asher. filipino. preference for it/its
25, occasionally writing for adult-only audiences
nb, IDing specifically transmasc/butch so i tend to write gender neutral reader
i have written for other fandoms (wednesday, PRISTIN, and LOONA)
other interests: isabeau levito, the handmaiden, smosh, dropout/collegehumor especially dimension 20, the locked tomb series, minecraft
warnings are there for a reason. minors, do not interact with the 18+ content
here is my masterlist
requests: inbox is currently OPEN for requests and OPEN for asks
dms/asks not about writing are also v encouraged. anyone who loves mikey madison is a friend in my books <3
technically chapter 2 (read the first chapter here) but this can be read as a stand-alone if you don't like smut
my masterlist, to check out my other works, is here
ship: alysa liu x isabeau levito (figure skating)
warnings: straight (?) girl experimentation angst, mentions of sex
summary: alysa knows how to quit things, and it should be easy enough to pretend milan never happened. but not when it comes to isabeau
word count: 2400+
This is ridiculous.
Alysa's quit things before. Knows the merit of it. Hell, she quit skating for two years, the one thing in this world she'd excelled at, and didn't regret it. Came back stronger, not regretting a single moment. And this thing is ruining her. So why couldn't she let it go?
Her phone buzzes on the nightstand. She's laying in bed, weighing up the pros and cons of dumping everything onto Amber. Pro: Amber would get it. Might have song suggestions to add to her 'wallowing' playlist, which currently consisted of classic 'in love with my straight friend' songs like She by dodie, and the obligatory amounts of girl in red and Clairo. Her eyes flick to it even though she knows she shouldn't, hand reaching out when she sees Isabeau's @.
Isabeau.Levito has messaged you!
A small, involuntary smile tugs at the corners of her lips, distress about this whole situation abating momentarily sidelined by the familiar dopamine hit of seeing Isabeau's name on her screen. Which is even more ridiculous, of course, because it's all about Isabeau.
Alysa taps the notification, expecting a meme or perhaps a video of a cute kitten, but instead, she’s greeted by a high energy, bass-boosted edit of Papa Smurf that makes her snort.
Isabeau.Levito: this is so you. i'm reposting it 🫶
They've been sending TikToks back and forth for the entire month since Milan. Pretending like it's normal, they're just friends. Nothing's changed. Alysa's world hasn't crumbled underneath her feet. The worst part is that, for all she knew, Isabeau really could be this unfazed, and the older girl was the only one lying awake thinking about how Isabeau felt against her.
frigouscigous: excuse me, i popularized him. papa smurf wishes he looked this good
Her thumb skates over her bookmarked TikToks, finding a fan edit of the aptly named Alysa Smurf from some misguided Halloween where she'd slapped on some blue body paint and shares that to their DM thread.
The jokes aren't new. The thrumming of her heart as she waits for Isabeau to reply, to hopefully be laughing at her message across the country is... also not new.
Isabeau.Levito: ohhh absolutely. i'm reposting that too duh
Isabeau.Levito: why do you kinda pull that off???
Alysa's heart graduates from the thrumming to borderline arrhythmia. She hates it. She's never liked the feeling as it thuds against her ribs too hard, and breathing feels more suffocating. Talking to a friend shouldn't be as intensive as hours of training. And that's what Isabeau is. That's what she has to be. Friends that occasionally make out when they're supposed to be focusing on the peak of their careers and never speak of it again. More than make out. Whatever.
oh i bet you want to pull it off
No.
still wanna kiss alysa smurf?
Absolutely not.
Alysa groans, deleting what she's typed and dropping her phone back on her nightstand before she does something she'll regret. Isabeau's cute little profile picture of her face seems to mock her as the seconds tick by.
Her notifications, which are perpetually on 99+ from her fans tagging her in stuff, fill up impossibly more as Isabeau's repost spreads the edit. Makes her smile. The irony that Isabeau is the cause and the cure of her sickness doesn't escape her.
frigouscigous: you've ruined my notifs [screenshot]
frigouscigous: i'm trying to be cool and chill now. ruining my PR. my street cred.
Isabeau.Levito: sorryyy 🤗
And when it's starting to feel alright, a normal conversation, Alysa's phone buzzes again.
Isabeau.Levito: anyway... how’s cali? miss u (obviously lol)
Was it obvious? Obvious that Isabeau missed her, thought of her, the way Alysa did? She lays awake most nights wondering if she ever crossed the younger girl's mind. And if she did, was it good? Bad? Did she regret what they did? Did she ache the same way? Because it wasn't obvious when Isabeau started posting him in her photo dumps. Not that Alysa wanted to dwell on that. She didn't let herself think about it because she didn't like the way it made her feel.
Alysa leans back against her pillows. Licks her piercing right at the front of her mouth as she shakes away her meandering thoughts. Feelings that she didn't want to deal with always got her impulsive. Needy to tease out a reaction out of Isabeau, to get some proof that she still affected her.
frigouscigous: what do you miss most about me?
Just enough plausible deniability to still be friendly, implying but not direct about it. A loaded question disguised as banter. Dangerous with the weight of everything they haven't said. But also enough of an out, if Isabeau really didn't think of their nights together, to just say something insignificant. Playful on the surface but needing Isabeau's honesty.
because i miss your lips against mine. i miss how you'd grab me so hard you'd leave nail prints in my back. i miss the way you say my name. not just the sex, but shit i miss the way you light up at my nonsense. i miss your witty quips back that make it 10 times funnier. Her thoughts go past a mile a minute, but she doesn't need to focus on any individual one. She's run through all of them again and again.
Her phone buzzes. Alysa's almost afraid to check it, and she isn't afraid of much. She hates the way she always gives Isabeau the key to her joy or pain, especially when Alysa prides herself on her usual independence. Isabeau always seemed to undo her. Made her uncharacteristically gentle, uncharacteristically patient, uncharacteristically cautious. Alysa had never fought back as much want as those nights in her bed, keeping her caresses soft enough to not break her. Alysa had never worried so much about hurting someone.
Isabeau.Levito: i miss how you’d make me laugh until my stomach hurt. and how you’d always say the absolute lamest jokes when i was in a mood
Isabeau.Levito: and i miss that you’re the only person who actually gets my humor. everyone else is so serious all the time
It's safe enough. Honest and sweet, but not betraying any hint of their past intimacy. Alysa misses that too, and for now that shared emotion is enough. Doesn't answer her real question, but maybe Isabeau wasn't ready to. And the acknowledgement of something special between them makes Alysa bite her lip. Of really getting each other, of feeling understood, maybe for the first time.
Isabeau.Levito: what about you? what do you miss about me?
She wants to scream. There's too much she misses, all the little details. Such insignificant things that it makes Alysa feel like a creep for remembering them a month later. Because it's the way Isabeau's hair smelled in the mornings after. The way she'd melt into Alysa's arms after complaining that she needed to get up to practice, or how she'd pretend to be asleep so that Alysa would stay. It's the way Alysa had memorised where she likes to be touched, the differences in the way Isabeau's legs twitched from either stress or pleasure.
She doesn't want to be weird when Isabeau's doing so well. Doesn't want to need someone who doesn't seem to need her back.
frigouscigous: i miss your diva energy, duh
Classic Alysa, evading answering how California was feeling more hollow than ever, and the paragraphs she could write about Isabeau's eyes. Deflecting, dodging, anything to avoid the awkward truths. But before Alysa can feel like she's gotten away with it, Isabeau cuts right to the core of her.
Isabeau.Levito: what are we doing alysa?
Alysa rolls onto her stomach, burying her face in a pillow for a moment of pure, unadulterated frustration. She hates this. Hates that Isabeau never lets her feel like she has the upper hand.
frigouscigous: we aren't doing anything
frigouscigous: we're talking
It's a weak defense, and she knows it. But it's all she has while Isabeau seems intent to tear at the remaining walls she has left.
frigouscigous: it's what people do, isa. revolutionary concept i know
Isabeau.Levito: but you're not saying anything
Isabeau.Levito: like we're just bantering like nothing happened in milan
Isabeau used to tug her head down when Alysa was teasing her too much. Tugging at her hair to guide her right where this needs her. This feels maddeningly similar. Alysa knows she's being frustrating. Now instead of doing it to coax out moans from the younger girl, she just doesn't want to deal with the consequences. Terrified of what happens when she stops dodging the questions.
But the confirmation that Milan is on Isabeau's mind too makes her heart sore and her stomach sink simultaneously.
frigouscigous: milan was a long time ago
frigouscigous: i thought we agreed it was just... the adrenaline. post comp high
Isabeau.Levito: was it?
Isabeau.Levito: because the way you're avoiding this makes it feel like it's still happening right now
Isabeau.Levito: if it was nothing we'd be making fun of it together
Alysa runs a hand through her hair, pacing the cramped space of her room. She's right. They'd be sending each other stupid FWB memes or something. She wants to tell Isabeau there's rarely a day she doesn't think about her. She wants to admit that the 'post comp high' hasn't worn off even a month later. But she remembers the photo dumps, the soft launches. The glimpses of a life that doesn't have a girl-shaped slot in it.
frigouscigous: ok fine. we’re whatever this is
She throws the phone down on the duvet, unable to look at it. It's eating her alive. Had been already, but it's no longer an if. Wants to scream that she hates being an experiment, even though she'd eagerly signed up for the role just to feel Isabeau's skin against hers.
Isabeau.Levito: and what is this?
That's the crux of it, really. They're not nothing. It'd be a lie, an understatement, you don't memorise the insides of 'nothing's mouth. But they definitely aren't something. And there's plenty of good reason for that. Distance, aside.
frigouscigous: it's a distraction. it has to be
The reality of it tastes like copper in her mouth. Her tongue flicks over the side of her mouth, quelling the blood of biting it too hard.
frigouscigous: because you have a boyfriend
The words are out, sent, before she can filter them. It's that same impulsiveness that makes her an amazing skater and a disaster of a person. She's finally released the frustration she's been harbouring all month. But before she can regret it, Isabeau replies.
Isabeau.Levito: i do. but i miss you more.
The honesty hits Alysa like falling on the ice as a kid, before she was taught to fall correctly. Her chest tightens, a stupidly fragile hope sparking to life. She wants to fly to New Jersey right now. She wants to burst into Isabeau's apartment and kiss her until the world stops spinning. She wants to run off and hide and never see Isabeau again.
frigouscigous: is that supposed to make me feel better or worse?
Isabeau.Levito: well how do you feel?
Isabeau.Levito: bc i never know what you're thinking and it's driving me insane
That actually makes Alysa laugh, but it's bitter. Sharp now. It's Isabeau who's confusing, impossible to decipher. The girl who went from "I don't know if I like girls, but if it's you..." to posting a boyfriend in a photo dump within weeks. And she has the gall to call Alysa out on being elusive.
frigouscigous: i'm thinking that this isn't fair
frigouscigous: like, do you even like girls? have you figured that out yet?
She knows it's a low blow. Everyone goes at their own pace and she'd be the first to defend that. Alysa knows it's not right to push. But it wasn't right to go that far in the first place, and she's getting tired of doing what she should.
Isabeau.Levito: that's a stupid question
Isabeau.Levito: you know the answer to that. you've known it since we were in my bed
Isabeau.Levito: i told you back then didn't i?
Alysa's fingers fly across the screen, words losing their usual playfulness, becoming sharper, more defensive. Isabeau seemed to think she was being exceedingly obvious, that it was her that was being difficult when Alysa's been racking her brain about this for forever. Isabeau is attracted to her, that much they both know. But this isn't about sordid nights in secrecy anymore. This is about the now, the here. Whether Isabeau really wanted her enough to say it out loud. To call it like, or love, someday.
frigouscigous: it's not the same
frigouscigous: idk, it's nice that you like me but this is bigger yknow? to be gay. to be seen as that
Alysa's been out to everyone in her personal life for a while. Not out super publicly, especially with her sudden boost in popularity after the Olympics. That was too dangerous lately. But it's still important to her. She's proud of it. And she needs Isabeau to realise what going all in would mean for her. What the younger girl is getting into.
frigouscigous: this is my life. i don't get to just turn it off when it gets complicated
This isn't something Isabeau gets to play around with or treat like it's simple. Some passing curiosity. To Alysa, it's a core part of who she is, a truth she lives every single day. And here Isabeau is, hovering on the periphery, tasting the thrill of it but not ready to own it.
Read.
Each second that passes makes Alysa bite down harder.
Isabeau.Levito: you're being unfair
Isabeau.Levito: you can't just decide for me. i know you’ve known who you are forever, but i’m still figuring it out
Isabeau.Levito: milan wasn't just fun for me. isn't that enough?
Alysa sinks back against her pillows, feeling the fight drain out of her. She had thought she'd be OK waiting. As long as she got to taste her, hold her, love her in silence, the rest didn't matter. But somehow it felt worse this way. The truth was out in the open and the worry stopped being about if Isabeau was thinking of her, and now about waiting. Incomplete, yearning for something she didn't know if the younger girl would ever be ready for.
summary: alysa and isabeau's last night in the olympic village, before they have to end things.
word count: 1300+
Slick. Isabeau felt so sticky and wet on Alysa's fingers that it made the older girl inhale sharply. Slip her fingers in deeper every so slightly. "Shhh," she mutters. "You're OK."
They're pressed together on an Olympic-provided twin-sized bed. Isabeau's, if we're being pedantic. Alysa hasn't slept on her own bed in a week. They were trying to make these last few days count. After the closing ceremony, it'd be back to their opposite coasts. A month or two before they could see each other again.
Alysa can tell by the look on her face that the sensation is overwhelming. Her pretty eyebrows are scrunched tight, like her brain is working overtime to reconcile all this pleasure. This has become her favourite hobby, making Isabeau’s toes curl against the crisp hotel linens, making her sigh against her lips.
The contrast between the chilly air of the Olympic village and the intense, localized heat between her thighs makes Alysa's head swim. But it's not about her own pleasure. Her tongue licks over the cool metal of her piercing to bite back the need.
Every time Alysa’s fingers shift, finding a new rhythm, a soft, uncharacteristic whimper escapes Isabeau’s lips. The kind of sound the public never hears from the poised Ice Princess. Here, away from the cameras, there is no need for grace or elegance. There is only the raw, pulsing reality of being young adults and desperately in love.
"It feels... too much," Isabeau manages to gasp out. Her voice trembles, but not as much as her thighs do as they close around Alysa's hand. Willing her to stay, willing her for more.
The younger girl reaches out blindly, her fingers tangling in the sheets before finding purchase on Alysa’s shoulder, squeezing tight. Isabeau’s breath comes in shallow, jagged hitches, pale skin flushed a deep, feverish pink that spreads from her chest up to her cheeks.
"That's OK, Isababy," Alysa whispers. She's hesitant for a moment, not wanting to pull back from the addictive feeling between Isabeau's legs. But she knows Isabeau's still new to all this. "Do you need me to stop, or to slow down?"
Isabeau lets out a shaky, frustrated little huff, burying her face into the crook of Alysa’s neck to hide how vulnerable she feels. Reminds her that she hates hearing that stupid nickname while they're doing this. She's so cute it makes Alysa's heart ache.
“Don’t stop,” Isabeau whimpers into Alysa’s skin, muffled but desperate. “Please don’t stop.” She shifts her hips experimentally, instinctively, seeking more of that friction.
Alysa normally loves to tease her, but not tonight. The idea of slowing down feels almost sacrilegious right now, like a sudden halt in the middle of a perfect triple axel. Alysa wants to memorise her in this moment. If this is the final crescendo before the closing ceremonies pull them apart, she wants to have this perfect image of Isabeau underneath her. Panting, cheeks flushed, tendrils of hair stuck to her face with sweat. Body quivering and all Alysa's.
They aren't dating. Not really. Their little tryst was out of.... curiosity from the younger girl. And Alysa, who was attracted to her, had liked her for a while, obliged. Even if it hurt to be some straight girl's experiment.
Her hands move from Alysa’s shoulders to grip the older girl’s waist, her nails digging in just enough to ground herself. Alysa's almost glad for the slight pain, because it lets her ignore the real ache. She focuses instead on the way Isabeau is pulsing against her fingers, wonders if Isabeau’s heart is hammering against her ribs the same way.
"Not stopping," Alysa reassures, "but I don't wanna break you. So you're gonna have to be patient for me."
Her fingers slip up, and out, to tease her clit instead. She knows Isabeau will complain about the loss of stimulation, but it's her job to not overstimulate her. She has to be the responsible one. She's not just playing with her body, but her heart. Both of their hearts.
The moment the pressure of Alysa’s fingers shifts from inside her, Isabeau lets out a small, indignant whine. It’s a sound of pure, unbridled protest, her hips jerking upward as if trying to reclaim the fullness she just lost. But then she circles her clit and Isabeau's hiding her face in her neck again.
"It was... it was good there, too. Don't go too far," she murmurs.
It's not what Isabeau meant, really, but it's all that's on Alysa's mind. The thought of leaving, of the inevitable distance between California and New Jersey threatens to break her. When they're apart, when they're reminded that the world isn't just this bubble, will Isabeau even think of her? Will the experiment be over, her real, true feelings chalked up to dumb fun?
Alysa knows it isn't fair. Knows she's painting Isabeau as some villain when she isn't. Even if this didn't, couldn't, mean as much to her as it does to Alysa. But she's always had this fear of being forgotten once she's gone. She doesn't want to be just a curious thought or a temporary distraction because of how gruelling the Olympics are. She wants to be the only thing Isabeau thinks about, even when they're apart.
Her thumb rubs down, and it makes Isabeau shudder, thighs squeezing so hard Alysa wonders if she'll lose circulation. Alysa leans down, capturing Isabeau's lips in a kiss. She tastes so sweet somehow, even with the salty tears that get caught up between their mouths.
Isabeau's eyes flutter open to find the gold medalist’s face mere inches away. Out of sheer dumb luck, Isabeau doesn't seem to clock Alysa's mascara running. Or at least doesn't know it's not from the physical exertion, mind too lost in the sensory overload, too caught up in pleasure to decode Alysa's knotted thoughts.
"Wait," she gasps against Alysa’s lips. The kiss is a lifeline, a way to stifle the needy sounds she’s making, but her body is a traitor, pulsing rhythmically against Alysa’s hand. "Alysa, 'm so close. Please."
And when she asks like that, how could Alysa refuse? She’s a creature of instinct when it comes to Isabeau. A mess driven by the dopamine rush and the intoxicating closeness of the girl she adores most in the world.
She returns to the kiss deep and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongues that tastes of unsaid things. Registering just how much better Isabeau's gotten at kissing, from the hesitant yet curious presses to the side of her mouth at the start, to this.
Alysa’s thumb remains at her bundle of nerves, beginning a steady, teasing rhythm. Isabeau’s once-protests melt into soft moans. She reaches up, her fingers tangling in the dark strands of Alysa’s hair at the back of her nape, pulling her closer as if she could physically merge their two bodies into one.
Her fingers slide back. No more teasing, slipping inside Isabeau like coming back home. And only when Alysa is back inside does she feel satisfied. Isabeau’s breath hitches, caught in the back of her throat, as the fullness returns to soothe the ache she’d been protesting.
"Alysa... oh God," Isabeau whimpers, her head tossing back against the pillows, pulling back from this kiss so fast that Alysa's smiley scratches her lips. "Just like that."
Her hips move in a frantic, instinctive dance, trying to meet Alysa's hand with everything she has. Hovering on the precipice, the tension in her muscles building toward a crescendo that feels inevitable. Like she’s spinning too fast in a whirlwind, beautiful and terrifying, impossibly exhilarating. Or leaping full force into a jump you haven't prepared to land. Knuckles white as she pulls at Alysa's hair.
This thing between them ends the way it started. Without anyone else knowing.
my masterlist, to check out my other works, is here
ship: isabeau levito (figure skating) x gender neutral reader
warnings: mentions of career ending injuries, hospitals, though fairly vague
summary: you are a past figure skater, turned juniors' coach after your a fall in your first senior's season. isabeau, your old competitor, visits your shared childhood rink.
word count: 1600+
The ice doesn't sound the same when you aren't the one cutting into it. From the barrier, the rhythmic scrape of blades is hollower. A reminder. You lean your weight against the plexiglass, feeling the familiar chill seep through your jacket, and watch. It's all you can do now.
Every time they enter a jump, you feel a phantom ache in your own joints, your muscles twitching with the muscle memory of a lutz you’ll never land again. You had given everything to this sport - every early morning, every bruised shin, every friendship off the ice drifted away - only for it to leave you behind on the sidelines with a whistle and a clipboard.
The skaters you coach are young, full of the same clumsy ambition you once possessed. Young is relative, of course. You're the youngest coach here by decades, too close in age to your students to be as wistful as you are. You'd like to think you weren't that stupid, but you know it's untrue. You remember the tricks you used to pull to impress her. Before you call out for their attention, you see her for real.
Isabeau.
She looks exactly like the girl you remember from junior circuits, yet she is entirely different. A little taller, yes, but not much, you note. It's the way she carries herself now.
Fresh from the adrenaline of Milan, still carrying that Olympic glow that makes her seem almost untouchable. But vulnerable too. Gone is the bravado of the Isabeau you knew from competing against each other at junior events all those years ago. She's less excited about her successes, more scathing about her falls.
You'd watched it on TV with everyone else at the rink. You remember standing at the back of the crowd, your hands shoved deep into your pockets to hide the way your fingers twitched with every jump. Worried about her in some stupid way you know didn't, wouldn't matter in the long run. The other coaches spoke about Isabeau like she was a legend. A hometown hero to fill their kids up with dreams, to show what this dinky building could produce if they kept up with their training.
But as the camera zoomed in on her face before the music started, you didn’t see a goddess. You saw the girl who used to sit on the floor of the changing room with you, complaining about the blisters from new boots in a silly voice to make you laugh so hard you nearly cried. You don't remember the reference now, the inside jokes, just the feeling of the tightness in your chest around her. How it didn't go away even when the giggles did. The one day she tied your laces together with hers and insisted you were now a pair.
The missed jump broke you out of your reverie. The fall. She was still graceful in it, somehow. But your heart jumped into your throat, and your ankle burned like you'd shattered it anew. A collective gasp rippling through the room. The atmosphere in the lobby shifted, air filled instead with pitying sighs. Rage, maybe was too strong, but certainly irritation filled you. They didn't see the triumph in her simply standing back up, in powering through the rest of the freeskate - they only saw the absence of a medal.
Your own juniors just looked at you, waiting for your reaction with bated breath. It made sense. They'd heard about how you became a coach after all. Your disastrous fall in your very first senior season. Trying out the whole college thing but quickly realising you didn't know anything, couldn't be anywhere else, but the ice.
And now she's here. Actually in front of you again, not just on a screen.
Watching her glide across the rink is a beautiful, quiet torture. There is a fierce pride in your chest because you know better than anyone the sheer grit required to look that effortless, but it is shadowed by a sharp, jagged envy. And it shocks you. You never feel this jealous watching her programs. Maybe it's the lack of distance. The lack of sparkles, and the elaborate custom costumes. She is Isabeau, just Isabeau, in a simple pair of black training leggings and a thin jacket, her hair pulled back into a practical messy bun. And yet she's still where you can't reach.
Something flickers in her eyes when she notices you. For a second, you wondered if she'd even recognise you. She had no reason to, not like how you almost obsessively keep up with her seasons. The silence between you stretches, filled only by the distant hum of the refrigeration units. Your heartbeat grows louder as she glides closer.
"You're still here," she says softly. Not judgemental, you can tell, you've heard that tone before from plenty of other past competitors.
You find yourself nodding, your throat tight. Can't seem to conjure up the words. Unsure what the words would be. The clipboard in your hands feels like a lead weight. A barrier just like the plexiglass. You aren't the skater who was supposed to be her rival anymore. You are a fixture of the building, part of the rink, watching her return to the beginning of her story while you're still trying to figure out how yours ended.
You shift on your good leg. Remember for a moment how it felt when your laces were tied together. But now that stiffness, that lack of movement, is permanent.
"Turns out college wasn't really for me," you offer.
She shrugs. "Me neither." As if the two of you are still on the same playing field.
"It’s good you stayed," she says, skating a small, tight circle. Even the idle movements she doesn't think about make you ache. "The juniors here... they need someone who actually knows what it feels like. Not some coach that thinks it's easy."
Most of the other coaches also competed, but it was a longer time ago. They don't think about social media presences, the hate. How the negative comments always seem to override the support, no matter how many more positive ones there are. You remember the well wishes, the people encouraging you through your initial physio sessions. The chill when they turned to people forgetting you existed.
"Which ones are yours?" Isabeau asks, turning on her heel to look around the rink.
You look over at your students - a group of three fifteen-year-olds who are currently doing very little actual skating. "Those idiots," you say, "they’re good, but they have a long way to go."
As if on cue, one of the boys tries to show off by launching into a double axel he hasn't quite mastered yet. His edge is off, and he lands on his ass, his friends erupting into laughter as soon as it's clear he's not actually hurt. Your star skater, the one he was trying to impress, holds her hand out to help him up and he's beet red.
Watching them always feels nostalgic, but with Isabeau in front of you, it's almost yearning. Back when you were both sixteen, you used to spend the tail end of public sessions trying to impress Isabeau with jumps you were working on. Hoping she'd notice, yet still stunned whenever she'd compliment you. Isabeau had a habit of catching your eye at the exact moment you looked away, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Once, during a regional camp, she had tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and told you your short program music was "very you," her fingers lingering just a second too long against your skin. You had stayed awake in the dorms for hours, staring at the ceiling, wondering if that second meant everything or absolutely nothing.
She always saw you, and she reminds you now as she says "they remind me of us." Like she could read your mind. Isabeau watches the boy scramble back to his feet, dusting ice off his leggings and swearing he was fine, while the girl fusses over him and saying he'll bruise.
"Yeah," is all you can offer.
He'll be fine, and you know it. Otherwise you would've rushed over. But you are stuck in place.
Thinking about the horror in Isabeau's eyes back when you fell and didn't get up. You didn't think anything of it then, but her reaction was the first thing you sought out.
She was always the first person to visit you after your physio appointments, and the last person to leave. She had been the one to sit by your bed when the doctors used words like permanent and structural, her hand hovering over your cast as if she could heal the break by sheer force of will.
But it was the middle of the season by then. She had to go compete. You drifted apart naturally, with no one to blame.
And you were stuck in place.
But for some reason, Isabeau has come back. Realised you were lagging behind yet again, skated slower so you could catch up, like old times. She’s doing it now. Idly tracing steps she could do in her sleep, but keeping her circle small, staying within arm's reach of your spot at the barrier. Lingering.
You feel that old, familiar heat prickling at the back of your neck. It’s the same feeling from the regional camp - the weight of her attention. You realise she isn’t looking at the boy who fell anymore. She’s looking at you. Always has been. Waiting to see if you’ll finally acknowledge that these feelings aren't as onesided as you thought.
Ohhh mb mb I thought because you said you put them all as omegas that you’d written them as such before, which I agree with you that all of them other than Amber are 100% omegas. Amber could land either side of the isle tbh
Would you ever write for omegaverse do you think?
fair enough, subby alpha amber for the win. and yeah i'd be up for writing it! could be fun
like, i can easily imagine this one is for max. revolving around her, showing her struggling with her own sexuality.
i know i'd eat the shit out of it because!! there's something so interesting and fascinating about mikey's character!! and the fact that mikey once said that sexuality is a spectrum and you don't have to be on one side or the other (while talking about frankie's identity crisis) it would have been so cool to see max finally realizing that maybe she's been living in a lie, that maybe she doesn't have to be on one side for her whole life.
i haven't rewatched the show for a long time so correct me if i'm wrong but i feel like paisley is the only friend of max that we learn about in the show (also, i don't remember her having a lot of screen time?) anyways, what i'm trying to say is, i feel like she's that one person that could be a friend of fox's family (headcanon of mine here) like, yk, kinda that fourth child sam never had.
and now, speaking of the love interest for max—i can't imagine any other scenario than for it to be paisley's cousin. like, that one cousin who lives on the other side of the country (let's say in new york) and which you see twice a year (let's say summer break and christmas/thanksgiving)
i'm gonna call paisley's cousin as r.
so, one time, when paisley attends some kind of fox's family event, she brings her cousin with herself. and since r is new and neither max nor she know each other, it'd be a hell of a meet. max would take interest in r, because, well, r would be a lot different than paisley, that's for sure. i imagine paisley to be this "introverted till you meet the right people" kind of person, meanwhile, her cousin would be a total opposite—troublemaker, strong in the mouth, probably has a criminal record, too (but beneath all this facade, there's just this little girl, whose parents didn't give a damn about)
this would be a perfect rollercoaster of emotions. from max getting to learn about r's situation to realizing she has a crush on her. then the denial. it would mess with max's head. her? having a crush on a girl? ridiculous, right? since she's always been with dudes and all.
i always hated how she was treated by them in the show—groomed, dumped right before the halloween party (?), left with pregnancy (don't even get me started). the last two seasons are probably my favorite ones, though, i feel like something is missing and i'd love for max to find the perfect person, because, well, it's maxie! 😭
also, i love to think that max would be very dirty with r, only. with dudes it was just sex and maybe some kisses left and right, but nothing more (well, men, lmao) with r, she'd start liking a long, good foreplays. she'd discover her kinks, things that make her or r turned on. max wouldn't be ashamed by it, fuck, she'd actually love it.
and knowing how open-minded and supportive fox family is, sam would be very happy for max and r even though i think she'd be surprised and shocked (in a good way ofc) the first time max would tell her about them and since r is paisley's family, r would automatically also become a member of fox's family, too 🥹
a LOT of bittersweetness, angst and fluff. damn, it would be such a GOOD S6 MATERIAL!!
sorry for the long rant but i don't have anyone else to talk to about it and since you're my fav writer, i decided to send it to you <3 i hope you're doing okay! — 🧸
henlo, i have this for now but i need to refine it before i post it for real. just didn't want all your thoughts to suffer in my inbox.
i breathed in the smoke
word count: like 1500
ship: max fox x reader
You watch as tendrils of smoke rise from Max's mouth, a slow release just like you taught her. You take the blunt back from her hand. When your fingers graze the back of her hand, you note the warmth of it, note how she keeps the contact and first then shrinks away like she's been burnt.
You smirk. "Easy. I'm not dangerous."
She laughs, and it's an awkward, half-unsure thing. You think you like how Max tries to play it cool. It's always validating when a pretty girl loses her shit over you. Endearing too. You think it makes Max cuter, somehow. Paisley shoots you an inquisitive look, but you just shrug. No need to embarrass the poor girl.
Take a breath in, hold, and let it out. You can't help but tease Max a little though, blowing out in a way that tickles her face. She shivers and her eyes flicker up and meet yours.
It's obvious. You're her first 'girl crush', even if the term leaves a bad taste in your mouth from some past experiences. Her eyes are all big and moony, and you watch a realisation come over her. A panic.
You've experienced it all. The freak out and storm out of your life, vehemently ignoring feelings for you and pretending you don't exist. The 'this is just an experiment', making out in the dead of night in random places so no one will catch you, the rush of exploration but the crash of eventual rejection. The definitely-straight girls who just want to brag about having had a girlfriend in college. Some jaded part of you wants to pull away. Says that it can't be worth the risk, the heartbreak, when she eventually decides that liking boys is easier. Better. But you look into her eyes and know, deep down, it would be worth it to have a shot at loving Max.
--
Paisley was actually the first person you told that you liked girls. You were both 12. You were chilling in Paisley's living room, watching a movie because your moms wanted to catch up. Paisley had been going on about her crushes, raving about the latest nice thing that he had done for her. Never one to leave you out, she'd asked if you liked anyone. It just slipped out.
"I know you're all... cool and pretend you don't have feelings," she had said, and you rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. Paisley was always good at calling you out. "But you can't tell me you've never had a crush."
You had shrugged. "Emma C's kinda cute."
You can't even remember if you had been worried about her reaction. Maybe a part of you was. You'd never told anyone before, never mentioned how your eyes always seemed to gravitate to the pretty girls, how you liked nothing more than making them smile. What you do remember is how Paisley never let you think, even for a second, that what you had said was weird.
"Oh yeah? She's super nice!" Paisley had beamed.
From then on, your dear cousin would pester you into joining her silly conversations about crushes, asking about the girls you liked and if anything had happened between you two. She never reacted weirdly, which was everything you needed to be confident in this part of yourself.
The day you and Max met, Paisley ditched you two after a while. She's got some boy she's been talking to waiting outside. Plus she knows you're good for covering for her with her parents. You two used to do that for each other a lot when you were younger. When there was a girl you wanted to sneak out and hook up with, Paisley would say you were hanging with her. If there was a guy she wanted to go out with, you'd do the same. What else are cousins for, right?
"You've got the pics right?" Paisley says, fixing her hair and grabbing her purse.
"Yep. If your mom asks, we're totally just watching a movie." You show your phone screen to her, having taken some innocuous snaps of Max and Paisley eating popcorn and watching the start of Godzilla x Kong. You think you'll keep the picture anyway. Max's smile in it is kind of... sweet. It's the kind of smile where she totally thinks she's being candid, but you can tell it's put on since it's a bit wide and wonky. The smile she gives you when you make a stupid joke is smaller, softer, like it's just between the two of you.
"You're awesome. Alright, love you, girls!" Paisley says, giving Max a sidehug and heads out.
A beat passes. You've already seen the movie so you're not really watching the shot of Kong stumbling around Hollow Earth, more focused on Max in your peripheral vision.
"It's weird," Max says. She crosses her legs, uncrosses them. "Paisley never mentioned you, I think. But you seem close."
You shrug. You don't exactly begrudge Paisley for that. "I moved farther away sophomore year," you explain. "Besides. She never told me her best friend was such a cutie." And you mean that. You were shocked when the bestie that Paisley was talking about had opened the door and you saw her. Max. Beautiful didn't begin to capture it, but it would do for now. She looked up at you with those big brown eyes and you knew you were a goner.
"Well, I--" Max flushes. "Th-thanks."
She tucks a strand of her wavy hair behind her ear and, when it comes loose again, you shift forward and tuck it for her. She flushes and turns away with a shaky breath. Which isn't how Paisley described her. The two, if your cousin was to be believed, were like peas in a pod. Max was confident, brash at times, stubborn, and tended to do whatever the hell she wanted. In your weekly catch-ups, you'd be treated to stories about the latest wild thing they got up to, a party they snuck in, a club where the bouncers knew their IDs were fake and let them in anyway. Not this shy little thing, rendered to single syllable words after you touched her.
You realise quickly that Max isn't like the girls back home who try too hard to be edgy or the ones who crumble the second you push back. There’s a specific kind of gravity to her. She's a bundle of almosts, all the hobbies she's had but dropped when they got too much, all the dreams she's excited to accomplish, every album and movie and book and experience that's shaped her in some way.
You think she's the most interesting person you've met in forever.
--
"How about this? You can ask me anything you like. 20 questions."
Chilling on her couch and smoking weed, Max asks you a million questions and you ask them back. You note what topics make Max smile, what she's passionate about. You file away the little tidbits she shares, her favourite colour, her vibe in music, the snacks she goes for. You watch her eyes light up and crinkle up at the sides when you tell her stories about your childhood with Paisley, brain whirring with memories you could tell her just to see her reactions.
"Are you going to leave again?" she asks, after a while.
"I... don't know," you admit. You shift a little closer to her, until your thigh grazes against hers. You shoot your shot, because it's just easier that way. Cleaner. "Do you like girls?"
A beat. "I don't know."
"Sure." You tilt your head, looking her over. "You ever wanted to figure it out?"
Her eyes are wide, but they're sure. It makes you swallow, actually, the determination you see in her eyes that are usually so big and eager when she's looking at you now dark with something new. When she leans in, your hands go to her shoulders, holding her back. Max is confused, hurt clear as she knits her brows together.
"You're high," you whisper, because you're so close you don't need to be much louder. "I don't want you to regret anything."
Max doesn’t pull away. Instead, she sags into your touch, her forehead coming to rest against yours as the smell of weed and her floral shampoo mingle in the small space between you. She’s breathing hard, the kind of shaky exhales that make you want her, need her, more than air.
You keep your grip firm on her shoulders, a physical anchor while her brain tries to catch up to her heart. You’ve been the "experiment" too many times to count, and even though every instinct in your body is screaming at you to just close the fucking gap, kiss her, you idiot, kiss her, you stay still. You'd do anything to be hers, but it'd kill you to only be her mistake.
"I’m not that high," she murmurs. She looks up then, and the confusion has sharpened. You recognise the desperate kind of curiosity that's made you fall for it so many times before. You see the flick of her eyes down to your mouth and back up, a silent, frantic question. You decide to give her a way out, one last chance to retreat into the safety of the friendship Paisley built for you.
