#nobody there so they must be seeing things

[rhoselacksthorns]

Right I've seen this stupid damn post to much to not do a rant at it that nobody but my like three followers will even see, all of whom will promptly ignore it, so no harm done

This is a terrible and viciously ignorant way to describe the Fermi paradox and it's solutions. Lets go back from the end to the top.

Firstly, that's a shit metaphor, because we can see very very far, in every direction. It's not like we're complaining nobody's called us, it's that we can't see any signs of life elsewhere in the universe. In such a metaphor it'd be the middle of the day and the guy had 20-20 vision and some binoculars. and it's not like we're just looking for things just like us. We're looking for anything alive, so in the metaphor let's change people for animals in general. So here's the new metaphor, a guy standing in an empty waste of barren soil to the horizon, tries looking around for any other creatures and sees nothing. no ants or beatles in the soil at his feet, no giraffes or elephants in the distance (size here as a metaphor for how more advanced life would be easier to spot the signs of), not even through his binoculars. but the man is still there, so he assumes that if he's here, something else probably is, I mean look at all this space, so... where are they? And then he starts going through all eventualities, like maybe he is just the only one (rare life) or this is a very special and rare spot he's stood in that made him appear here (rare earth theory), maybe there were more things alive before he got here, but he can't see any skeletons... so whatever it was it couldn't have been that big, maybe things don't get much bigger than a person here? I wonder why? (great filters)... etc etc

like the way you originally wrote it is the same as saying scientists realised that everything must be made from some smaller thing and then without bothering with so much as a magnifying glass just made up that everything is made of magic little balls floating around eachother!

And on top of that you purposely cherry picked examples of solutions (multiple from fictional works) that you could make sound silly, like let's actually look at arguably the most credible of the solutions you used properly, the dark forest theory. it's based in the idea that if other life is as warlike and violent as us, then first contacts would be very difficult to navigate, and everyone involved would be scared. because we already know it's theoretically possible to create incredibly effective interstellar weaponry, and therefore everyone is scared that somebody else might have it, and therefore everyone sees everyone as a potential threat who could wipe them out, so everyone is scared that if someone else sees them, they'll kill them, so they decide the only way to survive is that if they see somebody, they need to shoot first and kill the other to save themselves. And so it reinforces itself, because any civilisations hiding because of this won't come out of hiding, and any who aren't hiding get killed pretty quickly. That's the dark forest solution, not just everyone magically hates everyone.

I doubt someone goes around making bad faith science takes so I'm guessing op is just brutally ignorant of the whole topic in favour of trying to be "haha funny look at the silly science nerds and their funny ideas"

It just pisses me off, sorry to the few people who'll bother reading this btw

I low-key love the fact that sci-fi has so conditioned us to expect to be hanging out with a bunch of cool space aliens, that legitimate, actual scientists keep proposing the most bizarre, three-blunts-into-the-rotation "theories" to explain the fact we're not.

Some of my favourites include:

Zoo Theory: What if there are loads of aliens out there, but they're not talking to us because of the Prime Directive from Star Trek? (Or because they're doing experiments on us???)

Dark Forest Theory: What if there are loads of aliens out there, but they all hate us and each other so they're all just waiting with a shotgun pointed at the door, ready to open fire on anything that moves?

Planetarium Theory: What if there's at least one alien with mastery over light and matter that's just making it seem to us that the universe is empty to us as, like, a joke?

Berserker Theory: What if there were loads of aliens, but one of them made infinite killer robots that murdered everyone and are coming for us next?!!

Like, the universe is at least 13,700,000,000 years old and 46,000,000,000 light years big. We have had the ability to transmit and receive signals for, what, 100 years, and our signals have so far travelled 200 light years?

The fact is biological life almost certainly has, does, or will develop elsewhere in the universe, and it's not impossible that a tiny amount of it has, does, or will develop in a way that we would understand as "intelligent". But, like, we're realistically never going to know because of the scale of the things involved.

So I'm proposing my own hypothesis. I call it the "Fool in a Field" hypothesis. It goes like this:

Humanity is a guy standing in the middle of a field at midnight. It's pitch black, he can't move, and he's been standing there for ages. He's just had the thought to swing his arms. He swings one of his arms, once, and does not hit another person. "Oh no!" He says. "Robots have killed them all!"

[blanska]

I've seen that some people were thinking along the lines of "why does Veilguard make the Antivan Crows seem like the good guys, when this is a fucked up organization who've done and are probably still doing fucked up things?"

I think it's fair to think that BioWare should have shown more of the different sides of the Crows. But I personally don't mind this because to me it makes sense contextually.

Example: in DA:O all we knew about Tevinter that they are the evil blood mages from the evil blood mage country. In DA2 we met Fenris and this point of view was strengthened and it wasn't just a random stereotype anymore, because we've heard from Fenris what they were like. We've seen the effects of their action on Fenris. And we got to meet some of the evil tevinter mages personally. So now Tevinter was the evil tevinter blood mage country that we know more horrible details about.

Then in Inquisition we meet Krem, who is an average tevinter person. And of course it's logical that a country cannot be populated solely by evil blood mages, but we've never seen an average tevinter person before who's just like anybody else. And more importantly we met Dorian. Who is nobility. Yet he is not an evil narcissistic blood mage. He is against that. He criticizes his country and his countrymen harshly. But he also loves his country and tells us about its values and beauties. Suddenly Tevinter is not the evil blood mage country. It's more than that. Now we can see a more positive side of it.

In Veilguard we get to see the struggles of average tevinter people and not a lot of narcissistic nobles surrounded by their slaves. But it does makes sense, because all we do is run around Dock Town and these types of nobles will not be waltzing around in those streets. But now we experience what it must be like to live in the country where the narcissistic nobles, the evill blood mages and good hearted revolutionaries fight for power.

So back to the Antivan Crows. In Veilguard their city is occupied by the Antaam. Of course they're gonna fight the invaders. The people of Treviso have different opinions about them in this situation. Some see the Crows as the heroes who fight on their side against their current oppressors, and some actually think that ruled by the qunari might turn out to be a good life. And some of the Crows might care about the people of Treviso, but even if none of them did, they would still fight the Antaam, just like the Thread fights the Venatori in Dock Town. The Antaam took their territory and power. For Rook and the Crows the Antaam is a common enemy, so we automatically see them in a better light. They are allies.

And if we ignore the things that have to do with taking back Treviso, we still don't see the ugly side of the Crows. But who are we meeting? Who are we talking to? We're talking to three Talons, the leaders who want your help in their revolution. They have no reason to tell you fun facts about how they abuse the children they recruit or the adults for that matter. For once they are busy fighting a common enemy instead of each other; that's what they're focused on.

And who joins our team? Antivan Crow royalty. Not just any royalty: the First Talon's personal favorite. I think everyone growing up in the Crows had a fucked up childhood and Lucanis is no exception. But his childhood was way less fucked up - compared to Zevran "son of Nobody" Arainai - because he was privileged af. The possible death of the First Talon's grandsons was propably not a part of their training. Lucanis never had to kill anyone who he didn't think deserved it. Once again probably because he's Caterina's favorite and she knows he likes to take down evil people so she gives him those targets.

So instead of evil tevinter blood mages, the Crows might come across as ruthless heroes of the people. Because we meet them when they are united against Treviso's opressors. We meet the ones who are in charge.and comfortable, the ones who are privileged. And it's fine because we've met Zevran too, who showed us the ugly side of the Crows. And hopefully we'll get to see more sides in the future.

[real-minnesota-state]

I'm feeling sleepy so let me tell you a story.

Let me tell you about fairies.

There are 3 rules:

1: NEVER, and i mean NEVER, go out without a way home. If you don't pay attention to the trail, it will change. Don't go to the lights in the wood, they are not home. Keep the track home and tred lightly.

2: always ask their names. Never ask for favours. I learned this when I was young, first with spirits and then the fae. They give away blessings to those that ask for them. You must be corteous- say hello, say goodnight. Ask their name and their story. If they tell it, do not leave before they finish.

3: never leave the connection open. If you open a gate, shut it. If you greet them, say goodbye. If you ask, you must thank, and if they give a name you must return one. If you break a fairy circle, fix it with plucked dandelions and inkcaps before they can find you. Flower crowns left on branches make good gifts, and so do leftover local fruit. Pick up litter, but leave something natural to replace it.

After the rules, there comes simple things you need to know. The fairies in my town liked inkcaps the best. I grew up in a Minnesota town full of cliffs, wood, and running water. The places fae love and hate. Always greet the shadow figures- they are not fae, but they are friends. If you have other people around, don't say a word. Just because you can see them doesn't mean the others can.

The fae are for more human in this day. They aren't monsters anymore. They are the deer hunters with leather gloves separating them from the iron. They are the children with missing fingers from old mousetraps. They are the little boys sitting in rings of dandelions with too many teeth missing. They are not monstrous, do not treat them as such.

Some will call them unholy. Their mirrors break. Some mock the spirits- I saw the burns from his possession. Some hurt those the fae like, and the dandelions wilt a bit faster in their hands. I see them the most in November and March- the footsteps without start or end, the boots without a brand on the bottom. They like the snowbanks that are melting. The fae can feel the mushrooms beneath.

You do not insult the fae. A Fairy tree is a fairy tree, and I grew up with plenty. Now that I think about it, I met many fae. Most taught me songs while we sat in fairy trees. I learned things nobody else knew, and I learned songs before they came out. My mother called me a fairy, once. The church kicked her out a few months later. She resorted to calling me a devil instead.

One of the girls I met never gave me her name. I just called her evelyn. She taught me a nursery rhyme, one by her name. Her hair was in red ringlets. I told her my name, and she left after we found mushrooms beneath the slide. I got rid of those mushrooms. At the same park, I met many people. There was a vine that everyone used as a swing under one of the mulberry trees, and I never fell off. I used to climb up to a place only i could reach and swing- ironically, I was the shortest. Those kids didn't believe in fairies. They took more than they needed. Those ones forgot my name quickly. I think the fae were helping me get away.

Another time we were at the local school. Walking distance, far from anything related to spirits. You were more likely to find wasps than anything else. Someone else saw it first- a silhouette with glowing orange eyes. I called it out and waved. When the shadow shifted, everyone decided to leave. It rained before we could reach the mulberry swing, and I saw two more.

There was a fairy tree in my grandparents backyard. It connected my grandmother's garden and the birdbaths. I would always go through the tunnel it formed, but never saw anyone despite her garden leading directly into the street. I learned to stop going that way quickly, but i leave snacks there for the fae sometimes.

My town was haunted, but we could accept that. The fae were a dirty secret nobody could admit. Why, the fairy trees were just bad lawnwork! Not like the last person to try cutting it down broke his leg. They left everything so open and yet so dull. To an untrained eye, it was only a birdbox in the woods. To me, it was a closed fairy door.(You could see the iron nails and the horshoe charm on it.) To you, it was nothing special. To us, it was a gate we needed to close behind us.

There was many paths behind my school. We spent hours exploring them- but it was only thirty minutes, even though it had changed so much. The doorways changed how time worked. Fairy doorways always take something from you, and you need to go back through them in order to get it back. I never found a four-leaf clover in my life, but i still scoured it even before i knew they were lucky. Even before i knew clover revealed the fairies.

The snow melts slower where the fairies step. If you follow, they teach you how to balance. They teach you how to make your steps small and fast and delicate. They teach you how to make flower crowns and how to pick the wild strawberries. The fae teach you everything you taught them.

Don't get in their bad favours. Always wave back, and smile at the reflections. They love you. That doesn't mean they won't dish out consequences.

[goldsbitch]

Twelve grapes

chapter 3 - Obsessed with me "Let me get this straight. You want me to throw a party for your Ferrari seat that nobody’s supposed to know about, but definitely everyone knows about, and now it’s going to be on a yacht you don’t even have yet?"

This is not how Charles imagined this conversation.

„Pierre, you're not being a supportive friend with these useless comments," he says, opting for emotional blackmail.

warning: unhinged reasoning, endless pining, 7k words

For a moment, Charles is everywhere - and then, faster than a blink of an eye - he is nowhere.

He doesn't give Max enough time to adjust, react or even comprehend what just happened. Has him standing there, frozen and...confused?

There is panic in his chest and when that happens, he wants to talk. So used to addressing complicated situations verbally. The art of feedback and analyses burned into him since the early age. It helps him process things.

He can't speak to Charles right now. A - he is on a plane. B - he is the one person he wants to talk about.

Images flash in front of his eyes like a film on fast-forward. Glimpses of the intruder that Charles inevitably was. At his motorhome, his childhood cottage and with his hand on the back of Max's head. Lips melting into lips.

Autopilot in his head worked and he's now parked in front of his hotel, without having any memory of driving there.

Deep breath in, and out. He pops his knuckles and turns the damn radio off.

And then he whips his phone out and calls the one person he feels like he might speak to.

The phone rings one, two, three, seven thousand times. Just as he considers hanging up, Daniel’s voice pulls through, bright and ready. 

"Maxie! What’s this? A late-night call? I gotta tell you - I’m already back from the bar, if you finally decided to show up. And I’m not alone, if you know what I mean.“

Max groans, leaning back against the headrest of his seat. "You’re an idiot."

"True," Daniel replies easily. "But you still called me. What’s up? Couldn’t resist the charm, huh?"

Max hesitates, his free hand gripping the steering wheel even though the car isn’t moving. He tries avoiding looking into the mirror. 

"Just…,“ The words are there, tangled in his throat, but none of them feel right. "Wanted to check in," Max says finally, cringing at how pathetic he feels right now. 

There’s a moment of silence, unusual for Daniel, before he speaks again, his tone softer but still laced with curiosity. "Check in? Mate, you’re not exactly the type to call for a chat. Is everything all right?"

Max is debates turning the car on and crashing into a wall.  "No. Nothing happened. Just... a long day." He decides that a hospital visit ins’t something he needs to add to this day. He is already barely breathing. 

Daniel hums, and Max hopes he manages to pick up a more convincing tone for the rest of the call. "A long day? Or a long day?"

"What does that even mean?" Max snaps, his voice edgier than intended.

"It means," Daniel prolongs his vowels, "that you sound weird. Like, you’re sick of something.“

Max presses his lips together, his jaw clenching. Daniel has this talent of getting under people’s skin, which many people find annoying. Max is usually on the sideline, laughing. Not today. 

"Maybe I just wanted to talk to someone who’s not a complete idiot," Max retorts, his tone too defensive.

"Ah, so you called the next-best thing, nice" Daniel shoots back, his laugh making it clear, that he is unaffected by the awkwardness max must radiate.  "Come on, Max. Spill it. You sound... I don’t know, off."

Max opens his mouth to respond, but freezes. His mind flashes back to the kiss—Charles’s hand on the back of his neck, the press of his lips, the way he ran like he was being chased.

"I kissed someone," Max blurts out.

The line goes dead silent for a second, and Max can practically see Daniel’s eyes widening.

„Niiice,“ Daniel says finally, his voice tinged with approval. "You? Kissed someone? Like, willingly? Without a contract forcing you to?"

"Shut up," Max mutters, running a hand through his hair.

"Okay, okay," Daniel says quickly, "Details. Who was it? When? And do I need to send flowers or an apology note?"

Max hesitates, the words hovering on the tip of his tongue. He could tell Daniel. He should tell Daniel. He needs to share with someone. But something inside him stops him cold.

"No one important," Max whispers, his voice raspy. "Just... a stupid mistake."

"Max... you don’t sound like you think it was a mistake." Daniel speaks like he knows something that Max doesn’t and it’s pissing him off royally. 

"Forget it," he says and decides that this time, talking to other people won't solve his problems.

"Noo, come on. Tell me who it is. Someone I know?!" Max panics even more, realizing that even though he wasn't the brightest, the last person Daniel saw him, with was Charles. And out of nowhere, the thought of Daniel figuring it all out freaks him out.

"I’m hanging up now," Max says definitively, his thumb already moving toward the red button.

"Max, wait-"

The call ends, the screen going dark, and Max sits in the silence of his car, his heart pounding. He tosses the phone onto the passenger seat and leans back, staring at the ceiling.

Charles’s face flashes in his mind again—his lips, his hand, the way he looked before he ran.

Max exhales sharply, running a hand over his face.

"Idiot," he mutters, though he’s not sure who he’s talking about anymore - Charles, Daniel, or himself.

And then - he puts a crown onto his own inexplicable recklessness of this day. He's been acting like a lunatic the whole day, why stop now. He reaches back for his phone and types quickly, before left side of his brain realizes what the right side is doing. Send.

Have a safe flight.

//

Charles never replies (no matter how much and how often Max stares at his phone) and ultimate, Max blames the Swiss mountains, where the Sauber HQ lies for the obvious lack of cell phone service.

Daniel teases him endlessly when they're alone, so he makes sure that there is someone from his side of the garage following him at all times. Be it an engineer, his trainer, the PR coordinator, an intern, a reporter or even the fucking cleaner - just so that he does not have to be reminded of his slip up. He also makes sure that he picks the people who like to talk. Preferably about anything not involving the Sauber team, their drivers and kissing. No order of preference.

It is Monza next, or as Max likes to refer to it - the headache race. Tifosi everywhere, even at places one would think is not suitable for humans. He is surprised no one has jumped at him yet from the toilets.

And this year, it really delivers in it's name. People racing around him making stupid mistakes and inevitably costing him a podium. He is mad, furious in fact. But if he were to pick one podium to have snatched from his hands, it would the god-forsaken Monza.

Now, however impatient and hot-headed Max is on track, it is something completely different outside the car. He is used to playing the long game - think of a goal, set it and follow methodical steps until he reaches it. This is what he did with Daniel - these past few months, he got real fed up of seeing everyone having all these friendships. He figured it was finally time to crack that can of worms. It wasn't his first choice, he had several people "in development", but the loud Australian is the one that actually worked. And now - there was a different kind of problem that required some long term plan.

The Charles element of this all is on his mind almost nonstop. The list of questions, one tripping over another, yet if he were to somehow say all of them, it would always come out as the same, one sentence.

Charles, do you regret it?

Max Verstappen was not a man prone to introspection. His world was one of facts, numbers, and actions—things he could control. But Charles Leclerc had thrown a wrench into that system, and now Max was stuck trying to decipher emotions he’d spent years ignoring. Not only he has to focus on racing, get into the car every weekend for these next three weeks, he now has to take into account that anytime he merely thinks of Charles, he freezes, mumbles and his brain switches off. Off all the things he should be worried about - like for example, does the fact he has to control himself, in order to not think about the kiss mean he is gay? His head spins when he thinks about that. So, he decides not to even open that question. He will figure that out once he finds out how Charles feels. No need to be going on a self-discovery journey, that might shift his world upside down and create more harm than good, if Charles considers this a mistake.

Now, it was starting to become painfully obvious that his brain is set on clearing that out. He could do that. Of course. If this also wasn't combined with the absolute fear and embarrasment he felt at the thought of talking about this with anyone, especially Charles. No, Max is not going to initiate this conversation. This is just how he's going to be for the rest of his life.

Max doesn’t have to look for Charles at Monza. His move to Ferrari, not yet announced, but heavily rumored, makes him the topic number one, almost outshining the actual current drivers in the scarlet team. The reporters are on a hunt, people talk and heads turn whenever he walks by. And he, the man who was kissing him just few days ago, has to catch glimpses over the crowds. There is a part of Max that is waiting for Charles to make the first move. After all - he is the one who did not respond to his text. It is only when Max catches sight of him during the driver parade, that Charles, all sharp smiles and practiced nods, actually looks at him. They stand so far apart that talking is not on the table. But, there is a moment - Max thinks it's about five seconds - when Charles's eyes practically bore into his own. And it's like anything that happened since the kiss was a mere, pointless dream. Max is coming to terms with the fact he is feeling things (not ready to analyse which things).

He spends his evenings locked in his room. The risk of running into Charles unaccompanied is low, but not minimal. Max is hiding from the one person that hold the key to the madness happening on the inside. He is not ready, but also wonders if one ever is.

//

It's like people forgot there are other topics than Charles moving to Ferrari. Not only does Max have to listen to his own PR manager feeding him lines to deflect reporters from the questions, the frenzy has infected the other drivers as well.

Max wonders how and why he finds himself, standing next to Pierre Gasly, who is blocking his exit and borderline interrogating him.

“Why would Charles tell me anything?”

Pierre leans in, little devils dancing in his eyes. “Because you’re Max Verstappen. He’d probably think you already know. You’ve got, like, Red Bull spies or something.”

“Spies,” Max repeats flatly and debates internally whether crawling away from this is socially acceptable. “I don’t know anything about Ferrari.”

“You don’t?” Pierre narrows his eyes like he doesn’t believe him. “Come on. You guys were talking after Belgium, weren’t you?”

Max's stomach flips three times. Talking, joking, kissing, smashing cars. Then he ran away from me, because I am disgusting.

"Aren't you suppose to be best friends or something? Why would you think that I know if you don't know?" he opts for the reverse-attack strategy. It is, however, a question he keeps wondering himself. One would expect someone like Pierre to have that information, especially if Max already knows. His face goes blank—the Verstappen Default Setting for don’t ask me anything else.

"You know how he is," Pierre waltzes around it and Max is running out of ideas.

No, I apparently don't know how he is.

Pierre is good at reading the room and doubles down a bit. "Look, just tell me what you talked about and I'm off."

Max's first instinct is to say something along the lines "Go, ask him yourself," but he doesn't, because Pierre and Charles talking together about him might just about be the worst outcome of this all.

“We were talking,” Max says, picking his words carefully, “about... tires.”

“Tires,” Pierre deadpans.

“Yes. Tire degradation. Very important topic.” Max crosses his arms, hoping he looks convincing. “You know, something that involves actual racing and not rumor hunting.”

Pierre studies him for a moment, then raises an eyebrow. “So, let me get this straight. You and Charles Leclerc, standing alone after Belgium, decided to have a heart-to-heart about... tire degradation?”

“Yes.” Max nods. “It’s a very pressing issue.”

Pierre snorts. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Max rolls his eyes. “I’m not lying. I don’t care where Charles ends up next season. Why would I?”

Pierre's eyes light up as he looks somewhere behind Max's head. There is a glimmer of hope in Max, the potential end of this interaction. One that dies very quickly.

“Charles!” Pierre calls cheerfully, waving him over.

Charles walks up to them, not really having any other choice if he wants to get to the other side of the paddock. Max does not look at him. He is busy trying to keep his expression politely neutral and it's proving to be a tortuous task.

"Pierre. Max," Charles acknowledges and it feels weird to hear his own name rolling of Charles's tongue. Nobody says it in this specific accent.

Max gives a small nod, feeling like he’s caught in a trap. He wonders how long people usually look at each other, as if he lost the ability to function in a society. He makes all the effort not to glance at Charles. Like he's not even here. Then he panics, because that might just be the most suspicious way to go about this. So he turns his eyes towards Charles, without moving his head too much. He figures that is a good compromise. His mouth turns into a smile, but he can't escape the notion his eyes are giving it all away.

“Just talking about you,” Pierre says casually. Max wants to die.

Charles’s eyebrows shoot up, his gaze flicking to Max. “Oh?”

Panic, pure undiluted panic floats over every part of him. Max glares at Pierre, silently willing him to stop. Damage control, now. No, no, no, not talking like that! Oh, my God, now he's going to assume I'm so desperate that I go and talk to his best friend about it. “We weren’t—”

Pierre cuts him off. ��Max was just saying how much he loves racing against you. Right, Max?”

Max’s jaw clenches and the smile he gives is one of his fakest, reserved for the truly, most awfully annoying PR activities. “Right. Love it.”

Pierre continues glaring at Charles, suddenly not interested in the Dutch driver at all, puts his arm around him and drills him over the Ferrari rumors as they slowly walk away.

Max has to try really hard to remember where he was going. Hell, probably.

//

The post race media pen is its usual chaotic mess, with microphones shoved in faces and reporters almost fighting for space. Max finishes his last interview, giving the practiced nods and all the right answers.  He’s just about to leave when he sees him.

Perfection incarnated, as always. His jaw is set, his walk determined and measured. He's ready to hand out smiles, like he owns it to God for making him this handsome. The paddock bends over to get a moment of his attention.

It’s not deliberate - Charles isn’t walking toward him; he’s just there, and Max freezes at the sight of him.

Their eyes meet briefly, and Charles hesitates before changing course, heading straight for Max. It’s momentary, just a flicker, but something in Charles’s face shifts. Hesitates, but keeps walking.

Max is seriously considering bolting out. He hates how his pulse quickens, how the world feels suddenly too loud and too quiet at the same time.

But, he misses all the chances he has on a swift exit and the man of the hour is standing right in front of him. Second row away from the reporters. “Max,” Charles says quietly, his tone low enough to be buried under the surrounding noise. But Max hears it. Of course he hears it. Again, with the accent. Max is starting to hate it.

Max raises an eyebrow, and replied a little too sharply. He feels cornered. “Charles.”

A quick glance over to the reporters nearby let's Max know Charles is also hyper aware of how exposed they are. Somehow, he can't shake away the feeling this is intentional. “I need to...” His voice trails off, and he shifts his weight, the faintest hint of unease breaking through the polished exterior.

Max waits. But nothing comes. “You need to...?”

First response he gets is a loud sigh. Rude.

“About Belgium.” Charles shifts and pulls his cap further into his face, as if to hide. “I crossed a line. I shouldn’t have-”

Max stiffens, his stomach twisting. He doesn’t want to do this here - not with a dozen cameras pointed at them. Of course, Leclerc, the menace he is, chooses the one place where Max can't have the luxury of a proper reaction. It is infuriating. Hundreds of moments and Charles picks this one? It’s infuriating.

"It's nothing," he dismissed it and only when he overplays this conversation back in the safe space of his hotel room over and over again realizes just how badly it came out. What he meant to say was: It's nothing to worry about. Not it's nothing. Because it is anything but that.

The Sauber driver visibly gulps, his composure cracking. "I never wanted-" he starts, but it comes out too rushed, sour undertone lacing both words. Before he can continue he is pushed by his PR manager to the hoard of reporters. Max watches as Charles is swept away, his apology unfinished, his expression unreadable. But then - then - Charles turns back. Just for a moment. His eyes meet Max’s, and there’s something there, unspoken and lingering.

What. The. Fuck. If Charles was trying to make Max question his sanity, he was doing an excellent job. Between cryptic apologies and half-finished sentences, Max was starting to think he’d imagined the whole thing. Maybe Charles Leclerc is just another fever dream, a perfect proof that Max is riding a train to an asylum.

He knows better. He should let go of...whatever this it. It's exactly what all the stupid mental coaches blabbed about.

But the look in Charles’s eyes? That was real. And it’s going to drive Max insane. He should let go.

//

He does, in fact, not let go.

The evening is spent collecting extra steps into his daily count, despite how tired his legs feel after the race. Some clarity is gained at the end of the day - and it has nothing to do with anything Charles said or did. It is gained despite his lunatic actions and words. Max is proud of himself. He, unlike someone, is able to get his thoughts in a coherent line, before he bothers others by speaking. It's a new thing he's trying. Desperate times.

After a full analysis of his own mistakes - credit where credit is due - he shifts onto exploring what exactly bothers him most.

The fact that Charles ran. He was gone so quickly and didn't even bother to face what had happened.

It's different this time when he rewatches Charles's race. They could have as well raced on different days all together, both far apart on the track, no way of interacting in the way they know best. Outsmarting each other with late breaking and bordeline dive bombs. He's sitting on edge of the random hotel bed, in the same uncomfortable position he took in an hour ago.

Max presses play again, the race replay sparking to life on his laptop screen. His heart still beats too fast from his own disastrous race. An overtake attempt that turned into a near-miss, everyone blaming him for "forcing Bottas off the track" (total bullshit, of course) and mediocre points finish. His accidental radio show and poor performance, something Helmut will absolutely make him relive tomorrow.

But it’s not his mistakes he’s watching. It’s Charles.

Charles in his Sauber truck, threading the car through Monza like he owns the place, despite the car being no more than an underdog trying to keep up. Charles late-braking, like he’s piloting a Red Bull, not a machine held together by duct tape and prayer. Making moves that, objectively, have no business working but somehow do. To watch him finish just off the points makes him regret he didn't push Bottas further into an actual spin. He got the penalty anyway, so what.

Max rewinds the clip, watching the Sauber dart into a gap that doesn’t really exist, Charles perfectly timing the pass to avoid disaster. The commentators praise him, calling it brave, daring, genius. Max cracks his knuckles.

“Stupid,” he mutters under his breath. “That’s what it is. Stupid.”

Because it is stupid. It’s the kind of move Max would have made last year, the kind that gets you called reckless and wild and dangerous. The kind that gets you a lecture from your race engineer or worse, your dad.

Except Charles gets away with it. The golden boy he is. He doesn’t just get away with it—he gets praised for it. The commentators cheer, the fans love him for it, and Max can’t stop watching because... because he’s probably a bit stupid too.

Max fast-forwards. There was this one move that he can't stomach. He dives to the inside, the car twitching slightly but holding. Max watches, his heart pounding in time with the replay.

“Why there?” Max mutters, rewinding again. “Why not wait for the straight? DRS was right there.”

But he knows why. Because waiting is boring. Waiting is for people who don’t believe in their own instincts. And Charles? Charles believes. Even it end with him in the wall. Better there, than in a 17th place.

Max exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. It’s not like he’s one to talk. His own race today was hardly a masterclass in patience. He’d thrown his car into gaps that barely existed, cursed out his engineer when things didn’t go his way, and barely kept his Red Bull from spinning into the gravel.

Maybe that’s what bothers him most. Seeing his own recklessness mirrored in Charles but wrapped in a smile that makes it look effortless. Max’s recklessness is raw, angry, a middle finger to anyone who doubts him. Charles’s recklessness is different. It’s calculated chaos. Beautiful in a way that Max hates himself for noticing.

Another rewind to avoid the boring laps. Charles overtakes two cars into Parabolica, threading the needle with infuriating precision. Max freezes the frame, staring at the screen.

“What are you trying to prove?” he whispers, though the question feels aimed at both of them. He certainly does not seem to be the type to run out of a fight.

His chest tightens as he remembers Belgium, Charles’s hand on the back of his neck, the kiss that came out of nowhere. The smell of damp air cut with Charles's cologne. It’s the same thing, isn’t it? The same recklessness, the same audacity to leap without looking. And then Charles ran, just like that. No explanation, no closure. Just gone. Max is sure he would never do that in racing. He is angry at him. Why does he use all of his bravery on track only. Charles kissed him. He kissed him back. And then, the ever so brave Charles ran away.

Max turns the thing off, the sudden silence in the room deafening. His heart races, the adrenaline from the replay mixing with something deeper, something he doesn’t want to name.

He tosses the laptop onto the bed, pacing the room like a caged animal. His thoughts are all over the place, colliding and crashing like cars at the first corner.

Max races like he has nothing to lose. Charles races like he has everything to prove. Maybe that’s why they’re drawn to each other, why the kiss feels less like a mistake and more like a fuse waiting to be lit.

Max stops pacing, staring at the blank laptop screen, his own reflection staring at him back in on the dark screen. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. Frustration, longing, anger. Maybe all of it. All he knows is that Charles Leclerc is in his head, and he can’t get him out.

And maybe, Max thinks, he doesn’t want to.

//

It's the following morning, as all the teams depart for their next destination of this triple header, when he sees him again. Standing in the hotel lobby, waiting for a transfer and there is something about his smile making it seem like this man just won the lottery.

Max tries to go about his way. His excuse is that there is too many people auditioning to be nosy witnesses and he does not want to repeat the whole "Pierre Gasly Interrogation" again. But, as soon as Charles sees him, he rushes over to him, with a smile Max imagines is on his face when he completes one of his brilliant overtakes. It's hard not to smile back. His body is doing it on his own. Because there is so much lightness in Charles's face, childlike carelessness and brutal honesty. You can't fake a vibe like that, no matter how good of an actor you are.

Max nods to greet him, unsure what to say, all the words dying in his throat. He does not have to, Charles looks like he is going to explode if he does not talk soon.

As soon as he is next to him, closer than a stranger would be, his smile grows even wider, something Max found impossible. Is Charles so happy to see him? What happened to him overnight that changed his attitude so drastically? Max considers it to be a blessing to be on the receiving end of Charles's wide grin. He watches him take a deep breath in, like he is about to say something really big.

He leans in, faces almost touching and the hairs on the back of Max's neck stand up. He is pretty sure Charles must be able to hear his heartbeat. The cologne Charles uses must have been made with clear intent on getting Max drunk in broad daylight.

"I signed the Ferrari contract," he states quietly, so subtly Max has to pierce it together for few seconds.

Of course. That's the cause of the smile.

Charles leans back and searches eagerly for Max's reaction in his face. And when Charles Leclerc looks at you like that, there is no other option in life than to retaliate. They stare at each other for good few seconds. Max wants to reach over and hug him. Tell him he's proud of him and that he never doubted that. He wants him to hear that he is looking forward for Charles making his job harder. He wants to tell him that he is not at all surprised. That this might be the one good decision Ferrari has made in a while.

He tries to fit all of that in one muffled "Nice. Good job." It takes everything he has to keep himself in check. Charles seems to be satisfied with this. He nods and before he departs, squeezes Max's shoulder two times. And just like that, he floats away on his Cloud 9.

Max stays glued at the same spot. He does not bother watching Charles rushing back over to his team. The only wish he has is that one day, maybe, Charles looks at him like just did, only because he is happy to see him. Max had let himself hope for a minute there, before he found out what the source of Charles's joy is, and it's like any other kind of drug. Slowly invites you in and before you know it, you can't think of anything else.

Max recalls when Charles showed his first photos with Sauber into his face that one time. There is a bitter sweet feeling in his mouth. Today, he's probably pay more attention if he'd showed him his first photos with Ferrari.

//

The Ferrari deal is done. His future is set. Years and years of dedication and sacrifice paying off. It is so much to wrap his head around. The whole weekend has been focus on meetings with Ferrari officials, so much he almost forgot they were suppose to race there. He drove on complete autopilot. But finally - last night, it happened. He wants to dance it the streets (and he eventually does, to amusement of the rest of his team). And yet, for some reason, the memory of Max’s faint smile and his quiet “Nice. Good job,” lingers in the back of his mind, warm and confusing all at once.

He's been full on ignoring this part of his life ever since his grand exit at the airport. Put all of this in a tiny box in his brain and locked it, with the intention not to open any of it until Monza is over.

Alas - Monza was over. But he is so wrapped up in the Ferrari of it all, that he postpones it - whatever it is. When he saw Max in the lobby that morning, he just acted on his impulse. He was already containing so much. The curse of unprovoked split-second decisions is looming on him whenever Max is nearby. Charles figures Max is simply a victim of some voodoo hoodoo. Maybe he forgot to resend a mass email chain and now he is cursed. He should be glad Charles didn't kiss him again. On a day like today, he took no remorse. But, there were too many people anyway. Max is cursed, but not that much. In Charles's post-contract-hyper-dopamine brain, this all makes sense. Everything is brighter, the colors are all alligning and even the airport is an amazing place to be. Charles is loving life and everything will be great from now on.

//

The first thing Charles does when he gets home is drop his bag by the door and collapse face-first onto the couch. One of the perks that getting a dream contract apparently is that his mom leaves him to do that and does not bug him about taking his shoes off. He is so, so tired. All the turmoil, stressful meetings followed by unmasked and unfiltered joy are bound to take a tool, even on someone so young and fresh as Charles.

For the first time in weeks, he dreams.

//

It takes him a moment to realize he is standing barefoot on the track. Blood-orange sky locks the scenery in. He knows he's in Monaco, but it looks nothing like it. There are fields and deep woods lining the track. The stands are empty and there are only few people dressed in multicolored fireproofs working the track. The ground shifts and he notices his father, standing, leaning casually against the Red Bull pit wall.

"Nice suit," he says and it's only then when Charles realizes he is wearing a Ferrari racing suit. It's now impossible to ignore that it is two sizes too small.

"It does not fit," Charles whispers, but know his father can hear him.

“You’ll grow into it.”

Charles wants to reply, to argue, but the track shifts beneath him, the world tilting like a kaleidoscope. He’s suddenly in the cockpit, the roar of the engine filling his ears. The lights above the grid turn red, one by one. He knows he needs to start. But he doesn't. Instead, he stays put as about million race cars pass him by.

He knows he should have started, but before can do so, there is and impossibly bright light and without hearing or actually feeling it, he knows someone rear ended him, full F1 speed. Max is out of his Red Bull, Charles is out of his Ferrari and they both examine the damage. There is a green liquid leaking out of the car. Charles’s blood boils.

"Why would you crash into me?!" he shouts at Max.

“You’re running,” Max says, his tone soft and calm. “Why are you running?”

“I’m not running,” Charles snaps. Even in his dream, he feels tired.

Max tilts his head, studying him. “You kissed me.”

Charles’s breath catches. “I-”

He is woken up by the smell of home cooked dinner.

//

The little five hour nap only made him more tired and disoriented. He is immediately pulled into family dinner, his mama obviously unable to contain herself where there is good news. She is unapologetic about things she love and moments of excitement. Charles likes to think he inherited that from her.

He is slowly eating the food - his favorite, made just for him - even though he is not hungry, not even a bit. He does not usually remember his dreams. This one is clear as day.

There is barely a moment for him to breathe, given how many questions his giddy mom asks him, expecting him to answer while simultaneously clearing his plate. Laughter fills the room and it's all so domestic and comforting.

Until, of course, faith decides that Charles has had quite enough of that for one day.

“Oh, by the way, Max is coming over to my salon on Thursday,” she says casually, sipping on her red wine.

Charles chokes, forcing himself to dislodge a piece of carrot before it kills him. “Max?” His mouth is full. It's the first time he speaks like that and mama is shooting arrows at him for bad table manners.

“For his haircut,” she replies, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You know, he’s been coming here for months.”

He stares at her, his brain short-circuiting. “Since when?”

“Oh, since...maybe February? Possibly March? He said he needed someone reliable, and you know how picky I am about hair.”

Charles stares into nothing, his thoughts racing. Max had been coming to his mother for haircuts. For months. Without saying a word. That explains the sudden glow up and the mysterious disappearance of his spiky hair era, when the only thing Charles wanted to do was buy many, many hats for him to wear.

“And he’s such a polite young man,” she continues, oblivious to the storm brewing inside him. “He always asks about you, you know.”

Oh, this is just perfect. His mom and his overly complicated pseudo crush are chit chatting regularly, apparently, and none of them thought Charles should be made aware of it. Polite young man my ass.

Charles freezes. “He asks about me?” he repeats, after catching up with his new reality.

She nods, sipping her tea. “Last time, he wanted to know if you were always so competitive. I told him yes, of course.”

Plan A - ignore everything and pretend life is normal - is no longer an option. This is becoming a Plan C situation (whatever Plan B was anyway). He needs to address this properly with Max before the incidentally two most chattiest people in his life meet again.

The affects of this going unsupervised could be catastrophic.

//

You don't have these conversation over the phone, Charles thinks as he spends his entire morning figuring out whereabouts in Monte Carlo Max could be, so that he can "run into him accidentally." Or - stalking, as it is usually referred to by the police. It's fine. They know each other. It's completely okay to do so.

He's gonna run into him, properly apologize, they will laugh it off and then, Max is free to go to have his hair cut by Pascale Leclerc. Only, of course, after he swears on his secrecy. Charles has two days before the early morning appointment on Thursday. His mom made few comments about how Max is always the first customer she has, as he insists on coming in as early as possible. This was the final piece of information Charles needed in order to finally declare that Max is a crazy person. He knew it already, but lacked evidence.

In the next two days, Charles ends up going on five runs, visits the one ice-bath in Monaco seven times, buys three coffees and four croissants at the bakery Max mentioned once (all on separate occasions) and tries to bribe the gym receptionist, where apparently Max is a member, for information. All without any result what-so-ever.

Technically, he could text him and just ask to meet him. Yes, that is an option normal people see as a possibility and it's probably effective.

But, Charles has a plan. And when that happens, he's not going to resort to something as pathetic as texting him. He needs to play it nonchalantly, can't have him thinking that he cares about the kiss in any way.

It is Wednesday afternoon when he start to panic properly. Like, he's about to set his mom's salon on fire kind of panic. There is one thing he can do before resulting to destroying his family's life long business.

What are friends for if not for desperate times.

"Let me get this straight," Pierre says on the phone and it's like Charles can visibly see his face just by tone of the voice he is using. "You want me to organize a party... tonight? Like, two hours from now?"

They'd done wilder things in the past. Honestly, Charles finds Pierre's disbelief mildly insulting.

"Everybody knows Wednesday is the new Friday," he argues, knowing he could do better. If his tired legs weren't occupying his mind. He did sort of ran a half-marathon in the past 48 hours.

Pierre laughs so loudly that Charles has to pull the phone away from his ear. "Tonight? Do you know what Monaco is like on a Wednesday night?"

"Perfect for a party," Charles says, forcing a casualness that isn’t remotely convincing. "People here don’t need a notice."

"You’re insane," Pierre replies, still laughing. "What are we even celebrating? Or is this just you being bored?"

Charles has bitten off all of his nails, but tries one more time, while he brainstorms. "Friendship," Charles says firmly. "Good vibes. You know, c'est la vie."

"Good vibes," Pierre echoes, flat and skeptical. "That’s the best you’ve got? Not that little Ferrari deal everyone and their grandma already knows about?"

Charles's stomach flips. He is joking. "Nobody knows about that."

Pierre snorts. "Charles, come on. Monaco is basically one big group chat with yachts. 

Charles freezes, the words clicking into place. "A yacht," he mutters under his breath, his brain spinning wildly.

"No," Pierre says, suddenly cautious, already knowing where this is going.

"A yacht!" Charles exclaims, suddenly full of life. "It’s perfect! Not a club - a boat party! It’s more intimate, exclusive. Very Monaco. And..."

And Max loves boats, but he manages to stop himself from saying it out loud.

Pierre snorts. " Ok, allow just one tiny question. Do you have a yacht, Charles?"

"I’ll find one," Charles says with a confidence only sleep deprivation can provide. "This is Monaco. It’s basically the yachting capital of the world. I’ll call... someone."

"Right. Someone," Pierre deadpans. "Let me get this straight. You want me to throw a party for your Ferrari seat that nobody’s supposed to know about, but definitely everyone knows about, and now it’s going to be on a yacht you don’t even have yet?" This is not how Charles imagined this conversation.

"You're not being a supportive friend with these useless comments," he says, opting for emotional blackmail.

He can almost hear Pierre eye roll. "Fiiiine. I'll take care of inviting the people and pretending this was my idea. Who do we want there?"

This is the spirit! Now, he just needs to be as coy and subtle as possible. "Um...yeah, it should be like exclusive, I think. But, like not too exclusive, my team, your team if you want, some girls," he adds, knowing this will keep Pierre engaged, "Oh, definitely some drivers. But like, our age. You know? I'm not sure Vettel is the right vibe."

Perfect. Charles is so proud of himself for coming up with that.

"Ok, understand," Pierre responds. Finally, an answer Charles wanted to hear.

"Is it ok if I invite Max?"

Why must God hate Charles so much.

"Um...," he thinks how not to come off too eager or too indifferent. "Sure, if he's free. He's been acting like less of a dick than usually, so why not."

Charles is a genius. Or at least thinks that he is right now.

"Got it, just wanted to check before. He's been staring at you so much, when he thinks nobody is watching. I wasn't sure if you were still on speaking terms."

He has to applaud Pierre for his observation skills. But only silently.

"Nah, we're good. Invite him, whatever. Gotta go - I have a boat to find!" he says and hangs up quickly.

So. A party. On a yacht. With Max. What could possibly go wrong? He is trying not to over-think Pierre's comment about Max staring at him.

------- @chezmardybum

[brazenautomaton]

I guess I should've been more clear when I said Boeing "paid off" the bereaved family, that's on me I guess, but I didn't mean they paid them off in the same sense that you'd pay off a cop. If it even transpired, it would more than likely go something like: "Hey, we feel really bad about the tragic loss of your son who definitely for sure killed himself, so uh, here's some money for your loss. See, we're the good guys in this! Please don't point fingers at us." Or alternatively, they could've not been paid at all. Both are just as likely and explain why the family might still be pointing fingers. It wouldn't have been hush money, more like a gift meant to ingratiate them as an innocent party that obviously didn't work (again, assuming it even happened).

You have already forgotten what you were supposed to be explaining! You said they were paid off to explain why they looked at the evidence and concluded Boeing didn't assassinate him! Neither of those explain the thing you said! Neither of those make a fucking lick of sense when slotted in to the claim you made! You're not even paying attention to the things you say and think, the only consistency is that you believe it must all be a conspiracy of some kind!

"Alternatively, they could've not been paid at all." Your explanation as to why they blame Boeing for his death, but conclude he was not directly assassinated, was that they were "easily corruptible" but "could not have been paid at all."

But the evidence that he killed himself is the hole in his head and the "trust me bro" we get from the cops, which is the same exact kind of evidence that we got from Epstein's supposed suicide as well, just a man hanging in his cell and a "trust me bro" from the cops.

No. That is not what the evidence is. That is the opposite of what the evidence is. I have specifically told you that the evidence is not "trust me," in the post you did not read. You didn't read it. You didn't read the post. Because you do not care about facts in material reality, you only care about who you like and who you dislike when you look at what to believe.

The evidence he killed himself is: the lack of signs of a struggle, the fact the gun was one he owned since 2000, the struggle with mental illness, the testimony of everyone who had seen him dealing with Boeing's harassment and how it had caused his mental health to deteriorate, the notebook full of profane rants in his handwriting about what utter fucking scumbags Boeing was, the complete lack of anyone else's fingerprints, the lack of any unusual activity on his cell phone, the lack of any unusual activity on his hotel room key, and the fact that there was a fucking security camera in the parking lot and nobody else got into his car and nobody else touched his car and his car didn't move. The lack of unusual activity on his phone/GPS and hotel room key indicates nobody got into his car at another location. I said all of this in a post you claimed to read but did not read.

Not anything, no, just the ones where Occam's razor applies. Again, which is more likely, a hundred billion dollar company who are active agents of shady, illegal business practices had both the cause and the means to have someone with information dangerous to their company killed and covered up... or that the guy who was about to testify with said-dangerous information just up and decided to end it all right before the finish line?

That's not what happened you fucking twit. I have said this, in this conversation! He was not about to testify. He had already testified. The Boeing attorneys wanted to call him back for a third day of questioning, during which THEY planned to ask him questions that would be good for their case because they were the ones asking the questions and attempting to get him to say things that discredited him. His testimony was not invalidated by his death, it had already been admitted. He had already testified. He had crossed the finish line. He had already testified. That is knowledge about material fucking reality that you don't think is important because you just keep repeating large quantities of money like it overrides time and matter.

You didn't read that paragraph. Go back and read that paragraph.

No, actually go back and read that paragraph. Actually read the words in it.

I know you didn't read it. Go back and read the words in that paragraph instead of not reading them.

So then explain to me how exactly it's so unbelievable that a dude not in prison, not under watch by guards or cameras, was murdered in his car and then covered up as a suicide? How was one dude with dangerous information under total security and surveillance mysteriously killed and staged, but the other dude with dangerous information with no security or surveillance probably just killed himself?

Is this a bit? Are you doing a bit? Do you literally not care about material reality beyond asking the question "who benefits?"

Do you need me to answer why it is more suspicious that a guy who had a 24-hour detail of people whose entire job was to prevent him from killing himself killed himself when all of those people suddenly stopped paying attention at the same time and the equipment that was supposed to record him in his cell also suddenly stopped working, than a guy who did not have a 24-hour detail of people whose entire job was to prevent him from killing himself killed himself?

There are facts and details about the world we can observe and draw conclusions from. Repeating a large quantity of money does not override time and matter. It is not naive to rely on observations of reality more than repeating a large quantity of money. You do not have to believe that money does not have corrupting properties to believe money does not override time and matter.

Remember earlier this year when Boeing very clearly had a whistleblower executed? And law enforcement didn't even look for anyone or release any info about it or anything?

People keep comparing Luigi Mangione's case to the subway murderer who got off because of systemic eugenics, but I think there's something more apt about the fact that a CEO had someone executed in recent memory, with zero attempts to find a culprit, while they spared no expense at all to find (and probably frame, it's beginning to look like) someone who shot a CEO. It's always fine to slaughter if you're rich, but if you kill the rich, they will hunt you down.

[smoshtwtdrama]

FOR TODAY'S TOPIC(6) UPDATE!—

"my point was if you write something horny about real life people, criticism is natural" — Jaycee AKA TREVRASHA said after our conversation for a clearance between them and lilacfoxes

"Though I may not know what stories have gone through, I'll listen both sides and gather enough to understand what went on" — smoshtwtdrama

Few hours ago I have blocked Jaycee's main Tumblr and after that their new account found me and have reached me out. At first they replied to my TOPIC (6) talking about how this is a "bootleg mean girl" thing so I reached out to them.

I message them first with kindness and asked; "may I know why you're doing this? The whole "oh they're a bad person I'm gonna screenshot our conversations and let others hurt them back!" Thing?'

They've responded back sharing a kind tone as well before explaining; "I don't think lilac is a bad person, if you're asking why I posted the DM, wouldn't you? Who DMs someone to call them out of their name. -- especially after publicly putting on a front as if they're the one being attacked."

Smoshtwtdrama: "but why would you start first? If I remember correctly"

Jaycee: "because I followed them, I came across their Tumblr post on my feed. The post was essentially venting about people posting screenshots of their AO3 fic (the damangela one). I commented on the post (someone could argue that I shouldn't have commented in the first place but I truly wasn't being negative) and said something along the lines of "you posted porn about real people, of course some think it's weird." -- these past two days are the most I've even used Tumblr so I wasn't even expecting a response. But they responded saying most people had an issue with the damangela pairing, not rpf. I tried to make it clear that I didn't have any issue with rpf and I wasn't even judging them for rpf smut, I was saying that people weren't discrediting them as a writer, they were weirded out by the concept of two smosh members having sex. Whether or not they hate Damien has nothing to do with me, I personally enjoy him."

Smoshtwtdrama: "I see.. but in my point of view nobody should be posting about anybody if they could just communicate and understand through DMs, why must it start on long arguments on twitter? Several smosh authors are now terrified to receive hatred or become a laughing stock because of your posts."

Jaycee: "they posted me first on this app. i made the first tweet, basically repeating the same sentiment i had in my comment. i didn’t use lilac’s name or anything, because it wasn’t directed towards them. the interaction we had inspired me, yes, but they aren’t the only people who’ve created rpf smut (not even just smoshfandom but generally). they somehow saw the tweet, which had only 8 likes, and proceeded to screenshot it and post to their blog/acc. lilac posted me first, claiming that a nameless, if-the-shoe-fits kinda tweet was bullying them. i, in return, screenshotted the post made about me and posted it on twitter. i joked that i’ve now ‘made it’ and am famous because the situation was funny. people in the comments were laughing with me, not at lilac, but of course lilac is somehow the victim"

Smoshtwtdrama: "oh I see, but in lilac's point of view everything she read felt like it was pointed to her.. now I understand" I said because I'm starting to connect the dots between each other's posts

Jaycee: "and last thing i’ll say is i’m the literal last person smosh writers have to worry about. i wasn’t posting lilac to make fun of their writing. as i said, it didn’t even stem from a ‘fuck ur writing’ place. my point was if you write something horny about real life people, criticism is natural."

The conversation ends there with a simple "thank you for letting me know" I've asked Jaycee if they're willing to let me post our conversation to clear the air and they said yes.

But for the audience out there, this isn't something to side on of who's wrong or fault, it was a clear misinterpretation, if not then a wrongful communication. We don't have to post what we said if we can just communicated through messaging.

I understand both sides, nobody is wrong. And nobody should take sides.

What's your thoughts on this? Let me know!

|| THAT'S ALL FOR TODAY'S TOPIC!

[hxneylavendxr]

obsessed with my mother's preschool students arguing over whether im a boy or a girl

[nostalgia-tblr]

i nearly anon'd the thorki non-con fic out of SHAME but in two weeks it's become my third most clicked-on fic of the year, behind only a multichapter fic and a bit of angsty sifki porn lololol

[darkwing-ramblings]

Elrond and Haldir! They have to have fascinating thoughts on birdlife in middle earth, not to mention knowledge of plants! Plus Elrond is spoken of glowingly as a host and haldir I found charmingly earnest when reading the books! Ecology from an immortal perspective sounds grand. Also I'm always fascinated by Rivendell and Lothlorien.

Sam and Frodo sounded interesting too and possibly a tad more approachable but there's just less opportunity in life to talk to immortals so I must pass on their company, also I don't do partying like hobbits do which is a significant consideration.

Legolas and Gimli would have neat things to talk of I'm sure but I cannot match Gimli's poetry and dwarven secrecy with less known people is a thing etc. Not to mention Legolas is a bit hard to understand talking about trees to those around him in the books even if trees are great. So it doesn't sound unpleasant but also doesn't sound like how I'd want to spend my birthday.

Aragorn and Arwen I only briefly considered as I don't think I'd have much to actually say? Aragorn must have bird thoughts and Arwen must have some kind of craft etc I'd want to actually hear about in terms of what she's up to as the books limit our knowledge there... but those reasons are less compelling for selecting them as birthday company.

Eowyn and Eomer I just don't know enough about horses about to feel I could enjoy conversations with without feeling woefully underprepared (plus my memory in conversations just won't compare to theirs from a primarily oral culture so... I'm passing).

Merry and Pippin are great but I don't think I could match their energy when it comes birthday celebration potential (I am still not a hobbit or very outgoing).

I don't think I'd stand a chance getting a word in edgewise if Bilbo and Gandalf were talking and I'm not that keen on fireworks so not them even if they surely have the ability to just talk and keep going. They're also renowned for not giving straight answers and having a sense of humour- cryptic humour that's a little clever to unravel is not something I understand easily.

Galadriel makes intense eye contact and Celeborn appears rather disinterested in mortals on the whole so that's absolutely not worth it. Sounds like an uncomfortable time at least in part.

Boromir and Faramir tempted me because Boromir's notable lack of marriage pleases me as common ground and Faramir's own taking it slow on relationship levels is neat. Their company allowing for learning about Gondor as a place sounds fascinating! It'd be neat actually getting to see them in one place while alive and interacting too. But still sounds like a little bit of an awkward time given my own conversational tendencies.

Saruman and Grima sound like horrible company and I would, reasonably I think, fear for my wellbeing if I someone registered as more than a random nobody to them. Absolutely not, thank you, it would be a horrible birthday. There are points in the timeline they were probably (?) decent company but... just no, particularly the implied at once duo timings of either sabotaging rohan or, you know, scouring the shire...

in honour of turning 22 today i of course have to make it about lord of the rings

[thevioletcaptain]

if you as a fic reader ever become possessed by the urge to do a popularity bracket with the fics other people wrote and shared for fun and for free, consider:

don't ❤️ 

[scrumptiousstuffs]

P’Jojo eloquent and pointed answer to this misguided Twitter user (I chose to crop the user name so that we won’t spread any more hate here…)👇🏽

So, this all started with many K-BL lovers praising LITBC, which is fine but they started shading and insulting Thai-BL at the same time (basically saying Thai BL is shitty, poor quality and essentially just porn with no substance)

Not surprisingly, Thai BL watchers got upset (inc. this user above), where then another K-BL lover sarcastically answered?

The gist of it y’ all - P’Jojo is upset and rightfully so. He went on a tirade, and it was beautiful to see.

24/10/2024

[jrueships]

guess whos not going in at all this week, actually

[sunnyfuneral]

this statement is a trap.

1 op is a liberal zionist so they still think an ethnostate has the right to exist.

2 antizionist jews even before the state of Isreal existed, were saying zionism would pull away from making jews safe everywhere, so this is actually one of the oldest arguments against zionism why act like it would be a shocking position to hold.

see the early anti zionist postion of "hereness"

3 early zionist were Christians in Europe trying to get rid of jews because they were raging anti-Semitism monsters. zionism was against jewish international safety from day one

4 israel, the ethanostate is currently doing genocide. Asking that every single part of the world show that they are safe for every single jewish person before they end a genocide is iterally insane shit.

5 israel was not founded on Jewish safety. The foundations of early zionism existed before the holocaust and many of the attacks on the palestinian population in what is now israel were happening before the holocaust was happening. many of the militias that were eventually fold it into the idf, had already begun many campaigns of terror against palestinians before the holocaust.

6 many of zionism's early founders were pretty clear that this was a colonial project. even if jewish people were from the land the people who are making the state of israel, as we know it zionism, were a colonist who identified with colonialism and wanted to do colonialism in the arab world. they had relationships with colonialist, they got support from colonialists, their literature and writing reflected colonial ideas of a brutal arab world that could be civilized, by the Western influence. much of the support from non jews was about the colonial project. because it was going to be a colonial project, a Western outpost in the arab world. the indigenity of Jewish people and the safety of indigenous Jewish people in that area don't matter. Because they were also treated like shit by early zionist who considered them disgusting arabs. the early founders of zionism did not care about the safety of all the jews they cared about the safety of THIER type of jews

7 just like liberia before marginalized people can be marginalized in one part of the world, and then through the material conditions that lead to their situation, they become violent colonizers in another. jewish suffering after the holocaust does not justify what is currently happening in palestine, and we know that because many holocaust survivors have pointed out. that that's not how it works.

8 to reiterate, OP is asking the question in bad faith. Ignoring the historical material realities that led to the specific type of violent anti semitism.

The work of Jews trying to make themselves safe in the countries that they lived in was undermined and abandoned, under the idea that Zionism would solve the anti-Semitism problem. the work of making the world safer for jews has been the original antizionist position and positing it as a new and something that antizionist everywhere must prove first is a disservice to the work of antizionist jews since the very beginning, since before the holocaust, before hertzl.

These are not secrets, they are not hidden The reality is antizionism Since its very inception, what's about jewish safety was about hereness and making the world that jews already live in safe and that fleeing to a place that is full of arabs, who may not like a giant influx of new people coming from, mostly western nations was not going to make things peaceful.

It is a known and common opposition It's one of the reasons albert einstein did not want to become the president of israel.

It's why a lot of Jews were reluctant to move to Israel before the holocaust in the first place. Nobody wants to move into a place that they've literally never been to, and haven't been in hundreds of years.

Israel is currently doing genocide. Israel is currently doing genocide, Israel is an ethno state currently doing genocide and right now, Jewish people are not experiencing genocide, demanding that Jewish people get a giant reward of a 1000% safety Before the ethnostate, Jewish ethnostate stops doing genocide is fucking evil, grow up and realize that Jewish people have fought and died to make their country safe wherever they are and israel now gets to launder that history to do an actual genocide.

TLDR antizionism meaning safety for jewish people was the original position for a safe world for Jews, and zionism is now lying to everyone to cover up the fact that they're doing an actual genocide in their ethno state

oh, you don't think israel should exist? then you must be advocating for an end to antisemitism worldwide so jews have a safe place to live, right?

...right?

[arrowheadedbitch]

Ezekiel ain't nobody's favorite but at least he's god's favorite

[icewindandboringhorror]

Lineup of all of the characters that appear long enough to need a visual representation of them in the game lol

[dunetevenn]

Me: I wonder what my f/os would like about me... ...wait what is there even to LIKE about me in the first place?

F/os: *burst into the room* Alright that's it we're doing an intervention *brings out a PowerPoint about why I'm not that big of a piece of shit*