#why can’t i have emotions like everyone else

[meazalykov]

battle of the blood

esmee brugts x reader x sister!OC

summary: el clásico gets the best of your emotions

warnings: childhood trauma, strained family relationship, angst, swearing, verbal abuse, mentions of physical abuse, long chapter, I know esmee started during this el clasico but I changed it for the plot.. please be warned.

oc: your sister's name is isla, you can make up her face claim

as one of the best defenders in the world at 21, you remind everyone why you’ve earned that title, having faced some of the world’s best forwards and come out on top. 

you love football, its your entire life, but there’s something else that was added to that: 

your girlfriend, esmee.

esmee, who came to barcelona in 2023, is your love. her presence makes everything feel right, and you can’t help but smile whenever you see her at all. you remember the day she arrived, the way her eyes sparkled with excitement, the hint of nervousness as she stepped into her new life. 

it was the start of something beautiful—not just for her, but for you too. you had been searching for something deeper, and there she was.

being with esmee has awakened a side of you that had been dormant, buried beneath the pressures you’ve had throughout your entire life. 

during training sessions, the intensity can be overwhelming. despite the urgency of it all, esmee is always there. she makes your heart race, not just from the adrenaline of the sport, but from the love you have for her. when you catch her gaze from across the training pitch, it’s as if time slows down. 

the world around you fades away, and all you see is her.

in those fleeting moments, you can’t help but sneak in quick hugs, a brief escape from the tiredness of training. yes, you keep things professional in front of the public but the team adores the mutual love you have for eachother. 

esmee giggles, a sound that sparks warmth in your chest, but you can see the hints of nervousness creeping into her demeanor. her teammates, playful and lively, often tease her, and while you know it’s all in good fun, you can’t help but feel protective of her. 

when the world gets too loud, esmee knows how to bring you back down to earth. she asks about your day, your plans, anything really, and in those moments of vulnerability, something you weren’t granted as a child.. you find peace. 

you cherish the little things, like the way she plays with your hair or how she leans her head against your shoulder, finding safety in your presence. mosttimes, when the pressures of life seem too heavy, you sit together in silence, holding hands and blocking the world away. 

evenings spent together often find you curled up on the couch, watching your favorite shows, stealing kisses during the best parts, or sharing popcorn as you giggle at the most ridiculous moments. these are the times that reaffirmed your belief in love.

a few months into your relationship with esmee, an undeniable comfort settled between you two. you realized that the walls you had built around your heart were slowly coming down, allowing her in. 

those late-night conversations that once danced around the surface now floated into deeper waters. you acted in certain ways that made esmee knew that you had a difficult past, but she never questioned you about it. she would never force you to do anything you weren’t comfortable with. 

one evening, while sitting on your cozy balcony, the barcelona street lights twinkling below, you felt compelled to open up about something that had long weighed on you.

“esmee,” you began, your voice just above a whisper, 

“you know my sister, isla?” the light from the street below caught the glint of curiosity in her eyes. she nodded, already aware of that fact but eager to hear more. 

“we don’t really get along,” you continued, almost wanting to laugh since your words were  an understatement. 

esmee leaned closer, her expression shifting to one of concern. 

“i get that, but… what happened?” her gentle prompt encouraged you to delve deeper. you took a deep breath, gathering the courage to share the truth.

“it’s not just sibling rivalry, esmee,” you began, your heart pounding. 

“it’s… it’s more complicated than that. when we were kids, isla was never really nice to me. she would tease me, and I tried to brush it off, but it was relentless. as we got older, it turned into something darker.” 

esmee’s brow furrowed, and you could see the flicker of concern in her eyes. 

“what do you mean?” she asked softly, her voice steady but filled with empathy.

“there was this one time,” you recalled, the memories flooding back with clarity. 

“we were in the field, just playing football during one of the days that we didn’t have practice back at my childhood club, then, out of nowhere, she just… snapped. she started pushing me, calling me names, she beat me up then started saying I’d never be as good as her.” 

your voice trembled as you continued. 

“that was just the start. it got worse. she’d corner me, taunt me. when my parents weren't home, she would always beat me up. its not like they would have cared since they were never around but isla alway reminded me that I would never be her.” 

esmee’s hand found yours, her grip tightening slightly as if to reinforce the bond you shared. 

“y/n, I’m so sorry,” she said softly, her eyes glistening with understanding. 

“that’s awful. no one should have to go through that, especially from your sister.” 

the weight of your confession felt heavy yet liberating. as you spoke, you worried that it might shift her perception of you, but her unwavering gaze reassured you. 

“it’s been hard for me to reconcile those memories,” you admitted. 

“i wish she would snap out of it, be the sister I always wanted. but every time I think about confronting my past, about talking to her, it’s like that darkness just pulls me back.”

“you have every right to feel how you feel,” esmee replied, her voice a soothing balm against the turmoil inside you. 

“sometimes letting go is the healthiest choice. it’s okay to put distance between you and someone who brings you pain.” 

in your mind you had esmee’s love, and that was more than enough. 

when isla transferred to real madrid from aston villa back in august, it sent shockwaves through the football community, but for you, y/n, it was merely a confirmation of what you had always known. everyone expected the announcement to create an excitment among you, with commentators dissecting every angle, but you felt strangely detached. after all, you had long ago come to terms with the reality of your relationship—or lack thereof—with isla.

most people suspect that you and isla aren’t close at all, and they’re right. the truth is, you don’t even follow each other on social media. it’s not an oversight; it’s a deliberate choice. you’ve both carved out your own professional existences in the world of football, but the disconnect runs far deeper than just career paths. 

when isla’s name surfaces in interviews, you always say, “she’s my sister,” but even that feels like a hollow statement. it’s the only phrase you can utter without spiraling into a torrent of emotions that wouldn’t be conducive to your public image. 

your pr team constantly reminds you to keep it professional, advising you to avoid any personal comments that could lead to negative speculation. they know the rumors swirl, that fans are eager to dissect what must be some family drama. 

they think it’s just sibling rivalry or jealousy. if only they knew the truth—that isla’s presence in your life had been more harmful than supportive, and that your silence is more a shield than a statement.

as the media continues to pair your names together, it’s irritating to reflect on the fact that you’re linked by blood and talent, yet worlds apart in spirit. you wish you could express how isla’s competitive edge always crossed the line into emotional and physical abuse, how the shadows of your childhood still loom large, how her triumphs feel like a stark reminder of your own struggles. 

for now, those words remain locked away, buried under layers of professional decorum and public expectations of barcelona players.

as el clasico approached, you felt your mood souring more and more each day. anticipation crackled in the air like a thousand tiny static shocks. for you, it felt heavy, oppressive—a cloud she couldn’t shake off. 

the usual buzz of excitement that surrounded the biggest match in football felt muted, as if you were standing behind a glass wall, watching everyone else thrive in the moment while you grappled with your own turmoil. 

only a handful of people on the team seemed to understand why your demeanor had shifted so noticeably. esmee was one of them—brash and spirited, always ready to sprinkle a bit of humor to lighten the mood, yet deeply empathetic when it came to your struggles. 

esmee had a sixth sense for when y/n was struggling. alexia, as captain, also had a deep understanding of the weight y/n’s situation with isla. she’d made sure to keep conversations about family issues to a minimum during training sessions. 

the rest of the team suspected something was off, but they respected y/n’s space, choosing not to pry or gossip. 

“things will be okay, y/n,” esmee reassured her you afternoon, giving a supportive squeeze to your waist after the conversation of el clasico was brough up. 

“we’ll get through madrid together. we’ll play the full 90 minutes and then come back to barcelona. you won’t have to see isla again until march.” 

despite the attempt at comfort, y/n felt her heart sink. she appreciated esmee’s sentiment, but the thought only compounded her feelings of dread. 

“i didn’t see her for three years when she was at aston villa,” y/n muttered, frustration clawing at her chest. 

“why did she have to come to madrid? it’s like she’s intentionally making my life worse.” 

y/n had achieved her success in her own right, yet every time she saw isla on the edge of the pitch, posing for photos or congratulating teammates, y/n felt herself slipping back into the background. the knot in her stomach twisted tighter, amplifying her anxiety. do any of those people know that isla is an abuser? do they know that she used to beat up her younger sister until her hands started to hurt too much? probably not. 

“c’mon, y/n, try to see the positives,” esmee urged, attempting to pull her friend from the dark place lingering in her thoughts. 

“this is your chance to show madrid what you’re made of! i know you’re a defender but maybe we can get a goal out of you!.” 

you forced a laugh with a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. the idea of stepping onto the pitch, with thousands of eyes watching you—not only as part of barcelona but in direct comparison to isla—sent your mind spiraling. 

what if you didn’t perform well? what if your sister outshines you? 

you had wanted to have this magical moment as a pro player without isla looming in the background, always casting a lengthy shadow over your achievements.

“look, why not make this game about us?” esmee continued, trying to penetrate y/n’s wall of anxiety. 

“play for the team, for each other. we’re going to have fun! it’s el clasico! if anything, we should be excited! forget about isla.” 

it was hard for you to forget, very hard. how could you? memories of childhood flashed through your mind: the abuses, the times when isla’s achievements always overshadowed your own spark. it felt like being trapped in a cycle she couldn’t escape. 

you remembered celebrating each of your own milestones quietly, while isla was surrounded by adoring friends and admiring coaches. 

taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you felt a flicker of determination ignite within you. esmee was right about one thing: it was important to rely on your teammates, the women who had stood by your side through victories and losses alike.

perhaps, if you reframed your perspective, you could focus on what you could control rather than the shadows of your past.

as training sessions progressed, it became harder for you to keep your emotions in check. every exercise, every drill, became a mental obstacle course. the tension built up not just for you but for the entire team. they were gearing up for a match that was not only an opportunity to prove themselves against their fiercest rivals, but also a chance for you to confront some demons that had followed you into the present.

the morning of el clásico broke in madrid, sunlight streaming through the hotel room window, illuminating every corner and filling the air with an electric energy. 

“hey, sleepyhead! wake up! it’s match day!” kika chirped, her voice bright and cheerful as she moved around the room, throwing a pillow on your sleepy head.

you couldn’t help but wake up and smile at her enthusiasm, though the knot in your stomach tightened a little more.

“morning,” you replied, stretching and rubbing the sleep from your eyes. the vibrant posters of barcelona hung on the walls, a reminder of the mission ahead.

 “did you sleep at all?”

“of course! i had this amazing dream about scoring the winning goal,” kika laughed, her excitement contagious.

you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of that same energy, even as your mind drifted back to other thoughts.

“i barely slept. too many thoughts,” you admitted, the weight of the day pressing on your shoulders.

“about isla?” kika guessed, her tone shifting to something more understanding. you nodded, your heart sinking a little at the mention of her name. 

the reminder of being in the starting lineup sent a mix of nerves through you. as you and kika finished getting ready, you caught a glimpse of your reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

you looked focused, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of longing for the comfort of esmee’s arms. it was hard not to wish you could have a moment away from the pressure, to feel the warmth and safety of your partner’s embrace. 

“let’s head down for breakfast,” kika suggested, sensing your distraction. you nodded, knowing that you needed to center yourself and prepare for the day ahead. the atmosphere in the dining room was buzzing with excitement, the smell of coffee and fresh pastries filling the air.

as you entered, the chatter of your teammates surrounded you, their laughter and energy infectious. you settled at the table, and soon the conversation turned toward the madrid lineup. your heart raced as they mentioned isla's name, and you felt the knot in your stomach clench tighter. 

“of course, they’ll have isla,” mapi said, a slight edge of playful rivalry in her voice. 

“she’s one of their best forwards. should be fun trying to keep her in check.” 

“fun,” you murmured, trying to smile. inside, you felt a mix of admiration and jealousy, an emotional tug-of-war that blurred the line between sibling rivalry and personal ambition. 

“we’ll handle it,” frido chimed in, trying to lift the mood.

as breakfast came to an end, you took a moment to reflect on everything swirling in your head. thoughts raced as you prepared to head to the stadium, the enormity of the day dawning on you. 

this wasn’t just another game; it was el clásico. you would be facing isla, your biological sister.

"you ready?" mapi asked, her eyes sparkling with excitement, oblivious to the storm inside you. you forced a smile, nodding tightly as the whistle blew, marking the beginning of el clásico. 

you quickly tucked your worries to the back of your mind, focusing on the game ahead.

as you maneuvered up the pitch, you could hear your teammates calling for the ball. aitana had it, and you made your way toward her, preparing to receive the pass. just as you felt the rhythm starting to flow through you, a figure rushed at you, and adrenaline kicked in. 

at the last moment, you spotted that familiar silhouette, but it was too late. 

you managed to push the ball to caro just in time, but the force of the collision pushed you back slightly. steadying yourself, you took a quick look only to realize it was isla. instinct kicked in, and you pushed her away from you. 

"don’t push me!" she snapped, her tone a mix of irritation.

“i just did!” you shot back, your heart racing as your blood boiled. you could feel the heat of her presence instantly igniting all those old wounds. 

“whatever, just wait until the end my little sister. I hope your teammates are ready to pick up the pieces when you fall apart.”

the exchange hung heavily in the air, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze as the intensity of the game continued around you. you fought to push out the old memories of isolation and hurt, taut and angry.

“not today, isla,” you muttered under your breath, refocusing on the game, trying to shake off the encounter. deep down, you knew this game was about more than football; it was about proving to yourself and to her that you were no longer the scared girl she once abused. 

you were a force to be reckoned with—a player in your own right.

 

isla shot you a dirty look before returning to her position, the tension prickled in the air. you forced yourself to breathe through it, channeling the storm of emotions into energy for the game. 

ignoring her felt like a mini victory, and you strived to sink back into the rhythm of the match.

the chaos of the field surrounded you—the shouts from your teammates, the roar of the crowd, the pounding of feet on the grass. 

with a swift glance up the pitch, you saw patri breaking through the defense. it was now or never. positioning yourself perfectly, you lifted your foot and sent a precise cross sailing through the air. everything slowed down as you watched the ball arc toward her. 

in the glorious moment that followed, patri met it with her head, sending it soaring into the back of the net. 

“vammoooss!” you shouted, adrenaline exploding through you as the crowd erupted in cheers. overwhelmed with joy, you sprinted toward patri, 

your heart racing. when you reached her, you jumped onto her back, wrapping your arms around her shoulders in a triumphant embrace.

“what a header!” you laughed, squeezing her tightly as she hoisted you up effortlessly. the bond you shared with patri was one of the deepest you had on the team too.

“you played it perfectly!” she beamed, her smile contagious.

the second half kicked off, and when esmee came on, you felt a rush of excitement. she was not just your girlfriend but she was an excellent player. as you positioned yourself on the right wing, you watched with anticipation as esmee was on the left.

suddenly, the joy of the moment was shattered. without warning, isla charged toward esmee, pushing her hard at full force when the dutch girl had the ball. you felt your stomach drop as you witnessed the blatant foul unfold right in front of you. 

esmee hit the ground with a thud, disbelief written all over her face as she looked up at the referee. the whistle blew, but to your disgust, isla received only a simple yellow card.

“that should’ve been a fucking red card…” you mumbled to yourself, unable to hold back the frustration bubbling up within you. you were furious—not just at the referee’s poor judgment but also at the way your sister exploited the situation. 

it was conscious and cruel, and you could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as your fists clenched at your sides.

mapi, who was close enough to overhear, giggled softly, sensing your ire. 

“I think we all saw that, you know?” she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. you shot her a glance, half amused but still seething. 

“not funny,” you replied sharply, trying to keep your focus on the game. you could see esmee slowly getting up, shaking her head in disbelief as she brushed off the grass on her legs. 

a mix of sadness and anger welled within you—it wasn’t just a foul; it was a reminder of how your sister’s actions affected not just you, but your loved ones as well.

it was hard to shake off the fight in your chest. the thought that isla was playing dirty, particularly against someone you cared about, burned intensely. you glanced back at esmee, who shrugged off the hit.

shortly after, the game continued.

the tension in the stadium reached a fever pitch as the clock ticked down to the 87th minute. barcelona had just scored their fourth goal, courtesy of alexia, and the crowd erupted in cheers that reverberated around the pitch. 

just when you thought the game was stabilizing, hell broke loose in a way you never anticipated.

isla broke past ingrid as if she were a mere hurdle, her focus unyielding as she made a reckless dash toward the goal. in that split second, your heart raced—not in excitement, but in horror. that familiar cocktail of hatred and anger surged through you, overwhelming all rational thought. 

you weren’t just standing by anymore; you were compelled to act, to protect what was rightfully yours on the field.

without a second thought, you lunged forward at full speed, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you executed the fastest and cleanest side tackle imaginable. your body struck the ground, sliding into her with precision. isla flew away from the ball, sent sprawling across the pitch as your foot sent it careening toward the crowd, safely out of harm’s way.

the satisfying thud of your tackle felt like a victory, but it was short-lived. as you stood up, energy still crackling in your limbs, you felt a rush of pride—until that pride morphed into a tension that shadowed the field.

isla sprang to her feet, standing right in front of you with rage bubbling in her eyes.

“who the fuck do you think you are?” she spat, invading your personal space, her face a mask of anger and disbelief. her breath was heavy, and you could see the seething hatred reflected in her dark gaze.

you pushed back, adrenaline mingling with defiance. “i’m the one who stopped you from making a fool of yourself! that was a pathetic run!” you felt empowered, knowing you had thwarted her attempt to score, and relished the moment of victory. 

isla laughed bitterly, her voice slicing through the chaos around you. “pathetic? look who’s talking!” 

“you’re a joke, isla! you always have been!” 

“joke?” she echoed, her mouth twisting into a sneer. 

“at least i’m not the one who needs to prove myself every time i step on this field. everyone knows what a failure you are!” the venom in her words stung, and her face was a twisted mirror of the anger that coursed through you.

“maybe if you spent less time abusing people and more time focusing on your own game, you wouldn’t be in this position right now!” you responded, the heat of the moment making you bold. your gaze locked onto hers, refusing to break contact, as if the intensity could somehow ward off her next assault.

“you think this is about me?” isla laughed, the sound cruel and mocking. 

“this is about you, desperate to be seen, desperate for validation!" the derision in her voice felt like a blade, piercing the surface of your confidence.

“this is so fucking hilarious, you’re scared!” you shot back, your voice shaking but resolute. 

“scared that if you lost, you wouldn’t know who you are anymore. you’re obsessed with proving you're the best, shit you abused me for years and that wasn’t enough, maybe you should’ve killed me isla!”

“look at you! the fact that you’re still here makes me sick!” isla ignores what you said, failing to admit her abuse towards you.

“you’re such a bitch, thinking you could go to barcelona and think you’re hot shit—” 

“says the one who chose madrid of all teams, look at your team with zero goals!!” you snapped immaturely, the words spilling out before you could even catch yourself. 

cata tried to pull you away from your sister for the last twenty seconds, but it was no use; your anger suddenly surged, fueling a strength that felt almost uncontrollable. 

at that moment, everything around you turned into a blur as adrenaline surged through your veins.

alexia had noticed the commotion and began to move toward you, determination etched on her face. 

“leave her alone!” athenea shouted at you, stepping between you and your sister.

“score a goal then come back to me, you bitch,” you shot back, your voice laced with defiance as you metaphorically swatted athenea away like she was an annoying fly. 

“don’t speak to her like that!” your sister yelled, pushing you.

the crowd around you watched in shock, drawn into the escalating drama, whispers and gasps cutting through the din of the match.

suddenly, both teams surrounded you, players from both sides trying to break up the heated argument. tensions flared further as a few of your teammates exchanged barbs with madrid players, the atmosphere thick with hostility. 

the referee rushed in to maintain order, but you and your sister remained locked in a fierce gaze, hatred radiating off you like heat from a fire.

“i haven’t seen you in three years—what the fuck? you know what? you’re hopeless. you’ve always been the one holding everyone back! shit, you guys would’ve been up to six if you didn’t make those mistakes you did!!!” isla spat.

“you’re pathetic, isla. maybe shut up and stop pretending you’re even close to being good enough. maybe try watching your balance next time?” you shot back, the memory of the side tackle you had executed flashing before your eyes, where she had fallen face-first into the grass.

“do you think anyone actually believes in you at barcelona? i don't, and i’m positive your captain doesn’t either!” isla laughed, the sound harsh and mocking, as if your words were nothing more than a joke to her. 

“you don’t know me, you don’t know y/n, and what happens at barcelona, go away!” alexia shouted, her voice cutting through the chaotic atmosphere as she rushed towards you, clearly infuriated by what had just transpired. 

she pulled you away from the escalating confrontation, her grip firm and protective, while olga carmona was busy dragging isla away, separating the two of you in a tangle of emotions and disbelief.

as the whistle blew, signaling the end of the match, the rush of emotions hit you like a tidal wave—embarrassment, anger, sadness, and confusion twisted together in an overwhelming torrent. 

your heart raced, every beat echoing your thoughts over and over: why did your sister hate you so much? yes, you had initiated the encounter with a side tackle, but it was just a game! a competition, something you had always loved, something that was supposed to bring joy. 

yet, here you were, feeling like a stranger in your own life, treated as though you were the villain in a twisted narrative that belonged to Isla.

deep down, you knew you weren’t the evil one. it was Isla—the sister who once had control over your life through years of emotional and physical abuse. the memories rushed back, uninvited and unwelcome, as you thought about the day you finally managed to escape at 16, signing with la masia and vowing to break free from the darkness that had enveloped your childhood. 

you had fought tooth and nail to build a life away from that pain, so why, after all these years, did she still hold such a powerful grip over your emotions?

the anger began to bubble to the surface, fierce and unyielding, igniting sparks of determination within you. you promised yourself you would never let anyone, least of all her, treat you like that ever again. yet with that anger came an undercurrent of sadness, an ache that resonated deeper than you wanted to admit. 

you realized, more painfully than ever, that you didn’t know your sister anymore—this Isla was a stranger in your life, and yet the years of shared history felt like a heavy weight pressing down on both of you. how had this happened? it felt surreal, standing on this battlefield of memories past, both of you reduced to adversaries when you should have been allies.

watching teammates embrace amid cheers and celebrations around you, you began to feel profoundly isolated. their laughter rang in your ears like a mocking reminder of the bond you once had with Isla, a bond that was now fractured, strained by the years of resentment and pain that simmered beneath the surface. 

it was as if you were caught in some cruel twist of fate, living out a nightmare where your family ties had turned into shackles, binding you to a painful legacy.

questions raced through your mind like a whirlwind: was there any hope for repair? could you ever bridge the chasm that had formed between you? every thought pulled you deeper into the confusion of your feelings, and you wondered if healing was even possible after so much trauma. 

the night wrapped its heavy cloak around madrid, its bustling streets still alive with the echoes of celebration and the collective energy of the crowd. bright lights illuminated the cobblestones, but inside the dimly lit bus, you felt completely enveloped in darkness.

the soft chatter of ecstatic teammates faded as you made your way to the farthest back seats, seeking solitude and privacy in the midst of a chaotic victory.

as you settled into the back corner, you pulled your hoodie over your eyes, the fabric a barrier from the vibrant world outside. your chest felt tight, a vice slowly tightening with each breath. the floodgates opened, and tears streamed unabated down your cheeks. 

you couldn’t remember the last time you had cried like this, where each sob felt like a physical release, an expulsion of the pain that had been building inside for years. the laughter and joy of your teammates were a distant hum, far removed from the anguish that churned in your heart. even in your secluded corner, memories of your fractured relationship with Isla rushed over you, relentless waves that threatened to pull you under.

“you don’t have a sister. you don’t have a sister,” echoed in your mind, each repetition stinging sharper than the last. the thought sank deep, raw and brutal, leaving you feeling utterly unmoored.

as you rested your head against the cool glass of the window, gazing out at the blurred lights of the city, the world outside became a mere backdrop to your inner turmoil. you could hear muffled conversations, the exuberant energy radiating from your teammates—a stark contrast to your spiraling emotions. 

the victory that had once been something to celebrate now felt meaningless in the face of the tears that wouldn’t stop falling.

just then, the door creaked open on the bus, and vicky stepped in. she was still glowing from the game, her face alight with enthusiasm, but that expression quickly faded when she spotted you in the back. 

concern etched itself across her features, and her heart sank. she could see from the shadows of your hoodie and the position of your body—hunched and closed off—that you were in distress. overwhelmed, vicky turned on her heel and dashed back out of the bus, seeking out esmee, who stood chatting at the entrance with ellie.

“esmee! y/n is on the bus crying,” vicky mumbled, urgency lacing her words. the concern in her voice was palpable; she wanted to keep the team from overwhelming you, sensing how raw your emotion was and how much space you needed.

esmee felt her stomach twist at vicky's words. she had watched you take that fateful departure from the group, and it had left her heart heavy. she knew you better than most, knew when you needed to be left alone and when you needed someone to pull you back from the edge of despair. 

without hesitation, she scooped her things into her bag and sprinted past vicky, urgency pushing her feet to move faster.

the bus interior was dim, the only light provided by the streetlamps outside the window. it was quiet and still, a place where vulnerability thrived. esmee's heart raced as she stepped onto the bus, drawn immediately to the haunting softness of your cries. 

approaching you cautiously, she felt a pang of sadness pool in her chest. settling down across the aisle from you, she could now see the crumpled sleeve you were using as a tissue.

“y/n,” she whispered softly, her voice barely breaking the silence between the two of you. you didn’t respond, lost in the storm of your emotions. esmee took a deep breath, grounding herself as she tried to navigate this delicate moment. 

“can I sit with you?”

the slight shift in your posture told her it was okay. she moved into the seat right next to you, close enough to feel your warmth without infringing on your space. you still kept your eyes fixed on the streaks of light melting into the darkness beyond the window.

“it’s really okay to cry, baby,” esmee said gently, her tone soothing and patient. it was a balm for your frayed nerves, and for a moment, you blinked through the haze of tears. 

“I’m right here with you. you’re not alone.”

you drew a shaky breath, but the tears kept coming. it felt too heavy to be cradled alone in this storm of feelings. esmee reached forward, resting her hand on the empty seat between you, her fingers subtly inviting closeness. 

“I can’t take what you’re feeling away for you,” she continued softly, 

“but I can sit here with you while you feel it. it’s okay to not be okay.” esmee stays realistic. 

the tenderness of her words seeped into the crevices of your heart, and for the first time, you glanced towards her. her eyes were filled with concern, a deep and genuine empathy that made something inside you shift. 

the warmth of her gaze encouraged you to speak, to let out the words you had been holding tight within.

“it’s just… everything,” you managed to choke out between sobs, your voice breaking as the weight of the years spilled from your lips. 

“Isla… everything that happened at the end of the game, everything.”

esmee nodded, completely attuned to your pain. 

“I know it’s changing everything you thought you understood about things. It’s like a dark cloud, isn’t it?” she said, her gaze unwavering as she leaned closer, conveying both solidarity and strength. 

with gentle resolve, esmee shifted a fraction closer, and as if sensing your need for comfort, she brushed her hand against your back, the soft contact grounding and familiar as you lean against her chest. 

it felt as if she was sending warmth through that simple gesture, wrapping you in the safety of her presence. you blinked at her, your tears mixing with the warmth that slowly began to settle in your chest.

“i hate her.” you mumbled. 

“i can see why,” esmee understood. 

esmee gently placed her hand on your waist, her fingers squeezing lightly as if to remind you she was there, physically and emotionally. 

as the tears poured forth, each drop carrying away a piece of your pain, a piece of the suffocating grief that had held you captive for so long, it felt easier to breathe. esmee didn’t shy away from the gravity of what you were feeling; instead, she leaned in closer, her presence a steadfast beacon. 

the familiarity of her touch ignited a sense of safety, drawing you just a bit closer to the shore after feeling lost at sea for so long.

“let it all out,” she encouraged, brushing her thumb softly over the back of your hand that rested limply in your lap. it was a gentle caress that seemed to wipe away some of your doubts, a silent promise that you were moments away from finding solace in companionship. 

“nobody’s judging you here, I promise.”

you clung to her hand, feeling an unexpected safety in that small gesture.the tears continued to flow, but rather than a dam holding them back, it felt like a river running its course, tearing along and removing the debris of old pain.

esmee did not shy away from the intimacy of the moment; she was your shelter from the turmoil, absorbing your sorrow alongside you.

“no one has to know we’re having a moment,” esmee teased gently, her playful spirit shining through despite the gravity of the situation. she added a smirk, trying to raise the corners of your mouth into a semblance of a smile. 

you couldn’t help but chuckle at her light-hearted attempt to coax you from the shadows. laughter bubbled up from the depths of your throat—tentative at first, but it felt slightly like sunlight breaking through the clouds. 

“I might be too emotional for this team,” you replied, your voice still thick with emotion but softened by humor.

“at least we have each other to be emotional with,” esmee offered with sincerity, squeezing your hand gently before letting it settle back on your thigh, a touch that was both supportive and grounding.

as you both sat in the quiet of the bus, the soft sounds of the city thrumming outside, you found solace in the physical closeness and the shared silence after esmee’s words. 

you might not have your biological family, but you have found your family at barcelona. 

masterlist

[daisymbin]

Hi belle!! ive loved all the mingyu drabbles ive read from u!! 💗 may i request a mingyu 2nd chance romance with prompt no. 5? 🥹

hello!! yes you definitely can!! & thank you for your compliments 🥹🤍

request your own: full prompt list!

check out my masterlist! // gyu's m.list

second chance prompt #5: "I still keep your picture in my wallet."

mingyu had always been good at pretending. pretending he didn’t still think about you when he woke up in the morning, pretending that he didn’t miss the way you laughed, how your presence could fill up a room. he was good at pretending, until he saw you again.

when he walked into the café, with the sun hitting your face just right, mingyu felt his chest tighten. he wasn’t supposed to be here. not like this. he had told himself time and time again that seeing you again would only make it worse. but when joshua casually mentioned you were in town, mingyu couldn’t stop himself from asking if he could come along.

he hadn’t realized how much he needed to see you until now, until he was standing next to you, feeling that familiar pull he’d tried so hard to bury.

as he paid for everyone's drinks, mingyu didn’t notice the photo slip from his wallet until it fluttered onto the counter.

it was the polaroid of you at the beach. he’d kept it there for so long, tucked into the folds of his wallet, a small token of a time that felt so far away but still so close.

he watched as you froze, your eyes locking onto the photo with a recognition that hit him like a punch in the gut.

"why..." you whispered, your voice cracking. "why do you have this still?"

mingyu’s heart dropped. he wasn’t sure why he’d kept it. maybe it was because he still couldn’t let go. maybe it was because he knew, deep down, that the version of you in that picture—the carefree, happy version—was something he would never find again. not with anyone else.

“i still keep your picture in my wallet,” he admitted, his voice coming out quieter than he intended.

your gaze never left the photo, your breath catching in your throat. mingyu’s chest ached, knowing how much the past still hurt you.

“mingyu…”

he ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could take back the way things ended between you. “i know. i know i messed up. i shouldn’t have pushed you away like that. but i couldn’t throw this away. it felt wrong to.”

you looked at him then, your eyes filled with so many emotions he couldn’t decipher. “you’re still holding on to this... after everything? after we—”

“i couldn’t forget you,” he cut you off, his words spilling out before he could stop them. “i’ve tried, but i can’t. you were never just a phase for me. you were... everything.”

he saw the way your lip trembled. “why did you leave then?”

mingyu swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. “i thought i was doing the right thing. i thought it would be easier if i just let you go. i thought maybe you’d be happier without me.”

“you’re a fool,” you whispered, tears brimming in your eyes. “you broke me, mingyu.”

he felt the sharp sting of those words deep in his chest. “i know. i know i did, and i hate myself for it.”

“so why now?” you asked, voice breaking. “why did you reach out now, after all this time?”

mingyu’s eyes softened. “because i couldn’t stay away. seeing you again—it felt like a sign. a chance to fix the mess i made.”

“but i don’t know if i can trust you again.” you wiped away a tear, turning your face away.

his heart cracked at the sight. “i wouldn’t blame you if you couldn’t. i wouldn’t blame you if you hated me for what i did.”

“i don’t hate you,” you said quietly, voice almost a whisper.

mingyu took a step closer, hesitating before he reached out and gently cupped your cheek. “then why do you look like you’re about to cry every time you look at me?”

you met his gaze, eyes glossy with emotion. “because i still care about you, mingyu. i still miss you. i never stopped loving missing you.”

he let out a breath, the weight of your words settling on him like a heavy burden. he had been a fool. “i didn’t want to hurt you. i swear to god, i didn’t. but i couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“so, what now?” you asked, looking at him through a haze of tears. “what do we do now?”

mingyu could feel the answer in his bones. he’d never been more certain of anything in his life.

“we try again,” he said, his voice firm, resolute. “we start over. i’ll do whatever it takes to prove to you that i can be the person you deserve.”

your eyes searched his, doubt lingering behind your gaze. “you mean it?”

“i wouldn’t say it if i didn’t,” he said softly, his thumb brushing across your cheek. “i’ve never meant anything more.”

you stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to figure out if he was telling the truth. finally, you let out a shaky breath and nodded. “okay,” you whispered. “but don’t mess this up, mingyu. i can’t go through this again.”

“i won’t,” he promised, leaning in and gently pressing his forehead to yours. “i swear to you, i won’t mess it up this time.”

he didn’t need words to tell you how much he meant it. his lips found yours in a soft, hesitant kiss. the world outside faded, and for the first time in a long time, mingyu felt like he was home.

[ak319]

Yan G!P Princess x fem reader

PART X ➺ Part IX

Your name is Deniz here

(Kade's POV)

"Here, Your Highness." My hands held the papers from Richard, but my gaze remained fixed on the wall in front of me.

9 a.m. The team will be here at 11. But what was throwing me off, keeping me on edge, was your behaviour. You were completely detached. You still had a mild fever, and God knows what exactly Father said to you. I preferred it when you were at least fighting back.

"Um, Ronan, call my wife, will you." I can't believe I am this weak, too afraid to even face you right now.

‘Is this what you wanted, Kade?’

Yes, it is. Whatever is happening, or however she feels, she’s still my wife. As she should be. You need to cope. I can't ignore reality, even if I am so deeply in love. Sometimes, I have to sit back and... let things be, however cruel they may seem. I can sense it--your defeat. It's near, and eventually, everything you consider bad or wrong in your mind will fade, leaving only my love. And I refuse to accept that this is wrong. I might accept it if someone else came along, declaring they love you more than I do, but I know that’s never going to happen. The mere thought of it made me let out a chuckle. Because there is no other me. There never will be.

Your footsteps made me alert, and I offered you a gentle, reassuring smile, though it probably went unnoticed. "Come, darling. Here, sit beside me. We need to discuss a few things."

You sat down without any protest, your hands resting in your lap, gaze distant. "You alright? Need anything? Please, just tell me, love." You responded with a disapproving sigh, and I couldn’t help but notice the lack of warmth in your eyes. "Do let me know if you do, even if it's in the middle of the interview. It’s not live, anyway." I handed you a copy of the questions, trying to ease the tension. "Um--so... here are the questions. It’s probably best we go through them ourselves first."

"Just tell me what I have to say."

A flash of frustration sparked in my chest. "No, that’s not how this is going to work, darlin. Can we have a moment, please."

"Yes, Your Royal Highness."

As soon as everyone stepped out, I turned back to you, leaning closer. "Look at me, love. Why are you shutting down like this? We’re in this together, aren’t we?" My voice softened, but my grip on your hand remained firm. "You can’t just sit there and follow a script. I want you in this, not some hollow version of yourself."

You kept your eyes down, refusing to meet mine. "Just... tell me what to fucking say. Please."

I shook my head, a dry chuckle slipping through my frustration. "Fine. If that’s what you’re so keen on, then sure, I’ll play along. But remember this, Deniz, what you say might be scripted, but what I’ll say there... it will be true." My hand tightened around yours, pulling you closer even as you tried to pull away. "Every word I say will be. I’ll make sure everyone knows just how much I love you."

I paused, exhaling to gain control over the storm of emotions swirling within me. "And if I have to make them see that you’re mine, that we belong together even when you’re like this, I’ll do it. Because no matter how you act right now, no matter how many times you try to push me away, I’m not going anywhere."

I searched your face, hoping for even a flicker of the defiance you usually had, the spark that used to meet mine. But there was only silence, and it cut deeper than any harsh words.

"Just... be casual, natural. You don’t have to do anything more than that. I’ll even let them know about your fever; that should help, take some of the pressure off." I tried to keep my voice steady, gentle, but the tension in the air was palpable. "I’m... here for you. You know that, right? Always."

Your silence lingered, stretching the space between us. It gnawed at me, stirring a frustration I struggled to swallow, but I knew it was better than getting snapped at. Right now, it felt like I was walking on thin ice, every word a potential crack beneath my feet. And with you in this fragile state, I couldn’t afford to make a wrong move.

"I love you, my princess," I whispered softly, letting the words hang in the air, hoping they might reach you, touch a part of you that still remembered us. But your expression remained distant, and the ache in my chest tightened.

With a resigned breath, I called out, "Ronan, Katie, come in." I straightened, bracing myself for the next few hours. "The sooner this gets finished, the better."

════∘◦❁◦∘════

(YOUR POV)

Five minutes left before it starts, and of course, Ewan appears at the room’s door, his eyes lingering on both of us, especially me. I knew that look, it was a subtle warning, just as I expected. And right beside him stood the Queen, Bella, with an almost sympathetic smile on her face.

Two minutes.

As the door clicked shut behind them and you settled into the couch, your eyes finally began to take in the room, drifting over everything. The interviewer made some friendly small talk with you and Kade, who gently shifted you into a more comfortable position on the sofa, her arm pressing against yours, trying to ease the tension from your body.

“Relax and just breathe.” Her whisper cut through the fog of your feverish thoughts, bringing with it the strange realization of how much... has changed. She’s beside you, her presence so familiar, so comfortable, as if you had invited her to be this close.

But you didn’t.

No, you didn’t do any of this. You don’t agree with any of it, and yet here you are, trapped in a scenario you never signed up for.

You’re caught, Deniz~

Your own mind seemed to mock you, a cruel voice echoing through the haze, leaving you questioning how you ended up here.

Don't lose your cool right now. Please. Don't cry. Don't.

The atmosphere in the room is thick with a forced sense of warmth, the kind that comes with polite smiles and scripted pleasantries. It feels like the air conditioning is too cold, but there’s a faint sheen of sweat on your skin, not just from the fever, but from the weight pressing down on you. The interviewer sits opposite you and Kade, her cheerful demeanor almost grating in its brightness as she tries to build a sense of ease. Kade's hand remains firmly on your knee, a gentle pressure that borders on possessive.

As the interview begins, the camera’s red light flicks on, and your heart stutters in your chest, the realization sinking in that everything you say here will be seen, analyzed, judged. The questions begin softly, a slow lead into more personal territory. You try to focus, but your mind is a swirl of mixed emotions, resentment, confusion, and a faint hope that somehow, this will be over soon.

The interviewer leans forward, clasping her hands with enthusiasm. “So, Kade, when did you first meet Deniz?”

Kade’s lips curl into a smile that looks warm on the surface but holds an edge you can almost feel. “Ah, I remember it vividly. It was during a high school cricket match. Deniz was bowling, and I was there for... let’s say, a friendly obligation.” Her gaze shifts briefly to you, her smile widening. “She was so focused, so determined. Even then, she had this fire in her. And I was just mesmerised. I thought, ‘Here’s someone who knows what she wants.’ It… intrigued me,” It’s a version of the story that leaves out the years of distance, the way she’d re-entered your life with a determination that left you with little choice.

The interviewer’s attention shifts to you, her curiosity genuine. “And what was your first impression of Kade, Deniz?”

You open your mouth, but the words feel trapped, caught in the tangle of thoughts that your feverish brain can barely unravel. You clear your throat, forcing your voice to stay steady. “It’s funny, back then, I was just focused on the game. Never thought I’d end up catching a princess’s eye,” you add, a saccharine edge to your tone as you look at Kade. “I guess you could say I wasn’t really looking for anything… or anyone, at that time.”” Your voice sounds distant to your own ears, and you hope it’s enough. You hope she’ll let it go.

Kade’s hand tightens slightly on your knee, and she gives a low, soft chuckle. “She’s always been humble like that. But for me, I couldn’t take my eyes off her.”

“But fate has a funny way of bringing people together, doesn’t it?” She says smoothly, her arm wrapping a bit more firmly around you, holding you in place even as your mind yearns to drift far away from the room.

The interviewer, blissfully unaware, nods along , a blush covering her own cheeks, charmed by the sentiment.

“And then, you two met again years later or...?” Sarah continues, trying to maintain the flow of the story.

“Yes, fate has a funny way of bringing people back together,” Kade replies smoothly before you can gather your thoughts. “It was like no time had passed, really. We reconnected almost instantly, and... well, the rest is history.”

You swallow thickly, trying to keep your own voice steady as you add, “Yeah, we… we met again, and things just… happened. Happened in a way I never expected, almost.” Your chuckle was soft, eyes dropping to your lap. You wanted to bury yourself in the ground. Your parents and Clara will watch this shit too, you realized.

The next question shifts to Kade once more, a simple one about how long you’ve been together, but she spins the answer into a tale of persistence and love that you barely recognize. “We’ve been together for a few years now, but honestly, it feels like a lifetime,” she says, casting you a smile that’s too perfect, too deliberate. “And I wouldn’t trade a moment of it. I mean, she for me possessed everything that I loved, a good spirit, the charm, the humour. That smile. Everything." Which translates to 'I have been stalking her for years and have been together in my own head'.

Asshole.

You nod along, your mind barely processing her words. You feel adrift, your thoughts tangled between the memories of what really happened and the story she’s weaving. Part of you wants to speak up, to say something real, but the weight of the moment crushes your voice. The cameras, the interviewer’s expectant eyes, the almost invisible pressure of Kade’s grip, all of it keeps you silent, playing along in a scene where the script isn’t yours.

The wife of the ex-playgirl Princess is what you are now it seems.

Kade’s voice continues, carrying the conversation forward, her tone polished and confident, while yours slips further into the background. She’s in control of this, just like she always is. You wonder if anyone else in the room can feel the undercurrent of tension, the way each of her words lands like a small, calculated blow.

════∘◦❁◦∘════

Kade’s lips brushed over your knuckles, and her words held a practiced softness, but you knew better. “See, darling? You did so well,” she cooed, her gaze steady, as if willing you to agree. The room buzzed around her, the team finishing up their last-minute checks on the footage, but all you could focus on was the way her grip never quite loosened.

You were exhausted, body and mind. The retakes had dragged on each one pulled from you with a tension you could barely mask by the end.

“Kay, so, let's go and have your medicine and some snacks,” she said, her tone sweetened but laced with that unmistakable firmness. Her hand remained entwined with yours, guiding you as if you were too fragile to walk on your own, or maybe too dangerous to leave unguarded. “Then we’ll get some photos taken. After that, you can rest, princess.”

Rest. You almost laughed at the irony. The way she said it, like it was a reward rather than just a moment to catch your breath.

Kade’s smile grew, pleased with your compliance, and she leaned in closer, her voice lowering just for you. “You’ll feel better soon, I promise,” she murmured against your ear, her tone gentle but carrying that familiar undercurrent.

════∘◦❁◦∘════

The dining room was heavy with expectation as Kade’s voice cut through the silence, drawing everyone’s attention to the matter at hand. A tension that belied the way she held her glass.

“So? What did you decide, Father?” Her voice was measured, but you could sense the undercurrent of urgency in her tone.

Ewan, ever composed, met her gaze with a hint of amusement. “About? Your house, you mean?” He allowed the question to hang in the air as Kade nodded, sipping her drink in a bid to appear relaxed.

“Well... you both did well.” Ewan’s gaze shifted to you for a moment, offering a vague, almost formal acknowledgment. It was one of those moments where you could almost feel the hierarchy of the family pressing down on you, an unspoken reminder of where you stood in all this.

“And, as for your coronation, I was thinking in November.”

You felt Kade stiffen beside you, the tension in her shoulders apparent as she tried to mask her reaction. “I mean, that’s, thank you, but do you mean to say we have to stay here till then?”

“I mean, your call. If you want to move early, then sure." Ewan’s tone was definitive, as if the matter were already settled, the decision made long before this dinner.

Before Kade could respond, Bella’s voice joined the conversation, smooth as ever. “Your father decided on York House, in Kingsreach.” She offered a polite smile, as though trying to soften the news. But the air in the room only seemed to grow colder.

Kade’s knuckles whitened against her glass, and you could feel the frustration radiating from her. She tried to keep her voice steady, but there was an edge to it, a subtle irritation that wasn’t lost on you or on Ewan.

“I appreciate your thoughts, truly, but I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t consider Ravenstone. It’s quiet, secluded. I think it would be a better fit for us.” She tried to keep her smile pleasant, but you could see the underlying tension tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Ewan, however, seemed unmoved, offering a tight smile. “Ravenstone is lovely, but this isn’t just about you, Kade. Kingsreach offers a better balance. It’s closer to the city, to Buckingham, which means you’re accessible for your duties while still having your privacy.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Besides, you and Deniz are still... adjusting to things. A place like Kingsreach will make it easier for both of you to settle, without the isolation of the countryside. I think it's for the best.”

Kade’s grip on her glass tightened again, her jaw clenching briefly. “I don’t see why you would make that decision for us. I thought this was our choice.”

“It’s a family decision, Kade,” Ewan responded evenly, leaning back in his chair. “And as much as I value your opinion, I’m thinking about the long-term.”

You could feel Kade’s frustration building beside you, a storm that was barely held back, but she forced a tight smile. “Right, because it’s always about what you think is best for us.” Her voice was sharper now, a challenge in her eyes as she stared back at him. You found yourself shrinking in your seat, wanting to disappear from the tension, but Ewan’s gaze found you again, lingering as if to gauge your reaction.

Bella stepped in smoothly, trying to ease the tension. “Kade, darling, we’re not saying it’s set in stone. It’s just a suggestion. But Kingsreach does have its advantages, especially as you prepare for the coronation.”

Kade’s expression softened slightly at her mother’s words, but the rigidity in her shoulders remained. She glanced at you, searching for support, but you looked away. Part of you understood Kade’s desire for Ravenstone--a place that would have allowed her to perhaps isolate you?. Another part of you felt the weight of Ewan’s logic, knowing that staying closer to the palace meant less friction, fewer battles to fight. You feeling more at home here.

The silence settled over the table again, thick and uncomfortable. Kade finally looked back at Ewan, forcing a smile. “We’ll think about it, Father. But I still believe Ravenstone has... potential.”

Ewan’s smile remained polite, but there was an unmistakable finality in his tone as he replied, “Of course, Kade. Take your time to consider it. But remember, there’s wisdom in seeing beyond just what we want.”

“Right. I just, I always wanted to move to Ravenstone. I love it. And it’s just... supposed to be mine. York, Kingsreach? Seriously? Where Romana lives too?” Kade’s voice carried an edge of bitterness, and you could sense how badly she wanted to cling to the dream of Ravenstone.

What the fuck is going on? Is this really what rich people fight over? It felt surreal like you were watching some twisted sitcom play out. The fights back home were over who ate the last piece of dessert or swiped the best leftovers from the fridge, but never this.

Ewan’s gaze darkened, but he kept his tone even, trying to reason with her. “What’s wrong with being with your sister?”

Kade’s frustration spilled over. “I want privacy! Something of my own. For my future family.” Her words sent a jolt through you, like ice in your veins. Family? Your thoughts spiraled, panic rising in your chest. She was already thinking about kids, of tying you even closer, of sealing this life together permanently. No, no, no. NO! SOMEBODY KILL ME ALREADY--

You hesitated but couldn't stop yourself from muttering, “Isn’t Buckingham... good? It's fine here.” The words slipped out before you could catch them.

“Deniz. Hush now.” Kade’s words cut through the air like a cold blade. Her voice was low but sharp, a tone she had never used with you before. It made you flinch, and a flush of embarrassment crept up your neck. Your chest tightened as her command sank in, leaving you feeling small and exposed. Even the three others exchanged startled glances.

The audacity.

You couldn’t quite process what hurt more, Kade’s uncharacteristic order, or the way it seemed to strip away the last remnants of any illusion you’d held. That despite everything she’d done, the manipulations and deceit, she had always treated you with a veneer of gentleness before. Now, was that gone? Did...you do something so bad? Maybe she's just frustrated right now.

"We will talk about this later." Ewan shut down the conversation and left everyone to their own thoughts.

(AN: comment below to get tagged for this fic🫶)

[cb-writes-stuff]

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[starlooove]

I’m trying not to be a hater but that tiktok and comment section pissed me off so bad.

[euthymiya]

Some people have velcro babies but I think I’d be a velcro mom

[hum--hallelujah]

it's Crab who does the saving. of course it is, the nurse, the silent, confident, so very calm one of them. the one who loves Benzedrine more than he could ever speak. of course it is. but he's not calm, and he's not confident. he is not the doctor. he's not meant to be. he's always been meant to be the support. that's where he thrives, where he was born to be. of course he would be the nurse. his heart is pounding and he's breathing fast, too fast, and sweating, he can feel it. he's terrified that he's wrong, that he's going to be wrong, that he's going to do something wrong and kill Benze instead of save him. he can't get the moment out of his head. the split second, not ten minutes ago, walking into the station and Benze on a chair, slumped over the table, unresponsive. he thinks his heart stopped, but it's beating too hard for asystole right now. he knows diagnostics. Benze taught him this. he knows what an overdose looks like not because of books the way Benze learned it but because he's seen it happen before. not often, but when partiers in the Zones get their hands on City drugs, they're prone to taking it too far. this isn't party drugs, though. that isn't Benze. the bottle on the table, empty but for a drop, reads morphine. Crab thinks of this morning, before they'd left for the track. Benze had been down, and hard, with a headache. he said it was normal. he said it was fine. but he hid under a blanket and groaned whenever Sandman or Donnie talked too loud. he'd been in pain. how long has this been happening? how bad has it gotten to warrant this? how desperate must he have been the first time to stop the pain? how hadn't Crab known? he'd sat on the edge of the bed before leaving and kissed Benzedrine's temple. he's morbidly glad for that. fatalistic, but if that's the last interaction they'll ever have had, at least it was that. his hands are shaking when he signs at Sandman and Donnie, either or, whoever has more presence of mind, to find- he doesn't have the time to fingerspell it. Benze's lips are turning blue. he's not responding to- the word is stimuli. the sign is a mimicry of poking someone. so it's Crab who retrieves the medicine, of course it is, of course it's Crab. this vial is labeled kloxxado. Benze called it naloxone when he found it in their inventory the first time. Crab's hands are shaking as he preps a new injection. most things work fastest intravenously. the blood does it. the heart does it. his heart is thumping out of control. his heart is beating just to keep Benze's the same. his best friend doesn't even respond when he sticks the needle into his arm. Benze might be the one who’s dying (he can’t die, Crab won’t let him, of course he won’t, he can’t-) but Crab thinks maybe he’s only alive for Benze. like maybe if Benze dies he will too. like maybe the only thing keeping his heart beating is the fluttering pulse he can feel as he holds onto Benze’s wrist. he feels like he’s gonna pass out but he does all the right things, keeps his best friend alive despite himself because of course he does. he’s the caregiver. he’s the nurse. his heart is beating for this. (his heart is beating for Benze)

[cherrysnax]

was talking to my butch last night about feelings and self perception and it’s weird that ppl see me as kind. not nice, but kind

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

.

[milo-is-rambling]

My mom was just like ahhh Im anxious to go out of my comfort zone and I was like you’re good how is this out of your comfort zone you’ve done this before and she was like why do you always judge my feelings and say I’m not allowed to feel that way I should feel some other way and I’m sitting here like :| as if she hasn’t done that to my my entire life and as if I didn’t mean you’ve done this before as a you got this sentiment not get over urself

[sickgraymeat]

sorry for all the weird personal and/or rambly text posts! and also for posting like 12000000 in two minutes and then not at at all for 12000 years and so on. this is another dumb one so by way of apology i offer this doodle of a mysterious and handsome stranger (shh they’re in disguise)

[starlooove]

Found a vid about Superman stopping Bruce from killing joker and all the comments are woobifying bruce and going ‘he lets himself be an emotional punching bag’ blah blah blah. Like ignoring the racist ass comic and the real life money incentive - Bruce would’ve hated himself if he killed joker. Just like he hated that he didn’t. It’s a self righteous damned if you do damned if you don’t issue where he’s punishing himself no matter what bc of his rigid morality. Like it is EVERY TIME! Bc that’s who Bruce is! And also. Ppl being like ‘i understand and respect the killing rule but joker should be the exception’ then no you don’t get it. There are NO exceptions that’s the point. And that’s ignoring the emotional toil on Bruce which is also why Clark stopped him. Bc that’s his friend. His friend who doesn’t want to kill. His friend who can’t have a single exception bc of his belief that he’ll keep slipping up. Same reason Bruce revived joker for NW.

[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.

[unequivocallyreid]

Why Didn’t You Tell Me?

it has been SO long... i was suffering from serious writers block but it think i'm finally out of it :)

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: Spencer Reid used to be your best friend, but things changed. How long can you pretend that you don't love him before it ruins you?

warnings: angst! (with a happy ending), smut (unprotected piv), character loss, mention of Maeve, very sad Spencer, mental health struggles, drinking/bar scene, light choking, fighting, slight praise kink

wc: 8.8k 🤗

i’m very proud of this one! i hope you love it!

Every morning when you wake up, you feel a familiar and creeping sort of dread in the pit of your stomach.

Don’t get the wrong idea; you love your job. You love helping people and stopping horrible people from ruining any more lives, but the creeping feeling and desire to get out is always in the corner of your mind. Anyone working in this field would tell you that. There’s no absolute separation between you and the victims and their families. You take all of them home with you, and you just have to learn how to deal with that and not let it eat at you.

It doesn’t help that it’s an isolating job as well. The last time you were in a serious relationship was in college. Now, every date you have ends in disappointment. Not only do you lack interest in most of the men and women, but it couldn’t go anywhere even if you did. 75% of your time is spent in the office, on a jet, or hundreds of miles away from your home.

All of this contributes to the feeling, but the worst part of your job is Dr. Spencer Reid.

He’s secretive and dismissive and just about the most attractive person you’d ever seen. You honestly don’t know what is worse: his constant physical presence in your life or the fact that you can’t stop thinking about him no matter what you do. You’ve tried to get over it; you’ve buried yourself in work, lamented to your friends, and gone out on dates (all with guys that looked vaguely similar), but nothing has worked. All his worst traits grate your nerves and light you up at the same time.

The worst part of it all is that it wasn’t always like this. When you first joined the BAU nearly two years ago, you and Spencer got along well. You were friends, he talked to you about his life, he understood you, and you really severely fell for him. He became your best friend.

Everything changed around six months ago. Spencer started to develop migraines, and as those developed, he started distancing himself from you. He became snippy and closed off, he started hiding things from you, and he stopped talking to you about life outside of Quantico. It was like overnight, you became nothing to him, and you really didn’t understand. Everyone else on the team got the same old Spencer, but you went from his right-hand man to someone he only spoke to when it was necessary.

Maybe he didn’t deserve to be vilified. You know, realistically, he can and should be able to decide who he wants to be close to, but working with a man who unknowingly broke your heart was close to the hardest thing you’d ever done. So, you decided hating him was easier. The real emotions you feel toward him sit somewhere inside you, but they have been covered by manufactured distaste. Addressing the actual feeling would hurt too bad, so you pretend to hate the things you used to love.

Nothing, however, could have prepared you for the last case you worked on: helping Spencer save a girl he met about six months ago, a girl he loved. You tried to stay collected, you said nothing when Spencer assisted when he shouldn’t have, and goddamn, did you do everything in your power to find that girl. Maeve. She was perfect for Spencer, and you saw that immediately. Everyone did. The sight of him sobbing in front of her body is one that will never leave your mind.

Now, two weeks later, no one has heard from Reid. The only indication that he hasn’t abandoned his life altogether is the absence of the gift baskets on his doorstep that Pen leaves daily.

Nearly everyone has been to his apartment, but they are met with a closed door and have yet to receive a response. Everyone but you.

Penelope is the first to bring up your lack of appearance at the end of a long day of paperwork.

“Y/n, please, you just have to try. No one is getting anything from him.”

“I really don’t think my presence would do any good,” you pause for a moment, trying to collect the thoughts running through your head like a freight train. “Me and him haven’t been close in a long time, Pen.”

Before you can continue, she cuts in, “Everyone has tried, Y/n. Hell, I’ve even considered tracking down Gideon, and I really, really do not want to do that.”

She pauses for a moment before looking up at you with a pout on her face, “Please, Y/n, for me. I can’t bear the thought of him in there all alone, just wasting away in grief.”

For someone who claims not to be a profiler, Penelope knew exactly what to say to get you to agree. She’s the only person in your life who you told about how you felt, though you’re sure everyone else (aside from Spencer) knew: you’re shit at keeping secrets.

“Okay, okay, I’ll try.”

She nearly bursts with excitement, “Thank God-“

You cut her off before she can finish, “But I’m telling you, I’m not the person he wants to hear from right now. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Yes, yes. I just want him to know we all want him to be okay.”

Before you can hurry out of the office to follow Pen’s instructions, she stops you and hands you a basket full of assorted snacks and fruits.

“Make sure he eats!”

The walk up to Spencer’s apartment is a hard one to take. The smell of his building hits you as soon as you step into the lobby. From there, everything rushes back at once. Memories of nights you spent watching reruns of Doctor Who or listening to him prattle off about whatever he last read assault you with every step. As you slowly make your way up, you start to question why you agreed to do this in the first place.

You feel a lot toward Reid. More than you should and less than you could. But all that care and feelings that are so close to love aren’t enough to make you forget why you’ve been trying to hate him for so long. He deserted you without an explanation and cut you off without a warning. You spent weeks (three months) crying over him like a love-struck teen. So, as much as you want to hold him and comfort him, you know it’ll hurt you to do so. Penelope sent you, with the whole team’s approval, you’re sure, to try to patch up a broken heart he got loving someone else. There’s a sickness in your gut, but it’s not enough to stop you from rapping your knuckles against his door.

“Spencer? It’s Y/n.”

There’s no response.

“I know you probably don’t want to hear from me right now, but I want to make sure you’re alright. Can you tell me you’re alright?”

Again, nothing.

You know he’s there. Despite your lack of communication, you know Spencer well enough to know that he would never leave his life behind entirely. That being said, your next few attempts at garnering a response are unsuccessful.

You decide to try one final time before just leaving the basket alone on his doorstep and texting Pen it was a bust.

“There’s a lot I don’t know about you now, and I won’t pretend to know what you’re feeling.”

You don’t exactly know where this is headed, but you continue on regardless.

“I know you’re in there, and I know you can hear me, and I know you’re hurting. You shouldn’t- I don’t want you to be alone right now, Spence. You can either unlock your door, or I can pick it, but I’m coming in one way or the other. You know I will.”

You wouldn’t, actually. It’s a last-ditch effort, and it’s met with the same silence you’ve heard on the other side for the past ten minutes. You’re about to turn to head back down the stairs when you hear the very faint sound of a deadbolt turning.

There’s no other sound or movement, and for a moment, you think you might’ve imagined the sound, but you try the handle anyway. It turns, and the door slides open. You take a step in.

“Spencer,” you call out to him.

You don’t see him at first in the mess of his apartment, but when you do, you feel a crack form in your heart.

Beyond the clutter of his entryway, you see his back on the couch. His frame looks smaller than you’ve ever seen it, and you can see his legs curled into his chest. You set down the gift basket by a collection of others on the entry table and walk over to him. Slowly, like you’re trying not to spook a lost dog, you creep in front of him.

His head is down, and his gaze stays trained on his knees.

You reach out your hand and lay it over his. He flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“Spence, I’m so glad you opened the door.”

You didn’t plan out what you would say, but ‘sorry’ feels redundant and useless.

You go on, “I’m here. I- I don’t know what to do or say, and I’m sorry that I don’t. I can get someone else for you. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll do it.”

You wait for him to say he wants Penelope or JJ, but it doesn’t come. Nothing comes. You start to move to get up, figuring you could clean up a bit and try to make him something to eat, then go, but he grasps your arm before you can.

He looks up at you, and his eyes hit you right in the gut. They’re bloodshot and sunken but still beautiful.

“Stay. Please. I just- I need to know I’m not dreaming. I keep thinking I’m dreaming.”

His voice is croaky from disuse and breaks at the end, but it’s so heartbreakingly earnest that you feel your breath catch. You move from your crouch and sit beside him on the couch; your hand is still in his.

You stay like that for a long time. His breathing is shakey and uneven, and every so often, his body shakes with what you can only assume are sobs. You stay pressed to his side the whole time, thumb rubbing back and forth over his hand.

Eventually, you speak again, “I’m gonna get you some food, Spence. You should eat.”

He says nothing back, but he does loosen his grip. You push yourself up from the coach with a promise you’ll be as fast as possible.

His kitchen is nearly empty, and you hope he’s been eating from the baskets. Still, you find enough to make noodles and butter, and you figure the carbs should help his energy some.

You return with the bowl. Spencer hasn’t moved, but his head follows you as you walk back over to him.

“It’s not fine dining.”

He studied you for a second, and you catch a glimpse of the old him in his eye.

“You did the same thing when I was sick on a case a year ago.”

You smile at his recollection.

“It helped you then.”

The rest of the night is spent mostly in silence. Occasionally, you tell him something to try to remind him that you’re there and that you won’t leave as long as he wants you there. Eventually, you get up from the couch again.

“Spencer, it’s too late to still be awake.”

He nods and still says nothing, but he is far more receptive than before. You reach your hand out to him to help him up from the couch, and he takes it.

He leads you to his room at a slow pace. His head stays down as you both take a seat on his bed, hands still interlocked. Being in his bedroom is odd for you. You’ve been to his apartment quite a few times before he disappeared from your life, but you never breached this space. It’s all very him. Almost surprisingly cozy, with books scattered around nearly everywhere there’s space.

You take in the moment for a beat before saying, “I’m gonna head home, Spencer, but please call me if you need anything at all. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

This makes his head snap up, and his eyes lock with yours.

“Please stay.”

That’s all he says, but every part of him is pleading with you. It’s not a good idea, and you know it. You’re the only person he’s seen in days, you aren’t close anymore, and you don’t particularly want to sleep on a couch tonight.

“Spencer, I don’t want to sleep in your living room tonight. I’ll come back.”

He pauses for a moment, “You can stay here with me. I don’t want to be alone.”

Your heart cracks again. There was a time when this was all you wanted. It’s still, deep down, all you want, just not like this. You know he doesn’t really want you there and he’s not himself. But you aren’t strong enough to say no, so you don’t.

He gets you clothes to wear, and you change in his bathroom. You come out and find him in his bed, laying with his back to you. You have no fucking idea what you’re doing, but you get into bed next to him anyways. There are a thousand thoughts racing through your head, but the prevailing one is how badly you want to touch him, to hold him, to make him forget, just for the night. You stay still, though, confined to the edge of the bed and start to count to drown out the noise.

Though, you can’t drown out his voice, saying, “Can- Could you hold me? I think that everything feels better when you touch me.”

Another crack. By the end of this, you know Spencer Reid is going to break your heart all over again.

~

When you wake up the next morning, Spencer is still asleep. You sneak out of his room and call Hotch. When he answers, you tell him Spencer has let you in, and you ask for time off to try to help. You can tell from his voice that he doesn’t think it’s a good idea, but he grants you it anyway.

Much of your day is spent like the night before. You stay next to Spencer, and you cook for him after leaving to pick up clothes and groceries. Then, you get him to shower and wash his hair. He sleeps with his head in your lap, and you feel like a fucking idiot at first, but as long as it’s helping him in some way, you let it happen.

That’s the thing: you don’t really know how to help him. You know he isn’t the type to talk about something until he is entirely ready, so all you can do is add something domestic and bright to his life while he grieves. It’s all you can think about in the moments of silence. Hell, you even read to him to try and get your mind off of it, but it barely helps.

The night is the same. You change in different rooms and slip into his bed at different times. You feel dirty for imagining what it would be like if the circumstances were different: if he wanted you like you have wanted him for the past two years. You hold him against you, and you pray for sign that you should be there.

The sign comes the following morning when Derek calls you.

“Y/n…”

You can hear his teasing tone over the phone.

“Hi, Derek.”

“What are you doing, mamas?”

You sigh, “What do you mean?”

You’re playing coy. You know he’s wondering why you’re at Spencer’s house, picking up the pieces, but you won’t be the one to bring it up.

“Why’d you ask Hotch for the week off, Y/n?”

Another sigh, “You know why, Derek. I just, I want to help him.”

“I know you do, Y/n, I know.”

He pauses for a moment, and you let the moment fill with silence.

“I know you care about him. We all care about him. But who is taking care of you?”

“I am. I can take care of him, and I can take care of me.”

“I know you can, but I don’t want you to get hurt, Y/n. Don’t let this be something that hurts you.”

“It won’t. I- You have to- Fuck, I’ll be fine. He’s not fine. I don’t care about me or any feelings that may get hurt right now. I’ll be fine.”

There’s another bear of silence, “Okay, Y/n. Just know you’re allowed to tap out.”

You try to think of anything else to say, but nothing comes, so you say your goodbyes.

You won’t need to tap out. You can take care of him and be good to him and ignore the other feelings you have. You can be good.

The call does make you think it’s time to push, to try harder, to help him get better. So, you approach him that day before bed, before he tucks himself into your arms and falls into a fretful sleep.

“Spencer?”

He takes a moment and then responds, “Yes?”

“You have to talk about it. I think that you need to talk about it. It doesn’t have to be to me but to someone.”

He’s quiet for a long time, and your breath is caught in your throat, waiting for him to say anything.

“I- I don’t want to,” his voice cracks while he says it.

“Spence, you can’t come back if you don’t. You can’t move forward if you don’t.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

A ringing echos in your ears.

“You don’t mean that. She- she would want you to keep going.”

Wrong thing to say.

“You don’t know anything about what she would want.”

He’s seething now, below the surface, but smoke has started to plume from his ears. Still, you don’t stop.

“Spencer, everyone knows that. No one would want you to put your life on hold.”

He speaks his next line through his teeth, “You don’t know anything, Y/n.”

You’ve never heard him sound so angry.

“Spencer-“

“No, just stop. You don’t know her. You don’t know me half as well as you think you do. You don’t know anything. I don’t even know why you’re here. I don’t want you here. You can't be what I need.”

The ringing in your ears is louder.

“Spencer, please. Just-“

“No!” His voice is raised now, bordering on a yell, “I don’t want you here. I want you out, Y/n.”

This has to be what shell shock feels like. The ringing, the tingle in your limbs, and the heat in your face. You don’t know how you are moving, but you are.

His voice is echoing in your head, or maybe he’s still talking, but you can’t tell either way. The only thing you can focus on is how Spencer sounded like he hates you and that Morgan was right about the hurt.

~

You spend the next day trying desperately to shut down the noise in your head. It doesn’t work. The day after is the same. And the days following that. You ignore calls when they come, you ignore the texts, but you can’t stop looking at your phone for a message from the man who fills your thoughts.

Spencer doesn’t call, obviously, and you have to sit with a pit in your stomach while you beg yourself to just get the fuck over it. Two years of reckoning with the severity of your love, months of watching him live happily without you, and it’s the three days you spent trying to help him feel incrementally better that floor you.

You feel like a dumb teenage girl with so much love and nothing to do with it. On top of everything, you feel selfish. Spencer lost the love of his life forever, and you’re nursing the worst heartbreak of your life because a boy will never want you and never has. Still, you send out prayers for him over and over. You hope you’ll see him in the BAU again, even if his eyes glaze over you. Hell, even if they look at you with hate the way they did two days ago. You just want him to function. You want him to be good and eventually be happy. You try to go to bed with soothing thoughts, but you end up with a mantra of his name.

You wake to your alarm and dress for work before you realize you aren’t actually supposed to go back yet. You never set a date to return. You wanted to be open as long as Spencer needed you. You’re supposed to be with him. You’re supposed to be helping and not tapping out. But you aren’t.

You have no reason not to return to the bullpen, so you do. You walk in and feel eyes on you. You wait for Morgan to call out to you, but he doesn’t, so you follow the feeling.

Your breath catches in your throat; it’s Spencer. He’s sitting at his desk, paperwork spread out, and he doesn’t look away from your gaze; he just holds it. His face is unreadable, and yours is definitely not, so you look away first. You don’t look up again until you reach Hotch’s office. You knock and hear him call out to come in.

“I’m back if that’s okay.”

He looks up at you, and you want to cry. You know he can read you. He has always been the best at it.

“Are you okay with that, Y/l/n?”

You lock eyes with him, “Yes, sir.”

It’s no use; he knows your tells and you aren’t being honest.

“Alright, conference room in five.”

Whatever he sees in your face, he ignores and takes you at your word, but there’s a warning in his tone. He knows when to let things go and when to push. More than that, though, he knows you’d never let something like this affect your work.

~

The first case back is in Maryland, and the one after is in Austin, and the next is in Philadelphia with The Replicator. The job takes you all over the country, and the cases blend together. You don’t speak to Spencer through all of it. You’re never partnered, never work together, you sit on opposite ends of the jet. You don’t even speak at Strauss’ funeral. It’s radio silent, and everyone notices it, but no one brings it up.

In that time, you allow yourself to slip away slightly. You don’t go out with the team, you see Pen at nearly half frequency, and basically, the only time you speak is on cases. It’s stupid and melodramatic, but you call it healing. Derek tries to reason with you, JJ sticks to you a bit more than usual, and Penelope calls you virtually whenever she can, but their efforts are mostly in vain. This is your way of protecting yourself. You feel like you have to isolate in order to improve, and you know, given time, you will come back to yourself.

Penelope’s insistence that you go to her Day of the Dead celebration breaks your distance.

“Y/n, please come. I know you aren’t going out, but you have to. I know you have people to honor, and I need you there.”

You sigh, “Whose going, Pen?”

“The team, which you are a part of, so you must be there.”

“I don’t think I can do that. I promise you I will celebrate with you. I’ll help you set up, just please don’t make me go.”

Penelope pauses, but the glint in her eye keys you into the fact that she is not interested in giving up.

“We miss you, Y/n. Everyone loves you and misses you. You’ve been living this stupid, isolated life, and it’s time for you to come back. You are not this person. I refuse to believe it. You’re coming, and that’s final.”

Maybe you don’t have the energy to argue, or maybe you know she’s right, but you agree to go.

~

The thought of seeing him makes your heart race, and the clock you keep glancing at makes it worse. Just a few more hours before you're trapped in a confined space (Pen’s beautiful home) with a man you haven’t spoken to in weeks.

You busy yourself with preparing. Lights are hung, food is made, and you make a trip to the store while Pen sets up her remembrance table. When everything is said and done, you can’t help but feel this is the most beautiful thing you’ve been a part of in a long time.

The first knock comes at 7:30 exactly, and it’s Hotch and Rossi. They are followed closely by Blake, then Derek and JJ. By 7:00, the atmosphere is light and loving, and you feel a bit of your anxiety let up as the minutes go by without Reid. But, eventually, the knock comes, of course it does, and you move into a corner as Spencer walks in. You feel a shift in energy, though you doubt it’s palpable for anyone else. Rossi is the first to make his way over to you, and his presence comforts you nearly immediately.

“How you doing, kid?” His voice is soft like he’s speaking to a scared rabbit.

“I’m better,” you say, and it’s about as honest as you can get. As much as you’d like to think he knows nothing about what’s gone on, you’re smarter than that. He’s the best profiler on the team, and he’s always known when someone was off with you. Even so, you are better than you were, even if you aren’t quite good, and you know he believes you.

There’s some idle conversation between you before he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not tonight. I don’t know when, but I will. Eventually, I will.”

It’s good enough for him, and you move on easily, which surprises you.

Right before Pen gathers you all to present your photos, he says, “Sometimes we think we’ve seen the whole picture, but we miss a big part. People do things because they don’t want to be hurt, but those things hurt them more. Just, be open.”

You don’t quite understand what he means, but you hope you will.

Penelope presents the first picture, which shows her parents. JJ honors her sister, Derek, his dad, Hotch Haley, and Rossi, Hernandez; then it’s your turn. You place down a photo of your best friend. You hadn’t talked much about her, but you think of her daily. She passed a few years before you joined the BAU.

“I was lucky to have someone that hurt that much to lose.”

That’s all you say, but it’s enough for you, and it would be enough for her.

Spencer is last. He places down a picture of Tesla and a picture of Maeve. Your heart is heavy for everyone.

The night dwindles from there. Hotch and Rossi say their goodbyes, and Rossi gives you a knowing look as he leaves. You just smile. You stay for a few minutes after, but eventually, you move to leave as well.

You make it down Garcia’s porch before you feel a hand grab your arm. You turn, and it’s Spencer’s face you see.

“Would you- Do you think you could come over? Do you think we could talk?”

~

The feeling you have walking up to Spencer's apartment is similar to what you felt the last time. You’re incredibly anxious, but at least you know you’ll be let in this time.

The drive over was silent. Spencer had taken the metro to Penelope’s, so he rode with you. It wasn’t necessarily awkward. There was just an understanding that the car wasn’t the place to begin your conversation.

Now, as Spencer unlocked his door, it’s one of those rare moments you felt starved for words, and you know it’s because you’re scared you’ll say the wrong thing and face the same reaction that you did the last time you were in his home.

He leads you to his living room and motions for you to sit, and you do. The two of you are on opposite ends of his couch while you wait for him to say something.

His first words are airy and light, “Thank you for letting me talk to you.”

You look at him but remain silent, waiting for him to go on. All you can think about is why he wants to speak to you at all. The last time you spoke, he made it incredibly clear he did not want you in his life or around him at all.

Before you can think about it more and let your anger and sadness build, he speaks again, “I feel really stupid right now. I kind of feel stupid whenever I’m around you recently.”

He pauses momentarily before going on, “I’m so, so sorry, Y/n. About the last time we spoke. I’ve been thinking about it pretty constantly for the past few weeks.”

You open your mouth, unsure of what exactly to say, but you can’t get there before he’s off again.

“I’m not sure how to talk to you anymore. I don’t think I’ve known how to for a long time. I just, I need you to know how sorry I am for speaking to you like that.”

He takes a shakey breath but keeps going, “That wasn’t me, and that isn’t how I feel. I’m just unbelievably sorry, Y/n.”

He stops there, and you work to collect your thoughts.

“I know. A part of me knows, at least, that you didn’t mean it. I just wanted to be there for you, and hearing that made me- I just- I think it made me hate myself for wanting to be there.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m unbelievably sorry.”

“You didn’t talk to me for months, Spencer. I just don’t understand. I don’t understand why you let me in in the first place. I thought you hated me.”

He’s silent for a long minute.

“I never hated you, Y/n. I just stopped knowing how to act around you, and then I met Maeve. I fell so deep into it that I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. I- And I just started to feel like you didn’t want me to speak to you, so I didn’t. But, when you came here, after everything, I guess I just felt like you were the only person who would get it. You never, no one on the team ever treated me or talked to me how you did. I just wanted that.”

Tears had begun to well in your eyes now. A part of you gets what he means, at least about letting you in, but the other part is so confused as to why he stopped being comfortable around you.

“I don’t understand, Spencer. Why did you stop knowing how to be around me?”

There’s desperation in your voice that makes you sound like a stranger to yourself. Maybe you’re a stranger to everyone right now.

“I uh, I don’t really know.”

“That's not fair, Spence.”

You’re crying now. Just a little bit, but you can feel the wetness on your cheeks. You can see that you are by the look on his face. He looks broken, and you know it's a reflection of your own image.

You wipe your face, “Thank you for apologizing, Spencer. I just, there are parts of this all that I don’t understand, and if you can't explain them to me, I don’t think I ever will.”

“Y/n-,” he calls out your name like a prayer.

“It’s okay, Spence. You don’t have to say anything more. We talked, and things will go back to how they were eventually.”

“I’m so sorry, Y/n.”

You smile sadly as you get up to leave.

“I am, too, for what it's worth. For whatever I did to make things change in the first place.”

You leave it at that, and it takes everything in you not to look back as you leave his apartment.

~

Things do get easier after that. Not completely. You still love him, and it hurts, but it helps to know he doesn’t hate you. He talks to you some, cordial things, and you do the same. You're sure your teammates still sense something is off, but this works for you. Right now, it works. Getting over him, not loving him anymore, is going to take work, but eventually, you know that you won’t hurt anymore.

Shortly after you and him talked, you started going back out with your friends. Spencer joined periodically, but that was normal. Bars were never really his scene.

Tonight, everyone gathers at your local pub. Your last case was particularly grueling, and you all need a way to blow off some steam. It's fun, and you feel good, even with Spencer sitting across from you. You feel proud of yourself for getting to this point.

JJ and Penelope feed you drinks to try and get you to dance, and you let them. Tonight feels as good of a night as any to ‘get back out there’ as Pen says. So, you do. You dance with them, and you ward off the other cops and agents around you who try to pull you away from your group. You aren’t interested in that. Right now, you're just having an appropriate amount of fun for a woman 15 feet from her boss.

Time goes by quickly, and by the time you get back to the table, you, Derek, Penelope, and JJ remain. He tells you that Hotch, Rossi, Reid, and Alex left a few minutes before. The conversation between you flows for a while, up until the drinks loosen Penelope up enough to bring up what you were pretty sure the team designated a no-no topic.

“Y/n, you have to talk about it.”

You’re still laughing as something Derek said when you reply, “What?”

“You know what. You and Boy-Genius. What on Earth happened? You went from ice-cold to semi-friendly. None of us saw it coming.”

“Babygirl-,” Derek tries to stop her, but you cut him off.

“No, it’s okay. I have to talk about it at some point, and I think right now is the only time I’ll be tipsy enough to let you get it out of me.”

You're still laughing slightly, but the pit that's lived in your stomach for the past few months starts to rear its head.

“After your Day of the Dead party, he asked to talk to me. I went to his place, and he apologized. I don’t really understand what he said or what he meant, but I can’t be sad about him forever.”

Pen perks up a bit at that, “I knew that party would bring good things!”

You giggle a bit at her outburst, but then JJ asks, “What did he say?”

The faces around you all tune in at that. You know they don’t see this as gossip. They care about you both too much to trivialize it like that.

“He just said that he stopped knowing how to act around me, and he didn’t know why, but then he met Maeve, and I guess it didn’t matter so much after that. He was my best friend, and then he was nothing.”

JJ shares a glance with Derek and then speaks, “Oh, Y/n.”

“What?”

After a beat, Derek says, “He didn’t just not know how to act around you.”

Now you're confused, “What do you mean? I talked to him, that's what he said. He didn’t know why. I mean, he knows everything and didn’t know why he didn’t want to be around me anymore. How fucking stupid is that.”

You laugh again, but it does come off as genuine in the slightest.

“Y/n, he probably doesn’t really know why. At least not fully. For someone as smart as he is, the kid can be really stupid.”

“Stop being cryptic.”

Derek sighs but goes on, “Pretty girl, pretty boy was in love with you. Probably still is. He just didn’t think you’d ever feel the same.”

“No. That's not true.”

You look at the others around you, but their faces are serious.

“He loved Maeve. He loves Maeve. That, that doesn’t make any sense.”

It's JJ’s turn to talk now.

“He definitely did love Maeve, no one is denying that, but we all saw how he was around you. His whole relationship with her was safe. He couldn’t be hurt by her rejection every day because he had no way of seeing her. With you, he could.”

Your mind is moving a mile a minute, “Did he tell you guys this?”

Penelope puts her hand over yours and says, “He didn’t have to, love. We all say the way he looked at you and acted around you. The way he talked about you. That boy was head over heels.”

“Guys, I appreciate whatever you’re trying to do, but this isn’t real. Spencer doesn’t- this is not real.”

“Y/n, pause. Think about the way he acted around you, the things he said. Think about how Reid is.”

You hear what Derek said, but it all sounds faint like someone stuffed your ears with cotton while you weren't paying attention. All you can focus on are the different scenes running through your head, the scenes of your life with Spencer in it. How he memorized your coffee order and brought it for you every day, how he never shied away from your touch despite his aversion to contact, how he consistently went out of his way to protect you on the field. At his house after everything, the way he clung to you and wanted to be held. How he said in his own words, “You can't be what I need”; not “you aren’t,” but “you can’t.”

Your whole world is crashing down in this bar, and you can’t do anything to stop it.

“Y/n?”

JJ’s voice snaps you out of your spiral.

“Just go talk to him.”

You nod mutely, and you get up.

~

Everything in the last ten months of your life has led you to the exact spot you were when everything blew up in the first place: Spencer’s door.

This time, you aren't too worried about him not letting you in. If anything, it's the opposite. Him opening this door could open a hundred others, and you don’t quite know if you are ready for any of them. You sit there and sit there and sit there, trying to work up the courage to knock, though you aren’t sure it's there to begin with. Right as you're about to walk away and decide you’ll come back another day, his door swings open.

“Y/n?”

His face is lit up with shock, and you notice his hand that is not on the door is holding his pistol.

“What are you doing here?”

You don’t answer, “Why did you open the door?”

He sets his piece down on the entry table before responding, “I heard footsteps in the hall and saw they stopped here. I was anxious. 50.3% of home invasions happen between 8:00 pm and 7:00 am.” He cuts himself off there, “Y/n, why are you here?”

You didn’t pay attention to anything he said. All you could think about was the way his lips were moving and the way his eyes locked onto yours as he talked.

“Do you love me?”

That is not what you wanted to say.

His lips fall open as he takes in a sharp breath, “What?”

“Or I guess did you love me? Before everything? Because Derek and JJ and Pen, they all said that you loved me, and now I can’t think about anything else, Spencer.”

He doesn’t speak, but you don't really give him a chance to.

“I just, I know I sound crazy right now, but I feel fucking crazy. I keep going over everything in my head, and I have been, for the past year I have been, but now it’s all different. It's all different because they said that you loved me, but you didn’t think I’d feel the same way.”

Here, you do pause, but he still doesn’t say anything, so you go on before you can stop yourself.

“Because if that's true, Spencer, it's just- I did. I do. And if it's not, then please just tell me so I can stop feeling this way.”

He sounds resigned when he says, “Y/n,” and you feel like you know what that means.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I'm doing this. You don’t have to say anything. Actually, please don’t say anything. I don't think I can hear it. Just pretend I never-”

He cuts off your ramble, “Y/n, stop.”

You draw your eyes from the floor, look up at him, and find something in his gaze you have never seen before. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at you, and it takes everything you have not to look away. His hand raises to cup your jaw, and your skin lights on fire. Before you can process what he’s doing, you feel his lips press against yours, and something clicks. At first, his touch is light, like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. But, when he grasps that you won’t, he presses himself to you harder, and all you can think about is how nothing has ever felt so right.

His lips move against yours, and you don’t know how you're managing to reciprocate because it feels like everything in your body has gone fuzzy. The kiss is by no means long, but it feels like it lasts forever, and by the time he pulls away, you’re breathless.

His forehead stays connected to yours, and he whispers, “I do, Y/n, love you. I have.”

You don’t feel the tears on your cheeks until he’s wiping them away.

“Oh, Y/n.”

“Did you know? That you did? Is that why…”

You trail off, hoping he’ll pick up on what you're asking, and he does.

“I didn’t at first, or I didn’t realize I was falling in love with you until it happened. I got scared, so I ran. I just never thought that you could feel the same or that I was hurting you. I didn’t realize that. I just thought I was doing what was best for us. I felt guilty for being in love with my best friend.”

“And Maeve?”

“I loved Maeve. I’ll always have love for her. I was trying to move on, and I thought I could eventually be with her and be around you without it hurting. I wish I would have told you this before.”

“You’re telling me now. That's enough.”

This time, it's you who pushes your lips to meet his. Your arms snake around his neck, and his fall to your waist. You follow when he pulls you into his apartment and closes the door. There is still pain on both sides, but you can feel it dissipating as you cling to each other. You’re just two broken people who have finally found a way to each other.

This kiss is different, hungrier. Neither of you pulls away for longer than a few seconds as you navigate your way from his entryway to his couch. Every touch is desperate like you're searching for something you never knew existed until now. His hands pull you closer and closer until he's pulling you on top of him, and each of your legs rests on opposite sides of his hips.

Your lips break from his for a moment, “What do you want, Spence?”

His reply is instant, “You.”

From there, things move faster. Your hands unbutton his shirt and push it from his shoulders while he undoes your pants. There are moments of awkwardness that come with exploring another for the first time, but it feels good. His hands trace over your hips and push further until you're left on top of him in only your underwear and bra. He takes you in like you are something to be marveled at, and you know your eyes reflect the same adoration.

You raise yourself off of him and work to get him in the same state of undress as you, and when you position yourself on top of him, you feel his length press against your center. The two thin layers of fabric do little to hinder the intensity as you rock into him. He lets out quiet moans at the action as his lips trace down your neck and over your collarbone.

His breath ghosts over you and makes you shiver when he asks, “Can I touch you?”

“Please.”

His hand moves between the two of you, and his fingers find your clit easily, rubbing circles over the fabric of your panties. You pant his name against his lips at the action. You feel like your whole body is lit up, and under any other circumstance, you'd feel embarrassed at how worked up you are, but you can’t seem to care.

After a few moments, he lifts you up and carries you to his bedroom. From there, he positions you below him on the bed, removing your remaining clothes in the same motion. The new setup lets you grip him, and he feels big in your hand. His fingers resume their previous assault before dipping down into you. You cry out at the feeling of him inside you, slowly pushing in and out, finding a spot that makes your legs start to shake. He’s relentless in his pursuit and all you can muster up the energy to say is his name.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/n.”

It's somewhere between a whimper and a whisper, but the sound of his voice causes you to clench around his fingers.

He picks up on this, of course he does, and quickens his pace as he coos at you.

“So pretty like this. I’m so lucky.”

You’re embarrassingly close already, so when he moves his thumb over your clit to rub circles as he fucks into you with his fingers, you come undone almost instantly with a warning and cry of his name. He works you through your orgasm, all while whispering praise in your ear. Once you come down from your high, you start to push his boxers down his legs, but he stops you before you can fully.

“We don’t have to do anything more, Y/n. I liked just making you feel good.”

“I want more. I want to feel you if you want that too.”

“Of course I do. I just don’t want you to regret anything.”

“I couldn’t regret this, Spencer. I love you. I want all of you.”

It's the first time you’ve actually said those three words to him, and it feels so fucking good to say.

“I love you, too. God, so much.”

With that, he positions himself back on top of you, running his fingers over your slit gently before gripping himself.

“Do you have a condom?”

“I might somewhere, but I have an IUD, and I’m clean. I can try to find one if you’re more comfortable with that?”

“IUDs have a failure rate of around .05% and are largely considered the most effective form of birth control, so uh, as long as you're okay with it, I am.”

You smile to yourself at his statistic but nod, “I want to feel you, Spencer.”

He returns your smile before rubbing his length over your entrance a few times and slowly pushing himself into you just slightly. He teases you, or maybe himself, for a moment before fully entering you. You push your hips up to meet his, and feeling him in his entirety makes your jaw fall open. He’s big, and you feel unbelievably full.

He waits a moment for you to adjust before he starts to develop a rhythm. His hands are everywhere, but his eyes are focused solely on your face like he doesn’t want to miss a moment of your reaction to him inside of you. To be fair, you are probably putting on a good show. Every movement he makes hits you in exactly the right spot, and you don’t think you could be louder if you tried. You can feel the leg he’s not holding up against his shoulder shake against the bed. Your first orgasm has made way for your second to be incredibly close.

“Spencer, please.”

You’re crying out, desperate for a little more to push you over the edge.

“What do you need, baby?” His voice is tight like he’s not far himself, and it sounds better than anything you’ve ever heard.

“Harder. Please, harder.”

He takes your direction immediately, rubbing circles on your clit with one hand while he thrusts into you with a bruising force. He’s fucking you like he wants you to remember the feeling long after he stops, and you know that you will. Everything about it is overwhelming: his smell, his pace, his eyes. You are covered in him, and he is covered in you.

After a moment, the hand he had on your stomach trails up to grasp lightly at your throat, and you fall into feeling. You can’t warn him that you're about to come before you do. The feeling is white hot. Bigger than your first, and the fact that you're coming on him sends you into overdrive. You can feel his hips falter for a moment, but you're lost in a daze, crying out his name.

He pumps into you a few more times before he follows suit. He pulls out, and you feel stripes of his come paint your cunt and lower stomach as he finishes with a moan of your name.

He falls next to you on the bed, and it takes you both a few moments to collect yourselves and catch your breath.

Once you do, the only thing you can think to say is, “I love you.”

It feels like those are the only words circling around in your head at the moment. Some mixture of his name and that declaration. While you know you each said it before, that your profession was the exigence of the sex you just had, it feels uniquely vulnerable to say now. It’s like the moment you just had together could have changed things or made him realize that he doesn’t actually love you after all.

That shoe doesn’t drop, though. Instead, you hear the three words echoed back to you by a man who, 6 hours ago, you thought would never, ever say them.

You turn to face him, and the love on his face feels like it could knock you out. He’s looking at you and smiling in a way you haven't seen in a long time.

“Will you let me clean you up?”

You know that part of the reason he’s asking has something to do with the likelihood of bacteria growth or something like that, but you think it's mainly that he wants to take care of you. Him wetting a rag and running it over you feels intimate in a different way, in an excruciatingly gentle way. Personal in a way that makes you feel like nothing between you could ever be wrong again, and maybe that's naive to think, but you feel hopeful regardless.

Once he finishes, he takes his space back next to you in the bed. This time, he pulls you into his arms, and it's different than it was all those months ago. This time, you know that he won’t push you away and that you won't hurt yourself by being next to him. This time, you just tuck yourself into him, and you let him whisper sweet nothings into your ear as you begin to drift off. This time, it feels like peace.

~

The following day, you wake up to Spencer still next to you, looking incredibly soft in the early morning light. You search for a moment to find your phone in the piles of clothes and are greeted with a text from Pen.

How did it go????

You smile before turning your phone off and climbing back into bed next to the man you love. It couldn’t have gone better.

-

all done! yay!!!

i hope you guys love it!! i’m not 100% happy with the ending but i’ve been writing this for so long and just needed to be done.

this is my first time writing angst on here and my longest fic, so PLEASE tell me what you think! all (nice) feedback is welcome and i love to hear from you guys!! :)

[bicherrim]

Why did no one tell me that Wednesday Addams is an aroace icon???

[tsuutarr]

Yandere!Hero (Chosen One) x Saint!Reader

Being the Hero – the Chosen One – means that the world’s fate is on Elias’ shoulders. He’s long since forgotten how to live for himself, his life belonging to everyone but him. He’s merely a puppet that’s being strung along by the world for the sole purpose of saving it.

At first, he was honored to be chosen as the Hero – it’s a privilege most don’t get. But everyone expects too much – everything – from him. His life is carefully shaped into what others want of him, people only looking at his role and not him as a person.

Now, he fights and saves people due to duty, not desire. There is no sparkle of pride when he helps villagers. Instead, all that is left is another thing checked off of his mental checklist. Now, he just wants to rest. He just wants things to be over.

So that’s why he despised the idea that some Saint from the Church would be his “helper.” Traveling with someone else is only going to slow him down. Not to mention the fact that he doubts the Saint has ever seen bloodshed and disease like he has.

But when he actually meets and travels with you, the Saint, he realizes that you’re actually not that bad. You’re actually kind of nice. He’d expected you to turn your nose at the commoner population, refusing to heal them, but you actively seek them out to help. You’re kind and gentle, but headstrong. Even when you’re visibly exhausted, you do your best to keep going. 

It’s… kind of impressive, actually. He had misjudged you, perhaps.

Even now, you’re helping the knights that were attacked by bandits (which Elias had vanquished), healing not only their bodies but their souls, too. He can’t help but look at you, a raw beacon of kindness that he hasn’t seen before in his travels. 

Once you’re done healing the knights, you look up at him, before a gasp escapes your lips. “Elias!”

He blinks at you, curiously.

“You’re bleeding!”

“Ah.” Elias looks down at his hand, blood dripping down his fingers. He had instinctively grabbed a knife by the blade earlier because he wouldn’t have been able to dodge it in time. “This is nothing.”

“Oh, shush!” you say, approaching him. You push him towards a tree stump, forcing him to sit, which he allows. Carefully, you take his hand in yours, frown deep set on your mouth. Your hand is so warm that it makes his heart burn.

“You’re tired,” he states, bluntly. He doesn’t tug his hand out of yours. “You’ve healed too many people.”

“I can–”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Rest for now, Saint. I am fine.” And he’s right – he’s the Hero, after all. His wounds heal much faster and better than a normal human being. He doesn’t necessarily need your healing.

“Still,” you murmur, looking up at him. “Can I at least clean and bandage it?”

It’s pointless, really, but Elias says, “Do what you want.”

So you do. You disinfect and clean his wound, before carefully wrapping his hand with bandages. For some reason, his heart squeezes painfully as he watches you tend to him so gently. He doesn’t remember if anyone’s ever treated him this kindly.

“There.” You look proud of yourself. It’s kind of cute.

“You didn’t have to,” he mutters without really thinking about it.

You give him a smile that makes his brain stop. “I wanted to. I want to support you.”

For some reason, your words almost make him want to cry. He’s not sure why – he’s seen so much death and destruction to the point that his emotions have become numb. Yet, you bring flickers of his feelings back to him – happiness, sadness, anger, love. 

You make him feel like he has an existence beyond just being the Hero. You make him feel human.

So, how can he let you go? He can’t – and he’ll do everything he can to make you his. Even if it means he has to destroy the world.