#and it's just this: Do you see the pattern? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

purplereina11 · 21 hours ago

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You spent your childhood drifting through foster homes, with nothing but a worn photo of two little girls and a note on the back: Your sisters, Alexia and Alba. You never imagined that at 25, after starting a new job, you'd meet them, through your boss who was your sister's girlfriend.

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🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You’re two months in, and you’re still not sure how Olga Rios manages to be everywhere at once.

She’s answering emails while editing a reel. She’s sketching out a content calendar with one hand and handing you a matcha latte with the other because she remembers that you don’t do coffee, and that still surprises you a little.

Her loft-office smells like lavender and old books, even though the work is anything but quiet. There’s a gentle hum of creativity in the air half Spotify playlists, half the occasional bark from her dog, Nala, who has her own Instagram account with better engagement than most influencers you know.

You sit across from her at a wide wooden table covered in sticky notes, open laptops, two ring lights, and exactly one succulent that’s definitely fake but somehow not thriving. She’s got that kind of energy, Olga. She makes things grow, unless you're fake.

“You’re getting faster,” she says without looking up from her screen. Her voice is warm, honeyed, soft in the way that makes you want to lean closer, like she’s letting you in on something. “The captions today? I liked them. You’re starting to sound less like a brand, and more like a human. That’s good.”

You try not to grin too much, but it’s hard not to. Praise from Olga is never handed out like candy it’s measured, genuine, and usually comes with a Post-it note suggestion five minutes later, but when she says something’s good, she means it.

You glance at your own screen three drafts open, analytics humming in a separate tab. You're starting to notice patterns, pick up her shorthand, even anticipate when she’s about to say, “We can do better.” You’re getting the rhythm now. It feels like learning a dance. Awkward at first, but now... now you’re finding your footing.

“Do you ever sleep?” you ask, half-joking, because she’s been up since six and somehow still looks like she floated here on a sunbeam.

She laughs, a soft, melodic thing that fills the loft. “Only when a campaign’s not launching. So… not often. But I love this. I love seeing things come to life.” She sips her tea, eyes crinkling at the corners. “And I think you’re going to be really good at this.” Something about the way she says it makes your heart lift. A couple of month in, and you’re already certain, this isn’t just an internship. This is the beginning of something.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

It’s a quiet afternoon, the kind that settles like soft dust. The usual buzz of Olga’s workspace is muted no clients calling, no urgent edits, just the rhythmic clack of keys and the occasional sigh from Nala, curled up under the table like she owns the place.

You’re working side by side on a campaign for a small bookstore that’s trying to grow its online presence. Olga is fine-tuning the carousel post for tomorrow, and you’re adjusting the tone of the captions trying to thread that fine line between charming and trying-too-hard. It’s nice. Peaceful, even.

Olga breaks the silence without looking away from her screen. “Do you have anyone in your family who loves books like this?”

You pause. The cursor blinks in front of you. The question is soft, casual, not meant to dig but it hits something that feels like hollow wood. “I…” You swallow. “I don’t know.”

Olga looks up immediately.

You don’t say anything else at first. The words stall. It’s not that you haven’t talked about it before it’s just that people usually don’t ask, not really.

She tilts her head slightly, brows gently furrowed. Her voice lowers. “Hey. You okay?”

You nod automatically, out of habit. But then, without quite meaning to, you add, “I didn’t grow up with a family. I was left at a children’s home when I was a baby.”

The air in the room shifts not heavier, exactly, just… slower. Softer.

Olga doesn’t gasp, or overreact, or flood you with sympathy that feels too bright and uncomfortable. She just sets her phone down and gives you her full attention.

“I’m sorry,” she says. Quiet. Real.

You shrug, though it feels awkward. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s just… how it was. I don't really think about it much now. I just… didn’t have anyone to ask questions like that about.”

Olga nods slowly, like she’s letting your words settle inside her before responding. Then, gently “Well, just so you know any time you want to say, ‘My 'mentor' once told me this,’ you can go ahead and start with me.”

You let out a soft laugh, surprised.

She smiles, warm and a little wistful. “I know it’s not the same. But you’re not on your own here, okay? Not while you’re working with me.”

For a moment, you’re not thinking about metrics or content calendars or trending audios. You’re just sitting across from someone who sees you not just as an assistant or intern, but as a person.

The knock on the door is light but confident. You barely register it at first lost in the middle of scheduling posts for a new client who sells handmade ceramic earrings until Olga perks up with that unmistakable sparkle in her eyes.

She glances at the clock, then at you. “That’ll be Alexia.”

You blink. “Alexia…?”

Before she can answer, the door swings open and there she is.

Alexia Putellas. That Alexia Putellas.

Even if you don’t follow football religiously, her face is familiar. The captain, the icon, the Ballon d'Or winner. The kind of person whose highlight reels show up on your feed whether you asked for them or not. And now she’s in Olga’s office, wearing a simple hoodie, black joggers, and the kind of calm confidence that doesn't need to shout to be heard.

She smiles when she sees Olga, and everything about Olga posture, eyes, even the way she exhales shifts in the softest way. Like a house when someone finally comes home.

Olga stands, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Ale, this is the one I’ve been telling you about.”

You freeze. Alexia’s gaze lands on you, kind and curious. “So you’re the apprentice,” she says, her accent smooth but clear, the kind that could make any sentence feel like a secret. “Olga’s been bragging.”

You blink again. “She—she has?”

Olga shrugs like it’s nothing. “Only a little. Maybe a lot.”

Alexia steps forward and offers her hand. “It’s really nice to meet you. I’ve heard you’re doing great work.”

You shake her hand her grip is strong, grounded and try not to look like you’re meeting a living legend, because you are. But she’s also incredibly down-to-earth, her presence somehow both intimidating and totally easy to be around.

Olga comes around the desk and gently bumps Alexia’s shoulder with hers. “She only comes here to raid my snack drawer and steal my playlists,” she says, teasing.

Alexia grins. “Also because I love you.”

There’s a beat of warmth between them that you feel rather than see, like watching sunlight fall through a window. “Do you want me to go?” you ask, half-joking.

Olga laughs. “No way. Ale's just here to say hi before training. You’re family now. Might as well meet the boss.”

Alexia raises an eyebrow. “I’m the boss?”

Olga winks. “In football, yes. In here, you just eat all my almonds.”

You watch them and feel something shift inside you again like the quiet redefinition of what ‘family’ might look like. Not always blood. Sometimes it's someone who believes in you. Someone who shares their space with you. Someone who brings light with them, just by walking through the door.

You glance at your screen, then back at the two of them.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You invite Olga over to work because it feels normal now. Familiar. Safe, even.

It’s late almost midnight. You’ve both been bouncing between drafts for a new campaign and clips from a client shoot. Nala is curled up on your bed, half-snoring, and there’s the comfort of shared silence between you, broken only by the occasional sound of keys or a soft “Wait, this transition’s better” from Olga.

She gets up to stretch, as she often does when she’s been sitting too long. Paces a little. You barely notice her eyes scanning your bookshelf until you hear her voice. Low. Surprised. “…Wait. What?”

You glance over. She’s holding the small, slightly curled photo that’s been with you for as long as you can remember. You’ve had it since before you could read. Two little girls. One smiling, the other not so much.

You never knew their names. Never knew why the photo was with your things. It was just… always there. Something old, something yours, but now Olga is frozen, staring at it. “Why do you have this?” she asks, but the softness in her voice is already cracking.

You sit up straighter. “What do you mean?”

She turns the frame toward you, her eyes sharp now. “This is Alexia. And her sister Alba. This photo’s from when they were kids. I’ve never seen this before, how do you have this?.”

Your mouth opens slowly. “What?”

She steps closer. “Don’t play dumb.”

You shake your head, heart beginning to pound. “I’m not. I didn’t know who they were. I’ve had that photo since I was dropped off at the home. It was in a box with my baby things, I never even knew there names.”

Olga stares at you like she doesn’t believe you.

“I swear,” you say, voice trembling now. “I never knew. I didn’t know.”

But she isn’t hearing you. Not fully. Her jaw clenches. “So you mean to tell me this is just some random coincidence? You had a photo of my girlfriend and her sister, and you never knew?”

“I didn’t know!” you say louder now, trying to push through the panic rising in your chest. “Olga, I didn’t. They were just two girls in a picture I’ve had it since I was a baby! One of my foster parents told me they were my sisters once but I could never see the resemblance but I, I don't know I just could never throw it away, it was left with me for a reason, I couldn't-”

“You expect me to believe that?” she snaps interrupting, eyes suddenly fierce. “You knew who Alexia was. Everyone does. You had the photo, you applied for this job, and you never once thought to say a word.”

Your breath catches. “I didn’t even connect them to say something. Please why would I lie to you?”

But she’s shaking her head, stepping back, betrayal flashing in her eyes. “I trusted you. I let you into my space. My life. And now I find this?”

She turns, grabs the frame, and holds it tightly like she’s afraid it might disappear. You stand, reaching toward her helplessly. “Please, Olga. I’m not using you. I didn’t know. I swear to you.”

But her voice cuts through the air like glass. “Don’t say another word.”

She storms toward the door. “Olga—please!”

Her hand is on the knob already. “Do not tell anyone about this. Not Alexia. Not anyone. I mean it.” And just like that, she’s gone door slamming behind her, the photo still clutched in her hand.

You stand frozen in your tiny apartment, the silence left in her wake louder than anything you've ever heard.

You don’t remember sitting down. Just that suddenly you’re on the floor, legs folded awkwardly beneath you, and the room feels too still.

The candle you lit earlier is still flickering on the desk, scenting the air with warm vanilla, like any normal night, but everything has changed.

The photo’s gone. She took it.

You wrap your arms around yourself, unsure if you’re cold or just empty. Your hands are shaking. Your chest feels tight, like someone filled it with wet sand. You can’t stop replaying the last ten minutes Olga’s face, the anger, the betrayal in her voice. The way she looked at you like you were a stranger. Worse—like a lie.

“I didn’t know,” you whisper, to no one. Your own voice sounds small, cracked open. “I didn’t know.” But the silence doesn’t answer. It just presses in around you.

You don’t know how that photo ended up with your baby things. You never questioned it. It was just… part of the mystery of you. You’d imagined a hundred stories for it as a kid. A fantasy life you were left out of. Two unknown little girls you'd prop up when you had tea parties alone, two faces you talked to when no one else would listen but it never felt real. Not like this.

You wipe at your face and realise you’ve been crying without noticing, not loudly, just slow, quiet tears that slip out like steam from a cracked mug.

You try to work. To check a calendar, finish a caption, edit a reel, but everything blurs. Your fingers hover over the keys, useless. More tears come. Not steady, but suddenly rising without warning like waves. You press your hand to your mouth, like that might stop the sob that’s already too far out to swallow back.

You don’t know what hurts more: the fear that she won’t believe you or the feeling that she already doesn’t, and underneath that, a newer, stranger thought creeps in:

What if the photo really does mean something? What if you're connected to them in some way you never imagined?

You don’t know how to hold that. You don’t even know if you want to.

The night stretches long and quiet. You cry again, not always with sound. Sometimes just with breath that shakes too hard, or thoughts that spiral too fast. You think about messaging Olga. You almost do, but what would you say that you haven’t already begged her to believe?

Eventually, curled in bed, your chest aching and eyes sore, the exhaustion takes over.

You fall asleep and as your breathing evens out in the dark, the photo lives somewhere else now, in her hands.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You shouldn’t go in to work, you know that.

You didn’t sleep more than a couple of hours, and when you looked in the mirror this morning, your reflection startled you, pale, red-eyed, shadows under your eyes like bruises that haven’t fully bloomed. You look like someone who’s been crying on and off for eight hours, because you have, but not going in make it look like you had something to hide, and you loved your job.

So you pull yourself together barely. Tie your hair back. Splash water on your face. Avoid your own eyes as you grab your bag and head out the door.

The walk to Olga’s office feels longer than usual. Everything’s sharp, the sound of your own footsteps, the brightness of the morning, the hum of people who don’t know your world just came apart. You keep your head down.

When you get there, the door is already unlocked, she was here already, you step inside slowly. Olga’s at her desk. Laptop open, headphones around her neck, Nala curled up on the rug at her feet. She looks up instinctively when you enter.

For a moment, nothing moves, then her eyes scan your face and she sees it. The red around your eyes. The way your shoulders hang. The hollow tiredness you didn’t have to fake.

Her mouth parts slightly, like she might say something, but she doesn’t. Instead, she looks back down at her screen.

You nod stiffly, not that she’s looking, and cross the room to your usual seat. Every movement feels brittle. Too careful. You place your laptop on the table as quietly as you can, like noise might crack what’s left between you.

You don’t speak. Neither does she.

The silence is different today. Not the peaceful kind. It’s tight. Pressurised. You can feel her not looking at you, can feel her tension radiating from behind her screen like heat.

Your stomach twists. You open your laptop. Try to focus on the client folder. Everything blurs.

You can’t stop thinking about the way she stormed out. The photo in her hand. The fear in her eyes. The disbelief in her voice.

And now, she’s right there but she may as well be a hundred miles away. You steal a glance at her. She’s typing something. Her jaw is tight. Her ponytail is a little messy, like she didn’t sleep well either.

You want to say something. Apologise again. Explain again. Beg if you have to, but the air around her says not to.

So you sit in the quiet. Trying to work. Trying not to cry. Trying not to lose the one place that ever felt like it might become home.

You’re halfway through pretending to work when the door clicks open behind you. Your heart stops, you know that sound now. You know who it is before she says a word.

“Hola,” Alexia calls out gently, cheerful but quiet, as if she’s stepping into a place where someone might be asleep or upset.

You stay frozen for a half second too long, then shift your body slightly in your chair. Not enough to seem rude, but just enough to make your back the most visible part of you.

Don’t make eye contact. Don’t breathe too loudly. Don’t be more than necessary.

Olga looks up, and the change in her voice is immediate.

“Ale…”

Alexia steps in fully now, holding a brown paper bag and a takeaway cup tray. “You were tossing all night,” she says softly, “so I figured you could use some sugar and espresso.” She walks over, places the treats beside Olga with care. “I got that oat milk one you like. And a croissant, because I know you never remember to eat when you’re stressed.”

Her voice is so easy. So full of quiet affection. It makes your throat tighten. Olga stares at the bag for a moment before letting out a breath you didn’t know she was holding. She smiles, faint but real, and says, “Thanks.”

Alexia leans down and kisses her cheek. It’s a small, domestic gesture. One that would’ve felt sweet yesterday.

Now it’s a stone in your stomach.

They talk for a minute, low and warm too low for you to hear clearly. It sounds like a small exchange about sleep, and schedules, and if Olga’s eaten yet. You keep your eyes fixed on your screen, even though the words are swimming and nothing’s going in.

Then Alexia shifts, you feel her glance in your direction. “Hey,” she says kindly, and you can hear the smile in her voice. “Nice to see you again.”

You muster every scrap of civility you can find and turn your head slightly, just enough to meet her eyes for a breath of a second.

You smile a tiny, exhausted curve of your mouth and lift your hand in a half-wave.

She nods back, just as polite. Just as unaware. “Bueno,” she says, brushing her hand against Olga’s arm. “I’ll leave you both to it.”

Olga doesn’t look at you as Alexia turns to go. She just murmurs a soft, “Thank you,”

"How do you take your coffee?" Alexia stops at your desk, she swallow as you look up at her, Olga watching intently.

"I um. I don't drink coffee"

"How come? Don't like it?"

"No.. I um, I can't have caffeine at all.. I um, its complicated but I have a heart condition so I-"

"My papa was the same," she nodded and your heart pulled, Olga must of sensed it and she spoke

"Amor, Y/N and I are very busy"

Alexia held her hands up, bid you both a goodbye, Olga eyed you before she watches her leave.

The door clicks shut. You exhale through your nose, slow and quiet.

Olga says nothing. She unwraps the croissant with deliberate care, and takes a small bite, her eyes still on the table, on her work, on anywhere but you and the silence that follows is full of everything neither of you are ready to say.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Olga doesn’t go straight home after work, she drives in silence. No music. No podcast. Just the low hum of the road beneath her tires and the sound of her own pulse in her ears.

She should’ve gone home, she doesn’t go to the flat she shares with Alexia, or to a café to decompress, or even to the beach where she sometimes walks when her mind needs quiet.

She drives, to a quiet cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Mollet, where the streetlights buzz low and orange, and the houses are tucked behind tired gardens and climbing vines. She parks without turning off the engine at first. Just sits there, heart tapping a steady, uneven rhythm behind her ribs.

Eli’s car is in the driveway. She’s home. Alone. Just like Olga knew she would be. Olga takes the photo from the glove compartment. It’s still in its cracked, worn frame. She hasn’t looked at it since that night in the apartment. She doesn’t need to. She remembers it perfectly.

She breathes in. Breathes out. Kills the engine.

Then knocks on the door, it opens almost immediately, Eli answers the door in slippers and a cardigan.

“Olga?” Eli’s face brightens with warm surprise. “Qué haces aquí, cariño? Alexia isn’t with you?”

“No,” Olga says quietly. “She’s at home.”

Eli frowns a little. “Is everything alright?”

“I just…” Olga hesitates, standing just beyond the threshold. Then says, “Can I come in?”

Eli steps aside, instantly serious. “Of course, hija. You’re always welcome.”

The house smells the same as always lavender, old wood, something faintly sweet in the kitchen. A candle flickers on the sideboard. Family photos line the shelves, birthdays, holidays, the girls growing older in frames that haven’t moved in years.

They sit in the living room. Olga perches on the edge of the couch, she doesn’t take off her coat, her fingers are tight around something in her bag. Eli watches her closely now, concern pinching the corners of her mouth.

“I have to ask you something,” Olga says, voice steady but low. “And if it’s nothing then we never have to talk about it again. I’ll forget it. We’ll both forget it.”

Eli nods, cautious. “Okay…” Eli’s brow furrows. “What is it?”

Olga doesn’t speak. She just reaches into her bag and pulls out the frame. Holds it gently in both hands and turns it around. Eli’s breath stops halfway through her chest. The change in her is instant so small and devastating you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it. Her hands freeze on her knees. Her face goes white, then pale-blue cold, like all the warmth was drained out in an instant.

Her lips part, but no sound comes. The silence says everything. Olga watches her. Doesn’t blink. Eli’s hand, which had been loosely curled around her teacup, goes limp. Her entire face drains of colour not just pale, but hollow, like a piece of her just dropped through the floor.

Olga doesn’t move. She watches the shift. The silence that thickens around it.

“Where.. Where did you get this?”

Olga doesn’t answer, she just says, “You know who this has come from don’t you”

“I’ve not seen that in twenty five years,” Her voice catches, “After.. After” Olga nods once, jaw tight. Her throat burns with questions, but she asks none of them and still, Eli presses gently, almost begging, “Olga. Please. Where did this come from?”

“It’s true isn’t it,” Olga whispers. “You have another daughter”

Eli closes her eyes. A beat. A breath and then, very softly, very brokenly, “Yes” Olga’s throat tightens. Eli’s voice is barely there. “We left that with her”

“I don’t understand how you could do it!” Eli sits frozen on the couch, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She looks older than she did twenty minutes ago. Like every word being spoken is peeling something back she’s kept buried too long. “You gave up your own daughter,” Olga spits, gesturing wildly to the photo still lying on the coffee table like it’s cursed. “And just carried on like she didn’t exist? How?”

“I didn’t carry on,” Eli says, voice low and shaking. “Don’t you dare think it didn’t break me.”

“Then why?” Olga demands. “Why didn’t you fight for her? Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Olga’s voice cracks, sharp with disbelief, her hands clenched at her sides. She’s standing now, breath short, pacing Eli’s living room like she’s trying to outrun what she just heard. She hadn’t planned to stay only to ask one question, but the answer shattered everything.

Eli is curled forward on the couch, her hands white-knuckled in her lap, her eyes wide and shining. “You don’t understand what it was like,” she says quietly, pleading. “She was born with a heart condition. We didn’t know what it was at first, she was so small always struggling to breathe. She couldn’t even cry properly with out her lips turning blue.”

Olga stares at her, hollowed out. “So you gave her away.”

“I thought she’d get help,” Eli whispers. “We couldn’t afford the surgeries. We didn’t have insurance or savings, I wasn’t working at the time. My parents wouldn’t help. We thought… we thought someone else could save her. I loved her enough to let her go.”

Olga’s breath catches, just for a second, because she knows Eli means that. And still, it’s not enough. “She grew up in multiple children’s home,” she says bitterly. “With no one.” Eli flinches like she’s been slapped. “You’re the one who taught Alexia how to be gentle,” Olga says, voice shaking. “You tell everyone family is everything. You cry at Christmas commercials, for God’s sake. And now I find out that there was another child and you just… gave her up?”

Eli’s eyes are glassy. Her face is pale. “You think that was easy for me?” she says, hoarse. “You think I didn’t wake up every night for years hearing her cry even though I hadn’t seen her since she was—”

“Don’t,” Olga snaps, tears brimming. “Don’t make yourself the victim in this. I think about her alone every night now,” Olga goes on, tears clinging to her lashes. “I see her sitting in that place, wondering why no one ever came back for her. Why her parents the people who are meant to love her unconditionally let her go.”

“Stop,” Eli whispers. “Please, stop.”

Olga stares at her, breathing hard, voice strangled. “And you never told Alexia. Or Alba.”

Eli looks down at the floor like it might save her. “They were so young they didn’t need to know, have that burden.”

“You gave up your baby,” Olga says, gesturing to the photo on the table between them. “You let her disappear into the system, and you never looked for her. Never even told your daughters they had a sister.”

“I didn’t let her disappear,” Eli says, voice shaking. “She was born sick. Her heart Olga, she needed something me and her father couldn’t give her! We did what we thought was best for her!”

Olga stops in her tracks, eyes wide with pain. “So you just gave her away and pretended she never existed?”

“She would’ve died if I’d kept her!” Eli cries. “We couldn’t afford treatment we thought a hospital might place her with someone who could help. It wasn’t abandonment, it was the only mercy I had left to give her.”

Olga’s voice rises. “And you’ve told no one. For twenty-five years. No one.”

Eli’s hands shake now. “Because I didn’t want this. This moment. This shame. This wreckage.”

“Well, it’s here now,” Olga whispers. “She grew up in a children’s home, Eli. Alone. She had no one, she doesn’t understand the meaning of family, I don’t even think she’s ever felt what it’s like to be loved. Do you understand that?”

Eli explodes raw, desperate. “Leave it alone!” The words come like a slap, louder than anything yet. “Just—shut up!” she screams. “You don’t understand what it cost me! You don’t get to stand there judging when you weren’t there!”

The front door slams open. “What the hell is going on?” Alba’s voice slices through the room like lightning. She’s standing in the doorway, flushed from running, alarmed and out of breath. “I could hear you both shouting from the street.” She looks from Eli, who is crumbling in her chair, to Olga, who’s barely holding herself upright. “What the hell is going on?”

Olga turns away, shoulders hunched, face blotched with tears. She’s trying to breathe, but she can’t steady herself. She just shakes her head, mutely.

Eli goes silent, too. Like she forgot anyone else existed. Her face folds in on itself caught red-handed by her own daughter. “Why were you yelling at her?” Alba asks, stepping in, confused and suddenly afraid. “What did she do?”

“She didn’t do anything,” Eli croaks out, broken.

“Then what—?” Alba’s voice wavers. “Why is everyone crying?” No one answers.

Olga breathes in sharply through her nose, sinks onto the armrest of the sofa, her shoulders shaking, barely holding in the sobs now.

Alba doesn’t understand what this is, what it means but something in her bones tells her exactly what to do. She pulls her phone from her pocket, thumb trembling as she finds her sister’s name. She steps back into the hallway and presses the call.

Alexia answers almost instantly. “Albs?”

Her voice is warm, calm, but Alba’s isn’t.

“Ale,” she says quickly, “you need to come to mamá’s. Now.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I—I don’t know, but Olga’s here, and she’s crying, and mamá’s… something’s wrong. I think it’s big mamá was screaming at her I heard her from the street”

There’s a pause. Then, “I’m on my way,” Alexia says, sharp and sure. Alba hangs up, heart pounding, and returns to the living room where the air feels too heavy to breathe. Olga is quiet now, face buried in her hands. Eli sits motionless and Alba stands between them, caught in the middle of a secret she doesn’t yet understand only knowing that whatever it is, her sister will make sense of it.

The knock is soft, but the tension in the room makes it sound like thunder. Alba leaps to open the door, her heart in her throat. Alexia steps inside, face creased with concern, eyes sharp, already scanning the room like something in her gut told her this wasn’t just a misunderstanding.

She’s still in joggers and a hoodie, her hair tied back loosely, eyes sharp and searching. She takes one look at her sister and then scans the room freezes when she sees her mother, crumpled on the sofa. Her gaze lands first on her mother, who’s slumped on the sofa, visibly shaken, hands clasped tightly in her lap like she’s bracing for something else to hit. Then her eyes flick to Olga standing stiff and silent by the window, her back half-turned, her coat still on.

“Olga?” Alexia says gently, walking toward her. Olga doesn't turn. Her arms are crossed tight, like she's holding herself together by sheer will.

“What happened?” Alexia asks again, slower now, as her eyes dart back to her mother. “Is someone hurt? What—?”

She steps closer, reaches out, instinctively placing her hand on Olga’s arm but Olga flinches. Not dramatically. Just enough and then she pulls away. Alexia’s breath catches. She stares at her, confused hurt.

“Olga…” No response.

Alexia’s eyes flick between them again her partner and her mother, both visibly wrecked.

“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” she says, louder now, tension rising in her voice. “Mamá? Olga? Talk to me.” Still, no one speaks.

Olga finally moves. Slowly, she reaches for the door, her hand trembling just slightly. “I need some air,” she mutters, almost to herself.

Eli rises instinctively. “Olga please, wait—”

Olga stops, her hand still on the doorknob. She turns slowly and what’s on her face is something Alexia’s never seen before. Grief. Betrayal. Disgust. “I can’t even look at you right now,” Olga says, her voice hollow, strained. Her eyes fixed on Eli, who seems to shrink under the weight of it. “You are not the person I thought you were.”

Alexia’s breath hitches, heart pounding. She looks at her mother, sees the quiet devastation spreading across her face, and she’s suddenly terrified. “Wait—Olga, please—just… what happened?” Alexia pleads, reaching after her again, but the door opens and Olga is gone.

Silence crashes back in. Alexia stands frozen, her hand still in the air, her heart breaking without knowing why. She turns to her mother. “Mamá,” she says, voice trembling. “What did you do?”

Eli doesn’t answer, she sinks down slowly, like the weight of those words took her legs out from under her. She covers her mouth with her hands, eyes spilling over with silent tears.

And Alexia stuck between the two most important women in her life—feels the walls close in, a thousand questions pressing against her chest. Alba looks at her sister, whose hands are balled into fists at her sides. Alexia is staring at the door, stunned, shaken, she’s never seen Olga like that. Never seen her walk away and whatever happened here, whatever broke her, Alexia knows it isn’t just something they can fix. It’s something that changed everything.

The cool night air hits Olga’s face like a slap sharp and biting. She walks until the porch ends, then stops, clutching the railing with both hands, trying to breathe past the chaos inside her.

She hears the door creak open behind her, soft footsteps following.

“Olga,” Eli calls gently. “Please. Just come inside. Let’s talk, mi amor.” Olga doesn’t turn. Her knuckles are white on the railing. A long silence stretches between them.

Then quietly, without venom, only pain Olga speaks. “Please tell me… their father at least knew.”

Eli stands still behind her, silence falling heavy again. Then a nod.

“Yes,” Eli whispers. “He knew.”

Olga finally turns, slow and rigid, her eyes burning. “And he still let her go?”

Eli’s voice cracks. “He didn’t want to. God, Olga, he held her all night the day she was born. He cried like I’d never seen before, he just he knew we couldn’t give to her what she needed. We didn’t have the money, or the support. We thought it was the only way she had a chance. Giving her up broke him Olga, he was never the same after that day, his spirit, his health, everything”

Olga presses her lips together, shaking her head, tears gathering again. “They lost him when they were barely out of childhood, god Alba was a child” she says hoarsely. Eli nods, tears now running freely. Olga blinks through the tears. “So you gave away your baby and because of that, you think it eventually killed your husband.”

Eli swallows a sob, covering her mouth, Olga turns away again, shoulders rising and falling, behind her, Eli stands on the threshold exposed, crumbling and inside the house, through the windows, Alexia is still watching, not understanding everything, but beginning to feel how deep this fracture runs.

The living room is too quiet when they step back inside. Eli gently closes the door behind Olga, whose eyes are red and raw. She doesn’t move far from the entryway. Her arms are crossed tightly again, a self-made cage.

Alexia is still standing, tense, waiting. Alba sits curled up in the corner of the sofa, chewing the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit from childhood.

Eli breathes in deep like the confession she’s about to make might crush her lungs if she doesn’t hold herself steady. “Sit down,” she says softly, looking to both daughters.

Alexia hesitates. “Mamá, what is this?”

“Please,” Eli says. “Just… sit.” Reluctantly, Alexia lowers herself onto the arm of the sofa, her eyes locked on Olga on the way she trembles. She’s crying again, and that frightens her more than anything. Eli moves to stand in front of them, hands clasped like she’s in church, waiting to confess. “I never thought I’d have to say this out loud,” she begins, voice shaking. “I thought I had buried it deep enough that none of you would ever know.”

Alba shifts uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

Eli’s lips tremble, but she goes on. “You had a sister. A younger one, she was born 3 years after you Alba”

The silence detonates. Alba blinks. “What? You… you’re joking, right?” she asks, glancing at Alexia and then back to Eli. “Is this some weird joke or—?”

“No,” Eli says. “It’s not a joke.”

Alba’s face falls. “No. No, that can’t be true. I don’t remember—”

“You wouldn’t,” Eli cuts in gently. “You were just a toddler, Alba. We, your father and I, gave her up. She was born with a heart condition. We couldn’t afford the care she needed. We thought it was the only way she’d survive.”

Alba stares at her, blinking hard like the words won’t compute. “No,” she whispers again. “No. That’s not—you wouldn’t do that. You’re not like that.”

“I did,” Eli says, her voice cracking. “We made the only choice we thought we had.”

Alba suddenly covers her mouth, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. She makes a small, broken sound as if something inside her just split clean down the middle.

Alexia, meanwhile, is still too still, she stares at her mother, jaw tight, eyes sharp with disbelief. “You lied to us,” she says, flat and cold. “Our whole lives.”

Eli looks up, stricken. “Alexia—”

“You let us grow up thinking we were the only ones. Thinking that Dad died with no secrets. That we came from love. From honesty.”

“You did,” Eli pleads. “I loved you every day of your lives.”

Alexia stands suddenly, shaking her head. “But not her.”

“No,” Eli whispers, ashamed. “Not like I should have.”

Alba sobs now, curling into herself on the sofa, shaking. Olga breaks down again. She tries to wipe her face but can’t stop the tears. “I didn’t want this,” she says hoarsely. “I didn’t want to be the one who broke you. I’m so sorry.”

Alexia looks at her, confused, wounded. “You knew?”

Olga opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. “I found out by accident,” she finally manages. “I-I—God, Alexia, I didn’t want to know.”

Alexia’s eyes narrow slightly, not in cruelty but in disbelief. She looks like someone just pulled the rug from beneath her entire identity.

And still, Alba cries softly in the corner, whispering, “A little sister... we had a little sister…” And across from her, Olga thinks of you. Alone in your apartment. Crying into the quiet, not knowing that the truth is finally breaking wide open—and that it’s going to change everything.

The room feels heavy, thick with silence and unsaid things. Alba sits on the sofa, knees pulled close to her chest, eyes fixed on the floor. She doesn’t cry anymore just quiet. Unreachable, curled inward, eyes fixed on the floor, refusing comfort when Olga cautiously reaches out.

“No,” Alba murmurs, voice barely audible. “Not now.” Olga pulls back, defeated, sitting down quietly a few feet away.

Alexia, however, is a storm, pacing, fists clenched, voice rising, “How could you know and say nothing?” she snaps at Olga, eyes burning. “You found out and just kept it to yourself? Do you have any idea how long we lived in the dark? How much this changes everything?”

Olga meets her gaze, her own eyes shining with tears. “I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure. Until I spoke to Eli and confirmed it. Like you, I had a hard time believing it myself.”

Eli steps forward, voice pleading. “Alexia, please. Olga didn’t keep this from you to hurt you—”

Alexia was now directing her frustration at her mother, firing questions at Eli with a mix of desperation and anger.

“Why didn’t you tell us? How could you keep this from us for so long? Why didn’t you try harder? What about Dad, did he know everything? Did you ever try to find her again? What—what was her name?”

Eli swallows, unable to meet any of Alexia’s eyes. “I—I don’t know,” she admits finally. “We… we thought it was better to keep it quiet. We gave her a name but the home just called her ‘Baby Girl.’ It’s probably been changed”

Alexia stops pacing, stunned by the silence, the gaps in answers.

Eli has tears pooling again. Alexia looks at Olga, whose face is streaked with fresh tears. Then Alba remains silent, distant, lost somewhere inside herself. The room is fractured everyone aching, separated by secrets and grief, caught in a web of loss no one can untangle yet, and Alexia can’t see her family healing from this.

The room is heavy with silence. Alba hasn’t moved from her place on the sofa, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She’s staring into some unseen distance, tears dried on her cheeks, her expression blank.

Alexia still stands, breath shallow, torn between betrayal and sorrow.

Then, quietly, she moves.

She walks over and sits down beside Olga, not saying a word. The weight of her presence is everything and nothing at all. Her shoulder barely brushes Olga’s. The contact is light, but to Olga, it’s enough to keep her breathing.

“I need to see her,” Alexia says suddenly, softly. “I need to know she was real.”

Her voice cracks on the last word. Eli blinks, startled. “What?”

“A photo,” Alexia says, turning slowly to her mother. “Do you have one? Anything?”

Eli stares at her daughters one silent and broken, the other just barely holding herself together then nods. She disappears into the hallway. For a long while, the only sounds are Alba’s sniffles and the soft creak of the floorboards as Eli moves in the other room. Then she returns. In her arms is an old, battered shoebox edges torn, the lid soft with age.

She kneels in front of the girls and opens it slowly, like unsealing a grave.

Inside theres a small bundle of ultrasound scans, worn at the corners, black-and-white ghosts of a baby not yet born. A tiny, creased hospital card with faded blue ink: "Baby Girl Putellas Segura." Her weight. Her length. The time she arrived. A white card stamped with one perfect footprint and one tiny handprint, pink and curled like a blossom. And then the photos.

There aren’t many. The first few show Eli and her husband in the hospital room, holding a swaddled newborn between them. They're smiling, tentatively, cautiously, but with something fragile and full in their eyes.

In the next few, the smiles are gone. Eli looks down at the baby with red-rimmed eyes. Her husband kisses the baby’s forehead, his face twisted into something halfway between a smile and a sob.

In the last photo, Eli is no longer holding the baby. She is standing by the hospital bed, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her husband has one hand on her back, but his other is empty. They both look like people trying to memorise the little girl on the bed before it’s taken away.

No one speaks. Olga covers her mouth with her hand, tears falling silently, the pain was radiating from the photos.

Alexia reaches forward, touching the photo gently with her fingertips, like she’s afraid it might disappear. “She looks like, us,” she whispers. “Her nose. The shape of her eyes.”

Eli nods, wiping her face. “I only looked at these once,” she says. “Then I put them in a box. I never looked at them again. I couldn’t.”

Alexia glances at her mother eyes still confused, still hurt but quieter now. “She was real,” she says, mostly to herself. “She was ours.” next to her, Olga presses her hand against her chest, trying to breathe through the ache.

Alexia holds the photo delicately, as though it might crumble if she breathes too hard. Her thumb hovers over the image her parents, younger and terrified, their arms newly empty.

She glances sideways. Alba hasn’t moved. She’s still curled in on herself, her chin on her knees, her arms wrapped tight like a shield. Her eyes are open but empty, staring into the middle of the floor, if she’s heard anything, it’s impossible to tell.

“Alba…” Alexia says softly. No response, she turns more fully, holding the photo just a little closer in Alba’s direction. “Do you want to see her?” Her voice is quiet, careful. Not pushing. Just offering.

Alba doesn’t answer. For a long moment, she doesn’t even blink, but then her eyes flicker, just barely, toward the photo in Alexia’s hand. She doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t move, but that one glance is enough to crack something.

Alexia sees it. She leans a little closer. “She looks like you,” she whispers. “When you were little.”

Alba’s lower lip trembles. Her breath shudders out of her like it physically hurts to take in air. “Why didn’t she get to stay?” she says finally, voice fragile and small.

Eli’s breath catches in her throat. She opens her mouth to answer but no words come. Olga whispers for her, “She was sick, your parents did what they thought was best for her”

Alba turns slowly toward the photo, then reaches out, her hand trembling as she takes it. She looks at it for a long time and then, in a barely-there voice that cracks in the middle, she whispers, “She had Papa's chin.”

It breaks Eli. She covers her mouth, sobbing quietly, and Olga gently moves to wrap her arm around her. Alba doesn’t cry. She just keeps looking, at the baby, at the past, at the sister she never got to love. 🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You sit on the floor of your apartment, your laptop closed on the coffee table, long forgotten. The untouched sandwich from earlier is still in its wrapper, resting near your elbow. You haven’t moved much since you got home. Haven’t wanted to.

The apartment feels emptier than usual. Not just quiet but hollow. Like something inside you cracked open when Olga left, and now the silence has a place to live.

You’ve replayed that moment over and over. The look in her eyes when she saw the photo. The way she snapped. The disbelief. The accusation.

You’d tried to speak, to explain, but she wouldn’t let you. Wouldn’t hear you. She thought you’d used her. That you’d known. That the photo meant something you’d kept hidden, but you hadn’t known. You still don’t know.

That picture had always been a strange little mystery to you. Left in the file the home had when you were a baby. Just two smiling girls, a sense of something warm and long-lost. You’d stared at it often growing up. Not because you knew who they were but because they felt like a possibility. Like maybe, once, someone had loved you and now that photo’s gone. Torn out of your hands and taken into someone else’s truth.

You wipe at your eyes again, but they won’t stop watering. Your throat aches from holding back sobs that keep forcing their way through.

You don’t know what’s happening.

You don’t know what to do.

You just keep sitting there, waiting for a knock that might never come. A message. A clue. Something, but there’s nothing. Just the faint hum of your fridge and the quiet ache in your chest.

It’s almost midnight by the time you stop pacing your apartment. Your hands shake as you hold the phone. You scroll past a few names none feel right. Not now. Not after everything.

Then your thumb hovers over hers. Patri 💕

You haven’t told anyone about her. Not even Olga. It was easier that way kept things uncomplicated. Casual. Hidden, but now… nothing feels simple or safe.

You press call.

She picks up quickly. “Hey,” she says, voice warm and soft.“Everything okay, you never call this late?”

You don’t answer right away. Your throat’s too tight. “Can you come over?” you manage. “Please?”

She hears it. Whatever's in your voice. “I’m on my way.”

You don’t move from your spot near the window until you hear her knock. When you open the door, she doesn’t ask questions. She just sees your face red-eyed, exhausted, cracked wide open and steps in with arms that don’t hesitate.

You fall into her without a word. Her hand runs gently down your back, grounding you.

Minutes pass before you pull away, wiping your face with your sleeve. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just… I didn’t know who else to call.”

Patri nods, patient. “You can always call me. You know that.”

You sit on the couch. She sits beside you, close but not crowding you. Waiting. You breathe in deep. Out. And then, “I think…” You pause, heart hammering. “I think Alexia Putellas is my sister.”

Silence. Patri doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t flinch. Her brow furrows, but her eyes stay soft.

You look down at your hands. “There was this photo. Two girls. I had it my whole life it was left with me when I was dropped off at the children's home. I never knew who they were” You shake your head, tears rising again. “Olga saw it and lost it. Thought I’d known all along it was Alexia and her sister. Took the photo. Stormed out. She hasn’t answered my messages. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t even know if I’m going crazy.”

Patri takes your hand in both of hers. “You’re not crazy,” she says softly. “And even if it sounds impossible… it might not be.”

“I don’t want anything from them,” you say quickly. “I didn’t even know. I just… I want to understand. Why I was left. Who I was before I was just… no one.”

You’re crying again, but you don’t try to stop it now, Patri squeezes your hand, steady and sure, you don’t say anything, but when you lean your head on her shoulder, it’s the first moment you’ve felt even a little less alone.

Patri’s fingers thread gently through yours, her thumb brushing your knuckles. Your eyes are swollen, throat raw, barely holding it together. Then, in the quiet, she leans a little closer. Her voice barely above a whisper, warm and solid against the chaos inside you. “You’re not no one to me.”

It stops your breath, you lift your head just slightly, eyes meeting hers. There’s no pity in her face. No fear. Just quiet certainty.

“You hear me?” she says again, firmer now. “You’re not nothing. I don’t care if you don’t know who you were before. I care who you are now and I see you.”

Your eyes fill again, but this time, the tears feel different. Not jagged or spiralling just full.

You nod. A small one. But it’s real. “Thank you,” you manage, your voice breaking.

Patri leans in, gently presses her lips to your forehead. “We’ll figure this out,” she says. “Together. Okay?” And in that moment, just for a heartbeat, you believe her. 🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The sun creeps in slowly through your curtains, tracing thin golden lines across the floor. You barely slept, but with Patri beside you, the night didn’t feel quite as endless. She stirs first, brushing a strand of hair from your face. You open your eyes to find her watching you, soft and steady.

“Come on,” she says gently. “I’m taking you to breakfast before we face the world.”

You want to protest, you don’t look like yourself, your stomach is a knot, and the idea of being in public right now feels impossible but she’s already pulling the covers back and reaching for your pre hung up work clothes like it’s not up for debate.

So you let her.

The café is small, tucked on a quiet corner near the training grounds and your office with Olga. No jerseys, no fans. Just warmth, fresh bread, and the clink of mugs being set on tables.

You sit across from her, both of you nursing hot drinks. Patri tears a croissant in half and sets one piece on your plate without asking after you said you didn't want anything.

“You don’t have to talk,” she says, watching you. “Just eat something. One small normal thing before everything gets… complicated again.”

You nod, barely able to hold her gaze, but grateful, after a few bites that were dry, tasteless in your mouth, you whisper, “What if she never forgives me?”

Patri doesn’t hesitate. “Then she doesn’t deserve to be in your life." You blink at her. “She’s hurt,” Patri adds, softening. “I get that, but if she can’t believe you, if she won’t even try to, then that’s on her. Not you.”

You glance down at your coffee. “It just… it meant something working with her, i thought I finally had… something that made sense.”

Patri reaches across the table, hooks her pinky around yours. “You do,” she says. “You have me and I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod, holding onto that, even if everything else is spinning, this feels real. When you check the time, you realise it's almost time to head in. Patri downs the rest of her coffee and stands.

She pulls you up with her, smooths your jacket at the shoulders, and presses a quick kiss to your temple. “You’ve got this,” she whispers. “Text me when you’re done. No matter how it goes.”

You nod. She squeezes your hand once before heading toward the training facility down the block. You turn toward the office. Stomach heavy. Heart heavier but not quite as alone.

You step away from the café, the last of Patri’s warmth still clinging to your jacket like a hug that hasn't fully let go. The morning air is cool, quiet. You take a breath, try to let the calm hold for just a second longer. Then you see her, Olga, she’s over the road, leaning against the side of a closed bookstore, arms crossed tight, shoulders hunched like she hasn’t slept either. You freeze mid-step, her eyes are on you, it hits you like a punch. She saw. She was watching, maybe the whole time.

You don’t know what she saw exactly, but in your gut it doesn’t matter whatever flicker of healing you’d just started to believe in crumbles under your feet.

She looks up, your eyes meet, her expression doesn’t shift. No relief. No kindness. No fury either just something unreadable, and somehow that’s worse.

You almost step toward her, almost say her name, but the shame wraps around your ribs like wire. The same helpless, spiralling thought churns, I’ve made it worse.

You lower your eyes, quicken your pace, and cross the street without another glance back, by the time you reach the office door, your hands are shaking again.

The walls have started to ease back up, the ache in your chest back in full force and the photo, the truth, all of it… still just out of reach.

The office is cold when you step in, or maybe it’s just you. Either way, you don’t take off your coat.

You slide into your desk, boot up your laptop, and stare at the screen without seeing a word. You hear her before you see her, the soft click of the door, the measured steps. She moves past without a glance. You hold your breath.

She settles into her chair, the rustle of fabric as she crosses one leg over the other, her keys clinking gently on her desk. Then after what feels like an entire hour folded into thirty seconds "How did you meet Patri?"

Her voice is calm, almost too calm, you glance over. She’s not looking at you, her fingers are gently tapping her mug, as though it’s just any other morning.

You swallow. “I, um…” Your throat is dry. “I met her in a bar. A few weeks ago. After work.”

You watch her profile, trying to read her, but she gives you nothing.

“She didn’t know who I was,” you add. “To you. I didn’t tell her. At first”

Silence, you brace for something accusation, coldness, anything, but all she says is, “Do you love her?”

The question stuns you, not because you hadn’t thought about it, but because you never expected her to ask. “I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Maybe. It’s a bit early for that yet. We've not even had sex”

Another beat of silence. Then Olga nods, just once, like she’s filing it away somewhere.

You sit there, confused, the tension still knotted in your chest, but she doesn’t push. Doesn’t snap, just sips from her mug and opens her inbox like this conversation never happened and somehow… that quiet is the most painful sound of all.

The silence between you stretches thin but neither of you moves.

You pretend to work, Olga pretends not to notice your shaking hands. Then she speaks, her voice soft. Measured. “I spoke to Alexia’s mami.”

You freeze, your cursor blinks on the screen, forgotten.

You turn slowly, but she’s not looking at you. Her eyes are locked on the mug in her hands, fingers curling tight around the ceramic like she needs to anchor herself to something.

Your voice barely makes it out. “You did?”

She nods once. “Yeah.”

You wait. The silence stretches again, heavy with everything she hasn’t said yet. “I showed her the photo,” Olga continues, still soft. “The one you had. She went pale. I didn’t even have to ask anything. I knew just by her reaction to the photo.”

A breath shudders out of you. “I didn’t know,” you whisper. “Olga, I swear to you—”

“I know,” she cuts in.

Your eyes snap to hers, she's finally looking at you and in that look is a whole storm grief, disbelief, pain, exhaustion.

“You were just a baby,” she says quietly. “Left with a photo and nothing else.”

You blink back fresh tears. “Then it’s true.”

Olga nods, slowly. “They gave you up, because of your heart, because they couldn’t afford the care you needed. Your—” She pauses, breath catching. “—your father… he knew. He died when Alexia and Alba were teenagers.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, the ache in your chest pulsing to life again.

“They loved you,” Olga says. “You were their baby. I saw the pictures. The scans. A card with your footprints. They held you. Smiled with you.” She swallows hard, and now it’s her turn to look away. “But they left the hospital without you because they thought that would give you the best chance in life.”

The room is still. The weight of twenty-five years settling over your shoulders like fog.

You whisper, “What was my name?”

Olga’s voice trembles. “They didn't get to name you.”

You close your eyes, it doesn’t feel real and yet it explains everything.

Olga stands. You watch her cross the room slowly, quietly, something reverent in the way she moves as if she’s carrying something sacred and she is.

She reaches into her bag, then gently places the photo frame down on your desk in front of you. The same one that had once been your only clue to anything real. It feels heavier now.

“They know,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Alexia. Alba.”

You stare at the photo. Two little girls. You touch the glass. Your fingers don’t shake this time, but your breath catches.

“I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure,” Olga continues. “Until I had the truth.”

“And now they know.” You say it aloud. Like you’re testing it. Like it might disappear.

Olga nods.

“They didn’t before?” you ask.

She shakes her head slowly. “They had no idea. Eli kept it from them all this time.”

You stare at her. “What did they say?”

Her lips press together for a moment. “Alba was… broken. She didn’t believe it at first, then she just went quiet, typically her.”

Your chest tightens.

“And Alexia…” Olga’s voice trails off, her gaze dropping. “She was angry. Confused. At Eli. At me.”

You wince. “At you?”

Olga meets your eyes. “She didn’t understand why I didn’t tell her soon as I found the picture. Why I didn’t come to her the second I suspected.”

You nod slowly, taking that in.

“I told her I needed to be sure,” Olga says softly. “I owed that to everyone.”

Something cracks in your chest at that. You look down at the photo again, then whisper, “Do they… want to see me?”

There’s a pause and then “Yes,” Olga says. “They do.”

You look up at her. You nod, blinking fast. You stare down at the photo. Your throat tightens as you try to find the words that don’t sound like a betrayal of how much this means, how much it changes. You swallow hard, your voice barely there. “I need time.”

Olga doesn’t speak, so you glance up half-expecting disappointment, or worse, pity, but there’s none, she just nods. “Of course,” she says gently.

“I just…” you start, then stop. Try again. “It’s a lot. I’m still trying to believe it’s real.”

Her eyes soften, her shoulders releasing tension you didn’t realise she’d been holding. “You don’t owe anyone speed,” she says, and again, that name hits different. Warmer now. Anchoring.

You nod slowly.

Olga walks back to her desk, sits quietly, like she’s giving you both physical and emotional space. No pushing. No pressure.

Just… waiting.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Patri’s apartment smells faintly of rosemary and whatever candle she always has burning. It’s quiet except for the soft sound of her socks on the wood floors and the occasional clink of mugs as she makes tea without asking like she already knows you won’t have the appetite for anything more.

You’re curled on her couch, legs pulled to your chest, the familiar soft throw blanket wrapped tight around you. The photo’s not in your bag anymore, but it may as well be it’s burned into your thoughts.

Patri walks over, hands you a mug you barely manage to hold, then settles beside you without touching close enough to feel, but not crowding.

You stare down at the tea. “I have family.”

The words barely leave your mouth. They feel surreal still, like you’re saying them for someone else. Patri doesn’t speak. She waits.

You exhale shakily. “People I’m related to. By blood. I’ve never had that before, never even let myself imagine what it could be like.”

She glances at you, softly, kindly.

You keep going, voice fragile. “They want to meet me. Alexia. Alba. My sisters.” You taste the word, and it stings and warms at the same time. “But I don’t know if I can do it.”

Patri tilts her head. “Why?”

You blink hard. “Because I’m not who they think they lost. I grew up different to them. I have… pieces, but they don’t fit right. What if I’m a disappointment? What if they only want who I could’ve been, not who I actually am?”

The tears come quick this time. Quiet and raw.

“I don’t know how to be someone’s sister. I don’t even know how to be someone’s daughter.”

Patri shifts closer, gently, until your knee brushes hers. She doesn't reach for your hand just gives you space to fall apart without pressure.

When you finally look up at her, eyes glassy, voice cracking, you whisper, “What if I ruin it just by showing up?”

She leans forward then, soft but certain. “Baby,” she says slow, “You ruin nothing by existing. If anything, you’re the one thing that might put something broken back together.”

You don’t reply, but you lean against her, and when she wraps her arms around you, you let yourself fall into the quiet. Not healed. Not ready, but no longer alone.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the city outside filtering through sheer curtains. Alexia is already in bed, lying on her side, scrolling idly through her phone. Her hair’s a little damp from the shower, and the covers are pulled up around her shoulders like she’s cocooning herself from the day.

Olga steps in quietly, brushing her teeth finished, sleep tugging at her limbs but her thoughts too loud for rest.

She climbs into bed slowly, careful not to disturb the peace too much.

Alexia hums, sensing something. “Everything okay?”

Olga hesitates, settles on her side to face her, elbow bent, cheek resting against her hand. “I need to tell you something,” she says softly. "It's been eating me all day and I just need to off load it to someone"

Alexia’s eyes flick up from her phone. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Olga assures quickly. “Just… weird and you have to promise not to freak out.”

Alexia raises a brow. “That’s never a comforting preface.”

Olga gives her a tired, warning look. “I’m serious. No confronting anyone. No speeches. Just… listen.”

Alexia sets her phone down. She shifts onto her back, sighs dramatically. “Fine. I solemnly swear. Go.”

Olga stares at the ceiling for a second. Then “My assistant, the one you met at the office… she’s the girl Patri’s been seeing.”

Alexia blinks. “Wait. What?”

“Shh,” Olga hushes quickly, placing a hand gently on Alexia’s arm. “You promised. No freaking out.”

Alexia sits up a little against the headboard, clearly working through it. “Wait. Your assistant is Patri’s girl? She's the one who everyone’s been speculating about in the locker room for weeks?”

Olga nods slowly. “Yeah. I saw them this morning. Having breakfast together. Just… looked like a date.”

Alexia stares at her, mouth open slightly. “And you’re just telling me this now?”

Olga shrugs. “I didn’t know until today. I wasn’t spying. I was just... walking. Processing.”

Alexia laughs once, disbelieving. “Dios. Patri and your assistant. That’s… wow.” She pauses. Then narrows her eyes. “Is she even Patri’s type?”

Olga gives her a flat look. “You’ve met her once, and all you said was she seemed ‘too polite.’”

Alexia shrugs, but she’s smiling now. “Polite and dating Patri? That girl must have hidden layers.”

Olga hums. She rests her head on Alexia’s shoulder, a little quieter again.

After a beat, Alexia asks, “Is that all? Or is there a reason you brought it up now?”

Olga closes her eyes. “There’s more to it… just not for tonight.”

Alexia tilts her head, trying to read her. “Okay…”

Olga squeezes her hand gently. “Just don’t mention anything at training. Let Patri have her privacy.”

Alexia rolls her eyes. “You act like I’m the drama.”

Olga just smiles, eyes still closed. “You’re the captain and the drama.”

Alexia laughs softly and presses a kiss to Olga’s forehead. “Fine. I’ll behave.”

But even as they settle into silence, you linger in Alexia’s thoughts just a little longer than before.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You’re mid-call, headset on, trying to sound confident while walking a particularly demanding client through a social rollout calendar. Your laptop is open, filled with colour-coded chaos, and you’re scribbling notes on a pad beside you.

Patri is lounging, because that’s the only word for it, in the visitor’s chair next to your desk. She’s got one ankle lazily hooked over her knee, phone in hand, sunglasses perched on her nose even though you’re indoors. She hasn’t said a word in ten minutes, just keeping you company like some smirking silent bodyguard.

You flick your eyes toward her for a second and she just wiggles her eyebrows. You try not to laugh but the door clicks open.

Olga strides in, crisp and purposeful, folders tucked under her arm and a cappuccino in hand. She looks up, clearly expecting her usual quiet workspace and then spots Patri.

She stops Patri glances up from her phone, sees her, and grins “Hola, jefa.”

Olga narrows her eyes. “Patri.”

You freeze mid-sentence on your call. “—Yes, we’ll have the draft by Friday, absolutely. Thank you, I’ll follow up with the design team. Okay. Bye now.”

You click off and rip off the headset, slowly swivelling toward Olga

“Hey,” you say, cautiously.

Olga looks between the two of you, arms crossed, brow lifted in that unimpressed way that’s both maternal and mildly terrifying. “You know this isn’t a café, right?” she says to Patri, deadpan.

Patri shrugs, completely unbothered. “Had the morning off. Thought I’d escort your best employee through their incredibly stressful workday.”

Olga glances at you, unamused. “Is that true?”

You give her a tight, sheepish smile. “I didn’t know she was coming.”

Patri snorts, Olga sets her folders down on her desk, sipping her coffee. “Well, now that you’re here, maybe you’d like to help sort through thirty Instagram DMs from a dog food sponsor who doesn’t understand what a brand kit is.”

Patri puts a hand to her heart, mock-wounded. “That sounds horrifying.”

Olga deadpans, “Welcome to my life.”

You try not to smile but fail miserably, and Olga catches it her expression softening just for a second.

“Fifteen more minutes,” she says to Patri. “Then she’s mine again.”

Patri gives you a wink. “I’ll take what I can get.”

Olga rolls her eyes and turns back to her desk, but not before you catch the tiniest smirk twitch at the corner of her mouth.

The office quiets again after Patri leaves she kisses your temple before she goes, murmuring something only for you, and you hold onto the warmth of it like a tether. But it fades fast once the door closes behind her.

Olga doesn’t look at you right away. She’s working or pretending to. You sit for a while. Typing. Staring. Breathing. Trying to decide if the knot in your chest will ever untangle itself.

You think about the photo. About the scans in the box. About Eli’s face when she realised who you were. About Olga saying your sisters know now. That they want to meet you.

You think about what you said to Patri and then, softly, “Olga?”

She looks up immediately, her eyes are calm, steady gentle in the way only someone who’s known heartbreak can manage.

You clear your throat. Your hands tremble a little in your lap. “I think…” You hesitate, then push through. “I want to meet them.”

Olga doesn't move for a second. Then she slowly exhales, and something loosens in her shoulders. Not relief something quieter. Respect, maybe. Care. “Okay,” she says, her voice low, warm. “I’ll let them know.”

You nod, once. It still scares you. You’re still not sure who you’ll be to them or who they’ll be to you. Sisters. Strangers. Something in between, but you’re ready to try and maybe, for now, that’s enough.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The home Olga and Alexia share is quiet and vast, tucked away, the kind of place with balconies full of trailing plants and old tiled floors. Olga brings you up the driveway, but she doesn’t say much. Just walks beside you, shoulder brushing yours once or twice, letting the silence be whatever you need it to be.

You stop in front of the door, your hands are cold, you didn’t realise you were shaking until you saw the key tremble in Olga’s hand. She glances at you. “They’re all here.”

You nod once. Like if you say anything, you’ll turn around and run Olga squeezes your shoulder gently. Then opens the door.

The flat smells like coffee and lavender. Eli’s sitting at the dining table. She rises when she sees you, hands twitching like she wants to reach for you but she doesn’t. Not yet. Behind her, Alba leans in a doorway, arms folded tight, guarded and uncertain. Her expression is blank but her eyes are anything but, and then there’s Alexia.

She’s sitting on the sofa. Casual, almost too casual hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair tied back, one leg bouncing anxiously. She stands up when you come in, and for a second, nobody breathes.

This is it. You’ve imagined this moment so many times and never, not once, like this.

Alexia speaks first. “Hi.” Just that. One syllable, but her voice is soft.

You nod. “Hi.”

Olga touches your back gently, guiding you toward the sofa. You perch on the edge, knees close together, hands tight in your lap.

Alba stays back.

Alesia sits back down and studies you like she’s trying to make sense of what’s right in front of her and still can’t believe it. “I didn’t know,” she says. “Until last week, I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t either,” you whisper.

You look at her really look at her. She’s familiar in ways that don’t make sense. The shape of her nose. The arch of her brow. The curve of her mouth when she frowns like yours in the mirror.

Eli clears her throat. “This is yours,” she says quietly, and sets the shoebox down on the table in front of you.

You don’t open it yet. You’re too afraid of what it is will make real, and you really didn't want to cry in front of these people.

Instead, you look at Alexia again and then to Alba, whose jaw is clenched, whose arms are still crossed like armour.

“I’m not here to take anything,” you say, your voice shaking. “I’m not trying to force myself into your lives. I don’t even know how to do this. I just… I wanted to meet you.”

Alba looks away, Alexia doesn’t, she leans forward and when she speaks again, it’s quieter. “I don’t know how to do this either,” she says. “But I want to try.”

Your breath hitches. You nod. Once and when she reaches out, you let her take your hand and time passes in silence, Olga offers you a drink, and the only noise is clanking of glasses in the kitchen,

Alexia hasn’t let go of your hand even when Olga puts your drink on the coffee table in front of you.

It rests between hers, light but sure, a quiet anchor as you sit across from her on the low coffee table. She doesn’t look like a football legend right now. She looks like someone trying not to break apart a thousand different ways.

Olga sits beside you right beside you. So close her thigh presses against yours, one of her hands resting on your back as if she’s afraid you might suddenly vanish.

You feel both of them, like weights you can lean on. Eli sits a few feet away, silent, hands clasped in her lap. Her eyes are rimmed with red, lips pressed in a line. Alba leans against the far wall, arms still crossed, distant but listening.

The shoebox sits unopened on the table. Alexia breaks the silence first.

“So…” she starts, glancing between you and Olga, “You work for my girlfriend. That’s wild.”

You blink, a little startled by the shift but you’re grateful for comfortable small talk. It’s a rope thrown into the storm. You nod. “Yeah. Almost three months now.”

Olga leans in just enough for her temple to graze your shoulder. “She’s brilliant,” she murmurs. “Takes her job too seriously, though.”

You roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything. “Says the woman who once scheduled tweets from the bathtub.”

Alexia barks a laugh genuine, caught off guard. “She would.”

“She did,” "I did" you and Olga say in unison, and for a beat, it feels like a normal moment between friends.

Then silence creeps in again, you fiddle with the hem of your sleeve.

“You guys are close,” Alexia says softly, looking between you and Olga.

You nod. “She’s been… I don’t even know what I’d call it. Kind. Patient. The first person who made me feel like I wasn’t just… passing through.”

You feel Olga’s fingers tighten briefly at your back. A silent I’m still here. Alexia’s expression softens. “I get that,” she murmurs.

You look at her carefully. “Is that why you’re… so good to Alba?”

She looks over at her little sister still silent, still watching and her whole face changes. It’s not obvious, not loud, but it’s there the sharp tenderness, the unspoken devotion.

“She’s mine,” Alexia says simply. “Always has been.”

You nod slowly, your throat tightens, and suddenly you can’t speak Olga shifts beside you, gently leaning into your side, just enough to steady you.

You don’t say anything more, neither does Alexia, not right away, but something’s changing in the room. Not resolved not fixed but thawing.

Across the space, Alba watches it all with unreadable eyes and Eli quiet and still presses a hand to her mouth, as if afraid her emotions might spill out and ruin this fragile moment.

You look at your sister, she smiles at you. Small. Real and you smile back.

It’s quiet again now, not the awkward kind it’s something else. Something rawer.

You feel Olga still beside you, warm and steady. Alexia hasn’t moved far either, perched on the sofa her fingers tap silently against her knee, like she wants to speak but knows this moment isn’t hers.

You’re looking at Eli. She hasn’t looked at you once. Not really. Not since you walked through the door. She sits rigid in her chair, her body folded in on itself like she’s trying to be smaller, her hands twist in her lap, restless and unanchored. Her lips are pressed together like she’s keeping a dam sealed with sheer will.

You watch the way her thumbs rub over one another.

You do that.

You watch the way her brow creases when she’s thinking too loud to speak.

You do that too.

It strikes you all at once not in your chest but in your gut, like something old and invisible pulling taut.

You’re hers you always have been, your voice, when it breaks the silence, surprises even you. Soft. Uncertain. “You look like you need a hug.”

Her head lifts, slowly, slowly, she meets your eyes.

Everything in her face is shaking. Guilt. Hope. Fear. Regret. Love, too but buried beneath years of silence and sorrow.

Her mouth parts, but no words come out, the others don’t move. Not Alba. Not Alexia. Not even Olga.

You don’t push her, you just let the words sit in the space between you Eli swallows. Her eyes fill before a single tear escapes. Her hands go still and then quietly, brokenly “I do”

You stand placing your bag down, she seems surprised by your action but she stands and when you take steps forward she meets you halfway.

She hugs you like she’s terrified you’ll disappear again, her arms wrap around you, trembling, and your face presses into her shoulder. You breathe her in lavender and something warm beneath it. Something familiar you didn’t even know you missed.

Her whole body shudders as she quietly cries, you don’t say anything, you just hold her back, you don’t know what you’re forgiving. There was nothing to forgive for you, you don’t know what still needs to be mended, but in this moment, you’re not lost. You’re held.

The security buzzer goes, you swallow as you and Eli pull away at the same time, "I'll get it that, that'll be" Olga stops herself she knew Patri was coming for you, but she didn't know whether you wanted everyone knowing.

You nod with a little smile, you look to Alexia, "I take it you know"

She nods, "She talks about you a lot, I just didn't know, you were, you, until yesterday"

Patri’s car pulls up as the door is opened just as the sky softens into twilight you stand near the door, jacket pulled around your shoulders, feeling the air shift as the visit comes to a close.

Olga helps you gather your things gentle, wordless, still keeping close like she’s afraid too much space might crack something in you. Alexia lingers near Patri's car they have a quiet conversation you don't catch, her arms folded but her expression soft, uncertain when it turns back to you. Alba follows behind at a distance, watching still wary, still processing, but here that was something.

Eli hasn’t said much since the hug. She’s been quieter than ever, her movements slowed like the emotion has worn her thin, but she’s remained close, watching you with eyes too full for casual conversation.

You hold the letter in your hand for a long time before you finally turn to her.

It’s folded neatly. Ink smudged in one corner from where your hand trembled. You hadn’t planned to give it to her but there were too many things you couldn’t get out in front of everyone. Things too complicated. Too raw. And you wrote it for that circumstance.

You step closer. Offer it with both hands. She looks down at the paper like it might burn her fingers.

You speak quietly, for her only. “I didn’t know how to say it all. So I wrote it instead.”

Eli’s hand reaches out slowly, like she’s afraid if she moves too fast you’ll vanish again. She takes the letter her fingers press around it like it’s fragile like you are.

She nods, eyes shining, lips parting but she doesn’t speak. Just holds it close to her chest.

"Ready to go babe?" Patri smiles, "Pina and her sister are already there"

You nod and turn, your eyes meet Alexia’s, she gives you the faintest smile, then steps aside to let you go. Olga brushes her hand over your back as you move past her, a silent I’m proud of yo and as you walk around Patri's car to get in, Alba finally looks up.

She doesn’t say anything but for the first time, she doesn’t look away.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The front door clicked shut behind you, and with it goes the last of the tension you carried into this house hours ago. The echo of your presence lingers in the room, the kind that doesn’t fade easily. The kind that changes things.

Eli stands where you left her, still holding the letter like it’s made of glass.

Her eyes don’t lift from it Alexia gently steps toward her. “Mami?" but Eli barely hears. Her lips move, soundless.

“I can’t,” she whispers finally. “I can’t read it. I don’t know if I can take what it says.”

Olga watches her closely, her fingers curled around the hem of her jumper, but she doesn’t interrupt. She’s already said what she needed to say today.

Alba, who hasn’t said a word in what feels like forever, finally pushes off the arm of the couch. Her voice is soft, a little raspy.

“Do you want me to read it to you?”

Eli looks up, startled, Alba doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. She just holds out her hand. Eli hesitates for a moment, eyes searching her daughter’s face. And then, wordlessly, she presses the letter into her youngest’s palm.

Alba walks to the center of the room and sits down on the couch, tucking one leg beneath her. She opens the paper carefully, smoothing the creases with tender fingers.

She clears her throat as everyone takes a seat and begins.

I don't even know where to start with this I feel for years of my life I always wanted this moment, the opportunity to have my say, so this probably won't flow or make much sense but I'm going to vulnerably honest and true to myself.

I never blamed you, growing up I never resented you, disliked you, or hated you for the decision you made. I would always wonder what I did wrong. Why I wasn't good enough. The reason you couldn't keep me and love me like parents should, I was always focused on me and my short comings, I never spoke or thought negatively for the decision you made.

I saw everyday the pain giving a child up caused, I heard my carers talk of the despair and sheer pain they would witness when children were removed from the care of their parents. I would hope you didn't ever have to feel that because it wasn't a choice you had made but I understand the gravity of the decision that was made to leave me at the hospital for you and your husband.

I obviously now know the reason for your decision, and I think it's important for you to know, I did get that help I needed and that you may be interested in the journey that took. I had five surgeries before my second birthday, to try and mend the heart I have, I spent the first three years of my life living in the hospital you left me at, before I was discharged to my first foster family but I had very complex medical needs and they couldn't deal with that so I was moved on. I moved I think 5 times before I was 10 and deemed fit enough to live in a communal home where I stayed until I was 12 but then I needed to move again due to my age to what they call a half way house until I was 18.

Tangent lol, back to the heart, its never going to be a fully working healthy heart, I can't eat certain foods I can't have certain drinks and I work everyday to just be the healthiest I can be to give my heart the best chance of being able to sustain me and make the need for a transplant stayed off for as long as possible. That's a case of when and not if.

Olga explained to me of the passing of your husband, I am truly sorry for you Alexia and Alba's loss, I couldn't begin to imagine the pain it caused to loose such a big part of your lives.

I'm not here to ask anything from any of you, I don't know what any of us want from what we've learned, or what any of us expect to happen.

I just hope that this doesn't affect the relationship you have with your daughters because even before I learned what I know now, from the stories I heard from Olga you sounded like such a warm loving tight nit family. It may not be my place to say but I hope it doesn't change what they think and see of you, you are still the mother they know and love that hasn't changed because they learned of me. You are still that same person, and if anything it just shows what strength you have to make the hardest decision a parent can make along with your husband and carry on and raise two amazing people.

I hope you can begin to heal and most of all forgive yourself for the decision you made all those years ago.

You made the right decision, for me and for your family.

I wouldn't be here today without the decision and sacrifice you made so,

Thank You

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You’re not expecting her.

The quiet of the office is a comfort today, Olga’s out in meetings, the afternoon sun is casting soft shadows across your desk, and the rhythm of your tasks is keeping your mind anchored. Or at leas distracted.

Then the bell above the door chimes, you glance up.

Alba lingers awkwardly by the entrance, her eyes scanning the space like she might still change her mind. She’s dressed simply jeans, oversized tee, hair up in a messy knot and something about her posture makes her look younger than she is. Vulnerable.

You stand slowly, heart thudding. “Hey…”

Alba walks in a few paces, stopping near the front counter. Her hands are shoved deep in her pockets. “I know Olga’s not here,” she says quickly, like a disclaimer. “I waited. I didn’t want to… ambush or anything.”

You nod, unsure what to say yet. She’s clearly nervous, more than you thought she would be from the stories you'd heard of her from Olga.

“I just…” She exhales through her nose, avoiding your eyes. “I wanted to talk. To you. If that’s okay.”

You gesture gently toward the small seating area. “Of course.”

You both sit, but she perches on the edge of the chair, like she’s ready to bolt. She doesn’t look at you, not directly, but her voice is soft and unfiltered. “I don’t know how to do this,” she admits. “I’ve been all messed up since we found out. It’s like everything I ever knew just cracked and now I keep wondering what it means. For me. For us.”

You nod, letting her speak without interruption.

“I guess I just…” She finally glances at you. Her eyes are rimmed red. “I want to get to know you, because out of anyone it's really not your fault, but I don’t know where to start.”

Your voice is quiet but steady. “Maybe we don’t have to know. Maybe we just try.” Alba blinks. You smile, just a little. “We could… start with dinner? No pressure. No heavy talks unless you want to. Just two people who might be something to each other, seeing what that feels like.”

Alba gives the tiniest laugh, almost a scoff at herself. “I haven’t felt this nervous about dinner since my first crush in high school.”

You grin. “Should I be flattered or terrified?”

She laughs again, fuller this time. “Maybe both.”

You reach for your notebook, tearing off a corner and scribbling. You hand it to her a small list of places you can eat in the city and your phone number"

“Pick one. You text me when you're ready. No pressure. Just… dinner.”

Alba looks at the paper in her hands like it’s more than just ink and names. She nods slowly. “Okay,” she says, quieter now. “Okay.” She stands after a moment, lingers at the door again like she’s debating something. Then she turns back. “Thank you. For not making it harder.”

You offer her a warm, careful smile. “We’ve both had hard. I’d rather try something else.”

She nods and then she’s gone.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The restaurant is quiet and tucked away one of those cozy little places with exposed brick, warm lighting, and waitstaff that treat you like family. You’re early. You’d rather wait than arrive to faces you’re not quite sure how to greet yet, but you don’t wait long.

Alba arrives first.

She spots you at the table and offers a small, shy smile as she slides into the seat across from you. She’s dressed casually, but there's something softer in her eyes than the last time less guarded.

You’re about to say something when you hear a familiar voice at the hostess stand. “Alba!”

Alexia. Your heart stutters. You weren’t expecting her. Alba glances at you, a half-smile creeping in. “I may have… invited someone.”

Alexia arrives at the table with a warm grin and no hesitation at all as she kisses both your cheeks like she’s always done it. “Hi,” she says, taking the seat beside you. “I figured, three sisters is better than two, no?”

It’s strange how easy the word sisters rolls out of her mouth. You blink at her, then at Alba, then you smile. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

The conversation starts simple, menus, drinks, Alexia teasing Alba about how she always orders the same pasta everywhere she goes. You laugh when Alexia makes a terrible pun in Spanish that Alba groans at. You’re hesitant at first, still watching the way they interact like a spectator, until Alba nudges your arm and mimics your confused face when you try to translate the joke. You burst out laughing.

It surprises even you.

A bottle of wine appears. Glasses are poured. Somewhere between the bread basket and the main course, something shifts. It’s light, natural, unforced.

You find yourself talking, not deeply, not yet, but honestly. Sharing silly work stories, how you met Patri—

“Okay, wait,” Alba cuts in, grinning now, fork paused mid-air. “You’re the secret girl Patri’s been sneaking around with all this time?”

Your face heats instantly. “It wasn’t sneaking,” you say through a laugh. “She just wasn't exactly wanting it announcing it to the locker room.”

Alexia shakes her head, amused. “Patri is awful at subtle. She was glowing at training after she met you. G-L-O-W-I-N-G.”

You laugh, covering your face for a second. “Oh god.”

Alba leans in slightly, her tone playful but with an edge of sincerity. “Just so you know… if she hurts you, I’ll kick her ass.”

You snort into your wine.

Alexia raises a brow. “Alba, Patri is my teammate.”

Alba shrugs, utterly unbothered. “Don’t care. I like her, but blood is blood.”

You’re laughing now, genuinely, shaking your head. “I’ll be sure to tell her she’s been warned.”

Alba points at you with her fork. “Do that. I want her scared.”

Alexia mutters something about drama queen, and Alba throws a breadstick at her. It misses, barely.

You’re still smiling, Alba leans back in her seat, glass in hand, her grin a little wicked.

“So…” she begins slowly, eyeing you over the rim of her glass, “how’s the sex with Patri?”

Alexia nearly chokes on her wine.

You blink, stunned, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Alba!”

“What?” she laughs. “I’m curious!”

Alexia looks horrified. “You can’t ask her that!”

“I just did,” Alba smirks.

You’re giggling now, one hand covering your face as you try to recover. “God, okay, um… we haven’t… actually done that yet.”

Alba’s face flickers with surprise. “Really?”

You nod, a little shy but honest. “Yeah. She’s been… really respectful. Which is kind of adorable.”

Alexia leans back, visibly relaxing. “That’s sweet. Patri’s always been a softie underneath the sarcasm.”

You bite your lip, then laugh quietly. “It is sweet. But sometimes I just… want to be disrespected, you know?”

There’s a moment of silence, Alexia’s eyes go wide, Alba hollers with laughter and you shrink back slightly, eyes darting between them realising who they are to you as your face burns. “Oh my God wait. I can’t talk like that in front of you, can I?”

Alexia makes a strangled noise, waving her hand like she needs to shut her ears. “No. You absolutely cannot. Your my baby sister”

Alba wipes a tear from her eye. “Too late.”

You all dissolve into laughter, the kind that makes your ribs hurt. The kind that breaks through walls you didn’t even realise were still up. You glance at them Alexia still slightly horrified, Alba grinning like she won the lottery.

Alexia rests her chin in her hand, watching the two of you with a soft, content look on her face. “You know,” she says, her voice quieter now, “I really didn’t know what to expect when I found out. I was angry. Hurt. But right now?” She looks between you both. “This feels right.”

You meet her gaze. “It does.”

Alba’s smile isn’t wide, but it’s real. There’s still so much to say, still so much to feel, still so much to learn, but for now, there’s wine, warmth, and the first real night where you don’t feel like a stranger.

Just a sister.

#alexia x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas fanfic #woso fanfics #alexia putellas #woso #barca femeni #barcelona femeni #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas one shot #fcb femeni

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aajjks · 2 days ago

Text

The Bathroom lesson (m)

synopsis. His jealousy got you ending up getting fucked raw in the bathroom.

warnings: 18+ èxplïcït smút, sèx, únprótèctèd sèx, prófàníty, jèàlóúsy, ròúgh sèx, àngry sèx, dúbíòús cónsènt, yándèrè ànd degrádtíòn, báthróóm sèx.

note. Wrap it before you tap it. Also, consent is the most important thing in the world. BUT I REALLY HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOY THIS BECAUSE THIS IS KIND OF DARK AND SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS AND REMEMBER THAT THIS IS ONLY FICTION BUT READ YOUR OWN RISK BECAUSE THIS HAS A LOT OF TRIGGERING THEMES. Anyways, enjoy.

•••

The school hallway is always crowded, but you don’t really care.

Because your days are always are shitty at school because of one fucking person.. you look around and you see him, as unfortunate as you are, you feel his eyes on you even if you try to avoid the eye contact.

But he’s always looking.

Jungkook leans casually against the wall, eyes flicking toward you every few seconds.

His jaw tightens whenever he sees you talking, laughing, or even glancing at anyone else.

To most, Jungkook’s sharp words and rough attitude come off as just bullying, but underneath, there’s something else something he’s too scared to admit, even to himself.

Of course he is an asshole, but people don’t care about it.

You try to ignore him, as usual.

His insults sting less these days because you’ve gotten used to the pattern: he’s mean to keep you at a distance.

You don’t know why, but there’s a vulnerability behind his words, something raw and desperate that breaks through the surface when he’s with you.

Today is worse.

You’re standing by your locker, chatting with a guy everyone calls the “nerd” a kid with glasses so thick they magnify his eyes, and a shy smile that somehow makes him even more endearing.

Jungkook notices the two of you and something inside him snaps.

His heart pounds in a way that makes his fists clench involuntarily.

Without thinking, he storms over. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, huh?”

His voice is low, dangerously close, and dripping with venom.

You turn, startled, the nerd is shrinking back.

Jungkook’s eyes burn with jealousy, but he masks it with anger. “You seriously think you can just hang around him? What’s wrong with you?”

You open your mouth to reply, but before you can say anything, Jungkook grabs your arm, pulling you toward the girls’ bathroom.

“Fuck, you’re such a pain in the ass,” he spits, pacing like a caged animal.

“But I can’t stand it when you talk to some loser like he’s the fucking king. You’re mine, or at least, you should be.”

Your breath catches. This isn’t just bullying anymore.

It’s raw emotion, tangled with frustration and something painfully close to fear.

This motherfuck—

“I’m not yours,” you say quietly, trying to steady your voice. “Why do you have to be so mean to me, Jungkook? What’s going on?”

The bathroom door slams shut, the sound echoing in the sudden silence.

Jungkook's hand remains wrapped tightly around your arm, his fingers digging into your skin with a possessiveness that makes your heart race.

He spins you around to face him, his eyes dark and intense as they bore into yours. “You think you can just ignore me, huh?”

he growls, his voice low and dangerous. “Flirting with that nerd like he's somehow better than me?”

“I wasn't flirting,” you protest, trying to pull your arm free from his grip.

But Jungkook holds on tighter, his other hand coming up to grip your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“Don't fucking lie to me,” he snarls, his breath hot against your face.

“I saw the way you were looking at him. Like he was something special.”

“You're hurting me,” you gasp, trying to push him away. But Jungkook is stronger, his body pressing against yours until your back hits the cool tile of the bathroom wall.

“Good,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear.

“Maybe then you'll remember who you belong to.”

His hand slides down your body, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist before gripping your hip possessively.

You can feel the heat of his touch even through your clothes, sending shivers down your spine.

“I’m horny yn. And it’s all because of you.”

Your eyes widen, you’re so taken back by his confession because he’s such a shameless jerk.

“I'm not yours,” you breathe, even as your body betrays you, arching into his touch.

“You can't just claim me like some kind of possession.”

“Watch me,” Jungkook growls, his hand sliding lower, palming your ass through your jeans.

Oh oh…

“You've been driving me crazy for weeks now, flaunting yourself around like you don't know what you do to me.”

His other hand slides up your body, cupping your breast through your shirt.

You gasp at the sudden contact, your nipple hardening beneath his palm.

“You fucking tease,” he murmurs, rolling your nipple between his fingers.

“Walking around in those little skirts, bending over every chance you get. Did you think I wouldn't notice?”

His mouth crashes against yours, his tongue forcing its way past your lips as he kisses you with a ferocity that steals your breath.

You try to push him away, but your hands only end up tangled in his hair, holding him closer.

Jungkook's hand slides under your shirt, his fingers skimming over your bare skin.

You shiver at his touch, your body betraying your desire even as you try to fight it.

“Fuck,” he groans against your mouth, his hips grinding against yours. “I can feel how much you want this. How much you want me.”

He tugs at your shirt, pulling it over your head and tossing it aside.

His hands immediately go to your bra, unhooking it with practiced ease.

You try to cover yourself, but Jungkook grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“Don't,” he commands, his eyes dark with lust. “Let me look at you.”

You shake your head, tears stinging your eyes. “You fuckin suck,” you whisper, even as your body screams for his touch. “I fuckin hate you....”

“You’re so fuckin gorgeous…” he looks at you like you’re the most gorgeous woman in the world and for a moment your heart softens but then you remember what kind of an asshole he really is but he seems to not care.

He looks too far gone.

And he ignores your insults, his mouth latching onto your nipple, sucking hard enough to make you cry out.

His hand slides into your jeans, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles.

“You're so fucking wet,” he groans, his voice muffled against your breast. “So fucking ready for me.”

He tugs at your skirt, pulling it down your legs along with your panties.

You kick them off, left in nothing but your socks and shoes.

Jungkook takes a step back, his eyes raking over your naked body with a hunger that makes your stomach clench.

He reaches down, palming himself through his jeans.

“See what you do to me?” he growls, undoing his pants and pulling out his hard cock.

“You drive me fucking crazy.”

He steps forward, his cock pressing against your stomach as he leans in to kiss you again.

You turn your head away, tears streaming down your face.

“Please,” you beg, your voice breaking. “Don't do this.”

But Jungkook doesn't listen, his hand gripping your thigh and hiking your leg up around his waist.

You can feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, the heat of him scorching your skin.

“Jungkook, fck…,” you whimper, even as your body opens for him, welcoming the stretch of his thickness inside you.

He pushes forward, his cock sliding into you with a low groan. You cry out at the sudden intrusion, your walls clenching around him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his hips driving forward, burying himself to the hilt inside you. “You're so fucking tight.”

He starts to move, his thrusts hard and deep, each one pushing you further up the wall.

You try to push him away, but he's too strong, his hands gripping your hips as he fucks you harder.

“Nghh fck… fuck.”

“Please,” you whimper, tears streaming down your face. “Fuck.”

But Jungkook doesn't stop, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chases his pleasure. “Take it,” he growls, pounding into you harder.

“Take my cock like the little slut you are.”

You cry out, the pain mingling with a dark pleasure that makes you want to scream.

Jungkook's hand slides between your legs, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles.

“Come on baby,” he groans, his voice strained. "Come on my cock."

You shake your head, trying to hold back the wave of pleasure threatening to crash over you.

But Jungkook's fingers are relentless, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Fuck,” he groans, his thrusts becoming faster and harder. “I'm gonna come. Fuck, I'm gonna come inside you.”

You cry out, your orgasm hitting you like a freight train. Your walls clench around Jungkook's cock, milking him as he spills inside you with a loud groan.

He collapses against you, his face buried in your neck as he catches his breath. You stand there, trembling crying as he pulls out of you.

“Fuck,” he whispers, stepping back and tucking himself back into his pants. “That was... fuck.”

He looks at you, his eyes softening for a moment before hardening again. “Don't ever forget who you belong to," he warns, his voice cold.”

“Or next time won't be so gentle.”

But then he looks at you and, his gaze softens, and, he picks up your shirt from the floor, as you protest, he pushes it over your head and makes sure that you wear it.

Similarly, he begins to help you with your skirt, but then you see a devilish mark on his face.

“Wait— my panties! Give them to me.”

He laughs, “Hell nah, those are mine. Just like you are. You see I like to keep a souvenir so we both remember this moment forever..”

489 notes · View notes

chow0w · 3 days ago

Note

do you have a design for whiteout? ive always been fascinated by her description in the books and id be so curious to see how you interpret it!

Thank you so much!! Whiteout has been requested SO many times, and I'm really glad I can finally deliver! @miscellaneous-dragon-art , @thegreatnature , @aldershadows , @fluffyjesterr , @sunnyfield , @oli-bird , @rhynee and a handful of other anons all requested to see her, and the moment has finally arrived...

First off, I need to be transparent and say that @axolotl-yawn's redesign is definitely what motivated me to get off my butt and stop ignoring Whiteout (The amount of requests DID make me nervous.) Please go check out their design!

Onto the thought process - I first started this design by considering what I liked the least about Whiteout's canon appearance, so that I could gauge some kind of idea of where I wanted to go. The high contrast and lack of color definitely bothered me (even though it makes sense she'd be a greyscale dragon, being ice/night. I need my colors.) I also felt that her hybrid features were a lot of this-or-that, and she lacked codominant features which could've potentially looked cooler. Obviously these are just my personal preferences! I tried to stay very personal with this redesign, since there's just so much Whiteout content already and I wanted to challenge myself to stay as original as possible.

With that in mind, I established that I was going to use a lot of semi-saturated colors, focusing heavily on blending her hybrid features as best as possible into something that reminded me a little bit of melting ice/thin layers of ice you'd see on a volcanic rock. To implement this, I gave Whiteout an ice-like underbelly and more swirl patterns than she probably needed, just to reinforce that slightly whimsy vibe she has and make her shapes/lines match darkstalker's description of her mind. I thought it would be fun to blend ice/night spines with Whiteout, and made hers equally curvy and sharp. There are tons of other little things - I could talk about the redesign forever, but this post is long enough as is!

Thank you all so much for supporting my redesign journey thus far - I absolutely love seeing you around and getting your suggestions! The pinned post in my blog tells you any redesigns currently waitlisted or made - but if you don't see your favorite there (or just want to ask anyways) feel free to hit up my inbox!

Also - my art competition is still going for a whole month! It's a challenge to draw any scene from any WoF book, which might interest some of my fellow artists who visit this blog!

Here's the invite link to my server, which you can use to submit any entries! https://discord.gg/AfyVWmftzn

Even though I made it for the competition, we're having a lot of fun playing wordle - so if you just want to chat, don't stray!

later! ヽ(o^ ^o)ﾉ

#wings of fire #wof #art #character design #wof redesign #nightwing #nightwing wof #wof nightwing #icewing #wof icewing #icewing wof #hybrid wof #wof hybrid #whiteout #whiteout wof #wof whiteout

386 notes · View notes

sobbingscripter · 11 hours ago

Text

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🪻wc. 5096🪻୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Awh, sick! It looks like the Coraline stone-thing!”

“Don’t,” You swats at Mark’s hands, “fucking spread it! You sick freak.”

“Caroline, Caroline.” Mark snickers, the edges of his lips curling as he pushes your thighs further apart, guiding them to rest on his broad, sinewy shoulders and his breath ghosts over your exposed cunt. His hands massage the softness of your legs, fingertips sinking into the plush before he presses a kiss against your sloppy folds.

Peering up at you through his lashes, seeing the way your neck does that little double chin from the way you’re propped up on your elbows, the edge of your SeaWorld T-shirt pushed up just above your navel and Mark’s brows furrow.

“We’ve never been to SeaWorld?”

“I punched a kid because he kept slapping the stingray on the back. So I took his T-shirt.” You hum quietly, lifting one of your hands to thread through Mark’s hair, watching the way obsidian strands slip from your fingers like fine grains of sand. And Mark snorts.

“That doesn’t explain why you were there?”

“I was protesting. Well, I protested for 20 minutes, and then, I went to go get a snack and like... I was escorted off the premises by security.”

“Is that why Omni-Man came home smelling like salt water?” Mark hums quietly, his chin resting on your mound, fingertips tracing idle patterns around the faint lines in your skin.

“Yeah, he came to come pick me up.” You respond with a huff of laughter, the apples of your cheeks turning rosy at the memory before you swallow, the room filling with a silence that’s just a bit too heavy for your liking. And your nails scratch at Mark’s scalp. Just to soften him up before you say something that’s... I gonna upset him.

“Mark... You can still say ‘dad’...” Your voice is soft. “He was still, you know, your dad.”

“He called my mom a pet.” Mark states, expression hardening as he meets your gaze, brows furrowing into a frown.

“Mark, me and you both know your mom walked him like a dog.” You let out a heavy breath. “The pet thing was probably just a—”

“You don’t know what it felt like.”

The room goes dead silent. Quiet enough for Mark to hear the way your breath halts in your lungs, quiet enough for him to hear the way your heart constricts the tiniest bit and you swallow.

“I didn’t mean i—”

“No, it’s okay.” You suck your teeth. “You lost your dad. It hits... Harder for you. Because like, the last thing he did to you was yell at you, and the last thing I got was a kiss on my forehead.” Your eyes begin to sting. “Like he wasn’t about to beat you to death afterwards.”

There’s the most uncomfortable pain that begins to settle in your belly, and before you know it, your thighs are moving from Mark’s shoulders, the warmth of your body eluding him and you shift.

“I— I’m sorry but I don’t think we should do anything tonight. I kinda just wanna be alone.”

Mark pushes himself up, his shirt strewn tightly across his broad chest, but right now, you can’t even properly appreciate the way his muscles flex with each of his movements. Not with the heaviness in your belly that seemed to drop onto your spirits like an anvil crushing glass, piercing shards sticking into your heart.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” You nod your head, mustering a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Viltrumites are the bad guys. Aren’t they?” Your voice is tiny as you settle in the spot beside Nolan, your leg bumping against him just a little bit. Your hands still damp from the chilly condensation of the glass you had handed Nolan. The half empty glass that had dripped a little circle onto the varnished wood.

Nolan’s thick brows furrow, before he looks down at you. At the way you stare up at the sky with those wide eyes, flashes fluttering and chubby cheeks rosy from the slight frost in the air.

“Why do you think that?”

“Because sometimes, making things ‘better’, is like... Code for ass—as-assimil— ugh. Ass—smili—lation.” You respond quietly, sounding it out.

You’ve always been smarter than Mark. By a shameful longshot. You saw things for what they really are and right now, Nolan’s seeing firsthand.

“We’re not like that.” He hums.

“Promise?” You peer up at him with those doe eyes, innocence swirling along the flecks of light that reflect off the glossiness of your eyes and Nolan swallows.

“Promise.”

Your hands flip over the smooth ridges of the Omni-Man figurine, your lips curled into a frown, teary doe eyes focused on the painted face, that friendly smile and stupidly iconic moustache.

“I got you one of those... Boyband hoodies.” Nolan hums, tossing the thick, cotton at you, his gaze lowered to the letters in his hands as he continues to sort through the male.

“Which one?” You hum quietly, your nails tearing the thin, almost clingy plastic that protected the fabric.

“The Korean ones.”

“BTS?” Your lips curl into a wide gleam, excitement buzzing beneath your skin.

“Yeah, those ones.”

And you stare down at the hoodie in your hands.

“Mr Nolan, I think you were scammed.” Your brows furrow. “These are random Korean guy— who are these people?”

Your laughter bubbles.

“Are you sure?”

“Mr Nolan, these people aren’t even celebrities...”

Soft, choked sobs manage to escape you, mixed with teary huffs of laughter.

“Who the fuck’s that?” Mark questions, brows furrowed as he stares down at your hoodie, watching the way you remove all your stationery from your bag, setting your desk ready.

“They’re a super underground Korean group.” You hum.

“They look like BTS but not quite there.” William interjects, elbows braced on his desk.

And you gasp. “William! Not all Korean people look alike! I’d expect this from Mark but not you.”

“I’m literally half-Korean!”

You can feel the way the piercing pain in your belly gets worse and you can’t help but think of how lucky Mark is. The rug was ripped out from beneath him abruptly, paired with copious reasons as to why he can and definitely should hate Nolan.

You just… couldn’t.

Every day, the rug was pulled a little bit more and every day, it hurt more. Every day, you send the same ‘good morning’ text with the sunrise emoji, every day. You never fail to do it. Not even when you have a flu.

And every day, you can’t help but hope for that ‘morning kiddo’ at the top of your screen. But it’s never there.

He's never there.

And you have to get used to it.

“Your mom slipped Debbie a dollar, which she slipped to me so…” Nolan clears his throat, wiping those burly hands along his jean-clad thighs. Before he inhales sharply.

“When a man—”

“Mr Nolan, I know how sex works.” Your brows furrow, expression pinching into a distasteful grimace.

And Nolan gleams.

“Great. Pass the knowledge on.” And with a heavy pat on your back, Nolan pushes Mark towards you.

And you swallow. “Well. When your mom and dad—”

“NOLAN! MAKE HER STOP!”

“Yourdadplowedyourmathroughthemattress!”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Mark, what did you do?”

Debbie folds her arms across her chest, eyes hardened into a frown, and lips twisted.

She watches the way Mark shifts underneath his covers, a ratty GDA T-shirt stretched across his broad chest, fabric tight around the curves of his biceps and he pushes himself up, covers pooling at his hips.

And his brows furrow. “I didn’t do anything?” Mark answers, although, it’s more like a question than a statement.

“That’s the 18th time ‘No One Noticed’ has played since you left there.” Debbie huffs, her slippers shuffling across the floor before she sits at the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping just a bit beneath her weight. And she places a hand on his calf, the warmth of Mark’s body tangible through the thickness of his comforter.

And Mark swallows.

“I told her she didn’t get it.” His gaze flickers down towards his lap, shame visible in his expression. “When Omni-Man—”

“Markus Sebastian Grayson.” Debbie spits his name like a slur. “If I could, I’d slap the ever-loving shit out of you.”

Debbie brings a hand up to cover her face, in what Nolan would call ‘the Korean Shame’ cover and she inhales a sharp, shaky breath.

“Mark—”

“I know, m—”

“No, you don’t know, Mark.” Debbie interrupts. “You, didn’t lose more than her. Maybe biologically, but not more. You know her parents aren’t home a lot, and when they are, it’s like, nitpick nation.”

She shifts comfortably, powdery blue robe shifting as she crosses her legs, making herself comfortable, elbows braced on her knees and she lets out a low, exhausted huff.

“Your father—”

“Omni-Man—”

“Your father,” Debbie pauses, eyes narrowing as she waits for Mark to interject once more, before continuing, “did a lot of good. Yes, it was a literal pyramid scheme but, nowhere in that pyramid scheme, did he have to be that good to her. He wanted to be good, and she knows that.”

“But he wasn’t—”

“Mark, just because he ended up the way he did, doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to miss the memories.” Debbie sighs.

“When you hit your first homerun, when you had your semi-formal, the pumpkin carving contests, trick-or-treating. When he took you to get your costume—”

“It’s a supersuit—”

“It’s gay. Your mouth and fingers are the only things sticking out. It’s a colourful gimp suit.”

“So, I’ve got notes—”

“No she doesn’t, sir. The suit’s amazing.” Mark grins at Art, before continuing to look around, examining the other suits that have yet to be coined and worn. Tracing his fingers along breastplates and gauntlets.

“What’re are the notes, girly?”

Your lips purse as you plop down in the seat beside Art, your gaze lowered to where withered fingers push fabric underneath the jittering needle of a sewing machine. Slow and controlled.

“Why’re the suits so tight?” You question.

“They’re aerodynamic, doll.” Art smiles. “Maximum movement.”

“Why don’t the suits have… prints?”

And he snorts. “Codpieces.”

“Then why does Omni-Man have a print?”

“Please stop talking about my dad’s dick, dude.” Mark interjects, his voice distant as he continues to wander around the shop, his footsteps quiet on metallic floors.

“He didn’t want a codpiece. Wanted to ‘show off’ for wife.”

And you coo, pouty lips tugged into an adoring frown. Before you glance towards Mark.

“How does your mom only have one kid?” You question. “You could not pry me—”

“Don’t finish that thought.”

You purse your lips. Letting silence settle in the air.

“—off with tongs and tweezers.”

“Ew!”

“You invalidated her feelings and her experience with mourning.” Debbie’s voice snaps Mark back from the memory, her arms folded over her chest.

“When you know she feels it just as much as you do. She’s a strong girl, Mark but she’s not….”

There’s a heavy silence, tension swelling in the room, anticipation builds with each passing seconds and Debbie lets out a quiet sigh.

“Invulnerable.”

“Invincible, mom!” Mark groans. “You’re supposed to say ‘invincible’.”

“Why? They’re basically the same word.”

“Because,” Mark motions to himself wildly, hands moving with emphatic gestures, before groaning, throwing the covers off himself before huffing.

“I’m gonna go work my jaw, before I get an ulcer in this house.”

And Debbie nods her head, before his words register, and her eyes widen.

“What.”

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Listen, I’m sorry and I know I was a dick and—”

“—Get out!”

“Are you masturbating?!” Mark’s voice is a loud guffaw, head tipping back as he lets out a bark of laughter. “You don’t even have your pants off— are— what are you even doing—!”

Mark watches as you pull your covers over your head, your body curling up and he can feel the embarrassment rolling off you in thick, shame-capped waves. And he snorts, shuffling closer to you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants and you feel the way your mattress dips under his weight.

And you feel the steady heft of his head resting on your shoulder, his chin digging into the soft flesh and you can feel him tilt his head.

“Do you forgive me for earlier?” He questions quietly. “You didn’t lose him any less than I did.”

“No.” You scowl under the blankets, brows furrowing and annoyance burns beneath your skin. “You made me feel bad, and then proceeded to laugh at the way I masturbate.”

And Mark snickers.

“You looked like you were trying to scratch in the glove compartment from outside the car.” He buries his face in the softness of your duvet and the scent of your fabric softener wafts over him, mixed with the faint smell of your lotion.

“There shouldn’t be that much concentration to it. It should be easy.”

“Uh-huh, because you’re the expert.” You bite back, eyes still narrowed when you poke your head out from beneath your cocoon, glaring at Mark. And those dimples in his cheeks deepen.

“Actually, yeah.” He shifts, sitting up just a bit. “I’m a professional Master Bator. Ask any of my socks.”

And you grimace. “Literally, ew.”

“I can show you.” He murmurs. “A free lesson, you know, to make up for earlier.”

And you swallow. You’re still mad but…

“Okay.”

You can be mad later.

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Over or under?”

“Over.”

Mark hums softly, shifting his body until he’s wedged between your thighs, broad shoulders forcing the supple flesh apart almost uncomfortably and he keeps his gaze focused on your panties.

A sticky gusset, a few shades darker than the rest of your panties and he brings a hand up, hooking a thick, muscular finger around your gusset, before shifting your panties, pulling them flush against your core.

“Lemme just… Pop the hood.”

He peers up at you through his lashes, a dorky grin plastered on his face, only widening at the way your eyes narrow slowly the longer your gaze is on his.

“Get it? Because—”

“Mark, I’m gonna stuff a sock in your mouth.”

“Fine.” He huffs. “No car talk.”

His pretty brown eyes lower to where your pussy is flush against the cotton, the visible outline of your velvety folds, tucked safely between plush, glossy lips has his breath stuttering in his lungs and he leans forward, pressing his lips against your clit. Feeling the puffy and already overstimulated bundle twitch against his lips.

And he swallows.

His cock twitching in his boxers, definitely leaking sticky precum and staining the front of the strained fabric, but it’s about you.

And you clear your throat.

“So, are you gonna teach me anything?” Your voice pulls him out of his pussydrunk reverie and he’s shaking his head, dragging a finger between your folds, brushing over your clit before coming to a stop at your slit, feeling the way you pulse against his digits. Slick clinging to his fingers, and he swallows. Hard.

“No.” He breathes out. “Fuck, no.”

“Then you don’t have any business down t—”

“Dude, I lost my dad.” Mark peeks at you, his cheek resting against the smooth flesh of your inner thigh, one hand cradling your thigh against his cheek and the other resting on your mound, pudgy thumb pressing against your twitchy clit through your panties.

“Bitch, I lost your dad too?” You retort.

“Exactly.” Mark breathes out. “Let’s find comfort in each other. Help me, help you.”

And the laughter falls from your lips with ease, giggles slipping free and your cheeks turn rosy. “Bitch, be so for r— shit…”

Your brain feels like it’s melting when Mark’s drags his tongue over your fabric-covered panties, the hand on your mound moving and resting against your inner thigh, a calloused index finger trailing over your slit. Pushing slightly, shallowly dipping into your cunt by barely an inch, but being pushed away by your stretchy panties.

And you swallow hard.

Feeling the way he laps at your stickiness, his brows bunching and his lashes fluttering as his eyes shit, fingertips pressing against your aching core, his tongue dragging over your pulsing clit. Pulling your folds and cotton into his mouth alike, before he frowns.

“S’not enough…”

Your panties are nearly soaked.

Pillowy thighs press against his ears, your belly dipping and twisting at the way he presses his face into your messy cunt, like he’s trying to paint his skin with the smell of your slick.

“How do you even—”

“Fingers, Mark.” You deadpan. “And like,” you let out a huff of breath, bringing up one of your hands to rake through his hair, pushing the raven strands out of the way before you sigh softly, “okay, if I take off my underwear, it defeats the purpose.”

“The purpose,” Mark hums, “is for us to heal. And to find inner peace.”

“You’re trying to find peace in my ‘inners’.” You scoff. “That’s not the purpose.”

“My dad left my mom and I. I’m being raised by a single mom.” Mark lets a heavy sigh, his forehead resting against the swell of your thigh, and he watches you from the corner of his eye.

“I’m gonna have to step up.” He swallows. “I’m the man of the house now… I’ll need to do taxes and—"

“If I take off my panties, will you stop talking?”

“Immediately.”

As soon as your panties are flung across your bedroom, Mark’s spitting at your cunt. Watching as the wad drips down between your already sticky folds, before he’s sliding his tongue between your puffy pussy lips, heat blossoming behind his flexing abs, hips shifting and twitching uncomfortably against your sheets before he’s sucking on your clit.

Needy and whiny noises leave him as he motions for one of your pillows. And with bleary eyes and fuzzy thoughts, you hand it to him with your free hand, your other buried in his hair, fisting obsidian strands and he mumbles out a muffled ‘thank you’.

As he wedges the cushioning between his thighs, and under his hips.

Mark laps at your cunt needily, hands braced on your inner thighs, keeping your legs spread as he drags his tongue along your puffy folds.

His chin and lips are smeared with slick, eyes hazy and pupils blown wide as he watches your cunt twitch, hole clenching around nothing and the sight makes his brain so fuzzy.

“Your pussy’s so perfect.” He breathes out, tongue outstretching before he’s ping the wet muscle into your spasming channel, moaning at the way your thighs tense and quiver beneath his warm palms. And Mark tonguefucks you like he gets paid to do it.

Like it’s on his vision board. Like he had it on his T-shirt for career day.

Your orgasm is rapidly approaching. That burning feeling in your belly, the way your tummy clenches each time his nose bumps clumsily against your clit, the way the edge of his tongue rubs against those sensitive, gooey walls.

“…fuck,” you gasp, “m’gonna come…”

You fist at his hair, your hips bucking and twitching against his mouth, and Mark feels like he’s drowning. You’re all he’s breathing in, you’re all he feels, his hips rutting against the pillow beneath him as he continues lapping at you.

And when you’re coming, he’s coming.

He’s creaming in his boxers while slobbering over your sloppy cunt, licking up every droplet of your cum, his hips rolling and when Mark pulls away, he looks like he’s walked through Narnia.

Dazed, confused and satisfied with how things ended.

“Did you do something different?” Mark smacks his lips just a bit and your brows furrow.

“What do you mean?”

“No, it just tastes different.”

And there’s a silence.

“Mark, why the fuck would you say that!” You fling a pillow at his face, and his nose scrunches, eyes shutting as it collides and he grins.

“M’just kidding.” He reassures. “It tastes good.”

And his hands bracket your hips as he leans forward, his chest brushing against yours, his lips ghosting over your jaw.

“You… taste good.”

Mark’s hips slot between your thighs, his still hard cock pressing against your core and he rolls his hips lazily, lips pressed against your thrumming pulse.

“Please, let me fuck you.” He breathes out, pressing sweet and soft kisses against the supple skin at the side of your neck, his hips rutting against you with no rhythm, hands pawing at your hips and waist.

“Uh… no.”

And Mark’s whole body freezes, before he’s pulling away, gaze flickering over your expression before he nods, sitting back on his haunches and he takes his fingers through his hair.

Pushing the strands back.

“I respect your decision to… not take it further. Do you wanna cud—”

“Mark, I wanna blow you.” You deadpan. “You can hit afterwards.”

Those big brown eyes widen as he stares at you for a moment, his brain rewiring and his heart pounding in his chest, before he holds up a finger.

“Give me like, a minute.” And he’s pushing himself from your bed, moving into your bathroom. “Don’t change your mind!” And you hear the sink running.

“What are you even doing?” You sit up, reclining on your elbows as you look towards the shut door of your attached bathroom.

“Washing… Something.” Mark calls back, his voice a bit lazy and its very, very clear that he’s preoccupied with something else and you let out a huff. “Don’t dip your dick in my basin.”

“You want these balls clean or not?”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Are you ready?” You hum quietly, lips pursed in contemplation as you sink to your knees, the soft tufts of your carpet tickle the skin of your knees and shins. And you’re chewing on your bottom lip, rubbing your hand over the bulge in his sweatpants, and Mark nods. Swallowing hard.

“Yeah, I’m ready.” His hands twitch nervously at his sides, fingers flexing as they twist and clench the bedding, fabric crinkling under his grip as he stares down at your hand. The way you palm him through his sweats, his ruined boxers discarded into your laundry bin.

And he swallows again, lifting his hips just enough for you to peel the waistband away, lowering it just enough and his cock springs, sticky precum glossing his tip and running down his shaft in little beads.

His breaths stutter when you wrap your hand around his base, your thumb tracing over a vein before you stroke him. One, tantalizingly slow stroke, and he feels the way your grip tightens, forcing out another droplet of pre and he whines.

“Mm—fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”

“Already?”

“I’m sensitive!” Mark argues, and he gasps when he feels your thumb trace along his sensitive and nerve-packed frenulum, and his head tips back, his throat bobbing. Before he swallows, shaking his head and his hand moves to grasp your wrist, his palm’s sweaty and hot against your skin.

“I don’t—”

He’s in the middle of his sentence when he sees the way you’re looking up at him through your lashes. Your cheeks warm and reddened, big doe eyes focused on him and your lips are so, so fucking soft when you press a kiss against his tip.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty.”

Mark’s tapping the head of his cock against your bottom lip, his brain going fuzzu when you make those sloppy spit bubbles, lathering his cock in saliva, before your lips are parting, wrapping around his flushed and leaky tip. And his eyes roll back his head.

“Holy— shit... Your mouth feels so good…”

Mark goes boneless when your cheeks hollow, a hand moving to cover his mouth but it’s pointless when it comes to muffling those moans, he whimpers like you’re touching his soul’s prostate. Your tongue dragging along the underside of his cock, tracing along the veins, your eyes focused on Mark’s expression, watching the way his brows furrow.

Watching the way his lips part and the way his chest heaves, deep, ragged breaths leaving him breathless.

“Fuck— I can’t— your teeth—”

You always wondered if Mark’s invincibility extended to his dick. And now you know it does. Because every time your teeth scrape him by accident, he whines. Lashes fluttering and hips twitching, pushing his cock just a bit deeper into your mouth.

And you inhale through your nose, before you lower yourself. Your throat bulging just a bit, your eyes watering and your lungs stuttering when you hear that pitchy whine Mark lets out.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck— ‘m coming.” He pants, a hand fisting your hair as he comes, hot spurts of pearly cum painting the inside of your mouth and throat. Hips twitching, fucking into your mouth and your nails dig into your sheets, gripping for dear life and you honestly think you’re about to pass out before Mark’s pulling out of your mouth.

Cock slick and glossy, coated with cum and spittle, and he swallows hard, looking down at you with bleary eyes.

“How… lon—”

“Five minutes.” You hum quietly, wiping the mess away from your chin before you rest back on your haunches. “I’m not gonna lie, I lost a little respect for you. Quickshot.”

Mark scowls. “Fuck you.”

And he pants, wiping away the drool from his own chin before he lets out a sigh.

“Can I hit?”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

If Mark had told his younger self that he’d be watching your ass bounce off his carved hips, your face tucked into your pillow and your whines filling his ears, his younger self would say….

‘What ass?’

Mark’s hands grip your hips, pulling you back to meet each brutal thrust that has your nails digging into your pillow, your back arched like a ski slope and your bottom lip wedged between your teeth.

You’re basically a puddle beneath him, panted mewls and breathy praises fall from your lips with ease, your voice so sickeningly sweet while your cunt clamps down on Mark like a vice. Forcing him to push out sticky beads of precum, and one of his hands move to the small of your back, putting you a deeper arch and you moan.

“Holy shit—” You gasp, “—you’re s’fucking deep. Oh my God—!”

Your TV plays some stupid movie that neither of you’ve bothered to look at what it is, and Mark’s lips are parting, ready to spew some nasty bullshit before a moan echoes from your TV screen.

His hips halt just a bit, and you’re pushing yourself up to glance towards the TV, and you both forget what you’re doing.

“What? What— what is he touching?” Mark’s brows in confusion, one hand grasping your hip while the other rests on your spine and you look towards the screen.

“Haven’t you seen this? Okay, wait— So, this guy’s like, in another guy’s dick. He’s a Supe.”

“What’s a Su— Oh, holy fuck!” Mark’s fingers dig into your hips, his eyes wide and expression pulling into a disgruntled and disgusted grimace as he stares at the blood-clad man on your screen. “What the fuck is this?”

“It’s The Boys.” You answer, looking at Mark over your shoulder. “You’ve never it before?”

“I think I’d remember seeing the inside of a dick.” Mark grimaces, before sucking his teeth. “Is it good?”

“Literally, so good. It’s so fucked up but like, it’s so good.”

And there’s a quiet, almost contemplative silence that fill your room, the flickering of your TV and the soft humming of your fan and Mark’s expression twists with thought.

“Raincheck on the sex?” He questions.

“If you can keep your boner, we can keep fucking.”

“I can keep it.” Mark reassures. “Let’s spoon.”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Aren’t— mm— aren’t you gonna watch?” Mark’s hips grind into yours, his elbow hiking up one of your legs, hooked under your knee while he fucks into you. Big brown eyes focused on your TV, moans bitten back into quiet groans and you shake your head.

Your face tucked into your pillow, biting down on your bottom lip to keep quiet.

“I’ve watched until like, season 4, I think.” You respond breathily, your eyes rolling back in your head as you’re pushed towards your fourth orgasm and you whine.

Mark’s fucking you lazily.

His attention entirely on the TV screen because once again, that nerd in him wins. And it’s as refreshing as it is frustrating. You’re rendered to a cockdrunk mess, drooling into your pillows and creaming like a whore, while Mark’s focusing on men in capes and heroic escapades.

All while stuffing you full of his cock.

“Black Noir’s supposed to be like, their Batman, right?” He whispers in your ear and you shake your head.

“N-no…” you breathe out. “Their Batman’s this —mm.. fuck— this other guy and he’s a fucking w-weirdo…”

You’re gushing, so much that you don’t know if or if you’re still coming. You’re so sensitive, and each twitch of Mark’s cock has your brain pouring out of your ears, feeling the way he grinds against that spongy spot, making your lips part to let out saccharine moans.

And Mark glances down at you.

You’re so weak against him. Curled up, face burning and drool soaking into your pillow, teary eyes and puffy lips, raw bitten and shiny with spit. And he swallows hard, bringing his free hand down. Calloused fingertips circling your clit and your brows pinch as you moan.

“Shhhh. Focus on the TV.” He instructs quietly, his head dipping to press a kiss against your tear-stained cheek.

You’re so dizzy. You’re so close to passing out and your heart’s beating like you did 4 lines of coke. And Mark’s lips are brushing against the shell of your ear, tugging at your lobe playfully before he’s whispering to you. So sweetly.

“You look so pretty.” He’s circling your clit like he’s got all the time in the world. Fucking you into another dimension and he inhales sharply when he feels you clench around him, rhythmic spasms milking his cock and he whines, his face tucked against your neck.

Hs heart’s pounding and he thinks that right now’s the time to ask you. When you’re barely coherent and you’re greedily sucking his cock into you.

Now.

It’s perfect. And Mark inhales sharply, lifting his head and angling it so those big brown eyes are focused on yours.

“Can I be your boyfriend?” He whispers quietly. “Please?”

T🪻A🪻G🪻L🪻I🪻S🪻T

@lucky-beheaded ; @queen-of-gotham ; @coldvirginbitch ; @wittyjasontodd ; @a-n-a-n-a1 ; @dearlyya ; @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @daydreams-and-peace ; @misstyy12 ; @fruticake ; @httpstes ; @waterflowersblog ; @glowinthedarkjellyfish ; @vm4879bb-blog ; @monaekelis ; @radlovesfics ; @allycat4458 ; @bigbodycity ; @feral010 ; @anesthesia-4rizzle ; @princesstrunkz ; @blackfox774 ; @sh1d0uryus31 ; @your-lovely-rose26 ; @slugstarzz ; @ripcolel0l ; @strawbiemilk420 ; @verysynical ; @kikiiguess ; @missam ; @luvvfromme ; @luvvcharxo ; @alma-ru3 ; @mxvoid26 ; @urfriendlyfrog ; @the-good-kooshe ; @troublesome-nara ; @secretaccountlol ; @syubseokie; @atanukileaf ; @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere ; @i-love-frensh-fries ; @lov3vivian ; @boyofroyo1 ; @tamaranblaze ; @supersecretxreadersideblog ; @etphonehome0623 ; @markgraysonlover ; @icanmeltanigloo ; @itzmeme ; @buckturd ;

#sobbingscripter #our turn🌼#mark grayson x reader #invincible mark grayson #mark grayson invincible #mark grayson #invincible fanfic #invincible comic #invincible #invincible x reader smut #invincible x you #invincible x reader #invincible mark grayson x reader smut #invincible mark grayson x reader

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finallychaoticeffigy · 2 days ago

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Yandere Mr.Hugeface x reader

"Huh? Where's Mr. Crawling?" You asked yourself feeling confused as to why he suddenly disappeared. A few moments ago he was with you , with long dark hair falling on his figure ,following you around like a lost puppy.

'Oh well....let's still carry on , You still have to find an exit' You turned to an empty looking room and let yourself in.

It has been a long time since you were transported to this weird world you're currently in. When you wake up you find your face flat on a dirty floor. It's not bad though, you wouldn't call them humans, but creatures here are not that bad. Except when you do something that they don't like they do tend to go crazy. That's why you're so careful.

You were wandering around the hallway lost in thought. "Cute!! ...Cute !!" someone shouts. You turned around...Nothing. 'Huh? Was i imagining that?'

"Cute ! Cute !! Pet !!" This time you instantly snap your head above and found where the voice came from.

Your eyes stared at the thing. Your Instincts are telling you to run, run away !. You turned, bolted at the other side of direction as his massive hands attempted to grab your smaller form. Slowly reaching to get you as you dash, running for your life.

It was too late. You felt a hand grabbing your waist, lifting you into thin air. "Let me go you huge face " you began hitting his hand, even though you know it's practically useless as he was 100x stronger than you, you knew you still had to try.

No..You can't waste any of your precious time here. You have places to be. Things to do . You have to escape this place as soon as possible, but how are you gonna do that now. Ok..you began to think. Let's just think of an escape plan for now.

You're now face to face. His eyes carefully observe you from head to toe. He leaned down and curiously took a lick like you were some desert to taste.

You suddenly shrieked as you felt a wet sticky sensation. His tongue is warm, kind of like your hand after holding a mug of hot cocoa "Hey don't lick me !" You protest and use your free arm to protect your face from his tongue attack. You were now sitting on his palm balancing ,afraid to fall.

"Cute! So small ! So cute ! Mine ! You're Mine !" He chanted , his tongue expertly moved licking your face down to your ankle. Whenever it makes contact with you, it feels soft but heavy ,like a big, damp sponge sliding across your body.

His teeth unexpectedly without notice suddenly clenched your dress. "Wait ! Don't you dare !" You fought, gripping your clothes. He looks at you, and gives you a lopsided smile. " Why? You're mine ! I wanna see! Wanna taste !" He declares in his terrifying voice sending shivers down your spine.

He ripped your clothes off leaving you with your undergarments. Your hands are attempting to cover your halfnaked form. His tongue began to spread your legs slowly. You began to feel hot and wet. The sensation of his tongue licking you soft but strong was making you go crazy.

He stopped when his eyes caught between your spread legs. Pink underwear with a delicate pattern. "Hmm.. Something sweet coming here !" He muttered with visible excitement as he began to rapidly take a taste at your clothe pussy.

"Ahh..Hmmm Fuck" you moaned as his huge tongue slides between your legs moving up and down. This is so wrong, but feels good. You pondered hardly thinking . His other big giant fingers began rubbing your chest as he laps you like a giant dog.

You felt like bursting from how vigorously this giant is licking you. Just then you felt yourself tighten, you shudder as you felt a warm tingling sensation. "Mhhm Ahhh" you moaned at your release. What just happened? You questioned yourself, this experience was absolutely gonna hunt you for the rest of your life.

Panting heavily you look up wet dripping. "Now let me go you motherfuxker" you mumbled too tired to put any strength at your words.

He tilted his head grinning, clearly enjoying the view, clearly enjoying seeing you weak because of him especially. "Baby Y/n.. Not leave. Stay with me. Forever. Mmm?" He cooed and pressed a kiss on your stomach.

"No ! " you shouted , "I have to go back to where i came from !"

"Came from? Heaven?"

"No ! Not from fuckin above ! To my world ! Earth .. you hear me?."

"But...Angels only lived from heaven? Yeah? " He beamed, then suddenly his smile dropped and tightened his palm around you. " Me love you.. You not going anywhere.... Me keeping you"

Fuckmylife " you cursed

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trulyy-yourzz · 2 days ago

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ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕?

♡smut - b.e x fem!reader

A/N: long time no seee! So the original fic I was supposed to post is still in the works but I just haaad to whip this up real quick after seeing billies vlog.. 😁 Enjoy!!💋

You watched the party swirl around you, a vibrant blur of bodies and booming music. The bass vibrated through the couch, a constant thrum against your back. Everyone was lost in the moment, drinks sloshing, laughter echoing, but your gaze was fixed on one person… Billie. She moved with an effortless sensuality, her hips swaying to the rhythm, each movement a silent invitation. You were mesmerized, a slow warmth spreading through you as you tracked her every turn.

Suddenly, her eyes, sharp and knowing, cut through the crowd and landed on you. A thrill shot through your veins as she caught you staring, a slow, predatory smile playing on her lips. She didn't break eye contact as she started to move towards you, her dance never faltering. She stopped directly in front of you, hips still swaying, her black laced underwear peaking out from her jeans, the scent of her perfume mingling with the sweet, boozy air. Your drink felt heavy in your hand, forgotten.

Her eyes, dark and alluring, devoured you as she bit her lip, a playful challenge in her gaze. "You like that?" she purred, her voice a low rumble that cut through the music, sending shivers down your spine.

You met her gaze, a smirk tugging at your lips. "What do you think?" you shot back, your voice a little breathless.

She chuckled, a rich, husky sound that made your stomach clench. Without another word, she turned, her hand reaching back to lightly brush yours. It was a silent command, and you rose, following her through the throng of dancing bodies, a willing moth to her flame. She led you to a dimly lit hallway, then pushed open a door to an empty bedroom, the muffled thud of the party fading into a distant hum.

The air in the room was cooler, charged with anticipation. Billie turned, her eyes burning into yours. You didn't need words. The tension was thick, electric, pulling you closer. She reached out, her fingers tangling in your hair, pulling your head back just enough for her lips to claim yours. The kiss was deep, hungry, tasting of liquor and raw desire. Her hand slid down your back, molding your body against hers.

You groaned into the kiss as her touch ignited a fire within you. She pulled back, her eyes still locked on yours, and then slowly, deliberately, knelt before you. Your breath hitched as her gaze dropped, lingering on your hips. Her fingers, long and agile, found the hem of your shorts, and you shivered in anticipation as she expertly navigated the fabric, her touch sending jolts of pleasure through you. A soft gasp escaped your lips as her fingers found their target, tracing patterns of fire against your skin.

Then, her mouth was there, hot and wet, a soft moan escaping your lips as she started to tease and torment you with her tongue. You leaned back against the wall, your head lolling, lost in the exquisite sensation. Her fingers joined the dance, plunging and retreating, mimicking the rhythm of her tongue. You gripped her shoulders, your nails digging into the soft fabric of her top as waves of pure sensation crashed over you.

Her lips pulled away, leaving you gasping, your body humming with lingering pleasure. She rose, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Ready for more?" she whispered, her voice laced with a promise that made your core clench. Her electric blue eyes, looking up at you from where she knelt, sent a shockwave through your body. How could you possibly refuse her?

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loki-zen · 2 hours ago

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When women started winning at car racing they literally introduced new rules to "correct" for their "unfair advantage" so, yunno. Clearly there are different ways this sort of thing can be structured. I don't know about the rules of these sports leagues but I do know that I was Not Allowed to play sports with boys in any organised capacity after a certain age - not "I wasn't good enough", I was not permitted to try!

There certainly are a lot of sports where men and women could compete together, such as shooting, equestrian events, display gymnastics, ice skating* etc. For other stuff, you could go with weight classes or something similar like boxing.

*(if judges don't arbitrarily give higher marks for certain moves based on a male-centric notion of what counts as impressive, of course! Or literally bar women from attempting certain moves! Or...)

I also think that the kind of sports that are super publicised are mens' sports? Like even the women's leagues are women's versions of men's sports. In actual women's sports, like roller derby, you don't see the same pattern, or not nearly as strongly - there are mixed teams and women's teams play male teams and the men don't completely dominate or anything. I bet women would kill at mixed-gender weight-matched judo.

But also, it's like whatever I guess. I don't have some kind of arbitrary class consciousness with some random elite athlete. It's pretty clear at this point that the value of a few dozen more women getting to have elite sports careers doesn't outweigh the value of this entire concept as a stick to beat trans women with in the popular discourse, and I also suspect that a world where girls and boys can play together is a better one for girls than the world where they're being forced to undergo genital examinations in order to play sports.

Of course in reality if you got rid of women's sports now it wouldn't help because the narrative would be that the Transgenders have taken away women's sports, but all of this means it does make sense to me to just wish that it wasn't a thing to start with

desegregate all sports now. no more gendered sports. its stupid

if you absolutely must, in primarily muscle force-based sports, create competitive classes like in boxing except separated by body comp, not just pure body weight. i mean, if you must. this will eliminate any tiny advantages in muscle mass. some will say basketball should have height classes but frankly some of the NBA's most impressive players were not tall so idk that this actually matters ever

the primary athletic impediment to all women is overwhelmingly cultural and psychological. i have won probably half the physical competitions with cis men that i have engaged in, friendly or otherwise. even without the benefit of a lifetime of people trying to make me throw or hit balls, i have won wrestling matches, sparring matches, funny backyard foam sword fights, video games, equestrian activities, dance, endurance tests of various kinds, etc. i'm small and weak. men think theyre stronger and more skilled than they are, women think the opposite about themselves

humans just arent that differently-sized or -shaped, as a species. we have almost no sexual dimorphism at all compared to the vast majority of other mammals.

animals that have similar levels of sexual dimorphism to humans, for example cats, dogs, and horses, do not generally have competitive events segregated by sex. the dog agility trials dont normally have separate leagues for male and female dogs (gendered competitions exist they're just unusual). because it doesnt matter. there is no kentucky derby 2 just for girl horses. thats not a thing

remove all gendered categories from online shopping websites and universalize clothing and shoe sizing. im sick of having to search two entirely different sections of ebay when im just trying to find a nice velvet loafer in size 39 EU. what the hell is "women's clothing"

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scriptseekstories · 3 days ago

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I have an idea for an AU that’s kinda inspired by the “if y/n’s mom never died” AU, where instead of Y/N becoming the queen bee, their mom did. Even if she dosent remember a lot, a mother never forgets her baby.

So like, I picture Queen Bee Mama coddling Y/N and the hive (if Mama ever built one) also coddling them like how a hive provides for Larvae. This would give the Batfam an even bigger obstacle in trying to get Y/N and M/N into their family unit.

It just popped into my head and I wanted to know what you thought of it.

Girl…

You opened a whole new world for me

Queen Bee’s Hive: What if?

If your mom became Queen Bee, then hoooo boy, your dad fell harder for her.

Let’s say that she got tired of others looking down at her work, saying it’ll never work, her baby will never be provided with her dead end studies.

The last straw was when one of Bruce’s attempts to win her back. As much as he played his alter ego as Brucie Wayne, he took it too far by joking about her research and say that you might be better with a doting mom and a billionaire working dad.

“Is that all you see me as?” His face drained of color at what he said, making him backtrack and stammer while your mom was ready to murder him.

So obviously, she had to think of you and her worth, finally taking the risk and testing her results on herself. Once she got rid of Bruce from her house (and his kids who were so obviously trying to hide amongst her furniture), she came to your room.

You stirred in bed when you felt a kiss on your cheek and heard the door close. Waking up to see a note on your desk saying that your mother will be doing something very stupid and dangerous, but it was all for the sake of the family’s legacy… yeah, you immediately ran out and followed her.

It was only when you burst through the doors of the warehouse that you witness your mom hunched over while whimpering in pain, a beacon splattered down on the floor.

Guess what? The previous Queen Bee fell into the honey she had and dissolved, resulting in a similar fate that happened to you, only this time you watched a giant mass burst through her spine and hit the top of the roof.

If you think your bee form was tall (7ft) then you ain’t ready for her Bee form size.

Because oh my lord- imagine the size of Ponyo’s mom in her giant form, cus she’s HUGE. She almost broke through the warehouse’s roof.

Her bee form is similar to yours, just different patterns and more insects like. I guess you looked more human and cuddly as your bee form is because you’re still young, and your mother is a fully developed adult.

And her glow… my goodness she looked like a goddess that blessed the world with her presence.

Anyways, you freaked out at first, because HOLY SHIT your mother just turned into a giant bee monster!! But then, her eyes trained on you, no longer thrashing and screeching, instead she slowly bowed down to inspect you closely.

“H-hey… mama…?” You awkwardly gulped, giving your nervous smile before slowly lifting your hands to try and touch your mother’s face.

“B-Bu…Bumblebee…” She croaked out, feeling your tiny hands touch her face, her eyes slowing closing as her glow was so bright it looked like a true beauty to behold.

After that, mother quickly adjusted to what has happened to her, her memories weren’t fully there, yet she remembers you very clearly.

Being a giant bee woman, she easily cradled you and coddled you whenever you visited her with flowers from a particular botanist vender, who was more delighted to sell you flowers when she saw you, as if she knew you very well.

Coming back to see your mom still trapped in the warehouse you still loved her all the same. She has done so much for you and now you’ll have to do the same for her.

Which was hard, seeing that Bruce kept on asking where your mother was whenever he “bumps” into you, making you run away and shouting that a pervert was after you. (It made Jason cackle when Bruce replayed what happened with a horrified expression)

Eventually Bruce finds out by following you as Batman, entering the warehouse and watching in shock that the inside was covered in honey and wax, where in the middle of the building was a giant

Naturally he assumed this thing took your mother and brainwashed you, so he immediately called in the Robins and burst through the windows. Your mom growled as you were more annoyed than scared.

The other kids burst in, and Damien instantly went against Bruce’s commands and charged before he stopped with his sword inches away from your face as you stood between your mom and them.

“Don’t you dare hurt my mama!!” You hissed, knowing damn well they could beat your ass easily as you were a nerdling of a 16 year old, but god dammit leave your mom out of this!!

“Mom?! That’s our mom?!” Tim shouted, “Don’t call her that!!” You hissed back, before being pulled back by the gentle hand of your mother.

“Father, our soon-to-be-mother is that thing?!” Damien shouted in shock and disbelief. Dick, hearing that Bruce hadn’t made a sound, turned to him only to see the Dark Knight staring up at your mother, eyes wide and mouth opened while she glared down deadly daggers at him.

“Batman?” Steph poked him, before seeing the blush under his cowl, and she immediately bursted out into hysterical laughter. You and your mother looked at each other, her confused and you disgusted.

“Back off Batbrain!! First that Wayne guy and now you?! Stay away from my mama!!” You shouted at them all as Bruce kept still, in his love trance because we all knew he was freaky, and seeing your mom as a giant woman bee creature had sent him to the edge of love and horniness.

Don’t even get STARTED on what would Joker would’ve done seeing your baddie of a mom now turned into a goddess like-bee beast. Bro would’ve killed Bruce for a taste (I mean every villain would want your mom, and you stood between them because why are they wanting your mother 😭)

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#yandere batfam #yandere batfamily #batfam x batsis #batfam x reader #yandere bruce wayne #yandere alfred pennyworth #yandere dick grayson #yandere barbara gordon #yandere jason todd #yandere tim drake #yandere damian wayne #yandere duke thomas #yandere cassandra cain #yandere stephanie brown #yandere dc #queen bee’s hive #what if

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chow0w · 2 days ago

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I really liked your scorpion den fashion, so what do you think the differences are between deep palace and summer palace fashion styles? No need for pics, just words

..But who would I be without my pictures?

On a real note, I DID try to answer this with words only, but as I was typing I found myself wanting to sketch some things out. Either way, I do appreciate the invitation to blabber!

So let's get right into it - in order to make this easy for myself, I started by distinguishing between deep/summer region seawings. Deep palace dwellers would likely live in the deep or mid ocean, with brighter bioluminescence and an extra head lantern (I figured they would need brighter marks for hunting aid.) By contrast, the summer palace seawing has bright, tropical colors and patterns resembling coral, sand or seawater in the light. Their bioluminescence would be more for communication than hunting, and dimmer by proxy.

An important thing to consider for both regions is practicality - seawings need to move around relatively fast in order to be both productive and comfortable. Having heavy or extensive decor would reduce streamlining while swimming, and be impractical to the everyday dragon. Of course, Royals and other high ranking seawings would probably have to suffer through the slowness in favor of extreme accessorizing.

in the summer palace teritory, fashion heavily revolves around the environment it is located in. Dragons by a coral reef would accordingly accessorize to match the vibrant atmosphere, while those living on a sandbar or seabed would stick to materials that allow them to blend in. Of course, class is important to consider: affluent dragons would be the first (and only) group to truly over-accessorize, while a working class population will stick to small satchels or trinkets that could provide some sense of use. I imagine the average shallow-water hunter will wrap kelp/other marine herbs around their ears or horns to store and use later... medicinal plants for emergency scrapes, or edible plants to snack on during the day.

Regardless, flamboyance and beauty are much more prevalent aspects of seawing fashion in shallow waters: and the population likely associate vibrant good fashion with good health, prosperity and pride in one's home.

On the other hand, dragons of the deep palace would carry a significantly different view on fashion and its place in society. Terms like 'vibrant' and 'tropical' would have next to no meaning - in such a low-light environment, the prettiest seawings would ultimately be the ones who can best make use of darkness. Of course, there would also probably be a significant portion of the population who live low enough where they don't give a shit what they look like because nobody really sees anyone else..

In terms of the actual fashion, I imagine most seawings make use of the limited resources they have: other bioluminescent creatures, rocks or bones could all act as accessories. Perhaps the biggest and oldest of dragons can even use whalefall skeletons as armor pieces. Either way, the most important aspects of design are the silhouette and the luminescence, given that those are the only things you can guarantee another dragon will be able to see. Seawings may choose to tailor their fins and wings to accommodate this, or diet using other bioluminescent creatures to increase their own glow.

That's all I have! Thank you so much for the question - it was really fun to think about, and sprouted a few other tangent ideas on border village fashion and trade between tribes.

I deeply apologize for bringing this up again, but I am unfortunately kind of required to keep talking about the art competition until it ends. We're seeing a lot of cool WIP submissions in the server! If you want to join and draw some WoF scenes, the link to my discord server is here:

Thank you so much to everyone who's already here, and see you later (o´▽`o)

#wings of fire #wof #art #character design #seawing #wof seawing #seawing wof #summer palace #deep palace #wof fashion

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butterflybuckethat · 2 days ago

Text

Operation: Seduction

Summary: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Fem!Reader (8k words) - Jake is your older brother's best friend. So when he lets you live with him to get out of your childhood home, you're dying for him to see you as more than the 'kid sister.'

Warnings: This actually ended up being kind of filthy! mdni!

Note: Somehow, this took me three weeks to write. I think I'm happy with it but it took a few rounds of edits so who even knows. I hope you like it <3

🦋 Masterlist 🦋

You and Jake had been living together, in relative domestic bliss, for nearly eight months when you decided that you needed to bring him to his knees.

When you moved in, you hadn’t seen him since his flight school graduation. Your older brother Aaron insisted you all go to support Jake, not that your parents put up much of a fight–growing up, he’d been at your place more than he’d been at his own. He was relatively the same, if not broader, tanner, and more sure of himself if that was at all possible.

You had always had a familiar relationship and fell back into that pattern relatively quickly when you moved in, desperate to leave Texas. It may have been possible that you had the teeniest crush on Jake when you were teenagers (what sixteen year old, wouldn’t? Handsome, kind, athletic Jake who ate your waffles and bought you ice cream to make up for it.) So, one evening, when you were wrestling for the remote–he wanted to watch the taped Cowboys game, and you wanted literally anything else–you casually said, “What if I flash you? Then can we watch Love Island?”

It was a joke, mostly. And it had become a secret pastime of yours to try to make the cocky aviator blush. So far, you had only succeeded once: when he threw you over his shoulder when you tried to walk into the second Sephora that day. But you were wearing a mini dress and you shrieked that you weren’t wearing anything underneath. He dropped you so fast, his cheeks a bright red that only subsided after minutes of your cackling and a peek at your bike shorts.

He was laying on the couch and you were on top of him, teasing him with your fingers around the hem of your shirt. You were expecting him to roll his eyes or push you off like he had hundreds of times before, so it surprised you when he scoffed out a “Please.”

You sat up in his lap, arms crossed, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.” Jake brought his large hands up to your hips to steady you but you slapped them away.

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t know,” he repeated slightly exasperated. “In my mind you still have headgear.”

“I never had headgear.” You frowned and got off his lap, no longer interested in being in his proximity. He was messing with you. Intellectually, you knew he was messing with you but you couldn’t stop yourself from reacting.

“Didn’t you?” That evil glint that you knew so well resurfaced in his green eyes.

“No!”

“But you get my point.” He only spread out further, taking up the space you were once in.

You were standing, sleep shorts scrunched in your fists. This was so ridiculous but you were angry, angrier than you had ever been at Jake’s jabs. And his amusement only made it worse. “Just fucking say it,” you spat.

“Say what?” he asked, folding his arms behind his head.

“Say it, Jake.”

He heaved a sigh, like this conversation was an inconvenience. “I don’t find you attractive.”

And you decided, right then, that you would break him.

–

“So, what’s the plan again?” Natasha asked. The two of you and Bob were sitting at her dining room table surrounded by Chinese takeout. You were closest to them of the rest of the Dagger Squad and when you asked to convene an emergency meeting, Nat immediately offered her place.

“To make him beg for me,” you said simply. They were well aware of your borderline antagonistic relationship with Jake and had given up on trying to understand it a while back. She even said that it “explained a lot about him.”

It hadn’t always been this way. In school, when your brother and Jake were thick as thieves, before Aaron got himself a wife, baby, and medical degree, Jake was nearly reverent of you and your family. He would help with dishes and offer to go grocery shopping, and even dropped you off at soccer practice a few times. But as the two of you got closer through your regular correspondence during his deployment and his time staying at your house when he was on leave, the relationship became more…playful. It didn’t really matter that no one else understood it, because you and he did.

“No, I got that part,” Natasha said. “ I just don’t understand how we get there.”

“Be sexy,” Bob said with this awkward grimace on his face. “I assume.” It took you a little longer to get close to Bob but after weeks of snapping back at Jake for him, you eventually wore him down. He was the one that was able to get you a job with one of the civilian contractors on base.

You were honestly so grateful for, really, the entire Dagger Squad who had taken you in as one of their own when you had spent so long feeling trapped and alone at your parents’ place.

“He already said he didn’t find you attractive,” Nat said. “Which is crazy by the way.”

“Thank you,” you said, mouth full of egg roll.

“So what are you going to do? Single White Female all his exes?”

Your eyes blew wide. “Natasha, you’re a fucking genius!”

“I’m on it,” Bob said, already starting his research and ignoring Nat violently shaking her head.

Jake had had very few actual girlfriends, maybe five altogether but that’s all you needed.

Candace

Candace was Jake’s most recent girlfriend and the only woman to make it onto his instagram grid (besides you). You had only interacted with her once in the first week you lived with him until she unceremoniously disappeared from his life, but the picture was still up. She was in a strappy red bikini sitting on Jake’s lap. Bob found the exact one online and you were now wearing it underneath your clothes for the team beach day. It was flattering, if a little annoying to put on—it’s structural integrity completely dependent on a series of bows you tied that morning.

“You still mad at me, baby?” Jake smirked, dropping himself into the beach chair next to yours. He was still panting from touch football, his golden abs glistening with salt water and sweat but you weren’t paying any mind to that.

“Of course, baby.” You batted your eyelashes. “Why would I be mad?”

“Maybe because I–”

“Just hold that thought,” you interrupted him, turning your whole attention to Javy who wanted someone to go into the water with him. You readily agreed and stood, casually angling your body to face Jake and took off your shirt. You worked slowly and turned away to give him the most advantageous view of you shimmying out of your shorts. If you weren’t so set on revenge, you might have felt embarrassed but when you looked at him, in all your bikinied glory, you absolutely relished in his eyes scanning your body.

“What were you saying, Jakey?” you asked as innocently as possible and left him a stuttering mess.

You stood in the surf, wanting to remain as elegant as possible to emulate Candace and avoid a drowned rat look. Javy, bless him, eased in also, talking animatedly about the John Wick movies that you admitted you had never seen. “We should do a movie night,” he said resolutely. He peeked behind him at the rest of the group, but did a quick double take. “Incoming,” he warned.

You barely had enough time to turn around when Jake hauled you in a fireman carry, bringing you deeper into the ocean.

“Jake!” you wailed. “What the hell? Put me down!”

“And swim alone?” he asked but it came out breathless, as he tried to keep you contained despite your squirming.

“You’re an adult, aren’t you? Maybe act like one.” You were panicking a bit. It had taken you an hour to get your hair into the perfect breezy but sexy updo and the water would totally ruin it.

“You first,” he said and dropped you.

The rest of the day went by smoothly, hanging out with your friends and drinking spiked seltzers. That is until you left completely dehydrated and with the most awkward sunburn of your life.

You hissed as Jake helped you out of his truck, your tender skin sticking to the leather seats.

“I know.” He frowned, leading you into your shared apartment. “I think I have aloe in one of these drawers.” He immediately began rummaging, first in the junk drawer and then in the bathroom cabinets. You followed him, carefully removing Jake’s oversized shirt that he leant you.

“I think I just need a cold shower.”

“Just let me do this first.” He spoke softly, squeezing a glob of gel on his fingers and delicately rubbed it on you. “Isn’t this usually why you wear a rashguard?”

“I just wanted to try something different.” You held the bikini top to your chest, letting him pop the knots at your shoulders so he could gain better access. The fabric gave immediately, falling limp at your fingers.

“Is it because of what I said?” he asked. You were facing away from him now and couldn’t see his expression. But his cool fingers across your back felt heavenly and you couldn't help but close your eyes.

“No.”

“Why is it so important to you?” Jake spoke barely above a whisper.

You whipped your head around to look at him now and flinched from the pain of it. Your eyes narrowed, “It’s not.”

“Does baby have a crush on me?” You saw challenge in his eyes and if anyone was going to rise to it, it would be you.

“And if I did?” Your tone was firm, not giving away a single thing. You squared your shoulders and tightened your jaw, portraying confidence despite being half naked and bright red.

Jake’s eyebrows raised. He took your face in his hand and inspected it. Your breath caught at his close proximity. After what felt to you like a minute but was probably no more than a few seconds, he released you. “Stop fucking with me,” he mumbled, smirk firmly in place.

Athena

According to Bob, Jake and Athena dated for two months and the only reason they knew it lasted that long was because of the lingerie she left hanging in his bathroom. When it was gone, they knew, so was she.

Your Saturday morning was spent with Natasha in Victoria’s Secret (Bob, understandably, passed on this excursion). Your burn had faded but your relationship with Jake hadn’t healed similarly. You weren’t sure if he’d intentionally been giving you the cold shoulder or if he’d just been having a busy work week but regardless, you hadn’t seen him more than ten minutes.

“Are you sure you want to keep doing this?” Natasha asked after you had explained your last interaction with him. “I mean, it seems intense.” She held up ruffled pink boy shorts eliciting a laugh from you.

“It’s always intense,” you shrugged. “It’s kind of our thing.” You started digging through a drawer for the matching black lace thong to the bra you already had.

Nat made a face. “That looks so itchy.”

“I don’t exactly have to wear it.” You flashed her a devious smile before moving to the next one.

“Did anything ever happen between you two?”

“Are you kidding? Aaron would never have let that happen.” Much to your teenage annoyance, your brother was very protective of you. The only boyfriends you had in high school were secret, sneaking kisses underneath the bleachers or in your room before he got back from football practice. You remembered one afternoon in the tenth grade when Aaron and Jake came home early and caught a boy sneaking out your window. Jake held you back, stroking your hair as tears streamed down your face, while your brother chased him down the street. No one got near you after that. Even after they graduated.

“Jake did come back to take me to prom,” you said. “He got special dispensation and everything.”

“That was sweet of him. Maybe–”

You shut that down immediately. “It was practically punishment for scaring off anyone else who would’ve taken me.” Unfortunately for you, Jake left a lasting legacy.

“I need to see those pictures.”

“You definitely don’t.” You laughed and poked her in the side.

Before Jake got home from the gym you washed your new lingerie in the sink and hung it on the shower rod to dry. Despite Natasha’s reservations, you were feeling giddy. You kept your bedroom door ajar, waiting with bated breath to hear the familiar jingle of his keys in the hall.

You snuck a peek at him, taking in his disheveled hair and rippling back muscles as he stripped walking into the bathroom. Jake had always been gorgeous, even when you were kids all the mothers would coo over him. The boy could get anything he wanted with a smile and a “ma’am.” It was infuriating but you couldn’t say you didn’t understand it.

When he got out, you were bundled up in a blanket on the couch. He ran a towel through his hair and you watched his deft fingers push each button through its respective hole up his fly and followed the line up his happy trail to his face, looking straight at you. You were certain you blushed.

“Hey.” He cleared the gravel from his throat before continuing, “Are you going out tonight?”

“Just to the Hard Deck with y’all,” you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth. “If that’s okay.”

“Can you be ready in twenty?”

When Jake ducked into his room, you tip-toed over to the counter, swiped his car keys into the sleeve of your sweatshirt to keep them from making noise and set them down in the bathroom. It was steamy and smelled like his body wash. You noticed your lingerie set had been carefully moved to the counter and you were nearly giddy. You brought them with you into your room to get ready.

You took a deep breath outside the double doors of the Hard Deck. Jake went in but you took a beat to smooth your hair and apply lip gloss. You wore a white summer dress with little pink rosettes all over it and a high slit up the thigh. It was the perfect night for it with a fantastic breeze, if only you could keep it together. You tried to wear the lingerie beneath it but Nat was right, it was not comfortable.

You shouldn’t have been this nervous, you were walking into a bar that you had walked into a million times before, but the look Jake gave you after he retrieved his keys from the bathroom kept replaying in your mind. Judging by his sharp intake of breath, the way he jerked his hand back like you burned when he led you out the front door, he must have noticed the empty space next to the sink.

You forced your shoulders back, fixed your face into the confident girl you were and pushed the doors open with a bang.

The bar seemed to stand still, all eyes on you, as you paused in the entry for the moment, feigning that you were searching for your people (you knew exactly where the Dagger Squad was, in the same spot they always were) while you let the wind blow through your dress to flash a little leg.

Penny called you over and handed you a beer, “Don’t you look gorgeous!”

Before you could rebuff, the man next to you leaning against the bar interrupted: “That you do.” He introduced himself as naval officer Danny. He wasn’t bad looking by any means with his big biceps and flashy smile, but he couldn’t hold a candle to Jake.

You giggled as he twirled you to show off the dress. “What other tricks you got?” he asked with a raise of his brow.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” You winked at him. It felt great; clearly this had potential.

“I think we’d all like to know.” Jake was here to break up your party.

“Christ, Hangman. Why do you always ruin a good thing?” You couldn’t even see Danny with Jake standing between you two. You knew Jake meant this little intrusion as a bucket of ice water, but it had the exact opposite effect. You were practically thrumming.

“Fuck off, Danny.” Jake asked Penny to put your drink on his tab before dragging you away by the wrist.

“Bye, Danny.” You couldn’t resist waving at him because it meant more of Jake’s hands on you. He wrapped his arm around your waist, tight like you might escape.

“Bye, sweetheart.” Danny gave you a lascivious smile.

You laughed at the scowl on Jake’s face. You, reluctantly, escaped his grip and turned to face him. “Aw Jakey, you can twirl me too.” You wrapped your hair around your index finger. “If you want to.”

He pulled you back so close to him. “Maybe later,” he sneered but you ignored it.

“I’ll hold you to it,” you said and sauntered over to your friends.

You and Jake certainly had your soft moments too. He cooked you dinner more nights than not and always asked about your work day and you did the same, keeping him company in the kitchen and making sure that he had everything he needed. You knew everything about each other and enjoyed being around one another–even when one of you was being annoying as hell.

You weren’t very good at pool, but that didn’t matter when you leaned over the table, letting Jake get an eyeful. He beat you, easily, but not without a few unforced errors. You caught him a few times staring hard at your dress, as if he was trying to see through it.

“Lost your edge, Bagman?” Natasha joked.

“What could I have lost when I won?” You liked Jake when he was so sure of himself, it's what made him so fun to mess with, to flap the unflappable man.

“Your dignity.” You smiled sweetly.

“I have it on good authority that I never had any.”

You squeezed into the booth between Bradley and Jake. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this dressed up,” Rooster said between sips of beer.

“I just thought it was time to get out of my work clothes.”

“And thank god for it!” Reuben called from across the table.

You flipped him off, only making him laugh harder. You enjoyed the easy banter between the Dagger Squad, the companionship and in-jokes. You had never really experienced that before, being a part of a tight knit group, and you loved it.

After the third brush of Jake’s knuckles on your bare thigh, you thought you would give him an opening. “You coming on to me, baby?” You kept your voice low so only he would hear.

“Why?” he asked, smirk blooming on his face, giving you exactly what you wanted. “You want me to, baby?”

“Can’t a girl just want a little male attention?”

“Not when she’s you.”

You recoiled, ready to fire back but you didn't want to argue with him in public. You fought every instinct in you and decided to extricate yourself, “Let me out.”

“Where are you going?” Jake asked, not moving an inch. He was infuriating.

You schooled your features, being careful not to betray how upset you actually were, and said, “I want another drink.” When he still didn’t move, you got up on your knees and straddled his hips. It was your intention to quickly maneuver over him but he stopped you before you could get out on his other side, his hands automatically moving to your hips.

“I could get it for you,” he said, thumb caressing your hip bone through the thin material of your dress.

You hated the way heat pooled at your core and how your eyes flicked to his lips. You leaned forward even closer, taking the opportunity to ruin his night, nearly pressing your chest to his, “What the fuck are you doing, Seresin?”

His hands couldn’t have left you faster; Aaron calls him that, Mav calls him that, not you. And you left him before the shock wore off.

You made a beeline to the bar, asked Penny for a shot of tequila, and downed it ignoring her concerned look.

“Hangman let you down, honey?” Danny asked, still in his exact spot.

“Something like that,” you mumbled.

“I promise, one night with me and you’ll be wondering what his name was again.” He reached out to grab you but you were too quick.

“Fuck off, Danny.” You tried keeping your voice light but your head was swimming and you really just needed some air. But Danny followed you. He was clearly drunk, swaying a bit as he stood.

“Don’t be cute,” he said. You kept walking but he grabbed your wrist, “You can’t wear a dress like that and not expect a man to–”

It happened in an instant. Danny on the ground and Jake looming over him with a swollen fist.

“Sorry, Penny.” Jake looked almost sheepish before turning to you. He touched your face and inspected your wrist. “Are you okay?”

You could only nod.

Penny gave him a towel full of ice and ushered you both into a back room, letting Javy get Danny in a cab.

You watched Jake, he didn’t betray that his hand hurt but you knew it did. “Sorry,” you said. “I was on one tonight.”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “Those are usually more fun for me.” He passed you his scotch to sip. “It’s fine, he deserved it.”

You fell into a comfortable silence, sharing Jake’s drink, until he opened his mouth to speak. Then, he shut it.

“What?” you asked but he just shook his head. “Are you shy?” You were teasing but, for perhaps the first time in his life, he actually did look shy.

It took him a second but he finally asked, “Why did you dress up tonight?” Once the words were out, his nerves disappeared like you had imagined them. A total blip.

“I wanted you to think I was pretty,” you said honestly.

He blushed and it felt like a win, even if he responded with a quip. “Is it my birthday?”

Cassandra

The only time Jake accidentally sent you an email that was meant for your brother was about Cassandra. Endless paragraphs waxing poetic about the nightgowns she wore; thin and silky and revealing…

Javy’s John Wick movie night was taking place at his studio apartment. It took some wearing down but he eventually agreed to making it a sleepover and everyone was going to be there. You even borrowed Jake’s sleeping bag.

Bradley brought what could only be described as a fuck ton of beer and Mickey dumped out a duffel bag full of boxes of candy and microwaveable popcorn on the coffee table.

“Where’s your sleeping bag?” Reuben asked him.

“You have it,” Mickey said.

“No—“

“Yeah, when we were at Walmart. It was in the shopping cart and I was holding the candy and I asked you…” He trailed off, the crease between his brow only getting deeper.

“No, you didn’t.” Reuben’s arms were crossed but his expression betrayed his sadistic glee.

“Fuck! Javy?”

“Yeah, we can share my bed.” He rolled his eyes. This was the first team event Javy had ever hosted and you had a feeling it would be the last.

Before the first movie started, you and Nat squeezed together into Javy’s tiny bathroom to change into your PJs.

“Show me,” Natasha nearly giggled as you reached for yours. It was an ivory silk nightgown that stopped barely at mid-thigh and a little pair of matching bloomers. The fabric was thin but opaque so you didn’t feel totally exposed. “He’s going to lose his mind,” she said.

You and Nat settled into the spaces on either side of Jake on the couch and Javy pressed play on the movie. You did miss Jake’s double-take when you came out in the nightgown—and neither did Nat who gave you a wink.

Honestly, it may have been the quietest the group had ever been. You were the only one who hadn’t seen it and yet they were all rapt. Even Jake’s focus was completely captured, the only time he looked away was when you reached over him to grab a handful from Natasha’s popcorn bowl.

Reuben fell asleep first. 11:30, right on the dot. That was his schedule and he was notorious for sticking to it. The rest of you got into your sleeping bags shortly after, unable to concentrate on anything but his snoring.

You tried getting comfortable but it just wasn’t happening. You had no choice but to lie there and watch Bradley scroll through his phone in the next sleeping bag over.

“Any progress?” He whispered.

“Some,” you said, inching closer to him.

“He’s stronger than I thought. I for sure would’ve cracked by now.” He looked at you, smiling face illuminated by the glow of his screen. “I mean, who sleeps in that?”

You punched his shoulder. “Shut up.”

Bradley chuckled but stopped quickly when Jake got up to get water. He urged you to go with him, practically unzipping your sleeping bag.

“Alright!” You rolled your eyes.

The kitchen wasn’t much more than a wall of cabinets and appliances and a tiny island. The corner of Jake’s mouth lifted when he saw you. “You hungry?” He asked, head in the fridge. “Javy’s got celery.”

“Anything else in there?”

“Nope,” he said and closed the door, enveloping you back in darkness. He handed you his glass of water and you took a few sips before handing it back. This wasn’t unlike what the two of you did when you were at your own apartment except it usually devolved into the both of you passing out on the couch to the sound of the Food Network.

“Where’s Guy Fieri when you need him?”

“Tell me about it,” Jake mumbled as he refilled his glass. He walked you back to your spot on the floor. “Is this new?” He asked, rubbing the material between his fingers.

“Kind of,” you said, glad for the darkness.

There was a long beat of silence. You were waiting for him to say something about the emails or Cassandra. But he didn’t.

“It looks good on you,” he said and headed quickly back to his own spot on the floor.

Warmth bloomed in your chest, encouraged by the compliment, and you didn’t want him to leave just yet. “Hey, Jake,” you called. “Do you want to go to that diner in the morning?”

“Absolutely,” he said and took a few steps toward you. “I would kill for those blueberry panca—“

But he didn’t see Bradley stick out his foot and he tripped, his full glass of water landing all over you.

You gasped. The fabric clung to your skin, cooling you down to freezing.

Jake swore. He apologized profusely and ushered you into the bathroom. “Maybe Coyote has a hair dryer.”

He flicked on the light and began rummaging under the sink. You were totally blinded, your eyes weren’t able to adjust to the sudden change in light with any speed.

You heard Jake stop before you saw it. When your vision came into focus, he was staring up at you slack-jawed. The nightgown had gone completely sheer. He could see everything.

“Jake!” You shrieked, wrapping your arms around yourself. This was too much, even for you.

“Sorry! Sorry!” He ran out of the bathroom and came back with his hoodie, offering it to you.

“Well, turn around!” Once his back was turned, you stripped off the wet top. It landed on the tiled floor with a smack. You languished in Jake’s hoodie, it was warm and soft and smelled like him. Next thing you knew, he had taken off his sweatpants and was helping you step into them. He crouched down, only in a t-shirt and briefs and pulled the drawstring tight around your waist, tying it into a neat bow.

“We can go home,” he said, his expression holding nothing but concern.

“I’m good,” you promised and scurried back to your spot next to Bradley, at a complete loss for what just happened. You were breathing heavily despite not having exerted yourself.

“How’s that for progress?” He whispered.

“You’re such a fucking douche.” But every time you closed your eyes, there was Jake with an unmistakable hunger in his.

Kennedy McMaster

Kennedy was the only of Jake’s girlfriends you knew personally. She was your next door neighbor, head cheerleader, and his longest high school relationship. He took her to his prom. Your strongest memories of her were her glaring at you when he drove her home after their dates and the cloying scent of her pink sugar perfume that lingered on all his clothes.

You were determined not to let your last encounter deter you. It was shocking and something you were not at all prepared for but it, ultimately, served your mission. Now you knew with near certainty that he was attracted to you, he just needed a little push to admit it.

Your boss was out of the country this week so you were working from home and Jake’s truck was in the shop the last few days so you’d been driving and picking him up in your old Jetta without temperature control to make up for Maverick’s disappointment at seeing his bruised knuckles.

“Don’t you think these women are exes for a reason?” Nat asked under the spray of the shower. You and she often FaceTimed when she was alone in the women’s locker room. She was one of the bravest people you knew, but even she was better safe than sorry.

“I mean, yeah. But he was dating them for a reason too.” You were squeezing yourself into an aesthetic that could only be described as “yummy mummy”--it was the closest thing to wearing a cheerleader uniform as an adult. You wore leggings, a matching little zip up jacket, and a brightly colored sports bra. “The goal is for him to think I’m attractive, not for him to fall in love with me.”

“You sure?” Nat asked but you didn’t hear her, distracted by an incoming text.

~ Bob: I can’t believe you made me do this but it’s done

You squealed–you tasked Bob with spraying your perfume into Jake’s flight suit while Mickey and Reuben ran interference.

“He fucking did it?” Natasha laughed incredulously. “I for sure thought he would chicken out.”

“And we still would have respected him for it.”

“As if.”

You laughed but even to your own ears it sounded nervous.

By the end of the week, Jake was so looking forward to getting his truck back and you were ready to go back to wearing sweats, even though you were enjoying Mickey’s comments every time he saw you in the tight athleisure: “I wouldn’t even mind driving a minivan if it came with you.”

When you’d arrived on base to pick Jake up, you’d been informed that he was being held back for extra drills. Mav, not wanting you to die of heat stroke in your shitbox car, had invited you to enjoy the A/C inside. It was a particularly hot day and, even without the jacket, a sheen of sweat had developed on your body.

You sighed when the light breeze coming through the hangar hit you but the scene you walked into made you want to go back to your sweltering car. Maverick stood above a panting Jake, having just finished doing push-ups.

“Again, Seresin,” Maverick said. “You’re distracted. Making stupid maneuvers.”

By the dark green stains on Jake’s flight suit, you could tell he’d been doing them for a while. But he kept his expression neutral, taking his lashings.

“How many times do I have to say it?” Maverick’s arms were crossed. “You’re not alone out there.” Jake faltered a little. “Keep going,” Mav urged.

The rest of the Dagger Squad fell in line beside you, watching.

“I think you took it too far,” Javy said. You blushed, not realizing that he knew.

“Dude.” Reuben hit his arm.

Javy waved him off. “If you didn’t want me to know, you shouldn’t have fucking told me.” He turned back to you, eyes soft but firm. “It’s too much. You’re everywhere. He can’t concentrate. He’s making dumb mistakes and…” He trailed off, clearly trying of the right words. “That comes with a high cost in this line of work.”

You were fighting back tears, not wanting them to feel like they had to comfort you when you were the one who fucked up. “I’m so sorry,” you said to everyone. “I got carried away and involved you all in something that should never have happened in the first place. It was stupid and I’m sorry.” You took a deep shaky breath. “I’ll apologize to Jake too.” Just thinking about how you were going to explain all this to him made you severely nauseous.

“Don’t apologize to Hangman!” Mickey said.

“Yeah, he doesn’t need to know,” Reuben added, swinging his arm around your shoulder and giving you a squeeze. “Maybe just keep it out of work.”

You felt terrible the whole ride back to your apartment but Jake seemed happy as a clam. He asked to drive, so you let him, and he was humming along to the radio. He seemed more relaxed than he’d been in a while.

You were nearly home when he asked, “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize your perfume?”

You practically jumped out of your skin. You analyzed his face, looking for any hint at how much he knew. He wore his same smug amusement.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said.

“I didn’t think you would,” he laughed.

“Maybe you’re having a stroke.”

“Must be.” He nodded with pretend thoughtfulness. “Why else would my flight suit, which is always in my locker unless I’m literally wearing it, smell like you?”

You looked at him, grateful he had to keep his eyes on the road. All the windows were down, the breeze whipping through his hair. Even exhausted and covered in sweat, he looked incredible. “Is it such a bad thing?” You practically squeaked that out.

“Not unless you consider thinking about you instead of my training exercise a bad thing.” He threw his hand over the back of your seat to back into the parking spot to make it easier on you in the morning and, despite the heat, you shivered. When he had successfully made it into the spot, he stayed close to you for a beat longer. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Then you know how to make it stop.” You leaned impossibly closer. It wouldn’t take much for him to kiss you. He licked his lips and couldn’t tear his eyes off yours.

Your heart thundered. This had to be it.

“I should call Aaron.” He backed away. He couldn’t even meet your gaze. “He always takes forever to respond,” he mumbled. And in an instant, you were alone in the car.

Giulia

Not wanting to rely on the team, you dug back through your emails with Jake to find information. All he wrote was that she was a flight attendant from Milan who made insane baked goods. It was a single line in a single email dropped in the middle of a long-winded anecdote about starching vs. not starching his service uniform.

You were going to bake a pie. You had prepared the night before by watching Claire Saffitz videos and calling your mother, but your last meeting ran long and you were late coming home from work. You tried being quick but the custard curdled and the crust burned and this was all so stupid, you couldn’t even remember what you were doing it all for in the first place. You would’ve sobbed but you didn’t even have enough energy for that.

You ordered a pizza and thought about changing out of the ridiculous outfit you wore to work—your knee-length pencil dress looked flight attendant-esque, especially with the twilly scarf tied around your neck. But by the time it had arrived, you ran out of time. Jake was already at the door.

He sat down beside you at the counter and dropped his head in his hands with a deep sigh.

“You want a slice, baby?” But you asked softly, without the usual teasing associated with the nickname.

And he followed suit, “More than anything, baby.” The exhaustion resurfaced his home-grown twang exactly how it sounded in all your memories. The nickname thing started after Aaron had gotten his first girlfriend. He was in the eighth grade and they would hold hands and end each sentence calling the other “baby.” Jake had only started doing it with you because he was a little jealous of losing his best friend’s attention, not that he would’ve ever admitted it. But it was everything to you, to have an inside joke with him.

He didn’t even use the plate you set out, devouring half the slice in a single bite. “You look cute,” he said, tugging on your neck scarf a little. “You're usually in sweats already when I get home.”

“I tried baking you a pie.” You couldn’t even look at him. Somehow this felt so much more vulnerable than anything you had done thus far.

“You did?” His face broke into the goofiest grin.

“I burned it.”

“What was it supposed to be?” He squeezed your shoulder.

“Lemon.”

“I love lemon.”

“I know,” you demurred. You contemplated making lemon bars but making shortbread seemed much more involved than a cookie crust. Idiot.

“Do you remember the tiramisu you made for your parents anniversary?” He laughed, throwing his head pack. “How you managed to burn a dessert you don’t bake, I have no idea.”

“I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to bake it!” You cried, a grin resurfacing on your face.

“How–”

“The recipe was vibes based.”

“Whatever that means.”

“Yeah, whatever that means.”

You smiled at one another, both of you feeling more lively.

The two of you finished the pizza before deciding to get into more comfortable clothing. You contorted yourself trying to get at the invisible zipper until you eventually gave up. You didn’t really want to ask Jake because you were done teasing and torturing him. You were done with this entire endeavor. You didn’t need him to decide you were worthy of dating as long as you got to spend time with him and, in truth, you were quite certain that you’ve been hurting yourself more than you’ve actually had an impact on him.

But the dress didn’t fit over your head and the dumb little TikTok Shop magnet contraption broke after its first use, zipping up the dress that morning. So, after a great deal of effort, you padded over to his side of the apartment and knocked softly on the door. He let you in, dressed in navy briefs and a worn t-shirt. His room was neat as a pin with no clothes on the floor and hospital corners folded in his sheets.

“Can you unzip me?” You moved your hair to expose the zipper to him, watching his reflection in the mirror leaning against the wall.

You watched him sink his teeth into his bottom lip. “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Please,” you begged. “I’m stuck.” You were starting to feel claustrophobic, scenarios of wearing that dress forever clouded your mind.

You shivered when he hooked his fingers under the collar of your dress. Jake took his time dragging the zipper down, trailing his fingers down your spine.

He pushed apart the seam of your dress and splayed his hand against your skin, the tips of his fingers ducking just beneath the strap of your bra eliciting a gasp from your lips. Like a man possessed, he continued, a dark look crossing his face.

“Jake,” you moaned, as he snuck his hands around your hips, inside your dress and grazed the lacy trim of your underwear. You felt like you were on fire, every bit of you alight under his half-lidded gaze.

Jake traced the line of your jaw before tilting your chin up just the slightest bit, angling you just right to give him access to the knot of the scarf around your neck. You could have wept when he pulled his last hand out of your dress but the moment the scarf was gone, his hands were back dragging you flush to him.

“Say my name again,” he demanded, voice like gravel.

“Jake,” you moaned louder, having forgotten the ability to regulate. You were lost to the anticipation. And before you had a chance to gain any sense of composure, he drove his tongue into your pulse point.

Your whines turned breathy and knees weakened but he only held you tighter so he could continue his onslaught of nipping and sucking down your shoulder.

You arched your back, wanting to do more, feel more. And you watched him nuzzle into the line of your hair, hissing when you grazed his erection with your ass. Jake’s lips parted, flush, and you were sure he was going to say something.

His phone started to ring, and you cringed, an old picture of Jake arm in arm with your brother lighting up the screen. Jake unceremoniously removed his hands from you. “One sec,” he said and answered the fucking phone. “Yeah buddy, what’s up?”

You looked at him with shock and disdain but he was sitting at the foot of his bed. Your heart sank and you tried to step away but he latched onto the back of your dress and gently pulled you down to sit on his knee. His grip wasn’t tight, you could’ve left. But you didn’t. Instead, you sat there, uncomfortable in your freezing wet panties.

You could only hear Jake’s side of the conversation, he was hesitating and if you didn’t know him better you might have said he was nervous. “Look,” he said, “I was wondering…” He glanced at you, an expression you couldn’t read on his face. “How would you feel if I asked out your sister?”

You may have blacked out. You saw his lips move and the smile on his face but you couldn’t decipher the words, not when excitement, love, and rage were all rushing in your ears.

Jake tossed his phone, beaming, and slid his hand up your thigh. That seemed to snap you back to the moment because you stood, backing away from his touch. “What the fuck was that?”

He stayed sitting and spoke very calmly. It was infuriating. “I don’t have much in the way of family. You and your brother are everything—”

“So you have to ask him permission to fuck me?”

“Is that what we were doing?” He asked with this dopey look in his eyes. Butterflies erupted in your stomach.

“Don’t be cute,” you said, willing yourself to stay angry. “I’m not some fucking plaything—”

“But it’s fine to toy with me, right?” He stood, then. “That’s why I’ve been half-cocked in my jet all week.” He didn’t raise his voice or move closer when you took an instinctive step back, and you lost all of the moral high-ground you may have had.

Your back hit the door, you hadn’t realized you were so close to it. He followed you this time, resting his forearm above your head, fingers trailing up the back of your thigh to where your dress was nearly hiked up leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. With how close he was now, you were sure he could hear your heart thumping.

“Would you have stopped if he said no?”

“No.” Jake crashed his lips to yours. The kiss was sloppy and imbued with so much longing. It was everything you had wanted for as long as you can remember.

He pressed open-mouth kisses down the column of your throat and dragged your clothes down with him.

The dress hit the floor and he sank to his knees. “What do you want?” he asked.

“I-I don’t know.” You were completely overwhelmed, hot beneath his touch.

“You’ve been working me for months.” His smirk was salacious. “I can’t imagine you didn’t have something in mind.”

“Say it,” you demanded, regaining lucidity.

“What do you want me to say?” He laughed bitterly. “That you’re always on my mind? That you only get more beautiful every time I see you? That, every night, I think about you in that fucking nightgown?” He wiped his face, looking suddenly exhausted. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been trying not to think about you this way?”

You knelt down, slotting your legs on either side of his thigh. He brought his hands to your hips immediately, helping rock you back and forth across his hard muscle. He kissed your neck and you sighed, “I love that you do.”

“I want to watch you cum like this,” Jake mumbled.

“I’m not sure I can,” you panted, fully enjoying the friction but certain that it would not be enough to get you there until he yanked your cotton panties up, increasing the pressure on your clit.

A wave of pleasure shot through you. Jake deafened your moans with his kiss, keeping you steady as you moved your hips faster.

“Ja-ake,” you moaned, pleasure building in your core.

“Yeah, baby.” He flicked your nipple through the unlined cup of your bra and it sent you over the edge. His hands returned to your hips to help you ride out your orgasm.

You collapsed onto the carpet in a fit of giggles. This was so unbelievable. Even at the beginning, you never thought it would end this way.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said and the look of pure genuine love in his eyes took your breath away.

You pulled him down on top of you, kissing his cheeks and lacing your fingers in his hair. “Your turn?”

“Are you sure you’re up for it?” He teased, brushing the hair off your face.

“Do you have a condom?”

He reached over you to his jeans and took one out of his wallet.

“Aren’t we ambitious,” you said, already kicking off his briefs.

“And here I was, hoping you’d jump me in a supply closet.” Jake took his time removing your undergarments, taking you in as he teased your folds with his dick.

You groaned together as he pushed himself into you. “I’m not going to last that long,” Jake breathed into your skin and it only made you hotter. This man, who you’d been so taken with, was also incredibly taken by you.

You hooked your leg over his waist and he drove deeper into you. You ground your hips but he held you still to rub your clit in tiny dizzying circles.

A guttural moan erupted from your throat as you spiraled into your second orgasm. Jake kept going, rubbing and thrusting until your legs shook and the aftershocks became so intense that tears welled in your eyes. “Jake,” you cried, unable to take it anymore, and he came, nipping at your collarbone.

Once your breathing slowed and Jake disposed of the condom, he lifted you onto his bed. “Can I get you anything?” He asked with a kiss to your bare shoulder.

“Water.” He sat up to grab it and you followed.

“Darlin’, as long as I can help it, you will not be leaving my bed,” and Jake planted a long mind-numbing kiss to your already swollen lips.

As you sunk back into his pillow, watching the man you very nearly loved shirtless in the kitchen, you decided that wouldn’t be so bad.

#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #glen powell #glen powell x reader #jake hangman seresin #hangman #top gun #top gun maverick #rooster #bradley rooster bradshaw #natasha phoenix trace #fanfic #fanfiction #oneshot #one shot #imagine #maverick #operation: seduction

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mqyra · 2 days ago

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sarah's bsf seeing rafe jerk in the shower during a sleepover

you and sarah were both planning to prank rafe by putting gorilla glue into his hair products, like that childhood movie matilda, when she put gorilla glue in her father's hat as revenge. and sarah, wanted revenge.

both of you playfully argued over who was to do the prank. then, in the end, you were the one to take on the act.

rafe never really noticed you, and you never made an effort to do so either.

you wore your short pants, and a white shit that said "talk nerdy to me."

creeping over up, to his bedroom's shower, hearing noise that didn't sound like rafe showering.

except you could hear rafe more than you could hear the echo of water splashing against the bathtub.

this was it, you close your eyes, sighing, hoping the curtains would at least be closed.

you take a cautious peer into the bathroom, but not long enough to notice the curtains were never closed up

moments later, you take a few more steps, finally opening the door, not fully, but enough to make your presence known, just to test the waters

he wasn't facing you, back towards you, but what surprised you was the fact that he did not in fact put the curtains up.

so you were just staring at his arse as you tip toed your way to the sink, holding in a giggle at the sight of him, to find his usual hair product.

hearing a loud shaky breath that came straight from rafe's throat, you pause, tilting your head with curiosity filling your senses

then you see it: the lace trophy. your lace panties, the ones Victoria Secret bought, and it cost a lot more than most things, your name out in a breathy moan your eyes narrow clutched in between his fingers, his palm going in a slow pattern, the panties slick with his arousal and then he goes rough, head falling back. you gasp in surprise, realising he must have went through your bag.... "oi, who's there?" his voice crackles through your shock, and you quickly run off before he could further react.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron blurb #rafe smut #rafe cameron smut #rafe x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe imagine #rafe obx #rafe outerbanks #rafe cameron outerbanks #rafe x you #rafe x y/n

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tr1nd2de · 1 day ago

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Batson and the Bat-family

At a rare (evening) Wayne family dinner, where practically all members are present and relatively calm.

Sounds of running footsteps are heard, and the door to the lunch room opens.

A boy who appears to be about 13 years old, typical Wayne adoption pattern, black hair, blue eyes and white skin.

Billy: Bruce!?, are you okay? Did something happen!?.

Bruce: Billy? I ask you... why are you here?

Dick: Do we have someone new in the family?... I didn't know that.

The Batfamily members look between the rookie and Bruce, with expressions of confusion and surprise.

Billy: Bruce, your communicator is sending me a distress alert... HALF AN HOUR AGO!!. Do you have any idea how desperate I was when I saw this!?

Says Thomas responding to Dick:.

Thomas: I don't know... But if we have another lightning member then maybe Alfred will ground Bruce.

Bruce puts his hand in his pocket seeing the communicator. And the boys and girls look at each other in silent communication trying to figure out if anyone knows the supposed new member.

Bruce: Of course it's damaged from the last mission, I'm sorry for the scare but... you don't seem to have announced your arrival as dramatically as usual. Did something happen?

Billy: It's me, I've been here in Gotham for a while... Taking a look at the Falcones

All: The Falcones!?

Damien: What were you investigating about the Falcones?, and who are you!?

Billy: Yes, the Falcones. Billy walks over to Bruce around the long table, and takes a folder out of his bag and hands it to Bruce. I don't know why yet, but they are reaffirming their good relationship with the mafia families outside of Gotham. The Batfamily members are on alert, Tim even pulled out his laptop to check the Falcons' activities with Barbara. I've heard that there was a fraternization between the Fawcett and Gotham mobsters, I thought I'd get some clues before telling you but... the distress alert made me abandon the espionage.

Damien: He ignored me!?

Jason: Are you going to cry, brat?

Damien: Don't even try Todd, I'm wondering what we're going to do about Dad's out-of-control tendencies about adoption.

As Bruce reads the folder, Alfred arrives carrying a tray.

Alfred: Master Billy, it's good to see you again. You're here on business I presume. Billy, giving one of his megawatt smiles, gives the old butler a quick hug. When you come back, I hope you stay because as a reward for the others, I will make cookies and I hope you will be here with us tonight. Says Alfred, as he leaves with a small smile on his face.

Billy: Sure Mr. Alfred, I'd love to spend some time with you if possible. Turning his gaze to Bruce with a serious expression. So, do you esse want to do something now or not?

Thomas: Well, shit, Alfred not only knows the kid but he's not going to ground Bruce either.

Bruce: I think the best course of action is to be taken immediately, we don't know what they're up to so we need to act quickly.

Billy, puffing out his chest, looks at Bruce with a smile on his face:. Okay, I'll go as Batman!.

Bruce raising an eyebrow:. No

Billy ignoring Bruce's denial: No discussion Robin, to the Batcave!

After Bruce and Billy leave the room, the boys and girls look at each other trying to understand what just happened.

Dick: We should make Bruce wear a Robin costume.

Jason: What a horrible sight... but I'd pay to see him in those scaly green dickhead swim trunks.

Tim: By the way, I didn't find any record of the new member being adopted... could it be a biological child?

Damien: a biological brother?... and apparently living in Batman's post too. A worthy opponent, our battle will be more than legendary!

Cassandra: Cute.

The End.

I don't know if it was good... But that's it. I had this idea a while ago but didn't expand on it, so I hope it was interesting to read.

And I hope it's not that confusing, sorry if anything.

Ps: sorry, I forgot a part of Thomas...

2ps: I corrected the sentence: "Tim takes off your lepto". Translated into my native language it became: "Tim takes off your leptospirosis".

This is what happens when you don't take the time to reread your own text.

#dc #shazam #billy batson #captain marvel dc #batman #batfam

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meiguicha · 2 days ago

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Sugar Talking (Your Eyes Only)

Phainon x Reader - Modern AU

Lace and applique, garters and stockings, what he likes most is the person wearing them

Note: suggestive ending, mild sexual content (boaner), mentioned sexual activity and general semi-nudity

//i know i literally just posted about what might be the next soul-sucking series for me but this idea is tossing me in a wok and cracking an egg over me like im day-old rice. oh and my ten million exams ig. you can kind of think of this as like a preview into the dynamic for the series.

The best part about the mid-year months is definitely when stores go on their end of season sale and you can walk in and pick up a bra for less than the price of a paperback book, a steal in this horrid economy.

Of course, this only works under the assumption that you find your size, which is why you always pray to anyone willing to listen to your selfish prayer to always find your size no matter the cost.

Safe to say, you return with the spoils of your conquest. Triumph is too light a word to describe what is blooming in your chest, this must be what cheetahs feel like when they actually get a kill.

"You're looking excited, did something good happen?" Your boyfriend's hums amusedly from his seat, his eyes sweeping over your form to glance at the shopping bag hanging off your shoulder and the large cup of tea in your other hand.

With a prideful look, you set down your cup on the counter before approaching him. Giddily, your delight is barely disguised by a lilting giggle, "5-dollar sale for selected bras and underwear."

"Aaand I just so happen to find my size~."

Digging through the bag to retrieve what you've bought, you present them to him with a wide smile pulling at your lips.

Phainon only tilts his head, dumbly noting, "They look nice."

"Do you wanna see them on me?" You wait for him to respond.

The answer he gives you isn't verbal, rather it seems like he's dumbstruck at the idea. A rosiness tinges the tips of his ears, and perhaps due to his natural features, the blush that spreads around his cheeks is extra noticeable, his whole face almost engulfed in shy flush.

You tilt your head too, mimicking him. Only then does he seem to catch on, incoherently sputtering out this and that before settling on simply nodding his head, the enthusiasm of which also seems to cast an excited sheen in his eyes.

But when he looks at you like that, it's pretty hard to not let it affect you.

In a swift move, you remove your shirt and unclasp the bra you were wearing to slip on the first bralette, your boyfriend's scandalised gasp peeping out the first moment a bit of waist came to display.

"You've literally been inside me," Your voice is muffled by your shirt, yet it's clear he can hear you well and fine.

Once more, as if a Victorian man seeing a little bit of knee for the first time in his life, he murmurs behind his hand, "I know! That doesn't mean I was expecting you to strip right in front of me."

Just that pulls a bark of laughter from you, and as you finally adjust the band around your chest, you make an experimental twirl, trying to catch every detail through the full-sized mirror by the two of you.

"I saw this and thought it looked pretty comfortable you know? And I have so many shirts that are too low cut so at least now I have something lower to wear beneath them."

The patterns on the lace really does look nice against your skin, you made a good choice to pick this colour.

"That looks..." He chokes out, "...good."

Whipping back to face him, you once more find your boyfriend peeking through the gaps of his fingers, covering his eyes and mouth as if whatever you're showing him is truly so violating.

"Do I look that ugly?"

"No! No, no, no. Of course not, you're—"

His sputtering is only interrupted when he looks up to your horrible suppression of your amusement, your features scrunched together in vain attempt. In the face of your clear humour, those eyes that you've grown so weak to, grow glassy as that aggrieved glint shines within them.

Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, a fluttering feeling enveloping your chest. All you can do is ruffle up his hair, messing with that cute little cowlick of his before you step outside his reach.

"Wait here, I think you'll like this one," Humming, you glide to your closet to look for something, eyes scanning a certain pile of folded up fabric as your hands reach for silky white frills and mesh stockings. When you find it, you disappear into the bathroom to put everything on.

If you'll be honest, you bought a pair of suspenders long before you even got with him and it was more of a practical reason than aesthetic. Your love for thigh-high socks was only decremented by the fact that they kept slipping down and, in your desperation (and your stinginess), you ended up buying a white pair with frills at the waist. You're certain it was a part of some bridal set, but you'll never know.

It was weird wearing it at first, almost felt like you were doing something illegal, but it did its job really well. You walked for hours in these things and your socks didn't budge an inch. Naturally, it became a part of your usual wear.

And now with your new additions, you suppose they can finally fulfill what they were made to do.

As you buckle the waistband of the suspenders behind your back, you tentatively open the door to approach Phainon, who was now sitting a little straighter than before.

The weight of his gaze lays on your neck, along the curve of your clavicle and the cut of the bra. He goes further down, to your waist decorated with soft frills, gaze trailing to the waistband of the matching panties whose waistband dig into the plush of your hips, and to your thighs hugged by semi-opaque stockings.

Each step forward almost feels like you're walking further into a trap of your own design, but you can't find it within yourself to escape.

"Does it look good?"

"Yeah," Breathlessly, he reaches out but just before his hands can rest on your skin, he stops, as if unsure where to put them. Yet, the awe in his eyes, the way he looks up at you, when you return that ardent gaze through the mirror, you find nothing but yourself reflected within them. You look away, like staring into the bright daylight for too long, and in your inattention, he places his hands on your hips. "Yeah, it is."

" 'd you like it?" Through your own sudden shyness, your voice hums low and cautious.

And now that you manage peeks of yourself in the mirror, you're not quite sure whether it was a good idea to put so much effort into this. "I thought it looked a little too bridal but oh-!"

Pulled firmly onto his lap, you find yourself securely straddled atop of him, to bask in the full attention of your reverential partner. You never noticed it but, when you're so close like this, you can see how blown out his irises are, how that sky blue are mere rings compared to the gold of his regard.

His voice is soft, the sound coming not from his throat but elsewhere, "I do. I really do."

"You look so pretty with this lace and—" His touch dances along your skin, and beneath air-conditioning and his warm fingers, he coaxes a shaky exhale from your lips. Still, he continues his admiring, lays fleeting touches along the seams of elastic and your sensitive nerves. "—white suits you perfectly."

As if shedding his previous modesty, he leans forwards to press his face into your chest, looking up at you once more with that innocent look. In this context, with his actions, its less than innocent, it's more than clear he likes it.

"Honestly, you could be wearing a potato sack, and I'd still think you would be the most beautiful person I've ever seen."

A smile, one that you only briefly fight against, tug at the corners of your lips. "Don't say that. Burlap's too rough."

"I should come with you next time," His breath is warm, fanning over your lace-veiled skin as he sighs, almost melancholic in dramatics.

"And let mr mustard yellow and purple decide?"

"Heeey, it's not that bad. You look great in yellow."

Your amusement comes out in a humming breath, crinkling your eyes before placing a hand atop of his wandering one.

"If you can find something in yellow, and it actually looks half decent," "I'll wear it for you," You muse, trying to recall any stores that actually offer anything of your criteria.

He holds you a little tighter. "Is that a challenge?"

"That depends on you and any designer with more than three braincells."

You pat his hand, shift your weight to get yourself up. "Come on, I need to change out of this."

Instead, Phainon drags you back down onto his lap, back to straddling him, to feeling the most physical evidence of his 'liking' throb against you.

"I think..." Bringing a hand to cup your face, he takes advantage of your momentary shock to bridge the minute gap between you two. "...you should keep it on for a little bit, at least until we're done."

Gentle, you feel his breath against your lips before anything else. And as he presses further into the kiss, coaxes a pathetic noise from your throat, your head swims from just this simple act.

If something as simple as this could get him so riled up, you only wonder how he'll react when he sees the other sets you have.

#honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #x reader #hsr phainon #phainon #phainon x reader

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captain-kit-adventuress · 1 day ago

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let's not forget the all-important addition that after a certain time period, most people are not making their own clothes. even poor people did not usually make their own clothes, especially not in the ever-popular victorian era; it wouldn't have saved them much money and the result would have been notably poorer than outsourcing the task to a professional.

this is what dressmakers, seamstresses and tailors were for, even if you were poor. you might pay less for someone with less skill, experience, or natural talent, but you still weren't likely to do it yourself because it includes a wealth of skills you yourself would never have had time to practice, much less master, because you were too busy doing other things, like cooking or laundry or lots of other household tasks. and that's if you were lucky enough to simply work in the home; most poor women worked outside the home in addition to their own housework--this is why you often have children, especially elder children, helping to run the home, because mum and dad had to work 6.5 days per week and there were still things to be done at home so no one starved or died.

just staying alive was an enormous task, and it didn't let up if you had to work, so no, you're generally not making your own clothes, especially not complicated undergarments.

where you're going to see people sewing at home is maybe trimming their own clothing, like was mentioned earlier, or embroidering a pretty little pattern or embellishing a hat or something. mending was definitely something you did yourself.

and! another important point! fabrics were not nearly as gendered as they are today! many fabrics were recycled into clothes for both genders. i have seen an extant example of a man's waistcoat made from the fabric of his wife's old dress, and it was a very pretty floral pattern, too. no one cared, it was more about having the "new" waistcoat than what the fabric looked like. even for wealthy people this was an extremely common practice.

we truly have no idea how wasteful much of (specifically) American culture is when compared to even 75-80 years ago, especially as regards clothing.

@lingerie_addict has a really cool thread on ancient fashion over on twitter.

Those source links are here

cambridge.org

Youtube

ucl.ac.uk

28K notes · View notes

sanguineterrain · 2 days ago

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we are not alone | steve harrington

Summary: Your whole life, you felt like you crash-landed on Earth from another planet. It's just another summer where you know that should be somewhere else. Then you meet Steve Harrington.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Word count: 15.8k

Warnings/tags: reader struggles to identify platonic vs romantic feelings. she feels very different/isolated from people. steve's a cutie patootie as usual. reader loves aliens (who doesn't?!) everyone lives. summer fic. post s4 volume 2. not explicitly romantic but a happy ending nonetheless.

A/N: omg it's been so long since i wrote for my bf steve<3 I started this fic last year LOL she is a labor of love. hope u enjoy (and if u do, please reblog and comment. u make writers' days when u tell us what u think!)

divider by firefly-graphics

The woods by Hunter’s Creek are still tonight, save for the chirp of crickets and the occasional car ambling down the road. Now seems as good a time as any to record what data you have. You have very little for the amount of time you’ve been out here. Of course, it’s a waxing gibbous moon tonight, and you’ve taken that into consideration—extraterrestrial activity is harder to detect during this phase.

But still. You thought tonight would be more fruitful than this, especially since it’s Memorial Day weekend. Almost everyone is either vacationing at Torch Lake or getting drunk at a barbeque. Perhaps that’s what scared off all the aliens.

You put your night vision goggles on your head and press record on your tape recorder.

“8:54pm. May 30th, 1989. Location: Hunter’s Creek, approximately fifty yards from Skull Rock. No alien activity detected. Purple finches, AKA, Haemorhous purpureus, have been silent for many hours. Reason for this is unknown, but could be a sign of a possible disruption in the atmospheric pressure. Moon is in its waxing gibbous phase. Sky is clear but there is a distinct scent of—”

Across from the thicket you’re hunkered down in, there’s a rustling. You click the off button and pull on your night vision goggles. You grab your backpack and camera, then creep through the woods towards the sound. It’s probably some kind of wildlife, but every bit of information counts. Animals are imperative to understanding extraterrestrial patterns and landings.

There’s more rustling as you approach Skull Rock. You go around slowly, so as not to startle anything. Someone moans. A red windbreaker lands a few feet away. What…?

You get to the front of Skull Rock. Through your goggles, you see two heat signatures that are definitely not wildlife. One of them screams.

“What the fuck?!” she yelps, and you watch the left blob of color separate from the right blob.

“Holy shit,” the right blob says. A boy.

“Did either of you notice any birds or insects exhibiting unusual behavior?” you ask.

“Unusual behavior?” the boy blob repeats.

You lift your goggles, annoyed. “I said, did—”

“Were you fucking spying on us?” the girl yells.

You sigh and walk past them. “Never mind. You’ve probably frightened all the creatures away.”

“What kinds of creatures?” the boy asks.

“Steve, are you fucking serious?” she snaps.

“She didn’t interrupt us on purpose,” ‘Steve’ says.

“How do you know?”

“I mean… she’s wearing those army goggles.”

“To creep on us!” his less-than-lovely companion screeches.

“Thermal night vision goggles,” you say without turning around. “But yes, the military is known to use this technology. And I wasn't spying on you. I didn't know anyone would be out here.”

You kneel at the mouth of Skull Rock, studying the dirt. It rained recently. That could also be why tonight has been so inactive.

“You’re a freak,” the girl says behind you. “Something’s seriously wrong with you, walking around with–with army goggles in the woods. I don't believe you weren't spying.”

Freak makes you swallow hard, makes your heart beat faster. You haven’t been reminded of your freakish status in a while. You almost forgot you were one. Almost.

“Casey, relax. She wasn’t spying on us. She’s obviously doing science… stuff,” Steve says behind you.

Your heart slows. Slightly.

“You’re taking her side?”

You open a test tube and scoop dirt into the tube, then cap it. Steve and Casey continue to argue—well, Steve tries to reason with her. Casey just screams at him. You tune them out; you’re not keen on hearing the other mean names she’s likely calling you. And anyway, you have work to do.

Then the shouting stops. You stand and turn. Casey is stomping away and she disappears among the trees, heading toward the main road. You turn on your flashlight.

Steve is Steve Harrington, whom you last saw six months ago at a Wegman’s in the frozen food aisle. He had three frozen pepperoni pizzas in his cart, a bottle of Schweppes, and two bags of Cool Ranch Doritos. You wonder how he stays so athletic. You'd hidden behind the fish sticks then and you wish you could hide now. He stands six feet away from you in a short-sleeve navy polo and light wash jeans. His hands are in his pockets, and they come out to shield his eyes when you shine the light on his face.

“Hey, quit,” he says.

You set the flashlight on the ground so it’s not shining on his or your face. It casts funny shadows and makes the legs of Steve’s jeans glow.

“You upset her,” you say.

He sighs, puts his hands on his hips. “Yeah. No kidding.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your intercourse, for the record.”

Steve grimaces. “We weren’t doing it, we were just making out. And it’s—ah, it’s fine. I’m sorry she called you a freak. That wasn’t cool at all. I didn’t know she was like that.”

“Like what?”

“Y’know, mean. It’s clear you weren’t spying on us. You have, like, military equipment for God's sake.”

This is the strangest encounter you’ve ever had. And you found a nest of alien eggs last year.

“You didn’t have to defend me,” you say. “It seemed like she really enjoyed your tongue in her mouth.”

It’s quiet for several seconds. Then Steve snorts in laughter.

You frown. “What?”

“I don’t–I don’t even know,” he says, still laughing. “Just… just the way you say things is funny.”

Your expression flattens. You grab your flashlight and turn on your heel, stomping back to where your stuff is.

“Wait! Shit. Wait, sorry! Hold on! I’m sorry.”

Steve jogs ahead of you, blocking your path. You shine the flashlight in his face again. He grunts and puts his hands up to block the light.

“Jesus. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I like the way you talk, is what I was trying to say. I wasn’t making fun of you, okay? Can you please not blind me?”

You shine the flashlight onto his chest. Steve looks at you. There's a smudge of red lip gloss on his chin.

“You have lip gloss on your chin,” you say, stepping around him.

“I–oh. Thanks.”

He follows you down the path, twigs crunching under his shoes. You turn around, glaring.

“Don’t follow me,” you say, voice stronger than you feel. “If you want to make fun of me in private, then go. In fact, go chase Casey, apologize to her, and then talk about what a freak I am. But don’t follow me, or I’ll use my flamethrower on you.”

His eyebrows go to his hairline. “Where did you get a flamethrower?”

“I made it.”

“Are you allowed to make flamethrowers?”

“There’s no explicit law against it. I checked.” You’ve decided that the mayor doesn't know won't hurt him. Besides, he’ll be the first to go when aliens take over Hawkins.

Steve takes a careful step forward, eyeing your flashlight. Your eyes narrow.

“I’m not gonna make fun of you,” he says slowly. “And I don’t care about Casey, not anymore. I didn’t realize she was so mean. I don't like her anymore. I'm serious.”

“So why are you following me?”

“I wanted to make sure you got back okay to… wherever you’re going.”

“I’m fine,” you say. “I’ve been out here plenty of times before.”

“Oh. Studying animals?”

You shrug. “Sometimes.”

“That’s cool. My friend Dustin also likes science stuff. I don’t know what the kid’s talking about ninety percent of the time, but he’s really smart. You seem really smart too.”

You look away, shifting your weight between your feet. You don’t know what to say. Why is he saying that to you?

“So what kinds of animals do you study?” Steve asks.

“All kinds. I’m not really focused on the animals, though. They’re only one component of my research.”

“Huh. So what’re you out here for?”

Past experiences have taught you that generally, the people of Hawkins aren’t very open-minded about life beyond Earth. Or anything, really. Historically, Steve Harrington has shown himself to be one of those people. You've never been personally victimized by him or his stupid friends, but you've known people who were. You know what he's about.

And making out with a pretty girl at Skull Rock is exactly what you would expect from him, so logically, your observations are sound. But he didn’t follow Casey when she stormed off. He defended you. And he has kind eyes.

The last observation isn’t rooted in any logic. You don’t know where it comes from.

“I’m studying…” You take a breath and lift your chin. “I am studying extraterrestrial life. I came out tonight hoping to find more of the foreign isotopes I collected last month.”

“Whoa,” says Steve. “That’s so cool. Like UFOs? Aliens? You really think there are aliens here?”

You blink. “...Well, um, potentially. Probably not landing in Hawkins, but a lot of ufologists theorize that alien debris can penetrate our atmosphere. I think aliens have definitely flown over this area.”

Steve shakes his head in awe. “That’s amazing. Have you ever seen an alien?”

“No, but I’ve found an alien egg nest.”

“No kidding? Do you have pictures?”

“At my house,” you say, fiddling with your flashlight.

“That’s really cool.”

His watch beeps. You both jump.

“Uh… oh, shit. Sorry, I gotta go. I have to pick up my friend from work. She’s got the closing shift. But I can give you a ride home, if you want.”

“What about Casey?” you ask.

Steve shrugs. “She ditched me and walked up the road to David Quentin’s house. He’s having a Memorial Day party.”

You should definitely put that in your notes. No wonder there’s no activity tonight. Aliens are frightened of inebriated young adults.

“I don’t want a ride,” you say primly. You certainly don’t want anything from the likes of Steve Harrington.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I live nearby.”

It’s a mild night, and it’s not even dark yet. Steve seems to realize this too.

“Okay, if you’re really sure.” He smiles. “It was nice to meet you.”

You nod. You don’t know yet if it was nice to meet Steve or not. You’ll have to think about it.

Steve disappears among the trees. When he’s completely out of sight, you return to the rock to check once more for wildlife activity. There’s none, but there is the same red windbreaker from earlier. It has the initials S.H. embroidered in white on the sleeve.

You pick it up and give it a cautious sniff. It smells like jasmine and boys, but in a good way. Steve smells very nice, and you’ve smelled a lot of people in your day.

You remember Steve’s old cologne as he'd passed you in the hallway at school. He’d smelled different, overpowering. You neatly fold the windbreaker and tuck it into your backpack.

The Harrington residence has a planter of tulips on the front windowsill. You’ve never seen Mrs. or Mr. Harrington in person. There was a photo of them in the newspaper years ago. Mrs. Harrington wore a lot of pearls and had a thin, severe mouth with inoffensive pink lipstick. Mr. Harrington had a gold watch and looked like he was trying to sell something. You remember wondering where Steve had been when they’d taken the photo.

The tulips are a healthy, blushing pink. Someone takes care of them.

Steve’s windbreaker sits like an anchor in your backpack. It was easy to find his address in the phonebook. You'd washed the jacket yesterday after taking some hairs to test for alien DNA. Can’t be too careful.

It would make sense if Steve had been replaced by an alien. An alien with kind eyes. An alien who offers girls like you a ride home.

The lawn is mowed. A white picket fence surrounds the house. You pick up the latch and walk up the neat pathway. You take out the plastic Kroger bag with Steve’s windbreaker and place it on the top stair, on the welcome mat. The windows are dark, but Steve’s car is in the driveway. He and his family must be asleep.

You wonder if they’re the kind of family to have pancakes with expensive Canadian maple syrup on Saturday mornings. They could probably have sirloin steak for every meal if they wanted.

Mr. and Mrs. Harrington would probably like Casey. You wonder what they'd think about Steve defending freaks in the woods.

There’s a bin of junk on the curb in front of Steve’s house. It's the only unsightly thing on the block. Loch Nora has the best junk. You’ve been to just about every garage and yard sale in Hawkins. But the one thing you’ve learned is that rich people buy a lot of crap and a lot of it goes to waste. Summertime is the best time to root through their junk, because usually, people spring clean and then go on vacation. That means there’s less of a chance you’ll get yelled at for rooting through bags of stuff that didn't make the spring cleaning cut.

You check the windows with the tulips. Still dark.

The first thing in the bin is a Walkman. You press the on button. It beeps once, then goes silent. You put it in your backpack. There’s a broken hairdryer and a toy racecar. You take those too. The rest of the stuff is true junk. You look anyway.

There’s a paperweight in the shape of a Mallard duck. Stacks of business magazines. A makeup bag filled with Estee Lauder and Clinique compacts and tubes. You open a lipstick and twist it to the top. It’s a bland pink, nowhere near as vibrant as the tulips. It’s unused, like it was bought and forgotten.

There’s a mug with a child’s handprints in green and purple paint. Father’s Day 1976 is written on the bottom in an adult's handwriting. You quickly return it to the stack, heart pounding like you’ve touched a cursed artifact.

You dig through the rest of the stuff. It’s all mostly in good condition. Rich people are wasteful. Perhaps you weren’t as wrong about Steve as you thought.

“Uh… hi?”

You shoot up and back away into the street. Steve’s in a worn lifeguard shirt and black basketball shorts. He’s at the doorway, door half-opened.

“It’s all junk,” you say before he can speak. Steve has long legs. Long, hairy, and tanned. You quickly look at his face. “You left it on the curb. I wasn’t stealing.”

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it. He doesn’t look angry, just confused. But you don't always guess people's feelings correctly. Maybe this is where he joins Casey and shouts at you and proves you right.

“Oh. The stuff in the bin? You were looking through it?”

“Loch Nora has the best junk,” you say.

Steve smiles, still looking confused. His hair is sleep-ruffled. “Ha. Yeah, I guess we’re known for our junk, huh?”

“You left your jacket at Skull Rock.” You point at the bag at his feet.

He looks down and takes the bag. “Oh, man! I was looking for this.”

You make fists and squeeze repeatedly.

“I washed it,” you say. “With a cotton breeze scent. That one smells the least like chemicals.”

Steve looks up. His smile grows. “Thank you. That's really nice of you.”

You want to rock on your feet but people treat you like you’re stupid when you do that. You want to rock so badly, though. Rock the nerves away.

“D’you want something to drink?” Steve asks.

Your shoulders go tense, rising up. “Why?”

He blinks like he hadn’t been expecting that question. “Uh, because we… drink things?”

“Why would you want to serve me a drink?”

“Well…” Steve scratches his head. “I thought you might be thirsty?”

Oh. That seems reasonable.

“What are the options?” you ask.

“I have orange juice, chocolate milk…”

You hate those options. But you can never tell someone that you don’t like what they’re offering. They get very mad.

“No,” you say. “I’m… allergic to those.”

Steve stops. “Oh. I also have apple juice. Robin—my friend—she’s been on an apple juice kick.”

You don’t know how one kicks apple juice. You elect to not ask.

“I will have apple juice,” you say.

Steve nods. “Okay. Wanna come in?”

You’re back to hunching your shoulders. “Absolutely not. I don’t want to enter your house.”

Steve’s smile slides off his face. “What? Why?”

“Because you’re a stranger and if I went inside, no one would hear me scream. I will have apple juice outside your gate or nothing at all.”

His eyes widen. “That’s—I wouldn’t do anything to you.”

“We aren't friends,” you say crisply. “I don’t know you well enough to trust you. That’s my rule, and if you don’t like it, then I’ll leave, Steve Harrington.”

“No, it’s–it’s okay.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. Um, you have a point, I guess. I’ll get your juice and come back.”

Steve goes inside. You stay outside of his gate and put your backpack on the ground. He returns a minute later with two juice bottles. He goes to the gate and hands you one.

You open it, listening for the click of plastic. You drink. It’s a nice juice brand. One that doesn’t taste like cardboard. It's cold too. The perfect juice state.

“It’s very good,” you say. “Thank you.”

Steve smacks his lips, looking at the juice. “Right? I haven’t had apple juice in ages. Robin’s girlf—” He looks at you and coughs. “Her f-friend really likes apple juice, so I’ve started keeping it around. But I haven’t had it since, like, kindergarten. Remember they used to give us apple juice and cookies or whatever for snack time? I think it’s an underappreciated combo, apple juice and cookies.”

“I like grape juice with cookies,” you say.

“Yeah? Huh. Haven’t tried that before.”

The two of you stand like that for a bit, Steve on one side of the fence, you on the other, in the budding morning heat. It smells like freshly mowed grass.

Once or twice you let your gaze roam too far and you notice Steve’s legs all over again. His calves are so muscular, and you see the muscles jump when he shifts his weight. It doesn’t repulse you, just fascinates you. You’d like to hold his calf, feel the tendon and muscle and bone underneath twitch and flex. You’ve never held a boy’s leg before or seen one up close. You imagine Steve can run impressively fast and for a long time. You'd like to time him, measure his endurance.

You finish your juice. Steve takes your bottle and puts it in the recycling can outside the gate.

“I can give you your junk back,” you say when he returns. You want to beat him to it, before he has to ask and embarrass you.

Steve shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. Are you worried about that? Take whatever you want.”

“I didn’t take any makeup,” you say. “Or magazines. I only took the stuff people won’t want.”

He shrugs. “Take all of it. My parents left a bunch of crap after they moved away.”

They what?

“Moved? Where did they move to?”

“Uh.” Steve rubs the back of his neck. It causes his t-shirt to ride up and show the smallest belly pudge and a trail of dark hair around his belly button. You had no idea boys could have soft bellies. Your chest feels funny. Perhaps you have an arrhythmia.

“I don’t really know, to be honest. Somewhere in New Hampshire. Concord, maybe? My dad’s family lives there.”

“Why aren’t you there?”

Steve glances at the junk. Shit. You’ve asked too many questions. You always ask too many questions.

“Never mind,” you say quickly. “I don’t need to know.”

Steve looks at you. “I—”

“I have to go,” you say, far too loud for a Saturday morning. You swing your backpack over your shoulders. “I have to go feed my bird. Goodbye, Steve Harrington.”

You bolt down the street, backpack banging against your spine. You don’t stop until you’re three blocks away and gasping for breath at the bus stop. Your feet ache in your sneakers.

When you get home, the first thing you do is run to your room and check your test tube with pickle juice, rainwater, and three long brown hairs. The hairs are still intact. You frown. Negative. The only alien here is you.

Unbidden, Steve��s long legs flash through your mind. You dump the mixture down the toilet and flush.

Concord is six hundred miles from Hawkins. For his sake, you’d hoped Steve was from another planet. A planet where mothers plant pink tulips and fathers keep their gift mugs.

You haven’t gone to Skull Rock in two weeks. You’re not sure what or who you’ll find, and for once, curiosity isn't enough to move you. In the meantime, you’ve charted more of the Hawkins woods, marking weather patterns, stars, and wildlife. You’ve also begun to tinker.

Steve’s Walkman is easy to fix. You spend less than a day on it. As soon as you fix it, it starts to play tinny music, cassette whirring. Someone forgot to take out the tape.

“I’ve been waiting for so long, now I’ve finally found someone to stand by me.”

You hold it up to your ear, hunched over your desk, listening to the man sing. You understand the words, the music. You know songs. But you don’t know this one. And you don’t know where the tape came from.

“Saw the writing on the wall as we felt this magical melody.”

A woman and a man. It’s a duet. Is this… Steve’s tape?

You listen to them sing, the man and woman. They sing about passion and feelings and want.

Have you ever wanted anything the way these two want? You don’t know.

Does Steve want? You don’t know that either. What could he want? Doesn’t he have everything?

You look at the junk, at the Walkman. Steve’s probably already bought a new Walkman, so it doesn’t really matter that you’ve fixed this one. You don’t own many cassettes anyway; it’s not like you’ll use it frequently.

“This could be love, because…”

Could be? Well, is it love or not? Don’t they know?

You curl your arms around the Walkman and bury your head in your arms, so that the music echoes and is channeled into your ears. You stare at the dark, feel your hot breath on your skin. Moisture gathers on the desk top and on your cheeks.

How does Steve listen to music?

Instinctively, you picture music washing over him only in someone’s living room, at a house party, a place you’d never be invited to, when he’s three drinks in and maybe has his legs out for a pretty girl to touch.

“No, I never felt this way before… yes, I swear, it’s the truth…”

But then a new image comes into view: Steve’s eyes, sober, kind, looking up at the ceiling. Maybe he’s lying on his bed. His bed has stripes, or maybe plaid bedding. Not little green aliens like yours does. No, Steve acts his age. He does age-appropriate things like kiss beautiful, mean girls at Skull Rock. He drives his BMW and gets and gives anything he wants. He's absolutely awful and he served you apple juice.

You jerk back as the music swells, startled by how you’ve lost time. Why are you even thinking about Steve? You don’t know. You hate not knowing.

“I’ve had the time of my l—”

You stop the Walkman and remove the tape. There are probably more songs, but the thought of listening to the same music that Steve does frightens you. You open your drawer and shove the tape inside, burying it under notebooks.

“And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack.”

A blast of cool air from the AC hits your face, drying the sweat on your forehead instantly. You make a beeline for the fridges at the back of the store, bobbing your head in time to the music. You haven't had a Cookie Day in a long time. You used to have them all the time, especially in high school.

“And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile.”

There’s no grape juice. You search three times and flick through every bottle on the shelf. Nothing.

“We’re all out, babe!” Sheila calls from the cash register. “We’ll get more tomorrow.”

You frown at the empty shelf. What are you supposed to drink? Orange juice? As if.

And how are you supposed to eat your Mrs. Fields chocolate chip cookie? Juiceless? Pop makes your brain hurt, milk is too thick, water is boring, and any other juice would be a crime to pair with cookies.

“And you may ask yourself, ‘Well, how did I get here?’"

Sheila whistles to the music. You glumly take your cookie and go to the register. Sheila smiles at you, her teeth slightly yellow. She wears blue eyeshadow and bubblegum pink lip gloss and her breath always smells like mint gum, but her clothes smell like Marlboros. But it's okay, because you only really smell the Marlboros when Sheila hugs you. And Sheila always asks first before she gives you a hug.

It was Sheila who taught you that it's okay to refuse hugs if they make you uncomfortable. And it was Sheila who said that Cookie Days chase the clouds away. She swears that a little treat is the best medicine.

And you're in need of good medicine.

“Find any aliens this week?” she asks as she rings up your cookie. “No drink?”

You decide to answer the second question. “There’s no grape juice. Anything else would taste funny.”

Sheila nods, smacking her gum. Her sandy blonde perm bounces. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Like, when I’m watching Wheel of Fortune, I gotta have a cigarette. Watching that Vanna White makes me need a cigarette. What a woman. You saw that pink dress she had on last week? Sweet baby J in Heaven!”

You’ve seen Wheel of Fortune once; you think it’s the most boring show on the planet. The answers are too easy. You don’t tell Sheila that, though. You like Sheila. When you like people, you don’t always tell them what you don’t like.

“No, I didn’t see her,” you say, watching Sheila tap the buttons on the register. You give her a five dollar bill and she hands you your change.

“You wanna sit with me for a little while, baby?” Sheila asks, patting the stool behind her. “Today’s slow.”

You open your cookie and walk around the register, then climb up on the stool. It’s hard to do with one hand. Sheila helps you up so you don’t tip the stool over.

“There ya go. You want Dr. Pepper? Oh, wait, you don’t like pop, right? Makes your brain feel funny?”

“Yeah.” You take a bite of your cookie and remember Sheila’s first question. “I found an alien egg nest last month.”

“No shit?” Sheila pulls her hair into a ponytail with a beaded green hair tie. “What kinda alien?”

“I’m not sure. When I go to UFOCon, I’ll ask. I suspect it's an avian hybrid.”

“Like the water?”

“Like birds.”

“Oh! You’re such a smarty, using those big words.” She smacks her gum. “Good, I’m glad you’re so smart. Us girls need to be smart in this world.”

“People think I’m weird.”

“Letting the days go by, letting the water hold me down.”

Sheila opens her Dr. Pepper can. The carbonation hisses. She takes a sip and her mouth screws up.

“Whew! That’s strong. Yeah, I know, baby. People think I’m pretty weird too. Y’know, when I was your age, I almost got married to this boy. He was a decent guy, wouldn’t have hit me or nothing. Son of a farmer. And I, well, who the hell was I, y’know? Nobody.

“So my mama was thrilled I was getting married to anybody. And then on the day we were meant to be married, y’know what I did? I ran out. Climbed through the bathroom window. Didn't stop till I got to my sister’s house. She hid me for a week, till my mama cooled down.”

“Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground.”

You swivel to face Sheila. “Why’d you do that? Isn’t getting married good?”

“Ha! No, there’s about ten million people who’d tell ya that marriage is so very not good. I didn’t wanna get married, bottom line. Some people do, and that’s well and good, but I’m not them. This kid’s name was Carl. Baby, he couldn’t even shave! His daddy shaved him the day of our wedding. We had no goddamn business getting married. You got chocolate on your lip, hon.”

She hands you a napkin. You wipe your mouth. Sheila gives you a thumbs up and takes another sip of pop.

“Shit, still strong!” She smacks her lips. “Anyway, where was I going with this? Oh, yeah! Y’know, people will say you’re weird ‘cause you don’t fit in. But fitting in is usually a load of BS. And when you’re weird, you’ll find other cool people you like and who like you. Like my roommate, Carol. Carol and I are best buddies. She thinks I’m swell and I think she’s pretty fucking cool too.”

“But there’s no weird people in Hawkins,” you say, looking forlornly at your cookie. You know. You’ve been searching for a long time. Sheila isn’t weird, but she doesn’t mind that you are.

“Are you kidding! There totally are. And you know something? Sometimes you meet people who aren’t weird like you but who like you exactly as you are.”

“Time isn't holding up, time isn't after us.”

The AC drones on. You finish your cookie and crumple the wrapper, then throw it in the small garbage can under the counter. Your mouth is so dry, but there’s no juice you like.

“Sheila, have you ever been wrong about somebody?”

“Definitely, honey bunches. Plenty have been wrong about me too. My mama was the first.”

“Have you ever been wrong in a good way?” you ask.

“You mean did I ever judge someone too quickly and then realize they’re actually good people?”

You nod.

“Sure I have.” Sheila peers at you, lashes thick with black crust. “Have you done that recently?”

“I don’t know. I’m usually good at making observations about people, but so far, I’ve been wrong all the way.”

“Sometimes you just gotta get out of your own head. It's scary as shit but it's so worth it. Carol's my good friend. I love her to death. She's helping me to quit smoking. And I trust her to keep liking me even when I fall off the wagon. When I first met her, she scared me. Honest to God. I’ve never felt like that about anyone, y’know? Like I’d found my soulmate.”

You look at her. “How did you feel exactly?”

“Well, I felt jittery and a little nauseous. Couldn’t stop thinking ‘bout her. She’s a cool lady, y’understand. Works with rock stars and folk singers and circus people. Plans concerts and stuff. And who am I? I work at some convenience store. I thought, shit, Sheila, what’re you playing at? Lotta people would think I’m weird to feel this way about Carol. But y’know somethin’? Carol liked me just the way I am. Still does.”

“Oh.”

You’re so thirsty. Your feet move of their own accord, back to the fridges. Sheila pops her gum.

“Where ya goin’, babe?”

“Get a drink,” you say, though you don’t know what. You’ve never drunk anything but grape juice with your cookie.

You open the fridge and take out a bottle of apple juice. It’s the same brand as the one that Steve gave you. The same brand he poisoned you with.

Except you’ve done extensive testing since. You went to the doctor twice. There’s no sign you’ve been poisoned. Your best guess is still aliens. As usual.

“Didn’t know ya liked apple,” Sheila says as you return to the register. She waves away your money. “Nah, keep it. These cameras don’t work anyway.” She winks.

“I don’t usually drink apple juice,” you say. “But someone told me that it’s good with cookies. Like in kindergarten.”

“Is that what they fed you kids back then? Man! They fed us sawdust in kindergarten. I remember the teacher too. Mrs. Pip. She was okay, ‘cept she liked to chain smoke when we were having naptime, and…”

You drink the juice. It tastes exactly like it had with Steve. It tastes better than grape juice.

“—Anyway, the kid was fine. He didn’t eat the whole cigarette. Built up his immune system, if you ask me. How’s it taste, babe?”

You nod. “I like it.”

“Always nice to find something new to like, right?”

“Yeah.” You stare at the bottle. “It is.”

Used bookstores are truly the most perfect places on Earth.

Not only are they respite from the hellish weather currently plaguing the Midwest, but they're also filled with books. Cheap books. And books have knowledge. Knowledge that you really need.

Hawkins Local Books is the only used bookshop in Hawkins, but it holds its own in your tiny town. It smells like paper and book spines. You take deep lungfuls of the smell, happy that hardly anyone is here. Most people are out enjoying the heat. But you have work to do.

First, you check the single shelf that sometimes has books about planetary systems and extraterrestrials. There aren't a lot of books on aliens, at least not at Hawkins Local Books. If you had a car, you'd drive to Indianapolis and take advantage of what is no doubt an extensive bookstore inventory.

“Hi, girly.” Cora has spiky green hair and a tattoo of Frankenstein’s monster on her shoulder, which she showed you the second week you stopped by. She works on Saturdays and is three years older than you. She calls you girly and has never asked your real name, but you think she’s nice. Sometimes she gives you discounts on books. She also doesn’t care that you flip through books without buying them. Mostly, she blasts music that’s full of yelling and plays on her Gameboy.

“Do you have any books on boys?” you ask.

Cora squints. “Boys? Like male authors?”

“No, like, um… boys. And girls feeling… weird about boys?”

“Oh. Sure. Look back there. That’s where the romance shit is.” She points to the second room that’s equally cluttered with books.

Romance? You could be dying.

You go anyway. Cora has never steered you to the wrong shelf before. You go and find that the romance books fill six shelves, which is overwhelming. Then again, that bodes well for you when it comes to research. There’s a sticker that says ROMANCE on one shelf. The one next to it says HARLEQUIN. You wonder what that’s about. As far as you know, ducks aren’t related to romance. But you look there first, because that shelf must be about romance in nature, and that’s exactly what you’re looking for.

Except many of the covers feature long-haired men clutching women in odd poses. How do their necks bend that way? Why are the men so shiny? Steve isn't shiny… except for his hair. He has very nice hair.

All you want is something that will tell you why you keep thinking about Steve Harrington’s legs and hair and eyes and why you’ve been ill since meeting him. Luxurious hair seems to be exclusive to these men, so maybe Cora is onto something. Maybe the illness part comes later for the women on the covers.

Obviously, a part of your new feelings is that you're a scientist and Steve is a new specimen, so your brain is stuck on him. Understandable. It's just like when you found those alien eggs. But it's more than that. Your body feels clumsy and hot when you think about him, weird in a way that it doesn't when you think about the eggs. You went to the doctor for a checkup, but the results were normal. You'll have to find your own answers.

You recall a girl in tenth grade who'd described in excruciating detail what kissing her boyfriend under the bleachers felt like. Far too much saliva for your taste. But you remember the feeling she'd described: butterflies in her stomach. Which doesn't make sense, considering butterflies would melt from stomach acid.

No, of course you're not in love with Steve Harrington. But these new feelings require research, and perhaps books on the human condition of love can provide that. There might just be a link.

You scan the books. Many of them have frightening titles like Held Captive or Prisoners of Love. You hope no one will try to imprison you out of love. That would be unfortunate.

One makes you pause. Curing the Heart. Perfect! Exactly what you're looking for. A cure.

You pull it out and flip to a random page. The cover is bent like its owner read it frequently. That seems like a promising sign.

Teresa had never been alone with a man before. She was nervous, her heart beating rapidly.

A-ha! So this feeling was common. And you were just like Teresa. You've also never been alone with a man before, except for that time you got detention for hitting Martin Baker's hand with a biology textbook when he called you a baby and poured water on your sneakers. You hadn't even bruised the skin—Martin was the baby.

But being with Steve hadn't felt like detention. Still, your heart beat rapidly just like Teresa's. You keep reading.

“This pill you've given me… are you sure it will work?” Teresa asked. She followed Dr. Chase as he approached. He was bare-chested and glistening with sweat. His legs were sculpted and tanned.

A pill! Of course. That explained the physiological reactions. But Steve surely hadn't given you a pill. Although… the juice. Had you been drugged? No, it would've worn off by now.

And why was Dr. Chase naked and sweaty? No respectable person of science would carry themselves that way. You understood Teresa's admiration of his legs, though.

“Certainly, Teresa,” Dr. Chase purred, his voice like whiskey and honey. “It's the best protection on the market. Do you trust me?”

Teresa thought so. Dr. Chase had been kind to her, given her all that she needed. She felt quite hot now. She'd been married for six years and had never felt this way with Ralph. She desperately wanted to remove her clothes. It would give her everything she wanted.

Hmm. Teresa had lost you there. Removing your clothes in front of Steve was out of the question, even if it would cure you.

Dr. Chase smirked. “Are you feeling… passionate, Teresa?”

“I'm so hot, Doctor,” Teresa whined. “Help me.”

“I know, my love. Let me help you feel more comfortable.”

This was wrong. Teresa was married. Dr. Chase was only meant to be treating her foot fungus. But… perhaps her ailments were more than skin-deep. At this moment, Teresa felt like Dr. Chase was the only man who could cure her. Cure the hole in her heart.

Teresa had a hole in her heart? Well, why wasn't this Dr. Chase fixing her? Although… he wasn't a cardiologist if he specialized in foot fungus. Still! He should refer her to one of his colleagues. What a terrible, selfish man.

You wonder what Steve would do if you had a hole in your heart. He'd probably drive you to the hospital, at least. Better than this Dr. Chase, who was only getting sweatier.

“Are you ready for me, Teresa?” Dr. Chase asked.

Teresa nodded.

“Lie down on the table. The doctor will see you now.” Dr. Chase smirked again.

Hmph. He smirked a lot for a man who had drugged a dying woman.

Dr. Chase unbuckled his belt. Teresa held her breath as she cast her eyes upon Dr. Chase’s huge, throbbing—

You drop the book. What on earth! What was intercourse going to solve when Teresa had both feet in the grave? You pick up the book and stare at the title. This had nothing to do with cures. Was Dr. Chase even a real doctor?

You return it to the shelf with a disgusted sigh. Romance was clearly the wrong section. You've no idea what Cora was thinking, directing you here. As usual, you'd have to find sources alone and start with real science.

You spend an hour searching the other shelves, hunting for something to explain your reaction to Steve. There are books about anxiety and its physiology, but you've felt anxiety before. You know it well. This isn't that. Really, the only possible explanation is aliens. Maybe you inhaled an otherworldly dust that's making you behave oddly around Steve.

Hours pass before you decide that today has been a waste. You'll have to find answers elsewhere. You leave the bookstore, humid air hitting your face. You despise the heat. May has been a ridiculous mix of rain and heat. It's not too far of a walk to the bus stop, but you're not looking forward to waiting.

Down the road, a maroon BMW moseys up the hill. Steve. You hide behind a tree.

The car pulls up to the front of the comic book store down the block. But instead of Steve, a boy with curly hair gets out of the passenger side. He looks like a teenager, with his gangly limbs and Star Wars shirt. He's wearing a baseball cap that says Camp Know Where.

“Yeah, I got it, Steve!” the boy says impatiently. “Dude, I got it. Yeah, three o’clock, sure. Bye.”

He slams the door. You watch in awe as he climbs up the stairs and the car pulls away like nothing happened. Like this kid didn't just snap at The Steve Harrington.

You follow him into the comic book store. He goes directly to the X-Men section. A kid with good taste. You're intrigued. You follow him on the opposite side of the bins, pretending to look through comics. He moves on. You follow him. Then he stops. You stop. He looks at you.

“Hey! Why are you following me?” he whispers fiercely.

You look around. Then you look at him. He nods.

“Yeah, I'm talking to you! What gives?”

“Do you know Steve Harrington?” you whisper.

He squints. “Steve? Yeah, I know him.”

You sigh and walk around the table of comics to join him. He blinks at you.

“How do you know him?” you ask, crushing your hands into fists.

“He's my friend. Wait, are you into him? Look, if you want his number, just ask him. I'm sure he'd be more than happy to give it to you.”

You pull a face. “I don't want his number.”

“You don't?”

“Why would I want his number?”

He tilts his head. “Um… to go on a date?”

Your entire body flinches. “What? No! What? That would—no. Absolutely not.”

“Okay, jeez.”

A date? With a boy? With Steve Harrington, no doubt. This kid thinks that you would go on a date with Steve? There’s no possible way that you look like the kind of girl to go on a date with a boy like Steve. Unless the mystery alien dust you inhaled that’s making you think strange thoughts has also warped your appearance to others. If that’s the case, then this is much more serious than you thought.

“Hey!” He waves at you. “Hello? I’m asking you a question. What's your name?”

You tell him.

He nods. “I'm Dustin. Dustin Henderson.”

Dustin. This must be Steve's friend who likes science. But… surely, Steve wouldn't be friends with a kid his junior who doesn't match him in social popularity status. Bizarre.

“Why do you wanna know about Steve?” Dustin asks, squinting at you.

“Does he bully you?” you ask.

“What? No way! Steve's nice. I mean, yeah, he can be kind of a loser, but he's cool.”

“How is he a loser?” And how can he be a loser and cool?

“Well, like, he listens to Madonna and sings along terribly, and sometimes he says things like, ‘Let's get ready to rock and roll!’ which is so old man of him.”

You have no idea what any of that means but you nod along anyway.

“I met him a few weeks ago,” you say. “And he was different than I expected. I don't understand why. I knew him in high school. He wasn’t… like this.”

Dustin shrugs. “Yeah, he had his head up his ass back then, y’know? But now he's really nice. I promise.” He points at your bag. “Cool pin. Truth is out there, right?”

You hum. “Yes, the truth is out there. You like aliens?”

“Do I like them? I subscribe to UFO Monthly! I went to UFOCon last year.”

“No way,” you say. “I want to go to that.”

Dustin nods eagerly. “They're having it in Indianapolis this year.”

You frown. “I know. I don't have a car.”

“Duh. Steve would take us! Me and my other friends are going. You could come.”

“You're inviting me?”

“Yeah,” he says, beaming at you.

“Why?”

“Because you seem interesting and I'm pretty sure you're not a serial killer or anything.”

“I'm not.”

Dustin shrugs. “Good enough for me. I'll tell Steve when I see him.”

You shake your head. “No! No, don't. I'll… I'll tell him.”

Your palms feel clammy. You want to rock on your feet. You can’t. Not in front of Dustin.

“Don’t tell Steve that we talked,” you say.

“Yeah, sure.”

You step closer. “I mean it, Dustin. Please. I don’t want you to tell him. Alright?”

Dustin holds up his hands. “Okay, okay! Jesus. I won’t tell him.”

You haven’t done nearly enough research to be able to go anywhere with Steve Harrington. If anything, you’re more confused than when you started. You have to prepare.

“Are you o—”

“I have to go. Bye,” you say, then turn on your heel.

You walk past the bins, past the new X-Men releases, and back into the humidity. You plop yourself down onto the rickety bus stop bench and wait.

Your stomach churns. You feel like you ate too much. Maybe the juice that you had at Steve’s house had a delayed-release poison. From space. That must be it.

On your way home, you stop at the drugstore and buy a bottle of Tylenol. You swallow two outside. You’ve neutralized foreign substances in your body before, stopped a fever in its tracks. This is no different. You feel better as you walk home.

But then Steve’s legs pop into your head again. The slope of his throat and the freckles on his nose also infiltrate your mind. Sweat beads on your neck. You look around like you've been caught. Furiously, you shove the Tylenol into your backpack. Whatever ails you will require a stronger prescription.

“June 15th, 10:23am,” you say into your tape recorder. “Subject has left work and is now walking to Burger King.”

Marie coos in your ear from where she's perched on your shoulder. You pet her feathers gently, then pick up your binoculars. Steve is in his Family Video vest. He's wearing jeans, unfortunately hiding his legs, but his arms are on show and those are also tanned, toned, and equally as hairy.

“See, Marie,” you say, putting the binoculars to her face. “That's my latest subject. I'm still not sure he's not an alien like me.”

Marie pecks the lens. You quickly move it away and put it back on your eyes. Steve’s gone inside. You turn on the recorder again.

“Subject walks very fast. Approximately double my stride.”

You stay low, creeping up to the Burger King windows to get a better look. Marie goes low with you until she sees a burger wrapper on the ground and she decides to go pick at that instead. Steve is ordering inside. Two teenagers approach him. Neither one is Dustin, but Steve seems to know them well. One is a girl with red hair and she's in a wheelchair. The other is a boy with short, dark hair. The girl talks to Steve. Steve puts his hands on his hips, looking mildly agitated. She shrugs. Steve turns back to the cashier and points to the teens. They add their order before Steve pays. Huh.

Marie is trying to rip the wrapper into edible pieces. You take the wrapper and throw it away in a nearby trash can.

“Don't do that, Marie,” you say, and return to watching your subject. She decides to play with her harness leash instead.

Steve waits at the counter with the teens. When they get their food, they stay with Steve until he gets his. Steve and the other boy play around, miming basketball. You press Record again.

“Subject is…” You watch them laugh. Steve says something to the girl that leaves a quiet, fond smile on her face. “Um, subject has many friends. He's well-liked. He’s nice to non-Caseys.”

You stop recording. The three of them leave Burger King, and you crouch further behind the side of the restaurant. Marie is hopping around on the ground so you return your attention to Steve.

“Okay, but don't forget,” the girl says. “And don't spoil the surprise like last time.”

“I didn't spoil anything!” Steve says. “Robin can't lie to save her life.”

“You told her about the party, dummy.”

“Well… she pulled it out of me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, sure. Just be there before the party starts, okay?”

“Yeah, I'll be there. Of course I will.”

Steve claps the boy on the shoulder and squeezes the girl's wrist. They leave in the opposite direction, away from the Burger King. You let go of Marie's leash and put your things away in your backpack, searching for your camera. This is a perfect photo opportunity.

It happens in a moment. You've only just looked away when Steve yelps. You look up and see Marie on Steve's shoulder, insistently trying to take a French fry from his hand. Her leash dangles behind his shoulder. She's flapping her wings, making Steve's hair fly up. Steve squirms, trying to block her with his elbow.

“Jesus!” he shouts. You sprint to them.

“Marie!” you say, hands extended. “Stop that!”

You grab Marie from Steve's shoulder with both hands and set her back on your shoulder, wrapping her leash around your wrist so she can't fly off again. You hold her in place with your hand. Steve is staring at you, eyebrows at his hairline.

“I'm sorry,” you say tightly, and turn around, ready to run.

“Wait!”

You turn around to face Steve. He looks dazed but he's smiling a little.

“Uh,” he says. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“So… that's a pigeon.”

You nod. “Yes. This is Marie. I let go of her leash for a moment. I'm sorry. She's domesticated and she doesn't have any diseases or anything. Did she peck you?”

“No, she didn’t. It's fine. I've handled way worse than a pigeon.” Steve puts his hands on his hips and leans back, shrugging like he wasn't close to fighting a pigeon. “I was just a little caught off-guard. Is she friendly?”

“Yes, she's very friendly. She likes French fries and mango, so she got excited. But she's a very good bird. I wouldn't have trained her any other way.”

Marie coos. Steve holds out a French fry.

“Can I feed her?” he asks, eyeing Marie. You nod.

Steve gives her the French fry. Marie eagerly gobbles it up. He steps back and dusts his hands.

“So how did you get a pet pigeon?” he asks, flattening his pigeon-swept hair.

“I found her when she was a squab. She had an injured wing. Pigeons aren't as wild or dangerous as we think. Many people used to have them as pets.”

“Really?” Steve asks.

You pet Marie's feathers thoughtfully. “Yes. We used them as messengers. And then we decided we didn't want them anymore. So we released them into the city. And by then, pigeons were so domesticated that they didn't know how to act like real birds. They can't make nests. They build them out of garbage. They can't survive in the wild. We did that to them.”

“Wow. That’s really shitty of us.”

You shrug. “It’s not unusual for humans, discarding what they don’t need.”

“Yeah, guess so. It’s cool that you took Marie in. Does she know tricks?”

“Sometimes she’ll find loose change around my house,” you say. “Mostly, she keeps me company. She’s my friend.”

Steve smiles. “I used to have a goldfish named Benny. But he didn’t do much. Having a pigeon for a friend sounds awesome.”

You nod. You don’t tell Steve how badly you want a human friend, how you used to cry to Marie over not having one.

“Dustin told me he saw you at the comic store last week.”

You look at him in alarm. “What did he say?”

“Just that you guys met. I didn’t know you liked comics.”

You exhale, relieved that Dustin didn’t tell Steve you want to go somewhere with him. “Oh. Yes, some of them. I like X-Men.”

“Yeah, I, uh, don’t know a lot about any comics. I didn’t even know Star Wars had comics. I only saw the movie with the teddy bear.”

“Chewbacca?”

Steve snaps his fingers. “That’s the one. See? Nothing. Maybe you could give me some comic recommendations.”

You squint. “Why wouldn’t you just ask Dustin?”

“Oh, uh… well, that kid refuses to give me suggestions. He says I’ll be bored. But I would give comics a chance! I’m open-minded.”

“I guess I could write you a list,” you say.

Steve grins. “Cool. Hey, you like stars, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s supposed to be a comet sighting next Friday. Berg–Barfen—”

“Bertenstein’s Comet,” you say. “Yes, I know of it. You follow comet orbits?”

“Psh, are you kidding? I love that stuff!” Steve says, waving a hand. “I’m actually gonna meet friends at the park to see it. Dustin’s gonna bring his telescope. It’s gonna be, like, a picnic. At night.”

“Okay. Have fun. I’m also going to observe the comet. I have to go feed Marie now. Goodbye.” You begin to walk past Steve.

“Wait, uh—” Steve jogs backward to stop you. “Sorry, I was trying to invite you.”

You tilt your head. “To the park?”

“Yeah! Dustin’s telescope is super powerful. You can see Pluto, or something.”

You squint. “There are very few telescopes that can see Pluto.”

“Oh. Well, anyway, it’s a strong telescope. Do you wanna come?”

You pet Marie and look at Steve unsurely. “But you’ll be there with your friends.”

Steve nods slowly. “Yeah…”

“We aren’t friends.”

He sags. Instantly, you feel dread. You’ve said something wrong. As per usual.

“I… thought we could be friends,” Steve says. “I wanna be friends if you do.”

You should warn him, before he goes and recklessly makes an offer like that. “I don’t have many friends.”

Steve smiles. “That’s okay. I don’t either.”

“You did.”

He shakes his head. “Not really. I just had people I was around. These days, I make friends with people I actually like.”

And you’re one of those people?

“Okay,” you say quietly. “I will watch the comet with you and your friends, Steve.”

He brightens. That fluttery feeling in your gut returns.

“Cool! So we’re meeting on the field, by the pond. I can pick you up around eight if you want.”

“The park is close to my house,” you say. “I’ll walk.”

“Oh. Okay. No problem. Lemme give you my number in case anything changes or if you have any questions.”

Steve takes out the receipt from his Burger King bag. He digs into his pockets for a pen. You watch him, limbs feeling slightly numb. Why is he giving you his number? Did Dustin tell him you want to go on a date? Or is this just to make fun of you later, to laugh at you for thinking that Steve—that anyone—would actually give you their number?

“Here,” Steve says, handing you the receipt. There are three orders, two of which aren't Steve’s. Below the total, he’s written ten numbers and a smiley face. Marie tries to take the receipt. You put it in your jeans pocket before she can.

You shouldn’t fall for this. You know better. You’ve studied people like Steve your whole life.

“I’ll see you there,” he says, turning to go. His smile is quite beautiful. “Okay?”

Your mouth is dry. Another symptom. “Okay.”

You toss your bag on your couch when you get home and make a beeline for the fridge. It’s either ketchup and macaroni or a peanut butter and Captain Crunch sandwich. Tough choice.

You settle on the sandwich and take out a plate. The picnic is tomorrow and you have no idea what to bring. You should’ve asked but you were so stunned by the invitation, you lost all ability to ask logical questions. It’s not like you.

You angrily spread the peanut butter. The receipt is in your pocket. You scowl. How stupid does Steve Harrington think you are? Here’s my number! You might be weird and uptight and a freak. But you’re not an idiot. You can imagine Steve laughing at home now about how he gave you the number to a mechanic or a pizzeria.

But then… you keep thinking about his kind eyes and how he ran after you. And how he was nice to Dustin and those other kids and Marie, even when she messed up his hair. And all that seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through just to bully you. He could’ve easily joined in with Casey. Called you more names. You’re sure Steve Harrington knows a lot of ways to insult someone, cut them to the bone. You’re sure there’s a lot of things Steve could say that would cut you to the bone.

You put down your butterknife and get the receipt. Then you go to the phone and punch the numbers in.

It rings once, twice, twice and a half—

“Hello?”

Steve. That’s Steve’s voice.

You have no idea what to say.

“Uh, hello?” he says again. “Who is this?”

“It’s the girl from Skull Rock.” You pause. “Not the one you made out with.”

“Oh! Hi. Yeah, no, I figured. How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Cool. Find any alien stuff lately?”

“Not tonight. But I collected a rock sample to study under my microscope.”

“Wow. You’re like a scientist.”

You pause. “I… guess so.”

No one’s ever called you a scientist. Your cousin called you a nuisance when you wanted to look at kelp and dried sand dollars under your microscope at the shore instead of play volleyball. And you should've played volleyball because everyone else your age was playing it but you're terrible at volleyball, at anything requiring hand-eye coordination, really. And you'd just wanted to do something quiet. Something that didn't make you a burden.

“So where did you—”

“It’s a picnic,” you blurt. You cringe. “I’m sorry. I interrupted you.”

“That’s okay. Yeah, tomorrow, you mean? It’s a picnic.”

“Yes. So what should I bring?”

“You don’t have to bring anything,” Steve says. “It’s okay. We don’t expect you to.”

No, you know this trick. You know it’s impolite if you only bring yourself. People always expect more than just you, to make up for yourself.

“I can bring food,” you say. “Really.”

“Okay, if you want to. Mike’s allergic to peanuts. But everything else is fine.”

“Is anyone bringing cookies?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

You rock on your heels. “Do you like chocolate chip?”

“I love chocolate chip,” he says. “It’s the best cookie.”

“It is,” you say.

There’s a pause. Then Steve says, “I’m glad you’re coming.”

You swallow. “Okay.”

That’s the wrong thing to say. You often say the wrong thing, and that’s nothing new, but this time, you really wish you had a book to tell you what to say to boys who think you’re a scientist and who want to be your friend and who are glad you’re coming.

“Well, bye,” you say.

“Good night.” Steve sounds warm.

You hang up. You really need to figure out what mystery alien powder you inhaled. The symptoms are getting worse.

Steve is exactly where he said he’d be at the park, with several people your age or close to your age. The teens from Burger King and Dustin are there, as well as a few others. There’s an older girl and a boy who you immediately recognize as Eddie Munson. He wears the ‘freak’ label proudly. You’ve always been jealous.

There are a few other small groups here to see the comet, but they’re sitting far away. The sky is purple, kissing the night. It’s a waxing gibbous moon, the same moon you first met Steve on. The grass is dry from days of heat, but the air is cool now that the sun has gone down. It’s the perfect night to look at the sky and try to find where you belong.

Steve sees you first and he jogs to you.

“Hey,” he says, grinning. “Hey, you made it. And you brought cookies!”

You nod, giving him the plastic tray. “Meijer’s didn’t have Mrs. Fields in bulk, so I got the next best cookie: grocery store cookie.”

“They look great, thank you.” Steve leads you to the pool of blankets and people. Dustin has his telescope set up and he’s showing Eddie something through it.

“Guys, hey!” Steve introduces you. “And this is everyone. You know Dustin, and that’s Eddie. That’s Robin, Max, Lucas, El, Mike, and Will. And Nancy and Jonathan might stop by, but we’re not sure.”

“Hi,” you say weakly. There’s no way you’re going to remember all those names.

Everyone waves at you. Steve points to his blanket. It’s big and blue-checkered.

“I’m sitting there. You can sit with me and Robin.”

You shake your head. “I want to sit on my own blanket.”

“Oh.” Steve nods. “Sure, no problem.”

You’ve missed something. Maybe you can explain and fix Steve’s face. Explaining doesn’t always work, but maybe Steve will understand.

“I don’t like sitting by a lot of people,” you say. “But I’ll put my blanket next to yours.”

Steve smiles. “Got it. I can move my blanket further away. We don’t have to sit next to everyone.”

“But they’re your friends,” you say.

He shrugs. “Eh, I see ‘em all the time. Plus, once the comet passes, they’re gonna be loud as hell and crowd around the telescope to get a look.”

Something is very different about this new friend you’ve made. This boy with nice legs and kind eyes, who doesn’t mind moving his blanket for you.

Steve moves his blanket away from the cluster of teens. You put your blanket down next to his and you both sit. Steve sits back on his hands, legs extended. You stare at his legs again.

“So are comets connected to aliens?” he asks.

“Sometimes,” you say. “You can use them to hypothesize a species’ flight pattern. But they’re no more significant than stars or planets.”

“Aliens are so cool,” he says. “I hope if they ever visit us, they’re friendly.”

You hope that Steve thinks you’re friendly.

“Oh, shit.” He sits up. “I didn’t get you anything to eat! I packed sandwiches. Cheese, ham, turkey… Dustin brought Doritos. Lucas brought Moon Pies. Eddie’s in charge of the drinks.”

“Um…” You hate when you have to eat other people’s food. It’s a gamble every time. Drinks are the only safe option.

But Steve had invited you to a thing that friends do, and you want friends. You want Steve to be your friend. You can’t let your stupid freak self get in the way of that.

“I’m allergic,” you say. “I can’t eat those things. Sorry.”

Steve tilts his head at you. “Oh, really? Shit. You could’ve told me, I would’ve brought something you’re not allergic to.”

“It’s okay,” you say, guilt twinging in your chest. “I like being here. The food doesn’t matter.”

Steve half-smiles. He looks so much like a boy. He looks like a handsome boy that wears shades and drives a cool car and kisses a pretty girl, like in a movie, but for some reason, he’s here, offering you ham sandwiches. He smells good too. You like sitting next to him.

“Next time we have a picnic, you tell me your favorite foods and I’ll pack all of them,” he says.

“Okay,” you say, your neck getting hot. Why is he saying those things? Is that something friends promise? Is that something that you deserve?

Someone plops down next to Steve. A girl. She lies on her stomach. You wrack your brain, trying to remember her name.

“Hey,” she says to you, waving.

“Hi,” you say, looking at Steve, hoping he’ll say her name again. He doesn’t.

“So Steve says you have a pet pigeon,” she says.

You nod. “Marie.”

“That’s super cool. Can I meet her sometime?”

You blink. You’re not used to being cool. “Oh. Um…”

“No pressure,” Steve quickly says. “Maybe you can stop by Family Video sometime. That’s where we work.”

She groans. “The worst fucking place in the world. Next year, we’re working at the roller rink.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You can’t skate to save your life.”

“Who says I would skate? That’s your job. Pick up the kids that fall. I’ll be safely behind the counter, renting skates.” She scrunches her face at him. Steve gently shoves her.

She rolls onto her back, looking at you. “So are you dating anyone?”

“A-hem!” Steve elbows her side. She punches his shoulder.

“No,” you say. Since when is everyone so interested in you dating?

“Interesting,” she says. “Steve here is also not dating anyone, and hasn’t done so for a month. Fascinating, right?”

“Why don’t you go get a Moon Pie?” Steve says, practically shoving her off the blanket.

She obediently goes, winking at Steve. He grumbles, turning away from her.

“I’m really sorry about her,” he says.

“Why?” you ask.

“Just…” He shakes his head. “She’s just being dumb. Anyway. You can definitely stop by Family Video. I’ll give you free rentals.”

You raise your brows. “Why would you do that?”

“Because, uh, that’s what friends do.”

“Oh. Like you and…” You gesture at the empty space on Steve’s blanket. “Her?”

“Robin?” Steve grins. “Did you forget her name?”

You scowl and tuck your knees into your chest. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“No, I’m not! Sorry. I know I introduced everyone quickly and there’s a lot of us. You can always ask me someone’s name if you forgot.”

“Oh.” You relax your legs. “Okay. Yes, Robin. You two are also friends. Does she get free movies?”

“Well, she works there with me. But even if she didn’t, there’s no way I’d give her free movies. She’d just abuse it.”

“And I’m… different?” you ask carefully.

Steve smiles slowly. His lashes are very long. He looks like he knows a secret. Your heart pounds.

“You’re special,” he says. “So you get free movie privileges.”

No one’s ever called you special. Or a scientist. Or cool. Or a friend.

“It would be okay if I went to Family Video and rented a movie from you?” you ask.

“It’d be more than okay,” Steve says.

“Even without Marie?”

“Definitely. You only have to bring yourself.”

His gaze is locked on you. You look away first.

“Oh.” You swallow hard. “Okay.”

He stands suddenly. “Wanna go look through Dustin’s telescope?”

You glance at where a few of the kids are huddled around it. “Well…”

“I’ll go with you,” he says. “They won’t crowd you. I’ll shoo ‘em away.”

Steve holds out his hand. You take it. It’s rough with calluses and cool. He pulls you up easily, because he’s got strong legs and strong arms. A chill shoots down your spine.

You let go of his hand as soon as you’re standing. You follow Steve to the telescope.

“Make way, Wheeler,” he says to one boy. “My guest wants a look.”

“Yeah, dude, you’re hogging it,” the red-headed girl says.

“What’s her name?” you whisper to Steve.

He leans in to whisper back. “Max. And the one hogging the telescope is Mike.”

You nod. Mike goes to get a drink from the cooler. Steve gestures for you to look through the telescope.

“Dustin,” you say, looking up.

“Oh, hey,” he says, drinking a 7-Up. “This is the newest Levenhuk model! Cool, right?”

You nod. “It’s very good. But I think you’re twenty degrees off. You should be looking at Cassiopeia.”

“But the comet’s gonna pass at 340 degrees. That's what the report said.”

“In California,” you say. “You have to adjust for the—”

“Latitude,” he finishes, thwacking his forehead. “Duh! Okay, you’re right. I’ll change it.”

You step back while Dustin adjusts the telescope.

“See, told you she was smart,” Steve says. “Like a scientist.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dustin says distractedly.

Steve looks at you. “You’re a genius.”

You nod, overwhelmed. Are you? You don’t feel very smart right now. You feel a little dizzy with Steve’s attention on you. Another symptom, probably. You’ll be dead in a week.

“Do you want something to drink?” Steve asks.

You hesitate.

“I brought grape juice,” he says. “That’s your favorite, right? With cookies?”

“Yes,” you say. You don’t tell him that apple juice has been your most recent buy.

“It’s in the cooler. Wanna meet Eddie? We kind of have no choice.” He laughs.

“Okay,” you say, even though you don’t really want to be with anyone but Steve.

You and Steve go to the cooler. Eddie’s lounging on a lawn chair, his curls tied up in a ponytail. He’s talking to the boy from Burger King.

“That’s Lucas,” Steve says before you can ask. You smile gratefully. He winks. Your stomach flips.

“Thirsty customers!” Eddie says, gesturing to you grandly. “Please, step forth and receive your beverages. Pick your poison.”

“Coke,” Steve says.

“I would like grape juice,” you say.

Eddie gives you a thumbs-up. “So you’re the grape juice girl. Sir Steve told me to guard the grape juice with my life. They’re strictly reserved for you.”

“What–why?” you ask, looking at Steve. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“You’re a very special lady,” Eddie says, winking. “Steve-o made that clear.”

You wonder if you’re special like how Sheila’s friend Carol is special.

“Munson,” Steve says sharply. “Subtlety? Find it.”

Eddie shrugs, still grinning. “Not my style.” He digs through the cooler filled with ice and water, pulling out a Coke and your juice. “Here’s your drinks. You kids have fun now.”

Steve quickly steers you away, mumbling something about some friends. He flips the tab on his Coke and takes a sip. You watch, mesmerized, at the way the long, freckled column of his throat bobs while he swallows. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. If Steve was an experiment you could take home, you’d like to feel his throat with the palm of your hand.

“Are you working tomorrow?” you ask.

Steve nods. “Yeah, why?”

“To see—I mean, I’d like to rent a movie.”

He drinks again. You watch the muscles in his jaw work. Steve smiles.

“That’d be great,” he says, and you feel like he means it.

You’ve been waiting across the street from Family Video for fifteen minutes. It’s less hot today, which is why you haven’t just gone home. You’ve been working up the nerve to go inside.

No one is inside except for Steve and Robin, and they’re talking. You don’t want to interrupt. You wish you had Marie with you.

You haven’t even planned out what you’re going to say. You didn’t really want to rent a movie. What movies have come out recently? You don’t know, except for a few that are still in theaters. And if you don’t have a movie to rent, Steve will know why you’re really there. He’ll know it’s because you don’t have a human friend, a friend who invites you to things, a friend who will give you free rentals.

Steve walks around the counter and out the door. He waves at you. Fuck.

“Hey!” Steve says. “Hey, you can come in, you know.” Then he jogs across the street and stops in front of you.

You step out from behind the tree you thought was hiding you well. “It seemed like you and Robin were having a conversation. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Oh, no, we were just talking about, uh…” Steve hesitates. “Dating… stuff. Anyway, you can always interrupt me. I don’t mind.”

That can’t be right. People hate when you insert yourself somewhere you don’t belong. The trouble is that you never quite learned where you do belong.

“People hate being interrupted,” you say, expecting Steve to realize his mistake.

“Well, I—okay, yeah, not, like, cutting me off. I meant that if you see me somewhere, you can always come over, even if I’m talking to someone. You're not, y’know, interrupting.”

This is a very strange rule. No one’s ever invited you to do such a thing.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay.” Steve nods, then smiles. He runs a hand through his hair. “So, uh, I actually wanted to ask you something.”

“Alright. Wait.” You pull out his Walkman. “I fixed this for you.”

“Holy shit, really? How’d you do that?”

“There was some faulty wiring, so I replaced it with wiring from the toy car you left.”

“Oh, wow. Wow, you’re amazing.”

You shrug. You don’t know what to say. Again. Steve stares at the Walkman for a few seconds. Then he looks at you. And looks. And looks.

You squeeze your hand into a fist. “Aren't you going to ask your question?”

“Right! My question. My question is… well, I was wondering…” He peters off, chewing his lip.

You frown. “What’s wrong?”

Steve runs a hand through his hair. “Nothing! Nothing, sorry. I just, uh, I’m usually better at this.”

“Better at what?”

“Better at… talking. Hm. Yeah. Okay. Would you like to go out sometime?”

Steve watches you like you’re the only person in the world. His shoulders are tense. You don’t understand why.

“You mean just you and me?” you ask.

“Yeah, you and me.”

Well, you suppose it’s significant that this would be your first time hanging out with Steve alone as your new friend. But he hangs out with Robin all the time. Surely this is no different.

“Okay,” you say.

He straightens. “Really?”

“Yes.”

You’ve been out with Steve before. Just last week. And you’ve been to his house, technically. You’re not sure why he’s so excited.

“Great! Oh, that’s great.” He pumps his fist. “Awesome. Hah. That’s really great.”

“Where will we go?” you ask.

“Anywhere, we can go anywhere. Uh, movies, mini-golf, dinner… Do you have a preference?”

“I like movies,” you say. “I want to watch Back to the Future: Part II.”

“Yeah! Yeah, totally, we can do that.” Steve is giddy. He must be a huge Marty McFly fan. “Cool. This is so great. So how ‘bout I pick you up at seven? This Saturday?”

You can get to the movies perfectly fine on your own, but you guess it wouldn’t be so bad to not have to walk.

“Alright,” you say. “Saturday at seven.”

“Yes. Good. Great. I’ll see you then. I—”

Someone bangs on the windows of Family Video. You both jump. Robin is inside, pointing impatiently at her watch. Then she waves at you. You wave back.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Sorry. She’s hangry. Hasn’t had her break. I gotta go back to work. But we’re on for Saturday, right?”

“I already said yes,” you say.

“Yeah, sorry, just… just confirming.”

He grins, walking backwards towards the doors, and makes finger guns. You wince as the handle pokes his back. Steve grimaces, rubbing his back, then gives a thumbs-up.

What a bizarre reaction to going to the movies. Sequels usually aren’t even that good.

Halfway to the bus stop, you realize that you didn’t even try to rent a movie. You hope that Steve didn’t notice.

Steve’s car seats are soft and squeak when you move around. You’re focused on staying perfectly still due to this.

“So did you see the first movie?” Steve asks.

“Of course,” you say. “You can’t watch the second without seeing the first.”

“Really? I saw the second Star Wars first. Didn’t really matter to me.”

“That’s very unusual,” you say, and look out the window. You watch the houses pass by.

Steve is similarly dressed to how he was that night at Skull Rock. His hair is coiffed higher than usual. You want to ask him about it, but you’re not sure if that’ll anger him. Sometimes when you ask questions, people think you’re being rude. You’re always guessing.

“I like your jeans,” Steve says. “I like the stars on the leg. Did you add those?”

“No, they came like that. Thank you.”

You look at the yellow star patches sewn on the bottom of your left jean leg. You’ve had these jeans for years. You don’t think there’s anything particularly nice about them. Especially compared to the kinds of clothes Steve wears.

Steve parks close to the theater. It’s moderately busy inside. You feel people looking at you. You can’t imagine why. You’re at the movies just like them. Are you walking funny? Do you have something on your face?

“Do I have something on my face?” you ask Steve.

He shakes his head. “Nope. Your face is pretty as always.”

You look away, heartbeat ratcheting. You took another Tylenol today but it didn’t help. You kept thinking about Steve’s legs.

Steve buys your tickets and then you go to the concession counter.

“Want anything?” he asks.

“Why are you making purchases for me?” you ask. “I will pay you back for the ticket.” You take out your little green money purse. It has a UFO on it.

“What? No, no, I’m taking you out, remember? It’s all on me. Seriously, pick whatever you want.”

“But then I will owe you money,” you say. People can get very mean when you owe them money.

Steve shakes his head. “You don’t. Do you like popcorn?”

“Yes… Okay, I will have a small popcorn.”

“Or, um, we could share,” Steve says. “Get the big bucket?”

This is true. Plus, getting the big bucket is better worth your money.

“Good idea,” you say. Steve smiles. You turn to the worker. “And can we get two empty nacho boxes?”

“Sure, dude,” he says, shoveling the popcorn into the bucket.

“Why the boxes?” Steve asks.

“So we can share the popcorn.”

“Oh. Well, I thought we could just share the bucket. Y’know, with our hands.”

“No, that wouldn’t work because one of us would inevitably end up getting more popcorn than the other, and that wouldn’t be fair. Besides, we’d be touching the fresh popcorn with the same hand we use to eat. Our saliva would mingle.”

The worker gives you the popcorn and the boxes.

“Thank you,” you say, and go to the napkin counter to divide the popcorn.

“See?” You hand Steve his box. “Now it’s even. And sanitary.”

“Uh, yeah. Good thinking.”

Steve buys slushies: cherry for him, blue raspberry for you. Then you go into the theater. It’s fairly empty since the movie came out three weeks ago. You’re happy that the theater is empty. You tell Steve as much.

“It makes for a much more enjoyable experience,” you say.

Steve grins. “Yeah. Yeah, definitely.”

You get comfortable as the previews begin.

“Want some of my slushie?” Steve asks you halfway through.

“You want me to use your straw?” you ask.

“You can use yours, if you want.”

“But then you’d mix cherry with my blue raspberry slushie. That wouldn’t taste good.”

Steve shrugs. “It’s okay, it’s not a big deal.”

Slushie flavors should be kept separate. Why doesn’t Steve know this?

“I’m allergic to cherry slushies,” you say. “So we have to keep them separate.”

“Oh…” Steve looks at you like he’s figuring something out, then smiles. “Okay. We don’t have to share anything.” He settles back in his seat.

The movie begins. Steve's already shoveling popcorn into his mouth. Your eyes are glued to the screen, not wanting to miss any details.

“Hey, Alex P. Keaton!” Steve whispers when Marty comes on. “Wow, they made another one of these?”

“Yes,” you say briskly, trying to cut the conversation short.

“The first one was weird. He kept trying to bang his mom.”

“No, he didn't. If anything, she tried to have intercourse with him,” you say.

“Still a weird as hell story.”

“That isn't the story.”

“Then what's—”

“Steve.” You look at him in the dark. “I want to watch the movie. We can talk later.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

The movie ends up being decent, even if the plot is a little convoluted and there are plot holes. You prefer the first. The lights come on. You blink at the sudden brightness.

There's only one other couple in the theater. They're locked in a wet tongue-kiss three rows in front of you. You make a face.

“Why would they waste money just to kiss here?” you whisper to Steve.

“They're probably on a date. Or dating.”

“That's dating?”

Steve laughs a little, rubbing his neck. “Sometimes.”

Dating looks horrible.

You and Steve get up and leave the theater. The couple doesn't even come up for air.

“How’d you like the movie?” Steve asks, throwing your cups and containers out.

“It was alright. Not as good as the first one.” Steve follows you down the hallway. You keep talking. “And there were a lot of unresolved plot points. For example, there was no disruption of the time-space continuum. But Marty going to 1955 and seeing himself from the first movie would’ve unraveled time as we know it. They severely understated the disastrous effects. Doc Brown should've known better.”

Steve nods as he holds the door open to the exit for you. “Oh, yeah. Definitely.”

“Also, what stopped Biff from killing George McFly in the first movie? He was more successful than George then too, and clearly just as big of an asshole. Was it the almanac that was the deciding factor? Did it make him more confident? We should’ve been given more psychological analysis. And what about the multiple timelines theory? Why did—”

You stop. Steve’s linked your hand with his. You look down at your joined hands, then back at him.

“Why have you done that?” you ask.

Steve looks like you just accused him of murder. He drops your hand. “Oh! Sorry. Do you not want to hold hands? We don't have to.”

Well, you really don’t know, to be honest. No one’s ever tried to hold your hand. Certainly no boy.

“Um.” You look at your hand. Bizarre. “I suppose it’s okay.”

Steve takes your hand again and gives you a small squeeze. “Yeah?”

“Yes. It’s alright. I like when people ask me before touching me.”

“I’ll ask from now on. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He smiles. “Keep telling me what you thought about the movie.”

“I’m not annoying you by picking the movie apart?” you ask.

“No, I like listening to you. You're so smart.”

Your face gets hot. Bizarre, indeed.

So you keep talking. You talk all the way home, in fact, going through the mental list of plot holes you made in your head. Steve responds a little but mostly, he lets you talk. And he doesn’t get frustrated or bored.

Steve stops in front of your house and gets out to open your car door. He walks you to your front step.

“Well,” you say. “Despite all of my criticisms, I did have a nice time. I enjoyed going to the movies with you.”

Steve beams. “I liked going out with you too.”

You nod. This is satisfactory. You have done a good job at going out with a friend. A friend who’s a boy, no less. A boy friend with long legs who’s not an alien and just likes spending time with you.

“I’m really happy you agreed to go out with me,” he says, suddenly shy. “I, uh, wasn’t sure if you liked me that way.”

“We’ve been out before,” you say. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I know, but it’s just… different, you know? And I didn’t wanna ruin our friendship if it didn’t pan out.”

Wow. Steve sure put a lot of pressure on Back to the Future Part II. You don’t know if you’d do that to a sequel.

“It would’ve been fine if it hadn’t been a good movie,” you say. “I wanted to watch it. I wouldn't have blamed you for it being bad.”

“Oh… uh, yeah. I mean, it’d be a letdown, but yeah, of course.”

You nod, fiddling with the pocket of your jeans. You don’t know why you’ve both been standing here so long.

“You look really pretty,” Steve says.

You don’t know why he says that. You didn’t put extra effort into your appearance tonight. You simply checked the weather and dressed accordingly.

“Thank you,” you say, to be polite, even though you’re doubtful. “You’re handsome. But that’s nothing new.”

Steve laughs, cheeks turning pink. “Ha, wow. You sure know how to compliment.”

“It’s a fact.”

He smiles. “Yeah, I know you wouldn’t lie about that. That’s why it’s so nice, I guess. And that’s why I, uh…”

Steve leans in, eyes beginning to close. You freeze, watching his mouth approach your mouth area. Your heart pounds, realization dawning on you. What’s wrong with Steve? Doesn’t he know that you don’t know how to do this? Doesn’t he know you don’t belong here?

You don’t think. Your hand comes up and blocks his face. Steve’s eyes fly open. His lips are on your palm.

“Oh no,” you say, and swing open your door.

It slams shut in Steve’s face. You rest your head on the wood. It would appear you’ve miscalculated.

Sometimes, you wonder what your home planet is like.

You imagine that it's always a little cold because you’re hot even when no one else is, and you get impatient in the summer. On your planet, no one reads something in your tone that isn't there. You never make anyone unnecessarily upset and they never make you upset either. Earth isn't ideal because so many things make you upset or nervous or afraid. People scare you. You don’t think an Earth native is this afraid all the time.

Above all, on your planet, you'd know when a boy likes you like a friend and when he's asking you on a date. You'd know when and how to kiss. You wouldn't run away. You wouldn't lose.

Steve stops by your house three days later. You see his car outside and you watch him from the upstairs window as he comes to the door and rings the doorbell. He calls your name. You go downstairs and stand behind the door.

“I’m really sorry,” he says. “I don’t know if you’re here or if I’m just talking to a door like an idiot… but I see a light on so I think you might be here. Anyway, I’m really sorry about Saturday. I thought you knew what I meant but you didn’t and that’s on me.”

You open the door. Steve steps back, startled.

“Hi,” he says. His voice is so soft. You don’t think anyone has ever spoken to you so softly.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hey, God, I’m so sorry. I was so dumb, seriously, and—”

You shut your eyes. “I thought we were friends.”

“What? We are.”

“I didn’t understand,” you say.

“Hey, we are.”

You open your eyes. “I didn’t understand. I never understand. I always mess it up.”

“No, hang on—”

“I thought we had a good time.” You wrap your arms around yourself. “I thought that was enough.”

“It is! We did.”

“I thought…” You will not cry. “I thought you liked me as I am.” Your voice is small. People take advantage of your small voice. You hope that Steve won't.

“I do,” Steve says. “Hey, I like you a lot. Listen to me, please. I wasn't a good listener because I didn't try to find out what you wanted. I thought, ‘okay, I'm good at taking girls on dates, so I can do this.’ But you're not like most girls, are you?”

You turn around. Why is he doing this? Why is he reminding you of how much you don't belong here?

“Please don't be mean," you say. “I really like you. I thought you were nice, Steve.” You don't know what else to do but beg. “No one ever tells me. I’m always guessing and pretending. I always guess wrong. I pretend wrong. I don’t know what to do, Steve.”

“Hey, no, no, it’s okay. It's okay that you're not like everybody else. It’s not a bad thing. I'm the dummy for not understanding that. I should've been clear and asked if you were interested in going on a date with me. I should've let you lead. Can I touch your shoulders?”

You sniffle and nod. Steve gently turns you around, hands on your shoulders. You bow your head. You can’t bear to look at him, but Steve leans in and tries to find your gaze. His voice is still so gentle.

“We don’t have to be more than friends,” he says. “You don’t have to guess. We can be whatever you want.”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” you say. “I’ve never had this happen. I don’t know how to behave around a boy like you. I think that I like you as more than a friend, but it’s confusing. I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends,” he says. “We don’t have to stop being friends. We can figure it out. We’ll do as much as you’re comfortable with.”

You cover your eyes and try to keep years of hurt in. “You're pretending.”

“I'm not pretending. Why would I pretend?”

You drop your hands. Steve is blurry.

“Because no one has ever liked me enough to accommodate me.”

Steve stands there for a second as you cry and wish that the aliens would take you then and there.

“This is wrong,” you say, breathing getting tight and fast. “This–this isn’t what happens to me. You aren’t supposed to like me. I shouldn’t want more.”

“I like you,” Steve says quietly. “You like me. I think that’s enough.”

You shake your head. There’s so much noise between your ears. Static and frequencies and wrong words. What are you doing? You have never known. You will probably never know.

“I don’t know—” You heave gulps of air in between cries. “I don’t—Steve, I don’t know."

“Is it okay if I hug you?”

You nod. Steve pulls you into a hug. You don't hug a lot of people; you can't remember the last time you got a hug. Maybe months ago, from Sheila. They're not typically your favorite. But right now, it's good. It's peace. It feels like Steve knows the right thing to do and you let him do it, and maybe that really is enough. You cry harder and Steve rubs your back.

“I'm really sorry,” he says. “I'm sorry. I like you a lot. I want to accommodate you.”

“I'm sorry that I don't know how to kiss you,” you say through tears. “I don’t know how to identify this feeling. I didn’t know we were supposed to kiss.”

“What? No, that's okay. We aren’t supposed to do anything. It's fine, you don't need to know.” Steve pets you between your shoulder blades, like how you pet Marie when she gets nervous during a storm. You can feel the heat of him, the warmth that emanates even when you aren’t touching. He smells even stronger like this.

“But you like kissing,” you say, voice wobbly. “You like girl tongue.”

“I, uh—I’ve never heard it called that, but, um, no, it really doesn’t matter. I didn’t go on a date with you to get your tongue in my mouth. That would’ve been super shitty of me. I just wanted to hang out with you because I like you as a friend and as something more, yeah. And I misread the situation and thought you wanted to kiss, but you didn’t, and that’s fine.”

“I ruined it,” you say, face hot and wet. You clutch Steve’s nice hairy arms, feel the biceps twitch. “This isn’t how it should go.”

“You didn't,” Steve says, easy as anything. “It can go any way we want it to. I want it to go your way.”

He feels so good. A boy you like has his strong, warm boy-arms around you. Have scientists discovered this yet? Perhaps only the writers know.

“I always ruin things,” you say. You don't know how to put a lifetime of crash-landing into words, but Steve seems to understand. He steps back and wipes away a tear on your cheek with his thumb.

“It's shitty that people made you feel that way,” he says. “But you don't ruin things. Okay? That's bullshit. I like you. You didn't ruin anything.”

“I thought we were just seeing a movie,” you say.

Steve nods. “I know. It can just be that if you want. We can just be friends, it's okay.”

You shake your head. “No. I think… that I reciprocate your feelings.”

For years, it felt wrong to like a boy. You didn't want to subject anyone to that. You can't act like a girl who likes a boy; you've never been able to. Everyone has told you that you don't act right, no matter how hard you try to copy them.

“That’s really nice if you do," Steve says. "But you don’t have to like me like that.”

“Is it okay if I do?”

“Definitely.”

You stand there for a few moments. You wipe your cheeks. Maybe this world is yours too.

“What do you feel like doing?” Steve asks.

You take a deep breath. “I would like to get a Mrs. Fields cookie and a bottle of apple juice. And go somewhere cool.”

Steve offers his hand. You take it. He squeezes.

“We can definitely make that happen.”

#Steve Harrington x reader #steve Harrington x you #Steve Harrington fanfic #stranger things x you #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagine #Steve Harrington imagine #sanguineterrain #stranger things #steve harrington

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