#series -> only exception

[norrisradio]

ONLY EXCEPTION

♡ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ♡ WC: 3.0K ♡ GENRE: tooth-aching fluff♡ INCOMING RADIO: OSCAR PIASTRI MAIDEN POLE TO THIRD WIN YOU ARE MY GOAT!!!!!!!! THE PERFECT WEEKEND, A PERFECT DRIVER! ♡ RECOMMENDED LISTENING: only exception, paramore ● you are in love, taylor swift ● tsunami, niki ● lover, taylor swift ● fallingforyou, the 1975 ● slow dancing in a burning room, john mayer Read my co-driver's (@tsunodaradio) companion fic HERE <3

♡ SUMMARY: Oscar likes following the rules. But all rules have an exception.

Oscar Piastri doesn’t wear jewelry. Never has, never will. It’s a rule, unwritten but absolute, like the geometry of a perfect racing line, like the way his hands find the wheel before anything else. Rings, bracelets, watches—he’s never liked the feeling of something clinging to him, something that isn’t his fireproofs or the familiar weight of a steering wheel in his hands. Metal is for the car, not for him.  

But tonight, in a hotel room in Baku still thick with the scent of champagne and victory, he watches a thin silver ring glint between your fingers, and suddenly, he isn’t so sure.  

"You got this where?" His voice is edged with amusement, but his eyes don’t leave the ring.  

"Some shop in an alley in the Old City," you say, grinning. "Bit sketchy, but I think it suits you."  

It doesn’t, not really. The silver is slightly tarnished, the engraving uneven, a whisper of a pattern he can’t quite decipher in the low light. It’s not the kind of thing a man like him wears—not polished, not pristine. And yet, when you hold it out to him, something tugs at his ribs, an instinct deeper than logic.  

"You won," you remind him, quieter now. "Thought you deserved something to remember it by."  

As if he could forget. As if the day’s triumph wasn’t still humming through his bones, a quiet, electric thing. He should laugh it off, tell you it’s too much, too sentimental. Instead, he picks it up carefully, rolling it between his fingers. The metal is cool, lighter than he expected.  

He tries it on for you, because he knows you’re waiting for it—knows it’ll make you smile. It slips over his knuckle easily enough, but when he flexes his fingers, it spins too loosely, like it doesn’t quite belong.  

"Too big," he murmurs. A strange relief unfurls in his chest, something he doesn’t examine too closely.  

You watch him, eyes unreadable, and then, without a word, you pull at the thin chain around your neck. The one he’s seen you wear a thousand times, barely there against your skin. You unclasp it, thread the ring onto it, and press it into his palm.  

"Problem solved," you say, simple as anything.  

Oscar stares.  

The chain pools like liquid silver in his hand, the ring now nestled in its center. His first instinct is to refuse—he doesn’t do things like this. He doesn’t wear reminders of things, doesn’t hold onto symbols when the feeling itself is already enough.  

And yet.  

The clasp is small, fiddly between his fingers, but he gets it, slipping the chain over his head, letting it settle against his collarbones. The weight is barely there, but he feels it all the same. He catches your expression—soft, almost knowing—and something inside him tightens.  

"You’re ridiculous," he says, voice lighter than he means it to be.  

"You like it," you counter, the corner of your mouth twitching.  

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. The ring is warm now, pressed against his skin, right over his heart.

Oscar doesn’t like public displays of affection. Cameras, prying eyes, the weight of expectation—he’s always been careful. Calculated. A hand stayed firmly by his side, a step measured just so, never giving more than necessary. Affection, in his world, is something to be rationed, held close, not paraded for the world to see.  

But then there’s you.  

You, tugging him close with a laugh, fingers curling around the fabric of his race suit like you have every right to hold him there. You, leaning in without a second thought, pressing a fleeting kiss to his cheek when you think no one’s looking. The touch barely lingers, a whisper of warmth against his skin, but it stays with him longer than it should.  

At first, his body resists, muscles tensing out of habit. A lifetime of discipline, of knowing exactly when and where to let himself feel, doesn’t just fade overnight. But then he catches the way you glance up at him after, like you’re testing the waters, waiting for his reaction. Your eyes, bright and teasing, searching for the line he’ll draw between what is allowed and what isn’t.  

And maybe, just maybe, he leans into it.  

Not much. Just a fraction of a second longer when your lips brush his skin, the way his hand lingers at the small of your back in a crowd. The way his fingers twitch at his side before finally—hesitantly—finding yours. It’s subtle, barely there, but he knows you notice. Knows it in the way your grip tightens, in the way your body slots just a little closer to his like it was always meant to be there.  

The cameras still flash. People still look. He still tells himself he’s careful. But later, much later, when the noise has faded and it’s just the two of you in the quiet of his hotel room, your head resting against his shoulder, he breathes you in and wonders why he ever thought love was something to keep hidden.  

Because here, in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, with the ring on its chain warm against his chest and your fingers tracing absent-minded patterns along his forearm, it feels so easy. Natural. Like maybe, after all this time, he’s allowed to have something for himself.

Oscar doesn’t dance. His body is made for precision, for the sharp control of a steering wheel, for knowing exactly when to push and when to hold back. Dancing—real dancing, the kind that isn’t just nodding along at a team party—is messy. Unpracticed. A loss of control he’s never been entirely comfortable with.

But then there’s you.

You, standing in the kitchen, with the fridge still open behind you, its soft light spilling across the tile. One sock on, one sock missing, your phone’s speaker crackling out a half-forgotten song that sounds like it’s from another time, another place. You, with that grin—bright and teasing—already reaching for him, your fingers curling around his wrist like you’ve already decided.

At first, he resists, just for a moment, because that’s what he does. It’s instinct, a reflex to keep everything in its place, to maintain a sense of control. But you don’t let go. You tug, and your smile is too wide, too persistent, and suddenly, his socked feet are sliding across the cold kitchen tile, the sound of his hesitation lost beneath the crackling beat from your phone.

"Come on," you say, already swaying. "Just one song."

It isn’t a song meant for dancing. The rhythm is too slow, the melody fraying at the edges, but none of that seems to matter to you. You step in closer, fitting yourself against him with easy warmth, guiding him side to side like you’ve already decided he’ll follow. And—God help him—he does.

At first, he moves like he’s thinking too much, like his body is trying to find the right sequence, the right formula for something that was never meant to be calculated. But then you twirl under his arm, laughing when you almost misstep, and something in his chest pulls loose.

He lets himself laugh when you trip over his foot. Lets himself steady you by the waist, thumbs pressing against soft fabric. Lets himself breathe you in, warm and close and here.

The song shifts, bleeding into another, and you don’t stop moving. Neither does he. He tells himself he’s just humoring you, just giving you this moment, but then your hand finds the nape of his neck, your fingers threading lazily through his hair, and—

Maybe, just maybe, he holds you a little closer.

Oscar doesn’t keep souvenirs.

Never has. He doesn’t see the point. His life moves too quickly, each city blurring into the next, each hotel room as impersonal as the one before. What use does he have for things that only serve as reminders of places he’s already left behind? He’s never understood people who collect scraps of the past—ticket stubs, postcards, little trinkets that gather dust in bedside drawers.

If something matters, he reasons, it should stay in your head. You shouldn’t need an object to prove it was real.

But then there’s a ring around his neck.

It started as a joke. A cheap little thing you picked up in the back-alleys of Baku, pressed into his palm with a grin. For your first win here, you’d said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. And maybe it was, the way you said it—like he was always going to win, like you had no doubt. He remembers how it felt when you watched him slide it on, laughing when you realized it was just a touch too big. He could’ve left it in his hotel room, could’ve let it sit on his nightstand and forgotten it there.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he let you loop it onto a chain (your chain), let the cool metal settle against his collarbone. Told himself it was practical—rings can fall off, after all—but that didn’t explain the way his fingers found it absentmindedly, rolling it between his fingertips when he was thinking of you.

Then there’s the polaroid.

The edges are soft now, frayed at the corners from being handled too many times. He doesn’t remember when exactly it was taken—only that Lando had slipped it to him with that sly, knowing smile a few nights after you’d gone home. He’s seen it enough times to know every detail: you, on his lap, laughing with the kind of brightness that makes everything feel lighter, and him, arms looped around your waist, looking at you like you hung the moon in the sky.

He catches glimpses of it whenever he opens his wallet. A flash of you, so full of life, the image almost too real for a photo, like he could reach out and hear your laughter again, feel the warmth of your presence just beyond the edges of the frame. He should take it out—he tells himself this every time he sees it. It’s just a photo, just a slip of paper, already starting to fade with time. But then he thinks about what it would feel like to throw it away, and somehow, inexplicably, that feels worse.

So he leaves it there, pressed between the folds of the leather, a small piece of you he keeps close.

And then there’s the hoodie.

It isn’t his. The sleeves are too long, the fabric too soft, smelling faintly of you—of home. He doesn’t know how it ended up in his suitcase. Maybe you left it there by accident, or maybe you knew, in that way you always seem to, that there would be nights when he’d need it. He tells himself he’ll give it back the next time he sees you, but then it’s the middle of the night in some hotel halfway across the world, and the air conditioning is too cold, and he’s pulling it over his head before he can even think about it.

So, no. Oscar doesn’t keep souvenirs.

But then there’s you, slipping into his life in ways he never saw coming. In rings and photographs and sweaters that smell like home. In moments he can hold onto, in pieces of you he carries with him without even realizing.

And suddenly—maybe he does.

Oscar doesn’t do gifts.

He never has. He doesn’t see the point. Things are just things—objects with no real weight beyond what people choose to give them. He’s never been the type to care about unwrapping presents or fussing over sentimental trinkets. He’d rather give you his time, his presence, the weight of his hand in yours. A quiet dinner over some half-forgotten movie, a lazy afternoon drive with no real destination, the simple certainty of being there. That, to him, has always meant more than anything that could be bought or wrapped in a ribbon.

But then there’s you.

You, with your eyes bright with mischief, pressing a poorly wrapped box into his hands like it’s the easiest thing in the world. The paper is creased at the edges, tape barely holding it together, and you’re grinning like you already know he’s going to protest.

"I don’t need—" he starts, but you cut him off with a look, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

"Just open it, Piastri."

And because it’s you, because he can never quite find it in himself to say no, he does.

The gift is small, unassuming. Nothing extravagant, nothing flashy. Maybe it’s a keychain from a city you visited without him, something to keep in his pocket when you’re apart. Maybe it’s a notebook filled with little notes, inside jokes scribbled in the margins, your handwriting familiar and warm. Maybe it’s a shirt you swear would look good on him, one you know he’d never buy for himself.

It’s simple. Thoughtful. Undeniably you.

And maybe, against all logic, he feels something lodge itself in his chest—something warm, something soft, something dangerously close to forever.

He’s never been good at receiving things. Compliments, gifts, affection—he’s always been wary of taking too much, of letting himself rely on things he can’t control. But when he looks up at you, waiting expectantly, he realizes that this isn’t about the gift itself. It’s about the way you give it, the way you always give—without hesitation, without expecting anything in return.

So maybe, for the first time, he doesn’t argue.

Maybe he just shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips, and mutters, "You’re impossible," even as he tucks the gift away somewhere safe.

And suddenly, gifts aren’t just things.

They’re memories. A tangible piece of you, something to hold onto when you’re miles apart. A reminder that someone, somewhere, is always thinking of him.

Now, Oscar finds himself standing in an airport souvenir shop, staring at the rows of tacky trinkets that all look the same. 

It’s early morning, the kind of grey light that seeps through terminal windows, and Oscar’s tired from the flight, his mind already on the next race. But something about the soft hum of the airport, the chaotic lull of travelers rushing by, makes him pause. He catches sight of a little shop in the corner, tucked between a coffee stand and a news kiosk, and for reasons he doesn’t quite understand, he steps inside.

The shelves are cluttered with the usual assortment of useless things—fridge magnets, postcards, poorly made scarves in neon colors. But then, nestled in the corner, he spots something that pulls at him.

It’s a small, delicate necklace, the pendant a faded shade of turquoise, shaped like a star. Nothing special in the grand scheme of things, but something about it catches the light in a way that makes it glow.

He knows it’s not your usual taste, not the kind of jewelry you’d ever ask for. But he also knows you—knows how your eyes light up when you see something small and beautiful, how you always see things that others might overlook. And somehow, despite himself, he reaches for it.

He buys it without hesitation, not because it’s expensive or because it’s some grand gesture. But because he knows that when you see it, when your fingers graze the smooth surface of the pendant, you’ll smile. He’ll see it in the curve of your lips, in the light in your eyes, and he’ll know that, for just a moment, he’s given you something that makes your world a little brighter.

When he hands it to you a few weeks later, your reaction is everything he expected. Your hands flutter to your chest, your eyes wide with surprise and something softer, something warm. And for once, it’s not the gift itself that matters, but the simple fact that he thought of you, in the middle of a busy airport, surrounded by a thousand distractions.

Oscar doesn’t do gifts.

But maybe, for you, he does.

Oscar doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.

He’s learned, over the years, that words can be fragile things. Promises—those quiet, heavy assurances that hang between people—are often broken, twisted, or misunderstood. He’s been careful, always careful, not to say what he can’t follow through on. In his world, where nothing is ever certain and everything is fleeting, he’s made it a habit to remain grounded, to offer only what he’s certain he can give.

But then there’s you.

You, with your voice low and sleepy, the sound of it curling around the edges of the quiet room, the kind of voice that feels like comfort and calm all at once.

"You’ll always come back to me, right?"

It’s a soft question, one that you barely say out loud, as if the weight of it is more than you’re willing to admit. Your face is pressed into the pillow, your eyes closed in that delicate, half-dreaming state. There’s a vulnerability in your tone that makes his chest tighten, a crack in the armor he’s built around himself.

And before he can stop it, his lips find yours. A lazy, soft press that speaks of something far more permanent than he’s ever said aloud. Your lips are warm, gentle, and for a moment, time feels like it slows. He can taste you—something sweet, something real—and, somewhere in the quiet space between breaths, he’s pretty sure he tastes forever against your smile.

"Always," he whispers, the word slipping effortlessly from him.

It’s simple, easy, almost too easy. But it feels real in a way that’s new, something deeper than the usual assurances he’s offered, the ones that come with a hesitation in his voice, the ones that come with the understanding that promises are temporary things. This one, though—it’s a certainty that settles into his bones, a truth he knows he will carry with him.

And maybe, for the first time, he believes it.

Maybe, for the first time, he can give something that feels as unshakable as the way you trust him, the way you lean into him without hesitation. Because in your eyes, there’s no doubt—just faith, just the unspoken certainty that he will always be there, always find his way back to you, no matter where the road takes him.

And in that quiet, half-lit space between wakefulness and sleep, he knows something has shifted.

Oscar doesn’t make promises lightly. 

But this one—this one he gives you without fear, without reservation, because somehow, in the silence of your room and in the rhythm of your breaths, he knows it’s the truest thing he can say.

[naturecalls111]

[gemgdynamight0]

Idc what anyone says but Katsuki had the BEST and most interesting mentor-student relationships in the entire series. The set up and the developments are just perfect.

[ethosnap]

The perception of Etho as someone loyal in the life series is really funny considering his track record of forming like five different secret alliances and eventually being torn to shreds between them. Yeah he's loyal. Loyal to everyone. And you can't count on him to prioritize you, but he'll do his best. That's why he always ends up taking on a defensive stance, because passively betraying someone by refusing to assist them/weaponized incompetence is Less damning than Actively hunting down someone you've pledged your loyalty to

[front-facing-pokemon]

[arolloyd]

Ykw scratch that tlnm and the Lego movie DOES take place in the same universe after all... I feel like most ppl don't really talk about this too much because tlnm is usually associated w Ninjago rather than the lego movieverse

[veinsfullofstars]

💙 MetaDede Week 2024 Day 1: Sworn Partners (Free Day) 💜

(ID: Kirby series fanart, four-panel comic, of Meta Knight being exhausted and King Dedede offering a solution. Transcript in Alt Text. END ID.)

Partially inspired by this post by @das-a-kirby-blog.

Next Day | Prompt List (made by @mtddweek)

Started 07/31/24, finished 08/05/24.

[yo-yo-yoshiko]

I wanna laugh and say the Ghost/ExAid movie was the most un-serious thing i've ever seen but it was actually so stressful. Nice job writers!!

Putting this one under the cut cause I gave up on it lol:

[yukipri]

The FANCIEST blu-ray box set I've ever seen...

The Middle-Earth Ultimate Collector's Edition Blu-Ray: Complete LOTR + Hobbit Trilogies, Extended Editions + all Appendices. Each movie has its own "book" that holds its discs, which are all stored in a special bookcase. There's also two beautiful art cards with art by Alan Lee and John Howe, and a completely filled red book that has all the ending character portraits from the movies and more.

This is a set from 2019, so there are higher resolution movie types/sets with different media that have been released since, but I can't top the presentation of this. I feel really lucky that I was able to find a reasonably priced second-hand set!

[the-crooked-library]

season 2 ep 7 of severance is like. what if the first 5 minutes of Up were an hour long and the pain compounded exponentially with every extra five minutes that they lasted

[norrisradio]

BETTER TOGETHER ‪‪

❤︎‬ PAIRING: alex albon x reader | ‪‪❤︎‬ WC: 4.0K ‪‪ ❤︎‬ GENRE: fluff with a little bit of angst (nothing sad I SWEAR)‪‪ ❤︎‬ INCOMING RADIO: buzzer beater for alex's birthday! | a part of my new ONLY EXCEPTION series‪‪ ❤︎‬ RECOMMENDED LISTENING: only exception, paramore ● better together, jack johnson ● home, edward sharpe & the magnetic zeroes ● gravity, john mayer ● peach, kevin abstract

‪‪❤︎‬ SUMMARY: If this is madness—if you are the exception to every rule—then maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t mind it at all.

Alex doesn’t stay up late.

His body is a finely tuned machine, and sleep is the fuel it runs on—eight, nine hours if he’s lucky. Rest, recovery—they’re sacred to him, like the quiet before dawn. But then there’s you, nestled into the corner of the couch, the soft glow from the city lights casting shadows on your face. Your eyes are alight with a thought you can’t quite shake, a question that nags at you with quiet insistence.

“And then I started thinking,” you begin, your voice threaded with that animated energy that always seems to bubble up when you're on the cusp of an epiphany. “What if Federer never picked up a racket? Would he have been great at something else, or was he only ever meant for tennis?”

Alex’s head tilts slightly, a brow quirked, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He can see the wheels turning in your head, the way your fingers absentmindedly twirl a strand of your hair as you wait for him to respond. He loves this—your strange, whimsical questions that don’t need answers, but instead are invitations to explore the edges of whatever thought just ran through your mind.

He knows what he should do. He should remind you that it’s well past midnight, that he has to be up in a few short hours to train. He should tell you that sleep is more important than philosophical musings. But instead, he feels himself leaning into the cushions, his arm stretching lazily along the backrest, already too comfortable to move. He has to admit, he’s captivated by you, by the way you think, how you see the world in a way he’s never quite been able to.

“You think people only have one thing they’re meant for?” he asks, his voice a mix of curiosity and something else—something lazy, something that wants to stay in the moment with you. His fingers absentmindedly tap against the edge of the couch, but he’s not really paying attention to them.

You don’t answer immediately, your lips pressing together in thought. He watches as the shadow of the streetlight outside dances across your face, highlighting the sharpness in your eyes, the way your eyebrows furrow as you deliberate. “I don’t know,” you reply after a moment, eyes finally meeting his, your expression steady and searching. “Do you?”

Alex chuckles, more to himself than anything. He can’t help it. Do you think Federer could’ve been a baker instead of a tennis champion? 

“Maybe,” he murmurs, pretending to consider it with the kind of drama that would make any serious philosopher cringe. “But, like... what if he was meant to bake croissants? Imagine that. Best in the world at croissants.”

You laugh, that sharp, sudden burst of sound that’s contagious enough to make him smile, too. “Now that I’d pay to see.”

The hours slip by unnoticed as the clock ticks past one, past two. He’s sure he’s feeling the pull of exhaustion, but somehow it seems to fade into the background as your voice continues to fill the space between you. He fights back a yawn, but you catch it anyway, your lips curling into a soft, teasing smile.

“Tired?” you ask, your voice a little gentler now, almost like a whisper, as though you're suddenly aware of how late it’s getting.

He shakes his head, but his eyes betray him—his lids heavy, the weight of the day finally sinking in. He leans in, slow and deliberate, pressing a kiss against your forehead, a soft promise that he’ll stay in this moment for as long as you need him to. His lips linger there for a moment, warm against your skin.

"Keep talking," he murmurs against your hair, his voice low and content, like he's found a corner of peace in the middle of a busy world.

And you do.

Alex doesn’t get jealous.

Jealousy has never been a part of Alex’s vocabulary. It’s a concept that feels foreign to him—something reserved for those who are unsure of their place, unsure of what they have. Love, to him, has always been something expansive, something that grows when shared freely, not hoarded. There’s no need to stake a claim, to guard it like a precious thing. It’s always been enough to know that it exists, that it flows easily between people who trust each other.

But then he sees you, across the room, your laughter ringing out in the crowded space. It’s warm and light, the kind of laughter that makes the world feel a little less heavy. Lando has said something funny, and you tilt your head back, eyes gleaming with that effortless joy that’s always drawn people to you.

There’s something about the way you glow in that moment, the way the room shifts around you as though it’s orbiting your presence, that unsettles something inside him. He doesn’t recognize the feeling right away. It’s a tightness in his chest, a fluttering he can't quite name. It’s subtle at first, but the longer he watches, the more the feeling takes root—something akin to possessiveness. The kind of thing he’s never felt before. A sudden, uninvited sting that makes his stomach drop.

He knows he has no reason to feel this way. There’s nothing to be threatened by. But as he stands there, a foot away from the crowd, the absurdity of it settles in his chest like a weight. He’s never been this kind of person. Why now? Why this?

The thought flits through his mind, but he pushes it aside quickly. It’s nothing. Just a fleeting moment, a trivial pang. He’s being irrational, and he knows it.

But still, the feeling persists, gnawing at him. Without realizing it, his feet are moving toward you, slow but steady, like he’s being pulled by some invisible force. His gaze doesn’t leave you as he approaches, watching you laugh again, this time at something else—another harmless joke from Carlos this time, someone he has no reason to be jealous of. Still, it doesn’t feel harmless.

As he nears, he slides his arm around your waist, pulling you gently into his side. The move is casual, almost instinctive, but to him, it feels like a reminder—his presence, a quiet claim. The subtle warmth of your body against his calms him, but it doesn’t quiet the strange knot in his chest. His heartbeat quickens as he leans in, pressing his lips to your temple in a soft, almost hesitant kiss, as if to erase the thought that’s been lingering too long.

You turn to him, the corner of your lips lifting in a playful smirk as your brow arches.

“Something wrong?” you ask, eyes dancing with the amusement you always carry when you know he’s thinking too much.

Alex doesn’t answer right away, instead looking at you, feeling the softness of your body against his, the way the tension in his chest slowly begins to ease. He wants to tell you that nothing is wrong, that it’s nothing, but the words get caught in his throat. He can’t quite explain the tightness he felt watching you, the way it wrapped itself around his ribs like a dark cloud. It feels silly now, standing here with you, the feeling dissipating in the light of your gaze.

“Just missed you,” he says, his voice low, a little more vulnerable than he intended. The words are simple, but they carry a weight he hadn't anticipated. He hadn’t meant for it to sound so much like an apology.

It’s not a lie. Not entirely. 

His heart slows as he feels your hand brush against his arm. He doesn’t need to justify the strange surge of possessiveness, but the words come out anyway, a quiet confession in a sea of unspoken things. It wasn’t about him not trusting you—it was about something inside him, a crack in his carefully constructed composure that opened for just a moment. Something he didn’t even know he needed to confront until now.

Your gaze softens, and you smile at him, a knowing expression that makes his chest tighten in a way he can’t quite explain. It’s like you understand the quiet fight he’s had with himself, the things he’s been trying to untangle.

You don’t say anything more, and for a moment, that’s enough. His arm around your waist feels natural again, and the tension slips away, leaving only the sound of your voices and the low hum of the crowd around you. 

Alex realizes, then, that some things don't need to be justified. 

And maybe, just maybe, that’s okay.

Alex doesn’t break his pre-race routine.

Superstition is just logic in disguise. Rituals. Routines. They’re the backbone of everything Alex does. His pre-race routine is meticulous, each step honed to perfection over years of trial and error. It’s superstition, yes, but more than that—it’s a foundation. It’s not just superstition. It’s a foundation, one built from trial and error, trust in repetition, the reassurance that in a world of chaos, some things remain unchanged. 

But in the dying light of the late afternoon, in the quiet of the hotel room, alone with his thoughts, something new is creeping in. It isn’t unwelcome, but it feels foreign, like a shadow that stretches a little longer than it should.

You’re there, barefoot on the cool floor, moving like you don’t quite belong in the stillness of his space. The rustle of your movements barely breaks the silence, but to him, it’s louder than the hum of the city outside. Your presence is soft, gentle, but somehow, it pulls at the edges of his focus. It shifts something inside him—this rhythm he’s relied on for so long, suddenly disrupted.

He can feel your gaze before you even touch him, a heat that builds between you in the quiet, unspoken. You reach for him, just the simple press of your hand against his chest, a reminder of something warm and steady. His body tenses at first, a reflex, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he lets himself sink into the touch, feels the way your palm molds against him. 

“Good luck,” you murmur, voice thick with sleep, and there’s a teasing note to it, like you’re not sure if you’re serious or just making light of the situation. “Don’t crash.”

It’s just a joke. A lighthearted jab at the nerves he can’t escape. But it lands differently now. 

Alex rolls his eyes, half-amused, half-ashamed of the way his chest tightens at your proximity. The tension in his shoulders loosens just a fraction, but he doesn’t step back. Instead, he leans in, his lips brushing your cheek in the most casual of gestures.

He doesn’t pull away right away. His arms slide around your middle, drawing you closer, your body fitting against his with an ease that makes him feel like he’s always known this rhythm. He holds you, just for a second longer than usual, something in the way his breath catches betraying the stillness of his exterior. 

And for the first time, the ritual feels just a little bit different. Not worse. Just... more. More than he expected. More than he knew he could need.

Now, this is part of the foundation. He won’t leave—he can’t leave—until you say something. Until you touch him again. Until you make some offhand comment that calms the nervous hum beneath his skin. 

Alex doesn’t let people see him lose.

Disappointment is a quiet thing. It never yells or demands attention; it sits in the corners, folding itself into the spaces between breaths, hiding beneath the weight of expectation. He’s trained himself to swallow it down, to press it into the depths of his chest where it won’t make a sound. A bad day is just that—a day. It does not own him. He doesn’t let it.

But the weight of it lingers a little longer today. He feels it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his chest constricts with every shallow breath, each one just a little more labored than the last. When he steps into the driver's room, it’s like the air shifts around him—colder, heavier. Normally, the buzz of the team, the hum of equipment being packed up, fills the silence. 

But not today. 

Today, it’s just you—waiting in the stillness, sitting cross-legged on the couch, your presence the only thing that pulls him in. There’s no expectation, no questions waiting to be asked, nothing but the quiet comfort of you being there.

And in that silence, he doesn’t have to wear a mask. He doesn’t have to pretend that the sting of defeat doesn’t hurt, that the weight of letting down so many people doesn’t sit heavy in his bones. He doesn’t have to smooth over the frustration that flares up inside him, wanting to lash out but knowing it would only hurt more. You’re there, and for once, he allows himself to feel it—the quiet ache that’s been building since the race ended.

He exhales deeply, the sound escaping like a slow leak, and finally sinks into the seat beside you. His body feels like it’s made of lead, the weariness pulling him down into the cushions. His head tilts back against the upholstery, and he stares at the ceiling, his gaze unfocused. The lines and cracks of the tiles above blur, just a soft landscape of thoughts he doesn’t want to organize yet.

“You okay?” Your voice is gentle, a thread of concern woven through it, but there’s no pressure. No demand for answers. You let the silence stretch, giving him space to find his words.

He smiles faintly, though it’s a thin thing, barely a curve of his lips. “I’ve been better.” It’s a truth, but it’s not the whole truth. The whole truth would be too much. The whole truth would crack something open he’s not ready to share.

Silence again. 

You don’t rush in to fill it. Instead, your hand slides over his, soft and steady, pulling him from the noise that’s circling in his mind. Your fingers lace with his, a simple connection that speaks volumes. It’s grounding in a way nothing else can be—just the quiet pressure of your touch, the warmth of it curling into the edges of him, easing the sharpness of his frustration.

He turns his palm up, feeling the rough calluses of his skin brush against the softness of yours. It’s a small thing, but the way his fingers curl against yours is almost an instinct—something necessary, something he can’t avoid, even if he wanted to.

“You’re allowed to be upset, you know.” Your words are soft, like they’re meant to ease the weight rather than fix it, and for a moment, the heaviness in his chest lightens just enough to let him breathe a little easier.

“I know,” he says, his voice quieter now, the rasp of it a reflection of the quiet he’s been holding inside. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t break the connection between you. Instead, he stays there, allowing himself the simple comfort of this moment—the warmth of your hand in his, the silence that wraps around you both, and the fact that, for now, there’s no need to be anything other than exactly what he is in this moment.

He doesn’t have to be strong, doesn’t have to hide the disappointment from you. 

Not here.

Not now. 

In the space between your fingers, he finds something soft enough to hold on to, something he hasn’t allowed himself in a long time.

Alex doesn’t lose his cool.

He’s easygoing, the kind of man who wears patience like a second skin. He’s made a career out of controlling the narrative—on the track, in interviews, even in the most frustrating of moments. He smooths over the rough edges with a joke, a lopsided smile, a charm that’s second nature. But then there’s you—your name trending on Twitter, and the words flashing across the screen: Alex and His Beau: Is it over?

The post is incendiary, speculative, designed to tear apart something people don’t understand. And the worst part? It’s gaining traction. He’s used to the noise, the mindless chatter of fans and critics alike, but this? This is different. His thumb slides over his phone screen as the same words echo in his mind, What’s going on with Alex and his lover? Something’s not right. The words are poisonous, aimed right at you. 

You’re sitting on the couch, eyes glued to your screen, your face an unreadable mask as you scroll through the flood of comments and replies. The room feels too small suddenly, the air too heavy. 

Alex sees it before you even speak, the tightness in your jaw, the flicker of disbelief in your eyes as you scroll, then stop, then scroll again. He doesn’t need to ask. He can feel it. The waves of frustration and hurt you’re trying to hold back.

"Who the hell are these people?" you mutter, a half-laugh, but there's no amusement in it. "And how do they know so much about me when they've never even met me?"

Alex knows this about you—how you handle the chaos, how you confront the worst of it with a joke and a broken smile. He watches your fingers brush over your phone, reading the comments, the well-wishes, the questions, all of it. You look up at him for a brief second, your gaze soft but knowing.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmur, and for a second, the tension in his chest unfurls. “We don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

But Alex is not as forgiving as you. 

The venom in those tweets makes his blood run hot. He can feel it in the pit of his stomach, the desire to fire back with every insult, every single thing he’s dying to say. To rip into the faceless cowards who dare to speak about you like they know anything at all. But Alex doesn’t lose his cool. He never does.

Not on the outside, at least.

Instead, he snatches his phone from his pocket, fingers hovering over the keyboard, muscles tense. He’s seen this kind of thing before, heard rumors that have no truth, no foundation. But he can’t help it—his mind races, his heart quickens, and the urge to respond surges like an electric current. He wants to tell the world exactly who you are to him, how these rumors are nothing more than noise. He wants to protect you, to shield you from this distortion of reality. His thumb hovers over his phone screen, ready to type something sharp, something cutting, something to silence the accusations. A few taps, a snarky message sent into the void of Twitter: 

Some people really should stick to things they understand. idk, silence is a great option. 

He hits send before thinking twice.

Then, he stands there, watching you, heart a little tighter than usual. Your lips twitch at the corners, and you roll your eyes, even as you try to stifle a smile. He knows he shouldn't have responded, but damn it, you didn’t deserve any of that, not even for a second.

“Alex…” you start, but you don’t finish. You don’t have to. You already know that whatever else might happen, he’s got your back.

He lets out a breath, shaking his head. “What? You think I’d let them talk shit about you and just sit back? They’ve got the wrong idea, babe. I’ll fight them if it comes to that.”

It’s not a boast. It’s a fact.

You look at him then, and in your gaze, there’s this soft, unexpected vulnerability—a gratitude that you don’t have to say a word to communicate. 

Alex doesn’t lose his cool. 

But for you? He would tear down the whole damn world.

Alex doesn’t make big gestures.

For Alex, love has always been quiet. It’s never been about grand declarations or showy displays. There’s no need for flash mobs or extravagant gestures when something is already understood, already deeply rooted in the everyday. Love, to him, is in the quiet moments—the way you both sip coffee together without needing to speak, the way his hand naturally finds yours when the world feels too loud. He believes in something steadier, more enduring than that. But then there’s you, and suddenly, the rules don’t apply.

He’s standing in line at the airport, the hum of voices around him, the distant chatter of announcements, and he’s holding his boarding pass in his hand, wondering if this makes sense. Less than 24 hours. An absurd turnaround. He only has 48 hours before he needs to be in Shanghai. 

He could have waited. He could have let this trip pass by, just like all the others. But then, there’s you, and the thought of not seeing you for even a moment longer than necessary gnaws at him. So, he’s here, in the airport, wondering if this makes any sense at all.

The line moves forward, but he stays where he is, watching people bustle around him, their minds already halfway across the world. He can feel the exhaustion creeping in—the hours of travel, the missed sleep—but the thought of your face and the way you laugh pushes him forward. It doesn’t matter that he’ll barely have time to sleep before his next flight. It doesn’t matter that it’s ridiculous to rush across the globe for a few hours with you. It doesn’t matter that the world might think he’s out of his mind.

He could have waited. He could have let the distance stretch just a little longer. But the idea of being apart from you for even a few hours is suddenly unbearable.

It’s quiet, too quiet, in the hallway of your shared apartment building. He knocks, his hand lingering on the wood as if it’s too soon, too sudden. But then the door opens, and there you are, blinking at him in confusion, your hair tousled, your eyes still heavy with sleep.

He watches your expression shift—bewilderment to surprise to something else, something soft that tugs at the corners of his heart. The grin that spreads across his face is almost involuntary, and he can’t help the breath of laughter that slips past his lips. “I missed you, baby,” he says, his voice a little hoarse from the early hours, but there’s no mistaking the amusement that laces it.

“You’re insane,” you laugh, your voice light and incredulous, your disbelief apparent, but there's something about the way you say it that tells him you're not mad. Just...surprised. Maybe a little impressed.

Alex just shrugs, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, trying to keep up the cool façade. “Maybe.”

You stand there for a moment longer, eyes still narrowing at him, like you’re waiting for him to crack. And then—just like that—you’re on him, your arms flying around his neck, your lips finding his cheek in a flurry of kisses. They’re warm and a little messy, the kind that can only come from someone who’s missed him as much as he’s missed you. His breath catches, and for a moment, the world feels like it’s been dialed down to a whisper. 

“If this is insanity,” Alex murmurs between your kisses, “I think I’m okay with it.”

You pull away just enough to smile at him, the kind of smile that tugs at something deep in his chest. He watches your lips, the way they curl up, the way your eyes light up with amusement. “Well, you’re certainly out of your mind,” you tease, tapping a finger against his nose, and it’s so ridiculously normal, so familiar, that the knot in his chest unravels completely.

“I can live with that,” Alex says, his grin turning softer, more real. He’s about to say something else when you press another quick kiss to his lips, catching him off guard in the best possible way.

He pulls you closer, arms wrapping around you as he spins you, a laugh bubbling up between you both, the sound a little too loud for the quiet hallway. It feels ridiculous, like something out of a rom-com he’d never admit to watching, but in this moment, he doesn’t care. The world feels right. The ridiculousness of his actions are washed away in the joy of having you close.

If this is madness—if you are the exception to every rule—then maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t mind it at all.

[alicornze7]

Ribbun week - Day 3: Alternative universe

It is done finallyyy

This was my favorite to do but my god is it tedious

I really wanted to do the original designs justice (if i even did at all)

Phantom of the opera AU by @nats-uvi

Open-world AU by @vikipoopsiekins

Circus of hell AU by @inkyprism

Entangled Au by @vvickydisc

individual cuts below cause’ I love these sm

And merry Christmas!!

[shhhhimwatchingthis]

My Golden Blood Theory:

So the show has not clarified why Mark is protecting Tong until he is 21. Personally I think 'What happens when I turn 21' should be Tong's immediate next question, but I understand baby girl is going through it with the whole vampires are real, and I'm not actually sick (my whole life has been a lie) and I actually have magic blood that makes vampires cum....thing...

Anyway in my opinion there are 2 ways they could go with this

1. When Tong turns 21 his Golden Blood loses its power, he can live a normal life. This is both less likely and less narratively interesting than my other theory, but not impossible with what little we know of the world building so far

2. When Tong turns 21 his blood will reach its peak power and he will be given to an important vampire who will drain him for his blood's power. With what we currently know: a) the vampire Mark works for is Thara b) Thara's power is weakening it is possible there will be a twist where Thara wants to consume Tong's blood to maintain her strength (and she'll argue maintain peace for vampires/humans) + possible implication of her being behind Tong's parents death for this same reason (assuming Golden Blood is hereditary) Personally I think this would actually be a wicked direction to go in because it means Tong has essentially been raised like lamb for slaughter, protected by Mark his whole life, but only so he can be sacrificed later. which is dark as hell and this is a vampire show, let's get fucking dark.

Mark probably won't know about this if that's the case, but it's possible he's been in on it from the start. Either way, when the reason Tong is being kept alive till he's 21 is revealed it will create excellent angst for Mark and Tong.

It is of course always possible Nakan will remain the main antagonist,as has been implied, be the one responsible for Tongs parents, etc but he could also be a red herring. As is Mark doesn't seem to take orders from him , so it's unlikely he'd be the one to have Mark keep Tong on ice.

(PowerPoint slide ends with dissolve effect)

[royalarchivist]

Pac: This is the new me, ok? I want you to welcome... the new Pac! [...] This skin is really cool, I think I'm gonna use this more often.

Himaru: ...What happened to you, man? Did you get run over? 😰

Pac: [Laughs] Don't judge me, don't judge me!

Being ugly in Arkanis is a crime, and unfortunately for all of us, Pac loves being a criminal. 😓

[ Full Subtitle Transcript ↓ ]

—

Pac: Guys– This is the new me, ok? I want you to welcome... the new Pac!

Pac: [Laughs]

[Pac gets kicked from the server with the message: "Change this"]

Pac: [Laughing] No! No! No– I won't change, I won't change, I won't change! I won't change! Let me- let me in! No no no– What a dictatorship– there can't be a dictatorship here, no– No, I won't change! [Stammers] I'm- I'm myself! I'm myself!

Pac: [Pinches his nose so he has a nasally voice] Hi friends, welcome to class. I'm going to talk like that, ok? I'll even turn off the facecam, because today, I'm going to– I'm kidding, no no no.

Pac: Man, this skin is really cool, it really is. I think that this– I'm gonna use this more often, man. [Reading chat] "Halloween is over" Guys, this– This is who I am now! Who I am– This is me now, I'm this person here.

[Red text appears on the screen saying "30 seconds to change"]

Pac: "30 seconds to change–" Hang on, what is this?! No– calma, what is–? Guys, for the love of god–

[Another warning appears saying "20 seconds to change"]

Pac: No!!! No! No no no! No no no! You can't do this! You can't do this here. You- you can't. You can't make me change my skin.

[A final warning appears saying "10 seconds to change"]

Pac: No– You can't, I won't take it off! I'm going to my class now, I have to go to class! This is my "studying" skin! I- I–

[Pac gets banned]

Pac: [Hits his desk]

Dono: The skinmakers in chat are crying, having heart attacks, collapsing. It's horrible, dude.

Pac: [Laughs] It's not that ugly, it's fine, it's good.

Himaru: [Long pause] ...What happened to you, man? Did you get run over?

Pac: [Laughs] Don't judge me, don't judge me! Ok? Look at- look at- look at JVNQ! He has a funny face too, but nobody says anything about it!

Himaru: No man, I'm not judging you, but– I just wor- I'm just worried! [...] Well for me, I'll be serious with you: it doesn't matter what's on the outside, ok? What matters is what's inside, got it?

Pac: Thank you. [He hugs Himaru] Do you think I'm poggers? Do you think I'm poggers? Say it.

Himaru: No Pac, it doesn't matter that you look ugly, ridiculous, like a truck reversed into you then ran you over, like someone hit you–

Milo: my god

Himaru: –like Anderson Silva crushed you in the ring– Hey, it doesn't matter! What matters is that your heart is beating.

JV: And you have a home!

Himaru: Understand? Give love to others, ok?

Pac: My god.

Milo: he was saving those insults

Himaru: And that's all, ok man? You can be at peace, ok? I won't- I won't judge you, I'll just... I'll just do one thing, man.

Pac: What are you doing?

Himaru: I'm just going to avoid eye contact, ok? But I'm still talking to you, I'm still listening, ok? I hear you.

Pac: ...I can't believe this.

[dollypopup]

I get why people would think it but

Colin is NOT a rake. Colin is a young man trying to figure out his identity and what he likes sexually and trying to understand what the men of his society talk about and do. He's not out here messing around with women just to string them along and then leave them. He's trying to fit in and has been made fun of for being a virgin so yeah, he rectifies that by having sex, but just because he slept with a few women, that doesn't make him a rake? You wanna know who an actual rake in the series is?

Fife.

Because what the fuck happened to Miss Goring? I think about her sometimes and my heart aches for her. Her first season out, she's an 18 year old woman, and an older, titled man of her society who she assumes to be a proper gentleman makes her believe their relationship can actually be something, messes around with her the entire season, and then fucks her in a linen closet at a ball only to....what? Come back the next year with absolutely no mention of her whatsoever. Did she get pregnant? Was sent off in disgrace? Have to marry someone else?

Fife is a 30 year old man who has a bad habit of hounding after young, vulnerable women in his society. He fucks them and leaves them. He's a rake. Colin? Colin is not even close to that. Say what you will about the brothel scenes, but that IS the responsible place for a man of his time to go to for sex. Please stop demonizing sex work. Yes, many of these women are in that line of work because of less than savory reasons, but Colin is not taking advantage of them. He is paying for a service and they are providing that service. It is transactional, and he is the LEAST of their concerns in terms of clientele. A kind, handsome man who pays well and is discrete? Yeah, they're fine with him.

Colin has a history of respecting women. He respected Marina all throughout their courtship, and even after. I know some people sneer at him coming to see Marina, but please keep in mind she is a woman on her own who married a stranger far away from ANYONE who knew her. Colin was worried about Daphne when she came to him, asking if anything happened when she was away and clearly ready to fight for her, so of course he's worried about Marina. Partly he visits her for his own closure, but also like....y'all that's a WELLNESS visit. He's concerned that she's unhappy, but ultimately leaves because she's not hurt and that she tells him to. Colin listens to 'no' from the women around him. He asks for permission from them. He waited for Penelope's consent sexually, but he also didn't even get into the carriage until she allowed him. He even asks "Please, let me in".

Colin lives in a time when women do not have many rights, and he listens to the women around him even more than the men. He is the only one of his siblings to ask for his mum's advice and immediately takes it and takes action. He brings Eloise back a feminist text from his travels, even after she's besmirched as a radical, because he supports her pursuits. In season 2, he also knew of her going to the printers and didn't say anything. He has always respected and cared for Penelope. He hasn't insulted a single woman in his vicinity. He doesn't make the women he flirts with feel bad about themselves, or feel less, but compliments them, all whilst keeping respectable distance so as not to make them think he's interested in marrying them. He doesn't dance with any woman but Penelope in that season.

Colin isn't a rake. He's not a fuckboy. He's trying to act like he is, emulating the circle of his society, but that doesn't mean he is. I swear people just WANT to misinterpret him because that's the easiest way, but Colin is a character who doesn't lend well to surface level readings. He's a nuanced, gentle hearted character who has been looked down on for his sensitivity. He's a deeply relatable person because who of us haven't pretended to be accepted? Especially if we've been bullied or excluded. I know I have. Put on a persona for the sake of survival. And he does so for what? A few weeks? That does not a fuckboy make.

Just say you don't want to understand him and move along because those of us who get him GET HIM. And I'm grateful for a character like Colin.

He's the best man in the series by an entire mile and you can't change my mind about that.

[itwoodbeprefect]

the thing about bad buddy is that calling it enemies to lovers is not entirely wrong and is a very succinct and easy way to indicate the general plot, but also one of the only moments that the two main characters are actually personally in conflict with each other lasts about four minutes and is expressed mainly through upset shirtless xylophone playing contrasted with a montage of happy moments that features a time there was triumphant shirt-wearing xylophone playing. and then they both say sorry at literally the exact same time