#Thank you for sharing so I could also share it!!!

[suliigwp]

Helloooooooo, how are you?? Love your work!!

So I got this idea for Oscar, where they have been dating for years now and everyone always teased him about when he’s popping the question. The fans pick up to it and reader finds it super funny so she posts a video with Oscar like full on sleeping on her chest with the song paper rings but like the soft part at the end. Fans go crazy and his mum Nicole actually urges him to pop the question. What do you think?? You can always change the plot a bit, it’s just an idea, hope you have a great week!!

-(cal me) rudolf or 🐢 anon (if it’s free)

Paper Rings

Oscar Piastri x Reader

SULI:Hii thank you so much for the request! Yes 🐢 anon is free— welcome to the family! I loved writing this, so sweet and ugh I just love this man— hope you enjoy! This ended up wayyyyy longer than what I imagined I would write (this is my fav gif of Oscar I had to use it)

Also this is not proofread so forgive any mistakes lmao

Warnings: talk of dangers of f1

Oscar and Y/N had been together since high school. Their story wasn’t one of wild romance or instant fireworks, but a slow-burning, steady kind of love that grew from shy smiles in crowded hallways and whispered secrets beneath the bleachers. They had been the kind of couple everyone expected to last forever — the golden pair who fit so perfectly it was like they’d been made for each other from the start. And for years, they had been inseparable.

Despite the many years and countless memories they shared, there was one thing everyone around them kept teasing Oscar about — when was he finally going to pop the question?

It started with their close friends and family. At the racing team’s gatherings, Oscar’s teammates couldn’t help but poke fun. Lando would smirk and nudge him during strategy talks, “Mate, been years. When’s the ring going on her finger?” Carlos, never one to miss a chance to tease, joked about how Oscar’s mum was already asking if he needed help picking out the perfect ring. Even Y/N’s best friends would text him with sly messages about the “big question” everyone was waiting for.

Oscar laughed along with it, but deep down, the teasing pressed on him in ways no one could see.

The fans were no different. Social media buzzed with excitement and speculation, creating a frenzy over the couple that had grown up before their eyes. Screenshots of their old photos surfaced alongside edits set to romantic songs, and forums debated which race weekend would finally see Oscar get down on one knee. The pressure wasn’t just from the people closest to him — it was everywhere, loud and relentless.

But what no one really understood was what was holding Oscar back.

It wasn’t a lack of love. Oscar loved Y/N with every fiber of his being. He’d dreamed of forever with her since they were teenagers, and his heart raced faster than any car on the track every time he thought about their future. But there was something else — a weight he carried quietly.

Since those early days, his life had been a constant race, both on and off the track. The world of Formula 1 was unforgiving, full of unpredictability and risks that could change everything in an instant. He wanted more than anything to be the man she deserved — stable, strong, able to give her a future without fear or doubt. But how do you promise forever when tomorrow is so uncertain? When every race could bring glory or heartbreak?

The truth was, Oscar was terrified of failing her. Of not being enough.

Late at night, he would lie awake, clutching the small ring box hidden beneath his pillow — polished and perfect, a silent promise waiting to be made. But every time he imagined getting down on one knee, doubt crept in, filling his chest with cold hesitation.

His mum, Nicole, saw through the cracks, even when he tried to hide them. On video calls, her voice was gentle but firm, “Oscar, darling, you’ve been dating Y/N since you were kids. Isn’t it time you made it official?” She teased and encouraged, reminding him how much they all loved Y/N and wanted to see them take the next step. Oscar would laugh nervously, promising he was thinking about it. But he wasn’t ready to say more.

Y/N, too, sensed the tension beneath his smiles. She wasn’t in a rush, never had been. Their love wasn’t about grand gestures or deadlines. It lived in quiet moments — Oscar’s hand slipping into hers during long waits at airports, her sketching his tired face after races, the way they’d curl up together on their couch, wrapped in blankets and the comfort of simply being with each other.

But she knew. She knew he was scared. Not of her, but of the weight of forever.

It was late — the kind of still night when the rest of the world felt like it had slowed down just for them. Oscar was completely exhausted, his body finally surrendering after a long day of training and travel. He’d collapsed onto the couch beside her, and before she could even say a word, he had rested his head gently on her chest, eyes closing as his breathing deepened into slow, even rhythms.

Y/N sat perfectly still, careful not to disturb him. She looked down at him with a tenderness that made her chest ache in the best way. His hair was soft and messy from the day, falling loosely over his forehead and around his ears, and she couldn’t resist the impulse to reach out.

Her fingers moved slowly, as if not wanting to break the spell, threading gently through the dark curls above his temple. The warmth of his skin beneath her palm made her heart flutter — quiet and steady, like the steady beat beneath it.

Oscar shifted just slightly, his breath hitching for a moment before he relaxed again. Encouraged by the calmness of the moment, Y/N let her hand trace a gentle path from his hair down to the curve of his cheek, brushing softly against the smooth skin there.

Almost immediately, Oscar nuzzled closer, pressing his face deeper into her palm and the warmth of her touch. It was such a small gesture, but it spoke volumes — a silent conversation of comfort and trust that had grown between them over the years.

She smiled softly, the kind of smile that didn’t need words, just the pure knowing that this moment — this quiet, unguarded closeness — was everything.

She took out her phone and started recording.

The soft, fading notes of Paper Rings drifted in the background, delicate and warm, wrapping around them like a gentle promise.

Y/N shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, and continued to stroke his hair, her heart full in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

There was no rush, no grand declaration needed right then. Just this — Oscar asleep in her arms, safe and at peace, and the world reduced to the simple rhythm of their shared breath.

Morning light filtered gently through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. The world outside was waking up slowly, but inside, time seemed to have paused just a little longer.

Y/N lay still, feeling the steady rise and fall of Oscar’s chest against her side. His head was still resting on her, the faint warmth of his skin seeping into hers. For a moment, she just let herself soak in the quiet — the kind of quiet that feels like home.

Her fingers were still tangled in his hair, now softer in the early light, and when he shifted just enough to nuzzle into her again, a sleepy smile tugged at her lips. He wasn’t fully awake yet — just caught in that beautiful space between dreams and reality.

Careful not to disturb him, Y/N reached for her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen as she scrolled through the overnight notifications. The video from last night had exploded in views — thousands upon thousands of hearts, comments filled with love and excitement, and ring emojis flooding the feed.

Her phone buzzed relentlessly, texts lighting up the screen. Friends teasing, fans gushing, and then — a message from Nicole, Oscar’s mum, flashing bright and urgent: “When’s my boy gonna put that ring on your finger?!”

Y/N laughed quietly to herself, the sound soft but filled with warmth. She brushed a stray lock of hair from Oscar’s forehead.

Oscar’s eyes fluttered open slowly, the morning light warm and soft against his face. For a moment, he didn’t move — just took in the weight of Y/N’s body beneath his head, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat grounding him in a way nothing else could.

His fingers twitched, still tangled lightly in her hair as he blinked up at the ceiling, feeling the peaceful calm of the moment wrap around him like a blanket.

Then, ever so gently, he shifted—nuzzling deeper into her, burying his face just a little more against her skin, as if trying to hold onto that feeling of safety and quiet a little longer.

A soft smile pulled at the corner of his lips as he whispered, barely louder than a breath, “Morning.”

He opened his eyes fully then and glanced down, catching sight of Y/N’s smile. His heart swelled — that little smile she wore, the way her eyes lit up even first thing in the morning, it made everything feel like home.

Oscar let his hand cup her cheek softly, thumb brushing over her skin in the gentlest of touches, before he spoke again, voice still thick with sleep, “I’m never waking up from this.”

The moment Oscar and Y/N’s little video went viral, it was like a switch flipped. Suddenly, no one—friends, family, even fans—could stop teasing him about the one thing everyone had been quietly (or not so quietly) waiting for: when was he finally going to propose?

It started small. At training sessions, his teammates would nudge him with raised eyebrows. Lando, always the cheeky one, smirked and said, “Mate, it’s been years. You planning on popping the question before you retire, or should we start a countdown clock?”

Oscar just laughed, brushing it off, but the grin never quite reached his eyes. Y/N caught it too—the way he’d glance at her sometimes when the teasing started, half-amused, half-worried.

At the paddock, journalists began picking up on the hints, asking the question slyly during interviews. “So, Oscar, fans are dying to know—when’s the big moment?” they’d press, flashing that knowing smile.

And then came the texts and calls from family. His mum, Nicole, was the worst. She didn’t hold back. “Honestly, Oscar, what are you waiting for? You have a beautiful girlfriend, you love her—do the right thing, darling.”

Oscar would groan every time. “Mum, I’m not ignoring you, I just want it to be perfect.”

“But you’ve been saying that for three years!” she shot back, totally unfazed.

Y/N watched it all from the sidelines, amused and affectionate. The whole world seemed to be in on this joke except Oscar himself.

One night, at a small gathering with their closest friends, the teasing hit peak levels.

“Come on, Oscar,” Hattie teased, eyes twinkling mischievously. “You’re not getting any younger, and neither are we. You planning on letting Y/N keep stealing your hoodies forever or are you gonna make it official?”

Lando chimed in, “Yeah, I’m starting to think you’re scared of the big question. What’s holding you back?”

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, trying to laugh it off. “I’m just making sure it’s the right moment, alright?”

Y/N leaned over and whispered, “Or maybe you’re just nervous.”

That made the room burst into laughter, and Oscar’s cheeks flushed.

Despite the teasing, Y/N knew what was really going on. It wasn’t fear or doubt holding him back—it was the weight of the promise he wanted to make. The years they’d spent together, the ups and downs, the quiet moments and the big ones.

Still, every joke, every question, every nudge only made the anticipation grow, and somewhere deep inside, Y/N knew their perfect moment was coming—she just didn’t know when.

...

The house was quiet that afternoon, sunlight slanting through the curtains in golden strips. The buzz of the earlier crowd—friends coming and going, family lingering over coffee and conversation—had finally faded, leaving just Oscar and his mum in the kitchen.

He was standing by the sink, rolling a glass of water between his palms, while Nicole sat at the kitchen table, watching him with that look only a mother could give. Patient. Knowing. Unapologetically nosy.

“I’m surprised you stayed behind,” Oscar said, glancing at her. “Thought you’d be the first to head back to the hotel.”

Nicole shrugged, sipping from her cup. “Wanted to see you. Just you. Just my son.”

He gave her a small smile, one she didn’t miss was a little tight around the edges. She set her cup down.

“Oscar.”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve been quiet.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Just tired.”

She let that settle for a moment before asking, gently, “Is it about the proposal?”

Oscar didn’t answer right away. He didn’t have to—his silence said enough.

Nicole stood and crossed the kitchen, resting a hand lightly on his back. “Can we sit for a minute?”

They moved to the small couch in the sunroom, where the late afternoon light painted everything in a soft, fading warmth. Oscar leaned forward, elbows on his knees, glass still in his hands.

“I know everyone’s been teasing you,” she said carefully. “I’ve done it too.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. You and literally everyone I know.”

Nicole tilted her head. “And I know you, sweetheart. When something means a lot to you, you overthink it.”

Oscar was quiet, his thumb moving over the rim of his glass.

“I want to do it right,” he said softly. “Y/N... she’s everything. We’ve been together since we were kids. She knows me better than anyone. She’s been patient through it all—through the races, the travel, the constant being away. I come home exhausted, sometimes barely there at all, and she never makes me feel guilty for it.”

Nicole listened, eyes soft, waiting.

He sighed, deeper this time. “And I think that’s part of what scares me.”

She tilted her head slightly.

“I’m always gone,” he continued, his voice low. “Race to race, country to country, time zones and airports and hotel rooms. And when I’m not away, I’m still not really... here. My head’s always somewhere else—on the next turn, the next performance, the next interview.”

His throat tightened. “It’s not fair to her. It hasn’t been for years. I’m in this career that asks for everything—my time, my focus, even my body. It’s dangerous, Mum. I know I don’t talk about it, but it is. One crash, one wrong move, and everything could change. Or end.”

Nicole reached for his hand, wrapping hers around his.

“She never complains,” he said, a little brokenly. “She just waits. Supports. Smiles and makes it easier. And I just keep taking and taking, and what if marrying her—what if making her my wife—means she gives up even more of herself?”

Nicole’s heart ached at the way he said it, like he was carrying guilt for simply being loved too well.

“Oscar,” she said gently, “you don’t protect someone by keeping them at arm’s length.”

He looked at her, eyes glinting with emotion.

“She already chose you,” Nicole continued. “Every day. Every race. Every long-distance call, every night she watched you on a screen instead of next to her. That’s not changing if she’s your girlfriend or your wife. She knows what she signed up for—and she signed up for you.”

“But what if something happens?”

“Then she’ll grieve with your name on her heart,” Nicole said, voice strong despite the crack in it. “Just like you would for her. That’s what love is. Not running from the risk—choosing each other anyway.”

Oscar swallowed hard.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” she added, “or wait for the perfect moment. You just have to be honest. And if what’s holding you back is fear—then let her be the one to hold you through it. Like she always has.”

Silence stretched for a beat.

And then Oscar leaned back on the couch, eyes burning, head gently tilted toward his mum’s shoulder.

“I’m just scared.”

“I know,” she whispered, resting her cheek against his hair. “That means you care.”

...

Oscar hadn’t told anyone about the ring.

Not at first. Not even when he bought it two years ago, alone in Monaco during a break between back-to-back races, standing in a quiet little boutique with too much white and too many mirrors. He remembered the way the glass counter reflected the tiny gold band, delicate and simple, with a solitaire diamond — exactly how you would’ve wanted it. He remembered the way his thumb had hovered just slightly before he nodded at the jeweler, heart racing harder than it ever did in a car going 300km/h.

He hadn’t told anyone because the moment had been his. Just his.

Because even though the teasing had started back then — from his mum, from his friends, from half the bloody paddock — something in him wasn’t ready yet. Not because of you. Never because of you.

Because of his job. His life. The travel, the danger, the days he spent exhausted and strung out from back-to-back flights. Because being a racing driver meant sometimes being absent, and you had never asked for anything more than his presence, even when he could barely give you that.

And part of him — some quiet, scared part of him — had convinced himself that maybe you deserved better than a boy who left more often than he came home.

So the ring stayed in a drawer. Wrapped in its velvet box, tucked away in a zippered pouch behind spare cables and old credentials. He’d check on it sometimes — carefully, reverently — opening the lid and staring at the soft glint in the light. Sometimes, after particularly long races or lonely nights, he’d whisper things to it.

“She’s still it. Still everything.”

But he never moved.

Not until a month ago.

It started with that video — the one you posted without thinking. Oscar dead asleep, face smooshed against your chest, hand curled around your wrist like he’d found the only thing worth holding in the world.

He’d woken up to chaos.

Hundreds of thousands of likes. Comments. Reposts. TikToks dissecting the lighting. Tweets demanding a proposal. Memes of him asleep with “husband material” scrawled over his forehead.

You were so sweet about it, always scrolling past quickly when you were scrolling on your phone together about him proposing, to not give him any pressure.

And that was what made it impossible to wait anymore.

So, for the first time in two years, he pulled the ring out — hands slightly trembling, breath caught in his throat.

And then he did something he never thought he’d do.

He showed your best friend.

You weren’t home — you were out running errands, and he’d texted her on a whim, asking if she could stop by, not giving any context. She arrived with suspicious eyes and a grin, teasing him instantly.

“She’s not pregnant, is she?”

“What—no! Jesus—just come in.”

She barely had time to take her shoes off before he was pulling the little velvet box from behind the fruit bowl, practically hiding it in his palm like it was some illicit secret.

And when he opened it —

She gasped.

Hand to her mouth, eyes already shining.

“Oh my god.”

Oscar’s jaw tensed, nerves kicking in hard and fast. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

“She’s going to sob,” she whispered, voice thick. “Are you kidding me? You’ve had this for how long?”

“A while.”

Then, softer: “I just didn’t know if I deserved her yet.”

That was all it took.

Suddenly, your best friend was crying. Not loud, but that quiet, overwhelmed kind — blinking fast and biting back a full sob. Oscar froze, unsure.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” she said quickly, stepping forward and pulling him into a hug. “No. You idiot. She’s going to marry you in ten seconds if you ask.”

He held onto her, feeling something heavy shake loose in his chest.

“She waited for you,” she murmured into his shoulder. “She always would have.”

Oscar didn’t cry. Not then. But something welled in his throat as he looked down at the little box in his hand — the one that had sat in the dark for too long.

Now it was time to let it see light.

He was ready. Finally.

To ask.

To hope.

To begin.

...

Oscar sat on the couch with his laptop open, not racing footage or telemetry data for once, but a blank Notes page titled in all caps:

THE PLAN.

It felt so serious typed out like that. He almost laughed — almost. But his heart was beating a bit too fast for that.

Because it was real now. He was going to ask you to marry him.

And if there was one thing he wasn’t going to do, it was wing it.

He rubbed at his jaw, glanced at the velvet box beside him, and typed the first bullet.

1. Location.

He wanted it to be somewhere meaningful. Not over-the-top. Not something grand or wildly public. It had to feel like you. Like the two of you, in your quiet little world where love lived in the silences and shared glances.

Your high school back garden where you had your first kiss? No, too far.

The rooftop where you watched fireworks two years ago on New Year’s Eve? Maybe.

But then he paused. Thought harder.

He ended up circling back to the simplest answer.

Home.

Your shared apartment. The one filled with plants you insisted weren’t dying (even when they definitely were), the kitchen that still had “his and hers” mugs from high school, the faint dent in the hallway wall from when he crashed into it during a Mario Kart race.

Home, where he had found the softest version of himself because you’d made space for it.

He typed:

→ Living room. Candles. Dim lighting. Quiet. Just us.

2. Time.

She’s always busiest on Thursdays. I’ll do it on a Sunday evening, when she’s sleepy and soft and doesn’t expect anything. Maybe after a movie, or her favourite dinner.

His fingers hesitated before typing:

→ Sunday. 8PM. Movie first — something she loves. Then dinner. Then quiet.

3. Distraction plan.

He needed help setting up. Someone to make sure the candles weren’t setting off the smoke alarm, that the lights were dimmed, the playlist queued.

He’d already talked to your best friend. After the ring reveal, she’d sworn a blood oath of secrecy and offered to help with anything. He sent her a text while typing the next point:

→ Best friend will take her out earlier in the day. Mani-pedi + coffee excuse. Gives me time to set up.

4. Ring placement.

Not in his pocket. Too risky. He had a history of losing things in couch cushions.

He considered the idea of hiding it in something — a dessert, a coffee cup — but then physically recoiled.

No.

You’d murder him if he accidentally made you swallow the engagement ring. Rightfully.

Instead, he decided:

→ Box in drawer by the record player. I’ll go get it when it’s time.

5. Speech.

He hadn’t written it yet. But he knew the beats.

Talk about the first time he saw her — not the version everyone knew, not the cutesy “we were high school sweethearts” part — but the real moment.

The time she stayed after his karting practice with a juice box in her hand and said, “You looked miserable. Thought you might need sugar.”

The moment he knew: this girl was going to wreck him.

How she’d been the only thing constant, solid, and warm through years of jetlag, failure, podiums, and pressure.

How scared he’d been to ask — not because of her, but because of everything he wasn’t sure he could promise.

And how now… he was finally ready.

→ Just speak from the heart. Don’t fumble. Unless she laughs — then laugh too.

6. Playlist.

Because he knew her. Because he loved her.

Because if he didn’t pick the right songs, she’d tease him forever.

He opened Spotify and started a new list: “for us.”

First on the queue? “Paper Rings (Acoustic),” because she still hadn’t realized how much that one post meant to him.

Then a few of the songs they’d fallen asleep to on long flights. A bit of Hozier. A soft Japanese track she’d taught him how to pronounce.

→ “for us” playlist. Final check. No ads. No shuffle. Don’t mess this up.

7. Contingency plan.

Because Oscar Piastri was nothing if not prepared.

What if she cried too hard to answer?

What if he dropped the ring?

What if she thought it was a prank?

He typed quickly:

→ Hug her. Don’t rush. Let her answer on her own time. Don’t panic.

And then, finally:

8. The after.

He wasn’t going to post right away. He wanted it just for them — just for one night. Maybe they’d tell your best friend first. His mum next. Then the rest could come.

But he did have a folder of photos ready. All of them candid. All of them glowing. Like the one where she kissed his cheek while he was still brushing his teeth. Or the blurry one of her asleep on his chest with the sunlight painting her face gold.

→ Just us, first. Always.

Oscar leaned back.

Looked at the list.

And exhaled.

He was going to ask you to be his forever.

And for the first time in years, there wasn’t a single doubt in his heart.

But there had always been one thing lingering at the edge of it all — one thing he couldn’t skip, couldn’t avoid.

Asking your dad.

You and Oscar had been together since you were sixteen — practically grew up alongside each other. Your parents had seen every version of him: the awkward teenage boy with racing posters in his backpack, the one who nervously shook your dad’s hand at the front door in a too-big suit on your Year 12 formal night. The kid who once broke your mum’s favourite vase and nearly passed out apologizing.

They’d watched him grow.

Which somehow made this even more terrifying.

So when he texted your dad and asked if they could get coffee — “just the two of us, if that’s alright?” — Oscar already felt his palms getting clammy. Your dad replied almost instantly: “Of course. I’ve been waiting.”

That didn’t help.

The café was quiet, tucked into a leafy corner of your neighbourhood. A place your dad liked — Oscar knew because he’d driven past it on slow Sunday mornings with you in the passenger seat, talking about nothing.

He got there early. Sat at a corner table and fiddled with the coffee cup sleeve until it nearly tore.

And then your dad walked in, wearing the same calm, unreadable expression he always had. Friendly, but firm. Warm, but never too easy to crack. The kind of man who didn’t say much unless it meant something. Just like you.

“Hey, Oscar,” he said with a nod, sitting down across from him.

“Hi, sir,” Oscar replied, voice a little tight.

Your dad looked at him for a long second, then smiled, just a little. “Relax. You’re not here for a job interview.”

Oscar laughed — nervously — but still.

They chatted first. About racing. About travel. About the state of his car lately and how your dad had been watching from the sidelines and still yelling at the screen when strategy made no sense. It was easy. Familiar.

Until the conversation lulled.

And Oscar knew.

This was it.

He sat up a little straighter, clearing his throat.

“I… I wanted to ask you something,” he started, rubbing his palms against his jeans beneath the table. “Something important.”

Your dad leaned back slightly. Watching. Listening.

“I’ve loved Y/n since we were kids. And I know that sounds too young to be sure, but I’ve known every version of her — every birthday, every laugh, every bad day where she still managed to smile — and I’ve never once doubted her. Not once.”

He swallowed.

“And I know this job… it’s a lot. It takes me away. It’s dangerous. It’s unpredictable. But she’s never made me feel like it was too much. She’s stayed. She’s supported me. She’s been my home through all of it.”

Oscar paused. His voice softened.

“And I want to marry her. If… if you’re okay with that.”

The words hung in the air. He could hear the tiny café speaker humming something low and jazzy in the background. He hated how loud his heartbeat sounded in his own ears.

Your dad didn’t speak right away.

He looked down at his coffee. Then back at Oscar.

Then he nodded.

And said, “I’d be honoured to call you my son.”

Oscar blinked. “Really?”

“I’ve watched you love her for years,” he said, his voice steady but warm. “And I’ve never worried. Not once. That means something.”

And for the first time since Oscar sat down, he breathed — really breathed.

Your dad smiled and added, “Now, if you hurt her, I will kill you.”

Oscar’s laugh cracked through the nerves, shaky and full of affection. “That’s… fair.”

They clinked their coffee cups like glasses. Two men who had never needed many words — only trust. And now, they had it.

Later that night, Oscar drove home with both hands on the wheel and that velvet box sitting in the glove compartment like it had been waiting too.

He was ready now.

Really ready.

And you had no idea what was coming.

Say the word, bestie, and I’ll write your best friend seeing the ring again, and the moment Oscar stands in the living room, hand shaking, heart thundering, ready to ask.

...

The sun poured in soft and gold through the windows, spilling across your sheets like something out of a dream. You were still curled beneath the duvet, face warm against your pillow, when a knock came at your bedroom door — three soft taps and then a cheeky voice you knew too well.

“Get up, princess. We’ve got a date with some hair masks and overpriced lattes.”

You groaned, smiling into the pillow. “Do I have to?”

Your best friend poked her head in, already dressed in a flowy linen dress, sunnies on her head, and a grin that looked suspiciously like she was up to something.

“Yes, you have to,” she said. “I booked us the works — nails, hair, brows. I’m talking pampered-to-the-heavens kind of day.”

You blinked sleepily, pushing your hair out of your face. “Why?”

“Because,” she said, sauntering in and yanking your blanket off dramatically, “you’ve been an exhausted little marshmallow lately, and I need my best girl back. This is long overdue.”

You laughed, kicking your legs in protest before finally sitting up, stretching your arms over your head. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I’m lucky you haven’t figured out this is all an elaborate ploy to get you glowing for a very specific reason.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She smiled too hard and practically dragged you into the bathroom.

The salon smelled like citrus and jasmine and felt like stepping into heaven. Everything was light and airy and crisp — soft music playing, staff already greeting you with cucumber water and complimenting your skin.

Your best friend leaned into the receptionist’s desk and said, “She’s the bride.”

You blinked. “The what?”

“I said ��divine.’ She’s divine,” she corrected smoothly, elbowing you with a wink.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re acting so weird today.”

“I’m acting fabulous, babe. Relax and let me spoil you.”

And you did. The two of you sat side by side, heads tipped back over sinks as warm water ran through your hair and a stylist massaged your scalp with something that smelled like vanilla and orange blossoms. Your eyes fluttered shut. You let yourself drift.

Your best friend took secret photos of you with a soft smile on her face, heart clenching just a little because you have no idea. You have no idea that the love of your life has been texting her every twenty minutes asking “is she happy? is she relaxing? does she suspect anything?”

You were glowing.

After your nails were done (a pale blush pink she subtly nudged you into choosing), and your hair was blown out in soft waves, you sat in front of the mirror, blinking at your reflection.

“God,” you said, softly. “I feel like… I don’t know. Like I’m floating.”

Your best friend came up behind you, resting her hands on your shoulders.

“You look like magic.”

You turned to look at her, eyes soft. “Thanks for today.”

She swallowed, heart skipping. “You deserve the world.”

And when you leaned in to hug her, warm and sleepy and full of love, she had to blink away tears.

Because you still had no idea.

And Oscar Piastri was about to give you everything.

...

Oscar had been pacing.

Not nervously — not exactly. Just that kind of buzzed, excited pacing that meant his heart wouldn’t quite stay calm. His socks were half sliding on the wooden floors as he moved around the flat, adjusting and readjusting the little details.

The living room looked like a scene out of a love song.

Candles — the expensive kind he knew you liked, the ones that smelled like fig and honey — were flickering gently across every surface. Your favorite flowers — not red roses, but the weird little white ones you always called “the ugly pretty ones” — were everywhere, tucked into vases and glasses and little jars like a secret garden had exploded in their apartment. The playlist had been curated to within an inch of its life, starting with the soft stuff you always hummed to in the car and slowly building toward the songs that felt like him and you — lazy days and road trips and the night you moved in together.

In the middle of the drawer beneath the record player. Waiting for the right time.

He hadn’t even opened it today — he didn’t need to. He knew exactly what it looked like. Simple, clean. The band was warm gold, nothing flashy, but the diamond was clear and bright. The kind of ring that didn’t try too hard. The kind that felt like you.

It sat there quietly, like it knew its moment was coming.

Oscar stepped back, hands on his hips, staring at the table like it might suddenly ask for his blessing.

“You ready, mate?” he muttered to himself, voice soft and full of something breathless.

Then came the knock on the door.

His breath caught.

He checked the time. Perfect. You were early.

He made it halfway down the hall before stopping, raking a hand through his hair. He turned around, sprinted back, and grabbed the tiny bouquet of baby’s breath he’d forgotten to put by the door — the one he wanted to give you the moment you walked in, for no reason at all. Just because.

Another knock. This one softer. Familiar.

His heart was pounding.

He opened the door.

And there you were.

Hair done, face glowing, a soft pink gloss on your lips and that look in your eyes — the one that always landed right in his chest. Your tote bag hung off one shoulder. You still had the little paper wristband from the salon tucked on your wrist like you forgot it was there. You were a little windblown from the walk up the stairs.

He couldn’t breathe.

You blinked at him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said, voice cracking a little.

Your eyes narrowed. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not—” He cleared his throat. “I just missed you.”

You softened. “It’s only been a few hours.”

He stepped aside, holding out the little bouquet.

“For you.”

You blinked, smiling at the crinkled paper wrapping. “What’s this for?”

“Nothing. You just look really beautiful.”

You raised a brow. “Oscar Piastri, are you trying to distract me?”

He laughed, nervous and giddy and warm all over. “A little bit.”

You leaned in to kiss his cheek — something so casual and familiar it made his chest ache — and stepped inside.

You didn’t notice the candles at first.

Didn’t notice the playlist, or the flowers.

But he watched as it all slowly hit you.

Your steps slowed. Your eyes flicked around. Your mouth opened slightly.

“…What is this?”

He closed the door behind you and didn’t answer yet. He gave you time to take it in — to see the apartment the way he saw you. Soft and glowing and full of meaning.

He stepped up beside you, heart wild in his chest.

Your fingers tightened around the bouquet.

“Oscar?” you said again, barely above a whisper.

The air felt too heavy. Like your lungs had forgotten how to stretch all the way. Like the walls had inched closer without warning.

He looked at you gently, but you couldn’t hold his gaze for more than a second. Your eyes flitted around the room — the golden light, the candles, the record spinning something soft and slow in the corner, the colors that didn’t belong to an ordinary night.

You took one step inside, then stopped. The silence stretched too far.

“Oscar,” you said again, quieter this time, “what is this?”

You weren’t angry. You weren’t even crying yet. You were just still. Too still. Like your body was trying not to feel it.

Oscar’s voice came soft. “It’s okay.”

You shook your head, almost imperceptibly. “I wasn’t— I didn’t know—”

He stepped closer, slowly, carefully, like he didn’t want to startle you. His hand reached for yours, fingers warm and familiar. “Hey. You’re okay. I promise. Just breathe, sweetheart.”

You tried. You really did. But your chest barely moved.

You blinked again, fast. “Why does it feel like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like something’s… about to change.”

His smile was soft, almost sad. “Because it is.”

You finally looked at him. Really looked. Your eyes were wide, your lips slightly parted, your hands shaking around the stems of the flowers.

He laughed quietly, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand. “God, you’re so quiet right now. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You didn’t answer. Just stared.

He took a breath.

And then, still holding your hand, he began.

“There’s a ring in the drawer — wrapped up, hidden, waiting for the perfect day. But then last weekyou walked through the door in that new green dress and I saw you, so happy, and something inside me just said, Why are you waiting?”

You made a small sound, like a breath that didn’t land all the way.

He kept going.

“I’ve watched you walk into so many rooms, and every single time, I’ve fallen in love with you all over again. And I think—” his voice caught a little, “—I think part of me’s been falling since the first time you looked at me like I wasn’t something to be afraid of.”

Your other hand had risen to your chest now, fingers pressed lightly against your collarbone.

Oscar stepped closer, his words steady even as his eyes grew glassy.

“You always say you’re too much. Too sharp, too complicated, too careful. But do you want to know what I see?”

You nodded, barely.

“I see a girl who laughs with her whole chest when she forgets to be scared. Who stays up late sending pictures of weird clouds. Who holds my hand like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered and still pretends she’s not the softest person in the room.”

A quiet laugh escaped you — wet, stunned — and you shook your head slightly, as if trying to keep yourself upright.

Oscar held your hand a little tighter, his thumb tracing small circles over your skin.

He exhaled slowly, voice a little steadier now. “You know, my job… it’s not easy. It’s demanding in ways I can’t always explain — the travel, the pressure, the constant chase for perfection. Some days I feel like I’m barely holding myself together, and other days I blink and another month’s passed.”

He paused, his voice going quiet again.

“But even in all of that — even when I’m jet-lagged or exhausted or reading strategy notes at 2 a.m. — I still find myself thinking about you. Wondering if you slept okay. If you ate. If something made you laugh.”

You looked down, your breath catching.

“I know I’m not always going to be around in the way you deserve. And I hate that. But I promise you… I’ll try. I’ll try with everything I have to be present, to be there in the moments that matter. I’ll call. I’ll write. I’ll show up — even if it’s in the smallest ways. Because loving you isn't something I want to fit in between races. It's something I want to build everything else around.”

He smiled, soft and sure.

“You’re not a break from my world. You are my world.”

He took a breath.

And that’s when he broke.

Not panicked. Not messy. But decisive.

Like he’d just made a choice in real time.

He turned.

Walked straight down the hallway.

Your heart tripped into your throat. “Oscar—wait, where are you going? What are you—”

But your voice died as soon as you saw it.

The little velvet box in his hand.

He returned slowly, chest rising and falling like he’d been holding this moment in for too long — too many days, too many almosts.

And when he met your eyes again, everything inside you lit up and collapsed at the same time.

“No,” you breathed. “No, you’re not—you’re not doing this—”

“I am,” he said, voice soft but steady. “I really am.”

Your hands were trembling now, bouquet forgotten and held too loosely, fingers clenched and released over and over again like your body was trying to keep pace with your heart.

“But—but you said not yet,” you whispered.

He looked down at the box in his hands. Then back up at you.

He opened it.

And your knees almost buckled.

The ring caught the candlelight in a quiet shimmer — not flashy, not huge, but perfect. Intimate. Him.

You couldn’t move.

You couldn’t breathe.

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” Oscar said, eyes never leaving yours. “I’ve been holding onto this ring for three years. Always thinking there’d be a better time, a better way. But nothing feels more right than right now. You, standing here, losing your mind because I lit a candle and played our song.”

He laughed, but it was breathless. Full of adrenaline. Full of you.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you so much it hurts. And I want to spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”

You blinked rapidly, tears clinging to your lashes, one already streaking down your cheek.

“Oscar,” you whispered, but it came out like a plea.

He stepped forward. Got down on one knee.

Your breath caught, completely and entirely gone.

“Will you marry me?”

There were no theatrics.

No grand speeches.

Just him — knees to the floor, hands shaking, heart in his throat, ring in a box that had been waiting far too long.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until your hands covered your mouth and a little laugh bubbled out through the shock.

He smiled up at you — really smiled — like every part of him was in this.

“Yes,” you choked out. “Oh my god, yes.”

The moment hit like a wave.

You dropped to your knees in front of him, hands on his face, kissing him before he could even slide the ring onto your finger. You were crying and laughing and holding onto him like gravity stopped working.

“I thought I was going to pass out,” you whispered against his mouth, shaking.

He laughed into the kiss, forehead resting against yours. “Same.”

And when he finally did slide the ring on — slow, reverent, like it meant everything (because it did) — your hand trembled in his.

“Perfect,” he murmured, kissing your knuckles. “Finally.”

The music kept playing in the background.

But the room had never been so quiet.

Because nothing needed to be said.

Not anymore.

...

Liked by hattiepiastri, lando, f1, mclaren and 7.7M others.

oscarpiastri: perfect.

lando: HOLY SHIT CONGRATS

danielricciardoso: THIS is what all those mysterious “plans” were?? crying, shaking, throwing champagne 🥂

yourbestfriend: IM SORRY YOU DIDN’T EVEN TELL ME FIRST?? I FIND OUT WITH THE REST OF THE WORLD?? 😭😭😭 I HATE YOU (I LOVE YOU CONGRATS)

mclaren: Our team’s real winning moment 🧡

oscarpiastriupdates: I KNEW IT I KNEW IT I KNEW IT 😭 the candles, the playlist, the strawberries... WE CLOCKED IT MONTHS AGO

username1: not him captioning it like that and making me cry on a THURSDAY

username2: this is why I can’t have nice things. men like him are taken.

username3: the softest launch. the deadliest impact. RIP me.

username4: no press release, no video, just “perfect” and a RING??? be serious oscar we’re fragile

username5: tell me she said yes and then immediately started crying and making it his problem

username6: the “perfect” wasn’t about the photo. it was about her 😭😭😭

Taglist, comment to be added; @angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu

[w0nderland42]

this post is closing in on 10k and it’s really quite enlightening reading through the notes.

the most frequent reactions are from people from Not America agreeing that the cultural force of american pride has detracted in some tangible way from their knowledge or recognition of their own history. there’s so many links and references in the notes now, for so many different places. i had a scroll through some of them, that i could find versions of in english. the world has such a rich queer history, and i am inspired by all of the people saying they’re going to go and research more of their own histories. there have been resources shared from all six permanently inhabited continents (none from antartica, yet…), including a lot (relative to the usual zero) from the regions most frequently glossed over in our global queer histories; africa, the middle east, southeast asia, the pacific, and south america. every single person who’s shared a queer historical figure’s name, or a book or other source, or a historical event from their country or culture is doing an important thing by helping to dismantle the US pride hegemony.

the next most frequent reactions are from americans pissing on the poor, and claiming that either it’s not their fault individually because [nebulous reason missing the point] and/or that i’m racist (someone even said fascist lmao?) because the two people i mentioned were Black and latin american… it’s not the fault of those two women nor myself that americans have chosen their faces and names to put at the front of their imperialist pride. cultural imperialism doesn’t have to LOOK racist! you can be unintentionally culturally imperialist and look woke! a lot of the people who do this are queer and liberal or even leftist. the problem is forcing american queer history on the rest of us. shoutout to the Black and latine people in the notes who’ve rightfully pointed out that that’s a bullshit rebuttal. I’ve also noted the autocorrect typo on Marsha’s name, and fixed it, thanks for the heads up.

sort of the point of cultural imperialism is that the people doing it don’t notice it on an individual level. of course you don’t feel like you’re responsible! of course you struggle to see it when the rest of us point it out! that’s by design! if the rest of the world is saying something is a real experience that they’ve had, and you say “well i don’t see it / i’m not responsible for it,” that is blatant denial of a very real issue.

finally, for the love of god, stop using they/them for me, a trans woman who exclusively uses she/her. my pronouns are front and centre on my blog! funny how the people calling me racist and transmisogynistic for Using Examples are also frequently degendering me in the process, huh?

anyway, this vent was never intended to go viral, i posted it on a quiet afternoon after a conversation with a friend about our queer history here. i’m glad it has, though, because glossing over the americans swinging and missing, the breadth of history and knowledge being shared in the notes is a wonderful thing.

i get that americans love their cultural imperialism, but it really does piss me off that june is “international” pride month just because something happened in the united states.

in aotearoa, june isn’t our pride, it’s theirs. marsha p johnson and sylvia rivera are their historical figures, not ours. the phrase that “you owe your rights to Black trans women” is true there, but here we owe our rights to (mostly) Māori historical figures. i have the freedoms i do because of the legacy of an entirely different set of people operating in an entirely different context at entirely different times.

But because of american cultural imperialism, most queer people in Aotearoa don’t even know our own queer history. Carmen Rupe, Ngahuia Te Awekotuku, the Dorian Society, Gillian Laundon, Georgina Beyer, and the Wolfenden Association are some of our queer history. We should know their names! we should know what they did for us! but because of the power of the american imperial machine, we don’t.

our national pride month should be july, the month that the Homosexual Law Reform Act passed in 1989. our two largest cities hold their pride festivals in february and march, respectively. american queer history has very little (or nothing, depending on who you ask) to do with our queer history. anecdotally, from my own queries, queer youth in aotearoa know more about american queer history than our own.

anyway, happy pride, americans. i’m truly sorry that most of you don’t see the negative impact your nation’s culture has on the rest of the world. and to the rest of the world reading this, try searching for your own country and culture’s queer history, don’t accept the american narratives as your own. we deserve our own histories divorced from the cultural hegemony of the USA.

[cheriladycl01]

Hey! Could you write a fic where female reader is an older driver (maybe debuted around the same time as Seb) and just little scenarios of her being a mother figure towards the drivers. Maybe mix of SMAU and written story (if you do that) xxx 😊 big thx

MUM! - Grid x OlderDriver! Reader

Plot: Everyone needs their grid mum, and that’s everyone!

F1 was you’re life.

Not in a oh I love watching the races every week and going to one race a year. No, you were convinced there was fuel in your veins.

You drove for about 16 years in F1 being the first female driver to win a race. You debuted at the same time as Sebastian Vettel, you guys were bestfriends and didn't let racing affect that friendship. And that's all it ever remained. Every bone in your body loved Seb, he was quite literally your platonic soulmate. When you first met, your now husband, he'd become fast friends with Seb and never questioned your friendship with him and never tried to involve himself too much to the point it felt forced and thats why you knew he was the one.

When you left F1, you left the same year that Seb did, it felt right leaving the same year he did and you discussed it with him. For you it was because you wanted to focus on family. You were 17 when you first got into F1 and now 33 years old and you wanted to settle down with your husband and expand the family. Which apparently wasn't as much as a struggle as you thought it would be as you'd gotten pregnant 5 months after retirement. Giving birth in 2023 and now being pregnant again in 2025.

But F1 and half the drivers you grew up with didn't want you to leave the sport. So when Sky Sports reached out you knew you had to go.

But with the growing amount of Rookies you seem to have adopted children as well as having had them as well.

Sebastian Vettel

y/user

Liked by sebastianvettel and others

y/user: 25 years of friendship! Happy Birthday to the Grid Dad from the Grid Mum! 🫶🏼

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sebastianvettel: woah, I wish I looked this cool now! Look at that haircut 🫨

-> y/user: a diva once, a diva always

fan1: OMG MOTHER AND FATHER!!

You and your husband always made sure to vist Seb for his birthday, it was like an annual gathering that was held where you both were able to have a massive catch up without being near anything to do with racing.

"Happy birthday!" you crashed him handing him his huge bag of gifts before you went to his wife who you'd become very close to and hugging her handing over a cheeky bottle of wine for the both of you to share.

Your husband stood with Seb while you and Hanna went into the kitchen to unpack the food that you'd got for Seb's birthday dinner.

"Thank you for coming" Seb smiles pulling you into a hug, sighing against you.

"I havent missed one in 25 years, even when i had Tonsillitis i still got here. Wasn't much fun for you guys, but you all had a great time" you grin at the memory making him laugh. He could still see you, wrapped up in a bundle of blankets on his sofa with a box of tissues and a honey and lemon tea.

"Mmmmm good times" he laughs, pulling out of the hug and helping you and Hanna dish up.

"What are you doing?" Hanna cries seeing him doing work.

"Huh?" he asks confused.

"It's your birthday, go sit! Keep out other guests entertained and enjoy yourself!" Hanna exclaims, forcing him out the kitchen where he went to sit with your husband.

Your husband and Seb actually did lots of what you and Hanna called 'guy things' together. They'd go on fishing trips while you and Hanna would go to Italy or Spain and soak up the sun. Or they'd play games while you and Hanna went shopping.

Your husband also found joy in travelling with you and your kids adored seeing their Uncle Seb who despite it being his birthday always had to have something for his favrioute kids.

However, another child always seemed to lurk their way into these parties, that being yours and Seb's first adopted child, Lance Stroll.

You and Seb had been officially made mum and dad of the grid. It started off with Lance being taken under his wing and you just sort of joined in with that.

Lance Stroll

Lance was one of your favrioute people, you could sit with him in a comfortable silence and didn't feel like you needed it to be forced. He was also incredibly funny when he wanted to be.

One time, you'd been talking to him off of camera and he's accidentally called you mom. You'd bursted out laughing before querying him wondering if he really did see you as a mother figure.

"Yeah and what?" he asked and you stopped shocked.

After that it was just sort of known that you and Seb had taken on the roll of parents to all the little drivers across the grid.

You would always make sure to make time for Lance as he always would make the time for you. You werent keen on his dad, as he always gave you strange stare that made you feel like he hated you, no matter how many times Lance told you to 'just ignore it'.

"Lance, that overtake today was incredible!" You praise and he nods in thanks.

“Im glad I managed to get us in the points after Fernando’s crash” he offers and you nod. He’d got himself P6 which was a good score considering how the rest of the season had been going.

“Mmmm you’re leading the Aston Team now” you exclaim happy at the fact.

“Thanks Y/N, you’re always there for me” he says making eye contact with you.

“Can’t get rid of me Lance, I’m your mother” you tease and he laughs looking down.

Charles Leclerc

y/user

Liked by charles_leclerc, lewishamilton and others

y/user: Interviewed my first son today. He asked for a hug :) always such a pleasure interviewing him and getting time to talk. Oh and then theres Lewis ...

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charles_leclerc: Ahhh thank you, ma mère adoptive! You should come see Leo your Grandson!

-> y/user: I have a grandson?! I'm so old!

fan1: argh she's so cute with everyone! We all knew she's be such a good mother (real mother)

-> y/user: I'll have you know I've been a real mother since 2018 when Charles joined the grid.

-> fan1: omg she replies!!!!!

lewishamilton: i'm not ignoring her i swear...

Charles and you first met in 2017. He was very nervous when he came up to you, asking you how you felt you're race had went. You later found out he had a whole script to say to you after your race that you'd started from pole. Little did he know that Lewis was going to turn into you on lap 3 and crash you out for the rest of the race.

"Well, i didn't finish so not great kid" you chuckle at his nervous expression where he'd finally realised what he'd said.

“I erm, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that” he blurts out and you can only laugh at him.

“I know I know. I’m just teasing you” you say placing a light hand in his shoulder trying to ease his nerves.

“You know you’ll be racing with us soon” you grin at him knowing he’s signed for Seb’s old team.

“Yes, I’m excited … and nervous. You’re all so great” he compliments looking down and you sigh.

“I bet you’re gonna be big. Like world champion big. I can see it now. Charles Leclerc WORLD CHAMPION” you say raising your hands in a jazzy manner.

“That should be you. You should have hand a championship but it’s HIS fault” he directs looking at the screen following Lewis in your P1.

“How are you so calm and not angry at him?” He presses and you just laugh.

“I used to get very angry when I first started and I was young. But you learn that you being upset gets you nowhere. I learn from my mistakes, I don’t let them have a hold over me” you explain to him. Knowing that you were a much calmer and level headed driver than you used to be.

“Do you think I’ll ever be as good as him?” He asks tone softer than it was before.

“I think anyone can be as good as him, given the circumstances. I’ve know Lewis for years and he’s where he is now because of how committed he is. He works and trains harder than anyone I know. He’s got an incredible team behind him and a car to match, when all of that falls into play you’ve got yourself a winner. He’s one of the greats and will be remembered by everyone” you offer and Charles nods, now seeing the current leader of the championship in a new light. He’d always looked up to him, but now he just seems like a hard worker and Charles wanted to be that.

Lewis Hamilton

Lewis by far was not one of your grid kids, being a similar age to you and having started your careers in the same year you’d know him for an incredibly long time.

Which means you knew his tendency to be a little … childish. And by a little you mean a lot.

Too put it bluntly Lewis is a massive brat.

He doesn’t act angry when races don’t go his way, he’ll pout and be all salty looking like a puppy whose just had his biscuits taken away from him.

He’d been know to throw caps at his teammates when they said something bad about him and would often try play the victim card. You’d know him for so long that you knew the games he played like the back of your hand.

“Lewis!” You chide the man whose currently slumped over on the drivers room. You were both on the podium. Max having taken the win.

“What! He’s taken my win from me!” He points at the empty seat where Max should be.

“That’s racing! You’ll get him next week, this week things didn’t go your way and that’s okay. So stop sulking and put that gorgeous smile on your face” You command sick of him moping when he’s still up on the podium. He looks up to see your famous mum look, and nods on instinct feeling like it’s his mum scolding him when he was a child.

“You’re scarily good at that look Yano? Ever think of having your own?” He asks and you roll your eyes.

“Yeah, but I gotta retire first” you smile and he nods.

“We’ll get out of here then, less competition for me” he grins and you shake your head laughing.

That’s the Lewis you knew.

Jamie Chadwick and Bernie Collins

y/user

Liked by bernie.collins.1, jamiechadwick

y/yser: COMMENTATING WITH MY DAUGHTERS!!! Look at how beautiful they are!!! So proud of Jamie for last weekend in Indy Car as well, as a ex-female driver I hope to see her in F1 in the future!

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Jamie and Bernie were a recent development in the F1 World. You couldn’t be more pleased that women were taking more of an interest in the sport than they historically had.

Not only as viewers but working there. You now saw so many female engineers and mechanics. And it made you so happy that women were comfy within the sport.

When Bernie came onto the scene you immedielty took the younger lady under your wing, almost becoming a mentor. But the mum side would slip out at times when people managed to pick up on it.

"Bernie did you put cream on? It awfully sunny and they haven't given you an umbrella!" you exclaimed one day, going into your back and taking out the aerosol can of sunscreen you'd brought with you incase anyone was in need.

"No i was a little rushed this morning leaving! I didn't realise how early they wanted us at the track" she sighed and you offer her the can showing her you can spray it in her cheeks. She closed her eyes letting you spray it on before you wipe it in.

"Don't wanna get greasy hands before you hold your mic hun" you smile at her as she opens her eyes thank you for the coverage.

It was very similar to Jamie, who was much younger but also whenever the girl came to the f1 track would find her way to you.

But the moment you really saw it was when you went to her Indy Car race. Her parents werent able to attend and you had the weekend free so of course you and you're husband came down for the show.

And you couldnt be prouder of her. You were one of the first people there to congratulate her on her amazing race, pulling her into a huge sweaty hug.

"I'm so proud of you darling! You did so well!" you smile kissing the side of her head pulling her in for a second hug.

"Thanks mum" she chuckles with a shake of her head before heading off with her team.

George Russell

y/user

Liked by georgerussell63, carmenmmundt and others

y/user: My son drove me and his girlfriend to work today! Recommended 10/10!

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georgerussell63: yeah you're welcome. Might need you to come to parents evening soon. Professor Wolff isn't happy with me or Kimi!

-> y/user: @ susie_wolff get your husband in check! lol

->susie_wolff: will get on this now, not our sons, not on our watch

-> georgerussell63: thanks mum number 2

kimi.antonelli: Mr Wolff is very scary. PS can i have some help with my homework?

George was one you always watched out for. Being a British driver you felt like you had to mentor him. Which is exactly what you did. The minute he came into Williams despite his awful first year, you knew he was something worth your time and knowledge. So you helped him out, gave him small pointers on the track and he got his first points in F1. The car got better as the year went on and he was driving with more ambition.

George had a special place in his heart for you after all you'd helped him do in his career. He was one of the saddest when you annouced your retiremeant. You had to actually to take him out to dinner and explain to him privately that you were leaving even before it got out in the media.

"So what's this treat of a meal for? Not my birthday!" he says digging into the Carbonara that was in front of him.

"Well, next years going to be a little different in the races!" you start to explain not picking up your own knife and fork, wanting to concentrate on getting everything out in the open.

"What, OMG are you changing teams?" he asks in shock.

"No, i'm retiring" you say and he chokes on the pasta making you look up in shock. He also looked shocked too.

"W-what? No you cant be!" he says looking at you. You were his favrioute person on the grid. He always came to you whenever he had a bad race or an issue with Max, which you always treated as if they were siblings in an argument.

"I'm sorry, but it's my time and i want to be with my husband and ... i wanna start a family" you smile softly looking at him.

"Were you're family. Here racing!" he demands a sour upset sort of look on his face.

"George ... i love you all. But i need to do this. For me, okay. I'll still come and visit. Think i've got a free paddock pass for life ..." you joke.

"But ..." he starts but you just smile.

"Come on, lets not spoil a good meal" you say, tapping his hand.

"You better come visit" he mutters looking up at you with a smile.

"Does that mean i'll get to be a cool Uncle?" he grins and you laugh with a nod.

"Oh absolutely"

Kimi Antonelli

Kimi Antonelli wasn't who you expected for Mercedes to replace a 7 time world champion. However, he was for sure the right choice. You saw him as this timid young teenager who was still going through school.

When he'd started in 2025, you were at every race as a commentator or guest. You loved travelling and being with the calendar as it went through the year and being in their to see the wins and talk to your old friends.

But Kimi was interesting. 2025 had brought many rookies who were in a very different age bracket from you. Which meant of course they all flocked to you like sheep.

Kimi was a special case where you met his mum in his F1 debut when he crashed. His mum was incredibly worried and you consoled her as much as you could until Kimi came to meet the both of you.

After that moment she trusted you with her son. You would go with him from the hotel to the track and you'd sit in the Mercedes hospitality with him.

"I don't get this, what does it mean?" he asks you about a question on his English homework that he didn't really understand. This was a typical race weekend now, between practices and interviews you were hauled up with papers both of you having what you called mocktails. It was literally just fancy water with lemons and limes and an umbrella in it but you and Kimi always found it funny ordering them.

"Well, its asking you how the poem makes you feel... its about emotion in literature" you then translate it into Italian, and he nods a thoughtful face appearing across his features before. He writes his answer out in english before showing it to you and you smile.

"I recon if you werent half the driver you are, you'd be a poet!" you grin and he frowns lightly knocking your shoulder.

"No! Shush!" he cries before laughing with you.

"Good thing I'm a good driver then!" he jokes and smiles taking some water.

Isack Hadjar

y/user

Instagram Story Caption: He destroyed the car, but got a hug from me!!!

Yuki Tsunoda

Instagram Story Caption: Mine and @ nicolepiastri child!

Lando Norris

Instagram Story Caption: MY SON WON!!!!!

Taglist:

@littlebitchsposts @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @daemyratwst @lauralarsen @the-untamed-soul @thewulf @itsjustkhaos @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @summissss @gulphulp @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhhhh @georgeparisole @youcannotcancelquidditch @tallbrownhairsarcastic @ourteenagetragedy @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @dark-night-sky-99 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle @laneyspaulding19 @malynn @landosgirlxoxo @marie0v @yourbane @teamnovalak @nikfigueiredo @fionaschicken @0picels0 @tinydeskwriter @ironmaiden1313 @splaterparty0-0 @formula1mount

[dodger-chan]

Inspired by this post by @0nemorestranger Hopefully close enough to what you had in mind

Lost Media

Steve didn’t realize he’d been humming along to anything until the music cut off suddenly and looped around to start over. The opening riff played for about three seconds before it cut off again.

“Wait, who’s humming?” The question came from one of Steve’s younger co-workers. A part-timer working his way through college. Steve couldn’t remember his name.

“Uh, that was me. Sorry,” he tacked on the apology as an afterthought.

“You know that song?” the kid asked. He sounded like Dustin.

“It’s called Plane of Shadows. I think it’s a DnD reference,” Steve answered. “Band’s Corroded Coffin. Haven’t heard them in years.”

That wasn’t strictly true. Every once in a while, Steve would play the tape he still had. Think about that one summer he’d spent as an unpaid, unofficial roadie. Daydream about what could have happened if he’d known himself a little better back then.

Not too often. Steve wasn’t that much of a loser.

The kid came over and plopped down in Robin’s empty chair. She was out sick today, getting over the flu Steve had picked up last week.

“It is. A DnD reference, I mean,” the kid said. Steve probably needed a better thing to call him; he was probably Erica’s age. “Shit, one of my friends posted that clip to this metal bulletin board. We've been trying to identify it forever. How do you know it?”

“They’re from the same small town I am. We all went to highschool together.” Not that Steve had known their music in highschool. “I don’t think they ended up with a record deal, but they did have an EP they used to sell at concerts. I can bring it tomorrow if you want.”

*********

Steve brought the tape, along with the souvenirs he’d saved from that summer. A couple of photocopied flyers. An ad clipped from a local Bloomington paper for a concert. A wristband from a bar that had marked him as too young to drink. Also his Walkman. Steve wasn’t sure if kids still had cassette players now that CDs were everywhere.

“This is so cool,” the kid - Brian, apparently - gushed when Steve handed him the shoebox he’d brought it all in at lunch. “Is it alright if I scan these? And can I borrow this tape? I want to digitize it and share the full song with the board.”

“You can do that?” Steve really needed to learn more about computers. Just not from Dustin who couldn’t teach anything without turning into a condescending asshole.

“Yeah, just record from the Walkman like it’s a mic. I’ll burn you a copy of the whole EP. That way you won’t have to worry about wearing out your tape,” Brian offered. “I would never have guessed you were such a metal fan.”

“I’m not, really,” Steve admitted. Brian blinked at him, surprised. And, well, it wasn’t the eighties anymore, and they weren’t still living in Hawkins. “Massive crush on the lead guitarist.”

“Oh, uh, thanks for telling me.” Brian leaned over and patted Steve’s shoulder. “So you and Robin aren’t-”

“Strictly platonic.” Maybe Robin was right and they should get signs for their desks.

*********

It was nearly a month later when Brian grabbed Steve at the water cooler and dragged him over to his desk, saying “You’ve got to see this.”

This was a post on the Brian’s metal bulletin board:

Crazy to hear from a buddy that our old band is a minor Internet sensation. Thanks, all. If you guys had been around back in the day we might have managed a full album. Or maybe not. Gareth’s parents would have killed him if he dropped out and Jeff actually wanted to go to college, so maybe we still would have broken up in ‘87. Regardless, we’re all thrilled our music is bringing joy to today’s metal heads. As the primary songwriter, and with the agreement of the rest of the band, I grant permission to upload and download the entire EP. We think any money we might potentially have made on it is worth less to us than the value of preserving what could have been lost media. Just make sure to credit us if your garage band turns one of our songs into a hit. Anyway, if you guys have any questions about Corroded Coffin, or the songs, reply to this post and I’ll do my best to answer in a timely fashion. Aside to OP: Is your preppy co-worker who had all our stuff a handsome former jock with spectacular hair? Because I’d love to get back in touch with our old roadie. -EM

“Oh my god,” Robin squealed, leaning over Steve’s shoulder as he read. “Please, you have to give Eddie Steve’s email. Or get Eddie’s email to give to Steve. Or both. Both would be best. That way at least one of them will have the balls to reach out first.”

“Eddie’s already reaching out,” Steve said. “And I thought you said it was anti-femminist to use testicles as a proxy for courage.”

“Stop quoting me when I’m being right, Steven.”

“So I should get his contact info for you?” Brian asked.

Steve hesitated. Real life was not some romantic comedy where attraction was always mutual and true love overcame all obstacles in the end. But it wasn’t like he’d spend the last decade pining. Even if it was nothing more than getting a friend back, it would be good to get in touch with Eddie again.

“Sure,” Steve answered. “Why not?”

[hyruling]

omggggggg 58 + 60 for the intimacy prompts mwah mwah mwah 🥰🥰🥰

60. sitting in their lap

—

“Dude. I know you heard me call seat check.”

Chim shrugs, tucked into Buck’s spot between Eddie and Maddie on the couch, smugly eating the popcorn that Buck and Eddie had been sharing before he got up to pee. “I heard no such thing.”

“You’re blocking the TV,” Ravi complains, but Buck ignores him. 

“Come on, you all heard me. I was only gone for like, three minutes.”

“Wife privilege trumps seat check rules,” Chim argues, tossing popcorn in his mouth with a shit eating grin. He wraps his free arm around Maddie, who’s focused on the movie and studiously ignoring them both. 

“That’s not a thing—”

“It is when it’s our first night out of the house since the baby was born,” Chim argues. “Or I could use the captain card if you prefer.”

“Abuse of power,” Ravi mutters, and Buck points to him excitedly. 

“Yes, exactly, thank you Ravi!”

“I think you should use it though,” Ravi continues to Chim, and Buck gapes while Chim does a stupid fist pump. “We’re missing the climax of the movie dude. Just sit on the floor.”

“Easy for you to say from your high horse in the comfy armchair. The floor is hard on my leg,” Buck says. It’s only half true, but he’ll use whatever excuse he can to win one over on his brother in law. 

“You sit on the floor all the time,” Hen interjects from her spot on the loveseat, curled up cozily with Karen, also ignoring them. 

“Irrelevant,” Buck says with a dismissive gesture. “The point is, I called seat check, and what kind of society are we if we can’t even respect the sanctity of—”

And Eddie, who until now had been silently observing with an amused grin, rolls his eyes and sighs, “Dios, come here.”

He wraps a big hand around Buck’s wrist and tugs until he has nowhere to go but Eddie’s lap. Buck falls limply down, trying not to crush him at the last second by throwing an arm across the back of the couch. Eddie situates him across his legs, his back against the armrest next to Eddie, and if he weren’t struck so dumb by the whole thing he would put his feet in Chim’s face just to be annoying. 

“Happy now?” Eddie mutters in his ear.

“Uh,” Buck says intelligently. 

Eddie’s hand settles on his knee, the other resting behind Buck’s back along the armrest. Everyone’s eyes are on them when Buck looks up, but Eddie’s are on the screen. His cheeks are a little pink, but otherwise he appears normal. 

“Wow,” Chim says after a minute. “An instant Buck-Off button.”

“Shhh,” Eddie hushes him before Buck has a chance. “Some of us are watching the movie.”

Chim shakes his head with a short laugh and finally turns his attention back to the screen, and the rest of the room follows suit.

Buck is, ostensibly, also watching the movie, but he has no idea what’s happening. Gun to his head he couldn’t name a single actor in it, despite having watched the last hour and a half before Eddie rewired his synapses. All he can focus on is Eddie, the feel of his chest rising and falling against his arm, his thumb rubbing unconscious little circles against Buck’s elbow, the heavy weight of his hand on his knee.

“You okay?” Eddie whispers after who knows how long, quiet in Buck’s ear. 

Buck turns. Eddie’s eyes are dark in the dim room, his face much closer than Buck anticipated. He nods and tries to get a grip, though Eddie must be able to feel the way his heart is beating with the arm tucked around his back. 

“Yeah, I’m great,” he answers softly. 

“Sure? I can sit on the floor, if you’d rather not—”

Buck is shaking his head before he can finish the sentence. “No, no, this is — yeah, this is perfect.”

Perfect? He cringes internally, but Eddie isn’t fazed in the slightest. In fact he smiles, soft and pleased and all for Buck, and his heart rate kicks up another notch. 

They finish the movie twenty minutes later. Buck’s had to pee for a good fifteen of that, but he refused to get up — he doesn’t have the kind of luck that will afford him a second chance at this. He doesn’t even get up when everyone else stands to stretch and refill their drinks, perfectly content to stay where he is for as long as Eddie will allow it. 

Similarly, Eddie doesn’t push him off the second it becomes acceptable to do so. In fact he encourages Buck to stretch his legs out on the couch with a silent pat on his thigh.

“Am I crushing you?” Buck asks when they’re the only ones still in the room. 

Eddie shakes his head and gives his knee a squeeze. “Nah. You’re kind of like a weighted blanket.”

Buck flushes and looks away. Feels ridiculous, like he’s fifteen again and being flirted with by Cassie McDaniel in homeroom — except they’re in their thirties, and Eddie isn’t flirting. He’s just being Eddie. The New Eddie, as Buck has coined it in his head; the one that came back from El Paso with a twinkle in his eye that Buck can’t quite parse. He’s the same old Eddie but lighter, somehow — more free with his touches and casual affection in a way that Buck very much enjoys, despite the way it’s slowly driving him insane.

Like now, for instance.

“Your ass is kinda bony though.”

Buck scoffs, affronted, and Eddie laughs. His hand tightens on Buck’s knee when he tries to shift his weight off Eddie’s thighs. “Didn’t say you needed to move.”

“Well I’d hate for my bony ass to dig into your perfect thighs.”

“Perfect, huh?” Eddie teases, and there’s that fucking twinkle again.

“Mediocre. Above average. I know you skip leg day at least once a week.”

“How many times can we have this argument?”

“It’s not an argument, it’s a healthy discussion.”

“Core strength is more important than having huge biceps, and as a firefighter, you should understand that—”

“Well those huge biceps have saved a lot of people, didn’t hear them complaining.”

“I’m definitely not complaining either, but my point is—”

“Are you two gonna cuddle on my couch all night?”

They look up to see Hen standing over them, hands on her hips and brow raised suspiciously. 

“Maybe,” Eddie says before Buck can come up with anything. “You got something to say about it?”

“Only that you have your own house to be weird in,” she says with an eye roll. “And that Buck promised to help clean after the fiasco with the fondue last month.”

“Shit, I did,” Buck says, gingerly getting up so he doesn’t hurt Eddie with his bony ass. Eddie squeezes his hip as he goes though and nearly sends him sprawling. He just blinks innocently up at Buck when he whirls on him, self-satisfied little smile on his face that Buck wants to—

Nope. Not going there. He trails off after Hen and decidedly does not think about it. 

He doesn’t think about it when Eddie comes in to help clean, hip checking him at the sink. Or when they say their goodbyes to everyone at the door, and Eddie presses little smacking kisses to Karen and Hen and Maddie’s cheeks that he pretends he’s not wildly jealous of. Or when Eddie leads him to the truck with a hand on his lower back, and keeps it there until Buck rounds the hood to the drivers seat. He doesn’t think about it on the drive home, Eddie quiet in that way he gets sometimes after one too many drinks, and he definitely doesn’t stare at Eddie’s ‘perfect’ thighs when he changes into his sleep shorts and sinks onto the couch next to Buck. 

“That was fun,” Eddie says, relaxing until his head rests on the back of the couch.

“Yeah. Super fun.”

It’s quiet again, only sound coming from the TV playing on low. Buck keeps his eyes glued to it, though he’s not taking in a single thing Mrs. Brady is saying. 

“You’re thinking pretty loud over there bud,” Eddie says during a commercial break. 

Buck chances a look at him, and it’s a mistake. He looks so soft, relaxed against the cushions, wearing a baggy tank and shorts that ride up well above what Buck would consider an appropriate length. Buck looks quickly away. 

“Hey. I didn’t make you uncomfortable earlier, did I?” Eddie asks.

“No,” Buck answers, and forces himself to make eye contact. Eddie looks a little unsure, and Buck quickly shakes his head. “No, I told you it was fine, I promise, I just. I’m tired, I guess. Karen’s sangria always sneaks up on me.”

Eddie nods. “Yeah I know. Wanna share the bed tonight?” 

Buck flushes, and this time it’s definitely not dark enough for Eddie not to notice. It shouldn’t be a big deal — they’ve shared the bed a few times since Eddie and Chris came home, usually after a particularly grueling shift where their exhaustion ran too deep to tolerate the couch, and it’s been fine.

Only the last time it happened, he woke up to Eddie curled around his back, hand curled possessively in the front pocket of his hoodie. And in his half-conscious state Buck had thought, this is how I want to wake up everyday. He’s avoided sharing ever since. 

“Nah, couch—couch is fine,” Buck stutters. 

“Buck. Come on, talk to me, what’s got you so freaked?”

“I’m not freaked,” Buck lies, and turns back to the TV. “I’m not. Just. Brain is too loud tonight, I guess.”

He sees Eddie nod in his peripheral. “Well, I wasn’t kidding earlier you know.”

“About what?”

“You feeling like a weighted blanket,” Eddie clarifies. 

Buck’s head snaps to the left. Eddie looks serious as a heart attack — which, incidentally, Buck may be currently having. 

“So…”

“So,” Eddie echoes.

He inches closer until their thighs are touching. Buck watches in a weird sort of trance as Eddie twists and swings a leg over, hovering above Buck’s thighs. “This okay?”

Buck unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth and says, “Yeah—yes. Yeah.”

Eddie smiles and sits fully, and then they’re just staring at each other. Buck keeps his hands firmly to himself, while Eddie’s rest comfortably on Buck’s shoulders. 

“See what I mean?”

Buck blinks, remembers the weird metaphor they’re operating under. “Um, sort of. You’re only—I-I mean there’s only weight on my legs.”

“Good point.”

Slowly, as if he’s anticipating Buck to call their game of chicken and push him off, Eddie leans forward and wraps his arms around Buck’s shoulders, pressing their chests together. Buck feels his chin dig sharp into his shoulder before he adjusts and lays his cheek against his collarbone. 

“How’s that?” Eddie asks, slightly muffled. 

Buck inhales, feels Eddie move with him on the exhale, and it’s — well, Eddie wasn’t lying. Eddie lets his full weight press against Buck and it's comforting, to say the least. Electrifying, because it’s Eddie, and yet as the minutes pass he can feel his heart rate slow, his breathing ease. He feels their chests rise and fall together, Eddie’s warm weight settling him in a way nothing has in a long time — maybe ever. His mind goes pleasantly blank, even when one of Eddie’s hands starts to comb through the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“It’s nice,” Buck answers belatedly, and Eddie chuckles at the sleepy timbre of his voice. “I see what you mean.”

“Right?” Eddie says, scratching gently at his scalp, and it feels so good he melts even deeper into the couch cushions. “You can touch me too, you know.”

“Oh,” Buck mutters, and picks his hands up from where they’d been resting awkwardly next to Eddie’s thighs. He wraps them tentatively around Eddie’s back; Eddie makes a contented humming sound in response. 

They stay that way for a long time, until the late night rerun ends and another episode begins. Buck’s hands drift after awhile, smoothing up and down Eddie’s back slowly, thumbs rubbing circles against his scapula and vertebrae. 

“Hey Eddie.”

He’s half asleep, and Eddie is so big and warm in his arms, and it makes him reckless. Eddie’s ear is so close to Buck’s mouth he can whisper what he hasn’t dared speak out loud. 

“Yeah Buck?” Eddie says just as softly. 

“I need to tell you something. No – don’t, don’t get up.” He wraps a hand around the back of Eddie’s neck to keep him still. 

Eddie huffs but stays put. “You’re not about to tell me you’re moving, are you?”

There’s such an air of dread and petulance in his tone that Buck laughs. 

“No. Didn’t, uh, know you had such strong feelings about that.”

“Well. I do.”

“It’s not that,” Buck says, and Eddie exhales against his neck. “But you might, uh—you might want me to when I—”

“No I won’t,” Eddie interrupts, leaving no room for argument. “Tell me.” 

Buck swallows, hard enough that Eddie must hear it. But he waits patiently, one of his thumbs tracing figure eights on the back of Buck’s neck, and for some reason that is what finally breaks through his thinly guarded veneer.

“I think I’m in love with you.” 

The figure eight stutters to a stop, but Eddie doesn’t move an inch. If anything, he covers Buck with his weight even more, somehow, and Buck feels his nose brush his clavicle. 

“And you think I want you to move out because of that?” 

“I—well, maybe, I don’t want to make you feel—I don’t know. Actually, can we pretend I didn’t say anything?” 

“No,” Eddie says. And then nothing else. 

“I—Eddie you gotta—you gotta say something. Tell me to fuck off, or that it’ll never happen but you value our friendship anyway, o-or that nothing will change between us—”

“Hmm, no. None of those sound like me.” 

“You literally said that last one. Basically verbatim, less than a year ago.” 

“Yeah, but I was lying then. I don’t want to lie to you again.” 

“Eddie, come on, what does that me—” 

But in one swift move Eddie sits up, catches Buck’s face between his hands, and kisses him. 

It’s a short kiss, a dry brush of slightly chapped lips, but it manages to alter his entire worldview in the five or so seconds it last before Eddie pulls away. Buck gets a brief glimpse of his pink cheeks before he tucks his head back against Buck’s shoulder. 

“There you go sweetheart,” Eddie mumbles, voice drawling the way it does when he’s tired. “My knees have about another five minutes of this before I need to get up, let's not waste them.” 

“Okay,” Buck says in a ragged voice that doesn’t quite sound like his. A voice belonging to a mouth that has kissed Eddie Diaz, and therefore irrevocably changed. 

True to his word, Eddie continues to crush him into the couch for another five minutes, until his racing heart slows again and their eyes are half-lidded and drowsy when Eddie sits up. 

“That was nice,” he says with a smile.

“Y-yeah, it was,” Buck agrees, squeezing Eddie’s thighs. “Same time tomorrow?”

Eddie huffs out a little laugh, and though Buck was half joking, Eddie nods and presses his forehead against Buck’s shoulder. Buck drops a kiss to the crown of his head before he can quite stop himself, and Eddie makes that same happy humming sound Buck wants to chase for the rest of his life. 

“Yeah. I’ll see you there.”

—

[stinkylittletoad]

I started writing a bunch in the tags but ultimately decided this was worth a full post response. I have so many thoughts. First, thank you user Felassan for sharing this article via Tumblr. I wasn't going to pay Bloomberg to read it.

This was an incredibly validating read for a number of reasons, but also only furthered my existing anger towards Corporate America (surprise surprise) and EA.

I remember first playing the game, and feeling I had been lied to by the marketing. I clearly remember telling a friend it felt like they were rebranding DA as Fortnite. And then actually getting into the game and.... it was, but it wasn't. It was clearly caught in the crossfire of so many different decisions, and obviously lacked direction and voice, and I'm so enraged for the BioWare team that they were also caught constantly in the crossfire of indecision by higher ups at EA.

It is BEYOND wild to me that EA received criticism early on that people were unhappy with the level of cause/effect and then the DA team was forced to scrape something together that should have been given years more time to work on. Shameful, EA. Shameful.

I still remember seeing critic reviews early on and continually recalling MrMattyPlays' early access review, wherein he said he was hopeful but holding out a true review until he had full access to the game. Wherein he praised the amount of time he got in early access, saying it really was a standalone. And then once the game came out and he gave his full review, saying that the time he was given in early access was so carefully cultivated to only show the parts they wanted you to see. It was NOT a truly representative experience of the full game. That clearly SOMEBODY along the way realized the game was not what it should have been, and cherry picked the way they presented the game to garner better reviews from critics. Well, when you lie to gamers, we're gonna figure it out and be upset!!

Laura Fryer made an incredible video on the Games Industry Bubble that also elaborates on the ways that the industry carefully cultivates critic access to games prior to their release that is well worth the watch. I would rewatch it now and elaborate further but I think I need to set this topic down for a little while.

EA's behavior throughout this development process is the epitome of gaslighting and abuse: yanking them left and right and up and down and then punishing them when they were unable to deliver under impossible odds, holding them responsible for something well out of their control given the circumstances. The failure of Dragon Age Veilguard has NOTHING to do with the IP, the creative and writing teams, or anybody who was actually on the DA team. It has nothing to do, much to the behest of bigot gamers, with the increased visibility and representation of queer and especially trans folx. It has EVERYTHING to do with shitty corporate leadership that prioritizes profit and following trends over allowing creatives to pour passion and heart and life into a tried and true series with millions of eager, passionate fans.

I will never forgive or forget that EA pummeled, bullied, tossed around, and disregarded the Dragon Age series in this way. Thank you to the team of devs that worked tirelessly and under impossible circumstances to deliver the game that this ultimately became. I will treasure it for what it is, remember fondly what it could have been, and dare to hope for a future where this IP can be in the hands of people who will again do it justice from a place of love and passion, and not from a place of rotted corporate greed.

Jason Schreier for Bloomberg reports: 'Inside the ‘Dragon Age’ Debacle That Gutted EA’s BioWare Studio'

The latest game in BioWare’s fantasy role-playing series went through ten years of development turmoil. The failure of Dragon Age: The Veilguard, released in October, led EA to gut BioWare

[note: article is below cut after these tweets]

Jason Schreier: "NEW: What went wrong with Dragon Age: The Veilguard? Why was the writing so tonally inconsistent? Why did it feel so shallow? Why were there so few choices? Really, after ten years of turbulence, it was a miracle that anything came out at all. This is the story [link]:" [source]

Jason Schreier: "The fatal flaw for Dragon Age: The Veilguard wasn't just that it pivoted from single-player to multiplayer and back again. It was that after the second pivot, the team was forced to keep going rather than hit the reset button and take the time to create a new plan." [source]

Jason Schreier re: this old tweet from Casey Hudson: "Fun fact: when I first reported at Kotaku in 2018 that Dragon Age 4 was rebooted to become a live-service game, BioWare studio head Casey Hudson wrote this on Twitter. But it was not entirely truthful. In reality, the game was being designed around cooperative multiplayer, replayable missions, etc" [source] Casey Hudson's old tweet from 2018: "Reading lots of feedback regarding Dragon Age, and I think you'll be relieved to see what the team is working on. Story & character focused. Too early to talk details, but when we talk about "live" it just means designing a game for continued storytelling after the main story."

Rest of post/article under cut due to length.

(bold in the text below is mine for emphasis)

"In early November, on the eve of the crucial holiday shopping season, staffers at the video-game studio BioWare were feeling optimistic. After an excruciating development cycle, they had finally released their latest game, Dragon Age: The Veilguard, and the early reception was largely positive. The role-playing game was topping sales charts on Steam, and solid, if not spectacular, reviews were rolling in. But in the weeks that followed, the early buzz cooled as players delved deeper into the fantasy world, and some BioWare employees grew anxious. For months, everyone at the subsidiary of the video-game publisher Electronic Arts Inc. had been under intense pressure. The studio’s previous two games, Mass Effect: Andromeda and Anthem, had flopped, and there were rumors that if Dragon Age underperformed, BioWare might become another of EA’s many casualties. Not long after Christmas, the bad news surfaced. EA announced in January that the new Dragon Age had only reached 1.5 million players, missing the company’s expectations by 50%. The holiday performance of another recently released title, EA Sports FC 2025, was also subpar, compounding the problem."

"As a result of the struggling titles, EA Chief Executive Officer Andrew Wilson explained, the company would be significantly lowering its sales forecast for the fiscal year ahead. EA’s share price promptly plunged 18%. “Dragon Age had a high-quality launch and was well-reviewed by critics and those who played,” Wilson later said on an earnings call. “However, it did not resonate with a broad enough audience in this highly competitive market.” Days after the sales revision, EA laid off a chunk of BioWare’s staff at the studio’s headquarters in Edmonton, Canada, and permanently transferred many of the remaining workers to other divisions. For the storied, 30-year-old game maker, it was a stunning fall that left many fans wondering how things had gone so haywire — and what might come next for the stricken studio. According to interviews with nearly two dozen people who worked on Dragon Age: The Veilguard, there were several reasons behind its failure, including marketing misfires, poor word of mouth and a 10-year gap since the previous title. Above all, sources point to the rebooting of the product from a single-player game to a multiplayer one — and then back again — a switcheroo that muddled development and inflated the title’s budget, they say, ultimately setting the stage for EA’s potentially unrealistic sales expectations. A spokesperson for EA declined to comment."

"The union between BioWare and EA started off with lofty aspirations. In 2007, EA executives announced they were acquiring BioWare and another gaming studio in a deal worth $860 million. The goal was to diversify their slate of games, which was heavy in sports titles, like Madden NFL, and light in the kind of adventure and role-playing games that BioWare was known for. Initially, it looked like a smart move thanks to a string of big hits. In 2014, BioWare released Dragon Age: Inquisition, the third installment in a popular action series dropping players in a semi-open world full of magic, elves and fire-spewing dragons. The fantasy title went on to win the much-coveted Game of the Year Award and sell 12 million copies, according to its executive producer Mark Darrah — a major validation of EA’s diversification strategy. Before long, Darrah and Mike Laidlaw, the creative director, began kicking around ideas for the next Dragon Age installment — code name: Joplin — aiming for a game that would be smaller in scope. But before much could get done, BioWare shifted the studio’s focus to more pressing titles coming down the pike. In 2017, BioWare released Mass Effect: Andromeda, the fourth installment in a big-budget action series set in space. Unlike its critically successful predecessors, the game received mediocre reviews and was widely mocked by fans. A few months after the disappointing release, the head of BioWare stepped down and was soon replaced by Microsoft Inc.’s Casey Hudson, an alumni of BioWare’s early, formative years."

"Like much of the industry, EA executives were growing increasingly enamored of so-called live-service games, such as Destiny and Overwatch, in which players continue to engage with and spend money on a title for months or even years after its initial release. With EA aiming to make a splash in the fast-growing category, BioWare poured resources into Anthem, a live-service shooter game that checked all the right boxes. One day in October 2017, Laidlaw summoned his colleagues into a conference room and pulled out a few pricey bottles of whisky. The next Dragon Age sequel, he told the room, would also be pivoting to an online, live-service game — a decision from above that he disagreed with. He was resigning from the studio. The assembled staff stayed late through the night, drinking and reminiscing about the franchise they loved. “I wish that pivot had never occurred,” Darrah would later recount on YouTube. “EA said, ‘Make this a live service.’ We said, ‘We don’t know how to do that. We should basically start the project over.’” Former art director Matt Goldman replaced Laidlaw as creative director, and with a tiny team began pushing ahead on a new multiplayer version of Dragon Age — code name: Morrison — while everyone else helped to finish Anthem, which was struggling to coalesce. Goldman pushed for a “pulpy,” more lighthearted tone than previous entries, which suited an online game but was a drastic departure from the dark, dynamic stories that fans loved in the fantasy series."

"In February 2019, BioWare released Anthem. Reviews were scathing, calling the game tedious and convoluted. Fans were similarly displeased. On social media, players demanded to know why a studio renowned for beloved stories and characters had made an online shooter with a scattershot narrative. In the wake of BioWare’s second consecutive flop, the multiplayer version of Dragon Age continued to take shape. While the previous games in the franchise had featured tactical combat, this one would be all action. Instead of quests that players would only experience once, it would be full of missions that could be replayed repeatedly with friends and strangers. Important characters couldn’t die because they had to persist for multiple players across never-ending gameplay. As the game evolved over the next two years, the failure of Anthem hovered over the studio. Were they making the same mistakes? Some BioWare employees scoffed that they were simply building “Anthem with dragons.” Throughout 2020, the pandemic disrupted the game’s already fraught development. In December, Hudson, the head of the studio, and Darrah, the head of the franchise, resigned. Shortly thereafter, Gary McKay, BioWare’s new studio head, revealed yet another shift in strategy. Moving forward, the next Dragon Age would no longer be multiplayer."

"“We were thinking, ‘Does this make sense, does this play into our strengths, or is this going to be another challenge we have to face?’” McKay later told Bloomberg News. “No, we need to get back to what we’re really great at.” In theory, the reversion back to Dragon Age’s tried-and-true, single-player format should have been welcome news inside BioWare. But there was a catch. Typically, this kind of pivot would be coupled with a reset and a period of pre-production allowing the designers to formulate a new vision for the game. Instead, the team was asked to change the game’s fundamental structure and recast the entire story on the fly, according to people familiar with the new marching orders. They were given a year and a half to finish and told to aim for as wide a market as possible. This strict deadline became a recurring problem. The development team would make decisions believing that they had less than a year to release the game, which severely limited the stories they could tell and the world they could build. Then the title would inevitably be delayed a few months, at which point they’d be stuck with those old decisions with no chance to stop and reevaluate what was working. At the end of 2022, amid continually dizzying leadership changes, the studio started distributing an “alpha” build of Dragon Age to get feedback internally and from outside playtesters. According to people familiar with the process, the reactions were concerning. The game’s biggest problem, early players agreed, was a lack of satisfying choices and consequences. Previous BioWare titles had presented players with gut-wrenching decisions. Which allies to save? Which factions to spare? Which enemies to slay? Such dilemmas made fans feel like they were shaping the narrative — historically, a big draw for many BioWare games."

"But Dragon Age’s multiplayer roots limited such choices, according to people familiar with the development. BioWare delayed the game’s release again while the team shoehorned in a few major decisions, such as which of two cities to save from a dragon attack. But because most of the parameters were already well established, the designers struggled to pair the newly retrofitted choices for players with meaningful consequences downstream. In 2023, to help finish Dragon Age, BioWare brought in a second, internal team, which was working on the next Mass Effect game. For decades there’d been tension between the two well-established camps, known for their starkly divergent ways of doing things. BioWare developers like to joke that the Dragon Age crew was like a pirate ship, meandering and sometimes traveling off course but eventually reaching the port. In contrast, the Mass Effect group was called the USS Enterprise, after the Star Trek ship, because commands were issued straight down from the top and executed zealously. As the Mass Effect directors took control, they scoffed that the Dragon Age squad had been doing a shoddy job and began excluding their leaders from pivotal meetings, according to people familiar with the internal friction. Over time, the Mass Effect team went on to overhaul parts of the game and design a number of additional scenes, including a rich, emotional finale that players loved. But even changes that appeared to improve the game stoked the simmering rancor inside BioWare, infuriating Dragon Age leaders who had been told they didn’t have the budget for such big, ambitious swings."

"“It always seemed that, when the Mass Effect team made its demands in meetings with EA regarding the resources it needed, it got its way,” said David Gaider, a former lead writer on the Dragon Age franchise who left before development of the new game started. “But Dragon Age always had to fight against headwinds.” Early testers and Mass Effect leads complained about the game’s snarky tone — a style of video-game storytelling, once ascendant, that was quickly falling out of fashion in pop culture but had been part of Goldman’s vision for the multiplayer game. Worried that Dragon Age could face the same outcome as Forspoken — a recent title that had been hammered over its impertinent banter — BioWare leaders ordered a belated rewrite of the game’s dialogue to make it sound more serious. (In the end, the resulting tonal inconsistencies would only add to the game’s poor reception with fans.) A mass layoff at BioWare and a mandate to work overtime depleted morale while a voice actors strike limited the writers’ ability to revise the dialogue and create new scenes. An initial trailer made the next Dragon Age seem more like Fortnite than a dark fantasy role-playing game, triggering concerns that EA didn’t know how to market the game. When Dragon Age: The Veilguard finally premiered on Halloween 2024 after many internal delays, some staff members thought there was a lot to like, including the game’s new combat system. But players were less impressed, and sales sputtered."

"“The reactions of the fan base are mixed, to put it gently,” said Caitie, a popular Dragon Age YouTuber. “Some, like myself, adore it for various reasons. Others feel utterly betrayed by certain design choices.” Following the layoffs and staff reassignments at BioWare earlier in the year, a small team of a few dozen employees is now working on the next Mass Effect. After three high-profile failures in a row, questions linger about EA’s commitment to the studio. In May, the company relabeled its Edmonton headquarters from a BioWare office to a hub for all EA staff in the area. Historically, BioWare has never been the most important studio at EA, which generates more than $7 billion in annual revenue largely from its sports games and shooters. Depending on the timing of its launches, BioWare typically accounts for just 5% of EA’s annual bookings, according to estimates by Colin Sebastian, an analyst with Robert W. Baird & Co. Even so, there may be strategic reasons for EA to keep supporting BioWare. Single-player role-playing games are expensive to make but can lead to huge windfalls when successful, as demonstrated by recent hits like Cyberpunk 2077, Elden Ring and Baldur’s Gate 3. In order to grow, EA needs more than just sports franchises, said TD Cowen analyst Doug Creutz. Trying to fix its fantasy-focused studio may be easier than starting something new. “That said, if they shuttered the doors tomorrow I wouldn’t be totally surprised,” Creutz added. “It has been over a decade since they produced a hit.”"

Article by Jason Schreier. [source]

[sungbeam]

his girls

jeong yunho x f!reader

in which yunho's the happiest he's ever been.

1.5k words, nc-17, fluff, light swearing, est relationship au, ur married and have a baby, kissing, skinship/intimacy, One very lightly implied suggestive line, mentions of wine, wooyoung w baby TT, like not proofread

a/n: if u look closely, those ARE two diff photos okay 😭 also, this au was born from a dream i had abt seonghwa 😌 (seonghwa, close ur eyes. hongjoong, also close ur eyes—)

It feels almost like eight years ago all over again when Yunho pulls into the driveway. It's late, the crickets have long since begun to chirp their songs, and the lights in the front of the house glow like warm halos.

The only differences are that the house is no longer the one you shared with six other girls in college, but the house you and he bought four years ago; and he's not dropping you off and being forced to part with you—he’s got your hand wrapped in his, forevermore.

Yunho opens his mouth in a big yawn as he kills the engine to the SUV. The headlights that gleam against the garage door flicker to darkness, leaving only the orangey light from the street lamps painting the walkway. The soft song on the radio fades into silence, and he turns his head to look at you in the passenger's seat, head rolled to the side, eyes closed.

A smile, achingly fond, pulls at his lips. He wonders how deeply you're asleep, if he'll carry you inside, over the threshold all over again, his bride.

But he would be remiss to deprive you of being able to walk in and see your baby girl before you turn in for the night.

The hand that is wrapped in his is brought up to his lips, mouth brushing against knuckles, his free hand smoothing up your wrist to feel the metal warming your ring finger. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs lowly.

You hum, facial muscles twitching, as your consciousness slowly begins to wake up.

His lips pull into a grin now. “What were you saying about not being tired?” he teased.

You inhale sharply and sit up; the memories of yours and Yunho's first night out after the baby rushing back. “Fuck,” you rasp, clearing the hoarseness in your throat away. When you turn your sleep-softened eyes to him, he feels his entire body melt. “I'm sorry, Yun. No planetarium tonight, huh?”

“No, but that's okay,” he says with sincerity. Earlier, he had asked a question and glanced over to find you fast asleep. The past year and a half have been the hardest on you and your body, so he's been wanting to take you out for a nice night for a long time. Only, he should have expected that you would be too exhausted to be out later than nine—the wine at dinner likely didn't help much. “We can go some other time.”

He reaches over to brush the hair out of your eyes as you blink away the remnants of sleep.

“I liked tonight,” you muse aloud and reach to unbuckle your seatbelt. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” he chuckles, kissing your knuckles again. His mouth slowly makes its way around the curve of your wrist, lips pressing against your pulse. “I just… wanted you to have a night to relax.”

You twist around in your seat and lean over to cup his face and bring him even closer to you. “I did—have a relaxing night, I mean.”

When you kiss him, he exhales against you. He can feel his brows furrow as he presses into you deeper, his hand burying in your hair to pull you closer, hold you to him. He knows you'll pull away first; you both have a human being to care for now, for goodness sake—he only wishes he could freeze time for a moment longer.

He loves his daughter, the beautiful little girl waiting inside the house for you both, but he loves his time with you, too.

“Doesn't this feel like college again?” you giggle while pulling away.

Yunho's mouth chases you across the center console and steals another kiss. “Mhm,” he murmurs, “we can make it an even more authentic experience by—”

“You're a dog, Jeong Yunho,” you reprimand jokingly.

He grins, licking the taste of your lip gloss off his lips. “Too bad you can't return me without the receipt!” he snickers, the sound only getting louder when you smack your hand against his chest. He catches you by the wrist, sliding his fingers through yours.

You sigh as he leans over and kisses your cheek. “Okay, c'mon, big guy. Let's relieve Wooyoung of his babysitting duties.”

“He'd steal our baby if he could,” Yunho scoffs, shaking his head. Wooyoung had been all too eager to watch over baby June, practically shoving you and Yunho out the door earlier this evening. Who needs to hire a babysitter when you have friends?

The sound of the car doors opening and shutting echo through the quiet neighborhood. The houses on your row are filled with other families, ranging in experience from decades of marriage to newly weds. Yunho can recall the exact moment the two of you decided on this place as your forever home, and staring up at it now with the keys to the front door swinging around his finger, puts a skip in his step.

He rounds the car with a slight jog to catch up to you, snatching your hand and twirling you out of nowhere.

Your squeal lights up the night, and he guides you into an impromptu dip, before pulling you back upright. “You're crazy,” you say to him, breathless.

He smiles as he leans down and slots his nose against yours. “Good thing you love crazy, right?” he replies, voice going low.

He gets butterflies every time he kisses you, and this time—the thousandth time today—is no different.

“You must love me or something,” you jest as you loop your arms around his neck.

“Or something,” he laughs. “Have I ever told you that you're my everything?”

There's a sweet darkness that blooms over your cheeks and he has to use every ounce of willpower not to steal your breath away again. He only smiles, a gesture bursting with love and adoration, and feels the warmth of your cheekbone beneath his knuckle. “Ditto,” you say quietly, returning his smile. “You're awfully lovey dovey tonight, Yun.”

“Maybe it's just 'cause you make me feel like a teenager in love,” he sighs melodramatically. His hands drop down to your waist, and then the two of you are walking up the steps to the front door.

The porch light above your heads hums with soft light, and Yunho turns the key into the lock. Briefly, he thinks of the number of times he will be doing this: coming home from work every day to his girls, shouldering through the door with groceries, opening it for baby June to run through after school, seeing you off in the mornings before work.

His girls. Right.

It rushes through his head like a tidal wave cresting over him, but the smile on his face never leaves and he can't wait to feel the water engulf him.

It's not fear of what's to come, but absolute giddiness.

When the front door opens, warmth pours out onto the porch steps and he can already hear Wooyoung's groan of disappointment. From Yunho's vantage point, he can make out the shape of one large, adult-sized male lying on the floor of the living room beside a much smaller bean of a human being.

“Already?” Wooyoung bemoans as he peers up at the two of you, bottom lip jutting out.

A delighted giggle gurgles out of the little one next to him. All eyes turn to baby June, who's limbs flail in the air as she lights up at the sight of her parents.

“Sorry Woo,” Yunho chuckles, not really sincere, as you scurry over to pick up your daughter. His entire body floods with something fuzzy and soft. He becomes mush at the sight of you cooing at June, his heart tender. “This one fell asleep in the car.”

Wooyoung clambers to his feet and Yunho glances down at the pink apron that is tied around his waist.

“Don't judge me,” his friend squawks.

Yunho raises his hands in surrender. “I didn't say anything!” Now that he thinks about it, there's definitely something warm and sweet in the air… like cookies… Wait, June can't even eat cookies yet— “Wooyoung, what did you make, dude?”

Wooyoung purses his lips, tucking his hands behind his back. “I got hungry. And y'know, your other half likes my cookies, so…”

“You can do anything in my kitchen as long as you clean up and you don't let Yunho in,” you pipe up, gently cradling June as the baby clings to your shoulder with sleep in her eyes.

Like mama, like daughter—Yunho could die of cuteness. His mouth curls into a deep frown-like smile. These are his girls. His girls.

“Oh my god, he's so down bad that he didn't even hear your insult.”

Yunho waddles over to wrap his arms around his girls. Down bad? This isn't news. “Wooyoung, get out before you never get to babysit again.”

Wooyoung shoots him a grin and salutes. “You got it, Boss!”

When he's made a swift exit from the room, Yunho leans his cheek against the top of your head with a happy little sigh. Maybe yours and his evening out is cut short, but being here? This is pretty damn perfect, too.

a/n: pls reblog if u enjoyed !

atz m.list

permanent taglist: @flwoie @vatterie @seomisaho @hqrana @ja4hyvn @outrologist @rikizm @luumiinaa @lotties-readings @winwintea @tinkerbell460 @meosjinnn @hyunjaespresent-deobi @stayarmytinyzenmoa-l @floatingpluto @gyulfriend @jaehunnyy @shakalakaboomboo @eunseok-s @justanotherkpopstanlol @kangfication @pxppxrminty @fluorescentloves @haechansbbg @jaerisdiction @super-btstrash-posts @jundundun @http-gyu @mvvnsseul @mars101 @synthwxve @empire-x @thecarnivaloflies @thatonedemigodfromseoul @jinternationalplayboy @cromernet

[ghostinboys]

— joel miller loved that you were taking pictures during your trip to his hometown. it assured him that this wasn't boring for you and that you actually enjoyed the scenery and the tour of their family's farm. he was extra thrilled when you said you would want to stay for the night in his childhood home, no one really lived there anymore other than tommy (he had commitments in jacksonville, hence the vacancy).

— before bed he had started a fire on the hearth, sharing a finger of whiskey while playfully taking photos of him. "that camera's go'n break if you keep takin' pictures of me," his accent stronger by each shot. you said something about how pretty he was and how you couldn't stop it even if you wanted to. "well somebody's go'n have to take some of your pretty face, darlin'"

smut undercut

— he takes the camera from you and takes a few shots, you timidly hide your face, laughing at how cute he was at trying to find 'the perfect shot'. maybe it was the whiskey, but the two of you found yourselves in each other's arms, lips locked, tongues laced in each others warmth, intoxicated by the coziness and the heat.

— "look at this pretty face," he murmured while taking pictures of your naked body, his mouth had done its work of leaving marks—showing whoever will see these images that he was the one responsible for marking you. "all f'me," he grunts as he enters you.

— you took pictures of him while straddling his thick thighs, tensed and hardened by a day's work, he smelled of alcohol and musk, his skin golden and his facial hair unkempt— he looked so beautiful.

— he took pride in pleasuring you, that despite his age he could still spend hours drawing out loud and obscene cries from your lips. "you take me so well, baby" his muscular arms flexing and while he held your waist, he took the camera and took pictures of you with closed eyes, moaning and whimpering from his cock. he took pictures of the his thick cock ceaselessly fucking your hole. "look how pretty your hole is takin' me, like it was fuckin' meant for my cock,"

— the old creaking of his wooden bed frame concludes with a shared grunt. the two of you in each other's arms covered in sweat, tears, and come. he takes the camera for the last time and points it on the both of you, "this way we ain't forgetting this perfect night," sharing one last languid kiss before the sun rises.

end.

a/n: apologies for the lack of updates :< I hope this blurb can suffice as a sorry hihi like / follow/ reblog please if you enjoyed ! also request if you want anything similar, thank you <3 tag list: @hellsburners @boypied

[maximoffwitch]

Thanks for Noticing!

pairing: emily prentiss x reader

warnings: none, literally just fluff and emily being oblivious

summary: you've been flirting with emily for the past year. she finally notices.

word count: 966

a/n: inspired by that iconic wait, did you just flirt with me? have been for the past year but thanks for noticing! left this open for a pt 2 potentially so lmk (: also nothing can top emily’s undercover look from 52 pickup but the dress i pictured her wearing in this is the one above from her interview with conan 🤭

“Remind me why I’m the one doing this? Again,” Emily huffed as she finished clasping in her earring. 

Hotch had picked Emily to go undercover at a club and play seductress with the unsub. To say she was annoyed would be a massive understatement, especially given you were also a woman on the team, one who specialized in undercover operations. 

“Because you’re so good at it,” you teased, a goofy grin on your face. JJ bit back a chuckle as she reviewed the file in her hand. 

Rolling her eyes at you two, Emily tugged at the hem of the sparkly black dress that clung to her curves in all the right places before flowing past her mid thigh to right above her knees.

“Don’t you think this dress is a little,” she paused to find the most accurate word to describe the garment decorating her body, “too flashy.”

“It’s perfect,” JJ placated, not even looking up from the paper she was reading. “(Y/N/N) agrees with me.”

You nodded along to the blonde’s words, your eyes unabashedly ogling the exposed skin of Emily’s legs. “JJ’s right. It looks good.” Pulling your bottom lip between your teeth, you lifted your gaze to meet Emily’s burning one. “Though I think it’d look even better on my floor.”

Emily’s eyes widened and her lips parted. You could see JJ, out of the corner of your eye, look up from her file, her hand barely covering the amused smile dancing on her face. An awkward silence hung in the air, but you kept your eyes focused on the woman in front of you. 

“Did you just flirt with me?” Emily asked, regaining her senses. Her cheeks were now tinted red, and a flush of warmth had crept throughout her chest.

“I have been for the past year,” you quipped, “but thanks for noticing.”

At that, JJ couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped her lips. Glancing over at her, you smirked knowingly. The media liaison had been an audience many times to your flirtatious remarks made towards Emily. She had also been privy to the revelation of your true feelings, not that they were much of a secret considering your blatant flirting.

“Wait, what?” Emily pursed her lips, the shiny pink lip gloss making them appear to be in more of a pout.

“Seriously, Prentiss.” You raised a brow and lightly shook your head. “I thought you were a profiler.”

“But, I–” she paused, an array of memories flashing in her mind. 

All the nicknames you had for her flooded her memory. When you first joined the team, it started easily with you calling her “Em” and even testing the waters with “Milly,” which received a stern glare. But then you got bolder, calling her “pretty lady” and “baby girl,” taking a page out of Morgan and Garcia’s book. And as the two of you got to know each other better – after a number of girls’ nights out and also sharing hotel rooms during cases on the road – you softened, calling her names like “honey” and “darling.”

It didn’t stop at the pet names though. Your flirting encompassed everything from teasing jokes to clever innuendos. 

“Do you come here often?” “I literally work here (Y/N).”

“You’re lucky I like you’re so cute” “I wouldn’t say luck has anything to do with it.”

“Stop distracting me, Em.” “I’m literally just sitting here.”

“Why don’t you let me take you out sometime, Prentiss?” “Like with a gun or on a date?”

Emily’s mind reeled as everything finally clicked into place. Every word, every glance, every smirk; it all seemed so obvious now. She suddenly felt even more exposed, standing in front of you in a skimpy dress, her oblivion on full display.

Her arms instinctively crossed over her chest, not out of modesty, but more to anchor herself against the swirl of emotions rushing through her.

“I feel like an idiot,” she mumbled under her breath, and your expression softened. 

You took a small step forward, but before you could protest, a firm knock stopped you.

“Prentiss, you ready?” Hotch interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. It was time. 

Emily nodded curtly, straightened her spine, and, with a single breath, slipped her professional mask back on. “Let’s get this over with.”

As she passed you on her way to the door, her arm brushed against yours. You inhaled sharply at the contact, her warm skin leaving a trail of goosebumps.

“We’ll finish this later,” she said, her gaze more determined, more confident.

“I’m counting on it.” You smirked, your eyes following her, dropping ever so slightly as Emily swayed her hips out the door. 

Even as she was out the door and long gone out of your sight, you continued to stare after her, a stupid grin plastered on your face. 

“So that finally happened,” JJ said, breaking your reverie with a slight elbow to your side. 

“You’re telling me.” You rolled your eyes playfully and let out a small laugh. “So, you gonna tell me who won the bet?”

“Which one?” JJ teased, a mischievous glint in her eye as she made her way towards the door. The two of you were supposed to be on your way to the club, acting as cover if anything went wrong, but you wanted to know about the other bets.

“Wait, what?” It was your turn to be taken off guard. 

“Let me know how it goes later, and I’ll tell you who won the bets. All of them,” JJ bargained before turning back around and speed walking down the hallway. “Come on, Romeo. We’re gonna be late.”

Shaking yourself back into reality, you grinned to yourself, a nervous excitement churning in your stomach.

You couldn’t wait for later.

[touchfoundation]

Incredibly Beautiful altogether, and I adore your amazingly Sexy breasts. Ohh, how do I wish that I could kiss them. They are outstandingly Beautiful and so are everything else about you is. And I also want to dream specifically about your sexy perfect Ass! I wish I could taste every inch of your body. You are very special in every way, and it’s so easy for me to fall completely in love with you. I will be hoping to make love to you in my dreams tonight. I so much adore you and Love you to the core. Thank You for sharing your incredible beauty!♥️♥️♥️😘😘😛😛😋

[zeropro]

Like, Starscream was messed up ever since Cryak. I absolutely love how you made a parallel between them two 'I will do anything to survive', almost a sort of curse where no matter how much you supposedly love someone, they are expendable to you and so the kindest thing you can do to someone you love is let them go, something Cryak didn't want to do to him. And why would she? She literally paid to have him onlined, for the specific purpose and she knew it was always on the table. And as far as it was implied it was something permissible for her to do. That fucks one up. "the relationship that should have been different, the most formative one - ultimately it was about consuming and exploiting and all the love was but a mask". The Trine had never met him not messed up. Like, he keeps manipulating people he cares about and he realizes he is not doing right by them and he likely even knows what it means to do better, but can he?

Skywarp already had messed up moral compass and some really repressed and internalized trauma from all his experiences in military + as a glorified ship engine. Like, his split loyalty was really something that made it difficult for not just Starscream but probably for TC too to fully rely on him (and he is the eldest!) after certain point. I feel like once it became apparent that there was a conflict, he didn't want to give up either on his trinemate or Megatron, and so in an attempt to keep both ended up picking Megatron, again and again bc it felt easier (especially as he did come from military background and while he is a troublemaker, he still likely structures his baseline understanding on 'correct' way around military hierarchies). And also Megatron was his hero and he knew him for a long time. He isn't used to introspection (and too much introspection would likely prevent him from functioning at all at this point) and seems to prefer overlooking things that could result in uncomfortable implications. Starscream really did instigate much of the conflicts with Megatron but, like, it doesn't seem like it came from nowhere. And even then, Was his treatment acceptable? But now Skywarp is metaphorically 'grounded' in reality without ability to warp around. He now realized that he had after certain point been enabling Megatron's horrible treatment of his mate and is now seems to be trying to do right by him but how exactly would it be when TC already left them (does Skywarp feel any resentment over TC leaving them even if he probably realizes why?) and Starscream is so distant?

Thundercracker feels the most ''innocent'' but like, I do not think he is exactly not complicit in the trine's messed up dynamics. There is a nice little thing going on with him where on one hand he on the more 'moral' side (at least by abysmal standards not just of Decepticons but mayhaps of Cybertron at large) of the coin and so he hesitates to enact cruelty and even occasionally protests it. He tries to dissuade Starscream from staying where it would hurt him, or from doing questionable thing. But. Even then he is mostly 'along with the flow, even if the flow takes him in directions he hates. As much as he tries to take care of those he loves, to do the right thing, he feels complacent in how he keeps many of his doubts to himself because of his many doubts and too often seems more like a bystander. It is almost like, he acts definitely but by the time he decides to take action, it may be too late. But what he could have done different, in the end? Like, it is not as bad as telling Starscream he deserved it or continuously pushing Skywarp away or being generally manipulative and abrasive. But like. I wonder if he feels deep inside he should have tried more to do what felt right instead of what felt 'safer'.

Thank you so much for this comment omg.

I wasn't sure how to share it since it's so long I cant even screenshot it in one go, so I figure I'd just post it as is.

It's so awesome seeing how you've picked up all the little pieces I've scattered about and are putting together the narrative. It's so encouraging to see the ideas getting across.

Works referenced in this post: [Trine: Origins series] [Skywarp's baggage] [The trine's ages confirmed] [Cycle of Abuse] [Skywarp's injury] [and] [subsequently] [being unable to warp around] [Starscream's accidental neglect] [of skywarp] [and distancing himself] [because of it] [Thundercracker's morality] [Starscream's abuse] [Thundercracker cutting Starscream off] [Thundercracker's resentment]

I really appreciate anon for also pointing out how Thundercracker, while seemingly the most innocent, is still complacent in how things got this bad.

Thanks so much for engaging with my brain rot ^^;; and to everyone as well, I read all the comments on the posts and even in the tags. Genuinely keeps me going, I am feral for my boys grr grr

You'll just have to trust me when I say, they do love each other, and I promise I'll put the trine back together again. :(

[moon-ttokki-x]

ooh could you do 53 & 64 with Hyunjin? you write really well!

. . . hey so this is super angsty bc ive kinda had a shit week so you guys are coming down with me HAHAHAHAH . also thank you for the compliment :>

unclicked - (bf!hwang hyunjin x fem!reader)

pairing: bf!hwang hyunjin x fem!reader

summary: hyunjin has been distant lately and you finally snap.

genre: idol!au, fem!reader, mentions of eating and drinking, kkami mention, mentions of feeling like throwing up, broken glass, mentions of injuries and crying, reader struggles with eating, mentions of neglect and apathy, hyunjin is kinda a jerk in this fic but i also feel bad so . . . you decide who the villain is

a/n: yeah so there's no happy ending, fuckers . . . be warned

🖤 prompts: 53. "Why are you so afraid of the truth?" / 64. "I thought I had everything figured out."

skz masterlist | skz prompt list

You had always been the affectionate type; gentle, loving, yet excitable. The type to ramble about your day over dinner while smiling and piling more food onto your plate, unaware of your lover's smitten gaze; the type that would have your arms open for Hyunjin when he came home from a long day at the company. He forever relished your comfort and the warmth of your body against his, always open to your soft words and cute smiles.

But lately, he had been distant.

Now he was out the door before you had even left the bed; always coming home late and never showing up when you needed him to. Like the time you smashed a glass and texted him asking for him to come home, but he didn't. So you cleaned it up and patched up your hand without him. Or like the time when you both finally had a day off and he spent it with the rest of his members even though you'd already made plans. You got left at home, alone, because all the rest of your friends had plans already and it wasn't like it mattered, anyway, that you were alone.

Not really. You'd chosen to understand rather than getting pissed off at him about it.

You weren't too sure about that decision now.

You sigh and begin to pick up the plates. You'd laid out dinner for two so both of you could sit and eat immediately after getting home, even though Hyunjin worriedly insisted you should eat even before he got back. You never listened, though, always wanting to share a meal with him while you both exchanged details about your days. It was one of your favourite parts of being with him; being able to welcome him home with a warm hug and a plate of good food.

But now it'd gone cold. And you were alone. Again.

The clock on the wall reads 10:43 PM.

Kkami runs up to you as you clatter dishes into the sink; he bounces hopefully around your feet, and you smile before giving him a forkful of the dinner. He yaps and licks it off messily, his high-pitched barks filling the empty apartment.

You don't bother taking any of the food for yourself, simply shoving it all into a plastic container and tossing it onto a shelf in the fridge. You were hungry when you were cooking; the rumbles of your stomach overlaid the noises of a knife against the chopping board and the simmering of the stove, but you just feel drained now. Too tired to eat, too defeated to care about the hollowness in your gut.

You wash up the remaining dishes and stack them neatly in the dishrack. Kkami comes up to you again, hoping for another bite, and you kneel down and scratch his fluffy head.

"Looks like it's just you and me," you say quietly. "Again."

The dog tilts his head, two black eyes in a mass of black and white fluff. He seems to understand, and he flops down on the floor while you run damp fingers through his fur.

"He's been coming home late so often," you mumble absentmindedly, still stroking the little dog. Your fingers pause.

He wouldn't cheat.

Would he?

No, you tell yourself, shaking your head to clear the thought out. Hyunjin wouldn't do that. He loves me, he cares for me. He clings to me every possible moment of the day. There's no way he would ever do something like that.

Then again...

He's surrounded by girls much prettier than I am. Girls that are slimmer, more feminine, girls that are a part of his world. Girls who are artists and singers and dancers just like he is. And it's not like I can measure up to them. I'm just me.

I'm just-

Kkami's incessant barking snaps you out of your thoughts. He's licking your hands, bouncing off the floor and around your crouched figure like a fluffy little pogo stick rather than a dog.

You realise what he's barking at. The salty drop of a tear pools in a little circle on the cold, tiled floor. Your face is wet.

Sniffling, having not even realised you were crying, you wipe a hand over your face, scrubbing harshly, and exhale a shaky breath.

"I'm okay," you say softly to the anxious little animal. "I'm fine. I just- I miss him. I don't know what i did wrong."

Kkami gets up and runs off. You sigh and watch him skid around the corner before standing up. Even the dog doesn't want to be around you.

You stand, wash your hands, then dry them, feeling lost. Suddenly, every movement feels like a tremendous effort. Your body feels slow and you feel a little dizzy. Maybe you should've eaten earlier.

The lock on the door unclicks.

Hyunjin enters the apartment, kicking off his shoes and locking the door behind himself. His hair is getting longer by the day, and he runs a veiny, ringed hand through the black spikiness of it as he drops his bag by the wall. He looks up, surprised, and his eyes meet yours.

You're stuck in place, rooted in fear. You're not sure why.

"Baby?" He says, voice floating over your head. "Why are you here?"

Your heart thuds dully. The first thing he says after coming home late. Again. He doesn't ask about the tears or the crying or the turned-off light or why you're still awake, no, he asks why you're here. Like you're a stray staff member on set rather than his lover at home.

"I live here, Hyunjin," you say coldly. The blood turns to ice in your veins, expression blank and unsurprised. "You would know that if you were actually home more often."

He flinches at your tone. Like he has no idea why you're upset to begin with. Like he hasn't been the sole cause of your misery for the past month. Like none of it is his fault.

He doesn't say anything. His expression betrays his feelings.

"Hyunjin," you say, in disbelief. He's not even trying to defend himself. He's just... standing there. The way you say his name makes you sound like you're begging and you hate yourself for it.

"Y/n, I just..." He runs a hand through his hair again, stepping forward. "I'm sorry, okay? I've been so stressed lately, and the tour preparation has taken so much out of me. I didn't mean to neglect you-"

"So you knew," you snap at him, tears welling. "I didn't say what was wrong, I never told you, but you knew. You knew that I felt alone and unappreciated."

He throws his hands up, exasperated. "I can't be there at your every beck and call, Y/n! I have my own life too!"

"So do I," you shout, voice rising. "I moved in with you so I'd be able to support you better, even if it meant that I had to travel further for work, even if it meant that I would get home later! I have my own life just as much as you do, Hyunjin, and it seems like all of it's going to waste-"

"It isn't!" He protests. "I like having you here-"

"But you're never here!" You cry finally. "Do you even love me anymore? Or do you just want to avoid me like you've been doing for the past month?"

Hyunjin sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Silence hangs over both of you like a heavy blanket, thick and suffocating. You can almost see the tension in the air, solid and unmoving.

He's a blurred shape in front of you, and you feel the hot streaking of tears down your face. You don't move, can't move.

"Y/n..."

You look up. Hyunjin looks defeated, tired, a quiet sort of finality settling behind his features. It makes him look so much older, that boyish charm and cheeky smile nowhere to be seen. And it breaks your heart more than he ever could. At least, you think so.

Your entire body feels rooted to the spot. Hyunjin steps behind the counter and sinks into a chair. The golden glow of the kitchen light above both of you does nothing to soften the moment.

"I really tried," he says quietly. Your heart thuds when he looks up at you, tears welling in his own eyes. "I tried to... Keep loving you."

Your mouth parts in distress, shocked. This isn't real. This isn't happening. "No."

His eyes are red-rimmed but his gaze is firm and set. "Why are you so afraid of the truth? Surely you understand that-"

"No!" You cry. You don't want to hear him say it, say that he doesn't love you anymore-

"I'm sorry," he says, a little louder. His voice cracks. "I just- I didn't know if I could make the time for you-"

"I did," you whisper fiercely. "I made time for you, for us, even when I had to sacrifice myself. Because I loved you more."

"You didn't have to do that-"

"I wanted to," you sob. "I made that choice, Hyunjin. Because I thought that if anyone could reciprocate the effort, if anyone could make me feel like the sacrifice was worth it, it was you."

"It's late," he whispers after a pause. "Please, come to bed with me. We can talk in the morning-"

"No."

Hyunjin goes silent. His eyes meet yours and there you stand, utterly defeated and exhausted, fed up, tired, and all the rest of it. But most of all, in disbelief. Because there's no way you thought this was going to happen. And the worst part is, you know exactly what you're supposed to do next. You knew this was coming, but now that it's here, you feel like throwing up.

He always said you were too independent for your own good.

"I thought I had everything figured out," you say weakly, a bitter smile curling the corners of your mouth. "And I did, but I see now that I'm the problem here. Not you."

A tear slips down Hyunjin's cheek. "That's not true."

"It is," you say, voice strong despite the salty tears streaking your face. "Because after a while, after all the lovebombing and the letters and gifts and dates and kisses, you stopped. Like you got bored of me, like I was just another one of your duties.

And you," you stab a finger at him, "You dragged it out instead of telling me, instead of wanting to fix us. You let me keep putting the effort in because you needed the love more than I did. You don't care about me, Hyunjin-"

"I do!" He cries. "I do care about you, Y/n, please, I love you. You mean so much to me, your effort makes such a difference, I'll do better, okay? I promise. Just please, please come to bed with me. It's late-"

"Oh, I know," you say venomously. "I know it's late, Hyunjin, because for the umpteenth time, your dinner got fed to Kkami instead of you. Because I'm such a fucking burden to you that you stay out late to avoid me."

You turn and grab your coat off the hook by the door. You cast him one last glance over your shoulder, bones made of concrete, limbs like unoiled joints. Tears soak your skin, irritated and sticky and puffy, but you slot your key in the door despite the watery blur in your vision. You squeeze your eyes shut at the sound of his voice. There's a thud and you know he's on his knees.

"Y/n," he cries, a choked sob leaving his throat, raw and strangled. "Please don't leave me. Please, okay? I'll do better."

You turn the key. "We're done, Hyunjin. I'll send someone to get my things."

You slam the door behind yourself, flying down the corridor, almost stumbling in the wake of your misery. Regret and guilt and determination flood your system so suddenly that you actually believe for a second that you might pass out.

But you don't. So you opt for the stairs instead of the lift, too afraid to stop moving, to stop and contemplate, then clatter down the levels, and disappear into the night, not knowing where you're going but knowing exactly what you've left behind.

Up in the apartment, Hyunjin screams.

a/n: oof . div by @kodaswrld

ttokki's taglist: @emilyywhyy @galaxy4489 @hyuneskkami @justsomekpopstuff @wavetohannie @strayingawayy @its-stayville-forever @sillyseob @wickedbutlovely @headfirstfortoro @lov3yv4mps @possum-playground @bear8585 @astraystayyh @m-325 @gnabnahcbby @mbioooo0000 @akindaflora @tsunderelino @hhwangsmoon @crazyforthatbangchandude @bluebellsringinghereandthere @ladylexis @tillaboo @geni-627 @jsngprk-vhs @stellasays45 @de-uns-tempos-pra-ca @luvvchn

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[backwardshatnick]

𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗌

in which matt still does not know how to tie a half windsor knot.

pairing: influencer!matt x high school sweetheart!reader wc: 1.2k notes: (rewriting) i'm turning this into an au surprise-surprise! inspired by that one role model tiktok & the wedding-italy vlog. credits to those who have done influencer!matt/chris paired with high school sweetheart!reader because i know i have seen them around before and i enjoyed them :) masterlist here. divider by @koosuvi <3

Matt adjusted the collar of his crisp white shirt for the thousandth time, staring at himself through the full-length mirror of the hotel suite, its luxurious bedding covered in torn Prada tissue paper while the soft hum of city traffic and railway bled through the windows. On his neck laid his silver tie, droopy and wrinkled, each crease telling a mocking tale of his failure.

He had tried YouTube, TikTok and hell, even video-called his brothers and father for instructions but to no avail. Every knot that he came up with ended up looking like a sad twist of puff pastry, all ready to crumble and unsnarl within minutes.

The bedside clock glowed a warm yellow hue, signifying the time that Matt was left with to be prepared for the Prada pre-show dinner, an event where he was compelled to look like he belonged— all prim and proper, polished and camera-ready before being bombarded with more pressure to feel in place at the actual Spring/Summer Show.

But he did not have the energy to fake it all tonight.

Sighing, he grabbed the hotel room’s telephone by his bed and started clicking on numbers for the front desk and cleared his throat before a man’s voice was met on the other side.

“Good evening, this is the front desk, Carl speaking. How may I help you?”

“Hi, um. Sorry, but…” Matt stuttered, voice crisp but laced with jittery nerves, “Is there anyone who could help me tie a tie? I know it’s not in the job description but I am really desperate and hopeless right now.”

There was a pause and hesitation in Carl’s voice, “There might be someone from housekeeping who knows. From which room are you calling, sir?”

“Room 832, East Wing. And thank you so much, Carl,” he replied, embarrassed.

A few minutes later, there was a gentle chime of the doorbell resonating throughout the suite, followed by an also gentle, “Housekeeping!” signalling the arrival of Matt’s saviour.

Matt, who was sat on the edge of the hotel bed, immediately stood up to walk over to the door, mind not fully concentrating as he opened the door, “Hey, thanks for coming. I really need—”

He stopped and froze. Shock visible through his expression when his eyes met with the girl in a white iron-pressed housekeeping uniform, hair tied back in a loose braid with a folded laundry cart full of used linen and towels accompanying her. She blinked when she finally looked up to see Matt’s sapphire orbs, lips now curled into a forced smile which clearly was not reflected in her silent eyes.

Her face had hit him like a thousand bricks, his heart undeniably skipping beats but nothing could overpower the dryness of his throat when her name escaped his lips like it was a forbidden word. A mantra that he used to chant but was now cursed to never utter.

“Bloom.”

“Hey, Matt. Still can’t tie a tie, huh?” she responded, tone sarcastic and bitter, but smooth as if it had not been years since they last saw each other.

Bloom stepped inside of Matt’s hotel suite, stride full of confidence, not a hint of dread and fear evident like everything was normal. Like they had never ghosted each other the night of the senior prom when they had spent months and months curating the perfect shared playlist, planning sneaky late night phone calls and movie nights and the one disastrous kiss that left them both scared of craving for more.

Like there was never anything between them.

Matt’s brain buffered, hazed even but managed to murmur a low, “You work here?”

The girl nodded in response, “Attachment program. Just until I finish my semester. Come here. I’ll help.”

He took an awkward step forward to where Bloom was, the distance now close but not close enough to feel each other’s warm breath fan on their skin. His chin reached just below her head, where her glistening sweat had caused the wild strands of her hair to stick, the crystal gem in her earring glinting somewhere else, tempting Matt to fix them for her. His right hand twitched, but he knew better than to scare away the girl who had left him speechless.

Matt looked down to where Bloom’s hands were. Her fingers were steady, as always, quiet and careful and always pristine, the nails never polished any colour but a pale ballet-slipper shade, always cut in an oval shape which complimented the gold ring on her middle finger, a staple jewellery she has worn since the beginning of time.

She did not ask what he was doing, all alone, in a place as luxurious as this, or why he now had decided to keep his facial hair. Bloom simply looped the silk fabric around Matt’s neck like it was any other Wednesday afternoon back in high school, the familiar scent of her berry hand cream wafting around Matt’s nose which brought back the memories that he did not deserve to remember.

When she was finally done, smoothing out the lapels of his black blazer and neat white collar, Bloom gently tapped Matt’s shoulder and stood smiling proudly at her work, “There you go. Half Windsor, The Classic Matt, just how you always liked it.”

Matt swallowed hard, “You remember that?”

Bloom finally looked up at him, and he hated just how much of her that he could still recognise with his eyes and ears closed. She was always the quiet kind, speaks only when spoken to and independent. The type who never needed much, except for maybe the one thing that he never gave her.

A choice.

“I remember a lot of things. You’re good to go,” she replied, the bitterness still not leaving the inflection in her voice.

He felt guilty upon hearing the timbre, “Bloom…”

“I know I should’ve called,” Matt hesitated, “Back then.”

A shrug was given in reply, “We were seventeen. Forget it. You don’t owe me forever,” her voice slightly raised at the last word, hurt now dominating her anger and pettiness.

Matt simply stood in between the doorway, far enough to now only smell the fresh laundry scent which clung on her work clothes, with the silver tie looped in a clean and neat knot breaking the clash of monotone colours of his outfit. Bloom took a step back further away from him, her hands now on the cart, ready to go.

“You’ll look great out there. You always did,” she huffed, reaching for the door handle, “I’m happy you finally found the perfect crowd.”

And then she left. No lingering glance, no second take and certainly no exchange of phone numbers and promises. Just the quiet click of the door where it lacked the habitual embrace and kiss on the forehead, cheeks and lastly, lips.

Just when the door was closed, Matt returned back to face his reflection on the full-length mirror, where the Half Windsor now sat clean against his upper body. Tight and neat. Hand hesitant to touch the knot as he could feel the knot in his chest tighten, too.

[kujainvidiata]

„Risotto Nero Observes“ - English Translation

(and my long thought session about it)

Thanks to a kind person, I finally have a link to an English Translation of the recently released short novel about Risotto Nero, called „Risotto Nero Observes“, written by Ayato Toya and translated by Hudgyn Sasdarl. It was published in the official JOJO SUMMER Magazine 2025 along with other short novels, also some festuring La Squadra members. But this one here is focusing on Risotto Nero and it is honestly a fantastic read. I would appreciate if you also share it around, so more people learn about more about Risotto Nero, since he is a beloved character of the JJBA fandom.

⚠️TW for: Canon typical violence (also involving children), murder and the whole mafia stuff you should be familiar with.

Below the cut, I will talk about my own thoughts about the short novel of my favorite character in fiction. It is just yapping in the end I needed to write down, but I also tried to analyze some stuff. I am not a native English speaker, so I am sorry for my mistakes in language. I did also not proof read it, so I am sorry for missing words or typos.

I am also adding some art I made of him because why not ✂️

First of all. Hi, my name is Kuja. I am a dedicated Risotto Nero centric artist and also a yumejoshi of him. Maybe you saw my art before if you like this character. If you do, maybe you also know how much this character means to me since he basically changed my life and brought me back into art and is the reason I found a wonderful community. Which is the reason I want to take my time and talk about this novel in my own interpretations and observations.

In short, this novel is exactly what I wanted to read about regarding to Risotto Nero.

It features no romance, introduces all of the members of La Squadra Esecuzioni and their steuggles, new characters and mostly is focusing on Risotto and his thought process, aka. his „observations“ which will be a reoccuring theme in this novel, which makes it a joy to read.

The short novel is timeline wise in the time around Christmas playing shortly after the murder of Gelato and Sorbet, which will also be a central theme.

Chapter 0:

A short scene where we witness Risotto Nero committing another successful assassination. As imagined, he is mostly using the camouflage abilities of Metallica to hunt down his targets. The kind of k1llingd he does keep being brutal and bloody, as we know later on also often to send an example and message from the highest of Passione.

It is interesting how peaceful the scene was written with the festive christmas music in the background which slowly fades into horror as the corpse is getting discovered by the passengers on that festive day.

Highlight of this chapter is for sure the absolutely high contrast of Risotto's deeds. On the one hand taking a life in a cold way, as expected from the leader of a hitman team. On the other we are experiencing a softer side on him, which many fans often speculated about. The target of Risotto's mission was just kicking a young pickpocketing girl away, making her almost fall to the ground and hurting her while Risotto, still invisible, catching her hand. Her only seeing iron powder on her small hands, probably wondering what just happened.

Seriously guys, this scene alone made me as a die hard Risotto Yume tremble in joy since it confirmed a lot of my own interpretations and headcanons about him, like having a soft spot for the younger generation. He did NOT have to help the girl, but he did, without ever getting anything in return since the girl could not even see him.

Risotto then sends a message of the confirmation of the hit to the boss who interestingly immediatly answers. Diavolo, are you camping your phone and computer all day?

Chapter 1:

One of the most interesting chapters for me personally because of the amount we learn about the hitman team again by observing how they interact with each other.

It is early in the morning and the hitman team is interacting not in person, but in a computer group chat, their personalities shining through.

We learn that Risotto Nero is currently residing inside a room which is part of a cheap apartment inside the outskirts of Naples. So is this only a temporary spot? It is written that Risotto brought his computer so it seems like he is only for a brief time living there. Do they have actual homes? Or do the members rather travel between short lived hideout spots from Passione? In the end, it is no luxury how they live. And this story often reminds us about this fact.

The hitman team is discussing about the most recent news recieved from the boss himself, about a new hit of a man called Rossi who plans to flee real soon and that Passione is entering the business of waste disposal. And two of their members should forcefully (a no won’t get accepted) transferred into this new branch: Formaggio and Illuso. Which causes a big uproar in the chat. Not gonna lie, it is very charming how they all are interacting and even throwing jokes in between. You see once again they all seem to have close bonds to each other. The typical duos are interacting, Pesci with his anniki, Illuso and Formaggio and once again Melone and Ghiaccio who really seem to get each other well, how they interact with each other really tells a lot about their dynamic.

Only one is not fully participating and rather „observing“, Risotto Nero, who tries to read in between the messages and how his subordinates are really feeling in this moment.

Also because of the most recent trauma they endured, the brutal loss of Sorbet and Gelato, two members who were tired of being treated like dirt and dismissively by the whole organization. Not respected, awful pay and the high risk of losing their lives on the daily. It is always interesting how sympatheticly La Squadra Esecuzioni is written, sure, they are assassins for the most dangerous Italian mafia but you can still emphazise with them. Many of us probably can relate to these feelings, not being treated and paid properly for the hard work we do and wanting to get their deserved amount. Their coworkers and close friends being sent to another occupation without their consent. Their capabilities not respected. Who wants to be treated like this? Sure, the motives are mostly motivated in an egoistical sense compared to an altruistic like some members of Bruno‘s gang do, which is one of the main differences of these gangs. But this is also why the hitman team feels more close, since they operate and think as a group, they want the best for themselves, the others coming afterwards, contrary to wanting to stop entire branches of their business for a better cause as a whole.

Even the boss is sending them more and more not so subtile threats how they have to submit and be obedient to his will. Like Pesci realizes, the messages are hidden in numbers. „Smorfia napoletana“ as it is called and we learn about which is a very clever stylistic choice of this novel which are basically numbers with meaning. And the boss knows very well what he wants to communicate to his hitman team, that he has the sole power over them.

And then we have Risotto Nero again. Who is, like I mentioned before, rarely participating in the talk and more inside his head and thoughts, trying to form plans, trying to see patterns and things. Now even more than before.

Because he feels guilty. Because he feels responsible for the death of two of his subordinates. He is angry at himself to not catching on clues of their planned rebellion against the organization. For not preventing them. For not hinder their deaths. In the end, he has to grief again. Something Risotto Nero always has trouble to deal and process. Once again there were people close to him taken away from him. By death. Something he now himself is known for. He, as the jet-black executioner of Passione. It is quite ironic.

Risotto really can’t let these thoughts of guilt go, he constantly is tormening himself about his and now decided to be even more keen on his men. To analyze, to think about their next steps, to prevent such a mistake. To observe.

It is not only that Risotto Nero is „surface“ level invested in his men. No, he „couldn't“ lose anyone else. He is responsible, as their leader. But why he can’t lose them?

Is it just because of the team itself? Do endure even more consequences by the boss and being dissolved by being useless? Is it because of the team spirit? Is it because he needs them for being able to work in the first place? Or is it actually because he can’t stomach any more losses? We don’t know anything about the lives of the hitman team outside their job. Do they have friends? Family? Or only each other? It seems they go around quite a lot, and being gangsters is not easy forming honest relationships between them and civilians. And even other teams inside Passione seem to be cautious, even hateful towards them. They don’t seem trustworthy for anyone else outside the team.

Also, this novel also confirms that Risotto truly cares about his subordinates since he is absolutely trying to analyze and insight for their mental states. He knows his team is processing trauma. They are still human. Luckily he knows as well how many of his members can deal with the stress or who of them is capable protecting themselves most efficiently. He thinks a lot, analyzes a lot and tries how to make a change and impact for their benefit and therefore a raise of the group morale. The mention that Risotto is thinking about giving Formaggio missons with a high chance of succeeding, just to improve his mental wellbeing because he alone found the corpse of Gelato…it tells so much about him. Risotto is absolutely observant and does not tolerate his own mistakes and puts on actual effort of being a good leader for his men. He does not want to any bad causality ever happen again between them. And losing them. As their leader, he needs to look out for the hitman team, they only have themselves.

After the team points out how quiet Risotto is the whole time, he tells them to take on this assassination by himself alone. He really is losing himself a lot inside his analytical thoughts.

Chapter 2:

This chapter is more revolving about the setting itself. We get to know the urgent this assassination is, putting pressure onto Risotto who usually keeps a cool head. Risotto will take out this murder of the soon trying to flee Rossi in a very crowded place, directly inside the mansion of this man who is tainted by very crude and unethical businesses himself. To put an example. Don’t mess with Passione. A job suited for Risotto’s brutal Stand capabilities.

The party being thrown in the luxurious mansion was right before Christmas, Rossi is intending to show his new adoptive son, Gennaro, another central character in this story.

This decadent luxury is a nice way to show again the difference of the worlds they live in.

By the way, it is very cute to imagine Risotto Nero inside a proper elegant suit he is wearing for this event. Sorry, needed to let this out.

In the next scene, an elderly couple speaks to Risotto about the over the top interior of the mansion. It made me actually laugh that Risotto was seriously being called „a wallflower“. I seriously can see this, he does not seem like the center of attention of a party. He also doesn't need to, he is supposed to be blending into the scene after all.

Afterwards Rossi appears into the spotlight and talking about the mystery of the „unopenable door“ and also just spewing out some meaningless anecdotes.

Also a rising and uncomfortable heat is described by the pair which is unsually also affecting Risotto Nero himself, which is surprising him. But it the reason is a sense of unease he tries to pinpoint to, until he realizes it is actually Metallica wriggling and moving inside his body and not actual nervousness about the mission itself. They are reaction to something inside this mansion which also is affecting Risotto‘s body. All this while he is planning how to cover the walls in red real soon.

Later on the party, Gennaro, a 14 year old boy is finally introduced to the story and guests, seemingly innocent and youthful, full of enthiusiasm.

Then the party guests were starting a tombola game, an Italian tradition, where we also get to know about the smorfia napoletana again and get introduced to new numbers and their meanings.

While Rossi and Gennaro are playing a farce in front of the crowd, Risotto thinks about the numbers and their meanings, as well as getting further affected by the temperature and discomfort inside his body.

The numbers are really dire and somewhat ironic when we take Risotto‘s backstory into account. 14 and 18, which are ages which his life turned around. 14 meaning „drunk“ and „18“ blood-stained. It is incredibly ironic just how these numbers describe his past, while the 90, before in his apartment room poster, is also appearing on his tombola card as well. His reaction and realizing these numbers was followed by a snort of him.

It really is amazing how much the author of this novel is taking Risotto‘s backstory into account and building onto that or referencing it. He constantly gets reminded of the cruel acts he decided to do many years ago which led him chose a path without any redemption.

Right after this, when the party and speech of Rossi is reaching its climax, Risotto plans to kill him, approaching him to close the Stand distance. It is interesting how he also is pointing on the target. It seems a bit suspicious, but the whole story is constantly describing that the others are not paying any attention towards Risotto Nero anways, he mostly blends in.

Also, Risotto seems to view himself as a „professional“ regarding his job as a hitman, not doing these murders for the fun of it. As long as they are paid and not caused by his own Vendetta. It seems like it is thrilling for him to catch up the ideal chance to carry out the murder for the most dramatic moment for reaching the biggest impact.

But right before Risotto could activate his Stand, the light faded, panic invokes between the guests and he lost track of his target who completely vanished after the lights come back to, the family of Rossi, his wife and Gennaro, worried about his absence and calling the police. But Risotto does not give up yet, further being suspicious of the unopenable door which not even the police who arrived could open.

After many unsuccessful attempts of opening the door and getting a new signal of Rossi outside the mansion, the police leaves again, making the party end.

It is very fascinating to witness Risotto Nero using his brain power to connect the dots and uncovering the secret of this unopenable door, using Metallica again to form objects like forks to the keyhole, which is also fake and therefore detecting a lie of Rossi losing its key. Risotto Nero has such an analytical and smart way to approach matters, trying to stay calm and composed. He knows this mission can't fail, the stakes are high.

Still, he fails to control his feelings once again, as stone faced as he is, a remark even his team mates are using towards him, which is truly sweet in a weird way, how they joke about this with their leader. He got a new message from the boss, who revealed how poorly Illuso and Formaggio will get paid and basically disrespected on the waste disposal branch. Succumbing to his anger, Risotto Nero breaks his phone, not realizing it until he hears the cracking sounds of the broken phone and through his Stand again inside his bloody hand, who seem to express his true thoughts and burning anger, screaming in their usual noises ordinary people can’t hear.

Metallica here in this novel acts very metaphorical as they really seem to be a vessle for his true feelings at times he has trouble expressing at the exterior. Be it the need of a leader of a hitman team, his past trauma or other reasons, but Risotto Nero often seems not in tune about his own feelings until later on. It is heartbreaking in my eyes that the unfair treatment of his men causes such reactions inside him. He does not want such a reality for them, he as a leader can’t allow to fail them again. And he is so sick of getting treated like this by the boss, his resentment growing stronger as well as his own rebellious spirit he tried to bury to protect his team, despite being treated worse every day. It is an endless circle of torment these hitmen need to endure. The boss basically told them to put their lives on the line, it is understable how enraged Risotto gets by that remark.

Risotto‘s appearance also gets briefly mentioned. He seems to have scarred lips, afding to his very rough a gruff apperance. Are these scars because of a neglect of himself of are these results of his past encounters?

But there was an even stronger reason making Metallica roar, the door seems to be connected and controlled with magnetism, also being most likely the reason for his own permanent discomfort on this place, which only faded within the power outage, which he now realized, the dots are connected now inside his head.

Chapter 3

In the end, the police did throw everyone outside before leaving but knowing Risotto and his Stand, He camouflages himself yet again and enters the mansion once more, iron will determonstion to uncover the secret and to carry out his bloody mission.

Inside he not only realizes all the stolen and proudly displayed good from Rossi, but also meets the adoptive son, Gennaro, once again, who detects the presence of Risotto despite not being able to see him. All while Rossi knocks and screams behind the unopenable door.

The mystery as Risotto figured out was an electromagnet inside the door, which is also the cause of his Stand reacting before.

Interestingly this novel confirms another headcanon I had about Risotto since a long time, as he tells Gennaro about the mechanism of the electomagnet which he read inside a book about waste disposal. He really seems like an intellectual and sophisticated person, reason he seems to be naturally curious about a lot of the world and its functions around him.

Gennaro lies about his reason being here, but the knife in his hand reveals his true intention, as Risotto observes, seeing the boy as a hindrance and thinking about peacefully assassinating him as well if he keeps being an obstacle of his urgent mission. Seeing that Risotto thinks about this dark act but not carrying out this murder of a young man, shows his hestitation despite him being a ruthless and experienced hitman. But, he is also seemingly intruiged by him, curious about his motives and the plan of the boy and realizing the benefit of unrevealing the crime of the young man. Also we can see that Risotto very well decides how „brutally“ he will take out a murder of a person.

Risotto lays out his own observations and detective work how the disappearance of Rossi was made possible during the power outage, which was caused by the extreme indoor heating and the lights of the christmas tree.

Quite funny how Risotto also uses his Stand powers to make a metal Tombola piece float in the air, it must have confused the boy to no end, not knowing about the supernatural Stands. He reveals another meaning of the numbers, 77, the devil, which was Gennaro‘s own remark against his new father. The man the young boy planned to kill himself, just like Risotto Nero.

Risotto is seemingly impressed how well crafted Gennaro is in planning his own assassination, but even the boy begins to flinch by the ghostly presence of Risotto, being called a grim reaper, which was also always part of his overall design.

He is curious about the motives of the boy, who wants to reveal the secret in front of Rossi himself, so they release him, with ordering the boy to drop the knife.

Rossi, completely out of breath, storms out of the room behind the door, questioning his son about the reasons of his hostile acts.

Then Gennaro revealed it all, how much Rossi has tormented him all these years after making him witness the torturing and murder of his own mother, just to get adopted by him again, probably making him suffer even more behind the disguise of a noble man, a habit of Rossi‘s twisted games. He even underestimated the boy to remember him after all these years, showing his arrogance and belittlement of others. All while the boy suffered in silcence and played an act, until now the time for his own assassination and revenge has come.

A motive and reason we all know defines Risotto all to well, his whole life. We get a glimpse of a backflash inside Risotto‘s head of the funeral of his cousin, many years ago. His mind turning dark just like his clothes. Full of rage and seeking justice of losing someone caused by another person. A person who will soon endure the same cruel fate, to make up for it again. But at what cost?

Risotto sees himself inside the boy. He was in he same situation many years ago, being 14 as well, his mind and spirit not able to process the loss of a family member. But choosing revenge led Risotto to a path of no redemption, a path of endless crime, just to get disrespected at the daily and putting his own life at risk, just to witness his loved ones getting erased from life again, not being able to counter the perpetrator this time and to submit.

No, this is a scenario Risotto experienced himself, he knows what this path will involve. I am very sure Risotto wants another fate for this boy, despite knowing the cathartic feeling of getting the revenge one seeked out for many years. Would Risotto chose this path himself again when he was reliving time? A scenario we will never know an answer of but here we see him protecting the boy for basically ruining his future life, a life without a real future, filled with crime, surrounded by mostly mean spirited people despite the closest ones.

So he tells the boy leave, threathening him to kill him if he refuses. He will carry out the mission, not only for the job, but also to spare the boy a life full of darkness.

But Gennaro does not accept, he suffered way too much from what Rossi has done, sleepless nights, trauma, feeling helpless, he only wants the release of revenge. The boy shows a strong will of resolve. And Risoto can relate so much, he truly understand what the boy is feeling. He knows these moments, this burning hatred and just bringing justice to end this once and for all. This is affecting Risotto even in such a way, that he lets his guard down, revealing his appearance, making the boy gasp in surprise by his dark and ghostly presence.

The moment of tension and two spitits connecting only got suddenly interrupted by the police forces, not hestitating to shoot on Risotto Nero as a quick act to save Rossi. The leader shortly needed a moment to process what just happened but decided to remove enough iron from the bodies of the officers to make them unconscious - a fairly peaceful decision for a hitman. But is it because he does not want to harm people who are not involved in his job or is it rather to spare the uproar of the corpses of police workers? Maybe a mix, still, it shows quite a new light of Risotto, being surrounded by members of his team who do not spare the lives of people close to their target mission. At least sometimes. Even tho, these hitmen seem all to have their own moral codex they act on.

After all, Risotto Nero is still cruel and cold enough to traumatize the people around his targets with his brutal and merciless killings, like he just wanted to do some hours ago with all the guests and family Rossi. I really enjoy how morally grey Risotto is written which really makes him an appealing and interesting character, and I try to say this as unbiased as possible.

While this short moment of being focused on the police, Rossi takes action and stabs Gennaro with his own knife he dropped earlier, directly into the stomach of the young man.

Now it was finally the time Risotto needed to act, bringing a gruesome end and torturing Rossi with nails made from Metallica‘s powers, making him suffer a long time before he finishes finally his assassination.

It is very symbolic that Risotto basically crucifies Rossi with the way he pierced iron nails through hus hands, it is very symbolic for a multitude of reasons and made me think.

If we think about Christian Religion, the punishment of being cruzified was reserved for the sinners. A way to show dominance and control by the upper hand instances, which is Passione.

It was often used for „low-life“ criminals and slaves back then, basically mocking the luxurious life of Rossi.

The dramatic display of the corpse for everyone to see to give off a warning: do not act like this sinner. It is an open display of Rossi‘s long life of wrongdoings and crime and how he now must suffer the consequences, caused by his sins. Since it is also a tool of enforcing and showing social control, it also fits the method of Passione scaring other gangsters and enemies. They are in control and on the top. They are showing psychological warfare and invoking public fear.

But also, does this act also is an act of mercy to bring salvation to Gennaro? Making Rossi die for his cruel sins to release the darkened spirit of the young man? It is quite interesting to think about this potential interpretation.

Risotto then rushed to Gennaro, picking him up, telling him that Rossi will now suffer for his sins. As Gennaro is seemingly dying in Risotto‘s arms, smiling, he found finally peace of his mind. His last act is showing the tombola card with the number 90 again, and we finally get know its meaning.

Fear.

This is what Gennaro wanted to overcome, feared and suffering by his past, not being able to act, not knowing if the feel of being haunted by Rossi will ever fleet away, now that the boy was adopted by him, probably even abused by new methods of Rossi‘s twisted mind.

Fear is what is haunting Risotto Nero and his team since weeks, enforced by the boss, treating them like dogs, making with the hitman team whatever he feels to, not respecting them, humiliating them. No regard for their talents, always reminding Risotto of his failure as a leader he cannot stop feeling guilty for. He needs to act. He can’t let this continue. But it is fear he also feels, not wanting to lose more of his men. But what is the other path? An endless cycle of ridicule? Risotto has enough. In this moment the brave acts of Gennaro must have inspired him to also put a stop onto all this. He can’t let fear to keep controlling him and his men.

And then, while Risotto is scolding Gennaro in an endearing way, talking to him like as if he was scolding one of his subordinates, like a mentor, he transforms the iron tile inside the boys hand and forms a staple.

Chapter 4

A short time skip. The news were talking about the gruesome murder of Rossi by a gangster and how this gangster also tortured a young boy was saved by a „skilled police officer with a stapler“

…a story wirhout any sense. Only Risotto Nero, Gennaro and the reader know the truth about what happened. Risotto did an heroic act, no one will ever know about, probably not even Gennaro himself, since he was barely left conscious when Risotto stapled his wounds with Metallica.

It is unbelievably tragic but also needed, as Risotto Nero has a reputation to hold. On this day, he took a life but he also saved another. And not only in a physical way, Risotto prevented Gennaro, who returned into a orphanage, to chose the same path as him many years ago. He brought salvation to his tormented and young spirit, finally removing his tantalizer from life. The boy has now again a chance of a normal life, a life, Risotto does not have himself.

Once again, Risotto brought success to Passione, without ever getting properly rewarded, payment as low as ever. Nothing changed. Only Risotto‘s resolve has.

He gathered his men again, this time in person, inside their usual hiding spot we know of. Which seems to be a rare occurance as the hitman team remarks, last time being the day they got these dreadful horrible packages of thin pieces of one of their members.

The waste disposal transfer seems to be on hold, Illuso and Formaggio being spared from changing teams this time, and they begin bantering again. Knowing they are essential to the team and valueing being among them.

This scene also confirms the basically fanon of the fandom that Prosciutto is a smoker - he indeed does.

Suddenly Risotto began to talk, he is resolved. The boss won’t continue to play with them like cheap and disposable puppets. The incident with the determined Gennaro and collecting his strength depsite still being scared, made him realize to act as well. Or else he and his men will keep this vicious cycle of being a team of assassins who despite carrying out the missions with success, still are only good enough to get potentially transferred to deal with garbage. It is a clear message, like the boss always does.

It is finally enough, time to free themselves from the chains.

He swears to overthrow the boss and organization. His will and decision strong as iron. Wanting to claim what has been taken from „HIM“.

This remark seems to be a direct hint on his pride, how much he personally has lost in his life and how sick he is of all this, fighting for a better future, for himself. But also for his team. To avenge the deaths of Sorbet and Gelato, to make their loss not being unresolved.

His subordinates being in silence, making Risotto questioning how they will decide, will they stay loyal to the team or to the organization of Passione? By now, they can only hold themselves only the little clues and whereabouts of the boss, events which unfold in the storyline of Vento Aureo.

Until then, Risotto Nero will continue to observe, to catch every clue to fulfill his revenge and bring dark glory and a better future for his team, them alone, against the remaining world. The stakes are high, him being the leader is responsible for the outcome of this resolve. Unfortunately, we know how this decision will turn out in the end. They were so close but it still was all for nothing, the mostly self motivated team of assassins' fate has already decided and it will lose against the altruistic motives of the gang of Bruno Bucciarati.

Okay, this was long. I don’t know how many of you really did read this. If you did,

Thank you.

As a summary, this short novel is a fantasticly written story about Risotto Nero and his team of hitmen, also shining with hints of fanservice, as confirming many ideas the fans had about them, and letting them all stay in character without ever breaking depsite all the bantery conversations, how close these men are. In the end, they are all they have.

This story really did Risotto Nero justice as a character, not once ever conflicting with the hints we knew about his personality but also expanding on them.

He is ruthless, cold and stone-faced, as we witnessed already in the original source material. But what we learned in this novel about him throws a new light on him, showing also his softer side.

He IS concerned about his teammates, he feels guilty about his failures as a leader, he can absolutely not cope with grief and has trouble managing his outbursts of anger - even targeting against himself and hurting himself. He looks after the wellbeing if his men, concerned about their mental health and respecting their trauma, not ever ridiculing them and their feelings. Risotto Nero is absolutely not emotionless, his inner world and thoughts are rich, which he just isn’t able to express for probably a multitude of reasons. He even shows compassion for strangers. There was no reason to save the girl from falling harshly to the ground, there was no reason to spare Gennaro, he even knows Risotto‘s face and could be therefore a danger in the future.

But he did help them. And the most cruel fact about this is, no one of them or the others, probably not even his men, will know about these acts and truths (only if they will maybe figure it out by themselves by the staples).

He is not a person who wants to be a hero, he knows he isn’t and he will never be, too many lives did he take by now. But, these little deeds to mercy and kindness are probably a secret of him, no one ever needs to know about. He has his own reasons to act, his own way. His own moral code and his own way to act.

This all makes Risotto Nero such a very well written character in my eyes, combining some of the worst human sins but also showing signs of compassion and protectiveness, like preventing others from a path full of pain or wanting to fight for his men, to finally get what they deserve.

I thank the author of this story, Ayato Toya, by a lot. This novel was a joy to read, which I already did by a couple of times. Also thanks to Hudgyn for the wonderful translation, which is very well and clearly written.

This novel probably strenghtened my own feelings for this character by a lot. I can’t express how happy I am this was written at all, if now this story gets and animated adaptation, my life will be complete. Come on, who does not want to see Risotto inside a suit?

Thank you for reading.

Oh yeah, here is my artwork of him again I made for this novel, I did imagine how he might look with a suit.

[donvampiro]

Can you please do Monster trio and Law (and Ace if you are ok with it/want to do it) comforting reader about a parent in the hospital in them not being able to do anything about it and being anxious (dealing with that rn and would really appreciate it, but take your time! I would be very grateful if you did this!) thank you!!

hello Anon, thanks a lot for your request, sweets. i’m genuinely sorry you’re going through these very difficult times. i wish you and your family the best, hope things will be fine. hopefully these little HCs will bring you some comfort. Take care <3

MASTERLIST - Welcome

***

'Heartfelt'

Monster trio, Law & Ace x (anxious) gn!reader

Monkey D. Luffy

Luffy quickly grasps the gravity of the situation but shows very little (if any) sign of panic or anxiety. it’s not that he’s insensitive to the situation — far from it — he just knows, feels that this isn’t the way to behave if he wants to support you properly.

he’s a person with great emotional intelligence. he can stay close to you just like he can distance himself a little if you prefer to be alone and get some space; and this without even having to ask you verbally about it.

Luffy doesn’t talk much when it comes to feelings overall; he’s more about showing them. it would be the same when he would see you so anxious, expressionless, while you and the crew were sharing a meal. he’d keep eating, but his gaze would be different; more focused, softer, and he’d never take his eyes off every of your facial expression. lots of physical touch too if you’re okay with this. pulling you back against him, holding your hand, wrapping his arm around your shoulders — Luffy would make you understand that he’s there for you. he’d share his food with you a lot more btw, trying to comfort you as best he could.

he always keeps an eye on you, and that’s why he’d follow you even though he’d see you walking to a more secluded corner, still looking upset. Luffy will never judge you, you can tell him anything. and that’s what you’d do while his eyes remained softly fixed on yours, silently asking you to get things off your chest.

‘it’s terrible, Luffy. they’re suffering so much, i wish i could help them, but all i can do is stay here and wait. i feel…’, you’d gulp. ‘... i feel useless.’

Luffy feels your turmoil within him as he hugs you. he’s not a great speaker but would always try to reassure you. and he’d never let you down — you feel it, you know it by his tight embrace, anchoring you close to him as he puts his hat on your head.

— ‘you’re not useless. you’re you.’, he’d smile up at you, his voice unusually calm, but still cheerful. ‘and i bet that’s why your parent will be happy to see ya again when things get better!’

Vinsmoke Sanji

Sanji is very receptive to situations like this. he understands what it’s like to have a sick, suffering parent, and to not be able to do much about it. the mere fact that you have to go through this kind of pain breaks his heart. he would therefore redouble his efforts to give you as much support and affection as possible.

whatever you need, he’d do it. Sanji would be there for you no matter what, and he’d make sure to let you know it. expect to be showered with thoughtful small kindnesses, whether it’s gifts, your favorite meal cooked more often than usual, billet-doux, hugs and kisses, anything that can soothe your tormented heart and mind through everything Sanji has to offer.

he’s more of a person who stays close to you — at your service — most of the time, but if you need space, he’d give it to you without flinching. Sanji would also be careful to ensure that anyone who addresses your personal situation does so with tact and sensitivity. otherwise he’s ready to fight.

still, Sanji would feel filled with sadness as he contemplates this anxiety that never leaves your gaze, nor the features of your face. your feelings are no secret to him, and that’s both tragic and comforting. don’t hesitate to talk to him. he’ll listen to you with great attention and will undoubtedly find the words to soothe, if only for a moment, your torments.

the kitchen is quiet but your mind is restless as you stare at the cook, who is certainly busy washing dishes, but far from oblivious to the turmoil that is running through you. a hundred questions and anxieties waltz through your head and make tears well up in your eyes, in a secret sound that Sanji would recognize among a thousand; a torture for his heart that would make him immediately stop what he is doing to come and sit next to you. his touch would be so soft while he’d brush your eyelashes with the back of his finger, inviting you to express yourself, listening attentively.

‘it’s okay to be as worried as you are. these are situations where life is turned upside down.’, he’d whisper, caressing your shoulders as if you were made of glass. ‘but as long as you show them that you care, that’s already a huge support you’re giving them. please keep going.’

Roronoa Zoro

Zoro is a man of few words, perhaps too stoic at times (as some would say), but he is far from impassive facing your parent’s health situation as well as the anxiety it causes you. he would thus be very attentive to your mood and would try to show you maximum support — in his own way.

he knows the pitfalls of life, that strange thing that can be a blessing as well as a curse, he knows too well that those we care about can disappear at any moment. how can we not be anxious about all this? it is precisely because this resonates with him that Zoro would be all the more vigilant and attentive to your concerns, and that he would make sure to be there for you.

he’s not part of the great speakers team either, still Zoro would do his best to ensure that you can spend good, calm moments together so that your mind can be eased. so that you can relax. he knows that the times you are going through are hard and stressful, but he’s also all the more aware that you will not be able to cope if you remain so anxious. chances are you wouldn’t be convinced at first, you’d be too preoccupied to even think for a second about relaxing — but he’d convince you, in a firm but gentle tone, and with a look that you can see is anything but meant to coerce you. he just cares for you. just like you do with your parent.

you can talk to Zoro, he will always listen to you. snuggled up against each other, on deck or in the privacy of a cabin, he would listen to everything you’d have to say, to all your worries. Zoro wouldn’t be very talkative, but his stare, as well as his warm breath brushing your skin, would make you understand, without a word, that it would be only you and your feelings that would matter at that precise moment.

the comfort that Zoro can bring you is found in these quality times, these moments of tenderness just between the two of you where you’d share the warmth of each other’s presence and the intertwining of your respective hands. the swordsman would hope that, even if he doesn’t speak much, he could convey to you all the admiration you inspire in him for your patience facing these torments, and all the support he seeks to give you. 

‘just… keep thinking about them. keep visiting them when you can.’, he’d murmur, rubbing soothing — he hopes — circles onto your skin. ‘you may not be a doctor, (y/n), but loving your parent is something only you can do.’

Trafalgar D. Water Law

Law is very down to earth about the situation and may have a little trouble handling the overflow of emotions your anxiety might entail at first. he too is part of the medical profession and understands the complexity of the situation as well as the resilience it requires. for him, there’s no point in trying to do too much. it’s up to the medical staff to take care of your relative, and things will be fine.

he would probably try to make you understand this at first, which could create tension. he would probably be a bit awkward — his intention wouldn’t be to invalidate your emotions, but to rationalize things in order to reassure you. however, when he’d see that this isn’t the right way to comfort you, he’d try to understand your emotions better, to not stick only to the rational.

Law can fully understand the emotional strain and worry that a parent’s hospitalization can cause, and seeing you in such turmoil wouldn’t leave him indifferent for sure. if you need to talk, he’ll listen, while trying to provide constructive answers that he hopes will reassure you. if you need space, he’ll give it to you.

lots of acts of services so that you can free up time and spend it at your parent’s bedside or take your mind off things. physical touch isn’t really his favorite way of showing affection and support, but if it’s you and you need it, he’d make an effort in a heartbeat (while pretending to be embarrassed by it).

there’d be nights like that. nights when your mind cannot find rest, eaten away by worries about your loved one’s health. about what you could do, what you could not do; and all these thoughts spiraling through your mind wouldn’t escape Law’s sharp gaze — whose unusual softness would make you understand that you can talk to him about it. that you can tell him anything. that he will try to understand. maintaining eye contact, he would listen to you in silence but would not fail to respond once you got things off your chest.

‘the mere fact that you care about them and want to help them already shows your consideration. you’re enough. you’re not a doctor, (y/n), you can’t do everything.’, he’d state, before delicately intertwining his fingers with yours. ‘i’m sure they know they can count on you no matter what.’

Portgas D. Ace

despite his troubled past and disrupted family history, Ace is very sensitive to the health issues of relatives and would understand how difficult this must be for you on a daily basis. so, he’ll make sure to be there for you as best he can, to spare you too many daily tasks, because he knows you must already have a lot on your plate because of your parent’s hospitalization. Ace doesn’t like chores, but if it can put a smile back on your face, he won’t hesitate to do yours for the rest of his life.

he doesn’t ask you many questions — but he sees how anxious you look, counting down the hours until the next visit to your loved one, your gaze lost in the lands of a world where everything can change at any moment. he himself would also feel bad that he could not do more for you and your family, other than being at your disposal.

that’s why Ace would be honored to be able to help you feel a little better. you can confide in him, he doesn’t know if he’ll have the exact right words to soothe your mind — he probably won’t, he’d think —, but he could try… at least, that’s what he’d tell himself as he paces the deck of the Moby Dick, finally spotting you. no one detects better than him a tormented and anxious stargazing, and you wouldn’t fool him in your weak answer when he’d come to check up on you.

‘m’just a little stressed. there’s a lot going on…’, you’d murmur, before changing your mind. ‘... but don’t worry, it’s nothing.’

— ‘c’mon, (y/n). it’s never “nothing” when it’s you.’, he’d cut off, frowning. his tone is determined but his voice is not harsh. it is even of a necessary gentleness facing what you are going through. ‘wanna talk about it?’ 

he LISTENS. carefully. hugging you in a silent but intense (and warm) embrace. Ace may not be the most skilled with words, but it’s very important to him that you keep in mind he’s there for you and will always support you, especially when you’re going through difficult times.

‘you’re doing things for them, (y/n). you love them and you don’t forget them. that’s the best support you can give them.’

would also definitely try to cheer you up and make you laugh. Ace would crack a few jokes in order to see you smile again, because nothing breaks his heart more than seeing you suffer.

[andy-wm]

Still with you

I'm sitting in my hotel room quietly contemplating the nature of love.

Is it the warmth and comfort of a shared look or touch?

Is it the depth of feeling that connects you with someone who will always have a place in your heart?

Is it the the courage and determination to face life's hardships hand-in-hand; to get through the worst of it together?

I think it's all of these.

This meditation on love was sparked by Jimin's instagram both post AND story , and JK's earlier Weverse post.

Both men posted the same photobooth photos, showing them together in their military uniforms.

The fact that Jimin and Jungkook posted the same photos they had already shared with us in their Weverse live says a lot.

Those photos must be really significant.

Jimin posted them twice. He had a tough time, the caption on the reel says. And he wanted to tag JK but couldn’t.

Jimin chose Jungkook's Still With You for this reel.

Still With You is Jungkook's song released for Festa 2023.

***correction, it was Festa 2020, thank you @causesciencethatswhy for the comment. So the idea that he wrote it thinking of MS might be incorrect ***

That got me thinking .... when JK wrote Still With You, had they already planned to enlist together?

I wonder how Jungkook was feeling at the time. If the lyrics are any indication, he was feeling the heavy sense of loss that comes with missing someone you love:

With you I laugh

With you I cry

These simple feelings I have with you

Maybe they are all I am

So tell me when I will see you and look you in the eyes

I will pull you close to me

And say that I missed you

The lyrics also talk about someone who is missing him:

Looking up, the moon is so lonely

It is crying out for somebody

to join it in the sky

And I know morning will come

soon and drown the moon out

But I wanted to be your star and come join you in the sky

It sounds a lot like he has been separated from someone he loves.

Maybe he was thinking about being torn from the person he adores. The one who he is always close to, always aware of, always thinking of.

Maybe that was his fear, when he wrote the song.

Maybe Jimin's dance to Stuck With You was his response to Still With You when they found out they could stay together during their military service.

While i was thinking about all this, a few words came to mind:

Steadfast, devoted, united.

I'd say all three of these apply to Jimin and Jungkook.

And honestly what more could you want in a life partner?