#Melbourne Design Week

[dougwallen]

Melbourne Design Week wrap for Broadsheet

[happywebdesign]

Warren & Mahoney Architects

[reasonsforhope]

"A cure for HIV could be a step closer after researchers found a new way to force the virus out of hiding inside human cells.

The virus’s ability to conceal itself inside certain white blood cells has been one of the main challenges for scientists looking for a cure. It means there is a reservoir of the HIV in the body, capable of reactivation, that neither the immune system nor drugs can tackle.

Now researchers from the Peter Doherty Institute for Infection and Immunity in Melbourne, have demonstrated a way to make the virus visible, paving the way to fully clear it from the body.

It is based on mRNA technology, which came to prominence during the Covid-19 pandemic when it was used in vaccines made by Moderna and Pfizer/BioNTech.

In a paper published in Nature Communications, the researchers have shown for the first time that mRNA can be delivered into the cells where HIV is hiding, by encasing it in a tiny, specially formulated fat bubble. The mRNA then instructs the cells to reveal the virus.

Globally, there are almost 40 million people living with HIV, who must take medication for the rest of their lives in order to suppress the virus and ensure they do not develop symptoms or transmit it. For many it remains deadly, with UNAids figures suggesting one person died of HIV every minute in 2023.

It was “previously thought impossible” to deliver mRNA to the type of white blood cell that is home to HIV, said Dr Paula Cevaal, research fellow at the Doherty Institute and co-first author of the study, because those cells did not take up the fat bubbles, or lipid nanoparticles (LNPs), used to carry it.

The team have developed a new type of LNP that those cells will accept, known as LNP X. She said: “Our hope is that this new nanoparticle design could be a new pathway to an HIV cure.”

When a colleague first presented test results at the lab’s weekly meeting, Cevaal said, they seemed too good to be true.

“We sent her back into the lab to repeat it, and she came back the next week with results that were equally good. So we had to believe it. And of course, since then, we’ve repeated it many, many, many more times.

“We were overwhelmed by how [much of a] night and day difference it was – from not working before, and then all of a sudden it was working. And all of us were just sitting gasping like, ‘wow’.”

Further research will be needed to determine whether revealing the virus is enough to allow the body’s immune system to deal with it, or whether the technology will need to be combined with other therapies to eliminate HIV from the body.

The study is laboratory based and was carried out in cells donated by HIV patients. The path to using the technology as part of a cure for patients is long, and would require successful tests in animals followed by safety trials in humans, likely to take years, before efficacy trials could even begin.

“In the field of biomedicine, many things eventually don’t make it into the clinic – that is the unfortunate truth; I don’t want to paint a prettier picture than what is the reality,” stressed Cevaal. “But in terms of specifically the field of HIV cure, we have never seen anything close to as good as what we are seeing, in terms of how well we are able to reveal this virus.

“So from that point of view, we’re very hopeful that we are also able to see this type of response in an animal, and that we could eventually do this in humans.”

Dr Michael Roche of the University of Melbourne and co-senior author of the research, said the discovery could have broader implications beyond HIV, with the relevant white blood cells also involved in other diseases including cancers.

Dr Jonathan Stoye, a retrovirologist and emeritus scientist at the Francis Crick Institute, who was not involved in the study, said the approach taken by the Melbourne team appeared be a major advance on existing strategies to force the virus out of hiding, but further studies would be needed to determine how best to kill it after that.

He added: “Ultimately, one big unknown remains. Do you need to eliminate the entire reservoir for success or just the major part? If just 10% of the latent reservoir survives will that be sufficient to seed new infection? Only time will tell.

“However, that does not detract from the significance of the current study, which represents a major potential advance in delivery of mRNA for therapeutic purposes to blood cells.”"

-via The Guardian, June 5, 2025

[charles-leclerizz]

KEEP IT QUIET - OP 81

on the runway : Oscar Piastri x younger!fem!reader

inspiration ( warnings ) : smuttt!! (fem receiving! oral, dirty talk, praise, p in v, overstimulation, semi public (house setting)), older Oscar (early 20s, unspecified) x younger reader ( 19, its legal, ok?), brothers best friend trope

VIP's in the front row ( taglist ) : MUTUALS GET INSTANT TAGS [@vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon, @ksthegreat, @ccupcakqs]

before the show begins ( synopsis ) : You've been integrated into the piastri family since your brother pushed Oscar into the sandbox and proceeded to roll toy trucks over the short, mousey child's back. fast forward many, many years- they were still thick as thieves, with your brother being a mechanic in the McLaren garage and his co-parter in crime being one of the drivers; and you, were the lame "younger sister" tag-along who was co-existing with your brother and Oscar in his home for the summer, working your first corporate job, whilst they enjoyed their down-time from the season. But what happens when you notice Oscar has been staring at you like he’s seconds from ruining both of your lives. and when he finally snaps, he does it with a hand over your mouth, and a whispered promise that you’re not gonna make a single sound.

designer notes : Well its a cliché but its MY cliche and you all are gonna like it, wether you want to or not, cause in this household we go out like soldiers. anyway, kisses xx

The hallway creaks under your socked feet as you pad toward the bathroom. It’s early - not quite sunrise, not quite night. You’re still half-asleep, and you’re not expecting anyone else to be up, just needing to quickly use the restroom.  

The door’s ajar. The light’s on. But your exhausted brain chalks it up that someone forgot to switch it off. 

So, you push it open, carelessly, clumsily.  

And there he is. 

Oscar. 

Steam clings to his back like the ghost of a shower - hot and recent, droplets slinking down the ripples of his muscles. A towel sits low on his hips, back dimpled arched into his skin, his hair dripping as he pats it dry with one hand. He’s facing the mirror but turns slightly at the sound of the door.  

The moment stills.  

His eyes drag up, then down. Not fast enough to play it off as polite. And not quick enough to play it off as surprise. 

You freeze, fingers still on the doorknob, oversized sleep shirt clinging to the tops of your thighs. No bra. Nothing but your skin beneath it. You blink once. Twice. 

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks. 

And that look says everything you’ve been ignoring for weeks. 

Because this summer has been long. And weird.  

You were only supposed to be here for a few weeks. 

A favour, really. Your summer internship at a soulless corporate firm happened to be fifteen minutes from the Piastri house. Your parents were away. Hotel rates in Melbourne were offensive. Oscar’s mum offered the spare rooms to your brother and you. It made sense. 

What didn’t make sense was how often Oscar looked at you like that. 

He’d been your brother’s best friend for years - a little awkward, a little polite. He’d always been more of a fixture than a real presence in your life, just some scruffy-haired boy who showed up in holiday photos and ate too many Weet-Bix. 

But he’s not a boy now. You barely noticed at first, how every summer he would rotate back into your life, slightly more tan, more muscular, more experienced.  

You weren’t entirely sure if he noticed how you changed, that was until now. You couldn’t deny his attention. Not when he would stand in the doorway, every time you would come back from work, leaning against the archway of the foyer, silently watching in a hoodie as you would bend down to peel off your heels, eyes dragging down your legs. Not when his gaze would catch on the sliver of cleavage that you would reveal when you would sigh and unbutton your shirt two buttons too far, talking with his mum about the “terrible Australian heat” and how the “paper thin walls” did nothing to help. 

He tries to hide it. He really does. 

But his jaw clenches. His ears go red. His eyes flick down when you speak and don’t come back up for a while. 

And you? You don’t help. 

You ask him what he's doing for the rest of summer, act surprised when he tells you he's just training and laying low. You sit too close on the couch during race replays. You walk barefoot into the kitchen in those tiny sleep shorts like you don’t notice him staring at your ass. 

He does stare. And you barely noticed the way his gaze would follow you. You thought it was fleeting curiosity.  

But now you’re seeing it clearly. 

Now you know. 

His mouth parts slightly, but he still hasn’t said a word. 

“I thought the bathroom was empty,” you say softly. You don’t step back. 

He nods, turning back to the mirror, eyes flicking to the curve of your legs in the reflection. “I’ll be out in a sec.” 

You hum. “No rush.” 

You let the door close behind you, slow and deliberate, like you didn’t just catch your brother’s best friend halfway to being naked. 

You don’t breathe until you’re back in your room. And when you crawl back under the sheets, you can’t help but wonder how long he’s been looking at you like that. 

And how long it’ll take before he snaps. 

The house is quiet. Midnight quiet. 

You’re in the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboard in one of your oversized t-shirts - except it isn’t oversized on you. It’s short. Thin. And Oscar, who walks in half-asleep and shirtless, seems to notice exactly how short it is. 

He pauses in the doorway, blinking. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice still hoarse from dreaming. 

“Needed something sweet.” you shrug, biting into a cupcake you found. 

He leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes dragging down your legs like gravity pulled them there. 

“You always walk around like that?” he asks. It’s not teasing - it’s careful. Too careful. 

You shrug, nonchalant. “Only when I’m not expecting company.” 

A pause. 

The fridge hums. You both pretend not to look at each other. 

Then his voice drops, quiet. “Your internship going, okay?” 

You nod and lick the icing off your fingers. You ignore the way his eyes follow your thumb, “Fine. Boring. Too much Excel. I’m not built for cubicles.” 

Oscar smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“You still wear those skirts?” he asks, and then immediately regrets it. You watch his face with an astonished grin, full flush before he adds, “The… business ones. With the-uh…” 

“The pencil skirt?” you supply, sweet and smug. 

He clears his throat. “Yeah. That one.” 

You lean against the counter, inches away from him now, toe nudging his barefoot under the table. “You’ve been watching me leave for work every morning, haven’t you?” 

Another pause. You can hear his swallow. 

“I’m not blind,” he mutters. 

You grin and tilt your head at him. “Didn’t say you were.” 

The silence that follows is thick. You don’t say it. He doesn’t say it. But the air is heavy with everything that’s building - the looks, the casual touches, the stares you both pretend not to notice. 

And then he shifts. 

Moves just a bit too close. His hand grazes yours on the edge of the counter. Not enough to touch - just enough to feel the static. 

You don’t move away. 

You let it sit there - unspoken and burning. 

“Night,” he finally says, pulling his hand back. 

You nod. “Night, Oscar.” 

He leaves, but you feel the heat of that moment long after the door clicks shut. 

It’s barely been an hour since the kitchen, when you hear him. 

Your bedroom’s dark. The blanket's kicked to your ankles, sleep long gone. You’ve been tossing for over an hour - wired, restless, rewinding every moment with him like it’s stuck in your teeth. 

Then, footsteps. One pair. Slow. Hesitant. 

They stop outside your door. 

You hold your breath. 

Seconds stretch out, long and heavy. You picture him just on the other side - maybe running a hand through his hair, maybe trying to talk himself down. Maybe thinking about how your legs looked when you leaned over the kitchen counter earlier. Maybe remembering every time, you would intentionally unbutton your shirt further when you could feel his eyes. 

You wonder if he wants you to open the door. 

You almost do, pushing off the duvet from your knees. 

But then, a shift. A sigh. The footsteps fade. 

Your heart thuds against your ribs. Not disappointment, exactly. But something just as sharp. 

He walked away. 

You smile in the dark. You don’t sleep. Not for a while. 

It’s stupid how early you wake up. The sky’s still grey. Cold light spills across the hallway carpet as you pad into the kitchen, arms wrapped tight around your chest. You were going to sneak a mug of tea and go back to bed. Nurse the nerves that wouldn’t die down since last night. 

You stop short when you see him. 

Oscar’s already there, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, one hand cradling a mug, the other braced against the counter like he needs the support. 

He doesn’t flinch when you enter. Doesn’t speak either. 

“Sleep?” you ask softly. 

A dry laugh, low in his throat. “Not a fucking second.” 

You drift to the counter, standing beside him. There’re only a few inches between you - and too much unsaid. 

You glance up. “You were outside my room last night.” 

He stares down into his mug like it’ll answer for him. Swirling the steaming early grey in the cup contemplatively before he silently takes a sip and nods, gulping.  

“Yeah.” 

You lean against the fridge. “You were gonna knock.” 

His jaw tenses. He barely looks, merely shifting his pupils to you, “I wanted to.” 

Silence swells. 

“I’m trying not to be the asshole here,” he says eventually, voice quiet. “You’re-nineteen. Your brother’s best friend. It’s just ...fucked.” 

“But you keep looking at me like that,” you murmur. 

Oscar finally turns. And that look - wide eyes, flushed cheeks, breath caught somewhere between restraint and regret - says everything he won’t say out loud. 

You step in. He doesn’t move, but his eyes widen a fraction. 

“You’re allowed to want things,” you say, palm flattening lightly over his chest. His heartbeat stutters under your touch. 

“I shouldn’t,” he says, an internal struggle between wanting to look away and not being able to, his voice is shaky. Weak. “I really, really shouldn’t.” 

You stretch up on your toes. “Then tell me to stop.” 

You press your mouth to his. 

He doesn’t stop you. 

Instead, he groans appreciatively, thanking you for putting him out of his misery. Hands flying to your hips, dragging you in, clumsy and frantic like he’s been holding this back for weeks - months, since the minute you stepped into his house after a year. His mouth is hot, desperate, all tongue and teeth and finally. It’s not sweet. It’s not slow. It’s all tension snapping at once. 

His back hits the fridge. 

You’re already pulling his hoodie off. 

Oscar gasps, breaking the kiss just enough to whisper, “Your brother’s gonna kill me.” 

“Then make it worth it,” you breathe. 

The kitchen feels impossibly small for how close you and Oscar suddenly are. The only sound is your ragged breathing and the faint hum of the fridge - and the thundering of your heart pounding loud enough it feels like the whole house could hear. 

His hands find your hips, steadying you as his mouth drops to your neck, lips warm and teeth grazing, leaving burning trails that make you shiver despite the cold tile beneath your feet. 

“Quiet,” he hisses, breath hot and desperate. “Your brother’s like, three rooms away.” 

You press a finger to his lips, smirking against the heat of his skin. “I’m not exactly known for my silence.” 

He chuckles at that, shaking head, “Jesus you’re dangerous” 

His hands slide beneath your shirt, fingers tracing the bare skin of your ribs, sending sparks of fire shooting through you. You clutch the edge of the counter, bracing yourself as his mouth finds the curve of your collarbone, teasing, sucking, biting just hard enough to make you gasp. 

You try to keep quiet, pressing a hand to your mouth when the breathy noises escape, but it’s useless. His hand shoots up to cover it, a fierce look in his eyes. 

"Shh. Don’t wake the house."   

You nod, biting down hard on your lip as his mouth moves lower, tracing a slow, scorching path down your torso. 

His hands slide under your shirt, palms skimming your thighs with reverent care. He pushes the hem up, up - and groans quietly when he sees you’re not wearing anything underneath. 

You gasp softly, one hand flying to the counter to steady yourself. 

"Oscar-" 

"Quiet." He kisses your inner thigh, warm breath trailing behind. "You want me to stop?" 

You shake your head, lips parted, heart in your throat. 

His grip on your hips firms as he noses in, tongue flicking out in a soft, almost reverent lick up your centre. Your legs nearly buckle. 

He doesn’t give you a chance to process. His mouth latches on properly - slow, controlled, like he has all the time in the world to ruin you. 

His tongue moves with a precision that makes your toes curl, circling your clit in maddening spirals before dipping lower, teasing your entrance, groaning softly when you grind down into his face. 

You slap a hand over your mouth to stifle the noises that threaten to spill, eyes squeezing shut. Every wet sound, every shaky breath, echoes in the kitchen. 

"I said quiet," he growls, voice muffled between your thighs. " You want your brother to walk in and see what a mess you are for me?" 

You whimper behind your palm and shake your head, your other hand finds his hair, fingers tugging, and he moans into your cunt - the vibration shooting sparks straight through your core. 

He’s relentless. Eating you out like a man obsessed, like he’s been imagining this all summer. Which, judging by the way he’s groaning into you, he has. 

"Taste so fucking sweet," he mumbles. "Could live here." 

You try to pull away, too sensitive, too close, but he holds you there, nails biting into the flesh of your thighs. When you come, it’s sudden and overwhelming, your legs shaking, a soft, muffled cry escaping behind your palm. 

He doesn’t stop. 

Not until you’re gasping, thighs twitching, and trying to push his head away with shaky fingers. 

When he finally rises, lips and chin slick with you, he looks pleased. Ruined. Starving for more. 

"So delicious," he whispers, biting his lip when you shudder at the feeling of his hands brushing against your stomach. 

You yank him down by the collar of his hoodie, crashing your mouth to his in a kiss that tastes like want - salty and sweet, messy and mindless. You can’t get enough. Neither can he. 

"Bedroom," you whisper against his mouth. 

He lifts you with surprising ease, hands under your thighs, and your legs wrap around him instinctively as he carries you out of the kitchen like you weigh nothing. 

The guest room door clicks shut behind you. The world is smaller now. Hotter. He presses you against the wood, hands roaming everywhere, not leaving an inch of you untouched,  

“You were waiting for this, weren’t you?” he whispers, lips at your ear. “Walking around this house in those tiny little skirts, making me stare like some fucking perv.” 

He drops you onto the bed, hands already dragging your shirt off completely, tossing it somewhere into the shadows. 

You do the same to him - hoodie, shirt, boxers - until he’s bared, flushed, breathing hard. 

He presses you into the mattress, kisses trailing down your neck as he settles between your legs. 

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Tell me this isn’t just some game to you.” 

You cup his jaw, breath shaking. “I want this. I want you.” 

His hand slides down, guiding himself to your entrance. He pushes in slow - inch by agonizing inch - and your head falls back.  

“Breathe through it. Just like that.” His mouth trails down your neck. “You're doing so good for me.” 

You wrap your legs around him; knees hooked at his hips; he presses into you harder. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, jaw clenched. “You feel-so fucking tight.” 

He pulls almost all the way out, then pushes back in harder, deeper. You cry out before slapping a hand to your mouth, “You feel that?” he asks, hips buried deep. “That’s what you’ve been teasing me for all summer.” 

He coos as he barely shifts inside you and you dig your fingers into your cheek, saliva collecting behind your hand as tears prick at your eyes.  

“Hold the pillow,” he growls. “Over your mouth. Now.” 

You fumble blindly for it, pressing it to your face, muffling the sounds he’s tearing from you with each deep thrust. 

His rhythm is slow, but brutal. He grinds into you at just the right angle every time, making your legs shake, your stomach twist. 

“You like this,” he pants. “You like knowing your brother’s just down the hall while I’m fucking you full.” 

You clench around him, and he curses, loud and ragged. 

“Jesus. You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

He drops his forehead to yours, sweat dripping onto your chest. You’re both trembling, flushed, soaked in each other.  

You feel yourself getting close again, body tightening, walls fluttering. He pauses briefly, flipping you over, “Hold onto the headboard,” he murmurs, voice low and thick. “You’re shaking too much.” 

You swallow, and arch out to his hold, shuddering as his eyes devour you from behind. When he enters you again, barely just the tip, he has to bend over and plaster his chest to your back to muffle his sounds, you bite your lip fruitlessly, already moaning too loud for the quiet of the house outside these four walls. 

He pushes fully inside you slow and deep, filling every inch with unquenchable hunger. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he sets a slow, deliberate rhythm. 

His hand finds your jaw as he tilts your face upwards and his mouth finds yours again, tongue tangling, breath mingling. 

“Not a sound,” he reminds, voice hoarse. 

You nod, biting back moans as his pace deepens - slow, hard, relentless. 

“Come for me,” he whispers. “Be good and let me feel it.” 

You do - hard, fast, a white-hot flood that rips through you like a scream you can’t let out. 

He follows with a guttural moan, hips stuttering as he spills deep inside you, holding you tight against him like he never wants to let go. 

You wiggle out from beneath him, laying your head on his shoulder, chests rising and falling together. 

Oscar finally lifts his head, face wrecked, lips kiss-swollen. 

"Your brother’s gonna fucking kill me." 

You smile through the haze. “Then he’d better make it quick.” 

The first thing you register is warmth - skin-on-skin heat beneath the sheets, the weight of an arm draped lazily across your waist, and the dull ache pulsing through your thighs like a secret only the two of you know. 

Oscar shifts behind you, half-asleep but already pulling you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath is slow and even, a little raspy, and it ghosts over your skin in lazy waves. 

You smile into the pillow, muscles deliciously sore. 

There’s a mark on your hip - his doing. A bruise on your collarbone - also his. You glance down at your thighs and feel yourself grin, smug and a little horrified, because there’s no way you’re walking to breakfast like you haven’t just been absolutely wrecked by your brother’s best friend. 

Oscar groans softly behind you, nuzzling in. “Too early.” 

“It’s ten,” you whisper, trying not to laugh. 

He doesn’t open his eyes. “Feels earlier.” 

“Feels like a crime scene,” you mumble, sitting up slowly, letting the duvet slide down. His eyes flick open at that, catching the sight of your bare back and shoulders before dragging up to your face - smug and sleepy all at once. 

“Morning,” he says, voice scratchy, ruined. 

You raise a brow. “You’re proud of yourself, aren’t you?” 

He grins, unrepentant. “You should be proud of me too. You didn’t exactly keep quiet.” 

You roll your eyes. “You were literally covering my mouth for half of it.” 

“Because you kept saying my name,” he replies, far too pleased. “Like-” he mimics your voice, low and whiny, “‘Oscar, oh my God, right there-’” 

You shove him with a pillow before he can finish. “Shut up.” 

He laughs, eyes bright and fond now as he rolls onto his back. The duvet slips low on his hips. You try not to look. Fail. 

You sigh dramatically. “Well. If my brother didn’t hear us, I’m putting it down to divine intervention.” 

Oscar stretches, arms over his head, muscles flexing just to show off. “Or he knows and is choosing to spare me.” 

You look over your shoulder. “Unlikely. He finds out, you’re a dead man.” 

Oscar doesn’t flinch. Just smirks. 

“He finds out,” he says, voice low again, all smug confidence and affection wrapped in a morning haze, “it’ll still be worth it.” 

You freeze. Look at him. 

His smile fades to something softer. Realer. 

“Wouldn’t take it back,” he adds quietly. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, heart a little traitor in your chest. 

“…Me neither.” 

There’s a pause. You both know you should probably get dressed. You both don’t. 

Then- 

A voice, faint, from the hallway. Your brother. 

“Oi! You up?” 

Oscar’s eyes go wide. Your heart lurches. 

You bolt upright. He grabs the sheet to cover himself, like that’ll help. 

You scramble to the edge of the bed, whisper-yelling, “You need to leave. You need to leave now.” 

Oscar’s laughing quietly as he fumbles for his hoodie. “Can I at least put on pants?” 

“Only if you put them on fast.” 

You toss his shirt at his head, giggling now, the two of you a mess of limbs and panic and tangled sheets. But even under all that chaos, there's something stupidly happy in your chest. 

You don’t know what this is, not yet. But it’s not going away. 

And if your brother’s about to kill him? 

Well. 

He’ll have to beat you to it. 

[sheltiechicago]

Melbourne, Australia

A design by Wackie Ju on show at the Fashion X Theatre show as part of Melbourne fashion week

Photograph: Joel Carrett/EPA

[cressidagrey]

What's in a Name?

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  Oscar tends to forget to tell his family about major life moments. Or: How Nicole Piastri found out that her granddaughter was named after her. 

Warnings and Notes: I have been working on this for weeks and I have finally given up on trying to make it better. So here it is, in all its glory. Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

It was a rainy Tuesday, the kind of afternoon where Melbourne felt more like London—grey skies, misting rain, and a house quiet enough to hear the fridge hum. 

Nicole sat at the kitchen table, shoulders draped in her oldest cardigan, a half-finished crossword in front of her and a cup of peppermint tea cooling untouched at her elbow. The mail was stacked neatly beside her: the usual suspects—an electricity bill, a newsletter from the council, a catalog she didn’t remember subscribing to—and one envelope that stopped her short.

Cream-coloured. Heavy paper. Sealed with wax.

Her heart caught.

She knew that handwriting. Elegant, almost old-fashioned cursive. Felicity.

Nicole reached for it carefully, fingers brushing over the embossed return address in one corner. She broke the seal with a letter opener, slow and reverent. Inside was a card—no, stationery—thick and matte, with delicate wildflowers inked around the borders in soft watercolours. Pinks and purples, sprigs of lavender, daisies tucked into corners. Hand-drawn, clearly. Felicity’s touch was unmistakable.

A birth announcement.

Months late, of course.

But Nicole had never minded. They’d all understood.

Bee had been born in July—smack in the middle of winter in Australia and summer in London and chaos and COVID-era restrictions. The beginning had been terrifying: the rushed C-section, Felicity’s haemorrhaging, Bee’s heart surgery, the NICU admission. Machines that beeped too loud. Oxygen tubes. Monitors flickering through the haze of exhaustion. 

They’d prayed. Waited. Called. Texted. Watched from a distance as their son clung to hope like a lifeline.

Nicole remembered the first time she’d seen her granddaughter—through a pixelated video call at 2:43 a.m., after two sleepless nights. Oscar’s voice cracking off-camera. He’d kept repeating, “She’s so small, Mum. But she’s here.”

Nicole had cried then. Silently, so she wouldn’t worry them.

The last thing anyone expected was proper stationery.

Nicole hadn’t pushed. They’d promised to send proper announcements eventually. 

Nicole had video-called. She’d cried when she saw Felicity eventually, pale and exhausted, holding a tiny baby against her chest, wires and monitors flickering. She’d prayed harder than she ever had. She knew her granddaughter had made it, had healed, had come home.

Still, the card made her heart catch.

A soft floral design, hand-drawn. Felicity’s unmistakable attention to detail.

And at the center, in black ink:

Welcome to the World, Beatrice Nicole Piastri

Nicole blinked.

Read it again.

Beatrice… Nicole.

Her name. Not just as a nod or a casual reference, but there. Written, printed, declared.

She hadn’t known.

Oscar hadn’t said. Not in any of the hospital updates. Not in any of the late-night phone calls from London when Felicity was still recovering from the C-section, when Bee was fighting her way through post-surgery oxygen dependency. Not during the photos and videos and the grainy FaceTimes where Bee was curled like a comma against his chest, breathing steadily. 

Not when Felicity sent thank-you messages for the baby blanket, the muslin wraps, the tiny hand-knitted cardigan that had been Nicole’s own when she was born.

Not once had anyone told Nicole that Bee was named after her.

She pressed a hand to her mouth. A quiet gasp escaping before she could stop it.

It was such a small thing. A few letters printed in black ink.

But to her—it was everything.

Oscar had never said anything. Not a word. He probably didn’t even think of it. Probably assumed she knew.

And of course he hadn’t—he was Oscar. Her brilliant, focused son who forgot to eat on race days and got distracted by suspension schematics while tying his shoes. He’d sent updates. Photos. He’d FaceTimed with Bee curled on his chest and Felicity gently teasing him in the background.

But he’d never told her her name.

She looked back down at the card, eyes suddenly stinging.

Beatrice Nicole.

She’d never expected to be honored that way. Never needed it. She was proud of all her children, proud of the life they’d built, proud of the woman her daughter-in-law had become. She had watched Felicity grow from the shy teenager, always polite, always too quiet—into a woman of strength. One who had come through fire and come out steady, composed, fierce.

Nicole wiped at her cheek with the sleeve of her cardigan.

There was a photo tucked into the card as well—Bee at a few months old, round-cheeked, eyes bright. She was lying on a muslin cloth covered in bees, one tiny fist raised, her other hand clutching a green plush frog to her chest.

Oscar’s daughter.

Her granddaughter.

Nicole smiled softly, brushing her fingers over the card.

Then she picked up her phone, opened the family group chat, and typed. 

***

Group Chat: Piastri Fam ❤️

(Members: Nicole, Chris, Oscar, Hattie, Edie and Mae)

Nicole:OSCAR JACK PIASTRI YOU NAMED HER AFTER ME?!?!?!?

Hattie: wait WHAT

Mae: Hold on hold on hold on what is happening

Edie: Named WHO after WHO

Nicole: BEE. BEATRICE NICOLE. I JUST GOT THE BIRTH ANNOUNCEMENT IN THE MAIL

Hattie: EXCUSE ME???? YOU GAVE YOUR DAUGHTER MUM’S NAME AS A MIDDLE NAME AND TOLD NO ONE???

Oscar: oh, yeah we did that

Chris: ...Son. You named your child after your mother and forgot to mention it?

Mae: THAT’S ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY??? “oh yeah”????

Oscar: i didn’t think it was a big deal

Edie: NOT A BIG DEAL????

Hattie: YOU IMMORTALIZED MUM IN YOUR CHILD’S NAME

Mae: AND YOU’RE OUT HERE ACTING LIKE YOU JUST BOUGHT A NEW TOASTER

Chris: It’s… kind of a massive deal, Oscar. You named your daughter after your mum. That means something.

Oscar: … yeah. I guess it does.

Nicole: I’m crying. I have actual tears in my eyes. And you’re in here like, “oh, yeah” 😭

Oscar: It just felt… natural?

Nicole: I— I’m going to go lie down. With my framed announcement. And my feelings.

Edie:YOU NEVER MENTIONED IT

Hattie: YOU LITERALLY LET ME CROCHET HER NAME INTO A BLANKET THAT JUST SAID “BEE”

Oscar:It is what we call her

Edie: I’m losing my MIND

Mae: He’s too emotionally repressed to realize he just gave Mum the greatest compliment of her life and did it casually via post

Oscar: you’re all very dramatic

Chris: And you are very casually sentimental. It’s unnerving.

Nicole: I am crying in my lemon tart and also deeply offended

Oscar: …thanks?

Nicole: No thank you. For naming your little girl after me. Even if you forgot to mention it for FOUR MONTHS.

Oscar: it was hectic!! there was the NICU and the surgery and the no sleeping and—

Edie: You’re not getting out of this with logistics.

Mae: YOU had time to send aesthetic baby announcement cards with pressed flowers and wax seals but not to casually text us “btw named her after mum”????

Nicole:You’re lucky I adore you. And that Bee is already my favorite grandchild.

Oscar: she’s your only grandchild

Nicole: Exactly. And I will name-drop “Beatrice Nicole” at every social event until the day I die.

Hattie: I just can’t believe you didn’t tell us. Like? We are your siblings? We texted you every day during that month?

Oscar: i know i didn’t mean to keep it a secret it just… slipped through the cracks we were so focused on keeping her alive, you know?

Nicole: Oh, sweetheart. We do know. And I wouldn’t change a thing. But I want you to know—this means the world. You didn’t have to do it. But you did. And I will never forget it.

Oscar: …you were always there for me always even when things were messy or quiet or hard felt right to honour that not just because you’re Mum but because you’re you

Nicole: Okay. Now I’m really crying.

Mae: He’s emotionally stunted and accidentally poetic. It’s unfair.

Nicole: Thank you. For her. For the name. For the reminder that family doesn’t have to be loud to be deeply, stubbornly, painfully loving.

Edie: Are we hugging in the group chat? Are we… feeling things?

Mae: Shut up and cry with us.

Oscar: i’ll send a picture of bee in her little bear onesie as a peace offering

Nicole: Bless you. Also she looks exactly like Felicity. Thank god for that.

Hattie: Family roast unlocked. Let’s goooo.

***

The flat was quiet, in that sacred hour between baby bedtime and parental collapse. Outside, the London rain tapped against the windows with soft insistence, and inside, the only light came from the low-glow lamp by the couch and the faint blue wash of the baby monitor on the coffee table.

Oscar sat on the floor, legs stretched out under the coffee table, chin resting on his fist as he stared at his phone with the haunted look of a man who had just survived a particularly emotional family group chat.

Felicity padded out of the bedroom barefoot, hair in a messy braid, sleeves pushed up, two mugs in hand. She handed him one without a word, sitting cross-legged beside him with her own, her shoulder brushing his. The silence between them was easy. Familiar. Worn in like a favorite hoodie.

After a long minute, Oscar cleared his throat.

"Hey."

Felicity hummed in reply, sipping her tea.

"So…" He winced. "Funny thing."

Felicity glanced sideways at him, eyebrow raised.

"I might’ve…" He trailed off. Rubbed the back of his neck. "Forgotten to tell Mum that we named Bee after her."

She blinked. "What?"

"I didn’t mean to!" he said quickly. "I thought I had. Or maybe I assumed she figured it out? I don’t know. Things were... insane. There was the surgeries and the lockdown and you couldn’t walk properly and Bee was the size of a loaf of bread and wouldn’t sleep unless I sang The Beatles whole catalogue —"

"—which you only knew half the words to."

"Exactly!" he said, relieved she remembered. "It was chaos."

Felicity set down her mug. "Oscar."

"I know." He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. "I’m the worst."

"You’re not the worst," she said softly, nudging his leg with her foot. "You’re just… Oscar."

He lifted his head. "She got the card today."

"Oh no."

"She cried. Like, actual tears. Into a lemon tart, apparently."

Felicity’s mouth twitched. "That’s poetic."

"And now the whole family’s acting like I revealed a state secret. Hattie’s offended on behalf of her crochet. Edie threatened to make Bee a full ‘Beatrice Nicole’ sweater as penance. Mae’s yelling about my emotional repression. Chris is quietly disappointed."

"And your mother?"

Oscar leaned back against the couch, head thudding softly against the cushions. "She’s thrilled. Emotional. Plotting social dominance via name-dropping. Said she’s going to tell everyone at the farmer’s market."

Felicity laughed. Quiet and fond. "Well. We did mean it."

“I meant to tell,” he muttered. “I swear I thought I did. Like, I could’ve sworn I said something in a voicemail or one of those late-night calls when Bee wasn’t sleeping.”

Felicity raised an eyebrow. “You also once thought you’d put the sterilizer on, but it turned out you boiled two bibs and a remote.”

Oscar groaned and leaned his head back against the couch, careful not to disturb Bee. “I’m an idiot.”

“You’re a tired idiot,” Felicity said gently. “You’ve had a lot on your plate.”

He looked down at Bee, one tiny hand curled into the fabric of his hoodie. “I just… I wanted to name her after Mum because it felt right.”

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” Felicity said softly. “I knew the moment you said it after we found out we were having a girl. The way you looked at Bee—like you already knew who she was.”

“She deserved a name that meant something,” Oscar said. “Not just cute syllables. Something solid. Something that would… anchor her, I guess.”

He paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I just didn’t think it would be such a big deal.”

Felicity laughed under her breath. “Oscar. You named your daughter after your mother. And forgot to tell her.”

“I forgot,” he groaned. “I’m the worst.”

“You’re not. You’re just very you.”

“She sent, like, twelve texts in a row. And then threatened to put the announcement in a shadow box.”

“I’m surprised it’s not already framed and hanging in her hallway.”

Oscar blinked at Bee’s face, so peaceful in sleep. “I didn’t mean it to be—like, some grand gesture.”

“I know. That’s why it mattered.”

Oscar looked down at Bee, asleep in her Moses Basket.  She shifted in her sleep, little nose scrunching, one leg kicking softly.

Oscar smiled. “She’s going to be trouble.”

“She already is.”

They sat there in the soft hush of late-night domesticity, their daughter asleep between them. Oscar didn’t always have the right words at the right time. But Bee had the right name.

And maybe that was enough.

***

Text Messages: Nicole Piastri & Felicity Piastri

Felicity: Hi Nicole — I saw the group chat 😅I am really sorry, I thought Oscar would have mentioned it.  I just wanted to say something privately too.

Felicity: He might have forgotten to mention it, but I thought you should know that he was the one who insisted on “Nicole” as soon as we found out we were having a girl.

Felicity:He didn’t even hesitate. He said, “If we’re lucky enough to have a daughter, she should carry a name that means something. And no one’s steadier than Mum.”

Felicity:He said it so simply, like it was obvious. Like it had always been the plan. He didn’t even blink. It was always going to be your name.

Felicity:I just wanted you to know that. He might’ve forgotten to tell you (🙃), but he meant it. Deeply. And so did I. We love you. So much.

Nicole:Oh Fliss 😭 I’m already crying again and it’s not even 9 a.m here.

Nicole: I’m just sitting here staring at this message with tissues in my lap and a cup of tea that’s gone cold. I never would’ve expected it — but it means the absolute world.

Nicole:That boy… He says so little. Always has. But somehow he still manages to break my heart wide open when I least expect it.

Felicity: Welcome to my life 😌 He forgets to mention where he put the car keys for 3 days, but then says something like, “I hope Bee knows the way you smile when you’re reading to her, because that’s what safety looks like,” and ruins me.

Felicity: Truly, though — thank you. For raising a man who loves softly, and completely. Who lets kindness be his backbone, not just something on the surface. You gave me the kind of partner I didn’t think existed.

Nicole: I hope you know how deeply we love you too. You’ve given him so much joy.

Felicity: I just didn’t want you to think Bee’s name was a last-minute decision or some afterthought. It was never that.

Felicity: It was a choice made out of love. Out of gratitude. Out of every night you answered his calls when he was a world away. Every time you stood by him when things got hard.

Nicole: Thank you for telling me. Thank you for letting me be a part of her, even in just a name. It’s more than I ever expected.

Felicity:She already adores you, you know. Every time we show her your photo, she reaches for the screen.

Nicole:Stop it 😭😭 You’re going to ruin me. I’m going to frame that birth announcement. And possibly embroider “Beatrice Nicole” onto every blanket I can get my hands on. And refer to her full name as often as possible. Oscar will hate it.

Felicity: Good. He deserves it 😌

Nicole: Now go cuddle Bee for me. And tell Oscar that I’m not mad. Just... Emotionally devastated in a joyful way. And that he’s grounded for four to six business days.

Felicity: He says, and I quote: “I deserve that.” 😅 We love you, Nicole. Truly. So much.

Nicole: I love you both more than words. Now please stop making me cry before breakfast.

[freakyformula]

Unexpected Love part 1

Summary:

Things weren't meant to turn out this way.

I had everything thought out perfectly. My life was perfect. And then Toto came and wrecked everything.

I can feel myself becoming more bewildered and hopeless with every passing second.

I look at the stick in my hands again and confirm my worst nightmare. Two faint lines. Just like the one I took before. And the one before that. It was truly happening.

I can barely breathe as I slide down on the floor, with my knees tucked under my chin.

Tears run down my cheeks as I sob my heart out.

This is the first part of Unexpected Love, a series about Y/N, who falls in love with Toto Wolff, the CEO of Mercedes AMG Petronas Formula 1 team. Follow along on her journey, as she experiences love and desire for the first time in her life. ps. This series contains sexual themes, and may not be fitting for younger individuals.

Writers comment: I'm working on the requests you've sent me dw <3

Warnings: Major age gap and fluff

Word count: 2,9k

"Come on, Y/N, it'll be fun!" My best friend, Vanessa, laughs while yapping away about the Australian Grand Prix that will be held next week. We sit on her bed in her studio apartment, surrounded by books about engineering and car design. We were both students, both in uni, working on our theses.

"How to build a car?" I ask, holding the book up, looking at her with a charming smile. "It's written by one of the best car designers of all time, Y/N!" She laughs. "Adrian Newey..." I whisper to myself, getting more and more fascinated by the elegance and beauty of the sport.

You see, Vanessa had gotten an internship at Mercedes a year ago as a trainee mechanic, and had been pestering me about the sport and how I needed to join her for a race weekend ever since.

"I'll pay for your tickets, as long as you join, please just come with me!" She practically begs. "I've heard there are handsome dudes at the races." She looks up from her notebook and winks.

"Alright, sold!" I say in an instant, surprising myself and her. "I mean, I won't go because of the men but rather because I love you so much." In my friend group, I was the one with the least experience, and I was okay with that; it seemed like everyone else had an issue with it. I was known for being proper and shy, and I guess that made me unattractive. I didn't really mind being single, though. I actually quite enjoyed it.

"Will you really?!" She asks, not sure if I was serious or not. "As long as you pay my tickets, then yes." I smile at her.

Vanessa, being the funniest, sassiest, most outgoing person I know of, starts jumping up and down on her bed in what I can only assume is happiness, making her books and I jump along with her. "Yay!" She yells. "Melbourne, here we come!"

And just like that, I had tickets to the Melbourne Grand Prix, the first race of the season. I had to admit, I was nervous. I didn't like flying that much, and I wasn't the biggest fan of large crowds either. It seemed like I had a lot of things against me. I had been wondering what to wear ever since I agreed to go, and as I was a poor student, I couldn't afford anything expensive. My friend knew of this and assured me that one of my cute sundresses and a cardigan would suffice. So, here I was in a yellow sundress, hoping to fit in.

Friday was the first real racing day. Stakes were high, the sun was warm, but not scorching, and the city was filled with expectant people. I'm busy reading the info pamphlet as we walk to the track, with my friend excitedly babbling away about her schedule.

"Here are your tickets. Keep them on you at all times. Don't lose them!" Vanessa smiles as she slides the link with the tickets over my head and runs off to the garage to get ready for practice.

I spent the next 10 hours walking around, feeling totally lost and misplaced. I even thought about leaving early and walking back to the hotel. I knew how Vanessa would react though, she would be heartbroken. I let out a sigh of relief when I got a text from Vanessa, telling me to meet up with her near the gates. When I say I ran, I'm not exaggerating.

"Hello, darling!" She says as I hug her tightly. "How was your day?" She asks.

"It was okay." I simply state and sigh. She instantly stopped and looked at me, sensing that I wasn't enjoying my time. "Y/N, let me introduce you to someone." She blurts out and drags me along with her at a quick pace.

"Hi guys, this is my plus one, Y/N." My friend chuckles and introduces me to her colleagues, judging by their Mercedes clothing. I can't help but gaze down and feel out of place.

"Hello, Y/N, nice to meet you! Welcome to Australia!" One of the men opposite me says and offers me his hand. I look up at him, giving him a faint smile and shaking his hand. He had a kind smile and deep brown eyes that smiled down at me.

"H-Hi." I manage to blurt out as he gently lets my hand go from his firm handshake.

"How are you liking the weekend so far?" The man asks.

I look up at him, with the others looking excited to hear my opinion.

"Well..." I start. "She doesn't like it so far." My friend fills in, and to be honest, she wasn't lying. She knew me better than anyone and she definitely knew I wasn't enjoying myself without even asking.

"In that case, I think it's best if she joins us in the garage for a tour, don't you think?" The man says.

I frankly had no idea what to expect, but I humbly accepted, and parted with the rest of the group, and followed my friend and the mysterious man to the garage.

"Tadaa! This is our garage in all its glory!" My friend says as she dances around, making sure not to touch the cars or the equipment. As she dances around by herself, humming some song that was popular at the time, I walk around looking at the cars, absorbing every detail about them.

"You, Y/N need something to fit in." The man starts. "What about..." He says as he searches the lockers. "This?" He says, and hands me a Mercedes T-shirt. He even got my size right.

I look at him and accept his gift. "Thank you! This is too kind of you."

"No, Y/N, this is the least I can do." He chuckles as we watch as Vanessa hums and attempts a waltz.

The silence was palpable, except for Vanessa of course, and I started to panic, not knowing what to say as we leaned against the cupboards, standing next to each other.

"Ummm..." I start. "We should probably-"

"I'm Toto, by the way. I never told you my name." Toto says.

"Toto..." I say to myself as I look up at him. I couldn't part from his piercing gaze, and for a moment, we were stuck in each other's eyes.

"Y/N, boss, earth calling?!" Vanessa chuckles, cruelly returning us to reality. Even as Vanessa is yapping away, I feel Toto's gaze burning my skin.

"Wait... Boss?" I think, but the words happen to slip out. My eyes move between them, having more questions than answers.

"You didn't know?" Vanessa asks. "Toto is the CEO and team principal of Mercedes."

"That's right." Toto nods his head and smiles.

"What the actual..." I say in complete disbelief. Toto and Vanessa look at each other and smile, as I'm left gaping at them.

"I-I..." I say, as I look at the Mercedes T-shirt and Toto with shocked eyes, and he seems to notice. "I know, it's probably a lot to take in."

"Anyways, I'm going back to the hotel. Are you coming, Y/N?" Vanessa says as she walks out into the chill Aussie air, and I start following her.

"I should probably make sure that Y/N gets something to eat. If you want to, of course." Toto says as he moves in front of me, and looks down at me with those dark eyes of his. Usually, I wouldn't go out with a man I had met not even an hour ago, but something about Toto just lured me in.

"That is so kind, Toto, but-"

"Of course you're going!" Vanessa cuts me off and leaves me looking at her with a questioning look.

"Okay, guess I'm going..." I say, holding my hands up in defeat.

"Are you ready to go right now?" Toto asks, and I nervously nod as an answer.

"Have fun." Vanessa whispers in my ear as we walk out of the garage.

"I won't be long." I assure her.

"Sure thing..." She laughs to herself, and walks off, leaving me and Toto alone. As we walk towards the parking, I can't help feeling nervous about the whole situation. I'm about to have dinner with a CEO twice as old as me. What am I thinking?!

"I can tell you're nervous Y/N. You don't need to be." Toto stops and looks down at me with that gorgeous smile of his. "I'm just taking you out to dinner."

And he's right; it's only dinner. Nothing more, nothing less. Deep breaths.

I wasn't exactly surprised when he guided me into a Mercedes. That felt like a given at this point. This man was the brand itself.

As we got to know each other, I realise that he was quite enjoyable, despite our differences.

"I'd guess that you're... In your twenties?"

"You would be correct, sir." I giggle. "Now, my turn. My guess is that you're in your fifties." I say, scanning him for his reaction.

His face was blank for a moment before finally speaking. "My god, Y/N, you are so accurate! Do I look old?" He asks.

"Not exactly." I chuckle. "But you don't look twenty either."

Toto sighs. "Fair enough. I'm not senile, though."

"Touché." I say, as we sit in comfortable silence.

I'm almost dozing off when I'm awakened by Toto's loud ring tone. "Sorry for waking you up..." He mutters as he answers.

"I wasn't... Asleep." I say as I heard a voice on the phone which didn't sound too happy, and I started wondering if his wife was angry with him for taking me out for dinner. "I'm not having this conversation now, Susie." He says, surprisingly calmly, before switching to German. As the call ended, which felt like an eternity later, the air felt tense, and Toto looked as if he was ready to snap.

"I-I'm sorry if I got you in trouble." I finally break the silence. I'm ready to break down crying, fearing that I had ruined a perfectly good relationship.

"What? No, no Y/N! You haven't done anything wrong." He says as he grabs my hand reassuringly. "That was my soon-to-be ex-wife, Susie." He spat the last part out.

"You're married?!" I panic.

"Was." He clarifies, holding his finger up. "Trust me, Susie and I are not on good terms." Toto says, tearing his eyes from the road to scan me for any uncertainty.

Our gazes meet for what feels like forever, and he gives me a reassuring smile. What I felt at that moment cannot be described with words. Was I already falling for this man?

"We're here." He interrupts my racing thoughts. I audibly gasp as we turn onto a road to a vineyard and as I watch the rows of plantations., Toto turns to me, smiling to himself. "Never been to a vineyard before?" He asks as I take in the beauty of the endless hills and plantations.

"Never." I say in awe. "It's beautiful out here..."

"I'm glad you like it." Toto says as he parks the car and helps me out. As we make our way towards the building on the hill, which Toto told me was the restaurant, I can't help wondering what exactly brought me here. I had a feeling that I'd have to thank Vanessa at the end of the night.

"Are you okay?" Toto asks while we slowly walk towards our destination, and I quickly nod as an answer, giving him a wide smile.

"Good. I hope you like Italian food." He chuckles.

"I love Italian food actually, it's my favourite cuisine." I admit.

The restaurant was almost empty as we walked in, and we were escorted to a small booth where we could sit alone. "Order whatever you want; it's on me." Toto says as he studies the menu.

As soon as I heard that, my eyes spring up to the man sat beside me. "You don't have to do that, Toto... I can pay for myself."

Toto doesn't look at me when he continues, "Shush, Y/N, I was the one inviting you out for dinner. I will be the one paying." He says, as he calls the waiter over.

"A mushroom risotto for me please... And for the lady?" Their heads turn and all of a sudden, the attention was on me.

"Umm..." I'm left panicking, unable to read, or breathe for that matter. "I-I'll have the same thing." I announce, making the waiter nod and walk off.

As the day turns to night, Toto and I keep talking, getting to know each other.

"And so, that's how I became team principal." Toto finishes off his story.

"Wow, you've seen a lot through the years." I smile to myself while sipping on the red wine Toto had insisted he'd get for me. The price tag, I feared, was juicy.

"Here you go, two mushroom risottos." The waiter announced as he carried the two plates our way.

"Thank you!" We said at the same time.

I could feel myself getting tipsy and more relaxed as the evening progressed and Toto for sure noticed. The fact that I was enjoying my time made him relax too, making our conversation more easy-going. I have to admit, I was really enjoying myself.

"Are you ready to leave? I'm sure Vanessa will alert the authorities if I keep you for much longer." Toto looks down at his clock and sighs. "We've been here for a little over 3 hours."

"Sure thing." I say as we get up. As he had already promised, he paid the bill, much to my dismay.

On our way down the hill, we walk a little closer than we did before, close enough to touch hands, close enough to feel the heat radiating of each others bodies.

"I've had the best evening." Toto starts, "I haven't had this fun in a long time."

"I feel the same way." I smile up at him, and stop in my tracks, taking the grace of him in. He turns around, surely wondering why I stopped.

At that moment, I have no idea what got into me, but I clap his arm, and run towards his car. "You're it!" I yell.

I run down the hill playfully, with Toto in close tow, as I snort with laughter. When he gets close enough, he lifts me up and slows down, carrying me on his shoulder all the way to his car.

"Toto! Let me down!" I protest.

"You little riot!" He laughs as he walks up to the car, while letting me down carefully. "Now, back to the hotel? We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"Yes, please." I reply, smiling up at him, earning a smile back from him as he helps me into the car.

The journey back to the hotel was blissfully silent, and it felt as if no words were required, as if everything was said in our minds.

"And we're here." Toto says as he approaches our hotel and stops at the entrance. "Let me take you back to your room." He says as he guides me to the lifts.

"I will find my way back to my room, Toto." I try to protest, not wanting to be an inconvenience to him.

"I'm sure you will, Y/N, but I want to make sure." He says as we enter the lift. As the doors close, Toto approaches. He was terrifying in this close proximity, and I automatically tense up.

"Shhh..." Toto shushes me. "No need to be scared, Y/N."

I won't lie, his words didn't exactly calm me down, but on the contrary, his closeness made me feel safe, and I didn't have the strength to move away. Something about him just reeled me in, fast, and I bet Toto noticed how my breathing became faster.

Faster than I would've preferred, the elevator stopped and we step out. "I enjoy your company, we should do this again." Toto admits as we slowly walk along the corridor. "I agree, Toto. I really enjoyed this, just let me know when you want to do it again."

"How am I going to do that if I don't have your number?" He asks.

"Smooth, Mr. Wolff." I say, earning a shrug from him, as I dig through my bag for a pen. "Here!" I hold the ballpoint pen up in the air like a prized possession as Toto giggles at my antics. "Hand, please." I ask, and Toto willingly offers me his hand. With a certain level of clumsiness, I manage to write my number in his hand.

"This is it, 303, my room." I announce. The silence that follows is awkward, and none of us seem to know what to say.

"I..." I start. "I've had a good time tonight." I say as I smile up at him.

"Likewise." Toto says while taking my hand and giving it a light squeeze. "See you soon, sunshine." He nods at me as I close the door behind me, letting out a heavy sigh, finally getting to relax.

"Hello, sunshine." Vanessa announces as I close the door.

"Vanessa? What the fuck-"

"You've been gone for hours, now tell me everything. How did it go?"

"Okay, you won't believe it..." I say, and as the night progressed, Vanessa questioned me about our dinner, and I readily provided every detail. Vanessa probably had no idea her boss had such a tender side, and I considered myself fortunate to have witnessed it myself.

We both fell asleep, worn out and exhausted. As I stare up at the roof, Vanessa is already snoring beside me, and I can't help but wonder what Toto is doing at this exact time. Was he thinking about me, or was he looking for his next fling? One never knows, but I fell asleep pleased and content, with one question in mind: when will he contact me again?

[totcam]

Made some designs for prints that hopefully will get here before I drive to Melbourne for the market next week 🍀

[reimenaashelyee]

Since folks asked, I am doing another session of my Comics Layout course - for the non-US timezones!

For 2 hours each week I'll build your thinking and creative strategy for making page designs COOL AND POPPING. Some of the details are still the same:

It's online only

Some basic drawing skill required (just know how to draw a comic); it's not a drawing course though; it's a critical thinking one.

Price includes weekly 2 hour workshop AND 1 hour tutorial

Classes run from April 27 to June 1. This constitutes a 5 weeks course with a 1 week break on May 25. (6 weeks total)

Sign up before April 24! (Link)

Times are listed in the sign-up page, but for reference:

Auckland: 10pm - midnight

Melbourne: 8pm - 10pm

Kuala Lumpur: 5pm - 7pm

London: 9am - 11am

US time: 5am-7am EST NOTE!!!! The hours I've written here are not fully accurate as they might shift slightly due to daylight savings (and I'm bad at calculating the difference between daylight saving hours). I will update to the correct hours after Australia completes its daylight savings on April 7. For now,  use the Kuala Lumpur time to calculate the time difference from where you are.

[umseb]

The Day Sebastian Vettel Decided To Retire From F1 — Then Annoyed Aston Bosses With Climate Campaign

Two years ago, Sebastian Vettel decided to bring an end to his glittering F1 career, so picked up the phone to Matt Bishop, then Aston Martin comms boss. He details the ensuing scramble and Vettel's increasing determination to speak out

Just over two years ago, on Wednesday July 27, 2022, I was forced to do something that I really hate doing: at the eleventh hour I had to cancel a long-standing dinner arrangement with my husband and two of our dearest friends, who live in New York and were on holiday in London for a week. The reason was that, at 5 pm that afternoon, I received a phone call from Sebastian Vettel telling me that he had decided to announce his retirement from Formula 1 in the Hungarian Grand Prix paddock the following day. I was Aston Martin's chief communications officer at the time, and, when something as big as that is sprung on a Formula 1 team's most senior comms/PR operative, he or she has to drop everything and focus on briefing colleagues in confidence, writing press releases, planning social media content, arranging press conferences, and formulating comms/PR strategies designed to optimise the management of a tricky news narrative that in this case would surely unfold rapidly, and perhaps also trickily, over the next 24, 48, 72, and 96 hours. I have written above that Vettel had "sprung" his decision on me, but, although the imminence of his announcement was a surprise, its content was not. Four months earlier you will recall that he did not travel to Jeddah for the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix, since he was recovering from a bout of Covid-19. His place was taken by Nico Hülkenberg, who, despite race-rustiness caused by his not having competed in F1 the previous year, did a typically excellent job.

Seb had made no secret of his disapproval of the Saudi regime when we had all gone there the first time, in December 2021, and, not surprisingly, in March 2022 rumours soon began to spread to the effect that he had invented a Covid-19 diagnosis so as to avoid racing there a second time. The truth was that he had indeed had Covid-19, and that he was indeed still unwell; however, was he disappointed to have had to skip the 2022 Saudi Arabian Grand Prix? No, he was not. Two weeks later, in Melbourne, he was back. On the Thursday before the Australian Grand Prix, in the Albert Park paddock, I gave him his comms/PR briefing, as was my habit on the Thursday before every grand prix. We discussed media matters of moment, including his not having raced in Jeddah. "The truth is that I was ill, honestly," he said, "but I admit that I don't like or approve of the country, so if I was going to have to miss a race because of Covid-19 that's probably the one I'd want to miss." He paused, smiled, and added, "I'm pretty sure I'm never going to race there again." Then and there I realised that 2022 would probably be his final season as an F1 driver. Not only was the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix going to be a fixture on the F1 calendar for years to come, but also one of Aston Martin's principal sponsors was Aramco, Saudi Arabia's state-owned national oil company. Missing that particular race without a 24-carat excuse would henceforth therefore be impossible for any Aston Martin driver. So, axiomatically, it followed that the only way he could make sure that he would never have to race there again would be to retire from F1 at the end of the year.

On the morning of Thursday, July 28, 2022, having worked until 3 am the night before, my comms/PR team and I issued a video in which our much loved four-time world champion announced his F1 retirement in his own words, and he posted it on his then brand-new Instagram channel at the same time. It included the following sentences, which he spoke with his usual eloquence: "I love this sport but, as much as there's life on track, there's also life off track. Being a racing driver has never been my sole identity. I want to be a great father and a great husband. I believe in change, and progress, and that every little bit you do can make a difference. We all have the same rights, no matter where we come from, what we look like, or whom we love. I'm an optimist and I believe that people are good, but, in addition, I feel that we live in very difficult times. How we shape the next few years will determine the rest of our lives. Talk is not enough. We can't afford to wait. I believe that there's still a race to win." The race to which he was referring was his growing and accelerating commitment to doing whatever he could to leverage his fame and popularity for the good of the inhabitants of planet Earth. That may sound grandiose, but it is also entirely valid. In the two years during which I worked with him, 2021 and 2022, we won awards for the inspirational way in which he did just that.

Just before the 2021 Styrian Grand Prix, helped by local schoolchildren, he created an F1 car-shaped 'bee hotel' at the Red Bull Ring. Three weeks later, straight after the British Grand Prix, in which he had raced hard for forty laps until his Aston Martin's Mercedes engine had terminally overheated, he led a group of volunteer litter-pickers to clear the Silverstone grandstands of the trash that irresponsible spectators had left behind. A month after that, in Hungary, infuriated by that country's new anti-LGBTQ+ legislation, he wore rainbow-coloured sneakers in the F1 paddock, and he donned a similarly hued T-shirt bearing the legend #SameLove as he took the knee on the grid before the race. Throughout the weekend he had talked to journalists and TV crews intelligently, thoughtfully, and compassionately on the subject of LGBTQ+ rights, equality, and inclusion. In May 2022 he visited and spoke inspirationally at HMP (Her, or now His, Majesty's Prison) Feltham, a young offenders institution in a suburb of west London, formally opening a new workshop in which the teenage inmates could learn how to become car mechanics as part of their rehabilitation. Immediately afterwards he and I took a South Western Railways train to London's Waterloo Station, sitting among regular commuters, so that he could spend time with the pupils of Oasis Johanna Primary School, which is in a disadvantaged part of inner London, and after that we went by Uber taxi to a church in Hackney, in the East End, where the BBC's prestigious political television talk show Question Time would be filmed. As the TV cameras rolled, he conversed fluently on the subjects of Brexit, the UK's cost of living crisis, the then-Prime Minister Boris Johnson's 'partygate' shenanigans, and even Finland's desire to join NATO, consummately out-arguing one of his fellow panellists, Suella Braverman, who was then the Attorney General for England and Wales and the Advocate General for Northern Ireland.

In addition, as the months went by, he continued to speak out in support of what he saw as humankind's collective global responsibility to address the climate crisis, doing so with increasing regularity, vehemence, and fearlessness, with the result that he began to irritate the very most senior people at Aston Martin, even though what he said tended to please most journalists and fans. "I don’t care," he said when he learned of his big bosses' disquiet. "I must do what's right." Behind the scenes what he did was perhaps even more admirable. F1 teams receive communications from troubled people all the time. You try to do what you can to help them, but sometimes their difficulties are of the type that human kindness alone cannot resolve. I am thinking of recently bereaved people, terminally ill people, profoundly disabled people, people with debilitating mental health issues, etc. Sometimes all you can do is send them a team cap signed by a driver. It is not much, and it breaks your heart that you cannot do more, but it is better than nothing.

Yet Vettel always tried to do more. On one occasion, I had been contacted by a young man who was deeply depressed. I told Seb about him, and he said, "Let's do a Zoom call with him." So I arranged it. I had thought that Seb might speak for five minutes or so, but no. He chatted animatedly for more than twenty minutes, with touching humility and heart-warming empathy, and I feel confident when I say that those twenty-odd minutes were significant in expediting the lad's mental and emotional recovery. A few months later, Seb hand-wrote the boy a four page letter. He gave it to me at a grand prix-I cannot remember which one-and he instructed me to post it on when I returned to the UK. I read it before I did so, and the tenderness and beauty of Seb's prose brought me to tears. There are many other examples of his remarkable generosity and sensitivity: too many to mention, in fact. This column has been about Vettel the man, not Vettel the driver. He was fast and clever in the cockpit, and I may well write about that side of him one day. I could write much more about Vettel the man, too, for I have dozens of stories that I could tell on that subject, because I worked very closely with him for two years and, more importantly, because he is a truly great man. In my long career I am lucky enough to have spent time in F1 teams with four world champions-Seb, Lewis Hamilton, Fernando Alonso, and Jenson Button-and they are all fantastic guys in their own, very different, ways. But, in my 61 years on this planet, I can state with confident and emphatic certainty that Sebastian Vettel, from the small town of Heppenheim, south-west Germany, is one of the most impressive people whom I have ever had the pleasure and honour to know, whether that be inside or outside F1. As he is fond of saying, "You can't always be the best, but you can always do your best." As a maxim to live by, it is hard to beat.

article by matt bishop

[dougwallen]

Volker Haug feature for Broadsheet

[happywebdesign]

Mitchell Eaton Image Making

[flawlessassholes]

a tiny lil twia snippet to celebrate the dirlies staying winning 🫶

Daniel wishes he were anywhere but Melbourne this week. Wishes, however, aren’t real. Contracts? Very much are.

So he’s toeing around an event-consuming city hawking his shit while everyone in the city consumed by the event toes around his absence.

Coming home. What a fucking crock of ass shit. 

He’d hop in a Time Machine and stop the designs from being shipped off over summer break if he could. However comma, he doesn’t have one, so he’s stuck jingling around his second-favorite Australian city like a court jester without a court.

Max arrives from Perth on Wednesday with Emily in one hand and their padel rackets in the other. 

To work out the frustration, he says. Daniel has other ideas, but Emily has taken to her terrible twos with a gusto that’s both horrifying and, frankly, awe-inspiring. They don’t get much time to fuck in between figuring out how to parent a newly-evil toddler monster with surprisingly sharp teeth and a love for electrical sockets. 

So: padel. 

He can hear Emily babbling as she toddles around just beyond the court. Léa, their nanny, is being paid a pretty penny to keep close eye on her. He’s pretty sure she’s gnawing on a padel ball, but if that’s what keeps her happy, he’s all for it. 

And, y’know. It’s funny. Despite all ass shit and ever-full crocks, he’s happy. Happier than he could have ever been last year, even, and definitely happier than the year before. They’ve been talking about—maybe, by this time next year, they’ll have news to share about more. He doesn’t know if it’s possible could become even happier, or if his heart could grow around a whole new person, but—he really, really wants to find out. 

All this happiness, however, does distract him, and he fucks up the volley, which leads to Max fucking up his return, and they lose the point, both their arms thrown in the air as they say, “Oh, no!” in unison. Like they’re married or something. 

Just beyond the fencing of the court, Emily throws her pudgy little arms in the air, too. “Oh no!” She echos, then repeats to herself as she starts to spin in a toddling circle. Oh no, oh no, oh no. 

Married, a kid on the way. Melbourne not sucking. It’s a nice thought—one for after this weekend. Max swats his thigh with his racket, his face flushed, chest heaving. “Daniel, you need to focus, or we’re going to definitely lose and it will be on Instagram again. Don’t fuck this set up.” 

And that’s another thought for after—them, in bed, fucking something other than a padel game they’re definitely going to lose. 

He smiles, just to himself, and gets ready for the next serve. 

[focusonarchitecture]

Day 130 — Laneway II

Melbourne’s CBD is well known for its network of laneways and alleys, full of street art and hidden bars and restaurants, but who do we have to thank for these crisscrossing delights?

The Melbourne city grid was designed in 1837 by surveyor, Robert Hoddle. Hoddle designed the grid so that each building sat on a major street but could also be accessed from the rear via another, smaller street or lane.

This was vitally important as the entire city was originally built without a sewerage system. It led to the city being labelled ‘Smellbourne’ by visitors. And it wasn’t just the smell that you had to worry about, the piles of shit everywhere were making people sick with diseases like typhoid and cholera.

The city council employed a team of ‘nightmen’ to collect this waste, or ‘nightsoil’, once a week by traveling up and down the system of alleyways.

Photo: Fitzroy, 2025

Day 123 — Laneway I

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive

By Tom Peters

Late last month the New Zealand government released a 700-page report from the first phase of the Royal Commission of Inquiry into COVID-19, examining the country’s response to the pandemic from 2020 to 2023.

The commission was chaired by Tony Blakely, a University of Melbourne epidemiologist, assisted by John Whitehead, a former New Zealand treasury secretary, and Hekia Parata, a former National Party government minister of education.

These appointees were intended to produce a predetermined conclusion: that any public health measures to stop the spread of COVID and save lives must be “balanced” against the need to protect “the economy.” This is the dominant theme throughout the commission’s report, which is designed to ensure that in any future pandemic the response is subordinated entirely to the profit interests of the corporate and financial elite.

Blakely initially supported stringent lockdowns and border quarantine measures in Australia and New Zealand. Later, after the emergence of the highly-infectious Omicron variant of COVID-19, he minimised the severity of the virus. He advocated a “let it rip” policy, telling Radio NZ in February 2022 that the government was being “too cautious,” and should work faster at dismantling public health measures in order to “let Omicron wash through in a timely manner.”

The commissioners’ report seeks to justify the overall response of the former Labour Party-led government—above all, the decision announced by Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern in October 2021 to end the elimination strategy, which had kept the country almost entirely free from COVID-19 during the first two years of the pandemic.

This was followed by the progressive removal of all restrictions on the spread of the coronavirus and the adoption of a criminal policy of mass infection, which had already killed millions of people worldwide.

In 2022, lockdowns and border quarantine measures were overturned; schools and workplaces fully reopened without social distancing; mask and vaccine mandates were ended, and COVID testing was discouraged in order to keep sick people at work.

In August 2023, the last remaining requirements for people to self-isolate if they had COVID, and to wear masks in healthcare facilities, were scrapped by the Labour government.

These steps—all of which are tacitly or explicitly supported in the Royal Commission’s report—produced a public health disaster. Total deaths from COVID-19 sky-rocketed from around 30 in late 2021, to over 4,500 to date, with more people dying every week. More than 44,200 people have been hospitalised for COVID-19, placing an enormous burden on the healthcare system.

The Royal Commission noted the “clear and consistent pattern of higher hospitalisation rates for people living in higher deprivation areas” and greater fatalities among Māori and Pacific people, who are largely among the poorest. Hospitals in working class areas were frequently overwhelmed with COVID cases, a crisis exacerbated by the running down of public healthcare under successive governments.

Despite this, the report complacently states that the surge in deaths in 2022 was “not the best scenario we might have hoped for [but it] was a pretty good one,” because the initial elimination strategy and vaccination meant that there was “a much lesser cumulative mortality burden than we would have experienced had we allowed the virus in during 2020.”

In fact, while vaccination reduced the risk of severe illness it did not stop mass infection, illness and large numbers of deaths from the highly-infectious Omicron and subsequent variants of COVID-19. During July 2022, as the WSWS reported, New Zealand’s weekly rate of deaths from COVID was among the highest in the world. COVID remains the country’s deadliest infectious disease.

The Royal Commission highlighted the initial success of the elimination strategy, noting that from 2020 to early 2023, New Zealand “experienced ‘negative’ excess mortality, meaning there were fewer deaths in that time period than what would have been expected during a ‘normal’ year.”

The border quarantine measures and the closure of schools and businesses in March-April 2020 succeeded in stopping circulation of the virus, allowing daily life to proceed in a relatively normal way. As well as stamping out COVID-19, these measures eliminated influenza and RSV for approximately two years, a significant achievement that contributed to a fall in the country’s mortality rate.

The commissioners then justify the ending of the “zero COVID” policy by arguing that the lockdowns were no longer working. The report echoes the Labour government’s position that the “social licence” for such measures, especially support among business leaders, was eroding. In deciding to ease and then completely end a lockdown in Auckland in late 2021, while the Delta variant of the virus was still spreading, the report says, “Cabinet had to balance many different outcomes and impacts—health, social and economic—as well as equity considerations.”

The commissioners describe the decision as a “judgement call” and even suggest that the lockdown could have been ended sooner—as was done with the lifting of similar restrictions in the Australian states of Victoria and New South Wales. They also make the unsubstantiated claim that the Omicron variant that became dominant in 2022 was “probably impossible to manage with an elimination strategy.” In fact, China was able to suppress Omicron outbreaks, including in Shanghai.

Ardern’s announcement on October 4, 2021, that the government would move away from an elimination strategy was the outcome of a concerted pressure campaign by big business, both in New Zealand and internationally. It was immediately applauded by the New York Times and other mouthpieces for the financial elite, which insisted that the world had to “learn to live with” mass COVID infection.

The decision was made without consulting the government’s own public health experts, who warned against ending the Auckland lockdown and called for it to be strengthened to stamp out the virus.

The current Labour Party leader, Chris Hipkins, who served as COVID-19 response minister during the transition to the “let it rip” policy, responded to the Royal Commission’s report by stating: “I think we lost the room in Auckland… people stopped following some of the lockdown restrictions.” The lockdown lasted from August to early December 2021 but it was undermined, not by public non-compliance, but by the government’s decisions to ease restrictions.

Hipkins blamed Labour’s crushing election defeat in October 2023 on the supposed unpopularity of lockdowns. In fact, a New Zealand Herald poll published on September 2, 2021 found that 85 percent of respondents supported the elimination strategy, including 87 percent of people in Auckland. Only 13 percent said the country should “live with” COVID-19.

Labour won the 2020 election, with more than 50 percent of the votes, largely because of public support for the elimination strategy. Its support dropped precipitously in 2022, as thousands of people became sick and died from COVID-19, and amid escalating social inequality, poverty and homelessness.

Hipkins also told the media he accepted the Royal Commission’s finding that border restrictions should have been lifted sooner and that vaccine mandates, in Hipkins’ words, “went too far.” He pointed to anti-vaccination and anti-lockdown protests—including the occupation of parliament’s lawn in early 2022—as evidence that such measures became unpopular. In fact, the protests were supported by a small minority and organised by far-right groups such as Voices For Freedom and Destiny Church.

Members of the current National Party-led coalition government have attacked the Royal Commission report for failing to openly repudiate public health principles. The far-right NZ First and ACT Parties, which play a major role in the government, repeatedly minimised COVID and attacked lockdowns and vaccine mandates during last year’s election campaign.

NZ First leader Winston Peters, the deputy prime minister, who courted anti-vaccination groups during the election, said in June that the Royal Commission was “nothing more than a Labour Party political tool.” On NZ First’s insistence, a second phase of the inquiry will be held next year to investigate “vaccine efficacy and safety” and “the imposition and maintenance of lockdowns” especially in 2021. The aim is to further undermine and discredit these life-saving measures.

Meanwhile, the government is systematically attacking the public health system, including through the destruction of thousands of jobs, even as COVID-19 continues to spread and scientists are warning that bird flu threatens to become another pandemic.

This is part of an international process: the ruling class throughout the world is attacking science and dismantling public healthcare, which is seen as an unacceptable drain on the wealth of the billionaires who run society. Hundreds of billions of dollars must also be slashed from healthcare and other social programs to pay for imperialist wars against Russia, Iran and China.

Most notably, US president-elect Donald Trump has named anti-vaccination conspiracy theorist Robert F. Kennedy Junior to run the Department of Health and Human Services, and proponent of mass COVID infection Jay Bhattacharya as director of the National Institutes of Health. This is the equivalent of putting arsonists in charge of the fire department.

The scientific knowledge and resources exist that could eliminate COVID-19 and other preventable diseases, which are now resurging throughout the world. If the elimination strategy initially adopted in New Zealand and China had been implemented on a global scale, the COVID pandemic could have been ended within a matter of months.

Such an undertaking, however, is incompatible with the capitalist system, in which all of society’s resources are subordinated to the dictates of the financial elite and its insatiable drive for profits. The only way to put an end to the pandemic and prevent an even more catastrophic outbreak in future, is through the mobilisation of the international working class in the fight for the socialist reorganisation of society.

[businesscatfelix]

furry meshi button badge designs ^__^

bringing these to melbourne furry maker's market in two weeks!