#hit on some things that i find kind of annoying about the internet

[quartergremlin]

Hey, do you support Palestine? Our beliefs seem similar so I assume you do. I saw you reblogging some Percy Jackson stuff and wanted to let you know that it’s something we should be boycotting. Idk if interacting with fan posts counts but… you know.

Hi! Many people are choosing to boycott Percy Jackson specifically because of Riordran's statement about the genocide that he posted to his personal site, but Percy Jackson is not a boycott target listed by the BDS. Disney is, so you shouldn't be watching the show as a product of theirs, but the difference is why and what the goal of the boycott is.

On their site, the BDS states that Disney is a boycott target because "The Disney-owned Marvel Studios (US) is promoting in the next Captain America film a 'superhero' that personifies apartheid Israel. Both companies are therefore complicit in 'anti-Palestinian racism, Israeli propaganda, and the glorification of settler-colonial violence against Indigenous people,' as Palestinian cultural organizations have stated."

They also say "We must strategically focus on a relatively smaller number of carefully selected companies and products for maximum impact. We need to target companies that play a clear and direct role in Israel’s crimes and where there is real potential for winning... Compelling large, complicit companies, through strategic and context-sensitive boycott and divestment campaigns, to end their complicity in Israeli apartheid and war crimes against Palestinians sends a very powerful message to hundreds of other complicit companies that 'your time will come, so get out before it’s too late!'"

The ultimate goal is to put pressure on these companies to get them to withdraw their support of Israel, and while it's great that the fan percy jackson boycott happened to align with the requests of the BDS, they do warn against following random boycott lists that you might find on social media.

Disney is a pressure target, so you should follow their guidelines to boycott them effectively through purposeful action, namely by canceling your Disney Plus subscription (make sure to tell them why!), not buying their products, and putting pressure directly on the company on social media. 👍

TDLR:

interacting with fan content does not count because the target of the boycott is Disney, who won't feel it either way if you stop talking to your friends about Percy Jackson, but who will feel it if you cancel your Disney plus subscription and stop giving them money.

Listen to the people you're trying to help about what they need when it comes to boycotting.

#askbox #sorry this was kind of long #hit on some things that i find kind of annoying about the internet #mainly constant griping about “keep in mind” and “don't forget” #instead promoting of actual actionable steps that help people #or could (if actually done) accomplish what they want #and general flattening of messages when telephoned over large spaces #its why i only ever reblog posts about Palestine on this acct that have resources for direct action

[1nephthys]

I don't like coffee

Word count: ~1.4k

Summary: When Lando Norris pulled Lando NoRizz in front of his (and everyone really) biggest celebrity crush

Pairing: Lando Norris x actress!reader

Warning: Carlos, Daniel and Oscar are being amazing wingmen, my bad English and also my first time doing this Instagram thing at the end so idk if I did it correctly

----

The race in Brazil was cool and all that, but there was one specific reason why the fans went crazy for it.

Y/N Y/L/N.

When the first person noticed her around the paddock, the whole internet knew, even though Y/n was there just for fun, just because she was a huge fan of the sport so when she was invited to watch the race from RedBull garage she couldn't say no.

Even the drivers wanted to talk to her during the whole rush of the weekend.

Lando Norris had his chance right after the podium, where he proudly stood on the second step. After the nice conversation he had with the girl, he went straight to his driver's room to call his parents and his best friend.

He was about to press the green button on his phone to make a call when suddenly the doors opened and Oscar was in his room as well. Lando even stood up in surprise.

"Please, tell me you did not turn the y/n y/l/n, the famous actress, the face of the year, probably the most gorgeous girl on this planet down." He said to his teammate.

"What?" Lando asked, even more surprised than when Oscar entered the room. He was the type of guy who knew how to knock and now he was there, accusing him of turning down his celebrity crush? "I didn't, she asked me-"

He didn't have any chance to finish his sentence when Carlos entered the room as well, looking like he was some kind of mad man.

"Lando" He went straight to his friend and with the palm of his hand, hit the forehead of his friend "What have you done?"

"Ouch! What? What have I done? What are you two talking about? And who let you in there?" Lando was surprised, to say the least. And he had no idea what those two were talking about. Also, he thought about how Carlos, the Ferrari driver, got in his driver's room, in McLaren.

"You turned y/n down!" He yelled at him.

"What? No, I didn't! I would never do that" He said. "And how do you know I even talked to her?"

"Fans are everywhere, mate." Oscar explained as he crossed his arms on his chest. Carlos was now walking around the room.

"Oh my god, but I didn't do anything. It was just a nice talk. I doubt she would agree if I asked her out." Lando explained himself. Yes, he had the biggest crush on her but c'mon, she would never have a crush on him.

"We heard something else" Oscar commented, he didn't really know what Carlos heard, but as he looked at him, he assumed that the Spaniard heard the same rumors he did.

"And what exactly was this nice talk about?" Carlos asked, annoyed by his friend having absolutely zero brain cells.

"Well, at first she congratulated me, said I was great there. Then I thanked her and told her I was a huge fan of her newest movie. Then, she asked me if I wanted to grab some coffee so I said I don't like it and then-" Lando stopped and then- "OH MY GOD, IT WASN'T JUST ABOUT COFFEE, WAS IT?" He yelled, now he realized.

"Lando, dios mio. I can't believe you." Carlos said as he held his head.

"God, so you really turned y/n down" Oscar said as he tried to stop this chuckle from escaping (not very successfully).

"Stop making fun of me! What do I do now? Christ! I was nervous and I don't know! Help me, now that you yelling at me!" Lando panicked, did he just lose the chance he waited for half of his life? No, that can't be happening.

"Firstly, calm down. Secondly, go find her and ask her to go out with you!" Carlos said as he looked at his friend.

And if panicking and two yelling guys weren't enough, he heard a voice.

"Well, I wanted to ask if it's true, but from what I'm hearing right now, I assume you really did reject y/n y/l/n?" Daniel asked with his infamous smile, maybe it wasn't the best time to make fun of his friend but he just couldn't stop it.

"Stop! This isn't funny! And who let you all be there? It's McLaren!" He said annoyed, now he had to deal with his own stupidity and three guys there.

"Alright, alright!" Daniel lifted his arms in defence "I just wanted to let you know that you have your chance to fix your mistakes. She's in RedBull, talking to Max. She's waiting for her ride to the hotel."

Daniel said and Lando stood there, frozen, what were the chances he would see her again if he didn't talk to her now?

"What are you waiting for? Go!" Carlos had to push Lando a bit, but he started running as soon as he was out of the room. Three guys left behind, smirking to each other's, and crossing their fingers for their friend.

Lando didn't really have much time to think about what he wanted to say as all the way there he was just thinking about not tipping over and falling on his face.

So, now he was standing in front of really surprised (and a bit embarrassed about being rejected after the first time asking a guy out) y/n and Max.

Of course, Max heard as well so he just said "Oh! the mechanic just called me over there! It was nice meeting you, y/n!" He said as he left and went towards this mechanic who called him over (maybe he was a bit crazy for hearing voices).

Lando was still breathing heavily, but he felt awful about this silence that he caused. They talked really comfortably before he rejected her. "Hi, again. I know what I said about coffee but for my justification, I hate coffee and I really couldn't think straight after the race. So, I wanted to ask if you maybe like... uh... hot chocolate. I know it's a bit childish, but I know a really great place and they actually have nice coffee too so if you like, you can have a coffee and I can have a chocolate and... " He realized he started ranting but he also noticed that little smile forming on her lips.

"Lando, I would love to grab some drinks with you."

"Really?" He face-palmed himself mentally and probably all four men who were watching from around the corner did that as well. "I mean, that's fantastic, we can go tomorrow if you would like that?" He tried to compose himself but then she giggled a bit and he was folded all over again at this angelic sound.

"That suits great with me. Should I leave you my number, so you can call me with more details?" She asked as she noticed on her phone the message that the car was already there to pick her up.

He looked around him, only to realize he was still in his champagne-covered racing suit. And his phone was in his driver's room.

Well, that's what he thought but then Daniel appeared right beside him.

"Hi y/n! It's great having you there! Are you enjoying yourself?" Aussie asked as he pushed Lando's phone into his hands, trying to be smooth about it. As he did it, he didn't even give y/n any chance to answer "Well I gotta go! Nice seeing ya!" He said as he went back behind the corner to three other drivers who tried to help.

"Yeah, that was- sorry" Lando said but hey, at least it was less awkward as they both laughed a little. Lando handed y/n his phone and she put her number there, Leaving Lando to write some good name to it.

"I think I really have to go now. I will see you tomorrow, right?" She asked as she put her own phone into her purse.

"Yeah, I will pick you up in the evening" Lando smiled one last time as he watched her making her wait towards the exit of the paddock after saying quick good bye. To the boys behind corner as well.

----

Landonorris

Liked by F1, Carlossainz55 and 967,301 others

Landonorris the coffee was worth it:)

View all 13,431 comments

Yourusername The greatest coffee I ever had:)

Landonorizz LMAOOOOO so the coffee rumors were true

Londonnorrisfanclub Lando fr never beating those no rizz allegations

Carlossainz55 glad you had fun

Danielricciardo you are very welcome mate

Lando2024worldchamp why do I have a feeling that him, Carlos and Oscar put some sense into him Oscarpiastri that's cause we did Landonorris can you all stop embarrassing me now please Danielricciardo let us have some fun too

Y/nismine nooooooo not the vroom vroom guy who doesn't know whats flirting is stealing my wife

Landoxy/n so he heard that we knew about him rejecting the mother so he decided to show us that at the end of the day he got it?

a/n. I hope you enjoy it! There's no much y/n but at least the boys are funny. Also, my requests are always open so you can send anything! kisses:)

#lando norris imagine #lando norris #lando x reader #lando imagine #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris fanfic #lando norris fluff #lando norris social media au #ln4 imagine #ln4 #ln4 x reader #ln4 fluff #oscar piastri #daniel ricciardo #carlos sainz #max verstappen

[leclsrc]

has yet to pass ✴︎ cs55

centre image by tony belobrajdic

genre: exes to lovers, slow burn, fluff, humor, slight angst, yearning, some sexual tension

word count: 12.5k

Four years after an angry breakup, the universe is bored enough to nominate Carlos Sainz for GQ Sports’ Man of the Year and assign you to be the writer of his profile.

notes... internet translated spanish lol

auds here... requested, this fic is long! i hope you all like it apologies for the inactivity </3 exes to lovers we have a very love/hate relationship but this was a pleasure to write

You’re half sure your head is about to pop out from how annoyed you are.

At the office, mornings move slowly in the very corporate-desk-job kind of way, but today is notably slower. Your boss had called you in an hour earlier to discuss important matters, and this is your third hour waiting already. Either your boss is a dumbass, or you got the wrong email, which both essentially mean the same thing anyway.

The time on your Panthère tells you you’re curving into the three-and-a-half hour territory, and right as you’re about to get up to get a glass of water, the large wooden door swings open and your name is called through the crack in it. Suddenly the irritation dissipates into nerves, and because Jonathan didn’t specify anything in the email, you realize you could be wading into anything right now. Termination. Promotion. A brick to the head.

“Morning,” you offer once the door’s been shut behind you. 

“Sorry for the wait,” he says politely. “We’ve been in discussions with GQ Sports all day. All night last night, too. It’s all proper boring.”

You nod, remaining fairly quiet and waiting for him to break the news to you. He clears his throat, places his hands on his hips and exhales.

“Right, so this is all related to GQ, actually. They’re doing a Men of Sports segment and they asked us to assign one of our writers to an athlete. You’re our best right now, really—your article turnout last year was absolutely stellar. So, there’s, ah… there’s tennis, yeah, there’s footie, obviously, and—under usual circumstances, you’d get to choose one of either. But we actually really wanted to cover racing this year.”

The cloud above your head carrying the dreams of interviewing Leo Messi or Roger Federer pops dismally.

“Racing.” You repeat curtly.

“It’s gotten proper viral this year!” He smiles, gestures to nothing to prove his point. “Every teenage girl’s got a crush or other on a driver. Anyway, we set you up with the racing category, and the segment comes out in around six months.”

“I’ve got a tiny bit of a qualm about th—”

“So it’s decided. GQ’s going to pick out the driver for you, and you’ll be introduced at a gala next week.”

“Wait—” you laugh uncomfortably. “I’m thankful for the opportunity, and wow, thank you for choosing me, really, but do I not get to pick my own driver?” You clear your throat. “I mean, I’m spinning the story.”

“I know,” he sighs. “But this deal moved pretty quick, so a majority of the leverage goes to them. Don’t worry, though—a lot of the drivers will have great stories, I’m sure. You’ve got Lewis, you’ve got the Verstappen guy, you’ve got the Rosberg fellow…”

“Rosberg retired in 2016.”

“Oh, fuck, seriously? Well. Hit me with a brick then.”

—

The gala is a fundraiser to celebrate the season kicking off, you realize when you step outside the car and read the navy blue banner across the entrance to the carpet. It’s all fancy fonts and table placements, but One look at the watches and earrings in this place will tell you there’s more than enough funds already. You digress, anyway, walking inside to find the only one person you’re familiar with in the world of racing.

“Lewis,” you mutter when you locate him, voice dry with dread (and lack of alcohol), “kill me now.”

“On the off chance you’re serious—I’m actually willing to do so.” You slap his arm and he scowls.

“I’m supposed to meet the driver I’m writing about tonight, but the GQ guy hasn’t texted me. Christ, I hope it’s you. At least I have years’ worth of blackmail on you to really sell the profile.”

He only laughs, guiding the both of you to a champagne tower and offering you one. You down it in seconds, suffocated by nerves and the curiosity blooming inside you. “You don’t think it’s…?”

“I think they keep track of those things,” he replies, but his voice is only half-sure. “Conflict of interest and that. But Jonathan did say it was a quick deal?” You nod. “So it’s not impossible, I suppose.”

Big help, you chirp sarcastically, eyes perusing the large room. There are tables populated by celebrities, by politicians, and of course, by drivers. You keep scanning, squinting to chisel your search further, but it’s cut off by a tap of two fingers on your shoulder. 

“Hi. I’m Nick, the GQ rep, and I believe you and I have a meeting,” says the man behind you with an excited smile. “Why don’t we…?”

He gestures to the expanse of the room and you nod, falling into step beside him. He introduces the article, the concept of shadowing the athlete to achieve a more immersive piece of work as a result, something novel and innovative.

He’s right in the middle of talking about Jonathan when he stops at one of the cocktail tables and stations the two of you there. “Okay. You’re one of the biggest names in sports journalism right now, so it means a lot for you to want to represent racing. Especially because both Neymar Jr. and Nadal expressed bids to get you to write their segments!”

“They wh—”

“Right, here we are. Meet your shadow—or, subject—for the next six-ish months.” He places two hands atop your shoulders and wheels you around, so your eyes meet those of, “…Carlos Sainz Jr.!”

Yeah. This is fucking rich. 

Nick is talking but none of it falls right on your ears. Everywhere in your mind, alarm bells ring at full volume, alerting you to the danger present, almost. You plaster on a fake smile to acknowledge his presence, but his outstretched hand goes unnoticed. Clearly picking up on the tension, Nick gives a sheepish giggle and ducks out of the exchange, leaving the two of you woefully alone.

“Carlos,” you say politely. “What a nice surprise.”

There is a limited amount of phrases that are considered acceptable to say to an estranged ex of four years. There’s oh, what a surprise!, didn’t expect to see you here, you look well. It’s limited because nobody ever thinks to run into their estranged ex of four years, and even then, any sane person would do well to avoid interaction at all costs. So you’re really the luckiest son of a bitch in the world to be situated with a stuffy public interaction, under the guise of professionalism, with your ex-boyfriend.

Your history is heavy in the air. The last time you saw each other, things had been a lot different, but now you’re two professionals. Really. You really are professional.

“I refuse to be within ten metres of the guy,” you say, on your third martini. Lewis faces you with poorly hidden concern, and beside him, roped into your lovelorn matters, so does Sebastian Vettel. “Ten metres. Actually, no. Make it twenty. How can I be arsed to write an all-over-him feature about a guy I absolutely hate and haven’t seen in four years?! I had it all sussed—get assigned to Lewis, write the best feature, then restore his eighth world title.”

“—She’s joking,” coughs Lewis.

“Oh, but now? Now, it’s get assigned to my ex, write like shit, never get recognized for a good piece, and die hungry and alone on the streets of London. You know, I should just call Jonathan and tell him I don’t want this. I’d rather go back to writing normal articles.” You pry your clutch open but a hand stops you before you can.

“Don’t.” Sebastian’s voice is gentle, but firm. “This is a test of character, don’t you think? More than that—it’s a test of how good you are as a writer.”

“True,” interjects Lewis, chewing on a quiche. “If you can write a stellar profile about an ex, I mean—you’re just proper talented. But it’s also about how strong you are now, morally. Emotionally.”

“I’m perfectly fine emotions-wise, thanks,” you retort. Both men shrug, backing off, and you feel like you should be smug about it—but your mind is stuck on the topic even as the night passes.

You end up deciding when you’re kicking your heels off in your flat a few hours later, giving Jonathan a ring despite the late hour. It takes a while for the man to pick up, but he does eventually, with an excited tone colouring his voice—“How’s my star writer? Sainz, huh? Real eye candy.”

“About that…” you start, walking over to your bookshelf and chewing your lip, trying to think of the right way to decline the offer. Your eyes land on one of the several awards you’ve garnered in your profession—in fact, the very first one. Most Promising Journalist, it reads, embedded into the front’s frosty surface. 

Four years ago. And you’ve proven it since, if the crowd of glass around it is anything to go by. Why let a petty ex destroy what could potentially be one of your biggest gigs yet? Your segue outside of sports journalism?

“Earth to—yeah, hello? About what?” Jonathan’s voice breaks you out of your thought train.

“… I just, uh,” you say, nodding, “I wanted to say I’m really excited.”

— 

Carlos Sainz Jr., 27, is on the rise as one of Formula One’s most talented drivers… (add more info…) His smooth driving style and charm has led him to become one of the most popular figures in the sport, both on and off the paddock. He is also a huge, absolutely irritating, cannot for the life of him be humble!!!, SON OF A BITCH, PRICK, ASSHOLE—AND THE BIGGEST WANKER ON PLANET EAR

“The team will be here in just a minute,” says the lady who’d ushered you into this meeting room in Maranello. You half-shut your laptop in fear she’ll catch sight of your brief Word document meltdown, but she doesn’t seem to notice, setting a glass of water beside you and you stare idly at it while waiting for the rest of the room to enter. You’re expecting Nick, Carlos, Mattia—the boss—and Charles, his teammate. Jonathan’s already beside you playing Candy Crush on his phone, as per boomer law.

This meeting is pointless. You’ve already exchanged the bare minimum pleasantries with Carlos, anyway, and you cannot for the life of you decipher why there needs to be a whole new corporate clash just for this. But here you are anyway, awaiting your ex-boyfriend’s arrival into the room and back into your sweet life.

He enters with everybody else, his hair half-damp and his eyes meeting yours almost immediately. You clear your throat and turn away, standing to shake hands with Mattia. He’s pleasant about it, expressing excitement for the final output and commending your earlier work as a writer. You offer the polite small talk back, discussing plans for the article and the release date.

“Over at GQ Sports, we’re really trying to make this concept as immersive as possible. That requires the writer to shadow the athlete at almost all times, maybe taking a couple days off if needed. That might mean she gets a paddock pass, and things like that.”

“That’s no problem,” Mattia says. “Anything for the article.”

You end up being introduced to Charles, too—Charles Leclerc, who wears a contagious smile and won’t stop letting his eyes frolic in between you and Carlos, like he can sense the history. You suspect Carlos brought him up to speed, anyway, but it’s still a bit amusing. While the meeting carries on, Charles chips in with a joke. “Hey, if you find this guy irritating, you and I are going to get along.”

You laugh a bit, but remain mostly quiet for the sake of being professional. You miss the way Carlos’ eyes linger on you a second too long, focusing on the tail-end of the meeting so you can, for lack of better word, get the fuck out of here.

Of course, though, you’re stopped in the middle of the parking lot by Carlos himself, whose apologetic face is the first thing you see when you turn around with a huff. You’d already known it was him—he was calling your name loudly as he jogged over to you—but it’s still a sour surprise.

“What?”

“Let’s”—he pauses to take a breath—“talk. Listen, I know it must be an imposition for you to write about this, about me. Let me make it clear that I’m 100% okay if you choose to switch athletes. And if you needed any background information, I’ll be willing to give you that.”

“I don’t care what you’re okay with,” you say blankly. “And I’ve got Google.”

“Right.” He stares. “Um. Okay, well, let’s—can we agree, then? To be civil, for the period of time this article will be written?”

You consider the truce. As much as you’d like to be snarky with him and make your disdain all the more clear, you’re also not interested in making a scene or causing any type of fuss around his—and your—colleagues. The glass awards on your shelf flash through your mind, and you inhale softly. “Okay.”

He smiles. This seems a bit more difficult than you thought, for reasons you didn’t even consider.

“Forget anything ever happened,” he says when your hands meet. Something jolts through you.

Yeah, you’re fucked.

—

Your introduction to the actual sports part of the profile goes well, with a flurry of chaos in Bahrain.

Despite Jonathan’s texted reminder from Friday morning (Stick to Sainz the whole time), you find yourself staying in your comfort zone, ergo following Lewis around nearly the entire weekend. Granted, you are itnroduced to a few more drivers—Mick, Esteban, Alex—but also Lando, one of Carlos’ closest friends on the paddock, who makes dirty jokes from the get go.

Still, even Lewis has to remind you you have another driver to actually cover, so you reluctantly detach from him on the race day and begin your search for—

“Carlos,” you utter, breathless from exhaustion when you finally locate him inside his room at the motorhome, which you swear you checked twenty minutes ago. Either he’s avoiding you or he’s truly impossible to find. He adjusts his suit and looks at you with an unreadable expression.

“Yes?”

“I need a couple of words from you.” You smile politely, taking a seat on the couch armrest. “Like, pre-race nerves, jitters, routine. Anything?”

“I have a playlist,” he says, humming. “I like to call family, have a talk with the engineers.” He says it like en-yi-neers, but you already anticipated it. You’ve known en-yi-neers for years. You know how he talks, pronounces everything. “And I say a prayer, trust the car.”

“Trust the car?” You type the last few words onto your laptop, which you’d been toting around all day. It balances on your lap. “Any follow-ups to that, considering there’s been some chatter around the car this year and its supposed faultiness?”

“I just do what I do best,” he replies, steadfast. “The rest is a gamble I’m willing to take.”

“Perfect.” You finish. “That was a great line. Thanks so much, really.” It’s your reporter voice, the one you use for just about everyone else on the paddock. He nods in response, and the room ebbs into silence again. It’s awkward, when you excuse yourself and exit, already planning exactly how you’re going to tell this to Lewis. Halfway out the door, you purse your lips, turn, and then:

“Good luck, by the way.” Your voice falls soft. 

He looks up, momentarily surprised. “Thank you.”

You nod a little, smiling as you shut the door.

Carlos ends up getting second place—you’re beside a zealous Ferrari engineer when it happens, walking along the pit lane. Compared to your stoic smile, their reaction looks like the pinnacle of human emotion. Your turmoil is all inward, a melting pot of emotion for the driver. Would it be weird, you think, to feel proud? To feel happy? When things have ended?

Much later, when you’re wrestling for comfort in the throng of cheering Ferrari engineers, you squint to find Carlos on the podium.

You’re aware there are photographers everywhere, with high-def cameras that rival your natural eyesight, even, but still you tug your phone out and snap a few shitty zoomed-in pictures of him in second place, smiling and sprayed with champagne. You think of the profile, of the words you’ll use to capture this moment, the season kickoff. But most of all you think of the way his eyes seem to search for something specific in the mass of people, or the way you wished for them to meet yours.

—

Sainz, a self-proclaimed music lover, loads a pre-race playlist that changes every few locations. He names some of his favorite artists and songs as sources of motivation.

You climb into the passenger seat of his Golf when you finally find him, after a half hour of asking around everywhere. First, it was “in the motorhome,” then it was “in a meeting,” then it was “hanging out with Charles”—none of which ended up being true, anyway. He doesn’t question your presence (he hasn’t much, lately), just lets his eyes wander over to you briefly before you begin asking questions.

“Favorite song?” You get straight to it, stressed over the article. Jonathan has been on your ass about missing a deadline and causing the third world war in the process, or something or other. You sigh when you settle into the seat.

“Not even a hello or a buenas noches,” he says as he pulls out of the parking lot to drive the both of you to your hotel. “What’s this for?”

“You already know,” you say, humming as you sift through notes. “Listen. You did an interview before with Toro Rosso, right? Where you said your favorite artists were Muse, Kings of Leon, and The Killers. Right?”

“What the—you are a serious stalker.” He laughs out loud, eyes still on the road ahead.

“It’s kind of my job, Carlos,” you say, smiling and gritting your teeth. “Just answer.”

“Sí, sí. Yeah, I like that genre. I like rock, I guess… rock, indie, 80’s. You’d be surprised how little of an effect music has on my pre-race routine, though, even if I have a playlist.”

“Tell me more,” you muse. Your laziness to retrieve your laptop results in you scribbling soundbites onto your notebook instead. 

“Music is an escape for me, you know? I like it a lot. So as long as something gets me going, I’m good with it. It doesn’t have to be by a favorite artist, or a famous one, or a Spanish one. Though I have been listening to Shakira a lot lately.” Obsessively listens to Shakira, you write. “It’s just release. Lately, I’ve been listening to the same few ones on loop.”

“Care to share?” Music = release. Same songs looped.

He presses something onto the centre console, and music flows throughout the car right after. “This.”

Baby I’m Yours by Arctic Monkeys, you write, and then, all at once, you slowly realize exactly what you’re writing. You stare at the scrawled-on words, the song bleeding into your ears and saturating your brain. You’ve always thought of this song with a weird feeling, one in between nostalgia and hurt, and now it’s on full blast. In Carlos’ Golf, no less, which happened to be the venue for many of your listening parties back then.

Back then—when nobody knew much of this song and it hadn’t yet become an indie anthem. It was just another cover by your favorite band in 2015. It became your song, the song for kitchen dances, the song for long car rides, the song for the red lights, the song for the morning routine.

But now it’s just a song.

“Carlos,” you say. It’s supposed to sound strict, firm, even a little angry. But you’re so affected, it leaves you quietly instead, weakly almost. “Come on.”

“Do you remember when you first showed me this song?” He responds instead, the volume still loud. You allow yourself to smile a little, leaning your head back and watching the cityscape of Bahrain whir past. In a foreign city, you think, you feel more at home than ever.

“Yeah,” you profess. “On my iPhone—what was it then? iPhone 5, or something.” You both laugh a little. The dam has broken, it seems, and topics of your past relationship seem to now be open to discussion. But it doesn’t feel alien, or weird, or uncomfortable. Carlos laughs, makes fun of your old lockscreen, and all is well.

A lot of memories have unwittingly attached themselves to this song. It’s the kind of song where, even in the opening notes, you’re already stunned with the myriad of them. There are the obvious ones: first finding the song, first dancing to it. But it trickles down into the smaller, more niche ones.

The time you got a busker in London to perform it for you both, and danced like idiots at ten-thirty in the evening, while some onlooking geriatric couple watched with mild entertainment. The time you got him a vinyl record of this EP, and left it in the cab before you were supposed to give it to him, leading to you crying on his sofa while he cuddled you and fed reassurance into your ear. The time he attempted to learn the chords to it and broke the string of your decorative guitar.

Like always, Carlos drives one-handed. He’s usually responsible, but if he’s cruising, or driving at a relatively slow pace, he likes to lean back and use his left. His right lays, unmanned, on the centre console of the Golf. You don’t notice it’s there until you finish writing a sample line on your notebook and you lower your left hand absentmindedly, brushing a finger against his in the process.

Your instinct is to jerk away, but Carlos is calm, humming to the song and reading road signs. So you let it rest there, in part to show yourself you’re capable of relaxing, but—and it feels like a heavy thing to admit—also because you like the feeling.

So your hands are there, just shy of each other, barely touching. His pointer finger twitches, almost like he’s trying to hold it back from inviting yours to wrap around it. You let yours brush over them a little bit, pulling away. Then he coughs, and lifts his hand to make a right turn, so you resume writing, eyes downcast. 

—

You’d spent the Saudi weekend less with Lewis (in a bid to follow his advice) and socialized a bit more with Lando and Charles, who both proved to be pleasant company. They played table tennis with you and even shared a good chunk of grid gossip.

“Pierre and Yuki have soooo done it,” whispers Charles, scandalized, sipping a G&T from a decorative polka dot straw.

“Shut up!” You clap a hand over your mouth. “I mean, I had my suspicions. But really? They’ve shagged?”

“Oh.” He pauses dumbly, scratching his head. “I meant they’ve done marijuana.”

“Damn it, Charles,” bemoans Lando. “You’re a sodding buzzkill. We’ve all done weed, this is not news. The gay sex would’ve been.”

The afternoon progresses into night, and you seem to be on a roll with the sports component—Carlos gets to P3 in Saudi Arabia. You travel to his motorhome room after the debrief, where you hope he’ll be, and find him packing shit up inside.

“Good work out there,” you say, and when he looks up he finds himself meeting your eyes in the mirror. He fumbles with the zip of his suit and you walk a little closer.

He huffs out a polite thanks, tugging on the zipper harder. The cloth’s eaten it, a problem that’s been plaguing his race suits as of late—a problem, according to his engineer, easily solvable if he’d just be more patient with tugging it downward to loosen. A problem you’re familiar with as well, from his Toro Rosso days of ranting to you about zippers and sewing.

You lean against the wall and maintain safe distance. “I’m going to ask you about the race later.”

“Alright. What specifically?” He begins the mental Spanish-English translation in advance. 

“Whatever you can give,” you reply, nonchalant. “Maybe more on the feeling while racing. The different perspectives of P3? Sort of like—yeah, you’re on the podium, but it’s not P1.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” he laughs a little, a bit embarrassed he hasn’t fully undone the zipper yet. “Um, sure. I’ll meet you outside afterward.”

“Thanks. And—” You stop yourself in your tracks, still facing him in the mirror. His eyes find yours again, eyebrows raised from the unfinished sentence. “—Be patient with the zip.”

He chuckles, memories surfacing like bubbling lava. “Right. Bueno.” He turns and throws his hands up, looks like he’s surrendering almost. “Help me out?”

You’re incredulous—it’s a highly compromising position.

But he’s not really smiling, and he seems to be seriously asking you to please help zip him up, so you nod. Nod once then twice, walking slowly over to him and placing two fingers on the zipper. You don’t notice how shaky your grip is until you see the way your hand trembles.

Slowly, you tug. Upward, then downward, then upward again, to loosen the stubborn thing. Your eyes move until they meet his, and you realize how close together you are. From here you can see the faint pink indents on his face from the balaclava, and you wonder almost how it’d feel to stroke over it with your thumb. It twitches on the zip and you remember to yank it again.

“Just give me a second,” you say, but you’re not even paying attention to the zipper.

Just him. Just the proximity. The thoughts of what if—what if you leaned closer, right now? Closed the gap, shut your eyes, let your finger trace over the shape left behind by his balaclava, zip forgotten?

“Take your time.” His voice is deep, gentle. 

His eyes pierce yours, the tension growing in between you until you can barely breathe.

You pull and finally, it gives, unzipping the whole way. You blink, breaking eye contact and stepping backwards so fast you almost trip. “I’ll be outside.” The door is shut, the noise damning behind you as you finish an entire cup of water in what you genuinely think to be record time. 

—

“Fine. Fifty euros.”

“Fifty?! Cheap trick. Make it two hundred.” 

“If you’re in the hundred territory, might as well make it five hundred. Turn this into a serious thing.” 

“Deal.” The Brit and the Monegasque clap their hands together in a firm handshake. “Let’s talk terms.”

Charles recites his end of the bet, as clearly as he did when this was first wagered just ten minutes ago. “She and Carlos will start dating before the article is even published.”

“They’re exes, innit?” Lando laughs. “You’re wrong, Charl-ito. They will never date, ever again. Exes don’t date.”

“Unless they’re soulmates,” he reasons.

“Psh, what do you know about soulmates?” The younger raises a condescending brow. “You dated a girl and then her best friend.”

“Back off,” insists Charles petulantly, watching Lando messily write down the evidence of their wager on a small slip of paper. For proof, he’d said, before slipping it into the back of his opaque phone case. He waves it around. “We shall see.”

“You will definitely be paying me up,” Charles says proudly. “Just you wait.”

—

“Care to listen to me?” You hoist yourself onto the stool of this hotel bar, ordering yourself a martini.

“Always,” says Lewis, immediately facing you. He’s always been one of the kindest, most genuine people in your life. He’s known you forever, and he’s the only person here who really knows the extent of your history with Carlos, all the layers, all the fights, all of it.

You sigh and lean against the backrest, deflated. “Carlos and I… I don’t know if this is going to work.”

“The article?”

“Being with him.” You pause to reword it. “Around him.”

“I see. Hasn’t it been, what—four years now, though?”

“Yeah, but…” But why does it feel like you both want those four years gone? The car ride with the song, the eye contact, zip situation after Saudi. You lick over your lips and sit a little straighter.

“Lew, it’s just—and you should know this—when you break up with someone, you’re forced to unlearn all the things you knew about them.” You sigh. “All the… just all of it. The habits, the quirks, the favorite words, the way they like their toast and eggs. And if you can’t, then fine, it’s still okay, because why would you ever need it again? But I haven’t forgotten anything, and now he’s back in my life.”

Lewis stares, with eyes that convey solemnity and a little sadness. He seems to understand, watching you intently, the way your eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

“So now I see him, and it feels like he’s like”—you inhale—“this sounds… bad, but like… I’m… like he’s a lover, kind of. In disguise, a little bit. I don’t know. Like, I have to pretend I know nothing about him, like every little fun fact is a new thing for the profile… but I know everything.” And what a heavy burden it is.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. 

“No, don’t be. I’m pretty sure this is all one-sided.” You take a long sip. “That’s the price to pay for ending on bad terms, I suppose.”

“Just think,” he muses out loud. “When this is all over and you’re accepting your Pulitzer, you won’t even be thinking of him one bit.”

“Right,” you say. Carlos, Carlos, Carlos. He’s the only thing on your mind. “Right.”

You find a working title for the article later. Carlos Sainz, it reads on your Word document. On racing, gracious defeat, and life’s driving forces.

—

Like every other sport, Formula One drivers have their share of bad competition days. Sainz recalls a time his car failed and caused him to DNF—racing vernacular for “Did Not Finish,” a damning phrase for any driver on the grid.

A double kill vibrates through Carlos.

It’s a consecutive hit that’s both professional and personal, and greatly affects the momentum of the profile you’re busy writing. In Australia he’d been reserved, eyes stormy, walking alone but not angry. He’d congratulated Charles and everything, even offered a few words for the article. The last you saw of him was with a beer, brows knitted together.

Tonight you’re in Imola. He’d been okay after the race, the usual silence that comes with a bad result.

No hard feelings, he’d said. This is the business. Hugged Danny, excused himself; nobody said anything. It’s a normal response to a shit day. You spend the post-race buzz with Lewis and Sebastian this time, but you manage to congratulate Lando on the podium finish when you catch sight of him.

“Maaate!” He cries gleefully when he sees you. “Where’s the muppet?”

“Mourning,” you drone. “Reasonably so, I guess.”

“Tough crowd,” he says, kissing his teeth. “But, yeah. Hey—shots on me!”

“Tempting offer.” You eye the bunch of tequila on the table. “But I think I’ll retire early. I need to send a draft pretty early tonight.”

“All good. Have fun being a loser,” he says, watching you leave.  

The hotel, it turns out, is not nearly as fun as the party. Which is common sense.

You spend time writing and rewriting a few paragraphs of the article, stuck on the title of it and honestly wishing you were with Cuervo and vodka right now. You suppose you don’t need one just yet—they usually come to you late, anyways. Jonathan sends you three follow-up emails regarding a draft, so you send him the latest version and read over the file, reciting favorite lines under your breath.

In the middle of reading on the Bahrain P2 and a little segment on Sainz’s favorite Ferrari moments, somebody knocks on your door.

It’s a surprise—you don’t spend much time with people on the paddock, and only few of them know your room number, which leads you to narrow down the person on the other side to a select group. There’s Lewis, most likely of them all. Charles, who you’d grown much closer to as of late. Level with him is Lando. Then maybe, just maybe, Sebastian, to offer late night advice.

It could’ve been any of them, but it’s not. It’s somebody else.

“I’m sorry.” His voice threatens to break. “I didn’t know who else I could talk to.”

“Carlos?” You blink. 

You usher him in after, and you hope his mind is anxious enough that it doesn’t pay much attention to your hideous pajama situation (old hoodie, souvenir L.A. pajama pants). You end up on your balcony, both of you facing the frigid nighttime air. It freezes your cheeks, casts your hair backwards. Your eyes slide to his stoic figure, the way even his hair is blown back by the wind.

He’s quiet, but more relaxed, less stiff. “Sorry, again.”

“S’okay.”

You duck back inside and return with two cigarettes and a lighter. “Wanna?”

“Awful habit.” But he accepts it anyway, sticking it in between his lips. It bobs as he speaks, still unlit. “I need this, though.”

“I don’t do it regularly,” you defend, pressing the flame to the cig. He exhales. “Some situations call for them.”

“This definitely does. Bit of a slap to the face, you know?” You nod. “I’m sorry.” The apology carries more weight than it should, and you know why. 

Like it’s the most difficult thing in the world, you breathe a few times before you respond in a hushed tone. With your words comes a huff of smoke. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You gave it your all, took a risk, it went to shit. But you gave it your all is what matters in the end. You put heart into it, which is something not everyone does in sports these days.”

“I feel… complimented.” You both laugh at the lack of good phrasing, so he rewords it. “I meant, I feel, how you say? Touched. It means a lot to be praised by you.”

“Does it?” Smoke again, another whiff of it.

“They only ever want to praise the podium finish, the P1, the title holder.” He lets the words fizzle. “But here you are praising a driver who finished like shit twice in a row. More people should be like you, paying thanks to the underdogs.”

It’s not the underdogs, you think. It’s just because of you. 

“More like the shit drivers,” you say instead, in a low rumbling voice. He laughs, calls you stupid in Spanish, and it’s a dead issue.

Later, before he leaves, when the room’s much darker and less bathed in moonlight, you whisper goodbye to him through a small crack in the door. He smiles a bit, and you catch it even with the lack of lighting.

“Thank you.” He says. He means it. You catch his perfume when the door swings closed. It smells like wood.

—

Sainz has off-grid hobbies, one of the most notable of which is cooking. He claims to have a good hold over the kitchen, and cooks several of his favorite dishes on the rare weekend off. Blah blaaahhhh, cooks well. Usually wears funky apron. WRITE THIS PROFILE ALREADY STOP EATING PASTA YOU DIPSHIT

Lando had invited you all to an Airbnb owned by a friend in Umbria, a two-ish hour drive from Imola.

With two free days, you’d followed a small group of drivers—Carlos included—to soak in the rest of Tuscany. Charles and Lando, however, left as soon as you arrived, to check out the last few hours of the farmer’s market. Alex had met Lily at the Eurostar station and they’d gone biking together.

This effectively left you and Carlos alone, which was not an unusual occurrence, but still proved to be a bit tense. With the kitchen free and the fridge stocked, Carlos suggested he cook for you both. Despite your best efforts, you ended up at the island writing and taste testing sauce, chicken, anything he slid over to you on a saucer with a tiny fork beside it.

“You’re going to give me cholesterol problems,” you quip. “This pasta is too good.”

“Cacio e pepe.” He twirls some onto a fork, straight off the pan, and shoves it into his mouth, a low mmmm leaving him once he gets to chewing. You laugh, a stifled sound through the noodles in your mouth at the exaggerated show of delicious food.

“Any favourite food you think is notable enough for the profile?” You type again, backspacing your harsh reminder. Makes a mean cacio e pepe (look up translation later). “Like, food you cook yourself, or even other recipes.”

“This,” he says, pointing to the pan. “This is fuel.”

“Amen.” Loves cacio e pepe.

“And it’s good with chicken.” He points to the oven, where he’s been baking chicken for a bit now. The kitchen smells of it, of the rosemary and oregano and pepper. “Oh, and put that I cook with music on. Let me connect my phone.”

Cooks w/ music. “Why do you need to mention that?”

“Ladies love a chef,” he says simply, letting a familiar song thrum into the woody kitchen. “And I love ladies.”

“Okay, slag.”

“Fuck off!” He begins shimmying all across the kitchen island, cranking open the oven mid-dance to check on the chicken, then continuing to clean the counter. Still he dances, and not very well, either—he always claimed singing was a stronger suit of his, so you allow the fool to be a fool.

Back when you two were still together, Carlos already had a preference for 70’s disco in the kitchen, saying it brought out the dancer in him. Nothing seems to have changed in that department, and you smile with mild embarrassment and amusement watching him dance across the kitchen, using the kitchen towel as a prop and swinging it around.

Loves dancing to The Communards while baking rosemary chicken. “Let me taste the chicken, by the way,” you ask when you finish typing, hopping off the stool and walking to the oven. He continues dancing, hips cocking poorly from side to side to the old song. He retrieves a fork and cuts a piece of chicken, reviewing its doneness briefly before turning with a piece of it stabbed into the utensil.

“Open,” he says. “It’s hot.”

It’s too natural, the way he slowly feeds you the piece. You don’t even realize it until you’re chewing, and by then he’s back to dancing to the song that’s now reaching its end. “It, uh,” you stutter, a bit nervous, “it’s really good.”

“Of course, I cooked it,” he says smugly. You grab a lime from the fruit bowl and throw it, hitting him in the back of the head in retaliation. He turns slowly, still dancing, lips stretched into a challenging smile.

Lando and Charles walk in ten minutes later to Carlos and you, yelping and chasing each other around the wide counter, chicken left atop it and forgotten in favor of the tag game. Charles, toting bags of fruit, faces Lando with a victorious expression. Pay up, he mouths, cocky.

—

It’s much too hot in Miami, but you appreciate the heavy beach culture and the even heavier nightlife.

You work on the profile until your fingers hurt from typing, sending Jonathan another draft for approval. Charles joins you on a cocktail taste test at the open bar until your tongue tastes like gin and your head is a bit spinny. Both Ferrari drivers end up having a shitload of pictures of you sleeping on the leather couch, enough that Lewis ends up getting ahold of them, too.

It’s a 2-3, in the end, with P1 going to Max. The latter throws a party at some place along the beach strip, invites you in one of the only conversations you’ve ever shared with the guy so far. He seems a bit unfriendly, but when you walk into the exclusive club later that night, you find him doing a handstand in front of a beer keg, so that’s that.

FUCK YEAH! Max hollers, following it with a howl so happy it reverbrates in your ears. It’s crowded everywhere, and you’re pretty sure Lewis isn’t here, so you spend a few minutes roaming around, getting a good grip on the vibe of the place.

It’s Carlos who finds you in the middle of the dance floor, nursing yet another drink to aid your lack of social skills. His voice is rough in your ear and it smells like a Jägerbomb, a low laugh escaping it right after. “All alone?”

“Unfortunately,” you tease, turning to face him. “Man, I thought guys were confident in Florida.”

“Cuidado,” he warns, smiling. “This dress is pretty difficult to resist.” His tongue’s definitely been loosened by shots, his eyes half-lidded and looking you up and down. You laugh, raising one eyebrow at the sudden flirty tone, but welcoming it nonetheless, depositing your now empty glass on whatever cocktail table is nearest. Who said you were sober? 

“Nobody’s inviting me, so why don’t you and I dance instead?”

He licks over his lips—he never seems to keep his tongue in his mouth—and winks, nodding.

And here in Miami, through the strobing purple lights of this ridiculously expensive club, you wrap your arms around his neck and dance to whatever Calvin Harris song is blaring through the bass.

His hands are all over you, loosening your stiff stature; they wring into the fabric of your obejctively too-short dress, raking it up a bit. You lean back and he leans forward, following you, drawn into you, your noses pressed together and your eyes meeting. Your breath heightens, holds, your fingers moving to his long hair and holding him close to you.

His hand moves over your ass, pulling you in. He smiles, pokes his tongue into his cheek, and you giggle, almost causing your lips to touch. Your mind is haywire from the alcohol, but you can’t really bring yourself to care. The warmth grows between you, closer and closer, the dynamic easy—

And then someone spills their drink on both your feet, causing you two to break apart and laugh off the tension instead. You’d almost fucking kissed. However you’re going to tell this to Lewis, you don’t even know.

And you’re not entirely sure, you think as you rinse whiskey and bile off the tip of your heel in the bathroom, how it sounds like to write Sainz and I almost made out in public on the GQ profile.

—

Nick emails you directly to ask if Carlos can do some test shoots in Miami for the profile cover.

You convince him to agree, even if he thinks he’s no good in front of a camera, and you two show up to a mostly empty warehouse studio. There’s a white backdrop situated toward the back and a tiny-sized crew of people working.

“Hi. Is this for GQ?” You ask the photographer. “Test shots?”

“Oh, hi.” He stands and shakes your hand. “I’m Luke. Big fan of your work, by the way. So the concept today is just plain shirt, long hair, gorgeous face, white background. Good?”

“Bueno,” Carlos says behind you with a smile.

You sit on a chair a few metres behind Luke while he works, watching the shots pop up on his screen every time the shutter clicks. As it turns out, Carlos is a brilliant liar, because every single shot—even one where he was fixing a wrinkle in his tee—looks perfectly usable anyway. Sainz is a natural stunner, you jot down.

It’s a bit awkward to admit you can’t help but stare, but his face is undeniably handsome, especially when he’s in front of the camera. Thankfully for you, and heavily owed to Carlos’ natural skill for modeling, the ordeal’s over in less than thirty minutes, and you begin preparing your stuff to leave.

“Oh, crap. I forgot I had to do a test bridal shoot for R&B’s wedding anniversary in September.” Luke sighs, clicking through the photos rapidly.

“R&B. The… music genre?” You ask, confused and toting your bag on your shoulder.

“Silly! Ryan and Blake. As in, Reynolds and Lively? They plan their photoshoots way in advance, and they always need sample poses to choose from.”

“Oh, I get it.” You smile. “Well, we’re sorry for keeping you.”

“You”—he stops both you and Carlos, pacing in front—“you two wouldn’t… mind, would you?”

“Mind… mind what, now?” Your eyes flit toward Carlos’ and you both laugh nervously.

“Being my mannequins for the bridal shoot!”

Both of you balk, making up all kinds of excuses, but as fate would have it, Luke is very convincing and you’re against the backdrop after five minutes of persuasion. He directs you into different silly, quirky poses—a piggyback ride both ways, smiling goofily, the like. Carlos can’t stop laughing every time the shutter clicks, at how silly the two of you must look. 

Luke plays some music to get you both looser, and directs you into a few mocking dance poses. Then he directs you in a partners-in-crime pose, which you love the outcome of. Okay, last one, newlyweds, he says. Carlos, why don’t you get behind her and wrap your arms around her waist?

You clear your throat, letting him do so anyway, his hands big around your frame. “Careful,” you whisper when he’s right behind you. Luke raises an inquisitive brow behind the camera, watches your chemistry unfold through the viewfinder. Your breath hitches a little, but you swallow the nerves.

Look into his eyes, Luke says. So you do, meet them, force yourself not to look away for once and just stare. It’d been easy to do this, because you could just as easily break the stare, but now it’s different. Your eyes flutter, and his stay unblinking. 

It’s like that for a minute, just staring, like all the things you want to say can communicate themselves through eye contact alone. Another twenty seconds pass before Luke coughs, breaking the moment.

“I said we were good like a minute ago, guys,” he says knowingly, packing up with a smirk.

—

Lewis advises you to avert your pent up “romantic” tension to another boy. It’s difficult, but you challenge yourself to find somebody anyway, maybe outside of racing, to use your extra paddock pass (courtesy of Mattia) on. The guys in your DMs are all skeevy, or you’ve unfortunately ghosted them, so they’re all out.

After some searching, you end up using your extra pass in Spain, and for James, a Sky Sports sound editor for streamed football games. He’s British and a huge Tottenham fan who you met during drinks with a few reporters the month prior. Not bad, but not necessarily your type; at this point, though, you’ll take anybody above the bare minimum. And James is above it—a gentleman, kind, funny in the quaint English way. He could be taller, but you find him charming enough.

Noise flows through the paddock, chatter and cheering and interviews. “This is so cool,” says James animatedly. “I feel like a regular Schumacher.”

You give a phony, flirty laugh and enter the Ferrari hospitality, raking your hair backwards. “I’m going to get something real quick, okay? Stay put…” You point at a lone chair. “Over there.”

“Alright,” he says with a smile. “I can’t roam arou—?”

“No!” You say, a tad too quickly. “I mean, sorry. Don’t. Just. I’ll be back really quickly.” Before you can even retrieve your phone charger from Carlos’ room, the owner himself walks into the area, squirting water into his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows together when he sees you standing beside a stranger.

“Hi,” Carlos says, a bit bluntly. His eyes are darting everywhere but at you, lingering a bit too distastefully on James’ timid figure. “You are?”

“Her date,” James says with a nervous laugh, pointing a thumb towards you. “James. Huge fan of you. Of the team.”

“Sure.” He offers a tight-lipped smile, hand meeting James’ outstretched one to form a polite handshake.

It’s awkward, is what it is—awkward and stuffy and Carlos won’t look at you. He clenches his jaw a little, smiles, looks up and down. “You, uh… how long have you guys been…?” He waves a finger in between the both of you, almost fearfully, like the answer will cast him into ashes.

“Not—not long, really.” James laughs again to relieve the tension that seeps across the room. “A month?”

“A month?” Carlos repeats, arms crossed.

“We haven’t even, like, had se—”

“That’s—” you cut in, sharp and apologetic, “wow, that’s plenty. Thanks, James. Could you get us some drinks? I’ll have a beer.”

“It’s one-thirty,” he says.

“Yeah,” you respond. “A beer.”

He leaves you both alone sheepishly, and you turn to face Carlos’ intense expression.

His arms are crossed and he rakes a hand through his hair—but he doesn’t say anything. Why should he, anyway, he thinks to himself, staring at you. You wore your hair in a ponytail today, so he sees more of your pretty face. Oh and so does James. Pendejo.

“Are you okay?” You ask, even if he knows you know what’s up.

“Totally. Muy bien.” He shrugs, drinking water again. “Should I not be?”

“Never said that,” you say, raising both eyebrows. 

“Okay. Well enjoy the beer.”

So he’s jealous. Fine, sue him. He’s jealous of the British gangly guy you thought was good enough to invite onto the paddock. Barely even made a lasting impression. He gives a small, phony smile and walks back, meeting Charles along the way.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, mate,” says the younger, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “Maybe the ghost of James?” He flicks the guy’s forehead, laughing.

P4, it ends up being. Not nearly good enough. But James is the first to say, “Congratulations, hombre!” in a God awful accent, so it becomes ten times worse, really.

—

“Alright guys, Carlos and I here today with some members of our team, and we’re going to play some fun trivia games.” Charles’ eyes read from the signboard behind the camera, his amusement wholly unscripted as he looks from you to Andrea and back to Carlos.

You honestly don’t know why you agreed to this. It might have been Lewis’ gentle persuasion or your boss’ overenthusiastic persistent voice, or the sleepiness that’s been wearing you down and boggling your mind lately, or—and it’s probably this—the fact that James ghosted you after Spain, because you “clearly have a thing with Sainz, and I don’t wanna be a homewrecker.” Whatever it is, you’re apparently a guest on the C² Challenge segment. 

Today is a trivia game against Charles and Andrea, and you’ve all been given a general guide to what the questions entail—math, music, general knowledge, and one scripted Ferrari question at the end. The structure is fairly basic; each team member gets to answer one at a time, both contributing to overall points—and no coaching allowed, for some odd reason.

Charles is a little shit, so he’s made an off-camera bet: loser should treat winner to a round of shots at the next afterparty/get-together. And—who are you kidding, really—Carlos is also a little shit, so he’s game for the bet and has fired you both up to win, spouting Ferrari trivia in your ear should it come up.

“I got it,” you say snappily when he hasn’t stopped pestering you for five straight minutes. “I got it.”

“Oh, did you got it?” He asks sassily. “Okay. When did Ferra—”

“We’re starting in three,” says the cameraman in Spanish, Italian, then finally English.

He holds three fingers up and you hug your tiny dry erase board closer to your torso, readying your camera smile. The video—and the game—start off well enough, a quickfire competition developing between the two teams that infects you and Andrea quickly. 

“Stay calm and collected,” Carlos proclaims, lips stretched into a proud smile. “Our team motto.” He elbows your side and you roll your eyes with a smile, teasing. 

“I think it’s, ah, always—always cheat, mate,” Charles protests, pointing an accusatory finger. 

“You are soooo—tch, I propose we kick Charles for poor sportsmanship,” retorts your teammate, laughing. The force of his laughter shakes the stool he sits on and you bite back a smile, remaining relatively quiet like you’ve been since the start of the video.

The remainder of the game passes with Carlos and Charles neck and neck, you and Andrea working overtime to make sure your teams don’t lose the bet. Eventually it boils down to one question, which Carlos is in charge of answering. Behind the camera, the producer raises a signboard and reads it out: We all know C². What is eight squared?

What a relief, you think. They’ve basically handed the win to you and Carlos on a silver platter. You wait, bumbling in your seat and raising an L sign toward Charles, who sticks his tongue out in response. Excitedly, you watch Carlos cheer for himself and finish writing, turning the board inch by inch until you all see the answer he has written on it.

Everyone stares. Then: “Team Charles wins!”

“Que?!” Carlos blinks, scandalized and a bit amused. He stares at the question then at his answer then, as if dreading the laser eyes, at you. Your eyes narrow, disappointed.

“Carlos. What is eight squared?”

“Eight squared. Eight, and you take another eight, and—it’s right here.” A tan finger points firmly at the number written messily, square in the middle of the whiteboard.

16

“Eres un tonto,” you quip, remembering bits of teasing you’d used on him years before. “Carlos, it’s 64. Eight times eight, not eight times two.”

“Ay, puta—” He shuts his eyes and laughs. “Lo siento! Sorry, sorry. Sorry! I cost us the win.”

Across you, Charles is coaxing a much more begrudged Andrea into a childish victory dance, pulling his arms up and down to convey the joy of winning. You sigh exasperatedly, but smile . For what it was worth, you had a great game anyway. The noise grows, and you watch the producers pack up, the cameraman parting from the camera for a moment to converse with one of them.

Left alone with you for a bit, Carlos lets his voice slip into a quieter one. “Sorry again. I forgot.”

“Forgot?” Your brows furrow, confused. “What?”

“That, you know”—he points at the lonely 16 on the whiteboard he holds—“it’s supposed to be 64.”

 “Oh.” You laugh, a light sound. “Whaaat?! It’s not that deep, Carlos. Seriously, don’t worry about it. It was all fun.”

“Well, I’m glad you had fun,” he says softly, smiling.

“Yeah, me too,” you say, unable to hide your smile. You stay like that for a bit, something blooming in the pit of your stomach you can’t—and refuse to—name.

—

You get two days off, and Charles had suggested you all go to Paris before you go to Cannes, where the Ferrari team is apparently expected for a meeting before Monaco. You’re the one who’d said yes first, even if Carlos seemed to hesitate; he had asked why, to which you responded you’d never been before.

You’d read about it, watched about it, and like every other human on Earth, seen pictures of it. But you’d never been to Paris; work placed you mostly in London, sometimes South America, other times Italy. But Paris was never a destination. So Carlos allowed the greenlight and you flew, with Lando, Pierre, and Esteban tagging along for shits and giggles.

“I’ve waited my whole life for my Eiffel Tower moment,” you say, not even trying to hide your wonder. Carlos got the best room for himself, but invited you in, for the view. He doesn’t tell you he went through hell and back to get precisely this room, so you could peek inside and see the tower.

“Well, you’re here now.” He wedges the hotel balcony door open and walks toward the railing. You follow suit, arms crossed over your torso, eyes stuck on the view. “How is it?”

“It’s as beautiful as I imagined it to be,” you confess honestly, eyes still stuck on the tower, the way it stands alone and glittering against the black of night. Cliché as it is, you feel like you’ve checked one huge box off your bucket list, staring at the landmark like it’s going to evaporate into thin air. 

Beside you, Carlos hums in agreement, but his gaze is stuck on something else. “I know.”

“Oh, do you?” You laugh. “Are you in the business of admiring beautiful things?” You tease, looking up at the stars.

Sensing his eyes on you, you slowly avert your gaze until your eyes meet. The light reflects in his eyes, and they meet yours blindingly, beautiful, luring you closer. The joking tone of your words is caught in your throat, desert dry, your lips parted to spout words you’ve now forgotten, lost track of.

Your silhouettes dance against the lights of the city below, two figures admiring the other. His eyes flicker down to your lips, linger there a second too long. You stumble closer, your foot touching his.  “…Paris.” The words struggle to leave but they do, quietly, an admission of guilt. “It’s always reminded me of you.”

 “Not Spain?” He asks, leveling your volume. You’re closer, so close you feel his breath fan soft against your own face. His voice is deep, accented so thickly, the way it is when he talks with you because he falls into a familiar rhythm of knowing you’ll decipher whatever he has to say.

You giggle, a low, breathy sound. A barely there shake of your head. “I… love it so much, is why. Always have.”

Had there been a pedestrian across the street who looked just a few floors upward, they would’ve found the both of you there, smiling foolishly, blanketed by the night sparkles of the Eiffel Tower and the rest of the city. They would’ve seen the way Carlos leaned in, his eyes on yours and then on your lips, the way you nodded in silent, warm invitation. Come closer, you seem to say. Don’t stray any further.

A lock of your hair touches his jaw, from how close you two are. So close. Everything smells like him, like the musky woody perfume he wears, the detergent he uses. All of that, and everything underneath. The scent of him. Just him. 

You hold your breath when you both lean in, eyes fluttering shut and waiting, waiting for his lips to meet yours.

The door shakes with several knocks, Lando’s voice seeping from the other side of it. “Mate, we’re gonna be late for dinner!” He says boredly, letting his fist collide with it a few more times for good measure.

Instantly, you and Carlos separate, both of you clearing your throats, rushed flimsy excuses escaping your mouths at the same time. You’re warm all over, the excitement, the nerves, tapering off into nothing as you walk back inside the room, busying yourselves with anything. Oh, I need to check if Jonathan’s emailed me. Oh, let me go answer the door.

Lando is waiting, expectant, on the other side when Carlos pries the door open. “Mate! Dinner! I texted you like twenty minutes ago and y—oh.” He spots you sitting at one of the lounge chairs in the room, and immediately his brows raise. “Hey, dude. You’re here?”

“Yeah, to, uh—to get Carlos to OK some edits,” you say with a smile, hoping your nonchalance isn’t too shaky. “I needed to get a draft in by three hours ago, so.”

“Oh. Right, obviously.” His eyes narrow a little, but he doesn’t relax much, gaze suspicious and a bit beguiled. “Well, if you’re not busy, we’re having dinner?”

“I’m good,” you decline, a touch too quickly. “It’s getting late.”

“Alright, well it was a courtesy invite, you dipshit,” Lando teases, and everything feels a bit more normal. You just flip him off, and Carlos retrieves his coat, eyes still not meeting yours when you all exit at the same time. Lando makes up for the hole in the conversation, droning on and on about the restaurant they’re going to, and how good it seems to be.

The elevator ride is equally charged, and you spend it humming and interjecting Lando’s words to come across as unfazed, even if you’re so totally not. Once you’re alone you finally let big exhales leave you. You don’t know if it’s from the anxiety of almost being caught, or the anxiety from the kiss unfinished.

—

LOVE the latest draft, Nick & I both. Could we get a deeper angle? Something re: regrets? Would really tie it together! Best, J

“Huh. Do you have any regrets?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from the short email. Next to you, Carlos nods his head slowly. You’re on the beach in Cannes, taking time off before the meeting and people-watching. Charles had joined you for a good half hour before leaving to sleep in the hotel instead, leaving you two to bask in the now setting sun.

“Everyone does, no?” He stretches a bit. The topic is tense. “But yes, I have some specific ones.”

“Like?” You ask weakly.

“I was stupid when I was younger. More immature, more forgetful. You grow older and you think of all the things you could’ve done right, years too late. There’s a proverb I heard once that goes—camarón que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente. It means to—to stay alert. Don’t let things pass you by.”

“And do you think you followed that advice?”

His eyes meet yours. “Do you?”

—

It’s quiet when Carlos walks inside your flat, and already his heart begins to drain, filling with guilt.

He steps over the creaky floorboard, notices your car keys on the table, your jacket haphazardly slung over the rack, your Chanel bag half-open on the dinner table beside an empty wine glass and a sweaty bottle of Cheval Blanc. The bedroom door’s half-open, light bleeding into the dark rest-of-the-place, and when he gently pushes the door to get in, the sight he faces is crushing.

“…Estás bien?”

You face the window, your back to him, in a beautiful, beautiful black dress. Your hair had been up, but it’s unpinned now, falling in loose, messy waves. You hiccup, and then tense. Feigning nonchalance, you croak out, “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” he says honestly. “I didn’t know the thing was earlier.” His eyes hover to the glass award on the bed, one you’d hoped he would watch you receive tonight.

“I said I’m fine,” you say. “Just”—you sniffle—“it’s fine, Carlos, just get out.”

You’re standoffish, and cold, but Carlos knows you’re incredibly hurt. In an attempt to try and coerce a conversation, he stays. “Let’s have dinner tomorrow,” he suggests in a low voice. “On me. Right? To celebrate.”

“Leave me alone, Carlos.”

“I wanted to go,” he insists. “I had a meeting that ended late, and—”

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” you assert, turning. You’ve clearly been crying hard, your face flushed and shiny, a few rogue tears still on your chin. “Just go.”

“I know how much this mattered to you.”

“And yet you didn’t go.” You sniff, wiping fruitlessly at your face. “Carlos, just…” Your voice sounds thin, heartbroken, worn with pain and real tiredness. 

“Cut me some slack.” Carlos argues softly.

“No, I just… I don’t even know how things got to this point, Carlos. We used to be so much happier. But now, it’s like I have to demand for your time like everyone else does. Now, I—I cook, I plan dinner, I put my own career on the back burner so I can spend more time with you even if I’ve gotten calls, promotions that you don’t even ever… ever ask about, just everything. I don’t think… I don’t feel you love me that way. Care for me, that way. You’ve never shown it, not lately especially.”

“You should’ve told me,” he says, hurt.

“This kind of thing, it…” you shake your head, wiping your clammy hands on the black silk. “It doesn’t need to be said.”

“Let me make it up to you.” He steps closer but you’re quicker, almost stumbling in your rush to avoid him.

“No,” you protest, “just go, Carlos, just go. Get out and close the door.”

“Cariño—”

“Go,” you say, voice hard with contempt. You refuse to meet his pleading eyes. “Go, Carlos.”

So he does.

He passes by, again, your handbag, with the sleek travel-sized bottle of Santal 33 you keep with you always peeking out, and the Cheval Blanc he’d bought you a few months prior, and the jacket you’d bought with his approval almost a year ago. He lingers in his car for a minute, the rain pelting the Golf noisily. 

He drives off, wiping tears from his own face.

And maybe, had he stayed a little longer, he would’ve seen you tearfully emerge from the elevator, into the lobby, then out into the rain, still in your black dress, and let yourself get soaked waiting for him to come back, refusing to believe he’d even let himself leave you so broken.

—

You play Uno to pass the time, your last night in Cannes.

He’s won two games in a row at this point, and you’re almost 100% sure he has a plus four card in his hand, so you play a bit more deliberately, eyeing him with a challenging glint in your eyes. You’re a bit watered down by your earlier conversation, but you feign nonchalance anyway.

Blue 2. Blue 5. Green 5. Then finally, he slaps it onto the deck—a plus four card. “Oh, come on, Carlos,” you say, almost actually irritated.

“I’ll kiss it better,” he says. Suddenly overwhelmed, you push yourself off the counter and storm out.

He follows you, stumbling into the empty balcony and softly shutting the door, voice still colored with laughter. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you’d be so upset about the—”

You barely hear the rest of his clearly half-hearted, humorous apology. It doesn’t matter to you.

What does matter is everything from the years past crashing on your shoulders like debris, like rain, finally giving under the weight of being so close to him again. Everything. The tangled fog of your relationship, the start, the middle, the terrible end neither of you wanted. You pulsed with want, with yearning, with sadness.

So you ask yourself why? Why? Why? Why couldn’t he have come back? More importantly—why did he let you go so easily?

The truth is, you’ve drowned yourself in work so long you’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel, to be felt. And if Carlos is doing this, all this, all the touching and the tension and the debris and the rain that crash on you like a bruising, torrential storm, for his own pleasure, like this is all a game, then you’ve yearned for nothing.

“This isn’t about the game, Carlos!” It heaves itself out of you in a half-sob, carried by the wind.

He stops—stops walking, stops smiling. Just stops and stares, brows knitted with concern. You refuse to look at him, staring instead at the skyline, arms crossed. The view blurs with tears, lights meshing together prettily.

He stutters your name out in a feeble response. It’s mortifying, the way you start to cry when it leaves his mouth.

You turn then, willing your lips to stop quivering. “Good for you,” you say shakily, “you can—you can fool around, kiss me like it’s nothing, pretend like we never even mattered so you can make jokes about how we’ve ended up here again, back, together.” You inhale, but it’s no use; you’re crying even as you speak. “And I’ll laugh, because it can be funny, you know, fuck it. But… I’m so—”

The wanting shows, in moments like this. Wanting love, wanting comfort, wanting warmth, an escape from work and stress and life. You know how it feels, to be loved. You’d been familiar with it, at some point. You want it again, the ache, the kiss, the pain of it all. More than that, you want him. For just a moment. But all this wanting is so exhausting.

You want this profile to be over. You want to pull him close and tell him how proud you are, but also how hurt you are. You want Spain. You miss Paris. Everything, everything, every memory, every single painful loving thing bursts inside you.

“—tired.” You nod your head, licking tears that have perched on your lip, smiling humorlessly, shrugging. “I’m—I’m tired, and lonely, and being around you makes it worse. Being around you hurts me. It hurts you. This profile was a bad idea, and I should’ve trashed this the moment I learned I’d be covering you. Because I knew then it would’ve turned to shit, and I was right.”

He stares, unmoving. He remembers, too. He’d tell you everything if the words clicked just right. But they never do; they tangle like cotton balls in his throat before he can kneel and name everything he remembers, everything he loved about the two of you. Cariño. Just be mine, tell me everything, tell me you love me.

You wipe a hand over your face. “Let’s just let this go already. You know, we really were good for a while. This… this is maybe just one of those things where we made it in another life, but not this one.”

At his returned silence, you nod, then walk quietly past him and back into the room.

It’s just as empty as you’d left it, dim and lit only by the warm light above the kitchen counter. Your forgotten Uno game lies on the same spot, beside the two empty wine glasses. You stare for a second. Life had been different when he’d lay down his cards just minutes ago.

A coat is tugged from in between couch cushions, your heels from by the door hastily pulled on. Every movement feels heavy, like sandbags are tied to your limbs, your tongue, your eyelids. You turn, one last time, to see the moment suspended in time—and you meet his eyes. Even across the room you feel like you’re drowning in them, dark and solemn. 

“Wait,” he says, and even with just one syllable he’s managed to stop your world from turning again. “You’re right. Everything you said. When I’m around you, I hurt. I’m reminded of how awful I was then. It’s painful to be together.”

Eyes meet, eyes blink, eyes close.

“But you didn’t trash the feature. And I still enjoy your company. You could be covering Rafael Nadal or whoever right now. I could be in a jet to Japan. But you and I are here, are we not?”

Only you. It’s only you.

“I’ve missed you.” It rips through him. “I want to be here with you. I want to make the pain go away, so let me.”

“It’s useless,” you protest, tearily. “This won’t work. I’ll get mad, you’ll get fed up, I’ll get bored, you’ll put work before us.”

“Okay.” He paces toward you, nearer and nearer, closing the distance between you both. “I’ll make it work.”

“Carlos,” you weep, “I don’t know why you don’t get it. Life sucks. And all we get are little moments where things are… are good. So don’t waste the moments like this. Let’s not waste the moments on this.”

“You’re not a waste,” he says—and you crumple into his arms, worn, exhausted.

A knot in your heart is slowly unraveling itself. You’ve waited, yearned for so long, and finally you’re in his arms again, with the kind of quiet resolution only he would understand. You left the lights on for him. You’d do it again, but you don’t have to.

You bury your head in his chest, a chorus of apologies leaving him. I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry, I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Everything.

I love you, you say weakly. I love you, that’s enough. I waited for this to leave, but all it did was hide. The love has yet to pass. It never will.

—

“Yours really is the best selling one!” Nick pulls you in for a hug. “We have Nadal and CR7 on the roster, but Sainz’s is selling like crazy. Your writing is just—” He kisses his fingers. “You are amazing.”

“You flatter me,” you reply gracefully, letting him pull you into another embrace but prying him off a bit faster. You don’t need another Jonathan-esque freakout in the middle of the room.

The GQ party, six months later, almost a mirror of the fundraiser just a few months ago. Only this time, you’re not tacked onto Lewis, and you’re not buzzing with nerves (as much). You had run into Lewis when you entered, and Charles too, and Lando when he spotted you, but none of them are your plus ones to this event.

Your profile is the talk of the journalism scene. Nobody can shut up about it, and it thrills you, excites you, to be witnessing your work be recognized beside Carlos himself. He brings you a glass of champagne and presses a kiss to your cheekbone, smiling against it.

Neither of you notice Lando and Charles behind you, watching like hawks. The elder cackles, presents his hand like a sacrifice and turns to the Brit. “Aha.What did I tell you, chat?”

“Five hundred euros,” moans Lando, slapping a bunch of bills onto it. “You’re an intuitive prick.”

“Those two are soulmates.” They stare at your foolish figures, smiling like idiots, high-fiving even. “The kind that’ll always, always find their way back to each other. Always.”

Lando shrugs. “Hey, honestly, for once, I’m glad I lost a bet.”

“I look great on the cover,” Carlos says, both of you staring at the screen’s display of it. 

“Shut up,” you smile, interlocking your fingers. “Well, my writing looks great inside.”

“Really does,” he says. “I’m so, so proud of you, cariño.”

“Proud of me?” You tease, staring up at him. “You made the last minute title change that caused fans to go crazy.” You both turn to stare at it displayed on the screen, smiling fondly.

Carlos Sainz—on racing, gracious defeat, and refinding love.

#f1 #carlos sainz #carlos sainz drabble #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz imagines #carlos sainz fanfic #f1 x reader #carlos sainz x reader

[andyeddieeee]

What Your Favorite Band of Brothers character says about you (revamped and based on personal experiences)

Winters- You’re either a pretty level headed person or your life is in complete shambles and you find comfort in characters that know how to handle stress.

Nixon- You love a good self destructive character and more than likely see yourself in them. Also, how is your undiagnosed mental illness treating u lately?

Lipton- You just want to be held and cared for so bad it’s not even funny anymore.

Speirs- You most DEFINITELY read wattpad stories as a kid. The mafia kind. You’re also unnecessarily horny on the internet and probably say he’s “Lana-coded.”

Roe- You love a good tragic and tortured character, I’ll give you that. You also listen to boygenius and love religious imagery.

Babe- I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you’re on some type of lgbt or autism spectrum.

Liebgott- You have a really weird self-confidence complex and read a LOT of enemies to lovers. I’m lowkey scared of you even though you’ve probably never hit anyone in your life.

Webster- You’re an artist at heart and view the world in a way that might set you apart from your peers. You can never and will never tell if that’s a good or a bad thing. Also you call grown men “babygirl.”

Guarnere- You have TERRIBLE taste in men and can never tell the difference between being mean or flirting.

Toye- Ditto ^ but also may I add you probably have a thing for people in uniform.

Buck- You are a very simple person. You like everything to just be kind of normal and calm all of the time. Sometimes you dip your toes in the water, but it’s more of a once a year kind of thing. Your favorite superhero as a kid was Captain America.

Luz- You are just cool. Very Ferris Beuller, Bill and Ted, Matthew Lillard kind of cool. You’re also probably transmasc or into guys to some degree.

Shifty- You’re either one of those “omg smol bean” people or you just love a good ray of sunshine kind of character. Your favorite pony as a kid was probably Fluttershy.

Malarkey- I’m so deeply upset just looking into your eyes dawg you need to take a nap and book a therapy session. Not a single one of you guys is completely and totally stable.

Renee- You so desperately wanted this show to pass the bechdel test and wished more women were included in the production. You’re also into women.

Perconte- You’re either really cool or you’re really annoying. No inbetween.

Bull- You really liked the SNL “Big Boy” skit with SZA

Muck- You want to be the funny friend so bad and you’re still not sure if you’ve earned that title yet. Mad respect though bc I know ur ass has seen supernatural in full. More than once.

Welsh, Penkala, Spina, Talbert, Grant, Martin, Penkala, Hoobler, Skinny- Either you’re lying to be different or you genuinely love a good underrated background character.

Blithe- Mm you’re lying lol

Sobel- Hey, girl! What the fuck!

#if I’m wrong abt ur fav I sincerely apologize but I’m just telling it how I see it #band of brothers #hbo war #hbo war fandom #band of brothers fandom #joseph liebgott #david webster #richard winters #dick winters #lewis nixon #carwood lipton #ronald speirs #doc roe #eugene roe #babe heffron #bill guarnere #joe toye #bull randleman #buck compton #george luz #frank perconte #shifty powers #donald malarkey #renee lemaire #skip muck #floyd tab tablert #floyd talbert

[mamadarama]

I was going through some posts I missed and came across the “tatsumi is mature but still does 19 year old things” and I just wanna say I’ve never been able to put it into words when my friends ask but like. That’s exactly what I love about this game.

We’ve got scandals and drama and weird crypto currencies and convoluted backstories of implied murder or identity theft or military shit or relations to underground gang activity or so SO much more and yet the writers still succeed in reminding you that this is a game full of high schoolers.

Natume was one of the five oddballs and suffered through so much during the war where it affects him to this day, but he also refers to his tech savvy and love of the occult as magic and loves the junior he “adopted” to death. Despite Aira struggling against every odd to become a real idol he still buys merch and looks on the internet to look for content of the ones he likes. Rinne was destined to become the monarch of his homeland but ran away in an attempt to find happiness and acceptance and is an amazing strategist who uses it to take down corruption, but his sense of humor is entirely made up of sex jokes and romantic teasing like Aira being “hiiro’s little girlfriend”. The amount of characters that assign themselves the mom friend role just because. Trickstar. I don’t think I need to explain Trickstar-

Like this game has made me cry so many times and it has its ridiculous moments but it also has its genuine ones while also being the most teenage shit I’ve seen in my life and I feel like so few media can balance those and still have a decent story like that. Sorry for the long ass post I just have so many feelings about this kind of stuff 😭

YEAH this is exactly what i was talking about in a previous ask when i said i have nothing meaningful to add to the enstars cast that isnt a headcanon . its all very well thought out and the interpersonal relationships are nuanced enough to feel realistic but outlandish enough to be interesting .

worldbuilding and character design is one of my special interests and i say this any chance i can get: the most important part of building a character (and a story in general) is realizing the importance of comedic irony and comedy as a whole regardless of genre or tone. it makes characters feel more 3 dimensional and relatable because people arent stagnant and theres multiple facets to any individuals personality (this is also why some of the most popular animes of all time have filler episodes or funny bits that show the characters personalities, every event hits with 3x emotional impact the more you know about the characters as people but that's a different discussion) enstars does a really good job of this . like for example if wataru were to have had a realistic reaction to eichi starting the war it wouldnt be nearly as good of a story. the fact that eichis ridiculous ass backwards plan to get wataru to fall in love with him actually worked is a perfect example of comedy used to make a story more interesting. another thing similar to this is how sometimes its better to not detail something and let characters do things for a mundane reason or even no reason at all . for example subaru hating chiaki just because he annoys him, or shinobu being on the broadcasting team despite his character not being associated with technology otherwise and therefore having no real backstory on why he likes radio stuff. its all really well planned worldbuilding with an insane amount of subtle details , which is why enstars is one of my favorite stories to analyze . the only thing i could possibly want more out of it is hardcore tragedy but thats entirely a personal preference rather than a critique because im a slut for catharsis and i love sad endings , especially ones where characters die . (don't worry im in therapy)

#ask #anon

[cvrnelians]

unfollowed - chapter three

Kendall has been building up the courage to talk to you for a while now. When he finds your Twitter account, he sees this as the perfect opportunity to get to know you anonymously, without any preconceived notions.

He didn’t mean for it to go this far. He’s planning on telling you the truth eventually, he really is! One day. When it’s the right time.

Ideally, before you figure out he’s not Greg.

chapter one // chapter two

Loathe as you were to admit it, talking with Kendall felt kind of like a tennis match. Either that or a solid game of ping pong. Awkward as he was, conversations with your new internet friend flowed surprisingly well. He was just so funny. Unintentionally funny at times, but funny all the same. 

Hey, have you ever been to Dundee?

You had woken up to a message from Kendall nearly every day since you first started communicating. That just so happened to be this morning’s message.  

As in Dundee, Scotland?

You know where it is???? I wasn’t expecting you to know where it is. 

Honestly no. I had to look it up. I’m not proud of that.

Wait, are you saying you think I’m stupid? 

NO! No. Absolutely not. Not at all. You’re veeery smart. Very smart.

And I don’t speak to women like that, like ever. Not cool.

“Ohhhhh, okay,” you laughed to yourself, leaning back into your pillows and turning on the tv. You sighed as the image of Roman Roy smugly talking to (or rather, talking at) a group of reporters flashed onto the screen. Kendall Roy stood next to him, floating around like a storm cloud. Skulking. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

Kendall practically had to shove his brother into the car to get him to stop talking. He looked like he had hit his limit with whatever Roman had been up to that day. It was actually kind of comical, just how fed up he looked. At that moment, you almost liked him.

Almost.

“No more news,” you mumbled to yourself, switching to another streaming platform. You shifted your focus from the annoying men on tv to the annoying man in your phone. 

I didn’t mean to imply that. It’s just that whenever I mention it, no one seems to know where it is. But I’d say it’s safe to assume you haven’t been to Dundee. 

No, Kendall. No, I have not. 

Aw, would you look at that? We’re on a first name basis now 🙂🎉 

You smiled at your phone like an idiot. 

I think we’re far past that, but don’t let it get to your head. 

By the way, you have no room to talk when it comes to making assumptions about people. Just fyi. 

I thought you said you didn’t talk to women like that. 

I DON’T!!! 

I’m not even being rude!!!

God, you’re such a smartass.

You enjoyed talking to him. You really did.

That was the thing, though. You were talking, but you weren’t really talking. It was all virtual. You had known this man for several weeks now, but still had yet to hear his voice or see his face. Twitter was the one and only platform you used to communicate. You didn’t even have his phone number.  

But hey, I was wondering…

Would you like to maybe go someday?

Not sure, I don’t know much about it. I’d have to look into it.

Wait, do you mean with YOU?

Unless you know some other handsome guy who could show you around Dundee. 

Um, what?

It was just so absurd. Maybe he was being hyperbolic? He had to have been. Or maybe he was just trying to show off how worldly he was. Kendall had a tendency to do that. He could be so flippant about things that were unattainable for the average person—traveling all around the world, buying the most expensive headphones known to man. You got the impression that he was either very well-off or at least trying to appear that way.

What do you think?

Ummmmmm…I’ve known you for approximately 12 minutes now.

Ummmmmm…You’ve known me for a number of weeks now, actually. 

I’m just saying. It’s nice. I think you might like it. 

Ummmmmm...I can’t tell if you’re joking or if I’m going to have to block you. 

He responded within seconds.

NO. DON’T. I was just kidding. 

You got up to shower and brush your teeth, leaving your phone on the nightstand. When you got back, you were amused to find that he had double texted you. Or multi-texted, rather…if that was even a word. Either or, he was backpedaling big time.

KIDDING! 

Sort of. Mostly!! 

I was only partially serious. 

I can leave you alone if you want me to.    

Omg, it’s fine. Geez lol. Calm down over there. We can do a rain check on Dundee. Y’know, for when we actually know what the other person looks like. 

You’re curious about that, aren’t you? You’ve mentioned it a couple of times now.

That you had. Kendall had been very cagey about showing you a photo of himself. He attributed this to being insecure about his appearance. You had tried to reassure him that you didn’t care how he looked, but he would always come back with a “if you don't care, why are you asking to see what I look like in the first place???”

When you said that you didn’t really care what he looked like, it wasn’t that you weren’t curious about how he looked at all. What you didn’t care about was whether he was attractive to you or not. It wasn’t like you were using Twitter as a dating app. Besides, you could barely call him a friend. He was more of a friendly acquaintance than anything. You barely knew who he was, what his life was like.

The extent of which you knew about Kendall’s life:

He worked “in the corporate sector,” whatever that meant.

He traveled a lot for work.

He was big on trends—fashion, music, and otherwise.

He didn’t like to talk about his family.

He seemed to really like talking to you.

I don’t really have any other internet friends. It’s just odd. We’ve been talking for weeks but we’ve never even actually spoken to one another. 

Aren’t you curious, too?

Uh oh. I didn’t think people your age still spoke to each other anymore. 

You were suddenly hit with a reminder that Kendall was quite a bit older than you, at least a decade or more. In the back of your mind, you were suspicious of his motivations—mostly, his maturity level. You were a fully grown adult, but you were surprised that you even connected with him in the first place. He always seemed to know just what to say, just the right questions to ask. Sometimes he would suggest that you make certain plans that you had already made. It was like he had taken a peek inside your diary, or that long lost planner of yours.

Your planner. Oh, how you missed it. 

You had been searching high and low for that thing for weeks now. It had been so oddly satisfying, scribbling important dates and times onto those pages. You were a visual learner. Writing things down that you needed to know helped you recall the details easier. The book sometimes got annoying to haul around with you, but you just couldn’t catch onto an electronic calendar.

You didn’t hate it or anything. You just liked to doodle. 

It helped to purge some anxious energy. And lately, you really could’ve used an outlet to purge some anxious energy. 

You were starting to give up hope that it would ever be found. You would probably just have to buy a new one.

Uh oh. I forgot that you’re ancient compared to me.

OUCH.

Rude. 

Only kidding, Kenny. 40 isn’t old at all (are you 40?). You started the joke, though, so I felt like I had to follow through with it.

Kenny? I’m Kenny to you now?

My best friend calls me that.

Well, he’s got competition now, I guess. 

I’ll have to tell him that. I’m gonna tell him that. Do you care if I tell him that?

You chuckled.

You didn’t answer my question, though. How old are you, exactly? You only gave me a general estimate. You never give me an actual answer when I ask.

You could see the little text bubble indicating that he was typing. It popped up, then disappeared; popped up, then disappeared. This went on for several minutes.

Please tell me you’re not actually like sixty or something. Have you been lying to me about your age?

Would you stop talking to me if I told you I was 40?

Um, no? Why would I do that? You already told me you were in your late thirties, early forties.

It’s just a pretty big age gap, is all.

So what? It’s not like we’re getting married or something. 

We’re friends.

There was another long pause in between messages.

Yeah. Friends.

I’d like to give you my number, if you ever want to talk.

*Actually* talk, like you said.

I think I’d like that.

“Yeah,” you mumbled to yourself. “I think I would, too.”

Around forty five minutes later, you called. 

His voice was deeper than you thought it would be.

It wasn't in a bad way.

📱

“Oh my god. Hold on. Is that Kendall Roy next to you?” you asked, your voice rising an octave. “You met him? You met him? Is that why you’re always talking about him like he’s god’s gift to humanity?”

There were many times throughout Kendall’s life in which he felt a pit in his stomach, but he had never felt quite like this. 

This was just…weird.

“Um,” Kendall stammered, nearly dropping his phone. “Well, I uh—”

He had gone back and forth about it many times, whether or not to reveal his identity to you. He knew he would have to bite the bullet at some point, but he had not prepared for this. Texting you a photo of himself with Greg looming in the background was probably not his best idea.

He figured you would catch onto who he was once you saw the photo. It shouldn’t have been that hard to piece together, given all the things you’d talked about. He had brought up the Roys with you multiple times now. And well...fuck. His name was Kendall.

He wanted to tell you the truth. He really did. He just wasn’t sure how to broach the subject, or if this was even the right way to do it. Stalling was certainly a viable option. He could always send you the photo, pretend it was a joke, and ask you to wait a little longer before he showed you who he was. He seriously considered it.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!” you exclaimed. “Wow. Kenny, either you are very, very tall or he is very, very short. Or maybe both? You’re absolutely towering over him in this photo.”

Ouch.

“You don’t look 40, though. It’s kind of creepy. Not that you look bad or anything! You look…nice.”

You were rambling. Nervous. Why were you nervous?

And then, he got it.

Awkward as he was, Greg was actually kind of photogenic. Kendall could tell by your tone that you were pleasantly surprised; at this, he was instantly annoyed. He thought he looked nice in that photo. Not Greg.

What, you liked guys like Greg? Greg?

“What kind of skincare routine are you doing?” you asked. "This is wild."

In the next ten seconds, Kendall did something he never thought he would do. 

“Um…yeah. I uh…I get that all the time. I don’t use anything special. It’s just...genetics.” 

Oh, fuck me.

#kendall roy x reader #kendall roy #succession

[raguna-blade]

Finally got around to watching the Anime Movie Belle and I gotta say that even though it had a bunch of plotting problems That I think i would normally be a bit more annoyed about - It never does anything particularly egregious, but I feel that some things move a little too quickly or are glossed over a bit in a way I don't quite like, or the this is an outgrowth of the internet and technology that felt a bit eh, but those moments also ultimately don't matter so- it's hits me as a really just...aggressively sincere movie.

Like I had to had to tell my brain to not go lmao this bit is dumb because XYZ because like...No, that's so nakedly obviously not what's important here.

"Oh but this makes no sense it's basically a social media platform that does XYZ" It doesn't matter IDIOT, it exists to support the theme of you being part of the world and how you HAVE to expose yourself to see the changes in yourself that you want to see, if you want to help people.

"Ok, but how does it all work though? Like, Yeah Beast...Beats people so badly that he's able to break their data? THat's just a thing he can do? Nobody can find his secret castle for some reason?" YOU ABSOLUTE MORON, none of that is relevant. It works because it's fantasy twitter but cool and functional and owned and controlled by 5 cool old ladies who may as well be fairy godparents. But the tech-No, it literally is unimportant. While I'd like it a bit more if they gave a less technical explanation, the tech works because it does, homie is able to fuck things up the way he is able to because pain is pain, And for him his ability to fight is basically the equivalent to belles ability to sing. An Ability WILDLY INSANELY INCREDIBLE to an unreal degree (like Her arc does follow a viral sensation arc for the initial flow, but it takes effort to capitalize on that, and on top of that she's apparently making money? yeah no.)

I mean hell, most of the people in this movie actually do seem to have some legit super powers. It's kinda glossed over and is again relatively unimportant, but like her bestie? Kind of scary capable of dealing with things, especially if we take the textual difficulty of finding Beast as true. Kayak dude? Homie hits nationals....on strength of a club that consists of himself and himself alone? What? Like yeah ok, that's normal sure.

Anyway.like...man, once and if you just buy in and accept the technical aspects as just "it fucking works" the movie really just constantly goes "Here are the feelings and why they're being felt and yes it's goofy and weird in places" but damn if they don't just mean it and it does hit.

#Belle 2021 #I am liking this movie more than I was expecting by a long shot #and I kinda already want to rewatch it so....Alright you got me

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Part 2

Masterlist

Series masterlist

Part 1 🍂 Part 3

Pairing: Syverson x ofc

Series summary: Life with Sy, what more can you wish for? The most amazing husband and father to a whole litter of cute little kids... Sometimes you wonder "how did you get here?"

Series warning: Eventual smut, right now, more fluff...

Word count: 1.4k

A/N: Thank @keanureevesisbae for hitting that 30k mark and earning the whole of the internet a nice little chunk of Sy <3

Any mistakes you may find I left in there on purpose for y'all to find!

“NO! NO! NO!” You jumped away from the spluttering shower as fast as you could. The water was ice cold and brown. God, you’d been so occupied with everything else that needed done around here that you completely forgot to call a plumber. Maybe Sy was right, maybe this house was a death-trap. Your phone rang; speak of the devil!

“Sy, hey! I was just thinking about the way you insulted my house yesterday!”

“I’m sorry, Sugar,” you could hear Sy laugh on the other side of the call. He had a hot laugh. And a hot voice. God you couldn’t afford to think about a man this much, you had other things to worry about. Brown tap water. Toilets that didn’t work. Things like that.

“Hey, I know there’s the whole thing where we’re supposed to wait three days to call,” he said nervously, “but I couldn’t wait. First because I’d really like to see you again,” that was awfully sweet of him… “and second because I couldn’t help but wonder if you’d gotten stuck in your porch again and were in need of rescue.” And another insult. Great.

The stifled snickering on the other side of the line made you want to punch this man in the throat. Sure, you’d need a step stool to even be able to reach it, but God he was annoying right now.

“I don’t need your help, Sy!” That was a lie. “But I’d love to go out for a drink again.” That wasn’t a lie.

“Lara, are you sure there isn’t anything I can help you with?” The concern in his voice was so genuine that you decided to humor him.

“I’ll let you know if I think of anything,” you said with the sweetest voice you could muster, “but in the meantime I could use a ride to the café?”

“Already on my way, I’ll see you in five.” Five? Did he mean hours? You were still in your pajama’s. And partially covered in dirt water. And dirt dirt. Hair a mess, face a mess, barefoot and… You quickly brushed your teeth with some bottled water, cursing all the way through at how completely ridiculous that was, and looked in the broken mirror over the sink. The options were: ‘Brush hair and look like exploded poodle who had been struck by lightning’ or ‘don’t brush hair and look like exploded poodle who hadn’t been struck by lightning’, and since that last option both saved time and looked less… static, you decided to go with that.

Five minutes, on the dot. You’d say your doorbell rang, but that didn’t work, either. A knock on the door worked just fine, though, especially if the person knocking tried his very best to whack the entire thing from its hinges.

“One moment!” You yelled, trying furiously to un-fuck the situation your foot and your jeans currently had going on, leaving you half-naked at the top of the three steps into the sunken kitchen, struggling and… Of course.

“AAHRH!” You were now half-naked at the bottom of the three steps that lead into the sunken kitchen, still struggling. Your foot was unstuck. That was great.

“Are you alright in there?” Sy sounded worried rather than amused, but it was the kind of voice that allowed for that to change immediately after finding out you were alright. You pulled your skinny jeans to where they were supposed to go and got up. Or tried to, because a sharp pain in your ankle sent you floor bound again.

“Fuck!” You swore a little too loudly to make your next statement believable. “Yeah!”

“Sugar, is your back door unlocked?” Oh god, back in secondary school that would have been a monster innuendo.

“Sy, I’m fine!” Another lie.

“Darlin’,” he said with the determination of a man not to be messed with, “if you were as good at soundin’ fine ‘s you are at lookin’ it, I’d believe you. Now can I get to you without harming this house any further?”

“Key’s in the planter – ow,” you said reluctantly while rubbing your ankle. With quick strokes of your fingers, you brushed your hair back where it belonged. If you had to suffer through the disgusting patriarchal ceremony of being saved by a man, you were going to be a cute damsel in distress, dammit!

“It’s a unique second date, Sugar,” Sy chuckled as he waited next to you in the uncomfortable chairs of the doctor’s office, “I’ll give you that.”

“Funny, Sy,” you scoffed. This man got on your nerves more than you cared to admit. You didn’t need to be here, at all. You’d just twisted your ankle. If you went to the doctor for this back home, he’d have told you you’d just twisted your ankle. And to take two paracetamol every four hours for the pain. Sy wouldn’t accept that for an answer, however, so here you were. Luckily, not too many people had gotten hurt in this small town today, and you were out of there in about thirty minutes. With – how predictable – the message that it was just a twisted ankle, and to come back in a week if the pain didn’t go away. No mention of paracetamol.

“Coffee?” Sy said, offering you his arm for support while you limped back to the car.

“But we’ve got to make it a quick one,” you sighed, “I have some stuff at home to take care of. Do you happen to know a decent plumber around here?” He’d lived here for years, he had to know someone, right?

“I can take a look at it when I drop you back off, if that’s alright?” It was a kind offer. Then why did it piss you off so much?

“It’s alright, Sy, I don’t need your help.”

“I’m not saying you need my help, Sugar.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and you could tell he was doing everything he could to not allow it to break through completely. “I’m offering to help you. That’s two different things.”

Why, Lara, you thought, why do you have to be like this? “It’s not. I’m not some helpless little girl who needs a man to save her, or open doors or…”

“If you think I treat you the way I do because I think you’re weak or helpless, you’re wrong.” Sy said through gritted teeth. He looked really angry – and he had a right to be pissed. “I’m not going to beg you to let me help you, Sugar. Hell, if I didn’t like you the way I did, I probably wouldn’t be offering again.”

“Girl! Was that Sy who just drove off?” Julie’s curious face appeared in your kitchen right when you were getting ready to make your first cup of coffee in this house using tap water.

“It was, he fixed my pipes.” Fuck. Shouldn’t have said that. Not like that, anyway.

“I bet he d- “

“Jules.” You made no effort to hide your annoyance. Allowing Sy to help you while you just stood there and did nothing had put you on edge.

“Alright, anyway. I was stopping by to ask how that date went but… Girl, why are you limping?” Her eyes opened comically wide, only feeding your irritation.

“Jules!”

“Jezus Christ, tell me what happened, maybe?” She sank down in one of your kitchen chairs – uninvited and with a very dramatic sigh.

“You haven’t even given me the chance!” Without asking you poured her a cup of coffee too and basically slammed it down in front of her. Coffee should have spilled, but apparently luck was on your side for a change.

“Girl, spill!” It took you three minutes to give her the rundown of what had happened the night before, and the bonus events of this morning.

“He really likes you,” Julie said as she finished her coffee.

“How do you know?”

“First of all,” oh god, this was going to be a lecture, “he literally calls you the next morning. Lara, you are the only person on this planet who will not take that as a goddamn hint!” She shook her cup, asking you for more coffee.

“Second, acts of service are like this man’s number one love language,” Julie continued, “or maybe second. If he starts being touchy with you, you’re golden.” Oh, how you wished…

#syverson fanfiction #syverson x ofc #captain syverson fanfiction #captain syverson #syverson #captain syverson x ofc #syverson fic

[my-castles-crumbling]

this is kind of a weird ask so… sorry Cas.

There’s a lot of fics in the maraduers fandom i’d like to read that i can’t. most specifically is religious fics. I have a complicated relationship with religion and I have enough (absolutely stupid) guilt about reading detailed queer relationship (I am queer myself btw), not even including any fics where there’s explicit content related to religion.

i’m not religious anymore but i was raised quite strongly religious for a long time, and even though it’s stupid to feel guilt over something like queer relationships in church, it still affects me to the level that I cannot read those fics at all.

And this isn’t even including the explicit fics that I hear are amazing. But I just can’t read them. And it’s very annoying. I know I could just accept that reading them is difficult for me and move on, but it feels like my past is holding me back.

i don’t even know what i’m asking tbh, but you’re always so lovely with advice, so i guess, got any advice for me? Thanks ❤️

Hi!

I definitely understand what you're saying and I don't think it's stupid at all! I think, unfortunately, a lot of people are conditioned to feel guilty about aspects of fanfiction- the religious parts, queerness, explicitness, not to mention aspects of kink or other more frowned-upon things. I think that's one of the reasons WHY fanfiction is so popular. People are working through their guilt and realizing the normalcy of their feelings.

I have three major pieces of advice:

When I (or others) feel guilty or 'abnormal' in my feelings, I think one of the best ways to help is to realize how normal it is! And you've come to the right place. Try building a community here of people who enjoy reading similar things. Take in the fact that thousands of people like the same things. Remind yourself that this is okay and normal. In fact, just look at the number of hits on a fic! Literal millions of people have read some of them! You are so normal, and not alone.

Do some research about the things you feel bad about. 7.1% of people in the US identify as queer. 70% of those identifying as men and 40% of those identifying as women admit to interacting with sexual content on the internet (not to mention those who don't). One-third of US adults identify as having religious trauma. From these numbers, you are definitely normal, and you have no reason to feel guilty for any of your feelings!

As far as religion, continue to talk about it. Find people who have similar experiences. Do research on the origins of the phrases in the bible that make people feel so guilty, because they actually can be taken in many different ways. Address the feelings, and again, realize that this is so normal.

I hope this helps! Remember that you should never interact with anything you're uncomfortable with- it's absolutely okay to have boundaries. But it's also okay and natural to want to/not want to read these things online.

<3 <3 <3

#ask #asks #ask cas

[hnnny]

I kind of really hate how a fair amount of the Baldur's Gate 3 fandom decided that rather than dislike characters they don't like in private and love the ones they do with respect for others, they decided that instead they were going to assume that people who like other characters than their faves are bad people or if they dislike certain characters then they're bad people, or if you romance one character, all of the others are dead to you, and basically the same fandom discourse that's been happening since the dawn of Internet culture and even before that.

I didn't like Lae'Zel at first, especially cause she hit on my character in a way I was uncomfortable with. That's a personal reason to dislike the character, but I also moved past it and now I like her plenty so far. She's pretty interesting. That being said, not everyone is going to be able to move on from that kind of thing and should be just as respected in that sense.

I thought I would really like Wyll, but as of right now I consider him to be my most boring companion and I'm a little sad about that. But I also know I've barely scratched the surface of his story, so I'm willing to bet there's plenty of time to find reason to like him. Even if I don't find him interesting by the end, that would be fine cause it doesn't matter. I respect those who adore the character and think he's the best one of the bunch.

And then there's Gale. I personally love the dude, but a lot of people are treating it like if you're against him, then you hate all people who are like him and find people annoying for no reason. On the other side, the people who genuinely hate him claim that everyone who loves him is just as problematic for other just as strange reasons. Now this applies to every character, but this doesn't mean I'm discouraging criticism towards how the character is written, whether in defense of, or against them. But it shouldn't be treated with a sense of black and white thinking. There's always plenty to love and plenty to hate about a character in the end.

The truth is, not every character is for everyone. Some are meant to be flawed in ways that are troublesome for most, like Astarion. Some are meant to come across as haughty until they perhaps start to humble themselves, like Shadowheart. Karlach is meant to be a lovable buff bimbo who's desperate for hugs, but yeah she falls into the stereotype of a dumb barbarian sometimes and not everyone loves that she's been diminished to that role.

They're all a good time for different reasons, and for some there are character traits that are just an absolute turn off for them, however personal those reasons may be.

The answer to all of this is to just respect that you're not going to love every character equally, and that others aren't going to either. If you come across hate discourse, the best solution is to block them and move on. If you really must get into it with them, carefully consider the motivations behind the person's post, and come at it with a neutral defense when it's only about someone disliking the character. Not a "you should love this character because I see past of their flaws" kind of argument, but a "sorry to hear you don't like the character. But you don't have to like them to respect others who do."

I've seen that there are some characters who are being targeted for problematic themes in their stories, but to that I say Baldur's Gate 3 has mature themes, and therefore highly nuanced characters. There's not always a right and wrong way to perceive a written character. And just as equally, those problematic themes might not have great handling either, and are also open to critique. Not in a "the game should never have covered this" kind of way, but a "they didn't handle it as well as they should" kind of way.

And just so you know, this isn't "you shouldn't critique the game" kind of post. This is just a plea to respectfully interact with one another and not treat every post about your fave as a "you HAVE to love/hate this character otherwise I don't respect you" kind of post.

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #i secretly hope this post gets no notes #i hate to be caught up in discourse lol #but here i am #and i shall not hide

[terraliensvent]

I would like to read your thoughts about pluralkit. For me I’ve noticed that there are some individuals that will say wild things and use plural kit to send the messages. I blocked one person in the server so far cause I just found them to be a bit much.

i got another ask wanting to know my thoughts on pluralkit, so ill indulge

buckle up bitches cause this is gonna be a LONG one

for starters, i hate pluralkit because you cant block the bot accounts it uses so if i want to block an annoying sys, i cant! definitely can see it as a way to circumvent blocks

second, it just further adds to the people who will use it to roleplay that they have alters

(i actually have a lot to say here and did research so please look at the read more if youre interested)

im gonna be honest, i do not think the people who use pluralkit have DID, and i absolutely dont believe a large majority of the people on toyhouse and in cs spaces who say they have DID. some of you might hate me for that opinion and thats fine, but truthfully, i think that way too many people use it as a way to roleplay.

im gonna try my best to be gentle with how i present my thoughts, but i know that there are some people (primarily young people who believe they have alters and refuse to change their minds— a well known symptom of being young) who will flame me for just daring to not believe them, and my thoughts on this go beyond just terraliens and cs spaces in general, terraliens is just a REALLY good example of this kind of community.

i think that society has tried to medicalize behaviors to a startling degree. when people said “normalize neurodivergence” we flew a bit past the mark and now the self-diagnosis crowd will see a person with an unusually strong passion for a hobby and say “they must have autism”

in this type of world, kids wont say “i love Blorbo from Show I Like, i wanna pretend to be them on the internet” and then disclose to people that, yes, its just a roleplay and im doing it for fun; instead its, “i feel a strong connection to Blorbo so i must have DID and theyre one of my alters. this isnt something im doing for fun, i have this medical condition and you cannot tell me otherwise”

the issue with DID kids is that they see that yes, things like fictives and animal alters are possible, but VERY unlikely within a disorder that is already highly unlikely, and they say, well i must fit inside of that 0.000001%, and then other people say the same thing and now we have multiple people saying they have DID within a server of only 3000 people. they will say “you dont know anything about DID,” but then will say they have 3 fictive alters from a piece of media that came out less than 5 years ago. they’ll say “well, diagnostic criteria includes self-assessment therefore that should be enough to decide that i have DID

in the time it’s taken me to write up this response, i actually went looking for research. Specifically i wanted to find something that predated 2020 because that was the time the “fake disorder” phenomenon really hit its peak and i didnt want potential false cases and misinformation that the current day DID crowd spreads to skew the data.

What i found was this medical journal published in May 2017 (so 3 years pre-2020, and less than 7 years old as of today. this document is less than 10 years old so dont even try to tell me its outdated), the authors of the journal are accredited to the psychology and psychiatry departments of the university school of medicine in Turkey, University of Canterbury in New Zealand, and University of Pretoria in South Africa. SO, suffice to say im gonna trust these people’s research more than a 15 year old on discord.

im gonna summarize a few points because, as a medical journal it is totally overblown with professional jargon and i consider myself to have good ability to convert flowery language to plain speak

The first segment i wanna highlight is in the introduction of the document, “

Yet, when all these systems come together to underpin and maintain a person’s identity, and dissociation occurs at this (identity/personality) level, it creates dissociative identities. Here, separate organized systems of functioning, with their own unique perspective on the world and who they are, appear to co-exist within the individual. Each of these identities has their own first-person perspective or experience of self-consciousness. Consequently, each of these identities reports their own subjective experiences and memories, their own sense of agency and will, and their own perspective on who they are. They often report being unaware of other identities or report amnesia for experiences that presumably occurred when other identities were engaging in executive actions.

The document states that the different “alters” present more as separate identities, where its different iterations of the same person who will have their own perspective of the world (each has their own “I” self). each iteration has its own memories and, the most important part, each iteration appears to be unaware of or have amnesia surrounding the other iterations. this one paragraph dismantles several of the talking points that DID kids use, it goes against the idea that people can co-front, it goes against the idea of having detailed in depth personas for each of your alters as so many of these people do. and we arent even past the INTRODUCTION

funnily enough, despite my effort to look for a document pre 2020 to mitigate false cases, this document actually mentions the DID faker crowd: “

The so-called sociocognitive model of DID (e.g., Lynn et al) went beyond recognizing the influence of sociocognitive factors on the development and phenomenology of DID. This model suggested that media reports, a high level of social knowledge about DID, influential and suggestive therapists, as well as patients’ own suggestibility, cognitive distortions and fantasy proneness all led patients to believe (wrongly) that they had dissociative identities. This view of DID markedly contrasts with the post-traumatic model of DID (outlined earlier), which proposes that dissociative identities are the primary results of early trauma and the relational, cognitive, emotional, and neurobiological consequences of it (along with other related factors as outlined in this paper) rather than primarily the result of social and cognitive forces. Moreover, the presence of sociocognitive forces does not provide any proof for iatrogenesis. Yet, sociocognitive and trauma models are not entirely contradictory, as the trauma model, e.g., argues that social and cultural factors influence the presentation, but not typically the creation, of dissociative identities. In fact, societal conditions themselves may also be the source of traumatic antecedents as observed in oppressive communities and traditions.

this post is getting crazy long, so im just gonna start wrapping it up here

i think that what ive stated here links with my previous ask about physical disabilities, disabilities and mental disorders arent really things to have a party over. they shouldnt be demonized of course, but we shouldnt be pretending like its some phenomenal thing to have a disorder thats based on severe complex trauma faced as a child. the part pluralkit plays in all of this is that it just further feeds the crowd and deludes these people into thinking their DID is real

im not going to believe any 15 year old furry when they publicly announce they have DID to a discord server of over 3,000, and that is a consequence of the sheer volume of people that fake having the disorder and continue to fake it with their stupid roleplay bots

obviously, i dont go out of my way to debate or mess with them, because at the end of the day its kids being stupid and cringe, but god the ramifications of these kids playing pretend with disorders is gonna be horrible. its already having really bad effects on autistic adults trying to operate in society as normal people and not be infantilized

i just hope this trend passes quickly and soon, and PLEASE let me block those stupid bot accounts i dont want to interact with any “system” that uses pluralkit

#terraliens #closed species #closed species vent #terralien #vent #mod rambles #syscourse

[clone-force-333]

Farewell, From The Boys Of CF333!

After much deliberation, Clone Force 333 has decided to end our missions.

There's a lot that could be said about why, but we've always tried to stand by a message of positivity so I'd like to keep that even now, and the bottom line falls in the same place regardless of our individual reasons: it isn't humble to our original purpose anymore.

And I’m gonna be so dramatic about it.

I don't regret a single moment of it even now. Nothing will take away the fun of planning an attack, of giggling as we make a silly plot, of forgetting the drop and having to reschedule 5 times over, of still messing it up anyway. Truly, it's a miracle the one thing we didn't mess up is we all hit anon every time!

Clone Force 333 was my love letter to the fandom, where I could find a way to give some love behind a mask when I didn't know how to do it as myself, because I believe this to be the most selfless form of kindness; to give without taking. There is no obligation to return it, just to have it. I find this a rare quality nowadays when people confuse kindness as a tool to farm kindness for themselves, and not just for kindness sake.

Remind yourself in giving, you cannot expect to take It will only make you bitter, and what's left will go to waste

We were inspired by none other than a certain someone who regularly sends drones of anon hate, it was pretty annoying to see so many people targeted by one person with a gang of friends who had no problem being bullies. A third of CF333 ourselves have been targeted by this person. But I figured, y'know what? If they can send hate en masse, why can't I send love? Coupled with the inspiration from our beloved Clone Anon- and Clone Force 333 just kinda happened.

What started as us just assigning numbers to send a love bomb ended in so much more. These numbers were given names, ranks, and personalities that brought them to life. They aren't just "Clone Force 333" to us, they're OCs that we make headcanons for, roleplay as, and draw/write. Most of all, they are one of the most unifying things shared among the little online circle I call an internet family.

It's unfortunate to have to say goodbye, I definitely had a lot of plans that will never see the light of day, however it's simply better to end things sometimes instead of forcing them to work.

Not only are we ending our attacks, but we have also decided to come public with some of our identities. We want to treat these clones like our other OCs and have them on our blogs, and it seems the best way to do this is to just out ourselves to avoid anything else happening.

One thing to be made clear about this is that it is not an invitation to reach out to us about CF333. This is so that we can just rip the bandaid off and go back to being us with the OCs we made and have become so deathly attached to. In fact, the only reason I will say as to "why" we called it off is that some of the public responses made us uncomfortable. So really, we'd prefer it if people didn't treat us as anything other than us. We were never anything but just one of you too, you know? That stands for the RP blogs as well, more than the character, there's a human behind that url, so maybe act like it.

So, thank you for it all, goodbye to you Please let me congratulate you, too Lastly let me say farewell to we I won't forget you, hope you think of me

So, a final farewell from me. Not just as CT-1363, Captain Angel: but also as Jack, your local fandom menace~

As always, Stay Golden 💛

Our members are listed below:

(Note: we have some members not listed, only the ones who joined for attacks and are current)

Angel: If you know, you know (that I'll bite)

Chovi: @techs-ass

Ghost: @staycalmandhugaclone

Everest: MIA

Curly: @errondaperson

Luca: @echos-girlfriend

Hutch: @techs-girlfriend

Sumi: MIA

#ct-1363

[synthsays]

GUYS!!

Did I ever tell you about how I love the 1998 Miniseries "Stephen King's : The Shining" ?

It's so good!

I know a lot of people say that the book version of the shining isn't that great and that the 1980 Stanley Kubrick movie is the best adaptation of the story, but personally I disagree. Sure, the 1980 movie is great and is a genuinely good scary movie, but the backstories of the characters are practically erased to make room for the scary factors. Really large parts of the plot are rewritten as well. I think the book was great, and the miniseries is so much closer to the book plot wise, character-castings wise AND setting wise. The ending of the book and miniseries is 1000% better than the 1980's one was. ⚠ Spoilers Below ⚠ check the miniseries out on Internet Archive, the book on Libby or at the library and the 1980 movie on Vudu or else where!

In the book and miniseries Jack Torrance still has some chance at redemption, even from the beginning. Sure, the first sentence of the book is him calling his employer a prick, but that's because he was being pretty rude and picky. One of my favorite things about the book/miniseries is the croquet mallet. I don't know why but it's just so much more silly and cool than the boring axe. Croquet Mallet my beloved <3. Jack's internal conflict with his dad and alcohol problems, etc. are also really intresting to watch. The scrapbook explaining the hotel's history was very important to the whole plot, because it explained the whole reason Jack went over his breaking point, but the 1980 movie just deleted that whole post point, which is very annoying. Danny's "imaginary friend" Tony is never explained in the 1980 movie, but turns out to be Danny's older self somehow talking to him in the miniseries. I'm not sure if it says Tony was older Danny or not in the book. I'm biased but Jack Torrance is %1000000 more silly in the miniseries. I know it's controversial and that he's kind of a terrible person but he's just a silly guy when he's not trying to kill his family. The party guests... now that's a whole nother story. Wolfman is certainly an intresting character, but is clearly a scare factor. For context, Wolfman is a party guest in a wolf mask and tail that scares Danny a lot. Instead of a hedge maze, which is no where to be found in the book or miniseries, there a hedge animals, which come to life and attack Jack, Danny, and Mr. Halloran. Jack is writing a play, much like in the 1980 movie, called "The Little School" I'm not sure how much the plot of it is described in the book. Also, Jack was a teacher at a school before he was the caretaker at The Over look. I say *was* because he was fired and fighting a student in the parking lot (the student *did* slash his tires but that not and excuse ;-;) he was an English teacher and the sponsor for the speech and debate club. Wendy, now Wendy is just a silly lil gal. She's trying her best to just get by and she is just not doing to great. Obv she doesn't trust Jack with Danny too often bc Jack broke Danny's fucking arm (not *really* on purpose but he was still drunk blah blah blah) and Wendy still has her knife in the book & miniseries. She hits Jack over the head with a croquet ball instead of a bat, but croquet balls are pretty heavy so it did as much damage. Going back to Jack's problem with his dad I mentioned earlier. We find out through the book that Jack's dad wasn't the best of guys, if you catch my drift, but I think Jack still tried to impress him before he died and all. Because the hotel is rather off grid, located in the mountains, the Torrance family's only mode of communication is a CRT Radio. The hotel makes Jack hallucinate that his dad's voice is coming from the radio and that he's saying Jack is weak etc. Etc. Jack is having a pretty much mental breakdown and responds with " you're supposed to be dead! Stay Dead!" Before smashing the CRT radio with the previously mentioned croquet mallet. This cuts off the Torrance family's communication but it is also a very intriguing scene to watch. OMFG <- I just realized something.

So, the whole scene in room 217 (in the 1980 movie its a different number but I'm too lazy to look it up) Danny is strangled by the ghost/poltergeist of the lady who died in that room. So obv Danny has bruises on his neck. Jack is yelling at him from down stairs because Danny stole the room key and he wasn't supposed to do that. Cue Wendy running and and both her and Jack run up to get Danny. Once Wendy gets to Danny and sees his bruises, she immediately accused Jack of doing it. Later in the living room/common room/ whatever room Danny is still in major shock from being strangled obv and Wendy is kind of rocking him back and forth. Suddenly Danny snaps out of his trance and starts yelling "It was her it was her!" (Refering to the lady in room 217) but since he was in Wendy's lap and jumps out and runs over to Jack. Jack notices a lipstick mark on Danny's cheek (again, from the lady in room 217) and immediately turns to Wendy and asks if she did it. THIS IS WHERE MY AU COMES IN. I PRESENT...

The Role Swap AU: The Shining Edition

Wendy is the one to go insane because of her anxiety instead of Jack w/ his alcoholism.

#oop- didnt mean to post this already #the shining #the shining miniseries #stephen kings the shining #the shining stephen king #the shining spoilers #the shining book #idk whatever other the shining tags #jack torrance #wendy torrance #danny torrance

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

Remember the very beginning of 2023, when I got my CD of Daniel Kitson's Shenaniganagain, listened to it twice in a row, and lost my mind partly from the confusing complicated plot but mostly because he kept interacting with some mystery voice that was almost familiar but I couldn't quite grasp it? And it happened to hit that exact part of my brain that drives me nuts, the same part of me that has put so much time into trying to hear minute differences between regional accents even when I don't have the aptitude for it, because I have terrible auditory processing skills but wish I had good ones and keep (incorrectly) believing I can make up for this with enough manual effort (it's not completely incorrect, a few years ago I could not tell an English accent from an Irish one, now I can basically tell Northern English from non-Northern English from Welsh from Northern Irish from non-Northern Irish from Glaswegian from misc. Scottish - though Glasweigan I've been able to recognize since I was a teenager because of The Thick of It - but I can't do more than that no matter how hard I've tried). And this got to the same part of my brain, where I felt like I should be able to decode the sound of someone whose voice I definitely know, but I couldn't do it.

I was going to post this as a reblog to the post I made about this a year ago, but I just found that post again and it's so long and rambling and ridiculous that I cannot bring myself to reblog it and bring the whole thing back. I'm just going to copy-paste the relevant bits, which are already too much.

Well, I’ve listened to it. Twice, because it’s one of those ones that requires an immediate repeat listening. Fucking hell. There was so much going on in that. God damn it. Do you ever listen to something so good it that it actually annoys you? It’s like that thing they described on QI, where when you see an overwhelmingly cute kitten you kind of want to punch it. There’s just not much point in writing my thoughts about something that no one reading this will have heard or will have the option of hearing, which is annoying because I have a lot of thoughts. So many thoughts. Fucking confusing Eternal Sunshine unreliable narrator timeline jumping ambiguous ending shit. Weirdly my most pressing question is who the hell was the other voice actor? I think it was Isy Suttie. It would make sense for it to be Isy Suttie, it's always Isy Suttie. There were a few times when she’d say a few words and I’d think, “Oh, it’s silly that I was confused, that’s definitely her.” Then other times I thought, “It’s definitely not, I don’t know why I could have thought it was.” Near the end, he tells us he’d adjusted the person’s voice via whatever audio editing skills he’d picked up while not leaving his house. So it’s probably just Isy Suttie and it sounds not quite like her because the voice is disguised. The voice definitely sounds female, and that New York Times article refers to her as a “female friend” (an article that I saw because don’t think I didn’t try to look up who she is, though of course now that I’ve said "it's not as easy as just finding the answer on the internet, I've checked and it's not there", it’ll turn out I’ve missed something very obvious and it says right on the front page of his website that it’s Lorraine Kelly). But you can change anything with enough audio editing, right? There were about three different times when I could swear the person spoke with the exact cadence of Tim Key. Like I think this is how Tim Key would sound if you raised his pitch. I don’t actually think that, because taking Tim Key’s voice and editing it to sound like a female version of himself would be a ridiculous thing for Daniel Kitson to do. But also, I’ve listened to Trifle, so I believe Kitson is capable of just about any degree of fucking with us. Trifle had me demanding to know whether he’d invented Tim Key just for that radio show. It’s almost definitely Isy Suttie, with the voice a bit distorted. If I hadn’t listened to Trifle I’d just assume it was her. If I hadn’t listened to Trifle I’d assume he really was recording birds in the forest when he claimed he’d done so, instead of getting to that bit and immediately regarding it with suspicion. If anyone has happened to get their hands on a recording of this show, and has a guess as to who that other person is, please let me know. Given Kitson’s history, it could be fucking anyone.

Yeah it was just his own voice. It came up while I was talking to someone yesterday, I set him a sample of the second voice, and literally less than a minute after I sent it, he sent me back the same clip but edited and it sounded exactly like Daniel Kitson's normal voice. That's the worst part, he didn't even do much to it. Literally just raised the pitch, apparently. So it took someone else less than one minute to lower the pitch in Audacity and get it back to the original, which Daniel Kitson sounding completely normal.

I did try that myself last year, for the record. I put that sample into Audacity and tried doing things to it. But I think I was thrown off by him saying on the CD that he would significantly distort the person's voice. I figured he'd have done a bunch of things to it, so I'd have to try a bunch of other things if I want to turn it back into the original, I tried a few things with multiple layers and it didn't help so I just gave up. Did not occur to me that I could try just lowering the pitch a bit and doing literally nothing else to it. I'm not great at audio editing, I can sometimes use it to remove a bit of noise on a rough quality recording, but I apparently do not have the audio processing or the audio editing skills to hear when you just need to make one type of adjustment that takes one minute.

Mystery solved, it's all okay. I do have a long list of Questions for Daniel Kitson that I'd love to put to him at the Tree Q+A he's doing this Sunday, none of which are reasonable things to ask at a Q+A for a movie screening so it's a good thing there's an Atlantic Ocean stopping me from attending. But at least I can knock one of the questions off my list. And maybe sleep at night again. All that effort and it was just his own fucking voice. Not even well disguised.

[dianalolihikki]

Hey!💜

I have noticed that often if I already posted about my life on the internet, they are quite negative thoughts and situations.

It's probably easy to get the impression that I'm a pretty depressive person. That's not so.

There are quite a few positive things in my life.

I tend to describe the negative ones, but through my girlblogging I will try to change this habit, so I will start with the positives.⭐

💮💮💮💮

I was chatting with A on messenger. We chatted for a while. Even if it was just a few messages it meant a lot to me. We even talked about books. I suggested that I could suggest some cool books,and she replied what she was currently reading.

I told her about the possibility of starting a state physiotherapy program.

She replied that I should find out better what kind of patients with neurological disabilities this physical therapist likes to work with.

I, despite my age, am still a pediatric neurological physical therapy patient. Why? Because I've been disabled since birth, so my neurological damage is different from what someone else acquires during life. So you have to use a different kind of physical therapy than for people after a stroke, for example.

💮💮💮💮

B. was with me again today. As always, she assisted me while walking on the electric treadmill. B. She called a friend who is hitting on her husband. (Let's call her U.)

U went on two dates yesterday. She liked one of the candidates very much.

B was very excited. She even called her own brother,because it turned out that he has this candidate in his Facebook friends.

I wonder if it is me who is abnormal or the people. I would NEVER be able to take such an interest in another person's life. I have never been able to get interested in someone who is not me in such a normal way. Either people are totally indifferent to me or I get overly attached. Apparently this is often a trait of neurodiverse people, yet it always amazes me.

B is my total opposite - she loves gossip. Anyway, it's hardly surprising in this case. If U has a boyfriend then she won't be hitting on B's husband anymore.

What annoyed me is that B wants to give my mother a contact to some shady herbalist who, thanks to supernatural powers, supposedly cures all diseases.

My mother wants to go there with her back pain, but I'm sure she'll want me to go there too. However, I will never agree to it. First of all, I don't trust such scammers,and secondly, this may sound strange, but I can't imagine life without my cerebral palsy.

💮💮💮💮

A while ago I talked to my brother and fortunately there will be no bonfire to which our whole family was supposed to go to the family of my brother's girlfriend. I didn't notice it, but after a while he told me that he was upset today. To cheer him up a bit I said that he was very important to me. This was difficult for me,because he is usually the first one to tell me such things

💮💮💮💮

Okay I am done for today. I will leave you next AI made poster for my made up j-pop girl group!⭐

I wanna just hug J.

#girlhood #cerebral palsy #neurodivergent #neurodiverse stuff #physically disabled #teacher attachment #teacher crush #hikikomori #older men crush #actually neurodivergent #neurodiversity #ai generated #ai imagine #siblings #family life #girlblogging #hell is girl #i miss him #long post #physical disability #physical therapist #physical therapy #physical therapist crush

[astraltrickster]

What I feel a lot of people don't realize about internet safety is...yeah, the overwhelming majority of people you'll find online are perfectly benign. There are a lot of assholes, and a lot of people you just won't vibe with, but that's just life. The assholes may be bolder online than in the physical world because no one can fucking deck them, but that's really the worst that the internet does in terms of making people uniquely more awful than offline. The internet contains a pretty good representative sample of just...ordinary-ass human people. Put any major social media site in a randomizer and whoever's account you land on is almost certainly going to be someone who may piss you off but will not hurt you, at least not on purpose. For all the warnings of stalkers, kidnappers, and similar out there, your odds of running into one of them with any given interaction are very, VERY slim--

The reason you want to be careful with your personal information online is not because your odds of any given interaction with a random person being with a violent stalker or someone else who will use that information against you in some kind of horrible way ARE high; it's because they're NOT zero, and crucially, the number of interactions you have is a lot higher than in meatspace.

Math lesson time! Here is the formula for determining your odds of having something happen after repeated attempts.

P = 1 - (1-x)^n

Where x represents the probability of a given thing happening on any given attempt represented as a decimal, and n represents the number of attempts.

(As a side note, if you play games with major gacha/lootbox/etc. mechanics, the more obnoxiously ubiquitous those mechanics become, memorize this formula, it will work wonders toward keeping you grounded in your expectations, and that may just save your wallet.)

So. Let's assume that one person out of every 100,000 (one hundred thousand) is shitty enough to look at someone committing the HEINOUS CRIME of mildly annoying them on the internet, decide "this fucker needs to die," AND act on it. That's one out of every 100k who would actually live up to the stereotype of How An Internet Stalker Behaves. Here's a graph of exactly that probability function:

Note that as the number of interactions increases, the probability that one of them will be with an absolute monstrous scumbag approaches (but does not reach) 1 (or 100%).

So, what does this mean? It means that if you send a DM to one random person, OR you talk to a random person on the street - your odds of hitting That Guy are 0.001%. One in 100k. You are equally likely to guess the last 5 digits of someone's phone number on the first try, and more likely to die in a house fire within the next year (1 in 87,500), flip a coin and have it come up heads 16 times in a row (1 in 65,536), or be injured by a toilet badly enough to end up in the emergency room in any given year or get struck by lightning at some point in your life (1 in ~10,000). All in all, pretty unlikely and safe to do!

You send a message to a small Discord server, or walk into a bar - let's assume there are 24 people there. Then the math goes like this:

P = 1 - (1 - 0.00001)^24 = 1 - 0.99999^24 = 0.023997% (1 in 4,167.2)

Astute readers may notice that if I rounded any less precisely than that, it would give me the same result as if I'd just multiplied my odds by 24 - we're still in the part of the curve that looks perfectly linear. Sounds like a scarier number, comparatively speaking, but still lower than your odds of losing a finger or toe this year (1 in 2,000 for Americans), reaching into a random pile of 2015 SAT forms and pulling out a perfect score (1 in 3,370), or having your astronaut candidacy application accepted (1 in 1,830). Really not something you should be betting on.

But the internet makes BIG numbers possible. The internet lets you interact with hundreds of thousands of people within a day.

So, suppose you make a hit tweet. In 24 hours, it has been liked by 200,000 people. Odds are decent that 2 of those people are absolute fucking monsters - though there's also still a 14% chance that none of them are. Luckily for you, the odds are STILL low that you've pissed one of them off enough to target YOU, personally...

But that's still one tweet that most likely exposed you to at least one of them (among many, many others who are likely...mildly dickish at worst).

What I'm saying is, the takeaway from internet safety basics shouldn't be "most people on the internet are evil predators who want to hurt you", nor should it be "the odds of hitting a predator are so slim you should just go DMing your home address to everyone who asks after knowing you for a day," but remember what a probability function looks like. Letting yourself think that everyone who gives you bad vibes is the one in 100k EVIL MONSTER is antithetical to meaningful community-building and participation and is responsible for perpetuating a lot of bigotry and injustice; being careless in the face of an environment that gives you potentially millions of opportunities to run into That One Guy is a really good way to get yourself hurt.

The takeaway should be "the more publicly you're posting, the more careful you should be not to give the worst specimens of humanity everything they need to know to hurt you, but that doesn't mean you should come out swinging at just anyone who gives you a moderate case of the heebie-jeebies."

#internet safety