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whenyoufellfromheaven · 4 months ago

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WHEN YOU FELL FROM HEAVEN

by Alyson Greaves

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One

THE BOY WITH THE RUBBER BAND IN HIS HAIR

He thought there would be more palm trees.

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

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

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

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

Screw this. He needs music.

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

He doesn’t exactly have high hopes.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shoot!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More like a caged panther, maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

Another fun night in the Scott household.

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

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

Guys like that look good on her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Interesting…

“Show off!” his brother shouts.

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

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

“Fine.”

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

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

Oh.

Oh no!

He’s seen her.

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

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

Shoot.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Avery: Max Max Max Max Max Max Max

He should probably reply before she texts again.

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

“Hey, Tay, whatya doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shoot!

* * *

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

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

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

They all suck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure,” he says. “Come in.”

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

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

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

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

“I promise. Athlete to athlete.”

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

Best not to think about that.

“Wow,” he says.

“Can I cook, or can I cook?”

“Yes. You can cook.”

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

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

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

“Forgiven.”

“So, you’re an athlete?”

She perks up. “I am!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He might finally have an impressive handshake, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guessed.”

“My accent?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you really never did anything together?”

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

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

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

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

“Right.”

“Yeah.”

“She was your first?” Taylor guesses.

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

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

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

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

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

Nobody except Avery.

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

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

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

“What can they do?”

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

He returns her grin. “Right.”

* * *

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

And he has the prettiest brown eyes…

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh yeah. She has a boyfriend. Shoot.

Two

I CAN FIX HIM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Knowledge by Operation Ivy. Cool.

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

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

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

Well. New state, better habits.

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

Still not used to having his own bathroom.

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

Maybe she was and he just wasn’t paying attention. Too distracted by those bright blue eyes.

Anyway.

An old band shirt.

A pair of board shorts.

Mismatched socks.

And a belt. In which he already poked an extra hole. Because, yeah, shit, he lost weight, and a lot of it. Turns out, if you don’t really eat for over a year and you continue—halfheartedly—to exercise, you lose mass, and a lot of it. All his jeans look like cargo pants now, and his cargo pants are basically unwearable.

Today’s shirt—one of the many he inherited from Clay when he cleared out his closet—is baggy as hell, but it covers his scars and it hides how thin he’s gotten, and the belt holds up his board shorts, and that’s enough. He can exercise in this. He can stand on his hands in this. Hell, he can do cartwheels and somersaults and basically anything you ask of him in this, and he can do the fucking splits, too.

A quick look in the mirror. Yeah, there’s Max. Same as the old Max, the one from New York. But moisturized, and with nicer hair.

It’s fine.

Let’s go see the cheerleader.

* * *

Taylor never wears makeup to work out. Some of the other cheerleaders do, but some of the other cheerleaders are silly bee-yotches who’ve spent the last several years meticulously blocking every pore, and now they have no choice but to slap on the foundation half a tube at a time, lest anyone get a look at their real skin! Taylor, meanwhile, wears it light and only when appropriate, and she cleanses every morning, every evening and after practice, and that’s why she still has the skin of an angel while Meredith looks like the dark side of the moon.

So she doesn’t know why she’s doing her face this morning, except that maybe she still feels gross from last night and wants to look her best. Pretty face, empty mind, like Robyn, her old cheer captain, used to say.

Last night…

Last night!

Ick.

Taylor reaches over and yanks up the volume on her little CD player until J.Lo’s Love Don’t Cost a Thing starts to crackle and distort.

Stupid Gordo! He tried to get her to touch it again, and she’s beyond fed up with telling him she’s waiting until she’s eighteen. And that’s, like, only a month away! She doesn’t know why he’s being so impatient; she’s clearly relayed her parents’ rules around sex, which are that Garrett can do whatever he wants, because he’s an adult—legally, if not mentally—and Taylor cannot, because she is still a child. Also, and this comes specifically from her mom, because nobody wants to have to fight through the anti-choice weirdos outside the family planning clinic. And because good girls are not sluts.

And, no, Gordo, she doesn’t care that the other girls have all done it, because a) if Meredith’s done it, Taylor’ll eat her own pompoms and b) if the other cheerleaders jumped off a cliff, she’d only follow them if they’d managed to form a pyramid at the bottom, and would catch her.

But still he insisted! Ick! It’s like he wants her to get disowned by her parents and have to live under a bridge selling cheers for money, or something.

He insisted and he made her feel gross and she told him to leave and now she’s putting on lipstick, because if he can’t see her, then she’s going to look extra pretty.

It makes sense. Sort of. If you tilt your head and squint. Anyway, he’s off to football camp this week, so she doesn’t have to deal with him again for a while. Maybe he’ll find someone there to touch his thingie, some girl football player who shares his interests. Maybe she can make him come, and he can yell ‘Hut! Hut! Hut!’ at the moment of climax.

The song ends and she stabs irritably at the pause button before the next one starts. This morning’s gone wrong already, and it’s all because she’s sitting here, staring at herself, applying and reapplying lipstick until by rights her lips ought to stick out several miles from her face, and thinking about her stupid boyfriend and the stupid things he wants her to do and—

Reset.

Taylor closes her eyes. Takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out slowly. Opens her eyes again.

It’s a new day. Gordo’s a part of yesterday, and she doesn’t have to see him for a week. A new friend is coming over and she’s going to get to show him what she can do and find out what makes him tick.

She blots most of the lipstick onto a tissue, ties her hair in a practical ponytail, and skips out of her room. Same room as Max, she remembers, though not precisely. Their houses are identical but mirrored; their bedrooms even face each other! What sucks, though, is that even if they become friends, they won’t be able to do the teen movie thing of talking to each other through their windows; they’re kinda far apart. If Max ever opens his drapes, though, they ought to be able to wave to each other. And maybe yell.

She checks: his drapes are still closed. No wonder he’s so pale.

No, wait; he’s from New York. Don’t they have like five days of sun per year? Obviously he’s just not used to it. Well, that’s job one, then, isn’t it? Get Max used to the Southern California sun! The whole Southern California lifestyle!

He’s going to love it here, she’s certain.

* * *

Christ, even the mornings here are too hot. Good thing he covered himself in deodorant before he left the house, even if it did mean getting gently ribbed by his brother about the effort he’s obviously putting in for this Taylor girl.

He’s not putting in any effort, not really. Not for her specifically. He’s just stopped neglecting himself.

Yeah. That’s it exactly.

He rings the bell, and when the door opens, he’s presented with a face he doesn’t expect. Taylor didn’t talk about her brother much yesterday, except to say he’s a stoner and the most annoying man in the world, but here’s a clean-cut guy with a toothy grin and slicked-back blond hair. If not for his shorts and logo shirt, he could be an office worker, though from what he’s seen, casualwear is de rigueur enough around here that maybe people do go to work in shorts.

But then he comes close enough for Max to see his bloodshot eyes, and it all makes sense.

“Hey,” Garrett says. “You’re the, uh, the, uh, the dude from next door, aren’t you?”

“I’m Max. Garrett, yeah?”

Getting Garrett’s name right seems to delight him. “Yeah! Yeah, that’s me!” He leans down to whisper in Max’s ear, flooding Max’s senses with the smell of stale weed and cool ranch chips. “You’re not fucking my sister, are you? Because if you are… Be careful, dude. Big boyfriend. Big.”

“No plans, dude,” Max says. Yeah. She’s got a boyfriend. Obviously.

“That’s a ‘maybe’, then. Cool. Cool. Cool.” Garrett folds his arms, satisfied that he’s relayed his oh-so-important message. “So come on in! Mi casa es su casa. Mi… sister es su sister.”

Alright. Kinda gross.

Taylor appears from behind Garrett, whacking him with the flat of her hand. “Oh my gosh, Garrett, you slime!” she yells, whacking him again. “Don’t say things like that! And move. Move! Ick!”

She keeps slapping him on the shoulder until Garrett finally catches on, and with a roll of his eyes at Max, he steps aside and walks slowly over to a split square of couches in the living room. He falls into one and stops moving.

“Hi, Max,” Taylor says, huffing a displaced strand of hair out of her face. “I see you’ve met my brother.”

She grabs Max by the wrist and leads him inside, but Max is distracted: Garrett still isn’t moving.

“Is he… okay?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Taylor says without looking, dragging Max into the kitchen.

“He looks dead.”

“Yeah, he does! Unfortunately, it never lasts. Check it out: I made you a smoothie!”

Max’s view of Taylor’s allegedly alive brother is cut off as he enters the kitchen, so he turns his attention to her and finds her posing in front of the open fridge like a game show assistant. Two more of the same metal cups from yesterday are waiting in the door, and now that she has his attention, she pulls one out and hands it to him. He takes it from her, but she doesn’t pull away; instead, she squints at him, leans closer, steadies herself on his shoulder, and bats at his ponytail.

“Max?” she says slowly. “Why is your hair in a rubber band? Correction—” she raises an impertinent first finger right in front of him, “—why is your hair in a rubber band again?”

“Because I don’t want it in my face? And what do you mean, again?”

She snatches the smoothie back from him, re-fridges it, and beckons him. “C’mon,” she says, walking back around the dividing wall. “We’re fixing it.”

* * *

He comments on the way up the stairs that, oh yeah, their houses are the same, just flipped, and Taylor’s about to agree with him—and talk about the extra rooms that were built over the garages that he won’t have at home—before she realizes that, shoot, she just invited Max up to her room! She invited him up to her room and he’s a guy! A guy who isn’t Gordo!

Isn’t that, like, adultery or something?

Eh. Maybe in Utah.

She pauses, her hand on the doorknob, and thinks quickly, thinks like she’s about to be thrown and she’s just realized it’s Meredith who’s going to catch her:

It’s different, right? It’s not like Max is a guy like Gordo, right? He doesn’t seem the type to put his hand on the back of a not-quite-eighteen-year-old’s head and push her down toward his pants.

Because he’s nice. Okay, so they didn’t talk for all that long yesterday, but he is nice, right? A little sad, a little snarky, and a bit of a fixer-upper, but he’s nice. And does she even know any nice guys? Any guys who haven’t openly lusted after her since she joined the squad? Correction: does she know any nice guys who aren’t already (sort of but not really) dating her best friend?

Well, now she knows Max.

And they do share an interest, don’t they?

So there’s no harm, she decides, and lets him into her room.

“Wow,” he says, following her inside, “pink.”

“It’s not that pink,” she says, wondering why she instantly feels defensive about it. She points to the accent wall, the one her computer desk is pushed up against, which she had Dad paint pastel blue because she read that blue is conducive to memory retention. Plus, she’s wanted a skylight ever since she saw one in a movie. Something about looking up at those California-blue skies every morning being super romantic. Unfortunately, because of the attic and all, she had to make do with a not-very-big window and a very blue wall. “See?”

“I stand corrected,” Max says, holding up his hands in surrender. Gosh, he has a sweet smile. Teeth are a little faded looking, though. Don’t they have whitener in New York?

She can fix that. She can fix everything! And that starts with the way his smile fades too quickly, like he can’t have a positive emotion without something in his brain showing up and reminding him, hey, dude, you’re supposed to be miserable. Must be why he likes all those punk bands he was telling her about.

Anyway. She can fix him. Make him happy. Whiten his teeth. Get him to stop tangling up his hair with rubber bands. Get him a girlfriend.

At that last thought, it’s like she borrows Max’s sadness demon. Ick! Shoo! She chases it away and bobs up to him, confirming once again how close in height they are, and then puts a hand on each shoulder and turns him round. He doesn’t resist. Gently, she hooks a finger inside the first ring of the looped rubber band and starts to tease out the hair.

“I can’t believe you use this,” she says as she works and, gosh, his hair is so silky! Yesterday, when he first got here, it was really greasy, like, greasy enough that she could tell from halfway down the backyard—understandable, though, after driving the entire width of the continental United States!—and after his shower it was still only, like, passably clean. Did he wash it especially for her?

She’s not sure she’s allowed the level of excitement that thought generates in her. Kills the sadness demon right off, though.

“What’s wrong with a rubber band?” he says, speaking slowly like he’s in a trance, and it takes Taylor a second to guess why. When she does, she’s glad she’s behind him, or he’d see the huge, adulterous smile that temporarily takes over her whole face. She’s got her hands in his hair. And she is, no need to be modest, super pretty. What guy wouldn’t enjoy it?

Gordo. Gordo wouldn’t enjoy it. He just wants her to touch it.

Ick.

She returns to the task at hand, carefully extracting layer after layer of soft, sweet-smelling jet-black hair from its rubber band prison. To distract herself, because she’s enjoying this a bit too much, she concentrates on answering his question.

“Rubber bands are grippy, Max,” she says. “Your hair will get caught up in it and it’ll get stripped apart. It’ll completely destroy your hair.”

“Oh,” he says. It seems to be all he can manage, so before Taylor lets out the final loop, she gives herself a moment to smile again.

Why is she so loopy around him? He’s just another long-haired punk guy; she could throw a rock from the front room and hit a dozen of them as they drift lazily by on their stickered-up skateboards.

Whatever. A puzzle for later. She turns him round again and takes a step back to admire her handiwork. Smoothing out his locks, billowing them out around his face, she almost forgets to breathe. There really is something about him, something those other rando guys don’t have. Something she thinks Gordo would probably kill to avoid. And it’s more exciting to Taylor than a hundred sweaty football guys. It’s more exciting to her than the memory of Max’s own older brother, whose thick arms and tree-trunk waist had previously seemed so enticing.

In a way, it’s a shame that Clay is Max’s brother. If Clay’s anything to go by, Max is going to gain a good few inches, he’s going to thicken up, he’s going to be a man. And it’s going to happen soon.

So? So that makes this Max special, dummy! A firefly isn’t beautiful because it lasts forever.

“Taylor,” he says, “what’s up?”

Shoot! He noticed! And his hand’s halfway to hers, like he wants to comfort her but doesn’t want to cross a boundary. Which, again, her decision to let him up into her room: vindicated! She shakes her head, grins at him—wow, it’s easy to find a smile when he’s so close to her—and turns him ninety degrees, toward the mirror.

“Why do you tie your hair up, Max?” she asks. “It’s way too gorgeous to not show it off.”

He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror, not for more than a second. Instead he starts gathering up his hair, pulling it tight, away from his face. “It’s not supposed to be gorgeous,” he says. Huh; cryptic! “Do you have a hair tie for me?”

She turns around and quickly finds one on her nightstand. “Here,” she says, pressing it into his hand.

“Taylor,” he says, holding it up, “this is a scrunchie.”

“Yes,” she confirms.

“It’s a scrunchie.”

“And?”

“It’s— Taylor. It’s a scrunchie. A pink scrunchie. Those are for girls?”

“Don’t be a baby,” she says, taking it back. Before he can stop her, she steps behind him, gathers his hair up, and ties a ponytail for him. She twitches her nose in concentration as she adjusts it, making sure it’s dead center, and then taps him on the top of his head. “You can look now.”

“Wow,” he says, turning his head. “That is definitely a pink scrunchie in my hair. And isn’t it a little high?” He reaches up to adjust it, and she bats his hand away.

“Leave it!” she commands, leaning into her cheer captain voice. And, yeah, it is a little higher than he usually ties his hair, but high is better, right? For cheering?

Oh right! They’re supposed to be exercising!

* * *

The Scotts’ backyard is, unsurprisingly, exactly the same dimensions as the one behind Max’s house, except theirs has a pool close to the house and way more intentionality to the foliage. Dad’s already been complaining about the weekends he’s going to lose getting theirs into shape, and Clay wasn’t fast enough getting out of the room when he was looking for volunteers to help out.

It’s nice, though. It’s like a preview of what their place will look like when it’s done. Taylor’s entire house is, actually. Even her room, fully furnished as it is and not merely looming around a single desk and a corner with a guitar in it, is a preview of what his might be like once he’s lived here more than ten minutes. Minus the pink walls, obviously. And all the televisions. The very boxy, very beige televisions.

Huh.

“I just realized,” he says, as he stretches his arms over his head, “you have three computers in your room. Which seems excessive.”

“You just realized?” she replies. She’s got her feet on the grass and her head between them, and either she’s showing off and she’s going to feel that tomorrow, or she’s limber as hell. “We’ve been in the yard for like two minutes and you just realized.” She straightens up and, despite her critical tone, she’s grinning at him, so he doesn’t take it the wrong way.

“I thought they were TVs. I was trying to think if I’d seen a TV that exact shade of beige before.” He copies her move, just to show her he can, and she laughs at him.

Christ. She’s so cute.

“And?” she prompts.

“Yeah,” he says, “no. Which led me to the obvious conclusion: three computers.”

“Well,” she says, “for your information, I have four computers.” When he straightens, to stare incredulously at her, she starts listing them. “I’ve got my main PC and some older ones for testing. I also have a laptop; I wanted to mess with OSX so Dad got me an iBook for Christmas. Don’t give me that look! It’s not fancy. It’s just the base model.”

Max snorts. “That’s not what the look was for, Taylor.”

“It’s the twenty-first century, Max,” she says, sounding suddenly surprisingly pompous. “If you don’t know how to use a computer, you’re going to be left behind.”

“I know how to use a computer; I don’t know how to use four computers.”

“It’s not like it’s hard.”

“Oh my God,” Max exclaims in fake wonder. “Four computers. You’re a nerd!”

“I’m captain of the cheerleading squad. I can’t be a nerd. All I have are esoteric interests.”

“You’re a nerd,” he giggles.

The levity he feels around her! Avery’s the only other person who ever made him feel like this: understood and appreciated. But there’s more here, something he never felt before. Maybe it’s because Taylor’s straight, and therefore, despite her boyfriend, despite Garrett’s assessment of her boyfriend—big—some incredibly stupid part of his brain thinks he has a chance?

Doesn’t matter. He feels good! He’ll take the win.

“I like your shirt,” she says, when they’re done warming up. “Is that your band?”

He laughs, pulling at it to show it off fully. “Not my band,” he says. “This is Me First and the Gimme Gimmes. They’re, uh, well, it’s kind of hard to explain.”

Taylor bounces over, takes the hem of the shirt out of his hands and stretches it out all the way, so she can look at it more closely.

“Try me,” she says.

He can smell her perfume or her shampoo or her body lotion or something, and it’s intoxicating, and distracting as hell. Which might be why he babbles a bit.

“Okay, so they’re a punk rock supergroup, formed in San Francisco circa 1995 and still going today. They only do covers, and that’s because they all have their own projects outside the group, like, Chris Shiflett is also in No Use for a Name. Have you heard of him? You haven’t heard of him. Anyway, their first album was all songs from the sixties, seventies and eighties, stuff like Uptown Girl and Rocket Man, and their second album is all show tunes. They did Don’t Cry for Me Argentina from Evita and Science Fiction Double Feature from Rocky Horror, and… What?”

She’s looking at him with the most peculiar smirk on her face, and when he shuts up she broadens it into a delighted smile and says, “And you called me a nerd!”

Wow. Her smile is incredible.

“Uh…” he says, his retort dying on his lips, which he’s suddenly biting, for some reason. God, he’s losing control here.

“I think you were going to say something like, punk rockers can’t be nerds,” she says. “They just have esoteric interests. And then I was going to say something like, you just proved yourself wrong, you’re the biggest nerd that ever nerded, and then you were going to blush even harder than you are right now, and insist we start doing what we came here to do.”

In a daze, he says, “Which is…?”

She lets go of his shirt and prances backward, ultimately transforming her momentum into a perfect backflip and segueing into a full sequence.

“This!” she says, as she lands and spreads her arms out.

Holy shit.

She’s an actual athlete.

And she’s really good.

* * *

On their way back in, Taylor collects the smoothies she prepared for them both, and in her room she digs out her TV—her actual TV; she doesn’t know how Max could have mistaken her computer monitors for televisions since they’re so completely different-looking—from under a discarded pair of jeans and puts on the Disney Channel. Chores done, she flops onto the bed and starts sucking earnestly on her straw. Max, meanwhile…

Max looks adorably about the room for something he can sit on that isn’t her bed. Vindicated, vindicated, vindicated! She’s known him for a day and she’s never felt so safe with a guy. She points with her toe at one of her computer chairs and, moving slowly, he drags it over near to the bed and drops into it, cupping his smoothie with both hands and sipping from it, his eyes on the Boy Meets World rerun. As his exhaustion starts to fade, he makes himself more comfortable, dragging one leg up under his butt and propping the other high enough that he can rest his chin on his knee. Which, like, wow, flexible.

He’s still breathing heavily. But then, so is she.

What a workout! He challenged her like nobody on the squad ever has, like Coach Dale never has, like not even Robyn did, and she challenged him right back! She never knew she could move like that!

She never knew a guy could move like that. The guys on the squad, they’re talented and they work hard, but they’re all kinda bulky, whereas Max moves like…

Okay. So she can never say it to him, ever, because she knows what boys are like, but Max moves like a girl. He’s got grace and speed and just enough power to accomplish everything he needs to and not a drop more. And maybe that’s just what pro gymnasts are like, but Taylor watches every Olympics and she doesn’t think so. He’s just not built like those guys.

Except he will be one day.

Maybe, anyway. Thinking about it, she got a good look at Mom Giordano yesterday, and a decent glimpse at Dad Giordano and the older brother, Clay, and Max takes much more after his mom while Clay looks like a younger and less wide version of his dad. So maybe that means he won’t grow into something like Clay. Maybe that means he’ll stay just as he is. After all, he’s eighteen, and aren’t you basically done at eighteen? Like, sure, other stuff happens, like you lose your puppy fat, and if you’re a guy you start getting hair everywhere—ick—but at eighteen, you’re finished growing, right?

“How tall are you, Max?” she says without thinking.

“Five-eight,” he says automatically.

Well, that’s a lie. “Are you sure?” she asks, reaching out with her foot and rotating his chair to face her.

“I’m five-eight… if I go up on my toes a little,” he admits.

“I knew it!” she exclaims. “You can’t lie to me, Max. You’re an inch taller than me at most, and I’m five foot six and three-quarters.”

“Three-quarters?” he confirms weakly.

She nods at the door frame. “Check the marks.”

Humoring her, he stands, slightly stiffly, and carefully puts his cup on the floor. He walks over to her bedroom door and runs his finger over the notches in the frame. There’s a notch for every one of her first seventeen years, but she doesn’t expect to be making a new one on her next birthday in September, since she’s basically done, too. It’s kinda sad, really; always is, when a yearly ritual ends.

Following an impulse, she jumps up and joins him. She turns him around by the shoulders, the way she did in the backyard, until he’s facing her with his back to the door. She pushes him until he bumps against it, and then she prods at his feet with hers until he’s standing straight.

Without taking her eyes off him, she reaches for the craft knife on her chest of drawers, flicks out the blade, and places her hand on top of his head, to create a straight line to the door frame.

“You stick out your tongue when you’re concentrating, you know that?” he says. She shushes him and carves his notch into the frame.

She doesn’t know why she’s doing this. She barely knows him. They might not end up friends at all. They might not speak to each other after school starts. They might turn out to hate each other! But this feels important. And if there’s one thing she’s learned as a cheerleader, it’s that when something feels right, she should trust it.

“Step away,” she says, and he does so.

The craft knife goes back on the mess of junk, and she opens a drawer—her underwear drawer, which she’s curiously unembarrassed to open around Max—and pulls out her tailor’s tape measure. She unravels it, presses the end against the wall with her toe, and smooths it up the door frame until it reaches Max’s notch.

“There’s a Sharpie on my desk,” she says, keeping everything in place. “Can you get it for me?”

“Sure.”

Moments later, a Sharpie—uncapped; how thoughtful—drops into her waiting hand, and she writes Max, August 3, 2003 — 5 foot 7½ inches on the wall, just above Taylor, September 13, 2002 — 5 foot 6¾ inches.

“There,” she says. “Immortalized.”

She twists around to smile at him, expecting one of his shy smiles in return, but instead he’s retreated back to her desk, he’s got his fists clenched at his side, and he’s standing very still.

“Max?” she asks.

“Shit,” he says, turning away. A hand goes up to his face, as if he’s covering his eyes or something, and that’s just so confusing that she takes three whole steps toward him before she realizes he’s not one of her girlfriends and she can’t just manhandle him because she doesn’t know how he’ll react. And, oh yeah, he’s a guy, and he’s in her room, and he’s been careful not to even touch her so far, and as nice as he’s been, she doesn’t want to give him the wrong idea.

“Did I do something wrong?” she says. She’s making her voice small on purpose, which is a little manipulative, but it is appropriate to how she feels. Max is special, and she doesn’t want to lose him as a friend before she figures out why.

It gets him to turn around, at least. And his eyes aren’t red and his cheeks aren’t wet, so it can’t be that bad. “No,” he says, forcing a smile. “Sorry. It’s just… It’s a me thing.”

“It’s just a stupid mark,” Taylor says. “I can fill it in if you want. I know where Dad keeps the filler.”

“No, no,” he says quickly. “I like it. If you don’t mind it there… I like it.”

Okay. Okay. He has an issue about this. But as much as she wants to probe it, as much as she wants to know everything, she refrains. If there’s one thing she’s learned as a cheerleader, it’s when to give a girl her space. Still applies here, even though Max isn’t a girl.

“Let’s keep it, then,” she says, matching his smile. It has the effect she hoped for, which is that his smile becomes warmer and more genuine, and she has to fight very hard not to just bounce forward and hug him. “Hey, Max,” she adds, “you wanna go out? We could go to the mall or something.” She pulls playfully at the hem of his shirt again. “We could even buy you some clothes that aren’t black and don’t have bands on them. And that are maybe your size?”

He laughs, and it seems almost real. “No thanks,” he says. “I’m tired out. Maybe I’ll just go home.”

“Oh, no you don’t, mister,” she says, mom-voicing him hard enough that he steps back. “I have nothing to do today, so you’re going to keep me company. Deal?”

He surrenders instantly. “Deal.”

“So. You smoke weed?”

Darn; she should have waited until he had a drink or something, because the look on his face is absolutely priceless, and she definitely could have gotten him to spray water if she timed it right.

“Uh,” he says, floundering. “Uh. Yeah? I guess so?”

She bounces on her toes. Flustering him is fun. “You wanna smoke weed and get takeout?”

“Sure?”

It’ll be good for him. He needs to talk, get whatever this is off his chest, and Taylor, she needs to listen. And maybe look at him a bit. Maybe look at him a lot. And if there’s one thing she’s learned as a cheerleader, it’s when to stay sober and when to get high.

“Wait one second,” she says, holding up a finger. Then she skips over to her door, yanks it open, leans out, and yells down the stairs, “GARRETT! I’M TAKING SOME OF YOUR WEED! IF YOU TELL MOM I’LL RIP YOUR BALLS OFF AND DROP THEM IN YOUR FISH TANK!”

She turns back to Max, grinning and waggling her eyebrows at him, her hand cupped around her ear for the rejoinder.

“I WON’T TELL MOM IF YOU BRING ME ANOTHER BAG OF DORITOS!” Garrett yells back, probably from the same dumb couch they left him on. “See?” Taylor says to Max. “Told you he wasn’t dead.”

Three

LEGIT AIR

“Look at that,” Taylor’s pointing at the screen. “Look at the air they’re getting! It’s good, right? It’s legit.”

Max nods. It’s not been enough to admit to Taylor that, yes, she’s an incredible athlete and, yes, cheerleading’s legit, and, wow, no shit, captain of the squad, that’s really impressive; she wants to show him, and beyond summoning the rest of the squad and running through their routines right in front of him, the best way to do that turns out to be to drag him over to her computer desk and call up video after video of competitive cheerleading.

The trouble is, he’s having trouble concentrating. It’s not that the weed’s hit him all that hard, because it hasn’t, but between it, the takeout, the exercises this morning and the lingering fatigue from spending almost a week, on and off, in Dad’s cramped car, a portion of his brain keeps insisting it would rather just fall face-first into bed, and resents having to squint at a sequence of blocky videos recorded off of ESPN2.

He’s aware enough, though, to be seriously impressed by what he’s seeing. The shit the girls—and guys; a lot of the squads are mixed—are pulling off is downright incredible.

“It’s legit,” he says, passing the joint.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Taylor says, taking it from him and taking a lengthy drag. “Last one, I promise. See these guys?” She cues up another video. “Their routine is amazing. Just wait until you see the throws at the end!”

On the screen, a squad in green uniforms performs a tightly choreographed routine, and the more he watches them, the more he can’t believe they’re a high-school-age cheerleader squad.

“Tay,” he says, “this shit is ridiculous!”

She beams at him. He’s noticed she likes it when he calls her Tay. Almost makes him want an even shorter version of his name, so they can trade. But only his grandparents call him Maxwell—and his mom when she’s pissed.

“This is from two or three years ago,” she says, grinding the end of the joint into dust in the ashtray. “It was a huge controversy: another squad turned out to’ve been stealing their routines for, like, years, and winning trophies with them. Winning this trophy!” The video shows them being announced as the winners of the tournament, and Taylor stabs emphatically at the screen. “They just never had the money to compete for themselves. But they got the money together, they went all in, and they won. It’s like something out of a movie!”

“That’s… actually cool.”

“Right? It’s inspirational!”

“Yeah.”

“C’mon,” she says, abruptly switching off the monitor. Then she puts both feet on the seat of Max’s chair and pushes him away with enough force that the casters trip on the rug, tipping him right off onto the bed. Judging by the glee on her face, she planned it exactly that way, and it came off perfectly. “Max!” she exclaims, forming her mouth into a perfect O of shock. “I thought you were a gymnast! But there you go, falling off of chairs…”

“I would have been fine—” he starts to protest, but he has to cut himself off when Taylor launches herself at the bed. She lands next to him, bounces a couple of times, and comes to rest leaning on her elbow, grinning at him. “I would have been fine,” he tries again, “if I wasn’t so tired.”

“Jet-lagged?” she says. “No, wait; car-lagged?”

“I hate cars,” he says, counting on his fingers, “I hate motels, I hate small towns in the middle of the country, I hate my dad’s music, I hate how Clay takes up all the space in the back seat…”

“How come you didn’t fly? There are people who can move boxes across the country for you.”

“Money. Cheaper to do it ourselves than pay movers, or so Dad said. Hey, um, Taylor…” He shuffles away from her a little. “Should I be on your bed with you like this? Is this really okay?”

“Why?” she asks, pretending to be afraid. “Are you going to molest me, Max Giordano?”

“What? No!” He recoils even farther just at the thought of it, but she reaches out and rolls him over, bringing him closer again.

“So, chill,” she says. She leans over him—Max tries to compress himself into the mattress so she doesn’t actually touch him—and retrieves the remote for her CD player. She switches it on and dumps the remote on the floor. Something by Alanis Morissette comes on, but he’s only heard that one album of hers, the one that got really big; he doesn’t know this one. Next to him, facing up and with her hands clasped on her belly, Taylor sighs contentedly. “You want to smoke another?” she asks after a short while.

“Sure.”

She nods, sits up just enough to retrieve the baggie of pre-rolled joints she stole from Garrett’s room, and lights one up. She passes it to Max, who takes a deep drag, and when he looks again, she’s gotten another ashtray out from somewhere and placed it between them.

“How many of those do you have?”

“Enough,” she says, and accepts the joint from him. “Mom never cleans in here because I do it myself, and she can’t smell it in here because Garrett’s room always stinks of it, so…” She shrugs.

“Weird to be smoking weed with a cheerleader,” Max says, feeling sufficiently loosened up—by the weed, by his exhaustion, by Taylor’s apparent belief that he’s not the kind of guy who might try to hurt her—to just say shit. “I always thought you guys lived on mineral water and pep and calling all the other girls sluts.”

“Max,” Taylor says, passing back, “I’m going to say something very rude now, and you’ve got to promise me it won’t leave this room. I have a reputation to upkeep.”

Max crosses his heart. “Promise.”

“Your New York cheerleaders sound like stuck-up bee-yotches.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, they kinda were.”

“What about your friend? Avery?”

He laughs. “Yeah, she thinks New York cheerleaders are stuck-up bee-yotches, too.”

“I mean,” she says, giggling, “what kind of girl is she?”

“Gymnast. Lesbian. Oh, and she’s a huge nerd, too.”

“Like you, then,” Taylor says.

“Like you,” Max counters.

A little while later, when the second joint is done and they’re lying on their backs together, looking up at the star stickers on her ceiling, and when Max is feeling more relaxed than he has at any point in at least the last year, Taylor goes and ruins it all—or complicates it all, anyway—by asking the question he’d been hoping she wouldn’t.

“Hey, Max? Where did you get those scars?”

“You saw those, huh?”

Of course she did. You can’t throw yourself around the way he did this morning without your shirt flying all over the place, especially when it’s too big for you by several sizes. He ought to take a leaf out of her book and wear a tight crop top or something. The thought of it, of his belly sticking out of one of Taylor’s pink gym tops, is almost funny enough to make him laugh.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she says. “Really, you don’t.”

He shrugs. He ought to lie, or claim it’s a secret, or otherwise keep it from her, because it isn’t exactly the kind of story you tell to make yourself seem cool in front of a pretty girl, but if she’s going to be his friend, she should know. And if she laughs or thinks less of him, then it’s better to know now, right? Better to be rejected by someone you just met than by someone you’ve known for a long time.

“It was last year,” he says, settling his head into the pillow. He might be telling the story, but he doesn’t want to look at her while he does. He wants to get her reaction all at once, when he’s done. In case it’s bad. Rip off the Band-Aid, etc. “End of the spring semester. I’d never been that popular, but I was never unpopular, either, you know? I was just another kid. And I’d been dabbling in gymnastics a long time already, but high school was where I started really getting into it. Coach thought I had real promise. I wasn’t as good as Avery—she started before me—but I was good. And Coach said I could be great. And I’d never been great at anything before, so I let her talk me into taking private classes. Mom was against it but Dad, in a fit of unexpected parental involvement, persuaded her. And then that was it. School, home, life, it was all about gymnastics. Me and Avery and gymnastics. It was everything to us. Anyway, Coach was right: I was great.”

“I’ve seen it,” Taylor says quietly. “You are.”

“And you’ve seen me after a year of doing nothing more than backyard stuff,” he says. “And we didn’t even have a big yard back home. Since then, since what happened, I’ve lost weight, I’ve lost muscle. I don’t have the stamina I used to. Compared to back then, I’m— Ugh. Sorry. Hard to lose something like that, you know?”

“What happened to you, Max?”

“It was inevitable, really. At school, I wasn’t just some kid anymore. I was a gym fag. I had my special fag gym clothes and I walked like a gym fag and— Well, you know what people are like. Shit written on my locker, guys bumping into me on the stairs and trying to get me to trip and fall. You’ve seen it, I bet.”

“Yeah,” she says. “There are a-holes like that in every school.”

“So, it’s the end of the spring semester last year,” he says briskly, moving the story along as quickly as he can, “and three guys corner me. I thought they were just going to beat the shit out of me, which would have been an escalation, but still, something I could deal with.” His voice is shaking. Huh. “No. Christ, I wish they had. What actually happened was that two of them grabbed me and held me down on the ground and the third, he had this beat-up old Volvo, and he got the cigarette lighter—”

“Oh no,” Taylor breathes.

“Yeah. Pushed it into me three times. And he wasn’t quick, either. He held it there each time. If you’re wondering: incredibly painful.”

“What did you do?”

He can’t help it. He sits up, earlier than he planned, unable to wait for her judgment, but she’s just lying there, watching him, no cruelty or satisfaction evident on her face. She feels for him. It’s obvious. And if it weren’t, the hand that reaches for his would make it pretty clear.

Still, he’s not done with the story yet.

“I didn’t do anything. At first it was because I was in pain, like, monumental amounts of pain, and then I just didn’t want to get up. They didn’t stick around. Just kicked me a bit, taunted me, and ran off. They left me there and ran off. And lying there, Tay, I think I already knew they’d broken me. I think I knew that was it, you know?” He shakes his head. Too much. “Anyway, I didn’t tell the cops or the principal or anything because I still had to go to school for another two years with those assholes and they could have made it even worse for me. So I just… went home. Swallowed Tylenol like candy and wrapped my chest in gauze. Mom eventually saw the burns and freaked and took me to, like, a gajillion doctors, but the best they could do by that point was just tell me to use lotion on them.”

“Does it help?”

“No. Not really.”

Taylor pushes up on her elbows, bringing herself closer, and she lets go of his hand and reaches for the hem of his shirt. “May I?” she asks, and waits for his nod.

It’s light and airy in Taylor’s room, and a breeze ripples over his chest as Taylor lifts up his shirt. He expects her to pull it up only enough to see, but she raises it higher and shoots him a questioning glance, which he interprets—correctly—as a request to raise his arms. She slides his shirt all the way off and drops it on the bed.

“I know,” he says, “I’m skinny.”

Taylor smiles sadly. “No skinnier than me,” she says, which is generous of her. “And I’d say ‘toned’, anyway. Um. Do they hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

He knows how they look in the light; three angry, deep-red scars burned into his chest. Three concentric circles, the skin at its worst where they join. Each one is a memory, a humiliation.

Taylor doesn’t seem to know what to do with herself. Caught with one hand halfway to his chest and another halfway to her mouth, she’s frozen in place, her eyes searching him for the answer to a question she seems scared to ask. He nods again, and she touches him. Gently, almost nervously. She traces the outline of the scars.

And then he’s too self-conscious. Not just because of the scars, but because his skin is sallow after so long without sun; because whatever she says about how toned he is, he can see his weakness in her eyes. So he snatches up his shirt and slips it back on.

It breaks the spell.

“I’m so sorry, Max,” she says.

He struggles to regather his usual emotional state, to find again the ol’ reliable ‘Max’ persona, the guy who doesn’t care too much about anything, not the burn scars on his ribs or the friends he’s lost or the fact that his one remaining real friend is now thousands of miles away.

“We used to know each other,” he says, casually tossing it at her like it’s a factoid his mom just read in the Style section of the newspaper. “The guy who burned me. Grew up together.” He knows he sounds flippant, but better that than bare himself again. And she seems to understand. A guy needs his emotional space. “We used to be close. Like kids are, I mean. Back in New York, there’s a room with both of our heights marked on the wall, just like that. Him and me. It was him and me, and then we drifted apart, and when he came back, he did this to me.”

“Oh,” Taylor says, eyes wide. “Oh! That’s why you, uh, when we marked your height, uh…”

“Yeah,” he says, his cheeks reddening. So much for ol’ reliable, emotionless Max. “That’s why it hit me so hard. Kinda brought him back, you know?” He laughs. “I thought I was better at hiding my shit than that. Turns out, I’m really not.”

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I see everything, anyway. So you’re just going to have to get used to that.”

* * *

Those burns are vicious. And that level of bullying is something else! Vista Primavera High has its problems, yes, but the worst she’s heard of lately is just normal bullcrap like freshmen getting dumped in the trash or having their lockers vandalized. And that it was done by someone he used to be friends with…

Max Giordano is going to need good friends from now on. Of that, Taylor is absolutely certain.

It hurt him so much to tell her, too. She saw him clam up after. And that’s so accurate, actually! He opened up, just a little bit, just enough for her to see, and then he snapped shut! It took her almost an hour to restore the innocent, fun, almost flirty attitude he had out in the yard, and she wonders if the weed was a bad idea; Max seems like one of those people who get melancholy when they’re high.

It was probably just because she made him relive the memories, though.

He’s also moved farther away from her on the bed. He’s practically falling off! Inevitable, probably. Honestly, you get a guy to admit to having one (1) emotion, and they immediately stop talking at all!

No, actually. That’s unfair. That’s not Max she’s thinking of, that’s Gordo, a teenage boy who can’t wait to be a man, who already considers himself to be what a man ought to be, and Taylor’s not in a rush to spend time socially with people who remind her of her father, thank you very much! She’s tried to tell him, over and over, to just talk to her like he used to. If he did, maybe she’d even get to the bottom of his obsession with sex!

No, wait; that’s also because Gordo is a teenage boy. In a way Max, somehow, is not.

“Hey,” she says, “talk to me, Max.”

“I’m okay,” he insists. He’s regained a little of the slight swagger he had before, the sense that he knows who he is, what he wants. Yes, it’s a lie, or at best a coping mechanism, but it’s a comforting one, for Taylor. There’s a real Max under the front he puts up, and she got to see it.

“Are you sure?” she says.

“Yeah. It’s just… I think you’re the only person I’ve talked to about what happened. Apart from my family. And doctors. And Avery, obviously. You’re the first person since her I’ve chosen to talk to about it. Which is kinda confusing, because I’ve known you for, what, twenty-nine hours?”

“More like thirty-one,” Taylor says, and she bounces on the mattress to bring herself closer. “Avery. You miss her, huh?”

He smiles, and that’s good, right? That’s a genuine smile on his face! Not one of the fake ones he puts on when he knows he ought to be smiling at something.

“I do. She’s been bugging me to talk to her online, but we don’t have internet yet, so—”

“Oh!” Well, there’s a good deed she can do! “I have internet. You want to talk to her right now? I can set it up! It’ll be really quick. Will she be at home on a Sunday afternoon?”

“Um, yeah, I think so,” he says, recoiling a little. Taylor reels herself in a bit. Too much enthusiasm for someone who just finished being a huge downer.

“Come on, then,” she says, bouncing the rest of the way over to his side of the bed—her thigh momentarily grazing his; just an accident!—and hopping off onto the floor. She rolls his chair back over to the computer desk and boots up her main PC again. The fans whirr gently into life—she spent a whole afternoon making sure her computer doesn’t sound like a jet engine, unlike Garrett’s—and by the time Max joins her, she’s looking at the desktop again. “Which client?”

“Which, uh…?”

“AIM, MSN, ICQ…?”

“Oh. AIM.”

Taylor opens AIM, logs herself out, and wheels herself away so Max can sit in front of the keyboard. When he maneuvers himself into position, she swings her chair around behind his and rests her forearms on its back, with her chin atop them. She can see the screen over his shoulder.

It must be a slow Sunday over in New York—three hours ahead, she remembers; Avery’s probably going to be called for dinner in the not-too-distant future—because the AIM window lights up almost instantly with a response.

Maximillion: Hey Avery A-Very-Nice-Person: Holy shit you got internet A-Very-Nice-Person: Did you get cable? Is it fast? A-Very-Nice-Person: We’re stuck on DSL and it’s not fucking dial up at least but I hate it A-Very-Nice-Person: Dad says we can’t get cable again until we pay our cable bill A-Very-Nice-Person: And he is ideologically opposed to paying cable bills as you know A-Very-Nice-Person: Anyway it’s so cool you’re back online I was DYING without you to talk to A-Very-Nice-Person: Max? Are you there? Maximillion: I’m here Maximillion: You just type really fast Maximillion: Chill A-Very-Nice-Person: I refuse A-Very-Nice-Person: ONE of us has to talk

“I like her already,” Taylor says.

“Why does that not surprise me?” Max replies.

Maximillion: Anyway I don’t have internet yet Maximillion: I’m at a friend’s house A-Very-Nice-Person: You made a friend already! That rules A-Very-Nice-Person: Can I embarrass you in front of him yet or are you still in the delicate getting to know you phase A-Very-Nice-Person: Circling the cave and grunting at each other until you establish a firm enough masculine bond to roast and eat a dead stag without trying to kill each other A-Very-Nice-Person: I think that’s how it works with boys anyway Maximillion: When have I ever grunted? A-Very-Nice-Person: I think you could grunt A-Very-Nice-Person: I’m not saying it wouldn’t be under duress A-Very-Nice-Person: But I AM saying it would be adorable Maximillion: Well Avery Maximillion: You’ll be happy to know you’ve already embarrassed me in front of HER A-Very-Nice-Person: ROFL A-Very-Nice-Person: Sorry Max’s friend if you can see this A-Very-Nice-Person: But I’m about to get even worse A-Very-Nice-Person: Deep breath A-Very-Nice-Person: What’s her name is she pretty is she prettier THAN ME and if she is does she like girls and is she open to a long distance relationship Maximillion: You have a girlfriend Avery A-Very-Nice-Person: SHE doesn’t know that

Taylor leans over Max’s shoulder and borrows the keyboard.

Maximillion: Hi! Max’s friend here, Avery, and I’m sorry, but I very much do know that now. Maximillion: Ya blew it. Maximillion: Sorreeeeeeee!!!!! A-Very-Nice-Person: Hey look Max your friend likes punctuation Maximillion: I’ll have you know I have a 4.3 average. Maximillion: I love punctuation. A-Very-Nice-Person: Holy shit Max a 4.3, hitch your wagon to this girl A-Very-Nice-Person: She’ll take you places Maximillion: Okay it’s me again, and I’m doing fine thank you Avery Maximillion: I’ll keep my wagon where it belongs.

“You’re a menace,” Max tells Taylor. She beams at him, and then twists around to get out of her chair.

“I’ll give you two a minute,” she says. “You want something to drink? We have iced tea or water or—”

“Iced tea is fine, unless you have anything like Dr Pepper.”

“I think we might actually have Dr Pepper. You want? Okay! Be right ba-aaack!”

She sings the last word as she skips out of the room, and then she’s down the stairs in a flash. She can’t resist putting a little flourish into it as she rounds the bend from the bottom of the stairs into the living room, because Garrett’s probably still in there, and it annoys him to see her expending so much excess energy. Or moving fast, like, at all.

And there he is, wasting whole days away on the couch. As usual. She sticks her tongue out at him; he gives her the finger. She escapes to look for sodas, but by the time she’s dug them out of the fridge, he’s leaning against the arch that separates the kitchen from the rest of the rooms downstairs.

“Make sure you put the baggie back in my room,” he says.

“Yeah,” she says. “Duh.”

“Make sure you reseal it.”

“Obviously.”

“And make sure you air out your room and—”

“I know, Garrett!”

“Okay! Jesus! I’m just trying to help.”

“You’re starting to get cranky,” she says, maneuvering around him as she exits the kitchen, a Diet Dr Pepper in each hand. “Maybe you should smoke some more.” On her way back up the stairs, she turns and yells, “And then maybe you’ll get turbo cancer and die!”

“I’m your big brother, Taylor!” he shouts after her. “I’m looking out for you!”

“You’re a big pain in my ass!” she shouts back, leaning over the railing so her voice echoes properly. She swoops back into her room, ignoring the grumbling from downstairs, and as she closes the door with her butt, she’s delighted to see Max laughing at something on the screen.

Well, mostly delighted. It would have been nice if it had been her who made him laugh, not this Avery girl, but it’s still good to see.

“Drink up,” she says, placing the can in front of him.

“Diet,” he observes, before opening it and taking a swig.

“I’m an athlete!” She opens hers and presses the cold can against his bare forearm, making him wince and pull away. “And so are you!”

“Thanks, Tay,” he says, grinning at her.

“So? How’s she doing?”

“Avery? She’s good. Same as normal.” He points to the screen, and Taylor swings her chair around behind again, so she can look properly. As she drinks, Max goes back to typing.

A-Very-Nice-Person: It’s going to be weird going back to school without you A-Very-Nice-Person: I’m going to have to get a new best friend Maximillion: At least you won’t have to have the locker next to the one that always has FAG on it anymore A-Very-Nice-Person: What if I befriend a new fag A-Very-Nice-Person: Oh shit am I allowed to say that Maximillion: No but neither am I

Taylor hides her smile behind her Diet Dr Pepper. Definitely not gay, then. Just checking!

A-Very-Nice-Person: Have you seen your new school yet Maximillion: No but I figure any school is like any other school right? Maximillion: Different color metal detectors maybe A-Very-Nice-Person: ROFL depressing A-Very-Nice-Person: Rolling on the floor sobbing my eyes out A-Very-Nice-Person: Leave New York and see the sights in sunny California! A-Very-Nice-Person: Get violated by entirely new rentacops!

“It’s not too bad, actually,” Taylor says, having drained her Dr Pepper already. “We’ve got a couple security guys, but no metal detectors. They keep saying they’re going to beef up security, but so far…” She crosses her fingers.

Maximillion: Taylor says no metal detectors

Taylor borrows the keyboard again.

Maximillion: Taylor here, AND our security guys have cute little name tags and they get fired if they get too handsy. Which HAS happened, so that’s not great, but at least they got fired. A-Very-Nice-Person: You’re leading the nation A-Very-Nice-Person: Also hi Taylor! A-Very-Nice-Person: Max won’t say if you’re prettier than me Maximillion: Just a second, Avery. I can solve that conundrum.

Taylor surrenders the keyboard to Max, but before he can type anything else, she claims the mouse and loads the webcam application. The little camera is still positioned on top of the monitor, pointing down at them, covering what Taylor’s always considered her most flattering angle. “Say cheese,” she says, and puts on a peppy smile, pressing her cheek against Max’s.

In the preview, he looks adorably startled and she looks great, so she saves the picture and drags it into the AIM window.

A-Very-Nice-Person: Oh shit she IS prettier than me A-Very-Nice-Person: How depressing A-Very-Nice-Person: You see it right Max A-Very-Nice-Person: You see how she’s prettier than me Maximillion: Avery Maximillion: You realize I’m stuck now don’t you? Maximillion: I can’t say you’re prettier than Taylor because she’s right here Maximillion: And I can’t say the opposite either Maximillion: Whatever I say I’m doomed

“Duh,” Taylor says, giggling. “You say we’re both beautiful.”

A-Very-Nice-Person: Repeat after me, Maxxy: “You’re both pretty.”

“She makes a good point,” Taylor says.

Maximillion: There’s an echo in here. Maximillion: Taylor said the exact same thing you did. A-Very-Nice-Person: Well yeah A-Very-Nice-Person: All of us are taught this as children A-Very-Nice-Person: We get secret classes A-Very-Nice-Person: How to make boys uncomfortable is like the first lesson A-Very-Nice-Person: It’s our main weapon in the battle of the sexes A-Very-Nice-Person: That and mace

“I have some Mace,” Taylor whispers, “if you ever need some. I have spare, I mean.”

“Why would I need Mace?”

“Don’t know. But just in case. I’ll bring some over.”

“Don’t bring me Mace, Taylor.”

“Just in case!”

* * *

Max isn’t exactly late for dinner, but he needs to shower to get rid of the weed stink, and since it’s also his turn to set the table, he’s going to be cutting it really close. So he barges in through the front door at full speed, yells out that he’s here, that he’ll be down in a minute, that he just needs a shower, and he makes it to the stairs without either of his parents getting a chance to intercept him and yell at him about timekeeping, about the watch his Aunt Gabriele got him, about how it keeps perfect time, about how he should wear it more, and about how he knows when dinner is and when to be home for it.

See? He doesn’t even need to be yelled at; he’s got the script memorized.

He doesn’t make it to his bedroom entirely unscathed, though. Clay’s in his room with his door open, and he calls out as Max passes. Panting, Max stops in the doorway, leaning on the frame with both hands.

“Yeah?” Max says.

“Nice girl, is she?”

“Yeah.”

“Girlfriend?”

“What? No. Clay, we’ve been here a day.”

“You moved on Avery pretty quick back home.”

“We weren’t— Never mind. I need a shower.”

“Good idea.” Clay wafts a hand in front of his nose. “And wash those clothes yourself.”

“Uh, yeah, I will.”

As Max turns to leave, Clay says, “Nice scrunchie, Max.”

“What? Oh. Shit.”

“You wearing it to dinner? So Mom and Dad can get a good look at it?”

“Uh. No. Definitely not.”

“Okay then.”

Max makes his escape.

It’s annoying to have to wash his hair twice in one day, but hair’s worse than clothes for retaining weed stink, and as much as he could pass it off as an unfortunate byproduct of existing in the presence of Taylor’s stoner brother, he doesn’t want to take the risk; Mom’d probably go over there to complain about Garrett’s corrupting influence. And the shower gives him the opportunity to think, too.

About Taylor.

He let her touch his scars. And something about that felt right. Felt like it demystified them somehow. Like Taylor claimed them, and in doing so, released their hold on him just a little. He’s not going to start going topless, but maybe by bringing them so completely into his new life, into a new friendship, she’s begun a process which might eventually sever their connection to his past.

Yeah. He kinda likes that.

He also likes that Taylor and Avery get along. They chatted for a while, switching the keyboard back and forth, until Avery had to go for dinner. She and Taylor exchanged details, and then it was just Max and Taylor again. Watching TV. Talking about nothing. Talking about everything.

She’s relaxing to be around. She’s a lot smarter than he originally assumed she would be, which is on him. Making assumptions. Like a girl can’t be bubbly and peppy and test well!

He smiles as he soaps himself up. Her words in her voice. Different to Avery’s—basically two exact opposite points of the female vocal range—but not shrill and whining like he always expects cheerleaders’ voices to be.

“Wow,” he says to himself, imitating Taylor. “Prejudiced much?”

They talked about birthdays. She has one coming up, and he is of course invited to her eighteenth on September 13. He told her he had a birthday recently, but that he didn’t really celebrate it, just hung out with Avery as usual. The confession brought the mood down again. It didn’t last, though, and to change the subject, she showed him her hand-annotated copy of the squad routine book and talked him through what cheerleaders do that gymnasts don’t. When it was finally time for him to go home for dinner, it was with the knowledge of what flyers, bases and spotters are, what they do, and how disastrous it can be when any of them fuck up.

In all, his second day in California could have gone a lot worse. Though it’s weird that Taylor hasn’t mentioned her boyfriend even once yet.

* * *

He’s so dumb! So adorably, annoyingly dumb! He wants to do gymnastics. He’s desperate to get back to it! She could see it in the way he hungrily watched the cheer routines she played for him, and in the rapt attention he paid when she was showing him the cheer book, but he won’t do anything about it! And, okay, Vista Primavera High doesn’t have a gymnastics team, so he can’t do it at school, but he can take classes or something! He can do it on his own time! But no, instead he’s just going to try to keep up with the basics in his backyard—or in hers—and leave it at that.

But he’s also not dumb, and she knows why. He doesn’t want to be the ‘gym eff ay gee’ at another school. He wants to keep his head down and graduate and go to college. And eventually, it went unsaid, he’ll become more like his brother—because he will, Taylor’s wishful thinking notwithstanding—and he’ll either have to learn everything again from scratch—and never again be as good as he was—or he’ll give it up forever.

It was itching on the tip of her tongue all afternoon: join the squad! She wanted so much to say it! And he’d be amazing! He’s better than her at the technical stuff, even if she’s fitter and can last longer, and the other stuff, the cheer-specific stuff, she could teach him, no trouble. Eddie could teach him the guys’ role in the squad. And he’d make them better in turn! They could learn so much from each other!

But she didn’t say it, because she can’t. Because he’s the wrong size and shape. Their routines—their very squad—assume a certain size and shape of guy. Eddie is six foot one and closer to Gordo than Max in physique, and the other guys on the squad are similar; there’s no role for Max there. And while in theory he could take up the same role as one of the girl bases, or even be a flyer if he starts working on his core again, since he can already land like a champ… he’d never agree to it. Being a guy doing girl stuff on the cheer squad is probably significantly worse than being a gym eff ay gee.

Shoot. She’s so close to a solution that helps them both, but there’s no way she can make it work!

Taylor shakes her head and jumps up from her bed, aiming to call for takeout before Garrett gets a chance to order the greasiest and most disgusting food he can find in the big pile of menus in the kitchen. On her way past the computer desk, the picture of her and Max, the one she took with her webcam and sent to Avery, catches her eye.

It makes her smile. Warms her stomach. Because they look like such good friends already!

But what’s weird is that with the low resolution of the webcam, with the fat pixels obscuring the finer details of his face, with the angle the picture was taken from, he looks kinda like a girl.

He looks kinda like a pretty girl.

Taylor stares.

Like a really pretty—

“Taylor!” Garrett calls from downstairs. “I’m ordering food!”

Shoot!

She shakes her head and runs to the door. “Oh no you don’t!” she yells, and starts down the stairs, flexing her fingers, preparing to rip the phone right out of his stupid stoner hands before he orders something with more oil by volume than an entire KFC, and kick him if that doesn’t seem like enough.

* * *

Monday goes by quickly. Max showers, dresses in loose clothing he can move in, and goes over to Taylor’s. They exercise together. Taylor shows him more of her cheerleader moves and tries to give him an idea of how they work with more than one person, but it’s difficult to imagine. She says she should get her friend Willa over, because she’s on the squad and can help Taylor show him, if he’s interested. He says he’s fine just imagining for now.

Then it’s back upstairs to chat and watch TV. She will take him shopping one day, she says, but she’s going to give him more time to get acclimated before she subjects him to the malls here. They hang out, they talk to Avery a little more together, Taylor still doesn’t mention that she has a boyfriend—he’s been noticing more and more how she doesn’t talk about him—and then it’s dinner time and he’s got to go home.

And just when he’s getting excited at the thought of doing it all over again tomorrow—and reveling in the feeling of actually looking forward to something for once—his mom drops the bombshell: on Tuesday, they’re having a family day. They’re going to go out together and look around the stores and have a nice lunch somewhere, so he needs to get his sunscreen and some nice clothes and be ready to go out at nine in the morning sharp.

As Taylor would say, ick!

They got the cable TV and internet connected while he was out, though, so after dinner he sets up his aging computer and messages Taylor on AIM to tell her he can’t come over tomorrow. She’s sad—and annoyed that it’s not going to be her who introduces him to the shopping here—but she gets over it, and they end up talking well into the night.

* * *

“Yeah, and he can’t come over today. His parents want a ‘family day’, which basically means they’ve kidnapped him and his enormous brother and they’re going to drive all over town and go shopping and eat out and because they’re from New York they’re probably all going to die of heatstroke on the steps of Spring View Mall twenty feet away from the air conditioning and I’m bored, Willa!”

“Whoa! Okay. Take it easy, Tay. Start again. Who is Max?”

Taylor winds the phone cord around her little finger. “He’s this boy—”

“No, no, I understood that part. I mean, why are you so into him?”

“I’m not into him! He’s just— He’s nice, Willa. He’s a nice guy. Do you know any nice guys? Apart from Eddie, I mean.”

“Apart from Eddie? No. I know plenty of only mildly offputting guys, if that helps.”

“It extremely does not.”

“Fair,” Willa says.

“Willa, he’s super sweet and you have to meet him! So what I was thinking is, he had his eighteenth like a week ago, just over, and he didn’t even do anything for it! So I thought about a surprise party—you know how much I love surprises—but he’s kinda gunshy. So then I thought, what about us? Like, the four of us? You and Eddie and me and Max. Tomorrow night. Over here. Garrett can get us drinks and we’ll have a little birthday party! For Max!”

“Uh-huh.”

“What do you mean, ‘uh-huh’?”

“Me and my boyfriend and you and your…”

“Max, yes.”

“You and your Max.”

“No! Just me and Max. He’s not mine…” She probably shouldn’t sound so wistful.

“You have a boyfriend, Taylor! Remember Gordo? Big guy. Linebacker. Very straight nose.” Over the line, Willa giggles. “Very straight guy in general.”

“Max isn’t like that.”

“Didn’t you say he’s not gay?”

“He’s not! He said so!”

“He just, like, came out and said it?”

On her kitchen stool, Taylor squirms. “Not directly. But we were talking to his friend from New York and they were talking like he’s not gay. He even said he’s ‘not allowed’ to say the word; you know, um, eff, ay—”

“You don’t need to spell it, Tay.” Willa breathes heavily into the phone. “So. He’s not gay. And he’s not like Gordo. What is he like?”

“I don’t know, Willa! He’s… He’s sweet and he’s sensitive and he’s kinda… He’s Max, Willa. Max.”

“You’re saying his name like you think it’s helping your ‘not into him’ case.”

“Is it?”

“No.”

“No fair,” Taylor whines.

“You’re lusting, Tay.”

“Am not!”

“Does he know he’s got no chance?”

“…No? Yes? Maybe? But I don’t want that from him, Willa. I want a friend. I want him to be more like how you are with me, not like how Gordo is with me. I think. Shoot, I don’t know. Stop asking confusing questions.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“I’ll come to your party, Tay. I’ll wear something nice and I’ll bring Eddie and I’ll meet your new best friend and we can do the birthday thing. Just promise me it won’t be weird.”

“Zero weirdness. I promise. Willa, you’re the best.”

“I know. And—”

“Shoot! Doorbell! Gotta go!”

She could probably have made it to the front door without having to hang up, because the kitchen phone has a really long cord, but if she kept Willa on the line she was going to keep asking those uncomfortable questions, and they’re not anything Taylor wants to address right now. She’s on the fourth day of her friendship with Max and she still doesn’t know exactly what she wants from him, only that she wants something, and it’s definitely not what she wants from Gordo.

She’s still frowning at the thought of it when the doorbell goes again, reminding her why she hung up in the first place. Irritably she rushes to the front door and yanks it open.

Shoot.

“Gordo!”

“Hey, babe!”

He yanks her into an embrace she has no chance of getting out of unless she wants to get violent, so she waits for him to get done before she says anything else. And then he plants a kiss on her mouth as he releases her, so she has to wait that out, too.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, when finally she can. “I thought football camp was—”

“It’s not ‘football camp’, Tay, I keep telling you.” He starts taking the stairs two at a time, and Taylor has to admit that for all that he can be, well, annoying and persistent, he has a great body. And it’s a reactive body, too. He moves a muscle in his arm and it’s like a butterfly flapping its wings; somewhere on the other end of his body, another muscle moves with it. “It’s an intensive week-long training regimen overseen by—”

“If it’s so intensive,” she says, climbing the stairs after him, “then why are you here?”

“I missed you, Tay!”

He punctuates her name by swinging open the door to her room. She follows him inside, allows him to shut the door, and when he sits down on the end of her bed she chooses one of the computer chairs, rolling it into the center of the room.

“No, seriously,” she says. “Why are you here?”

“Coach gave us the afternoon off and it’s only sixty miles and I wanted to surprise you, Tay!”

She reaches forward to swat him on the knee. “Gordo! You know I hate surprises!”

“I know, I know,” he says, “you like everything to be organized and in its place—” he mimes typing on an invisible typewriter, which is seemingly how Gordo thinks you organize yourself, “—but you’re not doing anything today, are you?”

“No,” she admits.

“So?”

“Fine,” she says, stepping up from her chair and over to him. He rises to meet her, circles an arm around her waist and dips her, and the shiver that involuntarily passes through her isn’t entirely unwelcome. Enough that when she comes up, flushed, she’s ready for more. But she has to set the ground rules, first. “No sex stuff, though.” She holds a finger up to his face, which is tricky because of how close he’s holding her. “Okay?”

He kisses her again and releases her. “Yeah, Tay, I got it. I can wait a month. Hey, you wanna go out on your birthday, just the two of us, and celebrate?”

“I have a party on my birthday, Gordo. You know that!”

“Okay. Day after?”

“That’s a Sunday, and we have school the next day. We’ll do something the Friday after, okay?”

Gordo nods, grinning expansively. “Perfect, Tay, just perfect. I can’t wait. I mean, I can wait. And I will wait. But I can’t.”

“Understood, Gordo.”

“And— Oh, hey, what’s that?”

“What’s what?”

And that’s when Taylor realizes she should have been so much more careful, that she shouldn’t have let Gordo come up here—not that she had much chance of stopping him—and that maybe she should start applying the same ruthless organization and forward planning she uses for school, cheerleading and Gordo to the rest of her personal life, because he’s over at the door, looking at the latest addition to the height marks carved into the frame.

“Tay,” he says slowly, “who’s Max? Is he a guy? Did you have a guy in your room?”

Strangely, he doesn’t sound mad. At least, he doesn’t sound like he usually sounds when he’s mad. His voice is too steady. Somehow that’s even scarier.

“No guys, Gordo,” she says quickly, because it’s what he needs to hear. “Promise.”

“So who is he?”

Looking quickly around her room for inspiration, Taylor’s eyes land briefly on the computer, and she remembers the webcam photo she took. How the low-quality camera basically erased the wispy dark hairs on Max’s upper lip and softened his features. Made him look different.

“Max is a girl,” she says. “Maxine. She’s a friend and she was visiting. We were just messing around.”

“I don’t know a Maxine,” Gordo says, still frowning.

Taylor quickly reaches for some facts she can use to anchor the lie. “She just moved here. She starts at our school in the fall. She’s nice, Gordo.”

“Cool,” he says, nodding. “Cool.” And then his grin returns as if it had never left. “Is she hot?”

“Yes,” Taylor says, “she’s hot, but you’re taken, you idiot!”

He holds up his hands in fake surrender and edges around the room, pretending to back away from her. “I get it, I get it, don’t attack me!”

Gordo’s still backing away, and he bumps into the computer desk, knocking the mouse and deactivating the screensaver, and Taylor wishes desperately for a do-over of the last few days, or at the very least, the last few minutes.

She left the webcam picture up on the screen. She had it up last night when they were talking—just to look at—and she never turned off her stupid computer because she was too tired, and she couldn’t even hear it when she woke up because it’s so freaking quiet, and now Gordo’s looking at Max, and—

“Oh, hey,” he says. “Is that Maxine? She is hot.”

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

On Amazon, for Kindle and in Paperback.

As an ebook from these online stores.

Or from Itch.io.

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finniestoncrane · 11 months ago

Note

Ik this is sorta late depending on time zones and this ask being cheesy as hell but what would the Riddlers do for Valentine's Day with reader? Something cheesy asf? Or not celebrating it at all? I wanna know I'm curious as hell now

Valentine's Date

Riddler Headcanons gosh i rushed so fast to get this done today!! luckily, it was a blessing as work was SLOW! so here are the boys and how they would celebrate valentine's day in my mind because i am down bad for them all and live in a fantasy world where they would all try and do something nice for you 💚 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: suggestive stuff but it's mostly fluff!!

young justice

i can almost guarantee that if you're spending valentine's day with him, it'll be the first one he's had with a partner

so he is pushing the boat out. or... as best as he can... what with the nerves

he wouldn't do something too extravagant, not too fancy or big. that would only increase the number of people he might embarrass himself in front of

he's far more keen on taking you to a quiet, unexpected but comfortable restaurant with quiet music and only a few tables, so he can talk to you and hear you properly

he'd buy you a single rose, hire the violinist to play a song by your table, your favourite tune

no dancing, he's got two left feet, but he will reach across the table and hold your hand, stroking it with his thumb and looking into your eyes

and when he takes you home, he'll walk you to your door and offer you a shy, reserved kiss

whether or not you pull him through the door by his tie and ravage the poor beast is up to you

unburied

he wouldn't actually ask you out for valentine's day

he'd give you a rant about capitalism and how it's a made up holiday and that you should keep your calendar clear anyway just in case he decides to do an ironic date

you'd think his goal was to embarrass you, in fact, because he's showing up to your house with a little remote control and blasting your favourite song out of every speaker system you own

"hey, sh... don't ask how i know your favourite song or how i got control of your devices. just... stop thinking about it. hey. hey! you're thinking about it... don't think about it, sh you're too pretty to think about it. let me think about it, i'm smarter and prettier"

dinner isn't anything too special either. takeout pizza on a rooftop in gotham somewhere. it could be romantic though, and it would be to someone desperately in love with him like you

listening to him talk about light pollution, asking if you want to hear some riddles about constellations, pointing out the various places he's hid from his enemies

it's not traditional by any means, but it is oddly romantic. dinner, music, time alone under the dulled stars. maybe that was his plan all along

gotham

oh we are going WHOLE HOG here for valentine's day!! you know he's an old romantic, a sweet and gentle soul

so don't think for a moment that you'll be seeing any other people that day, your attention will be solely focused on each other

he's sent, uh... someone has sent in some miscellaneous threat to your workplace, so luckily for you(!) you're not required to go in! SO SURPRISE!! he's here to make you breakfast

and then a brief walk down some of the quieter streets, where he might be brave enough to ask if he can hold your hand

once you're at his apartment, you're in for some respectable but tension filled cuddles on his sofa while you watch some classic romance movies

and then he's making a beautiful three course meal for you both! pressed tablecloth on his little dining table, roses in a conical flask, candles in test tubes (is he stealing these from work?)

he'll feed you little bits of food, wiping your face with a napkin, staring into your eyes dreamily

and then the night will end with a perfect and very polite kiss that you'll wish wouldn't end

telltale

he knows how to do romance, he's been around long enough. it's more a question of whether he can be bothered to celebrate

but he'll pull himself together and act the perfect gentleman for you, regardless of how tired he is after a day of committing violent/cyber crime and being oddly agile for a man in receipt of a state pension

(a fact which will come in handy at the end of the evening...)

he'll start off the evening with the traditional gifts. a box of expensive chocolates or candy, perfectly suited to your dietary requirements of course. and a bouquet of flowers. not roses, but your favourites. he knows they'll make you happier

he's not one for being out in public, what with the whole "is he dead" thing, so you'll be dining in BUT to make it special, he has hired a discreet personal chef to provide the food for the evening

slow, quiet jazz playing in the background, just you, him, and the waiters he has hired and has threatened under extreme violence to keep their mouths shut about this particular shift

could it get any more romantic??

arkham

bless his heart but this eddie is forgetting that it's valentine's day until you're handing him a card, grasping it between his dirty fingers, smudging the soft pink colour with grimy fingerprints

then, you'll endure a fifteen minute long lecture about why you should have at least had the sense to warn him in advance, or to remind him, since you know how he can be

and when he's done, he'll be pushing you out of the room, getting rid of you so he can "finish his important work" and only then can you consider "doing something for this silly holiday"

really, he's just looking for an excuse to get you away so he can work on your very last minute present without you seeing

which of course, he'll present to you as though he had been pretending to forget all along

"i made you this, it's a symbol of our relationship"

it's the remnants of a neon question mark bent into place to resemble a heart. and there's hot glue still drying on it. and a screw stuck to it

but it's the thought that counts, and the thought is there! after all he loves you enough to have lied and put aside his important welding or whatever to haphazardly craft the lie

dano

for him, valentine's day is about showing your love for someone. because you can love them every day, but this is an excuse to make a display out of it

so expect a myriad of gifts, food, perfumes, vouchers, jewellery, stuffed animals, flowers, a handmade valentine's card

enough that it makes you guilty (and enough that you wonder if he really has just been saving all his salary instead of spending it on... furniture or therapy)

then, the personalised activities! most of which involve you doing his quiz all about you and your relationship with him, solving several riddles that lead you to a hidden compartment in the wall of his bedroom (weird.) where he's stuffed his poems to you (sweet!) which he will then recite to you, stuttering over the words and blushing the whole time

but it's not enough for him, he wants to shout it from the rooftops, show the world how much he loves you and appreciates you

he's had all this love bottled up for so long with no one deserving to give it to! let's just hope it comes out in a healthy way...

btaa

he's swooping in to your apartment very late at night

"it's only 11pm, it's still valentine's day mi amorrrrr"

look, he's very sorry that he wasn't able to spend the day with you, and that he's incredibly late to the dinner you had planned

but he's a busy little criminal, he has so many things to do AND he had to do it all by himself because he gave miss tuesday the day off so she could go on a date of her own and-

oh see! you've changed your mind now, no longer grumpy, because he was actually doing something kind for someone else

he really is a generous soul, emphasised by the fact that the reason he was late was because he was pulling off a perfect heist in a jewellery store uptown

so... did you save any leftovers for him? or is he going to have to return this beautiful ring/watch/necklace he bought you?

twojar

he's a curveball, like seriously give you whiplash kind of valentine's date

you think it's going to be a very standard evening, after all there you both are in black tie best, sipping expensive champagne, him talking about himself while you try hard not to stare at his tits

but when the meal is finished, he goes to pay in secret and then rushes you out into a car with tinted windows, and it's lucky he can get you so hot and flushed and eager that quickly, since it's not long before you arrive at the next spot

a strip club

which is? i mean not a traditional valentine's day date location, but it could be very hot

and he's booked one of the private rooms for you both, so at least you won't have to hide your blushing cheeks from the rest of the guests

but it becomes very obvious that there isn't a dancer coming to entertain you, and you worry that he expects you to get up there and put on a show, which would be a disaster because you haven't planned anything and-

"happy valentine's day"

ah. of course. why would the world's most self-absorbed man think you would want anything else for valentine's day than a private strip tease from him

and he's annoyingly very right in that assumption

btas

he absolutely does the most! and the most is often cheesy and dorky and therefor a million times more precious

the kind of guy who would buy you a rose for every day he's known you, regardless of how many days he has known you

the kind of guy who gets those little personalised lego figures made of you and him, or gets a plushie of him to give to you so he'll always be near you (and you know he's putting the personalised message in if he gets it from build a bear)

he knows your favourite starter, main and dessert are all from different restaurants, so he's made the reservations at all three with plenty of time for romantic rides in the back of cabs between each stop

it's important he has plenty of time to cover your neck with kisses, and for you to tell him how adorable he is

and then, because he is the cheesiest but in the best way, it's more than likely he'd use valentine's day as an excuse to propose to you, so he's down on one knee under the cloudy gotham night sky to ask you to marry him (and you're obviously not going to say no)

zero year

he doesn't do valentine's day, what a waste of time! he's nice enough to you the rest of the year, why should there be one day where he has to do something extra fo-

oh? oh! oh ok, if it means you have to do something for him too, then he's down for it

yes... that sounds like a wonderful excuse to get up to some mischief... (it's concerning how evil his little face looks when he's supposedly considering activities for the most romantic of holidays...)

although, why bother going out somewhere on a date, it's such a waste of time and effort

he has to keep his energy for more important things, and speaking of... he can think of very few ways to spend an evening that are better than taking you into the bedroom and sharing an exchange of giving for a few solid hours

no need to wear something nice, it's only going to get stripped off

no need to get him a gift, you'll be giving him plenty

and no need to eat something, he'll make sure you don't leave hungry, trust him

#finnie writes #riddler x reader #riddler x you #riddler headcanon #ridler scenario #gotham riddler #arkham riddler #young justice riddler #dano riddler #zero year riddler #batman unburied riddler #bu riddler #telltale riddler #twojar riddler #riddler #the riddler #btaa riddler #btas riddler

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simply-ivanka · 5 months ago

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Who’s Afraid of Project 2025?

Democrats run against a think-tank paper that Trump disavows. Why?

Wall Street Journal

July 29, 2024

By The Editorial Board

Americans are learning more about Kamala Harris, as Democrats rush to anoint the Vice President’s candidacy after throwing President Biden overboard. Ms. Harris wasted no time saying she’s going to run hard against a policy paper that Donald Trump has disavowed—the supposedly nefarious agenda known as Project 2025. But who’s afraid of a think-tank white paper?

“I will do everything in my power to unite the Democratic Party—and unite our nation—to defeat Donald Trump and his extreme Project 2025 agenda,” Ms. Harris tweeted shortly after President Biden dropped out. She’s picking up this ball from Mr. Biden, and her campaign website claims that Project 2025 would “strip away our freedoms” and “abolish checks and balances.”

***

Sounds terrible, but is it? The 922-page document doesn’t lack for modesty, as a wish list of policy reforms that would touch every part of government from the Justice Department to the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. The project is led by the Heritage Foundation and melds the work of some 400 scholars and analysts from an eclectic mix of center-right groups. The project is also assembling a Rolodex of those who might work in a Trump Administration.

Most of the Democratic panic-mongering has focused on the project’s aim to rein in the administrative state. That includes civil service reform that would make it easier to remove some government workers, and potentially revisiting the independent status of agencies like the Federal Trade Commission.

The latter isn’t going to happen, but getting firmer presidential control over the bureaucracy would improve accountability. The federal government has become so vast that Presidents have difficulty even knowing what is going on in the executive branch. Americans don’t want to be ruled by a permanent governing class that doesn’t answer to voters.

Some items on this menu are also standard conservative fare. The document calls for an 18% corporate tax rate (now 21%), describing that levy as “the most damaging tax” in the U.S. system that falls heavily on workers. A mountain of economic literature backs that up. The blueprint suggests tying more welfare programs with work; de-regulating health insurance markets; expanding Medicare Advantage plans that seniors like; ending sugar subsidies; revving up U.S. energy production. That all sounds good to us.

Democrats are suggesting the project would gut Social Security, though in fact it bows to Mr. Trump’s preference not to touch the retirement program, which is headed for bankruptcy without reform. No project can profess to care about the rising national debt, as Heritage does, without fixing a program that was 22% of the federal budget in 2023.

At times the paper takes no position. For example: The blueprint features competing essays on trade policy. This is a tacit admission that for all the GOP’s ideological confusion on economics, many conservatives still understand that Mr. Trump’s 10% tariff is a terrible idea.

As for the politics, Mr. Trump recently said online that he knew “nothing about Project 2025. I have no idea who is behind it.” That may be true. The chance that Mr. Trump has read any of it is remote to nil, and he doesn’t want to be tied to anyone’s ideas since he prizes maximum ideological flexibility.

The document mentions abortion nearly 200 times, but Mr. Trump wants to neutralize that issue. The project’s chief sponsor, Heritage president Kevin Roberts, also gave opponents a sword when he boasted of “a second American revolution” that would be peaceful “if the left allows it to be.” This won’t help Mr. Trump with the swing voters he needs to win re-election.

By our lights the project’s cultural overtones are also too dark and the agenda gives too little spotlight to the economic freedom and strong national defense that defined the think tank’s influence on Ronald Reagan in 1980.

***

But the left’s campaign against Project 2025 is reaching absurd decibels. You’d think Mr. Trump is a political mastermind hiding the secret plans he’ll implement with an army of shock troops marching in lockstep. If his first term is any guide, and it is the best we have, Mr. Trump will govern as a make-it-up-as-he-goes tactician rather than a strategist with a coherent policy guide. He’ll dodge and weave based on the news cycle and often based on whoever talks to him last.

Not much of the Project 2025 agenda is likely to happen, even if Republicans take the House and Senate. Democrats will block legislation with a filibuster. The bureaucracy will leak with abandon and oppose even the most minor reforms to the civil service. The press will revert to full resistance mode, and Mr. Trump’s staff will trip over their own ambitions.

Democrats know this, which is why they fear Trump II less than they claim. They’re targeting Project 2025 to distract from their own failed and unpopular policies.

#Wall Street Journal #Project 2025 #trump #trump 2024 #president trump #repost #ivanka #donald trump #americans first #america first #america #democrats

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octuscle · 7 months ago

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New Car

Peter was aware of how stupid it was to meet with the seller of the car. It was an almost new BMW M3. The car was still going to cost over USD 100,000.00. That was way out of his budget. But there was something that appealed to him even more than the car itself. In a photo, the owner had been reflected in the car's freshly polished paintwork. And Peter couldn't get this reflection out of his head. You couldn't see much. But what you could see was muscular, tattooed and wearing a shiny Adidas tracksuit. Peter couldn't get this image out of his head for the life of him. So he dialed the number given. And when he heard the voice on the other end of the line, he got a hard-on. It was churlish English with a heavy Arabic accent. Peter was actually on the phone to one of his favorite wankers. Bloody hell! He tried to act as cool as possible. He tried to ask a few questions that feigned competence in the direction of sports cars. He was trying to come across as cool and chavvy as possible. He probably sounded more than ridiculous. But the two of them arranged to go for a test drive. After the salesman hung up, Peter urgently needed to go to the bathroom. And have a wank.

The appointment for the test drive was on Friday evening. Peter took the bus to the address given, which was located in a suburb with a bad reputation. There was garbage on the streets. There was graffiti on the walls. But the cars parked on the street were in many cases like something from another world. Expensive, high-powered cars, perfectly maintained. And he was leaning against one of them. The prototype of an Arab chav who spent too much time pumping iron and in the tattoo parlor. Peter had to make sure his erection wasn't too obvious. The guy introduced himself as Ibrahim and greeted Peter with a fist bump. He said that Peter wasn't allowed to smoke in the car and offered him a fag. And instead of saying that he didn't smoke at all, Peter gratefully accepted the fag, took a light and walked around the Bavarian beauty, trying to look as professional as possible. "Shit, dude, what's that on your pants?" Damn, Peter must have sat on a piece of chewing gum on the bus. "You're not getting into my car like that," growled Ibrahim. He opened the trunk, took a pair of training pants out of a sports bag and threw them to Peter. "Seriously?" asked Peter. "Here, on the street?" "Either that or you can fuck right off again." So Peter took off his shoes and trousers, put on the tracksuit bottoms and then his…. Nike sneakers??!?!???! He wasn't wearing sneakers. Ibrahim threw him the key. "Come on then, brother. Fall in love with my baby!" Peter sat down and tried to start the engine as cool as possible. When the 510 horses howled, he winced. Ibrahim grinned. "Yes, you have to get used to it. But you will. Go on, drive towards the highway!" The car was hell. An untamed beast. Peter's forehead was covered in sweat. "Come on, old man! Step on the gas!" And Peter stepped on the gas. The speedometer showed 140 miles per hour. Damn, that would cost him his driver's license. And Ibrahim calmly started a conversation about soccer. "Of course Galatasaray will win the championship again this time!" Peter heard himself say and stepped on the gas once more. The BMW was power and strength pressed into leather and steel. He loved the car. As if remote-controlled, he chased the car first along the highway and then at far too high a speed along the arterial road towards the city center. The sleeve of his jacket stretched across his biceps as he wrenched the steering wheel. Ibrahim pressed himself into his sports seat. "Hehehe, you and the baby make the perfect unit!" "Dostum, ne düşünüyorsun? Gerçek Türk erkeklerinin kanında petrol vardır." replied Peter. No, not Peter, Sinan! Ibrahim turned up the music. Syrian gangster rap. Just the right thing to cruise along the city center boulevards now. it was a warm evening. Ibrahim opened the glass roof. He let his mighty biceps hang out of the open window. The boys and girls looked respectful, envious or disgusted when Sinan revved the engine. But in any case, they looked: Who gives a shit, they had the coolest car, they were the cool guys with the biggest muscles. "Dude, get some cigs and then change drivers," said Ibrahim Sinan. And Sinan headed for the nearest kiosk.

Sinan would never be able to afford such a car in his life. Even though he was number two in the gang behind Ibrahim, his place was usually in the passenger seat. But fuck it, Ibrahim was his boss and he followed him through rough and tumble. Ibrahim's hand missed the stick of the gearshift. But he caught something that was at least as hard. Shit, if he cums on the leather, Sinan would spend the whole morning cleaning the car again. But it was worth it.

Pics by @ki-kink

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #inked man #race change #ai image #chav tf

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beerok23 · 18 days ago

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The Grass is Always Greener - Ch. 1

It’s almost Christmas in Whickber Street, a quiet neighborhood in the little town of Tadfield. Mr Brown sees the upcoming holiday as the perfect chance to throw a party to impress Mr Fell, the charming bookseller who lives next door. He must deal with Mr Crowley, though, an annoying astronomer who moved to Tadfield five years prior and became best friends with Mr Fell. Mr Crowley and Mr Fell both secretly wish that their relationship was something more, but they are two idiots, so they keep on pining for each other under the scrutiny of Comma, Crowley’s very insightful cat. ~ A Good Omens Christmas AU ~

A huge shout out to my Beta @hermiola 💛💛💛

For @pookasluagh, @ineffablerainstorm and @somewhere-in-wales

Excerpt from Ch. 1 - Utterly Ridiculous

“It’s the most — wonderful Christmas instalment I’ve ever seen, Crowley.” Mr Brown tried to ignore the fact that his response was coming along with the chorus of Somebody To Love – and was that a blush on Mr Fell’s face? “How did you build this up on your own? I’m pretty sure this wasn’t here yesterday.” Mr Fell looked extremely impressed. And also in awe. How Mr Crowley hadn’t realised that their neighbour was obviously enamoured of his presence was a mystery worthy of being studied. “Oh. Well, uhm. You know. Yeah, mmm, I just… I worked on it last night.” “Sounds like an impossible job for only one person,” Mr Fell noticed. “Not impossible, no. Just… intricate.” “I didn’t picture you as a modern music lover, Mr Fell.” Mr Brown interjected, trying to spark his interest (to no avail), but sparking one of Mr Crowley’s infamous glares, instead. “Oh, well, I’m not a fan of… bebop, per se,” Mr Fell elucidated, immediately thwarting Mr Crowley’s attempt to retort, “But I’ve become quite accustomed to Queen. Sometimes it feels like it’s the only music that Crowley’s car likes playing.” Mr Brown ignored the fact that Mr Fell was talking about an inanimate vintage Bentley as if it were a sentient being. “It’s rock, Aziraphale, for god’s sake!” Mr Crowley immediately moved his tongue in his mouth as if he was trying to deal with the lingering of a very bad taste. “And to be fair… it is a bit loud, my dear.” Oh, Mr Brown would have given an arm to be called that. But he was already sadly and pathetically aware of the fact that the possessive adjective only applied to a scrawny-man-in-black. Another thing that the idiot hadn’t realised yet, apparently. Perfect, now the idiot was smiling that smug smirk of his. Mr Crowley manifested a remote control from a pocket of his far too light jacket (it was December, how could he cope with going around almost undressed?!) and pressed a combination of buttons. The music changed, and Queen gave way to a very soft and mellow piano track. Mr Fell recognised it immediately and put his hands on his cheeks. Brown couldn’t tell if they’d just reddened for the cold or because he was blushing. “Oh, Crowley! It’s Debussy.” Brown witnessed impotent as Mr Fell gawked at Mr Crowley with that look in his eyes. “I asked the project designer to add a second combination to play at night. I didn’t want Freddie’s vocals to keep the whole neighbourhood perpetually awake for a month.” “Debussy’s Clair de lune is my favourite piano piece.” Mr Fell’s hand was metaphorically on his heart, now. “I know,” came Mr Crowley’s bashful answer. Mr Brown sighed in exasperation. You see, one could only stand a certain dose of languid looks of understanding between these two idiots. And when you were forced to witness such knowing looks day after day, after day… Well, let’s just say you would have developed a slight idiosyncrasy towards redheads too.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens 2 #good omens 3 #ineffable idiots #aziracrow #good omens ao3 #ao3 good omens #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction #david tennant #michael sheen #the grass is always greener

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orphicrose · 10 months ago

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The co-host (Alastor x Femreader) III < >

Summary: You are Alastors Co host in life, perhaps more. But are separated by a sudden death. When you are finally reunited in the under world, it is up to Alastor to figure out why you don’t remember him.

☙I’m very thankful for everyone who has left nice comments on the other parts so thank you<3

I’ve started a taglist so do let me know if anyone is interested

@cannibalcoyote

—————————————𖤐

The king of wraith was up y/n’s ass with the lack of souls coming in this month. Usually they were at least in the thousands. But they had dropped to hundreds. She was the only one who could claim them, so it was difficult for one person to visit all those people in one day. It was exhausting.

On top of that, a new evil was lurking around every corner. Watching her at every moment and kept her on her toes. Now she had gone face to face with this thing, she was almost certain he was more powerful than her. But how. She had the gift from Satan. Who was more powerful than him? A lot, actually. But none of them as remotely accessible. Lucifer? No way. Lilith? No one knew where she was. Perhaps he made a deal with one of the sins? It was a mystery. But all she knew is she had a reason to be scared.

“I don’t know Zestial, I really don’t. He was like nothing I’ve ever seen before. His body grew, like, bigger. And he seemed like a deer?” Y/n questioned herself, trying to recall everything she had seen that night.

“A wendigo?” He asked, trying to see her image.

“Yes! Yes a wendigo.”

Zestial had grown worried when she didn’t show up, and decided it would be best if he visited her the following day. Her home was the definition of humble and cozy. A simple house outside the city. Where the streets didn’t bother her sleep and she could feel a sense of security.

“Do you have any reason to believe he may come after you again?” He questioned

“Well, he didn’t chase me. Though It was dark, there’s the chance he couldn’t see me and decided against it”

”Please, keep safe tonight dear friend. And do contact me in the morning.”

Few more words were said before his departure. And with that, she was alone again. In a more safe destination but, nonetheless, alone. How was a being as gifted as her feeling fear, was it because she didn't really like it coming down to a fight? Did she truly value her life? Who knew. The only thing she could do was focus on her work, and distract herself. Overthinking was not a good game plan. Her bricked fireplace was letting off embers into her living room, her walls portrayed images of their shadows dancing along to the flames of the small fire. Warm feet resting on a velvet ottoman as she gracefully flicked through this weeks paperwork. The numbers really have dropped, what was she going to tell the boss? He wasn't exactly the forgiving type. The amber light gave her face a beautiful glow as her eyes showed the focus she had been needing for weeks.

Three distinct knocks erupted her from her mind. Each equal lengths of time apart from one another. Maybe it was the wind, or her imagination. Afterall, she had been through a lot of stress recently. Eyes flickered down the hall to where the front door sat, her chair angled perfectly so she could see it. Though, there were no windows to warn her what was on the other side. There it was again, the exact three knocks. It can't be mistaken for anything other than a living being anymore. Her feet landed in her slippers, warmed by the fire, and her hands brought up in front of her ready for anything. The door got closer and closer, her fear tying a knot in her stomach. Suck it up y/n, she thought, Satan wouldn't let anything happen to you.

Without letting her logic control her anymore, the door swung open. "Hel-", he began before she swiftly shut the door again. It was him, has at her house, at her front door, while she's in her pajamas. What a way to go. Again, she opened the door "-lo" he continued as if nothing happened. "Did your mother not teach you how to properly welcome a guest?" he fended offense, before setting his microphone in front of his feet and leaning on it. Teeth bearing a blood thirsty grin, similar to their first encounter, but definitely not holding as much of a desire for murder in his eyes.

"She taught me not to talk to strangers", she in fact did not do this, but she did teach her how to make origami swans!

"Oh, but she must have! Such a smart woman your mother was!" He treaded lightly, or so he thought to himself. He was certain that the both of you were thinking the same thing, but that was not the case.

"And what is it that makes you think you know my mother?" Her tone more brave this time. Was this some manipulation tactic to gain her trust? What exactly was he playing at. He seemed like the type to play with his prey, but not in this way.

"Because i did know her, dear. Have you not caught on yet?" That look in her eyes was too painfully familiar to not have been her. It was her, but it didn't seem like she knew that yet. He was becoming frustrated, maybe he should have shown her he wasn't a threat. Not to her anyway. Or maybe he could have showed up in a more public space, in the light of day. "No, you haven't caught on yet." A sadder tone flashed through him, without his smile failing to give him away.

"I don't appreciate you taunting me before you attempt to hurt me." Y/n bit back, trying to shut the door again. Something stopping the door from closing. She looked down to find his cane wedged between, forcing an opening for him to peek his head through.

"You don't seem to understand. I've already had my meal today y/n, I'm just here to have a civilized conversation with you" His use of her name struck even more fear into her

"And... how do i know you wont turn on me"

"Maybe because we both know you're more powerful than you think. Or maybe because i know your full name, miss y/n m/n l/n"

She was more than a little creeped out at his point. There wasn't a single memory of her doing it, but at some point she must have invited him inside. Because he was sitting in the lounge chair opposite her now, appreciating the fire as if he wasn't some crazed serial killer. She didn't dare look away, mapping every little change in his expression. What was she even doing. He tried to make her his dinner about 24 hours ago. And now he's sitting in the place where she eats hers. Something in her just told her that this was where she was supposed to be in this moment. Whether fate was setting her up for her inevitable second death, or something bigger.

"You have a very cozy home, y/n" His voice became softer, never lacking in the static undertone he carried with him.

"That's Miss L/n to you" Not a second was hesitated before she bit back.

"Of course, miss L/n" Alastor hummed, initiating a brief silence they used to be accustomed to. "I am going to assume you don't remember me" Sarcasm complimented his voice nicely.

"Remember you? From yesterday when you attempted to send me to my second fate? Uhm, yes." Eyes still locked onto his face.

"And i am deeply sorry for that... misunderstanding" He replied, receiving a scoff from Y/N. "But i was talking about years prior to yesterday"

She didn't respond with words, just a confused look in his direction. "years?". She truly didn't understand what he was getting at. If he wanted to kill her, she didn't doubt it would have happened by now. So what else could he possibly want. By this point, he knew she wasn't just messing with him. Something was truly wrong. It was wrong enough that she was down here in the first place, but to own a business dedicated to retrieving souls and being an overlord? Not his Y/n, never. He was looking for purpose, and he found it.

"I see. Well..." his crimson eyes displaced signs of genuine disappointment. "I see you need time to recover from our little encounter yesterday. But you will be seeing me again" and with that, his body faded into the shadows of the carpet. Similar to how he appeared the first time they met. There she was, left with more questions than one person needed. She definitely wasn't sleeping tonight.

#hazbin x y/n #hazbin x reader #Hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #alastor fluff #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin charlie #hazbin angel dust

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holylulusworld · 1 year ago

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Backpack - Kinktober 17

Summary: You've got a new neighbor.

Pairing: Jax Teller x fem!Reader

Kink: Thigh riding

Warnings: ogling, cocky reader, thigh riding, implied smut

Idea by: @dawn-petrichor-world

Kinktober vs Flufftober 2023

You were about to spend your Friday night like every Friday night. The bathtub was waiting for you, along with a glass of wine and a book or your vibrator. Whatever would make you fall asleep sooner?

That was until your eyes landed on your new neighbor. A cigarette dangling from his mouth as he watches you. He puffs on the cigarette, inhaling deeply as you watch him with curiosity.

“Who is that?” You crane your neck to get a better look at the man standing across the street. He flips the cigarette away and nods in your direction. “What is he up to?” Licking your lips, you watch the man turn around. He uses a remote control to open the garage.

“That’s the new neighbor. I think his name is Teller,” you dip your head to glance at your neighbor, Patsy. If anything happens in your neighborhood, Patsy is the person you go to. She knows everything about everyone. “I think he’s a biker or something.”

“A biker.” Oh, your Friday night just got interesting. Your new neighbor rolls his bike backward out of the garage. “Maybe our little neighborhood gets a bit more interesting now.”

“I hope he doesn’t throw loud parties and lure more bikers in,” Patsy wrinkles her nose as the bike roars to life.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” you tut. Your eyes are glued to your new neighbor’s bike. You always had a thing for bikes. Sadly, you never were brave enough to ride a bike. You always chickened out.

“That monster is loud, and stinks,” she points at the bike. “I will make a note and talk to the other neighbors about that…uh…”

“It’s a Harley-Davidson Dyna Super Glide Sport,” you roll your eyes as she takes notes. “If you want to complain about it, you should know its name.”

Two weeks later you’re watching your neighbor again. Watching him became your newest hobby. Whenever he works on his bike or prepares to go on a ride, you watch him.

Today you pretend to water your roses as he rolls his bike out of the garage. All you know about the mysterious man haunting your dreams is his name. Jax Teller.

You sigh as you imagine becoming his backpack. Your legs and arms slung around his body while you go on a ride with him.

“Maybe I should talk to him,” you say to yourself. If you want your fantasies to come true, you must talk to him eventually. “I can do this.”

Placing the watering can on the ground you take a deep breath.

You’re wearing your favorite summer dress and light makeup. Usually, you don’t wear this kind of outfit at home, but you want to impress your new neighbor.

You cheer yourself up while walking toward your neighbor. He sits on his bike, smoking a cigarette. His eyes are glued to you step toward him and his bike.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he replies, smirking as you put one hand on your hips, and push your tits out. “I’m Jax. Your new neighbor.”

“I know,” you take the cigarette out of his hand to take a puff. You try not to cough, not used to smoking. “I like your bike.”

“Thanks,” Jax grins. He’s got a lot of women fawning all over him and wonders if you are different. “What’s your name? I didn’t get it.”

“It’s Y/N,” stepping closer to his bike you run your fingertips over the handlebars. “Excuse me, but…can I go for a ride?” You look him straight in the eyes, holding his intense gaze as you try not to show that you’re nervous as hell.

“Sure baby,” he grins. “Let me get a helmet.”

“Oh,” you move your hand to his thigh, gently squeezing it, “I didn’t mean the bike.”

He inhales sharply, but his eyes darken. “You’re a bold one,” Jax smirks darkly. “How about we go on a ride with my Harley, and you can get that ride later…”

Just as promised, Jax took you on a ride. You enjoyed every minute. It was just like you always imagined. Wild, and free.

But your night didn’t end when he drove back inside his garage.

Jax didn’t let you chicken out. He took you to his home, whispering filthy words in your ear as you tried not to pounce on him right on the front porch.

Now, in his bedroom you watch him sit on his bed as he watches you like a hawk in return.

“I want you to take off your panties,” Jax demands. He holds out his hand and clicks his tongue when you take too long. “No thinking. Take off your panties and come here.”

His voice raspy voice goes straight to your core. “Okay.” You breathe out as you move your hands under your dress to shove your panties down your legs. You step out of your panties and pick them up.

“Come here,” he pats his thigh. “I want you to go on the ride of your life,” Jax smirks as you place your panties in his hands. He presses the fabric to his nose, inhaling deeply. “Your pussy smells so good.”

You make an odd noise. No man ever told you that your pussy smells good. “How? I mean…”

“Take what you want.” Jax points at his lap, but you have other plans. You straddle his lap and grip his shoulder for balance.

“I wanna ride,” you wrap one arm around his shoulders, “your thigh. It looks so inviting.”

He laughs and throws his head back. “Go ahead, baby. When you are done, I’m going to ride your pussy until you beg me to stop.”

Ignoring his mocking tone, you sit on his thigh and wiggle your hips.

“You’re mine,” you purr against his lips as you try to find the perfect position.

When you feel comfortable on top of Jax, you slowly start rocking back and forth on his thigh. It feels good, and sinful at the same time. Jax is a stranger to you, but here you are eagerly riding his thigh.

“Yeah, fuck yourself on my leg, sweetness. I want you to make yourself cum. Rub that pretty clit,” he breathes against your lips. “Fuck, me baby. Come on.”

“Ah,” you whine loudly as you drag your pussy over Jax’s leg. “Fuck. This feels so good. I’m gonna soak your pants.”

“Do it,” Jax’s breathing quickens. “I want to be a good girl and soak my pants and thigh. I want to smell like your cunt.”

Jax grips your hips, now guiding your movement to get you off as fast as possible. Your moans turn into cries, and he smirks.

He knows you are going to be his after tonight. Jax can hardly wait to ruin your pussy thoroughly.

Tags in reblog.

#jax teller #jax teller x reader #jax teller x y/n #jax teller x you #kinktober vs flufftober 2023 #Backpack - Kinktober 17 #light smut #thigh riding #female reader

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withahappyrefrain · 2 years ago

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Work From Home

Summary: Working from home benefits both you and Peter.

Warning: cockwarming, Daddy kink, orgasm control, oral, switch!Peter, switch!reader, language, unprotected sex, p in v, afab reader, choking, I just wrote almost 5K of smut don't look at me

This is dedicated to the Spidey Simps <3

When it was announced that the Daily Bugle was transitioning to working remotely, you didn’t think much.

Peter was a photographer, which meant he still had to leave the apartment for events.

But it did mean that when it was time to edit his photos, he could do so from the comfort of your shared home.

Truth was, you weren't able to notice any differences until the school year ended.

And that's when some things began to change.

First, was the facial hair. Peter usually didn’t keep it past a light stubble, but with the new found freedom of working from home, he wanted to try it out. You noticed it one day when Peter came up from behind you to wrap an arm around your waist and give you a kiss on the cheek before going into his makeshift office.

The hair on his cheek brushed against your skin, providing a soft friction that sent electric sparks throughout your body. Your mind couldn’t help but wander about how it would feel against other parts of your body, the more sensitive parts of your body.

“You good sunshine?” He murmured into your neck, squeezing one of your hips. Curse that radioactive spider bite that made him hyper aware of every little change in your body, like your thighs clenching.

“Like the facial hair,” You mumbled, looking down to see how his large hand covered not only your hip, but his fingers spread down to your upper thigh, “That’s all.”

“Yeah?” His lips brushed against your jawline, the hair above his upper lip tickling your skin.

You nodded your head. Trying to hide how flustered you were was pointless. Even if you didn’t show it on your face, he could feel the heat radiating off your body, hear your heartbeat racing, and the pitch of your breathing increase.

“Maybe we should see how much you really like it,” He said before spinning you around. You couldn’t even get a word out, as Peter had already lifted you up onto the kitchen counter. His large fingers hooked around the waistband of your shorts to easily pull the fabric down your legs.

“Y-You have work in t-ten minutes,” You gasped at the sensation of his beard brushing against your bare thighs.

Peter simply shrugged, a devilish smirk adorning his ridiculously handsome face as he looked up between your thighs.

"You know I can work quickly."

The noise that left your throat was nothing short of animalistic. You normally would attempt to contain yourself when Peter's mouth moved against your cunt.

But that was impossible with how the hair above his lips brushed against your clit.

The noise complaint was well worth it.

—-------------------

The facial hair was the first change. After that morning in the kitchen, his beard remained. Not that you were complaining.

Then came the second change.

"Betty says I look like I should be taking a group of kids to their morning soccer practice," Peter said before taking a bite out of his eggs.

You looked up, taking him in. The beard did make him look older, combined with the eye crinkles that had become more pronounced over the years and the flecks of gray that were scattered throughout his beard and now hair.

"You do look like a Dad," You commented, smiling as you took a bite out of your bagel.

"Guess you should call me Daddy now," He muttered.

"Only if you want me to." There was a slight smirk on your face, a touch of mischievousness to your tone. All in good fun.

But then Peter's eyes widened and he dropped his fork upon hearing your statement.

Oh?

The lack of response and eye contact caused you to raise an eyebrow, "Do you want me to?"

The tips of his ears were turning red, "I mean it's um, it's a two way street. So d-do you want to?"

"I wouldn't have offered it if I didn't." Even though his beard covered much of the lower half of his face, it was still clear that Peter's face was beet red.

"I-I mean, I guess…guess it's something we could try," He muttered to his eggs. He shifted his body in the chair, as if he was trying to hide something.

"Yeah?" You asked, voice raspy and low. Peter didn't have to look up to know you had that infamous smirk on his face. The one that caused your eyes to narrow, looking at him through your long lashes. The one that made his knees buckle, ready to fall. Ready to worship you.

The one that made the fabric around his crotch tighten.

His honey glazed eyes continued to avoid yours as you waltz over to his chair. You straddle his thighs with yours, your arms wrapped around his neck.

A soft yet strangled whine escaped his lips when you ground your hips against Peter's. It was cruel of you to chuckle, but you couldn't help it. Peter being flustered wasn't a new concept; he had quite a difficult time coherently asking you out when you two first met.

But that was romance and intimacy. When it came to the more physical aspect, he wasn't shy. It was well known how much he craved you, your body.

So when he was flustered in these moments, you relished in it.

Peter's neck was warm as you pressed your lips against it, placing kisses and light nips all the way up to his ear.

"You want me to call you Daddy? Hmm? Want me to call you that while I come around your cock?"

Peter's long fingers stilled for a moment before gripping the fabric of your large Tshirt.

"Only one way to find out."

You often forgot how quickly Peter moved. In mere seconds, he had picked you up and thrown you over his shoulder. A loud smack across your ass silenced your surprised shrieks.

—---------------------------------

The bedroom nickname stayed, along with the facial hair.

The other change was just how nice it was to have Peter home with you. Even just a quick peck on the lips as you two passed each other in the hallway brightened your mood.

You had finished work early one afternoon and your mind couldn't help but wonder as to what Peter was doing.

Now you didn't have to guess.

Now you could just walk over to the spare bedroom, which had been turned into his makeshift office.

Fuck.

You and Peter had been together for years. On your left hand was his Aunt's engagement ring. You saw the man every day. But sometimes, randomly, it would just hit you like a train.

Fuck, was he attractive.

His brown hair was slightly disheveled, one lock in the front curled over and moving slightly when he moved his head.

The light seeping in through the window illuminated the few gray hairs in his beard. You had to beg him to not pluck them out, and were glad your pleads worked. The top few buttons of his white shirt were undone, revealing a glimpse of his toned chest.

A large hand of his came up to his chin to scratch the skin and your mind was flooded with thoughts of this morning, when he made you come twice on his fingers before fucking you with his-

“It’s rude to stare, sunshine,” His honey glazed eyes never left the computer screen.

“I wasn’t-”

“I can also smell you.” Somehow, that specific trait he gained from that spider bite always evaded your mind.

He finally looked up at you, a smirk forming on his handsome face, “Ya done with work for today?”

“Yeah,” your voice was breathless, “W-what about you?”

He shrugged, as if he didn’t just mention that he knew how aroused you were, “Just gotta edit this last set of photos and then I’ll be done. Wanna keep me company, bug?”

You nodded, walking over to his chair. Carefully, you swung a leg over one of his. Peter grabbed the back of your thighs, pulling you into his lap. As your arms wrapped around him, you placed your head in the crook of his neck.

“You smell nice,” He murmured, his large hands moving to your ass, grasping and kneading your flesh through the thin fabric of your shorts.

“So do you,” a gasp escaped your lips when he moved you back and forth over his crotch. Through his sweatpants, you could feel his erection growing.

“Yeah?” Peter chuckled before pressing his lips against your neck, finding your pulse point with precision, “Ya wanna keep me warm sunshine?”

A whimper was your response as you nodded your head eagerly.

“C’mon then,” His voice was low, seductively sweet. The smirk remained on his face as you stood up, pulling down your shorts and underwear. Peter quickly adjusted himself, pulling down his sweatpants and boxers just enough to free his hardened cock.

“C’mere sunshine, let’s get ya ready,” His hands grasped the soft flesh of your thighs, pulling you back into his lap. A moan fell from your lips upon feeling his cock slide through your folds.

“Ready to keep me warm until I’m done with work?” You nodded eagerly, any cares about appearing desperate now gone.

One of his hands reached up to the back of your neck, pulling you down for a kiss while the other hand gripped one of your hips, aligning his cock to your entrance.

The initial stretch was a delicious pain, one that you now craved. Slowly, you guided yourself down on his cock until all of him was inside you.

“F-feels s’good,” You muttered against his lips. You began to raise your hips upwards, when both his hands pulled you down, keeping you in place.

“Not a chance princess. You’re keeping daddy’s cock warm until he’s done with work. Understand?”

You nodded, knowing it was either this or be empty.

“Good girl,” He whispered, the praise making your thighs clench.

Your head settled into the crook of his neck once more, a hand playing with some strands of his hair. You tried to focus on finding any gray hairs, on counting the different colors in his beard- dark brown, light brown, red- on anything to distract you from the rising temptation of moving your hips.

Every once in a while, Peter would shift in his chair, leaning in to focus on a detail of the photo, causing his cock to shift ever so slightly against your walls. The first time it happened, you tried moving your own hips, wanting to test the waters.

A light but firm smack to your thigh told you that wasn’t allowed.

So instead, you bit your bottom lip, trying to hold back a whimper, trying to keep your hips still, despite the fact that your mind was telling you to move.

“I know, I’m sorry,” He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, “You’re doing so good for daddy.”

The praise made your head feel fuzzy, combined with how full you felt, his cock nestled inside you. Every movement, every twitch was heightened, a cruel reminder of how desperate you were to move and that you couldn’t.

Not yet.

Peter’s hand moved from your hip to your back, slipping underneath your shirt.

“No bra today?” You shook your head, unsure if the decision would result in pleasure or punishment.

“P-Peter!” His name came out in the form of a desperate groan. Not that he minded. In fact, it spurred him on, his fingers continuing to tweak one of your hardening nipples. His hips shifted, causing his cock to move ever so slightly inside of you. Despite how small the movement was in reality, it began to fill the desperate ache you had been experiencing for the past twelve minutes.

His ministrations would have continued, and perhaps you would have been able to move your hips without receiving a warning, had it not been for the stiff, robotic melody that signaled a video call request from Peter’s computer.

Peter sighed, removing his hand from your shirt, “I’ll make it quick, okay? Just keep being a good girl f’me, kay?”

All you could do was nod. Being a brat wouldn’t get you what you wanted, if anything, it would make things worse, make him delay your pleasure even further. And you were already so close.

“They-they can’t see us, right?” You whispered.

Peter shook his head, “I don’t turn my camera on.”

Betty Brandt’s voice quickly filled the room, “Parker, you done editing those photos?”

“Funny story, I was a few clicks away from finishing before you interrupted me, Brandt.” Peter shifted in his seat, leaning forward. Your teeth dug into your bottom lip, your grip on his white shirt tightening.

“Not my fault you work so slow that Jameson told me to check up on you. He’s worried you’re fucking around while at home,” You could hear the eye roll.

Peter chuckled, his free hand squeezing one of your hips, “I’m not fucking around."

Liar.

"I’ve been doing my work from the comfort of my own home. Not my fault that good work takes time.”

“When do you think you’ll have it done? In ten minutes? I need a specific time so I can get him off my back.”

“How about in five minutes?” Peter offered, shifting his hips again. Was he doing this on purpose? The smirk on his face, the way his eyes darted back and forth between his computer screen and you indicated so.

“You can actually do that?”

“Absolutely. I don’t have anything else to do for a while.” Another lie.

His hand guided your hips upwards, then promptly pushed them back down until you were flushed against the base of his cock once more.

“Peter,” you whispered, your voice dripping with desperation.

“Be a good girl and stay quiet for me,” His voice was hot against your ear.

“What was that Parker?”

“Just my fiancé asking me about dinner, that’s all Betty,” Peter said, sounding ever so casual, like you weren’t in his lap, like his cock wasn't nestled inside of you.

“She enjoys having you home or is she already sick of ya?” Betty asked with a chuckle. You didn’t mind Betty, she was actually one of your favorite coworkers of Peter’s.

Except for right now.

“Get her off,” You whispered into Peter’s ear, earning a smack on one of your thighs.

“The hell was that Parker?”

“Just a fly! Pesky little things.” You were mesmerized as Peter balanced talking to Betty, making edits to the current set of photos, all the while his free hand was moving your hip up and down ever so slightly.

It was torture. The flooding sense of relief had now turned into desperation for more. You wanted all of him, wanted to be able to raise your hips upwards until just the tip of his thick length was inside you, only to then slam down, providing immense pleasure to yourself and him.

You wanted to tell him how good he felt inside of you, wanted his hands everywhere on your body, grasping and grabbing your flesh just so, his teeth nipping along your skin in a way that made your back arch.

Instead you were clenching your thighs, trying not to move, trying to fight against his enhanced strength. It was a losing battle, one you weren’t sure how much longer you could keep silent.

“She loves having me around. We keep each other company,” He said, placing a gentle kiss on your jaw.

“Parker, I still don’t know how you managed to land her.”

“What’cha trying to say Brandt? That she’s out of my league?” His teeth nipped along the soft skin of your neck, leaving what would later form as marks.

“That is exactly what I’m saying, Parker.”

You often thought it was the opposite, much to Peter’s dismay.

“You’re absolutely right,” He admitted before pressing another sweet kiss to your cheek. The gesture made you flustered, causing you to bury your head into the crook of his neck once more.

“Don’t hide that pretty face from me,” He whispered, his voice now soft and sweet. It was moments like these that made you fall in love with Peter. How no matter what -even now- he took the time to sing your praises, to make you feel loved.

You lifted your head up, your bright eyes meeting his honeyed ones. His soft lips pressed against yours in a quick kiss.

“Parker, are you done yet or are you truly just fucking around?” Betty’s voice interrupted the sweet moment, reminding you of your goal: for her to not know you were there.

“Oh, I finished up those edits five minutes ago,” Peter replied, voice cheeky and smug.

Asshole.

“You asshole!” Betty cried, echoing your thoughts. Not that she knew. Or would ever know.

“Careful Brandt, those are words that HR don’t like,” Peter laughed, bouncing one leg up and down, which made you cling onto his shirt once more.

Betty scoffed, “Like HR will do anything, have you met our boss?”

“Yeah, and I’m sure he’s waiting for you to tell him that I sent those edits to him.” Thank God. The conversation was nearing the end.

“You sure bet I will. You’re not the only one who wants to get off Parker.” Interesting choice of words.

“You know me so well Betty.” You wanted to wipe that cheeky smirk off his face. In fact, you had half a mind to raise your hips and slam them down, torturing him for a change.

But that would create noise.

That didn’t stop you from wanting to tease back. You just had to be creative about it.

So instead, your lips started at his collarbone, leaving tiny kisses along his skin. Peter shot you a warning glancing, one that you merely fluttered your eyelashes in response as your lips began trailing upwards.

As Betty began to ramble about the latest thing Eddie did to piss her off, your lips moved closer and closer towards that spot.

“Don’t,” Peter quickly muttered, his grip on your hip tightening. Not enough to hurt you, but enough to let you know he was paying attention to you.

“I’m not moving, like you said,” you muttered into his skin. Peter shook his head, knowing better than to let it slide.

And he shouldn’t have. But then, as he often does, he got distracted by something Betty mentioned. Leading to the perfect opportunity to sink your teeth into that spot between his jawline and neck.

What could best be described as grunt left Peter’s lips, both of his hands now gripping your hips in a vain attempt to stop you. The action caused his cock to shift inside of you, causing another strained groan from your fiancé.

“You good Parker?”

“Yeah,” Peter all but grunted, leaning forward so he could better see the computer screen, specifically the exit call button, “Just bumped my knee against my desk. Anyways, I gotta go Betty. Bye.”

He didn’t bother waiting for his coworker to say goodbye, his attention fully on you now that the call was over.

“You little-” His hands lifted your hips up, leaving you almost empty for a brief moment before he pulled you back down to the base of his cock.

You threw your head back, releasing a high pitch whine that had been bubbling in your throat for the past twelve minutes.

Peter didn’t relent, using his strength to move you up and down on his cock, like you weighed nothing, “Take off your shirt. Now.”

But that would mean stopping. That would mean his cock would no longer be thrusting in and out of your soaking entrance, and you had been waiting so long-

“What did Daddy say?” His hands stilled, keeping you firmly in place, “Did you forget your manners? Need Daddy to teach you?”

“No!” Flashbacks of the last ‘lesson’ appeared in your mind. How he teased you for hours, how you were unable to move due to the webbing that was on your wrists and ankles, how he made sure you teetered on the edge of pleasure for so long, before finally letting you fall over.

With shaking hands, you removed your top, now completely bare to him.

“Good girl,” He chuckled, “Not that you deserve to be called that after the little stunt you just pulled.”

His lips attached themself to one of your breasts, his teeth sinking into the hardened bud. The sudden pain made your back arch, desperate to curl into him, to be as close to Peter as possible.

His hands continued moving your body, as his mouth alternated between your breasts. Meanwhile, your hands found purchase in his hair, grasping onto the short locks to steady yourself.

Peter’s eyes looked up, taking in the sight of you with your lips parted and head thrown back in pleasure.

Fuck you were beautiful. And all his.

The tall tale signs of your impending orgasm were overwhelmingly clear; your whines increasing in pitch with each thrust, the way your teeth were digging into your bottom lip.

“Ya gonna come for me bug?” He asked, his voice now gruff. It reminded you of how he sounded in the morning, when he just woke up.

But there was no sleep lacing Peter’s voice this time.

“C-Can I?” You stammered, barely able to focus on anything other than the way his cock brushed against that one spot that made your legs tremble.

“Sure,” Peter chuckled before sinking his teeth into your collarbone, “But ya gotta ask nicely.”

“Can…can I-I,” his thrusts were unrelenting, making you see stars when your eyes fluttered shut.

“Don’t think so. Look at me when you ask,” Long fingers gripped your chin, your eyes opening to find him staring into what felt like your soul.

“Can I-I come? Please?”

He shook his head, the downright devilish smirk adorning his face charming (though you should find it repulsing in this moment).

“Who ya asking bug?”

Your voice broke, like a dam finally breaking, “P-Daddy! Daddy, please, can I come? Please?”

He pressed his lips against yours, the gesture would have been sweet if not for what you just begged for mere seconds ago.

“‘Course ya can bug. You can always come on Daddy’s cock.”

Your fingers gripped his hair. The name asshole would have fallen from your lips if Peter’s calloused thumb hadn’t moved downwards to rub tight circles against your clit.

A white hot pleasure overtook your whole body as you shook. You slumped over, head resting on his shoulder.

His fingers didn’t let up, continuing to draw tight circles, prolonging your pleasure.

Your eyes met his, that smirk remaining on his face. It then hit you that he wasn’t letting up, that he was going to continue.

“A-asshole,” You gritted your teeth.

“You fucking love it,” He simply grinned before attaching his mouth to your neck, his eyes never leaving yours.

Your thighs seized up, hand gripping his shirt so hard, it was a genuine surprise the fabric hadn’t ripped yet.

His name came out in the form of a broken, desperate chant, your body moving to continue chasing that delicious surge of pleasure.

Peter's own desperate moans began filling the room, his own (rather successful until now) attempt of keeping himself together finally falling apart as he felt your walls squeeze his cock again. He buried his head into your chest, his moans sending vibrations along your bare body.

“You-fuck-you want me to fill ya up, sunshine?” He grunted, voice now strained and shaking as he tried to keep his composure long enough to draw one more out of you.

In the haze of pleasure, you saw how he was barely holding on; his calloused fingers were gripping the flesh of your hips harder than usual, enough for hand-shaped marks to appear the next day. His breathing was now irregular, coming out in the form of shakey moans that fell from his swollen lips.

Peter may be able to crack jokes with thieves and criminals, but when your lips found that spot again, the one where his jaw and neck met, it was truly his weakness.

His grip on your hips softened. Somehow, you found the strength to continue riding his cock, moving your hips up and down.

Your name came out in the form of a broken whine, said over and over again like some sacred prayer.

You brought your hips down once more, this time with more force. The sound of skin slapping against skin quickly filled the room, mixed with yours and his obscene moans, creating a sound so lewd, it would have anyone nearby turning bright red.

"Want you t'fill me up," You whispered into his skin, the facial hair along his jaw brushing against your nose.

"Wanna-fuck- wanna make you full of me," He could barely get out words to form a sentence, the sensation of you squeezing him so tight, your body so close to his, overwhelming.

Your hands thread through his hair, tugging on the slightly sweaty locks. The sudden pull forced his head up, his eyes now boring into yours.

“Yeah?” Your voice was raspy. Though he’d never say it out loud, you knew from the way his cock twitched inside of you how much he loved when your voice got like that; low and desperate, dripping with seduction.

He weakly nodded.

Your lips captured his in a desperate kiss, your tongue slipping past his lips to tease and taste him. Peter was fully at your mercy now, letting you guide the pace.

“What are you waiting for then?” Your lips trailed up to the shell of his ear as your hips continued their ministrations, “C’mon Peter.”

It was hearing you say his name that led to his undoing; that led to him saying your name in the form of a beautifully broken moan, that led him to pulling your hips down, keeping you still as he filled you.

You loved it when Peter came inside of you; loved how his eyes were slightly closed as his red lips parted, moans escaping.

The sensation of being completely full of him spurred you on, your hips continuing to rise and fall.

His thumb found your clit, rubbing lazy circles as you neared the edge of your next high.

"C'mon sunshine," He groaned, "Use me."

Your nails dug into his broad shoulders as you did exactly that.

Peter loved when you got like this; gone with that sweet smile and in its place was a look of sheer, determined focus.

His other hand came up to your throat, his fingers spreading across your skin as his grip tightened.

As the oxygen slowly left your body, all you could focus on was how good it felt, sliding in and out of him. How loud the lewd reminder of how much you both had come echoed throughout the room.

How good he felt.

With one last thrust, you seized around him, back arching in pleasure as your body shook.

"Attagirl," He encouraged, his grip on your throat only loosening slightly, still firmly in place as he watched you come.

You slumped forward, your legs now jello. His arms wrapped around your back as he whispered soothing praises against your soft skin.

"There she is, there's my girl," He murmured before placing a soft kiss to your bare shoulder. His smile burned into your skin, something that always made your heart flutter.

Fingers trailed up to his dark locks, twirling several languidly, "Hey babe."

The nickname never failed to make Peter blush. Which, in turn, never failed to make you giggled as you peppered his bearded cheek with light pecks.

"Let's go get cleaned up, okay?" His hands moved to the backs of your thighs, ready to carry you.

"Can we stay like this for a little longer? Please?" How could he say no to you? To spend more time being close to you?

So his hands moved once more, one wrapped around your waist while the other gently stroked your cheek.

"'Course sunshine. We have all the time in the world."

You two did.

831 notes · View notes

madwomansapologist · 2 years ago

Text

they'll be loved | wanda maximoff

synopsis: It almost took Wanda everything she had. The Darkhold flagellate her, toyed with her mind, but it didn't lie. When she drove by the streets of Westview and entered the familiar house, she heard your voice. She was at home. It was worth. [1K]

warnings: What if... Wanda's plan on MoM had worked. what means America... sick!reader (everything will be fine). and identity theft i think.

Wanda had been looking for the garage control for two entire minutes. She rummage through the trunk, checked the driver's door, opened the gap between the pedals, looked underneath the seats. She was shaking, fingernails turned blue, unable to see because of her tears. Wanda gripped the steering wheel and laid her head against it.

It was a weird body. She felt a little bit higher than usual. One inch, maybe even less. Her neck throbbed depending on how she moved it. And her hair were longer. Down to the mid back. Straighned, it smells like honey.

It wasn't her body anymore. It was, but not exactly.

The portal opened in the middle of a dimly lit parking lot. She was alone. Wanda turned her head and looked to what she left behind. Her temple, the cold bodies, the Darkhold. She closed it, hoping to never see that universe again. Then she heard the keychain bouncing on the ground.

It wasn't difficult to stop her variant. She was just another Wanda Maximoff, not another Scarlet Witch. One move of Wanda's fingers and she was a obedient muppet. She wasn't even scared, just asleep.

The first thing she made was recreate her clothes. Jeans, a white blouse, a comfortable navy blue coat, long boots. Then she thought that a spell to make her look like her variant would be easier. It was, but it still feel weird. Like wearing a costume that wasn't made for your size.

She carressed her variant's face. "They'll be loved", Wanda promissed. When her variant was gone, Wanda didn't felt guilty. It was quickly, painless. Reasonable.

She just picked up the keychain.

Wanda took a deep breath. She rubbed her face, trying to wipe away the tears. When the lump in her throat eased, she decided to just leave the car parked in front of the too familiar house. And as soon as Wanda opened her eyes, she saw the remote hanging from the windshield.

The end of the garage lead to an empty kitchen. Wanda turned on the light. A cookbook was open over the sink, a spoon marking a cornmeal cake page. All the burners on the stove were occupied by pans, she smelled the aroma of cooked meat and sweet potatoes.

"Honey?" Wanda freezes. She heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and a hand banging against the kitchen door frame. "You're home earlier. Something happened?"

She had already understood that it was impossible to have everything. Either Pietro had died in the bombing in Socovia, or she had only one of the boys, or she have her children but Thanos have killed you. And when she finally found one where everything was exactly how it was suppossed to be, you weren't there.

She kept looking. And looking. And looking. And in universes where she had everything, you were lacking. She had already decided that maybe fate didn't want you to be with her. That fate decided and that's it. But then why does she listen to your voice?

"Hey, come here", Wanda shivered when you patted her shoulder. "Okay. Now I'm worried. What happened?"

"Do you love me?" It could be the universe laughing at her face. Maybe you hate her. Maybe whatever you both had is long gone. Maybe she hurted you in this universe. Maybe you are just a friend here.

"We're married, knucklehead, of course I love you. And I swear that if I heard the word worm...

"I won't say it", she was quickly to assure you. Wanda turned away, fearing that she would wake up from yet another dream, but all that surprised her was how quickly you were to stroke her cheeks with your warm fingers. "I swear."

"Remember what I always tell you? You're not a good liar, so it's better to just tell the truth", you looked at her fondly. "You've been crying."

Only then Wanda realized she didn't cleaned her face so well. Your fingertips wiped away the trace of tears. "I was just... thinking too much."

"Is it because of the results?" You stroked her chin and took a step back. Wanda missed your touch already. "Everything will be fine. My mother had the same diagnosis and she's stronger than ever."

"You are sick", Wanda whispered.

"We agree to not use that word at home, remember? I don't want to talk with the boys before being sure of what's happening to me."

That's why Wanda needed her power. Now it don't matter what happened, she can find a solution. With infinite worlds, nothing is impossible. There isn't a cure she can't find. She will never forget America's sacrifice. "You're calm."

"Because we have nothing to worry about", you pinched her nose. Your smile oscilated. "We have great doctors here in Westview, a nice health insurence and... I need to be calm, or else I will fall apart."

"I will take care of you", Wanda promissed. She held your shaky hands, and kissed your knuckles. "I have everything under control."

You didn't believe what she said, but you nodded in agreement. "What would I ever do without you?" You hugged her neck.

You noticed that she hesitated to hug you back. Wanda held you by the waist, fingers glued together. She looked uncomfortable. "What are you thinking about?"

"I just feel you." Wanda swallowed. "I had a weird dream. A weird long dream. I only remember feeling completely alone. Empty. Endless nothingness. But now I just feel you."

You stroked her auburn hair. Your hand went down to her coat, and started to unbutton it. She must be so tired. "We gonna have dinner, put the kids to bed early, and watch a cheesy movie. Okay, honey?"

"Honey?" Wanda smiled. "Okay, darling."

"Go get the kids." You gave her a peck. "They set the plates without me even having to say anything. Our holy little devils."

You walked away to put the food onto glass dishes, repeating to yourself that everything will be fine. You are young, until the diagnosis you were never really sick, the recovery chances are high. Decades ago you went through hell when your mother got sick. And everything turn out fine. Everything will be fine. There is no other option. Everything will be fine.

Within a few minutes Billy ran to you, wanting to help you set everything up, and Tommy waited for you both at the dinner table. None of you noticed the cyan glow coming from the hallway.

Wanda passed by the table, leaving a kiss on the boys' heads, and went back to the kitchen. "Can I put yours?"

"Please, darling", Wanda's voice seem so excited. That made you breath easier. By the time you had served everyone, Wanda left a cup in front of your plate. "I bought you some tea."

You took a deep breath. It was a matter of time before she started making you drink miracle teas. "Thanks, honey." You took a sip of it. Awful. You've drank it all in one gulp, so the torture is over faster. "That was disgusting."

"Feeling better?" Wanda asked you.

You coughed. It was warm, but somehow you feel like something cold dominated your body. "Yeah, I guess." You took a bite of sweet potato, and reached out for her free hand. "No dessert for who don't eat vegetables."

For the first time in ages, Wanda was at home. No one will ever take it from her again. And if someone tries, if the Doctor makes the horrible decision of following her, it won’t be Wanda that comes for them. It will be the Scarlett Witch.

GENERAL TAGLIST: @suakemi @notanalienindisguiseblink

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

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losfacedevil · 11 months ago

Text

Would You Be So Kind // SFK

Sometimes you find love in the most unexpected places - like the venue in which you work. When up and coming band Greta Van Fleet books a whirlwind sold out long weekend you find yourself very partial to the baby faced bass player - who seems to make a valiant effort to get to know you on a more personal level.

Sam Kiskza x Reader Friends to Lovers

WC. 6.3k+

The cool wind of the night seeped through your puffer coat - a clear sign that you had overstayed your welcome at the venue. After having been there all day, your patience was quickly dwindling as you fought with the keys and the lock on the employee entrance. Pulling a deep breath in through your nose you puffed it out through puckered lips slowly, watching as the steam it created danced softly in front if you. You let your mind wander, going over the remote to the pyrotechnics you would have to control along with the regular mixing of their music.

A new up-and-coming band had booked the space for the weekend - or so you had thought. A mini residency as your boss has called it; which called for a long week of learning their musical mixings and just how their pyrotechnics worked. A single string of notes in a song calling for the entire stage lights to change and pyrotechnics to shoot off, creating a beautiful scene for the audience. They had only given you the instrumentals, an easier way to focus on the notes you needed to as you read through the mixes you would have to create with your sound board. A sigh of relief having slipped from your chest when you realized they played their own instruments and needed next to no help in the sound department.

Your mind finally wandered back to reality, shaking yourself from your thoughts and took another deep breath in to calm your otherwise shaky nerves. It was then you noticed that you weren’t alone and watched closely as a young man rounded the corner onto the otherwise abandoned street, his eyes trained on the building you had just exited. He planted his feet firmly on the concrete, his gaze not moving from the neon sign displaying the venue name. The look on his face could be described as awe, his eyes fully alight as he straightened his back and smiled to himself.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” You chuckled, walking slowly down the stairs to his right. You weren’t sure who he was, but knew that he looked almost inviting. The twinkle in his eyes, curvature of his mouth and the way he reached up to run a hand through his to the chin length dark hair calming any nerves you had being in his presence. The sound of your voice shook him from his train of thought and he glanced around, trying to find the source of the voice. His eyes found yours as a cheeky smile spread across his face and he flicked his gaze back to the venue name.

“We will! This is the first big venue we’re playing.” He called, pointing up towards the sign. You cocked your head to the side, slowly sauntering over to where he stood, his feet glued in place. Standing a few feet away from him, you tucked your hands safely into your pockets and glanced up at the sign as well.

“You’re playing here huh? I wouldn’t exactly call this a big venue though.” You chuckled, the nod to your 1,500 max capacity venue being a big venue tickling your funny bone. The young man laughed and turned his attention towards you, mirroring your stance and tucking his gloved hands safely away in his pockets as well.

“It’s bigger than the shitty dive bars and farmers markets we’ve been playing these last few years. The new album we came out with seems to be a hit, some places even reached out to us to play there.” He shrugged his shoulders, letting his eyes dance slowly down the length of your figure. You cocked your head to the side and a soft hum of approval slipped through your nose as a soft smile spread across your face.

“Alright, I’ll give you that, this place is definitely bigger than the dive bars down town.” You chuckled, remembering the shitty shows you used to go to as a party girl in her early twenty-somethings.

“I’m Sammy, by the way. Or Sam for short, which ever you prefer. We’re playing here this weekend. Brian rented the space for three nights and we’ve sold them all out. Ever heard of us?” He questioned, holding his hand out in your direction. A genuine smile spread across your face as you slipped your hand out of your pocket and into his, the gentle but firm handshake grounding you as your name slipped past your lips.

“I don’t know, have I? Does your band go by the name of Sammy?” You joked, knowing only the first name of the lanky boy stood in front of you. His eyes grew wide and the already rosy apples of his cheeks burned a deeper shade of red. A soft sigh slipped past Sam’s lips amongst that of nervous chuckles and a high pitched giggle.

“No… I’m sure my brothers would kill me if I told you the name of the band was Sammy and the boys. We go by Greta Van Fleet, ever heard of us?” Pursing your lips, you cocked your head to the side and wracked your brain for any instance in which you would have heard the band name. You shook your head and with a soft shrug of your shoulders gently slipped your hand off of Sam’s gentle grasp.

“I can’t say that I have. Would it be worth my wild to look you guys up?” Your fingers were already itching to pull your phone out of your back pocket, knowing you’d be able to find them with a quick search on your music streaming service. A boisterous laugh escaped Sam’s chest and he tilted his head back slightly, as if embarrassed by the sound he had just produced.

“You can’t ask a band member that, we’ll always tell you that we’re the greatest musicians on the planet! But I do think we’re pretty great if I do say so myself.” He chuckled, holding his hand out, palm side up as he bowed in a courteous manner. You shook your head at the boys antics and pulled your arm up to eye level, shaking your coat sleeve down past your watch.

“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Sammy. But I’ve gotta jet before my mother thinks I’ve gotten lost somewhere along my travels. Maybe I’ll see you around.” You shrugged, knowing full well you were about to spend your weekend with the cute boy standing in front of you.

“Come to the show Friday night! I’ll put you on my VIP list. Just hit the box office and tell em you’re here to see me, they’ll let you in without a ticket.” He spoke quickly, as if anxiety was beginning to creep up inside his chest. You giggled softly and reached out your hand, nodding towards him as he slid his gloved hand into yours, another gentle yet firm handshake.

“Maybe I will, we’ll see how it plays out. Have a good night, Sammy.” He tipped his head in a gentle nod and removed his hand from yours, replacing it back into the warmth of his pocket. You couldn’t help but to take in his side profile one last time before turning on your heel and leaving him staring at the venue.

~*~*~

Show nights were always chaotic.

A sigh slipped past your lips as you fumbled with the controller that would set off their pyrotechnics and fire, changing the batteries in the device so there was no chance of a misfire. You could hear the hustle and bustle of their equipment beginning to be brought in through the backstage door, rolling carts of who knows what, small parts of a drum kit and two different sting instrument guitar cases; everything being parked right inside of the back door waiting for you to begin setting up.

“So they just keep their pedals with them and not with the kits that got brought in yesterday?” You mumbled, bending at the waist to pick up two different pedals. One you recognized as something for the drum kit and the other was more geared towards a string instrument. Studying the pedal, you turned it over in your hand looking for any markings that would indicate who or what instrument it belonged to.

“Alright I give! Guitar or Bass?” You yelled, turning on your heel to try and find one of the bands crew members with the pedal held high above your head. A familiar chuckle sounded from the other side of your booth and your heart skipped a beat as you spun around quickly looking for the source of the sound.

“That’s mine! It’s for the bass.” He called, slowly making his way around the corner and into your line of sight. Sam’s jaw dropped slightly as his mind made the connection to the night you both had met just nights prior. Reaching up he clapped a hand over his open mouth and pointed in your direction with his other hand. You couldn’t help the giggles that slipped past your lips as you bent at the knee and placed the pedal down gingerly against one of the packs.

“Hi Sammy.” Your voice remained high pitched, the anxiety in your chest overtaking all of your senses. Slowly, you made your way over to where he stood, seemingly glued to the floor. His eyes never left yours and his hand dropped from midair down to his side as the hand he had covering his mouth moved up and he carded his fingers through his shoulder length dark hair.

“You! I know you! You didn’t tell me!” His voice trailed off as he watched you slowly close the space between the two of you, tucking your hands safely into the kangaroo pouch of your hoodie to keep them occupied. A wide grin spread across your face as you cocked your head to the side and shrugged your shoulders.

“You put me, someone you just met, on your VIP list. I couldn’t burst your bubble and tell yo I work here. Couldn’t give away all of my secrets, now could I?” You couldn’t help the giggles that slipped past your lips as a dumbfounded expression kissed his features. Someone called for him down the hall, turning his head to glance over his shoulder he reached up and held up a finger, telling whoever to hold on.

“Well yeah, I wanted you to see the show but… you’re gonna be running the show?!” His voice jumped an octave, eyes widening as you nodded and turned your attention to the last couple of packs that were being rolled in through the door.

“Just mixing some of the guitars and bass when needed. Oh and running the pyrotechnics! Getting the house lights to drop at the same time the background and confetti and smoke fire off during Light My Love took me a week to perfect.” Sam’s jaw dropped and he tilted his head slowly to the side - never once asking how any of the background things besides the mixing of the music was done.

“Wait… that’s not just something automatic? It’s not just the push of a button?” You shook your head slowly and pulled the controller out of your pocket.

“It takes this bad boy and a few different controls in the mixing booth to get it all to work together. Nothing as intricate as your stage show is as simple as the touch of an easy button.” Sam nodded, trying to wrap his head around what you had just said and how you would be the one to control something as dangerous as their fire shooters.

“Sam if you don’t get your ass over here!” The voice that had initially called him was louder as another young man rounded the corner. Sammy pulled his lips to the side and turned his attention to the boy behind him, flinching as he clapped a hand down against his shoulder. A soft smile spread across your lips as the other young man nodded in your direction, shooting you a welcoming smile. He only came to Sam’s shoulder, his hand dancing just above his head as it rested on Sam’s shoulders, his dark hair almost the same length and color as Sam’s. The resemblance between them was uncanny.

“Why are you yelling?” Sam chuckled, the nerves he had initially swallowed down slowly creeping back up his throat.

“I’m yelling because if we don’t get back to hair and make up Josh might kick our asses. You can flirt with the staff later.” He chuckled, giving Sam’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before turning on his heel and made a bee line to the opposite side of the venue.

“I am NOT flirting with the staff! She asked a question!” Sam yelled, his cheeks blazed red and he reached up, cupping his hand around one of his cheeks. Jakes chuckle could be heard bouncing off the empty hallway walls as he retreated back to where he came.

“I think homeboy wants your presence in hair and make up, Sammy.” You giggled, stuffing the device you were still holding back into your pocket. Sam pulled a deep breath in through his nose and shook his head, glancing quickly over his shoulder.

“That uh… pffft. That would be my brother Jake, Josh is my other brother. The man is a diva and he may kick my ass if I don’t get back there. Maybe I’ll see you after the show?” Sam asked and a hopeful smile spread across his face. You nodded enthusiastically and took a step back in the direction of the equipment you needed to finish setting up.

“I can’t wait to see you in action.” You giggled, turning on your heel to return your attention to his bass pedal. Sam couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face as he turned to leave and with one brief look over his shoulder called out,

“You best be careful, I need that pedal!”

You felt your eyes begin to roll before you had a chance to control the action and reached up, shooing him away with the motion of your hand.

~*~*~

A sigh of relief slipped past your lips as you popped the batteries out of the controller you had used for the pyrotechnics and tossed it all into your locked drawer. The house lights were finally up for the night and you could breathe a sigh of relief now that their set was finally over. You had been blown away by their live set, taking in just how expressive Sam’s face was as he played. You sat back in your booth and waited for the crowd to disperse before slowly making your way backstage.

Sam sat on his trunk with his head leaned against the wall behind him. He had changed out of his stage clothes quickly, now dressed in thick plaid red pajama pants and a threadbare t-shirt advertising a high school cross country team. You breezed past him, not wanting to bother him as he looked completely spent, his already heavy eyelids resting even heavier against his tired eyes. A soft smile spread across his face as he sat up and reached out, wrapping his hand around the hoodie you had tied around your waist.

A soft noise escaped you as the hoodie was pulled from your waist and you turned on your heel to see Sam in possession of the article of clothing and a sheepish smile painted across his face. He rolled the hoodie up in his arms and reached out, holding it out to you. With a soft shake of your head you took a step forward and plucked it from his grasp.

“Well I never.” You giggled, wrapping the hoodie back where it had originally been. Sam kept the hand he had held the hoodie it held out in your direction, palm side up and kept his eyes on yours. There was something about those downturned sleepy brown eyes that drew you to him, and your reached out, placing your hand in his. Sam tugged lightly, causing you to move a few steps forward.

“I’ll see you the rest of this weekend, right?” He questioned, his eyes never leaving yours as your lips quirked up into a soft smile and you nodded.

“Yeah I’ll be around. After all, someone does have to run the show, now don’t they Sammy?” You giggled, stepping even closer to where he sat perched on top of his trunk. He puffed out his cheeks and averted his gaze as you settled your hips between his knees and reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

“Well I guess you’ve got me there, don’t you?” He chuckled, tilting his head to gaze up at you. A soft giggle escaped you as you took a step back, suddenly very conscious of your close proximity to him. Sam acted on impulse and reached out, wrapping his arms around your lower back and pulled you back to where you had originally been standing. Your breath caught in your throat as you reached your hands up and cupped his cheeks, letting your mind wander as his eyes fluttered shut.

“Oh great, now he’s getting handsy with the staff, Josh!” Jake called, rolling his eyes as he rounded the corner and caught a glimpse of you wrapped up in his little brother. You eyes grew wide and you let your hands fall, taking a step back to break Sam’s embrace. Mouthing a silent and quick ‘sorry’ you reached out to ruffle his already messy hair before taking off in the direction of the janitorial office.

~*~*~*~

The weekend blew by in a blur.

You had spent the majority of both days at the venue, getting there hours before the band and staying to help clean up hours after they had left. Sleep had been scarce, and you were finally feeling the effects of your choices weighing down on your shoulders as you collapsed into the seat in your booth and folded your arms on the desk, creating a soft space to lay your head against.

It was their last night playing the venue and Sam had made it a point to pop in hours before sound check was set to start. He had snuck backstage and out of your view, a bouquet of roses and food you had been gushing about wanting for dinner last night and knew you’d be leaving too late to get tucked in his duffel bag. He pulled a deep breath in through his nose and took the bouquet of roses out of his duffle bag gently. Sam toyed with the flowers in his hand, debating on if he should bring them to you or rest them next to the take out containers he had planned to surprise you with. A sigh slipped past his lips and he nodded to himself as he wrapped his hand tightly around the stems of the roses and took off in the direction of your mixing booth.

You could hear footsteps approaching and slowly peeled your head up off of your arms, shaking it slightly to try and wake yourself up a little more. The footsteps came to a halt just beyond your door, as if the person had just vanished or changed their mind and retreated from where you sat. After a moment of waiting you deemed the coast to be clear and rested your head back onto your folded arms.

“For you?” Sam’s soft voice reverberated around in your mind and you tried to pull yourself back up into the conscious realm. It was only a moment before you felt his hand on your back, rubbing soothing circles between your shoulder blades. A soft smile caressed your lips as you moved slowly and rolled your head to face him.

“Hi Sammy.” You mumbled, slowly pushing yourself into a seated position and willed your eyes to open. Sam stood to your left with a bouquet of roses held in such a way he was covering the bottom half of his face. You couldn’t help the sleepy giggle that escaped you as you reached out and wrapped your hand around the bouquet.

“For me, huh? Is this to make up for all the teasing I’ve endured this week? Yknow your brothers can lay it on thick.” You joked, your mind wandering to all the silly comments the other boys had made over the last few days. A soft smile caressed Sam’s lips as he wrapped his arm securely around your shoulders and pulled you against him, his gaze never leaving your face as you stuck it into the roses.

“You doing alright? We’re not running you ragged are we?” He asked, genuine concern lacing his tone. You nodded gently, letting your head fall to the side and rest against him. Yous eyes fluttered shut as he began to rub his hand over your shoulder, and you reveled in the feeling of warmth the friction was creating.

“I’m alright. Big show days stress me out regardless of the artist. We were just lucky to run a sold out mini residency this weekend so… this week has been tough.” You spoke through the yawn that slipped past your lips. Sam chuckled and brought his hand up to ruffle the hair on the top of your head.

“I’m sorry our little big band has stolen your sleep. But I think I can make up for a it a bit, come with me!” A soft sigh slipped past your lips as Sam took a step to the side and you pushed yourself to stand, dragging your feet as you followed behind him. Sam couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder as he listened to you dragging your slip-on clad feet across the floor and a soft smile graced his face as he watched you; your gaze trained pointedly on your hands as you picked at your nails - a nervous tick you had that he had picked up on.He slowed to a stop and waited for you to catch up.

“May I?” He questioned, positioning his arm in a triangle against his side and nodded in your direction. One side of your lips pulled up into a smile as you closed the distance and looped your arm through his, placing your hand against his bicep. Sam pulled a deep breath in through his nose, holding it briefly as you rested your head against his arm and allowed him to direct you to your destination.

“Now I know it’s just my green room and it’s nothing special but..” he trailed of, gently placing a hand on your elbow and pulled his arm out from yours, gently guiding you to the beat up couch in the middle of the room. He helped lower you down to the couch and turned at the waist to grab the duffle bag off of the opposite side of the couch.

“Last night you had said something to Josh about tacos from that little place up the street, ‘they’re the best in town! Ugh I wish they were open later on the weekends though!’ and how you were sad you wouldn’t be able to catch them before they closed. So I thought maybe a little lunch before we drive you crazy on our last night here would make up for our chaos.” His booming voice turned shy and soft as his nerves began to kick in and, with a shaky hand, he pulled the take out container out of his duffle and handed it to you.

You couldn’t help the overwhelming feeling that washed over you and your eyes began to fill with tears at the simple gesture. A soft giggle escaped you as you popped opened the take out container and looked up, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall.

“You were listening to what I told Josh I get?” Your bottom lip pushed out in a pout and flickered your eyes up to look at him. A light pink blush had spread across the apples of his cheeks and was starting to creep down his neck as he watched you nearly have a meltdown over a trio of tacos.

“I may have been. But you were so bummed out we were keeping you here past closing time, it was the least I could do.” He spoke fast, his nerves now getting the best of him. Pulling a deep breath in through your nose you closed the take out container and placed it on the little table in front of you before pushing yourself up off of the couch and closed the distance between the both of you. Without a second thought you reached out and wrapped your arms around his waist, nuzzling your face against the soft material of his shirt. Sam’s eyes grew wide at your gesture, finding himself almost unsure of what to do.

“Thank you, Sammy. It means a lot.” Your voice was high pitched as you fought back the tears in your eyes and the sob that was slowly clawing its way up your throat. Sam took a deep breath and wrapped his arms around your shoulders securely, tipping his head to rub the tip of his nose against the crown of your head.

“You are so welcome. Now eat before it gets any colder than it already is.” He chuckled, fighting the urge to press a kiss to the crown of your head. He pulled away from you and dug back into his duffle bag, plucking his own lunch out of it as well as two bottles of water.

“Mind if I eat with you?” He asked, nodding towards the seat next to where you had originally been sitting. You giggled softly and sat back in your spot, tapping gently on the couch next to you.

“It would be my pleasure.”

Sam sighed dramatically as he sat next to you, placing his take out container safely on his lap and reached out to hand you a bottle of water. You watched him closely as he reached over and grabbed your food from the table and gently placed it in your lap before popping open his own container.

“So tell me, how long have you been running the show around these parts?” He chuckled, inspecting the burrito that sat in the take out container before lifting it to his mouth and taking a bite.

“Honestly? This is the first year in a big girl venue. The last few years I was just DJing college parties and school dances, working at the local radio station, nothing too crazy. Then on a whim I applied for an opening here and well, it’s been a whirlwind of chaos ever since. But it’s usually local bands that play here, not known names. I think you guys are the first OH EM GEE! Band that’s played here.” You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped past your lips as he rolled his eyes and continued to eat.

“So what I’m hearing is, we’re the first real in your hair band that you can’t boss around because we’re not locals and you don’t know us like that.” He stated, letting a boisterous laugh slip past his lips as your eyes widened and you nearly choked on the mouthful of food you were chewing.

“I said nothing of the sort! Don’t be putting words in my mouth. What about you guys? How long have you been playing music?” Sam shrugged his shoulders and placed his burrito down, wiping his hands off of his sweats before holding one up and counted on his fingers.

“Well we’ve been versed in music since before we could talk, but we were in high school before we - and by we I mean Jake, this was all his doing - but we really didn’t start the whole band thing until maybe freshman or sophomore year? And we’ve been kinda playing with it ever since. This is the first time we’ve played somewhere outside of Michigan.”

“So you’re from Michigan?” You questioned, nodding along as you tried to piece together the timeline he had vaguely touched upon.

“Yeah a little town most people haven’t heard of. We played around there for years and now that we’ve gained some traction we’re trying to push the limits and see how far we can take it.” You nodded and watched as he turned his attention back to his food, a silent ending to a not quite finished conversation.

A comfortable silence fell over the two of you as you ate and you kept your eyes downcast, taking in the silly sandals that adorned his feet. Something you had become accustomed to over the last few days, the toss up between Sammy being barefoot and Sammy wearing his old, well loved Birkenstocks.

“What I’m trying to say is… thanks. Thank you for thinking of me… this means more than you’ll probably ever realize. Not many people pay attention to the stage hands unless their show isn’t going according to plan and then it’s just a big mess of yelling and anger so… it’s been nice to have someone show me some sort of human empathy and compassion, I guess.” Sam’s brows furrowed together and his eyes focused on your face, blindly closing the take out container that sat on his lap and he placed it gently on the table in front of him.

“Empathy and compassion? Shit, all I did was make sure you ate.” You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped past your lips as you reached out and swiped your thumb along his bottom lip, brushing away a grain of rice that had become stuck there.

“And brought me flowers?! But sure, we’ll leave it at that. Just know I appreciate the gesture.” You mumbled, watching closely as his cheeks began to warm with a soft pink hue and a wide grin spread across his face.

“If you wanted to touch the goods all you had to do was ask.” He chuckled, reaching up and wrapping his hand around yours, he slowly pulled it away from his cheek and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft series of kisses to the skin. Your bottom lip found a home securely between your teeth and you gently slipped your hand out of his.

“I uh… I have to go start setting up for sound check but uh… I’ll see you around after the show, right?” You asked, knowing their agenda and hoping for a few moments alone to say goodbye to your bass player. Sam nodded gently and stood, reaching a hand out for you to take. A soft smile spread across his face as you slipped your hand into his and allowed him to walk you back to the mixing booth in a comfortable silence.

~*~*~

A sigh of relief flew out of you and your shoulders slumped forward as the house lights came on for the final time in Greta Van Fleets mini residency weekend. The crowed cheered louder than you had heard this weekend and the band bowed one last time before blowing kisses out into the crowd and malign their way backstage. You leaned back in your chair as the crowed around your floor level booth began to disperse and it wasn’t long before you had a clear path to the backstage hallway.

You made a quick beeline for the hallway, sneaking through the door before anyone remaining in the floor area could see where you had slipped through. Everyone puttering around the hallway and areas were full of smiles and laughs, a successful first residency in the books for up and coming rock band Greta Van Fleet. A huge accomplishment for any small artist. You exchanged quick pleasantries with each person you passed by, not wanting to seem rude as you slowly made your way to Sam’s dressing room.

You knocked on the door and giggled the handle slightly, waiting for an answer from the other side. A huff of annoyance could be heard as the doorknob turned and he ripped the door open.

“Josh I swear… oh, hi! You’re not Josh.” An embarrassed chuckle slipped past Sam’s lips as his expression softened. You weren’t sure what your face read as your heart hammered in your chest and you took a step back from him.

“I’m sorry I… I’m gonna go.” you mumbled, keeping your head hung and turning quickly on your heel to bee line it away from his door. Sam felt his heart break at your reaction, one he didn’t expect as his tone had changed once he realized it was you. Taking a quick step forward he wrapped his arms around your shoulders and pulled you flush against his chest, walking backwards into his dressing room and kicked the door shut.

“Not so fast. I’m sorry if I startled you. Josh has just been on our case because we’re on a time crunch. We need to be out of there by midnight we have a six am to catch. He’s afraid if we don’t speed out of here we won’t sleep and… I’m sorry I’m rambling.” He mumbled, slowly swaying you in place. You pulled a deep breath in through your nose and allowed your head to fall back, resting against his shoulder. You let your eyes flutter shut, committing the feeling of his arms around you and the scent that was undeniably him to your memory, knowing there was a chance you’d never see him again.

“I didn’t mean to catch you off guard I just… I wanted a few minutes before the whirlwind of your brothers swept you away and I didn’t get to say bye.” Your voice cracked a bit and you pulled in another breath to steady yourself, willing away the tears that were welling in your eyes.

“No it’s okay, I was gonna come find you once I had changed out of my stage clothes.” You nodded gently, and reached up, wrapping your hands around his arm. Sam tightened his grip on you briefly before letting go and spinning you in his grasp.

“It’s been one hell of a weekend. Thanks for hanging out and making sure our show ran smoothly. We wouldn’t have been able to do it without you.” Sam reached up and pinched at the apple of your cheek, earning himself a sad giggle.

“Yeah well, there wouldn’t be a show to run smoothly had you guys not played.” You shrugged, tilting your head to finally meet Sam’s gaze. Sam smiled down at you and wrapped his arms around your shoulders, pulling your body flush against his. Pulling a shaky breath in through your nose, your reserve broke and tears flowed freely down your cheeks. A soft laugh escaped you, and you wrapped your arms tightly around Sam’s waist, allowing yourself to feel the emotions coursing through your body.

“Hey, hey now. It’s just til next tour. We’ll be back for another residency, I can promise you that.” Sam mumbled, swaying your bodies gently in place. He pulled a deep breath in and slowly released it, trying to keep his own emotions in check.

“You better come back. I’ll be highly upset if I see a tour announcement and we’re not on the list.” A boisterous laugh escaped Sam’s chest and the rumble of it vibrated against your ear, earning him another tearful giggle.

“Hey, look at me.” His voice was soft and he unraveled himself from you, holding his arms out as you pulled back from him.

“Aw man, your shirts wet.” You joked, knowing you were the cause of it. Sam shook his head at you and cupped your cheeks in his hands, running his thumbs along the apples of your cheeks to dry your tears.

“And so is your face. Promise me you’ll keep smiling that pretty smile, okay? We’ll be back before you know it, I’ll make sure of it.” He kept his voice soft, as if speaking to a child who was highly upset.

“I… I’m gonna miss you.” With your confession came a fresh wave of tears, and a sad giggle as you shook your head trying to will the tears away. Sam leaned down and pressed a feather light kiss to your forehead, one you would have missed had you not been paying attention.

“I’ll miss you too. But it’s only until next tour, okay? In the blink of an eye we’ll be back to drive you even more crazy than we drove you this time.” He chuckled, pulling the cuff of his hoodie up over his hand and gently wiped away the rest of your tears.

“You better. Pinky promise?” You giggled through your tears and held up your hand with your pinky out, ready for him to link his with. He couldn’t help the way he rolled his eyes - the tears threatened to well up causing a prickling sensation he couldn’t shake - and he reached out to link his pinky with yours.

“Pinky promise. Now you gotta stop it with the tears because it’s all over if I start crying.” He chuckled, reaching out to wrap you in one more long, heart hammering inducing hug before pressing another kiss to your forehead.

“I’m gonna go clean up before the boss man realizes I’m gone. Stay safe out there, Sammy, please.” Sam nodded and reached out, wrapping his hand around yours gently.

“You stay safe too, I need you to be here to bug when we come back after all.” He chuckled, reveling in the way your smile lit up your eyes.

“Don’t you worry, I’m not going anywhere. Bye Sammy, until next tour.” You reached up and saluted him, earning yourself the absolutely wild laugh of his that had you swooning the day you met him.

“Until next tour.” He slowly let his hand drop from yours and watched as you made your way out of his dressing room, clicking the door closed softly behind you.

He let out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding and tipped his head back, letting the tears he had been fighting finally win. A soft ‘fuck’ escaping his lips as he tried to get his bearings and pack up the rest of his things, ready to hit the road to their next big destination.

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