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cherrychilli · 3 months ago

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18+ Steve Harrington x Diner waitress! reader Casual 'relationship', idiots in love, mentions of a shitty ex and a shitty family, fingering, reckless driving. WC:3.2K

A/N: Okay so this was originally supposed to be a part of a potential AU that never panned out. Basically all you need to know is that a disgruntled Steve works for his dad, the crooked CEO in town and everyone is wary of the Harrington's. Except for you.

2.34AM.

You tuck your uniform into your locker, all too relieved to retire the robin's egg blue polyester and starchy white apron for the day. In its stead you pull on a dress. A midnight dark thing that hugged your hips and tended to skim up your thighs no matter how much you discreetly tugged it back down. Not at all suited for the temperature outside.

Doing your best with the little magnetic mirror that stuck to the inside of your locker, you peer into the rectangle bordered by cheap purple plastic, too small to reflect both your face and hair entirely.

Having spent almost a year working at Frank's 24/7 Dine In, you'd gotten used to doing your hair like this after work, angling your head in the tiny mirror every which way to fix your hair in sections. Retouching any makeup that had waned during your shift was a much easier task, thankfully.

You didn't wear much, just enough to help with drawing in more tips. The other waitresses had told you it would help on your first day, adding that some light flirting could serve you well too.

They were right.

From then on you carried a few new essentials with you to work, making sure to curl your lashes before you bat them sweetly at customers you knew to be harmless and applied some light lipstick to draw their eye whenever you laughed at their jokes and called them 'sugar'.

But tonight you didn't reach for your usual shade of lipstick, leaving it sitting inside your locker, untouched since the start of your shift. Instead, you swiped on some of that new lipstick you'd bought the other day, a deeper, prettier tone that suited the late hour.

You liked how it enhanced your natural lip color and the way it smelled faintly of vanilla, the same scent that clung to your hair after serving the diner's signature freshly baked vanilla bean cherry pie all day.

Plucking the tube off the display case yesterday, you could feel his breath puffing against your ear all over again as you unscrewed the stopper, the sweet aroma reminding you of his nose in your hair as he relentlessly rut into you from behind.

Fuck, y' smell nice.

It looked just as good on you now as it had when you applied it in your own mirror at home and under better lighting. The new makeup was a marginal change but a noticeable one still.

Too noticeable, you realized and your smile fell.

A few seconds of staring at your reflection and you wipe the lipstick away upon further thought, feeling a little silly that you'd bought the tube in the first place. The feeling only worsened as you stared at the smudged lipstick on the back of your hand, belly swirling when you remembered the other item you had zipped up inside your purse.

He's not your boyfriend. Get a grip.

The dress was one you had long before this all started and so was the sweet daisy perfume you spritzed onto the base of your neck. Your hair had remained the same too, afraid that if you were to change its style or color then you'd have to admit to yourself that you'd done it for him.

You go to close your locker shut, a margin of space remaining before you pause and pull it open again, looking resolute in your reflection.

Taking your place at the counter for the next couple of hours is poor, sweet Maggie, too drowsy to notice you approaching at first. Your dress is hidden under your overcoat but had she been more alert to notice the fresh layer of lipstick you'd reapplied, she would have rounded the corner with her usual chipper energy, gently nudging an elbow into your side before asking you, "so who's the guy?".

The sound of your footsteps eventually jolts her up but you've already got a hand on the front door, directing a friendly wave at her which she returns along with a yawn in your direction.

Steve's parked just beyond the bend, out of sight of the diner so that your coworkers can't see whose car you sometimes get into at the end of a shift. Although, you can rest a little easy knowing that most of them are too busy just trying to stay awake.

The engine kicks on when he sees you approach through the rear view mirror. Hips swaying, hair bouncing with every step, it was enough to make him smirk, letting out a soft, low whistle while you strutted over.

You watch the hand he has draped out the open window snake back inside, a cigarette butt flicked out into the dark a moment later followed by one last billowing exhale of smoke into the chill night air. Walking past the dying orange glint fizzing into ash on the wet grass, you find the passenger side door already unlocked for you.

Your little arrangement is going on five months now, letting him drive you home after your late shift at the diner. Often, he was the only one who came in around that time. He'd eye you discreetly over a cup of coffee when the other waitresses weren't looking, lighting up a cigarette your boss knew better than to tell him to put out. Then he'd leave and wait nearby for you to clock out.

This wasn't a relationship. Just something the two of you fell into to drive the numbness away. At least that's what it was in your case. Ever since your ex skipped town with the money you saved, you were left with no other choice but to work several shitty jobs to put yourself through the rest college. And sometimes that meant that you needed some kind of a release to work through all the stress that came with your many responsibilities. That's where Steve came in.

But when it came to him you could only guess what weighed on his mind although truthfully, you preferred not to find out. The rumors surrounding his family, particularly his father, were enough to make you keep your head down and out of the older Harrington's sight.

You know that getting involved with his son might be one of the riskier things you've done in your life but knowing how little Julian Harrington seemed to care about what his son did outside of managing his father's unscrupulous dealings was a relief. Even if it did make something deep in your chest crack to know how little affection Steve must have received in his life. How could he with a father who viewed everything and everyone in dollar signs and a mother who held more martini's in her jeweled, pristinely manicured hands than she ever held her own son.

Buckling in, it starts sooner than usual.

Your face quickly warms when his hand makes its way on to your knee. It excited you at first, considering it a precursor of sorts for what was to come but you grow to question it only five minutes later. You watch out of the window when instead of slowing down, he passes the dirt road leading to the isolated clearing he always parked at for an hour or more before taking you home.

"Can't stop today. They need me back in twenty", Steve explains before you have a chance to ask. Yet his hand still doesn't leave you. Instead, it slips higher up your thigh, dipping under your dress to rub at damp cotton, still showing no indication that he might stop after all.

"But you're driving..." you feel a little stupid pointing out the obvious, opening yourself up to the opportunity for him to tease you like he sometimes did. Only Steve doesn't resort to it, a silent desperation pumping in his veins, eyes pulling away from the road to drop between your legs.

"Need to feel you" he tells you. Begs you, it almost sounds like, pulling your panties and urging you to lift your hips so he could ease them down your thighs.

Whenever he gets like this you're never made privy to the specifics of what caused his mood, only that it had to do with his work and you knew better than to ask him more about that.

Your seatbelt pulls tight against your chest but as soon as you've managed to get your panties over your shoes and off, you leave them discarded and turned inside out on the footwell for Steve to discover later.

Consider it a present, you thought to yourself, feeling somewhat sorry and like you owed him for whatever's troubling his mind today.

One hand on the steering wheel and the other on you, he pulls your right leg over the console, grip tight on your thigh as he guides you into settling your ankle between his legs, close to his knee.

"Fuck, I can smell you...been waiting all day for this".

You don't reply, remaining silent because the sound of him enjoying you is much more exciting.

To be honest, you're not even sure if he knows that he's doing it.

Steve hums while tracing your wet slit, collecting as much slippery slick on to the pads of his fingertips. Then a soft growl winds its way up his throat while spreading you open to slot his middle finger between your folds, groaning but he doesn't slip it in. Not yet.

You can hear him even with the sound of the running car when his fingertips travel up to find your clit waiting for him just how he likes, all puffy and swollen and most of all, neglected. He rubs at it quickly and not entirely carefully with messy circles that have you sucking in a gasp, shuddering when a bolt of pleasure pulls your back into a pretty arch that has you pushing your chest out too.

The movement has him flicking his eyes to you again. Glancing at the way your seatbelt strains between your tits, looking at it so intensely like he might want to undo the restraint and press his face there instead.

It's easy to lose yourself when he touches you like this.

Almost as if you might lose your balance and slip off some unseen ledge, you clutch at Steve's arm over his jacket, a plush mahogany brown leather that probably cost more than what you made in a month. Sometimes you'd roll your eyes at all the expensive clothes, more than a little tempted to rip at them with your nails or teeth just because you could. Today it feels more like a necessity, so you dig your nails in and anchor yourself to him when you feel your hips begin to twitch.

"Y' know, I parked outside and watched you through the glass before I came in", he drawls, eyes flicking away from the wet, deserted street again and to his wet hand between your legs.

"Saw you watching the door, just waiting for me to walk in...you looked so lonely...rubbing your thighs together like you couldn't help it...poor pretty girl getting all worked up over me, huh?"

You guessed a while back that he liked to be needed.

And having felt the tacky buildup on slick himself, you can't deny having ruined your underwear over him even if you wanted to, all of that wetness just from waiting for that bell to chime and see him walk through those doors.

Steve pulls his fingers away from your cunt and you begin to whine from the loss until you see him taste you, eyes slipping shut for a brief moment before he's focusing on the road again, spit slick fingers finding their way back to your pussy.

Your head's pushed back against the headrest, hips inching forward to meet his digits.

"Put them in", you tell him, maybe a little too demanding because it earns you a slap right on your clit, quick and firm. You yelp and he scoff's playfully, hand cupping your cunt to feel you twitch from the brief impact.

"Please", you add this time, soft and sweet ."Feels so empty".

Steve wants to take it slow. He really wants to savor you but time's ticking tonight as he quickly glances at the flashy silver Rolex wrapped around his wrist. Maybe he'll get to treat you right next time so for now he begins to sink his fingers inside you, his middle and ring fingers smoothing along your walls.

Steve's eyes keep darting from the road and then to you, lips parting when he sees you bucking your hips into his fingers till they start to turn all creamy with you, riding his hand.

"That's it, keep going", he encourages you, curling his fingers enough to press them against that spot that made you gush and squirt during one of your previous hook ups.

"Wanted your cock tonight, Steve", you whined, circling your hips in a nice, fluid motion, working with the way his fingers are dragging inside you.

"Got all dressed up for you and everything..."

His eyes are on the road still as he takes a right but he can practically hear the way your lips have pushed out into a pout.

"I know", he coos. While he might not have made any mention of it, seeing you strutting towards his car in that dress had him fighting off a hard on.

"Make it up to me? please?"

Later, when you're sober and no longer drunk on lust you'll remember back on this as one of those moments where the walls you put up for your own safety crumbled down, too tangled in your building ecstasy to think straight.

He's not your boyfriend. Get a grip.

And yet something makes him set his eyes back on you.

"I promise", uttered softly in a barely there whisper.

It's the first time he's agreed to make any kind of commitment to you outside of hooking up after hours that you have to quickly bite your lip to stop a smile breaking out on your face.

Hearing him say it only makes you careen towards your orgasm much faster, too busy grinding your clit with renewed vigor into the heel of his palm to stop and analyze your own feelings and what they might mean.

"That's it. Don't stop".

You do as he says, hooking your heel in the crook of his Steve's knee when it happens, pleasure erupting deep inside you and spilling out of your pores because it's much too hard to contain.

Steve's BMW skids to a halt at the intersection by your place, no other cars in sight due to the late hour. You've got your eyes squeezed shut but you can still make out the flashing yellow traffic lights colored auburn through your eyelids, putting your whole body into grinding grinding grinding your clit against his palm.

The ache in his wrist is starting to turn hot and his bones click uncomfortably in his arm but he'd sooner let them fracture than pull his hand away while you wring out every little drop of pleasure you can out of his fingers.

You're a sight divine as he watches on. Sweat shines on your neck like a chain of the finest pearls, thighs soft and tight around Steve's hand like velvet, vanilla softly wafting in the air while your body shudders and quivers as you begin to come down from your climax.

Eventually your hips stop rolling, chest heaving while you reach between your legs to gently pull Steve's soaked fingers out from inside you when he makes no move to do it himself, your cheeks blazing at the lewd sound of a wet squelch as his fingers leave you.

That too he has no problem licking clean and all you can do is watch and gather yourself, try not to work yourself up again while he sucks you off his fingers.

He's hard. You can see it swelling under his jeans but when you make a move to place your own hand on him he gently takes hold of it and places it back on your lap.

"'s no time", he tells you and you frown. It just didn't feel fair to leave him that way even if he did insist. And it just didn't feel fair to be denied the chance to pleasure him like he did you. Especially given how much you wanted to.

It's silent during the few minutes it takes for him to pull up to your apartment building, all of Hawkins asleep and you wonder how you could possibly rest too after what's happened in Steve's car.

There wasn't usually all that much said when it came time to step out of his car. No proper goodbye. No confirmed promise of when the next time will be. All you could do was wait for your phone to chime with a message from him or wait until he turns up at the diner again.

But this time he surprises you.

Undoing your seatbelt for you, the warmth of Steve's had on your cheek feels too soothing to give up before stepping out into the cold, even if a little strange too. Neither of you are used to this side of him. Hell, neither of you thought he had such a side to him at all.

And you're too entranced to question it, when he pulls you close, his lips connecting with yours.

It isn't like you've never shared a kiss before. It's just that they only usually happened leading up to sex or during sex but tonight, he leaves you with something tender and new.

Pulling back, you see his lips tinted very lightly with your lipstick.

" 's pretty" he mumbles, thumb pulling at your bottom lip, unaware that you've left some of it on him too.

You beam, thinking back on how you almost didn't wear it. Thinking that he wouldn't acknowledge it or care.

You wipe it off his lips with your thumb before any of his business associates have a chance to see it and ask any questions.

And that's when you remember the other reason you were hoping for Steve to take your usual detour tonight. Stepping out on unsteady legs, you fit your hand into your purse, clutching the spare key in your pocket tight before pulling it out and taking a moment to prepare yourself.

"I have the night off tomorrow", you drop the key into the passenger seat through the window, watching it glint under the moonlight.

"If you want...", you trail. No amount of preparation could have readied you for this, you realize.

"I'll be up" you say instead, turning on your heel so you can rush inside before Steve can utter so much as a single word.

---

Waiting for the hours to pass the next day feels near unbearable, nervously pacing around your apartment and distracting yourself with chores when it starts to turn dark.

He's not your boyfriend. Get a grip. Once again makes a home in your head despite how unwelcome it is there. And when 11PM turns to 12AM to 1AM to 2AM again you blink back the sting of new tears, ready to unclad yourself from the lingerie you had on underneath your clothes and wash away the perfume and the make up and-

The front door handle begins to jiggle just then, the distinct sound of a key slipping into the lock follows and you're already smiling before he pulls the door open, flowers in hand.

#steve harrington smut #steve harrington #stranger things smut #stranger things #steve harrington x reader

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p0orbaby · 7 months ago

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Just a Little Thing for You and I

summary: you think you’ve gotten away with it, until you don’t

warnings: SMUT 18+, oral, fingering (reader receiving)

a/n: the perfect request for the season

word count: 2.2k

“Be quiet,” Leah whispers again, her breath hot against your ear, sending a shiver cascading down your spine as she presses you face-first onto the bed. The duvet feels scratchy against your cheek, stiff polyester catching on your skin, but the discomfort is distant, peripheral. Her hands are already sliding down your body, purposeful, her nails grazing just enough to make you shiver. She stops at your hips, gripping them tightly, her fingers biting into the softness of your skin. The firmness of her hold roots you there, unable—and unwilling—to move as she spreads your thighs with deliberate slowness.

“We wouldn’t want anyone to hear, would we?” Her tone is teasing, laced with smug amusement, but the weight of her hands and the heat radiating from her body behind you make it feel like a challenge.

You want to retort, to shoot back something sharp, but your breath catches the moment her tongue flicks over you. A gasp spills from your lips, muffled by the pillow, and your entire body jerks forward as she drags her tongue along you again, slower this time, torturous in its precision. The wet heat of her mouth is devastating, and it robs you of any semblance of control. Your fingers scrabble at the mattress, clutching at the floral duvet, the fabric bunching beneath your grip as you struggle to anchor yourself.

“Fuck,” you breathe into the pillow, the word barely audible.

Behind you, Leah hums in satisfaction, the low vibration shooting through you like an electric current. She’s infuriatingly slow, taking her time, her tongue tracing deliberate circles that make your thighs tremble. The heat between your legs is unbearable, building and building with every careful flick of her tongue, but she doesn’t let you tip over the edge—not yet.

“Leah,” you gasp, your voice breaking. “Stop—stop fucking around”

She pulls back with an furiating slowness, and when she speaks, her voice is low and mocking. “Stop fucking around?” she echoes, her breath hot against your slick skin. Her fingers slide between your thighs, dragging through the wetness there, and you feel the smirk in her words before she even says them. “Doesn’t feel like you want me to stop”

Her fingers press against you, the pressure just enough to make your hips jerk, but it’s fleeting—gone before you can chase it. Leah leans down again, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and you yelp, the sound muffled against the pillow.

“Be still,” she warns, her tone sharp but teasing. Her hands grip your hips harder, holding you in place as her mouth finds you again. The first press of her tongue this time is firmer, hungrier, and it makes your entire body tighten. She licks into you with a fierceness that borders on desperate, her movements unrelenting, her tongue curling and flicking in ways that have your hands clenching the duvet like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality.

“God,” you hiss, your voice trembling.

She doesn’t stop—doesn’t even slow. Her tongue works you over with a precision that’s carnal, alternating between languid, devastating strokes and quicker flicks that make your hips buck against her face. Each sound you make seems to spur her on, her grip tightening, her blunt nails digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks.

“Leah,” you gasp, your voice desperate now. “Please, I need—”

“What?” she cuts in, pulling back just enough to glance up at you, her lips glistening. The sight of her, wild and disheveled, sends a fresh wave of heat coursing through you. “You need what?”

“You,” you choke out, barely able to form the words.

Her smirk deepens, and without another word, she slides two fingers inside you. The sudden fullness is overwhelming, and your head snaps up as a guttural moan tears from your throat. Her fingers thrust deep, curling just right, and your entire body jolts.

“Fuck,” you cry, your voice breaking as she sets a relentless pace.

Her free hand slides up your back, pressing you down into the mattress as her fingers work you open. “Stay still,” she murmurs, her voice dark and commanding. “You’re going to take it”

The sheer authority in her tone makes your knees weak, even as you’re already trembling beneath her. Her fingers pump into you harder now, her thumb circling your clit with a pressure that has your thighs shaking.

“Leah—”

“Shh,” she interrupts, her mouth returning to you. The combined sensation of her tongue and fingers is overwhelming, each movement calculated to push you closer and closer to the edge. She’s meticulous, ruthless, dragging you higher and higher until your vision blurs.

The tension coiling in your stomach snaps suddenly, violently, and you come with a force that rips the air from your lungs. Your entire body spasms, your thighs trembling uncontrollably as Leah rides you through it, her fingers and tongue never stopping, never letting up. The pleasure is so intense it borders on painful, and you bury your face in the pillow, your cries muffled but still embarrassingly loud.

By the time she finally pulls back, you’re wrecked—boneless and trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Leah crawls up the bed, her lips and chin glistening, her eyes dark and full of hunger as she looks down at you.

“Good girl,” she murmurs, her voice rough with pride. She leans down to kiss you, and the taste of yourself on her tongue is filthy and perfect, sending another shiver through your already spent body.

But Leah isn’t done.

“Turn over,” she orders, her voice low and commanding.

Your body obeys before your brain catches up, and you roll onto your back, the duvet crumpling beneath you. Leah straddles your hips, her thighs pinning you down as she leans over you, her hair falling into her face. Her lips capture yours again, messy and desperate, and her hands are everywhere—trailing down your sides, gripping your thighs, sliding under your shirt to drag her nails across your skin.

Her fingers find you again, and the overstimulation is immediate, sharp and electric. You gasp into her mouth, your hips jerking as her fingers slip inside you once more, thrusting deep with an ease that makes your head spin.

“Leah, I—”

“You can give me one more,” she interrupts, her voice firm but soothing. Her thumb brushes over your clit, and you cry out, the sound muffled as she swallows it with another kiss. “You’re so good for me. Just one more”

Her pace is brutal, her fingers thrusting and curling with a precision that has you seeing stars. You’re so sensitive now, every nerve ending lit up, and it’s almost too much. But Leah knows your body better than you do—knows exactly how far to push, exactly how to drag you to the brink and then shove you over.

The second orgasm hits you harder than the first, tearing through you like a tidal wave. Your entire body arches off the bed, your hands clutching at Leah’s shoulders as you ride it out, helpless against the force of it. She doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, her fingers and thumb working you through the aftershocks until you’re sobbing into her shoulder, utterly undone.

When she finally pulls back, you’re shaking, your body completely spent. Leah collapses beside you, her chest heaving, and pulls you into her arms, her lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.

The kitchen smells like toast, coffee, and that faint, lingering scent of pine from the Christmas tree in the living room. It’s warm, the kind of warmth that only comes from too many cups of tea and the chatter of a family in no particular rush. You’re wearing Leah’s hoodie—an oversized one she tossed your way last night with a smirk and a muttered, “Mum loves to keep the thermostat on 19, you’ll freeze”—and a pair of pyjama bottoms that don’t quite match. The hem drags slightly against the cold tiles as you move.

Amanda is humming along to the soft Christmas music playing on the radio, flitting between the kettle and the toaster like a conductor orchestrating a symphony of domestic calm. The whole scene feels strangely picturesque, like the end credits of a feel-good holiday film.

Leah stands by the fridge, her head buried in it, one hand on the door and the other clutching a half-drunk mug of coffee. “Mum, seriously,” she mutters, her voice muffled by the shelves. “Why have you still got brandy butter in here from last year? It’s growing its own ecosystem”

“It’s fine,” Amanda says, waving a dismissive hand without turning around. “Brandy’s a preservative”

“Yeah, well, the butter’s not.” Leah pulls out the jar, holding it up with a grimace. “Look at this. It’s solid. I could use it as a doorstop”

You suppress a laugh, sipping your tea as you perch on the counter. Amanda doesn’t bother looking. “It keeps,” she says again, her tone cheerful, as if that somehow closes the argument.

Leah mutters something under her breath, shoves the jar back into the fridge with a clatter, and turns to you, raising an eyebrow. “Toast or eggs?” she asks, as if you’ve somehow become part of this ongoing kitchen debate.

“Toast’s fine,” you say, sliding down from the counter to grab another cup of tea. On your way past, you press a kiss to Leah’s cheek, quick and casual, like it’s second nature. She leans into it without looking up, still grumbling about the tyranny of Christmas leftovers.

It’s all so easy, so relaxed. Amanda's breezing through her morning like nothing is amiss, humming along to Chris Rea’s Driving Home for Christmas, asking you how you like your tea, and chatting about her neighbour’s excessive light display. She even offers you the last slice of Christmas cake, which you politely decline.

Leah nudges you with her hip as she sets a plate of toast in front of you, smirking. “You’re officially in the club now,” she says, nodding at Amanda. “Anyone who survives one of Mum’s interrogation breakfasts gets honorary family status”

“Interrogation?” Amanda looks up, feigning shock. “I’m just being polite”

“Polite doesn’t usually involve an inquisition about future grandchildren”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Amanda says, but she’s grinning as she hands Leah a cup of tea. “That’s for later, when you’ve had more coffee”

The conversation flows so naturally that you forget, for a moment, that you’re supposed to be nervous. You laugh, you chat, you eat your toast, and you feel completely at ease. It’s almost unbelievable how normal everything feels.

By the time breakfast is over, you’re helping Amanda clear the table while Leah disappears upstairs to pack your bags. The kitchen is filled with the clatter of plates and the steady crackle of the radio, and you fall into an easy rhythm, wiping down surfaces while Amanda stacks dishes by the sink.

“You’re very good at that,” she says, glancing at you with an approving nod. “I might keep you around”

You laugh. “Well, someone’s got to clean up after Leah”

Amanda snorts, shaking her head. “God knows she never cleans up after herself. When she was a teenager, her room was like a bomb site. Socks everywhere, plates under the bed—honestly, I don’t know how she survives international camps”

The conversation is light, easy, peppered with anecdotes about Leah’s questionable teenage habits and Amanda’s fond exasperation. You’re so caught up in the rhythm of it that you don’t notice anything unusual.

Leah comes back down the stairs, her hair damp from a quick shower, one of your bags slung over her shoulder. “What are you two plotting?” she asks, her tone teasing as she drops the bag by the door.

“Nothing,” Amanda says, a little too innocently. “Just reminiscing”

Leah groans. “Mum, I swear, if you told her about the time I—”

“Relax, darling.” Amanda waves a hand. “Your secrets are safe with me”

Leah doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go, wandering over to lean against the counter next to you. You hand her your half-empty cup of tea, and she takes it without question, her hand brushing against yours for just a moment too long.

Amanda watches the exchange with a small, knowing smile.

By the time you’ve loaded the car with leftovers and exchanged a dozen “are you sure you’ve got everything?”s the morning has stretched into early afternoon. You stand in the hallway, zipping up your coat, while Amanda fusses over a tin of mince pies she insists you take with you.

“It’s been lovely having you here,” she says, handing you the tin with a warm smile. “You must come back soon”

“Thank you for having me,” you say sincerely. “It’s been perfect”

Leah leans down to kiss her mum on the cheek, the kind of casual affection that makes your chest ache with its simplicity.

“Drive safe,” Amanda says, patting Leah’s arm. And then, just as you’re stepping out the door, she adds, “Oh, and Leah, next time you’re home, remind me to oil the hinges on the bathroom door. They were squeaking something awful last night”

The words are so offhand, so casual, that it takes a moment for them to register. Leah freezes mid-step, her hand still on the doorframe.

“I didn’t notice anything,” she says, her voice carefully neutral.

Amanda smiles, turning back toward the kitchen. “Oh, I did”

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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mediumgayitalian · 5 months ago

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“You’ve been driving a while.”

“It’s a long trip.”

“Hm.”

At the tail end of summer, nighttime roads bend time. There is something about the blacked abyss that haunts you, Will has noticed, that sings to you like saccharine silver lullaby, that blurs the edge of your vision into something soft and infinite, no end or beginning, no harsh edges, no starts or stops. There is no line where the horizon meets the sun-warmed asphalt, no border between shadows. All that lives is black, in its thousand siren shades, surrounding the weak yellow headlines with sweet words and gentle promises. I’ve got you, Night whispers, come rest with me. Lay down your weary head. I will watch for you.

In the winter there is snow. In the winter there is light, in the stars reflecting on the white tops of trees and bright icy lakes, and the sky glows with it, swelling with pride, ballooning a thousand times larger than the yawn of pavement, than the brush of branches stretching out to hold her. In the winter wind roars over anything in her path, in the winter salt bumps along hardened rubber, in the winter snowflakes shimmer and dance a thousand movements in the doting attention of a bright blue moon. In the winter the night laughs, long and lavish and bright, and pays you no heed or mind, resting on her frosted laurels.

The January trip to his mother is easy. The night is not lonely, and does not call to him. Will has never feared the ice and the snow, not in the way he forgets to fear warm summer’s whispers, in the way his eyes follow the night’s expanse until his irises turn black.

There is something about shadows and shadows and shadows that Will has only barely ever resisted.

In the summer the night’s song swells along the tired beat of the van’s old blinkers.

“You’ve lasted so long,” Nico observes.

In the night the son of Hades melts, almost, into the dark of the passenger seat, into the blanket of heavy obsidian that drapes gently over his slight shoulders. Only the sheen of his bright eyes, as Will turns to him, shine like sunrise, like the first clear breaks of light through the murmuring night’s shroud.

“I’ve — made the drive before.”

Nico hums again. It is louder, barely, than the crooning cicadas, than the lilting long-eareds.

“You should pull over. Let me drive a while.”

“I know the way.”

The words are automatic, blending in his ears like the tick of a watch clicking endlessly away in the background.

“I know.”

Nico touches Will’s wrist and he startles, cool-cold fingers contrasting the cozy current coming through the cracked windows. He notices his hands resting on his cramped knees, palms creased in the shape of the steel steering wheel. Hears the blinkers, both sides, beating along with his heart, flickering amber, bleeding into the darkened dashboard. Feels the gentle purr of the old engine, slow beneath his tired feet, rattling his aching eyes.

The dark is no longer moving.

“I’m — we —” He stops. He breathes in. “The van’s —”

Nico’s thumb brushes gently over his heated wrist, end to end, and pauses, bitten nails tracing circles over the burn scar at the base of his thumb, then drags gently again across.

“You’re parked,” he says quietly. “It’s been an hour.”

Will swallows. “Oh.”

“It’s just straight down here for miles, tesoro. I can handle it.”

“I — know that.”

Nico flashes a smile. It’s bright, like his eyes, clear, edged, boundaried. “Switch with me, sweetheart.”

He does, and the numbness in his arms pulls heavy, but the cool press of Nico’s hands on his skin, on his hip, on his arm, is heavier, firmer, realer. The click of the seatbelt is startlingly loud, and the pull of the polyester over his chest is taut, grounding. The roar of the engine is deafening, discordant. Definite.

“Rest, Will.” The flush on his cheeks is assuaged, briefly, by the brush of Nico’s hands. “Let me handle it this time.”

Will breathes out, leans into his touch, and lets go.

#a little but wishy washy a little bit purple prose #but i like purple so that’s okay #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo #hoo #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #nico di angelo #will solace #nico di angelo & will solace #nico di angelo/will solace #nico/will #will/nico #solangelo #100 ways #100 ways to say i love you #my writing #fic

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bleachsmutfest · 2 months ago

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May I ask for workplace scandal, Gin Ichimaru? Job would be a bored security guard who enjoys watching the security cameras (Have fun with it 😉)

🆆🅾🆁🅺🅿🅻🅰🅲🅴 🆂🅲🅰🅽🅳🅰🅻

If they had jobs in the world of the living.

Gin Ichimaru border security edition

Warning: SMUT, NO MINORS, MORDERN AU, short 750 wc.

a/n THANK YOU FOR THIS FUN FUN FUN PROMPT!!! I LOVED WRITING THIS and it ended up being longer than a Drabble and so here is a separate post for this fucker

(Just FYI some airports have curtained off sections for quick pat downs)

Free entertainment.

That is what Gin Ichimaru had signed up for when he got himself a job as a Border Security Officer. The job itself was easy. Sit back and watch the live security cameras at the international airport. He wasn't the one who did the pat downs or screenings. But when you casually walked past the security cameras, his hand began to itch. He really wanted to get his hands all over you.

He followed you around through the 50 little computer screens spread out on display in the control room. Eventually, he spotted you standing in line to get your luggage scanned before your departure. He was quick to leave the control room and make a beeline towards the security gates.

He blended well among the security officers as the uniforms were all the same, although his role was much more passive. He waited for your turn before patting the back of an officer and offering them to take their snack break. The young man just shrugged and left without hesitation. Gin tried his best to shrink his sly grin that he wore most of the day. He had to look mean and intimidating to blend in. He pointed a finger towards you and signalled you to step forward.

Funny. None of the scanning alarms had gone off and now he was scanning your hand bag, going through your personal belongings. Your face went red when his long fingers tangled into a ball of G-strings and panties and bras. And he sure was fondling them for a good few minutes before zipping up the bag and handing it back to you.

Just when you thought you were done and passed the security, he motioned you to follow him towards the small box for a quick pat down. You were confused but you followed him regardless. The border security officers were typically mean and it had always been a stressful part of travelling for you.

Gin quickly closed the curtains behind him and crammed himself inside the tight small box. He noticed your tense shoulders and stiff face. “Relax. I don't bite”, he whispered softly. You had to admit, the whisper was enough to melt away your stress.

He began his pat down from head to toe, his thin fingers gliding down your body, measuring you out without your consent. He stood behind you, his warm breath tickling the back of your neck and ears. You bit your lower lip as he got closer to your breast and gave them a firm squeeze. Luckily, he didn’t linger for too long around your sensitive nipples.

He glides his hand lower towards your stomach and you tense up again when he reaches your pelvis, expecting his hands to crawl all over your sensitive area.

You are wearing your tight leggings and he can feel the heat through the polyester fabric. Your breath hitches when he cups your crotch and palms against your heated sex. Your clit throbs and you unconsciously widen your stance to give him more access.

Gin takes that as an invitation and closes in on the gap. His warm body against your back. His clothed erection resting between your soft cheeks. Your legs are about to fail you as he continues to tease your clit with an open palm.

“Mmmm hiding some gems in here? Are they duty free?”he joked.

“Why dont you check the receipt”, you joked back.

“Don't mind if I do”, he whispers and slips his hand past the elastic of your leggings. His long fingers slowly creep towards your pussy, your hard clit not really hard to find. His fingertips brush over the sensitive nub so he could feel those soft wet folds beneath it. “Oh? You do know liquids are not allowed past security”.

“I am allowed 100mL per item”, you replied.

You couldn't see it as your back was against him but you could tell his face was nothing but a lip sealed wide grin.

His fingers continued to tease your folds– between fingering your pussy and teasing your clit. It doesn't take much for you to cum undone all over his hand, his hips humping against your soft ass. You cum fast and hard, squirting all over your pants, not wasting time as you had a flight to catch. But this officer had other plans for you.

“Mmm i’m going to have to take you in for further questioning. Your liquid limit has reached beyond 100mL”. He pulled out his wet fingers out of your pants, revealing the mess you just made around his two digits.

Ah, well you can catch the next flight.

#bleach #bleach x reader #bleach smut #bleachsmutfest2025 #gin ichimaru #gin ichimaru x reader #gin ichimaru smut #modern au

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daisypreaker · 1 year ago

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inmate 13453

okay don't get excited, i just felt like writing a bit of a drabble to feel out the atmosphere of a potential start to this au (clicking the tag will give up the other stuff i've posted for it btw)

btw check out the playlist and the pinterest board made by @theageofsilver and @allicentsallure bc they're fab

cw: kidnapping

Soft seventeen.

Bambi eyes, bambi legs.

There’s a certain edge to the way people describe the age she’s at. Not quite eighteen, not quite legal, tangible as cherry juice on greedy fingers. She isn’t sixteen, sweet and tender. It’s a soft first step into adulthood, skirting the border, the in between, the unknowable horrors that lie ahead.

She fucking hates being seventeen.

It’s a shit number first of all. Odd numbers make her want to spew. They feel like nails on a chalkboard, polyester static on leg hair. She can’t even dance, so whatever ABBA are singing about doesn’t apply.

Amara sticks out her tongue and tastes the air as the breeze blows west. She swears she can get a sense of the world when she does.

Her stepfather mocks her for it. That blue-eyed, blonde maniac with the ugly Buick Electra he treats like a brand-name Italian from the southern coasts of Europe. He used to treat her mother the same. Until he began to tell Amara you look just like her when she was young. He leaves his porn tabs open on his computer, as if he wants her to know. ‘Teen’, ‘Latina’, ‘Stepfather’, ‘Rough’, ‘Face-fucking’, ‘Breeding.’

She doesn’t have a drop of Hispanic blood in her.

She really wants to tell her mother, but there is a chance her mother will look right through her instead. She’s been doing that a lot more nowadays. They can’t afford her meds anymore. She just sits on the porch and watches and waits. For what, is anyone's guess.

>> can you pick me up?

>> its dark

>> pls

>> sorry ik its inconvienant

'Step-Daddy' always replies quickly when it’s her. He has a heart next to her name on his phone. She never agreed to that.

>> it’s spelled inconvenient

“Suck my dick,” Amara tells the screen and switches her phone off before he can message again.

She can walk.

The route back runs dangerously close to the edge of the forest. All kinds rot away in there, but she doesn’t like to think of them by name. They’ll become real if she does. She wishes her mother had found a man who lived in the wetlands, and not here at the cursed border between life and the realm beyond. Marshes are easier to understand. Forests are cursed.

Still, life is horribly simple here. Her high school is placid and filled with the dull-eyed children of dull-eyed adults. The gas station where she works didn’t bother to interview her. She walked in and the guy behind the counter stared at her breasts until he remembered she had a face. Her breasts aced the interview for her.

Can I work here? Just until I graduate.

Sure, grab a nametag.

Four months later, and she doesn’t mind it anymore. Her brain shuts off. Her customers are a ragtag mixture of suspicious, ferret-eyed locals and the occasionally buoyant hiker from out of state. If she doesn’t look like she belongs, she’s pretty, and that usually gives people like her a pass. At least until the sleazy comments become ethnically charged. But even then, Amara has a way of making her eyes go ‘dopey’ and just smiling like she’s too slow to understand. Displaying discomfort is what eggs them on (kind of a nasty realisation she opened her eyes to one day).

An engine growls some way down the road.

Old Chevy pickup, faded gold.

She recognises it from the parking lot at the station near the end of her shift.

A guy stepped out, young, early twenties, with a shock of hair that looked white until she realised it was just really, really blonde. She remembers thinking it was odd. The range of blondes in town runs from deep and dirty to the artificial bleach rattled out of holographic boxes of dye. No one has hair like his. She’d have noticed.

His eyebrows were a little darker, and his lashes were darker still. He had a funny way of walking, and he looked at her like she had the head of a fish and the body of a human being. Amara did her best dopey eyes. She asked him if he’d had a good day, pointed out the offers they had on pork rinds. He didn’t say a word. His skin had smears of black grease, glistening with sweat and bronzed by the sun.

Deep blue eyes.

Horribly deep.

Not the kind you’d want to swim in. She likes a softer blue, blue like chlorine, reminiscent of the safety of swimming pools. His were anything but.

She picks up her speed, and for some reason, puts her phone to her ear as if mid-conversation. Nothing about him said he was dangerous at the time. At least not from the way he’d barely said a word or looked down at her body. He was just there, and then he was gone.

And now here he is again.

The Chevy hits the horn. He is creeping closer. Amara turns and waves at him to go on. She doesn’t want a ride. Why isn’t he rolling down the window to offer one though?

It slows to a crawl. Her throat closes up. She has a feeling speeding up will give him what he wants. He’s obviously trying to be a prick. But if she goes back to talk to him, that would be exponentially worse. She switches her phone back on and sees her stepfather’s message telling her to get back home herself after she didn’t reply to tell him her location.

She quickly shoots him a message, and prays he’ll respond.

He doesn’t.

Fuck it.

She walks faster. The Chevy matches the increase. Sweat blooms on the back of her neck.

Every woman has that oh fuck moment. That I’m going to be on the evening news moment. The please god if he catches me let him kill me before he gets to raping me moment.

None of that goes through her head. She keeps thinking of her mother’s cooking. Her mother hasn’t cooked in a year and a half, not since her mind began to slip. But Amara can taste the spices on her tongue, the way the rice was perfectly simmered, the cinnamon in the back of her throat, the smell that clung to the walls, the heat of it.

I wanna come home, Momma.

Her mother’s face gathers into shape in her head, built with sand particles and saltwater. When the Chevy roars, she starts running. Her mother vanishes.

The lights of the truck blink across the tarmac. It’s a signal. But it isn’t for her.

She looks over her shoulder, and she can’t see him.

Run me over. Leave me like carrion on the road. Let the maggots eat me. Don’t cut me up first.

He slows when she starts to tire out. Picks up when she tries again. No other car has graced this road since she first turned onto it. A sign points her to the right, ushering her deeper into the backwoods. The town is to the left.

He figures out where she’s going when she suddenly makes a dash for the bend in the road.

There’s no time to dodge the pickup when it goes for her this time. The wheels skid as he yanks it at an angle and blocks her way. The door flies open and misses her by an inch. His arm grabs for her. She dodges, animal fear and rust on her tongue. He still doesn’t say a word.

A heavy fist connects with the small of her back and she drops like a stone.

The pain is electric. Air turns her lungs into taut balloons, but she can’t make a sound. She twists around and the bruise forming over her spine grates. Adrenaline quickly numbs it as she lashes out with her arms and legs. Kicking, punching, scratching, biting. Her teeth hit home. A mouthful of tattooed flesh, car oil and sweat. Still no sound from him.

She never sees the fist coming, just like last time.

A blow to the head and lights out, nancy.

#inmate 13453 #aegon ii x oc #house of the dragon #modern aegon #aegon ii targaryen #aegon x amara #modern hotd

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creations-by-chaosfay · 1 month ago

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This beautiful summer strawberry garden quilt measures at 15.75 x 39.5 inches. Made using 100% cotton fabric and thread, and a thick cotton cotton polyester blend batting of 80% cotton and 20% polyester.

I love how well the colors play together. The rich soil brown, the swirling white print, picnic print border in denim blue, and the adorable collection of prints in a variety of colors. This would look wonderful with a vase of flowers and knick-knacks all around.

If this doesn't sell by thr end if the year, I'm claiming it for myself. Looking at this makes me smile. So playful and fun to look at!

Please, zoom in to see the details.

What's a tablerunner for? Use it to decorate a space, be it a table, desk, bed, shelf, or even hang it on a wall. They can serve well as long hot pads on the table! I have one draped over a side table, and another over the back of my sewing room chair. It's entirely up to you!

#quilt #sewing #handmade #summer theme #artists on tumblr

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autohomoneurotic · 2 months ago

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After School

ao3 link

“Sloane told me you bought a suit for graduation,” Gray shoots over Miguel’s shoulder. “Pretty badass.”

Sloane slings an arm around you and pulls you closer, plucking the cigarette out of your mouth and taking a drag. “I know, right? He looked so distinguished. Very gentlemanly.” Your heart all but stops in your chest and your smoke almost tumbles out of your mouth when Sloane tries to stick it back in. You brace for Miguel and Gray to give you both a weird look, or question her, or just do anything at all, but they do… absolutely nothing. They just smile and laugh and say they bet she’s right, and the moment passes. Like it was nothing. Which you suppose it was, really.

i got a lot of (for me) new followers because of my loserfication piece, sorry to disappoint but most of the pieces i post are chapters of a novella i'm writing called 'this thing i'm getting over'. it is about two girl ("girl") best friends named virgil and sloane growing up off the coast of washington state during the 2008 recession and realizing both of them wish they were both boys and what they do with that information while they graduate high school and start considering what exactly they want to do with their lives. most chapters are 'porn with plot' ,to use a fanfic term, but i'm moving more into plot heavy chapters, like this one- think of it as 'autohomoerotic literary fiction', to coin a phrase. i hope you'll read it if you like my writing, you can go back to previous chapters on my blog to find the ones with porn if you arent interested in lore, lol. anyway, here you go, sorry to shit up the forcemasc and aap/ahe tags with non-porn, it's more present in the other chapters as at its core it is a story about one friend forcing another friend to accept she wants to be a boy. i just want to get my work out there :]

(for clarity, although these characters are ftm, i use she/her pronouns for them as they aren't out or don't really get what they're feeling at this point in the story, and i find it more cohesive and interesting to refer to them with feminine pronouns to express the dissonance between their social position and clearly transmasculine interiority. when they accept themselves (or when they are having sex, for funsies) it will switch to he/him, i think that makes their transitions more meaningful in narrative context. if you don't like that then don't like don't read or whatever the fujos say)

When your graduating class is ninety people, your commencement tends to be more of an assembly than a ceremony. A ceremony would denote a stadium, seating assignments, maybe some sort of loudspeaker system to reach the parents in the nosebleeds; South Whidbey High School has none of that. You might find that disappointing if you weren’t so grateful for the tradeoff, which is that it takes all of an hour for it to be over.

You are standing on the side of a collapsible stage that was used by the middle school a week earlier for their own graduation ceremony (assembly), fidgeting with your cap in an attempt to make it look less stupid sitting on top of your hair. It is having a hard time staying on, seeing as to how it has to stretch over the thick headband your mother foisted on you before you left. You’re hungry, you’re tired, and you are almost unbearably hot in the itchy polyester gown under the June heat. But, you remind yourself, it is almost over, and soon you will be free. You were with the S’s, accompanied by Ethan Singer and Lainey Stewart, and you breezed past the T’s, the U’s, and the V’s- again, perks of a small class- and now, finally, you are at the W’s. And there is only one last name that starts with a W at South Whidbey High School.

Sloane is trying to catch her eye from where she stands across the platform. She’s leaning out of line, standing on her tiptoes and grinning in a way that borders on menacing as the measured applause for Lainey subsides and your principal clears his throat to read out the next name. You do not smile back, because you know why she is so excited.

Sloane has been planning what stupid thing she should do when she walks for going on three months now. She somehow got it into her head that this was a moment she simply couldn’t waste- ‘you only get to do it once!’ is what she had said, many times, with increasing insistence, and every time you have replied, ‘no, you only have to do it once,’ and then she flicks you on the arm and goes back to discussing what stunt she should pull with Andrew. You know it won’t be anything too crazy, but you also know that when she does it everyone will be looking at you and wondering what more you could have done to stop this.

Your principal barely gets the last syllable in ‘Webster’ out before Sloane is practically skipping across the stage to him, hand holding her cap onto her head. When he goes to shake her hand, she sticks hers out in return- and then takes it away at the last minute, sliding it up past her ear like she’s smoothing her hair. You guess she decided to go the down-low-too-slow route. You bow your head to hide your face behind your hair- and maybe a smile, despite yourself- and listen to the sound of exactly four people laughing. You can tell that it’s just the guys, if not from the sound than from the fact that no one else would find Sloane’s dumb stunts funny enough to dignify them with a reaction. When you look up she’s walking towards where you stand at the back of the line. You can see in her eyes that she is waiting for you to give her permission to be pleased with herself, so you give her your own small smile back as you grab her wrist when she passes by to pull her into line behind you.

“How was that? Did you see?” She’s whispering in your ear, hands on your shoulders as she shifts from foot to foot- Sloane is essentially unable to stand still if it is explicitly asked of her. You shrug her off and shush her, keeping your eyes forward as Alice and Ben Yang are called to walk. You continue ignoring her even as you can feel her start poking the small of your back, reaching behind yourself to grab her finger and trap it so she cuts it out. She’s attempting to take her hand back when the audience starts clapping and you take mercy on her, freeing it so you can put your hands together along with them.

You keep dodging Sloane’s attempts to get your attention for the next few minutes as your principal gives his closing remarks, about how poised and intelligent this class is, how proud he is to have served you for the past for years, that sort of thing, all the while batting her hands off your cap and resuming the blind tug-of-war between you and her finger until this ceremony (assembly) is finally, blessedly over. There’s one last round of applause- which Sloane obnoxiously joins in on, much too loudly- before everyone around you falls out and begins looking for their parents. You know there’s technically supposed to be some kind of recessional, where everyone stately walks off to orchestral music, but no one here is kidding themselves about that being necessary.

At last you turn to Sloane, and before you can say anything she’s already wrapping you in a hug and spinning you around.

“We’re finally free!” She’s saying as she lifts you up, repeating it a few times- “We’re free, we’re free, we’re free!” You wait for her to run out of steam and put you down before you hug her back.

“We’re free,” you repeat back gravely, smoothing the back of her gown and letting go, taking a look around. “Where’s Kim?”

Sloane points over to where her mother is chatting with a couple other parents, face in its characteristic under-impressed look. “Talking to the other hospital people. Where’d your parents run off to?”

“They told me they’d just wait in the car when the ceremony was over.” You parents are not big fans of ‘mingling’. “Is Austin around here somewhere?”

Her face falls a little and she purses her lips to the side. “He couldn’t make it down from Pullman.”

“That’s too bad, I’m sorry.” You know Sloane was excited to see her brother- he rarely comes home anymore, citing gas prices or homework or something or other, and you can tell it gets her a little more every time.

“It’s fine, I honestly expected it.” She takes her cap off, pushing her hair back and squinting up at the sun before looking back at you with another wide grin on her face. “So, how did you like my moves up there?”

You give her a look. “I told you no one would laugh.”

“Andrew laughed! And Nadir and Cameron! Maybe not Scott, he’s no fun. But the rest of you guys did!”

“I didn’t, don’t implicate me in all of that.”

“But you wanted to!” You elect not to respond to that and she huffs a little. “Whatever, you’re no fun either. Let’s go find them, anyway.” She doesn’t wait for a response before she’s dragging you along behind her by your wrist. You try to keep up, pulling up the hem of your gown so you don’t trip, and as you pass by the last of the rows of folding chairs Sloane’s hand finds its way into yours, lacing your fingers together.

You make the rest of your way around the side of the school like that, hand in hand, hers squeezing yours tight and then dropping it as you round the corner and see the guys where you’d agreed to meet after the ceremony (assembly) was over. Cameron spots you both first and beckons you over, cigarette in one hand and stupid chunky butane lighter in the other.

“What took you guys so long?” He hands you each a smoke and steps aside to let you into their huddle.

Sloane takes her zippo out of her pocket and lights your cigarette for you, then her own- she always starts yours first, to the extent that you almost never bring a lighter with you if she’s going to be around. “Just enjoying our first few moments as high school grads. We’re all kind of a big deal.”

“How sweet.” Andrew is sitting criss-cross on the ground, leaning back on his hands. His tie is slung back over one shoulder. “You weren’t apologizing to Larson for punking him?”

“He knows I didn’t mean it like that.” Sloane starts unzipping her gown and pulling it over her head. You always notice the way she takes things off- from the back of the neck, not by grabbing the bottom. You always catch yourself noticing tiny things like this- how she sits with her knees apart, never crossing them, how she keeps her wallet in her front pocket instead of the back. They’re tiny little things that don’t matter, not really, but you notice them all the same. You follow suit and try to mimic the way she grabbed her neckline. “What did you think about Emma’s speech, though?”

“Right? I’ve never heard her talk for longer than, like, two sentences.”

“I think she did really well,” Nadir remarks. “She was always so good in the school plays.”

“Well, that’s the only time she actually talks!” Andrew prods at Nadir’s ankle with a stick. “What do you think, Scott?” He’s being an asshole by asking this- all of you know Scott was quietly hoping he would be voted to be the student speaker.

“She was all right. It kind of meandered at the end.” Of course, this would be his critique- you don’t think you’ve ever heard Scott admit to being miffed in any way.

“Don’t worry, Scott, we know you could have done way better. The best, even. No meandering at all.”

“Don’t start.” Nadir only sounds menially serious as he says it; you all know there’s really no point in saying anything like that to Andrew.

“What about Virgil as salutatorian?” Sloane puts her arm around your shoulders and presses you against her side. “Who knew my best friend was a genius?”

You duck your head down and tuck your hair back behind your ear. “It’s really not that big of a deal, it’s not like there was a lot of competition.”

“Well, yeah, because that’s just how much of a genius you are!”

“Whatever.” You flick your cigarette onto the gravel, crushing it with your shoe. “Are we going to get out of here?”

“I can’t. I’m supposed to take my grandparents to lunch.” Nadir is always the first to have a reason he can’t go to something. It’s never an excuse, really, but it’s something you’ve all come to expect. Cameron- mouth occupied by the filter between his lips- hums and points to him in agreement, so you suppose that makes two of them.

“And my mom agreed to drive some people home since their parents have to get back to their shifts,” Sloane adds. “I told you, remember?”

“Right.” She had. You don’t even know why you asked- obviously, everyone would have things going on after graduation. You’re probably the only one who doesn’t- like mingling, your parents are not big on celebrating. “Well, how about later, then? Is that bonfire still happening?”

Bonfires are the ultimate, multipurpose festivity for young people between the ages of fourteen and twenty one on your part of the island. House parties can be fun- especially if someone with a lot of land throws them- but bonfires just have a certain something to them. The wide open space of the beach, the egalitarian parking situation, the way the police completely ignore any calls to complain about them- they always just seem to work out. So of course your class would cap this year off with one.

Andrew nods, moving down further to prop himself up on his elbows and crossing his ankles. “Yeah, at eight tonight. We’re all supposed to bring stuff, Evan is tired of no one paying him back for beer.”

Sloane scoffs. “Bullshit, he isn’t even the one paying for it, he puts it all on his dad’s credit card.”

“Nevertheless, it’s high time we all step up to contribute,” he replies loftily. “We’re adults now. We need to take some responsibility.”

“Well, you’re the only one with a fake ID, so that’s all you,” Cameron points out. “I can bring some weed, I suppose.”

“I’ll bring some beach towels, there’s never enough of them.” Nadir offers this like he’s being magnanimous, which he is- but he’s also just too closely watched to ever bring anything else.

Sloane pats her bag. “I went to the reservation the other week with my mom to buy smokes, so I can bring plenty of those.”

“What should I bring?” You really don’t know what else there is to add- booze, pot, tobacco and a place to sit seems like it about does it. No one even bothers asking after Scott because you all know he would insist that him driving all of you around is his contribution, and he would be absolutely correct.

Sloane leans over to tousle your hair. “You just bring your wonderful self, Virgil, don’t even worry about it.” Andrew ‘aww’s sarcastically, and Sloane kicks some gravel at him.

Scott slaps his hands on his thighs as he pushes off the wall and starts fishing around in his pocket. “Well, I’ve gotta split. Still need a ride, Drew?” He jingles his keys and Andrew hops to his feet.

“Only if I get to drive!” He reaches for the keys as he says it and Scott holds them up and away from him.

“When have I ever once said yes to that?” He turns back to the rest of you. “Anyone else?”

No one takes up the offer- their parents are already waiting for them at their respective cars, naturally- so you all say your goodbyes, throw your butts in the grass, and go your separate ways.

You and Sloane make your way back to the parking lot, all partitioned out by ticker tape and orange traffic cones, gowns and caps in hand. She’s humming the tune the choir had sang as the beginning of the ceremony (assembly), which was much too dramatic and emotive for the moment that it actually was in your personal opinion. You’re watching her side profile, how you can see her wifebeater peeking out where she’s unbuttoned her dress shirt. She glances sideways at you and looks you up and down, just for a moment, and she stops humming.

“How did your mom feel about the suit?” You guess she saw your mother’s sour expression as you’d stepped out of the car- not that it had been hard to spot. You’d been hiding the thing in your closet since Sloane had picked it out for you at the mall and dodging questions about what dress you’d picked out for the last few months. Needless to say, she had not been very happy with you when you’d walked down the stairs this morning.

“She kind of lost her mind, but it’s fine. There was nothing she could do about it by that point.”

Sloane tuts and reaches up to touch your headband where it sits behind your ear. “What’s with this stupid thing?”

“She told me if I was going to wear it I had to put something on that made me look less like a crossdresser.” You look at her and see she’s biting her lip. “You can laugh, it was funny.”

“Okay, it is, but like, in a fucked up kind of sad way.” She plucks it off your head and puts it through your belt loop. “That’s so dumb, though. It’s not like you could even see it with the hat on.”

“The cap,” you correct her, and Sloane flaps her hand in the way she always does to show she’s ignoring your nitpicking. “But, yeah. I just wanted her to stop talking about it.”

“Well, I think you look great.” For once, she sounds completely sincere. “I mean, look at me. I’m just wearing what Austin wore to his graduation, it barely even fits me.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been wanting to do that for years.” This is true- she’s only ever mentioned it in passing, but you know that’s always been her plan. Three quarters of her closet is already hand-me-downs from her brother, anyway. “And you look good, too. It does fit you, just… you know.” In a different way, is what you want to say, but it feels embarrassing to say out loud for whatever reason, so you don’t.

“True, I do look amazing.” She puts her hand on her hip and struts ahead of you, turning back around to strike a pose. “I’m gonna make my mom take a photo for him.”

“I think my parents are going to outright refuse to take one at this point,” you say drily, and she falls back into step with you.

“Boo.” Sloane bumps her shoulder into yours as you reach the edge of the lot and spot both of your parents leaning against their cars. Her mom, spotting her, starts waving at her and she puts her hand up to acknowledge it. “There she is. I’d better go make sure I get shotgun. She agreed to take, like, five people home.”

“I’m sure she saved it for you.”

“I’m not!” She’s probably right in that respect, you admit- Kim Webster is not a sentimental woman. “Wait a second, though.”

She pulls you into your second Sloane-hug of the morning. Before this winter you had really only experienced a few- despite being friends for so long (or perhaps because of it) you were never very affectionate with each other. But since this past winter you have come to find out that Sloane-hugs have their own, special quality- they’re tight and they’re warm and since she’s ever-so-slightly taller than you, you can lean your head on her shoulder, the way you’re doing now. It’s nice. You’d never initiate one on your own, but you’re always happy when she does. Then you feel her lips on your neck and you jerk back, looking nervously over at where your dad is waiting for you on the passenger side of the car only a dozen yards away. She rolls her eyes at you, but lets you step back all the same.

“Don’t be lame.”

“I’m not being lame.”

“You are, but it’s fine.” She looks back and looks at her mom again, who you can see is already getting into the car and starting it. “Okay, she will genuinely leave without me if I don’t get over there. I’ll text you?”

“Sure, or just come over when you’re home.”

Sloane gives you one last smile, and turns to jog to where her mom is already halfway through pulling out of her spot. You watch for a moment before you look back over to where your own parents are parked. You feel your mood immediately deflate. You can see your mother in the driver’s seat through the windshield, arms crossed. You really do not want to deal with the shit you’re about to get on the drive home.

But what can you do? You knew this would probably be how it went when you let Sloane convince you to buy that suit, you’d accepted it as soon as you’d hung it up in your closet, and you’d embraced it the moment you saw your mother’s face. And, really, how long could she drag out her low-level psychological warfare over it? A few weeks, maybe? You can deal with that. You’ve put up with much more for much less, actually.

So you unthread your headband from your belt loop, you secure it back in your hair, and you set your shoulders square. You get into the car and buckle yourself in. And as you pretend you can’t hear your mom’s passive aggressive sighs, you look out the window at the passing fields and start considering what you’ll wear to the bonfire that you’re sure she will hate just as much.

—

The road down to Double Bluff beach is bumpy. You know this- you’ve ridden it more times than you can count- but it gets you every time, especially when you’re in the back of Scott’s truck. The air is warm, even in the deep blue light of the mid-evening, and you feel it rush past you as you speed down the hill. You’re glad you decided not to go with the sweater you had been eyeing.

In the back with you are Sloane, Nadir and Cameron- Andrew, as always, was selected to sit in the cab, because he is liable to try to stand up in the truckbed if left to his own devices. Nadir has a deathgrip on the lip of the pickup, shrinking down as small as he possibly can so that he is jostled as little as possible, nestled between the duffels he’d packed. Cameron, on the other hand, is sprawled without a care in the world against the back window, backwards baseball hat keeping his long hair out of his face as he grinds up some weed in preparation for the long night ahead of him. As for Sloane- well. You assume that if someone passed by you all in the low light they would assume she was a dog, the way her head and half of her torso are sticking out over the side. She seems to be trying to lean over to talk to Andrew through the window. You decide this has gone on long enough and get a grip on the back of her muscle tee to tug her back into the bounds of the truck.

“Hey, what the hell?” She has to raise her voice to be heard over the crunch of stones under the wheels.

“You’re going to get your head taken off by a branch if you keep doing that.”

“Will not!” Sloane tries to move back to her previous spot, but you keep a hold on her shirt and she gives in, looking at you as if you’re keeping her from running into a theme park. “Ugh, fine. We’re almost there, anyway.”

Sure enough, the truck soon slows to a halt in front of a familiar thatch of blackberry bushes. The headlights cut out as you feel the truck’s engine turn off and Scott and Andrew hop out, still chatting about whatever they had gotten to talking about on the ride over- you think you hear the word ‘baseball’, so possibly bickering about what to listen to on the radio. They come around to open up the back. Nadir is the first to get out- or, more accurately to his sense of urgency, escape- and he goes to grab his bags.

“I’ll never get used to how horribly you drive on these backroads, Scott.” Even Nadir, almost always the kindest and most soft-spoken out of all of you, is unable to contain his disdain for Scott’s driving skills.

“Oh, give him a break. He won’t admit he needs glasses,” Sloane joins in, always happy to have a reason to shit on Scott.

Scott glares at both of them as he shoulders the bags. “Wow, you’re so welcome. I’m glad you guys appreciate me driving you around for free all the time.” He isn’t wrong, there. Scott never asks for gas money, even though you all can tell he is constantly waiting for someone to offer to give him some, which none of you ever do.

“We do, dude, don’t listen to them.” Cameron is hoisting himself out, dragging the packs of beer behind him to sit on the edge of the bed. “Let’s just get going. It’s going to get too dark to see in a second.”

He’s right, so you do- Nadir holding the bags of towels, you and Scott both left to carry two cases of beer each, and Sloane slinging her satchel of whatever the hell she is always carrying over her shoulder. You usually wouldn’t trust yourself to carry anything even slightly heavy this far, as weak as you are- or, more accurately, you wouldn’t need to, since Sloane would usually take them for you- but she has already run up ahead on the trail to engage in some moderate horseplay with Andrew, trying to jump on his back or trip him up, so you are on your own this time. You walk down the hill side by side with your two fellow pack mules, talking about nothing and who you expect to see and who you hope you don’t, until you come up on the edge of the sand. You can hear the sound of your classmates’ voices and you slow up, just a little- you’re realizing now that you’re likely going to be stuck here, on the beach, in the dark, until everyone else is ready to go, which is usually much later than you are. And you’re starting to regret wearing your best sneakers, and suddenly wondering if you actually should have brought that sweater.

Before you can continue this train of thought you feel someone sidle up next to you, and one of the cases you’re carrying begins to become lighter as someone pries it out of your grip.

“Doing good?” It’s Sloane, obviously, and her voice buzzes a little in your ear as she says it.

“Doing well,” You correct automatically. “I’m fine. Just, you know. Getting ready.”

Her hand comes into your field of vision with a Pall Mall in it. “You’re always a little more ready with one of these…” She wiggles it back and forth before sticking it in your mouth and then flips open her zippo to light it, again. You allow her to do this even as you walk, which makes it all a bit harder, but she figures it out and soon you are taking a very content drag of your third favorite cigarette. It’s hard to see anything at all in the dark, at this point- it’s more of a game of feeling around to find your way forward than a leisurely stroll. This is probably why you don’t notice until it’s already happening that her hand is in yours. “And one of these, too.” You can hear the smile in her voice.

“You’re so fucking lame.” But you don’t take your hand away, even as you finally reach the firepit. Sloane is the one who pulls away first, for once, so she can hop over a piece of driftwood and sit down next to- well, you can’t really see who from the back.

“Miguel!” Apparently Sloane can, and she taps him on the shoulder before positioning the case of beer between her legs so she can open it and offer him one. “How’s it going, man?”

“Sloane!” Miguel returns the greeting and gives her an enthusiastic side-hug, taking the can from her. “Doing fine, how about you?”

“Living the dream, you know how it is.” She reaches back to help you step over and sit down next to her before turning back to him. “Is Gray here?”

A girl with magenta hair leans forward to give Sloane a peace-sign around the bottle she’s holding. “Right here.”

“I didn’t see you two at the ceremony, where were you?”

Miguel and Gray look at eachother. “Well,” Miguel starts, “we decided that we didn’t want to contribute to the elitist concept of celebrating academic achievement, considering how many Americans today don’t get the privilege…”

“His alarm didn’t go off and he was supposed to pick me up.” Gray interrupts him and pats his knee as Miguel shoots her a dirty look.

“Whatever, it’s not like they actually give you your diploma there or anything. We didn’t miss much, I assume.” He doesn’t seem all that broken up about it, but he does seem to be searching for any way to change the subject away from this. “Virgil, what’s up with you?”

“Oh, you know.” You can’t really think of anything to say, so you just settle on that. “Nothing much.”

“Sloane told me you bought a suit for graduation,” Gray shoots over Miguel’s shoulder. “Pretty badass.”

You’re trying desperately to hang on to the thread of conversation after whatever that was when another pair of feet approaches from behind, and you’re snapped out of your daze in order to make room for a pair of Jordans to step onto and then down off of the log you’re sitting on. You peer up to see who it is and realize that it’s-

“Alex, hey!” Sloane, again, is the one to greet him, reaching up to give him some sort of handshake that it seems to you she must have come out of the womb knowing, considering how effortlessly she does it. “Your mom really let you out?”

“What my mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” He pulls something that looks like a long, thin tube of chapstick out of his pocket and offers it to the group.

“What the hell is that?” Sloane grabs it from him and holds it up to the light to get a better look at it.

“It’s a dab pen. Got it from my cousin.” Alex sounds very smug about this, and he takes it back to show her how to use it, pressing the button you can now see as it lights up and sucking at the top before handing it back to her, smoke coming out of his nose. “Just take a little hit, if you’ve never used one it’ll smack you in the face.”

Sloane does as she’s told, for once, and only coughs a little (bit of a lot) when she holds it back out to him. “What the hell, is that even legal?” Alex laughs and takes it back, clicking it back off. “And don’t you usually quit smoking when you start training for soccer season?”

“No more soccer to train for, remember?” He offers it to Miguel and Gray, who both politely decline, and re-pockets it. “I got my final team photo in the mail last week.”

“Oh. Right.” She looks at him with her head cocked to the side for a second, like she’s processing that fact. “Well, what are you doing now, then?” She turns to the wider group. “As a matter of fact, what’s everybody doing now?”

Alex takes a knee. “I’m gonna be an assistant coach at the middle school.”

“Oh, shit, really? With Coach Weiman?” Miguel leans forward. “I hated him, man.”

“Yeah, it’s… He’s kind of difficult sometimes. But, you know.” You don’t really know- you had started getting excused from gym class when you were in the sixth grade and started taking Spanish instead. “What are you guys doing, though?”

Miguel sets his empty beer can down on the ground and crushes it under his combat boot. “I got into Whitman for fine arts, so I’m heading there in the fall.”

“And I’m working at the gem gallery downtown and probably going to keep playing with our old band, which is just as impressive,” Gray chimes in, taking Miguel’s hand in hers and holding them up to pump their joined fists. “How about you, Sloane?”

“Oh, you know me. Keeping my options open.” She reaches down to grab a drink of her own and cracks it open, gesturing to you with her thumb. “This one’s going to community college, though.”

“Really, that’s great!” Miguel punches you on the arm softly, in that way guys do when they want to congratulate you. “Studying what?”

“Um.” Suddenly all knowledge of what classes you’re going to take have left your mind. “Communications and, like, rhetoric. And stuff.”

“Nice. You’ll actually be able to get a job with that.” He nods sagely. “My parents think I’m the biggest idiot in the world for going to school for an art degree.”

Gray rolls her eyes from behind him and brings his face closer to hers so she can kiss him on the cheek. “I keep telling him, they just don’t see the vision.”

Miguel lets her perch her head on his shoulder as they all continue talking- about college, about jobs, about summer plans and parents and siblings who are moving up a grade- and you feel yourself start to tune out. The fire is getting bigger and the smoke is blowing towards where you’re sitting upwind, and the smell of pot is encroaching from where you can see Cameron and his old woodshop buddies sitting. You feel your head start to swim, and you stand up.

“I’m just- gonna go for a walk. To the shore.”

“You okay?” Sloane pulls on the hem of your shirt, and you glance down to see a concerned look on her face.

“Yeah, it’s just, I just need some air or whatever.”

“Oh, sure. Well, hurry back.”

“I will.” You turn to the rest of Sloane’s friends- because that’s what they are, Sloane’s friends, not yours- and add, “it was good to see you guys, and stuff.”

“It’s always nice to see you, too, Virgil. Have a good walk.” Gray smiles softly at you, chin still sitting on Miguel’s shoulder, and she picks up his hand to wave goodbye.

“We’ll miss you! Don’t fall in!” You’re already walking away as Sloane calls after you, away from the din of people talking and the brightness of the fire and into the new dark of the sand further down the beach.

You stop just short of the edge of the Puget Sound and slip off your sneakers, peeling your socks off one at a time and tucking them into your shoes. You wore your ratty cargo shorts for this express purpose, almost out of habit- you and Sloane used to always do this together when you came to bonfires, though in recent years she’s become more and more busy at these sorts of things. You wade in up to your ankles and lean down to take some water into your hands, splashing it onto your face. Then, from behind you, you hear:

“Virgil?”

You straighten up and turn to see who’s calling for you. At first you assume it must be Sloane, coming to join you in the water- but there are two figures approaching. “Yeah?”

“I knew it was you!” As the two shapes get closer you realize that it’s Christie Bowman and Rachel Collins. “How are you, chick?”

You haven’t really talked to Christie or Rachel since you were in the eighth grade, when you were still taking choir classes at your mother’s request. They’re nice girls- you just didn’t really have a reason to speak to them after you quit.

“I’m okay.” You can see them a bit better, now, wearing almost identical combinations of denim miniskirts and layered camisoles. “Um, how are you guys?”

“Pretty good! I’m so excited school is finally over, doesn’t it always feel like it drags on forever in the last month?” Christie comes to stand in the water next to you, letting it wash over her jewel toned flip flops. Her toes are a bright, neon pink that almost glows in the dark under the waves.

“Totally.” You don’t really know what else to say to that, so you just kind of dig around in the sand with your foot and move the rocks around.

“...Well, congrats on getting salutatorian, that’s amazing! I knew you were smart, but like, not that smart. No offense, sorry, oh my gosh. Was that rude?” Rachel joins in on your casual water-standing in her own slightly gaudy flip flops, and touches your arm with one hand as she apologizes.

You smile a little at that- Rachel was always the first one to say something like that, blurting stuff out and then realizing it came off wrong, full of ‘no offense’s. “You’re good, I know what you mean. And it’s no big deal, honestly. But thank you.” You cast around for a compliment to give in return, and land on, “um, your dresses were both really pretty at graduation. I liked them.”

Christie beams at you. “Thank you so much, we tried to match them. Like how we did for all the dances, you know?”

“Oh, that’s fun- well, that’s really cute, actually.” You mean it, though you’d never realized that was something they did until just now.

They look at each other for a second- not like they’re excluding you, but in that way best friends do when they’re having a silent conversation with their little microexpressions, the way you’re sure you and Sloane must look at each other as well. “Your… headband was really nice!” You have to hold back a little laugh at how obviously Rachel is trying to come up with something nice to say about what you yourself were wearing. You’re used to girls doing this to you- they don’t know how to compliment you the way they compliment each other, so they just choose the girliest thing you have on and point it out. It would be sweeter if it wasn’t so transparent.

“Yeah, thanks.” You kick at the water a little more before switching gears to the next mandatory track of conversation. “Um… so, what are you guys doing now? After high school, I mean.”

Christie grabs Rachel’s hand and rattles it around excitedly. “We’re gonna go to beauty school together!”

“And work at her mom’s nail salon. To pay for it, and, like, practical hours and whatever.”

Your heart swells a little to hear them talk about it so eagerly- you might not know these girls that well anymore, but you genuinely are happy that they found a good plan, and that they’re going to stay together. They’ve always been so close- you don’t know, maybe it just gives you a little hope for, well, your own stuff. Or something like that.

“That’s really solid. I bet you’ll both do great, seriously.”

“Well, girls will always need their hair done, you know?” Christie gasps a little after she says it and claps her hands for a second. “Oh my gosh! Virgil, we could totally do your hair if you wanted, we’ll need to practice on people for tests and all that.”

You automatically reach up to touch your hair- shaggy, unstyled, more than a little choppy. “Oh, thank you. It’s fine, though, Sloane cuts my hair for me.”

The two look at eachother again- you can read what they’re silently saying to each other this time, as clear as day, which is that they could have guessed that even if you didn’t say it.

“Well, if you ever want to try something new, just call one of us. Or, you know, tell your friends and stuff.”

“For sure.” If you can think of literally any female friends you have, you definitely will. Well, you guess you have Sloane, but. You know.

You glance back up the beach- it seems like the crowd has doubled in size since you got here, and you can hear faintly that someone has set up a boombox. You realize you have probably been down here for much longer than Sloane would like- you’re sure if you got service down here you’d be getting a call by now.

“I’d better get back. It was really nice to talk to you guys, though.” You stand there stiffly for a second, deciding on if you should high five them or something, but before you can do anything you’re surrounded by arms and chests and long, soft hair in a group hug.

“Of course! We should hang out this summer, for real.”

“Definitely.” You feel a little pang in your chest because you know that is most likely not going to happen, but it’s a nice thought. You extricate yourself from the Christie and Rachel sandwich and pick your shoes up from where they’re sitting. “I’ll, um, see you guys around, then.”

“Absolutely! We’ll see you!”

You balance the backs of your sneakers on your fingertips and start trekking back up the small incline of the beach, stopping at the edge of the dry sand to dust off your feet and put them back on. Entering once more unto the breach, as you privately choose to think of it, you look around to locate Sloane and see her sitting some feet away on a patch of towels with the rest of the guys. She’s laughing and gesturing like she always does when she’s telling a story. As if she senses your presence, she looks back at you and starts waving wildly- as you get closer, you can see the red patches sitting high on her freckled cheeks.

Sloane yanks you down by the hem of your shorts when you reach her, and you do everything you can not to fall over as you go to sit down.

“What took you so long,” she asks, stretching out the ‘o’ in ‘long’ and leaning the entirety of her body weight on you. “I thought you drowned or something.”

“I was just talking to people for a second.” You brush some sand off of the blanket and wipe your hands on your shirt.

“Virgil’s just mysterious like that, Sloane.” Cameron holds the joint they had evidently been passing around out to her. “She likes going on little secret missions.”

“Well, she should be taking me with her!”

“Sometimes a man has to go it alone,” intones Andrew solemnly. “To find himself. And, you know, shit like that.”

You tamp down the way Andrew even jokingly saying that about you makes you feel and pinch Sloane on the outer thigh. “Yeah, what they said. A man needs privacy. You can’t always know everything about me.”

“You don’t know that.” Sloane reaches into her bag to grab her pack of smokes to offer you, which you gratefully take, before she shoots upright and hits the towel emphatically with both her palms. “Oh! While we’re all here, you know what we should plan?”

“It sounds like you’re going to tell us.” Nadir is sitting on his own, private towel, pointedly free of debris and ash.

“Fishing trip!” She roots around in her bag for a very dirty notepad in preparation for this event coordination, apparently unphased by the fact she has nothing to write with. “When is everyone free?” Scott, Cameron, Andrew and Nadir all look at each other for a second. “What, what are you looking at?”

“Well,” Cameron starts, “we kind of talked about it the other day and realized, you know...”

“None of our schedules are really going to line up this summer.” Scott finishes the thought for him.

“What? That’s impossible, there’s no way we aren’t all home for at least one day.”

“Yes way, dude. I’ll be working construction with my dad for, like, sixty hours a week. Scott’s gonna be in Castle Rock for his internship, Cameron’s taking care of his aunt over town, and Nadir’s going to have to practically run his dad’s store.” Andrew is, as he is wont to be doing when you’re all together, rolling smoke. He passes Sloane a fresh one and pats her hand as she accepts it. “Sorry, we meant to tell you earlier.”

Sloane sticks the cigarette in her mouth and lights it in a particularly moody way. “Well, that fucking sucks.”

You don’t think Sloane- or really any you- had considered what it would mean for all of you to graduate and start splintering off to find what there was to be done with your lives. You suppose you’d just tacitly assumed things would stay the same, if a little more intermittent- but Andrew’s right, you really are going to be all over the place. And even if you all come back to town after the summer is over- for how long? What happens when Nadir and Scott leave for college, and everyone else has to get a job, and you’re commuting for half the days of the week and working part time? What happens when everyone starts moving out? These have been your best friends for, what, a decade, now- you met in second grade and probably haven’t spent more than a week apart since- is it really all just going to be over, just like that?

The air feels just a little heavy. You can tell Sloane feels it, too, from how quiet she’s being. Even Andrew, who almost never falls below a ‘pleasantly content’ on the scale of emotion, looks a little downcast, and you can see Nadir playing with his lip while he looks into the fire. Without thinking you slip your arm around Sloane’s waist and pull her closer to you, imperceptible to the rest of the guys, but enough that you know she can’t not notice.

It’s Scott who breaks the glum energy that’s fallen around all of you. “Can you all stop being so dramatic? I mean, Jesus. We can go ice fishing at Christmas, it’ll be great. We can knock Andrew into the lake again.”

“What the fuck, asshole? Sloane’s mom literally said I could have died!” Andrew throws a handful of tobacco at him and you all fall into peals of childish laughter.

The conversation starts up again, as normal. Who Andrew wants to go home with (and who absolutely will not be taking him). How much piss Cameron is going to have to wash out of his aunt’s bedpan. Whether Nadir will let you all get away with keeping your unofficial tabs at the general store. You draw your legs to your chest and watch your friends laugh and squabble and spar under the glow of the fire. You still haven’t removed your arm from around Sloane’s waist. You feel her hand slowly snake back around yours, and then under and up your shirt. You shiver despite the heat as she starts running her thumb over your side, slowly, so slowly you’re sure unless someone was really looking they would never notice. You inch closer to her, and you let her.

You’re not sure when you’ll be driving back up that bumpy back road, but you hope it isn’t for just a little longer.

—

“Could you possibly be any louder right now?”

You and Sloane are crowded together on her back porch, your backs propping the screen door open as she fiddles with the inner one’s handle. She is slumping into your side, giggling uncontrollably as she jabs her key in the vague direction of the lock.

“I could, but it sounds like you wouldn’t like it if I was.”

“Jesus Christ.” You snatch the keys from her and insert them cleanly, on the first try, as one is supposed to be able to. You push the door open and leave room for her to squeeze past you, making sure not to swing it back too far- you know how Kim is about the mosquito hawks in the summer. “Just get in, your mom is going to flip if you wake her up this late.”

Sloane gives you an absentminded thumbs up as she trails down the hall, and you close the door as quietly as possible behind the both of you. When you enter Sloane’s room you find her flopped facedown on her bed, legs languidly trailing back and forth through the air. You tickle one of her soles as you pass, at which she shrieks- thankfully muffled by her blanket- and lashes out to strike the offending hand. You dodge her, smiling to yourself at your masterful prank.

“Do you have any clean shirts left?” Sloane lets out what sounds like a prolonged and fuzzy ‘no’. “Great.”

You reach into her laundry basket and pull out an assortment of pajamas, and toss some of them over to Sloane where they land on her back before you start undressing. When she feels the clothes settle on top of her she begins, slowly, to flip around and start shimmying out of her jeans.

“There’s going to be sand all over your bed,” you comment, but you don’t do anything to intervene.

“Don’t care.” She pulls off her top and pulls on her new (dirty) clothes- a commemorative turkey shoot tee shirt from 2001, if the text on it is to be trusted- and finally sits up to grab the cup of water on her nightstand. “How did you like the party?”

“It was fine.” You come to sit next to her in your (her) little tie dye number that you know she had to have made at the YMCA summer camp you both used to go to. You watch her chug her water before you add, “I ran into Christie and Rachel when I went down to the water.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“They said they liked my headband.”

Sloane snorts, wiping her mouth off and setting the cup down on the floor. “Oh, I’m sure. Hand me my bag.” You do, and she starts digging around in it, evidently to find her smokes, before tossing it back into a pile of clothes and school papers. She crawls up to where her bed meets the wall and slides her window open, picking up the lighter there and starting her final before-bed cigarette. “Come here.”

You climb onto the bed next to her and take it from her when she offers it out to you; and you both sit like that for a while, passing it back and forth, looking out to where you can see a lone street light shining through the leaves of the tree in her tiny backyard.

“We won’t be seeing a lot of the guys this summer,” you say softly. Sloane huffs a little and shakes her head as she ashes the cigarette out the window.

“I guess not.”

“But we’ll still see each other, right?”

Sloane freezes and looks at you like she’s expecting you to finish some sort of punchline. When you don’t she reaches outside and dashes her smoke out on the outside wall of her house- a disgusting and destructive habit you have begged her to kick- and then, without warning, she lunges straight at you. You yelp and try to push her off, but as you already know from previous experience, she is much stronger than you and there is essentially no point to even trying. You wrassle back and forth for a moment before you let her pin you, your head almost hitting the headboard.

She studies you for a moment from her vantage point above you, before she dips down to put her nose to your neck and bite you, hard, harder than could ever be considered sexy. You hiss a little at the pain and start squirming around again.

“Don’t ask stupid stuff like that just to get attention.” She nips you again, this time on the side of your throat, a little softer, and you laugh as her hair tickles your nose.

“Cut it out! No, Sloane, seriously, cut it out.” When she seems to realize you’re starting to sound more serious, she lets go.

She looks at you for a second longer before she dramatically pulls back her covers and starts getting under them, reaching over to turn off the light. “We’re going to bed now.”

“Now?”

“Yes, right now.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re clearly too tired to be having a real conversation if you’re asking me things like that.” She continues settling down under her comforter.

You follow suit and in a moment you’re all tucked in, both staring up at the ceiling in the cool darkness.

You’re really not sure what to say, now- it’s been a long day, and you feel like there’s a lot to think about, between the two of you. You don’t want to start some big philosophical conversation- it’s much too late for that, and that’s just not how you two are- but it sort of seems like you should at least say something, or anything at all.

“You keep saying you’re ‘keeping your options open’.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because I am.”

“Okay, sure.” You’re silent for another moment before you restart. “But what are you actually going to do, though?”

“I don’t know.” She rolls away from you to face the wall, and you watch her run her finger across the stucco from over her shoulder. “For a while I was thinking about just using what I learned in auto-shop to get a job in Coupeville, honestly.”

“That sounds okay.”

“I could even pretend to be a guy so they’d pay me more.” She says it like it’s a joke, but it really doesn’t sound like one.

You hum a little and don’t say anything- because what even is there to say to that, really?

“Would you come with me?”

“What?”

“Would you come with me, to Coupeville.”

“Um. I don’t know.” You are trying to weigh out how serious Sloane is being about this- when she says things like that it’s hard to tell, sometimes.

She sighs and shifts a little, rolling back over to stare up at the ceiling again. “I know it’s not going to happen, anyway. I’m probably going to have to just get a job at some restaurant downtown so my mom doesn’t kick me out for not paying rent.”

You know how anxious Sloane is about the prospect of paying rent- her mom has been hanging it over her head for months and you know it’s not something they can exactly avoid, but it still clearly occupies Sloane’s mind a lot, even if she usually pretends it doesn’t.

“At least we’ll be able to hang out all the time, right?” You know it’s cold comfort, but it’s really all you have for her right now. Your plans are already set- drive to community college off the island during the week, work at the charity thrift store on the weekends. Save up to move out in the next year or two. You wish there was something more you could offer, but you both know there really isn’t. “We won’t have to stop doing any of the things we like to do, even if all the new stuff sucks.”

“Yeah.” Sloane looks over, a smile flitting across her face. She turns to face you, reaching an arm out to hook you with and bring you closer to her. You comply, threading your arms back around her in return. “You can still stay over, like this.”

“Exactly.”

“As long as my mom doesn’t kick me out.”

“Don’t say that!” You smack her lightly on the shoulder from behind and squeeze her tightly against you, so tight that you can feel her heart beating in her chest. “She wouldn’t do that.”

“I know. But still.”

“And you could always just come stay in my room.”

“Mm, that does sound nice.”

You suck your teeth at the way she says it, but you don’t respond. She doesn’t keep pushing it, this time.

“... I would go to Coupeville with you, I guess.”

“Would you?”

You nod, and hesitate for a moment before continuing, “and we could do it together.”

“Do what?”

“You know what.” You lock eyes with her and try to make sure she does, in fact, know. It seems like she should, at least.

“Yeah.” She does.

Neither of you say anything else; when you look back, you might realize that’s really all that conversation could have been, in that moment. It wasn’t a real idea, not really, but you know that wasn’t why she said it- she wanted to see what you would do, if she did. You hope what you did give her was enough.

You turn over a little, taking her under your arm. You feel her hand come up to press against your chest. Not to push you away- just to let you know she’s there. It scrunches your shirt a little, and then lets go, falling flat against it. You close your eyes and listen to the sound of the bathroom fan from the room over, and the trees outside rustling from where Sloane forgot to close the window- Kim is going to be so pissed in the morning, with all the bugs that are going to get in- and the frogs in the backyard that you can never see but you can always hear.

You fall asleep thinking about what you two are going to do tomorrow; your first weekend where there will be no school to hang out after come Monday.

#autoandrophilia #autohomoeroticism #autoandrophile #ahe #aap #original fiction #short story #ftm t4t #t4t #ftm #transfag

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