#so technically she is more than the help but i love her

[ghostgirl-22]

i like the idea of patrick giving art hickeys. art lies to the other guys on the team, says they’re from various girls but everyone knows the truth. maybe patrick even tells them when art isn’t around

I like that idea too actually, thank you for sharing anon<33

(Whoa im not even gonna edit this…good luck everyone!)

CW: 18+ !NSFW! The S/m part of bdsm, if you squint

—-

Art bruises easily. It really shouldn’t be something that turns Patrick on…but it is. He bruises so, so easy. Every time Patrick thinks about it, his dick gets a little hard. Fingerprints on his waist, bite marks his shoulders, hickeys on his throat. He’s not sure if Art really believes him anymore when Patrick says he’s not doing it on purpose.

God.

It’s so fucked up but he barely has to do anything, barely has to bite, barely has to squeeze and little pink-purple marks bloom vividly everywhere. The bruises don’t even stick around, they’re fading almost as easy as they come. Turning pale pink as the blood beneath them disappates before they turn white and disappear. But when they’re there, when they’re fresh, it’s so fucking delicious.

Especially because Art is so goody goody, so strait laced, so careful and controlled and put together. Patrick kinda loves just unraveling him. Sex so good that it makes him forget how to behave himself. Forget they’re doing it in public, forget his grandma is down the hall, forget all decorum. Mostly he forgets to make Patrick stop sucking visible evidence that he’s not a perfect angel into his skin.

Sometimes it’s so obvious… like the other day in class when their English professor noticed “fun night last night?” And then his ex girlfriend noticed. She scrunched her nose up irritated. Patrick can’t help it, he was giddy watching Art try to hide it the rest of the day. Skin all flushed, anxious that everyone was aware of what he’s been up to.

He gets so anxious for it, tells Patrick he’ll mark him back if he doesn’t stop. Patrick promises he will. But it’s not his fault…Art is just so fragile. Especially when he’s… pressed up against the wall taking Patrick’s cock because he couldn’t wait for the bed. Or when he’s on his knees in the back of the movie theater swallowing as much as he can while Patrick’s running his popcornbutter covered fingers through golden blond curls. Patrick doesn’t even mean to mark him. Not really. He just kinda wants everyone to know that this is his.

Patrick’s favorite thing is when their teammates tease Art about it.

It’s one of the last nights of an away tournament and most of the varsity team has gathered in Everett Moore and Lindsay Jefferson's hotel room, because Lindsay happens to be number one singles player and team captain (and he also happens to come from the richest family on campus. One doesn’t necessarily have to do with the other but Patrick knows he’s technically a better player. Hell, Art might even be better but that’s neither here nor there). When they meet up, someone usually sneaks in alcohol or weed and they watch movies or play music, while shooting the shit and discussing previous and upcoming matches and opponents.

They’re all spread out across the room, on the floor, on the beds. The tv is on with the volume low, red solo cups all over the place and two bottles of rum and three two liters of Pepsi are on the dresser. Along with three nearly empty boxes of pizza and a stack of unused paper plates.

As a team they often pick on each other, it’s not just Art. But Patrick’s favorite is when the attention shifts to Art because he gets even more interesting than he already is.

“Donaldson, that one looks fresh?” It’s Scott Jefferson, Lindsay's little (by 10 months) brother, normally everyone blows him off because he’s the youngest on the team. But Lindsay is amused.

“It does look like a new one, who’s been kissing you?” He chimes in.

Art waves it off. “Uh it’s not that new… you just couldn’t see it under the um… my uniform.” He lies. Because it is new, brand, brand new. Patrick did it last night when Art crawled into his bed because the air conditioner wasn’t working and it was too hot. Then it got hotter. They had to take a cold shower after. Art was all pouty when he noticed it in the morning.

“This one is fading, time for a new one,” Alex Kim, who’s right next to Art on the floor, touches at what Patrick knows is a sensitive spot. Art squirms and shifts his shoulder up towards his ear. Alex bites down on a smile and scoots closer to him.

”I thought Shannon broke up with you,” Everett points out, from his spot next to Patrick on the bed.

“She did, I’m— I’m seeing another girl. She’s—“Art gestures vaguely. “She doesn’t go to MRTA.”

“Where does she go?” Someone else asks.

“Yeah who’s this mystery girl, she’s a bit of a freak isn’t she? Marking you up,” Patrick chimes in, grabbing another slice of pizza and then settling back on his spot on the bed.

Art glares at him and then rolls his eyes. “Piney Brook, the all girls school.” He says and he takes another drink.

“What’s her name? One of us might know her,” Alex asks. He’s trying to poke at the hickey and Art shrugs him away. Patrick knows Alex is one of a handful of their teammates who would fuck Art if he got the chance. And maybe it’s because Patrick’s jealous, maybe it’s because he’s a little possessive (he can’t stop leaving little marks all over Art after all) but he told Alex about it, Alex and his doubles partner and roommate, Corey. Corey who cant keep his big fucking mouth shut to save his life. So everyone already fucking knows. But they love to tease Art anyway. See if he’ll admit it.

“She’s- she’s new, I doubt any of you losers would know her,” Art continues to lie.

“Is she here now? Or did you cheat on her?” Callum Harrington pipes up. “Cause that definitely wasn’t there yesterday.”

“He’s a fucking cheat,” Alex teases and Corey snorts a laugh.

“I didn’t cheat,” Art’s cheeks are pinkening, god, Patrick can feel himself getting hard, he’s gonna give him another one. “What about you, Harrington? You had a big one a few weeks ago.” Art says, deflecting.

“When my girl does it, she lets me borrow her make up to hide it. But mostly it’s me sucking hickies on her neck,” Callum says.

“Please, look how pale he is, he probably gets kissed and then it’s turning red,” Everett points out.

“Or poked,” Alex teases, nudging him. Art hiccups, nudging him back playfully before he takes another drink, determinedly not looking in Patrick’s direction.

“You want another hickey, Donaldson? I could give you plenty.” The openly gay kid Jesse Newman asks.

That makes a couple of them laugh and Jesse smirks in Patrick’s direction.

“Guys, come on,” Art says, uncrossing his legs. “Can we talk about something else, I don’t want to um… she’s really private.”

“Private but she’s claimed you publicly,” Lindsay smirks.

“I just… I do bruise a lot. Wait um— you mean this right?” He touches the hickey. “I actually just slept bad that’s nothing.”

“Oh I bet you sleep bad a lot,” Jesse says.

“I do kinda,” Art says, shyly.

“Does he, Zweig?” Lindsay asks.

“Oh absolutely,” Patrick smirks and a few of the guys chuckle.

Art is clearly relieved when the topic shifts away from hickies to Jesse’s birthday party. He’s still flushed for the alcohol, drinks way too much and lets Alex massage a cramp in his calf. All while making these soft little relieved moaning sounds that no one else probably notices but are driving Patrick crazy. Sounds Alex will probably run home and masturbate to. And he wonders why Patrick needs to mark him. He probably thinks Patrick’s not paying attention because he’s talking a lot but he’s always paying attention to Art.

It’s when someone inevitably rents a porno off HBO and Lindsay and Everett get pissed because they’ll likely be in trouble with the coaches, is when the party ends. And Patrick’s guiding Art back to their room, Art is silly drunk and horny. Doesn’t even pretend to get in his own bed. Just climbs in with Patrick. And he sighs contentedly, his body all sticky wet with lube and come as Patrick licks and nibbles at his throat, a new one already blooming.

[bestalbertcamuslover]

Fallingforyou

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

✯ pairing: Sebastian Vettel x Teammate!Reader ✯

✯ content warnings: none ✯

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

Sebastian was not timid by any means when it came to love—he was a flirt. Nonetheless, with her, it was different. She had a way of making him nervous with just a simple, yet stunning, smile. And that didn’t help when she was his teammate.

That nervousness wasn’t eased by the fact that he didn’t look anything like her past boyfriends. They were all rather tall with much darker hair—she definitely had a type. But why was he even comparing himself to her exes?

There were those moments that made him start to question whether it was much more than admiration. Those situations where all of his confidence was replaced by some sense of self-doubt, of not being enough for her.

The lights in the press conference room were unforgiving, hot and glaring as always. Sebastian shifted in his seat, leaning back slightly to try to get comfortable. He was seated next to her, their elbows brushing occasionally on the narrow table. Normally, these post-race media sessions were nothing more than routine—a necessary but dull part of the job. But today, Sebastian’s heart was inexplicably racing faster than his car had been earlier.

She sat to his left, her posture relaxed, answering a question about their team’s recent performance with her usual eloquence. Sebastian couldn’t help but glance at her. The way she spoke, gesturing subtly with her hands, her words measured and confident—it was mesmerizing. She was mesmerizing.

His gaze lingered longer than it should have, following the curve of her smile, her soft rosy lips,  as she finished her answer and glanced at him briefly, as if to gauge his reaction. Sebastian quickly looked down at the microphone in front of him, feigning interest in his folded hands, his cheeks warming.

Get a grip, he scolded himself internally. You’re acting ridiculous.

“Sebastian,” a reporter called out, snapping him back to reality. “How do you feel about the progress Toro Rosso has made this season? Especially compared to last year?”

He cleared his throat, willing his voice to come out steady. “Uh, yeah, I think we’ve made a lot of progress. The car is improving with every race, and the team has been working really hard—credit to everyone back at the factory.”

It was a safe, rehearsed answer, but as he spoke, he could feel her gaze on him, like a spotlight. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her listening to the answer intently.

When the next question was directed to her, he tried not to watch her too obviously. He failed miserably. She was so composed, effortlessly charming as she answered, even managing to make the whole room laugh with a well-placed joke about the team’s radio banter during the race. Sebastian found himself grinning along with the others, but his smile lingered longer, softer, as he looked at her.

“Seb, do you have anything to add to that?” the moderator asked, and Sebastian froze.

“I—uh…” He hesitated, caught completely off guard. His mind had been elsewhere—on the way her hair fell over her shoulder, the way her voice lilted when she was explaining something technical. “No, I think she covered it,” he said finally, trying to sound composed.

She seemed so unaware of the effect she had on him—so oblivious it was almost obnoxious. It was her smile, her disarming smile, that left him feeling weak at the knees.

And her friendliness was not helping, not at all. Always being charming, her cheerfulness contagious. Her unanimous kindness made him feel worse, as it was indiscriminate.

It was a late flight, and the dimmed lights inside the cabin reflected the shared exhaustion among the travelers. Sebastian leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, though he was not remotely close to sleep.

She was sitting next to him, flipping through some motorsport magazine, her focus entirely on the glossy pages. It was one of those rare quiet moments they shared, away from the chaos of the paddock and the cameras. The air between them was calm, almost comfortable, and yet Sebastian was hyper-aware of her presence, every small movement drawing his attention.

He straightened up, reaching for the water bottle on his tray table. His hands were slightly stiff from the race earlier, and when he twisted the cap, it didn’t budge. He tried again, more forcefully this time, but the cap refused to give way.

“Need some help there?” Her voice broke through his concentration, teasing yet gentle.

Sebastian glanced at her, trying to suppress the flush creeping up his neck. “No, I’ve got it,” he muttered, though he clearly did not. He twisted again, his grip slipping slightly against the plastic.

She put the magazine down, raising an eyebrow. “Sure you do,” she said, her tone playful. Without waiting for his permission, she reached over, her fingers brushing against his as she took the bottle from his hands.

“Hey,” he protested halfheartedly, but she ignored him, focusing on the stubborn cap.

With a quick twist, the cap popped open, and she handed the bottle back to him, a triumphant smile lighting up her face. “There you go. Saved you from a hydration crisis.”

Sebastian took the bottle, his fingers lingering against hers for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. He tried to play it cool, shrugging as if it wasn’t a big deal. “I loosened it for you.”

“Of course you did,” she replied, rolling her eyes, but her smile didn’t waver. She leaned back in her seat, picking up the magazine again, her attention seemingly returning to it.

Sebastian stared at the water bottle in his hand, his lips quirking up into a small, involuntary smile. “Thanks,” he mumbled, more sincerely this time.

“Anytime,” she replied without looking up, but there was something in her voice—something warm and teasing that made his heart stutter for a moment.

For the rest of the flight, Sebastian found himself glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, the ghost of her touch still lingering on his skin. It was a small moment, insignificant to anyone else, perhaps even to her, but to him, it felt like the world had shifted just slightly on its axis.

Moments like that were recurrent, small interactions that he deemed as the world. He was falling for her—deeply, hopelessly—and yet she remained unaware, oblivious. She only saw him as a teammate, perhaps a friend. But he wanted, needed, much more than that.

The day had been grueling, the kind of race that left them both utterly drained. Long hours, relentless heat, and the mental strain of every decision on track—it all piled up. By the time the debriefs ended, the paddock had quieted to a near hush, save for the distant hum of a few lingering engineers.

As they made their way toward the parking lot, Sebastian glanced at her, summoning his courage. “Do you want to grab some dinner?” he asked, his voice carefully casual.

She looked over at him with a small, tired smile. “Sure. Is the rest of the team coming?”

His heart sank for a moment, but he quickly masked it. “No, just us. Everyone else either already left or has other plans.”

“Oh,” she said, her tone light, completely neutral. “Well, honestly, I’m too exhausted to sit at a restaurant. What if we just grab takeout and eat at the hotel?”

Her suggestion caught him off guard, a flicker of unexpected happiness warming his chest. It wasn’t much, but the idea of sharing a meal in a quieter, more intimate setting was… nice. But then her tone struck him—a friendly, casual remark with no hint of deeper meaning. It was just her being practical, not anything more.

“Yeah, that sounds great,” he replied, managing a smile that he hoped didn’t betray the mix of emotions swirling inside him.

When they arrived back at the hotel with their food, she kicked off her shoes and dropped onto the bed, cross-legged. She opened the containers, the aroma of Thai food filling the small room. Sebastian lingered by the doorway, his hands in his pockets, unsure whether to claim the couch or the empty spot beside her on the bed.

“This smells incredible,” she said, unpacking the spring rolls and curries, barely glancing up. “Are you going to hover there all night, or are you going to sit down?”

“Right, yeah,” he mumbled, taking a cautious step toward the bed. His eyes flicked between the couch and her inviting spot.

“Come on, Seb,” she added, her tone light. “I don’t bite. At least not teammates.”

He laughed nervously, finally sitting on the edge of the bed, leaving a polite gap between them.

“So,” she began, picking up a spring roll and dipping it into the small sauce container, “did you hear about that mess with the hotel staff earlier?”

He raised an eyebrow, thankful for the casual topic. “No. What happened?”

“Apparently, one of the guests on our floor got locked out of their room in a towel,” she said, suppressing a giggle. “Like, full-on dripping wet, and they had to walk all the way to the front desk to get a spare key.”

Sebastian chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s brutal. Was it anyone from the paddock?”

“No idea,” she replied, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I overheard someone saying they left their room to grab ice and forgot the door locks automatically. Can you imagine?”

“Honestly, I’d die of embarrassment,” Sebastian admitted, reaching for one of the spring rolls. “I’d probably just sleep in the hallway rather than face the lobby in a towel.”

She laughed, leaning forward slightly, her shoulder brushing his. “Come on, you’ve been through way worse. You’d survive.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he said, smiling at her. “But I’m not taking the risk. I’d have to retire from racing after that.”

She rolled her eyes playfully, popping a bite of her food into her mouth. “Drama queen.”

He smirked, leaning back a little. “Speaking of drama… did you hear about the argument between two of the engineers during practice?”

Her eyes lit up with curiosity. “No, but I love a good behind-the-scenes argument. Tell me more?”

Sebastian hesitated, glancing around the room like someone might overhear. “Apparently, they were arguing about who was supposed to order the new parts for the rear wing. It got loud enough that the team manager had to step in.”

She gasped, hand covering her mouth in mock shock. “Who won the argument?”

He grinned. “No idea. But I bet the team manager just ordered the parts himself to avoid another round of bickering.”

They laughed together, the easy camaraderie filling the room. The space between them shrank as their conversation drifted into more lighthearted gossip and stories. Without realizing it, Sebastian had inched closer, drawn to the warmth of her laughter and the way her smile lit up the room. If only she knew that every shared moment like this pulled him deeper into feelings he was too scared to put into words.

She had this magnetic aura around her, and he was falling so deeply for it. He had only allowed to glance at her intently after a lot of talking, his eyes scanning his face as if he was memorizing it. Her face bare, free of any makeup, her expression relaxed. 

She looked up, catching his gaze. “What?” she asked, laughing softly.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, looking down at his food, his ears burning.

She shook her head with a smile, completely unaware of the storm inside him. To her, this was just another meal, just another moment. But to him, it was everything.

She didn’t see the clues. She didn’t notice what his stare meant—the storm she caused with only a smile. Sometimes, it was so much that he just wanted to grab her by the shoulders, lock her eyes on his, and confess directly, just to have a taste of her lips afterward. But that could only ever happen in his imagination.

They were sitting in the team hospitality area, the usual post-race buzz in the air. The conversation was light—nothing too intense, just teammates catching up. They had their drinks in hand, chatting about anything but racing, enjoying the rare chance to just relax.

Sebastian leaned back in his chair, trying to seem casual, but his leg shifted slightly, and before he knew it, his thigh brushed against hers. It was just a fleeting moment, but his heart skipped a beat, and he pulled his leg back almost instinctively.

“Um, sorry,” he muttered, feeling a little awkward.

She glanced at him, her expression not changing at all. “What for?” she asked, a bit surprised.

He shrugged, feeling a little silly now. “Just, uh, didn't mean to... you know, bump you.”

She smiled, unfazed. “Seb, it's fine. Really.”

He relaxed a little, still feeling a bit embarrassed but trying to play it cool. “Okay, good,” he said with a half-smile, reaching for his drink to distract himself.

She chuckled softly and shook her head. “You’re so weird,” she teased, taking a sip from her cup.

He grinned, shaking his head. “Hey, I’m just trying to be polite.”

“Well, mission accomplished,” she said with a small grin.

They both settled back, a bit more comfortable now, the small moment fading into the background. 

Moments like those just reminded him how impossible it seemed to confess the feelings he had undoubtedly developed. He was so smitten that the thought of her probable rejection terrified him, and apart from hurting his feelings, it would make things awkward between them.

The takeout in hotel rooms became almost a tradition on bad races, simply because it was a very relaxed, laid back plan. And that day’s race had gone horribly. Nothing had gone right for either of them—strategy calls, pit stops, even the weather seemed to conspire against them. By the time they pulled into the paddock, both of them were exhausted, drained from the physical and emotional toll of a bad weekend.

They were both sitting on the edge of the bed, chatting about anything but the race. They lacked enthusiasm, but at least they were in the same moody mood and fairly close, so it was good company.

She was explaining some anecdote—one that he would have found hilarious if he had actually been listening. His mind, exhausted, could only focus on—or get distracted by—how her velvety lips stretched with every smile, how her long curly lashes batted every once in a while, how her silky hair fell over in the most angelic way.

“Seb, are you even listening?” She asked, chuckling slightly, knowing how mentally draining bad races were, and how he was probably just pondering what went wrong.

Sebastian blinked, snapping out of his thoughts. He realized he’d been staring at her without even realizing it. His gaze quickly darted away, focusing on the half-eaten food in front of him. “Sorry, I—” he started, shaking his head as if trying to clear the fog from his mind. 

“It’s fine, it’s been such a long day,” she chuckled, not bothered at all.

Sebastian felt the weight of his words pressing down on him, but he could no longer keep them bottled up. The exhaustion from the race, the silence of the room, and the way she casually brushed off his earlier distraction—all of it seemed to make everything more intense. Her laughter, light and easy, echoed in his ears, but underneath it, something else stirred in him, something that had been there for a while now.

He shifted slightly on the bed, his leg brushing against hers again. He froze for a moment, feeling that familiar surge of warmth that always came with her proximity. Her easy demeanor, her kindness, it all made her so magnetic.

His eyes lingered on her lips, not even trying to hide it. And yet, she was so unaware he had to start questioning whether she was blind. He subtly sighed, the exhaustion and exasperation mixing in a very potent cocktail of emotions.

He shifted just slightly closer, hoping she would notice, even if it was just to pull back, but at least be aware of it. And yet she remained silent, not moving, nonetheless not reacting, not even as their thighs brushed.

She wondered if something more was going through his mind after he sighed. Still, she was so used to seeing him act very—let’s say—strangely around her that she thought that was just who he was.

Seb observed as she placed the now-empty plate aside, the exhaustion from the race evident in her movements. His gaze landed on her neck. He didn’t want to be her friend; he wanted, needed, to kiss her neck.

“Seb, you good?” she finally asked, noticing his vacant look.

He looked up, meeting her eyes, Seb’s eyes never left hers, and the rawness of his emotions took over, overriding everything else. The room felt suffocating, yet his words were finally free—unfiltered, direct, and almost harsh in their intensity.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said, his voice thick with a determination that caught her off guard. He moved closer, his body now right beside hers, and he leaned in, his eyes dark with an unspoken urgency. “I can’t pretend like this is just some stupid friendship or teammate dynamic. It’s not. I’m not doing that to myself anymore.”

She froze, her gaze searching his face for any sign of what he was referring to, but there was none. His expression was hard, unwavering.

“I want you,” he stated, his voice steady but intense. “I don’t want to just be around you, to watch from the sidelines like I’ve been doing. I want more than that. I want you the way I’ve been wanting you for so long, and I can’t keep holding it back.”

“Wow,” she said, surprised, yet not unkindly, by the bluntness of it all. “Really?” she asked, incredulously.

He still couldn’t believe how she had been so oblivious. He nodded intently, his eyes trying to get a grasp of what was going on in her head, and yet, they couldn’t move away when they landed on her lips.

She finally noticed his intense gaze on her lips, nodding ever so slightly. That was enough for him to reduce the distance between them. His eyes left her lips for a second, seeking another confirmation from her eager expression, and without further hesitation, he captured her lips.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

✯ authors note: English is not my first language and I hope you liked it <333

[rubywillkins]

Hi, this is an order for your cafee. Dont know if I picked too much, i just did one from each.

Can I have skim Milk, bruchetta, spaghetti, club soda, pork chops, potato gnocci and dark mocha. With mv1 x fem reader🩷

Thank youuu

Sure darling ♥️, you didn't pick much sweety its actually a bit less so the ff will be a bit short ♥️

Max Verstappen|

Tension and Tenderness

Pairing max Verstappen × female reader

Skim milk dry humping bruschetta edging spaghetti hand cuffs club soda pillow talk pork chops "so good for me, look at how much you came" potato gnocchi "shh, just look at me, baby" dark mocha dating

The paddock was buzzing with its usual energy. Y/N stood near Max's Red Bull garage, chatting animatedly with one of the mechanics, Lucas. She admired how Lucas was always so patient explaining the technical intricacies of Max’s car, and her curiosity often led her to these lighthearted conversations.

Max, who had just wrapped up his debrief, spotted them from a distance. His jaw tightened as he saw Y/N laughing at something Lucas said. The warmth in her eyes sent a pang of jealousy through him, though he knew deep down it was irrational.

By the time Y/N rejoined him, Max’s mood had visibly shifted.

“Had a good chat?” he asked curtly, his tone sharp.

“Yeah, Lucas was just explaining how the new setup impacts—”

“Lucas this, Lucas that,” Max interrupted, his voice low but edged with annoyance. “You seem to spend more time with him than me lately.”

Y/N frowned, caught off guard. “Max, are you seriously jealous? He’s just being nice and answering my questions.”

Max huffed but didn’t reply, his blue eyes betraying the storm brewing within. They finished the rest of their day in strained silence, the usual playful banter replaced by tension.

The drive home was quiet, and Y/N felt the weight of his emotions. Max rarely let his insecurities show, but when he did, it hit hard.

As soon as they stepped into their shared apartment, she turned to him. “Max, talk to me. What’s really going on?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. “I don’t like seeing you with him, okay? It gets to me. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help it. You’re mine, and the thought of someone else catching your attention...”

She stepped closer, placing her hands on his chest. “You’re the only one I want, Max. You have nothing to worry about.”

His eyes softened, but the tension in his body remained. Without another word, he pulled her into a deep kiss, pouring all his unspoken emotions into it. Y/N felt the shift—his jealousy melting into need, his anger replaced by a longing to feel connected.

The night unfolded in a whirlwind of passion and tenderness. Max’s hands explored her as if reminding himself she was his, every touch filled with a mix of possessiveness and love. "You deserve to be punished young lady" he said while putting handcuffs on you... You hesitate a bit but you were enjoying it.. you don't see this side of max often..

He picked you up and made you sit on his lap kissing you roughly.. his hands caressing your ass and slowly pushing it towards his hardening dick...

At this point you were also turned on and both of your bodies were moving in sync Fully clothed...

"max.. don't make me more needy baby... Just put it in.. pls.." you said yearning to feel his dick inside you...

"Not so easily baby, this is a punishment.." he said smirking...

In one go both of your clothes were on the floor..

He inserted himself into you .. making you gasp because of the sudden movement...

It felt so good.. he was slowly pounding into you making it unbearable for you...

"baby pls.. pls a bit fast" you said.. "are you sure"

He started to pound in you roughly.. it was good very good but rough at the same time.. but he pulled out the moment you were about to cum...

"oh.. god no... Max... Why don't you let me cum"

"its a punishment baby" " max pls..it didn't feel good" you said with your big baby eyes.. which melted his heart right away.. "shh, just look at me, baby"

He started pounding into you again this time perfectly.. not too much rough.. but it felt amazing to you... When you both were about to cum.. he increased his pace go max.. it was good.. infact it was the best part... And you both came at the same time..

"so good for me, look at how much you came"

He said resting his head on your head panting from cuming right into you...

they lay tangled in the sheets, their breathing slowing as the adrenaline ebbed. Max traced lazy patterns on her bare shoulder, his head resting against hers.

“I’m sorry for overreacting,” he murmured. “I trust you, I do. It’s just...sometimes I forget how lucky I am to have you.”

She turned to face him, her fingers brushing through his messy hair. “Max, you don’t have to be jealous. Lucas is a friend, but you’re the one I love. You’re my everything.”

His lips curved into a small smile. “I just don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” she promised, leaning in to kiss him softly.

They stayed like that for hours, talking about everything and nothing—his next race, their plans for the future, and the little moments that made their relationship special. The vulnerability in their conversation only deepened their bond, and by the time sleep claimed them, the earlier tension was a distant memory.

In the quiet of the night, wrapped in each other’s arms, they both knew they had something unshakable.

[iamquiantrelle]

VIRGIN TERRITORY (chapter 3) ────── iamquaintrelle

# pairing: aurelien tchouameni x black oc (☔️✨💕)

# tags: @whoevenisthiz @irishmanwhore @lettersofgold @deonn-jaelle @sucredreamer @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @rougereds @f1-football-fiend @judectrl @ayeshami @greyishbach @haartemis @goldenngt @solidbrii @sailurmewn @rainbowsparkelsunshine @lbchi @bbgkoo

# summary: she's been his pa for almost a year and every day is a struggle to function around him, but he'll never see her more than that...will he? and what will happen if he finds out she's also a virgin? masterlist.

Leila isn't trying to make it a whole thing, but that date with William? That man took her to this cute little restaurant tucked away in a corner of Paris where nobody would recognize him, ordered wine that probably cost more than her rent, and spent the whole night actually listening to her talk about her family back in Georgia. Not once did he make her feel like she was just some thick girl he was trying to get with – instead he treated her like she was actually interesting, like her stories about her mama's cooking adventures were the most fascinating thing he'd ever heard.

And when she found out he was half Cameroonian? Maybe Yolanda had a point about her having a type because these West African men were really out here testing her resolve. The way his accent got thicker when he talked about his family, the way he understood exactly what she meant about certain cultural things without her having to explain... it was nice. Really nice.

He didn't try to kiss her at the end of the night, even though she maybe (definitely) wanted him to. Just kissed her hand (which should be corny but somehow wasn't) and said he'd love to do it again soon. She'd gone to bed thinking maybe this could be something.

But then Sunday morning happened and somehow everything else felt small in comparison.

"Avant de commencer l'entraînement," ("Before we start training,") Didier's voice carried across the morning meeting room, "J'ai une annonce à faire." ("I have an announcement to make.")

The room went quiet – well, as quiet as a room full of French footballers can get, which means Marcus was still whispering something to Mike that had them both stifling laughs.

"En l'absence de Kylian," ("In Kylian's absence,") Didier continued, holding up the captain's armband, "nous avons besoin d'un nouveau capitaine." ("we need a new captain.") "Aurélien Tchouaméni."

The room erupted. Leila's never seen someone look so surprised and honored at the same time, like Aurélien couldn't quite believe what was happening.

"Notre nouveau capitaine!" ("Our new captain!") Marcus shouted, starting an impromptu chant.

"MON CAPITAINE!" Jules was the first to reach him, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "Tu l'as mérité, mon frère." ("You earned it, my brother.")

"Finalement, quelqu'un va peut-être réussir à le faire sourire," ("Finally, someone might succeed in making him smile,") Cama teased, doing an exaggerated salute. "Oui, Capitaine!"

The whole team picked up the salute, turning it into this ridiculous ceremony that had even Didier trying not to laugh.

"Je suis honoré," ("I'm honored,") Aurélien finally managed to say, voice thick with emotion as Didier handed him the armband. "Je ne sais pas quoi dire..." ("I don't know what to say...")

"Dis-nous qu'on va défoncer Israël!" ("Tell us we're gonna destroy Israel!") Mike called out.

"Et qu'on peut manger la cuisine de Leila ce soir!" ("And that we can eat Leila's cooking tonight!") Marcus added, which started a whole new round of cheering.

Leila couldn't help but clap and cheer with them all – because this was huge. This was her boss becoming captain of the French national team at twenty-four. This was history.

***************************

The Bridge's studio setup is way more casual than Leila expected, all warm lights and comfy chairs arranged in a circle like it's just bros hanging out – which, technically, it is.

"Ma puce, mon café?" Aurélien calls out as she's setting up his notes, and she pretends not to notice how Sébastien raises his eyebrows at the pet name.

"You have two hands that work perfectly fine," she responds, but she's already heading to get his coffee because she knows exactly how he gets without his caffeine fix before filming. Two sugars, splash of cream – the man drinks coffee like he's trying to hide the fact it's coffee.

"Ah, c'est comme ça maintenant?" ("So that's how it is now?") Jules grins as he walks in, followed by Ousmane and Thomas.

"Elle fait la grève," ("She's on strike,") Ousmane adds with a knowing smile.

"Can y'all not?" Leila mutters, but of course they can't because they live for chaos.

"What’s going on?" Thomas asks, settling into his chair while the makeup artist touches up his face.

"Nothing–" Aurélien starts, but Jules is already diving in.

"She's dating Wilo."

"I am not–"

"Wilo?" Sébastien perks up like he's just been handed gossip gold. "As in Saliba? Mon dieu, this is better than what I planned for the show."

"Speaking of the show," Leila cuts in desperately, "maybe we should focus on your actual topics? Like the Champions League? The national team? Literally anything else?"

"But this is much more interesting," Sébastien grins. "Tell me, how does our new captain feel about his PA dating his teammate?"

"We are NOT discussing my dating life on YouTube," Leila says firmly, handing Aurélien his coffee with maybe a little more force than necessary. Some splashes onto his notes and she automatically reaches to wipe it, just as he does the same. Their hands brush and she pulls back like she's been burned.

"Ooh, as-tu vu ça?" Thomas stage-whispers to Ousmane. "La tension!"

"I'm about to show y'all some tension with these coffee cups," Leila threatens, making them laugh harder.

"Non, non," Ousmane agrees solemnly. "We'll just discuss how our captain gets jealous every time someone looks at his PA. Like yesterday at training when Giroud asked her about American football..."

"I was not jealous," Aurélien protests. "I was concerned about her getting distracted from her duties."

"Her duties of watching you run laps?" Jules asks innocently.

"Her duties of maintaining my schedule–"

"The schedule she has memorized?" Ousmane adds.

"Y'all really want me to poison your dinner tonight, huh?" Leila threatens, but they just laugh harder.

"See? This is why I need my own Leila," Sébastien says. "Where do I find a PA who cooks?"

"You don't," Aurélien's voice carries that edge again. "She's one of a kind."

The room goes quiet for a moment, and Leila busies herself with absolutely nothing important on her tablet.

"Okay!" The producer calls out. "Five minutes! Let's talk about the actual show content?"

"Oui, oui," Sébastien nods, suddenly professional. "First segment about then national team dynamics with our new captain, maybe some stuff about Jules and his fashion sense…."

"Maybe one about a certain PA?" Thomas asks hopefully.

"Including nothing about any PAs," Leila cuts in. "Unless y'all want to explain to Didier why half his starting lineup got food poisoning before a match."

"She wouldn't really..." Thomas starts.

"She absolutely would," Aurélien, Jules, and Ousmane answer in unison.

"Ma puce," Aurélien calls softly, and she looks up to find him watching her with that expression that makes her stomach do stupid things. "My notes?"

She hands them over, careful not to let their fingers brush. "Try not to start any international incidents this time."

"Une fois," ("One time,") he protests. "I say one thing about Premier League defenders..."

"You said they tackle like they learned football from YouTube tutorials," she reminds him.

"Was I wrong though?"

"That's not the point! Twitter was a nightmare for days."

"This is why you're my favorite," he says, and something in his voice makes her look up. "You keep me in line."

"Someone has to," she manages to say, stepping back as the cameras start rolling.

She watches from behind the scenes as they dive into football talk, the banter shifting into serious discussion about tactics and pressure and what it means to wear the captain's armband. Watches how Aurélien leads the conversation with natural grace, how he makes everyone feel heard while still keeping things moving.

"Et maintenant," ("And now,") Sébastien grins near the end, "Les fans veulent savoir - est notre nouveau capitaine single?" ("the fans want to know – is our new captain single")

Leila's head snaps up from her tablet.

"Non," Thomas jumps in before Aurélien can answer. "Son cœur appartient à son P–"

The water bottle that flies across the room and hits Thomas square in the chest is definitely not thrown by Leila.

"Cut!" The producer calls after they wrap the final segment, and Leila releases a breath she didn't know she was holding. They managed to get through the whole episode with only minimal chaos, though Thomas kept trying to sneak in comments about "certain PAs" until she started keeping a steady supply of projectiles within reach.

"That was fun," Sébastien grins, stretching as they all stand. "We should do this again. Maybe next time with Wilo as a guest?"

"Don't you have a dinner to prepare?" Jules asks quickly, shooting her a look that clearly says 'get out while you can'.

"Oui, about that dinner," Thomas perks up. "What exactly are you making?"

"If one more person asks me about dinner," Leila cuts in, gathering her things, "I'm making y'all eat protein shakes instead."

"You wouldn't," Ousmane gasps dramatically.

"Try me."

"Ma puce," Aurélien's voice is softer now that the cameras are off. "Need a ride to the store?"

And that's... new. He hasn't offered to drive her anywhere since The Comment™️.

"I can take her," Jules offers with fake innocence. "Since you probably have captain duties and all."

"I can drive my PA to the store."

"Your PA?" Thomas raises an eyebrow. "Just okay PA or...?"

The second water bottle that hits him is definitely from Aurélien this time.

"I'll wait in the car," he tells her, ignoring the knowing looks from everyone else.

As soon as he's out of earshot, the chaos erupts:

"Girl, if you don't get in that car–" Ousmane starts.

"But what about Wilo?" Thomas asks.

"Capitaine is clearly in his feelings–" Sébastien adds.

"EVERYBODY SHUT UP!" Jules announces. "Let her breathe."

Leila takes a deep breath, gathering her professional dignity around her like armor. "I have a dinner to cook for twenty something grown men who act like children. I don't have time for... whatever this is."

"This," Sébastien gestures vaguely, "is prime content. The captain and his PA?"

"There is no 'captain and his PA'," she insists. "There's just a PA who's about to feed half of the French Football Federation because she makes poor life choices."

"Speaking of poor life choices," Jules grins, "your man's waiting."

"He's not my–"

A horn honks outside. Twice.

"La patience de cet homme," Thomas laughs. "Vraiment incroyable."

"I hate all of you," Leila announces, heading for the door.

"But you'll still feed us?" Ousmane calls after her.

She doesn't dignify that with a response.

The car ride is... weird. Not tense exactly, but full of something she can't name. Aurélien keeps opening his mouth like he wants to say something, then closing it again. She pretends to be very interested in her grocery list.

Two hours and way too many bags later (because apparently she's feeding an army now), they're back at Clairefontaine and the kitchen is already buzzing with energy and she directs her very enthusiastic sous chefs – Michael and Cama, plus some actual kitchen staff who keep looking at her like she's either genius or crazy for attempting this.

"This is not 'season to taste'," she swats Cama's hand away from the seasoning. "This is 'season to kill'."

"But it needs more–"

"If you say 'spice' I'm demoting you to dish duty."

The thing about cooking while Chief Keef is blasting through Clairefontaine's halls is that it really sets a specific type of mood. Leila can hear Marcus and Mike singing "Don't Like" at the top of their lungs, probably driving everyone crazy, but she's too focused on making sure Cama doesn't turn her greens into chemical warfare.

Michael, who’s undoubtedly the sous chef MVP, is quietly following her instructions to the letter. There's something zen about the way he moves through the kitchen, precise and focused like he's preparing for a match instead of helping prep chicken.

"You're good at this," she tells him, and his answering smile is small but genuine.

"My grandmother," he says simply. "She taught me that cooking is meditation."

"YOUR GRANDMOTHER DIDN'T HAVE TO COOK FOR HANGRY FOOTBALLERS!" Marcus's voice carries through the door, followed by the opening beats of "Love Sosa."

"The meditation is about to turn into medication if they don't calm down," Leila mutters, but Michael just laughs softly.

The kitchen staff has gone from skeptical to impressed, watching her coordinate this whole production like she's done it her whole life. Which, honestly, she has – just usually for family reunions, not professional athletes who probably cost more than her entire hometown.

"It's almost ready?" Mike pokes his head in, looking like a hopeful puppy. "Because we're dying out here."

"You've eaten today," she points out. "Multiple times."

"But not your cooking," Marcus appears behind him. "And now the whole place smells like heaven and we're suffering."

"You're not suffering," she rolls her eyes. "You're being dramatic."

"I AM suffering," Mike insists. "Look at me, I'm wasting away."

"You literally had lunch two hours ago."

"That was before we could smell the mac and cheese," Marcus argues. "Now we're starving."

She's about to throw something at them when Michael quietly says, "The chicken's ready for the second batch."

"See?" She points at Michael. "This is why he's my favorite. He actually helps instead of just complaining."

"Favorites?" Marcus clutches his chest. "That's cold, Lei. Ice cold."

"You know what else is getting cold? This food, if y'all don't let me cook in peace."

"But–"

"OUT!"

They retreat, but not before Mike tries one last time to steal a piece of chicken. She catches him with her wooden spoon – years of defending food from hungry cousins have honed her reflexes.

"The quiet ones always got jokes," Cama laughs as Mike runs away clutching his hand dramatically, then yelps when she catches him trying to sneak a taste of the greens. "How do you even see everything?"

"I have eyes in the back of my head," she says seriously. "My mama installed them when I started cooking."

"They're getting restless," Michael notes as another song starts shaking the walls. She's pretty sure she can hear Jules trying to teach Marcus and Mike the words, which is... a choice.

"Let them be restless," she says, putting the finishing touches on the mac and cheese (extra cheese on top because she ain't playing). "Good food takes time."

The kitchen settles into a rhythm after that, just the sounds of cooking and the distant bass of whatever song Marcus and Mike have moved onto now. Even Cama calms down enough to actually be helpful, following her instructions with only minimal attempts at creative seasoning.

"This is nice," Michael says after a while, quiet enough that only she can hear. "Reminds me of home."

"Yeah," she smiles, understanding exactly what he means. There's something about cooking with people who get it, who understand that food is more than just fuel. It's love, it's family, it's...

"FANCULO!"

The Italian curse makes them all jump as Cama nearly drops an entire tray of cornbread.

"What happened?" Leila spins around, heart racing.

"The cornbread!" he looks devastated. "I almost... it almost..."

"But you didn't," she soothes, trying not to laugh at how genuinely distressed he looks. "The cornbread is safe."

"I would've had to leave France," he says seriously. "Change my name. Start a new life."

"Because of cornbread?"

"Have you met my teammates? They would never let me live it down."

He's not wrong. She can already imagine the chaos if anything happened to the cornbread. These grown men really out here ready to riot over some baked goods.

"Speaking of teammates," Michael says casually, too casually, "our captain's been pacing outside the door for the last ten minutes."

"He what?" She turns so fast she almost knocks over the hot sauce.

"Mhm," Michael hums, that knowing look back in his eyes. "Every time someone walks by he pretends he's on his phone."

"That's..." she doesn't even know how to finish that sentence.

"Interesting?" Cama suggests with a grin.

"Complicated," she corrects. "Now focus on not dropping any more cornbread."

"I didn't drop it!" Cama whined.

"Almost dropped it."

"So," Michael says after a moment, quiet enough that only she can hear, "we're really not going to talk about it?"

"About what?"

His knowing look rivals Jules', but he just goes back to prepping chicken.

"Nothing," he says. "Just thinking our new captain might need to work on his game off the field too."

She chooses to ignore that, focusing instead on finishing up everything. The food looks good – really good. Soul food isn't meant to be fancy, but there's something beautiful about it anyway. Something honest.

"Time to feed the children," she announces, and both Michael and Cama snort at her description of their teammates.

"They're going to lose their minds," Cama predicts as they start plating everything.

He's not wrong. She can already hear the excitement building in the cafeteria, the mix of French and English and various other languages all carrying the same message: finally.

"Ready?" Michael asks as they prepare to head out.

She looks at their work – all this food made with love and patience (and only minimal threats of violence).

"Ready."

The whole team is there, plus coaching staff, plus what feels like half the FFF. They've pushed tables together family-style, and someone (probably Marcus) starts a chant of "Speech! Speech!" that gets picked up by everyone else.

"Y'all are doing too much," she laughs, but Michael gently pushes her forward.

"I'll translate," he says, and she sends up a prayer of thanks for this man's whole existence.

"Okay, okay," she holds up her hands and the room quiets down. "Listen. Where I'm from, food is how we show love. It's how we celebrate victories and comfort each other through losses. It's how we welcome family – blood or chosen."

Michael translates as she speaks, his French making her simple words sound almost poetic.

"Today we're celebrating our new captain," she continues, and the cheers that go up nearly shake the windows. Aurélien, sitting at the center of the longest table, ducks his head but she catches his smile. "And tomorrow we're gonna beat Israel's whole ass."

The roar that goes up at that almost drowns out Michael's slightly more diplomatic translation.

"Everything is Halal," she adds, "and yes, there's dessert – banana pudding with vanilla ice cream because I'm not a monster."

She nods to the servers who start bringing out the dishes, and the way these elite athletes' eyes light up at the sight of proper soul food would be funny if it wasn't so endearing.

"Bon appétit, mes amis," she finishes, and immediately gets swept up in a group hug from Marcus and Mike that nearly takes her off her feet.

"An angel," Marcus declares as he squeezes her. "A motherfucking angel."

The room fills with the sound of comfortable chaos that reminds her of Sunday dinners back home. She catches William's eye across the room and he gives her a warm smile that makes her cheeks warm.

But then she feels it – that familiar weight of attention – and finds Aurélien watching her with an expression that makes her breath catch. He's looking like something out of her most inappropriate dreams, and...

"Your plate," Michael appears at her elbow with food he's made up for her. "Can't let the chef go hungry."

She tears her eyes away from Aurélien, forcing herself to focus on her food and not on how their new captain keeps glancing her way like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

For the first few minutes, the cafeteria vibrates of pure, unadulterated appreciation – the kind that makes a cook's heart sing. These professional athletes, who probably have personal chefs on speed dial, are absolutely demolishing their plates. Bradley's over there drowning his chicken in hot sauce like he's trying to prove something, while others are just making these little sounds of joy between bites.

"I'm going to marry you," Brice announces suddenly through a mouthful of mac and cheese, breaking the reverent silence like a hammer through stained glass.

The table erupts in hoots and hollers, and Leila definitely doesn't miss how Aurélien's fork freezes halfway to his mouth.

"It's a joke," Brice adds quickly, though his eyes are twinkling. "But this food? Magnifique."

"You can't just propose like that," Khephren shakes his head with mock solemnity. "There's a process. Parents first."

"Exactly," Ousmane nods with all the wisdom of someone who's been in this position before. "Gotta do it properly."

"And don't forget the bride price," Ibou adds, which sets off a wave of groans like he's just announced extra training.

"They don't do that in America, bro," someone calls out, which starts a whole debate about marriage customs in different countries.

"Speaking of America," Mike cuts through the chaos with surprising grace, "you're from Georgia, right?" At Leila's nod, he continues, "Do you know where your peoples from? Like which country in the motherland?"

"You can't just ask her that," Jules protests.

"Why not?" Mike shrugs, all innocence. "I'm just curious."

"Slavery happened," Michael says quietly, taking a casual sip of water.

"I know that happened," Mike responds, "but you know some Black people in the US do one of those ancestry.com tests. You know, to find their roots."

"I did one," Leila interjects, and suddenly she has the undivided attention of some of the most expensive athletes in Europe, all of them looking at her like she's about to reveal the secret to scoring hat-tricks.

"And?" Marcus prompts, gesturing with a chicken wing that probably violates several of their nutritionist's rules.

"You guys really want to know?"

The chorus of "yes" comes in various accents and volumes, but the enthusiasm is unanimous, and they're ready to put their food on pause – and considering how they've been eating, that's saying something.

Laughing, she pulls up her phone, scrolling through her gallery for that screenshot from her college days. "Okay, this is from my Cultural History & Heritage class, so... I'm 65% Ghanaian..."

The applause that breaks out would make you think someone just scored a World Cup winner. Ousmane's practically glowing with vindication.

"I knew you were Ghanaian! You're feisty," he declares.

"And that forehead," Ibou adds, making her touch it self-consciously.

"What's wrong with my forehead?"

"You got that West African forehead," Marcus explains through a grin. "It's still cute though!" he adds quickly, like he's just remembered his mama raised him right.

She's doing her best impression of a confused goldfish when she continues, "10% Western Bantu Peoples, 14% Beninese." Her eyes flick to Jules, who's wearing the kind of smile that suggests he's already plotting something.

"You and JK are cousins!" Cama announces with the excitement of someone connecting invisible dots. "The family reunion's gonna be lit!"

"9% French Guiana," she pushes on, "8% English, and the rest is Dutch."

The reaction to the English and Dutch parts hits like they've just heard she's part alien. Eyebrows shooting up across the table like they're trying to escape.

"Slavery," Michael says again, and the word lands like a weight, heavy with centuries of history.

"Right, right," comes the collective murmur, before Marcus breaks the moment by declaring he needs thirds "to honor all those ancestors."

"More cornbread, ma puce?"

She turns to find Aurélien holding out the basket, something soft in his expression that makes her heart do stupid things.

"I'm good," she manages to say.

"You sure? You've barely eaten."

"Just happy everyone else is enjoying it."

His response is cut off by Marcus starting a debate about whether Ghana or Benin has better jollof rice, and suddenly the whole table is taking sides in what's apparently a long-standing West African rivalry.

"Ghana obviously has the better jollof," she says quietly, just to watch Aurélien's eyes narrow in betrayal.

"Et tu, ma puce?" He shakes his head like she's personally wounded him. "Non, non. Cameroon's jollof is superior. This is just facts."

"Please," Ousmane cuts in with the confidence of someone about to start a war, "Nigerian jollof clears both. This isn't even a debate."

"Bullshit," Marcus declares. "Ghana invented jollof. You can't beat the original."

"Being first doesn't mean being best," Aurélien argues, and suddenly it's like they're discussing tactical formations instead of rice. "Cameroonians perfected it."

"The delusion," Ousmane sighs dramatically. "This is why you need a Nigerian wife. To show you what real jollof tastes like."

Leila tries not to think too hard about why that comment makes something twist in her chest, but then Aurélien's saying, "I don't need a Nigerian wife when I have–" before cutting himself off abruptly.

The table goes quiet enough to hear a fork drop.

"When you have what?" Jules prompts teasingly.

"When I have... more important things to focus on," Aurélien finishes lamely. "Like tomorrow's match."

"Mhm," Michael hums into his water glass, sharing a look with Jules that speaks volumes.

The conversation shifts to safer topics after that, but Leila can't quite shake the weight of that unfinished sentence. Can't quite ignore how Aurélien keeps sneaking glances at her like he's trying to read something written in a language he doesn't understand, but that's a problem for another day.

Match day arrives bright and crisp, the kind of weather that makes footballers' eyes light up. The usual pre-match routines take on extra weight today – this isn't just any game, it's Aurélien's first as captain, and you can feel it in the air at breakfast. Even Marcus and Mike are quieter than usual, energy focused instead of scattered.

But before they can get to the match, there's the small matter of getting to Budapest. The morning after her soul food extravaganza has these grown men acting like they've discovered the secret to eternal happiness.

"I swear," Marcus is saying as they wait in the private terminal, "I haven't slept that good since I was in the womb."

"That's called the itis," Leila explains, watching their confused faces with amusement. "When good food puts you in a food coma? Yeah that’s what it is."

"Whatever it was, we need it before every match," Mike declares, and several others nod enthusiastically.

"That's too much to ask," Aurélien cuts in, that protective edge creeping into his voice.

"I'll help cook again!" Cama volunteers immediately.

"NO!" comes the unanimous response, making him pout.

"After what you tried to do to those greens?" Michael adds quietly. "I think not."

The conversation halts as they board their plane, and Leila thought she knew what luxury was, but this private Airbus is on another level. It's all cream leather and polished wood, with business class seats that look more like individual living rooms. Each pod has its own entertainment system and enough space to lie flat, making her regular flight experiences look like public transit.

"First time on the team plane?" William's voice is warm as he slides into the seat next to her, flashing that smile that still makes her stomach flip.

"That obvious?"

"You're looking around like you just discovered Narnia."

She catches Aurélien watching them from across the aisle, his jaw doing that thing it does when he's thinking too hard.

"You should come to London after the break," William continues smoothly, either not noticing or choosing to ignore their captain's attention, "There's this amazing Nigerian restaurant I want to show you."

"Oh?" she tries for casual. "Just for the food?"

His smile turns soft. "Among other things."

Someone – definitely Jules – clears their throat loudly, and Leila suddenly finds the safety card fascinating.

"The restaurant's near Emirates," William adds. "I could show you around, catch a match..."

"You trying to convert her to Arsenal?" Bradley calls from behind them. "Nah, she needs to see a PSG match instead."

"Please," Mike scoffs. "Milan is clearly superior."

And just like that, they're all arguing about their clubs like they weren't just praising her cooking five minutes ago.

"Think about it?" William asks quietly while the others debate club merits.

She's about to answer when Aurélien's voice cuts through: "Leila, I need you to review the post-match schedules."

"Now? We just took off."

"Oui. Now."

William just shakes his head but his smile is knowing. "We'll talk later?"

She nods, gathering her tablet and trying not to analyze why their captain suddenly needs to review schedules he definitely already knows by heart.

**********************

The Puskás Aréna is something else entirely when they arrive – all modern glass and steel but somehow still intimidating as hell. Leila's back in her element, running through pre-match routines she's got down to a science by now. Water bottles positioned just so (because Michael swears the angle affects his performance), extra shin guards for Marcus (who she's convinced loses them on purpose at this point just to watch her scramble), and that specific pre-wrap that Mike treats like it's made of gold.

Aurélien's different today – you can see it in how he carries himself, that armband not just a piece of fabric but a crown. He moves through the locker room like he's been doing this his whole life, stopping at each player with exactly what they need: a quiet word with Jules, some complicated handshake with Cama that looks more like interpretive dance, a firm nod to William that carries weight she can't quite read.

The match itself? Pure poetry. Whatever that soul food did to them, it's working overtime because they're moving like they've got cheat codes enabled. Aurélien's commanding the midfield like he was born to it, every tackle clean enough to eat off of, every pass finding feet like he's got GPS in his boots.

Six minutes in and Cama's already making statements, finding the back of the net with the kind of finish that makes you question physics. Before Israel can even process what hit them, Nkunku's doubling the lead in the 26th minute, celebration looking suspiciously like a TikTok dance she's definitely seen Marcus teaching everyone.

Israel manages to pull one back, but these boys aren't about to let their captain's first match be anything less than spectacular. The last five minutes turn into a highlight reel – a goal in the 87th with a strike that probably broke the sound barrier, and then Bradley putting the final nail in the coffin just two minutes later, making it 4-1 with the kind of casual elegance that shouldn't be legal.

The final whistle just confirms what everyone already knew – this French team, with their new captain and apparently their new pre-match soul food ritual, is something special.

4-1. Four different scorers. And one very proud PA trying not to look too obvious about it.

*******************************

The rowdy chaos outside her hotel room tells Leila exactly what's about to go down. Post-match celebration means clubs, means someone's definitely about to drop stupid money on bottles, means Marcus will absolutely end up shirtless at some point, and means these boys are headed out to dance a little and find someone who's down to fuck. Instagram models will materialize like they've got professional athlete radar, the elevators about to get more action than a fashion week runway.

Her mind cannot handle the aura Aurélien has right now especially after winning his first match as captain; she knew what type time he was on and it wasn't going to be anything saintly. He loves a win more than anything and the only other thing that can top that is going out with the boys and bedding some girl.

Thank goodness she never heard him getting busy - that may scar her to the point of needing therapy but she read some things on gossip blogs (she didn't know if it was true or false) and the way they talked about him having humongous dick energy not to mention the stamina—

A knock on her hotel room door pulled her out of her thoughts and she hurriedly fixed her bonnet and glasses before looking at the peep hole and to her surprise it was Jules.

The hell?

"I know you know it's me," he says and Leila let out a groan silently debating on whether or not she should let him in. He knocked again, this time harder.

"Okay, relax." She said then opened the door. Jules eyes scanned over her body.

"That's how you going to the club, Leila? A bonnet and muumuu?"

And she squinted at him like he had three heads. "Huh?"

"You're coming to the club."

"I most certainly am not," she says, already trying to close the door, but Jules is faster, wedging his foot in the way.

"You really gonna let Wilo go to the club without supervision?" he asks with that smirk that means trouble. "When there's gonna be all those Hungarian baddies there?"

"Wilo is a grown man who can do whatever he wants," she says, but something must show in her face because Jules' grin gets wider.

"Mhm. And I'm sure Auré has nothing to do with you hiding in your room?"

"I'm not hiding, I'm being professional."

"Professional?" Jules actually laughs. "Ma puce, you're our age. You think the FFF expects you to sit in your room in a bonnet while we celebrate?"

"The FFF expects me to—"

"To what? Pretend you're not twenty-four? Come on. Get dressed. The car leaves in twenty."

"Jules—"

"Either you come willingly or I'm sending Marcus and Mike to get you. Your choice."

The threat of those two showing up at her door is enough to make her pause. They'd probably live-stream the whole thing, and then she'd have to explain to her mama why she's trending on French Twitter.

"Fine," she sighs. "But I'm not staying long."

"Sure," Jules says in a tone that suggests he doesn't believe her at all. "Wear that black dress you brought."

She narrows her eyes. "How do you know what's in my suitcase?"

"I don't. But you're a Black woman on a work trip – you definitely packed a just-in-case outfit."

"I hate that you know that."

His grin is entirely too satisfied. "Twenty minutes. And Lei?" He pauses at the door. "Aren't you curious what your captain's going to say when he sees you in something other than work clothes?"

Before she can throw something at him, he's gone, his laughter echoing down the hallway.

She looks at her reflection in the hotel mirror, bonnet and all, and lets out a deep sigh.

"Lord," she mutters, already reaching for her suitcase, "give me strength."

Because Jules isn't wrong – she definitely packed that black dress. Just in case.

The black halterneck dress has been sitting in her suitcase like it's been waiting for this moment, all dangerous intentions and "maybe I will act up tonight" energy. She holds it up, already questioning herself because this hem is definitely living its best thigh-high life. But then again, if she's about to get dragged to a club by a bunch of football players, she might as well look like she meant to be there.

The over-the-knee boots are her compromise with herself – wedge heels because she refuses to die tonight trying to channel her inner Instagram baddie in stilettos. Her silk press is still hanging on by a prayer and whatever magic Theresa put in that heat protectant, so at least that's one less thing to worry about.

One last glance in the mirror has her reaching for her silver metallic Diesel mini purse (her one designer splurge that she justified as a "work expense" because technically she does need to look put together around these millionaires).

A knock at the door has her rolling her eyes. "It has not been twenty minutes—" she starts, yanking it open, ready to tell Jules exactly where he can put his timeline.

Except it's not Jules.

William's standing there looking like every bad decision she's ever wanted to make, already dressed for the club in a fitted black Amiri shirt that's doing criminal things to his shoulders.

"Oh," she manages, suddenly very aware that this dress is doing exactly what it was designed to do. William's eyes do a slow sweep from her boots all the way up, and listen – she might need to text Theresa a thank you for this silk press because the way he's looking at her right now?

"Jules said you needed an escort to the club," he says, voice a little rougher than usual. "But I'm thinking maybe we should skip it."

She tries to remember how to form words like a professional. "Skip it?"

"There's this rooftop bar..." he starts, then stops as voices carry down the hallway – she catches Aurélien's distinct tone among them and something in William's expression shifts.

"The rooftop bar?" she prompts, pretending she doesn't hear the footsteps getting closer.

William steps closer, just inside her doorway. "Much quieter than the club. Better view. And we could actually..." he pauses as the voices get louder, "talk."

The way he says 'talk' definitely isn't suggesting conversation about the weather.

But before she can respond, another voice cuts through:

"Ma pu—" Aurélien's voice cuts off abruptly, and Leila watches something complicated pass across his face as he takes in the scene – William in her doorway, her in this dress that's definitely not PA-appropriate, the energy crackling between them that definitely isn't professional.

He's already dressed for the club too, looking like he stepped out of a GQ spread in all black everything, that captain's confidence still radiating off him. For a moment, nobody moves.

"Capitaine," William says easily, not moving from his spot. "We were just discussing alternate plans for tonight."

"Alternate plans?" Jules appears behind Aurélien, taking in the situation with raised eyebrows. "Non, non. The team celebrates together. You know this."

"I was thinking—" William starts, but Aurélien cuts him off.

"The van's leaving. Now." There's something in his voice that doesn't invite argument. "Both of you."

Leila catches Jules hiding a smile behind his hand, and she really might have to fight him later.

"After you," William says to her, finally stepping back, but his hand finds her lower back as they head toward the elevator and she swears she hears something that sounds suspiciously like a growl from behind them.

The rented van's already bumping with French trap music when she climbs in, Marcus and Mike immediately letting out wolf whistles that would absolutely get them slapped by their mamas.

"OH? Okay Lei! I see how you coming tonight!" Cama's eyes go wide. "This is not PA behavior!"

"Nah for real though," Marcus grins, "who told you to show up looking this good? We trying to play it cool tonight!"

"Cool?" Mike winks at her. "Ain't nothing cool about this. Now we know why Jules was so pressed about you coming out."

Bradley's already pouring shots in the back, passing them around like they didn't just play 90 minutes of professional football. "To the baddest in the van!"

"Hold up though," Khephren raises his glass with a smirk. "You really just been hiding all this under them work clothes? That's foul, Lei."

William's hand is still somehow finding reasons to brush against her knee, while Aurélien's watching the whole scene from the front like he's plotting multiple homicides. The bass is hitting hard enough to cover whatever Jules is saying to him, but judging by their captain's face, it's nothing he wants to hear.

"Another round?" Bradley calls out as Gazo's latest hit has everyone trying to rap along.

"No, I’m good. Thanks," she says.

The club is exactly what you'd expect when rolling with the French national team – all VIP treatment and bottle girls already lined up like they got a notification that fine athletes were incoming. Security parts the crowd, leading them straight to the section.

"You good?" William asks as she slides into the booth next to him, his hand finding that spot on her lower back again. Before she can answer, Marcus is already ordering bottles like he's trying to buy out the whole club.

"Dom, Clase Azul, and whatever our PA wants because she blessed us with that soul food!" he shouts over the music.

"And that dress," Mike adds, earning himself a look from Aurélien that could freeze hell.

The first bottle of Dom arrives with sparklers because of course it does – these men don't know how to do anything lowkey. Bradley's already got his phone out, documenting everything for his Close Friends story while Cama starts pouring shots like it's his job.

"To our captain!" Someone calls out, and more bottles appear, more sparklers, more everything.

"And to our angel," Khephren adds with a wink in her direction. "Feeding us like kings!"

She catches Aurélien's expression in the strobe lights, something dark and hungry in his eyes as he watches William lean in to whisper something in her ear. The music's too loud to hear what Jules says to him, but whatever it is makes their captain knock back his entire drink in one go.

"Dance with me," William says as Rema's voice fills the club, and Leila immediately starts shaking her head, pushing her glasses up her nose like they'll shield her from his request.

"Oh no, I don't—"

But then he does that thing with his tongue, running it across his lips in a way that should be illegal, and her brain short-circuits for a second.

"Come on," he grins, already standing and holding out his hand. "One dance."

Before she can protest again, he's leading her down from their VIP section to where the dance floor is pulsing with Afrobeats. She catches Aurélien's expression as they pass – something dangerous flickering in his eyes as he watches William's hand on her waist.

"I really don't dance," she tries one last time, but William's already pulling her closer, moving to the beat like he was born doing this.

"Everyone dances to Afrobeats," he says in her ear, his accent wrapping around the words. "Just feel it."

And maybe it's the shots, or maybe it's the way his hands feel on her hips, but she finds herself starting to move. The rhythm catches her, William's smile grows wider, and suddenly she remembers – she does know how to dance. She just usually doesn't do it in front of half the French national team.

But tonight? Tonight feels different.

The thing about dancing with a professional athlete is that they know exactly how to move. William's got this natural rhythm that makes it easy to follow his lead, his hands steady on her hips as she finds her groove. The beat switches to "Calm Down" and suddenly they're moving like they've been dancing together forever.

"Look who can dance after all," he murmurs in her ear, pulling her a little closer as she rolls her hips. The shots are definitely helping with her confidence, but it's the way he's looking at her that's really doing it – like she's the only girl in this packed club.

She catches glimpses of the other boys joining the dance floor – Marcus already shirtless (called it), Mike with some girl who looks like she models for Fashion Nova, Cama doing some complicated dance routine that has everyone making space. But she keeps feeling that weight of attention from above, knows without looking that Aurélien's watching every move, every time William's hands slide a little lower, every time she moves a little closer.

"You've been holding out on us," he says against her ear. "All this time in training and we never knew you could move like this."

A particularly bold turn has her back pressed fully against him, and oh – apparently footballers really do have incredible stamina because that's definitely not his phone in his pocket. His thumb traces her jawline, tilting her face up to his, and the look in his eyes makes her mouth go dry.

"I think," he says, voice rough in a way that sends heat straight through her, "we should get out of here."

The reasonable part of her brain, the part that remembers she's technically working, tries to speak up. But then his lips brush her ear and that part of her brain short circuits completely.

"I've got a suite," he continues. "Much quieter than here. Better view of the city."

She knows what he's really saying. Knows exactly what that invitation means. Knows that tomorrow she'll either have the best story for Yolanda or the biggest regret of her career.

From somewhere behind them, she hears Mike shout something that sounds suspiciously like "GET IT, LEI!" She's going to have to fight him later.

William's still waiting for an answer, his body moving against hers in a way that's making thinking very difficult. His hand slides up her spine, leaving fire in its wake, and really – what's the worst that could happen?

Besides losing her job, her dignity, and whatever's left of her heart that isn't already tied up in another footballer who thinks she's just okay.

The music shifts to something slower, something that has William pulling her even closer, and she's about to say yes to everything he's suggesting when someone bumps them hard enough to break their bubble.

"Désolé," Aurélien's voice cuts through the music as he moves past them toward the bar, not sounding sorry at all. Bradley is right behind him, shooting them an apologetic look that seems more amused than anything.

But William's not letting this moment slip. His fingers turned her attention back to him like their captain didn't just try to body check them on the dance floor. "So? That view I mentioned..."

Maybe it's the shots. Maybe it's the way he's looking at her. Maybe it's how Aurélien didn't even acknowledge her when he passed. Maybe it's all of it, mixing with the bass and the heat and the way William's fingers are drawing promises on her skin.

"Show me," she says, and his smile turns dangerous in the best way.

He leads her through the crowd, hand firm on her lower back. They pass the VIP section where Mike lets out another wolf whistle (she's definitely fighting him tomorrow), where Marcus is too busy with his own conquest to notice, where Cama's eyes go wide before he bumps Jules' shoulder with a knowing look.

She catches one last glimpse of Aurélien at the bar as they head for the exit, watches him knock back what looks like straight whiskey while Bradley says something in his ear. His eyes meet hers for just a moment, dark and intense and full of something she can't name.

But then William's guiding her toward the door, and she decides that's tomorrow's problem.

Tonight belongs to different choices.

**************************

The Uber ride is charged with enough electricity to power all of Budapest. William's got his hand on her thigh, thumb tracing circles that are making her brain malfunction, and listen – she might need to text God an apology real quick because the thoughts she's having right now are absolutely not church-appropriate.

He's definitely feeling those shots, all loose limbs and heated looks, but she's right there with him – everything's got that soft-focus feeling that makes bad decisions feel like destiny. The way he's looking at her like she's something to be devoured is doing things to her heart rate that can't be healthy.

But underneath all that liquid courage, panic is starting to set in. Because this man definitely thinks he's about to get the kind of experience his usual conquests provide, and she's over here having never gone past first base. Her virgin self is really about to try to play in the Champions League with no practice, and that's not even counting the fact that this man is built like he was carved from marble.

"You're thinking too loud," he murmurs, leaning in close enough that she can smell his cologne mixed with expensive liquor. His lips brush her ear and – oh. OH. Maybe this is how she dies. At least it's a good way to go.

The hotel appears way too quickly and not quick enough. William helps her out of the car like the gentleman he is, but his eyes are pure sin as they head for the elevator.

Her heart's doing double-time now, a mix of want and worry that has her pressing her thighs together. Because she wants this – wants him – but also? She's seen the gossip blogs. She knows what these football players are working with. And her inexperienced self is really about to—

The elevator doors close and William presses the button for his floor, and suddenly everything feels very, very real.

Lord help her.

It took no time before William got her pressed against the mirrored wall, one hand braced beside her head while the other plays with the ends of her hair. They haven't even kissed yet but the anticipation is thick enough to cut.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs, eyes tracking over her face like he's memorizing it. "You know that?"

The elevator dings at his floor and suddenly they're playing this game of trying to walk down the hallway while staying as close as possible. His key card takes three tries to work because he's too busy pressing soft kisses to her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth that's trying not to smile too wide.

Then they're through his door and everything shifts. His hands find her waist, pulling her close as he backs her against the door. The first press of his lips against hers is gentle, questioning, like he's asking permission yet when she sighs into it, fingers curling into his shirt, gentle goes out the window.

Listen. LISTEN. William Saliba can KISS. She's got her back against his hotel room door, his hands cupping her face like she's precious while simultaneously trying to steal her soul through her mouth. Everything's hazy with want and Clase Azul when his lips find that spot behind her ear that makes her knees weak. One of his hands slides down to her hip, thumb finding skin where her dress has ridden up, and the noise she makes should be embarrassing but he groans in response like she's driving him crazy.

His mouth is doing ungodly things to her neck, the kind of things that make her understand why people write songs about moments like this, when reality crashes back in.

"Wait," she manages to breathe out. "I should... I need to tell you something."

He pulls back just enough to look at her, eyes dark and intense in a way that makes her forget how to breathe. His thumb traces her bottom lip and for a moment she forgets what she was going to say.

"What's wrong?" His voice is rough in a way that does things to her insides, accent thicker than usual.

They've somehow migrated from the door to the middle of his suite, the city lights of Budapest twinkling behind them through floor-to-ceiling windows. His hands are still on her waist, thumbs drawing circles on her hips that make it hard to think straight.

"I've never..." she starts, then stops, trying to find the words while his mouth is doing devastating things to her collarbone. "I haven't..."

He pulls back again, and this time understanding dawns on his face slowly, his eyes widening. One hand comes up to cup her cheek, and she leans into it despite herself.

"Wait. You're...?"

She nods, warmth rushing to her cheeks that has nothing to do with his kisses or the shots still buzzing through her system.

"But you're twenty-four," he says like he's trying to solve a complicated math problem. His other hand is still on her waist, thumb still moving in those maddening circles. "And you look like... I mean, how has nobody...?"

She shrugs, suddenly finding his gold chain very interesting. "Just never happened. Never felt right with anyone."

His fingers catch her chin, tilting her face back up to his. The heat in his eyes has been replaced by something softer, something that makes her heart do different kinds of flips.

"We can wait," he says, thumbs stroking her cheeks. "Until you're ready. No pressure."

"You sure?"

His answering kiss is gentle now, all sweet promise instead of consuming fire. "Some things are worth waiting for."

They end up on his couch, trading lazy kisses that slowly build and ebb like waves. His hands stay respectfully above clothes even when hers wander a bit (because listen, those footballer abs are a gift and she's only human). They talk about nothing and everything – about growing up in France, about her friends in Georgia, about how nervous she was her first day as a PA.

It's nice. More than nice. The kind of nice that makes her wonder if maybe...

But it's getting late, and her willpower is seriously testing its limits with the way he keeps looking at her like she's something precious. She should go. She needs to go.

"I should head back," she murmurs against his lips.

"Mhm," he agrees, but kisses her again anyway.

Ten minutes and several more "I should really go" kisses later, she finally makes it to his door. He pulls her in for one last kiss that nearly changes her mind about leaving.

"Think about what I said," he says. "About London."

"I will."

She's still floating on cloud nine when she rounds the corner and nearly collides with them – Aurélien and what looks like this evening's conquest. The girl's exactly his type – all curves and confidence, the kind of ass that probably has its own Instagram following. They're wrapped around each other like they can't wait to get behind closed doors, and the sight hits her like a bucket of ice water.

Their eyes meet over the girl's shoulder, and something in his expression makes her stomach drop. She tries to slip past quietly, already planning how many miles she'll need to run tomorrow to forget this moment.

"Good night, Leila."

She freezes mid-step, the sound of her actual name falling from his lips feeling like a slap. Not 'ma puce'. Not his usual pet name that makes her heart flutter. Just Leila.

His hotel room door clicks shut, and she stands there in the hallway like someone just pressed pause on her whole world. In the eight months she's known him, through every up and down, every early morning and late night, every moment of casual intimacy and professional distance, he's never once called her just Leila.

Never once until now, when she's standing in a hallway wearing another man's kisses while he takes another woman to his bed.

The universe really does have a sense of humor.

A cruel one.

………….tbd

[the-inkwell-variable]

author ask tag

thank you so much for the tag, @the-golden-comet! ooh this is gonna be fun!

i'm going to focus on my current wip, Why Should I Be Careful? I'm Going To Die Anyway! because it's still very much in the planning stages (despite how much I'm writing for it) and I have Thoughts

What is the main lesson of your story? Why did you choose it?

I'll be honest, I haven't really thought that far ahead. I suppose, if there is a lesson to take from WSIBC?IGTDA!, it might be that you should always chase your goals and desires, and screw what other people think. Maybe put a little more thought and planning into yours than Aura does hers, though. I mean, she almost dies due to her recklessness. Don't be like Aura.

What did you use as inspiration for your worldbuilding?

Well, it's a zombie book - I love zombies, in case you can't tell - so the world is an amalgamation of zombie stuff I love. The zombies are based off of the Train to Busan zombies. This is a self-insert mess, so I'm using the town and people I know in the town as location and characters. Little tropes here and there that I love in movies and books alike. It's just a big chimera of stuff that I grab from stuff I remember and shove into it. It definitely needs polish when it's done, but I'm having a blast so far, so I'm'a keep doing it :3

What is your MC trying to achieve, and what are you, the writer, trying to achieve with them? Do you want to inspire others, teach forgiveness, or help the reader grow as a person?

Uhhhhhh this is a tough question. Right now, Aura is trying to make it to Roger's Grocery Mart to save her girlfriend, but most of the time, she's just trying to have a good time in the zombie apocalypse and hopefully not die. She does eventually grow into a character that (mostly) thinks things through and takes other people's situations into account, so I suppose the lesson is "the world doesn't revolve around you - be kind and helpful to others"?

As for what I'm trying to achieve... mostly, to be honest, I just want people to pick up my book and have a good time reading it. I want to write a zombie book because it's my passion and because there aren't enough zombie books out there. I guess I'm trying to inspire others? To show them that you can survive an impossible situation if you work hard and think things through?

How many chapters is your story going to have?

The only time I've written a full-length book (sorry, the only two times, forgot about Zero: ALPHA), it had about twenty-odd chapters. Z:A had...uh...thirty? That was a long time ago and I sadly no longer have that draft. This one is going to go until it's done. Hopefully more than thirty though!

Is it fanfiction or original content? Where do you plan to post it?

Original content! I have no idea where I'm going to post it. I'm torn between Draft2Digital (originally Smashwords) or Substack. Thing is, I'm really bad at marketing and keywords and all that technical stuff that goes into publicizing, so I'm really hesitant to share it at all. I'm the type of person that gets absolutely morally devastated if my own self-inflicted goals aren't met, and I'm not sure if I can handle that kind of crushing heartbreak with this one lol

So yeah. Might publish, might not. Unsure right now.

When did you start writing?

My dad set up a Windows 95 computer for me in his office, his old one, and taught me the basics of using it. I was five, about to turn six. I immediately sat down and wrote a story about unicorns. I've been writing ever since.

I didn't start writing fanfiction until I was thirteen and had just binge-watched Lord of the Rings for the first time. We don't talk about those works. They were awful.

Do you have any words of encouragement for fellow writers of writeblr? What other writers do you follow?

Write it. Oh it's cringe? Who cares? Write it. Oh, it's a rare pair? Write it. You're worried people will hate it? Fuck the haters. Write it. Writing is about having fun. Writing is about pouring your soul onto the page. Writing is about getting those ideas out of your head so they don't drive you insane. It's about reaching that one person that finds your work and loves it. Even if no one reads it - you still accomplished something. You still wrote it. And no one can take that from you.

I have so many writers in my follow list. Uhh. I have no idea how many are still active, so I'm just going to tag who I know and hope for the best lol

@idyllicocean, @keeping-writing-frosty, @bloodtiesnovel, @asher-writes, @kitswrite, @theink-stainedfolk, @karkkidoeswriting, @lavender-gloom, @orphanheirs, @aquixoticwrites, @alinacapellabooks, @marlowethelibrarian, @flock-from-the-void, @dyrewrites, @storycraftcafe, @writer-imagination, @toragay-writing, @inseasofgreen, @stephtuckerauthor, @thatndginger, @finickyfelix, @eternalwritingstudent, @drchenquill, @paeliae-occasionally, @the-golden-comet, @talesofsorrowandofruin, @watermeezer, @goldfinchwrites, @winterandwords, @badscientist, @clairelsonao3, @i-can-even-burn-salad, @leahpardo-pa-potato, @mjparkerwriting, @rowanwriting, @oliolioxenfreewrites, @emelkae, @rita-rae-siller, @rebelxwriter, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @stesierra, @francineiswriting, @sunset-a-story, @chauceryfairytales, @hollyannewrites, @jaydenswaywrites, @captain-kraken, @violets-in-her-arms-writes, @romy-thewriter, @pure-solomon, @writingmaidenwarrior, @koiwrites

go, go follow them. they're all so good and make my timeline glow.

[anotheroceanid]

TWO OF THE (MANY) SCENES DELETED FROM CHAPTER 7 OF WTHB

(If something looks weird, it's because I converted markdown to html and THEN to RTF)

SCENE 1

APOLLO

WINTER SOLSTICE OF 2007

OLYMPUS

First thing Hermes says is: ‘No!’

Very loud. Very rude. The poor nymph who was serving the drinks runs the other way.

Apollo had his head turned so he could have a clear sight of the object of his desires, so Hermes grabbed his face with one hand and forced Apollo to look at him. ‘No.’ It was more of a whisper now, almost a prayer.

Twinged by jealousy and disappointment, Apollo addressed the elephant in the room. ‘Are you…’

‘No!’ Why Hermes sounded like a broken record, Apollo had no idea, but the knowledge that his brother possessed no passion for their lovely cousin made Apollo’s—very—stressful day a thousand times better. He beamed and looked at her again, just to be once again interrupted by Hermes, who invaded his line of sight. Before Apollo could protest, his brother was already speaking. ‘I care for her as you do for Artemis.’

Apollo furrowed his brows.

That was… odd.

Hermes wasn’t one to deny himself any sort of beauty, and he got a good eye for precious and forbidden things he could steal. What was more beautiful, precious and forbidden than the daughter their uncle sired in secrecy with a mortal with whom any other god would avoid meddling? 

Apollo stretched his body so he could see beyond his brother. Across the room, stood Persephone—what a poetic name for a girl who bears the choice to save or destroy them all. She was the most glorious vision Apollo had ever had in front of his godly eyes. Confusing as it was, it had little to do with her striking looks—not that Apollo denied in any way the fine traces that designed his cousin’s face, for she had been gracefully constructed by her parents; Uncle Poseidon and her mortal mother made an exceptional work. 

However, there was something even more charming underneath the gold silky skin that covered her nearly unhuman skin, something dangerous behind the porcelain teeth, something delicate than the shade of her indescribably sea-ish eyes. The beauty that puzzled Apollo was something warm and bright, very much like himself. Something kept as a secret, a poetry he hadn't yet read, a melody muffled by louder noises that refused to go quiet so he could delight in it peacefully. 

As the God of Knowledge, the feeling of being in the dark was _unbearable_—for he was also the god of the sun, it was twice as painful.

He had merely met the sea’s Persephone, yet he felt completely drowned by the mystery of her deepnesses. What a wonderful day his sister had asked for his help. Like everyone else, he had been curious about the Forbidden Child, but nothing prepared Apollo for the greenish blue lakes of salt water that would welcome him that day. Then his sister was taken, and Persephone Jackson chose to go on that quest.

He knew she sought for her own friend. But she was there. Now, Artemis was returned to him and all thanks to the non-rule-abiding daughter of the sea, who may be the cause of his death in a few months. By trying to help her quest, Apollo only got more interested.

With Artemis returned, he found himself with nothing else to think about but Percy Jackson. Well, technically the war was happening, but as she was the most important piece of the chessboard, by thinking of her, he thought of the war.

One thing in particular twitched inside of Apollo: did Persephone Jackson know what she was owned?

She just saved his sister. She could ask him anything in exchange. However, nothing so far. What sort of mortal did not demand payment from a god? Apollo would grant her any gift; be it the art of prophecy or an EGOT. Anything.

There she was, laughing at something her father just told her. Apollo sighed dreamily, imagining himself as the reason for her smile.

Once again, Hermes grunted. ‘_No!_’

‘She is bewildering.’ Apollo blinked slowly, tilting his head to the side slightly.

‘She is.’ Hermes, though mourningful, agreed. ‘But she already has too much on her shoulders.’

Playfully, Apollo opened a smile. ‘I can be helpful.’ He sang.

‘She doesn’t need this sort of help.’ Hermes made a face, then softened it when he turned to look at her. ‘Percy wants a quiet life. She never wanted any of it, and yet, because of us, she has so little to live of her own life. It’s not fair.’

Apollo pressed his lips together, the lines of the prophecy dancing on his mind. There were so many ways that could play out, yet he did admit that most of them ended up badly for her.

Apollo studied the expression of his younger brother’s face—so sad it broke Apollo’s hypothetical heart. Sorrow did not go well with Hermes, though lately it was all that existed there. The betrayal of Luke Castellan was a low blow on him, and though the boy still lived, it didn’t change that he was forever lost. Nothing cut deeper than the loss of a child.

Softly, Apollo places his hand on the arm of Hermes, caressing it lightly. There wasn’t much to be said, and there was very little comfort to be offered in these dark times. Only a miracle could save his son, and even the gods were sceptical about miracles.

Then, like one his father’s thunder, it hit him. ‘You think she can do it!’

Hermes' eyes flared for a second. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He shrugged. ‘I know that she can, but I also know how it would be damaging for her to keep trying until she succeeded. I will not insist.’

‘But you asked.’ Apollo didn’t need an answer, and Hermes did not try to give him one. ‘I see it.’

‘See what?’

‘Your affections.’ Apollo closed his eyes, letting the knowledge sink in. ‘You do care for her as I do for Artemis. I can see how pure it is, and the last thing I’d wish is to cause you pain, brother. I shall not pursue her, not without your blessing.’ That was a lament. Just because he intended to keep his word, didn’t mean he liked to say them.

Something roared inside of him. For a second, he looked again at Percy Jackson. A last glimpse of what he would never have—she would be to him like one of those unsolved questions in history that the mortals never stopped to look for answers, even if it was pointless to make such an effort; there was poetry in it. The eternal longing for answers. Had she been born in a different era, she too would be the object of wonder for those who came after her, the muse of artists and the hero of kids, and maybe his own name would collapse with hers, and they’d be tied together, one way or another.

There is something suffocating about her, and gods shouldn’t feel breathless.

His second lasted a little longer. When he makes a move to look away. It’s when his eyes meet with hers. Both turn away immediately. Warmth goes right into Apollo’s cheeks. 

He’s flushed and his eyes flared gold for a second—he hoped no one had seen that. Apollo decided the best thing to do was to stare to the ground until he was swallowed by it.

‘Don’t make promises you cannot keep.’ He heard Hermes exhaling.

‘I can keep promises!’ Apollo retorted.

‘Let me rephrase it then, don’t make promises that’ll hurt you.’ Hermes murmured. ‘If you must, you have my blessing.’

Apollo widened his eyes and stared at his brother in disbelief. ‘Wait, really?’

Closing his eyes, Hermes continued. ‘I don’t know what might happen to us in the future. I mean, you don’t know, so you can imagine how lost I am. I don’t want to make your last moments miserable.’

‘Hm, thanks?’

‘I’ve noticed you have been at home recently.’

‘I live there, in case you don’t remember.’

Hermes took a deep breath. ‘You’ve been there. Daydreaming, singing to the walls, painting…’

‘I do that quite often.’

‘You do.’ Hermes agreed. ‘But there’s always a part of you with someone. Not in the past days. You’ve gathered your essence at home. And I know you.’

‘You’ve been stalking me!?’ Apollo raised a brow, thinking about the exceedingly long time he spent looking for a beach with the exact same shade of green of Percy Jackson’s eyes.

‘No. But our moms talk.’

‘Oh, of course.’

‘What I’m saying is: if that will bring you happiness, you shall have it.’ Hermes declared. ‘Under the condition that you must treat her with the utmost kindness, either Percy comes to want you or not. Her body, her soul, her mind and her heart, they’re far too frail to be handled bluntly, and I would not stand one more scratch on her.’

‘I see…’

‘You can promise me this?’

Apollo smiled thankfully to his brother. ‘Of course I can.’

SCENE 2

AUGUST 18TH, 2010

CAMP HALF-BLOOD

If there was anything more endearing than his girlfriend surrounded by little kids, Apollo was unaware of it. Made his stomach flutter with butterflies and his heart pump on his chest like a hammer—he did not possess a stomach nor a heart, but the metaphor stood.

What a lovely day it was. Couldn’t be any different. He personally made sure Percy had a perfectly sunny day for her birthday, with a pretty sunrise and an even prettier sunset, for Apollo knew she loved those. Beside his own interference, everything settled perfectly in place, creating a picturesque image that contrasted with the dreadful events of the past years. Apollo hoped she could make sweeter memories regarding her birthday, other than the bloodshed she witnessed during the war.

He longed for better memories. For her and for himself, too. Hopefully, together. Apollo can't help the warm flush on his cheeks, nor the smirk that stretches across his face. The baby in his arms—well, she is technically a toddler, but to him his kids were babies forever—laughs and touches his cheeks, accusing her daddy of looking silly. Thankfully, no one else notices. Kayla, Austin and Will, the eldest of his demigod kids, are laughing about something. In fact, it looks like Kayla and Austin are laughing about something that shifts Will’s face from rosy to scarlet. Apollo can imagine what it is. His son is not exactly subtle.  

Apollo let himself be blinded for a second by the smiles on their faces. That was a good memory. It was, perhaps, maybe endearing enough to compete with Percy playing with little kids. As petty as it sounded, Apollo took pride in the fact that his kids did feel comfortable enough around him—most of his peers couldn’t say the same. He twirled the younger ones in the air, created sparkles around them just to see the glitter in their eyes, joked with the older ones and sang with them a song every now and then. He tried not to think about how his cabin numbers shrunk during the war.

Apollo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He knew better than anyone else the consequences of dwelling on the past. Instead, he reminded himself the kids were in Elysium and nothing could hurt them anymore. They would want Apollo to take care of their siblings, and that was under his power. Now, not from the shadows and under his father’s rules. Thanks to Percy.

From now on, good memories only, he thought, smelling the sweet scents of flowers and sunshine from his children.

He wished Percy could join him. Apollo knew for a fact she was particularly close to Will, but as far as everyone knew, Percy wasn't really close to Apollo. To Hermes? Yes, a lot of talk about that. To Artemis? Of course, it was secret to no one that Percy was the very kind of person her sister enjoyed having around. When it came to Percy and Apollo, it was always ironically in the dark. That didn't bother him… Not as much as it would've, back in the ancient times. He could keep his cool, and if there was one thing he learned about romance, is that what nobody knows, nobody ruins—which was actually a joke about Odysseus being seriously unlucky, but the meaning changed overtime.

His _Ocean Belle_… So close and so far. For now, if having Percy in secrecy was synonymous to having Percy, then let it be it. He could watch her during the day and be with her during the night, where her smiles and laughter and the glitter in her eyes would belong entirely to him. When she would tell him and no one else about her day and confine to him her secrets, making of the curve of his neck a nest where she could lay her head and rest, warmed by the heat of his body as they talked through the night. Their secrecy was something he appreciated, however, to be in her presence and not being near her was torture; all that Apollo wished was to have her and his kids all together in one place, and to have his fingers intertwined with hers in public.

Well, one thing at a time. He wouldn't want Uncle Poseidon—or worse, cousin Triton—getting in their way, much less Apollo's own father. So close to the end of the war, all eyes were set on her and Apollo wasn't deaf to the whispers about his beloved. If what they had was known, all the vultures would come to spoil their happiness. They'd see it as an invitation, a challenge to overturn, a nuisance—not to say obstacle—that could be solved through trickery.    

It happened before. It happened all the time. Happened with his stepmother, when she was a maiden and refused to take a suitor. Apollo's father tricked her in order to have her as his wife. Then the same with Aphrodite, who was forced into marriage to avoid a war amongst gods. Even with the first Persephone, whose fate had been decided spitefully behind her mother's back. Apollo knew his family. He knew no one would dare to cross Poseidon and chase after his youngest, most beloved, and first-ever demigod daughter. Problem was: Poseidon had already been crossed, and by Apollo, the nephew he loved the most and trusted the most. Other suitors wouldn't have to worry as much about his rage, if such rage was already directed into someone else.

Apollo was no fool to think that his uncle would endorse any god’s relationship with Percy. Not so soon after the war, and if Apollo knew a thing or other about his uncle, not ever. Apollo did know Poseidon. They had a relationship as solid as the walls of Troy that together they raised from the rubble of their—unfortunately failed—rebellion. His uncle was not the forgiving type. He would have to be gently introduced to the concept of having a son-in-law before being introduced to the son-in-law.

That's alright, Apollo thought, brushing away the pessimism from his mind, all it takes is a little patience and a few years.

He watched Percy through the corner of his eyes a little longer. She was dutifully followed by Hades’ son, who carried a plate full of cookies in his hands like a lion guarding its prey. Percy said something that got Nico di Angelo seriously troubled while she stormed into laughter. Adorable, Apollo thought, letting the sound of her laughs get into his ears, so he could appreciate the cadence of her voice.

Apollo took another deep breath and rested his chin on the top of his daughter’s head. ‘Dad is silly.’ Said the three-year-old girl, the youngest of his living children. 

Apollo chuckled. ‘Sillier than you think, Amy.’ He said, kissing her cheek.

As the hours flew by and kids got tired, Apollo sneaked the essence of his body, making most of it invisible. He saw as Percy walked away from the crowd, following with Hades' son toward the beach—probably to watch the sunset, and Apollo hoped she’d enjoy the show made just for her. In the meanwhile, he used the opportunity to walk around and make sure everything was safe for the next hours—he didn't want anyone sticking their noses on his business.

Surprisingly, considering the place was crowded with gods and demigods who were fighting each other to death just a year ago, it was all peaceful. Well, except for a reasonably tipsy Persephone in a corner, because she tended to brag in detail about her excessively happy married life, and no one wanted to listen to her talking about Uncle Hades when she was like that. Especially considering it was summer, and she was probably missing him. Thankfully, Hecate was near Persephone, avoiding her from traumatising this generation.

Apollo passed through Rhode and Triton, his sibling-in-law. If he had to pick one to open his heart about his secret relationship with their sister, it would be Rhode. She was the calmer in her family, and Apollo once was the pupil to her late husband, meaning he would spend a lot of time in their household. Few gods had that lovely personality. But not at that moment. The former Sun Bride had a deadly expression on her face, and her brother Triton had a hand on her arm, just in case he needed to restrain her.

He couldn't help but feel sympathy for her obvious irritation. Apollo too hated her brother.

Not Triton. The other one, from her mother's side. Eros. He was a hateful feathery creature that no one deserved to endure—except, perhaps, the other hateful feathery creature that usually followed him around, Zephyrus. Of course, as much as Apollo hated Eros, he doubted anyone despised him more than his older sister, Rhode. In fact, his sister-in-law avoided anyone from her mother's brood, having herself an aversion for the Goddess of Love. Curiously, Aphrodite kept trying to retrieve her daughter's love and forgiveness, even after years and years of estrangement.

The little group, formed by Eros, Aphrodite and poor Rhode and Triton, tried to keep a talk. At least, Aphrodite tried. Every time Eros spoke, Rhode's eyes glazed with fury and Triton had to tighten his hold on her arm.

Well, they won't be interrupting, Apollo cheered.

A few metres away, Poseidon and Zeus… Laughed? Screamed at each other? Apollo wasn't quite sure. It was always a mystery between them, but they were loud. Poor Uncle Hades closed his eyes and inhaled deeply between every other word, moving his head in an attempt to avoid the sounds. Even Apollo thought he might go deaf if he walked too close.

They talked about something they did about the French Revolution. Uncle Hades had a nasty expression, making a remark about how much he hated how people died of stupid causes back then. As if it was the funniest joke they've ever heard, Zeus and Poseidon threw their heads back while Hades rolled his eyes.

Apollo didn't remember the last time he’d seen the Big Three _talking_—without the war threats or the comments about the time living (or not) in Kronos’ stomach. Before they started to talk about the most unsavoury parts of the 18th century and their adventures then, Apollo walked away.

The demigods were dancing and singing to the same ABBA song they've been obsessing with ever since last year. Apollo smiled, thinking of how Percy would hum that song whenever she was distracted. He walked past her bestest friend, Annabeth Chase; smiling like that, leaning on a boy and cracking jokes, she looked like a completely different person from how she behaved when she was working as architect in Olympus—always so uptight and serious. 

Nearing his brother Hermes, Apollo chuckled when he saw his face. Poor Hermes didn't have a thought behind his eyes, he just glanced away while Demeter and Ares kept talking to him furiously, while Dionysus stood right beside them with a serious expression.

‘My Katie is a good girl.’ Demeter boasted. ‘I don't want that Trant boy anywhere near her!’

Hermes sighed. ‘Travis, you mean.’

‘And I don't approve of Clarisse's relationship with your other son, whatever his name is!’ Ares pronounced.

‘Isn’t Clarisse like, nineteen?’ Hermes frowned, sipping his nectar mindlessly.

Ares crossed his arms in front of his arms. ‘So?’

‘Isn't that a little late to worry about who she dates?’

‘Well,’ Ares started, voice a pitch higher, ‘I never had to care about that before that good-for-nothing son of yours stepped in!’

Apollo made his better efforts not to laugh. That was funny when it didn’t include him being beaten out of existence by Uncle Poseidon. Yet, he should feel sympathy for his fellow… His fellow dating-a-Olympian’s-daughter friend? Maybe they should start a club, maybe Uncle Hades would enjoy having someone to talk with beside his brothers, and Apollo wouldn't complain about having a Big Three ally.

‘Ares, I don't think this is the way to approach 21st century parenting, you know?’ Hermes rolled his eyes. ‘The whole “not letting my daughter date"’ went out of fashion after World War II.’

‘I still don't trust that brat of yours, he's up to something!’

Demeter then was quick to add: ‘The other one too!’ She pointed out. ‘He also has a terrible diet. I cannot imagine what his intestines look like with that amount of sugar he eats.’

Like the words had been carried by the wind, Hermes simply nodded and then turned to their younger brother. ‘What about you? Are any of my kids dating your son?’

Dionysus smiled and shook his head. ‘Oh, no. Thankfully not!’ Dionysus raised his Diet Coke to the sky. ‘I believe he's seeing one of my maenads. I just love seeing someone who's not me getting a lecture.’

Hermes sneered, and this time Apollo laughed and made sure Hermes would hear.

‘Shouldn't you be with your kids?’ Mentally, Hermes inquired.

‘I am.’ Apollo answered, picturing in Hermes mind an image of another version of him playing with the kids.

‘If you three would excuse me, I'll go talk to Apollo.’ Naturally as breathing, Hermes dismissed everyone and walked away. ‘Whatever it is, don't do it.’

‘C'mon, where is my free spirited brother who'd help me in the craziest quests?’

‘My limit is whatever the distance between my pretty face and uncle's Trident.’ Hermes grunted. ‘Where is Percy?’

‘Don't worry, she's with Nico di Angelo.’

‘Your son's crush?’

‘Isn't it lovely that her little, uh, shadow is my Will's crush?’

Even if there was a glitter of endearment in his eyes, Hermes pretended to be annoyed. ‘It's almost as if they're hormonal teenagers.’

‘It’s romantic!’ Apollo sighed.

‘If you say so.’ Hermes retorted. ‘What do you want?’

‘Oh, I did not come here with demands.’ Apollo hummed. ‘I just assumed that my little brother would help me give my beautiful maiden a nice birthday night, you know? Just making sure her dad doesn't notice if she goes missing for an hour or two.’ 

‘Are you crazy!?’ Hermes exhaled. ‘Everyone is here, and they'll notice if the hero of Olympus simply vanishes.*’

‘I know you could buy me thirty minutes. Then thirty minutes more. And then a little longer, I promise we'll be back before 10A.M.’

‘You said the same last time.’ Hermes groaned.

‘You know I can't lie. Just one hour.’

‘You can if you believe in your lie. Thirty-five minutes.’

‘Forty-five.’

‘Forty. Last offer.’

‘Deal. You're the best, brother.’

‘That someday will get me fucked up.’

[evangelifloss]

Hey, I just red your amazing fight analysis and I want to know what you think about the scene where the bartender at the continental bar in the first movie says to John that he looks „vulnerable“. Do you think it’s the look in his eyes or the way he acts or moves ? (Which in my opinion look pretty normal) and how do you think John was before he left the business? Was he more cruel with his kills ?

I'm guessing you mean this scene, right? I hope so because I made this gif JUST for this ask since I LOVE what you've sent in. Thank you @persephone411 💖💖

To answer why the bartender picks up on John's vulnerability without him seemingly displaying any signals, I'll first and foremost use what I know of the later instalments regarding John's behaviour. And that is how much he speaks. Between movies 1 and 2, there's only a 15 word difference in regards to how many lines of dialogue he has (1st movie has 484, 2nd has 499) and for a movie that has a run time of 1 hour and 40-ish minutes, that's not alot of dialogue to begin with.

Take for example, Jack Sparrow from the 1st Pirates of the Caribbean movie. Reading through the script, I counted roughly 490 lines of dialogue from him and that movie has a runtime of 20 minutes LESS than John Wick 1!

So we know that John isn't a talker. Yet, when he finds himself back at the Continental bar, and reunites with the bartender who knows him very well, and given how familiar they are (her excitement at seeing him, a brief hug/cheek kiss) it becomes apparent that John is more... open. He doesn't just order a drink and say nothing else. He engages with her, and expresses, "She (helen) was more than I deserved." Which by all accounts expresses a softer side to John, an admission that he is not impervious to grief. Assassins don't do that. Retired he may still technically be, he is still in a room full of people who are NOT retired, who could overhear and see the man behind Baba Yaga. That sentimentality can get you killed in the Assassin world.

Secondly, his face is sporting a few rough marks, and I very much doubt John the Baba Yaga would show himself at the Continental bar sporting proof he can be injured.

As my final thought, for me personally, it's his tone and his eyes that give away his grief. His inner turmoil that will eventually overflow into a bloody tsunami. The micro-movements of his face as he pauses, when he looks away, and even when he greets her, the man is Tired. The man is not at this point in time, the Baba Yaga.

The second part of your ask is very interesting because we have almost next to nothing to go off of! No prequels (thank god) and barely any direct Lore other than what others speak about John which ironically, is missing direct context which leaves us viewers to speculate.

The John we know is the old John. The grieving John. The Man. We get glimpses of what he used to be, and how characters react upon hearing his name but we never get the Baba Yaga. Not entirely.

Continuing off this, my personal speculation is that John wasn't a vicious killer. He was an incredibly efficient one. You can buy time with a sadist if you are able to withstand them long enough for help to arrive but you cannot do the same towards someone whose only goal is to kill you on sight. As quickly as possible. And that someone also happens to be the best of the best. Combine those two skills and I think that is what makes Baba Yaga so terrifying to those in the underworld. It was enough for Viggo, head of a massive Russian syndicate, to go silent upon hearing the name despite knowing John had been retired for 5 years!!

On another note, and this barely gets touched upon but throughout the movie you come to know that for such a silent and deadly killer, John has a weird amount of people willing to die for him.

The High Table actively discourages and creates a continually hostile environment amongst assassins so that bonds and genuine alliances/friendships can't begin nor be maintained and yet... look how many people are willing to so far for John.

This speaks to the level of respect and integrity John must have to simultaneously be a deadly killer AND to not be hated by everyone.

He does his job well but he is not cruel. He will not endanger unrelated persons if he can help it, he is sincere and loyal.

It's why the High Table fuckin hates him.

[kaerimichii]

i'd give up forever to touch you

series summary: You first met Coriolanus Snow when you were just kids, but as you grow together throughout the years the two of you learn to realize that maybe your feelings are more than that of just best friends.

or: A collection of stories of your friendship with modern!Coryo, and the love that blossoms from it.

Part 3: all i can taste is this moment

summary: Coriolanus sees you cry for the first time, and the walls he has built around himself begin to crumble.

pairing: female reader x modern!coriolanus snow

contains: pet death, grief, mostly fluff tho tbh

Previous Part

[Age 15]

The first time Coriolanus saw you cry, his entire world turned upside down.

It was the weekend and he was undertaking the arduous process of creating flashcards for his midterm exams, when he received a text message from you.

Coryo, please come over. I need you.

The message left much to the imagination, leading Coriolanus to think of a plethora of circumstances that might have prompted you to text him.

Had you gotten hurt? Were you in trouble?

He didn’t stop to ponder this for too long. All he knew was that the message sounded urgent, which worried him greatly. Abandoning his flashcards mid-sentence, he quickly stood up and made his way to the foyer. Shrugging on his coat haphazardly and hastily stuffing his feet into his shoes, he began to make the short trek to your house.

He practically ran over—for once not caring who saw him—and it wasn’t long before he was knocking on your front door.

Your younger sister, Camille, answered the door. She wasn’t surprised to see him as he came over often enough, but there was a certain sadness in her eyes as she looked up at Coriolanus. It was clear she had been crying, with redness around her eyes and tear tracks on her cheeks. If your sister was upset, then Coryo feared to see the state you were in as well.

“Coryo,” Camille greeted without her usual exuberance. 

“Camille,” Coriolanus said, catching his breath after his jaunt through the winter cold. “Where’s—”

“She’s in her room,” the girl answered, nodding her head towards the staircase.

Coryo nodded, pulling the girl into a one-armed hug. “Thank you.”

After taking his shoes and coat off, he offered Camille a soft smile before heading up the stairs. He knew there would be time to comfort your sister later, but for now you were his top priority.

Knocking on your bedroom door, he heard a soft answer for him to come in. He steeled himself before entering, expecting the worst.

When Coriolanus walked into your room, you were curled up on your bed, ragged sobs escaping your throat.

Immediately, Coryo’s heart twisted into an ugly knot.

Technically he had seen you cry before, but this was different.

In the past, the only times he had witnessed your tears were when he had said something particularly hilarious and you couldn’t help but clutch your sides in joyful, breathless laughter.

These tears though… They were real and full of sorrow. Coriolanus hated it. You, the most beautiful being he had ever known, were crying and he hated the way the tears marred your pretty face.

He also felt so, so helpless in a way he never had before, and despised the way your tears affected him.

Coriolanus had always prided himself on his resilience, but now he was left feeling as if the armor he had tried so hard to hide behind was crumbling away.

With an ache in his stomach, he made his way over to you, silently crawling onto your bed and sitting next to you. He opened his arms, which you immediately crawled into. Coriolanus had experienced a bit of a growth spurt, so he was able to rest his head on top of yours as you laid your head on his chest. 

He rubbed your back as you continued to cry, each sob chipping away at a piece of his heart.

Coryo stayed quiet, knowing you would speak when you were ready. Soon enough, you had calmed down enough to choke out a tearful explanation.

“Ginger passed away earlier today.”

Oh. Coryo had hardly even noticed that your dog hadn’t been there at the doorway to greet him as usual. He was too concerned with getting to you as soon as possible.

“I am… so sorry.” He swallowed, processing the news. “She was a sweet dog.”

He remembered all of the times you and him would take the beagle out for an evening stroll around the neighborhood. Coryo would always take the excuse to prolong the night, wishing to avoid going back to his rundown house while spending time with you in the process.

The two of you would always stop at the nearby park and take turns throwing Ginger’s favorite chew toy, watching her ears flap as she ran back proudly with the toy in her mouth. As a reward, she would receive the scraps from supper that you would sneak into carefully folded napkins under the table.

Ginger would be missed, that was for sure.

“The sweetest,” you agreed with a sniffle, lifting your head out of the crook of Coryo’s neck and looking up at him with watery eyes.

The blonde melted and he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. His shirt had dampened with the tears that fell from your eyes, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“I know it hurts, but I promise everything will be okay in time. Take as long as you need to grieve,” Coryo said, reaching over to brush a strand of hair from your face that had been stuck there by your tears. “I’m always here for you, remember?”

It killed Coriolanus that he wasn’t able to make everything better with a wave of his hand, but he vowed to help you the best he could. He knew that you needed to process your feelings and emotions in your own time, though, so he didn’t want to push you too hard.

“I know,” you said, managing a weak smile as you settled back into your position on his chest, trying to catch your breath. “Thank you, Coryo.”

Throughout the next half hour, Coriolanus had managed to make you feel significantly better than before. He talked with you about Tigris’ newest fashion designs, the latest gossip at school, and your plans for winter break until you were laughing and smiling like usual.

It warmed Coriolanus’ heart to see you happy again, if only just for a little while.

“Hey,” he said when the conversation had died down. “Why don’t we do something tomorrow, just the two of us? Anything you like.”

“Anything?” you peered up at him, a hopeful smile falling across your lips.

How could Coriolanus say no to you?

"Anything."

“You’ve never done this before, have you?”

Coriolanus winced as he nearly slipped on the ice, hanging on to the wall of the rink for purchase. He shakily tried to move forward on his skates, only to stumble once more, causing him to grip the wall harder.

The blonde shot you a helpless look. “No,” he relented with a sigh.

Coriolanus never felt as if he was bad at anything really, and he was embarrassed to have been bested by something as seemingly simple as ice skating.

“That’s alright,” you smiled, no hint of judgement in your tone. “Would you like to use one of the walkers? They can be useful when you’re just starting out.”

Coryo looked over to where you were pointing. At the rink’s entrance there were the walkers in question, but the majority of people taking them were either young children or older adults.

“Absolutely not,” Coryo shook his head, eyes wide. He wanted to keep at least some semblance of his dignity after all.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “I didn’t think so,” you said, moving so that you were directly in front of him. “Here, I can show you how to do it.”

You first demonstrated the v-shape position of your feet to start, then you pushed off on one of the skates into an easy glide. Moving around the rink for a few paces, you turned around and stopped in front of Coryo again with a wide grin. It was clear how much you enjoyed this, not to mention how easy you made it look.

“See? It’s not so hard. Now you try!”

Coryo returned your smile, loosening his grip on the wall. He could do this. Easy. He was Coriolanus Snow, after all.

With still wobbly legs, he finally released his hold on the wall. As he positioned his feet into the place you had demonstrated earlier, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He hadn’t fallen yet, so he was off to a good start.

Smiling once more at you as you looked eagerly on, he steeled himself and then pushed off with one of his feet, and… immediately tripped. 

“Shit,” Coryo threw his arms out, ready to catch himself before he fell to the ground. He didn’t, though, as you immediately grabbed him, pulling him upright and leading him back to his previous position against the wall.

Coriolanus let out a sigh, a flush of embarrassment creeping up on his face, mixing with the tint that was already there from the cold.

“I’m sorry,” he frowned at you.

“Why?” you chuckled. “Coryo, I don’t expect you to become a pro immediately. Y’know, when I first started out I fell, like, five times within the span of twenty minutes.”

“Really?” Coriolanus raised his eyebrows dubiously. You hadn’t shown any sign of hesitation earlier, so it was hard to believe there was a time when you weren’t so self assured when it came to ice skating.

“Really,” you nodded. “It just takes some getting used to. How about you give it a few more tries, and if you really don’t want to continue, we don’t have to. Sound good?”

Coryo looked at the brightness in your eyes and the way you were looking so hopefully up at him. He reminded himself that he was doing this for you, to help you feel better and try to take your mind off things for a while.

“Alright,” he smiled with a nod. “Let’s try this again.”

The few attempts resulted similarly to his first, and each time Coriolanus had the urge to just give up and find someplace warmer to spend the day. But with one look at you and your encouraging smile, the blonde was determined to succeed at least once.

On his latest attempt, Coriolanus found himself pleasantly surprised as instead of stumbling, he was actually moving around the rink. He wasn’t moving quickly, but he was still moving with ease. He even managed to bring himself to a stop without falling.

“You did it, Coryo!” you cheered from where you were watching across the rink, clapping your gloved hands together.

Coryo shot you a wide grin, relishing in your praise as you skated towards him. He opened his mouth, ready to respond, when—

Thunk.

The two of you gasped as you barreled into Coryo, too caught up in your excitement to remember to slow down. You both stumbled until you came crashing onto the ground with a thud.

“Ugh,” you groaned from your position on top of Coryo. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

You both maneuvered yourselves so that the blades of the skates were not in any position to cause damage to each other.

“Yeah,” Coryo said, his arms wrapped around you as he cushioned your fall. It hadn’t hurt at all, and it was more surprising than anything else. “Are you?”

You nodded. “I’m okay!”

Coryo nodded, silent for a moment before he couldn’t help but crack a smile as he peered up at you. The smile then turned into soft chuckle as he watched you bite your lip, trying to hold back laughter. It wasn’t long until you were both full on laughing at the position you had found yourselves in. Coryo knew that you probably looked ridiculous lying on the ground laughing your asses off for no apparent reason, but for once he didn’t care in the slightest. 

A few moments later once the laughter had died down, you untangled yourselves and carefully made your way into a standing position. With soft giggles, you brushed yourselves off and readjusted your scarves. Once you were settled, Coriolanus was about to suggest that you try skating around the rink together, when he heard someone clearing their throat.

“Excuse me?”

You both turned to see a girl with auburn hair partially hidden by a light pink knit hat. She appeared to be a couple years older.

“I just wanted to say,” the girl started with a smile, “I think that you two are the cutest couple. I could see it from a mile away.”

“Oh—” Coriolanus’ eyes widened at the statement. The suggestion that you were his girlfriend made him blush ever so slightly.

“We’re just friends,” you beat him to a response.

The blonde shut his mouth, staring at you with a frown tugging at his lips. You were right. Of course you were right. But why did you saying that feel so weird? Like it shouldn’t have been the truth.

But it didn’t matter, Coryo determined, because you were his best friend and that was an unshakeable truth.

The girl’s smile turned into a bewildered frown at your response. “Oh… I could’ve sworn,” she said. “Well, anyway, you guys are cute regardless.”

She looked at Coryo, giving him a strange, knowing smile, before saying a quick goodbye and skating off.

Weird.

“That was funny,” you giggled next to Coryo, drawing his attention back to you. “Anyway, let’s go around the rink for a bit before it gets too late.”

And with that, you took Coryo’s hand and the girl’s statement was shoved down to the depths of his mind as you both skated around together.

In the late afternoon, you found yourselves sipping on hot cocoa inside the ice rink lodge, glad to be warming up next to the fireplace.

“Hey, Coryo?”

“Hm?” the boy hummed, blowing gently on his cocoa to cool it down some.

“Thank you for doing this with me today. I had a lot of fun,” you smiled softly at him, tracing the rim of your cocoa mug with your finger absently.

“Of course,” Coryo returned your smile. “I had fun too. I think I might even be a better skater than you.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes playfully. “Whatever you say, Snow.”

Coriolanus chuckled before turning his attention back to his hot cocoa. He liked the way the heat from the mug warmed up his fingers. He took a sip once it had cooled down sufficiently, humming in satisfaction at the taste.

“I love you, Coryo,” you suddenly said. You said it softly, but there was definite sincerity in your voice.

Coryo swallowed quickly, pulling the mug from his face and looking back at you, eyes wide.

Love.

It was an unspoken word, a feeling that the two of you shared but had never voiced.

Coriolanus had complicated feelings towards the notion of love. He loved his cousin and Grandma’am, that much was true. But he had also loved his mother, and she had passed ten years ago.

In his eyes, love was a fickle thing that could be used against him. What was the point in loving someone if they were just going to leave and hurt him?

But looking at you, your hair and eyes lit up by the fire, Coriolanus knew. He loved you. He loved you with his entire being and he wasn’t afraid to tell you. In this moment, the fact that his love could hurt him didn’t matter. All that mattered was that you loved him and he loved you right back.

“I love you too,” Coriolanus said with conviction.

And he always would.

Previous Part

[minecraftbookshelf]

(marriage of state) you've mentioned a couple times that the Rivendell siblings are pretty fucked up, but i'm not sure if they're like, an unusual amount of fucked up for their peer group. so on a scale of 1 to 10, where would you place all of the marriage of state rulers? are there any particular standouts we should know about, besides our beloved Scott and Xornoth?

I waited to answer this because I was going to draw a diagram but apparently that's just not going to happen right now so we'll just use our words.

Not Actually Doing Too Badly, Weirdly Enough:

Pearl. We love an unbothered queen. She is the sanest of the whole lot which is. Saying something. The desire to punch things in the face is unrelated to any sort of trauma its just her idea of a good time.

By the time of the main arc, Lizzie also fits here. She's dealt with most of her issues already. She knows who she is and she is comfortable with it. (Almost no one else is but that's not her problem)

Joel is vibing. An unbothered king. Living his best life, happily married. Definitely Unhinged but like, weirdly healthy about it.

Would Be Doing Fine If Not For Plot:

Shrub Berry was having a very normal time as a very normal gnome up until they very suddenly weren't so like, there is technically some fucked up-ness but its very recent and hasn't settled in yet. There is hope.

Jimmy has 99 problems and most of them are named fWhip and Mythical Sausage. A little insecure but like, he's got a supportive family and is doing alright.

There Is Something Wrong With You But Its Hard To Tell If It Has A Specific Root Cause Or If You Are Just Like That TM/Cumulative Effects of Your Environment:

Joey was raised in a temple under threat of assassination and also all kinds of magical things with strong potential to kill him but like, other than that he's doing alright he's just. Him.

Believe it or not the only thing Wrong with Mythical J Sausage is that he was raised in a family where power-hungry imperialism is the norm. Its mitigated somewhat by being close with Pearl especially but also like. He had loving supportive parents they just also taught him that Mythland is superior and the peak of civilization.

fWhip also falls into this category. He also had a good supportive, loving family but is also very undeniably one half-step in the wrong direction away from going full supervillain. Maybe its the redstone poisoning, maybe its being pushed into a position of leadership at too young an age with absolutely no preparation or even real warning.

Very Clearly Has Something Wrong With Them but Is Pretending So Hard to be Normal:

The Rivendell Siblings think they are doing so good at being normal. Especially Scott. Scott things he is The Most Normal. Everyone else is Very Very Concerned. Sucky parents, sucky situation what with the whole gods and possessions and prophecies thing. Religious Trauma personified x2

The only person who thinks they are More Normal than the Rivendell siblings is Gem. She is pretending so hard to be normal she's convinced herself of it. Beneath her traditional Wizard Character Faults (arrogance, tunnel vision) are some very deep-seated abandonment issues and self-loathing and identity issues.

Seems Very Normal Until You Realize Holy Shit You Are So Fucked Up Please Get Help:

Katherine Elizabeth was raised similarly to Sausage except her mother was not loving or supportive and instead of attempting to shield her from the uglier side of politics and power plays actively exposed her to them and trained her to commit them. The mortals that live around the Overgrown borders were very very lucky that Katherine decided early on that she likes mortals. Just like she likes sheep!

Pixlriffs. Just. Pixlriffs.

[majaloveschris]

However, I don't know if leaking the contract would be bad for both of them. I think most people would be happier if this turned out to be PR rather than him being married to someone like her. And I mean her and her friends' personalities. You know the racist, pedo, and Nazi stuff. Maybe some people would be angry because he's lied, but I think most of us probably would be relieved he wasn't actually in love with someone like Alba. //

Logic anon coming in, people have to understand the fandom although it feels big is very small especially compared to the rest of the world. The general public doesn’t care about these two and many think she looks like she’s his daughter. Now, If this fandom were like the fandoms with “names” ie the Swifties, Belibers, etc This shitshow would have exploded publicly to the point the truth would have came out and there’d be no debate. The world would be aware of her and her friends and many would probably defend her, it would be team pr vs real on a bigger level. But technically something similar yet small did happen….. remember the “crazy” fan article in the beginning because the fandom was calling out the bs.

This stunt wasn’t for the fans, but I assume they thought this fandom would jump whenever Chris said to….wrong. The fandom went into detective mode so much to the point they kept having to keep up with the lies that so many called out. Remember all the holes in the cheese they tried to fill. If it were real, why the need to do that.

But yeah the point for whatever reason was to make this appear legit to the world, not this fandom. The fandom got involved because of how stupid things got. Had Chris and team learned that he had a MO that ONLY his fandom was aware of and had her and her little racist friends not trolled, things might be different.

Too much has happened for me to assume any of this is legit unless Chris has sincerely lost his mind, is going through a midlife crises or willingly thought being married might help his career/image? Idk 🤷‍♀️

In terms of said contract being leaked, that would be awesome for the fandom and possibly those who think he’s a red pill fool, but for the overall public…. I don’t think so. He’d be a liar and how could anyone trust someone who lied about being married, but again it’s Hollywood and business so who knows, it could be a shock factor, people discuss and then move on and he’s able to reinvent himself or something or people would crack jokes and never let him live it down, etc.

If a contract got leaked and had specific details it could help him and people would go omg look what Hollywood forced Chris Evans to do and I knew he’d never marry anyone that young, etc. ya know the “poor Chris”, coddling scenario he’s use to. 🙄

At most, a divorce could be announced and TMZ can state they were never legally married and leave people to question whatever. Chris moves on, focuses on his career and learns to keep his private life private and no more PR shit.

I think they thought Alba would get much more recognition and fans because of Chris. That the fandom will like her, that they will start following her and start her career. The why is beyond me, though. I wouldn't say even his real girlfriends were that liked by the public, so why would a fake one with whom they look so distant and who is a worse person than the others be? I don't think they thought this through.

I wouldn't say this wasn't for us; most of the time, a PR relationship is. A random person who's watched a few projects of yours won't start following or supporting someone's partner. A fan would. Like how many people have started following Travis since they went public with Taylor? A lot. I assume they wanted something similar to happen to Alba, but they didn't succeed. As you said, the general public cares more about the age gap and the appearance. They don't have to sell them anything because they don't care. They have to make it look legit for the fans, because they are the ones following all of their steps. They will be the ones who start following the partner or check out their works. When it comes to a PR relationship, the fans need to like the partner or accept them in the close circle. The general public just doesn't care enough to make someone's partner more famous; fans could do that. Chris's fans could've started liking Alba and watching her projects, making her more wanted in projects. That's why they wanted to sell the happy relationship; that's why they filled the holes. They need fans to do their parts, not the general public.

I still think leaking something would be the best. He's lost a lot of fans, and I'm not saying that would get him everything and everyone back, but this PR wouldn't still be better than him actually being in love with her. I think it would be. Obviously, that doesn't take away the stupidity of this whole thing and that he got involved in this. It wouldn't make everything okay, but it would make it better. General public doesn't care enough about this. They would forget about him being in a PR marriage after like a day, especially right now, when a lot of much worse things are going on. This wouldn't be the worst thing a celebrity did. Right now, they should care about fans, not about the general public. Those people who've left are the important ones. They're going to go and watch all of his movies, not the general public.

I just hope that if this is truly PR, they all learned from this and have already realized that this whole thing was a mistake and will never try something like this.

[mymoonlinght-blog]

The “Baby” Excuse

Gracie Abrams x reader

•••••••••••••••••••| 🩵 |••••••••••••••••••••••

The tour bus had finally parked outside the next venue, and the crew was buzzing around unloading equipment. Y/N, however, had other ideas. It had been a long day of travel, and she was feeling extra playful—or, more specifically, extra lazy.

Gracie was scrolling through her phone, leaning against the bus as she waited for Y/N to catch up. She glanced up just in time to see Y/N trudging toward her, dragging her feet dramatically.

“Are you okay, baby?” Gracie asked, her brow furrowed with concern.

Y/N stopped a few feet away, slumping her shoulders exaggeratedly. “I’m exhausted,” she whined, her voice taking on a childlike tone.

Gracie smirked, recognizing the act. “Exhausted from what? Sitting on a bus all day?”

Y/N pouted, crossing her arms. “That bus seat was uncomfortable. My back hurts, my legs are sore, and—” She paused for dramatic effect. “I’m two years younger than you. So, technically, I’m a baby.”

Gracie blinked, caught off guard by the declaration. “…You’re a baby?”

“Yes,” Y/N said with an emphatic nod, stepping closer and holding out her arms like a child asking to be picked up. “And babies don’t walk. So, you have to carry me.”

Gracie laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious!” Y/N insisted, her bottom lip jutting out in a pout that was entirely too effective. “I’m tired, I’m fragile, and I’m a baby. It’s your duty as the older one to take care of me.”

Gracie raised an eyebrow, trying to suppress her grin. “You really think this is going to work on me?”

Y/N nodded solemnly, her arms still outstretched. “I have full faith in you, Gracie Abrams, protector of babies.”

Gracie rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the fond smile spreading across her face. “Fine,” she sighed, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around Y/N’s waist. “But if anyone sees us, you’re the one explaining why I’m carrying a fully grown adult around.”

“Deal,” Y/N said cheerfully, wrapping her arms around Gracie’s neck as Gracie hoisted her up.

Gracie adjusted her hold, cradling Y/N like a princess as she began walking toward the venue. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?”

“I know,” Y/N said, resting her head against Gracie’s shoulder with a satisfied smile. “And you’re lucky you’re strong. Otherwise, I’d have to crawl, and that would be embarrassing for both of us.”

Gracie laughed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” Y/N teased, looking up at her with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Gracie paused for a moment, her gaze softening as she looked down at Y/N. “Yeah,” she said quietly, her voice full of affection. “I really do.”

Y/N felt her cheeks warm under Gracie’s gaze, but she quickly covered it up with a playful grin. “Alright, enough mushy stuff. Faster, my noble steed!”

Gracie groaned, but she couldn’t help laughing as she quickened her pace, carrying Y/N toward the venue.

As they passed a few crew members, one of them raised an eyebrow. “Uh… everything okay over there?”

“Everything’s fine,” Gracie called back, her voice even. “I’m just fulfilling my duties as a responsible older girlfriend.”

Y/N waved at the crew member with a smug grin. “You heard her! She’s obligated by law to carry me.”

The crew member shook their head, laughing as they walked away.

When they finally reached the door, Gracie carefully set Y/N down, letting out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Okay, baby, you’re officially delivered.”

“Thank you,” Y/N said with mock formality, brushing herself off. “You’ve done an excellent job. I’ll be sure to leave a five-star review.”

Gracie rolled her eyes, grabbing Y/N’s hand and pulling her close. “You’re ridiculous,” she said again, her voice soft but full of love.

“And you love it,” Y/N replied with a grin, leaning up to press a quick kiss to Gracie’s lips.

Gracie smiled against the kiss, her heart full. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I really do.”

[metalljellyphish]

Any cool headcanons of your DID butters au??

-lipgloss anon

OK YOU KNOW I was hanging on to this one to draw some ideas but it’s a rainy night and I need to talk about something, SO!

Leopold

The OG Butters we’ll say; when most people refer to “Butters” they’re talking about Leo. He’s still the sweet kid everyone knows, your sunshine on a rainy day and all that. Technically the oldest brother, but more or less gets put into the youngest category by everyone (Vic and Marji included)

The artistic one; by that I mean literal arts and crafts. He leans a lot into sewing and isn’t half bad at fashion gestures, but has the tendency to lean on androgynous to fem designs. That said, he’s really good at costuming of course.

Also the one who mostly cooks, he learns a lot of baking and barista things working with Tweek at the coffee shop, and Leo legitimately likes working there

You would think it’s Marji who has the main love for Sanrio characters but nope it’s Leo. He’s not obsessive but he’ll collect little things, especially in the stationary department. His favorite is Hello Kitty but also likes My Melody (usually for Marji) and Pompompurin (who he weirdly picked for Vic, but he didn’t seem to mind)

He’s usually the one to panic the most, constantly worrying about getting in trouble with his parents and the sole reason they still live in that house even after turning 18.

Marjorine

She began appearing around 4th-5th grade; not wholly due to the sleepover incident but it was one of the triggers. The middle sibling, but she has huge sweet big sister energy.

She’s the musical one; she loves singing in general and was the one on board for Stan’s band adventure, even learning guitar. Leo learned enough coords that he could pass when Marji was out. She’s also very much a pop girly.

Considering she has to share a body with two others that lean on the masculine side of looks, it does give her a great deal of body dysmorphia. Though she tries to not show it, the other two know it’s an issue for her, so they try to be very considerate of this fact. She doesn’t get to dress up much outside of their room (at least up until the running away incident) but she does have a few of her own outfits, wigs and makeup.

Do not let this woman cook. Somehow disaster always happened. Good thing she prefers cleaning, she tends to handle more than the other two.

She has the hardest time acting like “Butters”, mostly due to a tendency of airheadedness mixed with an inability to keep her mouth shut. She speaks her mind a lot more, being spared most of the guilt and awful rhetoric Leo had to grow up with, so her options are a lot more openminded.

Victor

He’s always been around in snippets, but never fully manifested until freshman year of high school. Jokingly referred to as the youngest despite easily being the most responsible.

The business minded one; yeah he does like to think he’s a cool wolf of Wall Street type, but honestly he’s kind of nerdy about it. Like he gets excited about numbers. He could explain how the stock market works but it really does come off like another random Butters ramble.

He is in fact the reason they have any sort of financial freedom. He helps with the books at Tweek’s pro-bono since his income comes from elsewhere, where? Stocks probably? (The Dikinbaus venture was a nest egg)

Arguable the most traumatized, as he’s usually the ones that have to respond when Leo shuts down, the pieces picker-upper essentially. This does in fact make him rather jaded, though definitely not uncaring, but he does have ‘we come first’ mentality.

It’s not that Vic doesn’t do chores, but Leo and Marji made an agreement since he’s the breadwinner that it was the least they could do.

Overall he’s good at pretending to be “Butters” but it’s obvious he’s not. He’s a lot harsher dealing with the others, often coming off brutally honest at best or a complete asshole at worst. Also the one to say the most heinous shit, which can come off as funny to most when Leo hardly swears without reason, Marji somewhat in the same boat, but she speaks with a lot less shame.

This was kind of a ramble, but there’s some of the building blocks anyway.

[kodrama]

#kdramawomensweek

DAY 3: THE HELP

[knifekris]

every day i struggle to make choices

[foxett]

Some au doodles uhmmmm yeah I made another new au I'm at 11 omori AUs...

[shidoukanae]

TME PMV frame thingie WIP

I absolutely adore Helene and Lyla's relationship in both iterations of TME's story and i NEED more qpt gal relationships like theirs is i s2g

it's really, REALLY hard to get me sincerely invested in relationships between female characters but damn am i invested in this one.

Something about a do-good heroine who is abnormally hostile only towards her own half-sister for seemingly no reason (read: "no reason") is a dynamic i can't get enough and seeing Lyla constantly make efforts in both the manhwa/LN to reach out to her is so bittersweet and yet amazingly well done

(and i can't praise enough how amazing Helene is handled as a deeply flawed female character!!! She's genuinely the best written female character ive seen and i wish more gals were written as amazing as she is TwT)