#maybe some sort of pre-game thing?

[crossdressingdeath]

Now that I have everyone's responses to the "Durge was an Absolutist leader" reveal, I have thoughts. I think the whole thing works best if you tell the party about you being Bhaalspawn before going to the inauguration, because if you do that they're all like "It's okay, you don't have to be evil, you can fight your father, you have to fight your father" and while some Durges would probably be upset about the repeated insistence that they Mustn't Be Evil it's definitely well-intentioned and they want to support you. And then you get to the inauguration and they're furious about the Absolutist reveal. Which is mostly fair (Shadowheart getting mad at you specifically for not telling anyone when she knows you have amnesia is just a little unreasonable), but it's also like. all that support goes away the second they learn you weren't a good little non-murdery heroic Bhaalspawn like Gorion's Ward. To be fair, their anger and sense of betrayal are understandable, it's a hell of a thing to learn and I get the sense that the party really doesn't grasp just how strong Bhaal's hold on Durge is (I don't think it's a coincidence that Jaheira and Minsc are two of the calmest about the Bhaalspawn reveal or that Jaheira takes the Bhaal's Chosen reveal better than most of the party, they have more experience and so have a better understanding of what being Bhaalspawn actually means, but even they don't as far as I'm aware know about the "literally crafted from Bhaal's divine essence" situation)! I can definitely see why they for the most part react so overwhelmingly negatively, I would too in their position. But at the same time... poor Durge? I mean, they've just learned that they were a leader of the cult that stuck a tadpole in their and most of their friends' heads and is trying to take over the world. While the response to that would vary depending on the Durge, that's a heavy thing to suddenly have to deal with! And then the closest thing to support they get from the party is Minthara and Jaheira saying "Well, you fucked up big time but you can still sort of make up for it" and a couple party members not responding to it at all. The only person in this situation who seems pleased to have them around right now is Gortash.

...I wonder if that's part of the reason why Gortash chooses to reveal all of this here and now in front of the party rather than trying to find a moment to talk to Durge privately. It wouldn't have been hard for him to say "Well, I want to talk to the leader of your group privately and I won't give you any information until I get to do so," make it into some sort of power play or something and then explain the situation once they were alone. It might even have been smarter, since that way the party wouldn't be suspicious of Durge. But instead he spills the beans in front of everyone, driving a wedge between Durge and the rest of the group. The others love Durge enough to stick by them even after the reveal, but Gortash couldn't have known that would be the case when he told them! It doesn't make sense to deliberately cause problems among the party if he wants them working together as a team to deal with Orin for him, but it does make sense if his ultimate goal is to get rid of the rest of the party so he and Durge can rule together as was the original plan. After all, if the group decided they don't want a (former) Absolutist leader around and chase Durge away, where could Durge go other than straight to Gortash?

[sonknuxadow]

okay im definitely going to be away from home when sxs gens comes out i need to figure out how im going to deal with this

[cressidagrey]

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.”

[appleshy-king]

with few exceptions i don't ship any of the m6 with any of the princesses but I wanted to challenge myself and do exactly that; I combined a bodyguard au and an arranged marriage au and came up with this! - an au where bearing an element of harmony comes with a union to one of the princesses, and serves functionally as both a spouse and/or adviser, and a bodyguard.

been calling this either the harmony marriage au, or the elements of marriage lol

Rainbow immediately addresses the elephant in the room and all but volunteers to form a union with Luna; something she does partly to prove she isn't afraid of anyone or anything, but also because… look man she said she was sorry and she's gonna start her new rule with everyone against her - someone has to be there for her. Celestia especially approves of this union, as, even if these marriages are largely political, the element of Loyalty would make a true companion for a pony like Luna. Despite that, I think their start would be difficult, given all the ways the two are opposites… but ultimately flying by moonlight is just as nice as flying during the day, and the long stretches of peaceful nights give them plenty of time to get to know each other.

Cadance solves the unbalanced issue and forms a union with both Pinkie and Fluttershy. There's no limit to virtues that are compatible with Love, but Laughter and Kindness just have that little something extra that catches her attention, nevermind how stinkin cute they are. All three take to their new marriage well. It’s especially helpful that Pinkie and Fluttershy have a pre-established friendship that could easily remain platonic, or turn romantic or queer-platonic; there’s also the fact that Cadance herself was once a humble pegasus raised by earth ponies before being thrust into this royal life, which could be why they caught her eye in the first place. 

(Shining is still here, as someone needs to train these girls in the art of guarding, and their relationship is still active (although PinkieShy would not be considered his wives); bc if there’s one thing I’m going to do with the princess of love, it's show off some poly pride!)

Twilight would, at this point, ““have her choice”” between Generous Rarity or Honest Applejack; either would be fitting for her new title as the princess of Friendship, and both are good ponies who she could rely on. However, given just how much Twilight’s life is about to be upended with new, well, everything - ultimately Rarity turns out to be her best match. She’s generous with her patience and tact in a way AJ isn’t quite, and more importantly she understands the ins and outs of the high class, making her a real asset in Twilight’s transition to royalty. Nevermind that the two were maybe already a little smitten before their union even took place…

This leaves Applejack sort of “auto-paired” with Celestia. At first Applejack seems like a horrible choice for a princess who is practically a queen, given how very little she knows about this life, and the way the upper class look down on her, but it ends up that her more open/harsh honesty that would have maybe been too much for Twilight in her new role is actually perfect against Celestia. It takes Applejack a bit to learn how to hold her tongue in royal public but she learns to play the game in her own way, and her willingness to speak openly and bluntly with Celestia - in private - is so refreshing to Celestia, who hasn't had a pony tell her like it is in ages. That said, i think this learning curve takes quite some time to even itself out, and in the beginning they spend a lot of their marriage clashing with each other, though ultimately i see Applejack as a respectful enough horse that her southern charm does just that, charming the princess in a way she couldn’t expect.

The six are still all friends with each other, although given the sister pairs some of them see each other more often; Twilight, Rarity, Pinkie, and Fluttershy are a bit closer in that sense, while Applejack and Rainbow consider each other best friends. I’d be willing to say maybe something is going on between them, if i didn’t think that went against what the element of loyalty stands for, but there’s definitely rumors…

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

how do you think leona would do if he falls in love?

Here are my thoughts in bullet-point/headcanon form for ease of reading! Key word there being my thoughts. (There will of course be different interpretations based on who you ask this question to.)

Standard disclaimer: These points are nothing more than my opinions and I am NOT saying my opinions are any more or less valid or “correct” than yours. Please, I’m not pre-book 1 Riddle/j It’s fine to have other takes; just remember to be mindful in how you communicate differences in opinion.

To start with, here's how I think Leona would deal with the experience of first love:

Firstly, I definitely feel that Leona is the type of person to not easily fall in love. There are many examples in canon of Leona rejecting the love he receives from others, whether it be from his own family (Cheka, Falena), dorm members (Ruggie, Jack, Savanaclaw mobs, etc.), or other peers. Even though he desires others’ approval and praise, he also simultaneously believes the compliments are insincere or that he may not be deserving or worthy of it, that he hasn’t “earned” it. It’s also difficult for him to be emotionally vulnerable with others, and I feel that this would extend to romantic circumstances.

Continuing from the previous point, I think it’d be a slow burn. Like, the feelings develop gradually and manifest in small but increasingly more forward-facing ways like his gaze lingering for a second or two longer than usual, him getting slightly irritable when he smells (I 100% believe that smell is a Big Thing for beastmen) some other guy on the object of his affections, or simply… his mind wandering to them, maybe in a daydream.

A lot of it is Leona musing about the situation and then being in denial. He’s not so oblivious as to ignore what are clearly blossoming feelings, but he's not so hasty as to act on them right away. He'd sit with those feelings, examine them, question them. What is it that he is experiencing and why, how did things come to this, etc. He may even try to convince himself it's a phase or he's "too good" for this or he's "above" this. Really takes a long time to wrestle with his emotions and to sort them out. And then when he has come to his conclusion, he might not be very pleased with it because (as I said before), he has self-esteem and self-worth issues despite outwardly presenting himself as confident and in-charge.

For a while, he keeps his distance and observes. He’s nothing if not a big cat biding his time, keeping an eye on his prey until—BAM! Down comes his paw, ensnaring the mouse. It's like a game of chess or... cat and mouse. You have to watch your opponent and predict their moves, then plan your own moves two or three or more steps ahead of them. He'd want to gauge if they're already taken, if they seem to express an interest in him too, what they like and dislike, information like that. The last thing Leona'd want to do is charge in, guns blazing, only to be rejected and have his pride hurt.

He may also go out of his way to test the object of his affections by purposefully engineering scenarios to see how they react. At first, it's subtle things that could easily be passed off as coincidence or happenstance. For example, maybe Leona would accidentally bump his shoulder against yours or as he's walking by his tail flicks you. That's just the start though. He'd put more pressure on over time. Like he'd be more confrontational, putting himself in your path as some obstacle to overcome, still being sort of an asshole to see how you handle yourself around him.

Leona tells himself he has the upper hand, and he's usually pretty consistent about hiding his feelings to that end. It might peek through here and there, but they easily read as him being tsundere as per usual. I think that would be his way of coping, because deep down he doesn't want to admit that a part of him is scared to feel this way. It's something else he could fail at, someone else he could frighten away or destroy.

With time, I think he'd become more confident. He has a better grasp of the other person, he's been able to sort out his thoughts. But the thing is, his pride is still a major deterrent. Instead of coming out and saying it, it would become another game. If you've ever read or watched Kaguya-sama: Love is War, it'd be similar to that. Leona would push for the other person to be the one to fall for him and confess first. Part of it is he's kind of afraid to be so emotionally vulnerable, part of it is that he's desperate to be wanted and needed by others, and part of it is that he feels he needs to "earn" that love by winning you over. He wants that sweet, sweet validation from you. He wants YOU to choose HIM.

I think he expects a certain amount of push and pull. If the game's too easy for him, the (psychological) hunt loses some of its thrill. I think he'd also be the type to seek a partner that isn't just a blind yes man (despite him giving off the vibes that he wants to be in total control, especially in his own dormitory); they should be able to keep him on his toes one way or another, and they shouldn't idolize him in a really unrealistic way--because then he worries what would happen if they learn about his flaws. Would they see him differently? Reject him? Etc.

It'd take a considerable amount of time and effort, but slowly he'd let the walls around his heart down to let you in--but ONLY if you pass his tests and prove that you can be loyal, trustworthy, and cognizant + accepting of all his flaws. He has high standards, so he's pretty picky about who he allows to be by his side. I don't think he'd be happy having to like... put in a fake "perfect prince" act or airs for someone else. Pretending to be someone you're not in order to have love might be just another source of stress for him.

He would take a more aggressive approach if the object of his affections makes it obvious that they return his feelings. More "accidental" touching (but of course nothing that breaches into something they find discomforting), intentionally dropping phrases that come off as flirtatious, demanding to spend more time together, etc.

If they're not into it, he'd respectfully back off. However, that won't stop him from moping about it in private later.

Then, assuming a scenario in which he and the person he's romantically interested in get together/start formally dating:

I think he'd be a lot more blatant and shameless about "showing off" his affections and/or the relationship in general. Overt flirting at this point, casually laying his head on the shoulder or wrapping an arm or tail around you, etc. Who cares who sees? Let them know you're already taken.

Oh yeah, he's really into physical touch (within whatever limits you deem to be acceptable; he respects your autonomy). Cuddles while napping, hand holding, head pats, listening to your heartbeat, etc. It grants him a sense of security that you're like... physically there with him.

I think words of affirmation are also up there, however I don't think he would appreciate it if it's like... overdone. Too many compliments might start to feel disingenuous or even smothering after a while (what comes to my mind specifically is how he reacts negatively or with denial to his brother, Cheka, Kifaji, and even his own dorm members praising him).

As I mentioned earlier, I think there'd be a lot of banter and teasing; Leona strikes me as someone who likes to toy with his pre or puts up a fight; he still has his pride and won't take sass lying down, he'd definitely retaliate but in a playful way.

Slightly whiny and needy. Key word: SLIGHTLY. He's not going to go full yandere on you. I believe that Leona would be somewhat insecure about the relationship and wants you to validate him with your presence. Like, if you're lying down somewhere and try to get up to leave... he might pout and be all dramatic about it, maybe throw in a sarcastic line about how he's "a delicate prince" and how he'll "wither like a flower" without you.

Slightly possessive. Again, the key word: SLIGHTLY. He's not going to restrict your movements or demand complete control of your life. However, he might sulk if he like... sees some other guy hovering or getting handsy, obviously making you uncomfortable. (If it's a particularly bad day for him, Leona might get intrusive thoughts about being the "second pick" and his partner leaving him for some "better" guy.) We've already seen he can get pretty territorial when it comes to Savanaclaw and the Botanical Garden, so I think at some point he'd also step in to intimidate people he feels are becoming a problem for his S/O. It's not the case for every situation though; his partner should be able to handle themselves or let him know when he's overstepping.

I think he'd be a little more tolerant of things his partner pulls. They're the one exception for certain things, like touching his ears or being more willing to listen to their requests to go to class or to try this new vegetable.

He'd try to distance his S/O from his family, especially in the beginning. Leona would tell them he doesn't think they're ready to meet the royal family yet (especially knowing the rocky relationship he has with his family), but really a lot of this stems from his pride. Falena, for example, honestly might make him look uncool by infantilizing his "baby bro".

Leona doesn't really go out of his way to plan grand gestures (he's not Kalim). If he does anything "big", it's probably like sending Ruggie to your doorstep with fancy flowers and a notecard or something. What he values isn't the "frivolous" stuff, but spending quality time together (even if it's doing nothing in particular). Might still spoil you on, say, special occasions, but he generally dislikes making a big deal of these things.

I think he'd be into you wearing his clothes. It's an easy visual indication that you're intimate enough to do this, but also it cloaks you in his smell so every other beastman in the immediate vicinity also knows you're "marked". Leona tosses his unworn blazer over you, casually saying, "Keep it."

Speaking of!! I think he’d also really like the idea of marking (bites, scratch marks, etc.) or scenting his partner. Just animalistic stuff like that, y’know. I’m sure he could hold himself back if they’re not comfortable with these aspects.

I do believe he has the capacity to be very sappy, but I don't think he'd want to be at this level all of the time. It would probably be limited to private settings and done sparingly, sort of like a treat?? Cuz if he does it too often, then it might lose its "special" feeling, and I also feel like he wouldn't be open to being all squimshy 24/7. Usually his sappiness is sarcastic.

Going to keep it 100 here, he's going to be more vulnerable around you (especially in private), and that means potential traumadumping. That's not to say that he'd do it super frequently to go into full-blown details, but his S/O would be one of the few people he feels comfortable enough with to open about his deepest insecurities and fears. He sometimes needs someone to hear him out, a shoulder to cry on, etc. Of course, he's not going to treat his partner like an unpaid therapist. Leona just... needs some extra support every now and again, reminders that he's doing fine, you know??

IMPORTANT ADDITIONAL NOTES:

Leona being in love would NOT smooth out all the rough edges to his personality. He's not going to white knight/act like you constantly need his protection, he's not going to bend over backwards and do anything and everything his partner asks of him. He still has a will and he can and will disagree or argue if he's opposed to something. He'll still let you handle yourself as needed.

Leona being in love would also NOT magically cure him of his personal issues and struggles. This is also true of the other characters who have deeply rooted trauma, but I feel this point should be included as a reminder anyway. It's of course not his entire personality, but his past experiences will impact how he interprets and reacts to things in present day (hence him being needy/wanting validation, etc.).

Like all relationships (whether romantic or platonic), it would not be flawless. There will be highs and lows, fights and disagreements, etc. This is normal in any relationship; what matters is that you're able to be mature enough to patch things up afterwards and learn from those rough patches.

[mattsstarlet]

fully introducing…dealer!matt and goodgirl!reader

in which…your friend brings you along to a trap house party, where you meet the dealer himself.

warnings: mentions of drugs, alcohol, and suggestive content. no smut.

note: my first ever prompt is here! i’m not the best writer so i really do hope u enjoy.

your heart thumped the same rhythm as the loud bass blasting off the walls. as you walked into the trap house, the more you saw, the tighter your hand gripped your friend.

it was much wilder than you had ever imagined, or maybe it was because parties weren’t your thing. you’d rather be cooped up in your cozy bed with your nose stuck in some romance book. 

the lights are down low, and a small disco ball flashes colors, matching the pace of whatever rap song is playing. you scrunch your nose as you smell a whiff of weed and alcohol lingering in the air. 

 a bunch of rowdy boys huddle up over a table, playing some sort of game involving alcohol, though it looks like they’ve done a lot of drinking and less playing. as you walk in further, each corner is busy with horny couples sticking their tongues down each other's throats.

your friend looks back at you, tightening her hold as you two make your way past a busy crowd. she’s only been here a few times, but she’s already familiar with the layout, having some sort of relationship with a guy who lives here. 

squeezing past the sweaty bodies, your friend pulls you towards the direction of a couch. one of the guys sitting there raises his head, a small grin appearing on his face.

“what’s up, baby?” he lifts himself off the couch and snakes his arm around her waist. “y’made it.” 

“hi,” her voice soft and gentle. she motions to you with a wave, signaling you to get closer. “chris, this is my friend and roommate.”

he nods, “s’nice to meet you. heard a lot about you actually,” he smirks. 

chris goes on, joking about how much of a yapper your friend is. you on your end, block out their conversation, distracted by the items on the coffee table. 

teeny tiny bags of colored pills lay on the flat surface, as well as lines of white powder and expired credit cards. in the middle, cold bottles of high-quality alcohol sit next to an ashtray with stones of a certain green plant and cut-up brown paper. 

a tattooed arm brings you back to focus when it reaches over, picking up a pre-rolled joint and a lighter. your eyes shift towards the owner, chewing on your bottom lip as you take in the mysterious man.

the first thing you noticed was his stubble, and how well it defined his sharp jaw. the messy hair look makes it seem like it was made for him. it just fell perfectly into place around his sculptured face. 

“y’starin’ mad hard, sweetheart.” his low, husky voice snapped you out of your daze. “y’tryna buy or… jus’ like whatcha see?” a slight smirk appeared as he finally pulled his gaze from the joint to your wide eyes. he glances at your pouty lips, licking his own before meeting your gaze once again. 

you shake your head; the thought of trying pills or weed alone makes your skin crawl. it’s no secret that you’ve at least tried alcohol, but then again, it was just a tiny sip.

“oh, no thank you... I—I don’t do that,” you say nervously.

he chuckles lowly, “of course you don’t…” he mutters. he looks around, noticing chris had taken off with your friend to most likely fool around in his bedroom.

matt takes in your nervous state; he shouldn’t care if you'll be fine on your own or not. the drugs in his system have already been fucking with his head, but the thought of a pretty innocent girl being all on her own didn’t sit right with him—or maybe he was already making you his… and matt hates when people take what’s his.

“sit. lemme keep you some company, yeah? you...your uh friend dipped. can’t have a quiet little angel all by herself in a place like this.”

you clear your throat as you slowly make your way next to him. being this close to him makes your head foggy; he’s intimidating, and the scent of his spicy cologne mixed with a hint of weed doesn’t help either. he’s got this…thing that creates an unfamiliar warm fuzzy feeling in your core. 

you play with the hem of your skirt as you sit inches away from him, rubbing your slick thighs together. the action doesn’t go unnoticed by matt, his imagination running wild, wanting to throw you over his shoulder and into his bed. his cock hard as a rock just imagining your pouty face as he eats your sweet cunt out. 

matt runs a hand through his brown hair, trying to shake off the dirty things he wants to do to you. he places his rough, clasped hand on your knee. it’s light and gentle, yet it doesn't help the growing fire in your tummy.

“easy, sweetheart… i'm gonna be honest, angel,” he rubs your thigh in an up-and-down motion, going as high as where the end of your skirt touches his fingertips.

 “that thing you’re doin’… ‘s’makin’ me think some things… naughty things.” 

you stop the action immediately, your skin filling up with goosebumps as his hand moves to your inner thigh, not that close where you need him but close enough that matt could feel the heat. glancing at him with those big eyes, you mutter a little ‘sorry.’ 

matt squeezes your thigh, his mind too caught up in the way you’re nervously biting on your bottom lip, “relax, babydoll. jus’ sit back and be a good girl, yeah? i got you, angel.” 

he smirks slyly when you nod again. swallowing thickly, you relax your shoulders and sit back. matt’s hand moves higher, up your soft skin when your skirt rises. “there we go, gooood girl,” he praises, his smirk growing wider. he leans in, his hot breath fanning your ear, “y'know...i think we’re gonna get along jus’ well, angel.”

© 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗌𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗍

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a/n: been in my drafts for so long, i can’t keep hiding there. also feel free to send me some inbox’s about these two!

TAGS: @mbbsgf

[inbabylontheywept]

Babylon's 6 D&D Tips

I DM’d D&D for ten years. I started in middle school, and I kept it up until my sophomore year of college. This is my mini-guide for what the game is, what it isn’t, and how to play it well. So. From the top.

Tip 1: Don't make your main storyline time dependent. 

D&D is an amazing open-world experience. You can pick at any detail. Nothing is a non-interactable part of the scenery. If there’s a sewer manhole, you can lift it up and climb down. If there’s a house, you can look inside and rob it. If there’s an NPC that you meet at the market, you can follow them home and see their whole life. Their parents, or their partner, their trade - all of it. It will be made up on the fly by some sort of reasonably skilled improv speaker, but it will also exist after that. That’s how the world is built. That’s the secret sauce that makes D&D beautiful.

If your plotline is too urgent, it kills those opportunities. The worst example of this that I have isn’t even from D&D, but FO4. The game is clearly built around exploration and adventure. The plot is built around rescuing your kidnapped baby. There’s a lot of tension between those goals. The plot does not work with the game mechanics, and it's really, really, jarring.

Be wary of doing that. It's surprisingly easy.

Tip 2: Don't set up giant, epic, fantasy battles between multiple armies. 

D&D is not a very good epic-battle simulator. There are games that have streamlined combat mechanics to allow for whole armies to fight, but D&D is very detail oriented, and trying to control too many people at once makes combat slow to a crawl. That very creative DM who can tell you every detail of an NPC’s life is also just not very good at multitasking. 

If you really, really want to - fine. But you should be ignoring standard mechanics when you do so. Move to a “cinematic mode” and just go by vibes. And generally, take a moment to “get” the game before modifying it. If the kind of plot you really want is urgent, and involves epic scale armies, maybe look into different RPG systems. D&D specializes in exploration and small, focused parties. Using it for things outside of that is kind of like hitting nails with a wrench. 

Tip 3: Don't prepare your plot like it's a book. Kill your lore codex. 

D&D is a collaborative storytelling adventure. That's the secret sauce. Writing out codexes and trying to crystallize the world before you start playing ruins the collaborative element. It’s genuinely better if you build as you go. It lets your players give input. And it saves you a lot of time. Why bother trying to write up who the Mayor of Snoresville is if there’s a good chance your party never even talks to him?  

(I would also apply this to writing in general. If you want to write all of your world's lore before starting your book, you'll never start your book. And you'll go crazy. Fear the lore codex.)

Tip 4: Prepare your combats and your NPCS rigorously, but generically. 

This ties in to Tip 3. If you spend a lot of time preparing the lore of the Bandit Leader of Redgrove, things like his family history, or his trauma, or his deep-down character motivations, and then the party never goes to Redgrove, it all goes to waste. D&D evolves rapidly and chaotically, so building things in a modular, reusable way really pays off. 

So. I tend to have two big pools for my NPC work. One is a character sheet pool. I keep it small and focused. I can generalize most melee classes ahead of time, so I can have an Archer, a Brawler, a Tank, and some Generalist Infantry. That’s like, 80% of your martial enemies, done. Spellcasters are a bigger pain in the ass, but a few pre-mades thrown into a campaign pays off if you know your themes. If you’re dealing with a death cult, make some death clerics. A dragon will probably have sorcerer acolytes. 

My second pool is a pool of character mannerisms. Some should absolutely be practiced ahead of time. Figure out what mannerisms make your villain really pop. And if the party skips that villain, just move those mannerisms to some new guy down the line and you’ll still be fine. Nothing wasted. A lot of the mannerisms are going to be picked with no heads up when the party does something weird, like following a random merchant around for a few days just to see how they live. You can get through almost all of those extremely well with just variations on the 4 humors, the 3 socioeconomic classes, and regional dialects.

Tip 5: Give your players permission to inject themselves into the world. 

It is common for people to over-formalize the rules and responsibilities of “being a player” vs. “being a DM.” I think the most common way to phrase it is something like “The Players are in charge of their characters and their backstories, the DM is responsible for the worlds and its NPCs, and both need to stay in their lanes.”

It’s isn't just better to mix it, it's necessary.

Failing to share these roles forces the world to exist in a crystallized state before the campaign even starts - at least if you want to integrate backstories into the plot. Groups that fail to do this can often feel like the characters were born the day the campaign began, and did nothing interesting beforehand. 

So, for DMs: Don’t be afraid of trying to inject NPCs and details of this world into your player's past. Imagine that your party rogue goes into a town and finds a fence for selling some stolen trinkets. Maybe, have the fence recognize the rogue. “Gods of fire, it’s McClellan. I haven’t thought about you since the candy-rat incident. You took a real beating making sure I got away that day. Glad to finally have a chance to pay you back!” 

Now, the rogue still has a choice here. They can say something like “Ah, this guy is mistaking me for someone else, but I can roll with it to get a better deal.” It’s their character, and their choice. But they can also go, hey, I do know this guy. I was apparently part of something called “The candy-rat incident.” I can decide how I know this guy, and where, and for how long, and what that incident was. That’s not less control - that’s more! 

And for players: Don’t be afraid of injecting your past into the world. Maybe you’re a fighter in a wartorn setting and you run into a group of deserters robbing refugees by the roadside. The DM has clearly planned this as some vindication, some enemies you get to thrash without feeling bad. But you have different plans. You take your helmet off, and you look the deserter’s leader in the face, and you say “Jack, you saved my life back on Stone Ridge. You were a good man once. You could be one again. Ride with us.” 

Now that's powerful stuff. Do you even know what Stone Ridge is? Hell no. Are you gonna? Hell yeah. And what you just did was way better than the DMs plan of bonking bad guys to feel good. You changed the writing of the world, commandeered an NPC, and made the whole encounter far more interesting.  

Tip 6: Ignore all portrayals of D&D in the media. 

The best players that I get are people with no experience with D&D of any kind. The second best are those that are willing to drop their preconceptions at the door and just play. The worst are people that have seen D&D portrayed somewhere and are insistent on imitating the portrayal. The exact nature of the failure varies - at worst, they’ve seen some kind of tongue-in-cheek parody, like order of the stick, and then hyperfocused on all the worst parodied aspects as the whole point of the game. D&D is not about outsmarting the mechanics (which is trivially easy, and largely pointless - it just makes your own storytelling less fun), nor is about turning everything into shallow tropes about Horny Bards and Dumb Fighters and Insufferable Paladins. At best, they’ll have seen some kind of ultra-cinematic example of D&D played on a podcast, where the DM has a theatre degree and ever party member is a professional actor. Those people are nice, but they often have unrealistic expectations.

[doctormonocat]

Replaced

Self Aware! Rafayel x Unaware! Player

Can you guess which other game character this is inspired by? I will be doing a series for each of the LADS boys being self aware. A little angsty, once again. It will hopefully become clear, but this is a story about Rafayel, your favorite LI, becoming self aware, and eventually being replaced by Caleb. I just picked Caleb bc he just released, but Sylus or any LI released after start would work. Hope you enjoy! I'll prolly do a part 2. A bit long, sorry!

Self Aware! Rafayel who becomes aware slowly but surely. Rather than an instant moment of understanding, he begins to recognize new things in his world, things he didn’t understand before. Things seem… out of order. Time is disjointed, his senses thrown into a black void just as often as he is alive. 

Self Aware! Rafayel realizes he is a game character long before he ever becomes aware of you. His existence seems to dull with each passing day before he meets you. His life, his suffering, his love… none of its real. He realizes that he is pre programmed into a virtual reality. But he wonders, why? And why does he feel a sort of… presence? 

Self Aware! Rafayel who feels the presence everywhere. In his battles with his… lover? (is she still? Does he even want her to be? Rafayel doesn’t know. Even she seems fake now) There is an unknowing force watching him. Despite the oddity of it, Rafayel isn’t alarmed by it. If anything, it’s comforting. Warm. It feels like his first hug after a life of being touch starved. 

Self Aware! Rafayel becomes addicted to the presence. Comforted by the ever watching force. He looks forward to his limited interactions with it in that cafe everyday. His dulled world begins to spill with color. 

Self Aware! Rafayel who one day sees… you. You’re the presence that’s been there for what seems like years, the only thing allowing sunshine to pour into Rafayel’s darkened world. He preens under your attention, feeling like a deep sea fish seeing the light for the first time. 

Self Aware! Rafayel who finally realizes his world is a dating game. It's a bit of a shock, but a surprising comfort. You had become his everything before he was even aware who you were, and being able to actually see you everyday has only deepened his feelings. So, learning that you joined this game to date the characters, and that he is your main focus is a relief. He feels requited. You care about him just as much as he does you (maybe not quite as much, he realizes. Currently, you are his only tether to realness, and are still unaware of his awareness or his feelings. But, it won’t be like that for much longer). 

Self Aware! Rafayel who is aware of the other male love interests, but doesn’t pay them much of a mind besides the occasional twinge of jealousy. After all, you only complete their events out of a sense of obligation. But he is your focus. You pull for his cards, spend your in game currency on his outfits, and have him accompany you for card games and plushie hunting. It’s clear to him, he is your favorite. And he hopes that when he makes you aware of his presence too, that your favoritism will turn into something more. So, in response to those other boys, all he does is give you a pout the next time you visit him in your cafe. But, seeing your smile in his presence makes the painter’s grumpy mood vanish quickly. He loves your smile, direct just at him; teasing, joking, and flirting all the time just to see it whenever he wants. Yeah. He needs to see that smile more often.

Self Aware! Rafayel who wants everything to be perfect for when he confesses. He’s been picking up some coding skills on the side, trying to keep it hidden from you as he carves out a small place in his world just for you to. The perfect place by the beach, with the perfect light. The perfect gift (a painting of you), the perfect words to say to make you understand the depth of his sentience and of his love. His perfect moment. He’s worried he might spoil it accidentally though, with the extra attention he’s been lavishing on you. You’re just so cute, that every time you cheer after the two of you win a battle together he can’t help but laugh along. He’s a little tired of waiting, but he still wants everything to be perfect. He just hopes you can chalk up your excellent luck pulling cards and his extra smiles to a new game mechanic. 

Self Aware! Rafayel who is vaguely aware of the announcement of a new male love interest. Colin? Or maybe Cade? Who cares? Rafayel’s been your favorite since launch. Truly, he doesn’t pay too much attention. He’s too focused on making his confession to you just perfect. 

Self Aware! Rafayel who starts paying attention when he hears it come from your mouth. 

“Caleb is almost here!” You say, cheerily. 

Self Aware! Rafayel who feels his heart clench a little. Now he begins to remember the details clearly. Caleb. Thats his name. The jealousy he feels is a bit more papabile than it has been before with the other boys, feeling like a heavy stone pulling his heart down into a dark ocean. He remembers you playing that chapter with that… man… in it a couple times, but he dismissed it as you trying to better understand the story. He knows it's not because you want to see that guy. Is it? 

| | | | |

Self Aware! Rafayel who doesn't realize how black everything has been until he’s let out into the light again. How long has it been? He feels his body physically react when he checks your phone’s internal clock and realizes a month has passed. His world had become dull again without you at least visiting him; fake, and flat and just black. It scares him for two reasons. The first, that without you he might stop being aware, stop existing as he is now. He might start being like the other nothings that populate his world without you, pre programmed to run in circles. It terrifies him. And the second, that something might have happened to you in the time you were away from him. He is even more scared that something in your large and expansive reality might be able to harm you. With his dulled senses, he hasn’t felt your presence visiting him at all in the past month (that went by all too fast to him. Add that to his growing list of things that will keep him up at night.)

Self Aware! Rafayel who is scared now for an entirely different reason. He manages to use his coding skills in the brief time period where you are visiting to tether himself to the game outright. At least it will be harder now to pull him away from you. Even if you stop visiting, he’ll be aware. But with that, comes an even worse realization. You’d been here, actually. In the game, playing as usual. Just not with him. 

Self Aware! Rafayel who wants to cry and shout all at once. Who the hell is this Caleb, and how dare he take you from him (he tries to push down the feeling that you have betrayed him as well. He doesn’t want to fall into that rabbit hole of resenting the only thing that makes him feel alive). So, instead he blames this… usurper, who has stolen your love, your light, your attention away from him. 

Self Aware! Rafayel who has a plan to get your attention back. Screw the perfect moment. He just needs to confess the next time he sees you. You’ll throw away apple boy the second you realize you have a sentient fishie who loves you more than anything. 

Self Aware! Rafayel begins to slowly realize a couple of harrowing things. The first, that you haven’t visited him in a long time. The last time you did, his first gasp of air in over a month, seemed to be irregular, if not a fluke entirely. You were too focused on Caleb (the name still sickens him to think about) to spend anytime with him anymore. Who knows if you would even give him the chance to confess. The second, even more harrowing thought. Was it your attention, your love, that brought him sentience? If so, could that same awareness be brought to another? Would Rafayel’s competition soon extend to another man who knew of your existence just as he did? The third, that it might not even matter for him or the “colonel” either. You had discarded and neglected Rafayel so easily when a new shiny toy came into your view. Did you even see him as real? Would you ever? Were you even capable of that? 

Self Aware! Rafayel chose to push that thought down deep. He would cross that bridge when he got to it. No, he should deal with the problem at hand. Caleb. Just the very thought of him made fire burn in Rafayel’s veins and a sting like salt water in his throat. At the very least, he should deal with this so-called replacement. 

Self Aware! Rafayel who knows deep in his soul, in the very essence of his being that you love him. You’ve just been… distracted. Tempted. Lured. But Rafayel knows about luring also. He is a siren, a vision of seduction and temptation. Colonel apple can’t compare. Rafayel will use very weapon in his arsenal. His newly acquired coding skills will force you to see him, force you to let him win your love back. He’ll shower you with gifts, with digital seashells, in game currency, and his sweet words. He’ll hold off on confessing, just until his competition is not even a memory in your mind. 

Self Aware! Rafayel decides that even if that fails, he has other ways of convincing you to his side. He wonders what would happen if he were to alter the game code, to make Caleb repulsive to you, or even better, gone (the thought of messing with the game code, with the very essence of the world does still make him a bit queasy. Perhaps that will be his last resort). Instead, he wonders what would happen if he decided to find Caleb in his world. Maybe a recreation of a certain explosion might be in order, certain to actually find it’s target this time. 

Self Aware! Rafayel who is becoming desperate. He’s willing to do anything. Even if it means removing all other obstacles by any means necessary. You will love him again. 

After all, why wouldn’t you? With no one else but him and you, everything will be just as it should be. 

[eowynstwin]

Ghoap x reader. Autistic reader. Christmas angst. Allusions to Ghost’s backstory. Salacious use of ribbon. Soap being inappropriate. NSFW.

Soap fidgets on the train the whole way over to the light show. You don’t notice, of course, your earplugs are in, but Ghost, hypervigilant for the season, cocks an eyebrow.

“Itches like mad,” Soap grouses. He tugs at the collar of his sweater, a ghastly thing in fuzzy green, red, and gold, with LED bulbs embroidered down the front.

Ghost scowls at him. Soap purses his lips, not chastened. You sit between them, oblivious, fingering the zipper of your purse.

There’s enough cheer on the train to make up for their collective lack. More than one person wears a dumb Santa hat, and at least every other has on something colorful and festive. It seems like everyone feels some sort of Christmas spirit but Ghost, and it makes his hackles tense up.

Your hand slips into his then, smooth like silk settling over his palm. He looks at you; your gaze is fixed steadily ahead, unfocused. He’s not sure whether you reached for him to find comfort or offer it, but he closes his fingers around yours anyway.

He looks over—Soap has your other hand. Reaching to find, then. He squeezes.

The three of you wait until the very last moment to disembark when you arrive, letting the crowd out first. Ghost’s choice. The absolute last thing he wants is to lose either you or Soap in the stream of people flowing from the train—Soap will get distracted, and you hate it when strangers crowd you. This is going to be a trial as it is.

Ghost has to admit—once they reach the grounds, the displays are something to see. Together, you walk through a tunnel of lights leading you to the beginning of the walk, rings of warm white gently shining overhead, and Ghost, despite himself, can’t help but admire how it makes both of his partners look like they’re glowing.

Then Soap tugs at his sweater again, and Ghost bites down a growl.

“Oh, hot chocolate,” you say at the end of the tunnel, looking over at a cart laden with a few big steel samovars. “I’m going to get some, either of you want any?”

“Cider,” Ghost says, softening the curtness of his tone with the tenner he hands you. “If they’ve got any.”

“Coffee for me, hen, if you don’t mind,” Soap adds with a smile. You nod, and scurry toward the drinks.

Soap eyes him. Ghost knows what he sees—his back has been ramrod straight since the bloody month started. He holds his shoulders the same way he might if he had his rifle across his chest. His jaw has been hard as a cinder block any time the market clerk tossed “happy holidays” at him when he did his best to get away as fast as he could.

“Don’t,” Ghost says.

Soap says nothing.

This is not their first Christmas together, but it is their first with you. The sergeant already knows how Ghost feels about the holiday; you do not, and Ghost wants to keep it that way for a little while longer.

Divining your feelings about anything takes a little longer than it might with anyone else, but he’s pretty sure you’re excited, in your way. Soap, for whom pine trees and glitter and the smell of snow in the air seem to activate a sleeper agent in his brain that orgasms at the mere sight of tinsel, already has a Wellington resting in their shared fridge, and artfully wrapped presents crammed under their pre-lit tree. The two of you together have flooded the flat with lights, candy-cane frippery, crocheted snowflake doilies, and ski-lodge scented candles.

Ghost, for his part, has scrolled various travel websites to figure out if assassinating Santa Claus is something actually feasible. Maybe if he defeats the final boss of Christmas he can actually sleep through the night at least once this month.

It isn’t that he hates it, exactly. It’s just that Christmas, to him, began as a hazy game of roulette, wondering if the wild animal of his father would appear to ruin the exchange of charity-shop gifts wrapped in reused paper, and then solidified as an image reflected in pools of spreading blood.

The last happy Christmas, he had to burn down. That’s no reason that he has to ruin it for everyone else, though.

You return with three paper cups held awkwardly in your two hands, and Ghost and Soap relieve you of your burden. Your cup has a peppermint stick jutting up out of it, and you use it to stir your steaming drink periodically as the three of you proceed.

The path leads through an army of glowing snowmen in mismatched sizes, life-size gingerbread houses, past multicolor balls tossed across the top of a frozen pond. Trees banded with so many strings they look like branches of lightning reaching up from the earth. Electric snowflakes dangling above your heads from netting stretched between lampposts.

Ghost keeps clenching and unclenching his fist. His cider goes rapidly cold in his other hand, untouched. He probably can’t get his money back for it, but he’s agitated enough to start a fight and try.

Meanwhile—it’s obvious, you’re enjoying yourself immensely. You don’t say much as you flit between installations, running a hand over the glowing bulbs, tilting your head this way and that like a curious little bird. You take your phone out more than once to open your camera, and Ghost knows you’re saving pictures to put together a slideshow later on.

More than once, you look back at him and Soap, and grin wide at some novelty or another. Ghost manages to nod his head at you—go on, little birdie, keep having fun.

“Jesus,” Soap mutters, trying to scratch at a spot on his back for the third time.

“Fuck’s sake, Soap, just take the fucking thing off,” Ghost snaps.

“Canna,” Soap says.

“Why the fuck not?”

Soap’s mouth slants sideways. He looks around for spectators, and, finding none within eyeshot, lifts the bottom of the sweater.

Bright, shiny, very red ribbon runs in two lines along the naked cut of his obliques—down past the waistband of his trousers.

Ghost tosses the cider out of his cup and grips Soap by the back of the neck, throws, “OY! Duckie! Bathroom!” at you, and drags his boyfriend to the nearby public loo.

It’s empty, thank god, so Ghost wastes no time yanking the closure of Soap’s trousers open. The ribbon continues downward, downward, the V narrowing and narrowing until—

It converges in a (somewhat lopsided) bow tied right around the base of Soap’s dick.

“Soap, what the fuck,” Ghost says.

The sergeant backs up, and pulls the sweater fully off. It reveals a latticework of satiny red crisscrossing his chiseled torso: lines of ribbon accenting the curves of his pectorals, his toned abdomen, highlighting the small indent of his trim waist.

Soap’s cheeks flush pink.

“Goes further down,” he mutters, not meeting Ghost’s eye.

“What the fuck,” Ghost repeats.

“Was gonna do a big reveal when we got home,” Soap says. “Start stripping when we got the door closed. That rubbish.”

Ghost, incredulously, snorts, and Soap smiles at him.

“First time you’ve laughed this month,” he says quietly. “S’ why I did it.”

Ghost steps up to him and takes Soap’s chin between thumb and forefinger. “You fucking idiot,” he says, and kisses him.

The bathroom door opens, letting in a gust of wind, and Ghost and Soap jump back from each other momentarily, before relaxing when your voice reaches them.

“There better not be a handjob happening in here without me—oh,” you say, stopping short.

Shoving the waist of his pants down further, Soap turns around to show off to you the full extent of what he’s done. It gives Ghost a good look at the pretty intersections happening overtop of the muscles of Soap’s back, and the dip of the ribbon down between the two perfect globes of Soap’s arse.

You blink several times. “There isn’t a lock on this door, Soap. If I get down to suck you off, someone is going to come in.”

Impossibly, Ghost snorts again, and then laughs for real, a full-belly guffaw that comes out a little more harsh than it should. But you grin at him, and the line of Soap’s shoulders, which Ghost suddenly realizes has been as tense as his this whole time, relaxes.

He pecks the bare swell of Soap’s bicep, and then the crown of your head as he passes you by.

“I’ll hold it closed, duckie,” he says. “Do whatever you want.”

He only leaves the door once when he hears you shriek suddenly with laughter—to find that Soap has decorated his cock with a peppermint-loop of red lipstick, all the way to the tip.

“Fucking idiot,” Ghost repeats, and cancels his trip to the North Pole then and there.

[citruslullabies]

OMG. I SAW UR CURLY HEADCANONS AND I TOUGHT THEY WERE AMAZING!! COULD U MAYBE DO THE SAME THING BUT WITH DAISUKE?? :O

Coming right up hon!

Daisuke Mouthwashing headcannons

Romantic

Pre-crash Daisuke:

He's a silly guy

Constantly cracking jokes, trying to make you laugh

People wouldn't know if you two were dating or just best friends if it weren't for the fact he's a puppy dog with you

Following you around whenever he can, looking at you for praise whenever he can

It's kind of like the meme "no, I'm not calling you good boy. That mission was shit."

..other than he is a good boy so call him such

And boy does he love PDA

Well, not really

He just loves affection, public or private

I like to think he's just a bit more silly in public

Kisses your cheek and makes an over exaggerated pop whenever he pulls away

Daisuke was hanging out with Swansea, goofing off as usual. But he saw you in the corner of his eye and without a second thought, ran to you and practically pounced. Before you could get anything but a giggle in, he pressed his lips to your cheek and kissed you with a loud pop!

He's not really a petname sort of person either

It's mostly funny nicknames for him

He will call you his grumpasaur when you're grumpy first thing in the morning. I don't make the rules.

Post-crash Daisuke:

For awhile, he still acts the same. But his personality is a little watered down, y'know?

He's stressed and scared after what happened

But he tries not to let that get him down!

Although he is more clingy, more scared of letting go of you. One accident already happened and almost wiped their captain out, what if you were next?

He didn't want to think about that

It made him nauseated to think about

And eventually well.. he crawled through that vent to get to Anya

And he got severely injured. You couldn't bear to see him like that

You most likely died soon before, trying to keep Swansea from killing Daisuke

Begging and pleading that there had to be some other way

But it didn't work out in anyone's favor

Platonic

Pre-crash Daisuke:

You guys are super duper close!!

Lots of jokes and pranks on the other crew members

Constantly goofing off whenever you can

Not too affectionate.. the occasional hug here and there. But besides that it's all fun and games

He has definitely drawn on your face before while you slept

I'm sorry. I don't make the rules. He would definitely make an attempt at drawing a flower on your cheek and it look like a penis

He'd still giggle about it though.. maybe it wasn't an accident

He has definitely (jokingly and lovingly) made fun of Swansea

Just standing up and trying to mimic his mannerisms while you're laughing

..yeah, too bad Swansea was in at that very moment

"look at me, I'm Swansea! I'm a big smelly engineer!" Daisuke said in a forcefully deeper voice, making you laugh as he held his arms out in front of him as if to mimic toting a stomach around. Swansea in question could only look unamused as he cleared his throat, making you both stop in your tracks. Oh if looks could kill.

But yeah you guys have a purely goofy relationship

Post-crash Daisuke:

It's the exact same as the romantic, but the difference is, he tries to convince you to go into the vent with him. He wants to get Anya and doesn't want to be alone

But you of course refused, stating it wasn't safe but did he listen?

No

In fact he continued on to the vent and got himself injured

You gave him the 'i told you so' look but.. you felt really bad when looking at your friend. He was in bad shape.

And so you died a similar way

The only big difference is, you died after discovering him

Thanks for requesting!

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest.

A Perfect 40

CCF Spring Break Prompt: Sunscreen | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: M | POV: Eddie | Pairing: Pre-Steddie | CW: Equal Opportunity Objectification | Tags: AU, Famous Corroded Coffin, Meet Cute, Wet T-Shirt Contest, Gay & Horny Eddie Munson, Confident & Big Dicked Steve Harrington

Eddie is kicked back on the panel, his paddles piled up in front of him. He's the worst person to judge a wet t-shirt contest. He's not exactly a boob man. But the other three were thrilled, so he was game. He'll just give all the girls 10s and call it a day.

They parade each contestant out, wet, white tees clinging to their bare breasts and true to his word, it's 10s from him. Everybody's going home happy on his watch.

Then, Eddie finds a good reason to sit up straight. The only straight he'll ever be.

There's a guy, with perfect hair, and a skintight white shirt clinging to his torso, showing the thick thatch of chest hair underneath. And a slight softness at the middle, offsetting his broad fucking shoulders.

And then the swim trunks. The goddamn swim trunks. They're wet, too, and ain't hiding shit. The bulge that the material is clinging to is gonna drive Eddie insane, right here in public. He looks big. Eddie likes big.

He licks his lips, making eye contact with this perfect 10.

Then, Eddie's distraught. He wasted all those previous perfect 10s on boobs. Now, he sees tits. Manly, hairy tits, a happy trail showing through the white fabric, and that goddamn cock on display that he wants to get up close and personal with immediately. This is the one that deserves the highest score. The other guys are holding up middling numbers, fives, and a disgraceful three from Goodie, and Eddie has to act. He reaches next to him and grabs Gareth's ten paddle. And holds it up along with his own. Giving him a 20. 

The guy laughs, and it's not enough, he bullies another 10 paddle away from Goodie, and snaps his fingers at Jeff, who relinquishes his without a fuss. 

40. 

This guy deserves a 40, and Eddie's gonna give it to him.

And then he winks. He winks at Eddie. 

Eddie reaches for Gareth's 9, the next best thing, and gets his hand slapped in the process.

Oh well. 40 will do.

As far as Eddie's concerned, get this guy his prize money. His crown. He's obviously the chosen one. The winner.

One of the stage managers is trying to argue behind them that Eddie's cheating, and it's not allowed. Eddie argues that no rules were laid out that said he only could use one paddle at a time.

He's pedantic, but not wrong. 

They eventually stop arguing with him, crown some bleach blonde with big boobs the winner, and the hot guy is given some sort of honorary runner-up. A concession to try and keep Eddie's mouth shut.

He won't cause a scene, but they are the goddamn, dirty cheaters. Not him. He just gamed the system. There's a difference.

Then, the stage clears, and Mr. Body Hair is gone.

Leaving Eddie bereft. 

Backstage, they get their swag bags for participating and there's only one prize Eddie wants in the bottom of his cereal box. 

Eddie steps out onto the beach, and scans the surrounding area. He finally spots him, pulling off his shirt. Which, amazing. Less amazing is his girlfriend fussing over him, rubbing him with a towel, then putting more sunscreen on him.

Lucky broad. 

Eddie's about to turn around and head back, when she meets his eyes. And nudges the guy, who turns. 

He grins, striding towards Eddie, and there's a glob of sunscreen clinging to his nose. Eddie reaches out and rubs it in, paying extra attention to the pair of moles on his cheek. The guy closes his eyes and lets Eddie do it.

Goddamn.

"The real winner, robbed," Eddie says, "I'm Eddie."

"Steve," the guy answers.

"Well, you should have won, Steve. Rigged system. It's an injustice. Maybe a class action lawsuit in the making. I'll join you."

Steve smiles.

"They didn't say a guy couldn't enter," Steve quips, and that's the exact kind of disobedience and bending of rules Eddie fully appreciates.

"And they didn't say I couldn't use all the paddles I could hold," Eddie banters back. Then he reaches for his wallet. Thumbs through it. He doesn't have enough to match the original prize money, but he takes out the hundred dollar bills he does have.

"I'll pay up. Even if they won't," Eddie says, and Steve shakes his head.

"No way, I'm not taking your money. I just did it for fun."

"Don't make me put it in your g-string."

Steve laughs, looking down, "I'm not wearing a g-string."

Eddie's well aware of that, but banters back, "Damn. Ruin a guy's dream, why dontcha?"

Steve tries to press it back into Eddie's chest as he laughs.

"He won't take it, but I will. That's a month's rent, dingus," Steve's girlfriend says, and Eddie hands it over. She's been damn cool about the whole thing.

"Robin!" he chides. "I'm sorry. I swear she's housebroken."

She kicks him in the shin, and he kicks back.

Definitely not a girlfriend. Sister? 

"Best friend," Steve says, as if he's reading Eddie's mind, "Most days. When she's not acting like this."

Best friend? Eddie's lucky day.

"Well, in that case," Eddie says, really turning up the charm, "You wanna get out of here? I have ten inches I could settle up with."

Steve raises an eyebrow, challenging his claim wordlessly, and Eddie laughs, delighted at being called out. Nobody calls him out anymore. That's the price of fame. Yes men. Steve doesn't seem like a yes man.

Eddie grins, flirting, "Okay, I don't. But you won't tell anybody, right? That'll be our little secret. You and me. Eddie and Steve."

Steve's a good sport, that much is obvious, especially when he banters back, "Deal. I won't get out the tape measure if you don't."

"That's mighty kind of you."

"I wouldn't want to show you up," Steve quips, grinning.

Eddie glances at Steve's wet trunks, and just grins devilishly.

Oh, Eddie's in trouble with this one. Big trouble.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to read takes on Spring Break prompts, or to offer up your own!

[stemmmm]

Billford fic recs!

I was asked a while ago (i believe by @kerink ?) when I shared a list of the currently active fics I was reading if I could do a broader rec list as well, so here it is! not a ton of oneshots since I didn't try to keep good track of fics until very recently. will likely update this over time!

there is ONE non-triangle bill in here, but what he is in that one is vague so maybe he could still be the triangle. schrodingers triangle.

Collections:

Valentines 3K challenge (all explicit)

you know it. you love it. if you haven't read all of them though, you're missing the fuck out

Stan Bros Coffee (G and explicit)

the espresso-Bill AU! there's a bunch of little fics about it and they're all in here!

Oneshots: (most oneshot recs are in the collections)

Eternal Devotion - Illusions of the Heart (explicit)

have you ever read a horror story posing as a love story? are you interested in the most unhinged yet cohesive internal monologue ever crafted? do you wonder why keyhole suddenly became so prominent in the fandom out of nowhere? all of these and more await you in here. click the link-- i am a normal fanfic

touch and go (teen)

it's portal ford, baby! great exploration of what prolonged isolation does to people and has excellent bill being sweeties

Haha He Fucked That...Spider? (explicit)

again, portal ford! he's the master of getting himself in stupid situations, and bill is the master of getting him out of them in the ways ford appreciates the least

Longfics:

Theseus' Guide To Ruining A Perfectly Good Boat (mature) (complete in my heart bc i know what happens)

why are you still following me if you haven't read this yet. y'all know what this is

Then it becomes, it becomes, it becomes a problem (mature) (complete)

how bad do things have to get before bill finally chooses to cut his shit out? the answer may surprise you! during-betrayal fic where bill makes the ingenious decision to bring a third party into the mix as if that would solve anything. breathtaking prose, magnificent character work, and the best fucking bill cipher writing and analysis there is! SO funny, SO raw and emotional. Jan deserves to ascend to godhood at the cost of all of her family and friends. as a treat.

Property of Bill Cipher (explicit) (good as complete)

pre-portal character exploration. the only fic i think ive ever seen that dares to say bill was doing extremely fucked up shit with ford the entire time before things went bad between them, it's just that after the betrayal, ford viewed it all in a different light. handles bill's obsession with the guy so nicely, does not shy away from the scary and unnerving in just the way i love it! it's incomplete, but the story is really just a series of vignettes leading up to and a little after the betrayal, so we all know how this is all going to end anyways. this one is formative billford for me

Creative Solution (unrated, but i'd call it mature) (complete)

what if bill erased ford's memories of the betrayal and weirdmageddon happened? touches on what it's like to be in a relationship where you're both deeply mentally ill and insecure in a way that really, truly hits me. absolute masterwork of digging through bill's fucked up psyche and the ways in which he Can and Will spiral forever

Multiversal Manhunt Moved to Your Backyard (explicit, but only the final chapter) (complete)

set during weirdmageddon, bill and ford make a deal to play a game of sexy scary hide and seek. it's so fun to root for the villain. this author has an amazing grasp on the character voices and tone, this is SUCH a delightful read and despite knowing exactly how it's gonna end, the tension still keeps you at the edge of your seat!

On the Level (mature) (incomplete)

marine biology AU where ford is a researcher on a deep sea base and bill is some sort of eldritch horror at the bottom of the sea. writing is lovely and it's really got the slow, ominous horror vibe down pat. it's tagged for Alien(1979) references so i'm personally waiting for bill to violently murder all of these people <3 also this is the non-triangle fic i was referring to

Take A Chance (explicit) (incomplete)

handyman bill thats very focused on how poorly bill and ford are able to communicate with each other, and boy, theyre bad at it. lots of cute family shenanigans and overall a very lighthearted read!

Impossible Geometries and Biologies (explicit) (incomplete)

the only pregnant bill fic i'll ever read because its carried by so much fun speculative biology. really has you nodding along like okay, okay even if i might not agree, i can see what you're cooking. my continued interest hinges heavily on whether or not they choose to kill bill off but i imagine we won't know if that happens for at least 2 more chapters

[a-substantial-trash-pile]

mouthwashing responsibility au rambles below cut 🫡

(spoiler warning for the actual game obviously)

- even though jimmy got deservedly knocked out by anya and thrown into the cryopod early on, the crash still does happen. it's a freak accident this time, like maybe a piece of space debris just happened to hurtle right into them without time to dodge. it's like the tulpar is destined to crash. but this time it's a story about a group of people finding hope and strength in each other and finding what they themselves can be capable of in a time of crisis. btw i just mean curly, anya, swansea, and daisuke. i am NOT repenting jimmy. he ain't "fixing" shit.

- i'm sorry for frying curly again even though this is supposed to be an au with a happier ending 😭 the way his loss of autonomy reflects anya's own loss of it, making him feel firsthand the suffering she went through in a way, felt too important to just remove. curly's injuries aren't as terrible as in the original timeline since swansea rescued him earlier. and by "not as terrible" i mean he only loses a leg and not all of his limbs. he will get some function in his hands eventually and anya teaches him sign language to help him communicate (she teaches the others too).

- speaking of anya, she really shows her stuff as a nurse (even in the original timeline she does, managing to keep curly alive like that). she treats curly and swansea and is much more of a pillar of strength for the crew than she herself realizes. pre-crash and post-jimmy-getting-fired, she was able to relax and open up more with everyone, building a stronger bond. when the crash happens, anya is of course terrified and hella stressed, but now she knows she has people who have her back, and it helps. she can be more confident in herself without a certain someone being there to belittle and hurt her. this time when she has to deal with something difficult, something traumatizing, she has people to support her. in this au, she is not pregnant because if she was, i don't see how keeping the baby would be a good thing for her. and i don't want her to have to deal with that situation without the proper medical supplies on top of everything else. she's been through enough.

- btw there is no shipping in this au. i personally really don't see how it could happen between anyone on the crew. if there was some sort of spark between anya and curly, it's definitely gone now and won't happen again. the most they'll be are friends (although the friendship/trust will have to be built from the ground up again after everything that's happened with jimmy). the only ship here is the tulpar.

- i know daisuke is seen as a "dumb kid" but i really don't think that's the case. we are seeing him thru jimmy's perspective mostly after all and jimmy is the definition of an unreliable narrator. i headcanon daisuke as having adhd like me who tends to lose focus on tasks easily because your brain is just going 102929 miles a minute and wandering to all sorts of places like me. he feels like someone who doesn't exactly know where they want to go in life like me. also he's definitely a hawaii kid born and raised and talks pidgin sometimes like me except i lost the pidgin :(. i'm totally not projecting my asian ass on the asian boy or anything. BUT ANYWAY i wanted to give daisuke more stuff to do and a chance to prove to himself that he can do these things, he can step up. so that's partially why i made swansea burn his hands rescuing curly. daisuke can now be filled with Determination and be swansea's hands in repairing things as he heals. it's going to be hard and it's going to be frustrating for both parties and sometimes they'll get upset at each other. but it will inevitably be a great bonding experience for the two. i cannot resist the call for more father-son moments.

- swansea my beloved. i am so sorry for burning your beautiful hands please forgive 😔🙏 i have to make my faves suffer a little. swansea's hands will heal up eventually and he'll be able to use them again, but there will be scars. i think him having to guide daisuke with doing repairs n stuff on the ship as his hands recover gives him a mission. something to distract him from completely falling into despair and alcoholism. that man is hanging on by a thread but by god he's going to help get these kids through this. they've all grown closer since jimmy was sacked and swansea feels a sort of responsibility towards protecting anya, daisuke and curly as the oldest one there. it's the dad instincts y'know? on the real hard days, sometimes swansea thinks about cracking open a bottle of mouthwash, but he holds back because he feels he needs to stay strong for the crew. however he does have to learn that he can't shoulder everything and that he can rely on others. him having no choice but to have daisuke take over his tasks is a good way for him to learn that, i think. swansea is definitely a pillar of strength in this and the rest of the crew have a lot of affection for him (and vice versa even if swansea won't admit it). can you tell i really like swansea. he is such a foil to jimmy—a guy who has fucked up a lot in his life but actually acknowledges his mistakes and is trying his hardest to be a better person. aghh swansea i love you 💛💛

- after the crash happens, the cryopod room becomes inaccessible, so nobody is able to check on the state of jimmy in there. so they don't see that the crypod he's in eventually fails from damage and he escapes. this happens a couple weeks into the crash. jimmy is still pissed about everything and still can't see how he's done anything wrong (this is because he is a delusional asshole). in fact, he feels like he's the one who's been wronged and betrayed by everyone on the crew and he wants revenge. there will be a final confrontation between jimmy and the crew. spoilers: jimmy loses. i'm just undecided on who finishes it. it would be fitting if anya shot him, but i'm not sure that's something she'd necessarily want to do. she chose to be in the medical field after all. don't get me wrong, i think she would pull the trigger if it meant protecting the others. but i'd hate to have her kill, because even if jimmy deserves it, anya is a healer and would still probably feel guilty about it. i don't want to put even more shit on her plate. so i think swansea is the one to put jimmy down in the end. with the axe of course. i think he'd feel less guilty about doing it because it's something he's wanted to do since anya first told him about jimmy. oooh what if jimmy gets his hands on the gun, but daisuke tackles him, making him drop it, and anya gets it and shoots jimmy in the shoulder or leg or something to get him off of daisuke, and then swansea comes in with the axe to finish him off. that could be fun. that way anya won't have to actually kill but she'll still get to shoot jimmy. bless.

- the crew gets rescued eventually, but it's going to be a few months because pony express is a nightmare company. i'm honestly still not sure if pony express is even the one who will rescue them or even bother to look. i'm tempted to just have another ship happen across them by some miracle and help. real tempted to make that ship The Unreliable and turn this into a Mouthwashing x The Outer Worlds crossover quite honestly since both settings share similarities (megacorporations, cryosleep, etc). but idk. it's not like i can just write a fanfic or anything since writing is harder for me and who knows how long it will be before i even draw the idea. it's just yet another self-indulgent daydream for now.

[thatbadadvice]

Dear Advisor,

I tend to be a very reserved and shy person so making friends is super hard. Recently I’ve been wanting to socialize more , but I genuinely don’t know how. Is there any advice that you have that can make me look more approachable and not be scared to talk to people. I’m so stressed about being alone and not having any friends, but I just find it so hard to go up to people and make a conversation. I tried once but it became super awkward. I just really need good advice from someone on how to approach a person and continue a conversation.

Dear Awkward Anonymous,

It would be so easy to get into a whole deep let's-skeetshoot-therapy-on-the-internet session and try to help a total stranger unpack all of the GA-FUCKING-ZILLION ways in which social awkwardness shows up in a person's life. It seems easy, and it even seems meaningful and worthwhile, but to do so I would have to presume a bunch about your life, and make a bunch of assumptions about the ways in which my own experiences maybe/probably track with yours, and it would be a whole big wank-fest, and frankly ... it would be awkward. I'd be like you, standing there at the party, hoping that what I'm saying resonates or lands or even vaguely tracks with anything a stranger has ever known or experienced, presuming (probably rightly!) that it doesn't, and then flailing and blaming myself when I didn't emerge from the interaction with all the world's gold stars.

So here's what: stop talking to other people as a primary social occupation. Going up to people and just talking is fucking terrifying. The Bad Advisor says this as a Certified Extrovert™ who rarely shuts the fuck up.

Instead, find a thing to do with other people that involves some sort of task or goal or activity. Talk about the thing you're doing together, when you're doing it. If it feels okay, maybe introduce one or two of your own relatable-to-the-activity experiences in the process. See who picks up on it. Ask the people who pick up on it genuinely interested questions in response. This is what we awkward people call: engineering a conversation. It is the way, I am told, humans make connections with other humans. I have seen it work in my own life.

Depending on where you live and your ability level and skill set, I bet you have some options! You could seek out an open board game night, pub quiz session, knitting/quilting circle, or mutual aid meetup that's looking for volunteers. Especially look for social activities with strangers that involve a dedicated, pre-prescribed activity (such as a hiking or mall-walking group, stuffing envelopes for a political candidate or cause you care about, planting trees at your local park, or tasting tea/wine/beer/etc.). (Somebody is going to say join a ballroom dancing club or suchlike; I am personally terrified of this, but if you have a higher tolerance for strangers touching you and fewer than two left feet: it's literally an option. Line-dancing, on the other hand ... absofuckinglutely.)

Even if what's available in your area isn't your precise and specific interest, it might be worthwhile to check out something you are decidedly meh about -- you might not be the only meh person there. You can bond over shit that's boring or shitty with other people who find it boring or shitty! Some of my best friends, arguably my very best friends, came out of experiences we mutually loathed or found at least moderately and mutually miserable.

Consider especially finding an activity where you yourself are the manager of operations and/or have a designated task to take care of that is unique to your position! This doesn't have to be complicated or skill-dependent; can you become a voter registrar in your area? Well, bam! You've got paperwork people have to fill out and a good reason to jibber-jabber with folks who have to ask you the questions. Other ideas: join your local neighborhood association board, become a notary public, or see if your local pet rescue is looking for intake line volunteers. Do you have a trustworthy, especially outgoing friend who might agree to play "social glue" for you a couple of times at their activity-centric events? Make it explicit! Ask them if they'll play friendly wing-person for you at their D&D game, fantasy sports league, or some such.

Alternately: Do you have a unique and fun and shareable skillset you can share with others? Are you pretty good at drawing, programming? Simply a font of endless Merlin or NFL or Real Housewives knowledge? You might start a local Discord or other online social group to discuss and share your interests, then move it to the real world in a few weeks once folks get comfortable. You get the idea.

Most of all: Look for stuff that has more-than-just-talking opportunities available outside the designated group jam for you to maintain connections. Perhaps a group chat, a Discord, a Slack, what-have-you, where you can take more time to consider and draft your responses and posts? Connections with humans get made a thousand ways, and talking raw-dog with strangers is but one.

It takes a true social unicorn to be simply good at talking and only talking to other people. There are some of these one-horned wonders out there, to be sure — but let me assure you that the vast majority of folks want to be accepted and seen just as much as you do, and they're staring at the ceiling at night thinking just as much (more, probably) about all the weird, wonky shit they themselves threw at you than they are anything you ever said to them.

[xgryffinwhore]

You should do a enemies to lovers kind of thing. Like Johnny and the reader are enemies but everyone knows they like each other. The reader is like this girly rich girl and she acts disgusted by Johnny when in reality, you know😭 It can be a smut or whatever, I’ just loving the Johnny five you’re feeding us

All attitude, no brains(pt 1?)

Summary: Johnny and the reader really "hate" each other...

Warnings: Drinking, smut

Word Count: 8.2k

The sun’s dipping low over the California coastline, painting the sky orange and pink. Music’s blaring from a boombox someone set up near the volleyball net, and the Cobra Kai crew is camped out on the sand. Johnny Lawrence leans against his dirt bike, arms crossed, a cocky grin on his face as he surveys the scene. He’s got his trademark swagger, a little smirk that makes people either love him or hate him—and he’s used to both.

Across the beach, she’s perched on a striped lounge chair, sipping from a soda can with a straw, legs crossed, looking like she just walked out of some glossy magazine ad. Her laugh cuts through the music, light and sweet, and for a second, Johnny’s eyes linger.

“Man, you’re staring again,” Tommy says, nudging him in the ribs. “You gonna make a move or just keep drooling?”

Johnny shoves him off with a scoff. “Yeah, right. Like I’d waste my time on her.”

Tommy grins. “Sure, bro. Whatever you say.”

Meanwhile, over on her side of the beach, the teasing isn’t much different.

“Johnny Lawrence, really?” one of her friends says with a dramatic eye roll. “That guy’s a total tool. All attitude, no brains.”

She shrugs, tilting her sunglasses down to glance his way for half a second. “He’s harmless. Besides, I’ve got better things to worry about.”

“Uh-huh,” her friend says, smirking. “So that’s why you’re practically blushing every time he looks over here?”

Before she can come up with a snarky comeback, Johnny saunters over, his hands shoved in his pockets, the picture of smug confidence. His friends stay back, watching with grins on their faces like they already know how this is gonna go.

“Hey, Princess,” Johnny says, stopping just close enough to tower over her a little. His voice is dripping with mockery, but there’s a glint in his eye that’s hard to miss. “You having fun slumming it with the rest of us, or did Daddy cut off your country club allowance?”

She looks up at him, unfazed, and arches an eyebrow. “Funny. I didn’t realize the beach came with free entertainment. You’re like a walking punchline.”

His grin widens, and he steps a little closer. “You think you’re real cute, don’t you?”

She stands, dusting off her skirt, and meets his gaze with a smirk of her own. “I don’t think, Johnny. I know. And trust me, I wouldn’t waste my time trying to impress you.”

The tension between them is as thick as the ocean air, but neither of them breaks. Around them, their friends are stifling laughter, exchanging knowing looks like this is the most predictable thing they’ve ever seen.

Johnny leans in slightly, his voice low so only she can hear. “You keep telling yourself that, Princess. But we both know you’d miss me if I wasn’t around.”

She doesn’t respond right away—just gives him a look that says he might be right. Or maybe he’s just imagining it.

“Keep dreaming, Lawrence,” she says, brushing past him, but the faintest smile tugs at her lips.

And Johnny? He’s already grinning, watching her walk away.

Over the next few weeks, Johnny and the girl find themselves in a strange kind of routine. They don’t hang out, and they don’t exactly avoid each other either. They just sort of… orbit around each other, like two planets that can’t quite decide whether to collide or keep their distance.

Every time they cross paths, it's like a battle of wits, a game of trying to outdo each other with the wittiest comebacks or the most sarcastic remarks.

The sun blazes over the school parking lot, it's the first week of senior year and everyone is buzzing. Their friend groups are close in proximity, She pretends he’s not there. He pretends he’s not staring. 

Johnny’s leaning against the hood of his car, sunglasses on, arms crossed. His friends are next to him, throwing around a ball, teasing him about something—but he’s not paying attention. His eyes are locked on her, watching the way she laughs with her friends, the sunlight catching in her hair.

"Oh yea, you really hate her" Bobby teases, noticing Johnny staring. The rest of the cobra's join in on the giggles. 

Johnny snaps out of it, tearing his eyes away from her to glare at his friends. “Shut up, man. You wouldn’t know the first thing about women.”

His friends just grin wider, shoving him playfully. They know.

Dutch leans in closer, loving how easy it is to get under his skin. They all knew he didn't really hate her. "And what dont we know, exactly?" Dutch adds fuel. 

"Look, just… lay off, alright? I don’t wanna hear it." Johnny looks back at her, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. He can’t help it. She’s just so goddamn infuriating and charming at the same time.

She steals a look at him, blushing when their eyes meet. She quickly looks away, she hated how easy it was for her to crumble under his gaze. "Slick, really slick" one of her friends teased, she shot her a glare that could kill.

Johnny’s lips curve into a cocky grin. He knows she’s looking and he loves every second of it. He gives a little salute, winking before turning back to his boys.

Bobby raises an eyebrow. “You two are so full of it. Just admit it already.”

Johnny shoves him away, scoffing. “Admit what?”

"That you love how she can give it back to you, you want her bad" Bobby exclaims, the bell rings and they begin to head inside.

Johnny scoffs. “She’s a snob, a total know-it-all. No way I’d want to be caught dead with her.”

Tommy claps him on the shoulder, grinning. “Keep telling yourself that, Johnny. But we all see right through you.”

The crowd of high schoolers head inside, spreading off into their classes. Unfortunately- or fortunately for her, her first class was calculus, with Johnny. He sat a few rows behind her, always in the back of the room.

Johnny’s sitting in his usual spot in the back, trying to look interested as the teacher drones on about equations that might as well be ancient hieroglyphics. Across the room, she’s taking diligent notes, her pen moving lightning fast as she makes sense of the gibberish on the board.

He can’t help himself. He watches her, mesmerized by how focused and confident she looks. Why does she have to be so good at everything?

"And would the answer be A,B, or C?" the teacher asks, no one raises their hand. She looks around, her hand slowly comes up and the teacher immediately calls on her. "It would be C," the teacher gives a knowing nod, she got it right, she always does. 

Johnny can’t help but grin to himself. Of course she got it right. She’s probably the only one in this room who actually enjoys this nerdy crap. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms, still staring at her.

She moves her hair over her shoulder, locking eyes with him once again and moving her head back to the front of the room faster than the speed of light. 

The teacher asks another question, and just like before, she’s the first one with her hand in the air—and of course, she gets it right. The teacher smiles, clearly impressed. Johnny leans over to his friends beside him. “Showoff,” he mutters, but there’s a hint of admiration in his eyes.

His friends snicker, she pretends to not hear. The bell rings, she packs up her stuff and slings her bag over her shoulder, heading to her next class.

Johnny catches up to her in the hallway, matching her stride. “So, how does it feel to be the teacher's pet? Bet they'll just hand you your diploma now, won't they?”

She rolls her eyes, trying hard to fight off a smirk, instead feigning an annoyed look. "You know, if you stopped doodling skulls- or whatever you do instead of paying attention- it's easier than you'd think" she says. "But I'm pretty sure you've got brain damage from karate, so I don't see that in the cards for you." 

Johnny scoffs. “Oh, real clever, Princess. But you don’t know me. You don’t know the first thing about karate or my brain.”

He glances down at the books in her hands. “Maybe you should stick to your textbooks and I’ll keep knocking people out with my fists. At least one of us is having fun.”

They come up to her next class, her preppy friends already inside, noticing the two of them. "Yeah Johnny, wearing a leather jacket and pushing guys on a matt *totally* makes you look cool" she bites, walking into class, a smirk spreading as she turns away from him.

Johnny clenches his jaw, watching her walk away. He wants to come up with some witty retort, something to wipe that stupid smirk off her face. But the bell’s ringing and he’s got to get to P.E.

He shakes his head, muttering to himself. “Unbelievable.”

Their friends are watching from their lockers, rolling their eyes and laughing. “You two are gonna end up killing each other, or making out. I can’t decide which one is worse.”

Johnny storms past the guys, grabbing his gym bag from his locker and slamming the door. "Would you guys shut up? She's nothing to me, alright? Jesus."

Johnny's in a mood for the rest of the day, trying to shake off his encounter with her. He barely pays attention in his classes, his mind still on their little argument. And every time they run into each other in the hallways, he shoots her a glare that could kill. But the more he tries to ignore her, the more his thoughts keep drifting back to her. It pisses him off.

Finally, the last bell rings and Johnny's practically sprinting out of school. He's desperate to burn off the frustration of this day and to maybe, just maybe, keep his mind off of her.

She unlocks her car, her eyes lingering on him and his bike for a second too long. She shakes it off, getting into her car.

But he notices. Of course he does. His eyes linger on her for a beat too long before finally revving his engine and taking off, tearing out of the lot. God, what is she doing to him?

He rides faster, weaving in and out of traffic. The wind's in his face and the pavement flies beneath his wheels but he can't shake her from his thoughts. And as the sun starts to set, casting a warm glow over the city, he realizes he's headed in the same direction as her.

She pulls into the beach parking lot, she comes here sometimes to think about things. As of recently, it's always been about him ,her feelings are battling it out like a world war in her heart. She turns off her car, sighing as she slumps back into her seat. 

Johnny's bike rumbles into the lot a moment later. He spots her car on the opposite end and curses under his breath, but he doesn't leave. Something pulls him toward her, the same way it always does.

She gets out of her car, not noticing him, as she walks down the hill to the water. She needed a walk to clear her head.

Johnny watches her walk to the water, her hair blowing in the breeze. Against his better judgment, he finds himself following her. He can't help it. He's drawn to her, like a moth to a flame, even though he knows he shouldn't be.

She gets out of her car, not noticing him, as she walks down the hill to the water. She needed a walk to clear her head.

He stays a fair distance behind her, hidden behind a cluster of beach grass. He has no idea what he's doing, what he's even hoping for. He just wants to be near her, to hear her voice again, even if it's just to insult him.

She senses someone is near, she peaks behind her and sees him, her heart nearly stops. 

Johnny freezes when he sees her look back at him. He can't tell if she's angry or confused or what. He waits for her to say something, anything.

"What the hell, Johnny?" she shouts, the distance is pulverizing. She didn't know why he was following her, and why she was sort of happy about it.

“What, I can't be here?” Johnny shouts back, slowly coming out from behind the grass. He shoves his hands in his pockets, standing his ground. “You don't own this beach.”

Johnny follows, his boots sinking into the soft sand with each step. They walk in silence for a few moments, the tension crackling in the air between them. Finally, he speaks up, his voice softer than before.

"Why do you always have to be such a pain in the ass?"

"That is really rich coming from you, Lawrence" her tone laced with venom. 

Johnny rolls his eyes, kicking at the sand. "You know, for someone who hates my guts, you sure seem to love picking fights with me."

"Shut up," she urges.

Johnny grins, shaking his head. "See? That's exactly what I mean. You can't resist trying to get the last word, can you?"

She shrugs, feeling a little defeated at how on point he was. "So?"

Johnny shrugs back. "Just saying. Maybe you enjoy arguing with me more than you let on." He shoots her a playful grin, trying to bait her.

She shakes her head, she can't believe him. "No, It's because I can't stand you."

Johnny smirks, raising an eyebrow. "Then why haven't you walked away yet?"

She steps back, "You followed me."

Johnny takes a step closer, meeting her gaze. "I know I did. But you could've told me to leave the second you saw me, and you didn't. So, here we are."

His eyes look just like the ocean, she couldn't unwind herself from his trap even if she wanted to. "Fine, Leave" she shrugged

Johnny hesitates, his eyes locked on hers. He could leave. He knows that. But he doesn't want to. And judging by the way she's looking at him, she doesn't want him to either. 

He takes another step closer, their faces inches apart. "You really want me to?" he asks.

"Y-yes" her voice betrays her, her face giving her true feeling away.

"Liar." The word leaves his lips in a low rumble, barely a whisper between them. The air around them is charged with a newfound tension that neither of them can ignore.

Johnny's hand slowly comes up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch is gentle, almost reverent.

.HIs touch makes her tremble, his calloused hands so close to her perfect soft skin. The brain of her existence, the boy that she hated, making her stomach tie in knots. She closed her eyes, leaning into the action

Johnny's gaze is fixed on her, his thumb lingering on her cheek for a moment too long. He's caught in her orbit, pulled in by her magnetism. He leans in closer, his breath hot on her skin, and for a split second, it's like the rest of the world fades away.

But then she pulls back, shaking her head. "This--this is wrong. We can't."

Johnny's heart sinks. He knows she's right. He doesn't want to admit it, but he knows. "But what if it feels right?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "What if I don't want to feel like I'm fighting with you all the damn time?"

She laughs bitterly, stepping back into reality for a second. "Then what else would we do?"

Johnny smirks, raising an eyebrow. "I can think of a few things." He leans in again, his lips hovering just above hers, as if asking for permission.

Her breath catches, her heart feeling like it's going to beat out of her chest. She looks at him with longing eyes, she knew she couldn't, but dammit if she could resist him.

Johnny's eyes search hers, looking for any sign of hesitation. When he doesn't find any, he closes the gap, his lips finally meeting hers in a kiss that's both tentative and powerful. His arms wrap around her waist, pulling her close as he deepens the kiss, pouring all of his pent-up feelings into that one moment.

She feels herself unravel, all of the hate, all of the resentment, melts away into a passion she always knew was there. One of her hands moves to his back, and the over on his side.

Johnny's response is immediate, his hands running down her back, fingers tracing the curve of her spine. He tilts his head, slanting his mouth over hers, coaxing her lips open to delve deeper. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore is drowned out by the pounding of his heart, the feeling of her body pressed against his sending a jolt of electricity through his veins.

She slips her tongue through the gates of his lips, a risky action that really paid off. He tastes good, better than she ever imagined. 

Johnny groans against her lips, the sound vibrating through him as he pulls her even closer, if that were possible. His tongue tangles with hers, exploring her mouth with a hunger that only seems to grow with every passing moment.  

His hands wander further down, coming to rest on the swell of her hip, his fingers pressing into her soft curves.

Her fingers dance under the back of his shirt, feeling his muscular back as they pant and groan within broken kisses. Her heart and body was lit ablaze, Johnny Lawrence was something she always needed, in one way or another.

Johnny's breath hitches at the feel of her hands against his bare skin, and he breaks the kiss, trailing his lips down her jaw and neck. His fingers toy with the hem of her shirt, teasing the soft skin below, but he restrains himself. Instead, he finds her earlobe with his mouth, sucking gently.

She shivers at his touch, all she could think about was why the hell they didn't do this before. 

Johnny slowly pulls away, pressing his forehead against hers, both of them breathless and flushed. He tries to gather his thoughts, his heart still pounding like a drum in his chest. "We can't keep fighting..." he breathes. "Not when it feels like this."

She nods in agreement, trying to catch her breath. "Yea.. this is.." she started, but she didn't need to finish. They both knew there was no going back from this.

Johnny runs a hand through his hair, still panting slightly. "So, what now?" he asks. "I mean, we still hate each other sometimes, right?" He's trying to make light of the situation, but there's a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. He doesn't want to lose this feeling, this connection they've just discovered.

Johnny's stomach drops at her words. He doesn't want her to go, not now, not after they've crossed this line. But he doesn't stop her, doesn't try to convince her to stay. "Yeah, okay," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. He watches her start to walk away, every step she takes feeling like a punch to the gut.

She fights the urge to look back, walking up the hill and bee lining to her car. She needed to think about all of this, the new territory they've discovered. 

Johnny watches her until she's out of sight, then lets out a long exhale. His mind's reeling, thoughts swirling in a storm of confusion and desire. He can still taste her on his lips, feel her in his arms. He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "What the hell have we got ourselves into?"

That weekend, there was a house party thrown by one of the richies. Everyone was going, including her and all of her friends. She did her hair and makeup, her friends all trying on clothes in her room as they prepared to leave.

Johnny's also going to the party, because how could he miss the chance to show off his bike and party with half the school. He pulls on a black shirt, tugging it down over his toned abs, and grabs his leather jacket. He looks in the mirror, running a hand through his hair and checking his reflection. He looks good, he knows it. And she'll be there. The thought alone makes him grin like an idiot.

The party was bumping, the booze flowing, the rooms filled with light smoke and sweat. Her and her friends were socializing with their typical crowd, she tried desperately not to notice Johnny, looking anywhere but the direct of the cobra kai's.

Johnny rolls into the house on his bike, the engine roaring as he parks it. He strides inside, immediately spotting her and her friends across the room. His eyes linger on her for a moment longer than they should, but he catches himself and looks away. His buddies slap him on the back, pulling him into the party with the promise of booze and good times. They drink and dance, Johnny not-so-subtly stealing glances in her direction every chance he gets.

The night wears on, everyone getting more and more inebriated. Johnny's had a few too many beers, his head buzzing as he leans against the wall. His eyes keep finding her across the room, the sight of her both thrilling and infuriating him. He wants to talk to her, to touch her again, but instead, he takes another swig of beer and sulks.

"Why do you keep looking at her?" Tommy asks, "I thought she was your mortal enemy." 

Johnny shrugs, taking another sip of beer. "Just keeping an eye on her, you know? She's in trouble." He says, but his eyes betray his words, still stealing glances at her across the room.

She keeps looking over to Johnny, the memories of a few days prior swimming in her mind. Their private moment on the beach has been consuming every thought she's had. 

The more the night goes on, the more Johnny's inhibitions start to slip away. He's always been a bit impulsive, and the alcohol is just fueling that fire. He pushes away from the wall, making his way through the crowd, his eyes never leaving her. His friends follow, some cheering him on, the rest just shaking their heads, knowing he's about to do something stupid.

She watches him approach, her friends preparing for their normal battle of insults. "Oh god" her friend sighs, ready for the war to begin.

Johnny stumbles up to her, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Hey," he says, his voice slightly slurred. He's definitely drunk, probably more than he should be. His eyes roam over her, taking in her outfit, her hair, her everything.

She rolls her eyes, taking a sip of her drink."Oh good, another drunk idiot" she spits, a hint of playfulness in her voice. 

"Always so sweet to me," Johnny chuckles, leaning against the wall next to her. "You look good tonight," he adds, his voice low. He's way more honest when he's been drinking, all of his usual defenses lowered.

Her friends gasp, surprised he wasn't insulting her. "That means close to nothing, coming from you" she laughed.

Johnny smirks, shaking his head. "You can't resist teasing me, can you?" He steps closer, his hand finding her hip as he leans in. His voice drops, barely above a rough whisper, "Come outside with me."

She glares at him, he really wasn't subtle. She thought the other day was a fluke, a secret between them. Him grabbing her in front of everyone made both friend groups stare in awe and horror. "Johnny.. not in front of everyone" she pleaded silently. 

"Just come on" he begs, his hand tightening on her hip, "Just for a minute." He's already too far gone to care about the states around them, his only focus is getting her alone, away from the prying eyes of the party. His fingers toy with the fabric of her dress, a silent promise of more if she would just say yes.

She looks back at her friends, all of them pale and faces ridden with wonder. She looks back at him and nods silently, following him outside. The cold air nips at her cheeks, making them flush.

Johnny leads her around the back of the house, far enough away from the party that they have some privacy, but close enough that they can still hear the thumping beats of the music. He's sobered up slightly from the cold air, but he's still feeling pretty buzzed. He turns to her, his eyes hooded and filled with a mixture of desire and mischief. "So, you're gonna tell me I look horrible tonight?" he asks, a teasing grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Well you do" she lets a laugh escape her lips. She takes a sip of her drink, she can feel the energy shift between them, just how it did the other day.

Johnny chuckles, leaning in closer, his breath hot on her skin. "Oh yeah? You gonna hurt my feelings?" He teases, closing the gap between them, his hand finding her hip once more. "I seem to remember you thinking otherwise on the beach the other day," he whispers low in her ear, sending shivers down her spine.

Her chest rises and falls rapidly, the space between them is thin to nothing. "Johnny.." she says warningly, trying to keep her guard high, "We- we can't do this again." She looks up at him, his eyes filled with booze and lust, messy blonde hair draped on his head.

Johnny's expression softens slightly at her words. "Why not?" His hand slides up her side, the touch achingly gentle. His thumb grazes the exposed skin above her dress, making her inhale sharply. "We both wanted it," he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the distant sounds of the party. "I still want it."

Her hands ghost his back, scared to reach out, but impossible to resist. Her lips part to let needy breathes out, her inside turning to mush at his tempting words. "I...I' she stutters, blinking slowly.

Johnny's other hand moves to rest on the small of her back, pulling her even closer. Their faces are inches away now, the tension thick between them. "Tell me to stop," he says, his voice raspy, his eyes locked on her lips. He's testing the waters, seeing how far she's willing to let this go.

Her fingers roam his sides, betraying the words she couldn't even get out. She bites her lip to ease the tension, holding on to her last strand of control. The hate, the arguments all fueled into this, the moment on the beach was only a preview. She couldn't deny him much longer.

Johnny takes her silence as an answer, that last bit of self-control he had snapping. He crashes his lips into hers, kissing her with a searing intensity. His hands roam her back, one fisting in her hair, tugging gently, the other dipping down to her bare thigh.

She grips onto his built figure like it would disappear, engulfing herself in the magic that was his mouth. His warm lips were a nice contrast to the cold night, the alcohol etched into his gums. 

Johnny moans against her, his tongue slipping past her lips to explore her mouth. He presses her against the side of the house, his body hard against hers, every inch of her curves on fire where they touch. His hands wander, gripping her hips, her waist, her thighs, as if trying to memorize every part of her through touch alone.

Their tongues dance together, little gasps come out between kisses. One hand moves to the back of his head, trying to push him impossibly closer. 

The hand in her hair tightens, tilting her head back as he deepens the kiss. He's lost in her, in the taste and feel of her, every rational thought in his head shut down.

She breaks the kiss to catch her breath, then dives down peppering open mouthed kisses down Johnny's neck.

Johnny throws his head back, letting out a low growl as her lips find his neck. His hips thrust forward instinctively, grinding against her, desperate for more. "Fuck" he gasps, his fingers digging into her thigh. "Keep going," he rasps, wanting to feel her lips everywhere.

She glides her tongue down his neck, her lips assaulting the tan skin of his neck. She moved the collar of his shirt to the side to access his collarbone, nipping at the thin, sensitive skin. 

Johnny's breathing is ragged now, his chest heaving as he tries to maintain control. Her lips on his skin feels like pure bliss, setting off sparks of pleasure throughout his entire body. His hips jerk forward again, more out of reflex than anything, pressing her harder against the side of the house. He can feel himself getting hard, the sensation almost painful, restricted by his jeans. He moans softly, his body on fire from her touch.

She palms his bulge, kissing back up his neck to his jaw. The smell of his skin, how his cocky facade crumbled under her touch, it was perfectly intoxicating.

 "Yo! Johnny, where are you?" Dutch yells, walking around the house.

"Fuck" Johnny curses, his head snapping toward the sound of his best friend's voice. He quickly steps away from her, trying to compose himself as best he can. His voice is strained when he calls out, "I'm back here!"

She brushes out her hair with her fingers, trying to make it look like they weren't doing what they were just doing. Dutch rounds the corner "We need help lifting the keg-" he stops mid sentence once he sees who Johnny is with, A smirk plays on Dutch's face, "I'm not interrupting anything, huh?" he teases.

Johnny gives Dutch a death glare, his eyes screaming 'not a word'. "Yea, yea, we're coming" he grumbles, adjusting his clothes to hide the evidence of their heated moment. He throws one last glance at her before following Dutch back to the party, his mind still swirling with the sensation of her touch.

She says outside for a second, his absence making her cold once more. She couldn't help but miss him, wanting him back outside, having her against the house. The composition of their relationship was one you couldn't get enough of, despite every insult, they felt the opposite of those words. She heads back instead, getting another drink to clear her head.

"So" Bobby taps her shoulder with a grin, she almost drops her cup. "I thought you two hated each other" he gestured to Johnny. "We do," she replies, taking a long sip.

Bobby chuckles, leaning against the wall next to her. "Sure looks like it" he teases, raising an eyebrow. "I think you're both confusing hate with something else." he says knowingly.

She shakes her head, "I can't stand him, we can't stand me. Everyone knows that. She tries to play it off, but she steals another look at him, and his lazy drunken smile.

"Mhmm" Bobby hums, not buying it for a second. "Well, keep 'hating' him like that and it's gonna get real obvious, real fast." He nudges her with his elbow, "People might start thinkin' you like him."

"Shut it, Bobby" she snaps, pushing past him to get back to her friends. She knew he was right, but boy, the rest of the cobra's almost pissed her off as much as Johnny did. 

Johnny rejoins the party, a smug grin on his face as he sees her arguing with Bobby. He rolls his eyes, muttering to himself, "Typical." But he can't help the twinge of jealousy he feels, seeing her so close to his best friend. He grabs a beer from a cooler and leans against the wall, watching her from across the room, their unspoken tension thick in the air.

Her and her friends gossip in the corner, but she can't help but feel distracted. Her mind flashes with the images of earlier, how good it felt, how wrong it was. She spaced out, looking at him, undressing him mentally.

Johnny notices her watching him, his cocky grin growing wider as he catches her eye. He takes a slow sip of his beer, his gaze never leaving hers. He just wants her to come back, to feel her body pressed against his again. He tilts his head slightly, a silent invitation for her to come join him.

She shakes her head softly, fighting back a small smile. 

Johnny chuckles, shaking his head. "Stubborn as always." He pushes off the wall, striding through the crowd towards her, ignoring the questioning looks from his friends. He makes his way over to where she's standing, stopping close enough that he can feel her body heat.

She feigned annoyance at his presence for her friends, but secretly, her heart palpitated at every step he took. "What do you want?" she raises an eyebrow at him.

Johnny's grin only widens as he leans in closer, speaking low so only she can hear. "You know what I want" he murmurs, his tone laced with innuendo. He reaches out, tracing a finger along the edge of her dress, teasingly. "And I know you want it too." He moves closer, his chest grazing hers, the proximity making her head spin. "The question is...when are you gonna stop denying it?"

Her eyes dart around as people begin to stare again, the second time this night Johnny has cornered her in front of everyone. "You do realize we are in a room full of people.. people that know we don't like each other" she tries to change the topic, and draw attention to the show they're putting on.

Johnny gives her a challenging grin, "You really think they care? They're all half-drunk and most of them wish they were in my shoes right now." He leans in even closer, his lips almost touching her ear. "But if you want me to stop, just say the word and I'll back off." His voice drops, low and teasing. "You know you don't want me to stop though."

His words were cocky, seductive, and infuriating. The kind that made her want to smack him upside the head, then kiss him senseless. "I'm over this game" she bluffs, walking away, the hallway feeling like it's miles long.

Johnny watches her walk away, his eyes dark with lust. He knows he's gotten under her skin, just like she's gotten under his. But he isn't about to just let her walk away. He waits a beat, then follows her, pushing past dancing bodies and stumbling partygoers. He catches up to her before she can make it far, grabbing her wrist and spinning her around to face him.

Her eyes dart down to his veiny hand grasping hers, and how small her hands look compared to his. "What now?" she huffed, pulling her hand back.

Johnny doesn't let go, instead using his grip to tug her closer. He leans against the wall behind her, caging her in with his body. His eyes roam over her, a wild, hungry look in his gaze. "You keep running away, and I'm gonna start thinking you want me to chase you," he murmurs, his voice rough and low.

"I-I dont" her gaze planted on the floor, lying through her teeth.

Johnny sees right through her. He knows this cat and mouse game they're playing, and it's only making his desire for her grow stronger. "I don't believe you," he whispers, tilting her chin up with a finger, forcing her to meet his gaze. He can see the lust in her eyes, reflecting his own. He tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, leaning forward so their lips are barely apart. His breath ghosts against her parted lips. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"Jesus, shut up Johnny!" she crosses her arms, wishing those damn lips would just stop moving, stop saying all of these things that make her head spin. 

Johnny chuckles, a mixture of amusement and arousal washing over him at her response. "Not gonna happen," he quips. He reaches out, uncrossing her arms and pinning them above her head, their bodies pressed together. He leans in, his lips finding the spot behind her jaw that makes her go weak in the knees. "Tell me to stop."

 It was sweet torture, he knew her better now to know she wouldn't tell him to stop. She would give in, she basically had to. Her skin felt like it was blazing, his lips causing her to lose every sensible thought once again.

Johnny senses her weakening. Her body melts against him, her breathing shallow. "That's what I thought." he teases, his voice barely a whisper. He places another kiss on her neck, just below her ear, as his hips press into hers. "You want me. Admit it."

She doesn't answer as her hands slowly grab his back, she could tell Johnny was enjoying this way too much. 

The feel of her hands on him sends a jolt of heat straight to his groin, and he grinds into her, his self control wearing thin. "Say it," he growls, teeth grazing her skin. He wants to hear it from her, the words he already knows are the truth.

"I want you" she whispered, her eyes screwed shut. She reaches behind her, fumbling with the door handle behind her as she opens it to what looks like a spare bedroom.

Surprise sparks in Johnny's eyes when she opens the door, his lips still leaving a trail of hot kisses down her neck. He grabs her hand pulling her into the room, shutting the door behind them. His lips find hers, kissing her with fierce intensity as he backs her towards the bed.

She gently falls back, holding herself up. by her elbows as she looks up at him with eager eyes. She reaches up and drags him down by his collar, bringing him into a passionate kiss. 

Jonny falls into her eager kiss, his hands exploring her body everywhere. He tugs her dress up, bunching the material at her hips as their kiss deepens, heated and desperate. He presses his body against hers, pinning her down on the bed.

The straps of her dress behind to drape over the sides of her shoulders as she submits to his figure. Their tongues lock with gasps of relief as they taste each other again. 

Johnny's hips rock into her, his hands slipping between their bodies to feel bare skin. He groans as the kiss gets even wilder, his brain fuzzy with lust. "God, I want you," he pants into the kiss. His hand grips her thigh, sliding up, pushing her dress even further up her body.

She tugs off his shirt, the sight making her mouth practically water. She turns her cold hands down his chest, "I want you, too." The admission makes her shy as she dives in for another kiss, her head turning to get deeper into his mouth. 

Johnny moans as she strips his shirt, a shiver coursing through him from her cold hands. The words go straight to his already painfully hard cock, and he growls as the kiss deepens. His large fingers grip her thighs, squeezing the soft flesh. His body presses into hers, desperate to feel her completely. "I'm yours, I always was"  he whispers against her mouth.

She groans in disbelief and pleasure, how did she deny what they had for so long? The hate melted away into something so much more electric that had always been there. She pulls up her dress more, her lacy panties on display for him and only him. "Yeah, you too.."

Johnny takes in her sight with a sharp inhale. He always knew she was gorgeous, but there's something about seeing her like this, a delicious temptation, just for him. He groans again as he watches her pull her dress up, his fingers tracing up her thighs to toy with the hem of her panties. 

Johnny smirks, biting his lip. "Yeah, I'm yours."

The light touch sends shock waves down her spine, her body curls in response. "God.." she says breathlessly, his fingers teasing her in the most perfect way. 

Johnny grins at this reaction, loving the power he has over her body. He watches her eyes flutter, taking in every sound she makes. He slides a finger under her panties, teasing her through the fabric, his lips ghosting over hers. "What was that?" he teases.

"Feels.. different" she jokes through her whimpers, she was becoming more desperate for Johnny with each beat of her heart. HIs smell, his touch, that look in his eyes was about enough to kill her. 

"I know," Johnny replies, his cocky smirk on display. He loves seeing her squirm, knowing he's the one causing it. His fingers continue to tease her, still only grazing over the thin material. "Do you want me to keep going?" he asks, his lips against her ear.

"I think I'd just about lose my mind if you didn't," she laughed, tracing his shoulder. Her light touch teasing him, driving him closer to completely losing control. It was a tension that had been accumulating for months, finally coming to fruition. 

Johnns finger dips below the elastic waistline, his middle finger grazing her clit. A glow groan escapes her soft lips, plump from assault. He watches her every reaction, drinking her in like an oasis in the middle of the desert.

She unzips his pants, Johnny lets out a shaky breath, he can hardly believe this is finally happening.

 Johnny lets out a shaky breath as she pulls down his zipper, his hips rocking into her touch. Her lips, her body, the sounds she makes, it's driving him feral with desire. "Touch me," he groans, pressing into her. He needs her hands on him, her skin on his.

She reaches down his boxers, finding he was already very aroused. "You're.. woah" she sighs, he was well endowed, that was for sure. She began to stroke him as he picked up the pace on her core.

Johnny moans, his head tilting back as pleasure courses through him. Her touch was perfect, her fingers knowing what he wanted, but not giving him enough, just enough to drive him mad with anticipation. "Mm- ah- Jesus," he groans, the combination of her hand on him and his fingers on her is intense, building the fire deep in his gut. "You- mmm-" he gasps, his fingers moving faster, wanting her to lose control, too.

"I want you so bad" she moans into Johnny's shoulder as her toes curl. She looked up at him, his blonde hair was sweaty and messy over his forehead and god- he looked amazing.

Johnny is losing himself, giving his whole body over to her. He's panting, his pupils blown wide, his fingers pushing a little deeper, moving a little faster. "You have me," he groans. "You always have." He can feel the tension building in his gut, the heat rushing to his lower body.

She smirks, biting her lip at his honesty. "That's not what I meant..." she sits up and takes off her dress. She wanted all of him, she wanted him so deep in her that she could hardly form any words. 

Johnny's breath catches, his eyes roaming over her body once again, greedily taking in her form. She was perfect. He stands, kicking off his pants and boxers as he leans back down over her, his mouth devouring hers as he presses himself against her. He needs her. "Tell me what you want," he growls.

Her heart raced as she could hardly contain the butterflies in her stomach. She admired his muscular physique, his large body, and the way he was desperate to please her. "I want you to fuck me" she whispered like it was a sin.

Johnny groans as he presses into her, her words igniting a flame in him. "I was hoping you'd say that," he whispers into her neck, biting down gently as he presses his lips against her soft skin. He was desperate, aching for more as he nipped at her neck, sucking at the skin.

She moans at the feeling of him teasing her entrance, the warmth building between the both of them was unmatchable. "More" she begged.

The sounds she makes, her soft skin, Johnny groans again, needing to hear her beg more. "I want to hear it," he rasps, his hand running down her side. "Say please."

"Please, Johnny" she said in a soft moan, goosebumps rising at the touch of his calloused hands.

God, the sound of her saying please in the sweetest tone, his head is swimming, aching with lust. Johnny smirks, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs. "Good girl," he murmurs, his eyes locking on hers. "Want me that badly?" He presses against her again, just teasing her as he watches her expression.

"Jesus, Johnny" she gives out an exasperated sigh, "No wonder I hated you for so long." She looks deep into his icy eyes, needing him more than she ever needed anything in her life "Please fuck me, Johnny."

Johnny can barely suppress a grin at her words, the sweet mix of lust and praise pushing him to the edge. He kisses her, long and hard, as he presses into her, a long groan being stifled by her mouth. He breaks the kiss, looking at her heatedly, "Say it again."

"Fuck me, now" she became impatient, although she liked the teasing. But it had gone on for too long, she needed him now.

Johnny's grin widens at this, "I've wanted you, needed you so badly." He leans down, kissing her hard, needing her closer as he rocks into her. He groans, feeling her against him and it's euphoric.

The pressure of him inside her made her let out a primal moan, he stretched her out in a way no one else ever would. "Holy- fuck" she groaned as he began to slide in and out of her wet heat. "Feels good" she whimpered, drunk off of him. 

"Oh god, you feel perfect" he moans, his mouth at her ear as he rocks with a steady rhythm. His hands roam her body, trying to find every sensitive spot. He can't get enough of her, his lips moving to her neck, marking her soft skin. This was like a dream, his body burning everywhere they touched. It's overwhelming, her sounds sending shocks down his back to his cock. He keeps moving, trying to make her lose control, to lose herself in him. They've waited too long for this, and needed it too much.

She pants as he lifts up her leg, sliding in at a deeper angle. "Oh god!' she screams, it feels way too good after all of the teasing tonight. He was so deep inside her, hitting every spot, making her see stars.

Johnny's breath hitches as he rocks into her, the sounds of his groan and her panting filling the entire room. He needs her, all of her, every sound she makes. He reaches down, taking her thighs with his hands, his lips finding her collarbone as he kisses her hard. "That's it," he moans, "I'm right here." And gods, she feels incredible, the way her body moves with him, he doesn't want it to stop. His pace is hard, but it isn't enough. He wants all that she'll give him. 

"You're so tight," he groaned. 

Herheat tightens around him, "I'm getting so close" she cries. Tears of pleasure rolled down her cheeks, her lips parted letting out the most sultry sounds Johnny had ever heard.

Johnny groans, his jaw going slack from her noises and her words. He's so close, her pleasure bringing him right to the edge with her. He wants her to go first, to feel her fall apart around him. "Look at me," he groans, moving his lips from her neck to her mouth.

Her climax sends him tumbling over the edge right after, his lips capturing hers almost desperately, muffling his loud groan as he rocks into her. His grip on her thighs tightens as he rides out his orgasm, the intense pleasure making his vision go white. He pulls back, panting softly as he drinks her in. 

"That was..." Johnny starts, but he doesn't know how to finish. His mind was a fuzzy mess, but he's never been so happy.

"Yeah.." she breathes, smiling. 

Johnny kisses her, slower, softer. This was not the way he imagined their first time, but he wouldn't change it for the world. He wraps his arms around her, holding her close as his breathing finally slows.

"I still can't stand you," she teases, being swallowed by his touch. She began to think about what comes after this, what their friends will think.

"Ditto," he chuckles, kissing her neck. He could stay like this forever, but he can already feel reality creeping back in. Johnny knows there are a million questions to answer, like, how the hell they're getting out of this situation. But he just wants to hold her in his arms for a few more moments.

LET ME KNOW IF YALL WANT A PART 2!

[as-if-and-only-if]

I'm interested in forming a sort of...math & physics reading group network. well, with some very important modifications to the concept of "reading group".

for example, right now, I'd like to learn algebraic geometry, qft, and/or refresh myself on representation theory with someone—maybe just one or two people—meaning that traditionally, we'd pick a text for one of these topics, discuss the material (asynchronously or synchronously?), exchange exercises, etc.

but currently (being Between Institutions), my best bet is posting on tumblr. and that's a pretty good bet, tbh! there are a lot of us here!

though, wouldn't it be great if there were a way to coordinate groups like this across institutions? you make a post proposing a group, specifying your goals and constraints...

even that would be a boon. but I think the concept of a "reading group" itself could be changed in interesting ways. this is what I'm really interested in.

there are variations among reading groups themselves already. sometimes you have directed reading groups, where someone already knows the material and "leads" it; some people are looking for more or less people involved; and there are probably things to explore for making sure that reading groups stick through it instead of falling apart when some motivation flags. default meeting times help with this, for example.

there are many experiments to be done! I think lessons for group-making can be taken from a maybe-surprising source: theater. there are a lot of things that make groups which put on shows more robust and rewarding than reading groups. a sense of building to something; many factors that create informal group cohesion (e.g. such a structure should make sure it creates more-informal "cafe" time in addition to more-formal "practice" time, just as rehearsal in physical spaces facilitates that casual sort of interaction on its periphery); ways to get into the right headspace during discussions (just as warm-ups do in theater; the engagement with this material is an event); clear goals (e.g. "understand ___"); successive shared accomplishments...to that end I wonder if it makes sense to form math troupes, which do successive reading groups together, drawn from its members.

it might be useful to envision some sort of public-facing artifact created as the culmination of this learning, whether a presentation, or an article, or some novel application or research...the crucial question is: how do we choose a goal that we find meaning in?

one idea, for example, is to have a collection parallel reading groups learning different things, and end by presenting to each other! that way we know what we learn will be meaningful to others, too, from the beginning. in general, I think it's important to feel that our own development of insight and understanding can be meaningful to others and to the group. it's nice to participate; it's nice to be able to offer something that is valued. what form can this take? how can you set up the interactions such that everyone has a part to play, and so this meaningfulness is tangled up in participation in the group?

I've also got a couple of ideas for "activities" that let us engage, re-engage, and play with the concepts we're learning with each other, beyond the text itself. how can we give ourselves the opportunity to toss around the concepts we're learning? I believe that the fun ultimately comes from the understanding itself, and therefore that any group exercise which lets us effectively play with the ideas will be fun.

it's a lot to ask people to come up with structure like that themselves, but using a pre-existing structure is not so difficult! sort of like how it's hard to make a TTRPG itself, so simply saying "go off and roleplay" isn't that helpful, but it's easy to use the structure of an existing one to run a game.

you might say, well, the existing form of a reading group is fine. okay! existing reading group structures can be low-stakes, relaxed, and accessible...but they can also fall apart easily (especially when not tied to an institution, in my experience), and you have to get lucky to find a truly rewarding one. I find reimagining our mechanisms of learning pretty exciting, and I think the space of ways to learn math with each other is underexplored at this level (emphasis on the with each other). there's a lot of potential!

anyway! reply or tag with "!" if this is something you could maybe be interested if done well? or if you're at least curious! I'm just taking a temperature. :)