#I’m sold. there’s no one else. I’m obsessed with this girl

[hamable]

Thoughts while watching the new miraculous movie cuz I’m three minutes in and can already TELL I’m gonna be losing my mind:

Spoilers under cut obv

Daddy no :( you can’t take me to school tomorrow with fresh baked goods for my whole class :( that’s so embarrassing :( what would they THINK ?!?!

Marinette: I want a better life (beautiful, picturesque Paris, apartment above your parents bakery, heading to a fancy school) cause I’m so clumsy???

Me: GIRLY ILL SWAP WITH YOU???

God I saw stuff about the singing voice and it’s so tonally and stylistically different from Christina Vee’s VAing that I can’t take it seriously. The singer isn’t necessarily bad, but it’s so clearly a different person.

Aside from the im loving the animation so far. It’s so cool seeing these character I’ve known since like 2017 in a new, more polished style.

Goddamnit we’re still making popular girl no carbs jokes???

DAMN ALYA THATS COLD (oh sorry, do I need to take a number behind the line of friends coming to your rescue?) LIKE YOUVE HAD ONE LINE SO FAR.

Chloe going about this bully/rival thing reeaallll fruity

Emo Adrien just trying to listen to MCR and tune out the normies that just don’t get it 😡😭

NINO BEST BRO

EW WHAT HAIR IS THAT GABRIEL

Nooroo called them the ladybug and chat noir miraculouses, but shouldn’t it be the ladybug and black cat miraculous? I thought they chose their names for themselves, ladybug sticking with ladybug, chat noir coming up with his own?

TIKKI IS SO CUTE OMG

This chat noir so silly and goofy

NOT CARELESS WHISPER ARE YOU KIDDING ME. YALL COULDA DONE A BEAUTIFUL ORCHESTRAL SWELL AND YOU PICK C A R E L E S S W H I S P E R?!?!?!?!

Btw why did Marinette prove her worth while adrien was just like. Doing hw. It’s easy to prove you can use the ladybug for good. Show me why he was chosen to use destruction for good. That’d be so interesting.

PUSS IN BOOTS

Plagg take an antacid plz

SHE THREW IT OUT THE WINDOW

Pop off hawk moth villain song honestly, best one so far

OK HAWKMOTH SING

Nino Dr. Love omg my favorite guy

Golden rule: always stay cool… (voice immediately shoots up an octave when Alya speaks to him)

That’s NOT HOW ROLLERCOASTERS WORK

That’s gotta be at least a few casualties

ASHDJFJF Catches Chloe from a deadly fall only to redirect and chuck her HARDER into a dumpster

Chloe you gotta stop giving off repressed fruity vibes

This movie has not established enough of a connection between marinette and adrien to justify ladybug rejecting chat noir (on the basis of loving someone else, I mean, not that she can’t reject him at all)

Plagg? Not the time.

WTF HAPPENED TO YOU GABRIEL?!?! DID YOU GO ON A BENDER?!?!

The movie has not established enough, if any, disconnect between adrien and gabriel. I love seeing adrien stand up for himself, but it feels kinda weird

LMAO HES LIKE BOUNCING IN PLACE WITH ANGER DONT MAKE ME LAUGH

Adrien with headphones is so fucking funny to me. Head down shoulders hunched, listen to welcome to Nightvale cause no one else gets it

Chloe. Every. God. Every word out of your mouth is so fruity. “There is someone else. And she’s right in front of you.” Someone else for who, Chloe?? For marinette?? I better you’re hoping she thinks you mean u and her huh?

Crush likes someone else. Life not worthy living. Dreams not worth pursuing.

All these songs run together. Except hawkmoths. His kicked ass.

Jesus Christ it’s Armageddon

STOP WITH THE FUCKING CARELESS WHISPER

HAS HE BEEN LISTENING TO CARELESS WHISPER THE WHOLE TIME?!?! THIS FUCKING LOSER OH MY GOD

Ladybug out here in YOUR FATHERS APOCALYPSE and you’re MOPING IN YOUR FANCY HOUSE

It’s the end of the world are you really gonna be salty rn?!?!

Ew why it’s the cataclysm like. An oil slick?!

Oh shit he dead

Oh he super dead

From the top of the Eiffel Tower? Into water?? You’re dead.

WHERE IS THE LAVA COMING FROM?!

SINCE WHEN DO YOU HAVE THE FORCE HAWKMOTH?!

Damn show hawkmoth could never.

Jesus fucking razor winged butterflies

Movie says fuck sentimonster adrien here’s Emilie pregnant

Anyways uh you killed and displaced likely hundreds of citizens so get ready for a lifetime in prison, hawky

OH I FORGOT ABOUT MIRACULOUS LADYBUG LMAO WERE GOOD ACTUALLY

Ok you placed the rubble back together but a bunch of people are still probably dead right

Ya Chloe make a quick exit bc of that gay crisis you’re having. Next year? Back to bullying. What was this year Chloe? Hm?

Overall: cool animation and effects, nostalgic for early lady noir dynamic, writer brain is itching for what could’ve been, but otherwise it is what it is, prob won’t watch it again.

EDIT: SHE DISNT DO MIRACULOUS LADYBUG UNTIL THE END RIGHT???? LIKE AFTER A FEW MONTHS OF HEROING??? SO ALL THE SHIT AT THE FAIR. JUST HAPPENED. YOU CANT TELL ME THERE ARENT LIKE. DEAD BODIES. I DONT THINK SHE KNEW SHE COULD FIX IT RIGHT??? PEOPLE DIED. YOU DESTROYED A CHUNK OF A CITY GABRIEL.

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 6: August 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

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1TeaSpiller: Uhhh… when did Victoria Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc start following each other on Instagram??

↳@/F1Fanatic44: Wait what??? Since when do they even know each other??

↳@/GridGossip: That’s actually wild because I don’t remember them ever interacting before???

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Victoria always comments on her posts too?? Like hype girl mode. Like full-on “omg stunning!!” type comments.

↳@/PaddockSpy: And Isabelle replies!! She called Victoria’s baby “the cutest little thing.”

↳@/TifosiTears: The Leclerc brothers don’t even do that lmao

↳@/PaddockWhispers: How did we miss this??

@/F1TeaSpiller: No because I went deep and Victoria and Isabelle have been commenting on each other’s posts for MONTHS.

↳@/DR3Simp: So either they’ve been secret besties this whole time… or something else is going on.

↳@/LandoLover4: Define “something else.”

↳@/F1Conspiracies: Y’all. Y’ALL.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: What if she’s dating Max.

↳@/RedFlagF1: BE SERIOUS.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: THINK ABOUT IT.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: 1. Isabelle keeps her private life locked down.2. She suddenly has a very close relationship with Victoria Verstappen. 3. MAX ALSO KEEPS HIS PRIVATE LIFE LOCKED DOWN. 4. HES LEARNING TO RIDE FOR HIS GIRLFRIEND AND THE LECLERC’S SOLD ISABELLE’S CHILDHOOD HORSE TO PAY FOR CHARLES’ KARTING. 

↳@/TifosiTears: No. No way.

↳@/GridGossip: … But imagine if it’s true. SHE DESIGNED HIS APARTMENT AFTER ALL.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: How do you get from “Max’s girlfriend likes horses and so does Isabelle Leclerc” and Victoria Verstappen following Isabelle Leclerc on Instagram to: “Max and Isabelle will raise the next racing dynasty?!”

@/PaddockWhispers: When did they even meet?? Isabelle isn’t really in the paddock scene like that.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: SHE DESIGNED HIS SIM ROOM. THEY MUST HAVE MET THROUGH THAT. 

↳@/LandoFangirl: Be so serious right now.

@/F1TeaSpiller: Okay, I’m officially obsessed with this mystery. Isabelle and Victoria are way too friendly for two people who have zero public connection. Something is UP.

↳@/TifosiFan44: What if they just vibe?? Not everything has to be a conspiracy.

↳@/F1Detective: Okay, let’s be logical for a second. Isabelle and Victoria both grew up around karting. Their families must’ve crossed paths back in the day. Maybe they’ve always known each other and just reconnected??

↳@/TifosiFan44: Yeah, but why reconnect now? Why not years ago?

↳@/PaddockSpy: Maybe they ran into each other recently? Like, at a race or something?

↳@/GridGossip: Or maybe… through someone else. 👀

↳@/F1Conspiracies: SAY HIS NAME.

↳@/RedBullUpdates: DUH DUH DUH MAX VERSTAPPEN

↳@/PaddockWhispers: This is getting out of hand.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: Is it? OR AM I ONTO SOMETHING???

@/F1Conspiracies: If you’re telling me Isabelle and Victoria were secretly friends this whole time, I’m gonna need proof because this is a new development.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Nah, I just scrolled through their follows. Victoria followed Isabelle first and Isabelle followed back. It happened within the last few months.

↳@/PaddockWhispers: And suddenly, Victoria is in Isabelle’s comments like they’re besties??

@/TifosiFan99: Do you guys think Charles knows his little sister and Victoria are suddenly besties???

↳@/F1Detective: Absolutely not.

↳@/GridGossip: He’s about to find out through Twitter like the rest of us.

↳@/RedBullInsider: Imagine Charles scrolling IG and seeing Victoria hyping up his sister like “That’s my girl! 🥰” and he’s just sitting there like ???

↳@/PaddockSpy: Someone check on Arthur too, because he’s definitely confused.

@/F1Chaos: Isabelle Leclerc and Victoria Verstappen being all over each other’s Instagram is the funniest plot twist of the season. ↳@/PaddockWhispers: If it turns out that Max and Isabelle have been secretly dating and Victoria knew before Charles, I will actually SCREAM.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat 

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Lorenzo: Are we going on a family trip this summer?

Charles: Yeah, Maman was saying she wants to go somewhere all together.

Arthur: Cool. Who’s planning it?

Lorenzo: Isabelle?

Isabelle: …Planning what?

Arthur: The holiday. You know, flights, hotels, stuff to do.

Charles: Yeah, you’re good at that.

Lorenzo: You always find the best places.

Isabelle: Where do we even want to go?

Charles: Somewhere sunny.

Arthur: Beach?

Lorenzo: Good food.

Charles: Okay, Isabelle will sort it.

Isabelle: Right. Sure.

***

Max walked into the living room to find Isabelle surrounded.

Not by clutter—because she didn’t do clutter—but by controlled chaos: her iPad, her laptop, a notebook with neat handwriting, three different browser tabs open on the TV via screen mirroring, and a Google Doc titled Leclerc Family Vacation 2023 (Please Read This One, Arthur).

She didn’t even look up when he walked in. Just tapped something into a spreadsheet with the quiet precision of someone five minutes away from snapping.

“Let me guess,” Max said, dropping onto the couch beside her. “Charles still hasn’t confirmed the villa dates?”

“No,” Isabelle said calmly, “but he did text me a TikTok of a guy falling off a paddleboard. So. Priorities.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Arthur?”

“Suggested a campsite,” Isabelle muttered. “In Corsica. In August. With no air conditioning.”

Max winced. “Criminal.”

“Then Maman said she was ‘fine with anything,’ which we all know is a trap. And now someone needs to book rooms, coordinate flights, and arrange for something that resembles a plan so we don’t end up yelling at each other on a dock somewhere again.”

Max blinked. “So you’re doing it.”

“I always do it.”

That last part came out too soft, almost like she didn’t mean to say it.

Max leaned back, watching her. Hair up in a clip, sleeves pushed to her elbows, brow furrowed in concentration. This was her armor. Her autopilot. The invisible job of being the quiet one. The dependable one. The one who held everything together while everyone else lived like the world would bend for them.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “So… Leclerc family vacation, next week?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll go a week later.”

She paused mid-keystroke. “What?”

“Your family’s doing their thing the 6th,” Max said, reaching for her notebook and gently closing it. “So we’ll do ours the 13th. Somewhere quiet. Just us.”

Her lips parted. “You mean… another trip?”

“Yeah.” He stretched his arm over the back of the couch, brushing his fingers through a loose strand of her hair. “One where no one forgets your suitcase. Or sticks you with the worst room. Or makes you plan dinner for eight.”

A beat passed.

Then she asked, automatically, “Want me to look up flights?”

Max laughed softly, leaning in. “One: I have a private jet.”

Isabelle blushed. “Right. I forget that sometimes.”

“Two,” he said, voice dropping just a little, “I’m going to plan this one. You don’t have to do anything.”

She stared at him like he’d offered her an alien concept.

Max tucked a finger under her chin, smiling gently. “You don’t always have to carry it all, Belle. Not with me.”

Her throat bobbed. “But I’m—”

“Let me take care of you for once,” he said simply.

And it hit her—the realization that he meant it. That he liked doing this. That she didn’t have to earn it, or apologize for it, or trade it for usefulness.

Just be loved.

Just rest.

Isabelle nodded slowly. “Okay.”

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: Alright, what’s the latest Max Verstappen Is a Perfect Boyfriend update?

Isabelle: …I don’t know if it’s a big deal.

Emilie: Isabelle. It is. Just tell me.

Isabelle: He cuddles me after.

Emilie: …After?

Isabelle: Yeah.

Emilie: Like, after after?

Isabelle: Yes, Emilie.

Emilie: ARE YOU TELLING ME NONE OF YOUR EXES EVER CUDDLED YOU AFTER SEX?!

Isabelle: …I thought that wasn’t really a thing?

Emilie: I—WHAT.

Isabelle: I mean, maybe for some people? But I always got the impression guys weren’t really into that.

Emilie: No. No, no, no. They just weren’t into you.

Isabelle: Gee, thanks.

Emilie: NOT WHAT I MEANT. I MEAN THEY DIDN’T CARE ABOUT YOU.

Isabelle: Oh. Yeah. That sounds more accurate.

Emilie: No one ever held you? Like, at all?

Isabelle: Not really. Sometimes they’d roll over and go on their phones. Or just… leave.

Emilie: …And you were okay with that??

Isabelle: No? But I thought that was just how it was.

Emilie: Isabelle. Oh my god.

Isabelle: But Max just stays. Like, without me asking. He pulls me close, kisses my forehead, plays with my hair, runs his hands up and down my back. Even if we don’t say anything, he just stays.

Emilie: Because he cares about you. Because he actually likes you.

Isabelle: I know. 

***

The villa was beautiful.

Of course, it was. Isabelle had picked it.

Neutral-toned interiors, quiet luxury, three terraces, private beach access, and just enough separation between the bedrooms to avoid World War III.

She’d arranged the grocery delivery.

 The airport transfers.

 The private boat rental.

Carefully adjusted seating to avoid drama (Arthur’s girlfriend apparently did not want to sit next to Alexandra ever again)

It was her spreadsheet, her itinerary, her effort.

And yet, as she stood in the kitchen restocking the drinks fridge with sparkling water and wine, she may as well have been part of the cabinetry.

No one noticed.

Or, worse—they noticed and assumed.

Assumed that of course she’d print the vineyard directions, that she’d know which car everyone was in, that she’d restock the sunscreen, make the lunch reservations, mediate the “how many towels is too many towels” fight between Arthur and his girlfriend (spoiler: it was not about the towels).

Her mother hadn’t said thank you. Not once.

No one had.

Not for the itinerary.

 Not for the car rentals.

 Not for the fact that she’d packed extra chargers and medicine and picked up Pascale’s favorite jam from that little shop in Nice.

“Isabelle,” Pascale called from outside. “Can you bring out the extra glasses?”

Isabelle bit back a sigh, picked up the tray she had already prepared, and stepped outside with a smile.

The group was gathered around the outdoor table, wine in hand, sun-drenched and happy. Lorenzo was holding court about a minor work drama, Charlotte and Alexandra nodding sympathetically, while Arthur’s girlfriend laughed at something Charles said and Arthur scrolled on his phone.

No one looked up.

No one asked how Isabelle was doing.

No one offered to help.

She set the glasses down, smiled politely, and sat at the empty spot at the end of the table.

“I think we should do the coastal hike tomorrow,” Pascale said, sipping her wine. “Before it gets too hot.”

“I thought we were doing the boat day,” Charles said.

“No, that’s Wednesday,” Isabelle said, gently. “The captain wasn’t available tomorrow.”

Pascale frowned. “Didn’t you book it for Tuesday?”

“I did. Then they called to reschedule. I put it in the itinerary I emailed last week.”

No one responded.

Lorenzo changed the subject. “Charlotte, didn’t you want to go to that vineyard?”

“Oh yes!” Charlotte said. “The one with the stone tasting room.”

“I have it bookmarked,” Isabelle said, scrolling on her phone. “We can go Thursday after lunch.”

Again, silence. Then Arthur said, “Did anyone bring cards?”

Isabelle looked down at her glass, playing with the stem.

This was how it always was.

She planned.

 She coordinated.

 She smoothed everything over.

And they still looked right through her.

No one noticed her skip lunch. Or how she was always the last to sit down. Or how she cleared everyone’s plates without being asked. 

When the private chef asked who to talk to about allergies, they directed him to Isabelle. When the AC broke in Charlotte’s and Lorenzo’s room, Isabelle called the concierge. When the car for the beach trip got delayed, Charles tossed her his phone and said, “Can you handle this?”

She did.

She always did.

And yet, when someone poured rosé for the table at dinner that night, no one poured for her.

Not out of malice. Just… absence.

Isabelle sat back, watching her brothers laugh and bicker, their girlfriends leaning into the glow of effortless charm. Her mother, serene and smiling, gently correcting Arthur’s posture and calling Charlotte chérie.

Not once had anyone asked Isabelle how her work was going. How she was doing.

As if she didn’t exist outside the role she played.

The problem was—she was too good at it.

Too good at making things smooth. Too good at stepping out of the way. Too good at fixing things before anyone noticed they were broken.

And now? No one even saw her hands holding the whole thing together.

Not even the people who were supposed to love her most.

She was just so tired. 

***

Isabelle had texted him last night.

The usual emojis were missing. Her messages were shorter. And when he’d called her just after dinner, she’d whispered, “I’m fine, it’s just a headache,” in the voice of someone trying not to cry in a bathroom.

Now, standing at the top of the stairs, he watched as a black car rolled to a stop at the edge of the airstrip. The driver stepped out and opened the door—and there she was.

Isabelle.

Shoulders slumped, hair pulled into a hasty bun, sunglasses hiding her eyes. She moved like someone trying not to be perceived. Or maybe like someone who just wanted to stop moving altogether.

She climbed the stairs slowly, and when she reached him, she managed a soft smile.

“Hi.”

Max cupped her face gently. “Hey.”

Her voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry I look like hell.”

He blinked. “You look like my favorite person.”

She laughed, sort of, but it turned into a wince.

Max frowned. “Headache?”

She nodded. “It’s been going since yesterday. Loud house. Strong perfume. Arthur’s playlist.”

Max stepped aside so she could settle into the plush leather seat, already signaling to the crew to dim the lights and lower the cabin temperature. She sank into the chair, curling slightly toward the window.

He knelt beside her, undoing the buckle on her sandals like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, like it was some kind of failing.

Max looked up sharply.

“Stop apologizing.”

She blinked behind her sunglasses. “I didn’t mean—”

“You’re in pain,” he said, his voice low, tight with something sharp and protective. “And exhausted. And still trying to be polite about it.”

She didn’t reply.

“You are not a burden,” Max continued, brushing a thumb over her knee. “You’re not too much. And you don’t have to smile through it just to make me comfortable.”

The silence stretched.

Then, quietly: “I am so tired, Max. I planned everything. Every hour, every restaurant, every day. And I don’t think anyone even noticed.”

“I noticed,” he said immediately. “Even from home, I noticed.”

He stood and grabbed a blanket, gently draping it over her before sitting beside her and tugging her legs into his lap.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured. “We’ll be here a while.”

She blinked quickly, looking down at her hands. “It was just a lot.”

“I know,” he said. “I read your texts. I could read between the lines.”

She gave a soft, tired laugh. “That obvious, huh?”

“To me? Always.” He leaned back.“You shouldn’t have to be the glue for everyone else, Belle. Especially not at the cost of your own peace.”

“I’m trying,” she said, her voice barely there. “It’s just hard to stop when no one else steps up.”

“Then let me step up.”

She closed her eyes again. Finally relaxed.

He tucked her closer.

And whispered, “Rest. I’ve got you now.”

She fell asleep between one breath and the next. And didn’t wake. Not during the flight… not during the landing. 

Max moved slowly, careful not to wake her, easing one arm beneath her knees and the other around her shoulders. She let out the faintest breath but didn’t stir, her head tipping lightly against his chest.

She weighed next to nothing like this.

The tarmac was still warm beneath his feet as he descended the steps. 

Surprisingly, Lando could be trusted with vacation recommendation. The North Island in the Seychelles greeted them with turquoise, crystalline water and beautiful weather.

The villa Max had rented just for them stood nestled between palm trees and the beach, pale stone glowing in the late afternoon light. Secluded. Safe.

It had taken him exactly twenty minutes to book it after he’d read the description. Just: privacy, space, quiet.

A place she could breathe.

He carried her inside, murmured a quiet thank-you to the staff who had pre-stocked the fridge, and walked straight to the bedroom with the softest sheets.

He laid her down gently, brushed a few strands of hair away from her forehead.

Isabelle frowned in her sleep—like even now, she didn’t know how to fully let go.

Max knelt beside the bed and whispered, “It’s okay. You don’t have to be anything right now.”

Then he pulled the blackout curtains closed, set water out on the nightstand for later, and moved through the house like a man on a mission.

No phones. No noise. No expectations.

Just him. Just her.

Just the silence she had earned.

***

Isabelle woke up to the sound of waves.

That was it.

Not alarms.

 Not messages.

 Not someone yelling across a hallway or calling her name from the bottom of a staircase.

Just waves. Slow and rhythmic, like a lullaby that had been playing long before she arrived and would keep going long after she left.

The room was warm with sunlight. Pale curtains fluttered lazily in the breeze, and the air smelled like salt and sun-warmed wood. She lay still for a long time, blinking up at the thatched ceiling, half-draped in linen sheets and Max’s hoodie from the night before.

For a few seconds, she didn’t remember where she was.

Then it hit her all at once: the flight, Max, peace.

And the fact that, for the first time in months, there was nothing to do.

 No family group chat spiraling into chaos.

Nothing.

Just this.

Isabelle sat up slowly, stretching, and looked out through the open doors to the private beach just steps away. White sand. Blue water. Palm trees swaying like they were dancing to music only they could hear.

And Max.

Already outside, barefoot in board shorts,  sunglasses perched on his head, sprawled in a lounge chair like he owned the concept of leisure. He looked up the second she moved, and smiled.

Like she was the only thing worth seeing.

She stepped outside, bare feet hitting sun-warmed wood, and he lifted his arm without a word. She curled into his side, her cheek against his shoulder, and he kissed the top of her head.

“Morning,” he murmured.

“It’s late.”

“Who cares?”

She shifted closer. 

One hand moved slowly up and down her back. Not to fix her. Just to say I’m here.

She felt him breathe. Felt her own breathing start to match his.

Felt… safe.

Like she could finally put all of it down. The smiling. The pretending. The quiet, invisible labor of being the one who always held it together.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Max murmured, kissing her hair. “Not today.”

She didn’t.

Didn’t need to.

Because this—his arms around her, the hush of the ocean, the stillness he made just for her—this was enough.

She closed her eyes.

And for the first time in weeks, Isabelle Leclerc let herself fully rest.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: Uh oh. What did Max do?

Isabelle: Nothing?? That’s the thing???

Emilie: …I need more context.

Isabelle: We’re on vacation.

Emilie: Yes, I am painfully aware that you’re somewhere warm and beautiful with your perfect boyfriend while I’m stuck here. Continue.

Isabelle: I haven’t had to plan anything. Not a single thing.

Emilie: …And?

Isabelle: No scheduling. No coordinating. No last-minute scrambling.

Isabelle: Do you understand how weird that is for me???

Emilie: Isabelle. That is literally how vacations are supposed to work.

Isabelle: I know??? But I’m just so used to handling everything.

Isabelle: And Max just… took care of it. Flights, hotel, reservations. Everything.

Emilie: And you’re struggling because…?

Isabelle: Because I keep waiting for something to go wrong and for someone to expect me to fix it. But nothing has gone wrong.

Emilie: That’s because Max is a fully functional adult. Unlike, you know. Your brothers.

Isabelle: …Huh.

Emilie: What.

Isabelle: Nothing. Just. Huh.

Emilie: That’s the sound of your brain rebooting because someone is actually taking care of you for once.

Isabelle: Maybe.

Emilie: Definitely. Now go enjoy your stress-free vacation. You deserve it.

Isabelle: …This is so weird.

Emilie: You’ll get used to it.

***

The difference was almost laughable.

The second morning, she woke up slowly, stretching under the soft sheets, and realized something was missing. She wasn’t exhausted. She wasn’t checking her phone to make sure everything was running on schedule.

She just was.

Max, lying beside her, traced lazy circles on her arm and murmured, “You okay?”

She turned her head to look at him, her face half-buried in the pillow. “This is weird.”

His lips twitched. “What is?”

“Not having to do anything.”

Max let out a soft laugh, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Yeah, that’s kind of the point, Schatje.”

She didn’t quite know how to put it into words—that she wasn’t used to this, to someone making sure she was taken care of. That she had spent her whole life organizing and managing and making sure everyone else was comfortable, and now, for the first time, she was the one being looked after.

And Max wasn’t making a big deal out of it. He wasn’t acting like it was some grand gesture. He just did it, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like she was worth the effort.

By the third day, Isabelle wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or completely unnerved by how easily Max took over.

They had spent the morning by the beach, and when she’d started to gather their towels and check if they needed to book dinner somewhere, Max had just taken the towels from her hands and said, “I already made a reservation.”

At her look of disbelief, he had only smirked. “You think I don’t know how to plan things?”

“It’s not that,” she said, stretching out on the lounge chair. “I just… I’m usually the one who does this kind of thing.”

Max hummed, pushing his sunglasses up. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You always do everything.” His tone was light, but his gaze was sharp behind the tinted lenses. “For your family. For work. You take care of everyone. But who takes care of you?”

The question caught her off guard.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. She wanted to say nobody needs to, but the truth was, no one ever really had.

And then Max, like he could hear the wheels turning in her head, just reached over and brushed his fingers against hers.

“You’re allowed to let someone else handle things,” he murmured. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

She swallowed, staring at their hands. His fingers were warm, steady.

“It’s just how it’s always been,” she admitted softly.

“I know,” Max said, lacing their fingers together. “But it doesn’t have to be.”

She didn’t answer, but when they went back to the villa, she didn’t ask where they were having dinner. She didn’t double-check the reservation or worry about what time they needed to leave.

Instead, she let Max take her hand and lead her out the door, into the night, into something she wasn’t quite used to but thought—just maybe—she could get used to.

Dinner was at a small, candlelit restaurant overlooking the ocean. Isabelle didn’t recognize the name, but the staff greeted Max like an old friend when they arrived.

“You’ve been here before?” she asked as they were led to their table.

Max pulled out her chair before sitting down himself. “I got a recommendation from a friend.” He shrugged. “I like places that are quiet.”

She understood what he meant the moment they sat down. The restaurant was intimate, with soft music playing in the background, the ocean breeze drifting through open windows. It was nothing like the places her family always picked—grand, extravagant, and often exhausting.

“You know,” she said after the waiter poured their wine. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a vacation like this before.”

Max raised a brow. “Like what?”

She gestured vaguely. “Where I didn’t have to plan everything. Where I didn’t feel like I had to keep everything together.”

Max studied her for a long moment, then set his glass down. “You shouldn’t have to feel like that at all.”

She looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “It’s just how it is.”

“But it shouldn’t be,” he countered. “That’s my point.”

Isabelle exhaled, shaking her head. “Max—”

“No, listen.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “You spent weeks making sure your mother’s birthday was perfect. You handle everything for your family, and they don’t even realize it. When was the last time someone did something like that for you?”

She stayed quiet.

“That’s what I mean,” Max said. “You do so much for everyone, but no one ever makes sure you’re okay.”

She wanted to argue, to say that wasn’t true, but the words wouldn’t come. Because he wasn’t wrong.

Max sighed, sitting back. “I just don’t want you to think you always have to be the responsible one. That you always have to be the one making sacrifices.”

“I don’t mind,” she murmured.

“You shouldn’t have to,” he said simply.

She twisted her wine glass between her fingers. It was strange, this feeling of being cared for so deliberately. Like Max had been quietly watching, noticing the cracks no one else had.

And then he smiled, easy and warm. “But for now, you don’t have to think about any of that.” He lifted his glass toward her. “This week, I handle everything.”

She hesitated, then clinked her glass against his.

It was just a week.

But for once, maybe that was enough.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: Isabelle.

Charles: Isabelle.

Charles: Isabelle.

Charles: Réponds.

Arthur: Maybe she’s busy?

Charles: Isabelle is never busy.

( One hour later… )

Isabelle: What do you want?

Charles: Wow. No hello? No how are you?

Isabelle: Charles.

Charles: Okay, fine.

Charles: What’s Alexandra’s shoe size?

Isabelle: Why are you asking me?

Charles: You’re a girl. You know these things.

Isabelle: …Charles. You live with Alexandra. Just pick up a pair of shoes from your girlfriend and CHECK FOR YOURSELF.

Charles: …oh. 

Charles: That’s actually smart.

Arthur: Wait.

Arthur: Why did it take you so long to answer?

Isabelle: I was busy.

Arthur: With what?

Isabelle: Living my life.

Arthur: That’s vague.

Charles: Yeah, where even are you?

Isabelle: On vacation.

Arthur: ???

Charles: Since when?

Isabelle: A few days ago.

Charles: Where are you?

Isabelle: The Seychelles.

Arthur: THE SEYCHELLES???

Arthur: WITH WHO???

Isabelle: A friend.

Arthur: You have some of those?!

Isabelle: Yes, Arthur, I do have friends. 

***

Instagram Post -@/maxverstappen1

Comments:

@/victoriaverstappen: Finally taking a break that doesn't involve a garage 🙌

@/danielricciardo: Blink twice if you’re being held hostage by a lifestyle influencer.

@/landonorris: Are you… relaxed?? Is this what peace looks like on you?

@/gridgirlie: I’m sorry, but this man does NOT look that content alone.

@/charlesleclercsneck: no but WHO took these??? Max didn’t set up a tripod I KNOW THAT FOR A FACT

↳ @/sunsetandsebastian: It’s the secret horse riding girlfriend! 

Instagram Post -@/isabelleleclerc

Comments:

@/f1updates: HOLD ON. WHERE DID YOU GO AND WHO ARE YOU WITH??

@/f1detectives: Wait… these pictures aren’t from the Leclerc family vacation last week, right?!?.

↳@/wagwatch: Omg you’re RIGHT. The Leclercs were in Corsica, and this is… definitely not Corsica.

↳@/f1updates: Wait, was she even on that trip?!  (I don’t think I have seen her in any pictures her brothers posted?)

↳@/isabelleleclerc: Yes!! I was on the family trip!! These are just from a different vacation.

@/leclercnation: Isabelle, where are you NOW???

↳@/isabelleleclerc: Just a little trip with a friend for a week 😊

↳@/leclercfanclub: “A little trip with a friend” GIRL THIS IS PARADISE

@/victoriaverstappel: Enjoy the vacation! And take lots of pictures, I want to sigh dreamily when you show them to me! 

@/f1sleuths: Sooo, if this isn’t the Leclerc family vacation… where exactly is she?

↳@/paddockwatch: And who is this friend taking her on a luxury getaway? 👀

@/emilie_abadie: jealous 🤩

@/gridgirls: If this is what a “quiet getaway with a friend” looks like, I need to start choosing better friends.

@/paddocktea: What do we think? Single era glow-up? Secret relationship? The people need answers.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Emilie. It happened again.

Emilie: What, relaxation? Peace? Being taken care of??

Isabelle: Yes??

Emilie: Isabelle, I swear to God—

Isabelle: We went on a hike today. I just… followed Max. That’s it. No figuring out where to go, no checking maps, no making sure there was water or sunscreen or food.

Emilie: And??

Isabelle: It felt wrong. Like I should be doing something.

Emilie: ISABELLE.

Isabelle: I know. I know.

Emilie: This is years of being the responsible one catching up to you.

Isabelle: He even packed snacks?? 

Emilie: That sounds horrible.

Isabelle: Shut up.

Emilie: Seriously, why are you texting me? Shouldn’t you be enjoying this?

Isabelle: I think my body is rejecting the concept of not having to plan or worry about anyone else.

Emilie: That is a you problem.

Isabelle: He just told me we have a boat day tomorrow. I didn’t even know we had a boat day tomorrow.

Emilie: And what are you expected to do?

Isabelle: Nothing. Just be there.

Emilie: …Okay, I sort of get why you’re spiraling.

Isabelle: Right???

Emilie: But also. Isabelle. Sweetheart. This is what happens when you date someone who pays attention and puts in effort.

Isabelle: …Huh.

Emilie: STOP SAYING ‘HUH’ LIKE YOU JUST DISCOVERED FIRE.

Isabelle: I think I have discovered fire.

Emilie: You’re dating Max Verstappen. Not one of your brothers.

Isabelle: I just… I didn’t think I was this bad at being taken care of.

Emilie: You are. But the good news? You’re learning.

Isabelle: …Maybe.

Emilie: Definitely. Now relax and let your very rich, very organized boyfriend spoil you.

Isabelle: Huh.

Emilie: I’m blocking you.

***

The light was warm and low, spilling through the palm trees and painting the terrace in soft amber.

Isabelle sat with her knees pulled up on the oversized lounger, still in her swimsuit and one of Max’s linen shirts, damp curls tucked behind her ears. Her sketchbook was open on her lap, untouched, pencil resting against the paper. She hadn’t drawn a single thing in an hour.

She was too content to move.

Max sat beside her, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, sipping from a glass of something cold and citrusy. The sea whispered in the background. He hadn’t looked at his phone in hours.

They were quiet.

It wasn’t silence that needed to be filled. It was just safe.

She turned her head and found him watching her.

“What?” she asked softly.

Max tilted his head. “You know what would be nice?”

“Tell me.”

“If you met my family before Zandvoort.”

The question landed so gently she almost didn’t realize it was a question. It was just Max—calm, steady, offering something important like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he hadn’t just opened a door and waited for her to walk through it.

Isabelle blinked. “Before Zandvoort?”

He nodded. “Just a quiet dinner. In Belgium maybe, or Monaco, whatever’s easier. My dad. Mum. Victoria. Tom. Their kids. No pressure.”

Isabelle looked down at her sketchbook. Her heart fluttered.

Meeting Max’s family wasn’t something she’d let herself think about—not seriously. Because what they had felt big sometimes, and big things had a habit of slipping away if she looked at them too hard.

But Max?

Max never made her feel like she had to earn her place.

She looked back up, searching his face. “Are you sure?”

Max smiled like it was the easiest thing in the world. “They’ll love you.”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “And… if they don’t?”

“They will,” he said, without hesitation. “But if they didn’t—which they will—I still would. That’s what matters.”

Her throat went tight.

“You don’t have to say yes now,” he added, quieter now, reaching for her hand. “But I want you there. I want them to know you like I do.”

She leaned in and kissed his shoulder, then tucked herself under his arm.

“I want that too,” she whispered. “Okay. Before Zandvoort.”

He squeezed her hand.

And for a while, they just sat there as the sun dipped into the ocean, a promise tucked between them like something sacred.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat 

(members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Charles: Zandvoort’s coming up. Arthur, you good with logistics?

Arthur: Yep. I’m flying in Tuesday morning.

Isabelle: Hey— I’m actually in the Netherlands that week for a work event. Rotterdam. I was thinking… if you two are okay with it, I could come to Zandvoort for the weekend? I’d love to watch you both race.

Arthur: Yeah, totally. That’d be nice.

Charles: Definitely, yeah. It would be nice to have you there.

Arthur: We’ll have Ferrari add you to the room block, right, Charles?

Charles: Yeah, yeah. Easy. I’ll let the team know you’re joining.

Isabelle: Okay! I’ll come down Friday morning after my meetings wrap up. Can’t wait to see you both.

Arthur: Bring those granola bars you had at Silverstone. 

Charles: Bring some for me too.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: He wants me to meet his family before Zandvoort.

Isabelle:  His entire family.

Isabelle:  Dinner. At his mother's house. No pressure apparently.

Emilie: Max Verstappen just casually inviting you into the lion’s den. Classic.

Emilie:  Are you freaking out?

Isabelle:  I am in a controlled state of panic.

Emilie: You do realize you’re literally the perfect daughter-in-law, right?

Emilie: You’re quiet, polite, absurdly thoughtful, and stunning in a soft-lighting European cinema kind of way.

Isabelle: I am really not. 

Emilie: You listen. You make people feel calm just by existing.

Emilie:  His family will LOVE you.

Emilie:  And if they don’t, that’s not a reflection of you.

Emilie:  It’s a red flag, and I’ll show up swinging.

Isabelle: He was so casual about it.  “They’ll love you,” he said. Just like that. No hesitation.

Emilie: Because he knows they will. Max isn’t casual about anything he doesn’t absolutely mean.

Isabelle: What if I forget how to talk? Or what if Victoria is terrifying?

Emilie: You talk when you have something worth saying.  And Victoria? She’ll adore you. You’re going to be her sons' new favorite person within five minutes. Probably less.

Emilie: You don’t have to prove anything, Belle.  You just have to show up. The rest takes care of itself.  You’re already his family. The rest is just the intro.

Isabelle: I love you.

Emilie: I know.  Be polite and devastatingly charming at dinner.

***

Isabelle had been in high-pressure situations before.

Final exams, high-stakes client presentations, being the only woman in a room full of men twice her age who thought she was just there to take notes—none of those compared to standing in the Verstappen family home, about to meet Max’s family for the first time.

Max had assured her it would be fine. He’d been so casual about it, telling her “They’ll love you,” like it was a certainty. But then again, he already loved her, and he’d made that seem inevitable, too.

The door opened before she could finish that thought, and suddenly, she was being yanked inside by an overenthusiastic blonde.

"Finally!" Victoria Verstappen declared, looping an arm around Isabelle’s before she even had a chance to say hello. "I was beginning to think you were a myth."

Max rolled his eyes, following them inside. "I literally told you about her months ago. You have talked to her."

"And yet, this is the first time I’m meeting her," Victoria shot back before turning to Isabelle with a knowing grin. "Ignore him. I already love you, by the way."

"That’s… good," Isabelle said, slightly breathless from the whirlwind welcome. "I’d hate to be off to a bad start."

"Not possible," Victoria declared before releasing her and giving Max a pointed look. "You never bring anyone home. I don’t care who she is. She could be an alien, and I’d still be thrilled."

Max sighed. "She’s not an alien."

"Shame," Victoria said with a dramatic sigh before linking their arms again. "Come on. Mum is dying to meet you."

They were halfway through the house before Isabelle even had a chance to look around properly. It was warm and inviting—the kind of place where people laughed loudly at the dinner table and where childhood photos still hung on the walls.

She barely had time to take in the framed pictures before she was pulled into a hug by a woman who could only be Sophie Kumpen.

"Isabelle," she said warmly, squeezing her hands when she pulled back. "It’s so lovely to finally meet you."

"You too," Isabelle said sincerely.

"Max has told me so much about you," Sophie continued, giving her son a pointed look. "I was beginning to think he’d made you up."

Victoria cackled. "That’s what I said!"

Max groaned. "Why does everyone think I’m lying?"

Before anyone could answer, another voice cut through the conversation.

"You’re Charles’ sister."

The room shifted slightly as all attention turned to Jos Verstappen.

Max tensed beside her, and Victoria, who had been all smiles just moments ago, pressed her lips together in something that looked suspiciously like exasperation.

But Isabelle didn’t waver. She turned to look at him and nodded. "Yes."

Jos hummed, gaze sharp. Then silence.

It stretched long enough that Max was clearly about to intervene, but before he could, Sophie clapped her hands together, cutting through the tension like it was nothing.

"Let’s sit," she said, smiling as if Jos hadn’t just been scrutinizing Isabelle like she was an opponent on track. "I made tea."

The conversation moved on, shifting to lighter topics—Victoria’s kids, Sophie’s recent travels, Max’s upcoming races. But Isabelle could still feel Jos’ gaze on her, quietly assessing.

Max never let go of her hand.

It wasn’t until much later, after dinner, after Victoria’s sons had climbed all over Isabelle and decided that she was their new favourite person, when the conversation had lulled and Isabelle was helping Sophie clear the table, that Jos spoke to her again.

"You’re an architect?"

She turned, nodding. "Yes."

"That takes discipline."

"It does."

He studied her for a long moment. Then— "Max needs someone like that."

It wasn’t outright approval. It wasn’t exactly warm.

But it was something.

And when Max returned, slinging an arm around her shoulders like he had no intention of letting her go, Isabelle decided it was enough.

***

The lobby was nice in that neutral, five-star motorsport weekend kind of way. Polished stone floors, a curated floral arrangement on the front desk, one of those confusing water features that seemed to exist purely for aesthetic drama.

Isabelle smiled at the receptionist with practiced ease, suitcase in hand, lanyard tucked into her coat pocket. 

She was exhausted, having run herself ragged over the last few days with a client install in Rotterdam. She had managed to wrap that up, just in time to catch the train towards Zandvoort with only a small amount of cursing.

“Hi, I should have a room with the Ferrari team block? Leclerc?”

The receptionist tapped quickly on the keyboard. Pause. Frown. Tap again.

Isabelle kept smiling. She knew this look.

“I’m so sorry,” the woman said kindly. “I don’t see a reservation under your name.”

“Oh,” Isabelle replied, blinking once. “Could you check again? Maybe under Charles or Arthur?”

More typing. The woman’s brows drew together. “They both have rooms, but… there’s nothing additional listed. I don’t see a third Leclerc on the team list. And all our rooms are booked for tonight.”

Isabelle nodded, her face still polite. “Right. No worries.”

Because what else could she say?

Because of course, they’d forgotten.

It wasn’t even anger that hit her. Just a quiet, familiar ache, the kind that wrapped itself around her ribs and pressed in slowly.

She stepped away from the counter, wheeling her suitcase off to the side. The hotel lobby was buzzing—PR people, Ferrari junior drivers, Red Bull interns in matching polos. People who had rooms. People who had plans.

She pulled out her phone and opened a message thread she knew she could trust.

To: Max 

Apparently I do not exist to the Ferrari logistics team. I promise I’m not trying to be dramatic. I just… don’t really know what to do right now.

The three dots popped up immediately.

Max: Room 706.

Isabelle: Max, I don’t want to cause a scene.

Max: You’re not. You’re coming upstairs. You’re not spending the night in the lobby because your brothers forgot you.

Isabelle: You’re busy. I don’t want to be in the way.

Max: You’re not in the way. You’re mine. Room 706. Come up. The door is open. You’ve got a place with me. Always.

She stared at the message for a moment, biting her lip.

No one had ever said it like that. Not her family. Not even past relationships. Like she wasn’t something to accommodate but someone who belonged.

Then, gathering her bag, she stood and waited by the elevators, wondering how something as painful as being forgotten could still land her exactly where she was supposed to be.

***

Gianpiero Lambiase had seen Max Verstappen through just about everything.

From raw, sharp-edged teenager to relentless world champion. From radio meltdowns to perfect laps in impossible conditions. From reckless frustration to the rare, still moments where he let his guard down—just enough to be human.

But over the past five months, GP had noticed him changing once again. 

It wasn’t dramatic. Max hadn’t started writing poetry or singing love songs. There were no fireworks, no sweeping declarations.

It was quieter than that.

He smiled more.

Texted back.

Stopped snapping at the comms team over small things.

Started asking if someone else needed anything before the garage debrief ended.

And then there were the little tells. Subtle changes GP clocked because he always clocked them.

The way Max would glance at his phone with a barely-there smile. The occasional “oh, she’d like this” muttered at a merch stand or a snack table.

She.

GP hadn’t needed to ask who.

Because he had known since Max started asking him for relationship advice. Because clearly, GP was a fountain of romantic wisdom because GP had somehow managed to persuade his wife to take pity of him and marry him. 

GP had observed. 

Had allowed his eyes to track Isabelle Leclerc whenever she happened to show up at a race.  He’d seen her in the background. Quiet. Observing. Never trying to claim space that wasn’t offered.

Isabelle Leclerc.

The girl with the soft voice and sharper eyes. 

She wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t chasing the spotlight.

Which was probably why Max was so hopelessly gone for her.

So when Max looked at his phone mid-dinner and smiled—really smiled—GP didn’t need to ask who it was.

He just sighed.

And then he watched how Max’s whole body language changed in an instance, swallowing the bite of food he had just taken, his jaw clenching, tapping on his phone with barely contained rage. 

GP raised an eyebrow. “Emergency?”

Max stood and muttered, “Kind of,” before grabbing his room key and disappearing into the hallway without another word.

GP blinked. “...What?”

He took a bite of luke warm pasta, leaned back, and waited. Max was many things—brilliant, intense, chronically infuriating—but he wasn’t cryptic without reason.

And GP hated when Max was cryptic.

The door opened again.

And Max walked in with Isabelle Leclerc.

GP blinked.

For a split second, he thought he was hallucinating. Maybe something in the hotel pasta had finally triggered a stress-induced fever dream.

But no. There she was. Real, flushed with embarrassment, wearing a coat and carrying a travel bag, clearly trying to disappear into the carpet.

Max, looking infuriatingly casual: “GP, this is Isabelle.”

As if GP didn’t know exactly who she was.

Leclerc.

 As in Charles Leclerc’s sister.

 As in "Ferrari’s Golden Boy Is Going To Break The FIA When He Finds Out You’re Sleeping With His Sister" Leclerc.

GP set down his fork. Slowly. Carefully.

“Hi,” she said softly. “Sorry. This isn’t how I pictured meeting you.”

GP blinked.

“She didn’t have a hotel room,” Max added, like that explained everything.

“So you invited her to your room,” GP said flatly.

Isabelle turned even pinker. “I didn’t know he wasn’t alone.”

GP stared at Max, then at her, then back at Max, who had the gall to sip his water like they weren’t seconds away from becoming a tabloid headline.

“In the Netherlands,” GP clarified.

“Yes,” Max said.

“During your home Grand Prix.”

“Yes.”

GP took a long, slow breath. “Perfectly reasonable.”

Max didn’t even blink.

Isabelle, bless her, looked like she wanted to apologize for existing. “I can go…”

GP waved her off. “No, no, please. You’re already more pleasant than he is.”

Max threw a piece of bread at him.

GP caught it midair without looking.

Then he sighed. 

“What do you mean she didn’t have a room?” he asked Max with a raised eyebrow. 

“She thought her brothers had booked her one,” Max said, like he wasn’t holding back fury with every word. “They didn’t.”

GP’s fork hit the table. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

GP turned to Isabelle, who was doing her best to shrink into her jacket. “They left you without a room?”

“I think they forgot I was coming,” she said, voice light, like it didn’t sting. Like it didn’t matter. “It’s okay. I just didn’t want to make a fuss tonight.”

Max’s jaw clenched.

And GP—who had been mad at Max for a million things over the years—suddenly wanted to march down the hall and yell at two grown men for treating their sister like a misplaced backpack.

“You’re staying here tonight,” Max said firmly. “End of discussion.”

GP crossed his arms. “I mean—yes. Obviously. But still. You’re telling me neither of them noticed?”

Isabelle looked away. “I guess not.”

Max let out a low, sharp breath through his nose.

It wasn’t just annoyance. It was rage. But the quiet kind. The kind Max only reserved for people who hurt the very small handful of people he actually loved.

Max rubbed a hand over his face and stood. Walked across the room. Paced, like he had no idea what to do with the fury crawling under his skin.

“She’s staying here,” he said again, turning to GP.

“Obviously.”

GP looked at Isabelle more gently now. “For what it’s worth, they’re idiots.”

Isabelle smiled faintly. “I’m kind of used to it.”

Max stopped pacing and came to stand beside her. He didn’t touch her—not yet—but the tension in his jaw said everything.

He was furious. Not just on her behalf, but because deep down, he’d known this would happen. And he hadn’t been there in time to stop it.

“You deserve better,” Max said quietly, only for her.

GP cleared his throat. “Okay. Well. I’m going to leave you two alone before I throw something.”

Isabelle blinked. “Wait—you’re mad?”

“Oh, I’m mad,” GP muttered. “Just not at you.”

He grabbed his notes, paused in the doorway, and said to Max: “I want you in bed in the next thirty minutes.”

Max smirked.

GP pointed at him. “Don’t.”

Then he looked at Isabelle again. Really looked.

And in that second, watching the way Max’s entire body shifted around her—the protectiveness, the softness, the calm—GP felt the sharp edge of his frustration melt into something else.

Respect.

“You’re good for him,” he said simply.

Isabelle’s eyes widened a little. “Thank you.”

“And Max?” GP said one last time. “If they forget her again—I will. Personally. Book. Her. A. Room.”

Max nodded solemnly. “Noted.”

GP closed the door behind him.

And in the hallway, alone, he muttered:

“Goddamn Leclerc brothers. Idiots, the lot of them.”

Then: “...But at least Max got something right.”

***

The door clicked shut behind GP, and the room fell into a thick, heavy silence.

Isabelle was still standing near the foot of the bed, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. She looked small. Not fragile—but like someone who’d been holding herself upright for hours longer than she should’ve.

Max crossed the room and gently took the travel bag from her shoulder.

“You can relax now,” he said quietly.

She gave him a weak smile. “I didn’t mean to crash dinner.”

“You didn’t,” he replied. “We were already nearly done.”

He set her bag down carefully by the armchair and turned back to her, studying her face. She looked pale beneath the overhead lights, cheeks still flushed from the hallway chill. Her eyes had the telltale glassiness of someone who was trying very hard not to cry out of sheer exhaustion.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

She blinked. “I—what?”

“When was the last time you ate?”

She blinked. “Um… this morning?”

“This morning,” he repeated, and it came out sharper than he meant it to.

She winced. “I didn’t have time, Max. It’s not a big deal.”

He turned and stalked toward the room service menu like he needed somewhere to put the anger. Not at her. Never at her.

But her brothers?

They had let her show up to Zandvoort and forgotten to book her a room. 

 And now here she was—exhausted, underfed, and still trying to act like it wasn’t a big deal.

Like being forgotten was normal.

He pulled the phone off the receiver and ordered something warm. Soup. Bread. Tea.

She hovered by the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around herself.

“Don’t make a whole thing out of this,” she said, voice small.

He looked at her. “Making sure you had a place to sleep? A meal? That’s not a whole thing, that’s the bare minimum.”

“I know, I know.” She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I just—I didn’t want to make a fuss. Charles was already stressed about media stuff and Arthur was busy with something…”

“And they forgot about you,” Max said flatly. “Again.”

“Max.”

“I’m not going to yell at them,” he said, trying to tamp down the fire crawling up his throat. “But don’t ask me to pretend it’s okay. It’s not.”

She sank onto the edge of the bed, hands curled in her lap. “If I get upset, they make me feel like I’m overreacting. If I don’t say anything, I get forgotten. It’s like—I’m either too much or invisible.”

Max crossed the room, crouched in front of her. Rested his hands on her knees, grounding.

“You are not too much,” he said. “And you are never invisible. Not to me.”

She blinked hard, closing her eyes, pressing the heels of her hands against them. He just looked at her, at the shaky way she exhaled. 

There was a knock at the door. Room service.

She tried to stand up, but he squeezed her hand.

“I’ll get it,” he said. “You just… sit. Please.”

He brought the tray over himself—soup, warm rolls, tea already steeping in the pot—and set it on the table in front of the window. Isabelle sat cross-legged on the bed, watching him like he might vanish if she blinked too hard.

“Eat first,” he said softly. 

She hesitated for a moment—then nodded and reached for the spoon.

Halfway through the meal, she finally looked a little more like herself. Less pale. Less folded in on herself. Her shoulders relaxed. She leaned into his side, one hand resting on his knee, like she needed to stay grounded.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He kissed the top of her head.

“You’re mine,” he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world. 

She didn’t say anything back. But she reached for his hand under the table, tangled their fingers, and held on tight.

And that was enough.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: My brothers left for the track without me.

Isabelle: They literally forgot I was even staying in the same hotel.

Isabelle: I came downstairs and the receptionist said, “Your family already left.” Like I was late for a school trip.

Isabelle: I know you’re busy, I just… needed to tell someone before I screamed into a decorative pillow.

Max: Are you serious?

Max: Stay right there. I’m sending someone now. You’re not taking a taxi like some fan on a giveaway pass.

Isabelle: Max, it’s fine—

Max: No, it’s not. 

Isabelle: You don’t have to fix everything.

Max: I want to fix this.

Max: Stay where you are.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo

Max: Are you still at the hotel?

Daniel: Yeah, just finishing my coffee. Why?

Max: Can you give someone a ride to the track?

Daniel: Yeah, no worries. Who?

Max: Isabelle Leclerc. Her brothers left without her.

Daniel: Wait. Charles’ Isabelle?

Max: Yeah.

Daniel: Why is she not with them?

Max: They forgot her. 

Daniel: …Brutal.  Alright, I’ll head down and grab her.

Max: Thanks. Be nice.

Daniel: When am I not nice?

Max: Don’t answer that.

Daniel: So… why are you arranging this?

Daniel: Since when are you a Leclerc family concierge?

Max: Since right now. Go get her.

Daniel: Alright alright, I’m going.

Daniel: You’re weirdly invested in this.

***

Daniel Ricciardo had done a lot of weird favors in his life—once helped a teammate move house using a go-kart trailer, once lied to a customs officer about being allergic to oranges just to dodge a fruit declaration—but picking up Isabelle Leclerc from the hotel lobby because her own brothers had forgotten her? This one was top tier.

He didn’t know Isabelle well—he’d met her a handful of times, mostly quiet paddock hellos and awkward “Charles’ little sister” nods—but he was 100% sure she didn’t deserve to be ditched like a stray sock in a hotel lobby.

Who does that to their sister?

He had a sister. If someone had left Michelle behind at a race weekend? He’d have thrown hands. The thought of Isabelle, standing in some quiet hotel lobby while her brothers sped off to the circuit like she was an afterthought—it made his blood simmer.

He spotted her right away: sunglasses on, hair in a braid, sitting quietly in one of those fancy lobby chairs that always looked too stiff to be comfortable. She stood when she saw him, smoothing her skirt and lifting a tote bag onto her shoulder with calm, effortless grace.

“Hey,” he said, waving. “Max sent me.”

“I figured,” she said with a small smile. “Thanks for doing this. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem.” He gestured toward the car. “Although I’ve gotta say, you being stranded wasn’t on my bingo card for today.”

She let out a soft laugh as they walked. “It wasn’t on mine either.”

“I mean—how do they forget you?” he asked, a little incredulous now. “You’re their sister. This isn’t like forgetting your phone charger.”

“They’re… busy,” Isabelle said diplomatically, as if that explained everything. Her voice was soft, her expression sincere, and it made something tug in his chest. She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t throwing a fit. She wasn’t calling her brothers to scream at them.

She was just… taking it.

And that, somehow, made it worse.

“Seriously,” he said as they headed to the car, “they just left without you?”

“They’re not very detail-oriented,” she said with a light shrug, like she was used to making excuses for them.

Daniel frowned. “They’re your brothers, not a logistics team.”

She just smiled a little. “It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t.

He opened the door for her and tried not to seethe the entire way to the circuit. 

The silence in the car was comfortable, oddly enough. Isabelle looked out the window, the sunlight catching in her hair. She smelled like something soft and green and expensive—not perfume-y, just... nice. Warm.

“So,” he said after a moment, “you and Max talk much?”

She tilted her head slightly. “Sometimes.”

He narrowed his eyes. “He didn’t explain anything when he asked me to pick you up.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“He just said you needed a ride, and that I was supposed to be nice.”

She smiled to herself. “That sounds like him.”

Daniel watched her for a beat longer. There was something easy in how she spoke about Max. Something familiar. Something… personal.

Suspicious.

He knew that tone. It was the same one Michelle used when she pretended she wasn’t dating her coworker. The same one his friends used when they were trying not to spill the beans too early.

Then, the kicker: her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it, read the screen, and her entire expression softened—smile tugging at the corner of her mouth in a way that made her glow.

Daniel caught a glimpse of the contact name.

Max. With a little heart emoji.

And that was it.

The lightbulb went on.

“You’re with Max,” he blurted out.

Isabelle blinked. “Sorry?”

“You’re dating him.”

She blinked again, clearly debating denial… then gave up with a sigh and a smile. “Please don’t tell Charles.”

He gasped. “Charles doesn’t know.”

“Daniel…”

“I can’t unknow this now, Isabelle! This is, like, Top Secret Gossip of the Year! You can’t just hand me this emotional grenade and expect me not to panic!”

She laughed then—soft and real—and Daniel blinked. She looked… happy. Actually, genuinely happy.

He slowed down a little. “So… you’re good? With him?”

She nodded. “Better than I ever thought I could be.”

Daniel let out a long breath and shook his head. “Okay. Fine. I’ll take it to the grave. But when Charles finds out, I’m not in the room. I’m not even in the country.”

***

The paddock was buzzing, media wrapping up, and Max had just emerged from debrief when Daniel cornered him like a man on a mission.

“Hey,” Daniel said, arms crossed. “We need to talk.”

Max raised an eyebrow, completely unsurprised. “About?”

“You know what about,” Daniel said. “Don’t play dumb.”

Max took a sip of his Red Bull, deadpan. “You found out.”

“I picked her up from the hotel,” Daniel snapped. “I drove her. I talked to her for fifteen minutes. She’s warm, she’s kind, she listens—Max, she’s human sunshine.”

Max smirked, because yeah. Isabelle kind of was.

 “Also? Her brothers left her behind this morning. They forgot her. Like she was a damn charger cable.”

Max exhaled through his nose. “They also forgot to book her a room,” Max said, voice going tight.

“…What?”

“Last night,” Max said. “She got to the hotel and found out Charles and Arthur hadn’t added her to the Ferrari room block. She had nowhere to sleep.”

Daniel stared at him. “So what did she do?”

“She texted me.”

“You’re telling me she didn’t even call them? She just quietly… what, curled up in a hallway with a travel bag and a dream?”

Max ran a hand through his hair. “I told her to come upstairs. She’s staying with me.”

Daniel muttered something that vaguely sounded like a threat. 

“I mean—look, Max, I’ve seen people be casually inconsiderate before. But this? This is Olympic-level. This is gold medal negligence.”

“She wasn’t even mad,” Max said, and the quiet in his voice was far more telling than any shout. “She just said she didn’t want to make a fuss.”

Daniel’s shoulders dropped.

“Jesus.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of it hanging between them. Max leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw set.

“I hate that she’s used to it,” he said finally. “The way she just… accepts it. Like being overlooked is normal.”

Daniel looked at him, something softer settling into his expression. “And you’re not gonna let that happen anymore.”

Max shook his head. “Not from me.”

Daniel nodded slowly. “Good. But I am still wondering, how the hell did you end up with Isabelle Leclerc? I watched you ghost half of Europe. I watched you emotionally flatline your way through every relationship like you were waiting for a fire drill. And now you’re with her?”

Max looked up, expression shifting from amused to something quieter. Something real. “Yeah. I am.”

Daniel paused. “You’re serious about her.” It wasn’t a question.

Max’s expression shifted—still calm, but quieter now. More grounded. “Yeah. I am.”

Daniel sighed, shaking his head with a grin. “You really are in deep, huh?”

Max nodded. “Very.”

There was a beat of silence.

Daniel exhaled, some of the theatrics melting away. “Okay. Okay. That’s good. Because she’s too good for you.”

Max chuckled. “I know.”

“No, like, really too good. You forget her birthday? I’ll kill you. You mess up and she cries? I will haunt you.”

Max sobered slightly. “I’m not going to hurt her.”

“I know,” Daniel said. “But I had to say it. It’s the law. Shovel talk protocol.” Daniel pointed at him again, this time less dramatic, more protective. “She’s quiet. She’s kind. She doesn’t push. That kind of girl? People forget to treat her like she matters. You don’t get to be one of them.”

“I know,” Max said instantly.

“I’m serious. You hurt her? You even accidentally make her feel like she’s less than everything? I will become your personal nightmare.”

Max nodded slowly. “Fair.”

Daniel exhaled. “Okay. Good.”

Another pause.

Then: “Also, bro. You’re screwed when Charles finds out.”

Max cracked a faint smile. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I’m just saying,” Daniel said, standing up, “I’d start investing in body armor. And maybe bribe Fred Vasseur.”

“I already told Victoria and Sophie,” Max said. “Jos knows too.”

Daniel turned mid-step. “So everyone in your family knows, and no one in hers?”

Max just raised his hands helplessly.

Daniel whistled. “Wow. Balls of steel, man.” Then, after a beat: “I still can’t believe you’re the one who pulled this off.”

Max grinned. “Me either.”

Daniel narrowed his eyes. “If you propose before Charles finds out, I’m not helping you escape.”

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: Are you already at the circuit?

Victoria: Just pulling in. Got Luka. Snacks. One million toddler wipes. Why?

Max: I need a favor.

Victoria: This sounds serious.

Max: It is.  Isabelle’s here. Her brothers left without her this morning. Yesterday, they forgot to book her a room. She was alone at the hotel with nowhere to go.

Victoria: You’re kidding.

Max: I wish I was. I found out when she texted me.

Victoria: She texted you instead of calling them?

Max: Said she didn’t want to make a fuss.

Victoria: That’s not a fuss. That’s basic human decency.

Victoria: What the hell is wrong with her brothers?  Did they think she just… didn’t exist this weekend?

Max: I don’t think they thought at all.

Max: I’ve got her staying with me, obviously.  But I’m at the car most of the day. Can you…  I don’t know. Just keep an eye on her?

Victoria: I’m already on it.  I’ll find her. Luka adores her anyway.

Max: Thank you. 

Victoria: Also—Max?

Max: Yeah?

Victoria: You’re doing good. For her.  I can tell.

Max: I just want her to feel safe.

Victoria: She does. That’s why she called you.

***

The Ferrari garage buzzed with the usual race day chaos—engineers shouting data, mechanics darting between screens and tires, media cameras hovering just out of reach.

Isabelle stood off to the side, tucked just behind a stack of spare tires. She had her accreditation lanyard looped around one wrist, arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable.

No one had said anything to her.

Not Charles. Not Arthur.

Not a single “where were you?”

No one had noticed she hadn’t arrived with them.

Not even when she slipped through the paddock gate forty minutes late with Daniel Ricciardo, who’d given her a cheerful wave and then glanced back at her with a concerned little frown, like he could feel her shrinking into herself.

She hadn’t told them. Hadn’t reminded them. It felt pathetic, like trying to make a dent in something carved from stone.

So she watched them from the background. Charles adjusting his earpiece. Arthur laughing with his race engineer. Everyone moving like she was part of the set dressing—quiet, reliable, conveniently invisible.

Her phone buzzed. 

Victoria Verstappen:

Come to Red Bull hospitality. We have fruit, juice boxes, and a child who keeps asking where you are.

A second later:

Victoria Verstappen:

He refuses to eat his banana unless you’re here. Help me.

Isabelle smiled before she could stop herself.

She glanced back at the garage—no one looking, no one asking, no one even noticing she was there—then quietly turned and slipped out through the paddock gate.

The moment she stepped into Red Bull’s space, it was like the air changed. Quieter. Calmer. The edges softened.

And then—

“Belle!”

Luka barreled into her legs like a small, over-caffeinated torpedo, throwing his arms around her knees and looking up with wide, expectant eyes. His curls were slightly flattened from his bucket hat, and his juice box was clutched precariously in one hand.

 “I saved you a banana,” he said solemnly. 

Isabelle crouched down, her heart tightening. “You did?”

He nodded. “Mum said I had to eat fruit, but I said ‘no’ until you came.”

Behind him, Victoria appeared, holding a mostly squished banana and a tired smile.

“You’re now officially the only person Luka will eat produce for. Congratulations,” she said, handing Isabelle the banana. 

Isabelle stood and hugged her.  “You okay?” Victoria asked gently.

Isabelle hesitated. “I’m fine.”

Victoria just arched a brow.

“I mean—I’m okay,” Isabelle corrected. “A little tired. It’s been a weird weekend.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Victoria said. “Max already told me everything.”

Isabelle winced. “Of course he did.”

“Don’t worry. He asked me to keep an eye on you. Very seriously. Like I was being recruited for a mission.”

Isabelle blinked. “He what?”

Victoria shrugged. “You’re important to him. Of course he’s worried.”

Luka tugged on Isabelle’s sleeve. “Wanna draw race cars?”

“I would love to draw race cars,” she said, letting him take her hand.

Victoria reached for a juice pouch and smiled softly at her over Luka’s curls. “Come sit with us. Eat something. You don’t have to go back to that garage today. No one there deserves your company.”

And Isabelle—still tired, still aching in that quiet, unseen way—followed.

Because it wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t flashy.

But it felt like home.

***

Victoria had known Isabelle Leclerc for years without really knowing her.

A couple of polite nods in paddocks. One or two mutual “Happy Birthday” comments under photos. That sort of F1-adjacent proximity that meant you were vaguely aware of someone’s life through a filtered lens of curated smiles and race weekend lighting.

And then her brother had fallen in love with her. 

And that had changed everything. 

Somewhere between a soft photo of Lio holding a wooden toy horse and Isabelle quietly liking every story Victoria posted about motherhood, something shifted.

Their friendship had started in Instagram DMs and lessons of dutch. 

And now, sitting on the plush couch in the Red Bull family lounge, Victoria watched Isabelle cradle Luka like she’d been made for it.

He was wrapped around her torso like a baby monkey, eyes already drifting shut, his small hand clinging to the neckline of her cardigan. Isabelle’s hand was in his hair, gently combing through the curls with practiced ease.

Victoria’s heart clenched.

Max had chosen well.

Not because Isabelle was sweet (though she was), or thoughtful (painfully so), or talented (clearly), but because Max had never once let anyone in like this.

He had flings. Flirtations. A relationship or two that never made it past the media glare.

But this?

Isabelle, sitting cross-legged at a coloring table, nodding patiently as Luka explained crayon colours with the enthusiasm of a sugar-high professor?

This was different.

This was real.

And when Max had texted her that morning ���Can you keep an eye on her?—Victoria hadn’t even blinked.

Because she knew.

He wasn’t asking out of obligation.

He was asking because Isabelle mattered. Because she was his person. Because her quiet pain had become his problem to carry, and Max Verstappen had never once backed down from something he gave a damn about.

Victoria watched Isabelle gently brush Luka’s hair out of his eyes as he leaned too close to the table, crayon smearing on his elbow, and something in her chest ached.

Because she’d also seen the way Isabelle’s brothers looked past her. The way they forgot her. The way she was a fixture—not a presence. Easy to love from a distance, easier still to forget when something shinier demanded attention.

It made her furious.

It made her want to storm the Ferrari garage and shake Charles and Arthur like snow globes until they remembered who the hell their sister was.

Because if a three-year-old could recognize her worth after one afternoon, what excuse did they have?

Victoria was still fuming quietly when the door to hospitality opened—and Max stepped out onto the terrace.

He spotted them instantly. His shoulders dropped just a little. Not with weariness, but relief.

He crossed the room toward them, his steps sure and unhurried.

And when Isabelle looked up and lit up—not with surprise, not with hesitation, but that soft, unmistakable joy that came from knowing someone was hers—Victoria exhaled.

Max reached them, crouched beside Luka first.

“Hey, little man,” he said, ruffling his hair.

“Max!” Luka beamed. “We made cars!”

“Very impressive,” Max said, scanning the drawings. “Yours definitely wins in the flame department.”

Then he looked at Isabelle.

Their eyes met.

No one said anything for a beat. They didn’t need to.

Max touched her wrist gently. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Better now.”

And Victoria—who’d seen every version of her brother: stormy, closed-off, sharp-edged and impossible—watched as his whole expression softened into something rare.

Something like peace.

She smiled to herself, sipping her drink again.

About time.

Max hadn’t just fallen in love with her.

He’d gotten it right.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/F1Sleuth: GUYS. I was at Zandvoort today and I just saw Victoria Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc talking in the paddock like they’re actual best friends??? Since when???

↳@/GridGossip: You’re lying.

↳@/TifosiNation: They follow each other on Instagram now, so maybe it’s not that surprising???

↳@/RedBullRumors: But like… why do they know each other that well?

↳@/PaddockSpy: Do you have PICTURES?

@/F1Sleuth: I couldn’t get a clear photo, but I swear to god Victoria’s little boy was obsessed with Isabelle. Like, full-on clinging to her, as they were sitting in Red Bull hospitality. This was NOT a casual “oh we kind of know each other” interaction.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Excuse me?????

↳@/TifosiForever: I guess it makes sense? Isabelle was around during karting when Max and Charles were kids, so maybe she and Victoria knew each other back then?

↳@/RBfan44: Imagine if Charles and Max are rivals but their sisters became best friends instead lmao

↳@/PaddockGossip: Omg that’s adorable 🥹

@/F1GossipQueen: Maybe they just reconnected? Like old karting friends finding each other again.

↳@/RBUpdates: This is actually really cute, imagine the Verstappens and Leclercs becoming one big happy F1 family.

↳@/TifosiFan99: Charles and Max being forced into friendship because their sisters are besties is something I NEED to happen.

@/F1Sleuth: OKAY UPDATE. Max Verstappen just showed up and walked straight to Isabelle and Victoria. No hesitation. Like, he was SUPPOSED to be there.

↳@/RedBullInsider: Oh??? Oh. OH.

↳@/GridGossip: Why does this feel like a soft launch but also not at the same time???

↳@/RBfan44: I swear if Max and Isabelle are secretly besties, I’m going to lose my mind.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Besties or… 👀

↳@/PaddockRumors: Max looked so comfortable. Like this isn’t a one-time thing. Isabelle smiled at him like she was expecting him to show up.

@/F1Sleuth: MAX TOOK VICTORIA’S BABY FROM ISABELLE LIKE IT WAS THE MOST NORMAL THING IN THE WORLD. They’re just sitting there, talking, while he’s holding his nephew??? I don’t know what’s happening but I need ANSWERS.

↳ @/PaddockGossip: I’m sorry but Max holding a toddler while casually talking to Isabelle Leclerc?? That’s suspicious. That’s weird.

↳@/RBUpdates: Someone check on Charles because wtf is going on

↳@/F1Conspiracies: I feel like we’re witnessing something we’re not supposed to know about yet.

↳@/RedBullNation: Okay but imagine if they’re just actual close friends and we’re all being insane for no reason.

↳@/GridGossip: But what if we’re not? 😏

@/PaddockInsider: Charles has no idea what’s happening because he’s STILL doing media. Meanwhile, his sister is chilling with Victoria and Max like this is a normal Sunday.

↳@/TifosiFan99: Charles is going to come back and be so confused lmao

↳@/F1DramaLover: Imagine him seeing Max holding a baby next to Isabelle. He’d actually short-circuit.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Someone record his reaction PLEASE.

@/F1Sleuth: Max just leaned over and said something to Isabelle, and she laughed. Victoria said something too, and they all looked so comfortable?? This is actually driving me insane.

↳@/PaddockGossip: What is going on.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Isabelle, blink twice if you’re secretly a Red Bull spy.

↳@/RBUpdates: The way Max just sat down and started talking like this was totally normal… yeah, something’s up.

[twistedheartsclub]

Clinical: Male Doctor X Female Reader

⚠️ TW: dubcon / noncon • sexual assault (implied & aftermath) • emotional manipulation • power imbalance (doctor x nurse) • grooming • stalking • obsessive behavior • gaslighting • institutional cover-up • coercion • trauma response (dissociation, panic) • legal threats • physical restraint • explicit language • dark erotic themes

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too sterile. Y/N blinked against the glare as she stepped off the elevator and into the surgical ICU. Her new badge felt too tight around her neck, her scrubs too crisp, too new. Everything about her screamed rookie—and she knew it.

Her sneakers squeaked on the polished floor as she walked. Around her, seasoned nurses moved with ease and speed, voices clipped and efficient. Machines beeped. Phones rang. A man somewhere behind a curtain groaned in pain. Y/N clutched her clipboard a little tighter, swallowing the lump rising in her throat.

She had worked so hard to get here. Top of her class. Honors. Letters of recommendation. But now?

Now she felt like a kid playing dress-up.

“New girl?” a nurse asked, barely looking up from her computer as Y/N approached the station.

“Y/N,” she said, her voice smaller than she wanted it to be. “Y/N L/N. I’m starting my rotation today. Night shift.”

The nurse hummed and handed her a folded printout. “You’re shadowing Graves tonight.”

Y/N blinked. “I… I thought I was with Dr. Chen.”

The nurse gave her a look. “Schedule changed. Welcome to the deep end, sweetheart.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped. Dr. Alaric Graves. Everyone whispered about him.

He was a legend in trauma surgery. A genius. A man who’d saved thousands of lives with hands steadier than God’s own. But also…

Cold. Unforgiving. Brutal with his interns. And terrifying.

Three Years Earlier

Dr. Alaric Graves had once been something close to happy. Or at least, content. A wife. A lake house. A quiet, curated life away from the chaos of the OR.

Until he came home early from a conference and found her in their bedroom with someone else.

A nurse. Half her age. Half his.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t cry. Just walked out.

Three years later, the divorce papers were signed, the house sold, the silence deeper than ever. He lived in a penthouse now. White walls. No pictures. Just the view of the city. His days were filled with blood and bone, his nights with whiskey and research. People tried to fix him up. He declined. He didn’t want warmth. Didn’t trust softness.

Not anymore.

When he walked onto the unit that night, Y/N felt him before she saw him. The temperature dropped. Conversations paused. Even the machines seemed quieter.

He was tall—built like a statue carved from hard years and sleepless nights. Salt-and-pepper hair swept back from his temples. Dark stubble that never seemed to fully disappear. Sharp cheekbones. Cold, calculating eyes.

His name on her assignment sheet made her palms sweat.

“Ms. L/N?” he said without looking at her, flipping through a clipboard.

She straightened. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re shadowing me, not talking. Watch. Learn. Don’t slow me down.”

That was all. No introduction. No welcome. And with that, he turned and started walking.

Y/N followed, heart in her throat.

Her first mistake.

It happened during rounds. A small error—handing him the wrong chart. Something simple. But to Graves, it was enough.

He snapped the file shut and turned, voice sharp like a scalpel.

“Are you incapable of following basic instructions?”

Y/N flinched, blinking fast. “I—I’m sorry, I just—”

“You think sorry helps my patient bleeding out two floors down?” His voice didn’t rise, but it cut all the same. “Get out of my way.”

Her cheeks flushed. The others looked away. No one came to her defense.

She ducked her head, nodding silently. “Yes, sir.”

She found the breakroom fifteen minutes later and locked the door behind her. Pressed her back to it and finally let the tears fall. Her first night, and already she was falling apart.

He was right, she thought. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.

What she didn’t see—what she didn’t know—was that just beyond the glass window of the supply room across the hall, Dr. Graves had paused mid-step.

And he was watching.

Expression unreadable. Hands clenched. Heart hammering.

Two weeks in, and Y/N still felt like an exposed nerve every time Dr. Graves entered the room.

She tried to smile, to stay out of his way, to double and triple check everything before he saw it. And when she made a mistake? He made sure everyone noticed.

He never raised his voice. That would've been almost merciful. Instead, his cruelty came in cold, cutting precision.

“She still hasn’t learned how to hand off a chart properly. Two weeks, and not even the basics.”

“This dose was logged wrong. Fix it before someone dies. Preferably not you.”

“You shadow me, not speak over me. Do I need to remind you of that again?”

Every time, her cheeks would burn. She’d nod, apologize, and keep moving.

The Others

It was only thanks to the other nurses—Tamara and Lina—that Y/N hadn’t completely fallen apart.

Tamara was seasoned, sharp-tongued but kind beneath it. She’d been here over a decade and had seen Graves chew up and spit out stronger people than Y/N.

“He’s always been an asshole,” Tamara said one night, handing Y/N a coffee during their ten-minute break. “Even when his wife used to stop by, he’d act like a ghost. Cold bastard.”

“Do not take it personally,” Lina added, younger than Tamara but still a few years into the job. “He talks to all of us like we’re idiots. Only difference is, you’re the newest. He thinks you’ll break the fastest.”

Y/N managed a weak smile. “That’s comforting.”

Tamara gave her a look. “Stick it out. You survive Graves, you can survive anything.”

She tried. God, she tried.

But Then One Night

It was quiet. The kind of stillness that only comes at 3:00 a.m.—when the halls stretch long and the overhead lights dim into an almost soft glow. Y/N was refilling charts at the nurses’ station when Graves appeared behind her like a ghost.

“You didn’t chart Mr. Halvorsen’s vitals at midnight.”

Her hand froze mid-page. “I—I did. I entered them right after checking his blood pressure.”

He stepped closer. “Then explain why they’re not here.” He flipped the tablet to show a blank log.

Her heart dropped. But she remembered entering them. She was sure.

“I—I did log them, maybe it didn’t save—”

“Didn’t save,” he repeated flatly, voice like ice. “You had one job. If that man had coded, and no one knew when his last vitals were taken, do you know what that makes you?”

She stood there, gripping the counter, trying not to cry. “I’m sorry, I—”

“It makes you dangerous,” he cut in, stepping closer. “And incompetent.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came.

The station was empty—Tamara and Lina on rounds. The ward dead silent.

He leaned down, his face close to hers now. His voice dropped lower, still sharp as a scalpel.

“You shouldn’t be here, Nurse L/N. This floor isn’t for children playing pretend. We don’t need pretty little girls who cry in break rooms.”

Y/N flinched.

She didn’t realize she was trembling until she looked down and saw the paper in her hands shaking.

That was the line. The last straw. Something in her snapped.

She turned and walked away.

Not a word. Not a sound.

She just walked.

Later That Night

She was outside. Cold air hitting her lungs like a slap. The hospital’s back patio was empty—just vending machines and an old bench. She sat on the edge of it, arms hugging herself, blinking back the sting in her eyes.

He didn’t have to say that. He didn’t have to be so cruel.

All she ever did was try. Work harder. Be better. She skipped breaks. She stayed late. She cared.

And he treated her like she was nothing.

What she didn’t know was that he had stood there at the nurses’ station for a long time after she left. Watching the doors she disappeared through.

His jaw clenched. His hand gripping the tablet too tight. He shouldn’t have said that. But it was her face. Her trembling mouth. The way she always looked at him with hope in her eyes, like he wasn’t already too broken to be saved.

It made him furious.

At her. At himself. At how much space she took up in his thoughts.

The next night, Y/N walked into the ICU like a different woman.

Her hair was done—loose and softly curled, still pinned back neatly but touched with warmth. Her skin glowed under just a hint of highlighter, her lips glossed a natural pink, lashes curled. It wasn’t much. Nothing inappropriate. But in a place so sterile, so cold, so bare—it was enough.

Enough to turn heads. Enough to make Tamara whistle low between her teeth.

“Well damn, sweetheart,” Tamara said, raising an eyebrow. “You heading out after shift or are we just blessed with the glow tonight?”

Lina leaned over the med cart, eyes wide. “You look gorgeous! Like… date gorgeous.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed. “I—it wasn’t a big deal.”

Tamara grinned. “So yes, then. Was he cute?”

Y/N shrugged shyly. “It was nice. Just dinner. A friend from nursing school.”

But even as she smiled, her heart twinged. She wasn’t trying to impress him. She was trying to feel like a woman again. Something real. Something wanted.

Because Dr. Graves’ words still echoed in her skull.

“We don’t need pretty little girls who cry in break rooms.”

She wasn’t going to cry anymore.

She would keep her head down, do her work, and if the next shift opening came—she’d take it. She’d transfer floors, move on. Find somewhere she didn’t feel like a raw nerve every second.

But fate, cruel as ever, had other plans.

Later That Night — Just the Two of Them

The halls were quiet again. It was nearly 2 a.m. Lina had gone to restock supplies. Tamara was assisting in surgery. And Y/N found herself alone with him. Again.

She kept her eyes on the vitals monitor, typing quietly, the air too still behind her. Then—

“I didn’t realize this floor had a dress code now,” came his voice, smooth like venom.

Y/N froze, knuckles whitening on the keyboard. She didn’t respond. Didn’t dare.

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate.

“Lip gloss. Blush. Curls,” he murmured, low enough for only her to hear. “Trying to catch another date on your way out early?”

Her spine stiffened. “I’m not leaving early.”

“No,” he said flatly. “But you will.”

She turned, eyes sharp. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t blink. Just stared down at her, jaw clenched tight, voice dropping—quiet, cruel, and laced with something darker.

“All that effort. Painted up like a doll. But that’s all you’re good for, isn’t it?” He leaned closer. “Something soft to fuck. A warm little cock-sleeve with nothing between her ears.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. She took a step back like he’d struck her.

His eyes stayed locked on hers. “You think I don’t see through it? You come in here glowing, smiling, like you’ve proven something. But makeup doesn’t make you competent, Nurse L/N. It makes you a target.”

Her mouth parted, stunned—humiliated, boiling, and shaking all over again.

Then quietly, voice trembling: “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

He laughed—bitter, sharp. “The hell I don’t. I’m your superior. And if you’re going to act like a whore, don’t cry when someone treats you like one.”

Silence rang out.

Y/N turned sharply and walked out, heels clicking down the corridor. Not running this time. Not sobbing.

Just walking. Chin up. Rage in her chest like a storm.

But he stood there. Still. Watching.

And he realized—

He hadn’t said that because he believed it. He said it because he wanted to be the one who took that gloss off with his mouth. Because he imagined her pinned beneath him, not some other man. Because her glow wasn’t for him, and it made him sick.

She made it to the staff locker room before the first sob broke.

It was empty. Dimly lit. Smelling faintly of antiseptic and metal. Y/N sat heavily on the bench, the cold wood biting into the backs of her legs as she yanked her bag open with shaking hands.

She pulled out a pack of wipes and stared into the mirror. Her reflection wavered, eyes red and rimmed with wet mascara, lip gloss smudged at the corner of her mouth.

One swipe. Then another. She wiped the pretty off.

She scrubbed at her skin until it stung—like she could erase the night, the words, him. As if taking off the gloss would make her invisible again.

She didn’t hear the door open.

But she heard the voice.

“Baby girl… what happened?”

It was Lina.

Tamara came in right after, her brow furrowing the moment she saw the mess—the smeared makeup, the tears, the way Y/N’s shoulders shook like she’d been holding herself together for far too long.

“I—” Y/N gasped, choking on it. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to… but he—”

“Sit down, honey.” Tamara was at her side in an instant, easing onto the bench beside her. Lina dropped to her knees in front of her, hands on Y/N’s thighs, grounding her.

“Take your time,” Lina whispered. “Just breathe. We’re here.”

Y/N inhaled raggedly, trembling. “He… Dr. Graves… he said…”

They waited.

“He called me a—” she couldn’t say it. “Said I was nothing. That I wasn’t smart. That I only looked like someone you’d—he said I was just a hole. A baby machine. Because of my makeup. Because I looked nice.”

Lina gasped, eyes wide. “What the fuck—”

Tamara closed her eyes. Her jaw clenched.

“I just wanted to feel normal,” Y/N sobbed, shoulders curling forward. “I went on one date. I was just trying to feel… pretty. And he hated it. He said I was going to leave early and—”

Lina stood up, her voice sharp now. “You need to go to HR. This isn’t just being a jerk. This is harassment. Abuse of power. They have to do something—”

Tamara let out a slow breath. “No. They don’t.”

Both girls turned to her.

Tamara looked tired, and old in a way that wasn’t about age, but about how much bullshit she’d endured. She reached out and gently wiped a tear off Y/N’s cheek with her thumb.

“Sweetheart… he is HR. He sits on the disciplinary board. He’s one of the hospital’s top donors. Trains most of the interns. Brings in the awards, the grants. You file a complaint, and maybe someone pretends to take notes. But it won’t go anywhere.”

Y/N’s face crumpled, her bottom lip trembling. “Then what do I do?”

“You survive,” Tamara said softly. “You keep your head down, and you wait for your moment to choose something better. Not run from it. Choose.”

Lina, still standing, folded her arms. “Or we burn it all down. Either way, you’re not alone.”

Y/N let out a weak, wet laugh. Then another sob. Then silence.

Tamara wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in.

“You’re strong, baby,” she murmured. “Strongest one on this floor. He sees that. That’s why he’s trying to break you.”

“I don’t want to be strong,” Y/N whispered. “I just want to be safe.”

Tamara’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “Then we stay smart. We stay close. And if he tries that shit again…”

“I’ll shank him with a butterfly needle,” Lina said darkly.

Y/N smiled through her tears.

Two weeks passed.

Y/N did everything she could to avoid him.

She switched tasks. Took alternate routes. Asked Tamara to run messages when possible. She kept her head low, her voice quieter. She became invisible.

And for the most part, it worked.

Dr. Graves remained cold, distant, indifferent. He barely looked her way. Gave her curt, professional orders, never lingering longer than necessary. It should’ve made her feel safer.

But it didn’t.

Because the silence wasn’t peace. It was pressure. It was waiting.

Then came that night.

A trauma patient was wheeled in—severe abdominal rupture, rushed straight into surgery. It was chaos. Blood everywhere. People shouting. Y/N kept her hands steady, her gloves soaked crimson, her breath controlled.

Dr. Graves worked like a machine, precise and tireless, every motion perfect. But even then, even in the chaos—his eyes found hers once.

Just once.

And they didn’t let go.

Later —

The patient was stabilized. The adrenaline crash hit hard.

Y/N was in the sterile storage closet, restocking trauma trays and surgical drapes, sweat still clinging to the back of her neck. Her scrubs were damp. Her hair frizzy from the scrub cap. She was tired and off-balance.

She didn’t hear the door open. But she felt the presence behind her.

She turned, startled—and nearly bumped right into him.

Dr. Graves stood in the doorway, expression unreadable, chest rising with quiet breath. The room suddenly felt smaller.

“I asked for iodine sponges,” he said flatly.

She nodded quickly, turning to grab them from the shelf. “Yes, I—I have them right here.”

But when she moved, he moved too. Closer.

Too close.

Her back brushed the shelves. Her breath caught in her throat.

He reached past her—not to touch, not yet—but to grab something just above her shoulder. His body hovered over hers, the crisp scent of antiseptic and something darker, deeper, him, filling her lungs.

Her breath hitched.

And he heard it.

His eyes lowered to her face. Her neck. Her parted lips. So close now he could smell her skin.

Warm. Soft. Faint perfume under sweat. The remnants of shampoo. Real.

Her pulse jumped at her throat, so loud he swore he could feel it. He didn’t move.

He should have.

But he didn’t.

He stared, unmoving, the soft heat of her rising off her body and hitting him in waves. It made his head fog. His control fray. His thoughts turn dangerous.

And then— Her voice. Barely a whisper.

“P-please…”

It wasn’t seductive. It wasn’t firm. It was frightened.

Her shoulder shifted under his arm. She was trying to move. To slip away. Her breath was unsteady. Her fingers trembling slightly where she still clutched the tray.

And for the first time in years—he felt shame.

He stepped back.

Only half an inch. But enough.

Y/N slid out past him, eyes never meeting his, her tray still clutched in her hands like a shield. She didn’t run. She didn’t cry.

She just walked out.

Leaving him alone in the sterile silence, jaw tight, blood hot.

In His Head

He hadn’t touched her. He almost did.

And for a terrifying moment, he’d wanted to. Not just wanted—ached.

Because something in him said she was his. That no one else should smell her like he had. That no one should get to be that close but him.

He should’ve been relieved when she left.

But instead, he just stood there.

And wondered how long he could keep pretending he didn’t want to own her.

Y/N started taking the long way around the unit.

She memorized every possible shortcut that didn’t intersect with him—ducked into linen closets, waited at the vending machine longer than necessary, sometimes even skipped breaks just to stay in the safety of the common rooms with Tamara or Lina.

She didn’t trust him. Not after what happened in the supply closet. Not with how close he had gotten. Not with the way he’d looked at her—like he wanted to consume her and tear her apart all at once.

But he hadn’t touched her. Not really.

And that made it harder.

Because no one else saw it. No one else felt it.

And when she told Tamara she wanted to request a shift change, the older nurse only sighed.

“Put it in,” she said, “but don’t hold your breath. You know how things work around here.”

The Apology

It was late when it happened—near the end of her shift. She was organizing IV kits when she heard her name.

“Y/N.”

She turned slowly.

Dr. Graves stood a few feet away. His coat was off. Scrub top tight around his shoulders. His sleeves rolled just enough to show the veins in his forearms. His face… unreadable.

“I’d like a word,” he said.

Her fingers tightened around the plastic bag in her hand. “I—I’m just about to go—”

“It won’t take long.”

She hesitated, then followed him. Not into a locked room, not somewhere private. Just into the empty charting area. Lights low. No one around.

He stood with his back to her for a moment before speaking.

“I owe you an apology,” he said, quiet. Measured.

Her brows lifted slowly.

“I was… unprofessional. What I said. How I acted. It was inappropriate.”

Y/N stayed silent. Unsure. Waiting for the twist. Because men like him didn’t apologize. Not without reason.

He turned to face her.

“You’re not the first young nurse to cry on this floor. But you are the first one to make me regret it.”

That caught her off guard.

She shifted. “You made me feel unsafe.”

“I know.” His voice dropped slightly. “I saw it on your face. And I’ve been… thinking about that moment ever since.”

She looked down. Her nails dug into the edge of her palm.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” he continued. “I just… I’d rather you hate me for who I am than fear me for what I’m not.”

Her eyes flicked up. “And what exactly are you?”

He gave a humorless smile. “A bastard, according to most. But not a predator.”

Her stomach twisted. He was trying. Saying all the right things. And yet—

He stepped a little closer.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

She nodded once, eyes guarded. “Okay.”

He tilted his head. “But you are.”

Her throat tightened. “I don’t know what you want from me, Dr. Graves.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. He stepped back—just slightly.

“To do my job,” he said after a long pause. “And for you to do yours. Without flinching every time I’m within ten feet.”

She swallowed. “That depends on whether you keep snapping.”

“I wouldn’t have to snap if you’d stop running from me like I’m some kind of monster.”

There it was.

Her lips parted in disbelief. “I avoid you because you’ve humiliated me. You called me things that—”

“I said things I shouldn’t have,” he interrupted sharply, eyes suddenly flaring. “But don’t act like you’ve been innocent in all of this. You waltz in, too sweet, too soft, like you want to be eaten alive—then act surprised when someone bites.”

Y/N froze.

And his face shifted—like he realized too late that he’d said what he actually meant.

She took a step back. “I think we’re done here.”

He didn’t stop her. Just watched her go, breathing heavy, the thread of control unraveling again.

After

Back in the locker room, Y/N sat with her head in her hands.

She didn’t cry.

But she didn’t feel strong either.

Because now she didn’t know what he was. A threat? A broken man trying to be better? Or something worse—something manipulative, something strategic.

Because whatever he was doing—it was working.

And that scared her more than anything.

He’d been quiet lately.

Not nice. Not kind. Just… quiet.

His voice lost its edge but not its bite. His words remained sharp, but he no longer snapped them like fangs. Instead, he dripped them—smooth, clinical, with a calm that only made Y/N feel more watched than ever.

And the touches? They started subtly.

A guiding hand on her lower back in the hallway. A palm brushing her wrist when she passed him instruments. A finger grazing her shoulder when he reached past her in the linen room.

To anyone else, it looked like nothing. Innocent. Professional. But to her—it was deliberate.

Like he was testing how far he could go before someone noticed. Before she snapped.

Tonight

She was late.

Only by a few minutes—but in his world, that was enough.

The bus had been delayed. Her sneakers soaked from a sudden downpour. She’d barely had time to throw her hair into a clip and swipe a bit of mascara and tinted balm on her lips. Her t-shirt clung to her skin as she rushed through the staff entrance, fumbling with her badge as she tried to tuck it beneath her scrub top.

Then she turned a corner—fast.

And slammed directly into a wall of muscle.

Strong hands caught her elbows before she could fall back. Hard. Warm. Anchored.

She looked up—and felt her blood run cold.

Dr. Graves.

His grip tightened, holding her there. His jaw clenched. His eyes—already sharp—darkened.

She could feel his breath against her cheek, hot and slow. His gaze roamed over her face, her neck, her chest. Down to where her hands still fumbled at the hem of her scrub top. Then back up—slowly.

“Running late,” he murmured, low and dark. “Again.”

“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, breath quickening. “The bus—”

“You come waltzing in here like this,” he cut her off, voice low and venomous, “rushed, breathless, your little shirt clinging to your tits like a wet napkin, makeup barely dried on your mouth, and expect me to believe this was just an accident?”

She froze.

His grip didn’t loosen.

He leaned in, voice right at her ear now.

“Tell me, nurse, who were you trying to impress this time?”

“I—I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he snapped, finally showing teeth. “You think looking like that gets you off the hook? Think I’ll forget how fucking useless you’ve been these past few weeks just because you came in smelling like cheap perfume and desperation?”

Her breath hitched—eyes wide, shoulders trembling beneath his hands.

Still, he didn’t let go.

“You keep showing up like this,” he hissed, “and one of these nights, someone’s going to take it the wrong way. Might not be as civil as I’ve been.”

Her stomach dropped.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean to dress like a whore?” he spat, stepping forward until her back hit the wall. “Then stop acting like one.”

Silence rang in her ears.

He was too close. His breath too hot. His words—burned.

But then—

A sound. Footsteps.

Tamara’s voice echoing down the hall.

His hands finally, slowly, dropped from her arms.

He stepped back—mask slipping back into place with terrifying precision.

“Fix your shirt,” he said coldly. “You’re on vitals.”

Then he was gone. Like nothing had happened.

Y/N stood there, hands trembling, shirt still untucked.

Lips parted. Chest tight. Her mind replaying it over and over. His voice. His grip. That look in his eyes.

And the worst part?

There was no one she could tell.

Because to the rest of the hospital, Dr. Graves had only helped a clumsy nurse steady herself.

And Y/N?

Was just another silly girl, with flushed cheeks, late again, shirt wrinkled, and no proof.

He touched her more now. Always under the guise of professionalism.

A guiding hand on her back. A brush of fingers when passing supplies. Palming her elbow when he whispered orders too close to her ear. And if they were alone?

His voice turned sharper. His grip, firmer. His words—meaner.

She never knew which version of him she’d get. But it was always worse when no one else was around.

“Did you even read this chart?” he snarled one night, slamming a clipboard down beside her. “Or were you too busy fixing your lip gloss again?”

She didn’t answer. Just kept her head down.

Another night, she tried to pass by him in a narrow hallway—he didn’t move. Let his body press against hers as she slid past, his hand resting too long at the small of her back, voice a low growl.

“You keep walking around like that—soft little thighs brushing past me—what do you expect me to do, hmm?”

She said nothing.

Because she didn’t have a voice around him anymore.

Just breath.

Shallow. Tight. Controlled.

Three Days Later — The Breakroom

It was Lina who brought it up first.

“We’re going to the staff resort party this weekend,” she said, practically bouncing as she poured a cup of coffee. “It’s going to be amazing—open bar, pool, music. And no patients. You have to come.”

Y/N blinked. “I—I don’t know.”

“Come on,” Tamara chimed in. “It’s once a year. The hospital rents out the entire damn mountain resort. You think I’m gonna pass up getting drunk in a hot tub while admin sings karaoke?”

Y/N smiled weakly. “I just… I think I’ll stay home.”

“You need this,” Lina said, more gently now. “Seriously. We’ll drive together. You can even room with us.”

“You’ve been working yourself into the ground,” Tamara added. “It’s just one night. One night to be around people who actually give a shit about you.”

And that—that—broke her hesitation.

She nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll go.”

Lina squealed. “Yes!”

Tamara smirked. “Atta girl.”

None of them saw the eyes watching from the hallway, just around the corner.

Dr. Graves stood there, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched. Listening.

And inside his head, something snapped.

Later That Shift — Alone Again

Y/N was restocking the med cart when she felt him behind her.

Too close.

She straightened, shoulders going rigid. “Doctor—”

“You’re going to the party,” he said flatly.

She turned slowly to face him. “Yes.”

“You weren’t invited by administration. This isn’t a mandatory event.”

“I was invited by Tamara. Lina.”

He stepped closer. “You think I don’t know what goes on at those parties?”

Her pulse jumped.

“Drinks. Poolside touches. Staff slipping off into the woods.” His voice dropped lower, eyes locking on her mouth. “You wear that same perfume there?”

Y/N backed into the cart slightly, voice tight. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“No,” he hissed. “Not yet.”

Then he stepped forward—right into her space. His hand slid to her jaw, fingers gentle but wrong, thumb brushing just under her lip.

“You think they’ll protect you out there?” he whispered. “That if some drunk nurse tries to slide into your room, they’ll keep you safe?”

Her breath hitched.

His hand dropped to her waist, resting low, possessive.

“You don’t get to disappear from me,” he said. “Not when I still haven’t had my fill.”

She swallowed hard. “You said… you weren’t a predator.”

He laughed, low and bitter. “No. I said I wasn’t that kind of predator.”

Then, finally, he stepped away.

“You’ll come back from that party. But you’ll come back to me.”

And with that—he left her there, breathless, stomach twisting, knowing she’d still have to smile in two days and pretend nothing was wrong.

The mountain resort was nestled in a pocket of pines and stone, built for luxury and exclusivity. A few hours from the city, it offered hot springs, heated pools, open bars—and one glorious night a year, it belonged to the hospital staff.

Y/N had been hesitant the entire drive up. But Tamara and Lina were relentless.

“We’re getting you in a dress, we’re putting a drink in your hand, and you’re not allowed to think about anything that breathes in scrubs,” Tamara said, sliding her arm around Y/N’s shoulders.

By the time they were getting ready in their shared suite, the mood had shifted.

Lina curled Y/N’s hair in loose waves, pulling half of it back with delicate clips. Tamara helped her into a dress—black, silky, fitted, with a low back and a deep sweetheart neckline that clung to her curves like sin.

It was risky. But still tasteful.

She looked in the mirror, eyes wide. “I’ve never worn something like this before.”

“And you should have,” Tamara said, beaming. “You look incredible.”

“You look like trouble,” Lina teased. “Let’s go.”

The Party

The lights were warm. Music pulsed through the wooden beams of the grand lodge. Laughter rang out over the clinking of cocktail glasses. People danced barefoot. Others lounged near fire pits. It didn’t feel like work. It felt like freedom.

Y/N sipped something pink and sweet, giggling at Lina’s failed attempts to flirt with a blushing radiologist. Tamara was already three drinks in, telling a wild story about her first year in emergency medicine.

Y/N was happy. Relaxed. Her skin felt warm, her body loose with the soft buzz of alcohol. Her dress shimmered in the firelight as she laughed with her friends.

And then—

She felt it.

That presence.

The shift in temperature. The pull of something heavy behind her.

She turned—

And froze.

Dr. Graves.

Standing near the bar. A drink in hand. Dressed in black slacks, a dark button-down rolled at the sleeves. He looked powerful. Impossibly tall. Like he owned the room the moment he stepped inside.

He’s not supposed to be here.

Their eyes met.

Y/N’s breath hitched.

His gaze roamed—slow, lethal—down her body. Her bare shoulders. Her exposed legs. Her flushed cheeks.

His jaw clenched.

She turned sharply, trying to disappear into the crowd, but Tamara had already seen him.

“Shit,” Tamara muttered, following her gaze. “He showed.”

“I thought he wasn’t coming,” Y/N whispered.

Tamara didn’t answer right away. Her gaze shifted—past Graves.

A tall woman was approaching him now. Elegant. Mid-40s. Long legs, silver-blonde hair in soft waves. Her dress was emerald silk, wrapped perfectly around her waist. She was stunning.

And Graves looked furious.

“Who’s that?” Y/N asked, throat tight.

Tamara exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. “That… is his ex-wife.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

The woman smiled at him, leaned in to speak. Her fingers brushed his arm. His face didn’t change—stone cold—but his grip on his glass tightened. His jaw flexed.

And then—his eyes flicked past the woman. Back to her.

Like the conversation didn’t matter. Like none of it did.

Only her.

Later That Night

Y/N tried to avoid him again. She stuck close to Lina. She danced. She smiled. She downed another drink. But the buzz wasn’t helping anymore. It was harder to breathe. Because every time she looked up—

He was watching.

Not moving. Not smiling. Just standing with his drink and devouring her with his eyes.

At one point, a young tech from neurology came over, flustered but sweet, offering Y/N another drink and a nervous compliment.

“You, uh… you look beautiful.”

Y/N smiled, kind but cautious. “Thank you.”

The moment his hand lightly touched the small of her back—

A shadow passed between them.

Graves.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t smile.

He just stared at the poor guy until he muttered something awkward and left.

Y/N’s chest rose and fell too fast.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

He stepped closer, towering over her now.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said, voice low and razor-sharp.

“What question?”

He leaned in. “Who were you trying to impress, showing up like this?”

Her throat tightened. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His hand brushed her waist—just a touch. But it was not innocent.

“You wear this dress… smile like that… and let another man put his hand on you? You think I wouldn’t notice?”

She took a step back. “You’re not allowed to be here.”

“I go where I’m needed.”

“You’re not needed here.”

He smiled—sharp. Cruel. “No?”

Then he leaned in again, breath hot at her ear.

“Then why is your heart racing like I’ve already got my hands between your thighs?”

She gasped—shoved past him.

Tamara was already moving toward her, worry etched in her face.

But behind her, Dr. Graves just stood still.

Drink untouched.

Eyes black with possession.

The cold air outside was supposed to help.

That’s what Y/N told Tamara when she caught up with her near the bar, concern heavy in her voice.

“You alright, honey? You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” Y/N lied. “I just need some fresh air. I’ll be back.”

Tamara didn’t push. Not yet.

But instead of heading toward the patio, Y/N moved quickly through the back of the lodge, ducking past the couples and clusters of coworkers, heels clicking over polished wood until she reached the elevator.

She jabbed the button with a shaking hand.

Her heart was racing.

She needed to get to the room. To lock the door. To breathe.

The doors slid open and she stepped inside, hitting the button for her floor. The soft whir of the closing doors was already a comfort.

But just before they sealed shut—

A large hand shot through.

The doors jolted, reopened—

And there he was.

Dr. Graves.

Y/N’s blood went cold.

He stepped in slowly. Calmly. Like a man walking into a boardroom.

Y/N took two steps back, chest rising fast.

“No. No—please—”

She reached for the “door open” button, trying to escape.

He moved faster.

His arm wrapped around her waist, dragging her back as she struggled to press against him, to claw at the panel. But he was stronger. Too strong.

With one hand still locked around her, he reached out and pressed a floor button she didn’t recognize—one that belonged to the executive penthouse suite. Reserved. Secluded.

His.

The doors slid shut.

Y/N gasped. “No! Stop—please let me off—let me go!”

She squirmed, trying to twist free.

He held her tighter.

Her voice rose, panicked. “Help! Somebody—please—!”

His hand flew up—covered her mouth.

“You scream again,” he said softly, lips against her temple, “and I’ll make sure no one hears you for the rest of the night.”

Her eyes went wide.

She whimpered behind his hand, shaking hard.

“I asked you nicely,” he whispered, breath hot, calm. “I let you have your little night. I watched you. I waited. And then you go and let some boy put his hands on you?”

He spun her so she faced him, back pressed to the elevator wall, his body blocking every escape.

“You don’t get to be touched by anyone else,” he snarled, hand sliding from her mouth to her jaw. “Not after I’ve marked you.”

Her lip trembled.

“Please, don’t—”

He grabbed her face tighter. “But you wanted this, didn’t you?” His eyes scanned her face—flushed, terrified. “Coming down here in that dress. Making me lose my mind. Do you know what you do to me?”

Her only answer was a soft sob.

He stared at her.

Then—ding.

The elevator stopped.

The doors opened to the top floor. Dark. Quiet. Carpeted in deep gray. No staff. No guests.

Just his suite.

He didn’t move at first. Just looked down at her.

Then slowly reached for her wrist.

“You’re coming with me.”

She tried to pull away—again.

This time, he yanked.

And dragged her into the darkness.

The suite was silent as the door clicked shut behind them.

Y/N stumbled slightly, yanked forward by her wrist as Dr. Graves walked ahead like he owned the entire floor—because he did. The lights were dim. The windows stretched floor to ceiling, showing the mountains below bathed in cold moonlight. Everything smelled like expensive wood and subtle cologne.

Her bare feet barely made a sound on the thick carpet. She tried to twist away again.

“Let go of me,” she hissed, voice cracking.

He didn’t.

He dragged her past the wide living room, past a fire already burning in the hearth, and stopped only when they reached the bedroom. Then—finally—he turned to her.

She stared up at him, trembling.

Furious.

Terrified.

His grip on her wrist tightened as his free hand came up—slow, deliberate—and brushed a loose curl from her cheek.

“I told myself I’d leave you alone,” he murmured, almost like he was speaking to himself. “Told myself you needed space. That you were scared. That I went too far.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

“You did,” she said. “You are.”

His eyes flickered. “And yet…”

His hand dropped from her cheek and slid lower. To her neck. Her collarbone. The thin black strap of her dress.

She shivered.

“And yet here you are,” he whispered, “in my elevator. In my suite. Looking like you want to be ruined.”

“That wasn’t my choice,” she bit out.

He smiled—dark and thin. “Maybe not tonight. But part of you came in that dress for me, didn’t it?”

“No—!”

He stepped in, towering over her now, fingers trailing down her bare arm.

“You sure?” he breathed. “Even now, your body’s not fighting me.”

She was frozen—but not because she wanted it.

She was frozen because her brain couldn’t keep up with the fear, the closeness, the way his voice melted into something low and soft, like seduction wrapped in razor wire.

“I said no,” she whispered again.

He leaned in—his lips grazing her ear.

“But your eyes… they say something else entirely.”

Then he grabbed her waist—pulling her forward until her body met his.

She gasped, hands pressing weakly against his chest. “Please—don’t.”

His head dipped lower.

“Don’t what?” he murmured, nose brushing her neck. “Touch you like this?”

His hand slid around her back, over her spine, pressing her hips flush to his.

“Or like this?”

The other hand trailed down—fingertips grazing the top of her thigh through the slit in her dress.

Her breath caught.

Tears welled.

She tried to shove him again—but he caught both wrists and pinned them behind her, gently. Carefully. Like he was comforting her, not restraining her.

“I could be gentle,” he said. “You want that, don’t you? Someone to take control. To see you. Not like the little boys you flirt with in the hallway. Not like the ones who stutter when they tell you you’re pretty.”

He dipped his head and kissed her jaw—softly.

Her body jolted.

“No—please don’t—”

He hushed her.

“Shh. Don’t ruin it now. You’ve already given me everything I need.”

She turned her face away, tears slipping down her cheeks as he pulled her closer.

And still—his touch remained calm. Almost tender.

It made her feel sick.

Because this wasn’t madness. It was control. A twisted obsession masked as care.

“I’ll make you understand,” he whispered. “You don’t have to want it yet. But you will.”

He released her wrist—not as mercy, but because she wasn’t going anywhere. Her feet wouldn’t move. Her knees wobbled beneath her. Fear sat high in her throat, thick and rising.

Dr. Graves stood before her, eyes low, breath steady. His shirt was half unbuttoned. His sleeves rolled. His belt still buckled.

But not for long.

“You don’t have to act so frightened,” he said softly, his voice almost kind. “This was always going to happen.”

Y/N shook her head. “Please… please don’t—”

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He stepped closer. “Unless you fight me.”

His fingers reached up—tracing along her collarbone, brushing the strap of her dress again. She flinched.

He smiled at that.

“I’ll be gentle,” he whispered, “if you’re still. If you let me have what’s mine.”

She shook her head harder. “I’m not yours.”

His hand slid down her chest—softly, reverently. The way someone might touch an ancient artifact. “But you are,” he murmured. “You just don’t understand yet.”

She gasped when his hand dipped lower, gliding over the satin at her waist.

“You wore this for me. Even if you didn’t know it.”

“I didn’t,” she whispered.

He leaned in—his mouth brushing the shell of her ear.

“Liar.”

His fingers slid around her back—slow, slow—finding the hidden zipper at her side.

She grabbed his wrist, weakly. “Don’t.”

He stared at her. Calm. Even now.

“I could take it,” he said, voice low. “Rip it from you in seconds. But I won’t. I’m going to undress you like you deserve. Like a patient I’m preparing for surgery—delicate, careful… mine.”

The zipper came down.

She whimpered.

His free hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing a tear she didn’t remember letting fall.

“I’ve thought about this every night,” he whispered. “The sound you’d make when I touched you here…” His fingers trailed the top of her thigh through the slit in her dress. “…and here.” He ghosted a hand over her stomach, her hip, the underside of her breast.

Her breathing hitched. But she didn’t move.

Her body wasn’t hers anymore.

It belonged to fear. And to him.

“See?” he murmured. “That’s better. That’s my good girl.”

He slipped the straps off her shoulders slowly—slow enough to watch her realize how helpless she really was. Her dress fell to her hips, baring the curve of her chest, her trembling skin, the soft rise and fall of her breaths.

He stared at her like she was art. No—like a specimen. Something rare. Something owned.

“You’re perfect,” he said. “And wasted on anyone else.”

His mouth pressed to her neck—hot, slow, claiming. His hands now on her thighs, spreading them. One knee pushing between hers.

She whimpered again. “Don’t do this…”

His mouth moved to her collarbone, his voice tightening—lower, dangerous.

“I’ve already done it,” he breathed. “You just haven’t realized it yet.”

Y/N’s breath trembled in her chest as her dress slipped past her waist and dropped in a soft whisper to the carpet. Her skin flushed hot against the cold air of the room, her heart stuttering wildly as she stood in nothing but her underwear before him—exposed, trembling.

Dr. Graves let his eyes drag over her slowly. No shame. No hesitation. Just hunger. Worship.

He stepped close—close enough that her knees brushed the fabric of his pants.

“You really are the prettiest thing this hospital has ever produced,” he murmured, hand grazing over her stomach, fingers light, reverent. “Not just pretty. Precise. Everything about you—perfectly made.”

Her arms crossed weakly over her chest, trying to shield herself.

He clicked his tongue. “No, no. Don’t hide from me. You don’t get to decide how I see you now. That’s my right.”

He gently pushed her arms down, baring her again, his fingers dragging across her wrists like a physician checking a pulse.

“You’re soft in all the right places,” he said, almost clinically. “But underneath that skin—there’s bone. Blood. Nerves. I know exactly how to touch every inch of you.”

His hands slid up her waist, mapping the gentle swell of her hips, brushing the underside of her breasts.

“And I will.”

She turned her face away, eyes glassy.

He leaned in and kissed the side of her jaw. “Is this where you dissociate?” he whispered. “Right here—when it’s too much? You drift somewhere soft in your head and pretend this isn’t happening?”

She made a small sound—like a whimper caught behind her teeth.

He smiled against her skin.

“I’ve seen that look before,” he said. “On the OR table. When they stop fighting. When the body goes pliant. Submissive. You’re slipping into that now, aren’t you?”

His hand slid behind her back—down to cup her ass. Squeezing, possessive.

“You’ll thank me for this someday,” he whispered.

Then—his voice hardened.

“But not tonight. Tonight, you’ll cry. And I’ll still tell you how fucking beautiful you are while I ruin you.”

His mouth dropped to her chest, kissing between her breasts, over her ribs, slow and sinful. Like he was devouring her. But his other hand? It stayed wrapped tight around her arm, fingers bruising. Keeping her still. Caged.

“You think I want to break you because I hate you?” he murmured against her skin. “No, sweetheart. I want to break you because I worship you. And nothing that perfect should go unscarred.”

She let out a choked sob. Her body frozen, breath shallow.

And in her head?

It all drifted.

The feel of the carpet under her toes. The weight of his hands. His mouth on her skin. It all became far away. Like watching it from behind glass.

Because if she felt it, really felt it—she might shatter.

He left her there.

On the bed.

Chest heaving. Body trembling. Skin covered in sweat, tears… and him.

Y/N didn’t remember when he stopped whispering. Or when the sharpness in his voice dulled to breathless murmurs of praise and sick satisfaction. She just remembered the weight of his hands. The way they moved like he knew her body better than she ever did.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t fight. Not by the end.

Because it hurt. Everywhere. And she knew it wouldn’t stop if she said no.

Her thighs ached. There were fingerprints on her hips. Deep, purple bruises already blooming across the soft flesh between her legs, and along her arms where he’d held her down. Her ribs throbbed where he’d gripped her too tight. Her throat was sore—from whimpers, gasps, maybe even his hand. She couldn’t tell anymore.

And the marks—God, the marks. Hickeys like welts, trailing down her neck, the curve of her shoulder, over the swell of her breast.

Claimed.

Defiled.

Ruined.

He’d called her his masterpiece.

She’d closed her eyes and tried not to scream.

Now he was gone.

Just like that.

The door shut behind him with that same soft click. As if it were just another call, another surgery, another problem solved.

Y/N lay on the bed, frozen.

For a long time, she couldn’t move.

Then—slowly—her body remembered how to breathe. Her fingers flexed against the blanket. Her skin itched, stung, ached.

She rolled to her side, sobbing silently as she reached for her dress on the floor. It was wrinkled now, stretched at the seams, one strap torn. She pulled it on with shaking hands, wincing as the fabric dragged over the bruises between her thighs. Her heels were near the door—she didn’t even bother putting them on.

She just picked them up and walked barefoot out of the suite. Hair wild. Makeup smeared. Skin mottled with pain.

The hall was cold and quiet. The elevator ride down felt endless. She prayed no one would be there.

But someone was.

The Front Desk

A young hotel staffer—mid-twenties, polite, eager to help. He looked up from his desk and froze.

His smile dropped.

Y/N stood barefoot in front of him, arms hugging herself, eyes red, dress clinging damply to her body. One strap hung loose. Hickeys darkened every visible inch of her collarbone. One looked… almost like a bite.

And the bruises. Dark. Fresh. Ugly.

Her knees buckled as she reached the desk.

“I—I need help,” she whispered.

The staffer immediately stepped around the desk, catching her just before she fell. She flinched hard—violently—but he raised his hands, gentle and slow.

“I’m not touching you, I promise. I’m just here. You’re safe.”

“Please,” she whimpered. “Please don’t let him find me.”

His face was pale now, his phone already in his hand.

“I’m calling the police,” he said. “Just stay right here. You’re safe. He’s not going to touch you again.”

Outside — Sirens

By the time the police arrived, Y/N was wrapped in a hotel blanket, sitting on the lobby couch, knees pulled to her chest. She couldn’t stop crying.

An officer knelt in front of her, voice low.

“Miss L/N, do you know the man’s name?”

She nodded slowly, barely whispering. “Dr. Alaric Graves.”

The officer’s face tightened. He looked at the others. They knew that name.

Too powerful. Too clean. Too untouchable.

But now?

Now she had the marks to prove it.

And finally, someone had seen her.

The drive home was silent.

No sirens. No comforting words. No follow-up questions.

The police had taken her statement.

They logged her bruises, photographed the marks with sterile detachment. She answered everything, voice shaking, throat sore. They gave her a blanket. A ride.

But no promises.

No arrests.

Not yet.

And somewhere in a room far away, men in suits whispered names—Graves, donor, prestige, reputation—and decided her case wouldn’t move forward. That her pain was inconvenient.

That what happened could be paid away.

Home

She stripped in the hallway.

Couldn’t bear to bring the dress past the threshold of her room. It lay in a pile near the front door like the skin of something dead.

The bathroom lights were too bright. Her reflection too honest.

She stared at her neck. Her ribs. Her thighs.

The fingerprints. The hickeys. The angry red burns where his stubble had scraped her skin.

And the worst part?

He hadn’t rushed.

He’d taken his time. Left a message on every inch of her body.

She turned the shower on. Scalding.

And stepped in.

She scrubbed. And scrubbed. And scrubbed.

Until her skin was raw. Until her sobs echoed off the tile. Until she was clean—but not better. Never better.

She collapsed to her knees beneath the spray, forehead pressed to the tile, hands gripping her stomach like she could hold her insides together.

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “I’m okay. I’m okay—”

But she wasn’t.

Three Days Later — The Offer

It came in a quiet envelope. Delivered by courier. Sealed with the hospital’s logo.

A transfer.

New department. New hospital, if she wanted. A glowing reference. And a payout.

Just enough to make her question if she’d imagined it all.

No mention of Dr. Graves. No apology. Just a clean exit.

And a bribe.

Y/N stared at the papers in her lap. Hands trembling. Chest tight.

They knew.

They weren’t going to fight for her. They just wanted her gone.

That Afternoon — Tamara & Lina

They came without calling. Tamara barged in like a storm, Lina behind her, eyes already glossy.

“Honey,” Tamara said softly, “why haven’t you answered our texts? What happened?”

Y/N tried to speak.

She opened her mouth. Nothing came.

Lina sat beside her, touched her hand.

That’s when she broke.

“It—he—he hurt me,” she choked out, shoulders trembling. “He didn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. I said no. I told him no—he held me down—”

“Oh my God,” Lina whispered.

Tamara’s face went still. Quiet. Cold.

Y/N shook her head violently, crying harder. “They’re not doing anything. They’re offering me money.”

Tamara knelt in front of her, took her hands. “You don’t take it,” she said. “You take your voice back.”

“I don’t feel strong,” Y/N sobbed.

“You don’t have to,” Tamara whispered. “We’ll carry you until you are.”

Lina nodded, squeezing her hand. “We believe you. We always will.”

Y/N wept harder.

But for the first time—

She wasn’t alone.

It had been nearly two weeks since she told them.

Tamara was furious. Lina cried. They promised to stand with her, to scream if she couldn’t. They were already drafting letters, reaching out to reporters. Even an advocate from the hospital union had agreed to listen.

Y/N wasn’t strong yet, but she could see the light in the distance.

She could almost breathe again.

Until the knock.

It was late. Grey outside. Rain tapped the windows gently.

She opened the door, hesitantly, in a sweatshirt two sizes too big and socks that didn’t match. Her hair was tied up, her face bare. She hadn’t slept much. She’d been reading Lina’s email draft all morning—her story, in writing.

She didn’t expect to see a man in a slate-gray suit, hair slicked back, umbrella tucked beneath one arm.

“Y/N L/N?” he asked politely.

She nodded slowly, heart already thudding.

“I’m with the legal department affiliated with Heinburg Medical Group,” he said, offering a briefcase-like folder. “We’d like to finalize this matter privately.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t take the folder.

“I… I said I wasn’t taking the deal,” she whispered.

The man smiled thinly. “Miss L/N, this is not a request. This is a resolution.”

He stepped inside without permission.

She stepped back.

He placed the folder on her coffee table and opened it with a crisp flick. Inside: a thick Non-Disclosure Agreement, already tabbed. Already highlighted.

The payout figure was staggering. Enough to buy a house. Enough to vanish.

Her hands shook just looking at it.

“I’m not—no, I’m not signing this—” she began, voice cracking.

He looked at her with eerie calm. “You’ll want to reconsider.”

Then he said the things she feared the most.

“You’re very young. No family in-state. Still in student loan debt. Those nurses you trust so much? We’ve already begun internal reviews on both their behavior and conduct. Would be a shame if their careers suffered.”

“And as for that advocate? We own their silence.”

Y/N’s legs gave out—she sank onto the couch, hands to her mouth.

“You’re protecting him,” she whispered. “You’re protecting a rapist.”

The man tilted his head. “No, Miss L/N. We’re protecting a legacy. There’s a difference.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, soft and silent.

She shook her head again. “I can’t—I can’t do this.”

“Of course you can. It’s just a signature.”

He placed the pen in front of her.

Then, quieter: “And if you don’t sign, there’s a very real chance you’ll be declared unstable. You’re already on medical leave. It won’t be difficult to justify a psychiatric referral.”

A beat passed.

Another.

And then—

A soft, broken sound left her lips. A whimper.

Barely audible.

Her hand shook as she reached for the pen.

One signature.

That’s all it took.

She signed her silence in trembling ink.

The lawyer smiled as he closed the folder.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “You made the right choice.”

Then he stood, buttoned his coat, and walked to the door.

Before leaving, he pulled out his phone.

Dialed. Waited.

And just before the door shut behind him—

“It’s done.”

The call ended with two words.

“It’s done.”

Dr. Alaric Graves slowly lowered the phone, a smirk playing on his lips. He set it down on the edge of the mahogany desk in his office—polished to a shine, sterile and perfect like everything else around him.

But not her.

No. Y/N had never been perfect.

She was soft. Messy. Emotional. Alive.

And now she was gone.

His office had never felt so hollow.

It had been days.

No footsteps in the hall.

No warm scent of her passing by—jasmine and coffee and fear. No quick glances when she thought he wasn’t looking. No shaking hands as she clutched her clipboard, trying not to flinch when he brushed her arm.

He missed it.

Missed the way her body froze when he entered a room.

The way her lips parted—not in pleasure, but in panic. The quiver in her throat when she tried to speak. The faint, wet shine in her eyes as she backed herself into corners like a helpless rabbit.

And God, the way she begged.

“Please, don’t—” “I said no—” “It hurts—”

She didn’t know it, but every sound she made had burned itself into his memory. Into his bones.

His hand flexed on the desk now, jaw tight, breath shallow. He could still feel her.

Still feel her thighs shaking beneath his hands. Still hear the wet hitch of her breath when he kissed her throat. Still see her skin—red, bruised, marked—his hickeys scarring her like ink.

His cock hardened at the thought.

Under him again. Splayed out. Crying. Small.

“Mine,” he whispered into the dark office.

He had almost gone to her last night.

Had her address. Could’ve driven there.

Just to watch. Just to feel her panic when she saw him again. To remind her—no matter what paper she signed, she was still his.

But he’d held back. Barely.

Not because he wanted to.

But because the wait would make her surrender sweeter.

________________________________________________________________________

She had ruined everything.

His wife.

Ex-wife.

Madeline.

She shouldn’t have been at that party. Shouldn’t have come back. Not after three years of silence. Of betrayal. Of humiliation.

She’d brought that smug, empty smile and wrapped herself in emerald silk like she still had the right to stand beside him.

She had looked through him like he didn’t matter anymore.

Like he hadn’t once worshipped her body. Given her everything.

He had clenched his glass so hard he thought it would crack.

And then—he saw Y/N.

Spinning. Smiling. Laughing.

That dress. That skin. That light in her eyes that no one had broken yet.

She was warmth. Innocence. The thing he could still control.

He remembered the exact moment he decided to take her.

It wasn’t planned.

But the second she touched that young tech’s arm—smiled up at him with flushed cheeks and lip gloss—and Graves caught that look in her eyes?

Gone.

His self-control fractured. Snapped clean in two.

And he knew:

If he couldn’t get Madeline back… He’d take someone better.

Someone sweeter.

Someone whose body still meant something.

Someone who didn’t know yet what it meant to be owned.

And now?

Now that he had her scent on his skin, her bruises mapped in his mind—

He couldn’t stop.

He leaned back in his chair, letting his hand drift down his stomach, eyes half-lidded.

“Soon, little nurse,” he whispered to no one. “You’ll be begging to come back.”

And he would be waiting.

[becauseimanicequeen]

WHAT I’M CURRENTLY WATCHING

It's been a while since I made one of these lists. But here I am with a new one, including the queer shows I'm currently watching. (As always, they're in alphabetical order, because that's just how I am, lol).

4 Minutes (Thailand):

This show is my current obsession. Period. The content on my blog being 99.999999999% about 4 Minutes right now says it all.

Addicted Heroin (2024) (Thailand):

I've seen both the original as well as Stay With Me, which were both fine. I was curious enough to see what Thailand would do with it, which is why I'm watching. And I'm loving it, so far.

I like Hero, even though he's an idiot. And I like the supporting pair. Hero's dad, though... No.

Battle of the Writers (Thailand):

I still have no idea what this show is about except for a couple of writers, two of which have a history together. But, I got to see three of my Playboy babes, so that's a win for me.

First Note of Love (Taiwan):

I'm spoiled with my beloved Taiwanese QLs right now. I'm even more spoiled that I have yet another very rare show where I can actually listen to the music played and sung without muting the damn thing. And I'm spoiled fucking rotten because I've got Charles Tu on my screen again.

I love everything about this show 5 episodes in, and it makes my Mondays a lot brighter (and my Mondays were fine before this, btw).

Happy of the End (Japan):

I like my Japanese shows dark and complicated. So, I'm obviously loving this.

Hidden Moon (Thailand):

I'm only one episode into this one so I don't really have much to say other than that I like the vibe and that it's visually stunning so far (always a plus for me).

I Hear the Sunspots (Japan):

I'm a bit torn with this one. But I love the representation of the deaf community because my great-grandfather was deaf.

(Kind of unrelated, but kind of not: My great-grandfather didn't know sign language, he just read lips. And he was always most comfortable around people who treated him like just anyone else.)

I Saw You In My Dream (Thailand):

Considering I only started watching this because I saw a gif of Ai wearing a Dream Theater shirt (which was my dad's favorite band before he passed away), I wasn't expecting much. But it's surprisingly enjoyable.

The only critique I have is that they ended this week's episode right in the middle of Ai and Yu kissing. Not that I think they'll go all the way in that particular scene. One of them will probably stop. But cutting the scene there... That's just rude. (I'm joking... But kind of not.)

Kidnap (Thailand):

I'm just one episode in so I don't have much to say other than that I love that Papang is in it. I always need more of him on my screen.

Live in Love (Thailand):

This is another one I'm only one episode into (the second one comes out today), so I don't have much to say other than that I really like the vibe so far.

Monster Next Door (Thailand):

I'm a simple girl. I would watch Big in anything as long as he's kissing boys, because this boy knows how to kiss boys.

The On1y One (Taiwan):

Again, I'm spoiled with my beloved Taiwanese QLs right now. And this one is everything to me.

I knew it would be amazing (it's from the same director who made Your Name Engraved Herein) so, no surprise there. And if I wasn't so busy screaming about 4 Minutes during the little spare time I have now that I'm in the middle of a big art project, I would be screaming about this show.

I only needed 10 seconds of the first episode to be hooked (them looking at each other was all I needed to be sold). 6 episodes in, and I'm in heaven.

Seoul Blues (Korea):

This is from the same creators of Blue Boys and Bad Guy and I'm watching it solely for the chemistry and the... how should I describe it? Mellow vibe?

The Trainee (Thailand):

I had a hard time getting into this one. Mainly because I can't relate to the whole office environment thing (I've always worked for myself). But somewhere around the end of the second episode or the beginning of the third, I was sold. Mostly due to the dynamics between the characters and that everyone is unique and flawed in their own way. Plus, the colors are amazing.

It's been a while since I had at least one new episode to watch every day (I think it was sometime before the summer), so I'm starting to get back to normal again. And I love it here.

[eruanee]

Kiryuu Touga and the cyclical narrative

TW : Discussions of misogyny, emotional manipulation and abuse, sexual abuse and (sexual) child abuse. (Very vague) mention of incest.

First of all, not really as a disclaimer but more as a recommendation, a lot of my thoughts about Touga are shaped by this essay, which is definitely easily one of my favorite pieces of Utena meta. I think I'm going to implicitly or more explicitly reference it sometimes, but you don't need to read it to understand this post.

I have a complex relationship with Touga. He is despicable, yet the more I watch the series, the more I find myself... fascinated by him. This post is a pretty much a synthesis of all these thoughts.

On a purely narrative level, Touga's role is a bit special. He's the antagonist of the first arc. The three duels involving him are all turning points in the series. He's a core character in the development of several other characters (Saionji, Nanami, Utena and Miki on a different level).

Yet, turns out he's only a puppet, just as everyone else is. How surprising. And when it comes down to it, what do we know about Touga ?

He's the Student Council's president. He seemingly can't have a relationship with anyone without manipulating them to his advantage. He sleeps with any girl (and maybe not only girls) who breathe around him in a 1 ft radius. His way of coping with depression is to seal himself in a wide and totally empty room to listen to his own voice on repeat to ponder heavily on his broken hopes and ideals. (Hmm. Hardcore.)

And more importantly, he wants power. A power that would be absolute. But why so ?

And this is the point where it gets complicated.

Touga is barely the main topic of episodes focused on him. He is the center of many obsessions and interests, but it seems we never touch upon him as a person. He can be seen being vaguely vulnerable in eps 11 and 12 and then there's the whole Black Rose arc thing. But where does all this mess steam from ?

Victim status

Eps 35 and 36 are the one going deeper into Touga’s character and yet... we’re barely sure of what’s actually going on in his brain. These episodes always give me a weird feeling because we don’t really get to see Touga express his feelings very clearly or freely... We barely get to hear his thoughts. 

Just like Anthy.

Don’t make me say what I didn’t say, though. Touga gets to have way more agency than ever does Anthy, and he certainly doesn't endure the same dehumanization as she does. Anthy does have agency in a way. But she expresses it in hidden, implicit ways : playing tricks, hitting people in their sore spots, sarcasm, empty eyes and fake smiles. She’s manipulative and Touga is, too. These two share many similarities, though they can’t completely blend with each other, of course. 

We don’t know much about Touga’s childhood. We know he and Nanami were adopted (or “sold”) to the Kiryuu family at a young age. That’s basically it in the canon of the series. Though, Touga’s backstory in the movie, showing him being sexually abused by his adoptive father, was apparently meant to be included in the series as well :

Although the TV series touched upon Touga’s younger days, the film goes into more details – the wound of Touga that was never directly depicted. In his younger days, Touga was a normal kid who enjoyed happy times with his friend Saionji Kyouichi and his younger sister Nanami. However, he came to know his unfortunate fate from the time he was ordered by his parents to wear his hair long. His parents sold him to the Kiryuu family. Although he was an adopted son on the surface, the instinctive Touga knew what that meant. And in order to protect his younger sister, he accepted his lot. Being sold. We did not go into depicting what Touga’s parents obtained by going as far as selling their son. We would like you to think of it as a kind of metaphor. 

And Touga accepted in silence the sexual abuse from his new parents. His personality changed while he made a magnanimous show of enjoying the abuses in order to prevent his personality from splitting. The change took place in a spot so deep in his mind, that even those closest to him did not notice. Saionji and Nanami never noticed out of their innocence. And Touga never told his secret to anyone. It is said that a human being gains whatever he lost in exchange. So what did Touga gain in exchange at that point in time? It was the sense of alienation from being abused every night and seeing his innocent friend and sister during the day. The alienated self.

(Extract of a comment Enokido, one of the writers who worked on Utena, wrote about Touga’s role in the Utena movie.)

Of course, you could argue whether or not the sexual abuse is canon or not in the series. After all, the series and the movie don’t seem to take place in the same canon (even though it is hard to completely disconnect the two). Whatever you choose to believe, I personally think it all makes so much sense. 

It makes sense regarding Touga’s general behavior in the series (but this is more touched upon in the essay I linked above) and it makes his goal and his narrative role much clearer.

Being sold like a mere object, knowing a much harsher truth about life Saionji and Nanami don’t know about, showing everyone a stronger facade in order to not completely lose your mind and keep protecting your friend and your sister from this reality and eventually... letting them know in a painfully gendered way, perpetuating everything this system has forced on you. 

It has all become part of you. 

Keeping the cycle of violence going became part of your blood and flesh. Making clear who is supposed to inflict pain and who is supposed to receive it. Who is supposed to protect and who is supposed to be protected. Who is supposed to act and who is supposed to wait. 

And you ? No, you’re never supposed to hurt anymore. You want a way out of this. For you, the easiest way is to simply reclaim the place that was always prepared for you to take. 

When Touga and Saionji found Utena in her coffin, it feels like Touga knew something Saionji didn’t. Saionji felt it too, but he wasn’t able to recognize what it was. After all, he was still a child. Touga knew about the same thing Utena learned with her parents’ death : they both had a glimpse of what the “adult world” (Akio’s world) actually looks like, shattering their juvenile knowledge of the world. 

A world where people die. A world where the weak lose. A world where the prince should protect the princess. 

Touga already had a coffin. Utena just found hers and was about to find a new one. Saionji was just finding his. 

It all makes sense regarding how obedient Touga is to Akio and why he seeks his validation, his desire to go up in the hierarchy aside. It makes sense because he is “alienated”. Touga got deprived of everything, he knows the burden of being alive and he’s learned, from his early childhood, to be compliant. 

He seems independent during the Student Council arc and a majority of the series, but eps 35 and 36 show he is not the mastermind of it all. He has a privileged position but unlike some other characters, Touga never uses his agency to try to break out of the system ─ he follows its rules and tries to reinforce his dominance. 

Why would you break out from a system serving you so well ?

“I want to become like him. I want power like his.”

Touga is alienated to the system and his only goal is to become what it expects of him. After all, why wouldn’t he ? Being a prince is the best position offered by the system. Being a prince means acquiring an absolute power. With such power, one doesn’t die and is forever out of reach and harm and pain. Who wouldn’t want such a thing ? 

The prince never saves the princess out of selflessness. He saves her because it gives him a reward in exchange. He saves her because it gives him power and control over her and ultimately, everyone else. And so, the princess becomes a "toy" wannabe princes has to win, to conquer.

Does Touga, even during what seems to be his most “sincere” moment in ep 36, ever wish to protect Utena for something else than possessing her ? When could have he learned to know and appreciate her as a person, rather than a princess ? A reward to conquer ?

When did he stop wishing he could’ve saved Utena just like Akio did ? I believe he might be genuine, yet he acts toward Utena exactly like she acts toward Anthy. He wants to save her for his own sake, regardless of her personal hopes and desires. 

It’s truly sad, though. Because all of it is nothing but a childish dream. There was never once a prince in this world. Only boring and abusive adults. 

“Are you really happy with that?”

Well, when it comes down to it, probably not. But was it ever about happiness ? Probably not either. The pursuit of power only ever leads to isolation, to a complete lack of meaning ─ after all, friendship is a fool’s thing. No one can reach what’s behind the facade. 

Saionji was able to confront Touga with his own lies and paradoxes, get as close to his real self anyone probably could. But it wasn’t enough. Saionji himself didn’t go as far as leaving the system entirely, even when it seemed he had cracked it all. Touga sort of did, too. 

As far as I’m concerned, we only heard his own, deep thoughts once.

“Kiryuu Touga, the playboy Student Council President... Is it? "Playboy" sounds old-fashioned.”

Touga weaponized himself. He weaponized his body (sex is only a tool to aim for power). He weaponized his heart (relationships only matter if you use them to your advantage. Those who believe in love and friendship are fools and will be ultimately be used to someone else’s advantage). And for what ? 

I really like the symbolism of the poppy flower in ep 35. I feel like it symbolizes Akio’s power, in a way. I’m incredibly bad when it comes to the language of flowers (so everyone is free to correct me) but please bear with me. In the East, red poppy flowers apparently symbolize romantic love and success (what it probably means for the girl confessing to Touga, as well as Akio when he “eats” it in this scene, since Touga and him are talking about Utena) but it can also symbolize “luxurious pleasures and fantastic extravagance”. In the Japanese language of flowers, red poppies can also symbolize someone “fun-loving”. I feel like both of these work with Akio and I believe that for Touga, they are a symbol of luxury and extravagance. 

Yet another girl confessed to him. Without even thinking about it, he kissed her. He will never read her confession letter, he probably didn’t even notice it. He will probably simply leave it on the floor, without a care. This pursuit of power isn’t even fulfilling to him, there’s absolutely no thought behind it. Only automatic actions, behaviors working in favor of someone else’s greater scheme. He won’t even get to actually possess Utena. 

He will never get what he truly wants. Is there even anything that he truly wants ? Saionji, maybe. In the meantime, he’s just a tool for a system. A system made up by boring adults, based on lies, illusions and unachievable dreams. 

Touga is condemned to go in cycles. He’s given everything to overcome what keeps him stuck and trapped, but it doesn’t do anything. He can only revolve around his own coffin, completing the same circle, again and again. 

He doesn’t know how to do anything else. 

It will never make anything he’s done forgivable. But at least, maybe one day, he’ll realize. Or maybe never. 

We can always create new roads, leading to worlds completely unknown to us, where everything needs to be built. Anthy and Utena are here to show the way, who deserves to follow these new roads is only up to you. 

On a purely personal standpoint... I was never really able to answer this question. 

“No. It's not over until we see it through the very end.”

[palzeddie]

rescue hi-surf 1.13 thots

ugh will is back. day ruined i quit life

DAMN okay well i didn’t see the preview last week so the only thing telling me someone was gonna blow up was the fox announcer saying “with an explosive new episode” 😭😭😭

oooh the hinalu tension…

LOL “or would u rather work with will…” sonny kills me

i really like sonny and em’s dynamic and i’m excited to see how it evolves the rest of the season w them going back to their original roles. are they going to end up walking backwards? what else will be a point of tension between them after the captaincy thing is out of the way?

LAKA I MISSED U 

oh my god kainalu actually looks like he’s gonna cry at not being assigned to the skiis. poor baby is about to be traumatized

omg new yuri potential??? hina wants to rizz up that influencer so bad i know it

“whatever you’ve heard about lieutenant wright… it’s 10x worse” YEAHHH 

will looks like if christian borle sat in the sun for three days with baby oil on his body and lemon juice in his hair

oh my god em in that tank top… i love women

anticipating this explosion is giving me chest pains

laka cracks me up he’s being such a whore lolll

it’s actually foul and evil for them to make me giggle and forget that someone is blowing up

if anything happens to kainalu today i know a really good way to change the trajectory of matt kester’s life

which is reminding me that i thought this was a ryan murphy show until this moment when i googled the showrunner. why did i think this was a ryan murphy show

KAINALU BABY 💔💔💔

“you could definitely mix it up a little more with him” HELPPP i love u cupid laka

this is so sick and twisted i shouldn’t be giggling when KAINALU IS GOING THROUGH THE HORRORS

oh my god oh my god oh my god

i’m actually sick i can’t handle this

and of course sonny has to be the only one on the team to know kainalu was taken to the hospital. i’m so sick

NO LAKA DON’T STAY BY YOURSELF if something bad happens to laka too… i’m gonna kay em ess

god i’m so stressed

oh my god i’m actually sick in the head seeing kainalu in that bed like that

wow someone being pissed at sonny for something that wasn’t his fault??? what’s fucking new

YESSS HINA i’m obsessed w u more every second. but also girl is about to start spinning tf out when she hears about kainalu i’m not ready for it

HE’S WAKING UP

remember when we predicted kainalu’s daddy would try and pull him from the lifeguards… yeah. yeah. yeah.

i love that hina is the first of the team to see him. i am obsessed w them as best friends 

oh mr mayor is Not happy. but i am bc kainalu is ALIVE and we got a KISS on the CHEEK

god i thought the twee song meant we wouldn’t have to hear taps

literally if i never hear taps again in my life it will be too goddamn soon

god i remember the beginning of this show i waslike. a kainalu hater and actively against the idea of hina and kainalu getting together but like… admittedly yall have sold me on both of those things

[jewishbarbies]

I finally read Taylor’s Time interview and my god that’s got to be one of the most ass kissy pieces I’ve ever read.  The interviewer doesn’t challenge her on ANYTHING.  Like…yes it DOES matter that she never lost her career and people should be pointing it out when she says crap like “Make no mistake—my career was taken from me”. 

And this: 

“With the Scooter thing, my masters were being sold to someone who actively wanted them for nefarious reasons, in my opinion,” 

Um…seriously? NO follow up question to that statement? She accused someone of spending hundreds of millions of dollars to use a bunch of pop songs “nefariously”!!! What even could you do with pop music that’s “nefarious”?? Also…its been years since her masters were sold and, as far as I’m aware, nothing “nefarious” was done with her music so…that would mean she was wrong about why Scooter bought her music. MONEY is the reason he bought your masters Taylor, he knew he would make a sh!t ton of money from them. And he did. It wasn’t personal, it was business. Same reason MJ bought the Beetles masters.  Your life actually isn’t a movie, there’s no real life “Dr. Evil” in your life Taylor. 

her calling wanting the masters just to say he had one up on her “nefarious” is honestly hilarious to me. she tries to make everything that happens in her life sound like this big event when it’s literally nothing no one else in the world hasn’t gone through at one point or another. and she’s like “i just feel things so deeply 😢” girl you act like a manipulative, conniving bitch that obsesses over men, enemies, and money and you really need to seek therapy. that’s not “feeling things deeply”, that’s fucked up behavior.

[nebulablakemurphy]

Just read all your shit with Haymitch in it and

A) I’m obsessed with it omfg no one writes for Haymitch AND THAT FACT THAT ITS SO WONDERFUL AND WELL WRITTEN?!?! god it has my heart

B) Y/N going on her fucking Tablets after their first time is so funny for some reason to me, like Haymitch is drowning in his sorrow and she’s just being a lil ipad baby. Like she’s the kind of chick that when their finished to roll over and play clash of clans💀

C) Y/N is sooo mirrorball coded. “I'll show you every version of yourself tonight” the way she forces Haymitch to constantly self reflect that makes him realize how much he admires her selflessness. The chorus is them trying to keep their love something secret and just there’s. AND DO I EVEN NEED TO EXPLAIN THE BRIDGE OMG

D) Not to be a sadist but god I love Haymitch’s internal conflict about feeling so guilty for everything. Also correct me if I’m wrong but him being her highest bidder so she wouldn’t get sold to some creep…my heart💔

anyways the new movie has me back in my hunger games faze and yours fics are all I think about.

I’m not kidding I was zoning out thinking about Lavender Haze today and didn’t slowdown while turning and thank god there was no traffic or else I would have caused a fucking collision

Screaming thank you! Haymitch deserves all the fics, his character has always been so interesting to me.

Y/N is an iPad kid, she’s definitely the type to be like “look, Haymitch.” Whenever she reaches a new level on her games. But the way she whips open her notes app whenever something is wrong it’s like girl, what if Snow hacks the iPad 😂 But on a more serious note, she respects the tablet and understands that it can retain a lot more information than she can especially when it comes to helping her tributes.

Mirrorball is an EXCELLENT representation of Y/N and their relationship.

Haymitch obviously feels so bad that he has to marry Y/N to keep her safe from being sold and then ultimately has to participate in her “working” for the Capitol anyway. He wanted to completely save her but all he can really do is soften the blow.

You’re so real for that, I’m glad you didn’t crash

[grucylover]

Thoughts on DM3. Don’t hate me. 😂

DM3 was not a bad film, I have seen a lot worse and I even went to see it at the cinema a few times. I’d rate it a 6/7 out of ten.

The problem was with it, it felt outdated with an 80s obsessed villian. Don’t get me wrong, I think Bratt is a great idea and I get the concept of it but just maybe with his own film, not in DM.

Aswell, I felt they took a lot of things away from us that were just getting started.

- Agnes sold Fluffy the unicorn though in DM2 she would have screamed the house down if anything happened to him and he was such a big part of the merch. But no, gone, sold to some lil blonde.

- We didn’t see much of Grus freeze-ray nor his tank of a car. - not a big deal but these lil things make the film what it is.

-There was no Fred. - again like the point above. I would have also have liked to have seen Jillian, I thought she was a great and (annoying) addition to DM2.

-Gru didn’t really bother with the girls or interact with any of them, well a part from Agnes. He didn’t even put them to bed like he used to and just left Lucy to do it all. He didn’t really seem supportive of her with her trying to be a mum I thought. If that was my husband I would have kicked his arse lol!

- Margo got engaged to some weird kid and Gru was nowhere to be seen but in DM2 he was this overprotective dad that would have broke his nose or something lol! I know Lucy had it in hand but…..ya know. I wanted to see the overprotective dad mode.

- We didn’t see much of the house which we seen a lot of in DM1/2 and I thought that was such a shame. Why couldn’t Dru just come to Grus house or something lol

- I disliked how the writers wrote out Dr Nefario (we won’t mention the actors name and no one would of cared if someone else was voicing him) but what a lazy way to just freeze him in carbinite. Gru didn’t really seem that upset over it though the Dr had been like a dad to him. Like ?????

- Dru wasn’t bad, it was kinda nice seeing Gru have some male company as if he was down the pub with a mate but I also found it odd they had all of a sudden put on him the temptation to go back to villainy when in DM2 he had that temptation but he wasn’t interested in the slightest. He just wanted to be a father, get a job, get his girl and that was it. Every scene was perfect, the actors, writers etc put all there heart and soul into it and you couldn’t have put anymore into it really, even if you tried. Gru was really at his peak in DM2. Maybe I’ve got it wrong. Idkkkk.

- I didn’t mind the Minions and personally I never do, I think they just add to the film and I don’t find them annoying. I actually liked the prison scene, I thought that was a pretty good idea tbh.

It even felt like at times the animated characters didn’t want to even be doing the storyline in DM3. 😂

3 obviously made a lot of money because everyone was still hyped around DM2 but came out of the cinema or wherever they first watched it empty handed.

Yes it’s ok chucking in a scene here and there with a treehouse or an Agnes and Gru moment to put in some heart but it was almost forced. The writers said themselves they struggled and just wrote for themselves which I found really sad as there is so much you can do with this franchise I think.

I’m ngl, I am a bit nervous about DM4 as I think this will be its last chance to survive but the trailer looks amazing and I’m already won over by the baby Gru Jr. I wanted them to have a baby in DM3!!!!! Really DM4 should have been 3.

Should have rhey aged the girls up. Yes and no. Maybe a bit? Tbh personally, I don’t really care. It keeps there innocence but I would like to see Gru bonding with them again.

It wasn’t all bad though, I liked Lucy trying to be a mom and the animation has definitely stepped up a notch to the point that Gru is pale AF now and they all look a bit different. Aswell the actors, Carell, Kristin did a great job as always.

This is all my own opinion so don’t come at me 🤣.

[alyjojo]

Thinking of You - August 🏖️ 2024 - Virgo

Whole of their energy towards Virgo: King of Pentacles

Feelings: 10 Wands rev

Intentions: The Hanged Man rev

Actions: King of Wands

Character Card: The Thief rev 🤜🏾

Wowza this is involved. King of Pentacles would make sense as you, and there are so many other possible people here that I would assume it is, but I’m not sure. For someone, this person has a Taurus north/south node, because hoarding material shit is very much a factor with this person, they keep everything. Or they’re the polar opposite, they don’t hold onto anything and are “minimalist” in nature. I’m not sure what the connection is between you. I see two divine pairs, the water pair reversed (both) and the fire pair upright. This could be a situation where you both had other people and something happened here, or you knew this person before you both went your own way. The Thief is exactly that, and someone may have been caught for that in the past. Stole your girl/guy, you stole theirs, it’s something like that. They could just see you that way, because in the past it’s being shown as you or they were “found out”. The Thief rev though, with the imagery, is releasing everything they’ve ever held onto. The card itself means hoarding so it could be either, someone still hanging on even, you or them.

The feelings describe not being able to do this anymore, be someone’s 10 Cups, or be around your 10 Cups. If you’re happy with someone else, they’re probably crushed, or that’s switched, could also be with someone else and they can’t do it anymore, they want you. Could be switched. Apply it however. The intentions are backing up, taking a break, getting some air. Really digging into why they feel this way, what they want, how to get there, they’re not trying to be obsessed, stuck, used, hurt - they don’t want anything toxic in their life. If you both are with people and they meet you, they intend to not do anything they can’t take back or get sucked into an affair. They do consider it, you, someone else, I’m not sure, it’s considered. In action they’re taking the initiative to get away from this kind of dynamic because it’s manipulative and problematic. Or they’re considering leaving a person for you because they feel like you’re the one. Or they’re leaving you for someone else that they feel like is the one. Or you did. Or you’re both leaving each other for other peiple. Like I said, it’s involved. They miss you, they have feelings for you and you’re heavy on their mind. They could just be walking away because of how complicated and emotional game-playing this all is, it’s not healthy and the intent is to walk away from toxic things.

Separate story, this could be someone like an ex that sold or got rid of a lot of your stuff, or they’re considering it, maybe you’ve done this to them and there’s resentment there. If someone has your things and you’re not getting them, they’re going to make the call to get rid of it.

Messages:

- I hate the way things ended between us.

- Yearns for your love.

Possible signs:

Scorpio, Pisces, Cancer, Capricorn, fire 🔥

If you’re dealing with:

Knight of Cups shows you being a very sweet, loving, romantic and kind person…the kind of person that has crushes on “friends”, for some that will likely apply. This Knight is idealistic, dreamy, glass half-full, and wears their heart on their sleeve when they care about someone. You could care for everyone or some feel this way towards/about you. Could just be showing romance potential if you’ve got a roster and want to pick by sign 😆 Your black book of potential.

Aries - a complete jackass that has hurt you before and will again, or you’ve done that

Taurus - going through it, could be a million different things but something is toxic here ⛔️

Gemini - no progress on getting them to do something for/with you, it won’t go anywhere

Cancer - an apology or date makes something much better and brings healing to you both

Leo - done waiting for this to get better

Virgo - coming out with a secret about their work or their family, being vulnerable & open with you

Libra - can’t afford something or have their way and so they want to fight about it now 🥊

Scorpio - losing a job or something financial

Sagittarius - pissed off about the lack of reciprocation, especially regarding money or work, probably popping off at the mouth about it

Capricorn - not interested in a lover when they’re already committed, or you’re not, or they want commitment - not something casual

Aquarius - not into fuckboys/girls, and they’re getting or have gotten that vibe from you /switch

Pisces - has no hope of this ever healing or getting better 😓 if it’s newer - they just don’t talk

[ohthewh0rror]

Would you be willing to share more of your favourite Tom fics? I just feel like you’ll have real good taste👀🤣 I also promise not to judge any pairings 🫡

I’m actually mainly a dramione girl, but I do have a few Tom ones I actively like/follow. I used to have more but I was a fucking idiot and cleared out all my bookmarks a year ago and lost everything. So this, which includes the two I’ve already posted about, is all I got rn. 😬

Blood and Gold by ObsidianPen

WIP: 44/? Chapters

“Summary: The true time-turner was slammed savagely into Hermione's throat. It shattered against her neck, bits of glass and gold piercing into her skin. The last thing she saw before blackness consumed her was a plume of metallic dust and vitreous fragments, tiny prisms dancing behind her eyelids.

In which Hermione accidentally ends up in 1950, pitted against an ascending Dark Lord in his prime, caught in the entanglement of pureblood politics, dark magic, and Tom Riddle's interest.”

So so good. Literally cannot recommend it enough, I want this story published and sold in stores.

Born and Bred by Ciule

One-Shot

“Summary: “Troubled by the cold, Miss Granger?” he asked, looking for all the world like a gentleman solicitously inquiring after a lady’s comfort. But she knew him too well, because behind his so-called caring there was only contempt and disdain for someone he perceived as weaker than himself.

Sure enough, he continued, using his obnoxious nickname for her: “One should think that our resident little princess would be immune to such trivialities.””

Simple run down: it’s the 40’s. Not a time-travel fic. Hermione and Tom goes to Durmstrang. Tom is an ass because he can’t come to terms with finding a girl attractive.

Love it, even love when it gets to the smut and he’s begging to put the tip in 🫠🔫 like baby you don’t even gotta ask.

Unsphere the Stars by Cocoartist

Complete: 58/58

“Summary: When you can't change time, but you can't go forward, what is left? Hermione learns how to be the protagonist of her own story.”

Basically our girl is sent back in time and even though her and Tom fall in love, there’s nothing she can do to change him or anyone else’s fate, so she’s forced to just go forward with the knowledge of all that’s gonna happen.

I LOVE this fic because not only is it such a good portrayal of Tom but like I really like the idea of her being sent back but unable to change anything.

The Brightest Star in the Sky by Tippilo

WIP: 20/40 chapters

“Summary: Hermione should have died at the Battle of Department of Mysteries. Falling through the veil should have killed her, everyone knew that. Instead, she found herself hurled into the past and her new life became entwined with the young, handsome, charming Tom Riddle.

Tom couldn't keep his eyes off her. The witch had secrets, an enigma that he couldn't wrap his head around. He found himself fixated. Obsessed. He wanted to trap the little lion in a cage and uncover everything she kept hidden.”

Not the most accurate depiction of Tom or Hermione, but it’s entertaining, I still really like it lol

[takeshitakyuuto]

Trigun Book Club reading update volume 2 part one AKA volume 1 part two

Wellllll apparently the volumes I procured are quite a few chapters shorter than the English translations (I have three Trigun volumes instead of two), so I’ve got a few more chapters to read before this section of the book club ends. I’ll be back on track once we hit Maximum though! It’s actually probably a good thing this happened, though, or else these posts would’ve been just too long.

Ch 8. Yay Meryl! So that’s why that grunt said わ

“Vash the Stampede-san” is absolutely hilarious to me

That one panel with Vash facing away from the viewer standing in rubble and the sun like a halo around his head is so beautiful

Ch 9. There’s some really interesting imagery in this chapter... Are they creating life in that boiler room?

This “angel” is kinda giving me NGE vibes. I like how I’m seeing so much of other pretentious famous anime within Trigun

Okay this angel thing is awesome

兄弟？ oh biiiiitch

How does this angel fit into the train/sand steam though? Was it just a vessel to hold and transport the angel or was the angel powering it in some way?

Neon coming to the rescue was unexpected, but I like his reasoning for it as well. What an upstanding criminal

I love the way music, and especially simple song, is incorporated into this chapter! Music is such a marker of humanity to me and it seems like it’s being used here to show the love that Rem had for humanity. Vash’s love for humanity (that we as the reader see) seems to come more in the form of physical help

That chapter was packed! If it wasn’t obvious by the amount of notes I wrote, this chapter has been my favorite so far :3 I also really liked Kaito’s involvement in this whole arc. I don’t actually expect him to ever show up again but I always love when we get a little help from the common folk, especially a younger character like Kaito. And honestly, I think this chapter sold me the rest of the way on this series.

Ch 10.　Starting off the chapter with my favorite girls? Win!

Lol hiring out Vash just so he can have some babysitters

Ch 11. A mystery in the picture... Perhaps these old people are more than what meets the eye?

Alright that mystery was solved real fast

This is my son, I hope for him to grow up to be a kind and great man. His name is Badwick. What? No, it doesn’t mean anything at all!

10/10 mustache right there

It’s probably just because I don’t usually read action series, but the action seems to move super fast. We’re all caught up on moving these parents out of the way of Bad Guy #547 and then there’s an explosion? Which is more car people

omfg Jii-san is strapped to the high heavens

Also obsessed with barrel Vash

Ch 12. Meryl is really out here being the number one badass

Final thoughts: It’s a little odd writing my final thoughts here because I’ve got one more chapter before my volume two is finished! But that chapter will be in next week’s reading update. I really liked this last arc and the themes of family that it brought with it. There wasn’t a whole lot of Vash but we all know just how much I love Milly and Meryl, so who’s disappointed? Not me. I like the character development we’re getting before the “real” plot kicks in, but overall it felt like just that- character development with minimal actual effect on the series. I’m looking forward to the meat of the series, and especially dealing with the things we’ve seen in previous chapters so far, like more backstory with Rem and hopefully more on that Angel thing. I’m also pretty stoked for more world building, as it’s a space western but right now there isn’t a whole lot of the space part of it. We’ve seen great technical advancements and those alien horse things that were in the background near the beginning but that’s about it for any space age type stuff. Another thing I’ve been wondering about is the “plants.” I’ve been taking it to mean factory type plants but I don’t yet know if I’m correct or not. I assume we’ll get more on them in the future, as they’re brought up pretty frequently, and I really want to know what they are and why they’re so important (it’s gotta be more than just “factories = good for economy” right??).

[supersleepyboys]

clark kent is a trans allegory

we were discussing the new my adventures with superman show with our partner and came to the conclusion that this particular version of clark kent is a trans allegory. as opposed to the usual “there are two sides to me” storyline (incredibly plural coded, an entire post on its own), this show seems to be showing clark trying to fit in two lives that he’s uncomfortable fully expressing himself in, in either way, much like the experience of a closeted/stealth trans person.

in one part of his life, as superman, he’s more comfortable openly displaying his powers and doesn’t feel obligated to hide that part of himself, but he does have a deep fear of anyone learning that he has ever been someone else. he is afraid to make personal relationships or share too much about himself, in case someone is able to put things together about his identity. in his day to day life, he’s more able to make relationships with others because he feels less emotionally restricted, and is able to share parts of his past, but is constantly trying to hide his differences (and any evidence of them) from the others. this really reminds us of being trans and trying to present as your preferred gender out while in public, and still being in the closet in some aspect of your personal life, and the fear that can happen if the two cross over. clark essentially has one gender presentation at work, and one as superman, and is desperate to keep those separated worlds from seeing him the other way.

this raises some super interesting plot points too, seeing as lois essentially forcibly outed him this last episode. and by putting so much pressure to put spotlight on him in the newspaper, she was advocating for putting him at risk of people who want to harm him for reasons inherent to his being (that general is also definitely her father, so add a point for “your dad is transphobic so please don’t tell him i was ever a girl” type shit). she has no idea what sort of danger she would be putting him in and simply saw a sensationalized headline, the same as many news publications use queer stories for clicks and sold papers and magazines without regard for queer safety .

the show also seems to be showing some sort of coming out narrative, although a very messy one showing the reality of the situation where it may not always be clean, and those you love may not always react the way you hope. lois’s obsession with his identity and exposing his secrets runs perfectly in line with old media obsession with trying to find out if a celebrity was “secretly a man”, and her shock and betrayal at finding out someone close to her is “lying” to her about something they aren’t ready to share reminds me so deeply of people accusing their trans partners of lying to them pre-transition. jimmy is pre-disposed to an obsession with other beings just like clark, so i can see clark trying to tell him going uncomfortably too. but the entire point of the show seems to be about the characters facing the discomfort and becoming better people for it, so i’m hoping it shows things ending on an understanding note between them all.

i’m not sure if this was the angle the writers were going for here, but as someone who is really intrigued by the usual “two parts of one person” angle that they approach superman/clark from, this was really interesting change in approach from the usual take, and i’m really intrigued to see how it develops

[sad-sour]

hello again, it’s me, here to word vomit before i make myself crazy but this time it’s about the barbie movie 🤩

the barbie movie sincerely was one of the most incredible movies i’ve ever seen tbh. it was beautiful but it was painful and tbh that’s the essence of being a woman

there were several different themes throughout the movie and fuck i really didn’t think this movie would cause me such incredible amounts of psychological damage 😃

what happened between ken and barbie when ken just starts being fucking MEAN and he’s so mean and it just broke my fucking heart and had me sobbing in the fucking theater because my “ken” was so fucking mean to me and to see this innocent barbie get a verbal thrashing for the first time for the boy who means the fucking world to her just sucked so bad because once he hurts you like that the relationship never recovers. what barbie and ken when through is EXACTLY what it’s like to have a close male friend in childhood who eventually grows up to objectivity and crucify you for not loving them back

“where i see live she sees a friend, what will it take for her to see the man behind the tan and fight for me?”

like he’s SO obsessed with barbie and she DOES love him but he refuses to accept the love she does have for him because she doesn’t want to be in a relationship, like barbie wants to be her own person and she wants that for ken too

it was genuinely such a surprisingly visceral reaction to ken being so fucking mean to barbie, as a little girl you don’t ever get that innocent friendship back once he starts being fucking MEAN and i think that’s so fucking heart breaking bc as a woman who has experienced that kind of thing the it’s just so fucking upsetting to look back on what should be such fond fucking memories only for them to be tainted with what “ken” threw in your face and said

the other plot point that really really got me was the mom shit, like damn everybody said if you got mommy issues fucking watch with caution and they were NOT lying

i’ve got mommy issues bc i’ve got a mom that bullied me and even tho i know she loves me bc she’s my mom it always fucking felt like she hated me, the barbie movie made my heart ache bc it made me feel empty. i have a mom and i’ve always ALWAYS wanted what other girls had. i wanted the mom that wanted to play with me, I wanted the mom that made snacks and picked me up after school, parents that didn’t leave me home alone for an entire weekend when i was only fucking eight years old

i saw this tiktok that talked about how this girl and her mom went to the movie together and they were hugging and crying during the beautiful montage of mothers and daughters and i just felt empty

i couldn’t ever imagine watching that movie with my mom, honestly the thought makes me uncomfortable and that makes me really sad

you know i’m kinda surprised by how much this movie really fucked with me,

doesn’t help that my cousin’s 22nd birthday was a few days before this lmfao

even better she posted a video on insta of her from when we were younger, i saw it and i burst into tears bc that’s my big sister, even if we always wanted to pretend we were twins

we were girls together

we played barbies together and on day that just disappeared…

one day we put down our barbies for the last time, packed them up in those big stupid barbie travel cases for the last time and watched them get sold at a yard sale

we still played together, we played animal jam, poptropica, animal crossing, just dance wii sports but none of that feels as sentimental as when we played barbies together…

i never did that with anyone else

doesn’t help that speak now (taylor’s version) just recently came out as well and listening to a 33 year old taylor sing never grow up just kinda really slapped me in the face you know

she was 9 and i was 8 the first time we ever listened to that album together and it was really special getting to listen to the new version with her too and i’m just in this really weird fucking place in life wondering when the fuck i grew up and how i missed so fucking much of my own life because i don’t really have any memories prior to the age of fucking 16

i turn 22 in 2 months…

and all i’m left with is this yearning for simpler times, times before i knew anything about the world when all i was worried about was my barbies and some new fantastical adventure that we were going to send them on

i’m left with this vague impression of memories from times i don’t fucking remember and the only shit i do remember is the traumatic or sad shit

but you know what i’ll keep my rose tinted glasses on for the few precious memories i do have because if fucking refuse to let reality have all of my girlhood, some of it i get to keep for me

[sockdoodler]

Told the husband about school. Since the debate is so up my ass my mind can’t stop thinking about it I’m obsessed. Cause I have to speak in front of the class and tend to talk fast. There’s a bunch of elements that play into it.

But why that’s going on my other processes are beginning to let me enjoy what I’m learning in art history which at first I wasn’t loving. But now that we’re on a topic that covers both classes it so much easier to learn and think and let my own knowledge I had stew together and makes me happy. So I I’ve been wanting to have a connection to my roots.

Which again I owe to professor Torres. One of the best teachers I’ve had so far. Because his words of how his relationship with being a child of a migrant connected my own experiences. I felt less…. Incompetent. There some truth to my migrant story with how he described Pisa vs Mexican and indigenous. Which for me now I see things line up.

So with the encouragement of finding my roots and learning about my heritage and they’re lifestyles connects to me in a way of “ coincidence “ too many of these that I’ve noticed that makes me wonder if it’s passed down some how because we haven’t been diluted enough over the generations.

Now color theory is gonna bring me back to learning more about it. So when I explained to him that I’m enjoying learning about the catholic faith and learning about my roots and how I’ve been able to apply my learning to thinking he says

“ well seems like college has had an impact in you”

So dryly. Was I taken back…. cause right after he said that I responded

Well I know how you feel about higher education and for me this is just a relearning of things I already was interested before. But it’s hits different being taught then having to google and go down rabbit hole without contexts or order.

He seemed annoyed with my excitement.

But I did tell him about the professor that sold us guns too. Idk how he felt about it cause it was at first like oh cool fun then like that fizzed out quick to idk.

Wonder if anyone else attends there from that store that be cool to see the girls from there. Anyways

He needs to let go that mindset about higher education. Also let go that I get excited about teachers and how it affects me when I enjoy learning. I’m

Not excited because them the person but they’re able to get through my minds network of boundaries that makes learning hard. I can’t say it’s stubbornness cause I go in knowing I don’t know enough but I have this energy for it that may seem like confidence but it’s just excitement to learn.

As I’ve said before I think HE likes being the only person I look up to or learn from. Like I think he sees that as our main bonding or a form of it that is one sided. Because he doesn’t like to learn from me.

[ramblestimesthree]

2/3/25

Fuck it’s happening again! Again and again and again. I stare at the words - did I write them or was I possessed by a ghost who really likes doing homework? The week five slum. The massive, mega, milky white hole I dug for myself. Staring at a full screen with no eyes, just sockets. Can I write three pages? Do I have enough or must I turn on the faucet so the ink can spill on the page? I need to do this, my homework, but I’d rather eat a bucket of nails, bucket included. Where did he go? Shit! I forgot to cancel it. Forgot my claims, my lunch, my two front teeth. I forget it all and it’s normal, it’s ok I promise because I’m obsessive and maybe if I think hard enough it’ll come back to me. Two brown cows stare down at me, little white wings flap and flap. Their hooves dirty and snouts pink with little brown freckles. If no one else, then them. Named father milk products for the irony. Pastel polo shifts hung up in an emptier closet - rooms with no doors and military style bed-making. Could the cows tell we weren’t ok? The horses, maybe the chicken? Thirty or more hutches in a row, could they truly be happy in a four by four box with some hay and milk fed three times a day or did they turn us into abusers like them?

Imagine twenty plus people in a windowy conference room, five buckets of bracelets in the middle. You’re standing at the end, fourth button eyes discerning what’s real and what’s not. How much of your body is your own. Congrats! Unfortunately… knowing they talked about the way you brushed your cow or the secrets you sold to others for a pancake breakfast. Did I belong? My polo says so but the way I embrace the frozen lake says I’m not afraid. I’m breakable, I broke. Now the record skips and I feel the collar choking me all over again. Two big warm hands around my neck. Why do I still write with a pen when there’s two keyboards in front of me? Who made me this way? Click clack, click clack, hooves of the horse while she prances around the calves, as if she’s better than them. Do you want to be a cowgirl? A jester? Then ride me baby, but ride me slow because I want to feel it. Feel the dirt slip in, fill my nose and ears and eye that stay wide open, even when I try to sleep. My hand still cramps over it. My jaw still clenches at the sight of my brand - invisible ink on my forehead. Paw print with four digits but there was five of us. There was five. Water we drowned in, the sun or the moon encompassing it all, but which one is it?

Why the crescent ‘C’? How did I forget? The pill closet, foot in the door, two to a shower. Watch me strip, watch hair slowly drench and soap roll off my body. Watch me decompose. Press me into the dirt, hands on arms and butts on backs. Dig me deep, I don’t want to breathe so maybe if I stay here longer I’ll stop. I laid down there forever, in front of the rock. I never got up. Now there’s moss and mold and rotten bones hugging the grass. A girl once tired to drink the watered down soap to kill herself, can you imagine the pain inflicted to get to that point? To the point of broken lightbulbs and plastic spoons. Never caught unless I wanted to be. Fake throw up in the sink for a day off - no, real throw up from fingers down the throat, anything for a break. Cactus feet and spider beds - fuck I’m traumatized. I don’t care if I never speak a word of this, just get it out! Open the tent so I can run back to the van - one cell to the next. Still feel the spiders in my hair, the sting on my soles. Bees, spiders, ants, quicksand (can you believe that’s a ‘real’ thing?). Do my homework for me because right now I need to feed my cow and run with the horses. Fetch my yellow polo for me will you? Maybe then I can focus and finally type this essay.