#<- i want to experience every media i had before in reality.

[bluemorningsoup]

Arcane and JayVik have me fucking apoplectic. (Arcane S2 spoilers below cut.)

At first I was like: oh, so they’re going to parallel Vi + Jinx somewhat, Science Bros instead of Violence Sis, brothers by choice rather than blood. But then there was what I call the Infidelity Sequence, in which Jayce’s love scene with Mel was juxtaposed against a dying Viktor in the most bizarre manner, like Jayce was cheating on Viktor—an absolute fucking choice—and other instances of Mel superimposed against Viktor.

So I thought: SURELY it can’t be a “bros before hoes” storyline in the year of Our Lord Faker 2024??? But then they gave us Sky “Fridged Woman” Young and Jayce said Viktor was like a brother to him, and I was like, WOW, they’re really giving us this storyline in this day and age; this should be illegal.

Then S2 Jayce started going on about how he realised his place was in the lab with Viktor. Which was like. Okay. I’m a scientist. Modern science is, in reality, a very lonely endeavour a lot of the time, even as it demands nearly all of your life. I, too, would kill to have someone who would do experiments alongside me, who would share every project and publication authorship with me. Don’t get me wrong: there are real-life scientists who do it together, but more often than not they can afford to do so because they’re fucking married to each other. So. I get it, but it did feel like Jayce was basically declaring he wanted Viktor as a life partner.

And then Act 3 Jayce and the animation doubled down on it. The shadows in the campfire morphing from Mel into Viktor. Jayce telling Mel that for some time, he had been confused about many things. He had finally decided on what he wanted and apparently it’s to get his “(lab???) partner” back. Man was consumed by it—had discarded all other ambitions and dreams and desires for this singular motivation, even as he blasted a hole in Viktor’s chest and declared his partner “died in this room”, driven by a logic the viewers weren’t initially privy to. Oh yeah, and there’s also the oddly erotic fight scene with an avatar of Viktor.

And then then the narrative tripled, quadrupled, fucking Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicles-Neon Genesis Evangelion-Puella Magi Madoka Magica-ed on it. Who had been reading CLAMP in the writers’ room? Come the fuck out; I just want to talk. No, that’s not a shotgun in my hand; don’t worry about it. Transcendant Viktor choosing to stay by Jayce’s body after the end of everything. The storyboard placing the shot of Jayce kneeling face to face with his own corpse with Viktor’s voice line: “…fields of dreamless solitude.” Jayce deciding upon the singular defining desire of his life as wanting his partner back and promising to never let Viktor be alone. Jayce fulfilling that promise. Jayce drawing Viktor in even as his own body shook and trembled. Viktor’s gentle hand on Jayce’s arm. The forehead touch.

You sit there and watch as above ambitions, above desires, above suffering, above every other thing this universe has to offer—across all possibilities, across all timelines, two men choose one another.

And then the head writer of Arcane spoke about how they’re “just friends” and how “important” it is to portray platonic male relationship. My brother in Summoner’s Rift, as if any other emotional portrayal of male relationship in media is NOT about platonic male bonding. It’s fucking 2024, Faker won his 5th Worlds, and Jayce and Viktor are brothers who chose one another out of love, contrasting against Vi and Jinx who had to let go of one another out of love. BROS BEFORE HOES.

So I guess all I have to say is: Arcane JayVik are fucking awesome and they’ll leave you breathless like an ambiguous male-male relationship from a 2000 anime, but after all’s said and done, they’re from motherfucking League of motherfucking Legends.

[masked-and-doomed]

Bound to our own realities, ones that not even the Old Gods can bridge the gap on. We yearn for each others' embrace eternally.

[beiasluv]

forbidden fruit | Charles Leclerc

a/n: new to the f1 communityy 😬 apologies for any term or idea i got wrong. female!reader. no proofread! enjoyy 🤍

summary: the princess of mercedes and the prince of ferrari, what could possibly go wrong?

“y/n! y/n! she’s in her last turn! leclerc’s trailing behind! can he do an over take?”

splashing champagnes and listening to the dutch national anthem were never your favorite of winning a podium, but who cares?

you were on P3 and charles leclerc was not.

perhaps retelling the story of your rivalry with the monégasque driver would take a whole frustrating, aggravating, and lengthy year for us to get through; and perhaps it was for the best to leave it where it is, never to be touched, but to reminisce with a needle of cringeness poking through your heart.

although an honorable mention to verstappen, for taking the lead role of leclerc’s personal favorite rival.

it was all an inchident, of course.

smirking back to the driver in a flashing, scuderia ferrari, red fire suit, you could only feel your ego bubbling to the top of your throat. charles leclerc was staring. and staring hard. what a shame you couldn’t even take out your phone and take a snippet of his raging glance. what a fun sight for the whole news headlines to see.

‘charles leclerc, envy and jealousy…’

of course, he couldn’t lash it out. how could he? would the handsome, young, and talented ferrari driver want to ruin his reputation in the media? obviously, not.

of course, you knew it all too well. every day you wake up with the tip of a knife, aiming at your throat, ready to nick you anytime you take a wrong step on the luxurious path of an f1 driver. being the only female driver on the grid makes your life a thousand times more challenging.

but who were you to be a nitpick?

the media loves drama. we all do. perhaps it was a little bit more entertaining to see what you are wearing when the races had gone wrong. what hairstyle were you wearing for the big race? or, maybe, just which driver you were dating on the grid this season?

never once you could escape the dating questions or all the bullshit misogynistic attitudes from the journalists, press, media, and, well, …you name it.

perhaps you have to give it to leclerc for never going easy on you just because you are of a different gender.

“congratulations on P3, y/n,” max turned towards you and gave you a pat on the shoulder; simultaneously, bringing you back to reality.

“t- thanks.”

—

“you win this one, l/n.”

he took off his helmet, and clutched it loosely to his side. the cheeky smirk plastered on his face. the eyes searched for the depth of yours.

only you knew how much pain it was for him to force his lips to create such a soft and fake smile for the thousand camera lenses, waiting to catch the two rivals lacking. bumping into leclerc after the race, fresh and full of adrenaline, alone in the hallway of the track was never an enjoyable experience to endure.

“good race, leclerc,” you muttered out as many PR and drivers walked past you two.

“same to you.”

what a shame your PR manager ushered you out for the media room before you two could give a shot of throwing hands - elegantly, of course.

—

“good work on the qualifying round, l/n. return to the garage. over.”

“copy that,” you tapped your headset, notifying the engineer of the prestigious mercedes team.

driving for mercedes in f1 could count as your biggest dream since the karting days. and the race won against ferrari was a - personal - success.

slowing your baby down, and pressing the brake mechanism of the car, you came to a halt as the friction overpowered the tires. one or two seconds later, you could hear the mercedes team rushing and scurrying over to your parked position to collect you back to the mothership.

“take her back, guys!”

the screaming of your fans nearby erupted as you ascended out from the cramped space of your f1 seat. taking your helmet off, and waving to them; you gracefully jumped down from the car and headed towards the mercedes headquarters.

a long walk, but who are you to make a fuss?

an f1 driver should have no problem walking a couple of miles. oh but how annoyingly a group of fans quickly crowded over you and blocked your ways…red flags, horses, and charles leclerc faces. clearly, you knew whose fans they were.

fussing, grabbing, and pulling, you were harassed, unfortunately. autographs, hats, pictures, postcards, and questionable stuff were pushed into your face.

“y/n! please! sign my shirt!” “get the hell away from charles!”

“charles deserved p3 today!” “l/n!! l/n! say hi to my dad! he loves you!”

trying to fulfill all of their requirements, you realized you had found yourself in the sea of scuderia ferrari fans. it is an unspoken fact that you were the rival of charles leclerc; you could say some fans were more enthralled by that fact than others.

“y/n! what do you think about charles? are you guys dating?”

sometimes you hate technology. the cameras pointing at you reminded me of the knife you carry mentally with you every day. it could gain you thousands of thousands of likes in a few tiktoks or perhaps get ready to say goodbye to your f1 position.

“…we’re not talking. in any complicate way,” smiling through the pain you signed the cap that was shoved into your face. gosh, mercedes. where was your security?

your patience could only last so much until one fan decided it was worth it to grab your hand and pull you down for an instagram-worthy photo. and he possibly thought the best way to execute it was to, firstly, seize your waist. how thoughtful of him.

“fuc- please don’t-”

“y/n! i love you!”

man-child was not having it. sweaty and clammy hands could send chills down your spine if you didn’t know.

“please-”

smile through the pain. smile through the pain. it was all part of the job, at the end of the day. the fans still won and you were just a doll for f1. breathe in, breathe out.

he pulled his iphone 7 out of his pocket, painfully slow; slower than the ferrari’s pitstops. his side was squished to yours. the cologne, the smell, the sensory, everything-

“hey, hands off.”

you could say it was the first time you were glad to see charles leclerc from your entire life; wearing his race suit sluttily around his waist. leclerc - being leclerc - stunned his fans, leaving a big hole in the crowd around you.

he was reaching out for your waist; surprisingly, in a way you were pleased, and pulled you out of the red crowd. and just like magic, the security came rushing in and ushered the mob of fans away from the scene.

wearing that stunned face of yours, you regained consciousness and your rival emotions. clearing your already cleared throat, charles took it as a signal to let go of your waist. how suddenly you realized it was all happening over the armor of your fire suit.

thank god.

“..thanks”

“no need to thank me,” the competitive tone made its way through his annoying lips again. scoffing, he looked at you with his hand clutching his helmet by his side, “i don’t understand why they need to adore you this much.”

how rude.

“for the record, they are your fans, leclerc,” you scoffed offendedly, and your hand found its natural place on your chest; clutching for dramatic effect.

“what did i do to deserve such loyal fans, l/n…” not even looking at you he smirked under his nose. “they shouldn’t be acting this way, no?”

he looked over at you, seeing you in your distressed state and a chuckle left his lips. the cameras settled on the stands far away in the distance and stared at you two, they were definitely on.

shit.

this is going to end up in the headlines.

—

“check out your new title…” your manager cleared his throat as you nervously waited.

“you can’t just leave me hanging here!”

placing your phone in your lap your hands returned to the comfort of the steering wheel. twisting and turning, you maneuvered your mercedes inside the driver's garage.

“calm the fuck down! i’m pulling out the source for accuracy,” you swore you could see your manager rolling his eyes. “wait for it…‘charles to the rescue. mercedes and ferrari, love or rivalry?’”

“shut up.”

“i can send you the links.”

“please don’t,” you sighed as you looked over your shoulder to slide into the parking lot like a distinguished f1 driver. “…the devil works hard, but the media works harder, or what?”

“we could use a little PR for mercedes, y’know?” the crackled chuckle left your phone.

please.

“the signal is shit in the parking lot, i’ll see you at the paddock. bye.”

“alright, be quick.”

gathering your bag and phone, you checked your face one last time in the rearview mirror and opened the car door. unfortunately, the infamous ferrari entered the parking lot with its signature roars, as you stepped out of your car.

the devil had worked hard once again. walking to your trunk, you kicked it open and snatched some of your essential stuff for the race. and who would’ve thought charles leclerc could park his car in under 20 seconds?

not to mention, it wasn’t straight. (oops)

getting out of his car, he checked his hair and fixed his shirt. obviously, aware of the paparazzi lurking around the track’s garage for the big day, and hoping to sell a couple of pics for something a little more than a couple of bucks. perhaps an even better price for them if they caught you and your rival having a ‘friendly’ chat.

don’t get close to him. don’t get close to him.

“what a coincidence,” leclerc approached your mercedes as he locked his ferrari with its infamous beeping.

“how so?”

smirking back at him, you slammed your trunk closed and shut off; locking your car in the same manner. catching the glimpse of his eyes you made it your personal goal to escape him as fast as you could possibly can.

flicking your head away and taking off, the path inside the track was as empty as you hoped it could be.

“slow down, i just wanna talk.”

“leclerc.”

“you walk too fast,” you swore if you looked back and he is grinning. “you trying to escape from me?”

fuck.

“got a problem with that, leclerc?”

his dark green eyes met yours after you decided the risk was below the ‘manageable’ level to turn around.

“no,” he grinned at you. how you wish you could smack it off of his face. “i jus’ want some company while walking to the track, no?”

company, my ass.

clearing his throat, he looked at you, “you’re a pretty good rival though.”

gaining a nod and a smirk from you leclerc was cut short of his run time as his PR manager came to collect him to the ferrari garage. how sad. his messy hair, the confidential wave, and two eyes met yours one last time before you decided to head to the mothership of your mercedes headquarters.

big trouble, y/n. big trouble.

—

“y/n, we neeed to talk.”

the paddock was usually quiet upstairs, all the mechanics and engineers spent their time in garage down below. only toto, george, lewis, your manager, and their managers, and - obviously - you would spend time up here. also. is every private manager in the world annoyingly scary and friendly at the same time or what?

sitting down next to you on the black sofa of the mercedes headquarters by the pitch, you were face-to-face with your lovely manager.

clearing your nonexistent anxiety, “…yes?”

“look…the media is starting to notice your relationship with charles…”

“and..?”

“and,” he crossed his arms, “we need to work on keeping this situation private…it could affect your reputation. maybe after the soft launch phase is over, you can publicize it…if you want to, obviously.”

the fuck?

“…what are your thoughts?”

he looked into your face, not a single thought behind it. somehow the racetrack outside the notoriously big, shiny window of the mercedes paddock suddenly gained your attention, and he restored to snapping his fingers in front of your face.

“what-? oh right- for fuck’s sake! we’re not in a relationship!”

“and what about those paparazzis’ pictures? I thought we agreed on sharing every ‘public’ detail about your life with me?”

“first of all, privacy. second of all. you believe that?! anthony! you’re my manager, i would’ve told you if i was dating a ferrari driver!” grabbing a quick breath,

“do you think i want to date the reddest of all flags on the grid?!”

“yeah? but that’s not the impression the media got,” he said. “even max! max verstappen thought-”

“who cares what max thinks!” you thrown your head back on the sofa.

“PR could be good, but we don’t know if it’s going to blacklash-”

george russell. he walked up to you two arguing on the black sofa and smirked at you; clearly, he heard your talks about ‘the reddest of all flags on the grid.’

“shut your mouth, russell,” sighing sarcastically as you could and you turned to your manager, who was having the time of his life.

“I’m not saying anything,” he raised his hands defensively, grinning the shit out of the corners of his mouth.

“I’m a driver, not a play doll you could match-make for the team’s reputation. hell. doesn’t charles have a girlfriend?”

anthony pulled out his phone and scrolled through ‘something,’ “yes…charles…has a girlfriend, PR relationship?”

“what do you mean?”

putting his phone away, “doesn’t matter. but what the media care about is to get a story out of nothing.”

“…and?”

“you have a reputation of being a private figure, and you're an expert in keeping it that way. we just need to do that until the end of the season.”

george chuckled sarcastically, "she seems angry at us, guys.”

“i am. and i’m not dating anyone for mercedes. done,” you stood up from the sofa and beelined towards the door. “also. i’m telling toto.”

and someone finally heard you this time. the whole room’s atmosphere seemed to tense up as someone entered the door.

toto wolff.

“is there a problem, y/n?” toto asked as george smirked at the unfolding situation.

you swung your head towards the origin of the sound and cleared your throat, “your employee, mr. wolff, is trying to matchmake me with a ferrari driver.”

toto chuckled.

toto chuckled?

“so there is something between you and charles?” he raised his eyebrow at you. expectedly, george was holding his laughter in for his dear life.

“why does everyone thinks that we’re dating?! even toto?!”

“so you’re not dating leclerc?”

“no!”

congratulations. you have successfully crashed onto the sofa once again, groaning your pain out.

“she’s lying,” george chimed in.

“I. am. not.”

how surprising that george’s back kissed the sofa as you tackled him jokingly down. a moment of silence for toto to watch many of his best drivers tackle each other like it’s a normal day in kindergarten.

“are you sure you are not dating, leclerc?”

last straw. you clutched your bag and left george dysfunctional on the couch. walking past the room, you glanced back one last time and said with the best sarcasm, “i’m not. and I’m not dating him for mercedes. done! I’m a driver, not a doll!”

slamming the door shut, you headed for your private driver’s room.

"she's angry at us…” george chuckles nervously; obviously, with a hint of joy.

“no shit sherlock”

—

edit: part 2

part 2?? reblog, like, whatever the heck you want would be appreciated 😘

today’s a great day to take care of yourself, lots of luv 🤍

[delulupunk]

How the batboys react to you only speaking in meme references:

Dick Grayson

This is the Robin who used to unironically use turns of phrase while busting crime lords with Batman, so of course he’s going to match your energy. If you say “What the fuck Richard?” He’s just going to reply something even sillier.

“They are my crocs.” He does this in the most deadpan tone and these two memes aren’t even related to one another.

He loves it though and finds the funny way you react to situations similar to his demeanour so you bounce of each other very well. It leads to the pair of you having meme wars- you try and outdo each other in how many memes you can reference.

“Bethany I made BiScUiTs!”

“Look at all those chickens!”

“So no head?”

The pair of you now have inside meme jokes that you say to each other, that earn you weird looks from everyone else when you say them to each other. Mainly because the combinations barely make any sense. However it brings you two closer and sometimes helps break the ice after an argument.

“It’s Wednesday my dudes…”

…

“AHHHHH!”

Jason Todd

Jason isn’t much of a social media person anymore. He tells everyone he finds it jarring and that it’s like peer pressure on steroids. He only uses Pinterest for book recommendations. So you can only reference memes that went viral before his death, at the beginning of your relationship otherwise he just ignores you.

When he does recognise a meme he’ll either roll his eyes or give you an annoyed, yet affectionate smile. Over time though as he notices you making more relevant meme references with your friends, he finds himself getting jealous. Jason wants to experience that with you.

So he pushes aside all his reservations with social media and watches as many meme videos as he can. Eventually he tries incorporating them into your conversations, albeit sheepishly as he’s unsure of himself.

“Brother Eugh?” He’ll state in a reluctant tone and you’ll just laugh and say it right back.

Tim Drake

Tim is far too focused on being a detective to watch memes, instead the way he relaxes is by doing something that still stimulates his brain in a way, so he’s a fan of puzzles.

“You look like the polite cat sometimes.” You told this to him once absentmindedly and he looked at you like you’d grown two heads. He immediately researched it and saw some similarities. You continued the meme reference when you bought him a puzzle of the polite cat for his birthday. It was safe to say he wasn’t that impressed. However he finished it in record time.

Whenever you quote any memes though he gives you a factual answer, “Roadworks mean that construction workers are fixing the road.” In retaliation you begin sending him all the memes you reference and then one day he just starts saying them. At first you’re shocked and he doesn’t do it often, but he’ll have a smug smile on his face every time.

Damian Wayne

Due to Damian’s harsh upbringing from the league of assassins he isn’t well versed in meme culture.

“What is aura? How have I lost -10,000? What was my starting amount?” He takes your meme references too literally, but when you offer to show him some and explain them he accepts. He’ll scoff and tell you he was only doing it to humour you, but in reality he wanted to regain some of his childhood and he felt this would be a good way to do it.

This bitch empty… yeet!

“She could have hit an innocent bystander with that.”

“I think she did Damian.” You play the video back a million times just to see whether or not she had.

He doesn’t ever reference memes back to you or say them in the first instance. Despite this he learns when you’re most likely to quote them and which one it would be. If you choose not to he’ll raise an eyebrow and ask you why you hadn’t. He wants to make sure you haven’t stopped because of him, he likes it he’s just not sure how exactly to show it.

When you do quote memes to him, he’ll have the ghost of a smile on his face. You’ll only see it if you look closely.

[xclowniex]

You're a zionist Arab Jew? Are you also a member of the Snow Leopards Eating My Face party? Are you white passing enough that zionists don't know you're Arab or do you just hate yourself? Are you unaware of the unabashed anti Arab racism that Israelis spout out every day on social media? Or do you think you're just "one of the good ones"?

Time for everyone's favorite game show!

"What deranged shit in Clownie's inbox today!"

To turn to a more serious note, Whilst I do not not live in Israel, my family does.

My family have only faced minimal racism for being arab, mainly stuff back in school years ago. I do not speak for all arab jews or even all Arabs in Israel, but that is mu family's experience. Just schoolyard racist teasing which is obviously not a good thing, but isn't a problem anymore than anywhere else in the world.

My family has full rights as other arab citizens do and other jews do.

Most jews I speak to have no problem with me being arab too. Do anti arab jews exist? Probably as no group is a monolith. I have just not encountered any yet, which is again, just my experience.

Zionism is also not an anti arab ideology inherently. Zionism literally just means wanting self determination in Southern Levant. That looks like a lot of different things, however most jews who are zionist believe in either a two state solution or a land for all solution which allows for jewish self determination and Palestinian self determination.

I think it's also important for me to say that I do not know which arab country my arabness comes from due to my family being told to "leave or die" a few generations back because they were also jewish. I really wish that history had not been forgotten in the past 4 generations but it has.

When it comes to my appearance, is white passing something you ask every other poc on this site? Or just arab jews.

For your information, I am not white passing, I look mixed. People can tell that I'm not white. I have faced anti arab sentiment and racism before too because of how I look. I've even had someone think I was the cousin of an arab acquaintance too if that gives you a better idea surrounding my appearance.

I would have a better time in Israel as an arab jew than I would in most arab countries as an arab jew. Also there is a decent community of arab jews in Israel as well.

Lastly I would like to leave you with this, if your world view is threatened by an arab jew being a two state solution zionist, then your world view is weak and not at all based in reality.

I an arab jew, am holding hands with all other arab jews, non Jewish arab and non arab jews. Fuck off with your arabs vs jews rhetoric

[genderkoolaid]

We don't have good statistics or estimates for the population size of transmasculine sex workers. Part of that is a lack of data on sex workers in general, but part of it is that trans men are often not visibly trans when they participate in sex work. A lot of the trans men and transmasculine people who sell sex do so under a female persona. The escorting profile of a trans man might be indistinguishable from the profile of a cis woman – intentionally on his part – to attract as many clients as possible. This means that in practice, this segment of the transmasculine population are recorded as cis women. If we were to assume the population of trans men selling sex was accurately reflected by the profiles visible on escorting sites, we would likely come to the conclusion that trans men are a tiny group within sex work. The reality is that even openly trans men are much more likely to engage in more informal kinds of sex work, such as on apps like Grindr or with people they meet and in social spaces, just like cis gay men who sell sex. The transmasculine people who claim to be cis women whilst working do share needs with cis women who sell sex, but such resources do not serve all the needs of those hidden trans people. Trans men who are not socially or medically transitioning are driven to sell sex by the same forces which push women to sell sex, with the added pressure of saving money towards transition care and the certainty that they will not be able to sell sex under a female persona forever. Their clientele are also much more likely to shift towards gay and bi men when they do come out, which will change the experiences they have at work and may change their health concerns. [...] [...] So on what basis do I assume the real numbers are so much higher than the few ads we can find online? The impetus for my initial wondering was prompted by the fact I sold sex for many years before I even came out to myself as trans. And I continued to work under a cis female persona until I had been on testosterone for several months. I’m not arrogant enough to think I’m an exceptional case, so I kept an eye out for others like me.  As I began to speak about my experiences in sex worker group chats, on social media, and in meetings with advocacy organisations, I began to hear from many others in the same situation. Every time I speak up, I hear from more trans men and non-binary people who are hidden. No advocacy group is going to find these people unless they identify themselves this way, and transmasculine people are unlikely to do that when an organisation is explicitly geared towards women. I’ve heard from more trans men working under female personas than the total number of openly out trans men advertising across all of the escorting sites I use. I’ve never explicitly asked anyone if they have this experience – they’ve all come to me. And with every story I hear there’s a common thread: they want to medically transition, but fear losing their entire income when they do. Top surgery is a definitive end to being able to work as a cis woman for most, but even testosterone alone can be prohibitive given enough time. By three months on testosterone, clients were beginning to suggest I was a trans woman who’d had genital surgery, and were much more violent with me. This kind of violence rooted in transmisogyny won’t be everyone’s experience, but it happens.

Also, for those interested, check out Jack Parker's Transmasculine Guide to Sex Work

[dev-solovey]

Reading up on the history of American Idiot (album) and realizing exactly how revolutionary it was and I just have to yell about it for a hot second

So, before they started working on American Idiot, the band was having problems and they were thinking they were going to break up. But for a couple of reasons, they switched directions, most notably because they all felt strongly about the Iraq War and how it was manufactured by greed and warmongering from the Bush administration, which was amplified by the news media. I read a quote from Billie Joe Armstrong where he talked about how the news media was becoming "more of a reality show" than it was news, and he couldn't have been more right. In fact, that problem got worse, and now we're living in an era of rampant misinformation where everything is politicized to a point where just supporting human rights for marginalized people is considered controversial. The song American Idiot came out in 2004, and when Donald Trump first visited the UK at the beginning of his presidency, it was the top played song on every UK radio station, 12 years after it was released. Most things would be culturally irrelevant at that point.

When creating the album American Idiot, a lot of thought went into it - they had a very specific message in mind, and their goal was to send that message to youth. This is because they realized at some point that their fanbase was a bunch of teenagers, and even though they hadn't necessarily intended it that way, they suddenly had a platform with the youth of America and they decided they ought to do something good with it. The drummer, Tré Cool, said something along the lines of "I've never really liked the idea of preaching to kids, but I realized we don't really have a choice at this point." And I love that so much because like, so many people who get rich and famous just become completely out of touch, and when they get a platform, it's very easy to exploit that platform, influence them with terrible ideas, or encourage them to act in terrible ways for self-serving reasons (ex: JK Rowling, Andrew Tate, Dream, Logan Paul, Onision, etc etc). Green Day refused to allow themselves to get to that point. They know the platform they had gave them power and they made an active choice early on to be responsible with it. And a lot of that moral code comes from the fact that they came up in the DIY punk scene in Oakland, which held its members to a very high standard of ethics, a code that they still follow even after they were disowned by that scene when they signed on with a major record label in 1994.

The song American Idiot has a message of "this mass media hysteria is manufactured bullshit, don't fall for it," and it is not subtle about that message. It punches you right in the face. I remember being 12 years old and listening to it and thinking, "yeah, I don't want to be an American idiot." And now, at the age of 28, I am a staunch leftist who is firmly against the atrocities the US government commits, and I feel strongly about stopping misinformation. So I can say with absolute certainty that they succeeded.

I also get like, really upset when people say that American Idiot is the album where they sold out, because that's objectively not true, both for the reasons I've provided above, and also because of the song Wake Me Up When September Ends. Not a lot of people know the story behind this song, but it's actually a song that Billie Joe wrote about the experience of his dad dying of cancer when he was 10 years old. The story, as he tells it, is that when he came home from school, his mom gave him the news, and being (understandably!) upset, started crying, ran to his room and slammed the door. When she knocked on the door to try and talk to him, he shouted "wake me up when September ends!!" in response. It took him decades to be able to write this song, and it shows because it's the perfect grief song, having been played at benefits for 9/11, hurricane Katrina, and so on. The first time I heard that song it reduced me to tears, because you can hear the intense sadness in it. A "sellout" would never write a song like that!! (Side note: maybe stop tweeting at Green Day to wake up every October 1st, it's super tone deaf given the subject matter,,,)

Anyway, I think I'm done being autistic about Green Day (that's a lie, they'll forever be my special interest), so TL;DR:

Thank you, Green Day, for creating a generation of leftists who aren't about the bullshit

[goldenseresinretriever]

False Confidence: Chapter 11

Pairing: Javy “Coyote” Machado x Reader

Part of the San Diego Dogfighters universe

Summary: The Athletic named Javy Machado the fifth sluttiest player in the NHL last year. He’s a known playboy who leaves every game with a different girl. As far as he’s concerned he’s living the dream, playing his dream job with the dream lifestyle. Unfortunately his friends and bosses don’t agree. At 33, they think it’s time for him to settle down. You’re a kindergarten teacher at an esteemed private school. You don't expect much when you finally accept your colleague’s invitation to attend her husband’s hockey game but when you accidentally get separated in the post-game rush, you find yourself in a compromising situation with the last person you’d ever expected to meet. When his PR rep suggests a mutually beneficial agreement, your hands are tied. How long will you have to keep up the act? And how long will you be able to?

Series CW: 18+ ONLY, swearing, angst, fluff, fake relationship, suggestive language, anxiety, school system inaccuracies, hockey inaccuracies etc. There will be individual chapter warnings. No use of Y/N.

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: I planned to wait until 5pm but fuck it, we ball

Previous Chapter // Series Masterlist // Next Chapter

You pick at the knit fabric of your sweater before you remember how much it cost and forcibly pull your arms back to your sides. The sweater and skirt you’re wearing under it are another product of your shopping spree with Nat and you’d secretly chosen it for today, planning of course to find some Javy-related event to wear it to later to justify putting it on his card. You couldn’t help it, you wanted something special for tonight. After an anxiety-ridden week spent pacing your living room every night trying to choose the pieces you wanted to showcase, it’s finally the night of your gallery showing. Pop-up gallery, you remind yourself. It’s a one-night event, promising minimal exposure for your art, but the idea of hanging it somewhere that’s not on your walls is enough to have you bouncing on your feet as you overanalyze your canvases currently hanging on the wall. You didn’t have the budget for the ornate frames you secretly envision your pieces inhabiting so the naked canvases are on display and you try not to let it bug you. Your little area is flanked by plenty of other artists, ranging in notoriety. None of them are particularly mainstream, but you’ve heard of a few of them on social media including the one hosting the event.

You’ve only been allowed five pieces tonight, but you know even that is more than nothing. Hanging in the center is the piece Nat had complimented and then gone on to text you about multiple times this week insisting that you include it in the gallery exhibition. You gaze at it as you bounce on the balls of your feet. The gallery should be opening anytime now, and while Nat promised to swing by sometime tonight, you aren’t expecting any other company. Your art has always been something intimate and personal, and you don’t talk about it often. Most people don’t know you paint, and even those who do rarely get a glimpse of your art. Despite your unwillingness to share it with the people in your life, you long for the world to see it, just perhaps not those who know anything about the artist. You tell yourself that you want your paintings to speak for themselves instead of adding to your friends’ perception of you. In reality, you’re probably afraid of criticism, of them seeing the darkest parts of yourself, unveiled and hung on a wall for their scrutiny. What if they don’t like what they see?

The painting of the bay makes your stomach twist. You don’t usually paint scenes from your life, rather using your experiences and emotions and pouring them into whatever your brush creates out of them. This painting feels oddly intimate, but you assure yourself that it shouldn’t. The only person who could possibly recognize it is Javy and he won’t ever see it. To the rest of the world, it’s simply another piece in your collection. Your eyes trace the canvas, slowly but surely making their way to the nondescript figures in the corner. Your heart tugs painfully as you’re taken back to that night, remembering the storm in your head and the way he’d quieted it with a single touch.

“Holy shit, Meep, this is amazing,” you almost think you hear his voice and chuckle to yourself. That is until you hear it again and feel a body step closer to you, the air between you crackling with electricity. “You’re amazing,” you turn in surprise, face transforming as you run through a thousand emotions at once. Shock at his sudden appearance, surprise that he’s here, terror that he’s here, and joy because he’s here. Your lips part in shocked surprise as you stare at Javy, standing next to you, eyes glued to the canvas in front of him, a bouquet of tiger lilies in his arms.

“Javy?” Your voice comes out choked with the emotion you can barely contain. He’s here. What’s he doing here? He turns to you and the strength of his smile almost sends you to your smile. “What? What are you doing here?” You stammer, as your brain fires at a mile a minute as it tries to understand how.

“Meep, as disappointed as I am that you didn’t tell me about this, I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

“B-but how?” Your brain has descended into a world of gray static as you stare at this man standing here, who showed up for you when you didn’t even ask.

“Nat said the gallery opened at 8, but she’s running late because she’s always running late. I would get used to that, by the way, she doesn’t mean anything about it, she’s just always been that way-” You cut him off as you throw your arms around his neck and seal your lips against his.

***

You’re kissing him. Javy’s brain short-circuits. He’d expected a lot of things when he arrived here without an invitation. Nat had mentioned that you’d seemed surprised that she’d even wanted to come, and he was sure you’d already be overwhelmed by the event itself, and even more by Nat’s presence since he knows she can come on strong. Not to mention that it sounded like she essentially invited herself to the event. He knows he’s not much better, but you’ve been entertaining a lot of his antics. You’ve come to games, you’d come with him to the auction, and on top of that, you somehow hadn’t blocked him despite all the silly texts he’s been peppering him with. Not to mention that he wants to be here. He’s wanted to see your art since you first mentioned it, but you’ve never offered. You’re even protective over your home, which he’s realized is at least partially due to your art being all over the living room according to Nat. Today is different. If the public gets to see your art, he should count as a member of the public, right? He’s brought the flowers as a peace offering. That and he can’t erase the look on your face when he gave them to you out of his mind.

He’d expected you to be good, you’re a hard worker and determined. You put your all into everything you do, and he’s sure it would translate to your art as well. He hadn’t expected to be so completely blown away, though. He almost feels silly, having taken you to that auction, paying such high prices for someone else’s art for his home when he’d rather have your work all over his walls. Especially the piece in the center. He recognizes it immediately, the stretch of road off the coast of the bay where he’d been scared he’d lose you before he’d even gotten to know you. The cliffs, the highway the water churning below, are all painted in various shades of dark moody blue, and there in the corner, a pair of indestinct figures locked in an embrace. Suddenly all his feelings are at the front of his mind, and he wonders nervously if maybe you feel for him a fraction of what he feels for you and it sends his heart into a tizzy.

Then there’s the look on your face. He watches every emotion process clear as day as panic slams against his ribcage, afraid of overwhelming you, afraid of hurting you, afraid of ruining your evening, afraid of ruining everything. Then before he can find the words, words to apologize, words to try and calm you in an effort to calm himself, your arms around his neck, and your lips are on his.

He can’t breathe but if this is what not breathing feels like, he never wants to take another breath. Your lips are soft, so damn soft. How does he not remember them being this soft? Though the initial kiss was full of adrenaline-fueled determination, he can feel you begin to falter, your lack of experience threatening to let the nerves win so he kisses you back, meeting your hunger with his own, doing his best to control himself from pinning you against the wall like the piece of art that you are. He lets his hands find your waist, hauling you impossibly close as your fingers twist into the fabric of his turtleneck, holding on for dear life as he kisses it out of you. He guides your lips with his own and you’re the perfect student, as your nerves melt and you let your body respond to him. He registers a sticky texture on your lips and almost groans against your mouth as he recognizes it as the gloss you’d worn to the art show. He’d been desperate to kiss it off you that night and he takes the opportunity to do it now. His tongue darts past his lips to taste it before he can stop himself but your soft whimper in response tells him it’s okay. He almost sinks to his knees right there at the sound.

***

Your brain turns to mush as you feel Javy’s lips move against your own. His hands find your waist in a way that’s simple, perfectly respectable, and yet the force that he’s gripping you threatens to leave bruises on your skin. Secretly you hope he does so you can assure yourself later that this is real, that you’re really kissing Javy Machado. And he’s kissing you back, returning the hunger that’s been stoked to life in your heart. You feel something wet dart against your lips and your eyes almost roll into the back of your head as you realize it’s his tongue. The deep rumble that comes from his chest after that forces a whimper from your throat. Heat washes over your face as you realize but he doesn’t seem deterred or embarrassed, he just pulls you closer and you go like a moth to a flame.

It’s been so long since you’ve kissed someone and meant it. It feels like falling into a fire and somehow coming back to life after burning down to microscopic ashes. Your heart squeezes in your chest as your brain pounds with the realization. He wants you. He wants you back. He wants you too. You want it to last forever, even as you grip Javy’s shirt with a desperacy that screams at him not to slip through your finger. That screams at you not to be the butt of another joke. But you won’t be, not this time, because he wants you. The cynical voice in your head drowned out by each desperate press of your lips. You want it to last forever even as your lungs beg for relief. Your head and heart are at war and you’re not sure how you’ll make yourself choose that is until a voice breaks through the pounding in your ears.

“Really? Come on, you guys, we’re in public for heaven’s sake.” You reluctantly pull away from Javy and your vision spins as you come back down to the ground. You don’t get very far, Javy’s lips chasing yours until he registers the voice. He groans and you suppress the urge to shudder at the rumble of it against your skin as he leans his forehead to your temple as you turn to face Nat who’s standing with her hands on her hips, a playful look of disapproval on her face as she suppresses the giddy grin fighting it’s way to the surface and you follow her gaze to where the bouquet Javy was holding has fallen to the ground and your cheeks heat in embarrassment.

“Fuck off, Nat,” Javy grumbles, pressing a kiss to the side of your face before turning to pepper the nearby skin with dozens of small pecks.

Nat raises a single eyebrow. “This is Roadie’s big night, Javy, come on, let her have her moment.” He groans against your skin, still not moving.

Your eyes widen as Jake appears behind Nat, coming around the corner, followed by Bugs, Zam, Bradley, Dragon, Bob, Mickey, Reuben, and Josie with the kids. You feel tears well in your eyes as Jake approaches and you realize he’s carrying a cake. He grins and you catch sight of the cake. The edge has been decorated to look like a frame and inside are the words, “You’re a Work of Art, Congratulations Roadie!” You don’t realize you’re crying until Javy pulls you against his side and strokes your hair gently.

“Congrats on the gallery spot, Roadie!” Jake says and suddenly you’re surrounded by these people who are slowly but steadily becoming your friends and you’re sobbing harder as each of them hugs you. When you finally get to Nat you throw yourself into her arms and she squeezes you tight.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” you sob over her shoulder.

“Welcome home, Roadie,” she whispers back and you hold her tighter.

That’s how your first gallery show that you’d spent the whole week stressed out over turns into a party. Everyone sits down on the floor around your wall and Josie expertly cuts the cake that Zam reveals Bradley made, to which you launch onto him to give him a big hug he instantly stiffens in response to before he relaxes and hugs you back. Mickey brought paper plates and soon you’re all eating cake and chatting, and if the other artists give your group dirty looks, you don’t even notice.

You’re leaning against the wall under your paintings when Javy scoots beside you, shoulder brushing yours. “So, is any of the art here for sale?” He asks and you shake your head, gesturing around the room.

“Not exactly, this is different than an actual sale, but I’m sure some artists end up selling if someone shows up and is willing to pay a good price. We come here for publicity and hopefully to make some connections, but if you sell a painting I’d say it’s a pretty good night.” He nods before turning to you.

“And your art? Is it for sale?” Your eyes widen in surprise.

“My art?” He nods. “You want to buy my art?” You stammer, trying to wrap your head around the idea. “I couldn’t make you pay for my art,” you say, frowning and he pokes your forehead with a finger, soothing the frown away.

“You wouldn’t be making me do anything, I want to. After all,” he gives you a pointed look, “it’s the least you can do after letting me pay $50,000 for what you claimed was the perfect centerpiece for my living room.” You frown again and he reaches up to attempt to smooth it away again.

“I meant that, why, did you not like it once you hung it up?”

He chuckles. “I like it just fine, but not as much as this one,” he moves his finger from your forehead to gesture above him to the cliff painting. Your cheeks warm as you follow his finger.

“Javy…”

“I mean it, Meep. I love that painting, more than anything else we saw last week. I love it even more knowing that you painted it.” He leans his head against yours. “I want to buy it.” He turns then and you feel his nose brush your ear as he whispers, “I want to buy my girlfriend’s painting and have it hanging in my house because that’s where it belongs.”

Your cheeks are burning and you feel dizzy as Javy whispers that word. It feels different somehow and you find your lips repeating it, trying it on, trying to reconcile that it’s real. “Girlfriend?” He nods against you.

“If you’ll have me,” he whispers back and you reach down where his hand is splayed between the two of you and lace your fingers together before you turn slightly so his nose slips against yours.

“I’ll have you,” you whisper against his lips and he shudders. This big, strong, proud, cocky man shudders at your words. You look at him in silent awe, committing every bit of his face to memory. His beautifully smooth skin so close to yours, his eyes so dark and yet so bright, dancing with mirth when he doesn’t notice, and those lips, so full and steady and you marvel at the way they’re slightly swollen, your subtle mark on him.

“Like what you see, Meep?” he asks, his voice a soft exhale like he’s trying to avoid breaking your concentration as you stare at him. You hum in affirmation. You want to paint him, to try and capture his likeness even when you know you’d never be able to do him justice, like taking a picture of the moon.

Nat blows a raspberry at the two of you and Javy squeezes his eyes shut like he’s praying for patience. Your cheeks heat as you’re reminded that you’re not alone. Nat winks at you cheekily and you turn back to the group. Jake looks over and gives you a fond smile that you return shyly. You look around at the people who’ve come into your life over the last week and smile as you think over Nat’s world. Maybe they could be your home after all.

***

Javy’s thigh bounces as he watches the screen of his laptop while the video call rings. He’s been abnormally poor about catching up with his family since he met you. Deep down he knows why, but he’s finally decided he needs to say something. He doesn’t doubt that Isa’s opened her mouth since he told her about you but he’s hoping he’s in time to do some if any damage control. His oldest sister is more than capable of reading him for filth and has done so her own fair share of times over the years. Most of the time he deserves it.

The call finally connects the four faces that pop onto the screen. Isadora’s sitting next to his mother and Javy’s once again stricken by how similar they look. Cecilia and Sophia are perched on kitchen stools behind the older women, but even they’re not little girls anymore and Javy finds himself mourning the days when they still looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky. Instead, all four women are wearing the same suspicious look and he heaves a sigh. It’s going to be a long evening.

“Hi Mama,” he starts but before he can continue, her eyes narrow.

“Don’t you ‘hi, mama’ me, Javier,” he swallows, hard. “You haven’t called in almost a month. Don’t think I didn’t notice. I know you’re busy but it looks like you’ve been busier than usual this month.” He swallows, again. “It seems everyone but your own mother knows you have a girlfriend.” She arches a single eyebrow in question and wishes you were here. You’re so much braver than him.

“Fake girlfriend,” Isa clarifies, and Javy closes his eyes as he braces for the onslaught about to come his way.

“Okay but is she a fake girlfriend, if he actually likes her? Doesn’t that just make her a crush, or is that one of those ‘situationship’ things?” Cece pipes up and Phe rolls her eyes.

“Javy doesn’t even know what situationships are, how could he possibly be in one.” Phe points out. His youngest sister has a good point but it doesn’t keep Javy from frowning as Cece gives him a shrewd look.

“Okay, but do you like her, Javy, or did you just tell Isa that as a cover?” Cece asks with an accusatory tone. He suddenly wishes he’d just called every member of his family separately to explain before attempting a group call.

“Why would I even call Isa to ask for help buying her flowers if I didn’t like her? I have female friends, you know.” He points out and Cece rolls her eyes. “I consulted a professional for a reason.”

“And that reason is?” Isa asks even though she knows.

“Look I know what you want me to say but I’m not saying it to you before I say it to her, that’s cheating.”

“Javy, you wouldn’t know cheating if it had its tongue down your throat.” Cece remarks and Javy glares at her even as his stomach roils. She doesn’t know the half of it.

“Well, I’m not saying it, until I tell Roadie, I stand by that. And if you’d let even get two words out, I’d just tell you that she’s my girlfriend. My real girlfriend, not my fake girlfriend, and yes I know the difference. I asked her out yesterday.” He fights the urge to cross his arms defensively as he scowls at the screen. He thinks it might be frozen because for once the figures on the other side don’t say anything.

That is until Cece breaks the silence “And she said yes?” It’s Javy’s turn to roll his eyes and this time he does cross his arms across his chest.

“YES.” They all fall quiet again and then Phe screams. She jumps off her stool and brings her face up close to the camera.

“JAVY HAS A GIRLFRIEND! JAVY HAS A GIRLFRIEND!” Is his youngest sister twenty-six years old? Yes.

“Sophia sit down.” Javy’s smile dies before it fully eclipses his face. Phe returns to her stool, flashing him a supportive smile before his mother speaks again. “Javy, I want the whole truth, not just bits and pieces from you, Isa, and the media.” He swallows, hard. He’s done a lot of regrettable things in his life, but he’s never had to explain them to his mother before.

He fights the urge to squirm in his seat and he’s wishing you were here again. A wet nose nudges his hand he looks down to see Roxy cocking her head at him. He scoops her into his lap, letting his fingers bury themselves in her fur and trying not to wish it was your hair. “So, I… I met Roadie after a game. She came with her friend who’s one of the other guys, Reuben’s wife. I found her wandering around lost after a game, and I thought she was a puck bunny looking for a hookup so I kissed her.” He winces as Cece’s jaw drops and his mom’s and Isa’s mouths tighten into identical thin lines.

Roxy nudges his hand for pets and he continues. “The press somehow managed to get a photo and it started making the rounds. Zam had her come in so I could apologize and we could find out if she wanted to sue, which she would have been well within her rights to do, and instead, we made an agreement. She would pretend to be my girlfriend to help my public image, and I would pretend to be her boyfriend because the school she teaches at has some new backward policy that has her teaching contract renewal hinging on whether she’s in a relationship.” He shakes his head in irritation at the unfairness of your situation all over again.

“So we started fake dating and it turns out she’s amazing. She’s a kindergarten teacher and she’s so good at her job. The kids love her, and you can tell she loves them. She also does art in her spare time,” he pauses then, bends the laptop screen back, and picks up the computer so he can show off the painting hanging behind him. “She painted this,” he explains proudly. “She’s so damn talented.” He sits back down, places the computer back on the coffee table, and Roxy climbs back on his lap. “I fucked up somewhere in the middle. I could tell I was starting to have real feelings for her and I hurt her,” he falls silent, the image of your teary eyes as you pushed past him at the karaoke bar playing before him.

“She helped me realize that there were things I needed to fix, to change. My friends all helped me try and get her back, and she let me back in. We decided to continue the charade as friends but I was already in love with her. It was too late. And then yesterday she kissed me.” He feels hope bubbly giddily up in his stomach. “It's still new and it’s probably too soon to say, but I think she’s the best thing that ever happened to me, and I’m going to fight for her. Not because I deserve her, because she deserves a hell of a lot better than me, but because she chose me, and that’s enough.” He looks back up and sees a small smile on his mother’s face as she watches him. He expects her to say a lot of things, but he doesn’t expect the next words out of her mouth.

“Bring her to Dallas, Javier, I want to meet her.”

A/N: AAA AAAA AAAAAA!!!! I’M LOSING MY MIND!!! It’s been a long time coming~

[utilitycaster]

How can Molly's death be considered a major mistake? It's the crux of the entire campaign.

so I think about this a lot, because you're right, and it really comes down to like...a lot of factors in how people interact with fiction, and some stuff I feel about fandom.

The short answer is that Molly is some people's favorite character, and they really wanted to watch him for 141 episodes and not just 26, and they didn't get to, and so it's valid to feel sad about that. But I think what personally grinds my gears is the idea that it's a mistake and because this is a Fan Favorite character he SHOULD have come back. Setting aside the fact that he had both his fans and his detractors from the start and a lot of people (myself included) who found him irritating didn't say much for a good chunk of C2 because, well, he was dead, this isn't a fucking competitive reality show. You don't get to vote on your phones to decide who wins a resurrection.

I think the longer answer is that there is a certain type of person in fandom, born of a certain type of person in social media communities, who just...is not willing or interested in considering not just that their experiences, preferences, and philosophy are not universal, but also that they are not objectively best and correct and that everyone who disagrees is wrong. It's often really common in, though not exclusive to, people who have particularly limited experiences - young (like, teenager/early 20s), people who haven't lived in a diverse area or in multiple different areas, people who for whatever reason do not get out much - which both makes sense (haven't been exposed to a ton of different perspectives irl) but also means that you get people who, for all they may talk about global politics, kind of unconsciously seem to act as though everyone they interact with online is a variant of someone from the same 3000 person town in the United States in which they've spent all 21 years of their life. ANYWAY getting back to the main point I feel like Molly attracted a lot of that kind of person, who just...doesn't get that while Molly is, to them, a deeply validating expression of gender identity, for many people he is "guy you meet at your friend's birthday party in a two-bedroom 6 floor walk up and within 5 seconds he has pissed you off so profoundly with his overfamiliarity that you go into the kitchen and mainline as much vanilla vodka as possible to not stab this guy with a secondhand knife that says "CHEESE!" on it even though you hate vanilla vodka and it's summer in NYC and you're on the 6th floor in a small apartment with too many people so it's approximately 117 degrees Fahrenheit in this kitchen and the vodka isn't much cooler, and you succeed in this goal, and then after sending your friend who couldn't make it because they were at a family thing that weekend a picture of a rat on the tracks of the 3 train with a caption "this u?" at 1:54 in the morning you're like "so this guy Molly was there" and they're like "oh my god I met him at Cameron's last party, he SUCKS" and you're like "I KNOW". Like a lot of people just do not get that Molly was very popular with their circle, and also a lot of people either were neutral-to-not-feeling-it. This is before we get into the post-death idealization of who he was that takes him from "irritating but I think he'd have grown on me in some ways eventually had he lived" to "horrible and insufferable fake-ass bitch."

And then we get to the true impasse: the idea that something that does not fulfill every single one of your personal wishes might still be a great story.

I'm certainly not perfect, and there's things I thought I wanted for the end of C2 that I didn't get, and there's some things I do wish we'd have gotten to see (or that we'd have done in C3), but I like to think that I try to remain at least partially open to the possibilities. I like to think that my enjoyment of a story isn't contingent on whether one single character survives, even if they are my favorite (and I say this as someone whose favorite ASOIAF character was immediately Ned Stark, a statement that should surprise no one who follows me) nor that the story precisely reaffirms my existing worldview. I want stories to tell me something new and interesting that wouldn't come from my own head, and I want them to sell me on it. I think that a lot of people lost the thread of the importance of representation, namely, they forgot that while it's great to see people like you in a story, you should also be trying to see people not like you and perspectives that aren't yours. I am extremely defensive of my and other people's right to say "I didn't like this story and here is why" without someone being like "Give it a chance! Here's why I think it's good" but at the same time, there is a difference between "I really wish Molly had stayed alive and I don't like that he died," and "everything that happened after he died was A Mistake because it wasn't what I Wanted, and someone should fix this." Like that's what toddlers do. That's not an adult way of interacting with narrative.

So those people don't even get to the point of "the entire campaign is deeply influenced by the loss of Molly; that is what binds the rest of the Nein together and makes them what they are; the fact that Lucien wears the face of a departed friend is crucial to the entire final arc comprising about 20% of the campaign; and the fact that he does not come back, but someone new, with new chances and new choices to make does is emblematic of a campaign about people who find that they cannot undo their pasts, but neither are they trapped or damned by them." They're stuck at "guy I liked died and I'm throwing a tantrum 6 years later."

[whyanne4]

Memories

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Verstappen! Reader

Part: 1/2

Category: angst

Summary: After months of sneaking around with your brothers biggest rival, Charles, you to end your relationship in order to protect both yourself and him from the medias praying eyes.

Right person, wrong situation. Loosely based on Conan Gray’s song: Memories. and Illicit affairs by Taylor Swift.

Masterlist

“Charles stop, we can't do this anymore.” You said as you felt the brunette slip his arms around your waist and kiss your neck gently. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine.

“Why not Y/N?” He whined into your neck.

“Charles I’m serious, stop. What if Max finds out?” You asked as you untangle yourself from his embrace.

“I don’t care.” Charles said defiantly, stepping back a bit.

​​"Well, I do. Max is my brother, and if he finds out about us, it'll ruin everything," you declared, stepping away and plopping down on the couch in his driver's room and in your mind all you could think of was all of the time you’d spent with Charles on that very same couch. How he’d kissed you and told you you were the most beautiful girl in the world.

You had met Charles through Max, your older brother and fellow F1 driver. The two of them were fierce rivals on the track. And you knew that if Max ever found out about your secret relationship with Charles, it would not only strain their relationship but also create chaos in the F1 media.

Last season, when you started attending more races and spending time with Max's team, you and Charles had found yourselves drawn to each other. It was effortless, like two pieces of a puzzle fitting perfectly together. You had tried to resist the temptation, knowing the potential consequences, but love has a way of breaking down walls.

The months that followed were filled with stolen glances, secret rendezvous, and stolen kisses. Every moment with Charles felt like a dream, and you knew that what you shared was special and rare. Everything was perfect. He was perfect, he still is but the fear of Max's reaction and the media scrutiny always lurked in the back of your mind. 

You both had agreed to keep your relationship a secret, knowing that the repercussions of being discovered would be severe. But as time passed, it became harder to hide your feelings for each other. The thrill of the forbidden love mixed with the danger of being caught was intoxicating, but you knew it couldn't go on forever.

You know that it would be terrible for Charless image if the media found out. You were 4 years younger than him and you know that the people on twitter would be having a field day if your relationship ever got out.

So you never told anyone. Not Max, not your friends, nobody. Your relationship was a well kept secret. Sneaking out to see him at his apartment in Monaco or in his drivers room. Secret vacations to foreign countries. Hotel rooms under fake names. Think of anything forbidden and the two of you’ve done it. During those months of sneaking around both you and Charles fell hard for one another.

Those months were probably the best months of your life. He was the perfect guy for you and you hope that you were the perfect girl for him. The love you shared was something out of a fairytale and you knew that it was one for the ages. The kind of love only a few lucky ones get to experience during their lifetime.

But the reality of your situation was inescapable. You knew getting involved with him was a bad idea so you’d broken everything off three months ago. You knew it was the right decision. Trying to maintain your secret relationship would only lead to heartbreak and trouble.

Yet, the heart wants what it wants, and when you saw each other again for the first time since the split at this weekend's Grand Prix, he pulled you into his driver’s room like so many times before. You tried to resist, but your connection was too strong to ignore. One thing led to another and suddenly you were being pushed against a wall with his lips on yours before you came to your senses. Which leds to where you are right now:

“Y/N please listen to me.” Charles begged as he followed you and sat down on the couch beside you. You looked into his gorgeous emerald green eyes like you had a million times before.

“Charles, please don’t.” You tried with him but he wouldn’t let you finish.

“No! I don’t want to stop loving you. You are the one for me and I don’t want to spend my life with anyone else.” He confessed wholeheartedly. You felt the tears start to form in your eyes.

"Charles, please, we can't keep doing this," you said, tears forming in your eyes. "I love you, but we're only hurting ourselves by continuing like this. You knew getting into this that it wouldn’t last. However much I want to, we can never be.” You reasoned with him.

“I don’t care. Y/N you are the love of my life. We can make it work. We don’t have to tell anyone if that's what you want. Or we can tell everyone. Whatever you want.” He pleaded with you. “Or if you don’t want that I can quit F1 and we can run away together. We can get a secret house together in the countryside of France and start a family together or something, anything. I would give you everything I have in a heartbeat. Please just don’t give up on this Y/N. Don’t give up on us.” He started crying quietly and so did you. 

“Charles, you know that wouldn’t work. Our families would find out eventually and so would the media. You will be bashed for dating me and your relationship with Max will be ruined.” You pleaded with him.

“I don't care. Y/N, you are the love of my life. We can make it work. We don't have to tell anyone if that's what you want. We can keep it a secret until the time is right,” he pleaded, holding her hand in his.

“Charles, it's not just about the secrecy. It's about our families, Max's feelings, and the media. It's about everything. As much as I love you, I can't put everyone else through that,” she said, her voice filled with sadness.

“So, you think what we had was nothing?” he was rightfully upset, but you didn’t know what else to tell him, he clearly wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“Please, Charles. This is hard enough as it is. Don’t make it harder than it already is okay. I know that one day you’ll find an amazing girl who will steal your heart and whom you will love 10 times more than me.” You put your hand on his cheek and felt his tears hit your thumb.

“That’s not possible, baby. I don’t want anyone else. We can make it work, please, you’re the one for me. I know it. I’ll never love anyone as much as I love you.” Charles pleaded.

“I love you too, Charles, so much.” You confessed to him. Even if you knew it wouldn’t help the situation at all. You felt the need to let him know that the feelings were not one sided. You loved this man with all your heart and if the circumstances were different, if you his rivals younger sister and if he wasn’t an F1 driver with the whole world watching his every move: You would probably get married, have a couple of kids and then grow old together. You would have the whole white picket-fence dream. But instead you were trapped in this situation and all you could do was try to let him go even if it was hard. 

“See, you love me too. Y/N, I promise that things will work out.” He took your hand in his and caressed your palm gently with his thumb. His touch felt so familiar and you just wanted to let all your walls down and let him love you, let yourself love him. But you knew you couldn’t.

“Charles, as much as I want that, it’s just make-believe. It will never work out the way we want to and everyone will be hurt in the end, honey.” You felt the nickname slip from your lips before you could stop it. It was what you called him all throughout your secret rendezvous and the simple word held so much meaning for both of you.

“I know that, baby. I just don’t want to let you go. You’re my favorite person in the whole world. I don’t know how I will ever move on from you.”  He seemed to finally give in and as much as it broke your heart you felt relief that he understood and didn’t argue more with you.

“I know it’s hard, honey. Which is why we can’t keep going back to each other from now on, okay? We can’t find an end to something that we keep beginning over and over again. From now on, I can’t be your friend or your lover, Charles. As much as it kills me inside I can’t hold you back from falling in love with somebody else.” You knew your words were harsh but you really needed to put an end to this here and now.

“I understand.” He put both of his hands on your cheeks and met your gaze. Both of your eyes were red from crying and held so many emotions and so much love for one another. “You’ll always be my person, no matter what happens or who I meet. If you ever change your mind I’ll be there for you with open arms no matter what. You’ll always have a piece of my heart Y/N. Please take care of it.”

“I will, I promise.” You vowed to him, your voice cracking as you tried to speak through your tears. “If things were different..” You tried to explain.

“Shh… Don’t worry about it, baby. You don’t have to explain.” He cut you off. “I’m not mad at you, I could never be mad at you.” 

Silence followed as both of you gazed into each other's eyes, trying to savor your last moments together as a couple before all you had left were the memories of better times.

“Can I kiss you one last time?” He asked quietly as if he was afraid of shattering the moment.

“Yes.” Was all you could say before his lips met yours in one final, heart shattering kiss. Your tears mixed as they ran down both of your cheeks. His hands were still on your cheeks and you felt him pushing your face closer to his. You pulled away for air and he did the same. 

“I’ll always love you, Charles.” You finally broke the silence.

“I’ll always love you too.” He said and you felt his soft hands leave your tear stained cheeks for the last time before he kissed your forehead and let go of you. You exited his driver’s room, heartbroken with only the memories of him left.

[thatsonemorbidcorvid]

A few weeks after #MeToo exploded on the internet, an old friend and I did what so many women did during that time: We got on the phone and finally began to acknowledge what had happened to us. My friend shared a story of hers from college. Back then, we’d all just considered it a “bad date,” but she now recognized it as sexual assault. She also shared that at nearly every single job she’s had since college, a boss or co-worker has sexually harassed her.

The month before our conversation, I had published an essay sharing my own experience of sexual assault while traveling abroad. Like my friend, it was not my only experience—it was one of many. But I’d only included the one, because in the early stages of #MeToo, the idea of sharing one assault story still felt risky. The idea of sharing more than one felt culturally impossible. My friend agreed.

“As a woman, you’re only allowed one #MeToo moment,” she told me. “After that, people begin assuming the problem must be you.”

Out of the many celebrity #MeToo stories told in the past five years, only a handful have acknowledged the experience of multiple assaults. In an HBO documentary, Alanis Morisette spoke about repeated incidents of statuatory rape that happened when she first entered the music industry, all of which “fell on deaf ears” when she tried seeking accountability. In her memoir, Selma Blair wrote about a teacher who sexually assaulted her, as well as the many men who raped her in her 20s. In an interview with Dazed, Amber Rose said, “I cannot even count how many times a famous guy touched me inappropriately.” On a social media post during the Kavanaugh hearings, Tatum O’Neal wrote about her multiple assaults: “It was not my fault when I was 5, 6, 12, 13, 15.”

Stories that emphasize the ubiquitous nature of assault are vital in a world that so often focuses on one dramatic episode, with visceral details of the violation and an easily identifiable villain. This amplifies the false idea that assault is just a singular, horrifying incident—when in reality, many of us experience it as part of a larger, more insidious culture.

Once a person is assaulted, research shows they’re more likely to be assaulted again, a phenomenon called “revictimization.” Around 50 percent of children who survive sexual assault reexperience it later in life, and even a single incident of sexual assault in adulthood can increase the risk for it to happen again. As psychologist A.E. Jaffe and her colleagues wrote in a 2019 paper on revictimization: “Perhaps the most consistent predictor of future trauma exposure is a history of prior trauma exposure.”

Why would this be? In lieu of a good answer for it (more on that in a moment), we often blame victims themselves. We easily justify these statistics by suggesting that anyone who has survived multiple incidents of violence must be asking for it—either by acting promiscuously, hanging around too many shady men, or getting themselves into precarious situations. One survivor I interviewed told me that though she received some form of victim-blaming in response to all three sexual assaults she experienced, she noticed a stark decrease in support each time it happened again.

“After the second and third, some people began saying, ‘What’s happening in your life to attract that?’ or ‘Do you have enough awareness to know when men want to harm you?’ ” she told me. “One person even asked why I was ‘trusting men so much.’ ” Another friend who experienced multiple assaults went through a similar line of questioning, only with herself. “After so many times, I began asking myself, ‘What is it about me that brings on these experiences?’ ” she said. I told her I ask myself that question all the time.

In his essay “Spectator” for Roxane Gay’s anthology on sexual assault stories, Not That Bad, Brandon Taylor wrote about his best friend telling him she was beginning to think she was “just the kind of person this stuff happens to.” For a long time, that’s what I believed, too. As a travel writer and a single bisexual woman, I figured that at some point, I’d pay the price. Eventually, I’d have to face some element of physical harm—wasn’t that the obvious trade-off for attempting a liberated life? To me, survivorship—more than resilience, bravery, or strength—often felt like resignation.

But in some cases, it’s exactly that resignation that influences repeat assaults. While there’s no conclusive evidence as to why revictimization happens, we do know that normalizing assault can contribute to future harm. If a survivor has not internalized their experience as exceptionally traumatic, they are less likely to advocate for themselves, or demand accountability if it happens again. If they, like me, accept violence as an obvious fact of their lives, then when it repeats, they don’t seek the support they need to process and heal from each experience.

In an article for Psychology Today, psychotherapist and clinical social worker Keith Fadelici called this a “cognitive accommodation to ongoing violence.” The trauma continuously gets downplayed as victims attempt to normalize their assaults, which helps them feel more in control. “This dissociative process is a common symptom of PTSD,” Fadelici told me. “And can also later make survivors less capable of detecting risk by numbing the fear that is supposed to trigger alertness to danger.”

Oppression also plays a significant role. Those with marginalized identities are more at risk for experiencing assault in general, and thus more likely to experience it again. LGBTQ+ people are four times more likely to be assaulted than the general population (bisexual women and trangender people also are far more likely to experience assault than gay men and lesbian women). Rates of sexual assault for Indigenous women are three times higher than non-Indigenous women, and Black women are much more likely to experience assault than white women. Neurodivergent people are 11 times more likely than neurotypical people to be victims of violent crimes.

“If this is coming up repeatedly with one individual, it might be because that person is within systems and structures that facilitate assault more often,” said Jaffe. For those of us living with any of these identities, we normalize violence because living under oppression is consistently violent. In order to survive, a “cognitive accommodation to ongoing violence” is necessary. We train ourselves to get used to it, and move on.

After #MeToo, I began reading and rereading the legal definitions for rape and sexual assault to make sense of what had happened to me. Any sexual contact that occurred without consent constitutes assault? Any sexual contact that included penetration without the other person’s consent constitutes rape? The criteria felt almost too easy. Under these standards, I had been raped twice, and assaulted several other times—all stories I had not yet fully internalized, and was not yet ready to tell. Dozens of legal crimes had been committed against my body, but that idea felt so unfathomable I hardly knew what to do next.

In the three years after publishing that first story, I experienced more incidents, and I still don’t know what to call them. I don’t feel comfortable firmly declaring them as “assault.” I don’t like how it connects so deeply with an oppressive legal system, and how it automatically connotes some excessive form of violence. Even today, it seems too strong and rough a word for how these episodes played out: often with little physicality, with only brief conflict and polite turns toward quick forgiveness, until weeks later when I’d unpack the severity of what had happened. As I began sharing more of these stories with close friends, I would catch myself saying “technically” before saying “I was assaulted,” acknowledging the semantic disconnect I still felt. This hesitation is common among many survivors: As one 2019 meta-analysis showed, rates of victimization increase when participants are asked “behaviorally descriptive questions” about what happened to them, rather than questions that use terms like “rape” and “assault.”

Sometimes, people ask “How many times all together?” I say “six-ish,” a number that captures the amount of experiences that have dramatically changed the way I relate to my body—how it experiences intimacy, how it engages with the world: The one that happened at work, just weeks into my first job out of college. The one at a festival in India. The one while getting a deep-tissue massage. The one at a New York play party. The one so common I learned it has its own name (“stealthing“). The one with a lover I had loved and trusted deeply. The one with another lover, a violation that was not sexual but physical and thus, as yet another nonconsensual act done against my body, still felt so connected to all the rest.

And this still does not take into account every time I was nonconsensually touched in public—the men who pulled and grabbed my arms, my back, my butt, my shoulders to try to get my attention on the street—nor the times I’ve been followed, harassed, physically threatened by strangers on the street.

The accumulation of more and more of these events creates a compounding impact, one where each additional incident begins to amplify the ones before. For me and most survivors I spoke to, we are not healing from trauma—we are learning how to exist in a world where trauma continues to accumulate.

Every survivor I interviewed for this piece told me they fully accept the potential that they’ll experience assault in the future. Still, most of them admitted to me that it’s still easier to only share just one story with the world—never the full range of what has happened to them. “When you only have one story, the enemy is the rapist,” one survivor told me. “But when you have several people with a lifetime of these experiences, the enemy is all of us.”

This is what we mean when we talk about rape culture. The first thing we can do to start to dismantle it is to recognize what we’re up against.

[bennie-jerry]

My Beef with Killmonger - An MCU Rant

I think people struggle to understand that not ALL villains are misunderstood—they’re choosing to be evil and that's it. 

Take Killmonger for example (I’m doing the MCU specifically because I haven’t read the comics—cry about it). 

Besides committing the atrocity of making those half dreads the Frank’s Red Hot for every media with black characters lately, there's aspects I don’t hear people touch on when it comes to Killmonger as a character. And if there are, I sure haven’t heard it yet---so I really hope there's some info on this man I'm missing here. But if no one's gonna call out this man’s BS, I will.

I definitely comprehend that Erik losing his dad was extremely traumatic for him to experience as a child. But Killmonger was only focused on revenge and power alone. Because of the fact that T’Chaka was dead, Erik couldn’t take it out on him and instead decided to channel his anger towards the entirety of the Wakandan royalty—even towards T’CHALLA (even though T’Challa had NOTHING to do with it). 

Even then, T’Challa was MORE than kind enough to let Erik see a Wakandan sunset BEFORE he died. 

“I’m sorry my father was a POS. Here’s a sunset, bro.” 

I get he's played by the oh-so handsome Michael B. Jordan, but let's remove the rose-colored lenses and consider something here.

On top of being a complete narcissist (who killed his GIRLFRIEND by the way), the guy also was just never EVER fit to hold power in ANY capacity to begin with. When the guy did kill (or believe he killed) T’Challa, what was the first thing he wanted to do? 

Did he try to help other poor children in the neighborhood he grew up in?

Did he make a memorial for his dead father?

Did he start a program for fatherless children (like HE was)?

Did he even TRY to do ANYTHING of value that would’ve been beneficial to others in ANY way shape or form?

Newsflash: The answer to all of that is NO.

The FIRST thing this man does as KING is start a WAR between Wakanda and the United States.

Literally his FIRST act as king is to begin an event that could very well have left so many of his people to DIE and cause mass amounts of generational trauma. Meaning there'd potentially be a bunch of children in Wakanda that ALSO won't have their fathers should they die in the war. Is that NOT a major red flag? 

The guy didn’t even DRESS like a king, he just walked around shirtless with a jacket like he was an NYC pimp. 

Even pre-kingship, he already killed LOADS of people before he got to that point. Sure, you could argue that it was in order for him to reach Wakanda or what he planned to do. But does that not raise MORE red flags about his original intent, then? 

Killmonger has a scar on his body for every person that he’s ever killed. The man’s torso is covered top to bottom in scars, meaning he has a major body count. So you’re telling me that this dude's okay with murdering innocent people just to get to a goal that was gonna lead him to kill more people ANYWAY?

Yes, I understand his trauma. Yes, I understand why he's angry at the world. Yes, I do think he's a great villain because every good story needs a good villain. But one thing I'll NOT do is act like this man's actions are justified when they're not. His conquest to create conflict highlights a SEVERE lack of genuine care for the very people he CLAIMS to wanna help.

He's a grown man who had every chance and choice to become better and he never took it because he chose to take his anger out on everyone else since the one who ACTUALLY committed sin against him had already DIED.

And when the “What If” series came out, Killmonger turned on EVERYONE he worked with, took the gauntlets for himself, and tried to reset reality.

Sure, you could say that Killmonger is a representation of black rage and on some level, I'd agree with you in terms of a story telling perspective. But storytelling dynamics don't change the fact this man is a piece of crap.

Don't EVEN try lying to me. The only reason this man has simps on Tumblr is because he's played by someone who's attractive. I bet if he was played by Steve Harvey, you'd all change your tune. 

Trauma never is/will be an excuse to do horrible stuff. Once again, trauma can make a good villain and good villains are necessary. My ONLY issue with Killmonger is that he has a railroad of fans that try to justify his actions.

It's one thing to like a horrible character. And it's another thing to say a horrible character is justified in what they do. The reason why I think it's so dangerous to do that is because it CAN (not that it always does, but CAN) translate into real life instances where people defend ACTUAL human-shaped monsters for things they do as well (ie they're traumatized and/or attractive). That's why we have hybristophilic fangirls slobbering over Wade Wilson (if you know, you know).

But at the end of the day, everyone has choices. Killmonger made his.

Even Killmonger's FATHER was saddened by what his son became while speaking to him on the ancestral plane.

N’Jobu: No tears for me? Killmonger: Everyone dies. It's just life around here. N’Jobu: Well, look at what I have done.

DAWG, WHAT MORE PROOF DO YOU NEED—

[bsof-maarav]

it's good this is my only social media and that i've insulated myself from the worst of this place. i'm not watching that video. i understand the value in bearing witness. but for me, it's like this. i know what's been happening to the hostages already, i don't need to be convinced. i don't want to violate them further by watching the beginning of the worst part of their lives and i don't want to be even more secondhand traumatized either. it would make me less, not more, able to do what i can do to be of use to the hostages.

but even more than i'm not watching that video, i'm not watching the absolutely psychopathic response to it by the mobs who are indulging in an orgy of probably the two oldest forms of hatred in the world--misogyny and antisemitism.

when i heard this video would be released, i had that impulse to hope that maybe now my former friends and community would finally get it. but it's not the case. we've all known this whole time. there's been no mystery about what kind of violence the go-pro wearing terrorists are perpetrating. we've already seen enough to know, even without seeking it out. journalists have described it thoroughly as well. if someone says they need to see something more explicit for "proof," they're nothing but consumers of terrorist torture porn. it's pure רַע

i'm not even going to try writing any appeals about these womens' humanity because anyone who doesn't get it, that's because they don't want to get it and they probably never will. they're getting off on this dehumanizing violence and trying to join it as part of the virtual mob. they're empty people and they are not going to change.

we are looking directly at this hate, some of us for the first time, and it's a window through time, through which we can see what many generations of Jews, and particularly Jewish women, have seen before. the violence and hatred is unchanging. only the technology of the violence has changed. the violence itself has not. the hatred has not. we know more about every previous age now, more about how our ancestors' hearts felt when they were breaking, the fear and anger, the determination to survive and make something better.

it's unbearable to know how outnumbered we are, how much of the world is morally and ethically dead when it comes to us, and how many of them accept, deny, are indifferent to, or celebrate this violence against us. it always has been unbearable, untenable, and yet we're here: the latest in a long line of generations who move forward even when it feels impossible, and do what we can to make a better world for the next ones with the conviction that no one should be hurt like this. never again.

and now i'm going back to listening to Israeli music. because i try to experience some kind of peace and calm each day, whatever i can, so i will have some strength to send. through davening, i try to send strength to the hostages to help them survive. we're one family, and all deeply connected. i have to hope that it helps in some way.

if you want to say Mi Sheberach and Tehillim for these women and don't know how, please reach out. or just daven from the heart for them, dedicate it to their merit, say each of their names out loud. light an extra Shabbat candle for them. set an extra place at your table. put something about them in a public place to make their reality present there. you'll have to protect it from attack. but do it anyway.

and if you want to know what you can do to pressure your political representatives or organizations to do something to free these captives, and all of the captives, i'll be here to talk about that as well.

[formuladoll]

how do i make you love me? — lando norris

after celebrating his first podium, lando acts upon repressed feelings as you seem to be slipping from his fingers— right into his rival's hands.

[cw! smut] — masterlist — request a fic!

how do i make you want me, and make it last eternally?

You were no stranger to falling in love. Whether it was the overpowering magnetism or the instinctive selflessness, you irrevocably believed in it all. How could you not? He showed you what it felt like to care for someone— to love.

It was your proximity to the sport that started it all. Even after many doubted your capabilities due to your lack of experience and the blatant sexism tainting motorsports, your vitality and passion got you a position as a broadcaster targeting the younger audience.

Lando would never admit to the countless hours he spent reading your articles or listening to your podcast. It was mesmerizing to witness your energetic self being fascinated by the sport; he was blown away by you, all of you.

He would find himself unwillingly looking for you in the paddock, almost as if a glance of your radiant smile charming the camera would turn his day into one worth living. The late escapades driving through the streets of Monaco, the reassuring talks after a tough race, and the collection of pictures living in his camera testified in favor of an undeniable bond. A mixture of feelings blurring the dividing line supposed to protect you from falling apart— from breaking each other in a twisted maneuver dictated by fate.

Lando admired your unconditional nature since the beginning of your friendship— how you understood his need for comfortable silence on tough days and how you escaped the media pen to celebrate his first podium in Austria. The champagne shower wouldn’t have been as memorable without his girl smiling up at him, letting him know how proud she was with a pair of glossy eyes. Claiming a step on the podium for the first time was bliss for the British driver, and he couldn’t wait for you to see him take the highest position.

A now very much drenched Lando reminisced at the last laps of the race, how everything fell into place for him to demonstrate he is worth it. The strong and impatient knocking of the door to his driver's room brought him back to reality, already knowing who awaited him outside as approached the entrance. "There you are," he exhaled while holding the door, struggling to breathe as soon as your arms wrapped around his middle and head rested on his chest. "I had a good feeling about this one. Your first podium, Lando," you congratulated as his smile grew and your bodies melted together in a meaningful embrace. "Champagne’s on me tonight."

Euphoria consumed him that night. Lando couldn’t help but feel like the timing for his first podium in Formula One was impeccable, he survived a long difficult season with McLaren and everything was finally falling into place. He was hopeful for the future, and it would be impossible not to visualize you in it.

Every light in the nightclub seemed to be attracted to your swaying body, highlighting your presence. His camera held in its memory a series of portraits of what he described as a heavenly sight; Lando couldn’t let it go unnoticed. He fell more for you each time he saw you through the lens, your smile exuding magic from it while your eyes flirted with the camera.

Lando seized the DJ controller after a couple of shots with Carlos and was now mixing, holding your waist with his right hand to pull you into his body and create space between you and the people surrounding him. You swayed to the music as Lando playfully took off his sunglasses and put them on you. “Looking like a proper DJ now, love,” he teased while slightly slurring his words.

You smirked before emptying the contents of your glass into your mouth. "Don’t tempt me, Norris, I might surprise you.” He smirked and went back to playing around with his tracks, “I'm going for another drink," you explained before he let you go with a playful squeeze of your middle— "be careful, please. I'm watching you from here," he answered. With a final laugh, you left a kiss on his cheek and took his camera with you to ensure his tipsy self didn’t lose it.

The nightclub was filled to the brim, which explained why you struggled to push your way through people while getting to the bar. A warm hand wrapped itself around your arm, pulling your body away from the mass and into what you recognized as an exclusive section. "You seemed to be having a hard time out there," Charles said as he slyly gave you a head-to-toe look and offered you a drink.

"Is that Lando's camera? That fucker can't go anywhere without it," Pierre interrupted as he approached the pair of you, holding an oversized bottle of Don Pérignon. You nodded in response to his question after greeting him with a familiar hug. “It was about time he took his first podium. He’s quite talented, just like his beautiful best friend,” he continued with a smirk as his flirty persona made you chuckle. “Come on, you two are looking way too sober,” Pierre complained as his arm guided you and Charles out of the space and onto the dance floor.

Large sips of champagne took place in between drunken laughs, the three of you dancing around as you took turns to hold Lando’s camera and immortalize the night. “Let me see a dip!” Pierre directed so that Charles and you would pose for the picture. He held you by the waist after giving you a twirl, holding your body from falling backward and laughing as the flash blinded the both of you.

The rest of the night became a blur as the alcohol kept you from remembering much. You could vaguely recall Lando letting you know he was taking you both back to the hotel since it was already starting to dawn. Warm white bed sheets wrapped around your body as you woke up in his hotel room. He looked peaceful while sleeping, even though his body barely fit into the small armchair placed close to the bed.

Deciding to take a much-needed shower, you looked back on his infectious smile throughout the night and how proud you were of him. The slightly cold water colliding with your body accompanied your thoughts as the beautiful boy waiting for you outside stirred awake.

Lando woke up to a sore neck and a slight headache, your absence concerning him until the music coming from the bathroom let him know you were having a shower. He tried to take you back to your room after the club but your drunk self couldn’t remember the whereabouts of your keycard. He had no other option but to give you his bed, although he would always do it if it meant you could sleep comfortably. It had been one of the most incredible nights of his life, even if the pounding of his head intensified by the second.

In an attempt to ease the pain, he reached for the water bottle on the nightstand, noticing the presence of his camera right next to it. A soft smile appeared on his face after sliding through the collection of portraits he took of you right after getting to the party. As he navigated through the rest, Lando got to the pictures of his two fellow drivers and you fooling around, a particular one catching his attention.

It featured Charles holding you by the waist with your head thrown back while his arms had you, seemingly taken while you two were dancing very closely. It would be an understatement to say that Lando wasn't particularly fond of this one— he couldn't take his eyes off it. His grip on the camera tightened as he focused on Charles's hands exploring your body, envisioning how much better he could feel against your skin.

It had been incredibly foolish of him not to prepare for the possibility that someone else could also want such a perfect girl, and that the feeling might be mutual. Now you could be out of reach for him, all because of being afraid of loving too hard.

Your friendship was long-forgotten as his priority now that Lando found the photos Pierre took on that bittersweet night. Knowing you could be slipping through his fingers triggered something in him that he had been burying in a pathetic attempt to protect himself from rejection. Jealousy coursed through his system as he ungraciously dropped the camera back into the nightstand, convinced of erasing Charles’ touch from your skin.

The water colliding against the ground came to a sudden stop and Lando took this as his sign to go into the bathroom of his hotel room. Knuckles knocked against the wooden door, he was being gracious enough to let you know he was not waiting until you got out of the bathroom. "Open the door," he demanded.

You slowly opened it, holding a towel against your wet body— "is everything alright?" You asked, an innocent and unknowing expression directed toward the impatient man standing in front of you. "You have no idea, darling," he growled before pushing your body against the countertop. You had never been this close.

“I saw the photos,” he explained while resting his weight against your body, the delicate towel allowing you to feel every crevice of his warm frame. You knew exactly what he meant by that and couldn’t help but feel excited about the fact that very deeply, he knows you are his just as much as he is yours.

“You wanted me to see them, didn’t you? Wanted to drive me crazy by playing around with him�� you got it.” He said right before capturing your lips into the most consuming kiss you had ever shared with someone; it was addicting. Your hand left its grip on the towel, allowing it to drop down onto the floor as your hands softly pulled on his curls.

He pulled back, looking down at your body and becoming visibly speechless due to the sight in front of him. Lando didn’t know it was possible to want someone that intensely until he saw you completely exposed for him. He felt the need to worship you, to kiss every inch of your skin. His lips found yours one more time before he dropped to his knees, looking up at you in a pleading manner. An almost desperate nod coming from you had him exploring your body in seconds, his tongue playing with your folds as his hands held your hips.

“Lando— please,” you begged in between agitated breaths, looking down at the boy kneeling for you. It was surreal for Lando to hear the only girl he wanted begging for him to please her, almost as if he wouldn’t spend all day buried in between your legs. His mouth fixated on your clit as one of his fingers stretched your pussy with his spit.

It all became too much as your hand pulled on his hair and guided his face into you. He would never get tired of hearing those pretty moans escaping your plump lips, his body pleasuring you into oblivion. You couldn’t hold back your climax after he finally inserted a second finger into your pussy, repeatedly hitting that spot up your core that your own couldn’t.

He was certain that no matter what happened after leaving this hotel room, there was no going back. You would never forget the way his body collided with yours, how you engraved into each other. He had you, just as much as you had him.

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

Genuinely trying to understand why a gay person would be supporting the party you do.

Not American myself but from what I understand there’s a lot of homophobia there.

It doesn’t look like Democrats are perfect either but at least less hostile to gays?

I'll dispense with my usual "Shut the fuck up European" image response because you do actually seem genuine, so here's my genuine answer.

Yeah, there's some homophobia on the right. Some. It's nowhere near what the media would have you believe. But there's homophobia on the left, too. The left just has the media and their ability to shape a narrative on their side. The worst thing I've had said to me by someone on the right was that they don't support gay marriage and think its a sin. Or that they think gay sex is disgusting. And that's fine. I don't like hearing about certain sexual acts myself and find them gross and weird. I don't need anyone else to approve or support my sex life.

And as for the part about gay marriage, I understand where most of them are coming from when they say that, too. They truly feel that their religious beliefs are under attack and that religious marriage is supposed to be between one man and one woman. But even many of those people will say that they don't really care if gays get legally married as long as there's some differentiation between the religious ceremony of marriage, and the legal institution of marriage, which are two different things. I personally don't need anyone to validate my marriage but me and my husband. I don't care if it's legally recognized. I don't care if it's recognized by any particular church. My marriage and my relationships are my own personal business. And there are a lot of people on the right who feel the exact same way.

So, that's the worst I've gotten from the right. Let's talk about the worst I've gotten from the supposedly gay friendly left. The following is not a complete list, but here's some of the things that I've been told by Democrats and other leftists when they find out I'm a gay right winger, both online and offline:

Kill yourself

Die faggot

You should be gay bashed

I hope you get raped by a closeted Republican politician

I hope your dog dies

Kill yourself

You're a traitor to all gay people

Kill yourself with one of those guns you love

I hope you get cancer and die horribly

I hope your husband dies

You should be sent to a concentration camp

Kill yourself

and basically every anti-gay slur you can possibly think of

That's what I get from the left, from other gay people, when they find out I vote differently then they do. Just based on these anecdotal experiences with the American right and the American left, I think it's pretty clear why I find myself on one side and not the other.

But!

I'm not a one issue voter. Gay issues are mostly meaningless to me. What I care about are personal freedoms, protecting my rights, and the success of my country on the world stage. Currently, the American right aligns with those beliefs way more than the left. That's not to say the Republican Party always aligns perfectly with what I want or believe, but the reality is we live in a two party system. Until enough of us get together and make a nationally viable third party, if the choice in presidential elections is between one party that I almost never agree with and whose stated goals are to violate my rights and destroy everything I love about America, and one party that does what I voted for them to do around half the time, of course I'm voting for the second party nationally.

Locally it can be a bit different. It's easier to effect local elections and policies just by being active, and in geographically close areas the differences between the people running for town council might not be as wide as two people running for president nationally, so I won't just vote the R party line by default. I've voted libertarian locally before. Hell, I even voted Democrat once. But, for the most part, it's the Republicans who I feel will do what I think should be done more than the other parties. And that's why I vote for them, and why I'm a registered Republican. Well, that and I want to be able to vote in the Republican primaries.

[charmedreincarnation]

Hey I’ve read a little about the law and I kind of don’t care about it. I’ve manifested well without it and honestly it just seems like an over complication so I can still get into the void without using it, because most people do, but everyone on tumblr seems to disagree with that sentiment

Funny story, I actually shifted before I even properly leaned about the law.

I remember this one girl on Reddit who was a very popular shifter told everyone that the key to shifting was the law of assumption and Neville Goddard lectures. She shifted to Harry Potter after understanding his lectures and it only took her only a week after being on her journey for two years.

At this point, I was sooo depressed and down bad to shift. I had tried every single method under the sun on Reddit, Quora, amino, YouTube, and others methods derived from religion….so her telling me this man was my key was an absolute dream. Again I was down bad, so atp I would have eaten cow shit if that’s what it took to shift 😭😭 it is maddening thinking about how depressed and obsessed I was with it but whatever I’m up now.

Anyways I still never really got into the law because it was boring and his lectures made me fall asleep at the time. I was like 17 and didn’t really care how or why shifting worked, I just wanted to escape tbh. Anyways I decided to actually take the law seriously but then the creator who introduced me to the law left Reddit and shifting media because she believed she was mentally ill, and shifting was fake and she had to get therapy.

I remember I hated Neville and the law of assumption after that so I dropped it, which is super funny to me because why was I blaming a dead man for this situation. I avoided it with my life and anytime someone recommended it to me I got unhealthily mad and told them to shut up probably idk. I was 17 and depressed and in a really bad place and that situation just made me spiral beyond anything and ruined my mental health.

Anyways I focused on manifesting better mental health and a better life after that,and shifted my attention to just intention which is literally the everything inside an assumption. I ended up shifting obviously and then I dove into the law out of curiosity because after I did it I just wanted to know.. I guess the logistics behind it because it was a cool phenomenon to me.

But this wasn’t until 6 months after I shifted and now.. well I obviously love the law and understand it and have a blog dedicated to it so I obviously use and recommend it!

What I will say is everything we learn with the law, 3D and 4D, dwelling in imaginations, states, affirm and persist, the ego, I am state, persistence, you know all that good jazz that I even talk about, is simply because we wanna learn and understand it properly. If you don’t want to use the law or whatever that’s fine but understanding assumption creates reality is the bases of everything.

Just understand that and it’s literally the same thing without all the other stuff lol. I guess that’s why I love intention! it’s the premise of everything we do. Intending, wanting, desiring, whatever and then assuming it to be true is so simple and it works. At least that’s how I shifted anyways. Regardless you use the law even if you’re not aware of it, and there are people entering the void, manifesting, and shifting without knowing the law so why would that be different for you?

So if you wanna use the void (which is literally within you, so hating it means hating your pure state of consciousness which is weird)why would the discussion about it even matter unless you assume it does anyways. Idk my perception around it is completely different since I have met a lot of people with experiences with the void (like my church friend who died) but not the way the tumblr girlies use it. It’s valid regardless!

Literally just assume whatever benefits you and resonates with you will work and it will work, point blank periodt.