#i like breaking down characters and trying to understand them :]

[pitlanepeach]

White Mercedes | Chapter Twenty-One

Oscar Piastri x Anneliese Wolff (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — It was just supposed to be a game. Once a month. No names. No questions. A few hours where she could surrender fully—because everywhere else in her life, she was drowning.

But Oscar Piastri was all quiet power and brutal precision. He didn’t ask who she was, and she didn’t offer. Not her name. Not the harsh reality of her past. Definitely not the part about being Toto Wolff’s daughter.

But it’s not a game anymore. It’s a secret with teeth. And when it all comes crashing down, she doesn’t know if it’s her heart or his career that’ll break first.

Warnings — BDSM themes, realistic and flawed characters, Dom!Oscar, Sub!OFC, slow burn romance, lots of smut (obviously), strong language, drug-addiction, suicidal thoughts/ideation, past-suicide attempts, vaguely mentioned past sexual assault.

Notes — Finally!!! We're back to our usual update schedule now that I'm home from vacation.

Feed the writer with your reactions/thoughts/feelings!<3

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The living room smelled faintly of caramel popcorn and Chanel cherry lip gloss.

Ana was sprawled sideways on the couch, one leg hanging off the edge, wearing mismatched socks and a baby-pink face mask. Her hair was clipped back messily, a few strands curling down into her eyes. Jules was curled beside her, their heads bumping occasionally as they dipped into the shared bowl of popcorn resting on Ana’s stomach. 

It felt cozy and juvenile in the best possible way—like they were thirteen, whispering during a sleepover.

Across the room, Lucian stood near the window, his phone pressed to his ear, pacing slowly like a very expensive panther. He was in full CEO mode—sleeves rolled up, tie askew, sharp voice pitched low and dangerous.

“—I understand the margins, but if you think I’m signing off on a launch that sloppy, you’re out of your depth,” he was saying.

Ana popped a kernel in her mouth and whispered, “Do you think he practices being intimidating like that in the mirror?”

Jules bit back a laugh, but sounded winded when she wheezed, “He absolutely has a mirror voice. That was a mirror voice tone. This is his ‘I run the world and everybody else must bow to me’ cadence.”

Lucian spun on his heel mid-pace, frowning at something the person on the other end said. His jaw ticked.

Ana stage-whispered, “That’s the tick. That’s when he’s about to ruin someone’s fiscal year.”

They both wheezed quietly with laughter, trying not to spill the popcorn.

“He’s so dramatic,” Jules whispered. “I caught him muttering numbers in French last week and it genuinely sounded like he was doing some kind of demonic ritual. I thought about calling up Leclerc and seeing if he could connect me with the Pope.”

Lucian paused mid-call and glanced over at them. Narrowed his eyes.

Ana waved sweetly.

He mouthed children and turned back toward the window, voice dropping even lower.

“Oh no,” Jules whispered. “Not the ‘I’m getting annoyed’ face. That’s the death knell. We’re going to get somebody fired. We’ll have to send them a fruit basket.”

Ana covered her mouth to keep from cackling. “Should we start preparing a really heartfelt eulogy for Derek-from-marketing?”

Jules made a solemn face. “Gone too soon. Survived by his terrible pitch deck and that one time he CC’d Lucian on a BDSM meme email thread by accident.”

Lucian ended the call with a curt, “Yes. Thank you,” and dropped his phone onto the oak window ledge.

“You two are insufferable,” he announced as he stalked over to them, eyes narrowing further when he spotted the popcorn bowl on Ana’s stomach. “And you’re getting crumbs on my new couch.”

Ana grinned. “It’s a very comfy couch.”

“It should be. I spent ten thousand dollars on it,” Lucian said. Then he was pointing between them, frowning, and saying, “You are both banned from commenting on my work voice.”

“Your mirror voice,” Jules corrected sweetly, poking him in the thigh.

“I do not have a mirror voice.”

Ana and Jules exchanged a look. Then, in eerie unison, they lowered their voices and mimicked him.

“If you think I’m signing off on a launch that sloppy—”

“—you’re out of your depth,” they intoned, mouths full of popcorn.

Lucian grunted and sat down on the armchair across from them. “Children. You’re both naughty, undisciplined, spoiled children.”

Ana giggled and threw a kernel at his head. It bounced off his forehead and fell into the collar of his shirt.

“Oh my god,” Jules said, half-laughing, half-choking.

Lucian stared at them for a beat. Then he smiled—the kind that snuck out when he wasn’t guarding it. “Next time you mock my business acumen,” he said dryly, “I’m cutting the popcorn supply.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Ana gasped.

Jules threw an arm around Ana’s shoulder, protective and wide-eyed. “You’ll have to pry it from our cold, dead, really well moisturised hands.”

Lucian opened his mouth—probably to deliver another snarky comeback—but Jules steamrolled right over him.

“Ana,” Jules said, scooping another handful of popcorn, “I found a sunrise yoga class I want us to do. It’s on this rooftop in Fontvieille and they have like, incense and lemon water and a miniature gong for the sound bath. It’s very goop-core. I thought we could embrace our inner Paltrow for a few hours on Sunday.”

Ana shook her head instantly, nose wrinkling. “No. No, absolutely not. I’m not getting up before the sun.” Her voice came out playful, but inside, her stomach twisted. The idea of being outside before the world was properly awake… of facing Monaco's glassy quiet, the stares… it unsettled her in a way she didn’t always have words for.

Jules blinked. “I can promise lemon water in a carafe shaped like a fish?”

Ana buried her face in a cushion. “I don’t want to be out of my bed before 8 a.m., Jules.”

Lucian, smirking from his armchair, added, “Sunrise yoga sounds miserable—but it’s preferable to you two using my balcony. I’m still angry about the Downward Dog Incident.”

“That wasn’t me,” Ana protested immediately.

“I saw the security camera footage. You fell and knocked over my bonsai tree,” he said flatly.

“I said I was sorry!”

Jules was already reaching for her phone. “Fine, fine. We’ll do the sunset class instead.”

Ana hummed in approval and flopped further into the couch, the cushions swallowing her like a warm, plush tide. The comfort of the moment lingered for one more breath—

Then her phone buzzed.

She glanced down, already expecting his name. Oscar.

But it wasn’t him.

She frowned, thumb hovering, a small knot forming in her chest before she could stop it. 

Lucian, ever perceptive, asked quietly, “Not Oscar?”

Ana sighed and locked her phone, pressing it against her chest. “No. I mean… I get it. It’s a race weekend. He’s doing media and strategy and simulator runs and god knows what else. I had him to myself for basically a whole week. I guess I got greedy.”

She felt silly admitting it, even in this safe space. But she had been greedy. She missed him more than she’d prepared herself for, and there was something about that vulnerability that scratched at old wounds—the kind that whispered, what if you care more than he does?

Lucian didn’t say anything. Just nodded, slow and steady.

Jules nudged her gently. “You okay?”

Ana hesitated. “Yeah. Just… I didn’t expect to miss him this fast.”

And wasn’t that the truth? It had crept up on her—the loneliness. She'd thought she could handle this. She was used to distance. Used to her happiness being temporary.

There was a beat of quiet.

Then Jules, careful and casual, asked, “Did you… sleep together yet?”

Ana blinked. “What?”

“You and Oscar,” Jules clarified.

Ana bit her lip. “No. We haven’t. Not—I mean, the only time we’ve done anything… like that, was at Valhalla.”

She still remembered the way he’d looked at her that night, like she was something special and worth keeping. But they hadn’t talked about it since. Hadn’t circled back. And she didn’t know if it meant nothing or everything.

Jules blinked. “Oh. Really? That was it?”

“Yeah,” Ana said quietly. “It was… intense. But since then it’s just been… easy. Comfortable. We watch movies and eat too many snacks and he lets me hog the blanket and we fall asleep on each other like teenagers. It’s sweet. It’s… slow.”

And maybe that scared her more than if he’d just jumped back into bed with her. At least that would’ve been easy to define. This—this waiting, this quiet intimacy—it was making her feel things that she didn’t know how to name. 

Lucian raised a slow eyebrow. “And that’s a problem?”

Ana shook her head. “No. Not a problem. Just—I don’t know if it’s a boundary he wants to cross again. Maybe he just wanted that once. Maybe it was adrenaline. Or pity.”

As soon as she said it, she regretted it. 

“Don’t do that,” Jules said. “Don’t twist a good thing into something ugly just because you’re feeling self-conscious.”

“I’m not—” Ana started. Then stopped. Her throat felt too tight. “Okay. Maybe I am. I just… I don’t know what he wants. He hasn’t… I mean, we’ve been on dates, I think. But he hasn’t used any labels or anything. And I don’t want to push.” She felt exposed saying it. Small, like she was admitting to a secret hope that might shatter under too much scrutiny.

Lucian didn’t speak, but there was a softness in the way he looked at her now. 

Jules just scooted closer and bumped their shoulders together. “You’ll know when you’re meant to know. And in the meantime, you’re allowed to enjoy a good thing without defining it.”

Ana let herself nod. Just once.

Then she reached for another handful of popcorn.

It was still warm.

It was still sweet.

And that had to count for something.

—

Oscar sat on a low bench just outside the garage, suit peeled halfway down to his waist, water bottle in one hand, his phone in the other. 

Lando dropped down beside him with a long sigh. “It’s hot as hell out there.”

Oscar didn’t look over. “You say that every weekend.”

“Because it’s true every weekend,” Lando muttered. Then, glancing sideways at him. “Okay, what’s going on with you?”

Oscar blinked. “What?”

“You’ve got, like, a proper weird energy going on.” Lando narrowed his eyes. 

Oscar frowned and took a sip of water.

Lando made a noise. “Is it Ana? Are you—Mate, come on. Are things getting serious with her?”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Oh, you absolutely are,” Lando said. “Who else would you do it with? Not like you can talk to anyone else around here about you being horrendously down-bad for Toto Wolff’s daughter.”

Oscar let his head fall back against the wall. “We just… spent my week off together. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Lando echoed. “You mean like… the whole week?”

Oscar shrugged. “Yeah.”

Lando blinked. “What did you even do?”

Oscar gave him a look. “Nothing much. We stayed in Monaco. It was—“ He took a deep breath. “It was nice.”

“Oh no,” Lando said. “You’re a goner.”

Oscar didn’t argue.

Lando’s tone softened. “You like her.”

Oscar nodded, slow. “Yeah. I do.”

There was a pause.

“She stayed over at your place?”

Oscar just hummed in response.

Lando grinned. “Did you cook her breakfast?”

“A few times. Then one morning she cooked,” Oscar said, smiling a little. “Terribly. She burned everything but the banana. But she was very smug about it.”

“Jesus,” Lando muttered, looking up and exhaling. “You’re done for.”

Oscar laughed under his breath.

“Is it serious?” Lando asked after a beat, quieter.

Oscar looked down at his hands. “I don’t know. I think so. It feels like it could be. I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You won’t,” Lando said easily, like it was fact.

Oscar looked up.

“She obviously trusts you,” Lando said, like it was obvious. “You don’t get that lightly. Not from someone like her.”

Oscar didn’t answer for a while. Just nodded, once.

Then Lando smirked. Couldn’t help himself.

“So… when do I get to be best man?”

Oscar groaned. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m fun,” Lando said. “And I like to gossip.”

Oscar shoved his shoulder. Lando shoved back.

It felt easy. It felt like home.

—

Subject: Social Media Conduct – URGENT

From: mclaren.pr@team.mclaren.com

To: lando.norris@team.mclaren.com

Date: Friday, 12 July 2025 — 10:04 AM

CC: Zak Brown, Andrea Stella, Sophie (Social Team Lead)

Attachments: screenshot_tweet_liked.png

Hi Lando,

Hope you're well.

We wanted to flag a social media issue that’s gaining some traction. It appears you liked a tweet criticising Nate Wolff’s recent podcast appearance, specifically referring to his comments about Anneliese Wolff. 

Given the public and media sensitivity around this, we strongly advise caution in engaging with any inflammatory content—particularly posts that target another public figure, even if indirectly. Your engagement is being interpreted as McLaren taking a public stance in a media feud, which is not ideal.

Please unlike the tweet and let us know if you’d like us to issue a brief clarification on your behalf. We're here to help manage fallout if necessary.

Let us know how you'd like to proceed.

Best,

Sophie M.

McLaren F1 – Public Relations

—

Reply from Lando Norris

Subject: Re: Social Media Conduct – URGENT

Sent: Friday, 12 July 2025 — 10:09 AM

Not unliking anything. Take this up with Osc if it’s such a big issue. Sure he’d love to know how against anyone defending his Ana you lot are. 

Cheers, 

LN4

—

iMessage — Zak > Lando

Zak

What did you mean by “Oscar’s Ana”?

Is there something the team needs to know?

Lando

uhhh

that was not supposed to sound the way it sounded

Zak

Sounded a lot like you telling me that our rookie’s sleeping with Anneliese Wolff

Lando

he’s not. i mean. maybe. i don’t know

not the point

they’re just um close

like, emotionally. they’re emotionally close

i’ve fucked it here  

Zak

Lando.

Lando

it’s not some scandal or anything 

toto knows

they’re like… into each other????

Zak

Christ, Lando. 

—

iMessage — Zak Brown > Oscar Piastri

Zak Brown

Morning.

Are you dating Anneliese Wolff?

Oscar Piastri 

Hi Zak

Uhh

I guess it depends on your definition of dating

Zak Brown

Mine is: are you in a romantic relationship with her

That the press will care about

Oscar Piastri 

Right.

Then… yes

We’ve been spending time together

Quietly

Very quietly

Zak Brown

And that’s going to stay quiet?

Because I don’t want to wake up to headlines about my Rookie sleeping with Toto Wolff’s daughter. 

Oscar Piastri 

Completely understand

We’re not going public anytime soon

She’s been through enough

Zak Brown

Right. Good. I trust you

But just so we’re clear: this doesn’t stay off my radar anymore

If it touches team optics, I want a heads up

No surprises

Oscar Piastri 

Of course

You have my word

Zak Brown

Alright.

For the record I think she’s a good kid 

Oscar Piastri 

She’s great

—

The Wolff House was too quiet.

It had that particular silence old houses get when they haven’t been lived in for a while—the kind that presses against your eardrums. Not peaceful. Just… still.

Ana had tied her hair up in a messy bun and dragged a laundry basket into her bedroom. The air still smelled faintly of cedar-wood polish and Susie’s perfume. She was halfway through folding up all of her old sweaters when her phone buzzed with an incoming FaceTime call.

Jack (iPad)

She smiled despite herself and accepted the call.

“Hi!” Jack’s gap-toothed grin filled the screen. His curls were sticking out in every direction, and he was waving a drawing in front of the camera.

“Hi, little dragon,” Ana said, sitting cross-legged on the floor. “What’ve you got there?”

“It’s a drawing of the track!” Jack yelled proudly. “I made it special for your friend Oscar.”

“Oh yeah?” She leaned in, adjusting the angle so he could see her properly. “Did you label the DRS zones?”

“No!” Jack pointed. “That’s the bit where there’s a jump and then a car does a backflip and then a dinosaur eats the tyres. But Oscar still wins because he’s cool.”

Ana grinned. “Sounds like a very fun circuit.”

He nodded solemnly. “It’s very tech-i-cal.”

While Jack launched into an explanation of the apex and how the cars would also need to escape lava, Ana reached under the bed for the old Reformation box she must’ve shoved there months ago. 

She tugged it out absently, one ear still on Jack's bubbling commentary — “…and then, after the pit stop, they have to fight a robot but they still can’t cross the white lines because that’s illegal.”

Ana smiled again. “Obviously.”

She opened the lid of the box without thinking—expecting old hair ties, maybe a treasure trove of forgotten jewellery or fancy-dress from last Halloween.

But what she found made her freeze.

Letters. Crumpled blister packs. A folded square of foil, stained and brittle at the edges. A plastic cap from a syringe. A newspaper clipping with her name in the headline — bold, merciless. A USB drive tucked in a ziplock bag, labeled in her own shaky handwriting. Don’t open.

The air left her lungs so fast she nearly choked on it.

“Ana?” Jack was frowning at the screen. “Why’d you go quiet?”

Ana blinked hard. She shut the box, quickly, and slid it behind her out of frame.

“Sorry, little dragon,” she said lightly, “you just blew my mind. A robot and lava? That’s some serious racing.”

Jack giggled, pleased, and tilted the screen to show her a series of haphazard coloured pencil scribbles that extended across the floor of their Papa’s office floor.

“Are you coming to my kart day next weekend?” he asked. “Mama said that you maybe will if you feel brave.”

Ana swallowed past the lump in her throat. Her chest still felt tight. But she smiled. “I’m going to be the bravest ever,” she told him. “You won’t even recognise me, I’ll be so brave. Like… Max Verstappen level brave.”

“Max is not braver than Oscar,” Jack said seriously, scrunching his nose. “Oscar would never crash into Charles on purpose.”

Ana laughed, genuinely this time. “That’s true. Oscar is a very calm driver.”

As Jack launched into his latest theory on race ethics and dinosaurs with helmets, Ana quietly tucked the shoebox behind the old dresser, where she could deal with it later.

Just… not today.

—

It was past midnight. Monaco glittered distantly beyond the hillside windows, golden lights reflected in the sea. Ana stood barefoot in the kitchen, a glass of water untouched on the counter, her fingernails digging half-moons into her arms where she’d crossed them tight against her chest.

She hadn’t touched the dress box. 

She hadn’t even looked at it again.

But she could feel it—its presence humming through the walls like static electricity. Her skin crawled. Her chest ached with a tight, familiar pressure. Her heartbeat was too loud, too fast. Her mouth dry.

She walked a slow circle through the main floor, barefoot on cool tile, like movement might bleed the feeling out of her.

The memories came sharp and uninvited: the weight of foil in her palm. The way silence used to feel before the high hit. The careful destruction of herself in fragments. The relief of it. The ruin.

She stopped at the bottom of the staircase. Her eyes flicked up, unwilling. The dark mouth of the hallway above waited like a threat.

It felt like there was a bomb up there. Undetonated. Waiting.

She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.

Get it out. Burn it. Flush it. Call someone. Call—

No. No one could know.

Not about this.

Not about what she’d found.

Not even Oscar. Especially not Oscar.

The thought hit sharp, clean as a slap.

If he knew what kind of storm still lived inside her, what kind of damage she was still capable of—he’d see her for exactly what she was. 

Because Oscar knew about the overdoses. He knew about the hospitals and the withdrawals and the rehab centers up in the Alps with the windows that didn’t open and the staff who spoke like everything was a euphemism.

He knew about the before.

But he didn’t know about the after.

He didn’t know there were days she still stood in the shower until the water ran cold, just to keep from screaming.

He didn’t know how long she used to carry that USB in her jacket pocket like a backup parachute.

He didn’t know she still dreamed about it sometimes—not with horror, but with hunger.

He thought she was better.

And it was true—he made her feel better.

He held her hand and kissed her neck and made stupid little jokes that made her laugh.

He scened with her—taught her how to let go. 

He trusted her.

And he wanted her—not just her body, not just her name—her.

And if he saw this…

If he saw what was sitting upstairs right now, ticking like a landmine, waiting for her to slip—

Any sane man would leave.

Of course he would.

Why wouldn’t he?

Ana pressed her forehead to the cool surface of the kitchen cabinet, chest rising and falling too fast. Her throat burned.

The glass of water still sat on the counter, untouched.

She didn’t want to use.

She didn’t.

She didn’t.

She just wanted the noise to stop.

Just for a second.

Just enough to sleep.

Just enough for the world to feel quiet again.

Just enough to not ruin the only good thing she had left.

She clenched her fists until her knuckles ached.

No one could know.

She had to keep it locked down. Keep it quiet. Get rid of it. 

Before the wrong version of her woke up again.

Before she became someone even Oscar couldn’t recognise.

She took a shuddering breath.

Then another.

Then she went and locked the bedroom door behind her.

—

She sat cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom, the contents scattered across the rug like evidence at a crime scene.

Letters.

Pale-blue blister packs.

The USB.

A rubber tourniquet.

And one tiny blackened spoon, so worn at the edges it looked almost innocent.

Ana stared at it all, like if she blinked too hard it might vanish. Like maybe this wasn’t real — maybe she was still just FaceTiming Jack, smiling as he held up his wobbly drawing of a racetrack made of clouds and dragons.

But she was here.

And it was here.

And suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

She reached for the ziplock bag, hands shaking so badly it took three tries to get a grip on it. Her fingers closed around it like she was trying to crush it to dust.

She was supposed to destroy it.

That’s what she told herself.

That’s what she’d promised.

If she ever found anything again, she’d get rid of it. Immediately.

Flush it. Burn it. Call someone. Anyone.

Jules or Lucian or Oscar or her Papa. 

Instead, she just sat there.

Staring.

The plastic crinkled in her palm.

It was light. So light. Lighter than her shame. Lighter than her fear.

Her mouth went dry.

Her chest was buzzing now — not adrenaline, but something thinner. Sharper. A tight, ugly thread of what if.

What if she just held it?

Just touched it?

Just for a second . 

Her breath caught.

And then before she knew what she was doing, she was up. Shoving everything back into the box with jerky, uncoordinated hands.

She couldn’t even look at it.

Couldn’t throw it away.

Couldn’t destroy it.

Her skin felt too tight.

And then she was downstairs.

Then she was outside.

Then she was walking barefoot through the Monaco streets in an old hoodie, hair in a loose braid, her keys still dangling from her wrist.

She didn’t even lock the front door.

It didn’t feel real.

The lights were blurry.

The sea air was cold.

She kept one hand in the pocket of her hoodie, the other brushing stone walls and iron gates like she needed to tether herself to the earth.

She didn’t know where she was going until she got there.

The little chapel on the corner—the one where her AA group met once a week. The door was locked. Of course it was. But the side stairwell had that little swoop under the stone overhang, a patch just wide enough for someone small to curl into.

Ana crawled in like a child hiding from a storm and pulled the sleeves of her hoodie over her hands.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t move.

She just closed her eyes and tried to pretend she didn’t exist.

It was still dark when she fell asleep.

Head against the wall.

Heart still ticking.

—

She woke up to the sound of footsteps and the faint clink of keys.

“Anneliese?”

Her eyes opened slowly. Blurry.

The sky was soft pink.

The voice came again, warm and unsure. “You alright, sweetheart?”

It was Father Emmanuel. Holding a takeaway coffee in one hand, wearing his old denim jacket over his priest’s collar.

She blinked up at him. Her throat felt like sandpaper. “I’m okay,” she lied.

He didn’t press.

Just looked at her for a long, long moment.

Then he held out the coffee.

“I’ve got sugar packets in my office,” he said gently. “Come on. You can sit inside for a bit.”

Ana nodded once.

Just once.

Then let him help her to her feet.

—

Oscar had his cap pulled low, backpack slung over one shoulder, his head halfway in a message to Ana (“You would hate this humidity, baby.”) when it happened.

He looked up at the exact wrong moment.

Toto.

Six foot something of sunglasses, confidence, and billion-dollar intimidation, striding toward the Mercedes hospitality unit.

And Oscar—Oscar was directly in his path.

Nowhere to pivot.

No teammate in sight to pretend to talk to.

No wall to melt into.

Just—Oh no.

Toto clocked him immediately. Slowed half a step. Raised a single brow.

Oscar nearly tripped over his own feet.

“Piastri,” Toto said smoothly, with the kind of tone that made even compliments sound like subtle threats. “How are you this morning?”

Oscar pulled off his cap on instinct. “Good. Uh. Solid. Ready to race. You know.”

Toto nodded, lips pressed into a faintly amused line. “Glad to hear it.”

There was a beat of silence.

Oscar cleared his throat. “How’s the, um… garage setup? Looking good?”

Toto tilted his head. “Efficient, as always.”

Another beat.

Oscar kind of wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

Toto clasped his hands behind his back. “And Ana?”

Oscar blinked. “What about her?”

A long pause.

Then Toto’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. Or was smiling. Hard to tell.

“You should tell her that Jack is going to bring her cake,” he said blandly. “Lemon. She will have to pretend to like it.”

Oscar blinked again. “Right. Sure. I’ll… pass that on.”

Toto nodded once, crisp and purposeful, and resumed walking.

Oscar stood frozen for a second longer, before slowly pulling his cap back on and exhaling slowly.

—

iMessage — Oscar > Ana

Oscar

You would hate this humidity, baby.

My hair is damp

Ana

ewww gross

Oscar

Ran into your dad 

Ana

what

why

what did he say

Oscar

Just a few sentences that somehow felt like an interrogation

Ana

he’s always like that

Oscar

Do you think he’d let me marry you or would I have to submit a formal request in triplicate

Ana

oscar.

Oscar

Not asking right now

Just wondering

Theoretical

Ana

ok

it’s fine

i just

i don’t know

Oscar

You alright?x

Ana

yeah!

just tired

Oscar

You’ll text me after quali?

Even just a word or two?

Ana

yeah i’ll try <333

Oscar

Miss you

Ana

miss you more 

[ayvi]

The characters' reaction to the fact that you have a lot of scars and wounds due to a difficult past

Osamu Dazai

Dazai’s heart skipped a beat at what he saw. He suspected you had a difficult past, but he could never have guessed how much pain and suffering you had endured. He didn’t want to burden you with questions. Dazai understood that you needed time to open up to him. He was willing to wait. In that state, you had never seen your boyfriend like this. That gloomy look, filled with despair, confusion, and even pain, would stay with you forever. “Why do all the people I care about have to suffer?” Osamu quietly said, gently stroking your cheek with his hand, looking into your eyes. That night, he held you close, as if afraid you might disappear, that he would once again lose his meaning in life and be completely alone.

Chuya Hakahara

In that moment, Chuya only wanted to find those scoundrels who dared to do this to you. He would have torn them apart without regret with his own hands. With a slight tremor in his hand, he gently traced one of the scars. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you stay silent?” Chuya quietly asked, looking into your eyes as if trying to find answers to all his questions. “No one will ever dare to touch you again. I will break every bone for even thinking that…” Nakahara promised you that day. After that day, Chuya became even more protective of you. He would never forgive himself if you had to go through that horror again.

Atsushi Nakajima

The guy was ready to cry. It hurt him to see all your wounds. Atsushi couldn’t understand who and why made you go through this nightmare. Nakajima gently hugged you, as if afraid to hurt you. He even began to blame himself for not meeting you earlier, for not saving you. Atsushi believed it was better for him to suffer than for you. “If I could, I would take all your pain upon myself. You shouldn’t suffer like this! No one should! I promise that even at the cost of my life, I will protect you!” Atsushi said, hugging you and unable to hold back his tears. The esper loves you. You will always be more precious to him than anything, even his own life.

Ryunosuke Akutagawa

In that moment, Ryunosuke seemed to shut down. He examined every scar, every wound. You even felt uneasy under his intense gaze and were about to stand up and dress to hide that part of your past that you had long wanted to forget, but those bleeding scars were an eternal reminder of it. Akutagawa immediately stopped you. “Don’t hide,” the dark-haired guy whispered, surprisingly gently pulling you close, “We have similar scars. I know what it’s like to live with constant reminders of the past,” was all the mafioso said. He didn’t ask you where your wounds came from. Akutagawa understood everything without words and didn’t press you. The esper vowed that no one would ever dare to hurt you again, not while he was alive.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Fyodor knew about them. He knew what you had been through, but he never asked or pressured you. However, he couldn’t look at them without anger and disgust in his eyes. All of Dostoevsky's touches were cautious, as if touching your skin with the wing of a butterfly. All those who once made you go through nine circles of hell had long left this life. Their suffering was much longer and more painful. “Pitiful sinners wanted to break your will, to tarnish your body with these scars, but they failed. There’s no need to shed tears,” Fyodor gently wiped a tear from your cheek, looking into your eyes. His voice was deep, and it seemed that his heart skipped a beat with every word he spoke, “You, my angel, are no longer alone. The world will be covered in darkness, but I will be here to save you…”

[miwi-daisy]

this is very real. a lot of us within the byler community are ACTUALLY the target audience for the show: kids who have been bullied, kids who are different, freaks, weirdos, all the things. i can't speak for everyone but for me this show has become a genuine safe place for me, because all the characters have their own quirks and are different or weird in their own ways.

from the ages of 7 to 13 i was verbally bullied to an extent that i hated myself for who i was. the main things these bullies used against me was "weird" and "clumsy", but what still hurts me to this day is the way they ratted on my self expression.

at the age of 8 i cut my hair to be short because i wanted to look like tinkerbell. i thought girls with short hair were so cool, i loved shailene woodley's pixie cut in divergent, and i wanted to look just like her!

but a bunch of the kids from my elementary school started to ask "are you trying to be a boy? do you like girls? are you even a real girl? are you a boy who has a girly face? why did your mom let you cut your hair like that? why do you color your hair red? that's weird, you're weird, your clothes are weird, everything about you is weird!"

so to find a show made to be a safe place for so called "freaks" was like striking gold at 12 years old. it was already very popular, as season 3 was already out. but i felt like i connected to it differently than a lot of the kids i'd heard talking about it at school. i had no idea this show would have kids like me in it.

i was so used to being so drastically disappointed by the tv everyone else would watch. i hated the show friends, because all the characters got to be weird and annoying and nobody in or out of the show made fun of them because they were attractive, popular, and well dressed. i hated fuller house, because all the characters got to be eccentric and odd without an ounce of criticism because the actors were attractive and funny.

i had a few shows that made me feel safe as a weirdo. those shows were avatar, svtfoe, and gravity falls. but i got made fun of for liking svtfoe and gravity falls, so i still felt isolated. avatar was more popular among the boys, and i just wanted to fit in with the girls. avatar had also ended a long time ago, so all i could really do was watch it over and over again and wish i had more.

so i felt like i'd struck good with stranger things. a tv show of kids who are ACTUALLY weird, who deal with bullies, who have insecurities and difficult lives, who found like minded kids and built a safe haven. AND it was mainstream? i would never have to be made fun of for liking that show. i finally had something i could talk to my peers about without feeling like a fraud. they wouldn't make fun of me for enjoying this show.

and that's why it's held such a special place in my heart. it connected me to people i thought would never understand me, it made me feel like i wasn't broken for being different, but that it just made me more interesting. people liked the show BECAUSE the characters were weird!

but now the fandom is taking a dark turn. a lot of the fans now dislike it for the weird characters. they say they're worried the show will go woke, or that they'll focus too much on the gay kid. it hurts me in a way that's hard to describe, because the whole reason i fell in love with the show is because it was praised for shining a light on actual weirdos. but it's become so mainstream now, people are bullying the actual target audience away from the show. people who actually connect with and understand the message.

it would break my heart for them to let go of their artistic integrity and feed the new mainstream audience of bullies and bigots. it would break my heart for the reason i love the show to fall apart.

i don't pay for netflix because i share an account with my family, so i can't exactly unsubscribe from netflix if they go down this path. i doubt they will, but there's always a possibility when it comes to mainstream media.

but i do know for certain i don't think i'd ever be able to watch the show again and feel happy doing so. because i was so connected to it as a real weird kid, it would just hurt me too much to see a show that kept me feeling a sense of community go down an alt-right fan-service pathway.

so no, it's not dramatic to say this. it's understandable because this show has impacted us in a different way that it has most of the general audience. we have a strong connection to it because we thought it was a place we could escape bullies. but now, if they make the wrong choice, they would open up the floodgates of hatred and bullying in the fandom. and that fear almost makes me want to retract from the fandom as a whole.

but i have faith, and i will continue to have faith until the very end. sorry this was dramatic but i feel very strongly about this topic.

Okay no joke, I will actually cancel my Netflix subscription if byler isnt endgame at the end.

ST is one of the few reasons I have this platform in the first place and if they decide to queerbait, it will not only be probably the worst queerbait ever (imo) but byler is also incredibly dear to me in so many ways. I have never been so focused on a ship this much and they just bring me so much joy. Maybe if there werent so many god damn hints and proof I wouldnt be dissapointed if it isnt canon at the end, I would still have the fandom (fanarts, fanfics, etc) I could be happy with just that. But this is not the case.

There is an overwhelming amount of things that point out that byler has been planned from the very beggining, so many paralels, so much proof LIKE BRO, WE HAVE A LAWYER AND A PSYCOLOGIST, LIKE WHAT?

If it isnt endgame, us byler shippers will know that ofc we were right no matter what because the analysis and hints are there, like, its not our fault they decided to queerbait AND THATS THE THING even though we might know this was a terrible and poor choice for the show, homophobic assholes (all types, Im talking about those milkvans, reddit, and the GA that wishes the worst to Will and in general to people who think that byler is actually a posibility) will be proven right. They will give access to all of those mouthbreathers to harass and make fun of us even more. "See? I told you so, you were delusional!"

Theyre giving access to people who would actually bully the party irl to be right

Its a shame, really, especially when ST is supposed to be against that type of behaviour.

So, am I exagerating with the whole 'cancel Netflix subcription' thing? Dont know about you, but in my case I dont think so.

[notannascribbles]

I will like actually never get over the choice to have marinette break adrien's rings in werepapas. without trying any other options. without any hesitation except for a slight look of concern on her face. and seeing her visually express concern/relief communicates to us that she knew there was a risk of her hurting/killing adrien there. and she just. did it anyway? without even trying to help millie break the akumatization herself? makes it hard for me to even like. understand marinette's characterization at all. she's committed to doing All This out of love for adrien but is also willing to quickly gamble his life in a situation with no other clear path forward? this decision, from the girl whose defining character traits are love, creativity, intelligence, and determination? she couldn't think of a way to navigate that situation that didn't involve risking her boyfriend's existence? most baffling writing choice of all time. borderline character assassination. to me.

[ungodlysaltyinfrastructure]

As determined by the poll.

The Iris Analysis. Uncut, since I am not revising this monster word count of an analysis.

Now with A DLC111!1!1!!11!!! (I added new thoughts :p)

[Warning, this post deals with a pretty heavy and uncomfortable topic. If you don't like mentions or implications of SA or Sexual/Romantic Manipulation, heed this warning.]

“Your eyes are so pretty and unique, I don't think I've ever seen anybody with mismatched eyes like that.”

So about Iris…

Character Analysis time !!!1!1+!+1+1

Author's Note: I heavily debated making and posting this analysis because of the topic at hand, but I want to say, this analysis helped me realize how strong of a character Iris is, and can be. The more I think about her, the more she's becoming my favorite.

We are first introduced to Iris in ep 5, "Iris" (fitting)

As Alux is done talking to the Guard and is leaving, he finds Iris being berated by two people.

"What are you doing here, freak? I thought I told you to get lost."

"Sigh, I'm just here to get my stuff for my travels, so back off.”

"Or what? You'll beat us up again? You know how that ended last time."

"Yeah, poor little Oddy ( or Oddie) ended up in jail all night. Not only is she a freak, but a criminal too.”

"Just shove off and leave me alone."

"Or what? You gonna cry?"

Pause

"Or what? You'll beat us up again? You know how that ended last time."

We know Iris is a bit of a fighter as she's defensive, but, Iris beating up people?

What for?

I know we shouldn't take the bullies by their word, but the implications of Iris getting into a fight with them is... concerning, to say the least.

I'm just worried that this "fight" may have, possibly, not been of Iris' making.

Call it a hunch, but I feel like any altercation Iris would have with the bullies would've been in self-defense. (You'll see why I think that after a few paragraphs.)

The next conversation we see Iris have is with Alux after her attackers are gone.

"Are you okay, Miss?- Ouch! What- was that for?"

"I can handle myself, you know."

"I never said you couldn't."

"Look, if you're trying to get something out of saving me, then you're mistaken.”

"I don't want anything."

"Yeah, suure... wait, are you... serious?"

"Yeah, I'm serious. I just wanted to help.”

"But... why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you help me?"

"Well, you looked like you were in trouble. You needed help, so I helped!"

"But you don't even know who I am! I could be a criminal, for all you know."

"-And I still would've helped you."

"Wow. You'd be the first one.

Pause

"Look, if you're trying to get something out of saving me, then you're mistaken."

That… is a VERY concerning thing to say to a man who just defended you, for no apparent reason as you would see it, as a woman who was just being targeted and harassed.

To put it lightly, I smell trauma.

We know AR doesn't shy away from rather uncomfortable topics like Sexual Harassment and Physical Violence.

When Alux gives this kind gesture to Iris, the first thing she does is assert that she doesn't need Alux to stand up for her. That she didn't need a man to defend her. She can get by, all on her own.

Iris even assumed that the only reason Alux would even be "saving" her is to get something from or out of her. When she realizes that Alux is being genuine, she gets... confused. It's obvious that she doesn't get this kind of kindness from strangers unless they had an ulterior motive pertaining to her. Her difference in eye colors is most likely why she was and is treated differently by many people. So when she meets someone who is unbiased and non-judgmental about a person's physical appearance, it's strange to her.

Then, we get to the second portion of the conversation

"Then I'm happy to be the first. I'm Alux by the way."

"I'm Iris."

"Pleasure to meet you. Your eyes are so pretty and unique, I don't think I've ever seen anybody with mismatched eyes like that.”

"You really think so?"

"Of course!- OUCH!”

"Stop trying to sweet talk me you jerk!"

"S-sweet Talk? What does that even mean?”

"You know? 'sweet talk', 'flirting', 'being overly nice for some reason'?"

"Uhh, I'm confused..." (this is where I got the Aro Alux headcanon from ^^^^)

"So..., you're seriously just being genuine?"

"Yeah... is that a bad thing or something...?”

"No, it's... just different, that all..."

Pause

…

*Deep inhale*

Iris taking Alux's compliment on her eyes as a sight of "sweet talking/flirting" is very alarming.

The fact that she views sweet talking akin to FLIRTING is a really bad sign for her!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The definition of "sweet talking" is

"insincerely praise (someone) in order to persuade them to do something."

The definition of flirting is

“behave as though attracted to or trying to attract someone, but for amusement rather than with serious intentions.”

Flirting can be serious and unserious depending on what the person who's flirting means.

But sweet talk under the guise of flirting is more akin to manipulation than it is flirting, as the sweet talk is used to make someone do something, while having the flirting being the reason why the person sweet talking wants you to do something. But because sweet talking is insincere praise, the flirting then becomes THE insincere praise given.

Iris thought Alux's actions of defending and complimenting her were insincere, ("stop trying to sweet talk me you jerk!") And that he was only doing it to get something from her. ("Look, if you're trying to get something out of saving me, then you're mistaken.")

Iris was so quick to assume such a thing from Alux, and was so quick to get defensive about herself and her ability to self-defend.

Remember when I said I think that the "fight" Iris had with the bullies was actually self-defense? Yea well, the reason I think that is because Iris is very vulnerable, trying to put up a tough facade. She has a target on her back and is often bullied for her uniqueness. With how snarky and vindictive the bullies act towards her, I wouldn't be surprised if one of them put their hands on her.

And here is where we get into the not so fun part of this Analysis.

Here is where I would usher you to click out of this post if you feel uncomfortable with discussions of Sexual Harassment/Assault and or Sexual/Romantic Maniputation. (When I first made this realization of Iris, it was not fun for me)

-------------------------------------------------

As I've said, AR doesn't shy away from uncomfortable topics, and is a bit of a more mature series. Fully displaying one of the many awful things some girls go through. (The Clark and Mae interaction.)

Now, I want you to understand the implications of Iris thinking sweet talking is akin to flirting, and how she thought Alux had originally wanted something out of her when he "saved" her.

…

Did you let it sit and sink in? Because when I did, I was mortified.

Iris is pretty and different and vulnerable because she's different. She may even be insecure about it. Maybe that's why she blushes when Alux compliments her on her eyes.

She's quick to snap at Alux because of her assumptions. Why would she even make the assumptions in the first place?

-----------------------------------------------

I believe that, unfortunately, at some point in her life, Iris had been taken advantage of.

She was in danger, and someone helped her. She thanked them and was about to set off until they stopped her, and started to press her. "Well, I did something for you, why don't you do something for me as repayment?"

They sweet talked her into giving in. Using her eyes as a means to make her vulnerable. Convincing her they were flirting with her. Making her believe they were interested in her. Only to leave her alone and scared.

-------------------------------------------------

It's a sad thought and realization to have. The degree of which the action was is, I feel, is for the best, to be up to interpretation. It's not nice to think about these things, but this makes Iris a very complex and deep character, and I feel that she deserves to be talked about more.

With how she persists and how confident she can be, it's clear she's grown past any harm done to her. It's just this defensiveness manifested to protect herself from any more harm similar.

(Note: This is NOT a confirmed backstory or any confirmed history about Iris. She may as well have a completely different reason for why she was so defensive and closed off at first. Maybe fake friends or a fake crush. Something a little more lighter as implications of SA or anything similar is hard to stomach.)

Ok old analysis over.

Time for thoughts.

Now that we have more Iris content, I'm actually really glad I made this. Iris’ potential abuse is very subtle and is not a focus point, and I think that was a good choice to have.

It's not a defining character trait for her. It's her light rudeness and presenting rough exterior that makes her, well, her! And that very well can be a result of her past. Another thing I didn't notice before is that she always seems to be on edge. She always has her guard up. And she's quick to act on something.

And the most interesting part about this? Later, like in this most recent ep, she doesn't know what to do with these feelings. It's like she's conflicted. She knows it's silly and nonsensical that she developed this crush so soon, but she can't help but feel this way.

And another thing is that these feelings are only seen with her.

Her possible previous experience was not ideal, and as it may have been her first or one of her first, she wouldn't have properly known what a good start to a relationship would look like. And this time with Alux, it's now her first proper time where she can fully digest these feelings.

Now, I haven't really experienced “romantic attraction” in my 15 years on this earth, but from accounts of other people, I would surmise that feelings like these are inescapable for some. Consuming you every time you look at your crush. To a point where some would go to drastic measures to satisfy any desire pertaining to the crush. (Every time girls at my school talk about relationships, it's always either about an insane guy or them doing the most out of pocket thing to get their crush to notice them) so I would assume at least that these feelings are intense, and that they're not by choice by Iris. (It's choice by the writers lol)

And it's the whole thing about the fact that the romance aspect of the series is presented through Iris. We don't see any hints of crushes or romantic endeavors from anyone else.

Ok except maybe Petro and Mark but that's doomed yaoi-

And we don't see it in Alux, we only see it in the fact that IRIS is the one who has a crush. Not Alux.

When we focus on Alux, it's more about his secret identity of being a prince, and trying to find his true self and what his past really was before returning to Cozen. Not about his love life or romantic endeavors. (He does have one or pursue any LOL)

But with the presumidly main romance arc being presented through Iris, it may be about her learning how to deal with her own feelings, others feelings, and her relationship to romantic and platonic dynamics throughout the series.

How will that turn out? I have no idea. But I doubt it will be successful with Alux. He has bigger fish to fry.

I just wanted to express my feelings and thoughts about this aspect of Iris. She is a character that is becoming more developed, like with Alux, it's just slower due to the runtime of each episode. And I found her character intriguing, so I just kept thinking about her until I couldn't. 🥴

[thewardenisonthecase]

an official thank you to u for your fics and your hawkeposting!! there's always the age old criticism/commentary that hawke/da2 doesn't leave as much room for RP/background imagination as other dragon age protagonists, but you really show how there's so much potential for imagination and exploration with Elizabeth. it's inspiring and it's fun to read too. so thanks <3

THANK YOU SO MUCH 🩷🩷🩷🩷

I'll say, I'm lucky that I only joined this fandom last year so that criticism is something I havent really seen, tho i do believe it exists. i understand where people come from but i do think da2 does a good job at giving you an established character but also enough freedom do your own thing. Hawke three personalities are so incredibly distinct, even down to voice acting, and then the fact that they can have two different types of relationshops with the people around them. Heck, Hawke's own father, which plays a big 'haunting the narrative' role, is basically a free OC that the game gives you so you can build whatever relationship between them.

In regards to elizabeth, a lot of stuff I did with her came from the smallest stuff in game (like reading a letter and going 'that's weird. what could it mean?' and going from there) or from pondering the orb on a quest (like replaying night terrors and going wow this dialogue makes it sound like hawke's a dreamer too), or looking too deep into small interactions. There is a lot that you can do with hawke, like the fact that everyone's hawkes is so different is a good enough testament to that.

on a personal note. you can always just ignore canon and do whatever you want forever.

[friedesgreatscythe]

imo it shows how renoir is willing to stick to his lesson to verso: art is a mirror and art is a window. the axons are how you see yourself and how you are seen. it's an interesting philosophy, and i wouldn't really say it's wrong, but when we look at it in the context of the story it shows how desperate he is to feel like he has control over his family's pain. it's similar to the painted versions aline created of her children (which i think is another reason why alicia likes to stick close to hers: it represents the 'hope' renoir had for her, and in a way that's comforting).

the axons represent how renoir sees his family, a "window" he then uses as a "mirror" for them to gaze upon themselves. his wife is this enchanting creature who overpowers anything and can show you your hearts most sincere desire; his son is an living internal struggle colored by art's three primary colors (red, blue, green), pared down to its most basic, simplistic elements: anger, joy, sorrow. all of it guarded by the mask keeper, who is himself a layer of different masks--his son is a constantly shifting person, someone who guards these faces with the repeating chant of, "we all need masks." (note that the next time we hear this kind of mantra repeated is verso saying, "i don't want this life." i would argue that these two are connected, and definitely synonymous statements).

second note: using art's primary colors on verso's axon is really fucking inconsiderate, considering how verso didn't want to paint.

alicia is this delicate little doll connected by a series of strings/wires to what looks like a cockpit to a space ship (she's definitely in a pilot's chair). renoir wants his youngest daughter to see the stars. he wants her to fly, to feel free and and brave and strong--but she's still this weak little thing. immobile, waiting. she can't move into the sky until maelle 'casts' her there.

clea's is horrific, and we can only go off the image of a girl keeled over with her family home growing off her back. renoir sees his oldest daughter as bearing the burden of the entire family. no wonder clea has endless contempt for her parents, got simon to kill her axon, and painted over her canvas self.

am i singling out renoir to judge here? no. OP brings up the important point that people keep pointing fingers at different characters throughout the game, and how people seem to overlook the axons (or at least, i haven't seen discussions on them, so i could be wrong). they absolutely reveal more about renoir than his family, IMO. they show how he sees them, an exertion of perception as control. alicia telling renoir he's just trying to take control should be taken seriously, because he is. that's how aline made his canvas version (a man who would do anything to keep his family together; a man who would create piles of corpses to keep his family safe).

to renoir, art is a window and a mirror. of course he knows his children and his wife. of course he understands them. of course these incredibly powerful creatures he makes in their likeness have hearts so strong they can break down the barrier separating them from aline. if anyone has the power to get through to her, it's her family, and no one knows the family better than renoir, right?

replaying e33 and i know people mostly concentrate on act 2 and how it makes them see verso in new light but for me personally the most fucked up experience is to see axons in a whole new context.

verso's facial expressions and every time the camera cuts to his face during the whole section of visages is so gut twisting specifically. imagine knowing that you are a copy of someone, and then seeing their twisted reflection from someone else's perspective and how in wicked ways it also mirrors you as a person - "he who guards truth with lies". verso whispering "that was verso, wasn’t it?" with absolute despair on his face is like a gut punch by the end of this section.

sirene is my absolute favourite location of the game, especially with the added context. seeing renoir reflecting aline as this charming and elegant creature, but yet again feeling how sinister the undertones of the sirene islands are make me so emotionally sick.

and small details as well. maelle recognizing aline's dancing, most likely because she danced with her mother, or watched her mother dancing quite often, when she was not consumed by grief. even learned the dance herself, maybe. verso staring sirene down, and the expression he has is worth writing one hundred essays about it. there is so much subcontext in that one single stare. how it ties him to julie, and loss of his family, and his mother, and how this twisted version of her is not how his own memories paint her

don't even get me started on renoir. with even alicia's axon, while aiming to be uplifting, it being a direct opposite of what his daughter represents.

i see a lot of discussions putting a lot of blame on aline, verso, clea, real alicia, but i think the mere existence of the axons and them being renoir's creations in the way that actively misrepresents his whole family is an absolute mindfuckery on its own.

[softservesoymilk]

Cannot sleep :/

[tyrantisterror]

Fuck it, I didn't want to make a post on this but it's bugging the hell out of me so let's exorcize the thought.

Lilo and Stitch is an extremely good children's movie. I've been working at a daycare for over five years now, and out of all the children's movies I've shown to an auidence of twenty or so school-age kids (i.e. between the ages of 5 and 12), the only movie that's held their attention as well as Lilo and Stitch is The Emperor's New Groove, and the only one that's held it better is An American Tail. Of those three, Lilo and Stitch has won the vote of "what movie we will watch" the most. It not only entertains kids, but emotionally captivates them from start to finish, because it very thoroughly understands how to engage children on their level. It's a smart, tightly written children's movie.

The feat of story-telling genius it pulls of lies in its ability to reach both where children's imaginations want to go and where their lived real-world experiences lie - most children's movies focus on one or the other, but Lilo and Stitch dives deep into both. On the imagination side, there's Stitch's whole plotline of being a little alien monster being chased by other weirdo aliens onto earth because they want to stop him from running amok and causing havoc (which, of course, happens anyway in fun cartoony comedy/action spectacle). On the real-world side, you have Lilo's plotline of being a troubled little girl who has an abundance of very real problems that, like an actual child, she struggles to comprehend and deal with, as well as the many adults in her life that care about her to some degree but all struggle to fully understand her. Kids want to be Stitch and run amok and cause cartoony havoc. Kids, even the least-troubled kids, relate to Lilo, because all of them have been in a similar situation as her at least once in their lives.

Balancing these two very different stories, with very different tones and scopes to their respective conflicts, is a hard writing task, but Lilo and Stitch manages to do it in a way that seems effortless with one very powerful trick. The two plots are direct mirrors to each other, complete with the characters involved in each having foils in the respective plot. To break it down:

Stitch, the wild and destructive alien gremlin who everyone has labeled as a crime against existence, is Lilo, the troubled young girl who's viewed as a "problem child" by all the adults in her life. In both plotlines, Stitch and Lilo are facing the threat of being "taken away" from the life they know because they act out, and in both plotlines, we see that this is an unfathomably cruel thing to do to them and will not actually solve the problems they have.

Dr. Jumbaa, the mad scientist who made Stitch because making monsters is what mad scientists do, and who had no intentions of ever being nurturing or parental to anything or anyone in his life, is Nani, Lilo's older sister whose parents died when she was young and now is forced to act as a parental substitute despite not being mentally or emotionally prepared for that responsibility yet. Both Dr. Jumbaa and Nani are trying to get their respective wild children in line with what society wants them to be, and both are struggling hard with it because they in turn have a lot of growing to do before they can actually accomplish that.

Pleakley, the nebbish alien bureaucrat who ends up being assigned to help Dr. Jumbaa despite being mostly uninvolved in creating the whole Stitch situation, is David, the nice but mostly ineffectual guy who's crushing on Nani and wants to help her but doesn't really have much he can provide except emotional support. Ultimately Pleakley and David prove that said emotional support is a lot more helpful than it seems on the surface, as they give Jumbaa and Nani respectively a lot of the pushes they need to become better in their parental roles.

The Grand Councilwoman, who runs the society of aliens that is trying to banish Stitch forever for his crime of existing, is Cobra Bubbles, the Child Protective Services agent who is in charge of deciding whether or not Lilo needs to be taken away from her home forever for, ostensibly, her own good. Both are well-intentioned and stern, with a desire to follow the rules of society and do what procedure says is the most humane thing to do in this situation, but both lack the understanding of Stitch/Lilo's situation to actually help until the end of the movie.

Finally, we have Captain Gantu, the enforcer of the Galactic Council who is a mean, aggressive, sadistic brute but is viewed as a "good guy" by society because he plays by its rules (well, when he knows can't get away with breaking them, anyway), who is the counterpart of Myrtle, the mean, aggressive, sadistic schoolyard bully who is viewed as a "good kid" by other adults because she plays by the rules they established (well, when she knows she can't get away with breaking them, anyway). Both Gantu and Myrtle are, in truth, much nastier in temperament than Stitch and Lilo, but are better at hiding it in front of others and so get away with it, and often make Stitch and Lilo look worse in the eyes of others by provoking them to violence and then playing the victim about it - in fact, both even have the same line, "Does this look infected to you?", which they say after goading their respective wild-child victims into biting them.

The symmetry of these two plotlines allows them to actually feed into each other and build each other up instead of fighting each other for screentime. The fantastical nature of Stitch's plot adds whimsy to the far more realistic problems that Lilo faces so they don't get too heavy for the children in the audience, while the very real struggles of Lilo in her plotline bleed over into Stitch's plot and make both very emotionally poignant. When both plotlines hit their shared climax, they reach children on a emotional level few other movies can match - the terror of Lilo being taken away from her family, and the emotional complexity of that problem (Cobra Bubbles pointing to Lilo's ruined house and shouting at Nani, "IS THIS WHAT LILO NEEDS?" is so starkly real and heart-breaking), is matched and echoed in the visual splendor and mania of the spectacular no-way-this-is-going-to-work chase scene where Stitch, Nani, Jumbaa, and Pleakley all team up to rescue Lilo from Gantu.

The arcs of the characters all more or less line up. Nani confronts her own failures to be a guardian and parent to Lilo and resolves to do better and learn from her mistakes. Jumbaa, who through most of the movie protests to be evil and uncaring, nonetheless comes to not only care for Pleakley, but more importantly for Stitch too, and ends up assuming the role he never wanted but nonetheless forced himself into from the start: he is Stitch's family. Hell, the moment that reveals this is really clever - Stitch goes out into the wilderness to try and re-enact a scene from a storybook of The Ugly Duckling, hoping, in a very childish way, that his family will show up and love him. Jumbaa arrives and, coldly but not particularly cruelly, tells Stitch that he has no family - that Stitch wasn't born, but created in a lab by Jumbaa himself. But in that moment Jumbaa is proving himself wrong - because Stitch's creator, his parent, DID show up, and did exactly what happens in the story by telling Stitch the truth of what he is. It can't be a surprise, then, that later in the movie Jumbaa ends up deciding to side with Stitch, to help him save Lilo, and to stay on Earth with his child.

David and Pleakley go from being pushed away by Nani and Jumbaa respectively to essentially becoming their partners in the family. The Grand Councilwoman and Cobra Bubbles finally see how cruel their initial solution of isolating Stitch and Lilo from their family would be, and bend the rules they are supposed to enforce to protect and support this weird found family instead of breaking it apart. Gantu and Myrtle are recognized for the assholes they are and face comeuppance in the form of comedic slapstick pratfalls. And most importantly, Stitch and Lilo both get the emotional support and understanding they need to thrive and live happy lives as children should be allowed to do. It's like poetry, it rhymes.

It's a very precise, smartly written movie. It's a delicate balancing act of tone and emotions, with a very strong theme about the need for family and understanding that hits children in their hearts and imaginations. It's extremely well structured.

...

So it'd be kind of colossally fucking stupid to remake it and start fucking around with the core structure of it, chopping out pieces and completely altering others, with no real purpose beyond "Well, the executives thought it might be better if we did this."

[waywardsalt]

tag rant but man i fuckin hate the new direction for loz

[kivaember]

#yeeeeeeeesssssssss#and then if one of the hex die in front of drifter?#do they force a reset? can they punch or do they seek death? do they rewind just the day or back to Jan1?#does the hex in question remember that death? their reactor deaths are “fuzzy” they say but do deaths get clearer the more they happen?#does the drifter start to get it then? or do they double down on it being better if its Them because theyre Used To It?

YEAH EXACTLY

like i imagine that drifter intentionally aims to have them die if there's a scenario that endangers the hex, to the point where they'd actively fling their body in front of the killing blow even though, as you say, they can just punch the ground and reset the loop. it doesnt really matter who dies, right? the loop's gonna happen anyways if it was the hex who dies or drifter. it doesnt matter who takes the blow, right?

but drifter still throw themselves in front of that killing blow and experience dying and time loops back anyways, because it matters to them. in their mind, it's just "better" if it's them that dies instead of the hex because...

well they trot out all kinds of excuses: well, it's faster like that. or, i'm used to dying so its fine if it happens to me. or, i just acted without thinking!

drifter hates seeing the hex die. even if rationally they know they can reverse that death with a simple slap of the ground. like, its one thing when they were dying all the time by themselves. no one was involved in that. it was just drifter, and that made it easier, somehow. but with the hex...

just imagining one loop where a hex member did die, and they did faintly recall their death and were clearly shaken up by it, and that just cemented in drifter's mind to be like welp, ok, i'll try to die in their place because it doesnt bother me anymore.

they really dont want the hex to experience what they did in their duviri time loop. drifter is numb to it, but they remembered how each death was horrible and awful and how they were terrified until they learned not to be anymore. they'll take the hex being mad at them all the time if they could spare them that bit of existential horror :')

(anyway tl;dr i just imagine the whole situation eventually boiling over into this with drifter and hex:

my fave thing with the 1999 fic is when arthur (and the hex) are going to finally comprehend the full horror that is a time loop staked to a person dying

like you can argue this means that drifter is immortal but is it immortality when drifter actually experiences that death and actually dies, and you as their comrade has to watch them fucking die and then in the next moment, see them perfectly fine acting like that death was no big deal bc "haha i've had worse".

and there's always a lag between drifter dying the loop restarts too, long enough for the hex to have that brief moment of doubt of wait is this death permanent-?

like, there's no winning here, is there? you either become apathetic to drifter dying, or you have to keep experiencing the horror of watching your close friend die (potentially in horrible ways considering techrot) so you dont become apathetic. its made even worse when drifter acts like its nbd.

idk i feel like there's SUCH a good bit of drama to dig into here, just from the sheer dissonance between the hex and drifter on this particular subject. drifter's been dying for centuries, they really arent fazed anymore, but theyve always died alone and in isolation.

now they die in front of their friends, and that somehow makes it a thousand times worse, bc those friends get upset and yell at them and they dont really get it bc its not permanent? they all know its not permanent? look theyre fine? was it bc they died messily? theyll try to do it more cleanly or out of sight next time but its not like they actively choose to die so they make no promises (then the hex gets increasingly frustrated that they dont get it).

anyway i just think this is a neat subject to poke at a little... also not at all a spoiler for the next chapter for the 1999 fic. nope. no siree...

[torchwood-99]

Eomer and Eowyn only talk to each other once in the films

but they communicate so much.

When Eomer first returns with a wounded Theodred, an entire dialogue is shared between Eomer and Eowyn without a single word passing between them.

This mutual look of concern, they're both on the same page.

Eowyn then goes on to look at Theodred's wound. It's interesting that Eomer now looks curious above all things, he's waiting on Eowyn's judgement.

Eowyn looks at the wound and grimaces. It's bad. Theodred isn't going to survive this.

She looks to Eomer, who looks back at her in grim resignation.

They go to Theoden to inform him of the situation. As Eomer walks by Eowyn, he doesn't speak to her or interrupt her, but he puts his hand on her back as he passes. Even when the focus is on other things, he is giving her that gesture of support and fondness. That it is done without fanfare shows that this sort of affection is commonplace.

They both stand before the throne, both of them united in their attempt to reach through to their uncle. They're a team, a unit.

Eomer throws down proof that Saruman, who Grima is trying to portray as a friend to Rohan, is sending his soldiers to terrorise their people.

Eowyn gives Grima a death glare, challenging him to refute her brother's accusations. She's on Eomer's side, Eomer's team.

Eomer sees Grima looking at Eowyn, and knows what he wants. It fills him with fury.

Eowyn sees her brother choking Grima against the wall. She looks on in cold silence, then walks away.

When Aragorn reveals that the beacons have been lit, Eowyn rushes into the throne room, drawing to a stop at Eomer's shoulder. They wait together for Theoden's judgement.

When it comes, and Theoden sends Eomer to muster the troops, Eomer bows, but even before he has fully straightened up, his eyes go to his sister.

Again, no words exchanged, simply a look of common understanding. They both know what the risks are, they both know what is at stake, for the world, for their country, for their family.

Before Eomer leaves, he touches Eowyn's arm, before walking away.

With Eomer gone, we see a steely determination come into Eowyn's eyes. Now there's something Eomer's missing, now Eomer's back is turn and there's something about his sister that she's keeping from him. She's riding to battle.

The one time they speak to each other, they're in opposition. About Merry, about Eowyn, about war.

The words are harsh. Eomer is stern, Eowyn is defensive.

But Eomer puts his hand on Eowyn's shoulder. He doesn't say "I don't want you to get hurt, I don't want you in battle", but that hand on her shoulder, tells the audience that's exactly what he's saying.

Those small moments of physical affection culminate in one great moment, when stern, stoic Eomer discovers Eowyn on the battle field, and breaks down in tears, cradling her and rocking her like she's a child.

And his devotion to her is ultimately shown in him sitting small and hunched, tucked in on himself, crouching down in armour for what seems to have been a lengthy space of time, as he sits by her side, waiting for her to be healed.

This is such an effective way of showing to an audience that two characters love each other, when there is a limited time window. The movie needed to crack on to cover the ground it needed to cover, and with so many important dynamics to reveal to the audience, the creators needed to be time effective. Eomer and Eowyn don't share much screen time, but the looks exchanged, the passing moments of intimacy, tells us clearly that these are two people greatly fond of each other, and have been fond of each other a long time.

The lack of spoken dialogue almost enhances it. Little is said between them because little needs to be said. They already know. The one time they do speak, it's when they're quarrelling, because that's the only moment when they need to use words. The rest of the time, a gesture, a look, is enough.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🧩 How to Outline Without Feeling Like You’re Dying

(a non-suffering writer’s guide to structure, sanity, and staying mildly hydrated)

Hey besties. Let’s talk outlines. Specifically: how to do them without crawling into the floorboards and screaming like a Victorian ghost.

If just hearing the word “outline” sends your brain into chaos-mode, welcome. You’re not broken, you’re just a writer whose process has been hijacked by Very Serious Advice™ that doesn’t fit you. You don’t need to build a military-grade beat sheet. You don’t need a sixteen-tab spreadsheet. You don’t need to suffer to be legitimate. You just need a structure that feels like it’s helping you, not haunting you.

So. Here’s how to outline your book without losing your soul (or all your serotonin).

—

🍓 1. Stop thinking of it as “outlining.” That word is cursed. Try “story sketch.” “Narrative roadmap.” “Planning soup.” Whatever gets your brain to chill out. The goal here is to understand your story, not architect it to death.

Outlining isn’t predicting everything. It’s just building a scaffold so your plot doesn't fall over mid-draft.

—

🧠 2. Find your plot skeleton. There are lots of plot structures floating around: 3-Act. Save the Cat. Hero’s Journey. Take what helps, ignore the rest.

If all else fails, try this dirt-simple one I use when my brain is mush:

Act I: What’s the problem?

Act II: Why can’t we fix it?

Act III: What finally makes us change?

Ending: What does that change cost?

You don’t need to fill in every detail. You just need to know what’s driving your character, what’s blocking them, and what choices will change them.

—

🛒 3. Make a “scene bucket list.” Before you start plotting in order, write down a list of scenes you know you want: key vibes, emotional beats, dramatic reveals, whatever.

These are your anchors. Even if you don’t know where they go yet, they’re proof your story already exists, it just needs connecting tissue.

Bonus: when you inevitably get stuck later, one of these might be the scene that pulls you back in.

—

🧩 4. Start with 5 key scenes. That’s it. Here’s a minimalist approach that won’t kill your momentum:

Opening (what sucks about their world?)

Catalyst (what throws them off course?)

Midpoint (what makes them confront themselves?)

Climax (what breaks or remakes them?)

Ending (what’s changed?)

Plot the spaces between those after you’ve nailed these. Think of it like nailing down corners of a poster before smoothing the rest.

You’re not “doing it wrong” if you start messy. A messy start is a start.

—

🔧 5. Use the outline to ask questions, not just answer them. Every section of your outline should provoke a question that the scene must answer.

Instead of: — “Chapter 5: Sarah finds a journal.”

Try: — “Chapter 5: What truth does Sarah find that complicates her next move?”

This makes your story active, not just a list of stuff that happens. Outlines aren’t just there to record, they’re tools for curiosity.

—

🪤 6. Beware of the Perfectionist Trap™. You will not get the entire plot perfect before you write. Don’t stall your momentum waiting for a divine lightning bolt of Clarity. You get clarity by writing.

Think of your outline as a map drawn in pencil, not ink. It’s allowed to evolve. It should evolve.

You’re not building a museum exhibit. You’re making a prototype.

—

🧼 7. Clean up after you start drafting. Here’s the secret: the first draft will teach you what the story’s actually about. You can go back and revise the outline to fit that. It’s not wasted work, it’s evolving scaffolding.

You don’t have to build the house before you live in it. You can live in the mess while you figure out where the kitchen goes.

—

🛟 8. If you’re a discovery writer, hybrid it. A lot of “pantsers” aren’t anti-outline, they’re just anti-stiff-outline. That’s fair.

Try using “signposts,” not full scenes:

Here’s a secret someone’s hiding.

Here’s the emotional breakdown scene.

Here’s a betrayal. Maybe not sure by who yet.

Let the plot breathe. Let the characters argue with your outline. That tension is where the fun happens.

—

🪴 TL;DR but emotionally: You don’t need a flawless outline to write a good book. You just need a loose net of ideas, a couple of emotional anchors, and the willingness to pivot when your story teaches you something new.

Outlines should support you, not suffocate you.

Let yourself try. Let it be imperfect. That’s where the good stuff lives.

Go forth and outline like a gently chaotic legend 🧃

— written with snacks in hand by Rin T. @ thewriteadviceforwriters 🍓🧠✍️

Sometimes the problem isn’t your plot. It’s your first 5 pages. Fix it here → 🖤 Free eBook: 5 Opening Pages Mistakes to Stop Making:

[no-144444]

hey girl!

I LOVEEEE your writing, you're so talented! i was wondering if you could do a grid post where either the reader, or the driver starts crying during an argument? I'd just love to see how it would play out!

thanks ml :))))

crying during an argument

꩜ featuring: the entire grid, zhou guanyu, paul aron, jack doohan.

꩜ a/n: thank you for requesting and thank you for reading! I loved this idea and lmk if yall want a part 2 to any of them bc i have some ideas... :) also heads up, this is 14k words... my b i got carried away :p

mclaren

Oscar Piastri 

Oscar didn’t cry often. Special events required crying; terrible crashes where he genuinely felt scared for his life, his dog dying, missing his sisters’ graduations. 

And apparently this. 

You were ranting, not even raising your voice, just frustrated. You were so damn understanding too, so aware of the fact that it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t control his schedule. You just missed him. You just wanted him there for one of the biggest nights of your life, and he couldn’t be there. 

He felt the emotion building in his throat, foreign and clunky. Uncontrollable. He tried to swallow it down, but he just made this weird choked sound, and he felt the tears on his cheeks. 

You’d somehow sensed it, like you did with everything else about him. Always, after every race, every tough day, every great day, you always knew just what he needed. You stopped talking. You whipped your head around, and you were already in front of him with wide eyes and more patience than he thought he probably deserved.  

A soft hand on his shoulder, a tentative breath. “Oscar?” You practically whispered. He nodded, wiping his tears away, only for more to appear seconds later. “Oscar, it’s ok, I’m sorry,” you whispered, your hand reaching up and running through his hair, coaxing him to lean into you. He did. He dropped his head to your shoulder, his tears soaking your shirt. You didn’t seem to care. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out, not entirely sure what he was apologising for. You shook your head as he fisted your shirt, trying to hold onto something so he wouldn’t fully fall apart.

Your voice came soft and soothing. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” you tightened your grip on his waist. “Please don’t apologise.” 

“I just-“ hiccup- “I feel bad,” God, he sounded like a child to himself. You didn’t judge. “I want to be there so bad.”

“It’s alright Osc,” you hushed. “It’s okay. I know you support me,” you said it against his temple like a prayer, and it made him want to believe you. “I know you love me.”

He nodded, pulling his face out of its solace in the crook of your neck. “Okay,” he nodded, breathless. Your eyes were wide, but trusting. Truthful. “Okay.”

You hadn’t seen Oscar cry many times, mostly because he didn’t like to. He knew now, if he needed to, he could come to you. 

Lando Norris  

It was a dumb argument. Somewhere in your brain, you knew that. 

But it’s hard to remember that when you’re that angry, and that frustrated. 

You shouldn’t have shouted. You shouldn’t have stopped looking at him. You shouldn’t have let him go quiet. There were a lot of things you shouldn’t have done. 

He listened as best he could, truly. He wanted to solve the problem, to make it better, to make being with him easier. He can’t control his schedule though. He can’t control where he’ll be day by day. He can’t leave at a moment's notice. He has people who rely on him, too many people who rely on him. It weighs on him, and somehow, it’s started to weigh on you. You’ve become a background character in your own partner's life, and you couldn’t take it anymore. He feels like more of a roommate than a boyfriend, and he’s hardly ever home. He wanted to fix it, but when so many parts of your life are out of your control, you start to feel helpless. You start to believe the things people say online, the ones online telling him he should just break up with you since he only gets to see you twice a year. The ones who tell him he’s not a good boyfriend. The ones who remind him of his failings, and all the second chances you’ve given him without even thinking about it. 

He teared up and just left. The bedroom door locked behind him before you’d even notice he’d fucking left. 

Then the guilt settled, right down in your stomach, so deep you felt like you couldn’t breathe. You cupped a hand over your mouth, like it would reverse all the things you’d said. Like it could take it back. It couldn’t. You couldn’t. 

Time passed as you stared at that fucking door, debating about what you’d even do if you went in there. You didn’t know, but you knew you had to make it right. 

You knocked against the wood. “Lan,” your voice was breaking. “I’m so sorry,” you leaned your head against the door. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Slowly, you heard footsteps, and the door opened. He looked cosy, but the sad kind of cosy. The kind of cosy he looked when he was overwhelmed. 

He cleared his throat. “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that,” his usual sentiment lacked any conviction, but there was a soft kind of humour in his words. “She’s a genius.”

You shook your head, that guilt clawing at you from the inside out. “I’m not sure I am,” you chuckled out, but it lacked any kind of humour. “I’m sorry,” you looked up at him, his red-rimmed eyes, his soft expression, his sunken shoulders. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

He shrugged. “Probably not,” he let out a breath. “But I’ve said a lot worse, and you’ve given me another chance every time without thinking about it,” he admitted. “And I think we’re both exhausted.” 

“You’re too nice to me-”

“You’re not nice enough to yourself,” he corrected, wrapping his hand around your waist and pulling you into his chest. “I just needed a minute, I’m sorry I left.”

“I think we both needed a minute,” you admitted, that warm feeling in your chest somehow choking out the feeling of guilt. “I’m sorry again Lan.”

“Thank you,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “We’ll work through it. We always do.”

mercedes:

George Russell 

George argued like he drove; completely controlled until he wasn’t. He liked to think he could keep his cool, that an argument with his girlfriend wouldn’t shake him so much when he could make split-second decisions while driving 300km/ h. He couldn’t. Every word coming out of your mouth seemed to rattle him, make him falter, make him lose his mind. 

He didn’t realise he was crying. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t being overwhelmed. He was frustrated. He wanted to be what you needed, he wanted to be there for you, he wanted to always be able to drop everything for you, but he couldn’t. Yes, it was his dream to drive, but sometimes, it left a sour taste in his mouth on the nights you texted him sad and lonely, or exhausted and in need of affection. It made him feel… ashamed. He wanted to be the perfect fiance, be there for you more than anyone else. He couldn’t. And it made him feel like shit. 

“George,” your voice pulled him out of his shame-spiral, and he felt your hand on his cheek, wiping away the wetness. “Breathe,” you demanded, your voice full of fear and eyes wide. “You’re going to have a panic attack, George, breathe.”

He did as you asked, grounding himself with his hands on your hips, squeezing your shirt in time with his breaths like you’d made him do several times before. He focused on your eyes. Exploring the colours he knew so well, reminding himself that an argument is just an argument, and you were just frustrated, he was just frustrated. You’d both lie down together tonight, he’d kiss your shoulder, and you’d pretend to hate the way his hand sneaks up your shirt. You’d still be there. You’d still love him. 

He nodded. “I’m alright,” he sighed out, the tension finally breaking. You didn’t look convinced, you never did during one of these. “I’m alright,” he spoke slower again, reassuring you. 

You nodded, then pressed your face into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” you let out, soft and small. Like you were scared he'd fall away if you didn’t hold onto him. 

“I’m sorry I can’t be there,” he whispered, a humorless chuckle in his lips. “You’re always there to support me and I can’t fucking be there for you. Ever.” He spat out the last word like he was embarrassed, or disgusted with himself. 

You looked up and pressed your lips to his. He kissed you back like it could maybe make up for it. Like he could show you how much he cared, how much he wanted to be there. “George,” you were breathless, he tried to kiss you again, and you stopped him. “You’re always there for me,” you smiled softly, the kind of smile that made him see into the future, wrinkles and kids, everything he wanted. “Even when you’re a million miles away, you’re always checking up on me. You care so much it scares my friends sometimes,” you chuckled and pressed a kiss against his forehead. “I’m just…” you couldn’t finish your sentence, you didn’t even know how you felt. 

“I know,” he whispered, his forehead against yours. He always knew when it came to you. 

Andrea Kimi Antonelli

Kimi hated arguments. He hated making you upset, hated not knowing what to say. 

“You can’t say shit like that Kimi, it’s not fair,” you scoffed, fluffing the pillows of your couch. Moving in together had been tumultuous. You both loved it, but it was a long process to figure out the balance between being together all the time, and not ripping the heads off each other. He’d said something stupid, some off-handed comment that made you see red. He sat on the couch as you rage-cleaned the apartment, ranting all the way. He felt too much like a child for his liking, sitting on the couch as you scolded him. 

Kimi was an emotional person, and you’d only had so many arguments in your relationship. He hated seeing you upset, and knowing it was his fault just started a guilt pit in his mind, picking apart every single thing he did that upset you. 

“I think I just need some time alone,” you sighed, putting down the towel in your hand. “I’m going to go for a walk-“

“Don’t go!” He shot up, the emotion building behind his eyes as panic surged through his chest. You couldn’t leave, not like this. He grabbed onto your wrist and pulled you against his chest. “Please don’t leave, talk to me, scream at me, just don’t leave. Please.” His eyes were wide and pleading, and his grip was practically bruising. 

You’d never seen him like this. Begging. Pleading. Like if he didn’t convince you to stay, you’d never come back. You cupped his cheek, the beginnings of tears falling from his eyes as he tried to blink them away. “Kim,” your voice was soft. “I’m not leaving,” you assured him, stroking his cheek as he kept his eyes fixed on your face. “I’m right here.” You took his hand and placed it on your waist, showing him you weren’t leaving. 

“I hate it when people leave,” he admitted, breathless. “I don’t-“ hiccup “-want you to leave,” he closed his eyes. “I never want you to leave,” he pressed his forehead against yours, like it could somehow stop you from running. 

“I’m not leaving,” you whispered. “I’m not leaving, Kim,” you shook your head. 

He tightened his grip on your waist. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was just tired, I didn’t mean it-“ 

“I know,” you nodded, voice full of warmth and understanding. He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but he took it all the same. “You don’t have an angry bone in your body Kimi, I know you didn’t mean it,” you chuckled, and he felt lucky to ever hear the sound. “It just… upset me.”

“I didn’t mean to-“

“I know you didn’t,” you cooed, and his frown relaxed. “Again, I don’t think you have a mean bone in your body either. It just… it was what it was. And it’s done now.” 

Forgiveness, it had never tasted so sweet. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you,” he repeated, on his lips like a chant. 

williams:

Alex Albon

It’s haunting how strange Alex looks when he cries. That’s what he thinks anyway. He’s almost sure you think it too. He’s just so used to not being upset, that he really doesn’t know what to do with himself when he is. You were there for him, through everything. Through RedBull. You’ve seen him cry. You’ve seen him rise up from it, rise up to Williams, rise up to P5 being a genuine result, a constant result. He’s proud, of course, but there’s always that voice in the back of his head that sounds surprisingly like Will Buxton, telling him that he’s a problem. 

Even in his relationships. Even in your relationship. 

That’s what this stemmed from. He didn’t feel good enough. He shut you out again. He didn’t text for a full week. 

“Alex, you can’t just not text me for a week, alright?” You were exhausted, exasperated, and downright pissed. Frankly, you had every reason to be. He was in the wrong, he knew that, but he just couldn’t help feeling slightly justified. He would’ve caused a fight either way, especially when he got like that. “I want to hear from you, the good, the bad, the ugly, the mundane! I don’t care once it’s coming from you,” your words were raw with emotion, and it almost shocked him. He sometimes forgot the fact that he made a difference in people’s lives. 

He didn’t feel the tears falling until one landed on his shirt, and he almost thought it was somehow raining inside. “I know,” his voice broke despite himself. “I’m sorry.”

Your head whipped around and you were beside himin seconds. “Alex,” you whispered out, his name coming out like a secret. “It’s okay,” you wrapped an arm around his neck, your heart breaking as you felt him hiccup against you, trying against his better judgement to stop himself from crying. “You can cry.”

And he did. He wrapped his arms around your back and pulled you into his lap, and cried into your shirt. He didn’t know what to do after carrying this… hurt, for so long. But for some reason being beside you, having you hold him, it didn’t seem so heavy. 

“What’s wrong?” You whispered once his crying has subsided. Your expression was full of care, of understanding, of love. He wondered how he’d gotten so lucky. 

He shrugged. “I just… I don’t know. Sometimes there’s this voice in my head that, no matter what I do, tells me I should still be more,” he admitted, and immediately, he felt out in the open, and not necessarily in a bad way. You nodded your head, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

It took you a few seconds to formulate a response, but it didn’t make him panic like he’d thought it would in the millions of times he’d gone over this very scenario in his head. Your hand smoothed up and down his arm, and he knew you cared. You wouldn’t run away. 

“Thank you for telling me,” you smiled softly. “And I always want you to talk to me about these things, because I’m here for you,” you took a deep breath. “I’m going to say something that I know you won’t like, and that’s how you know I genuinely believe it. Alex, I think you should see someone again,” you placed a soft hand on his cheek as he stiffened. “Not right now, maybe not even in the next few months, but I think it would be good for you. I can love you as much as I can, and do, and evidently, I can’t make it go away. Race results don’t make it go away. Progress doesn’t make it go away. Nothing is going to make it happy, and if I’m understanding right, you can’t just turn it off,” you pressed your lips to his cheek again. “I think seeing someone would help.” 

He felt like you’d opened his eyes. You were right, nothing would make it go away, other than him. For the first time in his life, he was happy about an argument. 

Carlos Sainz

When he argued, he got quiet. Whether he meant to or not, he did. So there was nothing out of the ordinary when it seemed like you were talking to yourself as you listed out the problems. You didn’t want to go to a race when you knew a certain other girlfriend would be there, because she made you feel like shit. Carlos didn’t seem to understand that, and he fought you on it. He called you selfish. You walked off. This was part two of the argument, what you called the reconciliation, but Carlos was silent as he leaned against the counter, his back to you. 

“You’re not even fucking listening, are you?” You scoffed, feeling more than dejected. “I don’t know why I try,” you mumbled, starting to walk away again, but a strong hand gripped your waist and pulled you into his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered out. He hadn’t paid much attention before, when you’d said you didn’t want to go. He just felt rejected, and he ignored your reasoning. He stopped listening. He didn’t know it was because of the group chat you had been added to and humiliated by a girl you thought was your friend. He would’ve never fought you on it. He would’ve just agreed and moved on, asking you to come to the next one. “I didn’t listen, I’m sorry.”

“Carlos-” you reached up and cupped his face in your hands. “What’s wrong? I-I’m sorry-”

He sighed, that hole of guilt in his heart aching with every word out of your mouth. Of course you’d start worrying about him. You should get angry, but of course, you chose to be soft, to care, to love. Sometimes he wished he could do that. He wished he could think like that, instead of going straight for an argument. “You don’t need to apologise,” he shook his head, his big brown eyes dropping with tears as you tenderly wiped them away. “I’m in the wrong,” he reminded you, almost as if he thought you forgot. Maybe you had. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, and I’m sorry I started an argument,” he sniffled. “I love you,” he pressed a kiss to your shocked cheek. “I love you so much, mi cariño.”

“Car,” you were wordless, not even sure how to react. “It’s alright,” you answered, your eyes focused on him, only him. “It was a mistake.”

His heart ached. The world didn’t deserve you, your friends didn’t deserve you, he didn’t deserve you. You should scream. You should tell him to shove his apology up his ass. But you don’t. You chose to forgive him. 

He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but you kissed him like he did, and he couldn’t really complain from there. 

redbull racing:

Max Verstappen 

Max probably wasn’t the best person to go to about emotions, and you knew that. Not only was he emotionally stunted, he was also Dutch, a nationality famous for being blunt. 

But you thought he would see your side and agree. He didn’t. He spent a half hour lecturing you on why your mother was justified in what she said to you. You just agreed, it wasn’t worth the energy to fight with him, he was always so fucking logical. He couldn’t just appeal to the illogical side of you, he couldn’t let you just be upset. He had to solve the problem, he had to explain why the problem wasn’t a problem, he had to make you feel like a helpless kid. 

You finished getting ready for dinner in silence. No music playing. No fun dancing he pretended to hate watching (and sometimes joining you for). No bright smile when your hair looked how you wanted it to, or your outfit came together exactly how you’d wanted it to. Just a flat line on your lips. Just a dull gaze in your eyes. He, on the other hand, was completely entranced by you. You looked stunning in that dress, with your hair done the way you had it.

“Ready to go?” You asked him, not even trying to bait him into putting your heels on you. Another thing pretended to hate, but secretly loved. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, watching you with a sense of curiosity and confusion. “Are you alright?” He asked, trying to snake a hand around your waist, but you just walked on. 

“I’m okay,” you nodded, but there was a stiffness in your actions and words. “Just tired.”

He decided to put it to bed for now, just enjoy the night together, and check back in with you in a while. 

You ditched him the second you got on the yacht. Alexandra was there, so you practically ran to her, and Max loitered around the drinks table with Charles. 

“Alex is mad at me,” he admitted. 

“I think Y/n’s upset with me too,” he admitted. He could blame the loosening of his tongue on the gin in his drink, but he knew it was because of his growing anxiety about the situation. You rarely fought, and it rarely went on this long. 

“What did you do?” Charles knocked back the rest of his drink and Max took him in for the first time that night. He looked practically disheveled. A broken man in front of him, because he had an argument with his girlfriend. 

“Nothing really, she had an argument with her mom over something stupid, and I told her to get over herself. I have arguments with my folks all the time,” he shrugged, and Charles looked at him like he’d committed several war crimes. 

Charles’s jaw dropped even further when he realised Max wasn’t joking. “Are you fucking crazy?” He demanded. “Do you want her to break up with you?”

Now it was Max’s turn to think Charles was crazy. “Obviously not? I love her.”

“You sure?” He scoffed. “If I said that to Alex, I think she’d break up with me-”

“The fragility of your relationship has nothing to do with mine,” he interpreted because he’d finally realised what he sounded like. God, he’d been a fucking asshole, no wonder you were upset. 

You slinked into the bedroom with your head low and a tired expression on your face. You slotted into bed beside him, but you didn’t shock him with your feet against his, frozen against warmth. You didn’t turn to him. You didn’t show him the funny tiktoks you’d found that day. He felt something in his heart squeeze. 

You turned out the light without a kiss, and the air in the room filled with the atmosphere of a heavy silence, and he genuinely yearned to reach out for you. He didn’t. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed. 

You waited 30 minutes. Max was a good sleeper, and heavy sleeper. You could get away with sleeping on the couch for one night, not because you wanted to hurt him, but because you genuinely couldn’t sleep next to him after he told you to get a grip. 

Slowly, you climbed out of bed, pillow in hand. 

Something pulled you back. A hand. His hand. 

A sniffle. “Stay,” he whispered into the darkness of the room. “Please stay. I know what I said was shitty and wrong, and you can hate me all you want, but please stay.”

You halted in the darkness, his words carrying more weight than you thought he probably meant them to. “I don’t hate you Max,” you answered. “I’ll never hate you.”

“You can, if it means you’ll stay,” he admitted, his voice breaking. You climbed back into bed slowly, but he felt that hole in his chest, the one that had been there since the day his father left him at a petrol station, close up just a little more. The way it always did when he was near you. You climbed into his arms, feeling small droplets of water against your shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

You breathed out. “Alright,” you nodded. “Thank you for apologising.” He practically held his breath. What the fuck was he doing crying when he was one the in the wrong? He could hear his dad now, telling him to stop crying, telling him to grow up, telling him- 

“You can cry, y’know,” you whispered. “I like it better when you trust me. Like when we dance or when you put on my heels. You’re less nonchalant than usual. Makes me feel like you really care about me,” you admitted, running a hand through his hair. “Makes me feel like you like me enough to trust me.”

He closed his eyes, tight. Of course you’d say the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing anyone had ever said to him and act like you’re the one inconveniencing him. “I trust you,” he whispered. 

And that was the first time you’d ever seen Max cry. 

Yuki Tsunoda

Fathers were funny in the way they showed their love. You understood that Yuki probably didn’t have the healthiest relationship with his, especially based on the way he practically shunned him when he came out of the car, another disappointing Sunday. You knew it was already weighing on him with a simple glance. 

He clearly couldn’t. He complained the whole way back to the hotel, all throughout dinner, and even on the short walk back to your hotel rooms. 

And you couldn’t take it anymore. Yuki was trying his damnedest in one of the shittest cars on the grid, and the only reason it looked so bad for him was the fact that he had Max 4-Time-World-Champion-one-of-the-greatest-of-the-modern-era Verstappen as a teammate. 

“He’s trying. How can that not be enough for you? He’s trying,” you shook your head at her before bidding his wife a good night, and walking into your own suite. Yuki had no idea what to do, but his father just brushed by him coldly, his mother behind him offering a sympathetic smile. He felt twelve again, sandwiched between two things he wanted equally. He wanted his father’s approval, he wanted his dad to just say he was proud, just once. And he wanted your support. He liked that you stood up for him, that you were willing to, but it wasn’t that simple. The majority of things never were. 

He didn’t even know what to say. It happened in slow-motion. He couldn’t stop it, just watch the chaos unfold and have to deal with the aftermath. He just stormed in and demanded. “What the fuck was that?!” 

“Yuki, the way he was talking about you, it was disgusting,” you answered, shocked at his confusion. 

“You just disrespected my father, Y/n, you’ve just fucked the both of us,” he scoffed. He paced the floor, his eyes wide, panic surging through him. Tension filled the room, oozing from every corner. “He’s going to hate you now.” He knew it probably wasn’t the best thing to say, but he needed you to understand the level of disrespect, and how his father would hold that grudge. 

You shrugged, unbothered, as you pulled your earrings out. Though he could tell, from the stiff and rigid nature of your movements, it bothered you. “Let him hate me,” you sighed. “I’m trying to support you, and hearing about every tiny thing you did wrong isn’t going to make you feel any better, just worse. He needed to shut up.” 

He groaned in frustration, his head falling into his hands. Despite the way he wanted to keep his composure, he could feel it crumbling under the weight of the day. He sniffled and looked up again, willing himself not to cry. He failed, and the first tear fell. 

You stared at him through the mirror, your eyes locked in on him. You slowly turned around and stood when you saw him. “Yuki,” you breathed out, pulling him into a hug. “I’m sorry,” you cooed. “I made it worse, and I know that. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, emotion breaking his voice. “I just- I wanted today to be good. Not like every other fucking race this year. I wanted it to be worth it. Worth their sacrifice. Worth your sacrifices. And it’s not,” he sighed. “I just step into that car feeling like a failure.”

“I know,” you nodded as his hands circled your waist. “But you’re not, baby, you’re not a failure. Christian is. Helmut is. You’re just taking the brunt of the weight because they’re too small to admit their mistakes,” you soothed. He wondered how he’d ever gotten so lucky. “And you’d never fail me.”

Something about the way you said it made him believe you, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t go to bed feeling like a failure. 

vcarb:

Liam Lawson

He hated crying. He hated how it made him feel. He hated how it made other people feel. You hated arguing just as much. 

The fact that both these things were happening simultaneously was entirely your fault.

He knew you wanted to meet his parents, he really did. You were just busy. The life of a software engineer was busy. You couldn’t change that, even if you wanted to, which you did. You would’ve been there, at that restaurant on 43rd, that gorgeous Italian place you two frequented when you were in New York. Yet you stood him up for a late-night coding session with your team because the contract you were working on was taking longer than expected, and you were contractually obligated to keep on working until you could get as close to done. His texts were just… miserable. 

Hey baby, where are you?  (18:04)

We’re going to start without you, alright? I’m sure you’re just late (please don’t be too late my dad is already teasing me about you not being real :)) (18:35)

Y/n, where are you? (18:47)

Are you alright?  (18:59)

Please text me I’m getting worried. (19:34)

Fucks sake Y/n. I just checked your location. Really? 

Work is more important than this? Than me?  (19:57)

Congratulations my parents are pissed and I’ve been doing fucking recon all night. I thought you’d actually make it this time. I thought you put the time aside. I thought you fucking cared.  (20:07) 

Don’t text me. I don’t want to talk to you until tomorrow. (21:49) 

I’m staying in my parents' hotel. (21:50) 

He was crying on the streets of New York like some bad romcom. He felt pathetic, in more ways than one. How was it that he could fuck everything up, all over again. He trusted you. He relied on you. He was so sure you’d show up for him like you’d done so many times before, and you just didn’t. His parents felt disrespected, fuck, he felt disrespected. He’d planned out the entire dinner, picked a place you loved, briefed his parents on you as a person so they could ask questions, briefed you on them, so you’d have just as many questions. 

And you didn’t show.

You walked towards his hotel, shame hanging off you so clearly, you were sure anyone who could see you would know. Fuck, you stood up Liam’s parents. Brilliant first impression, you thought to yourself. You knew him well enough to know that after a night like this, even when you fucked him off so badly, him still wanted you to try. He’d messed up enough for you to know this routine, though you didn’t think it would go as it did regularly. You’d missed dinner with his parents. Possibly the worst first impression you could ever make, especially when you truly planned on marrying him. You loved him, so bad it hurt sometimes. 

You dialled his number. You couldn’t wait the 18 minute walk to apologise. You just hoped he’d pick up. 

He picked up on the fifth ring. 

“I’m so sorry,” you rushed out. “I’m a fucking piece of shit, and you deserve so much better and I’m mortified that I missed it, I’m so sorry Liam.” You waited with bated breath as he just breathed on the line. He was quiet for a minute, so still you thought he almost hung up. 

“I can see you,” he answered. You raised an eyebrow, and looked around, seeing a figure that looked a lot like Liam, just across the stream between you. 

“What-? Liam-” you started, hearing the thickness of his voice. He’d been crying. The knife twisted in your heart, and you had only yourself to blame. 

“Across the water,” he finished. “You look beautiful,” he smiled through his tears. “So fucking pretty.”

Again, that knife got deeper. Of course he’d compliment you even after what you’d done. Of course, because that’s the kind of man he was. Caring. Loving. So fucking sweet it hurt your teeth sometimes. You let out a small humourless chuckle. “You’re too sweet to me.”

“You fucked up tonight,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair as he stared at you from across the water. “Figured a compliment might soften the blow.”

“You don’t need to soften the blow, I was an asshole. I deserve the full consequences,” you breathed out. “I’m so sorry Liam. I’m genuinely so embarrassed and fucking… ashamed. I’m such a fucking idiot,” you played with the ring on your middle finger. He’d given it to you after he noticed that you liked to fidget while you spoke. That's what he did, he noticed. 

He let out a teary laugh. “Yeah, you were an asshole,” he agreed, nodding his head. The words felt foreign in his mouth. He hated saying shit like that, but objectively it was true. You were the asshole in the situation. “But I fucking love you,” he let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “And for some reason spending a night we could spend together, alone, makes me sick to my stomach. I want to fall asleep next to you and I want to wake up beside you tomorrow before I fuck off to wherever,” he admitted, his vulnerability pulling at every single string of your heart. “And I fucking love you so much I spent all of tonight convincing my parents I got the date wrong. So you owe me.” 

You breath caught in your throat at that. Of course he did. Always protecting you. Always caring too much. “Liam, you didn’t have to do that. You should tell them-”

“Just come over here,” his voice was pleading, like he wasn’t above begging for you. “Please,” he added at the end. 

Against your better judgement, you walked straight through the shallowest part of the stream, ruining your dress from the knees down, and running right into his arms. “I’ll make it up to you,” you whispered against his lips as he kissed you like he hadn’t seen you for months, not days. 

“You fucking better,” he chuckled, wiping away the last of his tears as he pulled away. 

Isack Hadjar

Isack had vowed to himself he wouldn’t cry until the end of the season. Was it the healthiest thing on planet earth? No, very much not, but he seemed set on the idea, so you let him. You were just ready to be there if it fell apart, and he needed some comfort. 

He did pretty well, up until it started. You came home, quiet. You weren’t humming in the kitchen as you made a snack, you weren’t asking him about his day, it was like you were there physically, but not mentally. And it didn’t change. He’d thought it had been a once-off, but no, the next day you pushed him further and further away, and he had no idea why. You’d always been the better communicator out of the two of you, hell, you’d taught Isack everything he knew about communicating effectively. So getting radio silence from you was not only unusual, it was worrying. He left for the double header, thinking you were just mad and needed time to process it, and then you’d talk. You didn’t. You texted him a few times, small messages wishing luck, or congratulations on a good result, but your regular messages about your day were gone, much like your hours-long facetime calls. He didn’t let it bother him. He gave you space. He didn’t lose his cool, because he knew you loved him, and he loved you. That wouldn’t change.

He walked into the living room with a confused expression when he found you sitting on the couch, the apartment looking more barren than when he’d left. It hit him. His heart stopped in his chest and he dropped his bag. No. He thought. This isn’t real, she’s pranking me, she’s just mad at me, she’s just-

“Isack,” your voice was steady, but anyone could see the way you were breaking inside. “We need to talk.”

Those dreaded words. He nodded and gulped back the emotion building in his throat as he sat beside you, his eyes trained to you like you’d disappear if he looked away for a split-second. Maybe you would. He didn’t reach out and hold your hand or grab your thigh like he usually would, he didn’t know if he was allowed. He held his breath. “What’s wrong?” he asked, all the care in the world in his voice. 

You sighed. “I can’t do this anymore,” you admitted out loud for the first time. For months you’d been going over every scenario in your head, trying to work through every possible fix, and none of it left you satisfied. You couldn’t just be someone’s WAG, even if that someone was Isack. You needed a boyfriend who could show up for you, always. And Isack never could. And the worst part was, it was never his fault. He always wanted to, tried to support you from oceans away, sent you message after message, and you’d see how disappointed he was once you came back and you had to recount the whole night to him. He cared so deeply, but it just wasn’t enough. You needed someone to be there, mind, body, and soul. Not in a racecar halfway across the world. “I love you,” you sniffled, a stray tear falling down your face. “But this isn’t working for me anymore. I need someone who’s here, someone who can be there for me all the time. And it’s not your fault. You’ve been nothing but the best to me,” you choked up, unable to continue as more tears fell down your face. He wanted so desperately to reach out and wipe them away, promise you he could be there, that he would be there, but that was unrealistic. He couldn’t be there, no matter how badly he wanted to be, and intentions and text messages after the fact are never as good as actually showing up. He couldn’t give you that. He understood. “You’re so kind,” your voice was barely above a whisper. “And caring, and loving. I just… I need something else right now.” 

You finally looked up and saw his face, tear-stained but accepting. He nodded. “That’s alright,” he whispered, though every syllable killed him. “You deserve someone who can be there for you,” there was a small smile on those lips you knew so well, and it hit you that it might be the last time you ever see him in person, you were sure you'd end up seeing him on your TV screen, even long after today, probably winning world championships. Time stopped for a moment and you let yourself remember what it meant to be with Isack, just one last time. “And I’m so sorry I cannot give that to you,” he sighed out a teary, angry sigh. “It is one of my great failings,” he sniffled, but brought a hand up to your cheek and wiped a tear away. “Maybe one day we’ll find each other again?” he asked, his voice hopeful. 

“Maybe,” you nodded, but you both knew this was the end of the two of you. 

You left the apartment after that. You didn’t look back. You saw him, years on, watching the sport you fell in love with because of the boy you fell in love with, with your family. Your husband and your children loved car number 6, and you didn’t have the heart to tell them you loved it for a different reason. He won world championships, like you always knew he would. He never got married, he just raced. He sent you Christmas cards and thank yous that you hid and cherished forever, because you never really forget your first love. 

Years on, you told your granddaughter about the boy with the hazel eyes and fighting spirit, and how some nights, you wished you’d stayed with him. She told you that you should’ve. You told her she was wiser than you were at her age. 

Maybe she was right. Maybe you should’ve held on a little bit longer. 

ferrari:

Charles LeClerc

Charles notoriously hated fighting. He had no idea what the point was, because he’d just apologise, kiss you, and want everything to go back to normal. That worked for him. He came from a family that didn’t yell, a family so tightly woven together through something so deeply upsetting, that shouting was never an option. He came from a family that took care of each other, no matter what it cost them. Loyalty. Strength in numbers. Unconditional love. 

You didn’t. You came from a family that made their children compete for love, made you hate your siblings and them hate you in return, and a family that boarded all that up with their perfect image. 

He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have pushed if he did. He wouldn’t have gone behind your back and set up the dinner if he realised it was like this, on your birthday no less. 

Those carefully disguised jabs from your mothers, those deliberately placed smirks and sniggers from your siblings and their stuck-up partners, those blatant comments from your father, he saw how they all weighed you down slowly. Over the course of a dinner, he saw you turn from the extroverted, kind, and sweet girl he’d fallen for, to the small, picked-on, and scared child you’d been for half your life. The side of yourself you’d never shared with anyone. The side of yourself you promised you’d never have to. He saw how your eyes watered before you got up to go to the bathroom, another snarky comment about your career choice being ‘unique’, like you weren’t literally changing people’s life with your work. He shook his head as he watched you leave. 

“You are all terrible,” the words came out of his mouth before he meant them to, his eyes low as he looked at the table around him. He’d already said it, why not dig the grave deeper? “Get out of my house, now.” 

There was a tense stillness that followed. Knives stopped. Chatter died down. Anger pulsed through his veins. 

“Pardon?” your father asked, an incredulous smile on his face. He acted as if he didn’t hear Charles, and if he was a better man who wanted to keep a relationship with your family, he would’ve apologised and told everyone to continue eating. He wasn’t a better man, not when it came to you. He would do anything to protect you. He would go to any length to make you happy. He’d do anything if it meant he wouldn’t have to see you with that heartbreaking pout and cloudy eyes. 

“I said, get out of my house,” he repeated, standing from the table. “I don’t want to see you here again.” He walked over to the door and opened it wide, waiting for them to step outside. They looked at him dumbfounded. Like he wasn’t being serious. Like he wasn’t seconds away from grabbing your brother, who’d made an awful comment on how you were ‘parading yourself around the paddock like an instagram whore’, when he didn’t understand or know how long it took Charles to convince you to come with him. When he didn’t see the hours you’d spent before walking into that paddock, pacing your hotel room, and nearly backing out at the last minute, but you forced yourself to because you wanted to be there for him. 

“W-what’s going on?” you asked, walking out of the bathroom, the tension palpable. 

Your father turned to you. “Brilliant question, what is going on?” he demanded, his tone laced with anger. You flinched. Charles knew that was it. 

“They’re leaving,” he said, never raising his voice, never arguing. Just assertive and simple. “Say goodbye.”

The fear in your eyes broke his heart. Had this really been how you’d grown up? You looked around the room, panicked. “Charles, they’re not done their-”

“No, we are,” your sister bit out, standing up with her husband beside her. “Thanks for the hospitality, Bunny,” she practically spat at you. You just flinched, those beautiful eyes filling with fresh tears. He wanted nothing more than to go to you, hold you, promise you he was sorry, swear he’ll never let it happen again. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make sure they left. 

“Meg, come on, I’m sorry-” you reached for her, but she slapped your hand away. Like it didn’t even matter. Like you were less than her. Charles couldn’t stop himself. He crossed the room and grabbed her wrist, holding it tight. She gasped. You grabbed his arm and tried to get him to let go, begging in his ear gently, but he had this unbreakable focus and precision. He wanted to scare her, scare them all. He needed to show that you were untouchable now, that he wasn’t going to let this shit slide. By the way your mother’s eyes widened, he guessed she got the gist. 

“What did you just do?” he questioned, the terrifying calmness in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. She didn’t answer. “Apologise, then leave.” 

She mumbled out something, and Charles let her go. It wasn’t that he actually cared about her apology, it was about scaring them. She shuffled out the door with her bitch of a husband behind her, your brother following, shouting about a lawsuit. Your parents were last to go, their eyes on Charles the entire time as you just watched them leave, feeling eight years old again. If you had it in you, you probably would’ve begged them to stay, just because dealing with their teasing is better than the opposite. Silence. For months at a time. Even when you were in the same house. Even when you were a child. 

Your hand was wrapped so tightly around Charles arm, he didn’t even notice the pressure until you released it. Your eyes were clouded over, you were shaking, and you just walked over to the table and started cleaning up dishes. 

“Y/n-” he started. 

“Don’t,” you breathed out, your voice uneven and broken. It squeezed his heart. “Just don’t, Charles.” He held you clean up the table in silence. He dried the dishes after you washed them and he tried to push that terrified look in your eyes out of his mind, but it kept coming back. Your realisation of them leaving, the way you were trying to apologise, and the way you tried to stop him. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled, stopping in his tracks as his eyes watered. You just kept washing the dishes. Mindful, like it was a ritual, holding onto it like it was the only thing stopping you from crumbling. “Y/n, please,” he begged, reaching over and turning the tap off. “Talk to me.”

You looked up, a tear already flowing down your cheek. You dried your hands on a towel, then wiped your cheek. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you against him. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, hsi voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.” 

You nodded, tears falling onto his shirt silently. “I know. You didn’t know. It’s alright,” you whispered, that heartbreaking frown on your lips against his neck. “It just sucks.”

“Was it always like that?” he asked in a broken whisper. You didn’t respond, and that was answer enough. He choked back a tear. “It’ll never be like that here, I promise. I swear.” 

You nodded. You believed him. Charles made you feel safe. Sure, he made a mistake tonight, but he was already making up for it. 

He loved you. That was worth a shitty night.

Lewis Hamilton

The apartment was ground zero for an explosion of toys, arts and crafts, and Lewis was sure there was some mashed up food in there somewhere. And it was quiet. Too quiet. A newborn, two toddlers and a five year old meant there was constant noise, but none tonight. He raised an eyebrow as he expertly stepped through a broken lego set, and moved towards the kids bedrooms. 

No one in the nursery, not unusual, since the most time Millie spent there was sleeping. 

No one in the boys room, again, also not unusual at this time of night, they usually stayed up with you until about 8, then when he got home, they’d go down without a fight. 

No one in Emmy’s room, so they were in your room. 

He opened the door as quietly as he possibly could, and found three children sprawled out on the bed, already asleep, and Millie asleep in her crib. He smiled fondly, tucking them in, kissing Millie on the forehead. Moments like these made those shitty days in the car bearable. Just knowing he had his own little fan club back home, made getting into the car just that bit easier. 

The light from the bathroom spilled out from under the door, and he froze when he heard a tiny choked sob. He softly opened the door, worry furrowing his brow as you came into view. Red-rimmed eyes, hand over your mouth to stop the sobs from waking the kids, exhausted eyes. His heart ached and he pressed a cautious hand on your shoulder, just a simple ‘I’m here’. 

You whipped around and fell into his chest, everything you’d been holding in for weeks finally coming out. Then you did something unexpected, you pushed him away. 

You stood up, wiped your eyes, and went back out to the main room, and you started cleaning. He closed the bedroom door and followed you out, a confused brow raised. “Baby?” he questioned. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing Lewis,” you spat, picking up toys, as tears fell like you didn’t even notice them. “Nothing’s wrong.” His heart ached. What could possibly be this wrong? Why would you be calling him by his first name? 

“Clearly something’s wrong,” he started, approaching you slowly. You stilled and stared, finally looking at him. Ferrari shirt and some jeans, necklaces and rings, hair done perfectly. It made you hate him. He got to go out and live his life every single day, every single weekend, while you were stuck in an apartment in a country hundreds of miles away from your family and friends, and you were just expected to deal. Deal with a newborn. Deal with your toddlers. Deal with the actual important things in your life while he gets to go race, and still be the favourite parent. God, you fucking hated him for it. You weren’t sure when it started. You weren’t sure if it was just your regular case of postpartum depression, or if you genuinely hated his guts, but either way, you didn’t want to see him. You didn’t want him to touch you. You didn’t want him. 

Seeing him standing in your living room filled you with so much rage, you actually didn’t know what to do with yourself.�� “Just fuck off Lewis,” you scoffed, resuming picking up the toys. “Go on the sim or something, leave me alone.” 

“Y/n,” his voice was stern, serious. “What’s wrong?” He tried again. 

And you broke. Even though you didn’t want to. Even though you’d been holding it together since Millie was born. You dropped the toys to the floor with a loud crash, and you sobbed. Openly. Angrily. 

You let yourself rage. You didn’t think about the other people. You didn’t think about the kids asleep inside. You didn’t think about the fact that you’d end up saying things you regretted, because you didn’t care. You just wanted him to hurt, to understand your hurt, and you didn’t know how else to show it. “Fuck you Lewis,” you sniffled. “You’re never here!” you shouted, thanking your past self that you soundproofed the apartment years ago, so hopefully, the kids wouldn’t wake up. “You’re never fucking here. You leave me, all the fucking time. You don’t parent our kids, ever. I do. Every fucking day. Every drop-off, every mess, every spillage, every argument, every fucking day. And I don’t get a moment to myself. Because I have four fucking kids relying on me, alone. Their father is never fucking here. And every time I remember that, I think back to your vows to me, as your wife,” you choked out, sobbing as you shouted. You didn’t even feel like a person anymore, just a mom. Not a functioning human with thoughts and opinions, and needs, and wants. “You promised you’d never leave me.” 

He stood there, dumbstruck. He had no idea. Of course you didn’t, you’re never here, a voice in his head shot back. “Baby, I’d never leave you-”

“You already have, Lewis. Clearly you have,” you sighed, letting your arms cross over your chest. “I just… I need to go home.” 

“You are home, baby,” his voice which was once soothing, sounded so fucking patronising now. You gritted your teeth. 

“I want to go back to my home. With my family, and my friends,” you bit out. “I’m bringing the kids with me. You can visit us there.” 

Fuck, that was heavy. You both felt that settle in the room, tension filling the air. He didn’t realise he was crying until it dropped down onto his shirt. “Y/n, you can’t just leave-”

“You do it every damn weekend,” you offered an angry smile. “I hope you’re satisfied by the end of the season, because if you don’t choose our family and me over your career, I’ll be filing for a divorce.” 

And the ultimatum was set. Fuck, he probably would’ve fallen over if he wasn’t already leaning against the wall. You didn’t notice. You just continued picking up the toys and putting them away. He felt bile rise in his throat. 

Zhou Guanyu

Zhou cried, he was just like that. But, he’d never cried because of you. This had rattled him. He’d never expected you to be so… mean. He knew you didn’t mean it, emotions were high anyway and this was just the cherry on top of a shit week. 

You knocked on the door, guilt heavy in your stomach like a bowling ball. “Zhou,” your voice was soft. He held his breath. “Zhou I'm so sorry,” you started choking up yourself. “Fuck,” you mumbled. “I’m being mean to you and I’m the one fucking crying,” you sniffled, leaning against the door. “I’m an asshole.” He felt your weight against the door, and heard the desperation in your voice. He just… wasn’t ready to respond yet. He didn’t have anything to say to you. 

You took another deep breath. “I shouldn’t have said that, I-I’m sorry,” God, you felt so small. Taking Zhou down just because you were stressed? Snapping at him like he wouldn’t do anything for you? Like he didn’t love you so much it hurts? You were disgusted with yourself. You honestly thought you didn’t deserve forgiveness. “I was stressed, and I know, that’s not an excuse. I just don’t know how to fucking deal with it. When everyone is breathing down my neck, a-and you’re just trying to love me with, with your fucking love languages and I love it. I swear I do, I don’t ever w-want it to fucking stop, I just… it gets c-crowded in my h-head,” you admitted, hiccups interrupting your explanation. You’d never been good at this, at love. But you were willing to try for Zhou, because you loved him so much you felt like you couldn’t breathe without him. You let out another sob. He felt the tears falling down his cheeks. “I just don’t know what to do with myself sometimes. I’m so bad at this, I just… I’m so scared you’re going to wake up one day and realise that I’m not worth the trouble. And I-I push you away because I already love you so much that losing you w-would break me,” you held in a sob. “And I’m so sorry Zhou. You deserve so much better than that.” You knocked your head against the door lightly, like it could somehow fix the turmoil in your brain. It didn’t. 

He sniffled from the other side of the door and it twisted the guilt in your stomach. The door unlocked. You stepped back. Zhou stood in front of you, looking just as broken as you were. 

No words were exchanged. He didn’t shout or demand an apology. He did the most Zhou-thing he could’ve done. He forgave you. He hugged you. He kissed you. He promised you he’d stand by you when you felt like this. 

He chose to be kind, because of course he did. He was your Zhou. 

haas:

Ollie Bearman 

He was fucked. Literally, and metaphorically, he was fucked. 

Seriously, he’d just fucked someone. And he’d just realised it wasn’t you. After the fact. After it was over. 

Dodging calls wasn’t like Ollie. Dodging texts wasn’t like Ollie. But, he’d changed a lot since moving up to F1. He was colder. Less goofy. Less… himself. He walked around like he cared what people thought now, which you guessed he must’ve. You saw it in the way he carried himself. You saw it in the light in his eyes, or lack-there-of. 

And you were seeing it in person, right now. He stood in front of you, eyes wide and teary, excuses pouring from his mouth like those tyre strategies he used to rattle off. 

“It was a mistake,” he sniffled. “And I’m so sorry.” He let his head drop, eyes falling to the floor. He couldn’t face it, face you. This was the biggest mistake of his life, and he was a Haas driver. He thought back to those nights where you’d hold him when he got like this. Whether it was results or pressure or stress, you always cared. You hugged him and kissed him and told him everything would be alright. Well, right now, he wished you would. He knew you wouldn’t, knew he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t stop him from hoping.

“Alright,” you shrugged, no tone, no hurt, nothing. His head snapped back up, eyes filling with hope. “Pack your shit.” 

His world stopped. “Y/n-” 

“Fuck you Ollie, I don’t care. I don’t trust you. I can’t love someone I don’t trust,” you laid it out perfectly. Simple. Easy. He broke your trust, so he didn’t have you anymore. “Begging won’t change anything. Just leave with your dignity.” 

And even if he didn’t want to, he did. He left with that pit of guilt in his stomach, knowing he made the biggest mistake of his entire life. 

Esteban Ocon

Esteban was quiet. You were tense. Your apartment was usually full of laughter and light. It was silent that night. The sun had set on the beautiful city of Geneva, and the chill crept in from the cracked window, or just the cold shoulder your boyfriend was giving you. The bed felt cold. He felt cold. You thought back and noticed how those sweet routine moments you’d cherished for years had slowly started to dwindle in recent months. He wouldn’t join you for a shower anymore. He didn’t bother teasing you while you did your makeup or skincare. He didn’t dance with you in the kitchen anymore. He spoke more French, a language you didn’t quite understand (though in recent months you’d been learning it, for him). He focused on work. 

Your heart broke slowly as it hit you. He fell out of love. 

“Just say it,” you whispered into the darkness of your shared bedroom. His hands weren’t around your hips like they used to be. His face wasn’t buried in your hair as he slept soundly. No, he stayed to his side of the bed like you had the plague. 

“Say what?” he huffed, tired voice and eyes turning over to meet your eyes. “It’s 2am Y/n.” 

You stared at him for a moment, and you knew she knew what you were saying. He knew exactly what you were saying, he was just too pussy to do it himself. “You’re seriously going to make me say it?” you scoffed. He shook his head in annoyance and looked at you expectantly. He was a small man. He was pathetic. That's what you reminded yourself as you spoke. Maybe your voice would shake, but at least you spoke. “You’re not in love with me anymore,” your voice sounded so small it was almost like you didn’t recognize it.

He was quiet for a moment, then he broke. Eyes weeping, chest heaving, fully sobbing. You stared in shock. Never in your three years together had he ever done that. Never had he fully broken down in front of you. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I never meant for this to happen.”

And you hated yourself for being right. Of course he fell out of love with you, everyone always did. “Yeah,” you shrugged, sitting up. “I know you didn’t.” There wasn’t much enthusiasm behind your words, but I think anyone could’ve excused you for that. You didn’t reach out for him. You didn’t comfort him. You didn’t care to. Who was he to be crying when he was the one at fault? You’d been the perfect girlfriend, perfect support system, perfect fucking WAG, and he fell out of love. That was his failing, not yours. You told yourself, but it had started to feel like there was something wrong with you. This kept happening. You’d give yourself to someone completely, and they wouldn’t care anymore.

He grabbed your wrist before you could leave the bed. “You’re going to find someone who loves you like I should’ve.”

Fuck, if that didn’t break you more. 

aston martin:

Fernando Alonso

Arguments weren’t uncommon in any relationship. People disagree, it’s just humans being humans. But these disagreements were showing up more often, cutting into you a bit more, his words became more harsh. You knew he didn't mean to, but he hurt you. He made you feel like a child, with the way he talked down to you, like you were too fucking stupid to understand the complex inner-workings of his brain. 

It made you feel less-than, and you fucking hated that. It made you feel like you weren’t in a partnership, but a mentorship, and you hated that too. He used language that he knew would hurt you, childish, adolescent, a baby. Like you couldn’t understand just how bad life can get because you were 28 instead of his wise age of 43. 

So you were quiet. You stayed quiet, shrunk yourself to fit in better. You didn’t take back when his friends made awful comments, you spent more time to yourself, you stopped wanting to come to races, you stopped wanting to dress up and go out, you stopped wanting things. Race weekends passed in a still kind of tension, one that he didn’t seem to notice. He did. He saw every time you made yourself smaller for him. Every time you gave up something you wanted for him. Every time you kept your mouth shut for him. And it broke him. Why would you think he wanted you to be any different? Why would you change yourself for him? Why would he let it go on so long? 

So he sat down at the table one day, dinner in front of him, you to his left, and he broke down. It was all too much. The pressure from the sport, the silence in the house, the shrinkage of the only thing good left in his world, you. 

You gasped. “Fernando,” you reached out and cupped his cheek, panic filling your eyes. “What’s wrong?” You asked, your food forgotten as you leaned in closer to him. So caring, so kind. It twisted the knife into his heart, but he was always good at persevering. 

He shook his head, a sad smile reaching his lips. “You deserve better than me, than this,” he spoke softly and your heart dropped into your stomach. He couldn’t make you miserable a minute longer. He couldn’t watch you shrink. “I think we have to take a step back,” The fear in your eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life, but he knew he needed to do this. He had to set you free, you had to live your life free of him. He pushed your hand off his cheek. “I’m not interested anymore. I want you gone.” 

That was all it took. That panic and fear melted away into something darker. Resentment. Anger. Hatred. It killed him to watch, but he knew it was the right thing, even if it felt like his world was falling apart. 

Lance Stroll

“Just- shut up!” he groaned, his hands flying around the room uncontrolled. It was quiet for a moment, you were quiet for a moment. Just standing there, still, either in shock or rage, he couldn’t tell. He just knew nothing good could come of this argument since the minute he started it, and he still started it. “I just… I need a minute.” His voice broke and that unforgettable burning sensation began in the back of his throat. You stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his back, soothingly rubbing up and down. He could tell you were still upset, still mad, still raging. But you chose to put it aside for a moment, and calm him down. Fuck, he didn’t deserve you. 

You sighed, laying your head on his shoulder and leaning into him. “Lance, you can’t start an argument and leave it once it gets hard, or I get angry. It’s not fair,” you whispered out, your exasperation clear in your tone. “It’s not fair.”

He knew you were right, knew he should apologise, knew he should say something. He didn’t. He just nodded, trying desperately to hold himself together as he felt everything in him beg to be let out. You huffed. “Lance, you can cry, we just need to keep talking after. You have to stay here. Trust me enough to let me comfort you. If you don’t trust me I genuinely don’t understand why we’re still together,” you admitted, your voice raw and tired. You couldn’t do this dance again, you needed him to commit. Feel the fear, and do it anyway. Trust. Love. 

He nodded again, stronger this time. He took another shallow breath, and he turned to you. She has you. He told himself. She loves you, this isn’t going to scare her away. 

And he let himself go. 

sauber:

Nico Hulkenberg 

He missed it, even though he’d flown all night. Exhaustion had settled itself in his bones long before he reached his front door, and still, he continued. 

But he missed it. 

That’s what she would remember. Her dad wasn’t there for her birthday. He didn’t get there in time. 

You were waiting in the living room. It was 5am. Too early to get the day started but also too late to go back to sleep. You told yourself you should go for a walk, start breakfast, get ahead on your work, but something anchored you to the couch, watching the sun rise on Monaco. The harbour shone in the sunlight, making it as beautiful as the time you first saw it. When he brought you here for the first time, all those years ago. You sat on a boat beside him, a new exciting talent in the world of F1, a jittery 20-something guy you’d met through mutual friends. Someone had said to you that even then, he looked at you like he saw something else. A future, a loving home, a family. And they were right. You chuckled, remembering those moments where he’d come home to you after a shitty weekend, and he’d just melt into you. Not leave your side for three days. It made you laugh. 

“I missed it,” he whispered into the expanse of the dark living room, just brightening up in the new day's light. He didn’t approach you. He didn’t know if he was allowed. “I fucking missed it.” You stood up and walked over to him, hearing the wobble in his voice. It cracked your heart, just like every question from your daughter had, during the day. You wrapped your arms around his neck. You should be mad. You should shout.

“She’s four,” you whispered. “She loves you more than anything. Children are more forgiving than adults. Don’t miss the next one,” you advised with a soft smile on your lips. He squeezed you tighter, the beginning of tears falling onto your hoodie. “You’re not a bad father,” you reminded him, instilling in him that he wouldn’t become his worst fear. “You’re a lot of things Nico, and a bad father will never be one of them.”

He shook his head in the crook of your neck. “I don’t deserve you two.” 

Now it was your turn to shake your head. “You do,” you smiled. “We love you so much Nico.” 

Gabriel Borteleto

He wasn’t prepared, he didn’t think about it, he just said it, he didn’t realise the implications, didn’t notice the way you stiffened. 

Now his apartment was empty. It was his apartment, as he’d so unkindly shouted during that godforsaken argument. It all came back to him clearly, the housing, the tears, his unwillingness to stop. He hadn’t meant to drive you away, he just… he needed you to understand. Understand the pressure. Understand the disappointment. Understand how he felt like he was failing every single time he jumped into that car. But he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Even when you left, he sent you message after message, calling you selfish. Making you out to be the problem, as if you weren’t the only thing holding him up. 

The pounding in his head didn’t cease throughout the day. You’d told him to at least wait a day before talking to you, or else you’d never hear him out. It was torture. Counting the minutes down as the time slowly ticked by, never quite close enough for his liking. Then 8pm rolled around, and he was dialling your number as fast as he could. You picked up on the fifth ring. 

He spoke first, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry.” He held his breath. He wasn’t expecting you to forgive him immediately. He wasn’t really expecting you to forgive him at all. He was expecting to get scolded, to get told just how bad he’d hurt you. 

“Alright,” you shrugged, indifference crept into your tone and it made his blood freeze, his whole body shivering with a scary sense of dread. You didn’t care. Not anymore. Not now. He’d pushed you too far. He’d done it. He’d fucked it. He leant against the bathroom door, a sob ripping out of his throat as the burning sensation of his unshed tears began. You sighed. He held his breath again. “Gabi, what do you want me to say?”

You might as well have stamped on his heart. God, he wanted to scream. Anything that shows you fucking care? He thought. Anything that makes me think this is salvageable? “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Just… something. This has to be worth saving, we have to be worth saving.” He choked out through angry tears. Why weren’t you fighting? Why weren’t you angry? Why didn’t you care? 

“Is it worth saving?” you asked him, and his world tipped on its side. Of course it is. Was his immediate response. He loved you. You loved him. It made sense. You groaned. “We fight all the fucking time, Gabi. You’re not happy, I’m not happy. We haven’t been for a long time.” 

He thought back to those fights and those nights you both spent angry. By morning the problem would be forgotten and you’d make up right? You’d kiss his cheek and make him a coffee, he’d give you some half-assed apology but you’d accept anyway. That’s the way it was, and he never wanted it to change. Maybe she wants it to change, a voice in his head spoke up. She’s getting the short end of the stick. His heart dropped to his stomach when he realised he’d been ignoring all the animosity from you. The burnt coffees. The glares. The subtle and slow retreat back into yourself. He coughed. “It is for me,” He had to fight for you, promise you he’d change. “I’ll change, I swear. I love you.” 

“I don’t need you to change. I need to change. I need other things, and you can’t give me them. I’m sorry Gabi, but we’re over.”

alpine:

Pierre Gasly

He hated arguing, really he did. He was just good at it. Weirdly good. Like, he’d been told to become a lawyer on more occasions than one. But he hated arguing with you. And he hated when he took it too far. 

You wouldn’t understand. He’d said.

What, like I’m not smart enough now? You were livid, and rightfully so. 

I like taking care of you, is that so hard to understand?! He didn’t mean to raise his voice, but he had. He just didn’t understand why it was such a big deal, it was just money, a simple thing he had more than enough of, and he wanted to spend it on you. You weren’t having it. 

It’s not being taken care of Pierre, it makes me feel gross, like I’m using you or something. And you could use that money to do so much good in someone’s life, God! You were just being kind, but he was frustrated. He just wanted to do something nice and you’d blown it out of proportion. It was a dress. A fucking 5,000$ dress. It made you sick to just look at the price tag, but he didn’t feel the same. That kind of money was cheap change to him. 

You’re being dramatic, it’s s dress, I just wanted to congratulate you. You got a promotion, it was a big deal. He was proud. 

I’m not trying to sound ungrateful Pierre, but flowers would have sufficed. 

And he snapped. He said things he didn’t mean, and you left. You went back home, leaving him in Austria with a race weekend to finish. You told him to sort his shit out. You told him to think before he speaks. God, he’d been thinking of you since you left. He called your phone. 

You didn’t pick up the first time. Or the second. Or the third. 

Ten times. Then you responded. You picked up the damn phone on his lucky number ten. 

“Pierre,” you yawned. “Isn’t it late over there?” you whispered into the phone like you’d wake someone if you weren’t quiet enough. You wouldn’t, you were alone in your hotel room, still sorting out your shit from the argument. 

“I missed you already,” he admitted, the first tears falling down his cheeks. He sniffled. “I’m such an idiot sometimes.” 

You chuckled. “Yeah, you are.” He chuckled too. Quiet conversation filled both your hotel rooms as you both drifted back off to sleep. You didn’t talk about the fight. You didn’t talk about how he was crying. You just… talked. About your busy schedules, how you were running out of foundation, and how tired he was. Boring things. The in-between things. Monotony. Regular, normal life. 

He loved every second of it. 

Franco Colapinto 

His body ran cold when he looked at the time. 2am. You still weren’t home. He’d pretended it didn’t bother him long enough, he had to text you. Or call you. Make you come home. 

He wasn’t a stranger to fucking up, especially with you. He knew what he did was shitty. He knew he should’ve tried harder, worked harder to be there, but duty calls sometimes, and fuck, he has to answer whether he wants to or not. He called your number, his hands shaking. 

Pick up. He begged. Pick up, please. 

You picked up on the sixth ring. “Franco?” your voice was tense. Like he was annoying you. He didn’t care, he was just happy you were responding to him. Relief surged through his body like a fucking lightning bolt, and suddenly he could breathe again. “Why are you calling me?” You were sick of this, of him, of being a secondary priority. You didn’t even want to fucking fight anymore, you just wanted peace, a boyfriend would could be there, who could show up. 

“Where are you?” he asked, his voice quiet. Timid. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he sounded scared. He was. He felt sick to his stomach that you were walking around Spielberg all alone. You left the hotel 4 hours ago. 4 hours of him burning a hole in the floor pacing the room, 4 hours of genuine fear that it might all be over, 4 hours of shit. Pure and utter shit. He was scared, alright? Fucking terrified. He wanted you back, in the hotel, in his arms, in his bed. He wanted you home, to him. He wanted to make sure he was still home. You were quiet for a moment, debating on whether to tell him. “Come on mi cielo, just… come back,” he let a small sob out, his voice just above a whisper. 

You stopped in your tracks. You’d seen him cry a handful of times at most. Over family stuff. Over results. But never was it over you. You didn’t think this had pushed him that far, didn’t think it would. He was so… unbreakable sometimes, you forgot he was just as fragile as you were. He hurt and bled the same, and of course he wouldn’t want you walking out in the dark in a foreign town with your location off, ignoring him. Of course not. “I’m on my way back now, I’ll be there soon.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut and held back a relieved sob. He nodded. “Great,” he choked out. “I’ll be here.” 

Jack Doohan 

It was important to you, he understood. He saw the way your eyes lit up when you spoke about it. He basked in that light, he planned beside you. 

Blood is thicker than water. His father’s mantra rang out through his head, taunting him. He’d been the one to fucking say it and the hurt on your face told him everything he needed to know. Not that he hadn’t known it before, he had. He knew you wanted him there more than anything, he knew how much it would mean for him to get on a plane and meet your family. Yet, he flaked. For some fucking family holiday he didn’t even want to go on. But you cried when he left, and you asked him to practically never come back, and even though he felt like his heart was being ripped from his chest, he boarded that plane like he didn’t have another choice. He saw that he did now. He saw the right choice. 

Mick saw the changes in Jack. He saw the untouched food, the sluggish walk, the lack of interest. He texted you and got no response and he knew what it meant. 

Dinner was too loud, so Jack sought refuge with the sand and the water. His bracelet, the bracelet you gave him was threaded through his fingers as he watched the waves roll out. He was too deep in thought to see Mick sitting beside him. 

“What did you do?” he asked, his voice soft, though it startled him all the same. He jumped and turned to him, a slow smile made its way onto his lips, a chuckle leaving Mick’s. “She’s gone for good?”

That smile disappeared quickly. Jack looked back out at the ocean in front of him, so vast and wide. “I fucked it up,” he admitted, his heart aching with every word. “I left her for this.” He gestured to the area around him, but Mick got the gist. He sighed and clapped a hand on his friend's back. 

“Did you talk to her?” 

“She doesn’t want to hear from me,” he shook his head. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried, he had. You genuinely didn’t want to hear from him. Emotion bubbled deep in his throat, but he tried to swallow it down regardless. He didn’t care if it’d choke him, he didn’t want it. Emotion admits more than words ever would. If he let himself break down he’d be admitting it was over. He wasn’t ready for it to be over. He wasn’t ready to kiss those moments with you goodbye. The way you smiled at him, the way you’d tease him over anything you could, just because you loved it when he’d finally tease back. He couldn’t say goodbye to those nights when you’d stay up until dawn, just talking, making promises about a future you two weren’t guaranteed. He wouldn’t leave those memories of you telling him you loved him in a box in the back of his mind. 

He hadn’t realised he’d been crying. Well, there it was. 

Over. 

Paul Aron

“You can’t fucking do this! You can’t leave for weeks at a time and not talk to me Paul, for fuck’s sake!” you groaned, your eyes wild and angry. It had been like this for 40 minutes, a back and forth that wouldn’t end no matter how much you both wanted it to. He wouldn’t see your side, and you couldn’t see his. He didn’t really have a justification for his actions, just empty promises, and you were sick to death of those. Your hands raked over your face, and you sighed, your eyes meeting his. “Either sort your shit out, or break up with me Paul, because those really seem like our only options right now.” You already knew you were crossing a line, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You just had to say it. 

He could’ve pretended that didn’t feel like a punch to the gut, but you knew him too well. You knew the second you said it too, because you stilled. His face faltered, his body twitched and jerked in a weird way. He wanted to recover, to pretend it was normal, act like it didn’t happen maybe. He couldn’t. Not when it was you on the line. Not when you were talking about a universe where he couldn’t come home to you every night and have you kiss his head or let him kiss you silly. 

You walked over and wrapped your arms around him. Your face was serious but tender and he cupped your cheek. The low light made him look like an angel, a crying angel, but an angel all the same. “Paul, I’m sorry,” you whispered, tender but timid. Like you were scared you’d make it worse. “I’m tired and you’re tired, and you’ve just had a huge weekend, and we just need… we need each other, right?” you offered and he just nodded, too shocked to really comprehend what was going on. “Let’s just head to bed, yeah?” 

He nodded, then dipped his head down and kissed you like it was the last time, like he was trying to put all the love and care and passion he had for you into the kiss. Like that would make you understand him. To an extent, it did. 

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[vinnival]

lets talk about these tags my fellow cowboy fans. im bedridden and bored. sorry for typos.

Arthur Morgan/Reader

Arthur stares at you, his eyes full of longing. He sighs and says:

"I miss my wife. I miss her a lot."

And then he rides off to find Mary.

[aventurineswife]

I humbly request Amphoreus men with a Halovian reader, reacting to their freaky psychic abilities, the bird wings, halo, and how they absolutely cannot take a hit. Listen, songbirds are infuriatingly fragile, I've had them as pets. Trust me.

Porcelain Divinity

Synopsis: Bearing wings, a halo, and psychic power—but none of a soldier’s resilience—they bewilder, frustrate, and ultimately enchant those hardened by strife.

Tags: Anaxa x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Halovian!Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Psychic Powers, Romance, Soft Moments Amid War, Found Family, Banter, Protective Instincts, Emotional Vulnerability, Character Introspection.

Warnings: Blood/Injury (Minor Descriptions), Emotional Distress, References To Death And War, Fragile Body Horror (Mild), Intense Affection Veiled As Irritation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms (Grief, Overprotection).

You collapse again—on the obsidian floor of the abandoned observatory—your breath rattling like loose parchment in the wind. A crimson splotch decorates your feathered shoulder, delicate bone nearly shattered by a minor deflection.

Anaxa doesn’t curse. He hisses, like steam beneath cracking stone.

“Did I not explicitly say, do not engage the arcanum juggernaut alone?” he snaps, striding over with the rage of a dying star and the precision of a surgeon.

You try to sit up. “I was… fine until the explosion.”

“Ah yes,” he mutters, kneeling beside you, his gloved fingers glowing faintly gold as they hover over your wound. “Because explosions, I hear, are famously gentle to brittle-boned divines with wings made of hope and denial.”

You laugh—wince—then laugh again.

“Mockery and martyrdom,” he says, dryly amused now. “Tell me, were you also planning to sermonize while bleeding out?”

You glance at his solemn face, and something flickers behind his eye. His palm hovers over your chest, your halo flickers uncertainly above.

“You fascinate me,” he says suddenly, voice lowered. “A being born of sky, dipped in prophecy, yet somehow you break like chalk on the first draft of history. That fragility…” He frowns. “It enrages me. Because I fear it.”

Your breath catches. “Why?”

“Because I can’t predict you. Can’t control it. And it means I might lose you before I finish understanding why your soul sounds like a song I’ve never heard before.”

And with that, he lifts you gently—not like glass, but like truth: weightless, dangerous, and deserving of reverence.

You flutter down from the ridge, landing beside Mydei in a half-collapse of feathers and grace. Your wing twitches. Your knees buckle.

He’s at your side in a flash.

“Not again,” he murmurs, voice soft but grave. “This is the third time you’ve dropped like a sparrow from the sky.”

You grin despite the blood on your lip. “But I made the shot.”

His eyes narrow, flickering with both pride and quiet exhaustion. “Yes. And nearly died again doing it.”

You flop dramatically against a nearby stone. “Halovians don’t die. We ascend.”

“Halovians bleed,” he growls, tearing fabric to wrap your shoulder. “You bleed more than any warrior I’ve fought beside. Even with your psychic shields. You're all mind and light, and not enough armor.”

“Wouldn’t exactly match the vibe,” you whisper, voice waning. “Halo, feathers, choir energy…”

Mydei lifts your chin gently. “Then I’ll be your armor. Even if you hate hiding behind others. Even if you tell me not to.”

You blink. “You’re not scared of me?”

He smiles faintly. “You terrify me. Not for your power. But because you’re fragile… and you keep throwing yourself into storms like you’ve never seen rain before.”

You feel tears build.

“Next time,” he whispers, lifting you onto his back like you weigh nothing, “you fly behind me. And stay behind me, songbird.”

You are unconscious for exactly three seconds after the explosion.

Then you blink awake—to see Phainon hovering over you, white hair dusted with ash, his face absolutely wrecked with concern.

“Oh my stars,” he breathes. “Are your wings bent? Are they crumpled? Your halo’s flickering! That’s not supposed to flicker, is it?”

You wheeze. “They just… clipped me. I’m—”

“You’re not fine,” he says, scooping you up and running fast. “You fell like a dropped porcelain plate. I thought—” He bites off the rest, clearly shaken. “You psychic types need a ‘do not poke’ sticker on your forehead.”

“Maybe a ‘caution: glass soul’ sign?”

“You're laughing again,” he says, scandalized. “How are you laughing?”

You reach up, brushing a soot-smudge from his cheek. “Because you’re cute when you panic.”

He flushes, nearly trips, then keeps running. “I panic because I like you, featherbrain!”

There’s a long pause as you rest against his chest, halo now steadier.

“I don’t care if you’re fragile,” he murmurs. “But I need you to let me help. You're made of light and high notes and cosmic static, and I’m… I’m just a sword. But I can cut through the dark for you.”

You press your head to his shoulder. “Then I’ll be your guiding flame.”

Phainon smiles through the tears he’ll never admit were there. “Deal. But if you faint mid-sentence again, I will wrap you in bubble wrap.”