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[artpassion3]

This imposing painting, measuring 268 cm × 197 cm (106 in × 78 in), completed by Caravaggio in Syracuse in 1609, was intended for the Oratory of Saint Lawrence in Palermo, where he remained until the night of October 17-18, 1969, when the crudely cut canvas was stolen.

Unlike nativity scenes, which adhere to several codes, Caravaggio delivers a vision close to the people, without embellishment, with the infant Jesus lying on the ground on a piece of poor straw, naked in his linen.

Mary, dressed like a peasant in a red camisole, does not guard him, nor does Joseph, his back turned, conversing with a shepherd.

In the entire painting, it is his bare legs that attract the eye. Muscular legs, broad shoulders, and despite his white hair, this is not the old man Caravagio depicts.

These three figures, who form the center of the painting with the ox, are indeed the main subject, not Saint Lawrence on the left, the dedicatee of the chapel in Palermo,

nor Saint Francis on the right, who are depicted in the pictorial context of the canvas to satisfy the worship reserved for them by the faithful of the oratory.

The work, brutally torn from its frame after 360 years in the oratory, has still not been found, but thanks to technology, a very faithful copy was made and installed in November 2015.

Copy of Caravaggio's Nativity installed in the Oratory of San Lorenzo in Palermo

an enlargement of a photograph taken by Enzo Brai in 1968 -

Caravaggio

[degenerateshinji]

remembered to do this finally

[piromina]

OVERANALYSIS OF THE BURNING SPICE UPDATE TRAILER BECAUSE YOU KNOW I HAVE TO

we open up like this. pretty ominous words ... and you wonder which one is the demon and which is the god. burning spice and golden cheese seem to be very similar, possibly the most parallels that one could draw from the ancients and their respective beasts.

And then we get this shot. Obviously it's showing the soul jam, but there are also some things behind it. One resembles a snake ... APOPHIS ANYONE? this has THE most Egyptian mythology symbolism ever. if golden cheese represents ra, which makes one hundred percent sense considering her kingdom and wealth and radiance and all that, and the fact that she resembles a falcon, then the snake on this wall HAS to represent apophis. it can't not. heck, in some versions of the story apophis was A FORMER SUN GOD. like crk def knows what they're doing.

there's also this tiger character ... nutmeg tiger I'm pretty sure? something like that. they seem to be under the influence of burning spice, as well as all the creatures around them. they seem to be at a higher "position" than all these other guys, though. maybe a willing host?

and there is this. this is really interesting. the fact that Golden Cheese is the one to say this is very intriguing. as far as we knew, the ancients had no knowledge that the beasts even existed until pure vanilla's trip. he wrote the letter to dark cacao, and it was all "you won't believe this - but the place called BEAST-yeast has BEASTS in it!!!" and dark cacao was equally surprised. they didn't know. they thought they were the first ever wielders of the soul jam. but golden cheese ... seems to know a bit more than she lets on to the rest of the group. and a bit more than us. what the heck is the spice swarm?

also, the return (and release) of smoked cheese!! man I missed this guy. he seems to be working with golden cheese in this shot, but then what was his little deal at the end of the first teaser about? it does make sense, though, that he would try to at least be against burning spice - his entire goal is to get the soul jam because he thinks the current wielders aren't worthy - but to me it seems like he might have his own third side in this battle. he'll probably convince both sides he's working with them, knowing this dude. he wants the power of abundance and destruction, a second half he knew nothing about, the ability to make a change in the kingdoms and the lives of everyone in them.

and these two images are probably the most interesting of them all. they seem to be part of some sort of ancient papyrus or prophecy or something like that. golden cheese is yelling about the "great destroyer." could it be possible he was some sort of legend in their kingdom, a prophecy just waiting to unfold? could golden cheese have known about this threat since the beginning? could the beasts' corruption have been inevitable from the start, written in the stars ... and could the witches have known about it?

[holyshit]

.

[volivolition]

prepping for my Bonus Days. i love tutorial agent lmao

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 8th. tom — somno / free use kink.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: tom riddle is a god at many things. you’ve never felt more alive than when you’ve reduced him to something lesser.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, free use, sleeping kink, a lot of reverence for more biblical tom riddle that i genuinely need to choke me unconscious, PIV, fingering, multiorgasm, overstim, slight bondage, dubcon but not really i mean this fic speaks for itself. tom is kinda soft here???? what happened to me??

Tom Riddle, you'd determined, was obsessive before he was anything else. You saw it long before you knew him—intimately, at least—his compulsions, the meticulous way in which he carved out his time, handpicking what fit his ambitions best before pouring himself into them until he was empty.

Tom never moved with half-measures, a man that brilliant does nothing halfhearted.

You didn't expect to become his fixation—didn't know what it meant to be seen by someone who never stopped searching—never stopped dissecting—until the moment when his eyes lingered just a second too long and his hands followed suit—the moment he taught you the meaning in the only way he knew how.

Benevolently.

Tom Riddles need is tempered but there's always something burning underneath, something that flickers to life when his breath catches against your neck—when his fingers trace delicate lines along your skin—something that feels a lot like a thank you. The magical world gave him power—dominion—but in you, he found control. The kind you give freely, without even knowing it, the kind that he takes with the same reverence in his hands he applies to everything he touches.

There’s always been a mutal give and take between you—one formed without words and you solemnize this unspoken vow because he leaves you no other choice.

And it's not by force, not by demand, but by the sheer intensity of his regard, that sacred hunger in the way he looks at you, like you were made for this. For him. To be unmade, piece by piece, worshipped in the ruins of what you once were and stitched back together by his grace alone. When he kneels at your feet after a day that's worn him thin, his eyes sharp with exhaustion— when he spreads you open as though you're a book of scripture, when his hands steady you and his mouth finds its way between your thighs—there's nothing left for you to do but hold onto him. Your fingers in his hair, letting him take—letting him consume you in ways only he can.

He is both salvation and sin. Saviour and ruin. You're not sure how it's possible but he ensures you believe it.

And it started with secret moments—stolen glances, brushes of fingers, impromptu study sessions. But it grew into something more, and then something more still, until one day he's slipping into your flat as though it's his own, finding you before you even realize he's there.

You'll be cooking dinner and without a word, he'll flick off the stove with a twitch of his fingers—a breath of magic—his appetite insatiable but not for any caloric substance. You pretend, for his sake, to be surprised by his power, the way he moves without moving, but he knows better now—knows that nothing he does surprises you anymore, not after the way he loosens the strings of your corset with just a blink, how his teeth scrape your ear in a smile as he works a spell between your thighs. Not after he waits until you're thoroughly ruined by his magic—malleable just the way he likes you before he's merciful, allowing you the honour of his touch—allowing himself the honour of breaking you further.

There's no shock left in it because you've already accepted that whatever you think he's capable of—there's more.

There will always be more with Tom—a knowledge that is a sweet, endless ache. He is reasoning made lucid. You could never define all that he is capable of.

And foolishly you thought after all these years you'd have come to understand him, but Tom Riddle is not easily deciphered—he's a mystery even to himself, a disposition of contradictions. He doesn't need to be understood; he only needs to feel as if he is, to which you do your best. But when you're finally asleep after a long day and feel the bed dipping behind you in the quiet hours—a large, rough hand grazing timidly up your thigh, comprehension of Tom Riddle becomes even more of a distant accomplishment.

There is no logic in him when it comes to you, just instinct. No explanations, just need.

Tom has always had his compulsions, but you are his favourite fixation, and so you give. There's hunger, and there's devotion. There's desire, and then there's worship. You let him choose which ones he wants from you.

On this night you stir, half-conscious yet not quite aware of what's happening as his fingers move slowly, finding the heat between your legs and spreading you gently. There's never any urgency in his movements, though the fervour is palpable—a kind of feverish desperation thrumming beneath the surface, a pulse you can feel in his flesh, in the way his breath catches as if this is the only way he knows how to breathe.

Perhaps the only certainty about Tom is that you know he wouldn't be here if it weren't a necessity.

And he does this often, though sometimes it's more—the plush of his lips, the slick slide of his tongue—but this time, he chooses to wake you to the steady push of his fingers inside you, two of them stretching you, deliberate in their rhythm, curling deep, coaxing you open. It's his mercy, his crafted version of tenderness—you know he could easily just cast a lubing charm and press right in—but he doesn’t. He paces, he savours.

It’s a patience he continually allows himself which you know he doesn't have to give.

And some nights, when you wake to his touch—he whispers for you to sleep, to let him have you quietly, other times he'll make it clear that's the last thing he wants.

Tonight—

You shift against him, instinct guiding your body, but he hushes you, gentle, soft—a tut of warning, a shushing breath against your ear. You don't know how long he's been inside you, how long his need has burned quietly beside you, but by the time you realize, it's the wet sounds, obscene, that draw you from the haze of sleep, drowning out the sharpness of his breath. You're half-gone, face pressed into the pillow, drooling— and your lips part on a moan that never fully forms.

When your hand reaches instinctively for his wrist, his growl curls low in your ear—

"Sleep," if the command was a weapon it'd be a feather—he casts a binding spell on your wrists, drawing them above your head. "I've got you."

You swallow another moan, throat dry, choking on air as you fight to rip free from whatever remnants of slumber you're clinging to. His fingers are slow, pumping in and out of you, dragging you deeper into his need—and you're shaking in a way that is as involuntary as it is habitual. You know from experience just how much he loves this— the way he reduces you to fragments, the way he breaks you apart until there's nothing left but the shattered pieces of your pleasure—the mess he can make of you in minutes, even absentmindedly.

He slips an arm under your head, pulling you closer, impossibly close. The room is dark, and though you can't see him, you imagine his face—the hunger in his eyes as his skin sticks to yours, the hard evidence of his need against your ass.

"T-Tom—" your voice stumbles, a choked whisper of his name. His hand curls over your mouth, silencing you.

"Quiet," he mutters. "It's just a dream."

His breath ghosts over your neck, and your back arches in response. Wherever he was earlier, he came back starving, and this is part of it—sometimes he wants you silent, sometimes he wants you loud. Tonight, he wants you like this.

"Stay still," he murmurs again, and you shudder, your climax pulled from the edges of sleep by the slow drag of his fingers inside you. "Just a dream..."

A dream, he says—somewhere inside you, buried under a fog of grog you know it isn't, and he knows you know, he's not trying to trick you but it's all part of the game—coaxing—the way he devours you a little more each time, not just physically but mentally too.

With your lips muffled by his hand and his fingers buried deep, you do what you always do—you let him.

"T-Tom—" you whimper through the cracks in his digits. Your body is soft, boneless, melting into his touch, aching for more. "Please—"

As much as he wants you quiet he wants his name broken in your mouth all the same. He rewards you with a bitten-off moan, a crack in his control, a slight hitch in his breath—you clench around his fingers and his palm tightens over your mouth just a little too hard before he realizes and eases up.

You did say Tom's need was tempered—but sometimes, there are exceptions.

"I said quiet." His hips rut against your ass, fingers slow dragging at your walls, scissoring in your slick. "Let me give you this."

You push back into him, desperate, needy. "But—"

"Take it." His fingers on your mouth slide past your lips and over your tongue, reaching toward the back of your throat. Tears spring to your eyes as you gag, the sound smothered by the moan you make as a spell, swirling and tightening, pulses against your clit. "With the way I'm going to fuck you, you need this...you'll thank me later for it..."

Tom doesn't waste words. His tone may be soft but it's also sharp, which tells you everything you need to know—that he's had a wretched day and you're the only thing that can make it better. That he's going to fuck out his frustrations on you.

You moan around his fingers at the thought.

"You'll want to be nice and stretched for me, won't you?" A statement, not a question. "You don't want it to hurt. You know I don't want to hurt you."

Though he'll deny it, he's not as emotionless or as lacking in empathy as he'd like to believe. It's one of the many things you've come to know about him—or should you say, one of the many things you've struggled to understand about him—but the way he says it, like he's reminding himself not to be cruel—it's all very Tom Riddle.

"I don't want to hurt you.." he repeats in a murmur, as if he's trying to convince himself. You can't speak, though you're not sure you could find the words even if you could; the only indication you give him that you understand—that you hear him—is the quiet whimper that slips past his fingers. "Just need you."

The spell on your clit is as overwhelming as the drag of his fingers against your walls and it's only moments until you're cumming hard around him and he's groaning hard in return—you know his eyes are closed and you know he's inhaling every single sound you make as though he could house them in his lungs. The darkness clings to you like a second skin but Tom clings to you worse—not relenting even as you're twitching and whimpering with aftershocks.

"There we go." You're squirming and Tom fucking loves it. "Good girl."

Overstimulation is charging in—you have no where to run from it. You bite down on his digits in your mouth and he punishes you by intensifying the spell on your clit. "T-Tom—Tom—"

All he offers is a shush. His fingers curl deep.

"I need...I need you...need this.." he's mumbling, mantra-like, almost like a prayer and perhaps that's the closest he's come to one. You can count on one hand the amount of times you've heard him say it but you know there's no one else he'd be saying it to—no one else he'd want to. "You know, I thought of this all day...having you, like this..."

You sob around his fingers in your mouth as he rips another climax from you—you think you're seeing stars and you know if you are, they were hung there by him.

"Couldn't focus.." his teeth find your jaw, just under your ear, biting just a little harder than he usually does. "No matter what I did, I just kept thinking of this...of you...of you like this for me.."

Tom Riddle is a greedy man—in all ways—but he's not only greedy in the way he takes from you, he's greedy in the way he gives to you too, and though he would never admit it—he'd rather die first—this moment feels as close to worship as he'll ever come.

As you said, there's reverence in everything he fucking touches—you know you're lucky you get to experience it.

"You have this effect." He swallows hard, you feel it against your shoulder. "You have this effect on me...I—I can't stop wanting you-“

—and he's just a man, after all. No matter how well versed in dark spells and manipulation, no matter how cold and calculating he's able to be, beneath it all he's so very mortal. He tells you he was never made for love but when he buries his face in your neck and talks this talk it sure feels like maybe he was.

And all it does is make you want him that much more—knowing that you do this to him—you make him weak. You make him want and need and yearn.

"I don't even know what you've done to me," his voice is destroyed—his thoughts cut off by the evidence of your desperation for him, the lewd sounds coming from your pussy as you suck on the fingers in your mouth. "Fuck, you're so wet."

You groan, helpless and needy as a whore. Tom digs his teeth into your shoulder. It's all too much. There are many ways to come apart and this is Tom's only true undoing—in the aftermath of the destruction he causes, and you are—his collateral.

"Fuck—oh, fuck—" you're garbling, the words don't sound like words. "T-Tom—"

You're not sure how long you've been awake or how many times you've cum—how much oxygen you've inhaled since this all started but the one certainty is that you know Tom has very little patience left—if any.

"Fuck." He shifts, grinding against you. "Can you take me? Can you take me right now?"

All you can do is nod—your eagerness evident in the pace of it—drool dribbling down your chin and instantly the spell fades from your clit, his fingers pull out of your cunt and he's lifting your thigh up toward your head, fingers still hooked in your mouth. There's a moment of movement—trousers and boxers pulled down and then he's there—thick and heavy and warm between your thighs. You tense.

You'll never get used to the size of him. His ego made flesh. Though perhaps the greatest pleasure is in knowing he'll never get used to you, either.

"Gonna—gonna fuck you." He mutters against your neck as he glides along your slit—you're soaked, slick coating your thighs and the sheets and him but it never matters much because it always stings when he takes you. Especially like this. "It won't be soft."

You moan and he finally pulls his fingers free from your mouth, dragging them down to your throat, nails against your skin that feel more like claws because for all the human Tom Riddle is he's just as much animal.

He's never known soft—only with you—but you wouldn't have him if not for all his jagged lines and sharp edges. You let him take.

"Please, Tom-" words fail you, they always do when he's like this. "Please, gods—fuck me-"

Tom growls and it vibrates up your spine. You rarely curse when you can help it—so when you do, when you can't do anything to stop the pathetic vulgarities—he likes it too goddamn much and you know he's going to give you what you want because you give him what he needs.

A mutual give and take, as all the best things are.

"No god could compare to me." He doesn't say it with arrogance, just with certainty, like a letter he's written a thousand times. Then, he's flipping you onto your stomach, wrists still bound above your head as he lines up and presses inside you—all at once, deep and full and breathtaking. "Oh, yes—"

You cry out but it's muffled by the pillow, your cunt trying hard to adjust to the stretch—Tom is never cruel, but he is brutal, and perhaps the two get confused. There is a difference, though you know he would prefer to remain ambivalent on his own harshness, it’s the only way he's managed to survive this long—but here, with you, he thinks he can allow for a bit of mercy.

And he gives it, in his own way, only because you gave it first. It's as close as he'll come to offering himself without asking anything in return. To you, it's still a pretty close second.

"I'm going to make you feel this," he murmurs, lips against your shoulder, teeth against skin and if you had any tears left, this would be when they fell. "You'll think of this all day tomorrow. You'll think of me all day tomorrow."

He pauses inside you—he's taking it slow and the implications of that fact are far out of reach right now.

"I'll think of you anyway, Tom," you grit through your teeth, voice cracking on his name as he pulls out—only halfway—ensuring you feel that emptiness before he presses back in. "I'm—ohh—a-always thinking of you."

He makes a sound, a broken sort of sound, the same one you've heard him make only a handful of times—a raw, vulnerable, almost pathetic sound and all it does is make you want him that much more. He's still moving too slow, too methodically, drawing pleasure out from deep under your skin.

You clench around him because you know he doesn't want you to—he warns you against it with a cervix-piercing thrust.

"You're always thinking of me." His hand snakes around your throat, his lips to your ear—"and are you proud of that?"

You know that's a loaded question, the answer to which he doesn't truly care to know. But it's one you'll answer truthfully, regardless—because you know it'll affect him either way.

You nod, just once—and the grip on your neck tightens, cutting off an almost sob. His hips piston faster now, as though you've chipped off another piece of his control.

"Proud enough, then," he growls, his pace unforgiving, and that's enough to tear another broken sound from you—from the both of you. His fingers twist painfully around your throat, digging into your skin like a man possessed, and you know that means he's done holding back. His mouth is next to your ear, you can feel his smirk. "M'sorry—I'm—sorry—"

He says he's sorry but you know he's not. Not with the way he's groaning into your ear, not with the way he's driving his cock fast and deep. He is a manmade monster and a self-made god trapped inside a mortal man who needs so much to feel human. He knows to be nothing but intense. It's a wonder how the three can exist in him all at once.

"T-tom-" your voice fractures around his name, the only word you know now. "F-fuck—s'deep—ohh-"

His teeth sink into your neck as he cranks your head back with a pull of your hair, bared teeth on preyish flesh and you hardly have time to worry how deep he might devour because you feel his magic on your clit and you see those stars again—distant yet creeping closer, drawn down to your orbit by his power alone.

"M'sorry—" he mutters again, as though he was saying it to your cervix. "Fuck—"

You scream out again as the spell on your clit swirls faster—the sensation unfathomable each and every time—he's fucking you so hard you're burning underneath him and though the pleasure is as white hot as the flames that now cover every inch of you, you don't fear burning as much as you fear it's passing.

He's a fire in your veins, in your blood, and if he stops now you'll die of the cold.

"So good for me," he says, as soft as he can muster for being so lustdrunk— "so—perfect. You're perfect."

Perfect. You whinge and squeeze your eyes shut—choking on your breath. The words are more painful than his thrusts because time and time again you’ve failed to decipher their meaning—you know he doesn't believe in perfection, the concept too weak and foolish for his sake—but he's said it before, always in times like this—you are perfect.

You're perfect under his hands. You're perfect when you shatter apart for him, in the darkness, under the light of those stars he dragged down for you. 

"Ohh—fuck—Tom—" another climax wracks you, splitting you at the seams. "I'm—I'm—"

It feels like an earthquake and you're the epicenter, all the power and destruction Tom thrusts into you radiating from within you outward. His hand moves from your throat to your jaw, tilting your face back so he can kiss you, messily, open-mouthed and with teeth. But it's still a kiss. Something he rarely does.

"Yeah, yeah. Good—" he grunts into your mouth. "Mmfff—fuck—tight—“

A second later, he's cumming, a broken string of profanity tumbling from his chest into your mouth, release spilling deep inside you, warm and thick and he holds you tighter for it as you whimper and throb around him. Tom has always had his reservations. Always had his long list of fixations—and like you said, he pours himself empty into the ones he's chosen. It's in moments like these where you feel it more than ever—as his hips slow and his cock stops twitching inside you—the way that he's made you part of that list.

And when he's done moving through you—when he's done taking what he needs—he pulls away, yet he's still there. Freeing your wrists and rubbing them gently, curling you against him as you both descend.

"Thank you." He murmurs, face in your hair.

You tell him he doesn't need to thank you but you know it makes no difference. After all, he's still a man. A man with something to prove, even under a sky full of stars he dragged down for you.

Tom is a god at many things. You've never felt more alive than when you've reduced him to something lesser.

[autolenaphilia]

I talked about the problem of Windows system requirements being too damn high before, and how the windows 10 to 11 jump is especially bad. Like the end of Windows 10 is coming october 2025, and it will be a massive problem. And this article gives us some concrete numbers for how many computers that can't update from win10 to 11.

And it's 240 million. damn. “If these were all folded laptops, stacked one on top of another, they would make a pile 600 km taller than the moon.” the tech analysis company quoted in the article explains.

So many functioning computers that will be wasted. And it's all because people don't wanna switch to a Linux distro with sane system requirements and instead buy a new computer.

Like if you own one of these 240 million windows 10 computers, Just be an environmentally responsible non-wasteful person and switch that computer to Linux instead of just scrapping it because Microsoft says it's not good enough.

Edit: as have been pointed out multiple times in the replies. It's really not "all because people don't wanna switch to a linux distro." It's really Microsoft's fault for this form of planned obsolescence.

My original post was lacking in perspective at best. And of course, people who use computers for work are often made reliant on Windows by their job and employers and can't switch. Or lack time, resources, and information to make the switch. Which is also due to systemic issues, such as lack of education, and the culture of obfuscation about tech that tech companies create.

Edit 2: Making this unrebloggable: now I really know what reddit mods mean when they say "the discussion has run its course" Like there is absolutely no conversation anymore, just repeating of points already made and responded to, just endless repetition

To quote @mlembug

Source

If you can spend 5-10 minutes writing a reblog clowning on somebody, but you can't:

spend 10s to do a basic courtesy of checking the appropriate pronoun of the person involved

spend 30s checking the reblogs of a post to see if someone also decided to clown on the same person

spend 10s to click on OP's post to see if it was edited in the meantime (and guess what: the edits in OP's post does indeed blame Microsoft for planned obsolescence, which you decided to blame her for not doing in one of your reblogs)

THEN YOU SHOULD NOT BE MAKING A REBLOG. EVER.

[heritageposts]

Since the beginning of the genocide in Gaza in October, Israeli soldiers have been posting what can only be described as snuff videos on social media platforms. In the videos, soldiers can be seen – often gleefully – committing war crimes against Palestinians. In one video, an Israeli soldier dressed in a dinosaur costume loads artillery shells into a tank and dances as the shells are fired in the direction of Gaza. In another video, a soldier is filmed dedicating an explosion to his two-year-old daughter for her birthday. Seconds later, a Palestinian residential building behind him is blown up. Other videos show Israeli soldiers setting alight Palestinian food supplies during a starvation campaign and mocking stripped, rounded-up and blindfolded Palestinian civilians. [...] And there is another aspect of Israeli impunity that is often overlooked: Israeli soldiers routinely admit to horrific crimes they commit against the Palestinians to clear their conscience and absolve themselves of personal responsibility but never face any accountability. Israelis themselves describe the practice as “yorim ve bochim”, which translates from Hebrew as “shooting and crying”. A favourite pastime of the Zionist left, it takes centre stage in dozens of Israeli films and documentaries. Take the widely celebrated film Tantura, named after a Palestinian fishing village that was subjected to a massacre in 1948. In this film, several Israeli veterans talk with ease about the fact that they killed hundreds of Palestinian civilians. Others openly admit to participating in ethnic cleansing, yet all are portrayed as complicated individuals who are traumatised by the trauma they inflicted on Palestinians. “Yorim ve bochim” is also epitomised in the work of the Israeli NGO Breaking the Silence. A darling of the liberal West, the organisation of Israeli army veterans tries to expose the reality of the “Occupied Territories” by providing a space to Israeli soldiers to confidentially recount their experiences in the Israeli army and at times admit to taking part in systematic abuse and destruction. The testimonies on its website make for incredibly difficult reading, particularly in this moment when we are seeing what is happening in Gaza. And yet nowhere does this organisation call for accountability or address what justice might look like for the Palestinians whom the soldiers they work with have systematically abused over decades. The reality is that over the last seven and a half decades, there has been complete impunity for brutalising and slaughtering Palestinians. The ongoing genocide in Gaza and the way in which it is being so brazenly shared on social media by the perpetrators is a manifestation of that impunity. The only way to make sure that it stops and never happens again is to hold not only those who have taken part in the genocide accountable but also those who are complicit.

. . . continues on al jazeera (24 Jan, 2024)

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 8: October 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes:��

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families...I think that's it?

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Max wasn’t someone who forgot how to be an adult.

He was a World Champion. He kept a strict training regimen, remembered which hand luggage worked best for long-haul flights, and could navigate a grid penalty strategy like it was second nature. He wasn’t helpless—not at the track, not at home.

But still, there was something quietly astonishing about how easy his life had become since Isabelle moved in.

It started off small.

After the first race weekend they spent apart post-move, he came home expecting the usual chaos—half-unpacked suitcase, laundry to do, a fridge with maybe one sad yogurt and some questionable cheese.

Instead?

His suitcase was already unpacked. Laundry sorted and in the wash. There was a folded stack of clean gym clothes on the bed, and a small sticky note on the bathroom mirror in Isabelle’s tidy handwriting:

Welcome home. You did great. There’s soup in the fridge and the cats missed you.

He’d blinked at it for a solid minute before laughing quietly and thinking, Huh. That’s new.

But it didn’t stop there. 

By the third race weekend, it had become a rhythm. The fridge was magically stocked with all the foods he craved after long travel days—cut mango, chocolate granola, oat milk, the fancy yogurt he’d once mentioned liking. 

His sim racing gear? Charged and ready before he even thought to use it. A small corner of the closet had somehow become better organized than Red Bull’s race strategy board.

She started refilling his supplements without saying a word. She pre-scheduled his haircuts, left Post-Its on the mirror when he needed to sign something for the team, and quietly placed noise-canceling earplugs in his carry-on.

And she worked. Isabelle had a full-time job. Not a desk job where she could casually scroll through her phone or delegate her way through the day—she was an architect, doing interiors, managing clients, deadlines, contractors. Max had seen her calendar. It looked like someone had lost a game of Tetris.

And somehow—somehow—she still remembered to order new toothpaste before they ran out. Or add his vitamins to the grocery list. Or restock the snack drawer in his sim room without ever saying a word.

It wasn’t flashy. She didn’t make announcements about it. She just did it, quietly and efficiently, like she always had.

It wasn’t until Max found himself halfway through folding his laundry before realizing he hadn’t had to fold laundry in over a month that the realization hit him fully:

Isabelle had spent most of her life running in the background of other people’s chaos.

He’d seen it before, on the edges of Leclerc family race weekends. Isabelle, the sister who stayed back to make sure Arthur had the right tie packed, or that Charles had signed the right forms. The one who found a florist for Lorenzo thirty minutes before an event, or remembered which water bottle brand their mother liked for travel.

She had always been the quiet buffer.

The fixer.

The forgotten problem-solver.

And now… she was doing it for him.

Not because he expected it. He didn’t. He’d told her repeatedly he could handle himself. But Isabelle wasn’t someone who waited to be asked. She anticipated, gently rearranged the world around her people, and made their lives easier before they even noticed they were stressed.

He found her that night curled up on the sofa, hair damp from the shower, laptop open with her architectural renders glowing softly against her face. She was eating grapes and typing one-handed, her legs tucked under her like always.

“You know,” Max said, dropping onto the couch beside her, “I haven’t had to do a single thing since I got home.”

Isabelle didn’t look up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… I haven’t done laundry. My flights are in my calendar. My snack drawer is mysteriously refilled. I have socks again. And coffee. And peace.”

She blinked, paused her typing, and smiled. “It’s really not that much.”

“It is,” Max said gently. “You work ten hours a day and somehow still run this apartment like it’s an F1 garage. I don’t know how you do it.”

She shrugged a little, looking sheepish. “I like doing it. I like making things easier for the people I love.” 

“Do your brothers ever thank you?”

She hesitated. “I don’t think they realize half of what I do,” she admitted drily. 

Max nodded slowly. “Well, I notice. Every little thing. You don’t have to do it all, but when you do… I see it. And I’m grateful. Really.”

Her smile wavered just a little, like something fragile cracked open inside her chest.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I… I’m not used to hearing that.”

Max pulled her laptop from her lap, set it gently on the coffee table, and tugged her into his arms.

Max cupped her cheek, thumb brushing just under her eye. “I see it now. All of it. Every time you notice something before I do. Every time you put something away or refill something I didn’t even realize was empty. You’ve made this place feel like home.”

She smiled softly. “That’s what love is, isn’t it?”

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo) 

Arthur: I’M SCREWED.

Lorenzo: Again?

Charles: What now?

Arthur: I FORGOT MY ANNIVERSARY.

Charles: …

Lorenzo: …

Charles: You absolute moron.

Lorenzo: You have ONE job.

Arthur: HELP ME.

Charles: Help you??? Maybe try remembering important dates next time?

Lorenzo: Yeah, I don’t really see how this is our problem.

Arthur: ISABELLE. SAVE ME.

Isabelle: What kind of dinner does she like?

Arthur: She likes Italian? And wine? And… romantic lighting?

Isabelle: …Do you know anything about your girlfriend?

Arthur: I KNOW I LOVE HER AND I DON’T WANT HER TO DUMP ME.

Isabelle: Right. I’ll take care of it.

Arthur: YOU’RE A HERO.

(20 minutes later)

Isabelle: You have a reservation at La Chèvre d'Or at 8 PM. I also ordered that perfume she keeps in her bag and had it gift-wrapped. It’ll be at your place in an hour.

Lorenzo: Oh, while you’re at it, what should I get my girlfriend for her birthday?

Isabelle: Jewelry. She’s been eyeing those gold earrings from Cartier.

Lorenzo: You’re actually a genius.

(Several hours later)

Isabelle: You’re welcome, by the way.

Arthur: Huh?

Lorenzo: For what?

***

Max was still buzzing with adrenaline when he finally stepped into his apartment, championship celebrations still ringing in his ears. The moment he closed the door behind him, silence settled over him like a warm blanket, the contrast almost jarring after the chaos of the paddock.

And then he saw her.

Isabelle was curled up on the couch, one of the cats nestled beside her, a book resting open in her lap. She must’ve heard him come in because she looked up immediately, her expression softening.

“Hey,” she said, setting the book aside. “How does it feel?”

Max huffed out a breath, toeing off his shoes and crossing the room in a few quick steps. “Like I need you,” he muttered, dropping onto the couch beside her and pulling her into his arms.

She let out a quiet laugh but didn’t resist, settling against his chest as his arms tightened around her. “That exhausting, huh?”

He buried his face in her shoulder. “So many people. So much noise. This is better.”

Her fingers threaded through his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “You did just win your third world title. Kind of a big deal.”

He smirked against her skin. “Mm. They wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“Annoying, really,” she teased.

He pulled back just enough to look at her. The soft glow from the nearby lamp illuminated her features, her eyes filled with something quiet and fond.

“You should’ve been there,” he murmured, brushing his fingers along her jaw.

She sighed, shaking her head. “You know why I wasn’t.”

He did. She wasn’t ready for the cameras, the attention, the inevitable questions. And he would never push her into something she wasn’t comfortable with.

But fuck, he wished she had been there.

Still, she had waited up for him. She was here. That was enough.

His thumb traced slow circles over her hip as he leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You watched?”

“Of course.” She smiled. “You were incredible.”

His chest tightened at the quiet sincerity in her voice. He’d spent the entire night surrounded by people telling him how great he was, how historic his achievement was. But this—hearing it from her—meant more than any of it.

He let out a long breath, finally starting to feel the exhaustion creeping in. “Come to bed with me?”

She nodded, taking his hand as they stood. As they made their way toward the bedroom, one of the cats darted ahead of them, already claiming Max’s pillow.

Isabelle laughed. “Looks like you’re not the only champion in this house.”

Max just smiled, pulling her close again as they climbed into bed. “Doesn’t matter. I already have everything I want.”

They settled into bed, limbs tangled, warmth shared beneath soft blankets. The city was quiet outside the windows. The adrenaline was finally ebbing.

And then, just as the stillness settled, Isabelle spoke.

“You never ask,” she said quietly.

“Ask what?”

“Why I haven’t told them.”

She didn’t have to specify who them was.

Max exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. It wasn’t that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. He had wondered—more than once—why she still kept their relationship a secret, why she hadn’t told her brothers, her mother, anyone. But he had never pushed.

“Do you want to tell them?” he asked carefully.

Isabelle was quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, she looked up at him, her gaze steady.

“No.”

Max blinked. That wasn’t the answer he had been expecting.

She sighed, shifting so she was facing him fully. “It’s not because I’m ashamed of you. Or because I don’t care.” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s because you’re important to me.”

His breath hitched slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting her continue.

“My whole life, I’ve felt like I had to fight to be noticed. To be heard. And with my family, it’s always been about Charles. About Arthur. About Lorenzo. I love them, but—sometimes, it feels like I’m just a shadow in their lives.” She swallowed. “I didn’t want you to be part of that. I didn’t want us to become something that gets brushed aside, just another footnote in their world.”

Max’s jaw tightened. He had seen the way her family overlooked her, how they spoke over her, how they forgot things that should have mattered. And now, hearing it from her directly, it made something inside him ache.

“So you kept us just for you,” he murmured.

She nodded. “Just for me.”

Max reached out, his fingers threading through hers. “I don’t mind,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “If you want to wait. Whatever you decide—I just want to be with you.”

She squeezed his hand, and he lifted it to press a kiss against her knuckles, his lips lingering there for a moment.

“I hope you know,” he added quietly, “that you’ll never be a shadow to me.”

A small, wobbly smile tugged at her lips, and she leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“I know,” she whispered.

Max let the words settle between them, his grip on Isabelle’s hand firm but gentle. He could feel the warmth of her fingers, the slight tremble she tried to hide. He had never truly understood what it felt like to be overlooked—his entire life had been under a spotlight, from karting to Formula 1. But Isabelle? She had spent years fading into the background of her own family’s story.

And yet, here she was, choosing to keep him separate from all of that. Not because she was hiding him, but because she wanted something that was only hers.

He squeezed her hand lightly. “You know,” he said, voice softer than usual, “I’d never let them brush you aside. If they knew about us.”

She let out a quiet breath, her eyes flickering down to where their hands were intertwined. “I know,” she admitted. “But that’s not what I’m afraid of.”

Max frowned. “Then what is it?”

She hesitated, then sat up a little straighter, pulling one knee up to her chest. “If I tell them about us,” she said slowly, “it changes things. Not just for me, but for you. For us.” She exhaled. “Suddenly, I won’t just be Isabelle anymore. I’ll be ‘Max Verstappen’s girlfriend.’ And to them, that will mean something.”

He stayed quiet, letting her put her thoughts into words.

“They’ll look at me differently. Maybe they’ll suddenly start paying attention, maybe they’ll act like I matter more just because you matter. And I don’t want that.” Her voice wavered slightly, but she pushed forward. “I don’t want their attention just because of who I’m with. I want them to see me.”

Max felt something twist in his chest. He had never thought of it like that. To him, she had always been important. But her family? They had overlooked her for so long, and she didn’t want their sudden interest to be because of him.

“You think they’d only start noticing you because of my name,” he said quietly.

Isabelle gave him a small, sad smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s only cared because of who you are.”

That stung. Because she was right. He had seen it time and time again—people wanting to be close to him because of what he could offer, not because of who he was. The idea that her own family might finally pay attention to her for the same reason made his jaw tighten.

“Belle.” He turned to face her fully, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “I don’t care how long we keep this just between us. But don’t ever think for a second that I don’t see you. That I don’t love you for exactly who you are.”

Her breath caught, and he saw the way her eyes widened slightly. He hadn’t said it before—not like this. Maybe he should have waited for a different moment, something more planned, more perfect. But she deserved to hear it now.

She swallowed hard. “Max.”

“I mean it,” he said, his voice steady. “I love you, Isabelle. And it has nothing to do with your last name, or your family, or anything else. Just you.”

Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment, she just looked at him—like she was trying to memorize him, like she was searching for any trace of hesitation. She wouldn’t find any.

Then, finally, she let out a shaky breath and leaned in, pressing her forehead against his. “I love you too,” she whispered, so soft he almost didn’t hear it.

But he did. And that was all that mattered.

***

The shift had started quietly.

Snide comments. Backhanded compliments. Passive exclusion from group meetings she used to lead. Isabelle’s project folders were “misplaced,” her samples “forgotten,” and her renderings were somehow always “accidentally deleted.”

But by now it was blatant.

Last week, she’d walked into the break room and found her concept sketches tossed into the trash beside half-eaten croissants.

Today, someone had keyed in over her CAD file—over it, not on a copy—and added a caption across the top of the screen in bold red text:

“Thanks, nepotism. We’ll take it from here.”

Isabelle stared at it for a long time, her stomach turning.

The worst part was that no one tried to hide it anymore.

When she glanced around the office, no one made eye contact. No one looked guilty. They just went on with their day like she was background noise.

Like she hadn’t worked twice as hard. Stayed twice as late. Fought for every inch of credibility.

 Like Max’s penthouse had erased everything she’d ever done before it.

She backed away from her desk, air thick in her lungs, and walked straight to the glass-enclosed materials library. Closed the door. Pressed her back against it.

Breathed.

You live in peace, she reminded herself. You wake up next to Max. This doesn’t get to break you.

But it did hurt.

She didn’t cry—she wouldn’t give them that. But her throat ached with all the things she couldn’t say.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Okay I’m officially done. I just had the worst day and I need to get out of my own head.

Emilie:  What happened?? Are you okay?

Isabelle: Just… work stuff. People not listening. Clients who think Pinterest means they’re architects now. And my colleague took credit for something I spent three weeks on.

Emilie: I will start swinging.

Isabelle: Please do. Preferably with one of those cartoonishly large handbags.

Emilie: Already packed one. Where are we going?

Isabelle: Let’s go shopping this afternoon? I still haven’t bought birthday presents for Charles and Arthur, and if I stay in this office any longer I’ll start crying over the wrong throw pillow.

Emilie: Say no more. I’ll pick you up in 30. You can buy emotionally motivated gifts and I can be your moral support/human espresso.

Isabelle: You’re my favorite person.

Emilie: I know. And I’m dragging you to get cake after. No arguments.

***

Alexandra had only come in to browse.

The gallery had been quiet all morning, the kind of rainy-day lull that left her restless, so she’d taken a walk, turned a corner, and ducked into a tucked-away boutique that specialized in little luxuries—silk scarves, handmade ceramics, niche perfumes. The kind of place you didn’t go to with intention, just curiosity.

She was halfway to a display of glass jewelry trays when she heard a familiar voice.

“Alex?” 

She turned—and blinked.

“Emilie?”

The other woman—sleek dark coat, sunglasses perched in her hair, a woven tote filled with rolled linen and a jar of fig jam—smiled.

“I thought that was you,” Emilie said, her voice warm but always laced with sharpness, like she couldn’t quite switch off the part of her brain that was evaluating everyone in the room. “It’s been a while.”

Alexandra smiled. “Yeah, since the preview at the gallery. You were with that collector from Paris.”

“He’s still deciding between three paintings he can’t afford,” Emilie said dryly. “But I’m sure he’ll make a confident choice any day now.”

They both laughed.

And then Alexandra’s eyes shifted—to the person standing just behind Emilie, holding a pale blue shopping bag and smiling politely.

Next to her stood Isabelle.

And that—that was the part Alexandra didn’t quite expect.

Because Isabelle Leclerc, as Alexandra knew her, was quiet. Sweet, yes. Polite, yes. But always a little faded at the edges. Always deferring. Always on the outside, even when she was technically inside the room. Always smiling without saying much.

But here—standing next to Emilie, twirling a delicate silver ring between her fingers, visibly debating whether to buy it—Isabelle looked alive.

Her cheeks were pink. She was smiling, not the polite, folded sort of smile Alexandra knew, but something real. Something that reached her eyes. Her body language was open. Confident.

And Emilie was watching her like she’d personally fight anyone who dimmed that light again.

“Hi, Isabelle.”

“Hey, Alex. How are you?” Her voice was as warm as ever. Kind, even. That was the thing about Isabelle—she was never unkind. Always soft-spoken, always thoughtful. Alex couldn’t remember her ever being cold or rude.

And yet… she realized with a flicker of guilt, she didn’t know a single personal thing about her. Not really.

“I’m good,” Alexandra said, hesitating. She wasn’t sure how long to linger. But Emilie stepped aside slightly, making room, and something about the way she did it—reluctantly welcoming—made Alexandra stay.

“You two shopping for anything in particular?” she asked.

Isabelle tilted her head. “A birthday gift. Possibly. Unless I end up keeping it for myself.”

“She’s been buying presents for everyone but herself,” Emilie said dryly. “As per usual.”

“I’m selective,” Isabelle said mildly.

“No, you’re selfless,” Emilie corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Alexandra watched the exchange, slightly stunned. There was an ease between them, a quiet rhythm. They spoke in a way that implied history. Real closeness. It made Isabelle seem... whole, somehow. Grounded.

Alexandra suddenly felt like she’d only ever seen the outline of a person.

“You’re really good at presents,” she said after a pause. “Honestly, I was just thinking about what to get Charles, and I have no idea. You always find the perfect thing.”

Isabelle blinked in surprise. “Oh—thank you. I just try to think about what makes people feel like they’ve been seen.”

“She’s too good,” Emilie said. “It’s genuinely annoying. I once said I liked the color of a book cover and two months later it showed up wrapped in silk ribbon with a handwritten note and a matching bookmark.”

Isabelle flushed slightly. “You needed cheering up.”

“She’s the personal shopper of the entire Leclerc family,” Emilie said flatly, reaching for a small candle. “Has been since she was old enough to know how to wrap a box. Half the birthday gifts your boyfriend has ever given were probably vetted or bought by her.”

Alexandra blinked. “Really?”

Isabelle looked embarrassed. “Sometimes they ask for help.”

Emilie raised an eyebrow. “Isabelle picked out Arthur’s last three girlfriend gifts and Pascale’s Christmas gift for the last 10 years.”

Alexandra laughed, but something about Emilie’s tone lingered.

Not unkind. Just sharp enough to say: Yes, Isabelle is good. And yes, they take her for granted.

It was the sort of thing Alexandra might have thought herself—but would never have said out loud.

“I’m very good at keeping secrets,” Isabelle said lightly.

Alexandra felt something twist in her chest.

She hadn’t known that. She’d never thought to ask.

She’d always liked Isabelle. Truly. Isabelle was kind, warm, undemanding. But also... elusive. Hard to reach. Like there was a door half-closed between them, and Alexandra had never known how to knock.

The three of them wandered through the boutique a little longer. Isabelle offered two suggestions for Charles—one sleek, one sentimental—and Alexandra made a note of both.

And then, as they paused by a shelf of men’s shirts in soft cotton and subtle patterns, Isabelle’s hand brushed one.

Alexandra watched her hesitate over it—thoughtful, considering—before she gently placed it back.

“For Charles?” Alex asked, puzzled.

Isabelle looked over, surprised. “What? Oh—no. Just a nice cut. The collar’s clean.”

And for a flicker of a second, something tugged at Alexandra—some thread she couldn’t quite pull free.

There was something else here. Something under the surface. And now that she’d seen it—how Isabelle lit up beside Emilie, how open she seemed in the right company—Alex couldn’t unsee it.

She’d always thought Isabelle was just shy. Or private. Or soft in that way people could overlook.

Now she wondered if Isabelle was simply guarded.

And Alex, for the first time, found herself wondering what it would take to really know Isabelle Leclerc.

Because she was starting to think—quietly, uneasily—that her boyfriend’s sister was not at all the girl they all assumed she was.

***

Text Messages: Alexandra Saint Mleux & Charles Leclerc

Alexandra: Just ran into your sister. In a boutique in the 6th.

Charles: Oh yeah? What was she doing?

Alexandra: Shopping.  Birthday presents, apparently. But Isabelle looked… different.

Charles: Different how?

Alexandra: Happy. Confident. Like… I don’t know. Not the version of her I usually see at family stuff. She was laughing. Really laughing.

Charles: She’s always laughing.  

Alexandra: Not like this, Mon amour.

Alexandra:  Do you think she’s seeing someone?

Charles:  What?

Alexandra:  I’m serious.

Charles: Yeah, no way.

Alexandra: Are you sure?

Charles: She would have mentioned it. 

Charles: Trust me, it’s not happening.

Alexandra: So confident about that, huh?

Charles: I’d know if she had a boyfriend. And she doesn’t.

***

Instagram Stories -@/isabelleleclerc

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1chaosupdates GUYS WHY DID ISABELLE LECLERC POST A CAT SINCE WHEN DOES SHE HAVE A CAT???

[Attached: Isabelle's story — a photo of a cat’s paw]

@/paddocktheories:  okay but like this cat looks suspiciously like it could be max verstappen’s cats sassy or jimmy reincarnated

@/wheresmygrid:  STOP I THOUGHT THE SAME THING

@/gridgoblins:  Wait wait wait what if it IS Sassy or Jimmy and she’s just at Max’s place 👀👀👀

@/redbullstan4life: This is literally a picture of a cat’s paw. It could belong to a thousand other cats. It doesn’t even need to be a Bengal!

@/charlesdefensesquad:  isabelle posting a cat and everyone immediately connecting it to max’s cats is so funny.  the girl can’t even post her own furniture without y’all screaming “VERSTAPPEN???”

@/gossipgridf1:  i will be NORMAL about this… except no because that cat 100% looks like Jimmy or Sassy

@/monaco_mess:  to be fair if i was secretly dating max verstappen i too would post soft pictures of his cats like a declaration of love

@/oscarstan22:  everyone in the comments like 🕵️‍♀️ enhance 🕵️‍♀️ zoom 🕵️‍♀️ cross-reference sassy and jimmy’s stripe patterns

@/gofasterbaby:  if it IS sassy or jimmy and isabelle is just chilling with them…. that’s basically a marriage announcement in Verstappen family terms

***

Oscar Piastri didn’t think grocery shopping could be stressful.

Until Monaco.

Until Monegasque grocery stores, specifically, which didn’t believe in helpful signage, organization, or—apparently—labels with pictures.

Oscar just wanted cheese.

That was it. Cheese. Maybe some pasta. Possibly bread if he was feeling adventurous.

But standing in the middle of a charmingly cramped French grocery store, blinking at six nearly identical wedges of something called tomme de brebis and a handwritten sign that might have been a threat—or a discount—he was beginning to spiral.

He’d committed to doing this errand without help. Without Google Translate. Without texting his girlfriend.

He was trying to be independent.

But now the shop owner was hovering, and Oscar had been standing in the cheese aisle for nine minutes, and he was starting to feel judged by a 72-year-old woman with a very intense stare.

And then—

“Do you need help?” a soft voice asked beside him.

Oscar blinked, turning to find a woman about his age, brown hair twisted back, a linen tote on one shoulder, expression kind.

“I’m sorry?”

She smiled, switching to English immediately. “You’ve been staring at the cheese like it owes you money. I figured you might be lost.”

Oscar exhaled in relief. “I am, actually. I don’t know what any of this is.”

She stepped forward and scanned the shelf. “That one’s sheep’s milk—really good, a bit nutty. That one’s stronger, aged, smells like feet but tastes amazing if you like that sort of thing.”

Oscar stared at her, impressed. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

“I live around the corner,” she said. “And I’ve made every grocery mistake there is.”

He laughed, properly now. “Thanks. That helps a lot.”

She smiled again—polite, gentle, unassuming.

There was something… familiar about her. 

Not in a hey-we’ve-met way. But in the I-know-that-face-from-somewhere way.

Soft brown hair, loosely braided. Pretty green eyes. Very Monaco. Very… vaguely connected to something in his brain.

Oscar hesitated. “Do I… know you?”

A flicker of amusement crossed her face. “Probably not. I mean—we’ve technically met. But you probably wouldn’t remember.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes. And then—lightbulb.

“You look like—” He blinked. “Oh. Wait. You’re Charles’ sister.”

Her smile faltered for just a second. “Yes. Among other things.”

“Right,” he said, suddenly feeling awkward. “I didn’t recognize you outside the paddock.”

“It’s okay,” she said, grabbing a carton of eggs with practiced precision. “I usually disappear into the background there.”

“They didn’t have the peach one. So I got apricot instead,” Came a voice behind Isabelle. 

Oscar looked up to see none other but Max Verstappen. 

“Perfect,” Isabelle said brightly. 

Oscar could just stare. 

“Oscar,” Max greeted him like it was a normal day. Like he wasn’t currently grocery shopping with Charles Leclerc’s sister. 

“…Hi,” Oscar managed, eyes pinging between them. “I—uh. Hey.”

Max moved to toss something else into Isabelle’s cart—like this was normal. Like they hadn’t just revealed themselves as Monaco’s most covert domestic power couple in front of the yogurt aisle.

“Groceries?” Max asked, like that was the confusing part of this moment.

“I—yeah,” Oscar said, holding up his sheep cheese wedge like it was a peace offering. “You guys are… together?”

Max looked over his shoulder. “Shopping?”

Oscar blinked. “No, I mean… like. Together.”

Isabelle flushed slightly but didn’t deny it. Just tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and said, “For a while now.”

Oscar stared. “Like. Secretly?”

Max shrugged. “Privately.”

“That’s the same thing,” Oscar said.

Max looked unbothered. “Is it?”

“I thought you two barely talked,” he said, still trying to catch up.

“We don’t. Publicly,” Max said.

Oscar opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Does Charles know?”

Max shot him a look that said absolutely not.

Isabelle just gave a small smile and added, “Please don’t tell him.”

Oscar held up both hands. “I’ve never kept a secret faster in my life.”

Max nodded approvingly. “Good.” Then, off handedly. “Lando knows. Danny does too.”

“Cool,” Oscar said. Then: “I’m gonna go… buy cheese and rethink everything I know.”

Max gave him a thumbs-up. “See you at the track.”

Oscar wandered away in stunned silence, still clutching his cheese like a lifeline, already trying to figure out how he of all people became the latest keeper of Verstappen-Leclerc classified information.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris and Daniel Ricciardo)

Oscar: I just ran into Max Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc in a grocery store.

Oscar: Help me. 

Lando: oh yeah? how was monaco’s finest domestic couple?

Oscar: I thought I hallucinated it at first

Oscar:  I looked up and Max was holding her jam

Oscar:  and then he put it in her cart

Lando: 🥹 precious

Oscar: HE KNEW WHAT KIND OF JAM SHE LIKED LANDO—HE SAID “THEY DIDN’T HAVE THE PEACH, SO I GOT APRICOT” WHAT DOES THAT MEAN

Daniel: It means they’re in love and hiding it from Charles. 

Lando:  welcome to hell.

Oscar: How can Charles not know.

Lando: he’s oblivious. like truly, impressively blind

Oscar: When Charles finds out we are going to die.  I’m not built for this.  I was buying cheese. Cheese.

Oscar: Is it serious??

Lando: max let her redecorate his penthouse

Oscar: I hate it here.  I just wanted cheese.

Daniel: And instead you got a lifetime of emotional responsibility.  Congrats.

Oscar: How did you find out?

Lando: you remember when i broke max’s trophy? he let me bring home the replacement to help my guilty conscience, and guess who is living with him

Daniel: The hotel disaster.  That was when I figured it out

Lando: ???????? Lando:  What hotel disaster

Oscar: What happened??

Daniel: Zandvoort. Her brothers forgot to book her a hotel room.

Daniel:  Straight up just didn’t even think about it.

Daniel:  She landed. No room. No backup plan.

Daniel:  Was about to sleep in the damn lobby before Max found out.

Lando: YOU’RE JOKING.

Oscar: THEY WHAT. Oscar:  WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

Daniel: Not done

Daniel:  Next morning?

Daniel:  They LEFT HER at the hotel.

Daniel:  Like… packed up, went to the track, forgot she existed. 

Lando: I’m gonna throw something 

Lando: THEY JUST FORGOT HER????

Oscar: SHE IS THEIR SISTER Oscar:  NOT A MISPLACED WALLET

Lando: i have two sisters if i did that my mum would reassemble me from scratch just to kill me again

Oscar: If I did that my mother would drag me by my ear to the cameras of Sky Sports and berate me live on air.

Oscar:  What is WRONG with them

Daniel: Max was FUMING. So he asked me to pick her up. 

Oscar: GOOD.

Oscar: No wonder they kept it secret

Oscar:  If my girlfriend was treated by her family like that I’d go full vigilante too.

Daniel: 😂 welcome to the secret society of "We Would Kill For Isabelle Leclerc"

Oscar: Sign me up

Lando: same.

Lando:  also Charles is dead to me now until further notice

Daniel: don’t worry

Daniel: karma’s real

Daniel: and Max is scarier than any big brother

***

Lando Norris was pretty sure Oscar Piastri was about to crack.

He could see it happening in real time—the hairline fracture of panic starting just behind Oscar’s eyes. One more question. One wrong look. And Oscar was going to blurt out everything.

Max. Isabelle. The groceries.

And the worst part? Charles was right there—calm as ever, sipping an espresso in the hotel lobby like he wasn’t a ticking time bomb of impending betrayal. Like he wasn’t five seconds away from having his entire reality rearranged.

Lando shifted in his seat, chewing on a straw wrapper so aggressively he was surprised it hadn’t disintegrated yet. His knee bounced up and down, a desperate outlet for the nerves clawing at his insides.

They hadn’t spoken in ten minutes.

It was too quiet. Too weird. Too dangerous.

Which, obviously, was when Carlos strolled into the lobby, clocked the tension immediately, and frowned.

“What’s going on here?” Carlos asked, grabbing a protein bar from the snack stand like he had all the time in the world. “Why do you two look like you’ve committed war crimes?”

Oscar opened his mouth—probably to lie terribly and make it worse.

Lando, being the (barely) more functional one, jumped in first.

“It’s just—Charles,” Lando blurted.

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “What about him?”

Lando leaned forward, instantly deadly serious. “Have you ever noticed how he treats Isabelle?”

Carlos blinked. “His sister?”

“Exactly,” Lando said, nodding like he was revealing a state secret.

Oscar made a faint strangled noise next to him, probably reconsidering his life choices.

Carlos unwrapped his protein bar slowly, suspicious. “I mean… he loves her?”

“Sure,” Lando said, wide-eyed. “But does he see her? Or does he just… expect her to float quietly in the background of his life like a nice decorative houseplant?”

Oscar buried his face in his hands. Good. He deserved that.

Carlos stared at them like they were the ones malfunctioning.

“Where is this coming from?” Carlos asked, suspicious.

“Just answer the question,” Lando said, channeling his inner investigative journalist. “Do you think he actually appreciates her?”

Carlos hesitated, tilting his head like he was actually giving it thought. “I think… he assumes she’s fine because she doesn’t complain much?”

“EXACTLY,” Lando said, throwing his hands in the air. “She doesn’t complain. That doesn’t mean she’s fine!”

Oscar groaned again, muttering into his hands.

Carlos took a slow bite of protein bar. “Is this about the hotel thing?”

Oscar’s head snapped up. “You know about the hotel thing?”

Carlos nodded. “Yeah, I heard she didn’t have a room. I figured it was a mix-up.”

Lando let out a high-pitched laugh. “They also left her at the hotel the next morning. Like a pair of emotionally unavailable golden retrievers.”

Carlos shrugged. “They didn’t mean to.”

“THAT’S WORSE,” Lando exploded. “You don’t just ‘accidentally’ forget your SISTER.”

Oscar nodded vigorously. “That’s literally child abandonment but for grown-ups.”

Carlos stared at them, bemused. “You two are acting very emotionally involved.”

“NOPE,” Lando said immediately, standing up so fast his chair skidded backward.

Oscar scrambled after him. “Not emotionally involved. Just very passionate about…sibling rights. And human decency.”

“And basic hospitality standards!” Lando added, pointing accusingly at the air.

Carlos narrowed his eyes. “You’re both incredibly weird today.”

Lando clapped him hard on the shoulder. “We’re always weird, mate. But seriously. Watch how Charles talks to her next time. It’ll ruin your day.”

Carlos just blinked, chewing thoughtfully.

Oscar grabbed Lando’s arm before he could say anything else truly unhinged. “Come on. We have… tires. Very important tires to look at.”

“Yeah. Tire research. Super urgent,” Lando agreed.

They power-walked out of the lobby, leaving Carlos watching them, baffled.

Carlos shook his head slowly, muttering to himself, “Okay, but seriously… why are they so weird about Isabelle?”

***

Max trudged through the front door, dropping his bag with a dull thud. Isabelle had been waiting for him, curled up on the couch with a book, but the moment she saw him, she sat up straight.

“You’re sick.” It wasn’t a question.

Max huffed out a breath. “I’m fine.”

Isabelle was already on her feet, walking toward him. “You’re pale.” She placed the back of her hand against his forehead, frowning. “And warm.”

“I was just on a plane.”

“You also sound stuffy.” She folded her arms. “Go to bed.”

“I just got home.”

“And I’d like to keep you alive long enough to enjoy it. Bed, Max.”

Max sighed but didn’t argue. He was too tired for that. Instead, he leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead before mumbling, “You’re bossy.”

“I’m effective.”

She watched as he trudged toward the bedroom, shaking her head. A moment later, she followed, scooping up Jimmy from his spot on the armchair. When she walked into the room, Max was already under the blankets, eyes half-lidded.

“Here,” she murmured, placing Jimmy beside him. The cat instantly curled up against his chest, purring loudly.

Max cracked a small smile, rubbing behind Jimmy’s ears. “You’re trying to bribe me with my own cat.”

“Whatever works.” She kissed his temple. “Sleep.”

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Sophie Kumpen

Isabelle: Hi Sophie! I hope you’re doing well! I need your help with something.

Sophie: Hello, dear! Of course, what do you need?

Isabelle: Max came home from the race and he’s definitely getting sick. He’s trying to act normal, but he looks exhausted and keeps sniffling.

Isabelle: I sent him straight to bed with a cat for company, but I wanted to make him something comforting. He once told me you used to make tomato soup for him when he was sick—would you mind sharing the recipe?

Sophie: Oh, poor thing. He never knows when to slow down.

Sophie: And of course! Here’s how I always made it:

Sauté onions and garlic in olive oil until soft.

Add chopped tomatoes (fresh is best, but canned works too!)

Pour in vegetable broth and a pinch of sugar—Max never noticed, but it makes all the difference!

Lots of basil, always extra for Max.

Simmer, blend, then stir in a little cream to make it smooth.

Serve with bread—he used to insist on dipping half a baguette in it!

Isabelle: This is perfect! Thank you so much.

Sophie: You’re very welcome, sweetheart. He’s going to love it.

Sophie: And if he’s still feeling bad tomorrow, make him tea with honey. That’s what I always did.

Isabelle: Noted! I’ll make sure he drinks it.

Sophie: You’re taking such good care of him. He’s lucky to have you.

Isabelle: I’m lucky to have him too. ❤️

***

By the time he woke up, the apartment smelled like tomatoes and garlic. Max blinked, slowly sitting up. Jimmy was still pressed against him, and Sassy had taken up residence at his feet. He groggily reached for his phone and saw a notification from Isabelle.

Isabelle: Texted your mom for her tomato soup recipe. You’re getting the Verstappen childhood classic.

Max stared at the message for a second before a slow, warm feeling spread through his chest. He pulled himself out of bed, padding toward the kitchen. Isabelle was stirring a pot on the stove, hair tied up, her phone sitting next to her with messages from his mom open on the screen.

She turned at the sound of his footsteps. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

Max leaned against the counter, taking in the sight of her making his childhood comfort food, and felt something deep and certain settle in his bones.

“I feel like I should marry you.”

Isabelle blinked, then huffed a laugh. “You have a fever.”

“I’m serious.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were pink. “Eat your soup, Verstappen.”

Max watched as Isabelle turned back to the stove, stirring the soup with careful, practiced movements. He could see the little notes his mother had sent still open on her phone—things like "Don't forget a little sugar to balance the acidity" and "Max always liked it with extra basil".

Something about it made his chest ache, but in a good way.

“Sit down,” Isabelle said without looking at him. “I’ll bring it over.”

Max didn’t argue. He knew better. Instead, he shuffled over to the dining table, rubbing a hand over his face. He still felt like hell, but the warm smell of tomato soup and the sight of Isabelle in their kitchen softened the edges of it.

A few minutes later, Isabelle placed a bowl in front of him, along with a plate of bread. She even cut the slices into smaller pieces, making it easier for him to eat.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Are you about to start feeding me, too?”

“If I have to.” She sat down across from him, resting her chin on her hand. “Go on. Try it.”

He took a spoonful, letting the warmth spread through him. It tasted exactly like how he remembered—rich, slightly sweet, the basil bringing a fresh note to it.

“Good?” Isabelle asked.

Max swallowed, nodding. “Perfect.”

She looked pleased with herself, tucking one knee up against her chest. “Your mom was really sweet about sending me the recipe. She told me to tell you that if you’re still feeling bad tomorrow, I should make you tea with honey.”

Max smirked. “You and my mom are conspiring now?”

“Obviously.” She smiled. “Someone has to keep you in check.”

He took another sip, watching her from across the table. “Thank you,” he said, quieter this time.

Isabelle just shrugged, brushing it off like it was nothing. “You take care of me all the time,” she said simply. “Why wouldn’t I do the same?”

Max didn’t have a good answer for that.

Instead, he reached across the table, curling his fingers around hers. Isabelle let him, her thumb brushing absently over his knuckles.

“If I ever win another world championship,” he said, voice a little rough, “just know it’ll be because of you and your soup.”

She laughed, squeezing his hand. “Good to know my cooking has that much power.”

Max just smiled, his fever making him feel a little loopy, a little sentimental.

He didn’t mind.

***

Max was a terrible patient.

Not in the dramatic, clingy, "I think I’m dying" kind of way. No—he was quiet, still, and deeply put out by the fact that his body dared to betray him for more than five seconds.

Which meant he was now cocooned in the middle of their bed, surrounded by three pillows, and the comforter pulled halfway up to his chin like a grumpy Victorian child home with the flu.

His nose was pink. His curls were a mess. And he was definitely running a fever.

Isabelle pressed the back of her hand to his forehead and shook her head fondly. “Still warm.”

Max blinked up at her, expression solemn and glassy-eyed. “I feel like someone hit me with a tyre gun.”

“Very specific,” she said, setting the thermometer aside and handing him another cup of ginger tea.

He took a slow sip. Then sighed. Then blinked at her again like something important had just occurred to him.

“We should get another cat,” he said hoarsely.

Isabelle paused. “Sorry?”

“A kitten,” he clarified, like it was obvious. “Small. Would follow me around.”

She tried—really tried—not to laugh.

Max Verstappen, three-time World Champion, currently wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and nursing a cold, was looking at her like he’d just solved a national crisis.

“You want a kitten,” Isabelle repeated.

He nodded solemnly, already settling back against the pillows. “It’d be good practice.”

“For what?” she asked, amused.

Max blinked at her again, slow and drowsy. “You know.”

“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”

He looked at her, expression perfectly serious despite the fever. “A baby.”

Isabelle choked on her tea.

Max didn't flinch.

She stared at him for a full ten seconds. “You think adopting a kitten would be… baby practice?”

He nodded again, very sure of himself. “Feeding. Naps. Picking the name.”

“And the kitten would be our test run for parenthood?”

“Exactly.”

Isabelle smiled—gently, deeply—and brushed a hand over his curls, pushing the hair back from his forehead.

“You’re feverish,” she said softly.

He nodded. “But I’m also right.”

She leaned down, kissed his too-warm cheek. “We’ll talk about the kitten when your temperature is below thirty-nine.”

Max hummed. “Good. I think you'd be a good cat mom. And baby mom.”

Then he promptly fell asleep with one hand still loosely curled around hers.

And Isabelle—heart full, smile helpless—sat beside him and thought, yeah, maybe I would.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: Hey—how’s Max doing? Still being dramatic or has he entered the sleepy kitten phase of being sick?

Isabelle: Definitely the kitten phase.

Isabelle: Currently wrapped in a blanket burrito with Jimmy on his chest.

Isabelle: Looks like he’s been defeated by soup and his own body heat.

Victoria: Incredible.

Victoria: Has he started saying weird fever things yet?

Isabelle: …Depends what you consider “weird.”

Victoria: Uh-oh.

Victoria: Hit me.

Isabelle: He told me we should get another cat.

Isabelle: Which sounded normal-ish. Until he said it would be “good practice.”

Victoria: Practice for what?

Isabelle: A baby.

Victoria: A baby?

Isabelle: Yep. I laughed at first. But he was serious. Or fever-serious.

Isabelle: He looked at me like it wasn’t even a joke.

Victoria: …Do I get to be an aunt?

Victoria: Because I will cry.

Isabelle: He was feverish. It could have been the paracetamol talking.

Victoria: But you didn’t panic.

Isabelle: I melted. And then I panicked about melting.

Victoria: You want it.

Isabelle: I always have. I just never let myself imagine it.

Isabelle: And now suddenly he’s sick and talking about babies and I’m feeling things.

Victoria: Okay, well… since we’re being honest about baby feelings… You’ll get to practice sooner than you think.

Isabelle: What?

Victoria: I’m due in June.

Isabelle: WHAT.

Victoria: Surprise?

Isabelle: ARE YOU KIDDING ME

Victoria: Nope. Tiny Verstappen-Bluth incoming.

Isabelle: VIC.

Isabelle: You cannot just drop that in the middle of a conversation about your brother wanting a baby.

Victoria: I thought it was great timing!

Victoria: What’s better than your fever-delirious boyfriend mentioning fatherhood right before I tell you you’re about to be an aunt?

Isabelle: I’m crying.

Victoria: You’re going to be so good with them.

Victoria: And if you and Max do decide to start practicing sometime soon… well.

Victoria: Built-in cousin. You’re welcome.

Victoria: Get ready, Tante Belle.

Victoria: Big Verstappen family era incoming.

Isabelle: You’re all insane.

Isabelle: And I love you.

Victoria: Love you too.

***

Max heard the door slam—really slam—before he even saw her.

Not the usual soft click of someone slipping home after a long day. Not the tired shuffle of keys or the muted rustle of her bag hitting the floor. No, this was different. Sharp. Final. Frustrated.

He looked up from where he was half-dozing on the couch, immediately alert.

Isabelle stood by the door, hands clenched into fists, her chest rising and falling in short, uneven breaths. Her tote bag—usually treated carefully—was now abandoned at her feet, one strap twisted. She shoved her hands through her hair roughly, tugging it out of its neat twist, and paced a tight, angry line across the room.

Max stood without thinking.

"Bad day?" he asked quietly.

Isabelle laughed—a short, humorless sound—and shook her head, still pacing like she couldn't physically stay still.

"Bad?" she repeated, voice sharp with disbelief. "No, Max. It was a disaster."

He stayed silent, waiting, giving her the space she clearly needed to let it spill out.

"My boss dumped an entire project on me today. A major one. Because the senior architect left, and apparently—" she threw her hands up, exasperated, "—obviously it's my problem now. No heads-up. No discussion. Just, 'Congratulations, Isabelle, here's an entire portfolio of someone else's half-finished work. Good luck.'"

Max's jaw tightened. His hands itched to do something—fix it, protect her, something. But he stayed where he was, steady.

"And it gets better," Isabelle said, turning to face him, her green eyes sparking with a tired, furious fire he didn’t see often. "When I tried—politely, professionally—to point out that my current workload is already full, he told me to 'prioritize better.' And walked away. Just—walked. Like it wasn’t his problem."

She laughed again, but it cracked midway through. Her hands dropped to her sides helplessly.

Max exhaled slowly, moving toward her. "You know what I’m going to say."

She groaned, already knowing, already bracing. "Max—"

"You don't need this," he said firmly. "You're running yourself into the ground for people who don't even see you."

She closed her eyes, pressing the heels of her palms against them like she could block out the whole world.

"I like my job," she said, but it sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

Max stopped right in front of her, close enough that he could reach out—but he didn’t, not yet. He knew better. She wasn’t looking for comfort yet. She was still in the fight.

"Do you?" he asked, softer now. Not accusing. Just... careful. Gentle.

Isabelle’s shoulders slumped a little.

"You sure don’t look like someone who likes what they’re doing," Max added, his voice rougher, threading frustration and concern together. "You look like someone who’s trying to survive it."

The room was quiet for a beat, just the low hum of the evening city outside the windows.

Finally, she sagged forward, her forehead pressing into his chest like she physically couldn't hold herself upright anymore.

Max didn’t hesitate then. He wrapped his arms around her, firm and grounding, resting his chin lightly on the top of her head.

She let out a long, shaky breath, the tension bleeding out of her in slow, heavy drips.

"I just..." she started, her voice muffled against him. "I don’t know what to do."

Max closed his eyes, holding her tighter.

"You don’t have to have all the answers right now," he said quietly. "But you have options, Belle. You always do. You don’t have to stay somewhere that treats you like you’re disposable."

She let out a quiet, broken sound that made his chest ache.

He kissed her hair, slow and steady.

"You are not a stopgap. You're not a backup plan. You're not someone they can just lean on when it's convenient and forget about the rest of the time," he murmured against her. "You are brilliant. And you deserve people—and a job—that sees that."

She was silent for a long time, just breathing against him.

"I don't want to quit," she whispered eventually. "I don't want it to feel like they chased me out."

Max rubbed small circles over her back, patient. "Then don't. Fight them, if that's what you want. Prove them wrong. You’re strong enough."

He pulled back just enough to see her face, brushing her messy hair away from her cheeks.  "But don’t stay just to prove a point if it’s breaking you in the process."

Her eyes were glassy but clear, staring up at him like she was trying to pull strength out of the way he looked at her.

"You’re not alone," he said simply. "You have me. Always."

For a moment, she just stood there, letting that settle between them.

Then she nodded—tiny, but certain—and leaned back into his chest.

Max smiled into her hair.

They stood like that for a long time, the city lights flickering quietly outside, the cats curling around their feet like they, too, understood that the whole world narrowed down to this.

Max holding her. Her letting herself be held.

And for now, that was enough. ****

The envelope looked expensive.

That was the first red flag.

Matte paper, gold foil edges, no return address on the front—just her full name printed in elegant, serif font.

Her full, full name. Because apparently her parents hadn’t been done after Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc, and so she and Arthur had ended up with similarly ridiculous, vaguely royal-sounding names.

Isabelle Amélie Thérèse Éléonore Leclerc. 

There it was. 

On the kind of envelope that looked like it came with obligations.

She hadn’t ordered anything. She hadn’t opened a new account.

She frowned as she sliced it open. She wasn’t expecting anything. Max paid the bills on the penthouse. Her own account was small, manageable, predictable. Her work was steady. 

The card slipped out first. Heavy. Polished. Black.

Hitting the kitchen island. 

Her name, again, embossed in silver.

But it wasn’t her account.

It was his.

Linked cardholder – Max Emilian Verstappen

She stared at it for a full minute. Long enough for the air to change. Long enough for every messy, unspoken thing she’d been trying not to feel to crawl back up her throat.

She swallowed. 

They had had that conversation. 

You quit your job. Become my incredibly spoiled, disgustingly pampered trophy wife. No more late nights, no more stress. Just you, spending my money and riding your horses.

She had said no. Because she was ambitious. Talented. Smart.

But the truth?

The truth was that she’d wondered.

What if she could be that person?

What if she’d be fine being that person?

His person.

 The woman who did yoga at ten, had coffee by eleven, picked up their kids from school in designer flats and knew the best lunch spots in three countries. 

The one who didn’t constantly doubt her place, didn’t flinch every time someone whispered "nepo baby" under their breath, didn’t fight to be taken seriously in rooms that were already decided before she entered them.

There was a part of her—a very small, very quiet part—that wondered what it would be like.

To let go.

 To stop clawing for approval from people who didn’t care if she drowned.

 To let herself be loved, wholly and visibly.

 To marry Max.

 To have his name. His children. His cats. 

 To be someone soft and kept and adored.

What if she didn’t want to fight so hard all the time?

What if a part of her—small, shameful, stubborn—wanted to be kept?

And now… this.

Not a proposal. Not a ring.

But a card.

With her name.

 On his account.

A card that wives got. 

That long-term partners with shared mortgages and Sunday routines and matching key fobs got. 

A gesture that said: this life is yours too. You’re allowed to be at ease.

And it terrified her.

Because Max didn’t do anything halfway. He wasn’t careless with people. He didn’t toss around trust like confetti. He was sharp, observant, and maddeningly meticulous.

He was deliberate.

This wasn’t about convenience.

 This was a line drawn. A stake in the ground.

A declaration.

And Isabelle?

She wasn’t sure she trusted herself not to disappear into it.

Not because Max would ask her to—but because it felt so good to be seen by someone who didn’t require her to earn it. To prove it. To perform. 

Max knew her fears. Her fault lines. Her quiet cravings.

And instead of mocking them, he made room for them.

Which, somehow, made it worse.

She’d spent so long trying to prove she was more than someone’s sister. More than a background fixture. 

But here she was.

Here she was feeling safer just being Max’s than she ever had trying to be anyone else’s.

Here she was, considering if being Belle Verstappen might actually make her happier than being Isabelle Leclerc ever had.

And wasn’t that the most terrifying thought of all?

***

“Hey,” Max called as he stepped inside, the door shutting with a familiar click behind him. “I grabbed those oat crackers you like—the ones with the seeds that taste like cardboard.”

He dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, his tone light, teasing.

No answer.

He rounded the corner into the kitchen and—

Stopped.

Isabelle was standing still. Very still. Right beside the counter, her body folded in on itself like she was trying to take up less space.

The envelope was open. The card—that card—lay face-up on the marble. Black. Sleek. Heavy. Her arms were crossed tightly across her chest, like she needed the pressure to keep herself grounded.

Max’s eyes flicked from the card to her face and back again.

And then he felt it—the shift.

The air in the room had changed. Gone quiet. Weighted.

He knew that look on her face.

He’d seen it before—on days when she came home from work braced for someone to doubt her, challenge her, chip away at her. It was the expression she wore when she felt like she was too much and not enough in the same breath.

“Oh,” Max said softly, carefully. “You got it.”

He didn’t say I meant to tell you in person. He didn’t say I’ve been watching you stretch yourself thin, giving more than anyone asks, and never— never— expecting to receive anything back.

She didn’t smile.

“Max,” she said, her voice low and unfamiliar, “what is this?”

She wasn’t angry. That would’ve been easier. Anger was clean.

No—this was something else.

Fragile. Quiet. Like she'd been cracked open without warning.

He stepped toward her slowly. Like he was trying not to spook something delicate.

“It’s just…” he tried, “a card. For you. In case you ever need it.”

Her eyes—green, glossy, wide—didn’t leave his.

“You just handed me access to everything.”

He could’ve argued that. Could’ve said it’s not everything. But he didn’t lie to her, and this wasn’t about technicalities.

So instead, he said the truth.

“I handed you ease,” he said gently. “Because you never ask for it. Even when you need it most.”

He’d thought about that a lot.

That was why he’d had the card made.

Not because she needed it—not practically, not financially. Isabelle was capable in ways that astonished him daily. She ran her life on spreadsheets and discipline, all soft voice and steel spine.

But she’d been conditioned—by her family, by the world—to believe she had to earn everything. Love. Rest. Comfort. Even kindness.

So he’d done what he did best.

Planned ahead.

He’d spoken to his advisor. Had the account adjusted. Added her name. Put in the request quietly. Privately. No fanfare.

Not to control her.

But so that, if ever the moment came—

If she was tired, overwhelmed, caught without breath—

 She’d have something already waiting.

No questions. No performance. Just trust.

But now, watching the way her fingers dug into her elbows, Max understood how even trust could feel like a trap when you’d never been given it freely.

“We just had a conversation about trophy wives,” she said suddenly. Her voice shook like she hated herself for even bringing it up.

He blinked. “Yes. And you said you didn’t want to be one.”

“What if I’d be fine with that life?” she said. “What if part of me wants it?”

His heart clenched. Not because she said it—but because he knew exactly what she meant.

“Then I’d tell you,” he said calmly, “if you ever want to be my trophy wife, just let me know. I’ll buy you a designer handbag and get very into being your arm candy.”

That earned him a look. A slight wobble in her mouth like she was trying not to smile, even while her throat worked against tears.

She let out an unsteady laugh that turned halfway into a sigh. “Max.”

“No pressure,” he said quickly, his voice low and warm now. “But if you ever wake up and decide you want that kind of life—that kind of ease—I’ll give it to you. Without question.”

“I don’t want to lose myself,” she whispered. “I don’t want to stop being… me.”

“You won’t,” Max said, voice steady. “I know who you are. And I’d never let you forget.”

Because she was the strongest person he’d ever known. She had survived a thousand quiet dismissals and overlooked brilliance. She’d clawed her way into a space she was never given, and never once asked for credit.

He wanted to say more. Wanted to tell her that he’d never met anyone who held herself so tightly together with so little help. That watching her try to hold back softness like it was weakness made his chest ache. That the thing she feared—disappearing—was impossible, because the moment she walked into a room, his world shifted.

She deserved to feel safe. And not just safe—but held.

But he didn’t say all that.

He just said what she needed.

“I didn’t give you this card to change you,” Max said. “I gave it to you so you’d never feel like you had to earn the right to feel safe.”

That word hung there between them. Heavy. Final. The real gift.

Not the money. Not the access.

Safety.

After a long, breathless silence, Isabelle reached out. Slowly. Carefully. She picked up the card with both hands like it might still burn her.

Held it in her palm. Looked at her name. His name. Their names. Together.

“Okay,” she said finally, voice soft, breaking open. “But you’re not allowed to joke when I buy toothpaste with it.”

He smiled—one of those rare, slow smiles he reserved just for her.

He stepped in and kissed her temple gently, grounding them both.

“Toothpaste, muffins, a yacht,” he murmured. “Whatever you need.”

She let out a wet laugh. “A yacht?”

“I’m just saying,” he said lightly, brushing his knuckles along her arm, “it’s good to have options.”

“I’m not buying a yacht, Max.”

“I know.” He paused. “But I wanted you to know you could.”

[specific-dreamer]

i just realized i wrote this with the mindset that Darry and Soda are two years apart which is so fucking wrong

um darry’s actually 15 and i think 15 is a little too old to still be saying nightly prayers then again it is the sixties

OK. if i keep the idea that she and steve are the same age, that means they have spring/summer birthdays bc they’re older than soda whos bday is in october. so while they’re 12, soda is 11

but if we’re waiting for him to turn 12 that year darry would have turned 16 that january (bc when soda turned 2, darry was 6)

so really 16 is too gahtdamn old to be saying nightly prayers like this. um. FUCK

ok OK new hc under the break

when he was little, 14 max, he believed in god and everything but he when he prayed he didn’t say anything besides the basic “bless my family and i pray for everyone that’s struggling” but he heard how the adults when excited they’d go “oh that was nothing but god/god heard my prayers/he always delivers”

SO one night off handily he gives it a try. he’s 14 he thinks this is ridiculous but there’s a small part of him that wants to know if god will answer his prayer. if god listens to greasers too. so he prays asking for a sister because his brothers, 10 and 8, are so aggravating and annoying and he needs a change of pace. so he’s asking for god to send him the nicest sister ever (he forgets there’s a chance god won’t hear him and goes to town describing how he’d like his sister to be. just to make sure god understands him ofc)

ik originally i said two months later he meets ace. i was lied i was wrong. TWO YEARS later when hes 16 and he wishes he could forget that prayer bc it’s hella embarrassing but there’s still a chance in the back of his mind, he meets ace and is shell shocked. blah blah everything else i said he’s trying to be on best behavior bc it took god a while but maybe he was just trying to make ace perfect for him

so yeah 16 yr old darry on his best behavior towards ace except he just started football and he still doesn’t really know his own strength so when they’re all roughhousing he’s accidentally too rough with her and it eats him apart

and then everything else follows like i mentioned way above

do u have any hc about darry and ace? I love in the musical tht she is the only one to call him "superman" and jumps on his back like twice i think? also just read a rly good fic of ace x marcia where ace does know about darry and pauls relationship and he confides in her abt it

this is more a headcanon on their backstory (i fear i got carried away) i hope that’s ok 😭

i mentioned in the tags of a previous post, but i think darry prayed one night (lilo and stitch style) for god to give him a sister because pony and soda were annoying him and like a month later two-bit steve and bales (who is he in the show btw?? like he’s in the lore but idk him in the show. i digress) introduce everyone to ace and he’s utterly convinced that god answered his prayer

due to that he tries to be on his best behavior around her because he doesn’t want god to take her back

so he tries to be polite and gentle with her

but for a what 13/14? yr old boy (if ace was twelve when they met and im assuming she’s the same age as steve) it’s really hard

one quiet lazy afternoon when it’s just them two in the curtis living room playing cards, she asks what’s his problem? and she goes on this rant about how if he don’t like her than he should just come out and say it.

darry’s flabbergasted. and highly embarrassed because he thought he was being discreet, in treating her more gentle, but he confesses how he thought her a gift from god and ace? she falls in love (/p) right then and there. because she’s never heard that before, especially not towards her.

so she’s all giggly and happy at the thought of anyone thinking her a gift and wanting to be gentle enough to preserve her. she’s giddy at the thought of being perceived as feminine/soft even when she’s wearing her boy-est clothes, she’s excited that someone has those thoughts about her without any expectation of getting anything more from her.

she doesn’t say any of this, but it’s evident how pleased she is by the huge grin on her face. but she does tell darry that she can hold her own weight and he doesn’t have to be gentle all the time.

but when she does want to be treated more delicate it’s always darry she goes to. she trust the others ofc but it’s something about how darry’s first instinct is to treat her like a flower, that makes her more attuned to him.

i think that’s why he’s always lifting her and carrying her somewhat akin to a princess in the show.

that got away from me lord um here are real headcanons that may be more what you were hoping for anon 🤧

every year for halloween the guys always want to do scary gory shit for their costumes or they’d want to go pull pranks and shit on the socs. this however is the one night ace let’s herself go out dressed to the nines, so she usually dresses up as like a princess or a fairy or something that’s traditionally girly and overtop. darry usually wants to go out with the guys but she looks at him once (1) with a fake pout and he’s putty. he’s immediately figuring a matching costume and he’s calling paul to look for a party for him and ace to go to. (one year they were wonder woman and superman, hence his nickname)

idk what darry is in my headcanons but he asks ace how to ask out a girl and she laughs her ass off for a solid thirty minutes before she’s any help. it’s okay because he does the exact same when she asks him later.

when ace is struggling to figure out how to do her own makeup (tricky eyeliner or something idk) she forces darry to sit down and let her do his makeup

darry takes ace to his senior prom. that’s it send tweet

(in a parry universe, darry and ace go on double dates with paul and marcia)

that’s all i got off the top of my head ! i hope these were alright ! (but also per the last part of ur ask, im begging for the link)

[3verythingiknowaboutlove]

the limit does not exist!

how spencer helps college!reader understand a little calculus and therefore understand how he loves her.

MDNI | smut word count: 1931 warnings & tags & stuff: fem reader, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), lil bit of overstim hehe, pure unbridled affection, LOVE, FLUFF, hugging, reader cries, this was in fact meant to be written for spence's birthday... sorry about that school is kicking my butt lets just pretend it's october! author's note: this one is for my folks who HATE their calculus class and want spencer reid to give them head instead <3 maybe this can help you romanticize it a bit. i think this is classified as self indulgent…like REALLY self indulgent… hah... anyway i hope you enjoy! let me know your thoughts if u have any, i loveeeee you!! have a great day my hands are shaking posting this smut is so scary!!!!!

You sat in bed, staring down your notebook, eyes narrowed. Limits stared back at you. You were just about at your own limit, if you were being honest. 

Your brain, however sharp and witty it may be, is absolutely not one designed for calculus. A literary analysis essay? Done in half an hour. In depth scientific research project? Easiest months of your life. But there’s something about finding the instantaneous rate of change of a curve at one point in time by finding the slope of a tangent line that hasn't clicked yet. 

A slew of other papers- notes, practice worksheets printed from obscure websites, and formulas- surround you, a sea of unfinished thoughts from the past month of the semester.

You bite on the end of your pen, the little hope you had for a good grade in this class slipping further and further away with each passing moment, like the last ember dying in the remains of a fire.

What you really wanted to be doing was celebrating Spencer’s birthday with him right now. A chocolate cake lay on the kitchen counter and pasta simmers on the stove, but you and your boyfriend had agreed to do a solid hour of work before the celebrations ensued.

You were never particularly strong willed when it came to following through on such agreements.

“Teach me calculus,” you say, a very impressive three minutes later, flopping down on the couch. Your head makes its way to its forever resting spot, Spencer’s lap. He raises his eyebrows slightly, thumb reaching out to trace over the slope of your nose. His eyes flit between you and the file to the side of him. 

“I thought we agreed on an hour.”

“Yeah. But it wouldn’t be a very productive hour if I didn’t know how to do what I have to do. And I missed you.” 

He sighs quietly, closing the file next to him. 

“What do you not understand?” You smile at that, loving how quickly you won.

“Related rates. Like, conceptually.” 

Spencer hums in response.

“It’s October. You’re not even supposed to know related rates yet.”

“Fine. Then let's open presents,” you respond, smiley. His eyebrows get impossibly higher, hand stroking your cheek delicately.

“No. I want our night to be a little more stress free when we celebrate, okay? How about you think about that lovely cake you made for me. What if I decided to squash it so that the diameter would get bigger, going from…let’s say, 20 centimeters to 26 centimeters in 3 seconds, and the height would get smal-”

“That wouldn't be nice. It took me like four hours,” you interrupt, grumbling. He cracks a smile.

“For the sake of the example, let's say I was an awful boyfriend and really wanted to ruin all the hard work you put in for me.”

You roll your eyes.

“Hey,” he says, hand moving down to touch your jaw softly. “Don’t do that. Don’t be difficult. I’m helping you.”

“Sorry. I guess I need you to zoom out a little. I don’t really get why I’m learning this as a whole.” Spencer’s eyes pore into yours, staring down at you adoringly for a small moment as he comes up with an answer.

“Calculus helps us begin to explain the unexplainable by harnessing what we can,” Spencer says simply. “Einstein once said that, ‘Pure mathematics is, in its way, the poetry of logical ideas,’ which makes it simple in practice, but I actually like to think about it as the opposite philosophically. Trying to find logic in the more poetic ideas.”

You cuddle deeper in his lap.

“Think he would agree with that?” you ask. “I do answer to Einstein before you, unfortunately.” Spencer bends down to kiss your hair.

“I think so. He also had a really nice quote where he remarked that, ‘Gravitation cannot be held responsible for people falling in love.’ He said, ‘How on earth can you explain in terms of chemistry and physics so important a biological phenomenon as first love? Put your hand on a stove for a minute and it seems like an hour. Sit with that special girl for an hour and it seems like a minute. That's relativity.’”

Spencer takes a deep breath.

“Math doesn’t explain how I love you. It can’t. But I love the fact that it tries to. It kinda makes you wanna learn it as best you can.”

You process that for a long second and nod. He keeps talking.

… 

Presents get opened, and cake gets eaten before dinner. Of course.

You’re now in bed, on top of the covers, forcing Spencer to give you a fashion show of the new sweater vest and tie you got him. He turns to you after putting it on, and you beam. 

“I really like it. You look great. Do you like it?” you ask. He nods, smiling back at you.

“I’m gonna wear it to work tomorrow.” 

You beckon for Spencer to come closer, sitting up in bed. Your hands go out to the tie, tugging at the knot softly. He stares down at you until eventually interrupting your motions with a slow kiss, hands cupping your face.

“You’re so pretty,” he mutters.

He pulls away and finishes what you started, folding the tie neatly and setting it in the drawer. Then comes the vest, and soon enough, he’s just in his boxers.

“You’re the pretty one,” you say quietly. “Come to bed.” He crawls on next to you, tugging you into his arms. “Happy birthday, Spence. I love you.” He dips his forehead to your shoulder.

“I love you.”

Before you know it, he’s shifted on top of you, moving down. Fast. You blink, hard, trying to rid your head of the hazy endorphins as you register what he’s doing.

“What? No, I was gonna do that. It’s your birthday. You don’t have to,” you protest.

“But I really, really want to, darling girl,” he murmurs back, kissing your knee and softly pushing it to the side.

You fluster and Spencer just looks at you, fingers tracing shapes on your waist, waiting for you to be ready. 

“Well. Um. Okay. If you insist. I can’t really deny the birthday boy.” Your voice is small, and a little giddy smile grows on your face. Of course Spencer Reid would want to give you head on his birthday. 

He smiles a little against the bare skin of your hip where your top meets your shorts. Then he meets your eyes. 

“You know you can, though, right?” he asks, voice a little more serious. You reach out to touch his hair softly. 

“Yeah. I know.”

Fingers hook your shorts, gently pulling them down. He presses a kiss to your thigh, and then he suddenly looks down at it. 

“Soft,” he murmurs, like he’s making a mental note. He presses another, and another, incrementally going closer and closer to your soaked through underwear. His eyebrows scrunch when he sees the wet spot. “All this from a few kisses?” 

You blush, unable to respond. 

Spencer’s fingers hook a centimeter of your underwear. “These?” he checks.

“Yes, please,” you manage. He tugs them down, silently noticing the slickness of your sex, and exhales shakily.

“How many times on average does it take for a guy to call you pretty on a given day before you get annoyed?” he murmurs, soft smile playing on his face. You smile too, head cloudy from his words, but it immediately drops when his lips press directly against your pulsing clit, kissing it softly.

“Fuck,” you say (Spencer would argue moan) softly (loudly). You let out a content sigh, and he moves to suckle it, actions becoming less and less delicate. 

It’s not harsh, but incessant. Spencer knows what you can take. He knows exactly what you can take. You’re both quiet for a bit, save for your breathy moans. 

“Spencer,” you say softly, ripping you both out of your individually hazy and dirty and distracted minds. “You’re too far away.” He looks up to you, face parallel to your aching core, hair beautifully messy and mouth glistening.

After a second, he grabs your hips, gently pushing you up against the pillows so you’re propped up at a better angle. He then shifts his body up wordlessly so he’s more above you, dipping his head down to give you a soft kiss. You taste yourself, tongue darting out to lick your lips.

His hand takes over where his mouth was, sliding in between your folds with a practiced ease. Spencer looks down at you, eyes wide and flitting between yours, searching for a reaction.

You reach out and wrap your arms around him, holding him close. “Holy shit, I love you,” you murmur.

His fingers lightly graze your clit again before one slides into you. “Angel,” he breathes out, so quietly. “I love you too. This okay? Are you okay?”

You nod feverishly and lift your hips to meet his hand, always in a perpetual state of wanting more, to be closer. Your bodies are melded so close together, barely giving him room to push his hand into you. He doesn’t even bother to ask you to use your words or keep your hips down, like he might on a regular night.

He pulls his head back to watch as he pushes another finger into you, stretching you just a little. “There we go. You always feel like heaven around me.”

Your eyes flit up to his face as he says those words, now having a little more room to observe him. You focus on the slope of his nose and curve of his mouth. 

“You’re so perfect,” you say quietly, adoringly, before you even realize it was true.

You blink at that thought. Spencer Reid is perfect, despite whatever universal odds deeming that impossible.

Those graphs, those formulas, now laying discarded & crumpled on the ground. They click, a little bit. You understand why Albert Einstein wanted to spend his life developing theories of relativity.

This is how Spencer sees you? What he was talking about earlier?

This is how he sees you?

The thought is almost too much.

Spencer sees your face, and not knowing what's going on in your head, slides down his free hand from your cheek to your carotid, feeling your racing pulse. “Take a deep breath for me, okay? You're about to come, huh?”

You inhale and are met with peace. Then your orgasm hits you like a wave. You clench hard around his fingers, and he just watches it happen, fascinated. “Baby,” he coos softly at you.

It wasn’t just your sensitivity he’s currently maximizing on or the little kisses he dips down to leave on your neck that sealed the deal, but the very thought that you could be loved in a way that is so perfectly impossible.

You exhale breathily as Spencer pushes you through the last trails of your climax, fingers not caring one bit that you just had your world tilted on its axis. 

“Spencer. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” you say eventually, overstimulated.

“You’re okay. Did so good.” he murmurs, fingers slipping out of you. 

His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away a tear you didn't even realize was dripping down.

“Don’t cry, you always cry. It’s my birthday. Don’t cry on my birthday,” he whispers soothingly, affection lacing his voice.

“I’m not.” 

Another one falls. 

You reach and press out that perpetual little slope between his eyebrows with your thumb, gentle, like you might break him. “I’m not crying.”

Spencer lets you lie.

[afeelgoodblog]

The Best News of Last Month - August 2024

1.Negative Power Prices Hit Europe as Renewable Energy Floods the Grid

European power markets are experiencing a notable shift as renewable energy sources, particularly wind and solar, become a larger part of the energy mix. On Wednesday, power prices in several European markets, including Germany, dipped below zero due to a surge in green electricity production.

2. Taiwan introduces ban on performances by captive wild animals

Live performances by wild animals held in captivity, including performances by dolphins, tigers, and other non-domesticated mammals, will no longer be permitted in Taiwan under new Ministry of Agriculture (MOA) regulations.

3. FTC bans fake online reviews, inflated social media influence; rule takes effect in October

The FTC voted unanimously to ban marketers from using fake reviews, such as those generated with AI technology, and other misleading advertising practices.

The ban also forbids marketers from exaggerating their own influence by, for example, paying for bots to inflate their follower count.

4. Chinese drones will fly trash out of Everest slopes

Come autumn, Nepal will deploy heavy lifter drones to transport garbage from the 6,812-metre tall Ama Dablam, south of Everest. This will be the first commercial work an unmanned aerial vehicle does in Nepal’s high-altitude zone.

The heavy lifter from China’s biggest drone maker, Da Jiang Innovations (DJI), will take on tasks traditionally handled by Sherpas. Officials believe it will help reduce casualties on Everest.

5. Swiss scientists have found a way to use the whole cocoa fruit to make chocolate and not just taking beans and discarding the rest.

Kim Mishra (L) and Anian Schreiber (R) cooperated on the new chocolate making process

Food scientists in Switzerland have come up with a way to make chocolate using the entire cocoa fruit rather than just the beans - and without using sugar.

The chocolate, developed at Zurich’s prestigious Federal Institute of Technology by scientist Kim Mishra and his team includes the cocoa fruit pulp, the juice, and the husk, or endocarp.

6. Six-year-old boy found in Vietnam forest after five days

A six-year-old boy who was missing for five days has been found deep in a forest in Vietnam. Dang Tien Lam, who lives in the northwestern Yen Bai province, was playing in a stream with his nine siblings on 17 August when he wandered into the hills and got lost, local reports said.

He was found on Wednesday by local farmers who heard a child's cry while they were clearing a cinnamon field close to the forest.

7. Lego plans to make half the plastic in bricks from renewable materials by 2026

Lego plans to make half the plastic in its bricks from renewable or recycled material rather than fossil fuels by 2026, in its latest effort to ensure its toys are more environmentally friendly.

The Danish company last year ditched efforts to make bricks entirely from recycled bottles because of cost and production issues. At the moment, 22% of the material in its colourful bricks is not made from fossil fuels.

----------

That's it for this month :)

This newsletter will always be free. If you liked this post you can support me with a small kofi donation here:

Buy me a coffee ❤️

Also don’t forget to share this post with your friends.

[iamred-iamyellow]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Perfect All American

♥ masterlist | request rules | based on this request

♥ pairing: oscar piastri x fem!american!driver!reader

♥ synopsis: you and oscar decided to make your relationship a secret in hopes to not stir up any “conflict of interest” rumors. however, he just couldn’t help being a proud boyfriend when you won your first race for williams as a rookie. 

♥ smau + written - fc: girls on pinterest - none of the pictures are mine

♥ warnings: swearing !!!

♥ a/n: once again, i’m so sorry this took so long for me to write but i really hope it was worth the wait anon <3

-October 2023-

liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri, susie_wolff and 879,593 more

williamsracing We're incredibly pleased to announce that @/yourusername has signed a three year contract deal with us starting this following F1 season. She will line up alongside @/logansargeant and will be the first woman to drive a Grand Prix since Lella Lombardi in 1976. We are absolutely honored to have you. Welcome to the Williams family 💙

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yourusername its a perfect all american grid

user6 I understood that reference

user5 🦅🦅🦅

user1 USA USA RAHHH 🇺🇸🗽🏈

user8 WOOO

user2 following in susie's footsteps :')

prema_racing we’re so proud of you

yourusername <3

oscarpiastri I’ll see you in melbourne 😉

user12 it’s the wink for me

user4 im gonna miss prema era y/n

user5 @/user4 ok but the trio is back together !!! y/n, oscar, and logan

user6 @/user5 you’re forgetting about fred

user9 fred vesti always the bridesmaid never the bride

user10 need me some williams gear asap

user14 💙💙💙

logansargeant excited to finally have a fellow american on team torque

yourusername me 🤝 logan

alex_albon 😐

georgerussell63 and here I was thinking you were happy to join me at mercedes

user13 I’m a child of the britcedes-sargebon divorce

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

-Williams' Rising Star: Y/n L/n-

Williams has announced that American F2 Champion, Y/n L/n will be making her Formula 1 debut next year alongside Logan Sargeant. She has been making waves in the world of motorsports for over a decade now, and it seems that all of her hard work has finally payed off. She's already been placed in the history books for her impeccable talent on track and her inspiring work off it. Not only has she broken plenty of records in feeder series', but she also contributed to the creation of F1 Academy.

From Long Beach a to Monte Carlo

Early in her karting career Y/n was scouted for the Mercedes Junior Drivers Team and she's seemed to have a close relationship with Toto and Susie Wolff ever since. She uprooted her life from California to London as a young teen, taking a huge risk in hopes to accomplish her dreams.

What does this mean for F1?

With rising representation in all areas of f1, we can hope to see young women getting more opportunities to make their mark on the sport. Let's face it, the future of F1 is female.

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by oscarpiastri, williamsracing, liablock, and 583,502 more

yourusername POINTS?!?!

tagged; @/bah_int_circuit

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williamsracing starting off this year strong!

frederikvestiofficial WOOOO !!!

yourusername WOOOO 🎉

arthur_leclerc way to go y/n

yourusername ty artie my favorite leclerc 😍

charles_leclerc hey ??

user1 @/yourusername what about oscar piastri-leclerc

yourusername I CHANGE MY ANSWER

oscarpiastri I'm so happy for you

yourusername <3

user2 ...

user3 👀

logansargeant lets gooo 💪

yourusername 🦅🦅

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by mclarenracingf1, landonorris, yourusername, and 983,012 more

oscarpiastri maiden win

comments are limited

yourusername never beating the polite cat allegations with that smile

oscarpiastri :]

yourusername I'm so proud of you btw 🫶

oscarpiastri 🫶

landonorris congrats

oscarpiastri thanks mate

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

-Dutch Grand Prix-

"Plan A, Y/n. Plan A," your race engineer said to you on the radio.

"What about plan C? I think it will work," you responded.

"Uhm, as of right now we don't want to risk your position, so plan A, Y/n, plan A." they spoke softly.

"I can hold the tires, I swear. We're already at the back of the pack, we have nothing to lose."

"I think that's the first time I've heard a driver try to argue their way out of the main strategy," Crofty laughed on the broadcast.

"Box, Y/n. Box."

You sighed, thinking you've reached your defeat. You pulled into your pit box and noticed the green ring on the tires.

They're putting you on inters.

They're following your strategy.

You clicked the radio button back on, "Thank you," you screamed to your team.

You were briefed with everything a few days ago, but you couldn't help but come up with your own plan after getting the weather report for the weekend.

The rain was about a minute away now and you begged the team to put you on intermediate tires right at this time. You knew it would be difficult to drive on a barley damp track like this, but if it worked you could be looking at a podium.

You only had to drive a single lap before it started pouring and your plan payed off. Almost the entire grid struggled with their dry tires in the new track conditions, giving you time to create a lead as they had to slow down and pit.

Every lap you completed as race leader made you more anxious than the last. You held your breath as you reached the last corner of the last lap, vaguely able to see the chequered flag. Tears filled your eyes as you crossed the finish line in P1, the Williams garage being shown on the big screen sprinting out to congratulate you.

-

Before you had the chance to jump into the arms of your team, Oscar was running up to you. He picked you up and pressed his soft lips to yours right in front of the cameras. You smiled into the kiss, happy tears still streaming down your cheeks.

He pulled you into a tight hug, "I'm so proud of you. I love you so much," he mumbled into your hair.

"I love you too, Osc." you laughed through your crying.

He pulled away, cupping your face in his hands, and kissing your forehead. You smiled as he wiped your cheeks with his thumbs.

"So... instead of us interacting with each other online to keep our relationship private, you decide to make out with me in public?"

Oscar laughed and hugged you again, "Just enjoy the moment.”

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by kimiraikkonen, sebastianvettel, williamsracing, and 6,394,625 more

F1 Y/n L/n makes history as the first woman to win an F1 Grand Prix and the first win for Williams since 2012. Well done 👏

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yourusername fact is walter white james vowles couldn't have done it without me 🗣️

georgerussell63 so true 🔥

logansargeant LETS FUCKING GOOOO

yourusername RAHHHH

susie_wolff I'm so proud of you 💗

yourusername <3

user7 the way susie was recording her on the podium like a proud mom :')

user8 ROOKIE WIN

user4 🐐🐐

lewishamilton @/yourusername incredible drive today. congrats on the win, it was well deserved

yourusername tysm lew 🫶

jensonbutton thats literally my daughter

youruseranme DAD 🫂

user3 I thought she was supposed to be Toto's daughter...

user6 @/user3 toto, lewis, nico, jenson──they're all related one way or another

user2 family tree is a wreath

mercedesamgf1 all hail queen y/n

user9 y/n to Mercedes 2025 !!!

liked by yourusername, landonorris, logansargeant, and 1,203,284 more

oscarpiastri y/n l/n. my best friend, the love of my life, and a formula 1 grand prix race winner. this is such an incredible achievement and I am so happy for you. I know you are out there inspiring so many young women and I couldn't be prouder. you are the most incredible girlfriend, driver, and person I have ever met. congratulations on the win, you deserve it. I love you ❤️

tagged; @/yourusername

comments are limited

yourusername osccc 🥹 you've been my #1 fanboy since our karting days and I can't thank you enough for all the support you've given me <3 I love you so much

♡ by oscarpiastri

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

end notes: tysm for reading <3 don’t ask me about the real life mechanics behind the tires bc im obviously not qualified for that 💀 i based that scene off of the strategy i use when i play gran turismo and i see the clouds get grey (it’s never failed me)

[shesnake]

Spider-Verse Artists Say Working on the Sequel Was ‘Death by a Thousand Paper Cuts’

Why don’t more animated movies look this good? According to people who worked on the sequel, Across the Spider-Verse, it’s because the working conditions required to produce such artistry are not sustainable.

Multiple Across the Spider-Verse crew members — ranging from artists to production executives who have worked anywhere from five to a dozen years in the animation business — describe the process of making the the $150 million Sony project as uniquely arduous, involving a relentless kind of revisionism that compelled approximately 100 artists to flee the movie before its completion.

While frequent major overhauls are standard operating procedure in animation (Pixar films can take between four and seven years to plot, animate, and render), those changes typically occur early on during development and storyboarding stages. But these Spider-Verse 2 crew members say they were asked to make alterations to already-approved animated sequences that created a backlog of work across multiple late-stage departments. Across the Spider-Verse was meant to debut in theaters in April of 2022, before it was postponed to October of that year and then June 2023 owing to what Entertainment Weekly reported as “pandemic-related delays.” However, the four crew members say animators who were hired in the spring of 2021 sat idle for anywhere from three to six months that year while Phil Lord tinkered with the movie in the layout stage, when the first 3-D representation of storyboards are created.

As a result, these individuals say, they were pushed to work more than 11 hours a day, seven days a week, for more than a year to make up for time lost and were forced back to the drawing board as many as five times to revise work during the final rendering stage.

"For animated movies, the majority of the trial-and-error process happens during writing and storyboarding. Not with fully completed animation. Phil’s mentality was, This change makes for a better movie, so why aren’t we doing it? It’s obviously been very expensive having to redo the same shot several times over and have every department touch it so many times. The changes in the writing would go through storyboarding. Then it gets to layout, then animation, then final layout, which is adjusting cameras and placements of things in the environment. Then there’s cloth and hair effects, which have to repeatedly be redone anytime there’s an animation change. The effects department also passes over the characters with ink lines and does all the crazy stuff like explosions, smoke, and water. And they work closely with lighting and compositing on all the color and visual treatments in this movie. Every pass is plugged into editing. Smaller changes tend to start with animation, and big story changes can involve more departments like visual development, modeling, rigging, and texture painting. These are a lot of artists affected by one change. Imagine an endless stream of them."

"Over 100 people left the project because they couldn’t take it anymore. But a lot stayed on just so they could make sure their work survived until the end — because if it gets changed, it’s no longer yours. I know people who were on the project for over a year who left, and now they have little to show for it because everything was changed. They went through the hell of the production and then got none of their work coming out the other side."

[formulamar]

she's a ferrari

charles leclerc x yn!ferrari

fc: Addison Rae

summary: as a child, the great-grand daughter of Enzo Ferrari used to spend her weekends hanging around the paddock. but once she went off to university her appearances became rare. what happens when she starts working for Ferrari? and... one of the drivers steals her heart.

October 2023

rumorhasitf1

liked by cl16fan and 3,049 others

rumorhasitf1: 🚨RUMOR CONFIRMED 🚨

After not being seen at a F1 Grand Prix in three years Y/N Ferrari stuns at the 2023 Austin Grand Prix.

643 comments

ferrarifan3: OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GODD!!!!!!!!

ferrarifan0: LETS GOOOO

f1fan6: THE QUEEN IS BACKKKKKKK

-> mclarenfan8: wait i'm new fan. can someone explain who this is???

-> ferrarifan3: yn is Enzo Ferrari's great-grand daughter. she's attended races since she was maybe 5 or 6 years old and formed really close bonds w the drivers (mostly the Ferrari drivers ofc) its an ongoing joke that Fernando is her "f1 dad" because he was very protective of her and they have a close bond.

tifosi9: I NEVER DOUBTED U @/rumorhasitf1

liked by rumorhasitf1

f1fan05: amazing day for Fernando Alonso

ferrarifan7: she looks so grown up omggggg 🥲

twitter

🔒 ynferrari

liked by charles_leclerc, ynbff and 560 others

🔒ynferrari: austinnnnn had so much fun but not a good weekend for the fam :(

67 comments

fernandoalonso: Where was my invitation???

->🔒 ynferrari: this is literally your workplace…

ynbff: yn ur hotter than austin will ever be (I've never stepped foot in austin)

-> ynferrari: babe I appreaciate this but it is actually so hot here I am going to die

landonorris: @/ynbff was right

-> carlossainz55: Cabrón 😂

-> fernandoalonso: @/landonorris you want to have a chat?

-> ynferrari: NO NANDO HES JOKING

charles_leclerc: Hope you visit more often yn!

liked by ynferrari

-> danielricciardo: Ok... 🤔

🔒 ynferrari's story

twitter

ynferrari_updates

liked by cl16fan, 1644lvrrr and 409 others

ynferrari_updates: yn is in the paddock for the mexico gp!!!!! forza ferrari!!!

53 comments

ferrarifan3: ferrari princess is back!!!!

charlesfan83: SHE LOOKS SO GOOD

ln4s: omg i wanna see the rest of her outfit so bad

lordpercevalfan: THE PEARLS!!!!!

ferrarienthusiast38: it’s my dream to meet her 🥹

charlesleclerc16updates

charlesleclerc16updates: Charles responding to a question about Y/N during his post-race interview ❤

60 comments

cl16fan: HIS SMILE AWE

charlnor: "getting to know each other better" getting to know each other better. getting to know each other better. GETTING TO KNOW EACH OTHER BETTER! getting to know each other better?

-> f1fan6: bro is talking like they're going out or something

-> charlesfan2: this + the speculation on Twitter is making me start to believe they might be dating

lec4: can we talk about how is whole face lit up when he was asked about her because it makes me feel insane

-> ferrarifan7: I NOTICED THAT TOOOO

user: I don't get this. Y/N is just another nepo baby parading her status around the paddock who's last name happens to be Ferrari. How is she helping the team???

-> charlnor: yn is very passionate about motorsport and has been since she was little. a lot of the team members who have been working at Ferrari for years know her very well and have seen her grow up. she's also known for being a very kind person. and if you haven't noticed she does not "parade" anything around. she's a very private person most of what we know about her is info from fan interactions, team members or drivers. Ferrari is a family and its literally her LEGACY.

November 2023

🔒ynferrari's story

to be continued…

⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩

a/n: i’ve had this idea in my head forever 🤭🤭 reblog if you want part 2!!! + pls comment if you want to be on the taglist :)

[batboyblog]

Things the Biden-Harris Administration Did This Week #36

September 27-October 4 2024

President Biden and Vice-President Harris have lead the federal response to Hurricane Helene. President Biden's leadership earned praise from the Republican Governors of South Carolina, Virginia, Tennessee, and Georgia, as well as the Democratic Governor of North Carolina and local leaders. Thousands of federal workers are on the ground in effected communities having given out to date over 8 million meals, over 7 million letters of water. Both President Biden and Vice-President Harris have been on the ground in resent days meeting with effected families. During her trip to Georgia Vice-President Harris announced that the federal government will reimburse state and local government 100% of the costs from Hurricane Helene.

A strike by the International Longshoremen’s Association that briefly shut down ports on the East Cost and Gulf ended in a tentative deal. Both sides thanked Acting Secretary of Labor Julie Su and Secretary of Transportation Pete Buttigieg for helping push the deal through. President Biden and Vice-President Harris had expressed solidarity with the works when the strike was announced and President Biden directed Secretary Buttigieg to take the lead in pressuring management to make a deal with the Longshoremen. The ILA got a 62% raise as part of the agreement.

Vice President Harris announced new actions to help those struggling with medical debt. This actions include new standards from the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau on debt collection. the CFPB plans on requiring debt collectors to confirm debts are valid and accurate before engaging in collection actions. As well as cracking down on debt collectors that collect on debt that is not owed by patients. Other actions included an announcement by the DoD that it was reducing pricing for civilians who get medical treatment at DoD hospitals and a track down on tax-exempt hospitals who are required by law to offer financial assistance but often do not. These steps come after Vice President Harris in June announced plans to remove medical debt from credit scores. Following the Vice President's call to action North Carolina moved forward a plan to eliminate medical debt for 2 million people in the state. President Biden's American Rescue Plan funds have been used by state and local Democrats to eliminate $7 billion dollars in medical debt.

The Department of Transportation announced $62 Billion in infrastructure funding for 2025. Thanks to the Bipartisan Infrastructure Law passed by President Biden this will be $18 billion dollars more than was spent in 2021. The Biden-Harris Admin has helped support over 60,000 infrastructure projects across all 50 states, rebuilding roads and bridges, breaking ground on America's first high speed rail, updating ports and airports, and breaking high speed internet to rural communities.

The Department of Transportation announced $1 Billion dollars of investment in America's passenger rail future. This comes on top of $8.2 billion in investments announced in December 2023. The funds will help expand and modernize intercity passenger rail nationwide.

The Departments of Energy and Agriculture announced a $2.8 billion joint project to bring 100% carbon pollution-free energy to the rural midwest. The DoE is investing $1.5 billion into helping bring the Palisades Nuclear Plant in Michigan back on-line. Shut down in 2022 plans to refit and reopen it to allow the plant to keep generating clean energy till 2051. Once back online the Palisades Nuclear Plant will help stop an anticipated 4.47 million metric tons of greenhouse gas emissions a year, or 111 million metric tons of greenhouse gas emissions over its lifetime. The USDA is investing $1.3 billion in two rural electric cooperatives, Wolverine Power Cooperative and Hoosier Energy, which cover rural communities in Michigan, Illinois, and Indiana. This investment will help Wolverine and Hoosier connect to the Palisades Plant, reduce prices for customers, and reduce climate pollution, putting Wolverine Power on the path to be 100 percent carbon-free energy before 2030.

The Treasury and the IRS announced that 30 million Americans, across 24 states will qualify for free direct filing of their taxes in 2025. The IRS says that the average American spends $270 dollars and 13 hours filing their taxes. Thanks to the Inflation Reduction Act, passed by President Biden with Vice President Harris' tie breaking vote, Americans will be able to file their taxes quickly and for free directly with the IRS. Tax payers in Alaska, Arizona, California, Connecticut, Florida, Idaho, Kansas, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Nevada, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Oregon, Pennsylvania, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Washington, Wisconsin, and Wyoming will in 2025 be able to use direct file.

The USDA announced $7.7 billion in funding for Climate-Smart Practices on Agricultural Lands. This represents the single biggest investment in these programs in USDA history. Since implementation began in 2023 this conservation assistance has helped over 28,500 farmers and ranchers apply conservation to 361 million acres of land.

The Department of Energy announced $1.5 billion in investments in transmission infrastructure to help ensure our grid is reliable and resilient. This will help support nearly 1,000 miles of new transmission lines across Louisiana, Maine, Mississippi, New Mexico, Oklahoma, and Texas. These lines will bring 7,100 MW of new capacity and create 9,000 good paying union jobs. Studies find to keep up with growth and meet our climate goals of carbon free energy the US will need to triple the 2020 transmission capacity by 2050. This is an important step to meeting that goal.