him slide me against the counter as I feel my high approaching. 

“Gods look at you just taking it.” he grunts as his rhythm speeds. His fingers push me over the edge as I start to pulse around him. He curses as his hips still and I feel him fill me. He slides my panties back and pulls my dress back down. I continue to rest against the counter trying to catch my breath. He pulls me up chuckling as I look to him with pleasure glazed eyes. 

“Another drink?” I turn to him and smile at his words. He makes us drinks to bring out to the party and brings us back out. 

“Where have you been?” I turn at Rhiannon’s voice. 

“With him?” I nod my head to Aegon. 

“And who is him?” she raises her eyebrow at us. 

“The devil.” 

“Aegon.” he says at the same time. 

“They’re pretty interchangeable.” he laughs at my words. 

“How did you two meet?” she looks to me. 

“The drink table. A match made in heaven.” I sigh batting my eyelashes. 

“There you are.” Krystal sighs walking up to us. 

“And here I go.” I say not in the mood for another interrogation. I pull Aegon along with me back into the crowd. They wanted me to have fun and forget so it shouldn’t be a big deal. “I wanna dance again.” I pull him against me and he dips down to my ear. 

“It’ll end the same way it did last time.” I gasp as his hand gives me a quick spank. 

“You said you would kick everyone out next time.” I hum licking across his neck. 

“Don’t tempt me.” his fingers squeeze my waist. 

“Kick them out and we can party alone.” I softly bite his neck and I hear him moan. He pulls me back and I hear him take a deep breath. 

“Alright, everybody out.” his voice carries around the room and the music stops. “Party’s done. Go home.” people start muttering and filtering out. 

He gets a few of his friends to make sure everyone leaves while I text my friends to get an uber and I’ll get home on my own. It took a FaceTime call to prove I wasn’t being kidnapped or forced before they relented. He tugs me up the stairs and pushes open the doors to his room. I step in and his hands are immediately on me. 

“I hope someone told you how good you looked tonight before I take this off.” my hands slide up to his shoulders as I start to pull off his suit jacket. 

“Tell me.” he chuckles as I start on his buttons. 

“When I first saw you I hoped I would end the night with you between my thighs.” I hum pulling off his shirt and running my nails down his chest as he groans. 

“I was searching for my angel all night and when you came to the drink table I felt my cock throb for you in this tight dress.” he pulls the zipper on my dress and pushes it off my body. His hands grab my exposed breasts and my body hums at his touch. I start to push off his pants and he’s stepping out of them backing us up to the bed. My knees hit the bed as I fall back and he kneels before me. 

“Who would’ve thought the devil would be on his knees.” I look down with a smirk. 

He chuckles and pulls my panties off slowly. His lips brush against my leg as he makes it between my thighs. He bites down on my soft flesh and I gasp sitting up to watch him. When his tongue slides up my center I fall back again with a moan. He slowly circles my bud as I move against his mouth. 

“Aegon,” his name falls from my lips and he chuckles against me. He slides two fingers into my core and I cry bringing a hand to his hair. He pulls me closer to him before curling his fingers. My legs start to shake around him as he relentlessly pushes them into me. The pleasure becomes too much and I come undone squeezing my legs around his head. I cry out his name again as he keeps wringing pleasure from me. His tongue moves even faster and I’m trembling above him. 

“Yes, Aegon, please,” I mewl arching of the bed. His fingers never falter as he adds a third. My breath is coming out in pants as I feel my high building again. My hand leaves his hair and joins my other on my chest. He groans into me watching me roll my nipples. Our eyes lock as lashes against me. My breath catches and I burst across his face. He pulls up and looks down at me with a wet face. 

“You taste absolutely divine, angel.” he kisses up my body stopping at my breasts. He sucks a nipple into his mouth and teases it with his teeth. He licks across my chest to give the same attention to my other peak as I push my chest into his face. His lips trail up my jaw before crashing his lips to mine in a bruising kiss. He nibbles on my lower lip before pushing his tongue into my mouth. I bring my hand between us and wrap around his hardness. I stroke against him and he moans into my mouth. I trail his tip through my wetness and whine into his mouth as it brushes against my bud. 

“Fuck me, please,” he chuckles at my words. 

“Line me up, you’re the one teasing yourself.” I slide him through my wetness and lift my hips when he’s at my entrance. He won’t push in and I whine frustrated. “Look at you begging and squirming.” 

“Aegon, ple-“ he snaps his hips into me taking my breath from my lungs. 

“This what you wanted?” he chuckles as I nod my head as moans continue to pour from me. He slows his pumps and my toes curl feeling every inch sliding in and out. He nibbles at my neck letting his hair tickle my chest. 

“Faster.” I buck my hips up into his. 

“Mm but I like the feel of you shaking beneath me.” he hums into my neck grinding himself into me. Every time his hips are flush against mine he rolls them perfectly to brush against my wanting bud. I wrap my legs around him hoping it’ll get him to move faster but all I got was a grunt.

“Please, please Aegon.” I beg as I’m on the cusp of pleasure. 

“Okay angel.” he shushes before he starts to swirl his fingers around my bud. My legs hold him close as he pulls pleasure from me. His fingers move quickly and with his slow pace my eyes are rolling back as I pulse around him. The second he feels this he starts pounding into me. My pleasure feels like it goes on forever until I can catch my breath. 

My nails dig into his shoulders as he continues to rut into me. Whimpers flow from my mouth before he presses his lips against mine to swallow them. His pace falters slightly and I know his pleasure is close. I clench around him and he moans into my mouth. 

“You’re so naughty.” he chuckles against my lips before dipping back down to kiss them again. I whine into his mouth as he pushes into me faster. His fingers swirl my bud and my body goes taught as my high slams through me. He gives one last harsh thrust before he’s filling me. He slowly jerks into me causing us both to whimper before he pulls out. 

“Gods Aegon,” I sigh. “You fuck so good.” I turn my head and see his smile. He pulls me on top of him and we continue to get lost in each other for the rest of the night. 

⊹˚₊‧꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

masterlist 🔌 

i was this 🤏🏼 close to making vampire!aegon jk unless 🫣 it’s actually in the works

taglist ✍️

@clarityisnofun @gabriella-aesthetic @callsignwidow @llynx7 @violetiss3lfish @ka1afbr @akiko-oo @papichulo120627 @lizzylovebooks280501 @thatgirl101blog @ashovertheriver @zanygot7straykidsbonk @hueanhdang @malfoycassimalfoy @april-notthemonth69 @anaviieiraaa @p45510n4f4shi0n @neocockthotology @thereaderwitch

[salmonskinrolltf]

Hey there. A little bit about me? I'm a tall, mostly attractive actor from Iowa now living in New York. My chest hair won't stop growing, and I'm always cast as the awkward, gay comic relief in shows. I guess that's why I'm here. It's silly but I've always had a crush on The Situation and most of the cast of the Jersey Shore. I was hoping to rent one of seasons before I have an audition for a more manly part I'm going in for.

[Thank you so much to everybody who submitted requests! I have nothing close to the bandwidth to get to all of them, so this is going to be my final Be Kind Rewind post for the time being. I’ve got so many other types of stories I’m excited to work on as soon as I’m able, but I do apologize if your request wasn’t selected! Here’s a bit of a long one though, as a finale.

This is a gay-to-straight story. If you’re not into that, feel free to keep scrolling, but I bet you'll like it anyway. Read my G2S ethos here.]

You eagerly rip open your Be Kind Rewind delivery and a die falls into your hand. Oh yeah, their weird promotion thing. You toss it on the coffee table, not noticing that it lands on 5. You’re too busy pulling out the Jersey Shore tape you ordered, excited to have access to one of your favorite guilty pleasures and use it as research for a particularly manly role you’re hoping to score, which could finally break you out of being typecast as awkward and effeminate.

As you push the tape into your TV’s built-in VCR (that you could have sworn wasn’t there when you bought it), you realize it’s already at the end credits, so you hit rewind. While you wait for the tape to be ready, you decide to run your lines some more.

“Hey baby, why don’t you bring that fine ass over here?” you say, cringing at how utterly wrong those words sound coming out of your mouth. You sound like a nervous pre-teen at a school dance, not the overconfident douchebag that the part requires.

You clear your throat and repeat the line, trying to artificially deepen your voice when you say it.

“Hey baby, why don’t you bring that fine ass over here?” you say, your throat tingling as it delivers the words in a perfectly sultry, slurred bass, with a hint of a New Jersey accent. Holy shit! You nailed it!

“Hell yeah, bro!” you shout, pumping your fist, too excited to notice the uncharacteristic slang you unconsciously used. You decide to see if you can replicate the voice for the other lines on your sides, and each word comes out perfectly.

“You’re looking fly, my man,” you say, dapping up an invisible buddy. Fuck yeah, that line sounded even more perfect than the last one! The deep tones of your voice echo through the empty room. You don’t even notice as the color leaches from your pants and they grow baggy and thin. However, you can’t help but be aware of the cold sensation slithering across the back of your neck, wrapping around the front to form a tight circle that feels like a necklace chain. A golden metal knot at the end of the loop seems to be stretching the circle with its weight, pulling it down toward your shirt collar.

It never makes it to your collar. The neckline of your shirt begins to scoop lower and lower as the knot progresses downward, the crew neck becoming a V, expanding into a deep V, and eventually stretching into a drooping U that leaves your shirt loose and baggy, practically exposing your nipples. The necklace and the shirt seem to be racing toward your navel, and the shirt wins. The necklace gives up somewhere around your chest, the knot unfurling into a golden cross that rests between your slightly toned pecs. Conversely, your shirt collar goes all the way down to the bottom, splitting the fabric in two as the color fades to black and the edges sprout rows of metallic teeth, becoming a zipper.

Now, you consider yourself plenty attractive, but you still feel self conscious and exposed with your entire torso hanging out, even if you’re completely at a loss to understand how this is even happening. You link the zipper together and pull on the tab, trying to cover yourself with the strange new garment that has appeared on your body. But something stops you from zipping up too far past your belly button. You suppose you’re subconsciously afraid of getting your hand anywhere near the magical necklace that suddenly appeared on you. Sure, that must be it.

However, thinking of the necklace makes you freak out a bit, so you decide to try and take it off. When you reach up to unclasp it, your fingers thrum with energy and you feel a sudden urge to keep rehearsing your lines. Yeah… Maybe the getup will help you embrace the character.

“When you look like I do, bro, you don’t gotta fuck with dating apps,” you say. Although you were still perturbed, this line also came out perfectly. You decide to lean into whatever strange thing is happening because, even if it’s fucked up, you’re definitely getting this part. In fact, you’re even starting to move like your character. You just scratched your chest by reaching under the hem of your hoodie and exposing a strip of your abdomen in the process.

You repeat the line, hooking your thumbs under the open part of your zipper, flaunting your chest. As the last word rings out in a perfect, reverberating tone, your chest swells with pride. No, wait, it’s just plain swelling. Your toned chest becomes downright swole, like someone has taken a bicycle pump to your pecs. Six bulging abs surface from your stomach beneath them, forming neat rows while your biceps and quads inflate to twice their previous size.

Although the hoodie now clings more tightly to your expanding mass, you can still see your belly button if you look down. That’s how you notice the tribal tattoo inking its way in a curlicue pattern around your navel, licks of inking flame forming the shape of the Sun. You chuckle deeply. Thinking about the solar system, you laugh at the fact that this tattoo makes it seem like the world revolves around your abs. Hell, you think, if you had abs like that, you’d probably agree. Wait a minute… For whatever reason, you DO have abs like that. Fuck…

You walk over to the mirror, admiring your new physique. You flex, enjoying how your muscles bulge, even through your clothes. You’re flooded with a surge of confidence and you rub your crotch, thinking about how hot you look.

A deep tan color emanates from the tattoo around your belly button, engulfing your old skin tone in an orangey brown, spreading over your legs, chest, back, and even face. You give a little smirk, embracing the newfound changes. You notice that the expression is one your face has never made before. It’s contemptuous, commanding.

You’re an actor. You need to hone your craft. You try out a few more expressions that you’ve seen on sleazy guys at bars. Condescending. Seductive. Proud. Angry. Each one looks completely new on your face, yet perfect, probably because your bone structure has been quietly shifting to give you high cheekbones and a sharp jaw.

You rub your bulging muscles one more time, annoyed by how much hair covers them. You’d have to wax at least once a week if you wanted to show off this definition properly. However, as you rub, there is less and less hair rustling between your fingers. You lift up your hands to see baby-smooth patches of skin beneath where they rested. Enthused, you scrub your hands up and down your body, the hair vanishing like marker from a dry-erase board. Once, you’re done, you admire your perfectly smooth and shiny figure.

However, that hair as has to go SOMEwhere, as it turns out. Your armpits, which were feeling more and more resistance as you moved your hands, are now bristling with jet black hair. You lift up one arm and give a tentative sniff, your nose flooding with a ripe musk. You try to swipe the hair away with your hand, but it won’t budge. You shrug. Nothing a little Axe body spray won’t fix.

That thought surprises you, because you’re pretty sure you use a different type of deodorant. However, you suddenly can’t remember the brand. And the mist of Axe floating around the room certainly suggests you use it all the time. Oh well. Chalk it up as one more weird thing about this afternoon.

The hair growth as clearly also affected the top of your head. Your hair is growing out into haphazard spikes that jut from the top of your head, forming tapered cones that begin to shine as if they’ve been coated in a year’s worth of gel.

You look… ridiculous? No. Douchey? No. Fucking hot? Hell yeah, bro.

You return to your script, fiddling with your hair to give it the perfect spiky muss at the back.

“Bros before hoes, dude! You know that!” It sounds like your character really believes that line as it comes out of your mouth. And why wouldn’t he? Hoes might be a good distraction for a night of fun, but bros are for life. Your memories of dancing the night away at gay clubs begin to morph. You’re still dancing with a group of men, but now they’re all spray-tanned, juiced-up Jersey Shore rejects rather than fashionable young gays. And you’re still rocking a half-chub in your memory, but it’s from watching a female go-go dancer shaking her moneymaker on a platform, rather than you grinding up against some cute twink or other.

You groan deeply as the memory tugs against the core of your identity. You look hot now, and you’re gonna get the role, but you don’t want to lose EVERYTHING. But it’s too late. It feels like your mind is expanding, but not in a Limitless kind of way. Instead, each individual thought you have becomes much, much bigger, taking up more brain space than it used to. Your memories of ex-boyfriends, Pride parades, and anything even remotely gay begin to circle the drain of your cerebellum, washed away by just a few base urges. Partying. Playing beach volleyball. Hitting on chicks.

You grab your script again to recite a few more lines, but the words start swimming in front of your face. It’s not that you can’t read. It’s just that, suddenly, reading is the last thing in the world you want to be doing. A sudden craving for beer pops into your head. It's the biggest thought yet. It shoves almost everything else out, and you drop the paper on the ground, where it vanishes into thin air while the room around you transforms into a beachside cabana.

You emerge into the dusty sunset of the Jersey Shore, admiring a few hot babes in bikinis who wander by while you make your way to the store. You lift up your shirt to show off your abs to a few of the hottest ones.

You pick up two six-packs of beer at the store and, why the fuck not, a pack of condoms, along with some other snacks and supplies. You decide to hit up the clothing store on the way back for some new threads, because your impulses are ruling you like never before. As you head to the checkout, you spot the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. You almost drop your beer, she’s so hot. Your dick is already stiffening as you say, “Hey baby, why don’t you bring that fine ass over here?”

[iwritestuffthatiobsessover]

Ninjago headcanons from an elder fan

Part II

Zane has the most blunt humor out of all the ninja. And it's so subtle that only Cole will catch on and that is rare. He's actually really funny.

Zane is also Cole's mountain climbing buddy, considering he's the only one that can keep up. However, if it's too hot, Zane prefers to stay behind.

Lloyd still acts like a little shit sometimes. He might pull pranks or catch a bribe here and there. He grew up as a bad kid so he knows all of the tips and tricks.

Nya outsmarts him though.

She was also a bad kid growing up, but she was a lot more subtle with it.

That's why Kai doesn't fall for anything she throws at him.

Yes, the ninja still release music from time to time. Instead of that quartet act, they all actually picked up an instrument.

Zane had bass, Kai vocals, Jay guitar, and Cole got drums. (Totally reflecting The Fold here).

Their songs popped off and they're still being listened to, and they release music form time to time. Fr rockstar playboys energy. And they make cheesy music videos so go along with some songs too.

Kai is the biggest on interacting with the fans. He live posts, signs autographs, sends personal videos, and often spends his free time inflating his ego reading comments on his posts.

Half is to feed his ego but the other half is genuinely being a good person and making his fans feel important.

Remember the last post about them all having motocycles? Yeah, fans will wave to them or get them to sign something if they're stopped at a red light. Or they'll wave at kids and give fist bumps.

Motorcycles are just easy accessible when about and about in the city compared to their elemental dragons or other vehicles.

The way they get along also reflects on how their elements interact with each other.

Nya & Zane = Ice and water practically go hand in hand

Cole & Jay = Lightning always strikes the highest point of earth

Kai & Zane = Don't really get along too well but they are content with each other

Nya & Cole = Water meets the land, but the waves can be quite brash, aka their personalities clash a lot. (Another reason why she didn't end up with Cole).

Cole will often use his friends as a bench press while they read or scroll through their phone. Lloyd has tried to take on this habit but it did not work out in his favor (he dropped Nya).

Whenever Nya is acting super serious or focused on something, Jay will get this stupid dorky smile on his face while he watches her.

She tries not to notice but his staring is distracting most times.

And if she confronts him or tells him to stop she get get attack in a flurry of kisses until she laughs.

[whenyoufellfromheaven]

WHEN YOU FELL FROM HEAVEN

by Alyson Greaves

Expand this post to read the first three chapters for free, right here!

How to Fly, book one of When You Fell from Heaven, which comprises the first ten chapters of the story, is available:

On Amazon, for Kindle and in Paperback.

As an ebook from these online stores.

Or from Itch.io.

Or you can read all current chapters on my Patreon! Subscribing to my Patreon at the $5 tier will get you all fifteen chapters (so far) of When You Fell from Heaven. You will also get access to my ongoing stories The Catch, a forced-fem riff on Fifty Shades with illustrations by Emory Ahlberg, and Kimmy, a horrifying take on the Halloween costume that won’t let you out. And you’ll get the full epub of the revised version of Show Girl, my egg-cracking trans romance, and access to chapters of The Sisters of Dorley two weeks early!

One

THE BOY WITH THE RUBBER BAND IN HIS HAIR

He thought there would be more palm trees.

The car bounces off a pothole and wakes him from a restless sleep, and Max’s first thought, when he pushes himself up in the back seat and stares out the window, is that California doesn’t look like California. His whole life, California’s been a near-mythical paradise, drenched in sun, scattered with palm trees and populated entirely by beautiful people. But all he sees is just more America. More of the same suburbs they’ve seen, on and off, for the five days of their journey. It looks almost exactly like Rock Falls, the nowhere town in the middle of the country they spent a whole day walking around because Dad needed a break from driving. The same strip malls, the same absurdly wide streets, the same endless sky.

It’s just brighter here. More painful to look at.

After everything that happened, Max never expected to miss New York, but for the whole drive across the country he’s been feeling increasingly like an animal bred in captivity let suddenly out into the wild. Where’s the density? Where are the people?

All in their fucking cars, apparently. Same as him.

Screw this. He needs music.

His headphones must have slipped off while he was sleeping, because Clay’s holding them out for him. Max takes them, smiles at his brother in silent thanks, and thumbs blindly at his Discman until the first track starts again. The throaty rumble of someone seriously abusing a bass guitar immediately shuts out the rattle of the trailer and the hum of tires on asphalt, and Max turns back to the window to watch building after bleached building glide slowly by as they head for their new home, for his new life.

He doesn’t exactly have high hopes.

* * *

Taking the stairs two at a time—but sometimes jumping back up one just because she can—Taylor revels in her first Saturday alone in the house. Her parents are away all week! And that means she can do whatever she wants! Sure, she normally does whatever she wants anyway, but now she can do it without her mom complaining about the noise.

She sticks the landing in the front hall, bounces right into the living room, and collects the remote from its little holster on the side of Dad’s armchair without slowing down. The CD changer opens for her, prompting the whole stereo setup to light up like a space shuttle control board, and Taylor gets to work dumping out all of Mom and Dad’s boring old crap so she can listen to something good down here for a change. She’s got a handful of favorites on her, but she’s also got something that came out almost a month ago that she still hasn’t gotten to listen to on anything better than the crappy little portable stereo in her room. And as the speakers shake with the opening bars of Beyoncé’s Crazy in Love, Taylor readies the remote like a microphone and prepares to strut.

Holy shizz, she loves this song. She turns it up until the floor hums along.

Gordo should have been the one to get her this CD. She was excited about it for, like, ever, and he knows she loves Destiny’s Child, but did he remember? Nope with a big fat N, O, P and E. So she got it for herself a week late.

Freaking Gordo! He was supposed to come over today, help her take advantage of the parentals being away, but he’s flaked, which is more and more like him lately. Five texts on her Sidekick when she woke up, and not one of them was an apology! He’s preparing for college; he has football camp coming up; she wouldn’t understand.

Taylor scowls. It’s a sore point: no cheer camp this year. But Mom and Dad had the vacation booked anyway, and Garrett barely inhabits any part of the house that isn’t his room, the couch or the kitchen, so at least she has some time to relax.

Time in which she should stop thinking about her disappointing boyfriend.

Leaning into the beat, Taylor lets it lift her mood again, and when the final chorus comes around, she times her, “Yeah!” with a precise kick to the latch on the patio doors, opening the house to the summer breeze. As she dances out into the backyard, she points the remote back into the house and ups the volume another couple of notches.

Taylor lets the album play as she does some of her warm-up stretches. She’s not planning to go through her whole routine right now, but she can’t start the day without moving just a bit, and today she gets to do so to some loud music.

There’s a reason she always practices to music. Nothing gets her going like a beat and lyrics she can yell. And under any other circumstances, she might be a bit embarrassed, because her singing voice isn’t exactly great and it’s worse when she’s stretching a leg up over her head, but their neighbors on the right can’t get out into their backyard anymore without help from their grandchildren, and the house on the left’s been empty since—

Wait. It got sold, right? Isn’t someone moving in soon? Really soon? Like, today, maybe?

Shoot!

Given Taylor’s luck, they probably already moved in yesterday, and right now, cute boys are watching her out of their upstairs windows and laughing at how she almost fell flat on her face when she tried to do a handstand and sing Naughty Girl at the same time.

She shuts off the music, throws the remote down into the grass, and runs to the fence. There won’t be anybody there, she’s sure, but paranoia requires that she check.

Every house on this street is the same—on the outside, at least—and that means Taylor’s house has the same row of stubby trees against the privacy fence as their (potential) new neighbors. They’re staggered, so no tree interferes with any other, but together they provide enough cover that Taylor can stand on a lawn chair and peer over the fence and be pretty sure she can’t be seen.

Nobody in the rooms upstairs. And nobody in the backyard. Except now she’s switched off the music, she can hear noises from the front of the neighboring house, faint but growing louder: the growl of a large engine (a truck? or a regular car, towing a trailer?) and raised, bickering voices (boys?).

Then there’s movement inside the house. Curtains being swept aside, doors being propped open. People milling around. Taylor’s pretty sure she just saw someone dad-sized and -shaped staggering along with a huge box.

The back door opens, and Taylor lowers her head a little. Her blonde hair doesn’t exactly help with the whole camouflage thing, but what are the chances anybody’ll glance over at this exact section of fence? The backyards here are the size of football fields!

A figure emerges. Gotta be the mom. Looks like a mom, standard model, Italian-American variant: kinda tall, kinda middle-aged stocky, and her hair is incredible! She’s got it pinned but the volume! It’s straining to be set free, like a caged tiger, if a tiger was jet black and sort of lurked.

More like a caged panther, maybe.

The mom yells something back into the house—a New York accent! cool!—and the dad of the family comes out to meet her, and whoa. He’s not super tall, maybe an inch or two taller than his wife, but he is wide. Like if you took two people, trimmed off all the excess limbs, and smooshed them together. He’s like if puberty didn’t stop until you’re forty, and you just kept getting stockier and more hairy.

They talk a little, pointing out different things in the yard—none of them Taylor—and then they kiss, except they don’t just kiss, he dips her!

“Oh my goodness,” Taylor whispers. She can’t help herself; that was just so romantic! Married with kids and they still do that!

She remembers them now: they came looking around the neighborhood right at the start of the holidays. Mom offered them iced tea and they asked for regular coffee, and Taylor saw them for approximately three seconds, on her way through the kitchen to the front door. On second inspection, she likes them.

What was their name again? Something Italian, something with a G… Giordano, that was it! She remembers clearly now: when Taylor got back that night, Mom was going on about finally getting some ‘Italian flavor’ in the neighborhood, and Dad asked her what that meant, and she said something about tomatoes. Garrett, who was having one of his rare moments of consciousness, told them their heads would explode if they ever saw any actual diversity, and Taylor told him he smelled like weed again.

Another fun night in the Scott household.

Mom Giordano kisses Dad Giordano again and they both set off for the house. When they get to the door, Mom Giordano sticks her head inside and yells, “Boys! Stop messing around and unpack! We’ve been in California five minutes and you’re already driving me crazy!” She shrugs at her husband, and they both vanish into what Taylor assumes is the kitchen.

Then there’s nothing for a bit. Shame, because this is the most exciting thing to happen in Vista Primavera in years. She’s about to step down from her lawn chair and get back to her routine when someone new comes out the same door, and he’s… yum. Like his dad, he’s not exactly tall, maybe five-ten, five-eleven, but he’s built. He’s wearing a sleeveless shirt and jeans, and Taylor can see enough of him to know that there’s a good shape under all that. And he’s not shaped like a bodybuilder, either; nor is he shaped like her boyfriend, like a football player. He’s shaped like a guy who works for a living. He’s got the family black hair, cut short and kinda curly, and thick eyebrows and a mess of stubble, and if it weren’t for her stupid boyfriend and also for the fact that he’s probably at least twenty-one, she’d hop the fence right now and ask very politely if she could eat him up with a spoon and maybe some non-fat ice cream on the side.

Guys like that look good on her.

“Hey!” he yells back into the house. “Max! Come check this out! You can see a mountain from the backyard!”

Taylor doesn’t laugh, though she kinda wants to. That’s not a mountain! Not like the real ones; you have to go north for those. Here in Vista Primavera they have, well, they have hills, hills with delusions of grandeur, and they look kinda blasted and scrappy most of the time, except for two months in the spring. She makes a mental note to really admire them when they get green again. To genuinely try to appreciate them, because people in other parts of the country don’t have crappy hills to look at.

And then the last member of the Giordano clan steps out of the kitchen door. Max. And he’s nothing like his dad or his brother. He’s closer to Taylor’s height, maybe five-eight, definitely a good couple inches shorter than his jacked brother. His features are similar, though, just softer, like if his brother is maybe twenty-five percent through the family forty-year puberty, Max is at five percent. Maybe ten; he does have a little dark hair on his upper lip. He wears his black hair long and a little greasy, tied in a messy ponytail with what looks like a rubber band! Ick! She shudders to think what it’s like to get that mess straight in the morning. Maybe there are brushes still lost in there!

Maybe he doesn’t brush it, like, at all.

Max is clearly the younger brother, but he’s not young, he’s just kind of… hard to place. He’s wearing board shorts and a shirt with a band she’s never heard of on it, both of which are too big for him, and— Hmm. He is sort of toned, actually. He’s not covered in muscles, not like his brother or like Gordo, but they’re there, lurking in his slender limbs. He’s built like a swimmer. A swimmer on a starvation diet, maybe, whose hair hasn’t known the cleansing kiss of water in far too long, but a swimmer nonetheless.

And then Max high fives his brother, sways his arms, steps into a ready stance, and performs the most perfect sequences of handsprings, somersaults and flips Taylor’s ever seen. The form! The confidence! The sheer height he achieves! He finishes with a double full, and he’s barely panting at all!

Not built like a swimmer, then. Built like a gymnast.

Interesting…

“Show off!” his brother shouts.

“I’m just stiff!” Max yells back at him. “From the drive! I needed to stretch my legs!”

“Whatever.” His brother grins at him. “Just come help me unpack the kitchen stuff before Mom goes ballistic, okay?”

“Fine.”

His brother goes inside, but Max apparently can’t resist one more tumble, even more elaborate than before, and although Taylor’s inner cheerleader wants to scold him for not stretching properly and for just going for it on a lawn he’s never even seen before, which could have hidden rocks or loose stones or unexpected divots, she can’t help applauding.

Because he’s amazing. She’s only seen moves like that at the Olympics! And at, well, at the annual cheerleading competition. The one she’s been wanting the squad to at least try to qualify for. The one she always has to settle for watching on TV.

Oh.

Oh no!

He’s seen her.

Well, obviously he has: she’s still clapping like an idiot. Like a performing seal. He’s frowning in her direction, but before she can wave and say hi and maybe apologize, he takes off, running back to the house with impressive speed.

He glances at her one more time, and then he slams the kitchen door.

Shoot.

* * *

Max drops onto his brand-new bed, too tired and too annoyed to unpack his own shit. He helped with the kitchen stuff, he helped with the living room stuff, he even helped Clay put together those stupid ‘couch in a box’ things and almost got his fingers trapped, and none of it was strenuous enough to forget the fact that he’s been in California just a few hours and already he’s humiliated himself in front of a pretty girl.

A pretty girl who is his neighbor. And it’s not something she’s likely to forget. In a year, when they graduate, she’ll still be telling the story of the loner boy who moved in next door and immediately started prancing around the backyard like a—

Careful, Max. You hate it when they say it; why use it on yourself?

Ugh. It was supposed to be different here. Stupid thing to let himself think. It was always going to be exactly the same.

And why California, anyway? Everything’s too damn big here.

His bed included. He’s stretching to his fullest extent—he’s still sore from the car—and he can’t reach all four corners of the bed at once. Not like in his old bed. No, back home in Queens, when he and Avery lay in bed, talking, it would sometimes be a challenge not to knock each other off. But the money Mom and Dad got for the old place bought a fucking mansion here; he and Avery could probably host three other people on this monster-sized mattress before it got awkward.

At least the yard is super-sized, too. A genuine California bonus. One that he instantly wrecked, of course; he can’t go out there now. The neighbor girl might see him.

His phone buzzes again. He’s been ignoring it the last hour or so, but he can’t keep pretending the outside world doesn’t exist. After all, there’s so much of it here.

Max flicks open the pocket of his board shorts and digs around in the fluff until he finds his phone. Last year’s model, but when Clay upgrades again next year, he’ll have this year’s model, and until then, he’s fine with his Nokia 3410. It’s not like phones are any different year on year, anyway; they get a bit smaller and a bit rounder, and sometimes you don’t get Snake.

Avery’s been texting him. So far, he hasn’t wanted to respond. Too final. He doesn’t want to acknowledge how little they’re going to be in each other’s lives from now on.

Avery: Maxxy! Have fun in sunny California! Don’t forget about me! Avery: You’ve forgotten about me, haven’t you Avery: Crying real tears right now Avery: Max, you’re supposed to reply when someone texts you. That’s how it works. It’s called Textiquette. I read it in a magazine at the dentist. Avery: WHAT STATE ARE YOU EVEN IN RIGHT NOW? DID YOU MAKE IT TO SO-CAL? OR ARE YOU STUCK IN FLYOVER HELL? Avery: Sorry for caps Avery: I’m so bored Avery: Maxxxxxxxxxy

Unfair that he had to leave her behind. Unfair that he had to leave at all, but he couldn’t very well tell Dad he wanted to stay in Queens, not after everything. When your whole family sacrifices everything they’ve ever known and moves across the country just for you—even if they don’t say it—it’s bad form to bitch too hard about it.

Avery, though. An impossible goodbye. She cried a lot; he tried really hard to join in. But maybe it’s for the best. Maybe she’s better off with him out of her life, attached to him by only the thinnest and lengthiest of threads. She’s going places, after all; to the Olympics, almost definitely. He was never as good as her, even before he quit.

So she can get over him. Make other friends. Start her senior year without the baggage he brings unavoidably with him wherever he goes.

Avery: Max Max Max Max Max Max Max

He should probably reply before she texts again.

Max: Hey Avery: Max! Get on AIM nowwwwwwww Max: How do you even have the energy to hit the 9 key that many times Avery: Because I do my warm ups Max Avery: Unlike some of us Avery: Now get on AIM I’m booooooored Max: I can’t, sorry. I don’t think we have internet yet Avery: Not even dial up? Max: I saw the phone line when I was helping Dad unpack downstairs. Is it supposed to have a bunch of bare wires coming out of it? Avery: Boooo Avery: I don’t have infinite texts Max Max: You could have fooled me Avery: So I’m going to wish you a happy California and a very get on AIM as soon as you have ANY kind of internet Max: I will. Miss you Avery: You BETTER

Max drops his phone onto the nightstand and allows the low battery indicator to motivate him into doing something useful. He rolls out of bed—he has to roll twice to actually accomplish this—and starts rummaging through boxes, looking for his charger. Once he has it, he looks around for an outlet and plugs it in.

There. Now he has a bed and a phone charger! The place looks more like home already. And now that he’s out of bed again, he might as well have a shower and wash off the gunk from traveling all night. He digs around until he finds the box marked Max’s Bathroom and just takes the whole damn thing in with him.

Another California bonus: he doesn’t have to share a bathroom with three other people anymore.

* * *

Garrett’s finally crawled out of his room and slugged his way down the stairs to take up residence on the couch. Ick. Just three hours ago, this would have been bad because he would have made Taylor turn down her music or beg her to go to the store for more Doritos or something, and that would have been annoying enough. But now she’s on a mission, and the thing about being on a mission is that your goal is greatly hampered by anyone knowing what it is or having reason to guess.

So she’s trying to make smoothies as subtly as she can, and maybe he won’t get up from his cartoons and ask—

“Hey, Tay, whatya doing?”

Taylor stamps a foot in irritation. “None of your beeswax, Gar‑rat.”

“Okay, okay,” he mumbles, rolling off from his precarious position against the dividing wall and returning to the living room. Moments later, he turns up the volume on the TV.

Well! That went okay. Obviously he’s still too wasted to have more than two consecutive coherent thoughts, and that suits Taylor just fine. He can waste away the day in front of his cartoons if he wants to. She checks interact civilly with my gross brother off her mental list and throws the rest of the ingredients into the blender.

They really should have grown out of the sibling thing, the way the other girls she knows with older brothers mostly have. But it’s absence that makes the heart grow fonder, and he’s always around! Worse, he’ll always be around! Mom and Dad won’t kick him out, not after he paid them rent on his room for the next five years, which means she’s stuck with him.

When the blender gets done, she pours the contents into two metal cups and screws on the lids, throwing them both into a plastic bag. In the mirror by the side door, she gives herself a final check, and she looks perfect: pink cargo pants, pink crop top, and a white shirt thrown over the top, for modesty. She looks sporty but fashionable; exactly the impression she wants to give to the new boy next door. She even left her hair up!

As she steps into her white sneakers she throws a final glare through the kitchen wall at Garrett. He won’t see it, but he might feel it, and it might spoil his cartoons by like one percent.

She has to admit, they’d probably also get along better if he wasn’t such a tech prodigy. And without even trying! It’s bullcrap. Computers are supposed to be Taylor’s backup, in the very likely event that cheerleading isn’t enough to take her to college, but she’ll always have to live in the shadow of her older brother, who started a dot-com when he was fifteen and sold it for literal millions when he was barely older than Taylor is now. So even if she does go to college for computer science, she’ll always be the cheerleader little sister to the guy who created Munchie Portal, the Portal for Munchies.

It has a new name now that Yahoo! owns it, but everyone still calls it that.

Ick. Forget Garrett. She’s here for one reason, and she squares it in her mind as she skips the short distance between the houses and knocks on the Giordanos’ door. A few seconds later, Mom Giordano opens it and smiles down at her.

“Well, hello!” she says. “Who do we have here? Wait, don’t tell me; you’re the neighbor girl, aren’t you!”

Taylor puts on her most dazzling smile. “Guilty!”

“Well, do come in. And what do you have there?”

Hefting her bag, Taylor says, “Actually, these are for Max. Or one of them is, anyway.”

Mom Giordano’s welcoming smile contorts somewhat. “You know Max?”

“I don’t know him,” Taylor says quickly, sensing she might already have stepped on some hidden motherly landmine, “but I think I sort of embarrassed him earlier? I saw him practicing out in the yard and I thought he was really good, so I clapped, and then I didn’t have a chance to tell him it was a sincere clap and not, like, a sarcastic clap, so—” she lifts one of the cups out of the bag, “—I brought an apology present.”

“Aren’t you a sweet girl?” And then Mom Giordano does the classic mom move, which New York Italian moms apparently do just as well as WASPy Californian moms: it’s when they lean back, away from the teen in front of them, and yell at the top of their voice up the stairs. Taylor’s never known why any of them do this, because the extra foot or so of distance doesn’t moderate the extreme volume even slightly. “Maxwell! You got a visitor!” When there’s no answer, she looks back at Taylor. “Why don’t you go on up? Third door on the right.”

“Thanks, Mrs Giordano!” Taylor says in her peppiest voice. She starts up the stairs.

As she ascends, she hears Mom Giordano say to her husband, “Well, look at that! She even remembers our names. And that outfit! This one might not be so bad…”

Taylor slows as she reaches the top of the stairs, and counts doors, quickly identifying Max’s as the half-open one on the end. There’s another mirror up here—just a little one hanging on the wall, filling one of the many preinstalled picture hooks, most of which are still empty—and she checks herself again: not a hair out of place, and her outfit still looks good. She could have worn her cheer uniform, since it tends to make a good impression on guys and parents alike, but she knows the reputation cheerleaders have at some schools; he might have cheer-TSD.

She knocks on his door, and though there’s no answer, the door swings all the way open at her touch, so she takes a half-step inside.

And immediately she sees a door on the other side of the room open up.

Before Taylor can react, Maxwell Giordano, loosely robed, with long wet hair draped over half his face down to his shoulders, and with a slice of his toned but almost skeletally thin body on display through the open top half of the robe… steps out of his bathroom and meets her eyes.

“Fuck!” he yells, and immediately turns around and slams the bathroom door behind him.

Shoot!

* * *

“I’ll be outside!” the Peeping Tom neighbor girl yells, and it has to be her, because, yeah, he didn’t get a good look at her before, but the girl hanging over the fence was blonde like her and—more pertinently—she clapped at him like a perky idiot, and only a perky idiot would walk into the bedroom of someone she doesn’t know, uninvited, so, yeah, it’s her. “I’ll let you get dressed! I’ll just… I’m sorry! I’ll be outside.”

He probably can’t wait her out, then. Not unless he gets lucky and the sun explodes before she gets bored, or Mom comes up to yell at him for being rude.

The first thing Max does when he leaves the bathroom again is check to make sure that Peeping Tom neighbor girl did, in fact, close his bedroom door; she did. Thank fuck. He leaves her out there while he sorts through boxes, trying to put together something presentable, eventually ending up with three options.

They all suck.

Whatever! None of his shit actually fits him, but that’s not exactly a new problem, and if the neighbor girl doesn’t like it, she should learn not to show up unexpectedly in people’s rooms. Shit, what even is the protocol in this situation? Should he make her a coffee or something? What do Californians drink? Orange juice? No, that’s Floridians. Iced tea? Pulped palm trees? That would explain why there aren’t as many around as he expected.

If only Avery were here. She might not know what to do either, but at least she’d be funny about it, and at least having another girl around might stop things getting awkward.

Fuck it. He’s eighteen. He can do what he wants. Including embarrass himself in front of local girls. What can she do, make his life worse?

He picks the least awful set of clothes, throws it on, and stuffs the others back into the nearest box. A quick glance in the closet mirror is enough to confirm that he looks adequate, so he ties up his hair in a rubber band and opens the door. On the other side, the neighbor girl smiles sheepishly at him.

“Sorry,” she says. “Twice. Sorry for that, and sorry for earlier, in the yard. Can I come in?” She holds up a plastic bag. “I have a peace offering.”

She might be intrusive and forward, but she’s also gorgeous. California blonde and dressed for a run, just like any number of other girls he saw out of the car window this morning, and there’s enough individuality to her face to make her attractive, not merely pretty. Like, very attractive. To him. Personally. And her cheeks are flushed with embarrassment and her eyes are apologetic so he can’t be all that mad at her. She reminds him of Avery, a bit; she couldn’t look more different, but the expression on her face is uncannily like when Avery came rushing over at six in the morning to tell him she finally kissed Rebecca and that it was just as magical as she always hoped.

And it’s a cute expression. On both of them.

“Sure,” he says. “Come in.”

“Wow,” she says, craning her neck, making a show of looking around. “Nice room! Lots of boxes! And… a guitar! You play?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, but I don’t do anything with it. I just kinda pick it up and put it down again.”

“Still. Pretty cool.” Then she shakes her head and pulls out of her plastic bag a metal cup with a straw poking through its lid. “Behold: my custom smoothies. No fat, plenty of protein, and a hundred percent delicious!”

“No fat, huh,” he says, a smile riding unbidden on his lips.

“I promise. Athlete to athlete.”

She’s still holding it out, so he takes it from her and tries a sip and, yeah, okay, it’s actually good. In fact, it’s excellent. It’s better than the smoothies Coach used to hand out back home, a long, long time ago.

Best not to think about that.

“Wow,” he says.

“Can I cook, or can I cook?”

“Yes. You can cook.”

He steps backward and drops onto his bed, still holding the smoothie. She takes it as an invitation and sits cross-legged on the floor, sucking on her own cup and looking around again.

“I think your house is the same as mine inside,” she says thoughtfully. “Like, I was pretty sure it would be? Since all the places on this street are kinda the same. But I’ve never been inside another one before. This? This is actually my room. Just—” she crosses her arms at the wrist, “—flipped.”

“Oh,” Max says, grinning. “Sorry for imposing.”

“Forgiven.”

“So, you’re an athlete?”

She perks up. “I am!”

“Um, this would be the point where you tell me what kind of athlete.”

“Cheerleader,” she says with a slight wince, like she’s expecting him to laugh. And that would be a dick move, so he doesn’t, but he is a little offended that she would compare what he does to what she does.

Still a dick move, Max, even in your own head. At least she’s probably still active. Probably doesn’t neglect her stretches, either.

“That’s cool!” he says, injecting the proper enthusiasm.

“It is cool,” she says, very seriously.

“Okay, neighbor girl, what’s your name? I can’t keep thinking of you as ‘the Peeping Tom girl’ forever.”

She giggles. “Sorry about that. I really did think you were good, though. That’s why I clapped. And I’m Taylor. Taylor Scott.”

She’s holding out a hand, so he takes it and they shake. He doesn’t linger on it, pulling his hand away immediately. It’s always a little embarrassing to shake hands with people: with men, they want to do that insane test-of-strength thing—Max tends to think of it as a Business Armwrestle—and he’s terrible at it; with women, he finds they both just sort of limply clutch each other for a moment.

At least with girls, his hands don’t get lost inside theirs. His brother’s hands are huge, multiple glove sizes above Max’s, though to Clay’s credit, he hasn’t teased him about it. He’s just promised Max that his growth spurt is coming, and that if he starts, like, actually eating again, he’ll soon be as big as the rest of the Giordano men. And Max is ambivalent about that, because as much as it would be nice to no longer be so scrawny, if he becomes suddenly Clay-sized, his gymnastic career—his primary passion since he was a kid—is definitely over, not just probably over as it is now. He’d have to relearn everything: how to move, how to jump, where his center of gravity is, all of it. And after the way things ended before, he’s not sure he can take instruction again.

He might finally have an impressive handshake, though.

“Hey, Max?” Taylor says. “You okay? You zoned out a bit.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” He shakes his head and rubs at the back of his neck, where he’s the most sore. “I’m tired. I slept in the car but not well, you know?”

She nods, then looks around again and giggles. “Max,” she says, scandalized, “the door’s closed!”

So it is. Must have springs on the hinges or something. “Yeah?”

“Your parents aren’t going to yell at you?”

“Oh,” he says, laughing a little, “no, probably not. I had a friend back in New York— That’s where I’m from, by the way.”

“I guessed.”

“My accent?”

“Your mom’s actually. And you do look kinda… New York-ish.”

“I do? Huh. Anyway, me and my friend were in and out of each other’s rooms all the time. I liked hers better, actually; mine was always too hot in the summer. Our parents got used to it. They didn’t have much of a choice.”

Her eyes wide, Taylor says, “But a guy and a girl in a bedroom together? My mom and dad would not be happy about that.”

“Avery’s gay,” Max says, shrugging. “And even before she came out, I think her parents knew. And mine guessed. So they knew we weren’t going to do anything.”

“You’ve got a lesbian best friend?” Taylor says, almost shrieking. “That is so cool.”

“I’ll make sure and tell her you said that.”

“And you really never did anything together?”

“Well…” He can feel himself start to blush.

God damn Avery. Around guys—even around his brother these days—he keeps himself locked tight for his own good, but Avery never put up with that when he tried it with her. He kept closing himself off and she kept jamming that crowbar back in. Thanks to her, he’s used to letting his guard down around girls his age. And now Taylor, who’s been in his life for all of ten minutes, is able to open him up like a clam.

“Go on…” she says, leaning in with a smile and touching his hand, a maneuver that demolishes any chance he might have had at defending against her.

“We practiced kissing,” he says into his shirt. “Quite a few times. First she wanted to know what it was like and then she wanted to get good for this girl she liked, so I’d, um…” Helplessly he mimes something, his fingers vaguely grasping at each other.

“Right.”

“Yeah.”

“She was your first?” Taylor guesses.

His cheeks are burning now. “It’s that obvious, huh?”

“It wasn’t obvious until you lit up like a Christmas tree!” she says, delighted. “You blush worse than I do. You really didn’t have a girl back in New York? A non-lesbian girl, I mean.”

He shrugs again. “Guys on the gymnastics team come in two types,” he starts, and then he hesitates, and Taylor takes over.

“Right,” she says. “Big built guys like your brother, and slim quick ones like you. And it’s the big ones who get the girls. And the slim ones...”

She doesn’t have to finish the thought. They both know what everybody at school thinks of the little guys on the gymnastics team. But she doesn’t seem to be judging. It’s just like before, when she saw him messing around in the backyard: she could have mocked him, and she didn’t. And it’s all right there for her to pick up and use against him! In his experience, nobody leaves an opening like that alone around him.

Nobody except Avery.

Huh. Maybe Taylor can be a friend. Like Avery.

“Hey,” he says, remembering how they got onto this topic, “do your parents know you came over to see a boy?”

“Oh, they’re on a trip,” she says, waving a hand. “And I’m eighteen in, like, a month, so what can they do?”

“What can they do?”

She sags. “They’d yell. A lot. But what they don’t know can't hurt me, right?”

He returns her grin. “Right.”

* * *

Taylor practically skips out of Max’s house. Wow, she’s almost high! For some reason, when Max spoke, it felt like every word he said was the most important thing in the world. And he’s so cool! He’s from New York, he plays guitar, and on this morning’s evidence, he’s also the best gymnast she’s ever met. He just might be the answer to all her prayers.

And he has the prettiest brown eyes…

It took some doing, but she managed to persuade him to come over tomorrow morning to spot her while she runs through her routines. He was nice enough not to say it, or even show it, but he almost definitely thinks cheerleading isn’t as challenging as what he’s used to; she’s going to show him how wrong he is. And she confirmed that he’s her age—eighteen, actually, so older, but only by like a month; his mom must have held him back at preschool or something—and he’s going to Vista Primavera High for senior year, same as her. So all she has to do, once she’s shown him how awesome cheerleading can be, is ask him to join the squad.

Ick, and then talk the other girls into accepting another guy on the squad. That might be the tricky part; it’s not that guys on the squad are a problem, but all the guys they have are, well, big. And they have to be, since they anchor and they catch a lot. Max, who is barely an inch taller than her—she checked when they said goodbye—doesn’t fit in there.

Whatever! She’ll work it out. She’ll make the squad see what he can do, and they’ll have to accept him. And then they might finally have a shot at regionals!

And that means she gets to spend a lot more time with Max Giordano.

She swings the plastic bag with the metal cups in her hand as she opens the front door, and she’s about to go straight to the kitchen to wash them when Garrett yells out from the couch, “Hey! Tay! Gordo’s here!”

And, rising from the other couch, where he’s been watching cartoons with her loser older brother, is her boyfriend.

Oh yeah. She has a boyfriend. Shoot.

Two

I CAN FIX HIM

Max can’t remember the last time he spent so long in the shower. Usually he just kinda jumps in, soaps up everywhere he can reach and jumps out again, but today he’s making an effort. He even snuck into the main bathroom, the one that has pride of place at the center of the upstairs hallway—the one nobody’s ever going to use, because every bedroom bar the guest room in this insanely massive house has a bathroom of its own—and stole the fancy shampoo, conditioner and body wash. He’s got no idea why Mom put that stuff out; it’s not like they’re expecting guests on their second day in Vista Primavera. But he’s got the matching blue bottles lined up on the side and he’s working his way through them, one by one. In a surge of diligence, he’s even been reading the instructions on the bottles for the first time in his life.

Apparently you’re supposed to leave the conditioner in! For several minutes! Does everyone know that? Is that why his hair’s always gotten so tangled? Because nobody ever told him?

He lathers up and cleans almost every other part of his body twice—skipping over the burn scars on his ribs, same as always—and then washes out the conditioner, running his hands through his locks as he does so. His hair parts cleanly between his fingers and doesn’t even clump up when he squeezes the water out of it. It feels kind of amazing, actually.

But yeah. He’s trying. This morning, he’s really trying. Sue him.

There’s no point to it, really. Taylor’s a cheerleader, and cheerleaders never go for guys like him, and she’s probably got a quarterback boyfriend or something. But Avery was always trying to get him to take more care of himself, like he used to, so what the hell, right? New city, new state; new Max. Mostly the same as the old Max, but cleaner and with detangled hair.

Besides, Taylor’s nice. And a nice cheerleader is so far out of Max’s experience that there’s no way he can’t take advantage of the opportunity she represents. To see how the other half lives: the popular half, the half that wears bright colors and has pep.

He should take notes. For posterity. There might be a book in it.

Opening the door between his bathroom and bedroom, he checks to make sure the drapes are still shut—of course they are; he hasn’t opened them since he got here—and follows the misty air out into his room, toweling his hair and dripping on the carpet. When he’s more or less dry, he throws his towel onto the bed and starts looking through his closet. Last night, in another uncharacteristic burst of diligence, he actually put all his clothes away. Hung up his shirts and pants and balled up his socks and shit. While he looks, he slaps at his CD player, and fills the room with music from whatever the last CD he had loaded was.

Knowledge by Operation Ivy. Cool.

Catching himself in the mirror as he walks around, his eyes flicker, as they always do, to the triad of scars on his right-side ribs. His fingers brush momentarily over them, from the base of his pectoral to the top of his belly, feeling the bumps and the distressed skin, reading his burns like a relief map.

They’re dry. And kinda rough to the touch.

Shit, he’s been neglecting himself in every possible way, hasn’t he? Habitually forgetting the dermatologist’s instructions is just another symptom.

Well. New state, better habits.

He remembers dumping the aloe moisturizer his mom’s been buying him in the same box as all his other bathroom crap, back when they packed everything up, so that means it must be… ah! Bathroom cabinet.

Still not used to having his own bathroom.

He spreads the moisturizer over the scars, and then over the rest of his torso and along his arms, because it smells nice, all the while looking through his clothes. In the end, he picks basically at random; he’s making an effort, sure, but he has no idea what Taylor likes. More to the point, he has no idea what kind of guy she likes, except what he assumes: massive, hung like a horse, and with a football instead of a brain that bounces around inside his head like a DVD screensaver. And he can’t ever be that, not unless the long-delayed growth spurt Clay’s been promising decides to show up, so why not just pick whatever? All that matters is whether he can move in it, since she invited him over this morning explicitly to work out with her or to help her practice her cheer routines or something. She wasn’t entirely clear about it.

Maybe she was and he just wasn’t paying attention. Too distracted by those bright blue eyes.

Anyway.

An old band shirt.

A pair of board shorts.

Mismatched socks.

And a belt. In which he already poked an extra hole. Because, yeah, shit, he lost weight, and a lot of it. Turns out, if you don’t really eat for over a year and you continue—halfheartedly—to exercise, you lose mass, and a lot of it. All his jeans look like cargo pants now, and his cargo pants are basically unwearable.

Today’s shirt—one of the many he inherited from Clay when he cleared out his closet—is baggy as hell, but it covers his scars and it hides how thin he’s gotten, and the belt holds up his board shorts, and that’s enough. He can exercise in this. He can stand on his hands in this. Hell, he can do cartwheels and somersaults and basically anything you ask of him in this, and he can do the fucking splits, too.

A quick look in the mirror. Yeah, there’s Max. Same as the old Max, the one from New York. But moisturized, and with nicer hair.

It’s fine.

Let’s go see the cheerleader.

* * *

Taylor never wears makeup to work out. Some of the other cheerleaders do, but some of the other cheerleaders are silly bee-yotches who’ve spent the last several years meticulously blocking every pore, and now they have no choice but to slap on the foundation half a tube at a time, lest anyone get a look at their real skin! Taylor, meanwhile, wears it light and only when appropriate, and she cleanses every morning, every evening and after practice, and that’s why she still has the skin of an angel while Meredith looks like the dark side of the moon.

So she doesn’t know why she’s doing her face this morning, except that maybe she still feels gross from last night and wants to look her best. Pretty face, empty mind, like Robyn, her old cheer captain, used to say.

Last night…

Last night!

Ick.

Taylor reaches over and yanks up the volume on her little CD player until J.Lo’s Love Don’t Cost a Thing starts to crackle and distort.

Stupid Gordo! He tried to get her to touch it again, and she’s beyond fed up with telling him she’s waiting until she’s eighteen. And that’s, like, only a month away! She doesn’t know why he’s being so impatient; she’s clearly relayed her parents’ rules around sex, which are that Garrett can do whatever he wants, because he’s an adult—legally, if not mentally—and Taylor cannot, because she is still a child. Also, and this comes specifically from her mom, because nobody wants to have to fight through the anti-choice weirdos outside the family planning clinic. And because good girls are not sluts.

And, no, Gordo, she doesn’t care that the other girls have all done it, because a) if Meredith’s done it, Taylor’ll eat her own pompoms and b) if the other cheerleaders jumped off a cliff, she’d only follow them if they’d managed to form a pyramid at the bottom, and would catch her.

But still he insisted! Ick! It’s like he wants her to get disowned by her parents and have to live under a bridge selling cheers for money, or something.

He insisted and he made her feel gross and she told him to leave and now she’s putting on lipstick, because if he can’t see her, then she’s going to look extra pretty.

It makes sense. Sort of. If you tilt your head and squint. Anyway, he’s off to football camp this week, so she doesn’t have to deal with him again for a while. Maybe he’ll find someone there to touch his thingie, some girl football player who shares his interests. Maybe she can make him come, and he can yell ‘Hut! Hut! Hut!’ at the moment of climax.

The song ends and she stabs irritably at the pause button before the next one starts. This morning’s gone wrong already, and it’s all because she’s sitting here, staring at herself, applying and reapplying lipstick until by rights her lips ought to stick out several miles from her face, and thinking about her stupid boyfriend and the stupid things he wants her to do and—

Reset.

Taylor closes her eyes. Takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out slowly. Opens her eyes again.

It’s a new day. Gordo’s a part of yesterday, and she doesn’t have to see him for a week. A new friend is coming over and she’s going to get to show him what she can do and find out what makes him tick.

She blots most of the lipstick onto a tissue, ties her hair in a practical ponytail, and skips out of her room. Same room as Max, she remembers, though not precisely. Their houses are identical but mirrored; their bedrooms even face each other! What sucks, though, is that even if they become friends, they won’t be able to do the teen movie thing of talking to each other through their windows; they’re kinda far apart. If Max ever opens his drapes, though, they ought to be able to wave to each other. And maybe yell.

She checks: his drapes are still closed. No wonder he’s so pale.

No, wait; he’s from New York. Don’t they have like five days of sun per year? Obviously he’s just not used to it. Well, that’s job one, then, isn’t it? Get Max used to the Southern California sun! The whole Southern California lifestyle!

He’s going to love it here, she’s certain.

* * *

Christ, even the mornings here are too hot. Good thing he covered himself in deodorant before he left the house, even if it did mean getting gently ribbed by his brother about the effort he’s obviously putting in for this Taylor girl.

He’s not putting in any effort, not really. Not for her specifically. He’s just stopped neglecting himself.

Yeah. That’s it exactly.

He rings the bell, and when the door opens, he’s presented with a face he doesn’t expect. Taylor didn’t talk about her brother much yesterday, except to say he’s a stoner and the most annoying man in the world, but here’s a clean-cut guy with a toothy grin and slicked-back blond hair. If not for his shorts and logo shirt, he could be an office worker, though from what he’s seen, casualwear is de rigueur enough around here that maybe people do go to work in shorts.

But then he comes close enough for Max to see his bloodshot eyes, and it all makes sense.

“Hey,” Garrett says. “You’re the, uh, the, uh, the dude from next door, aren’t you?”

“I’m Max. Garrett, yeah?”

Getting Garrett’s name right seems to delight him. “Yeah! Yeah, that’s me!” He leans down to whisper in Max’s ear, flooding Max’s senses with the smell of stale weed and cool ranch chips. “You’re not fucking my sister, are you? Because if you are… Be careful, dude. Big boyfriend. Big.”

“No plans, dude,” Max says. Yeah. She’s got a boyfriend. Obviously.

“That’s a ‘maybe’, then. Cool. Cool. Cool.” Garrett folds his arms, satisfied that he’s relayed his oh-so-important message. “So come on in! Mi casa es su casa. Mi… sister es su sister.”

Alright. Kinda gross.

Taylor appears from behind Garrett, whacking him with the flat of her hand. “Oh my gosh, Garrett, you slime!” she yells, whacking him again. “Don’t say things like that! And move. Move! Ick!”

She keeps slapping him on the shoulder until Garrett finally catches on, and with a roll of his eyes at Max, he steps aside and walks slowly over to a split square of couches in the living room. He falls into one and stops moving.

“Hi, Max,” Taylor says, huffing a displaced strand of hair out of her face. “I see you’ve met my brother.”

She grabs Max by the wrist and leads him inside, but Max is distracted: Garrett still isn’t moving.

“Is he… okay?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Taylor says without looking, dragging Max into the kitchen.

“He looks dead.”

“Yeah, he does! Unfortunately, it never lasts. Check it out: I made you a smoothie!”

Max’s view of Taylor’s allegedly alive brother is cut off as he enters the kitchen, so he turns his attention to her and finds her posing in front of the open fridge like a game show assistant. Two more of the same metal cups from yesterday are waiting in the door, and now that she has his attention, she pulls one out and hands it to him. He takes it from her, but she doesn’t pull away; instead, she squints at him, leans closer, steadies herself on his shoulder, and bats at his ponytail.

“Max?” she says slowly. “Why is your hair in a rubber band? Correction—” she raises an impertinent first finger right in front of him, “—why is your hair in a rubber band again?”

“Because I don’t want it in my face? And what do you mean, again?”

She snatches the smoothie back from him, re-fridges it, and beckons him. “C’mon,” she says, walking back around the dividing wall. “We’re fixing it.”

* * *

He comments on the way up the stairs that, oh yeah, their houses are the same, just flipped, and Taylor’s about to agree with him—and talk about the extra rooms that were built over the garages that he won’t have at home—before she realizes that, shoot, she just invited Max up to her room! She invited him up to her room and he’s a guy! A guy who isn’t Gordo!

Isn’t that, like, adultery or something?

Eh. Maybe in Utah.

She pauses, her hand on the doorknob, and thinks quickly, thinks like she’s about to be thrown and she’s just realized it’s Meredith who’s going to catch her:

It’s different, right? It’s not like Max is a guy like Gordo, right? He doesn’t seem the type to put his hand on the back of a not-quite-eighteen-year-old’s head and push her down toward his pants.

Because he’s nice. Okay, so they didn’t talk for all that long yesterday, but he is nice, right? A little sad, a little snarky, and a bit of a fixer-upper, but he’s nice. And does she even know any nice guys? Any guys who haven’t openly lusted after her since she joined the squad? Correction: does she know any nice guys who aren’t already (sort of but not really) dating her best friend?

Well, now she knows Max.

And they do share an interest, don’t they?

So there’s no harm, she decides, and lets him into her room.

“Wow,” he says, following her inside, “pink.”

“It’s not that pink,” she says, wondering why she instantly feels defensive about it. She points to the accent wall, the one her computer desk is pushed up against, which she had Dad paint pastel blue because she read that blue is conducive to memory retention. Plus, she’s wanted a skylight ever since she saw one in a movie. Something about looking up at those California-blue skies every morning being super romantic. Unfortunately, because of the attic and all, she had to make do with a not-very-big window and a very blue wall. “See?”

“I stand corrected,” Max says, holding up his hands in surrender. Gosh, he has a sweet smile. Teeth are a little faded looking, though. Don’t they have whitener in New York?

She can fix that. She can fix everything! And that starts with the way his smile fades too quickly, like he can’t have a positive emotion without something in his brain showing up and reminding him, hey, dude, you’re supposed to be miserable. Must be why he likes all those punk bands he was telling her about.

Anyway. She can fix him. Make him happy. Whiten his teeth. Get him to stop tangling up his hair with rubber bands. Get him a girlfriend.

At that last thought, it’s like she borrows Max’s sadness demon. Ick! Shoo! She chases it away and bobs up to him, confirming once again how close in height they are, and then puts a hand on each shoulder and turns him round. He doesn’t resist. Gently, she hooks a finger inside the first ring of the looped rubber band and starts to tease out the hair.

“I can’t believe you use this,” she says as she works and, gosh, his hair is so silky! Yesterday, when he first got here, it was really greasy, like, greasy enough that she could tell from halfway down the backyard—understandable, though, after driving the entire width of the continental United States!—and after his shower it was still only, like, passably clean. Did he wash it especially for her?

She’s not sure she’s allowed the level of excitement that thought generates in her. Kills the sadness demon right off, though.

“What’s wrong with a rubber band?” he says, speaking slowly like he’s in a trance, and it takes Taylor a second to guess why. When she does, she’s glad she’s behind him, or he’d see the huge, adulterous smile that temporarily takes over her whole face. She’s got her hands in his hair. And she is, no need to be modest, super pretty. What guy wouldn’t enjoy it?

Gordo. Gordo wouldn’t enjoy it. He just wants her to touch it.

Ick.

She returns to the task at hand, carefully extracting layer after layer of soft, sweet-smelling jet-black hair from its rubber band prison. To distract herself, because she’s enjoying this a bit too much, she concentrates on answering his question.

“Rubber bands are grippy, Max,” she says. “Your hair will get caught up in it and it’ll get stripped apart. It’ll completely destroy your hair.”

“Oh,” he says. It seems to be all he can manage, so before Taylor lets out the final loop, she gives herself a moment to smile again.

Why is she so loopy around him? He’s just another long-haired punk guy; she could throw a rock from the front room and hit a dozen of them as they drift lazily by on their stickered-up skateboards.

Whatever. A puzzle for later. She turns him round again and takes a step back to admire her handiwork. Smoothing out his locks, billowing them out around his face, she almost forgets to breathe. There really is something about him, something those other rando guys don’t have. Something she thinks Gordo would probably kill to avoid. And it’s more exciting to Taylor than a hundred sweaty football guys. It’s more exciting to her than the memory of Max’s own older brother, whose thick arms and tree-trunk waist had previously seemed so enticing.

In a way, it’s a shame that Clay is Max’s brother. If Clay’s anything to go by, Max is going to gain a good few inches, he’s going to thicken up, he’s going to be a man. And it’s going to happen soon.

So? So that makes this Max special, dummy! A firefly isn’t beautiful because it lasts forever.

“Taylor,” he says, “what’s up?”

Shoot! He noticed! And his hand’s halfway to hers, like he wants to comfort her but doesn’t want to cross a boundary. Which, again, her decision to let him up into her room: vindicated! She shakes her head, grins at him—wow, it’s easy to find a smile when he’s so close to her—and turns him ninety degrees, toward the mirror.

“Why do you tie your hair up, Max?” she asks. “It’s way too gorgeous to not show it off.”

He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror, not for more than a second. Instead he starts gathering up his hair, pulling it tight, away from his face. “It’s not supposed to be gorgeous,” he says. Huh; cryptic! “Do you have a hair tie for me?”

She turns around and quickly finds one on her nightstand. “Here,” she says, pressing it into his hand.

“Taylor,” he says, holding it up, “this is a scrunchie.”

“Yes,” she confirms.

“It’s a scrunchie.”

“And?”

“It’s— Taylor. It’s a scrunchie. A pink scrunchie. Those are for girls?”

“Don’t be a baby,” she says, taking it back. Before he can stop her, she steps behind him, gathers his hair up, and ties a ponytail for him. She twitches her nose in concentration as she adjusts it, making sure it’s dead center, and then taps him on the top of his head. “You can look now.”

“Wow,” he says, turning his head. “That is definitely a pink scrunchie in my hair. And isn’t it a little high?” He reaches up to adjust it, and she bats his hand away.

“Leave it!” she commands, leaning into her cheer captain voice. And, yeah, it is a little higher than he usually ties his hair, but high is better, right? For cheering?

Oh right! They’re supposed to be exercising!

* * *

The Scotts’ backyard is, unsurprisingly, exactly the same dimensions as the one behind Max’s house, except theirs has a pool close to the house and way more intentionality to the foliage. Dad’s already been complaining about the weekends he’s going to lose getting theirs into shape, and Clay wasn’t fast enough getting out of the room when he was looking for volunteers to help out.

It’s nice, though. It’s like a preview of what their place will look like when it’s done. Taylor’s entire house is, actually. Even her room, fully furnished as it is and not merely looming around a single desk and a corner with a guitar in it, is a preview of what his might be like once he’s lived here more than ten minutes. Minus the pink walls, obviously. And all the televisions. The very boxy, very beige televisions.

Huh.

“I just realized,” he says, as he stretches his arms over his head, “you have three computers in your room. Which seems excessive.”

“You just realized?” she replies. She’s got her feet on the grass and her head between them, and either she’s showing off and she’s going to feel that tomorrow, or she’s limber as hell. “We’ve been in the yard for like two minutes and you just realized.” She straightens up and, despite her critical tone, she’s grinning at him, so he doesn’t take it the wrong way.

“I thought they were TVs. I was trying to think if I’d seen a TV that exact shade of beige before.” He copies her move, just to show her he can, and she laughs at him.

Christ. She’s so cute.

“And?” she prompts.

“Yeah,” he says, “no. Which led me to the obvious conclusion: three computers.”

“Well,” she says, “for your information, I have four computers.” When he straightens, to stare incredulously at her, she starts listing them. “I’ve got my main PC and some older ones for testing. I also have a laptop; I wanted to mess with OSX so Dad got me an iBook for Christmas. Don’t give me that look! It’s not fancy. It’s just the base model.”

Max snorts. “That’s not what the look was for, Taylor.”

“It’s the twenty-first century, Max,” she says, sounding suddenly surprisingly pompous. “If you don’t know how to use a computer, you’re going to be left behind.”

“I know how to use a computer; I don’t know how to use four computers.”

“It’s not like it’s hard.”

“Oh my God,” Max exclaims in fake wonder. “Four computers. You’re a nerd!”

“I’m captain of the cheerleading squad. I can’t be a nerd. All I have are esoteric interests.”

“You’re a nerd,” he giggles.

The levity he feels around her! Avery’s the only other person who ever made him feel like this: understood and appreciated. But there’s more here, something he never felt before. Maybe it’s because Taylor’s straight, and therefore, despite her boyfriend, despite Garrett’s assessment of her boyfriend—big—some incredibly stupid part of his brain thinks he has a chance?

Doesn’t matter. He feels good! He’ll take the win.

“I like your shirt,” she says, when they’re done warming up. “Is that your band?”

He laughs, pulling at it to show it off fully. “Not my band,” he says. “This is Me First and the Gimme Gimmes. They’re, uh, well, it’s kind of hard to explain.”

Taylor bounces over, takes the hem of the shirt out of his hands and stretches it out all the way, so she can look at it more closely.

“Try me,” she says.

He can smell her perfume or her shampoo or her body lotion or something, and it’s intoxicating, and distracting as hell. Which might be why he babbles a bit.

“Okay, so they’re a punk rock supergroup, formed in San Francisco circa 1995 and still going today. They only do covers, and that’s because they all have their own projects outside the group, like, Chris Shiflett is also in No Use for a Name. Have you heard of him? You haven’t heard of him. Anyway, their first album was all songs from the sixties, seventies and eighties, stuff like Uptown Girl and Rocket Man, and their second album is all show tunes. They did Don’t Cry for Me Argentina from Evita and Science Fiction Double Feature from Rocky Horror, and… What?”

She’s looking at him with the most peculiar smirk on her face, and when he shuts up she broadens it into a delighted smile and says, “And you called me a nerd!”

Wow. Her smile is incredible.

“Uh…” he says, his retort dying on his lips, which he’s suddenly biting, for some reason. God, he’s losing control here.

“I think you were going to say something like, punk rockers can’t be nerds,” she says. “They just have esoteric interests. And then I was going to say something like, you just proved yourself wrong, you’re the biggest nerd that ever nerded, and then you were going to blush even harder than you are right now, and insist we start doing what we came here to do.”

In a daze, he says, “Which is…?”

She lets go of his shirt and prances backward, ultimately transforming her momentum into a perfect backflip and segueing into a full sequence.

“This!” she says, as she lands and spreads her arms out.

Holy shit.

She’s an actual athlete.

And she’s really good.

* * *

On their way back in, Taylor collects the smoothies she prepared for them both, and in her room she digs out her TV—her actual TV; she doesn’t know how Max could have mistaken her computer monitors for televisions since they’re so completely different-looking—from under a discarded pair of jeans and puts on the Disney Channel. Chores done, she flops onto the bed and starts sucking earnestly on her straw. Max, meanwhile…

Max looks adorably about the room for something he can sit on that isn’t her bed. Vindicated, vindicated, vindicated! She’s known him for a day and she’s never felt so safe with a guy. She points with her toe at one of her computer chairs and, moving slowly, he drags it over near to the bed and drops into it, cupping his smoothie with both hands and sipping from it, his eyes on the Boy Meets World rerun. As his exhaustion starts to fade, he makes himself more comfortable, dragging one leg up under his butt and propping the other high enough that he can rest his chin on his knee. Which, like, wow, flexible.

He’s still breathing heavily. But then, so is she.

What a workout! He challenged her like nobody on the squad ever has, like Coach Dale never has, like not even Robyn did, and she challenged him right back! She never knew she could move like that!

She never knew a guy could move like that. The guys on the squad, they’re talented and they work hard, but they’re all kinda bulky, whereas Max moves like…

Okay. So she can never say it to him, ever, because she knows what boys are like, but Max moves like a girl. He’s got grace and speed and just enough power to accomplish everything he needs to and not a drop more. And maybe that’s just what pro gymnasts are like, but Taylor watches every Olympics and she doesn’t think so. He’s just not built like those guys.

Except he will be one day.

Maybe, anyway. Thinking about it, she got a good look at Mom Giordano yesterday, and a decent glimpse at Dad Giordano and the older brother, Clay, and Max takes much more after his mom while Clay looks like a younger and less wide version of his dad. So maybe that means he won’t grow into something like Clay. Maybe that means he’ll stay just as he is. After all, he’s eighteen, and aren’t you basically done at eighteen? Like, sure, other stuff happens, like you lose your puppy fat, and if you’re a guy you start getting hair everywhere—ick—but at eighteen, you’re finished growing, right?

“How tall are you, Max?” she says without thinking.

“Five-eight,” he says automatically.

Well, that’s a lie. “Are you sure?” she asks, reaching out with her foot and rotating his chair to face her.

“I’m five-eight… if I go up on my toes a little,” he admits.

“I knew it!” she exclaims. “You can’t lie to me, Max. You’re an inch taller than me at most, and I’m five foot six and three-quarters.”

“Three-quarters?” he confirms weakly.

She nods at the door frame. “Check the marks.”

Humoring her, he stands, slightly stiffly, and carefully puts his cup on the floor. He walks over to her bedroom door and runs his finger over the notches in the frame. There’s a notch for every one of her first seventeen years, but she doesn’t expect to be making a new one on her next birthday in September, since she’s basically done, too. It’s kinda sad, really; always is, when a yearly ritual ends.

Following an impulse, she jumps up and joins him. She turns him around by the shoulders, the way she did in the backyard, until he’s facing her with his back to the door. She pushes him until he bumps against it, and then she prods at his feet with hers until he’s standing straight.

Without taking her eyes off him, she reaches for the craft knife on her chest of drawers, flicks out the blade, and places her hand on top of his head, to create a straight line to the door frame.

“You stick out your tongue when you’re concentrating, you know that?” he says. She shushes him and carves his notch into the frame.

She doesn’t know why she’s doing this. She barely knows him. They might not end up friends at all. They might not speak to each other after school starts. They might turn out to hate each other! But this feels important. And if there’s one thing she’s learned as a cheerleader, it’s that when something feels right, she should trust it.

“Step away,” she says, and he does so.

The craft knife goes back on the mess of junk, and she opens a drawer—her underwear drawer, which she’s curiously unembarrassed to open around Max—and pulls out her tailor’s tape measure. She unravels it, presses the end against the wall with her toe, and smooths it up the door frame until it reaches Max’s notch.

“There’s a Sharpie on my desk,” she says, keeping everything in place. “Can you get it for me?”

“Sure.”

Moments later, a Sharpie—uncapped; how thoughtful—drops into her waiting hand, and she writes Max, August 3, 2003 — 5 foot 7½ inches on the wall, just above Taylor, September 13, 2002 — 5 foot 6¾ inches.

“There,” she says. “Immortalized.”

She twists around to smile at him, expecting one of his shy smiles in return, but instead he’s retreated back to her desk, he’s got his fists clenched at his side, and he’s standing very still.

“Max?” she asks.

“Shit,” he says, turning away. A hand goes up to his face, as if he’s covering his eyes or something, and that’s just so confusing that she takes three whole steps toward him before she realizes he’s not one of her girlfriends and she can’t just manhandle him because she doesn’t know how he’ll react. And, oh yeah, he’s a guy, and he’s in her room, and he’s been careful not to even touch her so far, and as nice as he’s been, she doesn’t want to give him the wrong idea.

“Did I do something wrong?” she says. She’s making her voice small on purpose, which is a little manipulative, but it is appropriate to how she feels. Max is special, and she doesn’t want to lose him as a friend before she figures out why.

It gets him to turn around, at least. And his eyes aren’t red and his cheeks aren’t wet, so it can’t be that bad. “No,” he says, forcing a smile. “Sorry. It’s just… It’s a me thing.”

“It’s just a stupid mark,” Taylor says. “I can fill it in if you want. I know where Dad keeps the filler.”

“No, no,” he says quickly. “I like it. If you don’t mind it there… I like it.”

Okay. Okay. He has an issue about this. But as much as she wants to probe it, as much as she wants to know everything, she refrains. If there’s one thing she’s learned as a cheerleader, it’s when to give a girl her space. Still applies here, even though Max isn’t a girl.

“Let’s keep it, then,” she says, matching his smile. It has the effect she hoped for, which is that his smile becomes warmer and more genuine, and she has to fight very hard not to just bounce forward and hug him. “Hey, Max,” she adds, “you wanna go out? We could go to the mall or something.” She pulls playfully at the hem of his shirt again. “We could even buy you some clothes that aren’t black and don’t have bands on them. And that are maybe your size?”

He laughs, and it seems almost real. “No thanks,” he says. “I’m tired out. Maybe I’ll just go home.”

“Oh, no you don’t, mister,” she says, mom-voicing him hard enough that he steps back. “I have nothing to do today, so you’re going to keep me company. Deal?”

He surrenders instantly. “Deal.”

“So. You smoke weed?”

Darn; she should have waited until he had a drink or something, because the look on his face is absolutely priceless, and she definitely could have gotten him to spray water if she timed it right.

“Uh,” he says, floundering. “Uh. Yeah? I guess so?”

She bounces on her toes. Flustering him is fun. “You wanna smoke weed and get takeout?”

“Sure?”

It’ll be good for him. He needs to talk, get whatever this is off his chest, and Taylor, she needs to listen. And maybe look at him a bit. Maybe look at him a lot. And if there’s one thing she’s learned as a cheerleader, it’s when to stay sober and when to get high.

“Wait one second,” she says, holding up a finger. Then she skips over to her door, yanks it open, leans out, and yells down the stairs, “GARRETT! I’M TAKING SOME OF YOUR WEED! IF YOU TELL MOM I’LL RIP YOUR BALLS OFF AND DROP THEM IN YOUR FISH TANK!”

She turns back to Max, grinning and waggling her eyebrows at him, her hand cupped around her ear for the rejoinder.

“I WON’T TELL MOM IF YOU BRING ME ANOTHER BAG OF DORITOS!” Garrett yells back, probably from the same dumb couch they left him on. “See?” Taylor says to Max. “Told you he wasn’t dead.”

Three

LEGIT AIR

“Look at that,” Taylor’s pointing at the screen. “Look at the air they’re getting! It’s good, right? It’s legit.”

Max nods. It’s not been enough to admit to Taylor that, yes, she’s an incredible athlete and, yes, cheerleading’s legit, and, wow, no shit, captain of the squad, that’s really impressive; she wants to show him, and beyond summoning the rest of the squad and running through their routines right in front of him, the best way to do that turns out to be to drag him over to her computer desk and call up video after video of competitive cheerleading.

The trouble is, he’s having trouble concentrating. It’s not that the weed’s hit him all that hard, because it hasn’t, but between it, the takeout, the exercises this morning and the lingering fatigue from spending almost a week, on and off, in Dad’s cramped car, a portion of his brain keeps insisting it would rather just fall face-first into bed, and resents having to squint at a sequence of blocky videos recorded off of ESPN2.

He’s aware enough, though, to be seriously impressed by what he’s seeing. The shit the girls—and guys; a lot of the squads are mixed—are pulling off is downright incredible.

“It’s legit,” he says, passing the joint.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Taylor says, taking it from him and taking a lengthy drag. “Last one, I promise. See these guys?” She cues up another video. “Their routine is amazing. Just wait until you see the throws at the end!”

On the screen, a squad in green uniforms performs a tightly choreographed routine, and the more he watches them, the more he can’t believe they’re a high-school-age cheerleader squad.

“Tay,” he says, “this shit is ridiculous!”

She beams at him. He’s noticed she likes it when he calls her Tay. Almost makes him want an even shorter version of his name, so they can trade. But only his grandparents call him Maxwell—and his mom when she’s pissed.

“This is from two or three years ago,” she says, grinding the end of the joint into dust in the ashtray. “It was a huge controversy: another squad turned out to’ve been stealing their routines for, like, years, and winning trophies with them. Winning this trophy!” The video shows them being announced as the winners of the tournament, and Taylor stabs emphatically at the screen. “They just never had the money to compete for themselves. But they got the money together, they went all in, and they won. It’s like something out of a movie!”

“That’s… actually cool.”

“Right? It’s inspirational!”

“Yeah.”

“C’mon,” she says, abruptly switching off the monitor. Then she puts both feet on the seat of Max’s chair and pushes him away with enough force that the casters trip on the rug, tipping him right off onto the bed. Judging by the glee on her face, she planned it exactly that way, and it came off perfectly. “Max!” she exclaims, forming her mouth into a perfect O of shock. “I thought you were a gymnast! But there you go, falling off of chairs…”

“I would have been fine—” he starts to protest, but he has to cut himself off when Taylor launches herself at the bed. She lands next to him, bounces a couple of times, and comes to rest leaning on her elbow, grinning at him. “I would have been fine,” he tries again, “if I wasn’t so tired.”

“Jet-lagged?” she says. “No, wait; car-lagged?”

“I hate cars,” he says, counting on his fingers, “I hate motels, I hate small towns in the middle of the country, I hate my dad’s music, I hate how Clay takes up all the space in the back seat…”

“How come you didn’t fly? There are people who can move boxes across the country for you.”

“Money. Cheaper to do it ourselves than pay movers, or so Dad said. Hey, um, Taylor…” He shuffles away from her a little. “Should I be on your bed with you like this? Is this really okay?”

“Why?” she asks, pretending to be afraid. “Are you going to molest me, Max Giordano?”

“What? No!” He recoils even farther just at the thought of it, but she reaches out and rolls him over, bringing him closer again.

“So, chill,” she says. She leans over him—Max tries to compress himself into the mattress so she doesn’t actually touch him—and retrieves the remote for her CD player. She switches it on and dumps the remote on the floor. Something by Alanis Morissette comes on, but he’s only heard that one album of hers, the one that got really big; he doesn’t know this one. Next to him, facing up and with her hands clasped on her belly, Taylor sighs contentedly. “You want to smoke another?” she asks after a short while.

“Sure.”

She nods, sits up just enough to retrieve the baggie of pre-rolled joints she stole from Garrett’s room, and lights one up. She passes it to Max, who takes a deep drag, and when he looks again, she’s gotten another ashtray out from somewhere and placed it between them.

“How many of those do you have?”

“Enough,” she says, and accepts the joint from him. “Mom never cleans in here because I do it myself, and she can’t smell it in here because Garrett’s room always stinks of it, so…” She shrugs.

“Weird to be smoking weed with a cheerleader,” Max says, feeling sufficiently loosened up—by the weed, by his exhaustion, by Taylor’s apparent belief that he’s not the kind of guy who might try to hurt her—to just say shit. “I always thought you guys lived on mineral water and pep and calling all the other girls sluts.”

“Max,” Taylor says, passing back, “I’m going to say something very rude now, and you’ve got to promise me it won’t leave this room. I have a reputation to upkeep.”

Max crosses his heart. “Promise.”

“Your New York cheerleaders sound like stuck-up bee-yotches.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, they kinda were.”

“What about your friend? Avery?”

He laughs. “Yeah, she thinks New York cheerleaders are stuck-up bee-yotches, too.”

“I mean,” she says, giggling, “what kind of girl is she?”

“Gymnast. Lesbian. Oh, and she’s a huge nerd, too.”

“Like you, then,” Taylor says.

“Like you,” Max counters.

A little while later, when the second joint is done and they’re lying on their backs together, looking up at the star stickers on her ceiling, and when Max is feeling more relaxed than he has at any point in at least the last year, Taylor goes and ruins it all—or complicates it all, anyway—by asking the question he’d been hoping she wouldn’t.

“Hey, Max? Where did you get those scars?”

“You saw those, huh?”

Of course she did. You can’t throw yourself around the way he did this morning without your shirt flying all over the place, especially when it’s too big for you by several sizes. He ought to take a leaf out of her book and wear a tight crop top or something. The thought of it, of his belly sticking out of one of Taylor’s pink gym tops, is almost funny enough to make him laugh.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she says. “Really, you don’t.”

He shrugs. He ought to lie, or claim it’s a secret, or otherwise keep it from her, because it isn’t exactly the kind of story you tell to make yourself seem cool in front of a pretty girl, but if she’s going to be his friend, she should know. And if she laughs or thinks less of him, then it’s better to know now, right? Better to be rejected by someone you just met than by someone you’ve known for a long time.

“It was last year,” he says, settling his head into the pillow. He might be telling the story, but he doesn’t want to look at her while he does. He wants to get her reaction all at once, when he’s done. In case it’s bad. Rip off the Band-Aid, etc. “End of the spring semester. I’d never been that popular, but I was never unpopular, either, you know? I was just another kid. And I’d been dabbling in gymnastics a long time already, but high school was where I started really getting into it. Coach thought I had real promise. I wasn’t as good as Avery—she started before me—but I was good. And Coach said I could be great. And I’d never been great at anything before, so I let her talk me into taking private classes. Mom was against it but Dad, in a fit of unexpected parental involvement, persuaded her. And then that was it. School, home, life, it was all about gymnastics. Me and Avery and gymnastics. It was everything to us. Anyway, Coach was right: I was great.”

“I’ve seen it,” Taylor says quietly. “You are.”

“And you’ve seen me after a year of doing nothing more than backyard stuff,” he says. “And we didn’t even have a big yard back home. Since then, since what happened, I’ve lost weight, I’ve lost muscle. I don’t have the stamina I used to. Compared to back then, I’m— Ugh. Sorry. Hard to lose something like that, you know?”

“What happened to you, Max?”

“It was inevitable, really. At school, I wasn’t just some kid anymore. I was a gym fag. I had my special fag gym clothes and I walked like a gym fag and— Well, you know what people are like. Shit written on my locker, guys bumping into me on the stairs and trying to get me to trip and fall. You’ve seen it, I bet.”

“Yeah,” she says. “There are a-holes like that in every school.”

“So, it’s the end of the spring semester last year,” he says briskly, moving the story along as quickly as he can, “and three guys corner me. I thought they were just going to beat the shit out of me, which would have been an escalation, but still, something I could deal with.” His voice is shaking. Huh. “No. Christ, I wish they had. What actually happened was that two of them grabbed me and held me down on the ground and the third, he had this beat-up old Volvo, and he got the cigarette lighter—”

“Oh no,” Taylor breathes.

“Yeah. Pushed it into me three times. And he wasn’t quick, either. He held it there each time. If you’re wondering: incredibly painful.”

“What did you do?”

He can’t help it. He sits up, earlier than he planned, unable to wait for her judgment, but she’s just lying there, watching him, no cruelty or satisfaction evident on her face. She feels for him. It’s obvious. And if it weren’t, the hand that reaches for his would make it pretty clear.

Still, he’s not done with the story yet.

“I didn’t do anything. At first it was because I was in pain, like, monumental amounts of pain, and then I just didn’t want to get up. They didn’t stick around. Just kicked me a bit, taunted me, and ran off. They left me there and ran off. And lying there, Tay, I think I already knew they’d broken me. I think I knew that was it, you know?” He shakes his head. Too much. “Anyway, I didn’t tell the cops or the principal or anything because I still had to go to school for another two years with those assholes and they could have made it even worse for me. So I just… went home. Swallowed Tylenol like candy and wrapped my chest in gauze. Mom eventually saw the burns and freaked and took me to, like, a gajillion doctors, but the best they could do by that point was just tell me to use lotion on them.”

“Does it help?”

“No. Not really.”

Taylor pushes up on her elbows, bringing herself closer, and she lets go of his hand and reaches for the hem of his shirt. “May I?” she asks, and waits for his nod.

It’s light and airy in Taylor’s room, and a breeze ripples over his chest as Taylor lifts up his shirt. He expects her to pull it up only enough to see, but she raises it higher and shoots him a questioning glance, which he interprets—correctly—as a request to raise his arms. She slides his shirt all the way off and drops it on the bed.

“I know,” he says, “I’m skinny.”

Taylor smiles sadly. “No skinnier than me,” she says, which is generous of her. “And I’d say ‘toned’, anyway. Um. Do they hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

He knows how they look in the light; three angry, deep-red scars burned into his chest. Three concentric circles, the skin at its worst where they join. Each one is a memory, a humiliation.

Taylor doesn’t seem to know what to do with herself. Caught with one hand halfway to his chest and another halfway to her mouth, she’s frozen in place, her eyes searching him for the answer to a question she seems scared to ask. He nods again, and she touches him. Gently, almost nervously. She traces the outline of the scars.

And then he’s too self-conscious. Not just because of the scars, but because his skin is sallow after so long without sun; because whatever she says about how toned he is, he can see his weakness in her eyes. So he snatches up his shirt and slips it back on.

It breaks the spell.

“I’m so sorry, Max,” she says.

He struggles to regather his usual emotional state, to find again the ol’ reliable ‘Max’ persona, the guy who doesn’t care too much about anything, not the burn scars on his ribs or the friends he’s lost or the fact that his one remaining real friend is now thousands of miles away.

“We used to know each other,” he says, casually tossing it at her like it’s a factoid his mom just read in the Style section of the newspaper. “The guy who burned me. Grew up together.” He knows he sounds flippant, but better that than bare himself again. And she seems to understand. A guy needs his emotional space. “We used to be close. Like kids are, I mean. Back in New York, there’s a room with both of our heights marked on the wall, just like that. Him and me. It was him and me, and then we drifted apart, and when he came back, he did this to me.”

“Oh,” Taylor says, eyes wide. “Oh! That’s why you, uh, when we marked your height, uh…”

“Yeah,” he says, his cheeks reddening. So much for ol’ reliable, emotionless Max. “That’s why it hit me so hard. Kinda brought him back, you know?” He laughs. “I thought I was better at hiding my shit than that. Turns out, I’m really not.”

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I see everything, anyway. So you’re just going to have to get used to that.”

* * *

Those burns are vicious. And that level of bullying is something else! Vista Primavera High has its problems, yes, but the worst she’s heard of lately is just normal bullcrap like freshmen getting dumped in the trash or having their lockers vandalized. And that it was done by someone he used to be friends with…

Max Giordano is going to need good friends from now on. Of that, Taylor is absolutely certain.

It hurt him so much to tell her, too. She saw him clam up after. And that’s so accurate, actually! He opened up, just a little bit, just enough for her to see, and then he snapped shut! It took her almost an hour to restore the innocent, fun, almost flirty attitude he had out in the yard, and she wonders if the weed was a bad idea; Max seems like one of those people who get melancholy when they’re high.

It was probably just because she made him relive the memories, though.

He’s also moved farther away from her on the bed. He’s practically falling off! Inevitable, probably. Honestly, you get a guy to admit to having one (1) emotion, and they immediately stop talking at all!

No, actually. That’s unfair. That’s not Max she’s thinking of, that’s Gordo, a teenage boy who can’t wait to be a man, who already considers himself to be what a man ought to be, and Taylor’s not in a rush to spend time socially with people who remind her of her father, thank you very much! She’s tried to tell him, over and over, to just talk to her like he used to. If he did, maybe she’d even get to the bottom of his obsession with sex!

No, wait; that’s also because Gordo is a teenage boy. In a way Max, somehow, is not.

“Hey,” she says, “talk to me, Max.”

“I’m okay,” he insists. He’s regained a little of the slight swagger he had before, the sense that he knows who he is, what he wants. Yes, it’s a lie, or at best a coping mechanism, but it’s a comforting one, for Taylor. There’s a real Max under the front he puts up, and she got to see it.

“Are you sure?” she says.

“Yeah. It’s just… I think you’re the only person I’ve talked to about what happened. Apart from my family. And doctors. And Avery, obviously. You’re the first person since her I’ve chosen to talk to about it. Which is kinda confusing, because I’ve known you for, what, twenty-nine hours?”

“More like thirty-one,” Taylor says, and she bounces on the mattress to bring herself closer. “Avery. You miss her, huh?”

He smiles, and that’s good, right? That’s a genuine smile on his face! Not one of the fake ones he puts on when he knows he ought to be smiling at something.

“I do. She’s been bugging me to talk to her online, but we don’t have internet yet, so—”

“Oh!” Well, there’s a good deed she can do! “I have internet. You want to talk to her right now? I can set it up! It’ll be really quick. Will she be at home on a Sunday afternoon?”

“Um, yeah, I think so,” he says, recoiling a little. Taylor reels herself in a bit. Too much enthusiasm for someone who just finished being a huge downer.

“Come on, then,” she says, bouncing the rest of the way over to his side of the bed—her thigh momentarily grazing his; just an accident!—and hopping off onto the floor. She rolls his chair back over to the computer desk and boots up her main PC again. The fans whirr gently into life—she spent a whole afternoon making sure her computer doesn’t sound like a jet engine, unlike Garrett’s—and by the time Max joins her, she’s looking at the desktop again. “Which client?”

“Which, uh…?”

“AIM, MSN, ICQ…?”

“Oh. AIM.”

Taylor opens AIM, logs herself out, and wheels herself away so Max can sit in front of the keyboard. When he maneuvers himself into position, she swings her chair around behind his and rests her forearms on its back, with her chin atop them. She can see the screen over his shoulder.

It must be a slow Sunday over in New York—three hours ahead, she remembers; Avery’s probably going to be called for dinner in the not-too-distant future—because the AIM window lights up almost instantly with a response.

Maximillion: Hey Avery A-Very-Nice-Person: Holy shit you got internet A-Very-Nice-Person: Did you get cable? Is it fast? A-Very-Nice-Person: We’re stuck on DSL and it’s not fucking dial up at least but I hate it A-Very-Nice-Person: Dad says we can’t get cable again until we pay our cable bill A-Very-Nice-Person: And he is ideologically opposed to paying cable bills as you know A-Very-Nice-Person: Anyway it’s so cool you’re back online I was DYING without you to talk to A-Very-Nice-Person: Max? Are you there? Maximillion: I’m here Maximillion: You just type really fast Maximillion: Chill A-Very-Nice-Person: I refuse A-Very-Nice-Person: ONE of us has to talk

“I like her already,” Taylor says.

“Why does that not surprise me?” Max replies.

Maximillion: Anyway I don’t have internet yet Maximillion: I’m at a friend’s house A-Very-Nice-Person: You made a friend already! That rules A-Very-Nice-Person: Can I embarrass you in front of him yet or are you still in the delicate getting to know you phase A-Very-Nice-Person: Circling the cave and grunting at each other until you establish a firm enough masculine bond to roast and eat a dead stag without trying to kill each other A-Very-Nice-Person: I think that’s how it works with boys anyway Maximillion: When have I ever grunted? A-Very-Nice-Person: I think you could grunt A-Very-Nice-Person: I’m not saying it wouldn’t be under duress A-Very-Nice-Person: But I AM saying it would be adorable Maximillion: Well Avery Maximillion: You’ll be happy to know you’ve already embarrassed me in front of HER A-Very-Nice-Person: ROFL A-Very-Nice-Person: Sorry Max’s friend if you can see this A-Very-Nice-Person: But I’m about to get even worse A-Very-Nice-Person: Deep breath A-Very-Nice-Person: What’s her name is she pretty is she prettier THAN ME and if she is does she like girls and is she open to a long distance relationship Maximillion: You have a girlfriend Avery A-Very-Nice-Person: SHE doesn’t know that

Taylor leans over Max’s shoulder and borrows the keyboard.

Maximillion: Hi! Max’s friend here, Avery, and I’m sorry, but I very much do know that now. Maximillion: Ya blew it. Maximillion: Sorreeeeeeee!!!!! A-Very-Nice-Person: Hey look Max your friend likes punctuation Maximillion: I’ll have you know I have a 4.3 average. Maximillion: I love punctuation. A-Very-Nice-Person: Holy shit Max a 4.3, hitch your wagon to this girl A-Very-Nice-Person: She’ll take you places Maximillion: Okay it’s me again, and I’m doing fine thank you Avery Maximillion: I’ll keep my wagon where it belongs.

“You’re a menace,” Max tells Taylor. She beams at him, and then twists around to get out of her chair.

“I’ll give you two a minute,” she says. “You want something to drink? We have iced tea or water or—”

“Iced tea is fine, unless you have anything like Dr Pepper.”

“I think we might actually have Dr Pepper. You want? Okay! Be right ba-aaack!”

She sings the last word as she skips out of the room, and then she’s down the stairs in a flash. She can’t resist putting a little flourish into it as she rounds the bend from the bottom of the stairs into the living room, because Garrett’s probably still in there, and it annoys him to see her expending so much excess energy. Or moving fast, like, at all.

And there he is, wasting whole days away on the couch. As usual. She sticks her tongue out at him; he gives her the finger. She escapes to look for sodas, but by the time she’s dug them out of the fridge, he’s leaning against the arch that separates the kitchen from the rest of the rooms downstairs.

“Make sure you put the baggie back in my room,” he says.

“Yeah,” she says. “Duh.”

“Make sure you reseal it.”

“Obviously.”

“And make sure you air out your room and—”

“I know, Garrett!”

“Okay! Jesus! I’m just trying to help.”

“You’re starting to get cranky,” she says, maneuvering around him as she exits the kitchen, a Diet Dr Pepper in each hand. “Maybe you should smoke some more.” On her way back up the stairs, she turns and yells, “And then maybe you’ll get turbo cancer and die!”

“I’m your big brother, Taylor!” he shouts after her. “I’m looking out for you!”

“You’re a big pain in my ass!” she shouts back, leaning over the railing so her voice echoes properly. She swoops back into her room, ignoring the grumbling from downstairs, and as she closes the door with her butt, she’s delighted to see Max laughing at something on the screen.

Well, mostly delighted. It would have been nice if it had been her who made him laugh, not this Avery girl, but it’s still good to see.

“Drink up,” she says, placing the can in front of him.

“Diet,” he observes, before opening it and taking a swig.

“I’m an athlete!” She opens hers and presses the cold can against his bare forearm, making him wince and pull away. “And so are you!”

“Thanks, Tay,” he says, grinning at her.

“So? How’s she doing?”

“Avery? She’s good. Same as normal.” He points to the screen, and Taylor swings her chair around behind again, so she can look properly. As she drinks, Max goes back to typing.

A-Very-Nice-Person: It’s going to be weird going back to school without you A-Very-Nice-Person: I’m going to have to get a new best friend Maximillion: At least you won’t have to have the locker next to the one that always has FAG on it anymore A-Very-Nice-Person: What if I befriend a new fag A-Very-Nice-Person: Oh shit am I allowed to say that Maximillion: No but neither am I

Taylor hides her smile behind her Diet Dr Pepper. Definitely not gay, then. Just checking!

A-Very-Nice-Person: Have you seen your new school yet Maximillion: No but I figure any school is like any other school right? Maximillion: Different color metal detectors maybe A-Very-Nice-Person: ROFL depressing A-Very-Nice-Person: Rolling on the floor sobbing my eyes out A-Very-Nice-Person: Leave New York and see the sights in sunny California! A-Very-Nice-Person: Get violated by entirely new rentacops!

“It’s not too bad, actually,” Taylor says, having drained her Dr Pepper already. “We’ve got a couple security guys, but no metal detectors. They keep saying they’re going to beef up security, but so far…” She crosses her fingers.

Maximillion: Taylor says no metal detectors

Taylor borrows the keyboard again.

Maximillion: Taylor here, AND our security guys have cute little name tags and they get fired if they get too handsy. Which HAS happened, so that’s not great, but at least they got fired. A-Very-Nice-Person: You’re leading the nation A-Very-Nice-Person: Also hi Taylor! A-Very-Nice-Person: Max won’t say if you’re prettier than me Maximillion: Just a second, Avery. I can solve that conundrum.

Taylor surrenders the keyboard to Max, but before he can type anything else, she claims the mouse and loads the webcam application. The little camera is still positioned on top of the monitor, pointing down at them, covering what Taylor’s always considered her most flattering angle. “Say cheese,” she says, and puts on a peppy smile, pressing her cheek against Max’s.

In the preview, he looks adorably startled and she looks great, so she saves the picture and drags it into the AIM window.

A-Very-Nice-Person: Oh shit she IS prettier than me A-Very-Nice-Person: How depressing A-Very-Nice-Person: You see it right Max A-Very-Nice-Person: You see how she’s prettier than me Maximillion: Avery Maximillion: You realize I’m stuck now don’t you? Maximillion: I can’t say you’re prettier than Taylor because she’s right here Maximillion: And I can’t say the opposite either Maximillion: Whatever I say I’m doomed

“Duh,” Taylor says, giggling. “You say we’re both beautiful.”

A-Very-Nice-Person: Repeat after me, Maxxy: “You’re both pretty.”

“She makes a good point,” Taylor says.

Maximillion: There’s an echo in here. Maximillion: Taylor said the exact same thing you did. A-Very-Nice-Person: Well yeah A-Very-Nice-Person: All of us are taught this as children A-Very-Nice-Person: We get secret classes A-Very-Nice-Person: How to make boys uncomfortable is like the first lesson A-Very-Nice-Person: It’s our main weapon in the battle of the sexes A-Very-Nice-Person: That and mace

“I have some Mace,” Taylor whispers, “if you ever need some. I have spare, I mean.”

“Why would I need Mace?”

“Don’t know. But just in case. I’ll bring some over.”

“Don’t bring me Mace, Taylor.”

“Just in case!”

* * *

Max isn’t exactly late for dinner, but he needs to shower to get rid of the weed stink, and since it’s also his turn to set the table, he’s going to be cutting it really close. So he barges in through the front door at full speed, yells out that he’s here, that he’ll be down in a minute, that he just needs a shower, and he makes it to the stairs without either of his parents getting a chance to intercept him and yell at him about timekeeping, about the watch his Aunt Gabriele got him, about how it keeps perfect time, about how he should wear it more, and about how he knows when dinner is and when to be home for it.

See? He doesn’t even need to be yelled at; he’s got the script memorized.

He doesn’t make it to his bedroom entirely unscathed, though. Clay’s in his room with his door open, and he calls out as Max passes. Panting, Max stops in the doorway, leaning on the frame with both hands.

“Yeah?” Max says.

“Nice girl, is she?”

“Yeah.”

“Girlfriend?”

“What? No. Clay, we’ve been here a day.”

“You moved on Avery pretty quick back home.”

“We weren’t— Never mind. I need a shower.”

“Good idea.” Clay wafts a hand in front of his nose. “And wash those clothes yourself.”

“Uh, yeah, I will.”

As Max turns to leave, Clay says, “Nice scrunchie, Max.”

“What? Oh. Shit.”

“You wearing it to dinner? So Mom and Dad can get a good look at it?”

“Uh. No. Definitely not.”

“Okay then.”

Max makes his escape.

It’s annoying to have to wash his hair twice in one day, but hair’s worse than clothes for retaining weed stink, and as much as he could pass it off as an unfortunate byproduct of existing in the presence of Taylor’s stoner brother, he doesn’t want to take the risk; Mom’d probably go over there to complain about Garrett’s corrupting influence. And the shower gives him the opportunity to think, too.

About Taylor.

He let her touch his scars. And something about that felt right. Felt like it demystified them somehow. Like Taylor claimed them, and in doing so, released their hold on him just a little. He’s not going to start going topless, but maybe by bringing them so completely into his new life, into a new friendship, she’s begun a process which might eventually sever their connection to his past.

Yeah. He kinda likes that.

He also likes that Taylor and Avery get along. They chatted for a while, switching the keyboard back and forth, until Avery had to go for dinner. She and Taylor exchanged details, and then it was just Max and Taylor again. Watching TV. Talking about nothing. Talking about everything.

She’s relaxing to be around. She’s a lot smarter than he originally assumed she would be, which is on him. Making assumptions. Like a girl can’t be bubbly and peppy and test well!

He smiles as he soaps himself up. Her words in her voice. Different to Avery’s—basically two exact opposite points of the female vocal range—but not shrill and whining like he always expects cheerleaders’ voices to be.

“Wow,” he says to himself, imitating Taylor. “Prejudiced much?”

They talked about birthdays. She has one coming up, and he is of course invited to her eighteenth on September 13. He told her he had a birthday recently, but that he didn’t really celebrate it, just hung out with Avery as usual. The confession brought the mood down again. It didn’t last, though, and to change the subject, she showed him her hand-annotated copy of the squad routine book and talked him through what cheerleaders do that gymnasts don’t. When it was finally time for him to go home for dinner, it was with the knowledge of what flyers, bases and spotters are, what they do, and how disastrous it can be when any of them fuck up.

In all, his second day in California could have gone a lot worse. Though it’s weird that Taylor hasn’t mentioned her boyfriend even once yet.

* * *

He’s so dumb! So adorably, annoyingly dumb! He wants to do gymnastics. He’s desperate to get back to it! She could see it in the way he hungrily watched the cheer routines she played for him, and in the rapt attention he paid when she was showing him the cheer book, but he won’t do anything about it! And, okay, Vista Primavera High doesn’t have a gymnastics team, so he can’t do it at school, but he can take classes or something! He can do it on his own time! But no, instead he’s just going to try to keep up with the basics in his backyard—or in hers—and leave it at that.

But he’s also not dumb, and she knows why. He doesn’t want to be the ‘gym eff ay gee’ at another school. He wants to keep his head down and graduate and go to college. And eventually, it went unsaid, he’ll become more like his brother—because he will, Taylor’s wishful thinking notwithstanding—and he’ll either have to learn everything again from scratch—and never again be as good as he was—or he’ll give it up forever.

It was itching on the tip of her tongue all afternoon: join the squad! She wanted so much to say it! And he’d be amazing! He’s better than her at the technical stuff, even if she’s fitter and can last longer, and the other stuff, the cheer-specific stuff, she could teach him, no trouble. Eddie could teach him the guys’ role in the squad. And he’d make them better in turn! They could learn so much from each other!

But she didn’t say it, because she can’t. Because he’s the wrong size and shape. Their routines—their very squad—assume a certain size and shape of guy. Eddie is six foot one and closer to Gordo than Max in physique, and the other guys on the squad are similar; there’s no role for Max there. And while in theory he could take up the same role as one of the girl bases, or even be a flyer if he starts working on his core again, since he can already land like a champ… he’d never agree to it. Being a guy doing girl stuff on the cheer squad is probably significantly worse than being a gym eff ay gee.

Shoot. She’s so close to a solution that helps them both, but there’s no way she can make it work!

Taylor shakes her head and jumps up from her bed, aiming to call for takeout before Garrett gets a chance to order the greasiest and most disgusting food he can find in the big pile of menus in the kitchen. On her way past the computer desk, the picture of her and Max, the one she took with her webcam and sent to Avery, catches her eye.

It makes her smile. Warms her stomach. Because they look like such good friends already!

But what’s weird is that with the low resolution of the webcam, with the fat pixels obscuring the finer details of his face, with the angle the picture was taken from, he looks kinda like a girl.

He looks kinda like a pretty girl.

Taylor stares.

Like a really pretty—

“Taylor!” Garrett calls from downstairs. “I’m ordering food!”

Shoot!

She shakes her head and runs to the door. “Oh no you don’t!” she yells, and starts down the stairs, flexing her fingers, preparing to rip the phone right out of his stupid stoner hands before he orders something with more oil by volume than an entire KFC, and kick him if that doesn’t seem like enough.

* * *

Monday goes by quickly. Max showers, dresses in loose clothing he can move in, and goes over to Taylor’s. They exercise together. Taylor shows him more of her cheerleader moves and tries to give him an idea of how they work with more than one person, but it’s difficult to imagine. She says she should get her friend Willa over, because she’s on the squad and can help Taylor show him, if he’s interested. He says he’s fine just imagining for now.

Then it’s back upstairs to chat and watch TV. She will take him shopping one day, she says, but she’s going to give him more time to get acclimated before she subjects him to the malls here. They hang out, they talk to Avery a little more together, Taylor still doesn’t mention that she has a boyfriend—he’s been noticing more and more how she doesn’t talk about him—and then it’s dinner time and he’s got to go home.

And just when he’s getting excited at the thought of doing it all over again tomorrow—and reveling in the feeling of actually looking forward to something for once—his mom drops the bombshell: on Tuesday, they’re having a family day. They’re going to go out together and look around the stores and have a nice lunch somewhere, so he needs to get his sunscreen and some nice clothes and be ready to go out at nine in the morning sharp.

As Taylor would say, ick!

They got the cable TV and internet connected while he was out, though, so after dinner he sets up his aging computer and messages Taylor on AIM to tell her he can’t come over tomorrow. She’s sad—and annoyed that it’s not going to be her who introduces him to the shopping here—but she gets over it, and they end up talking well into the night.

* * *

“Yeah, and he can’t come over today. His parents want a ‘family day’, which basically means they’ve kidnapped him and his enormous brother and they’re going to drive all over town and go shopping and eat out and because they’re from New York they’re probably all going to die of heatstroke on the steps of Spring View Mall twenty feet away from the air conditioning and I’m bored, Willa!”

“Whoa! Okay. Take it easy, Tay. Start again. Who is Max?”

Taylor winds the phone cord around her little finger. “He’s this boy—”

“No, no, I understood that part. I mean, why are you so into him?”

“I’m not into him! He’s just— He’s nice, Willa. He’s a nice guy. Do you know any nice guys? Apart from Eddie, I mean.”

“Apart from Eddie? No. I know plenty of only mildly offputting guys, if that helps.”

“It extremely does not.”

“Fair,” Willa says.

“Willa, he’s super sweet and you have to meet him! So what I was thinking is, he had his eighteenth like a week ago, just over, and he didn’t even do anything for it! So I thought about a surprise party—you know how much I love surprises—but he’s kinda gunshy. So then I thought, what about us? Like, the four of us? You and Eddie and me and Max. Tomorrow night. Over here. Garrett can get us drinks and we’ll have a little birthday party! For Max!”

“Uh-huh.”

“What do you mean, ‘uh-huh’?”

“Me and my boyfriend and you and your…”

“Max, yes.”

“You and your Max.”

“No! Just me and Max. He’s not mine…” She probably shouldn’t sound so wistful.

“You have a boyfriend, Taylor! Remember Gordo? Big guy. Linebacker. Very straight nose.” Over the line, Willa giggles. “Very straight guy in general.”

“Max isn’t like that.”

“Didn’t you say he’s not gay?”

“He’s not! He said so!”

“He just, like, came out and said it?”

On her kitchen stool, Taylor squirms. “Not directly. But we were talking to his friend from New York and they were talking like he’s not gay. He even said he’s ‘not allowed’ to say the word; you know, um, eff, ay—”

“You don’t need to spell it, Tay.” Willa breathes heavily into the phone. “So. He’s not gay. And he’s not like Gordo. What is he like?”

“I don’t know, Willa! He’s… He’s sweet and he’s sensitive and he’s kinda… He’s Max, Willa. Max.”

“You’re saying his name like you think it’s helping your ‘not into him’ case.”

“Is it?”

“No.”

“No fair,” Taylor whines.

“You’re lusting, Tay.”

“Am not!”

“Does he know he’s got no chance?”

“…No? Yes? Maybe? But I don’t want that from him, Willa. I want a friend. I want him to be more like how you are with me, not like how Gordo is with me. I think. Shoot, I don’t know. Stop asking confusing questions.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“I’ll come to your party, Tay. I’ll wear something nice and I’ll bring Eddie and I’ll meet your new best friend and we can do the birthday thing. Just promise me it won’t be weird.”

“Zero weirdness. I promise. Willa, you’re the best.”

“I know. And—”

“Shoot! Doorbell! Gotta go!”

She could probably have made it to the front door without having to hang up, because the kitchen phone has a really long cord, but if she kept Willa on the line she was going to keep asking those uncomfortable questions, and they’re not anything Taylor wants to address right now. She’s on the fourth day of her friendship with Max and she still doesn’t know exactly what she wants from him, only that she wants something, and it’s definitely not what she wants from Gordo.

She’s still frowning at the thought of it when the doorbell goes again, reminding her why she hung up in the first place. Irritably she rushes to the front door and yanks it open.

Shoot.

“Gordo!”

“Hey, babe!”

He yanks her into an embrace she has no chance of getting out of unless she wants to get violent, so she waits for him to get done before she says anything else. And then he plants a kiss on her mouth as he releases her, so she has to wait that out, too.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, when finally she can. “I thought football camp was—”

“It’s not ‘football camp’, Tay, I keep telling you.” He starts taking the stairs two at a time, and Taylor has to admit that for all that he can be, well, annoying and persistent, he has a great body. And it’s a reactive body, too. He moves a muscle in his arm and it’s like a butterfly flapping its wings; somewhere on the other end of his body, another muscle moves with it. “It’s an intensive week-long training regimen overseen by—”

“If it’s so intensive,” she says, climbing the stairs after him, “then why are you here?”

“I missed you, Tay!”

He punctuates her name by swinging open the door to her room. She follows him inside, allows him to shut the door, and when he sits down on the end of her bed she chooses one of the computer chairs, rolling it into the center of the room.

“No, seriously,” she says. “Why are you here?”

“Coach gave us the afternoon off and it’s only sixty miles and I wanted to surprise you, Tay!”

She reaches forward to swat him on the knee. “Gordo! You know I hate surprises!”

“I know, I know,” he says, “you like everything to be organized and in its place—” he mimes typing on an invisible typewriter, which is seemingly how Gordo thinks you organize yourself, “—but you’re not doing anything today, are you?”

“No,” she admits.

“So?”

“Fine,” she says, stepping up from her chair and over to him. He rises to meet her, circles an arm around her waist and dips her, and the shiver that involuntarily passes through her isn’t entirely unwelcome. Enough that when she comes up, flushed, she’s ready for more. But she has to set the ground rules, first. “No sex stuff, though.” She holds a finger up to his face, which is tricky because of how close he’s holding her. “Okay?”

He kisses her again and releases her. “Yeah, Tay, I got it. I can wait a month. Hey, you wanna go out on your birthday, just the two of us, and celebrate?”

“I have a party on my birthday, Gordo. You know that!”

“Okay. Day after?”

“That’s a Sunday, and we have school the next day. We’ll do something the Friday after, okay?”

Gordo nods, grinning expansively. “Perfect, Tay, just perfect. I can’t wait. I mean, I can wait. And I will wait. But I can’t.”

“Understood, Gordo.”

“And— Oh, hey, what’s that?”

“What’s what?”

And that’s when Taylor realizes she should have been so much more careful, that she shouldn’t have let Gordo come up here—not that she had much chance of stopping him—and that maybe she should start applying the same ruthless organization and forward planning she uses for school, cheerleading and Gordo to the rest of her personal life, because he’s over at the door, looking at the latest addition to the height marks carved into the frame.

“Tay,” he says slowly, “who’s Max? Is he a guy? Did you have a guy in your room?”

Strangely, he doesn’t sound mad. At least, he doesn’t sound like he usually sounds when he’s mad. His voice is too steady. Somehow that’s even scarier.

“No guys, Gordo,” she says quickly, because it’s what he needs to hear. “Promise.”

“So who is he?”

Looking quickly around her room for inspiration, Taylor’s eyes land briefly on the computer, and she remembers the webcam photo she took. How the low-quality camera basically erased the wispy dark hairs on Max’s upper lip and softened his features. Made him look different.

“Max is a girl,” she says. “Maxine. She’s a friend and she was visiting. We were just messing around.”

“I don’t know a Maxine,” Gordo says, still frowning.

Taylor quickly reaches for some facts she can use to anchor the lie. “She just moved here. She starts at our school in the fall. She’s nice, Gordo.”

“Cool,” he says, nodding. “Cool.” And then his grin returns as if it had never left. “Is she hot?”

“Yes,” Taylor says, “she’s hot, but you’re taken, you idiot!”

He holds up his hands in fake surrender and edges around the room, pretending to back away from her. “I get it, I get it, don’t attack me!”

Gordo’s still backing away, and he bumps into the computer desk, knocking the mouse and deactivating the screensaver, and Taylor wishes desperately for a do-over of the last few days, or at the very least, the last few minutes.

She left the webcam picture up on the screen. She had it up last night when they were talking—just to look at—and she never turned off her stupid computer because she was too tired, and she couldn’t even hear it when she woke up because it’s so freaking quiet, and now Gordo’s looking at Max, and—

“Oh, hey,” he says. “Is that Maxine? She is hot.”

How to Fly, book one of When You Fell from Heaven, which comprises the first ten chapters of the story, is available:

On Amazon, for Kindle and in Paperback.

As an ebook from these online stores.

Or from Itch.io.

Or you can read all current chapters on my Patreon! Subscribing to my Patreon at the $5 tier will get you all fifteen chapters (so far) of When You Fell from Heaven. You will also get access to my ongoing stories The Catch, a forced-fem riff on Fifty Shades with illustrations by Emory Ahlberg, and Kimmy, a horrifying take on the Halloween costume that won’t let you out. And you’ll get the full epub of the revised version of Show Girl, my egg-cracking trans romance, and access to chapters of The Sisters of Dorley two weeks early!

[moonlightdreamzz]

late nights — bang chan, hyunjin, wooyoung, and niki. ♡

it feels so good to be seen and loved, especially after an exhausting day.

bang chan

truthfully, you don’t even know how you made it here in one piece—here, being chris’ studio. utterly exhausted doesn’t even begin to cover it, but the day is finally over, and you’re holding onto that small grace. not like you have much of a choice, right?

your eyes flutter shut for just a second as you lean against the door, the light thud startling you back to the moment. you laugh quietly at yourself, embarrassed by how ready your body was to believe this was the end of the day, before finally pushing the door open.

you and chris share the same curse: you work too hard, and far too much. so, it doesn’t surprise you to see him exactly as you left him this morning—headphones on, hunched over his computer, eyes flickering across the screen. even from the doorway, you can hear the bass pumping loud enough to feel it in your chest.

you weren’t planning on saying anything. the couch beside his desk had your name written all over it, and all you wanted was to curl up and let sleep take over until he was ready to leave. but somehow, you find enough strength to call out to him.

“baby.”

it’s almost immediate, the way his head snaps toward you, his eyes softening as soon as they land on yours. it’s like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. his headphones are off in seconds, tossed carelessly onto the desk. that alone tells you everything—he must think you look even worse than you feel.

he doesn’t say anything, just opens his arms wide, inviting you in. and how could you ever say no to him? you drag your feet across the room, collapsing into his lap without a second thought. his arms wrap around you tightly, and for the first time all day, you feel like you can finally exhale.

“you had a long day, didn’t you?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear before pressing a soft kiss there.

all you can do is nod, burying yourself deeper into his neck. he smells just like he did this morning, warm and familiar, and it makes your chest ache in the best way. neither of you moves for what feels like forever, but it’s the kind of forever you could get used to. his touch says everything words can’t—how much he missed you, how much he hates seeing you this tired, how much he loves you.

you want to tell him you should go home, that you need a proper bed, but you can’t. you know how important his work is, and you’d never forgive yourself for making him feel guilty about staying.

but then his voice breaks the silence, low and soft. “i think i’m done for the night.”

your head snaps up, searching his face for any sign he’s joking. “no, baby. i’m fine. keep working,” you say quickly, even as your body betrays you and leans back into his chest. the guilt creeps up before you can stop it.

his thumb brushes your cheek, and his eyes lock on yours with so much tenderness it nearly knocks the wind out of you. “the only thing i want to do is go home, run you a bath, and hold you while you fall asleep. this can wait until tomorrow. you’re the most important thing to me, and i need you to know that.”

he kisses you softly, and when he pulls back, there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “besides,” he adds with a wink, “if i don’t take care of you, who’s going to remind me to take care of myself?”

hyunjin

you and your man were both terribly sleepy babies. no matter how hard you tried to stay awake for each other on late nights, one of you always gave in first. it was a routine by now: a simple “i love you” text signaling surrender to the pull of a memory foam mattress or an irresistibly soft couch. there was never any guilt, just understanding.

but this month? this month has been unrelenting. you’ve been in full girl boss mode, pushing through deadlines and back-to-back meetings, while hyunjin has been caught up in the chaos of a comeback. you can’t even remember the last time you sat down together for dinner, watched a show, or just existed in the same moment. you miss it. you miss him.

when his schedule was calmer, hyunjin stayed with you as much as he could. but now, the dorm has him locked down. as you punch in your door code, you sigh, already feeling the emptiness of your apartment. you wish he were here—even if it meant finding him passed out on the couch, mouth slightly open, barely coherent as you whispered him awake and tugged him to bed

tonight, though, there’s no detour. no lingering in the kitchen or collapsing on the couch. you head straight to your room, already peeling off your jacket as you close the door behind you. exhaustion weighs heavy on you, but something feels… off.

your heart stutters. someone’s here.

you freeze. open your eyes, idiot, you scold yourself. slowly, you do, and your breath catches in your throat

there, glowing like a dream, stands hyunjin. a bouquet of roses in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, his smile stretching so wide his eyes crinkle shut. he’s radiant, like he stepped out of your imagination, but he’s real.

“baby,” you whisper, your voice trembling with disbelief. “what… how are you here? i thought—”

you don’t get the words out, too stunned to string them together. he steps closer, slow and steady, placing the roses and wine into your hands before cupping your face and kissing you, soft and sure. his lips feel like coming home

“i missed you,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm against your ear. “it’s been hell not being able to see you, touch you, hold you. i’ve been trying so hard to wait, but when i called you this morning and heard how tired you sounded… i had to be here. i couldn’t let you come home to an empty apartment tonight.

you melt into his arms, burying your face in his chest as his words sink in. “i knew it,” you say suddenly, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, a teasing smirk spreading across your face. “you really can’t stay away from me. i’m irresistible, huh?”

he bursts out laughing, the sound warm and rich, making his whole body shake as he leans his forehead against yours. “shut up,” he grins, but his eyes are so full of love you can feel it in your bones.

The he cups your face again, pressing his lips back to yours in a kiss that feels like a promise. this one is different—hungrier, deeper, filled with everything he’s been holding back. his right hand gently takes the flowers and wine from you, tossing them onto the couch as if they’re the least important thing in the world.

“you’ve been stressed too, baby,” you murmur between kisses, your hands sliding up his chest as he pulls you closer. “you want me to make it better? take your mind off everything?”

“please,” he breathes, the single word trembling with desperation.

and that’s all it takes for the two of you to let go of everything else—the stress, the distance, the long days apart. tonight, it’s just you and him.

wooyoung

i know that the last conversation we had didn’t end on a good note. and i know you’re still trying to process everything going on with us and probably don’t want to see me. but I can’t help but feel like you’re exhausted and need something to take your mind off of everything you have going on right now. regardless of what we’re going through rn, i love you and I’ll always be here to make things better.

your heart aches as you read wooyoung’s text.

i’m outside. take your time. i’ll wait for you.

you didn’t think you’d hear from him tonight—not after the way your last conversation had ended. but that’s wooyoung, always showing up when you need him most, even when things between you feel fragile and uncertain.

you grab your jacket and step outside, the chill in the air catching you off guard. but then you see him, leaning against his car with his arms crossed, his hair a little messy, his expression soft despite the exhaustion etched into it.

his eyes meet yours, and for a moment, it feels like the world stills.

without a word, he opens the car door for you. as you slide into the passenger seat, you feel the familiar warmth of his presence settle over you like a blanket. he gets in, shutting the door gently, and the two of you sit there, bathed in the soft glow of the dashboard lights.

“you didn’t have to come,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

he turns to you, his gaze steady, his hand already reaching for yours. “yes, i did.” his tone is quiet but firm, like he needs you to believe it

his thumb rubs gentle circles against your skin, and it’s enough to unravel the tight knot in your chest.

“i know it’s been rough lately,” he says softly, his voice thick with emotion. “but no matter what we’re going through, i can’t stand the thought of you sitting at home feeling this way. you don’t have to go through this alone. i’m here. always.”

you close your eyes, his words sinking into the deepest parts of you.

he leans over, pulling you into his arms, and it’s like you’re a piece of a puzzle snapping into place. his embrace is so warm, so full of everything he can’t quite say, and you don’t realize how much you needed it until you’re here, breathing him in.

“you’re freezing,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “i should’ve brought a blanket.”

you let out a soft laugh, your breath brushing against his collarbone. “you’re the blanket.”

he smiles against your hair, holding you a little tighter. “good. then i’m not letting go.”

for a long time, you just sit there, his arms wrapped around you, his hand gently tracing soothing patterns along your back. it’s so quiet, but the silence is full of him—his love, his care, his determination to make sure you feel safe, even when things between you aren’t perfect.

“thank you for coming,” you whisper after a while, your voice muffled against his chest.

“i’ll always come,” he replies, his lips brushing against your forehead. “no matter what’s happening. you’re my person.”

you pull back just enough to look at him, your eyes meeting his, and in that moment, it feels like everything might actually be okay. whatever else you have to figure out, whatever else you have to say, you can face it together.

for now, this is enough. this is everything.

niki

the studio was quiet now, the kind of quiet that made you feel how tired you really were. your body ached, your mind felt heavy, and the only thing keeping you upright was the cool press of the mirror at your back.

you closed your eyes, just for a second, and let out a sigh.

“you always look like you’re about to fall apart after practice,” a familiar voice teased, pulling you out of your thoughts.

your eyes snapped open, and when you saw him standing there in the doorway, you actually laughed out loud.

“niki?” you said, your voice pitching higher in disbelief. “what the—how did you even get in here?”

he grinned, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the place, hands stuffed casually into his hoodie pockets. “i have my ways.”

“your ways?” you repeated, still laughing, though your exhaustion made it sound a little delirious. “what, did you sneak past security?”

he shrugged, his grin widening. “you’d be surprised what a little charm can do.”

“you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, shaking your head, though you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips.

niki stepped into the room then, pulling a takeout bag from behind his back like it was some big reveal. “anyway, i figured you might be hungry. you were going on and on about this the other day, so…”

you blinked at him, your chest tightening. “you remembered that?”

niki rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a blush creeping up his neck. “obviously. i’m not as clueless as you think.”

he walked over and sat down beside you, his legs stretching out across the floor. the bag landed in your lap, and the smell alone was enough to make your stomach growl.

“you didn’t have to,” you murmured, though you were already pulling the container out.

“yeah, well,” he said, leaning back against the mirror with a shrug, “i wanted to.”

you looked at him, really looked at him, and for a moment, you forgot how exhausted you were. his face was calm, but his eyes were soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one else ever had.

“thanks, niki,” you said quietly.

he waved it off like it was nothing, but the tips of his ears were pink, and you knew him well enough to know what that meant.

“you worked hard today,” he said after a beat, his voice softer now. “but you always do.”

you smiled, but it felt bittersweet. “sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough.”

niki’s gaze sharpened, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “it is,” he said firmly. “you are.”

the words hung in the air, heavy and meaningful, and you didn’t know what to say. so you didn’t. you just opened the container, took a bite, and let the warmth of the food—and his presence—melt away the edges of your day.

he didn’t say anything else, just stayed there beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed when one of you moved.

and maybe you were both too scared to say it out loud, too scared to ruin whatever this was, but in that moment, you knew: he was your safe place. and maybe, just maybe, you were his too.

[simp4konig]

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐁𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭

𝐊𝐨̈𝐧𝐢𝐠 𝐱 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫-𝐧𝐞𝐮𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

*𝐒𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧!

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7700+

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲

𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐁&𝐁. 𝐊𝐨̈𝐧𝐢𝐠, 𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐢𝐧. 𝐀 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐯𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦.

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*𝐀 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨. ☁️😇

*𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐊, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐡.

*𝐊𝐨̈𝐧𝐢𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐲, 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐝❤️‍🔥 + 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 (𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐨).

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“𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭„ ♡ @simpforkonig ♡ @rustic-guitar-notes ♡ @best-soup ☆ @lotionlamp ♡ @trepaika ☆ @luci4theminorannoyance ☆ @happy-mushrooms ♡ @nightlyvoids ♡ @skeletalgoats ♡ @aethelwyneleigh27 ☆ @arrozyfrijoles23 ♡ @dobaddo ☆ @the-second-sage ☆ @wil-xyz ☆ @revnatheshadow ☆ @feelya

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König was tired.

Very tired.

So tired was he of being tired, that it was tiring to be tired. And he was exhausted.

How long he had been on deployment, he had no clue; initially, it was meant to be a month-long mission, but time seemed to be simultaneously zooming in double-speed and moving in slow-motion. A day, then a week, then another week, then three days. Day, night, night, and day — shifting from one to the other in the flick of a switch.

And, before he knew it, it had been over three months: in the barracks afterwards, those three months had felt like three years.

Still, the hours that he could recall were gruelling: hours upon hours — from morning, throughout the day, up until the night, unending — of syncopated staccato gunfire, of cacophonous voices roaring themselves hoarse, of humming helicopter blades as the bass accompaniment to the crashing cymbals of explosions, and of deaths, anticlimactic finales for those that had perished.

Of course, it was no coordinated orchestra: just chaos.

And König was tired.

What he needed was to collapse onto a mattress, face-first, and fall asleep instantly — to be possessed by a near comatose-condition, catharsis, and wake up, not knowing what day it was.

A hand reached weakly to his temple, where an intense migraine had been plaguing him for days, and held it there in vain to numb the pain.

What König needed was sleep. And actual sleep, not the kind of sleep he became accustomed to; laying idly, wide-awake, on the thin, firm barracks mattress on the metal frame, a bed too uncomfortably small and uncomfortable to accommodate for both his disproportionately gigantic size and battered, aching back. While being a Colonel had its perks, clearly the perks did not extend to an agreeable bed.

So, obviously, he was not going to lay on a bedding which, to him, felt like a plank of wood.

Instead of arriving back at the barracks — which was more than 5000 km away — in two days for a briefing he was intended to deliver, he figured that the pilot could make a detour and land somewhere in the UK as it was on his way anyway.

Besides, he could always insist that they had experienced heavy turbulence and had to land as a safety precaution. A day later than scheduled would not be a disaster — charm offensive tended to work, yet if few were charmed, he could just as easily go on the offensive and assert his authority as Colonel.

By now, it was far closer to the next day than it was today. Or was it early morning, and the day had already passed? 0500 read his watch, but whether it was dark due to the winter still lingering and prematurely enveloping the sky like a black, starless blanket, or dawn in a few hours, wouldn't have made any difference.

The pilot had landed fuck knew where, König thought, but all he knew was that the town was quite quiet: aside from the occasional drunkards at a pub or a single customer at a convenience store buying cigarettes, the town was asleep. König ought to have been too, but the thought that he would be soon was comforting.

König was too tired to research either hotels or motels nearest him as he usually would, as he was struggling to keep his eyes open as was. He just needed a bed, to rest, and that was it… perhaps some breakfast, too. But that wasn't the main objective.

König continued to trudge at a begrudging pace, back slumped over under the mass of his rucksack, his legs difficult to lift as if they each weighed a tonne.

At this point, a sofa would do, as long as he could stretch his sore legs on it.

As he turned the corner, he rubbed his puffy pink eyes, eyelids sagging. That's when the fancy, elegant letters of the “ʀᴏʏᴀʟ ʙᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋғᴀsᴛ”, caught by his closing eyes.

At last — salvation had come!

“No vacancies — sorry!” said the sign in front, but König, choosing to ignore it, opened the door.

Given the hour, it was pitch-black. Aside from the weak fluorescent glow of a crescent moon casting a silver luminescence across the walls, a faint sliver of pale light was visible through the crack beneath the door. A shadow.

Running of water and the soft clinking of plates — the washing of dishes, as quiet as one can be. König wasn't going to consider why anyone sane would choose to wash the dishes at whatever hour this was. Frankly, he couldn't care less. What he cared about most was rest.

A dulcet humming slid smoothly under the door; faint, yet audible, and soothing. Whether it was the melody of a song or an improvised tune, it sounded pleasant.

Drawn towards it like a moth to a flame, König chucked the rucksack into the darkness, alleviating the pain of his shoulders after carrying such baggage.

Realising that it would give the person behind the door a fright to see an uninvited guest — to them, an intruder — on their doorstep so late in the night, it would be wise to pose as little of a threat as possible. Starting with louder footsteps to alert them beforehand, and a gentle greeting as he opened the door:

“Hallo.”

Almost dropping the plate that you were washing onto the floor, you shrieked in surprise nonetheless. Turned off the tap, having heart palpitations.

At the sight of the intruder in front of you, you stifled another shriek, a hand shooting up to grasp the fabric of your tee tightly, almost collapsing onto the floor had not your left hand held onto the countertop for support.

The plate, dropped in your secondary shock, shattered, loudly clattering as porcelain pieces still foaming with the dish-soap bubbles scattered across the floor.

“Fuck!” you cursed, but before you could lean in to tidy the mess, the stranger was crouching down and scooping it all in his gloved hands — quite agile for someone his build.

Then König's back was protesting in pain, joints cracking embarrassingly loud.

“Nicht,” he hushed, accented voice hoarse from barking orders and yelling at the top of his dust-lined lungs. Not like you knew — to you, he sounded like he was a chainsmoker, croaking his final breath before his lungs collapsed. “Bitte. Allow me.”

This was… unusual. Unusual was an understatement, however — just what the fuck has happened in the last ten seconds?

The moment you saw him, head almost reaching the ceiling, hovering ominously in the darkness, your first thought was that this man had come to murder you.

Big, bulky, and brawny, as tall as he was wide — fuck, taller — heavy military gear, combat boots and all…

And if his appearance at a first glance hadn't made you faint, his veil was the cherry on the cake: even with the cutouts for eyes, his eyes were camouflaged by the cover of darkness, so that the holes were eerily resembling two empty caves; or even ravines, emptier, deeper, as an abyss.

Oh God, you thought. Maybe that's how and where he would dispose of your body; just dump it in a cave to be forgotten and fossilised, or into a pit, plummeting to the ground; unrecoverable.

Either way, the veil made the entity appear uncannily similar to an executioner…

Should you have called for help? Fuck, get it together, you fucking idiot, of course you should have! The man had murderous intentions! He had come here to murder you, he had! Why else would he be here at this ungodly hour? And— oh God— was that a pistol in the holster?!

In your head, you were calculating the seconds needed to stall for time after loudly shouting for help before your experienced guests would come running from the corridor and tumbling down the stairs from the second floor. Not only were there four of them, but they were soldiers, too — good men, and good soldiers.

So, your boys would definitely overpower this guy, outnumbering him and tackling each one of his limbs to the ground long enough for the Police to arrive, and…

…no. That's ridiculous. What were you thinking? This man has not given you any reason to think this way. Sure, his appearance left a lot to be desired, but aside from that, he was... docile. Polite.

Awkwardly hovering over him, quite literally twiddling with your thumbs and unsure of what to do — ...call for help regardless? — you hesitated when asking: “So, uh— what, um, brought you here then, sir?”

He grunted in acknowledgement, and, having scooped up the remnants of the plate, it all dwarfed in the palm of his hand. You gulped audibly as he stood up to his full height, and you didn't do a good job at concealing the way that you flinched when he leaned close to dispose of the ceramic pieces into the bin beside you.

As he took two steps back, he drew out a weary sigh, head sinking a little.

“I'm tired,” he said. “I need a room.”

Oh.

In your panic, your anxiety… you had totally forgotten that you ran a B&B. That this man was perhaps here because, you know, your business, your current career, was in hospitality and catering.

Yeah… You totally had overlooked that…

…But it's fine. It's totally not like you forgot that you were in the building that housed your guests or anything. Rather than realise that the people you were housing were your guests, your first instinct was to bring their profession into this.

Self-preservation had never been so selfish until this point. Yikes.

God. Had you been less afraid at the start, you could have spared a laugh at the absurdity of the situation and your irrational thought process, but as things stood, you were still pissing yourself from terror, intimidated by this unit of a man.

Now you were just standing there, expression stony and as still as a statue. The veil hovered over you, scrutinising you with squinted eyes in curiosity.

Your expression softened slightly at the sight of him; so pitiable and pitiful, evident exhaustion weighing him down.

Frowning, you were sympathetic. “I'm… sorry, sir, but there are no vacancies available. You must have missed the sign outside? I'm so sorry—”

“I didn't miss it,” he stated, rasping in the same assertiveness of a German (that's what you gathered his nationality was, anyways — what, with his accent). “I still need a room.”

Sighing in exasperation, you were less sympathetic: still, you were going to continue being polite. Just in case he took anything the wrong way. You prayed that he'd prefer his pistol over his hands.

“Sir, you— you must understand that I cannot possibly accommodate you. You— you do understand, right?”

The man's shoulders drooped, and light finally reflected off his eyeballs as his head dropped, too heavy to keep straight: his eyes were sagging, both in sadness and tiredness. Scleras were nearing crimson, and heavy bags under his eyes were burdened by dark half-circles. Some warpaint that hadn't been washed off well enough outlined his eyes, giving the impression that his eyes were sunken into his skull.

You looked away, overwhelmed by guilt and pity.

“Um…”

Biting your lip in consideration, your eyebrows furrowed.

Yet there was little to consider — this was a man desperate for some rest, and given his assumed soldier status, he was evidently deserving of some sleep. Besides, what sort of a person would you be if you refused to house a guest? The decision would remain in your conscience, reminding you of how heartless and inhumane you were.

Or it wouldn't, when you'd be murdered in your sleep and all of your meagre belongings and material possessions would be stolen, while your four other guests had their throats slit.

Because despite their similar profession, it seemed that this man was not in their faction. Your gut churned at the thought that you could be unknowingly housing two rival contracts.

As you swallowed thickly, you looked back at him, your unease easing by degrees the longer you listened to his slow breathing, yet persisting nonetheless.

“Well—” you hesitated. “—I do have a room—”

The light in his eyes became brighter, as his eyelids could barely remain open. “Ah, you do, do you?” he said, eyes crinkling in a small smile.

“Yes, sir,” you sighed, then offered a small smile of your own. “It's upstairs, though. Is that okay with you?”

“Ja,” he affirmed. “Lead the way.”

Wordlessly, he followed you up the stairs, the thump—thump—thump of his heavy boots following close behind, that would have otherwise thud—thud—thud’ded had they not been muffled by the fluffy carpet. You mourned the way that it would never be as fluffy again. The dirty dirt marks left behind with each footstep made you grimace, so unlike the ones left by the others. Did this guy even shower before coming here?

Finally at the door, a little awkwardly, you unlocked it, and ushered him inside, flicking on the light switch.

“Uhm, it's a little small… “ you murmured apologetically, voice trailing off. “I mean, it's a double, but it might not be big enough…”

König surveyed the size of the bed, taking long, thoughtful strides… then flung himself face-first on top of it, sinking into it.

Your eyebrows disappeared into your hairline, jaw dropping to the floor in amazement. His feet stuck out, but he didn't seem about to complain.

“Are— are you okay?”

“Perfekt. I have needed this.”

You crossed your arms, dumbstruck and rendered dumb by this… display.

“O—kaaayyy... I’ll—I'll leave you be then, sir.”

“Ja,” he yawned, not bothering to take off his shoes. You sighed, shaking your head sternly, but decided to hold your tongue.

As you were heading out, you glanced into the room, hovering in the doorframe. “Sleep well, soldier,” you whispered, flipping the light switch. The darkness enveloped the man like a blanket.

…

For four straight days he slept like a log. Literally, because he was like one in length and diameter, but mostly in the figurative sense. Of course, König didn't know that. Yet.

When he awoke, König felt reinvigorated, rejuvenated, revived… all synonyms of said words (he couldn't think of any more — funnily enough, he would use none of these when speaking to you).

The first thing that he noticed when he awoke was that the duvet was tucked in neatly into the covers around him, and that his boots were off.

He noticed that his rucksack was next to his boots second. Even if you were someone strong for your size, he doubted that your strength really could make up for your height — the footage of you struggling to lug his bag up the stairs brought humour to him. Or, maybe he was underestimating your strength, and you were stronger than you looked. Still, he found humour in the idea regardless.

Thirdly, the curtains were drawn tightly closed, but daylight penetrated unrelentingly through the material regardless, giving the impression that the room was feebly glowing with white. Heavenly.

Was this heaven? It sure felt like it. Surely, a few more moments of blissful shuteye would—

Wait. What day was it?

Springing out of bed, sprinting downstairs, he was about to rush outside…

…when he halted in his tracks halfway.

What the fuck was he doing? He was a fucking Colonel. Who fucking cares what fucking day it is. The idiots on base should be glad that he's even there, regardless of how belated his entrance is. Honestly, at this point, he's considering this his own vacation in the semi-countryside. He deserves it, after three months of doing his utmost not to let himself or his comrades die.

Walking down the steps, he overhead a familiar sound: the running of water, and humming. Humming a different tune this time.

Having woken up alert, not groggy like he had been that late night/early morning, he could appreciate the sound now.

In all actuality, that hummed tune was nothing extraordinary — quite frankly, it was one of the most ordinary songs he could have heard.

Clearly, you must not be a good singer; otherwise, your breath would not have hitched in your throat with every high note you'd have to reach. Your song was syncopated, despite you likely not having meant it to be.

Occasionally, you'd sing the words that you'd know — voice off-key and clumsy — then revert to humming once more, stealing quick breaths every once so often.

Then he saw you, and he could put a face to that clumsy voice. It was his breath that hitched in his throat.

There was nothing particularly pretty or handsome about you, either. From the profile, you were decently average — or annoyingly average — neither exceptionally beautiful nor exceedingly ugly. You were just… you.

And, yet, the sight of you washing the pyramid of dishes precariously balancing on top of each other, singing softly a song so out of tune, so out of sync, was… concerningly domestic.

Just for a split-second, König visualised you as his partner, waiting patiently for him as he was on deployment, and this being the morning after his return, this being one of those precious mornings you two could share. It would be nice to have something to cherish so much.

And as soon as that vision materialised, it disappeared just as soon. Too soon.

A little flustered by what he had imagined, he shook his head, shaking off the remaining pixels of that screenshot until they completely dissipated, disappeared. Now was not the time.

This time, he wasn't going to frighten you, Gott forbid all of those plates would come crashing down like an avalanche of porcelain; it would save breaking his back, secondarily, but primarily, he didn't want you to snap out of your trance, so innocently focused at the task at hand, only to react so strongly like you did the last time.

So he contented himself with waiting, despite hovering a little too awkwardly in the doorframe, unsure of what to do with himself.

After turning off the tap, you sighed — an anticlimactic conclusion to your encore — before drying your hands with a teatowel. Now was the time to introduce his presence.

Coughing quietly to draw your attention, König announced: “Guten tag.”

Whipping your head so quickly towards the source of the voice your neck nearly had whiplash, your eyes widened.

Sighing a sigh of relief after recovering from your surprise, you smiled politely.

“You're awake! Thank God. I was beginning to think that you had died or something. How are you? Do you feel better?”

It's been a while since anyone had asked him that.

“Oh— ah, Gut. Thanks.”

There was something so appealing about your face that König couldn't place; so easy on the eye.

Awkwardly adding: “I slept… well. Very well. The bed was the most comfortable I've ever slept on in ages.”

“I mean, I figured — what, with you there for so long!”

You laughed, and he swore he was floating. “I swear, you must have been hibernating or something. I was hoping that there wouldn't be a corpse I'd have to dispose of. But, you are okay, right?”

His hoarse voice had a hint of a morning rasp in it, as he whispered a quiet: “What… what day is it?”

“Day?” You looked to the side, thinking. “Uhhh, let me think— Tuesday, right? I think it is, anyways? Well, you arrived on Friday, so nearly four days a—”

“Scheisse.” König's voice was monotone. “I was supposed to brief subordinates. They were meant to commence training on Monday.”

You gasped. “Then why are you still here?! Go! Look, it's only two days—”

“Nein. If I am going to be late, I might as well be fashionably late. I hate it there. I am treated like I am elderly and coaxed to do paperwork when I am in my prime age for fighting. I hate it.”

“You sure do hate your job, it seems,” you mused. “How come?”

“I do not. I hate the people. I am a soldier for that precise reason, and I always get reprimanded for my brutality, when it is a thrill to me. Did I say I hate it?”

“...Oh. O-okay...”

You shifted from leg to leg, twirling your foot into the floor awkwardly, not knowing what to do with this information.

“...Well, how about some breakfast?”

He blinked. “Breakfast?”

You laughed. “Don't you know how a B&B works? Breakfast is included, you know.”

“Oh.” He blinked again, enlightened. “OK. I won't be long.”

“Please, take as long as possible.”

“How thoughtful of you,” he said, pleased.

“I mean— it gives me more time to prepare the food — which, by the way, what would you like? Any preferences? Allergies? I tend to hand out a menu, and offer a full English, but this situation is a bit—”

“Everything,” he interrupted, assertive. “And anything.”

“Mmmkay,” you mumbled. “I'll do what I can.”

“Thank you. Will be seeing you.”

The “will be seeing you” sounded a little too ominous for your liking, despite seeming to have no ill intentions. Goosebumps formed on your arms, but you skillfully hid your trepidation with a warm smile.

König walked up the stairs, leaving you behind to mournfully look into the fridge, praying that there was food enough to feed this guy.

(...This giant. Mutant, perhaps. It was hard to believe that this unit was even human.)

You were thankful for the fact there seemed to be enough food. What you were not thankful for was that it'd only be enough for one meal, or two if you scavenged for some more ingredients out of the cupboards.

A carton of 16 eggs, a jug of milk, two hams, a loaf of bread, some fruit, some vegetables, some leftover pastries… all fine and dandy; alas, this guy was probably going to chug the milk straight out of the jug and likely had some weird fixation with eating the raw egg yolk, as if it's the ultimate forbidden protein source, or something. Maybe you were prejudiced, based on your current experience with three out of four of the other soldiers not knowing how to make pancakes. The clean-up afterwards made you seriously consider abandoning your B&B and hiking to the next country by foot.

König on the other hand? He had already decided that he would never abandon this B&B. Your B&B.

He was making himself quite at home. Everything in this bedroom was so homely, and, come to think of it, it was exactly what König needed; a change of scenery. To be home. It was just a shame that he had not a place to call that — for now, at least.

Feeling refreshed and looking fresh out of the shower, he half-heartedly dried the mop of hair on his head. Slipping on some shirt he dug out of his bag, he cursed when he wore it back-to-front, and slipped it on again.

Finally dressed with no further discrepancies, he stole a glance of his profile in the reflection; grimaced; then quickly slipped his signature veil over his head. The thing was falling apart at the seams. He would fix the stitching when the night came.

As soon as he opened the door, an intense aroma — aromas — overwhelmed his olfactories. His stomach growled, and König remembered that it must have been almost 6 days since he had eaten.

Approaching footsteps drew your attention to the masked man advancing, so you turned off the running water, and dried off your wet hands, to pull out a chair for him. At least the largest load of the dishes was tackled; the rest could be put on pause. You didn't exactly find the prospect of more washing up promising.

“Hey, welcome back. I hope your shower was good!” you chimed, a cordial smile gracing your face.

The smile became lopsided as you followed the man's unspeaking gaze towards the food you prepared for him.

“O-oh, yeah— well, uhm, I didn't know what you'd like, so I put together all the scraps and then some to make you breakfast,” you said, rubbing your nape. “Come to think of it, is this even breakfast at this point? Is it lunch? Brunch sounds better, but it's past noon to call it that…”

König had tuned out your ramblings — not because the sound was like white noise; because he was mesmerised by the platter of food:

An omelette, colourful with diced peppers, tomatoes, and sautéed mushrooms, cheese melted on top of it, and presumably mashed together with mashed potatoes; a poached egg (which, by the looks of it, went wrong — but was still appetising nonetheless) on top of an avocado, tomato, onion corn, cucumber, and rocket salad; a fried egg in a bacon barm, with a toothpick through it and, also melting with cheese; two sausages, sprinkled with crispy onions, more mushrooms, with a ramekins of beam on the side. If that wasn't enough to whet his appetite already, the sight of two croissants and two muffins — warm, and fresh out of the oven — buttered and smeared with jam, and the fresh bowl of fruit, then he was surely salivating.

He was salivating. Coughing into his hand, he discreetly rubbed the drool off his chin with the hem of his mask.

“Mein Gott— this is—”

Amazed, he sat down in the chair that you pulled for him, in a daze.

“Scheisse.” His throat was dry. “Are you an angel, by any chance? Is there something that you've not told me?”

Laughing bashfully, you waved a dismissive hand, swatting the blush away from your cheeks.

“Aw, you're so sweet! I'm flattered.”

“No, really,” he insisted, the eye contact he was making with you intense. “If that's the case, maybe I should make you my own personal maid turned housewife. You'd fit in my suitcase, nicht?”

Your laughter became awkward and strained, yet you forced yourself to keep your eyes trained on his. “Ahhh, nah, ha ha… I'm not flexible like that. Such a shame, ha ha ha…”

His eyes crinkled in a smirk, and with the way that they did you instantly knew that he was taking the piss. “I'm joking. You can relax. I am sincere when I say I have no such ill intentions.”

“Wait— your… mask.” You gestured to the veil. “Would you, uh… rather I look away as you eat?”

Surprisingly — surprising himself more than he did you — König shook his head instinctively, decisively.

“No. I do not mind. I will only mind if you try to look under it.”

Holding up two placating hands, you reassured him that you wouldn't, and that seemed to please him.

After that, aside from the clinking of cutlery on plates chewing on crispy, crunchy food, it was silent.

The man appeared comfortable in your presence, and was too focused on his food. Still, out of consideration for keeping his identity private, you stared at the chipped paint on the wall that you hoped he hadn't noticed. You would paint over it at some point.

Antsy as you anticipated his answer, you were nervously strumming your fingers against your knee. “...How is your breakfast?”

He was chewing the food slowly, eyes closed, enjoying the tastes. Swallowing even slower, he finally whispered a shaky: “Fantastich.”

Your face lit up, and you couldn't contain your excitement.

“I'm so glad! I hope it's enough. I-I mean– you know what I mean! For a big guy like you, this must be a snack. If this hadn't been so short notice, I would have prepared something more.”

He hummed appreciatively, appreciating every bite of food and devoting more time than he usually did to eating: usually, he was the type to shovel food by the mouthfuls and set his plate aside with his mouth still full; but, to König, it would be disrespectful to do that. He was holding your culinary skills in far too high of a regard to do that.

After he had finished, he pushed the plates aside, satisfied. “Gott. That was delicious. Maybe I will smuggle you inside my suitcase after all.”

He laughed, and dismissed your concern with a shake of the head. You furrowed your brows sternly, unamused, and collected the dishes, eyes widening; the plates were totally clean, not a crumb of food left.

You were beyond pleased. To describe your joy would have been impossible…

Yet, you had to wash all of those dishes. Again. Maybe you should seriously consider getting a dishwasher, but it was… oddly satisfying, to say the least. It was quite calming: the running water; the rubbing of the porcelain; the bubbles. And it was most satisfying seeing the plates in the rack stacked nicely.

“Every time I see you, you are washing dishes,” König pointed out, observing you from the few feet he was away.

You laughed at that. “Well, that's just how it is when you've got four adult men eating at your place, plus other guests. Trust me, this load isn't even half of what I wash most of the time.”

“Where are they now? The men, I mean.” he inquired, inquisitive.

“Gone,” you shrugged, elusive. “They always make a short stay anyways; they have places to be.”

“I see. Who are they?”

You bit your lip, wavering in your hesitation. “I'm… not in the position to divulge.”

“I don't see.”

Scoffing, you rolled your eyes. “They're soldiers. Just like you. They returned from deployment not too long ago, and are regular guests at my B&B, I guess. Not much to it.”

König let out a snort. “Regulars?”

“I don't know how else to put it!” You groaned, holding up your hands in exasperation. “Anyways, long story short, they returned from deployment, landed here, and seem to keep landing here, even though their barracks are miles away and this place is nowhere near any of their stops. Sure do wonder why.”

“I do not wonder; it's because your bed and breakfast are excellent, and you are an excellent host.”

Not knowing how to respond in your bashfulness, you contented yourself with washing the dishes, prolonging the process for as long as possible.

Time decided to defy you, and you were done in a matter of minutes.

“Well then. I better give you the payment, yes?”

The man pushed his chair aside, and sluggishly rose to his feet. “How much do I owe you?”

Cheeks still rosy, you considered for a moment. “Well… for four nights, it'd be £355.96, but given that you took my bedroom — by far the premium room — I gotta slap onto that an additional £50.”

“Still, since you were basically hibernating for three of those days, why not make it a nice and round £400?” You winked, smirking mischievously.

It took you a few seconds of him staring at you in order for it to register that he seemed to catch on to this revelation, and was appalled.

“Wh— what are you looking at me like that for?”

“I am… sleeping in your bedroom?”

“...Yeah? Look, it's not even a big deal. I don't mind, really! I'm happy to accommodate to your stay—”

“Scheisse! You should have said something, verdammt!”

“Like what? Tell you to shoo in the middle of the night and have you wandering around, only to end up sleeping on some bench? No! Besides, I've made the basement quite cosy, so no one is losing.”

Grumbling angrily in German, out from his wallet, he pulled out a crisp, crumpled — yet fat — stack of a wide array of notes, foreign currency from more than one country. “And I am in debt to you by how much again? Four hundred of those pounds?”

You nodded, smiling sweetly. “Y-yeah!”

“I have not the correct currency for this country, unfortunately.” He was apologetic, rifling through the stack and skimming through it. “Will this suffice?”

Your smirk flickered, yet remained flashing. It seemed a lot, but maybe other currencies didn't equate to as much as the Pound Sterling. God, what a chore it will be counting all this…

“Hold on… I can just Google the conversions, and add them. Good thing I've got a calculator on hand for these exchanges!”

After calculating the sums of all the equations, your jaw dropped.

It was over quadruple what you charged him, so you thought you had hallucinated and calculated the sums incorrectly. Maybe your maths wasn't as good as it used to be…

Inputting the numbers into the conversion rates in a different order gave you the same result, however. You were puzzled…

Unless…

“You— you've given me too much? Fuck, hold on another moment, please— I'm struggling to calculate, and I think I'm doing something wrong—”

“How much did it come out as?

“...£1417.”

“That little, it did? I thought it was over 1500. I guess I overestimated. Shame.”

If your jaw hadn't dropped, it was on the floor by now.

“I— what?” You contained your bulging eyes before they popped out. “Okay, u-uhm, you're not making it easy for me to give you back change, are you? I need a few more minutes to—”

“No. That is my payment.”

You couldn't believe in what you were hearing.

“What?! N-no, wait— it's too much! I can't accept this! Look, I—”

“Then I'll be staying for the rest of the week.” He stated, direct. “Consider that the payment upfront.”

Nearing hysterics, you insisted: “But it's still too much! P-please, let me give back the change—”

“Nein. Then I want you to consider the overpayment the tip, yes? For good service. Please.”

Tears brimming in your eyes, your lip quivered a little.

Despite denying him out of principle, the truth was that these sorts of gestures were too generous, and you couldn't handle such kindness. Even with the other four regulars that would slip in extra bills into your purse, this? It was all just—

And the fact that this man was so adamant made you tear up.

“I— o-okay… Thank you…”

“It is my pleasure.”

The fabric of his veil crumpled as his eyes crinkled and cheeks were made visible in a smile.

“I will go to your room and sleep some more, if that is okay with you?”

“Sleep? Haven't you hibernated enough for two consecutive winters?” You joked weakly, still overwhelmed by his generosity.

“True. But I need this,” he said, back hunched over and shoulders slumping. “I will be as fit as a young boy tomorrow, and will resume my workouts! I will be going jogging for most of the noon.”

“You— don't look so old,” you stammered, a bit bashful. “But I won't disagree with you. You deserve the rest, Colonel.”

The nickname amused him. “Don't call me that. At the barracks, yes, but I would prefer it if you would refer to me as König.”

“Okay then, Colonel König,” you repeated, a mischievous smirk on your face.

“You are a devious little thing, aren't you? How cute.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, and you groaned exaggeratedly, playfully pouting.

“Seriously though,” you began, eyes earnest. “I hope you enjoy your stay. And if you wanna sleep in all day today? Go ahead!”

“Thank you,” he said, relieved. “And you are sure that this is no trouble?”

“None! This is my business, after all. I'm happy to be here, and I'm happy that you're happy too.”

“Well, I will be seeing you. Bis morgen, Süße.”

Offering him another warm smile, König walked upstairs.

The rest of the day went without a hitch. Two guests filled the empty rooms of the previous four, and you booked them in. It was quite quiet, and when night came, the two guests tucked in their beds with a cordial “Goodnight”.

A sigh left you, satisfied that everything was in order, everywhere was tidy, and all countertops were spotless. Checkup done, you were pleased with yourself and your effort for the day.

The bed in the basement was still big; a small single — plenty of space to sprawl all your limbs and sink face-first into a pillow.

That night, however, the bed was strangely bigger than usual.

…

Rubbing your eyes with your yawn as you walked up the stairs to prepare breakfast for your guests the next day, you halted in your tracks.

“Guten morgen.”

The sight of him wearing an apron — your apron — so comically small, was hilarious. If it wasn't so hilarious, you would have been furious at the fact that your favourite apron was splitting at the seams, but as things stood, you were splitting your sides with laughter.

“I… what?”

“Good morning.”

“N-no, I mean— what are you doing?”

“Well.” He pondered for a moment, then turned to you, expression blank in its confusion. “Breakfast. What does it look like, little one?”

“That's…” You were at a loss for words. “...my job?”

“Ja, I learned. But I wanted to return the various favours you made to me.”

You were perplexed. “I didn't make you any favours?”

He chuckled. “Forfeiting a bed is one of the strongest favours, no? It's the easiest way to bring someone closer — letting them into your bed.”

“Oh my God, will you shut UP about that, PLEASE,” you groaned, embarrassed by his teasing. “And stop wording it like that. You're making it seem as if I brought you into my bed to have sex. So gross.”

“What is gross? Sex, or sex with me?”

“I— oh my God…”

“...Sooo, ha ha… h-how did you sleep?” you innocently asked, desperate to divert conversation onto another topic.

“Well.” König said, thoughtful. “I would have slept better if I had you to cuddle, of course.”

“You'll sleep even better when I suffocate you with a pillow. Then you'll never wake up.”

“Just admit it: you like me,” König asserted smugly. “Don't be shy, schatz.”

“I'm not shy,” you lied. “You're just wrong. I barely know you.”

At this, König cackled loudly, yet not mockingly — just obnoxiously.

“I know you well enough to say that I like you; why not say the same, hm?”

Laughter dying down, König was about to pull out a chair for you when you pulled it out for yourself and sat down without a second thought. A scowl was under his veil, but he didn't point it out.

“I still don't get why you're making me breakfast.”

Balancing two plates on his forearm as he placed a third in front of you, he said: “Hush. Genieße dein Essen, schatzen.”

Pretending you knew what any of that meant, you nodded eagerly, as you had a kid-like grin on your face at the sight of such food, especially being prepared by a hunk as handsome as he.

“König!”

So, why not impress him with your language skills?

“Gracias— fuck! Wait, no… uh—”

“Ah, it is me who was mistaken,” he teased. "Bon appétit.”

Why not? For that reason, you learned…

Rather than there being an awkward silence, König chuckled, and lovingly stroked your hair, careful in his way not to tangle it. Meanwhile, you were redder than the chopped tomatoes on your plate, and to you, this wasn't remotely funny. You just got nervous!

“You are so sweet, schatz. Such a treasure. Never change, ja? Now eat your food before it is cold.”

You huffed, then stabbed a fried egg with a fork, uneasy, and feeling queasy, your mind drifting back to that morning where those other four soldiers absolutely desecrated the pancakes they made and cooked an unholy concoction of raw egg and half-cooked batter. With chocolate chips on top.

Gulping, you opened your mouth, and took a tentative bite.

Eating it… it tasted quite good. Great, actually.

“See? I am a good cook. You would like an extra pair of hands to make your workload more… enjoyable?”

You choked on the egg. “An— extra what?”

“Help, of course.”

“You— you knew what you were doing when you said that.”

“Knew what, little one?”

“Nevermind,” you scoffed. Scarfing down the food was enjoyable indeed. Having had breakfast prepared for you was pleasant, for a change.

His breakfast gave you a run for your money, and you were silently seething.

Admittedly, his breakfast was a “man's” breakfast — hearty, full of food, and abominable presentation, cobbled together. The taste was phenomenal, though — nothing to fault there.

“Finished? Wunderbar. I can cook for the remainder of my stay—”

“Wooaah, there, big guy. Hold your horses. Are you replacing me at my own job?”

You smirked, touched. “I think it's sweet, really, but let this be a one-off, okay?”

König frowned, and even with you not being able to see it, you could sense his disappointment.

“It's not like I didn't appreciate this… but, König, c’mon. This is my job, you know.”

“OK…”

You sucked in a breath. “Another time, okay? When I have no guests. I'll reserve the establishment for you.”

He perked up at this. “OK!”

…

“Why is your Breakfast in Bed named “Royal”?”

You let out a snort. “Bed and Breakfast, König. And why? Well… to be honest… the only reason I did was to appeal to the Brits.”

“...Oh. That is the only reason?”

Contemplating it for a moment, you realised: “Yeah… don't get me wrong, I don't worship the Royal family — between you and me, I don't give two flying fucks about the King — but if I'm here, oughtn’t I cater to my target demographic?”

The mug of coffee — with a Union Jack flag and the text “ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴄᴀʟᴍ, ᴄᴀʀʀʏ ᴏɴ ᴅʀɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴛᴇᴀ” printed on it — that he was about to take a sip out of, froze mid-air.

“...King? Not the Queen?”

“She's dead, König. I know that much.”

“...Oh.”

“I… figure you didn't know that much?”

“...No.”

You couldn't hold back a laugh, and burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Doubled over and splitting your side as you wiped a tear, you exclaimed: “Ain't it— funny!? How— how nice of a coincidence it is that— that you, a King, landed at the ʀᴏʏᴀʟ ʙ&ʙ?!”

Yeah, you had Googled what his name meant. Simply out of curiosity, nothing more.

“It must be fate,” König said dreamily, which went unnoticed as you giggled a little longer.

“Ye—ah! Oh my God, HELP— I-I can't breathe... fuck. Who knows? Maybe. Fuck.”

…

Before you knew it, the week had passed.

You took the liberty of doing König’s laundry and dry-cleaning folding the day before, his clothes folded neatly. Rather than wasting time going to the laundrette, you said, you would be more than happy to do it for him.

While awake, you wanted to bake him some pastries and prepare a few plastic containers of food — “...So you won't be hungry. Or go hungry, for at least 2 days or so.”

“At most. Your food is so irresistible that I will not be able to resist eating everything in one sitting.”

“Hey, be my guest! Not telling you how to live your life. 2 hours it is, then.”

König was no longer tired; and, although you were, you woke up earlier than usual nonetheless in order to ensure that he wasn't missing anything. What, with his meagre possessions, most likely wasn't, but the both of you refused to acknowledge anything.

“God — you're, like, almost a week past schedule. What are your superiors going to say about going AWOL?”

“They are not going say anything,” he proclaimed, confident “No one is superior to me, anyways. They will not say anything.”

“You're as full as yourself as the first day we officially became acquainted.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” he said drily. “Did I say I like you?”

“You sure did. Like, a hundred times by now.”

…A hundred times, and he hasn't said “I love you” once. How humiliating it was for König. It didn't seem as if you caught on to his feelings, but that was for the better, he gathered.

“It will be two hundred when I return.”

“Sooo…” A little awkwardly: “Are you going to be a regular guest at my B&B? Asking for future reference, so I know when to reserve a bed for you.”

“Of course. There's no other bed I would like to sleep in than yours, meine liebe.”

Blush erupted on your cheeks like a volcano.

“It would be nice for you to sleep in it and join me, nicht? It is your bed, after all. Maybe you would like the company, and a helping hand—”

“Are you leaving already? Begone with you!” you hissed.

Hopeful:. “...But will you write to me? Send me letters, or a pigeon, or something!”

“I… cannot guarantee it,” he said sternly. “But rest assured, this will not be the last you will be seeing of me.”

“I hope so…” You sniffed. “When will you be back?"

“Soon.”

You gazed in each other's eyes for a few agonisingly short moments — the time was agonising short, this moment was too short. There was more that you wanted to say, more than you wanted to hear from him.

“Well, König… goodbye.”

König snorted, laughing his signature cackle, and you were confused.

“What is the reason for this “goodbye” or these “farewells”? Say “see you”. Or, in German: Ich werde auf dich warten, mein König. That will make me happy.”

“I… am not even going to attempt that. Thanks, but no thanks..”

König patted your shoulder, but he had to lean down in order to do it, and you pouted whenever he patronised you so.

“See you,” you said, eyes earnest. “And I will see you, you fucking bastard; you're so big that I wouldn't exactly be able to miss the mountain on the horizon.”

“Ja, ja, liebe. I will be seeing you. Wait for me.”

…

König was full of energy — dreading the barracks, yes, but rejuvenated by an intense vigour and excitement. Excited for the next mission.

Now, even on deployment, no matter how many of those months would be gruelling and no matter what that he will be eating the worst canned gruel imaginable, he would have some place to look forward to returning — “ʀᴏʏᴀʟ ʙᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋғᴀsᴛ” — and food, homemade. That was a bonus.

Yet, most of all, to look forward to a familiar face; yours.

If what people say about long distances making the heart grow fonder, then by the time his return rolled around, his heart would be yours to keep.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/n — Been resurrected like Jesus Christ to bring this fanfiction to you after 3 months days. How fitting. 😊

This idea only came to fruition because I was Four In A Bed, which is a British TV show showcasing Bed and Breakfasts. 💀,, It could have been literally ANYTHING else, but it's fitting?? 🤨, so, i made i work 😩

I'll be honest, I was kind of unmotivated and have been REALLY struggling to write these past months, but this person somehow singlehandedly gave me all the motivation I've been needing to think of and finish a fic 🥹💓.

Because, like,,, THIS?????? 😭😭😭😭😭

It was such a surprise to wake up to in the morning — especially knowing that I would have to sit an WACK maths exam that day 😩 — and it honestly made my entire week! 🥲💘

I've never had anyone dive SO deep into all the little ins and outs of my fanfiction that I thought no one would consider memorable to bother commenting on. 😭🫶💞💞✨✨💖💓💞✨💕💕

(Sorry to call you out publicly like this LOL 🤖. Wass too shy to msg you, qnd I thought it would be better if i kept this quiet in case u didn't wanna be tagged haha)

Also thank you to this anon for this sweet message. After you sent this in, i was motivated to work HARDER !!!!!! (writing three sentences a day instead of two 😍😍). Seriously though, thank you 🥹🥹💓

////Also, totally irrelevant, but i got the platinum trophy for Ghostrunner 2 !!!!!! 😸😸🎉🎊.. (. 🥲🔫)

////Last trophy to get was the "Godrunner" and i wanted to kms 👍😁

////Beating the Dismantler without dying was the BANE of my existence 🧍🏼‍♀️, and it didnt help that I KEPT DYING UNFAIRLY IN "I Won't Be Back Today" level like BRUHHH 😭😭😭😭, I WOULD KILL ALL OF THE CREEPS I NTHE SECOND PHASE AND YET ID STILL EXPLODE????? AND THEN DONT GET ME STARTED ON THE SEQUENCE AT THE VERY END ,,, THE AMOUNT OF TIMES I DIED TO THOSE FUCKING LASERS AND TJOSE CREEPS ON THE CEILING IS TOO EMBARRASSING TO NUMBER) 😡😡🤬😡😓😟😭😭😭😭,

////, Its ok tho bc i have the bragging rights now — i have the platinum trophies for Ghostrunner 1/2, and hopefully 3 (if it ever is announced 😼) 🤧

//// NOO BC I LOVE THESE GAMES SO MUCH AND ESPECIALLY THE OST BUT THE STORY????? THE GAME PLAY??!!!!! THEFUCKING MECHANICS???!???!?!?!?!?!!!!!!! THE CHARACTERS AND THEIR INTERACTIONS ON THE COMMS??????????!???!!!!!??? JACK HIMSELF????! !!?????!!?!?!??????????... ... And THERES LITERALLY NO ONE THAT PLAYS IT SO IM LEFT DUMPING THIS INFORMATION ONTO MT FRIENDS WHEN THEY LITERWLLY DIDNT ASK LMAO 🤡 — So. I'm dumping it onto you guys instead. 🤯 Srry💔😭 not srry❤️🥵 but i adore Ghostrunner 👾

...

Anyways, I'll go back into hibernation after dropping one (1) fanfiction. I SO deserve it guys... 🥵🥵