#as close to invisible as possible

[giannic]

The title is Wild Card. Maybe 2024. However, it does NOT have Jason Statham. Still worth watching. But why couldn't it have been uploaded for what it truly was? I don't know.

[o4o41]

Chores, servitude to/for women,

NOT

" "Servitude" for women [manual] "

• I might really wanna have a strawman make fun of "richwoman's servant" or "doormat" smb [maybe a male]

• Or Barbie/Ken tell a woman that she shouldn't wear herself out over a humorous "career growth" aka "monotone work"

Idk which option is better or more you have in mind; or both (many of such [versions]) could work.

[hauntedbrowneye]

diving into the water so perfectly it feels like you're one with it

ANYONE!! QUICK GIMME A REASON YOU LIKE BEING ALIVE :3

[sunni-stuff]

You, the butchers daughter, end up stalking your father's new hire.

The first time you see him, he’s hauling a side of beef off the truck like it weighs nothing, muscles taut beneath his apron. His broad shoulders stretch the fabric, veins running thick down his forearms as he grips the meat hook. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing strong arms marred with faded scars—some thin and clean, others jagged, stories you’ll never hear. His hands, wrapped in black gloves, are steady as he works, but you wonder what they’d feel like bare.

Then there’s the mask. Black, snug, covering everything from the bridge of his nose down, leaving only his sharp, calculating eyes visible. Dark and unreadable, they barely glance your way. You’ve tried to catch him slipping, maybe when he wipes sweat from his forehead or adjusts the apron strings that crisscross his powerful back, but he’s careful—never lets you see too much.

The tattoos peek out beneath his sleeves and creep along his collarbones where his shirt dips. Flames coil around his wrists, swallowing skulls with hollow eyes. A soldier, masked like him, grips a rifle among the chaos. A bomb mid-fall, grinning shark teeth, dog tags suspended in ink—each piece a fragment of something unspoken. You’ve glimpsed ink curling over the tendons of his neck, bold lines, and intricate designs that hint at a past you aren’t meant to know. It’s all war, death, and destruction, an unspoken story carved into his flesh. When he moves, the shadows shift over the ink, making it seem alive. You want to ask, to pry, but he’s as unreadable as the art on his skin

He doesn’t talk much, just nods when your father gives orders. The others joke around, laugh, make noise—but he’s silent, methodical, unsettling in the way he moves like he’s done this before. Like butchering meat is nothing new to him.

But what frustrates you the most? He never looks at you for more than a second. Never lingers, never smirks, never acknowledges the way you watch him. As if you’re invisible. And that, more than anything, makes you want to figure him out.

At first, it was just curiosity. No man had ever outright ignored you before—not when you batted your lashes, not when you "accidentally" brushed too close, not when you lingered just a little too long in his space.

But him? He barely acknowledged you. A nod if you were lucky. A grunt if you spoke directly to him. Most of the time, he just kept working, muscles flexing under his apron, strong hands wielding a cleaver with practiced ease.

The others—your father’s old hands, the regulars who came in for their weekly cuts—would’ve tripped over their feet to get your attention. They always had. You were used to the lingering stares, the awkward compliments, the way men fumbled through conversations just to keep you talking. So why didn't he?

It was maddening.

So, you did what any sane young woman would do.

You prodded. You poked. You tested.

You stood too close, pretending to inspect the marbled meat he was slicing, only for him to shift away without a word. You asked him pointless questions, just to hear his voice—low, rough, with an accent you couldn’t quite place—only for him to answer in as few words as possible before returning to work.

It became a game. You knocked things over in his path just to see if he’d catch them (he always did). You “forgot” something near his station just to have a reason to come back. You even tried teasing, playfully calling him mystery man under your breath.

Nothing.

Not a flinch, not a smirk, not even a flicker of amusement.

That should have been the end of it.

But then you started watching. Not just at work—no, you started watching him.

The way he left every night at the same time. The way he took the same route, never straying, never rushing. The way his head tilted slightly whenever he passed certain corners, as if he was listening.

It fascinated you. And when fascination turns to obsession, well…

That’s when you started following him.

You followed him—never too far, never too close—always careful, watching him move through the streets with an air of confidence that seemed to thrive in the quiet of the night. For weeks, this had become a routine, one that started innocently enough. Just a few blocks at first, just enough to ensure that he was who you thought he was. But over time, the habit deepened. Each night, you followed him further, until it became something you couldn’t help but do.

Yet, despite your best efforts, he never made any stops, never took any detours. He just kept walking, heading toward some destination that only he knew. And every time you reached the point where you would turn around, you still didn’t have any answers—no clue what he was up to or where he was going. Just that he moved through the night like someone who belonged there. Unfazed, untouchable.

Then one night, the weather turned.

The rain hit hard, cold droplets splattering against your skin, soaking through your jacket in seconds. You’d stopped for a split second—just long enough to get the damn zipper up, to pull the hood over your head—but in that moment, he'd vanished.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you cursed under your breath, glancing quickly down the wet street, searching for the familiar outline of his tall frame. But there was nothing. No sign of him.

“What the hell?” you muttered to yourself, your voice drowned out by the downpour. You couldn’t let him slip away. Not now, not after all this time.

You started to jog, your boots splashing in the puddles as your eyes darted left and right, scanning the alleyways and storefronts. Your breath came faster as you pushed yourself harder, frustration building. You weren’t going to lose him now.

Then, suddenly, your body was jerked backward, your breath caught in your throat as a strong hand pressed over your mouth. The air around you was thick with the scent of rain-soaked pavement and something darker, something more familiar.

Before you could even react, you were shoved hard against the cold brick of an alleyway wall, your back colliding with the rough surface, your head snapping back slightly from the impact. Your pulse spiked in your ears as panic started to claw at your chest, but the firm grip on your mouth held you silent, still.

For a second, everything went still. The rain beat against your jacket, heavy and relentless, but there was no sound, no movement—just the suffocating pressure of his hand over your mouth and the close proximity of his body.

You felt the heat radiating off him, the sheer strength of his presence as if the space between you was no longer your own. The tension in his arm, holding you against the wall, was undeniable. He was in control.

Your heart raced, but it wasn’t from fear. It was from the frustration, the adrenaline coursing through your veins, the urge to finally break the silence between you. You had followed him, hunted him, and now here he was—this close. The tension was suffocating, and you couldn’t decide if you were going to scream or say something sharp.

But before you could gather your thoughts, his voice broke through the storm. Low, smooth, with an edge of something dark. “Thought you’d lost me, didn’t you?” His words came muffled through the mask, but the tone was unmistakable.

He didn’t seem in a rush, like he knew you were trapped in the moment. You didn’t even know how long he’d been standing there, or how he’d managed to close the distance between you so quickly. The rain drummed relentlessly on the alley’s pavement, but his eyes, those sharp, dark eyes, never wavered from you.

“Can’t say I’m impressed by your little game,” he murmured, fingers brushing against your cheek in a movement so deliberate it made your breath catch. “You follow me for weeks, but never thought of what might happen when you get too close.”

“Were you hoping to catch me doing something interesting?" he asked, his breath a warm tickle on your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. There was a calmness in his voice, like he was in complete command, and the way his body molded against yours told you he was used to people being in positions like this.

“I…” You swallowed, struggling to free your voice. “I wanted to see if you’d… notice me.” You hadn’t thought this far ahead. Why had you been following him? What had you hoped to find? You were just a silly girl who wanted the attention of a man who wanted nothing to do with you.

Simon’s laugh was low, almost quiet, but it carried a weight to it that you didn’t expect. It was rich with amusement, deep and rough, and it rumbled against the tension hanging between you both. The sudden sound caught you off guard, your breath catching in your throat as you tried to make sense of it.

For a moment, you were frozen, not sure whether to be annoyed or confused. Had you just made a fool of yourself in front of him? Why was he laughing?

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your nerves, but it didn’t work. His laughter still echoed in your head, and your voice came out shaky. "W-what’s so funny?"

He didn’t immediately answer. Instead, you could feel him shift slightly, his hand easing off your wrist but still close enough to make you aware of the power he held. Simon took a breath, the rain still pouring around you both, but his presence was like a shield, solid and immovable.

"You," he finally said, his voice quieter now, but the amusement was still there, like a shadow in his tone. "You think I didn’t notice you? You’ve been practically waving a flag." His fingers brushed lightly over your wrist, tracing the spot where he’d gripped you, his touch soft now, almost teasing.

"I wasn’t… I wasn’t obvious," you managed to protest, though it came out weaker than you’d like. You could feel your cheeks heating, your frustration mixing with something else you weren’t ready to admit.

"All this time, and you still think I didn’t know?" He shook his head, though you couldn't see his face behind that damn mask. “Sweetheart, you’ve been following me around like a lost puppy, and I was just waiting to see when you'd finally stop pretending.”

For a moment, you stood there, silence pressing in between you both, broken only by the sound of the rain pelting the alley around you. Simon’s words lingered, his laugh still echoing in your mind. You weren’t sure if you were frustrated or flustered or both, but you knew one thing for sure—he had misunderstood what you asked.

Finally, you spoke, your voice clear despite the uncertainty brewing inside you. “That’s not what I meant,” you muttered, taking a step back, shaking your head. You weren’t sure why, but you needed to ask, needed to get to the bottom of it. “Do you have a girlfriend?” you asked bluntly, your eyes never leaving his face.

Simon’s expression didn’t change much, his gaze still sharp but unbothered. “No,” he replied simply.

That answer made something inside you tighten, though you couldn’t quite pinpoint why. But you weren’t done. You shifted your weight, suddenly daring to ask the next question, the one you knew would make him uncomfortable. “Do you find me attractive?”

His eyes flickered for a split second, the usual guarded look breaking, but he nodded, his voice low. “Yes.”

The answer hung in the air like a challenge. Your heart was racing, your mind spinning, trying to connect the dots between what he said and what he did. “So why,” you demanded, “don’t you ever look at me? In the shop, I mean. Why don’t you notice me like the other guys do? They stare, flirt, and… well, pay attention.”

For the first time since you’d started this strange back-and-forth, Simon looked genuinely confused. He stepped back slightly, brows furrowing as he regarded you. “I don’t understand,” he said slowly. “I do pay attention.”

You blinked, taken aback by his response. “What do you mean?”

Simon’s gaze softened just a fraction as he tilted his head. “During lunch... I cut your deli the way you like it—slices thin enough you can stack ‘em. And when I’m working, I stay in your section. Always have.” He paused, his expression almost apologetic. “Flirting with my boss’s daughter at work isn’t exactly the best move. But…”

You stared at him, your mind trying to make sense of his words.

He stepped closer, his presence filling the space between you both, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “But work’s over now, lass. And here we are.”

You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, the real meaning of his words sinking in, and suddenly, the whole night felt like it had shifted, like the game you were playing had just changed.

You opened your mouth, about to say something—anything—to break the silence, to clarify what had just happened, but before you could speak, Simon moved with startling speed.

One moment, you were standing there, staring up at him, and the next, he had lifted you effortlessly into his arms. Your breath caught in your throat as his strong hands gripped you, pulling you flush against his chest, his heat seeping into your bones despite the chill of the rain.

“Your house or mine?”

[hedgehog-moss]

I need to confess something—my last post presented a deceptively idyllic vision of my hike in the snow. I only posted photos from the tranquil walk home at dusk and neglected to mention that I (once again) got lost in a featureless expanse of snow and briefly became convinced I would never find the road again and would have to dig a little den like an Arctic fox to spend the night.

You see, there's this place where Pandolf really loves to go for a walk on snowy days—it's on top of this plateau here:

^ see the fence in the middle, that curves to the left? Nothing bad can happen as long as you follow it. There are lots of landmarks in this direction, like trees, more fences, and a couple of houses.

In the other direction, however, lies The Nothing.

Here's a photo of Pandolf (eagerly) standing near the edge of The Nothing:

Characteristics of The Nothing: it is vast, and white, and becomes more and more featureless the farther you go into it—

—and Pandolf really, really loves it.

Even when he falls into a surprise hole where the snow is suddenly three times as deep (another characteristic of The Nothing), he'll just push himself out in one great powerful jump and keep frolicking.

Or he'll remain in the spot where the snow is deeper and try his best to bury his entire self into it.

He sometimes gets crazy eyes in The Nothing.

We always start this walk with such good resolutions.

We're definitely staying close to the fence this time! With all the lovely landmarks on the left!

And then, inevitably,

Further notes from my studies: • The Nothing has some small plants and rocks, but using them as landmarks is foolish, as they will eventually disappear. • No matter how many foot-, paw-, and dog-headprints you leave and how deep they are, they will disappear before you are able to retrace your steps, probably because The Nothing is always so windy.

Pandolf thinks this is a great characteristic of The Nothing, as it means he never runs out of immaculate snow to dive into.

The wind and the resulting snow mist are the really treacherous things about this place. These photos were taken in roughly the same spot, a couple of hours apart. In the first one, the fence on the left is clearly visible; in the second one, it has started to melt into The Nothing.

There's always a moment when I end up standing in the middle of, well, nothing, with indistinguishable whiteness in every direction, under my feet, above my head, left, right, and I start thinking about writing poignant farewell messages in my Notes app for my family to find at some point in the future.

One last interesting thing about The Nothing is the way Pandolf reacts when I finally find my bearings again and start walking faster, determined to get back to the safety of the road before it gets dark.

Pandolf then just

It's very different than the playful, energetic way in which he normally buries his head in the snow. This second type of burying is clearly a form of protest—if I continue walking away Pan will reluctantly follow me for 20 or so metres, then flatten himself to the ground again, in the same despondent way.

Hypothesis #1: He is trying to play dead like a possum, hoping I will go "well, I can't lug a dead dog all the way home, I'd better leave him here." And then he'll stay with The Nothing forever.

Hypothesis #2: He is trying to lay as flat as possible so as to become all but invisible against the snow. It's unclear if he knows he is the wrong colour for this.

Hypothesis #3: He is trying to commune with The Nothing, burying words of devotion and friendship deep into the snow and promising to return soon.

Conclusion: I'm sorry, I know that's a very long post, but seeing as each of these photos depicts perfect felicity on Earth, I find it hard to delete any. I also like how I intended this post to be about my long disoriented trek through the snow, wondering if I was going to find the fence or the road again before dark—and then I got distracted by how happy Pandolf was. Which is exactly how I end up getting lost in The Nothing every single time!!

[boyapologist]

weren't swifties planning a boycott on taylor's music today

[fireinmoonshot]

darling | robert reynolds x reader,

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Reader Summary: You always call Bob darling in private... until you accidentally slip up and use the nickname in front of the rest of the Thunderbolts. Warnings: Mentions of food/drink, reader is mentioned to not be mentally ready for a relationship and has a bit of a moment at the end struggling with their thoughts/struggling mentally in general. Word Count: 1.3k A/N: Thank you all so much for the amazing response on my first Bob fic 🥹 For my second one, this was actually the first idea I had for Bob but it took a bit of workshopping to get right. I ended up being really happy with it. I love writing the Thunderbolts team dynamic. I also put a little easter egg in there for anyone that's read all my other Joaquín fics since February this year. I hope you all enjoy! 💗

Bob had been called many different things in his life. There had been a series of insults from his family and people he’d hurt during his time as an addict. Walker always called him Bobby, which he hated. Valentina called him by his full name, Robert. He had other names like Sentry and Void when he was using his powers. But none of those could ever come close to his favourite from you.

Every time he hears the word darling come from your mouth, directed at him, he thinks it might be the closest he’s ever come to true happiness. He wishes every time that he could bottle that feeling up and keep it for when the days are especially tough.

“Darling, can you pass me that book?”

“Darling, how are you doing after that mission?”

“Darling, do you need me to do anything for you?”

The only bad thing is the fact that you aren’t his. It’s a mutual decision, though, so he can’t be mad. You’ve been in mutual like for a while now. But both of you have known that entering into something serious when neither of you are mentally ready for something like that would just be foolish and end up with one or both of you being hurt. Your friendship always mattered more than the possibility of your futures together.

But the nickname still stuck and Bob was glad for that.

He never cared that it was just in private. In fact, he rather enjoyed the fact that it was just for the two of you. That, whenever he was alone with you, it was almost a guarantee that he was going to hear your voice speak that gorgeous word.

He cared for the rest of the team so deeply, but the moments when it was just you and him were his favourites. When you’d be laying together on the couch, both of you reading the same book and having to wait till you’d both finished the page before turning to the next one. When you’d be in the kitchen together, Bob washing the dishes as you plated up some kind of masterpiece for dinner. The quiet times, when everyone else was asleep and you and Bob would stay up trading memories like they were the worlds greatest secrets. 

The level of comfort he got in your presence surprised him, but he accepted it quickly.

It’s why, when you enter the room, he knows that you’re there. He relaxes almost instantly, just from sensing you getting closer. You reach out to rest a hand on his shoulder before you stop yourself, resting it on the top of the chair that he’s sitting on instead. 

There’s still a little hesitation when it comes to touch between the two of you. Both because neither of you want to cross the invisible line you’ve both drawn, but because of Bob’s powers too. He still isn’t fully in control.

“Morning, darling,” the word slips out before you can stop yourself. It’s so normal these days to refer to Bob like this, but always in private. Never in the dining room of the Watch Tower where every other member of the team is having breakfast.

Bob is none the wiser to your blunder. He gets that same starry look in his eyes as he always does when he looks up at you, standing behind him. He wants to reach out, wrap an arm around your waist and tug you onto his lap, though he wouldn’t have the confidence to do such a thing even if his powers weren’t an issue.

He always melts a little when he hears you call him darling. 

Across the room, you hear a groan.

“Oh, hell no,” Walker says, dropping the spoon back into his bowl of cereal. “You two are not doing that. Whatever is happening here, I don’t care, but we are not listening to you two call each other darling. Especially over breakfast.”

“What’s so wrong with a bit of young love?” Alexei exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air as he looks at Walker across the table. “This is good! Love heals the soul, there is nothing wrong with love!”

You frown. “Okay, who said anything about love?”

Alexei and Walker ignore you and continue to bicker.

You catch Yelena’s eye from across the room where she’s sat by the window, but she just shrugs her shoulders and goes back to staring out at the skyline.

“I would’ve thought you’d be all right with seeing affection, Walker,” Ava says, entering the room behind you. She’d obviously overheard the noise from the hallway. “You are married, even if you’re not together right now. Are you telling us you never called your wife something like that?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t make everyone else listen to me!”

Bucky, who has been watching everything the whole time from the corner of the room where he’s sitting, coffee in hand, huffs out a laugh. “You guys think this is bad? You should be glad you’ve never spent time around Joaquin Torres when he’s away from his girl.” He shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee, not bothering to explain any further about the new Falcon. 

You take advantage of the moment of silence that Bucky has caused to attempt to fix the situation. “Okay, no more talking about love or who is and isn’t allowed to call each other nicknames. Can we just drop it? It was a slip of the tongue!”

“Only if you explain why you said it,” Walker says.

“No,” you reply, pulling out the chair next to Bob’s and sitting down in it. It’s all you offer in way of an answer to Walker and he seems to surprisingly give up on fighting you on it. 

You glance over to see that Bob is still looking at you, his eyes glistening and a small smile on his lips. The sight of it makes you smile as well. “I am never calling you that in front of the others again… even if it was just a slip of the tongue, that was mortifying.” 

Bob smiles again and nudges a drink that’s sitting in front of him over towards you – he’s prepared your favourite and had it waiting for when you arrived. You try to ignore the feeling that rises in your stomach at the small act of kindness. 

“But when it’s just us?” He inquires.

“You know it’s different then.” 

You pick up the drink and take a sip of it before leaning back in your chair. Walker and Alexei have started bickering over something else. Yelena is still looking out the window, Bucky is in the corner with his coffee and Ava is exiting the kitchen with a drink of her own. It’s a fairly mundane kind of morning for a group of people meant to be the ‘New Avengers.’

There’s a sudden feeling that rises in your chest at the thought of your new status as an Avenger. It’s uncomfortable, unwelcome. You still don’t know how you feel about it, even many months later. It should be a good thing, but then why does it fill you with dread?

Bob can see the change in your expression and he’s quick to act. He reaches over and taps the table in front of you to get your attention. You pull your eyes away from the window, where you’d been staring, and meet his eyes instead. They instantly help to calm you.

“Quiet time?” Bob asks, nodding towards the door that leads into the hallway.

It’s like a code word between the two of you. When one of you needs to get away from the others or you start to get a little too wrapped up in your head. Two words that put you instantly at ease. 

You nod and Bob wastes no time in standing up from the table. You follow him, leaving your drink in the dining room and walking out of the room with him, ignoring Walker as he calls out, asking where you’re both running off to. 

“Thank you, darling,” you mutter, once you’re just outside the room.

Bob turns to you with a small smile on his lips. “Always.”

[olis-inkwell-symposium]

Developing Backstory: Bringing Characters to Life

1. Where It All Started: The Character’s Origin

Place of Birth: Where did your character first see the world? Think about the impact of this place—was it a busy city where they had to fight for attention or a quiet village where everyone knew everyone’s business? This location doesn’t just say where they’re from; it shapes how they see the world.

Family and Upbringing: What was their family like? Were their parents loving or distant? Maybe they were raised by someone other than their parents—a mentor, an older sibling, or even alone. Family (or the lack of it) is usually one of the most significant factors in shaping who someone becomes.

Society’s Expectations: What was expected of them when they were young? Possibly, they were born into wealth, with all the pressure to continue the family legacy, or maybe they were raised to be invisible in a world where survival mattered. How does this influence who they are now? Do they accept or reject those expectations?

2. Childhood Events That Left a Mark

First Taste of Conflict: Think about the first time the character realized the world wasn’t a perfect place. Maybe they witnessed violence or faced betrayal. What was that moment, and how did it stick with them? This moment usually lays the foundation for the character’s emotional landscape—fear, hope, ambition, or distrust all come from these early life lessons.

Childhood Dreams: When they were young, what did they want to be? Every child has dreams—did they want to be a knight, a scholar, or even just someone who could travel the world? Did they have to give up these dreams? How does that lost dream shape them now?

Formative Relationships: Who was their first best friend, mentor, or enemy? Childhood friendships and relationships often create deep bonds or wounds that last into adulthood. Did they have a mentor who taught them everything, only to betray them? Did they lose a childhood friend that still haunts them?

3. The Teen Years: Where They Start to Become Who They Are

Trials and Tribulations: What’s the biggest challenge they faced as they grew up? Was it losing a loved one, failing at something important, or maybe being forced into a role they didn’t want? These teenage years are where the emotional armor starts forming—how did the difficulties they faced shape them into the person they are now?

Education or Training: How did they learn what they know? Were they formally trained by an institution, learning everything by the book, or did they learn through experience, like a street-smart survivalist? What impact does their education or lack of it have on how they interact with others?

Teenage Bonds: Did they have a first love or a first major falling out with someone close to them? These experiences often create emotional scars or connections that they carry with them into adulthood. How does that past friendship or romance influence their behavior now?

4. Key Life Events: The Big Moments That Define Them

Trauma or Loss: Was there a moment that changed everything? Think about a significant loss—maybe a loved one, their home, or a sense of identity. How does this event affect their worldview? Do they build walls around themselves or dive into relationships with reckless abandon because they fear losing more?

Victory or Failure: Did they experience a moment of triumph or devastating defeat? Success and failure leave their marks. Were they celebrated as a hero once, leading them to overconfidence, or did they fail when everyone was counting on them, leading to crippling self-doubt?

Betrayal: Was there a betrayal that shaped their adult relationships? Whether it is a friend, family member, or lover, betrayal often changes how we trust others. Do they close themselves off, constantly expecting betrayal, or try to rebuild trust, afraid of being left alone again.

5. Where They Stand Now: The Present Moment

What Drives Them Today: What’s the one thing pushing them forward now? Is it revenge, the need to restore their family’s honor, or maybe even just survival? Whatever it is, this motivation should tie directly back to their experiences.

Emotional Baggage: What unresolved emotional wounds are they carrying? Everyone has scars from their past—some are visible, others not so much. How do these emotional wounds affect how they treat others, how they react to conflict, and how they move through the world.

Current Relationships: Who’s still in their life from their past, and how do they feel about it? Did they reconnect with someone they thought they’d lost, or are they haunted by unresolved issues with people from their past? Do they have any ongoing tensions or regrets tied to these people?

6. Tying Themes to Their Backstory

Cultural or Mythological Influence: How does their personal story tie into the larger world’s mythology or culture? Do they carry a family legacy, a curse, or a prophecy that hangs over them? How does this influence their interactions with others and their perception of themselves?

Recurring Symbols: Are there objects, dreams, or people that keep showing up in their life, symbolizing their journey? Perhaps a recurring nightmare haunts them, or they carry an object from their past that’s both a source of comfort and pain

7. Character Arc: The Journey from Past to Present

How Does Their Past Shape Their Growth?: Every character has emotional baggage that needs resolving. How does their backstory drive their arc? Do they need to forgive themselves, let go of the past, or accept who they’ve become to move forward?

Unanswered Questions from the Past: Are there any mysteries in their backstory they need to solve? Maybe they’re unaware of their true parentage, or maybe there’s a forgotten event from their childhood that will resurface and change everything.

[a-sleepy-ginger]

9/3/24

✿❈✿❈✿

Sweet potato and sweet chilli sauce

Annoyed my dog with the invisible thing (I just closed my hand and moved it about, he always thinks there's something there. He is not the smartest.)

Talked with family

[a-casxandra]

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐃 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐓𝐖𝐎-𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄.

Zayne x non-mc, angst because that's all i'm good at lol

𝑺𝒚𝒑𝒏𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒔 : Dating a renowned cardiac surgeon was never meant to be easy—but falling in love with a man who already has a child and a history he never quite let go of? That’s something else entirely. Caught between hospital corridors and family day events, you tries to find your place in Zayne’s world—until one mistake shatters the fragile balance, and you're forced to ask yourself the question that’s haunted you from the start: did you ever meant to belong?

Being a surgeon’s girlfriend is already difficult—but what if your boyfriend also has a child with his ex?

When you first started dating Zayne, he didn’t hide anything. He told you about her—MC—and their daughter, Aurora. You were stunned for two reasons:

One, that Zayne Li, of all people, was dating you.

And two, that he had a child out of wedlock.

Still, you told yourself you could handle it. That you would try.

But no matter how hard you tried to be close to Aurora, she would quietly slip away. No tantrums, no words—just cold avoidance. At first, you told yourself she was only six. She couldn't possibly be hostile, right?

Zayne often brought you along to see her. Said it would help. You played along. Even MC was polite, if a little…off. You told yourself it was nerves—maybe jealousy. Or maybe it was just you, trying to ignore the invisible thread that still seemed to tie her and Zayne together. The shared child. The memories. The easy familiarity.

One evening, while sitting across from Zayne at his house, you hesitated before speaking.

“Zayne… do you think we could go out next Saturday?” your voice was soft, almost reluctant.

He was just returning from work, undoing his coat and sinking into the couch with a tired sigh. “I’m sorry. I have a scheduled surgery that day.”

You nodded, then asked again, a little more hopeful, “Then… how about Sunday?”

Zayne leaned his head back and rubbed a hand down his face. “Aurora has a family day at school on Sunday. She asked me to be there... You understand, right?”

You did. You always did. But this time, something inside you pushed back.

“…But you’re always busy,” you said quietly. “If not at the hospital, you’re with them. What about me?”

“What about you?” Zayne said sharply, straightening. “That’s nonsense. We live together—you see me every day.”

And just like that, the silence cracked into an argument.

But it never lasted long. Zayne, as always, came back to you hours later—apologetic, calm, promising to make it up to you. And he meant it. He always meant it.

So here you were, at Aurora’s school on a cold winter Sunday—Family Day.

Zayne brought you along again. Said it would help. Said it mattered.

You stood on the sidelines, watching him and MC playing with Aurora.

They looked so natural together. Laughing, moving in sync, fitting into the same frame like a picture that had never been taken apart. Aurora was radiant between them. And Zayne… he looked so happy.

They looked like a perfect family.

And you?

You were the stain on the canvas. The outsider in the photograph.

You flinched slightly when you felt a small tug on your sleeve. Aurora stood beside you, looking up and pointing at a nearby ice cream truck.

You blinked, surprised. She’d never approached you before.

“You want that? Okay, let’s get you one,” you said gently, a quiet warmth blooming in your chest. Maybe… just maybe, this was a start.

But the moment shattered in an instant.

Aurora began coughing violently—ice cream falling from her hand, her little fingers clawing at her throat as she struggled to breathe.

Panic consumed you. “Aurora?”

Zayne and MC rushed over immediately. You fumbled for words, heart racing, explaining what happened—but you barely got a sentence out before MC’s face twisted in alarm.

“She’s allergic to dairy!” MC cried, snatching Aurora from your side. Her eyes were wide with fear—and something else. Accusation.

“I— I didn’t know—” you stammered, heart racing. You were shaking. You didn’t know.

“She’s six! You should’ve asked!” she snapped, voice cracking with panic. “I know Aurora doesn’t like you—but you didn’t have to do this! Was it really that bad? That you had to—” Tears welled up in her eyes as people began to gather, murmuring, whispering. Judging.

You turned to Zayne, desperate. “Zayne, I swear—I didn’t know—”

“Shut up, [Reader].”

The words hit you harder than anything else. His voice was sharp. Cold. And worse, disappointed.

Zayne never yelled. Never lost control. And now, he couldn’t even look at you.

He scooped Aurora into his arms, MC following close behind. And without another glance in your direction, they left—getting into his car and driving away.

You stood there, frozen. Surrounded by strangers with pointed eyes and low murmurs.

They didn’t know you. And yet… they were already judging.

And somehow, you didn’t blame them.

Because in that moment, as the wind bit at your skin and your heartbeat rang in your ears—

You knew the truth.

You didn’t belong here.

You never did.

Author's note : comments is very much appreciated! i like reading your comments and also, should i do a part 2? zayne's pov, maybe.

[kuidore]

More random ZoeYstery HCs ✧ KPOP demon hunters ✧ Zoey x Mystery

✧ They’re a little codependent but the sprinkles of toxicity are mutual so it cancels out

✧ Mystery never wants to go anywhere if Zoe isn’t going. He goes to social stuff because she goes and he wants to spend time with her.

✧ Zoey will still go to things on her own sometimes, leaving Mystery to hangout at home, but she spends a lot of time on her phone texting him and always leaves earlier than she would have if Mystery was with her

✧ This is entirely her choice, not once has he ever asked her to come home or complained about her going out. She just misses him extra hard sometimes and finds herself getting bored way faster when he isn’t around

✧ If it was up to either of them, they’d be together literally all of the time.

✧ They can’t actually do that, so he just follows her everywhere like a puppy on an invisible leash as much as he can

✧ He can see perfectly fine through his bangs (demon logic) but he still has a habit of running into things as if he couldn’t. Poles, signs, corners, fire hydrants. He’s surprisingly clumsy

✧ that’s because he doesn’t look where he’s going. he stares at Zoey instead

✧ totally worth it to him, especially the times when Zoey would start fawning over the possibility of him being hurt

✧ ‘a girlfriend wants a boyfriend who she can turn her brain off around’ except Mystery is the girlfriend

✧ He’s sorta an airhead, he’s ignorant to a lot of things that humans would think of as common knowledge

✧ Mystery thinks Zoey is the smartest person in the entire world and he says it a lot

✧ he eventually gets comfortable enough to ask her questions not just about herself, and she answers him with lots of details and excited hand gestures

✧ She’s happy he’s curious about humans in general and happier that he was asking her.

✧ In reality he’s still just curious about her and not all humans. No other ones, really. Maybe the rest of Huntrix, barely. he could handle her friends because they were extensions of Zoey.

✧ he was asking about topics he remembered her mention before in conversation.

✧ Zoey forgets what stories she’s told and what conversations she’s had with what people, so it doesn’t really click together that she just happens to know at least a little bit about pretty much about everything he asks

✧ he’s not doing it with manipulative intentions. Dude just genuinely could not care less about anything if he can’t play ‘seven degrees of Zoey Huntrix’ with it

✧ He compliments her multiple times a day, usually just blurting out something he was thinking as opposed to any sort of setup or cute delivery. In his eyes he’s just saying things that are true, but Zoey always giggles and thanks him anyways

✧ His deadpan tone and complete lack of awareness, in Zoey’s eyes, is a cute delivery

✧ Zoey is a crazy good baker. Mystery will hangout in the kitchen with her, sitting down and staying the hell out of her way as she zooms between cupboards

✧ Every so often she stops in front of him, a piece of chocolate or pastry or whatever else she was messing around with pinched between her fingers, and pops it in his mouth for a taste test

✧ He’s never any help when she’s trying to figure something out, but Zoey already knows that. She’s not expecting critique, she just gets all giddy seeing him smile and say it’s yummy when he tastes it

✧ where Jinu never lets Rumi see his demonic eyes, Mystery is exactly the opposite with Zoey

✧ When they’re at home, even after he’s started pinning up his bangs, he only ever has bright amber eyes with cat-like pupils

✧ Mystery has nothing but his demon form in his past, and as much as he didn’t care, sometimes he wondered what Zoey thought. If she ever remembered he was a demon when she was alone and recoiled at the thought of his ‘real’ form

✧ it’s the first question he’s afraid to ask her, so he doesn’t

✧ One day when she’s laying on top of him on their couch and his eyes are closed, she presses her lips to his eyelid, telling him not to open them as she did the same on the other side

✧ He opened them back up and just raises an eyebrow, and she shrugs back at him and tells him he has pretty eyes

✧ she gets a new thing for her ‘what makes Mystery blush?’ list

[narnian-neverlander]

Jason Todd, in all his 6’ 1’’ and 220 lbs glory, who likes to throw his weight around - quite literally, to your absolute dismay.

Jason Todd, who will put things on shelves just outta your reach, simply so he can offer to get them down for you, gentleman that he is, with a smug grin on his face - but only if you ask nicely, of course.

Jason Todd, who, completely out of the blue, will decide to use you as a support, like he’s just casually leaning against a wall, and not his significant other who barely manages to stay upright; arms crossed over his broad chest as he asks if something’s the matter in a chipper tone, while you struggle not to go down.

Jason Todd, who will just flop himself down on top of you when you’re curled up on the bed or couch, big arms locking around you to keep you trapped, no matter how many times you complain that his dumb ass is squishing you. You swear he makes himself heavier on purpose when he does this, but of course you can’t prove that.

Jason Todd, who uses his height and weight to be a menace and pester you from time to time, cause he thinks you’re adorable when you’re annoyed.

And then there’s the times when it isn’t about the teasing.

The times when a mission went south and he couldn’t safe someone. When he got hurt beyond just the regular bruises and cuts you’ve come to expect after almost every patrol. When a spat with his family turned into something more bitter and vile. When the damn heater in your old apartment is out yet again and the cold from Gotham’s freezing winters comes creeping in through the cracks.

The times when he’s reminded of your childhood: curled up with you under newspapers in some back alley, old soggy cardboard beneath you both, trying to keep some semblance of warmth, knuckles raw and scabbed from his last fight and stomach so empty it stings almost as bad the cold.

During those times, there’s no snarky comments or mischievous glint in his green eyes, just slumped shoulders and a shadow over his handsome face and everything about him screams defeat and weariness. It’s in the way he doesn’t actually drop himself on purpose, but instead collapses on top of you more than anything else, an invisible weight weighing heavily on him. In the way his arms come around you, tighter than usual, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise as he hides his face in the crook of your neck.

Somehow, oddly, sadly enough, those moments are easier to handle than his teasing. Because some things never change: after everything you’ve both been through, after all the time that’s passed, he still needs you as much as you need him. And it’s oh so obvious in the way he clings to you in those moments, it makes your heart ache and swell all at once, and it’s like you barely feel his weight on top of you and his nails digging into your skin.

And it never takes much, never takes long; some whispered, hushed assurances and quiet declarations of love, coupled with lazy patterns drawn into his back, and then his grip loosens, calloused fingers gently smoothing over forming crescent indents in apology, shuffling about until he shifts most of his weight off you, but never fully letting go, mumbling thanks into your skin, interspersed by little kisses scattered everywhere he can reach without moving.

Jason Todd, who sometimes genuinely forgets he’s no longer that small, scrawny, malnourished boy struggling to survive and simply wants - needs - to be as close as possible to his favorite person, his safe haven, his home.

[mariasont]

GENTLEMEN PREFER PAJAMAS

you are tipsy and flirty with spencer after a night out, leading to soft kisses, drunk rambling, and sleepy cuddles

pairings: spencer reid x reader warnings: alcohol consumption, no gendered language (I don’t think at least, let me know if there is), tipsy reader, sensual undertones but nothing crazy, flashback of sex scene but it's not too descript, drunk flirting, established relationship, lots of sleepy affection, mild undressing, domestic fluff, mutual pining but already together wc: 1.6k

You collapse onto the pillows in a sprawling, uncoordinated heap, giggling helplessly into Spencer’s mouth as he lands right after, warm and solid and perfectly weighted. You imagine some celestial force eavesdropped on your wishes and promptly deposited him on top of you.

You remind yourself to thank them and gravity. Tonight, at least, it’s completely forgiven for all those stubbed toes and spilled coffees.

And gravity is making your limbs feel like noodles. No, scratch that, noodles would have infinitely more structure. It’s possible you’re not even a person anymore. Perhaps you’ve melted straight into the mattresses, becoming one with it, all fluff and sighs and goofy grins. 

Is that a thing? Can people turn into beds? You’ll ask Spencer later.

Right now there’s kissing to do. Right now, your fingers are stumbling over a jawline so sharp and lovely and you think he smells like laundry straight from the dryer. You suffocate in it as your nose nudges to the hollow beneath his throat. 

And his hands — oh, his hands — they’re now under your shirt and it tickles and you think you’re giggling again, because what else is there to do when heaven is handsy?

He sighs, hands sinking into the plush curve of your waist.  It’s a familiar sigh you love hearing, one of those overly dramatic, pretend-exasperation sounds to signal his patience is running thin. Except you know better. Intimately so. Because beneath that theatrical huff is a smile he can’t quite hide, not when you can almost taste it if you turned your head just right.

He loves this, you’re certain, even if he refuses to say it. But that’s fine. You’re smart, even drunk-smart, and knowing is basically just as good as hearing. Actually, it’s even better because now you’re filled with the giddy determination to chase after that invisible grin with your lips, to hunt down the saccharine concealed there until it blossoms fully into laughter.

“I think,” you whisper loudly, your own smile mashed sloppily into the roughness of his cheek, “you just wanna get me naked.”

Spencer snorts. "I think you need to drink more water."

Killjoy. Beautiful, smirking, possibly medically correct killjoy.

Spencer gently lifts your arms, pulling off your shirt in one very smooth, very grown-up motion. Textbook Spencer Reid, all responsible bedtime procedure and absolutely zero funny business.

But your brain is champagne bubbles, pleasantly fizzy and a little devilish, so your fingers mound absently, tracing warm, languid circles along your newly exposed skin.

You watch him shamelessly, delighted when his cheeks flush just enough that he’s forced to look away, trying to convince you both he’s entirely unaffected.

"Don't need it," you murmur, eyes half-lidded and full of affection. "Just need you, thanks."

"Nice try, angel."

You sigh, softening like butter left too close to the stove as his fingertips coast feather-light down your back while coaxing you upright.

He takes his time, smoothing out each bump of your spine vertebrae by vertebrae. C1 all the way to C7. Then, with a sigh of his own, he pulls back, a moment stretched too thin, and reaches for your pajama top.

You take the time to look at him. Really look.

His belt hands low on his hips, leather biting into the fullness of his stomach, and you ache, physically ache, to trace that little line where cotton gives way to skin. His dress shirt, rumpled and sleep-wrinkled, clings across his chest like it wants to be closer too, buttons tugged taut over the breadth of him. 

His tie is gone. Hours ago, probably. Lost to some hallway or couch or whatever innocent piece of furniture was first to fall victim to your pawing hands.

Spencer tugs the pajama top he fished from the drawer down your arms, moving slowly so you don’t lose balance, not that you’d fall when you’re glued to the bed and using him as a human anchor, arms looped around his neck.

“You know,” you begin, lips dragging along his jaw like a love-drunk GPS, “Penelope is so funny.”

"Mhm."

"No, like, funny-funny. She made songs. About people. Little jingles. Did you know Derek has a theme song?”

"I did not."

"Well, he does. And so do you."

Spencer pauses. "Should I ask?"

"No, because you'll be mean about it."

"I'm never mean to you."

You narrow your eyes at him, or try to. They’re a little too heavy to cooperate.

“Spencer. You once corrected my math during sex.”

He shrugs. “In fairness, it was a bold miscalculation.”

He exaggerates.

Spencer had been beneath you, hands clutching greedily at the back of your thighs, his pupils blown so wide you could drown in their inky hunger — hunger he never bothered trying to disguise. You were gasping, half-lost on the exquisite stretch of him inside you, feeling so full it was like your body had molded itself around him, rewriting its shape in his image.

In the hazy gaps between thrusts you murmured a proud little tally into the air. Three times, maybe four. You couldn’t remember, didn’t care. It felt triumphant enough. Spencer, it seemed, had not.

He corrected that the first time wasn’t technically full sex, so the current count stood at two. You could still remember how your palms had flattened on his chest.

He looked up at you with a smirk that said, what? It’s true.

And you kissed him hard enough to shut him up. Not because he was wrong, but because you absolutely refused to let him be right. 

“So you’re admitting you’re mean to me on,” you say, squinting at him as you try to remember the word you were looking for, “occasion.”

Spencer’s lip tugs upward as he puts a hand to his chest. “Slandered in my own bed.”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” you gasp, cupping his face. “You are the opposite of mean. You’re… you’re nice. You’re, like, aggressively nice. Stupidly nice. But you’re not stupid. You’re so smart. And — you’re the best boyfriend ever. Literally ever.”

“There's a lot of praise tonight, sweetheart.”

You groan, face smooshed right into his chest as embarrassment wars with your lingering bravado. Blame the tequila. Blame your poorly-timed confidence at the bar, when you sidled up to him, inspected him head-to-toe like he was some stranger, and purred, what’s a pretty thing like you doing all alone?

Never mind the fact that you arrived together. Never mind the fact that he had been holding your purse.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

His voice spills out all velvet and sweet enough that your brain happily gives up on forming a coherent rebuttal. Gentle fingers squish your cheeks together, molding your lips into a pout that you’d probably laugh at if he weren’t already leaning in to kiss it. 

And he does, of course, soft lips pursed just slightly, showing you a peek at that deeper, cherry-stained color hidden inside. 

Lips shouldn’t look that edible, should they?

But with him, everything feels bite-worthy, nibble-able, lickable, and utterly unfair in how pretty he is. You constantly remind him, watch as his ears bloom pink, eyes narrowing in an attempt to deflect your adoration, especially when you’re in public.

You know he struggles with it. The receiving. The enormity of being loved without proof, without conditions, without demands. But that’s never scared you off. If anything, it draws you closer, makes you cherish every reminder, every repetition, every soft retelling of the truth he’s still learning how to hold. Because one day, maybe, you’ll say it so many times that even he can’t deny it anymore.

“You know,” you mumble, eyelids drooping as your finger taps his lower lip, voice slurred like honeyed bourbon. “That thing you did earlier, kissin’ my wrist all slow — mm-hmm — was that on purpose?”

A low laugh escapes him as he guides your form onto the bed, sliding down to lay beside you. He props his head on one hand, studying you. 

“On purpose? As opposed to… what? A spontaneous wrist-kissing seizure?”

You wrinkle your nose, staring up at the ceiling with glazed eyes. 

“Spence, there’s accidents, and then there’s… purposeful stuff, right? Like when someone just does things because they wanna make you feel good. Little things, like kissing wrists, and… remembering your favorite cereal and —” You lose yourself briefly, blinking sleepily. “And it just feels really, really nice when someone does things on purpose for you, ‘cause it means you’re worth noticing, I think. And you do that a lot.”

He smiles, thumb dragging a lazy arc along your cheek. You lean into the touch like a cat, nuzzling closer.

“I love your mind. Drunk Socrates, but cuter,” Spencer teases, pulling you closer so your head rests comfortably against his chest. “You probably won’t remember any of this in the morning,” he adds, “but I will and… I don’t know, noticing you has never been something I try to do.”

He exhales slowly.

“It’s actually harder not to,” he continues, “You know, yesterday you left your book on the counter, spine cracked and bookmarked with a receipt, and I couldn’t stop thinking about what part you’re up to. I actually looked up the chapter summaries to figure it out.” He chuckles under his breath. “You’re just constantly… there. In my head. Background processing, even when I’m thinking about something else.”

You dissolve further against him, the lines between your bodies blurring pleasantly, warmth pooling so deeply that your outlines vanish. You silently plead with yourself to remember this clearly in the morning, and that your expression in daylight won’t too obviously reveal how completely you’ve fallen in love again.

“So what you’re sayin’,” you mumble, wrapping your arms around him, nipping at the slope of his shoulder, “is I’m basically a parasite you can’t get rid of.”

“Exactly,” Spencer says, fingers digging into your side. “Mutually beneficial symbiosis. I’d let you take over my entire life if you wanted. Full infection. No cure needed.”

“Mmm, you’re gonna regret sayin’ that when you wake up stuck with me forever.”

“I’m counting on it.”

And you believe him.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[the-original-skipps]

|| Abs! Abs! Abs! || Honkai Star Rail Reactions II

anaxa and his lightcome came home so imma drop this and scurry away i know some people are gonna come at me like sunday and anaxa don't got abs theyre lean yeah well stomach, abs whatever man lol

When you ask them for an ab pic.

: Aventurine. Sunday. Phainon. Mydei. Anaxa.

cw: suggestiveness. established relationship. gn!reader. possible oocness. half naked men. art used does not belong to me but credited to it's rightful owner.

❥ Aventurine can feel his smirk growing as he reads your text. You're way too predictable. He's heard about this fad trending nowadays on social media along with a bicep pic? He's not surprised you jumped on the trend too. The blonde is a definite tease so he'll have his fun teasing you by saying maybe or asking you for a picture back. You were on the verge of giving up until he suddenly sent the picture.

Aventurine is very casual about the whole thing. He knows he has a good magnificent body and he knows how to take a good picture. He takes some pictures, checking them for a moment to find the right one before pressing send. What he's looking forward to now is seeing how you'd react to it. Oh, he can't wait to tease you more.

The picture he sends is of him sitting on some lavish sofa. His signature turquoise dress shirt unbuttoned all the way showcasing his abs. A wine glass in one hand while the other angles his phone down so that his abs are fully captured on screen. 

"Mhmm I don't know, what do I get in return for sending you such a picture?"

❥ Sunday tilts his head in confusion. Ab pic? A picture of his abdominal muscles? The request came out of nowhere and it surprises and confuses him. What could you use such a picture for? He sighs, shaking his head. There's no use mulling over its purpose. A small smile graces his face. He could never deny you, no matter how strange your requests may be.

Sunday spends quite a while a few hours on taking the perfect picture. It's not his fault he keeps finding faults in every single picture he has taken. He needs it to be perfect for you! Until he realizes how long you've been waiting for the picture. After what seemed to be forever, he finally settles on a picture he's satisfied with. He hesitates on sending it until he wills himself to just do it. His feathers could fall off with how nervous he is for your reply.

It's a picture of him reluctantly/shyly holding his dress shirt up. His eyes looking away while his wings cover half of his face in embarrassment. If you look closely his cheeks are dusted pink. 

"Abs pic? I'm not sure what that is but if it will delight you...I'll do my best to fulfill your wish, my love."

❥ Phainon smiles in glee at your request. His invisible tail is wagging as he reads your text multiple times. With each read his invisible tail wagging harder. Ask and you shall receive, of course!

Phainon doesn't waste any time, he's already pulling out his phone to open his camera app. Then quickly discards his shirt - carelessly tossing it aside. He doesn't think much about the pose or what angle the picture should be taken. He claims he just knows how the picture should be taken - it's all in the feeling. He aims the camera so that his abs are in frame and spams the capture button. After a while, he does change poses. Despite how carefree he looks he's actually taking this very seriously. He needs to send the most perfect picture to you.

He doesn't just send one but he sends all the pictures he has taken. The more the better or so he claims. Your phone is ringing non stop from notifications because he sent around 24 pictures. They're all in different poses, angles and expressions. One is zoomed in on his abs while the other shows his entire very toned body. Wait, is that a rose in between his lips?

"Are you sure you're happy with just these? I can send you thirty more...!"

❥ Mydei raises his eyebrow in confusion but it is quickly replaced with a smirk on his face. So, you want a picture of his abs. Very well, he supposes he can make that happen. Only you would dare ask such a thing from the Prince of Castrum Kremnos. He finds your boldness both amusing and attractive at the same time.

Mydei doesn't waste any time. He pulls out his phone, snapping a picture before immediately sending it back to you. The golden lion knows he doesn't need to worry if the picture is good or not. He knows it's good no matter what angle it's taken from. You'll definitely be pleased, he knows it. Though, a mere image made up of pixels would never be able to beat the real thing. He thinks about asking you to come over or maybe he can go to you. The picture is great don't get him wrong but he wants you to see how much better it is in person.

He only sends one picture but it gets the message across. His abs are magnificent as if the gods themselves had sculpted them. He doesn't wear a shirt so he doesn't need to teasingly lift it up. No, he shows it in all its glory. He sits on a throne-like chair, his chin resting in his hand while the other holds the phone.

"Why want a picture when you can come see the real thing."

❥ Anaxa has to resist the urge to scoff when he sees your text pop up. Another one of these nonsensical trends he assumes. He quickly dismisses the thought, deeming it a waste of his time and effort to do - setting his phone aside in favor of grading test papers.

After a while, he finds himself thinking back to your text. He's supposed to be finished grading these test papers by now but all he can think about is your disappointed expression. He nearly slams his pen down on the table before letting out a defeated sigh. Dammit, the things you make him do for you.

Anaxa finds himself irritated at having to do such a thing. He tries taking different pictures but none of them are satisfactory enough for him. He's not very good at this. He knows he shouldn't be wasting so much time and effort for a simple picture but the thought of your lackluster reaction makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. He takes a few more before finally settling on a picture. Angle? Good. Lighting? Good. Overall, not bad. He clicks the send button. Now he has distracted himself enough to not think about your response.

The picture is relatively simple. It's a picture of Anaxa sitting in his office but it's angled so that you can only see his lower half. His gloved hand lifting up his shirt revealing his abs. Might as well frame it because he might not do this for you again. He will.

"By the law of equivalent exchange, it's only fair that you send me one back too."

[taurusdesign]

Disordinato Collection - Part 3

Sul sul!

The new set is finally ready. I was hoping to release it in February, but—unsurprisingly—I couldn’t make it in time. Sorry about that once again!

This set is nursery-themed and includes 10 items in total. If you want to bring a lived-in, cozy feel to your Sims’ nurseries, you’re in the right place. You’ll find adorable pieces like cribs, an inflatable baby tub for bath time, and even a wardrobe shaped like a dollhouse.

So without further ado, let’s see what’s in the set!

"Guardian Angel" Canopy

Crib (with and without Skirt)

Bassinet (I wanted to make the bassinet functional, but unfortunately that wasn’t possible. You can still use it functionally with the invisible crib mod)

Baby Clothes

Dresser (Open and Closed versions)

Baby Bathtub

Changing Station

Diaper Pail

The color palette from the Disordinato Collection didn't suit a nursery very well, so I chose a different one for this set.

Public Release: April 21, 2025

GET EARLY ACCESS

You can find all the items included in the set by typing 'disordinato3' into the search bar.

I hope you'll like it!

Dag dag! 💞

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 25: June 2024 - Part 6

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, mention of the loss of a parent.

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

The office was quiet. Soft. Safe.

It always felt that way here — a small haven away from the noise of circuits and media storms, from the sharp edges of being forgotten and the new weight of suddenly being seen. The window let in filtered afternoon light, and Simone’s office smelled faintly of lavender and old books.

Belle sat curled in her usual corner of the couch, legs tucked under her, hands wrapped around a mug of peppermint tea she hadn’t yet touched.

Simone sat across from her with her notebook closed, eyes kind, waiting.

“I think the worst part,” Belle said softly, after a long pause, “is that I didn’t expect it to feel so loud.”

Simone tilted her head slightly. “The public knowing?”

Belle nodded. “It was quiet for so long. Just ours. Just… safe. But now—one photo, and suddenly everyone’s watching.”

“Does it feel like a loss of control?” Simone asked gently.

“Yes. And no.” Belle looked down at her mug. “I wanted people to know. Eventually. I chose to walk into the paddock. I chose to kiss him. I posted the photo. It wasn’t an accident. But now everyone has an opinion. People I’ve never met are dissecting my life like it’s a press release.”

Simone let the silence settle for a moment, then asked, “What grounded you when it started to feel overwhelming?”

Belle smiled faintly. “Max. He always knows when I’m spiraling — even before I do. He’ll just take my hand or touch my back and everything feels quieter.”

There was a pause.

“I told Arthur,” Belle said, voice softer now.

Simone’s brows lifted slightly. “How did that feel?”

“Better than I expected,” Belle admitted. “He didn’t defend Charles. He didn’t make excuses. He just showed up. And he listened.”

“That’s progress,” Simone said gently.

Belle nodded. “But it’s only him. I haven’t spoken to anyone else.”

“Do you want to?”

Belle was quiet for a long time. Then: “I don’t know.”

Simone didn’t press her. Just waited.

“I think part of me still wants them to reach out. To say sorry without being prompted. To see me on their own. Not because they’re embarrassed or because the media caught on. Just… because they miss me.” Her voice cracked just slightly on that last word.

Simone’s tone was careful, but warm. “It’s okay to want that.”

“I know. I just don’t know if they’re capable of it.”

“And if they’re not?” Simone asked gently.

Belle looked up. “Then I move forward without them.”

Another pause.

“Can I offer a thought?” Simone asked.

Belle nodded.

“If you do choose to let them in again — not now, not even soon, but eventually — it might be helpful to bring those conversations into a neutral space. Somewhere safe.”

Belle’s gaze flicked toward her. “Like here?”

Simone gave a small smile. “Like family therapy. With boundaries. With someone to help hold the structure while you explore whether rebuilding is even possible.”

Belle didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t want to excuse what they did,” she said. “Or pretend everything’s fine because I married someone famous and suddenly they care.”

“I would never ask you to,” Simone replied gently. “You’ve already built a life. A marriage. Soon a family of your own. The question is whether you want to let them try to earn a place in it.”

Belle’s eyes shimmered, but she blinked them clear. “I think I might be open to the idea.”

“That’s enough for today.”

Belle let out a slow breath.

And for the first time since the Parc Fermé kiss and the global chaos that followed, the silence in her chest didn’t feel like pressure.

It felt like peace.

***

It started with a dress.

Just a simple, pale blue linen one — a favorite of hers. Soft. Easy. Forgiving in the waist. She’d worn it to coffee with Emilie two weeks ago and felt fine in it. Pretty, even.

Now, it wouldn’t zip.

Belle stood in the center of the bedroom, barefoot on the rug, hair still damp from the shower, the zipper stuck halfway up her back as she twisted and strained and tried not to cry.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a flood of hormones and tears and shouting. It was quiet.

A soft, sharp ache of realization.

Her body had changed overnight.

She turned slowly toward the mirror. Pressed a hand to her stomach. What had once been the faintest suggestion now had shape. Curve. Weight. Not enough to scream pregnant to the world, but more than enough to make her clothes sit wrong. To make her feel like a stranger in her own skin.

The zipper finally gave up entirely, and Belle stepped out of the dress with more frustration than grace.

She tried another — a black cotton shift. Still no. Then a flowy skirt — fine at the hips, but suddenly too snug at the waist. A button-down she’d always liked? The buttons across her chest strained so badly it looked like they were preparing for launch.

One by one, the pieces fell to the floor around her.

When she finally dropped into the edge of the bed, she was surrounded by the soft wreckage of what used to fit. A fabric battlefield. Her hands rested on her knees, her breath shallow, her chest tight.

She hadn’t expected to feel sad.

This was supposed to be beautiful — the beginning of something. The miracle. The glow.

But all she could think was: Nothing fits anymore.

And Max wasn’t there.

He’d left for the race two days ago — a back-to-back weekend with media, meetings, track walks. He’d kissed her forehead before leaving, pressed a palm gently over her belly, whispered something about texting her after every session.

But he wasn’t here.

Not now, when her body had changed without warning and she didn’t know how to dress it. Not now, when she just wanted someone to look at her and say, you’re still you.

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it without hope — then saw his name.

Max: Morning, Schatje. I just got out of briefing. I miss you. How’s our co-pilot today?

Belle’s throat tightened. Her fingers hovered over the screen for a second before she typed back.

Belle: I miss you too. Co-Pilot seems to be growing faster than expected. Nothing fits. At all. It’s ridiculous. I feel like a puffed pastry with a heart rate.

The reply came almost instantly.

Max: That is the most adorable description of pregnancy I’ve ever heard. And also: please stop being mean to my wife. You’re beautiful. You’re growing our baby. I’m buying you stretchy things. All the stretchy things.

Belle let out a quiet, helpless laugh — one that cracked right through the tightness in her chest.

Another message came in:

Max: Also I demand a photo. Even if you’re in my hoodie with no pants. Especially then, actually.

Belle shook her head, smiling through the sting in her eyes.

She stood, padded over to the wardrobe again, and pulled out one of Max’s hoodies. It swallowed her whole, but it didn’t pinch. It didn’t judge. It just fit — in the way that mattered.

She took the photo. Hair damp. No makeup. Hoodie halfway down her thighs. The bump was there. Soft. Round. Theirs.

She sent it to him with one line:

Belle: This is what “nothing fits” looks like.

A minute passed.

Then Max replied:

Max: That’s my favorite person with my favorite future inside her. Perfect. P.S. I’m coming home the second this race is over.

And somehow, in that moment, even with her body unfamiliar and her closet defeated…

Belle didn’t feel alone anymore.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Belle: Slightly odd question. Do you remember what you wore when you were trying to hide your pregnancies?

Victoria: Hahaha Has the bump arrived?

Belle: It ambushed me. Overnight. I woke up and suddenly nothing zips and my jeans are threatening to report me to the authorities.

Victoria: God, I remember that phase. I once cried in a Zara changing room because a wrap dress betrayed me. So yes. I remember it well.

Victoria: Okay. Hiding-the-bump tips from a three-time pro:

Flowy dresses

Button-downs + high-waisted trousers unbuttoned and safety pinned

Distracting accessories (big earrings = nobody’s looking at your belly)

Never underestimate a good scarf

Belle: You’re terrifyingly prepared. I love you.

Victoria: We all cope in our own ways. Mine is emotional support designer handbag. Also. You’re glowing.

Belle: I’m sweating and panicked.

Victoria: That’s pregnancy, darling. And when in doubt, steal Max’s clothes, throw on lipstick, and pretend you’re doing it on purpose.

Belle: I’m texting you before every outfit now.

Victoria: I expect nothing less.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: Everything I own has turned against me. I just tried on five dresses. None of them fit. One popped a button and hit me in the face.

Emilie: i’m sorry but this is the funniest tragedy i’ve ever read

Belle: I’m going to have to start wearing Max’s hoodies exclusively. Like some sort of tiny, emotionally unstable Formula 1 driver.

Emilie: you say that like it’s not THE aesthetic of the season also: pls send a pic immediately

Belle: No makeup. Wet hair. Hoodie down to my knees. I look like if depression bought a scented candle.

Emilie: okay that’s going in your baby book "week 16: mother described herself as a sad candle in sportswear" you’re glowing, aren't you?

Belle: No. I’m sweating and mildly offended by cotton. But thank you.

Emilie: you are perfect and your body is doing literal magic and i will be there tomorrow with snacks, tissues, and an emergency haul of ethically-sourced maternity leggings

Belle: I don’t deserve you.

Emilie: no but you’re stuck with me anyway

***

The house was glowing.

Not literally — though the late afternoon sun poured golden light through the open shutters like a blessing — but in the way old homes do when they’ve been cared for. When someone’s loved them back into themselves.

Belle stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a pencil tucked behind one ear, as Daniel and Jules stepped inside.

“Mon Dieu,” Daniel breathed. “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

Jules let out a soft, stunned sound and turned in a slow circle, eyes catching every detail — the reclaimed beams overhead, the soft plaster walls in a mineral-washed hue, the original tile floor gently cleaned and sealed instead of replaced.

“I can’t believe this is the same house,” Jules said.

“I can,” Daniel murmured. “Because she did it.”

Belle smiled, cheeks warm. “It’s almost done. A few details left — hardware, window treatments, the stone for the kitchen counters is coming Tuesday.”

“Don’t rush,” Jules said. “We’d sleep on the floor if we had to.”

“No need,” Belle said, leading them deeper into the space. “The guest room is fully dressed. Just in case.”

They passed through the arch into the main living room. The old fireplace had been restored, the stone gently cleaned but still mottled with history. Belle had designed built-in shelves on either side — painted in a soft green-grey that picked up the light without swallowing it — and filled them with old books and ceramics she’d sourced from local artisans.

“Belle,” Daniel said softly. “This is… art.”

She smiled at that. Not flustered. Just pleased.

They moved into the kitchen, where Belle had reimagined the space entirely without losing a single antique tile. A large farmhouse sink had been inset into a custom cabinet she’d designed herself, and the walls were finished in limewash — textured, tactile, alive.

The wide French doors at the back opened onto the courtyard. Once crumbling, it was now a soft, green heart of the home. The old fig tree remained, but Belle had added lavender, herbs, and climbing jasmine that was already threatening to devour the wall.

Jules stepped outside. “You saved the soul of this place.”

“I didn’t want to change it,” Belle said. “Just… listen to it.”

Daniel glanced over at her, smiling. “It’s rare. What you do. Most people walk into old houses and want to erase the past. You made it feel like time had layered into the house instead of over it.”

Belle blinked. Something caught behind her ribs — not pride, exactly, but something deeper. Recognition.

“It’s the first full project I did under my name,” she said quietly. “No firm. No partners. Just me.”

“And it shows,” Daniel said. “There’s nothing generic here. Every choice feels personal. Considered.”

“There are still a few finishing touches. Light fixtures in the guest room, and one of the shutters needs repair. But everything else is… as planned,” Belle explained.

Jules looked around again — eyes slightly glassy now. “It’s more than we imagined.”

Daniel stepped beside Belle and nudged her gently. “You didn’t just design this. You gave it a soul.”

Belle swallowed around the sudden ache in her throat.

“I just listened,” she said. “To what the house wanted to be. And to what you needed it to hold.”

“You do realize this is what great designers say when they’re being modest,” Daniel said dryly.

But Jules only smiled and took Belle’s hands in his. “You made us a home.”

And somehow, that landed more than any award ever could.

As they sat down at the table with lemonade and cheese and fresh bread Jules had insisted on bringing from their favorite bakery, Belle let herself relax into the moment.

The laughter was easy. The compliments genuine. There was no shadow of someone else’s name over her work, no sense of borrowed validation.

Just sunlight, and two clients-turned-friends, and a house that now breathed.

And for the first time in her career, Belle didn’t feel like she was working to prove anything.

She had already done it.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: wanna tell me what the actual FUCK that was between max and lando????

Belle: Define “that.”

Emilie: THE AGGRESSIVE WHEEL-TO-WHEEL “ARE WE ENEMIES NOW” SLAP FIGHT THE DEATH STARES THE POST-RACE NON-HANDSHAKE I’M SORRY, IS THE BRO MANCE DEAD??

Belle: Ah. That.

Emilie: YES. THAT. YOUR HUSBAND WENT FULL FINAL BOSS MODE AND LANDO LOOKED LIKE HE WAS ABOUT TO BITE HIM

Belle: They’ll talk. Eventually.

Emilie: ARE THEY BREAKING UP DO I NEED TO GET THE DIVORCE LAWYERS DO I GET YOU IN THE CUSTODY BATTLE DOES LANDO GET VISITATION WITH THE BABY

Belle: 😂 You are so dramatic. And yes, obviously. 

Emilie: you joke but i’m FUMING i just spent six months convincing myself they were soft-launch brothers-in-arms and now max overtakes like that and lando’s giving “you were supposed to love me” after the race

Belle: It’s called racing, Em.

Emilie: it’s called betrayal he made him crash he gave him a puncture he RUINED HIM i’ve read enemies-to-lovers with less sexual tension than that post-race stare

Belle: Do you want me to ask Max for his side?

Emilie: no

Belle:For the record: Max says he “defended hard” And Lando “should’ve backed out sooner.” He also muttered something about “this is why I don’t have friends.”

Emilie: tell him that’s the most dramatic thing he’s said since “I’m not here to make friends” in 2015

Belle: He is the drama

Emilie: and you married him god i’m proud of you

Belle: Would you and Lando like to come for dinner tomorrow?

Emilie: EXCUSE ME??

Belle: Max is sulking. Lando is brooding. You’re screaming in all caps. I’m fixing it.

Emilie: YOU THINK A CHICKEN PARM IS GONNA FIX A BROKEN BROMANCE

Belle: Yes. That and a homemade lemon tart. Also, you’re bringing wine.

Emilie: oh my god you’re staging a peace summit this is monaco-based diplomacy you’re literally brokering a ceasefire

Belle: We’ve avoided a Red Bull–McLaren cold war so far. I’d like to keep it that way. Also Max gets weird when Lando’s mad at him.

Emilie: i’m bringing rosé and a truce playlist

Belle: Perfect. Tomorrow. 7 PM. We’re serving forgiveness with a side of grilled vegetables.

Emilie: you’re a queen a legend a domestic diplomat

Belle: Good. See you tomorrow. Also, if they refuse to make eye contact, we’re putting on a two-player Mario Kart match and leaving the room.

Emilie: excellent. passive-aggressive gaming therapy. you’re a genius

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Oscar Piastri

Belle: Congratulations on the podium 🧡 You were phenomenal today. Clean, calm, clinical. (And you looked very smug on the podium. It suited you.)

Oscar: Thank you 😊 It’s always nice when Max and Lando are too busy crashing into each other to notice I exist.

Belle: Speaking of which... Care to tell me what that was?

Oscar: Which part? The wheel-to-wheel drama? The parc ferme tension? The complete emotional collapse of an F1 friendship?

Belle: All of it. I’m trying to prep for tomorrow’s “spaghetti and feelings” dinner.

Oscar: I’d recommend garlic bread. And helmets.

Belle: Are they talking?

Oscar: Define “talking.” Max said “he’ll get over it.” Lando said “he can bite me.” So, no.

Belle: Excellent. Nothing like emotional maturity from two men who drive at 300km/h for a living.

Oscar: Incredible athletes. Emotionally 14.

Belle: We’ve having dinner tomorrow. I’m staging a ceasefire over lemon tart.

Oscar: Bold of you Godspeed Let me know if I need to be on standby for emotional support 

Belle: You might. If they refuse to speak, they’re playing Mario Kart until one of them cries.

Oscar: So, normal Verstappen conflict resolution. Got it 👍

Belle: Exactly.

***

Belle pulled the lemon tart out of the fridge at exactly 6:58 PM.

It was perfect. Glazed, golden, topped with thin slices of candied lemon and just enough powdered sugar to look effortless without trying too hard. Not unlike her strategy for this entire dinner.

She heard Max pacing somewhere near the front hallway again. That made lap four. Five, if she counted the loop past the cat bowls.

“Max,” she called gently. “It’s dinner. Not an FIA hearing.”

“They’re late,” he muttered, appearing in the kitchen doorway.

“They’re two minutes late.”

Max crossed his arms, expression unreadable. “Maybe we should cancel.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Because Lando didn’t arrive early to apologize like a teenager with flowers and a mixtape?”

Max looked away. Belle handed him the salad tongs.

“Go toss the greens and remember you’re a grown man with three world championship titles and a mortgage,” she said sweetly.

He muttered something in Dutch and obeyed.

The buzzer rang at 7:03.

Belle opened the door to find Emilie in her best peacekeeping sundress, holding a bottle of rosé in one hand and a smug smile on her face. Lando trailed behind her, suspiciously quiet, clutching a bakery box like it was a bomb.

“We brought peach galette,” Emilie announced. “And emotional tension.”

Belle stepped aside. “We already have both.”

Dinner began civilly enough.

The pasta was well-timed. The wine poured freely. The cats were temporarily bribed into not launching themselves onto the table.

Max and Lando, however, exchanged exactly four words in the first twenty minutes:

“Hi.” “Hi.” “Water?” “Sure.”

The eye contact was brief. The fork clinking was aggressive.

Belle and Emilie carried the conversation like diplomats on a sinking cruise ship. They talked about weather, Monaco construction permits, the absurdity of a $400 baby monitor Belle had returned on principle. They laughed. They smiled.

The boys sulked.

At one point, Max stabbed a roasted carrot like it had insulted his ancestors. Lando sighed in a way that could've shattered glass.

Belle met Emilie’s gaze across the table.

Time for the nuclear option.

“Okay,” Belle said, standing up. “Dessert in a bit. But first—living room.”

Lando blinked. “What?”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Because,” Belle said, already walking, “I’m not hosting a three-course cold war.”

Emilie followed with the wine glasses. “We’re resolving this like adults.”

“In Mario Kart,” Belle added.

Max groaned. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m married to you. I’ve never been more serious.”

Lando slumped onto the couch. “This is ridiculous.”

Belle handed him a controller. “And yet you’re already holding the remote.”

Max hesitated—just long enough for Belle to raise an eyebrow. “Afraid to lose?”

He sat down next to Lando like she’d physically shoved him. “I’ve beaten him in real life. I’ll survive Rainbow Road.”

“Your funeral,” Lando muttered.

By the second race, Max had stopped muttering under his breath.

By the fourth, he and Lando were arguing about blue shell etiquette.

By the sixth, Belle and Emilie had abandoned the couch entirely and were watching from the kitchen doorway, with Emilie sipping rosé and Belle snacking on lemon tart, like it was theatre.

“I give it ten more minutes before they forget they were mad,” Emilie whispered.

“Seven,” Belle said, just as Lando shouted, “That’s what you get for punting me off in Austria!”

Max howled. “YOU STARTED IT.”

Belle smiled. “And… there it is.”

By the time dessert hit the table, Lando was retelling the story of Max drunk in a night club and accidentally running into a wall while sneezing. Max was defending himself with increasing indignation. Emilie was crying with laughter. And Belle?

Belle sat back in her chair, hand resting gently over her stomach, watching her husband finally laugh again.

And she thought — this is what peacekeeping looks like.

A lemon tart. A glass of wine. A video game and a well-timed eye roll.

And love.

Always, love.

***

Max hadn’t meant to wake up early.

The apartment was still hushed in the pale-blue light of morning, curtains shifting faintly with the breeze from the balcony doors. Monaco always felt quieter before eight — like even the yachts were still asleep.

He stretched, one arm blindly reaching for Belle’s side of the bed.

Empty.

The faint sound of running water met his ears, and then the rustle of a drawer, a closet door sliding open.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his hand over his face, and padded barefoot into the hallway.

What he saw stopped him completely.

Belle stood in front of the mirror in the closet, turned slightly sideways, her back to the door. She was barefoot, her hair in a loose braid, wearing nothing but a pair of soft cotton shorts and one of his white tank tops — the thin kind she always stole from his drawer without asking.

And her bump — their bump — was there. Real. Rounded. Glowing in the soft morning light.

Max felt something in his chest shift.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched her. Watched the way she ran her fingers over her stomach, gently, reverently, like she still couldn’t quite believe it.

Like it had finally hit her, too.

Belle caught his reflection in the mirror and startled. “God, Max—say something before you scare me to death.”

But she didn’t move to hide.

Didn’t reach for a robe or yank down the hem of the tank top.

And Max… Max couldn’t look away.

“I didn’t know it was like this already,” he said quietly.

Belle turned toward him, one hand resting low on her belly. “It kind of… popped overnight.”

He crossed the room slowly, his eyes never leaving her. When he stopped in front of her, his hands came up automatically — one to her cheek, the other hovering just above her bump.

“May I?” he asked softly.

Belle nodded, her eyes warm.

He placed his hand against her skin. Warm. Soft. Alive.

A small intake of breath escaped him — almost a laugh, but softer. “You’re really in there,” he murmured.

Belle smiled, tired and radiant all at once. “Surprise.”

He kissed her, slow and steady, his hand never leaving her stomach.

When he pulled back, his voice was a little rougher. “How long until you can’t hide it anymore?”

She exhaled. “A few weeks, maybe. Less if they keeps growing like this.”

Max was quiet for a beat.

Then: “Do you want to keep hiding it?”

Belle leaned into his chest, resting her forehead there. “I don’t know. Part of me likes having it just for us. But… part of me wants to stop hiding. Stop pretending nothing’s changed when everything has.”

Max nodded slowly. “We don’t have to post anything. Not unless you want to.”

She looked up at him. “Would you be okay with the media knowing? With the fans knowing?”

“I’m okay with them knowing we’re building a life together,” he said simply. “They’ll say things. They always do. But they don’t get to have this. Only see it. And only what we give them.”

Belle’s throat tightened. “What if they say I’m just—what if they think this is why we got married? That it wasn’t about us?”

“They can think whatever they want,” Max said firmly. “But I know. You know. And this baby—” he pressed his hand gently to her stomach again, “—will grow up knowing they were born from love. Not gossip.”

Belle nodded, slow and quiet. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I think…” She paused. “I think when it feels right, I want to share it. I just want to do it our way. Not through a headline. Not through some PR leak. Just… something honest. Something small.”

Max smiled. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

She leaned into him again, and he held her there — the two of them wrapped in early morning quiet, one heartbeat becoming three.

***

He didn’t mean to play for hours.

But his hands moved without thought, without permission — soft notes tumbling out one after another, half-finished melodies bleeding into each other, no structure, no rhythm. Just the ache in his chest, transposed into minor keys.

Charles stared at the keys without really seeing them.

Everything since the Spanish Grand Prix had felt like that. Blurred. Half-lit. Shame washing over him in waves until it was hard to tell what day it was.

Fred’s voice still rang in his head.

"He’s not just beating you on track. He’s beating you in every other way that matters."

It should’ve made him angry. Months ago, maybe it would have. But now?

Now it just made him tired.

The front door clicked open quietly.

Charles didn’t stop playing.

Alexandra stepped into the room, keys in hand, sunglasses pushed into her hair. She paused just beyond the piano, watching him. Listening.

He shifted into something sadder without realizing it.

She said nothing for a long time. Just let him play.

Finally: “That’s new.”

Charles nodded, fingers barely brushing the keys. “I didn’t write it down. I won’t remember it.”

Alexandra sat on the armrest of the couch across from him. “That bad, huh?”

He didn’t answer.

Alexandra watched him a beat longer. Then: “You haven’t said anything since Fred tore into you.”

“He was right.”

That surprised her.

Charles didn’t look up. “He was right about everything. About Belle. About Max. About me.”

Alexandra folded her arms, softening slightly. “Charles—”

“I forgot her birthday,” he said, voice flat. “I forgot where she lived. I didn’t know she moved. I didn’t know she quit her job. And I found out she was married with the rest of the world.”

A pause.

“I used to be the person she told everything to.”

His voice cracked on used to.

Alexandra shifted closer. “Do you want to talk to her?”

“She doesn’t want to talk to me.” His hands stilled. “And I don’t blame her.”

“She’s your sister.”

“I forgot how to act like her brother.”

It wasn’t said for sympathy. It was just… fact.

He pressed a key. Dissonant. Hollow.

Alexandra exhaled. “You know what I think?”

Charles didn’t answer, but his silence invited it.

“I think you’re not upset she married Max,” she said gently. “You’re upset she didn’t tell you. Because it forced you to realize how far away you let her drift.”

That landed deep.

Charles looked at the keys like they might offer him absolution.

“She stopped waiting for me,” he said, barely a whisper.

“She had to stop,” Alexandra replied. “You never showed up.”

He didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” Charles admitted.

“You can’t,” Alexandra said, standing. “Not completely. But you can start by owning that it’s not about you. Not her silence. Not her love. Not Max. You don’t get to demand a place in her life just because you regret not earning it before.”

That hurt more than Fred’s words.

Because it was the truth.

Alexandra stepped forward and kissed the top of his head, just briefly.

“Let her choose if you belong,” she said softly. “But maybe, for once, don’t try to race your way back in.”

She walked out without waiting for a reply.

Charles sat at the piano, still and quiet, and let the silence press in around him like a tide.

He looked down at his hands.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure they knew how to fix anything anymore.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Arthur Leclerc

Arthur: hey just wanted to check in how are you?

Belle: Hi That’s a surprise A nice one

Arthur: yeah well i figured it was my turn to show up you always did that for me even when i didn’t deserve it

Arthur: so you okay?

Belle: I’m good. Quiet days. Work. Sleep. Max. He’s home this week, which helps. I’ve been reading again.

Arthur: you always read when you feel safe i remember that

Belle: I do. Books are still better than people sometimes.

Arthur: not going to argue there i just wanted you to know i think about you a lot even when i don’t say anything

Belle: I know. I think about you too.

Arthur: and I’m sorry for forgetting the little things for thinking you’d always be there whether I showed up or not I hate that it took losing you to notice how much I missed

Belle: You didn’t lose me. You just stopped looking. But you’re here now. That counts for something.

Arthur: thanks for giving me the chance to do better i won’t waste it

Belle: I hope you don’t. Because I missed my little brother.

Arthur: still here still annoying just a bit slower to grow up

Belle: You’re getting there One awkward text at a time

Arthur: baby steps

Belle: 😉

***

They were sitting at the dining table, Belle with her laptop open and a very stubborn government website loading at glacial speed. The overhead lights were low, the cats were asleep on the windowsill, and the apple tart from dinner was reduced to a pair of crumbs and a fork that Max kept stealing bites with.

“I need to go to the town hall next week,” Belle said, frowning at her screen. “It’s ridiculous how many steps it takes to change a last name. I have to book an appointment just to show them I’m legally married.”

Max looked up from where he was balancing a spoon on his finger. “Want me to come with you?”

She smiled. “I think I can survive bureaucracy alone.”

“I don’t know,” he said, mock-serious. “You’re pregnant and emotionally allergic to slow websites.”

“Barely showing and mildly inconvenienced is not the same thing,” Belle replied, nudging his foot under the table.

He grinned, then leaned back in his chair. “We should change your credit card too. It still says Leclerc.”

She groaned. “One paperwork nightmare at a time.”

Max tilted his head, thoughtful now. “And we should probably set up a meeting with our lawyers.”

Belle paused mid-keystroke. “Why?”

He shrugged, casual. “Just to go over everything.”

“Max,” she said gently. “What kind of everything?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His fingers were still playing with the fork, but his gaze had drifted — focused, serious in that quiet way he got when he was thinking too far ahead.

“I want to make sure things are in place,” he said eventually. “For you. For the baby. If something happens to me.”

Belle’s heart pulled.

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” she said softly.

“If something happens to me — if I crash or something stupid happens off-track — I want everything set up. No grey areas. No questions.”

Belle set the mug she was holding down carefully on the table and turned fully toward him.

“Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m not planning on dying,” Max said, managing a half-smile. “But I also know how this works. I’ve seen it happen to other drivers. One second, you’re invincible. The next…” He trailed off. “I don’t want you or the baby in limbo if the worst happens.”

She reached out slowly, threading her fingers through his. “You think about that?”

“Every time I get in the car now,” he admitted. “Not in a panicked way. But it’s there. You changed the way I calculate risk.”

“I’m not planning to die,” he added, a wry smile pulling at the edge of his mouth. “I’m just planning in case. I want to make sure you’re protected. That the house is in your name too. That there’s no confusion. That if I can’t speak for myself, you can. Not my father. Not my mother. You.”

Belle sat very still.

Not because she was scared. But because it hit her, suddenly and all at once, how much he was already carrying — not just the weight of fame and expectation and fatherhood, but this fierce, unspoken drive to shield her from the storm.

“I married you because I love you,” Max said. “But I also married you because you’re my person. And I want to make sure you’re not left sorting through a legal mess if the worst ever happens.”

Belle nodded, throat tight. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

She reached across the table and took his hand. “Let’s make the appointment.”

Max exhaled — a little like he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

And Belle, looking at the man who had been so many things to the world — champion, rival, myth — realized that this version of him, the one quietly planning a will while stealing bites of lemon tart, was the one she loved most.

The one who knew the risks. And stayed anyway.

The one who chose her. And kept choosing her.

Even in the fine print.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

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

Lorenzo: We need to get ahead of this before she cuts us out completely. We’ve let it go on too long.

Charles: What do you want me to do, Lorenzo? I said I wanted to talk to her. She doesn’t answer.

Arthur: Because she’s not ready. You don’t get to demand a timeline for forgiveness.

Pascale: I sent her a long message last week. I said I missed her. She didn’t even react to it.

Arthur: Because she’s hurt. Because for years, we made her feel like she didn’t matter until she disappeared.

Charles: I’m trying to make it right.

Arthur: You’re trying to make it comfortable for you. Not better for her.

Lorenzo: Okay, enough. We need to approach this like adults. Arthur, you said she talked to you?

Arthur: Yeah. Because I apologized without making excuses. Because I didn’t act like she owed me anything.

Charles: So what, we just do nothing? Sit around and hope she decides to forgive us?

Arthur: Or we ask her what she needs instead of assuming we know best. Maybe try that.

Pascale: If she’d just sit down with us—if we could talk properly—I know we could fix it.

Charles: She won’t even look at me in the paddock.

Arthur: You yelled about her being married like the whole grid personally betrayed you.

Charles: Well it felt like that.

Pascale: Can we not assign blame? We all made mistakes. I sent a message. She didn’t respond.

Lorenzo: Because your message said, “I meant to text you, but I sent it to Charles instead.” Which we all know is a lie.

Pascale: It was a white lie. I didn’t want her to feel worse.

Lorenzo: She didn’t need you to protect her feelings, Maman. She needed you to show up. That’s what none of us did.

Charles: I’m trying. But every time I think about texting her, I hear Fred’s voice telling me I don’t deserve to.

Arthur: That’s because he’s right.

Pascale: So what do we do? Invite her to dinner? Send another letter?

Charles: I could try calling again.

Lorenzo: No. No more performing care. She’s not stupid. She sees through all of it.

Pascale: We have to fix this. She’s our family.

Isabelle:  You could start by remembering I’m in this group chat.

Isabelle:  I’ve seen every message. Every strategy. Every “how do we make her forgive us” as if forgiveness is a button to push, not something earned.

Isabelle: Arthur apologized. He listened. He didn’t make excuses. That’s why I’m speaking to him. Not because he said the right thing. Because he meant it.

Isabelle: The rest of you? You keep asking how to fix me. You never once asked what I need.

Isabelle: So here it is: If you want a relationship with me again, we start with family therapy. With a neutral third party. No justifications. No guilt-tripping. No “but we’re your family.” Just honesty. Hard conversations. Boundaries.

Isabelle: You want me back? You come sit in a room and prove it. Not with flowers or dinners. With work.

Isabelle: I am not your emotional support sibling. I’m not your afterthought. And I’m not going to pretend this didn’t hurt just because it’s inconvenient for you.

Isabelle: Therapy. Or nothing.

Arthur: …I told you.

Lorenzo: Family therapy it is.

***