#hoodie for men 2021

[aerequets]

i was feeling a little nostalgic and so redrew some old miraculous kiddos :] i think its crazy how much my art has changed in 2.5 yrs. especially:

1. hair (especially especially mens hair, like adriens hair used to be so difficult for me... evidently LMAO) 2. clothes (marinette's hoodie in 2021? i'd wanted it to be baggy but. just. it wasnt happening LOL) 3. speed. i did these redraws way faster than the originals

anyways. yeah keep drawing 2.5 years is a really long time but the difference between even just a few months is so vast!! I just love that artists can VISUALLY SEE these things that's such a plus

#also peep the beige shift LMAO #my art #miraculous #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #miraculous ladybug #WOW these are old tags that i have not used in a hot minute #art growth

[hoodharlow]

In Tune With You

AN: idk, I was rereading Jack and Miriam and got in the mood to write some 2021!Jack and Miriam hanging out in Louisville

Requested? Kinda, I sent @nattinatalia and @heavyhitterheaux some tiktoks and one of them had Jack and Miriam vibes lol

Warnings: Jack being a terrible flirt and sm*t

Word Count: 4.7k words

“Mom, you’re joking.” Jack laughed.

“Am I laughing?” Maggie said sternly. 

“No.” he mumbled. 

“Then obviously, I’m not joking. Miriam is a guest, and you will be respectful of that and sleep in your own bed.” 

Miriam and Daisy were flying in from Atlanta and staying over for the Fourth of July weekend with Jack and his family. Jack invited her over since she wasn't visiting her family; Joseph was in Sydney filming, Miriam’s parents and grandparents were in Mexico for vacation and Katalina was in Europe for Men's Fashion Month. She didn't agree at first because she didn't want to take up space but Jack reassured her that it was okay for her to visit. He even facetimed Maggie to get her stamp of approval. So she agreed since she essentially had a week off from filming and didn't want to spend those few days alone in her brother's house.

Jack flew in from Vegas the night before and spent the whole morning helping his mom deep clean their house. He prepared his room for her, but his mom had other plans and fixed up the guest room, much to his dismay. He also bought some of her favorite foods and ordered Daisy's expensive dog food. 

"Wasn't Miriam landing at eleven?" Clay asked. 

"Yeah why?" Jack said. 

"It's 11:07." His brother nodded at the digital clock on the stove.

"Fuck!"

Jack grabbed his keys and ran out of the house. He pulled out his house and saw a few messages from Miriam, letting him know she landed. He called her and propped up his phone so he could talk to her through the speaker. 

"Hey." She answered after three rings.

"I'm so sorry. I was helping my mom set up your room and lost track of time. I'm ten minutes away." He said, changing lanes to get on the freeway. 

"It's okay, I'm in one of the gift shops looking for some bowls for Daisy. I forgot to pack her bowls." She said. 

"I'll call you again when I'm pulling up." He said. 

"Okay, bye." 

"Bye." 

He hung up and sighed. Thankfully there wasn't that much traffic and he was able to arrive at the airport at the time he told her. He pulled up his hoodie and put on his Prada sunglasses. He got out and called her. He spotted her by one of the bushes outside near the loading lane. Daisy was the first to notice him. She tugged Miriam, almost knocking her down. 

"Oh my god, Daisy, chill." Miriam mumbled. 

Jack bent down and hugged Daisy. He scratched behind her ears how she liked then stood up. He pulled in Miriam for a hug. They stared at each other for a few seconds, but then pulled away. Jack looked behind her and only saw two small carry-ons and Daisy's crate on the baggage cart. She had on her backpack and her bag. 

"That's all you have?" He asked, taking the cart so she wouldn't have to.

"Yeah, I mostly packed shorts and my undergarments. I planned on stealing some of your clothes too." Miriam shrugged, texting her parents to let them know she landed.  

"What are you taking to the lakehouse?" He carefully placed her things in the trunk. He went to return the cart in one of the return sections. 

"What do you mean?" She crossed her arms. 

"Every year me and a few of my close friends rent out a lake house and spend the Fourth of July there." He said, holding the door open for her. 

"And you're telling me this now?" Miriam frowned.

"I figured you'd over pack like you always do." 

"I pack accordingly and when I 'overpack' it's so I have options for events and places I have to be at." She clarified. "You told me we were chilling at your parents' house and that's what I packed for. Not once did you mention the lake house or that we're staying with your friends." 

"Let's go home and figure something out there." Jack mumbled. 

Miriam suddenly felt overwhelmed. She didn't mind the lakehouse or that she was meeting Jack's friends. What annoyed her was that he never mentioned that those were their plans. She hated feeling unprepared for things. 

They arrived at Jack's house. Miriam collected herself and plastered on a smile. Clay opened the door for her and hugged her, before helping Jack with her luggage. She went to great Jack's parents with Daisy. Their family dog came out and tentatively sniffed Daisy. The two dogs instantly became friends and chased each other in the front yard. 

"Lunch is ready if you're hungry." Maggie told Miriam. 

"Is it okay if I freshen up first?" She asked her. 

"Of course, let me show you your room." 

Miriam and Daisy followed her upstairs to a room next to a bathroom. 

"Here's your room. The bathroom is the room over. Jack's room is across the hall and Clay's is next to his. Mine and Brian's room is downstairs. If you need anything don't hesitate and let me know. Okay?"

"Everything's good. Thank you." Miriam smiled. 

"I'll leave you to it then." Maggie excused herself. 

Miriam was about to close the door when Jack appeared in the doorway with her luggage. 

"Can I come in?" He asked her.

"Yeah." She nodded. 

He placed her carry-ons on the foot of the bed and sat on the edge of the bed. He wiped sweat off his hands. "I'm sorry for not telling you about the group hangout. It's a tradition with the gang and I wanted to include you because you mean a lot to me. You have every right to be upset with me and–"

"I'm not upset with you…well I was, but not anymore." Miriam cut him off. "I was mostly upset because I packed ugly clothes. Like I'm gonna look like Adam Sandler and Gustavo from Big Time Rush had a love child." 

"That I can fix. I have a friend who works at a clothing store. If you want we can stop by after lunch." He said. 

"I was gonna ask if there was Target but that works too. Thank you." She hugged his head. Since Jack was sitting, he hugged her thighs. 

"It's the least I can do…I am sorry." He rested his head on her tummy. 

"You should be. I, Miriam Dominguez-Miller, can't be out here looking like shit."

*

Miriam wasn't joking when she said she was going to look like Gustavo and Adam Sandler. After lunch she showered and changed into a cropped white beater  and oversized green shorts . Thankfully they were enroute to the shop Jack's friend worked at. 

Jack pulled to a parking spot and jogged over to Miriam's side to open her door. 

They walked toward the store. Miriam was amazed at how people didn't give Jack a second glance. In LA and Atlanta someone always did a double take when he walked by them. Some had the decency to keep going about their day but others stopped and asked for pictures. She knew one of his pet peeves was people shoving their cameras in his face, so seeing him be normal was nice for a change. 

Just as Jack stepped in front of her to open the door, a girl with braids locked the door and flipped the sign from open to closed. 

"Diana, open the door." He tugged at the door handle. "I'm going to leave a bad yelp review and your mom is gonna get pissed."

"You're not fun." She said, unlocking the door. She smiled brightly at Miriam. "Hi, you must be the infamous Miriam. You know he never stops talking about you."

Miriam turned to Jack and gently nudged him with her shoulder. "You talk about me?"

Jack felt his cheeks warm up. He scratched the back of his neck and laughed it off. “We should hurry because my mom asked me to pick up dinner later.”

“Don’t rush me. It takes me a long time to look this good.” Miriam sassed him. 

“If you say so, Adam Sandler.” 

It took her a second to remember she looked like shit, but before she could  react Jack was already on the other end of the store sitting on a bench with his friend. She went to one of the racks and began looking through the clothes. Before she knew it three hours had gone by and went through the store. She was only going to get a few swimsuits and some tops, but then she started making outfits in her head with every other item she saw. Her number one rule in shopping was if she could make three outfits for three distinct events then she would buy it. Jack met up with her while she waited in line to pay. 

‘Bidi Bidi Bom Bom’ by Selena Quintanilla began to play through the speakers. Instantly Miriam bega singing to herself, but a few other people around heard her. When the song ended a few people clapped, making her feel shy. 

“Did you know you could sing like her?” Jack asked her. 

“I’ve been told I can imitate her, but I won’t say it myself because I don’t want her die hard fans to come for my ass.” she said. When she did the Elle Song Association video, a few viewers pointed it out but others were quick to shut it down.

“If they make a biopic of her you should audition,” he commented. 

“They already made one.” She said, 

“They did? When?” he asked incredulously.

“Are you kidding? JLo plays Selena. It’s what put her on the map.” 

“Wow, I feel out of the loop.” 

“We can watch it later. It’s on HBOMAX, but prepare to cry.” 

“I don’t cry in movies, Miriam.” 

*

Jack sat up abruptly, pointing at the tv. “She didn’t catch the rose.” A few seconds later the news reporter in the movie said that Selena was shot. “She was shot!?”

“Jack be quiet.” Maggie sniffled. 

The whole house was quiet as the movie continued. Maggie, Clay, and Miriam were full on sobbing by the end. 

"The ending always gets me." Maggie said, wiping her tears. "She was gone too soon." 

"She was." Miriam agreed. She looked over to Jack, noticing him wipe his tears. "Are you crying?"

"Psh, no." He said, clearing his throat. "I ate some of your spicy twisty chips and the spice got to me." 

"I haven't opened the bag." She said, shaking the bag to show it wasn't opened. 

"I'm not ashamed to admit that I cried." Clay said, kissing ass. 

"We're going to bed." Brian announced. 

"Don't stay up too late. If you want to avoid traffic tomorrow, y'all are gonna have to leave early." Maggie said. 

"Goodnight." Miriam bid them. 

"Night darlin'." Jack's mom said. 

"I think I'm going to bed too." Clay yawned. 

"Goodnight Clay." Miriam said. 

"If they're going to bed, maybe we should watch Spider-Man in my room?" Jack suggested.

"Wait, which one are y'all watching?" His younger brother asked, ignoring Jack's gestures to get out of room.

"The animated one with Miles Morales." Miriam answered. 

"Can I join you? I haven't seen it in ages." Clay said, wedging himself in between Jack and Miriam, earning a glare from his older brother.

"Yeah, but I'm gonna take Daisy out real quick, don't start it without me." She said before whistling to Daisy to follow her out to the back yard. 

Jack smacked Clay. 

"What the fuck, dude." Clay shoved him back. 

"Go to bed!" He whisper-yelled. 

"No! I want to watch Spider-Man." He whispered back.

"I was this close to having Miriam join me in my room." 

"Oh I'm telling my mom you were gonna undermine her." Clay got up.

"How much for you to keep your mouth shut and go to bed?" Jack asked, pulling up venmo. 

"Let me watch Spider-Man."

"Yeah, no." 

"MO-" 

Jack clapped his hand over Clay's mouth. "Fine but you're sitting over there." 

Clay rolled his eyes and sat on the other couch. Miriam and Daisy came back inside but they went upstairs. Minutes later Miriam came back alone dressed in a cropped white beater and silk pajama pants. 

"Sorry, Daisy is very particular about her sleep." She said, cuddling up on Jack. 

"Don't worry about it." He said, rubbing her arm. 

The movie played. Within the first ten minutes Clay curled up on the couch and fell asleep. His light snores filled the living room. Jack glared at him. He knew Clay wasn't going to make it through the movie and that he cockblocked him on purpose. 

"Should we wake him and send him to his room?" Miriam said. 

"That's what he gets for wanting to stay up later than he's used to." He said. 

Jack and Miriam were at the part where Gwen had to get her head shaved because Miles got his hand stuck on it when Jack shifted in his seat and placed his arm over Miriam's shoulder. His hand dangerously close to her breast. A few seconds passed and Jack moved his arm to the back of the couch, much to Miriam's dismay. 

"I'm gonna get some water." She said, getting up. 

She tripped over her slippers but Jack caught her by the hips before she fell over. She held onto his shoulders. Without thinking twice he pulled her to his lap. He grabbed the back of her neck, bringing her into a kiss. Miriam deepened the kiss and grabbed his free hand, slipping it under her top. Jack squeezed her breast, tugging her nipples how she liked. He groaned in her mouth as she slowly rocked her hips against the tent in his shorts. 

Clay snorted in sleep, startling awake. Jack and Miriam pulled away from each other. "What did I miss?" He asked groggily.

"Not much, uh, I'm gonna go to bed." Miriam said, evidently flustered. She pushed her hair back and gave Jack a small smile. 

Jack gave the same smile back. He didn't tear his eyes from her ass jiggle as she jogged upstairs. A throw pillow hit him in the face. He was ready to fight his younger brother. 

Clay simply shook his head and reminded him that, "Mom said keep it in your pants."

***

Jack was going to murder whoever brought the karaoke machine. Nobody wanted to use it the first days the group was there, but something shifted and they all wanted to perform. Everyone took a turn. Miriam was the last to go, but she was three songs in. And it didn't help that the girls were encouraging her and asking for encores. Though that comforted Jack because his girl friends were very closed off and didn't make any additions to their group. To see them welcome Miriam with open arms meant a lot to him. 

"Miriam put the karaoke mic down." Jack said through his teeth, getting on the makeshift stage, which was just the small platform in front of the fireplace, to get Miriam down. 

Obviously she didn't listen. She continued her rendition of Glamorous by the iconic Fergie. "So if you ain't got no money, take yo' broke ass home. G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S, yeah, G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S. We're flying first class up–" 

Miriam didn't calculate how much room she needed and slipped. Luckily Jack had been hovering and caught her. He couldn't risk her getting more injuries. The first day she slipped on the dock and bruised her knee. 

"Mic." He said, holding his hand out. Miriam rolled her eyes and passed it to him. He set it down on the binder with the catalog of songs. 

"Boo!" Aleena yelled, throwing popcorn at Jack.

Mallory, Diana, and Priscilla followed suit and threw popcorn at him. They chanted Miriam's name, but Jack just glared at them to stop. 

"I'm tired." Miriam mumbled, nuzzling her head in his chest.

"I bet you are. Did you even have breakfast?" He asked. 

Miriam woke up late and didn't eat with the group but she swore she was going to eat something. Though now that Jack thought about it, she didn't pinky promise him. She just nodded and double fisted two mimosas.

"I had some of the mimosas Mallory and Priscilla made." She said resting her chin on his chest to look up at him.

"So the only thing in your stomach is champagne and three drops of juice.” he sighed. It was well past noon and she should eat something. 

"No silly, I also had some palomas." she giggled. 

Jack rolled his eyes at her comment. He steered her to the kitchen and sat her on one of the chairs. He didn’t trust her sitting high up on a stool. He grabbed a bag of the frozen yakisoba and popped it in the microwave. After three minutes, the noodles were ready. He poured the contents on a bowl and cut a lime in half. He placed the food in front of Miriam and sat next to her. 

Miriam wiggled her fingers toward the bottle of sriracha that was out of her reach. Jack handed it to her and squeezed the generous amount onto her noodles. She began eating, quietly singing ‘Heavy Hitter’ to herself. Once she was done eating, Jack washed her dishes and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. 

They finally made their way upstairs to their room. Miriam went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth. She untied her Doc Martens and settled in the large bed. She huffed. The room was really hot and she could only sleep if the room was as cold as Antarctica. Luckily there was a ceiling fan. She tried to stand up, but she lost her balance. Fortunately for her, Jack was there and caught her. 

"Bro, what the hell are you doing?" He said, setting her down on the bed. 

"I'm hot." She whined. 

Whenever Miriam has a few drinks in her system. She either got whiny and cried when things didn't go her way. Or she'd get horny and want to dry hump Jack. The latter usually ended with her getting whiny and crying because didn't get her way. Jack didn't want to deal with either version of her so he catered to her every need. 

"That's easy to fix." He reached for the pull switch on the ceiling fan and pulled it twice. "Is that good?"

Miriam nodded. She grabbed the blanket bought at Target the other day and covered herself. Jack set a timer on her phone and put it to charge. He was about to exit the room when Miriam sat up. 

"Wait, where are you going?" She asked. 

"I'm gonna leave you to rest." He said. 

"Can you stay with me? But really stay, not stay until I fall asleep." She pleaded quietly. 

"Fine." He gave in. 

He kicked off his shoes and got under the blanket with her. Miriam wedged leg in between Jack's legs and hugged his stomach. She rested her head on his chest. Jack began to play with her hair until they dozed off. Not even five minutes Miriam woke up annoyed. 

"Miriam, I fucking swear if you're sneaking out…" Jack grumbled. 

She didn't answer. She sat up and undid her bikini top. It was digging into her sides and annoying her. The whole time they'd been at the lake house Miriam only wore bikini tops, except when she went to bed, she wore one of Jack's t-shirts. While she was at it, she took off the denim short shorts she wore, only staying in her bikini bottoms. She settled back in the same position she was in. 

Jack rubbed her back, but pulled himself away when he felt her bare skin against his fingertips. 

"Bro why are you naked?" He asked in a panicked tone.

"I'm not naked, I still have my bottoms." Miriam clarified. 

"Let me get you a shirt." Jack said.

"No, I wanna sleep like this." She pouted. "Come back to sleep."

"I'm not sleeping with you when you're topless." He argued.

"It's not like you haven't seen my chichis before."

"That's besides the point. Miriam, you're drunk."

She teared up. "Why won't you sleep with me? I just wanna sleep." 

"Will you put on a shirt?" He asked her in a stern tone.

"Yeah." She sniffled, wiping her tears. 

Jack grabbed one of his shirts and tossed it to her. She put it on and moved so Jack could settle back where he was. Miriam laid back on him. She reached for his hand and intertwined it with hers before finally dozing off. 

Later in the evening Jack and Miriam rejoined the group in their dock. They had several chairs and blankets set up so they could watch the fireworks. They brought out a few coolers filled with drinks and snacks. They also had some of the leftover pizza from dinner. It was now nighttime. 

Miriam pulled out her phone to check the time. She bought some medicine for Daisy to take so the fireworks wouldn’t scare her. But she had to time it so the pill could take effect when the fireworks went off. She saw the time and it was the window she had to give Daisy the medicine. She got up from the blankets and dusted herself off. Daisy was in one of the lawn chairs cuddled up with Jack. 

“Hey I have to take her so she can take her m-e-d-i-c-i-n-e.” she told Jack.

“I’ll go with you.” he said, getting up effortlessly with Daisy still in his arms. 

Miriam grabbed a slice of pizza from the table and followed Jack back to the house. She rushed to their room and grabbed Daisy’s medicine. She also bought her a snood to cover Daisy’s ears for extra precaution. She reached the kitchen and took out a pill while Jack distracted Daisy with her rope toy. Miriam tucked the pill in the pizza crust. She tossed it to Daisy who caught it without thinking. Before she realized that ingested medicine, Miriam tossed her a few pieces of pizza. 

“Did you give her the medicine?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, I’m going to stay for a bit and make sure it does take effect.” she said, rubbing Daisy’s belly.

“I’ll stay with y’all.” 

“No, go back with your friends. We’ll be fine.” she reassured him. 

“I’ll stay that way so you won’t walk over alone.” 

“Bro–”

“I’m staying and that’s final.” 

Miriam rolled her eyes and picked up Daisy, but Jack took her from her arms and carried her upstairs with her trailing behind them. Jack set Daisy down on her bed. She reached for her octopus stuffed animal that Jack gave her after their first meeting and cuddled with it. 

Jack didn’t plan for it to get too cold in the evening. He wore a button up short sleeve with matching shorts. He decided to change into a tracksuit. But he was struggling with the buttons on his shirt. 

“What are you doing?” Miriam asked, getting up from the floor. 

“These fucking buttons.” he mumbled, sitting on the edge of the bed.  

“Aver.” she stood in between his legs. 

She unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. Letting her body take the reins, she straddled Jack’s lap. She cupped his face and pulled him in for a deep kiss. One of Jack’s hands held onto the back of her head whilst the other wrapped around her waist. 

“We can’t have sex.” was the first thing that came out of Jack’s mouth.

“Oh.” Miriam got out of his lap embarrassed. “I’m so sorry. I assumed and–”

“I meant here. We can’t have sex here.” he explained. “I don’t want our first time to be quickie before we head out to see the fireworks with your dog snoring next to us.” 

“But can we still get frisky? Because I swear if you don’t play with my nipples or my pu–”

“You’re so demanding you know that?” He cut her off, helping Miriam out of her dress, leaving her in her green plaid bikini, and dropped to his knees. 

“Wait, can you take a picture of me?” she asked. “I forgot to get a picture of me in this one.” 

“Fine,” he said enthusiastically. 

Miriam grabbed her phone from the night stand and handed it to him. She leaned against the small vanity. Jack took a few pictures of her then handed her her phone back. She looked through them. They weren’t the best quality, but she still appreciated the effort. 

“Okay, I’m ready,” she said, jumping onto the bed. 

Jack didn’t waste any time. He was on her like his life depended on her. Without pulling away from their kiss, he undid the straps of her bikini, tossing it on the ground. He pulled away from her lips and kissed down to her chest. He tweaked one of her nipples while he nipped and sucked her other breast. Satisfied with the love bites on her chest, he captured her lips once more. 

After another heated make out session, Jack finally kissed his way down to Miriam’s thighs. He laid on his, pressing one of her legs down to keep her in place. He rubbed her clit, making her a whimpering mess. 

“Jack, I fucking–fuck!” she moaned out as Jack dove in between her thighs. 

He wiggled his tongue at her entrance. He moaned out at her taste as continued to eat her out. Minutes passed when he finally slid his middle and ring finger in her. She gasped at his touch. Her hands tangled in his hair pulling it for relief.

“Fuck!” She moaned out. He sped up his fingers then he slipped them out of her and rubbed her clit, quickly bringing her to her climax. She repeated his name over and over as she came. 

After Jack cleaned up her release, he kissed up her stomach and gave her a peck on the lips before laying next to her. Miriam rolled to her side and lazily made out with Jack. While still making out with him, she undid his shorts and slipped her hand inside his boxers. She pulled out his cock. She slipped her hands in between her thighs and rubbed her hand on some of her arousal to use as some sort of lube while she jacked Jack off. 

He was putty in her hand. Whining and grunting her mouth while she slowly continued to stroke his length. She ran her thumb over his tip then squeezed it as some of his pre-cum leaked onto her hand. 

“Want me to finish you off in my mouth?” Miriam asked softly.

“Yes, please.” Jack groaned. 

“Miralo, todo polite and shit.” she giggled as she situated herself in between his legs.

She spit on his length and slowly jerked him off with both hands. Then Miriam slipped him as far as she could take him. He let out an incoherent sound until she reached the back of her throat. She did it a few more times, egging him on. She pulled away, with a trail of saliva spilling from the corner of her mouth, and kissed down his length. Jack reached for one of her hands and placed on his knee, lovingly squeezing her hand. Miriam slowly bobbed her head up and down his length, getting her mouth used to him. She took him a little deeper each time. 

One of his hands gripped the back of her head, keeping her in place as he thrusted into her mouth. Miriam let out soft moans. Her hands gripped his legs, nails digging into his thighs. She continued to stroke him as he came, taking all of his release.

Jack sat up and brushed her curls away from her face. He pulled her in for a kiss as a firework went off, startling them both. 

“That’s our cue to go back.” Jack sighed.

“Or we can stay…” Miriam smiled innocently.

“Bro, I’m not fucking you.” he said, kissing her temple. 

“You’re no fun.” she pouted. 

“I promise you. It’ll be worth it. When I finally have you all to myself, I’m gonna take my time with you and make you mine.” 

Miriam frowned. “Jack, you can’t tell me that and expect me not to get horny.” 

•••

Jack via Instagram Stories on July 4th

@'mdm: indie day weekend

@'jackharlow: you're welcome for the last picture

-> @'mdm: it's blurry but tyyyy amiguchis 😌

-> @'jharlowfan: not amiguchis, he's hella friendzoned 😭

@'zendaya: 💚💚💚

@'cozane: 🎆

@'yungskylar: fucking G

@'die_ana: gorjussss

@'aleeeena: 💍

@'jackfan: why are Jack Harlow's friends commenting on her post 🧐

-> @'mdmxjh: she met them? maybe I'm reaching but the fireworks picture looks like one Jack posted on his ig story on the 4th of July and she posted that drink that's known in Kentucky? Maybe she was there too?

->@'mutual: well he commented that he took the last picture 😳

->@'mackshipper: the dress in the 4th slide looks like the one from a video one of Jack's friends posted from the lakehouse

->@'jackfan: what video?

->@'jhupdates: out of respect of Jack's friends and their privacy, I won't post it, but there's a video from a few days ago and Jack is hugging a girl wearing a dress like the one Miriam posted

View all 54,368 comments

Taglist: @cherryxcreme @heavyhitterheaux ​ @carma-fanficaddict ​ @youngharleezy @youngharleezyxo ​ @babyharleezy ​ @that-90s-girllll ​ @alinaharlow @harlowcomehome @nattinatalia @webinurcloset @gassyandsassy1 @jackharloww @awhore4moree @noescapricho-essentimiento @a-moment-captured @neon-lights-and-glitter @purecinnamonextract @cherry4everrr

#jack and miriam #jack harlow #jack harlow smut #jack harlow insta au #jack harlow instagram au

[ateezivy]

the scare of 2021

( 2021 )

warning ! pregnancy scare, obvious mentions of sex, this is not meant to sexualize anyone at all, pregnancy jokes

bold is english

ivy’s periods have always been fairly normal. her periods usually start on the exact day they are expected to, they feel the same, the flow is the same. she’s always been lucky to have a good cycle. that’s why whenever her period is even a day late, it can be concerning.

and this time around, it was no different.

see, mingi and ivy have been pretty sexually active recently. and they are safe, she’s on birth control, condoms, all that jazz. but there’s always that small, small, tiny chance that maybe it won’t work. and not only as a young woman, but an idol at that, it scares the living hell out of her.

that’s why when her period didn’t arrive even after two, three days, she was freaking the fuck out. there would be rare occasions when her period would be a day or maybe even two late, usually during stressful times or her diets. but, she didn’t feel stressed at the moment, she wasn’t on a strict diet. they’re in between schedules right now. is she stressed? when was the last time she ate?

on day one without her period. she freaked for a little, but let it slide, telling herself it will come tomorrow. and then tomorrow came. and nothing. the next morning after that, she rushed to the bathroom and… nothing.

shit.

the first person she could think of was her sister. her pregnant sister. yeah, she will know.

“you have such a stressful job olivia, it’s probably stress” her sister soothes the younger through the phone as her fiancé decorates the babies new room.

“yeah but… we’re in between schedules. and mingi and i haven’t exactly practiced abstinence” she mumbled into her phone, lord know what would happen if someone heard her right now.

“if you’re that concerned, talk to him.” she said like it was the easiest thing in the world to do. sure she told her fiancé, but they weren’t exactly preventing a child at the time either.

“but what if he-“

“he loves you liv, i’ve never seen you guys so happy before. the worst thing that could happen is that you take the test and it’s positive”

“that’s the point unnie! i don’t want a baby!” she whispered-screamed at her sister who chuckled

“i doubt you’re pregnant, trust me, you would know. but if you’re really that concerned, talk. to. him.”

ivy let out a sigh of frustration, “okay” she said with a pout.

“okay, i gotta go, i love you olivia” miya smiles and sing-songs cutely over the phone

“i love you too, bye-bye”

the singer sighed again and hung the phone up. her anxiety was high, which probably wasn't helping the later period... or maybe the ba-

no ivy, stop.

she walked into the living room to see jongho, seonghwa, wooyoung, and mingi on the couch just chillin. her boyfriend gave her an endearing smile, "what're you doing, love?" he asked.

she didn't say anything, instead she panicked. she grabbed jongho, dragging the poor boy off the couch and dragging him to her room and shutting the door. the other three sat there confused but decided to just brush it off. sometimes it's better to not ask questions.

"what the fuck" jongho said as he fixed his hoodie and ivy shut the door.

"my periods late" she blurted

"...okay?" men are so oblivious. the girl looked at him with a look until realization hit him in the face "you think you're pregnant?"

he might as well scream it through a microphone, "will you shut the fuck up?" she threatened and hit his arm. "and i don't know. i'm three days late"

"okay, and you're telling me instead of mingi hyung because...?" he questioned the girls choices in this moment.

"i panicked okay! and besides, you're my go to with secrets. hwa oppa would be the one giving birth if i told him"

"true," jongho nodded "i mean, are you sure jisoo-ah"

"i don't know, we've been fucking a lo-"

"ew, okay, no, shut up" he made a disgusted face and shook that image out of his head "i've heard enough. i think you should just talk to mingi about it and see where you guys wanna go from there"

she knew he was right, she knew her sister was right. but she was mortified of how mingi would react. "okay" she nods and chews her lip.

"i'll go grab him for you" he say walking towards the door.

"now?" she says nervously, she was planning a little later...

"yes now. if you don't speak up now you're going to stall"

why is jongho always right. she nodded again and sat on her bed as he walked out the room. he walked back into the living room where he was previously rudely dragged away from. mingi looked at him with a confused look. "she wants to talk to you" jongho said.

mingi pointed at himself a little anxiously, jongho nodded. seonghwa scrunched his eyebrows and wooyoung jokingly howled 'ooh mingi's in trouble!' seonghwa smacked him though.

"good luck" jongho smiled innocently and patted the tallers shoulder.

"don't say shit like that" he begged before opening the door to ivy's room and closing it after he stepped in. "hey, baby, what's up?"

ivy sat at the edge of her bed, bouncing her leg up and down like crazy. "uhm, so," she didn't want to look at mingi, but he stepped closer. he sat next to her, putting a comforting hand on her thigh, stopping the bouncing. "my periods late"

he instantly understood what she meant. she looked up, seeing his face go pale, "how late?" he questioned her.

"three days..." she spoke with a shaky voice, she sounded like she was going to cry.

"okay," he was freaking out inside, he didn't to scare her anymore than she already was. "call your sister, see if they can go out and buy some tests. we have to tell at least hongjoong"

of course. the leader. she nodded in agreement, if they were experiencing this their family deserves to know. "okay"

ivy called miya back asking for a test, her sister said she would send her fiance out to get them. until then, they decided to tell the others. well, ivy more of blurted it out.

they walked out of the bedroom after she got off the phone and now everyone was home all of a sudden, perfect, as if she didn't feel claustrophobic as it was. "are you okay jisoo-ah?" hongjoong asked, she felt like she was gonna be sick. looked it too

"yeah sh-"

"i think i'm pregnant." she cut her boyfriend off, shocking everyone in the room. everyone's eyes were wide, jaws dropped, bodies frozen.

"i- uh, did you take a test" the leader asked, placing a hand on the counter for leverage. the girl started to tear up as she looked up at mingi, if she spoke up she would bawl.

"her sister's fiance is bringing them" the taller clarified.

seonghwa and wooyoung walked over to ivy, embracing her as she stared at the ground, almost in shame. san walked over and spoke softly to her as mingi receive a glare from hongjoong.

"a word?" hongjoong asked mingi and guided him to his room. yunho knew it was bad timing, but he chuckled a little. not over the fact that ivy was possibly pregnant, but that mingi was getting a tern talking to about possibly getting ivy pregnant. yeosang had to turn away to hide his own chuckles.

seonghwa shoots them threatening eyes telling them to stop as ivy cried in his arms. "where's min" she asked, she zoned out long enough to not notice his sudden disappearance.

"he's with hongjoong" san said softly with a smile, "let's get you hydrated."

"it's a two person tango" mingi defended as his leader scolded him.

"you two should be more careful!" he insisted. he was worried about both of them, and surely at some point he would lecture the both of them about these scares. but ivy seemed to be taking it worse than mingi at the moment. or maybe mingi is just hiding it, maybe he needs to vomit.

"we are! there's still always at least one percent chance-"

a knock on the door interrupted the two, "hey, baby daddy, you're needed in the bathroom"

mingi opened the door to see a giggling wooyoung, "go to hell, wooyoung"

"already there" the shorter announced proudly and watched mingi knock on the bathroom door before entering. hongjoong smacked the cheeky member upside the head before passing him.

"now we wait" jongho sighed and leaned against the wall.

"you know, i wouldn't be too mad about a little mingi or ivy running around" wooyoung smiled to himself, san nodded silently in agreement, i mean it couldn't be that bad?

"you're going to lose speaking privileges" seonghwa raised an eyebrow and hongjoong rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen.

five minutes suddenly felt like five hours. mingi and ivy sat on the bathroom floor as their members sit on the floor outside the bathroom. they all wait anxiously, tapping their toes or fingers, snapping, humming, checking the time. how long was this gonna take?

jongho let out a sigh right before the bathroom door swung open, they all stood up immediately, ivy stood in the doorway with her hands behind her back and an unreadable look plastered on her face. everyone felt their hearts drop a little, thinking what anyone would.

"i'm not pregnant!" she shouted proudly, holding up the three tests she took. mingi laughed from behind her as everyone let out a breath they didn't know they were holding.

"thank god" hongjoong sighed.

"i know now's not the time, but whenever you guys are ready, i want to be an uncle"

"shut up wooyoung."

taglist: @atolua @skzfairies @itzy-eve @cixrosie @stopeatread @alixnsuperstxr @smh-anon @txt-yaomi @starmaniic

#ivy #kpop fanfic #kpop girls #kpop addition #kpop boys #kpop #kpop oc #kpop female oc #ateez female oc #fictional idol oc #ateez oc #ateez female addition #ateez addition #ateez fanfic #ateez reactions #ateez #fictional kpop idol #fake kpop group #fake kpop idol #fake kpop addition #idolverse

[respectthepetty]

Hi! First off all, brain praise: I LOVE THE WAY YOU SEE I LOVE THE WAY YOU ANALYZE I LOVE THE WAY YOU THINK

*clears throat and shifts feet *

How much do you think the colors apply to people in real life? How far are someone's true colors (hah) identifiable through the colors and accessories they wear? And does your brain highlight those for you in real life too? (If yes please elaborate please)

Do people choose the colors they like consciously and then over time the qualities/traits get magnified/infused (?) or do the qualities make you subconsciously choose those colors as silent representation of the inner self?

Like if a red rascal consistently and consciously is trying to be a green guy or blue boy, will wearing those colors change his red rascal-ness over time?

Thank you in advance for taking the time to read through this

Anon, go look at your closet. What does it say about you? Is it an accurate representation of who you are as a person.

Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. But I KNOW colors apply to people in real life, and I've written about this in other posts:

Why the colors?

Color-coding groups

Cultural color coding

Real-life color coding

Real-life color coding Part 2

Visual Rhetoric

But I'm going to be more scientific in my answer here since you want specifics.

TLWR: The colors mean things in real life, but we cannot color code the same as in visual media.

Most of these research studies are hidden behind a paywall, but the links will show you the abstracts.

A 2013 study found that people who were ovulating wore more red and pink clothing. It was a subconscious decision to highlight they were fertile [x]. However, when the study was conducted again in 2021, the results were not significant. The researchers suggested this change was due to a shift in unwanted attention (e.g. MeToo Movement). [x]

But women who wear red in the service industry receive more tips from men. [x]

Sports psychologist have long noted that players who wear red are deemed more aggressive than those who wear blue. Players who wear green are judged more fairly. [x] [x]

Several studies have found that people who wear black are seen as more attractive, specifically men [x]. There is an entire book about the historical context of Men in Black. [x]

During times of global competitions (World Cup, Olympics, etc.) color association is the strongest for national identities. For example, this study showed that orange was consistently associated with The Netherlands regardless if the person wearing it was Dutch. [x]

Research in educational design, interior design, and architecture concludes that colors affect the space in terms of emotions and production. [x]

Plants react differently depending on the color of the lighting they receive [x]. Animals as well. [x]

Colors mean things.

However, when you ask how colors affect people in "real life" I always have to give a tiny lecture because the term "real life" is broad. I know what you are asking, but art is real life. What colors we see on our screens have a real-world connection; therefore, they have real life implications. Barbie being pink is real life because pink in Eurocentric ideals is a feminine color, and Barbie is the epitome of femininity. We see this carry over into other pieces of visual media like Power Rangers where for thirty years, the Pink Ranger has been a woman.

The Japanese equivalent of Power Rangers finally had a male Pink Ranger in 2022, but culturally, Japan isn't tied to feminine pink the way the United States is. We use these colors in media because they mean something in real life.

But most people do not consciously go around choosing colors. People have favored colors, and they gravitate towards them more. People also have favored prints and styles such as florals or hoodies. So trying to categorize people based on the colors they wear in their everyday lives could quickly fall into dangerous territory, especially because a lot more goes into “real life” choices.

Neutral colors are more accessible in clothing – black and white. Blue can be found in nature; therefore, it has been easier to duplicate in dyes using natural resources. The red dye we typically use today comes from squishing a bug. When inventing new colors that weren’t seen in nature or that could not be duplicated through natural means, we used dangerous ingredients that could not and should not have been produced on a large scale.

All of this is to say that it is difficult for us to color code in real life because we do not have unlimited closets to pick items from like production teams. Most of us are not rich, so we must purchase what is available on the public market, and we must wear what we have available on the public market. Looking briefly at any clothing store, we can see how limiting those options can be:

This man cannot be a Red Rascal nor a Pink Person because the options do not exist for him at this store, and this is true of most men’s clothing. Because we live in a binary society, we get binary options. Men can’t be colorful unless it's blue (standard boy color), but women can. Prime example - The Met Gala.

And yet science tells me that we will find the man in the clothing ad more attractive in black. We will find him more approachable in white. We will deem him nonthreatening in blue-ish grey. We will see him as more of a worker in the tan/brown.

So, yes, I notice colors . . .  because we assign meaning to colors.

If I see someone in a red suit in a crowd of black, I’m going to think that person is bold and wants to stand out, but that might not be true of his everyday nature.

People make subconscious decisions based on the society they live in, so if someone is feeling down or wants to appear more attractive, they might wear more black, but if someone wants to stand out or appear Dutch, they could wear orange.

But because it’s real life, we can’t always pick colors to match our emotions or personality. But we CAN do that in visual media, which is why we do. We can be more intentional about everything in visual media, so we are. Visual media is a more extravagant version of real life. So we can get the boy in the blue and the girl in the pink and when they come together, it makes purple.

I could write about this all day, but I have to work for a living and actually get to teach about this ALL SEMESTER because there is a lot to unpack. This is art, biology, psychology, anthropology, sociology, marketing, and so much more because this is life.

Colors are real life.

And they mean things.

#the colors mean things #color coding in real life #color coding is real life #color association #color symbolism #color psychology #color theory #it's everything #because colors are everything!

[disneyprincemuke]

the hated and the endeared

[fast times and fast nights]

when you think rebellious and outspoken in f1, who is your answer? if your answer is jupiter nightshade, you’d be absolutely right. so, imagine everyone’s surprise when it came out — through no fault of her own because aella had posted a picture of them together — that seemingly cold hearted jupiter is dating warm and bubbly oscar piastri.

→ qatar, 2021

“oi, mate!” oscar barges into the garage with a hand on his forehead. “why did you do that?”

aella, pulling her red racesuit up her legs looks up at her best friend in the dark blue hoodie. “what did i do?”

jupiter comes out from behind him with her hands on her hips. “you outted us to the public, aella.”

at the sight of the world champion — the person she looks up to, literally — she stumbles back a couple of steps and holds onto the wing of the car parked in the garage to balance herself. “it was a group photo!”

“i had my hand around her waist!”

“it’s not my fault you can’t keep your hands off of her for one picture!”

jupiter sighs, throwing her head back. “aella.”

“i’m sorry,” she cries out, hurriedly pulling up her race suit over her body. “i thought you guys were okay with people finding out. we went to the bahamas together! that’s a public space. i’m sorry, jupiter.” she looks at oscar. “help me; i don’t want to get mauled before my race.”

a small smile plays on jupiter’s lips watching the younger driver looking at oscar for some form of protection. she taps aella on her arm. “okay, fine. only because,” jupiter sighs, wrapping her hands around oscar’s arm and rests her head on his shoulder, “i like him a lot.”

there are many questions surrounding their involvement. oscar… oscar piastri… that name rings a bell, doesn’t it?

— renault junior, oscar piastri, wins 2020 f3 championship title on first try

— breaking: prema driver, oscar piastri, announces retirement from racing after winning 2021 f2 championship title to focus on furthering his education

i think you can see why there’s a lot of questions regarding their involvement. a kid with a bright future ahead of him in the racing scene suddenly steps away after his alleged involvement with the reigning world champion.

rumour has it that jupiter had asked oscar to step away from the racing scene so that she can keep unapologetically be a menace on the track. there was even one alleging that jupiter is forcing him to be her trophy boyfriend – to sit in the sidelines while she dominates the track.

❝no, god! that’s an absurd thing to say. stepping away from racing to focus on my education is a decision that was set in stone even before i met jupiter. she didn’t have to convince me to quit racing; she didn’t even know of the decision up until a week before my last race in f2.❞

❝ohh, he announces his retirement from the sport and suddenly everyone is accusing me of forcing him to quit racing. no, i didn’t tell him to quit. i even joked with oscar that the only way i’ll be giving up my championship is if he is fighting me for it.❞*

the villainisation of jupiter nightshade doesn’t end there. you know how to story goes: a woman dominating a sport meant for men. the woman who paved the way for several others to earn their rightful spot in f1 with her and roxanne castle.

– ❝jupiter nightshade takes the podium once again for tonight’s race. on your screens, folks, is jupiter and her boyfriend, oscar piastri, in an embrace. this win means a lot for her – she’s now taken the lead for the driver’s championship away from mercedes driver (and long time rival) sonnet pham.❞

– ❝oscar piastri was sighted walking about in the paddocks alongside best friends, aella gutierrez and logan sargeant, before bidding them goodbye to enter the red bull racing home.❞

– ❝jupiter nightshade’s custom ferrari was spotted in oscar piastri’s university parking lot. shortly after, they were seen walking out of campus hand-in-hand before he drove them out of the parking lot.❞

– ❝there’s just something off about how oscar retired shortly after they came out and told everyone they’re dating.❞

– ❝did you see oscar’s instagram the other night? they went on a romantic dinner in monaco together! that might have been one of the rare times that i’ve seen jupiter nightshade sport such a genuine smile.❞

– ❝jupiter nightshade is under investigation by the fia stewards for pushing another driver off the track.❞

but even ice melts when you’re in the presence of the warmest smile everyone’s ever seen.

→ japan gp, 2023

“no, it doesn’t make any fucking sense!” jupiter scolds, walking into her garage with her helmet in her hands. “that’s stupid – why did you let kelly pass me? i was faster! i needed those extra points!”

christian sighs, stepping back as the angry girl approaches. “jupiter, please. calm down first.”

“camellia closed up our gap! one wrong move and i swear either mercedes is coming for my throat in the championship fight!” she throws her arms in the air. she takes a deep breath, ready to continue her rampage.

in the corner of her eye, she notices a figure taking off the headphones from his head and approaching her. she does a double take, unsure if she’s hallucinating. she raises her eyebrows with a smile. “oscar!”

“jupiter!” oscar laughs, opening his arms as he comes towards her. “surprise! i made it out this weekend! i finished my submissions early and i got a flight to fly out in the afternoon yesterday. i arrived this morning; i’ve been hiding in the mclaren home with aella the entire day.”

“oh, you’re sneaky!” jupiter laughs, throwing her arms around oscar. “i’m so glad you could make it. thank you.”

the signature smirks turn into the warmest smiles in his presence — some might argue that her ice cold demeanour is thawing with his presence. but everyone says, and swears, that oscar piastri made jupiter nightshade more likeable. they could very well be right. but is that what she thinks?

@cashtons-wife @darleneslane @angsthology

#oscar piastri x oc #formula one oc #f1 oc #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 x oc #disneyprincemuke #disneyprincemuke imagine #disneyprincemuke imagines #disneyprincemuke f1 #disneyprincemuke ftfn

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Dion J. Pierre

Mohammed Othman, one of a gang of men who in 2021 brutally attacked and pepper-sprayed Joseph Borgen in New York City as he was on his way to a pro-Israel rally, was sentenced to five-and-a-half years in state prison and five additional years of post-release supervision in a Manhattan criminal court on Wednesday.

Borgen, who is Jewish, was wearing a kippah while walking in Manhattan when Othman, along with four other men, ambushed him without being provoked. They also shouted antisemitic slurs at the pro-Israel advocate, who suffered a concussion, wrist injury, black eye, and bruises all over his body.

As seen in footage of the incident, Othman pepper-sprayed Borgen three times and also pepper-sprayed a bystander who attempted to stop the assault. Othman, 26, pleaded guilty in October to second degree assault as a hate crime. The Algemeiner has reached out to his attorney for comment for this story.

Borgen, who was 29 at the time of the attack, told The Algemeiner on Wednesday that he is pleased with the outcome of the case but also worried that the group with which his attackers were allegedly affiliated, the extreme anti-Zionist organization Within Our Lifetime (WOL), is still engaging in antisemitic activity that could lead to more hate crimes.

Since Hamas’ Oct. 7 massacre across southern Israel, WOL has posted (and deleted) a map, titled “Know Your Enemies,” showing the addresses of Jewish organizations in New York City, and staged numerous disruptive protests. The group is led by Nerdeen Kiswani, a former City University of New York (CUNY) student who once threatened to set on fire someone’s Israel Defense Forces (IDF) hoodie while he was wearing it.

#mohammed othman #joseph borgen #within our lifetime

[gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot]

Never assume the obvious is true

I present to you a collaboration fic with @wormscantscreem, who is a lovely, lovely person with a very interesting OC who we introduce all of you to, and now lives (rent free) in my little fic universe. Enjoy!

This will be the first of a series of flashbacks (one shots or mini series) that will have their own masterlist

Tagging my usuals: @glitterypirateduck @letsreadallday @jamesrifftapes @rileyslibrarian

Late July 2021

Kandahar Airport, Afghanistan

‘‘Can you explain why we’re here now?’’

Kate Laswell sighed deeply, barely turning her head to look at her ‘assistant’, who was looking around with clear bemusement in their face. After letting their eyes roam around for a moment their expression changed to disgust. And Laswell could understand why.

The Kandahar Airport was a buzzing pot of disgruntled, nervous and angry looking foreign soldiers and local personnel running around and barking orders at each other. As they strolled towards the building where the particular unit they were looking for had been stationed, Laswell couldn’t help but think that the place looked like it would fall apart soon.

The whole country looked like it would fall apart soon.

‘‘We are here because the operator I need can't be contacted, and I’m going to yell at their CO for sending her squad out on a mission when I clearly stated that I needed that particular asset’’

‘‘That explains why you are here, but not why I am here’’ Jester whined, toying with their checkered tie. Laswell sighed looking at them with resignation. She had tried, hard, to make Jester change their… colorful outfit into something more fitting for the heat, but her ‘assistant’ had only consented into changing their striped trousers and shirt into some sand colored cargo pants and a short sleeve t-shirt. But they were still wearing their tie, and their patterned hoodie with a jester hood hanging at their back, and their usual beanie covering their dirty blond hair.

‘‘You are here because you have a particularly useful skill that I’d love to put to use right here’’

Loge ‘Jester’ Eirdotter rolled their grayish blue eyes, looking around with a huff. They kicked a small rock in their way, with their hands in their pockets. A pout on their face to further express their discontent, and Laswell rolled her eyes as well, but waited. She knew Jester’s curiosity would do the rest.

‘‘What am I supposed to discover in this dusty hole?’’

Laswell hid her smile and nodded. There it was. The detail that made it possible for her to get Jester to agree without really agreeing. Their hunger for information, for details that would fetch a good value. 

‘‘We’re going to the HeadHunters’ quarters’’ She turned her head when Jester stilled for a moment, like a cat with its ears on high alert, quickly covering up their intrigue with another huff. Laswell smiled. ‘‘Yeah, that one. Under the command of Captain William Rico’’

‘‘That guy’s a bastard, for what I found. Other COs hate him, highest rate of injuries or KIA of any Special Unit…’’

‘‘I know’’ Laswell nodded patiently, opening the building door and waiting for Jester to step inside before following them. ‘‘But I have nothing useful to shut down whatever shady shit he’s doing yet’’

‘‘So you don’t really know if he’s doing anything’’ Jester barked a bitter laugh, shaking their head. ‘‘Maybe he’s just a bastard. I’m sure you know plenty’’ They snickered. Men like Rico were a dime a dozen. Jester diverted their gaze, mentally cataloging the possible weak points they could exploit. This would be a dull job. Jester kicked another pebble, they were bored. They’d prefer to be out and about, getting their nose in whatever the higher-ups were keeping locked away from view. Their fingers almost itched.

‘‘90% of his operators were booted from other units for questionable behavior, going from theft, gambling, and who knows what to less serious things as insubordination, bullying, brawls, or being absent without permission’’ Laswell stopped to allow a couple of local civilian personnel to pass before continuing up the stairs. 

‘‘If he commands such a delightful collection of criminals, why are you interested in employing one of them?’’ Jester titled their head, they’d never been able to get a good read on Laswell. 

‘‘Sergeant Christine Vega is not a criminal, nor is any of her squad. They’re the black sheep of the unit’’ Laswell checked her watch and stopped at the start of a hallway. Clearly, she didn’t want anyone else to listen to what she had to say. ‘‘She is here because she beat a fellow Sergeant in Gibraltar for trying to assault a Corporal in the common showers. I’ve worked with her on several missions to date. She is a good soldier’’

‘‘I see..’’ Jester huffed again, pretending to be uninterested, but that particular piece of information was valuable. ‘‘Is that Vega in your pocket then?’’

‘‘We’re friends’’ Laswell answered weakly, heading down the hallway, and Jester’s brows raised with interest. Oh, that was rich.

‘‘Friends friends or friends as in you are using her pretending to be friendly?’’

Laswell didn’t answer, checking the names on the doors, and Jester smiled triumphantly. That was also a valuable piece of information. Still musing about it, they observed while their handler knocked once on a door and opened it without waiting for an answer. The name of the door was Captain William Rico.

‘‘For the love of God, Laswell, I can’t get rid of you, can I?’’ Captain Rico glared at the CIA Station Chief while rising to his feet, stuffing the papers he had been reading in one of the drawers of his desk. ‘‘I told you last fucking time I don’t want you meddling with my unit’’

‘‘I’ve told you already that I care little about what you want, Rico’’ Laswell kept her tone calm, like always, but the slight frown betrayed her apparent poise. ‘‘I wouldn’t be here dealing with you if you had done as you were told a month ago’’

Jester took the opportunity to take a look at the Captain, who they only knew on paper.

Captain William Rico was not a very tall man, but what he lacked in height he compensated with a broad muscular build. On his left forearm he had a tattoo of a skull impaled on a spear, with fire shooting out the empty sockets. 

‘‘I will send out my soldiers whenever and wherever I decide it’s appropriate and…’’ He stopped talking when Jester came into his line of sight, and he snorted. ‘‘Are you traveling with a circus now, Laswell?’’

‘‘Clever words, thou yeasty beetle-headed clotpole” Jester spat back, voice flat and eyes unmoving. 

Rico’s eyes narrowed dangerously as his jaw clenched, and Laswell hurriedly looked at Jester and whispered.

‘‘Go and get busy with something while I speak with him’’

Jester huffed and rolled their eyes. Giving a dramatic bow before moving.

‘‘Don’t let the fiend bite, he looks like he has rabies’’ They jeered. Leaving the office with a prep in their step, ignoring the swear words that came from behind, which was promptly cut off by the slam of the door closing. 

-

Half an hour later Jester had learned that the mess hall food was shit, who was running the contraband gig and where they got their supplies from, that a couple of local male nurses at the infirmary were distributing opioids at very low prices, where the airport manager liked to hide to nap after lunch and, most importantly, the schedule of the squads that were out and about in different recon missions in the area.

Sergeant Vega’s Phoenix Squad, who had been sent nearly a week ago to the mountains, was due to arrive earlier that very same day, but they were late. 

Bored out of their mind, Jester continued wandering around the airport, vaguely interested in the commotion at the main entrance of the airport, where a couple of dusty light armored Husky had just arrived. The Tactical Support Vehicles were soon swarmed by support personnel to take care of them as the soldiers that were inside climbed down. 

Maybe if they wandered closer…

‘‘Oi, weirdo, who let the clowns out?’’

Well, it was fun while it lasted. Jester rolled their eyes and barely turned their head to watch a small group of low ranking soldiers that were sheltering themselves from the heat by lying around under the shade provided by one of the hangar’s doors. Some were playing cards, and they were obviously off duty, bored, or both.

Seeing that their comment had no response, the boldest of them, a tall, lanky man with short hair and the insignia of Corporal on his sleeve, stood up with a grin.

‘‘Wasn’t aware the circus was in town, boys’’ Encouraged by the chorus of laughter behind him, he strolled towards Jester, followed by a couple of his mates. The rest were fine staying where they were, enjoying the spectacle. ‘‘What are you supposed to be dressed as, weirdo?’’

Jester looked the men up and down and rolled their eyes once more, before forcing their face into a ‘customer support smile’.

“Oh? I’m here for the awards ceremony’’ Jester answered in a sing-song tone. 

“The what?” 

“I’m here to give out awards” Jester continued, slapping their hands together over their chest. Fake smile steady and bright. A few soldiers exchanged looks of uncertainty.  

“Yea right..” The leader of the group muttered, trying to get back control of the conversation. 

“I actually have an award for you, sir~” Their unwavering smile starting to become eerie.  

“You do?” The corporal answered, brows furrowed.

“Why yes. The committee has never seen anyone live up to the title quite like you!” Jester reached behind their back, fiddling with their fingers for a moment before bringing forth a closed hand. 

“May I bestow upon you the title of-” Jester opened their hand, it’s empty, instead turning it around to give a middle finger to the soldier. Expression becoming lax and voice falling flat. “- peaking in highschool” finishing of their performance with their other hand doing enthusiastic ‘jazz hands’.

The soldiers stood silent for a moment before there was a collective ‘ooohhhh’ that came from the group of soldiers still sheltering under the shade. Laughter soon erupted from them. The Corporal’s face threatened to turn a shade of red as he grimaced.

‘‘The fuck did you just say??’’

Jester stepped back, raising their hands in a conciliatory gesture.

‘‘I don’t want problems. How about we both forget this and I just take my leave?’’

‘‘No fucking way, I’m going to fuck you up’’ The Corporal reached out, with the intention of grabbing the hoodie’s collar, but froze mid-movement, looking at something behind Jester.

‘‘Is there a problem here?’’ 

Still with their hands up, Jester turned slowly to find a woman a couple of steps behind, with a FN Scar-H MK17 resting on her shoulder. Dressed head to toe in tactical gear that was covered in dust and dirt, she was slightly shorter than Jester, but was considerably thicker and more muscular. Her blonde hair was kept in an informal ponytail under the helmet, and her eyes were unreadable due to the sunglasses she was wearing. 

Although her tone was completely calm and casual, Jester noticed that she looked utterly exhausted. Given how dirty her gear was, she must have been out on some kind of assignment until not long ago.

‘‘No, ma’am’’ The Corporal stepped back a bit, and the woman sighed tiredly.

‘‘Stand at attention when speaking to a superior officer’’ Her tone was still completely calm, even soft, but the soldiers hurried to get on their feet and stand at attention, muttering sorrys and yes ma’ams. ‘‘I’ll ask again, is there a problem here?’’

‘‘No, Sergeant’’ The Corporal’s eyes were staring at the horizon, refusing to look at the woman in front of him. ‘‘We were just having a bit of fun banter with the w… with this person here’’

The woman’s covered gaze turned to Jester. All her movements spoke about how tired she must have felt, but she was still standing straight as an arrow.

‘‘Were you having fun?’’

‘‘Not really’’ Jester muttered, lowering their hands slowly. The Sergeant nodded, and turned her head towards the soldiers.

‘‘You’re antagonizing a civilian. There’s no need for me to tell you how morally wrong that is, or how many regulations you’re breaking. You have sixty seconds to disappear from my sight before I decide I’m not too tired to supervise a training drill at the assault course’’

‘‘Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am’’ The soldiers rushed to gather their things and disappear, but stopped in their tracks when she spoke again.

‘‘It’s not me you have to apologize to’’ When the soldiers looked at each other, uncomfortable and unsure of what to do, she calmly checked her watch. "Thirty-five seconds"

"We're… sorry" The soldiers looked at Jester, some of them looking truly remorseful, the rest looked crossed, but it was clear none of them wanted to deal with the Sergeant or the assault course in that heat.

Jester looked back at them, crossing their arms with a smug look, enjoying the tiny bit of power that had landed on their lap.

"Twenty seconds" The Sergeant was still staring at them, checking her watch from time to time, but Jester could have sworn the corner of her lips were a bit more upwards than before.

"Fiiine… Apology accepted" Jester shrugged at last, and with a nod from the woman next to them, the soldiers promptly left in a rush. 

The Sergeant observed them, and then turned towards Jester.

"You alright then?"

"Yeah" Jester shrugged, their hands returning to the pockets of the cargo trousers. "Thanks for that,” They added with a strained smile. “Guess I should go back to my boss"

"That would be best" The Sergeant nodded, looking away to the right, where a small group of equally dirty and tired soldiers were waiting. "I'd advise you to wear the visitor badge more visible next time"

"The color doesn't go well with my tie" Jester sighed, and the Sergeant chuckled tiredly.

"Riot! Are you coming?" One of the people waiting called out, and the Sergeant raised a thumbs-up towards them before facing Jester again.

"Take care" 

Jester watched her leave to reunite with her mates, but didn't have much time to think before their phone started vibrating.

With an exacerbated sigh they read Laswell's text message, ordering them to meet her at the mess hall, and started their way there, with no rush at all.

-

By the moment they got there, Kate Laswell was already waiting at the door, looking angry. But when Jester approached her, she forced herself to smile.

"Would you like a cup of coffee? I sent word for  Sergeant Vega to meet us here"

"You look like you'd prefer poison"

"Oh, I do, but to put it in Rico's canteen" Laswell chuckled, but Jester wasn't really sure how much of a joke her comment was. Murder wasn't beyond the scope of Laswell's abilities.

Once both of them were sitting more or less comfortable in a secluded table, Jester decided to casually pry for more.

"So, what happened with Rico?"

"He's an insufferable piece of shit" Laswell rolled her eyes, warming her hands on the hot cup of coffee in front of her in spite of the horrible heat inside the room and the whole country. "He received the paperwork to release Vega temporally under my command, and instead of informing her and allowing her to rest, sent her squad out to the mountains to speak with the villages"

"Have you used her before?" Jester inspected the cup in front of them before carefully taking a sip. The coffee was surprisingly good.

"She's Wolf-7" Laswell nodded, looking around. The mess hall was almost empty at that hour, with only a handful of officers sitting together on the other side of the room.

"She's not good enough to be number one?" Jester stared at Laswell, seemingly unimpressed. It was true that they knew of the existence of the Wolves. More than once they had had to gather specific intel for one or another, but always passed it to Laswell, never contacting the operators directly.

"The numbers were assigned in the order they were recruited for the first team. From then on, in group or alone, they use that moniker" Laswell looked at the door again, and smiled more sincerely. Her shoulders relaxed and the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes were more noticeable, and Jester mentally archived the detail that she looked sincere. Genuinely glad as she rose to her feet. "Hi, Christine"

"Hi, Kate" 

The same calm, soft voice. Jester raised their eyes and observed in silence while the two women shook hands, and then with an awkward laugh shared a brief hug.

"I'm filthy, Kate" 

"I can smell that" Laswell smiled, sitting down again. "Jester, this is…"

"Riot" Jester shrugged when Laswell looked at her with curiosity. "Came across her a bit ago"

Sergeant Christine 'Riot' Vega sat down, looking exhausted, but she had got rid of most of her gear, which allowed Jester to study her better.

Now she was wearing just a black short sleeved t-shirt and her dusty camo cargo pants with the holster strapped to her thigh. Her sunglasses were hanging from her t-shirt's collar, and her blue-gray eyes looked tired, with dark circles under them due to stress and lack of sleep. Her pale skin looked sunburnt in some places.

"Staying out of trouble, I hope" Riot smiled at Jester, who snorted and sipped their coffee.

"Trouble? What have you…" Laswell started to say, but stopped talking when one of the local boys working at the mess hall approached their table with a cup and a teapot.

"Chai, Sergeant Vega?"

"Lutfan (Please)" Riot smiled, accepting the cup and waiting until the boy filled it with a fragrant orange liquid. "Tashakur (Thank you)" 

"You've been here for a month and a half and you speak Dari already?" Laswell laughed quietly, shaking her head. Vega sipped a bit of the fragrant tea before answering.

"Only a couple of words and greetings. We are in their country, it's good manners to at least learn how to say please and thank you"

"I thought you hated tea" The CIA Station Chief commented, sipping her coffee.

"I hate British tea" Riot shrugged, with a tired smile. "This one is nice. And it's good manners to accept it when they offer it to you in this country"

"And I'm forgetting mine" Laswell smiled back, and gestured at her 'assistant'. "This is Loge Eirdotter. Likes to be called Jester. Loge, this is Sergeant Christine Vega, callsign Riot"

"A pleasure," Vega smiled. Jester nodded, before crossing their arms and slouching back in the chair.  Vega let out a half hearted chuckle, pleased she read the strange-clad ‘civilian’ right by not offering her hand in case they felt uncomfortable. She then looked back at Laswell. "I doubt you've come all the way to Kandahar to chat with me about the weather, so out with it"

"I need you"

Riot sighed deeply, crossing her arms on the table and then resting her head on them.

"Where am i going?"

"Kastovia" 

Jester looked at one and another while drinking their coffee, interested in both the details and their body language. 

"When?" Riot's voice sounded muffled, weaker, with her face still buried in her crossed arms. 

"That's the best part" Laswell grunted, leaving the cup on the table. "The operation was supposed to start three days ago. We're behind schedule"

"I haven't slept in thirty-six hours…" Vega muttered, raising her head again and rubbing her eyes with a deep sigh. "Let me guess, you submitted the paperwork and Rico cleaned his ass with it"

"He had the nerve to say that he received it after you had already left." Laswell was visibly angry just thinking about it, and Riot just grinned.

"So he doesn't know how to use the radio…" She laughed softly, leaning back in the chair to rest her back, crossing her arms over her chest. "And why is Jester here?"

"Pretending to be my assistant" Laswell's face relaxed again in a smile, and Jester rolled their eyes with a loud snort. "They're very good at gathering information…"

"I'm here against my will" Jester blurted out, a cheery smile across their face, and Laswell sighed.

"... and at expressing their opinions. They happened to be with me by chance when I decided to fly here"

"Because you needed backup to kidnap me?" Riot laughed, drinking the rest of her tea. "Anything to leave this dustbin behind… Am I alone or in a group?"

"I'll tell you the details later on the plane" Laswell checked her watch, and then her mobile phone. "I'm just waiting for the tank to be refilled"

"Can I shower first?" Vega asked tiredly. "I guess a couple of hours to get some sleep is out of the question"

"You have time to shower and get your things, but nothing else. I want to get out of here before Rico finds something else to be a dick about. You can sleep on the plane"

"Can't sleep on something that is moving" Riot muttered, standing up to leave. "Give me an hour. I'll see you on the tarmac"

Jester watched her leave, and then turned their head to look at Laswell, who was still observing her 'friend'.

"I was with you 'by chance'? Liar, liar, pants on fire. You dragged me here~"

"Not now, Loge" Laswell sighed, tapping with her fingertips on the table. 

"You'd better not pretend me to go to Kastovia"

"You're not going to Kastovia. You'll be with me in Armenia, working your magic to find out intel that could help"

"Help with what?" Jester narrowed their eyes, a mischievous glint shining in the corner. Laswell sighed and shook her head.

"I'll tell both of you at the same time"

Fantastic. Simply fantastic. The week could not get any better. 

#cod oc #cod original character #cod ocs #call of duty oc #call of duty original character #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #cod fic #cod fanfiction #call of duty fanfiction #call of duty fic #riot vega #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #christine riot vega

[honestlytastygayasstrash]

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[mariacallous]

The young rioter surveyed the scene. A bus and a car blazed on O’Connell Bridge while masked groups marauded across the city centre looting shops, attacking police and shooting fireworks, turning the air acrid.

A police helicopter hovered and officers with shields and batons were assembling at the far end of O’Connell Street but the heart of Dublin, for now, belonged to the young man in a black hoodie who started to dance in the glow of the flames.

Comrades cheered as he punched the air and jigged to a soundtrack of breaking glass, shouts and sirens. He held his arms aloft like Rocky and paused, mesmerised by the mayhem. “Beautiful,” he said. “Fuck-ing beautiful.”

For other people in Ireland and elsewhere who saw images of Thursday’s anarchy it was the night Dublin went mad. For participants it was the night the city came to its senses – that here was an overdue venting of rage, a reckoning.

Ireland, according to this narrative, has opened the floodgates to foreigners with no controls or checks, leaving rapists and murderers to prowl the streets, and no one – not the government, not opposition parties, not the media, not the police – is taking it seriously.

So when social media rumours attributed a horrific stabbing attack on three children and a creche worker to a foreigner – Algerian, Moroccan, Romanian, versions varied – groups descended on Parnell Square, the scene of the crime, and decided to unleash chaos.

“People need to fight for this country,” said Samantha, a 27-year-old mother, as masked youths clashed with police attempting to retake Eden Quay along the River Liffey. “I’m not racist; I don’t mind people coming in if they respect Irish people. But the likes of the toerags coming into this country – they’re not vetted and are causing havoc.”

The unfolding scenes, in contrast, were legitimate havoc, a corrective to a political establishment impervious to previous protests over rising numbers of asylum seekers, said Samantha. “When we do things peacefully we get ignored.” She had left her five-year-old at home without dinner in order to join the revolt, she said. “I’m out here fighting for my country. We shouldn’t have to do this.”

Others echoed the refrain: to make Ireland safe, wreck the capital.

“It’s not right but it had to be done. The government is not listening,” said one man in his 20s, a bystander rather than a looter. “This isn’t against foreigners. We were the first emigrants. Immigrants are driving our buses, cleaning our hospitals – we need them. But they need to be vetted.”

Ireland’s demography has been transformed in recent decades as a booming economy reversed the historical flow of emigration. A fifth of the 5 million people now living in Ireland were born elsewhere. A recent increase in refugees from Ukraine and other countries fuelled a backlash amid concern over a housing shortage and straining public services. The number housed by the state jumped from 7,500 in 2021 to 73,000 in 2022.

Amid the destruction on Thursday night there was some linguistic nuance, with “non-national” usually preferred to “foreigner”, and “unvetted” or “unregulated” preferred to “illegal”, and an aversion to the label “far right”.

There was nothing subtle about the targeting of police. Bottles, bricks, fireworks and other missiles rained down on officers, many of whom lacked helmets and shields. The crowd cornered and attacked isolated officers, leaving several injured. Eleven police vehicles were damaged.

Journalists too were unwelcome and photographers had to conceal cameras. “He’s with the Guardian,” a man in his 60s, holding a tricolour, shouted. Younger, hooded men formed an intimidating cluster. The worst sin was to be with RTÉ, the national broadcaster, or the liberal Irish Times, which were accused of cheering the “replacement” of Irish people by new arrivals.

Many onlookers were appalled. “It’s heartbreaking for Dublin, for Ireland, for Europe,” said Matthew Butler, 28. A 53-year-old postman who gave his name only as John expressed fury. “Just a bunch of scumbags out to wreck Dublin city. The gardaí [police] should have free rein to beat the shit out of them.”

On Friday, Leo Varadkar, the taoiseach, said the rioters had shamed themselves and Ireland. “I want to say to a nation that is unsettled and afraid: this is not who we are – this is not who we want to be – and this is not who we will ever be.” The Garda commissioner, Drew Harris, blamed the disturbances on a “lunatic, hooligan faction driven by far-right ideology”.

The mob had diverse motives. Some belonged to fringe political groups and were veterans of protests against refugee centres. Some were opportunistic gangs that seized the chance to loot sportswear and alcohol. Others came for the spectacle and the chance to post dramatic footage on social media.

All, however, scorned the idea that Ireland is a safe, stable society. The economy is at full employment and the state is flush with tax revenue but their social media feeds depict a country overrun with “non-native” predators such as Jozef Puska, a Slovak man convicted earlier this month of murdering a teacher, Ashling Murphy, in 2022. As the night wore on, an unfounded rumour spread that one of the children in the Parnell Square attack had died.

It did not seem to matter that one of the people who stopped that attack was a Brazilian Deliveroo rider, Caio Benicio, and that Dublin gangs have assaulted numerous South American couriers in recent years.

Chilling threats of assaults against immigrants were made on a WhatsApp group titled “enough is enough”. “Everyone bally [balaclava] up, tool up,” said one man. “Let’s show the fucking media that we’re not a fucking pushover, that no more fucking foreigners are allowed into this poxy country.”

However, the mob targeted property and police rather than foreign and non-white bystanders, who watched in bewilderment.

As police gradually regained control James, a 33-year-old labourer, confronted a phalanx of shields on Burgh Quay, drawing cheers from others who hurled missiles. After being sprayed in the face, James staggered back to Butt Bridge where a Brazilian man, who had experience of being teargassed in his home country, offered recovery tips.

James thanked him but in an interview said “unregulated” arrivals were ruining Ireland. “We’re rammed to the gills with foreigners doing mad shit. You can’t do this to Irish people. I’m getting out of this country, I’m burning rubber. It’s not safe to walk around here.”

Mohammed Gaber, 27, an accountant who moved to Ireland from Sudan and is now an Irish citizen, came into the city centre to check on his sister, Ebba. He lauded his adopted home but worried about what the riot might augur. “Irish people are so welcoming. I’ve never experienced any discrimination. But this is crazy. This is the first time that I feel that there is something big.”

With roads sealed off and smoke pluming over Dublin, Ebba, 33, was blunter. “This is terrifying.” She was not sure of reaching her job as an emergency doctor at a police station.

[route22ny]

Life as a 21st-Century Trucker

Technology, corporate greed, and supply-chain chaos are transforming life behind the wheel of a big rig. I went on the road to find exactly how.

by Andrew Kay

1 When Jay LeRette preaches the Word, he transforms from a mild Midwesterner—one who loves country gospel, rides a horse he has trained to roll over and grin, and has, himself, a whinnying laugh—into a human incandescence. Sixty-four, 5' 5", and dressed like a cowboy, he increases in stature; his voice crescendos to cracking. “The devil’s learned to use us and abuse us, to beat the snot out of us,” he says, then uppercuts the air. “Amen, Chuck?” A man in the second row with a great, ZZ Top–like beard croaks amen. “The devil mopped the floor with me,” LeRette continues, and mimes a janitorial sweep. “But God—but God!—” he shrieks, pounding the lectern and leaping, “—had compassion on you and I.”

It’s a weeknight in December 2021, getting toward Christmas, and I’m sitting in the trailer of an 18-wheeler that’s been repurposed into LeRette’s chapel. It’s parked, permanently, at the Petro Travel Center, a truck stop off Interstate 39 in northern Illinois. All around it are acres of commercial trucks, stopped for the night and carrying every kind of cargo: cows, weed, pro-wrestling rings, grain, petroleum. One side of LeRette’s trailer reads “Transport for Christ"; beside it, a neon cross gleams in the dark. John 3:16 adorns the back end: “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” Next to the scripture are two godly hands cradling a truck.

All across Illinois there are tornado warnings. Menacing gales rip through the parking lot, making the trailer shift and groan; we are beyond the reach of any siren. Yet every minute, the door opens and a new trucker walks in. Each takes his place in one of about 20 chairs arranged in rows toward the middle of the chapel, which is pretty minimalist: framed Bible verses along wood-paneled walls, a lectern at the front, an office and bed in back.

The drivers—all men tonight—have come straight from the road, and their bodies suggest the slow entropy wrought by bad food and decades of sitting. All but one appear over 50. Some know each other: When LeRette kicked off the service by belting out hymns and strumming his guitar, a straggler entered, and several men called out, “Rip!” Rip hustled in and high-fived or hugged them.

LeRette hands out copies of the King James Bible and asks us to open to Luke 10:25. Chuck seems to be back in Exodus, and when LeRette repeats “the Gospel of Luke,” Chuck responds, “Oh, I thought you said Mötley Crüe.” They are irrepressibly funny like this, suddenly schoolboys.

LeRette asks John, a small, older man in a hoodie, to read the verse. “A certain lawyer stood up and tempted him, saying, ‘Master, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?’” He struggles to sound out “eternal,” but the men nod along, supportive, patient.

Then LeRette interprets: A skeptic is trying to trick Jesus into contradicting Judaic law, into uttering a heresy. “Now how many know he ain’t gonna do that? Jesus is the living word of God, amen? There ain’t no trapping our savior.” Chuck calls out, “They tried to trap him for three years,” and LeRette answers, “C’mon, that’s right!” The quickness with which he beckons these road-weary men into call-and-response is extraordinary. He stamps and claps, sidesteps and kicks till his lungs falter. “Jesus carries our load, amen?”

After the sermon, John says meekly, “I have a pain in my shoulder. Would you try healing it?” LeRette agrees and hurries past us to his office, returning with a vial of frankincense. He approaches John and daubs his forehead, then places a hand on his ailing shoulder and calls out: “Father, we pray against whatever it is that’s trying to come against John.” The other drivers rise, surrounding and placing their hands on John or kneeling before him where he sits, eyes closed with one hand lifted upward. He awakens under their touch, smiling serenely.

Each trucker gets a turn at the center of the group. Then they turn toward me.

“Andrew, may I anoint you?” LeRette asks. There’s no time to think, so I say,

“You may,” and straightaway he applies the oil to my forehead.

“Just flood through him, oh God, like liquid fire,” he intones.

Then he starts speaking in tongues, a tumble of manic syllables he lets fly while the long-haulers encircle and lay hands on me.

“Father, I commit Andrew to your care,” LeRette concludes.

2

I have come here on a strange sort of mission: I want to find out what’s gone awry in American trucking. For more than a decade, freight-haulers have been held up as the poster children of a supposedly inexorable fate: 2 to 3 million drivers out of a workforce of 3.5 million—one of the largest in the US—are slated to be sidelined by AI. Yet recent years have hardly borne out that doomy prophecy: The self-driving industry has been humbled by fatal crashes, scandals, a federal investigation, a pedestrian death, negligent homicide charges, and stillborn business promises. Meanwhile the pandemic has wreaked havoc on our supply chains and made us more dependent on truckers than ever—more beholden to an industry that, for all its hugeness, still can’t keep pace with our needs. It’s an industry that dwarfs all other forms of domestic freight transport: 72.2 percent of the total tonnage of goods shipped within the US is moved by truck (air transport moves less than one-tenth of 1 percent). Investors—inspired, doubtless, by the shipping delays and logistical breakdowns that threaten to upend the economy—have sought furiously to augment or outright replace that workforce, pouring money with redoubled fervor into automation since 2020. But they have found scant success: What we have, ironically, is a nationwide shortage of the very workers alleged to face obsolescence.

What’s behind that shortage? And how exactly is technology altering life inside the cab? I want to know why 90 percent of the people who enter this profession quit within the first year; why a red-pilled faction of its members—affronted by a vaccine mandate that was, one senses, only the last in a litany of grievances—formed the Freedom Convoy and People’s Convoy last winter and spring, blocking border crossings between the US and Canada. I hope to understand, too, how the relatively few truckers who stick around sustain themselves: the myths they live on and the shrines to which they come, parched, to be replenished and raised up.

Shadowing LeRette, a holy therapist whose vantage point on this world is at once intimate and panoramic, I hope to glimpse some answers. Then, because I need to see the road for myself—need to be in a truck—I’ve arranged to ride shotgun with a person named Jason Childs, a 41-year-old trucker and adventurer I’ve never met but with whom I’ve very sensibly agreed to share a cab on a two-day route to Boston.

The day after my anointing, LeRette and I head to the main building of the truck stop, where showers, slot machines, and a diner are. He’s decked out in a big parabola of a cowboy hat, a custom black Carhartt jacket that reads “Victory in Jesus,” Wrangler-ish denim, and dark-brown cowboy boots. He approaches the PA system to advertise tonight’s service, which begins at 7 pm, then we grab a booth at the Iron Skillet, where he runs through his personal history over lunch.

As a young man, LeRette was such a wayward punk that he lowers his voice recounting it all. He stole things (“I liked motorcycles”), fist-fought, and assaulted police; he drifted from detention hall to drug ward to psychiatric hospital. At last, he went to prison for theft. One night toward the end of his yearlong sentence, he sat alone in his cell, thumbing through a Bible and crying; he wanted to be delivered, wanted to climb clear of the devilry that had devoured his early life. In the darkness, he became aware of something—a preternatural light. Some being or intelligence that he instantly identified as the Holy Ghost had come to dwell with him. He stopped struggling, felt clean and clear-headed, drained of the defiant energy that had twisted him crosswise with the world. At 6 am, he showed up for breakfast looking serene. “What’s got into you, LeRette?” other inmates asked. “I found Jesus,” he said. They responded: “Brother, you need him!”

He started converting other prisoners, and upon release, began evangelizing in the prisons, jails, and detention centers he knew so well. He made a name for himself bringing the gospel to the most hostile of places, a perilous early ministry that he recalls with what sometimes seems like preacherly embellishment. In Chicago one night, he claims, someone held a gun to his forehead and pulled the trigger. He raised his arms to the sky and cried, “Jesus!” only to discover that the chamber had been empty. Another time, LeRette says, leaning in, while he was witnessing to a crowd of bikers at a Hell’s Angels bar in Rockford, he saw they were getting blow jobs as he spoke. He lifted his eyes and went on preaching.

LeRette supported himself as a mechanic at a Del Monte Foods factory, where he met his wife, Karen. One day in 1991 he got a call from an investor who was planning to build a new truck stop in Rochelle. He wanted to install a chapel there and appoint LeRette as its preacher. LeRette was dubious. He thought his calling was to be a prison chaplain—and besides, the lot was little more than an expanse of corn at the time. But the investor convinced him that if they built on this blankness of prairie, the truckers would come.

The chapel was furnished by a nondenominational ministry—Transport for Christ, now TFC Global—founded in 1951 to serve an industry that was booming thanks to the highway system. The name, like so much about LeRette’s world—its mingled grotesquerie and humor, its wild manifestations of grace amid grimness—seems drawn from Flannery O’Connor. Today, the ministry’s sanctified semis are stationed across the country. The souls LeRette encounters—thousands of truckers come to him each year—include regulars who pass through weekly, plus others he sees once and never again. They provide LeRette’s income in the form of donations, slipped into a box at the chapel or sent by mail. Some truckers have been donating monthly since the chapel opened.

LeRette lives with his wife in a farmhouse half an hour south of Rochelle. “I could never be a truck driver,” he concedes. “Too much of a homeboy.” But some nights he crashes on a couch in the chapel office. Once, he was rocketed from sleep at 4 am by a pounding at the door. “Get up, preacher,” said a voice. “You’re going to meet your maker.” LeRette opened the door and saw an enormous man who’d come to the chapel the night before. “I hate everything about you,” the guy said. “Your voice, your looks.” He seemed poised to murder LeRette when another driver entered—a jacked ex-bouncer who perceived the emergency and rushed forth, demanding the intruder back off. The three talked of Jesus until sunup, when the first guy broke down, agreeing to be born again.

This, LeRette says, is common: A trucker will come at him with a rage that turns out to conceal a desperate desire for forgiveness and love. “I think if there’s one word to describe the trucking industry and the drivers, it would be lonely,” he tells me. They are on the road for weeks, sometimes months, at a time. If they have partners or children, they carry the guilt of missing date nights and soccer games. If they fight with their spouses, they relive the spat numberless times on the road, the work itself becoming a brute metaphor for the emotional freight they carry.

In this sense, LeRette has become the prison chaplain he felt called to be. If trucking was once a lifestyle of freedom, it is increasingly one of deranging captivity and surveillance. During the week I spent at the Petro stop, drivers fumed to me about the electronic logs they must now use—tablet-shaped devices mounted on their dashboards that monitor everything they do: all their driving time, their fueling up, their loading and unloading, their napping. This particular digital intrusion is the result of federal legislation. A law passed in 2012 dictates that truckers work a maximum 14-hour workday, spending no more than 11 hours behind the wheel with three hours of rest time. If they violate this law, they risk being yanked from the road and fined, and might mess up their carrier’s safety rating, which could deter customers, creditors, and insurers. Many drivers concede that the time restrictions arose in response to reckless behavior. “Back in the day they used to do lines of coke off the freakin’ dashboard,” one Illinois-based driver recalled. That, he explained, is how one got to New Jersey overnight. Still, the truckers I spoke to would rather decide for themselves when they’re tired.

The newer trucks are so computerized that they provide what might be termed “AI helicopter parenting”: a development supposedly meant to increase safety and fuel efficiency, but also, I’ll come to suspect, a compensation for fast-tracking newcomers through training and into driver’s seats before they’re ready. Each state-of-the-art Peterbilt in the Petro lot is equipped with at least 10 computers that govern everything from steering to braking, reducing many truckers to what are known in the industry as zombified “steering-wheel holders.” The AI alerts a dispatcher if anything aberrant happens—an abrupt stop, a missed turn—and if a driver changes lanes suddenly, the truck will defy him, jerking itself back. (The driver can override this function, but many truckers say it remains disruptive, even dangerous.)

Then there are the cameras. Ascending the cabin of one semi, I see a black gadget affixed to the windshield like an old-school GPS, its lens trained on the driver’s seat. Such cameras protect companies from liability in the event of an accident—they can prove that a driver wasn’t acting irresponsibly and thus isn’t at fault—but truckers deplore them. “Some drivers,” LeRette says, “tell me they’ve got cameras pointed back in the sleeper.”

On a thriving Reddit community called r/Truckers, which hosts more than 100,000 members, one popular post begins, “Hello, fellow piss jug enthusiasts,” and goes on to complain that its author’s employer has announced it will start implementing driver-facing cameras. Hundreds of users chime in to say that they’ve quit for this reason. “I’ll only accept a driver-facing camera,” one comments, “if the company owner gives me a 24/7 unrestricted stream into his house.”

3

LeRette pays the bill and I follow him to the door. We pass a towering driver at the buffet. LeRette stops, invites him to the evening service, and asks where he stands with Jesus. “I tried to read the Bible cover to cover last year,” the man says. “But I got this phone in my pocket—it got a demon in it. Takes me to sites I don’t wanna go.” He claps me on the shoulder and bursts out laughing, and LeRette hurries off.

I decide to stick around, turning back toward the duskily lit dining room. The clientele is a microcosm of the workforce to which it belongs: older, racially diverse, overwhelmingly male. Of the 3.5 million people who work as truck drivers in the US, 75 percent are over 40, roughly 40 percent are not white, and at most 10 percent are women.

An ambient antisocial quiet hangs in the air: The e-logs and Covid, I’ll learn, have strangled the camaraderie that once flourished at these places where truckers would hobnob heedless of mandated resting and driving intervals. Most drivers sit alone, scrolling on their phones or glancing at the Fox News that drones on the TVs. Vacant booths are marked with a libertarian poutiness: “Due to the IL governor’s orders, this booth is closed.”

At one table, though, three men sit together laughing. I blunder up, introducing myself, and they invite me to sit. Their names are Junius (“JuJu”) Silas, Eric Brown, and Nick Rains; they haul equipment for big touring acts. They’re the drivers of the WWE trucks parked beside the chapel: Throughout my visit, because of the trailers’ adjacent rear ends, André the Giant’s likeness sits beside John 3:16.

I ask them why the industry has a 90 percent attrition rate within the first year. All instantly respond: “No money.” They describe a predatory apprenticeship system that conspires against new drivers seeking to enter the profession. The industry is made up of thousands of mostly small-fleet owners—95 percent of them with 20 trucks or fewer—but dominated by about two dozen giant companies that serve as its gatekeepers. These megacarriers often house schools where some 400,000 new truckers receive commercial driver’s licenses annually. The companies entice people with promises of financial plenty, even as they ensnare them in “training contracts”—binding agreements that require them to drive for the company at below-market wages for a year in exchange for training or else be hit with an exorbitant fee for that training, to be paid off at high interest. Many drivers stick around for the full year to avoid those fees, enduring what amounts to debt peonage.

Silas, a slyly charismatic man with graying dreadlocks, tells me: “The average pay per mile for a fresh driver—your shoes still on? 26 cents.” Actually, he notes, you make half that, “because you’ve got a split seat”—meaning it’s common for companies to pair new drivers in a truck, where they take turns at the wheel and split their earnings. “It don’t make child support,” Silas says. “It don’t make electric bill,” Brown says. “You don’t have a girlfriend,” Silas adds.

To make matters worse, drivers who leave their training contracts early risk being blackballed by the carriers. This past summer and fall, the US Department of Justice oversaw a high-profile antitrust lawsuit in which several truckers sued nine megacarriers for colluding with one another not to hire them. In November, they reached a $2.1 million preliminary settlement.

Freight companies have been warning lately about a trucker shortage so dire that it’s causing supply-chain and delivery delays nationwide. But drivers like Rains see such warnings as disingenuous, given the way megacarriers treat new drivers: “Like cattle.” What’s more, the DOJ has said that the blackballing of drivers who break training contracts may be contributing to the shortage. According to the American Trucking Associations’ 2019 driver shortage report, there are now nearly three commercial driver’s license holders for every job that requires one in the US: strange stats to square with a shortage.

All day I ambush drivers who greet me with an annoyed suspicion that gives way to a thirst for talk so desperate that within minutes I couldn’t shut them up if I tried. I buy them coffee, soon finding myself at the center of small congregations of truckers who’ve shifted seats to join. They want me to understand that freight companies talk up the shortage because they’re angling for federal and state grant money to subsidize the cost of training new drivers. They say that taxpayers are unwittingly funding the turnover that enables this deception to continue—providing what Todd Spencer from the Owner-Operator Independent Drivers Association calls “corporate welfare” to companies that can seem ripe for treatment by Upton Sinclair. Last year, Rains received a payout from the carrier CRST, where he got his commercial license, after it had reached a settlement with drivers who’d filed a multimillion-dollar class action against it for lying about “free” training, overcharging them for schooling, and failing to pay them minimum wage. The same company saw 150 to 200 sexual harassment claims filed by student drivers against their trainers in 2018 and 2019; one woman alleged her trainer raped her, only to be told by CRST that without video footage they could do nothing. They charged her $9,000 for her training and effectively fired her in retaliation. She sued the carrier and received a $5 million settlement in 2021.

LeRette’s sermon the night before (“The devil’s learned to use us and abuse us!”) starts to strike me as an allegory about a more worldly, if faceless, kind of fiend. “The trucker shortage is propaganda,” insists 62-year-old Jerry Adams, who hauls flour, records country music, and claims to have dated one of Dolly Parton’s sisters. (Adams says she once called the chapel mid-service and sang to the truckers on speaker.) For him, the politicians who keep rewarding the megacarriers bear ultimate responsibility. Many drivers agree, blaming their mistreatment not just on corporate avarice but also on Washington. In 1980, the Motor Carrier Act deregulated trucking, making it easier to get a commercial driver’s license but also making the job far less remunerative. “The worst thing they ever did was deregulate it,” says Dean Martin, who began driving in 1994. “What I made when I started … I make less now.”

Adding insult to injury, truckers are barred from overtime pay by the Fair Labor Standards Act of 1938, even though most of them work at least 70 hours a week—especially when you figure in the obligatory rest periods imposed by Congress in 2012. (A bill called the Guaranteeing Overtime for Truckers Act, sponsored by several senior Democratic US senators, is making its way through Congress.) The average US trucker salary in 1980, adjusting for inflation, was $110,000; today the median is $48,310. This despite research by industry experts like Daniel Rodríguez showing that the probability of truck crashes indirectly correlates with pay and experience, plummeting among long-standing, well-compensated drivers.

According to the American Trucking Associations, though, the trucker shortage is quite real—the product of an aging workforce, the industry’s struggle to recruit women, and the ballooning of freight volumes thanks to our rapacity as consumers. All this, exacerbated by Covid, has created a tight labor market in which fleet owners—primarily small outfits with a handful of trucks—are fiercely competing for the same limited pool of drivers. They are doing so by increasing their pay rates (up by as much as 25 percent since 2019) and enticing truckers with five-figure signing bonuses. Jeremy Kirkpatrick, a spokesperson for the ATA, stressed to me that many truckers are now regularly moving from one signing bonus to the next in a game of musical chairs that leaves fleet owners frustrated. “This churn, or poaching, is what really inflates the turnover rate,” he said.

It’s possible to reconcile these rival accounts: Scummy treatment of apprentice drivers is leading to massive hemorrhaging at the entry level and thus to a shrunken labor force that innumerable fleet owners must strenuously fight over. It’s a landscape akin to academia, the world I came from, where a great share of grubby work is done by an insecure class of entry-level laborers—grad students, adjuncts—striving desperately to join a small, cosseted class—the tenured—who enjoy clout, protections, and a lifelong career trajectory.

While the pandemic’s supply chain woes raged, venture capitalists funneled more investments into autonomous-truck startups—$11 billion from 2019 through 2021—adding fresh precariousness to a trade already beset with uncertainty. These investments have coincided with a rush of optimism among engineers and lawmakers alike. In August, US House representatives, fired by a conviction that “this technology is moving so quickly,” formed a bipartisan “autonomous vehicle caucus” aimed at “establishing the right policy conditions to increase the use of AVs.” “It’s closer than you might think,” Dmitri Dolgov, the co-CEO of leading AV company Waymo, wrote of a self-driving future last month. “Freight volumes will increase, demonstrating how AVs could help untangle supply chains and backfill the immense shortage of truck drivers.”

And yet when one looks closely, this boldness is everywhere haunted by doubt—a rooster-strutting that never quite convinces. One leading autonomous-truck startup, TuSimple, executed its first entirely driverless truck run in Arizona while I was at the Petro stop. An 80-mile nocturnal drive from Tucson to Phoenix, it was hailed as a success—but tellingly, a lead vehicle drove five miles ahead of the truck, scouting for obstacles, while an escort, ready to intervene, trailed it closely, and law enforcement vehicles stalked it from half a mile behind. In 2020, TuSimple struck a deal with Navistar to engineer autonomous trucks; the companies secured about 7,000 orders, and the trucks were scheduled to enter production in 2024. Last December, though, they severed their partnership. A rival, Aurora Innovation, told me in March 2022 that it was aiming for the end of 2023; it has since pushed this date to the end of 2024 and even mulled the possibility of a sale to Apple or Microsoft. In fact, there is little consensus about not just when but whether self-driving trucks will actually come. Truckers tend to bristle at the suggestion that an unmanned digitized truck could perform their job; they point to the dexterity involved in backing into a tight space, even as engineers maintain that this is what autonomous trucks do best—a mere matter of physics and geometry. For their part, researchers like Maury Gittleman and Kristen Monaco at the US Bureau of Labor Statistics stress how truckers’ jobs include more than just driving; they’re tasked with loading and unloading, customer service, and addressing the manifold safety concerns that arise on the road—all duties that “are less susceptible to automation.” Even among engineers, there’s little agreement about the viability of autonomous trucks. Anthony Levandowski, the cofounder of Google’s self-driving vehicle division and now CEO of the autonomous-truck company Pronto, told me he thinks the technology has reached an impasse owing to the trucks’ inability to “understand the world”—to anticipate and react to sudden, spontaneous occurrences such as a driver cutting them off. So the timeline remains uncertain: “Is it five years or 50?” Levandowski asks without an answer. Meanwhile, companies like TuSimple (which refused to talk to me) depict themselves as motivated by a noble desire to devise a solution to the punishment and peril of trucking. The logic, apparently, is that they will relieve an immiserated workforce by rendering it obsolete.

Afternoon at the Skillet bleeds into evening. Every so often a robot voice issues through a loudspeaker: The shower is vacant, the next ticket number is up.

A portrait sharpens into focus of a job that entails both mortal danger and wilting tedium. On one hand, truckers navigate vehicles that weigh up to 80,000 pounds down an interstate system swarming with civilian drivers cutting trucks off and fooling around with phones—and they do so knowing it will take them three football fields to stop should the need arise. From an accident investigator on Reddit, I learn of a trucker who was cut off on a wet road by a driver going 80 mph. The car lost control and skidded sideways into the truck’s path. The trucker could only watch as the car’s driver looked up at him aghast while his wife covered her head, and he barreled straight into them, killing the man instantly and leaving his wife a quadriplegic. The trucker never recovered psychologically: “I just couldn’t get the truck to stop.”

On the other hand, US truckers spend great swaths of their lives waiting at warehouses for their trailers to be loaded and unloaded. Of the 11 hours they’re allotted each day for driving, they spend an average of four and a half idling in line. “They talk about a truck-driver shortage,” one driver tells me. “Yet there are drivers sitting in warehouses two miles from here with an appointment from six or seven hours ago,” he says bitterly. “If they can tell me when I can eat and when I can take a nap, how come they can’t tell these people loading and unloading these trucks that they have a set amount of time to do it?”

Such bitterness helped ignite the Freedom Convoy and People’s Convoy. Ostensibly a transnational uprising against pandemic restrictions—one bolstered by money from far-right groups—the convoys were also an outcry against the perceived collusion of Big Tech and the government against blue-collar workers. Some of the convoys’ participants have passed through LeRette’s chapel. “They’re not against vaccination,” he tells me. “They’re against the government taking complete control over them.” Which sounds like a generic right-wing rallying cry, but it holds special significance for truckers, who feel they’re regulated in all the wrong ways: forsaken where they need help, oppressively monitored where they yearn for liberty.

4

Ascending the chapel steps around 7:15, I open the door and find a seventysomething man seated across from LeRette, mid-narrative. Haggard, cadaverous in color, he has a raving giddiness about him and takes no notice of me. “I got home, walked into the kitchen, and there she was, waving a gun in my face,” he’s saying.

I piece together his story: He came home from a trucking route and found his girlfriend, Norma, demanding at gunpoint to be done with him. He turned and ran downstairs, intending to flee the house. “I got halfway down the steps,” he says, “and she shot a hole in the wall above my head.” When he finally crept back upstairs, “She was on her hands and knees crying.”

The man’s name is Don, and it’s clear he’s likely withholding details. She filed a restraining order; he pressed charges. They’re awaiting a court date.

One by one, truckers file in for the service, and, grasping that something is underway, stay hushed and sit, watching. “Are you a born-again Christian?” LeRette asks.

Don instantly grows defensive. He’s a lapsed Catholic. “I could pull quotes out of the Bible that would put down any preacher if you contradict what I say,” he dares LeRette. “Over half the Bible wasn’t inspired by God; it was influenced by man.”

They clash on this at length, and LeRette finally bursts. “You know what you’re doing, sir? Hey! You’re living an ungodly lifestyle. You’re fornicating with this woman. You come in here with a filthy mouth and you say, ‘Where’s God in my life?’ Man, you need to repent and say, ‘God, I’m in the wrong! Forgive me and fill me with your Holy Spirit!’” LeRette stares at him beseechingly.

Don stands his ground, battling tears: “Her and I stood on a hill and looked at each other as the sun rose! That’s the way we were married! We are married in the eyes of God.”

More argument. Then LeRette says: “Jesus wept. You know that, right?” Don nods. “All of a sudden I’m experiencing feelings, and I never did before.” Later, he adds: “I don’t want to be alone.”

LeRette, seizing the opportunity, jumps up, fetches a Bible, and thrusts it into Don’s hands. He implores him to read aloud a verse from Ezekiel. Don fishes trifocals out of his jacket. “‘A new heart also will I give you,’” he pronounces, “‘and a new spirit will I put within you.’”

“Do you want that?” asks LeRette, standing before him. “Do you want God to take away that stony heart of yours and set His spirit inside you?”

He wants Don to consent to being born again here, now, and implores him to “Yoke up with Jesus!” But Don won’t submit. He keeps dodging, refusing, changing the subject.

A driver from Louisiana named Tony, bass-voiced and built like a bullfrog, pipes in, telling of his own divorce, how he lived out of his pickup in a Walmart parking lot during the worst of it. “I had to concentrate on me,” he realized.

A group therapy session materializes: The other drivers, pivoting toward the secular vocabulary of Oprah and Dr. Phil, urge Don to prioritize self-care, while LeRette sits by, looking sidelined and a little glum.

At last LeRette intervenes. “Don, I have no greater desire in my heart tonight than to see you say, ‘Lord Jesus, I need you. I want to be born again. I want you to renew me.’”

“No.”

Instead, Don joins hands with the other drivers and leads them in prayer. “Lord, I’m asking that we can find a peaceful solution to this situation I’m in. That I can get a lot of help from the people that have listened to me. That we can get help for Norma and bring her back to the woman I fell in love with. Bring her back to the light.”

5

I stay late in the chapel, talking to the truckers. They recall driving during the earliest days of Covid—the apocalyptic emptiness of the roads. “Everything shut down but us,” says Tony. “It felt like we were in a movie. Five o’clock, rush hour in Atlanta, and I’m running 65. I got chill-bumps on my arms talking about it.” A suddenly homebound public relied on them more than ever, yet they themselves remained unprovided for; truck stops, restaurants—all were closed. “They locked it down, man. You’d be lucky if you got a honeybun.”

“Back when Covid started we were heroes,” one driver says. “Now it’s right back to pre-Covid; we’re just POSes.” Another calls out, “Boy, it sure was nice while it lasted!”

An intimacy takes shape in the trailer among drivers who, as early as 2 am, will be back on the road, scattered to their separate lives. It’s as if we’re drovers gathered around a campfire—a metaphor with a powerful gravitational pull here. LeRette doesn’t just dress like a cowboy. His office is laden with cowboy paraphernalia: a cowboy kneeling before a cross, a holster, a rodeo poster, photos of LeRette on horseback shooting at targets, and an ornamental cowboy boot beside the vial of frankincense, a juxtaposition that neatly captures LeRette and the faith he’s plying—call it Cowboy Pentecostalism. Cowboyism, it turns out, is an essential piece of the trucker mythos, for many drivers a life-giving faith unto itself. As Jane Stern showed in her 1975 book on the industry, Trucker: A Portrait of the Last American Cowboy, the conviction that they’re heirs to the cattle-drivers of the frontier, peripatetic dudes who answer to no one, is their central animating story.

This is a core reason why truckers find the cameras and computers so galling: More than any projected future of self-driving trucks, these technologies threaten not just their livelihoods but their innermost sense of self. To watch LeRette in action is to see a ritualized resistance to that threat—a refusal through sacrament, through touch, of what many see as a coordinated push by Silicon Valley, government, and their employers to wring trucking of its human element.

I spend my last day talking to more truckers, conversations that range from damning to poignant. There’s the African American woman, a long-hauler who declines to share her name, who tells me: “Companies are treating drivers like meat in the seat. It’s all about them. They’re not concerned about what the drivers need.” By which she means, especially, time off, but also pay. There’s Janet, perhaps 70 years old, who talks to me from high up in her truck while her three spaniels peer around her at me. She drove for decades with her husband; a year ago he died. “It’s tested my faith,” she admits, and clutches my hand.

That night I have a last dinner with LeRette, thanking him for everything. I tell him, feigning poise, that in the morning I’ll catch that ride to Boston with Jason Childs. I share what little I’ve heard about him: Though recently engaged, Childs has 11 kids by 10 different women scattered about the country. “Oh, mercy!” LeRette shrieks, and prays for me over his pilaf.

When I get back to my hotel room, I see that Childs has texted me. “Well they changed my trip,” he wrote. “Going to the Everglades.”

6

In the morning I make my way south, by Greyhound, to a lot outside Springfield where I’ve arranged to meet Childs. In time a truck pulls up; out of it hops a middle-aged man in a hoodie—medium height, bearded, with a lone earring and a faintly roguish air. He holds out a hand, smiling: “Welcome to central fuckin’ Illinois.”

We embark on the route—me, Childs, and his 11-year-old soon-to-be stepson J. D., who wants to be a trucker himself and, in his spare time, plays a trucking video game on Xbox whose object is to make sensational deliveries in brutal weather. I’m in the passenger seat, J. D.’s in the sleeper cabin, divided from the main cab by a curtain through which he peers happily. Childs’ truck is a flatbed with a removable tarp that protects our cargo: 38,000 pounds of cornmeal destined for a tortilla-chip factory in LaBelle, Florida. It’s the first of three deliveries that Childs—who works for an independent contractor with 50 trucks—will make, a journey of five days, 120 hours, for which he’ll get 31 percent of the total cut: $1,100 for the first drop, plus smaller sums for the next two.

The e-log ticking, we head down Route 24 toward Kentucky. It’s arresting, being up here: To be lifeguard-high in a 35-ton machine screaming down the highway at 80 mph, to see so plainly every driver’s phone-fiddling, their eating and knee-steering, is a sensation of godlike omniscience. But it is also terrifying.

There is a moment-to-moment proximity to death, not just your own but everyone else’s around you, that gives fresh clarity to all I witnessed at the chapel—the reconciling with God of people forced into a daily awareness of endings. “I’ll die in a truck,” Childs says casually, explaining that this is every trucker’s deepest fear. “A buddy of mine had a heart attack in a semi, right up here at that last exit. His heart exploded and he lost control of his truck, and he went right into a hotel.”

At one point we find ourselves on a county road, where a truck passes us on a double line. A moment of dread ensues: There’s oncoming traffic, and since it’s far too late for us to stop, we can only watch as the driver lays on the throttle, hurtling forward and, just in time, merging back over to avert disaster.

At times, Childs’ anxiety crests in moments of rage so over the top they teeter into black comedy. “I have panic attacks,” he says. “That’s why I drink.” Sure enough, when we cross into Kentucky, daylight wanes and we get stuck behind a semi doing 50 in the fast lane. Childs seethes—we’re on the clock—and when the driver finally changes lanes he speeds up alongside him, flips on the cab light and lowers my window. “Stupid-ass Ichabod Crane-looking motherfucker!” he yells. I glance over and see a gangly man at the wheel, his own window down, utterly bewildered. “This is why I love him!” J. D. cries.

Childs is a Byronic character, a bruised antihero whose story is harrowing enough to merit a trigger warning. “I was sexually molested by a lady,” he tells me once J. D. has fallen asleep. “She beat me with a taser. You can see my shoulders are all fried.” He peels down his hoodie, baring a cartography of scars. “I’ve never been genuinely loved.” Abandoned by his biological parents, he cycled through foster homes and psychiatric hospitals, quickly developing the sex addiction that has shaped his life. He’s had north of 300 partners, many encountered on the road—in whose arms, he tells me, blithely Freudian, he has found the semblance of maternal love. Nearly a dozen kids have come into the world, and with them mountains of child support that dwarf his earnings. Of late he has found stability with his fiancée, Stephanie. He smirks: “I’m retired.”

Jason Childs may be an unreformed Jay LeRette—the preacher minus the jail-cell epiphany, still adrift in a tumult of rages, unhelped by grace. And yet Childs, too, is ignited by faith—that same mythic cowboyism that forms the other half of LeRette’s creed. “We’re the guys that go in the saloon and play cards back in the Old West. And these,” he says, gesturing at his truck, “are our horses.” In keeping with that mythos, he insists on driving a manual transmission—“It gives me greater control, and it saves lives every day”—and has elected to work for a boss who doesn’t use driver-facing cameras. He despises the new generation of drivers who have everything done for them by computers, including the teenage truckers who, thanks to a controversial new federal apprenticeship program aimed at combating the shortage, may soon be eligible to do interstate hauling. All the same, he angrily, defensively waves away my suggestion that the job may be automated out of existence: “You’re never going to get rid of the real truck driver.”

As evening deepens, we advance into southern Tennessee, past mountain silhouettes that in darkness loom like cenotaphs. “Automation will be the death of the cowboy,” Childs suddenly says, a different authority in his voice. “All truck drivers fear it, because we know it’s going to take our jobs away. We’ve heard this for years … But it can’t be,” he insists.

“I know safety is key to this,” he concedes, and in his tone there’s a curious fatalism at odds with his earlier indignant dismissal of a driverless future. “The American truck driver—think about how many songs, stories. ‘Smokey and the Bandit.’ All the country songs. Legends were born out here.” He searches for the right word. “The folklore of a trucker—it’s the cowboy culture, the outlaw. The big, long beards and the big bellies. Disheveled. Stinky. Then there’s me,” he laughs, “who looks like I’m going to rob a bank.”

“Now the actual truck driver is going to go extinct. And it’s all about saving money. That’s all it’s about.”

7

We barrel through Georgia, crossing into Florida around 2 am, when the e-log mandates that we stop for 10 hours. An odd suspense follows: The 14-hour workday is running out, so we scan the highway for a truck stop with both vacant space and a restaurant, but the combination proves elusive. We settle for a travel station with available parking but only a convenience mart. Childs clambers into the sleeper cabin with J. D., and crashes.

I shut my eyes briefly, but by dawn I’m awake and get out to stretch. My lower back is throbbing, my right sacroiliac staging a violent coup that’s spreading down my leg. I think of Childs’ frenzied philandering through the years and find it impossible to imagine any amount of sensuality surviving this life. I feel the least attractive, and furthest from horny, I’ve ever been.

I hobble across the road onto what’s almost certainly someone’s property, entering a different world of palmettos, steroidal pinecones, and migrated cranes that swim the air. After Rochelle, this feels like my own stolen sabbath. I stoop and photograph. When I amble back to the truck, I pass Childs and J. D., who are headed to the mart to get breakfast. Childs nods slightly.

I crawl into the sleeper and draw the curtain, and after a time hear them return; Childs is on the phone with Stephanie. “He’s finally asleep, thank Christ. I saw him walking back to the lot from some random fucking field. Like, y’all know this is serial killer central, right?” He switches to what I can only describe as some kind of strangled Big Bird voice: “Deh, I’m gonna get myself killed by Jeffrey Dahmer!” J. D. squeals.

All that day we scud southward, the sky sunless and menacing. Florida is a hallucination of Confederate flags and Waffle Houses. “Worst state in the union,” Childs says. He’s chain-smoking now, five an hour; I watch him distance-parent on the phone half the day while operating the rig. “She’s testing you, Maddy, she’s testing you!” he shouts into the Bluetooth speaker at one point.

At nightfall we hit LaBelle. The tortilla-chip factory is desolate; there’s no sign they’re expecting us—no instructions, not a soul about, and, it turns out, no clear way to the loading dock in the back. Cars are parked carelessly about the building, their noses impinging on the path to the dock. There are no overhead lights, so Childs must slalom backward in the dark, maneuvering this mastodon with utmost delicacy around parked cars, some 100 yards in all: a double black diamond.

He scopes out the route, returns, and revs the truck. Then he guides it glacially backward, threading it past car after car and somehow nicking none—a kind of calligraphy—and nearly makes it when the truck’s antenna catches on a low overhang and snaps clean off. Childs stops, snarls profanities, then resumes and reaches the dock, emptying the tonnage of cornmeal in the night.

I stay with them just half a day longer. We pick up a load of steel piping in the morning and drive north toward Tampa, through Sunkist groves and into a gathering storm. Stop signs jerk spasmodically in the winds; lightning severs the sky. It starts to pour. I watch other trucks wade through pooled water in the road, feeling our own slosh and sway. “Tornado sky,” Childs mutters. My journey is ending as it began.

We drive on in silence, at noon reaching Plant City, near Tampa, and pulling up before the gate of the factory that ordered the piping. No one emerges. Childs calls the foreman, who says the crew won’t come out until it stops raining; they don’t feel like getting wet. “Why can’t the foreman just make them?” I ask, incredulous. “Because he’s a tender-footed sack of shit,” Childs spits.

Hours pass, and no one appears, a waiting that starts to seem existential, starts to stand in for the long-deferred deliverance of a workforce, a way of life. More trucks collect behind us, a convoy stretching to the street, and when I get out to survey them I see that their drivers too are on the phone and pissed, calling the foreman, presumably. But nothing moves—nothing except the winds that start rising, vengeful gusts that pummel and lash like a scourge out of scripture.

I look up at the sky and decide all at once that I need to get out. So I hustle back to the truck and page a ride to the Tampa airport, and when it comes I turn to Childs. “Gotta run, man. Thanks so much for having me.” But he’s taking frantic drags off a cigarette, distance-parenting again—a daughter keeps peeing her pants, the store is out of pull-ups—and in the speakerphone’s background a child is screaming. He hardly notices me; J. D. is asleep. I leave them like that, rushing toward my ride past a line of trucks that sit, in a rain half-diluvian now, aimed at the shut gate and poised, I imagine, to blow it apart.

#long reads #interstate trucking #automation #public safety #capitalist society

[evanbuckleyrecs]

Title: Hoodies & Hockey

Written by: reywritesstuff

Rated: G

Catagories: Gen

Warnings: None

Relationships: Bobby & Buck

Tags: 911 Week 2021, Fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF, a tiny bit of angst, because its me, But mostly SO much fluff, like TOOTH ROTTING fluff, Parental Bobby Nash, Bobby Nash is Evan Buckley's Parent, Bobby Nash Acting As Evan Buckley's Parental Figure, Gratuitous mentions of hockey, Evan Buckley Needs A Hug, I'm projecting a lot of things onto these two, Platonic physical affection between men, leave your toxic masculinity at the door

Words: 4,592

Summary:

“Hey, Chim, have you seen my hoodie?” Chim’s eyes immediately widen.

“Uhhhh…. Your favorite one?” He says slowly, and Bobby frowns.

“Chimney where’s my hoodie,” he asks carefully, and Chimney grits his teeth and points up to the loft.

“Try not to kill him, Cap,” Chim says, slapping a hand on his shoulder and walking away.

{Buck has a habit of stealing Bobby’s hoodies // for 911 Week 2021, day 1: “you stole another one of my hoodies, didn’t you?}

My notes: *squeals* I love Bobby & Buck so much. I need more fics about them. This one was so incredibly sweet that it made me cry because I love them SO much.

#bobby & buck #bobby nash is buck's dad #911 #fluff #tooth rotting fluff #bobby nash #dad bobby nash #evan buckley needs a hug

[shatar-aethelwynn]

https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2023/07/10/christine-emba-masculinity-new-model/

I started noticing it a few years ago. Men, especially young men, were getting weird.

It might have been the “incels” who first caught my attention, spewing self-pitying venom online, sometimes venturing out to attack the women they believed had done them wrong.

It might have been the complaints from the women around me. “Men are in their flop era,” one lamented, sick of trying to date in a pool that seemed shallower than it should be.

It might have been the new ways companies were trying to reach men. “The average hoodie made these days is weak, flimsy … ” growled a YouTube ad for a “tactical hoodie.” “You’re not a child. You’re a man. So stop wearing so many layers to go outside.”

Once my curiosity was piqued, I could see a bit of curdling in some of the men around me, too.

They struggled to relate to women. They didn’t have enough friends. They lacked long-term goals. Some guys — including ones I once knew — just quietly disappeared, subsumed into video games and porn or sucked into the alt-right and the web of misogynistic communities known as the “manosphere.”

The weirdness manifested in the national political scene, too: in the 4chan-fueled 2016 campaign for Donald Trump, in the backlash to #MeToo, in amateur militias during the Black Lives Matter protests. Misogynistic text-thread chatter took physical form in the Proud Boys, some of whom attacked the Capitol on Jan. 6, 2021. Young men everywhere were trying on new identities, many of them ugly, all gesturing toward a desire to belong.

It felt like a widespread identity crisis — as if they didn’t know how to be.

“This is such an ongoing thing,” Taylor Reynolds sighs. “I had this kid show up — well, I say ‘kid,’ but he’s an undergraduate here. I mentor them sometimes. He came over to my house and asked me if we could speak privately.”

Reynolds, 28, is a doctoral student at an Ivy League university. With his full beard, mustache and penchant for tweed sport coats — plus a winsome Southern accent, courtesy of a childhood spent in rural Georgia — he reads as more mature than many of the professors roaming the campus.

“And the first question this kid asked me is just … ‘What the heck does good masculinity look like?’”

He grimaced.

“And I’ll be honest with you: I did not have an answer for that.”

#long but interesting read

[coochiequeens]

If Argentina can recognize when trans people are the victims with a term like “Transfemicide” then they can create a term for trans people are the murderers. 

The brutal murder of a prostituted woman in Argentina is no longer being reported as a “femicide” after it was discovered that her killers did not identify as male.

Brenda Córdoba, 28, was murdered on November 10 of 2021 in the Buenos Aires neighborhood of Balvanera. Grisly surveillance camera footage released by police during the investigation into her death showed Córdoba being approached by what appeared to be a man in a white hoodie and face mask. The man circled around to her back before grabbing her in a headlock and stabbing her multiple times in the chest.

Córdoba, who was dropped into a puddle of her own blood, was initially found alive by passersby who had attempted to intervene in the stabbing and rushed to hospital. She died as a result of her injuries days later. 

Additional security camera footage was uncovered in which the individual who attacked Córdoba was seen leaving the area with someone else. 

Police began disseminating images taken from the footage in October of this year along with a call for assistance from the public to identify the two suspects after difficulty in finding leads.

On November 2, two individuals were taken into custody after neighbors saw the call for leads and photos from the crime scene and alerted police. But while law enforcement officials had initially put out a call for two men, both suspects involved in Córdoba’s murder were found to be transgender. 

Alex Maia Sam Estela, a trans-identified male, is believed to have been the one who stabbed Córdoba, while his accomplice, Christian Santiago Machado Abad, another trans-identified male, is currently considered an accomplice. Some local media reports refer to Abad as a “transvestite,” differentiating him from Estela, who is consistently identified as a “trans woman.” 

The motive for Córdoba’s murder is believed to have been a territorial dispute, in which she was targeted for “working” on a street corner that had been claimed by Abad and Estela. She is known to have had a hostile interaction with Abad prior to her murder.

On November 2, two individuals were taken into custody after neighbors saw the call for leads and photos from the crime scene and alerted police. But while law enforcement officials had initially put out a call for two men, both suspects involved in Córdoba’s murder were found to be transgender. 

Alex Maia Sam Estela, a trans-identified male, is believed to have been the one who stabbed Córdoba, while his accomplice, Christian Santiago Machado Abad, another trans-identified male, is currently considered an accomplice. Some local media reports refer to Abad as a “transvestite,” differentiating him from Estela, who is consistently identified as a “trans woman.” 

The motive for Córdoba’s murder is believed to have been a territorial dispute, in which she was targeted for “working” on a street corner that had been claimed by Abad and Estela. She is known to have had a hostile interaction with Abad prior to her murder.

On November 2, two individuals were taken into custody after neighbors saw the call for leads and photos from the crime scene and alerted police. But while law enforcement officials had initially put out a call for two men, both suspects involved in Córdoba’s murder were found to be transgender. 

Alex Maia Sam Estela, a trans-identified male, is believed to have been the one who stabbed Córdoba, while his accomplice, Christian Santiago Machado Abad, another trans-identified male, is currently considered an accomplice. Some local media reports refer to Abad as a “transvestite,” differentiating him from Estela, who is consistently identified as a “trans woman.” 

The motive for Córdoba’s murder is believed to have been a territorial dispute, in which she was targeted for “working” on a street corner that had been claimed by Abad and Estela. She is known to have had a hostile interaction with Abad prior to her murder.

While Córdoba’s slaying has been reported as being considered a femicide under Argentinian law for the past year, the revelation of the gender identity of her alleged killers has resulted in that classification being dropped.

According to Infobae, the case file was initially treated as a femicide due to the fact the attacker was wearing male clothing and so was believed to be a man. But since the identities of the two suspects have been revealed, media is no longer referring to the slaying as a femicide.

Femicide in Argentina is considered a crisis, with one woman being murdered by a man every 25 hours on average. 

In 2012, Argentinian lawmakers amended the criminal code to recognize femicide as an aggravated form of homicide. The femicide provision was defined broadly as “a crime against a woman when the act is perpetrated by a man and gender violence is mediated.” 

Trans-identified males can be included as victims of femicide in Argentina, but also have a separate provision for “transfemicide.”

Earlier this year, a prominent trans-identified male activist was murdered by his boyfriend in the country’s Santa Fe province. Alejandra Ironici, 45, was the first person in Argentina to legally change his gender identity. Ironici’s 32-year-old partner, has been charged aggravated femicide as well as transfemicide.

Córdoba’s case bears striking resemblance to one recently reported out of Spain.

In October, Reduxx revealed that a man who abused his female partner had avoided charges of gender-based violence after it was learned he had begun to identify as a woman.

Gender-based violence is a specific charge which exists in Spain to classify male violence against women. It was introduced after feminist activists in the nation pointed out the need for a law to address the pervasive issue of sex-based violence perpetrated by men against women. In addition to being a unique classification, the charge comes with tailored protections for female victims, such as the ability to have the abuser removed from the home.

In the case Reduxx reported, the male abuser’s gender identity being changed meant he could no longer be charged with gender-based violence as he was not considered a “man” under law. Instead, he was charged with domestic violence, which dropped the sex-based distinction and did not provide any specific protections for his victim.

#Argentina #Rest In Peace Brenda Córdoba #Femicide #women killed by men #Men in dresses are still men #Male violence #Transcult and crime statistics #Infobae

[truly-morgan]

[Crossdresser!JC and teacher!WRH]

RuoCheng | Mo Dao Zu Shi Modern AU 28-04-2021

[#ruocheng - cross-dressing]

what if after losing a bet with nhs and wwx, jc as to cross-dress for a day (although he refuses to leave the apartment). nhs make him all pretty, jc wonders /why/ he has these fem clothes for the first time, but he doesn't dare ask.

he also has to send the picture to three random persons on one of nhs dating app under the "look at how cute my friend and I are :D" (not without hiding most of his face). He's a bit surprised by the praise these men give about him, saying the outfit fits him well.

but... jc actually like it? He won't admit it out loud and will curse wwx for making him do this, but inside? jc actually thinks he does look kinda pretty and cute?

So he secretly keeps cross-dressing when he's home alone, usually doing this for himself. Sometimes he will wear some cute panties or thigh-high socks under his clothes, even daring cute tops under his hoodie and jacket.

But it doesn't exactly do the same as when he first did it, so he tries posting a faceless photo on a forum. he's extremely nervous at first but then people compliment him on his looks and he feels a bit funny about it, he really likes it.

So he keeps this secret to himself, always allowing himself a little moment of fun when he knows his roommates are out for a while. then one day he dares go out in full cross-dress, makeup done as best he can to soften his look, wearing along-haired wigs to help to hide his original look. He feels really good in his cute dress.

he tries to stay away from the college campus, giving him less chance to stumble onto people he does know.

He feels a bit shy, nervousness still running under his skin at the situation. Yet he must be passing well enough because he doesn't get any weird looks, so he slowly gets more comfortable.

at first, he intended to simply walk around but he ends up going to get something to drink, placing his order in a small voice, scared that his voice would give him away. Yet the barista doesn't give him looks so he believes it just be alright.

everything goes well until he goes to leave, bumping into someone surprising him. He loses his balance, a bit more surprised when a strong hand help him stay upright. In his little moment of panic, he forgot to modify his voice, apologising and asking if the person was alright.

He realise quickly what he did, looking up to see the person's reaction, only to pale when he saw who it was.

Wen Laoshi!

The man scans his face frowning a bit, only for recognition to slowly settle in and jc knew he was screwed now. before he can even make some excuses to leave the man calls out to him, making him freeze more. he's so screwed. Of all people he could stumble onto, it had to be a teacher, and /wen ruohan/. The man didn't have the best reputation and he was scared of what would happen.

"Why don't we sit down" suggested the teacher, a hand on jc lower back guiding him back in. Soon they are sitting at one of the booths, jc squirming uncomfortably in his seat. wrh look on him is heavy, making him blush because he's /clearly/ checking out what he's wearing.

"I didn't know one of my best students had such interest"

"I-I don't-" tried jc despite the hard evidence of /him wearing these clothes right now/, blushing even more as he looked down at his iced coffee.

"It's alright, no need to hide it, I actually think it fits you well" he instead commented. from all thing jc thought would be said (and nothing good had come to his mind) but being complimented was not one of them. This made him blush /even more/, feeling a bit weird about /wrh/ being the one to compliment him like this.

he missed the smirk growing on his teacher's lips, the man continuing in his praises, clearly, the young man liked it. "I-I get it, please no more" managed to force jc although he likes the compliments, not really squirming out of shyness anymore. they talked a bit more, wrh trying to reassure him he won't tell anyone or use this against him (slipping some more praises in) before standing up, sliding his phone number on the table.

"If you ever want some help in your... past time, just text me". at first, he doesn't dare, but he can see the looks his teacher is giving him, as if trying to see if he tried to slip something more feminine on. He plays a bit by sometimes letting something show a bit more, clearly seeing in the man's smirk that he noticed it.

he only dares to send him a message when the semester is over and after weeks of playing around like this. He lies about saying he cannot dress up because his roommates are here, wondering if maybe wrh would like to help (false, nhs is back in Qingge and wwx at lwj place).

of course, wrh accepts, so jc packs up some of his cutest outfits and his makeup, making his way to his teacher's house, rather excited at the idea of dressing up for him, something in him wanting /more/ praises. He's starving for them.

jc ends up having a lot of fun, which didn't simply stop at dressing up, wrh taking good care of him. He supposes he can pass his summer break doing just this (which he does).

========

(sorry I ran out of energy to make it more steamy ( ; ω ; ) maybe I'll make a thread about what kind of fun jc ended up having with wrh on his "first date" with him (¬‿¬ ) maybe I can make it a married wenqi again jc deserve 2 nice daddy praising his cute outfit)

Original

#tweet archive #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #ruocheng #wen ruohan #jiang cheng #crossdressing #crossdresser!Jiang Cheng #student/teacher #modern au