#what a death I die every time I watch this

[ominouspuff]

No Man Left Behind / Something Worth Dying For

REQUESTS / BLOG EVENT

Request from @razzbberry - Palette #1 - Alpha-17, Cody - Death of the Cynic in Me

Notes and close-ups beneath the cut!

Notes: I think Seventeen would, both subconsciously and consciously, keep his cynicism as long as possible. It’s how he thinks the world works, but it’s also a survival tool. It’d be a very, very slow death.

It’s put to the test with Cody — not because Cody is special among his fellow clones, but because he’s one of the first that bothers to fight Seventeen on his own terms. The argument is always the same. Cody wants to talk about what he hopes to be, someday, after he is a soldier. Seventeen thinks he’s stupid to think that’s possible, or that he’d be capable. Cody knows it, and he, might not be. Seventeen thinks it’s even more stupid, in that case; what a waste of energy.

It develops. When they’re older, and in the thick of war, one day Cody risks his life for the chance to save a brother that was going to die anyway. Seventeen yells at him for fifteen minutes once he’s conscious about luck and stupidity and the trouble it’s causing Seventeen and the false hope it’s engendering in others. Cody says he can disagree all he likes, but he doesn’t give a fig, respectfully. Seventeen thinks Cody can go try to get blown up again, if he thinks so.

There’s no point fighting for a better tomorrow; they’re bought and paid for to fight for something else, FOR someone else. Seventeen is prepared for being fodder, as a result. He’s prepared for unfairness and the bleak life that they’re living. Instead he watches as Cody defeats odds time and time again, somehow managing to balance being an exceptional military leader with a secondary war to live for something more, running himself ragged and — inexplicably — gaining ground. Each of those little victories are a little death for Seventeen’s cynicism; a chipping away. A little seed of Cody’s brand of hope takes root, awkward and begrudging, fond and tentative.

Then Order 66 happens. Cody’s efforts for a better life are in vain, and Cody himself-

Cody may never know that Seventeen was right abut just how helpless they were. Now he only knows that Seventeen is a traitor, apparently, because Seventeen — for once in his life — was the lucky one and his chip malfunctioned.

And Seventeen could say ‘I told you so’. He could rest, vindicated and resigned, in the fact that every dream Cody built up and everything he thought was worth dying for is pointless, now — as he always suspected it would be.

But it isn’t fair, even by Seventeen’s standards.

“What are you doing,” Rex will rasp, caught in a strange role reversal as Seventeen paints an armor set with Cody’s golden colors. “He’s not coming back, Seventeen. He can’t. It’s pointless to keep going after him, you need to stop.”

“No,” Seventeen will answer, unbothered, “I don’t think I will.”

“We can’t — we can’t keep hoping,” Rex says, because he means he will probably have a breakdown if he imagines there is even a pitiful possibility he could save his brothers and then have to turn away from that scrappy chance for the greater good and Rebellion, and all that. “We’ve got to move on.”

“Go on.” Seventeen will invite sincerely, one brow raised because he knows Rex better than that.

“Do you want him to shoot you?” Rex will finally yell, all knotted up at the thought of losing Seventeen too, even though it’s funny because Seventeen was never kind to Rex.

“He can try,” Seventeen will say, touching up the last of the paint. He will stand, wiping his fingers, and pick up his pack. “See you when we get back, then.”

Alt version:

[fuckmyskywalker]

𝐇𝐢𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐧!𝐀𝐧𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈: 𝐌𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬.

Summary: A week of chaos. From the end to the very beginning. You find yourself in the darkness, remembering how the light touched your skin first. When you fly too close to the sun...

CW: 18+. dead dove do not eat, non-con, gun play, knife play, knife riding, death threats, dirty talk, dark content. | word count: 3.3k

a/n: Hope you enjoy it! DNI if you don't like the topics listed and DNI if you are a minor. Happy riding!

Hitman!Anakin series.

"𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘺."

Sunday. 16th.

Comically, he could argue with any soul that crossed the empty streets that life doesn’t have a price. He could laugh at the soft-spoken, naive answer of self-value, laced with the dumb kindness of human nature. Humans are kind by nature, or that’s what idealists say; what— a sane person, he thinks— would say is that humans are selfish by nature, the realistic approach.

Since the start of times, the number two has been sacred. There are two worlds to join in the afterlife: Heaven and hell. Two deities to recognize: God and the Devil. Two spectrums: Good and bad. Two cycles: Day and night… and two options: To kill, or get killed. 

It could also be described as a constant phrase he learned while growing up: “The strong one will eat the weak one”, eight words haunting him like the plague, following him and patting his shoulder at every failure, and congratulating him at every success. Strength equals power, money equals power, intelligence equals power… but can a man have it all without losing his mind? Or perhaps he is just getting philosophical when he shouldn’t. Unlocking the windows with ease as his mind races with the never-ending turmoil of an unfair life, edging him to do unfair jobs, and win dirty money. 

Although Anakin Skywalker has learned that some hot dish soap helps clean the blood stains over dollar signs.

Twisting the knife— an anxious habit— Anakin stands beside your bed, watching your immobile boy. There’s a soft smile plastered on your face, you must be having a nice dream… too bad it won’t last long. Leaning down, the tip of the knife dances over your neck, careful— careful. Not yet. Those aren’t his instructions. Although his boss never specified the in-betweens. 

His lips ghost over the shell of your ear, raising goosebumps in your slumber. Your skin is aware of the intruder, the instincts kicking in. “Hey,” His voice is barely audible, but his warm breath sends a jolt of adrenaline like a lethal injection directly into your veins. “Wake up.”

Your eyes shoot open, body jolting forward only to be pushed back by the knife against your throat and his gloved hand over your face. There’s no need to use brutal force, it’s easy to fuel your fear; blue eyes staring into yours through the holes of the black ski mask. He can tell you are shaking— in fact, he can see it. 

“Don’t move, don’t try to scream. If you do, I’ll slice your throat from ear to ear. Smiley face, that’s why I like to call that,” He chuckles when he sees you shivering. Oh, to be the strong one grants him with a power that makes him feel alive. Who cares about repercussions when simple acts and sighs like your tears make him feel immortal? “Do I make myself clear?”

You nod weakly. Every fiber of your being is yelling at you to run, to push him and throw him everything within your reach but you can’t move. Your body is paralyzed and for the first time in your privileged life, you realize something frightening. When he pulls back and lets go of you, the loud exhale that escapes your lungs pleasures him even further. Good. Everything is going according to plan.

It doesn’t matter how much money you have. You can die just like anyone else. 

“See, I can imagine you already know why I am here,” Anakin continues, chuckling when you shake your head. “No? Uh, I thought you’d be smarter. Well, I guess money can’t buy intelligence.”

Your eyes flicker to his wrist, watching him twist the knife. At least he isn’t all over you. How can a human be so calm while toying with another’s future? As if it wasn’t a delicate situation, as if money was everything in the world— pathetic. 

Stuttering, you run toward the only option your brain knows. “I’ll d–double the price. I’ll triple it,” Your legs move, hanging them on the edge of your tall bed. Anakin arches an eyebrow, he could’ve killed you for moving. Yet, he is somewhat interested in your offer. “I can pay much more than whoever hired you.”

“Oh, really?” Anakin laughs. It’s a cold, bitter laugh. There is no humor in it. Only cruelty. “And what makes you think money was the only thing I got paid with?”

“Who hired you?”

He laughs again. It has been seconds since you heard him laugh for the first time and you loathe the sound already. “That’s for me to know and for you to find out, darling. Or maybe I’m lying. Maybe it’s just like the movies and I get a mystery envelope with money and your name. Would that make you feel better?”

He is definitely mocking you, which normally would raise your anger and bring out the worst in you— right now it seems like a bad choice. Anakin can’t blame you for questioning, every victim does, sometimes he grants them their wish— when they aren’t that important— sometimes he just does the job, hoping they die with their doubts as their last thought. Your life's on the line, it must be the first time someone has pierced your little bubble… so yeah, he can’t blame you. 

“Please don’t kill me, I’ll… I’ll do anything.”

There it is. Classic. His favorite words. Anything means anything. Everything is fair in love and war— everything is fair at gunpoint. “Anything?’ He repeats. “It’s not like I haven’t heard that one before.” His sarcastic tone flies over your head. You cannot pay attention to anything else besides the ringing in your eardrums and the palpitations of your heart. 

Anakin finds great joy in fueling the terror in your soul. It is something he wasn’t exactly born with— or at least, during his loneliest nights, buried in alcohol and money, surrounded by his guns and his ghosts. He isn’t afraid of them, they can’t hurt him. 

“Anything,” You confirm, lip wobbling and tears streaming down your cheeks. His task was awfully simple, yet, there is something he must do first now that he sees you more clearly. Anakin doesn't have the pleasure to witness such a pretty downfall often.

In a swift move, Anakin lifts the knife over his head, smirking wider when you raise your hands in a pitiful attempt at self-defense. Expectant, you sob one last time before the pain comes, before the burning sensation of piercing skin and crimson blood. 

Which never arrives. 

The sharp blade pierces through the sheets and the mattress. Ripping the stitches and creating the most awful sound you have ever heard in your life. That could’ve been your face. Did he miss his shot? Is his aim that bad? Your vision is blurry due to the thick coat of tears, crystal clear and salty that trickle down like tiny diamonds. 

“Money is not enough this time, sweetheart,” He coos at you, cupping your cheek and brushing your tears in a fake act of kindness. His pursed lips make your stomach twist. You never thought there’d be fates worse than death… but here you are. “I won’t kill you—” His words make your shoulder fall for a second as a smile dances on your chapped lips like the weak swing of a butterfly’s wings. “Yet.”

“What do you want from me?” You sob, placing your hands on your lap, not sure what to do with them. You are in no position to fight. You are under the mercy of a clear psychopath. Someone without morals, without ethics and values— under the claws of a monster. 

The worst part? You don’t even know who is pulling the strings tied over the monster’s claws. 

“Don’t be sad, sweetheart. I’m sure you will find it amusing— and if you don’t I don’t care,” If you weren’t begging for your life, his voice could’ve been attractive. Even his eyes. His fucking eyes that seem to pierce your soul. “You see that handle?” He points at the knife with his chin. “I want you to lift your cute nightgown and ride it. You can close your eyes and imagine a cock, I’m sure you’ve done it before from what I’ve heard about you. If I like the show, I’ll let you ride my cock— and if I don’t like it. I’ll kill you.”

“You cannot possibly ask me to—”

A small squeal escapes your lips when the muzzle of a gun comes in contact with your temple. The steel is frigid against your burning skin. There are no words left in your throat, if you weren’t terrified you would’ve thrown up. 

“You don’t like to think, you don’t like to listen— I’m starting to believe you are actually stupid, princess. You either fuck that knife or die.” Your whimper. Irritating. Infuriating. Fucking lovely. 

Lifting your hips from the bed, you kneel with the little strength you have left. Anakin never removes the gun from your temple, in reality, he presses it further, watching your skin dent slightly. Lifting your sheer nightgown, you clumsily hook your finger at the waistband of your panties, tugging them down with embarrassment.

“Please don’t make me do this,” You beg, losing balance momentarily as your panties hang from your ankle. 

There is a storm echoing in his laugh. Like pouring rain falling over your heart before it even reaches your ears. “If you don’t do it, I’ll force you. I will enjoy it more… and then you’ll die.”

The flat tip of the blade handle feels like steel against your folds. The touch is feathery light, perhaps unintentionally gentle. You are glad there is a thick leather wrapped around it— otherwise, it might hurt even more. 

Rocking your hips slowly, you close your eyes focusing on anything else. You will not enjoy this. You refuse to give him pleasure. If this is the way you die— at least you want to imagine you put up some kind of fight. Despite your constant thoughts— foolishly thinking your mind is stronger than your body— when the handle comes in contact with your clit, your body instinctively jolts. You stop. You don’t talk. 

You don’t want to die. You don’t want to die, and you don’t want to enjoy it.

“Spread your legs wider and don’t stop moving. Don’t make me go there and open them myself,” His voice is low. “Show me how much you don’t want this.” His voice mixed with the adrenaline brings you to a borderline dizzy state. 

Resuming your movements, you bite the inner part of your cheek, flinching when his free hand cups your breast. “See? Is not that difficult to obey. I know you are so used to getting your way, little princess. But not this time. Not with me.”

His thumb traces your nipple poking through the silk. You hate yourself for this— even more when you find a steady rhythm. Your clit grinds against the flat top and throbs, quickly begging for more. Hooking the barrel underneath the thin straps of your nightgown, Anakin lets them fall, exposing your chest. 

“Don’t come. If you do, your tiny brains will make a bloody mess over your lovely canopy and walls. Now fucking ride it.”

The leather glistens with your arousal. It’s pathetic, humiliating, miserable. When you position yourself above it, when you flex your knees to fit it— that’s when everything you are— breaks. 

The handle stretches your walls in a way that couldn’t be more uncomfortable. Your arousal helps but only much. Unhurriedly, you begin to ride it just like he commanded you to, just like you have to. Your pussy clenches around it, you can’t even fool yourself and think it is a dick. Nothing could help you now. No one can save you now.

“Seems to be you can listen sometimes…” Anakin observes, removing the gun from your skull to press it against the valley of your breasts. “Don’t think I can’t see how wet you are. Are you that deranged you are enjoying this?”

Are you?

Is he?

You just have to do this. Right?

Too many questions, no answers. 

“Faster.”

Increasing your pace, the tears make themselves known again. You are enjoying it. Your walls are dripping, your pussy is begging for more. The slick sticks to the leather like a second layer of shine, the sounds your body is making are against your will— but you can’t stop moving. Anakin breathes loudly, his own excitement evident. You cannot see the outline of his erection underneath his black cargo pants but he feels it, throbbing, leaking, eager to bury itself in you. Hear you sob and feel you clench after every cry.

“So fucking wet,” He mumbles, pressing his lips against your sweaty neck. The soft cotton of his ski mask brushes over your skin, bringing you a nasty comfort. “Remember, if you come… you die.”

The muzzle now dances over your nipple, distracting you from the burn in your lower stomach for a second— when his hand finds your clit. Circling it quickly, roughly, Anakin exhales again right in your ear. 

“I can’t wait to fuck you. I hope you are ready to die while I bury my cock inside you.”

A loud moan, mixed with a throat-ripping wail falls down your lips, body writhing and hips trashing. The handle is as deep as it can go, and before your vision goes white you feel the gun poking underneath your chin. Your hands curl around the hem of the nightgown you are still lifting, almost piercing the expensive and delicate fabric. Your orgasm is strong, it clouds your senses and for a moment the euphoria makes you forget how you just marked your destiny. The handle is sticky just like your thighs. The world is spinning.

Your life is ruined.

Just as your vision goes white, it goes black.

Monday. 10th.

Politics are known to be comparable to walking on thin ice. One false step and you sink— all the way to the cold and lonely bottom. Made only for the ones who can twist and turn others under their will and for those who aren’t scared of the nerve-wracking possibility of being a hero or a villain. 

When your father offers you the vacancy for Campaign Manager you don’t hesitate to take the opportunity. Daddy dearest always serves opportunities such as these on a silver platter. Why would you refuse? Sure, a week before the presidential elections might be signing a death sentence, but why would you care? Even if you fall, your safety net is insured, secured and endorsed. 

“Are you sure you can do this alone?” Natasha Andrews, your father’s assistant lowers her clipboard, focusing her dirty blue eyes on you from beneath her thin-gramme glasses. “We have a week before the election, these last days are crucial.”

“I’ll be fine!” You answer confidently. To have such confidence and naivety that being young gives you. You just feel invincible. “I read some of John’s final projects. A few venues and bookings won’t scare me.”

“I don’t think you are seeing the big picture here,” Natasha calls your name patiently. Removing her glasses, folding them and placing them next to her clipboard, you can already imagine a boring lecture about responsibility. You’ll be fine! “Your father has an image to maintain, a reputation to hold and the statistics are growing in his favor. This last week is to secure the win. Your father chose you for a reason.” Another way to say ‘There are high expectations. You better fulfill them.’

Huffing, you take her words as a weak attempt at an insult. You understand the big picture. You’ve been surrounded by the big picture since you can remember. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

Natasha runs a hand through her ginger locks, taking a deep breath. She’s too old to deal with all this. “Look. I know you are young and I’m sure you have wonderful ideas for the campaign, but our time is limited. We can only continue with the schedule and hope for the best. If your ideas can be incorporated into the events then you are more than welcome.”

Always used to getting your way, you find baffling how someone who doesn’t know can defy you— or in your eyes, Natasha is doubting your capacities. Standing up, you point at her. Your manicured nail, painted a crimson red holds an almost accusatory tone. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone— not even your father. There is no chance of failure, because when you are young… you are on top of the world.

“No, you look. I know you are worried but I can do this,” You reply, not bothering to hide the patronizing tone in your voice. “My father knows I’m more than capable. You may not know me but you will. If I want to change the date of a venue, or if I want to make a goddamned pool party we will. I know what’s best, I know what will work.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow at your words, her expression hardening slightly. “I never doubted your… abilities, Miss. We have a schedule we must follow. Nothing personal. It is your first day in your position. Can you even name three key supporters of Jonathan's campaign? Have you planned a meeting with potential donors for when your father wins the elections?”

The assistant has a point, but you won’t give up. You will never lose a fight. 

“Easy, everything you say is too easy,” You narrow your eyes, placing both palms on the desk to hide how they shake from frustration. “If I say the word, my father will fire you. It doesn’t matter how long you have been working with him. I’m his daughter.”

That’s your wild card.

And as usual, it works. 

Sighing through gritted teeth, Natasha rubs her temple. How can an educated girl like yourself be such a despicable person? “Go on.” 

The smile that brightens your face beams like flames. Threatening to consume everything on its way. Everything is easy when you have the influence. You were born with it, what’s wrong with using it? “Alright… key supporters….”

The redhead scribbles down as you talk, from all you know she is playing hangman with your face on the stick figure, not that you care, of course. Your mood heightens as she just listens and comments on trivial things such as locations and schemes. You knew it would be easy. You just need people that follow you. 

“We can do the last meet-and-greet at Cafe Serenity. My father invested in the project and the owner owes him that. I’m sure if we present the petition he will accept,” You talk, tangling the wires inside your head. “I can schedule an interview with Channel 7, Global News Network, and Insider Globe, they do most of the coverage during the elections and my father knows the actionist in GNN…”

“The meet-and-greet sounds good. It’s the perfect strategy to calculate the supporters Jonathan has. Plus the media coverage will be wonderful,” Her jaw clenches as she talks, but you are too busy staring at your nails to see the daggers coming from her eyes. “You’ve got a good grasp on this.”

“I know,” You smile, ignoring the fake smile. 

Suddenly, your phone rings. It’s an unknown number. A frown etches on your face as you pick it up. Excusing yourself from the table, Natasha nods, her blue orbs gluing to your back; if looks could kill…

Closing the door of the meeting room behind you, you bring the phone closer to your ear. “Hello? Who is this?” 

Silence.

“Hello?”

A feminine voice breaks the silence. The unknown woman calls your name and your heart stops momentarily. It sounds vaguely familiar, and it carries a heavy accent that you can’t pinpoint from where. 

“Lisseth? Is that you?” Your chirp echoes through the empty hallway. “I can’t believe you are back!”

Thank you for reading! ✩

[champagnepodiums]

hey maureen how can roger penske even own indycar in the first place my researches have been inconclusive and I trust you for storytelling of historical narratives better than anyone whether they're a century old or not

hi anon, I'm so glad you asked! buckle up while I give you the briefest, most straightforward history of sanctioning bodies for American Open-Wheel motorsport and you'll definitely be like "why is this even relevant" but it (mostly) is, I promise (the stuff that isn't relevant is just interesting and makes you realize that motorsport history does generally just operate on a time loop basically) (Adding this: I do talk about motorsport deaths in here so if that’s something that bothers you, pls keep scrolling. Fwiw, I do stay as vague as possible)

So in the very beginning, (1899!) a group of rich men formed a little club called the Automobile Club of America (otherwise known as ACA). Now don't let the name fool you because it was more or less, a small, local organization. The ACA was a founding arm of the American Automobile Association (otherwise known as the AAA), which happened in 1902. The AAA formed a contest board and sanctioned the Vanderbilt Cup (which was like The Big Race at this point).

Well, in 1907, AAA raised their dues and that pissed the ACA off so their response was essentially, "I see your Vanderbilt Cup and we're going to do the American Grand Prize" which pissed the AAA off and there was a Whole Thing that eventually ended up with an agreement that AAA would sanction all American races while the ACA would sanction all international events held on American soil (think like modern day F1 type races).

SO that essentially meant that AAA was in charge and oh boy, they were IN CHARGE. Bless their hearts, if a driver did a non-AAA sanctioned race (like say, a local dirt track race or a hill climb), the AAA would SUSPEND the driver from all AAA races, often for a full year (which was a big deal because it would prevent that driver from participating in the Indy 500 and if they continued to participate in 'outlaw' races, the AAA would just straight up revoke the driver's racing license). Essentially what started to happen is that young drivers would start to race on the local dirt tracks, gain 'outlaw' status and when they were ready, they would ask AAA for forgiveness and to gain their racer's license because AAA was more lenient to drivers who didn't already have a license.

Anyway, alls that to say is that the AAA was completely separate from everything, including (and especially) the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

So what changed?

Well. 1955 happened.

I am not even being dramatic when I say that it is no less than a miracle that motorsport as a whole survived 1955.

May 1955 saw Manny Ayulo die in a crash while practicing for the Indianapolis 500 (mind you, he was found to not be wearing his seatbelt), then ten days later, Alberto Ascari, Ferrari F1 World Champion was killed in a test session. AND THEN, Bill Vukovich, defending two-time Indy 500 champion (he had won the two previous) was leading the race and he was involved in a chain reaction crash that killed him and that -- listen, I think there is a misconception that in the past when drivers died, there was no backlash but there absolutely was and the public was horrified that this had happened.

And then -- because things weren't going badly enough -- approximately two weeks later, the racing world turned to watch Le Mans and at approximately 6:20 pm, at the end of the 35th lap, there was a (admittedly much smaller than Indy) chain reaction wreck that launched Pierre Levegh and his Mercedes towards the crowd. The car slammed into an embankment and there was so much force that a lot of the pieces of this car just kept going... right into a stand of spectators, killing at least 80 and injuring at least 120 more. I can talk more at length about the Le Mans disaster (which is what it's generally referred to as) but I do want to caution everybody because there are gruesome pictures on the internet, including ones where Pierre Levegh's body is more or less visible.

This triggered a whole chain reaction of events that had (and in some cases continue to have) long lasting impacts on all motorsports (which again, I would love to dig into if people are interested but for the sake of this essay, I will be brief and focused -- two things I'm really good at LMAO).

But the impact that I'm going to highlight here is that the AAA decided that at the conclusion of the 1955 racing season, they would no longer sanction any events.

WELL that is a Big Problem because AAA didn't only sanction the Indy 500, they sanctioned A LOT of races of various motorsport disciplines (not NASCAR though, they are completely separate). So Tony Hulman, owner of IMS, along with other midwest promotors formed what was initially called the "Temporary Emergency Committee" which ultimately ended up being called the United States Auto Club (USAC). And guess who owned it? Tony Hulman!

So USAC essentially becomes the be all, end all of what they called "Championship Car Racing" which is now what we think of as IndyCar. So USAC and IMS are owned by the same person. What could go wrong?

Well obviously lots go wrong and really the main reason that there even is the IndyCar Split (and the reason things got so bad) was because the same people owned IMS AND the Sanctioning Body. There are other things at play including Tony Hulman's sudden death and Elmer George's justified homicide and a plane crash but the core issue did ultimately boil down to the fact that the same person owned IMS and the sanctioning body and the Indy 500 was being placed above everything else to the detriment of everybody else (basically)

Anyway so like when Tony George forms the IRL (Indy Racing League), that takes over as the sanctioning body for the Indy 500. When IRL and Champ Whatever it was called by then merged back together in 2008, it was all done under the IRL stuff which meant the Hulman-George family still owned IndyCar, the series, as well as IMS/the Indy 500.

So in 2019, they sold both IMS/Indy 500 AND the IndyCar Series to Roger Penske. I wish they would have not done that because I think it would be better for American Open Wheel Racing if there was somebody independently looking out for their interests BUT things are so intertwined and the Indy 500 is such a powerful chip to have, I guess I don't know if it would ultimately matter who owned IndyCar?

So yeah, that is how Roger Penske could even buy IndyCar.

I hope this is clear enough and as always, I am willing to clarify anything/everything!

[hesterias]

I feel like, as a fandom, we collectively forget about this moment, and I’m here to remind everyone it exists and it happened.

Miles: I LOVE IT

Alex: You got old and wrinkled…

Miles: Shavambacuuuuu (🥺)

Alex: *giggles* … I stayed seventeen

Miles: Just youuuuu

Alex: You lusted after so many… *moves right in front of Miles* I stayed here with Wolverine (🥺)

Both: *stare longingly at each other*

Like???

[geothebio]

here is a photo of my dog that i enjoy Very Much

[haemosexuality]

why are so many adventure time fans just straight up stupid. about how stories work. and i dont even mean kids i mean like adult fans just with the absolutely dumbest takes

[dirtytransmasc]

thinking about how Spider was neteyam's big brother. losing my mind. ripping out my hair.

was 'teyam scared of storms or the dark? did he confide these "childish" fears to his big brother? did he get shy with all the attention he got in the village? did he hold Spi's hand when he got nervous?

did Spi have habits with 'teyam like 'teyam had with lo'ak? did Spi mess with his hair or reach for his shoulder or cuff his neck?

did Spi ever worry for 'teyam after he "stepped up" and became the Big Brother when the humans returned? did he worry something would happen to him? did he want to protect him despite being a human? was he proud? did his pride outweigh his fear?

did he think about 'teyam after he was taken? did he wonder where he was and if he was safe?

what was Spi thinking when he saw the bullet hole in his baby brother's back? did he freeze when he saw the blood, when he realized he failed to protect him?

what was 'teyam thinking? when he looked to Spi, did he want him to be the big brother again, did he want to stop being brave and let Spi do it? did he want to say something?

I have so many questions. I don't think my heart could take the answers.

[im-still-watching-anime]

man does anyone else just constantly forget neji died?? i was rewatching the war arc and got to it like HUH OH YEAH like i remember shikaku and inoichi more than him because i just didn’t like the writing for his and repressed it too much so now whenever i see any reference to it my brain blue screens for like 20 seconds straight

[honorthysalad]

can’t believe they didn’t have Yoshiki connect his experience with being possessed to that one guy who broke into the school grounds and killed himself.

[as-warm-as-choco]

today i went out searchin Dragonball manga in english (couldnt find for the life of me) >_< instead got a buu figure (actually coin bank shhh xD) and a Shenron mug i just drank tea from watchin Dragonball :''')

also got the boy and the heron storyboard book at last!!!!!

[noscio]

so i just got TGCF 6

[tmnt-obsessed-ace]

Indigo playlist because Im tired as fuck from moving all the fallen branches out of the driveway and I dont wanna write until later.

Here Comes Trouble-Neoni

Hooligan-Neoni

Warning Label-Neoni

Lost Control-Alan Walker (ft Sorana)

Darkside-Neoni (this is just a Leo song in general)

Antihero-Taylor Swift (note: I do not listen to Taylor Swift, the only reason this song is here was because it came on the radio while me and my mom were out shopping and this song fits, ok?)

Ruin Your Life-Besomorph (ft RIELL)

Bad Intentions-Neoni (ft NOCTURN)

Dangerous-The Tech Thieves (ft Besomorph)

Underground-Neoni

Haunted House-Neoni

Never Say Die-Neoni

What I've Done-Besomorph (ft Behmer and LUNIS)

Scream-AViVA

Bad Blood-Taylor Swift (this one came from a tmnt 2012 Raph tiktok about Slash and Mona's betrayals and oh god it fits when The Rise Gang encounter Indigo as a hitman and are on opposing sides yessssss)

Who Am I-Besomorph (ft RIELL)

Wolf In Sheep's Clothing-Set It Off

Antihero-AViVA

Demons-Neoni

Deep Water-Neoni

Bury Me Alive-Neoni

Back From The Dead-Neoni (ft AViVA and Besomorph)

Origin-Neoni (ft Besomorph)

Long Time Traveler-Neoni

Feet Dont Fail Me Now-Neoni

The Ballad Of Jane Doe-Ride The Cyclone (Annapantsu cover)

Once Upon A December-Anastasia (2022 Annapantsu cover)

Happy Ever After-Neoni

Champion-Neoni(ft BURNBOY)

Waiting On A Miracle-Stephanie Beatriz (I knew I forgot a song damn it)

Will probably add more eventually (and probably make this an actual spotify playlist but lazy)

[tarraxahum]

A whole library of songs I like or know and not one about this one specific topic that follows me everywhere, what the fuck

[rubys-domain]

i might be terrible for feeling like this. but the sheer amount of schadenfreude i have after finding out that freminet is likely going to be a shit unit is through the roof lmao

[vegaseatsass]

Queen Seondeok spoilers (~ep 50)

Queen Seondeok, where the worst character dies stupidly and his devoted disciple ultimately becomes best friends with his murderer like nothing happened (V SATISFYING, V DELIGHTFUL, GOOD RIDDANCE TO BAD PARENTS+), but the best character dies so epicly and maddeningly that it keeps you up at night*.

*night = tonight. There's so much adrenaline in my body, I can't live again until I read or write fix-it fic

+she was a bad parent too, to the same exact kid as the other guy no less, but it's DIFFERENT because she's sexy

[hauntingblue]

I love how when zoro is left alone he just gets lost and drinks. Amazing. You are unwell