#in stereo where available | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whenyoufellfromheaven · 5 months ago

Text

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.

120 notes · View notes

littlemssam · 2 months ago

Text

Mod Updates & Translations

As always delete old Mods Files and the localthumbcache, when updating my Mods!

---

Mod Updates

More Servings Options - More Servings Part Added Support for Recipes from Life & Death, Lovestruck, For Rent. Added Support for Prepped Ingredients/Batch Cook for extra Servings 2,3,5,6,7,12 Recipes. Updated all extra Servings Recipes for Changes to Loot, Prices, Ingredients etc.

More Servings Options - Ingredients Required Part Reworked this Mod Part to work better with prepped Ingredients etc. It now shows all Recipes but greys them out if not all Ingredients are available. NPCs are still able to cook via my Ask to Cook Mod for example. Be aware renamed Files since this Mod can be used as a Standalone. Delete old Files before updating!

More Servings Options - Cakes In Baking Menu Part Moved new Mucenici Recipe to baking Be aware renamed Files since this Mod can be used as a Standalone. Delete old Files before updating!

More Servings Options - Better MealTime Menu Part Update to add more Recipes. Be aware renamed Files since this Mod can be used as a Standalone. Delete old Files before updating!

Ask to Cook/Bake/Grill/Mix Drink! (including Cupcakes and Experimental Food) Compatibility Update with More Servings Options.

Experimental Food Servings Compatibility Update with More Servings Options. Added Support for Prepped Ingredients/Batch Cook. Updated all custom Recipes for Changes to Loot, Prices, Ingredients etc.

Seafood Servings Compatibility Update with More Servings Options. Added Support for Prepped Ingredients/Batch Cook. Updated all custom Recipes for Changes to Loot, Prices, Ingredients etc.

Auto Employees | Custom Lot Trait Certain Marketstalls needed special Vendors like two of the Uni Marketstalls need a "Coffee cart" Vendor. I added those now. Those have a different Spawn Point though so it might take a bit longer for them to arrive on the Lot to open the Stall.

Autonomous Gardening Looks like EA removed the Interactions "Gardening Fertilize" & "Gardening Fertilize VerticalGarden" from all Plants (even though the Tunings are still in the Game Files), and my Fertilize Addon continues to those Interactions. Since the Game did not find the Gardening_Fertilize on the Plant it force used the last Interaction in the OR List, which was the Gardening_Fertilize_VerticalGarden and that would cause Posture Errors. I readded the two Interactions via XML Injector to Plants so my Fertilize Addon should work correctly again.

Automatic Stereo System Mod Interaction should not show up on Batuu Droids anymore.

More Visitors | Custom Lot Trait Spawning of more Visitors should work again on Resiential Lots, but I don't really recommend using it there.

Random Small Mods

Order More Groceries Prepped Ingredients actually cost Money now

Random Bug Fixes

Trait Buff Fixes Removed the Infant Cautious Buffs since EA added the same Tests I added now. Added "Home Sweet Home" Buff from the HomeTurf Trait.

---

Translations Only

Social Activities - Added Norwegian by Essie Let Friends Age Up - Added Norwegian by Essie Choose Your Helmet - Added Norwegian by Essie My favorite Raincoat - Added Norwegian by Essie

---

Mod Manifests & PlumbBuddy Info

The Mods above got manifested for the new PlumbBuddy App.

What is PlumbBuddy and what does Manifest mean? PlumbBuddy is a new App for Sims 4 Players created by Sims 4 Players, which helps with Mod Installation Issues & Game Configuration Issues. When Modders add Manifests to their Mods, PlumbBuddy knows what Files are required for the Mod to work correctly, and will tell you if those are missing, or when you installed all Versions of a Mod, where you should have chosen one, and more. Since a lot of my Mods do actually require Files (e.g. XML Injector) I will add step by step Manifests to them either when I update them for other Updates or in an extra "Manifest" Update.

Do I need PlumbBuddy for your Mods to work? No. PlumbBuddy is an external App and is not required, but when you do use it, my Mods with Manifests will be shown in it's Catalog, and PlumbBuddy can help you with Installation Issues.

---

My Site with all possible Download Links: lms-mods.com

Support Questions via Discord only please!

#littlemssam #sims 4 mods #updates #translations

102 notes · View notes

baby-stay92 · 8 months ago

Text

Dancing Together

Pairing: Idol!Han x Fem!Reader

SMUT (MDNI)

Warnings: Oral (Fem! Rec), P in V, unprotected sex (wrap before you tap), Semi public sex. (Let me know if I've forgotten any)

WD: 1.475

Credit: baby-stay92

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just like any other Thursday, you were currently making your way across the studio dance floor. You were practising for your upcoming dance exam, which luckily was the last one out of your four different classes. For the last three weeks you’ve had an exam each week and on Monday was the final one, which you needed to pass in order to rank up and become what the studio liked to call “a senior”. If you managed to enter this rank, you’d be the highest rank available and it would also mean that you’d be able to enter competitions along with your dance crew. All this is what the last 3 years had been all about, it was your life-long goal to win competitions and show your talent to the world.

You had your back to the mirror throughout your entire dance routine, allowing you to focus on feeling the music more than usual. The music was blasting loudly so you didn’t hear the door to the studio open in the corner behind you. You continued to sway your hips and throw your head to the rhythm and as the song came to an end you fell to your knees and threw your upper body back until your head was touching the floor and your arms were spread out to either side of you. You got to your feet, turned around and started to walk towards the stereo so you could start the song again, but you stopped dead in your tracks and a loud gasp escaped your lips as you realised that your boyfriend, Han, was standing by the door, with a devious smirk on his lips and a dirty gleam in his eyes.

“Hannie! God, you scared me!” You laugh and rush towards him, happy to see him.

“Sorry baby, I was just enjoying the show.” He smiles as he picks you up and swings you around before putting you back down. “And what a show it was.” He continues and the smirk returns.

“Yeah? You liked my choreography?” You ask before kissing him lovingly, your hands resting on his chest.

“Wait… you came up with that?” He asks, looking down at you as he snakes his arms around your waist. You just nod and bite your bottom lip.

“No wonder it turned me on, then!” He grins and lets both his hands fall to grab your ass before continuing; “I had to fight like crazy to not just take you in a heartbeat - Hell, I’m still fighting.” He said, his voice no more than a dirty whisper now.

“Careful babe! I might just let you” You joke and kiss him again, though this time he instantly deepens the kiss. This surprises you but what surprises you more was how he easily picked you up off the floor and guided your legs around his waist. You lost all sense of time and space as he walked towards the wall filled with mirrors, the kiss was all you could focus on. A small gasp escaped your lips as the cold mirror sent shivers down your spine. Han took the parting of your lips as an opportunity for him to push his tongue in your mouth, where he quickly let it dance with yours. Just as you thought it couldn’t get any hotter, he proved you wrong by moving one hand from your ass to your throat. Having his long fingers wrapped tightly around your throat made you moan against his lips, causing his already semi hard dick to get even harder. Another shock hits you as he sets you back down on the floor, breaking the kiss. You pout up at him, making him smirk in return.

“Lay on your back” he orders and you gladly do as told. You lay on your back, a bit away from the mirrors. He quickly sits between your bent knees, which he spreads apart, causing your skirt to fall down your thighs. A low and deep growl leaves his lips as he sees the black sheer underwear you’re wearing. He eagerly grabs the hem and pulls them down your thighs and off your legs completely. He looks up at you, causing your blushing cheeks to turn even more red.

“God you look so good when you’re all sprawled out like this” He mused before laying flat on his stomach, placing his face just above your desperate folds. He uses two fingers to spread your lips before placing them annoyingly light on your clit, where he slowly begins to rub circles. An airy sigh leaves your lips and you bite your lip as the light pleasure spreads through your body. Han takes your sigh as a hint to turn up the heat - and so he does. He pushes his fingers down harder and starts rubbing more aggressively. He keeps this up for a short while before he removes his hand from your red bud. He wraps both arms around your thighs, in order to hold them in place, as he knows that what he’s about to do usually makes you squirm a lot under him. You know what’s coming and God did you want it - badly. Before you can gather your thoughts, you feel Hans tongue lick up and down your folds a few times, before he easily spreads you apart and moves this wet tongue to your throbbing clit. Here he places a light kiss before he wraps his lips around you and starts to suck. The sudden sensation causes you to moan and throw your head to the side. Your hand finds its way to his brown curly hair, where it grabs a handful. As a response to your action he starts flicking his tongue on your clit, causing another moan to leave your lips. You force your eyes open, only to see the reflection of yourself on your back, with your boyfriend's head attached between your legs.

“God we look..” Another moan, “s-so hot right now.” You breathe out and tighten your grip on his hair. He chuckles against you, sending vibrations through you and making your orgasm wash over you. You moan loudly, but you’re soon cut off as he sits up and reaches up towards your hair. He wastes no time before he grapes a handful of your hair and forces you to your knees, making you face the mirrors. He makes his way behind you, never letting go of your hair and he kneels behind you. Using your hair, he forces you to lean forward, until your upper body is against the floor and your ass is in the air. You rest your palms on the floor, in order to look up into the mirror, where you see him making quick work with his jeans. He pulls them down and quickly pumps himself a few times, allowing the precum to coat his dick, making him ready for you. The sight makes your head spin and you can’t take your eyes off his reflection. He meets your eyes in the mirror and smirks as he aligns himself with your entrance. He doesn’t waste time sliding in slowly, no, he slams into you with full force, nearly causing you to fall forwards. His hands quickly finds your hips, to hold you in place as he instantly fucks into you with an almost animalistic speed. The moans that escape the two of you, fills the room as he keeps up the pace and makes sure to bottom out every time.

“Fuck you feel so good around me!” He moans from behind you. “Seeing you like this…” He moans again, looking straight at your pleasure filled face, in the mirror. He lets go of your hip with one hand, which he instead uses to spank your ass, hard. You loved when he spanked you and this time was no exception. For every spank your orgasm came closer.

“I’m so close!” You almost screamed, which made you cover your mouth with one hand.

“Good, cause so am I!” he replied, pleasure clear in his voice. After another few rough thrusts and spanks, the both of you moaned loudly as your combined releases washed over you. Han didn’t move for a while, allowing every drop to fill you up, before he pulled out and zipped up his jeans. He rolled you over and easily draped your panties back up your legs, before he helped you to your feet along with himself.

“That sure was unexpected” You giggle, clearly tired and also embarrassed.

“Sure was” He smiled and kissed your forehead. “How about I take us home, and we can spend the day in bed together?” He asked and took your hand as you nodded your head. You weakly walked to his car and he helped you in before driving back to your house for a comfy bed date.

#skz #skz smut #stray kids #stray kids smut #han x reader #skz x reader smut #han jisung smut #18+ mdni #oneshot #smut

109 notes · View notes

hedgerowdevil · 1 month ago

Text

David Lynch, 1946–2025.

"It's a strange world, isn't it?"

I had seen The Elephant Man and Dune but had not yet made the connection, but it was 1988 and I was a doleite scrounger caught between college and Eraserheadish industrial grind when I was perusing the scant collection of VHS movies available to rent in a local electrical store where the soothing sounds of Jimmy Young on Radio 2 always seemed to be playing. I picked out Blue Velvet over the Whoopi Goldberg comedies and Merchant Ivory costume dramas. Soon, I lay on my mum's sofa, curtains drawn against the daylight, and watched Blue Velvet for the first time. It was horrible. Everything was off-pace and queasy, the Frank character bombastic and weirdly unhinged. It was haunting, and not in a good way. I had to see it again. I rented that film many, many times. By the time Twin Peaks came around a couple of years later, I was fully Lynch-pilled. The Eraserhead poster was on the bedroom wall (natch) and Julee Cruise's Floating Into the Night CD was on repeat on my Aiwa stereo system. Every cup of coffee was deemed "damn fine," and everything off-kilter was now "Lynchian".

So, farewell to David Lynch, a genuine master of the surreal and an eccentric spirit. He made the weird cool and elevated the strange to the sublime. His movies were, crucially, as endearing and funny as they were genuinely dark and disturbing, bizarre and perplexing. An outsider artist who also, like Hitchcock, assumed the role of movie director and puckish minor celeb. A singular creative force. In one of his final YouTube weather reports, he stated, "I hope you're out there making things." David Lynch is no longer around to make any more things. It's up to us now. Make things.

#David Lynch #Blue Velvet #Twin Peaks

20 notes · View notes

fckeddiemunson · 2 years ago

Text

Take Me Upstairs - Eddie Munson

take me upstairs - rockstar!eddie munson

Synopsis: You run the local record shop and one day Eddie invites you to a show and one thing leads to another.

Warnings: 18+ only MDNI. some fluff, smidge of angst, smut, p in v, unprotected sex, oral f & m receiving, slight choking if you squint.

A/N: Please be nice, this is my first fic I’ve written since I was a teenager xx

4.5k

There was one record shop in Hawkins, tucked away off the main street. It belonged to your uncle, but he was more of a figurehead of the business in his old age, you were there most days, running the shop. It was a dream, you got to speak to people about music all day, play whatever you wanted and no one would complain that it was too loud. Before you started the shop had a dark, dingy feeling to it, dust collected on the shelves and the old hardwood floor had nails sticking up everywhere. You had brightened up the place with a bright lick of paint, pot plants everywhere and you kept the latest stuff in stock of all the up and coming hits.

Eddie Munson had been a regular since your uncle had been working there. He would rush in on a Friday morning when all the new music was released and put on the shelves. Sometimes he would line up ten minutes before it opened to grab the only metal record available, because it was such a small town you only kept a little of everything at once. It was a Friday afternoon when he first met you, he was running late for a new album, he was sweating, worried it had already sold. He had parked his van half sticking out to the road in front of the store, tripped up the stairs, called hello to Ray, your uncle and speed walked to the metal section. He was startled when he heard your sweet, soft voice call back to him. He awkwardly shuffled through the cds on the shelves. Eddie smiled gleefully when he saw the new release, he seized it and kissed the cover, “Was worried I was too late for you darlin’” he whispered and walked up to the counter where you were standing with the new Kerrang edition in your hands. Eddies breath hitched when you moved the magazine away to serve him, you were phenomenal, eyes that were bright and inviting and the warmest prettiest smile he had ever seen.“You’re not Ray” he stated and then cringed at you, wow what an opener, he thought and stuttered out trying to say something else.

You chuckled and leant on the counter, “No, I’m not Ray, I’m Y/N. You’re Eddie right? My uncle warned me about our regular metalhead” You smiled at him and held your hand outstretched to shake Eddies.

“Uh, yes I am Eddie, it’s nice to meet you too” He took your hand, stressing that his hand was sweaty and shook yours. Edde wasn’t usually this giddy when he met a girl, plenty of girls showed up to Corroded Coffin gigs now that they had gained a bit of traction in surrounding bigger towns.

“I put this record on this morning before you got here, you’re in for a treat” You gestured to the Iron Maiden record in his hand, he handed it over to you grinning. “Oh yeah? Well I’m glad to hear it sweetheart, first thing I’m doing after this is blasting it all the way home in the van” Eddie said excited, feeling himself relax and lean against the counter.

You gasped at his answer, “Oh my no! Eddie, your first listen to an album has to be special, right atmosphere, good stereo, not shitty car speakers!” you were horrified at the mere thought, you liked the ritual of putting a new album on for the first time.

“Guess I’m just too impatient with masterpieces” Eddie winked at you and immediately regretted it as he handed over a bill to you. Why was he so awkward sometimes?! He groaned mentally.

“Next time you’re in I expect a full report.” You told him, deadly serious.

“Absolutely sweetheart.” Eddie left, looking once more behind him as he left, seeing you smiling to yourself as you picked up the magazine again.

Eddie knew from that moment he was fucked. Nobody at any shows would ever compare. The next day he sauntered back into the store, hoping you were working on a weekend, he was disappointed to know that your brother worked the weekend as you liked to attend as many gigs as you could on the weekend.

Eddie was back in the shop Monday morning, a grin on his face as he tumbled into the store. He called out your name and your head popped up from one of the rows near the back as he followed you down there.

“Heya sweetheart” Eddie said, leaning against the shelf.

“Hey yourself. What did you think of the album?” You asked excitedly, he thought you looked so cute all excited and chirpy

“It was like a religious experience and i ain’t had many of them let me tell you” you giggled at him and began searching through the shelves again.

“Let me show you something else, you don’t have to buy it, just borrow it for the day and see if you like it?” you picked out a few cds and handed them over.

“Are you sure sweetheart?” He looked over them, not hearing of some of the bands before

“Yeah sure I’ll be glad to hear your thoughts.” Eddie got suddenly excited that you wanted him to come back, and that Eddie had to come back to see you thrilled him.

“Hey, could watch the shop for a minute while i go grab a coffee and pastry?” Eddie heard your stomach growl and he chuckled

“Nonsense, it’s on me, for the cds” You smiled at him and thanked him as he left for coffee.

You bit into the delicious flaky pastry, a bit sticking to your mouth

“Oh you’ve got a bit of-“ Eddie gestured to your cheek. You desperately tried to brush it off after several attempts Eddie reached towards you, his hand gently brushing it off.

“There you go” Eddie whispered as he brushed it off and you both blushed.

You two had become closer over the last few months. He would often spend up to an hour at closing time when it was quiet just helping you tidy up and then walking you to your car. And when he was in at opening he would bring you coffee and pastries fresh from the cafe down the road. You were getting attached to him, you didn’t want to admit it. Hawkins was the last place you thought you’d end up but after a bad run in Los Angeles as a bartender, you thought you needed a change and it all fell into place. At first you thought Eddie’s extensive amount of time in the shop was normal, your uncle had warned you he was there a lot. But Ray tended to exaggerate with these things. Eddie was always on your mind, as soon as you got to the shop and opened up. Your head would whip around to the door every time the little bell dinged as the door opened. He was sweet and funny and a little flirty which often made your cheeks heat up. You were hoping he’d make a move but it had been a few months now and Eddie would still just come in to talk to you.

Eddie waited in a cafe around the corner from the record store, grabbing you your regular latte and pastry. He had some CD’s of his own to give you this time and he was very excited about it. This new found hobby he had of obsessively listening to the CD’s you gave him and thinking about what to give you next was his favourite pastime. Eddie was thinking about asking you out on a date but outside of being on stage he was a bit shy and you were the first girl to mean something to him beyond a girl at a show.

He walked towards the record store, checking his hair in a nearby store window and walked into the shop. He noticed you weren’t at the counter so he wandered through checking out the new releases, he heard your sweet laugh trickle through the store and he also heard another man’s voice speaking to you as you giggled. Eddie didn’t know what it was about but he felt immediately annoyed, his eyebrow raised as he lurked around the shop finding you in the back corner. He saw you talking to a tall dark haired man also with tattoos on his arms. Inside him was pure turmoil - partially because he knew he was overreacting but part because he really didn’t want any suspicion of his to be right.

“Eddie!” You shouted excited, too loud for the small space.

“You have to meet Luke! He was a bartender with me in California!! He was passing through town.” You spoke with adoring eyes for Luke, or so Eddie thought. He also thought it was bullshit, no one passes through Hawkins.

Eddie strained “Nice to meet you” before Luke gave you a quick hug and you two said your goodbyes.

After he left Eddie awkwardly gave you the pastry and coffee, watching as you took a bite.

“Is he ah, an ex?” Eddie found himself spilling out before he could stop.

“Oh, ah no just a friend who helped me out when I was there. Bit weird he stopped by though.” You shrugged and the pit in Eddie’s stomach slowly got smaller, he felt ridiculous to feel such jealousy for you.

“Okay sugar, I’ve got band prac so I’ve got to go but ah here’s some Cd’s i think you should hear. Let me know, yeah?” You smiled warmly at Eddie and his heart swelled in his heart and jeans.

You blew him a kiss as he walked to the door and Eddie swore under his breath as he walked to his van. Oh yeah he was totally fucked.

You knew he had a band that was slowly gaining traction and getting out there. It was his dream and you had passionately spoken about it with him. Watching him talk about the band and getting excited about getting out there more made you swoon. The way his smile lit up the entire shop, it was cheeky and earnest. And his eyes that were constantly on yours, his intense eye contact often made you lose your breath but you loved his attention. You had even started stocking the EP they had released, and playing it in store to spark conversation with other customers so you could gush over him.

Eddie rushed in one Friday morning a few weeks after running into Luke, you peaked through the window seeing the rest of his band in the van, looking packed in with gear.

“Morning sugar” His usual charm on high volume, he was in an excellent mood. The band had gotten a huge gig at a bar in a nearby town. It had a venue room that held about 500 people, and for them that was epic. Beyond huge, the biggest they had ever played somewhere, and away from home too!

“Would you mind putting this up in the window? I want as many people to come tomorrow night as they can!” You looked over the poster, a smile crept onto your face as your eyes met Eddies and you bit your lip in excitement for him.

“Of course Eddie. I’m so ecstatic for you! This is huge, your big break for sure. I will play nothing but Corroded Coffin all day!” You did a little hop skip of excitement around the counter and punched his arm.

“Seriously, super proud of you.” Eddie blushed at your words and looked at you once more before deciding to pull you into a crushing bear hug. You inhaled him, strong and musky, it made you warm inside.

“You better be coming tonight sweetheart.” He winked at you before there was a honk from the van, his bandmates clearly getting impatient. He gave them the finger and looked back at you.

“Seriously, I’ll put your name on the door, as you’re the only one in town who will stock the record.”

“Eddie I am the only record shop in town” you whined but he only smirked and gave your arm a quick squeeze before he ran out the door.

You heard the boys in the van all “whoooo” at the same time and you saw Eddie go bright red as they drove away

You stood in your room hours later, hair in rollers, stressing about which outfit to wear. This wasn’t a normal gig where you’d just throw on any old jeans and a ripped up old shirt. This was Eddie's big gig, you didn’t want to get lost in the crowd, you wanted him to know you were there supporting him. You settled on jeans anyway and an Iron Maiden shit, reminiscent of your first conversation. You tucked it in showing your stomach and went to the bathroom stressing about your hair and makeup.

Once you got inside the venue, you were excited but got a little disheartened at all the stunning girls at the gig. You felt like you couldn’t compare to these bombshells. You shot another drink for good luck, nodding your head along to the opening band. The butterflies in your stomach only intensified as they finished and everyone started closing in for Eddie. You usually got keen for gigs but you felt extra giddy and bouncy as it was his band, he had your heart in chains and he didn’t even know it. You settled for a spot a few rows back from the stage, snug against a wall. There were too many girls crowding the front to get any closer. The lights dimmed and you were smiling at the stage, nerves flying off of you in static waves.

Eddie came out on stage with his signature red guitar, tight black skinny jeans, a ripped up singlet that showed his biceps and tattoos and red boots. Eddie was also the vocalist and he sauntered up to the microphone, mouth close to it and welcomed and thanked the crowd for coming. There were a few cheers but mostly loud squeals from the few girls in the first couple of rows.

The first song played and the riff ripped through the venue, you were hooked. It was like ecstasy, his voice and playing sent you into a frenzy. You were headbanging in time with the guy next to you and shouting out the lyrics. A small mosh broke out and you pushed to be in the mosh, having the most fun you’d had at a show. Their presence was electrifying and the whole crowd could tell they were witnessing something special.

Eddie was the most charismatic frontman. So much so that during one of their dirtier songs he lent down and started singing to her, eyes staring directly into the girl's soul, her hands were on his legs grabbing and touching. He did the same to a few other girls throughout the set. You felt like you had been punched in the gut. You sank to the back of the crowd. You knew it had to be part of the show and his presence but the way he sang to them hurt you more than you could admit. You suddenly didn’t feel special, Eddie had this way of making you feel like you were the queen in his kingdom. He was so charismatic and charming and on stage it was amplified. You slumped against the back wall of the venue, now replaying all the closing chats you had where you talked about your hopes, dreams and fears. Before the gig you were sure he likes you at least a little bit in the way your heart swelled at the mention of his name. Seeing him sing to the girls reminded you that he treated every girl the way he did with you and you tried to enjoy the end of the show without feeling sorry for yourself.

After the gig ended you headed back out and lingered around the main bar for a while, nursing a gin and tonic deciding if you should go knock on the shared dressing room for the boys. Being on the list gave you certain advantages. Out of the corner of your eye you saw one of his bandmates, Gareth, gesturing for you to come over, he was headed back with a tray of drinks.Gareth had been in the store with Eddie a bunch of times. You drew a deep breath, scared to face Eddie feeling sad about unreturned feelings, but your feet started moving towards the backstage door.

You followed through the door behind Gareth and were met with several girls in the dressing room, all giggling and one sitting very close to Eddie, hand on his arm who had his back to you on the couch. You awkwardly stood near the door as Gareth hustled to the table to set the drinks down.

“Look who found her way here” Gareth nudged Eddie, who tore himself away from the girl on the couch, she looked at you intensely.

Eddie grinned at you, you felt your heart twinge at the sight, beating faster with anxiety as he came closer to you. He handed you a beer and you skulled a few sips with him. You were loose tongued when you were tipsy and you were worried you may just pour your feelings out onto him and he would go back to the table of groupies.

Instead you pulled yourself together, “That was one hell of a show Eddie '', he clinked his bottle against yours, biting his lip as you said that. You averted your eyes from his lip biting, knowing any kind of light flirting would make you sad knowing if you didn’t walk in he would probably be making out with that girl.

“I know right! I was worried you weren’t here, couldn’t see you in the crowd” he pouted at you and your heart strings pulled, heart filling with warmth for him against your wishes. You didn't want to be hurt.

“I was in the mosh mostly, too far back to see me. That's why my hair is all messed up.” you gestured to your wavy poofy hair.

“You have never looked more spectacular than you do right now. You’re gorgeous”

Eddie reached up and tucked a bit of hair behind your ear, your heart hammering as he did. You both audibly heard the girl on the couch scoff.

“Let's get some air?” Eddie suggested and you nodded.

You found yourself in a cozy corner of the smokers area, falling into conversation easily with Eddie as he lit up a cigarette and another round of drinks had made its way to your table, perks of being the band playing. Your inhibitions were lowering and you were gaining confidence when you said, “do you usually fuck all those girls in your dressing room after shows?”

Eddie was taken aback by the question. You had talked about your love lives before, exes and the like but never about something like this. Eddie looked at your face, he could tell you were annoyed by the girl he was speaking to before. Eddie hesitated

“I used to sleep with one or two, once our shows started getting a bit bigger. But I’m not really a one night stand person.” You considered, a little more annoyed than you originally thought.

“Yeah but if I hadn’t showed up to distract you, you would’ve fucked that girl in there tonight” You acccused, taking a swig of your drink.

“No I wouldn’t have! If anything, her conversation was a distraction. And what about your friend from Cali huh?” Eddie argued back. You blamed the alcohol for why you were feeling this way but you couldn’t stop now

“He means nothing! Don’t turn this on me, Eddie. it’s almost shameful how intimate you are with those girls in the crowd.” You strained, you felt a lump in your chest, heaving with every word.

“Sweetheart, that's just for the show, got to get everyone riled up!” You didn't say a word and he sighed, placing a hand on your knee and rubbing it. Eddie swallowed hard

“You know I-.. I haven’t even thought about kissing anyone. Anyone at all except you darlin’. I don’t even think about other women like that, I only ever think about you” Eddie searched your face for some sign of reaction. His hand on your knee moved to lift your chin up to meet his eyes.

“Eddie, you make me feel things I have never felt before. And- and I'm scared to get hurt.” You whispered out, looking into Eddie's warm brown eyes, breathless at your admission. Eddie placed his hand on your bar stool and dragged it as close as possible. His knee nestled in between your legs, your thighs touching. Eddie cupped your cheek, letting his hand run down to your neck, thumb trailing along your jaw to your mouth. He had brought his face closer to yours, your hearts hammering together in sync.

He ran his thumb over your bottom lip and you kissed lightly. Eddie stared at you, his hand slithering to the back of your neck to pull you closer to him, your lips a mere inch apart.

He cupped your neck and jaw again, before you lost your composure and lent in, brushing your lips against his plush ones. He exhaled sharply, bringing his other hand up to cup your jaw with both hands as he shifted close to you and entangled your lips again. You gasped as he sucked in your bottom lip, fiercely kissing you. Your hand fumbled for his shirt and collar, desperate to feel him. Eddie took a breath and before he could move, you kissed him again, licking his bottom lip as his tongue met yours and slid over your bottom lip into your mouth. You moaned against him, hand clutching and squeezing his thigh. Eddie stood up, pressing his body into yours. Eddie pulled back from the kiss to look at you, your lips were swollen, lipstick smearing a bit onto his lips.

“Look at you, shit, all fucked out and I haven’tt even gotten started” he whispered, hand behind your neck pulling you close as he nuzzled into your neck. He kissed your neck lightly, testing the waters as you gasped and let your hand disappear into his curly locks. Eddie kissed and nipped and sucked at your neck, you felt your pussy warm and clench everytime he would bite and suck, each time with more vigor and lust. You could feel Eddie’s dick against you. That alone made you whimper against him.

“I have a room upstairs, we have a gig tomorrow so I figured why not-” You cut Eddie off with a bruising kiss, tangling your hands in his hair.

“Yes, take me there” You whimpered out, completely under his control and absolutely soaking for him.

He grabbed your arm, leading you back inside and up a stairway, you stumbled into his room, breathless.

Eddie pushed you against the wall and engulfed you in a kiss, fire exploded in your stomach as you sunk down to your knees, staring up at him, his eyes full of lust.

“I have been wanting to do this for a long time” You whispered, fumbling with his belt on his pants.

“Oh yeah? I’ve dreamed of seeing you on your knees for me” Eddie grabbed your chin and angled it to look up at him, satisfied at the already fucked out look you had on your face. You shimmed his jeans down a bit, stopping briefly, suddenly nervous to see him for the first time. Eddie instead took over, you looked down as he took his cock in his hand, stroking it up and down, groaning as he did.

“Look at me sweetheart.” Eddie said down to you, a command, not a question. Your eyes slowly crept up, you let out a breath seeing his cock at eye level, much bigger and prettier than you were expecting. Eddie tapped it on your lips once before you took him in your mouth, licking the tip and then sucking in, until he hit the back of your throat. You breathed out harshly, refusing to let him slide out.

Eddie groaned deeply above you, sending waves between your legs, you moaned against him as you continued to suck greedily.

“Makin’ me feel so good baby, so good” Eddie mumbled lustily above you, entangling his hand in your hair and forcing more of him into your mouth, you groaned at the sensation. Eddie moved your head back and forth on his dick, your jaw slack for him, his moans were sending you into a frenzy, you gagged on him once before he slid out of your mouth.

“Dirty girl” he muttered, pulling you up and kissing you, tongue invading your mouth. His hands wrapped around you, his big hands grabbing your ass, he tested the waters by giving it a sharp slap and you gasped, convinced you’re dripping through your underwear.

Eddie pushed you onto the nearby bed, his weight crushing as he undid your jeans and dragged them off you, pulling you to the edge of the bed as he did. His hands ran over your bare thighs, thumbs digging in at the apex of your thighs. He teased your underwear waistband, snapping it against your skin before dropping his head right between your thighs, strong hands spreading them for him, and only him. He thumbed the cloth, right against your clit and you let out a whine that turned into a moan as he kissed your clit through the thin cloth. Eddie hooked his finger under the waistband and pulled them down slowly, spreading your legs once again. He slid his finger through your folds, you let out a whimper as he gathered your slick on his fingers and brought it to mouth, sucking it off.

“Just as sweet as I’d thought you’d be baby” Eddie grinned before thumbing your clit slowly, your head rolled back on the bed as he drew slow teasing circles on you, occasionally teasing your tight hole. He sunk his teeth into your thigh, short sharp breaths coming from you as you almost fell apart over Eddies touches.

“Please” You whimpered to him, Eddie’s wicked grin lighted his face.

“Please what?” he teased, his hand abruptly stopping on your cunt.

“Please… fuck me” you writhed on the bed, desperate for pleasure.

“No, I'm not done with you yet.” Eddie growled and pinned your left thigh down and spread your folds, slipping two fingers inside of you, a high moan escaping your lips.

Eddie’s fingers were long and found that sensitive spot inside you quickly as his fingers moved deliciously inside you, filthy noises escaping your mouth at the squelch of your wetness on his fingers. He thumbed your clit at the same time, you felt your build up quickly, but something felt different, more intense as his fingers relentlessly brought you higher and higher.

“Eddie” his name left in a high pitched whine, your hips lifted off the bed as you felt your release flood through you, you shivered, lifting your hips off the bed. You felt extra wet as Eddie continued to fuck you with his fingers, you twitched beneath him, overstimulated.

“Thats it good girl, good fucking girl.” He praised as his movements slowly came to a stop.

You lay on the bed breathless, hair sticking to your neck, but Eddie wasn’t near done yet.

“You squirted sweetheart, have you done that before or was it all for me?” Eddie crawled onto you, settling between your legs, tugging his hard cock as he did.

“All for you, only for you” You replied, looking up at him. His chest lean, arms muscular and covered in tattoos, his face strained as he jerked himself off. Eddie suddenly grabbed your hips and pulled you close to him, kissing you deeply as he slid in, a sharpness you weren’t expecting as he stilled inside you.

“Come on sweet girl, you can take me.” Eddie peppered kisses onto your face as he moved slowly, long languid thrusts into your tight dripping pussy.

Pleasure slowly took over you and you hooked your arms around his ass, pulling him tight against you, needing to feel him everywhere, the feeling of Eddie was addictive.

Eddie brought his hand to your neck, running his thumb over your lip which you took into your mouth eagerly, earning a deep moan from Eddie above you. Eddie snapped his hips to yours, pressing your legs above your shoulders as his thrusts became faster and deeper.

You were moaning loudly, not caring if the whole hotel heard you, your eyes shut tightly as he deepened the angle of his hips. You had never felt so full in your life, Eddie kept fucking you, his balls slapping on your leg. Eddie's hand found your clit, rubbing slowly again, you whimpered under his touch, unsure how much more you could take. Your breath was ragged, you were so close.

“Eddie I’m gonna-” Eddie chuckled and stopped his movements, you groaned loudly beneath him as he withdrew from you.

“Nononono” you whined, jerking your hips up to nothing, as he moved to stand on the edge of the bed. He grabbed your ankles, yanking you to the edge and forced your head down into the mattress.

You whined and shook your ass in front of him.

“Eddie, please” you started playing with yourself in front of him, needing him.

He tapped himself over your clit a few times, making you move your hand as he pushed your back down further into the bed while holding your hips up for him. Eddie slid back in, that familiar full feeling returning as he thrusted against you, his balls slapping your clit each thrust.

“Fuck you feel so good from this angle, so good for me, so wet sweetheart” Eddie was losing it because of you, each thrust sent him closer and closer, he felt the familiar warming in his lower stomach.

Eddie reached round and rubbed circles on your clit and you let out a loud moan, hips moving with his. You felt your stomach tighten as his cock continued to fill you up, each thrust sending you closer.

“Eddie” you warned him, high pitched moans stringing out of your mouth.

You crashed over the edge as Eddie fucked hard and deep into you, every word fell from your mouth as you moaned for him, he gave a final thrust before a deep gutteral moan left his lips, his hot come spilling into you.

“Fuck sweetheart” His deep voice groaned as he collapsed next to you.

You stayed there for a few moments staring at each other in the post hue of sex, he was smiling widely at you.

“I suppose I better take you on a date now huh?” He said wiping his hair from his face and tying it into a bun

“Yeah you better rockstar”

#rockstar!eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanficiton #eddie munson #eddie munson au #stranger things au #smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson dirty #eddie munson fic #oneshot

544 notes · View notes

fayes-fics · 1 year ago

Text

Call Me

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, modern AU

Summary: When you are parted from Benedict, he guides you through pleasuring yourself....

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, phone sex, dirty talk, masturbation, use of sex toy.

Word Count: 3.5k

Authors Note: this is a very belated request fill for the talented and lovely @broooookiecrisp from her ask HERE, where Benedict guides the reader through masturbation. She also chose the pic above, which looks very modern Benedict in Tuscany :) I hope you enjoy this story, my lovely. Thanks to @colettebronte for reading this through & @eleanor-bradstreet for the title. Enjoy! <3

The Facetime call connects as you recline, wearing your noise-cancelling wireless headset.

“Hello darling,” that familiar smooth voice greets, “I've missed you.” His sigh is deep and heartfelt. With the volume up, it sounds like he is lying right with you, but then it's in both ears; the stereo effect makes your tummy feel warm.

“I've missed you too,” you hum, toying with the corner of the duvet you lay under. You are so happy he secured an artist retreat residency in Tuscany for the week, but you miss him terribly. He's only been gone a few days, but it feels like forever.

“I'm sorry this has to be an audio call; the wifi here is shockingly slow and the phone reception non-existent; I thought it better to sacrifice a blocky video for crystal clear audio,” he explains. “You will just have to imagine my face,” he adds with a soft laugh.

Indeed, your mind fills with images of his handsome face; you can even picture the gentle, lopsided grin you can hear in his tone.

“Are you somewhere private?” you ask, a little nervous.

“Yes. Why do you ask?” his question shifting into that lower cadence that fires all the butterflies.

“I miss you,” you offer again, hoping perhaps he can intuit what you are asking for, drawing your knees up, the cotton sheet catching on your heels as you do so.

“I miss you too,” he echoes again, “but I don't think that needs to be said in private,” his tone laconic.

He knows exactly where your thoughts have slid, but he's playing innocent. He always goads you into pushing to speak your mind, to voice your desires, and tonight is no different—gently coaxing you to profess what you want.

“I want you to talk to me,” your voice with a slight waver that betrays a hidden meaning in the words.

“I am,” the timbre makes the little earphones in your ear almost vibrate, and a frisson runs down your spine.

“No…” you hesitate, “talk to me,” emphasising the word.

“If you want something from me, darling, all you have to do is ask,” his tone a dark lilting tease now.

“Talk to me like you do when we are intimate,” you rush out on an exhale.

His rich chuckle makes your nipples pebble without so much as a touch. “Now we are getting somewhere….” he buzzes. “Are you going to touch yourself for me while I do, hmm?”

You bite your lip but can't disguise the whimper that escapes. You close your eyes and flick the volume up two notches on your phone, throwing it aside so both hands are available.

“I want you to tell me what to do,” you breathe, pushing the duvet down your body, feeling heated.

You hear the noise that catches deep in his throat; it's thick and desirous, and you thank the technology gods for headsets with this level of quality.

“What are you wearing?” he rumbles.

“Nothing…” you confess, knowing it's breathy and wanton.

“Oh god, yes,” his rushed response, a reflex that makes you clench your thighs together, loving how affected he is just by that simple statement. “Where are you?”

“In our bed.”

“Under the covers?”

“I was, but now I'm feeling hot, so I've pushed them aside. It's just me… naked… uncovered… alone… resting on your pillow…”

With each little phase, you can hear his breathing getting more pronounced. “Why my pillow?”

“It smells like you,” you answer.

“Does that turn you on?” his voice going tight.

“Yes, oh god, Ben, yes, it does.”

He growls lightly when you say his name, the noise in your ears so loud it makes you squeak, a hand straying to your breast.

“Guide me, please; I need to imagine it's your hands on me. “Draw me a mental picture as clear and evocative as one of your beautiful paintings.”

“Hmmmm,” his thoughtful hum runs right through your body with the volume up. “How about we take this slow, build to something? I have a painting I worked on earlier today. Would you like me to describe it to you? Describe how I would paint you into it?”

“Yes! Yes, please,” you enthuse quickly, desperate for his artistry in all senses of the word.

“It's Tuscany, a sun-drenched summer’s day,” his storytelling is always spellbinding, so you settle back into the pillows as if listening to a private audiobook made just for you. “The sky is azure blue; the fields are bright, verdant green. Olive trees dot the rolling hills all around. Right in the middle is a small vineyard. A gentle slope of neatly rowed vines, the leaves canopying bunches of ripened grapes, drooping heavily, ready for harvest.”

As he speaks, you spider your fingertips over your collarbone, imagining the heat of the sun on your skin.

“The grass between the vine rows is lush and thick, a balm from the heat,” his sonorous voice continues at a lush pace. “That is where I would paint you, lying on that hillside. The cool blades tickling your back as the sun bakes your skin.”

“What am I wearing, Benedict?” you inquire, gently biting your lip as your hands stray lower onto the swell of your breast, so enchanted by the picture he paints.

“Exactly what you are right now,” he responds with a slight hitch.

“Nothing?” you gasp, the idea suddenly so risque but more beguiling.

“That's right,” he rumbles. “I would paint you utterly nude.”

You brush lightly around your own areola, writhing gently under your own touch.

“Are you with me, Benedict? In this vineyard?” your breath quickening.

“How else am I going to paint you unless I am there too?” he teases gently. “And guess what I would be doing while I'm painting?”

“What?” goosebumps on your arms with anticipation, your fingers moving concentric circles.

“I would tell you to touch yourself, just as I am now. There is nothing I want to paint more than you in the throes of ecstasy,” he exhales raggedly. “You are beautiful, wild, glorious….”

“I want that too,” you rush out. “Why have you never done it before?”

He chuckles richly; the sound feels like a shimmer over your body. “Because it would be impossible to be near you when you are naked and not to touch you,” his admission is almost rueful.

“I wish you were with me,” it’s wistful.

“I am,” he assures. “just remember hmm? Sunny hillside, naked, the sun on your skin and me there with you. Now, darling, I can tell you are already doing something; I can hear the quirk in your breath. Tell me, tell me in detail.”

“I’m..” you hesitate, “...I’m touching my nipples,” you rush out, finally letting your fingers trail over the nub, pebbling hard as he moans lightly.

“Oh yes,” he stutters, “don’t stop. Give them a gentle pinch for me. Between your finger and thumb…” he waits for your little hiss, and then he hums, “Mmm, does that feel good?”

“Yessss,” you hiss.

“Imagine it’s my fingers, darling,” he requests, and you do.

You think of how it feels when his hands cup your breast, as you do now, and tease your nipples until you beg him to stop. You hear his breath catching in his throat as you make tiny little needy noises and tilt up a fraction off the bed, teasing yourself as he does.

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Now wet your fingers, suck on them…”

You know he can hear the wet, suckling noise right in his earpiece as you do as commanded, returning your fingers and painting the dampness over your skin as it puckers heavily under the sensation.

“Now pinch yourself just a little harder; imagine it’s my tongue and teeth; I know how much you like it when I suck hard and just a gentle bite….”

“Ben…” you murmur his name as you move, your head rolling on the pillow, eyes fluttering.

“Fuckkk,” you hear him mutter, losing his composure. It makes something inside you catch fire, a tingle between your legs buzzing harder.

“What next?” you beseech, wanting this to go quicker but at the same time to never stop.

“Slide your fingers down over your ribs, my love,” he stumbles a little, and you hear a squeak as if he is changing position.

“Tickles,” you giggle, and Benedict laughs softly with you.

“I know. I love to run the tip of my nose there,” he divulges, “or I may use a firmer touch. Do that, darling. Sweep your whole palm down, and feel the rise and fall with your breathing as you go.”

You do as asked, the heavier touch centring you somehow as your hand slips onto your tummy.

“Take your time, but don’t stop moving lower, darling,” he lectures. “You know I never do.”

It is so low it echoes around your whole being. Your thighs fall open, a trickle escaping your body.

“Oh god, I’m burning for you, Ben,” it’s out before you can stop it.

“Where?”

“You know where,” you obfuscate.

“I'm not there, remember? I need you to paint me a picture. I know you can do it. Don’t worry. No one can hear us; it’s just you and me. Missing each other.” His gentle, loving reassurance is the push you need.

“Between my legs,” you stutter under his coaxing.

“Are you wet for me?” he queries, panting a little.

“Yes,” you disclose quietly.

“Are you touching yourself?”

“Not yet,” you swirl your fingers through the patch of hair, almost as if waiting for his permission to touch.

“You want me to tell you exactly what to do, don’t you?” He intuits.

“Please,” you croak.

“Okay. I just have one condition…” he tapers off, temptingly, knowing he has you on tenterhooks.

“What?” the question is breathy, impatient.

“You have to be loud for me,” he petitions. “Don’t you dare hold back; I want to hear it all.”

“Okay, I promise,” you whisper, your clit pulsing, aching to be touched.

“Alright….” He begins as you hear more sounds like he is getting into position in bed himself, a slight rustle of cotton. “Bend your legs, bring your heels up high right near your bottom…”

You do as instructed.

“Now, splay your knees out wide.”

Again you follow to the letter, feeling the cool air swirling around your exposed, damp slit.

“Reach behind your head and then slide my pillow under your hips…,” he continues in that sinful tone.

“Why?” You check even as you do as asked.

“Because I want my pillow to smell like your pussy when I get home,” he snarls. The untamed way he says it, so loud in your ears, makes you squeak. He has no shame in being explicit, even if you often flounder to do the same.

Now, with your hips raised, it’s easier to touch yourself; likely, he thought about that, too.

“Mmm, are you comfortable again?” he checks.

“Yes,” you confirm, hand slipping to where it was before.

“Good, now take your middle finger and slide it lower,” he instructs. “Keep going until you find that little clit of yours,” you swear he has entered an even throatier register now, each word like dark silk cloaking you.

As your finger pad slides over that spot, you can’t help the little ohhhh that escapes your lips.

“Oh yes, you’ve found it, haven’t you? Now slide a little lower, hook that finger, and pull back up.”

You do as told and moan as your finger immediately snags the most sensitive spot.

“Oh fuck yes,” you can hear the shudder in his tone, how affected he is, making you fizz too. The self-consciousness melts away as his precise instructions root you into your body, letting your mind shut off all the thoughts and worries—just focussed on the present.

“Swirl that finger gently for me, baby,” he compels, “anticlockwise.”

Instantly, your body responds as if it were his touch. You breathe deep as you keep moving, the slickness of your desire easing your motions.

“Are you swelling just a little?” he sounds more urgent now.

“Yes,” you confirm, your clit swelling under your touch as you picture him, his face hovering over you, imagining his fingers teasing you as his lips slid hot over your neck.

“Oh god, I love when you get all swollen and puffy and flushed right there for me,” he groans lewdly, and it’s a beeline straight to your pussy. It convulses around nothing, leaking over your bottom cheeks and onto his pillow. You call his name louder, squirming bodily, something tugging inside. Your body craves him—to be fucked, invaded, pushed open, pounded until it aches from that delicious stretch.

“Fuck I need you, Ben,” you moan as your fingers move faster, sliding over that little pearl. “I need you to fuck me so hard.”

“I want that, but not yet,” he grits out, your declaration seeming to fuel him. “Imagine it’s my tongue, darling, lathing against your clit, drinking up all that beautiful juice. You always taste divine, like a slightly tart peach, sweet but sharp.”

Your mind supplies images of just that, his slightly stubbled jaw rubbing against the sensitive skin of your labia as he has to use both hands to hold you open to his onslaught, your legs reflexively wanting to close up around his head at the powerful sensations you feel, your fingers running into his lush head of hair, nails scraping along his warn scalp, praising his skill.

“When I tell you to, you grab your vibrator, baby.” he interrupts your reverie.

“Yes,” you comply, knowing it is tucked safely under your pillow beside you.

“For now, keep rubbing for me; go faster,” he implores. “Let me hear you, your beautiful voice….”

You speed up, changing motions as he guides you to do so. Softly chanting his name as you notch higher up that invisible ladder. But he knows your body so well—knows with absolute precision when to shake things up, as he does now.

“STOP!!!” he instructs harshly.

You instantly halt ministrations, whining, hearing his laboured breaths loud in your ear, your fingers frozen inches above your folds.

“Oh, are you pulsing baby? Are you so close to coming?” he sounds proud, almost smug.

“Yesssss… please let me continue,” you plead, lungs heaving.

“No,” he menaces as your hand wanders over your thighs to stop the temptation to defy him, feeling the quiver in your muscles.

“Where has your other hand been?” he quizzes.

“Gripping the sheets,” you admit as he huffs a laugh about your honesty.

“Now swap. Touch your clit with that hand,” he tutors.

“What about my other hand? It's soaked,” you confess abashed.

“I know, baby, we are going to put it to good use. Slide two of those soaked fingers inside your pussy for me,” he instructs, so low that every word buzzes in your bones.

You call out his name as you slide two fingers deep into your own soaked pussy, rippling around your touch, a lewd, squelching sound as you do so.

“Oh fuck… I think I heard that,” he inhales sharply.

“You,” you assert, “you did this to me.”

He makes a feral noise in response, breathing in harsh gusts.

“Fuck yourself,” he growls, “fuck yourself with your fingers.”

Your movements are instinctual now, following his words to the letter. Shame melted away under the heat of desire. For him, for this. To come so damn hard you scream the walls down. Plunging your fingers as deep as you can reach, over and over. Your hips are pushed high off the bed, shoulder blades and feet taking your weight as you race greedily towards your peak, forehead and the back of your neck dewy from the exertion. Thinking of his fingers buried inside, of how, when it’s him, he holds you down with a solid quad muscle over your thigh, doesn’t let you buck up as you are now.

“Please, Ben. I need your cock,” you bumble, uncensored, whimpering that you can’t quite reach as deep as he can, reach that spot that makes you babble utter nonsense and white out with pleasure.

“Grab that vibrator y/n. Fuck yourself properly,” he orders gruffly.

You release your clit and fumble under your pillow for it, a slight sound of victory catching in your throat as you do so.

Without preamble, you thrust it inside yourself, just as he would with his cock when he knows you are this mindless. The stretch isn’t as good as him, not the same weight and heat, but it still feels like a heavenly sensation in your heightened state. Your noises staccato as you take it all on board, pausing slightly to get used to the invasion.

“Did I say you could stop?” he interrogates.

Without riposte, you scramble to obey, withdrawing the vibe then sinking it back in, attempting to ape one of his rhythms, the sense memory of him moving inside you making you moan loudly.

“That’s it. Does that feel good?” his voice practically a purr.

“Yes, but not as good as you,” you answer, missing the feel of him surrounding you when you are fucking. Skin, sweat, scent, weight, the feeling of another body covering or moving under yours.

“I know, darling. I promise it will be me soon. I’ll be home in a few days,” he pledges, breathing hard.

“Will you fuck me as soon as you are home?” you implore, wanting nothing more in this moment.

“Yes, baby. I’ll take you in the hallway if you want,” he vows, his cadence desperate.

“Please…” that word is all you can stutter as the hand controlling the vibe becomes a frenzy, your pussy clinging to its mass as if it were his cock.

“Don’t forget that engorged clit,” he reminds. “I need you to rub it as hard as you can with that other hand,” his voice is becoming more broken. “Im fucking you right now,” he avows roughly, “It's me, darling, fucking you so hard. And you feel so so good clenching around my cock…”

You belatedly realise he may be touching himself, may have his cock in his hand as he walks you to orgasm. It makes your thighs tremble and clamp around your hands.

“Are you touching yourself too, Ben?”

“Yessss”, he hisses. Below the sound of your joint panting, you can hear the faint sound of skin slapping lightly as he fucks his fist.

It’s that image in your mind - him sprawled naked on a bed, skin sunkissed against the crisp white sheets, in a thick stone-walled Tuscan villa, the scent of wildflowers and the lush sound of crickets wafting through the open shutters - that hurtles you towards completion. Imagining yourself right there with him, gripping the wrought iron bed frame as he fucks so deep you can’t help but scream his name and shudder as it is his fingers snagging over your clit rather than your own.

The next few moments are a frenzied blur as, after some last gasps, you emit a long, loud scream as you come so hard, convulsing around the facsimile of his cock, your clit jumping under your touch, dimly aware he is still streaming filthy, needy encouragements that descend into gruff noises as he follows you over, the tell-tale sound of that final moment when he comes so loud against your eardrums as if he is right there slumped around you, his lips hot on your neck.

There is nothing but gulping breaths as both recover, feeling no shame, just a bone-deep satisfaction that makes you languid and heavy, not wanting to move, just curl up and sleep, a t-shirt of his you grabbed earlier your companion in his absence.

“Fuck I came so hard,” he sounds almost sheepish as it sounds as if he is cleaning up his torso.

“Me too,” you concur, little ripples of fire still running down your legs and arms, oversensitive to any stimuli; even the bedding feels almost too much.

“I want you to come again, but you sound sleepy,” he assesses correctly, and you hum in agreement.

“Too sleepy,” you slur the words as you turn onto your side and fling away the toy to be dealt with another time.

His amused sound is rich and warm. “Curl up, my love,” you once again find yourself carrying out his bidding without conscious thought.

“How long until you are home, Ben?” you mumble after a stifled yawn.

“Thirty-three hours,” you can hear the affectionate, lazy smile as he says it.

“Too long,” you lament gently into his t-shirt, the citrus-woodsy scent of him a comfort.

“Next time, come with me; it's beautiful here,” he murmurs ardently.

“I may love it there too much,” you jest, “I may never want to leave.”

“If you were here with me, I may never want to either,” he imparts softly.

You just hum contentedly. “Will you stay on with me?” you ask quietly, “until we fall asleep?”

“I never planned for anything but,” he responds fondly, a warmth blooming behind your ribs at his words.

And that is how you drift off, whispering sweet nothings as you slip into a restful slumber. The call only disconnects hours later when your batteries run out as you both sleep soundly.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @0x1harmonia0x1

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader

250 notes · View notes

seat-safety-switch · 1 year ago

Text

If you're a normal sort of person, you don't have opinions on spray paint. Feel free to pretend I'm actually talking about something you're very passionate about, such as hot cross buns, the ideal stereo separation, or a true crime murder. Spray paint is available from many brands, and like any consumable mass-market good, a lot of those brands suck.

We've all been there: halfway through a job, only to cock it up because a nozzle clogs, or the can was only half charged, or the friendly instructions forgot to mention that the proprietary chemistry is incompatible with the exact same brand of clear-coat. Now you're stuck there trying to wire-wheel gummy brand-new paint off the thing so that you can redo the entire job. Not only do you look like an idiot, but you're spending more than twice as long to get a worse result.

This is probably why professionals get a full-on spray booth and buy paint only from a trusted supplier, mix it themselves, and spray them with commercial-grade equipment after years of experience. Don't get me wrong, that does sound like a good (if expensive) way to get quality results on your paint coating. However, have you ever talked to a professional painter? Those folks are burned out by 28, after a career of inhaling every synthetic solvent ever made by the same douchebags who invented napalm. I'd rather be trying to hand-bomb this shit in the middle of my backyard during a once-in-a-century wind storm, because I am trying to get it done right now, not done right.

Where is the recourse when Big Spraybomb screws up your weekend? Sure, you could call their customer-service line, but all that will get is, at most, a coupon for more of the same shitty paint that just set fire to your extremely limited free time. I have fantasies sometimes, a beautiful dream of driving down to their offices and spray-painting angry rants on the side of their beautiful buildings in their own product. Unfortunately, I'm positive that I would immediately be beaten by their security guards, and the paint wouldn't last more than a couple of hours.

Removal is no problem; they know the game. All they have to do is gently touch it after everyone is convinced it's dry. Flakes right off.

117 notes · View notes

davidtennan-t · 9 months ago

Text

The Birthday Gifts

Rose has a very special gift idea for her Mum's Birthday, but to get it, she's going to need the help of her Uncle.

Words: 5947

If you crave some Fourteen and Rose shenanigans but also lots of Fourteen and Donna angst then look no further than this fic, it’s got it all! Dedicated to my bestie @kottekonst ❤️ Also available on AO3

Today was Donna’s 53rd birthday.

The Temple-Noble residence was, therefore, rather busy for a Friday evening. The gathering was shaping up to be moderate – Donna never liked a huge fuss, but plenty of people were soon to be mingling in the large backyard, under a hired tent and the setting sunlight.

Rose had already secured her mother a gift. A bracelet, along with one of her very own handcrafted plushies. It was something of a birthday tradition and Rose was happy with her chosen little critter.

Except, she wasn’t, deep down.

There had been a niggling idea in Rose’s mind for weeks, now, and despite her best efforts to shove the idea aside and be happy with the sparkling bracelet wrapped in a gift box under her bed, she couldn’t shake the feeling of wanting to do more for her Mum. A true show of appreciation that could speak louder than any words could, without making it too… cringe.

There was a gift much more special and personal out there in the world. All day at school, her thoughts had never been far from this gift… it couldn’t be bought, nor could it be found in any shop.

It also wasn’t the correct year.

It was why collecting this gift had at first seemed impossible to Rose. How could she ever fly herself a whole year into the past?

Most people didn’t have an uncle who could navigate time and space, however.

He was retired, of course, supposed to be resting – and he did, mostly. But nobody enjoyed bending the rules of retirement more so than the Time Lord who was supposed to be doing it.

Especially when it came to his niece.

“So, are you in?”

Sat in the living room away from the hustle and bustle in the kitchen, enjoying a cup of tea made by none other than the teenage girl perched across from him, the Doctor raised an eyebrow.

“I can see why you made me the tea, now,” the Doctor regretfully replied, having listened intently to Rose’s idea for the past five minutes.

It had been a particularly strange day, on his part. Social gatherings and parties were so very domestic and human, but he was very much part of the family now. He’d helped Shaun set up the tent, fixed the broken stereo system and even dabbled in blowing up balloons under the watchful eye of Sylvia.

Anything for his Donna.

He’d finished the balloons which were all scattered around him and he'd wandered into the kitchen to make a well-earned cup of tea, when Rose had offered to make him one. Alarm bells should have rung right there and then.

“Come on, I know it will mean so much to Mum – I really want to try and make her happy,” Rose encouraged, sat on the edge of the sofa practically shaking with anticipation.

“You do make her happy, every day,” the Doctor reminded her. He never would have thought he’d be the one trying to discourage sneaking away on a quick trip.

Five months ago, they would have been in the TARDIS already.

This was different, however.

“Not like this, though… please? People will start arriving in a couple of hours and by that point it will be too late. I know the exact day, time, and everything… June 6th, 2023, it will only take two seconds, I promise.”

The Doctor glanced behind his shoulder to make sure nobody was eavesdropping.

"Couldn't we go tomorrow?" the Doctor asked.

"We could, but it wouldn't be the same. Today is her birthday and it just feels... right."

“That's fair, but it could be dangerous... you do understand the risks of bumping into your past self? It would create a paradox that would-”

“-devastate reality around me, I know,” Rose whined, but she grew more serious when she saw the look on the Doctor’s face. “I won’t bump into myself, or Mum… I know exactly when and where to go.”

Delicately deciding if he could truly trust his niece, which he would any day, the Doctor thought of a further barrier. A barrier related to the here and now. “Let’s say, hypothetically, I agreed to take you… how would we get to the TARDIS?” the Doctor asked.

The kitchen they would need to walk through to get to his beloved ship, sat on her perch surrounded by flowers, was currently occupied by Donna and Sylvia, sorting through the mountain of buffet food.

Rose frowned. “I should be able to walk into the garden no problem, but if we both walked through then-”

“-Donna would immediately know what we were up to,” the Doctor finished, looking thoughtful as he took another mouthful of tea and pondered their options. “Listen, I think it’s all a bit too risky. Even if we somehow managed to get past her, it’s her birthday, and she told me specifically the TARDIS was out of bounds today – unless there was an emergency.”

“She always says that, though - and this… sort of…is an emergency?” Rose tried to plea, flexing her hands with a strained smile.

The Doctor placed his now empty mug on the coffee table and turned to Rose, his expression solemn, and one that clearly meant no.

“I’m sorry, Rose. I won’t risk you getting into trouble.”

Definitely a no.

Rose sighed. Then, she curved her mouth downwards, stuck out her bottom lip, and glared straight at the Doctor.

“What are you doing?” he questioned, even though he knew exactly what she was doing.

Rose didn’t reply. She sighed again, for the dramatic effect.

“Now listen, I told you, it’s too risky,” he replied airily.

The pout didn’t faulter.

“That won’t work on me, y’know, so you might as well stop now.”

Still, the pout remained.

The Doctor’s nose twitched. He patted his knees a couple of times, trying his hardest to focus on something else to ignore Rose’s silent plea – didn’t Donna ask him to help with the sandwiches? Oh! There was a gift for Donna he needed to wrap upstairs, wasn’t there?

Gift… he hadn’t even asked Rose what her particularly special gift was. Was it something Donna had lost? It dangerously fuelled his curiosity, and he risked a glance over at the teenager again, who was still pouting in his direction.

The Doctor's mouth opened and closed a couple of times, now rocking gently back and forth as he tried to resist the temptation, but it grew harder as each second ticked by.

"Please, Uncle Spaceman?" Rose said quietly.

"Oh no, don't do that... this isn't... I-I can't..." he stuttered, yielding no result.

How could he say no to her? Clearly, the gift was something really special if her persistence was anything to go by. Something more than a simple gift... it seemed so very special. If it would make Donna happy, then what did he have to lose? Rose would be careful, like she always was. She always listened to him, never wandered off.

The Doctor's entire posture suddenly sagged, and his eyes closed.

There was nobody who could pull his leg like his niece.

Rose stopped pouting, holding her breath with a trepid tilt of the head.

After a moment of defeated silence, the Doctor reopened his eyes and finally spoke. “Fine, I’ll take you,” he said, ignoring the glee of excitement out of the corner of his eye, “but we’re both taking the blame this time, you hear?” he added with a point of his finger, even if he would be the first to defend her if it came down to it.

“Deal,” Rose replied quickly, still engrossed in her victory, but relieved and elated she was getting the chance to go through with her plan. Oh, she couldn’t wait to see the look on her Mum’s face.

A smirk crossed the Doctor’s lips, unintentionally feeling very proud of Rose’s persistence. Would he regret this all later? Probably. Would it help knowing Rose was happy? Absolutely.

“You’ve turned me into a soft touch,” the Doctor mumbled as he stood from the sofa, stretching out his back to release the knots from his period of sitting.

“You’ve always been a soft touch,” Rose replied with a smirk.

“Oi - don’t push it. I might be somewhat retired but I'm still the Lord of Time,” the Doctor jibbed back, “but if it’s important to you, then it’s important to me, no matter how much it will sting when we get back.”

Rose chuckled. “So, wait… we’re banned from going into the TARDIS, our route to said TARDIS is blocked but I can go out into the garden without raising suspicion… how are you going to get to the TARDIS without going through Mum? Last time we snuck away only Great-Grandad was home, and he never tells on us anyway,” she pondered, “we’ll both have to go through the kitchen one way or another.”

There was no direct access to the back garden other than through the kitchen, nor was there any way to reach the blue box by leaving the house through the front door. There was, however, a little secret the Doctor had kept to himself, in case of emergency.

“Oh, don’t you worry yourself. You’re looking at the man who snuck out of the biggest high-security prison in the Silfrax Galaxy – twice. In one week.”

Rose looked fairly impressed, but the Doctor found it was getting harder and harder to impress the teenager as time went on. There was only so many times he could tell a story about escaping a fleet of Daleks before it grew a little repetitive.

“Tough crowd,” the Doctor uttered, straightening his tartan waistcoat with a sniff, “I’ll use the cellar window, easily done.”

“Wait, you use the cellar window to escape!?” Rose gawped.

“Rose Temple-Noble, how dare you insinuate such a thing. I used it once a couple of weeks after I arrived to get away from Sylvia and her book club,” the Doctor explained, “I do love my dear old mother-in-law, but there’s only so much you can take of them misquoting Charles Dickens. I did offer to take her and the other members to meet him, but she refused… so, I snuck out the window to go for a walk, instead. Haven’t used it since.”

This time, Rose did look impressed.

“Right then… meet you by the TARDIS in three minutes?”

Once Rose strolled calmly into the kitchen, complimented her Gran on the very well-presented quiche and offered to help her Mum with the sandwiches – which she knew would be met with a no since nobody could ever tamper with her mother’s sandwiches – she expertly explained she was going to lock up her crafting shed and wouldn’t be too long.

Neither Donna nor Sylvia noticed the Time Lord slipping through the cellar door in the hallway.

“Don’t close those patio doors or we’ll lose the breeze!” Sylvia reminded her granddaughter, who smiled and nodded, trying to edge her way towards the open doors. Donna, who’s hair was wrapped in curlers, suddenly looked a little curious as she added more egg to a tray of sandwiches.

“Where’s your uncle, anyway? He said he was finishing up those balloons an hour ago and that was the last I saw him,” Donna asked.

“Oh, he’s just… he’s just, tinkering! Yeah, tinkering… with the balloons. Balloon tinkering,” Rose replied, much less convincingly than she would have liked. It was a miracle her mother bought it.

“Fair enough – remember, no sneaking off in that blue box, the pair of you. It’s my birthday, I don’t want Sontarans storming the garden, or Ood showing up to cater for the party,” Donna warned, pointing a fork in Rose’s direction, but it was with a motherly smile.

Rose nodded, despite the sudden urge to stop what she was doing and listen to her Mum. Yes, this would make her mad… but it would be so incredibly worth it. “Yes, I know… I’ll be back soon.”

Instead of turning left to go to her crafting shed, Rose made sure neither Donna or Sylvia were looking before she quickly ducked right, under the kitchen window and sneaking around the bushes. Once in the clear, Rose quickly raced over to the blue box basking in the late-afternoon sunshine with a victorious shine in her eyes, the rest of the garden empty.

The Doctor was nowhere to be seen, so Rose leaned against the TARDIS and decided to wait for her uncle to appear.

Rose waited.

And waited.

Then, just to fuel her nerves even further, she waited some more.

Worryingly tapping her foot, the anxious teenager tried to peak around the greenery and flowers. The cellar window was positioned in a clearing surrounded by the bushes her Great-Grandfather loved to take care of, with stone steps leading down to some tables and chairs. There was no sign of her uncle emerging from that clearing.

“Come on, Mum’s going to catch us,” Rose uttered under her breath with a trepid glance at the open patio doors.

“Pst – Rose!”

An urgent, quiet whisper from behind the bushes. Rose perked up at the sound of the Doctors voice.

“What is it?!” Rose replied in a hushed whisper.

“Come here!” came the reply.

“Why?”

“Just come here!”

Rolling her eyes with a frustrated sigh, Rose carefully made her way towards the clearing of bushes, sneaking down the steps while shooting worried stares at the doors. At least the bushes would keep them hidden while in that area – for now.

“Doctor, we need to go, before Mum see-”

Rose was suddenly face to face with the Doctor – or rather, face to face with half of him. He was poking out from the cellar window, evidently agitated with his hands pressed against the wall, his face contorted into a grimace.

“What the hell are you doing?!” she asked.

The Doctor stopped his pushing and glanced up at his niece.

“What does it look like I’m doing?!”

“Oi, don’t get snappy with me, Mum won't like that,” Rose replied, folding her arms while glancing to make sure Donna hadn’t spotted them.

“Well I don't think she'll like any of this if she finds out what we’re doing – now help get me out of here!” the Doctor reiterated, his strained noises making the already anxious teenager even more nervous.

“Just… I dunno, shimmy your through?” Rose replied, somewhat confused.

“Shimmy!? Don’t you think I’ve tried that?” the Doctor replied in another snap, still struggling with the window to prove his point, “See? I can’t!”

“Well, why not?”

The Doctor’s expression fell into a serious but embarrassed glare. He stopped his efforts with a sigh, his diverted gaze looking everywhere but Rose.

“I can’t move,” he replied, in the quietest, most meek tone, like he’d just been caught by Donna with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Say again?” Rose asked.

“I can’t move,” the Doctor repeated. Still far too quiet for Rose to hear.

“Louder for the people in the back, please?” Rose retorted exasperatedly, putting a hand to her ear – completely forgetting they were supposed to be escaping silently.

“I can’t move!” the Doctor finally exclaimed - much too loud, as footsteps suddenly echoed just inside the patio doors. Rose gasped and quickly ducked down beside the Doctor, who grew as stiff as a board.

Donna’s mop of pinned-up ginger hair was visible even through the leaves and blossoming flowers as her head poked out into the garden.

Rose held her breath. The Doctor held his breath, his slightly shaking frame making the spikes of his hair tremble.

“Strange, thought I heard a noise,” Donna shrugged, and with that, she turned away and was gone.

After the pair released their held in breaths, Rose turned her attention back to the Doctor, who was now gritting his teeth.

“Are you saying you’re stuck?” Rose whispered, glancing at the cellar window. Now she was closer, it did look rather tight, with the Time Lord squeezed into it uncomfortably – it was a small window, just big enough for a skinny alien to navigate. Or rather, had been big enough. “How can you be stuck?”

“Keep your voice down!” the Doctor quipped, eyebrows tensed as he glared at his niece, who shot him a very disapproving look.

“Oi! I am! It’s you that’s stressing!” Rose replied while waving her hands at him, “I thought you said you’d used this window before?”

“Yeah, well, that was a five months ago,” the Doctor replied, attempting to tug himself forwards again, but with no result, “clearly, I’ve been enjoying retirement a little too much,” he added through clenched teeth.

Rose watched as he tugged again, realising what her uncle meant – he strained, seemingly slipping through, but at such a slow pace they’d be there for all the party guests to see if he didn’t hurry.

“Come on, you can do it,” Rose encouraged.

It was no wonder his suits had been feeling slightly tighter recently. Five months of ‘three meals a day, Spaceman’ and ‘look, here’s a packet of your favourite biscuits’... and how could he forget lovely little old Mrs Fredrick from next door who always popped around with the odd pie or batch of brownies?

Another few precious seconds ticked by, and the Doctor eventually slumped in defeat, out of breath and still very much caught in the window.

“This is not good,” he admitted, “well, worse than not good, actually… very bad, more like.”

“Okay, okay, chill, we can fix this,” Rose tried to reassure him despite her growing concern. “You just need to twist around a little bit, shift your weight, I’m sure you’ll pop right out.”

The Doctor tried that. A little more progress… which only resulted in more tightness. Eventually, he stopped again, long fingers clutching the soft grass as he tried to catch his breath.

By now, guilt was starting to bubble into Rose’s chest – she’d caused this. If they were caught now, she dreaded to think what her mother would say.

“Listen, let’s just call this whole thing off, I’m not having you hurt yourself because I wanted to-” Rose began, but the Doctor quickly cut her off.

“There is absolutely no way we’re giving up now – just because I’m having a little bit of trouble with this window, does not equal defeat, right?” the Doctor said and he gave Rose his most reassuring smile, despite his predicament.

Rose instantly felt more at ease and she smiled back.

“A little bit of trouble?” Rose questioned, finding humour among the urgency, but also incredibly grateful to the Doctor for not giving in so easily.

“Hey - you try saying no to lovely old Mrs Fredrick when she’s stood at the front door holding an apple pie that she made ‘just for you’,” the Doctor retorted.

It was true… Rose wondered how anyone could say no to that sweet old lady when she stood in her little flowery oven mitts with her baked goods.

“Okay, don't worry, we can do this – I have an idea,” Rose confidently told the Doctor and determinedly got to her feet, holding out both her hands after sparing a glance to the patio doors to check for any sign of her mother. “Give me your hands.”

The Doctor, who admittedly was extremely eager to be free from the window to continue helping his niece, didn’t hesitate to reach up to grasp her outstretched hands. It was an awkward position for his long, thin body, but this was their last chance.

“If your Mum saw this I think she’d laugh rather than get mad,” the Doctor commented.

“Let’s not test the waters – ready?”

And with that, Rose leaned back and began pulling.

They were both quietly delighted when the Doctor began to move immediately, quicker than his lone efforts, but it was still precariously tight for the poor Time Lord.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed from the patio door.

As if playing musical statues, Rose and the Doctor froze with their hands still clutched together, the Doctor awkwardly stretched with Rose leaning back on her feet, her curly hair swaying in the light breeze.

Donna appeared again and she held out a hand, evaluating the settling beams of the sun.

“Still warm out, Mum - fancy finishing those cocktails in the fridge before we start decorating? I’ll go grab some ice from the cellar, we’ve ran out up here. And I need to find Spaceman, wherever he is, I need help with the rest of these sandwiches,” Donna said as she pulled back her hand from the sun beam she’d been testing and strolled inside.

Rose was sure she’d never seen such panic overtake anyone’s expression as quickly as it overcame the Doctors.

“Rose Temple-Noble, get me out of this window, now.”

“On it.”

Rose resumed her efforts with an added franticness, while the Doctor tried to wriggle the rest of his trapped waist through the window.

After a tense few seconds, he eventually slid through, and Rose gently placed his hands down onto the grass. He was clearly winded from the effort and his arms shook as he tried to lift himself up.

“OI!”

Donna had been expecting to go to the spare freezer for the ice without a care in the world – oh, she loved those cocktails from Lidl.

What she hadn’t been expecting was the sight of her best friend’s lanky legs dangling inside the cellar window.

“What the hell is going on?!” She yelled as she began to march down the old wooden stairs, completely bewildered at the sight.

Outside, Rose practically flung herself at her uncle, helping to heave his exhausted form forwards enough to get him moving. They were both in fight or flight and, in that moment, they both chose flight - no matter the consequences.

Inside, Donna was fast approaching the flailing tartan legs.

“Get your skinny backside back in this house!”

“Come on, come on!” Rose urged the Doctor.

“Is that you Rose? Oh, just you both wait until I-”

Donna reached out to grab one of the disappearing Converse but missed by a mere centimetre as the Doctor’s shoes finally disappeared through the window.

In the time it took her to recover from the near miss and look through the glass, she saw the retreating figures of the Doctor and Rose running through the bushes.

And by the time she’d raced back upstairs and past a very confused Sylvia holding a tray of slightly overcooked sausage rolls, Donna knew it was much too late.

“You have ten seconds to explain yourself – go.”

Stood before a very irritated Donna Noble in the back garden, the Doctor and Rose glanced at each other.

For Donna, it had only been two minutes since she’d discovered the Doctor’s dangling legs in the cellar. Two minutes had been enough for her to piece together a familiar puzzle, and so she'd angrily removed the curling blocks from her hair and stood in the back garden, waiting for the familiar whirrs of the TARDIS returning.

“Donna, we’ve only been gone for two minutes, and in my defence-” the Doctor began explaining but was quickly shushed by Donna.

“Not now, Spaceman – Rose, what do you have to say for yourself?”

The Doctor promptly closed his mouth and placed his hands behind his back.

Ah, family…

“Mum, I know this looks bad, but please, don’t be mad, I really wanted to-”

“To what? Fly off to some dangerous alien planet - nearly fall into a black hole? I told both of you I didn’t want anyone jaunting off on my birthday, and yet look where we are!” Donna stated, holding out her arms. Despite the anger she’d already prepared for, Rose stepped forwards with both hands secured behind her back, holding the very item she hoped would be able to save both herself and the Doctor from a grounding.

“Mum, please listen – this was all my idea, and no, we didn’t go flying off looking for trouble. I-… I wanted to get you something, for your birthday.”

Donna’s expression softened.

“Wait – you snuck off to get me a present?” Donna replied, not excusing it, but it was far from what she had expected to hear.

At Rose’s nod, Donna softened even more.

“Rose, darling, you know I’m always telling you not to make a fuss – the Doctor is supposed to be resting, not flying you around time and space to go shopping. This is the third time in two months you two have gone flying off together without me knowing… I don’t ground you both to be mean, I do it because I worry about you. Both of you.”

The Doctor looked a little meek as Donna shot him a glare to make sure he knew the impact of her words. He diverted his gaze downwards, as Rose took another defiant step forwards.

“But if I told you where we were going you would have said no, and it would have ruined the surprise, so…”

Donna’s hard stare returned, but she was no longer furious. “Maybe if you’d asked me first, I would have said yes, but instead, you had your uncle climbing through our cellar window? You both lied to me - on my birthday, no less.”

The Doctor didn’t just see but could physically sense the excitement dripping away from Rose’s posture and he couldn’t stay quiet any longer.

Domestics never used to be his thing. Once over, he would have run away and hid from a confrontation of this very nature. Now, it was time to defend his niece.

“Donna, it’s really not her fault – I agreed to do it, for her,” he explained, “and I really think you should look at what she’s gotten you.”

Donna sighed. Even she could see her daughter’s excitement dwindling… her kind, beautiful, wonderful daughter, no less.

“Okay, fine,” Donna gave in with a small smile, and Rose shot the Doctor a thankful smile before she revealed the object from behind her back, holding it out for her Mum to take.

This was it.

“Happy Birthday, Mum.” Rose smiled.

Donna reached out and gently took the gift from Rose.

It was a crumpled piece of paper.

“Oh… what’s this?” Donna questioned.

“Remember last year when we were walking through the park and you pulled out your purse, but it was really windy, and everything flew out? Receipts, money…” Rose trailed off.

It took a moment, but Donna soon recalled the event Rose described.

“Yeah, it was that cheap old purse from Primark, fell to bits, didn’t it… and I lost…”

This time, Donna’s voice trailed off. She immediately began to unfold the crumpled paper, which was dirty, but still intact. When the paper finally opened, Donna felt her throat begin to tighten, her eyes began to burn.

“You lost the last thing Grandad ever wrote down for you.”

Donna held the paper like it was made of crystal… like it was the most precious thing in the entire Universe.

On the paper, in Geoff’s handwriting, the words read:

You’ll do amazing things, my girl. Love, Dad.

“You never told me, but I knew after Dad said you’d lost it that day,” Rose explained, “I remember I watched it fly away into bush and I didn’t say anything, because I thought it was just a random bit of paper - not anything important. So, now you have it back.”

Donna sniffed, reaching up to wipe the tears threatening to fall from her eyes. Never would she have thought she’d be holding this again.

“So… y-you went back in time to pick it up?” Donna asked, shakily.

Rose nodded.

“The Doctor took us to the exact day, a few minutes after we’d originally left the park. I was worried it might have blown away, but it was there, in that same bush. No trips to Mars, no sneaking off to the 1800’s, no-”

Rose was interrupted by her mother’s tight embrace.

“You don’t have to say anymore, sweetheart,” Donna said, still clutching the paper in her hand, “I forgive you for sneaking off. I’m so sorry for being so mad,” Donna apologised, holding onto her daughters curls tightly. "Thank you so much."

Rose lifted her arms and hugged her Mum back, smiling with an overwhelming sense of accomplishment.

“Go and show your Gran, she’ll be just as surprised as me,” Donna suggested, pulling back from the hug to cup her daughters face. “And I mean it this time when I say no more sneaking away. This-” she placed the paper into Rose’s hand, “was more than I ever could have asked for.”

Before Rose even considered making her way back to the house, she turned to run up to the Doctor and wrapped her arms around him tightly. The Time Lord, having stood in absolute silence with a slight wetness in his eyes, quickly returned Rose’s embrace.

“Thank you,” Rose said.

The Doctor didn’t say anything. Instead, he pulled back and gave her a wink. A wink that said everything he needed it to.

The garden was silent once more as Donna watched her daughter retreat into house, elated at the surprise gift and kindness of the gesture.

Suddenly, the silence was broken.

“Am I forgiven?”

Donna closed her eyes and shook her head – but the faintest of humorous smiles sat on her thinned lips.

“I’m still debating on that,” Donna stated, turning to face the Doctor, “you did promise me you wouldn’t fly off under any circumstances today.”

“Oh, come on,” The Doctor replied, “when she told me her idea, I couldn’t say no… it touched both my hearts, I’ll have you know. She’s as thoughtful and kind as her mother.”

“Oh no you don’t, Brainbox, flattery will get you nowhere,” Donna jibbed, but she was smiling as the Doctor approached.

“You know I don’t mind you taking her on the odd trip here and there, but when I said I worry, I mean it… if something happened to you while you were out, what would happen to Rose?”

“I wouldn’t let anything like that happen, Donna… HADS, remember?”

“Yeah, well, the HADS are one thing… but alien potatoes pointing rifles at my daughter would be another, just to name one example.”

“Again,” the Doctor said, “wouldn’t let it happen. I try not to go looking for trouble as much, these days.”

The look on Donna’s face grew sharper and he realised he couldn’t be so nonchalant.

“Okay… I’m sorry.”

Donna sighed. “I know you are,” she replied, nudging the Doctor in the side with her arm, “you just can’t resist that niece of yours, can you?”

Of course he couldn’t. She was his world now… they all were.

“Nope,” he answered, popping the ‘p’.

Donna slinked an arm around the Doctor’s waist, and he in turn wrapped an arm around her shoulders. When Donna squeezed him however, he unintentionally winced and let go.

Surprised, Donna immediately loosened her own grip.

“Spaceman? You alright?”

The Doctor quickly recovered from the sudden stinging sensation and shook his head. “Oh… don’t worry, it’s nothing. Just a little strain from… well, never mind. Moving on - still need help with the sandwiches?”

“Strain from what?” Donna asked, concerned enough to ignore his attempt at diverting the conversation.

“Nothing, it’s honestly nothing, Donna, I promise,” the Doctor sniffed.

“Doctor, tell me,”

“It’s nothing!”

That clearly meant it was something.

“Wait a minute…” Donna declared, her concern losing its edge, but not entirely, “that’s right, I remember now - you were hanging halfway out of that cellar window when I caught you.”

The Doctor’s cheeks were suddenly the same shade as the pink flowers in the nearest plant pot. “You mean nearly caught me,” he corrected her, quietly.

Donna inhaled. "Okay, nearly caught you...any reason why?"

"No."

“Aw… did the retired Time Lord have a little trouble escaping through a window?”

“What? Nah…” the Doctor pied off, a little too quickly, “walk in the park, that was. Just a bit of an awkward angle. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Donna reached out and prodded the Doctor in the middle – where her finger would have once met complete flatness, it instead sunk into a small mound of softness which filled out the once loose shirt. When the Doctor instantly swatted her hand away with a grimace, she knew.

She knew her best friend, his expressions, his body language... that sadness lingering behind his eyes.

“Oh, Spaceman,” she sighed while gazing up into those round brown eyes. The Doctor noticed and raised his eyebrows.

“What?” he uttered.

Donna gently moved her hands to the front of the Doctor’s stomach, between his open waistcoat.

“What are you doing?” the Doctor asked, growing stiff again at the prospect of his sore skin being jabbed, but he was surprised to feel a gentle touch, Donna’s palms resting on his tiny belly.

“Nothing, just… I’ve noticed these past few weeks how much healthier you’re looking. More there.”

More there? The Doctor raised an eyebrow.

“But… I was there, here, wherever, before, wasn’t I?” the Doctor said in a high-pitched squeak.

“You were, but not like this,” Donna replied, thinking back to watching the two Doctors fighting for the fate of humanity with a ball – the new Doctor had exuded so much energy and youth… her Doctor, this Doctor, had looked pale, thin, exhausted. “I was so worried about you, all that time leading up to that bloody game of catch. You were burned out. Thin as a pin, remember?”

“That’s the second time I’ve heard that today,” the Doctor replied.

“Yeah well,” Donna began, “seeing you like this, with a bit of meat on your bones and your face looking less gaunt and sunken in… it’s on par with Rose’s surprise gift. I don’t want fancy watches or spa days for my birthday. I want my best friend to be healthy… that is such a wonderful gift. And I've never been happier to realise you had trouble squeezing out of a window.”

The Doctor was silent. Donna’s sincerity was finally beginning to sink in as he opened his mouth to speak, but closed it when no words came out.

Yes, he had days he struggled… oh, sometimes he could scream and cry into any open abyss. Wounds would flare, his mind would play tricks on him, or he’d spot someone on the street resembling Amy, Clara, or Bill… and he’d want to run. This extra weight... he hadn't realised it, but the doubts had crept up.

But Donna. She kept him grounded. His family kept him grounded – and hearing such soft, sweet words made him feel better about ever getting caught in that bloody window.

“I only want what’s best for you, Spaceman… and this,” Donna said, rubbing her hand softly over the Doctors tighter shirt, “tells me we must be doing something right.”

Tears were blurring his vision now. His throat felt constricted, and his lower lip wobbled.

“You could never do wrong by me. Any of you,” he replied, in the quietest, most fragile whimper.

Donna always expected to have a little cry on her birthday, every year – but now, for the second time that afternoon, she wanted to cry again and let her tears build.

“Come here, you big old softie,” she said, moving her hands to pull the Doctor firmly into a hug. He chuckled through his own tears and fell into Donna’s arms, his head tucking against her shoulder – and she held him. Firmly but softly. Quietly, but with the odd sniff from both of them.

“And for the record, Spaceman – yes, I do forgive you.”

The Doctor’s wobbling lip crept into a smile.

"Happy birthday, Donna Noble."

#just figured I’d post the actual thing here!!#Donna’s dad gets a mention for the feels #but this is mainly uncle and neice silliness #fourteenth doctor #donna noble #rose noble #doctor who #uncle doctor

33 notes · View notes