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cressidagrey · 10 days ago

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White Horse - Chapter 8: October 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families...I think that's it?

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Max wasn’t someone who forgot how to be an adult.

He was a World Champion. He kept a strict training regimen, remembered which hand luggage worked best for long-haul flights, and could navigate a grid penalty strategy like it was second nature. He wasn’t helpless—not at the track, not at home.

But still, there was something quietly astonishing about how easy his life had become since Isabelle moved in.

It started off small.

After the first race weekend they spent apart post-move, he came home expecting the usual chaos—half-unpacked suitcase, laundry to do, a fridge with maybe one sad yogurt and some questionable cheese.

Instead?

His suitcase was already unpacked. Laundry sorted and in the wash. There was a folded stack of clean gym clothes on the bed, and a small sticky note on the bathroom mirror in Isabelle’s tidy handwriting:

Welcome home. You did great. There’s soup in the fridge and the cats missed you.

He’d blinked at it for a solid minute before laughing quietly and thinking, Huh. That’s new.

But it didn’t stop there.

By the third race weekend, it had become a rhythm. The fridge was magically stocked with all the foods he craved after long travel days—cut mango, chocolate granola, oat milk, the fancy yogurt he’d once mentioned liking.

His sim racing gear? Charged and ready before he even thought to use it. A small corner of the closet had somehow become better organized than Red Bull’s race strategy board.

She started refilling his supplements without saying a word. She pre-scheduled his haircuts, left Post-Its on the mirror when he needed to sign something for the team, and quietly placed noise-canceling earplugs in his carry-on.

And she worked. Isabelle had a full-time job. Not a desk job where she could casually scroll through her phone or delegate her way through the day—she was an architect, doing interiors, managing clients, deadlines, contractors. Max had seen her calendar. It looked like someone had lost a game of Tetris.

And somehow—somehow—she still remembered to order new toothpaste before they ran out. Or add his vitamins to the grocery list. Or restock the snack drawer in his sim room without ever saying a word.

It wasn’t flashy. She didn’t make announcements about it. She just did it, quietly and efficiently, like she always had.

It wasn’t until Max found himself halfway through folding his laundry before realizing he hadn’t had to fold laundry in over a month that the realization hit him fully:

Isabelle had spent most of her life running in the background of other people’s chaos.

He’d seen it before, on the edges of Leclerc family race weekends. Isabelle, the sister who stayed back to make sure Arthur had the right tie packed, or that Charles had signed the right forms. The one who found a florist for Lorenzo thirty minutes before an event, or remembered which water bottle brand their mother liked for travel.

She had always been the quiet buffer.

The fixer.

The forgotten problem-solver.

And now… she was doing it for him.

Not because he expected it. He didn’t. He’d told her repeatedly he could handle himself. But Isabelle wasn’t someone who waited to be asked. She anticipated, gently rearranged the world around her people, and made their lives easier before they even noticed they were stressed.

He found her that night curled up on the sofa, hair damp from the shower, laptop open with her architectural renders glowing softly against her face. She was eating grapes and typing one-handed, her legs tucked under her like always.

“You know,” Max said, dropping onto the couch beside her, “I haven’t had to do a single thing since I got home.”

Isabelle didn’t look up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… I haven’t done laundry. My flights are in my calendar. My snack drawer is mysteriously refilled. I have socks again. And coffee. And peace.”

She blinked, paused her typing, and smiled. “It’s really not that much.”

“It is,” Max said gently. “You work ten hours a day and somehow still run this apartment like it’s an F1 garage. I don’t know how you do it.”

She shrugged a little, looking sheepish. “I like doing it. I like making things easier for the people I love.”

“Do your brothers ever thank you?”

She hesitated. “I don’t think they realize half of what I do,” she admitted drily.

Max nodded slowly. “Well, I notice. Every little thing. You don’t have to do it all, but when you do… I see it. And I’m grateful. Really.”

Her smile wavered just a little, like something fragile cracked open inside her chest.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I… I’m not used to hearing that.”

Max pulled her laptop from her lap, set it gently on the coffee table, and tugged her into his arms.

Max cupped her cheek, thumb brushing just under her eye. “I see it now. All of it. Every time you notice something before I do. Every time you put something away or refill something I didn’t even realize was empty. You’ve made this place feel like home.”

She smiled softly. “That’s what love is, isn’t it?”

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur: I’M SCREWED.

Lorenzo: Again?

Charles: What now?

Arthur: I FORGOT MY ANNIVERSARY.

Charles: …

Lorenzo: …

Charles: You absolute moron.

Lorenzo: You have ONE job.

Arthur: HELP ME.

Charles: Help you??? Maybe try remembering important dates next time?

Lorenzo: Yeah, I don’t really see how this is our problem.

Arthur: ISABELLE. SAVE ME.

Isabelle: What kind of dinner does she like?

Arthur: She likes Italian? And wine? And… romantic lighting?

Isabelle: …Do you know anything about your girlfriend?

Arthur: I KNOW I LOVE HER AND I DON’T WANT HER TO DUMP ME.

Isabelle: Right. I’ll take care of it.

Arthur: YOU’RE A HERO.

(20 minutes later)

Isabelle: You have a reservation at La Chèvre d'Or at 8 PM. I also ordered that perfume she keeps in her bag and had it gift-wrapped. It’ll be at your place in an hour.

Lorenzo: Oh, while you’re at it, what should I get my girlfriend for her birthday?

Isabelle: Jewelry. She’s been eyeing those gold earrings from Cartier.

Lorenzo: You’re actually a genius.

(Several hours later)

Isabelle: You’re welcome, by the way.

Arthur: Huh?

Lorenzo: For what?

***

Max was still buzzing with adrenaline when he finally stepped into his apartment, championship celebrations still ringing in his ears. The moment he closed the door behind him, silence settled over him like a warm blanket, the contrast almost jarring after the chaos of the paddock.

And then he saw her.

Isabelle was curled up on the couch, one of the cats nestled beside her, a book resting open in her lap. She must’ve heard him come in because she looked up immediately, her expression softening.

“Hey,” she said, setting the book aside. “How does it feel?”

Max huffed out a breath, toeing off his shoes and crossing the room in a few quick steps. “Like I need you,” he muttered, dropping onto the couch beside her and pulling her into his arms.

She let out a quiet laugh but didn’t resist, settling against his chest as his arms tightened around her. “That exhausting, huh?”

He buried his face in her shoulder. “So many people. So much noise. This is better.”

Her fingers threaded through his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “You did just win your third world title. Kind of a big deal.”

He smirked against her skin. “Mm. They wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“Annoying, really,” she teased.

He pulled back just enough to look at her. The soft glow from the nearby lamp illuminated her features, her eyes filled with something quiet and fond.

“You should’ve been there,” he murmured, brushing his fingers along her jaw.

She sighed, shaking her head. “You know why I wasn’t.”

He did. She wasn’t ready for the cameras, the attention, the inevitable questions. And he would never push her into something she wasn’t comfortable with.

But fuck, he wished she had been there.

Still, she had waited up for him. She was here. That was enough.

His thumb traced slow circles over her hip as he leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You watched?”

“Of course.” She smiled. “You were incredible.”

His chest tightened at the quiet sincerity in her voice. He’d spent the entire night surrounded by people telling him how great he was, how historic his achievement was. But this—hearing it from her—meant more than any of it.

He let out a long breath, finally starting to feel the exhaustion creeping in. “Come to bed with me?”

She nodded, taking his hand as they stood. As they made their way toward the bedroom, one of the cats darted ahead of them, already claiming Max’s pillow.

Isabelle laughed. “Looks like you’re not the only champion in this house.”

Max just smiled, pulling her close again as they climbed into bed. “Doesn’t matter. I already have everything I want.”

They settled into bed, limbs tangled, warmth shared beneath soft blankets. The city was quiet outside the windows. The adrenaline was finally ebbing.

And then, just as the stillness settled, Isabelle spoke.

“You never ask,” she said quietly.

“Ask what?”

“Why I haven’t told them.”

She didn’t have to specify who them was.

Max exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. It wasn’t that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. He had wondered—more than once—why she still kept their relationship a secret, why she hadn’t told her brothers, her mother, anyone. But he had never pushed.

“Do you want to tell them?” he asked carefully.

Isabelle was quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, she looked up at him, her gaze steady.

“No.”

Max blinked. That wasn’t the answer he had been expecting.

She sighed, shifting so she was facing him fully. “It’s not because I’m ashamed of you. Or because I don’t care.” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s because you’re important to me.”

His breath hitched slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting her continue.

“My whole life, I’ve felt like I had to fight to be noticed. To be heard. And with my family, it’s always been about Charles. About Arthur. About Lorenzo. I love them, but—sometimes, it feels like I’m just a shadow in their lives.” She swallowed. “I didn’t want you to be part of that. I didn’t want us to become something that gets brushed aside, just another footnote in their world.”

Max’s jaw tightened. He had seen the way her family overlooked her, how they spoke over her, how they forgot things that should have mattered. And now, hearing it from her directly, it made something inside him ache.

“So you kept us just for you,” he murmured.

She nodded. “Just for me.”

Max reached out, his fingers threading through hers. “I don’t mind,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “If you want to wait. Whatever you decide—I just want to be with you.”

She squeezed his hand, and he lifted it to press a kiss against her knuckles, his lips lingering there for a moment.

“I hope you know,” he added quietly, “that you’ll never be a shadow to me.”

A small, wobbly smile tugged at her lips, and she leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“I know,” she whispered.

Max let the words settle between them, his grip on Isabelle’s hand firm but gentle. He could feel the warmth of her fingers, the slight tremble she tried to hide. He had never truly understood what it felt like to be overlooked—his entire life had been under a spotlight, from karting to Formula 1. But Isabelle? She had spent years fading into the background of her own family’s story.

And yet, here she was, choosing to keep him separate from all of that. Not because she was hiding him, but because she wanted something that was only hers.

He squeezed her hand lightly. “You know,” he said, voice softer than usual, “I’d never let them brush you aside. If they knew about us.”

She let out a quiet breath, her eyes flickering down to where their hands were intertwined. “I know,” she admitted. “But that’s not what I’m afraid of.”

Max frowned. “Then what is it?”

She hesitated, then sat up a little straighter, pulling one knee up to her chest. “If I tell them about us,” she said slowly, “it changes things. Not just for me, but for you. For us.” She exhaled. “Suddenly, I won’t just be Isabelle anymore. I’ll be ‘Max Verstappen’s girlfriend.’ And to them, that will mean something.”

He stayed quiet, letting her put her thoughts into words.

“They’ll look at me differently. Maybe they’ll suddenly start paying attention, maybe they’ll act like I matter more just because you matter. And I don’t want that.” Her voice wavered slightly, but she pushed forward. “I don’t want their attention just because of who I’m with. I want them to see me.”

Max felt something twist in his chest. He had never thought of it like that. To him, she had always been important. But her family? They had overlooked her for so long, and she didn’t want their sudden interest to be because of him.

“You think they’d only start noticing you because of my name,” he said quietly.

Isabelle gave him a small, sad smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s only cared because of who you are.”

That stung. Because she was right. He had seen it time and time again—people wanting to be close to him because of what he could offer, not because of who he was. The idea that her own family might finally pay attention to her for the same reason made his jaw tighten.

“Belle.” He turned to face her fully, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “I don’t care how long we keep this just between us. But don’t ever think for a second that I don’t see you. That I don’t love you for exactly who you are.”

Her breath caught, and he saw the way her eyes widened slightly. He hadn’t said it before—not like this. Maybe he should have waited for a different moment, something more planned, more perfect. But she deserved to hear it now.

She swallowed hard. “Max.”

“I mean it,” he said, his voice steady. “I love you, Isabelle. And it has nothing to do with your last name, or your family, or anything else. Just you.”

Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment, she just looked at him—like she was trying to memorize him, like she was searching for any trace of hesitation. She wouldn’t find any.

Then, finally, she let out a shaky breath and leaned in, pressing her forehead against his. “I love you too,” she whispered, so soft he almost didn’t hear it.

But he did. And that was all that mattered.

***

The shift had started quietly.

Snide comments. Backhanded compliments. Passive exclusion from group meetings she used to lead. Isabelle’s project folders were “misplaced,” her samples “forgotten,” and her renderings were somehow always “accidentally deleted.”

But by now it was blatant.

Last week, she’d walked into the break room and found her concept sketches tossed into the trash beside half-eaten croissants.

Today, someone had keyed in over her CAD file—over it, not on a copy—and added a caption across the top of the screen in bold red text:

“Thanks, nepotism. We’ll take it from here.”

Isabelle stared at it for a long time, her stomach turning.

The worst part was that no one tried to hide it anymore.

When she glanced around the office, no one made eye contact. No one looked guilty. They just went on with their day like she was background noise.

Like she hadn’t worked twice as hard. Stayed twice as late. Fought for every inch of credibility.

Like Max’s penthouse had erased everything she’d ever done before it.

She backed away from her desk, air thick in her lungs, and walked straight to the glass-enclosed materials library. Closed the door. Pressed her back against it.

Breathed.

You live in peace, she reminded herself. You wake up next to Max. This doesn’t get to break you.

But it did hurt.

She didn’t cry—she wouldn’t give them that. But her throat ached with all the things she couldn’t say.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Okay I’m officially done. I just had the worst day and I need to get out of my own head.

Emilie: What happened?? Are you okay?

Isabelle: Just… work stuff. People not listening. Clients who think Pinterest means they’re architects now. And my colleague took credit for something I spent three weeks on.

Emilie: I will start swinging.

Isabelle: Please do. Preferably with one of those cartoonishly large handbags.

Emilie: Already packed one. Where are we going?

Isabelle: Let’s go shopping this afternoon? I still haven’t bought birthday presents for Charles and Arthur, and if I stay in this office any longer I’ll start crying over the wrong throw pillow.

Emilie: Say no more. I’ll pick you up in 30. You can buy emotionally motivated gifts and I can be your moral support/human espresso.

Isabelle: You’re my favorite person.

Emilie: I know. And I’m dragging you to get cake after. No arguments.

***

Alexandra had only come in to browse.

The gallery had been quiet all morning, the kind of rainy-day lull that left her restless, so she’d taken a walk, turned a corner, and ducked into a tucked-away boutique that specialized in little luxuries—silk scarves, handmade ceramics, niche perfumes. The kind of place you didn’t go to with intention, just curiosity.

She was halfway to a display of glass jewelry trays when she heard a familiar voice.

“Alex?”

She turned—and blinked.

“Emilie?”

The other woman—sleek dark coat, sunglasses perched in her hair, a woven tote filled with rolled linen and a jar of fig jam—smiled.

“I thought that was you,” Emilie said, her voice warm but always laced with sharpness, like she couldn’t quite switch off the part of her brain that was evaluating everyone in the room. “It’s been a while.”

Alexandra smiled. “Yeah, since the preview at the gallery. You were with that collector from Paris.”

“He’s still deciding between three paintings he can’t afford,” Emilie said dryly. “But I’m sure he’ll make a confident choice any day now.”

They both laughed.

And then Alexandra’s eyes shifted—to the person standing just behind Emilie, holding a pale blue shopping bag and smiling politely.

Next to her stood Isabelle.

And that—that was the part Alexandra didn’t quite expect.

Because Isabelle Leclerc, as Alexandra knew her, was quiet. Sweet, yes. Polite, yes. But always a little faded at the edges. Always deferring. Always on the outside, even when she was technically inside the room. Always smiling without saying much.

But here—standing next to Emilie, twirling a delicate silver ring between her fingers, visibly debating whether to buy it—Isabelle looked alive.

Her cheeks were pink. She was smiling, not the polite, folded sort of smile Alexandra knew, but something real. Something that reached her eyes. Her body language was open. Confident.

And Emilie was watching her like she’d personally fight anyone who dimmed that light again.

“Hi, Isabelle.”

“Hey, Alex. How are you?” Her voice was as warm as ever. Kind, even. That was the thing about Isabelle—she was never unkind. Always soft-spoken, always thoughtful. Alex couldn’t remember her ever being cold or rude.

And yet… she realized with a flicker of guilt, she didn’t know a single personal thing about her. Not really.

“I’m good,” Alexandra said, hesitating. She wasn’t sure how long to linger. But Emilie stepped aside slightly, making room, and something about the way she did it—reluctantly welcoming—made Alexandra stay.

“You two shopping for anything in particular?” she asked.

Isabelle tilted her head. “A birthday gift. Possibly. Unless I end up keeping it for myself.”

“She’s been buying presents for everyone but herself,” Emilie said dryly. “As per usual.”

“I’m selective,” Isabelle said mildly.

“No, you’re selfless,” Emilie corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Alexandra watched the exchange, slightly stunned. There was an ease between them, a quiet rhythm. They spoke in a way that implied history. Real closeness. It made Isabelle seem... whole, somehow. Grounded.

Alexandra suddenly felt like she’d only ever seen the outline of a person.

“You’re really good at presents,” she said after a pause. “Honestly, I was just thinking about what to get Charles, and I have no idea. You always find the perfect thing.”

Isabelle blinked in surprise. “Oh—thank you. I just try to think about what makes people feel like they’ve been seen.”

“She’s too good,” Emilie said. “It’s genuinely annoying. I once said I liked the color of a book cover and two months later it showed up wrapped in silk ribbon with a handwritten note and a matching bookmark.”

Isabelle flushed slightly. “You needed cheering up.”

“She’s the personal shopper of the entire Leclerc family,” Emilie said flatly, reaching for a small candle. “Has been since she was old enough to know how to wrap a box. Half the birthday gifts your boyfriend has ever given were probably vetted or bought by her.”

Alexandra blinked. “Really?”

Isabelle looked embarrassed. “Sometimes they ask for help.”

Emilie raised an eyebrow. “Isabelle picked out Arthur’s last three girlfriend gifts and Pascale’s Christmas gift for the last 10 years.”

Alexandra laughed, but something about Emilie’s tone lingered.

Not unkind. Just sharp enough to say: Yes, Isabelle is good. And yes, they take her for granted.

It was the sort of thing Alexandra might have thought herself—but would never have said out loud.

“I’m very good at keeping secrets,” Isabelle said lightly.

Alexandra felt something twist in her chest.

She hadn’t known that. She’d never thought to ask.

She’d always liked Isabelle. Truly. Isabelle was kind, warm, undemanding. But also... elusive. Hard to reach. Like there was a door half-closed between them, and Alexandra had never known how to knock.

The three of them wandered through the boutique a little longer. Isabelle offered two suggestions for Charles—one sleek, one sentimental—and Alexandra made a note of both.

And then, as they paused by a shelf of men’s shirts in soft cotton and subtle patterns, Isabelle’s hand brushed one.

Alexandra watched her hesitate over it—thoughtful, considering—before she gently placed it back.

“For Charles?” Alex asked, puzzled.

Isabelle looked over, surprised. “What? Oh—no. Just a nice cut. The collar’s clean.”

And for a flicker of a second, something tugged at Alexandra—some thread she couldn’t quite pull free.

There was something else here. Something under the surface. And now that she’d seen it—how Isabelle lit up beside Emilie, how open she seemed in the right company—Alex couldn’t unsee it.

She’d always thought Isabelle was just shy. Or private. Or soft in that way people could overlook.

Now she wondered if Isabelle was simply guarded.

And Alex, for the first time, found herself wondering what it would take to really know Isabelle Leclerc.

Because she was starting to think—quietly, uneasily—that her boyfriend’s sister was not at all the girl they all assumed she was.

***

Text Messages: Alexandra Saint Mleux & Charles Leclerc

Alexandra: Just ran into your sister. In a boutique in the 6th.

Charles: Oh yeah? What was she doing?

Alexandra: Shopping. Birthday presents, apparently. But Isabelle looked… different.

Charles: Different how?

Alexandra: Happy. Confident. Like… I don’t know. Not the version of her I usually see at family stuff. She was laughing. Really laughing.

Charles: She’s always laughing.

Alexandra: Not like this, Mon amour.

Alexandra: Do you think she’s seeing someone?

Charles: What?

Alexandra: I’m serious.

Charles: Yeah, no way.

Alexandra: Are you sure?

Charles: She would have mentioned it.

Charles: Trust me, it’s not happening.

Alexandra: So confident about that, huh?

Charles: I’d know if she had a boyfriend. And she doesn’t.

***

Instagram Stories -@/isabelleleclerc

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/f1chaosupdates GUYS WHY DID ISABELLE LECLERC POST A CAT SINCE WHEN DOES SHE HAVE A CAT???

[Attached: Isabelle's story — a photo of a cat’s paw]

@/paddocktheories: okay but like this cat looks suspiciously like it could be max verstappen’s cats sassy or jimmy reincarnated

@/wheresmygrid: STOP I THOUGHT THE SAME THING

@/gridgoblins: Wait wait wait what if it IS Sassy or Jimmy and she’s just at Max’s place 👀👀👀

@/redbullstan4life: This is literally a picture of a cat’s paw. It could belong to a thousand other cats. It doesn’t even need to be a Bengal!

@/charlesdefensesquad: isabelle posting a cat and everyone immediately connecting it to max’s cats is so funny. the girl can’t even post her own furniture without y’all screaming “VERSTAPPEN???”

@/gossipgridf1: i will be NORMAL about this… except no because that cat 100% looks like Jimmy or Sassy

@/monaco_mess: to be fair if i was secretly dating max verstappen i too would post soft pictures of his cats like a declaration of love

@/oscarstan22: everyone in the comments like 🕵️‍♀️ enhance 🕵️‍♀️ zoom 🕵️‍♀️ cross-reference sassy and jimmy’s stripe patterns

@/gofasterbaby: if it IS sassy or jimmy and isabelle is just chilling with them…. that’s basically a marriage announcement in Verstappen family terms

***

Oscar Piastri didn’t think grocery shopping could be stressful.

Until Monaco.

Until Monegasque grocery stores, specifically, which didn’t believe in helpful signage, organization, or—apparently—labels with pictures.

Oscar just wanted cheese.

That was it. Cheese. Maybe some pasta. Possibly bread if he was feeling adventurous.

But standing in the middle of a charmingly cramped French grocery store, blinking at six nearly identical wedges of something called tomme de brebis and a handwritten sign that might have been a threat—or a discount—he was beginning to spiral.

He’d committed to doing this errand without help. Without Google Translate. Without texting his girlfriend.

He was trying to be independent.

But now the shop owner was hovering, and Oscar had been standing in the cheese aisle for nine minutes, and he was starting to feel judged by a 72-year-old woman with a very intense stare.

And then—

“Do you need help?” a soft voice asked beside him.

Oscar blinked, turning to find a woman about his age, brown hair twisted back, a linen tote on one shoulder, expression kind.

“I’m sorry?”

She smiled, switching to English immediately. “You’ve been staring at the cheese like it owes you money. I figured you might be lost.”

Oscar exhaled in relief. “I am, actually. I don’t know what any of this is.”

She stepped forward and scanned the shelf. “That one’s sheep’s milk—really good, a bit nutty. That one’s stronger, aged, smells like feet but tastes amazing if you like that sort of thing.”

Oscar stared at her, impressed. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

“I live around the corner,” she said. “And I’ve made every grocery mistake there is.”

He laughed, properly now. “Thanks. That helps a lot.”

She smiled again—polite, gentle, unassuming.

There was something… familiar about her.

Not in a hey-we’ve-met way. But in the I-know-that-face-from-somewhere way.

Soft brown hair, loosely braided. Pretty green eyes. Very Monaco. Very… vaguely connected to something in his brain.

Oscar hesitated. “Do I… know you?”

A flicker of amusement crossed her face. “Probably not. I mean—we’ve technically met. But you probably wouldn’t remember.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes. And then—lightbulb.

“You look like—” He blinked. “Oh. Wait. You’re Charles’ sister.”

Her smile faltered for just a second. “Yes. Among other things.”

“Right,” he said, suddenly feeling awkward. “I didn’t recognize you outside the paddock.”

“It’s okay,” she said, grabbing a carton of eggs with practiced precision. “I usually disappear into the background there.”

“They didn’t have the peach one. So I got apricot instead,” Came a voice behind Isabelle.

Oscar looked up to see none other but Max Verstappen.

“Perfect,” Isabelle said brightly.

Oscar could just stare.

“Oscar,” Max greeted him like it was a normal day. Like he wasn’t currently grocery shopping with Charles Leclerc’s sister.

“…Hi,” Oscar managed, eyes pinging between them. “I—uh. Hey.”

Max moved to toss something else into Isabelle’s cart—like this was normal. Like they hadn’t just revealed themselves as Monaco’s most covert domestic power couple in front of the yogurt aisle.

“Groceries?” Max asked, like that was the confusing part of this moment.

“I—yeah,” Oscar said, holding up his sheep cheese wedge like it was a peace offering. “You guys are… together?”

Max looked over his shoulder. “Shopping?”

Oscar blinked. “No, I mean… like. Together.”

Isabelle flushed slightly but didn’t deny it. Just tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and said, “For a while now.”

Oscar stared. “Like. Secretly?”

Max shrugged. “Privately.”

“That’s the same thing,” Oscar said.

Max looked unbothered. “Is it?”

“I thought you two barely talked,” he said, still trying to catch up.

“We don’t. Publicly,” Max said.

Oscar opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Does Charles know?”

Max shot him a look that said absolutely not.

Isabelle just gave a small smile and added, “Please don’t tell him.”

Oscar held up both hands. “I’ve never kept a secret faster in my life.”

Max nodded approvingly. “Good.” Then, off handedly. “Lando knows. Danny does too.”

“Cool,” Oscar said. Then: “I’m gonna go… buy cheese and rethink everything I know.”

Max gave him a thumbs-up. “See you at the track.”

Oscar wandered away in stunned silence, still clutching his cheese like a lifeline, already trying to figure out how he of all people became the latest keeper of Verstappen-Leclerc classified information.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris and Daniel Ricciardo)

Oscar: I just ran into Max Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc in a grocery store.

Oscar: Help me.

Lando: oh yeah? how was monaco’s finest domestic couple?

Oscar: I thought I hallucinated it at first

Oscar: I looked up and Max was holding her jam

Oscar: and then he put it in her cart

Lando: 🥹 precious

Oscar: HE KNEW WHAT KIND OF JAM SHE LIKED LANDO—HE SAID “THEY DIDN’T HAVE THE PEACH, SO I GOT APRICOT” WHAT DOES THAT MEAN

Daniel: It means they’re in love and hiding it from Charles.

Lando: welcome to hell.

Oscar: How can Charles not know.

Lando: he’s oblivious. like truly, impressively blind

Oscar: When Charles finds out we are going to die. I’m not built for this. I was buying cheese. Cheese.

Oscar: Is it serious??

Lando: max let her redecorate his penthouse

Oscar: I hate it here. I just wanted cheese.

Daniel: And instead you got a lifetime of emotional responsibility. Congrats.

Oscar: How did you find out?

Lando: you remember when i broke max’s trophy? he let me bring home the replacement to help my guilty conscience, and guess who is living with him

Daniel: The hotel disaster. That was when I figured it out

Lando: ???????? Lando: What hotel disaster

Oscar: What happened??

Daniel: Zandvoort. Her brothers forgot to book her a hotel room.

Daniel: Straight up just didn’t even think about it.

Daniel: She landed. No room. No backup plan.

Daniel: Was about to sleep in the damn lobby before Max found out.

Lando: YOU’RE JOKING.

Oscar: THEY WHAT. Oscar: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

Daniel: Not done

Daniel: Next morning?

Daniel: They LEFT HER at the hotel.

Daniel: Like… packed up, went to the track, forgot she existed.

Lando: I’m gonna throw something

Lando: THEY JUST FORGOT HER????

Oscar: SHE IS THEIR SISTER Oscar: NOT A MISPLACED WALLET

Lando: i have two sisters if i did that my mum would reassemble me from scratch just to kill me again

Oscar: If I did that my mother would drag me by my ear to the cameras of Sky Sports and berate me live on air.

Oscar: What is WRONG with them

Daniel: Max was FUMING. So he asked me to pick her up.

Oscar: GOOD.

Oscar: No wonder they kept it secret

Oscar: If my girlfriend was treated by her family like that I’d go full vigilante too.

Daniel: 😂 welcome to the secret society of "We Would Kill For Isabelle Leclerc"

Oscar: Sign me up

Lando: same.

Lando: also Charles is dead to me now until further notice

Daniel: don’t worry

Daniel: karma’s real

Daniel: and Max is scarier than any big brother

***

Lando Norris was pretty sure Oscar Piastri was about to crack.

He could see it happening in real time—the hairline fracture of panic starting just behind Oscar’s eyes. One more question. One wrong look. And Oscar was going to blurt out everything.

Max. Isabelle. The groceries.

And the worst part? Charles was right there—calm as ever, sipping an espresso in the hotel lobby like he wasn’t a ticking time bomb of impending betrayal. Like he wasn’t five seconds away from having his entire reality rearranged.

Lando shifted in his seat, chewing on a straw wrapper so aggressively he was surprised it hadn’t disintegrated yet. His knee bounced up and down, a desperate outlet for the nerves clawing at his insides.

They hadn’t spoken in ten minutes.

It was too quiet. Too weird. Too dangerous.

Which, obviously, was when Carlos strolled into the lobby, clocked the tension immediately, and frowned.

“What’s going on here?” Carlos asked, grabbing a protein bar from the snack stand like he had all the time in the world. “Why do you two look like you’ve committed war crimes?”

Oscar opened his mouth—probably to lie terribly and make it worse.

Lando, being the (barely) more functional one, jumped in first.

“It’s just—Charles,” Lando blurted.

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “What about him?”

Lando leaned forward, instantly deadly serious. “Have you ever noticed how he treats Isabelle?”

Carlos blinked. “His sister?”

“Exactly,” Lando said, nodding like he was revealing a state secret.

Oscar made a faint strangled noise next to him, probably reconsidering his life choices.

Carlos unwrapped his protein bar slowly, suspicious. “I mean… he loves her?”

“Sure,” Lando said, wide-eyed. “But does he see her? Or does he just… expect her to float quietly in the background of his life like a nice decorative houseplant?”

Oscar buried his face in his hands. Good. He deserved that.

Carlos stared at them like they were the ones malfunctioning.

“Where is this coming from?” Carlos asked, suspicious.

“Just answer the question,” Lando said, channeling his inner investigative journalist. “Do you think he actually appreciates her?”

Carlos hesitated, tilting his head like he was actually giving it thought. “I think… he assumes she’s fine because she doesn’t complain much?”

“EXACTLY,” Lando said, throwing his hands in the air. “She doesn’t complain. That doesn’t mean she’s fine!”

Oscar groaned again, muttering into his hands.

Carlos took a slow bite of protein bar. “Is this about the hotel thing?”

Oscar’s head snapped up. “You know about the hotel thing?”

Carlos nodded. “Yeah, I heard she didn’t have a room. I figured it was a mix-up.”

Lando let out a high-pitched laugh. “They also left her at the hotel the next morning. Like a pair of emotionally unavailable golden retrievers.”

Carlos shrugged. “They didn’t mean to.”

“THAT’S WORSE,” Lando exploded. “You don’t just ‘accidentally’ forget your SISTER.”

Oscar nodded vigorously. “That’s literally child abandonment but for grown-ups.”

Carlos stared at them, bemused. “You two are acting very emotionally involved.”

“NOPE,” Lando said immediately, standing up so fast his chair skidded backward.

Oscar scrambled after him. “Not emotionally involved. Just very passionate about…sibling rights. And human decency.”

“And basic hospitality standards!” Lando added, pointing accusingly at the air.

Carlos narrowed his eyes. “You’re both incredibly weird today.”

Lando clapped him hard on the shoulder. “We’re always weird, mate. But seriously. Watch how Charles talks to her next time. It’ll ruin your day.”

Carlos just blinked, chewing thoughtfully.

Oscar grabbed Lando’s arm before he could say anything else truly unhinged. “Come on. We have… tires. Very important tires to look at.”

“Yeah. Tire research. Super urgent,” Lando agreed.

They power-walked out of the lobby, leaving Carlos watching them, baffled.

Carlos shook his head slowly, muttering to himself, “Okay, but seriously… why are they so weird about Isabelle?”

***

Max trudged through the front door, dropping his bag with a dull thud. Isabelle had been waiting for him, curled up on the couch with a book, but the moment she saw him, she sat up straight.

“You’re sick.” It wasn’t a question.

Max huffed out a breath. “I’m fine.”

Isabelle was already on her feet, walking toward him. “You’re pale.” She placed the back of her hand against his forehead, frowning. “And warm.”

“I was just on a plane.”

“You also sound stuffy.” She folded her arms. “Go to bed.”

“I just got home.”

“And I’d like to keep you alive long enough to enjoy it. Bed, Max.”

Max sighed but didn’t argue. He was too tired for that. Instead, he leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead before mumbling, “You’re bossy.”

“I’m effective.”

She watched as he trudged toward the bedroom, shaking her head. A moment later, she followed, scooping up Jimmy from his spot on the armchair. When she walked into the room, Max was already under the blankets, eyes half-lidded.

“Here,” she murmured, placing Jimmy beside him. The cat instantly curled up against his chest, purring loudly.

Max cracked a small smile, rubbing behind Jimmy’s ears. “You’re trying to bribe me with my own cat.”

“Whatever works.” She kissed his temple. “Sleep.”

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Sophie Kumpen

Isabelle: Hi Sophie! I hope you’re doing well! I need your help with something.

Sophie: Hello, dear! Of course, what do you need?

Isabelle: Max came home from the race and he’s definitely getting sick. He’s trying to act normal, but he looks exhausted and keeps sniffling.

Isabelle: I sent him straight to bed with a cat for company, but I wanted to make him something comforting. He once told me you used to make tomato soup for him when he was sick—would you mind sharing the recipe?

Sophie: Oh, poor thing. He never knows when to slow down.

Sophie: And of course! Here’s how I always made it:

Sauté onions and garlic in olive oil until soft.

Add chopped tomatoes (fresh is best, but canned works too!)

Pour in vegetable broth and a pinch of sugar—Max never noticed, but it makes all the difference!

Lots of basil, always extra for Max.

Simmer, blend, then stir in a little cream to make it smooth.

Serve with bread—he used to insist on dipping half a baguette in it!

Isabelle: This is perfect! Thank you so much.

Sophie: You’re very welcome, sweetheart. He’s going to love it.

Sophie: And if he’s still feeling bad tomorrow, make him tea with honey. That’s what I always did.

Isabelle: Noted! I’ll make sure he drinks it.

Sophie: You’re taking such good care of him. He’s lucky to have you.

Isabelle: I’m lucky to have him too. ❤️

***

By the time he woke up, the apartment smelled like tomatoes and garlic. Max blinked, slowly sitting up. Jimmy was still pressed against him, and Sassy had taken up residence at his feet. He groggily reached for his phone and saw a notification from Isabelle.

Isabelle: Texted your mom for her tomato soup recipe. You’re getting the Verstappen childhood classic.

Max stared at the message for a second before a slow, warm feeling spread through his chest. He pulled himself out of bed, padding toward the kitchen. Isabelle was stirring a pot on the stove, hair tied up, her phone sitting next to her with messages from his mom open on the screen.

She turned at the sound of his footsteps. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

Max leaned against the counter, taking in the sight of her making his childhood comfort food, and felt something deep and certain settle in his bones.

“I feel like I should marry you.”

Isabelle blinked, then huffed a laugh. “You have a fever.”

“I’m serious.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were pink. “Eat your soup, Verstappen.”

Max watched as Isabelle turned back to the stove, stirring the soup with careful, practiced movements. He could see the little notes his mother had sent still open on her phone—things like "Don't forget a little sugar to balance the acidity" and "Max always liked it with extra basil".

Something about it made his chest ache, but in a good way.

“Sit down,” Isabelle said without looking at him. “I’ll bring it over.”

Max didn’t argue. He knew better. Instead, he shuffled over to the dining table, rubbing a hand over his face. He still felt like hell, but the warm smell of tomato soup and the sight of Isabelle in their kitchen softened the edges of it.

A few minutes later, Isabelle placed a bowl in front of him, along with a plate of bread. She even cut the slices into smaller pieces, making it easier for him to eat.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Are you about to start feeding me, too?”

“If I have to.” She sat down across from him, resting her chin on her hand. “Go on. Try it.”

He took a spoonful, letting the warmth spread through him. It tasted exactly like how he remembered—rich, slightly sweet, the basil bringing a fresh note to it.

“Good?” Isabelle asked.

Max swallowed, nodding. “Perfect.”

She looked pleased with herself, tucking one knee up against her chest. “Your mom was really sweet about sending me the recipe. She told me to tell you that if you’re still feeling bad tomorrow, I should make you tea with honey.”

Max smirked. “You and my mom are conspiring now?”

“Obviously.” She smiled. “Someone has to keep you in check.”

He took another sip, watching her from across the table. “Thank you,” he said, quieter this time.

Isabelle just shrugged, brushing it off like it was nothing. “You take care of me all the time,” she said simply. “Why wouldn’t I do the same?”

Max didn’t have a good answer for that.

Instead, he reached across the table, curling his fingers around hers. Isabelle let him, her thumb brushing absently over his knuckles.

“If I ever win another world championship,” he said, voice a little rough, “just know it’ll be because of you and your soup.”

She laughed, squeezing his hand. “Good to know my cooking has that much power.”

Max just smiled, his fever making him feel a little loopy, a little sentimental.

He didn’t mind.

***

Max was a terrible patient.

Not in the dramatic, clingy, "I think I’m dying" kind of way. No—he was quiet, still, and deeply put out by the fact that his body dared to betray him for more than five seconds.

Which meant he was now cocooned in the middle of their bed, surrounded by three pillows, and the comforter pulled halfway up to his chin like a grumpy Victorian child home with the flu.

His nose was pink. His curls were a mess. And he was definitely running a fever.

Isabelle pressed the back of her hand to his forehead and shook her head fondly. “Still warm.”

Max blinked up at her, expression solemn and glassy-eyed. “I feel like someone hit me with a tyre gun.”

“Very specific,” she said, setting the thermometer aside and handing him another cup of ginger tea.

He took a slow sip. Then sighed. Then blinked at her again like something important had just occurred to him.

“We should get another cat,” he said hoarsely.

Isabelle paused. “Sorry?”

“A kitten,” he clarified, like it was obvious. “Small. Would follow me around.”

She tried—really tried—not to laugh.

Max Verstappen, three-time World Champion, currently wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and nursing a cold, was looking at her like he’d just solved a national crisis.

“You want a kitten,” Isabelle repeated.

He nodded solemnly, already settling back against the pillows. “It’d be good practice.”

“For what?” she asked, amused.

Max blinked at her again, slow and drowsy. “You know.”

“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”

He looked at her, expression perfectly serious despite the fever. “A baby.”

Isabelle choked on her tea.

Max didn't flinch.

She stared at him for a full ten seconds. “You think adopting a kitten would be… baby practice?”

He nodded again, very sure of himself. “Feeding. Naps. Picking the name.”

“And the kitten would be our test run for parenthood?”

“Exactly.”

Isabelle smiled—gently, deeply—and brushed a hand over his curls, pushing the hair back from his forehead.

“You’re feverish,” she said softly.

He nodded. “But I’m also right.”

She leaned down, kissed his too-warm cheek. “We’ll talk about the kitten when your temperature is below thirty-nine.”

Max hummed. “Good. I think you'd be a good cat mom. And baby mom.”

Then he promptly fell asleep with one hand still loosely curled around hers.

And Isabelle—heart full, smile helpless—sat beside him and thought, yeah, maybe I would.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: Hey—how’s Max doing? Still being dramatic or has he entered the sleepy kitten phase of being sick?

Isabelle: Definitely the kitten phase.

Isabelle: Currently wrapped in a blanket burrito with Jimmy on his chest.

Isabelle: Looks like he’s been defeated by soup and his own body heat.

Victoria: Incredible.

Victoria: Has he started saying weird fever things yet?

Isabelle: …Depends what you consider “weird.”

Victoria: Uh-oh.

Victoria: Hit me.

Isabelle: He told me we should get another cat.

Isabelle: Which sounded normal-ish. Until he said it would be “good practice.”

Victoria: Practice for what?

Isabelle: A baby.

Victoria: A baby?

Isabelle: Yep. I laughed at first. But he was serious. Or fever-serious.

Isabelle: He looked at me like it wasn’t even a joke.

Victoria: …Do I get to be an aunt?

Victoria: Because I will cry.

Isabelle: He was feverish. It could have been the paracetamol talking.

Victoria: But you didn’t panic.

Isabelle: I melted. And then I panicked about melting.

Victoria: You want it.

Isabelle: I always have. I just never let myself imagine it.

Isabelle: And now suddenly he’s sick and talking about babies and I’m feeling things.

Victoria: Okay, well… since we’re being honest about baby feelings… You’ll get to practice sooner than you think.

Isabelle: What?

Victoria: I’m due in June.

Isabelle: WHAT.

Victoria: Surprise?

Isabelle: ARE YOU KIDDING ME

Victoria: Nope. Tiny Verstappen-Bluth incoming.

Isabelle: VIC.

Isabelle: You cannot just drop that in the middle of a conversation about your brother wanting a baby.

Victoria: I thought it was great timing!

Victoria: What’s better than your fever-delirious boyfriend mentioning fatherhood right before I tell you you’re about to be an aunt?

Isabelle: I’m crying.

Victoria: You’re going to be so good with them.

Victoria: And if you and Max do decide to start practicing sometime soon… well.

Victoria: Built-in cousin. You’re welcome.

Victoria: Get ready, Tante Belle.

Victoria: Big Verstappen family era incoming.

Isabelle: You’re all insane.

Isabelle: And I love you.

Victoria: Love you too.

***

Max heard the door slam—really slam—before he even saw her.

Not the usual soft click of someone slipping home after a long day. Not the tired shuffle of keys or the muted rustle of her bag hitting the floor. No, this was different. Sharp. Final. Frustrated.

He looked up from where he was half-dozing on the couch, immediately alert.

Isabelle stood by the door, hands clenched into fists, her chest rising and falling in short, uneven breaths. Her tote bag—usually treated carefully—was now abandoned at her feet, one strap twisted. She shoved her hands through her hair roughly, tugging it out of its neat twist, and paced a tight, angry line across the room.

Max stood without thinking.

"Bad day?" he asked quietly.

Isabelle laughed—a short, humorless sound—and shook her head, still pacing like she couldn't physically stay still.

"Bad?" she repeated, voice sharp with disbelief. "No, Max. It was a disaster."

He stayed silent, waiting, giving her the space she clearly needed to let it spill out.

"My boss dumped an entire project on me today. A major one. Because the senior architect left, and apparently—" she threw her hands up, exasperated, "—obviously it's my problem now. No heads-up. No discussion. Just, 'Congratulations, Isabelle, here's an entire portfolio of someone else's half-finished work. Good luck.'"

Max's jaw tightened. His hands itched to do something—fix it, protect her, something. But he stayed where he was, steady.

"And it gets better," Isabelle said, turning to face him, her green eyes sparking with a tired, furious fire he didn’t see often. "When I tried—politely, professionally—to point out that my current workload is already full, he told me to 'prioritize better.' And walked away. Just—walked. Like it wasn’t his problem."

She laughed again, but it cracked midway through. Her hands dropped to her sides helplessly.

Max exhaled slowly, moving toward her. "You know what I’m going to say."

She groaned, already knowing, already bracing. "Max—"

"You don't need this," he said firmly. "You're running yourself into the ground for people who don't even see you."

She closed her eyes, pressing the heels of her palms against them like she could block out the whole world.

"I like my job," she said, but it sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

Max stopped right in front of her, close enough that he could reach out—but he didn’t, not yet. He knew better. She wasn’t looking for comfort yet. She was still in the fight.

"Do you?" he asked, softer now. Not accusing. Just... careful. Gentle.

Isabelle’s shoulders slumped a little.

"You sure don’t look like someone who likes what they’re doing," Max added, his voice rougher, threading frustration and concern together. "You look like someone who’s trying to survive it."

The room was quiet for a beat, just the low hum of the evening city outside the windows.

Finally, she sagged forward, her forehead pressing into his chest like she physically couldn't hold herself upright anymore.

Max didn’t hesitate then. He wrapped his arms around her, firm and grounding, resting his chin lightly on the top of her head.

She let out a long, shaky breath, the tension bleeding out of her in slow, heavy drips.

"I just..." she started, her voice muffled against him. "I don’t know what to do."

Max closed his eyes, holding her tighter.

"You don’t have to have all the answers right now," he said quietly. "But you have options, Belle. You always do. You don’t have to stay somewhere that treats you like you’re disposable."

She let out a quiet, broken sound that made his chest ache.

He kissed her hair, slow and steady.

"You are not a stopgap. You're not a backup plan. You're not someone they can just lean on when it's convenient and forget about the rest of the time," he murmured against her. "You are brilliant. And you deserve people—and a job—that sees that."

She was silent for a long time, just breathing against him.

"I don't want to quit," she whispered eventually. "I don't want it to feel like they chased me out."

Max rubbed small circles over her back, patient. "Then don't. Fight them, if that's what you want. Prove them wrong. You’re strong enough."

He pulled back just enough to see her face, brushing her messy hair away from her cheeks. "But don’t stay just to prove a point if it’s breaking you in the process."

Her eyes were glassy but clear, staring up at him like she was trying to pull strength out of the way he looked at her.

"You’re not alone," he said simply. "You have me. Always."

For a moment, she just stood there, letting that settle between them.

Then she nodded—tiny, but certain—and leaned back into his chest.

Max smiled into her hair.

They stood like that for a long time, the city lights flickering quietly outside, the cats curling around their feet like they, too, understood that the whole world narrowed down to this.

Max holding her. Her letting herself be held.

And for now, that was enough. ****

The envelope looked expensive.

That was the first red flag.

Matte paper, gold foil edges, no return address on the front—just her full name printed in elegant, serif font.

Her full, full name. Because apparently her parents hadn’t been done after Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc, and so she and Arthur had ended up with similarly ridiculous, vaguely royal-sounding names.

Isabelle Amélie Thérèse Éléonore Leclerc.

There it was.

On the kind of envelope that looked like it came with obligations.

She hadn’t ordered anything. She hadn’t opened a new account.

She frowned as she sliced it open. She wasn’t expecting anything. Max paid the bills on the penthouse. Her own account was small, manageable, predictable. Her work was steady.

The card slipped out first. Heavy. Polished. Black.

Hitting the kitchen island.

Her name, again, embossed in silver.

But it wasn’t her account.

It was his.

Linked cardholder – Max Emilian Verstappen

She stared at it for a full minute. Long enough for the air to change. Long enough for every messy, unspoken thing she’d been trying not to feel to crawl back up her throat.

She swallowed.

They had had that conversation.

You quit your job. Become my incredibly spoiled, disgustingly pampered trophy wife. No more late nights, no more stress. Just you, spending my money and riding your horses.

She had said no. Because she was ambitious. Talented. Smart.

But the truth?

The truth was that she’d wondered.

What if she could be that person?

What if she’d be fine being that person?

His person.

The woman who did yoga at ten, had coffee by eleven, picked up their kids from school in designer flats and knew the best lunch spots in three countries.

The one who didn’t constantly doubt her place, didn’t flinch every time someone whispered "nepo baby" under their breath, didn’t fight to be taken seriously in rooms that were already decided before she entered them.

There was a part of her—a very small, very quiet part—that wondered what it would be like.

To let go.

To stop clawing for approval from people who didn’t care if she drowned.

To let herself be loved, wholly and visibly.

To marry Max.

To have his name. His children. His cats.

To be someone soft and kept and adored.

What if she didn’t want to fight so hard all the time?

What if a part of her—small, shameful, stubborn—wanted to be kept?

And now… this.

Not a proposal. Not a ring.

But a card.

With her name.

On his account.

A card that wives got.

That long-term partners with shared mortgages and Sunday routines and matching key fobs got.

A gesture that said: this life is yours too. You’re allowed to be at ease.

And it terrified her.

Because Max didn’t do anything halfway. He wasn’t careless with people. He didn’t toss around trust like confetti. He was sharp, observant, and maddeningly meticulous.

He was deliberate.

This wasn’t about convenience.

This was a line drawn. A stake in the ground.

A declaration.

And Isabelle?

She wasn’t sure she trusted herself not to disappear into it.

Not because Max would ask her to—but because it felt so good to be seen by someone who didn’t require her to earn it. To prove it. To perform.

Max knew her fears. Her fault lines. Her quiet cravings.

And instead of mocking them, he made room for them.

Which, somehow, made it worse.

She’d spent so long trying to prove she was more than someone’s sister. More than a background fixture.

But here she was.

Here she was feeling safer just being Max’s than she ever had trying to be anyone else’s.

Here she was, considering if being Belle Verstappen might actually make her happier than being Isabelle Leclerc ever had.

And wasn’t that the most terrifying thought of all?

***

“Hey,” Max called as he stepped inside, the door shutting with a familiar click behind him. “I grabbed those oat crackers you like—the ones with the seeds that taste like cardboard.”

He dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, his tone light, teasing.

No answer.

He rounded the corner into the kitchen and—

Stopped.

Isabelle was standing still. Very still. Right beside the counter, her body folded in on itself like she was trying to take up less space.

The envelope was open. The card—that card—lay face-up on the marble. Black. Sleek. Heavy. Her arms were crossed tightly across her chest, like she needed the pressure to keep herself grounded.

Max’s eyes flicked from the card to her face and back again.

And then he felt it—the shift.

The air in the room had changed. Gone quiet. Weighted.

He knew that look on her face.

He’d seen it before—on days when she came home from work braced for someone to doubt her, challenge her, chip away at her. It was the expression she wore when she felt like she was too much and not enough in the same breath.

“Oh,” Max said softly, carefully. “You got it.”

He didn’t say I meant to tell you in person. He didn’t say I’ve been watching you stretch yourself thin, giving more than anyone asks, and never— never— expecting to receive anything back.

She didn’t smile.

“Max,” she said, her voice low and unfamiliar, “what is this?”

She wasn’t angry. That would’ve been easier. Anger was clean.

No—this was something else.

Fragile. Quiet. Like she'd been cracked open without warning.

He stepped toward her slowly. Like he was trying not to spook something delicate.

“It’s just…” he tried, “a card. For you. In case you ever need it.”

Her eyes—green, glossy, wide—didn’t leave his.

“You just handed me access to everything.”

He could’ve argued that. Could’ve said it’s not everything. But he didn’t lie to her, and this wasn’t about technicalities.

So instead, he said the truth.

“I handed you ease,” he said gently. “Because you never ask for it. Even when you need it most.”

He’d thought about that a lot.

That was why he’d had the card made.

Not because she needed it—not practically, not financially. Isabelle was capable in ways that astonished him daily. She ran her life on spreadsheets and discipline, all soft voice and steel spine.

But she’d been conditioned—by her family, by the world—to believe she had to earn everything. Love. Rest. Comfort. Even kindness.

So he’d done what he did best.

Planned ahead.

He’d spoken to his advisor. Had the account adjusted. Added her name. Put in the request quietly. Privately. No fanfare.

Not to control her.

But so that, if ever the moment came—

If she was tired, overwhelmed, caught without breath—

She’d have something already waiting.

No questions. No performance. Just trust.

But now, watching the way her fingers dug into her elbows, Max understood how even trust could feel like a trap when you’d never been given it freely.

“We just had a conversation about trophy wives,” she said suddenly. Her voice shook like she hated herself for even bringing it up.

He blinked. “Yes. And you said you didn’t want to be one.”

“What if I’d be fine with that life?” she said. “What if part of me wants it?”

His heart clenched. Not because she said it—but because he knew exactly what she meant.

“Then I’d tell you,” he said calmly, “if you ever want to be my trophy wife, just let me know. I’ll buy you a designer handbag and get very into being your arm candy.”

That earned him a look. A slight wobble in her mouth like she was trying not to smile, even while her throat worked against tears.

She let out an unsteady laugh that turned halfway into a sigh. “Max.”

“No pressure,” he said quickly, his voice low and warm now. “But if you ever wake up and decide you want that kind of life—that kind of ease—I’ll give it to you. Without question.”

“I don’t want to lose myself,” she whispered. “I don’t want to stop being… me.”

“You won’t,” Max said, voice steady. “I know who you are. And I’d never let you forget.”

Because she was the strongest person he’d ever known. She had survived a thousand quiet dismissals and overlooked brilliance. She’d clawed her way into a space she was never given, and never once asked for credit.

He wanted to say more. Wanted to tell her that he’d never met anyone who held herself so tightly together with so little help. That watching her try to hold back softness like it was weakness made his chest ache. That the thing she feared—disappearing—was impossible, because the moment she walked into a room, his world shifted.

She deserved to feel safe. And not just safe—but held.

But he didn’t say all that.

He just said what she needed.

“I didn’t give you this card to change you,” Max said. “I gave it to you so you’d never feel like you had to earn the right to feel safe.”

That word hung there between them. Heavy. Final. The real gift.

Not the money. Not the access.

Safety.

After a long, breathless silence, Isabelle reached out. Slowly. Carefully. She picked up the card with both hands like it might still burn her.

Held it in her palm. Looked at her name. His name. Their names. Together.

“Okay,” she said finally, voice soft, breaking open. “But you’re not allowed to joke when I buy toothpaste with it.”

He smiled—one of those rare, slow smiles he reserved just for her.

He stepped in and kissed her temple gently, grounding them both.

“Toothpaste, muffins, a yacht,” he murmured. “Whatever you need.”

She let out a wet laugh. “A yacht?”

“I’m just saying,” he said lightly, brushing his knuckles along her arm, “it’s good to have options.”

“I’m not buying a yacht, Max.”

“I know.” He paused. “But I wanted you to know you could.”

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snail-day · 5 days ago

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Okay, Satoru. It’s just a thought. Just a tiny little passing thought that’s totally not turning his insides into goo. You should move in with me.

He thinks it once. Then again. Then another twelve times before lunch. Tossing and turning in bed, kicking the sheets off in frustration because the thought keeps trickling back.

He’s lying flat on his back in bed, hair a mess, blindfold askew, thumb mindlessly scrolling his phone while you hum in the kitchen. And it hits him again - soft and sudden - how nice this is. How perfect. How stupidly, heart-warmingly good it feels to have you here.

You’re wearing his shirt. His biggest one. It swallows you whole, slipping off one shoulder, sleeves dragging past your fingers. And you look so at home like that. Humming and barefoot and sleepy-eyed, stealing strawberries from his fridge like you belong here.

And maybe you do.

He makes a list in his notes app again. Title: Reasons you should move in Beneath it:

No more goodbyes

No more packing bags

No more waiting for a “made it home safe” text (even though he loves them. But he’d rather hear you say it in person. Whispered, sleepily, into his chest.)

No more having to wait when he has missions to come see you

No more nights without you

And then, after a pause:

I love you.

He stares at it too long. Taps the screen a few times. Doesn’t delete it.

Then, Shoko. Of course it’s Shoko. At the worst possible moment, over coffee, just sips and goes, “Most couples break up when they move in together, y’know.”

And now Satoru is spiraling. What if you hate his weird dish organization system? What if you think he takes up too much of the closet? What if you want to split rent even though he just wants to spoil you rotten and give you everything? What if you get tired of him? What if he says the wrong thing and ruins it?

He’s big. He’s loud. He forgets to put the cap back on the toothpaste sometimes. He talks too much when he’s nervous (which is always, around you). He’s him.

But then - you’re here again, on his couch, laptop propped on a pillow, mumbling at apartment listings with the cutest frown on your face.

“This one’s tiny.” “Why is there carpet in the bathroom?” “Three stars and one said ‘roach army.’ I can’t do roach armies.”

And something in his heart just snaps - in a soft, trembling, full-body kind of way.

He watches the way your nose scrunches. The way you tuck your feet under you. The way his hoodie dwarfs you completely. With the throw blanket you always leave thrown across your lap. You belong here. He wants you here. Desperately.

So he says it. Barely above a whisper. Practically choking on his own heartbeat.

“…You could just move in with me.”

And then he’s frozen. Stiff as a board. Sweat prickling at his neck. His pretty mouth parted like he wants to suck the words back in.

You blink up at him. And then that smile. Bright. Full of surprise and something sweeter, something soft and glowing and yes.

“Are you sure?”

His heart stutters. Then melts. Then does something violent and romantic in his ribcage.

God, you’re so pretty. Why are you so pretty? He swears the sun could retire, you’re smiling so bright.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little hoarse. “I mean - only if you want to. I just thought... it’d be nice. Y’know. To have you here. All the time. With me.”

And then you’re in his lap, arms wrapped around his neck, giggling into his hair, and he’s pretty sure his soul just left his body.

He clutches you, hands slightly trembling, grip lacking because he's scared this is some dream. Hides his face in your shoulder. Mumbles something pathetic like, “You’re gonna kill me.”

You laugh. “In a good way?”

He nods into the hoodie you stole. “The best way.”

He doesn’t let go for a long time. Anytime you move away, he brings you back. Hopefully so you don't see the mess he's become. He's the strongest. Yet you make him weak.

Later that night, you’re lying in his bed again - your bed now too, maybe - and you’re talking about what corner your books would go in and whether he has space for your desk, and he’s just watching you, glassy-eyed and stupid in love.

Your fingers graze his jaw, after tracing a few scars on his body, brush his snowy hair from his lashes. And he just… melts. Turns into a puddle right there.

“I can’t believe you said yes,” he whispers. Slow and full of disbelief.

You giggle, a soft gentle noise that somehow still makes his heart stop, brushing your nose against his. “I can’t believe it took you this long to ask.”

Satoru smiles, wide and sleepy and helpless. He’s flushed pink all the way to his ears. He wants to bottle this feeling. Keep it forever. Because for once, everything is quiet. Safe. Full of love. That this is what forever feels like. New list: The proposal.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk gojo #Satoru x reader #Gojo satoru x reader #Satoru gojo x reader #Jujustu kaisen fluff #Based off of one of my friends officially moving in with her boyfriend

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thetoothfaerie · 2 years ago

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mrs-hatake · 4 months ago

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what a second... do you like the yandere trope 👀 not a formal request but like... the well is running dry on yandere versions of the lads men, any possibility you can write smth for them? u can do just Caleb if that makes u comfortable!! I just need yan!lnds but not many people in the fanbase do it 😔

i LOVE yandere!! especially when it’s well written 👌🏼

tbh, aside from caleb and (maybe) xavier, i can’t see any of the lads men as the yendere type, especially sylus. however, i think zayne can go down the yandere route at some point in his life.

i don’t have any plot ideas :( but i can tell you which types of yandere they are or they might be :)

caleb:

i think caleb would be the type of yandere who inserts himself in your life and plant his seeds of his possession from the start. he’s the type that will manipulate you into thinking he’s the only one you need. and that takes time and training. he’ll use a punishment and reward type of system; you do something wrong; he’ll either ignore you or give you short and clipped answers. you do something right and he’ll return to his usual self, praising you with smiles and a head pat.

he won’t outright isolate you from your friends but he’ll somehow convince you that they aren’t a priority.

xavier:

i don’t know anything about him since i always skip what he says lol so pls don’t came at me when i say he’s the jealous type of yandere.

he’s the type that has to be better than anyone else; stronger, faster, smarter, richer and so one and so forth.

xavier doesn’t like when guys approach you because he thinks they’re useless and aren’t worth your time.

zayne:

if zayne ever became a yandere, he’d be the overly obsessed type of yandere. he literally knows everything about you. What size shoes you wear, what type of toothpaste you use, what time you came home after work, the random elderly woman whom you helped cross the street and he even knows that you lost 0.5kg from a single glance.

he has to know who you’re with, where you are, why are you talking to someone, etc.

zayne even has several photo albums that he organized based on date, day, time and sometimes mood or weather. this guy’s nuts tbh.

sylus:

like i said, i can’t see him as the yandere type but if he were one, he’d be the harmless type. he’s aware of obsession over you so he knows how to control it.

sylus would be obsessed but not like zayne. he’s the type that places you on a pedestal, views you as a superior human so he must work hard to please and satisfy you.

he has you living in a gorgeous home. he’s showering you in money and adorns your arms in expensive jewelry. sylus is cooking delicious food, so good, that you never dine out or oder in anymore.

sylus loves you unconditionally, flaws and all. even when you do something wrong, he still accepts them because it a part of you. he doesn’t feel hurt because you often come around and correct your wrong doing.

rafayel:

he’s also the harmless type of yandere. his mantra is, “if you’re happy, then i’m happy.”

rafayel knows how to read you so he knows how to adapt to your mood. you’re upset? then he’ll be the perfect shoulder to cry on, the best therapist there is, he’d so anything to see you smiling again.

you’re feeling bright and bubbly? then rafayel is also intoxicated with exuberance. in need of a best friend, rafayel is there too.

like caleb, he molds himself into the perfect object for you to rely on. and if he doesn’t know something or doesn’t have a certain skill set, then he’ll teach and train himself until he masters them.

you don’t need friends, family or lovers to rely on when you have rafayel right there by your side.

#lads fanfic #lads headcanons #lads hcs #sylus x reader #zayne x reader #caleb x reader #yandere!lads #yandere!sylus #yandere!zayne #yandere!caleb #yandere sylus #yandere zayne #yandere caleb

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risuola · 1 year ago

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▶ MOM ISSUES — late night talks, cuddles and lots of theatrics. that's what living with your boys mean, but your mom seems to see it a little differently.

contents: college+roommates!au, sa/domestic violence mentioned (it has nothing to do with the story, but it's a warning nonetheless) — wc. 800

a/n: there it is! i've been thinking about this story for months, drafting dozens of scenarios and finally it's happening! this series will be made of short pieces about three best friends turned roommates that slowly realize there's more to it than just friendship. it's not gonna be chronological, more so a series of random moments from their adventure - in the masterlist i'll try and organize it in an order, more or less. also, as you read it, can you hear Suguru's nagging voice when he calls Satoru's name or is it just me?

𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀 𝙈𝙀𝘿𝙇𝙀𝙔 | series masterlist

First thing you learned at the beginning of your university journey is that no amount of sleepovers and cuddles could ever justify sharing an apartment with two grown ass men. To your mom, at least, because once you told her that you and your two best friends – Satoru and Suguru – are going to live together, there’s not a single phone call that goes without her assuming you’re being regularly subjected to domestic violence and sexual harassment. They are men, she always tells you and it’s been long since you’ve given up any attempts to tell her otherwise. They were futile after all and what surprised you the most was that your boys are no strangers to her.

With a low grunt you made your way above Satoru’s ass and dropped onto the mattress in the middle. Both men shot you a short glance before resuming their things – the white haired one was playing a game on his phone and the brunette was reading a book.

“How’s mom?” Gojo broke the silence, cutting the thick tension around you with his voice. “Still convinced we’re fucking you dumb every night?”

“Satoru–“ Geto was quick to nag his friend and his manners (lack of them, actually), and the other one didn’t skip a beat before defensively asking “what?”

“No, it’s fine,” you sighed, covering your face with your hands, hoping to squeeze out some stress out of your head that way. “I can’t believe it. She knows you two for over a decade and it’s only now that she’s absolutely convinced I’m being abused even though she knows I’m safe with you.”

“She used to feed us cookies and now what?” Satoru gasped, his theatrics reaching a critical point as he dropped his phone onto the pillow and fake-sniffled dramatically, clutching the fabric of his white shirt over his chest.

“Do you want me to give her a call?” Suguru offered, now focused more on you than on his book. He reached to you, pulling your hands away from your face and brushing some stray hairs away from your forehead. There’s a delicacy to his movements, a subtleness that the other one of your friends lacks and you’re yet again made aware of it, when Gojo throws his arm over your middle, pulling you towards his body as if you weighted nothing.

“No, Sugu, it’s pointless,” you replied, exhaling deeply and patting the strong grip away before it got a chance to suffocate you. The very aggressive cuddle only got more intense and for a brief moment you thought Satoru wanted to squeeze you out like a toothpaste. “Besides, we all know that whenever she talks to any of you, she’s as sweet as honey. It’s only me who has to listen to her weird assumptions.”

Gojo scoffed and giggled at the same time, a huff of air brushed against your cheek as he nuzzled his nose right next to your temple, threatening to bite your cheek. “Told you she’s gonna get addicted to criminal podcasts when you were introducing her to Spotify and you didn’t listen to me,” he said in a light tone and the few seconds of silence that followed made your heart skip few beats. Any sudden loss of words is always a bad sign when it comes to the blue-eyed princess. “Does your mom know about our sleeping situation?”

“Oh god, no,” you whined, pushing his face away before his teeth sunk into the flesh of your cheek that he always insists, reminds him of mochi. Sugar addict.

“Should I accidentally send her a selfie with our bed in the background? On the group chat?”

“Satoru.” Suguru grunted, nagging again and visibly reconsidering all the life choices that led him to being friends with Gojo. You knew that look, you saw it many times over years of friendship with them.

“You can do that, Toru,” you replied, your tone dead serious. “But if you dare, I will change my number into yours in her phone and you’ll be the recipient of the shitshow it will cause. And you know the hell will break loose.”

“Throughout heaven and hell, you alone will be the fucked up one,” Geto mused, pressing the dark red, hand-painted bookmark that you gifted him a year prior, between the pages of his book, ultimately deciding that it’s enough of reading for today.

“Point taken, no pictures then,” Satoru hummed and nodded once, ignoring the obnoxious insult and he let go of you, suddenly not overly dramatic anymore. He got back into indulging his phone-gaming addiction.

You let out a small sound of resignation and helplessness and crawled underneath the sheets. Suguru soon joined you on the pillows and as you quietly chatted the time away, Gojo fell asleep, nuzzled between your shoulder blades.

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thecookieverse · 1 month ago

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Bacopa's World (Commons)

Welcome to Bacopa's World! A popular children's TV show starring the titular Bacopa Cookie and his many friends as they have all sorts of fun and adventures, and learn a few things along the way!

Choco Waffle Cookie (Boxten) a somewhat shy cookie. He is most comfortable around those he knows. He may not always know what to say, but he always tries to put a smile on a friend's face.

Choco Roll Cookie (Cosmo) is great in the kitchen! He loves baking sweet treats for all of his friends! He is often seen with his best friend Strawberry Pie Cookie! Cosmo inspires children to have generosity.

Grape Bubblegum Cookie (Looey) is part of a three Cookie Circus act! Cheerful and bright this balloon lives to entertain others...Remember others aren't laughing at you! They're laughing with you.

Bubblegum Soda Cookie (Poppy) is one fun friend! This excitable cookie loves to share whats on her mind! Poppy shows children it is okay to be unique and to not be afraid to share your interests with others!

Shrimp Cocktail Cookie (Shrimpo) is one angry cookie! Often causing issues for Bacopa Cookie and friends and never learning his lesson! No one likes a bully!

Peppermint Toothpaste Cookie (Tisha) loves to keep organized, and is always open to helping her friends when it comes to tidying up! Teaching children how to keep their toys all tidy!

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mypookiebeardavyjones · 2 years ago

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Davy Jones Headcanons 🐙

(A/N) mostly fluffy! little headcanons I was supposed to post a while ago, but never did. I also added onto them-!

Dating Davy Jones is interesting…

He’s not fond of PDA

Mostly because well, the Undead Octopus captain has a reputation to uphold here!

So dates will normally be inside his quarters (as if he could go out on land to do anything anyways)

At most beyond that is you two going out looking at the beautiful ocean, at night while the crew slumbers and talking about anything really.

If you’re far into a relationship, those moments will be the ones where he tries his best to add in some words of affirmation.

With a small smile to back them

He is an insecure in a relationship admittedly, his previous had scarred his heart to the point he had to remove it so- it’s understandable

Reassurance you’re not leaving him is greatly appreciated to him lord he needs it

Physical affection in private makes him feel humane, if you touch him like a human rather than a deadly beast he’ll soften.

But also appreciate the monster-like features, the claw, the tentacle beard- it’ll make him feel more assured you’re in love with him.

He’s not too keen on nicknames, but will allow you to in private.

He steals clothes, jewels, and whatever he can find from the newly sunken ships of the deceased and hands them to you as a gift.

You might have issues with him mourning his past love, but with time, they’ll pass by and his heart will truly belong to you and you alone

Also to mention, kisses are… odd firstly you have to get used to the slime

…And the pirate breath. He’s undead, don’t expect minty fresh toothpaste smell.

At best- probably a fresh cigar smell.

In the beginning, it’s probably you who will give kisses first.

Because around you, he’s cautious with touch, very cautious. He doesn’t want to hurt you or ruin anything.

But if he’s upset, as in aggressively playing the organ. Just stand by and watch him till he’s done, then you can comfort him.

Whisper to him things like ‘I’m here for you Davy’ it’s something that he probably never received.

listen ily tia dalma but girl was NOT THERE FOR HIM 😭

#davy jones #fanfiction #potc davy jones #potc fanfiction #davy jones x reader #davy jones x y/n #potc x reader #x reader #potc #davy jones reader #davy jones/reader

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ageofnations · 2 years ago

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Carried Away // sfk

Summary: college roommates, friends to lovers

Word Count: ~8.4k

Warnings: 18+ only, smut with plot (and a shit ton of fluff), brief mention of insecurities, oral (f receiving), protected penetrative sex, let me know if i missed anything!

A/N: it’s been a while, i hope this makes up for it <3

“So you’re not going out or anything?”

He was scurrying about the room when he said it, which is why you almost didn’t hear the question in the first place. He was rushing in an organized frenzy, speaking around the toothbrush in his mouth while he slipped into the sleeves of his button-up. Over the television in front of you, you could hear the kitchen faucet turning on, the sounds of his brushing quickly accompanying it. You smiled at the mental image of him behind you, hovering over the sink as he prepared for his night out.

You never understood why he chose to spend his weekends like this, worried about who he’d see, what he was gonna wear, and what pick-up line he’d use first with the other partygoers.

“Nope,” you answered simply, snuggling a little closer to your blanket to solidify your answer. It was much cozier than what he was doing at least.

He spit the toothpaste out - an exaggerated noise that makes you wince - and paused. You imagined the stare he was giving you as he spoke. “You could come with me!”

You rolled your eyes at his weak attempt at persuasion, something you had gotten much too used to throughout your friendship. “And watch you get shitfaced and flirt with anyone that gets too close to you? Yeah, no I’d rather not.”

It wasn’t the first time Sam tried to convince you to accompany him at yet another party. It’s what he always did, on the weekends especially. When you’d try to hide away and catch up on assignments or much-needed sleep, he’d try to drag you out with him. You were beginning to wonder how he manages such a good academic status when he didn’t seem to be in college to actually learn.

He rarely knew what the occasion was that garnered the parties in question. Was it a frat party? What frat was hosting? A house party whose owner was unknown? A birthday party of a friend of a friend’s? The answer never mattered, but Sam was sure to be there. Said it “boosted morale,” whatever that meant.

There was only one time in which you fell victim to his coaxing. One night after a tough week where you were completely caught up, even ahead in some of the projects for various classes. You deserved the time to loosen up and stop focusing on your grades for once, and your roommate surely knew how to do that. He was your number one supporter when you told him you were considering his offer.

The night ended sooner than it began, with you leaving prematurely and telling him to call you when he needed you to pick him up. You tried to leave as quickly as possible, but not before you had seen his advancements on someone you knew was much less than what he deserved.

He was your best friend, and you couldn’t help being a little protective of him.

“Not my fault I have such a charming personality,” he called out.

That was one way to put it.

You couldn’t keep your eyes from rolling at his statement, but the sly smile on your lips showed that you were far from annoyed.

By the time he finished up at the sink, quickly disappearing into the bathroom to deposit his toothbrush, you were able to rid of the rosy color on your cheeks. But when he came back, you instantly felt the blush returning.

“You could at least invite someone over so you aren’t holed up by yourself on a Friday night. What about that friend of yours from chem?”

You tried to hide the fact that your eyes widened when you glanced up at him. He was only buttoning up his shirt, and you had seen him shirtless plenty of times, but there was something about seeing the tanned skin of his torso that would never get old.

Tearing your gaze away from him was the only way you could return to the conversation at hand. You had to take a second to remind yourself of who he was even referring to.

“Yeah?” You sneered. “And do what?”

“I don’t know. Paint each other’s nails and gossip or whatever it is that girls do.”

No matter how hard you tried to hold it in, a laugh escaped you. You hated how easily his comments could amuse you, no matter how immature. “You are a child.”

“Am not!” He whined defensively, letting out a laugh that matched yours. “I just want you to have some fun for once!”

“I will have fun. Right here on the couch with my shitty soap operas.”

It was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes at you, shaking his head as he made his way back to the kitchen and out of sight of you. “You could go pick up some more groceries. I used the rest of the almond milk this morning.”

You twisted your body so you could peer over the back of the couch at him, squinting your eyes in contempt as he nonchalantly sauntered to the cabinet for a glass to drink from. “So it sounds like you should go get some since you keep using it all.”

He waved a dismissive hand at you while he ran the cup under the tap. “Yeah, but now it gives you something to do!”

His head tipped back to take a quick swig before dumping the remaining liquid into the sink. You watched him continue to rush through the room, smiling at him stuffing his belongings in his pockets. “I’ll be back later tonight,” he promised.

“Call me if I need to pick you up.”

It was sincere, your offer. It was something you always said on nights like these, before he left for his next outing and you knew he’d probably be under the influence. He rarely took you up on it, always making friends with whoever remained sober enough to take him home, but he knew the offer still stood.

He also knew how you’d more than likely be asleep by the time he was ready to come home, and he wanted to avoid interrupting your slumber.

“Yes, mother,” he quipped, finally making his way to the door. He paused before stepping outside, long enough to shoot you a genuine smile and playful wink. “Bye, y/n.”

The break in his sarcasm made your face warm for the umpteenth time tonight. “Bye, Sammy. Have fun.”

The door was already shutting behind him as you heard him call out a faint “You too!”

And with a click of the latch, you were left alone in the living room you shared with your best friend, the soap opera on TV your only company.

————

Hours passed with no word from Sammy. You could imagine the fun he was having while you stayed glued to the cushion you sat on. You could see his smile as he flaunted his charisma to whoever would listen. How his pinkie would swipe across the bottom of his cup while he connected with the other partygoers. You knew he was having a good time, but for some reason, you still felt uneasy.

Your phone would wake you up if he called, but the idea of something happening to him while you were asleep worried you more than anything. It was your goal to stay awake for as long as possible, and you tried to do anything that would help you achieve that goal.

You hoped that a snack would give you more energy to endure the night, but you still found yourself dozing off. You even cycled through various channels whenever you felt your eyelids getting heavy, abandoning the series Sam left you with for a marathon of cheesy holiday romance movies.

It wasn’t long before you got bored with those though, the storylines much too repetitive and predictive. Soon enough, you couldn’t find an interest in guessing who the main protagonist would end up with or what the overall resolution would be.

But right before you let yourself succumb to your drowsiness, you heard the front door slowly open. You let yourself glance over at the doorway, the dim silhouette of Sammy barely visible from the soft light of the television.

He smiled once he saw you move, indicating he was waiting to see if you were awake before he spoke. “Hey.”

You returned the smile as a greeting, wiping at your eyes to wake yourself up a bit more. “You’re back already?” you asked through a yawn.

“Don’t sound too excited.” He was smirking through his jesting, shrugging as he continued. “Party was lame, came back to crash this one.”

“Oh yeah, you certainly crashed this party. Soap opera and all.” You rolled your eyes at him, an action that seemed to be routine no matter what you were talking about.

“I’m surprised you didn’t have anyone join you for such a titillating experience.”

He was practically dripping in sarcasm, but that made you feel that much more endeared by him. He still hadn’t moved from where he stood, perched against the wall across the room. It looked as if he were studying you, surveying to see just how good your comebacks would be.

You shrugged. “No one wanted to gossip with me while they got their nails painted.”

You thought your response was funny, inspiration coming back from his earlier quip, but he looked past the humor. His face contorted into something that resembled disbelief, and in one swift motion, he pushed off of the wall and crossed the distance to you.

“Are you joking? I’ll volunteer!” He tossed his wallet and keys on the coffee table in front of you.

“Sam, what-”

“I’ll be right back.” And before you could ask anything further, he had disappeared into the bathroom. You heard him rummaging around in the drawers and cabinets before he came back into view, clutching all of the nail polish and supplies you own. “I didn’t know what colors you’d want so I brought the whole thing.”

“Me?”

He gives you a sideways glance, as if you both had been planning to do this all night. “Yeah? You’re gonna let me do yours too, right?”

“I- I dunno.” It seemed valid to be slightly taken aback by his sudden enthusiasm for such an activity. It felt strange for him to even want his nails painted, even more so for him to want to do the work to paint yours.

“Oh come on, it’s only fair!”

He placed the various bottles on the coffee table before sitting on the cushion beside you, never looking away from you so he could further drive his point. Chipping away at your resolve, piece by piece.

You raised an eyebrow at him incredulously. “Sam, have you ever painted someone’s nails before?”

“I painted my sister’s once for a dance,” he said with a shrug, turning so his body was facing you and his legs were tucked under each other. He continued once he noticed your criticism was still intact. “She didn’t ask me to do her nails after that.”

“Then no!” You laughed. “What color do you want?”

His persuasion didn’t stop there. He perused your collection of bright hues and dark shades, finally landing on a light green polish as his choice. “You’ve got to let me at least try!”

You decided to ignore his statement for the chance to poke fun at his selection. You twisted the bottle in your hand, looking at the liquid with judgment. “Snot green? Really?”

He shrugged. “It looks like Sadie.”

Sadie. The neon pothos plant that sat on a table in the corner of the living room, soaking up the morning sun that would peek through the curtains. It was something you came across during a trip to the local farmer’s market. A plant that was so low maintenance but somehow barely hanging on when you first laid eyes on it. Sammy had insisted that you buy it so you both could nurse it back to health, and within minutes, he was carrying it to the car and discussing potential names for the ‘child’ you now parented together.

The color of the polish did match the plant’s leaves almost perfectly, now that you thought about it, but you had never made that comparison before. It didn’t seem like a color one would want on their nails, hence why it was mostly full and barely used.

You shook your head at him while you twisted to face him, mimicking his position as you shook the bottle in your hands.

“What do I do with these buckaroos?” Sam asked, his hands waving around wildly.

You grabbed his hands just as he began to shoot finger guns at you. “Calm down, cowboy,” you said through a laugh. “Just- here.”

Searching for the best placement for his hands, you finally decided to place one on your knee and the other on your ankle. You tried to ignore the fluttering feeling in your stomach from his hands on your bare skin.

“I can’t believe you just referred to your hands as buckaroos,” you teased under your breath.

The taunt earned you a squeeze to your knee from Sam, who knew the tickling sensation would make you giggle. “Don’t act like you’re too cool for me, y/n,” he warned. “You’re the one who spends your Friday nights watching… whatever this is.”

You followed his eyes to the TV screen, focusing just as the characters had just shared a passionate kiss in the snow, its artificiality painfully obvious.

You returned your attention to the task at hand, readying the brush for the first stroke on his nail. “And you’re the one who abandoned your sick party to get your nails done.”

He scoffed, but in the end, he remained silent. And you took that as a win.

Doing someone else’s nails is much different than doing your own. It takes more focus, awareness of the other individual’s movements and tremors, and precision to get the task done just right. But luckily for you, Sammy didn’t squirm as much as you thought he would. He remained perfectly still so you could finish pretty quickly.

When the polish dried - thankfully not too long after you completed it - you smiled at the job well done, glancing up to the boy in front of you to tell him you were finished.

“That’s it? Oh, this should be easy, then.” He lifted his hands to eye level, grinning to himself as he surveyed the results. He leaned over to the other polishes on the table. “What color do you want?”

You shrugged. “Surprise me.”

“In that case-” His decision was quick, and before you knew it, he was smirking at you and brandishing the same bottle of polish you had used on him just moments prior.

“Oh, not the snot, Samuel. You must hate me,” you huffed through a laugh.

“You don’t want to match me and Sadie? It’ll be like we’re one big happy family!” He seemed too excited for his own good, even if you were only half joking about denying him. And who were you to disappoint your best friend?

So you didn’t. You let him continue with the plan he was so enthusiastic about, watching as he eagerly unscrewed the top and got to work.

He had trouble finding the most practical placement of your hands, on top of the logistics of keeping the polish close without it being in the way. He tried to use the same technique as you, but it didn’t seem to be comfortable enough for him. Ultimately, you ended up holding the bottle in the hand not being painted while your other was held in his own.

With the proximity, you allowed yourself to take in the details of the scene. How his eyebrows were furrowed and eyes barely crossed in concentration. How the tip of his tongue would peek from his lips as he swiped the brush near your cuticles, careful to keep it as neat as possible. How his nose would twitch ever so slightly as if that was the only movement he could spare for the time being.

You also noticed some of his long, brunette locks threaten to shift from behind his ear, and you knew he was itching to tuck them back into place. Even his fingers were trembling a little, making you wonder if the task - despite being completely unnecessary - had made him a little more nervous than he let on.

It all would’ve made you giggle to yourself if you weren’t ordered to stay as still as possible.

“Stop staring at me to distract me.”

You tore your gaze from your conjoined hands to glance up at him again. It felt as if you had been caught in a bad lie, although it would be completely normal to ‘stare’ in this scenario.

Smugly, you answered with “I’m not.”

It wasn’t a lie. Maybe you were looking a little too intensely, but you were definitely not doing it to distract him. God forbid your nails actually look as if they were covered in slime.

“Well,” he said after rolling his eyes at you. “Stop it”

That made you giggle. The sense of frustration in his voice that you couldn’t quite find the basis of. He sounded almost like a child telling a bully to leave them alone.

“Do I make you nervous?”

You were mainly joking when you asked the question. Of course you’d like to know if there was even the slightest possibility that you affected him in such a way, but you weren’t brave enough to ask without the sarcasm.

But there was something about it that made him pause, the hesitation barely noticeable as he quickly returned to his duties.

“You wish,” he mumbled. “I just can’t concentrate when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Shh,” he cut you off with a swat to your thigh, his own giggles filling the space. “You’re moving too much.”

You glared at him with a halfhearted pout, frustrated at his impeccable ability to change the subject so quickly. Deciding you’d lean into the childish act, you pointedly closed your eyes. “I just won’t look at you at all.”

Maybe you were being a little juvenile, but where’s the fun in maturity?

It would’ve been within his rights to get annoyed with you, but instead, you could sense Sam’s head shaking in feigned disapproval. His voice was almost fond as he chastised you. “You are infuriating.”

Eventually, after a few beats of silence between you both, you felt him twist the cap back into the bottle and remove it from your hand. You waited until after you heard the soft clink of the glass being set back on the coffee table. Deciding he had probably had enough of your act, you peeked open your eyes, chancing to stand down and let him win whatever game you were playing.

What you didn’t expect was to see his lips pursed and approaching your fingers he still held in his hand. You felt your stomach twist into a knot of anticipation and nerves, but it immediately loosened with the realization of what he was actually doing.

Sam blew a cool stream of air on your nails, drying the wet polish more efficiently. The sensation made you giggle softly to yourself, relief bubbling from you.

He paused his actions upon hearing the noise. “What?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but once his lips returned to his previous action, you dissolved into another fit of giggles.

“Y/n, what is so funny?”

“It’s stupid, really,” you squeaked in between laughs, shaking your head in an effort to compose yourself and dissuade his interest in your hysterics. Seeing his raised eyebrow, though, proved you were unsuccessful. “I just- it looked like you were gonna kiss my hand, with the way you had your… nevermind. Just forget it.”

Although you started your explanation with confidence, seeing his expression turn from confusion into something more devious made you second-guess yourself. If anything, you expected him to laugh it off and continue what he was doing. You did not expect him to look almost… curious.

It was as if you had taken him by surprise, but his initial shock had mixed with intrigue. His mouth opened, but closed to form a knowing smirk before huffing a laugh. “If you wanted me to kiss your hand, you could’ve just asked.”

Although you tried to remain unphased by his words, the teasing quality of them made your cheeks flame. “And why would I want that?”

A simple shrug was all you received as an answer before he resumed the task, looking up at you with coy eyes and feigned innocence while air fanned over your fingertips. You noted that his lips were significantly closer to your hands now.

Attempting to regain your footing, you tried to come up with a quip of your own. “I think you’re projecting,” you accused with a humorless laugh.

He rewarded you with an eye roll, a reaction you were hoping for. You hoped he would leave it at that, move on from the subject so you could have the last word. Instead, he added, “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it before.”

“About what?”

He chuckled. “About kissing me.”

You could only manage to scoff at him, in utter disbelief at where this conversation had gone. It was supposed to be a joke, just something else for you to share a laugh about. But now, he seemed completely serious. But he couldn’t be, could he? Not about something that would cross every unspoken boundary of your friendship.

And even if he was serious, you’d still never tell him the truth. You’d never tell him that yes you have thought about it, plenty of times. And you’d certainly never tell him that your thoughts have traveled further than just a simple kiss. Not about how convenient it would be to slip into his room when you’re lonely and searching for affection at night. How easy it would be to ease into a routine of spending countless nights cuddled up together, whispering sweet nothings and nuzzling into each other as you leave kisses across whatever skin you had access to.

He was just your best friend, but living in the same residence had only given you a taste of domesticity with him. The resistance to acknowledge your attraction was only made worse when you saw him with messy hair from a good night’s rest or bare-chested after his showers. His charm was inescapable now that he was almost always around you, but his natural flirtiness always made you question if you should try to escape. Or if you should consider leaning into the feelings that were brewing for him.

Of course, in an act of self-preservation, you made yourself avoid and ignore any pining you had ever experienced for him.

But you would never tell him any of that.

“Would it help you admit it if I told you I’ve thought about it?” The question broke the silence that had unintentionally settled between you. He could tell that you were thinking about something, and he liked the thought that he was the cause of your contemplation. You didn’t want to give him that satisfaction, though.

Once again, you tried to laugh it off. To stall and push another joke to escape the situation you had somehow gotten yourself into. “Of course, you’d think about kissing yourself, you egomaniac.”

For a moment, you thought you won, taking his laughter as a good sign. But you should’ve known better. “No, doofus. Kissing you.”

And just like that, the breath was stolen from your lungs. You couldn’t laugh anymore. You couldn’t roll your eyes. You couldn’t run from this. Not anymore.

Of course, you knew what he meant as soon as he said it, but something in you wanted to deny it and continue with your avoidance. But with it in the open, obvious and crystal clear, there was nothing left for you to do but face it.

“I’ve thought about it since the first day in Comms,” he started again, this time a little more hesitant and cautious.

The mention of the communications class almost made you wince - an introductory public speaking course that was required for all students to take. You dreaded signing up for it, and your hatred for public speaking persisted even after you passed with flying colors. But luckily for you, something good had come out of that class, other than a boosted GPA.

It was how you met Sammy, after all. Paired together for a collaborative project, you both bonded over your disdain for the class. As opposed to you, though, he actually seemed to have confidence when he’d present.

“You’d always chew on your bottom lip before it was your time to speak. That’s how I knew you were nervous,” he continued. The mention of your anxious habits made you realize you were currently doing exactly what he was speaking of: biting at your lip to quell the nerves. “You were nervous, but it was like you owned the room, when you got up there. Your passion was… unmatched.”

He seemed to be talking to himself as he reminisced, marveling at something you had never noticed about yourself. You saw him look down at your fingers that he still held in his hands, the nail polish surely dried by now. He had no reason for his grasp to persist, but he continued for the sake of fidgeting and toying with your hand as if it were natural to him. He huffed a laugh before he resumed.

“We were always assigned stupid topics, but even then, I couldn’t look away. And when I tried to focus and pay attention to the content you were talking about, I’d always get distracted looking at your lips… So yeah, I’ve thought about it a bit.” He spoke quietly, another breath of nervous laughter to punctuate. He chanced a look back at you, softening as he saw your watchful eyes on him. “You’re blushing, and that makes me think about it even more.”

It wasn’t until he pointed it out that you realized your cheeks were warmer than usual. You tore your eyes away from him and back down to his fingers.

He was right. Hearing his admission made you want to concede as well. And a deep breath was all you had to take before you muttered your own confession. “...I’ve thought about it too.”

“Will you let me then?” He didn’t miss a beat, seemingly eager to get the question out.

“Sammy…”

“Just once? Just to satisfy our curiosity?” His hands gripped tighter to yours, now completely holding onto them as if they were his lifeline. “And if you don’t like it, we don’t have to talk about this ever again. It’ll be like it never happened.

The sheer anticipation that was building in his voice made it obvious that he was being genuine, that he truly wanted this. But you still hesitated.

If something happened during the kiss, if he realized he didn’t like it as much as he expected, you’d still have to deal with the consequences. You may not talk about it, like he promised, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t bother him. As tempting as the offer was, you didn’t want to risk your friendship for a moment’s worth of satisfaction.

But it wasn’t that likely with a single kiss, right?

“...Just once,” you finally settled, speaking before you realized your mouth was even open.

You expected him to jump on the opportunity as soon as you gave him your consent, hungry and desperate to avoid you going back on your word. But instead, he was gentle, cautious in how he approached you.

He held a grin as he placed his hands on your cheeks, the skin of his palms somewhat clammy from being in contact with yours for so long. You watched with bated breath as he inched closer to you, trying to give you plenty of time to back out. But once he realized that you wouldn’t, he let go of all reserves.

Kissing him was a little different than you had expected. You imagined stiff and awkward, unnatural and abnormal. You imagined your lips as puzzle pieces of the same cut, destined to be in each other’s company but not necessarily made for one another. You imagined feeling icky and wrong before, during, and after the kiss ensued.

But this… this was unlike anything you could’ve possibly prepared for. This was easy. This was comfortable.

Out of your fair share of kisses, this was undeniably your favorite. And out of all of the ‘first’ kisses with anyone, you knew they could never compare to this.

It felt as if you melted into Sammy’s mouth, instantly falling under a spell that caused you to dissolve into nothingness. He wasn’t forceful in his approach, he didn’t try to take over, he didn’t proceed in a manner to coax more from you. He simply kissed you to revel in the moment. Just for the sake of kissing.

But just like all good moments, it came to an end much too quickly. The separation felt forced, as if he was reluctant to pull away from you. Which might have been why he didn’t put too much space between you when your lips disconnected. His hands fell from your face, landing to rest on your knees, but you were still mere inches from one another.

“Good?” He mumbled.

All you could do was nod, much too entranced in all things him. How he smelled, how his hands felt on you, how he kept shifting his gaze from your eyes to your lips.

He was holding back, trying to keep his promise of “just one kiss.” It was obvious to you that he didn’t want to overstep, that he was trying to follow your lead. But that kiss had sparked an overwhelming desire within you both, and you simply did not have as much restraint as he. All it took was one more fleeting glance at your lips before you found yourself leaning in to meet his again.

This time, you could feel his smile, the remainder of a laugh huffing from his nostrils. He seemed to find amusement in your desperation.

Although you quickly felt yourself falling into another daze, you were hyper-focused on Sam’s hands. Their placement. The way they had involuntarily twitched as soon as you kissed him again. How they had started to move up your thighs. How the tips of his fingers brushed under the fabric of your pajama shorts as they traveled upward and kneaded your skin. It wasn’t long before they found your hips and tugged.

You were in his lap before you knew it, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as you tried to balance the push and pull of the kiss that immediately deepened. A gentle nip to your bottom lip caused a soft moan to tremble from you, making him chuckle and pull away again.

“Don’t get too carried away,” he mumbled against your lips, rushing to place additional pecks on the corner of your mouth.

You tried to match the sarcasm evident in his tone. “No, I’d never.”

“What happened to just one?”

“I’d ask the same to you- oh.” His lips had managed to travel down your neck, and a bite to your collarbone had led to your quip drawing out into a whine.

Kisses turned into lips lazily dragging across skin, soft grunts turned to deep, ragged pants. He was letting you take what you wanted from him, what you needed. He didn’t mind that you were unabashedly whimpering into his neck, he didn’t even poke fun at how your hunger had caused your hips to grind against him. It only spurred him on that much more.

His head tipped back as he let out a groan, muttering a simple “Christ...” as if he were begging the deity to give him strength.

You didn’t imagine God would be too happy with the acts being committed, if he were looking down on you right now, but Sammy’s plea seemed to work. His hands stilled your hips as he shifted, and promptly, you were lying on your back with him hovering over you.

You were feeling bold, and sure in your actions. So when his fingertips graced the bare skin that resided under the hem of your shirt, you let him remove it from you. But when he bent to kiss you again, you felt the cool metal of his necklace against your chest, and you soon felt much too exposed.

He felt your body stiffen, and he immediately ceased his actions. “Y/n, what-” he stopped his question as soon as he broke away from you. You had covered yourself and shielded away from his gaze, making him realize just what had caused your apprehension. “Don’t do that. Let me see you.”

Your wrists were bound in his hand and pinned into the cushion above you, a quick move that made you gasp and blush a deeper shade. His pupils were dilated, stare as stoney as ever while he admired you. There wasn’t a hint of disappointment in his expression, but the attention made you more nervous than anything. Your only refuge was to hide your face in the pillows cushioning the back of the couch.

But, of course, he didn’t allow that. After a sound of disapproval, you were pulled into another deep kiss. One that left you dizzy after he pulled away.

“Stop hiding from me, okay?” He spoke softly in your ear, careful to not sound too demanding or harsh. “It’s just you and me right now. You’re okay.”

You sighed as he pressed a chaste kiss to your temple, the hand not serving as your restraint moving back down your body to hitch one of your legs onto his hip. “Friends don’t do this, Sammy. I don’t want to lose you.”

You felt silly to be worried about such a thing when it all seemed to be one-sided, but the thought of losing him after a spur-of-the-moment decision made your stomach twist. It wouldn’t be worth it to you.

Without hesitation, he pulled away both of his hands from their previous jobs, letting them rest on your face to caress your cheeks.

“You’d have to be more than stupid to think you’re gonna lose me after this,” he assured, letting his eyes rake across your features with sincerity. His thumb swiped across your bottom lip just as he added, “And to think that we’re just friends.”

With his confession from earlier still hanging in the air, you shouldn’t have been as stunned by his words as you were. You wanted to believe him, but there was still uncertainty behind the thin line you so desperately wanted to cross. You could feel yourself falling deeper and deeper into the worries that clouded your mind-

Hey-” he interrupted your mental anguish, waiting until he had your full attention and eyes on him. “Do you want me?”

You sighed, hoping to let go of the nerves that plagued you. “You know I do.”

Sammy smiled at the admission, seemingly more pleased now that you had said the words out loud. “Then you have me. In every way, baby. I’m yours.”

Yours. There was something so intimate about the statement, him placing himself in your possession. The knowledge that you would exist in his world, even when you were apart. It was more than you could ask for, yet everything you wanted.

The desire bloomed within you, and soon, you were no longer anxious to be displayed in front of him. Your fingers desperately clawed into the front of his shirt, pulling him back down to meet your lips again. It only took one tug at its hem to encourage its removal.

You sucked in a gasp at the feeling of his bare chest pressed against yours, a noise quickly swallowed down by the man hovering above you.

He seemed to be making up for lost time, each kiss telling a tale of its own and bringing you closer to him. Eventually, his lips traveled to graze the shell of your ear.

“What do you want?”

You sighed, the warm air against you sending shivers down your spine as you answered. “Your mouth.”

Without hesitation, he shifted and repositioned himself between your legs. His fingers looped under the band of your sleep shorts and panties, and after receiving a silent nod from you, he worked them both down your legs. His nose crinkled with a snicker, amused by your wiggling attempts to help him remove the garments. He tossed them to the floor and placed a gentle kiss to your navel as he moved to lay on his stomach.

The first flick of his tongue was languid, slow as if he were savoring the taste of you on his tongue. But soon enough, he found his footing and increased his intensity rather than speed.

You must’ve cried out at the feeling. Sam’s eyes had flickered up to you, peering through his lashes while he worked between your thighs. You were already lost in the haze of pleasure he was sharing with you. His wide, lust-filled eyes looking at you in awe, his hands splayed around your thighs and holding you steady, his perfectly sculpted nose dipping in and out of sight as the tip grazed against your clit. It was something you’d always imagined, but never believed would be right before you.

Your hand had traveled to his hair at some point, unbeknownst to you. Every tug causing a low hum to rumble from his stomach and against your skin, drawing you closer and closer each time.

You could feel it. The crest of the horizon in sight and in reach. But just as you were about to chase it, your fingers tightening in his hair, he pulled away with a lewd pop. The sound was soft, but audible enough to make your cheeks warm. Your frustration quickly surpassed any feelings of embarrassment.

Your head had been tipped back, and in the process of snapping your gaze back to him - ready to whine about his teasing - his lips crashed into yours again.

You couldn’t help but moan at the taste on his lips, a concoction that had only become more sinful as he savored you.

He was distracted, his mind drifting somewhere else while he kissed you. You could feel movement, as if he were rummaging through a crowded drawer for a specific item. The nerves that you had successfully shoved away stormed back to you, filling you with worry all over again. You gently broke away from the kiss, desperate to see what had occupied him so suddenly.

His hand was out of sight, in the pocket of his denim jacket that had been tossed haphazardly across the back of the couch. You heard the crinkle of a foil wrapper, and soon enough, he removed a small square package from the jacket.

The sight of the condom made your cheeks flush and your throat tighten, but you weren’t exactly sure why. It only took a few weeks of living with Sam to know all you needed to about his sexual habits. It made sense for him to bring a condom to a college party. But that didn’t stop the pang of jealousy in the pit of your stomach from the thought of his hands on someone else. He had never expected that you’d be the one under him tonight.

“You okay?”

His voice brought you out of the envy-induced haze you were in. You met his eyes, carefully studying you to make sure he hadn’t already messed up what had barely even started. You looked past your doubts and nodded in response, reaching for him to give you the condom.

He trusted you to tell him if something was wrong, but he gave a look of warning before handing the condom over to you. You knew he was not going to let this go, but you were thankful that he pushed it under the rug for now. You were much too embarrassed to discuss it now.

Sam was already working on unbuttoning his pants by the time you looked at the foil package in your hands.

“Didn't think you’d be a Magnum kinda guy,” you taunted under your breath, hoping to bring a sense of lightheartedness to the situation.

Instead, his hand was wrapped around your wrist in an instant, the sudden movement making you let out a noise of surprise. He pulled your hand away from its task and positioned it so the thin layer of his briefs was the only thing between him and your palm.

The thought made you shiver, but your cheeks burned from your previous taunt.

“Oh…”

He smirked at you, only a little proud of himself for making you discount your teasing. But through the smugness, you could sense a hint of bashfulness. And an attempt to remain humble through the ego boost you provided him.

You fiddled with the package as soon as you were released from his grasp, making quick work of tearing it open and retrieving its contents. By the time you finished, he had removed the remaining articles of his clothing.

You didn’t look up at him, and you tried to not hesitate to take him in your hand.

You relished in the way his silken skin felt against yours as you slowly began to roll the condom down his length. A soft moan escaped him, a sound of sheer disbelief and utter pleasure. His stare was unwavering, watching your every move. But once you tilted your head to look at him, he was already in the motion of leaning to kiss you again.

He used it as a chance to lay you back down and get you comfortable, using one of his arms to hold himself up and hover over you.

“Please let me know if something needs to change or if you want to stop, okay?” He panted, resting his forehead against yours. “I can’t stand the thought of hurting you.”

A loving smile crept on your lips as you nodded to him, giving a quick kiss to his cheek as affirmation.

He didn’t pull away to align himself with you. Instead, his cheek was pressed against yours as he slipped inside you, a low groan rumbling right at the shell of your ear.

At some point, your hands had wrapped around his forearms as a way to ground yourself. Your loosening grip was the only signal he needed before he began a slow, steady pace.

You tried to focus on the feeling of it all – the way his hips rolled against yours, the delicious tension that each thrust added, the grunts that would slip from his parted lips. But you couldn’t get past the simple fact that this was really happening. After all this time of imagining yourself with him, it was real. And it was so much better than you could’ve fantasized.

Your arms wrapped around him, holding him as close as possible and praying that he wouldn’t disappear. As if he were promising that he wouldn’t, he nuzzled further into your neck. The intoxicating drag of his lips against your skin made you whine, digging your nails into his back as if it were a reflex.

Sam sucked in a breath at the feeling, but before you could worry that you had hurt him, you heard a chuckle.

“Easy, baby,” he warned with a smile, pulling away just enough to look you in the eyes. His had already flickered down to your lips before he continued. “Don’t wanna mess up your nails.”

It amazed you how easily he was able to bring you back down. Even in this situation, he grounded you and reminded you that he was your best friend. And all it took was a wink and a bit of banter.

He grasped the back of your knee, hitching it to his side and pushing even deeper into you. The new angle successfully drawing a mewl from you and pulling you out of your romanticized thoughts.

A hum of satisfaction shook from him, almost sounding like a hungry growl as his smirk widened. “Right there? Is that where my pretty girl likes it?”

Everything about the question flustered you, the phrasing, the pet name, the tone. You were nodding your head before you even realized you were responding.

“Just like that, yeah?” He continued. “Fuck…you feel so good.”

If it wasn’t for his pace faltering and his stumbling over his words, he might’ve been able to hide the fact that he was already close. Not that you wanted him to hide it, of course. Seeing him like this was everything you had wanted and more.

Sammy released the grip he had on your leg, his hand soon disappearing between you two. His thumb circled your clit with fervent hunger, as if he were desperate to see you writhe under him. The action made you cry out, his name slipping from your parted lips as a soft whimper.

“Shhh…I know, baby,” he reassured. He smoothed a hand across your cheekbone to wipe a stray tear before it could fall. “God, you look- so fucking gorgeous.”

He was speaking out loud now, voicing each of his thoughts as a way to bring himself closer. He wasn’t looking for a response, but the sentence rang through your ears the entire time he was above you.

The sound of each quickening thrust, the way his forearm tensed while he touched you, his hair shifting with every movement and deep breath. It all fueled the fire in your abdomen, and soon enough, you felt your muscles tighten.

He talked you through your orgasm with filthy words and sultry praise, coaxing you to give in to the pleasure and enjoy it for what it’s worth. His own climax cut off his encouragement, though, and with a huff, his head dropped as the pleasure overtook him. His body trembled with each remaining thrust, and as much as you wished you could watch him at his peak, your eyes were squeezed shut.

It took a while for you to come down from your highs, but eventually, his hips had stilled, and you had no choice but to be reined back in. You could hear that his breathing matched yours - deep, quivering breaths that shook throughout your bodies.

When you opened your eyes, you saw him smirking down at you, a cocky smile that was still kind and gentle in its own way. His free hand had settled on your thigh, his thumb sweeping across the skin to bring you back to him.

His chest was still heaving, and you could see stray marks up and down his torso and arms from you unknowingly clawing at him. Past the hints of your embarrassment, you sensed a feeling of pride. Seeing him above you, with marks that you made. It was as if you staked a claim on him, a mark of unspoken territory.

He was yours. No one else’s.

The thought made your smile widen.

Sammy chuckled at you, bending down to place a kiss on your jaw. “What’s all that for?”

With a laugh, you shook your head, not wanting to give him the benefit of knowing what was going on in your mind.

His teeth grazed against your neck before he began to leave sloppy kisses on your jugular. He only paused briefly to pull out from you, muttering a quick curse under his breath and returning his lips to your skin.

Your fingers had found their way back to his hair, playing with the locks of brunette while his kisses covered every inch of your neck.

As he reached the shell of your ear, he rasped a whisper. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

The question made your heart skip, but instead of letting it show, you grinned at him. “You already live here, Sammy.”

He pulled away from you, lightly slapping your thigh. “Don’t give me that, you know what I mean.”

“Ohhh, you mean in my room,” you said sarcastically, giggling as he rolled his eyes. You waited until his eyebrows raised expectantly before you stopped playing coy. “After you shower. You stink.”

He faked a frown at you before his smile broke through, laughing at your teasing. “If I’m taking a shower, you’re coming with me.”

He had already begun shuffling off the couch so he could stand. You instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, partially to cover yourself, but also to keep up the act that you had going.

“Why do I have to come shower with you?”

For a moment, he looked puzzled, almost as if he believed that you didn’t want to follow him. “Maybe 'cause I’ll miss you if you don’t.”

It was meant to be a joke, but you could see in his eyes that deep down, he really meant it. You were going to go with him anyways, but hearing his excuse made you blush.

“Sammy…” you paused, searching for the right response for something so silly. It was a small phrase, but you could sense the immense amount of truth behind it. “You’re so…soft.”

He smiled down at you, annoyed but enamored by your playfulness. “Anddd you’re done,” he warned, grabbing your wrist to pull you off the couch to your feet. “Come on, up you go.”

“Easy baby,” you mocked, repeating his words from earlier. You were in a fit of giggles as he tugged you to the bathroom. “Don’t wanna mess up your nails.”

Ahead of you, he huffed a sigh. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

You didn’t have to see him to know that he rolled his eyes at you again. He stopped in front of the bathroom door and opened it, placing a gentle hand on your back to usher you inside. “Yeah…I do.”

taglist: @gretavancreep @joshkiszkas @streamsofstardust @gretavanflipflop @stardustingold @tripthelight-fanfic @gmolszewski @poofyloofy @the-chaotic-cow @hippievanfleet @doodle417 @gretavanfleas @myownparadise96 @fireandsaltydogs @auroraseddie @meetingthestarcatcher @jakeyboiiiiiii @jakeydoesit @fan-girl-97 @m1rkw00dpr1ncess @welightthefire @maedesculpaeusoubi @josiee-gvf @brokenbellz @sammysvanfeet @haleylovesgvf @streamingcolors-gvf @prophetofthedune @groggyvanfleet @aconfusedhippie @star-lightsundrop @sammyslappers @agirlwithmanytastes @teddiie @gretavansteph @sammiejane22 @safarithong @tearsofbri @ashabeannn @Gvfvanfleet @Kerryxoliver @daniellefersblog @gretavanbitches @jordierama @alexxavicry @spark-my-nature @gardensgatedaisy @Jmksbuttsupremacy @shesawomaninadream @milkgemini @andromeda-raine-gvf @joshkiszkatoothgap @gretasimp @wingedgardener2000 @m3t4ll10n @courtkiszka @mweasley19 @fretaganvleet

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solar-sunnyside-up · 1 year ago

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Community Fridges-

A community fridge is a fridge located in a public space (on private land). Sometimes called freedges, they are a type of mutual aid project that enables food to be shared within a community. They require a small group of volunteers to run and require a fair bit of organizing but otherwise run fairly passively as a mutual aid project!

History-

2015- Starting up as a response to food insecurity in Germany by a group called "Foodsharing" and quickly started popping up places like Spain, New Zealand, India, Israel, the Netherlands, and Canada particularly as Covid picked up.

2020- As Covid hit the world there was a sudden boom across countries, particularly the states, where they where very suddenly established.

In New York City, community fridges, nicknamed “Friendly Fridges,” were introduced. The first one placed by an activist group, In Our Hearts. In Our Hearts has now set up at least 14 of the 70 fridges around New York City.

In Cincinnati Travis Mcelroy working with the vollunteers to fill Community pantries and Fridges with Covid Tests and Hygiene supplies like menstruation products, toothpaste, shampoo, etc.. across the city. Highlighting their location and use ages when they where needed most.

In Thailand, entrepreneur Supakit Kulchartvijit's Pantry of Sharing pantry cabinets, a variation on the community fridges, was launched in Bangkok and Rayong

Now most cities have at least one established fridge somewhere hidden in an alley if nothing else. In addition to an uptick in Food Pantries.

What can I do?

You can either find an already established one through a bunch of sites such as freedge.org or changex.or or your can start a fridge, this will take research into your particular area but here are some guides based on country at least

If your in the states- How to Guide

If your in canada- how to guide

If your in UK- How to guide

(i know this is v commonwealth centric but its the places i have the best idea of the legal system and therefore can trust the resources im sorry yall!)

#reaping week #ref #sprout guide #food #community #projects #solarpunk #hopepunk #anticapitalism #mutual aid

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eddi3spaghetti · 6 months ago

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Losers club and bowers gang headcanons

has a bit of agere

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

Bill denbrough

-a tiny bit nearsighted

-has mild motor tics

-punched a hole in a wall

-got tricked into playing Doki doki literature club and had nightmares

-picks mushrooms but doesnt eat them

-over-prepared

-still draws stick figures

-has had to stop richie from snorting smarties

-hates being alone

-starts decorating for Christmas on November 1st

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

Georgie denbrough

-he has eaten crayons and will do it again

-he eats the fudge out of those fudge stripe cookies

-he'a really smart but also kinda stupid

-can do a handstand

-would naruto run in area 51

-he thinks mint chip tastes like toothpaste

-he can't spell Tuesday

-can speak little bit of spanish

-finds brainrot annoying

-bites his nails

-gives people pretty rocks or throws them at people if he hates them

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

Mike hanlon

-he likes green tea

-he's a cat person

-cringes at their old pictures

-when he was 3, he drank paint (dont worry he's ok)

-he reads spy x family

-tried to cuss on roblox

-fried food makes him nauseous

-can play a lot of instruments

-likes to draw

-his favorite color is navy blue

-uses 3-in-1 soap

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

Ben hanscom

-he's allergic to pistachios

-can write stories quite well

-sings in the shower

-once cried bc someone complimented him

-can run really fast

-has stuffed animals on his bed

-stole mouthwash when he was 5 and still feels bad

-salad fingers traumatized him

-he gives the best hugs

-watches bluey

-scared of kirby

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

Beverly marsh

-a demi-girl

-her favorite subject is english

-she likes mandela catalogue

-holds grudges for a long time

-danganronpa fan (she thinks maki is the best character)

-cant spell restaurant

-they sometimes sleeps over with ben

-she like ashnikko

-could kill you in an instant if deserved

-weirdcore fan

-has hello kitty socks and takes one sock full of pennies

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

Richie tozier

-watches men's gymnastics

-gets road rage

-tricked bill into playing doki doki literature club

-he set a desk on fire and got away with it

-bullies kids on roblox

-he will go crazy if the time is 12:34 or 4:20

-microwave noodles are his fav

-knows hapkido

-played a cupcakke remix in a school party and got kicked out

-likes the color red

-wonders what would happen if birds had four legs

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

Stan uris

-falls for deez nuts jokes every single time

-rides lawn mowers

-has weighted stuffed animals

-he almost died from drinking too much coffee

-cant drive for shit

-unintentionally offends people

-when he was little, he though spaghetti was a plant

-he once stuck gum on someone's purse and felt bad

-the word squeaky makes him laugh

-organized phone

-ruins santa for kids except georgie

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

Eddie kaspbrak

-has a sweater he stole got from richie

-has chronic nightmares

-horrible liar

-he always has hand sanitizer on him

-sucks at tongue twisters

-age regressor (2-6)

-likes maretu

-has a secret hatred for his mom

-he's a therian in denial

-loves the smell of grass

★・★・★・★・★・★・★・★・★・★

Henry bowers

-him and his mom used to hang out in the rain

-touch starved

-doesnt own a pair of matching socks

-made DIY brass knuckles

-has internalized homophobia

-he once got hugged and had a breakdown

-age regressor (0-4)

-punched someone for looking like his dad

-could probably kill someone if he wanted

-knows how to get away with murder

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

Belch huggins

-scared of wasps

-has a mary sue oc and gets mad when its pointed out

-has been suspended more than once

-his search history is concerning

-he finds otters cute

-calls missing child posters and says "finders keepers"

-has middle school boy humor

-once screamed like an anime girl over being jumpscared

-he's banned in new york

-listens to gwen stefani

-eggs houses in the winter

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

Victor criss

-he's trans masc and literally nobody knows

-likes board games (but he's a sore loser so no one plays with him)

-has a diary that he writes with a glittery pen

-canceled on twitter

-can't handle 1 gran of spice

-he got a binder for christmas and was so happy

-has a pet cat named whisker

-doesnt understand how glow in the dark things work

-the song candle queen by ghost and pals makes him think of patrick

-has a pet rock he named "dingus"

-internalized homophobia

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

Patrick hockstetter

-banned in multiple places

-a sociopath

-hates on everything

-for some reason he finds beating up people funny

-has been to a psych ward more than once

-bullies kids on roblox

-he's the gay cousin

-he used to bite people

-really good with weapons

-got compared to the onceler and got so pissed

-has an insane pain tolerance

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

Candle queen by ghost and pals/gumi

youtube

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

#it #it 2017 #bill denbrough #georgie denbrough #mike hanlon #ben hanscom #beverly marsh #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #stan uris #patrick hockstetter #henry bowers #belch huggins #vic criss #victor criss

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karniss-bg3 · 1 year ago

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I would like to hear your thoughts about Larian giving Kar’niss female pedipalps?

Personally I feel like it was just another f you from Lolth

Alright so, this is a complicated and detail-heavy topic. For that reason I’ll be splitting this theory into two sections: Technical Aspects & Lore. There will be a TL;DR at the bottom.

Technical Aspects

Kar’niss is a complex model and I imagine the rigging on him was wild. To my understanding his walking animation was done by hand which makes sense. His torso could be motion captured but the arachnid portions needed to be moved in engine. The best time to witness the separation is if you play music for him as a bard. His torso will bob and sway the same as the rest of the NPCs but his legs stay perfectly stationary. I do get a kick out of the idea of the Larian devs trying to put a tiny motion capture suit on a spider but alas.

I bring this up because the pedipalps add an extra layer of complication that the devs didn’t really need. In fact the concept art for driders doesn’t include them at all which suggests they weren’t part of the original design. A lot changed from concept art to the final version it seems. He used to have extra arms, his legs were longer, and his facial features were more twisted. His skin was also darker but it was either changed because he is a Szarkai or because his skin tone blended too heavily with the color of the chitin.

This would align with a lot of the concept art from D&D. There are many examples of driders without pedipalps, both male and female.

All that said, when it comes to the technical aspects, I have a theory as to why the original and final designs were so vastly different: Time. Kar’niss is one of the more detailed models in the game and even the final version didn’t turn out perfect. If you look closely at where his torso attaches to the spider body you can see some model tearing when he turns at certain angels, as well as what I refer to as “tubing”. I’ve seen this in a few games and it’s where limbs or portions of a body thin out to an impossible degree and they look like a squeezed out tube of toothpaste. This could be due to improper skeleton models, broken seams or rigging but as I don’t work in the industry those are my best guesses.

When you have a strict budget and time limit sometimes a development team has to cut some fat. They didn’t have the time to add in the extra arms, super long limbs or highly detailed face model. Perhaps they looked at the final design and weren’t satisfied with the lack of monster features. Thus, the pedipalps were introduced. But since drider are canonically sexless they designed the palps in such a way that they were made for battle; hence the sharp barb present at the tip of each. They are located face level for most races which make them perfect eye gougers or maybe they use them to subdue prey. Palps are also used to “taste” in most spider species and he could likely use them to discern if prey is edible or not.

“Pedipalps contain sensitive chemical detectors and function as taste and smell organs, supplementing those on the legs”

As for why they are female in design the simplest answer I have is that it was an oversight. If they were already scrambling to finish the model then they were likely going for the path of least resistance. Male pedipalps would’ve required a bit more work and either they didn’t think that much about it or chose the easiest design to model. I know about the Kar’niss is trans theory and I’ll be touching on that in the next section.

Lore

Anyone who has followed me for a while knows I’ve discussed drider lore a lot here so I’ll try to be a bit more brief in this section. Drider are meant to be sexless as Lolth didn’t wish for them to reproduce and rise up against Her. If Larian’s design of the palps were with intent then I believe we’re looking at Jurassic Park situation here. Maybe Lolth’s manner of birth control was to make all spider bodies female regardless of the gender of the drow who is changed. It would also align with the Matriarchal society drow come from as well as Lolth choosing to make driders in “Her image”. So yes, a “fuck you” from Lolth would be accurate in this case. The issue I run into is that Kar’niss is the only drider model in-game and so I have nothing to compare him to. I don’t know if all driders in this universe look the same or if there would’ve been a difference between females and males. It leaves it all up to pure speculation, sad to say.

There is a theory that’s been around for a while now that Kar’niss is transgender. While I think it’s a perfectly fine theory I don’t necessarily agree with it. It’s not because I’d be against him being trans, it’s more that I can’t find enough evidence to support it. For starters if he is trans, is he a trans man or a trans woman? We’ve learned that Kar’niss is a female name according to drow naming conventions and of course his palps suggest a female body. The name can be explained as an act of defiance as it is stated that if a man takes on a womans name they are considered troublemakers. If he is a trans woman, why would he ever allow himself to be misgendered?

There are several NPCs that refer to him as “he” and Kar’niss never once barks at them. It’s not as if he’s shy and in fact he’s proven to have quite the temper. He no longer follows nor worships Lolth and he’s under the protection of the Absolute, a cult that allegedly loves and accepts him. Why hide himself as a trans woman under these conditions? Especially in a game that is very progressive in terms of character creation and pronoun usage.

If he is a trans man then the spider body becomes a moot point. Did he transition before the drider transformation or did Lolth change his sex but slap on the female spider body as a way to mock him? Is that why he was changed? I imagine in a drow society where being a woman is a big deal having one that wanted to become a male, a lesser, would be the talk of the Underdark. I’m sure it’s worse for men who want to be women as that could be seen as “rising above their station”. It’s hard to say as modern day gender identity isn’t really addressed in drow lore.

There is a trans woman in Baldur's Gate 3 that the player meets during Shadowheart’s storyline. It can be easy to miss as her past isn’t revealed unless Shadowheart consumes the noblestalk Tav picks up in the Underdark. This is an excerpt from Nocturne’s journal.

“I am Nocturne. I think as her. I see her when I look in the mirror. I can't remember the last time someone called me by the wrong name - Shadowheart has been swift to gently correct slips of the tongue, and even swifter in challenging those who'd use my forsworn name in malice. I'm lucky to have her as a friend. “

While it seems she had trouble in the beginning, those under Shar came to accept her in time as far as I can tell. With this we can at least say that Larian has no issues adding in trans characters but Kar’niss doesn’t receive this treatment. Another thing to note is that Nocturne is voiced by a trans woman, Abigail Thorn. Where as Kar’niss is voiced by, what I assume to be, a cisgender male. In my mind if Larian would take that much time and care for accuracy wouldn’t they do the same for Kar’niss?

With all of that said if people have the headcanon that Kar’niss is trans that is a-okay, I have no issues with that or any other character! It’s simply a theory I don’t personally subscribe to because the elements don’t line up well enough for me. But hey if they ever expand on his story and he is trans that’d be cool. I don’t know if there is a trans man elsewhere in-game so it’d be nice to see that representation there.

Phew, that was far longer than I anticipated but I hope I covered the topic well enough as it has been debated quite a bit in the fandom. Once again I want to express that I believe folks are allowed to write and draw these characters how they see fit. It’s fantasy fun folks, go wild and enjoy your faves as you desire.

TL;DR: I think the female pedipalps are a technical oversight and were only added in to give Kar’niss a more monstrous appearance or to round out his design. I don’t believe he is trans due to the lack of evidence to support the theory. If Lolth had any bearing on the spider body it was likely to prevent reproduction or in an effort to make driders in her image. Overall, the pedipalps are more up to interpretation than hard evidence.

#baldur's gate 3 #kar'niss #bg3 #drider #karniss #baldurs gate 3 #answered #drow #drow lore #theorycrafting #spider anatomy #pedipalps #long post

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ladyiristheenchantress · 11 months ago

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Magic for the working witch

Hello friends! I recognize this is a break from my current content series, however I have been working like a dog recently balancing university, work, social life, and medical problems so I felt inspired to talk a bit about the magic I do while working!!

To preface: I work 3 jobs total! one of them requires me to travel, One is a remote desk job, and the final one is a waitress! While I don't recommend this lifestyle, it is the one that I and many others have fallen into as life has unfolded. First of all, to all my hard working witches, you freaking matter dude. Your boss may not see how hard you work, but trust me you guys are hustlers! Its hard to balance a spiritual life with everything else going on but today lets tackle that!

How can I cultivate magic, even with work/school/etc?

First, we have to find where the magic is within us and this is easier said than done. In previous post I talk about magical frameworks and theories and this would be a good time to put this to use! I believe that magic is all around and within us, we can harness it at any time, enjoy it! Even simply reflecting on the magic in your heart can be enough to feel spiritually fufilled. We as humans like acknowledgement, and when we just simply reflect on the magic around us then we tend to feel more fufilled but that gets lost on us sometimes.

Got it! What ideas do you have for me?

Lets think about jobs for a second! We have all sorts of jobs out there, desk jobs, standing jobs, hard labor, etc. I believe there is magic for every profession, type, etc, but that is a looot of jobs. so lets narrow it down to the three types I have experience with!

Travel + Speaking

these jobs include teaching, public speaking, management, and more. These jobs often are a form of public service but require an element of writing, desk work, etc. It also is somewhat a form of authority in the aspects of people looking up to you for information, conflict resolution, and more. Usually this job has a commute, a level of strong responsibility, and traits like leadership and confidence are seen heavily.

Witchy ideas:

As you wake up, get ready, and commute, give yourself a pep talk as a form of glamour magic. Bonus points if you make it a chant

Enchant your toothpaste to help your words carry

Keep crystals like angelite, Rose Quarts, and Pyrite close

Create a weekly spread to give you insight into the week so you can prepare as needed

Wear bright colors for confidence

Wash your hair with the intention of unblocking flow of words, and making things run smoother

Public Service

Public service are jobs like waiter, bank clerk, and floor salesman. These jobs require you to be informational, polite, and taking on a lot of side work in the process. Your job is to get someone to purchase something and help facilitate that, resolve minor conflicts, and honestly team work with both your coworkers and customers.

Witchy Ideas:

When you can: Don't wear socks with your shoes. A lot of dress shoes and work shoes can have hygienic insoles, and this can help facilitate grounding!

Create an oil out of a carrier oil, basil, thyme, and rosemary and you get a general 'workplace luck' oil!

If you work for commissions: Eat a mint, tic-tac, or sugar packet before work to sweeten your words to customers and get more sales

If you don't work for commissions: Place Vaseline or lotion on your elbows and knees to facilitate swift work and smooth customer interactions

Carry obsidian, super seven, bismuth, or chrysocolla with you

Keep a 'talisman card' in your pocket, pick a tarot card that resonates with your goal for work. My go-to's are the queen of swords, king of cups, the emperor, and the magician

Remote Work

Remote jobs are any jobs that can be done at home, and after the pandemic these jobs became a staple so many companies kept the position. These jobs could be done day or night, internationally or locally, and so much more. The best traits to have would be organization, punctuality, and perseverance.

Witchy Ideas:

Maintain a home altar where you do work to induce specific energies

Before a virtual meeting discussing important personal goals, set up an online vision board of what you want

Have a prayer or chant ready during a project to help it move along

Create digital sigils to deflect crappy co-workers

Use Tigers eye, ulexite, and yellow calcite to help the work day

Leave a tarot card on your desk as a talisman.

If you guys need any tips, tricks, or questions feel free to leave them in an AMA or in the comments below! Thank You! Tip Jar

#witchblr #pagan witch #witch #magical theory #grimoire #witchcraft #spells #culturalexploration #baby witch #magick #workplace magic #work #original work

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captainvastolation · 10 months ago

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Looked around AO3 and said “why the hell hasn’t anybody written Michael helping Gerry dye his hair??” and my first fic was born. 21k later, we finally got to the original inspiration.

“Fucking hell,” he sighed to himself and crouched to rummage around in the cabinets. He swatted at Michael’s legs to get it to lift them out of the way, and it obliged with a pointed look.

“What are you doing now?” It peered down at him from behind its knees. It had curled up into a tight fold on the counter much like it had on the couch the first time it had showed up at his flat. Gerry found the effect quite funny, actually. How it could go from something so large and imposing into such a relatively small ball was beyond him.

He rummaged around blindly, pushing past old, rough towels and half-used but long-forgotten tubes of toothpaste before his fingers brushed against what he was hoping for: the smooth edge of a little box he’d stolen from the chemist a few months ago, probably whenever he did his hair last.

In a few practiced motions, the various chemicals were in a small plastic bottle, and he shook it hard with his thumb over the top. His free hand riffled through the instructions and other nonsense in the box. What, no shit plastic gloves? It wasn’t that he cared if the dye stained his skin some, but he’d done his hair before without any precautions, and the deep bluish stains on his hands and nail beds took eons to fade. It almost made it look like his hands were unevenly rotting, and it was something he’d done his best to avoid since. He set the bottle back down to properly search through the few drawers under the sink. Hadn’t he had gloves at some point?

Ah, yes. The empty box laughed at him in his hand. Gerry of the past really enjoyed making things difficult for Gerry of the future. Presently, he was vexed with himself.

Michael’s question lingered unanswered as he chewed the piercing scar inside his lip. He glanced up at it, and its eyebrows still raised as if asking again what the hell he was up to. He sighed deeply and leaned back against the opposite wall.

“I need to do my damn hair, but I’m out of gloves, and since I get the cheap stuff it stains like hell. And I hate dealing with majorly stained hands for weeks.” He took another swig from the bottle of whiskey. It was nearly empty. “Guess I’ll just try to do it fast and scrub my hands while it’s processing.”

“I did not realize I was interrupting your regularly-scheduled grooming day,” it said with a giggle. It bounced in its bizarre echoes around the small space, but he found that he was pretty unphased by it at this point. Or maybe he was just still recovering from looking at it in the mirror and didn’t notice the additional headache.

“Oh, piss off. Guess I’m having uh, one of those…” he snapped his fingers a few times searching for the word. “Self care days! Yeah, that’s what rich white women call it. Why not.”

“Self care day?” It tittered back at him.

“Yeah, it’s when you do shit for yourself so you want to die a little less, or something like that.” He found a hair tie in the depths of another drawer and pulled the top part of his hair up into a tight bun. He grimaced slightly at the sight of it. Preppy did not suit him.

He focused on the task at hand, tracing the sectioned part with the nozzle, rubbing it into his scalp, moving to the next little section. He hadn’t realized until he put it up just how long his hair had gotten. Tilting his head to the side, a section spilled around to the front. It was damn near to his shoulder blades. Might not have enough dye. Shit. It was a problem for later. He’d already started; no stopping now.

As he continued working around the back of his head, he stopped to stretch his neck and shoulders. Twisting around to try to cover his scalp evenly was wearing on him, especially as the tipsiness settled into a comfortable drunk. Already paused, he tipped back the bottle and finished it off. Tasted like shit and burned going down. Between the burn in his throat and the sharp smell of hair dye, he reveled in the familiar discomforts.

He tried to turn his head in the mirror to see where he might have left off. He was trying to use his hands as little as possible at this point, since it would hardly be seen anyway. Michael’s soft laugh wrapped around him again, and he shot it a glance.

“Can I help you? You’re the one loitering in my flat watching me do this.”

“Oh, does someone not enjoy being observed? How curious,” it replied casually. “I find it funny that the Little Watcher has no eyes in the back of his head to see what he is doing.”

Gerry snorted and raised a middle finger to it, equally casual. He saw the first dark splotch sinking into the whorls of his fingerprint. Dammit.

It broke into a full laugh like he hadn’t heard before. It was a true belly laugh, with its head tipped back and its eyes closed. Its shoulders and chest shook with the force of it, and the sound deeper and fuller than its usual creeping giggles, washing over him in waves from every direction. Try as he might to keep a stern face, the unfettered joy was contagious. He had to set down the dye bottle and use both hands to hold onto the counter as he joined in. It was beyond ridiculous, every part of this. But dammit, for the first time in a long time, he was actually having fun.

“Christ, alright,” he finally said, carefully wiping the tears from his eyes with the knuckles that were least likely to have dye on them. “You have to let me actually do this in a timely manner, otherwise it’s gonna look even worse than usual.” He gingerly tapped a finger along the part to find where he had left off and was rewarded with glob of dye on his finger when he pulled it back. What a fucking pain. The acrid smell of the chemicals was getting to be overwhelming. He regretted finishing off the bottle already.

He stopped again to roll his shoulders and stretch his neck, sighing deeply through the familiar ritual. Push the parts that hurt, see how much more they could take, carry on.

“Gerard?” Michael asked into the quiet that had settled over them.

“Hmm?” He didn’t look up, still stretching his neck.

“Do you need help?”

Gerry’s attention snapped up to it. “Nah, I’ve done this forever. Just getting too old for my bullshit, I suppose.” He studied its face. No shit eating grin, no mischievous quirk of an eyebrow. Its eyes flitted through a series of barely-there pastels in an almost opalescent glow. “Besides, I don’t need you going all Scissorhands on me,” he joked gesturing at its hands folded in its lap.

It chuckled and held them up for him to see. “Mr. Scissorhands, I am not.” Like in Bristol, the fingers had lost their sharp edges, and the proportions were shockingly normal. He chewed on the inside of his lip. “Friends,” its voice caught slightly on the word. “Friends help each other, yes?”

#the magnus archives #doorkeay #michael distortion #gerard keay #gerry keay #sometimes you just need help reaching the back of your head ya know #Michael is a critter of many talents #Micheal please stop changing the dimensions of my flat it’s making me nauseous

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thebatfiles · 3 months ago

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What does the Dark Knight buy on Amazon? Spoiler: it’s not just grappling hooks and Bat-themed gadgets. Somewhere in the depths of his Amazon cart lies the true mystery of Bruce Wayne.

The Obvious Purchases

Batman’s cart definitely includes:

Grappling hooks (in bulk).

Industrial-grade rope.

Smoke pellets and other stealth gear.

Enough black spray paint to redecorate Gotham.

Night-vision goggles—because the Batcave doesn’t come with natural lighting.

Honestly, his Buy it Again section probably looks like a secret agent starter pack.

The Practical Stuff

Even Batman needs to take care of himself, so his history likely includes:

Knee braces and wrist supports (you know he’s not getting out of fights unscathed).

Bulk first-aid supplies.

Unscented shampoo and soap—stealthy and practical.

A high-powered coffee maker for those sleepless Gotham nights.

The Weirdly Mundane

But what about the boring stuff? You can’t live in a billionaire mansion forever without needing:

Socks.

Toothpaste.

Duct tape (a multi-tool even for Batman).

Batteries (probably for the Bat-Signal remote).

I like to imagine Alfred is the one restocking these, but there’s a chance Bruce Wayne has to click “Buy Now” once in a while.

The Guilty Pleasures

Let’s not pretend Bruce doesn’t sneak some personal items into the cart:

Self-help books Alfred recommended, like “Managing Stress in 5 Easy Steps” or “Mindfulness for Vigilantes.”

High-end headphones for blocking out Batfam bickering.

A treadmill for the Batcave because rooftop running isn’t cardio enough

And then there’s the occasional impulsive buy, like fancy Wayne Tech notebooks that he’ll never use.

Funny Mishaps

You know he’s accidentally bought the wrong thing before:

Pink glitter grappling hooks. (Who’s laughing now? Jason.)

A kid-sized utility belt that Damian immediately claimed.

A novelty Bat Signal lamp Alfred placed in the cart as a prank.

Alfred’s Contributions

Speaking of Alfred, you just know he sneaks items into the cart:

New tableware for Wayne Manor.

Organizers labeled “For Batarangs” and “Not For Batarangs.”

A subscription to “Better Parenting Monthly” (subtle, Alfred).

Bruce Wayne, The Public Persona

Of course, Bruce also orders designer suits, cufflinks, and luxury watches. You know, for keeping up appearances. But you know those items get delivered to Wayne Manor while all the Bat-stuff goes straight to an unmarked warehouse.

Batman’s Amazon purchase history is probably a chaotic mix of high-tech gadgets, practical supplies, and the occasional glitter-covered mishap. One thing’s for sure: Alfred deserves all the hazard pay for organizing his packages.

What random thing do you think Batman would accidentally buy? My money’s on “Bat Signal-shaped pool floaties.” Let me know your best guesses in the comments!

#batman #dc comics #bat family #justice league #comics

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rubydubydoo122 · 1 year ago

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Jason gets de-aged because I've seen fics of Tim or Dick being de-aged, and Bruce losing his memory, but no one has realized the potential for angst if you de-age Jason.

Jason was surrounded by green. Green that felt thick like jello, yet lucid like air. Green that bit at his skin like frostbite, yet burned like explosions on his back.

Explosions. Bomb. Joker. Mom. Dad.

Jason bolted up, gasping for air. That was the Lazarus Pit, wasn’t it? But what about the explosions? Why the Joker?

As if thinking the name summoned the demon, Jason could hear the laughs echo around the room. He threw the blankets off and checked the time.

6:13 am.

Weird time for a house filled with vigilantes. Even if he went to the library to get a book, Bruce would probably be asleep. Or by the time he woke up, he would have to get ready for work.

“If you need me for anything, it doesn't matter if I’m busy, come get me. I want to help you. You don’t need to figure things out on your own anymore.”

But his Bruce said that. Not this raisined version of him. Not that he was thinking of asking this fake version of Bruce for help. He was a big boob.

Though, if he got ready on the slower side, he could probably find Alfred.

Jason soon realized that he probably hasn’t been in this room in a long time, because all of the clothes in his closet were the same.

Wait. Something was missing though.

His runaway bag was gone. Why did he run away? The journal said coming about going to Ethiopia to find Sheila Haywood, but Jason would’ve assumed he’d go with Bruce. Not on his own.

Jason will figure it out once he sees the case report. There’s no need to draw conclusions when the facts are within reach.

He decided against changing just yet, because his clothes were really dusty, and he’d rather not be sneezing all day.

So he went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Jason and Dick shared a bathroom. It’s like, one of those bathrooms that connect to two different rooms. And if Jason remembers correctly, Damian probably shares the bathroom with them too. There were two toothbrushes in the cup in the center of the vanity, but considering that Jason probably hasn’t used his room in years, he took a new toothbrush from the cabinet under the sink.

Hey! Dick no longer uses bubblegum toothpaste. Is it possible to be proud of someone for that?

“I got eight hours of sleep, why am I hallucinating Jason?”

And Jason did what any reasonable human would do, and punched the person, because he did not sound like Dick, or Bruce, or Alfred, or any of the people he met last night.

“Ow! Ok! Fine! Not a hallucination.” the dude who looked to have permanent eyebags like a racoon rubbed his arm.

Jason suddenly realized he had a fifth sibling he hadn’t met yet, and punching them was probably the worst first impression “I’m sorry! Sorry. I didn’t mean to- I wasn’t thinking-“

And Jason and him just stood in the bathroom staring at each other. This racoon dude also looked really familiar.

“Who revoked puberty from you?”

“A lady with a magic stick.”

The dude just nodded. And then a smirk formed on his face, “How spooked is everyone?”

“Bruce won’t even look at me.”

Maybe Jason should get the dude's name, but also, if this dude thinks that Jason already knows everything, then maybe he can get some information.

“You’re gonna use this to guilt trip him, aren’t you?”

Jason thought about it, he didn’t really want to guilt trip Bruce, but, information . “Obviously. I’m just trying to figure out the best way to go about it. Have any suggestions?”

The dude grabbed his toothbrush from the cup, “You could get your Robin suit out of the mem-“

The door opened behind Jason, “It is too early to be listening to your irritating voice. I thought you would be at your apartment.”

Nonono, Damian would maybe ruin Jason’s plan to gather information, “Hush, child, the adults are speaking.” Jason turned back to the mystery sibling, “you were saying.”

“Don’t tell him anything about the past five years. Todd does not remember. He Probably doesn’t even remember your name.”

“Damian’s lying. Of course I remember.”

Damian crossed his arms“Then what’s his name?”

Jason squinted at the man hoping the faint trickle of familiarity would turn into recognition. And then it hit him like a car iron. “Tim Drake. Camera kid.”

Tim stopped brushing his teeth for a moment and tilted his head to the side, “I never told you about that.” Tim spat into the sink, “if you had to go out on patrol with the rest of us, would you be Robin again?”

“Drake what—“

“The adults are speaking.”

Jason spit into the sink, “I wouldn’t wear the emo Robin getup Damian has going on right now, but if my old uniform is somewhere in storage, I’d put it back on.”

Tim seemed to smirk at the Emo Robin comment, though he flicked Jason’s forehead, “If you had your adult brain in there, that would not have been your answer.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to be Robin anymore? Robin is magic.”

A look of pity crossed Tim’s face, though it didn’t feel patronizing. It honestly felt like it was masking another emotion from showing on his face. “You just, kinda out grew Robin.” Then he winced, “Trust me, a ripped 6 foot tall Robin is not a pretty sight.”

Jason suddenly had a mental image of a man in a Walmart Robin suit that was ripping at the seams burned in his head, “Why would you give me that mental image? I need to bleach my brain. ”

Tim just shrugged, “payback.” He turned around to leave and visibly shuddered, “In a shake, garter snake.” he waved his fingers over his shoulder.

“See you soon, fat racoon.” Jason grinned, because he very much feels like as an older brother, he would teach his younger brothers corny goodbyes. Though maybe he didn’t. Who knows

Tim had been out of the bathroom, but peeked his head back in and grabbed a comb from the counter, “Gotta run, skeleton .”

“ Drake ! You can’t say that!”

Tim walked away again, “What I say is fine, spiky porcupine!”

There was definitely a growl that came from Damian, but Jason couldn’t say he wasn’t laughing.

Alfred was cutting up some fruit by the time he made his way down to the kitchen.

“Ah, young Master Jason. I didn’t expect you to be up this early, considering how much adventure you had last night.” Though Jason didn’t see the way Alfred’s knife faltered momentarily.

Jason shrugged, “And more adventure awaits. I gotta figure out what happened in the past five years. Need any help?”

A wave of nostalgia hit Alfred. Not many other people in the house could be trusted to cook without burning the house down, and even though maybe Cassandra or Damian could be, cooking with Jason felt special in a way that would hurt if he tried to teach another one of his grandchildren. “Would you mind preparing the pancake batter?”

And Jason gave Alfred that smile that was brighter than the sun, before they fell into their rhythm, working side by side.

As usual, Duke and Damian were the first downstairs in their Gotham Academy uniforms. Alfred placed a bowl of fruit in front of Duke and a cup of chai in front of Damian. “How come Todd is allowed in the kitchen?”

Jason frowned, “Wait, am I not usually allowed in the kitchen anymore? Or is it because I’m not in the manor often anymore?”

“What makes you think that, Master Jason?”

“My room looks pretty much the same. There’s nothing to show that I’ve grown up in it.” he stopped mixing the batter, “Did Sheila Haywood get custody of me? Is that why I stopped being Robin?” Why must Bruce raise all his children to be detectives?

There was a clatter that came from right outside the kitchen, followed by a, “I didn’t tell him anything, Bruce, I swear.”

And then there was a mischievous smile that formed on Jason’s face, “Yeah, he didn’t. He didn’t even tell me why I was dunked in the Lazarus Pit.”

Bruce came into the kitchen and leveled Jason with a look, “If Dick didn’t tell you either of those things, how do you know them? Did you remember something?”

Jason went back to mixing, “You’re forgetting you’re not the only detective in the house, old man.”

Dick snagged a chocolate chip from the container Jason had gotten out, “He found an old notebook and eavesdropped on me and Damian’s conversation.”

“Though Todd does remember some things. He remembered my mother and I. And I suppose Drake.”

Then Tim came in making a beeline for the coffee maker, “I don’t think I count, gremlin, I was the boy next door.”

“No, you were the camera kid. Bruce, I was right . How many times did I tell you there was a kid following us? How many times did you say, hrf.” Jason put down the bowl to emphasize his point.

Bruce sighed, but there was a slight smile on his face, “Fine, Jason, you were right—“

“Exactly. Now, since I proved to be more observant than you, you have to give me something?” Jason was obviously trying for the teasing tone that Dick usually uses, but it came out less certain. Like Jason didn’t know where he stood with Bruce. Which was fair considering last night.

Bruce picked up on it too, and reached a hand across the counter, “Jason, I’m sorry for acting really distant last night, I just– it’s a lot different seeing you like this again. Though, that doesn’t change the fact that I would give you the world if you asked for it. You don’t have to prove anything to me.” Bruce looked around the room, and then glanced at the floor, “That goes for all of you.”

And all the boys just stood there, gaping at Bruce.

Though Jason was frowning and looking down. He shook his head, “But not… older me, right?”

“Doesn’t matter if you’re old and wrinkly, or too little to walk, I would give any version of you the world.” he had a hand on his heart, “but I- I can’t kill for–”

“No!” Jason had taken a couple steps back and had his hands up like he’d been caught, “I would never want you to kill someone. I would never want anyone to kill someone. Not for me.”

Bruce stood there frozen for a second. Everyone was frozen. Because the youngest three were suddenly given the knowledge that their older brother, the one who always seemed to be out for blood, was a pacifist. And the three people in the room who knew Jason, were hit with the fact that death and all the hardships Jason had to go through had changed him so much.

Though Bruce nodded, “Ok. ok, Jason.” Bruce cleared his throat, “What did you need?”

“I’m just… really confused. And no one’s telling me anything, and I-I know something bad happened, I just don’t know what and I don’t want to draw any wrong conclusions, so can I ask? What happened?”

The grief looked like it was about to tear Bruce apart. How are you supposed to tell your son that he went through hell and back. That he’s lost almost everything he’d gained in the three short years he had lived with them. How are you supposed to tell your son that he died ?

“A lot. A lot happened in the past couple years, Jason. Zatanna is coming over tomorrow to hopefully get you back to your normal age and all your memories back. Going over what happened during that time would just be…”

“Like digging up old graves?” Jason supplied. He must have noticed everyone flinch, “Sorry, that was probably a bad choice of words. Can’t I be given one piece of knowledge? I’m just trying to figure out how everything fits together, and the one piece I can’t seem to let go of is…Sheila Haywood? Did I really get a mom back? Are we close? Can… Can I see her?”

And the hopeful look in Jason’s eyes was an exact mirror of the look he had in his eyes days before he disappeared. “No, Jason.”

The hope in his eyes flattered, because maybe just couldn’t see her. Right now. “To which one?”

Bruce didn’t say anything,

“Oh. I lost another mami .” And even though Jason was looking at the ground, it wasn’t hard to tell there were tears pooled up in his eyes, “How?”

Bruce clenched his jaw and looked to Alfred. He would not be able to make it through any more of this conversation.

Alfred wiped his hands on a towel and brought out a handkerchief to wipe away the tears that had fallen from Jason’s face, “Your mother, she was being held hostage. And you tried very hard, you tried so hard to save her, but in the end… there just wasn’t enough time.”

“But, I-I could’ve been faster– I could’ve–”

Bruce rounded the counter and kneeled so he was eye level with Jason, “It wasn’t your fault.”

Jason bit his lip to keep it from wobbling, before burying his head into Bruce’s shoulder, and Bruce immediately wrapped his arms around Jason.

“It was the Joker , wasn’t it?” Jason mumbled into Bruce’s shirt.

Bruce held onto Jason much tighter.

#jason todd #batman #batfam #dc comics #red hood #dick grayson #tim drake #bruce wayne #damian wayne #duke thomas #alfred pennyworth #sheila haywood #dc #robin jason todd

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