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where I post from. if you even care

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words I live by every day

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it’s so funny that u can just color text on this website boom bitch im green now. youre hearing me talk greenly. in a green fashion. green green green

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OC kiss day 4 - A Gesture of Affection

Sorry about missing day 3 - unfortunately I was busy and not feeling too well, so I didn't get time to write. Feeling a little better and mercifully had a day off today though, so here's day 4! Prompt: Kissing an inanimate object. Pairing: Devon Holtzman/Arrignon AF31 Formula 1 car (lol) Summary: He was the world champion nobody expected, for the team nobody had counted on. After his 2009 title victory, first-time World Champion Devon Holtzman shows a unique way of appreciating the machinery that got him there - and gives rise to one's of the sport's most iconic images. Word count: 553

A Gesture of Appreciation

Devon parks the car behind the second-place marker in parc fermé. The noise is enormous; there’s 180,000 fans here at Interlagos, all screaming their throats out, all on their feet, chanting. Wilson may have won the race, but Devon’s second-place finish has ripped the rug from under his rival’s feet at the last gasp. Three points ahead, seventy-four points to seventy-one, accounting for the Esprits’ disqualification. He’d known it before he even crossed the line, had run the maths over and over in his head lap after lap, but now there was no taking it away; Devon Holtzman was, is and always will be a Formula One world champion.

He levers himself out of the cockpit, still in a post-race stupor. Lactic acid thrums in his shoulders and spine. Cameras flash in his peripheral vision: he turns to face them, grinning, spreading his arms wide to the gunmetal Sao Paulo sky in triumph. A shape bursts through the perimeter of the crowd—his race engineer, Pierre—and holds him tight, hands pressing firmly against the back of his race suit.

“I knew you could fucking do it!” he bellows into the side of Devon’s helmet. “Top of the world, top of the world! Bet you didn’t think you’d be saying that at the start of the year, eh?”

Devon slaps him on the back, eyes bright through his visor, before fumbling for his helmet’s strap release. Unbuckling his helmet feels like surfacing from the bottom of a swimming pool: the cacophony of sounds intensify, and the flecks of detritus at the corners of his vision are gone. Spinning around, he makes a show of waving and grinning to the crowd. He knows he must look like a real prick right now, but he’s the drivers’ world champion, for fuck’s sake—he’s earned the right.

Lastly, he turns to the car that made this all possible. The AF31 is a pretty car, he’s always thought, with its stormy blue livery and citrus-yellow contour lines draped around it, but now—dirt-flecked and sleek on the tarmac—it’s more beautiful than he ever could’ve imagined. He takes a few faltering steps towards it, kneels in front of the carbon-fibre nosecone. It’s sponsorless, devoid of almost any decal save for the number 12 in thick, bold yellow numbers. He trails a hand over the front wing. Somehow, despite Arrignon’s shoestring budget, the last-minute contract extension, the way the team had prioritised Andrea all season—they were the ones sitting here, the world titles burnished forever with their names. They’d be in the history books, no doubt about it.

Seized by some ridiculous impulse, he bends down to the tip of the car’s nose and kisses it. The carbon-fibre’s warm and slightly dusty under his lips, and the car tastes faintly of rainwater. Devon stands quickly, wipes his lips. Part of him itches to salute the car, some kind of sentimental fanfare for the year they’d been through together, but he decides against it. The press are already having a field day as it is.

He catches Wilson staring at him as he walks away and rolls his eyes at his defeated rival. He was World Champion now. His eccentricities were no longer weird—they would be on the front of magazines, slapped on merchandise, factored into stock market prices.

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January 24, 1972

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There’s also a large grey area between an Offensive Stereotype and “thing that can be misconstrued as a stereotype if one uses a particularly reductive lens of interpretation that the text itself is not endorsing”, and while I believe that creators should hold some level of responsibility to look out for potential unfortunate optics on their work, intentional or not, I also do think that placing the entire onus of trying to anticipate every single bad angle someone somewhere might take when reading the text upon the shoulders of the writers – instead of giving in that there should be also a level of responsibility on the part of the audience not to project whatever biases they might carry onto the text – is the kind of thing that will only end up reducing the range of stories that can be told about marginalized people. 

A japanese-american Beth Harmon would be pidgeonholed as another nerdy asian stock character. Baby Driver with a black lead would be accused of perpetuating stereotypes about black youth and crime. Phantom Of The Opera with a female Phantom would be accused of playing into the predatory lesbian stereotype. Romeo & Juliet with a gay couple would be accused of pulling the bury your gays trope – and no, you can’t just rewrite it into having a happy ending, the final tragedy of the tale is the rock onto which the entire central thesis statement of the play stands on. Remove that one element and you change the whole point of the story from a “look at what senseless hatred does to our youth” cautionary tale to a “love conquers all” inspiration piece, and it may not be the story the author wants to tell.

Sometimes, in order for a given story to function (and keep in mind, by function I don’t mean just logistically, but also thematically) it is necessary that your protagonist has specific personality traits that will play out in significant ways in the story. Or that they come from a specific background that will be an important element to the narrative. Or that they go through a particular experience that will consist on crucial plot point. All those narrative tools and building blocks are considered to be completely harmless and neutral when telling stories about straight/white people but, when applied to marginalized characters, it can be difficult to navigate them as, depending on the type of story you might want to tell, you may be steering dangerously close to falling into Unfortunate Implications™. And trying to find alternatives as to avoid falling into potentially iffy subtext is not always easy, as, depending on how central the “problematic” element to your plot, it could alter the very foundation of the story you’re trying to tell beyond recognition. See the point above about Romeo & Juliet.    

Like, I once saw a woman a gringa obviously accuse the movie Knives Out of racism because the one latina character in the otherwise consistently white and wealthy cast is the nurse, when everyone who watched the movie with their eyes and not their ass can see that the entire tension of the plot hinges upon not only the power imbalance between Martha and the Thrombeys, but also on her isolation as the one latina immigrant navigating a world of white rich people. I’ve seen people paint Rosa Diaz as an example of the Hothead Latina stereotype, when Rosa was originally written as a white woman (named Megan) and only turned latina later when Stephanie Beatriz was cast  – and it’s not like they could write out Rosa’s anger issues to avoid bad optics when it is such a defining trait of her character. I’ve seen people say Mulholland Drive is a lesbophobic movie when its story couldn’t even exist in first place if the fatally toxic lesbian relationship that moves the plot was healthy, or if it was straight.                          

That’s not to say we can’t ever question the larger patterns in stories about certain demographics, or not draw lines between artistic liberty and social responsibility, and much less that I know where such lines should be drawn. I made this post precisely to raise a discussion, not to silence people. But one thing I think it’s important to keep in mind in such discussions is that stereotypes, after all, are all about oversimplification. It is more productive, I believe, to evaluate the quality of the representation in any given piece of fiction by looking first into how much its minority characters are a) deep, complex, well-rounded, b) treated with care by the narrative, with plenty of focus and insight into their inner life, and c) a character in their own right that can carry their own storyline and doesn’t just exist to prop up other character’s stories. And only then, yes, look into their particular characterization, but without ever overlooking aspects such as the context and how nuanced such characterization is handled. Much like we’ve moved on from the simplistic mindset that a good female character is necessarily one that punches good otherwise she’s useless, I really do believe that it is time for us to move on from the the idea that there’s a one-size-fits-all model of good representation and start looking into the core of representation issues (meaning: how painfully flat it is, not to mention scarce) rather than the window dressing.

I know I am starting to sound like a broken record here, but it feels that being a latina author writing about latine characters is a losing game, when there’s extra pressure on minority authors to avoid ~problematic~ optics in their work on the basis of the “you should know better” argument. And this “lower common denominator” approach to representation, that bars people from exploring otherwise interesting and meaningful concepts in stories because the most narrow minded people in the audience will get their biases confirmed, in many ways, sounds like a new form of respectability politics. Why, if it was gringos that created and imposed those stereotypes onto my ethnicity, why it should be my responsibility as a latina creator to dispel such stereotypes by curbing my artistic expression? Instead of asking of them to take responsibility for the lenses and biases they bring onto the text? Why is it too much to ask from people to wrap their minds about the ridiculously basic concept that no story they consume about a marginalized person should be taken as a blanket representation of their entire community?

It’s ridiculous. Gringos at some point came up with the idea that latinos are all naturally inclined to crime, so now I, a latina who loves heist movies, can’t write a latino character who’s a cool car thief. Gentiles created antisemitic propaganda claiming that the jews are all blood drinking monsters, so now jewish authors who love vampires can’t write jewish vampires. Straights made up the idea that lesbian relationships tend to be unhealthy, so now sapphics who are into Brontë-ish gothic romance don’t get to read this type of story with lesbian protagonists. I want to scream.      

And at the end of the day it all boils down to how people see marginalized characters as Representation™ first and narrative tools created to tell good stories later, if at all. White/straight characters get to be evaluated on how entertaining and tridimensional they are, whereas minority characters get to be evaluated on how well they’d fit into an after school special. Fuck this shit.                            

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Kiss It Better - OC kiss week, day 2

Prompt: Post-injury kiss. Pairing: Niko Hautala/Sabrina di Angelo Summary: Niko's been injured in a crash during the Belgian Grand Prix. Luckily, his girlfriend Sabrina has her own kind of remedy - even if she might be enjoying her role as 'doctor' a little too much... Word count: 943

Kiss It Better

Niko had never crashed at Spa-Francorchamps before. Sure, there’d been a couple of mechanical retirements, but you could walk those off, mutter a few commiserations to the press and mark it down as something that wasn’t your fault. The worst thing was, his crash had been a stupid, unforced error. The kind of mistake a rookie would make. He’d slipped over the kerb at Pouhon, lap after lap, and Toby had told him he was doing it, and then the front end had just skipped away from him—

He wheezes out a shallow breath, collecting himself. The important thing was, he was okay. His back hurt like hell, and he’d probably have a treasure map of bruises for the next month, but nothing was broken, and he hadn’t hit his head. At least he could be grateful for that. The same couldn’t be said for the car, however. He’d gone off the track, spun 180 degrees and hit the wall rear-first, still traveling at about 80 miles an hour. Images of the mangled chassis, shattered and slumped against the outer barriers—blown up to ridiculous oversized unreality on the trackside screens—crowd together in his mind.

The medical centre is surprisingly calm. He’s sitting on a collapsible bed, shirtless, as a young trackside doctor buzzes around him, shining lights in his eyes and taking note of the bruises and cuts on his skin. Finally, he comes round to face Niko, smiling incongruously.

“You’re all cleared,” he says, his accent lilting with a touch of something Eastern European. “I would advise you keep an eye on those bruises and take it easy in terms of your physical regimen for the next few days. Your injuries are not serious, however, and I don’t believe they will prevent you from racing. You’re lucky we’re going on summer break soon, eh?”

Niko flashes the doctor a quick grin. He hopes it looks like less of a grimace than it feels. “Thank you. Ah, can I sit here for a moment, just…” He trails off, but the doctor nods, seemingly understanding the things he doesn’t have words to say.

“Of course, of course.”

He turns to leave Niko in peace. As he slips out of the prefabricated doorway, Sabrina sidles past him. She eyes Niko from across the room, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the distant buzzing of racetrack ambience.

“You know, you look hot when you’re all bashed up,” she says, finally. “Never thought I’d say it, but the bruised and battered look is kinda working for me.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were almost glad I crashed out.”

“Well, I’m glad you know me better then.”

She strides over, smiling. That’s one thing he’s always admired about Sabrina—she’s constantly decisive, assertive. When you meet a woman who knows what she wants from you, his father had once told him, you’d better make damn sure you’re ready to give it to her.

He’d never understood the significance of those words until he’d met her.

Her hands slide over his bruise-mottled shoulders, cool against the sweat-flecked flesh, and he winces. Not so much from the pain, but from the sudden intimacy of the touch.

“Aw,” she says. “Want me to kiss it better, Nicky?”

As always, Sabrina doesn’t wait for an answer.

Her arms are coiled around his neck; he’s leaning up and into the kiss, hands in her long brown hair, as if hanging onto her. At first, it’s something of a respite. Then she leans in more, tilting him back so that he’s almost lying across the bed. Her lips move down to his jawline, then down his neck. Her breath tickles his throat, and he has to close his eyes at the sensation. When the pressure withdraws, it’s almost a relief: then she’s kissing a bruise on his collarbone, her cheek pressed soft as silk to the skin. The pain flares within him, mingling and wrestling with pleasure, and he lets out something which he hopes is a grunt but probably sounds like more of a hiss.

“We should—probably—stop,” he manages to get out. Sabrina looks up at him, tracing a finger languidly down his chest, pressing at a bruise on his side until he murmurs a teeth-gritted curse.

“Now, where’s the fun in th—”

“Mr. Hautala!” Footsteps in the doorway. Niko bolts upright. Over the shoulder of Sabrina’s cashmere jumper, Niko has a perfect, head-on view of the young doctor re-entering the room. “Mr. Hautala, I just need you to—”

He stops. Takes in the scene. Niko’s still shirtless, with Sabrina awkwardly perched on his lap and her legs facing inwards. There’s a smear of dark red lipstick trailing down his neck to his collarbone. Sabrina’s staring back at the doctor, her smirk wiped away as easily as a coffee mug stain under a damp tablecloth. The doctor gulps, blinks, decides that this particular situation is significantly above his pay grade, and backs swiftly out. The room rings with the silence.

“Well, fuck,” Niko says eventually. “How am I gonna explain that?”

Sabrina shrugs, the smirk working its way back onto her face. “Who says you need to?”

“Uh, the team I race for, the FIA, the poor doctor we just traumatised? Wh—I mean, technically speaking, you’re not even supposed to be back here! Much less… doing… that.”

“Doing what?” She blinks her eyes at him in faux-innocence.

“You know exactly wh—”

Her fingers snake around to his bare back, squeezing a bruise just above the hip and eliciting a sharp groan. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want me to stop?”

“Well…I, um—”

“That’s what I thought.”

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soul searching, or something.

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what if you were in your 2nd season as an f1 driver and you impulsively cut all your hair off and it made you 7469385769287467x hotter

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a good way to inspire yourself to do more is to see yourself as the wacky sitcom B plot character in your friends lives, "wouldnt it be funny to tell the friends in my phone about it." has gotten me to do anything from going to a festival (excelent) to wild camping (it went badly) (coastguard called) to trying to get the train to stonehenge (stonehenge costs money so i ended up just getting lunch in sailsbury, it was okay.) i bought a bicycle today and 20% of my reasoning was "itd be funny to surprise my roommate by coming home with a whole bike." . life is for living. and baby i live for the bit.

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HEY that's MY emotional support morally ambiguous misunderstood full of trauma touch starved yearning for love drenched in blood responsible for numerous atrocities comfort character who is TRYING & u will TREAT them with RESPECT

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Uncertain - OC kiss week, Day 1

Prompt: A kiss that means nothing to one person - and something to the other. Pairing: Natalie Bertrand & Callista Fontecchio (one-sided) Summary: Back when Natalie and Callista were F1 teammates at Octane MRT, they developed a close friendship that's still going strong in 2024. On Nat's end of things, however, this is how it became something quite different... Word count: 1,306

Uncertain

Monza, 2019 Monday, early morning - after the Italian Grand Prix.

Despite the ungodly hour, the night air was balmy and did little to dispel the sheen of sweat on Natalie Bertrand’s skin. After a night of drinking and partying to celebrate Sunday’s Grand Prix, she was beginning to sober up, and once again wondering why the hell she’d chosen to end another Grand Prix weekend getting drunk and going to a variety of too-loud, too-conspicuous clubs. She checked her phone: it was 2:04 AM, and she still had no signal.

Callista mumbled something in the general direction of Nat’s right shoulder. She eyed her teammate cautiously; the older woman was three inches taller than Natalie, and significantly more drunk. Nat had an arm locked around her shoulders, but Callista’s constant swaying and moving made it hard to keep balance.

“What?”

Callista squeezed herself against Nat’s shoulder, and Nat hated the thrill that went through her at the contact. “I said, isn’t it pretty here? God, we’ll—I have to…we’ll come back here in the daytime. Sometime.”

The little cobbled alley they were walking down was typically Italian. Ornate lampposts cast soft yellow accents onto shadowed frescos, and the buildings seemed to lean on each other like old friends. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she muttered, pointedly refusing to look at Callista.

“Ugh—tesoro, sei proprio una guastafeste—I’m serious!”

“The only thing I’m serious about is calling a fucking Uber to get your drunk ass back to the hotel. We have a team event tomorrow, in case you’d forgotten, and we fly out in the evening!”

“Pshhh,” Callista said, flapping her hand in front of Nat’s face. Nat tried not to concentrate on the way the streetlights outlined the soft contours of Callista’s fingers, or the lingering smell of her rose-scented perfume. “Little, little Natalie. Always so serious. You had so much fun tonight! Why do you tighten up like—like the screws and bolts?”

“Someone has to.”

“Stron-za-te!” Callista sang in a mocking falsetto. “We are drivers some of the time, yes, but we are humans all of the time. Take work off your mind, live a little, breathe a little. You are what—twenty-four? Yet you act like you’re, eh, already planning for retirement. Bank account, pension, little house, little husband—”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Natalie was being to feel herself getting annoyed with her teammate. She liked Callista, but sometimes the Italian’s bluntness—especially under the influence of alcohol—was incredibly grating. “I came out clubbing with you, didn’t I? You did keep asking me—”

“Yes! Yes, you did! And you had fun tonight, no?”

“Well…” Nat remembered the tang of shot after shot, the kaleidoscopic whirl of a multi-coloured dance floor, the sweaty, slippery warmth of Callista’s hand in hers. “Yes, I suppose…”

“Good, good! I am not saying we should, ah, do this more often, but just let yourself loosen up a little more without the drinking and the parties, yeah? I like you, Natalie, but sometimes you look so…so…aspro, impassibile…”

Natalie snorted, nudging her teammate. “Cut that shit out. You know I can’t speak Italian.”

“Ah, doesn’t matter. I liked hanging out with you! You’re fun when you’re not being so uptight.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t quite have as much fun as you did, if that’s what you’re getting at. How many men did you end up kissing in there?”

Callista threw back her head and laughed. “God, you’re not really such a prude, are you? Three, maybe four. Nothing to it, nothing by it. Just some harmless fun. Plus,” she lowered her voice to a stage whisper, “there were some pretty fine examples on display tonight, no?”

Natalie grimaced. “Seriously?”

“What? You got a boyfriend or something? I just bet you do. Nice, respectful, Mama and Papa love him, you are waiting for this season’s pay cheque to clear so you can put a deposit down on a house—”

“You are such an asshole!” Natalie replied, but she was giggling. “No, no boyfriend. And I don’t want to kiss men in some horrible sticky club. I have standards.”

“Pfft. You are such a bitch sometimes, Nat. That's—that's why I like you so much.”

Before the sudden nickname could register in Natalie’s brain, Callista swept her own arm around Natalie’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to her cheek. Despite how much she’d drunk, the contact was surprisingly gentle: Callista’s lips whispered against her cheek for a few seconds before she pulled back, shooting Nat a dazzling grin. Natalie stared at Callista’s mouth, stupefied. Callista had kissed her. Kissed her. On the cheek, yes—a completely friendly, totally platonic thing which was totally normal, and probably expected given how much alcohol they’d both drunk. So why the hell had it felt so tender? And why the hell did she feel so disappointed? It wasn’t as if Callista had grabbed her by the chin and kissed her fully on the mouth or anything—

Dimly, she felt pinpricks of heat rising in her cheeks.

“Fuck, you are too cute!” Callista said, bringing Natalie back into focus. “Are you blushing? Am I so good at kissing that even women swoon at a friendly peck on the cheek?”

Friendly peck. Right. “Don’t flatter yourself. Just thinking, that’s all.”

“I thought we agreed, not so much thinking, thinking, thinking, all the time?” Callista sighed, turning away from her to roll her eyes in mock-exasperation at the cloud-scudded night sky. Her short, wavy brown hair was limned in soft lamplight, and Natalie was seized by the crazed impulse to reach up and sweep it back from her forehead. Instead she coughed, and cleared her throat.

“I’m just wondering where the hell the cell reception’s gone. I need to call an Uber, or a cab, or something.”

“There’s a road up here,” Callista replied. “Honestly, they’ll have a cab driver sitting here waiting, I know it. Maybe more than one. Honestly, they’re vultures, they wait for drunk people wandering home…”

Natalie nodded, and let her teammate’s rapid-fire ranting wash over her, barely noticing as both Callista’s volume and use of Italian words increased. All she wanted was a cold drink of water, a long shower, and as much sleep as she could scrape together. Her brain felt like a football being kicked down flight after flight of stairs. She remembered the club, how Callista had been by her side most of the night. How safe she’d felt when Callista was there, and the filaments of drunken listlessness that had stolen over her whenever she hadn’t.

Fuck. Natalie ground the heels of her hands against her eyes. Sleep. She just needed sleep, and water. Everything else would be swallowed by tomorrow.

After turning a corner, they reached a narrow road, and the two waiting taxis confirmed Callista’s suspicions. She watched silently as her teammate went up to the nearest one, a blue taxi that looked several years past its best, and haggled with the driver in machine-gun Italian before turning back to Nat.

“Giuseppe here will take us back to the hotel, the fastest way he can—giusto, truffatore di basso livello?”

Giuseppe rolled his eyes at her, but motioned for the pair of them to sit inside all the same. It was cramped in the backseat. Nat was uncomfortably aware of just how much of her skin was pressed against Callista’s as the taxi pulled away; the silence between them prickled in the dark. She resisted the urge to look at her teammate, instead keeping her gaze locked on her knees.

“I’d call that a successful night out,” whispered Callista, her vodka-scented breath tickling Natalie’s earlobe. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess.”

She resisted the urge to touch her cheek. The ghosts of Callista’s lips burned into her skin, as if branded there.

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♥ Welcome to #ockiss25 ♥

Get ready to get those OCs smooching!

♥ #ockiss25 CALENDAR ♥

from FEBRUARY 10th, 2025 to FEBRUARY 16th, 2025

♥ #ockiss25 MINI FAQ ♥

What is OCkiss? It’s a week long event in which artists, writers and other creators produce content about OCs kissing.

Who can participate in OCkiss? Do you have an OC? Do you want to participate in OCkiss? Congrats, you’re in! Create something and upload it during the event with the tag #ockiss25

My OC doesn’t have a significant other, can I still participate? Of course! OCkiss is not restricted to romantic kisses - they can be friendly, they can be familiar, they can just be kissing their pet!

Can I use other people’s OCs? If they have stated that their OCs are up for grabs for this event, of course! If you’re not sure, please, please always ask the OC’s owner first.

I’m a bit lost and don’t know what to create! You can ask other people for prompts, make your own, or follow the official #ockiss25 prompt list down below!

Can I participate with OCxCanon!character content? No.

If you have more questions, please refer to the main FAQ!

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Remember to tag your OCkiss creations with the #ockiss25 tag! I aim to reblog everybody who participates and I will set up a queue to that effect. Reblog culture has gone down on Tumblr, and I want to change that and promote creators to the best of my ability - it would be awesome if you joined me on this! If you don’t want your work to be reblogged here, please say so in the tags!

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2025 driver line - up

Team : Mercedes - AMG PETRONAS F1

Driver :

• Diego Ivaznop - 37 (Belgium)

• Reid Gillberty - 75 (VietNam)

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To a less angry degree, I'm also having this problem. That's not to say the people involved in my case are stupid (they're all very smart, and I respect them a lot) but sometimes it's okay to realise their critique is not valid, and they haven't engaged with your work well enough. For example, I write a lot of science-fiction, and I'm the only person (as far as I or my lecturers know) over all four years of my degree course who writes sci-fi. This has unfortunately led to some critique that doesn't really apply to sci-fi, or doesn't account for specific science-fiction tropes and devices I use in my work.

I beat myself up about it every time, but the reality of things is that not everybody will understand your work, and expecting everyone to implicitly understand your work is just wishful thinking. Makes getting specific critique very wearing, though.

Hardest part of writing is accepting that some people will not fucking get it & you just have to like cope with that because over-explaining it just makes it worse

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unrealistic (i know nothing about football)