#Drag Reduction System

[the-organic-dynamic]

Never a bad time to reiterate that Wikipedia and DuckDuckGo do NOT have AI augmentation, still have reasonably accessible and verifiable results, and actually help you find answers and context for life's questions

[stripedstarsblueflags]

being a twink is really fun until they hit you with the "ohhh funny! you don't look like someone who would be into racing" and i have to remind myself that reciting the entire biography of bruce mclaren is probably still not enough to prove my point

[frombookstoretobookstore]

You Say That Like You Care

Abbot x Injured!Reader Summary: After reader takes a punch to the face, Abbot's emotions flare as he realizes he might care a little too much.

TW: Blood, injuries, angsty Abbot, Abbot admitting his feelings.

A/N: I don't love this piece but I needed to get an angsty Abbot piece out of my head. This might be purely self indulgent. Masterlist

Y/n groans as she digs the ice pack deeper into her eye socket to ground herself. Her shift was already in tatters, and she didn’t need to look at the clock to know her official shift hadn’t even begun.

She’d been called in early to help in the ER, a resident had gone home sick. She’d swung in early, happy to help where she could. Now she wished Dana had called someone else. She felt guilt rise in her chest, if she hadn’t come in, it could have been one of the med students who’d drawn the short straw.

She’d stepped in to help with a combative patient, nothing unusual. Hell, she worked with women in labor who usually threatened her the pain was so bad, she was used to never taking anything personally. 

The patient had presented with a partially degloved leg but the meth in his system had sent him ballistic. Y/n had caught a punch to the face. She’d been dragged out by McKay as she’d tried to continue helping despite the blood draining down her face.

So, Y/n finds herself sitting behind the nurses’ station, Princess swearing as she presses gauze to her nose while Y/n ices her swollen eye. Still another hour left to wait before her L&D shift is set to begin.

“Christ sweetie, the hell happened?” Dana asks, quickly donning a pair of gloves, removing the icepack from Y/n’s face as Princess continues cursing under her breath.

Y/n groans and bats her friend’s hands away. “Just dealing with it all tonight. Apparently. I’m fine.” She grounds out as Dana pulls her glasses on to study her bloodied face.

“Did you go to CT?” Dana asks, quickly grabbing some tissues to wipe away the blood encrusting Y/n’s face and neck.

“I’m not wasting CT’s time, I’m fine.” Y/n said, tears springing to her eyes as Dana prods her nose.

“Please tell me you fell. Or lost a fight with a newborn.” Robby says, Dana moving so he could assess their friend.

“She took a hit from curtain three.” Princess says, Y/n hissing when Robby started putting pressure on around her eye.

“Princess, call down to CT and get her in line. Let L&D know they’re down a doctor.” Robby starts testing her pupil reactivity.

“No, I’m not going home. I’ll be fine. I came here to collect myself, not to distract the best workers of the ED.” Y/n says, waving Princess off the phone. She rolls her eyes as she lets Y/n usher her back to work. Robby only sighs as he crosses his arms and takes in her appearance.

“You probably have a concussion if not a fracture. Let’s get some morphine so I can pop this nose back into place. Also, I doubt your patient satisfaction scores will go up with the way you look right now kid.” Robby says, chuckling softly as Y/n tries to scoff through the wads of gauze shoved up her nose.

Y/n bats his hands away again. She stands and Robby tries to push her down onto a stool again. The four newest med students’ eyes grow big as they took in the L&D doctors banged up in front of them as they wait to check in with Robby before leaving.

Y/n groans as she notices the newest pairs of eyes on her. “Alright gremlins time for a teaching moment gather around.” Robby only rolls his eyes.

“If you’re going to be stubborn, at least let Dana come back with morphine. For my sake.” Robby says, pinching the bridge of his nose as he already knows what Y/n is going to do.

“Quickly, how do we do a nasal fraction reduction?” Y/n asks doctors King and Javadi’s hands fly up first. Santos huffs with her arms crossed and opens her mouth to speak.

“Santos you’re out of the running. Raise your hand and maybe I’ll call on you next time.” Dr. Santos’s mouth hands open slightly, clearly not used to the sharp attitude of the usually sunshiny L&D doctor they’ve all gotten used to.

“A doctor manually realigns the displaced bone and cartilage; my guess is we’re looking at a type III nasal trauma. Biggest take away is never do a realignment on your…” Abbot’s gruff words and disapproving scowl are cut off as a sharp crack is heard as Y/n manually realigns her own nasal cavity.

The med student’s faces drop and a few pale even as they watch Y/n reset her own nose, the sound sickening. Y/n bends forward, the pain blinding for a few moments. She rights herself and presses gauze to her nose as it starts leaking blood again.

“That was both the grossest and most impressive thing I’ve ever seen.” Dr. Javadi whispers, her mouth still open.

“As I was going to say before Dr. Y/l/n did one of the stupidest things, is never reset your own nose.” Abbot’s tone is gruff and sharp, and judging by the med students’ faces, he’s using that icy stare that makes everyone uncomfortable.

“Check on your patients. Go.” Y/n only catches Robby’s smirk from across the nurse’s station as the med students scatter. Abbot has her by the elbow and is dragging her into a trauma room, snapping the curtain shut.

He’s slamming drawers closed as he starts grabbing materials to pack her nose. The room is icy, and Y/n can hear her heart pummeling in her ears, feels it in her nose.

Usually, she’d steer clear of pissing Abbot off, knowing his temper is short and how cold he can get. But today? She doesn’t care, she’s exhausted and angry.

“Quit hulking out. I’m fine.” She says, hissing as her breath burns her nose.

He doesn’t answer. His shoulders are tight, his jaw set, and his hands are tense as he drops everything onto a small metal table, yanking it closer as he looks at her nose and bruising around her eye. He adjusts a light to get a better look at the bruising.

“What happened?” He growls, tilting her head back as he checks the alignment on her nose.

“Got slugged.” She shrugs.

“Last I checked you worked with babies.”

“Not all of them are happy to leave the womb.”

“Stop I might actually laugh at one of your deflections.” He deadpans as his fingers skim her skin, checking for more fractures.

“Unless you have some superpowered hands there hulk, you aren’t going to be able to feel any fractures.” She speaks.

“I know.” His eyes are still icy, his brow furrowed as he keeps giving her a once over.

“Still injured. That isn’t going to change the more you stare at me.” She huffs out.

He tips an eyebrow up before throwing away the discarded, bloodied gauze, snapping his gloves off and heaving them into the trash. He leans against the counter behind him, his arms crossed against his chest as he stares at her again. He sighs deeply and lets his head drop.

“Jack Rabbit, talk to me.” She says as she shifts on the bed. “Your silent treatment is even creepier through one eye.” He smirks as he glances up at her trying to open her partially swollen eyelid.

“What are we going to do with you tonight? Any being you deliver is crawling right back in as soon as it sees that face.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He breathes out and runs a hand through his curls and he lets it rest on the back of the neck. His gaze finally meets hers.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I might disappear.” 

He groans as his head falls back. “Every time something like this happens. I worry it’ll be the thing that drives you away from here.” His confession tumbles past his lips.

“You say that like you care.” Her heart swells as he looks at her, his stare full of emotion instead of ice.

“Maybe I do.” He mutters, his arms bracing on either side of him on the counter, his gaze back on his feet.

Y/n swears she can hear the heart monitor from three doors down as Abbot sits with the emotions he just showed her. She’s also sure her mouth is hanging open a bit.

“I.. I’m sorry?” She says, tilting her head towards him as if to hear him better.

“Because maybe I do care. Maybe I care if you get hurt. Maybe I care that I wasn’t called in early. Maybe I care, because I don’t want to see you hurt, ever.” He’s crossed the room in a few strides before she even realizes, close to her again.

“It was just a punch Abbot.” Her brows are furrowing as she grabs his hand as she notes that they’re shaking slightly.

“What if it wasn’t? What if it had been worse and I wasn’t there?” His eyes aren’t on her anymore, their distant.

“Abbot, it was one punch, and I wasn’t alone. Princess nearly bit his arm off, and security was in the room right after.” She laughs slightly, swinging their clasped hands between them.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Abbot’s voice is low, almost a whisper. “It’s not about the punch or the guy who threw it. It’s about you. I care about you, Y/n. I care more than I should. Seeing you hurt, even a little, makes me feel like I’m failing you.”

Y/n’s expression softens, her grip on his hand tightening. “You’re not failing me, Abbot. You never have. I don’t need you to protect me from the world.”

He looks down at their joined hands, “That’s what I want too. More than anything. But it’s hard to turn off the part of me that wants to shield you from everything.”

She smiles gently, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Then don’t turn it off. Just... let me in.”

He nods, letting their clasped hands dangle between them. He steps forward, dropping her hand, before carefully tucking her into his chest. She breathes him in, smelling laundry soap and something that reminds her of leather.

They pull apart and he looks at her with an eyebrow raised. “Seriously though, I wouldn’t trust you to deliver anyone’s child.” She swats at his chest as a laugh rumbles his chest, his eyes clearer.

“Shut up and buy me dinner Army Boy, I’ve got a lot to talk to you about. You aren’t the only one caring more than you should.” His heart flutters in his chest as she stands. Before he can pull the curtain back, she’s pulling him in by his scrub top and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. She pulls back with a smile.

She pulls open the curtain to Dana and Robby swapping cash, their eyes wide as they’re caught by the two.

“If either of you breathes a word of this to anyone.” Y/n hisses with her hand up to stop them from running. “I’ll make sure you leave your shifts with similar bandages.” She points to her own face as she walks off, Abbot only smirking as he watches her go.

-------- This one took me FOREVER to write and I'm not sure how I feel about it. I've been watching Animal Kingdom and I needed to write angsty Abbot after. Hope y'all enjoyed it!

[traegorn]

Girl you can rant and rave all day but we all know for a fact you can't vote your way out of this mess so your "genuinely, what else can we do?" sounds like pure cucked defeatism. This downward spiral of American fascism has proven stable, so no, voting isn't going to stop it. The democrats will never be pushed left - as proven by blatant history. I know this is your cue to list a bunch of social services or civil rights concessions a la #bidenwins but the drip violence of homophobia and abortion restrictions under republicans does not come close to the bipartisan armed tyranny that murders people in broad daylight.

Voting isn't going to solve any of this, and no voting isn't going to "clear the way" or make it easier to resist. Democrats have proven over and over and over again they will use the full force of violence to stop anything that truly threatens them and the ONLY WAY to stop American fascism is to threaten them, to threaten the very foundations of the system itself.

You exert all this effort, have all this pained frustration, over the weakest political action you can take. You are not challenging fascism or tyranny or helping any of the people harmed under bipartisan violence. You ignore these people and focus on "harm reduction" for the few who do benefit from the pitiful social safety nets democrats eke out only to be undermined in the next four or eight years as republicans INEVITABLY take back power. Such is the case of a two party system, as history proves. You're staving off the inevitable by exerting all this energy into electoralism, and the people you "save" by electing democrats are inevitably hurt anyways when republicans INEVITABLY take back power - because that's what the system guarantees.

You exist in a cycle of abuse with the American government, a punishment-reward system under the 2 parties that keeps you afraid of punishment and too desperate for reward that you ignore how the hand that feeds you is also putting kids in cages and blowing up babies overseas. You, and everyone who thinks like you, will never be the ones to save anybody.

Idk I was pissed and now got all sad again after writing this. Just so you know my being sad at the state of your ideology isn't a representation of my passivity that people like you like to construe - I am painfully politically active. But it's just...sick. You're stuck in an abusive cult and now I just feel bad for you

I'm usually a lot nicer when I reply to folks, but you brought a certain energy that deserves a different response. I want to be clear to any passersby who I'd normally be polite to in this kind of conversation: This energy is reserved only for chucklefucks who bring this kind of shit to me. Please do not take this as a reflection as to how I'd treat people willing to engage honestly and civilly with me. This anon came to me unprovoked, so they're getting a rather unique response.

So here we go.

Oi, shit head. This was the stupidest thing I've read all day.

Democrats 100% have moved left in the last 40 years. Are we still recovering from when they got dragged right by Reagan in the 80s? Yes. But we've made headway getting things back on track. You claim a lot of stuff here, but don't cite a single example. Likely because you just repeat what someone else told you on TikTok that one time. You couldn't find your way through actual theory if it smacked you in the face with its dick. But you don't want me to actually justify it.

Because your own words told me you'd dismiss any evidence I provided:

I know this is your cue to list a bunch of social services or civil rights concessions a la #bidenwins but the drip violence of homophobia and abortion restrictions under republicans does not come close to the bipartisan armed tyranny that murders people in broad daylight.

Bitch, this shit is a sliding scale. Trump authorized more drone strikes than Obama did in eight years. Are they bad? Yes. But if you're telling me you want more murders, Trump's your guy. Guess what, living in America means dealing with the fact that you've been complicit in genocide this whole time. Look at the land you stand on -- it is soaked in blood. Look at the smart phone you're reading this on, it literally came out of a genocide.

You bathe in blood every day, fucking figure it out.

We do our best to minimize harm. And if you'd ACTUALLY read or watched anything I've said, your two half dead braincells would have noticed the part where I constantly say "voting is not the end of your activism." It's the fucking start.

Either Harris or Trump will be the next President. Trump will be worse. If you aren't doing everything you can to stop him, you're not a leftist, you're a grandstanding piece of shit who doesn't care about anything other than the smell of your own farts.

You want to fuck up the two parties? Great. Put in the fucking work -- because the Presidential election ain't it, shithead. Build a real movement from the ground up. Build community, build a party system, run local candidates. When's the last time your ass went to a city council meeting or a school board meeting? Do you even know when they're held where you live?

But let's face it, you couldn't coalition build if you tried because you're so far up your own ass you kiss your small intestine goodnight.

Daddy Revolution ain't coming, shithead. There's work to do, so get your head out of your ass and do it.

You want Trump to win? Netanyahu would kiss you on the lips for it. Fuck off.

[tanadrin]

could you elaborate, why do you believe that people online continue to talk about the flint water crisis as if it were still active? Is it just ignorance of the solution or are there ongoing health issues?

i mean i think people do that bc "everything is fucked and nothing ever gets better" is a genre of post that tickles the limbic system, and in the attention economy of the internet, anything that tickles the limbic system tends to do well, bc it produces engagement. outrage, and outrage-adjacent things, and cliches like "why is no one talking about [major news article everyone is talking about]" and "don't get excited about apparently-good-thing X, here's why it's actually just as bad as [completely different thing it is in no way just as bad as]" and all that other stuff.

and because negativity and outrage--even negativity with no underlying substance--makes a bigger splash than positive stuff with real underlying substance, continuing to repeat "flint doesn't have clean water" (a crisis that did genuinely drag on for a very long time!) has more salience than the news that flint's water problem was fixed (something that took a long time when it finally was properly tackled and didn't generate a single large headline).

there's kind of a similar dynamic in climate news actually, where genuine improvements in areas like energy storage and clean energy rollout and new nuclear permitting don't make a dent in people's narrative that everything is fucked and we're making no progress because IPCC forecasts about what would happen if we hit 4 degrees of warming are genuinely very bad and scary (and, thankfully, no longer on the table!), whereas the boring policy details of stuff in the Inflation Reduction Act, or China's continuing expansion of EV manufacturing are, well... boring. although climate news is different in other ways--like, the planet will continue to warm until carbon emissions are net negative, so even as we make progress on that issue the crisis continues. it's not all good news. but there is good news there, which just gets much less traction online bc of the dynamics of how news works on the internet.

needless to say, though, i think if you want to have an accurate understanding of the world you need to internally mentally check your own tendency to succumb to engagement bait like this. worst case scenario you fall into a doom loop, which i think is pretty unhealthy just in general. but if you notice somebody post something compelling, and you click on their username, and it turns out that all they post is about how the world is fucked, and nothing good ever happens, and we're all gonna die, i think you should be suspicious of them and their motives. not because doomposting is inherently manipulative or deceptive--a lot of people genuinely are doomers! but that doesn't mean they're not responding to the limbic incentives of social media, either. after all, if you too express nothing but pessimism and outrage, then the people addicted to pessimism and outrage will applaud you for being Very Serious and give you lots of engagement and attention, and you will react accordingly.

and also, you know. some people do just lie on the internet for attention. that is absolutely a thing that happens. i am not inclined to bend over backwards to try to reconstruct a generous framing of those lies where maybe people somehow are under the mistaken impression that there is some ongoing sub-problem affecting flint that they have mistaken for being isomorphic to the original crisis. some of them are just liars!

[newobsessionweekly]

Aftershock - Office Barbie

Main masterlist | The Rookie masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Tim Bradford x younger!reader

Fandom: The Rookie

Summary: Weeks later, fate (and a lost bet) brings Tim to a community conference—where you just so happen to be the key speaker.

Fluff

Warnings: sexual tension? kissing? not proofread

You didn’t expect to see him again.

Not really. You figured Sergeant Bradford belonged to that weird category of men you clash with once and remember longer than you should. Like a slow burn from a too-hot pan. Irritating, and then it lingers.

Tim wanted to leave the second they walked in.

“You two are evil,” he mutters to Lucy and Angela as they weave through city-funded booths and low-effort posters with cheap pamphlets about green living.

“This is what you get for losing a bet, Bradford,” Lucy chirps.

“I thought the punishment was brunch,” he growls.

Angela grins. “Brunch and an event. That’s how you learn humility.”

Tim’s already working on a plan to fake a phone call when the lights dim and a new voice comes through the speaker system.

Sharp. Confident. Familiar.

He turns his head—and his body goes still.

“Holy shit,” Lucy whispers beside him. “It’s her.”

Angela lifts a brow. “Tell me that’s not your girl from the construction site.”

Tim clenches his jaw. “She’s not my—”

“She called you Grinch,” Lucy interrupts, grinning. “You called her Barbie. And now she’s out here talking about carbon-neutral foundations in heels that could kill a man.”

“I think I love her,” Angela whispers.

“She’s not—” Tim tries again, but his voice dies in his throat as you scroll through your presentation, completely composed. He watches the way you move—elegant, direct, sure of yourself. You don’t look nervous. You look like the stage was built for you. Like the mic came from your purse.

You look… expensive. Like someone who knows how to win a boardroom, a bet, and a man—if you feel like it. Like the version of you he wouldn’t know how to approach, if he hadn’t already seen you in a hard hat and work boots, barking orders at construction workers during an earthquake like it was just another Tuesday.

You don’t dress like this for conferences.

Usually it’s practical shoes, maybe a sleek ponytail, something just polished enough to prove you take yourself seriously, but not too much—so no one calls you “daddy’s little intern” behind your back.

But today?

Today you wear hot pink.

The blazer is tailored, the skirt is short, and the heels are unapologetically sharp. Office Barbie realness. And you own it. You glide across the conference stage with your presentation remote in one hand and a bulletproof smile in place, heart pounding but controlled.

You’ve got this.

You’re talking sustainability in construction—carbon reduction, green infrastructure, water retention—and you know your shit better than half the men in the room who’ve been in the industry twice as long as you’ve been alive.

But then you see him.

Scowling like someone dragged him here against his will, still looking too good in a plain black T-shirt and jeans. And still somehow managing to make his scowl sexy.

You inhale, steady your hands on the remote. You don’t let it show. Not the way your stomach tightens or how your heart does a messy skip at the sight of him. You keep your voice level and your smile unfazed.

Because this isn’t the time. Or the place.

But God, you missed that face.

Tim hears words. He knows you’re talking about sustainability, about long-term environmental impact, about scalable urban design. He even recognizes a few terms. But none of it sticks. All he can focus on is the curve of your mouth when you speak, the fierce spark in your eyes, the way you command the room like you own every inch of it.

He's absolutely screwed.

Lucy elbows him hard. “Close your mouth, Bradford.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re drooling,” Angela stage-whispers.

“I’m going to kill both of you,” he growls.

“You’re welcome,” Lucy sings.

The second you step off stage, the conference organizer pulls you aside. Praise, compliments, the usual. But your eyes keep darting to the back of the room, where the tall, broody one is whispering furiously to his two grinning companions.

“What are you doing?” Tim hisses.

Lucy clasps her hands like a rom-com fairy godmother. “Helping you get laid. Now shut up and be nice.”

Angela tugs her away. “Don’t be a caveman. Go say hi.”

Tim glares after them. But he moves.

God, he looked even better up close. A little scruffier than last time. Brooding. And his eyes—so blue they could knock the wind out of you.

Tim gave you a slow once-over, and that smirk hit.

He stands there, hands in his pockets, the corner of his mouth just barely tipped up. That same annoyingly sexy, broody look on his face. Blue shirt stretched across his shoulders like a sin.

“Office Barbie suits you.”

You roll your eyes—but you’re smiling. “Still calling me that?”

“Still acting like you don’t love it?”

You step closer, arms crossed. “What are you doing here, Grinch?”

“Lost a bet.”

You bite your lip to hold in the laugh. “That explains the permanent scowl.”

Tim glanced at the now-empty stage, then back at you. “You were good.”

“Only ‘good’?” you teased, stepping closer. “I worked on that presentation for weeks.”

He tilted his head, eyes lingering on your mouth. “To be honest, I didn’t hear most of it.”

“Oh?” You raised your brows, pretending offense. “Too many big words for you?”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Too many distractions.”

Your cheeks warmed. But you didn’t flinch. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Maybe,” he said, eyes dropping briefly—pointedly—to your legs before dragging back up to your eyes. “But the view was decent.”

You let out a soft laugh and cocked a hip. “You flirting with me, Sergeant?”

He stepped closer. “Would it work?”

“Depends.” You toyed with the button of your blazer. “Are you here to arrest me for having too many words in my presentation?”

“Didn't bring cuffs."

You gave him a slow, deliberate once-over.

“That’s too bad. I did prefer the uniform.”

He smiled. Actually smiled. It was a little crooked. A little dangerous.

And it did things to your insides.

Before you could say something even more reckless, a voice called your name. One of your professors—old, sweet, the type who’d ask you for lecture slides in a USB drive.

“I should go."

But when you started to step away, he reaches for your wrist—not grabbing, just touching. His fingers brush against your skin and it jolts through you like a live wire.

“Wait—can I get your number?” he asks.

You pause. Smirk.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He raises a brow. “You’d rather I stalk you?”

You lean in slightly, lips just shy of his ear.

“You’ll have to catch me first.”

Then you’re gone—heels clicking as you cross the room, leaving him standing there with a frustrated groan and a look that says challenge accepted.

The event wrapped up an hour later, long after the panels ended and the buzz of too many conversations filled the air.

And there he was.

Leaning against his truck like he belonged there. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Watching you approach like he hadn’t been doing exactly that since the second you walked in.

You slowed, one brow raised. “Stalking me now?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I’m just being polite.”

You glanced at the truck. “Didn’t think Grinches offered rides to strangers.”

He stepped forward, opened the passenger door for you like a damn gentleman. “Get in, Princess Barbie.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away.

The inside of Tim’s truck is warm. Smells faintly like pine and leather and whatever cologne clings to him naturally, subtle but unmistakably him and masculine in a way that makes your thighs press together instinctively. You settle into the passenger seat, crossing your legs, careful to tug your skirt down as far as it'll go.

He starts the engine. Glances at you. “Seatbelt, Barbie.”

You smirk. “Worried about my safety, Sargeant?”

His jaw flexes, his eyes on the road now. “Always.”

Silence falls for a beat, thick and brimming with the words neither of you are ready to say. Then he clears his throat.

“So… what are you studying exactly?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Civil engineering. Sustainability focus. You know, boring stuff.”

He scoffs. “Didn’t look boring from where I was sitting.”

You give him a side glance. “You mean from where you were staring?”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. “You were hard to miss.”

You feign surprise. “Because of the heels or the facts?”

Tim shoots you a look. “Definitely the heels.”

You laugh, and he exhales like he can finally breathe again. The ease between you returns, like it never left—not after the earthquake, not after the adrenaline wore off.

Not even after weeks apart.

The car settles into a smooth cruise, city lights rolling past the windows. Tim rests his right elbow on the center console. His fingers dangle—casual, relaxed. Then they brush against the bare skin of your thighs.

Heat crackles up your spine. You don’t move. Neither does he. His pinky drags the lightest line over your skin—so subtle it could’ve been an accident. But it’s not. You both know it.

You shift, just barely. His finger follows.

Still, neither of you look at each other. You chew your lip.

“You were impressive today,” he says, voice lower now. “Seriously.”

You glance at him.

“Thanks,” you say, softer. “I wasn’t sure anyone actually listened.”

“I did,” he murmurs. “Mostly.”

Your brow lifts. “Mostly?”

“I was distracted.”

You smirk. “By the visuals?”

“By your mouth,” he says simply. “Hard to focus on what you’re saying when you look like that.”

A pulse flutters in your throat. You open your mouth to answer—but then the car slows. A red light.

And suddenly, he turns. His fingers shift, pressing slightly into the inside of your thigh. His other hand leaves the wheel. And then he leans in.

You meet him halfway.

The kiss starts soft—testing, brushing. But your lips part almost immediately, like your body was waiting for this, begging for it. His hand cups your cheek. Yours tangle in the collar of his shirt. His tongue slips past your lips, deep and claiming.

It’s slow for a second. Then it’s not. The kiss turns wild—hungry, open-mouthed, teeth and breath and want. Like all the flirting, the near-misses, the power plays between you were just foreplay for this.

Your back arches into the kiss. His hand slides up your thigh, firm and confident. You gasp softly against his mouth, and he swallows the sound like it feeds him.

Then someone honks, announcing the green light. You both freeze.

Tim pulls back slowly, his forehead resting against yours for a beat before he straightens and puts the truck in gear again, cursing under his breath as he drives. His fingers never leave your thigh.

He pulls up in front of your apartment building, cuts the engine, and hops out to open your door before you can even unbuckle.

Chivalry looks good on him.

You step out, heart pounding, the kiss still tingling on your lips. But the second you’re on the sidewalk, his eyes are on your mouth again.

You smile up at him, voice low and teasing. “You know… I live alone.”

He raises an eyebrow, lips twitching. “As an cop, I suggest you stop saying that to strangers.”

You grin. “Didn’t know you were a stranger back in the car, Sergeant.”

He steps closer and kisses you again. Harder this time. Wilder. His hands find your waist, dragging you against him as your fingers tangle in the front of his shirt. You kiss him like you’ve been waiting—because you have. For weeks. For months. For this exact moment.

You fumble with your keys, still kissing, still gasping between touches.

The door opens. Neither of you stop as you kick the door shut with your heel.

Tim presses you up against it, his mouth hot and hungry on your neck.

You pull his shirt over his head—god, he’s ripped—and he does the same to you, sliding your blazer off your shoulders, fingers grazing your skin, leaving heat in their wake. You gasp when his lips find your collarbone.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

You look him in the eye. “Don’t you dare.”

[thef1diary]

Hatred | C. Sainz

Summary: You and Carlos are teammates but cannot stand each other. But things take a turn when a championship is costed and you two finally sort out your differences.

Warnings: 18+, bratty reader, enemies to enemies with benefits, choking, coarse language, hate sex, spanking, unprotected sex, no use of y/n

Word Count: 3k

Pairing: carlos x fem!reader

"Both Ferrari drivers are racing each other, can you believe it" the race commentator stated in disbelief. Your best friend was watching the race, watching you race wheel to wheel with your teammate. At first she wanted you to win, but now with the way things were looking, she just hoped that you safely finished the race.

You were fighting for the World Driver's Championship with no other than Max Verstappen. You, a female driver in a Ferrari, are so close tasting the victory of a championship. It was the second last race of the season, and you needed to finish second with the fastest lap to still be in the championship fight.

At the moment, you were third, behind your teammate and Max. Five laps to go.

Truth is, you and Carlos weren't very friendly this season. It was your second year and due to your phenomenal results in a car that shouldn't give constant P5 and P6 like it did, the Ferrari team principal was quite interested in your talent.

Despite the PR teams trying to get you and Carlos to film videos for challenges like he did with Charles, it never worked. On his end. You tried to be very friendly and since you were the only female driver on the grid, you wanted your teammates support. You didn't expect him to hate you from the moment he met you.

So when he listened to the team orders to let you pass through, you thought that he'd finally play the good sportsmanship card. But what you didn't expect was that after passing him, he was still on your tail using the drag reduction system to try and pass you again. Instead of complaining on the radio, you figured you would race him and show him who the better one of the two drivers truly is.

Even though you smiled and laughed with other drivers, Carlos was one you could not even have a normal conversation with without feeling the need to rip your hair out. So, racing with him when you had an almost killer instinct was much needed.

If he wasn't playing friendly, you weren't either. And to be honest, you were glad that he was putting up a fight, at least you'll be able to prove your worth instead being told that you only had a chance of winning because of your teammate.

Turning into a tight, high-speed corner, you took the inside line, braking late and hoping to turn out in the front. The seconds went by really slow when you heard the impact before you felt it. His Ferrari had hit the rear end of yours, causing debris to fall from your car and a puncture which made your car spin out of control. You held your breath and tried to control the car as best as you could until the car came to a stop which was when it crashed into the barriers.

Some parts of the barrier had landed on top of the front of your car, making it harder to get out. You immediately turned off the car but stayed for a few moments. Trying to wrap your head around the events that happened.

Not even one minute ago, you were fighting for the championship and now, you were out of it.

You hit your hand on the steering wheel multiple times before hearing the voice of your race engineer asking you if you were okay. You responded "fine" in a monotone voice which sounded completely different than your usual tone.

You were told to step out of the car just in case there was a leak which was undetermined at the moment. You sighed, taking off the steering wheel and climbing out of the car. After getting out, you noticed that your teammate's car was no where to be seen which only meant one thing, his car wasn't as damaged as yours which meant he could still race.

One of the marshals led you away from the track and car so you could safely begin your journey to walk to the pits which wasn't too far. You could feel the stares of the fans as you were walking by but didn't have the strength to wave to them. You also felt two cameramen following you. You knew one was for the live broadcast of the race but the other was Netflix.

You hung your head low, not even wanting to take off your helmet yet but you were fuming from anger. You didn't want people to see that.

By the time you got back to the pits, the race was over which was expected as there were only a few laps left. You looked at the board and saw Max was still first, as expected. His teammate was second now because he moved up two spots after the crash. Lewis came in third. Carlos had fell further down the grid, a few places out of the points. The podium celebrations were about to happen soon but you were far from being in a celebratory mood.

Once you got to the garage, you had to weigh yourself with your helmet in hand then you saw your teammate talking to the team principal. You felt your anger take over you and you stalked towards him, pointing a finger right in his face. "You. You're an asshole, an idiot, what did I ever do to you! What did you get out of this huh? A championship?" You scoffed, placing both of your palms on his shoulders and pushing him slightly.

"Fuck off!" He responded which only added fuel to the fire. Instead of accepting his mistake, he chose to tell you off. "don't you dare" you felt someone holding you back and your team principal decided to interfere by saying "it was just a mistake, cool off. Away from each other"

Unbelievable. He would always point out your mistakes even if they were very small.

"Just a mistake? It cost me the fucking championship!" You yelled which silenced everyone in the garage. You slowly looked around and no one dared to make eye contact with you at the moment. Not even Carlos.

Your PR manager placed a hand on your shoulder to lead you towards your drivers room but you brushed it off and left the garage.

Not even ten minutes later, your PR manager stopped by to inform you about the post race interviews which were necessary to attend. You didn't change out of your race suit, just tied the sleeves together on your waist. On the way, she told you about the things you shouldn't answer and to "play nice".

You were hit with so many questions during the interviews and at the moment, you were probably even more popular than Max who won the race. Not in a good way though.

"How do you feel losing a championship because of your teammate?", "do you think the situation could be sorted out differently?", "we heard the team orders given to Carlos, do you think he is a good teammate?", "is this your last year with Ferrari?", "how many years does your contract last?", "do you think you'd be treated differently by both your team and teammate if you weren't a woman?"

All those questions made your head spin but you tried to answer them as best as you could. You were exhausted both physically and mentally. Thinking back to the moments you had to compromise to get better results later, the team orders you had to follow, and the strategies you thought would be better but no one listened. One questioned loomed in your mind "is this your last year with Ferrari?" Since this was your first year with Ferrari, you had initially signed a three year long contract which meant you had two more years to go.

You met up with your friend as she was waiting for you in your drivers room. As soon as you saw her, you broke down into tears and embraced her. You didn't have to tell her what happened in the garage since she witnessed it. She wiped your tears, and made a plan to drown yourselves in alcohol and snacks in your hotel room.

You parted ways for now but she will be joining you later tonight. As soon as you got to your hotel room, you immediately took a shower to freshen up. You checked your phone which was bombarded with many texts from your family and friends who watched the race live. You also received some messages from fans, some hateful, some supporting you. As usual.

You also received messages from Lewis, Daniel, and Sebastian. The three drivers who have made it their mission to ensure you're comfortable in the male dominated sport.

You heard a knock on the door and you expected it to be your best friend, but when you opened it, it was your teammate. "I'm really not in the mood to talk to you"

"Then just listen?" He raised his eyebrows in expectation. You opened the door further and let him in. What was the worst that could happen? Another fight? This time you could punch him in the face if he said something stupid and no one can stop you.

"I'm sorry" Carlos started and you nodded, urging him on. "I know you were fighting for the championship and I ruined that"

"Yes, you did" you responded. "Is that all you're saying?" he asked which confused you. "What do you want me to say?"

"Oh I don't know, maybe accept my apology?" He stated in an oblivious tone. And there it was, Carlos could not be nice for a single conversation.

"There's no point. You'll do something like this again and we'll be in this situation again"

"Technically you could prevent it"

"Me? What about you? See this is why we're never getting along" you pointed at him.

Carlos stepped closer to you and held your chin between his thumb and first finger. "You're such a brat"

You scoffed and rolled your eyes "and what are you gonna do about it?"

"I'm gonna fuck that attitude out of you" he stated before placing his lips on yours, harshly.

You did not expect that but you weren't complaining either. Reciprocating the kiss with the same intensity, you wrapped your arms around his neck, one hand playing and pulling on his hair. He groaned in your mouth, wanting to regain control which made him pick you up effortlessly.

He had changed out of his race suit, wearing just a tee shirt and sweatpants. Dropping you on the bed once you two ran out of breath, he looked at you with a specific look in his eyes. It wasn't love, no, far from it. It was hate. You held yourself up by your elbows, spreading your legs a bit because you expected him to join you.

"Strip for me" he commanded. You stayed still, trying to process his words but he was rather impatient. "Did you not hear me? I said strip. Now" he took advantage of your spread legs and slapped the inside of your thigh.

That movement made you jerk and you started to take off your clothes. First your pants, then your shirt. He was quite surprised to see that you weren't wearing anything under your shirt. You had just taken a shower and were planning on chilling in your room anyways, there was no point of a bra.

You pointed at him and urged him to come closer which he listened to. He slid his body in between your spread legs and started kissing your neck. Kiss wouldn't be the right word, Carlos was sucking on it til marks were made. He wasn't being nice. And you were loving every bit of it.

You bit your lip to suppress the moans he was trying to get out of you. Playing with the hem of his shirt, you pulled it over his head. Your hands roamed around his tanned chest and back. You tried to flip your position, but he held you underneath him. "Brats don't get what they want" he muttered in your ear before his hand roamed near your panties.

His fingers played with the waistband, pulling it out and letting it snap on your waist making you groan due to the pleasurable pain. His fingers then went down to slide over your covered clit, rubbing it at the same time as he took your nipple in your mouth.

You didn't know where to focus since you could feel the pleasure everywhere. His teeth grazed your nipple making you arch your back then he sucked on it hard. You knew you were very wet by now, but he also knew since his fingers were slick as they played with your pussy over your panties.

"Carlos" you moaned his name. "What do you want?" He asked once he left your breast alone, after scattering marks on it. "You"

"You have me" he chuckled once he saw you trying to focus on reaching your edge with the way he was barely touching you. "I need more. Please touch me"

His fingers moved your panties to the side and slowly spread your fold which were embarrassingly slick. "Do our fights make you wet? Is that why you like arguing with me?" He asked as he lightly hit your pussy with his palm, making you jerk in response. "Tell me" his other hand held your jaw, making direct eye contact with you. He slid his fingers inside you, two of them. Watching as your mouth opened in a silent moan.

You shook your head, answering his question. He didn't like that. "No, so you don't look for any dumb reason to fight with me? Just to get yourself off? You've touched yourself thinking about me right?"

You were about to speak up but he interrupted "don't lie. I've heard you" you didn't have a response to that. Because it was true.

"Are you going to keep talking or do something Sainz?" You countered.

He clenched his jaw and pulled his fingers out of you. "On your hands and knees" he instructed. You smiled, finally getting a rise out of him. You turned over, looking back at him with a smirk that he was so eager to wipe off your face.

He took off his sweatpants and boxers, and you almost drooled at the sight of him stroking his cock. He leaned on the bed and lined himself up, sliding his cock in-between your folds. You groaned and muttered his name, trying to get him to do something. "So desperate for my cock" he brought his palm down on your ass harshly which made you move forward. You nodded desperately "yes" you whined.

He slowly pushed his cock in you, hearing your sweet moans. "Fuck. You feel so good"

You started moving your hips according to his slow but harsh thrusts. He placed open-mouthed kisses down your back, occasionally biting you.

He trailed his hand up your body and wrapped it around your neck from the front. Carlos felt you tighten around his cock and from the increasing amount of moans you released, he figured that your liked being choked. He was already planning on teasing you with this information.

His other hand played with your clit, rubbing it in small but agressive circles that made you squirm in his grasp. You chanted his name like a prayer, not even realizing how loud you were because the feeling of pleasure consumed you.

You could feel yourself on edge but you just needed something more. You begged him for more and he listened. His thrusts became faster but also sloppier, indicating that he was close to his orgasm as well. The hand that was choking you, came down to slap your ass again which you didn't expect at all. Since he wasn't holding you up anymore, you pressed your face against the mattress. Bunching the sheets up in your palm, you went over the edge.

Carlos didn't stop as he was chasing his own release but it also built towards your second orgasm. He quickly pulled out and turned you over to face him. Entering you again, he pressed his lips against you to swallow both yours and his moans.

One of your hands were up in his hair, pulling at the strands while the other was trailing down his back. His hand was still at your clit, rubbing circles on it. You reached your second orgasm as soon as you felt his release.

He was holding himself up by both his forearms and looking down at you. "I still hate you" you stated.

"I know. I hate you too" he replied and pressed a kiss against your lips.

Pulling out, he rolled over beside you. You laid there for a moment before he got up and you thought that he would get dressed and leave. Instead, he went to the bathroom and brought a cloth to clean you up. You didn't know why you felt that moment of sadness when you thought he'd leave. This was nothing but a hate fuck. Right?

He tossed the cloth somewhere else and laid down beside you again. This time, he pulled you into him and was dozing off. You were too, after all the sun had set many hours ago. You didn't check your phone to see the time either. Well, even if you wanted to, you couldn't because Carlos wrapped his arm around you, making you the little spoon.

You could hear him lightly snore and you thought that would irritate you, but instead it lulled you to sleep.

Teammates who hated each other, who still claim to hate each other, are sleeping peacefully in one bed. Naked.

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

Why Sky Wears Baggy Clothes: A Dissertation into Skyloftian Boner Culture and Outfitting Practices

So. Remember the infamous dick post? I have more thoughts, specifically concerning Sky's FAT COCK and how Skyloftian's specifically evolved greater vascular and hemoglobin systems in response to life in high altitudes. Prepare yourselves.

In my last piece, I calculated Skyloft's altitude of roughly 7,544.4 feet and covered how certain systems were affected to adapt to the climate, which eventually turned into a rant about Sky's dick, but now, I present to you: the reason Sky wears baggy clothes is to hide his altitude-induced, iron-man erections.

But first, let's explore the clothes themselves. Due to its high altitude, Skyloft is cold. Google AI has informed me that wind speed typically fluctuates, assuming the altitude is within the range of 6,000 to 8,000 feet, between 12 to 23 mph. On the Beaufort Scale, a chart used to estimate wind speed based on visual appearances, 23 mph is considered a "Fresh Breeze", and hardly a whisper to anyone from the Midwest. With this in mind, the standard temperature (excluding wind chill) of an area with a similar altitude to Skyloft is roughly 34°F or 1°C, which explains the multiple layers typically worn by many in-game Skyward Sword characters. Using both of these values and an internet wind chill calculator, we can conclude that the average temperature of Skyloft (assuming the wind speed is a comfortable 16 mph) is 24°F or -4°C, with a calculated range of 22°F or -5.6°C (23 mph, 34°F) to 25°F or -3.9°C (12 mph, 34°F).

With a wind-chilled air temperature of 24°F, Skyloft's layered, loose-fitting clothing standards make perfect sense, seeing as loose clothes are considered advantageous during cold weather because the small gaps between skin and fabric create pockets of space for body heat to gather, creating a pseudo-barrier against the elements.

Now, onto Sky's particular outfit. Based on this post by Jojo herself, Sky wears approximately four full upper-body layers (white, olive-khaki, chainmail, and mint tunic), one midsection layer (red sash), one lower-body layer (brown-green?? pants), and his embroidered sailcloth; he is prepared-prepared for chilly temperatures. As well as being a wonderfully adjacent nod to modern-day Tibetan culture, these clothes are perfect for conserving heat, and, concurrently, his life. 'But Fyre, we want the iron man dick-canons!' you may wail, but I'm not finished. There's quite a bit of debate in the skydiving community about whether tight or loose-fitting clothes are better, but many users state that loose-fitting clothes have the advantage of drag. But why is this good? In skydiving, and many of the Zelda games as a whole, control is essential; it's what allows us to feel safe, and thus allows for more logical, calm thinking due to adrenaline and cortisol (stress hormones) reduction. By increasing the user's surface area, loose-fitting clothes create drag, which, in physics, leads to better midair control during free-fall. Compared to Skyward Sword, where free-falling is as common a game mechanic as swinging a sword around, specialized aerodynamic control via clothing is a crucial mechanism that the Skylofians would absolutely take advantage of, considering that many of them regular jump from the sky and ride giant pelican-bird-creatures. In addition, due to his evolutionarily enhanced circulatory and vascular system, Sky himself is more than prepared to handle any and all endocrine stressors due to falling, and his specific outfit design only backs the theory that the residents of Skyloft are not only equipped to handle life in the sky on an evolutionary level, but from a cultural and biological level as well.

Okay. That was a lot, so I'm going to reintroduce some scholarly degeneracy at its finest: the concept of Sky's iron-man erections. Keeping with the vein of Skyloftian's specifically designing their clothes to be advantageous in every sense of the word, it isn't too far-fetched that they would make a point to account for any and all bodily changes that may occur during free-fall, or simply life on a floating rock, which absolutely includes altitude-induced erections. Confused? Let me explain.

In the dick-canon post, I largely referenced the concept of "airplane boners" as a defining factor for why Sky is HUNG, because it has been scientifically proven that abrupt changes in pressure affect vascular expansion and contraction, which absolutely extends to the pelvic region, and, thus, shifting erective status of the penis. With this in mind, it can be inferred that a race of people with the same evolutionary traits would have also evolved culturally to deal with this conundrum, which perfectly explains the bagginess of Sky's, and every other resident of Skyloft's, outfit choices. For example, the looseness of his pants is likely to be a cleverly-disguised ploy to hide what is by all definitions a biological predicament shared by all members of the Hylian species. It's in the same vein as modern-day menstrual cycles. Oh no, you got your period? Just slap a pad on it! Except the pad is baggy pants to hide an erection you can't control because flying is your way of life. Apply this to Sky and you've got a good idea of why his outfit is the way it is.

But that's not all! In addition to concealing any potential erections, Skyloftian clothing is also specifically designed to protect against the elements, which, you guessed it, extends to male and female reproduction organs. Whether through the use of thick, temperature-impenetrable cloth, specific (down-low) enchantments, or specialized padding, it is almost undeniable that a society as developed as the Skyloftians would have a fail-safe method to preserve both their lives and modesty through practical outfit stylizations.

And now, the moment you've all been waiting for: iron-man erections and what the fuck that refers to. I'm sure some of you are getting sick of the words 'vascular capacity' and 'erection of the penile region', but I promise you, this is where the magic happens. So. Sky is basically evolutionarily-predetermined to be hung. He has excellent hemoglobin and vascular system capacity, which would absolutely affect not only his body as a whole, but sexual functions as well, specifically in the fact that his erections are indestructible. Due to a combination of evolution, age, and gender, it's incredibly easy for him to become aroused, and, concurrently, incredibly difficult to 'take care' of his arousal in the same manner as the typical, non-evolutionized male would. That flagpole is raised and it is NOT coming down. This begs the question: how does he deal with this conundrum, specifically after some type of altitude-based activity, and what cultural practices are permitted in this context? Are all Skyloftian's serial masturbators or are they simply incredible at restraining themselves, which could act as a nod to Sky's typically unbothered attitude? In concurrence, if masturbation is socially acceptable, how does Sky find all that time to jack off? Does the rest of the chain know, or are they oblivious to his predicaments?!

In short, Skyloftian fashion and societal modesty culture is heavily influenced by the hilariously, yet closely related Skyloftian boner culture, in both outfit practicality and social norms, which is very likely to explain Sky's choice of clothes and, once again, why he is hung as FUCK. Thank you for witnessing my madness and Hylia bless.

Additional queries:

Does Priapism exist in Skyloftian society? Yes and no. The term 'priapism' refers the prolonged erection of the penis (4+ hours), often without any sexual stimulation, which cements it as a fairly common medical condition for humans. However, due to their unique vascular biology, it is unlikely that this condition would be viewed at the severity it is in modern-day humans, which begs the question: is it even an issue at all? Increased circulatory and vascular capabilities indicate a greater blood flow, whereas priapism is the persistent lack of appropriate blood flow, meaning that, due to their biology, priapism may very well be an indicator of old age in the same manner loss of vision or a general slowing down is for humans. On the other hand, if it were to possess the same significance as it does with modern-day humans, what

@skylover69 come feed bestie

[canyouiimagine]

NONSENSE | LN4 x Black! Reader

PART 1

Materlist

✧ Paring: Lando Norris x Streamer black!reader

✧ Face claim: Mainly aaanokk

✧ Warning: none... I think 🤔.

✧ Summary: In which reader is obnoxiously head over heels for a "fruity" man that wears orange.

✧ Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not own nor know these people personally. I also do not claim this to be an accurate depiction of their character. 🥰

✧ A/N: I haven’t been on twitter in a WHILE so I’m really pulling these usernames out of my a*s 😭.

TWITTER

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FaceTime call

"Hi.", you said shily. "I’m sorry if I came off too strong…"  "No worries!" He said with a chuckle. "I found it quite funny to be honest." "Hmm." You whispered looking away. "No! Really!" He laughed. "It was a good distraction from the shit season I’ve been having." You didn’t do too bad at Silverstone and Hungaroring. No?  "Yeah, but I don’t want to get too excited over 2 Good races. Spa was shit. Zandvort was also shit-" "I think p7 under these conditions is pretty good!" You said, interrupting him. You didn't know much about the sport yet but you had seen a lot of people saying that all over social media and you agreed! "Oh!" He said, giving you a surprised but amused look. "Didn’t you were that into F1." "I mean, I kinda have to if I’m into you. Don’t need people dragging me on social media because I think you’re cute but I don’t know what DRS means." "Do you?" He asked raising his eyebrow. Now... You in fact did not know what it meant, like okay Drag Reduction System but like, what does that even MEAN? Instead of replying you just glared at him, causing him to burst out laughing. He was about to say something but was cut off by someone in the background. He nodded at whatever the person was saying before setting his eyes back on you. "I have to go but I’ll text you to set up for our date." He said smiling at you. You smiled back, nodding, before registering what he had just said- "Date-?" "Bye!" "BYE?!" You screeched. This was all going so fast! He laughed and hung up.

y_username

liked by ybfusername, pokimanelol, f1wags and 706,401 others

y_username I might try my hand out at sports gaming, what do y'all think?

pokemanelol OMG YES PLEAAASE

y_username If pookie says so than I shall 😌

ybfusername When is this nonsense going to END???

y_username NEVER!!!! fan1 please bring her to her senses!!

fan2 How much longer will we have to tolerate this Y/N??

y_username You guys are nicer on twitter :(

f1wags @ landonorris liked by y_username

fan3 all that for a fruity looking man 😭

y_username I- I gagged!! Fruity??? 😭 fan3 Did I lie? y_username 😶 fan4 Man ??

Part 2

Hope you enjoyed it 🥹🫶🏾

Here's my ko-fi in case any of you want to support me by giving donations 🥰: https://ko-fi.com/canyouiimagine

[covid-safer-hotties]

Reference saved in our archive

Published in July 2021. The authors predicted that relaxing covid prevention measures early would lead to widespread disease and overloaded healthcare systems for years to come. Vaccine only strategies do not work to stop a pandemic. We must use all the tools we have simultaneously... The Biden Administration can't convince more that about 18% of people to get vaccinated, and the upcoming administration won't even do that. Mask up. Vax up. Stay safe. Keep doing what needs to be done. Your actions matter, even if it's not enough to keep everyone safe.

Notably, vaccine-mediated reduction of transmission is critical for viral suppression, and in order for partially-effective vaccines to play a positive role in SARS-CoV-2 suppression, complementary biomedical interventions and public health measures must be deployed simultaneously.

[dear-ao3]

alright i'll bite. what's drs

drag reduction system

when you’re within 1 second of car in front of you and in a designated straight part of the track you open your rear wing to go like maybe 20kph faster to get closer to car in front of you. idea is that you’re behind the car and the car is just ahead enough to reduce the air drag on your car hence why you want to maximize it and go extra zoom

see also: the question some men ask female fans of f1 to “prove they’re a fan”

[sinisterexaggerator]

Can I ask for Cad Bane x FTM reader hcs? SFW and NSFW, no limits. Maybe a fic if you're in the mood? I'm on anon because I'm shy.

Hello, anon! Hopefully, you will like this. I did my best. This is my first try at a ftm reader insert! Feedback, likes, comments, reblogs are all appreciated if you feel they are deserved! I will take correction and advice for THIS FIC ONLY. It's important to listen to the target audience. <3

---

A Good Story

Cad Bane x Trans Male (AFAB) Reader

Summary: You are a bored weapon's merchant on Fondor, a planet located near Devaron; Cad Bane has a date with Bolla Ropal at the Jedi temple and is in the market for something special—but you have the nerve to try to rip him off. Bane has money, and you're in need—surely he won't bat an eye at the high price tag?

Warnings: NSFW / 18+ for double-penetration and finger-fucking. Bane goes in both ways. I also make use of the words cunt and dick in relation to genitalia. There is a mention of the reader wearing a binder.

Word count: 4.5K +

Ao3

God, you were bored.

Fondor was a planet with little to do save for your dead-end job, lonely nights spent nursing bottom shelf brandy in some dingy, hole-in-the-wall cantina, unable to escape the smells of the shipyard. It reeked of tibanna, oil, tar, and rust, the odors having long since taken up residence in the vibrissae of your nose, lingering there, giving you no short reprieve—even after a shower.

Still, that wasn’t even your work. The Clone War was getting closer to your rocky home world with every passing day. It made sense. You lived in the Colonies, situated within the Inner Rim; threats from the Separatists loomed just beyond your backyard, populated with important trade routes.

It appeared Count Dooku, the leader of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, had the idea that Fondor should join his ranks. The Republic now vied for your attention but talks led nowhere—no one wanted to join Dooku willingly.

That’s where you came in.

Well, sort of.

“Good choice,” you praised the buyer of a DL-22 blaster pistol, the man placing the sum of five-hundred credits into your outstretched hand.

“Best to be armed nowadays,” he said dismissively, looking down the barrel of his newly acquired, high-priced toy.

The DL-22 was designed by BlasTech Industries and packed quite a powerful punch. A high-quality focusing crystal had been utilized by the weapon’s manufacturer to increase the damage output of the pistol’s blast bolts. This resulted in a reduction of the gun's stun setting, but most found the exchange to be well worth it.

“Can I interest you in any extra power cells? Carts? It only comes with the one up front.” If you had learned nothing else from this job, it was that your boss demanded you try to upsell every customer who walked in off the street. You resented him for that, but you also liked the extra commission when things worked out.

“Nah, got some back home.” The man was already holstering his purchase, aiming to walk out the door.

“We have a three rotation return policy,” you said, more as an afterthought. The man nodded he understood, then left.

You sighed. You wondered how much longer until your next customer. Sometimes, hours passed, and you would not see a single soul. It wasn’t that you minded, but the time seemed to drag on endlessly. There was only so much you could do on your datapad; scrolling through newsreels after a while became demoralizing.

You had just begun to read an article about Wilhuff Tarkin, the governor of Eriadu, when the door chimed. You found a stopping point at the end of the next paragraph and looked up, a habitual, customer-friendly smile having crept across one side of your face.

Then, it fell clean off.

A Duros strolled into your shop, the echo of his boots filling your ears as he sauntered across the duracrete floor.

That was the word for it, sauntered—he was strolling with what could only be described as a kind of confident detachment, a wide-brimmed hat hiding the fine details of his disposition, though you saw he was sporting the tiniest hint of a snaggle-toothed smirk.

You cleared your throat. “Hello, welcome.”

He said nothing, coming ever closer, causing the skin on the back of your neck to prickle. He seemed familiar, somehow, though you couldn’t quite place it. His short walk ended as he set the pads of all ten of his fingers down flat across the countertop, just to the right of the register—you wondered if he meant to rob you blind.

You allowed your eyes to travel the length of his skeletal frame, taking in his well-worn ensemble; the tightness of the leather; the glint of the metal accoutrements; the creak of the material as he tipped marginally forward, putting all his weight on one leg as he bent his knee, shifting his stance to one that was more casual.

Then, his chin rose. The face that was revealed startled you to the point you gasped. You sucked in a quick inhalation of air, filling your lungs before you refocused, this time on his eyes.

They were two austere, gleaming red jewels inlaid among the bluest scales—severe in appearance, surrounded by scars of varying depth and length.

Fuck; he was handsome. More attractive than he had any right to be. And his mouth—you suddenly couldn’t take your eyes off it, or off the two tapered fangs that peeked out at you from lips that were dry and cracked. But you thought it didn’t matter—you would kiss those lips if he asked you t—

“—In de market fer somethin’ special.” He interrupted your train of thought for another to take its place. His voice was like something you had never heard before, rough while at the same time smooth and sensual; he was as easy on the ears as he was on the eyes, and he had your full attention.

“Oh?” you asked, doing your utmost to stay calm, to come off as nonchalant. “And what might that be?” you inquired, genuinely curious, though hoping he wouldn’t surprise you with a request that was outside your wheelhouse. You realized that even though you did not know his name, you would hate to disappoint whoever this man was.

“Projectile launcher,” he started, pushing off the counter to stand up straight. He was a tall drink of water, enough to quench your thirst, though staring at him seemed to have the opposite effect. You felt as if you had never been this thirsty in your life. “Fer a cortosis shot.”

“Cortosis ore?” You felt the question had been a dumb one on your part, no sooner than you had asked it.

The Duros’ brow twitched, raising upward toward one side. He folded his arms and stared you down with those cold, crimson eyes, wondering what the hell else you thought he might be referencing.

“Problem?”

“What? No. No, we uh—” You released his heady gaze to glance back down at your datapad with some reluctance. “We have several weapons in stock that might suit your needs.”

You pretended to sort through your inventory, but you had just begun a search for Duros—ones that might be in some form of media, or on the news.

“Yeah? Like what.”

Why was it suddenly hard to swallow? Why did you feel so warm? You felt the blood rushing to your face, unable to curtail the onset of what was presumably anxiety, your finger adeptly scrolling through the holofeed as fast as the device permitted.

“Depends on what you’re after—something compact, something a little flashier—” Your eyes widened as you caught sight of a report some few days back; this Duros had been the one involved in a break-in at the Jedi temple. An APB had been put out for his capture—Cad Bane.

He was considered to be armed and dangerous. That much was obvious. But why was he here now?

“Somethin’ good ‘nough te disarm a Jedi,” came his reply. You looked back up and returned your datapad to the counter. His gaze was measured, calculating.

“Find anythin’ interestin’ on dhere?” the bounty hunter growled, eyeing you with evident suspicion. You panicked, pressing a button alongside the glowing screen so that it would blank out and go dark.

“Many ... something's,” you said awkwardly. You may have been scared shitless, but you weren’t stupid. Not entirely. Stupid enough to use this situation to your advantage, though, or at least stupid enough to try.

“A-a Jedi?” you inquired, trying to keep the fear from your voice, but ultimately changing the subject. You hoped against all odds he hadn’t seen what you had last been looking at.

“What Ah said,” he snapped. “Show me.”

“Right! Sure!”

You scampered to the back, looking amongst the shelves for the blaster you knew you had in stock. You used this moment not only to find something that might please the Duros, but also to catch your breath—your heart was pounding as you came to terms with who was waiting for you, yet you knew the man had money. Lots of it.

“Cad fucking Bane,” you whispered to no one in particular, staring blankly at a row of pistols, your vision nearly blurring as you practically disassociated—unable to believe that the galaxy’s most notorious hired gun had just waltzed into your meager storefront, and on a day you happened to be working.

“What?” came a low note in your ear.

You overtly jumped, turning around, terror-stricken and at a loss for words.

The bastard was right behind you! How had he done that? How did you not even hear him approach?!

“Shit, man! Don’t—don’t karking do that!” you said without thinking. The Duros narrowed his eyes, withdrawing a toothpick he had on his person somewhere, retrieving it from out the corner pocket of his coat.

“Do what,” he asked flatly.

“Sneak up on me!” you panted, gasping for air.

“Wastin’ my time,” he rasped, placing the scrap of wood between his teeth. It was plain as daylight he was losing his patience, yet you had only exchanged a few scant words.

“OK, look. I’m sorry—it’s—it’s not every day Cad Bane walks into my shop.”

“Well, dhen teday’s yer lucky day, innit?” he asked, sarcasm lacing his tone, the Duros speaking from around the inserted toothpick resting gingerly betwixt his fangs.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.” You forced yourself to calm by thinking one thought only—if he wanted you dead or to hurt you, he already would have.

“Won’t ask again—show me,” he commanded.

You walked toward the back row of shelves without another word; the Duros followed. You stretched out your arms, gathering what you had been after—a top of the line slugthrower, a weapon that used kinetic energy to fire solid objects, metal objects—you hoped it was what the man was looking for.

You turned around and presented it to him; Bane lifted it straight out of your hands. He turned it this way and that, giving it a thorough examination, extending it as if meaning to take a shot. He pulled the trigger, though it wasn’t loaded, then shifted his gaze toward yours—you had been staring. “How much?”

Now was your chance—would you dare try to coax a little more out of him than the asking price? Maybe money was no object to a person of his wealth and status. It was no secret Bane worked for the highest bidder. Everyone knew his was the highest price tag and that he was capable of any job should you pay him his just dues.

You idly wondered who had paid him to break into the temple back on Coruscant…

“Ye slow?” Bane snarled, flashing his teeth. You had zoned out again, making yourself look more or less like an idiot three times now.

“Two thousand,” you shot back. This particular model was only worth twelve hundred.

The Duros gawked at you, arched a brow, then outright laughed a dry honk of a laugh. “HA! Ye must be dumber dhan kriff te think Ah’m payin dhat.”

“Take it or leave it,” you bravely replied, although you wished you hadn’t for what came next.

The hunter’s eyes narrowed for the second time within your presence. He shoved the shotgun back into your arms, forcing you to stumble backward. He removed the toothpick he had been gnawing on to place it against the underside of your chin. Your own eyes widened as you swallowed down your excess spit.

“Ye tryin’ te pull one over on me, son?” Bane asked, his voice riddled with animosity, betraying his lack of self-restraint.

“I—what? N-no—” you managed, hardly able to look at him directly.

Still, this sudden closeness, the smell of the Duros—it was intoxicating. Despite his piss-poor attitude, his leering was doing things to you. Things you could not explain except that it was your animal brain enlivening, as were your loins, much to your embarrassment.

Then, the Duros smiled. It was a shit-eating, nefarious sort of smile. A smile that made your blood run cold and your groin catch fire. “Dhat fear Ah smell, er somethin’ else?”

Your cheeks burned, though you would recover, finding your obstinance somewhere deep down inside you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, that’s the asking price,” you lied, the pounding of your heart thrumming in your ears.

“Ah know what dhis shit’s werth, and it ain’t dhat,” Bane hissed, pushing the sharp point of his toothpick more succinctly against you, the scars and lines that were etched into the flat of his face close enough to touch, close enough to kiss.

“Make ye a deal, since Ah know ye wanna fuck me,” Bane taunted savagely.

“W-what?!” you asked surprised, thrown off by his candidness. Was he a mind reader? Could he sense your desperation?

What you were not privy to was that Bane was in a rare, good mood, having just stolen a holocron out from under the noses of half a dozen Jedi, making out with a new ship and a payout that was triple. Normally, he might just shoot you for trying to pull a fast one, but there was something about you that intrigued him—maybe it was the brazen way in which you had tried to overcharge him. It was something he might do, after all.

“Pay ye what it’s werth, and Ah’ll give ye somethin’ te tell yer friends,” Bane snickered. “If ye got any,” he nastily teased, adding insult to injury.

“I … I have friends,” you defended, giving him a once over. You felt entirely too hot, your body having betrayed you for wanting this horrible, cutthroat man.

“Dhat mean we have ourselves a deal?” His grin returned, toothy and sadistic.

“I’ll drop it to twelve … but only if you can make me cum.”

Were you crazy? Had you actually gone temporarily insane?

Not only did the Duros’ rostrum crinkle in a twisted sort of delight, but the corners of his horizontal, ovate eyes did as well, his malicious smirk reaching to the tops of his gaunt cheeks.

“Ye got guts, Ah’ll give ye dhat—time te rearrange ‘em,” he stated cattily, flicking his chewed-up toothpick onto the floor.

You almost laughed, but thought it the wrong choice, not that you had much time to think through things to begin with, Bane on you faster than a womp rat up a drainpipe now that you had given your express consent.

The Duros snatched the slugthrower back out of your hands, tossing it down to join his toothpick on the ground, the shotgun landing with a clatter as he grasped you by the collar of your shirt, shoving you back against the row of shelves behind you.

“Turn around and spread ‘em,” he advised.

“Wait! That’s—that’s not exactly what I’m into,” you dared, taking a deep breath.

The hunter canted his head like an inquisitive took’, looking at you like you had just grown a second head yourself. Yet, he did not take yours clean off. Instead, he posed a question.

“Ye exspectin’ Ah be gentle?”

“No, just—go easy.”

“Easy …”

Bane hummed a sound, as if rolling over what you had said in his mind. Then, he closed the gap between you, pressing himself up against your aching loins; you could feel the outline of the Duros through his distressed jeans. It was … unusual, to say the least.

“Have it yer way.”

Bane moved toward the button at the top of your pants, dexterous fingers undoing the clasp within seconds. You found yourself holding your breath as one large hand slipped between the folds of your boxers, trying not to dwell on what he might think once he realized—

“Hold on!” you interjected, the Duros’ creeping digits stopping just below your belt line. He bared his teeth in annoyance, but it couldn’t be helped. You had one more thing to tell him.

“Tryin’ my patienccce,” Bane sizzed, his free hand wandering up to clutch your throat, holding your head steady as he gazed penetratingly into your eyes.

“Just thought maybe you should know that I—”

“Cahnnit,” the hunter snapped, the Duros’ sizeable fingers once more taking to movement as he pressed one between the folds of your labia. “Already know,” he informed you in a matter-of-fact tone. “Think Ah ain’t never karked a man with a cunt before?”

Bane snorted out a laugh as your breath caught in your throat, the Duros guiding his index finger to gently fondle the growth between your legs, “dhis ain’t my ferst rodeo, kid, now try te relax before ye piss me off.”

You nodded, unable to peel your eyes away from his, the brim of his hat steeping you both in shadow as you did the unthinkable, pushing up off your toes in an attempt to kiss him.

The hunter pushed you back with the point of a finger, then dipped down low at the same time he dipped inside you, gathering a measure of your slick. His thumb worked your dick in concentric circles as one large, elongated forefinger gave you something to mull over, the Duros leaving you gasping for air at the thought he hadn’t even stuck his cock inside you yet.

“Feel good?” he asked, as if he cared, as if might actually be concerned for how you were feeling. Whether or not it was an act wasn’t the point, just glad enough that he had taken the time to ask.

“Yes,” you breathed, your mouth so close to his, yet he had still refused to kiss you. It was almost unbearable, Bane immersing his finger into your tight hole to his third knuckle, curling it at just the right slant to apply the perfect amount of pressure against your anterior walls.

“Now… why don’t ye be a good boy and turn around fer me,” he coerced, though not so demanding as last time. His good boy sent your mind reeling; you were already lost to him, unable to move, unable to speak, riding the high that was Bane finger-fucking you in the back of your workplace—shit—if anyone walked in…

You tried to obey him, but your body was not cooperating by no fault of your own. You had not felt this good in ages, the intense pleasure you were experiencing outweighing the frightening prospect of being spied having relations by your immediate supervisor or any other customer.

“Need a lil’ help, do ye?” Bane asked, the wet squelch of his finger vacating your insides causing you to heavily blush. Though incapable of speech, you were past the point of caring, letting the Duros ultimately have his way with you against your better judgment. Maybe you were naive for thinking he wouldn’t hurt you, but things seemed to now be fully out of your control, allowing your unconventional lover to rotate your human form however he so wished.

You felt your pants slide down towards your thighs; your boxers were next, falling past the crack of your ass, Bane once more pressing himself firmly against you as you heard a shuck, a rattle of metal, and the peeling of what sounded like thermoguard being pried apart by its seams.

“Which hole ye want it in?” Bane thought to ask, perhaps assuming he was being considerate. Before you could answer him in any way, shape or form, he decided for you. “Both,” he chortled.

“What do you—” you began, but were quickly silenced, something slick and slimy finding its way up your slit while another something knocked on your back door, though the Duros was kind to you in that its introduction was gradual, his cock’s tapered tip slim and pliable, enabling it to slip inside your ass in tiny increments.

You realized his species must self-lubricate; you thanked the Whills. Even though it felt beyond compare, you knew you would be sore by this time tomorrow.

“Look how good ye take it,” Bane lauded, though you could not tell if he was being sincere. You were left to seethe through your teeth, hissing tiny breaths, Bane only moving insofar as you could stand. He seemed to have a second sense for this, though the other of his cocks pushed up inside you; they were obviously stacked, these dual phalli, ribbed in all the right ways; pressing into you at all the right angles.

“Fuck,” you exclaimed, panting like a man who had just run a marathon, moans of pleasure escaping your throat as a feeling of ecstasy mixed with a good kind of pain traveled its way down your spine, spreading outward from its origin point at the base of your skull.

“If ye insist,” Bane drawled, his bony hips thrusting themselves forward to where you belted out a sound that pleased him, Bane laughing a vicious little laugh as he reached around you, taking up the sizable nub that rested between your thighs.

“Louder,” he instructed, wanting to hear you sing, wanting to feel you writhe under him as he fucked you alongside an inordinate amount of deadly weaponry.

You pressed your hands flat along the shelves in front of you, digging your fingers into the wood. You would leave deep rents by the end of your time here, grasping for purchase as he began to rail you harder.

You moaned again, louder as he deemed it necessary. “Bane,” you praised, holding on for dear life as he gave you a good old-fashioned reach around while doubly penetrating you from behind. The overwhelming number of sensations you were feeling had your brain short-circuiting, the Duros swaying you toward an almost gentle release.

You reached a peak, biting down against your own hand, your dull, human teeth leaving their imprint across your flesh, damp with sweat, proof of pleasure rendered.

“Ain’t gettin’ off so easy after all,” Bane crooned spitefully in your ear. You momentarily wondered if he was referring to your orgasm, until you understood—he didn’t plan on stopping just because you came. He kept on rocking into you, over and over, simultaneously hitting your G-spot while stimulating the nerves in your anus, causing you to cum a second time.

Your body quaked beneath him, his thin hips enough to bruise you, to tenderize the meat of your rump as he gripped either side of your haunches, squeezing tight—you were glad he had never once groped you through your binder.

You weren’t entirely sure why you had agreed to this—especially without protection—but here you were, and you realized you had no desire to stop it from happening.

“Want it,” you croaked. “All of it.”

Bane obliged, discharging a thick, gelid substance into your cunt, followed by another round coating every inch of your inner walls. He did not hold back as was your preference, things only once more becoming impersonal when he raised up off your back, his rail-thin chest having been resting upon you, the rapid fluttering of his heart felt through the sparse fabric of your shirt.

It was a unique feeling, causing you to shiver reflexively, observing that his cocks weren’t by any means synchronized in their release. You only now began to wonder about his anatomy; what purpose it served to have two for a Duros, though you did not have one complaint regardless, and he had not questioned you about yours.

Bane finished himself off, then withdrew from you with a resounding, pressurized suck, every rib and crest felt by your sensitive loins on his way out.

“Hope ye got a ‘fresher ‘round here,” he quipped.

---

Bane had tucked himself away and waited for you, but you had the inkling he wouldn’t have stuck around had he not needed you. In fact, he didn’t—he could have easily walked out of there with the shotgun in tow, but he seemed to be a man of his word, extending an arm to offer you up his credit stick.

“Ye run it fer twelve, like we agreed.”

You nodded; kept quiet. You processed his payment, noting that the name that popped up on your screen was not his own.

“Werhl Tahoon?” you asked, quirking a brow.

“Ah really gotta explain dhat te ye?” he asked, visibly annoyed.

Of course, he didn’t. He was a wanted man, a criminal. He had assumed names, false identities … who knew how many bank accounts he had, and on which planets. All that mattered was that his money was good, the twelve hundred credits being withdrawn and added to your bosses' coffer.

“Sounds like the name of some nerfpoke from a cheesy holo—”

His glare shut you up; you handed him his card, having previously retrieved the slugthrower from off the floor on your way back out. You gazed at his hand as he plucked it from yours, thinking about the way those lithe fingers had been inside you, how you had felt every knuckle, how you would dream for years to come about this Duros, though he would most likely forget about you as soon as he departed from your shop.

You flinched as he once more snatched you by your collar like before, those same, agile fingers tightening around the cloth as he reeled you in, bringing you within mere centimeters of his face.

“Be in yer best interest naht te try and rip people off—next time, ye may just get pumped fulla lasers rather dhan gettin’ plugged.”

He kissed you roughly on the mouth; you felt the scrape of a tooth, its sharp point grazing your skin. It was more than you could have ever hoped for.

Then, he released you; he left you gasping for air. He seemed to have that effect on you. The idea that he was leaving was suddenly too much; unthinkable, even as he strapped the slugthrower across his back and tipped his brim.

Like an idiot, you called out to him as he made his way, taking him in one last time—the way his duster moved fluidly around him, the way his hat enshrouded him.

“Where are you going?” you asked, as if a jilted lover, as if you meant something, as if he might have the decency to tell you anything about his plans or about himself.

He turned on the heel of his boot, one arm lifting as his hand dug into the confines of his coat. He withdrew an object—cube-shaped, many-sided, and covered in intricate designs. You didn’t know what it was, but you thought it must be rare and beautiful, like him, and blue to boot.

In realty, it was a stolen Jedi holocron, filled with the names of all the galaxy’s up-and-coming Force-users, the future of the Jedi Order—and he had been paid to nick it from the Archives by one Darth Sidious.

Bane smirked as he deigned to answer to the likes of you.

“Devaron—got a Jedi te catch,” he snickered.  

Devaron … it was a planet not too far from here, within the Colonies, bordering your sector.

You thought to comment, but then he was gone, leaving behind what he had promised—a good story to tell your friends. God, what you wouldn’t give to go with him, out on some grand adventure—an almost childish fantasy you would harbor in your heart forever, much like the man named Bane.

… What a shame.

[rjzimmerman]

My view, for what it's worth. President Biden was consequential. He caused legislation that vigorously applied (and will continue to apply) billions of dollars of federal funds toward the development of systems, hardware, infrastructure and education to address climate change and environmental issues. He promoted and created more protections for public lands and oceans than any president before him. Yet, he succumbed to politics when he felt like he had to, primarily to the benefit of the fossil fuel industry. I want to believe that he was listening to his staff, and not his conscience when he did so, but his job, among many, was to do what he thought was right, not what his staff was pushing him to do. He had failures in other areas, unfortunately too many, but on balance, he was good for us and to us. I voted for him in 2020 on the assumption he would be a one-term president dragging us out of the trump mud. I got my wish, but not the 2024 outcome I wanted.

Excerpt from this story from Grist:

When Joe Biden first became president, some found it hard to believe that he cared very much about climate change.

With a global pandemic raging, the former vice president and longtime senator pitched his 2020 campaign as a return to normalcy and a referendum on the erratic leadership of Donald Trump. His campaign pledges to ban drilling on federal lands and spend trillions of dollars to decarbonize the economy — though they amounted to among the most ambitious climate agenda ever put forward by a major-party candidate — were widely seen as consolation prizes to skeptical progressives and climate hawks, like those who had backed Senator Bernie Sanders or former Washington Governor Jay Inslee in the 2020 Democratic primaries.

It’s clear now that these skeptics underestimated the outgoing president. Biden’s climate agenda, broader and more ambitious than that of any U.S. president before him, is poised to stand as the most consequential feat of his presidency, especially given his self-evident failure to “heal the soul of the nation” by ushering it into a post-Trump era. He succeeded in getting Congress to pass the Inflation Reduction Act, or IRA, a misleadingly titled law that amounts to an unprecedented subsidy for renewable energy and climate-friendly technologies like electric vehicles. The measure triggered a wave of investment that has begun to reshape the nation’s economy and finally put the U.S. within reach of its commitments under the 2015 Paris Agreement.

“I think Biden will go down in history as passing the biggest climate bill that was ever passed in the world’s history,” said Sean Casten, a Democratic member of Congress from Illinois (and former contributor to Grist).

If Biden’s presidency represents a major step forward in the climate fight, though, it is also a cautionary tale about the limits of climate policy in the United States. The success of the IRA shows that a massive clean energy push is politically viable, under the right circumstances. (Whether or not it’s politically advantageous, or even prudent, is a story that the 2024 election called into question.) But Biden’s attempts to restrict fossil fuel production throughout his presidency were far less successful — not only did his push to curb oil and natural gas production get mired in litigation before it could bear any real fruit, but it also generated political backlash that never really dissipated. 

[ferraris-gf]

explaining f1: drs

little warning on this one, i am not an engineer or physicist or anything professionally related to f1, so this is my completely novice explanation based on my own research. it’s not supposed to be super technical, but if anything is way off please let me know!

drag reduction system

f1 cars pump out huge plumes of disturbed air in their wake, making it inherently difficult for driver behind to get into a position to make a pass.

introduced in 2011 as a way to increase overtaking, drs is a device fixed to the upper element of the rear wing of the car. usage has varied, but the current regulations allow drivers to activate the system in designated zones during the race.

when in these zones, drivers can lift the rear wing flap to reduce drag, increasing their top speed.

usage

drs can only be activated if a driver follows a rival through the preceding detection zone with a margin of less than one second.

drivers can activate drs one lap after the race begins. during yellow flags, a virtual safety car or a full safety car, use of the system is prohibited (read more about safety cars here), as well as in red flags.

drs is activated by pressing a button on the steering wheel, but this is only possible when the driver breaks a detection zone within one second of the previous car.

there is no limit on how often drivers can use this, soap long as they have met the requirements, they could use it in every zone of every lap.

on average, drs increases the top speed of the car by about 6 or 7 mph.

particularly in the midfield, a common phenomenon in races is what is known as a 'drs train'. this is a sequence of cars all within drs range of one another, which effectively negates the advantages of the system and can hinder overtaking.

[race-week]

Hello I'm new to F1 so this might be a very basic question, but what aspect does a track can be considered hard or easy to overtake? And for track that are known to be hard for overtake how would the drivers do "battle" on the track since that basically one of the main charm of F1.

Hello,

Typically for overtaking zones you want to have long straights (ideally with DRS) followed by hard braking zones, which are slow sharp corners. These are typically known to be the best opportunities for overtakes.

Also a lot of overtakes happen on the straights due to DRS (drag reduction system), these are typically ‘boring’ overtakes as the overtaking car kind of just zooms past.

Baku (below), has long DRS straights followed by 90 degree corners, which gives cars the opportunity to brake as late as possible and potentially pull off an overtake

For cars to battle, you kind of want one of two things, back to back DRS zones or a series of flowing corners.

The back to back DRS zones gives more opportunities for the fight to continue throughout the lap and can often result in the drivers changing positions multiple times.

With Bahrain (below) the car behind will get DRS along the start finish straight and if they manage to get ahead, then Car A (originally the leading car) will get DRS along the straight between T3 and T4 and have an opportunity to retake the position

The series of flowing corners, although harder for cars to follow in, if they are side by side or particularly close, they can try to fight for a better exit out of a corner, and if there is a sequence of corners, getting a better exit out of one corner will likely help at the start of the next corner.

With Silverstone (below), Turns 10-14 are great battling opportunities because of the corners, it can be difficult for cars to follow through here, but when they manage, it is something special.

[boxboxblog]

Explaining F1 Language pt 1

I use a lot of jargon in my posts, so I hope this is informative.

DRS = Drag Reduction System. It is a flap on the rear wing that opens and closes to reduce drag, It is only available in DRS zones of a race track and if your car is within 1 second of the car in front of you.

Chicane = Series of sharp corners, usually in opposite directions (think 'S' shaped), used to slow cars down and encourage overtakes.

Dirty Air = Disrupted, rough, hot air that drivers get when they are behind another car. It makes the car go slower and heat up faster.

Clean Air = Fresh cool air that a car with no one in front gets. Less drag and helps keep car cool.

Halo = Titanium arch that crosses over drivers head, used for safety.

Pole Position = Starting the race in the first position

Pit Wall = A wall where engineers analyze data from sensors in car, watch race, and advise driver. Only a drivers specific race engineer is allowed to talk to them. Team principals are also there.

Points Position = 10th place and up

WDC = World Drivers Championship. The driver with the most points wins.

WCC = World Constructers Championship. the team with the most overall points wins

Straights = The non curved part of a race track, where basic speed is most important

Street Circuit = A race track built over city streets. Often very sharp corners and thin tracks. Examples include Monaco, Singapore, and Baku.

Classic Circuit = A built track that remains, often more typical of older track styles. Often have long straights, wide tracks, and rounded corners.

Undercut = A strat where a driver pits earlier than whoever they are racing against in order to use fresher tires to set a quick lap time and overtake their rival before they exit their own pit stop.

Overcut = Opposite of undercut, where a driver stays out longer than their rival in an attempt to gain time up on them. The goal is that when they pit they come out ahead of their rival due to the gap they create.

The Racing Line = The perfect line for a driver to follow that gets them around the circuit the fastest. Most drivers follow the same line one after the other. There is an outside line and inside line on corners.

Marbles = Small bits of rubber that come off of tires and accumulate off of the racing line. Can reduce grip if driven over.

Dirty Side = Part of track where marbles, dirt, and debris gathers

Clean Side = Usually the racing line, where there are no marbles, debris, or dirt.

Parc Fermé = Area where cars are placed after qualifying and the race. Teams are not allowed to make any changes to their car once they enter this area.

Flat Spot = Flat area on tires caused by aggressive braking. Cause vibrations which means they are to be avoided as much as possible.

Lock-up = When a driver brakes to hard, it causes one or more wheels to stop rotating. Often leads to tire damage or missing a corner.

Blistering = damage to the surface of the tire caused by excessive heat. The tire rubber heats up and peels off. Can lead to bad tire performance.

Graining = When small parts of rubber detach and and reattach to the tire, creating an uneven surface. This reduces grip and often occurs when tire temp is off.

Box = Term used by race engineers to call driver into pit

Push Lap = You'll hear 'push, push' a lot, which essentially means drive aggressive and at max speed.

Mode Push = Engineer tells driver to switch to higher engine mode

Lift and Coast = Fuel or tire saving technique where driver lifts off of throttle early before corner and coasts before braking.

Delta Time = Target lap time during a safety car to ensure they are within allowed speed but keeping up with strat

Oversteer = When the the rear of the car loses traction and slides out in corner, the driver has to correct with opposite steering input. This is oversteer. Overcorrecting can lead to a spin.

Understeer = When the front of the car loses grip, causing the car to continue straight instead of turning, a driver must adjust steering or braking to compensate. This is understeer.

Lifting the Throttle = Slightly reducing pressure to accelerator, often used during fuel management or tire conservation.

Bottoming = When a car's chassis or floor hits the track. Often causes sparks.

Power Unit = Combo of Internal Combustion Engine and Hybrid Energy Recovery Systems (simply, the engine though its more complex then that)

Stint = A period of racing between pit stops. For example a car will go on a 15 lap stint, then pit, then a 30 lap stint after.

Tyre Deg = short for Tyre degradation, when the wear makes the tire (and car) lose performance

Safety Car = Slow car out out to force drivers to slow down when there is debris or a crash on the track. Drivers are not allowed to overtake when the safety car is out.

Virtual Safety Car = System used when they do not want to deploy safety car because incident will be cleaned up quickly. Same rules as safety car.

Brake Bias = Distribution of barking force between front and rear wheels. Can be adjusted to help balance, especially in wet weather.

Quali= The day before a race, drivers aim to set a time and make their place on the lineup order. There is Q1, Q2, and Q3. Only top ten make it to Q3 and attempt for pole.

Purple Sector = Fastest sector time set by any driver during a session.

Track Evolution = The way a circuit's grip improves during a race weekend. Effected by rubber build-up, debris cleaning, temperature, weather, time, and surface type. Big part of strategy.

Out Lap = Lap immediately after leaving the pits during qualifying. Used to warm up tires.

In Lap = Lap where driver is heading for the pits

Flying Lap = a fast lap in qualifying when the driver is trying to set a time

Formation Lap = Lap right before race start where drivers can warm tires and help track evolve

Tear-Off = A thin plastic sheet on driver's helmet that can be peeled away mid race to get rid of dirt and debris. Drivers have several.

Scrubbed Tires = Tires that have been used briefly but still have lost of life. Can be an advantage because they are slightly worn.

Overtake = When a car gets by another car

Recovery Lap = Lap after an incident or pit stop where the driver focuses on getting back into race rhythm and warming tires.

There will be a part 2, I ran out of words. Oops.

Cheers,

-B