#it's late but better late than never am i right...

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 22: June 2024 - Part 3

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. Apparently I am once again messing up my chapter numbering on Tumblr. 21 is correct according to AO3 and Wattpad though. No, you didn't miss anything, I promise.

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

Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Max Verstappen

GP: Heard about the post-race press. Are you and Belle okay?

Max: I’m fine. Belle’s shaken. Tired. But she’s okay. (ish.)

GP: “Okay-ish” isn’t exactly reassuring, mate.

Max: She’s stronger than she thinks. But it hit her hard. Even after everything… she still hoped they’d see her.

GP: That’s the cruel part. Hope.

Max: Yeah.

GP: Is she at home? You with her?

Max: I am. 

Max: Doesn’t feel like enough.

GP: It’s enough. You’re there. You see her. That’s already more than most have ever done.

Max: She deserves better than this.

GP: She’s got it now. She’s got you.

GP: (and the cats.)

Max: True. Jimmy thinks he’s her bodyguard.

GP: Smart cat.

GP: Tell her we’re all thinking about her, yeah?

Max: I will. Thanks, GP. For checking in.

GP: Always. She’s part of the team now. Whether she likes it or not.

***

The breakfast table was too quiet.

A spread of croissants, jam, fresh fruit, and espresso cups sat untouched in the center of the table—untouched because no one could eat. Lorenzo’s revelation from the day before hung in the air like a thundercloud.

Isabelle had quit her job.

 Months ago.

 Without telling a single one of them.

Charles still hadn’t wrapped his head around it. Isabelle had always loved her work. She breathed design. She stayed up late sketching, doodling floor plans on napkins, whispering ideas into voice memos when she thought no one was listening.

And then one day… she just walked away from it. From them.

Arthur sat with his head in his hands, looking half-murdered by guilt. Pascale was pale and tight-lipped, stirring her tea without drinking it.

“I don’t understand,” Pascale whispered. “How could she just… leave her job? She worked so hard for it.”

“She didn’t just leave,” Lorenzo said, pacing. “She ghosted the entire office. Packed her things in one night. Sent a polite goodbye email. Nothing else.”

“And no one noticed?” Arthur asked, stunned.

“No one bothered to notice,” Charles muttered.

Pascale looked toward Alexandra. “Did you know anything?”

Alexandra hesitated, then straightened a little. “She’s safe.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Charles’s head snapped toward her. “What?”

“I texted Emilie,” Alexandra said, calm but firm. “Isabelle’s best friend. She replied this morning. Said Isabelle is okay.”

A collective breath was held—and slowly released.

“Why didn’t you say that sooner?” Pascale asked, eyes wide.

“Because you were all too busy spiraling,” Alexandra said. “And because Emilie was clear: Isabelle doesn’t want to talk to any of you right now.”

Charles swallowed hard.

“She’s mad,” he said. “Of course she’s mad.”

“She’s not mad,” Alexandra said. “She’s hurt. She’s done. There’s a difference.”

Lorenzo closed his eyes. Arthur muttered something under his breath.

Then Alexandra added, almost absently, “She’s not alone. Emilie said her boyfriend likes taking care of her.”

A beat of stunned silence.

“Oh my god,” Arthur muttered. “She has a sugar daddy.”

Charlotte choked on her orange juice.

Pascale actually dropped her spoon.

“Arthur!” Alexandra hissed, scandalized.

Arthur looked wildly between them. “Think about it! Moved out. Quit her job. No one knows where she is. Isabelle’s always been quiet, not mysterious. What if she—”

“No. No,” Charles said quickly, shaking his head like that would erase the words from the room. “She wouldn’t. Isabelle is not like that.”

“People change when they feel abandoned,” Arthur muttered, clearly spiraling now. “This is how Netflix documentaries start.”

“I will kill whoever that man is,” Charles muttered, eyes narrowing like he was already imagining chasing someone through the Monaco harbor with a champagne bottle.

“I’m just saying,” Arthur hissed, “stranger things have happened! And let’s not pretend we’re not a family of unresolved emotional issues. We all have daddy issues!”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then Pascale, horror dawning on her face, said, “Excuse me?!”

Arthur looked up, mid-sip of juice. “What?”

Pascale blinked, stunned. “Since when?!”

Arthur just stared at her. “I mean, come on. Dad died when we were kids, Charles is out here trying to win his approval from the afterlife, I started karting again like I have something to prove, and Isabelle— Isabelle moved in with a mysterious man and quit her job because he "likes taking care of her!"

“Oh my God,” Pascale said faintly, sinking into her chair.

“Okay, this is going off the rails,” Alexandra groaned.

Lorenzo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Arthur, this is not about your unresolved need for paternal validation.”

Arthur shrugged helplessly. “I was just trying to explain that maybe Isabelle was looking for emotional stability and someone gave it to her. And maybe he also had a good skincare routine and a yacht. I don’t know.”

“She moved in with her boyfriend,” Lorenzo said sharply. “Not a sugar daddy. Her boyfriend. That’s what her old neighbor said. She left the firm. Left her apartment. But she didn’t run away. She just stopped waiting to be seen.”

Arthur groaned, slumping in his seat. “We didn’t even know she had a boyfriend.”

“Because she didn’t tell us,” Charles said bitterly. “Because she stopped expecting us to care.”

“Or because she knew you were going to freak out.” Charlotte murmured.

Charles raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

Charlotte looked up, startled. “What?”

“You said that like you know something.”

Charlotte hesitated. “I don’t know anything.”

“Charlotte,” Lorenzo warned.

She shifted. “It’s just—she’s always been around racing. She used to hang around the paddock all the time. If she was seeing someone, I wouldn’t be shocked if it was someone from the grid.”

Silence.

Then Arthur: “Wait. You’re saying she could be dating someone we know?”

Charlotte winced. “I said maybe. Don’t start spiraling.”

“I’M ALREADY SPIRALING,” Charles announced.

Alexandra sighed, sipping her coffee. “And now we’ve entered the panic phase.”

Arthur leaned back, muttering, “If it’s Fernando I swear to God—”

Pascale clapped her hands together. “Enough.”

But Charles barely heard her.

Because if Belle was dating someone from the paddock…

Then there were nineteen men it could be, currently on the grid.

And not one of them had said a word.

***

Group Chat: GRID 2024 

Members: Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz Jr., Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, George Russell, Alex Albon, Logan Sergeant, Daniel Ricciardo, Nico Hülkenberg, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso, Sergio Pérez, Esteban Ocon, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Pierre Gasly, Yuki Tsunoda, and Valtteri Bottas

Charles: SOMEONE TELL ME

 Who is dating my sister??

Charles: IS IT FERNANDO?? Are you her sugar daddy?? Just tell me. I need answers.

Fernando: Pardon?

Lewis: Oh we’re doing this.

George: Charles, breathe.

Oscar: You’re spiraling. Please stop.

Pierre: Wait WHAT??

Yuki: I feel like I’ve walked into the last five minutes of a telenovela

Fernando: Charles. I’m flattered. But no.

Charles: OK FINE. MAX. Charles:  IS SHE DATING JOS?!

Logan: …bro

George: I need to leave this chat forever

Lando: oh my god

Max: What. Did. You. Just. Say.

Charles: I don’t know, okay?? Everyone’s being weird. She’s gone, she moved, she quit her job, no one’s telling me anything and YOU’RE ALL BEING WEIRD.

Max: Don’t you ever say something like that again.

Max: Not as a joke. Not out of panic. Not ever.

Max: Belle is your sister, Charles. She deserved your attention, your support, your respect—and she didn’t get any of it. Max: And now you want to cover up your guilt by making a disgusting joke like that?

George: Whoa.

Charles: It’s not a joke! She smiled at him during Monaco!

Max: You forgot her birthday. You forgot her entire life outside of your world. And now you’re so desperate to catch up you’re throwing shit against the wall like it doesn’t have consequences?

Oscar: He’s right. That was low, man.

Lando: Way out of line.

Max:  You’re panicking and flinging names around like this is a soap opera, and you’re forgetting that this isn’t about you.

Carlos: He’s right.

Max: Belle isn’t your property. She doesn’t owe you updates of her life. And the fact that your first instinct is to accuse my father of something that insane? That tells me everything I need to know about where your priorities are.

Max: You’re not trying to protect her. You’re trying to control the fallout of your own guilt.

Alex: Oof.

Oscar: He’s not wrong.

Lando: I mean, he’s definitely not wrong.

Daniel: That was… surgical.

Max: You forgot her birthday. You didn’t realise she moved or that she quit her job. And now that it’s all blowing up in your face, you’re treating your sister like a scandal to manage instead of a woman who deserves better than you’ve given her for years.

Charles: Max…

Max Verstappen: Don’t. You had every chance to show up. And you didn’t.

Oscar: …Well. That was the cleanest emotional takedown I’ve ever witnessed.

Pierre: I’m afraid to even type right now.

Alex: Respectfully, that needed to be said.

Lewis: Sometimes silence is the most respectful response. And sometimes it’s watching Max drop a nuke and sipping your tea.

Charles: … I’m sorry.

Max: Don’t say sorry to me. Say it to her.

Daniel: And maybe do it without accusing her of having a sugar daddy next time.

Fernando: Sincerely never thought I’d be defending Jos Verstappen’s honor in a group chat. And yet. Here we are.

Pierre: Did we all just witness character development in real time?

Oscar:  No, we witnessed Max finally snap.

Carlos: Honestly? Fair.

Max: Now if you’ll excuse me, my wife wants to go see her horse. 

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Oscar: (sends screenshots) Are we gonna talk about that??

Lando: I don’t think I’ll ever emotionally recover.

George: That wasn’t an argument. That was Max opening a precision-cut emotional autopsy on Charles.

Daniel: Surgical strike. Zero survivors.

Carlos: I think I stopped breathing somewhere between “not your property” and “scandal to manage.”

Alex: And he still managed to slip in “my wife” at the end like it was casual.

Lewis: Subtle as a sledgehammer. Iconic.

Sebastian: Imagine standing that close to the truth and just completely going off the deep end. JOS VERSTAPPEN?!?!

David: Charles is lucky we’re not recording this for Drive to Survive. This would be season finale material.

Fernando: Still recovering from the fact that I had to defend Jos Verstappen’s honor today. Truly humbling times.

Mark: Also Max casually confirming "wife" like we didn’t hear that bomb drop.

Lando: The whole chat: staring at “my wife” like: [INSERT SHOCKED PIKACHU MEME]

Logan: Also Max: anyway gtg horseback riding with Belle bye

George: Meanwhile we’re left here emotionally blinking like stunned goldfish.

Zhou: Respectfully? That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in a group chat.

Logan: He read Charles’ whole life like it was a menu.

Esteban: No crumbs left. Truly an artist.

Lewis: I hope Belle gives Max a damn medal.

Carlos: It’s what he deserves.

Lando Norris: At this point Max could straight up declare war on Monaco and all of us would follow him.

Nico H.: Only if Belle asks nicely though.

Fernando: Honestly, after that? She deserves her own Grand Prix.

Sebastian: Belle Verstappen GP. Street circuit. Emotional trauma bonus points.

David: Winner gets emotional literacy and a free hug.

Lando: Charles gets last place. Obv.

Oscar: Someone check on Charles, though. Like... at a distance. With caution.

George: Give him a juice box and a reflective corner.

Lewis: He needs to sit with this one. You’re up, Seb.

Sebastian: I hate you.

Carlos: And next time?  Maybe start by actually listening to Belle. and not accuse her of having a sugar daddy.

Oscar: Can we also talk about how Charles accused Fernando of being Belle’s sugar daddy?!?

Lando: No because I actually SCREAMED when I read it Out loud. In a public place.

George: Charles really said “if the unhinged shoe fits…”

Lewis: Fernando being asked if he’s the sugar daddy of a 25-year-old woman live in a chat is peak 2024.

Daniel: The best part is Fernando didn’t even deny it immediately. He said “pardon” like a man trying to calculate if this was a compliment or an insult.

Fernando: I was genuinely weighing my options.

Logan: He 100% thought about it for a second Did the math in his head Age difference analysis

Carlos: He pulled out a mental calculator before answering.

Alex: Plot twist: he was flattered.

Fernando: I am flattered.

Logan: ARE YOU NOT TOO OLD FOR THIS SIR

Fernando: Age is just a number. Experience is a blessing.

David: Shut up you're scaring the children

Daniel: I'm crying. This man is two bad decisions away from opening a luxury wine bar in Marbella.

Zhou: Would 100% attend Fernando’s shady rich sugar daddy wine parties tbh.

George: You know somewhere there's an alternate universe where Fernando is soft-launching Belle on Instagram with a blurry wine glass and a cryptic caption.

Sebastian: Don’t manifest that energy.

Lewis: The timeline barely survived Charles forgetting her birthday We are NOT surviving "Fernando Alonso soft launches Belle Verstappen."

Oscar: Good morning to everyone except Charles for inventing this nightmare.

Carlos: He should be banned from texting before noon.

Daniel: Imagine Belle reading that conversation The secondhand embarrassment would kill her instantly

Lando: Max would bury Charles under the Red Bull Energy Station if Belle found out

Fernando: That’s why I stayed calm. For everyone’s safety.

David: You’re a better man than I am.

George: Let’s be honest Max’s entire speech wasn’t just a takedown It was a warning.

Lewis: And Charles still doesn’t realize how close he was to emotional decapitation.

Daniel: Fernando being accidentally involved will forever be my Roman Empire

Lando: Same. Sugar Daddy Alonso 2024 Never Forget.

Kimi: I don’t care.

Fernando: Good. One sane man among us.

Mark: Honestly Kimi deserves a medal for surviving this chat with brain cells intact.

Lando: Meanwhile I’m Googling “how to recover from emotional whiplash" and "can you sue your friend for public embarrassment.”

Oscar: Suing Charles for pain and suffering. Class action.

Lewis: Count me in.

Daniel: Put me down for emotional damages and lost productivity.

Carlos: And mental anguish from hearing "Jos" and "sugar daddy" in the same sentence.

George Russell: I’m still trying to bleach my brain from that.

Sebastian Vettel: The worst part is… We know it’s only going to get worse.

Valtteri: Spain is going to be the emotional equivalent of a demolition derby and I'm here for it…

Oscar: Prayers up for Charles. He’s about to get hit with the reality sledgehammer.

***

The air smelled like sun-warmed hay and old wood and something softer — something Max couldn’t name but recognized instantly as peace.

The stables weren’t far from the city — a quiet, tucked-away stretch of land up in the hills — but it might as well have been another world compared to the chaos vibrating through the paddock, the media, the group chats.

Belle was already a few steps ahead of him, moving with easy, instinctive confidence down the center aisle. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, and she wore one of his oversized hoodies over her jeans, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Even in battered sneakers, even in dusty sunlight, she looked luminous.

This, Max thought, is who she really is.

Not the invisible sister standing silently in the Ferrari garage.

 Not the afterthought.

 Not the forgotten one.

Here, among the horses and the golden dust motes, Belle was someone else entirely. Someone free.

He watched as she reached Fleur’s stall — the mare with the soft eyes and white coat — and the change in her was immediate. Belle’s whole body softened. Her voice dropped into something low and sweet, barely a whisper, as she murmured to the horse in French, offering a gentle hand.

Fleur pressed her nose into Belle’s palm like she had been waiting for her all day.

Max stayed back, leaning against a beam, just… watching.

Belle ran her fingers through the mare’s mane, smiling quietly when Fleur nosed into her ribs for a treat. She laughed, soft and breathless, pulling a carrot from her pocket like she’d always known it would be needed.

Max felt something hot coil under his ribs.

Not anger. Not yet.

Something heavier.

Because standing there, watching her, Max didn’t understand — and probably never would — how the people who were supposed to love her first and fiercest could have ever made her feel like this side of her wasn’t worth seeing.

How did you miss this?

 How did you miss her?

How could you look at Belle — at her patience, her stubbornness, her gentleness — and think she was someone it was okay to forget?

Max didn't know how Charles or Pascale or Arthur or even Lorenzo could live with themselves.

She had been right there, waving from the garage, smiling through being overlooked, standing quietly beside them her whole life — and they’d blinked, and she was gone.

He didn’t know if they'd ever get her back, not in the way they thought they were entitled to.

 And maybe they didn’t deserve to.

Max shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling the steady beat of his own pulse against his knuckles. He wasn’t angry on his own behalf — he was angry for her. For every memory she had where she learned she needed to be small to survive. For every year she thought invisibility was safer than asking for more.

But here — here, she didn’t shrink herself.

Here, she was all soft light and warm hands and quiet magic.

He watched as Belle rested her forehead against Fleur’s, closing her eyes. Whispering something Max couldn’t hear.

He didn’t move.

He would wait forever if it meant she never had to be small again.

When she finally turned toward him, cheeks flushed, hair tangled in the breeze, Max just smiled — slow and sure — and opened his arms without a word.

Belle crossed the space between them like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And when she folded herself against his chest, Max pressed his mouth to the top of her head and thought, fiercely, I will never let you feel invisible again.

Not here. Not with him.

Never.

***

Belle sat curled into the armchair, hands knotted in the hem of her sweater. Her phone buzzed on the low table beside her — again — and she flinched without meaning to.

She didn’t pick it up. She hadn’t read any of them. Not a single message.

Across from her, Simone sat, notebook closed, pen resting untouched on the armrest. She didn’t need notes yet. She was just watching — waiting for Belle to breathe first.

"You don’t have to," Simone said finally, nodding toward the phone. "We can leave it buzzing all session if you want. This is your hour."

Belle looked down at her hands.

"I don’t know what they want," she said, voice thin. "I don’t know if I want to know."

"That's a choice," Simone said simply. "It’s your choice."

Belle twisted the hem tighter. "They keep calling. Texting. DMing. It’s like... once Charles realized, they all remembered I exist."

"That realization isn’t yours to carry," Simone said. "You didn’t make yourself invisible. They chose not to see you."

“You haven’t answered,” Simone asked, her voice even…non-judgemental.

Belle shook her head, pressing the rim of the mug tighter against her palms.

“I don’t know if I want to,” Belle whispered.

Simone leaned forward slightly. “You’re allowed to make that choice, Belle. Access to your life — your heart — isn’t something anyone is automatically entitled to. Not even family.”

Belle blinked hard.

“It feels… wrong,” she admitted. “Like I’m being cruel. But also like… maybe it’s finally protecting myself.”

Simone nodded. “Both can be true.”

They sat with that for a moment, letting the air between them settle.

"I feel like if I open one message, I’ll lose the ground I gained," she whispered. "Like they'll pull me back in before I even realize it."

Simone nodded slowly. "That fear is real. It’s valid. But remember — reading a message doesn’t obligate you to answer. They don’t get to set the terms anymore. You do."

Belle sat with that for a long moment, staring at the phone like it was a bomb she didn't know how to disarm.

"You can read what they have to say," Simone continued gently, "and then decide how much access you want to give them. How much of yourself you want to offer back. Or none at all.  But the decision has to come from a place of power — not guilt."

Belle swallowed hard, something inside her cracking open.

"I don’t want to live my life shrinking," she said, so quietly it barely made it into the room.

"You don’t have to," Simone said simply. "You’re allowed to grow bigger than the spaces they built for you."

Belle wiped under her eyes, feeling the tears spill anyway.

"I’m pregnant," she said, almost impulsively, almost defensively — like the words had been trying to claw their way out of her for days.

Simone didn’t react, didn’t widen her eyes or gasp or rush forward.

She just smiled, slow and warm.

"Congratulations," Simone said.

Belle let out a shaky laugh, covering her face for a moment.

"I haven’t told most people yet," she admitted. "It’s... still just mine and Max’s, mostly. But I—"

She broke off, chest tight.

"I don’t want my baby to feel the way I felt," Belle whispered. "Invisible. Like they have to earn love. Like being quiet or not causing trouble makes them easier to keep around."

Simone nodded slowly. "You don’t want them to feel like they have to disappear to be safe."

Belle’s throat closed. That was it. That was everything.

"I want them to know," Belle said, tears slipping freely now. "Every second. That they matter. That they are wanted."

"You can give them that," Simone said gently. "Because you know what it feels like to need it."

Belle hugged her knees tighter to her chest, breathing in slow, ragged pulls.

"I don't know if I can be enough," she whispered.

"You already are," Simone said simply. "You're enough because you see them. The way you should have been seen."

Belle wiped her face roughly with her sleeve, heart pounding painfully against her ribs.

Simone leaned in just a little, voice steady.

"You get to break the cycle," she said. "Not by being perfect. Not by fixing everything. But by loving without conditions."

Belle stared down at her belly, still barely showing under the oversized sweater. A secret, soft and growing.

Not alone anymore.

Not invisible.

Not shrinking to fit someone else's version of worth.

She exhaled shakily.

"I think," Belle said slowly, "I’ll read the messages. Because it’s my choice now."

Simone smiled. "Exactly."

Belle sat back in the chair, letting the silence settle.

For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel heavy.

It felt like freedom.

***

The cats were asleep — a warm, purring pile on the foot of the bed — and the only sound in the room was the hum of the city beyond the windows and the soft rustle of Max shifting beside her.

Belle sat curled up in the corner of the bed, Max’s hoodie swallowing her whole, the phone clutched in both hands.

She hadn’t wanted to look. Not at the missed calls. Not at the voicemails. Not at the dozens of unread messages blinking like warning lights across every app she had.

But now… Now she read them.

One by one.

Apologies. Explanations. Pleading.

Arthur. Lorenzo. Charles.

And Maman. Always Maman.

Maman:Ma chérie… I didn’t realise. I thought I messaged you, but I sent it to Charles by mistake. That’s not an excuse. You deserved more. Always. Please let me come see you. I miss you.

Belle stared at the words, blinking back the slow, stunned weight building behind her eyes.

Because if her mother had texted Charles that morning — if she had thought about Belle enough to even try — then Charles would have known.

He would have remembered.

There wouldn’t have been blank stares in the Ferrari garage.

 There wouldn’t have been celebrations swirling around her while she stood still, invisible.

There would have been a smile.

 A hug.

 A word.

Anything.

But there hadn’t been.

Because her mother hadn’t texted.

Not her.

And not Charles.

She hadn’t thought about her at all.

Belle felt the first tear slip free before she could stop it. Then another. And another.

Her hands shook as she lowered the phone to her lap.

She pressed her knuckles against her mouth, willing herself to breathe, to hold it together — but the ache was too deep. Too old. It cracked open the quiet places she thought she had stitched shut months ago.

The mattress dipped beside her, and Max’s arms were around her before she could say a word.

No questions. No demands. Just solid, unwavering Max, pulling her into his chest, pressing his chin to the crown of her head, wrapping her up like he could protect her from everything the world had failed to.

Belle buried her face in his hoodie and cried — deep, broken, shuddering sobs that shook her ribs and soaked the cotton between them.

Max held her through all of it. Rocked her gently like she was something precious. Whispered soft, fierce things into her hair — I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere. I love you.

When the tears finally slowed — when Belle could breathe without gasping — she shifted just enough to look up at him.

“She lied to me,” Belle whispered, voice barely above a breath.

Max tensed, not pulling away, but going still — like a storm gathering quietly over open water.

Belle twisted the fabric of his hoodie between her fingers, needing something to hold onto. “My mother. In her messages. She said… she said she thought she had texted me on my birthday. That she checked and realized she sent it to Charles instead.”

Max didn’t say anything.

 Not yet.

He just waited.

“But if she had really texted Charles,” Belle said, blinking hard, “then he would have remembered. Wouldn’t he?”

Max’s jaw tightened against her forehead.

“He would have realized when he saw me. He would have known it was my day.”

 Belle swallowed thickly. “He would have said something. Anything.”

She felt Max’s hand, slow and careful, run up her spine — like he was grounding himself as much as her.

“They didn’t forget by accident, Max,” she whispered, the crack in her voice slicing the room in half. “They just… didn’t think about me at all. And now she’s lying to make herself feel better. Or maybe to make me not be angry anymore.”

There was a long, vibrating pause.

When Max finally spoke, his voice was low. Dangerous.

“She lied to you." Not angry for himself. Angry for her.

“She lied to your face to protect her own feelings,” he said, tightening his grip around her protectively. “And she didn’t even think about what it would do to you.”

Belle didn’t trust herself to speak.

“She didn’t check,” Max said, every word precise and sharp. “She didn’t text you. She forgot you. And now she wants you to comfort her guilt so she doesn’t have to sit with the truth.”

Belle closed her eyes, tucking herself deeper into his chest.

Max’s voice dropped even lower. Colder. Deadlier.

“They don’t deserve to be the ones to tell you how much you matter, Belle,” he said. “Not when they couldn’t even see you standing right in front of them.”

Belle felt herself break apart a little more — not because of the anger in his voice, but because of the fierce, unyielding love underneath it.

Max pulled back just enough to tip her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“They can lie to themselves all they want,” he said, voice rough. “But you’re not invisible anymore. You never were. You are the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen.”

Belle tried to smile but it broke halfway through, another tear slipping free.

Max kissed her — not rushed, not desperate — but slow and sure and reverent.

“I see you,” he murmured against her mouth. “I will always see you.”

Belle clutched his hoodie tighter, feeling the words stitch into the broken places inside her chest.

And when she whispered, “Thank you,” it was the kind of thank you that carried a lifetime of hope she hadn’t known how to say before now.

Max brushed her forehead with his lips, arms still wrapped firmly around her.

***

The apartment was dark except for the soft glow of the city outside the windows, and the faint golden light spilling from the kitchen where Max was making tea.

The cats were already asleep, draped dramatically across the couch like tiny emperors, and Belle sat curled up at the dining table, phone in hand.

Her thumb hovered over the Instagram app for a long time.

She hadn’t posted anything in weeks. Maybe longer. Not since before everything cracked open — before her birthday…

It felt strange, almost dangerous, to think about letting the world see even a piece of her life again. To stop living like she needed to apologize for taking up space.

But she was tired. 

She was tired of pretending her life was something to be ashamed of.

She was tired of being invisible.

 Of hiding her joy like it was a crime.

She tapped into her camera roll.

The photo was simple. Max had taken it — taken earlier that afternoon, in the warm haze of the stables. Fleur was grazing and Belle’s arm was tucked around her neck, leaning against the warm white fur.

It wasn’t a professional shot.

 It wasn’t curated.

 It was real.

And for once, Belle didn’t care about anything else.

She clicked ‘post’ before she could talk herself out of it.

Caption:Some things were always meant to find their way back to you.

She stared at it for a moment, heart hammering — not with fear, but with something quieter. Something steadier.

Not everyone would understand.

Most wouldn’t even know what it meant.

But the people who mattered — the ones who knew her, who loved her — they would understand exactly what she was saying.

Max’s voice floated from the kitchen, casual and warm. “You want mint or chamomile?”

Belle smiled softly to herself.

“Mint,” she called back, slipping her phone onto the table, feeling lighter than she had in months.

No more hiding.

No more shrinking.

Her life was hers now.

 And she was finally — finally — ready to live it.

***

Instagram Post: @/isabelleleclerc

Comments:

@/charles_leclerc: …From where did you get a horse??

@/arthur_leclerc: ??? SINCE WHEN DO YOU HAVE A HORSE AGAIN???

@/lorenzo_leclerc: Since when are you even riding again??

@/charles_leclerc: Isabelle. Please answer your phone.

@/arthur_leclerc: PLEASE RESPOND.

@/randomfan72: THE WAY SHE JUST DROPPED THIS WITHOUT CONTEXT???

@/f1updates: Isabelle disappearing for a week and then coming back with a horse is the most iconic thing I’ve seen in a while.

@/f1fanpage: Okay, but WHO GAVE HER A HORSE???

@/monacoroyalty: Isabelle casually revealing that she has a whole horse like it’s a new handbag is sending me.

@/gridgossip: He/she’s gorgeous! What’s their name? ↪ @/isabelleleclerc: Fleur ❤️ She’s a 7 year old Selle Francais mare. 

@/emilie_abadie: God, Belle, she looks just like Blanche…

↪ @/isabelleleclerc: Like Mother, like Daughter ❤️

@/coralie.g: She looks like your childhood horse… 

↪ @/isabelleleclerc: Because she’s her last foal 😭 

@/horselover99: Omg did you always plan to start riding again? 🥹 ↪ @/isabelleleclerc: I never stopped wanting to. Just couldn’t afford to for a long time.

@/victorialaps: This is so random but… how did you even find her? ↪ @/isabelleleclerc: I didn’t. She was a gift. Best surprise ever.

@/f1updates: WAIT WAIT WAIT.

@/f1theories: GIFT?? FROM WHO??

***

The tea had just finished steeping when Max’s phone buzzed once. Then again. And again.

He frowned, setting down the mugs. It wasn’t like his phone to light up at midnight unless something dramatic had happened — and judging by the flood of notifications, the world had just decided to catch fire.

But when he flipped it over, his chest tightened in a very different way.

It wasn’t chaos. It wasn’t panic.

It was Belle.

Her name. Her Instagram. A new post.

Max opened it instantly, barely breathing.

The photo was simple, quiet — Fleur leaning into Belle’s hand, golden light painting everything soft around them.

But it wasn’t the picture that hit him hardest.

It was the caption.

some things are always meant to come back to you.

Max stared at the screen, heart thudding slow and heavy in his chest.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t a declaration.

It was a quiet, stubborn reclaiming of everything Belle had once been taught to hide — her dreams, her peace, her self.

And she hadn’t asked permission.

She hadn't needed anyone’s blessing.

She had simply... posted it.

Without apology.

 Without explanation.

Max set the phone down, grabbed both mugs carefully, and crossed the living room to where Belle sat curled up at the table, her knees tucked under her, the soft edges of exhaustion lingering around her eyes.

She looked up when she heard him, tentative, like part of her was still braced for criticism she didn’t deserve.

Max didn’t say a word.

He placed the tea down. Then he crouched in front of her, sliding his hands over her knees, resting his forehead gently against hers.

No words. Just this.

Just I'm proud of you.

Belle let out a soft, shaky breath, her hand sliding into his hair, holding onto him like he was the only thing keeping her tethered — because sometimes, he was.

“You saw it?” she whispered.

Max smiled against her skin.

“I saw everything,” he murmured. “And I see you, liefde. Always.”

Belle’s breath hitched.

She closed her eyes and let herself believe it — let herself soak in the truth of it without second-guessing.

She wasn’t invisible here.

She was home.

And Max — Max was exactly where he had always promised he would be:

Right here. Always. With her.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

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

Arthur: Shared Isabelle’s Instagram post

Arthur: …So. Uh.

Arthur: When were you guys planning on telling me that Isabelle suddenly has a HORSE?

Charles: SHE HAS A WHAT.

Lorenzo: Excuse me??

Arthur: A horse, Lorenzo. A living, breathing, four-legged animal. You know. Like the one that was sold when she was a teenager.

Charles: No. No way. That’s not possible.

Arthur: Look at the photo. LOOK AT IT.

Charles: It looks exactly like Blanche.

Lorenzo: That’s not possible.

Arthur: AND YET.

Lorenzo: Okay. Okay. Let’s just—think about this logically.

Arthur: Sure. Logically. Isabelle now has a horse that looks IDENTICAL to the one that was sold to pay for Charles' karting?!?!

Arthur: LOGICALLY, how does that make any sense?!

Charles: Who gave her a horse?

Arthur: WHO KNEW SHE STILL WANTED ONE???

Lorenzo: …Clearly, not us.

Pascale: …We should have known.

Arthur: …Maman?

Pascale: We took away something she loved.

Pascale: And then we never gave it back.

Charles: We didn’t have the money.

Pascale: No. But when we did have the money, we put it into restarting Arthur’s karting career.

Arthur: …

Charles: …

Lorenzo: Merde.

Pascale: And we never even considered doing the same for Isabelle.

Pascale: Not once.

Arthur: I—Maman, I didn’t even think—

Pascale: No. None of us did.

Pascale: She cried for weeks when we sold Blanche. And then, one day, she just stopped talking about it.

Pascale: I thought she had let it go.

Charles: She didn’t let it go. She just realized no one was listening.

Pascale: And I, her own mother, let her believe that if it wasn’t about racing, it wasn’t important.

Lorenzo: We all did.

Arthur: We failed her.

Pascale: And yet she still loved us enough to stay.

Pascale: Even when we didn’t see her.

Charles: We need to fix this.

Arthur: Step one: find out who gave her the horse.

Pascale: Step one: apologize.

Arthur: Step two: figure out how we didn’t even KNOW she was riding again.

Lorenzo: When would she have had the time?

Pascale: She found a way. Because we didn’t give her one.

Pascale: Do you know what hurts the most?

Charles: What?

Pascale: That I don’t even know what kind of life she’s been living.

Pascale: What she loves. Where she goes. Who she spends time with.

Pascale: She grew up right in front of me, and I don’t know her at all.

Arthur: …How do we fix this?

Pascale: I don’t know if we can. ****

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1TeaSpillerIsabelle Leclerc just casually dropped a photo of a whole horse on Instagram, and her brothers had NO IDEA she was even riding again. The family drama is writing itself.

↳ @/LandoSimp44: How do you not notice your sister getting into an expensive, time-consuming hobby???

↳ @/FerrariF1Stan: Maybe because they’ve never paid attention to her interests in the first place…??

↳ @/LeclercFanGirl16: Charles and Arthur are spiraling in the comments, Lorenzo is confused, and Isabelle is just out here ignoring them all. QUEEN.

@/F1GossipGirlHold on. Isabelle didn’t just get any horse. If I’m reading this correctly, this foal is from her childhood horse. The one her family SOLD.

↳ @/MaxForPresident33: Oh, so she’s still THAT angry. And honestly? Good for her.

↳ @/RedBullRacingUpdates: The way she’s been quiet for two whole weeks and then dropped a horse like a bombshell?? I need to know who gave it to her.

↳ @/FerrariDramaAccount: Isabelle’s silence has been screaming for a week straight, and now this. The Leclerc brothers are doomed.

@/F1MemeLordLeclerc brothers: "We totally care about our sister." Also the Leclerc brothers: Completely unaware she’s been riding again and now owns a horse.

↳ @/CharlesFanClub: Yeah, Isabelle is 100% still mad. She really said, "You forgot my birthday? Watch this."

↳ ​​@/MonacoMess: Isabelle is SO passive-aggressive and I respect it.

↳ @/HorseGirlFC: I just KNOW she’s been waiting for the perfect moment to drop this. Iconic behavior.

@/F1InsiderTalk: No, but real talk—if her brothers had no idea she was even riding again, that means they haven’t been paying attention to her at all. That’s rough.

↳ @/TifosiQueen: She had a birthday and they forgot. Now she has a whole damn horse and they didn’t even know she still liked horses.

↳ @/MonacoGossip: Isabelle could disappear to another continent, and I swear they wouldn’t notice until someone tagged them in an Instagram post.

↳ @/ArthurFan27: I love Arthur, but the way none of them know anything about her is actually kind of sad.

@/ChaosModeF1I just KNOW Isabelle had this horse for a bit before dropping it like a bomb on Instagram. The drama, the suspense, the Leclerc brothers losing their minds in real time.

↳ @/MaxVerstappenDefenseSquad: The fact that she didn’t post anything about her birthday but came back with a horse tells me everything I need to know.

↳@/FerrariWoes: I feel like this was the final straw moment.

@/RedBullTroll33Okay, but WHO gave her the horse? Because that’s a serious gift.

↳@/ F1ConspiracyClub: If it was Charles or Arthur, they wouldn’t be so confused in the comments. If it was Lorenzo, he wouldn’t be freaking out too.

↳ @/FerrariPain42: Soooo… secret boyfriend? 👀

↳@/F1ShippersAnonymous: If this turns out to be a soft launch, I WILL lose my mind.

@/MonacoRoyaltyI don’t know who gave Isabelle Leclerc a horse, but I do know that person knows her better than her own family does.

↳ @/FerrariNation: …Damn. That’s actually heartbreaking when you put it like that.

↳ @/IsabelleLeclercDefenseSquad: She really just had to go out and find people who see her, huh?

↳ @/WhoGaveHerAHorse33: Someone get me the details. NOW.

@/F1ChaosModeThe funniest part of this is that Isabelle still hasn’t responded to any of her brothers. Just posted her horse and dipped.

↳ @/LeclercFamilyUpdates: The sheer level of pettiness. I love her.

↳ @/TifosiHeartbreak: Isabelle really said you forgot me, so now I’m forgetting you.

↳ @/FerrariShambles: I want a documentary about the exact moment Charles realized they were bad brothers.

@/F1SpicyTeaI know we’re all laughing, but this actually makes me so sad for Isabelle. Imagine your whole family forgetting your birthday, ignoring you for years, and then being SHOCKED when you move on with your life.

↳ @/MonacoMess: They didn’t even know she still loved horses. 

↳ @/FerrariF1Pain: The worst part? She didn’t even make a dramatic callout post about her birthday. She just let their silence speak for itself.

↳ @/TifosiAngstClub: She is the human embodiment of "I no longer expect anything from you."

@/F1ConspiracyClubIsabelle didn’t just buy this horse. Somebody gave it to her, according to her. Whoever they are, they know her better than her entire family.

↳ @/SoftLaunchDetective: If this is a secret boyfriend reveal, it’s the most dramatic and poetic one I’ve ever seen.

@/MonacoRoyalty: Isabelle Leclerc is the queen of quiet revenge. No loud callouts. No arguments. Just a perfectly timed Instagram post that says everything.

↳ @/FerrariTears: And the best part? Her brothers are LOSING IT in the comments.

↳ @/ArthurLeclercDefenseSquad: Arthur is panicking like she’s about to disappear forever.

↳ @/CharlesHasNoClue: Charles sounds like he’s five seconds away from personally investigating who gave her the horse.

↳ @/TifosiDetectives: The thing is, they should know. But they don’t.

@/TifosiMess: So let me get this straight:

Isabelle’s family forgot her birthday.

She disappeared for two weeks.

Charles finally remembers that he has a sister. 

Isabelle comes back with a horse.

Drops it on Instagram like it’s a casual Tuesday.

Her brothers have no idea where it came from.

I am obsessed with this timeline.

↳ @/FerrariAngst: I’m still stuck on "they didn’t even know she was riding again."

↳ @/CharlesNeedsHelp: The way they suddenly care now that it’s public.

@/F1SoftLaunchDetective: I’ll say it. Whoever gave her the horse loves her more than her own family does.

↳ @/FerrariHeartbreak: And that’s why the Leclerc brothers are panicking.

↳ @/RedBullInsider: Just waiting for the next phase of this drama. I know something bigger is coming.

↳ @/TifosiConspiracies: I have a gut feeling that when we find out who got her the horse, the internet will EXPLODE.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Belle Verstappen

Arthur: I don’t really know how to start this.

Arthur: But I guess the first thing I need to say is—I’m sorry.

Arthur: I keep thinking about when I had to stop karting. How devastated I was. How unfair it felt.

Arthur: You know, when I was younger, I used to think we were the same.

Arthur: We both lost something for Charles. We both had to step aside.

Arthur: But the difference is, I got my second chance.

Arthur: And you never did.

Arthur: They gave me my dream back. But nobody ever thought to give you yours.

Arthur: And the worst part is, I never even thought about it.

Arthur: I was so focused on getting my own dream back that I never stopped to ask if you wanted yours.

Arthur: Or if you were even okay.

Arthur: I remember when they sold Blanche. You locked yourself in your room for days. Maman kept saying you’d get over it.

Arthur: But you never did, did you?

Arthur: I should have noticed. I should have asked.

Arthur: I should have known that you never stopped loving it. That you never moved on just because we assumed you did.

Arthur: But we never gave you a choice, did we?

Arthur: You were always the one who had to sacrifice something. You were always the one who had to step aside.

Arthur: And I never even thought about how much that must have hurt.

Arthur: I let myself believe you were fine because it was easier than realizing we left you behind.

Arthur: When I saw that horse, I thought my heart stopped. She looks just like Blanche.

Arthur: I had to read your post three times before it sank in. That you never let go of that part of yourself. That you found your way back.

Arthur: And none of us even knew.

Arthur: I don’t know where to start making this right. I don’t know if I even can.

Arthur: I don’t expect you to answer me. I don’t even know if I deserve an answer.

Arthur: But Isabelle, if there is even the smallest chance that I can fix this, that I can fix us—

Arthur: Tell me how. And I’ll do it.

Arthur: No hesitation. No questions asked.

Arthur: Je suis désolé, petite sœur.

Arthur: And I miss you.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Lando: (sends screenshots) Belle is choosing violence. 

Carlos: She posted Fleur 😭

Alex: Softest betrayal ever. I’m crying.

Sebastian: That's not just any horse. That’s the horse.

Zhou: WAIT??? THAT'S THE FOAL FROM HER CHILDHOOD HORSE??

Fernando: The symbolism is destroying me. Quiet vengeance at its finest.

David: Imagine getting obliterated by your sister posting a horse.

Lance: Charles is about to have another breakdown isn’t he

Oscar: He’s already melting down in her comments.

Logan: WHO GAVE HER THE HORSE THOUGH

George: who do you THINK

Nico Hülkenberg: lol max the softest secret husband in existence

Daniel: max is so whipped it's beautiful

Lewis: He literally said “my wife wants to visit her horse” the other day with the softest voice known to man

Kimi: Good. Someone should love her properly.

Lando: the LECLERC BROTHERS are LOSING IT

Oscar: literally fighting for their lives in the comments while Belle is posting like nothing happened 😂

Fernando: This is what true passive-aggressive excellence looks like. I’m so proud.

Valtteri: horse girl revenge >>> everything

Zhou: also can we talk about how she hasn’t answered a SINGLE one of them

George: Do you think Charles is gonna figure it out soon??

Carlos: absolutely not.

Oscar: he's gonna lose his mind when he finds out Max bought her the horse

Daniel: WAIT TILL HE FINDS OUT THEY'RE MARRIED LMAOOOO

Lando: oh my god he still doesn't know

Lewis: beautiful chaos.

Alex: 10/10 no notes

Oscar: Honestly Belle just won the soft war without even lifting a finger.

Daniel: She dropped a horse and bounced. ICON.

George: Meanwhile Charles is running around Monaco like a headless chicken.

Carlos: good. he deserves to sit with this.

Fernando: actions have consequences. and sometimes those consequences come with four legs and a braided mane.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/coraliegaudin: I don’t think people really get how much Isabelle Leclerc sacrificed. I knew her at university, and she was one of the smartest, hardest-working people I’ve ever met. But she never seemed happy. A thread.

↳ @/coraliegaudin: She wasn’t the type to talk about herself. She showed up, did the work, and left. No parties, no celebrations, nothing. Just school and her jobs.

↳@/coraliegaudin: And she always had jobs. She tutored, did internships, and worked at a stable. Yes, a stable.

↳@/coraliegaudin: I remember seeing her come to class still smelling like hay, her hands rough from work. And the thing is? That was the only time she ever looked truly alive.

↳@/coraliegaudin: She never told people why, but I found out later—her family sold her childhood horse when she was a teenager.

↳@/coraliegaudin: She didn’t ask them to fix it. She didn’t ask for help. She just worked. Worked herself into the ground to afford even a few hours of riding time.

↳@/coraliegaudin: I remember once, someone asked her why she never celebrated her grades. She just said, “It’s not that important.”

↳@/coraliegaudin: Not that important. Graduating with top honors. Getting a degree. None of it mattered to her. Because all she ever wanted was something she lost years ago.

↳@/coraliegaudin: And now, she has a horse again. Not just any horse—the foal of the one she lost.

↳@/coraliegaudin: I don’t think people understand how huge that is. This isn’t just a gift. It’s her entire dream given back to her.

↳@/coraliegaudin: She spent years giving up things for other people. But someone finally gave something back to her.

↳@/coraliegaudin: If anyone deserves that kind of love and thoughtfulness, it’s Isabelle Leclerc. I hope she’s finally as happy as she always deserved to be.

***

Text Messages: Lorenzo Leclerc & Belle Verstappen

Lorenzo: Isabelle.

Lorenzo: I know you probably don’t want to hear from me.

Lorenzo: But I need to say this.

Lorenzo: I’m sorry.

Lorenzo: I don’t know how we forgot your birthday. I don’t know how we’ve made you feel so invisible.

Lorenzo: But we did. And I hate that it took this for me to realize how badly we’ve failed you.

Lorenzo: You’ve been riding again. I didn’t know. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Lorenzo: I should have. I should have asked. I should have paid more attention.

Lorenzo: But I didn’t.

Lorenzo: I should have asked what you were up to. I should have…I should have known that you were riding again. And that you moved. And that you quit your job. But I didn’t. 

Lorenzo: I just assumed you were fine, even when you had every reason not to be.

Lorenzo: I don’t expect you to answer.

Lorenzo: I just need you to know—I see it now. I see you now.

Lorenzo: And I will spend however long it takes making sure you never feel forgotten again.

Lorenzo: I love you, Isabelle.

Lorenzo: Whenever you’re ready.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/Clara_Marelli: So I wasn’t going to say anything, but seeing all the speculation about Isabelle Leclerc and her new horse? I need people to understand why this is such a big deal. Because I knew her back when she lost her first horse, and let me tell you—it broke her.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: Isabelle wasn’t just a horse girl, she was the horse girl. You know how some kids live and breathe a sport? That was her with riding. It wasn’t just a hobby, it was everything.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: She used to come to school with hay in her hair because she’d wake up early to ride before class. She had riding gloves permanently stuffed in her pockets. She sketched horses in the margins of her notebooks. It was who she was.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: And then one day, she stopped.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: We were all confused. She never shut up about riding, and suddenly, she wouldn’t even mention it. If you asked about her horse, she’d just give this tight little smile and say, “She’s gone.” No explanation. No emotion. Just… gone.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: We only found out later that her family sold her horse to help fund Charles’ racing career. And look—I get it, racing is insanely expensive, and the Leclercs aren’t the first family to make sacrifices for motorsport. But this wasn’t just some hobby she could pick up again later.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: This was the thing that made her happiest, and it was ripped away from her.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: And what made it worse? She never complained. Not once. She just swallowed it, like she had already learned that what she wanted didn’t matter.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: After that, she changed. She got quieter. She stopped sketching horses. She stopped talking about anything she loved, really. It was like she decided—consciously or not—that if she didn’t care about things, they couldn’t be taken from her.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: And now, years later, she suddenly posts that she has a horse again. And her own brothers didn’t even know she was riding.

↳@/Clara_Marelli:  That tells me everything. It tells me that she never stopped missing it. That, at some point, she must have started riding again, but she kept it completely to herself. She didn’t tell her family. She didn’t trust them with it.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: And honestly? That makes me so, so sad. Because they should’ve been the first to know. They should’ve noticed that she was still hurting.

↳@/Clara_Marelli:  Instead, she had to find her way back to something she loved on her own.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: Whoever got her that horse—because let’s be real, this wasn’t a random purchase—they didn’t just give her a gift. They gave her back a part of herself. And that means more than her family probably even realizes.

@/F1Girl99: This is actually so heartbreaking. The way she just shut down after losing her horse?? And her family didn’t even realize??

@/LeclercNation: Nah, this makes the whole thing so much worse. Like, it’s one thing to forget her birthday, but not even knowing she still rides??

@/redbullgirly: “She didn’t trust them with it” is actually such a devastating sentence. Imagine having to hide the thing that makes you happiest because you know your family won’t care.

↳@/arthurfairy: The fact that she got a horse again but didn’t tell a single soul in her family tells me everything I need to know about how much that hurt her.

@/gridgossip: Everyone’s talking about how sad this is, but can we also talk about who got her that horse? Because that’s not a small gift. That’s a “someone knows exactly what you lost and wanted to give it back” kind of gift.

@/tifositilidie: Imagine being Charles or Arthur and realizing you never even thought about getting her back into riding.

↳@/ohmyf1: The fact that they restarted Arthur’s karting career but didn’t do the same for Isabelle and just assumed she got over it… yeah, that’s rough.

@/chaoticquadrant: Isabelle’s silence about all of this is louder than anything she could’ve said.

@/pitlaneprincess: The fact that a random classmate knows more about Isabelle’s pain than her own family is WILD.

@/verstapwinning: I actually can’t get over the part where she just stopped talking about things she loved after they sold her horse. That’s not just sadness, that’s trauma.

@/softforcharles: I love Charles, but the way they all just assumed she was fine… like, did no one ever ask her if she wanted to ride again??

↳@/F1andChill: I’m just saying—if my sibling was secretly riding again and I found out from Instagram, I would simply pass away from shame.

@/IsabelleLeclercFan: The worst part? She didn’t even announce it like “Look what I got!” She just posted it, like it was a casual thing. That’s how you know it meant everything to her.

@/formula1tea: Okay, but do we think her family even realizes what this means yet?? Or are they still stuck on the “Wait, she rides?” stage?

@/offtrackchaos: Imagine Charles thinking she just outgrew the horse phase, only to find out she’s been hiding it from them for years.

@/arthurisstressed: Arthur’s probably having a full-blown crisis over this. You just know he’s the type to blame himself.

@/MaranelloMess: Isabelle’s whole family right now: “Wait… are we the villains?”

↳@/tifosiprincess: Yes. Yes, you are.

@/undercutf1: Like imagine realizing your sister got back into her childhood passion, something that was taken from her, and you had no idea. No one knew. That’s insane.

@/arthurwasfoundshaking: Arthur realizing he got his dream back but she never did… oh, he’s spiraling.

@/paddocksecrets: Her whole family just realized in real time that they don’t actually know her anymore.

@/charlesnation16: Charles must be freaking out because, in his head, Isabelle never even mentioned wanting to ride again. But the reality is she probably knew they wouldn’t care, so she never said anything.

@/leclercsdaughter: Imagine looking at your sister’s post and realizing someone else—not you, not your family—gave her back the thing you all took away.

@/mclarendreaming: The fact that there was ZERO lead-up. No hints. No casual mentions. Just BAM, full horse.

@/paddockwhispers: At this point, someone needs to check on the Leclerc group chat. I know they are LOSING IT.

@/padlockpundit: Someone said this isn’t just a gift, it’s an apology on behalf of the universe, and honestly?? Yeah.

@/blisteringbarnacles: I can’t tell what’s funnier—Twitter solving this mystery in real-time or the fact that Isabelle is probably watching all of this unfold while sipping tea.

@/hamiltonshalo: Someone find out how much horses cost because I need to understand just how deep this gift goes.

@/GridTea: Sorry, but how do you have a sibling making millions in F1, and you’re out here working three jobs and shoveling horse stalls just to afford riding lessons?? I need someone to make it make sense.

@/F1DramaFiles: So Charles was making Ferrari money and Isabelle was out here grinding like a broke college student?? He couldn’t spare a little “my sister should live like a human being” fund???

@/OverworkedLeclerc: She was out here studying, working multiple jobs, AND still showing up to races when she could. Meanwhile, her whole family forgot her birthday. I would simply cut everyone off.

@/HorseGirlAnon: Do you know how EXPENSIVE equestrian sports are? And she worked her own way back into it with no support? That’s insane. She deserved so much better.

@/TifosiMess: Charles in every interview: “Family is everything.”Meanwhile Isabelle: was forgotten at every major milestone in her life.

@/F1Receipts: It’s also the fact that Isabelle has never once publicly complained about it. No bitter comments, no shade—she just put her head down and worked. Meanwhile, Charles was out here with a whole family support system hyping him up.

@/F1Overthinker: Not to be dramatic, but if I were Charles, Arthur, or Lorenzo, I would simply never recover from the public dragging happening right now.

@/F1TeaSpiller: 

Charles: “I’m so grateful to my family for supporting me.”

Isabelle: literally working at a horse stable just to be around them again.

@/JusticeForIsabelle: Nah, the fact that she was grinding through multiple jobs while Charles was out here buying sports cars, yachts, and luxury vacations is actually making me sick.

@/MonacoMess: Me reading Isabelle’s old interviews where she barely mentions herself and only hypes up her brothers, knowing now they weren’t doing the same for her: [GIF: "This is so much worse than I thought."]

***

Text Messages: Pascale Leclerc & Belle Verstappen

Pascale: Ma chérie, please talk to me.

Pascale: I saw your post. The horse… she looks just like Blanche.

Pascale: I didn’t know you were still riding.

Pascale: I should have known.

Pascale: I should have asked.

Pascale: I don’t have the words to tell you how sorry I am.

Pascale: When we sold Blanche, I told myself you would be okay. That you were strong. That you would move on.

Pascale: But that was just me making excuses. I should have fought harder for you.

Pascale: And then when we had the chance to give you back what you lost… we didn’t even think to.

Pascale: Isabelle, please. Say something.

Pascale: Ma fille, I know I don’t deserve an answer right now.

Pascale: I love you. So, so much. ***

Text Messages: Sebastian Vettel & Charles Leclerc

Sebastian: Charles. Saw Belle’s post. Wanted to check in.

Charles: I’m fine.

Sebastian: You’re not. And that’s okay. But pretending doesn’t help.

Charles: It’s just— She has a horse, Seb. A whole horse. And she never told any of us.

Sebastian: Maybe you weren’t listening.

Charles: I WOULD HAVE REMEMBERED A HORSE.

Sebastian: Would you? You didn’t remember her birthday. You didn’t notice she moved out. You didn’t notice she left her job. What makes you think you would have noticed a horse?

Charles: It’s a HORSE, Seb! Not a haircut!

Sebastian: It’s not about the horse. It’s about what the horse represents. Freedom. Love. A piece of herself you never asked about. Or thought to give back.

Charles: It feels like she lied to us.

Sebastian: She didn’t lie. She protected herself. There’s a difference.

Charles: She didn’t even give us a chance to fix it.

Sebastian: Charles. You don't get to demand trust from someone you ignored. Trust is built. It’s not owed.

Charles: I just— I thought she was okay.

Sebastian: Because it was easier to think that than to ask.

Charles: She posted a horse, Seb. A HORSE. HOW LONG HAS SHE BEEN HIDING A HORSE??

Sebastian: (typing) (long pause) Charles. Focus. It’s not about the horse.

Charles: IT’S A LITTLE ABOUT THE HORSE.

Sebastian: Focus.

Charles: I’m trying.

Sebastian: Try harder. She deserves better.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1TeaSpiller: Okay, so if you’re confused about why Isabelle Leclerc’s new horse is causing a meltdown, buckle up, because this is some Shakespearean family drama.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Basically, years ago, when Charles was climbing the motorsport ranks, the Leclerc family didn’t have the money to support all three kids in racing. Arthur had to stop karting, and Isabelle—who was really into horseback riding—had her horse sold to fund Charles’ career.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Yes. You read that correctly. They sold her childhood horse to support Charles.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Now, obviously, funding a motorsport career is insanely expensive, and a lot of families make sacrifices. But imagine being a teenager, loving your horse, and then one day—boom. Gone.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: What makes it worse? Unlike Arthur, who eventually got the chance to restart his racing career, Isabelle never got that opportunity with riding. The family focused on Charles and never revisited her dreams.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Fast forward to now, and Isabelle just casually drops on Instagram that she owns a horse again—and it looks eerily similar to the one they sold.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Her brothers (Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo) all freaked out in the comments because they clearly had no idea she was even riding again, let alone that she had bought a horse.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller:  And this is where it gets messy. Because it means:

They never asked about her interests.

They had no clue she had started riding again.

They didn’t even know where she was living.

She never told them about any of this—which, like… speaks volumes.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller:  Anyway, people are connecting the dots and realizing Isabelle has probably been pulling away from her family for a while, and they just… didn’t notice.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Because let’s be real—how do you forget your sister’s birthday, AND not know she got back into the thing she loved most as a kid??

↳@/F1TeaSpiller:  TL;DR: The Leclerc brothers are in big trouble right now.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Oh, and the final kicker? Isabelle agreed in the comments that the horse was a gift. The way Isabelle phrased her post—“some things will always come back to you”—makes it sound like this horse is directly connected to the one she lost. Apparently it was her childhood’s horse last foal. 

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: If that’s true? Then someone—who is not her family—went out of their way to find a descendant of her old horse and give her back a piece of what she lost.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: And I have questions.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Because if her own family didn’t do this… who did?

***

The restaurant buzzed with quiet conversation and clinking silverware, candlelight glinting off polished glasses. It should have been relaxing — a rare, normal night in Monaco, tucked into a corner booth with Alexandra, sipping wine and trying to pretend that everything wasn’t on fire.

It wasn’t working.

Charles could barely focus on anything she was saying. His mind kept looping back to Belle’s Instagram post.

A horse. A goddamn horse.

Captioned cryptically, like some kind of soft dagger straight into his already-shredded guilt.

He hadn’t even known she still rode. He hadn’t known she had a horse.

What else didn’t he know? What else had he missed while he was busy pretending everything was fine?

He stabbed his fork into his salad with unnecessary violence.

Alexandra reached across the table, covering his hand. “Eat. You’re spiraling.”

Charles muttered something about not being hungry, but then — movement over Alexandra’s shoulder caught his eye.

He straightened immediately.

Across the room, near the outdoor terrace, sat two very familiar figures.

Emilie Abadie. And Lando Norris?!

Together. Laughing.

Leaning in too close over a shared plate of something fried.

It didn’t look like a casual meeting.

It looked like a date.

Charles’s blood pressure spiked instantly.

Because if Emilie was here — and laughing — that meant Belle wasn’t spiraling alone somewhere. Or worse — she wasn’t telling Emilie to tell him anything.

He shot up from his seat before Alexandra could stop him.

"Charles," she hissed, trying to grab his sleeve. "Sit down!"

But he was already marching across the restaurant, half-blinded by panic, guilt, and the deep, bone-deep need to do something.

Emilie spotted him halfway across the room. Her smile dropped like a rock into the ocean.

"Emilie," he said, voice tight. "We need to talk. About Belle."

Emilie set her wineglass down with infuriating calm.

"I’m having dinner," she said coolly. "Sit down or leave."

Charles didn’t sit. He couldn’t. The panic was a living thing inside him.

“She posted a horse,” he said, almost accusingly. “A horse! She never said anything! She’s still not answering me. You’ve seen her. You know. Why won’t you just—just tell me what’s going on?!”

For a second, Emilie just stared at him.

Then — like a blade sliding out of a sheath — her smile disappeared.

"You think you're owed answers now?" she asked, voice so sharp Charles actually leaned back a fraction. "After months of ignoring every warning sign? After standing in the same garage with her and looking through her like she wasn’t even real?"

Charles’s throat worked, but no sound came out.

"You want to know why she’s not answering you?" Emilie went on, soft and lethal. "Because you only want her when it's convenient. When it fits your schedule. When it doesn't mess up the perfect story you tell yourself about your family."

“Emilie—”

"No," she cut across him, fierce and furious. "You don’t get to interrupt. You didn’t text her. You didn’t notice she moved. You didn’t notice she quit her job. You didn’t notice when she smiled through being forgotten on the day that should have been about her."

Charles flinched like she’d slapped him.

"You forgot her birthday," Emilie said, each word a scalpel slicing down to bone. "And you think a few panicked phone calls are enough to fix that?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

"You don't love Belle the way you should," Emilie said, voice low, devastating. "You love the idea of her. The safe, quiet little sister who never asks for anything. Who never demands too much. Who lets you shine without ever threatening your light."

Charles stared at her, feeling hollowed out, feeling cracked open.

"You didn't see her when she needed you," Emilie said. "And now you don't deserve to see her at all — not until she says you can."

Beside her, Lando sat perfectly still, wide-eyed — half in awe, half in something dangerously close to admiration.

Charles shook his head, trying to hold onto something, anything.

“I just want to make it right—”

"Then start by not making it about you," Emilie snapped. "Start by realizing that sometimes you don’t get to be the hero of the story you broke."

Charles felt like the floor had dropped out from under him.

For a long moment, the restaurant spun around him — laughter, silverware, clinking glasses — but all he could hear was Emilie’s voice, merciless and true.

And he knew, in some terrible, undeniable way, that she was right.

He wasn’t the center of Belle’s story anymore.

He wasn’t even a footnote.

He had made himself a ghost in her life, and now he was furious that he couldn’t haunt it.

Emilie leaned back in her chair, perfectly calm now, like she hadn’t just torn him apart at the seams.

"Now," she said, reaching for her wine again, "go back to your table. Apologize to Alexandra. And maybe — if you’re lucky — figure out how to be someone your sister actually wants to let back in."

Charles didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

He turned away on shaking legs, retreating across the restaurant under the weight of his own failure.

***

Text Messages: Charles Leclerc & Belle Verstappen

Charles: Isabelle.

Charles: I know you probably don’t want to hear from me. I get it. I’m still going to say this anyway.

Charles: I was fifteen when they sold Blanche. I knew how much she meant to you. I knew how much it would break your heart.

Charles: And I still let it happen. I told myself it wasn’t my decision. That it was out of my hands. That it was for the greater good.

Charles: But that’s not the truth. The truth is, I was selfish. I was scared. I was so focused on keeping my own dream alive that I let them take yours away.

Charles: I didn’t fight for you. I didn’t even try.

Charles: I keep thinking about that day. The way you looked at them. At me. Like you finally understood that nothing you said was ever going to change it. And still, I stayed quiet. I just let it happen.

Charles: You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You just… disappeared inside yourself. And we all pretended it would get better on its own.

Charles: It didn’t.

Charles: When Arthur got his second chance years later, we celebrated. But we never once thought about giving you yours. We just assumed you had "moved on."

Charles: I see now how wrong that was. You didn’t move on. You just learned how to survive being left behind.

Charles: And then we forgot your birthday. You were standing right there. Wearing Ferrari red. Smiling at me. And I still didn’t see you.

Charles: I keep asking myself how many times we made you feel invisible without even realizing it.

Charles: I don’t blame you for shutting us out. I don’t blame you for walking away. You deserved better than what we gave you.

Charles: And I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.

Charles: I don’t know how to fix this. Maybe I can’t.

Charles: But I want to try. If you’ll let me.

Charles: If you need space, I’ll give you space. If you need time, I’ll wait. If you never want to speak to me again, I’ll understand.

Charles: But if there’s any chance at all—any way to rebuild even a fraction of what we broke— I’ll do whatever it takes.

Charles: No excuses. No conditions. No timeline.

Charles: I’ll wait as long as you need. I’ll listen as long as it takes.

Charles: You mattered then. You matter now. You always have. Even when we were too blind to see it.

Charles: I love you. I’m so sorry I ever made you doubt that.

[a-person-on-the-internet]

Things better than skinny:

A really good fried rice. Can contain anything.

literally any pasta - I love a good cacio e pepe but also a good pesto fucks hard

mac and cheese is so good it deserves its own slot. I don’t just mean the kraft shit (which is also good) I mean the fancy stuff. Put some gouda or brie in that sauce. Throw in jalapeno or tomato or bacon or crab or literally anything you can’t fuck it up. Also Breadcrumbs.

STEW! Stew fucking rules. Any stew. I’d kill for a kimchi jjigae or beef stew right now. also curry. Any kind of curry. Japanese or Indian or Thai - just any curry. Eat more curry.

tteokbokki. that is all.

fries, any variety, but a GOOD SEASONED FRY. Garlic herb, spice blends, truffle, go fucking nuts.

any meat served on a skewer >>> any other meat, I say this and stand by it. It’s just better on a stick.

you ever buy a whole rotisserie chicken and tear into it with your hands like a feral animal

dimsum, bao, perogi, gyoza, empanadas, mandu, any food with food inside it is a blessing from heaven and should be cherished.

America sucks but they got burger to a science, they have mastered the art of the sandwich. Go to a deli and get a ruben and find the closest thing to enlightenment. Also, bagels.

America also got hot dogs. Sausages are good but yes I want the ominous meat stick of questionable quality. The cheaper and later at night the better.

any and all breakfast food rules, especially when it’s too late for breakfast. Make pancakes and eggs at 1 am, who the fuck’ll stop you.

soup with noodles. soup with vegetables. soup with meat. creamy soup. brothy soup. hot soup. cold soup. soup soup soup.

salads can suck but if you add tasty things like seasonings and roasted vegetables and nuts and fruit and meat and eggs and good dressing you will ascend. kill the part of you that thinks salad is sad lettuce and no dressing. add the fun tasty bits.

I have never done crack but I think fried seafood is the closest thing to crack I can find. fish or shrimp or squid or crab. deep fried seafood with sauce.

white people were right about the charcuterie boards. Cheese and dried meat and bread and honey and jam and fruit and candied nuts is in fact good. Yall got it right.

I would do unspeakable things for a really big tasty cookie. Any kind. Right now.

DIP. Cream based dips. Salsa and guacamole and queso. 7 layer. Hummus and tzatziki and baba ganoush. FONDUE. Get carrots or chips or bread or any other food or a goddamn spoon and GO.

nothing in the world can’t be improved by adding an egg. If you make something cheap and easy like a microwave meal and you happen to have eggs (I know they’re expensive) throw an egg on there. Or throw a cheese. Love yourself.

“nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”

damn you must suck at cooking. check out some youtube tutorials man. i believe in you.

[kairakeiji]

kuroo has tried to confess to you twice.

the first was a mistake, a spur of the moment confession as you cried over the boy you just broke up with. the guy was an ass, he didn’t treat you right. he made you commute hours to go see him, he didn’t show up to any of your big events. he didn’t even plan any dates or ask you to hang out. kuroo confessed mid-breakdown, just days after your breakup, as he handed you a cup of coffee (your regular order, nonetheless) and tried to haul you out of your three day hibernation.

he didn’t talk to you for weeks after that, he kicks himself for it to this day.

the second confession went wrong. jealously festered in him after hearing about the date you went on as you worried about getting ghosted. you sat on the phone with him pacing back and forth in your bedroom, checking your texts over and over. and kuroo couldn’t help the way his blood boiled as you continued on and on about your date and how he paid for your meal and how he drove you home and…

“there’s someone i’m thinking of asking out,” he told you.

“you should go for it!” you obliviously replied in the mess of your anxiousness.

“it’s you.”

you froze in your tracks, as the rambles of getting ghosted turned into apologies about how you weren’t ready for a relationship and explanations he already knew, given how much you two spoke. kuroo should’ve given up, he should’ve moved on with his life and accepted that you two were friends and never anything more. he probably should’ve given you some distance, allowed himself the space to get on with his life, and hopefully find someone better.

but he’s stubborn, and frankly, he thinks he’s not going to find anyone as perfect for him as you.

so now he sits on the floor of your bedroom, an air mattress set up next to him as you shower in the bathroom. the onigiri wrappers still sat on the floor, your reward for just barely making it to the convenience store before closing. he hears your laughter in his ears, and a part of him can’t help but smile, his heart sinking slightly.

and he begins to wonder, what is he truly doing here?

a cloud of steam emerges from the bathroom.

“tetsu what time is it?” you mumble as you hang up the wet towel.

tetsu, the stupid nickname you’ve called him since you first met. It’s yours and yours alone, yet he knows you’ll never be his.

your voice sends a jolt down his spine, “somewhere close to 2:30,” he answers.

you sit next to him, resting your head on his shoulder. “are you sleepy yet?” you mumble with a sigh.

kuroo’s heart leaps, too scared to actually take a look at you. your wet hair seeps through his shirt, but he truly doesn’t have it in him to care. “a bit, yeah,” he lies, wrapping his arms around you, something that’s become a matter of instinct in your time of friendship.

you lean in closer, eyes shut and a sigh leaves your lips. “we should sleep then, yeah?’

we. the collective we, as if you two were grouped under two letters, as if you two were together.

what was kenma calling it? a situationship?

god, kuroo hated that word. it’s not even a real word.

“we should,” he tells you, before shuffling slightly. “now are you gonna sleep here or are you actually going to get in bed?”

“in a second,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes. “you’re comfy.”

he laughs, “should i take that as a compliment?”

“knowing you, i thought you would.”

“then thank you,” he nods. “glad to be a pillow for you.”

you straighten up, before standing and padding to your bed. “you’re more than just that, you know?”

he quirks a brow, a smirk on his face despite the slight waiver of his voice. “oh really? what am i then?”

“an amazing friend,” you start as you shuffle into bed. “the person who accompanies me on my late night convenience store runs, the person who brags about their grades being significantly better than mine.”

“i don’t say it like that.”

“you totally do, don’t deny it.”

and he scoffs, shaking his head as his lips curve upward.

“you’re the person who was there for me when it felt like no one was, the person who’s willing to help me with anything i need. i feel so safe with you and know i can trust you, and yes, you do make a good pillow.” you sigh and kuroo meets your gaze, the way your eyes shine making his heart sink slightly. “thank you for being here.”

and his heart sinks more, “anything for you.”

you smile at him, “i’m gonna head to bed then, wake me up if you need anything. good-”

“hey can i ask you something?”

you hesitate, “yeah what is it?”

“what am i doing here?”

you blink, “what do you mean?”

“while you were in the shower, i was just thinking, i’m in the room of the person i like, and they know that i like them,” he explains. “they know i like them, yet they continue to be so nice to me and keep me in their lives even though we both know it could possibly be better if i did otherwise.” he meets your gaze, searching in your features for a semblance of an answer. “so really, why am i here?”

you shake your head, before your back hits your bed. “you’re gonna make me say it?” you mumble.

and his stomach drops. “yes, i am,” his voice becoming stern.

“it’s because,” you hesitate, hands covering your eyes. kuroo’s heartbeat thrums in his ears, careful eyes watching you frozen in bed. the air remains quiet, and all kuroo can find himself doing is watch, his third confession lingering in the tense air. maybe this one might be the last one, maybe once he hears you turn him down again, he’ll finally give up for good. they always say third time’s the charm, maybe this one will finally get your message into his brain. a sigh leaves your lips, and kuroo swears his body tenses.

“it’s because i like you.”

and kuroo blinks, “you do?”

you immediately sit up. “what do you mean i do? of course i like you.” and he just stares at you. “i never ask you to sleep over,” you explain. “i told myself that if i didn’t tell you how i felt by the end of today, i was going to drop it and never bring it up again. i told myself i would move on and never act on my feelings.” you finally meet his gaze, eyes widening when you see his jaw slack. “what,” you question, voice getting higher. “did i say something wrong?”

“i thought you were going to reject me,” he mumbles rather candidly.

“i could never,” you tell him. “i didn’t even really reject you the second time you confessed. i just said i wasn’t ready for a relationship, not that i didn’t have feelings for you.”

he blinks, “oh.”

“i thought you picked that up,” you sigh.

he runs a hand through his hair, mentally face palming, “honestly, all i remember is that you didn’t stop talking for ten minutes straight.” you sigh, “i mean, seriously, who yaps for that long?”

“someone who doesn’t know how to say yes but also say no,” you mumble.

“you could've said maybe,” he tries. “i could’ve gotten more of a hint then.”

and you can’t help but giggle, sliding off your place in bed to join him back on the floor. you meet his gaze, his eyes still full of disbelief, “tetsu, i like you.”

kuroo swears he’s dreaming for a second.

he blinks, his answer rather instant. “i like you too.”

you reach for his hand, squeezing it. “so, it’ll stick in your head,” you joke poking his head with your other hand before getting back up.

he keeps a tight grip on your hand, pulling you back to the ground. “tetsu?” his hand rests gently on your cheek as he leans forward, adrenaline coursing through him as his lips meet yours. his heart pounds, his thoughts running at a million miles a minute.

but everything seems to slow when you kiss him back, your hands reaching for his cheeks. and for the first time that night, kuroo feels his heartbeat slow.

he pulls away with a small grin. “so it’ll stick now in yours,” he mumbles.

you hesitate for a second, “you know what? i don’t think it’s sticking,” there’s a slight lilt to your voice.

“you don’t?” he questions.

“i don’t,” you nod rather proudly.

kuroo can’t help but shake his head, his grin growing wider by the second. “there’s no harm in trying again.” and this time, you’re the one to pull him in. your hand rests on the back of his neck and you can feel him smile.

third time’s the charm, they always say. luckily, this time, it worked in his favor.

haikyuu 2021/2022 renaissance era frrrr - I haven't written in so long pls be so kind with feedback she's a little rusty lol, but thank you for reading <3

[achilles-rage]

Through the Window

summary: you grew up next door to the buckley’s, and despite being the same age as evan, you didn’t meet him until you were both 16 and you invited him into your house when he got locked out of his own late one night. it becomes a regular thing; him sneaking into your bedroom every night, because to him, anywhere is better than that house.

word count: 3.7k

a/n: i am finally posting yay!! this could possibly be a new series, i’m not really sure yet. i don’t have any of it mapped out or anything, but this is an idea that i thought i’d post and see what y’all think. i kept it platonic because the characters are teenagers in this part, but it would be friends to lovers, with the next part picking up around the time of season one. anyway, please let me know if it’s something you’d be interested in!!<3

warnings: none, teenage!reader + teenage!buck (platonic), no use of y/n, fem!reader, plus size!reader, race inclusive!reader

You think you see him everywhere. The face of the boy that you used to spend so many nights with. It’s never him, though, you know that for sure, because you haven’t seen him in almost ten years. And you’re sure that he still doesn’t have that same baby face that used to have girls swooning. Yourself included, although you’d never tell anyone that.

You fell out of touch when you both left Pennsylvania. As much as you didn’t want to leave him, you couldn’t turn down your dream of studying in your dream field, especially when the opportunity was at Berkeley. 

You wanted to keep in touch, but as the weeks went by, it felt more and more weird to reach out. You thought that he had probably forgotten all about you now that you weren’t right next door.

You were around five or six when you saw him for the first time; you knew there was a boy around your age living next door, but you never spoke to him. Your parents weren’t friends, so you never really had any reason to interact with each other.

You’d heard of him, of course, he was your next-door neighbour, and you weren’t a stranger to seeing him outside on his bike, or his skateboard, or climbing trees and getting hurt. You also weren’t a stranger to hearing the yelling coming from his house when his parents were home; it always seemed to be aimed at him, and although it never seemed to really bother him, you’re sure that it did. 

It wasn’t until you were sixteen that you had actually met him.

It was late at night when you saw him trying to sneak back into his house through his bedroom window, but evidently, when he left through the front door earlier that night, he had forgotten to make sure he unlocked his bedroom window. 

He could see the dull flicker of light coming from the living room and knew that his father was on the couch watching tv, as he quite often does when he can’t sleep, and knew that there was no way he could come back in through the front door. 

He stood at the side of his house with his hands on his hips, mentally going over every single one of his, most likely dangerous, options; not that he cared if it meant not getting caught, when you opened your own bedroom window. He seemed harmless enough, and you didn’t want him to have to sleep outside, or be on the receiving end of another yelled lecture by his father. 

It was probably a stupid idea if you were to think about it today; inviting a teenage boy into your room that you hardly knew while your parents slept in the next room, but you didn’t care. You didn’t want him to be uncomfortable, or get into further trouble with his parents, not when you could help it.

“Hey!” you whisper-yelled, your voice cutting through the quiet spring air and reaching Evan’s ears. He turned quickly, squinting and looking around until he saw you, illuminated by the lamp from your bedside table, and he raised a hand in an awkward wave.

You beckoned him over with a hand, and he crossed the lawn and was at your window in a second, his head tilted curiously to the side while his eyes studied your face. He knew who you were; your name, who your family was, but you had different friend groups, so your paths never crossed enough for him to learn any more. You had the upper hand in that regard; you knew his family, and who his friends were, and the fact that he was the football star at your school, but you were relatively invisible every day at school. Most of all to people like him.

“Locked out?” you ask with a soft smile as he leaned against the side of your house. He took a split second to let his eyes trail down your body, and then his eyes were back on your face. He’d never really looked at you, but right now, he found you pretty. You had a soft figure, and the warm light of your lamp made your plump cheeks and your kind eyes even more beautiful to him. At that moment, he wondered why he had never noticed you at school.

“The one part of my plan that I didn’t think through,” he said with a shrug. He was smiling at his own stupidity, but you could tell that he was slightly embarrassed, too. 

Without another word, you stood back up straight and took a few steps back, allowing him enough room to get in through your window.

“You can sleep here tonight; go back early when he’s gone back to bed,” you told him, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to both shield yourself from the cool breeze coming in through the window, and to somehow make yourself look smaller. He’s on the football team, for god’s sake, you’re half sure that he’ll make up some excuse because you’re not one of the girls that anyone in his friend group seems to go for. Not that you were offering him anything more than the floor of your room and a pillow. But, still.

He looked at you like you’ve just said the most outlandish thing for a moment, his eyes still working to learn as much about you as he can as you stand there expectantly. Your crossed arms make it look like you’re angry with him, but there was also a gentleness in your eyes; it looks like you want to help him, so, finally, he climbed in through your window. 

He almost toppled over on the way, his back foot catching on the window sill, but then he steadied himself, rose up to his full height and looked down at you.

He was taller than he looked from afar, and for a second, your eyes widened in surprise, but then you took a step back and turned to grab a pillow and blanket from your bed. Despite his brow raised in confusion, he took the pillow and blanket from your outstretched hands, his feet glued to the floor as he waited for your lead.

“What, are you gonna take the bed and make me sleep on the floor?” you asked sarcastically, a smile making its way onto your face as it finally dawned on him. Of course he wasn’t going to sleep in your bed with you. That would be weird.

You settled back into your bed while he took his shoes and hoodie off and then set up his pillow and blanket. When you saw how uncomfortable he looked, you sighed and threw the rest of your blankets at him, telling him to layer them under him so he’s not just sleeping on your carpet.

He did so without a word, and when you’re both finally settled, you turned off your lamp and let darkness surround you. 

It helped to lessen the tension, at least, not that you were tired anymore. But all you could hear is your own breathing as you try not to focus on the boy laying on your floor. You’re not sure what came over you when you invited him in, but when you think about the yelling you’d no doubt hear if his parents found him trying to sneak in, and the reckless thing he’d decide to do that was sure to follow, you’re glad that you did. At least now you know that he’s safe, although you’re not sure why you care so much.

“Where do you go?” you asked softly after a few minutes of silence, Evan’s breathing being an indicator that he also wasn’t asleep yet.

“What?” he replied in a whisper, just barely able to hear your voice through the volume of his own thoughts. His eyes were travelling around your room, taking in all of your knick knacks and photos using the shred of light shining in from the street lamps lining the road outside your window.

“You sneak out a lot. Where do you go?” you clarified. He shrugged as he let out a long sigh, and then when he remembered that you can’t see him, he answered.

“Anywhere else. Sometimes I go to my friend's house. Sometimes I just walk around.” Your heart clenches in your chest at the idea of him walking around town in the middle of the night because his home, the place he’s supposed to be the most at ease, is so terrible. 

“Why?” you heard yourself ask before you could stop the word from slipping out. You knew that it technically wasn’t your business, but you couldn’t help but be curious. You’d met his parents briefly, and nothing obvious stuck out to you that would make them so bad. They were teachers.

“Anything is better than that house,” he replied simply, his eyes frozen on the ceiling and his face lacking any emotion. 

Your frown deepened, and you sat up on one of your elbows, then leaned over just enough so that you could see the outline of Evan’s face on your floor.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, and you could make out the movement of his eyes with what little light filters in from the street lights. His gaze met yours, and he shrugged again, although he felt his chest warm with the idea that you cared about him, even a little bit.

“It’s not your fault.” 

You tilted your head to the side, your eyes softening further while your mouth hung open slightly as you tried to find the right words.

“I know, but-” you began, then sighed, shaking your head, “I’m sorry.” No other words felt right for the situation. It’s not like you could push any further; he didn’t seem to want to explain anything to you, so you left it at that. Because you were sorry. From what you’ve seen, he seemed like a good guy, and your chest felt tight as you thought about him having troubles at home so bad that they led to him having to sleep on a stranger's floor.

“Thanks,” he whispered after a moment, giving you a soft smile. He liked how you made him feel, and he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t feel safe in there with you, even if he was on the floor. He wondered if that was what it felt like to have people who actually care for you all the time, not just when you hurt yourself.

“Good night,” you whispered, returning the smile before laying back down. 

“Good night.”

“Evan, you can’t keep breaking bones. Pretty soon you won’t be able to sneak out of your house and climb through my window,” you said with a quiet laugh when you saw the cast on his arm. 

He’d been sneaking into your house for months, and while you weren’t actually mad at him, you wished that he would take better care of himself. You found a friend in him, as infuriating as he was sometimes, and you didn’t want to not hang out with him for a few weeks just because he did something stupid and got himself hurt.

You rolled your eyes when the somewhat defeated expression crossed his face and he gave you a shrug, and all you could do was shake your head. 

“Why can’t you just let me in through the front door?” he asked, his lips turning into a playful pout. 

“Because, my dad would kill you if he knew you were here,” you began with a raised brow, giving him a knowing look, “and I know you. You couldn’t be quiet even if your life depended on it.” 

He laughed at your words, and raised a hand to rub at the back of his neck, then shrugged again, looking past you and into your room.

“Yeah, okay. Whatever. Let me in.”

You stepped to the side and let him climb through your window, his actions a little awkward with one unusable arm, but once he was in, he instantly felt better. And you did, too. He always felt so calm in your room, your four pale blue walls allowing him to feel a type of safety and love that he’d never felt under his parent’s roof before. Especially with his sister gone to Boston. Your presence helped, too, but he wasn’t ready to think about that. For all he knew, you were just being nice to him because you felt bad for him. 

You both slept in your bed that night; you didn’t want to make him sleep on the floor with his broken arm, and you weren’t about to sleep on the floor, either. 

You both laid on your sides facing each other, talking and laughing until sunrise, and although you regretted it a little bit when you had to go to school the next day without sleeping at all that night, you and Evan seemed closer after that.

He slept in your bed almost every night, which caused some fights when he rolled onto your side in the middle of the night and stole all of your blankets, but they were quickly forgotten in the morning when he snuck back out of your window and went back to his house. You enjoyed having him at your house so often, even if you barely interacted at school.

You had different friend groups, and it seemed weird to see each other outside of your bedroom, so neither of you ever bothered to try to interact at school. It made your friendship seem more special, anyway; it was something that was only for you two. Your conversations and the secrets you shared would never be heard by anyone else because you two were the only ones awake at two in the morning to hear them.

“I’m going to Berkeley,” you whispered late one night, the only sound in your room being the soft sound of crickets coming in through your cracked window and you and Evan’s breathing as you lay facing each other in your bed.

“You’re what? Why?” he replied, sitting up on his elbow and looking down at you with furrowed brows. You furrowed your brows as well, sitting up and looking at him with a confused expression.

“Because we’re graduating in a couple months. I got into the program I told you about. It’s at Berkeley,” you explained as if it was obvious, because for you, it was. That was always the plan, and he knew that.

“Oh, right. Congrats.” It was as if he deflated when he processed your words, sitting up beside you. Of course you were going to college. He just spent so long hoping that, for some reason, things would stay the same forever, that he had actually started to believe it.

“Thanks,” you replied, sitting up beside him and studying him as he looked down at his hands and fidgeted with them in his lap, “have you been to California?”

“Me? No- no, I haven’t,” he said quietly, keeping his eyes down. He couldn’t look at you. He was afraid that if he saw the sadness in his eyes, he’d have to talk about it, or worse, that you wouldn’t care. And he couldn’t handle the thought of you not caring about him as much as he thought you did.

“I’ve heard it gets, like, really hot in the summer there, way hotter than here. But I guess it’ll be okay if they don’t get snow in the winter,” you said, trying to lighten the mood as Evan lays back down beside you, now staring at the ceiling with his hands behind his head.

“Yeah. Yeah. That’s good,” he replied, although you could immediately see that he hadn’t registered a single thing that you had said.

“Evan?” you urged, leaning your head forward slightly in hopes of getting him to actually look at you.

“What?” He blinked quickly, taking any emotion out of his face. He tried not to think about not being able to see you. Not being able to spend time with you like this. It hurt.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, your eyes full of guilt, and he hated it. It dawned on him then that he didn’t want to hold you back, as much as it sucked for him. He knew how important this was to you, and he didn’t want to make it all about him.

“I’m fine. All good,” he reassured you, clearing his throat as he shrugged your concern away. He tried to smile, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he kept his voice void of any emotion.

“You don’t seem fine. What’s going on?” you pressed as you noticed the way his brows furrowed just slightly. The good thing about being so close to him most nights is that you grew good at reading every little expression. That, and you learned that he’s never been that good at hiding his emotions, either way.

“It’ll just be weird not having you here,” he said simply, shrugging again.

Your heart clenched in your chest as he tried to brush the conversation off. You didn’t think he’d be this upset about it, and a small part of you wanted to tell him that you’d stay. For him. One of the only things holding you back here was him, and even though you knew it wouldn’t necessarily make a difference in your decision to leave other than making it harder, you wanted him to beg you to stay. To show you how much he cared.

“Well, aren’t you going to college, too?” you asked. Maybe if you talked about his plans, he’ll get excited too.

“Yeah, community college. 20 minutes away,” he said with a huff, rolling his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I just thought that with your parents, you’d-” you began, your lips turning down into a frown.

“Don’t apologize. I’m happy for you. I know how much you wanted to get into that program,” he tried to backtrack, shaking his head and looking back over at you, still sitting up beside him. He was happy for you, he really was, and he didn’t want to ruin things for you just because he’s an idiot.

“I did,” you said after a moment, looking deeply into his eyes, trying to show that you were upset about leaving him, too. 

“I knew you would,” he said, finally giving you a small smile. You smiled back, nodding once before laying down and getting comfortable in your bed again. 

Just like that, things were good between you two again. If you were leaving at the end of summer, you might as well enjoy the rest of these nights without fighting or thinking about it too hard.

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning,” you whispered late one night. Evan was right beside you, like always when it’s so late, but there was a heavy feeling in the air that neither of you had addressed yet.

“I know,” he whispered back, turning onto his side to face you. It had been on his mind all night, and for most of the week, but he didn’t want to talk about it.

“You can always come visit me. There’s lots of schools in California,” you said, trying to keep your voice light, but you knew that he could hear the sadness behind your words.

“I’m already enrolled here. I can’t just leave,” he told you, and you sighed, nodding once. 

“I know,” you replied, unsure of what else to say. 

“Will you ever come back here?” he asked after a moment of silence, his eyes big and hopeful as he took in your features in the near-darkness of your room.

“For holidays and stuff,” you said with a shrug. You could feel the lump in your throat growing as you looked into his sad eyes, and the way his lips turned down into a slight frown despite him trying to fight it.

“No, like, live here again,” he clarified, and all you could do was shrug again. You hadn’t even thought about it. All you could think about was the next four years of your life in Berkeley, and all the hours you’d no doubt have to put in at the library, studying.

“I don’t know. I’ve never lived anywhere else,” you said after a moment. You were about to speak again when he cut you off, catching you off guard.

“I hope you don’t come back,” you furrowed your brows, confused by his sudden switch up, “You’re finally out. You shouldn’t ever come back. I wish I could get out.”

Your eyes softened, and finally, a tear fell down your cheek, but you quickly wiped it away before he could see it. You felt guilt eating at you, and for a split second, you thought about skipping out on Berkeley. Staying here with him. He had slowly told you more about his home life; how his parents were there but not really there, how they yelled at him for any little thing, how the only thing holding him together was his sister, until she left. You didn’t want to leave him, too, but you weren’t sure what else to do.

“You can. What’s holding you here?” you finally asked, trying to keep your voice steady as the pit in your stomach grew.

“Nothing.” Not anymore, he thought. He didn’t know what he was going to do when you left, but he still had you there tonight, so he didn’t want to spend another minute talking about tomorrow. 

So, you both let the silence envelope you until you finally fell asleep, finding what little comfort you could in the fact that for the night, you were both still under the same roof.

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[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs and Platonic GN Reader

AN: How did this get to angsty? Might have to write Caleb's scenario into a fic 😌

Pairing: LaDS boys x Platonic gn reader

Ingredients: 20% fluff, 80% angst.

My Fav: Xavier, Caleb and Sylus. Almost bawled imagining last two.

Xavier:

"Just pull me out already," you snap, smashing another wanderer’s head into a jagged rock. "You can't fight with a damn dagger."

It would’ve been easier, so much easier, to simply be a sword and nothing else. But Xavier, ever stubborn, ever foolish, clung to his ethics about using a conscious weapon.

"I would rather not dirty my hands, my liege," you sneer, tugging the title tight enough to choke him, even as you kick another lurking wanderer creeping behind his back. "This humble sword begs you to use it, my liege."

That's what you were. The royal sword of the Kingdom of Philos. Passed down through generations, an artifact, a legend. Until you came to be in his hands.

And he… he refused to wield you like all the others did.

Rafayel:

"I’m sure Prince Rafayel would have something clever to say, Your Highness," you murmur, shooting a sly look at the sullen boy across the court.

Rafayel grumbles audibly.

Prick. Spoiled princeling.

He glares at your back, face pinched in barely restrained annoyance.

"Father dearest," Rafayel drawls, voice dripping with sarcasm, "your advisor speaks in such riddles, I’m sure no one in this court has understood a damn thing in years."

The king only laughs, waving him off, indulgent.

You smile to yourself. Another victory. Another day.

You bow deeply to the Empress. Your sister, seated high above, radiating authority.

Her son, not this incompetent siren currently burning holes into your back, would be the next emperor of Lemuria.

And you would make sure of it.

Zayne:

You were the hot professor.

The one whispered about in the back rows of med school lecture halls, competent, brilliant, professional, and endlessly, compassionate.

To Zayne, you were everything he wanted to become. Your lectures became his worship. Your praise, his lifeline.

He became your unfailing student. Then your teaching assistant. Then your research partner. Until your name, neat and sure, signed the bottom of his residency recommendation letters.

Somewhere along the way, the innocent crush softened into something sturdier. A bond. A place he belonged.

Late nights stacked with patient files turned into home-cooked meals, his mother sending enough to feed you both. Long hours turned into weekend visits. And somehow, he became a fixture in your home.

He met your partner. Held your daughter, just five years old, when she ran giggling into his arms, calling him 'Yane'.

And he much preferred this.

Sylus:

"It was instinct," you murmur, kneeling before him. "I heard the gun and..." You lift your gaze, and meet his.

Sylus stares down at you, silent, stone-faced. At the bruise blooming dark across your swollen cheek.

Behind the heavy doors, he can hear your brothers, Luke and Kieran, shuffling anxiously. But they know better than to intervene now. Not after what you had done.

"Did I not forbid you from entering the room?" Sylus grinds out, voice sharp as broken glass. "So what gave you the right to go against my word?"

You lower your eyes, guilt clawing through you. You had never disobeyed him. Not like your brothers, reckless and headstrong. You respected him too much.

But the hunter...the shot...the sound of his gasp. You hadn't thought. You had just moved.

"I am sorry," you whisper, bowing lower. "There is no forgiveness for this."

Behind your closed lids, the memory burns: Your boss’s body recoiling from the shot. Your hand dragging the woman off him, fury overtaking reason. Your gun raised without permission. Pointed. Defiant.

You went against his orders. Against him.

Sylus’s jaw locks, muscles straining. He should be furious. He was furious. He would have shot anyone else.

But the bruise on your cheek twists something deep inside him, a raw, ugly shame.

You haven't changed. Even after all the blood spilled, all the years hardened. You are still the same stubborn, reckless child he took in. One of the triplets who swore loyalty to him with every drop of blood they had.

Caleb:

"And what," you say carefully, setting your notes aside, "compelled you to do that, Caleb?"

He shuffles anxiously in his chair. Fidgeting. Flexing his fingers. Refusing to meet your eyes.

"I was protecting her," he says, almost defensive. "Keeping her away from harm. That was the only way I could think. I had to keep her close."

It had taken months to even reach this point. Months of silence. Of angry outbursts. Of numbed, dazed sessions where he barely spoke through the haze of medication.

Now, here he was, fractured and raw, finally pulling words out of a healing mind..

He glances up at you, pleading. "It wasn’t to hurt her," he insists, voice cracking. "I could never... I love her. I just—" He chokes on the words. "I had to save her. I had to keep her safe."

Tears slip down his face unchecked. He doesn't even reach for the tissues you offer.

"You understand me, right?" he whispers, desperate. "You’ll tell her? Tell her it was love. That I love her. I was wrong, but—" He clutches your hands, tight and shaking. "Please. She has to know. She has to know, so she can come back. So she can... take me with her. Please."

He is begging now. To bring back a person long gone.

[muxshwriting]

doomsday

Charles Leclerc x reader

summary: charles has always put others before himself, but you can’t keep watching as he pushes himself too far for people that don’t even care || warnings: charles is too selfless, injuries, overexertion, yelling, arguments, possible ending of relationship, mentions of death, grief, hospitals || word count: 1708 || masterlist

Charles was always passionate about his work. Formula One had been the only dream he had ever had. And now he was here, there was nothing he wouldn’t sacrifice to stay.

He’s a very empathetic person, always wanting to help others and putting them ahead of himself on occasion. But more and more, he was sacrificing his own well-being for other people.

It killed you to watch Charles work himself to the bone, pushing during training sessions, attending more media opportunities, staying late for meetings and cutting every corner to brake later than all the other drivers. There was a sinking feeling in your chest every time you got the text of I’ll be home late.

One night, a night he comes home from the factory late, you’re waiting up in the living room for him. He walks through the door, exhaustion written on his face as he runs a hand down it.

He catches your eye and does a double take, not expecting you to still be awake. “Why are you still up?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I never can when you’re not home.” It’s the truth, a fitful rest is the best you can get when the other side of the bed is cold.

He stops in front of you, pulling you to your feet.

“I’ll always love you Charles. But I cannot keep watching you do this to yourself.”

“Baby, I’m sorry.”

“The late nights don’t do anyone any good.” You try to reason.

“I’m trying.” He replies. “I’m trying but when I can give more, I do. If I can, why wouldn’t I?”

Slowly you shake your head. “You can’t give them everything and leave nothing for yourself. I won’t stay to see you do this.”

“I’m not giving them everything. I have you, don’t I? I’ve got to save something for my love.” He’s trying to sweet talk you and it’s working before you can think to the opposite.

“I love you.” You whisper to him. “But something’s got to change Charles. You can’t keep living like this.”

“I love you too and I won’t. I promise.”

You go to bed with the slimming hope that something will change for the better. But that slim chance only gets smaller as the weeks wane on and nothing seems to change. You have no idea if Charles even tried to cut back his work because it seemed like he didn’t even attempt to. You feel like you’re tearing your hair out just trying to make him understand what you’re seeing. He’s going to kill himself if he keeps going at the rate he is now. And you refuse to stick around and watch him.

“Charles!” The argument started from nothing, a slip of words that sent the annoyance of the past months straight to your soul. “I’m going to be planning a fucking funeral. Tell me, what flowers do you want to be buried with?” You’re making no sense as the argument only gets worse, coming out shouting.

Charles frowns, standing to meet you. “What are you even talking about right now?”

“You’re going to die!” The words tumble out as you yell, trying to get him to understand what you’re seeing. “You’re going to die in that stupid car trying to satisfy everybody else.”

Charles stares at you in silence. There’s no way to know what he’s thinking and you’re not sure you want to know. “…I can’t do this. Not now. I have-“

“You have work, right?” You finish his sentence for him, but your tone is defeated. There doesn’t seem to be a way to get through to him, there is no fighting this.

The anger inside him returns and something snaps. “You have no idea what kind of pressure I am under. I am representing a team that has traditions nothing can change. There are practically two countries breathing down my neck at all times, watching my every move. I have millions of fans critiquing me at every step and you want me to put myself first? I am a man, who is part of something so much bigger than myself. If I put myself first I would never have got into a kart. Is this what you want me to say?”

“Yes!” You shout back to him. “Please! Be angry. Be angry with me if you have to. Anything is better than the monotony you come home with, the lack of anything because it’s all been leached from you.”

“I can’t keep doing this.” He confesses.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“No.” He says sternly. “This-“ He motions between the two of you. “This isn’t working. I can’t keep coming home to someone who doesn’t understand my life.”

Part of you knew this was coming, part of you thought you should’ve done it months ago. But mostly, you just knew it was inevitable. But hey, at least you wouldn’t have to plan the funeral now. Maybe Charles would find time in between all his work to plan his own.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

You’re defeated. There’s no fight left. “You’re right. This isn't working. I’ll be back for my things tomorrow. Goodbye Charles.”

He frowns at you, surprised you aren’t fighting him back anymore. He was expecting you to keep pushing him to be better, to be there for you instead of for his team and his work. For him, there was no choice, there couldn’t be. But for you, once, he would have thrown everything away. This is it.

You have no words for him, turning to grab the most important things and leaving for a friends house. You have to move on from him now, it’s all over.

You’ve casted Charles out of your mind and rather hypocritically, thrown yourself back into your work. But it’s never to a point where you have nothing left for yourself, you have to protect what you have. It’s been months, you don’t follow anything from that world anymore.

Then the phone rings.

“Hello? Is this Y/N Y/L/N?”

“Yes… this is she.” You tentatively answer. It’s a voice you don’t recognise from an unknown number.

“Hello. I’m calling from the Princess Grace Hospital. You’re listed as the emergency contact for Charles Leclerc. Are you available to talk right now?”

You’ve risen from your couch, slightly in shock as you move to get ready to leave. “Yes. What’s going on?”

“Can you come to the hospital? Mr Leclerc was brought in unconscious and we’re still carrying out tests and examinations.”

“Yes. Yes. I can be there in fifteen minutes?” You’re mind stutters out a response as you’re already moving out of the front door. Why did Charles still have you saved as his emergency contact? Was he alright? What the hell had happened?

When you reach the hospital desk, they lead you up to Charles’ room and leave you at the door. He was brought in after a neighbour heard a crash. He was unconscious, probably dehydrated and over exerted himself to the point of exhaustion. They were doing the best they could for him, mainly just letting his rest and recuperate his strength.

Silently, you slip into the room and take a seat by his bedside, interlacing your fingers with his. His skin is colder than you remember, more lines etched on his forehead and a dullness there never was before. He looks tired, really tired. You fire up your phone again, pulling up Pascale’s number.

“Pascale?”

“Y/N? Is everything alright?”

“The hospital called me. Charles fainted at home, he got brought in but he’s okay, i think. I was listed as his emergency contact but I can send you all the details for where he is.”

“What- Oh my- Please, yes please. He’s okay?”

“He’s just resting. I’m with him now, he’s asleep but he seems alright. The doctor said he didn’t hit his head when he fell, so there shouldn’t be any be anything to worry about.”

“I’m on my way.”

As soon as you hang up the call, Charles’ fingers twitch within yours. Your attention snaps to him as the almost permanent frown returns to his brows.

“Charles?”

Charles thinks he must be dreaming. You’re hear, beside him. Except you left him, he’s lost count of how many months ago it was. But you left and he’d regretted it ever since. Perhaps he could stay in this blissful moment for a while, imagining you were still here, that you were actually beside him.

“Charles? Are you awake?”

He groans. His brain really wanted to make it seem real today.

“How are you feeling?”

His eyes blink open, squinting in the harsh light. There’s a weight on one of his hands and two smells, one clinical and one oddly familiar. His head turns to the side and a mirage of you appears. You’re covered in a concerned look, staring down at him as he comes back to reality. You are there, truly. But he’s not at home. He’s at the hospital.

You’re holding out a glass of water to him, helping him sit upright as his senses return. He misses the weight of your hands in his and he’s half tempted to reach back for it again. “How are you feeling?”

“You’re here.” His voice sounds dead, even to him, and it isn’t just because he just woke up.

“I’m your emergency contact…” You explain. “I called your mother, she’s on her way.”

Charles sighs, a heavy sigh that someone would give after 50 years of work, when your back aches and your muscles shake. Why is he so tired? It’s the first time he’s stopped in months, is it all finally catching up to him?

“You were right.” He whispers the confession, like it’s a secret but anyone with eyes could see it. “You were always right.”

You smile, a sad sort of smile because you knew you were. It just took him landing in the hospital for him to agree. Despite the admission, you know that he doesn’t understand the extent of the truth. He’s too selfless, feels to much guilt to give himself what he truly needs. You got out while you could, but at least you mourned someone who was alive, rather than someone that was dead.

feel free to send in a request xx

[bahrtofane]

yearner

in which carlos cant escape his nature after his move to williams, but its not too bad with you

word count - 1.5K+

watch it - angst but with a positive ending. carlos is a yearner

first actual carlos x reader woho!!

Carlos is a sore loser. He supposes it was born out of competition, the drive and desire to be the best. The pit in his stomach when he realizes his position, the bile that claws at his throat when he rewatches his crashes and stupid mistakes. Knowing he can be better, settling for what he has and battling the past. 

He’s a sore loser the way he takes it out on himself. 

He bites his tongue, accepts the points on days when he gets them, does his interviews. He smiles at the cameras, tossing his hair back in the way he knows will get the attention off the far look in his eyes. Something to distract. 

He sighs when he closes the last door, the last barrier between him and the cameras. Sighing as he finally reaches his motorhome. 

His eyes sag, lips pressed in a thing line, mind racing. He chooses to scrub the thoughts away with a shower, impossibly hot and turning him red but he doesn't care. Tomorrow he will be forced to relive his poor performance and smile while everyone looks at him with pity. 

Sleep comes to him much later than it should, and he can only promise to do better. 

—--

Carlos is a sore loser, but even more so he is doomed to circumstance, his own mind. Mulling things over on his own, brushed with a shade of blue that's one shade too sad. 

You know this well, as well as you can with a man like him. He is hard to figure out and hard to remove yourself from. You have become in a way transfixed into understanding more. The way a dog follows a line of treats. You just hope the big bag of treats at the end is getting close.

He has these big beautiful eyes, but the only things they see to capture is his own suffering. You asked him why he keeps doing it, why does he keep suffering in something that has a way out. “Its all I know how to do,” was all he could say. 

It's true you suppose. But this sport will never love him the way he loves it. You see the way people treat him, the way his words fall into silence when every word he speaks is sincere. He gives so much, carving chunks out of himself just in an effort to remind those that he is alive. As if saying, look at me, I'm still here. And it still doesn't seem like enough. 

You met him on a whim, completely by chance rushing as the may sun blasted against your skin. Miami has its perks but the weather in the summer is not one of them. 

You were in Miami for a new job, working for a team and sport you were unaware of. But a job is a job and you booked the flight to Miami the second the email came in. You were late for your first official day, rushing into the hotel the meeting was set to be at. Begging for the elevator to stay open. A single man was inside, back turned, so you spirited. Heel slipping just as you made it inside, crashing right into his back, a slew of what you assumed to be spanish curses followed. 

The rest is history. 

Carlos liked that you were new to his world. That you had no expectations of him, nothing to hold over his head, no promises you forced him to make. You knew only the man in the moment. Not the man in all the races before this. And he adored this. 

—-

Carlos calls you the following day, as he’s gathering his things to head to the airport. 

“Morning.” you mumble out, voice cracking through the speakers. 

He snorts, “good morning. Did you see what I sent?”

You make a garbled noise, the sound of sheets coming from the other end as you battle your phone to dig through the notifications. 

“What am I looking at?” 

“Tickets to the next race.” Carlos says, half like a question unsure of his own words. 

“For me?” you say clearly now. Fully awake.

“Yes. if you want. No pressure.” he adds the last part quickly.

“No, I want to. Thank you.”

You don't bring up the race from yesterday. You rarely bring up racing on your own. Carlos hopes you stick around, for his sake, his sanity. 

—-

You come, dressed in blue for williams. Carlos can't help the smile that spans his face. You blush, taking his hand gingerly. He shows you around, introducing you to people while you give timid waves and quiet hellos. 

And then the time comes for him to leave your side and be back in the belly of the beast. God why did he pick such a ridiculous job. 

—-

He doesn’t place, no points, no podium. He can't face you and the disappointment he knows will be impossible to hide. So he hides. Doing what is needed, showing his face where he must and escaping. He doesn't pick up your calls, jumping into the boiling shower once more and scrubbing like a ritual that will purify him. It wont. But he still does it.

When he sits on the all too clean bed of the motorhome he looks at his phone. Please call me when you can, I care about you. From you, an hour ago. Hm. 

He settles for a text. 

Hey, sorry I just got busy. Sorry for having you come out here for nothing.

You reply immediately.

You have nothing to be sorry for. 

I came for you, not for anything else. 

He looks at the text for much too long before sending his location and asking you to spend the night with him, if you want. Ditch the hotel and bring your things. 

—-

Security gives you a hard time, so he goes to collect you himself. You stand, brows furrowed, in a much more casual outfit. Glasses on your head while you try to plead to be let in. 

You make it through when Carlos waves his hand, taking your suitcase and bags, leading the way. 

It's much quieter when you get inside. The space is almost unnaturally clean. Whites and creams everywhere. You notice the drop in his shoulders, a stark comparison to the way he held his head high earlier. 

He goes into the bathroom, peeling off the casual clothes for pajamas. Giving you a weak smile as you get your things up. 

“Would you still see me if i quit?” he mumbles out, words fraying at the seams. 

You give him a look, “Carlos, I'm not interested in you for any other reason but the fact that it's you. You could take up crab fishing for all I care.” 

He doesnt look up, “they gave me an out, if I want. Anytime I can stop. There's always a replacement.”

You pad over to where he slouches on the bed, placing a gentle hand to his shoulder. “You're too in your head. It's late. Someone once told me never to trust how you feel about yourself past 9 pm.”

“I always feel like this.” he whispers, eyes glassy as he looks up at you.

You now understand at the root of it all, Carlos remains just a little boy who wants somewhere to belong. To feel wanted. A place to do something he cares about and do it well. Where he can be given the chance by people that genuinely believe in him. 

Carlos is more than just a sore loser, a sore loser. He’s a yearner. 

—--

You don't talk about that night. But you do stick around. He asks to be official a few weeks later, over dinner at a restaurant you can’t even pronounce. You tell him what you think and he mulls it over.

He has an out, but doesnt take it. Not yet. He still has a hunger to prove himself. Even if he doubts he can do it. You know he can, you’ve seen the way he works, the passion that fuels him the hunger. He still chases like a wounded dog. 

For Carlos never really knows when to call it quits does he.

—-

It takes almost half way through the season but he makes a podium. P3 in a williams. He wants to cry, shout from the rooftops that he can do it. He is worth it. He belongs here in f1. 

Charles is on the podium, of course he is. A step above in p2. Carlos tries not to tell the red blind him. A reminder of the past and what once was. He says his wonders of thanks to the team, gives Charles a hug and tries not to fall into the routine they used to have.

He instead goes to you, smiling wide while you mouth the words ‘i believed’. 

Carlos is a yearner, and it strings him along endlessly. Tugging at his heart and wrapped around his mind. But he hasn't stopped just yet. Your soft kisses and the way your eyes twinkle at him under the lights make it that much easier. Who knows maybe he can win driving this thing. 

[triistitia]

Getting Used To It || Oikawa Tooru

— just an old snippet. post-breakup. 700+

Letting people go is easy. But what is not is getting used to their absence in your life. Getting used to the fact that they won't no longer be in your schedule and day to day normality. 

You know it. 

Because, for you, this truth clenches, much synonymous to how your heart do with each morning you wake up to this illusion that the right side of your bed is not empty and Oikawa is there, breathing too close to your face like it used to be the case thirty days back in time. 

Working upon this realization that you don't need to rush to the bathroom to fight for the space before the washbasin to brush your teeth only after opening the door... this truth roars to you the thing that the color of the walls around you is not the same lightest shade of blue as it was the case with the walls of his apartment that's cities away from yours.

"He always liked it without onion."

It has been a month. But still, you haven't gotten used to this mere reality that you don't need to take out two juice glasses and plate two sandwiches when you're the only one sitting at the table.

How am I supposed to deal with it?

You questioned. To the air. To your own self. To the memories that are still alive in you.

Because it's not easy...

Getting used to it...

And Oikawa, too, knows it.

As, for him, this truth snarls, much synonymous to how the remains of his love for you do when each morning he wakes up to the sound of his alarm clock and not to the beating of your heart close to his chest like it used to be the case four weeks back in time.

Working upon this fact that the coffee which he made himself will never taste like yours used to do against his tongue, Oikawa on daily basis finds himself getting haunted by the smell of the detergent you always preferred to wash his clothes in with over the others.

He, every day, pulls out, never less than two single strands of your hair from his clothes and from his couch and from the places where they should not be and chuckles. For no particular reason but to crack some lame joke into the unknown.

"She would have rolled her eyes."

He mutters. Remembering how you never shied away from scoring his performance in negative.

What he shared with you, Oikawa believes is more precious than the stone on the ring he eyed at a jewelery shop down the way to his office one day. under a pastel sky, he dreamed of sliding it in your ring finger as you would say 'yes' like it's the last word you could manage out of your strained lungs.

In your teary eyes, he dreamed of seeing his future gleaming clear. Promises whispered to each other under the sheets, over the phone calls, and across the miles, bursting into reality and mingling with yours and his part of forevers.

Because, there before these thirty days plus some very rough weeks ago, was a time when today was just a laughable possibility. And you and him had more than several reasons to peer into the hours and think back on each other and fantasize about returning to home.

But now, with this reality cruel and unchanging, all there is this massive hole absence created to take care of. All there is waking up at odd hours and writing "I miss yous" in the air and wishing it will carry the message without distortion to the right person.

All there is looking sad in all the nice places. Driving with nowhere to go and picking the phone and scrolling through the gallery littered with images before time turned sour.

And getting used to friends telling that it'll be okay.

Parents telling you'll find someone better, so just smile for now. 

Nights telling it's getting late.

Work demanding to be completed.

Hearts feeling more stray than dogs or cats on the street.

That ring looking obnoxious in the display.

Forevers snickering in the background.

And dreams shattering.

To bits.

And pieces.

For, today's going to be another day. 

The second sandwich will not be eaten, and the second glass of juice will remain untouched.

Another day with the taste of the coffee not like how the taste buds prefer.

Finding your hair in the mug. 

Finding his lost watch blithering under your clothes.

Playing your smiles over the shouts of the crowds.

Craning neck into the direction of the road that can carry you to his home.

Watching the day set into soft colours as your eyes.

Waiting for the nights to turn rough like the scars on his hands

Missing you.

Missing him.

And getting used to reality.

[jamieedlund]

Not a question but i wanted to say i love the way you depict Aaravos and Callum’s dynamic. I wish TDP delved more into their interactions and relationship because they have the potential to be a great mentor/mentee kind of thing with similar interests. And your art style is amazing, it has a pretty watercolor feel to it with exquisite lighting. (But may I ask how you approach your art?)

(5 months later, but better late than never aha(❤´艸｀❤) )

I think Callum would say thank you with a big smile on his face

Meanwhile Aaravos being the anomaly that he is:

while I intend to make this as short as possible, I'm not sure what exactly are you asking about when you said how I "approach my art"

Because from what I can infer, I can interpret the question it as:

Literally, as in: "approach" = "get started" - specifically you meant how do I get started working on a piece of art

or  

2. As in you're asking about my entire thought process + work flow from start to finish, since your previous sentence was about my art style, I would also assume that you want me to elaborate on--how I draw things??

Either way, I will do my best to answer, as the 1st way of interpreting your question can also be answered in the 2nd.

I think after working on the Aaravos thesis, my work habit from the time I was making it still remains---

so how about I just guide you through my approach/ art process of the most recent piece I had worked on:

Find my references/inspiration

I can't explain it very well but I can only draw when my brain feels inspired and or motivated. This can happen for numerous of reasons but I find the best and most consistent way to get my brain synapses to connect is to look at arts that makes me wanna draw. And then copy paste all of them into a mood board or onto your drawing canvas, like so:

I also use this program called 'Pureref' so I can just have a moodboard/reference that is constantly on top

you can also use pinterests but be picky about your references because of the AI slops.

I look for references while simultaneously jogging down the sketch/compositions that I want, as you can see the sketch growing along with the references in the previous photos

One useful tip I have for this phase is DO NOT, LINGER. I've since figured out that my hand-eye corelations works best if I don't think to much about it and just let the line flow. Of course this is different for everyone, it's just for me, because my brain really think too fast and have troubles locking in details, it's best for me to keep everything loose. And also having the references right next to me is extremely helpful, so I sketch and look for references at the same time.

And then I just - start drawing I guess?

for this particular piece I decided that I wanted to do some color testing first so

I laid down my base + some large thick brush strokes to make the shapes I wanna keep visible

Now that I have a solid base to build on, I just - render 🤷‍♀️

basically re-line on different layers and color underneath them, merging them and keep fixing until I feel like everything is right--- basically manual labor lol. Lighting on chibis is fairly standard, I don't have an explanation either, I just did what felt good???

I blocked in Callum later on a layer folder on top because if I want to move him around, I won't have to worry about losing/redrawing Aaravos in the back

Finish rendering Callum

Block in background and foreground

And TADAAAA

One happy man and his happy bunny ready to celebrate Spring🥚🐣🐥🍳 (and become a sticker that you can own soon, hopefully 👁🌷👁 )

I'm always against gatekeeping how my art is made so lmk if you have any more question regarding this topic.

That's all! Thank you for reading it this far. Here's some bonus Callum and Aaravos content from my warehouse ˋ( ° ▽、° )

A sketchboard of a mysterious carriage ride rendezvous!

(I have to clarify non of these are official canon material- I do not work on the show nor am part of the production; I am literally just a random guy on the internet who loves these two to death).

[fic-girlie]

Shadows in the Quiet

Pairing: DEA agent Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: A late-night visit from a wounded DEA agent Joel Miller leads to quiet confessions, shared vulnerability, and the beginning of something deeper than either of them expected.

Warnings: blood, mentions of violence, angst

A/N: Hey! I wrote this fic because I saw a challange on @rav3n-pascal22's profile, where she said if someone could write or draw Joel Miller as a DEA agent, so I thought I'll write it, even though the post is basically one year old. I don't know if you meant something like this, or if you'll like it but... Here it is!

It’s late. Later than usual, even for you.

Your eyes flicker across the clock as the hands edge toward 2 AM. The silence in the house is almost too much, like it’s pressing in from all sides, filling the space until you can’t breathe. Your thoughts are always loud at this hour. The day’s weariness weighs on you, but there’s a nagging sensation deep inside, a sense of anticipation—like something is about to happen. You try to ignore it, but it stays there, persistent.

A sound interrupts the quiet—barely a whisper. But it’s enough.

The knock.

Three raps—short and measured. Familiar. It’s Joel. You don’t even have to think about it; your heart knows. The way it speeds up, the way your breath catches.

You slip out of bed, bare feet barely making a sound on the wooden floor as you cross the room. You don’t bother with the lights. You’ve gotten used to the dark when he comes around at this hour. It’s always like this with him. Never any words. Only the knock. Always just a little too late, but always right on time.

The door creaks open, and there he is.

Joel Miller.

His broad frame fills the doorway, his face shadowed by the dim porch light. His usual tough demeanor is softened, just a little. The tension in his posture is unmistakable, though, like he's holding something back—something heavy.

“Joel,” you breathe. “What’s—?”

He doesn’t let you finish. His eyes flicker across the room, like he’s searching for something. Then his gaze lands on you. And for a moment, it feels like everything else stops.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he says, his voice gruff, strained.

You don't need to ask anything. You don't need to know the details. You just nod, stepping aside to let him in. His boots click softly against the floor as he walks past you. The air feels colder once he's inside, like the weight of whatever he's carrying is pressing on you too.

You close the door behind him, your mind already racing. You can't ignore the blood soaking through the sleeve of his jacket. It's not a lot, but the dark red stains are unmistakable. He's hurt.

"Joel, you're—"

"I'm fine," he cuts you off again, his voice rougher now. His eyes, though, don't match the words. They're too soft, too tired. "It's not mine."

You raise aneyebrow, but you don't ask. You know better. Instead, you move towards the kitchen, your steps slow, deliberate. "You need anything?"

His eyes follow you for a second, lingering on the curve of your back as you pull open a drawer to grab the first aid kit. There's a moment of hesitation before he speaks again, his voice softer this time, almost reluctant.

"A drink. Whiskey."

You glance back over your shoulder. "The good stuff?"

Joel smirks, a small, tired curve of his lips that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You know it."

While you grab the bottle of whiskey from the top shelf and pour two fingers, he goes and sits down on the couch. You hand the alcohol to him without another word. He takes it, his large hand wrapping around the glass like he needs the comfort it provides more than the alcohol that was in it. You slowly sit down beside him, careful not to startle him.

The silence stretches out between you as he takes a long swallow. His eyes flicker to you again, studying you as if trying to figure something out. You don't speak, just continue sitting there quietly.

Joel's fingers find yours next to him, and he slowly squeezes your hand. You keep your hand there trying to ground him and help him with you presence. It's a simple gesture, but it feels like more. It feels like a confession of its own.

——

Joel shifts slightly, adjusting his position on the couch. His hand—still brushing against yours—tightens ever so slightly, a subtle plea for connection. His gaze is distant, and you can see the weariness in the way his body is slumped, the weight of too many late nights, too many difficult cases, and too many people lost.

You don't speak. There's nothing to say. Not right now. Not in this situation.

But even without words, you understand him in a way no one else ever could. The silence between you is easy—there's comfort in just being here, existing together in the same space, with the world outside fading into oblivion. The clock ticks softly in the background, but time doesn't feel as pressing anymore. You shift closer, just a little, your shoulder brushing against his. It's a small gesture, but it speaks volumes.

Joel's eyes flick to you for a moment, something flickering in their depths before he exhales a breath he's been holding onto for far too long. His shoulders relax, just a fraction, but it's enough to make you wonder if this is the first time all day that he's let himself be vulnerable.

"Does it ever get easier?" he asks, his voice rough but quiet. He's not looking at you, but you know he's waiting for an answer that you're not sure you have. His gaze is fixed somewhere on your living room wall, unfocused, as if the weight of his question is too heavy for him to hold alone.

You let the question hang in the air for a moment, while you tried to look for an answer. "No," you say softly. "But I think we find ways to live with it."

Joel's finger twitch, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he keeps his hand next to yours, his thumb brushing over the back of your knuckles in a quiet, soothing rhythm.

"You're right," he murmurs. "I just.... I don't know how much more of it I can take."

You nod slowly, taking in his words. You don’t need him to explain. You can see it in his eyes—the burden of everything he’s seen, the lives he’s taken, the ones he’s failed to save. It’s a heavy load, and tonight, it’s threatening to break him.

“I’m here,” voice steady, unwavering. “For whatever it’s worth.”

His gaze settles on you again, and for a short moment, you see somethingbsofter behind the hardened exterior. It's fleeting, but it's enough. Enough to make your heart flutter in your chest. You don’t say anything else. Instead, you lean back against the couch, your head resting lightly against his shoulder. It’s a small thing, but it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Joel’s body stiffens for a second—surprised, maybe—but then he relaxes, allowing himself to lean into the moment.

For a while, neither of you speak. The only sounds in the room are the quiet hum of the house, the occasional creak of the floorboards, and the soft, rhythmic sound of Joel’s breathing. It’s oddly peaceful, this moment of stillness, and you both savor it. You don’t need to fill the silence with words. There’s something more important happening here—the quiet understanding that passes between you, the shared space, the presence of someone who truly sees you.

——

Hours pass, and the weight of the night settles deeper into your bones. You’re still sitting together on the couch, the space between you close but not quite touching. It’s as if you’re both afraid to break the fragile peace that’s settled over you. Joel hasn’t moved much since you both settled in, his eyes closed now, though you know he’s not sleeping. His breathing is slower, more even, but there’s something restless in the way his fingers flex and tighten around your hand every second. You’re both too aware of the tension in the room, the magnetic pull between you, but neither of you is ready to acknowledge it. Not yet.

Only the quiet hum of the house fills the space, but it’s comforting. It’s a reminder that you’re not alone here. That Joel is still present, even if his mind is a thousand miles away, buried in the depths of things he doesn’t talk about.

When you finally speak up, your voice is barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to carry all of this by yourself, you know.”

Joel doesn’t move, but you can feel his body stiffen beside you, his muscles tense as if preparing to retreat. He’s always been like this—self-reliant, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders without ever asking for help. But you know him better than that. You know he’s not as invincible as he shows to the world. To the people.

“I don’t have anyone else,” he mutters, his voice low and strained. It’s almost like a confession, and it catches you off guard.

“That’s not true,” you say gently, your voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside you. “You’ve got me.”

Joel’s eyes flick open, and for the first time tonight, he looks directly at you. The intensity of his gaze is almost overwhelming, like he’s searching for something in your eyes, something he can’t quite name. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. But his eyes soften, just slightly, and his lips part as if he’s about to speak—then hesitates.

“You don’t deserve to be dragged into this,” he says quietly, his words almost a plea. “I’ve got too much blood on my hands, too much baggage. You shouldn’t be around someone like me.”

“Don’t talk like that,” you say, your voice firm but not unkind. “You’re not a burden to me, Joel. You never have been. You’re here, and that’s what matters.”

He looks down at your hand, then back up at you, the battle between his pride and his longing playing out in his eyes. But he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans in ever so slightly, his breath warm against your cheek. For the first time tonight, there’s something tender in the way he moves—something raw and real. The tension that has lingered between you both since the moment he walked through that door begins to shift, like the slow cracking of ice beneath a warm sun.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Joel murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. He sounds more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard him, and the weight of his words makes your heart ache. “You’re the only thing that keeps me grounded.”

And in that moment, you realize just how much you’ve come to mean to each other—how much he’s willing to admit, even in his silence. He may not always show it, but Joel Miller is capable of feeling things so deeply that it almost consumes him. But here, now, with you, he allows himself to feel. And that’s enough for you.

Without thinking, you lean in closer, your lips brushing his in a soft, gentle kiss. It’s not a grand gesture. It’s quiet, understated, but it speaks volumes. He freezes at first, but then, as if surrendering to the moment, he melts into the kiss. His hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently over your skin as he deepens the kiss, his body shifting towards you.

The world outside fades away as you both lose yourselves in the quiet, tender connection that has always existed between you. It’s not about the chaos of the world outside, or the dangers of his job. It’s about this—this moment, here and now, where everything makes sense.

When you pull away, just enough to breathe, you rest your forehead against his, the warmth of his skin grounding you in the moment.

Then you look down at your interwined hands, and you see the blood that is still covering his hands and forearms, his knuckles raw and bruised, a deep gash between his index and middle fingers. You slowly get up to retrieve the first-aid kit from the kitchen, and when you return you see him hunched forward, elbows rested on his knees, eyes fixed to the ground. You slowly kneel in front of him and reach for his hand.

"So... it's not yours?"

He shakes his head. "Mostly not."

"Mostly?"

“Bastrop. Warehouse intel came through last-minute—should’ve waited, but brass pushed it. Cartel stash house. Place was rigged to hell. We went in blind. New guy on the team—twenty-two, maybe. Fresh outta Quantico. He froze. Took a round to the vest, but he panicked. Dropped his weapon. Got hit again when he tried to run.”

Your hands pause.

“Is he...?”

“He’ll live,” Joel says after a second. “But barely.”

You finish wrapping his hand and sit back on your heels.

“You said the blood wasn’t yours.”

He looks down at the clean white bandage now wrapped around his hand.

“It’s his. And the guy who did it.”

Something in Joel’s voice shifts—goes hard, sharp. You can feel the tension rolling off of him like smoke.

“I mean, I didn’t black out or anythin’. I knew what I was doin’. I just—snapped. I saw red. We got the bastard who did it. He’s not gonna see sunlight again, that’s for damn sure.”

“You’ve seen worse,” you say finally. “Why this one?”

Joel’s jaw tightens. “Because the boy looked like Tommy.”

That knocks the air out of your chest. You hadn’t thought about Joel’s little brother in a while. Last you heard, Tommy left the force years ago after a cartel raid nearly took his leg. Joel didn’t talk about it much. Said he had enough ghosts as it was.

"I can breathe here freely."

“I’m not going anywhere, Joel,” you whisper softly. “Not now, not ever. You can come here anytime you need. Like you did before for so many times. ”

He doesn’t respond immediately. But when he does, his voice is thick, filled with something you can’t quite name.

“I don’t deserve you.”

You smile softly, shaking your head. “You’re wrong. You do.”

And in that moment, you realize that the weight of his burdens, of everything that’s happened and everything that might still come, doesn’t matter as much as the quiet intimacy you’ve just shared. Joel Miller, in all his brokenness and strength, has found something worth fighting for. And so have you.

[starrywooyoungie]

Yechan ☆ Stuck MV

[calciferstims]

I swear I’ve been meaning to gif this precious girl ever since we first got her all the way back in 2023, but I just never got around to it, soooo… I guess now you guys just get gifs her as a puppy AND as a big girl 😅 consider it a bonus <33

anyways this is our Bernese mountain dog named Summer and I love her so so much 🫶🫶🫶

please link to this post if you use my gifs!!

[giccix]

Through the Valley

[pinkd3mon]

Hello, if you’re still taking drawing requests?? I just finished forgotten land and there’s so many thoughts in my head abt it lol. Could you draw Kirby, bandana and elfilin sitting at the cafe eating something?

Also you don’t have to draw this one but a friend and I joke that elfilin eats like fecto forgo lol (bc of the no mouth)

Thankyou so much!!!

He's a quirky little guy (gender neutral)

[parad-ice-lostandfound]

Prompt: "What are you doing?" - "Making a snow angel."

Pairing: Azul Ashengrotto x GN!Reader/Prefect/Yuu

Genre: Fluff

TW: NA

"Prefect?"

The familiar, slightly raspy voice had you smile as you turned to look at a bleary-eyed Azul.

Dressed in his pajamas and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, your boyfriend squinted at your fully dressed form in confusion.

"Where are you going?" He asked, voice raspy. He must have woken up after feeling the lack of your warmth in bed beside him. Azul walked down the last few steps, sluggishly making his way to you.

You smiled brightly, earning a slightly smaller yet entirely enamored smile from the octo-mer. You reached out for him, one hand smoothing down his hair which was sticking up in all directions, while the other caressed his cheek. Azul closed his eyes in bliss, pressing his lips to the inside of your wrist before repeating his question.

"I wanted to play in the snow, but you seemed so peaceful sleeping that I didn't want to wake you up," you hummed. Azul opened his eyes, turning his head just slightly to look outside a window, where he could see a blanket of white covering everything. "Oh," he mumbled, before looking back at you.

Azul wasn't the biggest fan of snow, or winters for that matter. The biting wind would rob his skin of its moisture, making him feel more uncomfortable in his human form. Being pelted with snowballs and almost buried alive in the snow by the Leech twins during their first year at NRC had also stripped him of any joy he could have felt at the sight of the semi-solid water.

But Azul knew you loved the snow. He had heard you speak at length about how you would have fun and play in the snow with your friends back in your world. Even Jade had remarked on your enthusiasm for it after your trip to Epel's hometown.

"You should go out and play in the snow if that is what you wish for," he spoke as he fiddled with your scarf around your neck. "I'll make us some breakfast in the meantime."

"You mean brunch," you corrected him, a mischievous glint in your eyes. Azul's gaze shifted from you to the wall clock, which showed that it was 10:30 a.m. The grey-haired boy shook his head, smiling to himself.

"Ah, pardon me. Brunch," he hummed, eyes carefully assessing your condition to make sure that you wouldn't freeze out in the cold. "I'll call you in when it's ready."

You beamed at him, quickly pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek and leaving a flustered octomer behind as you rushed off to play in the snow.

Azul sighed as he placed the final dish onto the table. Pride bubbled in him as he saw everything that he had made for the two of you to enjoy, the meal sure to be hearty and healthy.

Now it was only a matter of getting you inside.

Azul grabbed his coat, scarf and gloves from the cupboard beside the entrance, putting them on properly before taking a step out in the cold. The wind wasn't as sharp today, yet the chill in the air had his ears and cheeks turning red.

Azul looked out at the snow, trying to make out where you were. He finally found you lying on your back, moving your hands and legs up and down in the snow.

"What are you doing?" He asked, amusement coloring his voice as he walked over to you. You gave him an absolutely delighted smile as you looked up at him, showing no signs of getting up as you answered his question. " I'm making a snow angel."

"A snow angel?" He raised his eyebrow at you, helping you up when you reached out your arms to him.

He helped dust the snow off your clothes, gloved hands gently patting down as you looked at your creation with pride. Azul was amused by the expectant glint in your eyes when you turned to look at him, showing off your artwork as you asked, "What do you think?"

"It's beautiful," he answered, with no hesitation, eyes glued to your face.

"You didn't even take a good look at it!" You chuckled, playfully shoving him. Azul smiled, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you close to him.

"Anything you make, is a thing of beauty, my dear Prefect," he hummed, pressing his lips against your cheek. "I don't need to see it to believe it."

For once in his life, Azul thanked the cold for allowing him to disguise his reddened cheeks as a mere consequence of the chill in the air as you turned to look at him. His eyes softened as you laughed at his words, before he pulled you back to Ramshackle, eager to get some food in you before you continued playing in the snow.

[shadowoftheraven15]

Whoever cast Misty in Yellowjackets did a phenomenal job. Teen!Misty looks so much like Adult!Misty that I legit thought they were somehow the same actress.