#op

[threi]

flying with luffy 🥰

[overtake]

@/scuderiaferrari: first ice bath of 2023

[cloevr]

[californiabighunks]

"And so they have a little, uh, a lil' bluehh, sthey, they started, uh, sthinks they yeah, blehblekuysyeahougshdjjsklanatupbloup, whuh, uh, wheyuhwhuh, the, movie."

[pitbolshevik]

terfs' responses to the fact that literal nazis are being seen at their marches is pretty fucking telling

[sukebeyanki]

Sabo day ❤️‍🔥

[wifegideonnav]

for all its reputation as being super dark and depressing, harrow the ninth actually employs a type of wish fulfillment that is, in my opinion, dangerous unless you’re aware that that’s what it is.

because at its core, htn is about the vindication of grief - it’s about losing somebody and then suffering in such perfect agony that you get her back. in the universe of the book, harrow is correct to refuse to let gideon go, she’s correct to destroy herself over gideons death. she sacrifices literally everything she’s ever been or cared about, she debases herself completely, and in return, she gets gideon back.

and this type of thinking, if you bring it into the real world, is not healthy. a lot of pop culture tends to enforce this idea - that if you just hold on well enough, you’ll get what you want; or, put another way, that if you let go, you never cared in the first place. but i think it’s important to be extra cognizant of this concept’s place in htn, precisely because people find it to be such a “real” depiction of grief and loss. as readers, especially as i know many in the fandom are also mentally ill, also grieving their own tragedies, we need to keep in mind that necromancy is still just a fiction, and that there is no reward for suffering. in real life, the prize you get for suffering is more suffering.

i know it may seem silly to post this like, “reminder that magic isn’t real guys!1” but the idea of being rewarded for suffering is so entrenched in our culture, and it’s especially insidious when you have a mental illness in your ear whispering that you deserve to suffer anyway, and clearly this is all your fault, and if they stay gone it means you didn’t do everything you could, and -

i’m making this post to say: please take care of yourselves. go to therapy, or support groups, or find other ways your community can help you. strive for healing. don’t let them be a dead body you drag behind you. and never fall into the trap of believing that the more you suffer, the more deserving you are

[babyrooster]

[ourflagmeansgayrights]

i know a big point of contention in this fandom is Ed's Anger. but the thing is that it's rlly hard for this to be an "agree to disagree" issue because the sides are like:

edward teach does have anger issues. in the show he becomes disproportionately and irrationally angry, and he expresses that anger in harmful and unacceptable ways. saying ed doesn't have anger issues is flattening a complex indigenous character for the sake of respectability politics.

edward teach does not have anger issues. every instance of ed's anger in the show is proportionate to the situation he is experiencing and ed is shown to be capable of controlling his anger. the way ed expresses his anger is normal and acceptable within the fictional comedy universe he exists in. saying that ed does have anger issues reflects implicit biases about men of color being inherently and exceptionally angry and violent.

and like, i've rewatched this show a billion fucking times at this point. i've seen these scenes more times than i can count. never, at any point, did i think ed's on-screen expressions of anger were indicative of anger issues. i have always considered ed's anger to be reasonable. even in the brief period of time before i began engaging with this fandom, i did not think ed had anger issues. i was surprised to find out that some people believe he does.

i just. i have a hard time, after watching this show over and over again and finding ed's anger to be a reasonable response to some very difficult situations, seeing people say they think those reasonable responses are indicative of anger issues. i've heard the arguments, and i just don't agree. and the question of why i don't agree really comes down to: am i subconsciously over-correcting for racial stereotypes and flattening the complexity of a character of color, or are other people reading ed's anger as more extreme than it is due to subconscious racial bias?

and that's. really not a question i think any of us are ever going to be able to answer.

[bonncy]

Watch out, she’s everywhere... 

[ariadne-mouse]

Just finished episode 58 of C1 and my god Gilmore is such a fucking smooth operator

[Vax is walking around naked except for his boots due to plot reasons]

Gilmore: "I'm always happy to see you but I didn't realize it was my birthday as well."

[They're saying goodbye, Vax having recently discovered his vestige's very cool and dramatic flight abilities with Gilmore's help]

Gilmore, with a hug and a kiss on the cheek: "Fly high, my bird."

and underneath the jocular flirting there is so much tenderness, and also melancholy, this all being after Vax's "I'm in love with someone else" talk. The way Gilmore springs into action when Keyleth tells him about the rakshasa attack on Vax, teleporting immediately to go help. His relief when he is safe. The careful, slightly painful reconfiguring of boundaries, knowing how things stand between them now. There is so much love in this man. Whoops I got emotional on my joke post about Gilmore's suave quips, but that's Critical Role for you.

Anyway Gilmore is such a fun character, and his connection to Vax and that bittersweet 'almost/could have been' is a fine narrative wine. (Also very pleased we learn in ExU that he's found himself a husband, he deserves someone madly in love with him.)

[threi]

I've been thinking

[overtake]

George finding out that Alonso got a penalty and he’s now P3

“He’s the deserving guy to finish P3, so I’ll take the trophy for sure, but Fernando and Aston deserve the podium.“

[the-ace-with-spades]

Bradley is eleven, will turn twelve in five months, his mom has been dead for over a year, and his dad for over nine.

His homeroom teacher gives him a permission slip for a school trip to some dumb museum Bradley’s probably already been to and says, “Your dad needs to sign it before next Monday.”

It’s Mav picking him up from school today — it’s Ice, usually, but he is supervising night-time flight maneuvers tonight — so Bradley gets in the car and they go over the normal, how was school today, any new grades, any homework to do, do you need to bring anything for class tomorrow.

They’ve stopped at a light and Bradley takes out the permission slip and says, “Mrs. Sanchez said my dad needs to sign it before Monday or I won’t go.”

Mav—Mav freezes. His hand grips the shift gear and he clenches his jaw, not looking at Bradley. The car behind them has to honk for him to snap out of it.

“I’m—I’m not your dad, Bradley,” he finally says.

“It’s just what Mrs. Sanchez said,” he points out. He doesn’t think it’s such a big deal — Mav’s been doing everything a dad would for years now, for Bradley, and Ice has been helping him the last couple of years. It’s a conclusion that many come to and it seems logical. Bradley is sure half of his teachers thought that even back when his mom was alive, Mav had certainly been to enough PTA meetings with her that it’d be an easy mistake.

“You can correct her, buddy, no one is going to be mad if you correct her, okay?”

They arrive at the house and Mav still hasn’t added anything. Bradley shrugs it off — Mav has these moments, sometimes, when he gets all quiet and unresponsive. Ice usually tells him to leave him alone or wait a couple of hours and try to cuddle with him. Bradley is kind of too big for that now, but it seems to help sometimes.

So Bradley asks if Mav needs help with dinner and after hearing no, goes back to his room.

Out of all that mess, he forgets about the permission slip.

He sits down and fills out all the empty lines so Mav just has to sign it — in capital letters, his handwriting isn’t that readable yet — and leaves just that last line with the date and signature empty.

He thinks, once again, about what Mrs. Sanchez said.

He doesn’t feel the need to correct her, still. He barely remembers his dad — he knows he loved them and he’ll never forget all the stories he heard from everyone but they’re, well, just stories. Mav is the one who taught him how to ride a bike and helped him make stupid macaroni projects for art classes, taught him how to count to a hundred, and how to tie his shoelaces and who would notice when Bradley was outgrowing his clothes or needed a new shoe size. Mav is there, every memory he has. Mav loves him like his mom and dad did.

Mav is his dad.

If Bradley’d really think about it, Ice is getting really close to being his dad, too. He’s making Bradley’s school lunches and helping him with his English homework from time to time, and he comes to Bradley’s matches and, even if Mav will never admit it, he’s the one who choses Bradley’s Christmas and birthday presents. He makes him hot chocolate when he has nightmares and stays with him for hours in the living room, reading plane manuals out loud, in the same tone his mom used to use to read his bedtime stories.

Bradley calling Mav his dad is as logical as people assuming he is his dad. And maybe it can be the same with Ice, in the near future, or maybe even now, if he agrees.

Bradley wants to call Mav dad.

So he grabs the permission slip and goes to the kitchen to tell him that.

“I don’t know, Ice, I just don’t know.”

He doesn’t notice Bradley there, standing with the piece of paper in his hand in the doorway. The phone’s cord is stretched across the kitchen, almost completely straight, as he talks with the handle between his ear and shoulder, slicing an onion at the same time.

“I’ve always wanted to have kids, as unrealistic as it seemed, but not like this,” he continues. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, I’m not his dad, he’s not my son, it’s just wrong to think that, I’m not—He can’t think that.”

Bradley blinks. Once, twice, a third time. Takes a quiet step back behind the doorframe, flattens his back on the cold wall. Holds his breath.

“I mean, you’ve always said you don’t want kids,” Mav says, the knife clanking on the cutting board as he changes the hand holding the phone. “We made do with the situation, obviously, but we’re not his parents—”

Bradley doesn’t want to hear more.

*

Bradley was right — he’s already been to the Castle Air Museum. More than once, with his mom, with Mav and Ice, and with Uncle Slider and Aunt Sarah.

His dad didn’t sign the permission slip but Mav did.

It’s sunny so they’re left to wander around the outside display. The tour was boring — their tour guide couldn’t even answer the questions about engines and wingspans and takeoff capacity and it was so disappointing to know more than the adult that was supposed to teach them, again.

The rest of his class went with the tour guide, to see the open cockpit of the Mentor but Bradley just turned around to the F-4 that was on the edge of the display, old and partially reconstructed with cheap metal and plastic. He sits down on the grass in front of it and lets the sun shine at the modern paint that should not belong on the fuselage of a Phantom.

Mrs. Sanchez comes over, standing above him, looking at the Phantom with an appreciation that is clearly less understanding and more awe at the sight. She hums before asking Bradley, “You don’t want to see the cockpit with everyone? Maybe they’ll let you sit in the pilot seat, today. Our group is small.”

The open cockpit belongs to T-34, a piston-driven one they stopped using in the fifties. “I flew one of those, but it was a T-34C, powered by a turboprop.”

Mrs. Sanchez looks at him, tilting her head a bit, not really understanding what Bradley said, like most people don’t when he talks about planes. ”I suppose it’s not that impressive of a place when your dad is a naval aviator, is it?”

Mav told him to correct her so he does, “He’s not my dad.”

He brings his knees closer, wishing she’d go away. Instead, she sits down next to him, her white pants smudged green by the grass in seconds.

“Is something wrong at home, Bradley? Is your—Is everything okay with Pete?”

“Yeah,” he says because he doesn't want to be whiney. He’s already been enough trouble. “His dad flew one of those.”

Mrs. Sanchez looks at the plague in front of them to remind herself of the plane’s name. “A Phantom?”

“Yeah, during Vietnam War.”

“He must be really proud of Pete then.”

Bradley supposes he’d be. “He didn’t come back.”

Mav lost his dad, too, and then his mom. He met Bradley’s mom in the foster system and she became like a sister to him. Bradley probably wouldn’t even know Mav if Duke Mitchell was alive.

Bradley was in the foster system for three weeks when his mom died, before Mav and his case worker had filed all the appropriate paperwork. He was placed in a foster family in the neighboring town — the wife, Sandie, didn’t work and would take him to school every morning, and the husband, Robert, was a corporate lawyer, bent from six to five. They would take Bradley to church every Sunday with the rest of the kids even though Sundays were the only days Mav had enough time to drive out of Fresno and visit him while the paperwork was still in progress,

They were nice, he supposes, and some of the kids called them mom and dad, so they couldn’t be too bad.

“Is there a way I could go back to the foster system?” 

Mrs. Sanchez looks away from the plane, clears her throat, and asks gently, “Why would you go back there?”

“I dunno, just—Is there a way to put me back there?”

“I don’t think so, no, Bradley, not unless—” she breaks off, taking a deep breath, and says softly, “I’m sure Pete wouldn’t like that.”

Maybe he wouldn’t like that but it’d make everything easier for everyone.

*

It’s a few weeks later. Mrs. Sanchez hasn’t mentioned anything to Bradley even if she keeps on looking out for him during recess so he doesn’t think she’ll drill the topic.

Mav and Ice have both gone to the PTA meeting which Bradley finds odd. They’ve always been very careful about their relationship — his mom had given him a talk about how he couldn’t call Ice Mav’s boyfriend when he was six, well, Bradley had called him his husband because he didn’t really know the difference back then, and he had been instructed to keep it a secret.

He’s never mentioned it to anyone, since then, especially not to Mrs. Sanchez. He used to think it was stupid because they were both his parents and they should both be allowed to come to his plays and career days and charity fairs, but now he supposes it was convenient since Ice didn’t want a kid and probably didn’t want to be included in all those parental stuff anyway.

They pick him up from Uncle Slider and Aunt Sarah’s place but they don’t say anything. Usually, they at least mention that Bradley has good grades.

Maybe he’s doing something wrong, again. He got into one fight a couple of weeks ago but Mav said it was alright as long as it didn’t happen again.

“Can you come up to the living room once you unpack?”

Bradley takes his time. He unpacks his English homework, the only one he couldn’t do but also one Uncle Slider couldn’t really help him with — Aunt Sarah probably could but she’s been sleeping the whole time because apparently being six months pregnant is making her super sleepy. Contemplates asking Ice for help with it but decides it’s probably better he doesn’t.

He needs to start doing these things alone. He can’t bother them forever.

In six years, he’s going to be in college, and he holds onto that thought.

“So, your grades are perfect and we’re really proud of how well you’re doing in school, but—But Mrs. Sanchez mentioned a couple of things about your behavior,” Mav says.

Bradley doesn’t sit down with them on the couch even though they left space for him in the middle. He also doesn’t reply anything.

They both look at Bradley for a long moment and he fidgets under their gazes.

“Mrs. Sanchez said you asked her whether we—whether we can give you back for adoption,” Mav begins. “We’re just worried about where that question came from, Bradley, we aren’t going to—”

He said we like Ice actually wants anything to do with Bradley’s guardianship.

“We love you, Bradley, we promised your mom we’d take care of you and—”

He isn’t their son. He’s a promise they’re keeping and nothing else.

“Can I go back to my room?”

“Buddy—” Mav begins again.

Bradley doesn’t want to hear whatever he has to say. He already knows everything he needs to know.

“I know you love me, I know you won’t give me back. It was just a stupid question, is all,” he says because that was the truth — they promised his mom they would love him and here they were, trying very hard to do that.

They don’t need to pretend it’s anything else.

“Okay,” Ice says, carefully. “I’ll make you some hot chocolate and we can talk some more—”

“I just want to go to sleep.”

There’s a moment of silence and they give each other a meaningful look before turning back to Bradley.

Ice notes, “It’s not even seven.”

“We painted the whole nursery with Uncle Slider, I’m just tired. Can I go?”

“You’re not in trouble,” Mav says.

“I know,” Bradley tells him even if he isn’t so sure about it. “Can I go? I still have some homework to do.”

[natadachoco]

this is a collab between me and @kai-teaa! i translated, they typeset! enjoy toy sized law lol

original by @/rxktc on twitter!

This is a secondary derivative. Do not reproduce without permission from the original author.

[frogburglar]

the fear mongering these people perpetuate is disturbing. you have a perfectly healthy 14 year old girl who is genuinely scared of dying by the time she turns 30. the stats are fake. trans people have a lower murder rate than the rest of us. this is so unbelievably fucked up