#Machine Learning in AVs

[techdriveplay]

Self Driving Cars: Exploring the Future, Benefits, and Impact

The future of self-driving cars promises to transform the way we travel, work, and live. As we stand on the brink of a new automotive revolution, the advancements in autonomous vehicle technology are set to redefine transportation. The rapid progress in artificial intelligence, sensor technology, and machine learning has brought us closer than ever to a world where cars drive themselves, offering…

[keferon]

*thwack*

Get his ass!

*insert about the cruel indifference of the universe vs the indomitable human spirit, idk*

————————

Prowl watched Jazz wrap his discolored torso with some sort of cloth type bandage, fascinated by the way the injury seemed to mimic the injury that Jazz’s… mech… had taken during the battle just breems before. The first time that Prowl had gotten to watch Jazz patch himself up, he had hovered worriedly and awkwardly. At the time, he had only just learned a few cycles before that his closest friend was an organic who piloted a mech-like body as a weapon, and not the mech itself.

Jazz had babbled on and on about how his mech could take serious damage and he would be fine, but sometimes the “DRIFT” connection between organic and machine meant that some wounds transferred over to the organic body. If Jazz took a blow to the helm and lost it, he wouldn’t have to worry about dying, but he would have a helm-splitting headache afterwards. Apparently, it had something to do with the cerebral connection that was needed to pilot such a large piece of machinery like it was an extension of your person. Some kind of unethical science that definitely would have had some bots going to jail if Jazz were Cybertronian. It reminded Prowl too much of Shockwave.

When the Praxian had expressed his discomfort at the slight connection he had made, Jazz had given him a small sad smile. The words that Jazz spoke in reply would probably haunt him for deca-cycles.

“When we were invaded, what was and wasn’t ethical kinda got thrown out the window. We were losin’ cities everyday, our population was dwindin’, either due to the Quints or due to civil unrest. Humans… we ‘ave short lives compared to you guys. But we love’em. Threw all our cards into one basket, and prayed. Monsters to fight Monsters was the propaganda they spread when I was growing up.”

Prowl’s optics dimmed lightly as he watched Jazz stretch upwards, pulling at the bandages and heavy bruises. The human made a slight groaning noise as bones popped from the stress. He turned to look up at Prowl, spinning a-top Prowl’s desk to give him a wide and mischievous grin. Prowl snorted faintly, watching his friend with a fondness in his EM field that he knew Jazz couldn’t feel.

“They never said anything about wha’ the Hunter Program does to the pilot. Only that when ya signed up, ya got a mech matching your specific specs and the opportunity to go slay monsters. Sometimes the mech was prebuilt, from a pilot who died and left their mech still intact, and sometimes you got your own personalized one. The mech itself though… they were never the unethical part of the program. It was all the serums and shit that they stuffed into me to ensure I’d survive the DRIFT process. I… I remember being tied down to a med-bunk and… and just flashes of horrific pain.”

Jazz walked up to Prowl, still grinning, preening almost like a turbo kitten. The Praxian laid out his servo so Jazz could crawl aboard, being mindful of his organic friend. He lifted Jazz up to his shoulder, relaxing as Jazz tucked himself in close, humming softly as he settled in the take a nap on Prowl’s shoulder. Prowl’s doorwings fluttered a bit.

“Yer not wrong. That what we did to survive was unethical, probably inhumane. But… humans… we hate losing. We do unspeakable things when given the right motivation. For some it’s love, loyalty, family, country, pride, greed. I’ve seen pilots pull themselves from their mech’s corpse, waving a gun at the jaws of a monster, whilst missing an arm and half their face. I’ve seen doctors tie down rookie pilots and pump them full of drugs and serums, watch them scream and plead for mercy, watch them die when it’s too much for their body to handle, so that pilots don’t die the minute they try to DRIFT. Yer not wrong. Humans can be vile and cruel and outright terrible, but we can also strive for peace and love and kindness. It’s that, that makes us survivors.”

Jazz’s humming fell quiet as he fell asleep against Prowl’s neck, causing the Praxian to relax slowly back into his office chair. He looked up at the data pad that Knockout had given him, containing Jazz’s full medical checkup. The list of everything in near critical condition for his species was… alarming. Jazz had said he felt fine during the checkup. Knockout’s reading said differently. Knockout’s readings said Jazz was dying. That Jazz had been dying for years.

Jazz knew he was dying and wasn’t moving to fix it. Because pilots have their life for their planet, and pilots had a set expiration date.

Jazz had accepted this date.

Prowl had never been so angry.

“An expiration date” made me silently stare into space for a while. Hoooly shit….

[itscolossal]

Hey friends! In case you missed it, the team behind Colossal just opened a new art gallery in Chicago. Joy Machine opened last week with our inaugural exhibition Light Preserver. Learn more about it here, and please stop by soon! Open today 12-6pm. 4148 N. Elston Ave. 💜

[boringkate]

If I understand correctly: Japanese porn producers are really out there AI generating girls, then hiring real girls to perform in pornos, then deep faking the AI face onto the real girl, and finally proudly proclaiming that these movies (full feature length commercially released pornos) feature the AV debut of the AI performer (fictional characters who they debatably own).

On at least one occasion this was done to give a trans girl an AI generated cis girl face (the end result looks like a cis girl and I assume the training data consisted largely or exclusively of cis faces).

Obviously the final movies are inevitably made available on piracy sites. At which point people (with no connection to the filmmakers) undo the legally required mosaic effects by using machine learning to generate fictionalized approximations of the performer's genitalia.

Putting a fake cis boy dick on the real trans girl with the fake cis girl face.

[cece693]

LOVING YOU FELT LIKE DROWNING

pairing: tony stark x male reader synopsis: During Tony Stark's deepest pit of self-destruction and addiction, you were by his side. Day in and day out, you would clean up the mess from yet another party and help Tony relieve his massive hangover. However, after months of the same routine and Tony's unwillingness to get help, you walked away. It wasn't that you didn't love him, but being with him (at that time) felt like drowning.

Loving Tony Stark was difficult. It came with a slew of inherited fractures—Howard’s clipped praise, Maria’s silent dinners, people who saw him as only a means to an end—that sank into Tony’s marrow and festered until they bloomed into self-destructive behaviors. You learned to see the pattern: every champagne spray, every paparazzo grin, every dawn spent coaxing him off a kitchen island because he’d decided gravity was optional. They were all new skins stitched over the same old wound.

You met him at MIT, a blur of red-lined schematics and five-hour problem sets away from graduation. He’d crashed a freshman robotics seminar because he was “bored of his own genius,” then took a seat beside you, feet on the desk, chewing bubble gum that smelled like expensive scotch masquerading as candy.

“Mind if I copy?” he asked, yet was already looking at your screen.

You should have told him off. Instead you laughed—because the formula on your screen was an answer to a question he’d posed in Scientific American three months earlier: “Is there an elegant way to reduce vibrational noise in miniature arc rings?”

You turned the laptop so he could see better, attention snagged by the tiny crease at the corner of his mouth when he pretended not to be impressed.

SMALL TIME SKIP

Howard and Maria’s car exploded on a wet highway two weeks before mid-terms senior year. Tony walked out of the dean’s office with a folded condolence letter and eyes so matte they didn’t reflect sunlight. He skipped the funeral—sent a wreath the size of a sedan and buried himself in a machine-shop sub-basement instead, machining arc rings until his fingers bled through nitrile gloves.

Grief, for Tony, was kinetic: if he could keep every gear spinning fast enough, the howl inside his chest might stay drowned out by the whine of turbines. You and Rhodey lugged take out cartons down to that workshop night after night, trading shifts like ICU nurses.

When graduation came, Tony missed commencement to sign the first of many board documents that handed him a kingdom he had no interest in ruling. That evening he bought out every table at the one decent restaurant on Mass Ave, tipped the staff eighteen thousand dollars, and toasted “freedom” with a bottle of Japanese whisky older than you all were. It was the last night you recognized the man you loved before the orbit decay began.

Addiction doesn’t storm castles; it seeps under doorframes. At first it was just celebration: Stark Industries quarterly up? Champagne. Prototype proof-of-concept succeeds? Absinthe poured into coffee like cream. Then came the anniversaries—of weapons patents, of the day he didn’t crash the Maserati, of “Tuesday.” Eventually Tuesday never ended.

Six months post-MIT he kept a penthouse in Malibu that pulsed neon through blackout curtains. Models flitted through like migrating birds; paparazzi colonised the front drive. You learned to identify cigars by their ash on glass tabletops, to triangulate Tony’s location by TMZ headlines.

Rhodey tried the military tack: intervention flowcharts, detox facilities vetted by the Air Force medical corps. You tried the gentle tack: sober-buddy apps, harm-reduction podcasts playing on every smart speaker, whispered bargaining at dawn while you wiped blood from knuckles cracked against bathroom mirrors.

Tony tried gravity again, this time off the mezzanine wearing a prototype propulsion heel that misfired and sent him pin-wheeling through a plate-glass balustrade. Forty-four stitches. Two broken ribs. “Worth it,” he slurred while you picked glass from his hair, “for science.”

You measure the final year in hospital bracelets:

January: alcohol-induced arrhythmia, three hours in the ER.

March: DUI rollover on PCH, miracle escape, four civilians injured.

June: grand mal seizure after a four-day stimulant bender; you found him facedown in a Vegas hotel bathtub still wearing his shoes.

The board threatened conservatorship. Rhodey punched a hole through a drywall that left his hand in a cast for 3 weeks. You sat on the bathroom floor of the Malibu house, listening to the Pacific crawl across sand, and realized you hadn’t slept longer than ninety minutes in six months.

The night you left wasn’t dramatic; you were too wrung out for spectacle. Tony had passed out on the kitchen table, cheek pressed to wood, fingers still curled around a half-finished bottle. You tucked a rolled towel under his neck so he wouldn’t aspirate, set a bottle of water within reach, and wrote four lines on a Stark Industries memo pad: I love you. I am drowning. I can’t save you if you refuse to swim. Call when you want help—really want it.

You folded the note into his palm, pressed his fingers closed, and kissed his temple. He didn’t wake—only mumbled, “Propulsion coefficients…yeah, quadruple-check ’em,” and smiled like the universe was an inside joke he’d just solved. You left him on the table, arc-reactor glow blinking against the dark like a lighthouse that couldn’t decide whom it was guiding home.

Outside, the air tasted of salt, freedom and grief pared to the bone. You drove east until the sun was behind you and your phone finally died.

You meant to stop looking. You really did. But the algorithm kept delivering headlines you knew how to read between:

STARK EMBARGOES HIMSELF IN MALIBU BUNKER—FRIENDS CONCERNED

PLAYBOY MOGUL BUYS DECOMMISSIONED DESTROYER FOR “FLOATING PARTY PLATFORM”

TONY STARK EJECTED FROM F1 GARAGE AFTER ALLEGEDLY RACING PIT SCOOTER UNDER INFLUENCE

Rhodey’s texts filled in the negative space: He fired two chauffeurs in one week—wouldn’t let them touch the steering wheel, found four empty bottles of Hibiki 30-year in the koi pond, Hospital stitched his knuckles again.

Your heart clenched with every update, yet you refused to return to New York. You scrolled tabloids at midnight, mapping each new scandal like aftershocks of the quake you’d left behind.

And then, radio silence.

No party photos. No blurry TMZ footage of a billionaire face-planting out of a Lambo. According to Reuters, Tony Stark had vanished somewhere in Kunar Province after a Jericho-missile demonstration went sideways. For three months the world waited. You watched the sunrise like you were keeping vigil for the dead—though sometimes you swore you heard his laugh in the kettle’s whistle, like he was mocking mortality again.

And then—Miracle. Genius. Iron Man.

A press conference: Tony, gaunt, eyes banded with new iron resolve, announcing he was shutting down Stark Industries’ weapons division. You felt the room tilt through the television. He looked sober—clear—like someone who had watched his own death in slow motion and opted for resurrection instead.

Six weeks later, a midnight ping:

RHODEY: He poured $80k worth of Pappy Van Winkle into the ocean. Said Atlantic needed flavor notes. YOU: He sober or showboating? RHODEY: Sober. Shaky, honest, terrified. Won’t admit he misses you, but Jarvis logs his searches. Your name’s a top query.

The messages kept coming—blurry photos of trash bags stuffed with crystal decanters, screenshots of PTSD therapy appointments, Stark Relief Foundation filings with your initials hidden in the mission statement. Rhodey never said come back outright; he just kept nudging the compass until, one dawn, you realized it already pointed west again.

Jarvis let you up without announcing you—Rhodey’s override, no doubt—but the A.I. still chimed a courteous "Good evening" while the elevator whooshed past glass‑paneled floors. You counted each passing level like heartbeats. Somewhere between R&D and the residential deck your pulse climbed from apprehension to something dangerously like hope.

When the doors opened, the penthouse loft felt altered at the molecular level: fewer glass sculptures, more whiteboards blooming with equations; no vodka‑crystal decanters, only a carafe of alkaline water sweating politely beside a bowl of lemons. Yet memories flickered in every polished surface like old neon—echoes of half‑remembered songs, champagne spray on the ceiling, your own reflection once glassy‑eyed with exhaustion.

Tony emerged from the workshop in a grease‑smudged Henley and threadbare Stark Industries sweatpants. The arc‑reactor glow throbbed gently through cotton, a constant heartbeat in artificial blue. Dark crescents carved caverns beneath his eyes, but those eyes themselves—clear, steady, impossibly alive—caught you mid‑step.

"Hey," he said, voice hoarse with surprise, as if you were an apparition conjured by late‑night solder fumes.

"Hey," you answered, palms slick despite the room’s cool climate control. "Rhodey invited me."

A corner of his mouth lifted. "Of course he did. You ditched me when I was fun and now you show up for the boring sequel."

"Fun?" You swallowed. "Yeah, fun was watching you bleed out one mistake at a time."

He flinched, a micro‑expression quickly camouflaged with sarcasm. "Look at you—saintly as ever. Want a medal? Or just an apology for not dying when it would’ve been convenient?"

Old playbook. Guilt‑trip deployed. You refused the bait.

"I don’t want medals," you said, voice low but firm. "I want you to understand that loving you back then felt like pulling glass shards from my own lungs. Every night I checked your pulse, I lost a piece of myself. I left because I was drowning in your ocean, Tony—and you were busy bottling new waves."

Tony’s shoulders sagged, sarcasm leaking out of him like air from a punctured suit. He scrubbed a hand over his face, leaving a swipe of motor‑oil across one cheek. "I deserved that," he muttered. "Probably deserve worse."

You let out a slow breath, steadying your heartbeat. "I didn’t come to fight. I need to know the man standing in front of me isn’t waiting for the next distraction to torch whatever progress he’s made."

His gaze lifted, exhaustion and determination braided in equal measure. "No more torches," he said. "I used up every match in that cave." He exhaled. "I kept hearing your note in my head. Line three—Call if you decide to live. Only I was buried under scrap and shrapnel, so the first person I called was myself. Had to convince the bastard to get up."

"Tony—"

"Please, let me finish." He stepped closer but kept a respectful arm’s length. "Everybody thinks I was living in my own world—and yeah, I was—but I remember you shaking me awake because I’d stopped breathing. I remember you dumping every decanter while I screamed about ‘personal property’ and you just kept pouring." His throat bobbed. "I remember you crying in the hallway where you thought I couldn’t hear. I was drunk, not deaf."

"Then why didn’t you stop?" you asked, voice raw.

“Because stopping meant facing myself sober, and I hated that guy more than I hated the bottle,” Tony says, voice roughened by memories. He exhales through his nose, then pushes onward before you can interject. “I know it sounds backwards—booze was killing me, sure—but for a long time it felt like the only thing keeping the gears turning. One drink and the noise in my head—Howard’s voice, shareholders’ expectations, every headline calling me genius or failure—dropped from a jackhammer to a dull thud."

He rubs the heel of one grease-smudged hand over his temple, smearing another dark streak. “The second and third drink? That was the party trick. People laughed harder, models leaned closer, investors relaxed because Drunk-Tony meant agreeable Tony—tip big, sign the deal, pose for a selfie. Alcohol turned me into the mascot everyone wanted to invite back. And the more they rewarded the stunt, the more terrified I was that Sober-Tony couldn’t sell a single ticket.”

You see it now: the feedback loop masquerading as lifestyle. He continues, softer, almost ashamed. “So yeah, I needed it to function—or what I thought was functioning. To stay awake through the nightmares and still dazzle at the gala. I built an entire operating system around a decanter. By the time I realized it was running my life, ripping it out felt like tearing out critical code. Every line was tangled with profit margins, press coverage, even friendships. Pull one thread and the whole Stark brand looked ready to crash.”

He lifts his eyes to yours, and the steadiness there is almost startling. “But Afghanistan stripped all that away. No bar cart in that cave. No entourage to applaud the jokes. Just me, a car battery, and the echo of your note. That’s when I understood the bottle wasn’t fuel; it was a dead weight tied to a drowning man. And the only way to surface was to cut the rope myself—then start learning how to swim.”

Tony’s shoulders rise and fall with a shaky breath. “I’m still learning. Every day. Some days the water’s calm; other days it’s a riptide. But I’m not handing out free tickets to the sinking anymore. Not to strangers, and sure as hell not to you.”

You let his words settle between you for a moment—heavy, honest, almost fragile. The tension in your chest eases as you step forward, closing the gap he’s kept. “Thank you,” you whisper, so quietly that only he can hear.

He blinks, as though surprised you meant it for him. “For what?”

“For telling me the truth.” You reach out and rest a hand on his forearm—grease and sweat still clinging to his skin—then pull him toward the kitchen where a coffee machine had been peeking from the corner. “Now, let's get some coffee. We both need it badly."

[lokisis]

For @laughingfranki

Your hurt/comfort sir (sorry if you wanted uh. Not spam x reader but that's what you're getting)

Burning.

A bright flash dances across your eyelids.

An impact against your torso. A stolen breath you can never get back. You're bleeding; it's far too hot. Your skin burns. A machine, a mechanical creature, looms over you.

What brought you to this again?

Oh, of course. His god complex. And your too kind soul that helped him no matter the consequences. Well, you suppose you're learning what those "consequences" are now.

He's stopped, you notice. It's far too hot. It burns. You swear you hear a whimper of your name before it all gets burned away. Another bright flash dances across your vision.

A sharp pain has you bolting upright in your bed. You grip at the scar, the source of pain. You've been dealing with it for a few days now. Your skin still feels too hot, a remnant of the burn now permanently etched onto you. It aches more than it had before you went to bed. Too much for you to ignore and fall asleep again.

Your face cringes with each throb of pain. What was it that Spamton told you again? If you hurt too much he'll heal you? That must've been it. Your mind is far too hazy to remember just how he said it. Littered with ads, you're sure. And...

With shame and fear, you recall, as you begin your trek out of bed. Far too shaky for his normal voice, meek and scared. He looked at you like you were the predator in this situation. As if you hadn't accepted his apology; as if you hadn't forgiven him immediately. Your hand stays over your scar as you make your way out of your room.

You remember waking up to the sound of his crying. His pleas for someone, anyone, to help you. He kept apologizing, long after he healed you. After he used up all the magic he had. Until it was all he could do.

"I THOUGHT. I L0ST YO U." He said. "I THOU HHT I [[Kill]] YOU."

You stop in front of his bedroom door.

"I'm sorry." He said, in the smallest, most shaken voice you've ever heard from him.

It was an easy decision then, to forgive him.

You open his door quietly. The room was completely dark, save for a few glow in the dark stars you put on the ceiling.

"Spam?" You call out quietly into the darkness.

"mMGH??" You see his figure sit up from the bed. "[Angel]??"

"Yeah. I uh, need some help."

Your eyes have adjusted to the dark now, you can see the way his figure seems to stiffen.

"SOME [tlc] EH?? THATS> JUST F1NE. CMERE" He pats the side of his bed that's empty.

You shuffle your way over. You sit on the bed with your scar facing Spamton.

Immediately, you feel his hands graze the burn, magic seeping from his fingertips. The burning and throbbing subsides, leaving only an ache.

"Sorry for waking you up."

His eyes are focused on your scar. "YOU'vE GOT [Nothing] TO APOLLOGIZE 4. IT"S MY FAULT. IT'S MY [[Responsibility]]"

"Don't make it sound so serious." You chide. "I'll forget it's even there eventually."

He hums. "I HOPE S)0"

For a moment, it was silent. Then, just as he had done before, a whisper. "I'm sorry."

"ILL M4 KE UPF 0r IT.. I PRO0MIS.I Haa AVE TO. I HAVe TO>"

"You've more than made up for it, Spam. No need to say sorry."

"IL L HE3aL IT. ILL MAKE IT beET TR> ILL"

You grab his hand, lifting it off of your scar. "Spamton." He's shaking, but completely quiet. You swear you can see static in his eyes. Strange, you thought it was only his glasses that had that effect.

"Can I stay in your room tonight? Just in case?" In case he freaks out even more. In case he overdoes it again. In case he chooses to find some crazy alternative to healing you. You know he overthinks things. You know he's doing it right now too.

You're lucky he can't read those thoughts.

"please."

A part of your soul aches when he clings to you under the covers. But you hold him with the same amount of clinginess. You would get through this. And if you had to reassure him every day for the rest of your life, you were ready and willing to do so. You placed your head on top of his, sinking into his now gel free hair.

And you forgot all about that burn in your side.

[i-was-a-well-kid-once]

In The Dark, I'll Be Alright

ship so good, it made me post for the first time in years. Disclaimer: This is unedited and was written instead of sleeping. I saw a fic on AO3 that inspired this, and I thought I'd give it a go because I can't get these two out of my head.

Rated T for some swearing

1202 words

Ava Starr/John Walker, other characters briefly mentioned, Ava centered.

title from Hurt by Amber Run

*

The truth is, Ava still had a lot of secrets. Well aware of the coaxing she’s received since joining a team that’s built on vulnerability. She’s spent her entire life vulnerable, and all it’s done is make her feel weak and pitiful. The truth is, most nights, Ava would lie awake in paralyzing pain. Her condition was better controlled than before, sure, partially due to Janet’s quantum energy, partly due to Valentina. As much as she hates to come to terms with the fact, Valentina’s tech has saved her life. 

A lot of different variables can lead to a bad night. Not eating, not enough water, a headache, an injury, but what never fails to send her body into panic mode is a mission gone wrong.

They happened more than she’d like to admit. 

Miscommunication, mistrust, and disagreements. They’re all still getting used to working on a team. Besides, Walker and Bucky, it’s new to all of them. 

That led to nights like this. 

Ava stumbled into her room with heavy steps, her entire body burned. The fire underneath her skin spread through every cell and nerve that made her up. She felt everything and nothing all at once. 

Walker’s grip against the plating on her waist was what grounded her, what kept her there. Of course, it was Walker, of all people, who would find her at a time like this. He may be awfully dimwitted, but he was undoubtedly the most observant person on the team. His look of recognition didn’t go unnoticed by her. At first, she received confused looks, but they slowly became more concerned and even caring. Walker was the one to toss her a protein bar once they got back from every mission, because he noticed her lack of urgency to eat. Walker is the one who has figured out when it’s not time to give her a hard time, because he recognizes her behavior patterns. He was the first to learn her rhythm during training, hence why he quickly became her favorite to spar with. He’s taken note of her go-to snacks and drinks and makes sure to keep them stocked for her. Like the tea she likes to make on nights she’s restless, or the cereal that reminds her of breakfasts with her parents.   

It was safe to say she knew he had to be the first to find out. 

The hand that held her own, pulled over his shoulders, brought her arm over his head and set her gently on her bed, only then did he stop to take in the room they now occupied. In the few months as the new avengers, none of them have been in her room, let alone seen what it contained. It was one of the many boundaries she had set without words.   

Her room resembled a hybrid of a prison cell and a lab, obviously drawing inspiration from every other room she’s had since the accident. Apart from the machinery, exposed wires, and metal, she hadn’t bothered decorating. After all, she’s never been able to before, and she didn’t have enough possessions to begin with. She wouldn’t know where to start. “Geez, Aves. This is…” 

A lot. She was well aware. The room resembled that of her old quantum chamber, built by her friend Bill Foster. This, however, was a condensed version; Valentina’s team called a quantum regulator. Instead of being its own room, it surrounded her bed, with a third of the height, only going up to a foot above her mattress. It wasn’t pretty, but it did the job. 

“It’s just to help with the pain. Keeps me stable.” Keeps me alive. Ava hit the buttons she’s since memorized, robotically switching the machine on. It was soundless, but she felt its effects immediately. The quantum waves worked their way through her skin, inside her body, soothing the pain, helping her refocus, as she moved to lie down. 

John stood at the bed, warily, obviously uncomfortable. His eyes moved to study the dark room, the strange equipment, and the way her body was slowly starting to become solid again. “I had no idea you were…”

“It’s fine. It’s nothing new.” She’d long given up on the idea of the pain going away for good. Janet Van-Dyne had given her that initial hope, but it hadn’t lasted long before reality decided to set in. 

Ava slowly started to peel her suit off, revealing the thin, comfortable layer she had on underneath: a loose, white long-sleeved shirt and dark leggings. Her joints felt tight and strained.

“Right.” John watched her with that concerned look she’d often find him wearing. His mouth was slightly open, like he wanted to say something but lacked the right words, and his brow was tight, like he was currently working out what he could do to help. “Can I sit, or is thing gonna give me ghost powers, too?” He gestured, dramatically, at the bed.

Ava snorted, a soft puff of air. She shoved her suit to the side of her bed and reached up with a sore arm to pull her hair loose from its bun. “It won’t affect you, if that’s what you’re wondering.” 

Walker nodded and took a seat on the edge of her bed, at her side. He still wore his suit, worn and devoid of color. He had various cuts on his face that he hadn’t even mentioned yet, but likely needs some bit of medical attention. No, since arriving back at the tower, he was solely focused on getting Ava the help she needed. 

“Thank you,” Ava said softly, eyes on him. It was moments like this, albeit sometimes rare, when she could see through his hard exterior. It helps her soften her own. 

“Hey, don’t mention it.” Walker shrugged, sparing her a glance before shaking his head and staring at the floor. “Least I can do in return for you saving my ass every mission.” 

“So, he finally admits it,” Ava smirks, tiredly, her arm draped lazily over her stomach. 

“You know, I’m trying to be genuine, here, and you’re making it very difficult.” Walker chuckled, despite himself, through the corner of his eye. 

“Sorry, please keep going.” She teased, from her spot in the bed, she was starting to feel drowsy. The mission took a lot out of her, and sometimes her regulator did too good of a job getting her to relax. 

“Seriously, you know you don’t have to be doing this alone anymore, right? I mean the others, they’re not going to give you shit for this. We’re all our own tragic messes.” Walker sobered, his small smile becoming a thin line, eyes hardening with assurance. 

“That includes you, too, cap?” Ava challenged, raising her brow lazily at him, smirking despite his soft words. 

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” He says it with mock annoyance, but the corners of his mouth are twitching and there’s a softness in his eyes she’s never seen before. 

“Hmm. I guess you are.” She hums quietly, smiling, and wondering faintly if he could even make it out, as sleep drags her under, feeling the warm embrace of company and care from another. Something she hasn’t felt in a long time. 

[s-rosie]

AVERY HCSSSSS

i thought our leading lady needed more appreciation so i made these hcs. a lot of these are with avery and another character so lmk if you still like these. enjoyyyyy 🤌✨

avery got braces after she got the money bc she couldn’t afford them before and she was a little insecure about them but jameson thought they were really cute

she used to hate the scars from the times when people tried to kill her but as time went on she learned to love them

i hc hawthorne house had a trampoline park and her and xander had a sleepover in there where they played taylor swift and jumped until xander broke his arm trying to do a triple backflip

her and max always scream when they hop on a call that’s on speaker so they don’t spill the tea when everyone can here

avery is chronically addicted to block blast and she has the highest score you can possibly get on the game (me fr 😭💀)

when she was hooked up to the life support machines after the plane bombing she made a bunch of pictures and videos that she never posted but just bc she thought they were funny (they really weren’t she was just high from the meds)

oren had to teach her how to pick locks and she told him it was just because she needed to open a door but wouldn’t let him do it himself (she lost the keys to jameson’s handcuffs and needed to get him out)

she always has at least one airpod in at all times and always looses them around hawthorne house

she once had a “dream” (😏😏😏) about jameson but she was having a sleepover with libby and max and libby was like “why were you moving around and making noise last night” and ave was like “i was probably just sleep talking” but max knew what was really going on and never let it go

avery switches her aesthetic like every month and switches her room decor/wardrobe with that aesthetic

she has like 50000 pillows on her bed and jameson gets so confused about which he’s allowed to sleep on bc she doesn’t want him to ruin the decorative pillows

ave is an amazing actress and can fake cry on the spot so when she needs to win something she fake cries and jameson knows her fake cry and he doesn’t go over to her to comfort her so her plan will work

she’s allergic to shellfish and she learned that when she ate some at a gala and she started having a reaction and she broke out in hives and was struggling to breath but thankfully oren had an epi pen with him so she didn’t die

she enforces a rule around hawthorne house about no shoes bc she thinks it’s nasty so everyone just slides around in socks like an ice skating rink (they actually think it’s really fun so no one complains)

she loves water bottles and has a whole cabinet dedicated to her water bottles

she has tumblr and a03 accounts that she stayed anonymous on that she kept when she got the inheritance bc no one knew it was her and she needed to rant about her books and write fics and stuff and they said stuff like “omg jameson is such a book boyfriend” and “i want to date him” she was just like yeah so do i… (she was keeping it a secret from the hawthorne s but they eventually found it and made fun of her spicy fics and xander ended up being one of her moots under an anonymous account bc they read the same books)

her and grayson watch shows like the golden girls and i love lucy together bc they love the old style

one time her nash found her✨spicy✨texts with jameson and never let her let them go

sry this is kinda short but i’m sick rn so i’m trying to get my rest but i hope you like theseeee

[featherwurm]

Had another odd dream the other night:

A young lesbian couple moves to a remote small town in the Appalachian mountains. They go about their lives, becoming normal members of the community, working and living peacefully, but they become fascinated with the strange local happenings of the town. They begin to document in narrated video format, posted to social media, various places and events of weird goings-on:

Case 1:

Bleeding Tree – A large pine tree in the city park continually weeps a substance too thin and watery to be tree sap where a panorama of the local forest has been carved into it’s living wood. It is pronounced enough at certain times of year (mainly summer, when sap is slow flowing) that it stains the surrounding grass.

Case 2:

Roaring Barrens – At times, in the local pine barrens, the sound of chainsaws and intense machine-driven forestry can be heard rumbling through the trees even when there is no man made equipment for miles. It is dangerous to be in the woods when this happens as trees randomly fall, even with no one around to cut them, and no storm to cause them to topple. The damage resembles wind and lighting, but happens only with clear skies. This video features a lot of running.

Case 3:

Perpetual Rainbow – On Eden St. and Main Ave. if you hold your head at the right angle low enough to the ground you will find a small shoe-height rainbow that is visible in any weather, any time of day. Putting an object through it has no effect.

Case 4:

Graveyard Spiders – In the pioneer cemetery there are reclusive spiders the size of large dogs that inhabit the grounds and immediately surrounding vicinity. They are harmless to humans (and in fact will try to flee long before they are spotted), but locals have learned that their temporarily paralytic venom can induce a tremendous, euphoric high, and will go to lengths to imitate prey to be bitten. This has even factored into the local church’s religious practice for over a century, with practitioners seeing out the spiders and their venom as a strange ‘penance’ for various sins (bringing them ‘visions’ of heaven and hell.)

Cases 5 through 12 document a variety of similar phenomena and groups of people acting out of the ordinary, from cryptids to doomsday cults.

Case 13:

Wood Rot – The worst case the pair have looked into – as it begins to affect both of them. They both begin to suffer stiffness and eventual paralysis in their extremities as they take on the quality and characteristics of living wood – pliable, yet stiff, woody, but green under the bark, stiff, resilient, but not at all flesh. It progresses rapidly, and in a matter of days both are home-bound by their condition and unsure how to seek medical help in the town, as their uncovering of various strange goings on has left them somewhat alienated from those that once saw them as friends.

The two are rapidly nearly fully parallelized and struggling to care for each other, and when it seems they may die like this, unable to seek help, then they are visited by a strange creature. It is something in the form of a hunched little old man, looking to be carved out of wood himself. He cannot be more than three feet tall, although he walks at a constant crouch, limbs much longer than his torso. Bearded with moss, he looks out of place in an urban interior. He claims he is the old man of the mountains and he is punishing them for their nosiness and flippant treatment of his doings. He reveals the bleeding tree is his way of warning the town of his power, and the roaring barrens is his means of punishing interlopers – fallen trees usually killing those that go near.

With wild-eyed curiosity, the couple asks him about their other cases, and surprisingly, he is stunned. He has no involvement with any of these other odd things, and pours over their videos and notes with fascination, reversing their conditions immediately (to their shock and relief) to have them tell him about these bizarre phenomena. Clearly at his mercy (although grateful for their salvation), the two explain all of their known cases and all they have done to investigate and document them.

Curious, this strange, hunched and woody little man leaves their pair to their business, deciding no further harm should come to them, so long as they will continue to update him with what they know. Spending all his time in the wilds and hills, he has not kept up with the town in several hundred years, as he does not care for the company of people. They are now his key to investigating phenomena drawn to mankind. Before he leaves, however, he asks how they managed to escape the Roaring Barrens, as they should have been lost in a maze of fallen limbs that eventually drew them to a place where they could not escape a falling tree. They explain that while investigating and filming an instance of the event, they were distracted by an abandoned and malfunctioning knockoff teletubby plush toy on the fringes of the wood, and followed it’s light and sound to safety.

The mountain man grumps “Oh, that was god then” and hand-waves their safety from that event as though it means little to him, disappearing for now in a puff of mountain air.

I have other dream stories under my #Dream.

[velveteenprayers]

II HANDS TO HEAVEN

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Pairing: Percy Jackson x Gn!Aphrodite!Reader

Warnings: Angst, mentions of killing and death , reader has one eye

Word Count: 932

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

“You know what, I think they are closed.”

And even though Percy says nothing, you still quickly rush out, “Don’t make fun, it's rude to make fun.” 

It was a burning mid-July day, and you were kneeling in defeat, desperately trying to see into the store’s dark window for any sign of life. Percy had a sinking suspicion since he picked you up that your frequently talked about store was closed, it already being late afternoon, but chose to indulge you. His trust in you frequently seems to land him in these types of situations more and more recently, but he simply doesn’t have the heart to deny you.

(Even when your UFOs turn out to be aeroplanes, when your angel numbers are nothing more than machine-generated coincidences, he will believe you. His failing lighthouse in a storm. His worst habit to indulge in. Loyal to death, prophecies warn, and aren’t you the embodiment of the worst of him?)

You sit on the burning pavement underneath a violet and orange sky in a lingering silence, absentmindedly observing passing cars and street signs. You like it like this, when he’s with you, but not near you, not close enough to scare you off, but close enough to chase off lingering thoughts, close enough for you to forget yourself. It was your orientation day at your new school.

“I hated it. The mouldy air, the too small desks. Caged in by concrete. Everyone kept crowding around me, saying, “You’re so pretty,” “You’re so pretty,” At some point it felt more like a taunt than a compliment. I felt sick. I wanted to go home.” 

You let out a deep, solemn sigh, and bury your face in your arms.

“And yet-”

You’re always doing this, building cathedrals out of your pain, sculpting this tired, cruel world into something beautiful. You are your mother’s child, to a fault. You've basically lived your whole life at camp, a fact you’d constantly bring up in any disagreement. By this point he had your head tilt and self-satisfied smile during your monologue burned into his memory. He’s glad he’s with you now, to refresh your features. They were fading a bit. 

“Do you ever think that we’re getting too old to be demi-gods?” you ask innocently.

You turn your good eye to him, half of your face still hiding. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But he does, and he knows that you know he does. He can feel it in the ever-evasive feeling of dread. Demi-gods either die young or live forever. Soon he’ll learn which one is better. 

Another one of your depressing sighs breaks the silence. (When did you grow so cold?)

“Maybe it’s better if I die tomorrow, so I never have to go to school, and strangers will stop seeing eternity in my eye.”

“Would you even have a life worth living?”

You look at him. Yes, yes, yes. Percy looks away.

Unrelentingly, refusing to let go, you continue, “I missed you.”

Percy’s heart lurches a bit, though he exteriorally remains unchanged.

“I never left.”

You shrug, and that’s all you seem to do these days. Shrug and sigh and go quiet. He hates it. And he hates you. Hates you. Hates you and how you used to smile. Hates how your easy wit has all but disappeared. His nails cut into his palm, making him bleed.

“I haven’t seen you since school started. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.” You try to keep your voice even. He senses the undertone. He knows you’re hurt. Hurt that everytime you rang up, you were met with a “He’s not home.” That all your calls to his apartment went to voicemail.

You lost an eye and a sister for him, he doesn’t think he’ll ever make it up to you. He still remembers how you made him swear on everything that Luke Castellan would be killed. For your sister, for your sister, for your sister, for your sister. You knew before anyone that she wasn’t an innocent. You once told him that you think only the innocent should be avenged. He doesn’t know what you believe now, and neither do you, he thinks.

He hates you.

But not as much as he hates himself.

“Percy.” 

You call out for him as if you’re underneath the sea. You reach for his hand. He’s never seen anyone who could cut through everything, effortlessly as the wind, quite like you did. He doesn’t want to be in this limbo with you, stuck in this never-ending sunset. He doesn’t want to ask anymore of you, though he needs more than this self-sacrificial, masquerading relationship. But he can’t ask you to love him, not like you loved the world and had it ruin you.

He’s seen time and time again how he’s ruined you. 

But you called him first when you left early, and he doesn’t want it to be anyone else. He can barely make out your figure in the navy blue shadows. But he knows you’re looking at him with your unpatched eye. He doesn’t have to look to know. Heroes aren’t meant to last. You call out for him again, and his mind runs to catch up to you,

“Let’s go home, Percy. It’s getting dark.” You rise, picking up your forgotten schoolbag, and he follows you. The sea-worn ship to your failing lighthouse. You lay your head on his shoulder as the streetlights turn on.

“You know what? I kinda like math.” “Weirdo.” “Don’t make fun Perseus. It’s rude to make fun.”

[therealvinelle]

Google translate seems to think that "full av faen" means "full of shit." Does "full av faen" imply someone is lying or deceitful in addition to be malicious/grouchy, or is Google the one who's full of shit?

Google is full of shit.

"Full av faen" is difficult to translate as there's no direct English equivalent, and machine translations struggle with idioms in general. "Full of shit" is its best guess because it's the most direct translation, what Google doesn't know is that "full av faen" and "full of shit" have very different meanings.

I can see you've already read my original post on the matter, but to explain a bit more what the idiom means:

Full av faen generally means horrible person, someone who is malicious and thoroughly rotten. Typically someone who's acting out, if you're scrolling through someone's reactionary and super negative twitter profile you might say "Wow, this person is just full av faen."

Or if it's a pet it would be that cat who just scratches you no matter what, the cat who makes dog lovers feel vindicated (why I said "a particularly grouchy cat").

Full of shit means someone who's full of lies, and that's a very different meaning.

I recommend you take machine translations with a large dose of skepticism, and if you must use one then my go-to for many years now has been context reverso (link). This is a translator that searches for occurrences of the word or phrase you want translated in available texts online, and provides the human translation in context. I'm worried the avalanche of machine translations online may cause the quality of the service to decline, but so far I haven't noticed any decline and often use it for French or Italian translation. Take context reverso with a pinch of salt too, however, because I've had problems like "I asked for X to be translated and got a perfect translation, however a native speaker would have said Y, not X and so the perfectly translated X was in fact still wrong".

The only real remedy to imperfect translation is to learn the language, and even then your brain won't process a second language as well as a native language and there will be subtle differences in how you use it. I'm very good at English, fluent by most standards, my co-writer @theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin still catches me making weird choices or subtle mistakes that are textbook mistakes for language learners.

[lightsonparkave]

Earth-bound as we are, humanity dreams of the heavens, of the freedom the sky offers. We yearn to go beyond what's possible, unencumbered by the weight of our limitations.

The theme for Lights on Park Ave Round 54 is flight.

Here are the prompts:

A collection of moments where AA Tony flies with Steve or catches him in the air

A photo of the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum

Ted Striker is asked if he's nervous about flying in Airplane!

A man sits at an airport gate, waiting for his flight

"Reprise" - Joe Hisaishi (Spirited Away OST)

The Iron Man Mark 2 first flight scene

Mercury Fastening His Heel-Wings - François Rude

A video of hot balloons in the air in Cappadocia, Turkey

"Keeping the City" - Anne Sexton

"Learning to Fly" - Pink Floyd

Drogon flies away from a frozen lake in Game of Thrones

A warbler is released from a banding station

A mechanic checks the engine of a Pan Am airplane

A plane leaves behind contrails above the clouds

"Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" - William Carlos Williams

"Sky Full of Song" - Florence + the Machine

Sunlight transforms the wings of a hummingbird into rainbows

Gale ("Buck") tells John ("Bucky") he thought if only two pilots survived, it would be them as they're transported as WWII POWs, a callback to John saying the same to him from Masters of the Air

Round 54 will end on August 31, 11:59 PM ET (what time is that for me?).

As always, you’re free to jump in whenever you’d like during the round, a wide variety of work types is accepted, and there are no minimum work requirements. Unfinished works and works for other fandom events are allowed. You can find more information about Lights on Park Ave and the participation guidelines here.

[k1anya]

pinned!

haiii my name is axel/kiana!! I use they/he/rot/cute pronouns

you can find me more places here feel free to read the rest of this post after the cutoff to learn more about me :3

byf

I have social anxiety and am mentally ill that will affect the way I post and interact with people. I like selfcest and toxic yuri and post about them very frequently. I don’t consider myself either proship or antiship (don’t force that discourse on me please).

dni

under 13, bigots of any kind, zionists/pro israel, trump/putin supporters, think reverse oppression is real (misandry, heterophobia, etc.), xenosatanists or anything like that, will add more if I think it’s necessary

basic info about me

I’m 16, white, genderqueer + aspec lesbian, a big feminist, hi3 sirin fictkin, (mirrorsharing) kusanagi nene yume, and I’m actually a zombie and vampire irl

fandoms(?)

vocaloid/pjsk, madoka magica, needy streamer overload, lacey’s flash games, happy sugar life, ave mujica, honkaiverse

music

sewerslvt/cynthoni, slipknot, korn, death grips, machine girl, goreshit, dj kuroneko, reizoko cj, kitty gore, rory in early 20s, pathetic, kikuo, maretu, kiichi, dennokop, mothy, björk

in general I like anything electronic and vocaloid and also music from my fandoms

um incomplete I guess I just wanted to post

[manonamora-if-reviews]

The Butterfly Dreams by Ave Q Production

Ren'Py - SuNoFes 2024 Play the Game Read other Reviews

The Butterfly Dreams is a sci-fi game introducing the next big gaming tech: a virtual reality machine that brings the whole of you inside the game. No more clonky accessories or heavy headsets that give you nausea, just stick some patches to your head, and off you are to Dream Land. And while this invention, appropriately named Fantasia, is not yet available to the masses, you along with six other brilliant individuals from various fields are one of the lucky few to not just test it, but create.

You are introduced to each individual, through a short conversation (where you discover your name, Tom/Thomas), about who they are, their personality, their view on Fantasia, and what they might end up creating during this workshop. Through forced proximity, relationship blossoms and thoughts turn into concrete ideas. Or so your inner thoughts tell you, as the story doesn’t linger enough for you [the player] to experience it yourself.

Still, the story must continue, and you “play” through everyone’s creations, each relating pretty closely to their respective identity: the chef creates a virtual restaurant to test out ideas, the children’s author bring her characters to life, and the gamer revive old forgotten games. Of course, nothing goes without a hitch, with one of the characters essentially breaking the machine (hinted at, but it didn’t marinate enough to punch…). But things are swiftly swiped under the rug - there are still creations to test after all, including yours!

And this is when the “twist” appears. I use quotes here, because it really came out of the left field. This whole time you were playing everyone - with your identity and background never revealed, you could have been anyone, it just so happen you’re a conman for some reason. The complete change of tone between your thoughts and the confrontation feels to disjointed, I kept wondering if I’d missed a whole section. During my first playthrough, I didn’t see any reason for Tom to be inculpated with some crime - you are so bland and boring, and no one ever ask you any question about yourself. So I went and checked out the other options of the few choices (only because others mentioned hints in comments), and still, the vibe felt the same. Maybe once? there was a whiff of you having some sort of plan? idea? but you could easily chalk it off as “well, he’s just thinking of what to create for Fantasia”. The only thing I can think of is Layna being curt and distant towards you. But that’s not enough to make a mystery interesting.

It’s a shame, really, because simulations concepts, dream within a dream, and dystopian/cyberpunk-y takes on technologies are really fun, and you can make compelling critiques of society through those. Even conspiracies of nefarious agents using technology for evil is a tried and true trope. But you’re not given enough time to explore the setting here (exploring a whole mansion and being caught touching something you really shouldn’t be touching, or finding someone doing just that), to interact with the characters and learn more about them (maybe even pit them against one another?) , to have them interact with you so you learn more about yourself (oh, why are you here, Tom? why are you special?). And in general, give time for the mystery to settle.

[ushinedentalskyline]

The Hidden Dangers of Snoring: Is It Sleep Apnea? - Discover How U Shine Dental Can Help You Breathe Easy at Night

Do you snore loudly or wake up feeling exhausted, even after a full night's sleep? You might be among the millions affected by sleep apnea — a common yet serious condition that disrupts your breathing while you sleep.

At U Shine Dental - Skyline, we understand how vital sleep is to your health. That’s why we offer dental solutions that can help you sleep soundly and protect your long-term well-being.

🛑 What Is Sleep Apnea?

Sleep apnea causes repeated pauses in breathing during sleep. These interruptions — sometimes lasting several seconds — can happen hundreds of times a night.

There are three main types:

Obstructive Sleep Apnea (OSA): The most common form, where throat muscles relax and block airflow.

Central Sleep Apnea (CSA): The brain doesn’t send the right signals to breathing muscles.

Complex Sleep Apnea Syndrome: A mix of both types.

🚨 Common Warning Signs

Loud, chronic snoring

Waking up gasping or choking

Morning headaches or dry mouth

Excessive daytime sleepiness

Trouble focusing or mood swings

💡 How Your Dentist Can Help

While CPAP machines are a standard treatment, many patients find relief through oral appliances — especially those with mild to moderate sleep apnea.

At U Shine Dental, our team can design a custom-fitted oral device that repositions your jaw or tongue to keep your airway open. This non-invasive solution is:

Comfortable

Quiet

Portable

Easy to use every night

🧠 Why Treatment Matters

Untreated sleep apnea isn’t just annoying — it can lead to:

Heart disease

High blood pressure

Diabetes

Stroke

Memory loss

Mood disorders

🦷 Ready to Reclaim Restful Sleep?

If you're experiencing symptoms of sleep apnea, don't ignore them. Book a consultation at U Shine Dental - Skyline to learn how we can help you breathe better and sleep more soundly — naturally.

Learn More at Your Sleep Apnea Consultation

Don't let sleep apnea disrupt your life. Schedule a consultation with U Shine Dental today at our Skyline or Old Town location to explore effective treatment options and start experiencing the benefits of a good night's sleep.

Contact us :

U Shine Dental - Skyline 5206 Dawes Ave Alexandria VA 22311 (703) 931-4544 https://www.ushinedds.com/