#that they can just wipe out something like that and it’s gone

[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.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for S behind the cut; "from Andromeda to your eye". tw: internalized dehumanization; dehumanizing it/its pronouns. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

It wants to be saved, like it thinks it’s something worth that. It wants to be–it wants–it wants Superboy’s arms around it and Superboy’s lies in its ears and to never, ever have to go back to the Agenda, even though it knows there’s no way it’s really escaped the Agenda. Not for good. Not for real. 

The Agenda made it, and it isn’t something anyone would actually save. No one’s ever saved anything the Agenda made. 

It knows Superboy tried to, though.

But it still never should’ve come here. Never should’ve done this. Never should’ve come to Superboy like–like it really thought–like it really thinks– 

“C’mon, just–come with me, okay?” Superboy says, his voice all tight and twisted up.  It–understands that. Understands that Superboy needs to take it somewhere else. Somewhere with fewer staff around, where it can be secured until either Cadmus decides what to do with it or the Agenda comes and gets it. 

“I’m sorry,” it chokes again. The first thing it ever said was a lie to the security at the door; the first thing it ever really said was an apology to someone it never should’ve gone to. 

That apology’s still the only thing it’s ever really said. 

“It’s–fine,” Superboy says, his voice stiff. “I get it. It’s fine. Just–c’mon.” 

It nods, weak and useless, and Superboy stands up and pulls it up with him, and it tries to stop crying, and he wipes the tears off its face with the heel of his glove and it just cries harder, because why would he even bother to do that, why would he even care to, that’s–that’s– 

He should’ve thrown it out. Should’ve attacked it. Should–should just– 

He’ll lock it up. He’ll take it to a holding cell and lock it up and–and he won’t leave it there for good, it knows, not if . . . not if he can help it, anyway, but . . . 

But maybe he won’t be able to help it. 

It cries some more, and Superboy wipes the tears away from the underneath of its eyes with his thumbs. No one’s ever done that before. It’s never cried before either, but–still. No one’s ever touched its face or hugged it or lied to it over things no one else would ever even care to. 

No one’s ever done a lot of things, because the clone’s only existed for a few days, but those are things it wouldn’t have thought anyone ever would. 

“What do you want me to call you?” Superboy asks as he cups its face with one hand and its shoulder with the other. It sniffles, messy and ugly, and scrubs its own glove across its eyes. Of course he asked that, it thinks. Of course he asked that like that, it thinks. Not what’s your project designation? or what’s your name?; just what do you want?

Of course he asked like that. 

“‘Babe’,” it says, because that’s not what he calls Wonder Girl, and it’s much, much better than the idea of ever hearing its subject number in his voice. 

“Movin’ kinda fast there, babe,” Superboy replies with a crooked little grin, and it almost cries again. It thinks he’s–teasing it, maybe. Making a joke. Because he thinks it’s the kind of thing that could actually laugh or find something funny or . . . 

“Sorry,” it says, scrubbing uselessly at its face. “Sorry, just–not my subject number. Not–not that. Please.” 

“Hey, far be it from me to turn down a pretty girl asking me to call her ‘babe’, you’re not walkin’ that one back on me,” Superboy mock-scoffs, flashing it a wider grin and–and– 

And Superboy sees a girl when he looks at it. He sees a girl, and a “her”, and . . . and something to comfort. Someone to . . . 

He sees a person, when he looks at it. 

It–it knew he would. It knew that. 

But he does. 

She buries her face in her hands and starts bawling, and Superboy just wraps her up in his arms again like he’s not bothered by that at all and grips her tight, making rough little hushing sounds–or maybe rough little soothing sounds–against her hair. 

She still doesn’t know how to stop crying. 

The Agenda never thought she would, so why would they have taught her how to stop?

[fifthnailinstevesbat]

thinking of a new steddie fic/au hmmm.

It’s just the classic, Steve buys weed from Eddie in season 1 era, he and Tommy meet him at the bench in the woods behind school. Steve and Eddie have some playful banter and clearly get along, but it’s dismissed as just a drug deal and they go on about their lives.

Next time they meet is when a frantic Steve comes and finds Eddie after he’s just fought off the demogorgon for the first time. He’s rattled, and skittish, wearing a nasty black bruise on his eye, and just overall not acting like himself. He snaps at Eddie multiple times to just ‘hurry up’ and ‘get him his stuff’, and sure he’s being an asshole, but more than anything Eddie is just concerned. He has never seen The King Steve Harrington lose his cool like this. So Eddie cautiously gives him the weed, making sure not to give too much, and lets him go about his day, but not before asking if he’s alright. Steve clearly wasn’t expecting this and brushes it off defensively, but that doesn’t mean he’s not thinking about it for the rest of his week. How the hell did Eddie Munson notice something was wrong, when his own parents didn’t? Nor his “friends”?

They cross paths again a year later, the beginning of season two. Steve is still with Nancy and has freshly dumped his old douchebag crew of superficial friends. He is still sitting quite comfortably on the higher ranks of popularity, but there is no denying his status is not what it used to be. He comes to buy weed from Eddie in the first week back at school, and it’s a casual interaction. He’s still as charmingly stuck up as he ever was, but now without Tommy there to judge his every move, he seems a little more at ease when making casual conversation with Eddie. Eddie doesn’t mention the year before and Steve is so glad for it, secretly very embarrassed that he went to Eddie for some refuge after arguably his most traumatic experience to date. He gets his stuff, giving Eddie a smirk when he notices he’s dropped the price significantly for Steve when it’s just him alone. Eddie gives him a challenging smile back, almost daring him to call it out, but he doesn’t. They both just laugh and part ways.

The next run in is tina’s halloween party. They notice eachother when Steve first arrives, making eye contact and giving a polite nod. Maybe Eddie lifts his drink up to Steve in a silly salute. They don’t speak at all or make any effort to hang around eachother. That is, until Steve storms down the stairs in a rage after he’d gone up there with Nancy Wheeler. But then are those- tears? Eddie was standing on the front porch smoking a cigarette, trying to discreetly hide from one Billy Hargrove to avoid having to sell him anything, but staying visible enough that he won’t lose all chances of making any money tonight. Steve storms right past him and hits his shoulder. Eddie whips around and is about to call him a dick before he sees who it is.

Steve tries to quickly wipe his face, he won’t make eye contact with Eddie, and he’s clearly trying to get out as fast as he can. Eddie doesn’t let him, though, since he’s obviously not thinking very clearly and is most likely about to do something emotional and stupid. He asks if Steve’s alright, and his answers are all short and rushed, so he’s definitely not. They’re not really friends, but Eddie’s not an asshole.

— “Did you drive?” Eddie asks

“Yeah”

“Well, you’re drunk, Steve. You can’t get behind a wheel right now. And if I knowingly let you, then that makes me an accomplice. I’ll take you home.”

Steve tries to protest, attempting to push past him, but Eddie interjects. “Yeah, yeah, alright! Don’t thank me yet, Steve’o. This is not for you, see, I’m not trying to get a criminal record, here. I cant go to prison, Steve. Do you know what they’d do to a pretty guy like me in prison? Nope, let’s go hot stuff.” —

Eddie takes Steve home. They don’t talk much. By the time they reach Steve’s drive way and Eddie has put his van in park, Steve is making no attempt to exit the vehicle just yet. Eddie doesn’t know what to do, he didn’t really plan this far, so he’s just tapping away awkwardly at his steering wheel while Harrington stares down the dashboard so clearly lost in thought Eddie fears his head might explode. Steve tells Eddie what happened, says it’s ‘relationship troubles’, and he’s not quite sure what compelled him into being so honest with Eddie Munson, but he’s blaming the alcohol. Eddie wasn’t expecting that. They chat for a bit, Eddie makes Steve laugh and considers the whole night a success after that. Then they start cracking jokes about their shared hatred for Hargrove, and Steve looks and sounds a bit more ok to go inside. He thanks Eddie, quite sincerely actually, and it throws him a bit. He stutters a ‘yeah, for sure. It’s no problem.’ And Steve goes home.

After that, it’s a little different. Steve, doesn’t actually really have anyone, anymore. When they go back to school he’s now greeting Eddie here and there in the hallways, making conversation when they find themselves alone together, in the lunch line or at the bathroom sink. He doesn’t approach Eddie when there’s too many people around, though. As much as he’s grown, Steve Harrington still carry’s some prejudice in him about how certain things may make him look. But it doesn’t bother Eddie too much. It’s not like they are really friends, they’re just like, strange acquaintances. And Steve would never deny that they get along, that really Eddie’s ‘not so bad’. So that’s a win.

Steve finds Eddie again not long after the party to buy some more weed, a plan that sparked purely out of boredom. Eddie says yes, of course, but tells him if he wants it today he will need to wait till after school and meet Eddie at his place, since he was busy. So Steve takes a trip to the Munson trailer to make his deal. Eddie invites him inside and they sit together on the couch as he gets Steve’s bag ready. They end up making quite pleasant conversation, joking around and ultimately finding they are really enjoying each other’s company. They enjoy it so much so, that Steve ends up smoking there, with Eddie. So now they are kind of like, hanging out? And it’s fun, so they do it again. Still they’re not, friends friends, they just get along. Eddie just sells Steve weed sometimes and they keep it civil.

He doesn’t hear from Steve for a while, and the next time he sees him it’s from a distance, in passing. The man has the most roughed up face Eddie has ever seen, bruised and swollen in multiple areas, stitches and bandages all over. It’s really, concerning? completely metal, but alarming. This is the second time Eddie has seen the guy all beaten up like that. He knew that boys fight, but surely not that bad? As worried as he was, Eddie doesn’t approach him to ask questions, because they don’t know eachother like that. So he goes on about his day, and he doesn’t see Steve again after that for quite some time.

Then it’s summer, Eddie isn’t graduating again, and he’s not really sure what to do with himself over the break. The new mall has just opened up, and there’s a cool music store up on the second floor that he likes to visit sometimes with his band friends. And wouldn’t you know, working at the Scoops Ahoy located directly across from his favourite store, is Steve Harrington. The guy hasn’t come to Eddie for any weed since last year, and then there was that sighting where he looked like he’d just fallen face first into a flying fist or two, so it’s been a minute since Eddie’s seen him. And he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a nice surprise. He only goes into scoops once. He’s curious, okay? Sue him. And, he knows the girl who works with him, Robin. So he plays it off like he had no idea he’d see Steve there. And to his surprise, Steve actually acknowledges him. He doesn’t act like Eddie is a total stranger just because they’re not in school anymore. The interaction is quick, they make very casual conversation, Eddie says hi to Robin, grabs his milkshake and goes home. That’s all. He doesn’t go back, and he doesn’t really plan to. Steve’s nice, and he knows Eddie’s around if he needs to buy from him again, and that’s really as far as their relationship goes. That’s all it ever was. It’s been fun getting to know Steve Harrington a little bit better, even if it was just for a short time. Eddie liked having the chance to see in past the quaffed hair and pressed polo shirts to learn that Steve was really just a person under it all. He never thought he’d say it, but Harrington wasn’t so bad. It was a nice little eye opening experience for Eddie.

Eddie was ready to write off his little blips of interaction with Steve Harrington as a thing of the past, no hard feelings, and move on with his life. That is, until he gets a knock at his front door in the middle of the night afew days after the big mall fire. And it’s Steve on the other side. And he looks awful, his face is the worst Eddie’s ever seen it. And he wasn’t really knocking, more like pounding. He says he needs Eddie’s help.

What the fuck?

[3-2-whump]

Purpose Lost, Then Re-gained

Hey everyone,

If you need a timely distraction from spiraling into despair (like me), here is a backstory I've been holding onto for ages. Thanks @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz for beta-reading this!

PS, there is a reference to a previous chapter that you'd might want to brush up on, if you're unfamiliar with it

TW/CW: blood, aftermath of murder, whump aftermath (I guess?), aftermath of (sports) injury, emotional whump (depression), feelings realization (bi panic)

Out, damned spot; out, I say. One, two, —why, then ’tis time to do’t. Hell is murky. Fie, my lord, fie, a soldier and afeard? What need we fear who knows it when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

Nico scrubbed his hands once, twice, until they were pinkish-red from the effort of cleansing rather than from the blood. Yet he could still feel his boss’ warm blood sticking his palms to the dead man’s body and staining him to his bones. Outside the thin doors of the dock’s restrooms, he could hear Julio instructing Juicio Divino on where to hang up Tom’s body.

Thomas Costa’s body.

Nico thought he was going to be sick.

The door swung open and Julio leisurely sauntered up beside him, taking the sink next to him to wash the blood off his hands. They stood there in silence with nothing but the water running between them and a tension that could be cut with a knife.

Julio glanced over at Nico’s scrubbed-raw hands, frowning a little as he turned off the water to his sink. “You good there, vato?” he asked quietly.

“You know, it’s just kinda fucked, isn’t it?” Nico began, the words tumbling out of his mouth before his brain could make sense of them. “I literally just helped you murder a rapist, an enslaver, and an abuser, among other things. Yet, all I can think about is how that same rapist, enslaver, and abuser cured my depression and gave me a purpose to life again, and we literally just took his-”

Julio cut off his nervous babbling by placing a damp, clean hand on Nico’s. The other hand reached to turn off the sink, and then to turn Nico towards him. Forest green eyes looked down into hazel. Julio frowned, reaching gently to touch one of Nico’s many scrapes he got on his face. The guard flinched under the assassin’s tender touch. Julio withdrew his hand right away, and Nico surprised himself when he found he missed its absence already.

“We need to clean those too so they don’t get infected,” Julio murmured. He gently led Nico into a bathroom stall and prompted him to sit down on the toilet. He then exited for a bit, only to come back with a paper towel he was blotting with alcohol from his jacket flask.

“Um, actually, I don’t think booze is the best thing to sterilize wounds,” Nico tried to say.

Julio hushed him as he began gently dabbing Nico’s split brow with the paper towel. Nico gritted his teeth; that stuff stung. He inhaled a comforting scent on the next painful hiss. Julio smelled…nice… a bit like marijuana and gunpowder and musk, but nice all the same.

Julio worked his way down to the cut below Nico’s left eye, staring intensely at his face in the meantime. Nico bristled under the man’s scrutiny. He wasn’t used to being touched so tenderly, not since-

2014

He was told that the torn ligament would need surgery. That he would need to go to rehab for weeks, if not months, after the fact. That he would miss the rest of the football season.

But that couldn’t be it. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Nico Clemenza was supposed to lead St. Drogo’s to victory this season, attract the attention of university recruiters, and be offered a full-ride to Syracuse or something like that. But here he was, at the hospital, sitting between his parents, as the doctor told him his whole future had gone up in smoke.

His father had hugged him. His mother had gently wiped his tears away. That was the first (and last) time they had touched him so tenderly in a while.

-

2015

It was the second semester of his senior year, and Nico was already so sick of people asking him what his future plans were. Even his therapist asked –well, she didn’t ask, but he could sense her concern when he couldn’t come up with an answer. Half the time he just wanted to scream that he had no plan, no future, nothing, and that everything he had pinned his hopes on since he was ten years old was gone. But the most he did was noncommittally shrug and murmur a despondent “I don’t know.”

After graduation, life became a bit of a dull gray monotony. Wake up, sulk, play video games and sulk, eat when his mother insisted he come downstairs for lunch, go to therapy, come home, sulk some more until dinnertime, and then take an hour-long shower before staying up late to sulk until he fell asleep.

Nico stared vacantly at his ceiling, letting the rotation of the fan’s blade lull him into a kind of trance. On the shelves of his bedroom were pictures of his old football team, awards from the debate club, trophies from past athletic competitions–all of them remnants of a boy he used to be. He really thought he should pack them all into a box and stuff them into his closet already, but he hadn’t even had the energy for something as simple as that.

A long-haired brunette leaned over his field of vision, waving her manicured fingernails in his face to get his attention. Her eyes, which looked much like his own, stared down at him in concern. She kept waving her hand in his face. Nico finally acknowledged his sister with a grunt. She stopped waving her hand. “Jeez, you are depressed,” she said with a frown.

“Leave me alone, Jessica,” he moaned.

He was about to turn onto his side, back facing her, when a pair of firm hands with manicured nails pinned him down onto the mattress. “It’s been a whole year now,” she stressed. Nico rolled his eyes; as if he weren’t painfully aware. “Mom and dad are worried about you,” she told him. Then, a little quieter, she admitted, “I’m worried about you.”

He pushed himself up from the Nico-sized divot he made in his bed, getting into a sitting position as he stared up at his older sister. “Yeah, well, maybe once you’ve missed your shot to do the only thing you were ever good for, then you’d be depressed too,” he sniped, though his words had no heat behind them.

Jessica sat on the bed next to her brother, bringing their gazes to the same level. “Come on, you don’t mean that, do you?” she asked. When Nico didn’t answer, she continued. “I mean, you were so much more than just football captain of St. Drogo’s, Nic-Nac! Did ‘president of the debate club’ and ‘honor roll student’ mean nothing to you?”

“Yeah, you don’t really get full-ride scholarships for being the smartest smart-ass in the room, do you?” he mumbled.

“But, you do get degrees,” Jessica argued.

And Nico knew she was right, and that with his grades, he could’ve applied to any university he’d like without a hitch. But, without any true sense of what he wanted to do with his life now, let alone what he’d want to study for four years, he figured it would’ve been a waste of everyone’s time and money for him to go to college without a plan. Surely his sister would’ve remember this; she tried to get him to apply to her college several months ago.

Speaking of which… “What are you even doing home this weekend?” he asked her, changing the subject. “It’s not a holiday, is it?” He was only vaguely aware that it was even October, thanks to the Halloween decorations at his therapist’s office.

Jessica shook her head. “Uncle Mike and the new boss are visiting, so Dad wanted me to come home to sell the whole ‘happy family’ image,” she explained.

“’Happy family’ image?” Nico echoed, cocking his head in confusion. As far as he was aware, their family was perfectly normal, and the only unhappy one was him.

“And you, Mr. Nic-Nac, are the unhappiest of us all and are dragging us down!” she jokingly scolded him, as if she could read his mind. She pulled him by the arm off the bed and out of his room. “Take a shower, shave your face, fix your hair, and please change into something nice,” she instructed him. She shoved him into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. “They’ll be here in half an hour!”

-

The new boss, Mr. Thomas J. Costa, was nothing like Nico had expected. He was young, like, mid-thirties, with a polite demeanor that slipped into something more personal and friendly when his Uncle Mike was around. He was crass, talking frankly about every minor inconvenience of his day while sprinkling in enough expletives to fill the Clemenza swear jar thrice over. He was relatable; he and Nico shared the same music tastes, and Nico’s jaw dropped in awe as the Boss relayed a tale of meeting Kurt Cobain in person.

And, most of all, he gave Nico’s life direction again.

It was a couple hours after dinner, as his mom and Jessica cleaned up in the kitchen and the men smoked in the back yard. Nico had been allowed to join the men outside, but all he did was stand awkwardly around the periphery as Don Costa regaled his dad and his uncle with the antics of a new puppy he was training (if he overheard that right).

“Yeah, he’s a dense little fucker, but he’ll get it, eventually,” Thomas sighed.

“Not like my Nico over here,” his dad had boasted proudly. Nico fought against the instinct to shrink in on himself as his father waved towards his direction and all three pairs of eyes fell onto him. “Honor roll student, president of the debate club, and former captain of the St. Drogo’s Direwolves.”

Former. He’d hoped that a year later, the word wouldn’t hurt so much. Too bad, it still did.

“That so?” The Boss took a puff of his cigarette, then redirected his attention to Nico. “Hey, kid, what are you doing? You in school, studying anything?”

“Oh, n-no, um, no, I’m not. I’m not, sir,” Nico stuttered, throwing in the honorific at the last minute as he subconsciously straightened his posture.

“Well, do you want to be studying?” Thomas bore down on him, steely gray eyes sharp with ambition and gleaming with promises. “What would you study, if you were in school right now?”

Nico’s mouth opened and closed like a fish as he struggled his way through an answer, eventually landing on a painfully-exhaled “eh…”

Thankfully, the new Boss didn’t laugh, or even sigh disappointedly like his uncle just now. Instead, he looked the young man over carefully, silently appraising him for a worth that Nico could hardly find in himself. “Our company could do with a legal consultant,” he said after a moment’s pause. “Frank himself said he wants to retire by the time he’s sixty-five, which would give you about seven years or so to get a law degree and complete an internship at Costa Insurance, if that’s something you’d want to do.”

Uncle Mike glanced at Don Costa. “Tom, isn’t he a little young to bring into the-”

“No younger than you were when Grandpa Tony brought you into the fold,” Thomas answered. He stuck his palm out to Nico, inviting him to shake on it. “Well, Nico?” he asked.

-

“And after a year of not having any sense of direction or purpose, to finally be thrown that line, to be shown a future I could attain…” Nico continued rambling on, “…I just went for it!”

Julio hummed to let him know he was listening as he applied the Band-Aids to his face.

“I put my whole ass into law school, and the gym, and guard duty, and for what?” Nico asked, hopping from his seat and marching out the bathroom stall as soon as Julio stopped leaning over him. “To find out it was a lie,” he grumbled, “that the man who got me out of my depression was a hopeless, selfish, sexually and physically abusive, manipulative piece of-”

“I get it, I get it,” Julio answered, opening the door of the restroom onto the snowy night. He sighed, closing his eyes as he collected his thoughts before looking up at Nico through his lashes, which were quickly collecting snow. “I looked up to someone who later came to disappoint me, too,” he whispered. “But look, Nico –Nico!”

Nico blinked back the furious stinging in his eyes. Julio was standing close to him, squinting up at him through snow-flake jeweled eyelashes as he enunciated his next words clearly. “He didn’t get you out of your depression. You put in the work, you studied those long hours, you saw your future and you ran at it with everything you had to get it. You did all that, not him. He was just the spark, if you will, but the rest?” His tattooed hand thumped his sternum with every word he uttered next. “That. Was. All. You.”

And, for the first time since he found out the truth about Khaled, Nico felt something warm and fulfilling –pride? –swell in his chest. Julio smiled up at him. “You don’t owe anybody anything, and you should take pride in what you’ve accomplished on your own,” he told him.

Julio’s smile was wide, comforting, even. Nico’s heart pounded. It was unlike any smile he’d received from Khaled. No shy smiles that barely reached his eyes on this one; Julio’s smile was all teeth, fierce, feral, and free in its unabashed expressions. The closest Khaled ever came to smiling that sincerely around Nico was when his favorite team scored a goal, and even then, never this brightly.

Why was he only now realizing how different they were? Khaled and Julio were like the sun and the moon! Where one would quietly slink into a room and blend in with the wall, the other would kick the door open and saunter in with the calm confidence of an alley cat to take the seat at the head of the table, assuming it was not already occupied. Where one would omit information, and divert the subject to avoid talking about the things that mattered, the other would not shut up, especially about the things that mattered (justice, judgment, obligations, etc.). Where one would have to be continuously pressured into giving a half-truth after boldly lying to his face for years, the other was nothing but honest with him from the beginning. He told Nico he’d kill Thomas Costa for what he did to Khaled, and by god, he meant every word. Nico found himself falling in love with him that honesty.

But it’s not like Khaled was in any position to tell me the truth, Nico remembered, not without endangering himself or me. Still, though, it was refreshing to have someone like Julio be their true, authentic selves around him. Dare he say, Julio’s sincerity was even attractive.

But Nico liked women, okay? (Right?) At least, he thought he did. Being raised in a conservative, Italian-American, nominally Catholic organized crime family taught him that liking women was the only acceptable answer. His entire sexual history constituted women. However, Nico knew what he felt in the public restroom of that bar. Temptation. Nobody who exclusively liked women would feel temptation as Khaled stood on his tiptoes and attempted to kiss him. Yet it took everything in his power not to kiss him that night. And he found himself fantasizing about the ‘what-ifs’ ever since.

Nico first fell for Khaled, how he looked up at him with deep, dark brown eyes that a man could easily get lost in. But now, he was losing himself in Julio’s light hazel eyes, glittering a dim golden glow in the darkness of the night. His eyes panned down to Julio’s cheekbones, red from the cold (surely) and dusted lightly with stubbly facial hair. His eyes settled onto Julio’s full, smiling lips. They looked soft. Nico had no idea why he wanted to test that theory.

Is there just something about a murder that brings people together? Nico wondered. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks the longer he stared at Julio’s lips, imagining what those lips would feel like.

“You good, Nico?” Julio waved a hand over Nico’s fixed gaze, jiggling the padlock chain necklace he wore and making the links clink softly against each other. Nico unfroze, remembering why kissing Julio would be a bad idea, among all the other questionable ideas they had that night.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine,” he lied. “I just zoned out for a minute.”

Julio –Khaled’s boyfriend –opened his mouth halfway, as if he were about to call Nico out on his lie, but whatever thought flashed between those hazel eyes compelled him to shut it again. He trudged away from the restroom and towards Nico’s Jeep.

Nico exhaled a frosty sigh. Of all the times to have a bi awakening, why did it have to be with a compulsive liar and a gun-for-hire? Why couldn’t he have this realization in high school, when the options were much lower stakes? He shook his head and followed.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @defire @phoenixpromptsandstuff @scumashling

[manslaught]

she doesn't look at her, afraid that she'll only be met with pity in tai's eyes, and that's not what she was looking for when she decided to tell her the truth. mikayla focuses on the ground instead, scowling as she lifts her shoulders in a shrug, letting out a sigh. “ he doesn't want his daughter to be a loser. ” he doesn't want his daughter to be a lot of things, she almost adds, but she's not ready to admit everything, preferring not to talk about it at all. but she has already hinted to tai before about how important soccer was to him, how she only played it because he made her. she lifts her head, straightening her shoulders, slinging her jacket over her injured arm in an attempt to cover the bruise without having to put it back on entirely. “ it just feels like a bruise. i'm used to it. ” because he'd give her them all the time, honestly, but it could easily be blamed on the fights she gets herself into, so mikayla doesn't feel like she's admitting too much.

mikayla could understand that, at least. weeks ago, when her rib first got broken, she was too distracted by the pain of losing taissa to even care about the actual physical damage in her chest. her hand drifts to the side of her chest, wondering for the first time in three days if maybe the crash slowed down the healing process even more, but she hardly cares. she can't help it, the way her face softens at tai's question, because she's too exhausted to stop herself from looking at her the way she had for months. “ you could never look like shit, ” she says softly, like it should be obvious. “ you— ” still look beautiful, but she has enough tact to know she's not allowed to tell her things like that anymore, so she goes for something else. “ you just have, um— ” mikayla steps closer, aware that tai could and probably should shove her away, but if tai's really that concerned with her appearance, at least mikayla can help with that. she brings her thumb to her own mouth, wetting her finger before she carefully brings it to tai's wound, wiping at the dried blood, forced to think about all the times tai had touched her scar, how it was the only time mikayla didn't entirely hate the mark on her eyebrow. once the blood is gone, she drops her hand back to her side, clearing her throat. “ it's better now. ”

she desperately wants to correct her, tell her that she never got over her, that she's not sure if she ever will, but mikayla knows she can't, so she just glances away, inhaling sharply. she doesn't let herself think too far into tai saying the same thing back, because it doesn't mean anything— it's just tai not being heartless, because mikayla's sure she still hates her. “ now can we keep walking? ” she asks again in an attempt to drop the subject.

she’s caught off guard by her words— both by what she said and that she actually gave her an answer at all.   her brows furrow, head leaning back as she looks her over for a moment.   ❝  what the fuck?  ❞   she asks,  disgusted not by her,  but by him.    it leaves her with more questions,  but it’s clear now that she has to follow her lead.   ❝  why the fuck would he say—  do that?  ❞   she asks,  taking a step closer,  looking down at her arm again.  she frowns,  looking back up at mikayla,  wishing that she could ask her again if she’s okay so that mikayla could truly break down to her if that’s what she needs,  but she’s scared she’s going to keep shutting her out.  ❝  i’m… sorry.   that’s so fucked up,  ❞   she says quietly,  shaking her head,  remembering how annoyed she was with her own father’s last words to her—  and they were all positive.  it makes her feel horrible now.  ❝  does it hurt?  ❞   she asks,  because it’s easier to ask that rather than asking her if she can do anything.

❝  i haven’t really been thinking about it.  been kind of distracted,  ❞   she answers simply,  bringing her hand back to the wound again and shrugging.   ❝  i… haven’t looked at it,  ❞   she admits, too afraid of her own reflection— of seeing something that doesn’t look like the perfect version of herself she’d always been so careful about.  she gulps,  glancing back at mikayla shyly.   ❝  do i look like shit?  ❞   she asks quietly,  almost immediately regretting it,  because while she doesn’t expect mikayla to say yes—  she’s not ready to hear whatever the alternative is.    she rolls her eyes and waves her off.  ❝  okay,  mikayla,  just because you got over me doesn't mean i think you wanted me dead,  ❞   she mutters,  trying not to get caught up in her words and whatever else mikayla’s thinking.   but when she meets her eyes again,  she gulps, because she knows she can’t not say the same thing—not when it’s been weighing on her so heavily.  ❝  i’m glad you’re okay, too,  ❞  she whispers,  her eyes on the ground,  not allowing herself to get too emotional about any alternative.

[ciderjacks]

wish there were more ndn creole blogs on here, it’s all recipes and history pages, like we’re still around and being a creole ndn is way different to a non creole ndn experience, I know we’re around cause I met one a few weeks ago irl just by chance, but everyone acts like we’re either only in Louisiana and not worth acknowledging or just gone altogether.

[donghun-s]

so how do i tell my sister that since the last time she saw me i've become chronically ill and have had to change how i live my day to day life and i am no longer functionally the same sister she has known her entire life and that will impact how i can participate in the weeklong trip we have planned in seven days. any tips.

[lilac-landscapes]

This should be scaring every single person out there that believes streaming is better

Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the whole point of Netflix originals is to give people an incentive to sub to Netflix to watch a particular show or movie that they can’t watch anywhere else?

What is even the point of labeling something a “Netflix original” if it’s just going to get removed from the service regardless?

Yes, I am aware of the fact that Dreamworks owns the rights to Voltron, but it still doesn’t make any sense to remove the series from Netflix when it has been an “original” for eight years now.

If the Netflix exclusivity deal wasn’t a permanent thing, then they should have been upfront about that.

Anyway, keep buying physical media and keep pirating everything that never got released on DVD/Blu Ray.

[satoruxx]

you're sweating when you wake up, skin sticking painfully to your bedsheets as your bleary eyes dart around, attempting to make focus of your surroundings. the room is still dark, barely touched by the slight bit of moonlight that attempts to peak through the closed windows—defiant. it takes a minute to realize that the sounds that are breaking the silence are actually coming from your own throat—breathy, wheezing gasps of terror.

your stomach drops when your fingers grip cold and empty fabric. he's gone he's gone he's go—

"what are you doing up, pretty?"

your head snaps to the doorway. satoru stands there, sweats hanging low on his hips even as his hand remains curled around a glass of water. his hair is tousled with sleep, but his cerulean eyes are sharp and lively.

as soon as he sees the panic lacing your expression, his eyes widen, long legs practically tripping over themselves as he stumbles towards you.

"what happened?" he asks sharply, frantically placing the cup on the bedside table to take your face into his palms. shades of blue dart back and forth across your features as he perches one knee on the mattress and peers down at you. "are you okay?"

his touch sends electricity through your veins—a splash of ice water pulling you away from that painful reverie.

your heart both clenches and soars, the idea of what you saw being terrifying, and yet finding out it wasn't true being that much more relieving.

"i just—" your voice comes out choked, and satoru's fingers twitch against your skin imperceptibly. "had a bad dream."

you think your brain must be cruel for conjuring up a dream in which satoru could suffer to such abhorrent extents.

"oh sweets." satoru's sigh is sympathetically soft, thumb brushing over the apple of your cheek just barely. "it was just a nightmare."

"i know," you swallow, voice shaking. there's an uncharacteristic wetness pooling at your waterline. "i-it just felt so real."

"baby..." satoru immediately pulls you against the steady planes of his chest, thick arms snaking around your waist to eliminate any measly amount of distance between you two. you prop your chin on his shoulder, sighing as you feel his snowy hair tickling at your cheek.

"it wasn't real, sweetheart," he says, pulling back just slightly to push a piece of hair from your face. his thumb then drags under your eyes, wiping away the unshed tears. "see. you're here, i'm here. everything's all good."

"yeah." you're nodding, unable to take your eyes off of him because he's real and alive and so breathtakingly perfect. "yeah, you're right."

he gives you a lopsided smile, eyes bright and glowing. "i don't like to brag, but i usually am."

you snort out a laugh, missing the way his expression turns pleased at the sound. "hilarious. you love to brag."

"you got me there," he shrugs, grinning as you stick your tongue out at him. the lighthearted banter solidifies the fact that satoru is fine and unharmed and completely yours, but you can still feel the apprehension coursing through your veins. chills run up your spine—you try not to show it.

but of course, satoru has always been able to see right through you.

his teasing smile goes soft, and he inhales deeply.

"was it about me?" he asks, climbing into bed next you. you lay back down carefully.

"yeah," you mumble, watching him tug the blankets over your body and tuck you both under a cocoon of warmth.

"hm." something in his tone tells you he's not unfamiliar with the feelings you seem to be experiencing—his body shifts closer to yours. ocean eyes carefully asses you, deep and calculating and so concerned even as he smoothes a warm palm over your shoulder blades. "wanna tell me what happened?"

the truth is you do want to, because satoru has always understood you better than you've ever understood yourself—you have no doubt he'd be able to comfort you just as well as he normally does.

and yet...

"no," you answer, pressing your nose into his neck. a deep breath in, the lively scent that is so inherently your gojo satoru filling your very soul. "it's okay. i think i'll be fine."

when you shut your eyes, images flash behind them—of bloodied bodies and stitches and swapped souls. yet a chaste kiss to your forehead pulls you back to where you're supposed to be, warm and grounding.

"i know you'll be fine," satoru murmurs, lips tickling your brow as he speaks. you think you can hear the gentle smile as he says it, and your grip on him tightens—never letting go. "i'm right here after all."

[alwaysahiccupandastrid]

Pixar did not have to go as hard as they did with the Kronos Unveiled scene in The Incredibles (2004), yet they did anyway and gave us one of the best scenes in modern cinema. Literally cannot stop thinking about how good this scene is, from the animation to the build up to the soundtrack.

I don’t think I truly understood how dark this scene - and this film - was a child: Syndrome is systematically and strategically luring in superheroes and killing them off in order to test and improve his Omnidroid design… these people were not only supers but they also had family and loved ones too, just like Bob, and one day they would have just disappeared because chances are they weren’t telling people where they were going because it was "top secret" and against the law. They thought they were doing something good, like helping the people in the island, while also getting to relive their glory days, perhaps even paving the way for superheroes to make a proper comeback… only for Syndrome to kill them in cold blood.

Most of these people can actually be seen at Bob and Helen’s wedding in the beginning of the film - they weren’t just random supers, they were their friends, people they worked alongside and cared about. It’s even worse when you realise that Bob probably blames himself because, after all, Buddy/Syndrome was his biggest fan and he dismissed him by not letting him help.

The relief on Bob’s face when he realises Syndrome doesn’t know where Helen is - meaning he also doesn’t know where their children are because he didn’t realise they were married at this point - is so realistic and gut wrenching to see. The relief contrasting with the anguish of knowing how much danger they and their entire family could have been in the entire time without even knowing...it's so well-done, you can literally feel it.

It’s also worth noting that originally the next target wasn’t Mr Incredible but Frozone - that was who Mirage was trailing, hence why his location is “known”. Imagine if she/Syndrome hadn’t realised that Mr Incredible was with him and they’d lured Frozone in instead as planned; he would have gone to the island to fight the Omnidroid 8 in a volcano setting. We saw how being in the burning building dehydrated Frozone and made it impossible to use his ice powers - presumably it would have been the same in the middle of a lava filled volcano, and he’d have been slaughtered just like the other superheroes before him.

This scene shows an entire generation of superheroes - Bob, Helen and Lucius’ generation - wiped out all because Syndrome felt slighted by his hero as a child, because he internalised that slight and let it drive him to revenge. And, if we take into account the deleted alternate opening scene, it’s mentioned that superheroes "aren't supposed to breed” - meaning there’s a likelihood that Violet, Dash and Jack-Jack are among the very few supers of the next generation. I know that it's deleted and so not really canon, but it's definitely a concept to consider, I think.

Then there's the fact Syndrome named the project "Kronos" - Kronos was a God who overthrew his own father in order to take over his rule, and then he ate his own children to prevent them doing the same thing to him. It feels like it reflects Syndrome once looking up to Mr Incredible and even saying "I could be your ward!", meaning Mr Incredible adopting or fostering him - the project name is a metaphor for Syndrome destroying the Supers, especially Mr Incredible, who he viewed as a father figure. The Omnidroids he built killed two birds with one stone: not only was he able to acquire the data to upgrade the robot to its final design, but it also eliminated the real super heroes and so left him as the last remaining "superhero", even though his powers are man-made, not something he was born with.

Not only did he want to become the only remaining superhero by killing the real ones in revenge, he also planned to sell his inventions at some point so everyone can be super - because "when everyone is super, nobody is". It's like a final blow to the memory of the superheroes he had killed.

I've talked too much about this scene but God... I love it so much more as an adult because it's just so chilling to think about. I'm sure other people can put it much more articulately than I just tried to, but I just really wanted to appreciate this scene.

[suguann]

✎. he’s nice. well, that’s what everyone’s been telling you.

tags. fem!reader, mild dubcon, possessive and obsessive behavior, simon is an excon, non-linear narrative for future chapters [18+ only]

part one | part two

He’s always been a little obsessed with pretty things, even as a child.

It only makes sense that the habit would follow him into adulthood.

He sees you once while he’s walking by the bus stop. A timid thing wrapped up in an oversized sweater and parka coat, not looking up from the little book in your lap until the bus stops before you and takes you away.

The next time he sees you, he makes sure to come a few minutes earlier, lighting a cigarette and keeping his distance while he watches you read the same book from the day before. Simon knows it’s you, the girl from the letters, even if it’s a big city. It has to be—his pretty, lonely, silly girl.

He thinks about walking up to you just to make sure, but he doesn’t really need to. The address on the envelope brought him here, and you’re the only one he’s seen wearing a university sweater in this neighborhood.

But when he hesitates too long, a boy starts talking to you, and he watches you smile at somebody else.

Simon runs his thumb over his bottom lip and takes a deep breath to fill his chest with the soothing feeling of menthol and the burning taste of nicotine, trying to relax his white-knuckle grip on his steering wheel. 

You’ll learn, he thinks, when the bus drives off, and the boy doesn’t follow you on. He’s a patient man—it’s possibly one of his finer qualities.

He lets his car idle as he climbs out before crushing his cigarette bud underneath his shoe, straightening his black tie, and crossing the street. The boy sees him and freezes, but Simon can only laugh, wiping blood off his cheek several seconds later.

You’ll learn.

He’s nice.

Well, that’s what everyone’s been telling you. But nice, you've learned, can mean any number of things: a nice laugh, a nice house, a nice job, et cetera.

But how he holds himself—tall, broad, and dangerous—hardly screams nice.

It’s funny because you don’t remember seeing him around the office before—the company, including IT, occupies only four floors in the building. 

Someone tells you he’s a friend of a friend. This initially sounds odd until Rose, the office gossip, says he’s someone rich who helps fund the company's social events. Hence, the crisp suit and the wide berth of space you’d give someone who wields their smile like a weapon. 

You quickly look away twice when you find that smile aimed at you, heat traveling up to your hairline at an alarming rate.

It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s not your type. 

“Enjoying the party?” 

You nearly jump out of your skin at the deep voice so close to your ear. Careful not to spill your drink, you turn your head to find him smiling down at you with a sharp curl of his mouth.

Then he’s in front of you, eyes dark and crinkling in the corners.

“Uh, yeah. It’s not bad, though,” you squeak nervously when you realize you haven’t answered him. “It’s different from what I’m used to.”

He raises an amused brow. “Oh? And what might that be?”

He’s intimidating up close, and you take a small sip of your drink to ease your nerves. “Well, no kegs or trashy music playing, and boys with egos bigger than the room.”

The man lets out a low chuckle as he considers your honest reply, and you swear you see something ripple across his features, but when you blink, it’s gone. “I suppose that differs from top-shelf liquor and live bands, huh? Which is better?”

You shrug. “Well, it depends on who you ask.” 

“I’m asking you.”

“Honest answer?” 

He nods. 

“Neither. I don’t really care for parties.”

“Then it’s quite unfortunate that you found yourself at one tonight.” He seems privately amused, in on a joke you have no part of. Then he says, “You want to get out of here?”

“I probably shouldn’t follow a stranger home,” you tell him bashfully.

“That’s very responsible of you. Then how about I get you a drink? There’s a hotel across the street, and the bar’s not shit.”

You bite your lip, and his big, warm hand is on the small of your back before you say anything. It must’ve been written all over your face like he knew you would say yes.

He’s ever the gentleman, unlike most boys your age. Though, perhaps that’s the difference. He isn’t a boy—nothing about him can hardly be described as such. This fact becomes a bit overwhelming and more evident once he has you on your back, thighs nearly up to your ears, and held in place by a firm, intricately tattooed forearm.

His smile—almost too sharp to be nice—makes your chest do this silly thing when he says, “Let’s play a game.” 

You whisper into the night air. “What kind of game?”

“It’s simple. You tell me yes or no.”

Your brows furrow, unsure of the rules of the game. “But—”

The slap against your cunt isn’t harsh, but it’s the suddenness of it, how no one has ever thought to touch you like that, is what makes you squeak and tremble underneath him—the rings on his fingers sharpening the sting—trying to scurry up the bed, but hindered by his iron grip.

“Yes or no?”

“Y-yes.”

“There’s a girl,” and then his fingertips drop down to where you're slippery-wet and sensitive, moving in hard, tight circles until you're clenching down on a curse between your teeth. "Messy little cunt."

It's too much, you think when he plugs two fingers (feeling like three of your own) into your pussy. The muscles in his shoulders roll as he shoves his fingers in and out, batting your hands away when you try to get him to slow down. Too much, too—

“It’s not. I want you to cum like this,” he says, teasing, nudging your clit with his thumb and swirling it in tight spit-slick circles; you have no choice but to chase that bright light feeling until you cum, sticky and sweaty. 

Just like he promised you would, your orgasm is a shivery thing, molten heat, incandescent, settling in your veins until it pours out of you like liquid wax against the scratchy hotel sheets, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, his fingers curl up and press into where you’re soft and tender.

He smiles. “This is fun, isn’t it, love?”

“I can’t,” you whimper, not exactly answering him. “No more, please.”

His eyes, already pupil-fat, go dark at hearing you beg, nostrils flaring. Please, the key for the small amount of mercy he grants you as he replaces his fingers with his mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to your clit and lightly sucking it into his mouth. His lips are just there, and then they’re gone.

“Say it again.”

Your response is a wet little hiccup at the back of your throat. “W-what?”

“Beg me.”

“Please.”

“Again,” he says one more time.

“Please, please, please…”

It’s all you can think to say, strung between that dreamy space and reality, that you don’t even notice him flipping you onto your tummy with ease, not until the light in the room is blotted out as he leans over you. He wraps a hand into the scruff of your neck and presses your face into the bed, the other tucked under your hips to keep them at the right angle—held down with nowhere to go.

He leaves biting open-mouthed kisses across your shoulders and the back of your neck—Simon—he manages to tell you his name from one little bruise to the next. Somewhere between the buzz in your ears, you hear him telling you that he wants you to moan it for him, nice and loud.

The haze clears a little, however, at the metal clink of a belt and the sound of a zipper coming undone before you feel his cock prodding you open—raw, without a condom.

“There you go. Lay there, and just—just give me what I fucking want,” Simon rasps as if you could actually move with his hands pinning you in place. 

There are many things you should feel: scared of his words, trapped by the rings digging into tender flesh, by his thighs forcefully pushing yours apart. The red flags look more like flashing lights at this point.

Instead, you feel wanted—your walls tighten around his cock, fluttering, pulling him deeper inside, letting him turn you inside out. A small smile buried into the pillow.

[rafeandonlyrafe]

crash

words: 2k

warnings: car crash, drinking, partying, soft!rafe, descriptions of blood, rafe and sarah actually get along, underage drinking? (i guess sarah but this doesnt fit in with the obx timeline), topper and sarah dating, established relationship, surgery, hospital setting, injuries, fluffy, they say i love you a lot

“you good to drive top?” rafe tosses the keys towards his friend. rafe usually wouldn't trust anyone else with his truck, but he wouldn't drive with even one drink in his system when he has such precious cargo.

“yeah, man.” topper catches the keys one handed with ease, pulling sarah behind him with his free hand.

rafe looks to you, wrapped against his side, steps slightly wobbly, a small giggle escaping your lips as he opens the back door for you.

“why thank you.” you step in with rafes help, immediately flopping down in the seat. 

“gotta buckle up, baby.” rafe may be slightly tipsy as well, but he's not as far gone as you are, having indulged with your girlfriends at the party, including sarah who is clearly the drunkest out of the group as topper has to physically lift her into the passenger seat.

“mkay.” you hum, letting rafe do up your buckle in the middle seat before you collapse against his side, eyes closing instantly as your tiredness sets in.

“did you have fun?” rafe asks as topper gets in, his arm wrapping around your shoulders.

“mhm.” you hum out again, not wanting to actually open your mouth to speak as the truck moves out of its parking spot, topper carefully driving down the road as he squints slightly into the darkness before turning the brights on to illuminate the road more.

“just head to mine, top.” sarah says, reaching over to place her hand on his bicep. “you can spend the night.”

“in the guest bedroom.” rafe adds on. he can't see sarah roll her eyes, but he knows she does.

“shh, young love is cute rafey.” you mumble, rubbing your head against his chest like a cat would snuggle into their owner.

“im like only three years younger than-” sarah can't finish her sentence as topper blares on the horn seconds before another truck rams into the passenger side, sending the truck spinning through the intersection. before you even realize what is happening, you're upside down, then right side up, then upside down again before the truck ends up on its tires once more, now off the side of the road.

“fuck!” topper shouts out, his hands running over his body, checking to see that he’s okay before turning to look to sarah, who is clearly shaken but uninjured. “everyone okay?”

“baby?” rafes arm caged you against his body during the impact, but the rolling dislodged you as the top of the car crunched down.

“shit…” you groan, reaching up to touch your forehead, having smacked it against something in the crash. you pull your hand away to realize that your fingertips are red with blood.

“im bleeding.” you wheeze out, panic suddenly setting in as you try to move before realizing you’re trapped, leg pinned under sarah’s seat which has been pushed in towards you from the impact.

“baby, baby!” rafes voice breaks through your panic as his hands grip at your wrists until you stop your flailing. “stay calm, im getting us out.”

topper is able to kick his door open before rounding the now completely wrecked hood to get sarah out. he looks at the intersection to see the truck that plowed into them now blocking the center of the roadway. 

“i-i can’t get out rafe. my leg is pinned. i-i think its okay though.” you’re not sure if your words are the truth, afterall, your head feels completely fine and judging from the blood you have to wipe away from your eye, its not.

“okay, shit.” tears stream down rafes face as he looks over you, allowing himself a split second of panic before he instantly begins to move in the crumpled truck, tearing at the bottom of his shirt until he’s able to pull off a chunk, moving it to your forehead and pushing against the cut despite your grimace.

“its okay.” rafe assures you softly. “ive got you. you’re okay. you’re okay.” the repeating words are partially for rafe as he reaches with his free hand to under the seat, feeling that your leg isn’t bleeding, just stuck at the ankle by a bar under the seat.

“call 911!” rafe yells, and sarah instantly pulls out her phone from her back pocket, glad it survived the crash.

“fuck-i-” tears form in your eyes as the pain sets in, as you see the panic in rafes face and realize how bad you must look. “im scared.”

“im scared too baby, but its gonna be okay, just stick with me.” rafe can’t help himself, he leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek despite the sweat and drops of blood, he needs to reassure you that everything will be alright.

when rafe pulls away from the kiss, his eyes are blown wide, brows raised. “what is it?” you begin to squirm again.

“nothing, i got you.” rafe works to unbuckle his and then your seatbelt as the fabric of his shirt is now dyed completely red with your blood. he doesn’t want to tell you how shockingly cold and clammy your skin felt when he pressed a kiss against it.

“topper!” rafe shouts. “try to move this fucking seat!” rafe can’t just sit still, managing to push at it with one of his legs as topper pries at the seat, the sound of sirens approaching.

“see that, baby?” rafe looks at you, even able to tell in the dim lighting that your face has gone unnaturally pale. “help is coming, okay?”

it’s a fire truck that arrives first. they do a quick assessment of everyone at the scene before helping topper and rafe, who have not given up on moving the seat. they get it to budge just enough for you to pull your leg out with a sigh of relief as the ambulance arrives.

“come here.” rafe feels a pang of pain is side, but he ignores it as he climbs out of the car, pulling you into his arms. “she needs to go first.”

rafe knows eventually they’ll all get taken to the hospital, but you’re his priority.

“the other guys got a broken leg-” a firemen begins to explain to the emts as they lower the gurney. 

“and hes the one that fucking hit us!” rafe shouts. “my girlfriends got a head injury, she’s going first.”

the emt takes one look at you and nods, motioning for rafe to lay you down. the emt instantly takes over, applying more gauze to your forehead but leaving the crumpled bit of rafes shirt there, hoping that it’s clotting underneath.

they raise the gurney up, rafe climbing in the back with you as a second ambulance pulls up, probably to take the other driver.

rafe tries to talk to you as the emt moves around the back of the ambulance, checking the rest of your body, grimacing slightly when she sees your ankle, which is already swelling and turning purple.

the ride and transfer into the hospital is a rush, and despite rafe not wanting to leave your side, you’re taken for further examination while he has to stay behind.

“sir, we should get you checked out too.” a nurse says softly, his voice too calming for rafe, which just causes the anger he’s been holding inside to bubble over.

“not until i know y/n is okay.” he says firmly, walking out of the waiting room before he can say another word or start punching shit and get himself kicked out. rafe moves towards a tree, pummeling his fists into the bark until they’re bloody and bruised. 

with the anger now at a simmering level, rafe walks back into the emergency room entrance, looking for an update on your condition, only grunting his disapproval before slumping into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs.

rafe doesn’t even realize that he’s fallen asleep until he's being shaken awake by topper.

“y/n.” rafe stands suddenly, cursing at himself for falling asleep in the first place, but his body crashed from the adrenaline.

“shes alright. the doctor just updated us.”

rafe walks past topper, noticing sarah sleeping in one of the other waiting room chairs, relieved to see that they're both fine and not admitted.

“room 1007.” topper calls out as rafe moves past the nurses station to find you.

you are still groggy as the medicine works it's way through your system, and the feeling of stitches on your head is an unusual weight against your skin, yet you still smile widely when rafe enters the room.

“im okay.” you confirm instantly as he rushes to the side of your bed.

“god,” rafe places his hand on your cheek, his gaze darting between your eyes and the gash on your forehead, looking a lot less serious now that the bleeding has stopped. “im so sorry baby.”

you shake your head. “i really am fine. this nice nurse was explaining to me that head injuries bleed a lot and always make it seem worse than it is. and my ankle is just bruised and sprained, not even broken.”

“you won't be using that ankle any time soon anyways.” rafe leans forward to press a gentle kiss against your cheek. “you're getting carried everywhere, i hope you know that.”

you laugh before suddenly stopping, watching as rafes face turns pale, a sheen of sweat seeking to suddenly appear over his face.

“rafe?” you watch as he blinks heavily, once, twice, then his eyes slide closed as he drops forward, landing on the bed, body completely slack.

“nurse! nurse! help!”

--

“ma’am, you should be resting in your own bed. you're still a patient here.”

you're well aware you're a patient, moving around the floor in your hospital gown and hauling the iv attached to your arm.

“ill rest when i know my boyfriend is okay.”

“he had internal bleeding and wasn't seen for hours after the crash. he's in surgery but it won't be short, we are being as thorough as possible to make sure he's going to be okay.” the nurse explains to you gently.

“ill go sit.” you say, mostly because you feel like your legs might give out at any moment, and you're tired of hopping around on your one good ankle. “but i will not be resting until i know rafe-”

a bell dings and cuts you off, the nurse rushing off without another word.

“shit.” you groan, just glad she ran off in the opposite direction of where rafe is in surgery. 

you hop back to the waiting room and drop into the seat next to topper.

“im so sorry, y/n.” topper says, apologizing yet again.

“it wasn't your fault, top.” you shake your head. “he hit us out of nowhere, you couldn't have done anything.”

“maybe if id just gone a little slower-” you tune out whatever else topper is saying, stomach churning as you watch in waiting for an update on rafe.

--

“he's awake and asking for you.”

“thank god.” you jump up, cringing when you land on your hurt ankle. 

“im taking you there in a wheelchair whether you like it or not.” the nurse whose been with you all night says. “but ill walk fast.”

you sit on the chair, needing to get to rafe as fast as possible, and you know the nurse understands just how much you need to see him as she rushes down the hallway.

“baby.” rafe is sat in bed, looking so much younger and vulnerable in that moment. “are you okay?”

“me?” you laugh and shake your head, moving to carefully sit on the bed next to him. “you just got out of surgery. you needed a blood transfusion.”

“mmm.” rafe shakes his head. “are you okay?” he asks again.

“yes.” you nod, tears coming to your eyes. “im okay now that you're okay. don't you ever put your health off again just for me.”

you lean forward and press your lips against rafes, kissing him softly even though he can barely manage to move his mouth to meet you.

“i love you.” you tell rafe. “and i don't want to live without you.”

“i love you too baby.” rafes cheeks stretch as he smiles, and your chest flutters with relief as the spark in his eyes comes back.

sfw tags: @winterrrnight @bejeweledreverie @ladyinbl00d @ethanthequeefqueen @drewsephrry @wearemadeofstardust0

[rileyslibrary]

You burst into the office and slam the door behind you. Ghost jumps from his seat and looks up from the paperwork he’s been filling out. His eyes widen as you sprint towards him.

“What the f-”

“Just play along,” you interject, dragging a chair and plopping down. You grab two sheets of paper from the pile next to him and snatch the first pen within reach.

He keeps staring at you dumbfounded before managing to utter something.

“Can you at least-”

“Nope,” you cut him off while focusing on the papers and nibbling on the pen. “No, can’t do. You need to trust me on this one.”

“Define what ‘this one’ is.” He demands.

“Shhhh,” you hush him, waving your hand dismissively and glancing over your shoulder at the door. “He’s coming.”

“Who’s com-”

The door swings open, and footsteps approach. They settle beside you, and a hand slams on the desk. Ghost looks at the hand, then upward.

“Captain,” he says. “What brings you in-”

“For the love of everything you hold dear, Simon, you better not be involved in any of this,” Price warns. He slams his hand on the desk again and looks at you. “Why were you running away from me?” He asks.

You stare at him with furrowed eyebrows before removing the pen from your mouth.

“I wasn’t running away from you, sir,” you reply, pointing the pen at Ghost. “I was late for my meeting with the lieutenant.”

Price turns towards Ghost, seeking for an appropriate answer. The lieutenant sits up straight on his chair, clasps his hands together and motions with his head towards you.

“Very punctual, this one.” He says.

“Cut the crap, Simon,” Price orders and turns to you. “What were you doing inside Bravo Unit’s barracks last night?”

“Bravo Unit has barracks?” You ask Ghost. He shoots you a side-eye and raises one eyebrow.

“Stop playing dump and answer the question,” Price warns and points at Ghost. “And don’t look at him—he’s not covering for you this time.”

“How about you start from the beginning, boss,” Ghost interjects. “What happened?”

“Someone broke into Bravo Unit’s barracks last night and stole every inch of toilet paper they had,” Price says, looking at you, then turning to Ghost. “And not just toilet paper, mind you! Kitchen rolls and tissues are gone as well.”

“Tsk tsk tsk,” Ghost murmurs, shaking his head. “Such an inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience, Simon?” Price whispers, leaning on the desk. “The entirety of Bravo Unit had to wipe their ass with parchment paper this morning.”

Ghost brings his hand to his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. He lowers his head and takes deep, laboured breaths. Price is already fuming, so you decide to intervene.

“I was never inside Bravo Unit’s barracks, sir,” You state. “I just happened to walk through it once.”

“Oh, I see, I see—you walked through it once,” Price repeats, nodding. He removes something from his pocket and slams it on the desk.

“The instigator left this behind,” he states, looking back and forth between the two of you.

You and Ghost look at the garment on the desk—it’s a skull balaclava that once belonged to the lieutenant. He gave it to you last Winter since your ears and nose tend to get cold during patrol.

“Now,” Price states, “would you care to brief me on who this belongs to?”

“Hm,” you murmur, setting the pen and papers on the desk. You pick up the mask and start examining it. You look at Ghost, who stares at the mask with his eyeballs threatening to pop out of his face. He shoots you a deathly stare, and you redirect your attention to Price.

“That looks like it must be the lieutenant’s,” you reply, lifting the balaclava next to Ghost’s masked face. “With the skull and all—it’s a perfect match, actually.”

You both turn to Ghost, whose expression has transformed from utter disbelief to an inexplicable calmness.

“Indeed, that looks exactly like the one I lost,” Ghost confirms, taking the mask from you.

“Is it now?” Price asks in a high-pitched voice, tilting his head to the side. “Do me a favour and smell it for me, Riley.”

Ghost does exactly as he’s told. He brings the mask close to his nose, sniffs it, and nods. “Yup,” he confirms. “Smells exactly like me, too.”

Price sighs, takes a bottle from the pocket of his cargo pants and slams it on the desk. “So you want me to believe you use ‘Magnolia Blossom with Moroccan oil’ as a shampoo?” he asks.

“I’ve got dry hair.” Ghost shrugs.

“You should try coconut oil instead,” you suggest to Ghost, “it’s cheaper.”

Price kicks the chair next to you, and you both turn to look at him. He presses his lips together, and a red flush creeps on his neck, threatening to reach his head. He opens his mouth to say something, but you stop him.

“Why did you go through peoples’ stuff without their permission, sir?”

“Oh, I wasn’t going through anyone’s stuff,” Price explains. “You just were dumb enough to ditch the balaclava right behind the barracks. The detection dog picked up on the smell and led us to your stuff—it was a perfect match, just like you said.”

“You had sniffer dogs involved in this?” Ghost asks.

“I had to.” Price replies. “Pair the parchment paper with a day full of training, and Bravo Unit developed the worst rash they had since wearing diapers.”

A chuckle escapes Ghost, and he tries to silence it with his hand. He takes quick gasps of air, and you try to retain your laughter, too.

“Please tell me you’re not laughing!” Price shouts.

“No, boss,” Ghost says and wipes his tears, “It’s just so-”

“-sad,” you say and wipe your eyes as well. “It’s so sad.”

Price looks at you, then at the lieutenant. Now defeated, he sighs and throws his head back, shutting his eyes.

“I’m done with both of you.” He says, lifting his arms and dropping them to his sides. “I expect all toilet papers to be returned today. And as for you, you are responsible for cleaning Bravo’s toilets for the entire month.”

“For the whole month?!” You shout and wince at the idea.

“Be glad I didn’t make you wipe their asses as well.” He shouts as he walks to the door and slams it behind him.

Ghost recovers from the laugh and directs his attention to you. He tries to be serious but his teary eyes betray him.

“That was a hazardous operation you did back there,” he says.

“I didn’t do anything.” You reply, still vouching for your innocence. “But whoever did it taught Bravo Unit not to mess with our thermostats again.”

Ghost shakes his head. “I just happened to walk through the barracks once,” he says, repeating your earlier statement. “What were you thinking? Who walks through barracks?”

“I don’t know,” you reply, shrugging. “Ghosts would be my guess.”

[tojisun]

something about best friend simon not knowing any boundaries (or, deliberately bulldozing through boundaries)—

the way he’s the one who picks you up in the airport even though you and your boyfriend already made arrangements for the pick up, but simon just says he offered to take over because your parents needed help setting things up in their lake house and that your boyfriend offered to help them.

(simon made him offer to help. it’s hidden so well behind honest concern that your boyfriend didn’t notice that simon’s been pushing him into the role until simon's calling out his goodbye's, saying he's off to pick you up now.

"oh, i can-"

"don't sweat it, mate," simon replies with a pinched smile. "i'll drive carefully, promise. bring her back, all safe and lovely.")

you didn’t even know simon’s invited to the vacation, but you gladly murmured to him your thanks, too caught up in your exhaustion to notice the little mean grin that tugged his lips up.

you clamber to his rover messily, blinking slowly, and before you can reach over to buckle your seatbelt, simon leans over and does it for you.

"could've done it myself, y'know?" you whine.

"sure you can," he grunts as he pulls himself back to his seat. "not like y'were one blown wind away from keeling over, but sure."

you roll your eyes at him playfully before biting a giggle when he scrunches his nose at you in reply.

he takes the long route back.

"want anythin' to eat?" simon asks after a while.

"don't we—" you pause, yawning. "need to hurry back?"

"not really," he replies, eyes flicking to the side mirror before he rounds a sharp curve. your body jostles, falling to the side, slipping towards the gear, and simon's hand falls to your lap to steady you.

he doesn't remove it even when the road straightens.

"okay," you finally reply, tired eyes blinking at the size of his hand on your leg. "m'kinda hungry."

he huffs a fond laugh and says he knows a place close by.

it's a local burger joint, apparently known for their fries and milkshake. simon buys you one.

"aww," you croon, grabby hands pulling the cold cup closer to you. "thank you, si."

you two eat in his rover, too lazy to actually settle in the diner.

it's greasy and messy and delicious. simon says you look filthy, before reaching over to wipe the stray milkshake on the corner of your lips. you poke your tongue out to him in reply; he says to swallow that back in before he yanks it out.

you laugh, chucking a balled-up napkin towards him before jumping out of his SUV to run to the bathroom.

(you didn't notice the throngs of messages coming in from your boyfriend nor the way simon swiped your phone from your back pocket and kept it.

he remembers your passcode—still unchanged even after all these years—and reads the messages that your boyfriend sent.

he's asking if you've landed or if you and simon are on your way back. he says he also misses you dearly, and that he can't wait to finally be with you again.

simon deletes them all.)

the two of you return when it’s well into the night, and everyone's gone to sleep. you sigh, feeling the exhaustion hitting you harder now, and amble to your room where you know your boyfriend must be waiting for you, only to stop when simon holds your arm.

"wanna sleep with me?"

"what," you begin, turning your sleepy eyes up at him. "no that's alright. my boyfriend's—"

"asleep, already. probably got ordered 'round by your pa, huh?" he smiles, his thumb swiping along the side of your forearm. "y'might wake up the poor lad if you go there so why don't you sleep in my room just for tonight?"

simon's words wash over you and you know, somehow, there's something wrong with them, with him, but your mind is bogged down by your drowsiness. you can't rationalize what's going on, so you say yes.

that's all simon needed to pull you to his room and into his bed.

you slip out of your clothes, per simon's instructions—his words all muffled as you try to stay up awake—and slip into something loose and baggy—stretched in its overuse but so comfortable on your skin.

it's simon's shirt, you'll learn tomorrow, but for now, you drop to the bed, your eyes shut close, and fall in deep sleep.

the last thing you feel is the heavy dip on the mattress behind you before a thick arm is thrown over your side, pressing into the fat of your stomach to push you back and into simon's front.

limbs lay tangled together, breaths shared, and the summer heat buzzing as skin meets skin.

-

simon doesn't get any better after that. he gets so clingy, and intrudes in your space and forces your boyfriend out.

your boyfriend complained, of course he did, but what could you do? what could you say? simon's your childhood friend so there's nothing malicious between you two. there's nothing more into it.

he gave up fighting then, fists tucked close to his sides as you kissed his jaw and told him to trust you on your words.

but—

how can he calm down? how can he not burn in anger when he sees the way simon pulls you to his lap and you readily nuzzle close. granted it's all because the two of you are watching some game on your phone and the position must be the only way to watch it comfortably, whatever, but it rubs him so wrong how familiar you and simon fall into each other.

how can he not doubt your words when he catches simon's eyes narrowed at him in quiet delight, before deliberately curling his arm around your stomach, and throws the other one on your lap, so dangerously close to your crotch.

it's even worse when the family gathers to the lake, and you and simon are chasing each other, playfighting in front of everyone. simon picks you up with ease, big hands digging into the fat of your belly or your thighs or gripping your ass like simon's so intimately familiar with your body.

how can he not hate himself a little bit when he realizes that it was always you and simon. that that's the dynamic.

-

(and if simon successfully seduces you during this vacation, well—)

-

ext

[cherienymphe]

Pity Party

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: NON-CON/DUB-CON (+ mentions of), toxic/abusive relationship, mentions of manipulation, dad!Rafe, established Rafe x reader

➥ While this can absolutely be read as a stand alone piece, it is also the much requested follow up to my WTPO series. I hope this doesn't disappoint!

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @firefly-graphics

summary: You became the envy of every woman in Kildare County the day you became Mrs. Rafe Cameron.

⭑

You slid along the floor using your knees, hand occupied by an even tinier one as your son unsteadily put one foot in front of the other. Your lips were pulled into a smile as you watched him, your free hand hovering behind his back for when he very likely would fall. Your other son was occupied with a snack, and when—as expected—the youngest one’s legs gave out, you scooped him up with a giggle.

“Look at you,” you cooed. “You’re going to be sprinting by this weekend.”

His cherubic face smiled back at you, lips wet with drool, and you wiped his mouth with a smile. Your oldest—now done with his Goldfish—was currently tugging on your dress, and when you looked down at him, he had a wide grin on his face.

“I wanna play with him…”

His soft voice had your own expression softening, and you quietly told him ‘okay’, taking a seat right on the floor where you were formerly standing. You emptied your hands, letting your son crawl around and slap at the ground as his brother followed him, face so close to his as he whispered things to him that he didn’t quite understand yet. You let your mind wander, warmth blooming in your chest as you thought about how…sweet they were.

There had been a time where you feared they wouldn’t be.

…and as you stared at them, you almost felt bad for ever thinking they could be anything less than angels, but it couldn’t be helped. They were children, and there were very few things in this world that were more innocent than children. They both came out squirming and pudgy and perfect—screaming their heads off and only calming once they were in your arms. They came into this world looking at you with the kind of eyes that had never experienced or done a single bad thing in their life.

They were children…babies…

…but they were Rafe’s babies.

And as much as you would like to, you would never be able to forget how they both came to be here. Fighting off Rafe Cameron was hard enough when you were going through a tumultuous breakup, but it became damn near impossible once he managed to get a ring on your finger and a prison around you in the form of a fancy house. You looked down at the large rock, a pang going through your chest at the sight of a simple gold band below it.

The wedding had been the grand fanfare it was expected to be, serving it’s purpose of making you the envy of every woman in Kildare County. Your oldest son—having been an only child at the time—was pulled down the aisle in a wagon with a pillow in his lap that contained the rings. Rose had gushed over you in the dressing room, long having convinced herself no woman would ever marry Rafe and she’d never get to experience this. Your father had cried as he handed you off to your husband to be, and tears had kissed your own eyes but just for an entirely different reason.

Your dress was made for a princess, and your veil was made for an angel, and your makeup was made for a doll. Everything was perfect, everything going off without a hitch. Absolutely nothing—not a single thing—had gone wrong, and even though by that point you’d slowly started to accept your fate…something in you had hoped. For what? You weren’t entirely sure.

You’d hoped that some crazy ex girlfriend of Rafe’s would stand up and object. You’d hoped that your brother would go against your wishes and drag you away from it all. Hell, you’d even hoped that someone would choke on their spit and require an ambulance. Deep down though, you’d known what you really hoped for.

You had hoped that Rafe would do the right thing…and let you go.

It was a silly hope. Rafe Cameron had gone through entirely too much trouble to ensure you’d never leave him, even going as far as threatening to take your son away from you. He—both of them—was the only good thing to come out of this. From the first moment you laid eyes on him, you’d wanted him all for yourself and far away from Rafe. The brunette simply didn’t deserve him, and you had no doubt that Rafe would agree, but his selfishness outweighed any thought of doing what was right. That had always been the case.

You didn’t know why you thought your wedding day might be any different.

Rafe moments away from chaining you to him forever? There was no shot in hell of him walking away from that, and you sighed at how naively hopeful you’d been that day. The sound of your oldest son’s laughter pulled you from your thoughts, and you looked over just in time to see him jump to his feet, promptly sprinting towards the foyer. You weren’t worried, knowing exactly who it was that could elicit such a reaction from him.

You swallowed at the sound of Rafe’s voice, taking your 11-month old into your arms.

“...and how were my boys?”

He came into view as he said that, the messy haired little boy upside down in his arms as he kicked his feet and laughed.

You knew the question wasn’t meant for you.

“I was bad,” your son told him, and you fought back a smile, knowing why he said that.

Rafe’s gaze met yours, and the smile that threatened to ghost over your lips was gone. He merely smirked at the sight, rolling his eyes and turning his attention back to the boy in his arms.

“Bad? Oh no,” he chuckled. “Why were you bad?”

“I accidentally spilled juice on mommy’s dress.”

Your son’s words came out small, slurring together a bit with his slight lisp. You’d told him that it was fine—accidents happen—but you knew why he was so hung up on it. As awful as Rafe treated you behind closed doors, he treated you a million times better for the whole world to see. He was smart that way, and the whole world included your children. They saw their dad treat mommy like a princess—none the wiser to what the true nature of your relationship was really like—and so they followed suit.

An offense against you—no matter how small—was especially heinous.

“Oh that is bad,” Rafe murmured, setting him down on his feet. “Guess we’ll have to buy her a new one, huh?”

He ruffled his hair, and your son beamed at the thought of going shopping.

You avoided Rafe’s gaze as he neared you, an impressive feat when he came to kneel down before you. Your youngest was squirming in your arms—babbling—and you swallowed when Rafe reached out to lightly squish his cheeks. He pressed his lips to his tiny forehead just as his hand landed on your own cheek, and only then did you look at him.

Rafe stared at you for what felt like a long time, expression unreadable. Your oldest was going on about something behind him that neither of you were giving too much attention to. His blue eyes looked between yours, studying you, and you could smell his cologne. After what felt like too long, his pink lips finally curved into that haughty half smile you were used to seeing.

It never not made you want to smack it right off of his face.

“...and how was mommy today?” he quietly asked.

There were a thousand things you wanted to say to him.

You wanted to say that mommy cried in the bathroom because she still had thoughts of leaving sometimes even at the loss of her own children, but then she’d remember how much she loved them and couldn’t live without them and the guilt would set in. You wanted to tell him that mommy’s thigh still hurt from where he’d sank his teeth into it the night before for daring to tell him she still hated him sometimes. You even started to tell him that mommy had rare moments here and there where she’d momentarily forget their history and find herself content in this big house with her children and fancy ring until she remembered how her children got here and what said house and ring represented.

You didn’t say any of that though.

Instead, you merely blinked at Rafe, and told him what you always did.

“Mommy was fine.”

The vase narrowly missed Rafe’s head, his quick reflexes making your heart sink with disappointment. Your own quick thinking had you frantically looking around for something else to throw at him, but his feet moved faster than your brain, and he was nearing you before you made up your mind. Unable to stomach being around him, right now, you hurriedly sprinted to the other side of the room. You paid no mind to the way he called your name, a blend of anger and exasperation there.

“Are you done…?”

You didn’t look at him, keeping your angry gaze on the floor. Besides, you didn’t have to in order to know what he looked like. You could imagine it perfectly—steely blue eyes cold and intently focused on you, hands on his hips and jaw clenched so hard you’d swear it was about to break. When you finally did glance at him, you were proven right.

“This little…” he waved his hand about. “...tantrum. You’re finished?”

“Fuck you,” you whispered.

You couldn’t hold in your tears, and they spilled over without your permission. Rafe sucked his teeth at the sight, and when he took a step towards you, you made to leave the living room completely. Your sons were with your mom—they would be the whole weekend—because that was the plan. They would stay with grandma for a few days while you went to Charlotte to visit Pope at school. Rafe was supposed to be handling business with Ward, anyway.

He was not supposed to be sabotaging your plans and canceling car rentals and flights and ruining your entire weekend.

Rafe stopped you before you could get far, and you didn’t even attempt to get away, too defeated and upset to smack him square across the face like you wanted. His fingers dug into your skin, and you wondered if a light bruise would be there in the morning. You could tell by the way he held you that he was upset, but you didn’t understand what he had to be upset about. It had been four years since Rafe started this fucked up dynamic he called a family and over two since you’d reluctantly said ‘I do’. You even gave him another son…and yet…

It was clear now that he still didn’t trust you.

Sure, you had the stray thought or two here and there about escaping, but when it was all said and done, those were just thoughts. Your children meant too much to you to just take off, and even if you ever got to that point one day where you’d happily sacrifice their chance to grow up with a mother just to have your own freedom, Rafe would never let that happen. Your fate was sealed from the very moment he’d decided you were it for him.

“I haven’t seen my brother in months. It’s his last year of school, and I didn’t want the next time I see him to be at his Goddamn graduation,” you spat, lips trembling. “You said you were okay with it!”

“Yeah, I was,” Rafe replied in a tone that hinted at more to come.

You were right.

“...but then I remembered that this would be the first time we’d be apart for a distance more than thirty miles and how way up there in Charlotte you could disappear to wherever you wanted and-.”

“You wouldn’t have to worry about any of that if we had a normal relationship,” you cut him off, a sneer on your lips. “You wouldn’t have to worry about the possibility of me running away from you if you’d never hurt me and raped me and damn near threatened me into marrying you.”

At those words, Rafe let you go as if you burned him, and you reminded yourself how much Rafe hated to be reminded of why you were really here. You were positive he sometimes convinced himself that this relationship was as real as it could be—the perfect parents with the perfect children and the perfect marriage. After all, it was what everyone on the outside saw when they were looking in.

The difference between the two of you it seemed was that you knew it was all pretend.

Rafe liked to believe that it wasn’t.

“All of that aside…do you really think I’d leave them?”

Your question came out whispered, and you didn’t miss the slight twitch in Rafe’s face. Leave them…not leave him. Rafe was smart in knowing that knocking you up would be the only thing to truly prevent you from leaving, and yet he absolutely hated to be reminded of it. To be reminded that it was not—and never would be—him keeping you here.

His expression morphed, a shadow passing over his features as he glanced away, shoving a hand into his pocket.

“I can’t take that chance,” was all he said, making more tears spill over. “Pope’s not going anywhere. You can always see him another time.”

You pulled your lip between your teeth in anger, and when he reached for you, he was stopped by a harsh slap to the cheek. Your lips wouldn’t stop trembling, and you just stared at him as he rubbed his face.

“You have taken so much from me, Rafe,” you mumbled, rolling your eyes at him. “If your goal is to make sure we’re both absolutely miserable…then keep it up.”

You turned away from him, refusing to spare him another look as you made your way upstairs to unpack your suitcase.

Most days in your marriage were okay. They weren’t awful, and they weren't’ exactly anything you’d jump at the chance to relive. They were simply just…okay. On those days, Rafe would wake you up with a kiss, sometimes more than that, and you’d start your day—usually something that consisted of preparing for your children to wake up. They made those days stand a chance at being somewhat enjoyable, and you thought to yourself that maybe one day when they were old enough, you’d tell them how much they did for you without even knowing.

On the days where your marriage wasn’t okay, you were usually overcome with how you really felt about Rafe. Those days didn’t come as often as they used to—a fact you didn’t like to let your mind linger on—but when they did, they usually ended in your tears.

…and Rafe pinning you down and just taking what he wanted.

Rafe had felt entitled to your body long before he put the ring on your finger, but after you took his last name, his entitlement went to an entirely new level. You recalled a day where you had the house to yourselves and how silly you’d been to think Rafe would respect your wish to be alone.

“Do you know what this means?” he’d harshly asked, squeezing your left hand as he held it up for both of you to see.

The 4-carat marquise solitaire glinted under the bright kitchen light.

“It means you’re my wife, it means you’re mine,” he’d hissed, getting in real close and touching your nose with his. “Do you get how patient I’ve been? How patient I am?”

You’d shrank away from him, wincing at the slight pain in your left hand.

“I know this hasn’t been easy for you, but it’s been years,” he’d told you. “There’s a ring on your finger and two little boys walking around with my face. You need to suck it up!”

The counter had been harsh against your stomach as he bent you over it.

The good days in your marriage were even more rare, and even those ended in you feeling sad for yourself. It was usually a whole day of your boys keeping a smile on your face, the feeling so infectious that even Rafe couldn’t make it go away. And that’s how you’d find yourself smiling at him and playing with your children together and actually acting like a family. Only…on those rare days…it wasn’t acting. For just several hours, everything that Rafe was and everything he’d done would be so far from your mind.

You’d find yourself bathing your youngest together—your oldest only listening to you when it was time to wash behind his ears—cooing over the baby that was just shy of turning one years old. You’d let your son run into your arms as he hid from the ‘tickle monster’, playfully pushing at Rafe’s chest as you protected the three year old from him. Sometimes you’d even fall asleep with your head so close to Rafe’s lap as he read to them, your son begging you both to stay until he fell asleep.

Of all the days in your marriage that you’d anticipated being the hardest, the ‘good’ days were not among them. Reality would set in during the morning, sometimes even that same night, and your chest would ache as you held back tears because what you and Rafe had was not real. It wasn’t a real marriage, and you weren’t a real family, and on those days where you forgot that, the truth just hit so much harder. All of the anger and disappointment would come back…and then the fear would set in.

It scared you how easily you could slip into that headspace and live in some alternate reality where Rafe was a good husband and your children hadn’t been the product of rape and you didn’t have errant thoughts of what it would be like to be free of him. It scared you how good it felt to forget it all, how a day might come where instead of finding yourself slipping into that mindset, you just…chose it.

It would be so easy.

…but you felt like you owed it to yourself to hate him forever.

Sometimes he made hating him so easy…and then other times so, so hard.

“They’re so sweet to you,” he murmured in the low lighting, both of your kids fast asleep in their room. 

You’d been trying to find sleep of your own, but Rafe’s phone call with Ward left you both up long after you wanted to be. You were unfortunately wide awake when slid in beside you, and your unopened eyes didn’t fool Rafe in the slightest. He knew you were awake.

“I would hope so,” you murmured, staring at the back of your eyelids as he lightly traced patterns into your satin covered stomach.

Your husband chuckled to himself.

“I mean they look at you like you hung the moon,” he quietly continued. “Especially your shadow…”

He was referring to your oldest.

“I’m barely there for him whenever you’re in the same room,” he whispered. “He’s happy that I’m home and he hugs me, but then it’s straight back to mommy.”

You slowly opened your eyes as Rafe’s hand became flat against your stomach, gently rubbing it.

“He treats you like a princess…”

You met his gaze at that, and you couldn’t quite place the look in Rafe’s eyes.

“...and I’m especially happy about it on days when I don’t.”

You sighed at that, staring at the ceiling.

“I’m glad that he’s nothing like me…”

You remembered Rafe saying something similar years ago before the boy in question had even been born, and you blinked as he leaned in, gently ghosting his lips over your cheek. You were tempted to push him away, but then you asked yourself if you wanted to start a fight so late in the night. Instead, you turned your head to face Rafe, your lips a hair’s width away from his own.

“I’m glad he’s nothing like you too,” you whispered.

You didn’t miss the way his face fell at that, a tick in his jaw that told you your words had the desired effect. Instead of saying something along the lines of what you both knew he wanted to say, Rafe merely heaved a sigh, still gently rubbing your stomach. He suddenly pushed himself up onto his elbow, looking down at you.

A smirk ghosted over his lips.

“I want another baby.”

Those words were the last thing you’d been expecting, and your eyes widened just a tad.

“...what?”

“Let’s try for a girl this time,” he suggested, and realizing that he was indeed serious, you sat up.

His hand fell away from your stomach.

“This time?” you murmured, more to yourself than him. “I don’t recall trying for anything the previous times.”

The mention of what he did to you had Rafe going silent, and when you looked at him, his nostrils were flaring.

“It can be different this time-.”

“How?” you wondered, frowning at him. “How will it be different this time? The only time I touch you is when I’m forced to, and I don’t know, that sounds pretty fucking familiar to me.”

Rafe’s hand had circled around your chin before you had time to react—he was sitting up now too—and you both just cooly stared at each other. He looked like he wanted to hurt you, and you stared back, just waiting for him to prove you right. He seemed to be toying with the thought, and after a few moments, he slowly exhaled through his nose.

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, his blue eyes following the action.

A million thoughts were racing through his mind, that much you could tell by the emotions that flickered over his features. Eventually he settled on one, pulling his lip between his teeth.

“You’re not always unhappy…”

It was said like a statement, but there was a lilt there that told you he wanted an answer.

“No,” you eventually responded, honestly. “Not always.”

He nodded.

“...but I’m unhappy more than I’m happy.”

He closed his eyes at that, and you swallowed.

“What did you expect, Rafe? Sure, four years is a lot, but it’s also not when I think about everything you did to me.”

He dropped his hand and pushed himself to his feet. You watched him stand there, staring at the wall with his hands on his hips.

“...and what makes it worse is that you’re not even sorry. I know how much you want me to ‘just get over it’, but how am I expected to get over it when we both know you’d do it all over again so long as it got you the same result?” you choked out. “You’re not sorry for any of it.”

You blinked away tears.

“...and now you’re mad at me so much because I won’t roll over and play house.”

You saw his shoulders heave, and you could tell how much this conversation was frustrating him. Rafe really hated to be reminded of his own actions, hated to be reminded of the fact that your relationship was where it was because of him. You couldn’t find it in yourself to care. You were the one trapped in this gilded cage…not him.

“So, if you want another baby…” you quietly started. “...either something needs to change…or you just embrace the beast we both know you can be.”

His eyes snapped to yours at that, and as much as it made your heart skip a beat, Rafe rarely scared you anymore. You’d seen him and experienced him at his absolute worst. There really wasn’t much he could do to you anymore that would shock you…and he knew it. 

His baby blues glinted dangerously, and you bit your tongue.

He did the opposite of what you expected, and you watched him turn away from you to leave the room. You didn’t relax, knowing he’d come back, but you did heave a tired sigh, telling yourself that sleep couldn’t come fast enough.

Rafe’s hand tightened around your throat as he kissed you, the alcohol on your tongue making the kiss taste sweet. The world was moving so slow around you, and every place that Rafe touched felt like you were being gently electrocuted. Deep in the crevices of your mind, you knew that something was wrong. You hadn’t kissed Rafe like this in years, not since the early days of your relationship when you thought you might have loved him, and butterflies were in your stomach at one look from him.

You recalled the sight of your empty wine glass on the carpet, the rest of the red wine you didn’t drink staining the white fabric.

Your kids were asleep and the house was quiet and you were kissing your husband like you used to—back when he wasn’t your husband. Rafe had your back to the wall just barely on the inside of your bedroom, your hand struggling to reach out to the door. Rafe grabbed it, threading his fingers through your own, and you made a slight noise of protest.

He made a shushing noise into the kiss.

“Just relax…”

Relax.

That word triggered something in you, and you pressed your other hand to his chest. You were far too relaxed to be sober, and considering you only had one glass of wine, you knew that other substances were at play here. You recalled Rafe voicing his desire for another baby just the other day…and you recalled the slight back and forth it’d created. You expected one of two things out of Rafe, but neither of them included a scenario where you were too inebriated to properly fight back against him.

There was something especially sinister about Rafe creating this false sense of consent.

His lips traveled down towards your neck as he bent his head, and you felt like you didn’t have control over your body as you threw your head back. You shakily exhaled when both of his hands descended towards your waist, lifting you and forcing you towards the California king. When he settled you both onto it, all pretense was gone.

“Don’t you want a little girl?” he whispered against your skin, his fingers dancing along the place from where your shirt had ridden up. “Hmm? I know you get sick of being with just us boys.”

You made a noise that was unintelligible even to your ears, pushing at his head, but it was of no use. Whatever he slipped into your drink clearly wasn’t in his, Rafe having all of his strength and wits about him as he pinned you down. He kissed you again—slow—as his hands circled around your wrists. It took your breath away, and your lashes fluttered when he descended.

“A princess for my princess…”

You reached out to place a hand on the bed to steady yourself. Although you knew it was the room spinning, not you, and so focused on that, you didn’t even realize what Rafe was doing until the cool air you’d briefly felt against your core was replaced by his mouth. The action made your back arch, and—against your will—you reached down to press your hand against his head.

He hummed in between your thighs.

“You never let me do this anymore,” you heard him whisper, his breath against your skin before he dived back in.

To be fair, you never let him do anything, but especially this. It was too intimate, too loving, and those words were so far from the true nature of your relationship it wasn’t even funny. After all, Rafe was now at a place where he had to drug you just to get you to stop fighting against him. You found it interesting because he never minded the fight before. In fact, you’d even say that some part of him enjoyed it.

You wondered what had changed.

His head moved back and forth between your thighs, and it made you squirm. One of Rafe’s hands reached up to dig into your leg, holding you still. The other found your hand, and you were unable to remember that you didn’t like holding his hand. Another gesture that you felt was too intimate, something Rafe always liked to pretend that your relationship was.

Just when you were on the brink of coming all over his tongue, your husband pulled away, but not before pressing a quick kiss to the inside of your thigh. With stars just barely floating in your vision, you laid there, eyes falling closed as you fought to regulate your breathing.

A voice in your head told you that you didn’t want this, and that you needed to get up…but you couldn’t find the strength to.

When Rafe’s hands were on you again, they were pulling away every piece of fabric they touched, and you couldn’t help the tears that kissed your eyes. Being forced to feign compliance in your own assault somehow hurt a thousand times worse than if Rafe had simply grabbed you and held you down. You wondered if this made it easier on him, and you thought about how much Rafe hated being reminded of the things he did to you.

It was like it hurt him to remember it that way, to acknowledge it for what it was.

When he slid into you, you couldn’t help the small whimper you let out, eyes rolling as he stretched you out. Rafe’s hands were on you, pulling you closer, and as if your arms had a mind of their own, you threw them around him. His chest was pressed to yours as he thrust into you, and you pressed your face into the crook of his neck. He cursed when he sank into you again, and your toes curled.

“You’re so mean to me, you know that?”

One of his hands tangled in the hair at the nape of your neck.

“...have to drug my own wife just to get her to fuck me…”

Your nails dragged along the expanse of his back, and Rafe hummed at the feeling. You’d forgotten what it felt like to lie beneath him and just let him have his way with you. It felt like so long since he hadn’t had to force you down and take his cock despite what you may have wanted. Although, your current position wasn’t all that different, but you couldn’t ignore how relaxed you were from whatever he’d slipped you.

Rafe shifted, hands pressed into the mattress on either side of your head. His blue eyes glinted in the low lighting, and you blearily blinked up at him as he gazed down at you. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours while still holding your gaze. Your lips parted at a particularly hard thrust, and the corner of his lips curved upwards at the sight.

Deep in the back of your mind, you knew you didn’t want this, but it was for so many reasons that you were struggling to remember. For the time being, all you could focus on was the curve of his cock as he repeatedly pushed it into you and how good it made you feel. One of your legs hooked around his waist, and Rafe’s perfect teeth winked at you as he grinned.

“I missed this, beautiful,” he whispered. “You know that?”

The bed jostled from your movements, and Rafe glanced down between you to watch himself disappear into you. 

“I can’t wait to fill you up,” he told you, making your heart skip a beat and reminding you of how and why you’d found yourself in this position in the first place. “Can’t wait to see you swollen and round again and fucking glowing.”

You murmured his name, but you couldn’t tell if it was in protest or not.

Your mind was all over the place, and when Rafe’s hips curved into yours again, you arched your chest up into his. Sweat clung to your frame, and you briefly wondered how made you would be at him in the morning. You knew this wouldn’t be his only attempt—Rafe always proving to be more than thorough when trying for a baby—and you now weakly wondered about having to be cautious of the food in your own house.

You could tell when he was close, his thrusts becoming sloppy and his breathing picking up. He started  to kiss you more, each kiss becoming  messier and more open mouthed than the last. In your inebriated state of mind, you kissed him back, alarm bells going off deep within your bones. Your own breathing was labored, like you couldn’t get air into your lungs fast enough.

When Rafe came the first time—and you knew that it would be the first of the night—he grunted in your ear as he spilled into you. Your nails were trailing along his skin as he plunged his cock into you, not even stopping when you felt him start to soften, lazily thrusting into your folds. Your own climax was just around the corner when he spoke.

“I will fuck you all night,” he whispered against your cheek, his tone vaguely threatening. “I will fuck you as many times as it takes until you give me what I want.”

He leaned back a bit, his nose touching yours as he tilted his head, eyeing you in a way that made your skin grow cold.

“...and I will do whatever I have to to make you…” he looked between your unfocused eyes. “...agreeable.”

[entitled-fangirl]

War prize.

Cregan Stark x Targaryen!reader

Summary: The North hates Cregan's wife and shows it rather harshly. Cregan is there to tell them off.

Warnings: violence, sexism, talks of losing virginity unwillingly, the poor reader just going through it😭

A/n: My writing is kinda eh on this one but I got it done which is all that matters. Huge italicized sections mean like a little flashback in case you needed to know that. Based on an ask!

Masterlist

........................................................

She watched her guard lock the door behind him.

How long had she been stuck in this castle?

She felt used. Taken as a trophy and nothing more. Purely a way to show status.

Purely a way to show who won the war.

Cregan Stark had won the war. And now she was his.

He was kind and caring, quick to compassion and slow to anger. If not for the others, she could've seen this as a happy marriage.

But the others made that impossible.

For the door was not locked to keep her in, but to keep others out.

Cregan saw the very actions his people tried against her, and he was concerned. 

It didn't help that all of her dresses were green. A reminder of what had come to pass.

Anytime Cregan's back was turned, something happened to her. Whether it was harsh words, spitting at her feet, or even once a manhandling that almost turned into a mob.

Cregan knew she deserved better. She was kind. He hardly believed her to be a Hightower. At first glance that day in the Keep, he thought perhaps she was Aemond's wife, or another one of Aegon's whores he had always kept around.

But no. Aemond's twin sister.

…

He felt an overwhelming sense of protectiveness when two men threw the woman to the ground in front of him.

Her dress was torn in places. Her hair was tangled and dirt ran from her temple to her chin, clearly having been thrown around a lot. She wiped the falling tears from her face with bruised hands. 

"What is this?" He asked the men. Others began to crowd around them to see what would become of her.

The men had only seen prostitutes along the path from the North to the Keep, and even those were few. Seeing a highborn lady was a rare sight.

"Found her hiding away," the man on her right commented.

Cregan sighed and reached down, pulling her chin up so he could look at her. He tipped her face from side to side, observing her. "And what did you hope I'd say when you threw a princess down at my feet? Did you expect me to reward you?"

The man paled. "Well, this is a traitor, my lord. Surely-"

"-Her only crime was the womb she was born from."

"She wears their colors still, Lord Stark-"

"Is she? I can hardly tell under the mud you've drug her through." He huffed, "I want you two out of my sight."

They looked at one another and nodded, moving to pick up the girl again. She jerked back in fear. 

"Leave her," he grumbled. "Well? Be gone. All of you!"

Slowly, they filed out of the room. "Are you gravely injured?" He asked softly.

"Not particularly, my lord," she whimpered.

He sighed and bent at the knee, joining her on the ground. "Did any of them truly put their hands on you? More than to drag you here?"

She wiped her face again, "Are you hoping to take my innocence, my lord?"

A noise involuntarily left his throat. "What?"

"I… It is yours. Just please don't harm me," she sniffled.

Any motion he made to comfort her, he pulled away as if burned. "I'm not going to do that."

"No, no please don't leave me to them," she begged when he pulled away. "Please don't let them have me. I'll do anything."

"They won't have you," he tried again. "Nothing more is going to happen to you. Now, go get redressed and come back. You're not leaving my side until I get this situated."

…

After a few hours, Cregan unlocked the door and entered their shared chambers. "My love?"

He cursed under his breath when he noticed she had fallen asleep on the bed. He wouldn't have been so loud had he known.

He sat on the bed and brushed her hair from her face. "Wake up, dear wife."

She hummed in discontent.

His lips pulled into a thin line. Things had gone especially wrong lately and it had begun to show in her actions. 

"C'mon." He began to pull her up. 

She whined and began to lean into him, tucking her face into his neck.

He chuckled, "I have something for you."

Her eyes opened, "Oh, do you?" 

…

There was outrage when Cregan took her as a wife. The North fought against the idea of having a Southern traitor as their Lady.

He had promised King Aegon III to be fair and just, and the boy said okay, knowing that he would stay honest to his word. 

But the North hated her all the same.

Cregan never considered to fear for her safety, for she was the Warden's wife, and he thought the people would know better than to touch her. 

That, and she hadn't told him of the things said right to her face when he wasn't around. She figured he knew. 

They walked through the city, her arm in his as he showed her around. She took in every sight she could, entranced by the culture of the North. 

But that also welcomed the stares.

Cregan had noticed them immediately, and he flipped her hood up. He didn't care about them, but he knew she would. So by doing so, he was hoping it would bring her a little more comfort. 

Anyone in Westeros would recognize that silver hair.

He leaned down just a bit. "Just tell me when you grow tired or cold."

She nodded, "May I go explore?"

He smiled, "So eager to get away from me?"

"No," she corrects.

"I'm only jesting. Go on."

She grinned and began to look around, trying to decide where to go first.

"Don't wander off too far," he remarked as he moved towards a lord to chat.

She nodded and went, walking a little further down the road. She looked back occasionally to make sure she was still in his line of sight. In doing so, she bumped into a woman harshly.

Y/n pulled back and apologized. "Forgive me!"

The woman set her basket down and straightened her skirt. "Foolish girl. Watch where you step next time."

"I do apologize." She dug in her pocket, pulling out a few coins. "Here. For your trouble."

The woman's eyes widened. She pulled the coins from her hand accusingly. "Where did you get these?" She hissed.

"Well… I… just from…" she turned back to where she could see Cregan. 

The woman grabbed her arm. "Did you steal these? Tell me where."

She jerked against the woman's movements. "No. No, I didn't."

"My lady, is this girl bothering you?" A tall man interfered, helping the woman.

The woman tilted her head, "She's throwing around coins like she's something of value. Look at 'er."

The man eyed her and reached up, pulling the princess' hood down. Their eyes widened. 

She turned to try to catch Cregan's attention, but the man pulled her to him. "A Targaryen, eh? The usurper's bitch sister, aren't you?"

"Please let me go," she whimpered.

"A green traitor in Winterfell? Seems the rumors were right."

She tried to pull her arm away, "Unhand me."

"Shut it, traitor scum."

"CREGAN!" She yelled out of instinct.

Cregan's head snapped immediately, his heart dropping to his stomach. His eyes scanned the crowd, trying to find her amidst the people that had begun to gather. But he couldn't see her. His worry grew and he began to step out into the crowd in hope of finding her.

She fought against the man's grip. She remembered this feeling of helplessness from only weeks before. "Stop! Please… Please, I'll do anything! Just stop!" 

Anyone around them was stopped now, onlooking or shouting at what was going on.

Cregan's jaw set as he figured she was in the midst of it, and he rolled his shoulders back.

"CREGAN!" He heard again, and that was all he needed.

He began to shove people to the side in an attempt to move through the mob that had begun to form. His angered shouts were drowned out.

Luckily, the Northern Warden was burly and built like a wall, so he was able to work through the crowd by sheer force alone. 

Once towards the middle, he finally saw her. 

The man held her tightly by her silver hair. Her hands were trying to lighten his harsh grip on her as she cried. She couldn't stop the others’ hands from pulling at her skirt or the way they spit at her, but she could at least try to stop the pain erupting from her scalp.

"ENOUGH!" Cregan yelled. He finally made it to them, and his hand gripped the man's throat tightly and he leaned down to his ear. "Unhand her."

She sunk to the ground and clutched at her dress.

Cregan kept his hand firm but looked out at the others that still surrounded them. "Leave." he growled through his teeth. "All of you." When no one moved, he threw the man to the ground and turned to them in rage. "LEAVE!"

One by one they left quietly. He looked down at the man. "May the gods have mercy on you, for I have none."

…

"Keep your eyes closed," he chuckled when she almost stumbled. "I've got you."

"How far must we go?"

"Almost there, I assure you."

After a while, he finally sat her down and instructed her to hold on her arms.

A heavy weight was placed in them. Something soft. Something moving.

"Open."

"A dire wolf?" Her eyes widened.

"Mere pup now, but a mighty predator later. I felt I owed you one."

She frowned, "You don't owe me a thing. I… I feel as if I owe you."

He couldn't stop a bright laugh from escaping his throat. "Hardly."

"Cregan," she began, trying to ignore the way the pup cuddled into her for warmth. "You have saved me time and time again. Without you, I would be in some brothel, or maimed by a man without heart, or…" her voice faltered, "Paraded through King's Landing as a true war prize. But I am not. I'm your wife instead. That is a fate I did not deserve."

"But I failed you. I promised to protect you, but I find that I cannot do that as well as I had hoped. This war was hard on my people. While I cannot fault them for their anger, it is wrong to use it on their Lady of Winterfell." His voice grew persistent. "You are mine. You are no Hightower anymore. You and I both know that."

She nodded and began to pet the wolf. "I pray that the North does one day."

"They will," he confirmed. "I shall make them if I must."

"I just don't want to be stuck in this room anymore. These walls are driving me mad," she admitted.

He sighed. "I'm sure they are. But soon you shall have a protector for when I cannot be there." He leaned down at pet the small pup on her lap. "This too will pass eventually."

"Once I give you an heir?"

"Once we have a child," he corrected, "I'm sure they shall be lighter on you."

"And until then?"

He smiled sweetly, "I'll do all I can. Now." He brushed hair from her face. "Please say you like it," he said as he looked down at the pup.

Only then did she let herself truly consider that she now had a dire wolf. "It's beautiful. I just…"

He held a finger up, "Enough of that. I promise you that I and this pup will not let another hand touch you."

She flushed lightly and smiled. "Thank you. I do not say that enough."

He shrugged. "You do, it just usually looks like other things instead."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," he looked down at her dress, "wearing the dress that I had made for you is a thank you in and of itself. Blue suits you well. I could name things for all eternity. You are a perfect wife. And I admire you greatly."

"You've only known me seven moons."

"And that is seven moons enough to know."

"Cregan, I am a trophy of your accomplishments."

"You are hardly that."

She sighed, "But that is what they see me as."

"Do I?"

She considered his question. "I don't believe so."

"Then does it matter? I respect you, and with time, I will make sure they do as well."

She nodded and adjusted the dog in her arms. "Very well. I trust you."

He smiled and stood. "That's all I ask for. Now, name your pup and dress for supper. I'll come collect you myself. Is that alright?"

She nodded again.

"The North will like you," he left off with as he closed the door behind him.

She heard the lock behind him.

In time. 

In time.

Either they learn to like her, or they shall meet a Stark dire wolf closely.

The actual dire wolf or Cregan Stark, it didn't matter.

Their jaws would both equally snap at any threat.

.................................................

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