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fangirl-dot-com · 8 months ago

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🐍 Track 2 - . . . Ready for It?

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Logan had a new phone. And for the first time in a while, it felt nice to just be disconnected from the world for a bit. The people who truly mattered had his phone number. His Instagram had been wiped, along with every other social media. The American had gone dark.

And apparently you had done the same thing.

His parents and brother knew where he would be, just in case for emergencies. However, he asked them to not text much. He needed time away, well, away from the current grid. It hurt him, seeing how supportive everyone was with Theo. No one had ever congratulated him when he first got signed. Hell, even Oscar hadn’t known right away, claiming he had forgotten.

Of course, he had given you his new number because you’d be the only person he previously knew that he’d still be in contact with. You also gave Logan you’re new number, having similar ideas to your friend.

Well, he had given George his new number. The Briton had texted his old number in a panic-like manner when Logan deactivated everything. Under a temporary contract, Logan wasn’t legally allowed to tell George anything except that he was safe and needed time away.

The brunet was not happy with that, but he let Logan know that if he needed anything, he would come running. A bit of happiness let itself seep into Logan’s heart, thankful for the Mercedes driver’s friendship.

When he had read the email after the social media posts went up, his mind blanked.

What did Andretti want with him? A washed-out jobless nobody. He believes they should have been looking at someone like Carlos or even Ollie, who was making good times in F2 car. It had to be anyone but him.

So why was it him?

He had been about to call you when you had first facetimed him on his laptop. He couldn’t even get words about before you started screeching. Logan chuckled as you went on a rant, as this could be their big break. His silence had given you a look into how he was truly feeling.

Your voice had quieted down on the device.

“You’re going to take the offer right?”

Logan winced at your tone, which gave you the information you needed. You rolled your eyes as you sat on your bed.

“Logan, we were just dropped by two teams that didn’t even want us. They pushed us away like we were nothing. And now, there’s a team with top potential that truly wants us, and you don’t want to take the opportunity?”

The American boy sighed. You had a point.

“I’m just scared that I’m going to get there, and then make a fool out of myself. Then Michael is going to see how truly bad of a driver I am,” he hugged out.

You could hear the fear in his voice, and it devastated you. Where did your confident and smiley boy go? Williams would pay for it, one way or another.

You were hesitant to say something.

“Logan, even if our times aren’t what we’re wanting at first, Michael said that we will get better. He’s sent my manager some data and it looks like we are scarily similar with our driving styles. Logan, the car is going to be made for us. Michael made sure that I knew that we’d have a chance, because I’m not driving if you’re not. Together or nothing, we come as a package.”

Logan sat up quickly off his bed. He glared at you through his laptop.

“You did not just quote Charles Leclerc to me.”

“And what if I did?”

“No, you can’t give this offer up if I don’t drive.”

You glared back at him, although you had a smile.

“It’s either both of us, or none of us. I’m tired of never seeing you, and you need a friend you can count on. I’m sorry to say but Oscar has done a very shit job of being your friend. I’d say that George is a better friend than him.”

Logan sighed. “No, you’re right. It’s just hard to accept that.”

Your smile dropped a bit.

“Logan, he was supposed to be your friend and then he dropped you. Everyone had dropped you so many times and you’ve been the one to pick yourself back up. But now, you’ve been dropped a final time, yet someone wants to be the first to help you back up, to clean your wounds, and to heal you. And now you don’t even want that?”

You had a point.

Like always.

“Your words never seem to fail me woman.”

“That’s because men are the inferior being.”

Logan snorted.

“Will I see you in Milan next week?” you asked with hopeful eyes. Logan could see the glimmer that shined in them. He didn’t want to be the person to damped that.

“I will see you in Milan.”

The first thing that popped into Logan’s mind when he got to the base was “Holy Shit.”

The building was massive as he walked through the giant doors. He really thought that this was a movie set with how grand it was. Surely this couldn’t it? Maybe he had the wrong address.

“Mr. Sargeant?”

Or maybe he did. His body turned to the lady standing near the front desk. He showed a smile that was definitely a tad too wide and showed too many teeth. Thankfully the lady didn’t show any malice as she sweetly grinned at the blond.

“Yes ma’am. That’s me.”

Always the good southern-hospitality manners with him.

“I’m glad you could make it. If you’d follow me, Michael is waiting in his office for you.”

Logan breathed a sigh of relief when he finally knew that he didn’t have to circumnavigate the entirety of the building.

The air was fresh as he walked behind the lady, who he now knew as Marissa Andretti, Michael’s sister and Head of Directors. Her own American accent was like a comforting blanket to Logan. Gosh, did he miss hearing a familiar voice to his own during 2023.

The one voice he couldn’t wait to hear was your own. He knew he’d be safe once he heard the lisps of a Southern draw when you talked. The slurred vowels and the biting consonants would be music to his ears.

“How have you liked the simulator and the data so far?” Marissa asked as she led Logan down yet another hallway. How big was this building and were they leading him to his death?

Yet, despite his concerns, Logan was very happy with the results.

“The car is already so fast. It’s like it’s just an extension of me instead of working against me. It feels so right.”

Technically, Logan had been on the first plane to Milan to start testing, as his own anxiety wouldn’t let him wait until the week was up. You had your own simulator back in the States, so you did your testing there. Logan had been back in London when the email came, and his set up was not going to function with the high tech that Andretti needed.

Marissa smiled over her shoulder. “Good, that is exactly what we are wanting to hear.”

Finally, she stopped in front of a door that had a giant-ass A on the front. Logan wanted to laugh at the cinematics. Surely, this was a movie and he was going to be the main character. Marissa pushed a button and the door slowly swung open.

Logan’s smile grew once he saw you in one of the very plush seats in front of the desk. You immediately stood up and jumped into his arms. He breathed deeply and all weight slowly melted from his body. It had been so long since he had gotten to hug you, hold you, feel you.

When you pulled away, you had a blinding smile on your face.

“Glad to see you here Logs.”

His nose scrunched at the old nickname.

“I don’t think you’ve called me that since we were 12, Y/n.”

You huffed.

“Fine, no nickname for you.”

“I take it back. I ban you from calling me Logan.”

“Isn’t that your name?”

“No?”

“Logs!”

“Ah there it is!”

A cough signaled to Logan that they weren’t actually alone. He sheepishly turned around to face the man who, hopefully after this meeting, would be his boss for a couple of years. Logan turned his full body towards the desk and stepped with his hand outstretched.

Michael had a knowing smile as he shook Logan’s hand.

“I am so sorry sir, I didn’t even realize that you were already here, and I haven’t seen her in a while, and it’s so good to just here the accents because the grid is entirely too European and Asian, sometimes I couldn’t even understand them, and…”

Michael put his hands on Logan’s shoulders.

“It’s just fine kid. I totally get you.”

Logan visibly relaxed under Michael’s hands.

“Now, why don’t you sit down and we can start talking contracts.”

Logan lit up at the word.

“Contracts?”

You gave him a smirk.

“Yes Logs, contracts.”

Logan felt as though he couldn’t breathe. But this time, it was with excitement and not dread. His butt quickly found the seat next to yours. Marissa left the room with promises of coming back with celebratory drinks.

Michael pulled out two small stacks of paper before he started speaking.

“So, I’ve talked with both of your managers and we’ve come up with a contract. You two can look over it as I read the big details. The finer print is stuff that you both have already previously gone over, but you are still encouraged to look over it one final time.”

You and Logan had the same exact papers.

In the initial emailing process, the two of you had voiced that you were a packaged deal. Logan was surprised to see that Michael had said that he wouldn’t want it any other way and was glad to possibly not have to deal with drivers hating each other. Logan thought anything would be better than Brocedes 2016.

You looked down at the words as Michael read them out loud.

“Ok, so in the contract, the two of you will be signed until 2027. There is an exit clause in section C, but we are not allowed to terminate prior to 2027. The two of you will be granted ambassadorship with whatever sponsors we’ve received. The sponsorships are in section E and it gives a rundown of each one and what they will be contributing to the team.

“Per secrecy of wanting to keep the identities secret until we reach the grid for testing, the two of you will go under pseudonyms.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Like a call sign?”

Marissa flashed a wicked grin.

“Exactly like a call sign.”

You continued, “Do we get to come up with them?”

Michael clasped his hands. “So we thought that Y/n could go by Phoenix and then Logan would go Venus.”

Your eyes widened as you took in the name. Wasn’t too bad, you thought.

Logan let out a sigh of relief. “At least it’s not like Eagle or something. That would be super obvious.”

The boss-man chuckled before he looked back down at the contract.

“Since the two of you did not specify a salary, we took the liberty to come up with one ourselves. But please feel free to mention what you’d like and we can always raise it. We also liked to put in that for every point scored, the two of you get a bonus as a little incentive. The salary will not be dropped no matter if points are scored or not. Think of it as a baseline.”

Michael chuckled as he watched yours and Logan’s eyes drastically widen at the sight of the eight digits before the decimal. Logan gulped at the sight.

“Michael, I think you added too many zeros.”

“I think I didn’t add enough.”

Logan couldn’t respond.

You looked up from the paper to Michael. “I think it’s high enough.”

The goateed-man smiled back at you and continued.

“I’ve seen the skills parts on your resumes and thankfully the two of you do not need to learn Italian from scratch. I don’t even know when the two of you had time to learn it, but thankfully it is not required in meetings or in the garage.”

Logan smirked as he looked at the words.

“What’s the fun in that? We can have secret conversations with ourselves.”

You tapped his shoulder.

“Except Ferrari will know and maybe Lewis.”

“I’ll have my Duolingo account at the ready.”

Michael watched as the two of you pored over the papers and bickered like an old married couple. He and Marissa already had a bet going to see when the two of you would get together. But, you didn’t need to know that.

“I digress. You can speak in Italian if you want to. The next couple of sections are just PR related. The two of you wanted to bring you own teams in, which is fine. I’ve sent emails and meeting times to each of them and have been replied to. All is in motion. Logan, you mentioned something to me once about your personal trainer leaving?”

A sigh left his lips at the mention of Benny. He really didn’t want anyone else. He slowly nodded.

“He had to leave to be with his family. Williams wasn’t the most accommodating and he was told that he had to be at every race. Normally I didn’t even need him until race day. He’d miss so much time with his family because of traveling and things like that.”

“Well, I think we have you covered.”

Logan looked back down at the paper. A small gasp left his lips.

Ben Jacobs was written in black ink under “Personal Trainer.”

“How?”

Michael smiled.

“It took some convincing, but he said he’d come back for you. Of course, Ben will be highly compensated to return after he said he wouldn’t. His family will also be accommodated for any race that they’d like to attend and Ben can show up however late he needs. His leave will also be paid time as well.”

Logan could kiss the man if he could. Tears pooled in his eyes and he could only manage a small thank you. Your hand rested on his shoulder in comfort. He just couldn’t wait to see him again.

“Looks like that is everything. Are you two ready to sign?”

Yours and Logan’s heads nodded eagerly as pens were uncapped. There was light scratching for a few moments as you filled out the needed information on the multiple sheets of paper. Once everything was completed, you let out a sigh of relief. You and Logan could finally do this.

Marissa showed up at the right moments with a few different beverages. You took one of the iced americanos, claiming that Italian espresso was, in fact, the best kind. Logan surprised you as he took a mimosa.

He side-eyed you.

“It’s freshly squeezed orange juice and you cannot go wrong with it. It’s a classic.”

You held you drink up and your other hand in mock surrender.

Michael took a black coffee and sipped it.

“Now, onto the fun stuff.”

Your eyebrows pinched. “Fun stuff?”

Michael smirked before pulling up a projector that was attached to his laptop. He started to click through the slides.

“First, the car.”

On the slide was a sleek yellow and black livery. The black really highlighted the tamer yellow.

Michael pointed at it.

“This is our 2024 livery. We designed it awhile back, but it’s finally going to be used.”

You let out a whistle as a video played the engine noise. To you, it sounded fast. You had been able to do a few laps with an actual car to get the feel of it since IndyCar were so much different. Michael claimed though that you were a natural in the car, being able to command it to what you needed it to do. Logan was quite the same.

The next slide showed multiple models of Lamborghinis. With it came a smirk from the sister and brother pair.

Logan looked at them.

“I don’t know whether to be excited about the smirks or nervous.”

Marissa was the one to pull up something on her personal iPad. She showed the official Lamborghini website.

“Because the two of you will now technically ambassadors for Lambo as well, you two need to pick out what models the two of you would like to own. For now, we can start with one, but Tonino wanted his drivers to start a small collection.”

You made her pause.

“Tonino, as in, Tonino Lamborghini?”

Marissa sent a gentle smile to calm you down.

“Yes. Mr. Tonino will be at quite a few races to watch. He has mentioned wanting to see Ferrari fail, but our data is saying that although we look promising, there’s not guarantee.”

Logan exhaled sharply.

“No pressure right?”

Michael leaned forward over the desk.

“Listen to me Logan. You have been with a team that has now destroyed every bit of self-confidence. Mr. Tonino is actually the one who put your name on my radar. If you’re good enough for him, you need to believe that you’re good enough for everyone else.”

Logan was taken back. Mr. Tonino was the one to bring him up? He felt honored in a good way. A nod of his head let Michael and Marissa know that they could continue. Logan turned your way, only to find you already smiling at him. He hoped that he could always be on the receiving end of that smile.

Marissa continued where she left off.

“Just look over the models and customize it however you’d like. We’ll get it sent to the factory to be made in time for the first race in Bahrain. These cars will be shipped along with our supplies so you can always have them.”

You smirked. “I’ve always wanted a black Lamborghini Aventador.”

Logan turned to Marissa. “I’d love a black Lamborghini Huracan.”

A smile grew on your face. “Aw, Logan. We’ll get matching Lambos.”

Logan thought that if you had been an emoji, you’d be the one with the big teary eyes and a pout. Marissa looked pleased at the requests for the different models.

You raised your hand. “Do we need to start looking for places to stay here in Milan?”

Michael lifted his eyebrows.

“You don’t actually. Between races, the two of you are more than welcome to either go home or adventure somewhere. We will let you know when it is crucial to come back here to do some testing. Housing is provided when you need to be here. There are multiple estates that can be used on bought property.”

You and Logan definitely liked the sound of that. Maybe you could stay in close villas or something. Or maybe in the same place as you tended to get lonely. That’s what being pushed out of everything does to someone in a year. You can’t remember the last time that you were invited to do something with the team, always retreating to your small hotel room after a race. You feel as though Logan might feel the same.

Michael moved to the next slide, showing the race suits.

“These are the suits for the season. Black or white fireproofs will go well with them. Helmets are up to the two of you. You will need on standard for some races and then you can choose what races you want fun ones to be. Miami, Austin, Las Vegas, and Imola are going to be considered our home races.”

“What about Monza?” Logan questioned.

Michael had a glint in his eyes.

“That will forever belong to the Tifosi I’m afraid.”

You decided to pipe up.

“Or Charles Leclerc. I feel like wherever he goes, the Tifosi goes with him. You make him trade teams, the Italians will follow him.”

Logan shot you a teasing look.

“You always have to bring him up in one way or another.”

You shrugged.

“He’s a good driver. Let’s not bring up that you’re such a fanboy for Max Verstappen of all people.”

Logan’s torso shifted.

“It’s not every day that one beats Sir Lewis Hamilton and take away his 8th championship!”

Laughs erupted from Michael and Marissa, making you and Logan pause. You cleared your throat.

“Sorry, please continue.”

Michael went a bit further with the slides, going over compatible data to the car. He went over sponsors and things like that before he finally leaned back into his chair.

“Are we able to drive the cars today?”

Much like you were, Logan was itching to be back behind the wheel. And hopefully, the wheel belonged to a reliable car.

Michael stood from where he sat, making you and Logan also rise to your feet.

“I’d thought you’d never ask,” he said, making his way to the door. When the two of you didn’t follow, he turned back around.

“Are you ready for it?”

lamborghini_racing has posted

Lamborghini_racing Are you ready for it?

liked by y/n.nation, logang2, box_box_express, and 4,205,095 others

l4mbo.child a hello or how are you doing WOULD HAVE BEEN NICE

f1_fan I fear they have gagged the entire grid with this

ferrariforza damn, I thought we had the best livery - sorry kings 👑

lambo_drivers all I'm asking is who is going to be driving this beast?

lo-girlies do I even utter his name in fear that it might not happen?

y/nfan or even utter her name?

thepaddock_person who 🤨

childofF1 I'll say it - LOGAN AND Y/N FOR LAMBO 2024

box_box_express the paint, the yellow, the black, the lighting, THE EVERYTHING

taylorswiftxf1 I see the admin is a Taylor fan??

phoenix95 has posted

phoenix95 baby let the games begin

liked by venus2, Lamborghini_racing, y/n.nation, dior, and 2,195,086 others

4theF1_girlies EXCUSE MEEEEEEE

driver95 ayo - we got the Lightning McQueen number with a queen

lambo_duo oh gosh I hope I live to see the day that they reveal their drivers

venus2 looking snazzy 😎

phoenix95 no one ever says that anymore

venus2 🥺

phoenix95 fine...thank you

venus2 🥰

venusxphoenix WHOEVER THEY ARE - THEY HAVE MY HEART

rising_phoenix95 immediate fan

lambo_child the Aventador is such a slay 💅

lambof1 I wonder if they have like matching cars with their contracts

venus2 has posted

venus2 let the games begin now

liked by phoenix95, marissa_andretti, Lamborghini_racing, and 4,205,850 others

lambof1 I THINK I CALLED IT?? THE MATCHING BLACK CARS

pitstop_nightmare I'M SORRY FERRARI BUT THIS IS TOO SEXY

lamborghinivsferrari THE HURACAN 🥵😱

c16_leclerc I'm guessing they went to Charles's school of serving cunt

hamilton44lewis and graduated with a degree in slay

phoenix95 that's sexy baby

venus2 thanks 😚

phoenix95 ...I was talking about the car?

venus2 sure...sure you were 😈

box_box_express I feel like I have some sleuthing to do - hold please

logansarg2 I miss Logan so much - it's heartbreaking to see all of his accounts go dark, I guess I'll have to stan this dude instead

y/n.nation I miss our girl so much

TAG LIST: @fionaschicken @myxticmoon @cherry-piee @blueberry64857959 @glitterquadricorn @lizzypiastri @disneyprincemuke @sam-is-lost @spilled-coffee-cup @ilove-tswizzle @the-untamed-soul @allenajade-ite @starssfall @torchbearerkyle @judespoision @halfdeadsage @juniper-july19 @severewobblerlightdragon @thatgirlmj @gods-menace @ineedafictionalman @namgification @dark-night-sky-99 @samantha-chicago @2pagenumb @treehouse-mouse @fangirl125reader @megatrilss1885 @kagatinkita @itsjustkhaos @nikfigueiredo @awekbachira @vellicora @skepvids @sunrizef1 @stan-josie @fanficweasley @hiireadstuff @barcelonaloverf1life @c-losur3 @graciewrote @bruhhhhhhhhehhhhhhh @tallrock35 @ashy-kit @kat-s2 @minkyungseokie @lozzamez3 @leslieis-crying @adventuresofrose @lighttsoutlewis

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em-harlsnow · 3 months ago

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the ages of shameless characters does nothing but drive me crazy, so I'm activating some detective skills to figure them out throughout the seasons. also - im ignoring the years or times that the seasons came out, just going by what the show says.

First off: Mickey - bday is 10 August 1994

Season 1: 16, because...

he's not in it much, he doesn't speak much, but we know two things - he's a teenager and he's under 18 since he goes to juvie. He's in juvie for some part of three seasons, so I think it's safe to put him at 16.

Season 2: 16 for a bit, then 17, because....

it's now summer, and Mickey comes out of juvie. I think he turns 17 that summer, because when he goes back in, people are wearing coats more so I assume it's getting colder, so it's past august.

Season 3: 17 for half, 18 for the other half, because...

it's summer at the start, so Mickey's been in juvie for like 6/7 months. he's still 17, because he didn't go to prison at any point. by the time he marries Svetlana, I think he's 18. I don't know how old you have to be to get married in Illinois, but I'll say 18 because American laws confuse me more than anything else. either way, again, people are wearing warmer clothes around the time he marries her, so he must be 18.

Season 4: 18, because...

it's winter, the whole way through. There's no way it's the next year, since Ian is still underage according to Mickey (altho there's a possibility he meant under the drinking age of 21, but I don't think so). So Ian's been gone for a few months, maybe like 5 since it could be Jan/Feb and he must have left Autumn time. Therefore, Mickey's 18. The whole time. Summer hasn't come, so his birthday hasn't passed.

Season 5: 19, because....

it's summer for the first part. Late summer, since the last half is in wintery time based on everyone's coats. We can assume that Mickey has his birthday either between season 4 and 5 or right at the beginning of season 5. So maybe he's 18 for like 5 seconds. But for the majority and the end, he must be 19.

Season 6: 19/20, because...

he's only in it for one scene (diabolical). I can't tell what the season is really, because there aren't many coats being worn at the start, and then loads at the end. It seems unreasonable that a whole spring and summer have been skipped, doesn't it? although, maybe it's possible. There are also some days when it seems really hot and some where it looks cold, so I have no idea. I don't know what the weather's like in Chicago, sorry. So he's either 19 or 20 when we see him. Most likely 20. Either way, he went into prison when he was 19, unless the trial was really long and lasted from winter to august, which I doubt.

Season 7: 21 (when he appears), because...

we have two episodes (again, very sad). it starts in the summer based on the t-shirts without jackets everyone wears. by the time ep 10 and 11 hit, it's colder. it's hard to tell at the end, since they're at the border or approaching the border and the further south you go the hotter it gets, and it's very sunny when mickey goes across. If season 6 really is that winter and they skipped the summer (which now makes more sense), it's the following summer, going into autumn. so, august has probably passed by the time we see mickey. so he's 21 now.

Season 8: 21, 22 by the end (even tho we don't see him), because...

no mickey (rude). we can still assume his age based on the seasons and other characters. it's summer again! I'm guessing it's the year after?? since it looked like season 7 was approaching autumn? that also means Ian and Trevor were dating for around a year, and I didn't realise it was so long to be honest. anyway, if it's summer again, at some point throughout mickey turns 22 (alone, in Mexico).

Season 9: 23, because...

one scene with mickey! it's still summer, the same summer as before I think, because there's no way the Gay Jesus thing lasted a full year. it looks like it's a direct continuation from season 8. by the last ep, Ian is wearing a hat and an undershirt under the prison uniform, so it's autumn-y time. so, mickey's either already 23 when we see him, or about to turn 23. by the end, he's definitely 23.

Season 10: 23 at the start, 24 by the end, because...

it's summer when Ian comes out of prison. I'd put it at early summer, since Ian says it's been less than a year of being in prison. so at the start, mickey's still 23. by the wedding, it's 'supposed to snow', so I guess it's full on winter. so august is passed, mickey is 24, and finally had his bday when he's with Ian.

Season 11: 24 at the start, 25 at the end, because...

summer again at the start based on all the t-shirts. early summer, because by ep 10, mickey goes swimming or does something in the pool, because I'm not convinced he can swim, which you aren't gonna do in the autumn/winter, right? by the last ep, there are more coats, and it's their anniversary so it's 'supposed to snow', so it must be winter time. so he's 24 at the start, 25 at the end.

In conclusion, Mickey is way younger than he seems (im not talking about Noel, he looks the age he's meant to be, he just seems older). Also, Gallavich has been together for 9 years.

Let me know if you disagree with any of this, I think I'll do Ian next! I don't know if this was obvious to everyone else and I'm just slow, but this is gonna help me loads when I'm figuring out weather seasons and ages for fics lol.

Shameless needs to deal with its shitty timelines. It was much better at consistency in the earlier seasons.

#shameless #gallavich #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #ian x mickey #shameless opinions

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floralcyanide · 4 months ago

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⊱ 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑦 𝐺𝑜𝑙𝑑 ― 𝐶𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑢𝑠 𝑆𝑛𝑜𝑤 ⊰

[ ᴀ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ ɢᴀᴍᴇs ᴀʟᴛᴇʀɴᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ ғᴀɴғɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ]

1960s ᴜs ᴘʀᴇsɪᴅᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴄᴀɴᴅɪᴅᴀᴛᴇ!ᴄᴏʀɪᴏʟᴀɴᴜs sɴᴏᴡ x ғᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝘵𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑖𝑥 (ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝘰𝑛𝑠): 𝑖𝑛𝘵𝘰 𝘵ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘

౨ৎ 18+ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀs ᴏɴʟʏ !

⊹ summary: the years following you and Coriolanus’ wedding.

⊹ pairing: young!coriolanus snow / fem!reader

⊹ warnings: major character death, mentions of death, mentions of illness, assassination, violence, rioting, mentions of pregnancy, grief

⊹ word count: 1264

⊹ author’s note: I PROMISE I WROTE THIS BEFORE THE EVENTS OF YESTERDAY LOL. (the assassination attempt against trump) I noticed the other day it had been longer than I had thought that I had updated this fic. and I've only just gotten around to feeling like writing. but it's coincidental, I swear; this has been in the plot document for this fic for a while. I hope everyone enjoys this update and I'm sorry in advance lol

౨ৎ divider credit: @cafekitsune

౨ৎ sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴛᴀɢʟɪsᴛ | sᴇʀɪᴇs sᴏᴜɴᴅᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ | sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

౨ৎ this fic has been cross posted to ao3.

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ, ᴀᴏ3, ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴇʙsɪᴛᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ɪɴ ᴀɪ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛᴏʀs ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʀᴛɪғɪᴄɪᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴛᴏ sᴇʟʟ ғᴏʀ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

❝Let us not emphasize all on which we differ but all we have in common. Let us consider not what we fear separately but what we share together.❞ ― John F. Kennedy

✲ Being Coriolanus’ wife meant meeting a lot of people very quickly, including none other than Martin Luther King Jr. He and the Kennedys have worked closely together during Jack’s presidency, and since Coriolanus was leading the polls, the man decided it was time to meet the striking blonde politician to discuss some things.

✲ You and MLK Jr.’s wife, Coretta, chat at the dinner the Kings had set up while the two men wander off to talk privately. She asks you if you have thought about having children as of yet, and you sigh with a knowing smile, “We’ve been thinking about it.”

✲ It’s been a thing for the media and just about everyone to ask when you and Coriolanus were having kids. You felt pressure, but Coriolanus assured you that you could wait until you were ready.

✲ The day after your dinner with the Kings, the names of the women who are the face of the Women’s Revolution are splattered across news outlets everywhere due to their march in Washington. Katniss Everdeen and Lucy Gray Baird Lead America’s Women!

✲ Coriolanus is bombarded with questions everywhere he’s seen. But he says to wait until the debate for any further comments about the matter. You worry about the escalation of the movement but decide to keep to yourself about it. Even though you’re nearly finished with your higher education, you’re still a woman, so your opinion doesn’t matter much politically at the moment.

✲ The debate comes and goes, with Coriolanus still leading the polls. It seems this election is secured for him so far. However, some of the major events happening right now are bothering him, so he decides to pay Jack a visit in the White House, you tagging along, of course. Coriolanus asks him how he managed to make decisions during the Bay of Pigs invasion and during the Cuban Missile Crisis.

✲ “There are going to be difficult times, Coriolanus. But don’t let it scare you. In fact, let it inspire you to work harder to make a change.”

✲ Coriolanus is more sure of himself after that. November comes around, and to no one’s surprise, Coriolanus wins the 1964 Election by a large margin, with Sejanus Plinth as his Vice President.

✲ The first year is hard, but it is for every president. You eventually finish your research on Jack and present your work, earning your hard-earned diploma. You are now a doctor in political science. Everyone is extremely proud, including your fellow Americans. They beg the question of what you’re to do with your accomplishments if women don’t have the same opportunities as men. To which you answer, “We shall figure that out soon.” You are certain Coriolanus will go through with his promises.

✲ 1966 comes around the corner almost menacingly. Tensions are high- riots break out in the streets over economic trouble, and women are growing tired of the poor treatment of their employers. Bobby and MLK Jr. seem to fuel the fire when they speak out against the violence in the streets, saying there’s a better way to get the point across.

✲ Jack falls ill and ends up in the hospital in late February. Coriolanus puts meetings and speeches on hold, clearing the entire week out of duties to visit Jack. You are by his side as he watches his best friend suffer. The family comes back together to take care of Jack. You try your best to console Jackie as she’s beside herself with worry.

✲ “I don’t think he’s going to pull out of this one, darling,” Jackie frowns, “He isn’t young and isn’t able to bounce back like he used to. I’m afraid this is it.” You assure Jackie her husband will be fine, but you aren’t so sure. The pneumonia doesn’t seem to be resolving itself.

✲ A week after Jack is admitted to the hospital, he dies. Coriolanus and Bobby are on one side of his bed, Jackie and the kids on the other as Jack takes his last breath. You hold yourself together as long as possible until you and Coriolanus eventually return to the White House. When you settle in your room for privacy, you lose it. You burst into tears as you picked up and tossed anything readily available next to you across the room.

✲ Coriolanus pulls you into his arms, trying to calm you to the best of his ability. Both of you cry together over losing a friend. A friend who happened to bring the two of you together in life and love.

✲ More tragedy strikes the family. Bobby holds a convention to speak out in favor of women’s rights, but only under one condition- that the rioting stops. This angers many, causing a fight to break out and eventually, shots are fired. One was aimed directly at Bobby’s head. He doesn’t survive.

✲ You knew Bobby’s wife, Ethel, very well, and you and Jackie are there for her in her time of need. The Kennedy family is in shambles at this point. Everyone seems to think that the women from the movement are responsible for assassinating Bobby, but no one has proof. It isn’t until August that someone is held responsible.

✲ Martin Luther King Jr. Shot in Memphis is across every headline around the world. Yet another significant figure is brought down. Yet another friend is murdered. Yet another wife is to be consoled by other women who have been in her shoes, losing a husband suddenly. You aren’t sure what to think anymore.

✲ The radical members of the Women’s Revolution refuse to take sole responsibility for the assassinations, but some are arrested for conspiracy anyway. Many suspect Katniss Everdeen or Lucy Gray Baird as the masterminds of the plots.

✲ With the darkness of the world growing as each day passes, you don’t realize you’ve missed your period. When you do, you figure it’s from the stress of losing dear friends. But Coriolanus urges you to go to the doctor anyway.

✲ In December 1966, you find out you are pregnant. You decide, no matter the gender, their name is to be Kennedy, after your dear friends you’ve lost.

✲ The First Lady being pregnant is a beacon of hope for the nation in its darkest hour. Everyone waits patiently for you to start showing and to find out what gender the baby is.

✲ Coriolanus decides to be bold and requests to do a motorcade through D.C. to lift the spirits of the people. The Secret Service is weary but obliged to Coriolanus’ wishes.

✲ When in the motorcade, you clutch Coriolanus’ hand nervously. “Go on, sweetheart,” Coriolanus mumbles in your ear, “Wave to the people. They love it, they love you.” You stare at your husband for a moment in absolute awe as he basks in the glow of attention from the crowd. He effortlessly smiles, his eyes twinkling in unbridled pride- a rare emotion you see from him. Sure, he has his moments of pride, but not like this. The last time he looked this happy was the day he married you.

✲ It’s been hard for Coriolanus, you’ve noticed. Juggling the presidency while losing those close to him. But you think today has helped more than you possibly could have, especially since you’ve been grieving, too.

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eugenedebs1920 · 1 month ago

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Trumps desperation is dangerous. To see the schedule and theme to each rally like this. It’s dangerous. These fabrications have gone beyond bending the truth, they’ve gone beyond stretching reality, they’ve gone beyond false accusations, these are wild, outlandish lies! I guess my faith in my fellow Americans may have been a bit overinflated in its belief that we are, for the most part, a reasonably intelligent, overall good, decent people. This is by far not the first time I’ve heard/read/seen a Trump rally, but it’s getting off the rails. The more i interact with my fellow countrymen, whether in person or via social media, the more I’m observing that people believe the sh*t he says. They believe these wild, far fetched, absurd, lies. Maybe I’m just cynical and over analyze anything that I hear into a, is this real, is this contorted, is this false, or is this complete bullsh*t, categories, never taking anything as a hundred percent, full on fact (unless it’s math or something. I’ve had people argue that too though) always leaving room for growth, giving my perspective some space for the potential that new elements get introduced to the situation. I especially don’t take anything a politician says, or claims, or promises at even face value. But I only see the world through my eyes. Sometimes what you observe can be deceiving. What the most dangerous part about trumps mendacities are is the rift, the division, the wedge driven between us. I don’t know how many of you have used a steel wedge when splitting logs, but if you do it wrong, which I have many times because I’m an idiot, and that wedge gets driven in there dumb, it’s a frickin pain to get out. I worry that’s happening to us. I was talking with a guy I’ve never met, don’t know him in the real world, some guy who commented on whatever rambling diatribe I was going on about. I was trying to tell him, ‘we/Dems/I don’t hate you. I don’t have a problem with you person Y. I have a problem with the candidate you support, because I think he is dangerous. Dangerous for our democracy, dangerous for our country and dangerous for our society. Yet you person Y. It’s not you I have a problem with.’ I think that’s a major revelation we need to keep in mind. WHY are we so mad at the other side? WHY is there such hostility towards each other ? WHY is there such distrust between us as fellow Americans?. It’s because our would be, so called “leaders” are sinking that wedge further and further into the core of America. I worry it’s going to be real hard to get out.

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the-authoress-writes · 1 year ago

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Somewhere Out There

Tom “Iceman” Kazansky x Wife!Reader

Synopsis: Deployments are hard, but when you have someone to come home to, someone to love, that makes things easier, painful as it may be.

Warnings: Maybe a little bit of angst, I guess, offscreen sort-of implied married-people-doing-married-people-stuff 😉😉, minuscule cursing, a PG-13 use of the F-word, and a crap-ton of fluffy, lovey-dovey goodness.

Author’s Note: I don’t write reader fic.

I really don’t.

I write ship fic and gen fic, and I’d say I’m pretty decent at it, judging from the comments on my stories.

But then, @valmare came along, and we just clicked.

Mostly through screaming about Top Gun, naval aviators (*cough*tomkazansky*cough*), and our mutual appreciation for Val Kilmer.

And I knew I wanted to write something for her, especially since she was celebrating 300 followers!

Unfortunately, deep down, I knew I couldn’t write a ship fic for her.

I would have to write a reader!fic.

So, because I love her, I delved into the uncharted (for me, at least) waters of reader!fic.

I’m honestly not sure if this is any good, I wrote it in a perspective I’m not used to, and I hope and pray it makes any kind of sense.

Title is from the song of the same name, “Somewhere Out There”, from An American Tail.

To my dear Mir, I swear I began writing this yesterday, but I touched on things that you did in your own most recent fic, however, I couldn’t for the life of me, find another way to put what I wrote.

I promise on Goose’s grave that I did not plagiarize you.

All I can say is… fangirls think alike?

Please don’t hate meeee!!!!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this attempt at wading in the waters you so expertly navigate, my dear!

Happy 300 Followers!!!

The mist was rolling in from the sea, she absently noted, while the rising sun caught the minuscule droplets of water in the air, making the very wind shimmer.

Even inside, she could smell the faint tang of salt in the air, one of her favorite scents, but it was missing the key part—so much was missing.

The warmth of her husband behind her, for one thing, as they watched the sunrise on this window seat, her legs bracketed by his, his arms around her, the scent of spice, bourbon, and jet fuel which was all him, surrounding her.

God, she missed Tom.

Right now, he was halfway around the world on a ship, and she was watching the weekend sunrise without him, for the first time since they got married.

She knew this was part of being married to an active duty naval aviator, but it didn’t make the ache any better.

She tugged the collar of the USNA t-shirt up to her nose, but the scent was so faint from when Tom had tossed it to the floor the night before his deployment.

She sighed; she could still remember how he’d made her feel that night—he’d made her body sing, playing her like an expert musician would his instrument.

She’d felt him for days after, and if she focused enough, even now, she could almost feel his hands on her, the paradox of how gentle they were, despite the callouses on his palm, his lips on hers.

For all that he was called “Iceman”, she never saw an iota of the reasoning; with her, he was never anything but unfailingly warm, gentle, kind, loving, and passionate.

It had been nearly a week since she dropped him off last Monday at Miramar, exhorting Mav and Slider to bring him home to her.

The grave promise in the two men’s eyes as they readily agreed, had to be comfort enough, and wordlessly, they hauled Tom’s seabag between them, a strap in each of their hands, cheerfully bickering as they went, to give her a chance to say a more private goodbye.

She didn’t know what to say to him—this had to be one of the most painful things she’d ever done—giving her husband up to the sea and sky for ninety days, not knowing if he’d return to her alive, safe, having to trust only in his skill on the stick and his wingmen to bring him back to her.

Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, and Tom’s eyes softened, as he drew her into his embrace. “I’ll come back to you, lyubimaya moya,” he whispered in her ear, all too aware of how dangerous it was to speak Russian on base, outside of the safety of the walls of their house, but aware that she needed the comfort.

“Promise me—promise you’ll come back to me, Thomas Kazansky,” she fiercely murmured, drawing back to look at him, taking the opportunity that she would shortly not have.

“Always.

No matter what, no matter what oceans part us,” he replied, an intensity which would frighten others, but which soothed her, in his crystalline eyes.

She gasped and desperately tugged him to her, his kiss piecing her heart together and breaking it, all for knowing that it was the last time she’d feel it for three months.

He’d taken her soul with him the moment he let her go to do his duty.

Back in the pain of her present, a sob masquerading as a sigh tore from her lips—it wasn’t enough; it would never be enough until she had him back in her arms, back in her bed, back in this house, where she felt like a shade of herself, a modern-day Eurydice.

Her legs reluctantly carried her to the kitchen, where she prepared her weekend coffee, narrowly resisting the urge to pull out two mugs instead of one.

But when she picked up the can of Maxwell House, she fumbled it, because it was far lighter than it should’ve been—heavy, but not the still-full can it should have been.

Tentatively, she opened it, and gasped when she saw that the can was filled with folded-up pieces of paper, each marked with dates on them, in Tom’s careful, exacting writing.

She tipped the can over, and the papers came spilling out—there had to be at least three months worth of letters here, one for each day of his deployment.

She frantically searched through the pile, looking for today’s date.

Upon finding it, she dashed back to the window seat, deliberately peeling the tape holding it closed, unable to treat the letter with anything less than the utmost care.

She quickly noticed Tom’s writing here was cramped, as if he were trying to fit everything he wanted to say on this one small piece of paper.

“Hello, solnishko,

If you’re reading this, it means that you’ve found the letters I wrote for you; one for each day of my deployment.

As I write this, I am next to you in bed, looking at your beautiful face, so peaceful in sleep, but the mere thought of my impending departure already tears me apart more than I thought possible.

I won’t have thought of anything else but you since the moment I left your arms, I am absolutely certain.

You know all too well why I joined the Navy—my search for a home, a real home, one not plagued by unattainable standards and harsh words.

I eventually found one in the sky, and for the longest time, she was enough, with her freedom, her thrill, but there were still demands, still standards, though the words were kinder.

Then I met you.

And you changed everything.

You are my home, lyubimaya moya; with you, I don’t have to be Iceman, or Lieutenant Kazansky; with you, I can be Tom.

Just Tom.

Your Tom.

I can’t wait until I can be your Tom again.

Eighty-four days, zhizn moya; and I’m yours again.

Yours forever,

Tom”

She pressed her hand to her chest, careful to avoid crumpling the paper beneath her hand, a tear slipping from her eyes, the ache of his absence soothed with the absolute confirmation that he was thinking of her just as she was about him, and intensified, knowing that he was so far away.

Eventually, she sniffled, brushing away her tear tracks, wishing it was Tom’s hand, and gathered herself.

Eighty-four days.

Eighty-four days, and she’d have him back—a short eternity, to be sure, but a small price to pay for what she’d get back at the end.

Until then, she’d count the sunrises, holding him and the words he’d written for her, close to her heart.

Tom stared out at the horizon, watching the sun come up on the relatively quiet deck of the Enterprise.

It meant that he lost a good thirty minutes of sleep, but it was worth it, just to know that his wife was looking at the same sunrise, or she would be, at any rate, given the time difference.

The horizon spread out before him; endless, and the fleeting, errant thought that she was just there, beyond the beyond, entered his mind.

So far—a little over six thousand nautical miles, more or less, depending on the course and speed of the Enterprise, further than any F-14 could fly—and yet so near, because she was never far from his heart.

He’d never thought he could love anything or anyone more than her—among his other endearments for her was zhizn moya, because that was what she was to him: his life.

Tom idly twisted the band of gold around his left ring finger, more proud of that simple ring than the hard-won blue-jeweled Annapolis ring on his right.

God, he missed her.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Tom turned to see Mav, coming up to lean on the railing beside him, none of the usual cockiness on his face.

“You shouldn’t be up yet, Mav.”

A haunted expression lingered on the edges of his wingman’s face as he searched for anything but the truth to tell, and Tom knew. “The usual?”

“Yeah,” Mav rasped. “I—I checked on Merls and Sli, but I got—got worried when I—I didn’t find you, so…” the black-haired pilot trailed off, before continuing, “you okay?”

“I should be asking you that, but… yeah, I am, just…”

“Just missing her,” Mav nodded sagely, almost wistfully.

“Yeah.”

“How do you even handle that?” Mav asked, frowning.

The sunlight made him feel more honest than he would probably otherwise be, Aurora’s kiss a comforting benediction, reminding him of all he had to come home to, and he replied, “What makes you think that I am?” He shook his head, “Doesn’t really feel like I’m even here, honestly.”

Mav good-naturedly smirked, “You left your heart in San Diego?”

Tom side-eyed his wingman. “Yeah, actually.

You’ll understand it one day, when you meet the right one,” he sighed, thinking of his wife’s beautiful smile.

“I dunno, Ice, I’m not sure if I want to be you, or be thankful that I’m not.”

Tom scoffed, unable to help his grin. “It’s the worst feeling in the world, to be away from her, to exist without her, after knowing what it’s like to be with her—”

“Not exactly selling it, Kazansky,” Mav interrupted.

Tom rolled his eyes, “I wasn’t done, dickhead.”

At Mav’s grin, Tom continued, “As I was saying, it’s the worst feeling in the world, to be away from her, to exist without her, after knowing what it’s like to be with her, but knowing that I get to come home to her… that makes it all worth it.

I hope you get this someday, Mav.

You sure as hell deserve some fucking happiness in this life.”

Mav smiled weakly, but honestly. “Maybe one day, Ice.”

The two of them smiled at each other, before Tom clapped Mav on the shoulder. “We better get going—the guys should be awake now, and if we don’t get to mess, Slider and Merlin might just take all the good stuff.”

“Good is relative,” Mav scoffed, making him laugh.

“Okay—the better stuff.”

They laughed, beginning to make their way back in.

But just before he stepped through the door amidships, he couldn’t help but look back at the horizon, the sun shedding the last of its dawning gentility, to turn into the harsh, blazing light that it was in this part of the world.

Eighty-four days.

Eighty-four more sunrises holding her only in his heart until he could also hold her in his arms.

It was a high price, to be sure, but in the face of having eternity as hers, what was eighty-four days?

Until then, he’d count the sunrises, holding her close to his heart.

“Hey Ice, you coming?” Mav called.

“I’m coming,” he replied.

And with that, he stepped inside to do his duty, eagerly awaiting the next sunrise, each consecutive one bringing him closer to his home, to his beloved wife.

I headcanon Ice as having Russian descent, but quite frankly, you can tear Slavic!Ice from my cold, dead hands.

To me, he’s either Polish or Russian.

Russian Glossary

Disclaimer: endearments and translations taken from Google—please don’t hesitate to correct me if I’m wrong, which, odds are, I am.

Lyubimaya moya: my darling/my one and only sweetheart

Solnishko: little sun

Zhizn moya: my life

#officially in my val kilmer era #not me �� at men literally old enough to be my father #top gun #top gun fanfiction #top gun fanfic #tom iceman kazansky x reader #tom kazansky x reader #tom iceman kazansky #tom kazansky #val kilmer

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marzipanandminutiae · 10 months ago

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Hello I was just wondering if you've seen Imani Barbarin talk about not voting (https://x.com/imani_barbarin/status/1747723080917492020?s=46&t=55h0eHrgY7FtQI8ej54maw)? I saw you reblog the post about "not waiting for the morally pure candidate" and I think that's a willful misrepresentation of what Gen Z is feeling

We've not seen Biden address ANY of the things the post claims (climate change is the only one I remember without scrolling back) but we have seen him approve more oil licenses than trump, drop more bombs than trump, support a genocide, abandon disabled people and any Covid mitigations during the second highest surge since the start of the pandemic (with less testing so odds are things r even worse than we can tell), bring back student debt, etc etc

As a Gen Z'r, I genuinely want to understand how y'all can believe "no vote is a vote for fascism" when both candidates are horrendous? Why is the onus on us and not the politicians to do better instead of pointing fingers and saying "at least we're better than Trump" when that is categorically untrue?

I'm sorry if this is too rant-y I'm just so furious and frustrated with my perception of older voters' complacency with being given utter shit instead of organizing for better

I am trying very hard to be reasoned and understanding about this- bearing in mind that we want the same things in the end and I'mnot jazzed for Biden either -when it's extremely, EXTREMELY obvious to me that Trump is worse.

Like.

If he gets elected there might not be another election. The man was theoretically willing to use military force to quell protests if he lost the 2020 election (why he didn't, I don't know; but I'm not willing to give him that chance a second time).

Trump has called himself a dictator, proudly, in the same breath as saying "we're closing the border and we're drilling, drilling, drilling." Biden does NOT remotely have a perfect record on either of those things- he was locked into some construction of the border wall by how the funds had already been allocated by Congress during the Trump administration, but not everything he's done in relation to it, which also pisses me off. As for the oil thing, it's a bit more complicated than it seems on the surface: not as simple as "he doesn't actually care about the environment" even as it's definitely not a good move or in line with his stated climate goals.

As for those climate goals, I found this interesting article that rates key areas of climate action and how they've fared during the Biden administration. It was updated in January, and it is not sycophantically uncritical across the board. But that is LEAGUES more progress than we'd get under a system of "drilling, drilling, drilling" with absolutely no concessions to the climate crisis at all.

His handling of the situation in Palestine...yeah, I struggle with that, too. I know he's been trying to talk their leaders down, to some degree, but it's not nearly enough to me. And I STRONGLY disagree with us selling them weapons. However, Trump's statements on the matter- calling for a ban on Gazan refugees in the US, calling pro-Palestinian protestors "barbarians," and saying he'd revoke the student visa of anyone he deemed "anti-American" -makes me believe that letting him get into power is not something my conscience would allow, vis a vis the fate of the Palestinian people. Because it would be exponentially worse.

I also think the material good that has happened under the Biden administration has been...MASSIVELY under-publicized. Because like. He HAS addressed things. Lots of things, in fact.

this article from last year was too early to include pardoning thousands of people federally convicted of simple marijuana possession (again, not perfect, but still very good), setting new rules to limit methane emissions, capping prices for at least some major insulin producers, partial student loan debt forgiveness (tried to do more, but got hamstrung by Republicans), cancelling oil leases granted by Trump in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (not enough given the leases HE granted, but it's not nothing either), and much more I'm sure I'm overlooking. Because, again, nobody's been talking about it. It sells more news subscriptions to feed readers an endless stream of what Biden is doing wrong- which I am not denying! -leaving people with the dangerous impression that both sides are the same. Republicans would not have done any of this. That's just the truth of the matter.

Look, I would like a better option, too. I would love to actually LIKE a presidential candidate in my lifetime. I'd love one who wouldn't make concessions to the interests of selfish, heartless people with ledgers where their sense of human compassion should be. I just don't see that person coming to power between now and November.

And I'll take someone who is Standard US Politician Slimy but at least makes some improvements (unfortunately, I doubt there's anyone with a chance of winning in less than a year who doesn't support Israel to some degree, since this country have a long history of that) over someone who might actually stage a right-wing military coup, and who would kill me and other marginalized people himself if he thought it would get him more fame and fortune.

Some people say their conscience won't let them vote Biden. I can't tell them what to do. But if he gets the Democratic nomination, my conscience wouldn't let me do anything else.

#long post #US politics #current events #I'm not getting into ask argments about this. I will answer this one in good faith but I've said my peace now

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solanumofthestars · 2 years ago

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Got a Light?

AN: I don’t know how or why this happened. But I do know that I need to post this. Apologies for any mistakes, and I hope that if you read, you will enjoy.

Rating/Warnings: T, light swearing, smoking, kissing.

Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy X Luis Serra

Word Count: 1.6k

Summary: Leon and Luis decide to have a smoke (Luis POV).

---------------------------------

The rain was cold and unpleasant. They were lucky to have found shelter, and even luckier that the cigarettes had not gotten too wet.

“Mierda, hace frío,” he cursed.

“What?” Leon asked. The American was sitting on a worn out couch, shoulders slumped, a weary expression painting his face.

He waved him off, not bothering to explain what he had said. “You should sleep a little, like our lady over there.” His eyes wandered over to the young Ashley, who was curled up in a ball on an old bed.

“No, we have to go soon anyway,” Leon said.

Unfortunately, he was right. It wasn’t safe, and the only reason they had stopped was because the thick rain made it impossible to see any incoming danger. That, and they would be useless if they all caught pneumonia.

He sighed. “Then, may I suggest we warm up a little?” He held out a cigarette, offering Leon one. Not that cigarettes would do much in terms of warmth, but hey, it was something.

But of course, Leon tightly shook his head in response. “I told you I don’t smoke. It’s poison.”

“Friend, you are an American agent taking part in missions that would make a regular soldier jump off a cliff, willfully.” He sat down next to Leon with a grunt. “I think one cigarette pales in comparison to all the hard, traumatic work you’ve been doing.” He paused for effect. “And are currently doing.”

“No.” Leon unholstered one of his guns and began obsessively checking it, despite the fact that he had done so a few minutes ago.

“I don’t like when you’re so tense, blondie-”

“-don’t call me that.” His words cut through with ferocity. Man was he grumpy.

But that wasn’t going to stop him. “As I was saying, you’re too tense. And if you’re tense, you are easily stressed. And when you’re stressed, you make mistakes.” Once again, he held out a lone cigarette, this time with a lighter.

That got Leon’s attention. With a sigh, he put the gun back into his thigh holster, and took the cigarette, lighting it and inhaling with such ease that it was all but obvious that he had smoked in the past, and frequently too. “Got a drink?” Leon asked.

He tsked. “Sadly no, I would go for some wine or…anything stronger, really.”

“Whiskey?” Leon asked. He was already taking another drag.

He shook his head. “No, too woody. Bourbon is better.”

The American cocked his head and slowly nodded. “You have a point there.”

He smiled. Leon was talking, which meant the cigarette was already working. He enjoyed watching it move back and forth between those ridiculously soft-looking lips.

Leon. What an interesting fellow. A face that would make any model envious, paired with a body that screamed professional fighter, nay, warrior. His eyes, however, betrayed a tiredness he had seen only in old men, or people who had gone through unspeakable hardship that had permanently scarred them. Given that Leon did not look above thirty, he’d wager a guess that it was the latter. Although in this world, who could know?

Right, he needed a cigarette too. He pulled one out of the box, but just as he was about to ask Leon to pass him the lighter, a bold idea came to his mind.

“Can I use your cigarette to light up?”

Leon looked down at the lighter in his hand and then gave him a puzzled look, but didn’t outwardly protest, or say no.

Good enough.

He leaned in, not waiting for Leon to pass him his lit cigarette. Instead, he moved in close, so close that his forehead just barely brushed against those silky, blonde strands. The tips of the cigarettes touched, and as he held the cigarette between his fingers, he inhaled, slowly, deliberately, stealing the embers from Leon’s cigarette while looking into his pretty, blue eyes.

Curious. Here he was, obviously flirting, and yet Leon didn’t so much as push him away or complain. No, in fact, somewhere, behind all that sadness and tension, he saw a flicker, a spark, a little twitch of interest. It meant that there was something to work with.

He moved away, and took a long, satisfying drag. The smoke spreading through his lungs felt good. “So Leon, you look like a man who has lived a full life.”

Leon didn’t reply. But he didn’t scoff at him either. In fact, he was looking at him with an odd expression. All he did was continue smoking, blowing a puff of smoke into the air.

Not a problem, he could continue talking. “Anyone else in that life? A woman?”

Ah, a hint of a smile. There was someone. “Not really,” Leon lied in between drags.

“I see, I see. I myself am also without a partner. For now.” He let the cigarette hang between his fingers. Leon was nearly finished with his.

“Ah, looks like you’re done. Another?” He offered.

It was amusing to watch him hesitate before taking another one. To his disappointment, Leon didn’t light up in a similarly intimate manner, although he did audibly exhale and throw his head back ever so slightly when he took the first drag. It was a nice sight.

It also told him that Leon was getting more and more relaxed. “Either way, as I was saying,” he continued, “I do not have anyone now, but I would just kill for a beautiful person to give me a kiss. And sit on my lap.”

Yeah he was laying it on pretty thick, but he didn’t give a shit. The clock was ticking, and the mood was just right. Pouring rain, a cozy, dilapidated, wooden farmhouse, and even some atmospheric lighting courtesy of the candles the cultists left all over the place.

“I’m not sitting on your lap,” Leon dryly responded.

He nearly choked on the smoke he was inhaling. “Hermoso, I never said you were beautiful,” he drawled with what he hoped was a flirty smile.

“Stop calling me names, Luis.”

Oh, Leon didn’t know what hermoso meant. Well that line fell fucking flat. What, did this man not even try to read some dumb “How to pick up chicks in Spanish 101” before he came here?

With a sigh, he threw his hands up. Leon was nearly done with his cigarette, and something told him he wouldn’t have another one. Got to be more direct then. “I am just saying, despite our dire situation, I’d kiss someone.”

“Then kiss me.”

He had just been about to take a drag, but his hand froze mid-way to his face. “Huh?” He turned to look at Leon, who had taken a final drag before dropping the cigarette butt on floor and grinding it under his heel.

“Go ahead and kiss me then,” Leon repeated. He was resting his head on his hand.

Luis scoffed, looked to the side, and then looked at Leon again. “Do not get me wrong, you look like you need a kiss, but this isn’t one of those things where I try to kiss you and you use it as an excuse to shove me, or punch me-”

“No.” There was a tinge of amusement in his voice. “You’re clearly coming on to me, I feel I could make it worth your while.”

Fascinating. And a little condescending. “I take it you like men then, Leon?”

A shrug. “I don’t mind them.”

It was amusing how casually he was trying to play this off. But he could see the signs, oh yes. For instance, Leon’s body was now turned towards him, and his eyes were looking right at him, not off to the side, or onto the ground.

Well, it seemed like a kiss was in order then. He threw his cigarette on the ground and leaned in, risking a light touch to Leon’s cheek and brushing away a few strands of stray hair, before tilting the man’s chin up with the tips of his fingers.

He started with a soft, chaste kiss on the lips, lips that were indeed as soft as they looked, and then pulled back a hair’s breadth to see if Leon would lean back in.

He did.

So he parted his lips and slipped in a bit of tongue, happy to give something more. And Leon seemed happy to reciprocate.

Soon, his hands were snaking in closer, one resting on Leon’s cheek, the other on his lower thigh.

Leon, sadly, did not move to touch him, his hands still firmly planted on his knees (he peeked); however, he had tilted his head further to the side and opened his mouth just a touch wider, making sure to slide his own tongue in deeper.

Blissful moments passed, them moving apart only to kiss from another angle, or to readjust their lips. The kiss was a little sloppy, but it felt good, and electrifying. He just really fucking wished Leon would put his hands on him- in a nice way, of course.

Unfortunately, they had to stop, not only to catch their breath, but also because it was starting to get too much. If that kiss had gone on any longer, he would have been crawling into Leon’s lap.

“That wasn’t bad,” Leon said, sitting back as if he hadn’t just shared a long, wet, borderline passionate kiss with someone.

“You sound surprised- I kiss well, you know.” He ran his thumb along his bottom lip. He had liked the kiss more than he cared to admit. Fuck.

Leon gently laughed. “You do.” His eyes had lit up.

Oh now what the fuck was he supposed to say? “You wanna kiss again, Leon?” He internally cringed at how quickly he blurted out that question.

Leon opened his mouth to answer, but then, there was a distant scream, and Ashley began to stir.

Leon jumped up, his entire posture stiffening “We need to move.”

“Right, right,” he agreed, hoping his disappointment had been masked sufficiently. Leon was right.

Which is why he was once again taken by surprise when Leon patted him on the shoulder. “Raincheck,” he said with a slight grin, and he was off.

He smiled. “Raincheck indeed, blondie.”

#resident evil 4 #resident evil 4 remake #resident evil 4 remake fic #re4 #re4 fic #leon s kennedy #luis sera #leon x luis #serennedy #elafic

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creatorsawoman · 1 year ago

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my 2s repost the links should lead to archive links <3

Hi I want to apologize for taking so long to respond, I wanted to get my thoughts together, to answer this properly. This’ll be long.

First, it is important that I define to you what exactly I know and see two-spirit as/to be. I’ll start with the definition from wikipedia: “Two-spirit (also two spirit, 2S or, occasionally, twospirited) is a modern, pan-Indian, umbrella term used by some Indigenous North Americans to describe Native people in their communities who fulfill a traditional third-gender (or other gender-variant) ceremonial and social role in their cultures.”

What I know the usage of the term two-spirit to be, yes, it is quite an umbrella term. I find it used all over Canada and America by Indigenous youth who identify as trans, AND by those who are LGB. As it is in usage now, it seems to just be the catch-all for any GNC or LGB indigenous kid. A label. And although I do think it’s wonderful for any LGB or T-identified or gender non-conforming Indigenous child to find a label that makes themselves comfortable and makes it easier to find others who have the same life experiences, I also think it’s wrong.

The intention of Two-spirit is meant, as we see in the wiki definition, as a catch-all describer of “traditional third-gender, ceremonial and social role in their cultures” for anybody who is North American indigenous. Anon I’m sure you know already but for those that don’t, our roles, typically, are heavily appointed by Elders. You don’t just identify yourself into performing traditions, you are appointed it by elders, or else you ask for their, for lack of better word, blessing. But… you’d be hard pressed to find much of our culture that does this for a “third gender” or “two spirit”.

I can’t speak for every indigenous culture as I was raised mainly into the Cree part of my family and not the Saulteaux/Oji-Cree, but in Cree culture the word of our Elders is sacred. Oral history is how we learn of our culture, in part because we were hit hard in the Canadian genocide of First Nations. I can very safely say, out of all the things I learned from my elders, the only thing I ever had to “teach” them was what Two-spirit meant and what a third-gender is. Because they didn’t know. They could tell me what life was like before they were taken away from the reservation, they could tell me tales of creatures, of Wendigo and Little People, they could tell me and teach me what is sacred to us, what our roles as male and female are, but they couldn’t tell me what Two-spirit is. I had to learn that from the white man. Why is that? Well… possibly because it’s not a thing. It’s not sacred. It isn’t part of the history.

And even if it is in any subset of our cultures, all these kids and indigenous youth who use 2S to identify themselves? They were not appointed the term by elders, they label it themselves.

I think it is important to note here that “Two-spirit” itself was a term first (as we know so far according to Wikipedia, so take that as you will) founded and pushed out of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, which is Treaty 1 territory, home to Anishinaabe. I am not a part of this territory (although I have Elder family members who are from Sandy Bay, who I can confirm also do not know of two-spirit) but one quick search of “anishinaabe third gender” will even only bring up modern day Two-spirit ideas, and the coining of the term in 1990. Same with any search for “(nation) third gender.” I have had a very lovely Anishinaabe anon in the past, and she has also vented her frustration at the use of the term, especially as an umbrella term for any Indigenous kid who is LGB or T, so I do take some assumption there from her that it is also not much of a thing in Ojibwe culture or any of the other Anishinaabe cultures.

What’s most important, and why I oppose it so much (other than the fact that it’s just, as I see, straight up a white man-made concept) is that the term “two-spirit” was created to replace other, more offensive words.

It’s main replacement is for “berdache”, a white (French) word, used against male Indigenous men, particularly homosexual Indigenous men. It is a slur. “Male berdaches did women’s work, cross-dressed or combined male and female clothing, and formed relationships with non-berdache men.”

It is, also, meant sometimes to replace the word, Winkte, or winyanktehca. Lakota meaning ‘wants to be like a woman’. Particularly used against, again, homosexual Lakota men.

It is, also, sometimes used as a replacement for Nádleehi, which was/is used in Diné culture as a word for effeminate males. Particularly used against, you guessed it, homosexual Diné men.

Now, to me, I think it is pretty plain to see that this is a term meant to replace some of our more homophobic terms used in Indigenous communities. But replacing homophobic terms with new ones doesn’t make it any less homophobic. These terms were meant to other homosexual indigenous men, and they were also used by white people. For us to, in this day and age when our culture is shifting to a less homophobic one, use the term two-spirit to continue to other LGB indigenous people? That’s not right to me. There was no reclamation of any of these terms, there was just a white replacement word that doesn’t sound as bad. But it still means the same thing. It’s still as white as a Frenchman calling a gay Indigenous man berdache.

I could keep going on and on, especially about how it is used in current day culture by indigenous youth as a special label, and how none of the people using it seem to actually have talked to their elders about it, but really my biggest problem with it is just how extremely homophobic it is. And how white people use it as “proof” that transgenderism has “always existed” when those same white people don’t even bother to fucking listen when some of us scream at them how wrong they are. And then I could keep going on screaming about how it’s been shoehorned as an acronym onto Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women which is so fucking disrespectful.

#2s #asks #indigenous #pinned

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doberbutts · 6 months ago

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Hello, I’m mixed and I know you’re mixed too so I’m hoping for some advice. My mom is white and my dad is Native American (technically he is indigenous to canada the tribe he is from but I just say Native American because it is easier to explain, ‘native Canadian’ sounds weird 😭) and I’m sure you know things r really bad for indigenous people in Canada even more so than in America so when my dad was young his parents managed to save enough money to move to America many years ago, anyway I guess none of that is important besides the fact that I’m mixed.

Basically, I am involved in a fandom with many mixed-race characters that I love. None that are specifically mixed like I am (well besides one character whose mom is native and dad is white, though his mom was never revealed it’s a popular fan theory so I’ll just go with it) and other notable mixed characters are Arab/white, Chinese/white, etc. Writing this out I kind of realize that all of these mixed characters are mostly half white lol. But, that is also kind of the problem.

I’ve noticed a real… I don’t want to say racist but really discriminatory and hurtful attitude towards these mixed characters that really hurts my feelings as a mixed person myself. Basically people ignoring their mixed heritage and opting to just refer to them as ‘Arab’ and ‘Chinese’ and whatnot. Which is fine on the surface, but then I see people start talking about how disgusting it is that these characters have a white parent and that it would be much better if they were ‘pure’ POC. Which is really… hurtful as someone who is mixed with a white parent. Sorry I’m not ‘pure’ enough for your liking?? I guess? What is the point of them even saying things like that? And I guess I want to know how I can bring it up to these people without them getting angry at me. I got really mad one time and said that trying to erase a mixed characters other parent is trying to erase their identity and you can’t just choose to accept half of someone you have to accept ALL of them or you accept no part of them but they just block me.

I don’t know I feel like they’re trying to be well meaning even if it’s in a really hurtful way, but then when I try to correct them they don’t even care so can I really call it well meaning? They outright ignore the fact that the characters are canonically mixed and choose to just present them as ‘pure POC’ which they act like it’s somehow ‘superior’ to being mixed. I already don’t fit in anywhere I go and I feel like neither side will ever accept me and now I feel like this pervasive fandom attitude just kind of confirms all my fears. Sometimes I wish I was fully one or the other. I liked your other posts about being mixed and how you weren’t ‘half’ of anything you were fully all of them and I’m trying to internalize that but all these people and their hurtful comments make it hard. Like they’re not making these comments about me specifically, but I see what they say about fictional characters that are like me so it’s :/

I guess I just want to know how to convince them that mixed people are worthy of telling stories about too and how we aren’t lesser just because we are mixed? How do I tell these people to get over their discomfort with acknowledging the heritage of mixed characters? I’m not very good at articulating these sorts of things.

And sorry this was so long 😢

This is a bit of an older ask, and I've left it sit in my askbox for a while because I'm honestly not sure if I even have any advice for you.

The biggest things I suppose would be

A: remember that fandoms really aren't known for acknowledging the nuance of, like, literally anything that can be polarized. Unfortunately, that includes race and racial mixing.

B: sometimes you have to be the change you want to see. And I know. I know it sucks when you always have to be that person. But sometimes that is truly the only solution. Exist happily as yourself, be content in your own mixed race identity, talk about it when you feel up to it, and those who see it will be touched by you. Perhaps they may even catch on, and start to spread a healthier way of looking at the mixed race characters within your fandom.

C: stop giving a shit what other people think. Be you. You will find people who love you for you. Fuck all the others who reject you for being yourself, and don't force yourself into an easily digestible box for those who would barely glance your way regardless.

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on-softs · 8 months ago

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Maxiel Bachelorette AU Snippet

Since I'm never going to finish it, I'm just throwing up the first scene of the Maxiel bachelorette AU I started writing. Enjoy!

Max doesn’t actually meet him on the first night. He only sees him for a second, through the doorway of the mansion, which is done up in this sort of Italian only it is not Italian way, American-Italian, maybe, with all this wood framing and tile.

The doorways in this house are massive, excessive, meant to be peered through. Max first sees him when he’s outside meeting her– Heidi– in the big, exploding garden that’s the front walk. The driveway and walk are both still wet from it raining earlier. Max had been so dizzy with nerves after the first impression that he’d been worried about tripping up the front steps on his way in. His dress shoes are still wet, and so are the shoulders of his tuxedo, though the wetness has spread and seeped by now. His armpits are wet for other reasons. He should not take off his jacket, tonight, even though the producers said they may not go to sleep until four or five this morning. It all depends on Heidi, of course. He should already be thinking about how to get his one on one time with her. Jos had jabbed a finger at the video clip on his laptop and said: Look at him. The ones who don’t get one on one time the first night are as good as worthless. They complain and are dead weight.

Max takes a sip of his drink, which is something mixed served in these short, thick-plastic tumblers made to look like cut glass. There are non-alcoholic options on the sideboard, but a producer in a black t-shirt keeps stocking all the mixed drinks on a tray in the middle of the table, so Max has obligingly kept drinking them. All the producers are wearing black t-shirts. When he turns his eyes to the side over the rim of his cup, the other contestants are watching the guy having his introductory conversation with Heidi, so he feels fine to keep staring along, too. They can’t hear anything, this far away. It’s all been hard to make out. Some of the guys have started chatting with each other, sometimes speculating about what could be going on, but it’s become a sort of sport, this waiting on the couch for the next new man to come in, greeting him, then going back to watching. Sometimes, it’s as long as twenty or thirty minutes between the new contestants because of hair and makeup.

A doctor from the east coast of America, but not New York, with dark hair and veneers, tried to talk to him earlier, when Max had first come in, still rattling with nervousness. He hadn’t really remembered what Heidi’s face looked like, when he saw it up close. Not even after studying her Instagram photos for several weeks, before. He hardly remembered what he’d said.

“Where’re you from, man?” the doctor asked, politely extending his hand in a– Max quickly adapted his own open hand for the fist bump.

“The Netherlands,” says Max. The doctor made a surprised face, maybe at the accent.

“Oh, I heard about you. Dutch, huh? Little boy with his finger in the dike?”

It took Max a second to know what he was talking about, what kind of joke this is.

“That’s what they call me,” he said, graciously.

“You were on Love is Blind, right? Oh, or, is it bad to talk about that here? I don’t know what’s a faux pas with the reality TV people. I’m just a guy.”

“Yes, a while ago. Just for a little bit.”

Max mostly remembers the brutality of the body work, before that one. His shoulders needed to read, said Dad. All for two stupid episodes, which he could hardly watch when Dad played them back on the house TV, later, so they could go over them together. Twenty thousand more Instagram followers. He knew the people who make this show know he was on Love is Blind, too, of course, but he wasn’t really sure whether or not they could talk about it, either. That hadn’t been in the paperwork.

“Seems like that show would suit you,” said the man. It took Max another beat to understand that he was being insulted. “Nah, I kid, I kid,” the man says quickly.

Max laughed, like he was hearing a funny joke, and it wasn’t even a fake laugh, or a bland one, but as real as he could make it. He was proud of how it sounded. Guys like to joke, says Dad. They don’t care if you get upset or not. The ones who try and get you upset will be off the show soon, anyways.

Then a bulky guy with slick hair appeared at the threshold of the room and the producers needed quiet to compose a suitably upset reaction shot, so they’d thankfully stopped talking.

I don’t even need to say it, but don’t make buddies, Dad had said. That seemed easy so far.

The guy outside talking to Heidi isn’t a buddy. Max isn’t even sure why he stands out, at all. He’s shockingly good looking as the rest of them. Dark, curly hair, long on top and short on the sides. Nose a bit too big, but then again, Max hasn’t fixed his own, either. That sort of thing tends to be obvious on camera. Max blinks as the man reaches into his pocket and pulls out what looks like a corny shark-tooth necklace and hands it to Heidi. Maybe he’s a surfer. He can only see the scooped back of Heidi’s dress so he’s not sure what she thinks of it, until she reaches up to give him a ginger hug, which the man reciprocates, hands resting chivalrously on her upper back. His hands are tan as the rest of him.

“We’re moving to the pool table room,” someone says, nearby. A producer. Max suddenly realizes a lot of the guys have already left the couch room. The producer’s got an iPad clutched to her chest and an Airpod in one ear, looking busy.

“Do you need anything?” she asks.

“Ah, no,” says Max, and gets up.

#maxiel #f1 rpf #my fic #max #danny #bachelorette AU

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x147 · 25 days ago

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op disabled reblogs so i'm pirating this post

written by Cory Doctorow 8 feb 2024

Last year, I coined the term “enshittification” to describe the way that platforms decay. That obscene little word did big numbers; it really hit the zeitgeist.

The American Dialect Society made it its Word of the Year for 2023 (which, I suppose, means that now I’m definitely getting a poop emoji on my tombstone).

So what’s enshittification and why did it catch fire? It’s my theory explaining how the internet was colonised by platforms, why all those platforms are degrading so quickly and thoroughly, why it matters and what we can do about it. We’re all living through a great enshittening, in which the services that matter to us, that we rely on, are turning into giant piles of shit. It’s frustrating. It’s demoralising. It’s even terrifying.

I think that the enshittification framework goes a long way to explaining it, moving us out of the mysterious realm of the “great forces of history”, and into the material world of specific decisions made by real people; decisions we can reverse and people whose names and pitchfork sizes we can learn.

Enshittification names the problem and proposes a solution. It’s not just a way to say “things are getting worse”, though, of course, it’s fine with me if you want to use it that way. (It’s an English word. We don’t have ein Rat für englische Rechtschreibung. English is a free-for-all. Go nuts, meine Kerle.) But in case you want to be more precise, let’s examine how enshittification works. It’s a three-stage process: first, platforms are good to their users. Then they abuse their users to make things better for their business customers. Finally, they abuse those business customers to claw back all the value for themselves. Then, there is a fourth stage: they die.

Let’s do a case study. What could be better than Facebook?

Facebook arose from a website developed to rate the fuckability of Harvard undergrads, and it only got worse after that. When Facebook started off, it was only open to US college and high-school kids with .edu and K-12.us addresses. But in 2006, it opened up to the general public. It effectively told them: Yes, I know you’re all using MySpace. But MySpace is owned by a billionaire who spies on you with every hour that God sends. Sign up with Facebook and we will never spy on you. Come and tell us who matters to you in this world.

That was stage one. Facebook had a surplus — its investors’ cash — and it allocated that surplus to its end users. Those end users proceeded to lock themselves into Facebook. Facebook, like most tech businesses, had network effects on its side. A product or service enjoys network effects when it improves as more people sign up to use it. You joined Facebook because your friends were there, and then others signed up because you were there.

But Facebook didn’t just have high network effects, it had high switching costs. Switching costs are everything you have to give up when you leave a product or service. In Facebook’s case, it was all the friends there that you followed and who followed you. In theory, you could have all just left for somewhere else; in practice, you were hamstrung by the collective action problem.

It’s hard to get lots of people to do the same thing at the same time. So Facebook’s end users engaged in a mutual hostage-taking that kept them glued to the platform. Then Facebook exploited that hostage situation, withdrawing the surplus from end users and allocating it to two groups of business customers: advertisers and publishers.

To the advertisers, Facebook said: Remember when we told those rubes we wouldn’t spy on them? Well, we do. And we will sell you access to that data in the form of fine-grained ad-targeting. Your ads are dirt cheap to serve, and we’ll spare no expense to make sure that when you pay for an ad, a real human sees it.

To the publishers, Facebook said: Remember when we told those rubes we would only show them the things they asked to see? Ha! Upload short excerpts from your website, append a link and we will cram it into the eyeballs of users who never asked to see it. We are offering you a free traffic funnel that will drive millions of users to your website to monetise as you please. And so advertisers and publishers became stuck to the platform, too.

Users, advertisers, publishers — everyone was locked in. Which meant it was time for the third stage of enshittification: withdrawing surplus from everyone and handing it to Facebook’s shareholders.

For the users, that meant dialling down the share of content from accounts you followed to a homeopathic dose, and filling the resulting void with ads and pay-to-boost content from publishers. For advertisers, that meant jacking up prices and drawing down anti-fraud enforcement, so advertisers paid much more for ads that were far less likely to be seen. For publishers, this meant algorithmically suppressing the reach of their posts unless they included an ever-larger share of their articles in the excerpt. And then Facebook started to punish publishers for including a link back to their own sites, so they were corralled into posting full text feeds with no links, meaning they became commodity suppliers to Facebook, entirely dependent on the company both for reach and for monetisation.

When any of these groups squawked, Facebook just repeated the lesson that every tech executive learnt in the Darth Vader MBA:

“I have altered the deal. Pray I don’t alter it any further.”

Facebook now enters the most dangerous phase of enshittification. It wants to withdraw all available surplus and leave just enough residual value in the service to keep end users stuck to each other, and business customers stuck to end users, without leaving anything extra on the table, so that every extractable penny is drawn out and returned to its shareholders. (This continued last week, when the company announced a quarterly dividend of 50 cents per share and that it would increase share buybacks by $50bn. The stock jumped.)

But that’s a very brittle equilibrium, because the difference between “I hate this service, but I can’t bring myself to quit,” and “Jesus Christ, why did I wait so long to quit?” is razor-thin.

All it takes is one Cambridge Analytica scandal, one whistleblower, one livestreamed mass-shooting, and users bolt for the exits, and then Facebook discovers that network effects are a double-edged sword. If users can’t leave because everyone else is staying, when everyone starts to leave, there’s no reason not to go. That’s terminal enshittification.

This phase is usually accompanied by panic, which tech euphemistically calls “pivoting”. Which is how we get pivots such as: In the future, all internet users will be transformed into legless, sexless, low-polygon, heavily surveilled cartoon characters in a virtual world called the “metaverse”.

That’s the procession of enshittification. But that doesn’t tell you why everything is enshittifying right now and, without those details, we can’t know what to do about it. What is it about this moment that led to the Great Enshittening? Was it the end of the zero-interest rate policy (ZIRP)? Was it a change in leadership at the tech giants?

Is Mercury in retrograde?

Nope.

The period of free Fed money certainly led to tech companies having a lot of surplus to toss around. But Facebook started enshittifying long before ZIRP ended, so did Amazon, Microsoft and Google. Some of the tech giants got new leaders. But Google’s enshittification got worse when the founders came back to oversee the company’s AI panic — excuse me, AI pivot. And it can’t be Mercury in retrograde, because I’m a Cancer, and as everyone knows, Cancers don’t believe in astrology.

When a whole bunch of independent entities all change in the same way at once, that’s a sign that the environment has changed, and that’s what happened to tech. Tech companies, like all companies, have conflicting imperatives. On the one hand, they want to make money. On the other hand, making money involves hiring and motivating competent staff, and making products that customers want to buy. The more value a company permits its employees and customers to carve off, the less value it can give to its shareholders.

The equilibrium in which companies produce things we like in honourable ways at a fair price is one in which charging more, worsening quality and harming workers costs more than the company would make by playing dirty.

There are four forces that discipline companies, serving as constraints on their enshittificatory impulses:

Competition. Companies that fear you will take your business elsewhere are cautious about worsening quality or raising prices.

Regulation. Companies that fear a regulator will fine them more than they expect to make from cheating, will cheat less.

These two forces affect all industries, but the next two are far more tech-specific.

Self-help. Computers are extremely flexible and so are the digital products and services we make from them. The only computer we know how to make is the Turing-Complete Von Neumann Machine, a computer that can run every valid program.

That means that users can always avail themselves of programs that undo the anti-features that shift value from them to a company’s shareholders. Think of a boardroom table where someone says, “I’ve calculated that making our ads 20 per cent more invasive will net us 2 per cent more revenue per user.”

In a digital world, someone else might well say, “Yes, but if we do that, 20 per cent of our users will install ad blockers, and our revenue from those users will drop to zero, for ever.” This means that digital companies are constrained by the fear that some enshittificatory manoeuvre will prompt their users to google, “How do I disenshittify this?”

And, finally, workers. Tech workers have very low union density, but that doesn’t mean that tech workers don’t have labour power. The historical “talent shortage” of the tech sector meant that workers enjoyed a lot of leverage. Workers who disagreed with their bosses could quit and walk across the street and get another, better job.

They knew it and their bosses knew it. Ironically, this made tech workers highly exploitable. Tech workers overwhelmingly saw themselves as founders in waiting, entrepreneurs who were temporarily drawing a salary, heroic figures to be.

That’s why mottoes such as Google’s “Don’t be evil” and Facebook’s “Make the world more open and connected” mattered; they instilled a sense of mission in workers. It’s what the American academic Fobazi Ettarh calls “vocational awe” or Elon Musk calls being “extremely hardcore”.

Tech workers had lots of bargaining power, but they didn’t flex it when their bosses demanded that they sacrifice their health, their families, their sleep to meet arbitrary deadlines. So long as their bosses transformed their workplaces into whimsical “campuses”, with gyms, gourmet cafeterias, laundry service, massages and egg-freezing, workers could tell themselves that they were being pampered, rather than being made to work like government mules.

For bosses, there’s a downside to motivating your workers with appeals to a sense of mission. Namely, your workers will feel a sense of mission. So when you ask them to enshittify the products they ruined their health to ship, workers will experience a sense of profound moral injury, respond with outrage and threaten to quit. Thus tech workers themselves were the final bulwark against enshittification.

The pre-enshittification era wasn’t a time of better leadership. The executives weren’t better. They were constrained. Their worst impulses were checked by competition, regulation, self-help and worker power. So what happened?

One by one, each of these constraints was eroded, leaving the enshittificatory impulse unchecked, ushering in the enshittocene.

It started with competition. From the Gilded Age until the Reagan years, the purpose of competition law was to promote competition between companies. US antitrust law treated corporate power as dangerous and sought to blunt it. European antitrust laws were modelled on US ones, imported by the architects of the Marshall Plan. But starting in the 1980s, with the rise of neoliberalism, competition authorities all over the world adopted a doctrine called “consumer welfare”, which essentially held that monopolies were evidence of quality. If everyone was shopping at the same store and buying the same product, that meant that was the best store, selling the best product — not that anyone was cheating.

And so, all over the world, governments stopped enforcing their competition laws. They just ignored them as companies flouted them. Those companies merged with their major competitors, absorbed smaller companies before they could grow to be big threats. They held an orgy of consolidation that produced the most inbred industries imaginable, whole sectors grown so incestuous they developed Habsburg jaws, from eyeglasses to sea freight, glass bottles to payment processing, vitamin C to beer.

Most of our global economy is dominated by five or fewer global companies. If smaller companies refuse to sell themselves to these cartels, the giants have free rein to flout competition law further, with “predatory pricing” that keeps an independent rival from gaining a foothold. When Diapers.com refused Amazon’s acquisition offer, Amazon lit $100mn on fire, selling diapers way below cost for months, until Diapers.com went bust, and Amazon bought them for pennies on the dollar.

Lily Tomlin used to do a character on the TV show Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In, an AT&T telephone operator who’d do commercials for the Bell system. Each one would end with her saying: “We don’t care. We don’t have to. We’re the phone company.”

Today’s giants are not constrained by competition. They don’t care. They don’t have to. They’re Google.

That’s the first constraint gone, and as it slipped away, the second constraint — regulation — was also doomed.

When an industry consists of hundreds of small- and medium-sized enterprises, it is a mob, a rabble. Hundreds of companies can’t agree on what to tell Parliament or Congress or the Commission. They can’t even agree on how to cater a meeting where they’d discuss the matter.

But when a sector dwindles to a bare handful of dominant firms, it ceases to be a rabble and it becomes a cartel. Five companies, or four, or three, or two or just one company can easily converge on a single message for their regulators, and without “wasteful competition” eroding their profits, they have plenty of cash to spread around.

This is why competition matters: it’s not just because competition makes companies work harder and share value with customers and workers; it’s because competition keeps companies from becoming too big to fail, and too big to jail.

Now, there are plenty of things we don’t want improved through competition, like privacy invasions. After the EU passed its landmark privacy law, the GDPR, there was a mass-extinction event for small EU ad-tech companies. These companies disappeared en masse and that’s a good thing. They were even more invasive and reckless than US-based Big Tech companies. We don’t want to produce increasing efficiency in violating our human rights.

But: Google and Facebook have been unscathed by European privacy law. That’s not because they don’t violate the GDPR. It’s because they pretend they are headquartered in Ireland, one of the EU’s most notorious corporate crime havens. And Ireland competes with the EU’s other crime havens — Malta, Luxembourg, Cyprus and, sometimes, the Netherlands — to see which country can offer the most hospitable environment.

The Irish Data Protection Commission rules on very few cases, and more than two-thirds of its rulings are overturned by the EU courts, even though Ireland is the nominal home to the most privacy-invasive companies on the continent. So Google and Facebook get to act as though they are immune to privacy law, because they violate the law with an app.

This is where that third constraint, self-help, would surely come in handy. If you don’t want your privacy violated, you don’t need to wait for the Irish privacy regulator to act, you can just install an ad blocker.

More than half of all web users are blocking ads. But the web is an open platform, developed in the age when tech was hundreds of companies at each other’s throats, unable to capture their regulators. Today, the web is being devoured by apps, and apps are ripe for enshittification. Regulatory capture isn’t just the ability to flout regulation, it’s also the ability to co-opt regulation, to wield regulation against your adversaries.

Today’s tech giants got big by exploiting self-help measures. When Facebook was telling MySpace users they needed to escape Murdoch’s crapulent Australian social media panopticon, it didn’t just say to those Myspacers, “Screw your friends, come to Facebook and just hang out looking at the cool privacy policy until they get here.” It gave them a bot. You fed the bot your MySpace username and password, and it would login to MySpace and pretend to be you, scraping everything waiting in your inbox and copying it to your Facebook inbox.

When Microsoft was choking off Apple’s market oxygen by refusing to ship a functional version of Microsoft Office for the Mac in the 1990s — so that offices were throwing away their designers’ Macs and giving them PCs with upgraded graphics cards and Windows versions of Photoshop and Illustrator — Steve Jobs didn’t beg Bill Gates to update Mac Office. He got his technologists to reverse-engineer Microsoft Office and make a compatible suite, the iWork Suite, whose apps, Pages, Numbers and Keynote could read and write Microsoft’s Word, Excel and PowerPoint files.

When Google entered the market, it sent its crawler to every web server on earth, where it presented itself as a web-user: “Hi! Hello! Do you have any web pages? Thanks! How about some more? How about more?”

But every pirate wants to be an admiral. When Facebook, Apple and Google were doing this adversarial interoperability, that was progress. If you try to do it to them, that’s piracy.

Try to make an alternative client for Facebook and they’ll say you violated US laws such as the Digital Millennium Copyright Act and EU laws like Article 6 of the EU Copyright Directive. Try to make an Android program that can run iPhone apps and play back the data from Apple’s media stores and they’d bomb you until the rubble bounced. Try to scrape all of Google and they’ll nuke you until you glow.

Tech’s regulatory capture is mind-boggling. Take that law I mentioned earlier, Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act or DMCA. Bill Clinton signed it in 1998, and the EU imported it as Article 6 of the EUCD in 2001. It is a blanket prohibition on removing any kind of encryption that restricts access to a copyrighted work — things such as ripping DVDs or jailbreaking a phone — with penalties of a five-year prison sentence and a $500,000 fine for a first offence. This law has been so broadened that it can be used to imprison creators for granting access to their own creations. Here’s how that works: In 2008, Amazon bought Audible, an audiobook platform. Today, Audible is a monopolist with more than 90 per cent of the audiobook market. Audible requires that all creators on its platform sell with Amazon’s “digital rights management”, which locks it to Amazon’s apps.

So say I write a book, then I read it into a mic, then I pay a director and an engineer thousands of dollars to turn that into an audiobook, and sell it to you on the monopoly platform, Audible, that controls more than 90 per cent of the market. If I later decide to leave Amazon and want to let you come with me to a rival platform, I am out of luck. If I supply you with a tool to remove Amazon’s encryption from my audiobook, so you can play it in another app, I commit a felony, punishable by a five-year sentence and a half-million-dollar fine, for a first offence.

That’s a stiffer penalty than you would face if you simply pirated the audiobook from a torrent site. But it’s also harsher than the punishment you’d get for shoplifting the audiobook on CD from a truck stop. It’s harsher than the sentence you’d get for hijacking the truck that delivered the CD.

Think of our ad blockers again. Fifty per cent of web users are running ad blockers. Zero per cent of app users are running ad blockers, because adding a blocker to an app requires that you first remove its encryption, and that’s a felony. (Jay Freeman, the American businessman and engineer, calls this “felony contempt of business-model”.)

So when someone in a boardroom says, “Let’s make our ads 20 per cent more obnoxious and get a 2 per cent revenue increase,” no one objects that this might prompt users to google, “How do I block ads?” After all, the answer is, you can’t. Indeed, it’s more likely that someone in that boardroom will say, “Let’s make our ads 100 per cent more obnoxious and get a 10 per cent revenue increase.” (This is why every company wants you to install an app instead of using its website.)

There’s no reason that gig workers who are facing algorithmic wage discrimination couldn’t install a counter-app that co-ordinated among all the Uber drivers to reject all jobs unless they reach a certain pay threshold. No reason except felony contempt of business model, the threat that the toolsmiths who built that counter-app would go broke or land in prison, for violating DMCA 1201, the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act, trademark, copyright, patent, contract, trade secrecy, nondisclosure and noncompete or, in other words, “IP law”.

IP isn’t just short for intellectual property. It’s a euphemism for “a law that lets me reach beyond the walls of my company and control the conduct of my critics, competitors and customers”. And “app” is just a euphemism for “a web page wrapped in enough IP to make it a felony to mod it, to protect the labour, consumer and privacy rights of its user”.

We don’t care. We don’t have to. We’re the phone company.

What about that fourth constraint: workers? For decades, tech workers’ bargaining power and vocational awe put a ceiling on enshittification. Even after the tech sector shrank to a handful of giants. Even after they captured their regulators. Even after “felony contempt of business model” and extinguished self-help for tech users. Tech was still constrained by their workers’ sense of moral injury in the face of the imperative to enshittify.

Remember when tech workers dreamt of working for a big company for a few years, before striking out on their own to start their own company that would knock that tech giant over? That dream shrank to: work for a giant for a few years, quit, do a fake start-up, get “acqui-hired” by your old employer, as a complicated way of getting a bonus and a promotion. Then the dream shrank further: work for a tech giant for your whole life, get free kombucha and massages on Wednesdays.

And now, the dream is over. All that’s left is: work for a tech giant until they fire you, like those 12,000 Googlers who got fired last year, eight months after a stock buyback that would have paid their salaries for the next 27 years.

Workers are no longer a check on their bosses’ worst impulses. Today, the response to “I refuse to make this product worse” is “turn in your badge and don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out”.

I get that this is all a little depressing. OK, really depressing. But hear me out! We’ve identified the disease. We’ve identified its underlying mechanism. Now we can get to work on a cure.

There are four constraints that prevent enshittification: competition, regulation, self-help and labour. To reverse enshittification and guard against its re-emergence, we must restore and strengthen each of these.

On competition, it’s actually looking pretty good. The EU, the UK, the US, Canada, Australia, Japan and China are all doing more on competition than they have in two generations. They’re blocking mergers, unwinding existing ones, taking action on predatory pricing and other sleazy tactics. Remember, in the US and Europe, we already have the laws to do this; we just stopped enforcing them.

I’ve been fighting these fights with the Electronic Frontier Foundation for 22 years now, and I’ve never seen a more hopeful moment for sound, informed tech policy.

Now, the enshittifiers aren’t taking this lying down. Take Lina Khan, the brilliant head of the US Federal Trade Commission, who has done more in three years on antitrust than the combined efforts of all her predecessors over the past 40 years. The Wall Street Journal’s editorial page has run more than 80 pieces trashing Khan, insisting that she’s an ineffectual ideologue who can’t get anything done. Sure, that’s why you ran 80 editorials about her. Because she can’t get anything done.

Reagan and Thatcher put antitrust law in a coma in the 1980s. But it’s awake, it’s back and it’s pissed off.

What about regulation? How will we get tech companies to stop doing that one weird trick of adding “with an app” to escape enforcement?

Well, here in the EU, they’re starting to figure it out. Recently, the main body of the Digital Markets Act and the Digital Services Act went into effect, and they let people who get screwed by tech companies go straight to the European courts, bypassing the toothless watchdogs in places like Ireland.

In the US, they might finally get a digital privacy law. You probably have no idea how backwards US privacy law is. The last time the US Congress enacted a broadly applicable privacy law was in 1988. The Video Privacy Protection Act makes it a crime for video-store clerks to leak your video-rental history. It was passed after a rightwing judge who was up for the Supreme Court had his rentals published in a DC newspaper. The rentals weren’t even all that embarrassing.

Sure, that judge, Robert Bork, wasn’t confirmed for the Supreme Court, but that was because he was a virulent loudmouth who served as Nixon’s solicitor-general. Still, Congress got the idea that their own video records might be next, freaked out and passed the VPPA. That was the last time Americans got a big, national privacy law. And the thing is, there are a lot of people who are angry about it. Worried that Facebook turned Grampy into a QAnon? That Insta made your teen anorexic? That TikTok is brainwashing Gen Z into quoting Osama bin Laden?

Or that cops are rolling up the identities of everyone at a Black Lives Matter protest or the Jan 6 riots by getting location data from Google?

Or that red state attorneys-general are tracking teen girls to out-of-state abortion clinics?

Or that Black people are being discriminated against by online lending or hiring platforms?

Or that someone is making AI deepfake porn of you?

Having a federal privacy law with a private right of action — which means that individuals can sue companies that violate their privacy — would go a long way to rectifying all of these problems. There’s a big coalition for that kind of privacy law.

What about self-help? That’s a lot farther away, alas. The EU’s DMA will force tech companies to open up their walled gardens for interoperation. You’ll be able to use WhatsApp to message people on iMessage, or quit Facebook and move to Mastodon, but still send messages to the people left behind. But if you want to reverse-engineer one of those Big Tech products and mod it to work for you, not them, the EU’s got nothing for you. This is an area ripe for improvement. My big hope here is that Stein’s Law will take hold: anything that can’t go on forever will eventually stop.

Finally, there’s labour. Here in Europe, there’s much higher union density than in the US, which American tech barons are learning the hard way. There is nothing more satisfying in the daily news than the recent salvo by Nordic unions against that Tesla guy. But even in the US, there’s a massive surge in tech unions. Tech workers have realised they’re not founders-in-waiting. In Seattle, Amazon’s tech workers walked out in sympathy with Amazon’s warehouse workers, because they’re all workers.

We’re seeing bold, muscular, global action on competition, regulation and labour, with self-help bringing up the rear. It’s not a moment too soon, because the bad news is enshittification is coming to every industry. If it’s got a networked computer in it, the people who made it can run the Darth Vader MBA playbook on it, changing the rules from moment to moment, violating your rights and then saying: “It’s OK, we did it with an app.”

From Mercedes effectively renting you your accelerator pedal by the month to Internet of Things dishwashers that lock you into proprietary dish soap, enshittification is metastasising into every corner of our lives. Software doesn’t eat the world, it just enshittifies it.

There’s a bright side to all this: if everyone is threatened by enshittification, then everyone has a stake in disenshittification. Just as with privacy law in the US, the potential anti-enshittification coalition is massive. It’s unstoppable.

The cynics among you might be sceptical that this will make a difference. After all, isn’t “enshittification” the same as “capitalism”? Well, no.

I’m not going to cape for capitalism. I’m hardly a true believer in markets as the most efficient allocators of resources and arbiters of policy. But the capitalism of 20 years ago made space for a wild and woolly internet, a space where people with disfavoured views could find each other, offer mutual aid and organise. The capitalism of today has produced a global, digital ghost mall, filled with botshit, crap gadgets from companies with consonant-heavy brand names and cryptocurrency scams.

The internet isn’t more important than the climate emergency, gender justice, racial justice, genocide or inequality. But the internet is the terrain we’ll fight those fights on. Without a free, fair and open internet, the fight is lost before it’s joined.

We can reverse the enshittification of the internet. We can halt the creeping enshittification of every digital device. We can build a better, enshittification-resistant digital nervous system, one that is fit to co-ordinate the mass movements we will need to fight fascism, end genocide, save our planet and our species.

Martin Luther King said: “It may be true that the law cannot make a man love me, but it can stop him from lynching me, and I think that’s pretty important.” And it may be true that the law can’t force corporations to conceive of you as a human being entitled to dignity and fair treatment, and not just an ambulatory wallet, a supply of gut bacteria for the immortal colony organism that is a limited liability corporation. But it can make them fear you enough to treat you fairly and afford you dignity — even if they don’t think you deserve it.

---

Cory Doctorow is a special adviser to the Electronic Frontier Foundation and a visiting professor of computer science at the Open University. His next book ‘The Bezzle’, published by Head of Zeus, is out this month. This piece is adapted from his Marshall McLuhan Lecture, delivered at the Embassy of Canada in Berlin last month

#enshittification #electronic frontier foundation #cory doctorow

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avelera · 2 years ago

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I’m choosing violence

8.common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

Ooof oh man I'm gonna get in so much trouble for these but uh...

Ok, first of all, no one is "wrong" since this is fandom and fanon and we can do whatever we want. Especially in a fic, I fully endorse people twisting around and playing with canon to get it to fit the story they want to tell...

Oh! I thought of one! I was going to say "anti-capitalist Hob" because we see he's still pretty concerned with making money by 1989, but then again, we really don't have enough canon for me to say anyone is right or wrong, especially by 2022. But I've got a better one!

Unfashionable Hob - Hob who just wears khakis and an ill-fitting t-shirt and doesn't care about his appearance. There is in fact evidence against this on the page that people consistently ignore while making Hob, "Just a Guy".

Look, an argument can be made either way, because we really only see him when he's trying to impress Dream, so maybe this is out of character for him on a normal day. The case can be made.

But Hob's outfit in 2022 with the nice leather jacket is dressed down but it's not unfashionable.

1789 is very fashionable, Hob is dressed to the nines. 1589 Hob clearly went all out given the silver thread in his outfit which he would only just be legally allowed to wear because of his knighthood. 1889 Hob likewise is well dressed, oftentimes the lighting makes it hard to see how well dressed he is. And 1989 Hob looks very slick with his nice suit. The guy knows how to dress.

Look, even the idea that men don't dress up nice and wear the nice plumage to impress is from after Hob's time, from a group of people he probably loathed: The Puritans. Since they, y'know, drowned him as a witch and also led to social movements that were all about reducing the amount of hedonism in England. They basically brought an end to the fancy, fashionable, indulgent Elizabethan era that Hob clearly thrived in and adored. (gross simplification, but anyway)

It's also very (white) American to think men dressing up nice and making the barest effort on their appearance is somehow effeminate. Europe and the UK are not nearly as weird about men putting effort into their appearance on the whole.

Fact is, Hob lived through a variety of eras where men were expected to dress very fancily and we see him dress to the heights of fashion on more than one occasion. Hob is more likely from his experience to look down on men of this era not bothering to tailor their clothes to fit them than he is to be slumming it, at least when he's in public. There were expectations on men in the public sphere and how one presented oneself which I imagine as a courtier and a wealthy man through the ages would be much more ingrained in Hob and lend to an instinct to rebel against slovenliness when dressing oneself.

Basically: it is possible to be Just A Guy and dress well. And Hob specifically has lived through many, many more eras where men were expected to present themselves fashionably, and I think that breaking of the cliche of "masculinity = lack of care for one's appearance" should die in a fire and isn't historically accurate and shouldn't be automatically applied to Hob.

#hob gadling #the sandman #sandman meta

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anastasiaskarsgard · 11 months ago

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could you write a one shot where the marquis is out and about doing marquis stuff but in the middle of the public, there’s a shoot out and (because the assassins aim is poor) they hit the reader instead of the marquis. The marquis gets the reader to a hospital and finds himself getting curious about the stranger that got shot instead of him?

“Was that the Marquis de Gramont?” The newest nurse to take over asked.

Opening your eyes, and glancing over, you were met with the curious, excited woman’s face. “No his name is Vincent. Not Marquis.” You added.

The woman’s high pitched giggling echoed through the room. “Oh my! You’re serious?” She asked as she had a hard time getting control of herself. “Marquis is not a name, it’s a title. It means they’re practically royalty, and quite rare in France considering our history.”

You analyzed the woman’s uniform, making sure it was in fact a proper uniform, and not some escaped patient. You had no idea what she was even talking about. As far as you knew, all the French royals were wiped out in the French Revolution. They killed so many people, they had to invent the guillotine to keep up, plus you’d never heard of that title.

“It says here you’re an American. You’d think you’d know how to avoid getting shot with all the shootings you guys have over there. I don’t know how you all manage it. What with every single citizen carrying multiple guns… sounds terrifying!”

It was your turn to chuckle now, “everyone doesn’t have guns in America. Plenty of people don’t own any at all.”

She looked at you incredulously, putting her hands on her hips, “well the BBC, which is English, but still a respectable news source says there’s 10 guns for every person in America.”

“Oh they don’t mean everyone has ten guns! There’s gun collectors and enthusiasts that have many many guns, while the average person might own one. I personally don’t own a gun at all.” You explained, “I have never seen anything like yesterday though.”

Previous day

You couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed. Your whole life you’d been told how beautiful Paris was, but so far had found it overcrowded, and smelly. Graffiti was everywhere, and you hadn’t seen a single mime.

You had dressed up in a smart Chanel suit, with a stylish complimenting hat and even gloves, going for a classic French look, but you stood out like a sore thumb. All your preparations and extra bag fees to bring what you thought was a proper French wardrobe was for naught.

You’d barely walked anywhere and your feet were already screaming, but you didn’t care. Your shoes went perfectly with your ensemble, and you’d have bloody feet before you swapped them out for a pair of sneakers.

A loud bang, followed by a few more bangs sounded off in the distance. Knitting your eyebrows together, you tried to figure out what it was. You knew guns were illegal here so that wasn’t it, but it was too early for fireworks.

Suddenly several cars were driving at a great rate of speed in your direction. They were weaving in and out of traffic and one even drove on the sidewalk. Several more bangs sounded, and people around you started running and screaming. You still couldn’t figure out the bangs tho. What the hell was happening on your trip you’d saved up all year to take?

As the chaos unfolded before you, an expensive looking sports car, hit the curb and spun out of control. Spinning across the intersection, it slammed into a barrier about 100 feet away from you. Spurred into action by the loud crash and smoke billowing from within, you daintily ran towards the car.

Reaching the vehicle, you noticed there was a person inside that wasn’t moving. Making your way to their door, you pulled on the lever, only to nearly get smacked in the face by the door springing up, instead of out.

Inside was a well dressed, beautiful man, that was what you’d been thinking was the standard French man. Staring at him a moment, unsure what to do, you scanned the immediate area and saw that one of the other speed demon cars, had parked and two men were making their way towards you.

“Move sweetheart. We got no beef with you.” One of them said.

“We don’t have time for this shit. Fucking shoot ‘‘em both and let’s get outta here.” His accomplice said.

Eyes widening you turned to face the two thugs, placing your hands on your hips and glaring. “Excuse me, but nobody is getting shot today. I’m afraid you’ll have to-“ suddenly you felt a terrible burn and looked down to see red blooming above your hip. Gingerly touching it, you brought your gloved fingers in front of your face to confirm that you were in fact bleeding… in your Chanel tweed suit.

Rage burned through you. Your suit was ruined! RUINED! In a fit of rage, you tomahawked your purse at the one who shot you, hitting him square in the head. Removing your shoes, you threw them too, shrieking various insults about their breeding and disrespect of proud fashion houses. Looking back, you likely were in shock and running on adrenaline, but just as the two men raised their guns once more to undoubtedly ruin your clothing further, two gunshots rang out behind you. Both men before you, suddenly had holes in the center of their foreheads and fell to the ground dead.

Colors distorting and your surroundings slowing and blurring all around you, you reached out to catch something to hang on to, finding the unmistakable feel of a cashmere and silk blend suit jacket. Blinking slowly, you turned to see the beautiful man beside you holding a gun and looking around.

Smiling the best you could, you uttered, “don’t let me fall in the street and ruin my outfit further.”

Then all went dark.

————————————————————-

You’d woken up this morning to find the beautiful man standing at your bedside, staring down at you with a contemplative expression on his face.

“You changed.” You blurted out. “This suit is good too.”

Looking down at your hospital gown, you gasped. Reaching up to your head, you found your hat was gone too. “I’ve been robbed!”

Hearing a chuckle, you turned back to see the man genuinely smiling at you. “You were shot and they had to cut your clothes off of you. I apologize for leaving your shoes and purse at the scene, but I found it most important to save your life.”

Trying to look appreciative, you bit your lip and tried to hold back your tears. “Thank you for saving me…”

“Vincent.”

“Vinnie. That’s a fun name.”

“It’s actually Vincent.” He corrected.

“Who got shot here? Oh ya it was me. Jesus Vinnie. You have to choose your battles.” You stated matter of factly. “So what happens now? Am I to be released in this abomination?” You asked, plucking at your hospital gown. “Porky pig my way through the streets of Paris?”

Vinnie hadn’t stopped smiling since you’d woken up. He bent down and took your hand into his.

Slightly surprised by the familiar behavior, you just stared wide eyed at him, waiting for him to inform you what was happening.

Massaging your hand, he moved your hair behind your ear with his other hand, before speaking; “you’re going to rest for a couple days and let them take care of you. When they are ready for you to leave, they will call me and I will come personally pick you up with a new Chanel ensemble.”

“With matching accessories?” You asked hopefully.

“Do I look like an amateur?” He asked with a dazzling smile.

Shaking your head, you leaned back into the pillows feeling very tired all of a sudden. Barely able to keep your eyes open, you swore you felt lips brush across your hand, followed by your forehead, before darkness once again claimed you.

——————————————————-

“Well honey that man is the richest, most eligible bachelor in Paris. He’s also one of the best looking too but dangerous. It’s nice he saved you, but end it at that. Too many people come in here saying his name.” She said as she checked your vitals and replaced medicine. “It was exciting seeing him up close tho. I’ve only ever seen him in the gossip rags or on the telly.”

“He said he’s going to get me a Chanel suit with accessories and pick me up from the hospital when I’m ready.” You mumbled.

“WHAT?” The nurse shrieked before jumping up and down clapping excitedly. “You know what? Forget what I said. Go with him! And have the time of your life for however long it lasts!”

You once again inspected this woman’s uniform. Finding nothing amiss, you closed your eyes and let sleep take you once more.

#bill skarsgard #marquis de gramont #the marquis #my writing #the Marquis and the American

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