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NOT talking about fanfiction. Do you prefer it when original novels don’t have pictures or illustrations of the main characters, so that it’s more convenient for you to imagine the characters however you want?
Yes, I prefer it this way, for this exact reason
Yes, I prefer it this way, but for a different reason
No, I don’t prefer it, but I don’t mind it either way. I don’t care about it
No. I actively want books to have pictures or illustrations of the characters
I don’t read original novels / poll does not apply to me
Remaining time: 6 days 21 hours
*This poll was submitted to us and we simply posted it so people could vote and discuss their opinions on the matter. If you’d like for us to ask the internet a question for you, feel free to drop the poll of your choice in our inbox and we’ll post them anonymously (for more info, please check our pinned post).
I hate you shipping discourse I hate you unnecessarily aggressive DNI banners I hate you dehumanization of those you disagree with I hate you harassment over ships or favorite characters I hate you purposeful lack of nuance I hate you false equivalencies I hate you policing how people engage in fandom I hate you actively trying to make fandom spaces hostile I hate you refusal to filter your feed I hate you making it everyone else’s problem
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i can tell i’m a yaoi elitist because there are crazy things happening over at rb (liam and arvid hatefucking on track and almost taking each other out, constantly touching each other, posting selfies together) and i’m over here scarfing down the scraps of lestappen. i need to open my eyes to the midfield
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Lando Norris, my beautiful horse, the fastest one in the stable, your mane is silky, your horseshoes are brand new and shiny, you are quick, you are brave, you are my driver
The witches finally let George leave when the checkered flag falls. Nearly two hours of burning sage and low humming and tuning forks waving around his head, trying to uncover the source of all of his rotten luck. George knew they wouldn't find it. He told them as much, too. They listened about as well as his engineers when he brought up the battery issues.
Most drivers with George's string of results start believing in the racing gods even harder, making vows and offerings to satisfy their capricious bloodlust. A means of exercising some semblance of control when results are taken out of their hands. After hours of circuitous engineering meetings and worthless reassurances, George is starting to doubt whether they exist at all. The gods haven't chosen their predestined winner, Mercedes have. Fate has nothing to do with it.
He can already feel his body tensing up as he considers the long walk back to the paddock, trudging through hoards of cameras and microphones shoved in his face, rabid journalists thinking if they ask the right question he'll finally break down and cry for them. And worse still, another team celebration without him and a debrief where no one will want to listen because he's bringing the mood down.
He's surprised to find Lando lounging in a leather armchair in the makeshift lobby of the medical center, shared with the occult division to give them more legitimacy.
"You alright?" George asks, not immediately seeing any sign of injury or distress.
"Yeah, fine," Lando says, sitting up straighter at George's voice. "My side mirror shattered for no reason. Sign of bad luck, apparently."
Lando dramatically rolls his eyes and George can't help but let out a chuckle, even though it makes his ribs ache.
"Always something, isn't it?"
"Always something," Lando concurs, tongue flicking to the inside corner of his mouth in a contemplative gesture George knows all too well. "Did they find anything this time?"
"No," George says with a sigh. "Reckon there isn't anything to find."
Lando hums sympathetically. He's had a front-row seat to most of George's struggles this season, some through convergent circumstances, some because he reached out and put himself there. Even after qualifying, George found himself extending a conciliatory handshake, even though he'd inherit the P3 position Lando beat him to. It was like there was an invisible thread connecting them that tugged the hardest in times of distress.
"Dinner after?" Lando offers. This bit has become a more regular occurrence, too. Finding comfort in each other's company. First, because Lando could best understand George's situation and was happy to let him vent. Then, for other reasons.
"Might be a late one with the team. But…"
"After," Lando says definitively. "I'll send you my info."
Lando stands and stretches his back with a low moan, stirring a sensation in George's gut other than the latent nausea of being suffocated by pungent herbs.
"You already saw the witches?" George asks as Lando starts towards the exit.
"Yeah, I was waiting for you, you muppet."
He tries to brush it off like it's nothing, burying his concern under brusque indifference. Even then, George can't help the way he instinctively reaches out, half a step closer and arm frozen midair in an aborted gesture before he realizes what he's doing. Mercifully, Lando takes pity on him and meets him halfway, tossing his arms over George's shoulders so he's forced to lean down into the hug and put his weight against Lando for support.
"Thanks," George mumbles into his neck, wholly insufficient for the reprieve he feels in Lando's presence, the thrum of soothing energy that pulses between each point of contact.
George can't be sure that it's a true magical bond tying them together—there are more mundane explanations that are even more terrifying to consider. But if it is, he hopes the witches never find it.
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andulkaphoto
dailybridgerton
stormborns
yousharknotpass
