#but stop and think for a moment WHY jean is so bitter

[proteus-no]

You all do know that Jean like Harry and wants him to get better, right? Like, this isn't just a bit for you. Right????

[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.

[wolvndmouth]

Guys. I think about this shot a lot. Seven (7) times a day, minimum.

This is the exact moment Wade realizes that Logan looks at him, like really looks at him. Logan’s eyes have always been reading Wade in every way they can. Annoyed and scowling aside, he tries in earnest to understand who Wade is through his cracked humor and self-depreciation. No matter how angry he is, no matter how confused he is, he has eyes on Wade. When they’re staring at each other from opposite sides of a gun, when they’re sitting across each other in the diner, when they first fight in the Void, when they argue in the Odyssey; each one of these scenes have a moment where Wade is showing his cards and Logan, even through his rage and thirst to hurt, stills himself to listen and learn for as long as he can.

The man has no choice in the matter. Charles left him with the burden of knowing what it is to be loved, even at his most difficult. He’s felt the healing that comes from someone being able to look past his defenses and aggression and have the patience to plant compassion in the spaces of him that need it the most. He hasn’t been able to bring himself to unbury all the good he had before the bad, but it doesn’t stop him from having the guts to be gentle and kind when someone least deserves it. One of his gentlest moments is when he takes Juggernaut’s helmet off Cassandra to save her, and his wish to be the man that Charles thinks he is is what strengthens his ability to comfort the displaced and love-starved child that Nova really is. It is that same hope that allows him to take a chance on Wade. All Logan can do is hear him out and do his best to see the merc for who he truly is. It takes him some time, but from the moment they met in the bar, to joining Wade’s world, Logan’s gaze never wavers; it only changes as he grows to understand Wade more. He is able to look past Deadpool, and see Wade Wilson.

‘Never take your eyes off an enemy’ evolves into looking at a mirror to his own soul. Wade is everything Logan is, and everything Logan isn’t. They are yin and yang down to the very cores of their being, and for Logan, it’s a tough pill to swallow when he realizes just how easy it is for Wade to love. It’s not only consistently thrown in his face with Wade’s repeated reminders of what’s at stake, but Wade showing him the picture of everything he has left forces him to reflect on the walls he’s built around himself and why. He has made so many mistakes, and he can do nothing but examine his own failures as an X-Man and as Logan himself. He is astounded by Wade’s ability to survive with his heart so crudely stapled to his sleeve, and when he looks at that photo, there’s a piece of him that almost wouldn’t mind being a part of the portrait. He thinks of a world where Scott doesn’t have to beg him to put on the suit. Where Jean, Storm, and Beast aren’t dead. Where Charles is still there to remind him everyday that he matters. Maybe a world where Charles could meet Wade and remind him that he matters too. But “when they fix your world” becomes “if they fix your world”, I imagine in the bitterness of that, Logan starts off repulsed by Wade’s openness to overfill his cup and share what overflows. It’s a slow eventuality, but inevitable nonetheless; Logan learns how to let Wade pour into him. His eyes soften and steady towards Wade as their relationship progresses. When being introduced to Althea, it’s obvious that something inside him has calmed, and the soft nod he gives is the only way Logan knows how to say that actually wants to be there. He’s answered Wade’s call and didn’t walk away. Logan can finally look at Wade with a sureness that he’s not going anywhere.

[GIF by bettercallcohen]

And I think Wade can feel that. Wade is so open because his universe is so small compared to everyone else’s. 9 people. 9 people who make him feel seen, make his heart full, and that make him feel like he belongs somewhere. So when he’s presented with the chance to add #10 to the Polaroid, when someone can actually see him through his vulgarities, through the violence, through his cancerous mutation, it’s more than just surprising when it’s someone like Logan. It’s been a long time since someone’s looked at him like he’s home. No one has looked at him that way since Vanessa. And he probably felt like no one would ever look at him that way ever again. But then here comes Logan, all eyes on him, shredding him to pieces and picking him apart. Wade is the only person he knows in this world, and Wade is the only person in this world that knows him. Logan is forced to confront the idea of being seen and being needed by someone again. Wade comes to him in a crazy, desperate attempt to save the people he loves, and instead he finds one more person to violently stitch into the fabric of his existence.

It’s intense, probably for the both of them, but Wade only knows intensity. Maximum effort. Nothing is off the table, nothing is left behind. Wade’s eyes are as loud as his mouth and bear a burden of their own; a burden of honesty when it comes to conveying his feelings as being one of the only things the Weapon-X experimentation left true and untouched. He sees the truth and they speak the truth. He could see right through Logan from the moment they met. Where Logan could only see a traitor, the Worst Wolverine, Wade saw someone that could teach him how to be a hero. Where Logan could only see himself as the wrong guy for the job, Wade knew this man was the only one capable of saving everyone and everything he loved in this world. He just wasn’t expecting Logan to become part of that world.

Wade is a tractor beam for both the jaded and the gentle, and there is a softness in his eyes that is warm and inviting and penetrating all at the same time. For Wade, it’s not hard to look at Logan and see the tired parts of himself in him. He sees in him the familiar longing for death. He sees a world where he doesn’t have Cable’s time machine to make things right, where Vanessa and Peter are still dead, and he’s blowing out birthday candles alone. Logan is a mirror in his own right; a reflection of not only his failures, but his fears as well. The fear that there may be a day where his luck runs out, and being crazy isn’t enough to save his world.

Crazy is what Wade does best, and the two of them have more than enough instances where “your crazy matches my crazy”. But it’s not hard to see that the way Logan looks at Wade during those moments morphs from a sharpened hostility to a warm familiarity. Though the context of this last scene is Logan fulfilling his duty as a wingman, it is the very second Wade realizes that the other man’s gaze has lost its vitriol and conviction has taken its place. It’s the moment Wade figures out that Logan is serious about wanting to stay, serious about learning how to live in his universe, and serious about his change of heart towards him. It’s a Logan that has accepted his twin flame, and is comforted by the thought that he has someone now that can not only take everything he can give and more, but can bite back just as hard. It’s no secret that Wade holds a space for Logan, but he’s never been concerned with whether or not Logan has done the same. So the moment he’s met with a gaze that is as sure and true as Logan’s is, Wade knows there’s not only room for him to bare all, but now there’s someone that won’t shield their eyes and look away when he does.

[littlelamy]

Request hehe: Maybe Reader has some trust issues due to past cheating etc. So she is constantly doubting If Rafe is doing something behind her back and it’s damaging their relationship/Rafe is feeling very offended that she could ever think that and leaves very upset. So some self-sabotage on her part.

a/n: thank you so much for requesting!! 💗 pngs from @saizun

the tension in the room was as palpable as the crisp autumn air seeping through the edges of rafe's window. you stood by the edge of the bed, arms crossed, while rafe paced near the door, his brows furrowed and lips drawn tight. it wasn’t the first time you’d found yourself in this situation—accusations hanging in the air like a storm cloud.

“i just don’t get why you think i’m lying to you,” rafe finally said, running a hand through his messy blond hair. his voice was raw, teetering between frustration and sadness. “what did i do this time?”

the pang of guilt that shot through you was immediate, but it was quickly overshadowed by the relentless doubt that had been gnawing at you for weeks.

“i don’t know, rafe,” you muttered, staring down at your hands. “you’re just… too good to be true sometimes. i mean, look at you.” you gestured vaguely at his tall, athletic frame, the way he looked even in a simple t-shirt and jeans. “how do i know you’re not out there talking to someone else? everyone likes you.”

he stopped pacing, standing still for a moment as your words sank in.

“you think just because people like me, i’d cheat on you?” his voice was quiet, but it carried a weight that made you wince.

“it’s not like that—”

“then what is it like, y/n?” he interrupted, his tone sharp now. he stepped closer, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours. “because this isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. you keep accusing me of something i’m not doing, and it’s…” he exhaled shakily, taking a step back. “it’s killing me, honestly.”

the tears you’d been holding back began to sting your eyes. you hated how this always ended—with you feeling like the villain and rafe looking at you like you’d just run over his dog.

“it’s not about you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “it’s about me. i’ve been through this before, rafe. i’ve trusted someone before, and they… they betrayed me.”

“and i’m paying for what someone else did?” his voice cracked, and he shook his head in disbelief. “do you even hear yourself?”

you stayed silent, your chest tightening with every second that passed.

rafe let out a bitter laugh, running his hands over his face. “do you really think i’m that kind of person? that after everything we’ve been through, i’d just—what? throw it all away for someone else?”

“i don’t know!” you blurted out, tears finally spilling over. “i don’t know what to believe anymore. i want to trust you, rafe, but it’s so hard. every time you’re late, every time you get a text and don’t tell me who it’s from, my mind goes to the worst place.”

“that’s not fair,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion. “you don’t even give me the benefit of the doubt. you don’t even try to trust me.”

you wiped at your tears angrily, hating how vulnerable you felt. “maybe i don’t know how,” you admitted, your voice breaking.

rafe stared at you for a long moment, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he fought to keep his composure.

“i can’t do this,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

your heart sank. “what do you mean?”

“i can’t keep proving myself to you when i’ve done nothing wrong,” he said, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “i love you, y/n. i love you so much it hurts, but this?” he gestured between the two of you. “this is tearing me apart.”

you took a step toward him, panic rising in your chest. “rafe, please. i’m sorry. i’ll work on it, i promise. just don’t… don’t leave.”

but he shook his head, his expression a mixture of sadness and resolve. “i need some time to think,” he said, his voice trembling. “i can’t keep feeling like i’m not enough for you when i’ve given you everything i have.”

he turned and walked out the door, leaving you standing there in stunned silence. the sound of the front door closing echoed through the house, and you collapsed onto the bed, sobbing into your hands.

you had pushed him away. the one person who had always been there for you, who had loved you despite your flaws, was gone—and it was your fault.

the days that followed were a blur. you went through the motions of life, but everything felt hollow without rafe. he didn’t call, didn’t text, and the silence was deafening. you wanted to reach out, to beg for his forgiveness, but every time you picked up your phone, the shame stopped you.

instead, you spent your time reflecting on the mess you’d made. you thought about the way you’d let your past dictate your present, how you’d let your insecurities poison something good.

you thought about rafe’s face the last time you saw him—the hurt in his eyes, the way his voice broke when he said he loved you.

you loved him too. you always had. but you’d let your fear overshadow that love, and now you were paying the price.

a week later, you found yourself standing outside rafe’s house, your heart pounding in your chest. you’d rehearsed what you wanted to say a million times, but now that you were here, your mind was blank.

taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door.

it opened a moment later, and there he was—rafe, looking as handsome as ever despite the tiredness in his eyes.

“y/n,” he said, his voice soft but guarded.

“hi,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “can i come in?”

he hesitated for a moment before stepping aside to let you in. you walked into the living room, the familiar space feeling foreign without the warmth you were used to.

“i’m sorry for just showing up,” you said, turning to face him. “i just… i needed to see you.”

he nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. “what do you want, y/n?”

“i want to fix this,” you said, your voice trembling. “i want to fix us.”

rafe let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “you can’t just say that and expect everything to go back to normal.”

“i know,” you said quickly. “i know i’ve hurt you, and i hate myself for it. but i’ve spent the last week thinking about everything, and i realized… i’ve been so unfair to you, rafe. i let my past ruin what we had, and i’m so sorry.”

he looked at you, his expression unreadable. “do you even trust me?”

“yes,” you said without hesitation. “or… i want to. i know i’ve given you every reason to think i don’t, but i do, rafe. i trust you more than anyone. i’m just scared. scared of losing you, scared of getting hurt again.”

“you’re not the only one who’s scared,” he said, his voice softening. “do you know how it feels to love someone who’s always waiting for you to screw up? to feel like no matter what you do, it’s never going to be enough?”

tears welled up in your eyes, and you stepped closer to him. “i’m so sorry, rafe,” you whispered. “i never meant to make you feel that way. you are enough—more than enough. and i don’t want to lose you because i couldn’t get out of my own head.”

he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “i don’t know, y/n. i don’t know if i can keep doing this.”

“please,” you said, your voice breaking. “i’ll do better. i’ll prove to you that i can be better, that i can trust you the way you deserve to be trusted.”

he studied your face, his blue eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt.

“i love you,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “but this has to change. i can’t keep living like this.”

“it will,” you promised, stepping closer and taking his hands in yours. “i’ll change. i’ll prove to you that i can be better.”

he sighed but didn’t pull away from you. “this is your last chance, y/n,” he said quietly. “i mean it.”

“i won’t waste it,” you promised, looking up at him.

for a moment, there was nothing but silence between you, the tension thick and heavy. then, slowly, rafe’s hands moved to cup your face.

“don’t make me regret this,” he murmured, his voice soft and raw.

“i won’t,” you whispered, your breath hitching as he leaned down.

his lips met yours in a kiss that was both desperate and tender, a silent promise of forgiveness and hope. you clung to him, pouring every ounce of your love and regret into the kiss, vowing to yourself that this time, you would get it right.

when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed.

“i love you, baby,” he said again, his voice steady this time.

“i love you too,” you whispered, your heart swelling with both relief and determination.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl l @evermorx89 @aariahnaa @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog

[julietsbody]

beg me — modern ! coriolanus snow + reader : you ask coriolanus to leave your boyfriend alone, and he will, at a cost.

tags : 18+! MDNI! cheating, reader has a bf, blowjobs, begging, face slapping, facefucking, explicit consent, spit kink

a/n : this is something i was been silently working on before my break.. so im finally posting it

coriolanus snow always thought he was above everyone, he was an asshole, especially in college. frats didn’t accept him because he had an eyebrow piercing and refused to take it out, he also liked to give himself stick and pokes, and he wore ‘disturbing’ t - shirts. what about cannibal corpse is disturbing?

and coriolanus could never go through his problems by himself, god no. are you stupid? that idea is revolting to him.

so he takes it out on the people around him, more specifically, the guy in his computer science class. if you thought you knew what a nerd was, you clearly had never met this guy. it was almost pathetic. so who wouldn’t bully him? and coriolanus knows, oh it’s not highschool anymore grow up! no, he thought it was funny to pick and pull at the man who wears ‘science rocks!’ shirts.

what he never expected, though, was that the man had a girlfriend— and that the same girlfriend would wound up at his doorstep one day, furiously knocking at his dorm door.

“one second!” he grumbles, rolling himself out of bed, naps in between classes were always his weakest moments. his clothes were disheveled when he stood, did he sleep in his jeans from earlier— maybe.

you start knocking again, and he audibly groans, running his hand over his face as he approaches his door. he finally opens it midway through your knock, only to find you, a girl dressed in pink and frills, a sorority girl. what a fucking joke.

clearly you thought the same because you stared at him like you didn’t even want to be there— so why were you?

“hello?” he mumbles out, voice raspy from his sudden awakening.

you stare at him for a minute, eyes trailing down to the dog - tag that hangs around his neck, his korn shirt— what the fuck is a korn, and his messy, loose jeans. your eyes snap back up to his face when he clears his throat, “i need to talk to you.”

he squints his eyes at you, “okayyy.. why?”

“because you won’t leave my boyfriend alone,” your arms cross, and coriolanus’ eyebrows furrow.

���i don’t know what you’re talking about, really,” he defends.

you counter it, “you don’t?”

“i just said i didn’t,” at least his attitude matches the look on his face, bitter and confused.

“you won’t stop bothering him, like seriously— he tells me about it all the time, do you have to be such an asshole?”

he pauses, “i think you’ve got the wrong dorm, doll.”

“doll?” you scoff, “i’m josh’s girlfriend, you dick.”

his eyes widen as his lips part into a surprised smile, laughing shortly, “this is a joke, right?”

“no, it’s not— leave my boyfriend alone,” you look so entirely serious.

he’s not buying it, “..okay— i’ll leave your ‘boyfriend’ alone.”

he moves to close the door in your face, but just before it inches to it’s close, your hand pauses it, flat against the wood as you push it back open. you look angrier now, he can’t really tell when you also look so sweet, “do you not believe me?”

“do you want me to be honest?”

“i would like for you to be,” you tilt your head to side ever so slightly.

he tips his chin up, a sign of his entitlement, “i don’t think that guy could pull anyone, let alone you.”

“well, isn’t that sweet,” you suck your teeth, “i’m serious, snow, leave him alone.”

“what if i don’t want to?” his eyebrow cocks, piercing shining in the hallway light.

“you’re gonna want to,” is that a threat?

“how come your boyfriend isn’t saying this himself? does he not have a mouth?”

“we both know you wouldn’t listen to him,” you frown, and he nods his head slightly.

“so, you really want me to leave him alone?” a small smile is curving his lips, again, that godforsaken cheshire cat smile.

“i do, i’m sick of hearing about you,” you snap back.

“is that so?” his voice suddenly becomes softer, “i think you should beg.”

“what?”

“beg me to leave your boyfriend alone.”

you hesitate for a second, “are you fucking stupid?”

“right,” he scoffs, moving to push the door to a near close, “i’ll keep bothering your boyfriend, then.”

you immediately push it to an open again, “no, no— fine, god.”

you push your way into his dorm, rolling your eyes and allowing your lips to part once more, “so embarrassing— i can’t be seen with you.”

“i’m embarrassing? how?” he cocks his head to the side, pushing his door to a close.

“look at yourself,” your arms cross, and he only smiles.

“aren’t you supposed to be begging?”

“god— you’re such a fucking weirdo,” you sigh, “please, leave my boyfriend alone.”

he hums, “that’s not begging.”

“come on— just, give him a break,” you frown up at him, those doe eyes, god, maybe he should tease your boyfriend more so you can come over more often.

“you’re not begging me, why should i leave him alone if you aren’t doing what i ask?” he pushes at his rings, twirling them around on his finger.

you pout ever so slightly, finally caving so he can shut up, “please, coriolanus, please, just leave him alone.”

“get on your knees,” he smiles so sweet it makes you sick.

god, what if josh heard about this.. “are you psychotic?”

“not sure,” he shrugs simply, “i need you to properly beg for me to actually consider it.”

you look away from him as you sigh, finally moving to your knees in front of him. he takes a step closer, smile widening at how easily you do what he asks, despite your slight pushback, you still did it. his lips part to speak again, “look at me.”

you do exactly that, making him chuckle, “leave my boyfriend alone, snow.”

“i’m not hearing please,” his fingers graze your chin.

“please, leave my boyfriend alone— please,” the cool of the hard floor is already forming bruises on your pliant skin.

he notices the way you shift uncomfortably, but also, something about being in this position has your thighs rubbing together. to be on your knees in front of someone, especially someone you heard many rumors about, rumors akin to him having a big dick, being a good fuck. you had always wanted to know, really, if they were true— you just never said anything. but josh, your boyfriend, sweet josh, you can’t do that to him.

can you?

his thumb rubs against your bottom lip, making you shiver, and suddenly the thought of josh becomes a distant memory.

“you know— if i do leave josh alone, ‘m gonna be bored,” he mumbles, voice dripping of salted dark chocolate, “who will i have left to bother?”

“find someone,” your lips purse around his thumb, “anyone.”

“anyone?” he chuckles lightly.

“anyone, whoever you want,” you sound desperate.

his pants feel tight, “whoever i want?”

you nod quickly, making him speak again, “what if i said i wanted you?”

you swallow, he feels it, as much as he feels your cheeks heat up— in his green eyes, you’re reminded of josh’s once more, “but josh..”

“what about him?” he sounds so fucking innocent, “you should forget about him.”

“i don’t know, snow—“ but you do know, you know that you would want nothing less than to suck his dick.

“tell me the truth, doll, because you keep looking at my dick,” he smirks knowingly.

god, he was insufferable, “i— i want to, i want to forget about him, i want..”

“want what?”

“you.”

“oh, sweet girl,” he dips his thumb into your mouth, admiring the way your lips immediately close around it.

eventually he pulls his hand away, helping move to tug his pants down, moving to do the same to his boxers but you quickly shift to help him, moving the boxers down his legs and admiring his cock— did he have a fucking prince albert piercing? the length of it made your breath hitch, as well as the girth, you could already feel the ache of your jaw.

he doesn’t even have to ask you to open your mouth, you’re already doing it, hand placed at his base to hold his dick in place as you place sloppy open mouthed kisses on his dick. his eyebrows furrow at the pleasure that courses through his veins at such a simple, teasing, action, “fuck, didn’t even have to ask you—“

he’s cut off by a grunt when your tongue suddenly trails on the underside of his cock to his tip, jaw falling slack so you can take him in with surprising ease. his hand moves to place itself on your hair, threading through it and tugging your head to bob on his cock, the sounds of saliva bubbling in the back of your throat as his tip hits it becoming his favorite. to hear you gag and sputter on his cock until he pulls away and admires your already messed up makeup, wow, josh should’ve sent his girlfriend sooner.

“so fucking pretty, hm?” he taps your cheek ever so slightly, then smack! he slaps you across the face, surprised by the way you smile at it, “you should leave josh— for me, i could treat you better.”

you shake your head, which only makes him chuckle, moving your mouth back on his cock. you take him so well, it’s addictive the way your moans vibrate against his tip, the sensitivity of your throat, the way your tongue lies flat on the underside of his cock, tracing the vein there. and god, you loved the way you could feel his piercing on your tongue.

to fall for an emo man like coriolanus, it was humiliating, but to be here on your knees, coriolanus’ hips thrusting harshly into your mouth, words can’t even express the amounts of embarrassment you felt. he pauses for a second after you’re coughing on his dick, only to lean down and spit on your face. you groan around his cock, pulling off, “you’re fucking crazy—“

you move to wipe it off, he frowns, “don’t wipe it off, doll.”

“‘m not gonna have your disgusting spit on me,” you snap back.

he fake pouts, “that’s not nice, doll.”

you roll your eyes, moving back on to his cock, looking away from him. he grunts, speaking again, “look at me.”

and you do, you look so perfect it has his dick pulsing in your mouth already. he slaps your face once more before his thrusts get sloppier, eventually pushing your head down to his base, cock twitching inside of your mouth as white spurts coat the back of your throat. he groans into the air, only pulling out when you slap his thigh.

you cough, trying to catch your breath as he moves to tug his boxers and jeans back over his softening cock.

“are you going to leave him alone now?” you move to a stand, glaring at him, as if you weren’t just sucking his dick.

he shrugs, “maybe.”

of course he won’t.

[starrieshq]

You Are In Love [Kitty & Jemma]

just our favorite Blackthorns ranting about their partners :)

Enjoy!!!

“Hey, Jules?”

Julian turned around to face Ty, headphones around his neck, fidgeting with the cord.

“What’s up, Ty?”

He sat down next to him, gray eyes flickering between meeting Julian’s gaze and his unresting hands.

“I just had a question for you.” He said.

Julian nodded, straightening. Ty didn’t love to ask questions, and preferred to figure out the answer for himself. “Alright.”

“How did you know that you were in love with Emma?”

The question took Julian aback. How did he know what love was? What was Ty going on about?

“Why do you ask?” He responded, keeping his voice steady and reassuring.

Ty wrapped the headphone cord around his finger, winding and unwinding it over and over. “Because I don’t know what to label emotions as. I keep feeling…things, but I don’t know what it is.”

Julian nodded, understanding. “I didn’t know that I was in love with Emma straight away. Actually, it took several years for me to realize.” He did a once over of Ty, who’s face looked as expressionless as ever. “But eventually, I started to see signs.” He faintly smiled, recalling old memories. “I always wanted to be with her, to the point where we would eat all our meals together, train together, we’d even sleep in the same bed.” He glanced at Ty, who looked deep in thought.

“She took my breath away. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, like my heart had stopped. I adored her laugh, her smile, her carefree and slightly reckless personality that made her Emma, that made her the girl that I’d fallen in love with.” He remembered the days when they were a secret, forbidden from their love. “Eventually, she was all I ever thought of. She consumed my mind. I painted her.” Julian wasn’t even sure if this made sense to Ty, if his rambling about Emma and his blatant adoration of her would tell him anything about love. “I painted her hundreds of times, but every time I did, it was never enough. The shades I used for her hair weren't exactly right, or I couldn’t catch the exact tan she had gained from the Sun.”

Julian looked back at Ty. “That’s what love is to me.”

Ty sat quietly, contemplating.

“Does it hurt?”

After a moment, Julian nodded.

“More than anything.”

Ty absentmindedly stared off, deep in thought.

“Are you in love, Ty?”

Ty’s gaze focused back on Julian.

“I have been.” He said, voice steady. “I’ve been in love and I haven’t known it.”

Julian sat back.

“Tell me about it.”

“Well,” Ty started. “He’s beautiful. His eyes look like the sky on a sunny day, and his hair is the fluffiest that I’ve ever seen.” There was a small smile dancing on his lips. “He’s barely shorter than me, maybe one or two inches. He wears the same jacket all the time, but he always looks breathtaking.” Ty’s face was flushed, recalling his memories with this love. “He’s sharp and witty, but he’s never like that to me. He understands me.” Ty dug his fingers into the denim of his jeans. “He’s kind and funny, and he makes me laugh. And I can’t stop thinking about him.” He admitted. “I haven’t been able to for the past three years.”

Julian, knowing full well who Ty was referring to, gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “I used to see you two together all the time. You two complimented each other so well, it’s hard to explain. He brought out something in you, something that I’d never seen before. It was true joy.” Julian swallowed. “But even further, you brought out something in him, Ty.”

Ty looked at him, bewildered and almost astonished at what Julian was saying.

“He was angry, and scared, and bitter at the world.” Julian said. “You showed him that the world is what you make it.”

“But he’s angry at me.” Ty said fretfully. “We haven’t spoken in forever.”

“Forever is an awful long time.” Julian responded. “I hope it truly isn’t forever.”

[writefightandflightclub]

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Five (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running? 

Genre: a LOT of angst, some smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. Please note this series is 18+. Minors / ageless blogs interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list). 

Author’s note: This is SO VERY ANGST. More angst than any other chapter so far. STRAP IN GIRLIES (GN). I'd love it if you feel like sharing what you think - your feedback means the world to me. ILY :-* Reblogs, comments, and asks are literal power-ups in my day and I appreciate every single one!

Word count: 8.3k for this part. 

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

You’re spiralling. 

You’re pissed off and you’re hurt and you’re somehow still horny as hell (somehow, perhaps even more horny since Santiago helped you out in that very particular way of his). You feel all in a tizz, like you don’t know which way is up; but even so, you’re pretty sure you’ve simply been going around in circles, and it’s dizzying. Santiago makes it easy to do that when you follow his lead, after all – all the more reason that you’d had to get out finally, all those months ago. 

Safe to say, you’re a little bit worked up. Too many thoughts are racing through your head. Resentment that he could get you all riled up like that, have you come undone, and then straight up deny you. Like it was some power play all along and that all he wanted was the satisfaction. On the other hand, a dreadful longing spikes at the thought that maybe he really did just want to protect himself, because he wouldn’t know how to find his way out this time if he got lost in you all over again. 

The main thing you’re feeling though – a bitter shard of pain stabbing through any sense of pleasure you may be left with - is a singular fear. 

What if he really doesn’t want you anymore? 

He wants you, yes, on some level. His admissions in the kitchen about wanting to kiss you confirmed that much. But his desire for you had always felt like an unstoppable force. Like something he couldn’t help or hope to control. Like a raging fire. He had told you that he loved you, wanted you, needed you, all those months ago. And while you are sure that remains true at least in part, you are terrified that all you leaving had achieved was to teach him how to live without you. And, contrary to that, his touch had simply confirmed how hopelessly consumed by him you still are, all your progress - moving on and rebuilding and forgetting - unravelled in mere moments by his fingers. 

You resent that too. His power over you, when you always prided yourself on being strong – needing no-one. You have never liked to feel like the one who is compromised, in any situation. You always prefer to be the hunter as, that way, you’re not the one who gets hurt. But Santiago? Santiago is lethal, and he has always known your weak spots.  

Maybe that’s why you had stormed angrily to your room, subduing your heavy footsteps reluctantly, only for the sake of your dear buddies sleeping soundly in their beds. Maybe that’s why you had hastily cleaned up, throwing on some fresh clothes from your case – a low cut top and some obscenely tight jeans. A splash of perfume. Some lipstick. All in the hopes of heading out to the local bar and searching for the kind of late-night attention which feels in your control. Seeking a desire which feels manageable. Trivial almost, instead of the kind which burns. 

Part of you – a small part of you, at least - recognises you’re being ridiculous, irrational, reactive, even as you zip on your boots. But there is another part of you that simply can’t stay here in this house with him a moment longer, feeling like he doesn’t want you the way you want him. 

You feel like, while you’ve been breaking apart for all these months, he was healing. It’s cruel maybe, that you would wish for his desire to burn him as much as it has a hold over you – but perhaps you’re not perfect. Perhaps you’re only human. 

Whatever. It doesn’t all need to make sense right now. Your head’s all over the place. You’re not really thinking straight at all. You don’t know whether you want to cry or scream or get your brains fucked out (or maybe all of the above - not in that order). And so, you’re definitely not thinking when you throw open the door to the bathroom, recalling that you’d left your necklace on the counter. If you were -thinking- perhaps you would have heard the rushing of the water. Perhaps you would have heard the muffled, bitten back groans emanating from the shower cubicle. 

Fuck. 

If you weren’t thinking straight before, every thought falls right out of your head altogether when you swing open that door. Namely, when you see Santiago, his body slanted into the wall as he palms his thick, straining length in something of a frenzy. 

You should retreat, probably. In fact, yeah. That's exactly what you should do. But, the sight of him there arrests you, and you can’t help but devour every detail of him. Your eyes skim over him only fleetingly, and yet your memory of his body fills in the gaps, meaning you’re able to see far more of him than you could otherwise in the split second your eyes rove over him. 

He is stripped down, his body curled into the tiled wall, his forehead and one shoulder bracing himself as the stream of water thunders down on the back of his neck and his broad, lightly muscled shoulders. 

His thighs are slightly spread and his full glutes are clenching as he fucks his hard, veined cock into the circle of his left hand, squeezing tight and showing no mercy, his pace relentless. 

From the way his nipples are pebbled and the way you observe the tightness of the muscles coiling in his back, you can guess that the water is cold. Perhaps, that he had attempted to cool off after what had happened downstairs, seemingly to no avail. His need is heavy and urgent and burdening his hand, the veins popping in his slick forearm as water sluices over every contour of him and still, his want is evidently raging. 

The most important detail of all, however, is that his eyes are closed, droplets of water beading in his long lashes, and a wracked moan sounding from around his own fingers as he shoves them over his tongue. 

Fuck. 

He’s licking them clean. He’s tasting you. Tasting your juices from his fingers and pumping himself raw from the thought of it. 

Holy shit. 

He wants you. 

You see it now, clear as day. He wants you to the point of desperation. Helplessness. To the point of coming undone with his need for you. His want rages even beneath the stream of a cold shower, taken in hopes of subduing himself. He works himself urgently in his fist, in hopes of finding his release. You find him here, like this. 

Unfinished. 

You can see it much more clearly now. You see how he wants you. You see what you do to him. What you still do to him. 

You see now that saying no to you likely took every scrap of control he had, and now that is gone, there is nothing left for him but you. 

As you enter, Santiago hears the door creak open – you weren’t exactly sneaking- and he immediately tilts his body to the wall. It’s automatic - showing his ass rather than his dick in his hand, likely in case one of the boys had just walked in on him. But, when he sees it’s you stood there, all slack-jawed and honey-eyed, he foregoes the need to hide. He turns towards you instead, his length twitching as it grows even more rigid and more ruddy at the sight of you. Santiago’s eyes hooded and desolate with want as he looks you up and down in your ridiculous, come-fuck-me clothes. 

Santiago knows fine well that you only wear red when you want to be shown a good time. You feel like a flare, on display, and maybe you’d feel stupid -like scrubbing this red paint from your mouth – if his need was not blatantly on display too. If his predicament did not seem even more dire than yours. 

Finally, though, as you look and he lets you, you register the intrusion, and with a series of stunted vowel noises which barely make it past your teeth, you are dragging your eyes away from his. Your legs like jelly and skin flushed beneath your tight clothes, you are clasping the door handle and turning on your heel. Your only objective is to make it out of there, even if you turn to vapour in the hallway after the fact. 

“Where the fuck are you going?” Santiago asks gruffly, and you are not sure what he means. Not sure whether he means to ask where you’re headed out to so late, or to inquire why in the hell you’re leaving the room now that you’re here, but God, you’re not sure anymore that you could answer either question in any way that would make the slightest bit of sense. 

You’re just not thinking straight. Can you be blamed? Look at him. Look at this, all for you. 

So, you freeze, breath held in your lungs as you grip the handle – your back to him, and about to swing the door open to hasten your exit. Instead, though, against every shred of good sense you have, you push the door closed, ever so gently, with you still on the inside. You turn, preposterously slowly back towards him, and when the sight of him stood there, wet and dripping, face all stern and languidly palming himself in the circle of his hand hits you, you flatten your back to the panelled door. Truth is, your legs feel so weak that you could barely stand without it. 

And, as if that wasn’t quite answer enough, Santiago continues to look at you insistently. 

Well? The quirk of his thick brow seems to enquire. Where the fuck are you going? 

Your voice comes out all breath. “Nowhere.” 

You’re going fucking nowhere, apparently. Only ever around and around in circles with Santiago “Pope” Garcia – but suddenly, you could care less.  

Your eyes lock then, and it takes less than moments for him to be on you, his wet hands fisting everywhere - in your hair and your clothes - and dragging your mouth onto his in a sudden, consuming crush. Your hands snake into his hair, squeezing cool shocks down your forearms as you wring rivulets of water from his grizzled curls, grabbing handfuls of the length at his crown to pull him deeper into you, his tongue hot and supple and buried in your mouth. Your top sticks to you, wet and sodden in all the places he has grabbed up handfuls of your flesh, or pressed his hot body flush against you. 

He drives you back, into the door and the awkward mess of towels hanging there on hooks. 

“Fuck,” he bites off into your mouth, and you surge forward with this barrelling want, walking him backward and slamming him against the cool tiles with a thwap and enough force that he grunts. Still, it barely slows him down at all, his hands all over you and his kisses still devouring, ripping the air from your mouth. 

There is no romance in this, you think. Only need, raw and animal, and you are surprised that you show enough restraint not to tear each other down to the floor and go at it right on the tiles. Still, you barely show any more restraint than that. 

“Shit. Fuck. Turn around. Turn around,” Santiago rasps, entirely wrecked already, barely able to get the words past his mouth. His cock looks almost painfully hard, and entirely insistent against your ass as he spins you and roughly bends you over the counter, pots of toothbrushes knocked into the sink and soap rolling who knows who cares where. 

“You want this?” he asks as he presses you into position, little precision or ceremony in it – just a rough, raw urgency, entirely untamed. 

You can see yourself reflected in the mirror above the sink, blurry and steamy and bent over, and that’s exactly how it feels. Everything; blurry and steamy and close and tight. He’s as hard as the cool marble surface digging painfully into your hips, and you’re as hot as steam and as wet and slick as this mirror and you’re melding into one another – not single bodies anymore but shapes and a mood and a feeling, and there is nothing else. 

“Princesa?” Santiago pleads, even as he tugs your jeans down over your ass, removing the bare minimum of clothing to give him access where he needs, the garment still tight and unforgiving around your thighs, not allowing you to move  - barely at all. “You need me?”

“Yes. Fuck me. Need you,” you beg, and you hear him spit unceremoniously into his hand -not that he’d need it- and slather it all over his length, groaning as he makes contact with his sensitive, needy dick as though he might spill over his knuckles with the anticipation of stuffing you full alone. 

Still, he holds on -by a thread – and your eyes roll back into your head as you finally feel the blunt tip of him notch clumsily at your need-swollen entrance. 

Then – ohhhhhh- then, there is the dull ache shortly after as the girth of him pushes through your wanting folds. You grunt at the initial stretch as he works himself inside of you, but pinned between the counter and his surging hips there is nowhere for you to go, and his need sinks into you inch by inch until he fills you all the way. 

You succumb to your ragged breaths and mewl for him, you arms practically giving way beneath you as you press them into the cool surface to keep you standing. He fills you, and God, you’ve missed this. Have missed how full you feel with him inside of you - in every sense of the word. The way his hands grip your hips in that specific spot he likes. 

You have missed his girth. Could swear you can feel every inch of him pressing outward against the tight grip of your heat as he fucks his cock into your hole, bottoming out with a delicious, wracked, stuttering moan, the sound alone causing pleasure to bloom around the drag of him deep inside you. 

Still, despite this fullness - you also feel the give of your walls to him, your slick and eager heat actively suckering him in. He stutters his hips as you clamp tightly around him and then, so help you, he finally begins to move. 

Jesus, this feels even better than his fingers, even better than you remember, and you relish every moment as he fucks into you, bareback and desperate, your pleasure coiling up impossibly quick as the straining mass of him works you open, hitting all of your sweet spots. Your legs tremble beneath you with adrenaline and want, and you feel Santiago’s thighs flush against the back of your legs, his hips snapping against the cushion of your ass as the counter edge bites painfully into your hinged hips. 

He's not taking his time with you. Not teasing or planning or thinking. You can tell by the undone grunts and groans he’s submitting to you already, that -for once- he is far too consumed by his own need to contemplate yours. Can tell by the sloppy pace of his thrusts and the lack of attention to your clit or your breasts or anything else but filling you - his hands fisting in the meat of your hips as he takes what he needs, gives what you crave – that he’s not even trying to make you come… but goddamn it if he isn’t going to get you there all the same. 

Soon too. 

God, the head of him is rubbing exactly where you need, and you can’t remember the last time you felt this good with a dick inside you. Your cunt is primed for him, still sensitive from where his fingers fucked you open and it isn’t going to take you long at all to reach your peak. 

Even without seeing him properly, in the misted-up mirror, you can tell that Santiago is going feral behind you. Filling you deeply and haphazardly, his fingers leaving imprints on your skin. 

You hear a snarl, and see a pearly flash of teeth as his lip curls up from how good you’re making him feel. 

“Fuucckk,” he groans, his head tipped back now, that pretty chin pointing up to the sky and his mouth dropping open – you can vaguely see in the mirror

His broad hand smooths firmly down the middle of your back and over your ass - grabbing handfuls of you- before he retraces his path, sliding his hand up between your shoulder blades and winding his hand in your hair, grabbing and pulling until your spine is curled back for him like a bow, your ass arced up and allowing him a deeper angle of penetration which sends tingles all the way to the tips of your toes when he hits just right. 

You practically yowl for him, your whole body trembling and shaking, sweat trickling down the centre of your cleavage as the layers you did not have time to dispense of overheat your skin. As your clit is nudged into the lip of the counter in a way that shouldn’t work for you, probably, but totally does, the intermittent slap of Santiago’s hips against you providing a pleasing rhythm. 

It’s uncomfortable, and hot, and cramped, and in some ways painful to be rammed up against the surface like this, but you wouldn’t tell him to stop for the world. You wouldn’t tell him to stop because the way he’s taking you feels divine, Santiago burying his want for you as deep as it will go, releasing his punctuated, abortive gusts of breath in time with his thrusts.

You feel drips land on the small of your back, and whether its water cascading from his dampened curls or beads of sweat from the exertion rolling down his temples you do not know or care. 

You only know that you want more. 

Determined as ever, you plant your hands firmly on the counter as he fucks you near boneless, driving through your hips until you meet his thrusts, working him up higher, finding the angle which hits just right and-

“Unnnngggg.” A whimper falls from his pretty mouth and his thrusts are suddenly far more shallow, slow, nudging against your nervy, sensitive entrance. His breaths are coming in deeper, heavy gusts now and you might be afraid that he was about to stop - if you weren’t so sure that he was, in fact, gearing up. 

“Santiago,” you complain as he blunts the sharp edge of your precipice with the break in rhythm. You urge him to give you more, and he uncurls his fingers from your hair and adjusts position. 

Obligingly, he wraps his stronger arm around your chest to guide you closer to standing, pressing his chest to your back, his head hooking over your shoulder. And, with his other arm, he reaches forward towards the steamed mirror, using his palm to clear a window from the condensation. 

“I wanna see you,” he rasps, a hoarse, gritty whisper in the shell of your ear. “Wanna watch you.” 

God, it’s too much. The way his arm is wrapped around your front, strong and yet tender as his forearm braces across your chest and his fingers dance tenderly over your jaw. The wracked, undone voice of him, whisper soft. The contrast between this and the certainty of his thrusts as he finds a new rhythm. As you find a new rhythm together, entirely in sync. 

Slowly, so slowly, he draws out of you, ensuring you can feel every single inch of him, the tantalising drag of him through your folds making your quiver. Then, he snaps back into you all at once, so suddenly shoving himself up into you, balls slapping against your ass, each repetition of this pattern building you up. God, you want him to spill himself inside you, and you think vaguely that it is the only thing which could quench you. 

It is your undoing when his eyes find yours in the mirror, and this all becomes real. No longer fantasy like your unreliable recollections of him all these months. No longer shapeless, tangled, blurry bodies, but now so very suddenly, you are looking at you and him, with all that means. 

The look in his eyes gives form to this act, as though the love settled in them is the very thing giving form to the way he fills you. He is at once stern - his brow burdened, heavy-lidded with need, his eyes sunk into a pit of desire - yet soft. His strong nose is crushed up against you as his lips caress your neck. His eyes dance over your face, taking you in as you languish up against him. 

His eyes are molten when they find you again, dancing with a soft, subtle heat not unlike firelight, long lashes fluttering in disbelief at the sight of you. At the feel of you wrapped around him. No longer just a body or some carnal need, shapeless and intangible. 

Instead, Santiago and you, and your bodies moving as one. 

His soft lips and rasp of stubble break from the column of your neck as his thrusts become sloppy, and you feel his hot breaths come thick and fast against your skin now. 

He missed you.

He missed you, and this is what he’d meant. Had meant he needed to feel you wrapped around his dick. Moaning his name. Needed to see you being his. Missed you being his. God, you missed that too, in so many ways. 

A moan rips through you as you approach your peak, and you plead profusely with him. 

“Don’t stop. Santi. Please.” 

You don’t ever want him to stop. 

As you clamp down on him, your fluttering core wrings his own orgasm from him too, and then he’s pulsing his load into you, thick and warm and abundant, his thighs quaking against yours and his arms gripping on to you more tightly – this time for purchase – as though this might be the time his knees finally buckle if he doesn’t hold on to you. 

You can feel his racing heartbeat hammer from his chest to yours as he holds you flush to him. Can feel his mouth suck at the column of your neck, his tongue sliding along your pulse point and tasting your perfume. 

You come down from your high, thrumming with it. Wet and messy between your legs as Santi drags his softening dick out of you, letting your juices and his seed slip down your inner thighs. 

You feel good. Blissed out. But, as ever, with you and Santiago, there’s always a catch. The joy is immense, but, guaranteed that one of you - if not both - will find a way to ensure it is short-lived. 

Indeed. All too soon, you begin to feel that creeping sense of regret hollow-out your stomach. 

You can see it on his face too. The uncertainty. The lack of understanding of what this all means. About what to do next. It is evident from the way he so quickly moves away from you, picking up his shorts and t-shirt and covering up his body. Similarly, you hike up your jeans without even cleaning up, and as much as you might have hoped for a joyful, intimate moment, you know that it’s already too late for that. The moment that the insecurity, doubt and uncertainty had crept in on each of your faces it had become self-reinforcing. A spiral. Running in circles. 

“Shit,” you sound out, in a clear peal of regret, planting a hand over your face in distress - despite everything. 

“Sounds about right,” Santiago agrees in a monotone, brows drawn down and his gaze fixing on a spot of tile, unable to look you in the eye, despite having been buried inside you only moments ago. 

“No,” you stress, bringing a second hand to your face. There’s something else. Something that makes you feel stupid and sick. “I…. I mean, shit. I changed my birth control up and I… I mean we…” Santiago snaps his eyes back up to you now, alright. You curse when you note the writhing of his taut jaw, set and a little annoyed. Your softly puffed expletive which follows is contrite, but it doesn’t help. 

It’s not like you -or him- to make a mistake like that. And yet, you had all the same. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

You bristle at his harsh, accusatory tone. How quickly things sour. “It’s not like you checked!” It is his turn to bristle now, and so you opt to be harsher still. “Besides, I didn’t exactly think you were going to be quite so quick on the trigger, Santi.”

He narrows his eyes at you, his riposte about his stamina not even required. He got you off, didn’t he? So, your attempted distraction is futile, as he manages to stay alarmingly on topic. You fold your arms across your chest as he steps towards you, feeling on the back-foot as his flattened palm nags through the air to punctuate his words. “It didn’t occur to you to mention that before we fucked?” 

“I forgot. I switched up my method and I’m not technically covered yet. It’s marginal, you know. Most likely fine. I mean, what’s another 24 hours? Besides, I didn’t exactly plan on this, did I?” 

He scoffs, then he purses his mouth until much of the colour drains from his lips. “Oh yeah. Sure you didn’t.” 

You raise your eyebrows, and jut a hip out to the side for good measure. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Santiago shakes his head softly. Plants his hands on his wide hips, making himself larger. You don’t shrink back from him, but you note it. “For real?” He flashes his line of teeth now, a lopsided, disbelieving lilt of his lips – no happiness in it. Not at all. “I know you love to pretend like I’m the bad guy, right? That serves your narrative or whatever? Bullshit, honey. You knew exactly what you were doing tonight.” You snort out a huff of air through your nose, your look all steel as you prepare to deny his claims. You falter though, with his next words. “I can’t get off without you, Santiago?” he mimics, and your comeback dies on your lips. “You wanna put this all on me now? Believe me, I gave it everything I had to stay out of-“

“-My vagina? Yeah, great job, Pope.” You throw your hands up in the air and they slump right back down again. “You’ve had everything up in there except your damn tongue.”

“Let’s go then, sweetie,” he challenges, nodding to the rear of you, his voice taut rather than inviting. “Hop up on the counter and spread your legs, I’ll make it 3 for 3.”

It’s unfamiliar to you, this tone of his. It makes your heartbeat rage. You swear you can even feel the pulse of it in your tongue. “Fuck. Whatever. I’m not having this conversation with you.” Your adrenaline spikes at the prospect of another argument and you turn on your heel, looking for an exit. 

However, before you can retreat, Santiago’s broad palm contacts your arm to stop you – open hand, no force applied – and you turn your head over your shoulder. “At least tell me you’re going to take care of this,” he bites off, with a clear attempt to restrain his aggravation, expression sullen. 

“Of course I am.”

“How?” 

You think. “I’ll go to the pharmacy in the morning. I’ll deal with it.” You pump your brows emphatically. “Okay?” 

You shrug his hand off of you then with apparent disdain for his touch, and in spite of his (relative) tolerance of your acerbic tone, that is apparently the move which fractures his composure. “You know what actually blows my mind? The way you can be nice to me just long enough to get yours. Pretty fucking convenient.” 

You feel your face twist with the weight of a sour expression, mirroring his. “Why are you always like this?” You don’t wait to hear his answer, the adrenalin propelling you away, down the hall and closer to your room, but his footfalls follow closely behind you, hot on your heels. Your voice is a whispered hiss, as, somewhere in the back of your mind, you are vaguely aware of the need to keep it down – the other boys are lights out by now. “Why can you never just fuck me and be happy about it, huh?” You spin to face him, chest to chest and facing off. 

“I knew this was a fucking mistake.” 

Your pulse is in your throat. “Right. Maybe it was. That’s all I ever was to you, I guess.” 

Your voices raise, slowly creeping up in volume as you each get lost in this intimate bubble of angst. Of resentment. On some level, you know you could stop now - before it gets worse and you say things you will only regret (or worse, hear things you’ll wish you hadn’t). You know that you should stop, but it feels… oddly necessary. 

Like it’s inevitable. Like you’ve been waiting all this time to fuck and fight because it’s all you know how to do with him anymore. At least, it’s all you know how to do when loving him heart and soul seems off the table. 

The space your bodies create is tight, leaning into each other’s circle of personal space. 

Santiago’s fingers bridge like a claw and he taps them against his own chest, his eyes needling you like he could sew this up once and for all. Tie off all those loose threads of blame which sit frayed between you. He’s angry. Angry and riled and pissed and even so, there is still this eerie sense of calm about him. 

You’ve seen him really let loose. You’ve seen him kill, for Christ’s sake, and yet he’s still measured and restrained in the face of you. That should make it easier to bear the brunt of his sharp edges, but that’s not quite so. There’s something about the precision of his anger when it’s focussed on you. The fact it feels so considered, so targeted only makes it cut deeper. “You know what? I’m tired as shit of always being the fucking bad guy here. You wanna get into it, huh?” His voice breaks now, splitting like shrapnel, lodging in your chest. “I told you I love you and you fucking left me.” 

“That’s fucking bullshit!”  

He’s not happy that you said that. He rocks from foot to foot like he’s priming for something. Scoops a hand over his jaw, around his taut mouth. You’re close enough to hear it rasp, the fleck of his stubble bristling against his palm. “Oh, it’s bullshit?”

Your voice comes out hot now, your words bitten off between your teeth, flecks of spit cast from your mouth. “Yes! Because if I hadn’t left you never would have told me! You told me because I left you! You told me to fucking punish me. To try and drag me back in.” 

“Wow. Jesus fucking...” He laughs, but it is a cold, brief sound. “That’s fucking rich, cariño.” His eyes glint like knife licks, and he plants his hand indignantly against his chest, jutting up his chin. Puffing up his chest and making his body all angles. Protecting himself. “That’s really what you think of me, huh?” You try to look away from him, but his eyes chase you for an answer. 

Is it? Is that what you genuinely think of your best friend? Is that what you think he’s done to you? Tried to do? 

If so, no wonder you’re so fucking angry. No wonder your body is trembling with it. 

But the truth is, when pushed on it, you have no intelligible retort you can form. No evidence you can offer. So, instead, in your panic over losing ground, you opt to minimise. You throw your hand up dismissively and you turn on your heel, stomping towards your door at the end of the hall. “Fuck this.”

This time, his footsteps do not follow, even if you can still feel his eyes boring into your back. You think that might even be the end of things, until…

“No,” he sounds. A forceful, robust note which fills the whole hallway. A command to wait. This isn’t over. 

With you and him, it’s never going to be over, is it? 

You turn towards him and he is fixed in position, stance set wide and chin dipped down, eyes blackened half moons as he looks at you. “Just let me get this straight. If I’m the one who drags you back in? What the shit do you call what you just did?”

You scoff. “You were a very willing participant, Pope. Or, I dunno. Why don’t you just consider it payback for all the times you fucked me around?” 

He’s biting words back as he listens to you now. You can see them, in the tilt of his head and the flare of his nostrils. In the flip and curl of his tongue settled around his upper lip, dragging back and forth just below his filtrum. “Revenge, then? Really? Is that what this weekend has been about for you? You really that vindictive?”

“No. Don’t be ridiculous.” You dismiss him again, as though not one of his complaints about you can possibly be valid. Or, rather, revealing you are currently unwilling to admit it even if they are. After all, you’re as stubborn as he is. Each of you trying so desperately to palm off the blame for how fucked up this became. 

Santiago paces towards you then, footfalls rhythmic and steady as he swallows the space between you in the hall. “Jesus. You don’t even give a shit, do you? Think I deserve to have my heart crushed into fucking dust?” 

Hot, angry tears spike at the corner of your eyes as you spit your words, jabbing his shoulder with your pointer finger. “Like you give a shit that I left?” 

His dense brows draw down, his whole face a grimace, his voice practically booming throughout the hallway, close enough that the sound of it rumbles in your chest. “I don’t know how else I can say it. I never wanted to lose you.”

“Yeah? Well you never fucking had to!”

Santiago is the one who turns from you now, pacing back in a loop, both hands lifting and dragging backward through his grizzled curls, flattening them to his head in disbelief. He rounds back to you, spittle glistening on his lower lip from his tirade. He’s waving his arms now, everything being thrown upward just like the hideous lurch in your stomach. “You’re the one who ran from this!”

Well, that’s the biggest pile of shit you ever heard. You fold your arms to your chest, becoming guarded and taut where he becomes more frenzied. “Oh ho ho,” you scoff. “Now that’s a grade A delusion, right there.” He mumbles something under his breath, shaking his head from side to side in a long, disbelieving drag. In denial. Still. “You’ve been running, Santiago. You’ve done nothing but run from this. Even the whole time I was right next to you. Especially then.”

He steps towards you, driving your body back into the door without making a scrap of contact with you. From the force of him alone. He leans his face in real close, his movements disconcertingly slow - cautious and deliberate. It’s not threatening – you don’t feel physically unsafe at all - but you can tell from the flare of his nostrils and that gunpowder glint in his eye that while his movements may be constrained, he’s still arming himself with a coming barrage. 

You flatten yourself – your back to the shut paneled door-  and Santiago lifts his hand, reaching up to you. Pincering your chin deceptively tenderly between his thumb and forefinger, making sure you look at him. “Right. And you’ve been so perfect, huh?” His eyes needle you, making it impossible for you to wheedle out of this one. To dismiss him. He’s making sure you take at least some accountability for your part in this. “Fucking other guys to get back at me? Insisting we keep it a secret? Pissing off to another fucking continent, two days early, by the way, before we’d even put things right?” You break eye contact, your vision of him blurred by wilful tears. He releases your chin from his grip then, but the space between you remains tight. Close, even as you feel a million miles from him. “Christ - it’s like you never fucking wanted this to work. Never believed I was worth it. How am I supposed to work with that?”

Hot, spiking tears spill over onto your cheeks. You scrub them away with a flattened palm but it still doesn’t slow them down. 

“Please,” you beg limply, shaking your head from side to side. You want him to stop this. You just want this to be over. 

“I was never the guy someone would bring home to their mama, was I? Too fucked up and too broken for that? Hands too bloody, right, to be good enough for you?” You balk audibly in protest at his words, but even so, it sends a hot flash of heat to your cheeks. 

Is there some truth in it? 

Had you been afraid of what he’d done, even though the blood on his hands matches yours? Or… maybe because of it? 

Your lower lip begins to tremble as the ire in Santiago’s eyes burns you, hot like coals. But he has more to say. “I get it. It’s easier to blame me for everything that got fucked up, right?” He beats his palm emphatically against his chest and flattens it there. “I’m hardly a fucking Saint, I’ll admit that much. But do you honestly think that I ever wanted to hurt you? That this doesn’t fucking hurt me?” 

No. You want to say “no”. No. That’s not what you believe at all, but instead the words that find their way out are cruel and petty. “Well you did. You hurt me!” 

You wish you could get rid of it, this anger in your chest. You only want to love him… but you tried that, and since it didn’t work, it somehow feels like the anger is all you have left to fill this hole in your middle.

His eyes tighten, and Santiago jabs his finger back and forth, his voice hoarse as he pushes the words out from the pit of his chest. “It never mattered, what I did or didn’t do. It was never going to be good enough for you.” 

“That’s not true. At all!” You spit back. “It’s you who thought that. Not me. Not me. You wouldn’t even fucking try.”  

Santiago scrubs a tear away from his own cheek now. His voice creaks and cracks apart. “I tried. I did. But you only want me under certain conditions right. If I quit. If I get out. Maybe if I’m someone fucking else.”

“That’s not fair, that’s not how it is. For fuck’s sake, Santi.”

You are both entirely undone now with this ugly rage, tears wetting your cheeks, and this resentment and blame twisting your words and your faces into something unrecognisable. 

That makes it all the worse when Frankie’s torso pokes out of his door in the hallway. You know that the two of you are not yourselves. Frankie’s face twists with disappointment and concern in equal measure, and you fold your arms across your chest defensively, feeling embarrassed that he is seeing you this way. At your worst. Why do you and Santiago always seem to bring out the worst in each other? You’d swear blind to anyone that he’s the best person you know. 

“Guys. What the fuck?” Frankie ventures. His voice is grogged by sleep, and you get the feeling he would step out into the hall if he wasn’t entirely nude behind the door frame. 

Feeling suddenly ashamed, with the contrasting softness of Frankie’s eyes on yours, you feel the urge to run from yourself and what you’ve become, all twisted up like this. You push past Santiago in the hallway, storming down the stairs as tears now cascade freely down your cheeks. You don’t even make an attempt to mop them up now, letting them course down and drip from the point of your chin. 

Then, with an aggravated sigh, Santiago follows you too, in pursuit, despite Frankie’s barked pleas that he “leave it alone, cabrón”. 

You push out of the threshold and into the night, the cooler air a welcome relief. You pace away from the house, wanting to leave it, to leave him entirely, but your body will not let you. Will not carry you far enough away, and your steps quickly run out of steam. 

When Santiago finds you, you are stood with your back to him, looking out towards the white crash of waves. He comes and stands next to you, hands gently clenched by his sides. 

“Look,” he begins, staring out at the expanse of water. You feel your anger cresting and with it comes a wave of sadness. “I love you. But maybe you’re right. Maybe… we’re not good for each other. Maybe we just… can’t make each other happy.” 

You shake your head softly. Tip your eyes to the sky to stave off yet more tears. “I just wish we’d never changed things.” You wish more than anything that you could simply swallow it. Go back to how things were before. 

“Don’t,” Santi implores, turning to you with his hands cupped as though in offering, soft and haphazard and trying to catch on your elbow, your shoulder, your hand. “Don’t say that. Please. No matter how fucked this got… You’re the best thing I ever-” 

But, your anger is not done. Your palms raise in the air, forming a barrier between your bodies - a defence against his brutal love - and you snatch yourself away from him. Your voice is once again harsh as it rings in accusation, words tearing from your lips like bullets. “-Let go?”

There is a beat. 

“Seriously. You’re gonna stand there and tell me I could I have fucking stopped you?” 

You raise your palms and plant them to your face, splayed fingers tugging in disbelief from your temples, sliding down to your mouth - drawing your cheeks into a grimace. You look at him and his face is once again taut with blame. His mouth a thin, downturned line. But even now….. Somehow, even now, you want to kiss him. Want to kiss him until he is soft again, like you know he can be. 

Why would he never turn soft for you - not all the way? Soft in your arms? Why would he never? 

He shifts his weight from foot-to-foot under your scrutiny. He sees the anger melt away from your face, but his is not done. “I mean, fuck. What do you want from me, huh? You want me to come with you? Just drop everything?” 

“Just stop, Santi,” you plead, weakly, but there’s no way he heard you over his own tirade.

“My whole career. This shit I’ve got going on with Lorea. Pick-up and move here? Huh? Tell me? What do you want from me?” 

You fold your arms across your chest, closing yourself off to him. “Please, just drop it.” 

“You want me to have dinners with you and your family on Sundays? Take the nephews to the playpark, huh?” 

He won’t stop. He won’t stop talking, stop pushing you, and you can’t take it. You’re going to snap. 

“Go fucking grocery shopping? And get married and have babies and-?” 

“Yes!” you finally yell, your whole body craning forward as you fire your answer out through your throat, the word coming out scuffed and sudden; but nothing if not truthful. Your eyes go wide, quivering with tears as well as the shock of your revelation. The shock of revealing something you can barely even admit to yourself. 

That is what you want. With him. 

Santiago is evidently as shocked as you are too. Stunned into silence, in fact. He takes a perceptible step back from you, punching out a breath like he’s just been struck with a body shot. All the tension drops from his limbs, and his arms flop uselessly to his sides.

But, instead of backtracking, from somewhere, somehow, you finally find the courage to stand in your truth. “Yes,” you say shakily. “I want that, you asshole.” And, at those words, you interpret the most repulsive thing you’ve seen in his eyes all night. Pity. “And you, meanwhile? You’d rather get shot in the guts than do that with me, wouldn’t you? Something so mundane as being happy? Something so fucking worthless as loving me?” You tear your head away from him, whip your gaze away as you cannot bear to look at him. Cannot bear to see your true wants rejected. With a final question, you stab your pointer finger against your sternum with enough force that it hurts. “I’m not a mission, so I’m not worth it right? Not important?”

He shoves his hands in his back pockets, his gaze dropping to the floor, to a neutral spot between you. His voice all but cracks apart, small and broken. “I told you that I love you.” 

“That wasn’t enough!” You bite your words off before you can even think, and his eyes snap back up to yours then. Wounded. Glassy. You regret the words as soon as you have spoken them, but it is far too late to recall them now. You can see that they cut him - and you can even understand why they would hurt. What an awful thing to have said, you think; that his love wasn’t enough. 

It was everything. 

Everything. 

Wasn’t it? 

Even so, here you stand, still waiting and hoping that he can offer you something more than that alone. A solution, perhaps. A way to fix this. 

Instead though, Santiago simply nods slowly. Contemplatively. In resignation. He stands eerily still. Eerily quiet. Entirely stoic. “Right. Well.” His hand rasps back and forth over his stubble, and his voice is entirely sunken. Defeated. He’s a soldier. Your friend. Your lover. But most of all, now he’s someone who appears to have stopped fighting for you. He looks you in the eye, all of his anger dissipated. Voice scrubbed clean and entirely dispassionate. “That’s too bad then. Because I don’t have anything else I can give you.”

He turns from you now, and you grab onto his arm. “Believe me. The only thing I ever wanted from you… With you, was a future, Santiago.”  

It breaks your heart when he quietly, slowly extricates his arm from your grasp, slipping through your fingers like fine sands. Did you really think that you could do that? That you could keep on pushing him, without eventually pushing him away? 

A divot notches in his brow. “Mmm-hmm. Well I guess we fucked any shot at that now, didn’t we?” 

You search his ashen eyes - almost in desperation - for some of that all too familiar fire. For any sort of spark for you. 

Godammit, as soon as the anger has gone, you want it back. You want something; only because it seems a damn sight better than nothing at all. 

You can’t handle it - the thought that any future with him is being taken off of the table once and for all. You know - if you step back from this - that you’ve been far from perfect. That you’ve been bitter, volatile, reactive. Maybe even cruel, at times. You know, in truth, that you shouldn’t be so hung up on the past -on what happened all those months ago and beyond- but it’s the only thing Santiago has ever given you to dwell on. How were you supposed to move on, when he’s never been able to look ahead with you?

Still, all of a sudden, being faced with any and all possibilities of a future with him being ripped away from you, it is all you want to talk about. The past and your grievances and the blame now seem wholly irrelevant. You feel bile rise into your mouth. “Listen. It doesn’t matter. None of that matters. Just… How do we get past this, Santiago? That’s what matters.”

He stops, halting his retreat back to the house. He turns, slowly. And, Santiago takes your hands into each of his. Looks at you solemnly, as your eyes flit over his face in doubt and fear and regret. He bundles your hands up together, sandwiching them together between his warm, steady palms and he gives them a squeeze - full of finality. “Maybe… Maybe we don’t,” he sounds, flatly, voice scrubbed clean of emotion. And, the only thing worse than hearing his words out loud, is that he looks like he believes them. 

For once, Santiago “Pope” Garcia seems cold, and it hurts more than any of his fire has ever burnt you. Maybe the anger, horrible as it feels, is better. Because it is better than nothing. Better than losing him altogether. 

After all, what is it that happens when the fire goes out? 

Well, you suddenly feel like you’re about to find out. 

You suddenly feel like it’s truly about to be over. 

And so, you clasp your hands over your mouth and you sob, fleeing towards the interior of the house, because you have no place else left to run but away from him.

[aziraphales-library]

Heya ! I'm looking for some fics that are set post season 2. Not fixits exactly, not that I would mind fixits. But I'm looking for long canon compliant fics. Also, is there a tag for such fics ?

We have #good omens s2 and #canon compliant tags. On ao3 you'll want to use the tags "Post-Season/Series 02" and "Canon Compliant", which is what I did to find you these...

scherzo in f-sharp minor, for orchestra by astrhae (M)

It was a truth universally acknowledged that an angel in possession of no memory must be in want of a wife. No, that was the wrong book. The wrong line. Aziraphale frowned. “What,” the gentleman before him asked, “and I mean what, are you doing here?” ----------------- Or, two years after things fall apart, Aziraphale shows up at Crowley's doorstep without his memories. The easy part is getting it back, the hard part is getting them back together.

Until the Bitter End by sentientsky (T)

After learning the truth about Heaven's plans and fruitlessly trying to fix a corrupt system (and maybe also having his memory messed with a little bit in the process), Aziraphale slips back to Earth in search of Crowley.

i will make it better, if only for us by davethefish (T)

With Aziraphale in Heaven, everything that Crowley loved has left the earth. He doesn't know what to do, so he starts small. Maybe someday he'll love the earth as much as he loved Aziraphale. It's time for him to remember why he chose to stay in the first place.

Black Holes and Revelations by ArtisticRising (E)

Crowley takes a leap of faith… into the heart of a black hole. It’s the last card Crowley has to play. He can’t do this without Aziraphale… and he’s betting that Aziraphale can’t do this without him. Act I (Black Holes) ends around Chapter 6 (10 if you want the smut babes). You could leave the story off there. Up til chapter 6 you have a whole story that’s pretty much G rated. From there my thirst comes out like a sexy little demon in tight jeans and a vaguely downwards saunter. Act II (Revelations) is an attempt at season 3. Treat it as a separate work that builds off Act I. Lots of plot twists ahead/theories/speculations that I won’t spoil for you :)

The Ineffability of Gray by kitfornow (NR)

Fifteen years have passed since Aziraphale returned to Heaven, and still sometimes Crowley feels shell shocked and embarrassed and grief-stricken. And mostly, he still feels numb. Fifteen years isn’t really so long, in the grand scheme of things, and yet these have somehow been the longest years of his existence. He can almost feel time crawling by, laughing at him. But slowly, so slowly, Crowley began to try again. To try harder. To find a piece of himself that Aziraphale had not touched. To find a piece of himself that does not need changing. On his good days, he can open up. His friends come over to the flat, once in a while, and Maggie brings new records and Muriel brings burnt cookies that no-one complains about because they're so proud of them. They'll exchange stories and simply enjoy each other's company for a few hours. And sometimes, he feels almost alright. Until Crowley turns around and Aziraphale is there, standing in front of him, trying to stop the world from ending all over again.

hurry back, please bring it back home to me by Percyjacksonfan3 (T)

“Why should I?” The demon interrupts cuttingly. “You’ve made it perfectly clear where your priorities lie and anything I say won’t make a bit of difference.” “That’s not true at all.” Aziraphale replies after a long hurt moment. “And you know it. Besides, you’re being stubborn. You’ll help me eventually.” Rage flashes over Crowley’s face. “You think so, do you?” Aziraphale juts his chin up stubbornly, ignoring the unpleasant feelings Crowley’s expression stirs in him. “Yes.” Aziraphale needs Crowley's help in saving humanity from the Second Coming and despite what happened between them he's determined to get it. After all, it's not only that he needs Crowley, but his plan also includes their car. As for the other matters between the two of them... well there's no reason those can't be sorted out along the way as well, is there? Or, a possible take on Series 3 that includes the Bentley, a resurrected Jesus Christ set on bringing about the End of Days, and an angel and a demon who are stupidly in love with each other but are both suffering from a lack of experience on how to actually deal with said emotions. Emphasis on the stupidly.

- Mod D

[aerynwrites]

Peace

Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish

A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting anything lately lol - my writing motivation has been in the toilet. But hopefully it's back now and I just had to get this little piece out for the holidays. I hope you enjoy! Word Count: 4k Warnings: so much fluff, fluff galore, fluff mountain, slightly insecure simon, (possibly ooc simon??), mentions of praying before a meal, again just lots of fluff.

Simon “Ghost” Riley doesn’t get nervous. 

Nerves, anxiety, fear - it was all beat out of him by his piece-of-shit excuse for a father. Then further beat out of him in the military. Nervousness died with the first Simon Riley, buried six feet underground never to be heard from again.

So why the bloody fuck are his hands sweating?

He’s wiped them on the fabric of his jeans at least a dozen times as they drive down the desolate stretch of road in nowhere Scotland. Johnny talking his ear off the whole time - mostly about his family. 

The family Simon is about to meet. 

Fuck…what was he thinking, agreeing to this?

Thinking you don’t want to be alone again on the holidays, that’s what.

Simon shakes his head, chasing the thought away as quick as it’d come. 

He’s been alone all his life. He didn’t need anyone. Yet, when Johnny had whispered the request, a simple one really - into the darkness of the room one night as they shared a bed…Simon couldn’t say no. 

“Come home with me, Si.”

That was less than a week ago, and the Scott followed through on his promise, helping Simon pack his bags before all but whisking him away for a few weeks holiday with his family. 

His very large family. 

Of course Simon knew of Johnny’s parents and sisters and brother, but Johnny had warned him that the whole extended family gets together for Christmas. He’d been regaling Simon with dozens of tales from his childhood, each one with a different family member. And try as he might, Simon couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at his lips as he continued, sweaty palms forgotten the longer Johnny talked. 

The small moment of reprieve didn’t last long, however, because sooner than Simon was ready for they were turning off the main road onto a side street. That side street quickly gave way to a long gravel drive, and before he knew it Johnny had parked the car behind at least half a dozen others in front of a large house. 

The first thing Simon noticed was the sheer normal-ness of the place. All the cars were practical ones, SUVs, sedans - made for families. The house was decorated modestly but tastefully. Colorful string lights lined the gutters and porch railings, a wreath hung on the door, and a large wooden sign leaned up against the front of the house beside the door that read ‘Merry Christmas!’ In bold red letters. 

But more than that, Simon could see into the house. The blinds are open and he can see many people milling about, talking, laughing, adults running after small children-

“This wasn’t a good idea, Johnny.”

The words are out before Simon can stop them, and he instantly regrets them the moment they bring a wounded look to his partner's face. But he can’t help it. His damn palms are sweaty again and his heart is racing and he can’t-

Johnny reaches over to slide a familiar calloused hand into his own, giving it a reassuring squeeze. 

“It’ll be okay, Simon. They’re gonna love ya’-”

Simon can’t help the small huff of bitter laughter that slips from beneath his mask. “Will they?” He asks, before gesturing to the cloth covering his face. 

“You’re tellin’ me the kids won’t run screamin’, the moment they see me? Or that your family won’t stare at the giant with a bloody mask-”

Simon cuts himself off, shaking his head. 

“I shouldn’t ‘ave come,” he repeats sullenly, “You go in. Enjoy the holiday with your family. I saw a hotel not too far back, I can-”

“No, no, no, none of that shite,” Johnny interjects, voice firm. A tone he doesn’t take with Simon often. 

“I’ve told them all about you,” he finally admits, “mask an’ all.” He laughs softly. “The only thing Ma ‘ad to say about it was askin’ why you chose a skull.”

Simon is silent, warring with himself as Johnny continues. 

“And…you don’t ‘ave to wear it if you don’t want to,” he suggests lightly, before squeezing Simon’s hand again. “I wouldn’t ‘ave suggested you come if I dinnae think they’d like ya’. My family is important to me, Si. And you’re part of tha’ now.”

Simon didn’t have time to respond this time before Johnny’s out of the car and opening the trunk to get their bags. He’s thinking out loud again, wondering if his mother made his favorite side dish or dessert, wondering if his nephews would be here.

Simon is listening but he also isn’t, his mind running one hundred miles a minute until the trunk slams closed and Simon lets out a muttered curse before ripping the balaclava off his head and shoving it in his pocket as he steps from the vehicle. He doesn’t miss the shocked raise of the Scott’s eyebrows as he comes around the car before it melts into that fucking smile that plagues Simons waking moments. 

Simon takes his bag from Johnny’s hand before following him up the drive then up the steps of the porch. He waits patiently as Johnny grabs the door handle, knocking when he finds it’s locked. Every moment of waiting feels like an eternity for Simon, all possible scenarios running through his mind. The door swinging open and everyone inside coming to a stand still as they take in the monster Johnny brought with him. The children pointing and whispering about the scars marring his features. Johnny’s parent’s frowning in disapproval at the choice their son made…

It’s all playing out in front of his very eyes until a soft feminine voice calls out from the other side of the door - ‘coming!’ - and then the lock clicks and the door swings open and an older woman that looks eerily similar to his partner beams up at them both.

“Johnathan!” She says reverently, wistfully, as she wraps her son in a hug so fierce Simon’s momentarily worried she might injure him. 

But Johnny just laughs and drops his bag as he wraps his big arms around his mother, stooping down to envelop her entirely as he embraces her, tucking his head into her neck. 

“I’m home, Ma.”

The embrace lasts for the perfect amount of time before they pull away from one another, and it’s then, as Mrs. MacTavish holds her son at arms length - looking over him - that her eyes flit over to Simon, and the inevitable has finally come. 

Except there’s no hatred. No disgust or disapproval or furrowed brows. Instead there’s a smile just as big as she gave Johnny and before Simon can react the woman is approaching him.

“You must be, Simon,” she says, voice gentle - warm and welcoming. 

All Simon can do is nod, gripping onto his duffel bag with white knuckles. 

“Johnathan never stops talking about you-”

“Ma!” Johnny reprimands.

“Talking about you and your team and how…” she trails off, a sadness settling into her eyes before she steps forward and wraps Simon in an embrace he hasn’t felt since his own mother passed. 

It’s strong and grounding, yet soft and inviting all at the same time, and it catches Simon so off guard that this woman who barely reaches his chest is hugging him - that all he can think to do is wrap his free arm lamely around her shoulders. 

“Thank you for keeping him safe.”

The words are so soft, uttered into the cotton of Simon's shirt, that he’s surprised he hears them. But he does, and he gives her a gentle squeeze. 

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to him,” he assures her.

He looks to Johnny as his mother pulls away from him, and he has to stop himself from rolling his eyes at the smug ‘I told you so’ look on the scott’s face. 

Mrs. MacTavish smiles again before stepping back towards the house. “Well, come on then, you’re just in time, really. Dinner is goin’ to be ready within the hour.”

She opens the door back up and steps inside and Johnny follows close behind her, looking back when Simon hesitates. He gives him a reassuring look, shifting his bag to his other hand so he can reach a hand out to him. Letting out a small resigned huff, Simon takes the hand offer to him and lets himself be tugged into the house. 

Warmth envelopes him almost immediately- not only in the temperature sense because of the roaring fire in the fireplace at the center of the living room - but also in the atmosphere. The lights around the house are soft and welcoming, none of the bright fluorescents that litter the base. And the general sense in the house is one of pure love and happiness and joy. Children running around, adults laughing and chatting happily with drinks in their hands. Even the Christmas tree, bursting with colorfully wrapped gifts beneath it adds to the overall feel. 

It gives Simon whiplash - how different this place is than the environments he’s usually in. It’s not like the cinderblock dorm he usually stays in or the concrete gym he frequents or even the various dangerous countries he travels to for missions. 

Simon wants to both run and never leave at the same time. And unfortunately for him, he doesn’t get a chance to do the former. Before he has a chance to disappear into some dark corner (not that there’s many to be seen in this cozy home) Johnny is introducing him to all the family that stops them as they come in. 

Aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, nieces, grandparents…the only ones Simon really has time to remember are his sisters because Johnny talks about them all the time anyways - and once again, Simon is startled into near silence. Not a single one of them gives him a sideways glance. They all just smile warmly at him when Johnny introduces him, giving him a firm handshake - or let’s be honest - most of them wrap him in a firm hug. He expected nothing less from Johnny’s family. 

And when Johnny does end up getting pulled away by rambunctious nieces and nephews and Simon is left alone, he still doesn’t get a chance to slip away because Johnny’s sisters are sliding up to him, chatting about anything and nothing and slipping a drink into his hand (spike eggnog which Simon pretends not to enjoy as much as he does). 

It’s how ended up where he is now, hating feeling useless and standing around, he’s bustling around the kitchen with Johnny’s sisters, Amelia and Isobel and Mrs. MacTavish.

“Call me Moira, Simon. Mrs. MacTvish is my mother-in-law.”

(He doesn’t. Can’t. Not yet at least.)

“Simon,” Amelia, calls from the gargantuan dining room table in the room connected to the kitchen, “Can you grab the trivets? Dinnae want to leave rings on the table-”

“Oh!” Isobel calls as well, from where she’s playing the silverware, “I forgot the napkins too-”

Simon, with trivets already tucked beneath his arms, swoops up the delicately folded napkins on his way into the dining room - “On it.”

He places the trivett's precisely where the sisters direct him, unable to stop the small smile from tugging at his lips when they practically groan in appreciation when he places the napkins on top of the plates that are set out.

“Finally,” Amelia explains, moving to help Isobel set the silverware, “A man who isn’t entirely clueless-”

“Right?” Isobel agrees, both of them laughing.

Simon lets out a chuckle of his own, shrugging his shoulders. 

“We didn’ do much as a family when I was younger,” he starts, slightly hesitant. “But my Mum never skipped a holiday meal. Showed me how to set the table,” he says softly, feeling like he revealed too much. 

But the sisters just smile brightly at him, and Simon has to shove down the voice screaming ‘wrong, wrong, wrong! You don’t deserve their kindness, their sympathy-‘

“Well, your mum sounds like a lovely, woman,” Amelia says, before Isobel pipes in. 

“Are you and Johnny going to visit your family after us?”

Simon freezes at that, shoulders tensing as he tries and fails to stop the frown from tugging at his lips. He pretends not to see the way Amelia elbows her sister, sending her a scathing look as he continues to place napkins, now avoiding their eyes. 

“I uh-” he clears his throat. “My family’s passed. Jus’ me now.”

It’s silent for a moment, before he feels a gentle squeeze on his shoulder and he startles slightly, not having heard Mrs. MacTavish come up behind him in his inner grief. He turns to see yet another one of those blinding smiles on her face, a smile so similar to Johnny’s. He freezes again as her hand slides down to cover Simon’s, her hand tiny against his own larger one. 

“Well,” she says softly, “You always have a place at our table, Simon. You’re our family now.”

She turns away before he can speak and as she calls out to the family that dinner is ready, he’s silently glad she did, because he doesn’t know if he’d be able to speak around the lump in his throat. 

———

The family helps carry the food out to the table, and Simon can’t help but be impressed at the bountiful display of food, his stomach rumbling at the sight. Johnny finds him in the slight chaos, taking his hand in his own as he leads him to two seats towards the head of the table, just as everyone else is taking their seats. Johnny’s mother is at the head of the table, Amelia and Isobel and their partners and children to her left and Johnny and Simon to her right. He can’t help but feel like he’s too high up on the totem pole that is family seating. Hell, he doesn’t feel like he deserves to be here at all. 

Yet, when Mrs. MacTavish insist they all hold hands to say a prayer and she goes through the typical spiel, any doubt he has melts away when she says thanks for Johnny’s safety, Simon’s own name falling shortly behind before the entire table closes the prayer and Johnny squeezes his hand in that loving way that always makes his heart stutter. 

As quickly as the silence that fell over the table during grace came, it was gone in an instant. Soft shatter and laughter soon starts up as everyone passes dishes of food around. A lot of the things Simon recognizes; ham, mashed potatoes, and various other comfort food sides litter the table. But there are also some dishes that are unfamiliar to Simon, and Johnny is quick to explain them. Most of them are Scottish dishes he’s never heard of, but some are family recipes that have evolved over the years - all of them Johnny’s favorites.

“Oh, you ‘ave to try this one Si, it’s my favorite-”

“You’ve said tha’ about the last three dishes, Johnny-”

The Scott just laughs, “But this time I mean it.”

Soon, Simon’s plate is piled so high with food he’s concerned he won’t be able to eat it all (he does…and goes back for seconds). And he has to constantly remind himself not to eat like a military man - hunched over his plate, shoveling food in as fast as possible to be done in time - something he notices Johnny has to do as well. 

Simon smiles - and for the first time since he left base a few days ago, his palms have stopped sweating. 

———

The night is quiet as Simon steps outside of the still chattering household. Dinner ended a few hours ago, and ever the dutiful guest, Simon helped clean up before the events were moved to the living room. Presents were shared among family, mainly the kids. Colorful wrapping paper littering the floor and the couches and the chairs (and even the fireplace on one occasion, a disaster Simon managed to catch and stomp out before it went too far.) He and Johnny sat on the couch, the latter watching and oozing happiness from every pore as he soaked in the family he hadn't seen in too long. Hell, even Simon was sated - a little too much like a cat in a sun patch with his belly full and his inhibitions slightly dulled from that damn eggnog. 

But now…Simon felt the ever present itch to step away, that familiar feeling of otherness creeping back in as he feels like an intruder to something so cozy and intimate. 

You don’t belong here, that voice mutters again, sounding strangely similar to his father’s rasping voice as he slides the back door open and steps onto the back porch.

He tugs a cigarette from the pack in his coat pocket, placing it between his lips before grabbing the zippo Johnny had gifted him almost a year ago. 

‘It’s the twenty-first century, L.T. quit usin’ matches.’

Simon huffed out a small laugh at the memory as he flicked the wheel of the lighter, a small flame sparking to life and warming his palm as he cups his hand around it and brings to the end of the cigarette, taking a deep drag to light it. 

The soft sound of the sliding glass door reaches his ears just as he flicks the lighter closed and stows it away, and he knows who it is almost instantly, the footsteps familiar to him. 

Johnny doesn’t speak right away, instead coming to stand shoulder to shoulder with Simon just as the first few flurries start to fall from the sky. 

Snow…

Simon can’t remember the last time he saw snow - well - saw snow in a pleasant way. Snow that wasn’t waist deep and in the Russian wilderness and keeping his team from reaching the safe house. Snow that wasn’t stained red or crushed into brown slurry beneath his boots. 

Maybe this trip would change that - like it’s changed a lot of things. 

“Thank you.”

The words are simple, but soft. Softer than they have a right to be coming from a man like Simon. A man who has more blood on his hands than most. A man who most people would run from the second they looked at him. 

But he means them. He means them with his whole heart and he hopes that Johnny understands everything Simon is trying to say with those two simple words. 

Thank you for inviting me here. Thank you for trusting me with your family. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for putting up with me. Thank you for loving the unlovable and showing me this and -

Johnny shrugs, and the rustle of fabric breaks off Simon’s train of thought as he glances over at his partner from the corner of his eyes. 

“I want you ‘ere, Si,” Johnny says softly, eyes looking out into the wilderness beyond the backyard, into the stars littering the night sky, “I ‘ave for a long time, and I…”

He trails off, clearing his throat, and Simon doesn’t miss the way he fiddles with something in his pocket. 

“I love you, Simon,” he says gently, finally tearing his eyes away from the celestial lights above him to look at Simon in a way that he’s never been looked at before. “And I meant wha’ I said. You’re part of this now,” he gestures back to the house still brimming with life, love, and happiness. “And I was wonderin’…” he trails off again, letting out a frustrated sound. 

“Ah, I’m shite at this…”

Simon huffs out a laugh, “Spit it out, Johnny-”

Now it’s Johnny’s turn to laugh, shaking his head as he pulls out a little velvet box from his jacket pocket. “Your makin’ this real ‘ard to be all romantic an’ shit-” he rolls his eyes, but even in the dimness of the moonlight Simon doesn’t miss the way Johnny’s cheeks redden. 

Realistically Simon knows what’s in the box - he knows what’s coming. Yet, he still can’t help the way his heart leaps into his throat when Johnny opens the box to reveal a simple gold ring. No frills, no getting on one knee and professing his love, no fancy dinner. 

It was never their thing anyways. 

“Simon Riley,” Johnny says, voice slightly choked, nervous, “Will you marry me?”

Simon never truly knew what he would do in this situation- fuck, he never imagined this scenario. Ever. Not in a million years. And if he did - he always thought he’d be the one asking.

“Johnny…”

The Scott cuts him off, “now before you go an’ start all that self-deprecatin’ bullshi-”

“Johnny-” Simon tries again.

“I love you! An’ I know that-”

Simon lets out a low growl, once stemming from slight annoyance as he flicks his cigarette out and away from him in favor of taking Johnny’s face in his calloused palms and pressing lips firmly to his. It shuts the Scott up, and Simon can’t stop that stupid giddy feeling that he gets when familiar hands wrap around his waist. 

It doesn’t last long, just long enough for Simon to get the point across, and then he’s pulling away resting his forehead against Johnny’s. 

“If you’d let me get a bloody word out, I’d tell you yes.”

Johnny pauses at that - eyes widening slightly in that way that Simon always thinks looks like a puppy begging for more treats. 

“Really?”

Simon scoffs, not unkindly, and pulls away his hand still cupping warm cheeks. 

“Why’d ya ask if ya thought I’d say no?”

Johnny blushes at that, looking away, “Well I didnae think you’d say no…” he shrugs, “Just thought you’d take more convincin’ is all.”

Now it’s Simon’s turn to roll his eyes, as he finally drops his hands, holding his left one out slightly. 

“You gonna make me put it on myself?”

Johnny laughs then, a real laugh, the loud one that Simon pretends to hate but really truly loves - and then Johnny is taking the ring from the box and sliding it on Simon's left ring finger with more delicacy than he deserves. The metal is cool, smooth as it slides against his overheated skin, and as it sit snugly on his finger, Simon can’t help but flex them, the metal glinting in the moonlight.

“You picked good, Johnny,” he says lamely, not sure what else to say until he glances at Johnny’s left hand. 

“Now I need to get you one,” he says, “Can’t have people thinkin’ you’re single.”

Johnny smiles, digging around in his jeans pocket this time before producing an identical gold band to his own. “Way ahead of ya, L.T.”

Johnny goes to slide the band on, but Simon stops him, taking the metal ring from his fingers with a grumble of ‘hold it sergeant’ before he slips it over his ring finger. He doesn’t miss the way Johnny smiles down at their hands, all wrapped together as he gazes at the matching rings. 

Simon opens his mouth to say something, but a bright white flash of light from his left stops him and Johnny in their tracks. They both look over just in time to see Isobel fumbling with her phone behind the glass sliding door as Amelia scolds her and Mrs. MacTavish just gives her son a small thumbs up and watery smile. 

Johnny just groans and runs a hand down his face as the three women scatter, leaving them alone once more. 

“Steamin’ Jesus,” he rolls his eyes, “Sorry ‘bout them-”

Simon shakes his head, taking Johnny’s hand in his own as he turns to face the backyard again, thumb already running over the smooth metal ring. 

“Don’t worry about it, Johnny,” he says, waving him off. “I…it’s nice. Having a family again.”

Johnny smiles, giving Simon’s hand a soft squeeze before they both settle into a comfortable silence to watch the snow fall from the sky above them. 

And as the muffled sounds of Christmas music and soft chatter filter out from the house and Simon holds Johnny close…He can’t help but send a silent thought to his mother and brother. Wherever they are.

‘I’m not alone.’

The gentle kiss of a breeze answers him, whispering against his cheeks and wrapping around his legs, and for the first time since he can remember - 

Simon is at peace. 

[runninriot]

Hurt full of Hope (i'll be the pit to your pendulum)

prompt: "I thought we agreed it was over." | rated: E | wc: 4.307 | cw: sexual content, emotional breakdown, unhealthy coping mechanisms | tags: 'friends' with benefits, pining, Eddie is a mess, Steve is a mess too but in a different way, emotional hurt, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending | complete fic on ao3

written for @steddieangstyaugust day 27

The grip in his hair is tight, almost possessive, as strong hands guide him further down the pulsing intrusion blocking his airways. It burns, makes tears well up in his eyes, and Eddie has to fight the urge to cough but at the same time-

he hasn’t felt this good in days.

The familiar stretch of his lips around the girth is heavenly like the scent flooding his nostrils as his nose is pressed into soft skin and coarse hair.

Eddie chokes, feels saliva dripping uncontrollably out of the corners of his mouth and down his chin, making a mess between the other guy’s thighs.

A rough tug brings him back up, lets him breathe for a moment before he’s forced back down.

   “Ah! Yeah, just like that! You always know how to make me feel good, Eddie.”

The praise is like a drug; he’s always been too weak to withstand the drawing power of it, the toxic concoction he knows is killing him slowly each time he goes back for more.

Eddie swallows, sucks, licks as if his life depends on it. And maybe, in a way, it does.

Because this is all he has, all he is.

It’s all he can offer to get what he desperately craves in return - affection, at least. Not love. But everything is better than nothing.

   “Fuckin’- God! Look at you, Eddie. You’re such a mess!”

Isn’t that the truth. The bitter, undeniable truth.

He knows it’s wrong, that he shouldn’t settle for this. Shouldn’t give himself up for a quick blowjob in the back of the car, out on the side of the road where no one can see them. No candle light, no soft sheets, no comfort – just the dirty act of being used for pleasure because somehow, that’s all he’s good for.

And Eddie must be good. Why else would Steve keep coming back after he dumped him?

   ‘I thought we agreed it was over,’ Eddie had dared to say the first time Steve called him again in the middle of the night, asking if he wanted to meet. Said it as if they’d both made that the decision, when in reality-

    ‘You didn’t want to do this anymore.’

Steve had laughed at his words, told him to stop pretending that he didn’t want it just as much.

And he was right; Eddie wants this.

He’s desperate for it.

Because while for Steve their hook-ups had always just been a casual thing, for Eddie it’s always been so much more.

Steve knows that, knows that Eddie’s in love with him. That he wants to be more than just a toy, a warm body, a willing mouth.

That’s why Steve told him to get fucked – before he came back five days later to fuck him once more.

Then again, and again, and each time, Eddie says yes. Each time he puts up with the ache in his heart just to have Steve for a little while longer.

He knows it’s stupid, knows it’ll only end in one-sided misery. That no matter how good he is, no matter how many times Steve comes back to him, he’ll never stay.

Steve will use him up, drain him until he has nothing more to give and then, inevitably, he’ll throw him away like a broken tool.

Eddie’s throat aches because he keeps himself down, forcefully overstepping that fine line between good and too much as he constricts helplessly around the tip of Steve’s cock until he comes, spills his release and fills his mouth with bittersweet poison.

   “A-ha, oh fuck! That’s it, take it all in.”

Eddie doesn’t need to be told, greedily swallows Steve’s cum along with his pride, tastes bitterness on his tongue in more ways than one.

And when he’s done, Steve pulls him up quickly, doesn’t even look at him while he tucks himself back into his boxers and jeans.

    So, he’s not gonna fuck me today, Eddie thinks with too much regret.

He would’ve let him. Would’ve let Steve press him face-down, ass-up into the backseat and fuck him hard. Would’ve wanted it to hurt because then he’d have something to drown out the pain in his chest.

   “Need me to take you home?”

Eddie wants to say yes, wants to have just a few more minutes with him. But he declines the offer, knows they would only drive in awkward silence and he already feels like crying, doesn’t want Steve to see how broken he is.

   “Nah, it’s fine. I’ll walk,” Eddie answers quietly, voice hoarse.

He can still taste Steve on his lips, has his senses full of him. It clings to him, like it’s part of him, like it lives there in every cell – Steve is everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

And it hurts. It fucking hurts.

He pulls the handle with too much force when he opens the door, trying to keep himself steady. He feels dizzy and his legs tremble when he steps out of the car.

   “You sure you’re good?” Steve calls after him but Eddie doesn’t turn around, just pushes the door shut and starts walking.

He waits until he hears the engine go off, waits until he can see the headlights passing in his peripheral vision before he lets the tears flow.

The night air is warm but inside, Eddie feels cold. He shivers, wraps his arms around his middle, tries to calm his breathing but nothing helps because everything hurts. His jaw, his throat, his heart most of all and-

No more. He can’t do this anymore because if he doesn’t put an end to this torture, it’ll be the end of him.

continue reading here

[spinchip]

Dot after the Never Realm.

There’s something sweet carrying on the breeze- sugary. Baked goods from the shop across the road, probably. Maybe a pie or cake from the picnics spread across the park. Maybe the lingering scent of her shampoo in her freshly washed hair. Dot didn’t seek out the source, staying in this little bubble of calm she’d created on this lone park bench. She just barely noticed it, her mind grasping for something that wasn’t the way her hands were still so cold or the chill creeping up the exposed skin on the back of her neck. Her hair was too short now.

She used to come to this park a lot as a child, back when the jungle gym was more wood than plastic and steel. It survived the great devourer attack, but it was torn up and discarded not long after. The wood had rotted out exposed to the elements, the finishing oils worn down and left to ruin over the years. Now the park was filled with shiny new pieces that made a once familiar comfort foreign and wrong.

Dot sits at the park bench anyway and watches the day pass. She’s been here for a long time, but there’s no desire to go home. She’s asked Zane for space so he was off to sleep for a while- she wants to feel bad about it, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t feel a lot of things nowadays.

a shadow passes over her but she doesn’t take her eyes off the trees on the horizon. It’s one of the ninja, she’s certain. Come to check on her. She wishes she could ask them for space and have them go off to sleep somewhere, too. Can’t she grieve the Never Realm in peace?

”Dakota.”

she turns to look at Leo out of pure surprise more than anything. He looks nice, dressed in clothes bought new and not second hand. He used to only ever buy things second hand, stubbornly scrubbing out stains or mending holes so he didn’t have to spend a dollar where he didn’t need to. He used to wear his shoes until the soles finally gave way- and then he’d super glue them and wear them even longer. Now, he’s dressed in a crisp white sweater, tan slacks, and a jean jacket with Sherpa lining. His shoes are so new they’re still shiny.

His hair is cut like it always was, but he’s grown out the stubble around his mustache into a short, neatly kept beard. He’s put on weight, but it looks good on him.

It takes her only a moment to compare him to the last time she’d seen him- some part of her mind latching on to his changes so she can avoid thinking of her own. She wants to keep doing it- keep examining him to notice all the things he is without her by his side.

”Hey.” She says instead. then, “What are you doing here?”

”Your friends are worried about you.” He says plainly, still standing outside the little bubble she’d made for herself.

”And they thought seeing you would make me feel better?” She asks flatly.

He takes it with grace, only looking stung for a moment before he smooths his features. All that training in law school paid off, “They were desperate.” He grins wryly, “Willing to try anything.”

���So they texted you and, what, you took the first flight out of Metalonia?” There’s something unkind in her voice that she can’t stop- a bitterness. Why drop everything for her now? Why not all those years ago?

He scuffs his boot on the ground and tries for a joke, “Well, the first flight was sold out so I had to wait for the second one.”

It is funny, but she doesn’t laugh. She turns her face back towards the horizon, watching the trees sway in the breeze.

”May I sit down?” He asks quietly, “Or would you rather I leave?”

There's a long pause before she can bring herself to reply, “Why’d you come all the way back home to sit on a bench with me?”

He looks down again, staring at his new boots, “…I guess… for the same reason you knew I was out in Metalonia… despite the fact we haven’t spoken in years.”

Her throat feels thick and it's hard to swallow. He must be a force to be reckoned with in the courtroom, noticing every little thing his opponent says and reading between the lines. She kept tabs on him and He came when he thought she would need him because-

”Okay.” She says, voice wobbling, “You can sit.”

So he does, and he stays even after the sun sets and it’s too cold out for a regular human.

For the first time, he doesn’t leave first.

[elysiaheaven]

Hey there! I would like to request a fic about Ronin and a trans!fem reader who is just discovering herself! I love your fanfics please feed me with them 😭😭

AHHH THANK YOU!-Here's a fic for Ronin x Trans!Fem! Reader!

Contains One-shot! Head canons!

You sat on the worn-out couch in Ronin's apartment, your fingers absently tracing the seams of your jeans. A soft hum from his kitchen meant he was making coffee, but your mind was far from the scent of brewing beans. The mirror in the hallway had caught your reflection on the way in, and all you could see was a version of yourself that didn’t feel right anymore. You were discovering parts of yourself that were beautiful, and terrifying. But you hadn’t told Ronin yet—hadn’t found the courage to share that part of yourself. What if he didn’t understand?

The sound of footsteps pulled you from your thoughts. Ronin walked in, holding two mugs, his usual sarcastic smirk softened into something less guarded as he passed you a cup. His plum-colored hair fell messily from beneath his beanie, and his usual maroon hoodie hung off his frame. There was always something effortlessly cool about him, a kind of chaotic confidence that made you feel safe, even in your most vulnerable moments.

"You're quiet today," he noted, settling beside you, his arm slung lazily across the back of the couch. "Something up?"

You took a sip of the coffee, its warmth not quite reaching the chill in your chest. Your hands trembled slightly as you placed the mug down. This was it. You had to say something.

“Say it out loud.” His voice cuts through the hum. He doesn’t look up from the bike, but his tone is casual, almost lazy. Like he’s waiting to see if you’ll catch on.

You squirm on the counter, your fingers nervously tangling in the hem of your shirt. You’ve been trying to say it for weeks, the word forming on the tip of your tongue like a fragile bubble that bursts every time you get close.

“I... I think...” You stop, clenching your fists. God, why is this so hard?

"I... I've been thinking a lot about myself. About who I am," you began, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ronin's gaze flicked to you, sharper now. He didn't interrupt, just waited. You loved that about him—how he always gave you space, even when the tension hung thick in the air.

“C’mon, babe. Out with it. Ain’t like I’ll bite.” He tilts his head, mischief flickering in his maroon gaze. “Unless that’s what you’re into.”

You groan, heat flushing your cheeks, but the teasing makes it easier to speak. He always does that—makes things feel easier without even trying.

"I’m trans," you blurted out, the words rushing forward before you could second-guess them. "I mean, I think I’m a girl. I’m still figuring things out, but I—" You faltered, your heart pounding. "I don’t know how to do this."

Ronin was quiet for a moment, his dark eyes watching you, unreadable. You worried you’d said too much, or not enough. The fear twisted in your gut, threatening to choke you. But then, Ronin reached out, gently taking your hand in his. His grip was firm, grounding.

"You’re not alone in this, you know," he said, voice low and steady. "I’ve been where you are. Hell, I'm still dealing with some of that shit myself."

You blinked, confusion swirling in your mind as you looked at him. His usual teasing tone was gone, replaced with something more raw, more vulnerable than you'd ever seen.

"I'm trans too," he continued, rubbing his thumb along the back of your hand. "Transmasc. Grew up in a small town, right in the middle of Bible Belt Hell. My family? They weren't exactly supportive." His lips twisted into a bitter smile. "They thought I was possessed or something. Called me the devil because of what I am. So, yeah... I get it."

Your heart clenched at his words. Ronin always carried an edge with him, something dark and dangerous, but now you understood the weight behind it. He wasn’t just a serial killer with a crooked smile and a penchant for blood. He was a person who had been broken by people who should have loved him.

"I’m sorry," you whispered.

"Don’t be," he shrugged, but there was a tightness in his voice. "I learned to live with it. Got out of there as soon as I could. But the scars stay, you know? Even when you run."

You squeezed his hand, your eyes stinging with unshed tears. "It sounds like you’ve been through hell."

He chuckled darkly. "Hell’s got nothing on a small town full of zealots."

The two of you sat in silence for a while, the weight of shared trauma hanging between you. But it wasn’t suffocating. It was grounding. Ronin knew what it was like to feel out of place, to fight for who you are against a world that wants you to be anything but.

"I want to help you with this," he said after a while, his thumb still tracing gentle circles on your skin. "Whatever you need—clothes, makeup, whatever the fuck you want to do—I’ll be there. You don’t have to figure it all out at once. And don’t worry about messing up or feeling lost. I’m not going anywhere."

Tears slipped down your cheeks, and you quickly wiped them away, embarrassed by how emotional you’d become. But Ronin didn’t mock you, didn’t tease. Instead, he pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you in a rare show of tenderness.

"I didn’t know how to say it before," you mumbled into his hoodie, your voice thick with tears. "I was scared."

"Yeah, I know the feeling," he murmured against the top of your head. "But you don’t need to be scared with me. We’re both devils, remember? We make our own rules."

You laughed through the tears, the sound weak but genuine. There was something oddly comforting in Ronin’s twisted worldview. He saw the world as broken, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t survive in it. You just had to be strong enough to take what you needed.

And with him by your side, you knew you could.

"Thanks, Ronin," you whispered, your fingers clutching the fabric of his hoodie. "I don’t know what I’d do without you."

He smirked, pulling back slightly to look at you. "You’d probably be a lot less fun to corrupt."

You rolled your eyes, sniffling as you wiped the last of your tears. "You’re terrible."

“Ronin...”

“Eh, don’t pity me.” He waves you off, but the tension lingers. “The devil thing? I own it now. It’s better this way. 'Cause I stopped trying to be what everyone else wanted me to be. If they think I’m damned, good. At least I’m damned on my terms.”

His words settle over you like a strange kind of comfort—rough around the edges but warm at the core. He’s not saying it’ll be easy. But he’s saying it’ll be yours. And that matters more than you realized.

“So,” he says, leaning in closer with that mischievous glint back in his eyes. “What’re you gonna do about it, princess?”

The nickname makes your cheeks burn, and you can’t help but laugh, even though you’re still a mess inside. “Princess?”

“What, you don’t like it?” His grin widens, clearly enjoying your reaction. “I could call you worse things, y'know. Like ‘cutie.’ Or ‘darling.’ Or—”

You swat at him, laughing despite yourself. “Oh my god, stop.”

You realized tho.

Parts you liked to show. He saw the cracks, the doubt, the fear, and still, he was here.

You sniffled, wiping at your eyes before tears could fall. "That’s… That’s really unfair, you know," you said, voice trembling slightly.

He tilted his head, curious. "What is?"

"That you get to say stuff like that, and now I’m the one falling apart."

Ronin chuckled, low and warm, his hand still resting on your knee. "That’s what I do, sweetheart," he said, grinning now. "Break you down just enough to build you back up."

Something swelled in your chest—something tender, raw, and complicated. You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so you did both, covering your face as the emotions hit you all at once.

"Hey, hey," Ronin murmured, and before you knew it, he was pulling you into his arms.

He wasn’t the best at hugs—his touch was hesitant at first, like he was afraid he might break you—but once you leaned into him, he held on tighter. The weight of him, solid and real, was grounding.

"You’re allowed to be messy," Ronin whispered into your hair. "It’s okay to not have all the answers right now."

You melted into him, the exhaustion of pretending you were okay catching up all at once. His hoodie smelled like smoke and motor oil, but it was warm, and it felt like home.

"I’m really scared," you admitted, voice small against his chest.

"I know," he whispered back. "But you’re not alone in this, okay? I’m right here. We’ll figure it out—together."

You sniffled again, clinging to him tighter. He didn’t promise it would be easy, or that it wouldn’t hurt. But he did promise one thing: that he wouldn’t let you do it alone.

Head canons with Ronin, as a transfem! Never knew it would come of help! I did discuss with a friend abt it

When you first confide in Ronin about exploring your gender identity, he doesn’t bat an eye. If anything, he grins.

“Welcome to the chaos, sweetheart,” he says. “Guess I’ll have to start calling you princess now.”

He’s cocky, yes, but not dismissive. Ronin understands what it’s like to figure yourself out—and that twisted empathy makes him weirdly gentle when you need it most.

If you’re nervous about trying new clothes or makeup, Ronin takes it upon himself to normalize it through shameless encouragement.

“You’re already hot. This? This just makes you unstoppable.”

When you try on your first dress or skirt, his eyes light up. And not in a mocking way—he’s genuinely impressed.

“You look dangerous in that, babe. Can’t believe I’m gonna have to fight people off now.”

Cue him smirking while you turn red. The fact that he can make you blush with a few words is a source of endless entertainment for him.

Ronin isn’t one for over-the-top compliments, but his actions speak louder. He shows affection in subtle ways—resting his hand on the small of your back, tucking hair behind your ear, and pressing small kisses to the top of your head.

“You good?” he’ll ask quietly, his arm draped over your shoulders like a shield.

On bad days, when dysphoria hits, Ronin doesn’t try to ‘fix’ you. Instead, he makes space for you to feel everything, without shame.

“If you wanna stay in bed, we stay in bed. If you wanna burn down the world… well, I’ll grab a lighter.”

He casually starts using feminine nicknames without making a big deal of it—princess, doll, babe. And when you realize how much it means to you, he just shrugs.

“It’s who you are. Don’t overthink

Ronin loves stealing your hoodies and oversized clothes. When you demand them back, he just grins. “Nah, you look better in my stuff anyway.” Then he hands you a maroon shirt—stained with motor oil, of course.

Whenever you feel dysphoric about your body, Ronin grabs your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “Hey. This body? It’s yours, babe. Every inch of it.” He smiles, slow and genuine, brushing a hand over your hair. “And I happen to think it’s fuckin’ beautiful.”

There’s a shared sense of ease between the two of you—he never has to explain himself, and neither do you. Sometimes, you both just sit in comfortable silence, legs tangled on the couch, scrolling on your phones.

He’ll quietly mutter, “Kinda nice, huh? Bein’ around someone who gets it.” Then he bumps your shoulder with his, his eyes warm. "In love with our grotesques."

When the world feels too heavy, the two of you have quiet, honest conversations in bed.

“Y’ever just... feel like you were made wrong?” Ronin mumbles against your shoulder, his voice unusually vulnerable. But you both know the feeling, so you stay there, holding each other close. “Glad we’re in this mess together,” he adds, squeezing your hand. "Wouldn’t wanna be me with anyone else.

On some days, he’s binding. On others, he wears oversized shirts to let his body breathe—and on those days, “You look good, babe. Not just sayin’ it.” He lets you see the real warmth in his eyes. Then he tosses you one of his shirts. “Here. Oversized shirts cure all dysphoria. Science.

Some days, Ronin talks about the religious trauma that still clings to him, and he listens when you talk about your past struggles too. “Guess we’re both survivors of bullshit,” he says softly, threading his fingers through yours. “But look at us now, babe. Havin’ fun, makin’ trouble, livin’ the life those assholes said we couldn’t.”

After a kill, Ronin leaves little messages for you—sometimes in blood. “4EVER YOURS <3” scrawled beneath a victim’s handprint. When you call him out for being corny, he just grins. “Can’t help it, babe. Love makes me sappy. Only to you. Say it Angel, I'll throw you to the fishes."

If anyone disrespects you or misgenders you, they’re already dead—they just don’t know it yet. Ronin’s voice stays soft when he leans toward you, his grin wicked. “Wanna make this one slow or fast, babe? It’s your call.”

On hard days, when you feel out of sorts, Ronin’s by your side, offering comfort in his strange way. “You feelin’ shitty? Wanna smash somethin’?” He holds out your crowbar with a playful grin, then softens. “Or... we could lay low, watch Saw, and cuddle instead.” He pulls you into his arms before you can answer, murmuring, “You’re perfect either way, babe. Always.”

Ronin’s pets, Blackjack the rat and Pepperoni the snake, have surprisingly taken a liking to you. On lazy nights, the two of you lie on the couch, Blackjack curled in your lap and Pepperoni winding around your arm. Ronin watches with a smirk. "See, even the rotten ones love ya, princess." He rests his head on your shoulder. “Told ya you were special.”

One night, when the world feels too heavy, you both sit on the bathroom floor, comparing scars. You trace a line on his chest, and he kisses your knuckles in return. “Same story, different bodies,” he whispers, brushing his thumb over a scar of yours. “But we made it out, yeah? Together. That’s gotta count for somethin’.” There’s a deep sadness in his voice, but also gratitude—because even through all the pain, he’s thankful he found you.

[mawrblaidddrwg]

WIP Wednesday - Sons of the Saiyans

“Please don’t make me go in there. Chi-Chi will never let me see the light of day again if she finds out that I was in a strip club,” Goku was half hiding behind his hands as Vegeta dragged him by his arms towards the black painting building.

“I don’t want to fucking go in there either! I’m not a pervert like R—” Vegeta stopped mid sentence realizing what he was about to say. He swallowed hard, pushing the name down his throat. Still not able to speak it out loud. “But that’s where the people we need to talk to are,” Vegeta said.

“Easy for you to say, Vegeta! Bulma would probably be thrilled to be in there. She probably has a stack of dollar bills ready to go,” Goku grumbled, his cheeks turning crimson. “Chi-Chi is going to throw hot coffee in my face if she finds out.”

Vegeta had to think very long and very hard about anything else other than the visual of Bulma at the Red Ribbon. He took a deep breath in; he had to focus on the task at hand.

When they entered the doors of the Red Ribbon, Vegeta clicked the safety of his gun that was tucked into his jeans immediately. After all, he was the one who ended the ceasefire, so it seemed only appropriate for him to be ready to fire at any moment. Goku put the hood of his sweatshirt on over his head trying to squeeze it as tight as possible to himself, resembling a turtle attempting to hide inside of its shell.

“Kakarot you’re so fucking embarrassing,” Vegeta sneered feeling even more disgusted about having to enter the Red Ribbon with his cousin.

Vegeta braced for the loud, violent sounds of dance music pounding his skull once the door opened, but instead was greeted with the melancholy riffs of How Soon is Now. Several dancers paused upon his entrance into the bar and he noticed the lack of patrons. His black eyes did a quick sweep of the premises and right away he noticed the blonde woman who shot him the last time he was here. She immediately pulled out a shotgun from behind the bar. She was wearing clothes this time and seemed to be the bartender instead of a dancer, adorned in a short acid washed skirt and off the shoulder top.

“We come in peace,” Vegeta said holding his hands up and pretending as though he hadn’t just clicked the safety off of his gun.

“Right, sure. And I’m Madonna. Nice try, asshole,” she cocked the shotgun and aimed it at Vegeta’s head, who held his ground with his hands still up.

“Hi, um Miss. We are here to talk to someone named 17,” Goku said realizing that any impression Vegeta would attempt to make would result in their heads getting blown off.

“You look very familiar,” she said warily, nodding towards Goku behind the barrel of the shotgun.

“My uh—” Goku swallowed the bitter pit lodged in his throat, “my brother, Raditz was a frequent visitor here.”

She eyed him suspiciously for a long while until she seemed to accept his answer. “Are you here to shoot 17’s kneecaps off too?”

“Technically, I only shot one of Gero’s kneecaps,” Vegeta corrected her before she gave him a pointed glare. “But no, that’s not why I’m here. I have a business matter to discuss with him.”

“Fine, hand over your gun then,” she walked around the bar still pointing the shotgun at him.

“I don’t have a gun,” Vegeta lied.

She shot the gun at the floor near Vegeta’s Dr Martens and shattered a black tile from the black and white checkerboard pattern on the floor. Goku nearly jumped out of his sweatpants, but Vegeta didn’t even flinch. The sound of bullets ricocheting being the closest thing he could think of to a bedtime story.

[ladykailitha]

Star Child Part 2

Everyone loved the first part so much I thought I’d throw up the second one today as a treat.

This part is a little heavy, Steve talks about what happened to the Kings and it’s not pretty, so a warning for content.

Part 1

*

Eddie managed to shower and change and get down to the bar with barely a minute to spare. His hair is a little damp but there was no getting around that not if he wanted to be on time.

He had changed into more comfortable jeans, and put on a long-sleeved mesh crop top, and a denim vest over that. He pulled on a pair of combat boots to finish off the look.

He fussed with his hair as he scanned the crowd. And then he spotted him. Steve Harrington. Dressed in tight leather pants and a plain white t-shirt and matching sneaks.

Eddie’s brain nearly blue screened again. Fuck. It looked good on him.

He muscled his way through the crowd to stand in front of Steve.

“Hey!” Steve greeted warmly. “You made it!”

He turned and ordered them a couple of bottles of beer.

Eddie shrugged. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

Steve matched his shrug with one of his own. “After how hard you guys rocked tonight, I don’t think I would have been able to do anything but crash. Especially since you guys did practically two sets tonight.”

He handed Eddie a bottle and took the other one for himself.

Eddie smiled. “Nah, we’re good. We often party afterwards.”

“To each their own, man,” Steve shaking his head and then took a sip of his beer.  

Eddie laughed. “I think it would ruin people’s image of you if you went out partying after shows. Your main appeal is your hometown, boy next door, have your daughter home by nine kind of guy.”

Steve half shrugged. “Some days it chafes.”

“Is that why you chose to do a metal version of an alt rock song featuring the daughter of the king of pop?” Eddie asked with a wink.

Steve laughed. “Something like that.”

Eddie bit his lip for a moment. “Have you thought about branching out? Becoming more like Timberlake than Styles?”

“Moving outside the genre that catapulted me to stardom you mean?” Steve asked.

“Why not? People have been successful at it before,” Eddie reminded him. “Because, dude, if pop music chafes, stop doing it.”

“Maybe after this last album,” Steve said. “I’m under contract for one more and then maybe I’ll color outside the lines.”

Eddie nodded. Contracts were a bitch. “So you talk with the Kings anymore?” he asked to fill the silence that had stretched between them after that conversation stopper.

Steve barked out a bitter laugh. “Billy died from an overdose about a year after we broke up. Tommy is in jail for beating his wife, Carol right before the Grammy’s last year. And Jonathan is dating my ex, and my agent tells me that there are wedding bells on the horizon. So no. I don’t speak to them anymore.”

“Holy shit!” Eddie said. “What the hell happened?”

“We were underage when we became famous,” Steve murmured. “So our parents took control of everything the first couple of years and pushed us too hard. Jonathan was the only one to survive because his mom made sure his dad couldn’t touch shit and shielded him from the worst the business had to offer.”

“You including yourself in the parents are shit pile?” Eddie asked.

“My parents were the worst because they looked respectable,” Steve said, “But both of them are among the worst people to walk this planet.”

“There’s a story there,” Eddie said, bumping into Steve shoulder, “come on. Spill.”

Steve looked around him and then leaned in so only Eddie could hear. “They tried to have me committed when I didn’t want to do what they wanted.”

Eddie’s eyes went wide. “Seriously, the fuck?”

Steve nodded. “Nearly succeeded, too. If it wasn’t for my best friend intervening and becoming my manager. Robin saved my life.” He sighed heavily and looked down at his beer.

“You know what you need right now?” Eddie asked with a big grin.

“What’s that?” Steve cocked his head to the side.

“To let loose on the dance floor!”

Eddie grabbed his hand and led him out to the middle of floor and began dancing.

Steve laughed and then joined in. Letting his worries slide away with the beat of the music.

Eddie kept going back to the bar for liquid courage to ask this beautiful boy if he would come back to his hotel room with him. But after the fourth shot and third beer, Eddie was too tipsy for anything even to close to sex, much less standing upright.

As Steve found out as he tried to get the front man back to his hotel room. Eddie was all over Steve, giggling and shoving his hair in his mouth.

Steve shook his head, a fond smile on his face. He managed to get them to his room without either of them falling down.

“You’re very pretty,” Eddie giggled.

Steve laughed, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “You, on the other hand, is absolutely gorgeous.”

Eddie blushed deeply.

“Where is your hotel key, dude?” Steve asked.

“Pocket!” Eddie pressed his lips together and batted his eyelashes at him.

“Which one?” Steve asked.

Eddie just leaned forward for a kiss and Steve dodged, patting down the pockets in the vest with no luck, finding only the man’s car keys.

He reached around to feel up Eddie’s back pockets, looking for the wallet and trying very hard not to linger.

Eddie only made the temptation that much harder when he canted his hips into Steve’s, seeking friction.

Steve had to close his eyes and take deep breath. His hands slid to the front of Eddie’s pants and found the wallet in the right pocket, his cell phone in his left.  

“Why don’t you have your wallet in your back pocket like a normal person?” Steve asked, chuckling.

“Thiefy heads trying to steal it, so usually on a chain, but going to unknown bar went for front pocket instead.”

Steve smiled at him. “Duly noted.”  He opened the wallet, fishing out the key card and opened the door. He half carried the very drunk Eddie to the bed and flopped him face first into the covers.

Steve put his hands on his hips and looked around at the suite. It had it’s own sitting room and a door that led to a large bathroom complete with a Jacuzzi style bathtub.  “Damn, Robin is slacking, if this the is kind of room your manager can get for you.”

Eddie rolled over on his back and looked up at Steve with a grin. “And I don’t hafta share!”

“You are a menace, Munson,” Steve murmured. He began unlacing the boots and pulled them off. “Come on, get under the covers, you dork.”

Eddie leaned up and crooked his finger at Steve. Steve leaned forward.

“Not dork, nerd!” he whispered and giggled. But before Steve could straighten up, Eddie grabbed him and pulled him on the bed.

Steve laughed.

Eddie kissed him, but Steve managed to get away.

“Why...” Eddie huffed, pouting.

Steve booped his nose. “Because I have it on very good authority that you won’t remember this in the morning and I want you to remember.”

Eddie grumbled as Steve pulled the blankets over him.

Steve put Eddie’s boots by the door and put the keys, phone, and wallet on the small table next to the sofa.

Eddie mumbled something and Steve went over to the bed to make out what he was saying.

“Who’s authority? Who says I won’t remember. I could, you don’t know.”

Steve brushed Eddie’s hair out his face and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“Mine.”

Steve slipped out the door to a snoring Eddie.

Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6  Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10  Part 11  Part 12  Part 13  Part 14 Part 15  Part 16

Tag List: @bejeweledbaby @avacrebs @eboyawstenn @moonshadows-13 @goodolefashionedloverboi @linkydinky06 @ohlook-afrog @livelaughlexa @spectrum-spectre @cutepumpkin4 @whatthemeepever

[jerzwriter]

Bacon & Bribery: A Hopkins Tale

You know, @dr-colossal-pita, I really don't know what happens to my brain when I get your requests, and it can be argued that it's frightening, but hey - it works! lol Thanks for the ask, and I hope you enjoy this silliness. :) From this ask.

Book: Open Heart (prequel/Hopkins Years) Characters: Ethan Ramsey, Tobias Carrick Words: 600 Rating: Teen Summary: All Ethan wants to do is sleep as late as he can, but Tobias has other plans. A/N: This fic takes place during Ethan & Tobias's Hopkins years, before the competition soured their friendship. @choicesfebruary2024 - Philia (for both) and a little Philautia for Tobias lol

The ringer on Ethan’s alarm clock went off, but its sound was nearly drowned out by the tortured moan he emitted the moment it started to buzz. Reaching over, he slammed his hand against the snooze button and rolled over. Nuzzled under the blanket again, all was right with the world, and a half-grin formed on his lips. He had everything down to a science. He could hit snooze three more times, allowing him just enough time to throw on his clothes, pour a cup of coffee, and race to his first and only class of the day. It was all clockwork. But this morning, something was different.

Ethan’s nose wrinkled as the savory scent of bacon and sausage wafted into his room. He wanted to stay in bed, difficult as that was knowing bacon was a room away, but if the processed meats couldn’t lure him, the singing... well, it didn’t lure him, but compelled him to wake and make it stop. Shuffling to the kitchen in a tattered old bathrobe and disheveled hair, Ethan rubbed his eyes to find Tobias cheerfully standing over the stove.

“Hey, Buddy!” he grinned. “Let me guess, you’re here for the bacon, right!”

“Well, I sure as hell am not here for your sausage,” he grumbled. “Let me guess? You’re trying to impress some poor soul lying in your bed? Is it one of the rare finds you want to bring back here more than once?"

Tobias, already dressed in a fitted back T and perfectly distressed jeans, turned to his friend with a playful scowl.

“Why are you so damn bitter, Ramsey. We need to get you laid.”

“I get laid, plenty,” Ethan spat, stopping Tobias mid pancake flip.

“E... no one who actually gets laid ‘plenty’ ever says they get laid ‘plenty.’ But enough about your non-existent sex life. There’s no one here except us, so what do you want for breakfast?”

“To go back to bed.”

“Fine!” Tobias replied, flipping a crispy piece of bacon into his mouth. “But don’t think I’m saving any of this for you.”

Ethan took a step away, but the virtual breakfast buffet spread out on the kitchen counter had him turning around.

“Fine!" he said ploping into a chair. "Eggs, bacon, and some pancakes will do nicely.”

“Coming right up,” Tobias snickered. “And damn, you really meant it when you said you didn’t want my sausage.”

Tobias burst out laughing as his friend sighed in grief. 

“I don’t know if this breakfast is worth putting up with you.”

“Pfft,” Tobias smiled, placing Ethan’s plate before him. “You love me even when there’s no breakfast involved. Don't try denying it!”

“I don't."

Tobias leaned back in the chair across from his friend. "Keep lying to yourself," he chortled. “Oh, FYI, our 9:00 class was canceled. What do you say we take a ride down to the waterfront and make the most of the day.”

Ethan dropped his toast to the table, his jaw hanging open.

“You mean you knew class was canceled? And you're out here making breakfast?”

“Had to get you up, somehow,” Tobias grinned. “Come on! It’s a beautiful day! We should enjoy it."

"I wanted to enjoy it in bed!" Ethan spat, instantly regretting his words.

"Yeah, well, that has different meanings for you and me, my friend." All too proud of himself for irritating Ethan, Tobias laughed again.

“How can you even be this happy this early in the morning?” Ethan pondered as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“It’s all part of my charm! You should be taking notes. Then, we could go back to that whole getting you laid thing... hey, where you going?”

“I’m going to get dressed. The sooner we’re in the car, the sooner I can put on the radio to tune you out.”

Tobias smiled with a snap of his fingers. “And just like that... I’ve got my ride to the waterfront!”

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Tagging others separately.

[psychobrew]

Dudley 'redemption'

Their tears at the bitter injustice dry when they begin to perceive the terrible justice of reality, and to accept it. - Ursula K. LeGuin

***

“Are you with the press?”

The woman in the doorway is round and stern-looking. Dudley - despite his obvious height advantage - feels inexplicably small in front of her.

“Er - no,” he says. “Is Harry here?”

The woman sticks up her nose at him. “You’re sure you’re not with the press?”

“I’m not. I’m really not.” He rubs his palms over the back of his jeans, slick with sweat. “I’m - er - his cousin-”

“Dudley?”

Harry appears over the woman’s shoulder, jaw slack, eyes wide. The woman turns around at the sound of his voice.

“Do you know him, Harry?”

“Yeah.” Harry is gesturing at him - loose, aimless movements of the hands. Dudley can’t quite get a read on his face. “Yeah. This is my cousin, Dudley.”

“Oh.” This does not seem to endear him to the woman. Harry stands a few steps behind her, still staring with disbelief. She looks him up and down. “Right - your Dursley’s boy.”

Usually, this is something said to him with a prideful affectation - Dursley’s boy. This woman says the name Dursley like its something rotten, like how his father used to talk about -

Harry clears his throat.

“What’re you doing here?” He tries for a smile, but if Dudley isn’t mistaken, there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Talk about feeling rotten. 

He shrugs. “Just wanted a chat.” He glances quickly at the woman. “Er - if it's ok.”

The woman opens her mouth, no doubt to tell him to go straight to hell, but Harry steps around her. “We’ll talk outside, Mrs. Weasley. It's ok.”

Mrs. Weasley (Dudley remembers her now. She had been in his living room once, and her beastly sons had given him some sort of drug) presses her mouth into a thin line. 

“Fine. That’s fine.” 

Dudley doesn’t miss the way she squeezes Harry’s hand for a moment too long as he brushes past her onto the front step.

The door snaps shut behind her. Dudley follows Harry out onto the sparse lawn, trails behind the lean, slender line of his body, his quick steps. He stops a few paces away from the house, as if he thinks something unpleasant might happen that he doesn’t want the others to hear. Which, Dudley thinks, isn’t all that far-fetched, considering their history.

Harry faces him, fists jammed into the pockets of his jeans. He’s still got that weird grin stuck on his face. “What’s up, Dud?”

Dudley shrugs again. “I really did just want to chat.”

The corner of Harry’s smile falters for a moment. “Yeah? About what?” He’s using the same sort of false cheer his mother puts on for her book club.

“Just -” Dudley drags his toe through the dirt, puffing up a small cloud of dust. Someplace behind the house, a rooster crows. The sound is piercing. Harry doesn’t flinch. “You know, we were in hiding for a year, practically -”

“Yeah.” Harry clears his throat. “Uh. Sorry about that.”

“No, no, no -” Dudley knows he’s fumbling it all up. Every word that comes out of his mouth, he sounds stupider. “That’s not what I meant. It was fine, we’re all okay. Er - they roughed up our house a bit -” (That was an understatement. Those people - whoever had been after Harry - had practically razed the place.) “But I’m not here to, like, complain or anything. I was just thinking.”

Harry blinks. The corner of his mouth jerks up into a smirk - genuine this time. Dudley can imagine the witty retort rolling off his tongue: You? Thinking? Wow, Dud, that’s groundbreaking stuff.

“I was thinking,” Dudley continues, “how the way my parents treated you, when we were kids, was a bit - er - harsh.”

Harry stares at him for a long moment, and Dudley worries he might lash out and tell him to leave. Instead - shockingly - he laughs. 

“A bit?”

“Well, pretty harsh. Actually, yeah. Very harsh. Too harsh.”

Harry shrugs. “Yeah.”

Dudley doesn’t know why he was expecting him to deny it. He hadn’t exactly planned out what to say, so he blunders on uselessly.

“I mean - you were just a kid. You never really did anything wrong, I don’t think. Well - there was some of that freaky stuff - but you know. That wasn’t really your fault, was it? Like you couldn’t help it.”

Harry says nothing, just stares. Dudley squirms and balls his fists in the pockets of his windbreaker. He wishes the ground would swallow him whole. He stares at the dry blades of grass between his sneakers. 

“Anyways, yeah. I just thought about it a lot, I had a lot of time to think about it. I mean obviously they’re still my mum and dad - but I do think what they did to you was sort of rotten.”

When he looks up again, Harry is smiling softly. Dudley breathes a sigh of relief.

“Thanks, Dudley.” 

He opens his mouth to say something else – sorry, maybe – but all at once realizes it would be futile. There’s really nothing he can do, now. The damage is already done. What good is sorry 16 years too late?

He holds out his hand. Harry shakes it briskly, like they’ve just close a business deal. Dudley steps back, jams his hands back into his pockets. 

“Guess I should head out.”

Harry glances at a gold watch on his wrist. Dudley wonders where he got it - he can’t remember it from their childhood. Harry would never have worn such a nice watch in their house, anyways.

“Suppose you should. Nearly dinner.”

Dudley steps forward, claps him on the shoulder. Harry seems surprised at the gesture. “See you around, Dud?”

Dudley nods, knowing he won’t. See him around, that is. He knows Harry doesn’t want anything to do with him. He knows that he’ll go back home tonight and eat his mother’s lamb chops and be doted on by his father, be praised by the same mouths that had been so needlessly cruel to him. 

He knows his parents have done something unforgivable, but he won’t condemn them for it. They’re his parents, after all. Paying for his college, letting him live for free. Loving him unconditionally. It would be foolish to turn on them.