#but my stomach always hurts

[inkskinned]

you know, you know. no gods, no masters, no kings on pedestals. everyone is fallible. death of the author. you know! you are balanced about your intake of media - you allow the wiggle room, the grace, the gratitude, the skepticism. nobody above criticism.

but still. a weird gut-punch feeling, something akin to betrayal. you read the article. surprise! an author you love is actually: a serial fucking predator.

well, shit. what now. no, you knew he was a person (all people are), but now you're wondering - what have i overlooked by accident? what messages have i internalized that are strange and cruel? and also, like, what the fuck?

his actions lay a thick glaze on top of everything. like each place is now ruined, opaque in a new way. but okay, fine, you've done this before. you knew better, right? you've been betrayed by many a cherished childhood author.

still, this stickiness. fuck. can you pick up that book again. will you read it to your children. you've recommended it to others - will you ever do that again? and of course, of course, no parasocial relationships. you were theoretically above this kind of sentiment. but the artist informs the art, right.

so it's not something as clear-cut as feeling he owed you, specifically (a stranger) better behavior - just that you kind of, in a distant and odd way... sort of trusted him to do better. it's not like a real trust or something speakable, just the faint hope that the product (good books) was a thin representation of the soul. now it feels like the product (good? books?) was a mask. in some small or insignificant way, your previous support of this person lent them power. your money and your time and your laughter.

and the thing is - you have this terrible, echoing sensation. how many times will this happen? over and over. you find out that the singer you love is actually a predator. you learn over drinks that your favorite high school english teacher is in jail for what he did to her. you listen to the news idly and suddenly discover that a woman you used to idolize has been abusing her kids for an actual eon.

what can you touch without the static melting off. you can't even really complain about it too much (you were supposed to know better, and besides, you don't want the same re-split "it's not your fault, love what you love" basic advice), but now it's here. somehow, it feels like - you let him into your life.

it's not that things need to be pure or an artist has to be like, endlessly perfect, mindful. demure. it's more just this terrible truth that has been replayed through your veins so often it feels criminally vain. power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. did you want any one person to be worth that power?

it's just that he wrote books where he seemed to understand that. he seemed to know about hierarchies and unfair systems and bigotry and privilege. you thought they were books about what it means to struggle. you thought they were about having power and still using it for good rather than for control. he spooned you a narrative of being a good guy, a kind soul. you fucking bought what that fucking monster sold.

maybe that's why they were fantasies, after all.

[vicsbasement]

Is the scene in the new snippet taken from the Maria/grief fic? :P

You absolutely caught me. It is! I don't know, there's something about that moment in time for me that compels me to write it over and over again. I keep going back to it because I remember that first time we saw the picture of Charles and Carlos driving out of Maranello and to see Charles there-- they already knew, you know? And they couldn't say because there wasn't anything official. But there's this whole headcanon in my head that Charles didn't, couldn't, let Carlos go through this alone because the announcement wasn't supposed to come this early, right. So when Carlos called he picked up. When Carlos needed him, he went. I don't know. Anyway! I did say you'd win another snippet so this is another one for clingy!charles. Enjoy! Carlos was sure that nothing was amiss. He was sure that Roberto just got in his head, but—as he stumbled out of his car in FP2, Charles was the one to grab his arm to stop him from falling. Why was Charles there?

“Hello, mate!” Charles says; a light tone to his voice, cheerful and sweet. Almost too light, like it was forced gentleness. Carlos would be suspicious if he didn’t feel like he was about to hurl.

“Care to hand me over to Gigi? I’m not feeling too well.” Carlos declares, a bit of his polite front waning when another roll of nausea hits him as Charles removes his hands from his back. Carlos starts to take off his helmet and balaclava, hating the sensation of the fabric dragging against his sensitive skin.

“Fred told me this.” Charles sounded… admonishing, like he wanted to make Carlos feel bad for not telling him he’d been having a hard time keeping his food down since yesterday. “You guys heard him, where’s Gigi?” Charles gets something in his eyes when he turns serious. Carlos has seen it a couple of times before, even directed at himself, but his garage—well. It’d come alive with his instructions, with Charles’ tone.

Two mechanics scrambled out of his seat to look for Pierluigi as Charles grabbed Carlos’ arm again and made him sit in a corner. When Carlos felt he wasn’t about to keel over, he let his body fold into himself and his back curved. Carlos just wanted to sleep. The pounding in his head was worsening, the nausea came back with a vengeance, and Charles was looking for—his isotonic drink, of course. That would help a little with the nausea.

“It’s behind you.” Carlos said, and Charles turns sharply and grabs the drink, offering him the straw between pinched-tight fingers. Carlos doesn’t hesitate, but Charles seems to notice the gesture—his fingers a little too close to Carlos’ lips and mouth, so he recoils, albeit gently.

“Thanks.” Carlos murmurs, and Charles nods. He looks fidgety, like he wants to help more but he doesn’t know how. Pierluigi must be looking for medicine to stop the nausea, that’s probably why he wasn’t close, maybe he went to the Ferrari hospitality for his medikit. Charles seems to get an idea and looks for a wet towel, and hands it to Carlos. The heat is stifling and it’s making everything worse, his mouth fills with liquid and Carlos feels like he’s about to throw up in front of the whole garage, when he feels Charles’ gentle hands press the ice-cold towel to his forehead.

“They told me you had a fever?” Charles asks, sheepish. He removes the towel for a second and replaces it with his hand, looking for the pulse point right behind his eyebrows and using his wrists to gauge the temperature. “I shouldn’t have put the towel before, I don’t know if you’re still—”

“I think I am, yeah.” Carlos says. Charles is using both his wrists to gauge his temperature, now, he’s basically cradling Carlos’ head between them. And Carlos gets a good look at Charles; the frown, the pursed lips, the demeanor, and Teto’s voice echoes through his head.

“He’s clingy.” He remembers. But this is not clingy, this is just worried. Right? Just worried.

Pierluigi arrives at that moment and sees Charles cradling Carlos’ head. He raises an eyebrow, a silent question, and Carlos just shrugs as Charles makes space for Pierluigi to lean down and ask him about his symptoms.

As Carlos is trying to recall what’s causing him discomfort he feels how his mouth fills with liquid again, he starts slurring his words, the world turns on its axis and he feels as he’s fading slowly away, the last thing in his vision Charles’ expression of  utter worry.

[gay--dog]

I WISH I WAS LESS SCARED OF LETTING MYSELF LIVE

[demonstars]

nunki nunkitoo love, good luck in your first day!!! 💞💞 -eras

im going to fucking kill myself (thank you)