#and be like these guys must think I look so stupid

[pucksandpower]

Little Star

Max Verstappen x Leclerc!Reader

Summary: you’ve grown used to being overshadowed by your older brother, merely a distant star that seems dull in comparison to the sun of Maranello … and then Max happens

Based on this request

The sun dips low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the paddock of the Autodromo Nazionale Monza. The air still buzzes with excitement from the day’s race, but behind the Ferrari hospitality unit, a different energy permeates the air.

You lean against the cool metal wall, sliding down until you’re sitting on the concrete, knees pulled to your chest. Tears stream silently down your face as you struggle to catch your breath between sobs. The sounds of celebration echo in the distance, a stark contrast to your solitude.

Footsteps approach, and you hastily wipe at your eyes, hoping to erase any evidence of your breakdown. A familiar figure rounds the corner, stopping short when he spots you.

“Hey,” Max Verstappen says, his brow furrowing with concern. “Are you alright?”

You force a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m fine,” you insist, your voice wavering slightly. “Just ... needed some air.”

Max doesn’t buy it for a second. He crouches down beside you, his blue eyes searching your face. “You don’t look fine,” he says gently. “What’s going on?”

You bite your lip, debating whether to confide in him. After a moment, you sigh. “It’s stupid,” you mumble.

“If it’s making you cry, it’s not stupid,” Max counters. He settles down next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. “Come on, talk to me.”

You take a shaky breath. “It’s my birthday,” you admit quietly.

Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “Today? Why aren’t you celebrating?”

A bitter laugh escapes your lips. “Because everyone forgot,” you explain, fresh tears welling up. “Charles won the race, and ... I’m happy for him, I really am. But it’s like I don’t even exist when he’s around, you know?”

Max nods slowly, understanding dawning on his face. “That must be really tough,” he says softly.

You nod, sniffling. “I’ve always felt like I was in his shadow, but today ... it just hit me harder, I guess. Even my mom forgot.”

“That’s not okay,” Max says firmly. “Your birthday should be special, no matter what else is happening.”

You shrug, picking at a loose thread on your jeans. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“No, it’s not fine,” Max insists. He stands up suddenly, determination etched on his face. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Before you can protest, he’s gone, jogging away towards the paddock. You’re left alone again, wondering what he’s up to.

True to his word, Max returns a few minutes later, slightly out of breath and holding something behind his back. “Close your eyes,” he instructs with a grin.

Curious, you comply. There’s a rustling sound, and then Max’s voice rings out, clear and slightly off-key: “Happy birthday to you ...”

Your eyes fly open in surprise. Max stands before you, holding a small cupcake with a single candle stuck in the frosting. His face is illuminated by the flickering flame as he continues to sing.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Y/N, happy birthday to you!”

Emotion wells up in your chest, a lump forming in your throat. “Max,” you whisper, overwhelmed. “You didn’t have to do this.”

He crouches down, carefully balancing the cupcake. “Of course I did,” he says softly. “Everyone deserves to feel special on their birthday. Now make a wish and blow out your candle.”

You close your eyes, thinking for a moment before leaning forward to extinguish the tiny flame. When you open them again, Max is beaming at you.

“What did you wish for?” He asks, settling back down beside you and offering you the cupcake.

You shake your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Can’t tell you, or it won’t come true.”

Max laughs, nudging your shoulder playfully. “Fair enough. So, twenty-two, huh? How does it feel to be so old?”

You roll your eyes, but can’t help chuckling. “Says the guy who’s practically ancient at twenty-six.”

“Hey!” Max protests, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know I’m in my prime.”

The banter feels natural, and you find yourself relaxing for the first time all day. You take a bite of the cupcake, savoring the sweetness. “This is really good,” you mumble around a mouthful of frosting. “Where did you even find it?”

Max grins mischievously. “I have my sources. Can’t reveal all my secrets, can I?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Thank you, Max. Really. This ... it means a lot.”

His expression softens. “You’re welcome. I’m sorry the rest of your family forgot. That’s not fair to you.”

You sigh, your momentary happiness fading slightly. “It’s not their fault. Charles had a big win today, and-”

“Stop,” Max interrupts gently. “You don’t have to make excuses for them. Your feelings are valid.”

You blink, surprised by his directness. “I ... I guess I’m just used to it,” you admit. “It’s always been about Charles. Even before he got into F1, he was the golden child. I love him, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes ...”

“Sometimes you want to be seen too,” Max finishes for you. You nod, grateful that he understands.

“Exactly. And it’s not just Charles. Arthur’s always been following in his footsteps, and Lorenzo ... well, he’s the oldest. I’m just ... there.”

Max frowns. “That’s not true. You’re your own person, with your own talents and dreams. Have you talked to them about how you feel?”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to make them feel bad. Especially Charles. He works so hard, and he deserves his success.”

“His success doesn’t diminish your worth,” Max says firmly. “You deserve to be celebrated too.”

Tears prick at your eyes again, but for a different reason this time. “Thank you,” you whisper. “I don’t think anyone’s ever put it quite like that before.”

Max smiles softly. “Well, it’s true. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty amazing.”

A blush creeps up your cheeks. “You barely know me,” you point out.

“I know enough,” Max counters. “I know you’re kind enough to put your family’s happiness before your own. I know you’re strong enough to handle being overlooked without becoming bitter. And I know you’ve got a great taste in cupcakes.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up from deep in your chest. “Well, when you put it like that ...”

Max grins, clearly pleased to have made you smile. “So, birthday girl, what do you want to do now? The night is young, and I happen to know where they keep the good champagne around here.”

You hesitate, glancing towards the paddock where you can still hear the sounds of celebration. “I don’t know ... I should probably go find my family.”

Max raises an eyebrow. “On your birthday? Come on, live a little. They can wait.”

A spark of rebellion ignites in your chest. “You know what? You’re right. Let’s do it.”

Max jumps to his feet, offering you his hand. “That’s the spirit! First stop, champagne. Then, who knows? Maybe we’ll steal a golf cart and go joyriding around the track.”

You take his hand, allowing him to pull you up. “Is that even allowed?”

Max’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “Probably not. But it’s your birthday, so I think we can bend the rules a little.”

As you follow Max towards the paddock, a warmth spreads through your chest that has nothing to do with the lingering summer heat. For the first time in years, you feel seen. Appreciated. Special.

“Hey, Max?” You say, causing him to pause and look back at you.

“Yeah?”

You smile, genuine and bright. “Thank you. For everything.”

Max’s expression softens. “Anytime,” he says softly. “Now come on, birthday girl. Let’s make this a night to remember.”

As you walk side by side into the fading light, you can’t help but feel that this birthday might just be the start of something new. Something exciting. Something uniquely yours.

And for once, you’re not thinking about Charles, or Arthur, or anyone else. You’re just thinking about you, and the possibilities that stretch out before you like an open road.

Happy birthday indeed.

***

The Ferrari hospitality suite thrums with energy, laughter and music spilling out into the warm Italian night. Charles Leclerc stands at the center of it all, a wide grin plastered across his face as he basks in the glow of his hard-fought victory. Champagne flows freely, and the air is thick with the scent of celebration.

“To Charles!” Someone shouts, raising a glass. The room erupts in cheers, and Charles feels a swell of pride in his chest.

“Speech! Speech!” The crowd chants, and Charles laughs, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

“Alright, alright,” he concedes, clearing his throat. “I just want to say thank you to everyone here. This win ... it’s not just mine. It’s ours. The team, the mechanics, the engineers, the strategists ... we did this together.”

More cheers erupt, and Charles feels a hand clap him on the back. He turns to see his teammate grinning broadly.

“Well said, amigo,” Carlos says, slinging an arm around Charles’ shoulders. “You drove like a champion today.”

Charles beams, the praise from his teammate adding to the euphoria of the moment. “Thanks, Carlos. Couldn’t have done it without you pushing me.”

Carlos laughs, taking a swig of his drink. “Always happy to provide motivation. Oh, hey, before I forget — can you pass on my birthday wishes to Y/N? I meant to find her earlier, but things got a bit crazy.”

The words hit Charles like a bucket of ice water. His smile freezes, his eyes widening in horror. “W-what?” He stammers, hoping he’s misheard.

Carlos frowns, noticing the sudden change in Charles’ demeanor. “Your sister? It’s her birthday today, right? Her 22nd?”

Charles feels the room spin around him. How could he have forgotten? His little sister’s birthday, on the same day as his big win. The realization crashes over him in waves of guilt and shame.

“Charles?” Carlos prompts, concern evident in his voice. “You okay, mate?”

Charles shakes his head, trying to clear the fog of shock. “I ... I forgot,” he whispers, more to himself than to Carlos. “How could I forget?”

Carlos’ eyes widen in understanding. “Oh, shit,” he mutters. “You didn’t remember?”

Charles runs a hand through his hair, panic rising in his chest. “I was so focused on the race, and then the win ... God, I’m such an idiot.”

He scans the room frantically, hoping against hope that he’ll spot you among the partygoers. But of course, you’re not there. Why would you be, when your own family forgot your birthday?

“I need to find her,” Charles says, already moving towards the exit. “I need to apologize.”

Carlos nods, squeezing Charles’ shoulder supportively. “Go. I’ll cover for you here if anyone asks.”

Charles barely hears him, his mind racing as he pushes through the crowd. He bursts out of the hospitality suite, the cool night air a stark contrast to the stuffy interior.

“Y/N!” He calls out, his voice echoing in the near-empty paddock. But there’s no response.

Panic rising, Charles pulls out his phone, fumbling with the screen as he opens his contacts. He hits your name, holding the phone to his ear as it rings.

Once. Twice. Three times. Then, your voicemail.

“Hey, this is Y/N. Leave a message!”

Charles swears under his breath, ending the call. He tries again, and again, but each time it goes straight to voicemail.

“Come on, come on,” he mutters, pacing back and forth. Where could you be? Who would you have gone to when your family let you down?

A thought strikes him, and he quickly dials another number.

“Hello?” Arthur’s sleepy voice answers.

“Arthur!” Charles practically shouts. “Is Y/N with you?”

There’s a pause, then confusion in Arthur’s tone. “No? Why would she be? Aren’t you guys celebrating?”

Charles feels his heart sink even further. “Arthur, it’s her birthday. We forgot.”

“Shit,” Arthur breathes. “How did we ... God, we’re terrible brothers.”

“I know, I know,” Charles says, the guilt eating away at him. “I’m trying to find her now. Can you call Maman and Lorenzo, see if they’ve heard from her?”

“Yeah, of course,” Arthur agrees quickly. “I’ll call you back if I hear anything.”

Charles ends the call, his mind whirling. Where else could you be? He tries to think back to earlier in the day, wondering if he’d seen you at all after the race. But everything is a blur of champagne and celebration, and he realizes with a sickening jolt that he can’t remember the last time he actually spoke to you.

He’s about to start knocking on motorhome doors when another idea strikes him. Quickly, he opens the Life360 app on his phone. The family had started using it a few years back, mainly to keep track of each other during race weekends.

Charles waits impatiently for the app to load, praying that it will show your location. But when the map finally appears, his heart sinks. Your icon is greyed out, with a message underneath: “Location permissions turned off.”

“No, no, no,” Charles mutters, refreshing the app desperately. But the result is the same. You’ve deliberately turned off your location tracking.

The realization hits him like a punch to the gut. You didn’t just disappear — you chose to be unfindable. And it’s all his fault.

Charles slumps against the nearest wall, sliding down until he’s sitting on the ground. He puts his head in his hands, overwhelmed by the magnitude of his mistake.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he whispers into the night. “I’m so, so sorry.”

As he sits there, memories flood his mind. Your proud smile when he won his first karting race. The way you’d curl up next to him during thunderstorms, seeking comfort. Your unwavering support through every step of his career, even when it meant less attention for you.

And how had he repaid that loyalty? By forgetting the one day that was supposed to be about you.

Charles’ phone buzzes, and he snatches it up eagerly. But it’s just a text from his mother:

Haven’t heard from Y/N. Is everything okay?

He stares at the message, unsure how to respond. How can he explain that he’s lost his little sister on her birthday?

Another text comes through, this time from Lorenzo:

No luck here either. What’s going on?

Charles takes a deep breath, steeling himself. He has to tell them the truth, no matter how much it hurts.

He creates a group chat with his mom, Lorenzo, and Arthur, his fingers shaking slightly as he types:

We forgot Y/N’s birthday. All of us. She’s not answering her phone and her location is turned off. I can’t find her anywhere.

The responses come in rapid succession:

Maman: Oh no. How could we forget?

Lorenzo: Shit. Have you checked with her friends?

Arthur: I’m on my way to the track now. We’ll find her.

Charles feels a mix of relief and shame. At least now everyone knows, and they can all work together to make things right. But the fact remains that they let you down in the first place.

He’s about to reply when he spots a familiar figure walking across the paddock. Max Verstappen, looking slightly disheveled and ... was that a touch of glitter on his cheek?

Without thinking, Charles jumps to his feet and runs over to his rival.

“Max!” He calls out, slightly out of breath. “Have you seen Y/N?”

Max turns, surprise evident on his face. Then, something else flickers in his eyes. Anger? Disappointment? It’s gone too quickly for Charles to be sure.

“Why?” Max asks, his tone cooler than usual. “Suddenly remembered she exists?”

The words sting, but Charles knows he deserves them. “Please, Max. I know I messed up. We all did. But I need to find her, to apologize.”

Max studies him for a long moment, as if weighing his options. Finally, he sighs. “She’s safe. That’s all you need to know right now.”

Relief washes over Charles, quickly followed by confusion. “You’ve seen her? Where is she?”

“I’m not telling you that,” Max says firmly. “She needed space, and after what happened, I don’t blame her.”

Charles feels a flare of frustration. “She’s my sister. I have a right to know where she is.”

“No,” Max counters, his blue eyes flashing. “You had a responsibility to remember her birthday. You didn’t. So now, you don’t get to demand anything.”

The words hit Charles like a slap. He opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again. Max is right, as much as it pains him to admit it.

“Is she ... is she okay?” Charles asks quietly, all fight leaving him.

Max’s expression softens slightly. “She will be. Eventually. But Charles, you really hurt her. All of you did.”

Charles nods, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. “I know. God, I know. I just want to make it right.”

“Then give her time,” Max advises. “And when she’s ready to talk, really listen to her. Don’t make excuses. Don’t try to justify it. Just listen.”

Charles nods again, feeling utterly defeated. “Will you ... will you tell her I’m sorry? That we’re all sorry?”

Max hesitates, then nods. “I will. But Charles? You need to do better. She deserves better.”

With that, Max turns and walks away, leaving Charles alone with his thoughts and regrets.

Charles pulls out his phone again, looking at the group chat with his family. He types out a message, his heart heavy:

Y/N is safe. A friend is looking out for her. We need to give her space, but when she’s ready to talk, we all need to be there. Really be there. We’ve got a lot to make up for.

As he hits send, Charles makes a silent promise to himself and to you. He’ll do better. He’ll be the brother you deserve. And somehow, someway, he’ll make this right.

But for now, all he can do is wait, and hope that you’ll find it in your heart to forgive them all.

***

The city lights twinkle below as Max leads you into his penthouse suite, the door clicking shut behind you. The space is modern and sleek, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of Milan’s skyline.

“Make yourself at home,” Max says, gesturing around the room. “Are you hungry? I can order some room service if you want.”

You shake your head, still feeling slightly overwhelmed by the events of the day. “No, thanks. I’m okay.”

Max nods, studying your face with concern. “You sure? It’s been a long day.”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah, you could say that again.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence before Max clears his throat. “So, um, you can take the bed. I’ll crash on the couch.”

“Oh, no,” you protest immediately. “I can’t kick you out of your own bed. I’ll take the couch.”

Max shakes his head firmly. “Absolutely not. It’s your birthday. You get the bed.”

You bite your lip, an idea forming. “We could ... share? I mean, if that’s okay with you. The bed looks plenty big enough.”

Max’s eyes widen slightly, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “Are you sure? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m sure,” you say, surprising yourself with your boldness. “Unless it makes you uncomfortable?”

“No, no,” Max says quickly. “I’m fine with it if you are.”

You nod, and another silence falls. Max runs a hand through his hair, looking suddenly unsure of himself.

“Do you want to watch a movie or something?” he suggests. “Or we could just talk, if you prefer.”

“Talking sounds nice,” you admit. “I’m not really in the mood for a movie.”

Max nods, gesturing towards the bed. “Shall we?”

You both settle onto the massive king-size bed, sitting cross-legged and facing each other. It’s oddly intimate, and you feel a flutter of nerves in your stomach.

“So,” Max begins, his blue eyes fixed on you. “Tell me something about yourself that isn’t related to racing or your family.”

You pause, caught off guard by the question. It’s been so long since someone asked about you, just you.

“Well,” you start hesitantly, “I’m actually studying to become an astrophysicist.”

Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? That’s incredible! Why astrophysics?”

The enthusiasm in his voice makes you smile. “I’ve always been fascinated by space, you know? The idea that there’s so much out there we don’t understand ... it’s exciting.”

“That’s amazing,” Max says, genuinely impressed. “What kind of stuff are you studying right now?”

You laugh softly. “Are you sure you want to know? I might bore you with all the technical details.”

Max leans forward, his expression earnest. “Try me. I want to hear all about it.”

Encouraged by his interest, you begin to explain your current research project. As you talk, your hands move animatedly, your eyes lighting up with passion. Max listens intently, asking questions and showing genuine curiosity.

“... and that’s why understanding dark matter is so crucial,” you finish, slightly out of breath. “Sorry, I kind of went off on a tangent there.”

Max shakes his head, smiling warmly. “Don’t apologize. It’s fascinating. I had no idea you were into all this. Why haven’t I heard about it before?”

Your smile falters slightly. “Oh, well ... it doesn’t really come up much. Everyone’s usually more interested in talking about racing.”

Max frowns. “But this is incredible. You’re studying to unravel the mysteries of the universe. That’s way cooler than driving in circles.”

You laugh, but there’s a hint of sadness in it. “Try telling that to my family. I think they see it as more of a hobby than a career path.”

“What?” Max looks genuinely shocked. “How can they not be incredibly proud? This is huge!”

You shrug, picking at a loose thread on the comforter. “I guess it’s just not as exciting as F1? It’s okay, though. I’m used to it.”

Max shakes his head firmly. “No, it’s not okay. Y/N, you’re brilliant. Your family should be shouting it from the rooftops.”

Tears prick at your eyes, and you blink them back hastily. “Thanks, Max. That ... that means a lot.”

He reaches out, hesitating for a moment before placing his hand over yours. “I mean it. And for what it’s worth, I think what you’re doing is incredible.”

You look up, meeting his gaze. There’s a warmth there, an understanding that makes your heart skip a beat. Without really thinking about it, you shift closer to him.

Max seems to take this as an invitation, because he moves closer too. Soon, you’re sitting side by side, your shoulders touching.

“So,” you say, trying to lighten the mood. “What about you? Any secret passions outside of racing?”

Max chuckles. “Nothing as impressive as astrophysics, I’m afraid. But I do enjoy sim racing in my spare time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Isn’t that just more racing?”

“Hey, it’s completely different,” Max protests with a grin. “In sim racing, I can drive any car on any track. Even ones that don’t exist in real life.”

“Okay, okay,” you concede, laughing. “Tell me more about it.”

As Max launches into an explanation of his favorite sim racing setups, you find yourself relaxing more and more. The conversation flows easily, punctuated by laughter and playful debates.

Without really noticing, you both shift positions throughout the night. Max leans back against the headboard, and you mirror him. Your shoulders are pressed together, and you can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“... and that’s why I think pineapple absolutely belongs on pizza,” Max finishes, looking at you expectantly.

You shake your head, grinning. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this from a world champion. Your taste buds clearly can’t be trusted.”

“Oh, come on,” Max laughs, nudging your shoulder with his. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

“I have tried it,” you insist. “It’s an abomination.”

Max clutches his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, Y/N. And here I thought we were becoming friends.”

The word ‘friends’ sends an odd pang through your chest. Is that what this is? It feels like more, somehow.

As if reading your thoughts, Max’s expression softens. He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is so gentle, so intimate, that it takes your breath away.

“Y/N,” he says softly. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

You swallow hard, your heart racing. “Me too,” you whisper.

There’s a moment of charged silence, and then Max is leaning in. You meet him halfway, your lips meeting in a soft, tentative kiss.

It’s brief, just a fleeting press of lips, but it sends sparks shooting through your entire body. When you pull back, Max is looking at you with a mixture of wonder and uncertainty.

“Was that okay?” He asks, his voice husky.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Instead, you lean in again, capturing his lips in another kiss. This one is deeper, more assured. Max’s hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you melt into his touch.

When you finally break apart, you’re both slightly breathless. Max rests his forehead against yours, a smile playing at his lips.

“I’ve wanted to do that all night,” he admits.

You laugh softly. “Even when I was insulting your pizza preferences?”

“Especially then,” Max grins. “You’re cute when you’re indignant.”

You swat at his arm playfully, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. For the first time all day, you feel truly happy.

As the night wears on, you and Max continue to talk, trading stories and stealing kisses. Gradually, your positions shift again. Max lies down, and you curl up against his side, your head resting on his chest. His arm wraps around you, holding you close.

“Y/N?” Max says softly, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm.

“Hmm?” you mumble, feeling drowsy and content.

“Happy birthday,” he says. “I know it didn’t start out great, but I hope it got better.”

You tilt your head up to look at him, a warm smile spreading across your face. “It did,” you assure him. “Thanks to you.”

Max kisses your forehead gently. “Get some sleep,” he murmurs. “We can figure everything else out in the morning.”

As you drift off to sleep, wrapped in Max’s arms, you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this birthday wasn’t so bad after all. In fact, it might just be the start of something wonderful.

***

The early morning sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. You stir slowly, awareness creeping in as you feel a strong arm wrapped around your waist. For a moment, confusion sets in before the events of the previous night come rushing back.

You’re in Max Verstappen’s bed. And Max Verstappen is currently spooning you.

A smile tugs at your lips as you nestle back into his warmth, not quite ready to face the day. But fate, it seems, has other plans.

A sharp knock at the door jolts both of you awake. Max groans, burying his face in your hair.

“Room service?” You mumble, still half-asleep.

Max shakes his head, his voice gravelly with sleep. “Didn’t order any.”

The knock comes again, more insistent this time. With a sigh, Max untangles himself from you and slides out of bed.

“I’ll get it,” he says, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You stay here.”

You nod, pulling the covers up to your chin and watching as Max pads to the door in his t-shirt and sweatpants. He opens it a crack, peering out.

“Can I help you?” He asks, confusion evident in his tone.

There’s a muffled response, and then Max is stepping back, opening the door wider. A hotel staff member enters, carrying an enormous bouquet of red roses.

“Delivery for Y/N Leclerc,” the staff member announces, looking around the room.

You sit up in bed, eyes wide. “That’s ... that’s me.”

The staff member nods, moving to set the bouquet on a nearby table. “Sign here, please,” he says, holding out a clipboard.

Still bewildered, you climb out of bed and make your way over, scrawling your signature on the form. The staff member thanks you and exits, leaving you and Max staring at the ostentatious display of flowers.

“Well,” Max says after a moment, “I guess your brother remembered after all.”

You let out a rueful laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, I guess he did.”

Max frowns, noting the lack of enthusiasm in your voice. “Aren’t you happy about it?”

You sigh, reaching out to touch one of the velvety petals. “It’s just ... I’ve told Charles a hundred times that I don’t like roses. They’re not my favorite flower. But every time he needs to apologize or wants to do something nice, it’s always roses.”

“Oh,” Max says softly, understanding dawning on his face. “So it’s less about you and more about what he thinks you should like.”

You nod, a lump forming in your throat. “Exactly. It’s like he doesn’t really listen, you know? He just does what he thinks is right without considering what I actually want.”

Max moves closer, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you against his side. “That must be frustrating,” he says gently.

You lean into him, grateful for the support. “It is. And I know I should be grateful. It’s a beautiful bouquet, and he’s trying. But ...”

“But it’s not what you want,” Max finishes for you. “And that matters.”

You look up at him, surprised by how well he understands. “Yeah, exactly.”

Max turns to face you fully, his blue eyes serious. “Y/N, listen to me. It’s okay to be upset about this. It’s okay to want your family to actually listen to you and consider your feelings.”

You bite your lip, tears threatening to spill over. “But they’re trying now. Shouldn’t I just forgive them and move on?”

Max shakes his head firmly. “No. You don’t have to forgive them right away just because they made a grand gesture. It’s okay to make them work for your forgiveness.”

“Really?” You ask, your voice small.

“Really,” Max assures you. “They hurt you, Y/N. They forgot your birthday and made you feel invisible. One bouquet of flowers — flowers you don’t even like — doesn’t erase that.”

You nod slowly, processing his words. “So what do I do?”

Max runs a hand through his hair, thinking. “Well, what do you want to do? How do you feel?”

You take a deep breath, considering. “Honestly? I’m not ready to see them yet. I know I’ll have to face them eventually, but right now ... I just can’t.”

“Then don’t,” Max says simply. “Take the time you need. They can wait.”

A weight lifts off your shoulders at his words. “You don’t think that’s selfish?”

Max cups your face in his hands, his gaze intense. “It’s not selfish to prioritize your own feelings and well-being. You matter, Y/N. Your feelings matter.”

Tears spill over then, and Max pulls you into a tight embrace. You bury your face in his chest, letting out all the hurt and frustration you’ve been holding in.

“Shh,” Max soothes, rubbing your back. “It’s okay. Let it out.”

After a few minutes, your sobs subside. You pull back slightly, wiping at your eyes. “Sorry,” you mumble. “I got your shirt all wet.”

Max chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I think I’ll survive. Feel better?”

You nod, offering him a watery smile. “Yeah, actually. Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Max says softly. Then, a mischievous glint enters his eye. “So, what should we do with the roses? I vote we throw them off the balcony and watch them scatter in the wind.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up from deep in your chest. “As tempting as that is, I don’t think hotel management would appreciate it.”

Max shrugs, grinning. “Their loss. We could always donate them to a hospital or something. Brighten someone else’s day.”

“That’s ... actually a really good idea,” you say, impressed. “We could do that.”

Max beams, clearly pleased with himself. “See? I’m not just a pretty face and fast driver.”

You roll your eyes fondly, but can’t suppress your smile. “Careful, Verstappen. Your ego’s showing.”

“You love it,” he teases, pulling you close again.

As you stand there in his arms, surrounded by the cloying scent of roses you don’t even like, you’re struck by how safe you feel. How understood.

“Max?” You say softly.

“Hmm?”

You pull back slightly to meet his gaze. “Thank you. For everything. For making my birthday special, for listening to me, for ... just being here.”

Max’s expression softens, a tender smile playing at his lips. “You don’t have to thank me for that. I ... I care about you, Y/N. A lot.”

Your heart skips a beat at his words. “I care about you too,” you admit.

For a moment, you just stare at each other, the air charged with unspoken emotions. Then, slowly, Max leans in. His lips meet yours in a soft, sweet kiss that makes your toes curl.

When you break apart, you’re both slightly breathless. Max rests his forehead against yours, his thumb tracing circles on your cheek.

“So,” he says, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “What happens now?”

You take a deep breath, considering. “Honestly? I’m not sure. This is all happening so fast, and with everything going on with my family ...”

Max nods, understanding in his eyes. “We can take it slow,” he assures you. “There’s no rush.”

Relief washes over you. “Thank you,” you say softly. “I do want this — us. I just need some time to figure everything out.”

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” Max says, pressing a gentle kiss to your nose. “For now, how about we get some breakfast? I’m starving.”

You laugh, grateful for the shift in mood. “Breakfast sounds perfect. But maybe we should change first? I’m not sure I want to face the paparazzi in yesterday’s clothes.”

Max grins, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I don’t know, I think you look pretty good in my t-shirt.”

You glance down, realizing for the first time that you’re indeed wearing one of Max’s shirts. A blush creeps up your cheeks. “When did that happen?”

“You got cold in the middle of the night,” Max explains, looking far too pleased with himself. “I offered you my shirt. You were very insistent that it was the most comfortable thing you’d ever worn.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “Oh god. Please tell me I didn’t say anything else embarrassing.”

Max laughs, gently prying your hands away from your face. “Nothing too bad. Though you did mention something about my waist being ‘unfairly perfect’. Your words, not mine.”

“Kill me now,” you mutter, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips.

Max pulls you close, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Never. I’m rather fond of you, embarrassing sleep talk and all.”

As you stand there in Max’s arms, the morning sun warming your skin and the scent of roses filling the air, you can’t help but feel a sense of hope. Yes, there’s still a lot to figure out — with your family, with Max, with your future. But for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

And that, you think, is the best birthday gift of all.

***

The private terminal of Milan Malpensa Airport buzzes with activity as the Leclerc family waits to board their chartered jet. Charles paces back and forth, his phone clutched tightly in his hand, eyes darting to the entrance every few seconds.

“Charles, honey, please sit down,” his mother, Pascale, says gently. “You’re making me nervous.”

Charles shakes his head, running a hand through his hair for what must be the hundredth time. “I can’t, Maman. Where is she? She should be here by now.”

Lorenzo exchanges a worried glance with Arthur. “Maybe she got held up in traffic?” He suggests, though his tone lacks conviction.

“For three hours?” Charles snaps, immediately regretting his harsh tone. “Sorry, I just ... I’m worried.”

Arthur stands up, placing a comforting hand on Charles’ shoulder. “We all are. But Y/N’s an adult. She can take care of herself.”

Charles lets out a frustrated sigh. “I know that. But after yesterday ... we really messed up.”

“We did,” Pascale agrees softly, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “But we’ll make it right. We just need to talk to her.”

“If she ever shows up,” Charles mutters, resuming his pacing.

The minutes tick by agonizingly slow. Charles alternates between checking his phone and staring out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of you arriving. But the parking lot remains stubbornly devoid of your presence.

Finally, a staff member approaches the family. “Mr. Leclerc? The jet is ready for boarding. We need to depart soon to maintain our flight slot.”

Charles feels panic rising in his chest. “No, we can’t leave yet. My sister isn’t here.”

The staff member looks uncomfortable. “I understand, sir, but we have a schedule to keep. Perhaps your sister could take a commercial flight?”

“Absolutely not,” Charles says firmly. “We’re not leaving without her.”

Lorenzo steps in, ever the diplomat. “Is there any way we could delay for just a bit longer? It’s really important that we wait for our sister.”

The staff member hesitates, then nods. “I’ll see what I can do. But please understand, we can’t hold the slot indefinitely.”

As the employee walks away, Charles resumes his pacing with renewed vigor.

“This isn’t like her,” he mutters. “She wouldn’t just disappear without telling us.”

Arthur bites his lip, looking guilty. “Maybe ... maybe she’s still upset about yesterday?”

Charles stops in his tracks, turning to face his younger brother. “What do you mean?”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably. “Well, we did forget her birthday. And then when we remembered, we didn’t exactly handle it well. Those roses you sent? Y/N hates roses.”

Charles feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “She ... what? No, she loves roses. I always get her roses.”

“Because you always get her roses,” Lorenzo chimes in, realization dawning on his face. “Not because she actually likes them.”

Charles slumps into a nearby chair, head in his hands. “How did I not know that? What kind of brother am I?”

Pascale moves to sit beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “We’ve all made mistakes. But we can fix this. We just need to talk to her.”

“If she’ll even talk to us,” Charles mumbles.

Just then, his phone buzzes. Charles nearly drops it in his haste to check the notification, hope flaring in his chest. But it’s not from you.

“It’s Max,” he says, frowning in confusion.

“Verstappen?” Arthur asks, leaning over to peek at the screen. “What does he want?”

Charles opens the message, his eyes widening as he reads it aloud:

“Y/N is with me. She’s safe and we’re flying back to Monaco together. She needs some space right now. Give her time.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Charles reads and rereads the message, trying to process what it means.

“She’s with Max?” Lorenzo finally says, breaking the silence. “Since when are they even friends?”

Charles shakes his head, still staring at his phone. “I don’t know. I ... I saw him last night. He knew where she was, but I thought it was just a spontaneous thing.”

“Well, at least we know she’s safe,” Pascale says, always trying to find the silver lining. “That’s the most important thing.”

But Charles can’t shake the feeling of unease settling in his stomach. “Why didn’t she come to us? Why Max, of all people?”

Arthur places a hand on Charles’ shoulder. “Maybe because he was there when we weren’t,” he says softly.

The words hit Charles like a physical blow. He knows Arthur is right, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

“So what do we do now?” Lorenzo asks, looking around at his family.

Charles takes a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions raging inside him. “We do what Max said. We give her time.”

“But for how long?” Pascale asks, worry evident in her voice. “She’s our little girl. We can’t just leave her alone.”

“She’s not alone, Maman,” Charles says, surprised by the steadiness in his voice. “She’s with Max. And as much as it pains me to admit it, I think ... I think she might be better off with him right now.”

The family falls silent again, each lost in their own thoughts. The weight of their collective mistake hangs heavy in the air.

Finally, Charles stands up, squaring his shoulders. “We should board the jet. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

As they gather their belongings and make their way to the plane, Charles can’t help but replay Max’s message in his head. You’re with Max. You’re safe. You need space.

He tries to imagine you and Max together, and finds that he can’t. What could have happened in the span of one day to bring you two together? And more importantly, what had driven you away from your own family?

As he settles into his seat on the jet, Charles makes a silent promise to himself and to you. He’ll give you the space you need, but he won’t give up. He’ll find a way to make things right, to be the brother you deserve.

The jet takes off, carrying the Leclerc family back to Monaco. But for Charles, it feels like they’re leaving a piece of themselves behind in Milan. A piece that, he fears, might be harder to reclaim than he ever imagined.

Meanwhile, across the airport, you and Max are boarding his private jet. The contrast between the two scenes couldn’t be more stark.

“You okay?” Max asks softly as you settle into your seat.

You nod, offering him a small smile. “Yeah, I think so. Thanks for ... well, everything.”

Max reaches over, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “Anytime. You know that.”

As the jet prepares for takeoff, you can’t help but think about your family. Are they worried? Angry? Do they even care?

“Max?” You say, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Hmm?”

You turn to look at him, vulnerability shining in your eyes. “Did I do the right thing? Leaving without talking to them?”

Max considers your question carefully before answering. “I think you did what you needed to do for yourself. And that’s never wrong.”

His words settle over you like a warm blanket, easing some of the tension in your shoulders.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “For understanding. For not pushing me to do what everyone else thinks I should do.”

Max smiles, a soft, genuine expression that makes your heart flutter. “That’s what ... friends are for, right?”

There’s a hesitation in his voice, a question in his eyes that makes you wonder if ‘friends’ is really the right word for what’s developing between you.

As the jet takes off, carrying you away from Milan and the chaos of the past day, you find yourself feeling something you haven’t felt in a long time: hope. Hope for a future where you’re seen, heard, and valued for who you are.

And as you glance at Max, his profile illuminated by the setting sun streaming through the window, you can’t help but wonder if he might be a bigger part of that future than you ever imagined.

The jet climbs higher, leaving the ground and all its complications behind. For now, at least, you’re free. Free to breathe, to think, to feel without the weight of expectations pressing down on you.

You close your eyes, letting out a long breath. Whatever comes next, you know one thing for certain: things will never be the same again. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what you need.

***

The sun is setting over Monaco, shining warmly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Max’s penthouse apartment. You’re curled up on the plush sofa, a book in your lap, trying to lose yourself in the pages. But your mind keeps wandering, replaying the events of the past couple of days.

Max emerges from the kitchen, two steaming mugs in hand. “Thought you might need this,” he says, offering you one.

You smile gratefully, inhaling the rich aroma of hot chocolate. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs, settling down beside you. “I wanted to. How’re you holding up?”

You’re about to answer when the doorbell rings. Max frowns, glancing at his watch. “I’m not expecting anyone. Are you?”

You shake your head, a knot of anxiety forming in your stomach. Could it be your family? Are they here to confront you?

Max squeezes your hand reassuringly before getting up to answer the door. You hear muffled voices, then the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor.

“Um, Y/N?” Max calls. “I think you might want to see this.”

Curiosity overcoming your apprehension, you make your way to the foyer. Your jaw drops at the sight that greets you.

The entire space is filled with bags. Not just any bags, but the kind that comes from the most exclusive boutiques in Monaco. Gucci, Prada, Louis Vuitton, Chanel — the logos stare back at you from every direction.

“What ... what is all this?” You stammer, looking to Max for explanation.

He hands you a small envelope. “This came with it. It’s addressed to you.”

With trembling fingers, you open the envelope and unfold the note inside. You’d recognize that handwriting anywhere.

Y/N,

I know I messed up. We all did. I’m so sorry for forgetting your birthday and for not being the brother you deserve. I hope these gifts can begin to make up for it. Please come home. We miss you.

Love,

Charles

You read the note twice, then a third time, disbelief turning to anger with each pass.

“He’s got to be kidding,” you mutter, crumpling the paper in your fist.

Max steps closer, concern etched on his face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “This,” you say, gesturing at the sea of designer bags, “is my brother’s idea of an apology. He thinks he can just ... buy me back with expensive gifts.”

Understanding dawns on Max’s face. “Ah. And I’m guessing that’s not going to work?”

“Not even close,” you say, shaking your head. “God, it’s like he doesn’t know me at all. I’m not one of his girlfriends who can be placated with a shopping spree.”

Max winces. “Ouch. Has he done this before?”

You nod, sinking down onto the nearest clear spot on the floor. “Every time he messes up with a girl, it’s the same routine. Flowers, jewelry, designer clothes. And it usually works, because the girls he dates ... well, they tend to be into that kind of thing.”

Max sits down beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours. “But you’re not.”

“No,” you confirm. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate nice things. But that’s not what this is about. It’s about him actually listening to me, actually seeing me as a person and not just ... his kid sister who can be bought off.”

Max is quiet for a moment, then says softly, “You know, it’s okay to be angry about this. You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

His words break something open inside you. Tears well up in your eyes, spilling over before you can stop them. “I just ... I thought he knew me better than this. I thought they all did.”

Max wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. You lean into him, letting the tears fall freely now.

“It’s like they don’t even see me,” you choke out between sobs. “They see this idea of who they think I should be, but not ... not who I actually am.”

Max rubs soothing circles on your back, letting you cry it out. When your sobs finally subside, he hands you a tissue.

“Feel better?” He asks gently.

You nod, wiping your eyes. “A little. Sorry for breaking down on you like that.”

Max shakes his head firmly. “Don’t apologize. That’s what I’m here for.”

You offer him a watery smile, then turn back to survey the mountain of bags. “So ... what do I do with all this?”

Max considers for a moment. “Well, what do you want to do?”

You bite your lip, thinking. “Honestly? I want to send it all back. Show him that he can’t just throw money at the problem and expect it to go away.”

Max nods approvingly. “I think that’s a great idea. It sends a clear message.”

“You don’t think it’s too harsh?” You ask, a hint of uncertainty creeping into your voice.

“Not at all,” Max assures you. “You’re standing up for yourself, setting boundaries. That’s important.”

Emboldened by his support, you start rifling through the bags, curiosity getting the better of you. “I wonder what he even bought ... oh.”

You pull out a small velvet box, opening it to reveal a delicate tennis bracelet. The diamonds catch the light, sparkling brilliantly.

“Wow,” Max breathes, leaning in for a closer look. “That’s ... that’s something.”

You nod, mesmerized by the way the bracelet shimmers. “It’s beautiful,” you admit softly.

Max watches you carefully. “You like it,” he observes.

You sigh, closing the box with a snap. “It doesn’t matter. It’s going back with everything else.”

“Why?” Max asks, genuine curiosity in his voice. “If you like it, why not keep it?”

You look at him, surprised. “But ... I thought you said sending it all back was a good idea?”

Max shrugs. “It is. But that doesn’t mean you can’t keep one thing if it genuinely makes you happy. You’re allowed to like nice things, Y/N. That doesn’t invalidate your feelings about the situation.”

You turn the box over in your hands, considering. “I don’t know ... wouldn’t keeping anything send the wrong message?”

“I think,” Max says slowly, “that the message you send depends more on what you say than what you keep or don’t keep. If you like the bracelet, keep it. But make sure Charles understands that a pretty piece of jewelry doesn’t fix the underlying issues.”

You nod, his words resonating with you. “You’re right. I’ll keep the bracelet ... but everything else goes back.”

As you start sorting through the bags, separating out what will be returned, you can’t help but laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Max asks, a smile tugging at his lips.

You hold up the bracelet box. “I was just thinking ... it would be a shame to let something this pretty go to waste, right?”

Max chuckles, shaking his head. “Absolutely. It’s practically your duty to keep it. For the sake of the bracelet, of course.”

“Of course,” you agree, giggling. “I’m being completely selfless here.”

As you continue to sort through the gifts, occasionally showing Max particularly outrageous items (“A fur coat? In Monaco?”), you feel a weight lifting from your shoulders. For the first time since this whole ordeal began, you feel like you’re taking control of the situation.

“You know,” you say, folding a designer dress back into its bag, “I think I need to have a real conversation with Charles. With all of them, really.”

Max nods encouragingly. “I think that’s a great idea. What do you want to say?”

You take a deep breath, organizing your thoughts. “I want them to understand that I’m my own person, with my own dreams and desires. That I need them to see me, really see me, not just as Charles Leclerc’s little sister or as an extension of the family name.”

“That sounds perfect,” Max says softly. “You deserve to be seen for who you are.”

You smile at him, a rush of warmth flooding your chest. “Thank you. For everything. I don’t know how I would have gotten through this without you.”

Max reaches out, taking your hand in his. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. But I’m glad I could help.”

As you sit there, surrounded by discarded luxury goods, your hand in Max’s, you feel a sense of peace settling over you. You know the road ahead won’t be easy — confronting your family, establishing new boundaries, figuring out exactly where you stand with Max — but for the first time in a long time, you feel ready to face it all.

You slip on the tennis bracelet, admiring the way it catches the light. It’s beautiful, yes, but it’s also a reminder. A reminder that you’re worth more than grand gestures and expensive gifts. You’re worth being truly seen, truly heard, truly understood.

And as you look at Max, his blue eyes warm with understanding and something that might be more, you think that maybe, just maybe, you’ve found someone who sees you for exactly who you are.

***

The afternoon sun beats down on the streets of Monaco as Charles leans against his Ferrari, fidgeting nervously. He’s parked across from the International University of Monaco, his eyes fixed on the entrance. Students stream in and out, but none of them are the one he’s looking for.

He checks his watch for what must be the hundredth time. Your last class should be ending any minute now. Charles takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He’s rehearsed what he wants to say a thousand times, but now that the moment is approaching, all his carefully prepared words seem to evaporate.

A group of students emerges from the building, laughing and chatting. Charles straightens up, his eyes scanning the crowd. And then he sees you.

You’re walking with a couple of friends, your bag slung over your shoulder, a smile on your face. For a moment, Charles is struck by how ... normal you look. How at ease. It’s a stark contrast to the tense family dinners and stilted conversations of recent months.

Before he can second-guess himself, Charles pushes off from his car and starts walking towards you. He sees the exact moment you spot him — your smile falters, your steps slow.

“Y/N!” He calls out, waving awkwardly.

Your friends notice him too, their eyes widening in recognition. You say something to them that Charles can’t hear, and they nod, casting curious glances between you and your brother as they walk away.

Charles reaches you, stopping a few feet away, suddenly unsure of himself. “Hey,” he says softly.

“Charles,” you reply, your voice carefully neutral. “What are you doing here?”

He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he’s never been able to shake. “I ... I wanted to talk to you. In person. You haven’t been answering my calls or texts, and I just ... I needed to see you.”

You sigh, adjusting the strap of your bag. “I’ve been busy with classes. And I needed some space.”

“I know,” Charles says quickly. “I know, and I’m sorry for ambushing you like this. I just ... can we talk? Please?”

You glance around, noticing the curious stares from passing students. “Not here,” you say finally. “There’s a café around the corner. We can talk there.”

Charles nods eagerly, relief washing over him. “Yes, of course. Whatever you want.”

You lead the way to the café, a small, cozy place tucked away from the main streets. As you settle into a booth in the back, Charles can’t help but wonder how often you come here, how many parts of your life he knows nothing about.

A waitress approaches, and you order your usual — an iced latte with an extra shot. Charles fumbles with the menu before ordering a simple espresso.

An awkward silence falls over the table as you wait for your drinks. Charles fidgets with a napkin, trying to find the right words to begin.

“So,” you say finally, your tone clipped. “You wanted to talk. Talk.”

Charles takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I’m so, so sorry, Y/N. For forgetting your birthday, for not being there for you, for ... for everything.”

You raise an eyebrow, your expression unreadable. “Is that it?”

Charles blinks, thrown off balance. “I ... what do you mean?”

“I mean,” you say, leaning forward slightly, “is that all you have to say? You’re sorry?”

Charles feels a flash of frustration. “What else do you want me to say? I messed up, I know that. I’m trying to make it right.”

The waitress returns with your drinks, and you take a long sip of your latte before responding. “Charles, this isn’t just about my birthday. This is about years of feeling invisible, of being overshadowed, of not being seen for who I am.”

Charles feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “What? Y/N, I ... I had no idea you felt that way.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “That’s kind of the point, Charles. You didn’t know because you never asked. None of you did.”

Charles sits back, his mind reeling. “I ... I don’t understand. We’ve always been close. At least, I thought we were.”

“We were,” you agree softly. “When we were kids. But as you got more and more successful, it was like ... like I faded into the background. Everything became about you, about your career.”

Charles feels tears pricking at his eyes. “Y/N, I never meant for that to happen. I love you. You’re my little sister.”

“I know you love me,” you say, your voice gentler now. “But loving someone and seeing them are two different things.”

Charles nods slowly, realization dawning. “The gifts,” he says. “That’s why you sent them back. Because I was trying to fix things without actually understanding what was wrong.”

“Exactly,” you confirm. “Charles, I don’t need expensive clothes or jewelry. I need my brother. The one who used to listen to me ramble about constellations for hours, who’d sneak me extra dessert when Maman wasn’t looking.”

Charles reaches across the table, hesitating for a moment before taking your hand. To his relief, you don’t pull away. “I want to be that brother again,” he says earnestly. “Tell me how. Please.”

You take a deep breath, considering. “Well, for starters, you could ask me about my life. My studies, my friends, my dreams. And actually listen to the answers.”

Charles nods eagerly. “Yes, of course. Tell me everything. What are you studying? How are your classes going?”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “I’m majoring in Astrophysics, remember? This semester I’m taking a course on Stellar Evolution that’s absolutely fascinating. We’re learning about the life cycles of stars, from their formation to their eventual death.”

As you continue talking, passion lighting up your eyes, Charles feels a mix of pride and shame wash over him. Pride in your intelligence and enthusiasm, shame that he’s missed out on so much of your life.

“That sounds incredible,” he says when you pause for breath. “I had no idea you were studying something so complex. You must be really good at it.”

You shrug, a hint of your old shyness creeping in. “I do okay. It’s challenging, but I love it.”

“I’m sure you do more than okay,” Charles insists. “You’ve always been the smartest one in the family.”

You laugh softly. “I don’t know about that. But ... thanks, Charles. It means a lot to hear you say that.”

Charles squeezes your hand. “I mean it. And I want to hear more. About your classes, your friends, everything. I’ve missed so much, and I want to make up for it.”

You nod, a cautious hope in your eyes. “I’d like that. But Charles, it can’t just be today. This has to be a continuous thing. I need to know that you’re genuinely interested in my life, not just when you’re trying to make amends.”

“Absolutely,” Charles agrees immediately. “What if we set up a regular call? Once a week, we can catch up properly. No distractions, no racing talk unless you want to. Just us.”

A genuine smile spreads across your face. “I’d really like that.”

Charles feels a weight lifting from his shoulders. It’s not fixed, not completely, but it’s a start. “There’s something else,” he says, suddenly remembering. “Max ... are you and Max ...”

You blush slightly, looking down at your latte. “We’re ... figuring things out. He’s been really supportive through all of this.”

Charles nods, pushing down the instinctive surge of protectiveness. “He’s a good guy. If he makes you happy, then I’m happy for you.”

You look up, surprise evident in your eyes. “Really? You’re not going to go all overprotective big brother on me?”

Charles chuckles. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll have my moments. But Y/N, you’re an adult. You can make your own choices. I trust you.”

Tears well up in your eyes. “Thank you. That ... that means more than you know.”

As you both finish your drinks, the conversation flows more easily. Charles asks about your friends, your hobbies outside of studying. You tell him about the astronomy club you’ve joined, the research project you’re hoping to get involved with next semester.

When it’s time to leave, Charles stands up, hesitating for a moment before opening his arms. “Can I ...”

You nod, stepping into his embrace. Charles holds you tight, realizing how long it’s been since he’s really hugged you like this.

“I love you, little sister,” he murmurs into your hair. “And I promise, I’m going to do better.”

You squeeze him back. “I love you too, big brother. And ... I’m willing to give you the chance to prove it.”

As you part ways outside the café, Charles heading back to his car and you towards your apartment, there’s a lightness in the air that wasn’t there before. It’s not perfect, not yet. There are still conversations to be had, bridges to be rebuilt. But for the first time in a long time, there’s hope.

Charles watches you walk away, a mix of emotions swirling in his chest. Pride in the amazing person you’ve become, regret for the time he’s missed, determination to be the brother you deserve.

He pulls out his phone, creating a new reminder: Call Y/N — every Sunday, 7 PM.

It’s a small step, but it’s a start. And as he drives home, Charles finds himself looking forward to getting to know his little sister all over again.

***

The auditorium of the International University of Monaco buzzes with excitement as proud families and friends gather to celebrate the graduating class. In the front row, an unusually high-profile group draws curious glances and whispered conversations.

Charles fidgets in his seat, craning his neck to scan the sea of graduates. “Do you see her?” He asks, nudging his older brother.

Lorenzo chuckles, placing a calming hand on Charles’ shoulder. “Relax. She’ll be here. Alphabetical order, remember?”

On Charles’ other side, Arthur rolls his eyes fondly. “You’d think he was the one graduating, the way he’s acting.”

“Can you blame him?” Max chimes in from the end of the row, a warm smile on his face. “It’s a big day.”

Pascale, seated between Lorenzo and Arthur, dabs at her eyes with a tissue. “My baby girl, graduating university. I can hardly believe it.”

Max reaches across to pat her hand. “She’s amazing, Pascale. You should be very proud.”

Charles turns to Max, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Look at you, all calm and collected. I remember when you were a nervous wreck asking her out for the first time.”

Max blushes slightly, but grins. “Hey, your sister is intimidating. All that brainpower.”

“Shh!” Arthur hisses suddenly. “I think it’s starting!”

The auditorium falls silent as the ceremony begins. The family watches with rapt attention as the graduates file in, searching for that familiar face among the sea of caps and gowns.

And then, there you are. Your eyes scan the crowd until they land on your family, a bright smile spreading across your face as you wave discreetly.

“There she is!” Charles whisper-shouts, practically bouncing in his seat.

Lorenzo chuckles. “We see her. Try to contain yourself, yeah?”

The ceremony progresses, with speeches from the valedictorian and various dignitaries. Charles fidgets impatiently, earning amused glances from his family and Max.

Finally, the moment arrives. “Y/N Leclerc,” the announcer calls.

Charles jumps to his feet, letting out a whoop that echoes through the auditorium. “That’s my sister!” He shouts, drawing startled looks from nearby attendees.

Lorenzo and Arthur quickly join in, their cheers mixing with Charles’. Max and Pascale stand too, clapping enthusiastically.

You walk across the stage, accepting your diploma with a graceful nod. As you turn to face the audience, your eyes lock with your family’s, and your composed expression breaks into a radiant smile.

Charles, caught up in the moment, continues cheering even after you’ve left the stage. “That’s right! Astrophysicist in the house! Watch out, universe!”

Max, noticing the irritated glances from other families, reaches over and claps a hand over Charles’ mouth. “Okay, Charlie, I think she heard you,” he says, laughter in his voice.

Max feels something wet against his palm and jerks his hand away.

“Ugh, gross!” Max yelps, wiping it on his pants. “What are you, five?”

Charles grins unrepentantly. “You started it.”

Pascale sighs, shaking her head. “Boys, please. This is Y/N’s big day. Try to act like adults.”

“Sorry, Maman,” Charles mumbles, properly chastised.

As the ceremony concludes, the family makes their way outside, eagerly scanning the crowd for you.

“There!” Arthur calls out, pointing.

You’re making your way towards them, diploma in hand, your face glowing with happiness. Max reaches you first, sweeping you into a tight hug.

“Congratulations, liefje,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’m so proud of you.”

You beam up at him, about to respond when Charles practically tackles you both.

“My sister, the genius!” He crows, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. “I always knew you’d take over the world someday.”

You laugh, hugging him back just as fiercely. “Put me down, you goof! You’re making a scene.”

“Let him have his moment,” Lorenzo says, stepping in for his own hug once Charles releases you. “It’s not every day your little sister graduates top of her class in Astrophysics.”

Arthur’s turn comes next, his hug gentler but no less heartfelt. “Congrats. You’ve officially made the rest of us look like underachievers.”

Finally, you turn to your mother, who’s openly crying now. “Oh, my darling,” she says, cupping your face in her hands. “I’m so, so proud of you.”

You feel tears welling up in your own eyes as you embrace her. “Thanks, Maman. For everything.”

As you pull back, wiping at your eyes, Charles slings an arm around your shoulders. “So, what’s next? Going to discover a new planet? Name a star after your favorite man?”

You roll your eyes fondly. “First of all, I still have to get through graduate school. And second, bold of you to assume you’re my favorite.”

“Ouch,” Charles clutches his chest in mock pain. “After all we’ve been through?”

Max chuckles, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Face it, Leclerc. I’ve got you beat in the favorite department.”

Charles narrows his eyes playfully. “Is that a challenge, Verstappen?”

“Boys, boys,” you interject, laughing. “There’s plenty of me to go around. Now, how about we get out of here? I’m starving, and I believe someone promised me a celebration dinner.”

“Ah, yes!” Pascale says, clapping her hands together. “I’ve made reservations at La Maree. Your favorite, chérie.”

As the family starts to move towards the parking lot, Max hangs back, tugging gently on your hand. “Hold on a sec,” he says softly. “I want to give you something.”

Curious, you turn to face him. Max reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box.

Your eyes widen. “Max ...”

He opens the box, revealing a delicate necklace. A small white gold star pendant hangs from the chain, a tiny diamond twinkling at its center.

“I know it’s not much compared to your usual study subjects,” Max says, a hint of nervousness in his voice. “But I thought ... well, you’re my star, Y/N. My brilliant, beautiful star.”

Tears well up in your eyes again as Max fastens the necklace around your neck. “It’s perfect,” you whisper. “I love it. I love you.”

Max’s face breaks into a radiant smile. “I love you too,” he says, before leaning in to capture your lips in a tender kiss.

You melt into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck as his hands settle on your waist. For a moment, the world fades away, and it’s just the two of you.

The spell is broken by an exaggerated gagging sound. You break apart to see Charles pretending to retch, while Lorenzo and Arthur laugh.

You break apart, laughing. “Real mature, Charles,” you call back.

Charles grins, unrepentant. “Hey, someone’s got to keep an eye on you crazy kids.”

Max rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Your brother, the chaperone,” he mutters.

You giggle, taking Max’s hand as you rejoin your family. “Don’t worry,” you whisper conspiratorially. “We’ll ditch him at the restaurant.”

As you all pile into the waiting cars, the air buzzing with excitement and plans for the evening, you can’t help but feel overwhelmed with happiness. A year ago, you never would have imagined this scene — your family truly seeing and celebrating you, a wonderful man by your side who loves and supports you, and a bright future ahead in a field you’re passionate about.

The cars pull away from the university, carrying you towards your celebration dinner. As you watch the familiar streets of Monaco roll by, you find yourself filled with an incredible sense of anticipation. This isn’t just the end of your university journey — it’s the beginning of something new and exciting.

You glance around the car — at Charles and Arthur bickering good-naturedly in the back seat, at your mother chatting happily with Lorenzo who’s driving, and finally at Max beside you, his hand warm in yours. Your family, in all its chaotic, loving glory.

“Hey,” Max says softly, noticing your pensive expression. “You okay?”

You smile, squeezing his hand. “More than okay. I’m perfect.”

And as the car winds its way through the streets of Monaco, towards a future bright with possibility, you know that it’s true. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be, surrounded by love, with the stars stretching out endlessly before you.

[balrogballs]

I'm still sad about this heartwarming and mildly amusing little section where feral adolescent Aragorn brings some joy to Maedhros in his unhinged little way, which I had to cut out of Cast in Stone for structural reasons, especially as I had gone to the trouble of illustrating it!

But I realised it reads perfectly fine standalone, so you guys can have my crumb of Maedhros-joy instead. No context required: Maedhros and Maglor are temporarily staying in the Shire during the late Third Age, Maedhros had a horrible night of traumatic dreams and was being maudlin — until young Aragorn, aka Elros II and the bane of his life, turns up like a bad penny, as he often does. Enjoy!

---

"You look unhappy," said Estel, sitting down before Maedhros, legs crossed. "Does your hand hurt? Surely it can't be as bad as when it got chopped off, can it?"

"No, but leave me be, Estel, I have —"

"All right, but let me ask just one question. I promise, then I'll go away. I just remembered something from my lessons, and every time I ask Ada he looks up at the sky and asks the Valar where he went wrong in raising me," Estel moved closer, looking around for eavesdroppers. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But I would like to know."

Maedhros frowned, swallowed the lump in his throat and dragged in a breath. "What?"

"Fingon rescued you on one of those enormous eagles, didn't he? On that mountain with Morgoth and all of that. It was one of those, right? Manwë's Eagles."

"Yes. He did. I do not wish to answer any further questions on the matter, clear off."

"And it was quite a long journey, wasn't it?"

Maedhros grunted.

"I've always had a question about it… and again, you don't have to tell me if it's too traumatising," Estel's eyes shone, as though he were about to hear a state secret. "And I promise I won't tell anyone."

"Spit it out, boy, or leave me now. I am in the mood for neither company nor memory."

"Did it… you know…?"

"If you're trying to ask me if losing the hand hurt, yes it did," Maedhros snapped. "Now leave me alone, I've had enough reminiscing for a damned century. Get off home, now!"

"Oh, shut up, I wasn't asking about your stupid hand, I don't understand why you think everyone sits around thinking about your hand," Estel scowled, pursuing his lips, before deciding his quest for scientific knowledge was more important than whatever had crawled up Maedhros' arsehole and died. He widened his eyes conspiratorily, looked around again. "My question has nothing to do with that! I just wanted to know, did the eagle… you know?"

"Estel, I am not going to repeat this, get out of my sight right this —"

"Did it take a shit?"

"Did… what?"

"Did it take a shit?" Estel flushed as he said the word, Elrond's parental touch finally taking hold, though in a predictably useless manner. "And if it did, how big was it? As in, was it normal bird crap, or was it, you know — like a bucketload of it?"

Maedhros blinked. Estel held his hands out to demonstrate.

"I've always wanted to know that about them, you know," the boy continued, stroking his chin like a philosopher. "Manwe's eagles, that is. Surely if they're big enough to carry two people, one being a towering beast like you, their droppings must be massive."

"What…?" Maedhros couldn't formulate words, a state of being Estel clearly had no familiarity with. "Their… what?"

"And yes, I know they're divine, all of that, but surely they can't be toilet trained, can they? I just don't see Manwë having enough time to toilet train an eagle, you know. Could you imagine just… going about your day, and having this massive tub of birdshite fall on your head? Oh, it could drown a person, I'm sure of it!" Estel grinned, as if said occurrence would be the best day of his life, had it happened to him. "So, did it? And if it did, did you see if it went on someone?"

Maedhros sat there blinking at the boy in complete silence before rising quietly, taking the now-extremely-familiar ear, and slowly — like he were a corpse — leading Estel to the village gate. He didn't say a word, only gestured weakly and put up three fingers, a signal the now sulky boy was very used to.

And as Estel, muttering darkly all the while, neared the completion of his first punishment-lap of three around the village green, he heard something that sounded like a donkey in immense pain. It was a sound so tremendous and unexpected that it brought Maglor running from the house, gaping at the source, having not heard such a thing in centuries. It was no donkey, but Maedhros in complete hysterics, sitting on the ground exactly where he was when he beckoned Estel to run, sobbing with laughter, actual tears pouring down his face, which itself was screwed up and flushed so pink he looked like he'd been badly sunburned. He was trying to explain the situation to Maglor (who had been glaring at Estel as if he had personally killed his brother, and now looked upon him like he was Iluvatar himself) but Maedhros was howling too hard to even stand, let alone form coherent words.

Estel pretended not to notice, and started on his second lap. Though objectively speaking, the laugh itself sounded like something between a foghorn, a pig and whatever noise he imagined Ungoliant would make — there was something rather lovely about it that brought an inexplicable little smile to his face.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 5

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 4k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: guys this not fully proofread as I am exhausted | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat

You cannot tear your eyes away from Daemon as you walk down the halls together. Though he already told you the blood on his armor was not his, you could not help but worry that perhaps he had a wound hidden away underneath his steel plate. Your stare is so heavy, he's unable to ignore it, thus why he huffs, "out with it."

You perk at his words and rub your hands together.

He raises a brow at you, "or do you merely think me so devastatingly handsome you cannot help but stare?"

You slowly shake your head, "are you certain you are unharmed?"

His eyes linger on you for a moment before he looks forward, "I am offended you did not agree."

You knit your brows, "you," you shake your head, "already know. You are comely husband."

He turns back to you.

You cannot name the expression he gives you.

"Did I not say I was unharmed?"

You stop in your tracks out of frustration, grabbing his arm, "Daemon."

He turns to you, face hardening at your look of concern.

"If you are hurt, then we should head for the maester's."

He chuckles under his breath and pulls away, "a funny thought coming from you."

Your brows furrow deeper as you tail after him, "I do not follow."

He looks over his shoulder, lips curling, "considering you are sick and yet nowhere near the maester's ward."

You only then recognize his smile was mocking. You feel a pinch in your chest. You shake your head, "we are not the same. If there was something to be done about my affliction, my father would have seen it done years ago."

Daemon laughs.

You wait for him to explain his laughter, but he does not. You take his arm again, "what amuses you?"

Your husband looks at you, then at the hand you had on his bicep, "through it all, you hold your father in such high regard."

You clench your jaw and release his him.

He enjoys your dejection, thus why he takes your hand, placing it back in its place with a chuckle, "say it isn't so— I dare you."

You look back at him. His smile is like a needle through your heart. He must think you're stupid without even trying. You mutter, "I am merely stating facts."

He laughs again, "your frail heart keeps you naive."

The feel of his armor is suddenly scorching and you have to pull away. He stares at you after the fact, but does not take your hand again.

You do not speak until you reach the door to the meeting room. Once there, Daemon motions with his head, "wait for me. You like flowers don't you?"

You look over your shoulder and realize that he was motioning to the window that gave view to the gardens. You turn back to him and step forward, reaching out to retrieve the flower in his hair. It would not be appropriate for him to attend a council meeting like this.

Daemon mistakes your action for affection, and moves his head away so you cannot caress his cheek, "I said I am unharmed, woman. Now go sit down."

He walks off after this, leaving you standing in the middle of the hall alone. Just as he enters the room, you struggle with yourself if you should call out to him or simply run up to him and snatch the flower off his head. But then, the moment is gone and he's already inside.

You cannot find it in you to sit as you overthink what would become of your husband because of the flower in his hair.

Just as you begin to pace around, you are rendered frozen when you hear your name get called.

Viserys smiles at you, as he and his council members walk over, "good morrow."

You make eye contact with your father, who was walking just behind the king, and lower your gaze as you curtsy, "your grace. A pleasant morning to you."

Viserys stops in front of you, clapping his hands once, "why, you look fetching my dear," his eyes examine your hair, and you, yourself, are reminded by the presence of the blossoms on your head, "did you pick those from the garden?"

You rise and smile at your husband's brother, shaking your head, "my ward, ser Erryk, was kind enough to- ..." you catch yourself amidst your confession, eyes suddenly darting to your father.

Otto's jaw is set and his eyes are already angered.

You gulp and decide to continue nevertheless, "...accompany me flower picking in the meadow."

Otto huffs audibly, but the king's reaction is so stark in contrast, your father does not have the opportunity to butt in this moment. Viserys claps once again and smiles, "oh good. Some fresh air always did help me. Of course, when I say fresh air, I really mean going on dragon back, but strolling in the meadow picking flowers is a fine pastime."

You are touched by the king's amicable sentiment. You repay his smile with your own, "I completely agree."

"I do not," Otto says, "what if you get an attack in the middle of the nowhere? What if the pain is too great and you are not brought home in time?"

Viserys and you turn to the Lord Hand. The king responds, "she was accompanied by her ward. Is that not why you requested one for her?"

"I requested a ward to keep her in check to prevent her from doing things that would cause her affliction to worsen."

You tense under the harsh sound of Otto's voice.

Viserys recognizes your discomfort and waves him off, "you needn't be so hard on your daughter. It is good for the spirit to reserve time frolicking."

You gulp the next time the king smiles at you. You do not smile back and merely curtsy at him. With that, he and his council members go into their meeting room and you are left alone once more.

The council members' muttering comes to a halt when they see prince Daemon in his seat.

"Kind of you to join us today, brother," Viserys huffs, "we were just talking about you."

Daemon eyes Otto, "the topic being my bride, no doubt."

Otto has to fight the urge to roll his eyes as he walks to his chair. His throat constricts, as if he was about to retch, when he sees the flower by his ear. He thinks of you and the flowers in your hair and figures Daemon did this to spur him in. He releases a deep breath to calm himself, "the topic being your power tripping with the City Watch last night."

Daemon glares at him. The king sits at the head of the table. The prince links his hands together, "you would know to mind your tongue, Lord Hand. I care little for the tears my wife will shed once I sever your neck from your spine."

"Daemon," Viserys snaps.

"And what I did last night was clean the streets from the putrid scabs of the city in preparation for my birth of my brother's child."

"And you exacted a very public show of extreme violence while doing so," Viserys leans on the table, "you maimed and mutilated peopl-"

"Criminals," Daemon whips his head. He raises his brows, "would you rather they strut free and continue stealing, raping, and killing in your city?"

"I would have them see justice."

Daemon chuckles dryly.

Viserys raises a finger, "your blade is not the writ of justice."

"Do you mean to tell me it's yours?" the younger Targaryen narrows his eyes.

"I AM THE KING," the elder Targaryen snaps.

The prince does not flinch, "speaking loudly will not make it truer, brother."

Needless to say, the meeting is coarse and uncomfortable.

You start from where you were sat by the window upon witnessing Daemon shove the meeting doors open. He storms out of the room grumbling and you have to gather your skirts to run off after him.

"What's happened?" you mutter when you reach his side.

He ignores you, simply continuing to march away with a storm cloud overhead.

You are partially surprised to find that he was heading towards your shared chambers. He shoves the doors open then marches towards your private baths. There, your tub holds steaming water. You were grateful the servants thought to prepare the bath here and not Daemon's personal quarters.

Daemon begins to callously remove his armor and immediately ceases when you come towards him to do it yourself. You look between his hard expression and hard attire, thinking of something to say to calm his down.

You think of nothing.

The moment he is free of his steel, he removes the rest of his garbs himself and steps into the tub. You meant to remove the flower in his hair but then he wordlessly offers you his arm, expecting you to clean him, and so you do without fuss.

In the quiet of washing and splashing water, you feel Daemon slowly begin to relax. He leans back, releasing a sigh as he shuts his eyes. You stare at him for a long moment. He is beautiful.

"Your father is a fucking cunt."

You purse your lips as you release his arm. He opens his eyes when you pull away, then watches as you circle around the tub. You sigh as you take his other arm and begin scrubbing it, "he is... sometimes unkind."

He scoffs, turning to you, "sometimes?"

You focus on his arm, unwanting to meet his gaze, "he was kind to my mother... I think. And to my brother... sister... sometimes."

Daemon watches you, brows furrowing, "and you?"

You shrug, "sometimes?"

"Why do you defend him?" he tilts his head.

Finally, you look at him. The glint in his violet eyes make him appear as though he genuinely wanted to understand you. You shrug once more and shake your head, "he is my father."

"He is a cunt."

You tilt your head, scooping water onto his arm, "surely you've thought the same thing about your brother." You look between his arm and his face.

Daemon does not respond. He does, however, pull away from you.

You stare at him, trying to anticipate his next move.

He motions with his head then leans back in the tub once more, "strip. You should bathe with me."

You stiffen at his proposal, but do not object otherwise. You gather your hair and turn around, "will you undo my laces?"

Daemon, for some reason, is taken aback by the request. There is something that swirls in his gut. Still, he moves towards you and undoes your ties, pushing your dress down after. You shudder when he frees you of your shift and strokes your spine with the back of his hand.

"The king demands we have a family dinner before the tourney tomorrow," Daemon mindlessly mutters, "you must wear something pretty."

You gulp when he kisses your shoulder and scratches your sides until he's cupping your breasts. You gasp and turn when he tries to pull you in. Finally, the flower in his hair falls off when your nails dig into his scalp as he kisses you.

By the time the water goes cold and your bliss from love making wears off, you are faced with the fact your neck and collarbones are covered in glaring purple and red marks again.

Daemon does not relent as you both dress. He is adamant in covering your skin with bruises and bites. You are not surprised that he makes you wear something that showcases your decolletage, but you at least find solace in the fact he makes you keep your hair down in its natural state.

The air is tense as your families eat dinner. You sit next to each other, with him to your right, followed by Viserys and Aemma. In front of the queen was Rhaenyra, then Alicent by the left, Gwyane, and finally your father, who sat before you.

There was something serene in the sinister way Daemon strokes your arm and pushes your hair back. You knew he was doing this to rile your father up, yet you did not know why your body found comfort in his touch.

Then, in a flash, you were nothing but uncomfortable when your twin drops his silverware and blurts out, "you will not lose your hand if it does not grope my sister as we feast."

Daemon, who had been rubbing the your back all the way to the side of your breast, turned to your brother, who sat across him.

Gwayne clenches his jaw, expecting him to pull away.

Instead, Daemon moves your hair to one side of your shoulder and caresses your neck with the back of his hands, "oh, but you see, now that I've..." he smiles, "sampled your dear sister, I fear that it might."

Otto is next to drop his utensils. Your body burns at Daemon's words but you can do nothing but lower your head in mortification.

Viserys sniggers. Aemma glares and nudges him.

"You would not understand this, for you are unmarried," Daemon says turning his head, "but perhaps your father will."

Viserys nearly chokes on his meal, but then clears his throat, "brother-" he withholds his laughter, "-that is quite enough." The king looks at the faces across the table, none of them but him and Daemon finding this predicament amusing, "I'm sure everyone is... overjoyed that you and your bride have found marital bliss, but do keep your manners," he nods, "you are seated before the king."

Daemon turns to Viserys and straightens up. He nods, "my king."

Viserys clears his throat again and nods, "manners, brother."

"Hmm, like you with Aemma?"

Rhaenyra slams her hands on the table, pushes her chair back, and stands. All turns to her and her sour expression as she speaks, "I'm quite finished with my food. If I may be excused... my king."

Otto stands next, his chair skidding behind him, "I am quite finished with my food as well," he nods at Viserys, "I wish you a good meal."

Your belly rolls when he looks at you.

"Daughter, might you walk me out of the room, there is something I wish to discuss with you."

"She is quite busy with her food," Daemon immediately answers for you, "if you wish to speak something, speak it in front of us."

Your throat tightens.

"Tis a personal matter," Otto speaks firmly, "I would not put my child in an uncomfortable position."

Gwayne watches your expression, feeling restless because of your glaring discomfort.

"But you've already done so announcing your desire to speak to her so that she could not refuse," Daemon snaps.

Your chest begins to constrict. Gwyane picks up on how your breath quickens.

Otto clenches his jaw, "I wish to speak to my daughter."

"Yes, and I say fuck off."

"Daemon," Viserys finally snaps, turning to the said man. The king turns to you, peering past his brother, "you may speak to Otto if you wish, or you may simply continue with your meal."

You turn to your skirt and clench the fabric in your hand.

Daemon rubs your nape and your skin reacts with goosebumps. You gasp when his hand is snatched away by Viserys. You turn to them, struggling to breathe as you watch them bicker in High Valyrian.

Aemma tries to interject, but the brothers do not acknowledge her.

"Sister," Gwayne calls to you.

You want to turn to him, but you fear you will crumble in tears if you do.

The room is silenced when you stand. You feel everyone's gaze on your skin. "I wish-" you speak through a heavy breath, "-to retire."

You run out of the room before anyone can respond. Your heart drums in its cage but you tell yourself to run and to keep running.

Gwyane stands, ready to chase after you, but Daemon blocks him and their bodies violently collide. Daemon shoves him back and Gwyane is about to lunge at him but hears the voice of her baby sister calling his name in concern. His face twitches as he holds himself back.

"She is my wife," Daemon says.

"Then fucking go after her," Gwayne snaps, raising an arm, "she'll be heading to the temple, undoubtedly, which is outside the Keep, if you are not aware."

"Go on!" Otto snaps, pointing a finger, "chase after her."

Daemon seethes at the instruction. Dare he? He'll break the arm that fucking finger is connected to. He wants nothing less than to do what that cunt says.

"Go to her, Daemon," Viserys urges.

He glares at his brother, offended by his alliance with the fucker. Now he is really not going to do that. He's left with no other choice but to leave the damned dining room though. How lucky of him to run into the Cargyll twins on his way out.

"You," Daemon barks, calling the attention of the two men. He marches over to them, hands balled tightly into fists.

"My p-"

"The fucking Hand has upset the bitch again," the prince snaps, "she's run off in a fit to gods know where."

The two watch the prince have a hissy fit in High Valyrian before realizing he referring to his wife. Arryk says, "the princess has run off at this hour?"

"Her cunt twin said she'd go to the temple, but maybe she's fallen dead halfway through her sprint."

The twins turn to each other in horror.

"Ah, if only the gods were that kind," Daemon scoffs then looks between them, "find her. I do not wish to hear her pathetic sobbing."

Erryk's nostrils flare. Arryk clenches his jaw and nods. The latter begins to walk off and has to reel his brother by the arm to follow.

Daemon storms off to the dragon pit.

Arryk eyes his brother. Erryk's eyes remain on the prince, until his twin calls his attention.

You arrive at the temple of the Seven, forehead and nape sheened over with sweat. You nearly collapse before the Mother. The only reason you do not, is because two septas catch you before you collide with the shrine of candles. Upon recognizing you, they are quick to attend to you, saying they will get you water and a towel.

Running is a horrid activity that seems to only more horrid each time you do it. You find that your heart cannot keep up, and you are pushed into horrible breathlessness. Your father was strict to never let you run. You do not know if it is simply because you are not capable of running or because of your affliction that made it so.

You thank the gracious septas for their care and ask them if they would pray with you. Unable to deny you, a woman so devout and so... pitiful, they help you get on your knees and you recite The Mother's prayer together. At some point, you begin to weep, and once more it becomes increasingly harder for you to breathe. The septas have to stop praying and attend to you again.

"Princess!"

You are made to sit down on the floor. The two septas are replaced with two men, both dressed in steel, one as seemly as the other, albeit the mark of abject concern on their face. You frown as you look between Arryk and Erryk's worried features. Your scratch your eyes as they speak to you. The weight in your chest makes it hard to understand.

You hiccup as one of them scoops you into their arms. You do not realize you were being carried out of the temple until you are outside. "Wait," you sigh when you managed to catch a breath, "wait."

Whoever is carrying you does not hear it, but his brother does. He says, "wait, Erryk. What is it, princess?"

"I wish to pray," you mutter, eyes still wet with tears, "please."

Arryk looks at you. Erryk shakes his head, "we have to bring her inside."

"Erryk," Arrryk knits his brows, "she wishes to pray."

"She is in no condition to—" Erryk's words falter when your hand comes to his cheek.

You feel your lips tremble and you barely manage to speak, "please."

A line forms between his brows at the sound of your weak voice, "my prin-"

"Erryk," you stroke his cheek, "I need this."

Arryk looks between you and his brother. He watches him sigh and turn back. He follows after Erryk as he goes up the stairs, back towards the shrine.

You are placed before the Mother once more. You sigh and allow yourself repose before shifting on your knees. The twins leave you to your prayers, standing by not too far off.

Erryk's eyes remain on you. Arryk's eyes remain on Erryk.

"You tread a dangerous path, brother."

Erryk does look away.

Arryk sighs, turning his gaze over to you.

You sit on your knees, one arm rested on the plinth as you take a stick and light it. You whisper, "mummy," then light a candle, "me," then light another. Your soft whispers flutter in the echo chamber.

Both twins feel fangs rip into their stomachs as they watch you. Erryk's features are more honest to it however, which is why Arryk catches it and speaks again, "you are sworn to her, you fool."

"And you are not?" Erryk snaps, turning to his twin.

The brothers stare at each other for a moment. Arryk purses his lips and tilts his head, "I am not in love with her."

"Then leave," Erryk motions with a nod. He shifts in his spot, linking his hands together as he turns back back to you.

Arryk snorts and clenches is hands. His ears perk at the sound of your hushed sobbing. His heart clogs his throat.

Erryk sighs through his nose, "you are still here."

"I cannot leave her."

Erryk turns to Arryk, "then you are just as foolish as I."

"I-" Arryk starts. He cannot look away from you, "... I am sworn to her."

"She is beautiful," Erryk says.

Arryk finally tears his gaze only to shoot his brother a warning look, but Erryk's eyes are back on you.

"She wove flowers into my hair mere hours ago," he knits his brows, "she laughed and beamed and glimmered," Erryk sighs, "now she crumbles and weeps and hurts."

Arryk knits his brows, just as deep as his twin's.

You wipe your tears as you soothe yourself. You voice goes low again as you continue to pray.

"I am not a fool," Arryk says

Erryk laughs dryly, turning to him, "very well. If y-"

"I know she is beautiful," Arryk cuts him off.

His lips flatten.

Arryk gulps, "outside and within."

"As I said," Erryk replies, "just as foolish."

"I do not understand what could posses someone to hurt such a creature."

"Perhaps there is no soul to posses."

Arryk shakes your head, "you cannot allow your anger to get ahead of yourself, fool. You are glad the prince did not notice."

"The prince is too caught up in himself to notice anything that does not directly a..." Erryk's words go dry.

Arryk knits his brows, finding his twin was staring at something behind him. He looks over, stiffening when he catches the very person they were speaking of walking over.

Daemon makes a beeline towards you. He stops just behind you, lips and brows tense at the sound of your evidently upset voice. "Should you be doing this?"

You perk at the sound of the voice and look over your shoulder. You stare at Daemon, unsure if you were imagining him or if he was really there. You find that you don't really care, "will you pray with me?"

He does not like that you do not answer his question. He shifts on his spot, "did you faint or fall out of breath?

You turn back to the candles, "you must not be real."

"What?"

"I do not think my husband would care," you mutter, clasping your hands together in prayer.

Daemon does not move.

"You would pray with me then," you add, "you are kind."

The prince's face contorts. He feels like he is choking. He comes to your side, slowly dropping to his knees. He clasps his hands together, propping his elbows in front of him. He is taken aback by how you rest your head on his shoulder with no hesitation. He stiffens and a part of his mind screams to shove you away. He does nothing of the sort however.

"I tire," you admit.

"Then we sh-"

"Tell him to grant me my prayer."

Daemon slowly turns his head to look at you. He sees the way the tears trickle down from the bridge of your nose, "tell who?"

"The Stranger."

Daemon turns to the statue of the Mother. He wants to be difficult and tell you to simply move to the other statue, but instead he asks, "what is your request?"

"Death."

He turns back to you, expecting you to name a name. You do not, so he asks again, "your father?"

Your brows furrow, "no."

He turns to his hands. An unnamable emotion seizes him, "so... your husband?"

You finally lift your head. You turn to him, a deep frown on your face, "I do not wish you harm, Daemon."

He turns to you.

New tears burn down your cheeks.

A new unnamable emotion seizes him at the sight of your wobbling lips.

The twins find themselves looking away when the prince wipes your cheek.

You lean into his touch, "I have prayed for the same thing every night since I was ten."

Daemon's forehead curls, "what do you pray for?"

"To die."

The hand he had on your face tenses.

"It is pointless," you push his hand away, retreating from his touch, "my pain does not subside. My heart and flesh grow weaker each day."

Daemon is uneasy as you turn back to the Mother. He shakes his head, "I do not think the gods listen to such sinful prayers."

"Sin?" you chuckle under your breath.

Somehow your laughter sounds sadder than your weeping.

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision.

The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

You stare at his outstretched palm, then look up at him as he stands. You are loathe to move. You do not think you can, even if you wanted to, "I tire."

He leans over, draping your arm around his shoulders, "I'll bring you to bed."

You say nothing as Daemon pulls you in and carries you in his arms.

For the final time tonight, another unnamable emotions seizes him. It only further intensifies when you rest your head in the crook of his neck.

[ghostface-knight]

Soda tapped his foot against the creaky wooden floor. He glanced at the clock for what felt like the thousandth time. 3:30 in the morning. He had thought surely Ponyboy would come home as soon as he cooled off.

He wasn't expecting Pony to immediately forgive Darry. Hell, Soda himself hadn't entirely forgiven his older brother, who sat, head clutched in his hands, on the couch.

Still, he understood how Darry could have done what he did. When Pony didn't come home, Soda and Darry had thought the worst possible. However, it seemed that Soda's worry had translated into relief at seeing him brother okay, while Darry's had instantly become anger.

The silence of the house was unbearable. It was like the crack of Darry's hand against Pony's face had deafened the brothers to the world.

Finally, Soda shot up from his seat. Darry didn't turn to look at him.

"I'm looking for him." He said simply as he gathered his shoes and his jacket. He realized with a pang in his chest that Pony had run out without a jacket on. He must be so cold.

Darry remained silent.

"What, you're not even going to help me look?" Soda asked.

Darry finally looked up from his hands, and Soda saw tears brimming his eyes. "Do you really think he wants to see me?" Darry said gruffly.

Soda stilled. "No, I... I guess not." He turned on his heel, then walked out the door and shut it behind him.

He shook thoughts of Darry from his mind. Right now, he had to focus on finding Pony and bringing him home.

The first place he thought to check was the lot, where Pony and Johnny had apparently fallen asleep just a few hours prior. He walked across the gravel, softly calling Ponyboy's name. He received no response.

He wandered throughout Tulsa for hours, searching for his brother. The whole east side was eerily quiet.

As the black sky shifted into the pink and orange sunrise, Soda made his way back to his house.

When he pushed the door open and walked in, he heard Darry rushing from the kitchen.

"Pony! Pony, I'm real sorry, I never-" Darry trailed off when he entered the room, and saw Soda standing all alone. "Soda? Did you find Pony?"

Soda shook his head, exhausted. "I'm calling the guys. Maybe he stayed with one of them." Darry nodded, guilt ridden.

Soda called Two-Bit, Steve, and Dally, one by one, and none of them had seen Ponyboy since the drive in. In fact, none of them had seen Johnny either. Soda felt sick with the fear that rattled around in his stomach. The gang agreed to meet them at their house, and help them look.

Once they had gathered, they split up to cover more ground. It was decided that Steve and Soda would keep looking around the East Side, and Dally, Darry and Two-Bit would take Buck's car over to the West side, in case Pony had done something real stupid in his rage and fear.

Soda shuddered as he and Steve made their way around town. They started walking through the park they had played at as kids, when Steve spoke up.

"Little shit got himself into trouble again." He muttered. "He knows Darry don't mean it. He knows you two were worrying your heads off."

Soda felt the need to defend his little brother. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, Pony wasn't wrong. Darry shouldn't have blown up at him. He should have known-"

"Soda." Steve's tone was deathly serious behind him. Soda turned, and saw that Steve had stopped a few steps earlier. He stared past Soda with a look of utter disbelief, his eyes glazing over.

Soda whipped around to see what he was looking at.

First, he just saw the pool of red. Then, he noticed the forms surrounding it.

He wanted to run. But his body felt like it was moving in slow motion. He stumbled towards the first of the bodies -- the one in the pool of blood -- and dread sank in his gut. It was Johnny, lying there, with his eyes open wide and blood plastered across his shirt, spreading from a deep gash in the center of his chest. There was a pocket knife laying still in the pool of blood, and Soda realized with the jolt that it was Johnny's own knife.

That was when Soda set his eyes on the second figure.

He was slumped over the brim of the fountain, unmoving, with his face submerged in the water.

Soda stood very slowly, as if moving too quick could startle the situation into getting worse. He stepped around Johnny's body, unflinching when Steve started yelling at him.

He reached the second body, and grabbed him under his arms to hoist the figure out from under the water.

He was so heavy.

Still, Soda was strong. He lifted the body out of the water, and set it down on the pavement.

Soda sat down beside the body as it dawned on him that this boy was his brother.

"P- pony?" Soda stuttered. He grabbed Ponyboy's shoulder and shook him. "Pony, Ponyboy, wake up." He shook him harder. "Pony, what are you doing?"

"Soda..." he heard Steve call desperately to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Steve clutching Johnny's corpse. Soda didn't care though.

"Pony, get up! It's not funny, Pone, you can't-- you need to-- just wake up!" Soda's words were becoming increasingly strained, but he was scared to shake him to hard. He didn't want to hurt him.

"Jesus, Soda!" Steve shouted from right beside him. When had Steve gotten there? "Soda! Soda look at me!" Soda forced himself to make eye contact with his best friend.

"We're going to give him CPR, okay? I'll do the chest compressions, and you'll breathe into his mouth." Soda didn't quite know what was going on, but Steve sounded so sure of himself that Soda found himself blindly following his orders. Soda easily ignored the drying blood on Steve's hands. Johnny's blood.

Steve delivered round after round of compressions, between which Soda performed the rescue breaths. It went on for what felt like forever. Suddenly, Steve stopped. He fell back on his heels beside Soda. Soda gawked at him.

"What- what are you doing? Come on, we need to give him CPR, to save him, remember? Come on!"

Steve finally met his eyes. "He's gone, man. We can't save him."

Just then, it finally clicked in Soda's head.

Gone.

He turned his head back to his brother, in horror, as the sounds of shouting began to echo behind him.

Darry, he thought numbly and he grasped Pony's shoulders and pulled his baby brother's head and chest into his lap.

That was Darry, Dally, and Two-Bit. He knew their voices. Still, he didn't turn around. He just wrapped his arms around Pony's cold body.

Even though he never turned away from his brother, he could still hear every beat of the scene play out.

He heard Darry calling his name between strides, then he heard his big brother crumble to the ground as he tripped over something.

Something that, then, caused Dally to begin screaming and cursing and praying to God.

Funny, thought Sodapop. I've never heard Dally pray.

He heard Darry pick himself up from off the ground, and slowly approach from behind.

"Soda?" He called hesitantly. Soda didn't turn.

"Soda, is that-" he heard Darry choke. "Did you find Ponyboy?"

Soda nodded, even though he knew Darry couldn't see.

He stared down at Pony, clutching him even tighter as Darry made his way into his peripheral vision. Suddenly, Darry was on his knees beside Soda, trying to pry their littlest brother from his grip.

"Pony! Soda, let me see him!" Darry cried, but Soda just held on tighter.

Soda's eyes were open, but they saw no more than those of his brother he held in his arms. Still, he heard.

He heard Darry sobbing and begging to see Ponyboy.

He heard Dally cursing God.

He heard Steve and Two-Bit trying not to cry as they tried to no avail to pry their grieving friends away from the dead bodies of the boys who had been like their brothers.

He heard the voices of neighborhood kids and workers start to crowd around them to inspect the scene.

Soda looked up and saw the last remaining wisps of pink and orange fizzling out of the sky.

Pony always loved sunrises.

How bout Pony dies at the fountain WITH Johnny? Add a little twist, make it fun. The gang is looking for them and stumbles across them in the park or something. (Maybe literally depending on how dark it is and how much angst you want)

[spideypoolbigbang]

SPBB 2024 MASTERLIST

Title: The Cursed Prince

Author: Trolley

Artists: Yad (Twitter: naiad_r) and Zarth (AO3: Zarth)

Beta Reader: do_sugar

Rating: Mature

Warnings: temporary MCD

Word Count: 35k

Posting Date: Tuesday, October 1st

Summary:  The reigning council of Regines hires a disreputable mercenary fighter to protect their prince from a demon’s curse. It goes well for all of two days.

Stupid spindles. Stupid princes who argue curse semantics. Now Wade’s got to go rescue his brat of a charge from the tower guarded by a seemingly invincible spider demon. It’d help if he could figure out why the demon’s acting so strange, but the council is too busy breathing down his neck to listen and Spidey is so gods-be-damned cryptic.

 Fic Masterpost | Art Masterposts: 1 2

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Title: Enchanted to Meet You

Author(s): @mscaptainwinchester

Artist: @gensyz

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Minor Violence, A/B/O dynamics

Word Count: 40k

Posting Date: Friday, October 4

Summary: Peter is an omega who only wants to read his science journals in peace, but his orphaned status means he must marry. He could marry Baron Osborn’s son, Harry, but Peter isn’t interested. Enter Duke Wade Wilson, werewolf recluse, returning to the ton for the first time in a decade. The rumors color him as a brutal murderer, but Peter only sees a handsome, kind, funny alpha who looks at him like the stars are hung in his eyes. Can the two of them survive the season long enough to find their happily ever after, or will the pressures of societal expectations and the threat of ruin tear them apart before they’ve begun?

Fic Masterpost | ArtMasterpost

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Title: Survive the Horde 101

Author(s): sparkstarthetrashcan / sparkstar-trash

Artist: ScrapBunny-Art / Scrapbunny_

Rating:Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Word Count: 11,111

Posting Date:October 7th

Summary: Peter’s first day teaching at Brooklyn Visions Academy couldn’t go any worse than a Sandman attack… or could it?

A tacky choker collar trend goes viral, but it’s not as innocent as it first seems. More and more students are pulled into its clutches, until even the Ultimate Spider-Man, Miles Morales, is part of the Horde.

Trying to survive the Not-Zombie Zombie Apocalypse isn’t all bad, though. Especially when he finds a certain survivor, the hot P.E. Teacher

Fic Masterpost | Art Masterpost

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Title: A-Romantic Attraction?

Author: babyboysnek

Artist: n07marvel

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Word Count: 10,000

Posting Date: October 10, 2024

Summary: Peter Parker is in love with Wade Wilson. In any other universe, Wade Wilson would be ecstatic. But this is not one of those universes. In this universe, Wade is aromantic and despite a passionate night they had years ago, Wade is just not romantically interested in Peter. It’s not like he doesn’t love the guy. But it’s complicated. They, of course, have never had proper communication. Ellie thinks they are big ol idiots that need to talk like adults. She would be right.

Fic Masterpost | Art Masterpost

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Title: make no sound

Author: bisexualbarry

Artist: violettavonviolet

Rating: mature

Warnings: Depictions of violence, minor character death

Word Count: 14,600

Posting Date: October 13

Summary: When seven teen counselors get the opportunity to have another night at Hackett’s Quarry summer camp without any adults or kids around, they want to have fun with it. A simple bonfire to signal the end of summer and bring on what will come next. But there’s something lurking in the shadows that the camp leader failed to mention. And it may make or break them.

Fic Masterpost | Art Masterpost

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Title: The Second Secret

Author: Mythicaltzu

Artist: skelet0andro

Rating: Teen

Warnings: No warnings apply

Word Count: 16,800

Posting Date: October 23, 2024

Summary: Wherein Peter grapples with the age-old question: If you can’t trust a semi-reformed mercenary strapped with dozens of weapons, who can you trust?

Fic Masterpost | Art Masterpost

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Title: So Glad (I Stuck Around)

Author: @chiayhorchata

Artists: @xpyne & @thepossumcore 

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Word Count: 17,052

Posting Date: October 26 

Summary: Wade Wilson is aware of who and what he is. Thank you very much. 

He knows he is issues upon issues all wrapped up in the nastiest package anyone has ever seen, he’s a violent, suicidal mess, he’s unlovable and destroys everything and everyone he touches. He knows he used up all of his good luck when Spider-Man allowed him to follow along for his patrols and dried up the well when Peter became his friend.

So, forgive him if he’s a little shocked when Peter asks him out on a date, a real, totally serious, no joking, romantic date. He’s a lot more shocked when the hero actually wants a romantic relationship with the mercenary.

It seems that Peter Parker is determined to prove Wade wrong on everything he believes about himself. Fuck.

Fic Masterpost  |  Art Masterpost 1  |   Art Masterpost 2

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Title: New Beginnings

Author(s): LoaDyron

Artist: ten9th

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Body Dysmorphia, Schizophrenia, Bipolar2, BDSM (biting), Masturbation.

Word Count: 74,706

Posting Date: October 28

Summary: Since Peter and Wade made the decision to give their relationship another chance, everything is going well for them. Love is in the air, and they are both really excited to make their feelings official, even if they still need to work through some issues to maintain their relationship. They rent a new house since they are ready to live together.

But there are secrets that each of them must confess to one another.

Still terrified that Peter may reject him, Wade faces the dilemma of showing his face despite his promise to Spidey to finally reveal his appearance.

Peter, on the other hand, is discovering he’s into BDSM stuff, so he tries to find ways to tell his boyfriend. But he does… in an expected way.

Fic Masterpost | Art Masterpost

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Title: The Alpha Choice

Author(s): Giddywords

Artist: Littes

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Charles Xavier/Erik Lehnsherr, Slavery, Mildly Dubious Consent , Modern Days

Word Count: 25,095

Posting Date: October 29

Summary: Wade doesn’t want to mate – he has a mansion full of omegas to take care of already. But because of his ruts and social pressure he goes to an Omega Orphanage to buy an expensive good-behaved spouse mate for life.

Instead he looks at this cheap one, glaring at him, smelling of fury and disdain, that is clearly rebellious: Peter Parker doesn’t know how to cook, has a bad temper, is too smart for an omega, and hates Wade’s guts – but beside all that, he’s still the Alpha choice.

Fic Masterpost | Art Masterpost

[southtopaz]

PSYCHO KILLER - SCREAM

Summary: in which Iris Morris has to navigate her personal relationships while surviving a psycho.

Warnings: Fem!reader, angst, violence, swearing, mention of death, Tara Carpenter x Fem reader, multiple parts, slowburn.

Word count: +5k

A/n: this part will follow the events of Scream 6 but it will take place two years later from Scream 5. English is not my first language, so I apologize for any grammatical mistake.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12.

Iris stared at her reflection in the mirror, adjusting the collar of her makeshift Men in Black costume. The black suit felt too tight, and the sunglasses slipped down her nose. She couldn't help but roll her eyes at the ridiculousness of it all. Once upon a time, the idea of going to a party with her friends would have excited her, but now the thought only made her feel uneasy.

She had Tara to thank for her current predicament. For the past two weeks, Tara had relentlessly bugged her about attending the frat party, her enthusiasm almost palpable through every text and conversation. And here Iris was, caught in a swirl of frustration and reluctantance, walking down the street with Tara, who looked radiant in her pirate costume, complete with a white shirt that showed her shoulders, a delicate gold neckclace, and a stylish headscarf. Honestly, she looked way too hot and Iris was having a hard time at pretending like she didn't notice it. She hated to admit it, but for the last thirty minutes, she'd been avoiding looking directly at Tara, fearful that if she did, she wouldn't be able to stop.

"I can't believe you convinced me to come to this stupid party," Iris muttered, trying to suppress a grin at Tara's playful smile.

"I've been told I'm really good at convincing," Tara replied, her voice dripping with mock seriousness.

"I don't think you're that good," Iris shot back, attempting to maintain her irritated facade.

Tara stopped in her tracks, causing Iris to halt beside her. The shorter girl leaned in, a special glint in her eyes. "Don't make me bring the big guys," she teased, her tone low and mischievous, clearly enjoying the moment.

Iris felt the corners of her mouth twitch upward, but she quickly shook her head. "Just don't do that thing," she gestured to Tara's face, her tone a mix of annoyance and fondness. "You know, that thing you do with your eyes."

Tara paused, her expression shifting to mock confusion as she lowered her eyelids and pouted, exaggerating the look to the point of absurdity. "What thing?" she asked, batting her lashes in a way that was almost comical.

"Ugh, I hate you," Iris groaned, unable to suppress her laughter any longer.

"Love you too!" Tara chirped, her eyes sparkling with happiness.

The distant sounds of music pulsated through the trees ahead, a vibrant invitation beckoning them closer. Yet, as they moved forward to the frat house, Iris still felt a nagging uncertainty. She glanced at the dark shadows that lined the path, the branches casting eerie shapes on the ground. Each small rustle made her heart race, and she found herself instinctively leaning closer to Tara, who kept her grounded with an easy confidence.

"Oh, hey, Tara!" called a guy in a Blackmore College jacket. He had black long hair, and a neatly groomed mustache.

"Jason," Tara greeted, her voice brightening. "Are you and Greg gonna come to the okb party?"

"Well, if he finishes his Spanish project in time, yes, we will," Jason said, raising his eyebrows with a hint of optimism. Then he turned his attention to Iris. "Hi, I'm Jason, you must be..."

"I'm Iris" her tone slightly awkward. "Nice to meet you"

Jason gave her a tight lipped smile before looking back at Tara once again, his smile widening. "Is your sister coming?"

"No way! Sam wouldn't be caught dead at a frat party," Tara chuckled, the very idea making her giggle.

Jason shrugged innocently,"There's a first time for everything," he replied, his voice laced with an overconfident nonchalance. Iris shot Jason a wary glance, picking up on a sense of arrogance that made her gut twist.

"Not tonight, though," Tara said firmly, beginning to pull Iris away from the conversation, eager to get to the party.

"Can't convince her?" Jason called after them, his voice teasing.

"No. That's not my problem, that's yours!" Tara shouted back over her shoulder, laughter mingling with the distant music.

"Save me a drink!" Jason's voice faded as they walked further down the sidewalk.

Once they were a safe distance away from the party, Iris turned to Tara, her brow furrowed with curiosity. "So, does Jason know Sam?"

Tara shrugged, her eyes darting back to the thrumming crowd they had just escaped. "Not really."

Iris tilted her head, an eyebrow raised in suspicion. "Don't you think it was a little weird that he was so interested in getting your sister to come to this party?"

"Jesus, Iris," Tara said, exasperated. "Not everyone is out there to get us."

"I know that but he was really strange,".

"It's Jason, for crying out loud! He's just a guy from my film studies class. Of course he's weird!" Tara replied, a playful smirk creeping across her face. "Maybe he has a crush on Sam."

"Yeah, or maybe he's plotting a murder. You know, a typical Friday night," Iris quipped, her tone half-serious, half-teasing.

"Okay, stop." Tara abruptly came to a halt, gripping both of Iris's shoulders with a firm yet gentle hold. "Iris, I know that you and Sam are the presidents of the Paranoid Fan Club, but I brought you here today so you could chill out. You two have been on edge for the past two years. It's time to let it go."

"Okay, rude. I'm not paranoid!" Iris shot back, feigning indignation.

"Yes, you are!" Tara countered, rolling her eyes. "I get it, but you have to start living, too."

"I know," Iris huffed, crossing her arms defiantly. "I'm living just fine, thank you very much."

"Are you, though?" Tara asked softly, her voice dropping to a more serious note. "Can you try to see it from my perspective?"

In a playful act of defiance, Iris crouched down, mimicking Tara's height. "Yeah, I can try," she said, struggling to keep a straight face.

"You are so not funny, you fucker. We were having a moment!" Tara protested, her frustration only half-hearted.

"I can't hear you from way up here," Iris replied, a teasing lilt to her voice.

"I'm going to punch you in the face," Tara said, though a smile threatened to break through her stern demeanor.

"You'll have to tiptoe to get there. It's cute, really," Iris laughed, her spirit lifting.

"Well, I don't have to tiptoe to punch you in the gut" Tara shot back as she smiled sarcastically. "Keep it up and you might find out"

"Love it when you talk dirty to me" Iris grinned, wrapping an arm around Tara's shoulders as they resumed their walk toward the house. The cool evening air was refreshing, and for a moment, the weight of their worries seemed to lighten. If only she had noticed the way Tara's cheeks flushed with warmth at the closeness.

The music thumped through the speakers, reverberating through the crowded frat house, where colorful lights flickered and danced along the walls. A bunch of faces, flushed with excitement and enthusiasm, swayed to the rhythm, their laughter punctuating the air. The scent of spilled drinks and food mingled with the sweet, fruity aroma of mixed cocktails, creating an atmosphere that was both chaotic and exhilarating.

Iris stood near the kitchen counter, where a makeshift bar had been set up. The countertops were cluttered with half-empty bottles, mixers, and stacks of red cups. She took in the scene, people dancing with their costumes on, some attempting to impress one another with their moves, while others lounged on the couches, engrossed in animated conversations. She had to admit, she was having more fun than she originally thought she would.

"So, on a scale of one to ten, how fucked you guys want to get tonight?" Mindy asked  as she lined up four shots on the kitchen counter.

"Hopefully a ten!" Anika exclaimed, her enthusiasm infectious as she grinned widely at the group. With that, they raised their glasses in unison and downed their shots, the liquid burning their throats as they swallowed.

Iris gagged dramatically, her face contorting in an exaggerated grimace. "God, that was awful! I'm going to go make a drink. Does anybody want one?" she declared, wiping her mouth and shaking her head in disgust at the harshness of the shot.

"I'll take one!" Tara called out, a grateful smile on her face as she leaned closer to Iris.  As Iris turned to leave, Mindy shouted after her, "When did you become such a pussy? That wasn't even that strong!"

Iris shot her a middle finger over her shoulder, a smirk tugging at her lips despite the faux indignation. "Maybe my taste buds just have standards bitch" she called back, making Mindy snicker as she tried to stifle her laughter.

"Yeah, yeah, you're just weak". After Iris was out of sight, Mindy leaned in conspiratorially. "So, Tara, any hopes for tonight?" she asked, her eyebrows wiggling suggestively while wrapping an arm around Anika.

"Just have fun, I guess," Tara replied, a hint of confusion crossing her face as she tried to understand the underlying implication.

"Not planning to make a move on Iris?" Anika teased, her eyes sparkling with hope.

Tara laughed nervously, the sound a mix of embarrassment and surprise. "Why would I... I don't... I..." she stuttered, her friends bursting into laughter at her flustered state.

"Look, all I'm saying is tonight would be a great night to do it. Ask her to dance!" Mindy encouraged, her voice playful yet earnest.

"Iris hates dancing; she's going to say no," Tara protested, shaking her head as she glanced at the girl, who was now distracted by the antics of a group trying to recreate a viral TikTok dance.

"She would say no to everyone but you," Mindy replied. "She has a soft spot for you."

"No, she doesn't,"

"Yes, she does!" Anika and Mindy chimed in unison, laughter bubbling between them.

"Just test it out," Anika said, her eyes darting toward Iris, who had returned with drinks. "She's coming!"

Iris handed a brightly colored drink to Tara. "Here you go!" she said, a smile breaking across her face.

"Gotta say, Iris," Anika whistled teasingly, "That suit definitely looks good on you. Like, if I didn't have a girlfriend, I'd be jumping you right now."

Iris erupted into laughter, her face lighting up as she turned to Mindy, whose expression was one of mock horror.

"Okay, I think I just threw up!" Mindy faked gag. "You're my girlfriend; you're supposed to say she's ugly!"

"But I would be lying!" Anika countered, unable to hold back her giggles.

"God, I know. Unfortunately, you look good Iris," Mindy added dramatically, tossing her hands up in defeat. "Get out of my sight!" Iris laughed, waving them off playfully.

"What about you, Tara? Do you think Iris look good?" Anika asked intentionally, a spark in her eyes.

"Uh, yeah, definitely," Tara stammered, her eyes widening as the focus shifted to her.

"Now you're just being nice," Iris teased, nudging Tara playfully.

After a bit more lighthearted banter, Mindy and Anika made their excuses to leave, but not before Mindy shot Tara a knowing wink, leaving Tara feeling nothing but anxiety. Once they were alone, Tara turned to Iris, her heart racing. "So, umm, wanna dance?"

"Dance?" Iris snorted, her disbelief evident. "I'm terrible at it. I hate it."

"C'mon, it would be fun!" Tara urged, extending her hand with a hopeful smile.

Iris hesitated, searching Tara's eyes for a moment. Finally, with a resigned sigh, she relented. "Fine." Tara's heart soared at Iris's unexpected agreement, though she hid her surprise well. Maybe Mindy was right after all.

They stepped onto the dance floor, and Tara instinctively reached for Iris's hand.

They started to sway to the music, the soft melodies wrapping around them like a gentle breeze. Iris watched Tara move with an effortless grace, her body swaying fluidly, each motion as natural as breathing. Tara's laughter blended with the music, her eyes sparkling with joy, and Iris felt a rush of admiration with a hint of longing.

Iris tried to mimic Tara's movements, but her attempts felt clumsy and awkward. She felt stupid, her limbs stiff and uncoordinated, each sway a far cry from Tara's elegance. Dancing had never been her strong suit, and tonight was no different.

In a playful moment, Tara twirled Iris around, and they both burst into laughter when Iris stumbled slightly, inadvertently stepping on Tara's foot. The laughter felt infectious, washing away Iris's insecurities, if only for a moment. "I told you I'm terrible at this!" Iris exclaimed, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"I don't care," Tara replied, her voice light and warm. "I just want to dance with you." With that, Iris spun Tara around in return, her heart lifting at the sight of Tara's radiant smile. It was a small victory, yet it filled her with a sense of confidence she hadn't expected.

As they resumed their swaying, Iris couldn't shake the tension in her body. Each attempt to move in sync felt like a losing battle; her nerves made her movements feel rigid and forced. She found herself wiggling awkwardly to the beat, struggling to find a rhythm that felt natural.

"It'd help if you'd loosen up, ya know?" Tara chimed in, her giggle light and encouraging, cutting through the din of the party.

"How?" Iris shot back, a hint of desperation in her voice as she glanced at Tara, hoping for guidance.

"Simple! Just grab my waist," Tara suggested, stepping closer and reaching for Iris's hands. She guided them slowly to her waist, their bodies inches apart, the warmth radiating between them. "Like that," she whispered, her breath brushing against Iris's ear, sending shivers down her spine.

Iris felt her heart race, the world around them fading into a blur as she focused on the closeness, the sensation of Tara's body against hers. There was an intoxicating thrill in that moment, a rush of something deeper than just dancing. Tara's arms slipped around Iris's neck, pulling them even closer, and Iris found herself entranced, her body instinctively moving to follow Tara's lead.

As they swayed together, time seemed to stretch and bend, the music becoming a soundtrack to their connection. Iris couldn't tear her gaze away from Tara's face; the way her eyes lit up with laughter, the curve of her smile, the freckles in her cheeks, it all made Iris feel dizzy with awe. With each subtle movement, the tension began to dissolve, and for the first time, Iris felt the music seep into her bones.

"See? You're doing amazing now," Tara said, her voice warm and encouraging.

"I think it's the teacher, really," Iris teased, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

Tara's laughter was like a melody of its own, filling the air around them. Iris felt emboldened, her confidence building as she matched Tara's sway, letting herself get lost in the rhythm.

Tara started playing with Iris's tie, twirling her finger around it absently. She looked up to find Iris staring intently at every part of her face, an expression full of curiosity with something deeper. Feeling a surge of boldness, Tara decided to bridge the gap between them. With a playful tug, she pulled on Iris's tie, drawing their faces closer together.

"If you keep pulling my tie like that, you're going to mess it up," Iris warned, her voice teasing but laced with an unmistakable hint of nervousness.

"Do you want me to stop?" Tara asked, her heart racing. With another gentle tug, she closed the distance further until their noses were almost touching, the air between them charged with anticipation.

"Not really," Iris admitted, her eyes sparkling with desire. In a swift motion, she grabbed Tara's hips, pulling her even closer until their bodies pressed together. The warmth radiating between them made Tara's breath hitch, and she brought her hand to tangle them into Iris's hair.

"You know? Anika was right," Tara said, her voice low, but the words felt heavy in the charged atmosphere.

"About?" Iris's voice barely rose above a whisper as their breaths mingled in the warm air, creating an intimate bubble around them.

"You look really good today." Tara's eyes sparkled with genuine admiration, tracing the contours of Iris's face, from the gentle curve of her cheek to the way her hair framed her features.

"Just good?" Iris raised an eyebrow, a teasing lilt in her tone that sent a thrill through Tara.

"You look hot." The words hung in the air, and Iris's smirk widened, a special glint in her eyes. Tara couldn't help but glance down at Iris's lips for a moment, the urge to close the gap between them almost overwhelming.

"I just..." Tara began, her heart pounding as she searched for the right words, but her thoughts scattered when another voice cut through the moment.

"Iris, no way!" A ginger-haired boy in his twenties called out, his presence sudden and bright. Iris snapped out of her trance, her smile transforming instantly upon recognizing him.

"Damon! What are you doing here?" she exclaimed, her excitement evident as she turned to face him.

"I would never miss a party." He flashed a charming grin before his gaze shifted to Tara, an apologetic expression crossing his features. "Was I interrupting?"

"No, no, don't worry," Iris insisted quickly, a deep blush covering her face. "Mmm, this is my friend Tara."

"Hi, I'm Damon," he said, offering a warm smile that made Tara feel both welcomed and slightly annoyed. "You mind if I steal her for a second?"

Tara tried to hide her disappointment, her throat tight. "Not at all," she managed, though the words felt hollow.

Iris smiled at her, genuine and bright. "I'll see you in a bit, okay? Thanks for the dancing," she said, her eyes lingering on Tara's for a heartbeat longer.

"Yeah, no worries," Tara replied, forcing a tight-lipped smile, her heart sinking a little.

As they turned away, she heard Damon's voice carrying over the music. "I have so many people I want you to meet." They disappeared into the room, laughter and chatter swallowing them up.

Tara stood there, feeling a tightening in her chest that made her uncomfortable. She didn't know who this Damon was, but the ease between him and Iris showed that they were close, she just didn't know how much.

She had the best medicine for heartache, alcohol.

Iris was engaged in an animated conversation with Damon and three of his friends, her laughter ringing out as she gestured enthusiastically, when Anika suddenly burst into the scene, her face showing distress.

"Iris, we need your help like right now!" Anika exclaimed, grabbing Iris's hand and tugging her away before she had a chance to comprehend the situation.

"What's going on?" Iris asked, confusion flickering across her features as she tried to keep pace with Anika's rapid strides.

"It's Tara," Anika replied breathlessly, her voice laced with concern.

They quickened their steps, weaving through the crowd of students until they reached the dimly lit hall. Just as they arrived, Iris's heart sank as she caught sight of Tara ascending the staircase, her laughter echoing softly. Beside her was a tall guy with tousled brown hair, his confident posture and relaxed demeanor suggesting he was much older than Tara, a fact that sent a wave of unease through Iris.

"Hey, Tara, come here!" Iris called out, her voice firm but laced with tension. She clenched her fists, a protective instinct surging within her.

"Sorry, we didn't catch that," the older guy replied, flashing a condescending smile that only deepened Iris's frustration.

"I think you did." Iris spoke as she felt herself growing angrier every second.

"No, Iris. It's fine," Tara said, her voice slightly slurred as she leaned heavily against the railing for support, struggling to maintain her balance. "I'm just gonna get a drink and then I'll be right back." She took a wobbly step down the stairs. "You should go back to what you were doing," she added, attempting to sound casual.

"See, Iris? She wants to," the older guy said mockingly, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he flashed a triumphant grin. He reached out and grabbed Tara by the arm, making her stumble, her footing faltering as she tried to regain her balance. He kept on dragging her back up the stairs aggressively and Iris's anger finally erupted.

"Don't fucking touch her!" Iris yelled as she punched the guy straight in the face, he stumbled backward and lost his footing, crashing to the floor with a heavy thud.

"You bitch" he shouted, holding into his bloody nose as he stood up, but before he could fully regain his composure, Iris was already on him. She lunged forward, her hands gripping the fabric of his white shirt, the material cool and smooth beneath her fingers. Her heart raced, fueled by an urgent need to protect Tara, whose faint shouts urging her to stop barely registered in her mind.

"Please, Iris, don't!" Tara's voice trembled, but it felt distant, almost muffled by the pounding in Iris's ears. She could see Tara's worried expression over her shoulder, but all her focus was on the guy before her.

"Do you think you can just push her around like that?" Iris gritted through her teeth, her voice low and intense.  "You enjoy taking drunk girls to your room, you fucking perv?"

"You're ruining the fun, you could've joined us if you weren't crazy".

"Touch her again, and I fucking kill you" he growled at Iris's threat, punching her with a force that sent her stumbling back. The sudden impact disoriented her for a moment, and she could feel the crowd around them erupt into a frenzy of shouts and gasps. She was pretty sure her lip was busted, but instead of showing any pain, a defiant smile spread across Iris's face, a bold expression that seemed to catch him off guard.

With adrenaline pumping through her veins, Iris lunged forward, her body propelled by anger.She closed the distance between them in an instant, driving him backward into the wall with a forceful thud. He gasped as his back hit the hard surface, his eyes wide with surprise and fury, but Iris was undeterred.

As she held him against the wall, she caught sight of the fear creeping into his eyes, and a small part of her reveled in it. The expression on his face shifted from confusion to pain as she drew her fist back and unleashed it with all her strength, landing a solid punch against his nose. The blow echoed in the air, a sharp crack that punctuated the tension surrounding them.

"You're insane" he shot back, incredulity lacing his voice, which faltered as Iris tightened her grip.

Iris leaned in, her breath barely above a whisper, low and deliberate, ensuring he could hear every word. "You have no idea, lay one hand on her and you'll find out"

Just in time, Chad strode into the room. The moment he spotted the boy making another move on Iris, a protective instinct surged within him. Without hesitation, he positioned himself directly in front of her, his posture radiating defiance.

Chad's jaw clenched as he locked eyes with the boy, who glared back defiantly. In an instant, the confrontation escalated; both men began shoving each other. Tara went to Iris to drag her away from the scene, she was still in shock from what the other girl just did.

Sam burst into the room, her eyes quickly scanned the scene, as she was assessing the turmoil unfolding before her. "Sorry to interrupt. I'm just gonna tase you in the balls real quick." He fell to the ground in pain. "Don't ever lay hands on my sister"

"You fucking bitch! Fuck you". All eyes were on her now.

"Sam! Are you fucking kidding me? You're stalking us now." Tara angrily said as she ran outside.

"Holy shit, it's that psycho girl". a guy yelled, as everyone started taking pictures off Sam, Iris quickly grabbed Sam's hand and both of them stormed out of the house.

They were chasing after Tara, who seemed to be trying to get away from Sam as fast as she could.

"Tara." Sam called after her, "Will you stop?"

"I cannot believe you did that!" Tara hissed. "You embarrassed me!" Then she pointed at Iris. "Don't even get me started on you, what the fuck is wrong with you? You punched him and now you're bleeding".

"I don't care, he deserved it"

"That guy was a dick," Sam defended Iris and herself immediately. "I'm glad Iris was there to stop him, he was going to take advantage of you"

Tara threw her arms up in exasperation, her frustration palpable as it hung in the air like a thick fog.

"So?" she challenged, her tone sharp enough to cut through the tension surrounding them.

"So?" Iris echoed, disbelief etched across her features. "You're drunk, Tara, you can't give consent" Iris felt her jaw tense, the muscles tightening as she fought to suppress the urge to lash out. The heat of the moment clawed at her restraint.

"If I want to hook up with an asshole, that's my decision!" Tara spat, her voice rising with indignation. She glared fiercely at the girls, a defiant fire blazing in her eyes. "That's my decision!"

"Okay," Sam replied, rolling her eyes with an exaggerated sigh.

"No problem," Iris interjected, her tone clipped. "Just do it when you're sober." The suggestion hung in the air, thick with irony.

"It's not about you!" Tara snapped, pivoting to face her sister. Her voice was edged with bitterness. "You're out of my life for five years, and now you can't leave me alone for five minutes!" The words came out like venom, each one a reminder of the distance that had long defined their relationship.

Iris's gaze flicked over her shoulder, noticing that the others Chad, Ethan, Mindy, and Anika had followed them outside, standing at a distance. They looked like deer caught in headlights, uncertain and awkward, the weight of the confrontation palpable.

"Because you're not dealing with what happened to us," Sam interjected bitterly. "Have you even gone to see the counselor yet?" There was a sharpness to her words, a frustration born from unaddressed pain.

"No, I'm not going to—" Tara started, but Sam cut her off.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm uninterested in living in the past like you are," Tara admitted, her voice trembling as if each syllable was a weight pulling her under.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam's brow furrowed, confusion and hurt mixing in her expression as she searched for understanding.

Tara hesitated, her eyes darting, as if she were struggling to articulate the storm brewing inside her. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, as the tension between the sisters persisted.

"Guys, come on," Chad interjected, sensing that the escalating situation was about to reach a boiling point. He stepped forward, his expression earnest as he aimed to diffuse the situation. "Stop arguing." His voice cut through the heated exchange.

"It means I'm not going to let what happened to us for three days define the rest of my life!" Tara shot back, her eyes blazing with defiance. The youngest Carpenter's voice cracked with raw emotion as she continued, "Therapy might work for you and Iris, but I don't need to keep revisiting the past every day."  Now, Iris knew that it was true but she still couldn't help but feel a pang of hurt deep within her. It wasn't her fault she still had trouble adapting to her new reality full of mistrust and pain.

"So you're just going to pretend it never happened?" Sam asked, her tone laced with disbelief after a heavy silence hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

Tara let out a weary sigh, her shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of the world rested upon them. "What are you doing here, Sam? In New York?" she asked, a hint of frustration creeping into her voice. "You're working two shitty jobs just to help pay for... whatever. But what's your plan? I know what I'm going to do, okay? I'm going to keep going to college, I'm going to get my degree, and I'm going to live my life. My life. Okay? You just followed me here and won't let me out of your sight." The words poured out with exasperation.

"I'm just trying to look out for you," Sam replied, her expression shifting to one of dejection.

"I know. I know you are," Tara responded, her voice softening as she met Sam's gaze. "But you can't do it for the rest of my life. You have to let me go."

"Hey!" a voice called out, slicing through the tension that filled the night air. Before anyone even got the chance to react, a cold drink was being thrown at Sam, soaking her shirt. She recoiled in shock, her eyes wide as the icy liquid dripped down her skin, sending a jolt of surprise coursing through her.

"Murderer!" The girl shouted, her voice dripping with venom, eyes blazing with accusation. The crowd around them paused, curiosity piqued by the sudden commotion. Iris felt a surge of anger rising within her; she instinctively stepped forward, fists clenching at her sides, ready to confront the girl. But Mindy was quicker, stepping in front of her with a firm hand on her chest.

"Calm down, no more fighting," Mindy urged, her tone laced with urgency. She could see the fire in Iris's eyes and knew that a confrontation would only escalate the situation further.

"What the fuck is wrong with you bitch?" Sam screeched, her voice a mixture of disbelief and fury. She struggled against the hold of her friends, the adrenaline pumping through her veins as she tried to lunge toward the girl, but they held her back firmly.

"You guys should stay away from her," the girl declared, her voice rising above the crowd. She pointed a finger accusatorily at Sam, her expression one of disdain. "She knows what she did."

"I didn't fucking do anything!" Sam shot back, her voice cracking with emotion.

"Step closer if you're so brave bitch!". Iris shouted, her protective instincts kicking in, her heart pounding. Instead of responding, the woman merely flipped Iris off, a smirk on her face as she turned on her heel and continued to walk away.

The air felt thick with unspoken emotions as the group stood in stunned silence, grappling with the unexpected aggression.

"Hey its okay, calm down". Mindy said as they all started to walk back.

Sam, still fuming, turned to Iris, the fury in her eyes mingling with despair. "I'm so sick of this shit"

"I know Sam, I know".

[swagspren]

Okay I’ve been thinking about Adolin fashion and something that is so funny to me is that nobody (that I can remember (probably Shallan is at some point)) is like “wow, Adolins outfit looks so good.” They’re like “you look stupid” and he’s like “it’s fashionable.” I know he’s not exactly surrounded by fashion appreciators, but I think it is so much more awesome that he is dressing fashionably and receiving little to none of the positive feedback. Like he’s really doing it just for him and that’s how fashion should be <3

[punisheye]

"No," he answers near-immediately. "I woulda realized it was a shitty n'stupid decision a lot faster, I think."

Wolfwood looks away and lets Vash's hand go; he feels maybe the contact isn't welcome. It hurts that the contact seems to tear open the wound further, even though he wishes he could close the space between them completely. He doesn't deserve that, and he wishes he could stop causing Vash more grief and pain.

He feels stupid, and he feels selfish.

Kuroneko meows beside Wolfwood, standing up to step into his lap and put her little front paws on his chest so she can rub her face against his week-and-a-half-old stubble. Her purrs are little comfort to him now, and she seems to notice this. So she gives up and jumps off the couch to trot away, not giving Vash a single glance (must be annoyed at him for disappearing — cats). Wolfwood watches her go.

"I don't wanna be that guy again," he finally says. "I— we saw what it woulda been like if I—..."

They don't talk about the shadow, really; it still sits in his heart, accepted and safe. Even with its occasional jeering.

He doesn't continue speaking. He just puts his head in his hands.

★ --;; Wolfwood cradling Vash's lone hand in both of his only serves to make the knot in Vash's chest twist impossibly tighter. Wolfwood hurt him. He doesn't want to hurt Wolfwood. He wants, desperately, to forgive him. He'd forgiven Knives, hadn't he? For acts far more heinous. So why was this so difficult? Why did it feel so much more visceral than all the other times he really had been hurt? It makes his mouth press into a thing, warbled line, makes his eyes sting all over again. Maybe the distance had been needed, after all.

"I won't leave again," he chokes. It sounds strained, even to his own ears. "I just... would you have still done it? Would you have still tried? If I had been there?" Did it even matter, at this point? It doesn't feel like it would have. He'd said himself he'd still planned to do it, had hunted Nai down of his own accord. Wolfwood had gone and done this awful thing behind his back, had gone and thrown away the entire reason Vash had watched him--

But Wolfwood had also said it mattered. That change, that sacrifice, had mattered. It had to have. It had to. He wants to believe it. Needs to. But did Wolfwood even believe it? Truly?

Vash isn't sure if he even wants the answer. If it will soothe any of the unease still clinging so stubbornly to his nerves. But at the same time he needs to know, the same way once a scab has been noticed it's impossible not to pick and pick and pick until it's bleeding again.

"I have to... before we do anything. I need to know. The truth. Please."

[uncanny-tranny]

Whenever people who are entrenched in diet culture talk about how terrible chemicals are, I just want to whip out this:

[harryzroze]

HES HERE HES HERE AAAA

[fruityumbrella]

i love and agree with 40yo sanjis effective twenty step skincare routine vs raisin old man zoro but i also think east asian zoro not wearing age on his skin + leathery european retiree sanji is even funnier bc of how mad sanji would be over it and how zoro wouldnt even notice

[greenerteacups]

How do you feel about the fact that Bellatrix was Voldemort’s concubine/lover?

This ask prompted a real coleslaw of emotions.

Top level, I can't take the Cursed Child seriously as canon. I'm a purist about text to begin with — no word of God or adaptation can change what you put in the original books, and if the author wanted the text to be different, they had their shot — but, even if not, the Cursed Child is bad. Like, it's My Immortal type bad. It's the kind of bad that makes you glad it didn't come out closer to the original books + movies, or it could have had a Game of Thrones-type cratering effect on discussion and fandom. The Albus/Scorpius dynamic is cute — everything else about it sucks. It is a no-fly zone for good ideas. The Golden Trio are all twisted into funhouse mirrors, Voldemort has a daughter, and most perversely, the absolutely horrific mutilation of Cedric Diggory's character (in no world did that boy become a Death Eater! he was KIND AND DECENT! and he DIED ANYWAY! that was THE FUCKING POINT!!!!!!!).

Second layer: let's say that Bellatrix/Voldemort is canon and explored beyond the writers going "whoops gotta find a working womb for Voldemort's kid." That's a really interesting dynamic. It's a horrible dynamic! It's a motherfucker of an age gap to begin with, and it would have started when she was in her late teens to early twenties! Plus, she was married. To another man. So that would have to be explained? Because she obviously wasn't always so mindlessly devoted to Voldemort that she couldn't entertain connections with others? But that's not to say that I'm against it as a narrative decision. Tom Riddle is (captain obvious moment incoming) a Bad, Bad Man, and the idea of him seducing a younger woman is actually an understandable extension of his connection with his followers that's not explored in the books. Because, like: the Death Eaters are a cult! Riddle runs a death cult. Cults use sex to manipulate members. One of the oldest tricks in the book.

Third layer: this could be a kind of interesting move for Riddle, who as a villain is never developed all that much, and doesn't have much in the way of humanizing qualities. Because Riddle is anti-love as such. He doesn't believe in it, and if you believe Dumbledore, he's not capable of it. (I don't really love this take on the character, but I think that Riddle thinks this is the case, and Dumbledore is so grizzled and jaded by the years that he believes him. Dumbledore's great failure with Tom was never seeing past the person Tom wanted him to see — or, rather, looking at Tom and seeing Grindlewald when he should have seen Harry.) So for him to harbor enough affection for Bellatrix to take her as his (only?) lover, when he doesn't seem to need it to convince her to join him (and he doesn't really need her support, anyway) creates a wrinkle in the Story of Voldemort as we're told. It suggests that either Tom or Dumbledore (or both) is lying about his capacity for love— or at least his capacity for human attachment. And that Tom isn't so unique as either of them would like to believe.

Also, it adds a wrinkle to Bellatrix's character, too: even if they met when she was an adult, there's manipulation happening there that's clearly one-sided and unequal. or at least, there probably is. and if it's consensual, or if she aggressively pursued him— that's interesting, too. my point being: this isn't a bad idea, necessarily. it's a bad idea because i don't think the writers of the Cursed Child thought about any of that when they were trying to find a womb for the Voldebaby.

[liverpool-enjoyer]

venting / advice seeking (dw its not depressing this time lmao)

[front-facing-pokemon]

[gorespawn]

MURDER TIME.

the bartender calling his buddy in skinny jeans:

[xx-meat-clown-xx]

i find it so strange how people discuss hazbin fans

and im not even talking about fandom discourse topics from people who can't discern that people can consume media critically.

im talking about how its so strange how people will make up very bizarre lies such as, "hazbin fans think that hell in real life is like that"

huh?

what?

is the hazbin fan in the room with us right now bud?