#International Christian Concern

[fandfnews]

Against All Odds: Christianity Experiences Explosive Growth Across Asia Despite Unprecedented Persecution Campaigns

In what religious scholars are calling one of the most remarkable spiritual phenomena of the 21st century, Christianity is experiencing explosive growth across Asia even as believers face some of the most intense persecution campaigns in modern history. This paradoxical situation challenges conventional understanding of how religious movements respond to systematic opposition and offers profound…

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Twelve

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, some drama oops.

Notes — Share all of your thoughts/feelings after the chapter, I love to hear your yapping!

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2020

The walk to McLaren’s hospitality felt longer than it should have. Amelia’s badge (the one Lando had given her, told her to keep with her at all times, even if she didn’t ever think she’d need to use it) beeped against the sensor, the door sliding open with a familiar hiss; and the second she stepped inside, every head turned.

The room stilled. Engineers, strategists, pit crew. Her people. Or they had been, once.

No one said anything. A few exchanged looks. One person reached for a coffee cup and missed.

Amelia stood frozen just inside the door, throat tight. Her fingers trembled against her sides. It felt like there was static electricity in her head and cotton in her mouth. 

“Amelia?”

Will Joseph’s voice cut clean through the thick air. He all but jogged over to her from the other side of the room, expression crumpling into something akin to concern the moment he got a good look at her. Pale face. Shaking hands. Wet eyes. 

“Are you alright? Are you looking for Lando—?”

“I need my dad,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I need Lando. I need—I need my dad and Lando. I need—”

Will’s face shifted immediately. He reached out, stopped himself at the very last second, and took a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, slow down—what’s happened? Are you okay?”

“I need my dad and Lando,” she repeated, more forcefully now. Why wasn’t he listening to her? “I need them. I need them now. I need—”

Her breath caught. Her eyes were glassy. The pressure in her chest was a rising tide. There were too many people. Too many eyes. She was too warm. Her skin was burning red hot. 

“I need them,” she whispered, over and over again, like a prayer or a plea, her voice cracking on every third word.

Will’s expression sharpened into action. “Alright. Okay. Hold on.” He pressed two fingers to the comm in his ear and turned away slightly, shielding her from the curious stares. “I need Zak and Lando here right now,” he said, voice clipped. “Hospitality. Main area. Something’s wrong with Amelia.”

—

Footsteps pounded down the corridor.

“There,” Will said, relief audible. “They’re here.”

Lando appeared first, eyes wide and frantic, scanning the room until his gaze locked onto her. Zak was right behind him, sharp-eyed and tense.

“Amelia?” Lando didn’t wait. He closed the distance in seconds, hands already reaching for her.

She didn’t even try to speak. Just looked at him, wide-eyed and trembling. Lando’s face fell like something inside him snapped, and he gathered her into his arms without hesitation.

His hands were gentle but searching, over her shoulders, her face, her back. “Are you hurt? What happened? Baby, talk to me.”

She clung to the front of his hoodie, pressing her face into his chest like she was trying to disappear. “Jos told me to come and get you,” she mumbled.

Lando stilled. “Jos?”

Zak stepped forward, brows knitting. “Jos Verstappen?”

“He and Max were with me. When I got a call.” Her voice shook. “From the FIA.”

Will, still hovering nearby, muttered something under his breath. Zak’s posture changed immediately, tighter, angrier.

“What did they say?” Lando asked, trying to keep calm.

Amelia didn’t look at either of them. “That I’ve been reported. Someone raised concerns about... ethics. That I might have compromised data. That the report has been been escalated internally.” 

There was a beat of stunned silence.

She took a shaking breath. “They didn’t say who reported me. But I think it was Christian.”

Zak swore—quiet, but venomous.

“He’s been trying to control everything,” she whispered. “And it wasn’t working. So now he’s using the FIA to force me into doing exactly what he wants. I didn’t do anything wrong, but that doesn’t matter. It’s like—like he wants to own me.”

Lando grit his teeth. “You’re not something to be owned.”

Zak looked at his daughter, at the fear in her eyes, and something broke loose in him. “Has it been like this for a while? Him treating you like that?”

She shook her head. “No. He used to be so nice. Always telling me how great I was doing, how lucky Red Bull was to have me. But I spend most of my time with Adrian, not him. It only changed after… after me and Lando. That’s when he got weird. Angry. Like he actually believes me dating a driver means I can’t do my job anymore. It’s bullshit.”

Zak’s mouth opened, then closed again. There weren’t words strong enough for the way that made him feel.

Lando pressed his cheek to the top of her head, holding her close. She felt the knot of panic inside her ease slightly at the warmth of his touch.

“Jos and Max are waiting for us?” he asked gently.

Amelia gave a weak nod.

Zak scrubbed a hand over his face. “Christ. You’ve got the Verstappen’s mobilised like a personal militia?”

She blinked. “Is that… bad?”

Zak stared at her, torn.

Lando pulled back, cupped her face in his hands, and stared down at her. “Everything will be fine. We’ll fix this.”

Zak looked between them, something stewing behind his eyes. “You know this might bounce back on you too, right?” he said to Lando. “If this turns into a political mess; if Horner tries to spin it like there’s bias, or manipulation—”

“Do I look like I care?” Lando cut in, voice low, steady. “They’ve upset my girlfriend. That’s all I need to know.”

Zak exhaled, long and slow. There was something in the way Lando had said it—no hesitation, no caveats. Just conviction. That was new. And a little terrifying, in the way all earnest, young love was. He wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or concerned that this kid clearly loved his daughter.

Still, he nodded. “Alright then. Let’s go.” 

There was a beat of silence before Amelia pushed herself back against Lando’s chest and exhaled shakily. “Okay. Just give me a second first.”

Zak looked at her, really looked at her, and saw not the genius, not the engineer, not the Red Bull prodigy, but the daughter he hadn’t been close to in far too long. His jaw tightened as the rage boiled up behind his ribs again.

“Take your time,” he said. “Then we go.” 

—

The meeting room was tense. Bright with overhead lights that were humming too loudly for Amelia to tune out. The air-conditioning unit was pushing recycled air around. 

Christian sat stiffly at one end of the table, flanked by two FIA representatives. His expression was thin-lipped, trying for composed, but Amelia could read the irritation in the way he tapped his fingers against his thigh.

On the opposite side, Jos sat with his arms crossed, gaze like steel. Max beside him, not even pretending to hide his fury. Her dad and Lando were across from them, both sharp with controlled emotion; her dad tense, and Lando visibly vibrating with anger.

Adrian sat next to Amelia in the corner. Quiet. Watchful.

“I’m telling you,” Christian snapped, “it’s a matter of professionalism. There’s a clear conflict of interest here—”

“Like fuck there is,” Lando said, voice cutting through the rising tension. “She’s not sharing any Red Bull intel with me. She never has, and she never would.”

Christian scoffed. “You expect us to just take your word for that?”

“I expect you to look at the facts,” Lando snapped. “She’s spent months earning your trust. You know her. You know how seriously she takes her work. She’s not some PR liability, she’s not some leak. She’s one of the smartest people in the paddock and probably more professional than half of your fucking pit crew.”

Christian ignored him. “It’s a question of integrity—”

“She’s not a driver,” Max interrupted, his voice sharp. “And she is not your property. You’re only calling it a conflict because you feel like you have no control over her.”

Christian’s jaw tightened as he stared at his star driver. “She’s dating a McLaren driver. Whose team principal is her father. You don’t see how that might look?”

“She’s making you look stupid right now,” Jos said coolly, “and you don’t like it.”

Christian’s jaw clenched.

No one noticed Amelia lean slightly toward Adrian, voice low and even. “If I didn’t work for Red Bull. If I just worked for Max, exclusively, would you still be able to mentor me?”

Adrian didn’t hesitate. “I wouldn’t let anybody tell me otherwise.”

She nodded once. Quietly overwhelmed, nauseous from the adrenaline crash and the stifling heat of so many raised voices, she stood and reached to tap Jos on the shoulder. He turned to her immediately, eyes slitted.

“I accept your offer,” she said, soft but firm. “Buy me out.”

The room fell silent.

Christian turned slowly. “What?”

“I said,” she repeated, louder now, “buy me out. I will still work for Max,” she continued, voice unwavering despite the way her hands trembled at her sides. “And I will liaise with Adrian. But I do not want to work for Red Bull if this is how you will treat me.”

Christian looked like he’d swallowed a wasp. “You’re under contract.”

“I know,” Amelia said, tilting her head slightly, like she was explaining something painfully simple. “I read it thoroughly. One-year, a fixed term agreement. You never made me sign a new one. Too focused on my love life, apparently.”

Jos smiled like a man satisfied with the inevitable.

Christian’s face went red. “I—I’m sure you were contracted for longer. That’s not possible.”

Max leaned back in his chair, letting out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “It’s very possible.”

Jos tapped the table with satisfaction. “Very good. We’ll have our lawyers begin the process today. As soon as Amelia is out of contract with Red Bull, she will begin working for the Verstappen camp exclusively.” 

Max looked at Amelia, relief washing over his face, his shoulders relaxing. Adrian gave a small, approving nod beside her, proud in his quiet way. Lando’s jaw was tight, his eyes burning into Christian like he was ready to throw something. He reached over, wrapping an arm around Amelia’s waist, tugging her close. His eyes didn’t leave Christian, almost cockily daring him to say another word.

Zak stood slowly, his voice cutting through the tension. “This has been a complete waste of the FIA’s time,” he said, calm but sharp. “If Christian isn’t investigated for this false accusation, I’ll be incredibly unimpressed by your lack of integrity.”

The FIA reps exchanged nervous glances, clearly unsure how to proceed.

Amelia stood still, pressed close to Lando. He glanced up at her, nodded once, and she exhaled a slow breath. 

— 

Amelia was standing by the wall, her eyes trained on the monitor displaying Max’s lap times as he pushed his car around the track

Jos approached quietly. 

He didn’t say anything at first, simply observing the screen with her, watching Max as he accelerated through each corner. When he finally spoke, his voice was low but firm. “Amelia,” he began, his eyes still on the track. “You already know that you’re good at what you do. So, when you are working for us, all I expect from you is one thing.”

She didn’t look at him, keeping her gaze fixed on the screen. “I’ll make sure he wins the championship,” she said bluntly, her voice steady and certain. “Next year, I hope. The year after that, for sure.” 

Jos’ eyes flicked to her, a slight but approving nod of his head. “Good. Your personal life does not matter to me. What matters is that Max gets that title.”

He paused, and then gave her a tight squeeze on the shoulder; brief, but strong enough to make her feel it. Amelia stiffened at the touch, but it was firm, controlled, and left no space for doubt. It also didn’t linger long enough to make her uncomfortable.

He looked at her one more time, the lines of his face softening just a fraction. “You will give him the car that he needs to win?” 

She didn’t smile, but there was a quiet certainty in her that matched his. “I will.”

With that, Jos turned on his heel and walked away, leaving her standing there, her focus once again solely on the screen in front of her.

She felt the weight of his words settle over her, the one singular mission that he’d handed to her. No outside expectations. No silly aspirations. 

Just a championship. 

She could make that happen. 

— 

Most of the team had dispersed for the evening, the buzz of the paddock giving way to a more subdued hum of late-night prep. Amelia stood near the back of the garage, fingers curled around the edge of the workbench, eyes fixed on the schematic spread across the screen. She didn’t look up when Adrian joined her.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he said.

She didn’t reply immediately, just let out a slow breath. “I didn’t want to go back to the hotel yet.” She was waiting for Lando, too. He’d been called in for a post-practice debrief. 

Adrian nodded, folding his arms loosely over his chest as he stood beside her. “You’ve had a long day.”

There was a pause before she finally spoke again, quieter this time. “Are we really still going to be able to work together?”

Adrian turned to look at her, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he said, gently, “Of course we are. That’s not how it works. You’ll still be a crucial part of Max’s race program. Nothing changes in that regard. You’re just no longer on Red Bull’s payroll.”

She nodded, slow, like she was digesting that. “So… limited access to team-wide data.”

“Yes. You won’t be able to view Alex’s telemetry or setups anymore. But Max’s car? That’s still yours to develop. Full access. Always.”

Amelia’s shoulders relaxed a little. “I don’t need anyone else’s data anyway.”

Adrian smiled, faint but fond. “I didn’t think you did.”

She glanced over at him then, finally meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry it’s come to this. I never wanted to leave Red Bull. Not like this.”

“I know,” Adrian said simply. “And I am sad that you won’t be as involved in our broader operations anymore. You were, are, an extraordinary presence. But I’m also glad you’ll be able to live your life the way you wish. And I trust Jos to protect your work. Max too.” He rested a hand on the edge of the bench beside hers, close but not quite touching. “You deserve to do the job you love, without sacrificing the life you want to live.”

Amelia’s throat tightened a little. She looked away, back at the schematic.

“I’ll make sure Max wins,” she said, voice steady and certain.

Adrian smiled, the kind of quiet, proud smile that only came from deep trust. “I never doubted it.”

She hesitated, then glanced sideways at him. “You need to keep an eye on the second car. On Alex—and whoever Christian decides to replace him with at the end of the year. Something’s wrong with it. It’s not just setup issues.”

Adrian’s expression sharpened ever so slightly. He nodded once. “Okay. I’ll look into it.”

“Okay,” she echoed, her voice soft but resolute.

— 

Lando was cross-legged on the hotel bed, headset balanced over his messy curls, half-focused on the screen of his laptop and chatting idly to stream chat. He’d dragged a small streaming setup with him like always, ring light, mic, the works, even though he wasn’t planning a long one. Just something to decompress.

Amelia had been pacing softly near the window for the last twenty minutes.

He noticed, of course. She hadn’t said much since dinner, and she hadn’t taken his hoodie off since they got back. The sleeves were pulled halfway over her hands, and she was rubbing her thumbs in a tight, repetitive rhythm against the seam at the cuffs. Small, barely-there stims that told him everything he needed to know.

He muted the stream briefly. “You okay, baby?”

She hesitated mid-step. “I—” Her voice caught. “I need to…. I don’t know.”

“Okay,” he said simply. “You want me to stop streaming?”

She blinked at him. “No— I like listening to you play. It’s relaxing. I just. I don’t know if you’ll find it weird. Or annoying.”

Lando let out a soft, disbelieving breath and tilted his head at her, fond. “Babe, you’re literally the least annoying person I know.”

She gave him a flat look.

“Okay,” he amended, grinning, “Top five. But seriously, just do your thing, yeah? You don’t have to, like, hide anything around me.”

Her shoulders softened a little at that. Still hesitant, she grabbed her favourite stim toy from her bag, a little handheld tangle of soft silicone loops, and curled up on the far end of the couch, letting herself twist and flex it between her fingers and bounce her leg all at the same time. 

Lando unmuted his stream. “Sorry guys, back. Had to check on something more important than you.”

Chat immediately flooded. 

WHO’S MORE IMPORTANT THAN US IS AMELIA THERE????? LANDO IS WHIPPED LMAO

He glanced over at her and added casually, “Yeah, she’s here. And no, you can’t see her. She’s doing her genius secret stuff.”

“You’re a menace,” she murmured.

“You love it,” he replied, dimpling.

A few minutes passed in a warm hush, the occasional stretch-snap of the stim loops in her hand and his gaming chatter the only sound in the room.

Eventually, she whispered, “Thank you.”

He didn’t even turn, just kept playing and grinned, voice soft but certain. “Always, baby.”

— 

The hotel breakfast lounge was quiet, sun filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows in soft, hazy beams. Amelia spotted her dad sitting alone at a small table in the corner, nursing what had to be his third cup of coffee, half a croissant on his plate and his phone face-down beside it.

She hovered near the entrance for a second longer than necessary, then took a breath and walked over.

Zak looked up the second her shadow hit the table. He stood halfway, unsure, and only sat back down once she slid into the chair opposite him.

“Hey,” he said gently.

“Hey,” she replied, voice low but calm.

“I didn’t know what to get you,” he admitted, nodding at the small spread he’d asked the waiter to leave on the table; toast, eggs, fruit, a tiny tower of pancakes. “So I just… ordered too much.”

“That’s fine,” she murmured. “You always do that anyway.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

Amelia reached for a piece of melon, then paused. “Thanks for being there yesterday.”

Zak looked at her closely. “You don’t need to thank me for that. I’m your dad.”

“I know,” she shrugged. “But still.”

A silence settled. Not awkward; just a little heavy.

He fiddled with the handle of his coffee cup. “I meant what I said. If the FIA don’t investigate Christian, I’ll make a big deal out of it. He shouldn’t get to throw around accusations like that without consequences.”

Amelia nodded slowly, chewing her bite of melon.

“And I meant what I said,” she told him, “about not wanting to be owned by anyone. Not even you. I— I want you to be a part of my life. I do. But not if it means I have to be part of McLaren, or do things your way.”

Zak sat back, hands resting on the edge of the table. “That’s fair.”

She looked at him properly for the first time since she’d sat down. “I forgive you.”

His expression cracked. “I’m— God, I’m so sorry, honey. I just wanted to protect you. And I thought I was. I really did.”

“I know,” she said. “But I’m not a little girl anymore. I needed you to be proud of me, not just afraid of what might happen to me.”

“I am proud of you,” he said immediately. “I’ve never stopped being proud. I just didn’t know how to show it when things started changing so fast. You and Lando, Red Bull, the Verstappens, the FIA— Christ. I didn’t even see half of it coming.”

Amelia picked at the edge of the napkin in her lap. “I’m happy you were there yesterday.”

Zak’s face softened. “Me too.”

He hesitated, then reached across the table and offered his hand, palm up.

She didn’t take it straight away, but eventually, slowly, she slid her hand into his and let him squeeze it.

“Start over?” he asked quietly.

“Start new,” she corrected. “Not over. Just… from here.”

He smiled. “From here.”

Amelia’s phone buzzed beside her plate.

iMessage — 6:14am

Lando Norris bring me pancakes pretty pls 

She snorted quietly.

Zak raised an eyebrow. “Lando?”

“Mmhmm.” She tapped out a quick reply.

Amelia What type?

Zak sipped his coffee, like he wasn’t trying not to pry but couldn’t help himself. “Is he in your hotel room?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, lifting a pancake onto her plate. “He stays with me every race weekend.”

Zak blinked. “Wait— what?”

She looked up, furrowing his brows. “He sets up his streaming stuff and everything. Takes up so much room. It’s a bit annoying, actually.”

Zak set down his cup. “You’re telling me McLaren’s been footing the bill for hotel rooms all season and he doesn’t even use them?”

Amelia shrugged. “I mean, he uses the toiletries.”

Zak pressed his palms to his face. “Jesus Christ.”

“Well,” she started, a little too helpfully, “that’s a budget inefficiency you should probably address. Might leave you with some more money to spend on your terrible rear suspension.”

— 

Amelia swiped the keycard and nudged open the door to her hotel room, balancing a plate of pancakes

“Delivery,” she called softly, toeing her shoes off at the door.

From the bed, a groan. Then a voice, muffled by pillows, “you were gone forever.”

She rolled her eyes. “I was gone for forty-eight minutes.”

“Forever,” he repeated dramatically, arms already reaching out for her. “I woke up and you weren’t here. I almost died.”

“That would have been a tragedy,” she said, deadpan, leaning over to kiss him. “I brought you the pancakes you demanded.”

He cracked one eye open. “Are they the good kind?”

“American. I also brought you extra butter and syrup which we won’t tell Jon about.”

That earned her a sleepy smile. “You’re perfect.”

She just passed him his plate. “Eat.”

Lando sat up against the headboard, messy-haired and warm-eyed, and dug into the pancakes without bothering with cutlery. Just fingers.

“You have a fork,” she pointed out, furrowing her brows.

“Mmh,” he said, mouth full, “tastes better like this, though.”

Amelia sat beside him, tucking her legs under herself. He bumped her shoulder gently.

“Everything go okay with your dad?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Fine. He’s not very happy about the fact that you haven’t been using your hotel rooms.”

Lando shrugged around a bite. “He’ll get over it.” He leaned over, pressed a sticky kiss to her cheek, and added, “Also, just so you know, I missed you the whole time you were downstairs. Deeply. In my soul.”

“You’re ridiculous.” She sighed, but the flutters in her stomach were back. 

“You like me anyway.” He teased. 

“Unfortunately,” she agreed.

He beamed. “So much romance already today. And it’s not even eight in the morning!”

She stole a pancake from his plate. With the fork. Because she was an adult. 

— 

The sun had barely cleared the Belgian hills when they stepped out of the car, but the press were already waiting.

“Ready?” Lando asked, nudging her shoulder with his.

Amelia adjusted the lanyard around her neck and eyed the sea of photographers near the entrance to the paddock. “Not even remotely.”

He grinned and reached for her hand. “Too bad. Come on.”

Her fingers curled into his instinctively. Warm. Steady. She glanced down at their joined hands and then up at him, squinting slightly. “You know I’m wearing Red Bull team kit and you’re literally in McLaren orange, right? This is visually confusing.”

He shrugged, unbothered. “I think it’s a nice contrast.”

They started walking toward the paddock together, hand-in-hand, her oversized Red Bull fleece flapping against his arm, his McLaren polo already attracting attention.

The cameras clicked faster. Voices called out. Amelia flinched slightly.

Lando glanced at her. “You okay?”

She hesitated. “Yeah. Just… weird.” There was a pause. Then, “I feel like a WAG.”

Lando burst out laughing. “You’re in team issue. Literally on your way to work. How are you a WAG?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m dating a driver, I’m walking in holding his hand, and people are taking photos of me.”

“You’re an engineering prodigy,” he said, grinning at her like she’d hung the damn sun. “They should be taking photos of you anyway.”

“Still,” she muttered, cheeks pink, “if I end up in one of those 'F1 WAG fashion' pages I’m blaming you. They’ll probably be so mean. Navy blue isn’t my colour.”

Lando squeezed her hand, eyes flicking briefly to the line-up of screaming fans behind the barrier. He waved at them. “Nah, you suit it. I think you’d suit papaya more, but that’s a conversation for another day.”

Amelia glared at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re stuck with me.” He grinned. 

They reached the paddock entrance, where the staff were already turning to stare. Some familiar faces. Some curious. 

Lando didn’t let go of her hand.

— 

Max kicked lightly at the concrete with the toe of his show. “You didn’t have to stay, you know.”

Amelia glanced at him, frowning. “I know.”

“I mean it,” he said, looking over at her. “I wouldn’t have blamed you for walking away.”

She shrugged. “Okay. But I didn’t want to.”

He studied her, skeptical but quiet.

“I want you to win,” she told him. “I want you to be world champion.”

His brow lifted. “Even if it’s at the expense of Lando?”

Amelia hesitated.

Lando, who curled around her in bed and whispered nonsense until her thoughts stopped spiralling. Lando, who paid for every meal and date and filled her car with petrol whenever it needed it. Her Lando.

“His time will come,” she said, the certainty in her tone pure and unwavering. She looked at Max. “He’s my boyfriend. But you’re my…” She trailed off, the word catching on uncertainty. She didn’t quite know what the label was; what Max had come to mean to her.

Max gave a crooked little smile, eyes soft despite the teasing edge in his voice. “Zusje,” he crooned lightly.

Amelia rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Maybe that was what it felt like. She wouldn’t know for sure; she’d never had one before. A sibling. A brother.

“Come on,” Max said, bumping her shoulder with his. “Walk me through the new upgrades again. I want to make sure I’ve got it.”

Immediately, she lit up, snapping back into focus, hands moving as she began talking aero dynamics, balance, and torque maps.

And Max listened. Closely. Like he always did when it was her voice explaining exactly what he need to do in order to win.

— 

Lando finished in the points. Max finished on the podium.

Amelia curled up on a chair at the back of the garage, knees tucked close, her iPad balanced against them. She scrolled through an Instagram page called @WAGFASH, which had somehow racked up nearly five thousand followers.

They’d rated her team kit a 5/10.

In her opinion, that was generous.

She double-tapped the post, closed the app without a second thought, and flipped right back to Max’s strategy notes.

NEXT CHAPTER

[hcneymooners]

the odd soft launch of homophobia is starting to truly irk me.

there’s been a lot of conversation lately about paige and azzi and the nature of their relationship, and to be honest, it feels so clear to me that what they have goes beyond friendship. there’s something about their connection that feels deep, unspoken—like they’re soul-tied. but amid the speculation, i've also seen people call out the "deniers," saying things like, “at this point, y’all are just being homophobic.” and while i’ve hesitated to say anything, i do think this conversation is worth having—because, honestly, yes.

yes, a lot of the reactions to it are rooted in something deeper and more uncomfortable.

for a long time now, i’ve seen people deny anything could possibly be going on between the two of them. they say it’s to protect the girls or to respect their privacy—but under that, i think there’s a fear. a fear of what it would mean if they were together. because then they’d be “those” people. part of a group that still gets othered, questioned, and in many cases, rejected. and when you factor in paige’s strong christian faith—which has drawn in a lot of religious, often conservative fans—it gets even more complicated.

i think it’s easy to believe we live in a progressive world when you’ve tailored both your real life and your algorithm to reflect that, but the truth is that culture has shifted heavily to conservatism. people are bolder now in the ways they talk about marginalized people, even if they’re trying to dress it up as concern. i saw someone comment on a video calling paige a “real woman”—and it just reinforced this feeling i’ve had.

there’s this uncomfortable desire to fit them into a narrow, safe idea of womanhood and straightness. and to be even more honest, for a lot of people, it’s about wanting paige—blonde, blue-eyed, that “all-american” look—to not be with a mixed, black woman like azzi. no one says it out loud, but the silence is loud enough.

i think a lot about how society still doesn’t take relationships between women seriously. we see it over and over again—sapphic relationships being dismissed as “just a phase” or romantic friendships. there’s a safety in calling someone your best friend, especially when the world isn’t safe enough to call them your partner. and people eat that narrative up because it lets them ignore what’s right in front of them. and i see that happening constantly with paige and azzi. it’s almost like people need to believe it’s not real, just so they can stay comfortable.

at the end of the day, they’re free to conduct their relationship however they want—it’s theirs. they don’t owe us anything. but i do think some of you need to partake in some serious self-reflection: why does the idea of them being together make you uncomfortable? is it really about protecting them? or is it about protecting your idea of them? how much of your reaction is shaped by internalized homophobia or racial bias?

and i say this gently, but also truthfully: some of y’all are projecting strange fantasies onto these girls, especially paige. there’s a level of obsession, of placing her on this untouchable pedestal, that honestly starts to feel more about possession than admiration.

it’s worth questioning what’s really going on there because it’s uncomfortable to witness.

[ef-1]

Red Bull's inability to keep a straight story, a study:

Marko told Motorsport that Daniel was made aware that Singapore would be his last race. “[The timing] was related to a variety of factors and obligations, He was informed, and the worthy farewell performance was, I think, the fastest lap.” [Source: Motorsport 26/09/24]. However, when Daniel was asked to address the rumours in Singapore during media day on 19/09/24 if contractually it was even possible that Singapore could be his last race, Daniel laughed and said: "I don't think so. But I also don't want to stand here and be the lawyer. Look, I would say ‘no.’” This was corroborated by Mekies the following day on the 20/09/24 to Sky Sport F1 when asked about purported Singapore deadline, confirming “We made it also quite public that we will sit down together after Singapore, that's where we are really. So, nothing decided so far".

Writing for Formula 1 on the 26/09/2024, Barretto says that “High-level sources” told him that Daniel was informed he would be dropped in Baku, round 17 of the calendar. However, Craig Slater who broke the news on Sky Sports F1 says his sources told him “Riccardo learned the news that he would not be continuing in that car on Sunday night in Singapore. It was confirmed officially to him in a face-to-face meeting with Christian Horner and it was a very emotional evening, I spoke to Daniel”. Slater added that he visited the VCARB hospitality and "there were a fair few tears in that VCARB hospitality area” [Source: Sky Sports F1 26/09/24]

Horner claims that Helmut wanted Daniel out by Barcelona: “Even around Barcelona, Helmut wanted him out of the car. There was already a lot of pressure on him there.” [Source: F1 Nation podcast, 30/09/24 ] Barcelona was round 10 of the calendar, yet in round 13 when Helmut was asked if there was a favourite among the three incumbent drivers Helmut was still open [Source: ORF 19/07/24]

Lawson stated that “I knew about it for the last probably two weeks,” to New Zealand’s Newstalk ZB after his F1 promotion became public [Source: Newstalk ZB, 26/09/24]. However, when SkyF1 Germany asked VCARB CEO Bayer if Singapore would be Daniel’s last race he said: “No”. And that the much speculated post Singapore deadline is to determine their 2025 lineup: “Singapore is certainly another milestone and there will now be these final discussions after Singapore to discuss our line-up for 2025” [Source: SkySportFormel1, 20/09/24]. However x2, Lawson does not even have a contract for 2025 "I've got until the end of the season," Lawson confirmed in an [Source: New Zealand Herald, 27/09/24]. "I'll find out more about how it looks as the season progresses. But for now, yes, it's these six races."

VCARB TP Mekies told Motorsport that the move is not about immediate results because Daniel still had the speed as per Miami, the move to drop Daniel was to address driver lineup concerns for 2026 however both Verstappen and Perez allegedly have contracts until 2026. [source: Motorsport 27/09/24]

When there are so many conflicting narratives in such a short period of time: someone is lying.

+The only side of the story we haven’t heard since this catastrophic breakdown in PR and internal communications is Daniel's side :)

[justinspoliticalcorner]

John Pavlovitz at The Beautiful Mess:

Yesterday, Vice President Kamala Harris announced that Minnesota Governor Tim Walz would be her running mate in the coming presidential campaign.

The decision was met with effusive praise from both Blue voters, as well as a disparate group of politicians and commentators. Walz’ effortless warmth, his heart-on-sleeve demeanor, and his undeniable joy for life, which have been apparent for a long time in his home state—have suddenly become a national story. In a matter of hours, millions of people fell in love with the Governor, sharing videos of he and his daughter on thrill rides at the State Fair, and photos of him being joyfully embraced by a group of school children and cheerfully holding a tiny, sleeping piglet. And in the wake of the announcement and of his and Kamala' Harris’ electrifying appearance in Philadelphia at their first rally, the “Christian” MAGA Right rolled out a telling reply that they surely imagined was a real zinger: They created the hashtag #TamponTimmy. Really. That’s where they went. That’s all they got. Not only does this desperate response underscore the reality that Republican voters have nothing left but sophomoric name-calling in an effort to emulate their emotionally-stunted orange messiah in the absence of substantive critique, but it reveals how hateful toward women and how threatened by non-toxic masculinity they are.

MAGAs don’t see how much they expose themselves by using a female medical product as a slur, the way it reveals their complete contempt for women and their agendas toward them. They are so intimidated by a man this confident in who he is and so endowed with natural humility, that they have to attack these things as if they’re some sort of character flaws. Emotional maturity is a red flag for them.

[...] They are fully fed up with Trump and his surrogate’s contrived John Wayne dudebro American tough guy cosplay, and they are ready to embrace a better kind of manhood: one that doesn’t need to prove how tough it is, doesn’t have to be the center of attention, and most of all, is not concerned about showing its deep humanity because it revels in it. Tens of million of boys and young men of this nation have been irreparably harmed by the sexist dehumanization of Trump and the MAGA movement, which have been reinforced by Dark Ages theology, culture war politics, inherited/internalized misogyny, and good ol’ fashioned fragile masculinity. This nation is ready to embrace a masculinity embodied in Tim Walz and Doug Emhoff: one that does no harm, one that gladly defers to a strong, capable, talented woman, and one that makes all of us better.

John Pavlovitz nails it. The masculinity of Tim Walz is what’s needed for America, instead of the kind of masculinity the likes of Donald Trump, Andrew Tate, and Elon Musk push.

[tevanbuckley]

some low points from the ry*an g*zman interview because i need you all to feel my pain.

when talking about his celibacy (yes he uses that word): "I haven't entertained any interactions with any other females" — gave me the ick 0/10

uses the phrase "a woman's touch," to explain why women are inherently good at interior decorating(?) and that this skill is how women are able to enrich a successful man's life — side note: at no point do they talk about how men enrich women’s lives.

immediately after this the religious imagery takes a left turn and exits my frame of reference, bc instead of just asking "do you think you still have things to work on?" like a normal person, the host says "I want to know what one Thorn is in your flesh." — someone raised more religious than i was needs to chime in on if this is normal christian doctrine or a sign he might be in a cult. (is it a reference to the thorns in jesus' crown?)

ryan makes a weird comment about how "you've seen civilizations built on [a man in love]" — genuinely idk what the fuck this means — but it leads into a tangent about like, men as providers and how "I would do anything for my women."

"peace is key yeah we got enough problems in the world outside the house and so long as I come back to the house and I get peace," — maybe i'm being pedantic but the way he keeps framing woman as belonging in the home is 🚩🚩🚩🚩

"for the next woman I would have in my life I can see that they navigate their their problems and still offer peace to their men." — again 🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩

surprisingly claims he has been to therapy, which assuming is true, idk it worked.

the host: "women may be fighting internal battles you know kind of themselves do you believe that a woman still fighting those battles are able to still bring peace" — because remember ladies, no matter what you're going through your job is to bring peace to your man's home.

there's some more brief gender essentialist bs where ryan talks about how men "like to fix things," but are bad listeners, and how "problems within women are so specific to women that I wouldn't even try and and say that I have a grasp on them."

then the host randomly asks him if he thinks men need to be financially stable before entering a relationship or if dating a broke guy is a way to "present loyalty."

weirdly ryan actually kind of dodges this question, but ends up suggesting social media is a good place to get "great examples of what does and what doesn't seem to work." in relationships — and no. no it isn't.

oh and then he starts talking about conor mcgregor for some reason? and how it's bad he disrespected his wife by stepping outside their marriage — and i mean sure, although infidelity feels second to the rape accusations??

says it's harder for a woman to come into a man's life when he's already established because "now the man has proven to himself that he never needed a woman." — which, interesting given how later he talks about how women need to stop trying to do the independent woman thing.

he also gets weirdly possessive over his daughter at one point. does the classic "God forbid I find out that man disrespects my little baby." — idk, on the surface he talks about how he wants her to know her value, but it seems like he has a pretty limited view of what that value is.

the host drops lore about how she moved out of her parents house at 14/15 and how she had to "stop thinking like a woman and start thinking also like a man," but stay feminine and "know what a man wants and how to cater to that but also still be soft." — i mean good lord, i don't even know where to start 🤢.

this btw is the preamble to ryan's rant about "independent women."

and god the more i read the more i am deeply concerned about the woman hosting (i saw someone earlier say she's 21). this woman is barely an adult and has so much internalised misogyny, talking about how "us women don't know how to direct our emotions." and "in today's generation a lot of men are deprived of even the small things because a lot of women are takers."

this whole interview is utterly bizarre and i feel like it's taken years off my life. like i said earlier, this isn't a normal podcast he got weird on, this is straight up christian propaganda

[artbyblastweave]

I think there's a sense in which Worm is "apolitical" in the sense that it's deliberately aping the ways in which DC and Marvel present themselves as apolitical, superheroics as this bizarrely siloed institution that's got nothing to do with all the rest of that stuff, don't worry about it, and then it goes, alright, but this shit costs money and the lifestyle implies something about the psyche of the participants and a lot of buildings are getting blown up, so what kind of internal politics develop from that starting premise, and how do they spill out on the rest of society (answer- they jump right to neofeudalism, do not pass go.) All of which generally brushes past politics as we recognize it, except in spots where the basic premise of superheroes touch on politics in unexamined ways- you can try and read something about the politics of police and prisons into Worm but you won't get to the finish line without acknowledging that it's fundamentally concerned with how those things are handled (or not) in superhero comic books.

And in Ward he decided to backtrack on that and start thinking in terms of how capes would interface with or try to use their powers to advance real life political issues- and from there you get things like the fleshed-out, resurgent Fallen, bit players mentioned in passing like the ecoterrorist capes, insufferable republican family values capes like Moonsong, additional Legend-style LGBT-advocate capes like Furcate and Switch Hitter, and probably a number I'm forgetting. There's a shitload more of these guys in the Weaverdice stuff. On balance I like this change a lot. Frankly, the premise of a coalition of superpowered christian-nationalist theocrats consolidating power in the aftermath of the literal end of the world, coupled with the dregs of the old-world white supremacist capes rebranding and integrating themselves into whatever ostensibly heroic groups want manpower badly enough to be incurious about their pasts, is fucking fascinating. And it's something that makes me really, really wish that Ward had been set something like fifteen years later, after all this had had time to settle and congeal into some compellingly fucked post-apocalyptic superhuman power blocs informed by but distinct from the political alignments of today.

[libraryofloveletters]

Find Your Way Home

Daniel Ricciardo x Engineer!Fem!Reader

Warnings: the curse that is mclaren racing, < mclaren/zak slander, the highs and lows of Danny's career, monaco 2016, horner warning lmao, a few bitter words, angst, unspoken feelings, sadness, 2022 silly season and a few swear words.

Word Count: 4.6k

Author's Note: after plotting this, i realized that The Red String Of Me And You follows a similar timeline but this one is more detailed and sooo much sexier of me so enjoy it :)

---

RedBull Racing - 2014; Montreal, Canada.

Under-qualified crossed your mind every time you got into your chair on the pit wall.

You had recently graduated and you were lucky enough to snag a job with Red Bull Racing. You were told it would be a job at the factory, that you would be handling the reviews from the races from an engineering point of view.

Now you were sitting on the pit wall in Montreal, your driver in your ear. "Are we set?" His voice came through.

Your eyes scanned over the screens, pressing the button. "We're all set, Daniel."

Daniel was gunning for his first race win and you've been hoping and praying every weekend that he'd win. It was your first time as a race engineer and you were starting to think you two hadn't fully clicked yet, hence why you've yet to get a win.

He starts in P6 and his teammate Sebastian, was in P3 this weekend. There's a lot of pressure when your teammate is a 4 time world champion and you're sure Daniel felt it, especially on weekends like this.

You sat patiently, buzzing into him once more before they started the countdown. "Be safe."

"Safe is my middle name, y/n."

"Whatever you say, Joseph." The use of his actual middle name earned you a laugh. The radio falls silent; three, two, one, lights out.

It's a gruesome 70 laps, there's overtaking left and right, Daniel fights his way up to P3 and you're praying he can do what he does best. You watch as the laps count down towards the final one.

67, 68, 69, and into the final corner. The navy car crossed the line and it takes you a second to catch yourself. Christian squeezes your arm from next to you, a massive grin on his face when you register what just happened.

"YOU DID IT!!" You shouted into the radio, Daniel's laughter and hollering filled your ears and your heart with love and happiness, "we did it!" he shouts, correcting you.

Everyone's running, you're following the mechanics to under the podium, all of you squished up against the fence like sardines as the navy team awaited their two drivers.

Daniel had won, followed by Nico in P2 for Mercedes and Sebastian in P3 for RedBull.

Seb runs over to his half of the garage, there's a sea of navy and everyone is mixed up together but when Daniel gets out of his car, he's looking for one person and one person only. He spots you, a big smile on your face and even though he knows you'd never admit it, there are tears in your eyes.

The driver jumps straight into your arms, putting all of his weight on you and the fence. A few of the mechanics squeeze into the hug, holding Daniel so he doesn't crush you.

Your hands cup his face, well what would be his face under the helmet. His visor is lifted, brown eyes meet yours; the crinkles by his eyes signalling to the massive smile under the helmet.

"We fucking did it!" His shout comes out muffled.

You smile, nodding. Daniel is standing again, still holding onto you. He leans into you, arms wrapped around you with his face buried in your shoulder. You kiss the side of his helmet, hand reaching down to rub the top of his back. You internally gag at the dampness that meets your hand but that was the least of your concerns.

Daniel just won his first race.

Proud was an understatement.

--

RedBull Racing - 2016; Monte Carlo, Monaco.

He could taste the victory.

The win was reaching out to him, the finish line on the tips of his fingers and he could feel it slipping away from him.

"Pit now," you called to him, Daniel was confused by your sudden decision. "Tyres are good, y/n."

"Team decision, please pull into the pit lane."

Daniel groans letting you know he'll be there in a few seconds.

You saw when he pulled into the pits, watching as the mechanics scrabbled to get the tyres ready in time. They had Daniel sitting there, his position falling with each wasted second.

"What the fuck!" His radio was still on, you weren't even sure what you could tell him in that moment to make him feel better. He pulls out with a sense of speed you'd never seen before. He finds himself racing to beat Lewis coming out of the pit lane but the Mercedes turns into the corner before he gets the chance too, overtaking him.

"Why did we pit?" He asks you, you pretend not to hear him as you look over at Christian. The older man gives you a look, urging you to answer the driver.

Daniel calls your name once again, his voice making you want to cry; all of the horrible emotions mixed in with the guilt of the horrible pit stop made you sick.

You finally answer; "team decision."

He scoffs, it's like you can feel the tension over the radio, see the way his hands tighten around the steering wheel as he goes into the tunnel. "Bullshit, y/n."

"I'm sorry Dan-" "Stop, nothing you could say will make this better."

And with that, the radio fell silent. The nauseous feeling builds with each passing second, your leg shaking and your eyes staying fixed to the screen until Daniel crosses the finish line in P2.

It was better than nothing but you knew he could have won the race, you knew he would blame the team, blame the crew, blame you for this loss.

Christian squeezes your shoulder as he gets up, a smile on his face - his quiet way of telling you good job. He knows how difficult drivers can be, especially when things like this happen. The race engineers are the first to take the blame, you called him into the pit so you'd take the brunt of the anger.

You nod, hearing Daniel's voice over the radio, "place?"

"P2. Well done, Daniel."

"Okay."

Daniel stood next to Lewis, Checo on the other side of the Mercedes driver. It was quiet as you watched Daniel shake the champagne bottle, spraying over his fellow drivers. He had a smile on his face but you knew he wasn't happy. You knew him like the back of your hand and once again, the nauseous feeling creeped up the back of your throat, the feeling strangling the life out of you with each passing second. You had to go, you couldn't stand there and watch him like that, knowing you were the one he was blaming.

And that he did; not in so many words but the bitterness in his voice and way he spoke was enough to tell you he did not want to be there.

The interview replayed in the debrief that afternoon, the press officers wanting to go over something he had said.

"It hurts, this one hurts a lot. More than any other."

His words hurt you.

You couldn't even bring yourself to look at him, let alone be in the same room as him. There was a sense of despair, you couldn't shake it.

It wasn't until you were about to leave that you found yourself turning back, walking in the direction of his driver's room. You stopped outside the door; D. Ricciardo, 3 - with an Australian flag beside it. As you were about to knock, Michael opens the door, a bit shocked to see you.

"Is he in there?" You asked quietly and he nodded, stepping aside to let you in. Michael shuts the door on his way out, leaving the two of you alone.

Daniel's yet to turn around or yet to realize you were there. "I'm sorry," you speak, your quiet voice startling him. "I'm not sure what went wrong."

"Everything did."

"It wasn't my decision."

"You're my engineer; when I'm out there, it's me and you. It was your decision, y/n. Only yours."

"I'm sorry, Daniel. I really am."

"Nothing you can say will fix it, and I know you're sorry but right now, I don't want your sorry."

You nod, taking a step back. "Then what can I say? Or do?"

"You can leave," his arms fold over his chest. "Because if you stay, I might say some things I can't take back. I know we aren't cool right now but I don't want to hurt you, y/n."

"You already have," you give him a tight lipped smile, the sadness clear across your face. "Goodnight Daniel."

--

RedBull Racing - 2018; Monte Carlo, Monaco.

It was off to a good start, Daniel had managed to give it his all and snag pole position on Saturday. He was in a good mood, there's a smile on his face and the sun was shining down on Monaco which was a nice change from the rain that was setting up in the morning.

The cars on the grid, the drivers counting down the seconds to lights out. You buzz into him, waiting to hear the little click. Daniel's breathing comes through from his side.

“50% done, remember?” You tell him. 

“50% done.” He says, the radio goes quiet as he waits for lights out.

Daniel drove amazingly, despite the issues the car was giving him. He finds himself aggravated half way through the race, the car giving out on him and losing power; thus losing hope in himself. The win was slipping through his fingers all over again with each passing corner and turn.

The weight was lifted off his shoulders when you watched him cross the finish line as the winner.

"P1 baby!!!!" You shout into the radio, Daniel's hollering fills the line and a big smile on both of your faces. "We fucking did it!!" He laughed, driving his cool down lap.

You were by the fence, watching as he climbed onto the halo of his car. Daniel's hand in a fist, placed on his chest as the team cheered. You're sure you've got the goofiest grin on your face, squished between Christian and Adrian.

Much like he did after his first race win, he makes a beeline straight for you, his arms open as he jumps into yours. Once again, you find yourself struggling to hold the man up but you try your best, arms wrapped around him.

Daniel's squished against you, your hands on his helmet, holding where his jaw would be. "Got that other 50%."

"Redemption day baby!" He shouts, giving you one last squeeze.

The rest of the afternoon was like heaven on earth; the smell of champagne, RedBull and chlorine covered everyone, you all watched as Daniel dived into the pool of the energy station.

"Come on!" He shouts to you but you shake your head, "I'm not getting in there."

Daniel pulls himself out of the pool, running over to you. "Dan, no." Your finger stuck out to warn him, the man comes closer. "Stop it," you get up, about to run away. He grabs you before you get the chance to run away, his arms wrapped tightly around you before he jumps into the pool.

"Daniel!" You scream when you get back up to the surface, "oh my god!" You laughed, your hand passed over your face to wipe away the water. He laughs, swimming - more like blobbing his way over to you, his race suit was weighing him down.

He grabs your arm, pulling you to him. The team photographer takes a photo of the two of you; arms wrapped around each other, covered in disgusting pool water with the world's biggest million watt smiles on your face.

You smile at the man next to you, "I'm so proud of you."

"I'm proud of you," he smiles, hugging you once more. "I couldn't have done it without you."

--

RedBull Racing - 2018; Abu Dhabi.

The announcement over the summer break threw everyone for a loop.

Breaking News: Daniel Ricciardo set to join Renault Racing for the 2019 season.

You weren't sure how to handle it or what prompted it.

Well that's not entirely true; after Monaco, things went downhill fast. There was bad result after bad result and it was weighing heavily on him.

When he returned from the summer break, you didn't say anything to him about the departure from the team. You knew he must have thought about it, you don't just up and leave a team just like that. It was a hard decision for him to make.

The last thing you wanted to do was make him feel worse.

It was his last day, the race was over and Daniel had made his rounds to say goodbye to everyone. You had been busy when he made his way around the garage and hospitality but you felt like a general goodbye wasn't enough for the man who you have spent almost every day with for the last 4 years of your life.

You knocked on the door of his driver's room, Michael smiles when he opens the door. "Come in, y/n."

Daniel turns when he hears your name. "I uh, I forgot something in the garage, I'll be back." Micheal says, announcing that he's leaving so you'd get a moment of privacy.

The two of you were quiet, looking at each other for a moment before you spoke.

You break the silence. “So this is it?” 

“Yeah.” He nods, shifting from one foot to the other. You hum, lips pressed together as you look around. You'd never seen the room so empty. “Do you really have to go ?” 

Daniel smiles, “afraid so, bags are packed.” 

“You could always unpack.” 

He smiled, his heart aching at the sight of you. You reached out, your hand placed on his warm cheek. “But you’ll come back, right?” 

A sad smile on his face, bringing his own hand up to rest on yours. “In another life, maybe.” 

“You promise?” You stuck your pinky out towards him. 

He nods, interlocking his pinky with yours like you were children. “I promise.” 

--

Renault Racing - 2020; Imola, Italy.

The rain poured down, the night sky as dark as it could possibly get as you pulled your hood over your head; the race hadn't gone as well as you'd like but you were no longer needed for the night, on your way back to your hotel for some sleep and then home before you head off to Turkey.

You could barely see where you were going let alone hear anything over the rain. The sudden shelter over you caused you to look up; an umbrella, a black and yellow one to be precise.

The man next to you smiles when you turn to see who was next to you. "Hello stranger," he grinned, the big smile on his face.

"Hello Daniel," you smiled.

The two of you hadn't spoken much since he left RedBull, it was a hi and a hello here and there in passing but you've yet to have a proper conversation. Frankly, you aren't sure what to say without it being awkward.

"Need a ride?" He asks, his arm over your shoulder to pull you away from the rain. "If it's not too much trouble." You pull the hood off of your head, flattening a few fly aways.

Daniel leads you towards the parking lot, holding the umbrella over your head until you get into the car. The man backed out of the parking spot, the sound of the rain on the windshield filled the silence, you translated the road signs in your head as he passed them by.

"You looked good up there today," you say quietly, Daniel glanced at you when he came to a stop. "You were always suited for the podium."

"Top step though," he smiles and you nod in agreement. "I'm sorry.. about the race. Sucks for Max and Alex."

You shrugged; A DNF for Max and P15 for Alex, so all in all, a shit weekend. "That's racing, what can you do?"

"The good and the bad." He pulls off when the light turns green. "You know how it is," you smiled, picking at the chipped nail polish on your index finger.

"Daniel, can I ask you something?"

"Oh full name, you've got me shakin' in my boots, y/n; but yes you can."

You shift in the leather seat, smooth and expensive and suddenly you're aware of how wet your hoodie is. The question you wanted to ask slips away momentarily as you think of how much this must be damaging the seat.

"Y/n," he calls out to you, glancing over to make sure you were alright after you had gone quiet. "What did you want to ask me?"

"Why are you running, Daniel ?"

The question catches him off guard, the car comes to a stop as he pulls into the parking lot of your hotel. His jaw hung open a bit as if he was unsure how to answer you; which he was. You watched as he blinked, trying to gather the thoughts in his head into a cohesive sentence.

"I'm not."

You can't help but chuckle; those who are running never seem to realize that they are, in fact, running.

"You are. You have a habit of doing that, Daniel."

You reach over, your hand rests atop of his; Daniel's skin is warm in comparison to yours that's still ice cold from the rain. His free hand moves, his index finger tracing up and down your hands, from your knuckles down to your wrist; another habit of his. He would distract himself during boring debriefs, his fingers pinching at yours under the table.

He's quiet, still unsure how to answer the statement that he knows in his heart was true. His fingers wandering over your hand, the raised skin by your thumb felt out a pattern identical to his; a rose in the same spot only slightly smaller in size.

Daniel had talked you into it. Another habit of his, getting you to do things you'd never do otherwise.

You were scared, you thought it would hurt but somehow he managed to talk you into it. There you were in his hotel room, Daniel's hand in your free one as you two got matching tattoos.

It felt like a million years ago - so much has changed since then.

You speak again, breaking the silence. "I hope you find what you're looking for at McLaren. You deserve some peace, Dan. You and I both know it."

--

McLaren Racing - 2021; Monza, Italy.

Back where he belongs.

A hell of a drive, something only Daniel could have pulled off after the horrendous start that was McLaren. You knew it was the car, not him; if anyone asked you, the car was always at fault. Daniel was one of the most talented drivers you had ever come across and had the pleasure of working with. You'd tell anyone who asked, anyone who'd listen to you.

It was a lacklustre weekend for the team; Checo was in P5 and Max had a DNF after an accident with Lewis, which caused both drivers to lose out on points that were needed for the championship.

Despite RedBull not having a driver on the podium, you and a few of the mechanics that used to work on Daniel's side of the garage went to watch the podium to cheer him on.

You watched as he and Lando did a shoey, your face twisting into disgust much like the younger McLaren driver. Valtteri watched in a bit of confusion and disgust, shaking his head as he took a swing of champagne from the bottle like a normal person.

The champagne bottle in one hand and the other on the railing as he climbed up. Daniel shouts, a big grin on his face as he lifts the bottle above his head. Everyone cheers for him, clapping and shouting for the winner. You were needed back in the garage for a meeting so you couldn't stick around long but you made sure to text Daniel.

To Daniel Ricciardo: Congrats winner! Back on the top step.

You got caught up in the meetings, back to back that felt never ending. Eventually you have a chance to check your phone but when you feel your pocket, it's not there.

You must have put it down somewhere. You find yourself retracing your steps, asking each person you saw as you passed by.

"Y/n!" GP calls for you, getting your attention. "Looking for this?" He holds up a phone with a navy blue case, your initials inscribed in gold on the bottom.

You let out a breath, "how'd you know?"

He hands the phone over to you, shrugging. "You know I always know." You roll your eyes at your co-worker's theatrics and thank him for your phone before walking off. You see you've missed a few messages so you scroll through. One in particular catches your eye.

From Daniel Ricciardo: Thanks boss lady! Congrats to you too, you helped make me the man I am today.

The message pulled on your heart strings; it was true. You and Daniel were so young when you got paired up together. You learnt a lot about life and yourselves, how to be a good person and what you wanted from life, and most importantly, how to get it.

You grew up together and Daniel would always hold a special place in your heart.

--

McLaren Racing - 2022; Spa-Francorchamps, Belgium.

You couldn't believe it.

After everything he's done for the team, he'd hurt him like that. What could you expect from a team when their CEO was a walking snake?

It was a chain reaction.

Sebastian had thrown everyone for a loop in Hungary, announcing that he would be retiring at the end of the 2022 season. That left Aston looking for a replacement that came from Fernando. There was an opening at Alpine now which they just assumed they'd fill with their reserve driver, Oscar.

Safe to say Oscar wasn't a fan of that plan, actually he wasn't even aware of that plan.

While all of this was going on, Daniel had publicly committed to McLaren for the next season and McLaren was giving away his seat to different drivers behind his back, including none other than Alpine's reserve driver, Oscar.

Eventually it did come out that Daniel would be leaving McLaren at the end of the 2022 season to no fault of his own.

Returning from the summer break, everyone is left to face the music; particularly Daniel.

His music shuts off when he pulls the key from the ignition. You had forgotten your pass in the car, walking all the way back to the parking lot to get it.

"Morning, y/n!" Daniel grins, stepping out of the car.

You smiled at him, knowing you can't show the anger you were feeling to that wretched team he has to work with for the rest of the season. "Morning, Danny. How are you?"

He laughs.

The question feels so stupid, he feels so stupid. Obviously there's the obvious, he's angry, upset, sad, mad; at who was the question. There's so many thoughts in his head, he isn't sure how to answer your question.

"Daniel, c'mon. Seriously. "

"I'll be okay, y/n. Life works in weird ways."

A huff slips past your lips, arms folded across your chest much like a disapproving mother. "Life working in weird ways is finding something you thought you lost years ago, not you getting sold out of your seat without your knowledge."

He gives you a sad smile, nodding in agreement. "I know."

You can't help but reach out, a hand on his shoulder. "You'll be okay."

"I always am, aren't I?"

--

Red Bull Racing - 2022; Abu Dhabi.

Headphones covered your ears, legs folded under you as you went over the last set of race footage.

You hadn't heard the door open, your eyes glued to the screen only looking away to scribbling something down on the page next to your laptop.

You barely get a second to look back before someone's hands over your eyes, startling you. Instinctively, you brought your own hands up, grabbing the person. The raised skin along the wrist and the arms was enough to signal who it was but the smell of his cologne filled the room. You let go of his arms, pulling the headphones off your ears.

Daniel smiles, his hands on your shoulders before you stand up and turn to face him. “Miss me, miss me, now you gotta-“ 

“Gotta what, Dan?” 

“Kiss me,” he says, his signature cheeky grin on his face. You can’t help but smile, pressing a kiss to his cheek. You smooth the wrinkles on his navy blue shirt, admiring him in the colours that meant home to him, to you.

Your hands held his face, “you came back.” 

“Pinky promises are sacred.” 

“That they are.” 

--

Scuderia AlphaTauri - 2023; Spa-Francorchamps, Belgium.

He's back on the grid, his focus was on racing.

Daniel's excited to be back, it felt good to be back. Racing wasn't a burden anymore. Yuki was happy to have him, his new teammate welcoming him with a smile and a hug as did the rest of the Alpha Tauri team before he made his way to his driver's room.

The door was unlocked, left ajar slightly. Daniel just assumed the team was doing a last check, making sure things were in order.

He wasn't expecting a person to be in there. He found a woman, her back turned to him as she scribbled down something on the board.

He knows that handwriting from anywhere. The words let's fucking go written in all caps in bright blue.

"Hello," he calls, you turn with the marker still in hand. "Hello," you smiled.

Daniel can't help but laugh, "what are you doing here? Come to welcome me back ?"

"Something like that."

At that moment, Daniel noticed you weren't wearing your usual navy blue uniform. Today was different; a different logo, a different cut.

"What are you wearing? Why are you wearing that?" He points to the Alpha Tauri logo on your shirt.

Your brows furrow, a bit confused by his reaction. You thought he'd be happy to see you. "Do you not need a race engineer or.. you're just gonna wing it? Maybe you could borrow Michael to do it?"

"Don't be a smart ass," he rolled his eyes, dropping his bags as he walked over to you. "Thank you," he whispers, pulling you into a bone crushing hug.

You pat his back, trying to wiggle away from him. "No need to thank me, we have a lot of work to do."

"I've barely been here for 5 minutes and you're already hassling me."

"Someone's gotta do it," you smiled, leaving him there to settle in.

It wasn't until it was time for practice that you saw the man again, you're across from him on the pit wall, looking over the stats before you hear the radio buzz.

“We all set?” He asks. 

You look over the screens. “All set. Be safe.”

“Safe is my middle name, Y/n.” The words remind you of the path you walked along many many years ago. 

You smiled, waving to him as he pulled out of the garage. “Whatever you say, Joseph.”

--

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[mapsofnonexistentplaces]

too tired to really phrase it but i think it’s interesting how anglo artists in particular like to claim things as ‘international heritage’ completely ignorant to the idea that there are real human people descended from the cultures they are brazenly claiming as “everyone’s”. like the way greek mythology is fandomised and freely remixed as if it’s all a thing of the past and greek people still don’t exist or worse the random ass people living in connecticut or some shit going ‘yeah my religion is worshipping the greek gods 😊’ without any thought to how modern greek religion works, because such culture has been ‘globalised’ and made fully nonspecific so people are entitled to just pick at it however they want, apparently. same thing happened with the egyptomania boom about a decade ago, and such a thing is why i am not specifying ‘white people’ in lieu of anglos because my key point here is that anyone can be guilty of mystifying living cultures and trying to adopt them under the guise of globalism and shared heritage while being completely ignorant to the modern descendants of these cultures, which they are just using for cheap visual shock without concern for broader implications.

people fantasising about palestine for religious purposes is absolutely nothing new but the specific way online artists have turned to stealing palestinian culture and justifying it by going ‘well, it’s the birthplace of christianity, so basically anyone connected to christianity can use it however they please’ is so horridly ignorant especially in the face of the ongoing genocide. my culture and people are moribund thanks to settler cruelty and of course the best ‘solidarity’ anglos can think of is just picking at the scraps of our culture and finishing their colonialist job. the salt in the wound is honestly the ignorance people try to feign as honourable, ex ‘i was inspired by the culture and wanted to pay tribute to it!’ when it is evidently just someone reaching for brownie points and likes online. completely expected phenomenon honestly

[fromchaostocosmos]

Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene, the Georgia Republican who has been criticized in the past for her dalliances with antisemitic tropes and influencers, explained her vote against a bill defining antisemitism by saying that the bill it rejects the “gospel” that “the Jews” handed Jesus over to his crucifiers.

But Greene, posting on X, formerly Twitter, laid out a different concern: that the bill threatened Christian expression. “Antisemitism is wrong, but I will not be voting for the Antisemitism Awareness Act of 2023 (H.R. 6090) today that could convict Christians of antisemitism for believing the Gospel that says Jesus was handed over to Herod to be crucified by the Jews,” she said. “Read the bill text and contemporary examples of antisemitism like #9.”

In her tweet, Greene posts two photos: One focuses on the portion of the bill that adopts as part of its definition of antisemitism the 11 “contemporary examples of antisemitism” in the definition of antisemitism composed by the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance. The second photo highlights the ninth example, “using the symbols and images associated with classic antisemitism (e.g., claims of Jews killing Jesus or blood libel) to characterize Israel or Israelis.”

Her fellow far-right Republican, Rep. Matt Gaetz of Florida, explained his no vote in similar terms on the same platform. “The Gospel itself would meet the definition of antisemitism under the terms of this bill!” Gaetz writes, and gores on to quote New Testament scripture that collectively blames Jews for Jesus’s killing

[fandfnews]

Nigeria's Christian Communities Face Escalating Violence as Two More Farmers Killed in Benue State Attack

Latest deadly assault in Otabi-Alpa village continues pattern of targeted violence against Christian farming communities across Nigeria’s Middle Belt region By Michael D. Butler May 26, 2025 – The relentless cycle of violence against Nigeria’s Christian communities has claimed two more lives, as Fulani herdsmen killed two Christian farmers on May 7 in Otabi-Alpa village, Benue state, according…

[thefugitivesaint]

This blog is primarily dedicated to art and whatever I tend to find aesthetically fun or appealing to my weird sensibilities. Posts not related directly to some form of art are infrequent. This is one of those infrequent posts. A dear friend made the images here and I wanted to pass them along to give her effort a boost. I hope you'll take the time to peruse her work because she's good people y'all. Watching the deliberate cruelty of the Trump administration and its aspirations to authoritarianism while it also underwrites the active campaign of genocide by the Israeli government against Palestinians is taxing. The US has weaponized the charge of "antisemitism" as an excuse to attack and silence critics of Israeli policy (while pushing the agendas of Israel advocacy and Christian nationalist organizations). This is happening while Israel is blocking all aid into Gaza effectively starving the Palestinians there. Far-right Israeli Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich even admitted that starvation of the Palestinian population is the goal. Openly criticizing this policy is now subject to being labelled an "antisemitic" act. Most decent people: "Hey, bombing children and hospitals and agricultural centers and museums and colleges and [fill in non-military target here] is a war crime and morally reprehensible." " Israeli government: This is a perfect example of antisemitism!" It should be noted that Israel and Judaism are not synonymous. Criticizing the political policies of Israel is not a criticism of Judaism. The Israeli right-wing has tried to conflate the two in order to smear political critiques of Israeli policy as nothing more than babble from people who hate Jews (which also allows them to conveniently marginalize and to ignore the Jewish critics of Israeli policy, both international and domestic). Is antisemitism an ongoing concern worth addressing? Of course it is. A friend addressed this very fact from a Leftist perspective back in 2007 with a pamphlet she wrote called, 'The Past Didn't Go Anywhere: Making Resistance to Antisemitism Part of All of Our Movements' which I suggest you give a reading to. (As April put it, "The Past was an activist effort, not an academic work..)

Sure, you come here, dear reader, to see art. I want this humble little tumblr page to be a place you where you can see a wide collection of that glorious human endeavor in all its various forms. But, I'm a politically aware person who has been involved in activism since he was a teen back in the 80s. It's hard to compartmentalize my need to vocally contribute opposition to this shit and my desire to ponder aesthetics. Give me a moment to vent and point to some wonderful people who try to contribute positively to the world. Thanks for your attention and patience. Just make sure you vote. Take to the streets. Volunteer your time. Be a thorn in the side of fascists, wannabe authoritarians, and all assholes in general. Be decent. "Be excellent to each other."

[ohnoitstbskyen]

Do you think Riot will make more seasons of Arcane in different regions post-s2, make more shows with different names that are set in the Arcane universe, or secret third option?

Yes and no.

To start with, yes: Arcane has been by far Riot's most mainstream successful media project ever (even outstripping K/DA), and there is literally no way in hell that the company isn't going to want to keep milking it until it is as dry, stale and withered as the PROJECT skin line.

So I predict that, absolutely, we will see new seasons of shows set in the League of Legends universe, probably animated, and hopefully with some of the extremely good animation partners Riot has managed to cultivate over the years.

The ARCANE branding is incredibly valuable now, and I wouldn't put it past Riot to do something stupid like name a show set in the Freljord ARCANE: True Ice or something unbearably stupid like that, even though the name relates extremely specifically to the setting and story of Piltover/Zaun and the Vi/Powder/Viktor/Jayce character group.

On the other hand, Riot might be the company on earth I trust the absolute least to effectively capitalize on and carry forward a success in creative arts that can't be monetized with skins and event passes.

Riot has an absolutely astounding history of tripping on their dicks when it comes to telling stories about their characters, in no small part due to its leadership quite simply never valuing storytelling as an end in itself. If it doesn't sell cosmetics or drive Engagement™ with the core League of Legends product, good luck getting Riot management to spend a fucking dime to make anything real.

Passionate people inside the company have to go to war, every single time, to make anything good happen. Legends of Bilgewater, the Spirit Blossom visual novel, the Marvel comics collaboration (RIP), Riot Forge, and very much Arcane, were absolute passion projects pushed over the line by people who literally put their jobs (and in many cases their health) on the line to make them happen.

Alex Yee and Christian Linke are old hands at Riot with a lot of clout, a lot of friends at the company, and a lot of goodwill to cash in, and if that hadn't been the case, there is literally no way in hell anything like Arcane ever gets made.

The behind-the-scenes documentary Riot themselves produced obviously goes out of its way to let Riot leadership suck themselves off about how much they contributed and how much they believed in the project, but make no mistake, they would have axed Arcane on the spot if there wasn't creatives fighting pitched battles every other day to keep it alive.

This is true of K/DA as well, by the way, there was a lot of internal resistance at Riot to that project - and to Star Guardians, and to Heartsteel. Anything cool Riot has ever made? Just assume that someone internally was shitting on it in meetings and trying to get it shut down.

Which is why I am intensely worried about Arcane in the long term. Not so much about Season 2, since it is mostly being produced by the same group of people, as far as I know, but that project is also going to be absolutely besieged by C-suite jackoffs trying to worm their names into the credits, making themselves Stakeholders™ and offering Feedback™ and voicing Concerns™, and I don't envy the showrunners the battles they are going to have to fight to keep these vultures away from the product.

But I am fucking worried about whatever Season 3 becomes. I am fucking worried about what happens the moment any of the key creatives behind the first two seasons resign, or get headhunted to new jobs. I am worried what's going to happen when Riot decides that the showrunners are "being difficult" and standing in the way of what leadership wants to do with the now very valuable ARCANE branding, and either corporately mandates them into roles of diminished influence or just outright fucking fires them (it'll be publicized as a mutual decision of course, it'll be publicized as a much celebrated retirement or "it's time to move on to new adventures").

Riot is a company with absolutely infinite capacity to fuck up a perfectly good thing for absolutely no fucking reason except some kombucha-chugging, suit-jacket-over-a-graphic-tee-and-sneakers-wearing, keeps-his-job-despite-multiple-sexual-harassment-allegations-because-he's-bros-with-the-C-suite, motherfucking "I am a player so I know what the players want" platitude-spouting "themes are for book reports"-ass Silicon Valley libertarian piece of shit decided he knows better than the artists whose work are the reason he takes home six figures a year.

[toomuchracket]

if you're too shy, part 2 (office nerd!matty x reader fluff)

remember those gigs you and matty got scheduled to cover in part 1? yeah. this is them. enjoy <3

“hey.”

matty's curls bounce as he looks up at you quickly. a mild sense of guilt gnaws at your ribs when you realise you've spooked him, but it dissipates when he smiles, visibly relaxing when he realises it's you breaking him from his concentration. “oh, hi. you alright?”

you nod, gesturing to the vacant desk next to his. “am i ok to sit here?”

“yeah, of course. no need to ask. here, let me,” matty slides his notebook out of your way; as you lay your laptop down and sit, you can see him biting back a beam from the corner of your eye, and your heart flutters. “was there anything you needed, or…? not that there has to be, you know,” he sits up straight, apology settling itself on that gorgeous face of his. “i didn't mean it like that, i just meant-”

“no, i know, matty,” you smile softly. “there is, incidentally, but also i just wanted to sit next to you.”

there he goes with the blushing again - honestly, you reckon you could make a fortune if you bottled and sold the colour of matty's cheeks when you fluster him. although, you suppose, maybe the colour is only appealing because of whose face it's on.

said face is grinning at you again. “well, feel free, anytime.”

“likewise.”

“i'll take you up on that,” matty's smile gets impossibly wider, before he catches himself and controls it a little. “so, what is it that you need from me?”

the sloppiest kiss known to man. “advice, actually,” you put your glasses on, preening internally at the way matty's breath catches in his throat as you do, and open spotify on your laptop. “where should i start with this band we're going to see twice this weekend?”

matty's face brightens even more - impossible, you'd have thought. “oh. well, do you know any of their stuff already?”

you shake your head. “very bad of me as a music journo, but no,” you smile cheekily. “this is my first time. need you to talk me through it.”

the way matty coughs and tries to pass it off as him clearing his throat at your words is delicious. to be fair to him, he recovers quickly, the only sign of him being flustered the way his cheeks periodically twitch into a smile and back down again. “alright, so… i think i’d probably start with their second album - can i?” at your approval, he slides your laptop closer to him and scrolls down the band’s spotify profile to find the album in question. “their first is good, yeah, but the second one is where they really start to define their musical identity…” he trails off, covering his mouth. 

you blink in concern, leaning into him. “you okay, matty?”

“yeah, i just,” he sighs, then giggles into his hand. it’s maybe the best thing you’ve ever heard. “i realised i was starting to sound a bit like patrick bateman.”

“oh my god,” you snort, covering your own mouth as you laugh. “christ, you were. was this band’s early work too new-wave for your tastes and all?”

“little bit. i think their undisputed masterpiece is album two - literally a personal statement about the band itself,” matty smiles, then winces. “that was embarrassing.”

you shrug. “nah, i like that film. and not just because i think christian bale’s fit in it.”

“i was gonna go as him for halloween this year, actually,” matty says, nonchalantly scrolling through spotify again. “would that be weird?”

fuck. matty in a suit? potentially covered in blood? you have to readjust the way you’re sitting at the mere thought. so, naturally - “i think you should do it.”

“yeah?”

“yeah,” you smile, matching matty’s. “i’d enjoy it, at least.”

“that’s all the convincing i need,” he smiles sweetly at you, then gestures to the laptop. “so, d’you wanna know a bit about their influences before you listen?”

“go on, then.”

“alright,” matty shuffles his chair closer to you; you sit up slightly straighter as goosebumps pass over your body, increasing tenfold when he looks directly into your eyes. from this close, his are warmer than you initially realised, and you have to work extremely hard to focus on what he's saying instead of drowning in them. “to be fair, you weren't totally far-off with the new-wave joke - their music is rooted in post-punk subculture, but more along the melodic, jangly-guitar, early eighties type. you know aztec camera, yeah? convinced i saw you wear a high land, hard rain shirt to work once.”

the butterflies nesting in your stomach flutter at his recollection. “yeah, that's right. same vibe as them?”

“kinda. similar to a lot of scottish and northern bands of that era. which is weird, considering they're all about thirty and from fucking newark.”

“i see,” you nod, smiling at the way matty's twirling one of his curls. “any springsteen influence, then? not to stereotype, but… eighties-inspired music by people from new jersey? seems like there could be connection.”

matty nods enthusiastically. “yeah, great question. i mean,” he puffs air through his lips quite adorably. “lyrically, yeah, and they have quite prominent sax parts in some of the songs that are quite e street band. but the inspiration seems to be mostly melodic post-punk. does that all make sense?”

you smile, leaning on your elbow. “yeah. you're very good at explaining things. i like that about you.”

“really?” matty blushes again. “sometimes i worry that i'm just talking shite, to be honest. i know i've got a tendency to ramble a bit, always have. it annoys people, i think.”

“not me. you're always talking about something interesting. makes me feel good to talk to you.”

he clutches his hands into sweater paws again, smiling. “same. you're a sweet one, i think. m'excited that we're working a bit closer now.”

“nobody else i'd do this with, matty,” you hold out your hand, and squeeze his when he lays it atop yours; a perfect fit, you note. “you're my favourite.”

he genuinely looks like he could cry, softly rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand and speaking even softer than that. “likewise, darling.”

for a second, you do nothing but beam at each other, still tentatively holding hands; it's only when your laptop pings with an incoming email that you break out of your reverie and apart. matty clears his throat. “would you like to know which order i recommend listening to the albums in?”

“please.”

he nods. “the second, then the most recent - which is the fifth, by the way. after that, i think i'd probably say… first, third, and fourth last. that one got a bit experimental, i doubt they'll play anything from it at either of the shows. d'you want me to just make a playlist of that order for you, while we're here?”

“oh, yes please,” you watch him do just that, a slight sense of longing settling itself in your bones when you think of a playlist so sorely him settled amidst all your favourite songs; actually, it gives you an idea. “i've got a final question for you, if that's okay, matty. well, technically two.”

“yeah?” he turns to look at you again, eyes disarmingly caring and focused on you.

“what's your absolute favourite song by the band? doesn't have to be the objectively best one, and you don't have to tell me why. m'just curious.”

matty smiles, the sun breaking through clouds. “that's easy,” he scrolls down the new playlist. “this one. that's my favourite.”

“alright,” you drag it to the top of the song list. “then that's the one i'll start with. and then i'll go onto the matty-approved listening order,” pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose, you turn to face him. “that sound alright?”

“mhmm,” matty nods vigorously again, wild hair bouncing all over the place; a curl falls over his eye, and he brushes it away before peering up at you through his enviously-long lashes. “meant what i said earlier, you know. i really do think you're incredibly sweet.”

“thank you,” you all but whisper, doing your best to cover your own blushing. “um - what was i saying?”

he smiles. “you had another question, i think?”

“right, yeah. um,” your throat goes dry with sudden nerves, and you try to swallow as inconspicuous as you can to make it better. twisting your fingers together, you look down at them as you speak. “i've still got a restaurant review to do this weekend, and i was wondering if you, like, wanted to go for dinner before saturday’s show? that italian, near camden road station? and you can say no, of course, no hard feelings, but,” you can feel your cheeks burning as you tentatively look up at him. “i'd just like to hang out with you a little bit longer this weekend. i like spending time with you.”

“oh,” matty breathes, blinking as if he can’t quite believe he isn’t dreaming - you hope that’s the reason, at least. he bites his lip, cheeks rosy as he looks up at you with a smile, and nods. “yeah, i’d love that. thank you.”

“thank you, for agreeing,” you exhale, nerves replaced by tingling excitement. “is half four too early? that would give us time to eat, and walk to the roundhouse before doors, yeah?”

“that works for me,” matty nods. he twirls his hair again. “d’you want to just meet at the restaurant? cos that’s the station i’d get off at, camden road. but i don’t mind meeting you off the tube, if you like.”

“no, no, it’s alright. i’ll just get you there - i’m not gonna make you brave the high street when you don’t need to,” you giggle. “especially on a saturday afternoon, christ.”

he huffs out a laugh, but his eyes are tender - so is his voice, when he replies. “alright. i’d do it for you, though, no complaints.”

you believe him. you aren’t sure if you’ve ever seen someone look so sweetly sincere, and it’s fucking your brain up. big-time.

still, you hold it together long enough to reply. “you’re cute, healy, even if i think you’re a bit mad for offering to walk through camden just to get me,” you giggle at the way his jaw drops at the compliment. “you can get me at angel on friday, though, if you fancy? makes sense, if you’re already walking down from highbury.”

“i’ll be there at six,” matty smiles. “i’m excited to hear what you think of the band, you know. i think you’ll like them.”

“well, if you do, then i���m sure i will. you’ve got good taste,” you gather up your laptop and stand, turning to matty with a flirty grin. “speaking of - i like that jumper. you look hot in red, matty. really hot. anyway,” you bite back a grin at the little gasp he lets out. “thanks for all your help, lovely.”

“anytime!” he calls after you when you turn to walk away, deliberately swinging your hips slightly more than usual - you’re convinced you hear a muffled “fuck” before he speaks properly. “and, um, thanks for, y’know, liking my jumper.”

you look over your shoulder and wink, happiness bubbling through your body when you notice matty shifting his gaze from your ass to your face so hastily it’s a wonder his neck didn’t snap. “friday at six, yeah? don’t be late.”

“i won’t!”

and he’s true to his word - when you come up the escalators at angel station at five minutes to six on friday, matty’s leaning against the wall opposite you. he grins, a big toothy eye-crinkling smile that has your heart doing backflips, and waves as you walk over to him. “hi! i like your jacket.”

“oh, thank you,” you self-consciously touch the fluffy collar. “have you been waiting long?”

“not really. ten minutes?”

“that’s not too bad. shall we?” you wander out into the chilly evening air, matty matching pace beside you. “you ever been to a show here before?”

“yeah. what a fucking weird venue,” matty steps closer to you to avoid being run over by a bike, and your heart flutters; you’re actually sad when he moves away. “i like it inside, but-”

“the fact it’s literally in the middle of a shopping centre is insane?”

“completely mental.”

“a really strange bit of urban planning,” you smile, turning to him as you wait at a set of traffic lights. “i listened to the playlist you made me, by the way. even learned some of the words.”

matty laughs. “you like them, then? that’s good. knew you would, though.”

you nod, fighting the urge to grab his hand as you cross the road. “played your favourite song about ten times on loop. i had no idea it was going to end up being a love song, by the way…”

“yeah, the title’s a bit misleading.”

“...but it really works. i can see why it’s your favourite,” you gently nudge your shoulder into his arm. “like i said the other day, you’ve got good taste.”

he looks down at the pavement, smiling, then at you. fuck, he’s so cute. “so do you, darling,” he says, voice so soft you can hardly hear it over the bustle around you. “i really like your outfit.”

the hour spent upending your entire wardrobe onto your bed to pick it out was absolutely worth it. “thank you. i figured, y’know, since i’m technically not working,” you smirk at him. “i’d make the effort for going out. tomorrow, though, when i’m on-shift? not a chance.”

“you’ll still look great, i reckon,” matty says, easy as breathing; ironically, the ease of his words practically stops your own breath. “and yeah, i s’pose you really aren’t working tonight. when was the last time you went to a gig just for fun?”

“it’s been a while,” you admit. “and i miss it, actually, getting to just experience new artists without having to analyse and critique them. that’s part of the reason i’m excited to be going tonight.”

“i get that,” matty nods as you turn into the venue entrance. “and what’s the other part?”

you grin. “the fact i’m going with you.”

once again, matty blushes. “if you keep throwing me off with compliments the whole night, i literally won’t get any work done. but thank you. m’glad you agreed to come with me tonight.”

“i’m glad you asked,” you turn to him once you join the line to get in. “and you’ll get your work done, don’t worry. i promise to be good.”

for the most part, you actually succeed at that, and it’s largely due to how bloody good the band are. for all the venue is in a weird place, it really is a decent one - it’s so intimate that even you, who only started listening to the artists onstage this week, feel like a proper part of it. and, free of note-taking responsibilities, you can allow yourself to be made giddy by the coloured lights and loud melodies, to dance as best you can on the sticky floor, to sing along to the scraps of lyrics you recognise and join in the backing vocals with the rest of the crowd. that was always your favourite part of a concert, the moments where hundreds of voices just worked as one, identities dropping and merging to prioritise the music; it’s nice to be in it, for once, rather than doing your best to observe and capture and convey it in words. you leave that to matty, and mostly leave him be aside from the odd smile and laugh, always responded to warmly by him.

that is, until they play his favourite song, and the boy beside you becomes impossible to ignore.

the singer says something about this being the last song of the night, before beginning the now-familiar melody on his guitar. matty’s head snaps up at the first few notes, and his notebook snaps shut; you turn to him at the noise, smiling at the excitement on his face, even more radiant than usual under the pink lighting. he looks at you with a matching smile, curls bouncing as he nods along to the music, before turning back rapt towards the stage. you follow suit, soaking up the lyrics about wanting and yearning and falling fast for someone - hearing those words with that person beside you sends goosebumps shooting across your skin and sparks through your nervous system, the same kind of kinetic energy crackling in the space between you and matty. it’s so strong you have to uncross your arms, stretching your fingers out by your side. mortifyingly, they brush against the back of matty’s hand, and the sparks become shockwaves; not so much born out of fear, but of the same kind of longing the singer is musing about. he doesn’t seem to mind the contact, hand staying put despite it, and something in your brain just says fuck it and snaps.

tentatively, more so than you think you’ve ever been before, you loop your fingers around matty’s, and you hold his hand. and, quite honestly, nothing has ever felt quite so right as this. the shockwaves in your nervous system fade to a gentle hum, kinda like the reverb from the speakers, with only a tiny jolt when matty gently squeezes your hand in response.that’s how you stay for the rest of the song, hand-in-hand facing the stage, both of you - unbeknownst to the other - smiling contentedly and mouthing the lyrics to the song you relate to.

it lasts a sickeningly short amount of time, though - as soon as the song ends, you and matty are all but pulled apart by a group of kids running towards the stage, shouting about setlists and drumsticks and god knows what else. matty chuckles, walking backwards towards the exit so he can talk to you. "that was good.”

“yeah,” you agree, although you’re not sure what he’s specifically referring to. “liked it a lot.”

“me too.”

there’s comfortable silence as you weave your way out of the venue and onto the street. you turn to say a reluctant goodbye to matty, but he beats you to it. “i’ll walk you to the station.”

“are you sure? you’ve got a bit of a walk in the other direction, matty.”

he shrugs. “it’s a nice night. i don’t mind.”

“cool,” you do your best to keep from smiling at the thought of an extra five minutes with him. “thank you.”

“s'alright,” matty smiles, leading the way down the street. “i've had a lot of fun tonight.”

“yeah, same here. they're really good!”

“aren't they? i'm excited to see their set tomorrow, see how it compares,” he hums happily. “i think this is gonna turn out to be a really good article, you know.”

“so do i,” you beam at him. “and i must say, i'm enjoying the process for this one much more than i have in a while.”

he giggles, and you have to fight the urge to hold his hand again. “well, if you think about it,” matty rubs his thumb over his bottom lip quite attractively. “it makes a lot more sense for us to do gig reviews together. music is something to be shared, after all, and live music especially, and so are our reviews - we probably get a better sense of it all if we're not by ourselves, don't you think?”

you don't even bother trying to hide how enamoured you are when you look at him. “i love the way your brain works, matty.”

“oh, shush,” he clutches the sleeves of his jacket over his hands, but beams anyway; it drops from his face when he notices the tube station sign up ahead. “well, i suppose this is where i leave you.”

the melancholia in his voice makes your heart sink. “yeah, i guess,” you sigh. “but not for long, though.”

“true,” matty's face brightens, and he reaches to take your hand and squeeze it gently. “thanks for coming, darling. i had a lot of fun.”

“thank you for having me,” you squeeze his hand in return, smiling at the way he looks down at your connected fingers in wonder. “text me when you get home?”

“of course. you too, please.”

“i will,” you let go of matty, pausing before you turn to walk away; quicker than your brain can convince you otherwise, you lean up to press a kiss to his soft cheek, before winking at his dazed expression and turning towards the station. “see you tomorrow, lovely.”

“bye,” comes the soft, delayed reply. you turn back to wave once you reach the escalator, then smile giddily to yourself the whole way home.

in fact, you don't think you stop smiling giddily for the rest of the night, or the next day; just the knowledge that you're going to see matty again keeps you in a state of sunniness, has you dancing around the flat and serenading your dog, who just looks at you like you're insane. a tiny part of your brain agrees with her, but how can you be expected to help it? you haven't been this excited to go on a date with someone in a long, long time.

well, it's not a date, officially. but walking into a dimly-lit italian restaurant with matty in tow, him taking your jacket and pulling your chair out for you like a perfect gentleman? it fucking feels like it. you wish it was.

even more so when he takes his own jacket off, revealing A) a short-sleeved shirt in the same colour of red you told him he looked hot in the other day, worn slightly open over a white tank; B) almost-unbelievably muscular arms; C) tattoos littered up said arms, and one on his chest just peeking out suggestively.

jesus fucking christ.

you can’t help but stare at matty, mouth agape, as he sits down. he giggles nervously when he notices. “what?”

the words leave your mouth before you can even think about stopping them. “matty… do you know how hot you are?”

he does the adorable blinking thing again. “you think i’m hot? me?”

“um, yeah, i have eyes,” you giggle, cheeks burning. keep it together, you stupid slut. “i didn’t know you had all those tattoos, actually. why don’t you show them off more?”

matty shrugs. “sometimes, people think if you have lots of tattoos, you’re like, i don’t know… scary, or unapproachable,” he opens the drinks menu. “that’s not the impression i wanna give off, you know? especially at work. like, you know me, i’m quite soft and quiet. i just think the tattoos look sick.”

god, you want to eat him alive.

“i understand,” you nod, leaning on your elbows. “and i also think they look sick. kinda sexy, i’d say, to be honest. anyway,” you bite back a smirk at matty’s flustered expression. “what sort of drink are you in the mood for?”

“oh, well… i don’t know, actually,” matty scans the menu, then meets your eyes. “i’m new to this sort of reviewing. what do you usually do first? talk me through it,” he must mistake your wide eyes after his last statement for horror, instead of slight arousal. “please.”

“okay. can i see the menu, please? right, fab, thanks,” you hold it open so you can both see the drinks list. “shit, this is extensive… reasonably priced, would you say?”

“for this part of london? yeah.”

“i agree. right,” you look at him, and the concentration with which he looks back almost throws you off. “because we haven’t picked out food and don’t know about flavour palettes yet, i’d avoid wine for the time being. anything too flavoured, actually - i reckon our best bets are either some sort of fairly neutral cocktail, or a spirit and clear mixer. you know, vodka soda, a g&t, that kind of thing.”

matty nods. “makes sense.”

“yeah. the exception to all of that, in my opinion, is champagne,” you smile. “but if i start drinking it, i won’t want to stop, and if i kick the arse out of this meal on the work credit card then marianne will kick mine, so…”

he laughs, and the warmth of it goes straight to your stomach. “classy girl,” he smiles, laughing even harder when you make a face. “well, i think you are. and,” he points at the menu. “i also think we should have negronis.”

“nice. alright, let’s move on to food,” you open another menu. “oh, thank god we came here so early - this decision might take me a while. sorry.”

matty smiles, the tenderness in his eyes only exacerbated by the flickering candlelight. “that’s alright, darling. we’ll take all the time you need. well,” he winces. “maybe keep it within the two and a half hours we’ve got until we need to leave for the gig. although i s’pose we could stay here another fifteen minutes if we got a taxi.”

you wave insouciantly. “we’ll be on time. and you’ll have fun, too. promise.”

“oh, i don’t doubt that.”

and you really do have fun, despite having to constantly remind yourself that you’re not on a date and are in fact at work. the two negronis you each have over the course of the meal continue to coax matty out of his shell - and thus, get you to fall even harder for him than you already have, which to be honest you didn’t think was possible after seeing his tattoos - to the point where he’s affectionately taking the piss out of you for stealing forkfuls of his dinner “for journalistic purposes”. but, all in all, he’s completely fascinated by the process of forming your review, taking interest in the subtleties of what makes somewhere good versus great, and marvelling at the breadth of your culinary knowledge (which you’re actually very proud of, being self-taught and all); he’s still raving about it as you walk - with plenty of time to spare, mind you - along chalk farm road towards the roundhouse. “i actually don’t know what i’m more impressed with, you or the food. genuinely. you’re incredible. and to think i was going to make you soup!”

you frown. “past tense? why?”

“you know too much about food. i won’t be able to impress you.”

“matty,” you turn to look at him, wide-eyed and crestfallen. “that’s not true at all!”

he scoffs, but not harshly. “come on, babe,” the nickname does something funny to your stomach. “i’m not upset about it, just thinking realistically. how is my nana’s carrot and coriander recipe gonna stack up against michelin-starred minestrone, or whatever? not at all, that’s how. and that’s alright!”

“matty. matty - alright, fine,” you clear your throat, stopping and standing with your hands on your hips. “matthew. listen to me, and listen good, yeah? right,” when he nods, blinking those pretty eyes, you continue. “soup is a whole different thing - in fact, all domestic cooking is, especially if you’re making something for someone you care about. i don’t want to be impressed by the technique, i want to be nourished. cared for. dare i say, healed. and, in that regard, i have no doubt that your nana’s recipe would fucking decimate any posh restaurant soup. alright?”

he nods, shyly peeking through his eyelashes. “alright.”

“thank you.”

the walk continues, silent for a few minutes until matty talks again. “you know,” he says, smile audible in his voice. “i didn’t think i’d find being lectured about soup sexy. and yet…”

“oh my god, stop it,” you giggle, although you’re simultaneously fighting the urge to skip along the path and secretly filing that piece of matty information away in your mind. just in case. “thanks, though.”

he shrugs, smirking. you’re into it. “just telling the truth. it’s my job, after all.”

“and here i thought you were flirting with me,” you smirk back. “shame,” you wink, speeding up slightly towards the venue; you drop into serious mode when you see several different door queues. “shit. where do we go, with the press passes?”

matty hums, looking around. suddenly, he takes your hand, gently leading you to a side door; you’re quite content with this, a sort-of fuzzy feeling overcoming you, so much so that you barely register him talking. “here we are. you ready, darling?”

you nod happily at him. “round two. let’s go.”

the night, at first, progresses a lot like the previous one - you spend the opening set dancing, singing along to the songs you know pretty well by now, leaning in to talk to matty about any discrepancies you see in performance between both nights while he diligently takes notes. when they close with his favourite song, again, you’re slightly dismayed that he continues to write, and you can’t repeat the hand-holding; pretty much as soon as you’ve thought that, though, matty leans into you to rest his head on yours and sing along to the lyrics, and the room seems to get brighter. out of both desire and necessity (you know how clumsy he is), you wrap an arm around matty’s waist, and you swear you can hear him smile. it’s warm, sweet, intimate without being weird, and you really don’t want to let go of him. ever.

eventually, once the song ends and the house lights come up in the break between sets, you do, pulling your notebook from your jacket pocket with a sigh. matty straightens up, stretches with a groan that should not be as attractive as it was to you, and smiles. “pasta tiredness hitting you too?”

“little bit,” you wince. “maybe dinner then dancing was a bad idea.”

he shakes his head. “nah. it’s been fun. i’ve really enjoyed it.”

“i’m glad to hear that,” you smile at him. “wouldn’t mind making a habit of it, actually.”

“really?” matty beams. “neither would i. maybe we can pitch it to marianne as an actual segment. like, restaurant pairings with gigs, potentially highlight local places near the venues we go to. yeah?”

it’s a fucking great idea. he goes all bashful when you tell him as much. “cool. we can maybe see her about it on monday, if she’s in.”

you nod. “of course. come and find me on monday morning, and we can come up with a proper pitch while we get this piece done, alright?”

“‘course,” matty nods, smiling when the lights drop and the audience scream. “right, i’ll leave you to your notes.”

“cheers,” you reply, reluctantly turning towards the stage. it isn’t that the gig is bad, at all - as you wrote in your notes, the band are talented, charismatic, well-rehearsed. it’s just extremely difficult to focus on them and your notebook when you have the boy of your dreams beside you, close enough to touch and kiss and dance with, singing along happily and doing a dorky little two-step that makes his hair bounce quite beautifully. every so often, the urge to turn and smile at him becomes too much to resist, and matty goes visibly - adorably - pink under the stark white lighting every single time he makes eye contact with you.

by the time the gig ends, you’re dead certain: you are down so incredibly deeply bad for matty healy, and you need to tell him as soon as possible.

as it turns out, the opportunity for that happens extremely quickly once you’re both out of the venue, talking and laughing and dissecting the show even further than you did in your respective notebooks as you leave, and it’s so romance-media smooth that you genuinely think a higher power might be involved. perhaps an apology from the universe by having a group of teenagers push you and matty apart at yesterday’s gig, this time a group of them push you closer together, bolting past you and screaming about catching the bus home - matty tugs you into him to stop you being completely bowled over, and turns so the two of you are right next to the building instead of in the firing line out in the open. his hands are warm against your waist and lower back, and so is his neck under your clasped hands; you have no recollection of putting them there, but you sure as shit aren’t going to move them anytime soon. if you did that, you’d further the distance between you, and why on earth would you want to do that, when you’re so close you can’t tell whose breath cloud is whose and the little flecks of gold in his dark eyes are visible to you for the first time?

no. you’ll stay as you are, thank you very much.

“you know that thing we were going to pitch to marianne at work on monday?” you whisper, heart pounding as you notice matty’s eyes flick to your lips. “the thing we want to make a habit of?”

“yeah,” matty breathes, the words so close to your lips you can practically taste them. “what about it?”

your lips part, and you take a shaky breath before you reply. “well, the thing is,” you bite your lip, and his pupils dilate. “i don’t think i want it to be a work thing, matty.”

a beat passes before he responds. “neither do i.”

thank fuck.

your eyes close in contentment. “matty?”

“yeah, darling?”

you reopen them, looking up at him - for the probably millionth time in two days, you don’t bother trying to hide the feeling in your gaze. “kiss me.”

that gorgeous face above yours cracks into a smile. “alright.”

and he does.

it’s exactly how you imagined he would be - a little bit sloppy, tentative with tongue, but so eager and giggly and just so caring that it doesn’t matter. on instinct, your hand roots itself in matty’s curls, and the little whine he lets out is probably enough to fuel your bedtime fantasies for a fortnight by itself. you smile into him, tracing your tongue around his lips before sucking on the bottom one and releasing it slowly. your head is spinning, from matty more than lack of oxygen, and you honestly don’t think you’ve ever been happier post-kiss in your life.

there’s a happy silence for a minute, save the two of you gasping for breath, broken by matty kissing you quickly again and grinning. “hi. and, also, wow.”

“indeed,” you beam up at him, gently twisting those pretty curls around your fingers. “you might’ve figured it out by now, but… i like you, in a more-than-platonic sense.”

“the kiss gave it away, yeah,” he giggles breathily. “i take it there’s no policy at work about making out with your colleagues? or, y’know, taking them out on actual, unrelated-to-work dates?”

“no such thing.”

matty smiles, pulling you in for another kiss. “well, thank christ for that.”

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Tamar Sternthal

In another stroke of ludicrousness, Palestinian-American Rima Rafidi-Kern is quoted without challenge: “We’re the original Christians.” That’s a bald-faced lie. The original Christians were converted Jews. Jesus himself was a Jew, an inconvenient reality of ancient Jewish indigeneity belying the “settler-colonialist” canard.

GOSHAY, A reporter of local Midwestern affairs, loses her way in Mideast coverage, flailing even with basic nomenclature. “Palestine – also known as Israel,” she confounds the no-longer existent Palestine Mandate with Israel, the West Bank, and the Gaza Strip.

She bungles the 1947 United Nations plan as “partitioning the territory between the new State of Israel, the kingdom of Jordan and Egypt, and the exclusively Palestinian Gaza Strip.” In fact, the Partition Plan had nothing to do with Jordan or Egypt. As the UN explained: “The plan envisages the division of Palestine into three parts: a Jewish state, an Arab State, and the city of Jerusalem, to be placed under an international trusteeship system.”

The proposed Arab state included not only the Gaza Strip but also the West Bank and a huge chunk of what is now central and even southern Israel (including the city of Beersheba), along with a significant patch of land in the north, encompassing Acre and Nahariya.

But in a colossal misjudgment that sealed their people’s unfortunate fate for generations, the Palestinian Arab leadership rejected the seminal Partition Plan and the surrounding Arab countries attacked the nascent Jewish state. Arab leadership in Haifa, Jerusalem, Tiberias, and other locations encouraged residents to flee, resulting in the Palestinian refugee crisis.

Goshay neglects to mention these key historical events, choosing not to intrude on her interviewees’ uninterrupted soliloquy of singular Israeli culpability for Palestinian displacement.

Moreover, Goshay piles on in her own voice: “Palestinians argue that Israel’s Zionist government has trampled on” Balfour Declaration concerns for protection of Palestinian-owned land and religious rights. “They point to the more than 700,000 Palestinians who were displaced in 1948, with many ending up in refugee camps.”

The journalist’s exoneration of Palestinians for any responsibility reaches the reductio ad absurdum in her depiction of Hamas as thwarted peace activists forced into violence by Israel. Rami Hamdan said, “Hamas began with peaceful demonstrations,” intones the credulous reporter about an organization whose antisemitic founding charter calls “to fight the Jews and kill them.”

“The Palestinian people tried the Martin Luther King way, the way of no violence; they tried it,” Goshay quotes Hamdan of Canton. Apparently, the untold early MLK chapter of Palestinian history has mysteriously been erased from all historical memory and archives, wrongly replaced instead with a bloody trail of hijackings, bombings, and terror at the Olympics.

In this alternate reality, “Benjamin Netanyahu encouraged Hamas to begin because he did not want the PLO.” So talented was the young Netanyahu that he apparently pulled off this feat from New York where he served as ambassador to the United Nations during the time of the Hamas terror organization’s founding.

Goshay’s grasp of present-day reality is equally tenuous. Apparently unaware that more than 90% of West Bank Palestinians live under their own Palestinian Authority government, Goshay broadcasts her ignorance: “Palestinians cannot purchase property in the West Bank. Palestinian vehicles are required to display special license plates, and drivers are restricted to certain roads.”

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

David Horsey, Seattle Times

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

February 7, 2025

Heather Cox Richardson

Feb 08, 2025

Maya Miller of the New York Times reported today that the congressional phone system has been jammed with tens of millions of calls from outraged constituents contacting their representatives to demand that they stand against President Donald Trump and his sidekick Elon Musk as they unilaterally dismantle the United States government and gain access to Americans’ private information. The Senate phone system usually gets about 40 calls a minute; now it is up to 1,600.

On Wednesday, Nicole Lafond of Talking Points Memo reported that Senate Republicans were not especially concerned about Musk and his Department of Government Efficiency team rampaging through the federal government, figuring that Musk won’t last long and that the courts will eventually stop him. Today, Musk posted on X: “CFPB RIP,” with a tombstone emoji. The Consumer Financial Protection Bureau has recovered more than $17 billion for consumers from fraudulent or predatory practices since it began in 2011.

Trump seems willing to let Musk continue to run amok through the government while he becomes a figurehead. Today he posted on his social media site that he has fired the chair and members of the board of trustees of the Kennedy Center, saying they “do not share our Vision for a Golden Age in Arts and Culture.” He promised to announce a new board, “with an amazing Chairman, DONALD J. TRUMP!” “For the Kennedy Center, THE BEST IS YET TO COME!” he wrote.

U.S. District Judge Carl J. Nichols, who was appointed by Trump in 2019, is less impressed with the direction of the Trump administration. Today, he blocked it from placing more than 2,000 employees of the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) on paid leave. Trump and his allies have claimed—without evidence—that USAID is corrupt, but Steven Lee Myers and Stuart A. Thompson of the New York Times reported today that the disinformation making those claims on social media posts, for example, comes from Russia.

Senator Angus King (I-ME) took his Republican colleagues to task yesterday for their willingness to overlook the Trump administration’s attack on the U.S. Constitution. King took the floor as the Senate was considering the confirmation of Christian Nationalist Russell Vought as director of the Office of Management and Budget. Vought, a key author of Project 2025, believes the powers of the president should be virtually unchecked.

King reminded his colleagues that they had taken an oath to “support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic” and noted that the Framers recognized there could be domestic enemies to the Constitution. “Our oath was not to the Republican Party, not to the Democratic Party, not to Joe Biden, not to Donald Trump,” King said, “but…to defend the Constitution.”

“And…right now—literally at this moment—that Constitution is under the most direct and consequential assault in our nation's history,” King said. “An assault not on a particular provision but on the essential structure of the document itself.”

Why do we have a Constitution, King asked. He read the Preamble and said: “There it is. There's the list—ensure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, ensure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity.” But, he pointed out, there is a paradox: the essence of a government is to give it power, but that power can be abused to hurt the very citizens who granted it. “Who will guard the guardians?” King asked.

The Framers were “deep students of history and…human nature. And they had just won a lengthy and brutal war against the abuses inherent in concentrated governmental power,” King said. “The universal principle of human nature they understood was this: power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

How did the Framers answer the question of who will guard the guardians? King explained that they built into our system regular elections to return the control of the government to the people on a regular basis. They also deliberately divided power between the different branches and levels of government.

“This is important,” King said. “The cumbersomeness, the slowness, the clumsiness is built into our system. The framers were so fearful of concentrated power that they designed a system that would be hard to operate. And the heart of it was the separation of power between various parts of the government. The whole idea, the whole idea was that no part of the government, no one person, no one institution had or could ever have a monopoly on power.”

“Why? Because it's dangerous. History and human nature tells us that. This division of power, as annoying and inefficient as it can be,… is an essential feature of the system, not a bug. It's an essential, basic feature of the system, designed to protect our freedoms.”

The system of government “contrasts with the normal structure of a private business, where authority is purposefully concentrated, allowing swift and sometimes arbitrary action. But a private business does not have the army, and the President of the United States is not the CEO of America.”

In the government, “[p]ower is shared, principally between the president and this body, this Congress, both houses…. [T]his herky-jerkiness…this unwieldy structure is the whole idea,... designed to protect us from the…inevitable abuse of an authoritarian state.”

Vought, King said, is “one of the ringleaders of the assault on our Constitution. He believes in a presidency of virtually unlimited powers.” He “espouses the discredited and illegal theory that the president has the power to selectively impound funds appropriated by Congress, thereby rendering the famous power of the purse a nullity.” King said he was “really worried about…the structural implications for our freedom and government of what's happening here…. Project 2025 is nothing less than a blueprint for the shredding of the Constitution and the transition of our country to authoritarian rule. He's the last person who should be put in the job at the heart of the operation of our government.”

“[T]his isn't about politics. This isn't about policy. This isn't about Republican versus Democrat. This is about tampering with the structure of our government, which will ultimately undermine its ability to protect the freedom of our citizens. If our defense of the Constitution is gone, there's nothing left to us.”

King asked his Republican colleagues to “say no to the undermining and destruction of our constitutional system.” “[A]re there no red lines?” he asked them. “Are there no limits?”

King looked at USAID and said: “The Constitution does not give to the President or his designee the power to extinguish a statutorily established agency. I can think of no greater violation of the strictures of the Constitution or usurpation of the power of this body. None. I can think of none. Shouldn't this be a red line?”

Trump’s “executive order freezing funding…selectively, for programs the administration doesn't like or understand” is, King said, “a fundamental violation of the whole idea of the Constitution, the separation of powers.” King said his “office is hearing calls every day, we can hardly handle the volume. This again, to underline, is a frontal assault of our power, your power, the power to decide where public funds should be spent. Isn't this an obvious red line? Isn't this an obvious limit?”

King turned to “the power seemingly assumed by DOGE to burrow into the Treasury's payment system” as well as the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services, with “zero oversight.” “Do these people have clearance?” King, who sits on the Senate Intelligence Committee asked. “Are the doors closed? Are they going to leave open doors into these? What are the opportunities for our adversaries to hack into the systems?... Remember, there's no transparency or oversight. Access to social security numbers seem to be in the mix. All the government's personnel files, personal financial data, potentially everyone's tax returns and medical records. That can't be good…. That's data that should be protected with the highest level of security and consideration of Americans' privacy. And we don't know who these people are. We don't know what they're taking out with them. We don't know whether they're walking out with laptops or thumb drives. We don't know whether they're leaving back doors into the system. There is literally no oversight. The government of the United States is not a private company. It is fundamentally at odds with how this system is supposed to work.”

“Shouldn't this be an easy red line?” he asked.

“[W]e're experiencing in real time exactly what the framers most feared. When you clear away the smoke, clear away the DOGE, the executive orders, foreign policy pronouncements, more fundamentally what's happening is the shredding of the constitutional structure itself. And we have a profound responsibility…to stop it.”

King’s appeal to principle and the U.S. Constitution did not convince his Republican colleagues, who confirmed Vought.

But today, Illinois governor J.B. Pritzker took a different approach, trolling Trump’s claim that the Gulf of Mexico would now be called “the Gulf of America.” Standing behind a lectern and flanked by flags of the United States and Illinois, Pritzker solemnly declared he was about to make an important announcement.

“The world’s finest geographers, experts who study the Earth’s natural environment, have concluded a decades-long council and determined that a Great Lake deserves to be named after a great state. So today, I’m issuing a proclamation declaring that hereinafter Lake Michigan shall be known as Lake Illinois. The proclamation has been forwarded to Google to ensure the world’s maps reflect this momentous change. In addition, the recent announcement that to protect the homeland, the United States will be purchasing Greenland, Illinois will now be annexing Green Bay to protect itself against enemies foreign and domestic. I’ve also instructed my team to work diligently to prepare for an important announcement next week regarding the Mississippi River. God bless America, and Bear Down [a reference to the Chicago Bears football team].”

—

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON