#anyways about the race itself

[skitskatdacat63]

2024 Chinese Grand Prix - Fernando Alonso

[bayetea]

seeing non-black people critique rick's portrayal of black characters is interesting sometimes. only like 30% of the critiques I see make any sense to me to be honest

[conkreetmonkey]

yk what. Maybe I will hop on the trend and take a break from American political news for a while. I don't even live there so it won't affect me, unless it does in which case Canadian news outlets will report on it. I trust my muties will let me know if the shit really hits the fan. There's no way I won't hear, anyway, my housemates are all pretty into the news anyway. I really don't stand to benefit from any of it, and in the situations where I genuinely need to be informed of something, I'll still find out. All it'll do is make me upset, and I really don't need that in my life rn. thx @gummy-worms-in-my-brain for suggesting it last night. I thought about what you said, and you were right, so. Blocking some tags, setting up some filters, all that jazz.

[whippetcrimes]

We went out to our first ever straight racing meet today. I was intending to just talk to people, check things out, and let Misty observe, but she had an opportunity to do a practice run and we took it! This is right after I caught her and got her off to the side, do you think she loved it??

There is the usual plastic bunny I'm familiar with, but there's also a squeaky stuffed animal that makes noise as it bounces along the ground and. This is a dog who is obsessed with the bunny. This thing had her in full crazy mode. I've never seen her run so intently. She is muzzle trained, because I've been wanting to try this someday, but today was her first time running in it. Muzzle? Forgotten. We'll have to go out again and get more box practice, but she's otherwise good to go!

[rohirric-hunter]

Angstober Day 02: Countdown

I did not write this on the second. I wrote it this morning.

~*~*~*~

The final day dawns, and you are up early.

Well, you believe it is dawn. The sun does not penetrate the cloud cover above, which you imagine is thickest to the east, where it originates. But the earliest risers in the Camp of the Host have begun to stir, and you with them.

Breakfast is surprisingly cheery.

You all know what lies before you, and what lies behind. And you all know that today is likely the last day you will ever see. There is no reason, you suppose, for the cooks to be stingy. The rations are still road rations, but the helpings are larger than you had expected, and more dressed up. You find what remains of the Grey Company gathered around a cookfire with a few Rangers of Ithilien. Most of the party is known to you, and you laugh along with the others as Radanir and Thurindol exchange barbed words with no heat behind them about the use of Elfspear as a seasoning. The plant they are arguing about bears little resemblance to the Elfspear you are familiar with, which grows in spiky bunches close to the ground up and down the Great East Road from the Brandywine to the Hoarwell. You daren't venture a guess as to whether or not they are related. You suspect Orthonn knows, but he watches the argument with a smirk, and does not offer his opinion on the matter.

Radanir and Thurindol both likely know too, you reflect, but the argument is comfortable. It feels safe.

Your back and shoulders still ache from — you do not allow your mind to drift to such dark thoughts, not yet. There are better things to reflect on. Instead you set your empty plate aside and stretch the sore muscles. Lothrandir sits beside you, startling you. You had not heard him approach. But he does not speak, only smiles sadly, and takes your arms, gently repositioning them into what you can feel at once is a more effective stretch. You nod your thanks, and he accepts it with a gentle squeeze of your hand, before turning his attention back to the entertainment in the center of the little breakfast circle.

Breakfast cannot last forever. The minutes are counting down until you must all go your separate ways, to attend to your last duties before the end.

But for now, you laugh, as Thurindol finally wrests the Elfspear from Radanir's hands and throws it into the pot, drowning out Radanir's cries of protest with a triumphant exclamation: "It's good for you!"

"And tastes of mud from the swamps of Angmar," Radanir retorts.

You pull your cloak about yourself and lean your head against Lothrandir's shoulder as they argue, tuning out the details and relaxing in the moment. Part of you wishes Hathellang was here — but no. He is — not safe, but safer. He will have a chance, the chance you tossed aside when you agreed to come here, to follow Strider the Ranger to certain doom in the hopes of buying time. He can run and hide and live.

Breakfast will be over soon — but until then, you are content.

[etapereine]

[justanothergeneralkrow]

It really shows the divide between fans and queens with how people are reacting to the format.

So many people in fandom whine about how so much less dramatic it is with no eliminations. Which yes fair. However queens are treated better with this format and their legacies aren't ruined and reputation tarnished cause they get sent home eaely. They're not stressed cause they have 20k loans on outfits they might not be able to wear.

Shouldn't we be celebrating that this format shift has so clearly, positively affected the queens. To the point that a lot of queens who didn't want to return are now willing to.

[brittlebutch]

born to write frenetic analyses of the allegorical mental health struggles of fictional characters while marginally manic, cursed to struggle to present as mentally stable and coherent while working in an office building 40 hours a week

[makerofmadness]

Ok looking at fanart having not seen the ruin trailer in a while I have forgotten what Cassie's actual hair color is is it brown or blonde or something in between I keep seeing art of both

like it's FNAF so I don't mind (FNAF isn't consistent with its own human designs I'm pretty sure Susie had her hair go from blonde in the games to brown in one of the books and Vanessa I think went the opposite direction between VR and AR and SB and then there's Michael in FNAF 4 vs. Michael in SL so-) but I genuinely don't know what she was shown as anymore XD

[abyssalpriest]

if i disappear after saying that ive been assassinated no jokes aside if i take that down its not bc i disagree with it, you can still pin it on me as a belief that i think that shit should be said and ill put my whole ass behind it, but saying shit like that has consequences lmfao. also theres a time and a place to bring that up

[sateurn]

😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

These sobs really limited my tags?????

I have so many more thoughts this is so so much less than 1/2. Broski. Big dislike

[tarraxahum]

One thing I have to thank having Speed Racer as my first fandom ever for

is that it's practically impossible to frustrate me with adaptations being different from source material. However drastically.

No shade to fans who get salty about character rewamps or loose story interpretations, but when your first ever exposure to Media You Care About was a franchise that NEVER had two interpretations consistent with each other (story, time period, setting, location, race, names, looks, character development, family dynamics, who is related to whom, fucking car design, future generations consistency, you name it - they flipped it AT LEAST once)... You just never develop the ability to give a fuck!

[skitskatdacat63]

Okay so I'm watching the Monaco 2009 pre-race coverage and I'm only like 10 mins in but I have several things I need to say so I don't forget:

First of all OH MY GODDDDDD:

THIS INTRO IS SO COOL??????? LIKE OH MY GOD????? Sorry I'm just !!!!!!!!! about it!!! Like is this not the coolest thing?? The way Jake Humphrey is edited in is really smooth and realistic looking, I'm not completely familar with all the commentators, so I was staring at it like "wait....this is Jake, right? Or? It is, right??" If it tricked my 2023 brain, I can't imagine watching this 14 years ago lmao

Anyways I really really love BBC's coverage, I think it's soooo superior to modern broadcasting ngl. Like just the whole vibe of it, idk I really love it all, it's a shame not all of it is avalible to watch, bcs man, I would totally be up for watching every single thing as if it was the current season. You guys will have to inform me, since I only have access to F1TV, which is pretty good but mundane compared to this imo, but those of you with actual like cable broadcasters(like Sky and C4), would you agree that BBC's vibe is better?

Okay anyways, I have other things to say other than ranting about how much I love BBC's broadcasting lmao. Seeing the current(so like as of Monaco) leaderboard of the WCC is crazy. It is currently 1. Brawn 2. Red Bull 3. Toyota. I know obviously a lot changes from season to season, not to mention a literal decade, but the fact that two of those teams don't even exist anymore is so wild from the modern perspective. And heyyyyyy the team in 2nd is now on top baby!

Last point: Wow! I had no idea they were considering a budget cap for the 2010 season! Also just the comparison btwn the budget they were considering vs. the current one($45 million vs $135 million) is insane to me!! Even with accounting for inflation, the old budget cap is literally half of the current one.

*edit okay sorry, I just need to say this. WHY DOES MAX MOSLEY'S TIE LOOK LIKE THE OLD LESBIAN FLAG LMAOOOOOOO, like seriously if you wore that today, I would think you're repping me hahaha

[loneliii-aura]

Random but something slightly funny that I encountered as a young teen: there are specific names I didn't process as reflecting anything about race or ethnicity because I was used to them just being names I encountered. The funniest/most awkward was me asking a white friend talking about diversity in welcome to night vale:

"wait what episode does it say Carlos isn't white in?"

"...his name is Carlos?"

"....OH RIGHT."

(Which, tbf, only indicates a very rough ethnic/geographic group that spans across a dozen countries or so and includes several "racial groups" as defined by the US.)

But anyway, I guess time to turn in my Latina card.

[izvmimi]

Katsuki handles you extremely gently for the most part, which is why when you find yourself at the tail end of play-wrestling in the midday on Saturday, wrists bound together in a firm, one-handed grasp and a leg locked against him at the hip, you’re a bit surprised. Your lips form into a soft ‘o’ as you let out a pant; conversely, his breathing is still, having not exerted very much effort, but you can practically feel his heart pound in his chest.

Or possibly it’s wishful thinking, given the way your own heart races.

Katsuki pauses for a moment, then dips in close, kissing your forehead.

“Had enough?” he asks.

“What if I said no?” you quip. In reply, his face buries in the crook of your neck and he snorts softly.

“Why don’t we make love, not war?” 

You’d admonish him on the cheesiness of the statement, but you don’t have the energy to. By now, Katsuki has relaxed his hold on your wrists and your leg, but you let your thighs and calves find new positioning wrapped around his waist as he lowers his weight onto you. He’s heavy, but it’s a familiar, comfortable heaviness that keeps you warm.

“Don’t like roughhousing with you,” he murmurs softly, still unmoving. Your bodies breathe in and out together, and you let yourself hold him even closer, hooking your left arm around his neck gently and running your right through his hair. 

Perhaps somewhere this is another form of a wrestling lock, but you’re decidedly loving, letting fingers trace between the blonde spikes to scratch his scalp.

Katsuki appreciates your softness just as much as your feistiness at times, and perhaps the former he needs a little more at this time.

You lay together for a moment, remembering when you sparred for real once years ago while at UA, and how quickly he folded.

Perhaps you cheated, you think as you conjure up the memory.

…

Paired together for sparring despite your friends’ apprehensive looks, you take up the challenge gladly. Light on your feet, the two of you move in concert towards and away from each other quickly as you trade blows - a narrow dodge of a punch with a sidestep. You grab his hand, and Katsuki’s surprise emboldens you as you plant your foot firmly on the ground and use your momentum to throw him over your shoulder.

Collective gasps abound from your watching classmates as Katsuki hits the ground, hard. You smile once he’s quick to jump back to his feet, wider still as he grumbles out loud.

“You’re so goddamn sneaky.”

He resumes a fighting stance. The ring is relatively small, a chalky circle about 8 bodies in diameter, but he still hasn’t fallen out of bounds. Red-faced, he’s lunged at you again (Izuku in the crowd comments that he must be more upset that he can’t use his quirk than the fight itself) and you sidestep him once more before tripping him. He loses his balance just for a moment, but jumps back into a back handstand then rights himself. 

He does look like he’s getting his ass kicked, but your friend heckles him first with the truth.

“He’s blinded by love, go easy on him!”

Aizawa shoots her a disapproving look, and your cheeks warm, but you don’t let yourself get distracted. You won’t know how right she is until later, anyway.

Time elapses - you block another heavy roundhouse kick that causes you to skid but you stay standing as you brace for impact, your heels digging into soft ground.

“I told you I won’t ever go easy on you,” Katsuki hisses. 

He follows this up with a leg sweep that has you tumble over him, and you somersault to regain control, but Katsuki has your leg by the ankle, pulling until you dangle for a moment, but you land a punch straight into his gut despite your upside down position.

Your friend screams again to ‘get his ass!’ amongst your classmates and gets another look from Aizawa. 

But Katsuki has let go with the force of the shock and you shoot backwards and prepare for an axe kick. He blocks, but for a split second he loses his resolve - the look on your face is fierce, and he remembers exactly why he has a crush on you.

The two of you jump back and separate to the opposite sides of the ring.

“If you don’t get serious, you’ll lose,” you tease.

“I’m going easy on you,” he finally claims, gruffly.

“You literally said otherwise 15 seconds ago.”

An ooooooo runs through the crowd that makes him scowl, and he takes off again with another lunge. You block, a move that makes Shoto shake his head at the bad choice, and you skid backwards from the sheer power behind the punch, making it almost closer to the borders of the ring. The subsequent onslaught is hard and you’re about to make it out of bounds.

Until you try a desperate move.

Leaning forward suddenly as if you were to kiss him, red blooms on his face, and he immediately backs off.

Izuku cups his face in his palms.

A leapfrog jump over him and a slight push, and he’s out of the ring, having fallen flat on his ass.

Denki, Sero and Kirishima don’t let him live it down for hours.

…

You definitely did cheat.

And perhaps in a way you are now, because he’s putty in your hands as he melts into you. 

But you’re no longer fighting, whether playful or not - teeth, tongue, lips don’t clash but rather dance and glide together; fingers and palms caress and worship each other in your joint embrace.

No power struggle between you two to be found anywhere - if anything perhaps in a way, you’ve always had the upper hand, being fully adored by him.

Regardless of how much stronger he is than you, whether it is in physical ability or will or resolve, he’d still very easily and consistently succumb to your love.

[ahqkas]

“NOTHING’S GONNA HURT YOU BABY — jason todd.

PAIRING! jason todd 𝒙 fem!reader SYNOPSIS! your roommate is the menacing red hood — who just happens to have a soft spot for you WORD COUNT! 1.5k WARNINGS / TAGS! roommates jason & reader, cursing, smoking, mention of alcohol consumption, reader is described to wear makeup, use of petnames ( doll ) NOTES! i need a vigilante bf sb. based on this req.!! © ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

THERE IS A STARVED DOG IN THE BACK OF JASON TODD’S THROAT.

It keeps barking, baring its sharp canines at whoever dares to step too close to comfort. It isn’t afraid to bite, to leave permanent marks in its wake because it had been hurt once before and the past hadn’t been so kind. So, it rips things apart, shows its strength to intimidate. A mechanism to keep itself safe. To remain whole.

The dog craves violence and roughness to represent the image it once created. It also craves touch, and not the bittersweet one. The kind that aches to feel, the kind that feels undeserving.

Jason isn’t a violent dog. He doesn’t know why he bites.

He’s chaos wrapped in leather. He’s the rumble of a motorbike tearing down an empty street, the smell of gasoline and adrenaline falling behind him. He’s sharp edges and electricity, the lighting that splits the sky just before the rain comes down. He’s a storm caged in a human shell, unpredictable and restless. Jason is late nights bathed in neon lights and the rush of speed that makes your heart race. He’s fire and fury, a protective shield made of calluses and scars.

You, on the other hand, are the softness in a world that’s far too loud. You’re the quiet that follows the first snowfall, the kind that blankets the earth in white stillness. You’re the warmth of vanilla in a kitchen. You’re the calmness of a gentle breeze, the soft glow of a candle against the darkness. There’s nothing harsh about you; you’re delicate without being fragile, a sweetness that lasts long after you first taste it. You’re a handwritten note, a favorite song played on repeat, kindness that doesn’t ask for anything in return.

Where Jason is a storm, you’re the eye. He’s the clash of thunder, you’re the calmness that follows. He’s leather jackets and combat boots, you’re large sweaters and bare feet on fluffy carpet. He pushes the word back with his fists while you disarm it with your smile.

Maybe that’s why he has such a soft spot for you.

Jason’s large combat boots were heavy on the hardwood as he stepped through the apartment door. He didn’t use one of the windows tonight since he had the luxury to change out of his vigilante clothing. The brown leather jacket still hung from his broad shoulders, but all the other equipment that created the complete look of Red Hood was safely stashed under the stairs of your fire escape.

Red Hood was one side of Jason’s many personalities he tried to shield you from.

He was quiet, mindful of his steps. He avoided the creaking spot on the floor, and he avoided closing the door too roughly. He had told you one too many times that he could take a look at the things that just made your life annoyingly difficult, but you waved him off with sweet words and he obeyed like a man possessed. The apartment was quiet, too quiet for his liking but he shook it off. You were supposed to be out anyway, something about a party your friends dragged you at.

The faint scent of cigarettes hit him before the quiet breeze of the night air rusted the curtains, and Red Hood was instantly on alert. His fingers moved before his mind could even process the situation, feeling the sharpness of his blade tucked in the belf of his pants.

His legs followed, taking him toward the balcony door and stepping outside into the night. He expected anything: a stray cat wandering through various apartments on a hunt for leftovers or even a rookie thief trying to break in. But he didn’t expect you, sitting on a plastic chair with a cigarette between your lips. One his cigarettes.

There you were, knees pulled close to your chest, the heels of your feet digging into the cheap plastic so you wouldn’t fall.

Draped in one of his hoodies he forgot on the couch earlier, you looked like you were ready to call it a day. Still, impossibly beautiful even with that tired look in your eyes. You pulled the cigarette out, puffing a white swirl of smoke into the darkness.

Jason stepped closer, his tall frame easily towering over yours. “You wanna tell me what the fuck you’re doing out here?” The sight of you, your cheeks flushed with alcohol and your hair a little wild from the chill wind, tugged at something buried deep in his chest.

Your glassy eyes met his and your lips tugged into a beaming smile. “Hey, Jason,” you mumbled his name out like it was a melody you hadn’t quite learned yet. “You’re home.”

“Yeah, I’m home. And you’re drunk. Smoking my shit.”

“I stole it from your jacket’s pocket when I did the laundry. I figured you wouldn’t miss one,” you held up the cancer stick towards him, as if to say, ta-da! Look what I found.

You were holding a piece of him. He crouched in front of you, his gloved fingers gently plucking the cigarette from your hand before you could protest. “Smoking’s bad for you, you know. I guess I’m a bad influence for you,” he muttered while his thumb brushed over the filter, the bark of the dog in his throat quieting for a moment. There was a faint pink outline on the white paper. A mark of your lips.

You tilted your head, studying him like you were seeing him for the first time. “You could never be a bad influence.”

Jason didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened as he put the cigarette against the railing, the faint hiss breaking the silence between you. Then, he flicked it over the edge of the railing, watching the embers spiral down into the darkness below. The city roared faintly beneath you, but here, on this tiny balcony, it was just the two of you.

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Like what?” your brows knitted into the frown he grew to adore.

“That I’m not a bad influence,” his lips twitched, caught between a smirk and something bittersweet. It was all a big joke to him; you didn’t know his true nature and yet here you were defending the man you thought you knew. The irony wasn’t lost on him. “You don’t know me as well as you think, doll.”

Tilting your head to the side, you gazed up at Jason like he hung the moon just for you. The look in your eyes softened. “I know enough, Jay. I know you’d rather jump off this balcony than let anything happen to me. I know you leave food for the stray cat, even though you complain how she’s too noisy at night. And I know that when you’re quiet like this,” you bumped your knee against his, trailing slightly into a quieter tone of your voice, “it’s because you’re hiding something.”

The dog inside Jason growled lowly, warning him to keep his guard up. To start building thicker walls around his bleeding heart. This would only end in tears and anguish. But you weren’t barking back. You held your heart in an open palm, extended toward him.

You leaned forward after a minute of his silence, hand brushing against his knee, and Jason stiffened. “You’re not mad, right? About the cigarette” you voiced your thoughts hesitantly.

Jason sighed, running a hand through the dark strands of his hair. “I should be. But seeing you out here like this . . . ” he trailed off, his eyes flickering over your face and cataloging every single detail. The flush on your cheeks and glass in your eyes. The aftermath of alcohol. “I can’t be mad. Just–don’t do it again, okay? You don’t need to mess with that shit.”

Your lips parted like you were about to argue, but then you closed them again, nodding slowly. Jason exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. He stood up, holding out a calloused hand to you. “Come on. Let’s get you inside before you catch a cold out here.”

You stared at his hand for a moment before slipping your smaller one into it. His grip was warm, steady, and for a fleeting moment, you wondered if he could feel the way your pulse quickened under his touch. He didn’t let go as he led you back into your shared apartment, the door clicking shut behind the two of you.

The dog in his chest stirred, restless and uneasy. It barked once, softly, a reminder of all the ways he could ruin this. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, his jaw tightening against the weight of it. The dog craved destruction, violence, and chaos—it had always craved those things. But now, as he watched you drunkenly lean into him, the dog hesitated.

It whimpered. Then it lay down, its teeth still bared but its growl silenced, if only for tonight. Because for the first time in a long time, Jason felt something strange, something almost unfamiliar.

It wasn’t the absence of violence or the dull ache of longing. It was the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, there was something in this world he didn’t have to break to keep.