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why-animals-do-the-thing · 8 months ago

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There's a viral video circulating from the Fort Worth Zoo, of two keepers who ended up in a habitat at the same time as a silverback gorilla. Spoiler for good news: neither the humans nor the gorilla got hurt. It's a bad situation that ended extremely well, and that's why I want to talk about it.

The audio for this video is mostly someone praying loudly, so if you need to turn the audio off to watch it, you won't miss anything relevant. If you don't want to watch it, here's the summary: it starts with a keeper running around the corner into the main exhibit, pursued by a large male gorilla. She is quickly able to get into a doorway at the back of the exhibit, but does not completely close the door because the gorilla is standing across from her, watching. He eventually moves off to the right hand side of the exhibit, where we can see a keeper is trapped in the corner at the front. She was trying to move towards the exit as he moved to the right, and she stops, standing very still behind a tree, while he stays along the far right wall. They stay like that for a minute, and then the gorilla runs to the front right corner, and the keeper is able to run to the door in the back of the exhibit and get to safety.

Let's start with basic information. Even though it's just going viral now, this video is from October of 2023. It was taken not by a guest, but by the zoo security officer responding to the situation. Hmmm, seems like he maybe should have been doing something else during that situation, instead of than taking a phone video. It's going viral now because the guy (who is no longer employed at the zoo) decided to post it on TikTok for his five minutes of fame. This guy immediately started giving all sorts of media interviews, answering questions like "why no tranquilizers" inappropriately, making memes out of his own video, generally distasteful shit.

Zoo spokesperson Avery Elander gave a public statement that "thankfully, there was no physical contact between keepers and gorilla, and all staff and animals are safe." A comment from the zoo has also indicated that the incident was due to keeper error. (As opposed to, for instance, something in the fencing breaking.) According to the guy who posted the video, a lock was left unsecured and the gorilla was able to open the door to the habitat. I don't know if I buy it, and again, this just... is probably why he doesn't have a job anymore. By sharing that detail - real or not - he places a ton of public scrutiny and blame on that keeper team. (If that's what happened, I can promise you it will have been dealt with internally.) He also was nice enough to say he wouldn't name the women in the video... but verified they're still staffers at the zoo... which means they're eminently identifiable! Excuse me while I ragequit for a second.

So there's two reasons I wanted to talk about this. The first is to make sure it is well known that this guy is purposefully and intentionally exploiting the worst day of someone's life for media attention. Their lives were in danger, and he's using it for fame. His name is in the media articles - I'm not going to share it because he doesn't deserve that attention. The second reason, though, is because this video is a masterclass on how to survive if you end up sharing space with a gorilla. Every zoo person I've spoken to or seen comment on the video is so, so impressed with how the keepers handled themselves.

The gorilla in this video is 34-year-old Elmo. All apes in AZA zoos are managed in protected contact, so keepers are supposed to be separated from them by a barrier at all times. The zookeepers were in the habitat putting out a mid-day meal when he got out. Watching the video, you can see he's not actively being aggressive towards them - he's not making threat displays or trying to approach them. Mostly, Elmo seems like he doesn't know what is going on and he's kinda freaked out about it. (This is confirmed in the zoo's press statement, too). The staff stayed calm, and importantly, watched and waited to see how he'd move and act.

The zoo did say one thing, though, that's a bit misleading. In one article, their press person I quote as saying “In general, gorillas are considered the “gentle giants” of the great ape species.” Just because this may be true in comparison to other great ape species doesn't meant gorilla aren't still incredibly dangerous. This type of messaging always worries me, because I think it leads people to misunderstand the risks of being close to megafauna. Gorilla are extremely strong animals, and their social norms/behaviors are very different from that of humans. That's why it's such a big deal any time people end up in gorilla habitats, and why sometimes in those circumstances lethal measures have to be taken to protect human life.

These keepers are incredibly lucky to be unharmed. These women stayed safe specifically because they're trained professionals who knew how to act around gorilla, they knew this particular animal well, and they'd learned the escapes from the exhibit just in case this ever happened. We should applaud them for their cool heads and quick thinking.

As for the guy who posted the video? As a colleague put it, may he always step on a Lego.

#gorilla #gorilla video #viral video #zoo animals #zoo animal welfare #fort worth zoo

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dirt-mann · 1 year ago

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getting let go from my job after the first day (i think someone i went to school with outed me lmao) has got me thinking about the california economy and yknow. i wonder if skyrocketing insane housing prices driving vast swathes of our remotely employed middle class to move to other states and countries might have had the effect of removing a large customer base with disposable income from our local economy causing us to go into an economic recession nice and early as a canary in the real estate coal mine that in a better country would have actually made the news. but i suspect that the national recession is going to be like the global pandemic where officials will lie about/obfuscate the issue until its impossible to hide

#the fact that my once middle class household with multiple generations and 6 adults contributing to financial resources #are in danger of losing the house we barely fit in is insane. obviously it isnt OK or JUSTIFIED when anyone becomes homeless #but its insane to think about that happening in this case #the high-level office job my dad used to work at went from being a career you had until you retired #to a job you had for a few years until office politics and discrimination chased you out #(my dad usually being the one hispanic guy in an office full of white guys)#to a short term contract that never got renewed #to just nothing. everybody taking applications. hardly anyone interviewing. and nobody hiring #ive been struggling for 6 months now to get a job in anything from janitorial to warehouse to finally crawling back to restaurant work #nothing. dozens of applications. 3 interviews in 6 months #then i finally get a restaurant job that will let me save up to move with a safety net #and everything goes well 1st day. then the next day i get a text saying ''we believe this wont be a good fit'' and a venmo for what i earne

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ghelgheli · 8 months ago

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In contrast with professional drag queens, who were only playing at being women onstage, [Esther] Newton learned that the very bottom of the gay social hierarchy was the province of street queens. In almost total contrast to professional queens, street queens were "the underclass of the gay world." Although they embraced effeminacy, too, they did so in the wrong place and for the wrong reason: in public and outside of professional work. As a result, Newton explained, the street queens "are never off stage. Their way of life is collective, illegal, and immediate." Because they didn't get paid to be feminine and were locked out of even the most menial of nightlife jobs, Newton observed that their lives were perceived to revolve around "confrontation, prostitution, and drug 'highs'." Even in a gay underworld where everyone was marked as deviant, it was the sincere street queens who tried to live as women who were punished most for what was celebrated-and paid-as an act onstage. When stage queens lost their jobs, they were often socially excluded like trans women. Newton explained that when she returned to Kansas City one night during her fieldwork, she learned that two poor queens she had met had recently lost their jobs as impersonators. Since then, they had become "indistinguishable from street fairies," growing out their hair long and wearing makeup in public-even "passing" as girls in certain situations," in addition to earning a reputation for taking pills. They were now treated harshly by everyone in the local scene. Most people wouldn't even speak to them in public. Professional drag queens who didn't live as women still had to avoid being seen as too "transy" in their style and demeanor. One professional queen that Newton interviewed explained why: it was dangerous to be transy because it reinforced the stigma of effeminacy without the safety of being onstage. "I think what you do in your bed is your business," he told Newton, echoing a middle-class understanding of gay privacy, "[but] what you do on the street is everybody's business."

The first street queen who appears in Mother Camp is named Lola, a young Black trans girl who is "becoming a woman,' as they say'." Newton met Lola at her dingy Kansas City apartment, where she lived with Tiger, a young gay man, and Godiva, a somewhat more respectable queen. What made Godiva more respectable than Lola wasn't just a lack of hormonal transition. It was that Godiva could work as a female impersonator because she wasn't trying to sincerely live as a woman. Lola, on the other hand, was permanently out of work because being Black and trans made her unhireable, including in female impersonation. When Newton entered their apartment, which had virtually no furniture, she found Lola lying on "a rumpled-up mattress on the floor" and entertaining three "very rough-looking young men." These kinds of apartments, wrote Newton, "are not 'homes.' They are places to come in off the street." The extremely poor trans women who lived as street queens, like Lola, "literally live outside the law," Newton explained. Violence and assault were their everyday experiences, drugs were omnipresent, and sex work was about the only work they could do. Even if they didn't have "homes," street queens "do live in the police system."

As a result of being policed and ostracized by their own gay peers, Newton felt that street queens were "dedicated to "staying out of it" as a way of life. "From their perspective, all of respectable society seems square, distant, and hypocritical. From their 'place' at the very bottom of the moral and status structure, they are in a strategic position to experience the numerous discrepancies between the ideals of American culture and the realities." Yet, however withdrawn or strung out they were perceived to be, the street queens were hardly afraid to act. On the contrary, they were regarded by many as the bravest and most combative in the gay world. In the summer of 1966, street queens in San Francisco fought back at Compton's Cafeteria, an all-night venue popular with sex workers and other poor gay people. After management had called the police on a table that was hanging out for hours ordering nothing but coffee, an officer grabbed the arm of one street queen. As the historian Susan Stryker recounts, that queen threw her coffee in the police officer's face, "and a melee erupted." As the queens led the patrons in throwing everything on their tables at the cops-who called for backup-a full-blown riot erupted onto the street. The queens beat the police with their purses "and kicked them with their high-heeled shoes." A similar incident was documented in 1959, when drag queens fought back against the police at Cooper's Donuts in Los Angeles by throwing donuts-and punches. How many more, unrecorded, times street queens fought back is anyone's guess. The most famous event came in 1969, when street queens led the Stonewall rebellion in New York City. Newton shares in Mother Camp that she wasn't surprised to learn it was the street queens who carried Stonewall. "Street fairies," she wrote, "have nothing to lose."

Jules Gill-Peterson, A Short History of Trans Misogyny

#reading #a short history of trans misogyny #transmisogyny #jules gill-peterson

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reiderwriter · 5 months ago

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🗝 Don't Back Down 🗝

Pairing: Unit Chief! Sub Spencer Reid x dom! BAU Reader

For the CM Kink Bingo Challenge 24

Requested: Hello!! You are an excellent writer, and I hope you don’t mind a random request. :)!Basically, Spencer breaks protocol and endangers himself - runs after an unsub without backup, takes off his vest, etc. whatever it is - the reader is either there or finds out and is PISSED. She’s obviously not above him in the BAU, so she can’t punish him at work, but she can punish him in bed through toys/edging.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, brief mentions of details, minor gunshot wound, sex toys, punishment, BDSM themes, male sub Spencer, cock ring, dildo, masturbation (f), squirting, overstimulation (male), multiple orgasms, begging, messy sex, slight cum play, implied oral sex (f), boss/ subordinate relationship, partial established relationship, FWB dynamic. Implied switch x switch.

A/N: Hello! I really loved writing Unit Chief Spencer for my first Kink Bingo fic, so I've decided to bring him back a second time, and I'll be rounding out the challenge with a third part in the Unit Chief saga in July! You don't have to have read the first part, but if you want to, you can find it here~♡ I'm still enjoying the challenge of interpreting all the bingo challenges and this marks my very first bingo line! Let's see if I can get a full board!!

Masterlist || Bingo Board

His tenure as Unit Chief may have been temporary and wholly unwanted, but you admired Spencer's commitment to actually taking care of every member of the team he was left in charge of.

He'd supported JJ in interviews, actually taking care of the press very effectively, and made sure Garcia was calm and stable. Hell, he'd even made Rossi feel better about his work on cases. And for you - well, he'd taught you to shoot straight. That and more.

He'd held you in the middle of the night on the tougher cases, letting you sob into his bare chest the day you'd first killed an unsub. He'd distracted you from cases with his tongue, and his fingers and his dick, he'd given you pleasure where the job gave only pain and stress, and you loved him.

You loved him, even if he was going to get himself killed.

At first, it had been pulling Luke out of the way of a moving vehicle, being almost mowed down himself when on a case. Then he'd walked into a scene without his gun and had actually taken off his vest in exchange for JJ and Tara being able to back away to safety. He'd closed a door between him and Rossi and an active bomb that had only just been deactivated in time, and more recently, he'd taken two bullets for you.

It was like he wanted to die.

Th bullets, of course, had hit his vest, but a third had scraped his shoulder, and the cry out of pain had you nearly hysterical. Luke had taken down the unsub immediately, but you were a flood of tears already, panicking and having and dropping to your knees as you shook, the anxiety of almost losing him flooding your body with adrenaline.

After all that, he was still the one comforting you.

“Y/N. Y/N, shhh, it's okay, I'm here. I'm okay. Don't cry were both safe, I saved you. We're safe.”

You pounded at his chest, but with the others surrounding you, there was nothing to do but stand and pull yourself together, even if you wanted to rage at him and tell and scream.

He gave out orders and was escorted away to an ambulance, and you wiped your tears and got to work. You'd fucked Spencer, sure, you had been fucking him for months now, but it wasn't a relationship. It certainly wasn't anything your coworkers knew about, and you knew they'd have words if they did know.

So you wiped your tears, and you put your head down and finished up your work. Then you made your way back to the jet, back to your home, back to your bed, and waited for him to make an appearance.

You weren't in a relationship, but you knew he'd come. You heard his keys in your door, rolling your eyes at how naive you'd been handing it over - in case of emergencies, really, he had Luke and Penelope’s spare keys as well because they lived alone, it'd be safer.

You sat up in your bed and waited for him to come in, scoffing when he knocked on your bedroom door.

“Was there a point to that, Spencer?” You asked, calling him in.

He looked dishevelled, slightly worse for ware, but god did he look good. He wore a new shirt, a bullet hole ripped in the last one, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The top buttons were undone, and he discarded his jacket on your chair before stepping closer.

“Y/N…” his voice was so tired you almost forgot how angry you were. Almost.

“No. Don't come to me like that after you pulled that stupid shit today, Spencer.”

“He was going to shoot you-”

“He was going to miss. You're taller than me. And if I'd stayed where I was, I would have fired off a round before he could even get one shot in. But you pushed me out of the way and almost got yourself killed instead.”

He stood with his hands on his hips in front of the bed, a scowl on his face as he struggled with words to find next.

“I won't apologize for saving your life.”

“No, you won't because you didn't save my life. You almost ended yours.”

“Y/N-”

You knelt on the bed now and grabbed his shoulders, pushing him to his knees.

“No. I'm done listening, and you're done talking. If you're not going to stop walking into near death experiences, you don't get to walk in here and fuck me.”

He sank to his knees easily, his eyes wide as you sat up on the bed in front of him. You thought of leaving him there the entire night, of kicking him out into the living room to sleep on the couch. If you hadn't been through so much that day, you'd just send him home.

But sat there on his knees, you saw a flash of desire in his eyes, big and round and needy.

His gaze flicked to your core, and you suddenly entertained different ways to punish him, to train him out of destructive behaviour.

“Handcuffs,” you said, holding out your hands for them. He passed them up, and you left the bed, restraining his hands behind his back quickly and grabbing two items from your draws.

You moved to the bed and knelt again as he looked at you with dark eyes, suddenly aware of what was happening to him.

“Y/N-”

“I didn't say you could speak,” you said as you quickly peeled off your nightdress, leaving yourself bare on the bed.

Usually, you'd feel embarrassed being naked. Even when he undressed you, you felt the urge to cover your tits, to squeeze your legs shut so he couldn't see all of you, to let him pry your hands away, to coax your legs apart.

Now, you sat confidently, spine straightening as you looked down at him.

His eyes took in your body, and he winced as if pained when you touched yourself, knowing that usually he alone had that honour.

“Y/N…”

“One more time, and you won't return to this bed for days. Do you understand?”

Learning, he nodded and sat up again to watch your fingers play with your nipples, twisting them either way as you moaned and sighed above him.

His breathing hitched as you let your hands trail lower and lower until they reached your cunt. You didn't touch yourself yet though.

“Open,” You said, leaning forward and tapping his chin. He complied, opening his mouth and you shoved two fingers inside.

“Get them nice and wet for me.”

He licked and sucked your fingers for two minutes, never breaking eye contact as his spit rolled down your hand.

“Good boy,” you said, pulling them away as you began to touch yourself. Sitting back on your ass, you rubbed your clit, rubbing his spit into your sensitive button, letting him know how good it felt, how close you were to cumming with his spit on your cunt. You plunged one finger in and then another as you watched him bite his tongue, careful not to let even a small sound slip out.

You didn't even have to glance down to know he was hard. It was in the set of his shoulders, the rapid breaths he took. It was the way he sat back on his heels, rocking back and forth to feel some goddamn friction.

You couldn't have that.

You placed your foot on his uninjured shoulder and tried to hold him in place.

“Don't fucking move,” you said, slipping a second finger inside yourself ad you picked up the pace. Your hips bucked ad you watched him watch your cunt, paying attention to every twitch you made, every moan, breath, gasp, and shudder.

“I'm gonna cum, fuck, I'm gonna- shit! Shit-”

You came with a spurt, squirting your cum across his face as he leaned closer, desperate to taste you. You grabbed his hair and forced him backwards though, grabbing the two toys beside you as you dropped down to the floor.

“You're not touching my cunt today, Spencer, not even for a taste. You're not touching anything today.”

You pulled his cock free from his pants and spat on it, not bothering to touch it properly before pushing the cock ring onto him and pressing the on button.

In a minute he was a moaning mess and you smiled at the painful pleasure disrupting his features.

“Eyes open, Spencer, you have to keep watching.”

You kept your eyes locked with his, his mouth open wide in a silent moan as he tried not to cum, desperate to hold out for you as long as he could.

You climbed back onto your bed and spread your legs again, this time accompanied by a translucent plastic cock. You teased your hole for a few seconds, grabbing Spencer's attention before pushing it in.

His eyes were stormy as he watched you fuck yourself with your old companion. You hadn't used it in a while, basically since you'd started fucking Spencer. He had rules, and one of them was that you couldn't use the dildo without his permission. He'd never given permission.

The look on his face now was worth whatever punishment he'd had out in the future, a mixture of anger and pathetic arousal, his eyes never leaving your cunt even as his own dick started spurting.

He came quickly, splashing up his shirt, ruining his pants.

You left him there like that, though, even as he winced from the overstimulation.

He didn't make a sound still, even as his dick got hard again almost immediately after deflating the first time.

“Look at what a mess you made. You're such a little pervert that you just came all over your shirt and pants. I hope you bought a spare, Spencer.”

His fight was gone as he looked at you again, only lust left as he panted and writhed beneath you.

You kept riding the dildo, burying It between pillows so you could ride it easier without needing to hold it.

He watched transfixed as his cock twitched again, vibrating still right on his balls.

“Tell me how good it feels, Spencer.’

“Hurts… Y/N, so good…. it hurts.”

You smiled down at him and kept asking him questions, knowing he'd never be able to stay quiet now.

“Do you want to cum again?”

“Fuck…yes, please, Y/N, please.”

“Do you want to cum all over yourself one more time?”

“N-No… messy, want to cum…in you.”

“What a shame, Spencer, but that isn't allowed. I won't let you cum in me if you're going to try to take a bullet in the field.”

“Y/N… p-please,” he whined, and you heard his voice break, hips thrusting up into the air now as he watched you.

“No. You're going to cum on yourself until you promise not to do it again.”

He shook his head, closing his eyes as he tried to resist cumming for a second time, so out of control. “Please-”

“You can do it. Promise me.”

“Y/N, p-please let me cum” he moaned again, his hands pulling at the restraints so he could get this infernal cock ring off of him and bury himself inside of you.

But it was too late, and his second orgssm stretched out longer than the one before.

You'd leaned in so close you'd caught a drop of cum on your face, but most of it pooled on him instead. He collapses backwards, his cum coating his stomach and chest, his shirt going translucent in places as the ring kept buzzing.

His moans were loud now, and immediately, he knew it was too much to wish for round three.

“I promise! Y/N, I promise, please fuck, I promise.”

You quickly fell to the floor, turning off the cock ring and slipping it off as you kissed him tenderly, thanking him and praising him for doing such a good job for you.

You rolled him onto his side and removed the handcuffs, immediately pulling them into your lap and massaging them, feeling a bit guilty about the red marks.

“Spencer?” You asked after a few moments when he seemed to have regained his breath and his senses.

“Mmm?”

“We should get you in bed. You need to rest.”

He nodded and weakly sat himself up, falling into bed beside you. He threw the dildo across the room and nuzzled himself into you, head buried between your breasts.

You pulled away and came back with a wash cloth, stripping his shirt and pants and cleaning the cum off him as best you could so he could sleep comfortably.

“I prefer when you do that with your mouth, you know?” He joked, and you playfully hit his leg. He couldn't still be thinking about sex after that.

But he was. As careful as you were to not overstimulate him again, his cock still rose again, and he pushed your hands away, pulling you up to him.

“I came twice, but you only did it once,” he whispered between kisses.

“It seems like we need to get even.”

With that, you knew that your turn being in charge was over, and he was the leader now.

"But only if you beg for it," you smirked, looking up at him, but he easily flipped you over, pushing you up so you were kneeling on the sheets above him again, him undernesth you.

You happily followed him as he pulled your dripping core over his mouth, and he pulled you in for one last taste, begging you for forgiveness with his tongue again and again.

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secretmellowblog · 1 year ago

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On the subject of the Titanic ‘submersible’ that was lost in the deep with all its wealthy tourists— it’s so insane/eerie in hindsight to read this article from the Smithsonian that interviews the CEO Stockton Rush long before the disaster.

Despite the Smithsonian supposedly being an organization that cares about science and truth, and the fact that there were SO MANY obvious red flags from the beginning and so many people criticizing the company…..the article is a puff piece uncritically glorifying the CEO’s obviously terrible submersible project. It compares him in glowing terms to Elon Musk. It is an article about how private ventures like those of Stockton Rush and Elon Musk can and should be the future of the world.

We’ve obviously learned now that there were whistleblowers at the company who were warning for a long time that Stockton Rush’s submersible was unsafe— only to be fired and then sued. It makes sense the submersible was so unsafe, because the CEO in this interview is open about how he has no background in underwater engineering and is annoyed by quote “regulations that needlessly prioritize passenger safety.”

Soon after, the private [submersible] market died too, Rush found, for two reasons that were “understandable but illogical.” First, subs gained a reputation for danger. Working on offshore rigs in harsh locations like the North Sea, saturation divers, who breathe gas mixtures to avoid diving sicknesses, would be taken in subs to work at great depths. It was the world’s most perilous job, with frequent fatalities. (“It wasn’t the sub’s fault,” says Rush.) To save lives, the industries moved toward using underwater robots to perform the same work.

Second, tourist subs, which could once be skippered by anyone with a U.S. Coast Guard captain’s license, were regulated by the Passenger Vessel Safety Act of 1993, which imposed rigorous new manufacturing and inspection requirements and prohibited dives below 150 feet. The law was well-meaning, Rush says, but he believes it needlessly prioritized passenger safety over commercial innovation (a position a less adventurous submariner might find open to debate). “There hasn’t been an injury in the commercial sub industry in over 35 years. It’s obscenely safe, because they have all these regulations. But it also hasn’t innovated or grown—because they have all these regulations.”

The fact that Stockton Rush (who was piloting the submarine when the disaster happened) is on record complaining about the evils of regulations that prioritize people’s safety, and the Smithsonian uncritically regurgitated that rhetoric in their glowing puff piece about how rich tycoons like Elon Musk and Stockton Rush are going to save the world is just…..in hindsight of how everything ended it’s just so much horrible black comedy? It’s like a satire about the dangers of uncritically worshipping the rich.

It is mentioned in the article that Rush chose to make his submersible in a different shape, and with a different (cheaper) material than is usually used for submersibles. The article frames this as a result of daring innovation, and not of negligence/ignorance. This passage in particular, which in context is supposed to portray Rush’s critics as joyless naysayers who were proven wrong by the noble tycoon, is pretty foreboding in hindsight:

Rush planned to pilot the sub himself, which critics said was an unnecessary risk: Under pressure, the experimental carbon fiber hull might, in the jargon of the sub world, “collapse catastrophically.”

And then!!

The exact problem that happened to Titan this weekend, happened on Titan’s very first test voyage to the Titanic! The experimental carbon fiber hull had an issue and it caused communications to break down!

The dive was going according to plan until about 10,000 feet, when the descent unexpectedly halted, possibly, Rush says, because the density of the salt water added extra buoyancy to the carbon fiber hull. He now used thrusters to drive Titan deeper, which interfered with the communications system, and he lost contact with the support crew. He recalls the next hour in hallucinogenic terms. “It was like being on the Starship Enterprise,” he says. “There were these particles going by, like stars. Every so often a jellyfish would go whipping by. It was the childhood dream.”

Both Rush and the article writer treat this as a fun quirky story, instead of a serious safety failure and red flag with his experimental macgyvered regulation-flaunting submersible.

Other highlights from the article include:

Stockton rush saying that if 3/4 of the planet is water, why haven’t we monetized it?

Stockton saying we will “colonize the ocean long before we colonize space”

Lots of weird pro colonialism stuff in general??? This article loves colonialism and thinks it’s cool

Rush saying he plans for this to eventually help find more underwater resources for the US to exploit and profit from

Elon musk comparisons. The article writer does not mention that Elon Musk’s rockets explode and therefore it would be a bad idea to get in one of them, because that would imply it’s a bad idea to get into the submersible

Stockton rush seeing himself as Captain Kirk

The article writer comparing the tourists who plan to join Rush to Englishmen who went on colonialist journeys to Africa as if that’s like, a good thing. So much pro colonialism stuff in this article

So many sentences about Stockton Rush being handsome when he literally just looks like some guy

The article beginning with an editor’s note from years later disclaiming that the extraordinary submersible they’re advertising in this article is uh. It’s now uhhhh

But yeah it really does just bring home how so many organizations that supposedly care about scientific truth or journalistic integrity are willing to uncritically platform propaganda for wealthy CEOS. It’s frustrating how easily people fall for the fake myths that careless wealthy people invent for themselves, and even more frustrating that supposedly respectable institutions will platform irresponsible lies that end up getting people killed.

Rush is such an obvious and simple example of this, and his negligence is “only” killing five people including himself. But to me it feels like a cautionary tale to bear in mind when it comes to uncritical puff piece media coverage of similar “daring tycoon innovations” by people like Bezos or Musk.

#titanic #oceangate #titanic submersible #sorry this is just so fascinating to me #it’s like a parody or piece of satire #if it were in a novel it would feel like the symbolism was too obvious and on the nose

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yeyinde · 24 days ago

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ghoapxreader in the baby trapping series IM BEGGING 🧎‍♀️

i think i've exhausted the whole "tampering with contraceptives" thing to death by now so i would probably do something different with them. like a surrogate situation or something, but awful lmao

maybe down on her luck reader is in desperate need of cash, and these two men swoop in to save you from this horrible pit you've fallen into.

you need money. they need a baby.

simple, right?

except the simplicity falls apart when they blatantly tell you they want a natural insemination—as in, a threesome.

multiple, the pretty Scot tells you. after all, it has tae take, hen.

(and this is the part where you should have run. the moment when you'd be screaming at the television at the hapless protagonist as they walk mindlessly into danger despite the warning signs hanging overhead. but like the oblivious hero, you're too blinded by pretty, gleaming white to realise that the thing you're marveling over is a maw. cracked open wide and full of jagged, deadly teeth rearing up to sink inside of you.

but the problem with making shady deals when you're desperate is that no one really bothers to read the fine print, do they? and by the time you see past their crooked charm, you're waving your child off as they skip up the stairs to school, standing like a prisoner between them as they lean down and ask if you're ready for another—)

but that comes later.

what comes first is message on Craiglist.

one that you spend less time considering it than you should have. desperation, you find, clouds your judgement. blots out common sense. makes you susceptible to manipulation. and oh, how susceptible you are. despite priding yourself on your common sense and keen self-awareness, the overarching issues hanging over your head like an idling guillotine seem to erase that instructive need for self-preservation.

so, when the message itself pops up, you're already primed for making bad choices. ones out of malformed desperation. the barrage of texts from your landlord demanding rent, the ones sent to your family in moments of dire need asking for fruitless aid that will never come in time if the read receipts mean anything at all. the package from HR apologising for the inconvenience, but this was, regrettably, the only feasible option for the company at present, and too bad you didn't sign up for that union, huh? student loans. credit cards.

the measureable calamity of your life manifests itself in the shape of a black cloud hanging onto your aching shoulder, wrapping long, inkstained fingers around your jugular as it hisses the insurmountable figure needed to climb out of this pit in your ear.

sleepless, of course, hasn't helped.

and in that bog you can't swim through, their offer sounds far more appealing than it should.

let's meet up somewhere, comes the next message at half past three in the morning as you talk yourself in (and out) of this mess. talk about things more.

what else are you supposed to do?

job hunting sites mock you with their generic emails, thanking you for applying, and saying they'll reach out within a few business days for an interview if you're a good fit. ones sent off weeks ago. hundreds of them to no avail. it's almost like you're being plagued. blacklisted from the city.

even the fast food chain down the street refused your application when you sent it in, and the help wanted sign has been taped on the drive-thru window since you were sixteen.

it all pushes you closer and closer to making stupid choices, like replying with a simple (nervous, shaky, bile-tinged) sure to the message they sent. i'm down—

(—and drowning)

but you're smart enough to know better, so you act like it, too.

ping your location to your friends. tell them where you're going. clutch your keys so tightly in your fist that your knuckles just out through thin skin. layers upon layers of safety measures glimpsed through the various articles about how to stay alive.

but all the tremulous air is siphoned from your lungs when you see them for the first time.

something magnetic thrums through your chest. copper sutures running lines from their skin to yours until touching just seems like the most natural thing in the world. and you suppose it is when the pretty Scot folds you into a tight hug, cinching you close to his chest as if he's known you his whole life instead of just several seconds.

he's a thing of beauty. chiselled from marble, almost; David made human when he runs his tanned hand through the tumble of uneven hair along his crown. eyes the same varicoloured palette of a boscage in autumn framed in the setting sun's golden halo.

there's a distinct ruggedness about his beauty, too. one that reminds of you a lion's mane. the sleek fur of a stallion. pretty in a wild way. and as his eyes list towards you again and again, like he can't quite manage his fill of staring at you, taking you in, you think about that wildness again. the hunger in his eyes so similiar to the desperation of a predator fattening up for the encroaching chill of winter. it makes you shiver, but you can't look away

(because you know what's waiting for you when you do)

and when you finally pluck up the courage to glance at the shape devouring the light with his intimidating bulk, you come to quick realisation that if Johnny is the personification of an autumn evening, then the man standing next to him is the tried and true testament that bad things happen after dark.

he's a strange figure, one who veers almost comically into the uncanny valley with his hood pulled over the plain, black ballcap hanging low over his brow. a balaclava covering every inch of his face with the exception of a small, ovaled hole for his eyes. remnants of something ashy smear into the corners, running up the crooked bend of his nose.

he doesn't look like a real man—not with those liquid, haunting eyes—but at the same time, there's something preternaturally human about him. a stereotypical sense of masculinity—just one warped around the edges.

with his worn jeans pulled tight over thick, bulging thighs, and the silver zipper of his hoodie resting at the base of his throat, you could easily think he was just another man in the crowd, but it's off. a glitch. a skip.

like mistaking a coat rack for a man in the dead of night.

eerie.

dangerous.

if the man beside him is playfully carnivorous, a basking lion rolling onto his belly at the zoo, separated by thick glass, then he (Simon, Johnny supplies readily when the silence lingers; Simon Riley), Simon, is what it feels like to be followed home at night.

but—

there's something about fear and desire that are almost inseparable when broken down into a physiological response.

and when he steps up behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body soaking into the drying sweat on your back, you liken the way your heart climbs up your throat to same as it would seeing a dorsal fin cutting above the waves in open water.

desire, you think, and then catching the white-hot burn of the stare, you add, in a thin whisper: fear.

when they sit you down, and begin to spin a story about how they just want a baby—no strings attached—you stay seated in the chair even as an itch in the back of your head starts, nails scraping at your skull.

their reluctance toward traditional methods makes sense when they explain that with their lifestyle, it's impossible—or the Scottish man does; the other one with a marbled skin of thick, ugly scars on his hands just stares, pinning you down with the weight of his gaze—and this arrangement is the only way they'll get the baby they've been hoping for.

and even though the scratching in your head sounds suspiciously like why you and run, you eat the food they bought for you in the fancy restaurant where appetisers start at $30, and a glass of water is priced at $6. volcanic spring water, the waiter explains as he pours it from a marbled glass pitcher.

you haven't eaten a real meal that wasn't microwavable or cup noodles in weeks.

maybe that's why you find yourself thinking why not instead of no.

they're attractive men. it's not the worst situation you could have found yourself in, even if the idea of parenthood—however brief it's supposed to be—has bile clawing up the back of your throat, and the bones housing your trembling heart feeling laden, heavy like iron, and starts to cinch your chest shut each day, squeezing tighter, and tighter, and—

they drop off the first the installment to you the moment your doctor starts to talk about boerhaave syndrome, as if they know the doubts that plague your head when they leave your apartment and the silence starts to mock you.

and that leads you here.

guilt for their situation. desperation over your own. an overarching need to please. it's all a dangerous cocktail that douses over rationality until you're nodding along, accepting their words as gospel until sleeping with them—multiple times—doesn't seem like such a bad thing.

until it happens. until you have Johnny and Simon actively working to knock you up. a marathon of intense sex with the single-minded goal of putting their baby in you.

Johnny drooling all over you as he ruts between your thighs, mindlessly driving himself into a frenzy as he slurres out his desires in an incomprehensible mess of English and Gaelic and animalistic grunts. barely pulling out in time before Simon is pressing your knee down to the mattress, cooing mockingly at the mess his boy made of you. cruelly taking bets as he slides into your sore, aching cunt about who will take first. his or Johnny's? and who do you want, birdie? who's baby do you want first?

fingers always shoving inside to cap the overflow when they exhaust themselves in a liquid-limbed stupor, barely conscious as you tapped out some three, four rounds ago. unable to keep your eyes open any longer as they both came to the same conclusion that cumming inside of you at the same time was the quickest way to knock you up together. ain't he a romantic, birdie?

and it's probably for the best that you passed out before it happened, drooling on Simon's scarred shoulder as he gripped the cheeks of your ass, pulling you wide open as Johnny shuffled forward between his spread legs, eyes riveted to the spot where Simon's cock split you open. the ache you felt the next morning, coming to on a broad chest with fingers stuffed inside of you—shush, shush, just keeping you nice an' plugged, sweetheart—was almost unbearable.

you expected them to clear out after getting what they want, but they stay. tend to you carefully like you're made of fine china.

or—Johnny does. bundles you up in his arms before setting off towards the bath, finally letting you wash the sticky, flaking grime from your skin, some awful mixture of drying cum, spit, and sweat, groaning in your ear as he pulls you to his damp, hairy chest about how sweet you are for them. how they're going to take care of you.

Simon caters to other things. packs your bags as Johnny scrubs thick fingers over your shoulders, pausing to grasp a sore, tender breast in his palm, hefting the weight up as he feverishly mutters about how hot it'll be to watch you feed their baby. an' maybe you'll let him have a little taste, too—

and when you finally emerge from the bath, sorer between the thighs than you were when you woke up, another mess pooling in the gusset of the panties he pulled up your legs, Simon's waiting, eyes riveted to your belly. staring at it with so much hunger, a cold sweat breaks out along the nape of your neck.

in the grand scheme of things, the threesome is the easy part. the hard part comes when they turn the arrangement into a prison, locking the shackles around your wrists when the pregnancy test comes back positive a few weeks later.

they're only doing what's best for their baby, they say, when they move you out of your apartment and into theirs. the cut lease was the only way to do it, Johnny says, shrugging. why make you pay for something you aren't using anymore?

and maybe if your head was thickened with a fog, you'd have questioned the phrasing, but as it stands, pregnancy, even as early as this one, adles you. leaves you a syrupy mess of emotions that they take turns exploiting. aren't you so lonely all by yourself, hen? don' ye want a family?

aren't they good enough for you?

it's less subliminal messaging and more overt coersion. what are you going to do after this? where will you go with your lease cut? and when the funds run dry? what then?

gonna find another couple to knock you up? Simon hisses, mangled hands mauling your belly, pinching and squeezing the flesh as if he could feel the fragile box their happiness is housed inside. should jus' stay with us if that's the case, birdie.

but it's all so sweet, in its own way—

(—sweet like a parasite nesting inside of it's host.

but at least you'll never be lonely.)

they stand by the fact that they're looking out for you. that they care. that they can't do much else but idle and watch your body evolve into something new (an' magnificent, Johnny breathes, kissing this unfamiliar shape you call home) and it grates at them because they're not used to feeling so useless, so can't you just let them do this for you? take care of you in all the ways they see fit? like cutting your lease and giving you a better place to stay. handing in your resignation from that shitty nine to five that wore you down to the bone. culling out the annoyances in your life—the friends and family—who kick up needless fits over your wellbeing, and just stress you out more than you need to be.

they're not good enough for you, is what Simon says when you ask why he blocked them from your phone, Johnny hovering by the doorway with his arms folded over his chest. barring the exits, you'll realise later. but what comes first is fear, is anger, is—

happiness. maybe. or some broken, fragile facsimile of it. a subpar humuliculus masquerading around as if it was realised flesh and bone.

"oh," you say, and think you should be touched by his care, his concern, and so you are. shape this emotion from the sludge that pools at the bottom of your chest, running fingers through the muck to find pieces of gold. and then: "thank you, Simon."

it's sweet. or it could have been if it didn't spiral out of your control when they systematically dismantle your entire life until all you're left with is loose sediment slipping through your fingers. the foundation itself soften clay they shape into the image they've been after with the whole time: you.

(or more specifically, a momma for their baby.)

and when they ask you, at the end of this thin, fraying tether, if you want to be with them—an equal, a mother—and be a mother again for them, there's nothing else you could say except yes.

nothing because they made it so.

#a more literal spin to “baby trapping” lmao #ghoap x reader #double p with brief hints of somno manipulation social isolation its implied that Ghoap ruin your life from bts too

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psi-hate · 13 days ago

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hey all. once again i'm frustratingly backed into a corner regarding my irl situation. as i posted earlier, my assistant manager informed me so much of the workplace abuse i've suffered these last few months have been a result of transphobic discrimination by my boss. after months or working 10+ hours overtime a week, consistently covering my boss's shifts because he decided not to show up, lack of training, safety issues and sabotage by giving me false information about my job tasks, just to start, it broke me. my A.M. is a really sweet man who is a queer person of color and stood up for me and my girlfriend whenever our boss would talk shit about us behind our back, but finally couldn't take it anymore and quit, telling me everything that's been happening. my boss has been trying to get me to quit by denying me a raise he promised, along with all sorts of other lies and misgendering. it's been weighing on me for months and it's all crashing down. we can't work there anymore. our boss is literally interviewing our replacements TODAY because he said he doesn't think we'll last the abuse.

problem is, financially speaking, we don't have much of a choice. i have a couple months of savings for rent, but that's pushing it. i'm sure i could find something in that time, and have been applying for a few weeks now, but my options are really limited regarding transportation. i want to try and get a car to help getting a job outside of our limited walk-able options, but currently i can't afford one *and* rent at the same time.

that being said, i'm going to be trying to do commissions while i'm working things out. if you'd like to help me out, it'd mean a lot to me.

https://paypal.me/George578?country.x=US&locale.x=en_US

Some examples of my work! Feel free to reach out for quotes. Estimated price for these would be ~$50-$100

Thanks so much.

#pk.text

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landinhoe · 2 months ago

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In Your Tender Light- Lando Norris

ღ

Lando Norris dragged himself through the front door, the weight of the Singapore Grand Prix clinging to every muscle. The humidity, the grueling laps, and the relentless demand on his body had worn him down to the core. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, and his entire being craved nothing but rest and comfort.

She herd the door open from the kitchen, where she had been preparing his favorite meal. The moment she saw him, her heart softened. He looked spent, his hair slightly damp, his shoulders slouched in that familiar post-race fatigue. But he was home now, and she was ready to make sure he left all the tension of the race behind him.

“Hey, babe,” she greeted, her voice a gentle melody as she approached him. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a warm embrace, her body pressed close to his.

Lando let out a deep sigh, the simple comfort of her touch already working to ease the weight from his shoulders. “Hey,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from the race and interviews, but the sound of her voice seemed to ground him, bringing him back to the safety of home.

“Go take a shower,” she said softly, brushing her fingers against his cheek. “I’ll meet you upstairs. I’ve got a few things in mind to help you relax.”

He smiled at her, a tired but grateful look in his eyes. “What would I do without you?” he mumbld, kissing her softly before heading upstairs.

By the time he reached the bathroom, his body was practically begging for relief. The heat and tension from the race still clung to him, his muscles tight, his skin sticky with sweat. He turned on the shower, letting the water warm as he undressed.

Stepping under the spray, the hot water hit his skin like a balm, cascading down his tired body, washing away the grime and exhaustion of the day. His head tilted back, eyes closed, as he allowed the warmth to envelop him completely.

The sound of the bathroom door opening pulled him from his thoughts, and he smiled without opening his eyes. She stepped into the bathroom, her presence calming in the midst of the steam.

Without a word, she joined him in the shower, her hands reaching up to gently run through his hair, her fingers light and delicate against his scalp. Lando let out a deep breath, his body already relaxing under her touch.

“You’re always taking care of me,” he murmured, his voice soft as he leaned into her hands.

“That’s my job,” she teased, but her voice was tender. She grabbed a small bottle of his favorite shampoo, pouring some into her hands before lathering it into his hair.

Her fingers moved slowly, massaging his scalp in gentle, circular motions. The sensation of her fingertips against his head was a different kind of relief—one that wasn’t just physical but emotional too. Each stroke seemed to ease not just the tension in his body, but the pressure that had been building in his mind. The delicate pressure of her fingers working through his hair sent ripples of calm through him.

As she massaged his scalp, she took her time, knowing just how much he needed this. Her hands moved with careful precision, pressing into the spots at the base of his skull, where the tension from the helmet and the race had gathered. She used her thumbs to knead gently at his temples, working out the tightness there.

Lando let out a soft groan, his head dipping slightly as he leaned into her touch. The feeling of her fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles on his scalp was intoxicating, each movement sending waves of relaxation down his spine. She focused on the sensitive points at the nape of his neck, rubbing in slow, rhythmic strokes. Her fingers glided through his damp hair, pulling gently with just the right amount of pressure.

“You always know exactly what I need,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of the shower.

“Relax,” she whispered back, her voice soothing and soft, as if she could sense how deeply worn out he was. “Let me take care of you.”

Her hands traveled to his temples, pressing gently with her thumbs, the movement both soothing and deliberate. She massaged in slow circles, easing the tension from his forehead and the muscles around his eyes. Each touch felt like she was unraveling the knots of stress that had built up during the race weekend.

“You don’t have to think about anything right now,” she murmured, her fingers sliding through his hair again. “Just breathe.”

Lando’s breathing slowed, his whole body surrendering to the moment. He didn’t realize how tightly he had been holding himself until her touch made him aware of it. Every time her fingers brushed over a new spot on his scalp, he felt his mind grow quieter, his thoughts drifting away from the intensity of the weekend.

She continued to massage the back of his head, her fingers moving in gentle waves, coaxing the remaining tension out. Her touch was light but firm, knowing exactly where to press, where to release. Her hands traveled to his neck, where the pressure from long hours behind the wheel lingered. She massaged the muscles there with precision, easing out the stiffness that had settled in his neck and shoulders.

“Mmm,” Lando hummed in contentment, his eyes still closed. He could feel the stress slipping away with every delicate movement of her hands.

The steam from the shower wrapped around them like a cocoon, the warmth enhancing the tenderness of the moment. She took her time, knowing he needed this, her fingers never rushing, moving with intention and care. It wasn’t just a physical release,there was something deeply intimate about the way she was caring for him, something that spoke to how well she knew him, how attuned she was to his needs.

When she was satisfied that every ounce of tension had left his body, she gave his head one final, gentle squeeze before reaching for the handheld showerhead to rinse out the shampoo. The water cascaded down, taking with it the lather and the remnants of the day’s exhaustion.

Her fingers trailed through his hair one last time as the water poured over him, making sure every trace of soap was gone. She turned off the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his waist before stepping out, her hands still lingering on his skin.

Lando’s eyes fluttered open, and he looked at her, his expression a mixture of love and gratitude. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this relaxed,” he whispered, his voice soft.

She smiled, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead, her lips lingering there for a moment. “Good. That’s exactly how I want you to feel.”

After the tender moments in the shower, Lando and his girlfriend made their way to the bedroom, the atmosphere thick with warmth and love. The soft glow of the candles created a peaceful ambiance, and Lando felt a wave of gratitude wash over him for her thoughtfulness.

As they climbed into bed, Lando settled against the plush pillows, and she nestled close to him, her body fitting perfectly against his. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in tight, their hearts beating in a gentle rhythm together. The comfort of her presence was like a soothing balm, erasing the stresses of the day.

“Is this what heaven feels like?” Lando murmured, his voice a low whisper as he pressed a soft kiss into her hair, inhaling her sweet scent.

“Better,” she replied, looking up at him with a playful smile. “Heaven doesn’t have you.”

They both chuckled softly, their laughter mingling in the air like a sweet serenade. Lando’s fingers traced lazy patterns along her arm, their warmth enveloping them in a cocoon of intimacy.

“Promise me we’ll always have moments like this,” he said, his tone turning serious for a moment. “No matter how crazy life gets.”

“Always,” she promised, her gaze earnest as she looked into his eyes. “I’ll always be here for you, Lando. In the chaos and the calm.”

With that promise hanging in the air, they settled into a comfortable silence, the only sound being the soft rustle of sheets and their synchronized breaths. Lando couldn’t help but feel a sense of contentment wash over him as he held her close. It felt as if the world outside had faded away, leaving just the two of them in their little sanctuary.

As the minutes slipped by, Lando’s eyelids grew heavy, but he held onto her tightly, cherishing the warmth and peace that came from being together. Her presence was grounding, a reminder that no matter how intense the racing world could be, here in this moment, they were home.

“Goodnight, love,” he murmured sleepily, planting another soft kiss on her forehead.

“Goodnight, Lando,” she replied, snuggling even closer, a smile playing on her lips as she breathed in the safety of his embrace.

With hearts intertwined and dreams waiting to unfold, they drifted off to sleep, wrapped in the warmth of each other, ready to face whatever the next day might bring—together.

ღ

#lando norris #lando norris oneshot #lando norris fluff #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando x reader #lando norris fic #lando norris x you #lando imagine #f1 imagine #f1 x female reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic

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elizaleclerc · 4 months ago

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austria ୨♡୧

lando norris x reader

summary: journalist!reader and lando get into an argument after the austrian gp

song: novacane by frank ocean

author's note: for the lando girlies who are struggling after the triple header </3 (also im back hiiii long time no see)

word count: 2.3k

As an F1 journalist, your job is not for the faint of heart. You are constantly on edge, especially when it comes to your boyfriend's performance on the track. Today, at the Austrian Grand Prix, he battled fiercely with Max, their cars weaving in and out of each other's paths. You watched with bated breath, your fingernails digging into your palms as you feared the worst - a catastrophic collision that could send either one of them careening into the unforgiving walls. The smell of burnt rubber and gasoline filled your nostrils as you anxiously awaited the outcome of this intense race.

As a professional in the racing world, you were well aware of the scrutiny and attention that came with your job. But nothing could have prepared you for the media frenzy that erupted when news of your romance with the British driver, Lando, became public knowledge. You felt a twinge of fear for the safety of your job, but thankfully no major consequences arose from the slight controversy.

In fact, as fans began to capture sweet moments between you and Lando on their cameras, it seemed that they had come around to accepting and even celebrating your relationship. As you often walked together through the bustling paddock, surrounded by the sights and smells of burning rubber and adrenaline, you couldn't help but feel grateful for the love and support of those around you.

The rumble of engines crescendoed as the final laps of the race drew near. Max and Lando were neck and neck, their cars weaving through tight turns as they fought for first place. The tension was palpable in the air, and the crowd held its breath in anticipation. Suddenly, a loud crash echoed throughout the track - Max and Lando's cars had collided, their tires punctured and dreams of victory shattered.

Max raced into the pits, his heart pounding as his crew frantically worked to repair his car. On the sidelines, Lando's team watched helplessly as he climbed out of his damaged vehicle, frustration etched on his face. The once friendly rivalry between them now burned with disappointment and regret.

As you stood in the garage watching the chaos unfold, memories of shared dinners and late night parties with Max and Lando flooded your mind. But now, all you could feel was an anxious knot in your stomach, knowing that you wouldn't be able to see Lando until after his post-race interviews.

As your boss informed you that you would be the one conducting Lando's post-race interview, your worries swelled to a fever pitch. You anxiously fiddled with your microphone, feeling its weight in your hand as you mentally prepared for the task ahead. As you completed your first couple of interviews with ease, speaking to Charles and Lewis who had their well-rehearsed PR speeches at the ready, you couldn't shake off the nagging feeling that Lando would be a different challenge altogether. You knew his tendency to deviate from the script given by his assistant, opting instead to speak his mind. And today, you knew he would have plenty on his mind - most likely anger.

Over the past couple of weeks, Lando had grown increasingly tense as he climbed higher and higher in the championship standings. He was on track to beat Max, a feat that seemed impossible just a few races ago. The pressure and expectations weighed heavily on him, evident in the way his muscles were constantly tight and his jaw clenched. Even when the two of you were alone, he couldn't seem to fully relax.

As he approached you now, his face was still flushed and glistening with sweat, but there was an undeniable edge to his demeanor. Normally, you would swoon over his post-race glow and heavy breathing as he cooled down, but now it only made you more worried. You couldn't decipher if his ragged breaths were from the intense race or from simmering anger.

As he locked eyes with yours, a warm smile spread across his face. Your heart fluttered in response, but you quickly composed yourself and began asking your prepared questions. Normally, you were the one to come up with these interview inquiries for the post-race interviews, but this time your boss had given you a list of specific ones to ask. You did your best to steady your shaky breathing as you spoke, directing your questions towards Lando and the intense racing between him and Max. You couldn't help but notice the slight furrow of frustration on his brow, likely from being asked the same question multiple times before you got to him. With a professional tone, you probed into whether Lando believed the collision at the end of the race was his own fault or an error on Max's part.

Your hand trembled as you hesitantly raised the microphone to ask the question that had been weighing heavily on your mind. It was a topic rarely broached in these types of interviews, personal and sensitive. But you couldn't let this opportunity slip by without getting the answer straight from the source. Lando's expression grew serious, his voice tinged with frustration as he spoke about the standing between him and Max's friendship. His sweat was beading down his forehead and staining his hair. The intensity of the race still radiated from his every pore.

As he recounted his version of events, memories flooded your mind. Dinners with Max and Lando, their laughter filling the fancy restaurants and drawing curious glances from other patrons. Days spent out on the yacht with them, diving into the cool ocean waters with abandon.

It seemed impossible to imagine that anything could come between their strong bond. But as Lando's voice trailed off with a final statement about the potential permanent damage to their friendship, a sense of sadness washed over you. The reality of their argument sinking in, and the possibility of a rift between two close friends threatening to become a painful reality.

Despite his harsh statement, you maintained a composed demeanor and continued to ask him questions about his race performance. It was your responsibility to gather insights from him so he could identify and address his errors and shortcomings, something that Lando despised doing. He often downplayed his own abilities and would remark that certain mistakes had "ruined" his performance. It pained you to hear him speak negatively about himself, but it frustrated you even more that you were the one tasked with extracting these self-deprecating comments from him.

As the interview went on, your frustration grew hotter in your chest, and Lando's once cold stare now burned with anger directed at you. Did he truly blame you for the uncomfortable questioning? You hoped he knew it wasn't your choice to ask such probing questions.

As the interview ended, you mustered up a small, reassuring smile for him. However, his piercing green eyes held no warmth or affection - only anger. You mentally cursed yourself, knowing he was pissed off at your questions. Hastily, you flashed your friendly grin at the next driver approaching for an interview. Time to move on and leave dealing with Lando for later.

As the clock ticked closer to your official end of day, you couldn't wait to make your way to the McLaren paddock. The crew there had slowly started to embrace you with open arms, once they accepted your relationship with Lando. Now, you were free to come and go as you pleased outside of work hours.

You softly knocked on Lando's driver's room door, anticipation bubbling in your chest. After a few moments, the door swung open, revealing those familiar brown curls and that sun-kissed skin you had grown to love. But this time, Lando's face held no smile and he didn't speak when you walked in.

"Hey Lan," you spoke softly, the tension evident in your voice as you cautiously entered the small room. The air was thick with unease as you walked on eggshells around this version of Lando, deciding to take a seat on his small bed.

“Hi,” he mumbled. As he unzipped his sleek driver's suit and peeled off his fireproof shirt, revealing a chiseled and sweat-glistening torso, you couldn't help but admire his muscular physique. His back muscles rippled as he reached up to the top shelf, revealing the orange McLaren shirt that hugged his body perfectly.

“I’m a- I’m sorry about that interview.” The weight of your apology hung heavy in the air, almost suffocating. You longed to see him smile again, it was one of your favorite sights, but instead, his face was a mask of frustration and anger. Your heart ached at the sight of him so upset.

He scoffed bitterly, "Yeah, sure." He began to peel off the rest of his suit, exchanging it for a pair of sleek black pants. He had more press interviews lined up, but you had made sure to check the time before entering his dressing room. You knew he wasn't in a rush. As he changed, his movements were swift and precise, like a dancer rehearsing their steps. Despite the tension between you, you couldn't help but admire him.

"Come on, Lan, don't be like that," you pleaded, your fingers running nervously through your hair. You wanted him to understand, to let go of his anger and return to his cheerful self.

"It doesn't change the fact that I had to answer those questions," he replied, bitterness creeping into his voice. You couldn't blame him; who would want to be bombarded with inquiries about their friendships and personal flaws right after a grueling race?

The air between you was thick with tension, tinged with the scent of sweat and adrenaline. The sound of heavy breathing and distant cheers filled the silence as you both stood there, trying to bridge the gap between your feelings. But it seemed impossible in that moment, as if a chasm had opened up between you. You sigh, “I know, I’m still sorry.” You looked down at your feet, unsure as to what else you could say.

You heard his movements come to a halt, and you instinctively lifted your gaze to meet his intense stare. His piercing eyes seemed to be searching your very soul as they roamed over your face and down your body. You felt a familiar heat rising in your cheeks as he took in every inch of you, his expression shifting from serious to playful. A small smile tugged at the corner of those irresistible lips. He ran his fingers through his tousled curls, letting out an audible sigh before settling down beside you. "You wore orange today," he said with a sly smirk, his eyes still fixed on you.

You broke into a smile, “I believe it’s called papaya, actually.”

“For me?” he asked in a slightly shocked tone. As if you’d wear this color for anyone else.

“Always for you, Lando.” You looked over into his eyes as he placed a hand on the top of your thigh.

“I'm sorry about earlier, I know that interview wasn't your fault,” he apologized, his eyes gazing deeply into yours. The intensity in his gaze showed that this was more than just a formality; he truly meant every word he spoke. You couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for him, remembering the emotional outburst he had during the race.

“I know, and I want you to know that you're so much more than your mistakes today,” you reassured him sincerely. “You're an incredible talent, and it's a shame that it wasn't fully recognized today. It feels like you're not getting the recognition you deserve as someone who is fighting for the championship right now.” Your words spilled out earnestly, unable to hold back your admiration for him any longer. As a reporter and journalist, you were often expected to maintain an unbiased stance towards Lando, especially with the growing romantic relationship between the two of you.

But in this moment, you couldn't help but express how truly talented and deserving he was. Because if there was one thing that was undeniable, it was Lando's sheer brilliance on the track. However, deep down, you knew that sharing your true opinions may result in backlash from those who accused you of being biased. But in this moment, all that mattered was showing Lando how much he meant to you and how highly you regarded his abilities.

So here you were now, babbling to Lando, all the while he has this grin on his face. He was captivated by your knowledge and passion for racing, how you always seemed to have the right things to say on driver moves and strategies when some of your colleagues were clueless.

Mid-sentence, Lando's hand reached up to gently grasp your chin, tilting your head back as he pressed his lips firmly against yours. In between kisses, his smile was infectious as he teased, "You really do know how to stroke my ego, don't you?" The warmth of his breath against your skin sent shivers down your spine, causing you to melt even more into his embrace.

You grinned into the next kiss, resting a hand around his neck, “Maybe.”

This was the Lando you had fallen head over heels for, the charming and flirtatious driver who constantly sought recognition for his talent. You knew that there would be difficult days ahead, navigating through the media's constant criticism of his abilities, but you were determined to show him love and support no matter what. After all, it had been a while since you felt this kind of intense connection with someone. The way he flashed his dimpled smile and playfully teased you made your heart flutter like a bird in flight.

You couldn't imagine a future without him by your side.

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